more ashamed we
often seem to be of man's judgment than of God's."

Then he turned suddenly to Ester, and spoke in a quiet, respectful
tone:

"Is the stranger by my side a fellow-pilgrim?"

Ester was startled and confused. The whole scene had been a very
strange one to her. She tried to think the blue-ribboned girl was
dreadfully out of her sphere; but the questions following each other
in such quick succession, were so very solemn, and personal, and
searching--and now this one. She hesitated, and stammered, and flushed
like a school-girl, as at last she faltered: "I--I think--I believe--I
am."

"Then I trust you are wide-awake, and a faithful worker in the
vineyard," he said, earnestly. "These are times when the Master needs
true and faithful workmen."

"He's a minister," said Ester, positively, to herself, when she had
recovered from her confusion sufficiently to observe him closely, as
he carefully folded the old woman's shawl for her, took her box and
basket in his care, and courteously offered his hand to assist her
into the cars for the New York train thundered in at last, and Mr.
Newton presented himself; and they rushed and jostled each other out
of the depot and into the train. And the little tract hung quietly
in its corner; and the carpenter who had left it there, hammered, and
sawed, and planed--yes, and prayed that God would use it, and knew not
then, nor afterward, that it had already awakened thoughts that would
tell for eternity.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE JOURNEY'S END.

"Yes, he's a minister," Ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being
seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the
young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found
leisure to observe him more closely. Mr. Newton was absorbed in the
_Tribune_; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could
hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well
as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water
and attended to all her simple wants. During the stopping of the train
at a station, their talk became distinct.

"And I haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old
lady was saying. "Won't he be glad though, to see his mother once
more? And he's got children--two of them; one is named after me,
Sabrina. It's an awful homely name, I think, don't you? But then, you
see, it was grandma's."

"And that makes all the difference in t