THE HOME CIRCLE | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Apr 11, 1878

THE HOME CIRCLE.

The Silver Lining.

"Every cloud has its silver lining." But it seemed to Helen Livingston that there could be none to her sorrow-cloud, it was so dark and heavy.

And yet her home was a most luxurious mansion, she had everything money could buy, she was yet young and very beautiful. But there is one sorrow riches cannot avert—death. Two years ago her husband, proud, noble-hearted Edward Livingston, died. That almost crushed her, but she bore up for the sake of his son—her bright-eyed, golden-haired Eddie.

And now Eddie was gone. And since the day they laid him beside his father, all her energy was gone. All her hopes and interests in life left her, and all day long she lay upon the sofa or sat in a deep lounging-chair in her darkened chamber, scarcely eating food enough to sustain life, refusing to see any friends except her own family, and resisting all entreaties to go out for a breath of air.

And here her sister, Mrs. Maxwell, found her as she came one bright morning, bringing a breath of heaven's fresh loveliness into the close, perfumed, and heated chamber.

"Come, Helen, do come out for a little ride," she entreated. "I've brought my own carriage and ponies, and I'll drive you myself. It is such a lovely morning. Please, Helen!"

But Helen only turned wearily on her sofa.

"No, no, Susan! How can you ask me?"

"It will do you good, Helen," pleaded Susan.

"I don't want to be done good. I only want to be let alone. I never want to leave this room until I am carried out as poor little Eddie was," moaned Helen.

"And that won't be long, I'm thinking, if you're allowed to go on in this fashion," muttered Susan, under her breath, while she said aloud, using a last argument, "Please, come, Helen; we'll drive out to Laurel Hill and take some flowers to Edward and Eddie." But still the mourner only sighed, "No, Susan, no! I send flowers out every day. But I can't go myself; don't tease me, Susan."

Poor Susan stood still, her bright eyes full of tears, looking at her sister for a little while. Then she turned abruptly, and left the room without another word. And she drove her pretty ponies straight to the house of a dear old Quaker friend—in two senses—into whose presence she carried her petition.

"Aunt Rachel, do please go and see Helen," she begged. "I can't do anything with her—none of us can, and if you can, I don't know what will become of her."

"Thee knows I will do what I can," softly returned Rachel Dalrymple. "Sit thee down and tell me all about Helen."

And having heard, aunt Rachel donned her dove-colored plumage, and went in Susan's carriage to the mourner's home.

"The servants will not want to admit you, but don't be denied," said Susan as aunt Rachel got out.

The dear old lady nodded, and when the door was opened, she walked in at once.

"I have come to see Helen Livingston," she said.

"Mrs. Livingston does not see visitors," exclaimed the waiter.

"She will see me. I will not trouble thee to go with me," she said, as she continued straightway up to Helen's darkened chamber.

Entering with a soft tap, she crossed the room and took Helen's thin, white hand.

"I have come to see thee Helen," she said softly. "But I cannot say I do see thee; thy chamber is too dark, dear."

She walked at once to the window and drew aside the heavy curtains, letting in a flood of golden sunlight.

"Oh, the light!" moaned Helen, turning away her head.

"We cannot live without the light, my dear," said aunt Rachel, turning to a seat close beside Helen. "Now, Helen," she said gently, "I am older than thee, and I've been through the deep waters of tribulation. Tell me all thy troubles, and I will help thee if I can."

The gentle words and tones went to Helen's heart, and she burst into a torrent of such tears as she had not shed before since her bereavement.

Two or three hours aunt Rachel stayed, and continued her tender ministrations, and when she left she had won from Helen a promise that she would no longer nurse her sorrow in selfish loneliness, but go about in the world and endeavor to do the duties still left to her.

"If thee tries to do right, thee'll find there is some happiness left yet," said gentle aunt Rachel. And though Helen did not quite believe she could ever be happy, she knew her wealth afforded her large means of doing good, and for that she would try to live.

A few months later the winter snow had covered the graves of Eddie and his father with a robe of spotless white, and it was near the happy Christmas-tide.

More than one humble home in the great city had been brightened by Helen's generous Christmas gifts, and she began to take some pleasure in these pleasant duties.

Some one has beautifully said:—

"Happiness is a perfume which we cannot sprinkle over others without spilling a few drops on ourselves." And Helen, in seeing how she made others happy, was far happier herself than she had ever hoped to be again.

The day before Christmas she had word of an aged and bed-ridden relative across the river, on the Jersey side, and she at once went over to see her.

As she stepped upon the ferry-boat to return, she found it very crowded, and with difficulty found a seat next a plain, neat-looking country-woman who had with her a little fellow of five or six years, and Helen's heart thrilled as she looked at the little face with its bright blue eyes and golden hair, for it bore quite a resemblance to the dear face of her lost Eddie.

She could not help speaking to the child, and trying to win it to her, and presently she had him upon her knee.

"What is your little boy's name?" she said, addressing the woman.

"Eddie Hamilton," said the stranger, with a sigh, and Helen's heart thrilled again at the familiar name.

"But he's not my child, he's an orphan," continued the woman.

"Ah?" commented Helen, interested at once.

"No ma'ma, he's not mine. His mother was a widow, and came to Brookville, where I live, a year ago come next March. She was very poor, and she had a little house right next to us, and tried to make her living with her needle. But she made her death ma'am, that's what she made—and we could n't bear to see the little fellow suffer, and not a friend in the world, as we knew of, so we took him, me and my John, and we've kept him ever since."

"Do you still intend to keep him?" asked Helen.

"We can't, ma'am. We're poor, hard-working folks, and we've got five children of our own. John had a bad fall last week—he can get about the house, but the doctors say he won't be able to work this winter. It don't stand to reason that we could keep an extra one, and be just to the rest, does it, ma'am?"

"No, indeed," returned Helen, politely.

"That's what's taking me to the city to-day," returned the woman.

"We hated to do it, me and John did, awful bad, but we didn't see any other way to do, so I'm a-taking him to the Orphan Asylum. Do you think they'll be good to him, ma'am?"

A thought which had struggled in Helen's heart for the last few minutes found expression now.

"I don't know," she said, eagerly. "But I do know some one who would! You say you are poor—I am rich, and I am widowed and childless. I have lately lost my husband and my little Eddie, and I am alone and lonely. Give me your little Eddie, and I will love him, and be good to him, and bring him up as my own child!"

"Are you in earnest, ma'am?" asked the country-woman.

"Indeed I am! He looks like my lost Eddie—that is what made me first notice him—and it seems to me as if Heaven had sent him to me. He is my Christmas present! Oh, do let me have him!"

"I can't say no, ma'am. I am sure he will have a happy home with you," replied the woman, earnestly.

"Go with me and see!" cried Helen. "Your John would approve, I am sure. Please tell me your name."

"Reynolds is my name."

"Mine is Livingston. Now, Mrs. Reynolds you shall go home with me. It is not near the distance it is out to the Orphan Asylum, and you shall see how I will do for little Eddie. Oh, I am so happy to have him!" And as Helen hugged the child to her bosom, she did, indeed, feel that he was, in some measure, her lost Eddie, restored.

So when Mrs. Livingston's elegant carriage met her on the city side of the ferry, she took Mrs. Reynolds and little Eddie to her handsome home. And over a dainty dinner, which Helen ordered, they made all arrangements and plans for little Eddie's transfer to his new mamma.

For Helen proposed to adopt and educate him as her own son, with her own name, taking pride in the thought, that after all, an Edward Livingston might bear the name and wear the wealth and honors of the family.

When Mrs. Reynolds returned home, Helen sent her to the ferry in her carriage again, to save her the long walk.

"Come to see Eddie whenever you like," she said, as they parted, for Helen had no false pride about her—she was too true a lady for that—"and I will bring him to see you. I don't want him to forget his first kind benefactors. And here," slipping a tiny roll into Mrs. Reynolds' hands, "is a little Christmas present for John and the children."

And when Mrs. Reynolds looked at the "little Christmas present" she found it was a crisp, new hundred-dollar bill.

And so that Christmas Eve a golden curly head rested on the empty crib pillow in Helen Livingston's room. And the next morning two little stuffed stockings hung over the table, loaded with Christmas toys.

While Helen, herself, was so bright and happy, that, when sister Susan and aunt Rachel came in to see the little stranger, of whose arrival Helen had sent them word, they stood astonished at the transformation.

"Thee sees, Helen," said aunt Rachel, "that I was not wrong when I told thee if thee tried to do right thee would be sure to be happy!"—Sel.