Good for evil

THE day was sultry; the air, portending a shower. Groups of young men were loitering about the steps of the different collegiate halls; some glancing up to the sky; others gazing wishfully in the direction of the river, where even at this distance a number of boats could be distinguished, safely moored ready for the race of the morrow.

"Look at that cloud," murmured a young man about to graduate from the law school. "We shall hear the thunder soon; or I'm mistaken. But if you say so, Paul, we'll go as far as the great elm."

"Aye! aye! Wallingford. I shall feel better for the walk. If we are caught in the rain, the wetting, on a day like this, will do us no harm."

"There they go," exclaimed a youth, whom his companions called Cicero, on account of his frequent quotations from that renowned orator. "They're walking off together as usual. It would be a treat to see Wallingford by himself for once."

"They're too Davidiac and Jonathanic for that," laughed another. "They are both fine fellows; but I confess Wallingford is more to my taste than Dudley; and I prophesy he'll make a greater mark in the world."

In the mean time the two friends sauntered slowly on through the college grounds, keeping a careful survey of the advancing cloud, until at length they reached the Post office where Dudley secured a couple of letters.

"You're a lucky fellow, Paul," said his companion heartily.

"It's only from mother," was the careless rejoinder. "One of her lengthy epistles about nothing. Even the girl's scribblings have more interest."

"Don't speak so," murmured Wallingford. "If you were motherless, as I am, you'd understand how such words hurt me."

"Pshaw, Ned! you know I love my mother. She isn't exactly the character to inspire respect as you can well understand. Warm-hearted and affectionate, ready to work herself to death to please one of my foolish fancies; yet she is not all that one would want in a mother."

Ned Wallingford paused his face flushed with more than the heat, and gazed reproachfully at his companion. "I would rather cut off my hand," he said at length, "than to speak so of a mother. Excuse me, Paul; but the only fault I could see in yours, was that she was too anxious to please you. She displayed devoted love."

"The natural consequence of being the only son in a family of five," Dudley answered with a light laugh. "Worship comes natural to me. I shall exact a vast amount of homage from my wife."

"Not more than you will yield to her charms, I hope."

"It strikes me, we are starting a new subject," demurely answered Paul; "and as I felt a drop of rain on my nose, I propose we adjourn to number eighteen, North Hall, up one flight, before we proceed with the interesting discussion of my wife's claims on my affection."

Three minutes of quick walking brought them inside the large hall just as the windows of heaven were opened and the rain descended in torrents.

Wallingford having thrown off his wet, linen coat, seated himself at the window and watched for a time the occasional flashes of lightning illumining the dark clouds and followed by the rumbling of the distant thunder; but his thoughts were not on the scene before him, sublime as it was.

Memory was carrying him back some dozen years, to the hour when his mother lay upon the bed of death. Her face was pale as the white robes that surrounded her; but there was a holy light resting on every feature, which had made such an impression on the boy's mind, that he had never forgotten it. He knew as he stood by her side that she must die;—that, the transparent hand closely clasping his would soon become the food for worms;—that the voice now feebly lisping words of love and counsel would soon be silenced for aye; but he could not weep. She was so happy, rejoicing that she was soon to be in the presence of her Saviour, and to join the husband and babes who had gone before her to glory; her death seemed such a fitting end to a life like hers; humble, active, trusting, that he felt it would be selfish to wish her to stay. Again, he heard her dying voice; committing him and her little Gertrude to the care of the Shepherd of Israel; again he saw her eyes, dim with the film of dissolving nature, turn to his with the parting injunction, "Edward I leave Gertrude to you as a sacred legacy, teach her to fear God and keep his commandments, I shall expect to meet you both in heaven."