A year has passed by since the death of Victoria's father. A year filled with large experience and growing usefulness. Into her life has passed a great sorrow and it has left her nobler, sweeter, more compassionate of the world's suffering. The greatest trial she has to bear is the knowledge of Victor's ruin. Since the day when she stood by the coffin where Rachel brought her the cable from London telling of Victor's fall in his old passion Victoria has not heard a word of him. She does not know whether he is living or dead. She tries t comfort herself with the hope that he is repentant and living obscurely but honestly somewhere and that sometime he will come back to her and together they will go on to live a better and more happy life. All that is a hope she cherishes. It makes her face serious often. But in spite of all that, it is a face of great beauty. Victoria without knowing it has grown beautiful. And to grow beautiful without knowing too much about it is the mark of a great and lovable character.

Rachel is her constant companion now. The two live together with a housekeeper and a cousin of Victoria's father, an elderly woman who came shortly after Mr. Stanwood's death. The two girls, young women they are now, find their lives very full and busy. With all their duties, however, they find time to work in the slum district organized by John King's church, and some of their happiest, most interesting hours are passed in the work. King and Richard Bruce and Tom Howard with other members of the Question Class are frequent workers in the same district. The music classes organized by Victoria are held in the warehouse building where Tom and Richard used to teach might school. The building has been entirely made over now and is a warm, well-lighted commodious place for all kinds of industrial work. To the surprise of every one excepting John King, Rachel proves one of the best workers of them all. Her brief but sharp experience as a sewing girl has given her a knowledge of the trials and temptations of the working girls in the city and she has organized a plan for helping then which John King thinks may in time revolutionize the condition of the workers who sew for the sweat shops.

One evening after the different classes had gone away, John King and Richard, Tom, Victoria and Rachel lingered in the Hall to have a little talk together abour the work of the Institutional Church. After a little while Tom and Richard began to speak of the old times when they first knew John King.

"Remember it? Well I should think so!" Tom spoke half seriously, half humorously. "That was the might Dick gave his great untamed sleight of hand show," he went on, turning to Rachel, who had never heard the story of the loss of Tom's right hand. "I helped him. We shook money out of empty handkerchiefs, baked an omelet in my hat and ruined the hat, picked a handful of matches out of a boy's hair and did all the regulation tricks to a full house. We would have scored a complete success if it had not been for that boy ‘Con.' " Tom paused thoughtfully and then went on.

"You see Dick was up there on the platform and Con, the worst boy I ever knew, even down here, threw an inkstand. It struck Dick right in the face and knocked him over. I thought he was killed and I jumped down and went for Con. It was the biggest kind of a fight then. Foot ball was a prize kindergarten to the scrimmage we had. I don't remember very well how it happened. I was never so full of rage and fight in my life. I know if I could I would have flung that boy through the window over there, sash and all. I know I hoped it would kill him. I was not a Christian then. Well, Con got out his knife and stabbed me right through the palm of my hand. Do you know, Mr. King, I have felt that stab in my hand hundreds of times since that hand was taken off?"

"Very common sensation in case of amputation."

"Very uncommonly uncomfortable too, I can tell you. Well, I can remember struggling, and a faintness come over me and a blow in the face nearly finished me and I was falling when the door there burst open and Mr. King and some officers rushed in and the boys rushed out, all except Con, who was caught, and then I fainted away. I didn't know anything more until I came to in Mr. King's house."

"What became of the boy?"

"He was killed in jail by one of the prisoners. It was a great shock to Tom. Those were wild times, Tom, when the big railroad strikes were on. Remember how I tried to take your place on the Daily Universe as special reporter?"

"Tried to! You did it. Better than I ever could. And all that time I lay around useless. I gave Mr. King no end of trouble."

"You were a very good sick person, Tom, only your appetite was something alarming when you began to get well."

"I should think," said Rachel a little timidly, "that you would dread to come into this room having such memories of it."

"Well I would, perhaps," said Tom, "Only it has other memories now." The minute he said it he turned red to think that perhaps the rest were thinking his thought of the pleasant hours spent in the old hall with the new friends and workers, Victoria and Rachel.

"I should think the loss of your hand would make it hard for you to carry on your work as a reporter," said Rachel, nervously changing the subject. None of the others seemed to attach any significance to what Tom had said and he replied with a tone of relief,

"O, I learned to use my left hand. It was as much as my dearest friend could do, thought, to read my efforts. Dick says it was like trying to decipher some of the Egyptian hieroglyphics on the mummy cases in the pyramids."

"It was worse than that, Miss Brooks," said John King winking at Richard. "Tom wrote me a note while he was practicing with his left hand and I don't know to this day whether it was the answer to an invitation to dinner or a notice to be read from the pulpit respecting a special offering for the work done here. I was in such doubt about it that I filed it away in my famous Autograph Book and labeled it 'Interesting note from Alexander III., late Emperor of Russia,-written on the eve of the attempt to blow up the winter palace.'"

"Of course, Miss Brooks," said Tom with a grin, "I have to bear all this because Mr. King and Richard are jealous of my elegant penmanship. It is a well known fact that ministers and authors write such poor hands that magazines require those two classes of mankind to typewrite everything they send in for publication. I wish you could see some of my handwriting."

Tom pulled up again suddenly as Richard and John King laughed, and Rachel colored a little but looked all the prettier for it. The talk drifted on into plans concerning the work of the Institutional Department of the church and finally they went out, all walking along together up past John King's house. He stopped a few minutes at the steps to chat a little and finally said good night and went in, leaving the young people with a word of hearty thanks to them for their very efficient help in his beloved church work.

"Shall we take the cars?" asked Richard, speaking for al four.

"Let's walk." said Tom, who always loved the exercise and never rode on the cable cars or in a carriage or cab when he could help it.

So they started for the north side, Richard escorting Victoria and Tom giving his arm to Rachel, who was very quiet at first bur soon grew quite talkative and even merry as Tom rattled on in his heath manner telling some funny stories in connection with his old work as a city reporter.

When they reached the bridge and started to cross, there was a delay owing to the draw being open, but Victoria and Richard had been far enough ahead to pass over just before the draw opened. Rachel suddenly grew very quiet. It was the bridge where Victoria had come to her that night so long ago, it seemed to her. Tom had never heard the story. He simply knew that Rachel had some good reason for regarding Victoria as her greatest friend.

"There was a girl threw herself off the end of this bridge once," said Tom innocently. He was nervous and afraid Rachel was tired of him for being such poor company. "I remember writing it up for the Daily Universe. It was an awfully sad case. One of the girls in the tailor's establishments who had lost her place and --"

Tom felt Rachel's hand tremble on his arm "Come!" she said, stepping forward, "the bridge is moving. Let us hurry across." Tom felt as if he had made some blunder and wished he was at the bottom of the river. After they were well over and had walked a block or two on the other side, Rachel, whose agitation departed as quickly as it came, said, with some hesitation at first, then with complete frankness,

"I ought to tell you, perhaps, Mr. Howard, that it was on that bridge that Victoria, Miss Stanwood, saved me from just such a fate as that of the poor girl you mentioned. Pardon my manner. It all came over me like a new feeling after all these months as I stood there. I--I--thought maybe you knew."

"I didn't!" stammered Tom. "It's news to me. I beg your pardon. I hurt you."

"No! no, you didn't mean to. It was a great experience to me and --""

Rachel did not say any more and after an awkward pause Tom said, "I'm awfully sorry." Then he began to talk about Victoria and Richard and John King and by the time the two reached the house Rachel seemed quite cheerful again. She asked him if he would not come in, but Richard was just coming down the steps and Tom thanked her, said good night and took Dick's arm as the two turned and started to walk back to their rooms.

The friends walked on without a word for some distance. At length Richard, drawing Tom's arm to his side, said in a voice that had a new meaning in it,

"Tom, old fellow, will you feel very bad if I tell you that I have begun to love some one else more than you?"

"No, I guess not. I'm ready to treat you in the same way."

Richard didn't seem to hear what Tom said. He went on, "I'm the happiest man in Chicago. I feel like shouting out the news into the streets."

"What news?" said Tom. "It's pretty late for an evening edition."

"Tom," said Richard suddenly but in a quiet tone, "Will you be the best man at a wedding pretty soon?"

Tom stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and drew a long breath. Then he said with a poor accent that Richard was familiar with all through his college acquaintance, "I will if you will tell me how you proposed. That is, I will if I am not otherwise engaged myself at the time?"

Richard laughed. Then he said like one who feels that the dignity and wondrousness of loving is beyond the reach of any ordinary exhibition of humor--

"Tom, God has wonderfully blessed my life. Miss Stanwood, Victoria" (the name seemed to come easily to him), "loves me. I didn't know surely before tonight. I know it now."

"I knew it long age," said Tom, just as the two stepped upon the bridge. "Why didn't you ask me? Dick, it is beautiful."

"You mean she is?"

"Yes, of course. Dick, dear fellow, congratulations seems like a feeble word, doesn't it? Or She? Every thing of course will be ‘she' now. I'll get even with you, though. But say, old chum, what will you do, go on the stage, or will Miss Stanwood leave off playing and take to authorship?"

Tom, I'll throw you over into the river if you make any fun of--" Richard partly lifted Tom off his feet as he playfully swung along still clinging to Tom's arm.

"No, don't," said Tom soberly. The words recalled Rachel's story. He was unusually reticent as Richard went on to talk of his own great happiness. As sometimes happens, even with large hearted natures like Richard's such an experience for a little while absorbed all his thoughts and Tom's manner was not particularly noticed. Only when the two friends reached their rooms and went in Richard said,

"Tom, I hope you will be as happy as I am some day."

"I hope I shall. But what shall I do for a best man in that case?"

"Well, won't I do?"

"Not if both weddings are on the same day."

"O, well, we will arrange that when the time comes." Richard laughed. Then he said looking earnestly and lovingly at his old chum.

"Tom, if you are in love with Rachel why don't you tell her so?"

"If," said Tom. "If water runs down hill. If the sun shines on a cloudless day. If, but there is no if about it."

"Tom," said Richard, giving him a little love pat on the back, "'faint heart ne'er won fair lady.' I don't think your case is altogether hopeless."

Tom shook his head somewhat doubtfully. Nevertheless he did not seem to be altogether despondent. He was heartily glad for Richard. He could not think of any one in all Chicago nearer his ideal for Richard's wife. And as for Richard himself he walked the streets next day the proudest most humbly glad and exultant soul on earth, he felt. And as for Victoria her romance had come to her so gradually, so naturally, so irresistibly that she gave her lover a heart that was capable of the utmost in sharing life's fortunes of good or evil with equal faith and joy. She had come to know and admire Richard in the year's acquaintance which ripened into mutual friendship very fast, owing to their very frequent meetings at the Question Class and the church work down at the hall. She had read all of Richard's books and was surprised and delighted with them. He had rapidly won public favor and was counted to be one of the rising authors with a very high purpose in his writing. John King had told her a good deal of Richard in one way and another at odd times. The story of his early struggles as a writer, his work in the coal yards, his volunteer work at the night school and many other details touched Victoria very deeply. It is not a great way from admiration to a deeper feeling. And Victoria, woman grown now, saw her life beginning a new chapter. The earth's old story, the divinest known to the human race, the experience sanctified and blessed by our Lord Himself, came into Victoria's life and she did not try to drive it out. She could not if she would. For there is nothing in all the worldwide universe of God more divine and beautiful than the true love of man and woman, nothing more ordained of God than the home life of the human race. When Rachel came in that night Victoria very simply and frankly told her.

"I thought," said Rachel a little roguishly, "that you were not ever going to leave me. You said something of the kind once."

"Great minds change," laughed Victoria. She added gently, "I think I know some one who will look after you so that you won't need me."

Rachel was sitting in front of an open fire but that is no reason why her face should flush so full of color.

"I don't think," Rachel spoke after a pause, "I don't think he will ever ask me."

"Of course he will. And it will not be very long before I shall be doubly happy, dear, in your happiness as well as my own." Victoria said it with tears in her eyes and Rachel looked up and whispered to her, "I am very glad for you."

When the Question Class met next time, John King said as he called it to order, "There is a very unusual variety in the questions to-night. You must not be surprised if I have omitted several. Of course if you send in questions that no man on earth can answer I feel at liberty to leave them out of the box rather than put them and myself in the box at the same time.

Question. "Cannot a company of Christians engage in a social game of cards in their home as well as any other game?"

"There is nothing wicked in a game of cards as a game any more than there is in a game of checkers or dominoes or authors. One trouble with cards is the fact that their associations are bad. Gamblers use cards. Cards are found in every wine shop in France and every beer garden in Germany and every saloon restaurant in America. There is also a great abuse of card playing by those who have become experts in the game and hundreds of young men have wasted the most precious hours of their lives and ruined their prospects for success in life by yielding to the fascination of card parties night after night. The great objection to cards where there is any, is not because they are wicked or the game sinful, but that the associations are evil and the tendency of card players is invariably to waste too much precious time over the game. I know ten young men who put in enough time winter evenings in card playing to learn a language or a trade. I do not know any game that uses up more valuable time than cards. Of course I am not referring to their use as a recreation or an amusement simply, but to the invariable tendency in society to abuse the recreation, the same as dancing is abused, and make of it an occasion for throwing away time that ought to be used wisely. The Christian law governing amusements is very simple. It is right and Christian to do anything for amusement that leaves the mind and soul pure, refreshed, more ready to do God's will, less selfish and with a growing love for Christ and His kingdom in the world. And any amusement that does not leave a person in that condition is probably harmful to mind, body, and soul."

Question. "Do you think it is dignified for a minister to ride a bicycle?"

"I do, if he doesn't fall off."

Question. "Is a church any more likely to fall into stereotyped ways with its meetings and services than other organizations?"

"No, considering the number of regular meetings held by the church in a year's time it does not repeat itself or get into ruts any more than literary clubs or lodges or any other societies. There is a uniform sameness about anything that occurs regularly. Nothing is so regularly the same as the daily papers. They print the same kind of news in the same column in the same position on the page day after day, year after year. The church is as free from stereotyped ways as any organization that has as many meetings and services."

Question. "What is the use of public prayer? Did not Christ condemn it when he said, ‘But thou, when thou prayest enter into thy chamber and when thou hast shut thy door pray to thy Father in secret and thy Father who seest in secret shall reward thee openly.' Did Christ ever pray in public?"

"Christ condemned the hypocrisy of the scribes and Pharisees who were in the habit of praying in the public streets in order to make a show of their piety. That was the reason he told his disciples to pray at their homes in secret. But Christ certainly believed in public prayer on the proper occasion and when offered in a proper spirit. He himself prayed aloud at the grave of Lazarus while surrounded by a great crowd of people. He also offered a long audible prayer in the presence of his disciples. When the minister offers public prayer in church at a church prayer service or on any public occasion where it is proper it is for the purpose of devotion and recognition of divine presence and its supreme power. When the minister offers public prayer in the church service it should be as the mouth piece of all the people, bearing all their desires and communion up before the same throne of grace. Public prayer rightly used is an aid to public devotion and an inspiration to those who do not feel able to express in language their own vague but real wants."

Question. "Ought not people to learn how to pray in public as well as how to speak in public?"

"Yes, undoubtedly. A great many persons do not know how to pray in public. At the same time the prayers of an ignorant but devout person will often do more good to the hearers than the prayers of a cultured, intelligent person who puays to his audience instead of to God."

Question. "I am a clerk in a candy store. Christmas this year falls on Tuesday. My employer wants me to be at the store Sunday to get the trade of those people who can't find time to buy during the week. What ought I to do?"

"Your employer has no right to ask you to work on Sunday. You have a right to tell him that you will serve him faithfully and honestly six days but you cannot and will not work for any man unnecessarily on Sunday. The man who hires labor or the corporation that employs flesh and blood and then demands work seven days in a week under threat of discharging the men in case of refusal to work seven days is guilty of the crime of re-establishing slavery. For what is it except slavery where a human being feels the grind of toil seven days in a week? If your employer says this is a special occasion and does not happen often, that is no argument. Once you have given up your Sunday to him it will be easier for him to get you to do it again. If I were in your place or any one's else I would not work for any man on Sunday to enable him to make a little more money. I would sooner lose my place and stand the chance of finding another. There are some things that the money and favor of an employer ought never to be able to buy, and among them ought to be a man's independence as regards his right to one day in seven for rest and worship."

Question. "I work in a railroad office in a room with fifty other young men. In a recent census of religious belief taken in this room only seven out of the fifty including myself were found to be in the habit of attending any religious service regularly. How can we seven men make our Christian lives felt by the others? Is there anything specific that we can do to help make them Christians?"

"There is always the daily sermon of your character. Live your Christian life manfully and without cant or sanctimoniousness. Don't wear an air of holier-than-thou tha twill be sure to repel instead of attract to Christian life. This is the main thing. It is the constant thing. Any young man who isn't a fool or a blockhead can tell a Christian after he has worked in the same office with him awhile. Let your light shine, but don't keep sticking it uncomfortably into people's faces. They can see it plain enough if it is burning. And just keep living your Christian faith right along day after day. Christian character is like a bicycle, you must keep it moving right along, if you don't, it will tumble over. There will also perhaps come special opportunities when you can help particular men to become Christians. When they come don't be afraid of seizing then. If you really want to win a man to Christ he won't feel offended if you tell him so when the right time comes. Only you want to be pretty sure that your own life is better than his. Else how will he see what there is to gain by being like you?"

Question. "I sometimes feel as if I would like to be a Christian but I never have any emotion when I listen to preaching or when I am urged to live a Christian life. Am I to wait for the proper feeling before I am converted?"

"When you want to go to New York you go to one of the railroad stations in the city and buy a ticket. Then when the train is ready you present yourself at the gate and the gateman directs you to your train and you get on board. That is easy, isn't it? Well, is it any harder to start in the Christian life if you want to go that way? What makes a Christian? Emotion? Feeling? Agony? Tears? No. Simple belief in the Lord Jesus Christ and daily life according to his teachings. The directions for becoming a Christian are just as simple as directions in railroad stations for going to some place on the road. After you buy your ticket to New York and the gateman says, "There's your train,' you don't hang around the gate saying, ‘I don't feel any particular emotion; I am afraid I ought to wait until I feel different before I go to New York.' The railroad official would stare and say if he had time to tend to your case, ‘What's the matter, young man? What's feeling got to do with it? Lemme see your pasteboard. Why that's all right. New York. Get right in. This train's going there. All aboard for New York via Buffalo, Syracuse and Albany!' And if you don't get on board, why, you would not get to New York, feeling or no feeling.

Is it any different about starting for Heaven via the Christian life? You believe on the Lord Jesus Christ as the Eternal Life. You accept his life as your example. You put your faith in him and as a matter of will, of mind, of reason, of belief, you start on the Christian life. Christ never appealed to the emotions of men, he always appealed to their wills, their reason, their faith, to turn to righteousness and have salvation. There may be emotion in plenty, feeling in plenty at the time a human being begins to live the new life. But the emotion, the feeling, is not a condition of being saved. It is simply an accompaniment. Just as you might be weeping as you got on the train for New York as you thought of your past life and its sins in this city. But your weeping would not be necessary to get you to New York. It would simply be a circumstance of your trip."

Victoria who was present at this meeting of the Question Club went home with a new thought, new to her of the Christian life. She had never professed her faith. She had always had the deepest reverence for Christ and more and more each year she had come to have a growing need of that great Presence in human life. Talking with Richard that evening and on other days that followed she looked at the life of Christ and its relation to her own with joy and a conviction that made her say first to herself, afterwards to Richard, "The Christ has become a necessity to me. I an ready to confess him. I want to live the life." To Richard this deepened and intensified his affection. And to both of these souls as they planned the future happiness of their lot together the strongest tie that bound them daily more closely to each other was the fact that the religious faith of each was Christian and the motive of each was service to the Master in His kingdom on earth.

All this experience developed Victoria wonderfully. The work she was doing in the slums, the volunteer service of her violin in the hospitals and jails took on a new and more blessed meaning. The Christ love began to breathe through it all.

One Sunday shortly after this particular time, she was playing in a large hospital under the management of a Catholic sisterhood. It was a new place. She had never been there before. There were fifty beds in the ward. She stood nearly in the middle of the ward as she played. Richard, Tom, and Rachel had come with her that afternoon. She had played a beautiful hymn, one of her own composing and had begun another selection softly, when to Richard's alarm Victoria suddenly dropped the violin and running up to one of the cots fell upon her knees by the side of it crying out, "victor! Victor!" The rest drew near. There lay the brother, a wreck of his former handsome appearance. He gazed stupidly at Victoria and made some motion with his lips but did not speak.

"Victor! Don't you know me, Victor, your sister!"

"Is he your brother, madam?" inquired the doctor who was present.

"He is her twin brother," said Richard gently. "He has been lost to her for over a year."

Victoria still called Victor's name as she kneeled by him. But there was no answering speech. The doctor said gravely,

"He was brought here a stranger two days ago. He was found in the streets. He has had a stroke of paralysis affecting the throat and vocal cords. He cannot speak. It is doubtful if he will ever speak again."

"He was a remarkable singer," said Tom is a low voice looking at the doctor while Rachel and Richard both tried to comfort Victoria who seemed overcome with the unexpected meeting.

"He will never sing again," said the doctor bluntly. "His vocal cords are destroyed."

Victor must have heard him. A horrible look came over his face, wasted and soiled with passion and vice, and half raising himself on the cot by an awful exercise of will and desire he uttered a sound that was more animal than human. It was the last effort of his once beautiful but abused gift of voice. At the terrible sound Victoria lay back again, and for the first time in her life fainted.

Victor lay there with a face of impotent rage. He looked so ghastly that Tom exclaimed,

"He is dying!"

The doctor bent over him.

"No, he will live."

"But what a life!" thought Tom and the rest as they stood there smitten for the time being into infinite pity for the wasted broken humanity that lay there, tossed like wreck on the shore of the tempest beaten sea where so many once fair freighted human vessels on the mighty ocean of life have made shipwreck of their immortal souls.

~ end of chapter 11 ~