Finger Posts on the Way of Life | Page 4

bank, and could have
accommodated him without the smallest inconvenience. In another
state of mind he would have done so cheerfully.
"O dear!" sighed the unhappy merchant, speaking mentally; "what has
come over me? I'm losing all control of myself. This will never, never
do. I must set a guard upon my lips."
And he did so. Conscious of his state of irritability, he subdued his
tones of voice, and restrained utterance when tempted to angry or
inconsiderate speech. Not again during the day was he guilty of such
inexcusable conduct as in the instances mentioned; yet the shadow
remained upon his feelings, strive as he would to throw off the gloomy
impression.
It was late in the day when Mr. Abercrombie turned his steps
homeward. How little was he satisfied with himself! And now, when he
remembered, with painful distinctness, the clouded brow of his wife,
how little promise was there of home-sunlight, to dispel the gloom of
his own feelings!
As the hand of the merchant rested upon his own door, he almost
dreaded to enter. He shrank from meeting that clouded visage. The
shadows were dark when he left in the morning, and experience told
him that he need scarcely hope to find them dispelled. Happily, though
still in the sky, the clouds were broken, and gleams of sunshine came
breaking through. Ah! if they had only possessed sufficient power to
disperse the shadows that all day long had been gathering around the
heart of Mr. Abercrombie! But that was impossible. Self-respect had
been forfeited; and a consciousness of having, in his impatient haste,
acted unjustly, haunted his thoughts. And so, the shadows that were not

to be dispersed by the feeble sun-rays from the countenance of his wife,
gradually diffused themselves, until the light that struggled with them
grew pale.
"Did you know," said Mrs. Abercrombie, breaking in upon the
oppressive silence that succeeded, after all had retired for the night but
herself and husband, "that the mother of Edward Wilson is very poor
and in a decline?"
"I was not aware of it," was the brief response.
"It is so. Mrs. Archer was here this afternoon, and was telling me about
them. Mrs. Wilson, who, until within a few weeks past, has been able
to earn something, is now so weak that she cannot leave her bed, and is
solely dependent on the earnings of her son. How much do you pay
him?"
"Only three dollars a week," answered Mr. Abercrombie, shading his
face with his hand.
"Only three dollars! How can they live on that? Mrs. Archer says that
Edward is one of the best of lads--that he nurses his mother, and cares
for her with unfailing tenderness; indeed, he is her only attendant. They
are too poor to pay for the services of a domestic. Could you not afford
to increase his wages?"
"I might, perhaps," said Mr. Abercrombie, abstractedly, still shading
his face.
"I wish you could," was the earnest reply. "It will be a real charity."
Mr. Abercrombie made no response; and his wife pursued the subject
no further. But the former lay awake for hours after retiring to bed,
pondering the events of the day which had just closed.
The sun had gone down amid clouds and shadows; but the morrow
dawned brightly. The brow of Mrs. Abercrombie was undimmed as she
met her family at the breakfast-table on the next morning, and every

countenance reflected its cheerful light. Even Mr. Abercrombie, who
had something on his conscience that troubled him, gave back his
portion of the general good feeling. Lighter far was his step as he went
forth and took his way to his store. His first act on his arriving there,
was, to ease his conscience of the pressure thereon, by sending for
Edward Wilson, and restoring him to his place under new and better
auspices.
And thus the shadows passed; yet, not wholly were they expelled. The
remembrance of pain abides long after the smarting wound has healed,
and the heart which has once been enveloped in shadows, never loses
entirely its sense of gloomy oppression. How guarded all should be lest
clouds gather upon the brow, for we know not on whose hearts may fall
their shadows.

GENTLE HAND.

I DID not hear the maiden's name; but in my thought I have ever since
called her "Gentle Hand." What a magic lay in her touch! It was
wonderful.
When and where, it matters not now to relate--but once upon a time as I
was passing through a thinly peopled district of country, night came
down upon me, almost unawares. Being on foot, I could not hope to
gain the village toward which my steps were directed, until a late hour;
and I therefore preferred seeking shelter