Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1883-02-14

could discover another error in her con,
duct; resolving if should to report it
at once to the church.
And so month passed, and then
there came an evening when Burkes
hall was agNin lighted up for another
grand masquerade; and on that evening
took my stand near the Maynard
place, in spot that would command a
good view of Bcrtie's window, and
where l could remain unseen by any
passer-by. And there, hour after hour,
| crouched like a wild beast ready to
spring upon its prey; believing the
while was doing Gods work, in thus
trying to hunt down the poor girl. The
town clock had already struck eleven,
and was beginning to think of going
home, when L observed tall, well
dressed gentleman come down the road,
and pause before the Maynard place.
Beginning to get more interested, |
bent eagerly forward to watch his move
ments. He waited at the gate amoml Mt,
as if to make sure that the inmates OF
the house were at rest, and then passed
cautiously down the garden path to the
house, where he paused, aud glaucing
up at Bertie's window, uttered low but
peculiar whistle, which was answered in
moment by the raising of sash sui
ticicntly high for him to spring into the
room, where it was lowered as cautiously
as it had been raised.
l could have gone home fully con.
vinced of Bertie's perfdy, but I resolved
to fnd out who the midnight visitor
was and so | waited in the chilly air
of a spring midnight for him to come
out again but it was an hour from tho
inc he entered ere he did come, and
even then he fingered at the window for
a goodnight kiss from the fair occupant
of the room, before taking his way bacl;
to the town, whittier l undertook to
follow him but being an old man, |
could not walk as fast as he, and finding
very soon that could not overtake him,
1 turned my steps homeward, for once
in my life foiled. And perhaps for being
thus foiled, I grew more angry with the
girl.
"She will not find me as lenient now
as she did before. /, one of the pillars
of the church, cannot see such iniquitJ
and let it go uupunished. The church
must deal with her |" | said to myself a
little spi efully, I think.
Accordingly, the next day. taking
Brother Gregg with me, | repaired t.
the Maynard place, where found Ber'
tie seated with her parents in the par
lor.
81 am glad that you have come" said
Mrs. Maynard, reaching out her hand to
me. "Bertie seems ailing to day. |
never saw her looking SO miserable,
Perhaps you may cheer her up little"
"Tho wages of sin is death !" said
Brother Gregg, sternly.
"What do you mean p asked the lady,
in half.frightened tone, while spasm
of intense pain passed over the girls
face, turning it almost deathly i'll ap.
pearance.
"For an explanation, I refer you to
Brother Mar" he answered, without
relaxing one feature OF his stern Wis
age.
Tell all must, there was no help for
it now; and though | wished myself Il
hundred miles away, l told what ! had
seen, while the mother listened with
gasping sighs, and the daughter sat with
her face buried in her hands, trembling
violently. When / had finished, Mrs.
Maynard asked sternly:
"Bertie what have you to say to
this?'
The girl rose instantly to her feet.
She was calmer now, though her face
was death.like in its pallor.
81 have no reply to make, my moth,
er," she responded. "What l have done
am not ashamed OF, and may do again
| may have a secret, but if have all the
blood hounds in the world shall not
hunt it from meP
Brother Gregg grew little angry at
this, and said tartly:
"Miss, if you keep on in this way, You
will have to GO! out from the sheltering
arms OF the church y
How her eyes blazod saw at once
that we were taking the wrong way to
bring the erring child to His fold; and
l said, kindly:
"Sister Bertie, if you have done wrong
confess your fault, and strive to do bet
ter. 1t is an awful thing to dare an
Almighty God, as you are doing"
But my words were of no use. In my
anxiety to mend matters, ! only made
them worse, for, drawing up to her full
hight, she said, proudly:
'Deacon Mar, l have no confession tC
make to anyone beside my Maker, and
he, knowing my intents, does not wish
any. This is al l have to say. Please
consider me no longer member OF youl
church"
l would have expostulated, but she
gave me no chance, for when she had
ceased, with tho dignity becoming a
queen, she passed out of the room and
though | called several times afterWard,
l never again had a chance TO converse
with her. From that time she was al.
ways mot at home" when any of the
mombers called, and after a while she
was turned out of the church. Subse-
quently much sorrow came to this poor
girl. First, the young people, even her
best friends, refus1d to associate with
her, and afterward sickness and death
came to her home, robbing her of those
who loved her best-her parents.
pitied Bertha more than | can tell,
as saw her bending over the new.
made grave, weeping bitterly for the
mother who had loved her SO well, and
stepping to her side, 1 placed my hand
upon her fair young head, and said, as
kindly as / knew how:
"The Lord loveth whom lie chasten.
eth."
"Then, Deacon Mar, I trust that He
loves me-" she returned sadly.
A few moments afterwards she took
strangers arm and walked slowly
homeward. And that was the last time
she was ever seen in Elton. The next
day the Maynard house was closed, and
on it was . placard bearing the words,
"For Sale" with directions to inquire at
a distant city.
How my heart ached then Where
in all the world was the poor child?
feared that she had no friends, and
might 60 rapidly to destruction. would
hunt her up, and prove better friend
than had ever been before.
l was preparing to set out in search OF