SIN BRINGS SORROW.

"AUNT HAYNES," said Margaret, following her aunt to her room, "I see that uncle believes in Leonard's guilt."

"There is no alternative, my dear girl; the evidence is too decidedly against him," said Mrs. Haynes kindly.

"Well, I will not believe it until I am obliged," said Margaret impetuously. "There is nothing to be done, then, but to pay the money."

"Pay the money, Margaret! It is impossible; your uncle has not the means. We have just paid the last dividend to our creditors, thanks to the prospering goodness of God; and we have nothing left at present."

"Then Myra must pay it. She will, of course, rather than suffer this dreadful disgrace. But is there any way of paying her again?"

"I do not think Myra will pay it, Margaret; I do not think she ought," said her aunt gravely.

"Not to save our name, uncle's name, my cousins' name, from such a shameful blot!" cried Margaret. "She must, and I will know before I sleep."

Myra and Florence were sitting together after their friends had retired; and Florence was retracing several acts in which Leonard had figured unfavourably with regard to money, but which she had tried to hope might be accounted for, until the loss of Harry's note, when at once her suspicions fastened upon him. She almost hated herself for the thought, and had never allowed it to escape in words.

Quietly the door was opened; and Margaret, her eyes bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed, entered the sitting-room.

Gliding up to Myra, and kneeling by the table at her side, she looked as if her very life were bound up in what she had to say.

"Myra, I have never asked you a personal favour for years. Will you do one for me now?"

"Dear Margaret," replied Myra, "you do not know the pleasure it would give me to please you; but oh, dear sister, ask something of me that I can and may do."

"I believe you can; I am sure you may. Pay this money back to Mr. M—, and save us all. Every penny I earn as soon as I can obtain a situation, shall go to repay you, though it can only be in the course of several years."

"Margaret, I will not deny that, by great economy and a permanent reduction of my income, I might pay even this large sum; but you, and Florence, and Elsie must be sufferers, and—"

"Oh, that kind of suffering or privation is nothing compared with the agony of the other!" eagerly interrupted Margaret. "You will do it, then?"

"I do not say so; I seek God's help and teaching. What He shows me to be right, I will do."

"Then you will do this. Your religion will oblige you to do it, if it is, as you say, a religion of love."

"But, Margaret, it is not a blind, selfish love that overlooks everything but the gratification of its object, or the indulgence of its own feeling. Even the great, wise God, who has a right to do what He wills, would not pardon and bless unjustly. He did not rob one creature to save another. He provided for justice while exercising mercy."

"But you have nothing to do with judging; you have only to forgive and help."

"If Leonard had robbed me, assuredly I would forgive and pass it by. But he has not; the whole is subject to the will of the master he has wronged."

"But you can restore it; you can take the injury upon yourself, and you can have patience until we can repay it all."

"But suppose, dear sister, that Leonard is so far gone in sin that it needs a terrible discipline to reach his heart. Suppose years of love and kindness have failed, and it is God's plan to let him go, like the prodigal, to eat the fruit of his own doings,—who are we, that we should try to overthrow that plan so as to defeat the purpose of mercy that may be hidden behind the punishment, and leave the unhappy boy to fancy that he may sin with impunity, because of our weak, blind affection, that cannot bear to see him suffer as he deserves? Do you not see that if we had pressed to a discovery the first act that excited suspicion, this greater crime might have been prevented?"

"But you speak as if only Leonard were concerned; you forget that he drags us with him in his disgrace."

"No, dear Margaret, he cannot do that. But if it were so, we must submit to the world's false estimates. Forgive me, dear sister, if I think that you are dwelling more upon the consequences of Leonard's sin than on the sin itself. Wretched as it is to be involved in those consequences, it is far worse, far more solemnly important, to think what must be his condition before God."

"I know that," said Margaret impatiently; "I don't want any preaching about it. Will you, or will you not, refund the money that Mr. M— has lost?"

"There is one opinion that I wish for before I decide positively, sister, but my own impression strengthens that I ought not to interfere."

"You mean Mr. Fairfield," said Margaret bitterly; "and he is sure to agree with you. You are all alike when a real dreadful misery comes; cruel, selfish, mean, insensible to any one's feelings or opinions but your own."

Saying this, she rushed to her room to lie down and shed tears of anger, disappointment, and fear of what she saw inevitable.

Suddenly a thought struck her; and, springing up, she flew down again, and burst open the door where Myra and Florence were just rising from prayer with the peace of God in their hearts, and its holy influence shining like light from heaven on their faces.

Margaret stood before them like a tormented spirit that could find no rest. Her pride in one cause, humbled itself in another; the dread of the world's opinion induced the painful alternative of asking favours from Myra, and confessing to a confidence in her power which, under less trying circumstances, she would have scorned to admit.

"Myra," she said, in a voice tremulous with contending feelings, "there is one thing you can certainly do. You have often spoken of the power of prayer. Pray, then, that Leonard may not be found."

Myra came towards her, put her arms round the excited girl, and softly whispered,—

"Margaret, I dare not."

"Dare not!" cried Margaret, pushing her away. "Then are you daring to pray that he may be taken and dragged like a felon to justice?"

"No, no, no, assuredly not," replied Myra, clasping her hands in deep distress.

"Then what are you praying for?" demanded the proud girl haughtily.

"That God's will be done, and that ours may be conformed to it," replied Myra. "He knows what is best for us all; I do not."

"Oh, if I could pray, but I cannot!" murmured Margaret despairingly; and she turned away.

"Oh, Margaret, try, do try; it will calm and comfort you," said Florence tenderly and caressingly.

But the unhappy girl was not to be persuaded or consoled; she would not even be followed. And when she reached her chamber, she locked her door, and brooded over her sorrow alone.

On the next day, she requested to accompany Myra with Mr. and Mrs. Haynes on their return home, and in her anxiety for the first information, forgot the degradation of the despised shop.

A few miserable days passed away, and the dreaded message came at last. Leonard was traced to a low lodging in the neighbourhood of the docks of a seaport town, waiting, he said, until a ship in which he had taken his passage should be ready to sail. On inquiring the name of the ship, it was found that she had sailed without him, and great was his rage at the deception which he declared had been practised upon him. There was nothing to be done but to submit to the restraint now imposed, and he was taken back to the scene of his crime, lodged in a strong room, and his friends were apprised of his arrival.

When his uncle and sisters entered the room, he sat sulky and silent, and seemed resolved to give no attention to any of them.

"Leonard," said Mr. Haynes, "I am desired by Mr. M— to tell you that if you will enable him to recover his money, he will stop proceedings against you, and you may return home with us. We will help you to redeem your character, and all may yet be well."

"It's of no use talking," replied the boy sullenly. "I can't find what I haven't got. I have nobody's money, and no one can prove anything against me."

"Not even your own conscience, Leonard?"

"I am not going to trouble it. I have nothing to confess, so you may as well leave me."

"Leonard, will you confess to God, and see how He will pity and help you, and put a right spirit within you?" said Myra softly.

"I hate cant. I'm not going to pretend anything."

"Oh, brother," sobbed Margaret, "how can we leave you? If you did not take the money, say so boldly; don't leave us in this dreadful suspense. If you did, oh, confess it! And ask them to pay it back for you this once, only this once. You never did such a thing before. Those bad people tempted you. Say so, Leonard."

"Don't you talk to me!" almost shouted Leonard, angrily. "Why didn't you tell me before that Dinah and her husband were false? Why did you give me messages to take where I was forbidden to go? Don't 'you' talk, I say. You helped me into mischief; you never said a word to keep me from doing anything I liked; and now your pride is touched, you can't bear the consequence of your own folly and mine; you can't endure to be the sister of a suspected thief, of course."

"Oh, Leonard, Leonard!" cried poor Margaret, in bitter agony. "How dare you taunt me so? You know—"

"Hush, dear sister!" said Myra. "It is useless to talk so. Leonard, you see something of the sorrow you have inflicted, as well as feel the ruin coming on yourself. Will you do anything to save us all, and help us to serve you? Or must we leave you to stand your trial and be judged by the law you have offended?"

"You can pay the money to Mr. M—, of course, if you like, until he finds the right person. I have no objection to be set free."

"I am a steward for God in all He has bestowed upon me, Leonard, and I dare not abuse my trust by saving you from the penalty of sin, in impenitence and falsehood."

"Oh yes, of course; your money is to make grand presents, for good boys to go to India with," said Leonard sneeringly.

"How do you know that, sir?" said Mr. Haynes quickly.

Leonard's eyes fell.

"Unhappy boy! Your sin is not on the surface; it is deep and strongly rooted. You must suffer, and may God overrule in mercy all that is coming upon you!"

"I'm not afraid; there's no evidence to disprove my word," said Leonard doggedly.

And they left him, hopeless of making any good impression in his present state of mind.

On reaching Mr. Haynes's house, they found Mr. Fairfield waiting to learn the result of the interview. He shook his head as the boy's condition was stated.

"It is plain he must be left to reap as he has sown," he said; "it would be no mercy to avert punishment, and the motive would not stand. It would be only to save ourselves from fancied disgrace, and a respectable name from reproach. But Herbert has sufficiently vindicated his own honesty and honour, and it will not touch him or his children."

"They bear the same name," said Margaret bitterly; "it will be said that the sin belongs to the family, and no one will trust any of us again."

"We will leave that to our God and Saviour, my poor child," said Mr. Fairfield pitifully; "He will judge justly and order wisely, and of such as dare to bring a needless reproach against any of His children, He says,—

"'It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.'

"Let us only be His, by faith in Jesus His Son, and fear nothing that the devil or man can do or say against us. He who raises his puny hand, or sounds his flippant tongue, against Christ's redeemed ones, will find to his confusion, some day, that he has rushed upon the shield of the Almighty, and aimed at that which He guards as 'the apple of His eye.' Oh that we could all live more by faith and less by sight—more on God and His record of Himself in His Son and His word, and less on the smile of man and appearances in the world! Margaret, my dear child, you must get a juster view of your position as an immortal creature, or you will live a life of self-inflicted martyrdom to your own pride and its mistakes."

But Leonard's words had put the climax to Margaret's anguish, and she writhed under his reproach, and the shame of his guilt and punishment, until the tempest-tossed spirit could bear no more. And brain fever with wild delirium succeeded, which kept her friends in deep anxiety for her life during a long season of watchful care.

In that house which she had despised, she lay helpless and insensible, under the most devoted and sympathising attention from all within it, and earnest incessant prayer that she might be restored, to learn the secret of a better and happier life.

The care availed, the prayer was heard and answered; Margaret's delirium passed away, and her mind recovered its power, but her body was feeble as an infant.

No one pressed conversation upon her, but sometimes the sweet voice of Myra sang a hymn softly beside her, or read a few appropriate verses from the Scriptures, or whispered a short prayer by her pillow. And as all nourishment was administered by strict rule, there was no need for questions or answers until, of her own accord, she chose to speak.

One day, feeling somewhat stronger, she drew aside the curtain between herself and the silent watcher who sat by the bed, and her eyes met those of Myra.

"I hoped it was you," she whispered, with an effort to move nearer.

Myra knelt down to listen to the feeble voice that wanted to speak to her.

And Margaret, clasping one arm round her neck, laid her head upon Myra's shoulder, and burst into tears.

Myra was not frightened, but, deeply touched with such an unexpected change, caressed and soothed her back to calmness like a very child.

"It is all coming back to me, Myra, all the terrible past. Is the trial over? What have they done to him?"

"Nothing yet; Mr. Haynes visits him often, and so does Mr. Fairfield."

"And you, Myra?"

"I have not left you since you were taken ill, dear Margaret. I have written several times from your bedside, but he sends no message. Now you must not exhaust this little return of strength, nor distress yourself, but try to get well, and comfort us all."

"I comfort you! Oh, Myra, make me fit to die, and then pray God to take me. I can never be happy again. Don't you remember he said I had helped to ruin him?"

"Leave it, dearest, for the present; we will talk about it and face it when you are better. Now rest again."

"Myra, draw up that blind, and let me look at you, do please indulge me," for Myra hesitated.

But, seeing the old wilful look, and fearing to excite her by opposition, she complied.

"Oh, Myra, dear kind sister, how pale you look, and so thin! You are making yourself ill to cure me. Oh, go away, and tell them to take care of you, or I shall have more on my conscience yet."

"Who shall I send to you, dear?" asked Myra. "You must not be left just yet."

"Florence,—yet no; my aunt, if she will come. I have slighted and grieved her often. Oh, how everybody ought to hate me!"

"Nobody does, though," said Myra, smiling and kissing the poor faded face.

"Now, don't come near me again to-day," said Margaret. "Make that old gentleman take you for a drive, then go to sleep,—do anything to make yourself look yourself again. What would Harry say to see you now? Yet I wish he were here for your sake."

"I do not; I am glad he is away," said Myra, and she went joyfully to tell Mrs. Haynes of Margaret's wish to see her.

The gentle, motherly arms of her aunt were soon drawn round the repentant girl, and signs of a change of heart and feeling kept pace with reviving strength and returning health.

That evening, thanks were offered at family worship for the hope of a young life spared and a lost soul saved.