



Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









ALL'S FOR THE BEST.


BY

T. S. ARTHUR.




PHILADELPHIA:

1869.





CONTENTS.


    I. FAITH AND PATIENCE.
   II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
  III. "RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
   IV. NOT AS A CHILD.
    V. ANGELS IN THE HEART.
   VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
  VII. GOOD GROUND.
 VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.
   IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
    X. THE NURSERY MAID.
   XI. MY FATHER.
  XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.






ALL'S FOR THE BEST.




I.

FAITH AND PATIENCE.


"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything," said a poor doubter, who had trusted
in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored to walk by
the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by the light of
divine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was fifty years old!
What a sad confession for a man thus far on the journey of life. "No
faith in anything."

"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw," replied the gentleman to whom the
remark was made.

"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a
bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People talk
a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added, but not
irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in all this
than of living experience. You speak about faith in God. What is the
ground of your faith?"

"We have internal sight, as well as external sight."

There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.

"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes."

"How?"

"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with the
eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes."

"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his
countenance brightening a little.

"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind,
establishes the fact of internal sight."

"Admitted; and what then?"

"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit."

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.

"I don't believe in spirits," he answered.

"You believe in your own spirit."

"I don't know that I have any spirit."

"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr.
Wilkins.

"I can't say as to that."

"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"

"Yes."

"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of
simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."

"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wish
to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of your
faith in God."

"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man.
Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like
images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The
first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the
latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experience
and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;--it is
an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfused
into my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt.
Then, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to be
God's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child's
faith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated off
into the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with
baffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments,
faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and
threatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm
passed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed,
with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost.
I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being
engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them over,
weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their
place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my
loss, would not have been ventured.

"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the divine
announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is there not
ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement with
reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions are
clear, to disbelieve is impossible."

"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. "That
sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine."

"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and
experience," said Mr. Wilkins.

"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in
the future. All before me is dark."

"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your
experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon
your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in
anything. You spoke without due reflection."

"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In what
can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in
ruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned my
money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my
need. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which I
have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of
nothing."

"Not even of the love of your child?"

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter
twelve years old.

"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of that.
There is no room for doubt. She loves me."

"One thing in which to have faith," said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a house
which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which may
fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but in love! Are
you afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or in misfortune,
would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be intensified?

"I think, Mr. Fanshaw," continued his friend, "that you have not tested
your faith by higher and better things--by things real and substantial."

"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?"
asked Mr. Fanshaw.

"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor," was
replied.

"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous.

"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History,
observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but in
the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things than
wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not serenest
and happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its foundations?
You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down. Wealth may go,
and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves, but he stands fast,
with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has faith in virtue--he has
trust in God--he knows that all will come out right in the end, and
that he will be a wiser and better man for the trial that tested his
principles--for the storms that toughened, but did not break the fibres
of his soul."

"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim
light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not
perceived before."

"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins.

"Who?"

"A poor man. Once rich."

"He might feel my visit as an intrusion."

"No."

"What reduced him to poverty?"

"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him."

"Ah!"

"And he has never been able to recover himself."

"What is his state of mind?"

"You shall judge for yourself."

In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was in
feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go out and
attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children absent. Of all
this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His surprise was real, when
he saw, instead of a sad-looking, disappointed and suffering person, a
cheerful old man, whose face warmed up on their entrance, as if
sunshine were melting over it. Conversation turned in the direction Mr.
Wilkins desired it to take, and the question soon came, naturally, from
Mr. Fanshaw--

"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and trials,
and sorrows?"

"Through faith and patience," was the smiling answer. "Faith in God and
the right, and patience to wait."

"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who robbed
you of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in poverty.
He is eating your children's bread."

"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man.

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--"No!"

"I am happier than he is," said the old man. "And as for his eating my
children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but theirs is
sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near him, and
opening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He writes:--'Dear
Father--All is going well with me. I enclose you fifty dollars. In a
month I am to be married, and it is all arranged that dear Alice and I
shall go East just to see you, and take you back home with us. How nice
and comfortable we will make you! And you shall never leave us!'"

The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes
filled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--

"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such danger
that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in great
distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment; and you
see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I not richer in
such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his love, I possessed
a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it would all come out
right. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It is coming out right."

"But the wrong that has been done," said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injustice
that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful enjoyment
of your goods, while you are in want."

"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never
dwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for me,
it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and raiment."

"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the
good," said Mr. Fanshaw.

"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?"

"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies the
ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune? Clearly
the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came to me in
the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my faith in
him. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender mercy;
until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up to the
sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the deep
satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed me, I
leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He will not
find, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his bed soft;
nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God will trouble
his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of his life."

"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering will
not make good your loss."

"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against Providence.
My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold. I and mine
needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through the perfidy of
a friend. That false friend, selfish and grasping--seeing in money the
greatest good--was permitted to consummate his evil design. That his
evil will punish him, I am sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he
may be led to reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it
will tear his vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a
second theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be
turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is, that
the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life."

"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old man's
hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you for having
opened to my mind a new region of thought--for having made some things
clear that have always been dark. I am sure that our meeting to-day is
not a simple accident. I have been led here, and for a good purpose."

As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the former
said--

"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend."

"Ah!"

"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his vitals.
I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know how to
approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not suffer
wrong to the end."

"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked Mr
Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and disaster,
the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever out of evil
educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of life brings gain
to a higher degree? Consider how, in an unpremeditated way, you are
brought into contact with a stranger, and how his life and experience
touching yours, give out a spark that lights a candle in your soul to
illumine chambers where scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not
alone for your benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an
instrument of good not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you
can effect restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual."

"I can and I will effect it," replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!




II.

IS HE A CHRISTIAN?


"_IS_ he a Christian?"

The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I
paused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer.

"Oh, yes; he is a Christian," was replied.

"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before," said
the other.

"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of his
new birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in fellowship
with the saints."

"What a blessed change!"

"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great
company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account."

"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend.

"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe," was replied.

"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces," said I. "If he is,
indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing."

"By their fruits ye shall know them," responded my friend. "I will
believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in
good living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they say,
he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will not send
forth bitter waters."

My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like cases.
I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look past the
Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate religious
quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must be genuine
love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God; for neighborly
love is the ground in which that higher and purer love takes root. It
is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal thing. Love is an active
principle, and, according to its quality, works. If the love be
heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to the neighbor; but, if
infernal, in acts of selfishness that disregard the neighbor.

"I will observe this Mr. Gray," said I, as I walked homeward from the
company, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he is,
indeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of meekness
and charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air around him
fragrant."

Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his life
in the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all men. He
was likewise a husband and a father. His relations were, therefore, of
a character to give, daily, a test of his true quality.

It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under
circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a
merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the price
of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him
narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his
countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,
almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to
plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually
disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there
unchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character. There
was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his
bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in
trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five per
cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still endeavored to
procure it at a lower figure than was named by the seller, and finally
crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as he did, that the
merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not well afford to hold
it over.

"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left
the store.

"He's a Christian, they say," was my quiet remark.

"A Christian!"

"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the
church?"

"You're joking!"

"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when he
came in?"

"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain
peculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm
sorry!"

"For what?"

"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that
makes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer, doctor,
or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of those who
accept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I scorn and
execrate."

"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr.
Gray," said I.

"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant.

"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does not
possess."

"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A true
Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in the
price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order that he
might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even the live and
let live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has joined the church,
my word for it, there is a black sheep in the fold; or, I might say,
without abuse of language, a wolf therein disguised in sheep's
clothing."

"Give the man time," said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you know.
In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and regulate his
life from perceptions of higher truths."

"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some
irony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature."

I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely answered,

"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural
life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the
periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the strong
man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed for the
battle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a Christian life,
that is something. He will grow wiser and better in time, I hope."

"There is vast room for improvement," said the merchant. "In my eyes he
is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the sake
of the world and the church both, that his new associates will make
something better out of him."

I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting
with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a bill
of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a portion of
the amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not ready for him.

"I am sorry, Mr. Gray," he began, with some hesitation of manner.

"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray.

"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been
disappointed----"

"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me to-day,
didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry and
imperative.

"Yes, I promised. But----"

"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word. Promises
are sacred things, and should be kept religiously."

"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been no
failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic.

"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of your
own. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I calculated upon
it. Now, of all things in the world, I hate trifling. I shall not call
again, sir!"

"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle your
account, you would call in vain," said the mechanic, showing
considerable disturbance of mind.

"You needn't add insult to wrong." Mr. Gray's countenance reddened, and
he looked angry.

"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine," retorted
the mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold out of the
earth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work before I can
pay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you of the failure
of my customers to meet their engagements----"

"You've no business to have such customers," broke in Mr. Gray. "No
right to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest enough
to pay their bills."

"One of them is your own son," replied the mechanic, goaded beyond
endurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the
amount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I
will send it to you next time."

This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr. Gray
retreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound.

"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left his
shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too closely. I
am but human."

"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man," was my remark.

"They tell me he has become a Christian," said the mechanic. "Has got
religion--been converted. Is that so?"

"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in error.
St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering, meekness,
brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian graces. I do
not see them in this man. Therefore, common report must be in error."

"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my shop
here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt. "If I
am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I get a
little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for don't pay up
as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't just square with
Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me, and talked just as you
heard him to-day. He got his money, every dollar of it; and he will get
his money now. I did think, knowing that he had joined the church and
made a profession of religion, that he would bear a little patiently
with me this time. That, as he had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of
his sins towards heaven, he would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah,
well! These things make us very sceptical about the honesty of men who
call themselves religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been
very encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for
gain as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very
sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality than
we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue, we
judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very closely.
If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager after money
as before, we do not put much faith in his profession, and are very apt
to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine talk about faith,
and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin, excite in us contempt
rather than respect. We ask for good works, and are never satisfied
with anything else. By their fruits ye shall know them."

On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him when
he entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn down,
and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn and
devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes cast to
the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew in front
of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During the
services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the sermon, he
maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion Sabbath; and he
remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to join in the holiest
act of worship.

"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked
homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by pious
acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a day's
march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the
commonest offices of neighborly love?"

It so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr. Gray,
who, after joining the church, became an active worker in some of the
public and prominent charities of the day. He contributed liberally in
many cases, and gave a good deal of time to the prosecution of
benevolent enterprises, in which men of some position were concerned.
But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who had laid the sods
in his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off of a weary strawberry
woman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an extra shilling, I could
not think that it was genuine love for his fellow-men that prompted his
ostentatious charities.

In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business
circles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish love
of advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more inclined to
help or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his action in the
case of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful in business. In
each case, his claim was among the smallest; but he said more unkind
things, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man among the creditors.
He assumed dishonest intention at the outset, and made that a plea for
the most rigid exaction; covering his own hard selfishness with
offensive cant about mercantile honor, Christian integrity, and
religious observance of business contracts. He was the only man among
all the creditors, who made his church membership a prominent
thing--few of them were even church-goers--and the only man who did not
readily make concessions to the poor, down-trodden debtors.

"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of
spirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer
No--for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like.

"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." This is
the divine standard. "Ye must be born again," leaves to us no latitude
of interpretation. There must be a death of the old, natural, selfish
loves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As a man feels, so will
he act. If the affections that rule his heart be divine affections, he
will be a lover of others, and a seeker of their good. He will not be a
hard, harsh, exacting man in natural things, but kind, forbearing,
thoughtful of others, and yielding. In all his dealings with men, his
actions will be governed by the heavenly laws of justice and judgment.
He will regard the good of his neighbor equally with his own. It is in
the world where Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at
all. Religion is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's
conduct among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false
religion, and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly
felicities in the next life, will find himself in miserable error.
Heaven cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the
complement of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must
come into these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he can
never find an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not
gained by doing, but by living.




III.

"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."


"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend, directing
my attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at the lower end
of the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I did so, my eyes
received the sparkle of her gems.

"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams," I remarked.

"Only less brilliant," was my friend's response to this. "Only less
brilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a
drop of dew.--Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now flashing
back the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and subsidence of
her bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public, you know, are
very apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry."

"Miss Harvey is beautiful," said I, "and could afford to depend less on
the foreign aid of ornament."

"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone," returned my
friend, "we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel,
far down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a diamond
bracelet, added--we know their value to be just twelve hundred dollars;
the public is specially inquisitive--suggest some weakness or
perversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for the blaze of
light with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I, for one, should
not have been led to observe her closely. There is no object in nature
which has not its own peculiar signification; which does not correspond
to some quality, affection, or attribute of the mind. This is true of
gems; and it is but natural, that we should look for