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 (/
 
 URSULA. 
 
 A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF " AMY HERBERT, " IVORS,' 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 Come away : for Life and Thought 
 
 Here no longer dwell ; 
 
 Brtt in a city glorious, 
 A great and distant city, have bought 
 
 A mansion incorruptible. 
 
 Tenntson. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 KEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 346 & 348 BEOADWAY. 
 
 LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 1858.
 
 &AMA fiAKBAiiA 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It is pleasant to remember the events of years gone by. 
 I shall try to recollect those of my own life. I may not be 
 able to put down everything regularly, but some things that 
 have happened cannot be forgotten, and these will help me to 
 others. Mrs. Weir was very kind in teaching me as she did 
 when I was a girl. I suppose she never thought of the use I 
 should put my learning to ; and perhaps, after all, it may 
 not be of use. I took little heed to advice which was given 
 me when I was young, and so, perhaps, no heed will be 
 given to me when I tell of my mistakes and difficulties. But 
 time goes on fast, and I would fain, if I could, act up now to 
 what Mrs. Weir used to say, in her gentle way : " Ursula, 
 my child, we must do good in our generation." God knows, 
 I have done little enough in mine. I may not always have 
 fallen short wilfully, but there is not much comfort in such a 
 thought when one sees what has been neglected, except as 
 regards oneself and the hope of forgiveness. Anyhow, I can 
 but strive to make up for it, and the thought of having 
 striven may be a comfort when I come to die. 
 
 I must begin at the beginning, the time which I can first 
 remember. That was when we all lived at Sandcombe — my 
 father, and mother, and William, and Roger, and I ; — but I 
 don't know much of those days. The farm must have been 
 very difiereut then from what it is now, and people's ways of 
 going on must have been difiercnt too. I remember my 
 mother always wore a cotton or stufi' gown, with a coloured
 
 4 URSULA. 
 
 lumdkcrcliicf folded over her neck, and used to get up at 
 four o'clock in the morning, and help about all kinds of things 
 which we should leave to the maids, and I can quite well 
 recollect going out with her to see the cows milked, and her 
 teaching one of the dairy-maids how to churn the butter; but 
 almost everything else is gone from me, for I have known 
 Sandcombe since, and so the notions I have of it are con- 
 fused. My father and mother died when I was about six 
 years old. My father was taken first ; he had been failing a 
 long time : he caught a cold from being overheated at har- 
 vest, and never recovered it, and my poor mother took a 
 fever soon after, and was ill for a month, and then she went too. 
 It was a great grief to me, though I could not understand it 
 properly. My mother was a very good woman, and taught 
 me in the best way she could ; but she never had much 
 learning, and was always busy, and so I had been left a good 
 deal to my own ways, and was spoilt and very headstrong. 
 The only person who could manage me properly was my 
 brother Roger, and I don't know how he did it, for he was 
 never quick with me as William was, but somehow I loved 
 him more than any one else from the time I was a baby. 
 They used to say, that when I was in arms, if I cried, they 
 always gave me to Koger to be quieted ; and I suppose the 
 same feeling grew up with me afterwards : yet in those days 
 I could not have known properly what there was to love in 
 him, and there were some things about Lim which might 
 naturally have frightened me. He was a very tall, large- 
 made man-, quite noted all round the country for his strength, 
 — the best rider and cricketer to be found for miles. He 
 had a power of work which was quite wonderful ; up in the 
 morning with the labourers, and later to bed than any of us, 
 and never seeming to want sleep as others did. His manner, 
 though kind, was rough, and his voice was rather harsh. He 
 spoke out his mind plainly when called upon, but at other 
 times he was much given to silence. These things were not 
 likely to win a child's heart ; but there is something, I am 
 sure, which God gives to such little ones to teach them whom 
 they may trust ; and so it was that not a baby ever came into 
 the house but it would go to Roger at once. It was his 
 fancy for children which they felt, I suppose, for he was
 
 URSULA. 5 
 
 curiously fond of tiaem. He had a tender way, indeed, with 
 everything which was put under his care, or made to lean 
 upon him : colts, and kittens, and puppies were his delight, 
 when he could not get hold of a child. It was such a pleasure to 
 him, I imagine, to feel his own great strength by the side of 
 their weakness. I don't think he was ever happier than 
 when he could take nic up in his arms and carry me out to 
 the yard, and set me on the back of one of the huge waggon- 
 liorses, and make it carry me round the field. He and the 
 horse seemed to be so entirely of one mind ; and when he 
 saw I was not frightened, he would pat me on the shoulder 
 and say, " There's a Trot ! " — it was his pet name for me, — 
 " she'll make a woman after all ! " He had a great notion 
 that women were not to be cowards, and I don't think I was 
 a coward about anything but the dark; I never liked that. 
 All this alone, however, would never have made me feel for 
 Roger as 1 did when I grew up. But when I began at all to 
 understand things, I felt that there was something about him 
 difi"ereut from most other people, beside his tender heart and 
 his great strength. William was kind, too, and a strong, 
 bluff-looking man, with a hearty, good-natured manner ; but 
 the two brothers were quite unlike. In those days we did 
 what is seldom, I believe, done now; we dined at the same 
 time as the servants, in a little room opening out of the 
 kitchen, which has since been altered. When William came 
 in to dinner, every one had to make way for him, and he had 
 the best of all there was put before him, and nothing was 
 thought of till he was cared for. It was all very proper, for 
 he was the eldest and the master ; but then he took it so 
 much as his right, and never seemed to consider whether 
 others were comfortable so long as he had what he wanted 
 himself. But Boger never forgot any one. Before he sat 
 down he had a kind word, though it might be rough-spoken, 
 even for the little girl who helped in the dairy, and whom he 
 never saw except at meal-times. He was a little hasty, and 
 so was William ; but lloger always said he was sorry, and 
 William never did. They had different ways, too, of doing 
 kindnesses ; W'illiam made a fuss about his, and talked as if 
 he was afraid they would be forgotten, but I don't think 
 lloger ever knew when he was kind ; it came to him as easily
 
 6 URSULA. 
 
 as eating or drinking. He was not, like some people, put 
 out by being thanked, but he laughed as though it was 
 strange to him that what he had done should be thought of 
 any consequence. There were deeper things, besides, which 
 made the difference, — things which I can sec into now, 
 though I could only feel them then. William would give 
 out an oath sometimes, when he was very angry ; but let 
 Iloger be provoked to the utmost, yet a bad word never 
 passed his lips. He had the fear of God before his eyes 
 more than any man I ever knew : not in talking, — he was 
 shut up about religion to grown-up people, and seldom came 
 out about it at all, indeed, except to children, — but he made 
 everybody feel it, in a way which was wonderful. When 
 William had let out an oath, he would beg Roger's pardon, 
 as though he had been a clergyman. After my mother's 
 death, Roger was the person who took care that I should re- 
 member to say my prayers, and learn my catechism. He 
 was fond of reading himself, and liked to see me take to it, 
 and when I was a very little thing, he used to hear me read 
 a hymn on Sunday, and then, when I was older, a chapter in 
 the Gospel, and when I had done, he would set me on his 
 shoulder as a reward, and carry me round the kitchen. He 
 was more my teacher in those days than any one. I had a 
 kind of nurse to look after me, but she had work to do be- 
 sides, and she was very ignorant, only a labourer's widow, 
 who had never been to school. I might have grown up like 
 a little heathen but for Roger, for I was so young, and so 
 tiny of my age, that my brothers did not like me to go across 
 the down by myself to school, either to Compton or Hatton ; 
 and Sandcombe was a very lonely place, there were no older 
 children near who could take me with them. The plan was 
 talked about sometimes, and the clergjrman from Compton 
 called several times, and said it would be a good thing ; but 
 William always put it off, and declared there was time 
 enough before me. Thus I went on till I was nine years old, 
 without having had any teaching except what I had learnt 
 first from my mother and then from Roger. But I knew a 
 great deal, for such a child, about pigs, and horses, and 
 cows, and dairy-work, and that might have been as good for 
 me as books ; for 1 had such a natural liking for learning,
 
 URSULA. 7 
 
 that when I was put in the way of it I took to it at once, 
 without any trouble, and the liking has stood by me all my 
 life. 
 
 I lived at Sandcombe, never thinking of a change, for 
 what child ever does think of it ? Roger was all in all to 
 me, and I had no thought of being parted from him. So 
 it was, that it came upon me one day suddenly like a 
 thunderbolt, that there was an idea of his leaving us. I 
 don't think I quite believed it, — it seemed like an impossi- 
 bility, — but it frightened me without my understanding it, 
 and T jumped upon his knee (he had been playing with me 
 just before I went to bed, and he was sitting inside the great 
 open hearth in the inner kitchen), and put my arms round 
 his neck, and said, he was Father Roger and Brother Roger, 
 and I would go wherever he went, and no one should take 
 me from him. 
 
 I believe those words decided my ftite. My father had 
 died only moderately well off; he had his farm stock, but 
 not much else. All had been left to my mother, and after 
 her to my brothers. I dare say it was intended to make 
 some provision for me, but the business was put off and never 
 done. William managed the farm for my mother whilst 
 she lived. He and Roger were both a great many years 
 older than myself. There had been a number of children 
 between us, but they had all died very young; and I sup- 
 pose this circumstance made me all the more a pet. 
 
 After my mother's death, William proposed to keep on 
 the farm, and Roger stayed on for some time to help liiui, 
 but somehow it did not quite do ; William liked his own 
 way and was apt to speak out, and Roger remembered (I 
 know it, because he often told me of it in after years) that 
 saying in the Bible, " A brother oifendcd is harder to be won 
 than a strong city;" and so he would not put himself any 
 longer in the way of it, but proposed, instead, that there 
 should be some equal division of the property made, and 
 then that he should go forth to seek his own fortune. 
 
 That was quite Roger's fashion, — avoiding ofience, ho 
 used to call it. Some persons said he was often unwise, and 
 could not stand up properly for his own rights ; and there 
 might have been some truth in their words, but I loved him
 
 8 U K S U L A . 
 
 all the better for giving up, because it was so unlike -what I 
 should have done myself. Of all things I hated being put 
 upon ; and when I was a very little thing I used to strike 
 my fist upon the table, and say, " You dare ! " when any 
 one offended me, and I might have gone on saying " You 
 dare ! " till now, but for lloger. 
 
 William was honest and just in his ways, according to 
 the world's notion of justice, and he and Roger settled their 
 business very amicably, both of them agreeing that a por- 
 tion should be set aside for me ; and, no doubt, I was as 
 well off as though the will had been made out by a lawyer. 
 
 When William put his name to the agreement, he said 
 out strongly (so lloger told me afterwards) that the child 
 should never know want whilst he had a penny to give her. 
 It was very kind of him. I dare say he talked more than 
 Roger, who said little about things he cared for. 
 
 They put aside two hundred and fifty pounds for me, 
 and then Roger and William divided the rest. 
 
 And now Roger meant to leave Sandcombe. William 
 intended to marry as soon as he could, for he said he should 
 never manage without a " missis " to look after things. As 
 for me, there was a notion of sending me to school. We were 
 about eight miles from Hove, the market-town. It was a 
 very good-sized, flourishing place, and there were decent 
 schools in it : one was kept by a cousin of my mother's, and 
 it was thought that I should do very well there. I was to 
 come back to Sandcombe for the holidays, and William hinted 
 that by and by, when he had a " missis," I might return 
 and live there entirely. 
 
 lloger had sometimes thought of going to Canada, and 
 setting up for himself there as a fai-mer ; and no doubt he 
 might have done very well. But then he could not possibly 
 have taken me too ; and seeing me so bent upon staying 
 with him, he began to think of something else. I fancy also 
 it came across him that I might have a doubtful kind of 
 life Avith William and his wife. William was all for this 
 world, — making money; not dishonourably, but still making 
 it, — and he had his eye (Roger knew this) upon a hard kind 
 of young woman living at Hatton Farm, two miles from us, 
 whose father was said to be very well to do in the world.
 
 URSULA. 9 
 
 Leah Morris was lier name. Roger never liked lier, and she 
 never liked Roger. I don't think he took kindly to the no- 
 tion of my being left under her. 
 
 He kissed me very much when I clung to him that night, 
 but be made no promises ; only he whispered, " Ursie, little 
 one, we will do what God tells us;" and then he bade me go 
 to bed, and I went and cried myself to sleep. 
 
 I did not see Roger again till the next day at dinner. He 
 was out to work too early for me ; but I always dined with 
 him and with William in the little parlour. The farm-ser- 
 vants sat at a long table in the kitchen, and we in the inner 
 room could see all that went on. William was very strict 
 with his servants ; he kept them all in excellent order ; aTid 
 treated them very fairly. They had good food, and enough 
 of it. Sandcombe bacon had quite a name in the country ; 
 and the cheese, though it was so hard that it almost required 
 a hatchet to cut it, had a very good flavour when it had 
 been kept a little while ; and some of our friends at Hove 
 used to have a present of a cheese made them once a year, 
 they were so fond of it. It was a pretty sight enough to see 
 the dinner. The inner kitchen was much higher than the 
 rooms that are built in these days. It had a great oak beam 
 going across it, and there were odd things hung about the 
 walls, — a pair of stag's horns, and some guns, and an old 
 leathern jack, such as people used to drink out of in very 
 old days; it was given to my grandfather, and was very 
 much prized. And all the pots, and pans, and dishes 
 were kept bright and clean, and the stone floor was con- 
 stantly swept and scrubbed. It was a very bright kitchen in 
 summer, when the sun came in, in a kind of dancing way, 
 through the leaves of the clematis, and the Virginia creeper, 
 which had been trained up the divisions of the windows. 
 But I liked it best in winter ; when the flames of the wood- 
 tire in the open hearth made the near part of the room look 
 as if it was coloured red ; whilst out in the corners there was 
 a kind of goblin darkness, even in the day-time. Sometimes, 
 when it was very cold, I used to beg to have my dinner by 
 the kitchen fire, and then I took a little wooden stool quite 
 inside, under the black walls of the hearth, and sat snugly 
 with my plate in my lap, and the servants turning round to 
 1*
 
 10 URSULA. 
 
 look at me, and asking if I was comfortable, and trying to 
 entice me out to their table. That was all very happy. I 
 felt myself to be cared for by every one. But, on the day I 
 have mentioned, I had no wish to go to the kitchen hearth, 
 though it was very cold for the spring season. I kept close 
 by Roger in the little parlour, and said nothing; the sight 
 of him made me ready to cry. "What he had said about 
 going away came back to me so sadly. He and William sat 
 together after dinner with their pipes, as was their custom. 
 William wished me away, I suppose ; for I know that when 
 I took my doll to play with, that I might have an excuse for 
 sitting by Roger's knee, he said sharply, that I must be off 
 to the kitchen, I was only in the way there : and I ran off, 
 half angry, half sorrowful, and told Deborah, the kitchen- 
 girl, that I was come to help her put away the things ; but 
 all the time that I was carrying the plates into the scullery, 
 I was watching William and Roger, for I was quite sure that 
 they were talking about something which concerned me. 
 
 And so, sure enough, they were. It was a very long 
 conversation ; and Deborah, who was rather given to be pert, 
 said to me, that she thought master had forgotten there was 
 any work to be done in the world, he spent so much time 
 over his pipe ; but they both came out of the parlour to- 
 gether at last ; Roger looking very brimful of something im- 
 portant ; and before I could speak, he caught me up in his 
 arms, and said, " Well, Ursie, what do you say ? will you 
 go with brother Roger to live at Dene-? " 
 
 I don't know what I answered, for I scarcely knew what 
 he meant ; but my heart seemed to leap up into my mouth 
 for joy, and I kissed him a great many times ; and he was 
 in such spirits, he put me on his shoulder (for I was very 
 small, not much bigger than many children of six), and car- 
 ried me across the room as he used to do ; whilst Deborah 
 screamed with fright, and William told him he ought not to 
 make a fool of himself. 
 
 I did not understand why we were to live at Dene till a 
 long time afterwards, and then no one told me exactly, but I 
 learnt about it by degrees. 
 
 Dene was a gentleman's house lying under the down 
 which rose just behind Sandcombe. The two places could
 
 URSULA. 11 
 
 not have been more than three-quarters of a mile apart; but 
 I had not often been close to Dene, for whenever I went 
 away from the farm, I used almost always to go over the 
 down to Compton, or in the opposite direction along the 
 ridge to Hatton, those being the two villages nearest to us. 
 
 The family at Dene were only there every now and then, 
 and we had nothing to do with them, for they kept cows, and 
 poultry, and pigs for themselves, and we sent all ours to the 
 market at Hove. 
 
 But just at this time, it seemed, Mr. Weir wanted to 
 make some change in the place, and had an idea that it would 
 be a good thing to have a respectable head man living there, 
 who might look after the cottages belonging to the estate, 
 and also superintend things about the grounds ; and search- 
 ing about for such a person, he heard of Roger, and made 
 him the offer of going there. 
 
 It was not quite to Roger's taste. He had been used to 
 a farm, and to more freedom in his ways. Though William 
 often spoke out to him when he was angry, it was not like 
 having a master over him. He could answer again, if he 
 liked it : not that he ever did ; but there is a comfort — I 
 have found it myself — in feeling that one might answer if one 
 chose. Now Mr. Weir had the character of being a stern, 
 fidgety man, and Roger was likely to have a good deal of 
 trouble, and perhaps not to please him after all ; though, if 
 he could not, I don't know who could. But then, on tlie 
 other hand, there was no risk. He would have a fixed sum, 
 and a house to live in, and a home for me. That told witli 
 him more than all the rest. He would be able to keep a girl 
 to look after me, and I might be taught to read, and write, 
 and cipher, at Compton School, and he would have mc always 
 with him. It might not have been a very wise reason for 
 Roger's choice. Perhaps it would have been better for me 
 to have been sent to people who could have kept me more 
 strictly ; but I suppose there was something in the feel of 
 my arms round his neck, and the many kisses I gave him, 
 which touched him, and made him think, as he said, that 
 God had given me to him, and he could not part with me. 
 I have felt in that way myself in after years, when a child 
 has seemed to love me very much. People say it is a woman's
 
 12 URSULA. 
 
 weakness, but I think men have it oftener than they choose 
 to own. 
 
 What went on after that I do not at all recollect, though 
 I know it seemed to take a long time to settle everything. 
 William and Roger had a great deal to manage with the 
 farm, and questions about money to arrange. After a good 
 deal of talking, it was decided that some of Roger's money 
 should be left with William to lay out upon the farm, and 
 that he should have good interest for it, and be able to claim 
 it again, after due notice, whenever he wished. It seemed 
 the best plan for the time ; and William was very trustwor- 
 thy. Roger had an additional reason for being prudent, be- 
 cause he was to take charge of me, and he wished to put by 
 my little money for the time when I should be grown up, 
 and keep me himself now out of his own. There was no ac- 
 tual right in the matter, not what the world calls right ; yet 
 I have always felt that the fair way would have been for 
 William to have helped. But he never said anything ; he 
 seemed to take it for granted that Roger would manage it all 
 comfortably. He had a fashion of letting his own share of a 
 burden fall upon another person's shoulders, and never ap- 
 pearing to think that he was bound to assist in carrying it. 
 And because he kept so aloof, people imagined at last that 
 he had nothing to do with it. I don't think it ever entered 
 Roger's head that he was undertaking more than his share in 
 paying all my expenses ; and I am sure that William never 
 thought himself anything but a most excellent brother. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 We walked over to Dene late one bright summer's evening, 
 about two months after the plan had been first talked about. 
 I just remember that. I don't recollect what the country 
 looked like ; but it must have been very beautiful if it at all 
 resembled — as of course it did — what I have known it since. 
 The down behind Sandcombe is a long ridge, as I have 
 said ; but towards the south it rises up in a great hill, called 
 St. Anne's Hill, from the summit of which there is a view
 
 URSULA. 13 
 
 for many miles round, over the land and over the sea ; for it is 
 very near the sea, not above a mile distant. The coast forms 
 part of a great bay, indented by smaller ones. The shore is 
 closed in with red sand-clifts, rather low, broken, and jagged; 
 but away to the west the red sand changes into chalk, 
 and the cliffs become very steep, and rise to a great height; 
 standing out against the sky, when the sun shines on them, 
 until they almost dazzle the eye ; and at other times covering 
 themselves, as it were, with a blueish veil of mist, and look- 
 ing out proudly from behind it. I always liked the white 
 cliffs very much, yet my eye never rested upon them long, 
 but wandered still further, to a distant stretch of grey land, 
 looking like a cloud, which could be seen just where the sea 
 and the sky met. It was an island very far off. The shep- 
 herds on the down, I have been told, often watch it to see 
 whether it is clear or misty. Whenever it is seen quite 
 plainly, they say there is to be a change of weather. That 
 was not my reason for gazing upon it as a child ; but it was 
 a spot which I could not reach, or hope to reach, and I had 
 notions of a life there which should be quite apart from trouble 
 or care, and in which I should have the rule, and make every 
 one happy; and so it was the land of my day-dreams. 
 
 Below the ridge of Sandcombe Down the ground is very 
 flat for a long way. From the edge of the cliff it is level for 
 miles, cut up into corn-fields and pastures, with a few trees 
 dotting the hedge-rows. People have said that it is a barren- 
 looking country, and wanted wood ; but it was never barren 
 to me. There was always variety in it. The clouds, when 
 they drifted over the sky, cast shadows upon the fields ; and 
 the sun, when it burst out, gleamed across them in long 
 streaks of light ; and sometimes touched the tower of a 
 church, or seemed as if it were trying to light up the old 
 castle, standing on the hill close to Hove. For we could see 
 as far as Hove, and beyond it, from Sandcombe Down : 
 away, indeed, to where the river, which had its source close 
 to us, and was then only a tiny brook, became quite a broad 
 stream, and deep enough to float vessels. We could follow 
 it till it reached a little seaport a few miles from Hove, and 
 trace beyond it a blue line of sea, appearing here and there, 
 as the land rose or sunk. There was an opposite coast, too,
 
 14 URSULA. 
 
 in that direction, and wc could plainly distinguish the houses, 
 looking like white dots, and the great chalk-pits, like patches 
 on the sides of the misty hills. I was never tired of the 
 view ; yet it was not so grand as the open sea, and the white 
 cliffs from St. Anne's ; and I think it gave me more thoughts 
 of the world. It made me picture to myself men, and women, 
 and all their cares and troubles, and hopes for things which 
 belong to earth ; but the sea seemed to have come at once 
 from God, and to belong to Him alone. When human beings 
 passed over it, they left no mark behind them. One view 
 was like Time and the other like Eternity. In former days 
 there had been a little chapel on St. Anne's Hill ; an oratory, 
 I believe, it was called. It was connected with some old 
 ruins in Compton village, which are now built into barns and 
 granaries, belonging to the Abbey Farm. I have been told 
 that some one of the monks who lived in the abbey, used, in 
 old times, to be sent to the chapel on St. Anne's to say 
 prayers, and to put lights in the tower as a warning to the 
 vessels when they came too close to the shore. In after 
 years a regular light-house w^as built there, but it has fallen 
 quite into decay. It was not worth while to keep it up, for 
 thick mists from the sea often rest upon the Hill, and in the 
 stormy night the gleam from the light-house could seldom be 
 seen. Only the stones scattered upon the green turf, and a 
 portion of the lower walls, remain ; and a gooseberry-bush, 
 which grew in the little garden belonging to the light-house, 
 is the sole mark that any care had ever been taken to make 
 such a place habitable. But the eight-sided tower of the 
 oratory stands as firm as ever, — the walls dark grey, and 
 brown, and green, where lichens have covered them ; whilst 
 the foundation of the chapel can also be traced without diffi- 
 culty. I have heard people wonder, as they talked about 
 the oratory, what could make any person content to live 
 there ; and I have heard them say, too, that there was much 
 evil in the days when it was used, and that we are more en- 
 lightened. I dare say they are right. I am very thankful for 
 the blessings granted me, and I would not, for all the world, 
 go back to times when I could not read my Bible for myself ; 
 but I can never think that the watchers in the oratory kept 
 less guard upon their lights, because they knelt by them and
 
 URSULA. 15 
 
 said their prayers ; and I have myself rested against the 
 wall, on the steep side looking over to the sea, and prayed 
 with a deeper feeling, because I felt that the spot was like 
 a church, and liad been made holy by the devotion of those 
 who stood there before me. 
 
 But I must not linger so long describing Sandcombe Down, 
 and the view from St. Anne's, only they are mixed up with 
 so many things which happened in my cliildhood, that it is a 
 pleasure to me. The evening that I walked over to Dene 
 with Roger, we turned quite away from St. Anne's Ilill, and 
 went to the other end of the long ridge, towards the north. 
 That, too, was a marked spot, for a stone pillar had been placed 
 upon it to note the visit of a foreign emperor to I-Cngland. I 
 had sometimes been as far as the pillar when I went over the 
 ridge to Compton, or came back from it ; but I was always stop- 
 ped there by Mr. Weir's grounds ; for just above Dene the side of 
 the down was very steep, and formed a deep hollow, which 
 ]\Ir. Weir had planted thickly, making winding walks among 
 the trees, and separating the j^lantation from the down by a 
 light iron fence. 
 
 A broad, smooth, sloping path, cut along the side of the 
 hill, in the green turf, was the nearest way from Sandcombe 
 Farm to Dene. Furze and beautiful red foxgloves grew there 
 in plenty; their look, and sometliing in their scent, will often 
 come before me even now, and make me feel as if there must 
 be something young in me Avhich can never die. Perhaps it 
 belongs to that part of myself which is to live again in 
 Heaven. This patli went very gradually down the side of the 
 hill, and then a white gate gave admittance to the grounds of 
 Dene, and to a broad road at the foot of the plantations, which 
 led by the back of the liouse to the entrance. 
 
 Other things have become clouded in my memory, but I 
 can quite remember my feelings as Roger opened the white 
 gate, and said, " Now, little one, we are at home." I had a 
 fancy that the whole place belonged to us, that we were in 
 some way raised in the world, and yet I looked round with a 
 grave wonder, and kei)t close to Roger's side, fearful tliat I 
 might be trespassing if I went a step to the right or the left. 
 The word trespass was a very awful one to me. I had seen 
 it set up on boards in Mr. Weir's plantations, and it was
 
 16 URSULA. 
 
 mixed up in my mind -with visions of a dismal dungeon, and 
 bread and water. 
 
 lloo-er went up to the house-door and rang at the bell. A 
 girl answered it, and then there came out a stout old lady, 
 dressed in black silk, with a very gay cap on her head : as 
 grand as a queen she seemed to me. She patted me on the 
 shoulder, and spoke civilly to Roger. He went aside with 
 her, and they talked for some minutes. I thought at first 
 she must be Mrs. Weir herself, but as we turned away to go 
 a little farther down the carriage-road, Roger told me that 
 she was Mrs. Mason, the housekeeper, who had the care of 
 everything in the house, as he was to have the charge of every- ' 
 thing out of it. I found afterwards that Mrs. Mason lived 
 there, more that she might have a home, being an old servant 
 of the family, than for any other reason. 
 
 The stables were very near the house, on the opposite 
 side of the carriage-ro ad. They, and the coach-house, and a 
 kind of barn, in which things could be stored away, being all 
 built of good stone, formed quite a grand set of buildings. 
 There was a large clock over the coach-house, — very much 
 needed, for Dene was a most out of the way place. Compton 
 was three miles off by the road, though only a mile and a half 
 by the cart-track over the hill ; and that was only a village. It 
 had no shops nor anything of that kind. The nearest gentle- 
 man's house must have been four or five miles distant from 
 Dene ; whilst Hove, which was the only place we could get 
 anything from, was seven miles off: so there was great need 
 of the clock to keep x;s all regular and punctual. 
 
 Next to the coach-house, joining it indeed, but nearer to 
 the house, a set of rooms had been built, and these we were 
 to have. I cannot say they were anything very grand. Cer- 
 tainly they were nothing like the farm-kitchen at Sandcombe. 
 They did not look as if they belonged to a regular house ; 
 and I cou.ld not understand what Roger meant when he open- 
 ed the door, and Avent into the little kitchen, and sat down in 
 an arm-chair, looking round him half sad and half pleased. I 
 asked him where we were to go next. 
 
 " No further, Ursie ; this is home. We'll be very jolly 
 here, little Trot." And then he took me upon his knee, and 
 covered me with kisses. I don't think he liked me to see his
 
 URSULA. 17 
 
 face. He must have thought a good deal of Sandcoinbe, and 
 my father and mother, and old times, and it was very solitary 
 for him. I was no companion, though he did love me so 
 dearly. 
 
 The next day a girl was to come to look after me, but 
 there had been some mistake about the time, and she was not 
 there to meet us. Because of this we were to go over to the 
 house and have our tea with Mrs. Mason. So when Koger 
 had unpacked some of the things, and I had tired myself 
 with running up and down the steep flight of stairs to look at 
 the bedrooms, we went across to the house. I should say first, 
 however, that we had a very comfortable lodging upon the 
 whole. Besides a tidy parlor, a kitchen, and two bed-rooms, 
 and a closet in which another bed could be put, there was a 
 little room within the kitchen^ where a servant might sleep 
 if it were necessary. But the plan was for the girl to come 
 for the day only, as she lived at a cottage quite close ; so the 
 kitchen room was only likely to be used as a place for 
 lumber. 
 
 Neither water nor soap had been provided for us, and wo 
 went across to the house just as we were when we came from 
 our walk. I did not think of such things, but Roger did. 
 He was wonderfully neat in his ways for a man who had so 
 much rough work to attend to. He resembled my mother, 
 who was famed for tidiness and cleanliness. I dare say, too, 
 he knew what Mrs. Mason would like, for we were no sooner 
 inside the house, than she took me up-stairs to her bed-room, 
 a very comfortable one, near the kitchen, and made me put 
 myself to rights, and wash my hands and face before we went 
 down to tea. 
 
 We had our tea in the kitchen. Mrs. Mason had a little 
 sitting-room to herself, but it was very small, and so, indeed, was 
 the house, though it appeared grand enough to me just at first. 
 Mr. Weir only used it for a few months in the autumn, when 
 he came for shooting, and there were not many contrivances 
 for comfort in it, and very little space for servants. But I 
 knew nothing about such matters that first night, and only 
 felt it to be very strange and pleasant to be sitting by Roger's 
 side, eating lard cake, drinking tea out of pretty brown cups 
 with gilt edges, and able to watcli Mrs. Mason, as she sat be-
 
 18 URSULA. ^ 
 
 fore the tea-board, in lier black silk dress, looking grander than 
 ever. 
 
 Roger and Mrs. Mason talked about a great many things 
 which I did not understand, and their tea lasted much longer 
 than mine ; but when I was tired of sitting up and listening, 
 they let me get down by the hearth, and play with a tabby 
 kitten, and Mrs. Mason made the girl bring a cork and a 
 string, and tempt the kitten to run after it. I did not remark 
 anything that went on, till I heard Roger say, " I never knew 
 that both the ladies were coming." That made me attend. 
 I don't know why. I could not think who the ladies were, 
 and I was always rather curious. Mrs. Mason looked grave 
 and odd, and answered, " Yes, both of them. Miss Milicent 
 used to say she didn't like the place, but she has turned 
 quite round now. She's a queer one. You may thank your 
 stars, Mr. Grant, that you are not likely to have anything to 
 do with her." 
 
 I think Roger must have noticed my eyes fixed upon him, 
 for he stopped suddenly as he was about to reply, and said, 
 " It is nearly the little woman's bed-time." 
 
 "Ah! 3'es, to be sure;" and Mrs. Mason called me to 
 her and asked if I was sleepy. 
 
 " No," I said quickly : " Why does that Miss come 
 here ? " A fit of laughter followed, and something was 
 muttered about " little pitchers and long ears ; " but I was 
 not to be daunted, and I asked again, " Why does that Miss 
 come here ? " 
 
 " Because it's her home," said Roger very gi-avely ; " but 
 little children must never trouble themselves with what 
 doesn't concern them :" and I asked no more, for his look 
 showed me he was not pleased. He said I must go over to 
 the cottage to sleep ; but Mrs. Mason interfered. No one 
 was there to put me to bed, she said, and nothing was ready 
 for me ; she could not be sure even that there were sheets 
 in the bed ; for Fanny (that was the name of the girl who 
 opened the door for us) had been so busy, there had not 
 been time for her to go across and see about it. It would be 
 much better for me to sleep at the house ; there was plenty 
 of spare room. 
 
 Roger objected because of the trouble, but he was soon
 
 URSULA. 19 
 
 overruled. Mrs. IMason liked children, and was very good- 
 natured ; so she called Fanny, and told her to take me up to 
 the little back-room and put me to bed. 
 
 " Miss Milicent's room, Ma'am, did you say ? " asked 
 Fanny, who was rather deaf. 
 
 " Miss Milicent's room, child ! What are you thinking 
 of ? The little back-room — the peacock room. You know 
 what I mean Miss Milicent's room indeed ! " I heard her 
 murmur to herself ; " there would be a fuss ! " 
 
 Fanny carried me off to bed. I whispered to Roger, as 
 I said good night, " Please come and see me after I'm in 
 bed." He was going to say no ; I suppose he thought he 
 had no business to go about the house as if it was his own ; 
 but Mrs. Mason promised me he should, and I went away 
 happy. Roger's last charge being that I should remember to 
 say my prayers properly ; and then he would hear me repeat 
 my verse before I went to sleep. 
 
 Fanny took me through a short passage into a little hall, 
 then up some narrow winding stairs to a lobby, with several 
 rooms opening into it. The first on the right hand side was 
 the peacock room. 
 
 It never entered my head to ask why it was so called ; 
 but, full of my curiosity, I chattered away to Fanny about 
 Miss Milicent all the time I was undressing. 
 
 I learnt that she was Mr. Weir's daughter, which 
 sounded strange to me, for I thought that Milicent was a 
 surname ; but I found afterwards that she was called Miss 
 Milicent because there was a cousin who had more right to 
 be Miss Weir. 
 
 I was informed also that she had a mother but no broth- 
 ers or sisters. Miss Weir, the cousin, Fanny said, sometimes 
 came to Dene, but not often. This cousin I cared very little 
 about, especially when I heard that she was not expected 
 now, and might never come again, as she was engaged to be 
 married to a Mr. Temple ; but I made Fanny tell me what 
 kind of person Miss Milicent was, and when she said 
 " grumpy," I was nearly as much in the dark as before. I 
 only guessed it was something disagreeable ; and I mixed 
 up Mr. and Mrs. Weir, and their daughter together, and 
 fancied them all like the ogres I had read of in fairy tales.
 
 20 URSULA. 
 
 1 should have been fri-glitened and unhappy, only I was sure 
 that Roger was a match for them alh 
 
 Ho came to me as he had promised, and I repeated my 
 verse to him, and then he kissed me and said, " Grod bless 
 you, my little Ursie," and left me. I listened to his heavy 
 tread as he went down the stairs : and when all was silent I 
 turned and tossed in the large bed, not daring to open my 
 eyes lest I should see the darkness, and wishing very much 
 that I had been allowed to sleep in the little room at the 
 cottage close to Roger. But I fell asleep at last. 
 
 A strange noise woke me very early in the morning ; a 
 harsh, scrooping sound, which amused, and yet a little 
 frightened me, and made me sit up in my bed to listen. 
 When I could not understand where it came from, I jumped 
 up and ran to the window to look out. A light fence of 
 trellis- work was just below, — a screen for a little area in 
 front of the pantry, — and on this trellis-work roosted a 
 peacock and peahen. My delight ! how can I possibly 
 express it ! There they sat, the peacock proudly turning 
 his beautiful purple neck on all sides, and his long tail, 
 spotted with glittering eyes, drooping over the fence ; and 
 the peahen looking so quiet and gentle, and beautiful too, 
 only seeming not to wish to be noticed because she had such 
 a grand companion. I believe I screamed with delight, I 
 was told so afterwards ; and Fanny always declared that I 
 begged to be allowed to open the window, and pull only one 
 feather out of the peacocks tail, for he had so many I was 
 sure he would never miss it. I know myself that the pea- 
 cock and peahen seemed like the fairies of the place to me 
 then and for years afterwards ; and even now, if I could 
 have money to throw away upon fancies, I should be tempted 
 to have some always with me, in the hope that they might 
 bring back the feelings of unbounded gladness which are, by 
 this time, almost forgotten. 
 
 It was a sunshiny morning the first day at Dene. Roger 
 went out directly after breakfast to his business of looking 
 after things, and 1 was left with Mrs. Mason and Fanny. 
 For that one day I was to run about and do as I chose ; but 
 Mrs. Mason put on a grave face as she said that idleness 
 was not good for little girls ; and it was settled tliat Roger
 
 URSULA. 21 
 
 was to take me over to Compton the very first day he could 
 spare the time, in order that I might have my name put 
 dx»wn for the schooh 
 
 Mrs. Mason made me help Fanny wash up the tea-things 
 when breakfast was over; and then she said we might go 
 round the garden, only Fanny was to take particular care 
 that I did not tumble into the pond. So Fanny and I went 
 forth together, first, however, running all over the house, and 
 peeping into every nook and corner, even into Miss Milicent's 
 room, which was nothing remarkably different from any 
 other, except that it was the largest and had the prettiest 
 view. Fanny said that Miss Milicent always had the large 
 room because of her boxes. 
 
 The house at Dene had been first a labourer's cottage ; 
 that was before Mr. Weir took a fancy to come there for 
 shooting. He built two rooms, a dining-room and a drawing- 
 room, not at all large, and rather square, only with a kind of 
 bow for the window. These rooms were on each side of the 
 little passage or hall, and there were no more sitting-rooms 
 in the house, at least when first we went there. Miss Mili- 
 cent's room was over the drawing-room, and Mr. Weir's over 
 the dining-room ; and there was another room, which was 
 used as a dressing-room, besides the peacock room and some 
 attics : that was all the house then, except the chambers over 
 the kitchen, where Mrs. Mason and Fanny slept. The attics 
 were what I liked best ; we had to go up such a droll little 
 staircase to reach them, and they had such a beautiful paper, 
 a kind of Chinese j)attern, with a bridge and some houses, and 
 little men and women going over the bridge. They, too, 
 like the peacock, were part of the fairy things belonging to 
 Dene, and I seemed to have more to do with them than with 
 Mr, Weir and Miss Milicent. The attics opened upon the 
 leads of the house, and the peacock had been up there and 
 left behind him one of his small feathers, — not one with an 
 eye, but with a soft feathery fringe, — such a purple green ! 
 there is no colour like it elsewhere that I liave seen. Fanny 
 crept out of the window and brought it back to me, and I 
 have it now. Unless it was a duty, I would not part with it 
 for any sum of money. 
 
 Going over the house was very pleasant, but it was uoth-
 
 22 U 11 S U L A . 
 
 ing to tlie garden ; £ind when Fanny opened the front door, 
 I rushed out wild with dcliglit, and scarcely heeding her as 
 .she called to me, in a frightened voice, not on any account to 
 run so fast, or I should be in the pond. 
 
 Dene stood very high. The ground sloped directly from 
 the house, but there was a broad pavement in front, covered 
 by an open verandah, which had been made by a very old 
 man, a country carpenter, and was esteemed quite a wonder, 
 for its pretty patterns and crossings. The house would have 
 been homely-looking on the outside, except for the verandah ; 
 but that gave it a look unlike other places, and the arches 
 made a separate frame for each portion of the country that 
 was to be seen from it. 
 
 The view from the house, like that from the down, might, 
 I suppose, have been called wanting in wood ; but Paradise 
 could scarcely have been more lovely to Eve, when she first 
 opened her eyes upon it, than Dene was to me on that sum- 
 mer morning, and many, many others which followed. It 
 looked to the east, and the sun, therefore, shone full upon it. 
 The turf was smooth as a carpet of velvet, and not a weed 
 was to be seen in the bright flower-beds. In the centre of 
 the lawn, a fountain, which the gardener set playing to please 
 me, rose up like a silver thread into the air, and in the pond 
 round the fountain, bright gold-fish floated about, catching at 
 the bread-crumbs with which I was allowed to feed them. 
 Another pond, with an island in the centre, and a walk round 
 it, was to be seen still lower, but it was always a place of 
 mystery to me. I never reached the island, though I always 
 longed to do so. Beyond the garden lay an expanse of 
 country, such as could be seen from the down. It had one 
 or two market spots, an old manor farm, surrounded by trees 
 nearly opposite to Dene, and a church on a bit of rising 
 ground, and a zigzag road across a moor, — part of the high 
 road to Hove ; and immediately opposite was a ridge of hills, 
 very like Sandcombe Down, with what was called a semaphore 
 at the top. I believe it was used for making signals about 
 ships to persons a good way off. It was a view in which 
 there seemed always something new to find out; and espe- 
 cially I used to please myself on Saturdays, when Roger was 
 gone to Hove, by watching the carts and waggons, and horses
 
 URSULA. 23 
 
 moving like dots over llie zigzag road, and guessing -wliicli 
 might belong to him. But that is going on beyond my first 
 morning. 
 
 Fanny led me all round the garden, and then, as we came 
 back, she stopped at the foot of a steep bank covered with 
 shrubs, which parted the grounds of Dene from the down, 
 and pointing to a flight of rough steps, said, I might go up 
 there if I liked. I ran before her, scarcely contented to 
 make use of the steps, but every now and then scrambling up 
 the bank, till I reached the top ; and there I found a seat, 
 and a little wicket gate, opening upon the carriage road close 
 to the down. Crossing the road, Fanny made me enter the 
 plantation, which, as I before said, filled the hollow of the 
 hill behind the house. We went on and on, along narrow 
 winding paths, sometimes stopping to rest upon a bench under 
 a tree, sometimes going quite to the edge of the bank, to look 
 down through the mass of branches, and leaves, and flowers, 
 which seemed to sparkle like emerald and silver, upon a 
 green field just at the bottom of the plantation, in which Mr. 
 Weir's cows were feeding ; and then we ran on again till we 
 came to a little summer-house ; a real house, with a table, 
 and some wooden chairs, and a tiny fire-place ; so cool and 
 pleasant-looking it was ! — but we could not go in, for Mrs. 
 Mason kept the key, but Fanny lifted me up that I might 
 peep in at the window. 
 
 It was all more happy to me far than words can tell, but 
 I can never by description make other people feel the same. 
 Fanny, though she was not much more than a child, seemed 
 to care little about it. All that she appeared to think of 
 then, or afterwards, was the gossip about the few people who 
 lived in the neighborhood. We passed out of the plantation 
 by clambering over an iron fence, and came round to the 
 house in a diti'erent direction, across an open bit of pasture 
 land, which seemed once to have foi-med part of the down. 
 There it was that Fanny was induced to stop, that she might 
 point out the cottage in which Sarah's father and mother 
 lived. Sarah was the girl who was to take care of me and 
 cook our dinner, and make our beds. They were labouring 
 people, she said, and they were very glad to get Sarah a 
 place. Sarah was to have gone to the gamekeeper's, but Lis
 
 24 URSULA.' 
 
 wife had a cousin wlio was come to help. And then she led 
 me a few steps on, that I might look at the gamekeeper's nice 
 cottage with its strip of garden so neatly kept. The game- 
 keeper's wife, she said, had had some tiffs with Miss Milicent, 
 but that was no wonder. Fanny did not think proper, how- 
 ever, to tell me what the tiffs were about, but wandered off 
 to another subject, saying, that she must take me home, for 
 she had to run down to Longside Farm to get some eggs for 
 Mrs. Mason. The people at Longside were very well to do 
 in the world, she informed me ; Farmer Kemp, folks de- 
 clared, was worth a mint of money ; and he was very careful, 
 not at all like the Shaws, who lived at the Manor Farm, 
 called White Hill, which we had seen from the garden. The 
 Shaws were very set-up people, and laughed at the Kemps, 
 and the Kemps had given up visiting them. 
 
 A good deal of this 1 knew before, and very little I cared 
 for it. Yet I cannot help noting it now. It was the begin- 
 ning of a long tale, and I think of it as I think of the little 
 stream that welled forth from the plantation behind the 
 house, and after being caught in a stone basin, where it 
 sparkled clear and bright, made its way, stealing by fields, 
 and through ditches, till it became a broad river, with which 
 mud and shingle and all impurity had mingled. Nothing 
 but the sea could cleanse that stream, and nothing but the 
 ocean of God's Redeeming Love can cleanse the foulnesses 
 that even the best must contract as their life flows forth to 
 Eternity. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 It would be useless to attempt a description of all that hap- 
 pened when we first went to live at Dene, and I have put 
 into the account of that morning's walk over the grounds 
 nearly all there is to say about the place, and added some 
 things which fitly ought to have come in further on. But I 
 write just as the thoughts enter my head, and should not be
 
 URSULA. 25 
 
 able to get on fit all, wberc there is so much to say, if I were 
 to take too much time to consider. 
 
 We settled ourselves into our little house — Roger and I — 
 and Sarah came as it had been agreed, and two days after- 
 wards Roger took me over to Compton to the clergyman 
 there, and arranged that I was to go to the village school. 
 Sarah had a sister, about twelve years old, who went, and 
 she was to take care of me. I know some people thought it 
 strange that I should be sent to mix with everybody's chil- 
 dren, and declared that my father and mother would never 
 have allowed it if they had been living. But William and 
 Roger both knew what my parents would have wished better 
 than the world did, and Roger has often told me that the 
 things he heard about the schools in Hove made him very 
 unwilling to place me at one. He wanted me, he said, to 
 grow up useful, and to know my place in the world, and 
 from what he could see of the girls who had gone to those 
 boarding-schools, it was just what they had never been 
 taught. They were always trying to get out of their place. 
 It took a good many years, and a good deal of experience 
 too, to enable me to understand entirely all that Roger 
 meant by that. As for my own wish, I was so glad to 
 escape being sent away from Roger, that I would have borne 
 real sufiering rather than be sent to a boarding-school in 
 Hove. And I was quite happy at Compton, every one was 
 very kind to me. The clei-gyman came to see us and 
 instruct us himself, and I was taught to read, and write, and 
 cypher, and do needlework, in a way which lias been an ad- 
 vantage to me all my life, and — much more than that — I was 
 made to look upon religion as the one thing to be considered 
 above all others. That is the best lesson any one can 
 acquire ; all others are easy afterwards ; and I thank God 
 that He placed me so early under the care of those who had 
 learned it themselves, and so were well able to teach it to me. 
 
 I had some weeks at school, and then came harvest time 
 and holidays, when Mrs. Mason gave me employment at 
 home, and when I was allowed to enjoy myself by taking a 
 book up to the seat on the top of the bank, and sitting there 
 all alone by myself, reading or listening to the chirp of the 
 grasshoppers, and the songs of the birds in the plantation. I 
 
 Vol. T— 2
 
 26 URSULA . 
 
 liked that seat better than any other, partly, I believe, be- 
 cause no one else seemed ever to think about it ; but there 
 was a pleasure too in being close to the down, feeling that I 
 might, if I chose (though I never really wished to do so), 
 wander all over it, and even go across St. Anne's hill, to 
 the great cliffs above the sea-shore, and there find a vessel to 
 carry me all over the world. I had many fancies of that 
 khid from the books I read. Heading was quite my snare ; 
 I did so delight in it, and so I do to this day. When Mrs. 
 Mason gave me work to do, I used to carry it to the upper 
 seat, fully meaning to do it, but if I had a book at my side, 
 I spent more minutes than I ought in looking into it between 
 whiles. Some books I had from the school-library at Comp- 
 ton, and Mrs. Mason let me have some old magazines, which 
 I was never tired of, though I knew most of the stories 
 nearly by heart. 
 
 September came, and I went to school again; and just 
 about that time there was a bustle at Dene ; putting the 
 garden in order, and cleaning out the rooms, and arranging 
 the furniture, because Mr. and Mrs. Weir, and Miss Miliceut, 
 were expected for two months. 
 
 A grand time it seemed to be for Mrs. Mason and Fanny. 
 As for me, I cried terribly, because I thought the family 
 would take possession of the garden, and the plantation, and 
 all the places I liked, and that I should never be able to go 
 near them. I complained to Roger, but he would not 
 encourage me in such nonsense. He said that if I was a 
 good child, I should never want pleasures, and if I was a 
 naughty one, I should not deserve them. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon, so I had not been to school ; 
 but I sat in the kitchen mending my clean things, which had 
 just come from the wash, and Sarah was busy sweeping up, 
 and putting things in order for Sunday. We heard a cai*- 
 riage come up the road, and I jumped up and said, " Here's 
 Mrs. Weir," and Sarah ran to the door, and stood there 
 with the broom in her hand. We had not heard for certain 
 that they would come on that day. There was a chance 
 that they might have stopped till Monday; — but we were 
 sure it could be no one else, because, although there was a 
 right of footway through the grounds, no carriages had any
 
 URSULA. 27 
 
 business along our road, and nothing with wheels ever came 
 by it, unless it might be every now and then Mr. "Weir's 
 light cart, going over the hill to Compton or Hatton. 
 
 The carriage stopped. It was closed, so that we could 
 not see who was within. Mrs. Mason and Fanny came out 
 in a great hurry, and made many curtsies ; and then the 
 footman (there was a grand footman, dressed in a drab- 
 coloured coat, with red trimming, and a coachman like him, 
 only stouter) opened the door, and an elderly gentleman got 
 out, and walked straight into the house, with his chin up in 
 the air, not stopping to speak to any one. I noticed nothing 
 about him but his nose — and somehow, whenever I looked at 
 him afterwards, that was the only feature which ever caught 
 my eye. It seemed to have a way of speaking, as most 
 people's eyes speak. A lady followed ; very upright and 
 well-formed she was, but so small — she might have been 
 taken for a child, when one only looked at her back. She 
 had a sweet face, though it was very sallow and sickly ; and 
 her bonnet was made in an old-fashioned way, to come over 
 her forehead and protect her eyes, which seemed very weak. 
 Mrs. Mason helped her out of the carriage herself, putting 
 an arm round her for support, and then the lady shook her 
 so heartily by the hand, it was quite pleasant to see ; and 
 she patted Fanny gently on the shoulder, and I think asked 
 some questions about Roger, as I saw her turn round and 
 look towards the cottage. Mrs. Mason must have said 
 something to please her, for she nodded her head slowlj", 
 several times, as if she was quite satisfied. She seemed 
 willing to stay and talk more, but Mrs. Mason prevented 
 her, and went with her into the house, just as I saw a large 
 foot, with a boot like a man's, protrude from the carriage. 
 The footman stood back, and so did Fanny and the coach- 
 man ; it seemed as if they could not make room enough for 
 what was coming. Yet it was not such a very large body ; 
 when Miss Miliccnt stood upon the ground, she was scarcely 
 more than five feet six, and stout in proportion ; but the very 
 way in which she put her head into the cai'riage, and out 
 again, and called the footman, and tossed a parcel to Fanny, 
 and gave an order to the coachman, all, as it were, in one 
 breath, made one feel at once as though the world was not
 
 28 URSULA. 
 
 big enough for her. It was some seconds before I quite de- 
 termined what she was like. She must have had a great 
 fancy to be a man, for certainly she had taken pains enough 
 to make herself look as like one as a woman's dress will 
 allow. She had on a stuff gown, made very short, and a 
 loose black jacket, with no white collar, nor anything of that 
 kind to make it pretty ; only a red handkerchief tied round 
 her neck. Besides, she wore a black straw bonnet, with a 
 plain white border in the inside, and not a bit of ribbon or 
 flower. Her face was like Mr. Weir's, only smaller, and 
 without quite such a nose ; but she had eyes to make up for 
 it, so sharp, they were in constant motion, and they danced 
 about as though they had a life of their own, quite independ- 
 ent of Miss Milicent herself, and were determined to see 
 everything there was to be seen in this world. 
 
 I thought the trunks would never come to an end. The 
 coachman wanted to carry some of them into the house, but 
 Miss Milicent would have them all taken from the carriage 
 first. She kept every one waiting upon her, and I could not 
 help fancying she took a pleasure in occupying just double 
 the time needed. But the business was finished at last, and 
 Miss Milicent was able then to stop and speak to Fanny, 
 which she did in the same sort of way as I have seen a law- 
 yer question a witness in a court of justice. Fanny curtsied 
 at every answer, but she would fain have run away, I am 
 sure, and she did after a while move to one side, as a kind 
 of hint to Miss Milicent to go in-doors. But instead of that, 
 what should we see but Miss Milicent coming across the road 
 to the cottage ! Sarah threw down the broom, and ran oif 
 to hide herself in one of the out-houses ; I thought it mean 
 to follow her, and I did not see what cause I had to be afraid 
 of Miss Milicent, or of any one, if I was not doing anything 
 wrong; so I went back to my seat to finish darning my 
 stocking, but I own my heart beat rather fast. 
 
 In she came, without knocking at the door, and I felt 
 quite affronted, and just for a moment could not make up my 
 mind to rise from my seat. She caught me up for it direct- 
 ly. " Little girls ought to learn to be civil," she said, " when 
 ladies take the trouble to come and see them ! What are 
 you about there ? Mending your stockings ? Very good
 
 URSULA. 29 
 
 work, but you don't do it properly. You should draw the 
 stitches together first." To my dismay, she took a pair of 
 scissors, cut a little hole deliberately iu my Suuday stocking, 
 and then, catching the needle from my hand, unthreading it 
 iu her haste, sat down to show me how to bring the edges 
 together again. I was so angry, I could have pricked her 
 fingers with my needle when I gave it back to her threaded. 
 I am nearly sure I gave it a little poke with that intention, 
 but she did not seem to feel it, and, taking up the stocking, 
 made me come quite close to watch her, whilst she went on 
 talking all the time. " Who taught you to work ? You 
 ought to know better. IIow old are you? Nine and a 
 half ? — you don't look more than six. You can't have had 
 any pains taken with you. Now attend, do you see ? first 
 one stitch, then the other, — drawn together closely; that 
 makes the hole smaller. You must darn it over afterwards. 
 I shall make them teach darning in that way at Compton 
 school. Don't forget ! I shall come and see you again, and 
 find out if you have attended to what I say. If you are a 
 good child, I shall give you some of my stockings to mend. 
 Now get up and open the door ; you always ought to open 
 the door for ladies. They don't teach you at all good man- 
 ners at Compton school; I shall see about it." 
 
 See about it ! — yes. I felt, indeed, that she would see 
 about it, and so should I. I opened the door for her be- 
 cause she stood waiting for me to do it, but I closed it be- 
 hind her instantly, and rushing back to my stocking, tore 
 out all the stitches she had put in, and tossed the stocking 
 across the room. 
 
 Sarah came back and saw me kicking my feet against a 
 chair to vent my rage. She laughed, which made me still 
 more angry. I began to scold because she had gone away 
 and left me. " The tiresome woman Avouldn't have dared 
 cut a hole in my stocking," I said, " if you had been here; " 
 and I ran to the other end of the room, caught up the stock- 
 ing, and thrust my finger through the hole, making it lialf as 
 large again, and when Sarah still would do nothing but laugh, 
 I leaned my head upon the table, and fairly cried with tern 
 per and vexation. 
 
 lloger entered just at that moment. When he saw mc 
 iu tears, he came u]) to mc in his kind way and took me upon
 
 30 URSULA, 
 
 his knee ; but he could get nothing from me except that 
 Miss Milicent had been to see me, and cut a hole in my 
 stocking, and I hated her, and if she lived at Dene I should 
 run away. 
 
 He must have been very much puzzled, but he knew 
 pretty well what I was like when I was in what William 
 used to call one of my tantrums ; so instead of trying to 
 talk to me, he just said, " My little Trot will be better up- 
 stairs for a while; " and then he took me up in his arms and 
 carried me to my room, and shut the door and left me. 
 
 I was not sulky, — that was never part of my disposition, 
 — only terribly passionate. I stamped and screamed a good 
 deal at first, but no one came near me, and at last I went to 
 the window, and had my thoughts turned by watching the 
 servants finishing the unpacking of the carriage, and by the 
 time Roger came back I was quite quiet, and sorry for hav- 
 ing been so naughty, and he took me down-stairs again. 
 
 We sat down to tea, and after a little while Roger began 
 asking me again about IMiss Milicent. I was not angry with 
 him as I was with Sarah when he laughed as I told my 
 grievance. Roger often laughed at things which other peo- 
 ple cry about, but I told him he wouldn't have liked it if it 
 had been his stocking, and he had had to darn it. 
 
 " I should not have liked it, Ursie, may be, but I would 
 have taken it as it was meant." 
 
 " It was meant to tease me," I said, and I felt my face 
 quite red again. 
 
 Roger made no answei*. I saw he was vexed, and I put 
 down my bread and butter, and threw my arms round his 
 neck, and called him " dear Father Roger." 
 
 That always softened him. He gave me a great hug in 
 return, but still he did not speak, till I touched him and ask- 
 ed him what he was thinking about. 
 
 "Nothing, Trot, that you can understand now; but it 
 wouldn't be such a hard world to live in, if people looked 
 more at what is meant, and less at what is done." 
 
 He was very silent after that, as was his wont, and when 
 tea was over he went out again, and I took up my stocking 
 and tried to mend it in Miss Milieent's fashion, feeling some- 
 how, from what Roger had said, that I had been hard upon 
 liei".
 
 URSULA. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Sunday was the pleasantest day in the week to me. 
 Roger walked with me over the down quite early, and left 
 me at the Sunday-school, and went himself to see an old 
 aunt, my mother's sister, who was very infirm and could 
 never go out ; and there lie stayed till church-time. I sat 
 with the school-children in church ; but Roger's seat was 
 very near, and I could see him, whenever I looked up, with 
 his eyes upon his book, and that made me look upon mine. 
 Otherwise there was a good deal to teach one to be inatten- 
 tive : the boys sat close to us, and were very troublesome ; 
 slyly pulling at each other's books, and whispering, and then 
 the master would reach over into the middle of them with his 
 stick, and give a sharp tap, which just as likely touched the 
 good ones as the bad. The girls were not any better than 
 the boys. I was often tapped myself, though I don't really 
 think I deserved it so much as some of the others. There 
 was such a trouble, too, about repeating the responses. 
 Some would speak out, and some would not ; and every now 
 and then, one boy took it into his head to shout ; and down 
 came a message from the master, that if he did, he should be 
 caned ; then we all grew silent, and there came another mes- 
 sage, that if we didn't speak out we should be locked up. It 
 was trying to know how to keep straight amongst it all ; but 
 what did me most good was to see Roger standing there, so 
 still, and grave, and earnest-looking, and his face different, in 
 a way, from what it was at other times. It was a very dear 
 face always to me ; though his skin was not smooth, and his 
 hair brushed neat like a gentleman's, I often thought I 
 would not change it for the handsomest picture I had ever 
 seen. But on Sundays, in church, another look was given to 
 it, as if all in it that had been gathered from the toil and 
 care of life had been taken away. It came across me one 
 day, when I noticed him just as he rose up from his prayers, 
 that if I were to see him iu Heaven, he could scarcely be 
 anything difi"ercnt. 
 
 That Sunday we went into church rather more noisily
 
 32 URSULA. 
 
 than usual ; Kit*y Dove, Sarali's sister, pushed little Johnnie 
 Rowe, and nearly threw him down, and Johnnie pinched 
 Kitty, and made her cry ; and some of the bigger girls were 
 whispering about it to the mistress, and begging that Kitty 
 and Johnnie might not sit near each other. But all of a 
 sudden there was a great " Hush ! " The girls left off 
 fidgeting, and put their hands in their laps ; and the boys 
 began to find out the Psalms in their prayer-books. A sud- 
 den fright had taken them all. I peeped out from a back 
 corner in which I was sitting, and saw at the church-door 
 Mrs. Richardson, the vicar's wife, and Miss Richardson, and 
 one or two other ladies who taught in the Sunday-school, 
 and in the middle of them Miss Milicent, — not one whit dif- 
 ferent from what she was on Saturday night, just the same 
 loose jacket and red handkerchief. The girls glanced round 
 at her, and the corners of their mouths went ; but not a word 
 was said. Mrs. Richardson and the other ladies went to 
 their seats ; but up came Miss Milicent to us ; her eye seemed 
 to take in all at one glance, and half a dozen names were out 
 of her mouth almost in a breath, and in a whisper so loud it 
 could be heard nearly all over the church : — " Mary Webb, 
 how's your mother ? " " Fanny Hart, w^hat d'ye mean by 
 coming in that fine bonnet ? " " Johnnie, you've got a swelled 
 face, I see ; come up to Dene, and you shall have some stuff 
 to do it good." "Jane, who is that little one by you ? Your 
 sister ? She is too young to come to church ; she won't 
 behave -well. Mind you all attend. Keep your eyes upon 
 your books ; speak out properly. I shall be looking at you. 
 Mrs. Richardson says you are very idle. I shall have an 
 eye upon you." Miss Milicent shook her head fiercely, and 
 turned away ; and the moment her back was towards us, and 
 she was out of the hearing of a whisper, such a buzz began 
 as might almost have drowned the clergyman's voice when 
 he commenced the service, but that a loud tap from the stick 
 came down upon the shoulders of the head boy, sounding 
 loudly through the church, and making Miss Milicent thrust 
 her head forward, and shake her hand at us, threatening a 
 still severer and more mysterious punishment. Yes, we were 
 all quiet after that; but I don't think any of us remembered 
 that we were bound to be so because we were in God's 
 Presence.
 
 URSULA. 33 
 
 When we came out of church, Roger met me, and I went 
 with him to speak to "William, who always came to Compton 
 now, that he might have a chance of seeing Roger. Before, 
 he had been accustomed sometimes to walk over the hill the 
 other way to Hattou. It was a little farther, but William 
 rather liked making a business of going to church. Roger 
 always kept to one church, and went twice if he could, 
 though at that time it was too far for me ; but AVilliam 
 never troubled himself about service in the afternoon. He 
 said it was the only time he had for looking over his ac- 
 counts. I used to fancy that it worried Roger to have to 
 meet William and talk to him just after church. He never 
 said it, but he used to answer rather shortly when William 
 began consulting him about the crops ; and that was not at 
 all his way generally. But William was a great talker, and 
 seldom noticed much whether any one was listening to him, 
 as long as he could have his say without interruption. 
 
 I was glad to be away from the school-children, for I 
 saw Miss Milicent go up to them again ; and I was beginning 
 to have a feeling that wherever she was, a scolding was close 
 behind. We went up the lane by the Abbey Farm, which 
 took us to the foot of the down, and then we scrambled up a 
 steep path which was a shorter way than by the cart-track. 
 Such a very bright Sunday it was ! The sky and the sea so 
 blue, and all the country quiet, so as it never is on any other 
 day, — a kind of quietness which seemed as if it would creep 
 into one's heart and live there. How I wished that William 
 would leave oif talking about the crops as he did ; not letting 
 one be at peace for an instant, but pointing out first this field, 
 and then that, and reckoning how much had been got from 
 each, and complaining — William always complained, when he 
 talked of his crops — that the rent of Sandcombc was so high, 
 it made him much worse off than his neighbours ! Roger 
 bore it A^ery patiently ; he laughed a little now and then, and 
 said something rather sharp in a good-natured way ; but he 
 never lectured William, nor let him see that he wished to 
 get away from him, and so William was very fond of him, 
 uud put forth all that was in his mind quite freely. 
 
 We were at the top of the down, and there we were to part 
 company. Roger took out his watch, observing he must 
 
 Vol. 1—2*
 
 34 U E, S U L A . 
 
 liurry home, for there would not be time else for dinner and 
 gouig to afternoon service. William waited before he re- 
 plied, and then he said, in a kind of awkward, shy way, " I 
 have some other business in hand for this afternoon." He 
 laughed so oddly that I caught up his words and said, " What 
 business, William ? People should not do business, you 
 know, on Sundays." 
 
 " You are a prying little body," he answered quickly, 
 though not at all as if he was angry. " Roger, you'll re- 
 pent it some day, if you don't keep her in better order." 
 
 " Miss Milicent will do that," said Roger, and he laughed ; 
 " but I should like to know your business myself, William, 
 since you have chosen to mention it." 
 
 " Business not lying so very near home," continued Wil- 
 liam ; "taking me over to Hatton perchance." 
 
 " Groing to church ?" I said ; " I wish Roger would go to 
 Hatton Church too, and take me with him." 
 
 " Something to do with going to church, to be sure," said 
 William, laughing again, as though he had a mystery in his 
 mind. " What do you say, Roger ? Do you approve ? '■ The 
 better day, the better deed,' you know ! " 
 
 Roger considered, then said, " I would have all things go 
 right with you, William, if I could. But these are not mat- 
 ters for any to interfere in ; only I think, if you went to 
 church first, you might be better likely to come to a wise 
 choice." 
 
 " I can't go to church at Hatton," said William; "Mr. 
 Fowler preaches in the afternoon ; and he's a drawler, and 
 sends me to sleep : it's no good in the world for me to go to 
 church in the afternoon." 
 
 " Well, you must take your own way," said Roger. " I 
 only know that I find things go straighter when I put church 
 and such things first, than when I let them come in second ; 
 and so I thought it might be with you." 
 
 " Men are not like sheep, they don't all run the same 
 way," replied William, rather sulkily. " So you won't give 
 me your good wishes, Roger ! " 
 
 Roger took his brother's hand, and shook it with a hearty 
 grasp. His heart seemed full, and he tui-ned away, and 
 walked home in silence.
 
 URSULA. 35 
 
 They thought I did not understand, but I did. That, 
 sharp woman, Leah Morris, lived at Hatton, and she was 
 going to be my sister-in-law. I asked no questions of Roger, 
 I knew it was a matter that vexed him ; but we had din- 
 ner as soon as we reached home, and then Roger went to 
 church again. I sat for some time in the window-seat learn- 
 ing my Collect and Psalm for the next Sunday ; and then 
 went over to see Mrs. Mason, who was staying at home to 
 let Fanny go to church, and had a game of play with the 
 kitten, and read a story out of one of the school-library 
 magazines, and when it was growing rather late, walked up 
 to the top of the down to meet Roger coming back from 
 church. After that I helped Sarah get tea ready : we always 
 had it in the parlour, and as there was no hurry for work, we 
 were a long time at it. I talked to Roger about scliool, and 
 what I learnt, and how I liked the little boys and girls; and 
 when we had finished, and Sarah was washing up the tea-things 
 in the kitchen, Roger brought out a large Bible with pictures 
 for me to look at, and soon after that it was bed-time. I was 
 very happy, but I had not forgotten all the while that Leah 
 Morris was to be my sister-in-law. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I DID not see Miss Milicent again till Monday evening, 
 when I came back from school, for I went away early to be 
 at Compton at nine o'clock, and always took my dinner with 
 me to avoid the long walk in the middle of the day. 
 
 She was at the door talking to Roger when I reached 
 home, and I hoped she did not notice me at first. Her 
 tongue was going so fast about fences and ditches : I believe 
 she thought she knew as much about them as Roger did. I 
 passed her and went indoors, and had just taken off my bon- 
 net and begun to learn my lessons for the next day, when 
 wide open went the door, and in she came by herself. " So," 
 she said, " little body, how did you manage your work on 
 Saturday ? " It was not an ill-natured voice after all, and
 
 36 URSULA. 
 
 Roger's words were remembered ; so I answered, as civilly as I 
 could, "that I had tried to do it right." 
 
 " Very good ; let me see. Did you wear the stockings 
 yesterday ? have you got them on to-day ? " Before I could 
 speak again, she had caught up my foot, and pulled off my 
 shoe to look. Couldn't I have kicked her ! I wonder I 
 didn't ; but I sat quiet, not trusting myself to speak. She 
 spied the hole directly. " Pretty well considering. I shall 
 send you some of my darning for a pattern. Saturday is a 
 holiday ; you shall come and work with me on Saturdays. 
 Mrs. Weir wants to see you. Come across with me, I shall 
 take you to her, and there is something to spend in sugar- 
 plums ; I suppose you like sugar-plums." She tossed six- 
 pence into my lap, and I believe I said " Thank you." I 
 did not dare return it. I followed her across the road to 
 the house. Her step might have been a giant's stride, and 
 she went straight from one point to another, like an arrow. 
 It seemed as though she would have knocked down a wall if 
 it had come in her way. We went in by the kitchen, and 
 Miss Milicent looked in as we passed to tell the cook to be 
 sure not to let the mutton be over-roasted, and to take care 
 that there were mashed potatoes, browned, for Mr. Weir, and 
 plenty of wine sauce with the pudding. The cook had a very 
 short manner and scarcely answered her. The family dined 
 late, and there was a great smell of the dinner in the passage, 
 which made Miss Milicent grumble a good deal ; indeed she 
 had not left off talking about it when we reached the drawing- 
 room door. 
 
 " Mother ! I have brought Ursie Grant to see you ! " 
 That was the way I was introduced, and Miss Milicent gave 
 me a push, which, I suppose, she meant to be gentle, and left 
 me standing shyly in the middle of the room. 
 
 Mrs. Weir looked even less, half-buried as she was in her 
 arm-chair, than when I had seen her standing. It was not 
 merely that she was short and thin, but her features were 
 singularly small, — her bones slight, like those of a child, and 
 her hands so white and delicate, it appeared as though the 
 least rough touch would have broken them. She reminded 
 me of what I had read of fairies, and the soft, low voice, 
 which bade me come near and say, "How do you do ? " pleas-
 
 URSULA. 37 
 
 ant, and kind though it was, came forth in a slow, precise 
 way, quite different from anything I had ever hoard before. 
 
 " Ursula is your name, is it not my little dear ? " said 
 Mrs. Weir, and she put one of her slender arms round me, 
 and kissed me on the forehead. 
 
 " Ursie, they call me. Ma'am," was my answer. 
 
 " Ursie, or Ursula, it is a very good name. There has 
 been one Saint Ursula; I trust that you may be another." 
 
 I stared at her. She said it as if she certainly believed 
 that it was possible, and even likely, I should be a saint ; and 
 my notion of a saint was of some one whose business it was 
 to read the Bible and say prayers all day. I replied, " If 
 you please. Ma'am, Roger says that if I am ever anything, he 
 thinks I shall be a dressmaker." 
 
 Mrs. Weir did not laugh, — that was one peculiarity about 
 her, — she took everybody's words just for what they meant. 
 She only answered, " I can explain my meaning when we arc 
 better acquainted. Ring the bell, Ursula," and then she took 
 up again the work which she was doing, which was a little 
 cotton frock for a child, and I stood silently by her side, 
 waiting for what was to come next. 
 
 Some minutes passed before the bell was answered, and I 
 amused myself in the meantime by looking round the room. 
 It was wonderfully changed from what it had been when the 
 family were away. I could not think where all the pretty 
 things had come from. Such bright covered books there 
 were on the round centre table, and flowers, and a carved 
 paper-knife, and a beautiful little box, inlaid with mother of 
 pearl ; and, on another table in the corner, a curious cabinet, 
 with figures of animals in front of each drawer, and some 
 strange figures standing by it Avith wliite dresses and copper- 
 coloured faces ; Indians I believe they were. The best 
 chintz curtains, too, had been put up, and the striped cover- 
 ings of the chairs taken ofi'. All looked surprisingly neat 
 and pretty; and the prettiest thing of all was Mrs. Weir's 
 work-table, placed by her arm-chair. It was a tiny table, made 
 in squares of black and yellow wood, and scooped into hollows 
 round the edge, and, on it, stood the loveliest white work-box, 
 lined with blue, and having a row of mother of pearl reels of 
 cotton, and silk winders, with coloured silks beautifully wouud^
 
 38 URSULA. 
 
 and a pincusliion with the pins placed in rows, as straight as 
 thougli they had been put in hy rule. It was just fitted for 
 Mrs. Weir : scissors, and thimble, and silver bodkin, and 
 smelling bottle, so small and bright, and new-looking; and 
 on the same table was a little china flower-basket, holding a 
 white moss rose, a carnation, and a bit of lilac verbena, with 
 a sprig of myrtle, and a piece of scented geranium. Only 
 one thing in the whole room looked unsuitable, and that was 
 a large work-basket of coloured straw, put down upon the 
 floor by the window, and out of which peeped what I am 
 sure was the heel of a knitted stocking. That could never 
 have belonged to Mrs. Weir. 
 
 The footman answered the bell. Mrs. Weir was not in 
 the least impatient because she had been kept waiting so 
 long. She said to him just as gently as when she was speak- 
 ing to me : " Richard, some ginger wine and sweet cake, if 
 you please ; " and Richard went away and returned with a 
 wine decanter and a plate of cake placed on a silver tray. 
 
 " Will you pour out a glass of wine, Richard, and hand 
 the cake to little Ursula Grant ? It will not do you harm, 
 my child." 
 
 I drank off the wine, not at all sure that I liked it, and 
 put down the glass quickly on the tray. 
 
 Mrs. Weir slowly raised her eyes : " You are too rapid, 
 Ursula. If you like to take your cake home, you can." 
 
 " Thank you, Ma'am," I caught at the permission directly, 
 and looked towards the door. 
 
 " You are wishing to go ; that is very natural ; but you 
 will come and see me again, I hope." 
 
 The tone was cordial and kind, and yet it seemed that 
 Mrs. Weir was trying to prevent herself from showing all 
 she felt. 
 
 Something came over me which made me say, bluntly, " I 
 shall like to come. Ma'am, but I don't want wine and 
 cake." 
 
 " You shall not have them, my child ; we shall do better 
 perhaps without." 
 
 " Thank you. Ma'am," I said again, as heartily as thougli 
 she had promised me a present. " I can always come at this 
 time, when I am back from school," I added.
 
 URSULA. 39 
 
 Such a smile came over IMrs. Weir's face ; so sweet and 
 yet so sad. I could have found it iu my heart to climb up 
 into her lap, as I did into Roger's, when he looked grave, and 
 entreat her to tell me what it meant. But she was too much 
 a stranger for me to venture ; and even if I had known 
 her better, I don't think I should have done it. Tears rise 
 quickly, for they are near the surface, and human love can 
 comfort the grief from which they flow ; but such a smile as 
 that was from a depth below which God only could reach. 
 
 That had been a very short visit to Mi-s. Weir, and little 
 enough had been said by either of us ; but yet I looked for- 
 ward to going again. Of course people would say that, in 
 spite of my refusal of the cake and wine, I secretly hoped to 
 have more ; but it really was not so. I felt, directly I spoke 
 to Mrs. Weir about it, that she meant what she said, as I 
 meant what I said, and that we should be friends without 
 any things of the kind. 
 
 As I was at school nearly all day, thci*e was but little 
 spare time after I returned for anything but learning my 
 lessons, and tea, and talking to Roger, and doing a little 
 needlework before bed time ; but I managed during the 
 course of the next week to run over to the house for a few 
 moments, whilst Sarah was trying ^to make the water boil, 
 and cutting the bread and butter ; and each time with the 
 hope of being called into the drawing-room again to see Mrs. 
 Weir. But I kept my wish to myself, for Mrs. Mason was 
 very shut up about the family, and never encouraged me to 
 talk about them ; though she was extremely good-natured to 
 me in other ways. It was Saturday, however, before I went 
 again; the family had been at Dene a week then, but it 
 seemed a month to me, the place was so changed ; and I had 
 such a feeling of new things and people to care about and 
 think of, though it was so little that I saw of any one. 
 
 This time Mrs. Mason took me into the drawing-room 
 with her. I observed that she was very thoughtful about 
 Mrs. Weir, and anxious in her way of talking to her; but it 
 was rather as if she regarded her as a child not able to man- 
 age for herself Mrs. Weir looked better since she came; 
 she had more colour iu her cheeks, and IMrs. Mason noticed 
 this with much pleasure, and both of them praised the air
 
 40 URSULA. 
 
 of Dene, and said there was no place like it, in which I quite 
 agreed. I was made to say the hymn I had been learning at 
 school during the week, and then Mrs. Weir said she should like 
 to hear me read. I knew it was tea time, but I was afraid to 
 say it ; so Mrs. Mason lighted a wax candle, placed in a 
 beautiful little silver candlestick, for it was growing dark, and 
 I took up the Testament which Mrs. Weir had put into my 
 hand, and turned over the pages to find the Twelfth Chapter 
 of St. Luke, that being what I had been told to read. I 
 had only finished the first three verses when we were in- 
 terrupted. The step was so loud that, before I looked up, 
 I thought it must be Miss Milicent ; but it was Mr. Weir, 
 and I felt very frightened, for it was the first time I had seen 
 him so near. He stalked in and sat himself down in the arm 
 chair without speaking. 
 
 " Go on, Ursula,'" said Mrs. Weir, taking no notice of her 
 husband ; but her voice was less firm than it had been a 
 minute before. 
 
 Mrs. Mason was going away. 
 
 " You had better take the child with you, Mason," said 
 Mr. Weir. 
 
 His tone grated upon me like a sharp saw, though it 
 was not rough or unlike that of a gentleman. 
 
 " Ursula was only going to read a very few verses, that 
 I might judge how she improves at school," said Mrs. Weir, 
 raising herself up in her chair, and leaning forward eagerly. 
 
 " ' Much study is a weariness to the flesh,' is it not r"' 
 said Mr. Weir, sarcastically. 
 
 Mrs. Weir sank back, and folded her hands one upon the 
 other, as she said, " Mason, the little girl may go." 
 
 I thought Mr. Weir would have relented ; but he sat 
 brooding over his own thoughts, whatever they were. He 
 did not seem to know that I was going till I reached the 
 door : then he called out suddenly, " Grant is your name 
 isn't it, child ? What have you to do with William Grant 
 of Sandcombe ?" 
 
 " He is my brother, Sir," I answered. 
 
 " Oh ! He wants me to lower his rent for some land 
 because he is going to be married," continued Mr. Weir, ad- 
 dressing his wife. " He is mistaken if he thinks I am likely
 
 URSULA. 41 
 
 to do anything to encourage matrimony." A light, hollow 
 laugh followed the speech. 
 
 I did not hear Mrs. Weir's answer, for Mrs. Mason hur- 
 ried mo out of the room. 
 
 " Who told Mr. Weir that "William is going to be mar- 
 ried ?" I exclaimed, eagerly, as tlie door Avas shut behind us. 
 
 "Who but himself?" said Mrs. Mason, laughing. 
 " Didn't you hear Mr. Weir say so ? " 
 
 "But William didn't tell me," I replied; "and he 
 ought ; sisters ought to know before any one ; and I don't like 
 Leah Morris ; I can't bear her ; I hate her." 
 
 " Little folks have no right to hate any one," said a loud 
 voice, issuing from the pantry, which we were just at the mo- 
 ment passing. Miss Milicent appeared with her sleeves 
 turned up at the wrist, and a bunch of raisins in her hand. 
 " It will be a very good thing for you, Ursie Grant, to have 
 a sister-in-law to keep you in order. Your brother Roger 
 spoils 3'ou, and I have told him so. Mason, there are not 
 raisins enough for dessert ; why weren't they sent for from 
 Hove ?" 
 
 " They were sent for. Miss Milicent," replied Mrs. Ma- 
 son ; " only the carrier is not come back." 
 
 " The carrier must manage to be here earlier," continued 
 Miss Milicent. " He stays in the town, drinking; it's a dis- 
 grace. Roger Grant goes to Hove every Saturday ; I shall 
 get him to bring out the things." 
 
 " You won't find that so easy, I am afraid, Miss Mili- 
 cent," said Mrs. Mason. " As often as not he rides in ; and 
 he only goes occasionally, when it is necessary." 
 
 " And he has a great many things to bring out for our- 
 selves," I added, proudly. 
 
 It provoked me to receive no answer. I hoped I had 
 offended Miss Milicent ; but she merely said in an off-hand 
 way, " There will be a change before next Saturday ;" and 
 then she closed the pantry door in a hurr}-, and went back 
 to her employment of putting out the dessert, w'hich she al- 
 ways did herself. 
 
 " She does not mean badly," was Mrs. Mason's comment ; 
 " but she loves her own way desperately." 
 
 Mrs. Mason spoke as though she was saying it to herself ;
 
 42 URSULA. 
 
 but I took up tlie words and replied, " I can't tell what Miss 
 Milicent means, only slie is very cross." 
 
 " Not so much so as she seems ; you will see that by and 
 by, Ursie. And little folks like you should never set up to 
 be pert and contrary." 
 
 " She makes it come all up here," I said, and I stood 
 still and pointed to my throat. " I can't keep it down; and 
 I don't think Eoger, nor William, nor any of them would 
 wish it. Roger is not made to be a carrier." 
 
 Mrs. Mason only laughed ; and, encouraged by not being 
 reproved, I ran on much in the same way, encouraging my- 
 self by boasting of my own pride, and saying I was not 
 bound to obey Miss Milicent ; neither was Roger ; and if 
 he was not treated well, he would go away from Dene ; and 
 then what would they all do ? 
 
 " Find some one else in his stead," replied Mrs. Mason, 
 carelessly. " Roger is not every one, you know, child." 
 
 Without answering, I let go her hand, rushed across the 
 carriage-road to the cottage, burst open the door, and seeing 
 Roger seated at the tea-table, threw myself upon his neck in 
 a fit of trembling passion. 
 
 "Well! Trot! Well! how now? What's amiss? Look 
 up, Ursie ;" and Roger patted my head. 
 
 Rut I was not to be so easily smoothed. I poured forth 
 a torrent of indignation against Mrs. Mason, Miss Milicent, 
 Mr. Weir, William, every one ; I mixed them all up toge- 
 ther, making very little sense ; iDut letting it be seen plainly 
 that I was iis full of pride and self-will as a child of my age 
 need be ; though I put it all off upon my love for Roger. 
 
 The storm was allowed to exhaust itself, and then Roger 
 bade me dry my eyes and go up stairs, and wash my hands 
 and come down again quickly. I did as I was told, feeling 
 in a way that I had been very silly, though I would not 
 have owned it for the world. 
 
 Roger usually went out again directly after tea ; but this 
 night he sent Sarah into the outhouse, and told her to wash 
 up the tea things there ; and then he took me up on his lap, 
 and said, gravely, " I meant to have told Trot that William 
 was going to be married, only she has heard it before." 
 
 " I don't cai'e about it," I said gloomily. " But I hate 
 Leah Morris."
 
 URSULA. 43 
 
 " That is said like a very silly little ^ii"!)" answered 
 Roger ; " and it must not be said again." lie looked more 
 stern than I had ever seen him. 
 
 I drew closer to him, trying to fondle him, but he kept 
 rather aloof. 
 
 " William has a right to marry whom he will," he con- 
 tinued ; " and if Leah Morris makes him a good wife, there 
 is no one to complain. And I won't have my little Trot 
 speaking as if she knew what was best, when she doesn't and 
 can't know. Yours is a bad temper, Ursie ; and it will 
 bring you into trouble. 
 
 " I shouldn't care ; I don't care for anything ; only for 
 you, Roger," I said, more humbly. 
 
 "Yes, you do, Ursie; you care for yourself If you 
 didn't, you would not fret me by putting yourself into these 
 humours." 
 
 " It was Miss Milicent," I exclaimed. " I should never 
 have been so cross about William, only she made it all come 
 up in my throat by the way she talked. They don't want 
 us, Roger, not Mr. '\V'eir, nor Miss Milicent, nor any of them ; 
 and Mrs. Mason said, that if you went away, they would 
 find some one to put in your place." 
 
 " Of course they would," he said, and he laughed ; " but 
 I mean to make myself so useful, Ursie, that they sha'n't 
 very easily find one to take my place. That is the true 
 way to go on, if you want people to value you. But it is 
 not the value we put upon one anothor, but what God puts 
 upon us, that is of consefjucnce," he added, and the Sunday 
 look, which seemed to take him quite away from earth, came 
 over his face. 
 
 It did more for mc than any talking ; and the tears came 
 into my eyes, as I said, " I am a very wicked child, Roger ; 
 will God ever make me good ? " 
 
 " We will say our prayers, both of us, and try," he an- 
 swered ; " that is the sure way. But, Ursie, 3'ou must know 
 what to pray about. You like dearly to make every one go 
 your way ; that is your fault." 
 
 " Yes," I said, and I thought for a moment ; " but if I 
 could have things my own way, I would not be like Miss 
 INIilicent ; I would make every one love mc."
 
 44 URSULA. 
 
 " Not so easy that, Trot. I may like my way, and you 
 may like yours ; and though your way were ever so good, 
 yet, if it went contrary to mine, I shouldn't be pleased." 
 
 " Then you would give up," I said quickly ; " because you 
 always do." 
 
 He looked very grave. I said again, " You always give 
 up, because you are my own dear brother Roger." 
 
 "Maybe I have given up too much already," he said; 
 " I am not so sure, Ursie, that you wouldn't be better living 
 away at school." 
 
 I put my hand before his mouth as tbe words escaped, 
 " You promised — you told me," I exclaimed ; but he inter- 
 rupted me. 
 
 " No, Ursie, I did not promise, I said we would try." 
 
 " But we have tried, and I am going to be so good, I 
 don't mean to be in a tantrum once again all the next month. 
 Oh ! Koger, Roger, I should die if you sent me away." I 
 clung to him, and my tears came very fast, but they were 
 not angry as before. 
 
 He soothed me now in his own kind way ; but he said I 
 must not talk of dying because I might have to go away from 
 him. Perhaps it would be my duty by and by. 
 
 " But you are my brother," I said ; " it can't ever be right 
 to go away ; — only if you wished it," and I turned to him 
 with a sudden pang at my heart. 
 
 "That is not very likely, Ursie ; but there are many 
 changes in this world, and it is well to be ready for 
 them." 
 
 " But you would not love any one more than me, ever ? " 
 I said, and I raised my head, which had been resting on his 
 shoulder, and looked him full in the face. 
 
 " Not more, Ursie ; no, not more." His tone did not 
 satisfy me. 
 
 " And not so much," I added ; " no one could come into 
 Ursie's place." 
 
 " No one, indeed ; little Trot knows she is Roger's dar- 
 ling." 
 
 " And I will be your wife. I would rather marry you 
 than any one else," I said. 
 
 He only laughed and kissed me.
 
 U B S U L A . 45 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 How conversations rest in a child's mind, when no one 
 suspects it ! There was no reason that what Roger had said 
 that evening should have been remembered particularly, but 
 it was ; I fancied it a kind of agreement we had made that 
 we were to be all in all to each other; and I thought that 
 now, when William was going to marry Leah Morris, there 
 was greater cause than ever why Roger and I should love 
 each other. This made me try to please him more, and I 
 kept a stricter watch over my temper, and learned my les- 
 sons more carefully, so as to bring home more good marks 
 from school. I had much just then, I must confess, to keep 
 me in good humour. William's marriage was a great event, 
 and in spite of my hatred of Leah Morris, it interested me 
 very much. Besides, Leah was such a grand lady, I had 
 not any notion how grand, till I heard the children at school 
 talking of her. Some of them had relations at Hatton, and 
 they brought all kinds of gossip about her to Comptou. 
 The Morrises lived in a farm-house which was only a little 
 smaller than the Abbey Farm at Compton, and Miss Morris, 
 as Leah was always called, had been to school at Hove, and 
 had learnt to play on the piano, and visited the surgeon's 
 wife, and had been known to drink tea at the parsonage. 
 These were distinctions which made the village people look 
 up to her as somebody very much above them ; but, I think, 
 what came over them most was the sight of the green bonnet, 
 and the black silk cloak with lace round it, which she wore 
 at Church on Sundays. Such a beautiful bonnet I was told 
 it was, with such smart flowers on the outside ; it was much 
 finer than any the vicar's wife ever wore. I don't mean that 
 hearing of these things made me like Leah ; I did not find 
 that any one liked her, but I thought it a grand thing to bo 
 connected with her; and as I was not going to live with her, 
 it signified little to me then what she was in other ways. 
 
 Roger asked for a lioliday for me, one Wednesday, when 
 the marriage was quite settled, that I might go over to Sand- 
 combe with him and drink tea, and see Leah, for she and her
 
 46 U E S U L A . 
 
 mother were to be there. Roger managed all his business 
 earlier on purpose ; and I had put on my Sunday frock, and 
 we were just setting oflf, when a message came, saying that 
 Mrs. Weir wanted to see Eoger directly. It was Fanny who 
 gave the message, and as we happened to be standing close 
 by the kitchen door, she told me to go in and wait till Roger 
 came back. I sat down in a chair watching the cook getting 
 the dinner ready, when in came Mr. Weir. " What have 
 you got for dinner ? " he said, speaking out quickly. Cook 
 answered that Miss Milicent had ordered a couple of 
 chickens. " They will be over-roasted. I must put oif 
 dinner. Come to me for orders, not to Miss Milicent ; " 
 and he stalked out of the kitchen, as if he had been too con- 
 descending in putting his foot into it. 
 
 Such a fuss the cook was in ! I never saw anything like 
 it. Jane, the housemaid was in the kitchen, and Cook let 
 out her anger to her. " It was always the case," she said; 
 " not a day passed, but changes were made in that way ; she 
 wouldn't stay, that she wouldn't. She never bargained for 
 master's interference. It was worse here than in London ; 
 she thought they had come to Dene for a quiet life, but little 
 enough quiet there was like to be with Mr. Weir and Miss 
 Milicent. And if what folks said was true " — and then she 
 nodded her head and winked her eyes to give notice of some 
 great secret. 
 
 "It is no great matter to us what folks say, that I can 
 see," replied Jane ; " as long as our wages are paid. I don't 
 see what is to trouble us, unless it might be Miss Milicent, 
 and her bark is always worse than her bite." 
 
 " I could put up with Miss Milicent," replied the cook. 
 " I would rather any day be scolded than looked at. But he ! 
 — it's more than mortal woman can bear. And to see how 
 he treats his poor wife ; and she, as they say, quite taken in 
 by him at the beginning." 
 
 Jane was a prudent person, and I think, too, she fancied 
 Mrs. Mason was coming, for I saw her point to me ; and 
 Cook took the hint and was silent. But I had heard enough 
 to keep me from taking any fancy to Mr. Weir, even if I had 
 been so inclined. 
 
 Roger waited in the drawing-room for a long time, and
 
 U K S U L A . 47 
 
 when he came out he said we could not go to Sandcombe 
 yet, he must have a word with Mr. Weir first. I saw he 
 was rather put out, but I never ventured to ask him any 
 questions about other persons' business. So he went to find 
 Mr. Weir, and I returned to the cottage, as he told me, to 
 wait till he was ready. It was half-past four before we set 
 off; and I thought even then we should have had something 
 to hinder us ; for when we reached the top of the hill, by the 
 plantation, and were going out upon the down, Roger looked 
 back and said he heard carriage-wheels ; a person he wished 
 much to see must be arrived, but he had not expected him 
 so soon. 
 
 " You won't stop now, Roger," I said ; and I tried to 
 di'aw him on. But in vain ; he would stay to listen ; and we 
 heard the carriage drive up to the house ; and almost directly 
 afterwards, the footman came panting up the hill to beg jMr. 
 Grant to go back, just for a few minutes. 
 
 It was so vexatious ! I said to Roger, that we had much 
 better leave Sandcombe till another day; they would have 
 finished tea before we got there. And he was half inclined 
 to agree with me, only he did not like to disappoint William. 
 Down he ran again; and I went inside the little wicket-gate, 
 opening upon the upper seat in the garden, and there I seated 
 myself to wait for him. 
 
 So still and quiet it all seemed — so far away from any 
 vexing care. I felt that if people would only let me live 
 there undisturbed with Roger, I should have nothing else to 
 desire. Now there were always interruptions ; Roger was 
 ordered about, and people found fault with him. I did not 
 think it could be so always. And then I went off" into a 
 dream of what might happen by and by, of a time when he 
 was to be master and I was to wait upon him. I never really 
 thought I should leave Dene, I was too happy there ; and yet 
 I had a notion that Roger and I were one day to have a 
 farm together, when he was to trust, and consult me, and let 
 me help him in everything. For I was to be first in all 
 ways ; others were to respect and look up to Roger, but no 
 one was to love him like me. I did not think that at all a 
 selfish notion ; I was sure I could make him so happy. My 
 fancies were interrupted by the sound of voices at the foot of
 
 48 URSULA. 
 
 the little rough flight of steps, which led from the garden to 
 the upper seat. A few moments afterwards Mr. Weir made 
 his way through the shrubs, followed by Roger and a man, 
 whom I guessed directly to be the stranger just announced. 
 I was not inclined to run away ; my impulse almost always 
 was to turn and face Mr. Weir, as I might a bull, to show 
 that I did not care for him. I had a kind of notion that he 
 was born to be every one's enemy, and that I was to rise up 
 in defence ; so I remained in my place, only standing, because 
 I had always been taught to be respectful. But Mr. Weir 
 took no notice of my being there, which was very provoking. 
 I thought I would have answered him so boldly, if he had 
 asked what business I had at the upper seat. He seemed to 
 be full of business ; he did not even stop to take breath, 
 though he had come up the steps very fast, but he went on 
 talking, and pointing to the down, and saying something 
 about rent, and value of land ; and then William's name was 
 mentioned, and I saw Roger's face change. I doubt whether 
 any one would have noticed it except myself, but I knew 
 every turn of his likings and dislikings always. Mr. Weir 
 gave no time for an answer for some seconds ; but when he 
 stopped at last, the strange man replied. Mr. Weir turned 
 sharply round directly, and listened with his head bent for- 
 ward, and his nose looking exactly as if it was watching for 
 what was coming. What made people call it handsome, I 
 can't think. His face was that of a bird of prey ; not an 
 eagle — it was not noble enough for that — but some that I 
 have read of. 
 
 " I shouldn't like to give my opinion in a hurry, sir," 
 were the first words I heard the stranger say ; and his voice 
 had such a pleasant sound, that I looked up at him with quite 
 a new feeling. 
 
 He might have been three or four years younger than 
 Roger. His face was not one which showed age ; the com- 
 plexion was so clear and ruddy, and the eye so bright and 
 laughing. He was not a gentleman ; at least, he had not the 
 same kind of manner as Mr. Weir; his clothes were of a 
 different make, and his words came out quickly and more 
 harshly. But he was more up in the world, I should have 
 said, than Roger ; probably he had had a better education
 
 URSULA. 49 
 
 and seen more of things and people. I could perceive that 
 he was not at all cowed by Mr. Weir, which made me like 
 him directly; and the way in which he glanced at Roger 
 gave me a notion that he knew what he was worth. I don't 
 think, indeed, either of them could have looked at each other 
 and doubted, for two honester faces I never saw. 
 
 " Perhaps, sir," said Roger, speaking to Mr. Weir, " Mr. 
 Hervey and I had better walk over the hill together, and 
 then we can talk over matters." 
 
 Mr. Weir seemed only half pleased. I was terribly 
 afraid he would offer to come too ; but he had not much of an 
 excuse for that, whatever his wish might have been ; so he 
 just said, in an off-hand way, " Well, well, if you like it. 
 Let me see you again, Hervey, when you come back ; " and 
 then he turned off and went down the steps. 
 
 " Now, Trot, run on before us," said Roger, opening 
 the gate upon the down. I would rather have remained 
 close to him, but I always obeyed him, and I kept at a dis- 
 tance in front, looking for foxgloves — which I could not find, 
 it was so late in the season — and every now and then making 
 myself a little bed amongst the fern, till Roger came up, 
 when I ran on again. At the top of the hill, near where the 
 paths branch off on one side to Compton, and on the other to 
 Sandcombe, Mr. Hervey and Roger stopped. Roger pointed 
 to Compton ; " The best part of the property lies down there," 
 he said. 
 
 "It looks compact," observed Mr. Hervey. "It is a 
 thousand pities to cut it up ; but I suppose where a lady has 
 a fancy, there is nothing else to be done." 
 
 Roger said not a word in reply. 
 
 " She must have had a good property of her own," said 
 Mr. Hervey. 
 
 " Dene, and the Abbey Farm, and some more land out 
 by Hove ; a good fifteen hundred a-year altogether," replied 
 Roger. 
 
 " And all to be sold ! Well, it is a fortunate thing we 
 have only our business to do, Mr. Grant, and needn't trouble 
 ourselves with anything beyond." 
 
 Roger hesitated ; he seemed to be considering what he 
 might say. At length it came out hastily, " Mrs. Weir 
 
 Vol. 1—3
 
 60 U B S U L A . 
 
 would rather it should be mortgaged than sold. That is be- 
 tween ourselves." 
 
 « Oh ! " It was a very long " oh," which must have 
 
 signified a good deal. Mr. Hervey's open face became grave, 
 and he added, " So there are two minds. I guessed that." 
 
 "And I don't think he can sell it," continued Roger. 
 "I don't think the trustees would let him do it." 
 
 " Fortunate that, perhaps," was the answer. " Well, at 
 all events, we will go over the property to-morrow, Mr. 
 Grant ; nothing preventing." 
 
 They shook hands heartily. Mr. Hervey went back to 
 Dene, and I caught hold of Roger's hand, and asked him 
 what mortgaging and trustees meant. 
 
 " What I hope you will never be troubled with. Trot. 
 Now let us have a run down the lane, or they will have done 
 tea before we get there." He lifted me over the gate into 
 the lane, and followed almost before I could turn to see if he 
 was coming, and then we had a race, in spite of the rough 
 stones, to the entrance of the farm-yard. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Roger was right ; we were nearly late for tea. The maid 
 was carrying the urn into the large parlour just as we 
 arrived. I felt bound to be on my best behaviour the mo- 
 ment we were shown into the room, for this parlour was never 
 used except on special occasions. It was a very good-sized 
 room, but not in general very cheerful-looking. The walls 
 were a pale greyish blue ; a few prints in black frames were 
 hung against them, and there was a looking-glass in a carved 
 oak frame over the mantelpiece. On one side of the fire- 
 place was a book-case, with glass doors, and on the other an 
 old cracked spinet. A mahogany dining-room table, covered 
 with a red cloth, stood in the centre of the room, and large 
 black horse-hair chairs were ranged in a very orderly way 
 against the wall. Besides, there was a great arm-chair, and 
 a foot-stool worked in cross-stitch in green and red, and a 
 screen with a green parrot upon it, which had always been a
 
 URSULA. 51 
 
 great delight to me. I don't recollect anything else. We 
 never used the room except for a party. 
 
 William had certainly done his best to make it look 
 comfortable this eveniug. The table was spread for tea, with 
 the best china tea-service, and a large trencher with loaves of 
 brown and white home-made bread upon it ; and there was a 
 ham at the bottom of the table, and two pots of marmalade, 
 and honey ; and the butter was put out in a glass dish, which 
 had been a wedding present to my mother ; and in the centre 
 there was a gay cup filled with dahlias and china-asters. A 
 person might have been very willing to say " Yes," when 
 asked to become the mistress of such a comfortable house as 
 William's ; that is, if comfort only was to be considered. 
 
 Mrs. Morris, and Leah, and her brother Charles, were 
 standing up by the window when we came in. William was 
 pointing out something in the garden. He looked round 
 rather awkwardly as the door opened; but he welcomed 
 Roger heartily, and kissed me, saying he had nearly given us 
 up ; and then he pushed me a few steps forward to where 
 Leah was standing, and said, " Ursie must be grown out of 
 your knowledge, Leah. How long is it since you have seen 
 her ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know ; two years nearly, I should think. 
 To be sure, she is grown; she is getting quite a great girl." 
 I could feel Leah's eye surveying me from head to foot, 
 though just for the first moment I had a shy fit, and could 
 not look at her : shyness, however, was not much in my way, 
 except when I had a great respect for people ; and by the 
 time she had taken in everything belonging to me, from the 
 ribbon on my bonnet to the thickness of my walking-boots, 
 I was able to confront her in return. People said she was 
 handsome, with her black curls, and high colour, and flash- 
 ing eyes ; if she was, I would rather have looked upon 
 something ugly. There was not a trace of anything like 
 softness, either in her face, or her voice, or her manner, or 
 anything about her. She was not ill-tempered looking ; but 
 one saw she could be in a passion if she chose ; and it was 
 quite certain that if she did choose, it would always be about 
 something that concerned herself. That day she did seem so 
 entirely well pleased with herself ! And, perhaps, she had
 
 52 URSULA. 
 
 reason to be. There she was, conscious of a fine face and a 
 fortune of two thousand pounds, and a good deal more to 
 come, dressed out in a bright blue silk dress, — what is 
 called a Waterloo blue, — and a fancy straw-bonnet, and a 
 smart shawl, and come to visit her husband that was to be, 
 and to be made much of, and to say what she liked or what 
 she did not like. It was enough to turn anybody's head ; 
 not that it turned Leah's, for she was then what she always 
 was ; neither more nor less wrapped up in her own concerns ; 
 only it is so happened that circumstances made it appear as 
 though she was. 
 
 We sat down to tea ; Mrs. Morris poured it out, and 
 Leah sat next to William, and made me come on the other 
 side. She petted me all tea-time, offering me bread-and- 
 butter and cake. No doubt she meant it well ; but I could 
 not help feeling that, although I was a little girl, I had just 
 as much right in my brother's house to take what I liked as 
 she had, and more too, perhaps, for she was not his wife yet. 
 There was no lack of conversation. Leah was not a great 
 talker, but her mother was ; and we had all the gossip of 
 the neighbourhood told us. Even when Roger and Charles 
 Morris began saying something about farming, Mrs. Morris 
 broke in in the middle with a question to Roger. 
 
 " So, Mr. Roger, you've got very comfortable quarters, I 
 suppose, up at Dene ? " 
 
 " Very," was Roger's short reply. 
 
 " And all the family there now, I hear ; or at least, all 
 coming soon. The bride, Mrs. Temple, and her husband are 
 expected next week, they say." 
 " I have not heard." 
 
 " Isn't that capital now ? " and Mrs. Morris turned her 
 broad good-humoured face to William. " Your brother is 
 as close as a locked pantry ; — as if he didn't know everything 
 about the Weirs, if he chose to say it ! " 
 
 Leah took up her mother shortly. " You won't make 
 him tell by asking questions, mother. You'll only provoke 
 him to shut up more." 
 
 " There is nothing to shut up about, that I am aware of," 
 said Roger. " If I knew Mrs. Temple was coming, I would 
 say so ; but I don't."
 
 URSULA, 53 
 
 " Ah, well ! then they're wise in keeping their business to 
 themselves," said Mrs. Morris, nodding her head meaningly. 
 " But folks outside Dene are not quite so careful, Mr. 
 Roger ; and they say, — I wouldn't for the world tell it for 
 truth, — that Mr. Temple is not satisfied about his wife's 
 fortune, and is coming to see her uncle about it ; and I have 
 heard that Mr. Weir will have to sell part of the Dene 
 estate : not that I can understand myself what business he 
 has with it, for it is all Mrs. Weir's, settled upon her strictly, 
 — so Mr. Dillon the lawyer told Charles, when ho saw him 
 in Hove last week." 
 
 " She won't be a wise woman if she gives it up for any 
 of her husband's claims," said Leah. 
 
 " That is what you think, is it? " said William, laughing. 
 " I sui^pose that is to teach me what I may expect ; but I 
 am not to be daunted. Do you think there is any cause, 
 Mrs. Morris ? Will Leah stand aloof and say she won't 
 help at a pinch ? " 
 
 " Leah is a good, sensible girl, and you are not like Mr. 
 Weir," replied Mrs. Morris. " If you were, you might beg 
 pretty long before her father and I would give her to you. 
 Why, it's all the talk in Staffordshire, what a cat-and-dog 
 life they lead. Down here there is not so much known 
 about them." 
 
 " I suppose when I turn dog, I may expect you to turn 
 cat, Leah ? " said William. 
 
 " Something like it," replied Leah, a little quickly. I 
 don't think she fancied William's always bringing it forward 
 in this way, that she was going to be married, and that he 
 was to be her master. 
 
 " It's no wonder when they married as they did," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Morris. " She, just out of the school-room, and 
 a second wife. I heard all about it the other day, from the 
 Kemps of Longside. They are cousins of the Herveys in 
 Stafibrdshirc ; and John Hervey is a land surveyor, and 
 has had a good deal of business with Mr. Weir, or at least 
 his father had for years. Poor man, he died of low fever 
 about this time twelve months ago ; since then there have 
 been changes in the business, and I hear John is likely to 
 settle in this neighbourhood, close to the Kemps."
 
 54 U E S U L A . 
 
 " Is that the Mr. Hervey that came over the hill with ua, 
 Roger ? " I asked ; for I had been taking in eagerly all that 
 was said. 
 
 " I suppose so," was his short answer ; and he pushed his 
 tea-cup to Mrs. Morris, and asked for another cup of tea. 
 
 " Oh ! John Hervey is here, is he ? " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Morris. " That makes it all clear; — you know, Charles, we 
 heard he was coming. Of course, then, it is quite true about 
 the sale of the property." She addressed herself to Roger, 
 but received no answer. 
 
 William had no dislike to gossip, so he brought her back 
 to the point she had started from. " Well, but, Mrs. Morris, 
 you have not told me the interesting part about the marriage. 
 You know it's fitting Leah and I should hear, that we may 
 take warning in time." He looked kindly at Leah, but she 
 only smiled haughtily in return, and when he tried to give 
 her hand a little friendly pat, she managed to draw it away, 
 so that his fingers came down upon the table instead. 
 
 " The long and the short of it is," continued Mrs. Morris, 
 " that Mr. Weir spends money faster than he can get it, and 
 has done so from a boy. He had as fine a property as a man 
 might wish to have, some six thousand a year when he came 
 of age ; but he ran through nearly all of it, and then married 
 a Miss Le Fevre, a Staffordshire heiress. I suspect there 
 was some disappointment in that quarter about money mat- 
 ters. She had less than he expected, people said ; and the 
 very year after her death, he married Miss Mayne, that is 
 the present Mrs. Weir, who has a fortune likewise." 
 
 " He has been a lucky man," said William. " Two rich 
 wives ! — it's more than he deserves." 
 
 " A good deal more," continued Mrs. Morris. " As to 
 his first wife, he might have done very well with her ; I 
 never heard anything about her, but this poor thing has a 
 hard life of it." 
 
 " She is very strange, mother, if Jane Shaw says true," 
 said Charles Morris. 
 
 " Strange or not, he is enough to make her strange," re- 
 plied Mrs. Morris ; " always thwarting and taunting her, and 
 she so ill always ! " 
 
 " That is what provokes him, I have heard," remarked
 
 URSULA. 55 
 
 Leah, " He can't bear anybody to bo ill, because of the 
 trouble it gives." She cast her eyes complacently over her 
 own substantial figure, and I suppose it crossed her mind 
 that she was not likely to make William angry from a like 
 cause. 
 
 " Mr. Roger could tell us more about that than any one 
 else, I suspect," said Mrs. Morris, " only he is so prudent." 
 
 " I have seen Mrs. Weir," I exclaimed, proud of my 
 superior knowledge ; " and she sits in a great arm-chair, and 
 looks as if she was very ill indeed." 
 
 " Oh ! you are allowed to see her, are you ? " was the 
 general exclamation, and all eyes were directed towards me. 
 " Is she so very small as they say ? " 
 
 " I don't think she is above a head taller than I am," I 
 replied ; " but she was curled up in the chair so, I can't 
 quite tell." 
 
 A general laugh followed, even Roger joined in it ; but 
 he added, as if to give me warning, " It's no use for you to 
 try and tell anything about Mrs. Weir, Trot. What should 
 such a child as you know ? " 
 
 " But I can tell about her," I continued ; " I have looked 
 at her a great deal ; and I know what Mr. Weir said, — that 
 he shouldn't encourage anybody to marry." 
 
 " Because of what I had been asking, I suppose," said 
 William. " I had been talking to him, and telling him I 
 was likely to have hard times coming, and so I hoped he 
 would be merciful about the land I rent of him." 
 
 " And what did Mrs. Weir say to him, Ursie ? " inquired 
 Mrs. Morris. 
 
 " She did not say anything," I replied ; " only she told 
 Mrs. Mason to take me away." 
 
 " He interferes with her always, I have heard," continued 
 Mrs. Morris. " She never takes a fancy to anything, but 
 what he steps in and spoils her pleasure. It seems, indeed, 
 as if he had a spite against women, for he is never pleasant 
 to them." 
 
 " A second wife ought to have known better than to bo 
 taken in by him," observed Leah. 
 
 " She should have asked him to drink tea," said William ; 
 " that would have been the right thing."
 
 56 URSULA. 
 
 " Mrs. Weir has not too much -wisdom of any kind, as 
 far as I can learn," replied Mrs. Morris. " I have been told 
 she is next door to an idiot." 
 
 I started from my seat. " Mrs. Weir an idiot ! She 
 was no more an idiot than I was ! She had been very kind 
 to me ; she had given me some cake and some ginger-wine. 
 I couldn't bear such things said of her." 
 
 " Silence. Ursie ! ' Little girls should be seen and not 
 heard ; ' " and Roger laid his hand heavily on my shoulder. 
 " I don't think any one who knows Mrs. Weir can call her 
 an idiot," he continued ; " she is as clever a woman of busi- 
 ness as any one might wish to talk to." 
 
 " Oh ! you are in her confidence, I perceive," observed 
 Mrs. Morris ; " no wonder we are so careful. But you 
 mustn't be angry, Mr. Eoger. I only say what the world 
 does ; and it is certain she is kept like a doll, M'aited upon 
 from morning till night, as if she was not able to take care 
 of herself, and pleased with pretty things set about her, as a 
 child might be. I know that from our cook, who was kitch- 
 en-maid at Dene last year. She said Mrs. Weir was a mere 
 nobody, and that Miss Milicent gave all the orders." 
 
 " Miss Milicent is likely to do that, whether she has to 
 deal with idiots or sensible women, I suspect," observed 
 Charles Morris ; " she would rule a regiment. But how 
 could such a woman have a mother like Mrs. Weir ? " 
 
 " How could Mrs. Weir have a daughter like Miss Mili- 
 cent? you mean,'^' said Leah. " But there is no rule that I 
 ever knew, why mothers and daughters should be alike." 
 She made a little movement as she spoke, which showed that 
 she had finished her own tea, and expected every one else to 
 finish theirs. William drank up what was left in his cup, 
 and never asked for more ; and Leah, without saying any- 
 thing to her mother, rose from the table. 
 
 5lrs. Morris laughed good-naturedly, and said they were 
 leaving her in the lurch, and they ought to remember that 
 she had been making tea for them all ; but Leah was not to 
 be put out of her way, and she went off with William, say- 
 ing that she wanted to go over the house. 
 
 Mrs. Morris motioned to me to come and sit near her, to 
 keep her company, but Roger made an excuse for me. He
 
 URSULA. 57 
 
 had promised William, he said, to look at some fences which 
 had been put up round the yard. He should like me to go 
 with him, and then I could see the pigs and the new calf. 
 There would not be time else, as it was growing late. 
 
 Mrs. Morris was only half pleased with the arrangement, 
 I could see ; neither was I, for I felt, from Roger's manner, 
 that he was dissatisfied with me. The moment we were out 
 of the house, he said, " You are a chatterbox, Ursie. That 
 won't do if you are to live with me. What is said and done 
 at Dene is never to be talked of outside the gates. It is a 
 rule you will have to remember all your life, that when you 
 live with a family, you are no more to talk about their 
 concerns, than you would about your own. It isn't honest." 
 
 " Mrs. Morris talked ; I didn't," I exclaimed ; " and I 
 said nothing but what was true." 
 
 " That is no matter," continued Roger; " once for all I 
 say that, if you are to live with me, you are not to repeat 
 anything you hear. There is often more mischief in repeat- 
 ing than in doing : and I hate a gossip." 
 
 Roger only intended to give me a caution to be used 
 generally ; but he could not prevent my feeling there was 
 something of a mystery about Dene. 
 
 I went with him to the yard to look at the fences, and 
 then fed the pigs, and paid a visit to the calf; but all the 
 time I was not happy. When we were going into the house 
 again, I stopped him, and said, " Roger, you are not angry 
 with me ? I am so sorry." 
 
 He caught me up in his great arms, and gave me such a 
 hug ! — it was like being in a bear's grasp. One had only to 
 say one was sorry ; and forgiveness was ready directly. 
 
 Leah had her things on ready to go when we went back 
 to the parlour. Charles Morris had been sent to order the 
 pony-chaise ; for they had driven over, though it was noth- 
 ing of a walk for a strong woman like Leah. She, and Wil- 
 liam, and Mrs. Morris, were deep in consultation ; and di- 
 rectly I came in, Leah took hold of me as though she had a 
 kind of right to me, and said, " It won't be so long now, 
 Ursie, before you and I may see more of each other." 
 
 " Only three weeks," said William ; " what do you say, 
 Ursie, to have a new sister in three weeks' time ? " 
 
 Vol. 1—3*
 
 58 URSULA. 
 
 " I have done very well without one," was my answer. 
 It made me angry that they should all take it go for granted 
 that I was to be pleased. 
 
 William laughed awkwardly ; but Leah answered, " You 
 will learn to do better with one soon ; " and then she walked 
 away to the glass to arrange her black curls. 
 
 I had managed to put all the party out by my pert speech, 
 and no wonder ; Roger especially was vexed, and made me 
 beg Leah's pardon, which I did, I fear, with a bad grace. 
 William said, when Mrs. Morris and the others were gone, 
 that I was getting beyond Roger, and he was sure I was not 
 kept strictly enough. It was a good thing for me, he added, 
 that Leah was coming into the family, for there would be 
 some one then to keep me in order. He could not help 
 thinking, indeed, that it might be well if the plan that had 
 been first talked about could be carried out, and if I were to 
 come and live at Sandcombe entirely. Of course that would 
 require some arrangement about expense ; but no doubt 
 Roger would be willing to take his share, as he had no claims 
 of his own. 
 
 I suppose William forgot that Roger took all the expense 
 at that time ; and that the claims, as he called them, were 
 only such as he had made to please himself. Strange to say, I 
 was not frightened at the proposal, I was so certain that 
 Roger would never consent to it. I only held his hand more 
 tightly, and squeezed it very hard when he said, he was afraid 
 that Trot did require a strict hand over her ; but she had 
 been much better since she went to school ; and as to parting 
 with her, he would as soon think of parting with his right 
 eye ; many thanks to William, though, for proposing it. 
 
 No : I might have many trials in store for me in life, 
 but a home with Leah Morris I felt certain was not to be 
 one. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Three weeks after that, William and Leah Morris wero 
 husband and wife. They were married at Hatton Church, 
 and a grand day was made on the occasion. A party of
 
 URSULA. 59 
 
 five-and-twenty went to church — most of them Leah's rela- 
 tions — for we had scarcely any living near enough to be 
 asked ; and there were six bridesmaids dressed in blue gauze 
 and white bonnets ; and Leah herself in a figured lilac silk, 
 with flounces which stood out like a hoop, and a pink bon- 
 net. I was one of the bridesmaids, the youngest, and so 
 made much of; and I almost forgave Leah for becoming my 
 sister-in-law, when I found myself in such a grand position. 
 The day was fine, and everything went off well. Leah was 
 a capital manager — much better than Miss Milicent, for she 
 never talked about what she did. Mrs. Morris took care of 
 the eatmg, and Mr. Morris provided some wonderfully strong 
 ale, and saw that there was plenty of wine for those who 
 liked it, and spirits for any who had a fancy for something 
 more powerful. But Leah was the pei'son who kept every- 
 thing going ; at least, as long as she was there. She was 
 not at all shy, and, what was more to her praise, she did not 
 pretend to be ; so she talked to one and the other, and told 
 them where they were to sit, and what they were to do ; and 
 even helped to marshal them' round the breakfast-table after 
 they came back from church. She could put her hand to 
 anything; and William looked on as pleased as possible, 
 feeling, I am sure, that he had made a capital bargain in 
 marrying such a good manager. 
 
 Roger was very merry, too ; and as for me, I laughed 
 and talked with every one ; especially I made acquaintance 
 with some of the Shaws, of White Hill. Jane Shaw was 
 but two years older than myself, and being the only two 
 children who were bridesmaids, we were put together at 
 breakfast ; and Jane told me all about her home, and how 
 they kept a phaeton, and had a beautiful best parlour, with 
 pictures in it, and wax flowers under a glass-case ; and then 
 she made me look at her pocket-handkerchief, and admire the 
 pretty lace round it ; and showed me a bracelet of large 
 white beads, (Roman pearls she called them,) and a gold 
 brooch, which her mother had given her to wear. She talked 
 in a very silly way, and was so set up that she made me 
 boast in my turn, and I forgot what Roger had said about 
 not gossiping, and described how beautiful Dene was, and 
 bow I was in the habit of going to see Mrs. Weir, and reading
 
 60 URSULA, 
 
 to her. Jane Shaw was very curious like every one else, 
 about Mrs Weir. The only people who could tell her any- 
 thing about her, she said, were the Kemps, of Longside ; and 
 they didn't know the Kemps now. She had not spoken her- 
 self to Mary Kemp, though they stood close together in 
 church. 
 
 " Is Mary Kemp here ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes; just across the table, down at the lower end; 
 don't you see ? She was talking to little Jessie Lee just be- 
 fore breakfast. You must know her." 
 
 " I have played with her sometimes," I replied, " but not 
 often ; and I don't know Jessie Lee." 
 
 " Not know her ! Well, that is to live shut up ! Why, 
 Jessie is a cousin of your own." 
 
 " A cousin of mine ! " I stared at her in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; she is Leah Morris's — what a shame 
 of me to forget ! — she is Mrs. Grrant's cousin's child ; and 
 she is going to live with the Morrises. She is not much 
 more than a baby, for she is only five years old ; but she has 
 been away lately, because Mrs. Morris has been to busy to 
 attend to her." 
 
 " I saw Roger playing with a child," I said ; " but I 
 didn't know who it was ; he always takes to babies." 
 
 " The Morrises make fuss enough about her,'' continued 
 Jane. " You should see how she comes to church, with her 
 little round hat and white feather. They will make her quite 
 conceited ; and there is no need, for she is that already. She 
 is a regular beauty." 
 
 Our conversation was interrupted just then, for Leah 
 stood up to cut the cake, and there was a great drinking of 
 healths and cheering ; and afterwards, Leah left the table, 
 and Mrs. Morris went with her to pack up the last things in 
 her travelling-box, and a few minutes afterwards she came 
 back to say goodbye. She and William were to go, that 
 afternoon, to Hartwell, a town about eight miles beyond 
 Hove ; and the next day they were to proceed to London, 
 where they were to spend a fortnight with an aunt of ours and 
 some of Leah's relations. 
 
 Things were a little dull after she was gone, though 
 Charles Morris did get up and make a speech, in which he
 
 URSULA. 61 
 
 said that he hoped all the bridesmaids would he married be- 
 fore that time next year. Jane Shaw and I laughed, be- 
 cause it seemed such a droll notion for us children, but I 
 don't think any one else did. I suppose they had all heard 
 it too often, for I believe the same thing is always said at 
 weddings. 
 
 Roger was Mrs. Morris's right hand when Leah was 
 gone. It was quite a new thmg to see him come out in that 
 way. He and Charles Morris did all they could to make 
 people merry, and as soon as the breakfast was cleared away 
 (it was called a breakfast, but in truth it was a dinner), a 
 fiddler, who had been sent for, was brought in, and we all 
 stood up to dance. I was made to begin, because I was 
 William's sister, and very pleasant I thought it to be at the 
 head of the country dance, though I knew little enough of 
 what I was to do, and could never remember whether I was 
 to give my right hand or my left across. Roger would not 
 dance at first : he said it was not in his way, and there were 
 plenty without him; but just at the last, when every one was 
 laughing at him, he caught up little Jessie Lee, and declared 
 she should be his partner. 
 
 Jessie was frightened at first, but Roger had such a way 
 with children, they never could hold out against him; and 
 when he had smoothed her little soft cheek with his great 
 hand, and carried her in his arms to the top of the room, she 
 was quite won ; and he managed to twist her round wherever 
 she ought to go, and ran with her down the dance and up 
 again till we were all in fits of laughter, and Jessie most of 
 all. I don't remember much about my partners : I began 
 with Charles Morris, and one of Jane Shaw's brothers ; and 
 after that I think I danced with Mr. Hervey, for he was 
 staying at Longside, and was going to settle in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; so he had been asked to the wedding, principally 
 to please Roger, who had made gi*cat friends with him. Al- 
 together it was a very pleasant day, and when Leah was gone 
 I enjoyed it heartily ; but while she was present I fancied 
 she was watching, and would find fault with me. We had a 
 great supper at eight o'clock, and by ten every one was gone. 
 Roger, Mr. Hervey, and I, drove home over the down, in 
 the Sandcombe titled-cart, which Roger had borrowed for
 
 62 URSULA. 
 
 the purpose. Mr. Hervey was going to sleep in our little 
 room inside the kitchen, for he had business at Dene the next 
 day, A beautiful drive we had, and when we reached the 
 top of the long lane, leading out of Hatton, and were on the 
 ridge, just under St. Anne's, the moon shone out quite 
 bright, and we could see the white cliffs over the sea nearly 
 as clearly as if it had been daylight. I wanted Roger to 
 let me climb to the top of St. Anne's, and look at the moon- 
 light upon the water, but he said it was a great deal too 
 late, so we only drove across the down slowly, Roger being 
 afraid of the ruts, and were soon within the plantation gate. 
 I believe I had talked a great deal more than I ought all 
 the way, for Roger looked a little grave when I wished him 
 good night, and said, " You have a whirligig head, Trot, it's 
 well there is not a wedding every day to turn it." Mr. 
 Hervey seemed to think him rather hard upon me. " It is 
 a very merry little head anyhow," he said. " I don't know 
 who has a right to complain of it, Ursie. Brother Roger 
 would be very dull without it." 
 
 That was kind of Mr. Hervey, but not so kind and 
 true as Roger's remark. My head was like a whirligig, and 
 it was a good thing that I was not likely to be put much in 
 the way of such excitement as I had that day. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I MUST give but a slight sketch of the events which followed 
 the wedding, and indeed of the next few years. William 
 and Leah came back to Sandcombe, and Leah settled her- 
 self down as misti-ess of the farm, and carried everything 
 with a high hand, which, yet, could not be complained of, as 
 she certainly was a good manager, looking so carefully into 
 everything, that no one dared to cheat her. She used to 
 boast that she had never lost even an ounce of dripping from 
 the time she first became housekeeper. It was not a good 
 kind of training for William. He was too much inclined to 
 be close by nature, and now that his wife encouraged him 
 in it he was even less open-handed than before. He was
 
 URSULA, 63 
 
 hard upon his labourers, and grumbled a good deal if there 
 was any talk of raising their wages. One severe winter, 
 however, there was an outcry all round the country, and 
 then Leah persuaded him into being more liberal ; for hard 
 though she was, she had a great notion of doing what the 
 gentry did. This was after a public meeting about the state 
 of the agricultural population, as it was called, when Mr. 
 Stewart of Hatton, got up and made a long speech, and said 
 it was a crying sin that the labourers should be kept down 
 as they were. William rented some land of Mr. Stewart, 
 and was afraid to offend him, so the labourers had a shilling 
 a week more after that ; and Leah made a great boast of it, 
 and declared they were ruining themselves to keep the peo- 
 ple from starving. I heard her say it myself one day, when 
 she had come over to Dene, on her way to Longside. As I 
 saw her seat herself in the little pony-chaise, and wrap her- 
 self up in her great fur tippet, I could not help thinking 
 that if the poor were to wait till she denied herself even one 
 luxury for them, they were likely to die of want. 
 
 Yet Leah and I were apparently very good friends. She 
 was quick enough in understanding, and I think she soon 
 saw that I was not to be put upon, though I was a child, and 
 that Roger would not allow it. The only way in which she 
 showed she did not like me was, by the difference of her 
 manner to me and Jessie Lee. Jessie was very often stay- 
 ing with her, — it brightened her up, — for Sandcombe was a 
 lonely place, and there seemed to be no prospect of any 
 children to make it merry. I don't think either Leah or 
 William cared much about this, for children would have been 
 an expense and a trouble, and they were not naturally fond 
 of them : but still, in the winter time, Leah liked to have 
 some one about when William was busy, and so she often 
 persuaded her mother to send Jessie over to her. It used 
 to provoke me, I must confess, when I heard her say, drawing 
 up her head and shaking her curls, " I have just sent for 
 poor little Jessie ; it will be a help to mother to be rid of 
 her for a while, and we mustn't grudge the expense." I knew 
 well enough that, when Jessie was away, Mrs. Morris was 
 sad for want of her, and I knew too that Leah made full use 
 of her when she was at Sandcombe, and took good care that,
 
 64 URSULA. 
 
 if she was an expense in one way, she should be a saving in 
 another. The girl who helped in the kitchen was always 
 sent way when Jessie came ; and though Leah liked her 
 cousin to dress herself in her best, and sit in the parlour in 
 the afternoon, in case Mr. Stewart, or the Shaws, or the 
 clergyman from Hatton should call, yet she made her work 
 like a scrub in the morning. Jessie had a meek temper, and 
 never complained, and upon the whole I don't know that she 
 had much cause. She was an orphan, and left without a 
 penny, and the Morrises had quite adopted her ; and if Mrg. 
 Morris was at all in fault in the way she brought her up, it 
 was that she spoiled her. She was fond of Jessie for her 
 good nature, and proud of her for her beauty. Many pretty 
 children don't grow up pretty, but this was not the case with 
 Jessie. It was quite impossible not to notice her ; she had 
 such a bright complexion, a good nose and mouth, and such 
 very soft blue eyes, with a kind of beseeching look in them 
 which touched one's heart directly she looked at one. No 
 one would have thought that she had come of common 
 parents, and indeed her mother was quite a lady ; but she 
 married badly, and fell into poverty, and then her own rela- 
 tions cast her off, and she was obliged to depend entirely 
 upon the Morrises. Jessie bore the mark of her origin in 
 everything she did and said. It used almost to startle 
 me sometimes, if I happened "to go over to Sandcombe early, 
 and found her busy at house work, to hear her speak and 
 ask me how I was, and inquire for Roger. The voice 
 was so sweet, I could have thought it was Mrs. Weu* talking 
 to me, only that there was no melancholy in it. I don't 
 think Jessie knew what melancholy meant. Her high 
 spirits, indeed, sometimes carried her away too fai", but she 
 was never boisterous. I was always fond of her, though 
 I could not make her much of a friend,' for we did not 
 care for the same things. She had very little education ; 
 reading she did not much care for, and I don't think she 
 would ever have written and spelled correctly, but that 
 Charles Morris one day found out her ignorance, and took 
 her under his own teaching. They seemed to think she 
 would learn everything naturally, and she managed to make 
 a fair show, though really she could do little well beyond
 
 URSULA. 65 
 
 housework and trimming a bonnet. The life she led was too 
 busy for her to feel the need of anything more, and she had 
 so much petting and loving from every one, that she was 
 ignorant of any want in herself I don't know quite what 
 it was which made her so loveable. No one could have 
 called her sensible, and she was very much given to dress and 
 gaiety when she could meet with them ; but even when she 
 provoked me with her silliness one minute, I could not help 
 being fond of her the nest. She had such a way of saying 
 she was sorry, and she wished she was as good as I was. I 
 suspect that won upon me, for I dearly liked to be looked 
 up to. Besides, I must say that she was very grateful ; the 
 least little kindness touched her ; and though Leah had been 
 ever so hard upon her, I believe she would have worked her 
 fingers off for her, because she was a Morris. She always 
 said the Morrises were the best friends she had in the world. 
 What did Jessie more harm than anything else was the 
 acquaintance with the Shaws ; but I may leave that for the 
 present. It will be better to put down a few things about 
 myself and Dene first. The property was not sold, as people 
 said it was going to be ; but it was mortgaged, for how much 
 nobody knew — or at least if Roger knew he never told. If 
 it had been sold I suppose we should have been obliged to 
 move, but as it was, we remained on year after year. Towards 
 the end of every summer, Mr. Weir and his wife, and Miss 
 Milicent, came regularly, and stayed till nearly winter : and 
 I learnt, by degrees, to look forward to this as the pleasant 
 time", in spite of Mr. Weir's pride and Miss Milicent's fussi- 
 ness. My delight was to be with Mrs. Weir, and this was not 
 strange, for she was exceedingly kind, and did more for me 
 in the way of education than I could possibly have expected. 
 I had gone on learning what I could at Conipton school, and 
 upon the whole I think I was very well taught, and not at all 
 backward for my age ; but by the time I was fourteen, there 
 was not much else which the mistress could teach me ; and 
 then Leah tried to persuade Roger to send me for a year to 
 Hove, and to pay for it out of the money that had been put by 
 for me. I don't think William would have allowed this, for 
 though, as I have said, he was close by nature, he was not at aU 
 wanting in affection, and the money had been intended as a
 
 66 URSULA. 
 
 nest egg for me, and so he would have wished it to remain in- 
 creasing till I grew up. But his opinion was not needed as 
 Roger stopped the notion at once ; and now that I lived with 
 him, his will was law. 
 
 When at last I was really too old to go to Compton school 
 any longer, Roger thought it might do to send away Sarah 
 and give me the house work to look after. Leah objected 
 to this : she said I was not born to it ; that I had always 
 been accustomed to a servant, and she thought I should have 
 one still : but Mrs. Mason took Roger's side, and said it was 
 a very good plan ; and Fanny should help me at the cottage, 
 and I might help Fanny at the house, and she would look 
 after us both. 
 
 That was one of the greatest helps Roger had in his care 
 of me. I think he would rather have sent me to school than 
 have left me at home with no one to think about me ; but 
 Mrs. Mason kept me very strict, never letting me make ac- 
 quaintances without her knowing it ; and taking care that I 
 should have no idle time upon my hands for gossiping and 
 folly. There was very little variety in my life. Once Mrs. 
 Mason took me to London to stay with her for a week at a 
 friend's house, and I saw all the chief sights, and had a glimpse 
 of a world which did not please me half as much as Dene, 
 though for the time I heartily enjoyed it; but this was all 
 the change I had for several years. I might have found it 
 a dull life, and required more for my happiness but for Mrs. 
 Weir. Mrs. Kemp, of Longside, was very kind to me, and 
 Mary Kemp and I became great friends ; but neither of them 
 could quite give me what I wanted and found in Mrs. Weir. 
 Books were still, as they had always been, my great pleasure, 
 and as long as I could go to the upper-seat, — close to the 
 down, and hidden by the shrubbery and the plantation trees, 
 and read, I had no wish for anything else in the world. Mrs. 
 Weir soon found this out ; but she only noticed and helped 
 me in my taste by degrees. It seemed as if she was afraid 
 of showing that she took much interest in anything ; and 
 for some time I was always sent away, if I was iu the draw- 
 ing-room when Mr. Weir came in. But by degrees I gained 
 a better footing. 
 
 Mr. Weir delighted in hearing anythiDg he possessed ad- 
 mired ; he cared little what it was that was liked, or who it
 
 ^ URSULA. 67 
 
 was that liked it, all he wanted was to hear people say " Oh ! 
 how beautiful ! " And so it happened that Dene being dull 
 at times when no one was staying in the house, he used to 
 amuse himself, when I was quite young, with seeing my won- 
 der and pleasure at the garden and the fountains, and the 
 peacock and peahen, and the pea chicks, and the goldfish. It 
 was a very honest pleasure on my part ; I was never tired of 
 holding out bread to the peacock, and seeing him stretch out 
 his beautiful long neck and snatch it out of my fingers ; and 
 I don't think the pleasure of finding the feathers ever grew 
 less ; and being naturally rather free spoken, I used to say 
 out what came into my head, and this made Mr. Weir laugh. 
 I believe we are all grateful to persons who make us laugh, 
 whether they are men, women or children ; and I can imagine 
 that Mr. Weir was so particularly, for his was not a laughing 
 nature, if his countenance spoke truth. There was a sneer 
 upon it almost always, and sneers and hearty laughter don't 
 go well together. When Mrs. Weir found out that her hus- 
 band was not likely to interfere, she made me be more with 
 her. Before I left school I was in the habit of spending a 
 great part of Saturday, after I had mended my clothes, ifi 
 reading to her, and at such times she chose books which were 
 likely to improve me, history, and lives of celebrated people, 
 and such things; but what she liked most was to read her 
 favorite bits of poetry to me, and to make me learn them. 
 
 I did not understand a great deal, — but even when the 
 sense was beyond me, there was a pleasure in listening to the 
 sound of Mrs. Weir's voice. It came over me like the dis- 
 t:.nt rush of the waves upon the shingles, as I have heard it 
 often, when standing by the oratory on St. Anne's; or as 
 the sighing of the wind among the firs in the plantation, on 
 a beautiful summer's day, when a thin grey mist floated over 
 the level country, and every now and then the breeze rolled 
 it away, and showed the lines of sparkling blue sea, far away 
 beyond Hove. Tears have often come into my eyes, as I 
 have hearkened to those sounds, which seem so especially to 
 belong to God ; and they have risen again and again un- 
 bidden, at the first words which Mrs. Weir would read, — 
 startling me with a sense of something that was not of this 
 world, — an echo, it might be, of a voice that had been heard 
 in Paradise. Children feel these things, grown up people
 
 68 URSULA. 
 
 reason upon them ; but I think children know more about 
 them. As time went on, and I learnt to know more of 
 Mrs. Weir's life, — her whole history seemed to me to be 
 told in the strange, sweet, sad tones of her voice, as she read 
 the verses in which she delighted. It was happy for me 
 that I was not with her always. What I did see of her was 
 good for me, I am sure in many ways, but to have lived al- 
 ways with such a person would have quite unfitted me for 
 my real work. Roger was a little afraid of this, and I don't 
 think he was sorry that I had Miss Milicent near, to pre- 
 vent my becoming too much wrapt up ia.JMrs. Weir and my 
 books. 
 
 There was no fear of poetry where Miss Milicent has 
 any authority. I don't think she had ever learned a verse in 
 her life except " How doth the little busy bee ;" at least 
 that was the only thing I ever heard her repeat. How she 
 came to be so entirely unlike her mother, I never could un- 
 derstand in those days, but since I have seen more of the world, 
 I have thought that mothers who have any one particular 
 fancy, or taste, or even good principle, are apt to bring it 
 forward on all occasions, and so their children take a disgust 
 at it, and run the contrary way. 
 
 I know I have observed in religion, how persons who are 
 very good and earnest themselves give their children a turn 
 against it, by continually talking about it. Mrs. Weir 
 did this I suspect with her poetry. She did not see 
 what a different nature Miss Milicent's was ; indeed, I 
 don't think she was quick at understanding any person's na- 
 ture. She was always living in a kind of dream. One thing 
 I must say for her, — Miss Milicent would have been a puzzle 
 to any one. She was not like father, nor mother, nor cousin, 
 nor any one belonging to her, that I ever saw, nor, indeed, 
 like any one living but herself Mrs. Mason said one day 
 that she took after her grandmother, and that might have 
 been the case. When I first saw her, she must have been 
 about five and twenty ; but she was then as old in her ways 
 as she was a dozen years after. I took it upon faith, when I 
 first knew her, that she was a good woman, and that is say- 
 ing a good deal ; for no faith that was ever heard of would 
 have made me believe that Leah Morris was good. 
 
 It always seemed to me that Miss Milicent fancied she
 
 URSULA. 69 
 
 was sent into the world on purpose to set it to rights; 
 and I believe honestly that she began with herself, as far as 
 her knowledge went. She was neither passionate, nor sulky ; 
 she always spoke the truth, and was thoughtful for the poor, 
 and took a great deal of pains with their children ; and as 
 for industry, she worked harder than Roger. I often puz- 
 zled myself in those days to find out what the fault in her 
 was, and at last I settled that she was selfish. She wished 
 everybody to do right, and be comfortable, but it must be in 
 her way. She would deny herself like a saint to carry out 
 anything which she thought likely to be good ; but she could 
 not sit still, nor keep the room tidy, nor speak low and soft, 
 because of her mother's wishes — whimsies, she used to call 
 them — that was her favourite word ; and I suppose Mrs. 
 Weir had a few such ; and certainly it was irritating for a 
 person of Miss Milicent's age to be complained of as if she 
 had been a child of five ; but then she ought never to have 
 given cause for the complaint. God had granted her quick 
 sense, and she should have seen her mother's little odd ways, 
 and made allowance for them, and valued Mrs. Weir for the 
 many things there were to be valued in her, not set herself 
 to alter them as she did. That was the cause of half the 
 family troubles, because it destroyed anything like sympa- 
 thy between the mother and the daughter ; and so each went 
 her separate way and grew more and more strange, and wed- 
 ded to her own fashion. Miss Milicent always took care 
 that I did my work properly ; and she taught me many use- 
 ful things ; amongst others, to knit stockings and cut out 
 dresses. She was clever at that, though she chose to dress 
 so oddly ; and Roger was glad I should learn, for there was 
 still an idea that it might be a good thing for me some day 
 to be a dress-maker. After a time Mrs. Weir employed me 
 in doing little things for her in the way of altering dresses 
 and in plain needlework; and Mrs. Richardson, of Gompton, 
 sent me common dresses to make up, and spoke for mc to 
 Mrs. Stewart of Hatton, and several other persons ; and 
 at last I found I had more than enough to do ; though I 
 never professed to take to the occupation as a business. The 
 comfort to me was that I was able in consequence to help 
 Roger in paying my own expenses, and as I saved him a ser-
 
 70 URSULA. 
 
 vant, and even gained something by assisting Fanny at the 
 house when Mr. Weir was at Dene, there was no notion 
 of sending me away to earn my own living, which was what 
 I dreaded more than anything. 
 
 Of course when I became so busy with my work I had 
 but little time for reading, though I never gave it up en- 
 tirely. 
 
 ♦ CHAPTER X. 
 
 Things went on in this quiet way for a long time. But 
 some alterations were made in the place : a billiard room 
 was built over the store house, and a sitting-room and 
 two small bedrooms were added to the house ; and some 
 shrubs planted to enlarge the grounds. The billiard room 
 helped greatly to amuse Mr. Weir when he and his friends 
 came down. He took much more kindly to Dene after it 
 was built, but I don't think it improved him. He grew more 
 irritable and restless, and the people whom he brought with 
 him were not such as were likely to improve him. Eating, 
 and drinking, and billiards, were the occupations at home, 
 and when they went out shooting they mixed with persons 
 who were not equal to them by birth, and whose characters 
 did not stand well in the county. Young Mr. Shaw, of 
 White Hill, was invited to Dene every now and then, and 
 the family held up their heads in consequence, and thought 
 themselves very grand ; and the girls dressed more smartly 
 than ever, and talked of Mr. Weir as though he was quite 
 one of themselves. But I knew better than that. Mr. 
 Weir would not have spoken to any one of them but for some 
 object of his own, for a prouder man never lived. 
 
 All these things, however, affected me but little. I used 
 to hear of what went on from Jessie Lee, who was quite one 
 with the Shaws, but I followed my own ways, and lived at 
 Dene without much to trouble me, till I was two and twenty. 
 Roger was then thirty-six ; quite an old man, and an old 
 bachelor too. People used to laugh, and say that I should 
 be a rich heiress, for Roger was surely making money all 
 this time, and as he was certain never to marry, it would all 
 be left to me.
 
 U E S U L A . 71 
 
 They thought he had an easy place and a quiet life. 
 Little they knew of all the things he had to vex and fret 
 him. Mr. Weir was a most tiresome man to deal with : he 
 had as many minds as there are days in the year ; one week 
 he would have things done and the next week he would not ; 
 and what was worse, he changed not only about things but 
 people. How he kept on so long with Roger was surprising, 
 only I believe that he felt Roger was careful, and by looking 
 after his affairs made money go farther than any one else 
 was likely to do. But as for other people, such as the gar- 
 dener, and the imder-gardener, and the labourers, and even 
 the gamekeeper, it was a perpetual one going and another 
 coming ; and Roger had to give fresh orders and directions 
 to each new person, because it was Mr. Weir's will that 
 everything should be done through him. I have often heard 
 William counsel him to give it up and try something else, 
 but Roger only laughed, and said, " Where is there a place 
 without trouble in this world ? I know the worst here, and 
 I don't know it elsewhere." " A rolling stone gathers no 
 moss," was one of his favourite proverbs, and it often helped 
 him to decide when he was in difficulty ; but there is no 
 question that it was a very trying life. 
 
 The summer that I was two and twenty, Mrs. Weir ar- 
 rived about the middle of August, looking extremely ill, and 
 Miss Milicent not in her usual spirits ; but there was no Mr. 
 Weir. We settled down into om* usual ways : Miss Mili- 
 cent busying herself with the house and the garden, and go- 
 ing over to Compton to talk to Mrs. Richardson about the 
 school ; and Mrs. Weir living to herself, curled up in her 
 easy chair, working for the poor, never going out, and re- 
 quiring me to go and read to her every evening at five 
 o'clock; but Mr. Weir's name was scarcely mentioned by 
 any one, and even Roger seemed to take it as a matter of 
 course that he was not coming, though he never told me 
 why. 
 
 I had made tea one evening, and Roger and I were sit- 
 ting down comfortably together, when we heard a knock at 
 the door, and I went to open it. Mr. Hervey was there, I 
 shook hands with him, and welcomed him gladly, for he was 
 now quite an old friend. He was often at Dene on business,
 
 72 URSULA. 
 
 and we met frequently at Longside, the Kemps being his 
 relations, and indeed it had been said that he was going to 
 marry Mary Kemp. He often came in in this way un- 
 awares, so we were not surprised to see him, and we asked 
 him, as a matter of course, to sit down and take a cup of tea 
 with us. I noticed then for the first time that he was flur- 
 ried. He answered rather quickly that he had not time, he 
 had just a few words to say to Roger, that was all. I got 
 up to go away, but Mr. Hervey prevented me,' and he and 
 Roger went together into the parlour. It was dull to drink 
 my tea alone, so I put the teapot upon the hob, to keep it as 
 warm as I could, and went to my work. I was making a set 
 of shirts for Roger, and I was obliged to snatch all the 
 spare moments I could. I happened to be sitting with my 
 back to the light, but presently a shadow darkened the 
 window, and before I could turn round to see who it was, I 
 heard Jessie Lee's gentle little voice, saying, " Good evening 
 to you, Ursie. Why are you all alone ? " 
 
 I went to the window to speak to her, and ask her what 
 she had come for, but I drew back vexed, for Jane Shaw 
 was with her, and though William and Leah found no fault 
 with the acquaintance, I never could bear it. 
 
 " So you don't know me," said Jane, laughing a little 
 angrily. " We don't see too much of each other, certainly, 
 but I should not have thought we were quite such strangers ! " 
 
 I opened the window to answer for the sake of civility. 
 I knew I had no right to show my dislike rudely ; and yet 
 I think any one who had looked at Jane Shaw, would have 
 understood what it was that I could not bear in her. 
 
 A bold, cunning looking girl she was, yet not ugly. She 
 had beautiful hair, which she wore in large long curls; and 
 though her skin was freckled, it was very clear. She had a 
 low forehead, which I disliked, quick grey eyes, and a small 
 mouth, with very thin lips ; but she set up for being pretty, 
 and because of that spent all her money upon dress ; and I had 
 heard her say that she was quite determined to marry a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Jessie looked like a little angel by her side, — so young, 
 and sweet, and simple, — only rather too smartly dressed to 
 please me.
 
 URSULA. 73 
 
 " Where do you come from ? " I asked, for want of some- 
 thing better to say. 
 
 " We have been to Hove," answered Jessie. " I wanted 
 to do some shopping, and Aunt Morris (she always called 
 Mrs. Morris aunt) gave me a holiday. We went in the 
 chaise ; and coming back, Jane and I had a wish to walk 
 over the down to Hatton, instead of going round by the 
 road ; so the boy drove the chaise, and we came on by our- 
 selves. Jane is going to sleep at our house to-night." 
 
 This was a very straightforward history, yet it did not 
 please me. All I could say was, " I don't think I should 
 have chosen such a long walk after a day's shopping ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is here, isn't she ? " asked Jane, carelessly 
 and leaning against the window, determined, I could see, not 
 to move. 
 
 " Yes, she and Miss Milicent came about six weeks ago," 
 I replied. 
 
 " Oh ! and not Mr. Weir. That must be good riddance 
 for you. But I heard in Hove that he came last night." 
 
 " Hove people know more about our concerns than we do 
 ourselves, then," I said. 
 
 Jane laughed, and answered in a sharp, conceited way, 
 " Mr. Weir might not think fit to tell you all he means to 
 do : but take my word for it, he will be down soon." 
 
 " May be," I replied. " He will find everything ready 
 for him if he does come ; " and as I spoke I made a little 
 movement as though to shut the window, to give Jane a no- 
 tion that she might go. Then a feeling of self-reproach 
 came over me because I had been uncivil, and I forced my- 
 self to say, " Perhaps you would like to come in and take a 
 cup of tea. Roger and I were just sitting down, only Mr. 
 Hervey called and interrupted us." 
 
 " Well, Jessie, what do you say ? " exclaimed Jane, in 
 her off-hand way ; " it would be a good plan, I think." 
 
 She had not the graciousness to say " Thank you," but 
 Jessie was very prettily grateful, and afraid they were giv- 
 ing trouble. 
 
 I put the teapot upon the table again, and cut somo 
 bread ; and, knowing that Jessie was fond of sweet things, I 
 went to the cupboard and took out a pot of marmalade, some 
 
 Vol. 1—4
 
 74 URSULA. 
 
 which Mrs. Mason had taught me to make, and which had 
 been much praised. 
 
 Jane had a sneer ready for everything. " You live here 
 in comfort enough, Ursie," she said. " But what will you 
 do when Roger takes to himself a wife ? " 
 
 " I shall see when the time comes," was my short reply. 
 
 Jessie was quick in knowing when subjects were unpleas- 
 ant, so she said, merrily, " Ursie is Mr. Roger's wife ; he 
 doesn't want any other." 
 
 " Trust him for that," replied Jane ; " Roger Grant is 
 not made of different stuff from other men; is he ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I think he is," was my answer, half in joke 
 and half in earnest ; for I could not have a tiff about Roger 
 with a girl like Jane Shaw ; " but," I added, " one thing I 
 know, that when Roger does take a wife, it will be a sensi- 
 ble one." 
 
 " Mary Kemp, I suppose," said Jane, laughing. 
 
 " No," observed Jessie ; " Mary is going to be married 
 to Mr. Hervey." 
 
 " Is that true ?" I asked eagerly. " I have heard it said, 
 but never knew whether to believe it, as neither Mrs. Kemp 
 nor Mary owned it." 
 
 " Miss Brown, the dress-maker, declared it was true to- 
 day," replied Jessie. " I went there to have my new dress 
 fitted, and she told us that she believed Mary Kemp's wed- 
 ding clothes were ordered." 
 
 " Mary Kemp is a very good girl," I replied, " and she 
 will make a good wife. I hope they are going to live near." 
 
 " More than I do," observed Jane ; " one set of Kemps 
 is enough in a neighbourhood. What nonsense do you think 
 old Kemp is about now ? Father says he will be the ruin 
 of the farmers, if he goes on as he does." 
 
 " Giving his labourers a shilling a week more ? " I asked, 
 rather sharply ; " that was his last offence, I know." 
 
 " Spoiling the labourers," exclaimed Jane. " Joining 
 with Mr. Vincent, the agent, and making Mr. Stewart throw 
 away all his money upon their cottages. Father wanted a 
 new scullery and coal-house put on for us, and he spoke to 
 Mr. Vincent about it, and the answer was, that he didn't 
 think it could be done this year, because Mr. Stewart had a
 
 URSULA. 75 
 
 plan for rebuilding most of his cottages, and giving them all 
 two bed-rooms. Such nonsense, when the labourers have 
 gone on with one for the last fifty years, and never com- 
 plained ! And who is at the bottom of this, but Farmer 
 Kemp, with Mr. Richardson, of Compton, to back him ? 
 They have been working at Mr. Stewart for months. And 
 there are we, cramped up without a decent place to wash up 
 the dishes in; and obliged to turn the wood-house into a 
 coal-hole, merely because it is Farmer Kemp's fancy that his 
 carter should have two bed-rooms." 
 
 " Mr. Richardson was over at Sandcombe talking about 
 it, when I was staying there last," said Jessie. " William 
 Grant has two or three cottages of his own, hasn't he, Ur- 
 sie ? I knew Mr. Richardson was begging him to see about 
 adding to them, and Leah got angry ; and, when he was 
 gone, said she wished clergymen would keep to their business 
 of writing sermons, and not trouble themselves with mat- 
 ters which didn't concern them. By the bye, Ursie," and 
 Jessie spoke out quite brightly, as having escaped from a 
 tiresome subject, " do you know of any girl that will suit 
 Leah, to help in the dairy ? She told me if I happened to 
 see you I was to ask. She talked of coming over herself 
 about it ; the girls she has had lately have turned out so 
 badly." 
 
 " They all turn out badly for that matter," said Jane ; 
 " it is in their nature, father says ; and he never expects 
 anything better." 
 
 " So Leah says," continued Jessie. " She declares they 
 have no sense of what is decent, and that there is no keeping 
 them in order. Remember, Ursie, I have asked ; so it is off 
 my conscience." Jessie stood up and put on her bonnet. 
 
 Jane waited still. She had a quick eai*, and I suspect 
 she caught the sound of the voices in the parlour, and thought 
 Roger and Mr. Hervey were coming in ; and so they were. 
 Their conversation had been much longer than was proposed, 
 and it did not seem to have been very pleasant, to judge by 
 their looks. 
 
 " Good evening to you, Mr. Hervey," said Jane, going 
 up to him. " I did not expect to see you, though I might 
 have done so ; you are here so often."
 
 76 URSULA. 
 
 " Business, Miss Shaw," replied Mr. Hervey, quickly, 
 and a little sharply ; " it must be attended to, you know. I 
 won't stay now, IJrsic," he added, speaking to me, — he al- 
 ways called me Ursie, having known me from a child, — " as 
 you have company." 
 
 "Nay," I answered, "you must have some tea; I have 
 been keeping it hot for you ; and Jessie and Jane Shaw have 
 finished, and they are going to walk over the hill to 
 Hatton." 
 
 Roger had been standing by the window, thinking. He 
 turned round then, and said, " I am going to Sandcombe ; if 
 they would wait a few minutes, I might see them part of the 
 way ; and, Ursie, you could come, too. " 
 
 It was a temptation. I seldom had a quiet walk with 
 Roger, except on Sundays ; and I was not sorry to keep Jes- 
 sie from being alone with Jane Shaw, though it might be 
 only for half an hour. 
 
 Jane tossed her bonnet ofi", and laughed, and said she was 
 always willing to have good company ; and, since they were 
 to be a merry party, it would be as well for Mr. Hervey to 
 join them, " Unless he has business elsewhere," she added, 
 with mischief in her look. 
 
 I did not expect Mr. Hervey to agree, but he did, with- 
 out requiring any pressing, and I felt quite cross with him, 
 thinking how soon a man could be taken in by a forward 
 woman. He and Roger drank up their tea quickly, and 
 scarcely ate anything, saying they would wait.for supper. I 
 left Jessie to take my place, and pour out the last cups of 
 tea, and went to put on my things ; and when I came down 
 again, I found that Jane had possession of Mr. Hervey, and 
 was trying to find out from him all she could about Mr. 
 Weir, when he was expected, and why he didn't come. She 
 took it for granted that he knew all, and I saw from his man- 
 ner that there was more in his mind than he chose to tell ; 
 but he warned her off admirably, not letting her know any- 
 thing he chose to keep to himself, and yet joking all the 
 time, so that she could not be angry.
 
 URSULA. 77 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "We were to have separated when we reached the top of 
 the down, at the end of the turf road, but the evening was 
 so pleasant we were tempted to go on farther, instead of 
 turning down to Sandcombe. It was Jane who proposed it ; 
 she said we might cross the down to Hatton lane, and then 
 Jessie and she would soon be at home. Roger was doubtful; 
 and whilst Jane was standing urging him, Mr. Hervey whis- 
 pered to me, '' Can't you come on, Ursie ? I have a word to 
 say to you." 
 
 I walked on a few paces, being sure Roger would follow ; 
 Mr. Hervey and I kept in front. He did not speak till we 
 were at some distance from the others ; then he said, " You 
 are not likely to be startled at news as some people are, so I 
 may as well tell you at once that there is trouble coming, 
 and that Roger may be wishing you to leave Dene." 
 
 " Trouble upon us — money trouble ! " I exclaimed, and 
 I felt my heart sink, in spite of what Mr. Hervey had said. 
 
 " Not trouble upon you, and not money trouble, at least 
 as far as you are concerned," he replied. " But I told 
 Roger I should like to have a little conversation with you, 
 and show you part of my mind upon the subject, as regards 
 Mrs. Weir, and he was willing I should, though as yet we 
 don't see matters quite alike." 
 
 " He is going over to Sandcombe to talk to William," I 
 said. 
 
 " Yes ; he trusts him as a prudent man, which is natural 
 and right ; and he would save you, if he could, from things 
 which might give you pain. But you are not one to care for 
 pain, if by bearing it you can be a comfort to any one." 
 
 " And by staying with Mrs. Weir I may be a comfort to 
 her," I said. I seemed to understand it all in an instant. 
 
 " A woman is a help to a woman, let her be who she 
 may ; and Mrs. Weir has been very kind to you, Ursie." 
 
 " Very," I said ; " I never had a better friend." 
 
 " And she needs a return," he continued. " Ursie, did 
 you ever hear Mrs. Weir's history ? "
 
 78 URSULA. 
 
 " Only by bits. Mrs. Mason has let out a little, and 
 some things I have guessed at." 
 
 " Some things are clear as daylight," said Mr. Hervey 
 sadly ; " but there is a good deal behind which only a few 
 know, which I should never have known, but that my father 
 was Mr. Weir's bailiff, and had a great deal to do with his 
 affairs, and his father's before him, and so we have become, 
 as it were, part of the family. If I tell you now, Ursie, it 
 is not that you may talk about it all, only that you may be 
 the more inclined to be kind and understanding." 
 
 " Of course," I said ; " it will all be buried as in .the 
 grave, except with Roger." 
 
 Mr. Hervey paused for a moment ; then he said, " You 
 know that Mrs. Weir is a second wife ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " and I was told also that the first 
 Mrs. Weir had less money than her husband expected." 
 
 " So it was said," he replied ; " but she left him enough to 
 give cause for his being considered rich, in spite of his extrav- 
 agant habits; and, as perhaps you know, our Mrs. Weir 
 brought him money also. She was a Miss Mayne, and not 
 above nineteen when she first knew Mr. Weir ; very lovely, 
 like a little fairy, I have heard my father say ; one can easily 
 fancy that from what she is now. She had money of her 
 own, left her by her grandmother, and she was made a great 
 deal of, — spoilt indeed by having everything she wished for ; 
 naturally she was full of fancies, and, being delicate, they 
 humoured her in them; and because there was money at 
 hand to buy everything, there seemed no reason, at first 
 sight, why she should not have what she wanted. Poor 
 thing ! she has lived to know that there are some things 
 which no money can buy." 
 
 " And did she marry Mr. Weir when she was only nine- 
 teen ? " I asked. 
 
 " No ! When she knew him first she was in love with 
 somebody else ; a young gentleman named Henderson. He 
 was a clerk in one of the public offices in London, and likely 
 to rise in the world, but he had nothing of his own then ex- 
 cept his salary. Every one saw they were attached to each 
 other. The parents put no obstacles in the way of their 
 meeting, and I believe there was a kind of understanding
 
 URSULA. 79 
 
 that if they both continued in the same mind they were after 
 a while to be married." 
 
 " And why did they not marry ? " I asked. 
 
 " Because Mr. Weir came in the way, I suppose he 
 must really have taken a fancy to Miss Mayne, for he pro- 
 posed to her only eight months after his first wife's death." 
 
 " Enough to make her refuse him at once," I exclaimed. 
 
 " And so she would have refused him, no doubt, if she 
 had been left to herself," replied Mr. Hervey. " But her 
 father interfered. He liked the notion of a rich son-in-law 
 better than a poor one, and what was more, he was a selfish 
 man, and as it turned out afterwards, had involved himself 
 in diflBculties, out of which Mr. Weir undertook to help him, 
 and so poor little Miss Mayne was sacrificed." 
 
 " It is all very well to say," I replied ; " but it never 
 seems to me that any woman is justified in marrying a man 
 whom she cannot love, let her parents urge it ever so much." 
 
 "Well! you are right," answered Mr. Hervey; "but 
 when a person is put on the rack one must not be severe in 
 one's judgment ; and, from what I have heard, they set poor 
 little Miss Mayne on a kind of rack. False stories of young 
 Henderson were brought to her, and she was made to believe 
 he was going to marry some one else ; and that, and her 
 father's urging, and Mr. Weir's attentions, — for he knew 
 well enough Jiow to make himself agreeable, — at last won her 
 over." 
 
 " And did Mr. Henderson say nothing for himself ? " I 
 inquired. 
 
 " They managed it all when he was out of the way. He 
 had been se»t abroad for a time on some matter of public 
 business, and whilst he was absent the aflfair was settled." 
 
 " But he might have written," I said. 
 
 " They took good care that his letters should never reach 
 her ; yet she did hear from him at last. A note from him 
 was given her, I have been told, on the day of her marriage, 
 just as she came back from church. You can fancy, Ursie, 
 what a wedding-party that was. My mother watched the 
 carriage drive through the town, when Mr. and Mrs. Weir 
 went oif on their journey, and anything so ghastly as Mrs. 
 Weir's face she has said she never beheld."
 
 80 URSULA. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " I exclaimed ; " I wonder how she could 
 bear it. I should have died." 
 
 " Life is made of tougher threads than you think, Ursie," 
 said Mr. Hervey, " and I suppose we all in a way grow used 
 to our sorrows. Just at first, too, Mr. Weir was not unkind 
 to his wife ; she lived near her home, and had her old friends 
 about her, so there was a good deal to soften her lot." 
 
 " But Mr. Weir is not kind to her now,'' I observed. 
 
 " No ; he grew jealous without the slightest cause, except 
 that he knew his wife had been attached to young Henderson. 
 They met — Mr. Henderson and Mrs. Weir, I mean — for the 
 first time at some gay party in London, and though I have 
 heard it said again and again that no one could find the least 
 thing to blame in their manner to each other, yet no doubt 
 Mr. Weir perceived that there was pain on both sides. And 
 so he grew angry and irritable, and I dare say she, having 
 been spoilt, was not always wise in her mode of dealing with 
 him." 
 
 " She may not have been wise," I said, " but she must 
 always have meant rightly." 
 
 " Everybody believed that of her. But Mr. Weir is a 
 strange man, Ursie. If he dislikes or suspects once, there is 
 no overcoming the prejudice. And so he deliberately set 
 himself — at least, that is what people declare — to ruin young 
 Henderson." 
 
 " Wretch ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Not far short of it," replied Mr. Hervey. " I have 
 that opinion of him, Ursie, that, but for the sake of Mrs. 
 Weir, I would never have done an hour's business for him. 
 But I dare say he would make a good excuse foi*, himself ; it 
 was all in the way of law, and therefore he called it justice. 
 Mr. Weir was engaged in some speculations, — he is always 
 speculating, — and in the course of them, he and young Hen- 
 derson were mixed up in the same concern. Henderson was 
 not a good man of business, and ignorantly entered into some 
 engagements which he could not conveniently keep. He 
 begged for time ; and there was no doubt that with time he 
 would have overcome his difl&culties. But his relations were 
 poor, and he had no one to help him. Mr. Weir urged the 
 person with whom he was connected to press him. Hender-
 
 URSULA. ^ 81 
 
 son was in despair, for he was a strictly honourable man, and 
 at last he ventured to write to Mrs. Weir and ask her to 
 intercede. There was an allusion in this letter to past days, 
 but not a word which might not have been published in the 
 market-place. Yet Mr. Weir's anger was terrible. They 
 say that Mrs. Weir even went so far as to beg him on her 
 knees to be merciful ; but his answer was that not an angel 
 from Heaven should persuade him, and he kept his word." 
 
 " And was Mr. Henderson ruined ? " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes. His friends came forward at the last with offers 
 of help, but it was too late. His agony of mind, aggravated 
 no doubt by all he had gone through before, brought on a 
 brain fever, and he died." 
 
 Silence followed for some seconds. 
 
 Then I said, " She stayed with her husband still ? " 
 
 " For better for worse," replied Mr. Hervey. " There is 
 no other choice." 
 
 " I must have left him," I exclaimed. " There could be 
 no law to bid one stay with such a monster." 
 
 " Mrs. Weir was wiser than you, Ursie," he continued ; 
 " she knew well enough that peace is only to be found in the 
 way of duty. But that grief made her what she is. It 
 wrecked her health and prevented her from paying attention 
 to her child. It shook her mind in a certain way, — or 
 rather, I should say, it so affected her nerves, that for a time 
 she seemed stunned, and unable to take in common affairs. 
 She has recovered in a measure, but the bodily weakness re- 
 mains, and you must have remarked yourself, that she seldom 
 speaks like a person who has an interest in this world's con- 
 cerns. Only now and then, when any special case is brought 
 before her, if one is with her alone, her vigour of character 
 seems to return." 
 
 " I should scarcely have said she had any vigour naturally," 
 I observed. 
 
 " You are mistaken then ; she has a great deal. It shows 
 itself now in a singular way : one might suppose that she 
 would have become neglectful of her husband after he had 
 shown such disregard to her feelings ; but, on the contrary, 
 she is, as you must know, even morbidly anxious to bo obe- 
 
 VoL. 1—4*
 
 82 URSULA. 
 
 dient to him. Conscience, particularly as regards him, 
 seems the only thing which is left thoroughly alive in him." 
 
 " Perhaps," I said, " she feels that she deceived him by 
 the very act of marrying him." 
 
 " It may be so," he replied. " At any rate, duty to her 
 husband is the one ruling object of her life now : not its 
 motive though, Ursie ; there is no heart in what she does — 
 how can there be ? " 
 
 " How indeed ! " I replied : " but," I added, as I thought 
 of Miss Milicent, " that must all have taken place many years 
 ago." 
 
 " So many," answered Mr. Hervey, " that most persons 
 have forgotten the circumstances, if they ever knew them ; 
 and Mrs. Weir is generally considered now only an eccentric, 
 nervous invalid. Yet it is not her life only which has been 
 affected by them, but Miss Milicent's also. She was allowed 
 to go her own way, and at last became too much for her 
 mother. She was clever and energetic, and Mr. Weir found 
 her useful in many ways, and brought her forward, and at 
 last she took up independent notions of her own, and quite 
 looked down upon her parents." 
 
 " Not upon her father ? " I said. 
 
 " Yes, upon them both ; for she was quick enough, and 
 good enough, I will say that for her, to see through Mr. 
 Weir. It seems, Ursie, that when we put our hearts into 
 our work it will tell in some way or other in the end, what- 
 ever blunders, we may make. Sorrow, through God's grace, 
 made Mrs. Weir very religious, and whatever else Miss Mili- 
 cent might laugh at in her mother, she never laughed at that. 
 Only, unfortunately, she made a bad use of the respect which 
 she could not help feeling. She despised her mother for 
 thinking too little of this world, and her father for thinking 
 too little of the next." 
 
 " She has turned out to be disagreeable enough between 
 the two," I said. 
 
 " Yes ; though there is better stuff in her than you might 
 fancy : but she is not likely to be much comfort to either if 
 trouble should come ; which is the reason, Ursie, why I 
 wanted you to be near Mrs. Weu-, if it could be, at least for 
 a time. She would have more help from you than she would 
 ever get from her daughter."
 
 URSULA. 83 
 
 " But what is coining ? " I asked quickly. 
 
 " That is what I can't say," he replied. " I am not at 
 liberty; and I don't want to urge you against anything 
 which Roger and William may consider right : but they will 
 be likely to think most of you, and I want you to think a 
 little of Mrs. Weir. I told Roger I should say this to you, 
 and he did not object." 
 
 " I will stand by her through everything," I exclaimed. 
 " She has been as kind to me as a mother." 
 
 " And you won't repent it," he replied. " There is great 
 comfort in this world in being able to help those who can't 
 help themselves." 
 
 I answered heartily, " Yes," and I felt the colour rush 
 to my cheek, whilst my heart beat very fast. I could have 
 fought against an army just then in defence of Mrs. Weir. 
 
 Mr. Hervey laughed a little, and said he felt I was a 
 host on any one's side ; but I think he had deeper and sad- 
 der thoughts in his mind, for he stood still, thinking and 
 looking grave, which was very unlike him, and quite started 
 when Roger, and Jane, and Jessie came up bantering, and 
 asking what made us keep so far ahead. 
 
 We were at Hatton Lane gate then, and there we were to 
 part company. Mr. Hervey and I were a great contrast to 
 the others. They were so merry, and Jessie said they had 
 had a delightful walk. As she stood leaning by the gate, not 
 willing, I could see, to go through, and saying good-bye to 
 Mr. Hervey, I thought what a pretty picture she would make, 
 and I made Roger remark her, and he looked pleased that I 
 should notice her kindly, and said that she was too nice a 
 girl to be left to Jane Shaw ; he wished I would become her 
 friend. I took but little notice of his words, for I had no 
 thought to give to any one but Mrs. Weir. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Roger and I went back to Sandcombe alone. Mr. Hervey 
 had some business at Compton, and walked home that way. 
 William was out in the yard giving orders to one of his cart-
 
 84 URSULA, 
 
 ers ; but he left off directly he saw us, and made Roger go 
 with him to look at a new threshing machine which was 
 just put up. He told me I should find Leah in the house ; 
 so I went in. 
 
 I found her in the little parlour, alone and working. I 
 think she was not sorry to be interrupted, for she was very 
 gracious, and wondered why I had not been to see her 
 lately. 
 
 I told her I had been busy, what with keeping the cot- 
 tage in order, and cooking, and needlework, and that now 
 the family were at Dene, there was more than usual to at- 
 tend to. 
 
 " You should not make yourself a slave, Ursie," she re- 
 plied. " Jane Shaw and I were talking about it the other 
 day. She says, and I quite agree with her, that the Weirs 
 treat you as nothing better than a servant, and that if you 
 were to hold your head higher, you might have as much re- 
 spect paid you as she has." 
 
 " A little more, I hope," was my answer. 
 
 " You need not be so proud, Ursie. I don't see what 
 right you have to look down upon the Shaws in the 
 way you do ; it is not at all fitting for a girl of your age." 
 
 " I don't want to look down upon any one," I replied ; 
 " it is the Shaws who look down upon me. And, you know," 
 I added, laughing, " if people will walk about in stilts, one 
 is forced to do the same to be even with them." 
 
 " The Shaws are higher in the world than you are, or 
 are ever likely to be, whilst you live shut up at Dene," con- 
 tinued Leah. " I don't mean to approve of all Jane does ; 
 I told her the other day that she went into Hove too often, 
 and made herself too much noticed by her smart dress." 
 
 " Yet you don't object to Jessie's going with her," I said. 
 
 " Jessie's doings are not my concern," replied Leah. (It 
 was not strictly tru6, for she really had more control over 
 Jessie than any one.) " Not but what if they were, I doubt 
 if I should think it wise to stop her, when every now and 
 then she has the chance of a little pleasure. She must 
 look out for herself. She will have to make her way in the 
 world, and we must give her the opportimity of gaining 
 friends."
 
 URSULA. 85 
 
 " Or a husband," I said, sharply. 
 
 But Leah was not put out. " Yes, or a husband ! It 
 would be a very good thing for Jessie to be married, — there 
 is no doubt of that ; — and she is more likely to meet with 
 persons who will take to her if she is allowed to see a little 
 of the world, than if she stays all the year at Hatton." 
 
 Leah said this so boldly that, for the instant, I was 
 caught by her words, and felt she might have truth on her 
 side ; but a second thought brought me round to my former 
 mind. 
 
 " For twenty husbands," I said, " I would not go to 
 Hove on a Saturday, to flaunt about the streets with Jane 
 Shaw, and have all the idle folks in the country gossiping 
 about me." 
 
 " You are jealous, Ursie," said Leah, with some meaning, 
 " Jane Shaw is handsome enough and clever enough to have 
 persons going after her who would never look at you." 
 
 " Very likely," I said, carelessly, not choosing to show 
 that I was annoyed ; though I must own that, as Leah spoke, 
 I glanced at the old mirror over the fireplace to see if I was 
 really so plain that no one would ever look at me. 
 
 " We won't talk about it," said Leah, in a quiet, pro- 
 voking tone, which I knew meant that it was not worth 
 while to argue with me. " You will be sorry some day for 
 your bitterness against the Shaws. Is Roger come over 
 upon any particular business ? " 
 
 " I think he is," I replied. " We walked over the 
 down to Hatton Gate before we came here, with Jane Shaw, 
 and Mr. Hervey, and Jessie ; and, now I think of it, Leah, 
 Jessie asked me to recommend you a girl for the dairy if I 
 could. Is Kitty Hobson going away ? " 
 
 I said this rather to divert Leah's attention from Roger's 
 business ; and it served my purpose. She answered quickly, 
 " Kitty went yesterday ; she turned out good for nothing, 
 and I could not keep her. It is the case with them all. I 
 wonder sometimes what is the good of all the learning the 
 girls get at school ; it does not teach "one in twenty to be 
 respectable." 
 
 I could not help thinking there might be some fault in 
 the teaching of the girls after they left school. Leah had
 
 86 URSULA. 
 
 only lately sent away an upper servant who was a great deal 
 worse than idle, and whose character she well knew, but 
 whom she kept because of her cleverness. Kitty Hobson 
 had been under her, and no doubt had learnt much evil from 
 her. 
 
 I hesitated, and then I said, " Kitty must have had a 
 bad example since she left school." 
 
 " No doubt," said Leah, misunderstanding me. " Her 
 parents are people of no thought, and the cottage is a perfect 
 pig-stye ; and they live altogether more like pigs than human 
 beings. As for Kitty, she never had a notion of behaving 
 like a decent girl. Martha says it was a disgrace to be with 
 her. If Mr. Richardson would look after his school, and 
 not spend his time in planning new cottages, we shouldn't 
 hear the tales of Compton that we do." 
 
 " It must be a hard matter to learn decent habits when 
 they are all crowded together in that fashion," I said ; " how 
 many in a room are there ? " 
 
 " Hobson, and his wife, and Kitty, and Charles, and the 
 baby. Lately, they have put Henry Hobson to sleep in the 
 little out-house." 
 
 " And it is William's cottage, isn't it ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes ; more's the pity. Mr. Richardson was over here 
 last week talking to William, in a way that I thought very 
 impertinent, about building another room, and at last Wil- 
 liam was quite put out with him, and said plainly that it 
 was no use doing anything for people like the Hobsous. He 
 might have said that it was no use giving money to Mr. 
 Richardson's school. He told me afterwards, indeed, that 
 he had more than half a mind to withdraw his subscription, 
 — you know we pay five shillings a-year to Compton 
 school ; — and I think he will be right since Kitty Hobson 
 has turned out so badly, for it's a shame to think that she 
 was brought up there." 
 
 Leah always had right on her side, in her own opinion, 
 but I could not help feeling for Mrs. Hobson, who was a 
 hardworking woman, and not at all strong, and I secretly 
 made up my mind that I would go and see her, and inquire 
 into the story before long. Perhaps, between Mrs. Rich- 
 ardson and the Kemps, something might be done to give
 
 URSULA. 87 
 
 Kitty a helping hand, for I only understood, from what 
 Leah said, that she was unsteady and careless in her 
 habits. 
 
 Leah was peculiar in her ways of management in all 
 these matters. She allowed things to go on as they might 
 for a long time, and then suddenly, without warning, a girl 
 was turned oflf. I felt with her that it would not do to keep 
 one who was not well-conducted, and I had often wondered 
 at the carelessness which some of the farmers' wives showed 
 about their servants, but I did think that some pains ought 
 to be taken first to bring them into the right way. Leah 
 saw that I took a different view of the case from her, and it 
 made her cross. She said, pettishly, that she wondered 
 what William and Roger could have to talk about so long, 
 she should go and see, and she left the room. 
 
 I felt very sad when I was left alone ; what Mr. Hervey 
 had told me about Mrs. Weir rested in my mind, and I had 
 a feeling that changes and trouble were coming upon me. 
 But even more than this, it always put me in low spirits — at 
 least as far as anything could, for I was very cheerful natu- 
 rally — to be at Sandcome. 
 
 There was something about it which so often brought to 
 my mind the story of the rich man and Lazarus. How 
 William would have laughed if I had said so to him ! He, 
 rich ? — why, he believed himself to be just struggling to 
 keep his head above water. A high rent to give for his 
 laud, upon which sums of money had been spent, his stock 
 to be kept up, his labourers to be paid ; to say nothing of 
 taxes, enough to ruin a man — land-tax, and poor-rate, and 
 church-rate, and taxes for houses and servants. — it was ab- 
 surd to speak of being rich ! And besides, if he was well 
 off one year, who was to answer for the next ? Everything 
 depended upon the weather, which, if it did well for one 
 crop, was sure to do badly for another. What was good for 
 hay was bad for turnips, — that every one knew. To hear 
 William talk, you would have thought it was only by a 
 miracle he was saved from the workhouse. But, in spite of 
 all, the Bible story would return to me. There was Leah, 
 after her day's work, sitting at ease in her comfortable lit- 
 tle parlour, having had a good dinner and tea, and expecting
 
 eb URSULA. 
 
 a good supper ; finding for herself just employment enough 
 to prevent time from hanging heavy on her hands — for there 
 was a new bonnet lying cm the table, with the ribbon beside 
 it with which it was to be trimmed — no one to interrupt 
 her ; people about her willing to do what she told them ; a 
 nice little chaise ready to take her where she liked to go ; 
 a cart and a waggon ready to be sent for whatever she chose 
 to order ; a husband whose great fault and misfortune was 
 that he let her have her own way. If it was not being rich, 
 it was being quite comfortable without riches. 
 
 But it was all very proper and respectable ; there was no 
 sin in it. I never heard, though, that the rich man in the 
 parable committed any great sin : he only let Lazarus lie at 
 his gate. 
 
 Kitty Hobson, however, was not like Lazarus ; she was 
 good for nothing, so Leah said. Why was Leah to trouble 
 herself about her ? Why might not Kitty be sent back to 
 her home, to sleep in the little loft with her father, and 
 brother, and mother, and the baby ? What matter was it to 
 Leah that the girl could not learn decent habits if she wish- 
 ed it ? She was good for nothing already, What was the 
 use of trying to keep her from becoming worse ? When 
 Leah lay down to sleep on her soft bed in the wholesome at- 
 mosphere of her large room, why need she vex herself with 
 thinking of the little crowded attic in which five living be- 
 ings were to pass the night ? If the rain pelted against the 
 window, why need she remember that there was a hole in the 
 roof of Hobson's cottage, and that the drops would fall upon 
 Kitty's bed ? If the wind blew, there were shutters and a 
 curtain at Sandcombe Farm, the walls were thick, and the 
 crevices carefully stopped. That was comfort for Leah ; and 
 as for Kitty Hobson, she was accustomed to the breezes of 
 summer and the storms of winter, for the cottage was so old 
 that it was more worth William's while to let it tumble to 
 pieces than to attempt to mend it. 
 
 And then, if Kitty was worthless, it was no use to think 
 of improving her. It might do Leah some good to say her 
 prayers, for she could kneel down quietly, and think serious- 
 ly of what she was about ; but what was the good of talking 
 to Kitty about prayers and the Bible ? She had no doubt
 
 URSULA. 89 
 
 given up any right practice she might have learnt at school. 
 There would be her father talking to her mother when she 
 could have prayed ; or the baby crying, or Charles complain- 
 ing that he could not go to sleep ; and when she got up in 
 the morning it would be the same, or rather worse, for they 
 must all be dressing in the same room, huddling on their 
 clothes, crying out for breakfast, and scolding Kitty because 
 the fire was not lighted. If she had wished to say her pray- 
 ers, she could not possibly have found a quiet moment or a 
 quiet place. But she did not want it, — she was good for 
 nothing ! 
 
 Leah might have been right; but I thought of the rich 
 man, nevertheless. 
 
 William came in alone, after I had been about ten min- 
 utes by myself. He sat down in his large elbow-chair, as 
 though he was tired, and laid his hands upon his knees, and 
 thought for some seconds. Presently he said, " Hard times, 
 Ursie, aren't they ? " 
 
 " I am sorry you find them so," I replied ; " I don't know 
 that they are so particularly hard at Dene." 
 
 " Just what I have been saying to Roger," he replied. 
 " When you have a certain sum coming in, be it ever so 
 small, you are better off than running a risk, as one must in 
 taking a farm." 
 
 " Is that what Roger thinks ? " I inquired, hastily. " He 
 is come over with some plan, I know." 
 
 " Roger has the Canada fancy again," replied William ; 
 and he fi^ed his eyes upon me keenly, to see by my face what 
 I felt. 
 
 My colour may have changed ; I won't say that it did 
 not. But I was upon my guard to conceal my feelings : 
 whatever they were, they were to be told to Roger first. So 
 I answered quietly, " Has he ? He never told me about it." 
 
 " Then he had better come and tell you now," said Wil- 
 liam; and he rose up slowly from his chair and went into 
 the kitchen, and called Roger and Leah, who were talking 
 together outside the house. 
 
 I sat still. I would not appear impatient or put out ; 
 but my heart grew sick, and a pang went through it ; for I 
 felt that Roger had not treated me kindly.
 
 90 URSULA. 
 
 Roger stepped into the room first ; and before I could 
 make up my mind to look up and speak to him, I felt his 
 hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard him say, in a tone 
 which he tried to make light, " Thei'e's nothing settled yet, 
 Trot; so don't be cast down." 
 
 " I had rather hear it all from you, Roger," I said, re- 
 proachfully. " You shouldn't leave others to tell me." 
 
 " I didn't mean it, Ursie ; I didn't mean it. It is a 
 thought just of an hour, — nothing more, — and it may go to 
 the winds before to-morrow." 
 
 " But I may be spoken to plainly," I replied ; " I am not 
 a child, and I can bear things." 
 
 " Bravely, Ursie. Not a woman in England better," said 
 Roger ; " and you should have heard it all before night ; only 
 William let the cat out of the bag." 
 
 " I was rather curious to see how she would take it, I 
 must own," said William. 
 
 " Ursie is a sensible woman," said Leah, sharply. 
 
 People always say one is sensible when they are going to 
 give particularly disagreeable advice. 
 
 " If you will speak out," I said, " I will show whether I 
 am sensible or not. What do you all want me to do ? " 
 
 " Stay and live here with us, if Roger goes to Canada," 
 said Leah, bluntly. And Roger bowed his head upon his 
 hands, for it seemed he dared not look at me. 
 
 I don't think I answered directly ; but when I did, I 
 know that my voice sounded, even to myself, quite changed. 
 
 " I thank you, Leah, for speaking out," I said. " I will 
 do what Roger wishes. If I am to be a help to him, I will 
 go ; if I am to be a hindrance, I will stay ; — not here," I 
 added, quickly, for Leah was going to praise me for agreeing 
 with her ; — " I will do something to be independent ; if there 
 is nothing else, I will go to service." 
 
 William uttered a low whistle of surprise. Roger only 
 took my hand, and held it very tight. 
 
 " Then you will be the first of the Grants that ever so 
 demeaned herself," said Leah. 
 
 " Better come with me, Ursie, than do that," said Roger, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes, better indeed," I exclaimed vehemently, " a thou-
 
 URSULA. 91 
 
 sand times better, Roger, go with you to the world's end, 
 than stay behind to be a queen. And why mustn't I go ? I 
 have hands and health, and care nothing for hardships. I 
 will work to the last hour that God gives me strength ; why 
 mustn't I go ? " 
 
 " Because it's all a chance," said William, " and Roger 
 knows it. He may just as likely be a ruined man as a rich 
 one." 
 
 " Then we will be ruined together," I exclaimed. 
 
 "That wouldn't help me, Ursie," said Roger; and he 
 looked up at me with what tried to be a smile, but it was 
 not one. 
 
 " I don't see that there is a question of ruin for any one," 
 exclaimed Leah, rather contemptuously. " Roger has 
 money to set out with if he chooses to go, and no doubt he 
 will do better at first alone. What is to come after, may be 
 left, if Ursie won't ride the high horse, and be too proud to 
 find a home with her own brother." 
 
 " I am not too proud," I said hastily," and I have proved 
 it Who has been Roger's servant up to this time ? and 
 who will continue so to his dying day if he will only say 
 yes ? " 
 
 " A man who sets out as a colonist can't afford to keep a 
 servant," said William. " If Roger is bent upon this wild 
 plan, he must go alone, Ursie." 
 
 I couldn't understand William's tone at all. I had 
 fancied before that he upheld Roger's notion. He was going 
 to say more, when Roger started from his seat and stood up 
 before me. The sadness in his face was gone, and he looked 
 like himself, fit and willing to brave the world. " We have 
 not been fair upon you, Ursie," he said; "you have been 
 taken by surprise. We should have talked this matter over 
 alone, and we will do it now. Leah, you have been kind in 
 olfering a helping hand ; and thank you for it. Good night, 
 William; you shall hear more about this to-morrow." He 
 walked out of the room, and through the passage into the 
 yard, not once looking round to see if I was following him. 
 William seemed thoroughly vexed. Leah was only rather 
 grave; she just said, "I hope, Ursie, whatever you resolve 
 upon, you will consider the credit of the family," and then 
 she let me depart.
 
 92 URSULA 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Instead of turning into the turf road to Dene, Roger 
 said, when we reached it, " The moon will be up in a few 
 minutes, Ursie; we might get to the top of St, Anne's and 
 look at it." These were the first words he had spoken, and 
 I had not interrupted his silence. I felt that he wanted 
 time to set himself right. That conversation had for some 
 reason or other disturbed him, more almost than I should 
 have expected. And it was a quieting walk along the ridge 
 of the down ; it was growing very dark, but the sky was clear, 
 and one or two stars were to be seen gleaming very faintly. 
 I could just distinguish between the trees, the Abbey Farm, 
 and a dark spot which I knew must be the tower of Compton 
 Church ; and out in the distance, where there was a glowing 
 sheet of yellow light along the horizon, the white clifis stood 
 up mistily, their outline mixing with the sky. 
 
 " Now, Ursie, give me your hand," said Roger, as we 
 stood at the foot of St. Anne's Hill. The way was steep ; 
 he dragged me up after him, taking c^re to avoid the chalk- 
 pit, and every now and then bidding me stop to rest — 
 though I scarcely needed it. When we reached the Oratory, 
 he made me lean against the wall. The moon had risen, 
 though as yet it cast no reflection ; but a pale light was 
 spread over the vast expanse of waters, and white curling 
 waves could be seen dashing upon the shingles, and scattering 
 their spray into the air. Roger took off his hat, and passed 
 his hand across his forehead. 
 
 " We may well look at the sea, Ursie," he said ; " it wiU 
 be the highroad between us before long." 
 
 " Never," I answered firmly ; " my mind is made up, 
 Roger." 
 
 " But not mine. William is right ; it is a risk." 
 
 " Then William should not urge you to go," I said. 
 
 " He does not. You heard him call it a wild notion ; |j^^ 
 thinks I can stay at Dene." *^' 
 
 " And why can't you ? We have one lot in life, Roger ; 
 I ought to know."
 
 URSULA. 93 
 
 " Mr. Weir is a ruined man ; or if he is not now, he must 
 be before many weeks are over. John Hervey knows it, and 
 came to tell me of it. Does it startle you, Ursie ? " and he 
 put his arm round me, and drew me close to him, and kissed 
 me. 
 
 " No," I answered, " it does not startle me ; nothing that 
 I could hear of Mr. Weir would. But his wife — Miss Mili- 
 cent," — my heart was full, I could not say more ; and John 
 Hervey's story and my own words came to my mind re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " It's bitter enough for them," he said ; " but we must 
 think of ourselves, Ursie ; or, at least, I am bound to think 
 of you." 
 
 " And we can't help them ? " I said. 
 
 " Not without doing ourselves harm, so far as I can see 
 now. At least, I can't." 
 
 " But I can, and that is what Mr. Harvey meant," I 
 said, " when he talked to me." 
 
 " John Hervey is against your going with me," was his 
 answer. " Whatever he may have said about Mrs. Weir is 
 only second in his thoughts; his fii'st notion is that you 
 are safer in England, at least for a while. William and 
 Leah, — they all think so.'* 
 
 " And Roger thinks what ? " I said ; and I leaned my 
 hand upon his shoulder, and partly raised myself, that I 
 might look into his face, and see clearly what he meant. 
 
 " Roger is a fool ! " he said, in a husky voice. " Ursie, 
 I can't live alone." 
 
 All the love which had been lying deep in my heart for 
 years seemed, at that moment, to gather itself up into one 
 overwhelming torrent. " Let the whole world be against me, 
 and I will go ! " I exclaimed : " God made us brother and 
 sister ; He taught us to love one another, and it can't be His 
 will that we should part." 
 
 He pressed me to him more closely, but he did not 
 answer. 
 
 " Is it not true ? " I continued eagerly. " Have you any- 
 thing to say against it ? If God has joined us together, why 
 are we to be put asunder ? " 
 
 " That is said of husband and wife, not of brother and 
 sister," he replied.
 
 94 URSULA. 
 
 "And if I were your wife, you would take me with 
 
 you 
 
 9 » 
 
 " I should feel it my duty," was the answer. 
 
 It was my turn then to be silent; neither of us, indeed, 
 spoke for some seconds. At last I said, bitterly, " A wife 
 couldn't love you better that I do, Roger ! " 
 
 " May be not," he replied. The words must have struck 
 him as cold, for he added, " You love me a thousand times 
 more than I deserve, Ursie, but that is no reason why I am 
 to take advantage of you to lead you into hardships." 
 
 " I shall walk iuto them with my eyes open," I replied, 
 " I am not a girl now, I am a woman ; I know what I can 
 bear — everything, Roger, except that you shouldn't love me." 
 
 " Then you have little enough to fear in life," he said ; 
 " but, Ursie, it won't do to think only of our love. There is 
 a safer rule, though not such a pleasant one, — what we can 
 afford." 
 
 " I shall be no expense to you," I replied ; " and every 
 one knows how useful a woman is in a new country." 
 
 " Yes, in some ways ; but it is all an experiment. If I 
 take you, I must pay your passage, and fit you out, and all 
 our travelling will be doubled, and I must be more careful 
 as to lodging. If I go by myself, I may find a shelter any- 
 where, I shall not care where I am ; but if I have you with 
 me, I shall never bear that you should want comforts ; and 
 then, if the scheme should fail, there will be the expense of 
 coming back again." 
 
 " Then why go at all, if it is to fail? " I said, rather per- 
 versely. 
 
 " Because it's the best opening a man in my circum- 
 stances can have." 
 
 " And if you were married, you would still go, and take 
 your wife ? " 
 
 ," Even so ; a family man has a much better chance in a 
 new country than an old one." 
 
 " But you are not married, and you have no family." 
 
 " No reason why I mayn't be married some day, you 
 know, Trot," and he laughed. 
 
 " No reason," I answered quietly ; but it seemed that a 
 dagger went through my heart.
 
 URSULA. 95 
 
 I don't know whether Roger suspected it, but he went 
 on : " There is no good in looking on into the future, Trot ; 
 we have lived very happily hitherto, and, please God, we will 
 be happy yet. My wife's wedding clothes are not made, nor 
 likely to be ; and, in the meantime, there is nothing I want 
 but Ursie : and if all goes well, by this time twelvemonth 
 I may be writing to you from over the sea, asking you to come 
 to me ; and then I don't think you will say no. And you 
 know," he added, " that a wife, if I had one, couldn't take up 
 so much room but what there would always be a corner for 
 you." 
 
 He was a man ; he did not know a woman's heart, and he 
 thought he had comforted me by those words. 
 
 " Then it is settled ; you are going," I answered ; I could 
 not bring myself to say thank you for what he had been oflfer- 
 ing me. 
 
 " Not at all settled," he replied ; " it depends partly upon 
 William, and getting the money together. You know now 
 a good deal is laid out upon his farm, and I don't want to 
 put him to inconvenience. That is one reason why I said 
 nothing to you ; I felt the plan might never come to anything ; 
 and there was no use in troubling you before the time." 
 
 " You would not have treated your wife so," I said, re- 
 proachfully. He was very quick at catching any change in 
 my voice. 
 
 " Oh, Ursie ! — jealous ! " He laughed, and patted me on tho 
 back, as though I had been a child. 
 
 My pride was touched ; and I drew back from him. " I 
 only wish," I said, " to have common trust placed in me. If 
 I am worth anything, Roger, I am worth that ; and I have 
 never kept back a thought from you." 
 
 " Nor I from you, Ursie," he answered, gravely. " It 
 shouldn't have been so now if I had guessed for a moment 
 that you would take it to heart. As to a wife, the notion is 
 too silly to talk about. Twenty wives wouldn't do for me 
 what my little Trot has done." And then he gave me what 
 I used to call one of his bear's hugs, and I prayed him to be 
 merciful ; and said, laughing, yet being more inclined to cry, 
 that I wouldn't wish him a worse punishment than one wife ; 
 for he did not know the least about women's ways, and he had 
 been quite spoilt.
 
 96 URSULA. 
 
 " True, perhaps, Ursie," he said, thoughtfully ; and I felt 
 comforted, though not happy. 
 
 We stood together for some minutes afterwards, watching 
 the glimmering of the moonlight which was just beginning to 
 mark a path upon the sea. I think we were both glad to for- 
 get for a while that there was anything else to be thought 
 about. The light streamed doubtfully at first, seeming to 
 catch only the crests of the waves ; and then a cloud passed, 
 and it was quite hidden, and a deep shadow rested upon the 
 water ; from which, after a few minutes, broke forth at inter- 
 vals glittering lines and bright islands of pale glory, till at 
 length once more the moon rose high and clear ; and the broad 
 sparkling pathway was traced in one unbroken flood of silvery 
 light across the ocean. 
 
 " Do you see it, Ursie ? " said Roger ; and he pointed to 
 a tiny vessel making its way across the Ocean. " How 
 lonely it looks ! " 
 
 " Not lonely," I said ; " there is another following it. 
 Now they are coming into the light ; they are close together." 
 I heard Roger sigh. 
 
 " They are going in the same direction," I added ; " they 
 must be bound for the same port. If storms come they will 
 help each other. You would not part them, Roger ? " 
 
 " It is growing very late, Ursie, we must be going," was 
 his only answer. We left the shelter of the ruined Oratory ; 
 and as the cold breeze was felt on the open hill, Roger said 
 earnestly, " I shouldn't feel the chill, Ursie, if you were not 
 here to share it. It may be better to be lonely after all." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I WAS awakened next morning by a loud knocking at the 
 cottage door. It must have been about half-past five o'clock, 
 for I was very sound asleep, and I always woke by myself 
 before six. I waited to hear if Roger would move, and not 
 hearing him, I supposed he must have dressed and gone out 
 before, and as quickly as I could I went down-stairs myself, 
 thinking that most likely it was Fanny come over from the 
 house for something she wanted.
 
 URSULA. 97 
 
 When I opened the door I saw not Fanny but Miss Mili- 
 cent. "Why didn't you come, Ursie," she said; " I have 
 been knocking till I was tired. You are wanted ; my 
 mother has had a bad night, and says she must see you di- 
 rectly. It is too bad for a girl like you to lie in bed so 
 long." Miss Milicent, I suppose, thought that because I 
 worked harder I needed less sleep than she did. I could see 
 she was like myself, only just out of bed, for she had wrapped 
 a loose kind of man's great coat round her, the sleeves hang- 
 ing down helplessly on each side; and some locks of verj 
 dishevelled black hair escaped from under her garden-bonnet. 
 I had learned to answer her, I am afraid, a little in her own 
 tone ; so I said, " Does Mrs. Weir want me before I am 
 dressed. Miss Milicent ? " 
 
 " She wants you at once ; I have been up with her half 
 the night. Why weren't you at home last evening ? she 
 wanted you then." 
 
 " T had business at Sandeombe," T said ; " I am sorry 
 Mrs. Weir wanted me last night, but I will be over as soon 
 as I can be now." 
 
 '• And I shall wait for you," said Miss Milicent ; " but 
 mind what you say to her, Ursie ; she can't bear to be con- 
 tradicted ; you mustn't put her out, or she will be worse." 
 
 Miss Milicent made her way into the parlour, and I went 
 up-stairs again to dress as quickly as I could. It was not 
 very unusual for me to be called in this way, though it was 
 seldom quite so early. They all knew I was an early riser, 
 and Mrs. Weir every now and then sent for me the first 
 thing to do something for her which she could not trust to 
 her daughter. I must confess that she was at times a little 
 given to whimsies. But Miss Milicent's manner gave me an 
 idea of something more than ordinary, and my conversation 
 with John Hervey had frightened me about what was com- 
 ing upon the family. I could not dress half as quickly as I 
 wished, my hands shook so, and Miss Milicent called to me 
 twice before I was ready. I would not go, however, without 
 my prayers ; they were a little shorter than usual, but they 
 comforted me with the feeling that I had trusted myself and 
 others to God's guidance for whatever might be coming 
 upon us. 
 
 Vol. 1—5
 
 98 URSULA. 
 
 " I have been looking at your furniture, Ursie," said Miss 
 Milicent, when I came down-stairs again. " Your room is 
 crowded; that sofa would be much better round by the 
 fireplace." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Milicent, but it does very well where 
 it is ; it is never used ; and Roger and I like to sit close to 
 the fire ourselves when it is cold." 
 
 " If it's no use, why don't you get rid of it ? you might 
 sell it for as much as four pounds, and the money would be 
 useful to you in many ways." 
 
 " I dare say it would," I answered, " but Roger and I 
 like the sofa; it was my mother's." 
 
 I felt sorry when I had said the words. I always was 
 sorry in those days, when I let out anything of feeling before 
 Miss Milicent. I opened the door for her to go out, and she 
 went on before me, not taking any heed to my observation. 
 Before she reached the house she turned round and said, " If 
 ever you want to part with the sofa, I think Mrs. Richard- 
 son would be likely to buy it of you ; she wants one." 
 
 I do believe Miss Milicent meant it kindly, but it was 
 beyond my patience to bear, or rather it would have been, if 
 I had not made it part of my prayer to be able to put up 
 with her. I answered, " Thank you," very shortly, and kept 
 at a distance from her, that she might not have the opportu- 
 ty of saying anything more. We went up-stairs to the 
 lobby, and there something seemed to strike Miss Milicent, 
 and she beckoned me to come to her into the peacock room. 
 
 There were the birds roosting on the trelliswork ! Lit- 
 tle they knew of the cares of life, and much I was inclined 
 to envy them. 
 
 " I suppose, Ursie, it may be as well to tell you one 
 thing," said Miss Milicent, throwing open the window and 
 sitting down by it ; for the room had been shut up some 
 days. " My mother has had some uncomfortable news, and 
 she may talk to you about it. But you are not to encourage 
 her. It is nothing in which you or any one else can do any 
 good. Just try to draw away her thoughts, and if she wants 
 you to read a chapter in the Bible or so, I suppose you can 
 stay for it." 
 
 I answered that I would willingly do what I could. I
 
 URSULA. 99 
 
 had Roger's breakfast to get ready, and the kitchen-fire was 
 not lighted, but I would remain to be a comfort to Mrs. Weir 
 as long as was possible. 
 
 " Fanny can go over and light the fire," said Miss Mili- 
 cent, " and she can get your brother's breakfast, too." 
 
 " Thank you," I replied, " but that would not quite suit 
 Roger, I am afraid; I must go myself, if I can." 
 
 Miss Milicent sat considering, which was not at all com- 
 mon with her. Presently she said, " You are very much 
 given to your own ways, Ursie Grant. It strikes me you 
 might as well take a little thought for others. My mother 
 has been vei-y kind to you." 
 
 " Very indeed," I said ; " I wish always to show my 
 gratitude ; I will do all I can for Mrs. Weir, but I am afraid 
 I can't put aside Roger." 
 
 " It is not wise of you, Ursie. Some day he will put you 
 aside when you aren't thinking of it." 
 
 " I am willing to wait till the day comes," I replied ; 
 " but we are wasting time, now, Miss Milicent." 
 
 Strange to say, that was a fact she needed often to be 
 reminded of. Busy though she was from morning till night, 
 she frittered away more time than any person I ever met 
 with. 
 
 She stopped again in her persevering way, just as we 
 came to Mrs. Weir's door, and said : " You know that when 
 Roger Grant marries, you will be obliged to leave him." 
 
 " Yes," I said, very coolly ; but if she had given me a 
 blow, I could not have felt the proud colour rush to my cheek 
 more quickly. 
 
 I opened the door of Mrs. Weir's room, and held it for 
 Miss Milicent to pass, and in she went like a rush of wind, 
 straight up to her mother's bed, and drew aside the curtain, 
 without a word of preparation. 
 
 That was going against one of Mrs. Weir's peculiar 
 fancies. She never liked to be looked at in bed, unless she 
 was dressed for it, and had on her pretty white muslin dress- 
 ing-gown, trimmed with lace, and her best cap. " I have 
 been over to Ursie Grant, mother, and she is come — here she 
 is." Miss Milicent pulled aside the curtain still farther. 
 
 " That will do, Milicent. The light troubles me." Mrs.
 
 100 URSULA. 
 
 Weir's voice was very weak, and she drew the coverlid over 
 her face. 
 
 " It's only because you keep the room so dark always, 
 mother," replied Mis Milicent. " If you would leave off 
 having the shutters closed at night, you wouldn't be so 
 fidgety. Ursie can't see to read, nor to do anything in this 
 owl's light." 
 
 " I wish to talk a little to Ursula, alone, Milicent. I 
 beg you to leave us. Is Ursula there ? " 
 
 I drew near, and as I did so, managed to draw the 
 curtain so as partly to hide Mrs. Weir, and make her feel 
 that I was not looking at her. Miss Milicent flustered 
 about the room (it is the only word I know to express what 
 I mean), putting the chairs straight, and moving things from 
 the dressing-table. 
 
 " I wish to be quiet, Milicent. I should like those things 
 to be left," said Mrs. Weir, plaintively. 
 
 " You can't see, mother ; you went to bed in such a hurry 
 last night, that Cotton had no time to put anything away." 
 
 Mrs. Weir resigned herself to her fate, and let her head 
 fall back on the pillow. 
 
 " I will see to it all. Miss Milicent," I said, going up to 
 her, " if you will just kindly leave it. Else I may be obliged 
 to go back to Roger before Mrs. Weir has had time to talk 
 to me." 
 
 " Well, yes ! I settled that Fanny should go over and 
 light the fire. I shall call her and tell her so." 
 
 A most happy thought ! It took Miss Milicent away, 
 and she departed, slamming the door so violently, that I 
 observed poor Mrs. Weir put her hand to her head, showing 
 that the noise gave her pain. We heard Miss Milicent about 
 the house for at least ten minutes afterwards, up-stairs and 
 down-stairs, ordering one and another. No matter whom 
 she had to meet, there was the great coat, with its helpless 
 hanging sleeves, and the garden-bonnet to cover her. 
 
 Mrs. Weir waited for some seconds to assure herself that 
 the room was free from Miss Milicent's presence, after which, 
 she said, " Now, Ursula, if you please, sit down ; " and I placed 
 a chair just behind the curtain, and sat down. " Thank you 
 for coming," she continued. " I should have preferred not
 
 URSULA. 101 
 
 sending to you till after I had had my breakfast, but Milicent 
 desired it." 
 
 " Miss Milicent thought I should be able to do some- 
 thing for you, Ma'am," I said, " and I should be very glad if 
 I could." 
 
 " You are very good, Ursula. I feel it. Will you 
 kindly look for my other cap, and the little light shawl in 
 the left-hand drawer ; you know which I mean ; and, perhaps, 
 if it would not trouble you, you would just give me my hand- 
 glass, and draw aside the window-curtain a little, a very 
 little. Milicent would open the shutters quite, though I 
 begged her not." 
 
 These were very common little duties, I had often per- 
 formed them before, for Mrs. Weir was very thoughtful about 
 her maid, and whenever she kept her up at night, took care 
 that she should have time to rest in the morning. I gave 
 her the glass, and the cap, and poured some water into a 
 very pretty china basin, with a pattern of green leaves and 
 acorns round it, and handed her the sweet-smelling soap, and 
 the soft-fringed towel, feeling all the time as if I was waiting 
 upon a child, or even something more tender and delicate — 
 something which would be likely to break if one touched it ; 
 her little hands and arms were so thin and white, and her 
 fingers so taper. She had but few grey hairs, and her com- 
 plexion was still very transparent. I don't think she 
 showed her age at all, except in the marks beneath her eyes. 
 
 " Now, my Eau de Cologne, if you please, Ursula ; and I 
 should like the little table to be brought nearer, and will 
 you put the flowers so that I may look at them ? and the 
 purple morocco Testament. I thank you ; that is quite 
 right; no one ever does just what. I wish as you do." 
 
 No one except Miss Milicent had known Mrs. Weir's 
 ways as long as I, and it had taken me a good while to learn 
 them. As for Miss Milicent, it was a matter of continued 
 surprise to me, that she and her mother had not separated 
 years before. 
 
 " I should like you to read to me, Ursula, but I am afraid 
 to take up your time ; perhaps I had better talk to you 
 first." 
 
 " If you please, Ma'am," I said. And now that Mrs.
 
 102 URSULA. 
 
 Weir was in a measure dressed, I ventured to place my chair 
 so that I might see her more plainly. 
 
 I noticed, then, that her eyes were heavy, and her eyelids 
 red, showing that she had been crying, but she was trying to 
 look happy. She was able to control herself wonderfully. 
 I thought that, perhaps, if anything painful was to be said, 
 it might be as well to let her prepare herself for it, so I 
 offered to read the second morning lesson for the day. I 
 knew that would soothe and give her strength more than 
 anything I could suggest. 
 
 She listened with great reverence and attention, as was 
 her wont, and when I had ended she said, " Thank you, Ur- 
 sula, it has done me good. Whatever there is to bear, it 
 will not be for long, and there is a bright hope beyond." 
 
 Then she paused, and the faint spot of colour in her cheek 
 went and came, as it might have done in the face of a young 
 person. 
 
 " You have heard bad news, Ma'am, I am afraid," I 
 said, for I felt I must help her in spite of Miss Milicent's 
 warning. 
 
 I was standing by the bed close to her. Poor Lady ! 
 she caught my hand, and looked piteously in my face, and 
 then she leaned her head on my shoulder and cried like a 
 child. And through her sobs came the words, " Ursula, my 
 husband is gone, and we are ruined." 
 
 " Dear Ma'am, I heard something of it," I said, " but it 
 may not be so bad as you think." 
 
 She drew herself away from me, and a flash shot from her 
 eye. " They talk of us, then, — they pity us. But why 
 should they not, Ursula ? " and her voice was tremulous 
 again. " We are all weak — weak — only mortals ! " 
 
 " Roger had heard something, and Mr. Hervey, too," I 
 replied, " but I don't fancy. Ma'am, the news is commonly 
 known." 
 
 " It concerns Mr. Grant, Ursula," continued Mrs. Weir, 
 her voice and manner becoming calmer. " Milicent says he 
 must go away from Dene, and you also. She tells me we 
 must live in a little cottage, and not keep any servant. I 
 don't think I could live long if Milicent waited on me, but 
 I must try ; we must all try to do what God orders. Only, 
 Ursula, you will come and see me sometimes ? "
 
 URSULA. 103 
 
 I meant not to be silly, and I used to think that I could 
 always keep my tears in, but I broke down entirely then. 
 
 " Milicent told me last night all we should have to do," 
 pursued Mrs. Weir. " When I could not go to sleep, she 
 talked to me about it. I dare say it was right to look at the 
 worst, and Milicent says she shall not care for having every- 
 thing to arrange ; but I think, Ursula, I might have slept 
 better if I had been left quiet." 
 
 " Miss Milicent is strong," I said ; " she does not under- 
 stand what you require, Ma'am." 
 
 " Perhaps not, I know she said only what was true ; but, 
 Ursula, I should not vex myself with my own trials so much, 
 if I knew more about my husband. Perhaps he is gone 
 abroad ; I ought to follow him. I ought to try and make 
 him happier." 
 
 "I don't think you need trouble yourself about Mr. 
 Weir, Ma'am," I began angrily ; but she laid her hand upon 
 my arm. 
 
 " I made a vow once, Ursula, to love, and honour, and 
 obey him. You have never made such a vow. You cannot 
 understand it. But it must be kept. Do you think Mr. 
 Grant or Mr. Hervey would endeavour to find out where my 
 husband is? I might join him then. I think I would 
 rather do so than live in the little cottage with Milicent." 
 
 I could T.ell understand that. Great self-sacrifice is 
 always more easy than patient endurance. " You are not fit 
 to go to him. Ma'am," I said, " if he is out of England. 
 You would not be able to bear the hardships of travelling." 
 
 " We should travel till we found him," said Mrs. Weir. 
 " Then we might take a house in some place where we were 
 not known." 
 
 I felt whilst she spoke so easily of what might be done, 
 how little she could know what ruin meant, and I was aware 
 that I had but a slight notion of it myself. I could not 
 picture Mrs. Weir living in any place without every comfort 
 about her. 
 
 She continued, " I thought perhaps, Ursula, that you 
 would come with us at first, if your brother would spare you ; 
 I told Milicent that I would ask you, but she laughed at the 
 idea."
 
 104 URSULA. 
 
 " Miss Milicent knows how many things I have to keep 
 me at home, I am afraid, Ma'am," was my reply. It grieved 
 me to say this, but she talked so like a child, fancying 
 everything which she wished might be managed, that I saw 
 it was necessary to show her the difficulties in her way. I 
 could understand now why Miss Milicent had urged me to 
 divert her mind instead of encouraging her to dwell upon her 
 troubles. She looked very cast down, more I thought be- 
 cause I was so cold, than because I did not say yes ; so I 
 added, " Indeed, Ma'am, you must not think but that I would 
 do everything for you I could, though it would be wrong to 
 make any promise without consulting Roger, because he has 
 plans of his own." 
 
 " You are very kind, Ursula. I don't want to be selfish. 
 I told Milicent so. She thinks that we ought to stay in 
 England. But Mr. Weir is my husband, I must not leave 
 him. I should like to talk to Mr. Richardson about it. Do 
 you think he would come to me ? I shall pray to God, and 
 He will direct me." 
 
 She was very nervous and agitated, and her voice shook 
 painfully, though the words still followed each other slowly 
 and formally in the quaint fashion which was common with 
 her. I could do nothing for her myself, and the proposal of 
 sending for Mr. Richardson took quite a weight from my 
 mind. 
 
 She caught my hand as she supposed I was going away, 
 and held it firmly. " You will pi'ay for me, Ursula. I want 
 to do my duty, and I think you will help me, and God will 
 not forsake me. I must remember that ; I shall see a way by 
 and by. I hope you will never know so much trouble as I 
 have; but I must go to my husband." 
 
 Those where the saddest words of all to me. There 
 was no love in them, only a despairing sense of duty. I 
 longed to ask her more particulars of what she had heard, 
 but I remembered Miss Milicent's warning, and I felt also 
 that it would be impertinent. Mrs. Weir was very kind in 
 giving me her confidence, but I had no right to ask for more 
 than she chose to tell. 
 
 *' I must go to my husband," I heard her repeat again to 
 herself, as I left the room, intending to see Miss Milioent,
 
 URSULA. 105 
 
 and beg her to write to Mr. Richardson. This time the 
 words sounded less sad. They came to me more as a lesson 
 for myself. In her anxiety, her nervousness, and helpless- 
 ness, Mrs. Weir had seized upon the one point which came 
 before her as a duty. It was a landmark in her difficulties ; 
 and I knew that I must do the same. The weight pressed 
 more heavily on my heart when I thought of Roger and 
 Canada ; for I could see fresh claims starting up to keep me 
 at home. But there is a strength in duty ; it is like nothing 
 else. When troubles like quicksands are all around one, it 
 is the firm spot on which to tread, and there is nothing so 
 supporting to oneself as seeing others plant their feet upon 
 it and stand up boldly. Poor Mrs. Weir had done more for 
 me than I could ever do for her. I went back to her again 
 for a little while, but I was doubtful whether it was good for 
 her to have me much with her. Being with any one to whom 
 she could open her heart, excited her. She spoke freely of 
 the money difficulties, and said that she had foreseen them, 
 but it was evident to me that her husband had never been 
 open with her respecting them. About him she said very 
 little. Never indeed, during the, many years that I had 
 known her, had she ever spoken directly or indirectly of 
 the causes of complaint which she had against him. It was 
 a sacred grief, known only to God. 
 
 I left her about seven o'clock, more quiet, and with a 
 promise that she would try and sleep a little. Indeed, I 
 persuaded her to take a few drops of an opiate, and Cotton 
 being dressed by that time, I was satisfied that she would be 
 well looked after. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Roger's breakfast was ready at half-past seven ; he had 
 been out almost before daybreak. I don't think he had slept 
 well. I told him how I had been sent for by Mrs. Weir ; 
 and he seemed glad upon the whole, to think that she knew 
 the worst. And yet upon talking to him, I found that it was 
 not the worst. Now that the truth had reached Dene, 
 Roger felt himself more at liberty to speak out; and I 
 
 Vol. 1—5*
 
 106 URSULA. 
 
 learned from him, that Mr. Weir was not only ruined, but 
 that he had gone away with a stain upon his character. 
 Strangely enough, that very business which he had made use 
 of to crush young Mr. Henderson, had been the cause of his 
 temptation and his fall. It had never been a very profitable 
 affair ; but it gave him an opening for speculation, and there- 
 fore he liked it. Lately he had taken a more active part in 
 the business. Large accounts passed through his hands, 
 and now the whole concern had fallen to pieces ; and the 
 accounts having been examined, Mr, Weir was accused of 
 fraud in the management. He was not at hand to answer 
 the charge — he had gone off, no one knew where. It was 
 generally supposed he had left England. 
 
 A most dismal story it was, with scarcely a ray of hope 
 or comfort, except that Roger believed a portion of Mrs. 
 Weir's money to have been so settled upon her that it could 
 not well be touched. The Dene estate was heavily mort- 
 gaged ; yet if it were sold, it was hoped that sufficient 
 would be left to give her and Miss Milicent enough to 
 live upon; and it had been suggested that perhaps also 
 her niece, Mrs. Temple, might come forward to assist, as she 
 had received much kindness from Mrs. Weir's family. 
 
 " But it will be a hard struggle, Ursie ! " added Roger, 
 when he had given me all these details. " Mrs. Weir has 
 been so little accustomed to rough it ; and I am afraid Miss 
 Milicent has no notion how to make both ends meet, and 
 will burn a ton of coals to save a rushlight." 
 
 " Penny wise and pound foolish ; " I said. " Yes, that 
 will be very like her. I hope they won't go far away from 
 here." 
 
 " That you may be able to look after them ; " he said 
 quickly. I made no answer. 
 
 " They may take a cottage at Compton," continued 
 Roger, a little maliciously ; " that wouldn't be far from Sand- 
 combe." 
 
 " I am not going to stay at Sandcombe ! " I exclaimed, 
 with some anger. " I had rather live on a crust of bread in 
 a garret, than be forced to be all day with Leah." 
 
 " We will wait and see how things turn out, Trot," 
 replied Roger quietly. " It does not do to make rash vows,
 
 • URSULA. 107 
 
 nor to set ourselves against what God may appoint." He 
 left the breakfast table, and went to the door. 
 
 " You must not go away so, Roger ! " I exclaimed, fol- 
 lowing him, " I can't bear it. Something must be settled, 
 one way or the other." 
 
 " When ? " he asked. 
 
 " Now, — at once. How can I go about my work all day, 
 not knowing what is going to happen to me, or where I may 
 be to-morrow." 
 
 " I thought that was what we were obliged to do always," 
 he replied. " The settling which you wish for, Ursie, can't 
 be made in a minute. We must see what is going to be 
 done here, and then I must find out a good deal more about 
 Canada ; and when I have done that, I must look into Wil- 
 liam's affairs, and see if I can have the money conveniently. 
 Can't you put it into God's Hands, my little Trot, and 
 trust it ? " 
 
 His voice and manner brought back the feeling of rever- 
 ence and submission with which I had been accustomed to 
 listen to him from a child. I said it was very difficult, but 
 I would try. I only begged him to let me know the very 
 moment that anything certain was decided upon. 
 
 " My first claim always," he said, laying his broad hand 
 on my head. " You shall hear soon enough." 
 
 " And you won't set yourself against common sense, and 
 make up your mind in a hurry that I am not to go ? " I 
 said. 
 
 " Just the contrary. Trot. I was going to walk over to 
 Compton this morning, to look at Hobson's cottage for Wil- 
 liam, and I thought I would call in at the parsonage, and 
 have a talk with Mr. Richardson about it all." 
 
 " You will meet him," I said ; " he will be coming here 
 to see Mrs. Weir."' 
 
 " So much the better ; I shan't have to go out of my way. 
 Hobson's cottage is a good way off from the parsonage." 
 
 " Here is the boy coming back from Compton with a 
 message from Mr. Richardson ! " I said. " We had better 
 wait and hear what it is." 
 
 Roger went across to the house, and I began putting 
 away tlie breakfast things. I could not bear, that morning, 
 to stand stilL and think, even for a moment.
 
 108 URSULA. • 
 
 Roger came back again very soon. " Mrs. Richardson 
 sends the answer," he said. " Her husband has to be at 
 Longside at ten o'clock, and after that he will come on and 
 see Mrs. Weir. In that case, Ursie, I had better go to 
 Longside directly, or I shall miss him ; for I can't wait for 
 him here. William made an appointment with me at 
 Hobson's." 
 
 " And you might take me with you," I replied ; " I have 
 some business with Mary Kemp, which I was going to do 
 this afternoon. We are to have cold meat for dinner, so it 
 won't signify when I go ; and Cook, at the house, will boil us 
 some potatoes." 
 
 " Make haste, then, child. I have been wasting more 
 time here now than I ought. But I shall like to have you 
 with me," was added, kindly. 
 
 I put my bonnet on directly, and went over to ask Cook 
 about the jDotatoes, and I thought too that I would inquire 
 about Mrs. Weir. Not that I meant to stay at home be- 
 cause of her, unless there was some very special reason. 
 Though Leah said I was treated as if I was a servant of the 
 family, I had always taken care to show my own inde- 
 pendence. Mrs. Weir herself had taught me that. She 
 said to me one day, when, by some accident, I had let out a 
 little of what I felt about Jessie Lee, and the way Leah 
 went on with her, " Ursula, our right will always be given 
 us sooner or later, if we choose to claim it in a proper man- 
 ner, and if we do not, we have no reason to quarrel with 
 others for that which is our own fault." I think she had 
 learned this from experience. If she had stood out more 
 against her daughter's tyrannising ways. Miss Milicent would 
 never have got the upper hand as she had done. Things 
 being as they were, Mrs. Weir felt she had no right to com- 
 plain. At any rate, I had profited by the lesson, and had 
 never given in to Miss Milicent, nor even to Mrs. Weir, as 
 I might have done otherwise. Having so many little fanci- 
 ful ways, Mrs. Weir might have taken up a great deal of my 
 time if I had. We were all the better friends for my inde- 
 pendence; I suspect there is no foundation for friendship 
 between persons of any rank, unless there is a feeling of re- 
 spect which prevents either party from taking liberties, or 
 being encroaching.
 
 URSULA, 109 
 
 As it happened, my going or staying just then was a 
 matter of no consequence, for Mrs. Weir had fallen asleep, 
 and Cotton was with her ; so I left a message to tell her 
 when I thought I should be back, and then Roger and I set 
 off for Longside. 
 
 It was about three quarters of a mile from Dene, by a 
 tolerably direct road, — Sandy Lane as we called it, — which 
 began just after we passed the gate opening from the wide 
 pasture land immediately about Dene. That piece of land 
 which was neither field nor down, but only a kind of hilly 
 common on which cattle or sheep might feed, was one thing 
 which made Dene different from other places. It was like 
 the sea separating it from the rest of the world. The road 
 through it was private, and no one but ourselves seemed to 
 have any business with Sandy Lane ; whilst, standing upon 
 such high ground, we looked out, as it were, upon the 
 world. 
 
 Roger was not very talkative that morning ; he walked 
 on so fast that I could scarcely follow him ; at length he said 
 abruptly, " Have you thought at all, Ursie, of what you will 
 do in case we should make up our minds that it is right to 
 separate ? " 
 
 " No," I said, " I won't think. I can't make up my 
 mind, whatever others may." 
 
 " It would be better," he said, " and kinder to consider ; 
 and if you are so vehement against the notion, ten to one but 
 it will come to pass. John Hervey thinks you might be bet- 
 ter staying with Mrs. Weir, even if she could only afford to 
 keep you, than you would be at Sandcombe." 
 
 " I should be better living on the common by myself 
 than I should be at Sandcombe," I replied ; " Leah and I 
 could never help coming to a quarrel, and she does not want 
 me. There is Jessie always to be had." 
 
 " If you were there you might be a help and a friend to 
 Jessie," he said. 
 
 " Not I, Roger," and I stopped short, and spoke almost 
 angrily ; " Jane Shaw is in the way. What am I against 
 her ? " 
 
 " If the Shaws were only over the sea ! " he exclaimed, 
 vehemently. " They are a curse to the country."
 
 110 URSULA. 
 
 The speech was so different from his usual gentle way of 
 judging people that I looked at him in surprise. " You 
 don't know the mischief they are up to, Ursie," he contin- 
 ued, " Pity forbid you should. John Shaw is a scamp, and 
 Jane — " 
 
 « Is what ? " I asked. 
 
 " A lady, according to her own notions," he answered, 
 laughing ; but there was something bitter and mocking in 
 his tone. 
 
 " That is she, I do believe," was my exclamation, as 
 I looked down the lane, and saw two people coming to- 
 wards us. 
 
 " You are as blind as a beetle, Trot. It is John Hervey 
 and Mary Kemp. I dare say they were going up to Dene 
 to see if they could do any good there. John Hervey is set 
 upon helping Mrs. Weir in some way. He has wonderful 
 thought for such a light-hearted fellow as he is," 
 
 " Yes, he is very good-natured," I said, and I watched 
 him and Mary with a kindly feeling as they came towards 
 us, and thought what a pleasant couple they would make ; 
 though Mary was not what many men would have taken to. 
 She was plain, and had a frightened, shy, stammering way 
 with her, which it was difficult to get over. 
 
 " Well met," exclaimed John, when we were within hear- 
 ing of each other. " Mary and I were on our way to you. 
 Ursie, how did you get home last night ? Koger and you 
 didn't lose your way upon the down, I hope." 
 
 " We were not late, and there was a moon," I said, 
 shortly. I could not quite bear any allusion to last evening. 
 John must have seen my face alter, for his manner changed 
 directly. " We may spare ourselves the trouble of our walk, 
 Mary," he said, " if Roger and Ursie are come to tell us all 
 we want to know." 
 
 " I was going to inquire for Mrs. Weir," observed Mary, 
 timidly. 
 
 " And Ursie will tell us about her, no doubt," said John, 
 and he turned to walk back. " Were you going to Long* 
 side ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Roger, '< to see Mr. Richardson, if he is 
 there."
 
 U E SU L A . Ill 
 
 " You will find him in full parley with the Farmer. 
 They have brought over Mr. Stewart, of Hatton, between 
 them, and we have been planning cottages for the last hour. 
 If Dene is to be sold I wish Mr. Stewart may buy it." 
 
 " Jane Shaw says that Captain Price, the young man 
 who was here some time ago with Mr. Weir, has his eye 
 upon it," said Mary, in a tone so low that she could scarcely 
 be heard. 
 
 " What can Jane Shaw know about the matter ? " I 
 asked quickly. " Captain Price is not likely to have told 
 her." 
 
 " Jane Shaw is going to be married to Captain Price," 
 said Mary. 
 
 " What, Mary ? what ? " John Hervey actually caught 
 hold of her arm ; and Roger said more respectfully, " It 
 must be Hove talk, it can't be true." 
 
 " I don't know ; I am told that Jane says it," said 
 Mary. She seemed afraid to assert the fact more strongly, 
 even upon such authority, when the others doubted. 
 
 " I don't see why it shouldn't be," I said quickly ; 
 " they are much of a piece. Captain Price, as far as I ever 
 saw anything of him, is not any better for a gentleman than 
 Jane Shaw is for a farmer's daughter. I don't see why they 
 shouldn't make up together." 
 
 " Ursie, you are sharp," observed Roger. 
 
 John Hervey supported me. " Ursie is right," he said, 
 " in one way ; they are neither of them good in their station, 
 and so they might just as well be out of it. Captain Price 
 has little of a gentleman belonging to him, except it may be 
 his birth ; and as for Jane, it is diihcult to say what she is ; 
 certainly nothing that is a credit to any one who has to do 
 with her." 
 
 " Jane thinks that to marry a gentleman will make her a 
 lady," said Mary. 
 
 " Let her try 1 " exclaimed Mr. Hervey, laughing. Then 
 a moment afterwards he added, " What provokes me is, that 
 people can't see their own respectability, since they think so 
 much about it. Where is there a man in all the country 
 more respected than your father, Mary ? — and I may say 
 your father's daughter, too;" he added, looking at her and
 
 112 URSULA. 
 
 smiling. " Where is there a family that has more influence ? 
 And yet where is there a truer, honester, sturdier old English 
 farmer than Farmer Kemp ? " 
 
 Mary looked thoroughly pleased, and said she did think 
 her father was respected. 
 
 "Isn't he ! " said Roger heartily. " If you were just to 
 hear what I hear said of him everywhere, — amongst high 
 and low, rich and poor, — you would feel it an honour to bear 
 his name." 
 
 " Perhaps I do feel it so ; " said Mary. She smiled 
 rather archly, and I thought she looked quite pretty. 
 
 I had it on my lips to say that it was more than any of 
 old Mr. Shaw's daughters could feel for him, but something 
 stopped me. No doubt I was inclined to be sharp, and 
 Roger often gave me a hint to keep a watch over my tongue. 
 
 " There is the old Farmer, out in the field by the hay- 
 rick ! " exclaimed Mr. Hervey, pointing to a rick in a field at 
 some little distance; " and I think, — yes, Roger, — that is Mr. 
 Richardson with him. If you want to catch him, you had 
 better be off, or you will miss him." 
 
 Roger took the hint. I think his heart was full, and he 
 longed to have all his troubles out with Mr. Richardson. 
 He strode forward like a giant, and was over the gate and 
 across the field before we had reached the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LoNGSiDE was much larger than Sandcombe, — not so 
 much of a farm in appearance, — for the house was high and 
 square, and stood in a garden, and the farm-buildings and 
 the yard were at one side. The Shaws had lived there be- 
 fore they went to White Hill, and old Mr. Shaw had tried 
 to make it look as much like a regular country-house as he 
 could; and a good deal of money, I believe, had been spent 
 by him and the landlord in rcfacing it, and laying out the 
 garden. Farmer Kemp took it as it was, and let everything 
 stay, though it could not have been much to his taste. But 
 his notion, as I once heard him say, was, that if a house
 
 URSULA. 113 
 
 did not make a gentleman, neither did it make a farmer. 
 Folks would soon see what he was, and what he wished to 
 be, and though other people had spent money in building up 
 follies, he saw no reason why he was to waste his in helping 
 to pull them down. He was more to be praised for that 
 piece of economy than for many other things which men 
 commended him for. It was a greater sacrifice to him to 
 bear with what looked like being grand and set up, than it 
 would be for most persons to bear with things that are mean. 
 
 But Farmer Kemp's wish was always to be, not to seem ; 
 his countenance showed that. Every line in it told of 
 truth. And a handsome face it was, too ! It struck me 
 that day particularly as we drew near, and he came to meet 
 us with his old-English greeting, putting all his heart into 
 the shake of the hand. 
 
 I3eing in the open aii' so much had tanned and reddened 
 his complexion, but there was a freshness about it still, 
 though he must have been upwards of sixty. His hair was 
 quite white, and thin, and long, which gave him the look of 
 even an older man than he was ; but his blue eyes were as 
 bright as ever, — as full of life and eagerness, — and his 
 mouth, though the smile was singularly good-natured, proved 
 that age had not yet weakened his spirit of determination. 
 Farmer Kemp was no waverer nor doubter. He knew what 
 he meant to do, and he did it ; and even when people quar- 
 relled with him they respected him. 
 
 " Why, Mary, lass, you are come back soon ! " he said, 
 after he had spoken his few kind words of welcome to me. 
 " I thought you were gone up to Dene to be useful." 
 
 '' Ursie doesn't tliink there is any way of being useful 
 just now, father," said Mary. " Mrs. Weir has heard every- 
 thing, and keeps up tolerably." 
 
 " You should have gone in though, child ; I would have 
 had you see Mrs. Mason. It will be hard times with Mrs. 
 Weir and Miss Milicent," he added, turning to me ; " they 
 are away from their own kith and kin, and they are not over 
 friendly with the gentry round, except it be with Mr. 
 Kichardson, who has a short purse, and a small house, and a 
 large family. If it came to the point, there might be more 
 real help for Mrs. Weir to be had from Longside than from 
 Comptou, only it might not suit her to see it."
 
 114 URSULA. 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is not proud," I said ; " at least, I don't 
 think so." 
 
 " Poverty is the touchstone of pride, so I have heard 
 say," replied the Farmer ; " but come in, Ursie, and tell us 
 more about it. My Goodwoman and I have been talking 
 about you this morning, thinking what an upset there would 
 be for you from all this." 
 
 " It is pleasant to know that some persons can take 
 thought for one," I said ; and I felt my eyes fill with tears. 
 I don't know what there was in Farmer Kemp's manner 
 which made me always feel what a happiness it would be to 
 have an earthly father. 
 
 " So you are sad, child, are you ? " he answered. " Cheer 
 up; rain one day, sunshine the next. Come in, and we'll 
 have it all out. Why, there's Roger off with Mr. Richard- 
 son ! What is that for ? and we had not half settled our 
 business." 
 
 " Indeed ! " observed Mr. Hervey, "it was all but done 
 when Mary and I set off." 
 
 " I tell you what, man," said the Farmer, quickly, " it 
 wasn't begun. Give me money in hand, and bricks, and 
 mortar, and I will say something to you ; but we have not 
 bi'ought Mr. Stewart to that point yet." 
 
 " He promises," said John Hervey. 
 
 " Promises ! promises ! " Farmer Kemp repeated the 
 words slowly. " When you have lived as long as I have, 
 John, you will learn how to value promises, even those of 
 good men ; Mr. Stewart, of Hatton, being one, — at least, as 
 goodness is reckoned now. I have been treated with 
 promises for the last fifteen years ; and shall I tell you what 
 I think of them ? They are uncommonly like the straw a 
 day which the old woman's cow was fed upon till she died." 
 
 We all laughed ; but John Hervey said he had a better 
 opinion of Mr. Stewart than to think he was not going to 
 keep his word. 
 
 " Well ! yes, — well ! he will keep it in the letter, I grant 
 you. Whilst he has Mr. Richardson to back him, and me 
 knocking at his door, he can't well do otherwise. But he is 
 not a man to go of his own accord against what he considers 
 his interest. If he was, he wouldn't have let things come to
 
 URSULA. 115 
 
 the pass they are. He would never have needed our eyes for 
 spectacles to help him to see that he can't make a poor, igno- 
 rant man a Christian by forcing him to live like a heathen. 
 Why, there are cottages on the Hatton estate which aren't 
 two degrees better than my pig-sty; and there is he, with his 
 five thousand a year, crying out about the expense of rebuild- 
 ing them, and threatening — what do you think now, John, he 
 threatens ? " and Farmer Kemp stopped as we were about to 
 enter the house, and drew John Hervey aside. 
 
 " We had better go in," said Mary to me, in her quiet 
 voice. 
 
 But I was curious, and something better than curious — 
 interested ; for I saw the working of John Hervey's face, 
 and I kuew that whatever Farmer Kent might be telling him 
 was giving him pain. 
 
 I wondered that Mary seemed to care so little for it. 
 She watched them for an instant, and then said, composedly : 
 " Mr. Stewart told father that if Hatton was such an expense 
 to him, he should sell it, and he knew a person willing to buy 
 it. And I can tell who that is," added Mary, with a little 
 more of life in her tone; " it's Captain Price." 
 
 " What ! he that is to marry Jane Shaw ? It can't be," 
 I exclaimed. " Dene and Hatton ! He would be the lord 
 of the country." 
 
 " Father says it," was Mary's reply. 
 
 " And you don't care about it ? You aren't worried 
 about it ? " I exclaimed. " Mary, you are a wonder." 
 
 " It is not come yet, and it mayn't come at all," said 
 Mary. " When it does it will be time enough to fret." 
 
 That was very true; but somehow, the words did not 
 quite come home to me just then, and when I looked at 
 John Hervey again, I thought less of Captain Price, and the 
 chance of his buying Hatton, than of what John would do if 
 he took to himself such a quiet wife. 
 
 " You will stay now and rest, Ursie," said Mary, open- 
 ing the door for me. " Mother is in the kitchen, most likely, 
 but she will be glad to come into the parlour and see you." 
 
 Mary left me in the passage, for I knew how to find my 
 way to the parlour — a pleasant little three-sided room, having 
 cupboards all round the walls, and a cheerful-looking corner
 
 116 URSULA. 
 
 fireplace. When Longside was built, it was intended for a 
 housekeeper's room. 
 
 Mary had much more taste than William's wife, and 
 though the room was not by any means as large, and not half 
 as well furnished, as the great parlour at Sandcombe, it was 
 much more comfortable. There were flower-pots in the win- 
 dow-seat, and flowers on the table, and over the mantelpiece ; 
 and Mary was not, like Leah, ashamed of homely work, and 
 so it was lying about ready to be taken up ; whilst some 
 books near it showed that there was leisure at Longside for 
 something besides mere drudgery. One of the books was a 
 Bible : I think Mrs. Kemp, and Mary, and her two little 
 sisters, generally read together the lesson for the day in the 
 New Testament, some time in the course of the morning. 
 
 Mrs. Kemp came in almost immediately. In her way 
 she was as clever and shrewd as her husband, and quite as 
 good; and as for her kind-heartedness, there was no end to 
 it. The Goodwoman, as Farmer Kemp always called her, 
 was never known to forget a friendly word or a friendly 
 thought for any one. She was always especially considerate 
 for me. I suspect she felt for me because I was an orphan, 
 for she had known herself what it was to be brought up 
 without father or mother. Perhaps it might have been that 
 which made her so careful about the young girls who came 
 to her as servants, or had anything to do with the farm-work. 
 I have often known people object to take girls who have been 
 at farm-service, thinking they might have learned evil there, 
 but it was never so with Mrs. Kemp's girls ; she made her- 
 self their friend, and kept them out of temptation, as she 
 would her own daughters, until it began to be considered 
 quite a recommendation in the neighbourhood to have worked 
 at Longside. 
 
 " Early, Ursie, but always welcome," was Mrs. Kemp's 
 greeting, as she smoothed down her white apron, and pulled 
 down and fastened the sleeves of her dress, which she had 
 turned up, 1 suppose, whilst assisting in the kitchen. What 
 a round, bright-coloured, good-humoured face hers was! quite 
 pretty still, and almost young. I could not help kissing her, 
 though kissing was not very much in my way with most 
 people.
 
 URSULA. 117 
 
 " Farmer and I spent a good half-hour, this morning, 
 talking about you and things at Dene," continued Mrs. 
 Kemp, drawing her chair close to mine. " I should have 
 been up myself, only I thought it might be taken for a lib- 
 erty, as I don't go there often ; so I sent Mary, making sure 
 she would see Mrs. Mason, if she could get a glimpse of you. 
 What can we do for you now ? " 
 
 " Nothing," I said ; " nothing now, at least. Roger is 
 gone to talk to Mr. Richardson about it all." 
 
 My face must have shown my feelings, — though, the 
 moment before, I had made a strong resolution against be- 
 traying them. 
 
 " Ah ! poor child ; yes. — Dear heart ! don't take on so. 
 Roger can't go to a better friend. So it is all up with you, 
 is it ; and you must leave Dene ? I thought as much, poor 
 child — poor child ! " 
 
 " I don't know; I can't say what we must do," I ex- 
 claimed ; and the sorrow rose up in my heart, like a great 
 wave about to rush in upon the shore. But it broke in- 
 wards, and I was thankful for it. 
 
 " He will find another place ; you will have a home 
 again very soon," continued Mrs. Kemp. " Such a trusty, 
 worthy young man as he is, and knowing so much about 
 everything ! Not that it will be like Dene, where you have 
 lived so long." 
 
 " I shan't care for anything," I said, " as long as Roger 
 and I are together." I could not allude more clearly to the 
 Canada project without knowing whether Roger would 
 like it. 
 
 But the world always knows more of one's affairs than 
 one suspects ; and Mrs. Kemp jumped to my meaning in an 
 instant. 
 
 " Ah ! then it's true ! " she exclaimed ; " and he's bent 
 upon going off by himself. But he mustn't do it, Ursie ; he 
 must think of you." 
 
 " He does think of me," I answered, quietly. " It is that 
 which keeps him back now. He is gone to talk it over with 
 Mr. Richardson." 
 
 " And he will take out a wife with him, I suppose," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Kemp, thoughtfully ; " or he will find one there 
 for the asking. Well ! young men must settle themselves."
 
 V 
 
 118 URSULA. 
 
 My heart sank. Mrs. Kemp, with all her sympathy, 
 was like the rest of the world ; she could not enter into 
 griefs out of her own line. A happy wife herself, she was 
 unable to comprehend that any pang could be caused by the 
 prospect of seeing others happy also. 
 
 I faced the subject boldly, and, in a proud tone, I said, 
 " If Roger wants to marry, and go to Canada, he may de- 
 pend upon it I shall never be the one to stand in his way." 
 
 " You might go with him, whether he is married or not," 
 said Mary. 
 
 Mrs. Kemp interposed. " No, Ursie ; don't be tempted 
 in that way. When people marry, they are best left to them- 
 selves ; especially at the beginning. After they have gone 
 on some time, and become used to each other's ways, and 
 learnt all there is to learn, a sister, or an aunt, may fit in 
 well enough, particularly when there are children, and rela- 
 tions can make themselves useful. But at first setting off, 
 depend upon it it's best to give young married folks a push 
 into the world, turn them round three times, and leave them 
 to shift for themselves. Having no one else to turn to, they 
 are forced then to keep close to each other." 
 
 " As if they wouldn't do it naturally," said Mary, with a 
 shy laugh. 
 
 " That is as may be," replied Mrs. Kemp, laughing her- 
 self; "I am not going to let you girls into those secrets. 
 Only one thing I will say to you, that if you do get a good 
 husband, you will love him better at the end of twenty years 
 than at the beginning, let his faults be what they may." 
 
 Mary was silent. I felt that she was probably thinking 
 of John Hervey, and something like a pang of envy crossed 
 me ; for I was sure of him, at least, that, know him ever so 
 long, one should only learn to honour him the more. 
 
 The conversation wandered to different subjects after 
 this. Mrs. Kemp made me tell her everything I could 
 about Mrs. Weir, — everything, that is, which could be told 
 without betraying secrets. I found that the state of Mr. 
 Weir's affairs had been suspected — almost known for certain, 
 indeed — in the neighbourhood many weeks before ; and it 
 had been no matter of surprise to any one but myself, that 
 Mrs. Weir and Miss Milicent should come to Dene without 
 him.
 
 UK SUL A. 119 
 
 Many stories were afloat, — most of them of a disagreeable 
 kind, — and such as made it doubtful whether he could ever 
 show his face in England again ; but that which Mrs. Kemp, 
 and the farmer also (for he came in and joined in the con- 
 versation), took most to heart was, the prospect of the Dene 
 estate falling into the hands of Captain Price. 
 
 Whilst poor Mrs. Weir lay on her bed, unable to take 
 any thought for her affairs, the world had arranged them for 
 her, and in a very likely, sensible way, according to its own 
 ideas. Captain Price had a good deal of ready money, and 
 he was going to marry Jane Shaw; and. Jane lived near 
 Dene, and Dene must be sold, or else Mrs. Weir would have 
 nothing to live upon. These facts were undeniable ; so the 
 kind world put them all together, and settled the business 
 comfortably ; and most of our acquaintances looked at Jane 
 Shaw, and thought she was luckier than one girl in a thou- 
 sand ; and Farmer Kemp and his wife looked at Dene, and 
 the tenants and labourers, and sighed. 
 
 I sighed too, when I heard Farmer Kemp talk that 
 morning. He was a man who could not rid himself of an 
 idea when once he was possessed of it, and who could scarce- 
 ly help forcing it, perhaps, now and then, a little at the 
 wrong time, upon other people. But being so earnest, he 
 caught those who otherwise might not have listened ; and 
 this morning, though I came to Dene full of my own fears 
 and Mrs. Weir's sorrows, I still was carried away by what 
 he said, so as for a time to be interested by it. 
 
 Of course people who have a hobby of any kind, try to 
 make you believe that the one thing upon which they have 
 set their hearts is the remedy for all evils. Farmer Kemp 
 was so bent upon his scheme for improving the labourers' 
 cottages, that, to hear him talk, one might have fancied that 
 if poor people had sufficient space for their families to live 
 decently, there would be no evil left in the world. 
 
 But putting aside that which I .suppose is the weak point 
 with us all, he certainly did open my eyes to several things 
 which I had never thought of before. He made me see how 
 persons, brought up respectably, may sink into actual vice 
 from the want of a comfortable home ; how the wife leaves 
 her neat habits, and becomes slovenly, because she finds it
 
 120 URSULA. 
 
 useless to try and be tidy, when the wet comes in at the 
 roof, and the floor is damp, and the windows are broken, and 
 she cannot get them mended, and the children are sickly 
 from cold and draughts, and huddled together in one room, 
 and perhaps three or four in one bed. And he showed me 
 also, how the husband leaves his fire-side, because he finds 
 no comfort there, and goes to the ale-house, and so takes the 
 first step on the road which is to lead him and his family to 
 ruin of body and soul ; — and how the boys, as they grow up, 
 are driven away from home by the dirt, and quarrelling, and 
 confusion, and lounge about in the lanes with idle compan- 
 ions, and are at length led into great sin ; — and how the 
 daughters grow bold and forward, from being forced to live, 
 as it were, in public, and so IodC the sense of all which makes 
 a woman modest and respectable, and become a disgrace and 
 burden to their families. All this, and much more, Farm- 
 er Kemp put before me, — and I listened, for I could not 
 help it, though my thoughts wandered oflF at times to Roger 
 and Mr. Richardson, and the conversation on which all my 
 plans in life were to depend. The subjects were not so very 
 far apart as they seemed. If I did not go to Canada with 
 Roger, I might have to live at Sandcombe with William and 
 Leah ; and there were more cases than Kitty Hobson's which 
 I felt sure would trouble me if I was with them. I knew 
 that William had a good many cottages in his own hands, 
 and that the general opinion was that he was a hard man to 
 his labourers. After talking to Farmer Kemp, it seemed 
 more impossible than ever to be happy witb him and Leah. 
 
 I dined at Longside. Mrs. Kemp would not let me go, 
 and I waited, expecting Roger every minute, but he did not 
 come ; and I made up my mind, at last, that he had gone 
 home over the hill, instead of coming back for me. As it 
 was by that time nearly half-past twelve, and Mrs. Kemp 
 pressed me much to stay, it seemed better that I should. 
 Roger, I knew, would eat his cold meat alone, without 
 troubling himself about me, and I must confess that it was a 
 great relief to me to be with people of my own class, who 
 could understand and feel for me. 
 
 It was a different kind of comfort from that which I often 
 felt in conversing with Mrs. Weir. It gave me a feeling of
 
 URSULA. 121 
 
 breathing fresh air, but it did not raise me up as talking to 
 Mrs. Weir did. Mrs Kemp showed me how to make use 
 of this world, Mrs. Weir how to despise it. Both were good 
 in their way ; but Mrs. Kemp's lesson was the first and easi- 
 est, and it strikes me that it is the one first taught us by 
 God. 
 
 We had a little convei-sation about Kitty Hobson after 
 dinner, and I was glad to find that Mrs. Kemp meant to 
 give her a trial, though Leah had cast her ofi". 
 
 It had been upon my mind that something should be done 
 for the girl, knowing that Leah had taken no pains with her, 
 and turned her off without proper warning, but I had been 
 too much occupied with my own troubles to form any plan 
 for her. Mrs. Richardson, it appeared, considered her not 
 by any means hopeless, and had persuaded Mrs. Kemp to take 
 her, and put her under a steady dairymaid, who would see 
 that she did her work, and keep her out of harm's way. I 
 think having so few poor people near me to care for, had 
 made me more particular about those whom I did at all 
 know. I never could rest till I had done for them all that 
 seemed to lie in my power, though that was little enough. 
 But, as Mrs. Kemp said, " If you can only stop the stone 
 before it begins to roll down, you may keep it safe ; when 
 once it has set off, there is no checking it." Kitty Hobson 
 might be on the brink of everything that was bad, but it was 
 as yet only on the brink. So I was pleased to hear that she 
 was to be at Longside, and I told Mrs. Kemp that, if she 
 went on well, I thoughi I had a stuff gown I could give her 
 as an encouragement. 
 
 I felt better and brighter after having settled this little 
 matter — more able to look trouble in the face. Helping 
 others always gives one a feeling of strength ; at least, I 
 have found it so. 
 
 I shrank less from the mention of Canada when Farmer 
 Kemp and John Ilervcy spoke to me about it before I went 
 away. They were very kind and straightforward, as was 
 their fashion, but both of them agreed in advising me to stay 
 at home. I was sure that John was sorry when he said it, 
 he looked at me so sorrowfully ; and when, at length, I said 
 good-bye to them all, and set off on my way back to Dene, he 
 Vol. 1—6
 
 122 URSULA. 
 
 walked part of the way with me, and I was able to open my 
 heart to hun, more even than to Mrs. Kemp, because there 
 were subjects connected with Dene which he knew more 
 about than any one else. 
 
 He was such a bright, hopeful person, that merely talking 
 to him did me good. And he had a kind way of turning his 
 mind to the things that interested one, which led one on in 
 spite of oneself. And then he understood Roger so well, so 
 much better than other people. He knew all that lay hid 
 under that rough, silent manner of his. When I said that 
 Roger's heart would break if he was left to bear trouble by 
 himself, he did not laugh as some might have done, he only 
 said earnestly, though cheerfully, " It won't do, Ursie, to 
 take more care upon yourself than God intends for you. 
 You may try to keep Roger's heart from breaking; and 
 whilst you are doing that, you may all the time be breaking 
 some other person's. What is to hinder you from running 
 away from him some day, and setting up a home of your 
 own ? " 
 
 " I have a home," I answered, eagerly. " Roger's home 
 is my home, and it will be mine always." I believe I said 
 it all the more eagerly, because something of misgiving lay 
 at the bottom of my heart. 
 
 John Hervey laughed as he answered, " You may change 
 your note some day, Ursie ; and, anyhow, it is not wise to 
 look to that only, for you know there are two wills to the 
 bargain you and Roger seem to have made ; and if, after all, 
 he keeps to it, he has but to send for you, and you can go to 
 him." 
 
 John had a dreadful quantity of common sense. I don't 
 think when he was a boy he could ever have cared for the 
 kind of reading which had always been such happiness to me. 
 He never indulged in notions of what he would do if he was 
 in other circumstances. I am sure he would have thought 
 me wild if I had told him one quarter of the fancies and 
 wishes which had haunted me as long as I could remember. 
 It was just the present duty with him, and nothing bej^ond 
 but trust. I think that gave him his singular look of hap- 
 piness ; he was never perplexed what to do, because he did 
 what came, and left the consequences. Sometimes, when I
 
 U K S U L A . 123 
 
 have looked upon the light, rippling and dancing on the 
 waves below St. Anne's Hill, I have thought that it was 
 just like John's sunny mind, making a clear, bright path 
 wherever it moved. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 When I reached home, I found Mrs. Weir awake, and 
 inquiring for me. Seeing Mr. Richardson had been a great 
 comfort to her ; but she was still in a maze, not able to keep 
 any on6 plan or idea in Tier head for ten minutes together, 
 except it might be the duty of joining her husband. Mr. 
 Richardson had promised to write and make inquiry about 
 him for her, and this was the point to which she turned con- 
 tinually. As to taking any steps for removing from Dene at 
 present, it seemed to her an utter impossibility. Servants, 
 and carriages, and horses, must all be kept ; no one could tell 
 why, except that it must be found out first where Mr. Weir 
 was. 
 
 I am afraid, poor lady ! she tried me a little, I was 
 young, with a clear head, and strong nerves, and a good con- 
 stitution, and I found it very difficult to enter into such an 
 anxious, undecided mind, burdened and shattered as it was 
 by long sorrow ; and I was selfish, too, for I was very un- 
 happy, and never could endure suspense, and I felt, though I 
 did not choose to own it to myself, that my plans might 
 possibly be determined by those of Mrs. Weir. It was so 
 strange to me to see her sitting in her drawing-room, with 
 all her little comforts and pretty things about her, and 
 working just as usual, not seeming to know how many im- 
 portant things were to be discussed and arranged. I could 
 almost have thought she did not fully know what had hap- 
 pened, only that her eyes were so weak and red ; and every 
 now and then she would lay down her work and fold her 
 hands together, and I saw her lips move, and knew that the 
 grief was so keen that it could only be soothed by prayer. 
 
 Active and sharp-sighted as people called me, I had a 
 great deal to learn from Mrs. Weir.
 
 124 URSULA. 
 
 I spent but a few minutes with her, for it had been an 
 idle day with mc, and I had a great deal to do at the cottage ; 
 yet, as I left the house, a sudden impulse seized me to run 
 up, just for two minutes, to the seat upon the bank, and 
 breathe the fresh air from the down. I went by the back of 
 the house, instead of by the garden, for I wished to avoid 
 being seen ; but I was not able to escape Miss Milicent's 
 watchful eye, and I had scarcely reached the little gate 
 opening from the road into the shrubbery before she joined 
 me. 
 
 " What are you doing here, Ursie Grant ? I thought I 
 should find you at home. You have not been at home all 
 day." 
 
 " No, Miss Milicent," I said ; " I had business away." I 
 am afraid I had always some pleasure in baffling her. 
 
 " I have been wanting you ; I have a great many things 
 to say to you. Are you going in now ? " 
 
 I replied, that I should be in a few minutes, and, turning 
 aside from the shrubbery, I walked some paces on, as though 
 I wished to go out upon the down. 
 
 " If you are going to walk, I will come with you," pursued 
 Miss Milicent. 
 
 " I would not give you that trouble," I replied ; for I 
 saw there was no chance of being rid of her. " If you please, 
 I will go back with you to the house." 
 
 " But you had business up here," she said, scanning my 
 face carefully. " You were looking for some one, or waiting 
 for some one." 
 
 " I was going to sit by myself, and think a little," I said, 
 quietly. Such a strange, doubting look she gave me ! And 
 then she said, as though she was determined to test me, " If 
 it is your brother you are watching for, Ursie Grant, you will 
 most likely find him at home. He came back from Compton, 
 under the down, by the gamekeeper's cottage." 
 
 " I was not watching for any one, Miss Milicent," was 
 my answer ; " it was as I said ; I was going to sit by my- 
 self" 
 
 I am afraid that was rather a rude speech ; but she ag- 
 gravated me uncommonly, and I had not enough religion at 
 that time to enable me to keep my passionate temper under 
 proper control.
 
 URSULA. 125 
 
 " It won't hurt you to go back and talk over some mat- 
 ters with me," said Miss Milicent, decidedly ; " and if Roger 
 Grant is in, he can come and talk too." 
 
 " Roger is very busy, Miss Milicent," I replied : " if 
 there is anything particular to be said, you had best, please, 
 tell it to me, and I will repeat it to him." 
 
 She stood still for a moment, putting her hand in the 
 pocket of her black jacket. A change came over her face, — 
 I noticed it though she turned aside, — a flush was upon her 
 cheek, and a mist seemed to rest upon her eyes. They were 
 not fierce eyes then ; there was a world of feeling in them, 
 struggling, as it seemed, to have vent. But she kept an iron 
 rule over herself, as she did over others, and, whatever there 
 might have been working within, she prevented it from com- 
 ing forth in her voice, as she laid her strong hand on my 
 shoulder, and said, " You will be leaving Dene soon, TJrsie 
 G-rant ; we shall not have need of you nor of Roger." 
 
 My spirit was up then, I confess, and I said, " We are 
 ready to go. Miss Milicent ; Roger has other work looked 
 out for him, and I came here only for him." 
 
 Others might well have been angry at my manner, but I 
 doubt if Miss Milicent even remarked it. She went on, in 
 her own way, " You will be finding other friends, and you 
 are a stirring woman, Ursie, so you won't have much time to 
 think about Dene." 
 
 " I shall think about it. Miss Milicent," I answered. " I 
 have been very happy here, and Mrs. Weir has been very 
 kind." 
 
 " And I have been very cross," she said, bluntly ; and 
 then she stopped. " But it is no use to talk of that. If I 
 was cross without cause, I am very sorry now ; and if I had 
 cause, I will try to be sorry when I can think it over." 
 
 I believe I smiled ; it was such a very odd way of being 
 penitent. She went on, " I didn't come to you to talk about 
 that so much, but I would just ask the question at once, — 
 are you thinking of going with Roger wherever he goes ? " 
 
 " I can't say," was my reply ; " it is all uncertain." 
 
 " But you must make up your mind before long ; and 
 what will you do till it is settled ? " 
 
 " I have not thought about it. Miss Milicent. I can't 
 settle things in such a hurry."
 
 126 URSULA. 
 
 " Then it is a pity you didn't live before the Deluge," she 
 replied. " Life isn't long enough for people who think so 
 much before they know which foot to put foremost. I have 
 settled all my matters, and my mother's too, since break- 
 fast." 
 
 " They may be easier than mine," I said, " and you have 
 no one but yourself and Mrs. Weir to consult." 
 
 What a foolish speech it was ! It must have seemed as 
 though I alluded to Mr. Weir's absence ; but I don't know 
 how it is, I often find that if there is anything I ought not to 
 say, I am sure to say it. 
 
 Miss Milicent stamped her foot upon the ground and bit 
 her lip, but the next moment she was looking me full in the 
 face ; and speaking almost angrily, she said, " If you haven't 
 any other place to stay at, Ursie Grant, there is a home for 
 you at Dene whilst we are here, which won't be many weeks ; 
 and when we go to Compton, which Mr. Richardson and I 
 think is best, you can come too, and I think you may be 
 some good to my mother, if you will." The last words 
 escaped as though against her inclination. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Milicent," I replied. But I couldn't 
 say more, for I scarcely understood what she meant. 
 
 She twisted a large gold ring, which she wore on her 
 middle finger, round and round, as she always did when she 
 was put out. Neither of us said more for some seconds. 
 
 " ' Thank you,' means you won't stay," said Miss Milicent 
 at last. 
 
 " It means I must do whatever duty comes before me," I 
 replied. 
 
 " Well ! but if it is a duty to help my mother ? It 
 may be." 
 
 " I would help Mrs. Weir willingly, if I could," I replied ; 
 " but she is not my first claim." 
 
 " She is no claim at all," exclaimed Miss Milicent ; and 
 her face became crimson, and then all colour left it, and it 
 grew, not pale, but a kind of blueish yellow. She sat down 
 upon the bench. 
 
 " You aren't well. Miss Milicent," I said, drawing near. 
 
 She motioned me from her, turned away her head, and 
 almost to my terror I heard, as she buried her face in her 
 hands, something like a groan.
 
 URSULA. 127 
 
 My thought was to go away. She was one who would 
 never forget having been seen to be weak and foolish. But 
 I need not have been afraid. She rose up again quite calm, 
 and said, more gently, " It is not my mother's wish, nor mine, 
 Ursie, to interfere with any claims ; but there is much to be 
 done, and a good head wanted, and my mother has been used 
 to trust to you ; and it seemed that, just for a while, till you 
 had another house over your head, you might have been wil- 
 ling to stay on, and see how things are going ; and so I said 
 it; — but if you have other claims, don't think of it. We 
 shall do ; we shall get on quite well. Don't think of it ; " 
 and she waved her hand, as I was about to speak, and moved 
 towards the shrubbery gate. 
 
 How proud she was ! — but how proud I was, too ! My 
 conscience gave me such a pang, I couldn't bear it. I caught 
 hold of her dress, and said, " Stay, Miss Milicent ; don't let 
 us part this way. I have claims, but not just now. I could 
 
 stay, if it were any good ; for Mrs. Weir " and the 
 
 thought of her sorrow came over me, and my voice trembled. 
 
 '' You would be cared for," she said, not letting herself 
 be moved. 
 
 " Yes ; Mrs. Weir cares for every one," I said. 
 
 " And you v.ould have board, and lodging, and " 
 
 " It is all I want," I exclaimed, hastily. 
 
 " And Fanny is to stay, to cook, and do the work ; and 
 you would have Mrs. Mason's rooms for the time," continued 
 Miss Milicent. 
 
 " Yes, yes, indeed ; I know it would be all very com- 
 fortable," 
 
 " And you could go on with your work. Nobody would 
 ask anything of you, — only if now and then you had a fancy 
 to look in upon my mother ; — but we wouldn't interfere. We 
 would have you think of your own claims. And if we move 
 to Compton, there would be only a very small room ; it 
 mightn't be comfortable. We had rather you should go just 
 your own way." 
 
 But as Miss Milicent spoke, I saw by her restless eye 
 that her whole heart was set upon the plan. 
 
 I felt it best to cut the matter short. I don't think I was 
 gracious ; though I wished to be. " It's best to take one
 
 128 URSULA. 
 
 step at a time in such matters, Miss Miliccnt," I said. " We 
 won't settle anything about Compton now. There is no know- 
 ing what may happen. Roger may be off to a new home, 
 and wish me to go with him ; so it would not do to make an 
 engagement. But as for staying, I will do my utmost for the 
 time being to help set matters right here, and work for Mrs. 
 Weir in any way she wishes it ; and food and lodging will be 
 quite an equivalent." 
 
 Her face changed. " That is as you think, not as I 
 think," she said ; and she held out her hand to me. 
 
 I took hold of it. Her large, strong fingers held mine 
 quite in a gripe. We gave each other a hearty shake. " You 
 will do my mother good, Ursie Grant," she' said. 
 
 " Then I shall do myself good, and make myself happy," 
 I said, earnestly ; " for there is no one I would serve sooner 
 than Mrs. Weir." And so we parted. 
 
 I had settled upon the nest step. I did not repent it, 
 even when I thought the matter over quietly by myself. 
 Aftffer all, there was a good deal of self-pleasing in that notion 
 of mine, that I could never be away from Roger. Whatever 
 the end of it all might be, he would manage very well without 
 me for a time. William would give him a home at Sand- 
 combe, and Leah was less likely to complain if she had only one 
 of us quartered upon her. And I had decided, without ar- 
 guing backwards and forwards, and consulting my own wishes. 
 I had determined to do just the thing put before me as a duty, 
 and not to think of consequences ; and I was beginning to 
 learn — what I have since been tauglit thoroughly by long expe- 
 rience — that when a person is in a puzzle, being come to a point 
 in life where many roads meet, and there is no sign-post, there 
 is no greater mistake than to try and direct yourself by 
 your reason. It won't help you at all ; for ten to one but it is 
 biassed by inclination. Neither are friends very likely to 
 help ; for they can, for the most, only decide according to 
 what you tell them. The first little sign of duty that comes, 
 if it is only in the way of setting your house to rights, or 
 casting up your accounts, is the sign-post set up by God's 
 Providence ; and when that is done. He will be sure to open 
 the way wider, if you have only patience to wait. But we 
 are all apt to overlook the little duty, and think we will attend
 
 URSULA. 129 
 
 to it when we have settled the great one ; and so we set out 
 on the wrong road, perhaps never to regain the right one. I 
 might have argued with myself for hours whether it was best 
 to stay at Dene or go wherever Roger went, and not have 
 come to a conclusion ; or, if I had, I should not have been 
 satisfied that I had decided rightly. But Miss Miliceut's 
 oiFer, and the knowledge that I might help Mrs. Weir, seemed 
 to me to be Grod's sign-post, and I was thankful that I had 
 made up my mind to follow it. 
 
 I bustled about all the afternoon, trying to prevent my- 
 self from over-thinking ; but there was no heart in what I 
 did, for was not everything to be upset and undone before 
 long ? About five o'clock I laid out the tea-things, expect- 
 ing Roger to come in, and I took a pleasure, though it made 
 my heart ache all the while, in putting some stocks, and 
 sweet-briar, and a rose or two in a flower-jar which Jessie 
 Lee had given me about a fortnight before. I thought 
 whether such flowers grew in Canada, and it seemed as though 
 I could scarcely live without something bright and sunshiny ; 
 but I turned away from the subject, and ran across to the 
 house for a minute, to ask for Mrs, Weir, and see if there 
 was anything I could do for her. Mrs. Mason was making 
 her a cup of coffee ; so I took it up, and we had a few minutes' 
 conversation, — not about anything particular, but there was 
 something in her way of speaking which made me feel how 
 glad she was to have me about her, and I went back com- 
 forted. 
 
 Roger was coming down the hill on horseback as I left 
 the house ; the horse was quite hot, so I knew he had been 
 riding fast, not to be late for tea. He called out to me 
 directly, to say he was sorry he had kept me waiting ; and 
 then he jumped off, and led his horse away to the stable. I 
 did not go after him, for I was ashamed of my impatience ; 
 and besides, Roger never liked to be made to tell things 
 before his own time, — very few men do. Presently he came 
 in, looking very warm, and pushing his hair off his forehead. 
 He sat down just for a moment, and then he jumped up, and 
 said he should go into the back kitchen and wash his hands ; 
 he was not fit to sit down to tea. I let him go, but it seemed 
 a terribly long time before he came back. He drew a chair 
 
 Vol. 1—6*
 
 130 URSULA. 
 
 to the table, and began cutting some bread. I gave him his 
 cup of tea, but it didn't please him, and he took up the milk- 
 jug, and poured out an ocean of milk, only slowly, almost 
 drop by drop, looking at it intently all the while. 
 
 I could bear it no longer. " Well ! " I said. 
 
 "Well! Trot." ■ 
 
 He smiled so pleasantly, I could almost have believed it 
 was a dream that trouble was at hand. 
 
 " Come out to Canada to see me this time next year, 
 Trot ? " 
 
 " Then it's settled," I said. 
 
 " Yes, settled." 
 
 I must have cut my piece of bread into twenty bits before 
 I tried to speak again. Roger laid down his knife, and 
 stretched his hand across the table. 
 
 " Shake hands, little woman ; we will have merry days 
 yet, please God." 
 
 " Merry days for you, perhaps," I exclaimed, bitterly. 
 " You are a man, and you like change." 
 
 " I like doing what comes to me as right," he said, grave- 
 ly ; " and so do you. Trot, when you let yourself think. I 
 have talked it all over with Mr. Richardson. He has known 
 other men go out, and do well ; and he thinks I have a better 
 chance than most. I have a fair sum to begin with, and it 
 will go farther there than here." 
 
 " And so you are all for making money," I said. " That 
 was never your line before, Roger." 
 
 He was very patient with me. He saw that sorrow made 
 me perverse. 
 
 "Well! yes," he said, and he laughed; "I am all for 
 making money, — not for money's sake, but for money's worth, 
 — that I may be of use in the world, and do a few things I 
 have a fancy for. When your wedding-day comes, Ursie, 
 you shall have no cause to complain, because your brother 
 Roger set out in life with a wish to make money." 
 
 That was too much for me. I jumped up and kissed 
 him, and then I rushed away to the window. 
 
 When I came back, we were able to discuss matters 
 quietly. He told me that Mr. Richardson had entered into 
 the business very kindly, and had given him a good deal of 
 information, having some relations in Canada. He had lent
 
 URSULA. 131 
 
 him a book, too, which would help him in some ways ; but 
 the thing he most advised was that Roger should go up to 
 London, to consult with a person whom Mr. Richardson 
 knew, who had been himself in Canada, and had made money 
 there. What was even more to the point, Mr. Richardson 
 had advised Roger not to be too shy of asking William for 
 any money he might want. It might cause him a little 
 trouble to raise it, but it was Roger's right, and if he gave 
 up a good prospect of doing well merely from over-scrupulous- 
 ness, the time would come when both he and William would 
 repent it. This advice had helped Roger a good deal, I 
 could see. 
 
 " A second conscience is a great help, Ursie," he observed 
 to me, as he finished what he had to say of his visit. " I had 
 a fear of being hard, and selfish, and pressing my own wishes 
 against William's. But I suppose Mr. Richardson may be 
 right. To be just to oneself may be the first step towards 
 being just to others. Only it is difficult to know where jus- 
 tice ends and selfishness begins." 
 
 " It can't be with you, Roger," I said ; " you have not a 
 grain of selfishness in you." 
 
 " Not so sure of that, Ursie," he said. " Mr. Richard- 
 son gave me a hint this afternoon. He told me T was too 
 fond of seeing every one happy about me ; and so could not 
 make up my mind to give pain, even when it was needful : 
 and after all, that is only another kind of selfishness." 
 
 " That was when you were talking of me," I said. 
 
 " Partly of you, partly of William and Leah. They will 
 be sadly put out ! " 
 
 " And what shall I be ? " 
 
 He came round me and patted me on the shoulder. " A 
 stout-hearted woman, who will bear whatever comes, and 
 be patient." 
 
 " Then Mr. Richardson says I am not to go ? " 
 
 " Not for a year ; you will come then, if all goes well, 
 and I determine to settle there. But Mr. Richardson advises 
 me not to be hasty. He thinks his friend in London might 
 put me in the way of finding some one who would let me join 
 with him in managing and working for a year, and so give 
 me time to look about me. He says, what is very true, that 
 to leave one's country and one's relations in a hurry, may be
 
 132 URSULA. 
 
 a thing to be repented of all one's life. If I do stay, I must 
 send for you : and there are plenty of people coming out 
 continually, who will take care of you on the voyage ; and I 
 can easily run down and meet you wherever you land." 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " What are you thinking of? " asked Roger. 
 
 " Why, that you are a man, Roger, and are turning round 
 to a new life, and liking it ; and not knowing in the least 
 what I shall feel the long year when you are gone, — all by 
 myself, — no home." 
 
 " Sandcombe," he said; — but his voice was low, almost 
 as though he was ashamed of saying it. 
 
 " And you would like Sandcombe, yourself ? " I said, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 He thought for a moment, — I saw he was annoyed. But 
 the cloud passed over; and he answered with such a kind, 
 honest look, — I never saw the same in any one else, — " No, 
 I should not like it. Trot ; and it is much harder for you to 
 stay than for me to go. But there will be an end." 
 
 " Grod grant it ! " I said; " but it mayn't be the end we 
 are looking for." 
 
 " It will be God's end, any how," he replied. 
 
 He walked across the room to a table which stood in the 
 corner, by the dresser ; — my mother's Bible always lay upon 
 it; the old Bible out of which he showed me the pictures on 
 a Sunday afternoon, when I was a little girl. He turned to 
 the parting of David and Jonathan ; it was a favourite 
 chapter of his. " Look here, Ursie," he said, as he brought 
 the book to me and pointed to the last verses ; " other people 
 before us have had to part. Just read me the verses ; I like 
 them best in your voice." And I read : " And as soon as 
 the lad was gone, David arose out of a place towards the 
 south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself 
 three times : and they kissed one another, and wept one with 
 another, until David exceeded and Jonathan said to David : 
 Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the 
 name of the Lord, saying : The Lord be between me and 
 thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he 
 arose and departed; and Jonathan went into the city." 
 
 I could not talk any more of business after that ; but I 
 went up to my own room and prayed, and had a good cry.
 
 URSULA. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The next two months were a perfect whirl. As fast as 
 anything was settled, it seemed to be unsettled ; and every 
 one's plans seemed to interfere with those of another. Day 
 after day, Roger arranged to go to London, and see the 
 Canadian gentleman, Mr. Green, who was Mr. Richardson's 
 friend; but as surely as he had decided to go, so surely 
 something happened to prevent him. And all this time he 
 was working at William to get the money-matter settled ; 
 and William was hanging back and raising difficulties. At 
 last, when it seemed the matter would never come to an end, 
 Farmer Kemp ofiered to let William have the money, if he 
 would give him the same interest and the same security 
 which had satisfied Roger; and then there really was no 
 longer any reasonable excuse. I am sure Farmer Kemp did 
 it out of mere love to Roger ; for he and William were not 
 even as much friends as they used to be. The fret about the 
 cottages was always going on ; and Leah made matters worse, 
 for she was angry because Mrs. Richardson and Mrs. Kemp 
 had takeu up Kitty Hobson. I did not trouble myself much 
 about Kitty, nor about any one just then, except Roger and 
 Mrs. Weir. When I was not thinking of one, I was of the 
 other. Roger approved of my plan of staying at Dene as 
 long as I could, but how long that would be was a very 
 doubtful matter. There was a report that Mr. Weir was in 
 France ; and then Mrs. Weir was wild to go to him ; but the 
 next day it was contradicted. A week afterwards, some one 
 declared he had been heard of in America, and the week after 
 that it was France again ; always something new, and always 
 something uncertain ; — and at last Mr. Richardson and Miss 
 Milicent consulted together, and agreed that the only thing to 
 keep Mrs. Weir quiet was to put out of her head entirely the 
 notion of going to her husband. Till that was done there 
 would be no coming to a conclusion about anything else. 
 
 Dene, as I think I have said, was Mrs. Weir's own prop- 
 erty, settled upon her so that the creditors could not touch 
 it ; but it was not a place she could live at, and there was
 
 134 URSULA. 
 
 nothing to be done but to sell it. A good thing it was, so 
 every one said, that there was some one at hand ready to buy 
 it. Captain Price came forward from the first, with a good 
 ofier for the house and grounds, not the whole estate, he was 
 by no means rich enough to buy that, for his fortune had 
 been very much overrated. The lawyers talked of trying to 
 obtain more by an auction in London, but Mrs. Weir's trus- 
 tees would not consent. It would bring additional expenses, 
 and after all they could not expect more than the fair sum 
 which Captain Price was willing to give. The interest of 
 this, and a little money belonging to Miss Miliceut, which 
 had been left her by her grandmother, would, it was hoped, 
 enable them to live with tolerable comfort, 
 
 Mrs. Weir was as passive as a child all the time the dis- 
 cussions were going on. I think it provoked Miss Milicent. 
 She once said to me that she thought it quite wicked to take 
 everything for granted in that way. How did her mother 
 know she had a penny ? she never took the trouble to ask. 
 It was very true that God fed the sparrows, but if the spar- 
 rows didn't open their mouths, no food would ever get down 
 their throats. 
 
 There was some truth in this, and I thought I would try 
 and rouse Mrs. Weir a little, when I had the opportunity. 
 And that came soon enough ; Farmer Kemp's oifer was 
 accepted, and Roger was to go up to London early the next 
 week to see Mr. Green ; and then Miss Miliceut proposed 
 that I should go over to the house and stay there. One 
 reason was because I might not like sleeping at the cottage 
 alone, and another because Mrs. Mason was going away, — a 
 source of greater regret to me I think than to Miss Milicent. 
 I liked Mrs. Mason very much, and never forgot the first 
 evening of my coming to Dene, and how kind she was, and 
 the tea Roger and I had with her. We had been good 
 friends from that day, and I owed a great deal to her, and I 
 hope I was grateful, though I was not what might be called 
 fond of her. She was strict, and had not much warmth at 
 the bottom, though a great deal of kindliness at the top. I 
 did all I could for her by helping to pack her boxes, and 
 trying to understand about the accounts and other things 
 which she had left not quite settled, and on Saturday morn-
 
 URSULA. 135 
 
 ing I said good-bye to her, and she went off in Farmer 
 Kemp's light cart, which was to take her to Hove; from 
 thence I think she was going to London, to be housekeeper 
 in some great family. It was the first departure, and it 
 made the place seem very lonely. 
 
 I don't like now to recall the last Sunday with Roger at 
 Dene. Some troubles there are in life which it is rather 
 pleasant to look back upon, one feels so glad to have escaped 
 from them. But there are others which arouse a feeling of 
 pity for oneself, such as one might have for another. I 
 remember having read a story of a lady who cried over her 
 own funeral, and really I could almost cry over my mourn- 
 fulness on that Sunday. There was the last walk to Comp- 
 ton Church over the down, and the meeting with William 
 and Leah, and the busy gossip of the neighbours, who came 
 up and talked to us after the service, as if it was the com- 
 monest thing in the world that was going to happen to us. 
 And then William would make us go back with him to 
 Satidcombe and dine, and kept us so long there that we were 
 late at Church in the afternoon, and I felt that Roger was 
 fretted with himself for giving in. But we had a quiet time 
 afterwards, and a comforting talk as we walked back to 
 Dene, when it was growing cooler, and there was a breeze on 
 the hill just enough to give motion to the light fern-leaves 
 and the crimson foxglove-bells, and to lift up the hot mist 
 which had been hanging all day over the sea, and show the 
 sparkle of the waves in the bay, and beneath the white cliffs. 
 
 They are there still, — the ferns and the foxgloves on the 
 green hill, the white cliffs, the broad blue sea, — but they 
 have never looked to me since as they did on that evening. 
 
 The peacock screamed as we entered the Dene shrubbery. 
 I should not have remembered it, but that it made me silly, 
 for I burst into tears, and Roger, seeing Miss Milicent in 
 the road, told me to leave him, and turn into the walks in 
 the plantation, under the hill, till I could get right again. I 
 did not go far away, but remained watching him through 
 the trees, and when Miss Milicent was gone, I ran home as 
 quickly as I could. 
 
 There was little to be done in the way of preparation for 
 Roger's journey, so we had a nice long evening together,
 
 136 URSULA. 
 
 talking a good deal more of things past than of things to 
 come. We neither of us liked to dwell much upon them ; 
 and we were to meet again, we Jioped, before long, and then 
 our way would bo made clearer. Now we were like chil- 
 dren groping about in the dark. 
 
 " Yet not quite the dark," was Roger's last speech to me 
 as we took our candles to go to bed. " God always gives us 
 light enougli for the next step," 
 
 The next day Roger was gone, at least from Dene, and I 
 was going ; but whither was the question ? I felt it ought 
 to be settled soon, and that very afternoon I set myself to 
 the task of bringing Mrs. Weir to look her aifairs full in the 
 face, and see what she was doing, and what others were do- 
 ing for her, and what she would wish to have done her- 
 self. Miss Milicent, I think, had made a mistake in one re- 
 spect. She had managed everything for her mother so long, 
 that Mrs. Weir was completely out of the habit of managing 
 for herself, and now Miss Milicent was inclined to turn 
 round and reproach her for it. 
 
 Poor lady ! she looked quite surprised, when I said to 
 her as I carried her cup of coffee into the drawing-room, 
 about five o'clock, " You must have enough to do, Ma'am, to 
 settle your mind when there is so much to be done. I wish 
 I could help you." 
 
 " I leave it all," she replied. " It will come right — as 
 right as it can. Do not stand, Ursula. Thank you ; please 
 put down the coffee, and there is a seat ; the evenings are 
 very long." 
 
 " But growing shorter, Ma'am," I said : " a fortnight 
 yesterday past the longest day ; and then there will only 
 be six weeks more of what one may call summer." 
 
 " I do not look forward, Ursula." 
 
 " Only when you are obliged, I suppose, Ma'am. Miss 
 Milicent tells me you think of removing to the new house 
 that is just built at Compton." 
 
 " It it were God's will, I would not wish to move any- 
 where, Ursula, except to my grave. I am only burdensome ; 
 I can do no good." 
 
 " Not perhaps in the way you would like, Ma'am," I re- 
 plied. " But if we have life given us, I take it for granted
 
 URSULA. 137 
 
 there is some purpose in it, if it is only to exercise others in 
 patience." 
 
 I really did not mean anything particular. I intended 
 only to answer her own words, though, when I had spoken, I 
 saw I might seem rude. 
 
 But Mrs. Weir took my remarks so quietly ! — in the 
 way which made me often feel that she had only just missed 
 being a saint. 
 
 " You are right, Ursula," she said. " We must be con- 
 tent to be trials, if we cannot be blessings. But that will 
 never be your lot, I feel. God has bestowed upon you health 
 and energy, and you are willing, I know, to make a good use 
 of them." 
 
 " I hope so, Ma'am, I should like to make them useful 
 to you now, if you would let me. I shall have a fortnight 
 clear, whilst Roger is in London, before I shall be called to 
 do anything for myself, and if you were thinking of moving, 
 I might be able to assist Miss Milicent in packing." 
 
 " But, Ursula," she slowly raised her eyes with a 
 look of fear, " you are not going way ? Milicent told me she 
 had oflFered you a home. You could have it as long as you 
 liked ; and no one would ask you to do anything you did not 
 like." 
 
 " It is not that. Ma'am," I replied. " I hope, if I had 
 duties to attend to, I should not think about liking or dis- 
 liking ; but I don't see my way to remaining for long, and 
 that is why I should be glad to help you to settle yourself 
 elsewhere now, before I leave." 
 
 " Milicent ! where is Milicent ? " Mrs. Weir laid her 
 hand upon a little silver bell, which was one of the many or- 
 naments of her table. 
 
 " Perhaps, Ma'am," I said, " we might be able to manage 
 the matter without Miss Milicent. You are the person who 
 must decide." 
 
 " Yes, I know — ^but Milicent, — I wish she would come." 
 
 " If you tell Miss Milicent your wish, she will agree to 
 it I am sure. Ma'am," I continued. " I heard her say to 
 Mr. Richardson the other day, that she only desired you to 
 go where you would be most comfortable." 
 
 " They will not let me go abroad, Ursula ; that is the 
 only thing I ask for."
 
 138 URSULA. 
 
 " They don't see where you are to go to, Ma'am," I replied •, 
 " and whilst you are thinking about that, there is something 
 else to be done just before your eyes, if you will be good 
 enough to look at it." 
 
 " I do not object to the house at Compton," she answered, 
 " I never said I did, only it is far from the church." 
 
 " Yes, but not so far as this ; and Miss Milicent is a 
 good walker, and it does not much matter to you. Ma'am." 
 
 " No, Ursula, you are right there." 
 
 " And you would be near Mr. Richardson, Ma'am." 
 
 " Yes." Her eyes brightened. " Perhaps he would 
 come and see me oftener then." 
 
 " And it is better than going quite away," I continued, 
 whilst I watched the expression of the poor lady's face, hop- 
 ing to see some expression of interest ; but just then, to my 
 great annoyance, in rushed Miss Milicent. 
 
 " Well, mother ! — Ursie ! I am glad you are here. — I have 
 been over the hill to Compton, and seen the house. They 
 won't let us have it for less than fifty pounds unfurnished, 
 and seventy-five furnished. I say it is a shame ; but there 
 is nothing else to be had ; so I have been to Mr. Eichard- 
 son, and he is coming up here to-morrow, and you have only 
 to say yes to him, mother, and then he will see the landlord 
 in Hove on Wednesday, and settle it, and we can move in 
 by nest Monday." 
 
 Miss Milicent stuck her hands in her pockets, and leaned 
 against the mantelpiece. Mrs. Weir sank back in her chair, 
 extinguished. 
 
 " It was just what Mrs. Weir and I were talking of, Miss 
 Milicent," I said. " Mrs. Weir seems to think that Comp- 
 ton will be the best place." 
 
 " Of course ; there is nothing else to be done." 
 
 " And you would not prefer any other place. Ma'am ? " I 
 said. 
 
 Miss Milicent looked daggers at me, and beckoned me 
 out of the room. 
 
 Instead of attending to her at once, I waited for Mrs. 
 Weir's answer. 
 
 " I do not know, Ursula ; it comes so quickly ; but it will 
 all be right."
 
 UESULA. 139 
 
 Miss Milicent turned round at the door. " Ursie, there 
 is some packing I want to talk to you about." 
 
 I followed her ; she closed the door behind her. 
 
 " Are you a fool, Ursie Grant ? What do you mean by 
 putting notions into my mother's head ? The house at 
 Compton is taken." 
 
 " Is it quite, Miss Milicent ? " I said ; " surely it is for 
 Mrs. Weir to decide." 
 
 " Decide ! it is decided. She has nothing to do but to 
 say, yes. She is not fit for more, you see." 
 
 " You will excuse me, I hope. Miss Milicent," I re- 
 plied, " but it seems to me that Mrs. Weir will never be fit 
 to say even, yes, for herself, whilst no one gives her the op- 
 portunity of saying, no." 
 
 Any one else might have been angry at my boldness, but 
 I will do Miss Milicent the justice to own that she always 
 allowed other people to be as free spoken as she was herself. 
 
 " There is nothing for her to say, no, about," she replied. 
 " What she wishes is to go to Compton, and it is what the 
 trustees, and Mr. Richardson, and all consider to be best." 
 
 " I only thought it was respectful to ask Mrs. Weir's 
 opinion," was my reply. " But I beg your pardon for in- 
 terfering. Miss Milicent ; it is no business of mine." 
 
 She scarcely heeded the remark ; but, as I was moving 
 away, she caught me by the arm, and said, " There is a room 
 for you at Compton, Ursie Grant." 
 
 " Thank you. Miss Milicent ; but I am afraid it won't 
 quite suit me to use it." 
 
 " But it will be ready for you ; I am going to have a bed 
 put up." 
 
 " You are very good ; but I must sec what my duties at 
 Sandcombe are first." 
 
 " You have no duties at Sandcombe, Ursie, none half so 
 great as staying with us and helping my mother. Mr. Rich- 
 ardson and I settled it was the best thing you could do." 
 
 My spirit was up then, and I felt my cheek flush. 
 
 " I thank you for troubling yourself about me. Miss Mili- 
 cent," I said, " but I think it might be better for me to de- 
 cide for myself If you please, I will let you know what I 
 determine by next Thursday." And making an excuse of 
 business, that I might not be urged any more, I hurried away.
 
 140 URSULA 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The next clay I went over to Sandcombe. Little as I 
 fancied taking advice from Leab, I yet felt that it would be 
 right to hear what her ideas were as to giving me a home 
 there, and whether I should be a help or a burden to her. 
 Besides, it was Roger's wish that I should talk matters over 
 with her and William, and though I should have liked to go 
 my own way independently, it did not seem right to keep 
 aloof from relations. 
 
 There was plenty of work going on in the farm-yard and 
 the out-houses, but the house itself seemed dull as I went in. 
 I missed Jessie Lee's voice. When she was there she was 
 generally to be heard singing, and the notes were like a bird's, 
 they were so sweet ; but it was all silent now, except the 
 sound of my own footsteps as I walked up the stone passage. 
 I went straight to the little parlour, and knocked, thinking 
 I should be sure to find Leah there. It was William who 
 said " Come in ; " and when I went in, I found them both 
 together, looking as thovigh something was very much amiss. 
 
 Leah broke out directly, scarcely allowing time for Wil- 
 liam to shake hands : " Here is a fuss, Ursie ; Jessie has 
 been as good as brought up by us, and now mother is going 
 to take her quite away. So that we are not to depend upon 
 her any more. It is too hard, after all the trouble I have 
 had with her; but mother complains of feeling lonely." 
 
 This was not surprising, for Mr. Morris had died shortly 
 before, and Mrs. Morris had left the farm, and was living in 
 a comfortable little house, in Hatton, whilst her son was try- 
 ing farming in a distant county. 
 
 " I thought we shouldn't be allowed to keep Jessie much 
 longer," said William ; " especially now Mrs. Morris is ill." 
 
 " It is only rheumatism ; she will be well enough before 
 long," said Leah ; " and, of course," she added, seeing, I 
 suspect, that I looked a little ashamed of her cool way of 
 talking, " I shouldn't mind giving her up for a time, just 
 till mother is well ; but I had put off getting extra help, 
 quite depending upon Jessie; and now there is hay-making
 
 URSULA. 141 
 
 scarcely over, and harvest coming on, and ever so mucli to 
 be done, and I have not a creature to look to." 
 
 My heart sank ; I saw which way things were tending, 
 and I don't think I knew till then how I dreaded the notion 
 of a home at Sandcombe. I made no answer, and Leah went 
 on with her complaints. 
 
 " The new girl wants a sharp eye upon her, and I can't 
 be in two places at once, and Jessie looked after the dairy, 
 and took the poulti-y quite off my hands, and was a very fair 
 cook, thanks to my teaching. It is too hard that she should 
 be taken from me at a moment's notice." 
 
 " Another girl will only be another mouth to feed," said 
 William, decidedly. " We have too many about the place 
 already ; Farmer Kemp does with one, and I don't see why 
 we shouldn't." 
 
 Leah bit her lip, and observed that she had not married 
 to be made a slave, and have the Kemps thrown in her face 
 always. Mrs. Kemp had Mary to help her, and she was 
 worth fifty girls. 
 
 " Well then, here is Ursie," said William, trying to look 
 very good-natured and disinterested. " She is coming to 
 make a home here, and I am sure she will be willing enough 
 to work for her board." 
 
 A fair proposal it was ; but Roger would not have said 
 it. I answered, cautiously, " You must not depend upon 
 me, William ; Mrs. Weir wants me to stay with her." 
 
 " Stay with Mrs. Weir ; why she has scarcely butter 
 enough for her own bread, much less for yours," exclaimed 
 Leah. " You are not going to be such a goose, Ursie, as to 
 stay with her ! " 
 
 " I suppose I am not likely to get much more than butter 
 here," I replied, laughing. " You are not going to hire me 
 as your servant ; neither you nor Mrs. Weir are. In both 
 places I should be required to work for my board ; and at 
 Mrs. Weir's I might have time to make a little money over 
 and above for myself, by nccdle-work." 
 
 " And what is to hinder you from having time here ? " 
 replied Leah. 
 
 " Jessie had none," I answered. " If I am to work as hard 
 as Jessie, I shall not be -better off."
 
 142 URSULA. 
 
 I could not help saying this, for I had always felt that it 
 was a shame for them to put so much upon Jessie, and not 
 let her have any help when they could very well afford it, 
 
 " She does not want to come," said William, speaking 
 to Leah, in a vexed tone ; " that is the long and the short of 
 the matter." 
 
 He was quite right ; but I ought not to have let it out. 
 I was wrong, as I always was when I did not like things or 
 people. No wonder that I was often called ungracious. I 
 tried to correct myself, and answered, " Please don't say that, 
 William ; the long and the short of the matter, as you call 
 it, is, that it is my duty to do the best I can for myself dur- 
 ing Roger's absence. I have a fair supply of needle-work 
 now, and could get more, and that is what I have to look to 
 to keep me in clothes, unless I take from the little I have 
 laid by, which is against Roger's wish, and my own too. 
 Wherever I go I must either be paid for my services or have 
 certain times to myself, and it would only be deceiving you 
 to pretend to come here and take Jessie's place, when I could 
 not take Jessie's duties." 
 
 " Then what did you think of doing if you came here ? " 
 asked Leah, sharply. 
 
 " I had not thought much about it," I replied. I could 
 not say more, for my voice was quite choked. 
 
 I think William perceived what I felt, for he said in a 
 tone of excuse, " Of course, Ursie, we should not talk of 
 your working for your board if we could help it, and if we. 
 didn't know it would make you more comfortable. But we 
 are sure you would never bear to be a burden, and this has 
 been a bad year, you see ; the hay is poor, and little enough 
 of it ; and turnips want rain ; and our wheat is not looking 
 half as well as that on the other side of Hove ; and, what 
 with the repairs of the cottages, and the lawyer's expenses 
 which have come from Roger's whim, I am likely to find my- 
 self short at Christmas. I thought you and Roger would 
 have understood this, and would have been willing to lend a 
 helping hand." 
 
 " I am willing, quite willing," I exclaimed, " I wouldn't 
 be indebted " — I was going to be ungracious again, but 
 something brought the thought of Mrs. Weir and her patient
 
 URSULA. 143 
 
 gentleness to my mind, and I added quietly, " If I do come 
 to you, William, I don't think you will ever find me un- 
 willing to lend a helping hand to the utmost. I should be 
 bound to do it, just as I was bound to help Roger. But it 
 would be foolish to promise to take a girl's place, or do the 
 things Jessie did, because I should require to have some 
 time to myself in the afternoons. That is all I meant to 
 say." 
 
 " And that would do very well, Leah, wouldn't it ? " said 
 William, and he walked to the door, and waited with the 
 handle in his hand, impatient to be gone. 
 
 " If Ursie wasn't so uppish, she would have seen long 
 ago that it was all we wanted," said Leah ; " I don't under- 
 stand myself what all the fuss has been about." 
 
 " Nor I neither," said William, and he came back and 
 kissed me. " You know, Ursie, if I was a rich man you 
 should have a home here as long as you liked, just for the 
 asking." 
 
 " Thank you, William. When Roger and I are in 
 Canada, whether we are rich or poor, you shall have a home 
 without the asking." 
 
 William went ofi" quickly, trying to hum a tune, which 
 somehow I don't think came quite easily. Leah turned to 
 me rather sharply. " What did you mean, Ursie, just now, 
 by saying you were going to stay with Mrs. Weir, when she 
 won't have a house over her head ? Dene is to be sold, and 
 the whole estate is mortgaged up to its full value and over, 
 and there is to be a subscription raised for Mrs. Weir 
 amongst her friends, and Miss Milicent is going out as a 
 governess." 
 
 I burst into a fit of laughter, which made Leah quite 
 angry. " It is very well for you to laugh," she said, " but 
 it's true. I had it from the best authority ; of course they 
 don't tell you everything ; why should tliey ? But you will 
 find it so ; and as for your notion of living with Mrs. Weir, 
 you might as well think of living with the man in the moon." 
 
 " I am not sure that I shan't think of living with him 
 soon," I replied. " There will be a chance of hearing less 
 gossip and more truth there than here. Jane Shaw, I sup- 
 pose, told you this nonsense."
 
 144 URSULA. 
 
 " And ste is more likely to know than any one else," 
 answered Leah, " seeing she is to be mistress of Dene." 
 
 I waited before answering, for, often lately as I had 
 heard Jane's prospects spoken of, I could not yet make up 
 my mind to take the notion patiently. 
 
 " The wedding is to come off the end of September," 
 continued Leah, anxious to pour out all she knew. " Captain 
 Price's sisters and an aunt are coming, and a good many 
 gentlemen friends, and Jane is thinking already about her 
 dress, Jessie says. I don't believe, though, for my part, 
 that Dene will be ready for them by that time. There will 
 be a good deal to do with papering, and painting, and fur- 
 nishing, after the old lady is gone. Jane says she is not 
 going to be particular, and they can wait for the new dining- 
 room furniture till next year, but I don't fancy they will 
 when it comes to the point. By the by, Ursie, you must be 
 upon your best behaviour, and remember to say Miss Shaw 
 now. Jessie tells me Jane quite expects it." 
 
 " I am very willing," I answered. " She would never 
 have been Jane Shaw to me, if I had not known her from a 
 child. Is there anything I can do for you in Hatton, Leah ? 
 I am going on there to get a few things for the house." 
 
 " Nothing ; unless — well, you might, perhaps, carry a 
 parcel over to Jessie. She left a gown here, and a pair of 
 shoes." 
 
 One of the farm boys lived at Hatton, and might very 
 well have taken the parcel, but I was unwilling to appear 
 unkind. Besides, it saved Leah a penny ; for the child might 
 have expected something for his trouble. I knew she would 
 not forget that. 
 
 " And when are you coming, Ursie ? " was Leah's gra- 
 cious invitation at parting. 
 
 " I will let you know, when I have settled about Mrs. 
 Weir," I replied. " Good-bye," and, burdened with my 
 parcel, I departed. 
 
 I made my way up the cart-road to the top of the down, 
 and then sat down to rest for a few minutes, and if I could, 
 to think. I was in a greater perplexity than before, for I 
 felt as though I had been drawn on farther than I intended. 
 My only thought in going over to Sandcome was to find out
 
 URSULA. 145 
 
 whether William and Leah really wished me to stay with 
 them, and were likely to be in any way hearty about it. In 
 that case, and if they had thrown themselves at all into my 
 position, I could have talked over everything openly and 
 easily. But this fashion of bargaining, and making the most 
 of me, threw me back upon myself. It was no use to ask 
 advice of people who were only bent upon seeing things their 
 own way, for their own advantage. I could, indeed, write to 
 Roger, but it might make ill-will between him and William 
 to explain what I felt, and that would never do, especially 
 just as he was going away from England, perhaps never to 
 come back again. If a disagreeable thing is to be done, the 
 fewer people there are concerned in it the better. Moreover, 
 at the bottom of my heart lay a doubt as to what Roger 
 would say. He would very likely tell me that it was a safe 
 home, and that I had better be patient and bear up, and it 
 would soon be over, and I should join him in Canada. 
 
 But that would be his man's way of looking at the great 
 end, and not seeing the little steps by which it is to be 
 reached ; and I never shut my eyes as he did to the pos- 
 sibility that the day for me to join him in Canada might 
 never come, and that the step I was going to take now was 
 one which must have an influence upon my future life. 
 
 I hated Sandcombe. I really don't think the word is too 
 strong. I did not hate William and Leah, but I hated all 
 their ways of looking at things. 
 
 When I was with them I felt, as it were, unable to 
 breathe. I had to think of every word I said, and check even 
 the tone of my voice, lest I should show the feelings which 
 would rise up in spite of myself, and must, I knew, give 
 offence. A room to myself in a cottage would have been 
 Paradise compared to a home at Sandcombe. And there 
 was Mrs. Weir in great trouble, and wanting me ; and even 
 Miss Milicent setting her heart upon having me. There 
 seemed no question which would be the best. Let William 
 and Leah, and even Roger, say what they might, I would 
 make up my mind to remain with Mrs. Weir. 
 
 If only I had not disliked Sandcombe quite so much ! 
 It was the one thing which made me pause. 
 
 As I sat upon the hill, meaning every minute to walk 
 Vol. I.— 7
 
 146 URSULA. 
 
 on, and yet tempted to rest a little longer, I heard the soft 
 sounds of horses' hoofs upon the turf. Two men were can- 
 tering across the down, from the direction of Hatton gate. 
 As they came nearer, I knew them to be Farmer Kemp and 
 John Hervey. 
 
 They passed me at first without knowing me ; but, im- 
 mediately afterwards, I heard John say, " Why, there is 
 Ursie Grant ! " and he turned his horse and rode up to me, 
 and the Farmer trotted up after him. 
 
 " Here, all alone, lassie ! " called out the Farmer, as he 
 drew in his horse. " I should never have expected to see 
 you sitting, doing nothing, so early in the day." 
 
 " Only resting," I replied, and I stood up, " I have 
 been to Sandcombe, and I am going on to Hatton." 
 
 " And carrying a good-sized load with you," said John, 
 looking at Jessie's parcel. 
 
 " Not a very heavy one," I answered, and I smiled a lit- 
 tle; but I suppose the smile was not a very hearty one, for 
 the Farmer changed his tone directly, as he said, " You are 
 not doing well for yourself, Ursie ; you had much better 
 come down to Longside, and have a talk with my goodwoman ; 
 it will do you more good than thinking." 
 
 " I have some things to buy at the grocer's, at Hatton," 
 I said, " and here is Jessie Lee's parcel to be taken to her ; 
 I don't think I can come to Longside to-day." 
 
 " It wouldn't take me ten minutes to ride back with the 
 parcel," said John very good-naturedly ; " but I don't know 
 so well about the grocer. What is to be done there, Ursie ? 
 My housekeeping has been on a small scale hitherto, so I am 
 not up to the needs of a family." 
 
 " Then it is time you should learn," said the Farmer, 
 sharply, but laughing as he spoke. " Don't you think so, 
 Ursie ? It is not every man who has a wife he can trust to 
 manage her own housekeeping." 
 
 " He is a foolish man who marries a wife he can't trust, 
 I replied. 
 
 John laughed merrily, and said I had made a good an- 
 swer, and he quite agreed with me ; and if ever he married 
 a woman who couldn't go to the grocer's, he should think he 
 deserved the fate of a fool.
 
 URSULA. 147 
 
 " The fjxte of George Price, Esq., when he marries Miss 
 Jane Shaw," said the Farmer, twirling his whip in the air. 
 '' If ever there was a man bent upon riding to ruin, full 
 gallop, it's that young jackanapes. There must be some- 
 thing in the air of Dene that's catching. But come. Ursie, 
 hand up your parcel to John, and turn back with me. I can 
 walk my horse, and you shall tell me about Roger." 
 
 It was a great temptation ; a kind word and a friendly 
 thought were so specially dear to me just then ; but I was 
 in a difficulty as to managing my purchases at the grocer's. 
 
 John Hervey noticed my hesitation. " Shopping and 
 all," he said ; " I can manage it, Ursie." 
 
 " I have known you long enough to be sure of that," I 
 replied. 
 
 " Don't trust him too far, though," said the Farmer. 
 " He is well enough wlien there's no fun in the way, but let 
 him get a scent of the hounds — they are out to-day — and 
 your parcel would go to the winds, and the grocer's business 
 after it. I vow that mare understands ; she pricks up her 
 ears at the very name." 
 
 " I would trust Mr. Hervey, hounds or no hounds," I 
 said ; " if he undertook it he would do it." 
 
 John's face, which was like a sunbeam generally, clouded 
 over for a moment. I thought I had been too bold, and 
 spoken as if I was his equal ; which I was not, for he was a 
 man when I was a child, and I had always been taught to 
 look up to him. 
 
 " I should not like to give you the trouble, though, Mr. 
 Hervey," I said. " Mary Kemp and I might be able to walk 
 over to Hatton, late." 
 
 The mare was becoming restive, and John jumped off 
 and caught up the parcel from the ground. "Now, Ursie, 
 the list ; I shall overtake you before you are at Longside." 
 
 I had the paper inside my glove, and I took it out and 
 gave it to him. He returned me such a squeeze of the hand. 
 I cried out, and we both laughed ; and he was mounted 
 again, with the parcel before him, and galloping towards 
 Hatton gate, before I had time to put my glove on. 
 
 " A capital good fellow ! " said the Farmer, " and a 
 merry one too ! Now, lassie, step out, and my Dobbin shall 
 step in, and so we'll keep together."
 
 148 URSULA 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Farmer Kemp and I had but little conversation upon 
 anything specially important to me, on our way to Longside. 
 I told him what I knew about Roger's plans, but it was little 
 use to consult him about Mrs. Weir and Leah. It was not 
 in his way to give advice upon such matters, and the very 
 reason ho was taking me back with him to Longside was, 
 that I might talk things over with his wife and Mary. But 
 in his honest, kind-hearted way, he showed me true sym- 
 pathy ; even when he talked about his own concerns, such as 
 draining, and horse-hoeing, and drilling, he had always a 
 word to say about Roger and his prospects, and it cheered 
 me to hear him speak of the probability of his doing well as 
 almost a certainty. Not that Farmer Kemp knew much 
 about Canada, or how people farmed there; but I was in 
 such a maze and doubt about everything that I clung even to 
 straws for comfort. 
 
 The Farmer took me into the parlour at Longside, and 
 sent Mary to fetch a piece of cake and a glass of wine, order- 
 ing, at the same time, a cup of ale for himself, with which he 
 drank to my good health and good fortune, and a husband by 
 that time twelvemonth ; and then he kissed me on both 
 cheeks, saying, " he didn't know why he wasn't to have an 
 old man's privilege," and went away, tramping down the 
 passage, calling for his wife, and singing the chorus of a har- 
 vest song. 
 
 Mrs. Kemp came in soon afterwards. Mary offered to 
 go away, and I said nothing to prevent her, for I felt I might 
 have things to mention about others which might seem un- 
 kind, and there was no need to have them poured into more 
 ears than was necessary. 
 
 " Well, Ursie ! so the Farmer says you are come to have 
 a talk," said Mrs. Kemp ; and she went to the cupboard, and 
 fetched her work-box ; and, sitting down in the leathern arm- 
 chair, began to mend a pair of her husband's worsted stock- 
 ings. "Can I help you, child ? I am willing, as you 
 know."
 
 URSULA. 149 
 
 Something of a daughter's fech'ng towards a mother came 
 over me, as I drew my scat towards her chair, aud rested my 
 haud ujoon the arm, aud said, " Dear Mrs. Kemp, if I knew 
 what was right to be done, I shoukln't care for anything." 
 
 " Except doing it, I suppose, you mean," she said. 
 
 " It would be easy enough to do, either way," I replied. 
 " Roger says it is not to be for long ; and the Farmer tells 
 me it will all come right with him and me in the end. But 
 it is the present time that is the difficulty, — whether to stay 
 with Mrs. Weir, or go to Sandcombe; " and I told her all 
 that had passed, and the offers I had had about both places. 
 She listened very kindly ; but when I stopped she made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Well ! " I said, a little impatiently. 
 
 " You have it in your heart, Ursie, to stay with Mrs. 
 Weir." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " I asked. 
 
 " From your way of putting things ; and I don't say but 
 that it is natural. Leah Grant's is not such a very tempting 
 home, setting aside that it is your brother's." 
 
 "That makes it worse," I said; "if it was not my 
 brother's I could put up with it; but the aggravation of one's 
 own relations is past bearing." 
 
 " Well ! it is hard, certainly ; but it is God's will to give 
 us relations." 
 
 " And it is His will that they should act as such, I sup- 
 pose," was my reply. 
 
 " Surely; and I dou't sec quite how William Grant and 
 his wife have failed. They will give you a home and be kind 
 to you." 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Kemp! please — 1 don't think you under- 
 stand at all," I exclaimed. " If you had only been there 
 and heard them " 
 
 " I should have said they took things coolly," said Mrs. 
 Kemp ; " but I should not have thought they were wanting 
 in duty." 
 
 " I don't care for duty ; it is love I need." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Kemp, thouglitfully. 
 
 " Don't you know what I want? " I continued. " If I 
 am to be left alone all this year, I must be with people who 
 are fond of me."
 
 150 URSULA. 
 
 " Oil ! " again repeated Mrs. Kemp. 
 
 I was vexed with her ; and I dare say showed it by my 
 face ; for I would not speak. 
 
 " Now don't be fretted, Ursie, dear," continued Mrs. 
 Kemp, kindly. " You see I am not so quick at taking 
 things in as some people are ; and I must make out what you 
 are aiming at before I can lend you a helping hand. If you 
 want to know where you will be most cared for, that is one 
 thing ; but if you want to find out where it is right you should 
 be, that is another." 
 
 " Then you are like Roger, and all the rest," I exclaim- 
 ed ; " you would have me go and be a slave at Sandcombe, 
 dancing attendance upon Leah's whims, and not getting, 
 'thank you,' for my pains; and you would have me leave 
 poor Mrs. Weir in her trouble, and Miss Milicent not know- 
 ing in the least how to manage for her. Poor lady ! she may 
 die, for aught I know, if she is left to Miss Milicent's care." 
 
 " Well ! but Ursie, child," exclaimed Mrs. Kemp, look- 
 ing up in surprise, " she has had no one but Miss Milicent to 
 look after her these many years." 
 
 " Oh ! but it was different then ; she was in less trouble, 
 and she had not been accustomed to depend upon me so 
 much ; and her husband was at home ; and — it was quite 
 different then — it was indeed." 
 
 " She was in less trouble," said Mrs. Kemp ; " that is 
 true ; she must want more comfort just now. But, Ursie, — 
 then you have a notion of living with her always." 
 
 " I ! dear Mrs. Kemp, how could such a thought enter 
 your head ? " 
 
 " Only, my dear, you said she was becoming accustomed 
 to depend upon you ; and I fancied what it would be next 
 year, when you would probably have to leave her." 
 
 " I must let next year take care of itself," I replied ; 
 " she must learn then to do without me." 
 
 " Well ! yes, that may be the best way. But, perhaps, 
 in that case, she might learn to do without you now." See- 
 ing that I made no reply, Mrs. Kemp went on, taking my 
 hand kindly, and fixing her sweet brown eyes on my face, as 
 though begging me to bear with her if she said things I dis- 
 liked to hear. " My dear, I don't want to cross you. There
 
 U E SU L A . 151 
 
 is not much need to tell yon that ; but you have no mother, 
 and I would fain be one to you. You see, it strikes me that 
 you have rather a twisty way of looking at this matter, to 
 suit your owu wishes, which are natural enough and right 
 enough in their way. If you settle to stay with Mrs. Weir, 
 because she can't do without you this year, you will have just 
 the same reason for staying with her next year ; and a much 
 stronger one, because you will have made yourself more 
 needful to her. But you would be unwilling, I suppose, to 
 remain then." 
 
 " It would be out of the question," I exclaimed ; " I must 
 go to Roger." 
 
 " And, any how, — if Roger were to marry, and yet offer 
 you a home, — ^you would go to him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I must. I could never live away from Roger." 
 
 " But there would be just the same claim, as far as Mrs. 
 Weir is concerned," said Mrs. Kemp. 
 ^ " She is not my relation," I observed. 
 
 " No ; that is just what I was thinking. She is not a 
 relation ; she is a claim and a duty when you like it, but not 
 when you don't like it." 
 
 I felt the colour mount to my cheeks. 
 
 " Then you would never have one put friends before re- 
 lations," I exclaimed, " let the friends be never so kind, and 
 the relations never so cross ?" 
 
 " I would try to take life as God has made it," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " And go to Sandcombe?" I continued. 
 
 " Perhaps not just yet. I think it is all very true that 
 Mrs. Weir wants a little comfort now ; and I would stay and 
 give it her if I could, for a certain time ; may be a month 
 or six weeks, or any time you choose, till she is settled in her 
 new home. But, Ursie, if you will take my advice, you will 
 be careful not to put yourself too forward in some things. 
 You arc not Mrs. Weir's daughter." 
 
 " No," I exclaimed, and I laughed. " Fancy if she or 
 Miss Milicent were to hear you say that ; as if it could be 
 possible. Why the Weirs arc as proud as princes." 
 
 " Pride goes to the wall when folks are in need of com- 
 fort," said Mrs. Kemp. " But, putting aside that, it is a
 
 152 U E S U L A . 
 
 thing I have learnt from a good many years' thought and 
 trouble, that to take other persons' duties from them is a 
 course which never has God's blessing upon it. People say 
 — I don't ask you, for it is wrong to pry — but people do say 
 that Miss Miliccnt is not as careful of her mother as she 
 might be, and as she ought to be. There can't be a worse 
 sin in a quiet way than that, Ursie ; and if you help her to 
 continue in it, why you will share the guilt." 
 
 This was quite a new way of looking at the case, and it 
 touched my conscience ; forTE knew that lately Miss Milicent 
 had left oft" doing many things for her mother which at one 
 time she had been accustomed to attend to. 
 
 " And so you think I should do harm by staying," I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " It is just this," continued Mrs. Kemp ; " I think the 
 question for us to consider is scarcely ever whether we shall 
 do harm or good anywhere, — for I don't believe we can 
 judge about it ; but only to find out where God sends us, 
 and then go." 
 
 " Of course ! of course ! " I exclaimed. " "Who ever 
 wants anything else ? " 
 
 " I should have said," replied Mrs. Kemp, " that most 
 of us think first where we wish to go, and then look to see 
 if God hasn't sent us, and that makes all the difference. 
 Mr. Richardson preached a sermon about Balaam last Sun- 
 day, and Farmer and I, when we came home, both said we 
 thought we had been Balaams many times in our lives." 
 
 " And I am like Balaam now, then," I said, half-amused, 
 yet half-angry. 
 
 Mrs. Kemp laughed a little to, as she answered, " Well ! 
 there is the relation — a very near one — a brother, willing to 
 have you, and wishing it ; and there is his wife left withojit 
 help and society, and likely to find you useful, and there is 
 lloger looking upon Sandcombe as your natural home, and 
 leaving you under William's care. It was not you who or- 
 dered these things." 
 
 '' Nor I who ordered Mrs. Weir's troubles," I replied. 
 
 " No ; but God made you William Grant's sister, and 
 Miss Milicent Mrs. Weir's daughter. That is as much as 
 to say one is to help one, and the other the other."
 
 URSULA. 153 
 
 " And I am to take Jessie's place, then," I said. " I 
 shall not do much for myself in that case." 
 
 " Oh, Ursie ! you were always a contrary child," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Kemp, in a vexed tone. " Don't you see that 
 a difficulty about that would alter the whole case. William 
 and Leah must understand. If they won't give you time 
 to work for yourself, and Mrs. Weir will, why that settles 
 the question at once ; not because of your liking or dis- 
 liking, or thinking you will be better or do more good in 
 one place than another; but only because God has so or- 
 dered it, that it is needful for you to do something for your- 
 , self, that you mayn't be using up the little that is put by 
 for a rainy day, and so at last come to be a burden on your 
 friends." 
 
 I knew that quite as well as Mrs. Kemp ; it was just 
 Avhat I had said to Leah, but somehow it did not come 
 home to me pleasantly. I would so much rather have gone 
 to Mrs. Weir with the idea of helping her than of doing 
 what was good for myself 
 
 I sat still for some seconds and thought ; then I got up 
 and said, I was very much obliged for the advice, and I 
 would think about it. 
 
 " Ah ! Ursie, lassie ; you are not inclined to see the mat- 
 ter my way," exclaimed Mrs. Kemp, " and I am sure I 
 would fain see it yours if I could ; but you will never help 
 Mrs. Weir if you begin by being a bone of contention with 
 your own relations." 
 
 " I will think about it ; I dare say you are right. Dear 
 Mrs. Kemp, I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I am very 
 unhappy." I could not help saying it, and the good woman 
 laid her hand upon mine in a fondling way, and said she was so 
 sorry ; and then we had a long talk about Sandcombe, and the 
 ways of going on, and how 1 might help in mending matters 
 if I went there ; and before we parted I felt I might be just 
 as useful there as with Mrs. Weir, and was heartily glad that 
 the point was to be settled by William and Leah, and not 
 by me. 
 
 There was little doubt what the end would be now ; in 
 fact, the next day, a few words with William, who came 
 over to Dene to see me, decided it. I could do fairly well with 
 7*
 
 154 URSULA. 
 
 him alone, and he was kind enough in his way of putting 
 things, and told me that Leah was quite willing to agree to 
 the plan of my having time to myself after dinner, if I 
 would only make myself useful in the morning, and look to 
 the dairy and poultry, and see a little to the cooking. I had 
 a misgiving that I should be put upon still, and I asked how 
 Leah was going to manage about the other things which 
 Jessie had been accustomed to attend to ; but I found 
 that they had settled to have help from a girl who was to 
 come every now and then, when she was wanted ; and, as 
 William said, Jessie was not always with them, and so, if I 
 was there, Leah would not be really worse off than before. 
 
 He looked quite pleased when everything was arranged, 
 and talked so much about Sandcombe being my home, and 
 how he had always wanted me to come, that before he went 
 away I really did begin to think he had been very good- 
 natured and brotherly about it, and I am quite sure he thought 
 so himself. But when he was gone, oh dear ! Happily I 
 had not much time for thought, except to be thankful that, 
 at any rate, I had not pleased myself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Mrs. Weir's new house was not exactly in Compton ; it 
 might have been pleasanter for her if it had been. She 
 would have been nearer the church and the parsonage. I 
 don't know that I could describe the situation well to any 
 one acquainted with the neighbourhood, and who did not know 
 the kind of country that lay on the other side of St. Anne's 
 Hill, between it and the sea. But supposing a person was 
 standing on the top of St. Anne's facing the sea, and then 
 was to go down the hill on that side, he would come to the 
 top of a steep, jagged cliff, broken into uneven ledges, bare 
 and sharp, except where here and there some green plant had 
 taken root in the crevices, and managed to grow in spite of 
 the fury of the south-west winds, which, in these parts, are 
 the fiercest winds that blow. 
 
 Before coming to the top of the cliffs, it seems that there
 
 URSULA. 155 
 
 is nothing between them and the sea, but on reaching the 
 edge there is a sight which makes a stranger start. For 
 below lies, not the sea, but a broad tract of land, tossed up 
 and down in little hills and valleys. It is scattered all over 
 with huge rocks, which look as though giants had thrown 
 them about in their play, and it slopes down in a steep de- 
 scent towards the top of a second range of cliffs. This range 
 cannot, of course, be discovered immediately underneath the 
 upper cliffs, but it can be traced towards the west for many 
 miles, forming the outline of Compton Bay. A dreary-look- 
 ing country it is, but it has a charm even for that very 
 reason. As a child I only saw it occasionally, and always 
 thought of it as connected with haunts of smugglers, and wild 
 storms ; roaring waves, and shipwrecks, and heavy sea mists, 
 gathering over the hills, and shutting out the light which 
 was the only hope of the seaman's safety. It must have been 
 a fierce time on earth when the land sank away from the upper 
 cliffs, and the great rocks were hurled down, and the streams, 
 which have now worked their way through the lower cliffs, 
 and formed deep chasms, first began to flow. But those days 
 are not within the memory of man that I ever heard. Yet 
 even now it is solemn to stand and think of what once has 
 been. When I first remember that part of the country it 
 was, so to say, unknown and untraversed. There was no 
 road through it. Persons wishing to go from Hatton to 
 Compton had to go up Hatton lane, and over the hill ; only 
 foot-passengers went over the cliffs, and with them it was a 
 difiicult task to find their way, especially on a dark night. 
 They might stumble among the rocks, or wander to the edge 
 of the cliffs, and be over before they were aware of it. Some 
 people, at that time, thought it an unsafe country to live in, 
 and said that the rocks would fall again ; but there was little 
 enough really to fear, though certainly things did seem ter- 
 rible to those who were unaccustomed to them. 
 
 Perhaps the country looks all the more wild from the 
 contrast with that which immediately adjoins it. For to 
 the east of St. Anne's Hill, just beyond Hatton, the land 
 turns towards the south, and the warm sun shines full upon 
 it. The ground is tossed about still in every direction, and 
 huge rocks lie scattered upon it. But thorns, and chestnuts, and
 
 156 U B S U L A . 
 
 ash trees have sprung up amongst them upon the greensward , 
 ivy has climbed up the ledges of the jagged clifl's ; primroses 
 cluster vxpon the banks ; cowslips glitter on the turf ; and 
 masses of hyacinths may be seen in glades, half hidden by 
 the foliage of the thick ti-ees, and through which the jutting 
 masses of grey rock peep out upon the open sea, sparkling 
 with silver and blue, some hundreds of feet beneath them, 
 
 A lovely scene it is. There is a verse spoken of a very 
 different country, which often comes to my mind when I 
 think of it. " It is a land which the Lord thy God careth 
 for. The Eyes of the Lord thy God are always upon it, 
 from the beginning of the year even unto the end of the 
 year." Sometimes it has even seemed to me that Heaven 
 itself can scarcely be more beautiful. But that is, doubtless, 
 the thought of my ignorance, and the love which I bear to 
 all things connected with the memories of my youth. 
 
 But I must go back to Compton and Mrs. Weir. I 
 have said that in former days there was no direct road from 
 Ilatton to Compton ; a few years, however, before the time 
 of which I am writing, it had been determined to make one 
 under the upper cliff, at a great expense, and, as some per- 
 sons thought, uselessly. That, however, was soon proved to 
 be a mistake. Some speculating people bought up part of 
 the land, and built an hotel and lodging-houses upon it, and 
 Compton Heath, as the place was called, was like to become, 
 in time, an inhabited part of the world. It signified little 
 enough to Mrs. Weir where she went, for she was not likely 
 to move out of the house often, when once she was settled in 
 it; yet I could not help wishing that she had something 
 more quiet and homelike to look out upon than that broad 
 sea, without a ship to be seen upon it, and the bare rocks 
 upon the heath. There was, indeed, a beautiful view of the 
 white cliffs in the distance ; but evei-ything immediately 
 about the place, though grand, was desolate ; except, indeed, 
 the garden ; but even that was new, and not likely to be 
 kept in very good order by the old man who was in charge 
 of it. He and his wife had the care of the place before Mrs. 
 Weir took it, and they were to live there still, and the 
 woman was to do the cooking, and the man the gardening. 
 Miss Milicent and I went many times backwards and for-
 
 URSULA. 157 
 
 wards over the hill, from Deue to the Heath, before we had 
 made the place at all what we thought Mrs. Weir would 
 think comfortable. Mrs. Richardson helped us as well as 
 she could : but she was busy in the parish with the poor peo- 
 ple, and at home with her children, and had but little time 
 to spare ; and, indeed, it would have been unfair to expect 
 her to do much. I found the neighbours very kind ; the 
 people at the hotel lent us a helping hand, and the Lieuten- 
 ant, at the Preventive Station, and his wife, took an interest 
 in our goings on. I don't know how Miss Milicent became 
 acquainted with them, but somehow she managed to know 
 every one ; and I was rather glad to think that when she and 
 her mother were settled in that out-of-the-way place, they 
 would have a man friend near to apply to in a difficulty. 
 
 I had never yet told Mrs. Weir exactly what my plans 
 were, but I had given her to understand that I could not live 
 with her for a continuance, and she took the notion more 
 quietly than I had expected. As she said, she never looked 
 forward, and I was with her for the time, and that was 
 enough. But Miss Milicent was different. I had a strug- 
 gle with her especially, the day before all was arranged for 
 the move. I was to go over to the Heath in the afternoon, 
 and she and her mother were to follow the next morning. 
 First of all I had thought that it would be better to stay and 
 help the poor lady to the last at Dene ; but Mrs. Kemp's 
 hint was remembered, though I did not like it when it was 
 given. Cotton, the lady's maid, was going to stay, so that 
 Mrs. Weir would have all the help in the way of dressing 
 and nursing that she usually had ; and no doubt it was Miss 
 Miliccnt's duty to look after her mother herself. She 
 managed it in a certain way before I was even known to them, 
 and so she ought to be able to manage it still. I said as 
 much as this to her, only I hope civilly, when she suggested 
 that it would be better for her to go and sleep at the Parson- 
 age that night, and walk up to tlie Heath early the next 
 morning, and get everything ready by the time her mother 
 and I came in the aftcrnoou. 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is used to you in moving from home, Miss 
 Milicent," I said, " and she is not used to me ; maybe she 
 would rather have you."
 
 158 UKSULA. 
 
 " Now, Ursie Grant, 3^011 know that is not true," she 
 answered ; " whatever I am good for, it is not nursing, and I 
 don't want to put myself forward in it." 
 
 " This is not quite nursing," I replied, " and anyhow, 
 Miss Milicent, as Mrs. Weir has nobody but you to look to 
 for the future, it won't do to be out of the habit of helping 
 her." 
 
 " I am so busy," she said ; " I told Mr. Perry (that was 
 the preventive lieutenant), that I should be over at the 
 Heath the first thing to-morrow morning, and bring Wil- 
 liams, the carpenter, with me, and then we would see about 
 putting up some shelves, and unpacking the books." 
 
 " I can take a message to Mr. Perry, if it is needful," I 
 said ; " and I thought of sleeping in the house, and so I 
 should be there to see about getting coffee when Mrs. Weir 
 arrived. I think I could show Jenny Dale how she likes it." 
 
 " That old Jenny won't be able to make coffee or any- 
 thing else to suit my mother's whimsies," exclaimed Miss 
 Milicent : " she is as particular as a Queen, as you know well 
 enough, Ursie." 
 
 "I could try and teach Jenny," I said; "and if not. 
 Miss Milicent, you will be there the next day, and then I 
 might show you." 
 
 " And why can't you do it yourself, Ursie ? you are not 
 used to be so cross-grained." And Miss Milicent turned 
 round upon mc sharply, with a look as of twenty eyes put 
 into one. 
 
 "If it was so ordered that I could wait upon Mrs. Weir 
 always, it would be different," I replied, " but as I must 
 needs leave her before very long, Miss Milicent, it would be 
 better and kinder surely to put some one else in the way of 
 pleasing her; and if Jenny Dale can't make the coffee and 
 you don't like to learn yourself, Cotton might try." 
 
 " I tell you what,Ursie," exclaimed Miss Milicent angrily, 
 " I don't take it kind of you to make all this fuss about going 
 away just at the very time we have most need of you; it is 
 not what I should have expected of you, having known you 
 so many years, and always being friends up to this time. It 
 is very hard, very hard indeed." 
 
 " It is not my wish, Miss Milicent," I replied, trying to
 
 URSULA. 159 
 
 speak gently, though I must confess her tone irritated me, 
 "but I have taken the advice of friends. One thing T can 
 promise, if you will allow it — not to leave Mrs. Weir till she 
 is really settled comfortably at the Heath, and able to go on 
 by herself." 
 
 " And that will be never," exclaimed Miss Milicent. " Don't 
 you see that my mother is getting more full of whims and 
 nervousness every day ? And what am I to do with her? 
 She never did attend to me." 
 
 " Perhaps because you never fell into her ways," I ven- 
 tured to say. 
 
 " You speak ignorantly, Ursie Grant," replied Miss Mili- 
 cent, more quietly. " You have never known my mother as I 
 have. Her ways, as you call them, have been for years ways 
 which no one with a grain of sense could fall into, and they 
 would have been twenty times worse but for me. Other 
 people " — Miss Milicent stopped, I don't think she liked to 
 mention her father's name — " other people scolded her one 
 minute and humoured her the next; that did no good." 
 
 "It might have been better," I said, "to humour her in 
 the things that were rational, and try to persuade her out 
 of those which were not." 
 
 She waited before answering, and the colour rose in her 
 cheeks; then she said, " You are right there, Ursie. But 
 persons who humour and persuade must be made of different 
 stuiF from me. I can't, and that is the truth, and so I must 
 e'en go my way, and my mother must go hers ; and things 
 must be managed as they can ; though how that is to be when 
 you leave us is more than I can say." 
 
 I felt for her. There was something about her which 
 always touched me, when she changed from that sharp, head- 
 strong manner, to be in any way true and humble. It was a 
 glimpse of a beautiful, better nature, lying, as it were, at the 
 bottom of a deep sea tossed with tempests. And I knew too 
 that she must have had a great deal to bear all her life long. 
 Persons out of the family could put up with JMrs. Weir's 
 oddities easily enough, but it was not so with those whose 
 daily life was troubled by them. The whims of friends are 
 an amusement ; those of relations are trials. Only one thing 
 I saw then, that Miss Milicent deceived herself by saying
 
 IGO URSULA. 
 
 " can't " and " must." I believe there are not two more 
 treacherous words in the English language. I did not say I 
 would stay, though it was a strong temptation ; but I repeat- 
 ed again that I was very sorry for her, and that I would take 
 care not to leave her till Mrs. Weir was comfortable. I 
 added though, that she must please let me go over to the 
 Heath, for the work to be done there was much more fitting 
 for me than for her. 
 
 She gave in, I do believe, because she was taken by sur- 
 prise to find a will stronger than her own ; and about sis 
 o'clock that evening I took my bundle under my arm, and left 
 Dene never again to return to it as my home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The clouds were gathering and the wind was rising as I 
 crossed the down at the foot of St. Anne's Hill. I thought 
 we should have a stormy night, indeed I was very certain of 
 it, for there was the noise of a ground-swell telling me more 
 plainly than words. I walked on quickly, not exactly dis- 
 liking the work before me, though feeling how strange it all 
 was. I should have been miserable if I had gone direct 
 from Dene to Sandcombe, but this go-between life softened 
 matters, and there was something in the notion of being left 
 to settle and decide things for myself and for others too, and 
 in a certain fashion make my own way in the world, which 
 gave me energy. As for Dene, the spirit of the place had 
 departed when Roger left it. I loved the old familiar scenes 
 dearly — it would be hard to say how dearly — but after he 
 was gone I looked on them as upon the face of a friend who 
 is dead. I knew I had better leave them, and remember 
 them only as they were in the days of my peaceful happi- 
 ness ; and I thanked God from my heart for the blessings 
 He had granted me whilst living amongst them. 
 
 I made my way down a rough bank at the foot of the 
 down, and then along a field into the high road, and so up to 
 Heath Cottage, that was the name of Mrs. Weir's new house. 
 I mention the path I took, because it gives me an opportunity
 
 URSULA. 161 
 
 of saying ■what I did not before, that the high, broken, vipper 
 cliffs ended just above the cottage ; they seemed to break off 
 by degrees and lose themselves in the slope of the down, so 
 that the way I came was easy enough for a young person, 
 though the descent from the down was very steep. 
 
 I thought, as I entered the garden, that the place was 
 not half so trim as the grounds at Dene. The little bit of 
 road and the sweep were full of rough stones, and the grass 
 on the banks wanted mowing. I determined that should be 
 done the first thing in the morning. Mrs. Weir's neat eye 
 would never bear the look of the place as it was, though Miss 
 Milicent would have lived there for years and never have 
 thought about it. I saw no one at work about the garden, 
 and when I went up to the house, and rang the bell, ] 
 waited a most provokingly long time for an answer. At 
 length a little girl appeared, Jenny Dale's grandchild, who I 
 knew was often with her. She stared at me with a pair of 
 very blue eyes, and opened her mouth, but said nothing. 
 
 " Well, Polly ! how d ye do ? " I said. " Where's Gran 
 ny. Can't I come in ? " 
 
 " Granny's bad," was the answer. 
 
 " Bad ! I'm sorry for that. I must go and speak to licr. 
 Where is she ? " 
 " She's a-bed." 
 
 "So ill as that ? How long has she been there ? " 
 " Yesterday, and t'other day." 
 
 " 13ui I saw her the day before yesterday," I said; " she 
 didn't seem ill then. Has the doctor been here V " 
 
 " I don't know, she's a-bed ; " was the only reply 1 could 
 obtain ; so I asked no more questions, but went in. 
 
 Jenny Dale was neat in her way, and her kitchen was 
 comfortable enough generally — but Polly being left to play 
 there, had made it very untidy. The fire was burning low, 
 and the tea-kettle had been taken off it, and was standing 
 within the fender. A little deal table, with some crusts of 
 bread soaked in spilt tea, and some cups waiting to be 
 washed, were the signs that Dale and his grandchild had been 
 having their meal together; but grandfather, I was told, 
 was gone out, and Polly didn't know where he was gone, or 
 when he meant to return, — in fact she didn't know anything, 
 except that Granny was a-bed.
 
 162 URSULA. 
 
 ' And where is Granny sleeping ? " I asked. 
 
 " Up yon ! " and Polly pointed to a comer of the kitch- 
 en, where I saw nothing but the dish-covers upon the 
 dresser. 
 
 There was a little room over one of the out-houses, as I 
 knew, so I guessed what was meant ; and putting some coals 
 on the fire, I told Polly to wash up the tea-things, and make 
 the place tidy; and up-stairs I went. 
 
 I heard a low groaning before I reached the top of the 
 steep little staircase, and when I entered the bedroom, I had 
 no need to be told that " G-ranny was very bad." She was 
 lyicg on a mattress on the floor, turning and rolling from 
 side to side, with an attack of feverish cold and rheuma- 
 tism. The wind, which was beginning to howl every 
 minute louder and louder, poured down in gusts from the 
 little fire-place, close at the head of the bed, so that she had 
 the full benefit of it. The room itself was draughty enough 
 for a person in health ; there was but one window, but that 
 shook as if all the panes had been fastened together by pack- 
 thread ; and the door would not shut close ; and all day long, 
 and all night, too — as I found afterwards — there was the 
 moan of the wind through that and the window, even on a 
 quiet day, — so any one may guess what it was likely to be 
 on a stormy one. No doubt there are many worse places in 
 which people sleep comfortably enough ; but I confess it did 
 provoke me that no one should have had the sense to move 
 the bed a few inches to the left, where it might have been 
 out of the way of the draught ; and this was the first thing 
 I tried to do. But Jenny was in no condition to bear being 
 disturbed even for her own comfort. She was very bad, she 
 said ; she didn't know but what she was a-going to die. 
 Daddy (as she called her husband) was gone for the doctor, 
 and she hadn't no one but the little maid to wait upon her ; 
 — but for all I could say, she would not have anything, or 
 do anything, or allow anything to be done for her. She 
 would lie there with wind enough to turn a mill rushing upon 
 her down the chimney. When I tried to pull the mattress 
 along myself, she cried out as though I was going to cut ofi" one 
 of her legs ; so at last I had nothing to do but to insist upon 
 pinning a shawl across the fire-place to shut out the draught, 
 and leave her till the doctor came.
 
 URSULA. 163 
 
 A comfortable beginning, and a pleasant prospect for 
 Mrs. Weir the next day ! But there was all the more rea- 
 son for exertion ; and as soon as I had made up the kitchen 
 fire, and put the tea-kettle on, that I might have a little tea 
 instead of supper, for I knew it would be more comforting, 
 I went over the house to see whai kind of state things were 
 in. The drawing-room was habitable enough. It was a 
 pretty little room with a deep, square window, commanding 
 a lovely view of the bay and the whole cliff. In shape it 
 was not so very unlike the drawing-room at Dene ; and when 
 the furniture was arranged properly, I thought Mrs. Weir 
 might rather take to it. But the dining-room was dark, and 
 filled with boxes and rubbish ; and in the passages, and up 
 the stairs, litter of all kinds was lying about, — ^just the kind 
 of litter which it was impossible to know what to do with. 
 I hope I was not hard upon Miss Milicent, but I could not 
 help thinking that it was because the last two or three times 
 when^ furniture and books had been sent over from Dene, 
 Miss Milicent had undertaken to see the boxes unpacked at 
 the cottage, and had taken things out and thrown them down 
 anywhere, instead of arranging them as she went on. 
 
 Up-stairs, Mrs. Weir's bed-room was what I should have 
 called pretty and neat; but she would doubtless see fifty 
 things that were wanted. It was a good size, which was the 
 most important point in my eyes, and had a cheerful look- 
 out towards the south-east, and a square window like the 
 drawing-room. There was a dressing-room to it, besides an- 
 other good-sized room for Miss Milicent, over the dining- 
 room ; and a little room which I was to have, and two attics. 
 
 I took off my bonnet and shawl, and then I went down- 
 stairs, and called Polly to come and help me clear some of 
 the rubbish from the passage and the stairs. But it was 
 growing dark, and we had scarcely begun our task, when 
 Dale came back from Compton with the Doctor, who looked 
 grave about Jenny, and said she must be well looked after, 
 and he would send her some medicine, and come and see her 
 again the first thing in the morning. I could not leave her 
 without Polly after that, so I sent the child to sit with her, 
 and went on with my work by myself. 
 
 I was standing a minute to rest myself, and looking out
 
 164 URSULA. 
 
 of the dra'wing-room window, trying to make out what it was 
 impossible to see because of the darkness that was coming, 
 when I fancied I heard the front door bell ring. I listened, 
 but not hearing it again, I thought it must have been my 
 mistake ; presently, however, I caught the sound of footsteps, 
 and going out into the passage, I saw two persons there, a 
 little gentleman and a stout lady, strangers. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Weir at home ? " said the gentleman in a meek 
 voice. 
 
 " You had better ask for your cousin, my dear," said the 
 lady. " We want to see Miss Weir," she added, not wait- 
 ing for him to answer. " This is Mr. Temple, and I am 
 Mrs. Temple, and we are just come. You had better go at 
 once and announce us ; now, my dear," and she walked past 
 him to go forward to the drawing-room. The gentle- 
 man followed. 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is not here, Ma'am," I said as soon as the 
 opportunity for speaking was given me. 
 
 " Not here ! " she stopped short ; " very provoking ! 
 You should not have brought me, my dear," she added, ad- 
 dressing her husband. " You should have come first to in- 
 quire. I told you there was just the chance of not finding 
 them. I am quite exhausted." 
 
 The lady threw herself down in the arm-chair, her floun- 
 ces spreading out, so as to make her three times the size she 
 was naturally. To judge by her brilliant complexion, high 
 colom-, and clear sparkling eyes, she was not likely to be 
 overcome by fatigue, but appearances are deceitful. The 
 gentleman, who had been gifted by nature with a very meek 
 countenance, which he had vainly endeavoured to render 
 fierce by the help of a sandy moustache, stood by her sub- 
 missively. She handed him a little bag, which she carried 
 in her hand, and he took out a scent-bottle, and gave it her, 
 though I don't believe he thought she was going to faint any 
 more than I did. 
 
 " I am very sorry there has been any mistake. Sir," I 
 said, " but Mrs. Weir is not expected till to-morrow. I am 
 just come over myself to put things in order for her." 
 
 " We can have beds here, I suppose ? " said the lady. 
 
 " I am afraid, Ma'am," 1 replied, a little surprised I
 
 URSULA. 165 
 
 must confess at such a bold request, " it could not be witb- 
 out Mrs. Weir's knowledge." 
 
 " I thought that being Mrs. Weir's relations, there 
 might have been some accommodation for us," said the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " And Mrs. Weir would wish it, I am sure," replied the 
 lady ; " in fact we quite reckoned upon it." She spoke an- 
 grily, and was evidently not at all inclined to faint now. 
 
 " I am very sorry," I replied, " but I could not take it 
 upon myself, without Mrs. Weir's permission ; and indeed 
 there is no room properly ready, except just where I am to 
 sleep myself. Mrs. Weir had no notion you were coming, 
 Sir." 
 
 " It was a sudden thought," replied the Captain, 
 " but " 
 
 " Young woman," interrupted Mrs. Temple, ''you will 
 be sorry for being uncivil to us ; your mistress will be much 
 displeased when she hears of it. I am Mrs. AVeir's favourite 
 niece. This gentleman is come to transact most important 
 business with her, and he is not accustomed to disrespect, he 
 never puts up with it. You had better at once go and pre- 
 pare the rooms, and get us some tea, for we have had a very 
 long journey. This is a most out-of-the-way place ; I won- 
 der how any one can think of living in it," she added, speak- 
 ing to her husband. 
 
 " I am afraid I could not get tea to suit you. Ma'am," I 
 replied. " I don't know what there is in the house, and you 
 will find everything vei'y comfortable at the hotel, if you 
 will please to go there to-night ; and no doubt Mrs. Weir 
 and Miss Milicent will make everything easy to-morrow." 
 
 " My dear — what do you — what do you think ? " said 
 the Captain. 
 
 " That I shall stay where I am," she replied. " The 
 hotel is not to be put up with, it is too full. That room we 
 were shown into was a mere hole." 
 
 " You will be much better off there than here. Ma'am," 
 I answered. " There is no one to wait upon you here but 
 myself" 
 
 " And I suppose you know how to wait," she answered. 
 
 " Not very well. Ma'am. I am not Mrs. Weir's servant.
 
 166 URSULA. 
 
 I only came over for a time to help arrange tilings for her, 
 and I have much to do to-night ; I don't think I could possi- 
 bly undertake it." 
 
 " Extremely uncivil ! " exclaimed the lady. " I shall 
 go up stairs and judge of the state of the house for 
 myself." 
 
 " If you please, Ma'am," I replied, but I did not offer 
 to show her the way ; I was quite confounded by her 
 coolness. 
 
 " My dear," — she beckoned to her husband to follow, 
 and he went after her quite tamely. I heard her stumble 
 over a box at the doorway, and hard work I knew they 
 would have to make their way up-stairs, such a number of 
 things were lying about ; but it was all so much the better 
 for me, for it gave me time to think, and whilst they were 
 gone I sat down to consider what was to come next. A very 
 odd business, certainly, it was. 
 
 Mrs. Temple's name I had heard often enough, but I had 
 never understood that there was much kindness between her 
 and Mrs. Weir, at least since her marriage, when there had 
 been differences about money matters. What business she 
 had to come troubling for Mrs. Weir just at this time was 
 more than I could guess. Of course I was unwilling to do 
 anything disagreeable, but as to their sleeping in the house 
 that night it was out of the question. Mrs. Temple was 
 so long away that it is my belief she must have gone uj) to 
 the attics, but down-stairs she came at last. 
 
 " The room over this will do very well ; you can make up 
 the bed, and we shall not expect to have everything perfect. 
 The dressing-room will be large enough for Mr. Temple 
 when you have moved out the boxes." 
 
 " I could not well put you into Mrs. Weir's room, 
 Ma'am, I replied ; " it is kept for her; and the boxes, I fear, 
 are too heavy to be moved. I am sorry to be unaccommodat- 
 ing, but if you will please to go to the hotel to-night, Mrs. 
 Weir will be here to make her own arrangements to-morrow. 
 I must ask you to excuse my leaving you now, as I have 
 work to do." 
 
 When I had said this, I walked, out of the room, for I 
 was not going to discuss the point with her any further.
 
 URSULA. 167 
 
 I heard them talking to each other, the lady's voice be- 
 coming louder and louder, as she seemed to be trying to 
 convince her husband of something against his will ; I did 
 not go near them, however, but went up to see Jenny and 
 give her her medicine, and then, as she seemed better, Polly 
 and I set to work again by candlelight to clear away the 
 rubbish. At last, when more than a quarter of an hour had 
 gone by, Polly saw them go down the passage and out of the 
 house-door, and so we were rid of them. 
 
 I can't say I was comfortable ; I did not know how I 
 could have done diiferently, but I had been quite put out of 
 my usual way. Ever since I could remember, I had been 
 taught to treat persons according to their station, and though 
 I was proud and wilful, yet I had a natural feeling of respect 
 for pei-sons better born and educated than myself. Even 
 when Miss Milicent provoked me to speak out as she some- 
 times did, it was more that I caught something of her off- 
 hand tone before I was aware of it, than that I had the 
 slightest intention of being uncivil ; but Mrs. Temple made 
 something rise up in my heart quite unlike any other feeling. 
 It was not for myself I really think. She did not know wlio 
 I was, and if I had tried to make her understand, I dou't 
 suppose I should have succeeded. But, besides the incon- 
 venience of her request, she had claimed as a right what only 
 ought to have been asked as a favour, and this was what I 
 had never been accustomed to. Mrs. Weir used to say to 
 me sometimes in former days, " Never take a liberty with 
 any person, Ursula, and never let any one take a liberty with 
 you ; and then you will know how to behave in every position 
 in which it may please God to place you." I am sure she 
 acted upon the advice herself, for all the time I was with 
 her she never forgot that I had my own claims to respect 
 and consideration, in spite of my inferior position. 
 
 Polly began asking questions about the visitors, and 
 would have run out into the road after them, to look at them, 
 if I would have allowed her ; but I stopped her directly, and 
 told her nothing. We worked on till nearly nine o'clock, 
 and then I thought it was time to send her to bed. Dale 
 had had his supper, and was gone up-stairs ; so I had the 
 kitchen to myself, and I stirred up the fire, wliich had been
 
 168 URSULA. 
 
 let down again very low, and sat down, listening to the 
 howling of the wind, and the dash of the waves upon the 
 shore ; and thinking how much I should have to tell Roger 
 when we mot again. As a pleasant end to the evening, there 
 was no milk in the house, and no butter — so my hope of a 
 warm, comforting tea came to nothing ; but I contented my- 
 self with some bread and cheese, and a glass of beer, and 
 after seeing that Jenny had everything she wanted, I went to 
 bed, and being quite tired out, soon fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 My new acquaintances did not intrude upon me the nest 
 morning. I suppose they had had enough of me. Polly 
 said she saw them going down the cliffs to the sea, but that 
 was all I heard of them, and nearly all I thought about 
 them, for there was business enough to take up every moment. 
 Work as hard as I, and Dale, and Polly, and Williams the 
 carpenter, and a girl from the village could, it seemed as 
 though the house never would be straight by the time Mrs, 
 Weir arrived. I was most anxious that it should be, for she 
 was one of those persons with whom first impressions are 
 everything ; and if, on coming to the Heath, she was to see 
 the place untidy, I knew well enough she might take a pre- 
 judice which nothing would overcome. 
 
 Jenny was still quite ill, though the doctor spoke less 
 gravely about her than he did the night before. But it was 
 useless for her to think of moving ; and I had all her work 
 to attend to as well as my own. Mrs. Weir was to come to 
 dinner, and a roast chicken was to be provided for her. Dale, 
 and Polly, and I, dined off some cold mutton, without 
 potatoes, and but little leisure we had to eat that. 
 
 About four o'clock the fly drove up to the gate. Wil- 
 liams had only time to gather up some of the carpentering 
 tools, and rush out of the drawing-room window, whilst Polly 
 carried away in her lap every scrap of litter she could see, 
 before it was at the front door. My heart beat quite fast. 
 It came over me all at once what a dreary thing the new
 
 URSULA. 169 
 
 home would be to Mrs. Weir ; and when the flyman let down 
 the step, and I went forward to give her my arm, I scarcely 
 had courage to look her in the face. 
 
 But I had no reason to be afraid. Mrs. Weir was not a 
 person to give way in great trials. She rested her hand 
 upon my arm, but I did not feel it even tremble; and, when 
 she stood upon the ground, the first words she said were, 
 " God is very good, Ursula ; He gives us friends to receive 
 us everywhere." I hoped Miss Milicent would have come 
 with her into the drawing room, but she always left her mother 
 to me when I was there, so I took the poor lady in myself. 
 The strangeness of everything did then rather overcome her, 
 and she sat down and cried a little, but they were very cjuiet 
 tears — not at all like those of a person who considered herself 
 suifering from a great grief. She brightened up after a few 
 minutes, and began admiring the room, and saying how com- 
 fortable it Avas. She was always gracious and thoughtful when 
 people had been working for her. And then I thought of 
 telling her a little about the time it had taken to put every- 
 thing in order, thinking by that means to distract her 
 tlioughts. It was all very awkward and odd ; I could not 
 tell what to do next, and I was wishing to be in half-a-dozen 
 places at once. But my work was soon settled, for in walked 
 Miss Milicent, and with her Mr. and Mrs. Temple. 
 
 I can't say how cross I felt. Just at the very moment 
 Mrs. Weir wanted to rest and be alone ! And Miss Milicent 
 not to know better than to bring them straight into the draw- 
 ing-room without notice ! But it was exactly like her. 
 
 " Mother," she said, and she went up to Mrs. Weir, " here 
 is Matilda Temple, and her husband, too. They have been 
 waiting to see you. " 
 
 Mrs. Weir looked up as though in a dream ; she made no 
 answer. 
 
 Mr. Temple held back, but his wife urged him on. '' 1 
 am afraid we have called at an awkward moment," he began. 
 
 " Only it was impossible to resist the temptation," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Temple. " Being in this part of the world, we 
 felt you would consider it so unkind, my dear aunt, if we 
 passed the house without coming in. And our time is so 
 short, — only till to-morrow, — and there is so much to see, — 
 Vol. T.— S
 
 170 U K S U L A . 
 
 such lovely scenery ; " and then, putting her head a little 
 to one side, and twisting her mouth, she added, " Besides, it 
 is so sweet to meet the friends one loves." 
 
 I watched Mrs. Weir's face all the time Mrs. Temple 
 was speaking, expecting to see something of anger or annoy- 
 ance in it. But not the least ! As gently and sweetly as 
 ever she answered, " I was not quite prepared to see you, 
 Matilda ; but Milicent and I will do our best to make you 
 and Stephen welcome." 
 
 " We must make ourselves welcome first, mother," said 
 Miss Milicent, bluntly. " Cousin Matilda, I think you and 
 Stephen had better go now, and come again by an by." 
 
 " It is a very short peep," said Mrs. Temple. 
 
 " Ursula," Mrs. Weir turned to me. " I think I feel 
 rather tired. Matilda, you will excuse me. I am a little 
 " Her voice failed her, and she looked extremely pale. 
 
 "Faint," said Mrs. Temple; she came forward to push 
 me aside, and support Mrs. Weir's head. 
 
 But I kept my place. 
 
 " If you will excuse me. Ma'am," I said, " I think Mrs. 
 Weir is most used to me ; and. Miss Milicent, if you would 
 be good enough to pour out the sal volatile, and if Mrs. Weir 
 might be left quite alone." 
 
 I was obliged to speak plainly, and Mr. Temple took the 
 hint, walked to the door, and looked back, expecting his wife 
 to follow. 
 
 " Yes, go, my dear," she said, nodding her head at him, 
 " I shall come presently ; she will be better ; it is only 
 fatigue — nervousness. I dare say the pleasure of seeing us 
 was a little too much. I shall come presently. Don't wait 
 for me, my dear." 
 
 I made sure Miss Milicent would have burst out then. 
 She was not usually so cowed ; — but no — she went out of the 
 room, and sent Cotton in, and left her, and Mrs. Temple, 
 and me together. 
 
 No doubt it was fortunate for me that we were obliged 
 to think of Mrs. Weir instead of ourselves, or Mrs. Temple 
 and I might not have been such good friends. We had a 
 difficult matter to bring Mrs. Weir round. It was full a 
 quarter of an hour before she recovered enough to speak,
 
 URSULA. 171 
 
 tliougli I don't think she ever quite lost her consciousness. 
 Mrs. Temple was sensible and helpful enough in what she 
 did, but the nonsense she talked was not to bo imagined. 
 She seemed to think it was quite fortunate that she happened 
 to be there, and declared several times that she couldn't think 
 how we should have managed without her. " But all things 
 were so Providentially ordered," she said. I don't believe it 
 once entered, her head that she had worried Mrs. Weir by 
 thrusting herself upon her at a wrong time. 
 
 At last, when it was a question of taking Mrs. Weir up- 
 stairs, I made a stand. Cotton and I knew very well what 
 to do ; and Mrs. Temple should not come, I was resolved. I 
 whispered to Mrs. Weir to beg her to go ; and the poor lady, 
 in a very feeble voice, thanked her niece as though she had 
 done the most self-denying act possible, and hoped to be 
 better, and see her again in the evening. 
 
 I did not think even then that we should have got rid of 
 her f but she twisted her mouth, and said it was a delightful 
 privilege to be permitted to help a friend ; and then she kissed 
 Mrs. Weir and departed. 
 
 All that evening Mrs. Weir kept her room. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Temple called again, but I urged Miss Milicent to 
 send them down word that her mother was not well enough 
 to see them, and so they were not admitted. And, as they 
 were to go the next day, I pleased myself with thinking we 
 should be left to arrange our own affairs without interrup- 
 tion, and that, if Mr. Temple had business to talk over, 
 he would just spend an hour with Mrs. Weu' in the morning, 
 and there would be an end of it. But little I knew of Mrs. 
 Temple. 
 
 Mrs. Weir was better the next morning ; and a message 
 came over from the hotel to say that Mr. Temple would like 
 to see her if she was able. What passed I don't exactly 
 know. It was not a very long talk, and I don't expect it 
 was one of much consequence, except that Mr. Temple 
 was anxious to put in a claim for some old debt, of a couple 
 of hundred pounds, which, now that the Dene estate was sold, 
 he thought might as well be paid off. A letter to the 
 lawyer would have managed the business just as well, as far 
 as I could ever understand ; and, as to Mrs. Temple being a
 
 172 U E S U L A . 
 
 favourite, Miss Miliceut herself told me that her cousin 
 Matilda had been the torment of the family for the last ten 
 years, though her mother had always been willing to think 
 the best of her. 
 
 Whilst Mr. Temple was with Miss Milieent, IVIrs. Temple 
 insisted upon going up-stairs to sit with Mrs. Weir, and it 
 was no use for me to try and prevent it, as I had to be in the 
 kitchen looking after the cooking, Jenny being still too ill 
 to move or do anything but sit up for about an hour, and 
 there being no one at hand to take her place. I wondered 
 to myself at what time Mrs. Temple and her husband meant 
 to go, and wished I could see a fly drive up to take them 
 away, for I had" a misgiving that we should have no peace 
 till they were gone ; but just as I had Mrs. Weir's luncheon 
 ready, and was putting it on the tray to be taken up-stairs, 
 down came Cotton from Mrs. Weir's room. 
 
 " Well ! Miss G-rant," she said (I was always called Miss 
 Grant by the servants because of its being more respectful), 
 " What are we to do now ? I should like to know how the 
 house is to hold us alh" 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I asked. " Why won't the house 
 hold us all to-day, as well as it did yesterday ? " 
 
 " We filled it yesterday," she answered ; " and when 
 there are two more to be put in, I won't undertake to say 
 where they are to be quartered." 
 
 "■ Two more ! " I said, and I felt very uncomfortable. 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Temple in the back room, and Miss Mill- 
 cent in the little room, and then what is to become of you, 
 Miss Grant ? I would make a stir about it, that I would. 
 I would not submit to be put up in the attic." 
 " They can't come," I said ; " it's nonsense." 
 " They will come," she answered, " and it's no nonsense." 
 I did not believe her — I could not ; it seemed so mon- 
 strous. Mrs. Weir being just come into the house, nothing 
 arranged, and she, herself, ill and in great grief, and having 
 lost so much of her fortune, I thought it impossible than any 
 persons could have the face to accept such an invitation even 
 if it had been made. 
 
 As for sleeping in the attic, I did not choose to talk about 
 that with Cotton. If it had been a real benefit to any one,
 
 URSULA. 173 
 
 I would have slept in the kitchen or the scullery. It was 
 not that I cared for, but the notion of having that dreadful 
 woman entirely in the house, never to be free from her ; for 
 the moment I did think that I must give up and go oiF at 
 once to Sandcombe. 
 
 " The luncheon will be cold if you don't take it up at 
 once," I said to Cotton, trying not to show that I thought 
 anything of her news. 
 
 " Not so cold as somebody's welcome should be, if I had 
 my will," she replied ; " but you are very strange. Miss 
 Grrant. I don't think you know a bit when you are put 
 upon." 
 
 Cotton was wrong ; I did know very well, but when 
 persons serve for love their shoulders can bear a tolerably 
 heavy burden. 
 
 As we were speaking Miss Milicent came out from the 
 drawing-room, looking feverish and hurried. She sent Cot- 
 ton-away, and then said, " Ursie, what have we got in the 
 house ? We must have dinner at six o'clock." 
 
 " There are some cutlets and the remains of the chicken, 
 which I was going to fricassee," I said ; " I thought, with 
 a bit of bacon and a pudding, that would be enough, Miss 
 Milicent, for you and Mrs. Weir." 
 
 " You had better get a leg of lamb, Ursie. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Temple are likely to be here." 
 
 " To stay, Ma'am ? " I said, for I thought I would have 
 it out with her at once. 
 
 " That is as may be," she answered gruffly. " They won't 
 stay for my asking, but my mother is so easily taken over. 
 She has no more power of saying ' No' than a baby. And as 
 for Matilda Temple, she would come over a hyena." 
 
 " Then I am sure, Miss Milicent, I am worse than a 
 hyena," I said, and I could not help laughing, vexed though 
 I was. " She would never come over me, you will excuse 
 my saying so." 
 
 " i)on't boast, Ursie ; you have never had to do with her. 
 You see if she is not come to quarter herself upon us for a 
 month, and neither you nor I, nor any one will be al)le to 
 say her nay." 
 
 " But indeed, Miss Milicent," I exclaimed, " it ought
 
 174 URSULA. 
 
 not to be. She will drive Mrs. Weir out of her senses. It 
 is mj belief that it was seeing her helped to make the poor 
 ladj faint yesterday." 
 
 " If she was dying, Matilday Temple wovild stick by her," 
 exclaimed Miss Milicent; " and talk good all the time, till 
 she thought herself a saint, and made my mother think so 
 too." 
 
 " And where are Mr. and Mrs. Temple to sleep, Ma'am ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " I shall take to the attic," said Miss Milicent. 
 
 " Oh ! no indeed," I exclaimed ; " that must not be. Miss 
 Milicent. There is my room, quite ready. I will move my 
 things in a minute, and the attic is quite as good as I shall 
 want." 
 
 " It won't be, Ursie Grant," she replied, catching hold of 
 my arm, as was her habit ; " my mother won't allow it, and, 
 what is more, if she would I would not. When you came 
 to help us in our troubles we promised you a comfortable 
 room, and we aren't going to have it taken from you by any 
 one." 
 
 " Only if I give it up, it is not taken from me," I said ; 
 " and, indeed, Miss Milicent, it is not fitting ; I could not 
 stay here, with you sleeping in the attic, and me in the room 
 below." 
 
 She would make no reply, but went off, and I heard her 
 tell Fanny to come and help carry her boxes up-stairs. 
 
 It touched me, I confess. I did not believe she had so 
 much thought, but it made me very uncomfortable ; for really, 
 as I said, it was unfitting, and I had a kind of fear that it 
 would make mischief. 
 
 I took the opportunity of going up-stairs to Mrs. Weir, 
 under pretence of carrying away the luncheon, and, fortu- 
 nately, I found her by herself Cotton had persuaded her 
 to>get up and dress, and she was sitting by the window. 
 
 " I was not prepared to see you there. Ma'am," I said ; 
 " I fancied you wouldn't get up till the afternoon." 
 
 " I feel better, thank you, Ursula, and lying in bed only 
 weakens me ; besides, I have had a visitor." 
 
 " I was afraid Mrs. Temple would have been too much 
 for you, Ma'am. Seeing her did you harm yesterday."
 
 URSULA. 175 
 
 " No, Ursula, it only startled me a little. Mrs. Temple 
 is a very good woman, and when she talks to me, she re- 
 minds me of many things which I am too apt to forget." 
 
 " Indeed, Ma'am," was all I could say. 
 
 " She has been very well brought up," continued Mrs. 
 Weir, " and she has done a greau deal for her husband. He 
 was very extravagant as a young man, and she has quite 
 cured him, and now he gives all his money to charities. He 
 owes her a great deal." 
 
 " And no doubt she takes care to make him pay it," was 
 the uncharitable thought which crossed my mind, but I an- 
 swered by asking if Mrs. Temple was likely to remain long 
 in the neighbourhood. 
 
 " I have persuaded her to stay for three or four days, 
 Ursula. She has never seen this part of the country, and 
 she wishes to do so very much, but she cannot be at the 
 hotel. She cannot bear it ; it is noisy, and she is not 
 strong." 
 
 " Persons who travel can scarcely expect to meet with 
 the same quietness they have at home," I replied ; " but I 
 never heard any complaint of the hotel. Ma'am." 
 
 " Mrs. Temple does not complain. She says, very rightly, 
 that the worst accommodation is better than creatures like 
 ourselves deserve. Indeed, she made me ashamed of being 
 so particular myself. I hope you will forgive me, Ursula, if 
 I have ever given you trouble by it. I have been very much 
 spoilt." 
 
 I saw a tear glisten in the poor lady's eye, and I ventured 
 to take her hand, and say, " Dear Ma'am, if you will please 
 not talk so, twenty times the trouble would be nothing in 
 return for the goodness and kindness you have shown to me 
 for years." 
 
 " Ah ! but, Ursula, it is not right to let the mind rest 
 upon these trifles. Mrs. Temple is not fanciful as I am. 
 When I told her that I was afraid the bed in Milicent's room 
 might be hard, she assured me she could sleep upon the 
 ground if needful." 
 
 " Pei-haps Mr. Temple may be more fidgety, Ma'am," 1 
 observed ; for I could not help noticing how entirely the 
 good gentleman was put aside, even by Mrs. Weir.
 
 176 URSULA. 
 
 " Ah ! Ursula, Mrs. Temple has done so mucli for her hus- 
 band in that respect, as well as in many others. She says 
 that he is a changed man since she first knew him. He has 
 no wish for fine carpets and curtains, and soft beds, and sofas. 
 He desires nothing but quietness. That is an excellent in- 
 fluence for a wife to exercise. 
 
 Mrs. Weir sighed, and I knew that she was in her 
 heart reproaching herself for having encouraged her hus- 
 band in extravagance by her own fancifulness. 
 
 '' They will find the room small, Ma'am," I said ; " and 
 I don't quite know what to do about the dressing-room. 
 Fanny and I had thought of filling it with the things we 
 couldn't put elsewhere." 
 
 A harassed look came over Mrs. Weir's face ; it always 
 did when there was the least fuss about arrangements. Her 
 brow contracted, and there was a heavy darkness across her 
 eyes. I saw it would not do to make more objections. 
 
 " You can fill my room, Ursula, if you like. I am not 
 going to be so particular as I have been. What docs it sig- 
 nify ? I shall soon be out of this world." 
 
 " But those who love you, dear Ma'am," I said, " will 
 take care that you shall be comfortable whilst you are in it. 
 Please don't trouble yourself; we shall manage, I dare say; 
 and it won't be for long, I suppose." 
 
 . " Only for two days, Ursula. Mrs. Temple is obliged to 
 be at home. She is making preparations for a charity ba- 
 zaar ; so she cannot stay. I have promised to look over my 
 things, and see what I can spare for her. I was just think- 
 ing, when you came up, that you might, if you would, be 
 kind enough to unpack one of my boxes, and help me to 
 choose." 
 
 I am afraid I felt very unwilling; but as I did not ven- 
 ture actually to say " No," I replied that, if I might be al- 
 lowed, I would rather wait just now, for I had to go to see 
 about dinner. 
 
 " Thank you, by and by will do very well ; or, perhaps 
 Cotton will bring the box." 
 
 Already in my mind I saw Mrs. Temple fingering all the 
 pretty little toys and ornaments in which Mrs. Weir found 
 pleasure ; and my heart swelled so that I really could not
 
 URSULA. IV? 
 
 answer. But there was uo escape. Mrs. Weir's mind, I 
 could see, was possessed with the notion of giving up some- 
 thing she cared for. What that tiresome woman had been 
 saying to her, I was unable to imagine. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 Miss Milicent took possession of the attic, in spite of 
 all I could say, and Mr. and Mrs. Temple were put into 
 her room ; and, as it seemed, were likely long to remain there. 
 As for going away in two days, I was sure from the begin- 
 ning what that would come to. If ever there was a woman 
 who might be called a burr, it was Mrs. Temple. Once let 
 her come near you, and, as Miss Milicent said, she would 
 stick to you through everything. You might cast her off one 
 minute, and think you were rid of her, and the next you were 
 sure to find her clinging to you again. When the two days 
 were over, she declared herself to be wonderfully better for 
 the sea air, and Mrs. Weir was very pleased, really so, I do 
 believe ; she was pleased at anything which did good. Mrs. 
 Temple was pressed to stay. I remembered the charity 
 bazaar ; but if there were really going to be one, there was 
 certainly no hurry in preparing for it. Not but what it was 
 still talked about. Mrs. Temple was always collecting sea- 
 weeds out of doors, or cutting up bits of card-board in doors, 
 liking, she said, to employ her time usefully ; and I take it 
 for granted it was all useful, for even Miss Milicent was 
 drawn in by her, and made to search for stones and specimens, 
 as Mrs. Temple called them, all which were to go to the char- 
 ity bazaar. 
 
 In a week the house had settled down as though INIrs. 
 Temple had lived there, and meant to live there, always. 
 But it was just the contrary with me ; having her there opened 
 my eyes to one thing, — that I was not so necessary to Mrs. 
 Weir as I imagined. It was not a pleasant discovery, but 
 it made me see how selfish I might be, even in what appeared 
 to be my best feelings. AVhat Mrs. Weir wanted was a little 
 sympathy and amusement ; and when she could obtain this, 
 Vol. I.— 8*
 
 178 URSULA. 
 
 her life was tolerably comfortable ; for she "was like a cliild, 
 accustomed to live just for the day, and to trust everything 
 to others. The very weight of the cares and griefs which 
 had burdened her for so many years, I believe, forced her 
 to this. Her husband had made her helpless, and kept her so ; 
 and now nothing roused her except some great call of what 
 she considered duty, such as that which had made her dwell 
 so much upon the thought of rejoining Mr. Weir. If that 
 notion were to come up again, I knew she would startle us all 
 by her energy ; but now she was sinking down into a kind of 
 life which sometimes made me think of the beautiful sea 
 anemones found upon the shore, — half vegetable and half 
 animal, — moving their long feelers, and searching, as it were, 
 for something, they scarcely knew what ; yet contented to 
 remain in one place, and appearing to find a kind of solace 
 in spreading themselves out in the sun, and taking thankfully 
 the light and air which Grod, in His wonderful Wisdom, 
 had provided for them. 
 
 It is happy for us, I am sure, that we do not all need the 
 same comfort. I should never have found mine where Mrs. 
 Weir did, in Mrs. Temple's society ; but in saying this, I 
 don't in the least mean that I was, therefore, in any way 
 better or wiser than Mrs. Weir, — quite the contrary. It was 
 the very goodness and simplicity which I never could attain to 
 that made her take for reality what always seemed to me mere 
 outside show. Mrs. Temple showed herself to me the first night 
 I ever saw her ; she was ofi' her guard then, and the impres- 
 sion I had of her remained by me. Perhaps, but for that, I 
 too might have been deluded by her. But I don't know ; 
 there is something in true kindness and goodness, which I 
 fancy can never be counterfeited. All the fine talking and 
 appearance of sympathy, which Mrs. Weir had such faith in, 
 sounded to me hollow from the beginning ; and I could not 
 but see by Mrs. Temple's words and ways that she had one 
 great besetting sin, which, as far as I could discover, she 
 was totally blind to. She was a thoroughly mean woman 
 about money matters. She had not been well, and she 
 wanted change and sea air ; that was the history of her visit 
 to Compton Heath ; and as days went on, I saw that she had 
 made up her mind from the beginning to come and quarter
 
 URSULA. 179 
 
 herself upon Mrs. Weir, not for one or two nights, hut for a 
 month, or six weeks, or any time that might suit her. But 
 she would not have said it for the world. No, all the time 
 it was, that she was so anxious to go, only her aunt pressed 
 her to stay, and seemed to enjoy a little sympathy and aifec- 
 tionate comijanionship so much, that really, in her distressed 
 state, — a state worse than widowhood, — she could not make 
 up her mind to leave her. 
 
 It was all quite true about Mrs. Weir ; she did like it, 
 at least in a certain way, and for a time. To me, it was just 
 like having a wet blanket thrown over me to hear Mrs. Tem- 
 ple converse, especially when she touched upon serious sub- 
 jects. I never knew what to say, or which way to look ; and 
 though I could have listened to Mrs. Weir for hours, when 
 she talked to me in her earnest, simple way, I never heard 
 one of Mrs. Temple's set speeches without feeling as though 
 I wished a trap- door could open in the floor, and I might sink 
 down and hide myself. But dear, good Mrs. Weir, took it 
 all in like a sermon. She was so sincere herself that she 
 could not suspect others of make-believe ; and constant sor- 
 row, and thinking of serious matters, and living in that 
 strange dreamy way, out of the world, made her prepared at 
 all times for subjects which came to other people with a 
 a shock and a jar. 
 
 Miss Milicent and I had a little conversation upon this 
 subject one day. It was after we had been at the Heath 
 about three weeks, and I had received a letter from Roger, 
 saying he had finished his business in London, and was coming 
 down the nest week to Sandcombe, and asking if I could go 
 over and see him, if it was only for a few days. As things 
 were, it struck me, that I might just as well make my move 
 once for all. There might never be a better moment ; and 
 that afternoon, when Miss Milicent came into the kitchen 
 to give some orders, I determined to propose it to her. I 
 was standing there, showing Cotton how to make Mrs. 
 Weir's coflFee, — for Jenny Dale, though she was pretty well 
 again, and able to cook, had never managed to make cofiee 
 to please Mrs. Weir, 
 
 " I should like to speak to you if you please. Miss Mili- 
 cent," I said, " if you are not busy."
 
 180 URSULA. 
 
 " Yes, I cam busy ; I always am," she answered ; and true 
 enough it did appear that she ought to be busy, even if she 
 was not, for it wouhl have taken full ten minutes, rightly, to 
 put herself tidy. She had been down upon the shore, getting 
 seaweeds, and crabs, and crawling things, to be placed in a 
 glass, for Mrs. Temple — I suppose for the charity bazaar. 
 Such a mass of mud on her short tucked-up dress, and such 
 boots ! and the pockets of her loose jacket stuck full of stones 
 and shells, and her bonnet all awry ; if I had not seen her 
 nearly the same every day, for the last fortnight, I don't 
 think I could have kept from a smile. 
 
 But I tried to be very respectful, knowing my temptation 
 the other way, and I said, " I wouldn't trouble you if you 
 are really busy. Miss Milicent, but I have had a letter this 
 morning, and I thought I should like to talk to you about 
 it." 
 
 " A letter, have you ? Oh ! " 
 
 Miss Milicent's look grew softer. She took a real in- 
 terest in Roger, and must have guessed the letter was from 
 him ; but she still went her own "way. 
 
 " I want some brown pans, Jenny," she said, " flat pans ; 
 and where is the sea-water Dale brought up from the shore ? 
 Here are beautiful things to be cared for," and she uncovered 
 a basket and showed a mass of slimy-looking coloured jelly, 
 lying upon stones and seaweeds, with tiny crabs and peri- 
 winkles, and all kinds of uncouth creatures, crawling about 
 amongst them. 
 
 " They things had best have stayed where they were born, 
 it's my opinion," said Jenny; " they don't look natural-like 
 here. What am I to do with them. Miss Milicent ? " 
 
 As she spoke, Jenny poked one of them with a skewer, 
 and then started back, declaring " she wouldn't, for the life 
 of her, have anything to do with it. If she might put it in 
 the pot and boil it she wouldn't so much care, but live jelly 
 was what she was not used to." 
 
 I brought the pans from the scullery myself, and Miss 
 Milicent and I moved her creatures, as she called them, into 
 it, and then, as they began to unfold in the clear water, 
 Jenny ventured to look in upon them, and, in spite of her 
 declarations, that " they weren't canny, and she couldn't
 
 URSULA. 181 
 
 abide them," we left her standing by the pans and poking 
 them about with the skewer. 
 
 All this time Miss Milicent seemed to have no thought for 
 my business, but when her own was finished she said, " Now, 
 tJrsie Grant, if you choose to come to the dining room, I 
 can see the letter," and away she walked, expecting me to 
 follow her. 
 
 We went into the dining room, and she shut to the door. 
 " Well ! what is the mischief ? " she began. 
 
 " That Roger is coming to Sandcombe, Miss Milicent, 
 and I think it is time for me to be going," I replied. 
 
 " You have taken an uppish fit, have you ? " she replied. 
 " I thought it would come to this ; Mrs. Temple said it 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Mrs. Temple ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes ! she is a sharp woman, though not after my fancy 
 in all things. She said she saw it in you the first night she 
 came ; and I have a doubt that you were not too civil to her 
 then, Ursie Grant." 
 
 I was upon the point of explaining, but I remembered 
 that evil words multiply by being taken up and cut to pieces, 
 like the creatures Miss Milicent had just brought into the 
 kitchen ; so I let Mrs. Temple's unkind remarks pass, and 
 answered, " You would scarcely have said that Miss Mili- 
 cent, if you had known all that went on. But I don't know 
 what I have done to make you or any one call me up- 
 pish. It can't be because I talk of going away, for that 
 has been settled ever since I came." 
 
 " I knew how it would be," persisted Miss Milicent, in her 
 old way, carrying on her own words just as though I had not 
 spoken. " Matilda Temple said she was sure you would 
 never go on long, dining in the kitchen with old Dale and 
 his wife, and not having a place to sit in except your bed- 
 room. She was wrong though in one thing, as I told her, 
 for it was my own will to go to the attic." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent," I exclaimed, " how can you listen 
 to Mrs. Temple ; did I ever complain '? " 
 
 " No ; bufyou are going away." 
 
 " But not for that," I replied, and I felt the angry colour 
 rush to my check. " If there is one thing I hate more than
 
 182 URSULA. 
 
 another, it is taking upon oneself to have airs, and being 
 above doing what is kind and helping. I would dine with 
 old Dale and sit in my bedroom from this hour till the day 
 of my death, if it was my duty, and could comfort any one, 
 much more be of use to Mrs. Weir, and you know it, Miss 
 Milicent. You don't really believe Mrs. Temple ; if you did, 
 it would be a hard struggle with me to keep from walking 
 out of the house and never entering it again." 
 
 " I was wrong, Ursie," she said, and she stretched out her 
 large hand, stained with the marks of the mud and sea-weed 
 she had been handling, and gave me something between a pat 
 and a shake. " But it comes over me, and that's the truth, 
 and if Mr. Temple and Matilda weren't here, I think I 
 should run away." 
 
 " I fincied you didn't like their staying," I observed. 
 
 " No, I had rather have you than them, any day, but I 
 had rather have them than nobody. Don't you see how 
 quiet my mother has been since Mrs. Temj)le has taken to 
 being with her ? " 
 
 " Just for the time," I said ; " but Mrs. Weir must see 
 through it some day. Miss Milicent, as you and I do." 
 
 " She may, and she mayn't ; any how, it helps for the 
 time." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent," I exclaimed, " can you bear to see 
 the good lady deceived, and made to rest upon another, when 
 you, her own flesh and blood, that could be everything to her, 
 are close at hand ? " 
 
 I had never spoken so plainly before, and I was afraid 
 how my words might be taken. Miss Milicent winced a 
 little, but she had a way of turning off from any subject she 
 disliked, and making an excuse by finding fault with some 
 one else. That was how she managed to deceive herself upon 
 this one point, and so I suppose it is with us all. 
 
 " My mother is very queer, Ursie," she said, "as you 
 well know, and ever since I can remember she has looked for 
 comfort out of her own family. The doctors say it's health, 
 and I dare say it is; but whether or not, I can't please her, 
 and if she chooses to be taken in by Matilda Temple, why 
 she must be." 
 
 " But it will work some harm in the end, for certain," I
 
 URSULA. 183 
 
 said. " You don't trust Mrs. Temple yourself, Miss Mili- 
 cent." 
 
 " Not I, not for a moment ; yet slie is not such a hypocrite 
 as you think, Ursic. She humbugs herself just as much as 
 she does other people." 
 
 That was seeing deeper than I should have given Miss 
 Milicent credit for, and I asked her what she meant. 
 
 " Why, just this," she replied ; " I have lived a good deal 
 with Matilda Temple, and seen how things went on. She 
 was very badly brought up as a child, left quite to her own 
 ways. She never knew how to be honest and open like 
 others, and she loved nothing but herself. Then her mother 
 died, and she went to live with a kind of cousin, a Mrs. 
 Frere, a good woman — yes, a good woman, if ever there lived 
 one upon earth, but one who was always lecturing and talk- 
 ing of religion. I could not endure her fashion of going on 
 myself, and I ran away from her whenever I saw her, yet I 
 respected her. But with Matilda it was different ; she learnt 
 to talk the same as her cousin, and Mrs. Frere thought her 
 an excellent, good child, because she could quote texts, and 
 said she liked to hear sermons, and Matilda thought so her- 
 self, and she thinks so now, and nobody has ever told her 
 differently. She has her notion of goodness, and she acts up 
 to it." 
 
 " If she had read her Bible, she might have found out 
 that it was not the right notion, I should have thought," was 
 my reply. "To be sure, I have seen but little of her, but 
 her ways do strike me as being shabby." 
 
 " Shabby ! she is the shabbiest woman, and the proudest 
 in England," said Miss Milicent, " and the cleverest besides. 
 We must all take our dose of religion, Ursie, that we know ; 
 but I suppose we like to take it our own way. Matilda 
 Temple wraps up hers in talk, and makes it a good size, and 
 then she swallows it whole, and so it never tastes unpleasant." 
 
 I did not answer directly, — I could not. It came over 
 nic with such a terrible dread, that we might all be doing 
 the same in some way or other. I could see it in Miss Mili- 
 cent herself, clear-sighted though she was to Mrs. Tcmplcs's 
 short-comings, and there was I, perhaps as great a self- 
 deceiver as either.
 
 184 URSULA. 
 
 Miss Milicent continued, " It is not to be wondered at 
 that Matilda Temple should think much of herself. There's 
 her little husband obeys her like a black slave." 
 
 " And it is true, then," I said, " what Mrs. Weir told mo, 
 that she had saved him from being extravagant ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! saved him from that, and from a great deal 
 else, and made him nearly as shabby as herself; only I must 
 say one thing for him, it goes against the grain." 
 
 " Really ! Miss Milicent," I exclaimed, " you do surprise 
 me. If you think of your cousins in this way, how can you 
 bear to have them here ? " 
 
 " Because anything is better than being forced to give in 
 to another person's fancies all day, Ursie Grant. I must 
 have liberty. It is bad enough, anyhow, to be set down in a 
 corner of the world like this, but if I am to sit in doors week 
 after week, and talk twaddle, I shall fall ill. That is the 
 truth." 
 
 " Yet there are some hours when Mrs. Weir likes to be 
 alone," I ventured to say. 
 
 " May be, but you don't understand ; no one can. Pa- 
 rents and children, and brothers and sisters, are not like 
 other people. I dare say you think I am undutiful ; I dare 
 say I am." 
 
 I must have looked shocked, for I always thought that 
 if I had a mother living, I should feel it such a pleasure and 
 an honour to do everything for her. But Miss Milicent was 
 better than her v/ord, I knew, and I am sure that her con- 
 science reproached her, after she had spoken in this off-hand 
 way, for she went on, " You know, Ursie, there's no one but 
 you that can suit me and my mother also, and it's the plain 
 fact ; and if we can have you here, everything will go well, 
 and if we have not, we must have Matilda Temple, or any 
 one we can get, and take the consequences. And who is to 
 answer for them ? " 
 
 Without waiting for me to reply she went away, seemingly 
 in a huff. 
 
 This sudden end to our conversation was like a gust of 
 wind. It took up all my ideas, and turned them round as it 
 were, till I did not know where I was. Just for one moment 
 I thought Miss Milicent was right, and that I was answer-
 
 URSULA. 185 
 
 able for "whatever might happen, if Mrs. Temple stayed aud 
 I went away ; but I soon saw the folly of such an idea. God 
 has only given us one conscience to take care of, and trovible 
 enough it is to keep that clear of offence. If I went my own 
 straightforward way, I was not answerable for the crooked- 
 ness of other people's. And I saw, too, what Mrs. Kemp 
 had first put into my head, that my staying only blinded Miss 
 Milicent more to her own duties. I sought no more conver- 
 sation, but went up-stairs to my own room, and wrote a letter 
 to Roger, telling him, that nothing preventing, I would be 
 at Sandcombe, if William aud Leah could receive me, that 
 day week. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ^My stay with Mrs. Weir was about to terminate less 
 pleasantly than I had expected. I seemed to have done but 
 little good to her, and less to Miss Milicent, and I knew that 
 I left a snake in the grass behind me in IMrs. Temple. Rut 
 for Mrs. Kemp's warning, I might have been even more dis- 
 appointed, but I was learning (very slowly, though, for it 
 was a hard lesson to one of my disposition) to make doing my 
 duty my object, without caring for seeing the fruits. Miss 
 Milicent was surly when she found I was resolved to go. 
 Mrs. Temple, who had scarcely noticed me before, became 
 suddenly very patronising and amiable, and poor Mrs. Weir, 
 to whom I broke the news as gently as I could, cried a good 
 deal, and said if God ever made her rich agaift, she would 
 send for me, and beg me to come back and live with her ; 
 but her mind was for the time finding a new rest, and when 
 the day of my departure drew near, she was consoled by 3Irs. 
 Temple's promise of staying with her another fortnight. 
 Iler conscience indeed was a little troubled about Mr. 
 Temple, who, she said, must find it so dull to be living there 
 Avith three ladies ; but Mrs. Temple assured her, that solitude 
 aT)d conteujplation were his delight, and if it was so, he cer 
 taiuly must have been in Paradise all the time he was at the 
 Heath, for he wandered about on the rocks and by the shore
 
 186 URSULA. 
 
 all day, and never spoke to any one, except I believe to Mr. 
 Perry, the Preventive lieutenant. He was a meek man now, 
 and gifted with much endurance, whatever he might have 
 been formerly. I never heard him say anything in opposition 
 to his wife except, " Perhaps it would be better not, my 
 dear." 
 
 On the day fixed William's cart was to be sent for me 
 and my boxes. It was to go into Hove first, and to come 
 back by Compton, so that I was not likely to leave till the 
 evening. All the afternoon. Miss Milicent was in and out 
 of my room, upon some pretence or another, talking about all 
 kinds of things in a rambling way, and often in a very cross 
 tone, especially prophesying that everything would go wrong 
 when I was gone, and as the climax of evil, declaring that 
 neither Jenny Dale nor Cotton would ever know how to 
 make her mother's cofiee. When the last box was packed, 
 and just going to be corded, she brought in a beautiful large 
 prayer-book, with a very clear print. " There is no room 
 for it," she said, as she put it down upon the top of my 
 frilled collars. 
 
 I took it out and looked at it. She had written in it 
 " Ursula G-rant," nothing more. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent," I exclaimed, " it is very good of 
 you, and I shall value it so much." 
 
 " I have crumpled your frills," she said ; " you had better 
 give up wearing frills, Ursie Grant. There will be no time 
 for getting them up at Sandcombe." 
 
 " I don't care about the frills," I replied; " but if you 
 would please. Miss Milicent, to put your name in the book 
 too, I should be greatly obliged." 
 
 " I have put enough to prevent its being stolen," she 
 said. 
 
 I could get nothing more from her. She would put the 
 book into the box herself, hiding it underneath, as though 
 she was ashamed of it; and not allowing me to say another 
 word of thanks. 
 
 Fanny came to tell me the cart was ready, and to heljj 
 me carry down my boxes ; but Miss Milicent peeped over 
 the stairs, and told her to go and fetch Dale, — her mother 
 wanted me ; and I went to Mrs. Weir.
 
 U E S U L A . 187 
 
 Mrs. Temple was with her. " A pleasant afternoon you 
 have for your drive, Ursula;" she said, before Mrs. Weir 
 could speak ; " I hope you will enjoy it ! " 
 
 " Thank you. Ma'am," was all my reply ; it always made 
 me feel cross when she called me Ursula, though I dou't 
 know what other name she could well have given me. 
 
 "I had a commission to be executed in Hatton; " she 
 continued, " and I felt sure that you would be glad to attend 
 to it for me. The Compton carpenter charges more than I 
 think right for the little workframe he made for me the other 
 day ; and I wished you to see the other man, — I forget his 
 name, — at Ilatton, and inquire what he would do the same 
 for; I shall not pay more than he sa3"S." 
 
 " The frame cost eighteen pence, I believe, Ma'am," I 
 said. 
 
 '' Yes, and it ought to have been only fifteen. I could 
 have had it made for fifteen at home ; but these country 
 people are very exorbitant, and it is not right to encourage 
 them, dear aunt, is it ? " and she addressed Mrs. Weir. 
 
 " I dare say not, my dear. I generally give what they 
 ask, but then I am not a person of business." 
 
 " It was Smithson who made the frame, I think. Ma'am," 
 I said. 
 
 " Yes, Smithson I believe was the name." 
 
 '• He is very poor, and not a very good workman," I 
 continued, " and I think. Ma'am, you had the frame taken 
 back twice." 
 
 Mrs. Temple's black eyes flashed as they did the first 
 night I ever saw her. 
 
 " Is that Smithson, whose wife had twins last week ? " 
 asked Mrs. Weir. 
 
 " Yes, Ma'am ; and Miss Milicent, if you remember, sent 
 her some gruel, llis girl goes to Compton school." 
 
 " I remember. Pray, Ursula, take care " — but poor 
 Mrs. Weir stopped short, and I saw a tear in her eye ; " you 
 are going away, Ursula, I must not trouble you. Matilda, I 
 should like Milicent to see what the poor woman wants. It 
 must be a great trial to have two babies at a time." 
 
 " Certainly, dear aunt. I have no doubt that Milicent 
 will do all that is necessary, if it is a deserving case ; but
 
 188 URSULA. 
 
 the man, I should fear, is not honest. However, I will not 
 trouble Ursula Grant to make inquiries for me about him ; 
 I forgot that I was speaking to a person who took care to 
 inform me, the first night I saw her, that she was not Mrs. 
 Weir's servant." 
 
 There was a little red spot upon Mrs. Weir's cheek, 
 burning and increasing. Her eyes turned uneasily from one 
 to the other ; I don't think anything ever so perplexed her 
 as anger. Mrs. Temple rose haughtily ; I think she fancied 
 I was going to reply, and that she should put me down ; but 
 I merely said to Mrs. Weir, "Dear Ma'am, the cart is come; 
 I think, if you please, I must go." 
 
 " Perhaps, Matilda, if you would not mind, — I think I 
 should like to speak to Ursula alone." 
 
 Mrs. Temple said not a word, but walked out of the 
 room, like a tragedy queen, I was going to say, only I never 
 saw one, though I have heard people talk of them. 
 
 Mrs. Weir held my hands fast in hers, not even trying to 
 speak ; but the tears coursing each other down her face. 
 
 " I must come over again, and see you very soon, Ma'am," 
 I said. 
 
 " Yes, you are not going away far, I desire to remember 
 that. But, Ursula, I won't keep you ; do you think you 
 could sit down? " It was one of her little fancies, that she 
 could not bear to see any one standing; it gave her the 
 notion of hurry. I sat down. She pointed to an Indian box 
 on her work-table. " I wished to show you before 3^011 went ; 
 I have chosen my things for Mrs. Temple's charity. I 
 asked Milicent to look at them, but she said there were 
 enough without them. But I desire to give them, Ursula. 
 God gave them to me, and I should like to give them back 
 to Him." 
 
 I brought the box to her, and she unlocked it, took the 
 things out, one by one, and ranged them in order upon the 
 table. They were nearly all foreign, and mostly Indian; 
 and some of them so delicate, that it seemed as though any 
 other fingers than Mrs. Weir's would have been unable to 
 handle them. Particularly I remember a little chess-board 
 of carved ivory, with the tiniest set of chessmen that can be 
 imagined standing upon it. It had been sent her only a few
 
 URSULA, 189 
 
 months before ; and she had taken the trouble herself to 
 fasten the little figures upon the board with gum. It used 
 to stand upon the table at Dene, with a glass case over it ; 
 but I had not seen it since we came to the cottage. 
 
 She looked at her pretty things as a child might have 
 done, when they were all put before her. Just for the mo- 
 ment she seemed to have forgotten that they were to be 
 parted with. 
 
 " Perhaps they will not be wanted, Ma'am," I ventured 
 to say ; for I felt quite a silly dislike to her giving them 
 away. 
 
 " Do you think so, Ursula ? " She seemed pained at the 
 notion. " Mrs. Temple says they will make her stall very 
 beautiful." 
 
 " I dare say they will. Ma'am," I answered, shortly. 
 
 " And it ought not to be a sacrifice to me," she con- 
 tinued. " They are very little things ; I do not know why I 
 liked them so much." 
 
 It Avas upon my lips to say that I should not care what 
 was done with them, if they were to go for a good object ; 
 but I stopped myself, — God looks at motives, not objects. 
 No doubt in His sight it was a holy ofiering. I could not 
 take upon myself to cast a doubt into Mrs. Weir's mind, 
 though in my heart I felt that I could have seen the things 
 thrown into the sea, rather than put into Mrs. Temple's 
 bauds, to give her the opportunity of making a show without 
 expense. 
 
 " And you think they arc enough, Ursula ? " added Mrs. 
 Weir, simply. 
 
 " Quite, Ma'am," I said. " I don't know how Mrs. 
 Temple will contrive to take them." 
 
 " yVnd I shall learn to do without them," she continued. 
 " Mrs. Temple has written out a text for me, Ursula, and I 
 have put it in my work-box, that I may remember to try and 
 iiot care for all which I have cared for. She has made it very 
 pretty; it is illuminated." 
 
 I could scarcely help smiling. The poor lady's taste for 
 pretty things was so strong, in spite of all she did to over- 
 come it. Mrs. Temple had written the text upon perforated 
 card-board, and the capital letters were coloured.
 
 190 U E S U L A . 
 
 The words were, " We brought nothing into this world, 
 and it is certain we can carry nothing out ; and having food 
 and raiment, let us be therewith content." I returned the 
 text, merely saying, that I wished we could all remember 
 it ; it might save us a great deal of anxiety. It did not 
 strike me till afterwards what a wonderful power God has 
 given to simple earnestness of heart. Mrs. Weir was like 
 the bee, she could only extract honey even from intercourse 
 with a woman like Mrs. Temple. 
 
 " And you must go now, Ursula," she said, as I went up 
 to her, after putting the carved box back into its place. 
 
 " Yes, dear Ma'am, I think I must. I know my brother 
 would rather the cart should not be kept." 
 
 " And you will see Mr. Grant at Sandcombe, I suppose. 
 That will make you happy." 
 
 My heart was too full for a reply. Mrs. Weir continued, 
 •' I wish you to be happy, Ursula. I pray God to make you 
 so. You have not been able to make me hajDpy, but you 
 have comforted me." 
 
 " Not so much as you have comforted me. Ma'am," I 
 said. " You have taught me things which I shall remember 
 all my life." 
 
 She clasped her little thin hands together. " God be 
 thanked for it, Ursula. I had a hope once that I should live 
 actively to His glory ; but now I can only ' stand and wait.' 
 I should like to ask you to mention my name in your prayers, 
 — only you will have so many to think of." 
 
 I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. 
 
 " Do you think I could ever forget it, dear Ma'am ? " I 
 said. " But I don't like to think I am going away. I shall 
 hope to come and see you very often ; and you must always 
 tell me what I can do for you." 
 
 " I thank you, Ursula ; I know I may depend upon you. 
 But Mrs. Temple says that I have accustomed myself to 
 lean upon you too much." 
 
 I believe I gave an angry start. Mrs. Weir did not 
 notice it. "I have a little book," she continued, " which I 
 should wish you to keep for my sake ; it is ' Bishop Wilson's 
 Sacra Privata.' Mrs. Temple recommended another, but I 
 was not sure you would like it. I am afraid I vexed her by
 
 URSULA. 191 
 
 choosing this ; but you have often read part of it to me, and 
 so I thought it would help you to remember me." 
 
 She put into my hands a tiny book, bound in purple mo- 
 rocco, quite plain, except that the edges were gilt. My name 
 was written in it, — " Ursula Grant, from her sincere friend, 
 Margaret Weir," — and beneath, that text from the First 
 Epistle of St. Peter, — " But the God of all grace, who hath 
 called you unto His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that 
 ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strength- 
 en, settle you." The words " after ye have suffered awhile " 
 were underlined. 
 
 Mrs. Weir pointed to them. " I would not have you 
 without suffering, Ursula," she said. " It is the highway to 
 the peace that passeth understanding. God bless you." 
 
 It was all I could do not to break down, but I thanked 
 her in few words and a troubled voice, and left her with a 
 heart full of love ; yet fearing, lest with Mrs. Temple by 
 her side, she might one day cease to care for me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 I EXPECTED to meet Ptoger at Sandcombe, and yet I 
 could think of Mrs. Weir. That was, I suppose, partly be- 
 cause I always had lived so much in the present moment ; 
 but it was partly also because I had forced myself of late to 
 turn away from the recollection of Roger, and to think of 
 life for a time without him. If I had done otherwise I should 
 have been too unhappy to attend to my daily duties. The 
 trials of life are, I believe, after all, very much what we 
 choose to make them. It was a kind of instinct with me to 
 take every one as it came, and twist and turn it, till I saw it 
 in the point of view which made it most bearable. I have 
 sometimes fancied that untoward events are like those curious 
 padlocks formed of rings of. brass, with separate letters en- 
 graven upon them ; when the rings are all turned properly, 
 so that the letters form a certain word, the key goes through 
 easily ; but till this is done, one may try forever and not bo 
 able to unfasten the padlock. Perhaps the word which all
 
 192 URSULA. 
 
 human trials are intended to form is Faith, for by that alone 
 the mysteries of God's Providence are unlocked. 
 
 At any rate, I know that I could never go on fretting 
 about anything, however painful ; and, when once I had 
 made up my mind that Roger and I were to be parted for a 
 year, I said to myself, " It is God's Will, for some good pur- 
 pose, to take from me for a while the greatest happiness I 
 have ; but He has left me a good many blessings still, and 
 so, instead of grieving over what I can't have, I will make 
 the best of what I have." 
 
 I don't mean to say, however, that I could do all this at 
 once. Many and many a struggle did I go through with the 
 yearning for the old times, or the dread of the new ones ; and 
 even that afternoon as I drove away from Compton Heath, 
 and drew near to Sandcombe, all the slumbering anxieties 
 and sorrows seemed to rouse themselves up to depress me. 
 
 In a future state of existence, it will, no doubt, be very 
 pleasant to go from one star to another, and see what the 
 different inhabitants are like. Where there is no sin there 
 will be no sorrow. But in this evil world, where a sudden 
 change in a home often means only a turning from troubles 
 of one kind to those of another, such a move comes to one 
 with a kind of shock. 
 
 The cart drove into the yard, and there I saw Roger and 
 William standing together. I jumped out before the man 
 could help me, and ran up to them. 
 
 " What, Ursie ? How d'ye do ? " said William, good- 
 naturedly. " You are rather late, aren't you ? " 
 
 Roger kissed me very hard on both cheeks, but said 
 nothing. They went on talking about some alteration in the 
 farm. Leah was gone in the chaise to Hatton, and was not 
 returned ; so I went up-stairs to my room, and unpacked my 
 boxes, and put my things away in the drawers. Stupidly 
 enough, I had forgotten that I should not be at Sandcombe 
 in time for tea ; and now I should have to wait for supper, 
 unless William thought of offei-ing me anything. I dare say 
 people would call that very strange and silly, and inquire 
 why I did not ask for some tea in my brother's house ; and 
 I can give no reason except that anything which put the 
 Sandcombe household out of its regular way of going on was
 
 URSULA. 193 
 
 a trouble. You might ask, and have, but you were certain 
 to be reminded of it afterwards ; and if Leah had come 
 home and found me at tea, she would have been sure to say 
 in the course of the evening that something or another was 
 left undone, because Martha had been obliged to get Ursie's 
 tea ; and this, though I had put on the kettle, and cut the 
 bread and butter for myself. 
 
 Putting my things away took a long time ; after that I 
 thought I would sit down and read a chapter in the Bible, 
 which would make me feel more homelike and natural than 
 anything else ; but I had no time, for Roger knocked at my 
 door, and, of coui-se, I was only too glad to bid him come in, 
 and hear all he had to say. 
 
 He was in excellent spirits, seeing everything so hope- 
 fully, that he made me hopeful too. Mr. Richardson's friend 
 had smoothed the way for him, and his good character had 
 gone before him. He had received an offer which would 
 n\ake all easy. It was proposed to him to accompany a gen- 
 tleman, named Pierce, who was going out to Canada on his 
 own account ; he was to stay with him for six months at 
 least, and help him in his first setting off, and thus he would 
 have time to look about him, and decide as to whether he 
 should finally settle in the country. This plan satisfied Wil- 
 liam, because it did not require such an outlay of money at 
 the present time, and Roger was quite willing to take things 
 quietly, and not be an independent man all at once ; he had 
 managed the greater part of his business, and the little that 
 remained was to be done by John Hervey, who was forced 
 to go up to London the next week. The ship was to sail in 
 about a fortnight's time. For myself I confess the idea that 
 his plans were only settled for six months was a great relief. 
 At the end of that time something might happen to bring 
 him back, — who knew ? At any rate the definite time was a 
 limit beyond which I felt I was not permitted to look. 
 
 We talked on so long about Canada that I did not think 
 of putting in a word about Mrs. "Weir, but Roger was very 
 unlike most people in one respect. Instead of conversing as 
 so many do only about what interests themselves, and because 
 others listen and appear interested, fancying they have been 
 very kind and agreeable, and never asking a question or giv- 
 VoL. 1—9
 
 194 URSULA. 
 
 ing a thought in return, Roger gave what he took, and be- 
 cause I liked to hear what he had been doing, he liked to 
 hear what I had been doing. 
 
 " Now, Trot," he said, when there was a pause, "you 
 have had my say, let me have yours. How has the world 
 gone with you ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," I said, " but I don't think, Roger, the 
 world misses me much. Mrs. Weir has taken up with her 
 niece, and so she could well spare me." 
 
 " If it's Mrs. Temple you mean," he replied, " Mrs. Weir 
 won't be friends with her long ; at least, if what John Her- 
 vey says is true." 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is easily imposed upon," I said, " and Mrs. 
 Temple can talk good, and I can't. Besides she is a lady, 
 and her relation ; only I should like to think that all the 
 things I am sure will be said of me behind my back would 
 not be believed." 
 
 " You will be in Canada with me, Trot, soon, and then 
 we shan't either of us care what any one says of us." 
 
 I knew that I should care. If I were to go to Canada, 
 or to the other side of the globe, and to feel certain of never 
 setting foot in England again, I should care. But Roger's 
 thought just then was that Canada was a cure for all evils. 
 
 " I am thankful you are staying here, Ursie," he con- 
 tinued ; " it is best to be with relations. After all, they are 
 more to be depended on, and William talks very kindly 
 about you." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " but perhaps it is more safe to reckon 
 upon myself for comfort than upon William or any one. 
 That is not wrong, I hope, Roger." 
 
 He looked grave. " It now and then strikes me, Ursie, 
 that you have something to learn in this world," he said. 
 " But so we all have for that matter. And you are a bravo 
 girl." 
 
 " You mean, I trust to myself," I said; " but whom have 
 I else to trust to, Roger ? Putting aside religion, I mean." 
 
 " No, you will make your way anyhow." 
 
 " What do you mean '? " I asked. 
 
 " Nothing, Trot, nothing. That's Leah's voice, isn't it? 
 and whom has she with her ? "
 
 URSULA. 195 
 
 I knewjlbr I bad seen the chaise drive up with Leah 
 and Jessie Lee. 
 
 Roger opened the door and listened. " She has brought 
 back little Jessie," he said, thoughtfully. " I was going to 
 say something to you about lier. I'm glad she is come." 
 
 " It is more than I am," I replied, " I wanted to have 
 you all to myself, and now I must go and talk to her." 
 
 Hoger and I went out into the passage together. 
 
 Leah and Jessie were talking at the foot of the stairs, 
 and the next minute Jessie's light step was heard as she ran 
 up two stairs at a time. She pushed against Roger, by an 
 accident, when she reached the top, and stumbled. When 
 she saw him she burst into one of her pretty, merry laughs. 
 " Oh ! Mr. Roger," she said, " you frightened me. I 
 thought you were a giant." 
 
 " I never meant to frighten you," he said, " but you are 
 so giddy, Jessie, You run without thinking where you are 
 ^oing." 
 
 " Very likely," she replied, " I know it is always my 
 own fault, whatever happens. But, Mr. Roger," and she 
 looked up at him with a pleasant smile, " what business 
 have you here ? " 
 
 " Ursie ! " called out Leah, several times, from the foot 
 of the stairs. Her voice sounded to me like the croaking of 
 a raven ; it quite drowned what Roger was saying. 
 
 " I am here," I said ; " do you want me ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I was coming up ; but I'm so tired. Just let 
 Jessie put her bonnet and shawl in your room, will you ? 
 Have you settled yourself? Supper's nearly ready." 
 
 I was heartily glad to hear it, for I was very hungr}'. 
 " You will go down and speak to Leah, won't you ? " said 
 Roger ; and he stood rather aside for me to pass. 
 
 I did not feel in the least inclined, but I saw he wished 
 it, so I just kissed Jessie and told her to go into my room, 
 and down-stairs I went. 
 
 " I was sorry to be out when you came, Ursie," said Leah, 
 as she threw aside a handsome silk cloak, which she always 
 Avrapped round her when she went in the chaise, '' but I 
 was obliged to see about our new washerwoman; I don't 
 want to be washing more than once in six weeks, now you 
 are come, and I can put things in better order."
 
 196 URSULA. 
 
 " Oh ! " I replied. I don't know how it was, but I felt 
 so unwilling to be mixed up as one with Leah in her house- 
 hold concerns. 
 
 " Jessie is to sleep here to-night," said Leah. " I told 
 her I was sure she could have part of your bed, if the spare 
 attic wasn't ready, and I don't think it is ; and, besides, it is 
 not worth while to have the bed in the attic made up just for 
 one night," 
 
 " Supper, my good woman ! Supper ! " William came 
 out of the parlour and clapped Leah on the shoulder. 
 
 She gathered up her cloak. " Ursie, if you don't mind, 
 you can just take this up-stairs. I shall go and see about 
 supper." 
 
 " And come down directly," said William to me ; " don't 
 stay gossiping with Jessie. I am as hungry as a hunter." 
 
 Up-stairs I went again. Jessie had not moved from her 
 place, nor Roger from his. Jessie looked ashamed of her- 
 self I thought they must have touched upon some serious 
 matter, for I heard Jessie say, " I can't be always working 
 and thinking like Ursie, Mr. Koger, to please any one." She 
 spoke a little pettishly, and not quite so simply as was her 
 wont. Roger had a very kind smile upon his face. He 
 always seemed to look upon Jessie as a spoilt child, and he 
 said, " You know, Jessie, it is not for me to find fault, only I 
 disliked to hear it said, and so, as I was going away for so 
 long, I thought I would e'en tell you myself" 
 
 Jessie looked so put out as she followed me into my room 
 that I could not help asking her what was the matter. She 
 avoided answering at first. "It was nothing," she said; 
 " people were very cross ; they had no right to say such 
 things, and Mr. Roger was very unkind to believe them." 
 
 " Then there is something," I replied. " You had better 
 tell me, Jessie, and if Roger is wrong, I can put him right." 
 
 " It was not half as bad as he declared," she exclaimed ; 
 " the girls in Hove do much worse, and that he knows, and 
 you know too." 
 
 "I don't know," I said, '-'for you have not told me what 
 you did." 
 
 " Miss Shaw and Captain Price were there," continued 
 Jessie, tossing her head pettishly; " and if they saw nothing
 
 URSULA. 197 
 
 wrong, I don't see -what business other folks have to find 
 fault." 
 
 " But what is it ? what is it ? " I felt provoked with 
 her, though I tried not to show it. 
 
 " It is Mr. John Hervey's tale, I am certain," exclaimed 
 Jessie. " He is always sp3^ing." 
 
 " Really, Jessie," I replied, " I can't stand here all night 
 in this senseless way ; if you really don't choose to explain, 
 I must needs leave you and go down to supper." 
 
 Jessie was very much inclined to cry, but when she saw 
 that, instead of attending to her, I was going towards the 
 door, she pulled me back; "Miss Shaw and Captain Price 
 were in the shop," she said, and the two oflBcers were their 
 friends, and I only talked and laughed a little. Miss Shaw 
 talked a great deal the loudest." 
 
 " The old complaint ! " I said, rather shortly. " Jane 
 Shaw will make herself noticed wherever she goes, and if you 
 will go about with her, Jessie, you must expect the same. 
 Was that all Eoger had to say ? " 
 
 " He told me that Mrs. Deer, the stationer's wife, had 
 talked to him about it, and said that if I didn't take care I 
 should get myself a bad name. But Mrs. Deer is envious of 
 Jane Shaw, that I know. Jane told me so herself Hetty 
 Deer vfas at the race ball, and Captain Price danced with 
 her, and so Mrs. Deer thought there was a chance for her, 
 and now she is disappointed." 
 
 " That may or mayn't be, Jessie," I replied. " One 
 thing is quite clear, that Eoger has heard your name men- 
 tioned in a way he doesn't like, and being an old friend, he 
 did quite right to tell you of it, and if you will take my 
 advice, you will give heed to the warning, and not go into 
 Hove again with Jane Shaw, or any of her set. You know, 
 Jessie, because you are left so much to j'ourself, there is the 
 more reason for you to be careful." 
 
 Jessie's little fit of temper was over when she had given 
 it vent. She still held my gown and said, "Don't go, I'rsic ; 
 I am very unhappy, and Mr. Roger thinks so ill of mc." 
 
 " No, indeed ! " I exclaimed. " It is not in Roger's way 
 to think ill of any person, much less of one he has known 
 like you, Jessie, from a baby. But no doubt he is very par- 
 ticular as to the ways of those he is interested in, and that
 
 198 U K S U L A. 
 
 may make him speak out more strongly than seems quite 
 kind." 
 
 "I do mean to be careful," sobbed Jessie; "you know, 
 Ursie, I never go on in that fashion when I am with you ; 
 and I want to be steady, indeed I do ; and I only went to 
 Hove with Miss Shaw because she begged so hard, and I 
 thought it was the only chance I might have of seeing about 
 a dress for the wedding." 
 
 " If you girls don't come down to supper, there will be 
 none for you," cried out William from the passage below. 
 Jessie washed her face, and dried her eyes, and went to the 
 glass to smooth her hair, staying longer than I thought ne- 
 cessary ; so I left her there, and went down alone. 
 
 Roger just looked up from his plate, when I entered, and 
 not seeing Jessie, ate his supper in silence. I could discover 
 from his troubled face that it had cost him a good deal to say 
 what might have seemed an unkind word to the poor little 
 motherless thing, but she quite needed it. 
 
 I forget exactly what passed at supper-time. I know it 
 was a great effort to me to talk to Leah, and that Roger 
 scarcely spoke, and Jessie looked as shy as a frightened bird. 
 We were not any of us natural, but we did not understand 
 each other, and so how could we be natural? 
 
 There was never much time between supper and going 
 to bed, but I longed to have Roger alone, and find out what 
 was really the matter about Jessie ; and it happened that I 
 had the opportunity, for Leah took advantage of having 
 Jessie there to send the maid to bed early, and she and Jessie 
 carried away the supper things, and then staid some time 
 talking in the kitchen, and William went away too ; and so 
 Roger and I were left to ourselves. 
 
 Roger entered upon the subject directly; " Jessie told 
 you what I said to her. Trot," he began. 
 
 " Yes ; she told me in her way, which is no way, at least 
 as far as understanding goes. I could make neither head nor 
 tail of it. Why didn't you speak to me first, Roger ? " 
 
 He laughed. " Put a woman to scold a woman ! you 
 would know better than that, Ursie, if you were a man." 
 
 " But what was the mischief ? " I asked. 
 
 " No mischief," he answered, with a flash in bis eye, as 
 though he were angry with the word. " But Hove people are
 
 URSULA. 199 
 
 not very careful of what they say, and Jessie doesn't think. 
 JMrs. Deer heard a great noise, laughing and talking, in Hale's 
 sliop. Jane Shaw, and Captain Price, and a party of oificers, 
 were there having luncheon. Jessie was there too. Mrs. 
 Deer said she made more noise than any, and that people 
 stopped as they went by to listen, and that some one had heard 
 one of the officers call her Jessie, and that she laughed and 
 seemed to like it. I don't believe that ; but any how it was 
 not what I liked to hear ; and it's no use saying anything to 
 old Mrs. Morris, and less talking to Leah, and so I thought 
 tliat perhaps Jessie wouldn't take it amiss from an old friend, 
 if I gave her a word of warning myself. You know, Ursie, 
 I am going away, and not likely to see her again. But I 
 dare say I was wrong, women don't like being talked to." 
 
 " Whether they like it or not they must bear it, if they 
 need it," I replied. " But I don't think, Roger, you were 
 quite the person to speak." 
 
 " Likely enough ; but — " he stopped a moment, " it was 
 so on my mind, it came out almost before I was aware, and 
 now, I suppose, she won't forgive or forget." 
 
 " Don't fear that," I said ; " she is only a silly child, and 
 quite accustomed to be scolded." 
 
 He shut up suddenly; all his answer was, "Well! it 
 can't be lielpcd," and then he took a candle to go to bed. 
 
 I had felt cross when Leah first proposed that Jessie 
 should sleep in my room. It was taking things for granted 
 in a way I did not like ; but, as it happened, I was glad of 
 it afterwards, for it gave me the opportunity of a little more 
 talk with Jessie. There is no time like night for a free con- 
 versation. Jessie and I said little to each other as we were 
 undressing, but when the candle was out I took courage, and 
 told her what had passed between me and Roger, and how 
 he was afraid she was angry and would not forgive ; but, I 
 added, that for my part, 1 could not sec what cause he had 
 to ask for forgiveness. I felt lie had acted like a true friend, 
 thougli, perhaps, lie might have been a little sudden in his 
 way of introducing the subject ; and tlien I went on to give 
 her some more cautions for the future, telling her how spe- 
 cially needful it was for girls, left as we were, never to give 
 occasion for an unkind word. " Roger would stand by you.
 
 200 URSULA. 
 
 Jessie," I said, " through thick and thin, and so would I ; 
 but you won't find many to do it, especially amongst the 
 persons whose company you think so much of now." 
 
 She caught up my words quickly, and answered that she 
 knew I had a bad opinion of the Shaws ; but I knew nothing 
 of them, and no one had ever been able to find any real harm 
 in them. 
 
 " As to real harm," I replied, " it would be dreadful in- 
 deed if things were to come to that pass. But that is look- 
 ing at matters only as men and women look at them. There 
 may be many things that we count trifles, which yet are real 
 harm in the sight of God." 
 
 " You have lived so much with set-up ladies and 
 grand people," said Jessie, " that you are over particular, 
 Ursie. How can a merry girl like me be expected to sail 
 about stiffly, and never speak above a whisper ? " 
 
 " You turn ofi"so, Jessie," I replied, " but you know quite 
 well what I mean. It is not the laughing and talking in 
 proper places, and with proper people, that any one finds 
 fault with. But Captain Price's gay friends are not your 
 friends ; they are not in your station, and there is the dan- 
 ger. When people are all equal they can have little friendly 
 jokes, and no harm may come of it. But what would be 
 very kind in Roger, or William, or John Hervey, would be 
 a liberty in one of Captain Price's idle set ; and, Jessie, Mrs. 
 Weir once said to me, and I wish to my heart you could re- 
 member it, that the mere fact of being a woman gives one a 
 claim to respect ; that it is a kind of natural rank which even 
 the beggar-girl in the street possesses, as long as she conducts 
 herself modestly and decently ; and she told me that the 
 least freedom of manner from a person above my own posi- 
 tion, let him be a gentleman or nobleman, or prince even, 
 would be a disrespect which I ought never to allow." 
 
 " I can't help . allowing it," said Jessie. " They laugh, 
 and say droll things, and then I can't help laughing in re- 
 turn." 
 
 " Which shows that it would be much better for you not 
 to mix with them," I said. 
 
 " But I don't see," persisted Jessie. " There is Jane 
 Shaw, she is not above you or me, naturally, but she has
 
 URSULA. 201 
 
 been a good deal with Captain Price, and now she is going to 
 marry him. Where is the harm ? " 
 
 " Captain Price is no real gentleman, Jessie ; you must 
 own that," I replied. " Put him by the side of Mr. Stew- 
 art, of Hattou, and you see the difference directly." 
 
 " But he was born a gentleman ! " 
 
 " That may be ; but his habits and ways are not those of 
 a gentleman, nor of an honest farmer either. He is not 
 looked up to by any one, and that is the reason, so far as I 
 can see, why he is going to marry a woman like Jane Shaw, 
 who is much in the same plight. If Captain Price had re- 
 spected her, he would have known well enough that he had 
 no chance with her. An offer from such a man is no honour, 
 but the contrary. And as to being intimate with him or 
 his friends, why there is not one of Captain Price's set that 
 I would ever speak to again if he called me by my Christian 
 name ; and I have heard, Jessie, that you only laugh and 
 look pleased." 
 
 She was silent, and turned away from me, and I heard 
 she was sobbing. Presentl}^ she said, " Did Mr. Koger tell 
 you that '? " 
 
 " He told me he had heard it, but he didn't believe it." 
 
 " It was true." said Jessie; "I didn't think about it at 
 the time." 
 
 " But you will think about it now," I said. " Jessie, 
 why do you call, Roger, Mr. Roger ? You have known him 
 a pretty long time." 
 
 She quite started up. " I could not call him anything 
 else, he is so good." 
 
 " You respect him," I said ; " and so you can't take lib- 
 erties with him. What respect could Captain Price's friend 
 feel for you, Jessie, when, having only seen you a few times 
 before, he ventured to speak to you more freely than you 
 speak to Roger, whom you have known all your life ? " 
 
 She threw her arms round me, and kissed me, and thanked 
 nie, and I felt how impossible it was not to love her ; and 
 then she begged me to tell Roger that she was dreadfully 
 sorry, and it never should happen again ; only would he 
 please not say anything more about it to her. And again 
 turning from me she fell asleep as quickly as a child. 
 Vol. 1—9*
 
 202 URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 I AM going to Imrry over the parting with Roger. I 
 seem to have been telling of nothing but partings lately, and 
 moreover, to speak strictly, there was no parting. At the 
 time I felt this bitterly, but on looking back I see that it 
 was all for the best, and that I was saved a great deal. The 
 fortnight before Roger went was a very unsettled one for us 
 all ; so much so, that at last, though every moment with him 
 was indescribably precious, I began to wish that it was all 
 over. Leah I knew was impatient ; indeed she did not at- 
 tempt to conceal it. Everything was put aside to be done 
 when Roger was gone, for William and he had so much to 
 talk about and arrange, that there was no time to be given 
 to anything else. Then there were perpetual interruptions 
 from visitors ; Farmer Kemp, and John Hervey, and Mr. 
 Shaw, and Mr. Richardson, and even Mr. Stewart, of Hat- 
 ton, coming over to Sandcombe upon business or from kind- 
 ness. It was strange to find what an interest every one 
 took in Roger, I had not the least notion before, how much 
 he was respected ; but I don't think there is anything that 
 makes its way amongst country people like steady work and 
 honesty. It is better, even for this world, than great suc- 
 cess, which is thought so much of in town and manufacturing 
 districts. I did feel proud of Roger, as I watched him, with 
 his fine, manly face, and straightforward, yet respectful man- 
 ner, standing talking to Mr. Stewart, and giving his opinions 
 like a man who knows that his words are of value, because 
 they come from a true heart, and a single eye, and a rever- 
 ence for the laws of God and man. I heard Mr. Stewart say 
 one day to William, that he never knew before what they 
 were all going to lose in Roger, and he couldn't help wishing 
 that something had been thought of to keep him in England. 
 But it was too late ; time went on faster than I could well 
 bear to think, and at last there came the day before what I 
 thought was to be the last parting. I scarcely saw Roger 
 that morning, for he went over to Hatton to say good-bye to 
 Mrs. Morris and Jessie. He and Jessie were excellent
 
 URSULA. 203 
 
 friends again, — all the more so for the little breeze. No- 
 tiling bad been said about it by either of them, but the few 
 times that Jessie came to Sandcombe whilst Roger was 
 there, I remarked that he talked more to her than he had 
 ever done, whilst she on her part seemed to lean to his opin- 
 ion in all matters. 
 
 It sometimes seemed to me a pity, that he should be go- 
 ing away, just when he was gaining an influence over her for 
 good ; and yet I knew that it was little enough he could do 
 for her. A girl of her age could not be guided by a man 
 of Roger's age. If any one could do her real good, it 
 would be myself I thought of this still more when Roger 
 came back from Ilatton. He had dined there, and was go- 
 ing then to Lougside ; and he might, he said, be obliged to 
 drive into Hove ; but he hoped not, as it would take up so 
 much time. He had walked to Hatton, but intended to ride 
 to Lougside ; and while his horse was being saddled, he 
 made me come out with him into the garden ; and we walked 
 up and down, and had a long conversation, and all the time 
 about Jessie, for she weighed a good deal upon my mind. 
 He said that she had come out more in this last meeting ; I 
 suppose the fact of his going away made her feel quite at 
 ease. She had told him that there was no one to look after 
 her ; and that she longed to have some person to cling to, 
 who might guard her. 
 
 " She did not ask you to take her with you to Canada, did 
 she ? " I said lauohiiifi!;. 
 
 He drew back his arm from from me, as though I had 
 struck him with a dagger. " I don't like those jokes, Ursie," 
 he said. " If you will only keep Jessie from the Shaws, she 
 will soon find a good husband without going to Canada to 
 look for one." He was quite silent for some moments after 
 that ; and I was vexed, though I had spoken innocently 
 enough, knowing it was all nonsense. He said a little more 
 about William and Leah, and bade me stay with them under 
 all trials. " You are too young, Ursie," he said, " to cut the 
 cable and set sail by yourself. Trust to me, and if God 
 should be pleased to give me health and strength, we will 
 liave a home together again before many months are over ; and 
 if not" — he stopped short in his walk, and laid his hand upon
 
 204 URSULA. 
 
 my shoulder — " Trot, little one, we must put relations first, 
 because God puts them first. God will help you whatever 
 comes." 
 
 Those seem to me the last words I heard him speak ; for 
 they are the last which rested in my mind. He rode off to 
 Longside, and on his way met John Hervey, who took him 
 on to Hove. Things were to be done there which he found 
 would keep him till very late at night ; and he was obliged 
 to be up very early the next morning, to be in time for the 
 London coach. Farmer Kemp came over to tell us this, and 
 brought a hasty note from Roger, saying that he and John 
 had settled that they must sleep in Hove ; and to beg that 
 all he had left might be sent in the very first thing in the 
 morning. Roger's hand shook, I am sure, when he wrote 
 that note ; and there was just at the end, " Cheer up and 
 trust; God bless you;" that was all. He had not a mo- 
 ment to spare. Farmer Kemp said. I remember I stood 
 quite still in the middle of the room, and did not speak a 
 word, till Farmer Kemp came up to me and whispered, 
 " Courage, lassie ; " and then quite quietly, for I could not 
 bear to let any one see what I felt, I answered, " The things 
 are very nearly ready ; I will go and see about them ; " and 
 up-stairs I went. 
 
 Not one tear did I shed till I found myself in bed at 
 twelve o'clock. It took me till then before all was ready; 
 and oh ! how I longed all the time for a kind word and look. 
 But William was vexed that Roger had not thought of the 
 plan before ; and Leah was sadly put out because I was 
 obliged to keep the maid up when she would not help me 
 herself; so they neither of them gave me much comfort. So 
 lonely, so very lonely I felt, when I lay down in my bed, — 
 no words can describe it. I had a short night, scarcely to bo 
 called rest, and was up at half-past four again, to finish the 
 last box. At half-past five I watched the cart drive out of 
 the yard ; and then I went back to my room again, and in- 
 stead of crying, I knelt down and said all my troubles out to 
 God, and that made me better. 
 
 The day after Roger went I thought of going over to see 
 Mrs. Weir. It must have looked unkind not to have done 
 BO before, but it was impossible. I was afraid Mrs. Weir
 
 URSULA. - 205 
 
 would not understand this. People wlio are at leisure so 
 little know what the diflBcultics of busy people are. Even 
 now it was not very easy to find time for the walk ; for I had 
 a dress to make for Mrs. Eichardson, which had been put aside 
 for Roger's work ; and I had no means of gaining any extra 
 hours, as Leah was inclined to seize upon every moment to 
 which she had the slightest claim, and indeed, upon some on 
 which she had no claim. I had foreseen this from the be- 
 ginning, and resolved to have, if possible, a clear understand- 
 ing with her about it. I took the opportunity, when William 
 was smoking his pipe after dinner, and she was dawdling 
 about, before setting to work for the afternoon. 
 
 " Leah," I said, " I thought of walking over to the Heath 
 this afternoon ; and perhaps I might have a cup of tea there ; 
 so you needn't wait for me." 
 
 " It is early days to be going, isn't it ? " she said ; " and 
 I thought you wanted to sit quiet in the afternoon, and do 
 .your work." 
 
 " I should be back by half-past six," I said, " and I might 
 work between that and supper, and besides at odd times to- 
 morrow, and so make up. Mrs. Weir will think it strange 
 if I don't go." 
 
 " There is house needlework to be done between tea and 
 supper," replied Leah ; " and, as to odd times, I don't see 
 where they are to come from." 
 
 " I might manage half-an-hour before breakfast, perhaps," 
 I said. 
 
 Leah looked black. '' You will scarcely do needlework, 
 and get breakfast, too," she said. 
 
 " I was not thinking of helping to get breakfast," I an- 
 swered. " I thought, Leah, you always did that yourself." 
 
 "I have done it since Jessie went," she replied ; " but I 
 can't go on with it. There are so many things to be seen to 
 at night, I must have more rest in the morning. And as for 
 Martha, it is useless to look to her; she has to light the fires, 
 and boil the milk for the men. There is the dairy, too. I 
 reckoned upon you looking after that, Ursie. Some one must 
 iiavc an eye to it early; and then Martha can clean the milk- 
 p.ins, and put it in order, whilst we are having our breakfasts." 
 
 All very true ; only the breakfast was Leah's own duty. 
 
 " Don't you see ? " inquired Leah.
 
 206 URSULA. 
 
 " Yes, I see," was my reply. " But, Leah, if I take to 
 all this in the morning, you must please spare me an hour to 
 make up in the evening. I don't mean when there is a press, 
 but generally." 
 
 " We can see ; we'll talk about that," she replied. " It's 
 best to go on gradually. No one can mark out a day as you 
 would have it done, Ursie." 
 
 " And I suppose you would like to have the poultry fed 
 the first thing after breakfast," I said. " Jessie used to do 
 that, I know." 
 
 " I don't care about the poultry," she replied, " I have 
 taken to them myself, and I think it is better. But there's 
 the meat in the larder to be changed, and you could help 
 Martha clean the dishes ; and then, there is the cooking." 
 
 " I am not a good hand at cooking for so many," I said ; 
 " I suppose I shall have the girl to help ? " 
 
 " That is as may be. We shall see if she is wanted. 
 After all, there's not so much to be done. Bacon and cab- 
 bage are easily boiled for the men, and the maids eat af- 
 ter us." 
 
 " You give the men fresh meat sometimes in the week, 
 don't you V " I asked. 
 
 " Well! we used. But I find they do just as well with- 
 out it. And these aren't times when we can afi"ord to have 
 fancies. William is rather particular about his own dinners, 
 Ursie ; and I dare say, having been so much with Mrs. Ma- 
 son, you have learnt some things that may please him." 
 
 " You will want a pudding, I suppose, for the men ? " I 
 said. 
 
 " Why, yes, to be sure ; — it saves bacon. Apples are 
 coming in, but they are scarce this year, and I would have 
 them kept for William. Anything does for the men. They 
 eat suet pudding as often as not ; aicd baked rice and milk, 
 with a sprinkling of sugar, — not eggs, of course. By the 
 bye, Ursie, the day after to-morrow is baking-day, and then 
 William looks to having some fruit tarts made ; and he com- 
 plained last week that there weren't sweet cakes enough. 
 He is like a child in being fond of sweet things." 
 
 " The cooking and baking both will be more, I am afraid, 
 than I shall be able to undertake, Leah," I said, " consider- 
 ing that I have needlework of my own to do besides."
 
 URSULA. 207 
 
 "It is only one day in the week," she replied, "and 
 Jessie always took the greatest part upon herself." 
 
 " Because she had nothing else to do," I replied. " What 
 I can put into the morning, I will ; but I would not have 
 you look to me for more than that, please ; for, indeed, I 
 don't think I shall be able to manage it." 
 
 " We shall see ; we can't settle beforehand ; only I 
 thought, Ursie, you were come to make yourself useful." 
 
 I did not know what to answer, being sure that, whatever 
 I said, she would take my words as a kind of promise. 
 
 " And there's washing too," she continued, in an under 
 tone. 
 
 " And help for that," I said, boldly. 
 
 " Yes, — some." Leah spoke doubtfully. " Mrs. Hobson 
 Avon't come, since Kitty has been turned away, and the Hat- 
 ton woman, whom I've engaged, won't be enough." 
 
 " But thci-e are Martha and the girl," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but if they are washing, who is to take their work ? " 
 
 " llcally, Leah," I said, " if you mean that I am to do it, 
 I don't see how it is possible. There will be cooking on 
 washing-days, just as on any another, in the morning, and a 
 great deal more fuss in the house. If you help yourself, or 
 have some one else to help, we may do very well ; but all 
 the willing horses in England won't be able to draw a waggon 
 if it is loaded too heavily." 
 
 " It will only come once in six weeks," she said, " I have 
 made up my mind to that." 
 
 " And the work will be all the more heavy," I replied. 
 " If you would have it once a month, and get proper help, 
 Leali, I am sure you would find it better." 
 
 " I think, Ursie, you had best leave me to manage my 
 own affairs," was the reply I had from her ; and she went off 
 without giving me any more definite notion of my work, or 
 any better idea of how it was all to be managed. 
 
 It was not hopeful certainly. My thoughts turned back to 
 Roger and my happy home at Dene, with no one to interfere 
 with me ; all my duties regular and orderly, and Roger always 
 pleased with me. I did not see how I could get on as things 
 were ; but still less did I see how God, by these little trials, 
 was teaching and training me.
 
 208 U K S U L A 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 FoK I had great faults. They are clear to me now. At 
 that time I almost thought they were virtues. Left so 
 early as I was without a mother to search minutely into the 
 defects of my natural character, perhaps it is not surprising 
 that they were hidden from me ; although I can with truth 
 say, that, in the main, my heart's desire was to serve God 
 and do my duty conscientiously. 
 
 Wilful and hasty I had no doubt that I was; I had 
 been punished for these faults continually, and Roger had 
 again and again corrected me for them. Some people, too, 
 said I was self-trusting and conceited, but my conscience, on a 
 surface examination, in a measure, acquitted me. If persons 
 were set over me whom I respected, I could obey, and be glad 
 to do so. I knew this, and it satisfied me, and I looked no 
 deeper. I did not see that there was at the bottom of my 
 heart a love of rule and independence, even underneath my 
 apparent submission. . I could not give up my own will, 
 merely because it was ordered by God's providence that I 
 should do so. I dearly loved to feel myself my own mis- 
 tress, and wherever I was placed, I was inclined to criticise 
 and find fault with any person who claimed authority over 
 me ; and all this did not appear to me wrong. I had but one 
 desire — that things should be done in the right way. I for- 
 got that it was necessary also that they should be done by 
 the right person. 
 
 And so again as regarded independence of character, the 
 wish to provide for myself, and make my own way in the 
 world. These were dispositions in which I saw no harm and 
 suspected no danger. They had worked well hitherto. They 
 had, I knew, been a great assistance to Roger, and very much 
 lessened his anxiety in parting with me. They had given 
 me a position in Mrs. Weir's household, and enabled me to 
 be of far greater use to her than I could have been if I 
 had merely done as I was told, without offering an opinion, 
 or showing that I was able to work out my own path. I 
 could not help feeling that I had gained a standing for my-
 
 U E S U L A . 209 
 
 self in the world, even beyond my age, and it seemed to me 
 that I Lad nothing to do but to go on as I had begun, and 
 all must be well. For several years past, day by day, insen- 
 sibly to myself, my self-dependence had increased. If I had 
 continued with Mrs. Weir, gaining influence over her and 
 her household, it must have gone on increasing, and who can 
 say what the end might have been. 
 
 We are often warned against our besetting sin. I am 
 not at all sure whether we do not need a much stronger 
 warning against our besetting characteristic. One thing I 
 am sure of, that the inconsistencies and weaknesses which I 
 have marked in some of the best persons I have ever known, 
 have arisen from some tendency in the natural disposition, in 
 itself innocent, but which altered the right balance of the 
 character. Too much hope, or too little, too great excita- 
 bility, too great rapidity in forming opinions, too great fear 
 of giving pain, too much caution ; many such peculiarities 
 there are, which are no doubt necessary as forming the par- 
 ticular features of every individual character, and yet which 
 require in each case especially to be watched and guarded 
 against. 
 
 In my own case I knew that I had a great love of inde- 
 pendence ; when it became wilfulness I was scolded and 
 punished for it. Yet it was only because it was wilfulness; 
 no one would have thought of punishing me for liking inde- 
 pendence. It would have been very unjust and unfair to do 
 so ; but then no one thought of whispering in my ear : — 
 " Take care that your love of independence does not become 
 a fault by blinding your eyes to duty." 
 
 It may be said that religion ought to have set all that 
 right, and so no doubt it ought ; but how few become 
 thoroughly religious at once. ^Vo may think ourselves con- 
 verted because we have gone through a certain state of sor- 
 row and repentance, and no doubt such feelings are very 
 often the beginning of a holy life, but they arc by no means 
 tlie end. lleligion must, I imagine, be witli us all a matter 
 (if growth ; and as to myself, I do not remember that I ever 
 had any of those seasons oi excited feelings which I know 
 that many pass through. Times there were indeed when I 
 was more penitent, or more earnest, or thankful, but it wad
 
 210 URSULA. 
 
 all in a quiet way — Roger's way — in which there was very 
 little talking about feelings. 
 
 In some respects I dare say this was a snare to me, for 
 there are dangers wherever one turns. I was likely to go to 
 sleep over my duties, or do them in a slovenly manner, and 
 this would naturally hide from me many of the lesser evils 
 of my character. It is only when we are heartily zealous in 
 our wish to please God, that we search deeply into the secret 
 corners of our hearts, and through His grace are enabled to 
 discover and root out the weaknesses and infirmities as well as 
 the secret sins which lie hidden there. My life had hitherto 
 been too peaceful to reveal to me the necessity of such an 
 examination. Where there was little contradiction there 
 was little to struggle against, and though by no means well 
 satisfied with myself, I certainly had much to learn as to my 
 own deficiencies. And at that time religion with me was 
 more a matter of duty than of love. I can now see, through 
 God's mercy, that duty is but a stepping-stone, one without 
 which we can never reach the point at which we should aim, 
 but which cannot by itself raise us to the height from which 
 Heaven will be always in our view. Sorrow and disap- 
 pointment in this world had their work to do in me before 
 I could be brought to feel that the religion for which God 
 has created us is not merely a law of obedience but a spring 
 of happiness, — happiness in the consciousness of that deep, 
 satisfying grateful love which makes the heaviest trial and 
 the most self-denying discipline a joy, when submitted to for 
 Christ's sake. 
 
 I say this of myself, because I feel that to many my feel- 
 ings of religion, at the time of which I am writing, may 
 appear unsatisfactory. They were so, I grant. They were 
 unfolding, but as yet they were only in the bud. All I will 
 venture to say of them is, that I believe they were of the 
 right kind. There was a deep perception of my own un- 
 worthiness, a hearty wish to serve God, a watchfulness 
 against all the faults of which I was aware, a spirit of thank- 
 fulness for my daily blessings, and I hope some perception 
 of the infinite love shown to us all in our Redemption. I 
 speak of this latter feeling doubtfully, because it seems to 
 me now that it is one which persons are often slow in attain-
 
 U K S U L A . 211 
 
 ing, especially wlien, as in my case, the growth of religion 
 has been unaccompanied by great fears or an overpowering 
 sense of sin, and consequent relief in the consciousness of 
 pardon. If I can judge at all of myself, I see my own sin- 
 fulness now much more fully than I did then, and so I hope 
 I am more penitent and more thankful ; and yet I can 
 scarcely say that I am more in earnest. 
 
 I walked over to the Heath in a very unhappy state of 
 mind : lonely, — I could not be otherwise, when I thought of 
 the long separation from lloger, — and fretted and perplexed 
 as to my present duties ; how far I was bound to give in to 
 Leah in consideration of her being William's wife, and that 
 he was giving me a home ; and how far I was called upon to 
 stand up for my own right, and the agreement which had 
 beei* made as to my time before lloger went away. But as 
 I drew near the Heath, other thoughts forced themselves 
 upon me. I met Mr. Temple as I was going along the side 
 of St. Anne's HiU. He was coming up from the cottage, 
 and had moved a hurdle which was in his way, and as I drew 
 near he kept it open for me. He was a civil little gentle- 
 man, and i liked as well as pitied him, so I thanked him very 
 heartily. 
 
 " You are going down to the cottage, I suppose," he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," I replied. "I hope I shall find Mrs. AVeir 
 pretty well." 
 
 " I have not seen her to-day," he said. " There have 
 been visitors, and she has not been down-stairs." 
 
 " More visitors ! " 1 thought to myself. " They will kill 
 poor Mrs. Weir between them soon." 
 
 " A little pleasant society does her good, I think,'' con- 
 tinued Mr. Temple. " She has been much better since my 
 wife and I came." 
 
 " She is getting over her trouble a little, I hope, Sir," I 
 said, for I did not like to agree with him, though there was 
 some truth in his words. 
 
 " I think, if we could find a house to suit us, we miglit 
 remain here some time longer," observed Mr. Temple, lie 
 looked at me askance ; he never seemed to have courage to 
 look any one in the face. I made no reply, and ho went on,
 
 212 URSULA. 
 
 " The climate suits Mrs. Temple so well, and we were just 
 thinking of giving up our house in the north. Do you know 
 how many bed-rooms there are in that house on the lower 
 road—' Stonccliff,' I think they call it ? " 
 
 " No, Sir, I don't," I replied, and I made a movement to 
 go on; but Mr. Temple was determined to have his talk out. 
 I believe he always kept what he had to say till he found 
 some one to expend it upon, when he was out of his wife's 
 sight. 
 
 " Mr. Richardson says it is cold in the winter," he ob- 
 served ; " did you ever hear that it was considered so ? 
 You must know this part of the country well, for you have 
 lived here all your life." 
 
 " The houses at Compton are all new, Sir," I answered ; 
 " I don't know much about them ; but it must be very cold 
 for a delicate person like Mrs. Temple. The wind cuts round 
 the corner of the cliff, and she would find the roar of the sea 
 troublesome." 
 
 " I don't think she minds that," he said ; " it is a good 
 house, I believe, and — but, however, I won't keep you ; if 
 you see Mrs. Temple, tell her I have walked over to Dene." 
 
 I suspect a fit of caution and fear of his wife came over 
 him at the moment, and sto2)ped his communicativeness, for 
 he rushed away, not waiting to put the hurdle back, and I 
 watched him climbing the hill by the help of his walking- 
 stick, and then continued my walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A THORN had been planted in my mind, a very large one, 
 though not so large as it might have been if T had been liv- 
 ing with Mrs. Weir. I only half believed what Mr. Temple 
 said, for he was a very blundering man, and IMrs. Temple 
 was just as likely as not to have put the notion into his head, 
 only for the sake of employing him. She was always plan- 
 ning something for him, and as soon as it was settled undoing 
 it again. But if there were any truth in it, it would be ill 
 news indeed, as far as I was concerned : and even as rcQ-arded
 
 URSULA. 213 
 
 Mrs. Weir, I bad a great dislike to the notion of her being 
 taken in by any one, even though it made her happy for the 
 time. I have always so dearly loved the truth in all things, 
 and would rather know it and face it both in persons and 
 circumstances, however unpleasant it may be, than live in the 
 pleasantest dream that could be granted me. But I don't 
 think this was quite Mrs. Weir's case ; a little dreaminess 
 and imagination were necessary to her. 
 
 Before I reached the house, I saw the visitors who had 
 been mentioned ; they were Mr. and ]Mrs. Richardson, and 
 they, and Mrs. Temple, and Miss Milicent were standing 
 together in the sweep. I think Mr. and Mrs. Richardson 
 were just going after paying their visit. I tried to make my 
 way to the back door without being noticed, but Mr. Rich- 
 ardson saw and came after me to inquire for Roger, and then 
 Miss Milicent followed. 
 
 " So it's you, at last, Ursie," she said. " I made sure 
 you had quite forgotten us ; and there has been my mother 
 fidgeting to see you every day. You knocked down one of 
 the little ivory chessmen when you took out those nick-nack 
 follies the other day." 
 
 " Did I, Miss Milicent ? " I exclaimed, very much sur- 
 prised and vexed, and not at all recollecting at the moment 
 ou what occasion I had meddled with them. 
 
 '' And Matilda Temple was to have had them for the 
 charity bazaar, but they are no good now," continued Miss 
 Milicent. " Not that I care much for that," she added, 
 laughing, and speaking to Mr. Richardson. " Charity ba- 
 zaars are not much in my way. Are they in yours ? " 
 
 He looked grave, and said he did not mind having things 
 made privately and sold for charity, because many persons 
 could give work and time who could not give money ; but 
 he did dislike turning what was called charity into an amuse- 
 ment, and having tents, and music, and young ladies to sell 
 the things at absurd prices, and in fact making it just as 
 much a worldly entertainment as a ball or a play. It was 
 as much as to say that people would not give their money 
 without having a return. There was a verso in the Bible 
 Avhicli fllwa3-s came to his mind when he heard of bazaars. 
 lie paused a moment, and when Miss Milicent insisted
 
 214 URSULA. 
 
 upon hearing it, he quoted David's speech to Araunah the 
 Jebusite : " Neither will I oifer burnt offerings unto the 
 Lord my God of that which doth cost me nothing." 
 
 Mrs. Temple came up just as Mr. Richardson was speak- 
 ing, and I was afraid there would be a long discussion. I 
 felt a little awkward and out of my place, but I did not like 
 to move away, not knowing where exactly to go. I was re- 
 lieved when Mrs. Richardson joined us, and interrupted the 
 conversation by addressing me. I think she felt, like my- 
 self, that an argument with Mrs. Temple might be disa- 
 greeable. 
 
 " Ursula," she said, " I am really glad to see you. I 
 think you may help Miss Weir and me in something we have 
 been planning." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Ursie can help better than any one," said 
 Miss Milicent ; " and she will take a girl at Sandcombe, I 
 am sure. I think, Mrs. Richardson, we might as well let 
 her have Esther Smithson ; she is the most troublesome gud 
 in the school." 
 
 " I should be very happy to assist in any good work," 
 began Mrs. Temple, coming forward, and rather pushing her- 
 self before me. 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Richardson : " but this is a 
 business which only concerns parishioners. Happily, Sand- 
 combe is in Compton parish, so that Ursula still belongs 
 to us." 
 
 " Your dear mother will be wanting me, Milicent, I am 
 afraid," said Mrs. Temple, in a whining voice, which she 
 always adopted when speaking of Mrs. Weir. " Mrs. Rich- 
 ardson, I am afraid I must leave you." 
 
 She was very short in her manner, and I saw she was 
 displeased. I don't know whether Mrs. Richardson remarked 
 it, but I am sure we all breathed more freely when she was 
 gone. 
 
 " Could you walk down the road with us a little way, 
 Ursula ? " said Mr. Richardson. " I am afraid we must be 
 going, for I have an engagement at home in half an hour." 
 
 " Ursula will be tired," remarked Mrs. Richardson, who 
 never forgot to be thoughtful. 
 
 If I had been tired I should have gone with them, they
 
 URSULA, 215 
 
 were always so pleasant and kind; but, as it happened, I 
 really was not tired, the air on the hill had been so refresh- 
 ing. 
 
 Miss Milicent followed without being asked. 
 
 " What we were talking of, Ursula," said Mrs. Richard- 
 son, "was the school." 
 
 " The Sunday-school, Ma'am ? " I inquired. " I am afraid 
 I should scarcely be able to walk over from Sandcombe as I 
 used to do from Dene." 
 
 " Not the Sunday-school, Ursie," interrupted Miss Mili- 
 cent, before Mrs. Richardson could answer, " but the day- 
 school. We have a plan for the girls. We mean to make 
 good servants of them. They are not to be such good-for- 
 nothings as Kitty Hobson and her set." 
 
 Poor Kitty Hobson ! She had become quite a proverb 
 of wickedness ; yet Mrs. Kemp thought well of her. 
 
 Mrs. Richardson never interrupted Miss Milicent, which 
 was one reason, I think, of her being such a favourite. She 
 even waited a second to hear if there was anything more 
 coming, and then she said, " It is only an experiment, Ursula ; 
 but you know how badly some of our girls "have turned out 
 lately ; and Mr. Richardson and I have been thinking whether 
 it would be possible to give them a little domestic teaching 
 before they quite leave school. If we could manage it, we 
 might send them out from the school, with a good character, 
 and put them at once in respectable situations, instead of 
 leaving them to chance places." 
 
 " You could take one very well at Sandcombe, Ursie," 
 said Miss Milicent; "you must tell your brother about it. 
 And Jenny Dale shall have one too. Any girl who comes 
 under her will have a fair notion of cooking. I think it a 
 first-rate notion. If Jenny won't teach her, 1 will undertake 
 it myself." 
 
 1 tried not to smile at the notion of Miss Milicent's teach- 
 ing cookery ; and speaking to jMrs. Richardson, I asked her 
 to explain a little more clearly what she meant, for I could 
 not see my way to it. Mr. Richardson answered : " I think 
 we all agree tha't there is a great evil in the present state of 
 things, Ursula," he said ; " perhaps a lady can see more into 
 it than a gentleman ; but it strikes me that the reason why
 
 216 URSULA. 
 
 SO many of our girls come to misery is that they are left to 
 make their first start in the world by themselves. They leave 
 school, and have learned to read, and write, and do needle- 
 work, but they know nothing of household work ; and so they 
 can seldom or never go at once into superior service, but are 
 sent to lodging-houses, and farms ; no offence, Ursula, but 
 you will agree with me that ordinary farm service is not good 
 training for a girl." 
 
 " Very bad," I said, earnestly, for it had often and often 
 weighed upon my mind. 
 
 " Now we think," continued Mrs. Richardson, taking up 
 the sentence where her husband had left it, " that if a few 
 persons in the parish, who are interested in the girls, would 
 agree to assist us, we might do something towards remedying 
 this evil. Our notion is that the girls, as they grow old 
 enough, should be sent to some house, — say Mrs. AVeir's or 
 ours, or Mrs. Kemp's, at Longside, to work in the morning, 
 from seven or eight till twelve ; having their breakfast, but 
 not their dinner, and going to school in the afternoon." 
 
 " That is the part I don't like," interrupted Miss Milicent. 
 " Poor starved creatures ! why aren't they to have their 
 dinner ? " 
 
 " Because if they do," said Mr. Richardson, " they become 
 an expense, and persons won't choose to burden themselves 
 with them. I would not even insist upon the breakfast. If 
 they went before eight they should have it, and if not they 
 should get what they could at home. You must remember 
 they are not worse off than they would be if they were regu- 
 larly at school, and our object is to pkiu something which 
 shall last, because it only touches time, and not money. You 
 and I, Miss Weir, might be very willing to give the poor 
 children a dinner every day, but Mrs. Burton, the surgeon's 
 widow, would never be able to afford it, and so she would 
 never come into our plan." 
 
 " And those who can afford it are to let the children starve 
 for the sake of those who can't," exclaimed Miss Milicent 
 " There is neither rhyme nor reason in that, Mr. Richard- 
 son." 
 
 " No rhyme, I grant, but I hope some reason," he replied. 
 " If we, who can afford it, give the children a dinner, we
 
 URSULA. 217 
 
 make the others discontented. There must be one rule for 
 all." 
 
 " Besides," continued Mrs. Richardson, " there is an ex- 
 ception for Saturday. You may keep your girl all day, on 
 Saturday, Miss Weir, and give her sixpence besides, only you 
 are not obliged to do so if you don't like it." 
 
 " And you may want her services on some other day, for 
 the afternoon," said Mr. Richardson, " and then, if you ask 
 permission, it will be given, and you can bestow another six- 
 pence ; so you see there is an opening for as much extrava- 
 gance as you like. Only remember that you must let her 
 go home by daylight, or you will have the schoolmistress, and 
 the clergyman, and the committee down upon you, and be in 
 our black books for ever after." 
 
 " Well ! it's a capital plan," exclaimed Miss Milicent ; 
 " it will be the making of the girls. I should like to see it 
 begin with that lanky-haired Hetty Smithson. If it answered 
 - with her it would for any one." 
 
 " Ursula says nothing," observed Mrs. Richardson. 
 
 " I dare say you know all there is to be said, better than 
 I do, Ma'am," I replied. 
 
 " But you have objections," remarked Mr. Richardson, 
 rather in a disappointed tone. 
 
 " I think it might answer very well, Sir, if you were always 
 sure of the persons whom the girls would be placed under. 
 It is not the mistresses, but the servants, who will stand in 
 the way." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Richardson, " I have thought of 
 that." 
 
 " If you have good upper servants, whom the girls will 
 obey," I continued, "it will all be easy; but if they are 
 young and flighty, they will only teach the girls evil, and if 
 they are cross they will aggravate them, so that they will 
 never get on together." 
 
 " A difficulty, not an objection," said Mr. Richardson. 
 " If the plan is tried in six cases and answers only in three, 
 the three are a gain. Nothing can be worse than the way 
 things are managed at present." 
 
 That was true, certainly. I myself had watched Comp- 
 ton girls, sent out into the world, one after another, taking 
 Vol. I.— 10
 
 218 URSULA. 
 
 the first place they could meet with, let it be what it might, 
 and often even working in the fields, because they had no 
 opening for service, and, in more cases than I could bear to 
 remember, the end had been grievous. Still I was not very 
 hopeful as to the present scheme. There was distance to be 
 considered, and I mentioned this to Mr. Richardson. 
 
 He had thought of it, he said, and no doubt it frequently 
 might stand in the way. The plan would be much more 
 easily carried out in a town, or in a small place where the 
 houses were close together, than in a scattered parish like 
 Compton. " But where there's a will there's a way, Ursu- 
 la," he added, with a pleasant smile. " We want three or 
 four persons who will set their heads and their hearts to 
 workj and consider what is good for the girls, and not what 
 is pleasant to themselves. Then I think the difficulty might 
 be greatly obviated. The children who lived nearest to you 
 would go to you, and those who lived nearest to me would 
 come to me. I think, Miss Milicent, upon that principle, 
 Mrs. Kemp would take Hetty Smithson, unless she can be 
 sent to Sandcombe. 
 
 " Mrs. Kemp likes good-for-nothing girls," exclaimed 
 Miss Milicent ; " she has turned Kitty Hobson out quite 
 new." 
 
 " By a little kindness and care," said Mrs. Richardson. 
 " That was what first put this idea into our minds. Kitty 
 was seized just at the right moment, and taught that she had 
 a character, which was a fact she had been made to doubt ; 
 and now she thinks it worth while to try and keep it. We 
 want to do the same thing for our girls, before they have 
 reached poor Kitty's ' ne'er-do-weel ' state." 
 
 " To retain being much more easy than to attain," said Mr. 
 Richardson ; and then he added, very earnestly, " There is 
 the analogy of God's dealings with man, to teach us that 
 truth. ' Members of Christ, children of God, and inheritors 
 of the kingdom of Heaven,' as the Catechism says ; we have 
 our rank given us from the beginning, and all our struggle 
 thenceforward must be to keep it." 
 
 My mind all this time was dwelling upon Leah and 
 Sandcombe. I did not at all see how the plan was to work 
 there.
 
 URSULA. 219 
 
 Miss Milicent was rather cross because I said so little. 
 " I wish, Ursie Grant," she remarked, " that you would 
 speak out. I am sure Mr. Richardson would like it better, 
 and I know I should." 
 
 " I can understand Ursula's feelings," said Mrs. Eawlin- 
 son ; " she is taken by surprise." 
 
 " Yes, Ma'am," I said ; " and I doubt whether at Sand- 
 combe we have any one who could look after a child 
 properly." 
 
 " Not yourself ? " said Mr. Richardson. 
 
 " I am not mistress. Sir," was my reply; and he quite 
 understood, without asking more questions. 
 
 " Well ! " he said, after a little thought, " let us make 
 up our minds that it will be a failure, — a failure, at least, so 
 far as that many of the children will fail to obtain good 
 from it, and that the persons whom we depend upon to 
 help us will grow weary and give up. Still, is that any rea- 
 son for not making the attempt ? What harm can it do ? " 
 
 " None," said Mrs. Rawlinson. 
 
 " And," he continued, " we will try to hold out a re- 
 ward for good behaviour. The school is not rich ; but I 
 think we could afford half a sovereign, if not more, to any 
 girl who, having gone out to work in the morning, whilst at 
 school, should afterwards be placed in a permanent situation, 
 and remain in it with a good character for a year. That 
 would, I hope, be a little inducement to the parents to keep 
 their children at school longer ; and, I confess, one of my 
 main hopes of good is in the fact that the girls, even whilst 
 they are learning to be servants, will still feel that they are 
 children, and under school discipline. Besides the after- 
 noon lessons, there will be the Sunday-school and church 
 for them regularly, so that their good habits will be kept 
 up." 
 
 " Well, Ursie, isn't it all right now ? " exclaimed Miss 
 Milicent, appealing to me. 
 
 But Mr. Richardson answered for me. " Pardon me, 
 Miss Weir ; we won't have Ursula's assent drawn from her 
 unwillingly. We will try the plan, and then she shall say 
 what she thinks of it. All we will ask, Ursula, is that you 
 should mention the notion to Mrs. Grant, at Sandcombe, and 
 try to persuade her to let us send a girl to her."
 
 220 URSULA. 
 
 There was no fear of a refusal. Leah would like any 
 help she could get when there was no eating and drinking in 
 the case ; and I said at once, heartily, that I was sure there 
 would be no difficulty. I confess I felt very glad not to 
 have to give an opinion as to whether the scheme would suc- 
 ceed. I had always a quick eye for diflSculties ; and I 
 thought, moreover, that ladies and gentlemen could not well 
 understand the ins and outs of farm-houses. 
 
 The principle on which Mr. Richardson acted was be- 
 yond me then. He said something to his wife just before 
 we parted, which, though it rested in my mind, it required a 
 long experience to understand. 
 
 " These are no days for waiting for perfect plans," he 
 said. " Evils are crowding upon us so fast, that we must 
 seize the first weapon which offers itself to withstand them, 
 so that it is one which we can use conscientiously ; and we 
 must be contented to fight feebly — to strike at hazard — often 
 uselessly ; yet always with zeal, hope, and faith, remember- 
 ing that the battle is not ours, but the Lord's." 
 
 Note. — The plan alluded to has been tried successfully in different 
 places, with modifications according to the wants and peculiarities of 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " You will find my mother in her room, Ursie," said Miss 
 Milicent ; and she walked on with Mrs. Richardson, whilst 
 T went back to the cottage alone, pondering in my own mind 
 upon the strange way we human beings have of looking at 
 our duties ; and how Miss Milicent could throw her whole 
 heart and soul into a plan for making Esther Smithson a 
 good respectable girl, and yet could not put herself out of 
 her way for an hour to cheer her poor sick mother. I hope 
 I did not forget that I was liable to the same kind of de- 
 lusion myself 
 
 Jenny Dale kept me talking for a few minutes in the 
 kitchen, before I could go up-stairs. She was full of com- 
 plaints, and I could almost fancy that things were worse,
 
 URSULA. 221 
 
 because I was not there. Mrs. Temple, she said, was be- 
 coming so domineering, there was no bearing her. She had 
 actually taken to ordering dinner, and came out into the 
 kitchen every morning, and would peer about in the larder 
 to see after the scraps. She was very fond of having scrap 
 dinners for the kitchen, and did not approve of having the 
 bits given away ; and this had nearly caused a downright 
 quarrel between her and Jenny ; for Jenny had been told by 
 Miss Milicent to keep the bits, and give them to the poor 
 people who were down in Mr. Richardson's list. Miss Mili- 
 cent had interfered, and been angry ; but I suppose she did 
 not see that she had no one to thank for the storms but her- 
 self. I told Jenny plainly that I thought she ought not to 
 give in to Mrs. Temple, but go to Miss Milicent at once, 
 whenever such things were done, and she promised me she 
 would ; but she was a weak kind of woman, and I could not 
 reckon much upon her words. Then she complained of 
 Fanny, who was made much of by Mrs. Temple, because she 
 waited upon her. Fanny was always a little inclined to be 
 set up, and Mrs. Temple had turned her into a kind of lady's 
 maid, for she and Cotton had quarrelled, and Cotton would 
 do nothing for her. Fanny dressed Mrs. Temple in the 
 morning, and was learning to do her hair, and Mrs. Temple 
 talked to her all the time ; and Fanny, it seemed, was begin- 
 ning to think herself a great person. Oh, dear, the mischief 
 that one tiresome woman may do in a house ! 
 
 I did not say half nor a quarter of what I thought about 
 it all, but I went up-stairs to Mrs. Weir in no very pleasant 
 humour. The ill-feeling vanished directly I saw her. She 
 was by herself, which was a great relief, and looking so 
 sweet and kind — but thin, and I fancied rather harassed. 
 
 " I heard you were here half an hour ago, Ursula," she 
 said, as I went up to her sofa, " and I have been hoping you 
 would come up to me ; but my niece said you were gone back 
 part of the way to the Parsonage, and I have no doubt that 
 was pleasant for you." 
 
 " Mr. Richardson wished to speak to me, Ma'am," I 
 said ; " that was the reason I went. I hoped you had not 
 been told I was come. I know you don't like waiting." 
 
 " I am afraid, Ursula, I do not like many things. I
 
 222 URSULA. 
 
 have wished to see you often since you went away ; but you 
 have not been able, I suppose, to take so long a walk." 
 
 I was just a little chilled by her manner, and answered, 
 " I have not stirred beyond the farm, Ma'am, except to go to 
 church on Sundays. My brother's going and the settling in 
 a new place have taken up all my time." 
 
 " Very likely, Ursula ; but you promised ; I should not 
 have thought so much about it else." 
 
 The tone was a little — a very little — impatient ; but the 
 poor, dear lady was on the watch, and a smile came over her 
 face directly after, and she held out her hand to me, and 
 said, " If we did not like persons, Ursula, we should not care 
 how long they stayed away from us. Will you sit down and 
 tell me about your brother ? " 
 
 And I did sit down, and told her everything I could 
 think of; making it as well as I could into a kind of story, 
 for that was what she liked. She was no great talker, 
 indeed, talking soon tired her ; but she enjoyed listening, and 
 even when I was a little girl I was in the habit of describing 
 minutely what I did and said, yet with great exactness, for 
 she was very quick and particular, and always stopped me 
 when she thought I was in the least exaggerating. She used 
 to say to me that the habit of exaggeration is a leak in a per- 
 son's character, through which truth, and therefore confi- 
 dence, escape unnoticed. This may seem rather contrary to 
 what I said before of her liking to live in a dream, but it is 
 not so really. There is a great difference between inventing 
 facts and arranging them. Mrs. Weir had a special power of 
 the latter kind, and I think being with her had helped me a 
 little in the same way, for it certainly was not in me by 
 nature. Her eye turned to what was bright and beautiful in 
 everything — mine, I am afraid, was inclined rather to the 
 reverse. If we had both looked upwards on a summer day, 
 her gaze would have rested upon the blue sky, mine would 
 have dwelt upon the clouds. 
 
 It did me good to talk about Roger and my new life in 
 this way ; it was rather like reading a book, and took ofi" the 
 hard edge from my troubles. For a short time I was so 
 carried away that I could have imagined myself back again 
 at Dene ; but there was an end to the enjoyment very soon.
 
 URSULA. 223 
 
 The door happened to be open. I heard in the passage the 
 kind of sweeping rustle which always accompanied Mrs. 
 Temple's movements, and Mrs. Weir's attention was immedi- 
 ately withdrawn from me, and she said, a little nervously, " I 
 think, Ursula, you had better explain to my niece why you 
 were not able to come and see me before. She thought that 
 it seemed unkind, but I was sure that it was not." 
 
 Explain to Mrs. Temple ! Why should I ? My proud 
 temper was up at the very notion. When she came in I 
 would willingly have left the room, but she waved her hand 
 graciously, and said, "Sit down, Ursula, don't let me disturb 
 you. My dear aunt, I have brought you your medicine." 
 
 " It is a tonic, Ursula," said Mrs. Weir, looking at me. 
 " My niece has persuaded me to try it, and I think it does 
 me a gi-eat deal of good." 
 
 " I hope it may. Ma'am, " I said ; though I could scarcely 
 find it in my heart to be pleased with any remedy proposed 
 by Mrs. Temple. 
 
 Mrs. Weir smiled as she used to when I was a child, and 
 she wanted to put good thoughts into my head. " I pray 
 that it may, Ursula," she said ; '' and I have not had the neu- 
 ralgic pain so violently since I have tried it, so I have great 
 reason to be tliankful." 
 
 Mrs. Teni] le chimed in with a sentence of the same kind ; 
 yet what I listened to with pleasure and profit when spoken 
 by Mrs. Weir, was utterly distasteful to me when uttered by 
 her niece. I>oubtless it was the sense of efi'ort and a want 
 of reality. Mrs. Weir's words were natural, Mrs. Temple's 
 forced. From Mrs. Weir indeed I could bear anything. 
 She seemed always to understand how and when to introduce 
 religion. Sho never jarred upon me by dragging it in at a 
 wrong moment ; and I was then much more sensitive upon 
 that point than I am now. Young people with the hopes and 
 joys of this life before them shrink from the sudden mention 
 of subjects connected with Death and Eternity ; but when 
 the thought of Death rises with us in the morning, and lies 
 down with us at night, and Eternity is the long day on which 
 we feel that we have even now entered, there is no moment at 
 which a reference to them can find us unprepared. 
 
 Mrs. Weir, in her simple way, took her niece's words as
 
 224 URSULA. 
 
 being spoken in all earnestness, but she was not disposed to 
 say much; indeed, I could not help perceiving that she was 
 less at ease with me now than before we were interrupted. 
 Mrs. Temple, who never thought it possible for her to inter- 
 rupt any one, sat herself down opposite to us, as though de- 
 termined to listen to what we were saying. I was resolved 
 not to seem awed by her, so I went on with something I had 
 been telling Mrs. Weir about Roger, but Mrs. Temple 
 scarcely let me finish my sentence before she broke in 
 with — 
 
 " My dear aunt, forgive me for reminding you, but have 
 you spoken to Ursula about the chess-board ? The circum- 
 stance requires to be cleared up." 
 
 Mrs. Weir's pale face was tinged with pink ; the nearest 
 approach to excitement which ever betrayed itself. " It is 
 of no consequence, Matilda ; I would rather nothing should 
 be said about it." 
 
 " But it is right, my dear aunt ; excuse me, but such 
 mysteries ought to be investigated." 
 
 " Do you mean, Ma'am, about the broken chess-man ? " I 
 replied. 
 
 " Yes ; you see, aunt, she knows it ; " and Mrs. Temple 
 was put quite off her guard, and spoke hurriedly. " We have 
 reason to complain, Ursula, that it was not mentioned before. 
 It was due to Mrs. Weir that it should have been, and it has 
 interfered with her excellent intentions ; the little toy is quite 
 useless now, and it might have been turned to excellent 
 account." 
 
 " But it does not signify, Ursula," said Mrs. Weir, gently ; 
 " only if you had told me that the chess-man was broken I 
 should have have been less sorry." 
 
 " Really, Ma'am," I exclaimed, and I stood up, and I 
 have no doubt looked very angry, " I don't understand you." 
 
 Mrs. Temple's voice sank to the softest tone, as she 
 answered, for her aunt, " Restrain yourself, Ursula. Re- 
 collect that agitation may do harm." 
 
 " I do not care about it, Ursula," said Mrs. Weir, her 
 voice shaking, and her hand trembling. " I had no wish to 
 mention the subject ; indeed I do not care. I cannot bear 
 to vex you." She took hold of my hand and looked at me 
 quite beseechingly.
 
 URSULA. 225 
 
 " Dear Ma'am," I said, " you can't vex me. I could 
 bear anything from you ; but, if you please, I will go into 
 another room and have my say with Mrs. Temple, for I must 
 know what she thinks, and what you think too." 
 
 " There is no occasion for any such explanation," replied 
 Mrs. Temple ; " we only wish to warn you, Ursula, as you 
 are setting out in life by yourself, that openness and straight- 
 forwardness will gain you more friends than the contrary line 
 of conduct." 
 
 " But you were in haste when you left me," said Mrs. 
 Weir, " and you were unhappy ; I have no doubt that you did 
 not remember it, Ursula; if you please we will think no more 
 about it." 
 
 By this time I was so indignant that the very strength 
 of my feelings forced me to try and put a restraint upon 
 them. " I have not been told yet, Ma'am," I said, " what I 
 have been accused of; I imagine Mrs. Temple means to say 
 that I was like a naughty child, and, having broken the 
 chess-man, did not like to mention it. I may have broken it, 
 I won't say that I did not. I am afraid I have not the 
 knack of handling such delicate things properly, but I had 
 no idea of having done it." 
 
 " Only you knew what we meant the moment the subject 
 was brought forward," said Mrs. Temple, and she looked at 
 Mrs. Weir triumphantly. 
 
 Was it in human nature to bear such an aggravation 
 quietly ? I know it was not in mine ; and it was in no gentle 
 tone that I answered, " If you would have the goodness, 
 Ma'am, to inquire before you make charges, you would be 
 more likely to be correct. Miss Miliceut mentioned that the 
 chess-man was broken, and that was the first I heard of it. 
 If you please. Ma'am," I added, speaking to Mrs. Weir, " I 
 will come and see you again another day, for I am sure you are 
 quite tired now, and I am very sorry I have been the cause 
 of it." 
 
 I could not help saying this, for Mrs, Weir was looking 
 so ill from nervousness and vexation that she quite fidgeted 
 me. Mrs. Temple suggested that she would be the better 
 for a little more of the medicine, and made me pour it out 
 whilst she gave it. She made no answer herself to anything 
 Vol. I.— 10*
 
 226 U E S U L A . 
 
 I had said, but treated me coldly and haughtily, whilst Mrs. 
 Weir, whose voice was quite faint, could only manage to say 
 in broken sentences : " I have no doubt it is right. Ursula, 
 if you will come again soon, I shall be better, I dare say. 
 I hope you will hear from Mr. Grant ; you will please to let 
 me know when you do." 
 
 Explanation and conversation were out of the question in 
 such a state of things, and as for staying to help Mrs. Weir, 
 it was simply useless. Mrs. Temple had stepped into all her 
 ways, and the poor lady turned to her as naturally as she 
 used to do to me. I stood by her side a few minutes, and 
 was asked to fetch a shawl, but I was not allowed to put it 
 over her. Evidently I had no further business with her. 
 Mrs. Temple said, in a very pointed way : " My aunt has 
 had too much agitation, Ursula ; she needs perfect rest," and 
 all I could do was to wish Mrs. Weir good-bye, without say- 
 ing another word. 
 
 I found Miss Milicent waiting for me at the foot of the 
 stairs : — " Come here, Ursie," she said ; and she opened the 
 dining-room door. " I want to speak to you ; you have no 
 need to be in a hurry, I told Jenny Dale to get you a cup of 
 tea before you went back." 
 
 " It is very good of you. Miss Milicent," I replied, " but 
 if you please I had rather go." Instead of entering the 
 dining-room I drew back. 
 
 " That's perverse of you, Ursie ; I have a great deal to 
 say to you, and you must stay. What have you paid such a 
 short visit for ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Weir was tired," I replied ; " and I think. Miss 
 Milicent, that having Mrs. Temple and me together was too 
 much for her." 
 
 " Oh ! that is the matter, is it ? " she exclaimed ; " I was 
 sure by your face something had gone wrong ; but, Ursie, I 
 told you how it would be if you went away, so you have no 
 one to thank but yourself." 
 
 " And Mrs. Temple," I could not help adding. " Indeed, 
 Miss Milicent, I cant believe that anything would be wrong 
 if she was away." 
 
 " Come in ; why will you stand talking in the passage? ' 
 She seized my dress and actually forced me to enter, shut-
 
 URSULA. 227 
 
 ting the door behind her. " Now sit down, and hear what I 
 have to say, Ursie Grant; it is all your doing, and, what is 
 more,, worse things will come. She is rooted here; she 
 never would have been that if you had remained. You 
 would have made the house too hot to hold her." 
 
 I did not think that much of a compliment, I confess, 
 but, before I could reply. Miss Milicent continued : " She 
 has been working at my mother ever since you went away, 
 putting things into her head ; and my mother, as you know 
 well enough, always takes what is given her without asking 
 questions ; so Matilda has had it all her own way. No use 
 for me to say anything, even if I had time, and I have been 
 very busy. Mr. Temple has been finding out new creatures 
 for my glass, and he and I have been down on the shore a 
 good deal ; and twice a week there is a class of ploughboys 
 and such like, who come to me to learn to write and cipher; 
 and all that, to say nothing of putting the house to rights, 
 has taken up more time than I can say. So you see there 
 has been no one to interfere with Matilda Temple, and the 
 end is that she has bewitched my mother, who can't get on 
 without her. Then the servants have all been at sixes and 
 sevens. Cotton and Matilda Temple have quarrelled, and 
 Jenny Dale threatens to leave, and what is to become of us 
 all I don't know, for Fanny, poor silly thing, says she can't 
 do the work she used because she wants time to read Mrs. 
 Temple's books. If it was not for the girl from the school 
 who is to come now, we might just stand still altogether." 
 
 I did not sec Avhat Miss Milicent meant by standing still ; 
 I always had a notion that there was no standing still in 
 this life, — that it was always going on, in some form or 
 other ; the difference being only whether you drove yourself, 
 or let others drive you. 
 
 But Miss Milicent continued, and my ideas became 
 clearer. " It's a great trouble, all this, Ursie, and if you 
 were here, as I said before, it wouldn't have happened. But 
 there is a new notion come up, which Matilda Temple thinks 
 is to set everything right, and I should just like to know your 
 opinion about it." 
 
 " For Mrs. Temple to go and live at Stonecliff?" I 
 said.
 
 228 U K S U L A . 
 
 " Now, who told you that ? How things do get about ! 
 But it is not that exactly. She is wild to go there herself, 
 but she and her husband can't go alone because of the ex- 
 pense ; and she wants us to join housekeeping, and share the 
 rent between us." 
 
 " Live together ! " I exclaimed, in a tone of amazement. 
 " Oh, Miss Milicent ! " 
 
 " I knew what you would say," she replied, in a disap- 
 pointed tone. " I told her that I was sure any one who 
 knew the ways of the house, — and I mentioned you particu- 
 larly, — would decide that it couldn't be. But she took the 
 high hand then, and said she didn't know why we were to 
 trouble ourselves with the opinions of this person or that ; 
 what we chose to do ourselves was the question." 
 
 " Mrs. Temple was right there. Miss Milicent," I replied. 
 " It could not be of consequence what I, or any one in my 
 position, might say, though, of course, we are at liberty to 
 form an opinion for ourselves ; and I can't but think you 
 would do better if you never mentioned my name to Mrs. 
 Temple." 
 
 " She can't abide you, Ursie Grant, and that's a fact," 
 said Miss Milicent, thrusting her hands into the pockets of 
 her jacket; "I don't know what you have done to spite 
 her." 
 
 " Let her see that I don't like her, I suppose. Miss Mili- 
 cent," I replied ; " there can't be a greater offence than that 
 for any one." 
 
 Miss Milicent laughed. " Matilda might hate me, too, if 
 it was only that," she said ; " but, anyhow, we are neither of 
 us in her good books just now, for I kept back in giving an 
 opinion about this new plan, and I said I should talk it over 
 with you, just because you knew my mother so much better 
 than any one else." 
 
 Those blundering ways ! Miss Milicent could have done 
 nothing worse, either for herself or me. 
 
 " If you will excuse my saying so," I replied, " I think, 
 Miss Milicent, you made a mistake there. As for this new 
 plan, you really must be the judge yourself I dou't know 
 how the money matters would answer, and I can't pretend to 
 say whether Mrs. Weir would like it."
 
 UKSULA. 229 
 
 " There is no doubt of that," she replied ; " my mother 
 is like a child in giving up, and certainly Matilda does know 
 how to manage her. She has got her to dress an hour ear- 
 lier since you went away ; and yesterday my mother actually 
 went for a drive for the first time since we came here. I 
 should never have thought of the plan for a moment, if I had 
 not felt that it would be lonely for her when the Temples 
 were gone." 
 
 " Then the money question is the only difficulty," I said. 
 " Perhaps, Miss Milicent, your lawyer could help you about 
 that better than I can." 
 
 " You have a twist, Ursie Grant; you don't like the plan, 
 and you won't say it out like an honest woman." 
 
 " I have no objection to saying it out," I replied. " I 
 don't like the plan, Miss Milicent; but my liking or dis- 
 liking has nothing to do with it." 
 
 It had, though ; more than I could at the moment see. 
 Miss Milicent's conscience was uneasy, and she wanted sup- 
 port. She felt that she was putting ease for the present be- 
 fore what would be good in the long run ; that is what many 
 of us do. 
 
 " And why don't you like it ? " she inquired. 
 
 " I beg your pardon if I have to speak plainly," I re- 
 plied ; " but. Miss Milicent, I don't think that mixing two 
 families together ever answers, unless it is so ordered by 
 God that it cannot be helped ; and then His blessing goes 
 with it, and makes things smooth." 
 
 " Wo shouldn't quarrel," said Miss Milicent; " we have 
 not quarrelled now. I should keep house, and Matilda Tem- 
 ple would look after my mother." 
 
 I smiled. This reversing of duties reminded me of what 
 had passed in my own mind when I disliked going to Sand- 
 combe. I could not help saying, " That sounds very much, 
 Miss Milicent, as though you were Mr. Temple's wife, and 
 Mrs. Temple was Mrs. Weir's daughter." 
 
 " It might have been better if it had been so," she said ; 
 " not that 1 could have married a little man like Mr. Tem- 
 ple ; he is too meek; but we get on very well together." 
 
 " They are on a visit," I replied. " People on a visit and 
 people at home are very different."
 
 230 URSULA. 
 
 " It would give me time to help Mrs. Richardson," con- 
 tinued Miss Milicent ; " and if Matilda Temple had a larger 
 house, she could have a friend or two occasionally to see her, 
 and that would help to amuse my mother." 
 
 Or rather, as I could not help saying to myself, save Miss 
 Milicent the trouble of doing it. The whole scheme seemed 
 to me so silly, that I had scarcely patience to talk of it. I 
 was silent for a few seconds, and, indeed, looked towards the 
 door, as though I intended to go. 
 
 " Speak out ! " exclaimed Miss Milicent ; " I know you 
 have a good opinion of your own judgment, Ursie Grant." 
 
 " No, indeed. Miss Milicent," I answered ; " I have had 
 too much experience of it lately to have a good opinion of 
 it. I could not say that the plan is a wrong one, or that it 
 mayn't be a comfort to Mrs. Weir, or set you more free. 
 But I do think that it is against the common ways of the 
 world, and, in a measure, of the Bible, too, and so I don't 
 think it will answer." 
 
 " The Bible ! " she exclaimed, " well, that is too foolish ! 
 What has the Bible to do with our taking StonecliiF? " 
 
 " You know. Miss Milicent," I replied, " that when God 
 ordered men to marry he told them that they were not only 
 to cleave to their wives, but to leave their fathers and 
 mothers. It strikes me that must have meant that they 
 were to live distinct, what we call setting up housekeeping 
 for themselves. And being placed in separate families, I sup- 
 pose we should do well to remain so." 
 
 " It is no argument, at all," exclaimed Miss Milicent. "If 
 people were to act in that way, the world couldn't go on." 
 
 I did not feel that it was an argument; a great deal 
 might be said against it ; but I did think it a kind of hint, 
 and I knew that it was safer to follow God's hints than man's 
 reasons. But Miss Milicent was not a person whom any 
 one could really talk to with any hope of convincing her. 
 That one great omission in her duties — her neglect of her 
 mother — had warped her mind. She never dared look her 
 own motives in the face ; and so, though naturally truth- 
 telling and open, she had got into a way of deceiving her- 
 self. She did not like Mrs. Temple ; she neither trusted 
 nor respected her ; but she liked anything better than hav-
 
 U K S U L A . 231 
 
 ing her time taken up by attending upon her mother ; and 
 so she smoothed it all over, and thought she was only wish- 
 ing to do what would be best for every one, and make Mrs. 
 Weir most comfortable. She would not, however, say this, 
 when she found that I did not give in; she kept on repeat- 
 ing that it was only an idea, it might never come to anything. 
 Mrs. Temple might change her mind ; Mrs. Weir might not 
 like it. But I knew in my heart that it would come, even 
 if it had been twenty times as objectionable. I knew it as 
 surely as we may all know by experience, that the proposal 
 which is brought forward year after year, by those who rule 
 the nation, let it be never so contrary to long established 
 custom, or even justice and religion, will in the end become 
 law, because people will have become accustomed to it. If 
 Miss Milicent had been told the first night of Mrs. Temple's 
 arrival, that she could ever have endured the prospect of 
 living with her, she would have said it was impossible. 
 Watching the course of the world, I have often thought, that 
 if we could see the devil himself frequently, we should at 
 last learn to like him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 And so I went back to Sandcombe, — with what feelings 
 of vexation and disappointment there is no need to say. 
 Miss Milicent pressed my having tea, but I had no heart to 
 stay. Perhaps I was more worried than I ought to have 
 been ; and if I could have thrown off all care for Mrs. Weir 
 and her concerns, it might have been the happier for me. 
 But it was not in my nature to do that ; I did really love 
 her ; I would have done anything in my power to comfort 
 her ; whilst I dare say there was something of wounded pride, 
 in the knowledge that now I was no longer necessary to her. 
 As an especial aggravation, came the consciousness that with 
 all her goodness she was very likely to be prejudiced, and 
 that nothing would be more easy than for Mrs. Temple to 
 continue to insinuate things to my disadvantage, — even as 
 she had already begun. I had said nothing to Miss Milicent 
 about the broken chess-man, I felt ashamed of justifying my-
 
 232 URSULA, 
 
 self from such a charge ; but I made up my mind not to go 
 to the Heath again for some time, lest I might give some 
 fresh cause of otfence ; and especially I resolved to wait until 
 some more settled plan had been decided about Stonecliff. 
 I had no confidence in Miss Milicent's tact or discretion ; 
 and I was sure that what I said was likely to be repeated to 
 Mrs. Temple, and by her to be turned in some way against 
 me. The visit did me good, however, in one way ; it kept 
 me from pining after my former life, and enabled me to sit 
 down more contentedly to my duties at Sandcombe ; and 
 these soon became quite sufficient to occupy me thoroughly. 
 
 Leah, as I expected, took kindly enough to the notion of 
 a school-girl coming to help, — that was the way she talked 
 of it, and I could not put any other idea into her head, 
 though I knew well enough that the help which a girl of 
 that age could give was much less than the trouble of look- 
 ing after her. Still I felt it was right to aid Mrs. Richard- 
 son if possible. The three head girls in the school were to 
 go out at once. Mrs. Kemp was to take one ; another was 
 to work at the Parsonage; and Esther Smithson was to 
 come to us. The plan was not actually carried out till after 
 harvest, when we were obliged to have extra help. Up to 
 that time we had a girl on baking and washing and brewing 
 days ; but the maid and I managed to do all the rest of the 
 work, of course with the assistance of Leah ; who, to say the 
 truth, was not so much a fine lady as selfish and disposed to 
 be lazy. I did not dislike the life ; indeed I should have 
 been fond of it, if I had been living with people who under- 
 stood and gave me sympathy. But it was all business and 
 money-getting from morning till night ; the very clods of 
 earth seemed to be looked at only with the thought of how 
 they might be turned into bank notes and gold. Yet it was 
 only for a year, I said to myself, and when I had received 
 Roger's first letter, telling me he had arrived in Canada, and 
 was making himself useful to the gentleman who took him 
 out, and looking out for the best means of settling himself 
 permanently, I felt as if half the time of separation was 
 over. 
 
 One thing I felt about Sandcombe was that it was very 
 out of the way. To be sure the same might have been said
 
 URSULA. 233 
 
 of Dene, but there I had interest enough in the place and the 
 people, never to wish to go further, except to Longside, 
 where I was always welcome. At Sandcombe, though Leah 
 often went out, and sometimes had friends to tea, there were 
 none whom I cared particularly to meet; and indeed, as 
 often as not, Leah would make the excuse of my being at 
 home for William and herself to go out and leave me 
 behind. 
 
 It was about half-past four o'clock one afternoon, just in 
 the beginning of September ; I had been sitting at work by 
 myself, making a silk jacket for Jane Shaw, whose wedding- 
 was to come off in about three weeks, and who had asked me 
 to do some little things she had not time for herself, and did 
 not choose to put into the hands of a town dress-maker. I 
 was enjoying being alone, and counting the days till I could 
 hear again from lloger ; Leah had been in and out of the 
 parlour all the afternoon, doing first one thing and then 
 another ; and a few words with her, and the farm-house 
 sounds, which I always liked particularly, prevented me 
 from feeling lonely, especially as I was very intent upon my 
 work, wishing to finish it that evening. Presently Leah 
 came in to me in a hurry, and said, " Ursie, there's a chaise 
 coming down the lane ; I do think it must be the Kemps. 
 I wish you would just go and skim the milk for me, for 
 Martha is too busy, and you must mind and bring in 
 cream enough for tea. If it is the Kemps they will be sure 
 to stay." 
 
 This was a little instance of the kind of thing Leah was 
 constantly doing. She knew the Kemps always came par- 
 ticularly to see me, and that I should be vexed at missing 
 any part of their visit, but she still seized upon them as an 
 excuse for making me do her duties. I said nothing, how- 
 ever, but put down my work directly, and went to the dairy, 
 looking up the lane as I passed through the yard, and seeing 
 Mrs. Kemp and Mary in the chaise, and John Hervey driv- 
 ing them, as was natural. 
 
 I was detained longer in the dairy than I intended, for 
 Martha was untidy in her ways, and I happened to see the 
 bucket which the man was going to use for the evening milk- 
 ing, and it was not properly washed ; so I had to find fault,
 
 234 URSULA. 
 
 which was what I very much disliked, as I always felt that 
 fault-finding ought never to be the business of more than one 
 person in a house. Martha was cross, too, and would do just 
 contrary to what I wished. She saw visitors, and knew they 
 were likely to give her work and keep her in the house, and 
 I was sure she wanted to be out of doors gossiping, a thing 
 which she particularly liked, and I especially dreaded. 
 Altogether it was as much as half an hour before I could get 
 back to the parlour. 
 
 Leah made a kind of apology when I went in, and said she 
 did not think I should have been kept so long ; " but you 
 need not mind so much, Ursie," she added, " for Mrs. Kemp 
 has come to drink tea." 
 
 " I did not say that," replied Mrs. Kemp, good-naturedly ; 
 " though a cup of tea never comes amiss. But the days are 
 beginning to close in, and we must not be late, especially as 
 we are driving." 
 
 John Hervey laughed, and said that was a slur on his 
 driving. He could make his way over the hill at midnight, 
 he was sure ; and if he could not, the horse could, which was 
 better. 
 
 " Fogs are worse than darkness, I always think," said 
 Mary Kemp ; " and there is one coming up now I do 
 believe." 
 
 No one had noticed it before, yet it was already quite 
 thick ; but that was the way with those sea fogs, they rushed 
 over the hill all of a sudden, and then cleared away, as it 
 seemed, without any cause. 
 
 " I thought, Ursie," said John, " that you might have 
 been at Compton lately, which was one reason I had for 
 coming here. I. have not been there myself, I can't tell the 
 time when." 
 
 " Mrs. Weir is going to take Stoneclifi", so William heard 
 in Hove, on Saturday," said Leah. " But Ursie is so close, 
 we have not heard it from her, even if she knows it." 
 
 Mr. Hervey only remarked that he never believed one 
 half of what he heard in Hove. 
 
 " Had not I better go and see about tea ? " I asked, for 
 I wanted an excuse to go away. I never liked talking about 
 Mrs. Weir before strangers.
 
 URSULA. 235 
 
 " Perhaps you might as well," said Leah. " Here is the 
 key of the closet. T wish you would bring in some of that 
 pound cake which William is so fond of. I should like 
 Mrs. Kemp to taste it." 
 
 " Pound cake of your making, Ursie ? " asked Mrs. 
 Kemp. 
 
 " Yes," I said. " It was one of Mrs. Mason's receipts; 
 but Martha was careless with the oven, and it is rather 
 burnt." 
 
 " Martha is enough to plague one's life out," said Leah. 
 " If we were not going to try this new girl from the Comp- 
 ton school, I should tell William we must send her away." 
 
 " When is your new girl coming ? " asked Mrs. Kemp. 
 
 " To-morrow, I believe ; isn't it, Ursie ? It is Ursie's 
 concern. She has undertaken to teach hei*." 
 
 " Not quite," I replied. " I said I would look after 
 her as well as I could in the morning, but I never promised 
 more." 
 
 " I shall wish you joy if she is like our girl, Ursie," said 
 Mary Kemp; " she is duller than dull; Kitty Hobson was 
 a treasure to her." 
 
 " And what has become of Kitty ? " asked Leah. 
 
 " She's gone to be kitchen-maid at Mr. Stewart's," re- 
 plied Mrs. Kemp. " I knew the cook, and she promised to 
 look after her, and I have great hopes that Kitty will turn 
 out well." 
 
 " More than I have," said Leah ; " but girls are all 
 alike. I dare say we shan't find this new one any better 
 than the rest." 
 
 " It depends upon what you expect," said Mrs. Kemp. 
 " One can't put old heads on young shoulders, and so one 
 must make up one's mind to take trouble, and look after 
 them, else of course they will go wrong. I was obliged to 
 be strict with Kitty, for when she came to Longside first, she 
 was out in the yard talking at all hours ; but my Mary took 
 her in hand, and gave her plenty to do, and saw that she did 
 it, and sent her to bed early, before the men and boys had 
 their supper, and by the time she left us, wo had worked her 
 out of a good many of her idle ways. Then, to be sure, I 
 must say Mary has a way with her," added Mrs. Kemp',
 
 236 URSULA. 
 
 with a mother's pride. " She used to make the girl read to 
 her on Sundays ; and now and then Kitty sat with her and 
 helped in the house needle-work, and that gave her a notion 
 of being more tidy and respectable in her ways. It was 
 giving her a lift in the world, which I suppose is what we all 
 want." 
 
 I had lingered to hear what Mrs. Kemp was saying, 
 hoping to gain some hints for myself, but I saw Leah look 
 impatient, and indeed time was running on fast, and, much 
 against my inclination, I went to get tea. 
 
 I did not notice that John Hervey followed me, but, as I 
 was taking the cake out of the closet, he came behind me, 
 and quite startled me by offering to carry it for me. 
 
 " You don't want me," he said, laughing, as he noticed 
 my look of surprise. 
 
 " To tell the truth, I don't think I do," I replied ; 
 " Leah is not fond of having persons spying about her cup- 
 boards." 
 
 " I don't want to look at the cupboard, I only want to 
 have a few words with you, Ursie ; and there is no chance of 
 our being alone, that I can see. Have you heard about Mrs. 
 Weir and Stonecliff?" 
 
 " Since you ask," I replied, " I must needs say I have; 
 but it is no business of mine." 
 
 He stood thinking ; then he said, " It won't f .vsie, 
 and it ought to be prevented." 
 
 " Who is to prevent it ? " I said. " What business have 
 either you or I with it ? " 
 
 " With me it's just this," he answered. " Mrs. Weir's 
 family have always been very kind to my family ; and if it 
 was not for them I shouldn't be where »I am. She is left 
 here to manage for herself, with no more knowledge than a 
 baby what to do ; and Miss Milicent not much wiser ; and 
 so, if one sees them likely to make a blunder, one would 
 fain, if one could, stop them." 
 
 " If you mean as regards money," I said, " Miss Mili- 
 cent is not likely to be misled there ; she has a sharp eye." 
 
 " Not so sharp as Mrs. Temple," said John ; " she wUl 
 squeeze every penny out of them, if they live together, and 
 make her share of expenses a third, instead of half. I know
 
 URSULA, 237 
 
 her of old, for I have had dealings with her. Ursie, you 
 must try and talk over Miss Milicent." 
 
 " Not I," I replied. " I have given up trying to talk 
 over any one. The world must go its own way." 
 
 A cloud came over his face. " That is not as you used 
 to talk, Ursie," he said. " I remember the time when you 
 would have made any venture to be of use to such a friend 
 as Mrs. Weir has been to you." 
 
 " That was when I was young," I said, trying to laugh, 
 though my heart was heavy. " I have grown wiser since." 
 
 " It can't be wisdom to let people go to ruin without 
 stretching out a hand-to save them," he replied. 
 
 " Who is to say it is ruin ? " I replied ; " I am sure I 
 couldn't. Indeed, Mr. Hervey, we must leave Mrs. Weir to 
 manage her own concerns ; or, if any one is to interfere, it 
 can't be myself" 
 
 " It won't be," he said, rather quickly. " Well ! Ursie, 
 I didn't think you were so changeable." 
 
 I turned round upon him at the word. " Changeable ! " 
 I exclaimed ; " I am sure I have never shown myself so." 
 
 " One week bent upon living with Mrs. Weir, and the 
 next not troubling yourself to go near her, and not willing to 
 put yourself out of your way to serve her," he said ; " I 
 don't know what you call that but changeable." 
 
 " I know what I call fault-finding without reason or 
 knowledge, Mr. Hervey," I said ; for, my proud temper 
 being roused, I could not bring myself to explain what made 
 me seem changeable. 
 
 He turned off with a laugh ; but I noticed that, instead 
 of going back to the parlour, he went out into the garden ; 
 and my conscience reproached mo, for I knew I had been 
 wrong. Still he had no business to take me to task in that 
 way ; and it was talking in ignorance to suppose that I had 
 any power to prevent Mrs. Weir and Miss Milicent from 
 doing whatever they wished. I fancied that I had some 
 right to be cross with him, and I was cross, and said to my- 
 self that, with all his good-natured looks and ways, he was 
 much more fond of ordering and correcting than Roger. So 
 far, Mary Kemp was well fitted to him. She would obey 
 him without a word. As for me, I had not yet thoroughly 
 learnt to obey any one.
 
 238 U K S U L A . 
 
 Leah was quite put out when I went back, I had been so 
 long getting tea. She asked me what I had been doing. 
 
 " Talking to John Hervey," said Mary Kemp, laughing ; 
 "I saw them together." 
 
 " Yes," I replied ; " Mr. Hervey came out after me, and 
 we had a few words together ; but I should have been 
 quicker, only the water did not boil." 
 
 " I don't think it boils now," said Leah, pouring out a cup 
 of tea. " There's no strength in the tea. Come, Mrs. Kemp, 
 take your seat ; and Mary, there's a place for you. Ursie, 
 just run out into the yard, will you ? and tell William to 
 come ; he's sure to be there." 
 
 I did as I was asked, and turning the corner of the house 
 sharply, I came full upon John Hervey. 
 
 " Friends, Ursie," he said, and he held out his hand to 
 me. 
 
 " Friends, if you will," I answered ; " but I didn't 
 know we were enemies, Mr. Hervey." 
 
 " Well ! not quite enemies," he said smiling; "only just 
 inclined to snap at one another. But, Ursie, you will have 
 a thought for Mrs. Weir, if possible ? " 
 
 He seemed the most pertinacious man I had ever met 
 with, the most determined to carry his point ; and so, out of 
 a mere spirit of contradiction, I answered : " I have a great 
 many thoughts for Mrs. Weir always, Mr. Hervey. Whether 
 I shall have many words is quite another question." 
 
 " You are a perverse body," he said, lightly ; and he went 
 into the house, leaving me vexed that I had not been able to 
 vex him more. It was not that I didn't like and respect 
 him heartily, but I believe nothing provokes us women more 
 than to find that we can't tease when we wish to do so. 
 
 Tea was rather hurried over, for the fog was becoming 
 heavier. William said they had better wait for the chance 
 of its clearing off after the sun went down, but Mrs. Kemp 
 thought the farmer would be fidgety, and they had better get 
 home as soon as they could. She pressed me very much 
 to go and spend a day with them at Longside, but Leah de- 
 clared I couldn't be spared. The new girl was coming, and 
 I should be wanted to teach her. 
 
 " Look after her, more than teach her, Ursie," said Mrs
 
 URSULA. 239 
 
 Kemp to me, in a low voice, which Leah couldn't hear. 
 " And, lassie, if you can with truth, give her a little praise 
 at first setting off. The Farmer says it's needful for us all, 
 as capital to begin the world with." 
 
 Mary Kemp was anxious to go ; she was rather a coward, 
 and if the fog continued, she declared they were as likely as 
 not to miss their way. But, in spite of all she could say, 
 Mr. Hervey would linger to say a few words to me about 
 Roger. I had forgotten my perverseness, and was very glad 
 to talk to him upon the subject nearest my heart, but 
 I could not help thinking that he was not as mindful of 
 Mary as he might have been, and it give me the first really 
 uncomfortable feeling I had ever had about him ; a misgiving 
 lest, after all, he might be selfish, and even rather cold, in 
 spite of his hearty, pleasant ways. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Esther Smithson was at Sandcombe the next morning 
 by half-past six o'clock : that was as early as could be ex- 
 pected, for she had a good way to walk. Leah took it as a 
 matter of course that I was to be down-stairs to look after 
 her, and I was not sorry for it, as it enabled me at once to ar- 
 range her work, so as to put her to that which was most fitting 
 for her. I found her untidy, but clever and willing. From 
 the first I was determined that she should not be made a 
 mere drudge to wait upon the men, and Martha and I had a 
 little fight upon the subject that very morning, but I gained 
 my point. My mother would have been particular about me, 
 and it was my duty to be particular about Esther, all the 
 more because she came of an idle family, and was likely to 
 have a bad example set her at home. But I was not to have 
 my own way quite so easily. When the morning work was 
 over, and William, and Leah, and I, sat down to dinner, 
 Leah said to me, " Well ! Ursie, what do you think of 
 Esther ? is she likely to do ? " 
 
 " It is early to judge," I replied, " but she seems willing 
 and handy. She set out the breakfast-things quite cleverly."
 
 240 URSULA. 
 
 " Set out the breakfast-things ! " exclaimed Leah; " you 
 don't mean to say she has been in here this morning ? " and 
 she looked round the room with a turn of her lip, as though 
 she had seen something disagreeable, 
 
 " It was part of her business," I said ; " I saw how she did 
 it, and took care that she was tidy and clean in her ways ; 
 and I found her very willing to learn." 
 
 William spoke now, and quite in Leah's tone. " I must 
 tell you once for all, Ursie, for it is better to come to an un- 
 derstanding plainly, I don't want your dirty, slatternly 
 school-girls fussing about in my parlour. They have the 
 kitchen and the scullery for their proper place, and I must 
 beg you will keep them there." 
 
 " But Esther is come to learn to be a servant," I said, 
 " and she can't learn if she is not put in the way." 
 
 " She is come to make herself useful," said Leah, "and 
 specially to take the odds and ends of work, which you, and 
 I, and Martha, don't choose to do." 
 
 " Mrs. Richardson doesn't understand this," was my reply. 
 " The agreement was that Esther was to be taught." 
 
 " And she will be taught," replied Leah. " If she is a 
 girl of any sense, she will learn of her own accord ; and if she 
 has no sense, all the teaching in the world won't give her 
 
 " We have not set up a school for idiots, yet," said Wil- 
 liam, with a short laugh. 
 
 " It is what Ursie will set up some day, I do believe," re- 
 plied Leah. 
 
 " Mrs. Mason used to take a great deal of pains with me, 
 and I should like to do the same with Esther," I replied ; 
 " and as for trying to teach, unless one is willing to make 
 sacrifices, it seems to me nonsense to attempt it." 
 
 " Possibly," replied Leah, " but we don't profess to teach 
 here ; the teaching has been done at Compton school. When 
 girls go out into the world, they must learn to make their 
 own way." 
 
 " Toss them in, and let them sink or swim as they may," 
 I exclaimed, rather bitterly. " Leah, that was not your case 
 nor mine." 
 
 " It was mine," exclaimed Leah. " I went my own way
 
 URSULA. 241 
 
 from the time I left Mrs, Prince's school at Hove, and that 
 was when I was fifteen, just a few months older than Esther 
 Smithson." She drew herself up with a proud air, as though 
 defying any one to say a word against her. 
 
 I was silent ; it was no use to continue the argument, 
 and, after all, Leah was mistress. But, in my own mind, I 
 determined that if I found it really impossible to be of use to 
 the poor child, I would ask Mrs. Richardson to look out for 
 another situation for her. 
 
 Leah watched me narrowly, after that conversation, being 
 afraid, I could see, that I was going to make too much of 
 Esther, but I was careful not to offend her ; and, indeed, I 
 did not wish myself to be too particular about the girl. I 
 only wanted to give her the kind of work which would keep 
 her out of the way of gossiping and idle talking with the men 
 about the farm. Esther was much given to chattering, and, 
 though I did not encourage her, she told me of her own accord 
 some things which I certainly was much interested in hear- 
 mg. 
 
 Her mother had been sent for to work at Stonecliff, the 
 large house under Compton heath. It was to be cleaned and 
 put in order for a family who were to take possession almost 
 immediately, and Esther said she was nearly sure that it 
 was Mrs. Temple who had given all the orders. This con- 
 firmed Mr. Hervey's information, and settled my mind as to 
 saying anything to Miss Milicent. If matters had gone as 
 far as that, it would be useless. 
 
 The news was confirmed a few days after ; when, as I 
 was sitting alone by myself, at work, there was a knock at the 
 front door and I heard some one say : 
 
 " Is Ursula Grant at home ? " The voice took me quite by 
 surprise. It was Mrs Temple's. I thought I had better go 
 out to her. She was in a little pony chaise; one that be- 
 longed to the hotel, and Captain Temple was with her, I 
 asked them to get out and walk in, and the Captain seemed 
 willing, but Mrs. Temple declined. They must return at 
 once, she said. She had only called about a little matter of 
 business ; perhaps it would be as well to see Mrs, Grant, 
 " Mrs. Grant is not at home. Ma'am," I replied ; for Leah 
 had gone over to her mother at Hatton. 
 Vol. I— 11
 
 242 URSULA. 
 
 " Well then ! perhaps you will do as well, if you will ex- 
 plain. My dear, the pony is fidgety, just get out and stand 
 by its head." And Mr. Temple, being always obedient, 
 alighted. 
 
 A cold wind was blowing, and I was afraid of tooth-ache, 
 and put my apron round my head, but Mrs. Temple did not 
 notice it, and kept me standing in the draught. " I wanted 
 to inquire about having butter from Sandcombe," she said. " I 
 shall want enough for rather a large family ;— Mr. Temple, and 
 myself, Mrs. and Miss Weir, and our servants, besides 
 friends; — we are to be at Stonecliff." She looked at me as 
 though I had been an utter stranger, who had never heard of 
 her before. 
 
 I did not appear surprised, or even interested, but 
 merely said, " We send our butter to Hove, Ma'am, gener- 
 ally." 
 
 " I suppose you do ; but of course you would be willing 
 to accommodate persons in the neighbourhood. We find it 
 difficult to procure good butter, and I am particular about it." 
 
 " I will speak to Mrs. Grant," was my reply. 
 
 I think she was struck by the tone, for she added more 
 graciously, " Mrs. Weir would have a claim upon you, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " Certainly, Ma'am, my brother and I — all of us would do 
 anything we could for Mrs Weir," I answered. " But the 
 butter can always be bought at Hove." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps so ; but I should prefer — you have a girl 
 here who comes from Compton School, she might bring it 
 over." 
 
 She was bent upon saving the carriage, I saw that in an 
 instant. 
 
 " The girl's hours would scarcely suit, I am afraid, 
 Ma'am," I replied ; " and the butter for a large family would 
 be a load for her." 
 
 " Oh ! a strong girl; she would not care, and she must 
 learn to make herself useful. Mrs. Kichardson would wish 
 it. She is one of the Compton girls, I know there can be no 
 difficulty." 
 
 " I could promise a pound occasionally, for Mrs. Weir, 
 Ma'am," I said, " but I would not undertake for more.
 
 U K S U L A . 243 
 
 The butter has been sent to Hove now for a good many 
 jears, but of course I could speak about it to Mrs. Grant." 
 
 " I shall call again, and speak for myself," she exclaimed. 
 " I am not accustomed to incivility. My dear," and she 
 touched her husband with the driving-whip, " my dear, are 
 you ready ? We must call again another day ; or perhaps, — 
 tell Mrs. Grant I should wish to see her if she should be 
 coming over to Compton in the course of the next week." 
 
 I curtsied, and Mrs. Temple drove off. 
 
 Was it not irritating ? — and she professing herself to be 
 so wonderfully good, so Christian-like. It would have made 
 me doubt whether anything like real religion and humility 
 were to be found in the world, if I had not known persons 
 like Mrs. Weir, and Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. Curiously 
 enough, Mrs. Temple always came over me as something 
 new. It takes a long time to make one believe that persons 
 with high professions can really be self- deceivers, and when- 
 ever I was away from Mrs. Temple, I took myself to task for 
 disliking her as I did, and suspected it might be my own 
 fault that we were not friends. " Perhaps," I sometimes 
 said to myself, " if I was more in earnest, I should enter 
 more into her ways of going on, and understand them bet- 
 ter." But it was no use to scold myself; one meeting was 
 enough to make me turn from her as much as ever. 
 
 But the thing which worried me now far more than Mrs. 
 Temple's ungraciousness, was the thought that Mrs. Weir 
 and Miss Milicent were so entirely under her influence, and 
 that they could so have forgotten their old kindliness for 
 me, as to make such a great change as that of moving from 
 the Heath to Stonecliff, and joining housekeeping with Mrs. 
 Temple, without troubling themselves to let me know that it 
 was a settled plan. I dare say they had spoilt me in a meas- 
 ure in former days, and made me too much their friend ; but 
 I own I felt as though I had been dealt unkindly by, and 
 my first impulse was to take my revenge by not helping them 
 in return. Leah was little likely to upset the arrangements 
 of her dairy, to please either Mrs. Weir or Mrs. Temple, and 
 though I had said truly that the butter could be bought at 
 Hove, I had a strong suspicion that it was nearly always 
 caught up at once by old customers. But I was in a better 
 mind than that beiore Leah came home. I had an old
 
 244 URSULA. 
 
 habit, I don't remember exactly when or how I began it, of 
 reading the Evening Psalms about that time in the day, and 
 when I had put out the tea-things, I went up to my room 
 and took out my prayer-book as usual, and somehow or 
 other the very act of doing it made me feel what a sinful 
 temper I was indulging. There was a hard struggle before 
 I could overcome it, but God helped me, and I gained the 
 victory, and that same evening I tried, though unsuccessful- 
 ly, to persuade Leah to alter her market arrangements to 
 suit them. I was vexed at having failed, but satisfied at 
 having made the attempt, and never suspected that any fault 
 could be laid at my door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Christmas came. It would take too much time to note 
 all that happened before, though there was a good deal in 
 different ways, both at home and abroad. Jane Shaw was 
 married ; that, I think, was the greatest event of all. Of 
 course I was not asked to the wedding, but Jessie Lee was ; 
 and very pretty she looked, as I was told, and very much no- 
 tice she had in consequence from Captain Price's gay friends. 
 Her little head was sadly turned, for the time, by the 
 flattery she received. She came over to us once or twice 
 dressed so handsomely, that I really felt ashamed for her ; 
 but she took what I said to her about it very properly, and 
 if she did not alter her ways, at least she was not angry with 
 me for trying to induce her to do so. She was a great deal 
 at Dene, which was what I disliked more than anything. 
 
 Mrs. Morris and Leah quite changed their tone about 
 her, when they found how much was made of her there. 
 Instead of a drudge, they seemed resolved to turn her into a 
 young lady ; and to own the truth, she played the part bet- 
 ter than many who set up for being well born and well bred. 
 What kind of society there was at Dene I could not well 
 understand. No one whom we knew, except Jessie, ever 
 visited, or even went there, unless it might be now and then 
 on business ; but rumours reached us which were anything
 
 URSULA. 245 
 
 but satisfactory to me, though William and Leah appeared 
 to think little enough about them. 
 
 Leah was possessed with the idea that I was jealous of 
 Jessie ; and so, if I ever made a remark upon anything I 
 had heard, or repeated any of the stories which now and 
 then came to my ears, I was only half believed. Leah 
 could not see as I did, that the very fact of having Jessie's 
 name mixed up with people like Captain and Mrs. Price, 
 whom every one was talking about, was to her disadvantage. 
 I relieved myself, when I was very much worried with this 
 sort of thing, by writing it all out to Roger. I had always 
 been accustomed to tell him every trouble as it arose ; and I 
 had no doubt of his taking part in this, for he never failed to 
 mention Jessie in his letters, and to beg that I would remem- 
 ber him to her. Poor fellow ! before Christmas came, he 
 was beginning to be very homesick, for troubles had come 
 upon the gentleman he was with, and so in a measure upon 
 him. Yet he wrote cheerfully, and seemed quite resolved to 
 be brave and bear the hardships well, and in time he said 
 there was no doubt that things would be brighter. At any 
 rate, he might work independently whenever he chose. I 
 tried not to see that he said less about having me with him. 
 The possible idea of remaining away from him longer than a 
 year was so dreadful, that I would not face it. I bore the 
 worries of Sandcombe well enough in the hope of a speedy 
 end, but I did not know what I should do if there was any 
 prospect of there being a lasting burden. Taken separately 
 indeed they were but trifles, but put together they were 
 sometimes very heavy. 
 
 Busy times were the pleasantest. Leah was in good hu- 
 mour whenever she was roused to be very active ; and one of 
 the most peaceful seasons I ever remember whilst I was with 
 her, was in November, when the whole house was at work 
 for two days, salting meat and melting lard. It was all to be 
 done at once, so there was no leisure for grumbling ; and as 
 it happened, Esther Smithson made herself remarkably use- 
 ful, and was in consequence hired for extra work in the af- 
 ternoon ; and Leah even said to me that she thought I must 
 have taken pains with her, for she was turning out a very 
 handy girl. This pleased me, I own, for certainly 1 did take
 
 246 URSULA. 
 
 a good deal of pains with Esther in one -way and another ; 
 and though she had some faults which it was very difficult to 
 overcome, I could see that at any rate she had not gone back 
 since she worked at Sandcombe. 
 
 My time and thoughts were occupied more and more 
 every day with Sandcombe, and I dare say it was right that 
 it should have been so, but there was a place in my heart 
 still, which was filled with remembrances of Dene and care 
 for Mrs. Weir. How soon portions of one's life become like 
 a dream to one ! I was living scarcely more than a mile 
 and a half from Mrs. Weir, I heard her name constantly, 
 there were opportunities for going over to see her tolerably 
 often, yet by the time Christmas arrived I felt quite removed 
 from her. The days when I used to be allowed to go and 
 sit with her, and read to her, and nurse and comfort, and be 
 useful to her, seemed like the days of my childhood, calm 
 and bright, happy with an untold happiness, but too indis- 
 tinct to give me the feeling that they had once formed part 
 of my own existence. 
 
 Yet nothing had occurred outwardly to alter Mrs. Weir's 
 kindly feelings towards me, and I could not with truth say 
 that they were altered ; but she was living with Mrs. Temple 
 at StoneclifiF, and this put me always on my guard when I was 
 with her, lest what I said should be repeated, and then taken 
 up and turned against me. I was not so open, therefore, as 
 I used to be, and no doubt Mrs. Weir found it more difficult 
 to talk to me. There was a kind of floating mist between 
 us, and though I loved and honoured her too much ever really 
 to alter in my feelings towards her, yet I must confess it now 
 vexed me to know that I was at Mrs. Temple's mercy ; and 
 every now and then I could not help perceiving symptoms of 
 distrust which went to my heart. 
 
 But there was one person who, I must say, never changed, 
 nor showed the slightest symptom of change. Miss Milicent 
 and I had lived together rather in the cat-and-dog .style at 
 Dene ; but we liked each other at heart, and now that we 
 were no longer in danger of mutual interference, I think we 
 began to see more clearly our respective good points. 
 
 One thing I certainly did wonder at very much. I used 
 to imagine Miss Milicent such a determined person; one
 
 URSULA. 247 
 
 whom it was impossible to lead, who would go her own way, 
 and that often a very strange way. But I begin to think 
 that people who are self-willed and troublesome in temper, 
 are often as tired of their own humours and oddities as their 
 friends can be ; and as willing, but for their pride, to give 
 way, if they meet with a will stronger than their own. 
 
 The day before Christmas-eve I was asked over to Long- 
 side. Mrs. Kemp wished me to go the next evening, but 
 there were reasons against it ; one which concerned only my- 
 self. I wished to have a quiet time before Christmas-day. 
 Mr. Richardson had lately given some cautions and direc- 
 tions about preparing for Christmas, which I was desirous, 
 if possible, to attend to, for I was beginning to be more care- 
 ful not to neglect advice upon these points. Being so much 
 alone tended to make me thoughtful. I always made a point 
 of telling Leah what I meant to do in the way of going for a 
 walk, or drinking tea with a friend ; it was due to her, though 
 she had no absolute control over me ; but it was a sore trial 
 sometimes ; she had such a provoking way of suggesting diffi- 
 culties. I often felt, when I had gained my point, as though 
 I had been straggling through a furze bush, and was pricked 
 all over. 
 
 " Going to Longside ! " she exclaimed, that day after 
 dinner, when I happened to mention Mrs. Kemp's invita- 
 tion. " Why ! you'll be frozen. There must be snow be- 
 fore long." 
 
 " Not much appearance of it at present," I said ; " the 
 sky is clear." 
 
 " And you can't set off till late, for I have kept Esther 
 here to help this afternoon." 
 
 " I don't quite see why that should prevent me," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Only that you know she always gets into a scrape, if 
 you are not by to look after her. She and Martha never hit 
 it off together." 
 
 " I am afraid they must learn to do so," I said. " I can 
 scarcely undertake to be Esther's guardian all day." 
 
 " Martha trusted her to wash the milk-buckets, and clean 
 the pans, last time she stayed," continued Leah, " and she 
 did it disgracefully. I shall be obliged to see to it myself 
 next."
 
 248 URSULA. 
 
 " I will give her a caution if you think it necessary," I 
 replied ; " but perhaps it would come better from you, 
 as you are the mistress. I did not know though that it 
 would be necessary to keep her, as there is not so very much 
 to do." 
 
 " Really, Ursie, you are enough to try the temper of a 
 saint," exclaimed Leah. " Not much to do ! with all the 
 dairy-work and the poultry, and tea, and supper, and the day 
 after to-morrow Christmas-day ! " 
 
 I tried not to smile, as I answered, " I did not think of 
 putting you to inconvenience ; my work, as you know, does 
 not interfere much with yours in the afternoon." 
 
 " No, indeed, it doesn't," exclaimed Leah ; " you sit in 
 the parlour with your needle till you have not the least idea 
 of what is going on in the house. If you were mistress, as 
 I am, you would soon see that it does not do to go gadding 
 about the country whenever the fancy seizes one. Esther is 
 not to be trusted with the dairy-work at all," she added, in 
 an under tone. 
 
 " Well, then ! let Martha undertake to scour the pans," 
 I said, " and Esther can do something else." 
 
 " Martha has her hands full," replied Leah. 
 
 " If you like," I said, " I can have an eye to the milk- 
 buckets and the pans before I go. There is no difficulty in 
 the matter, except Esther's carelessness." 
 
 " I don't know what difficulty you would have greater," 
 observed Leah ; " and it is nonsense of you, Ursie, to talk of 
 waiting to look after her ; why you wouldn't be off before 
 dark ; and how are you to come back again ? You can't 
 think of bringing Farmer Kemp out at night to walk such a 
 distance, and I am sure you ought not to come alone." 
 
 " Mary said her father would not at all mind the walk," 
 I replied ; " and if it should be a bad night he would drive 
 me back." 
 
 Leah made no reply, but just as she was going out of the 
 room, she turned round and said, " I wish you just to re- 
 member, Ursie, that if there are complaints about the milk 
 and butter, it won't be my fault." 
 
 I could have found it in my heart at the moment to give 
 up my visit, anything seemed better than to have to bear
 
 URSULA. 249 
 
 these taunts, but I knew that I should gain nothing by yield- 
 ing. Leah would only have called me perverse, and deter- 
 mined to make myself a martyr. I resolved, though, that 
 she should have no real cause for complaint, and therefore I 
 went to Esther, and took her myself into the dairy to show 
 her exactly what she was to do, telling her especially that 
 she was to give herself plenty of time, so as to have the pans 
 quite ready for the new milk when it should be brought in. 
 There really was nothing else of any consequence to be 
 attended to, for as to the preparations for Christmas-day, I 
 had been busy with them all the morning, and William was 
 not so bountiful to his people as to require much to be done 
 for them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Leah kept out of my way, and did not say good-bye to 
 me. I went off with a mixed feeling — a light heart from the 
 prospect of my holiday, but a heavy one from the thought of 
 the constant fret of temper which I was to beai- — no one 
 could say how long. The light-heartedness, however, won 
 the day by the time I had reached the top of the Down, and 
 could look over the sea, with the white waves curling and 
 tossing as they rushed in upon the shore. I stood for a few 
 moments to enjoy the sight, and then finding I had more 
 time than I expected, I took it into my head to go to the 
 summit of St. Anne's Hill and stand by the ruined oratory, 
 as I had done on that evening when Roger first told me that 
 we might be parted. I went up so quickly that I was quite 
 out of breath, and when I reached the tower, I rested against 
 the wall to recover myself. I did not know that any one 
 was near till I heard a little cough, and when I looked round 
 the corner I saw Jessie Lee. 
 
 Like myself, she was leaning against the tower with an 
 open letter in her hand, which she was trying to read ; but 
 the wind caught it every instant, so that she could scarcely 
 manage it. " You had better come round this side, and not 
 face the wind in that way, Jessie," I said gently, not wishing 
 to startle her. 
 
 Vol. L— 11*
 
 250 URSULA. 
 
 But she did start, and stand up, and the colour came to 
 her cheeks, and mounted up to her forehead, while she 
 crumpled up the letter in her hand, and tried to hide it. 
 
 " I didn't mean to frighten you," I said ; " but I was 
 going to Longside, when the fancy took me to run up here 
 for a few minutes and look round. The air on St. Anne's 
 always does one good." 
 
 " Yes, it is very fresh. I didn't know you were going to 
 Longside. I think I must say good-bye ; " and Jessie moved 
 away. 
 
 But I called after her. " Don't run off in such a hurry," 
 I said as she came back ; " it is not often that we meet now, 
 Jessie ; you are always gay or busy." 
 
 " Sometimes ; I am not busy now," she answered, stop- 
 ping unwillingly. 
 
 " Only gay?" I said. 
 
 The words seemed to strike her like a mockery; she 
 turned round upon me quite sharply. " You didn't use to be 
 fond of sneering, Ursie." 
 
 " I never meant to sneer, Jessie," I replied ; " I only 
 repeat what others say." 
 
 " And I thought you knew better than to believe the 
 world's talk," she answered. " No one can call Hatton a gay 
 place." 
 
 " Not Hatton, but Dene," I said. " You must own, 
 Jessie, that Captain and Mrs. Price keep open house." 
 
 " It is their concern, not mine," she answered ; " why 
 should people talk about me ? " 
 
 She spoke hastily; but I suspect she was not entirely 
 vexed that people should talk of her, in whatever way it 
 might be. 
 
 " We must live in the desert, if we mean not to be talked 
 about in this world," I said ; " and even then I suppose 
 people would be troubling themselves to guess why we went 
 there." 
 
 " And that is why I wonder you take any heed to what 
 you hear about me, Ursie," continued Jessie ; " you know so 
 well how foolish it all is." 
 
 " I am not quite so sure of that," I said gravely. " I 
 don't think, Jessie, that any girl's name is ever mentioned
 
 URSULA. 251 
 
 lightly, unless she herself has given cause for it ; at least, 
 that is what Mrs. Kemp has often said to me, and Roger 
 used to tell me the same." 
 
 Jessie stood with one foot forward, wishing, I could see, 
 to run away from me, but at the mention of Roger's name she 
 drew it back, and her fingers seemed to grasp more firmly 
 the letter which she held. 
 
 " Roger wasn't well when you last heard from him, was 
 he ? " she said, in a careless tone. 
 
 " Not very ; the cold tries him. I must go out to him as 
 soon as I can, to take care of him." 
 
 " He will want that," she said. 
 
 " Yes; he takes very little thought for himself." 
 
 " But he likes Canada ? " continued Jessie. 
 
 " Yes, in a way ; it will never be like England to him ; 
 he cares so much for his old friends." 
 
 Jessie looked up thoughtfully. " You tell him all the 
 gossip about them, I suppose, Ursie." 
 
 " I tell him what I hear ; sometimes truth, sometimes 
 gossip, just as it may happen." 
 
 " And he believes it, of course ? '' 
 
 " He believes what I tell him is true." 
 
 " And if people say ill-natured things about me, he takes 
 them for fact then," said Jessie. 
 
 " He takes for fact what I say is fact," I replied; " that 
 Jessie Lee is too much at Dene for her happiness or for her 
 good name." 
 
 " My good name ! " she exclaimed ; and her eyes, usually 
 so sweet and soft in their expression, flashed like lightning. 
 " I tell you what you may say to him, which will put a stop 
 to any remarks upon my good name or my bad." 
 
 She waited a moment, — began to speak, stopped, and at 
 length exclaimed, " Jessie Lee is going to be married ; " and, 
 seeing, I suppose, that I looked rather incredulous, she 
 thrust her letter into my hand, saying, impatiently, " Read 
 it ; read it." 
 
 I turned away from the wind and opened the letter ; 
 Jessie watched me intently. 
 
 The handwriting was difficult to decipher ; she thought 
 I had reached the conclusion before I had made out the 
 meaning of the first four lines.
 
 252 URSULA. 
 
 " Well ! " she said, " it's all true, — plain ; no mistake, 
 Ursie." Still I read on; when at length I came to the con- 
 cluding words, I folded up the paper again, and gave it to 
 Jessie without speaking. 
 
 " You see," she said, " it is an offer." 
 
 " Yes ! an offer." 
 
 " And a very proper one. I shall be the wife of Lieuten- 
 ant Macdonald, of the Marines. Roger will have nothing 
 to say against that." 
 
 The tone of her voice was strange ; there was more pique 
 than pleasure in it. I thought I would try an experiment 
 with her. 
 
 " No, Jessie," I said, " you will not be Mrs. Macdonald." 
 
 " Why not ? Who is to hinder me ? " 
 
 " Yourself. You don't know anything about Lieutenant 
 Macdonald that is good, and what is more, you don't care 
 for him." 
 
 " As for caring, he is very polite ; you can't find fault 
 with his letter." 
 
 " Yes I can," I said. " It is the letter of a man who has 
 not a particle of respect for you, and thinks he has nothing 
 to do but to flatter you ; and, Jessie, you know as well as I 
 do, that Lieutenant Macdonald's habits would make any 
 woman miserable. Who would marry a drunkard ? " 
 
 " You may just tell Roger that it is going to be," she 
 said, laughing. " It will be a fine subject for your next 
 letter." 
 
 I was provoked more than frightened. With all her 
 folly, I believed that Jessie had too much real respect for 
 goodness, thus deliberately to throw herself away ; but then ; 
 her vanity, — it was such a fearful stumbling-block. I could 
 not let her leave me in this wild mood. 
 
 " Jessie," I said, and I caught hold of her dress, and 
 made her listen to me. " You were always fond of teasing, 
 but this goes rather beyond what one can bear. You can't 
 mean really to say ' Yes ' to this man ; but you will do a very 
 wrong thing if you don't at once say, ' No.' " 
 
 " 1 don't know why I should," she replied. '' You see, 
 he says that if I cannot at once like him, he will be content 
 to wait for what time may do."
 
 URSULA. 253 
 
 " And for what purpose ? " I inquired. " Do you think 
 he is going to reform for the love of you ? " 
 
 " He may," said Jessie. " Men do reform sometimes." 
 
 " But women are worse than mad who marry upon the 
 chance of reformation," I said. " Jessie, even if you cared 
 for him, there is not one of your friends who would consent 
 to the marriage." 
 
 " I don't want consent," she replied, " at least, not yet ; 
 there is no hurry." 
 
 " Indeed, Jessie," I exclaimed, you are mistaken. There 
 is no halting between yes and no in a case like this. If you 
 don't mean to marry him, you have no business to keep him 
 hanging on." 
 
 " I don't say that I shall not marry him," she replied. 
 
 "Well, then, you will talk to Mrs. Morris, and Leah, 
 and your friends, and then, if they approve, you will say 
 ' Yes.' " 
 
 " Perhaps ' Yes,' perhaps ' No.' I can't answer for what 
 I may do." 
 
 She provoked me so that I jumped up, and spoke, I am 
 afraid, hastily : " Jessie," I said, " this is wicked trifling. 
 People talk lightly of love and marriage, but they are very 
 serious matters, and we shall have to answer before God for 
 the way in which we manage them. If Lieutenant Mac- 
 donald was a man whom you could respect, I could under- 
 stand your hesitation. But he is a drunkard ; his character 
 is notorious. You know you have told me about him many 
 times." 
 
 " He says he is very fond of me," said Jessie ; and there 
 was more real feeling in her tone than I could have imagined 
 possible in connection with such a man. 
 
 I saw at once what was working in her mind. " Jessie," 
 I said, gravely, " what is the love of a bad man worth ? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing ; only, Ursie, it is very pleasant to be 
 loved." 
 
 All the flippancy and perverseness of her manner had 
 vanished, and she leaned her head upon my shoulder and cried 
 bitterly. I thought of Longsidc, and felt I should be late, but 
 what could I do. " Dear Jessie," I said, " it is very pleasant 
 to be loved, there is no doubt of that, it is what we all long
 
 254 URSULA. 
 
 for. But lovo alone won't make you happy, and, what is 
 more, such love as this won't last. Lieutenant Macdonald 
 may possibly think he cares for you much, but I am quite 
 sure that he cares for himself more. He won't give up his 
 wine and his bad companions to please you." 
 
 " Perhaps he will, if I ask him," persisted Jessie. 
 
 " But you have no right to ask him, unless you mean to 
 do something for him in return ; unless you have made up 
 your mind to marry him, and that, you know, you have not. 
 And, at all events, one thing is clear ; you are bound to be 
 open with Mrs. Morris in the matter, and to do nothing with- 
 out consulting her." 
 
 Jessie stood twisting her letter into various shapes. 
 Presently she said, rather bitterly, " You are not lonely as I 
 am, Ursie." 
 
 " Not quite, I have Koger; but he is away." 
 
 "That is nothing; he thinks of you more than of any 
 one else ; he loves you best." 
 
 Why was it that a creeping misgiving seemed to glide 
 through my veins, and chill my answer ? I merely said, 
 " Yes, I suppose he does." 
 
 " Suppose ! you know it, you are sure of it," exclaimed 
 Jessie, eagerly, " If I had a love like Roger's, tlrsie, I could 
 go through the world without a wish. I would work, slave, 
 bear torture, anything to be loved first — best." 
 
 " But not by Lieutenant Macdonald," I said. " A 
 drunkard ! Oh, Jessie, think ! " and I myself shuddered un- 
 consciously at the idea. 
 
 She put her arm within mine without saying another 
 word, and we moved away from the tower. Then she stopped, 
 and said, " Which way are you going, Ursie ? " 
 
 " Over the hill, to Longside. I ought to have been there 
 half an hour ago." 
 
 " We can walk together, then, and you can go through 
 Dene ; no one will notice." 
 
 " Not together," I replied, " if you are bound for Hatton." 
 
 " I must go to Dene first," she answered with some hesi- 
 tation; " I promised Mrs. Price to see her to-day." 
 
 " It would be better to write to Mr. Macdonald first," I 
 said. " If he is at Dene, as I suppose, it will be awkward 
 meeting him before you have written."
 
 URSULA. 255 
 
 " He is not likely to be there. The gentlemen were all 
 to be out shooting. That is why I promised to go. I must 
 keep my word. Now, give me your hand and we'll run ; " 
 and she drew me witib her to the brow of the hill. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 I WOULD not run down St. Anne's Hill, for it was a 
 great deal too steep to be safe, and Jessie knew better than 
 to attempt it ; but she was in such a state of excitement, that 
 really she scarcely knew what she said. When we reached 
 the foot of the hill, I again urged her returning to Hatton. 
 As to going through Dene myself, I did not like the idea, for 
 my acquaintance with Mrs. Price had dropped since her mar- 
 riage, and I did not desire to renew it, neither did I know how 
 she was likely to look upon such an intrusion. Jessie could 
 not understand my scruples. She was so at home at Dene 
 herself, that she fancied every one else must be the same. 
 
 We went on in the direction of Dene, neither of us hav- 
 ing quite made up our minds what to do, and I trying to 
 persuade Jessie that it was more fitting for her at once to go 
 back to Hatton, and put the case before Mrs. Morris, when, 
 as we reached the little sheep-path leading off the down to 
 Compton, who should we see coming up but Miss Milicent, 
 dressed in a kind of loose great-coat and a close beaver bon- 
 net, and helping herself to mount the hill by the aid of a 
 heavy stick. 
 
 " Ursie Grant, is that you ? " she called out. " Stop, will 
 you? I want you." 
 
 She came up looking flushed and excited, but somewhat 
 cautious, as she saw Jessie. 
 
 " I thought you were alone," she said, in a tone which 
 Jessie could scarcely help hearing, and which made her stand 
 aside for a few seconds, and then, to my great annoyance, 
 walk on slowly by herself towards Dene. I called out after 
 her, " Just wait, Jessie; I shall not be a minute." 
 
 " Yes, you will be, I have a good many things to say to 
 you," said Miss Milicent. " Who is that girl ? "
 
 256 URSULA. 
 
 " A kind of cousin of my sister-in-law, Miss Milicent," 
 I replied. " If you will excuse me, I must not let her walk 
 alone." 
 
 " Why not ? She is no baby. Where is she going ? " 
 
 " I am not quite sure ; perhaps to Dene. " 
 
 " To Dene ! That is just where I am going, and you are 
 going with me." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Milicent, I don't know," I said, taken 
 quite by surprise. " I will walk with you to the gate ; but 
 I can't say about going in." 
 
 " It is going in that I am bent upon. I have a great deal 
 to say to you, Ursie Grant. Can't that girl walk on instead 
 of waiting ? She is a very pretty girl. I like her face." 
 
 It was a face to like, especially at that moment. There 
 was so much thoughtfulness in it. I could see that Jessie 
 was having a struggle with herself. She was almost deter- 
 mined to go back to Hatton. If we had but been alone I 
 should have persuaded her. 
 
 " That is your way," I said to her, laughingly, yet in a 
 tone I knew she must understand, and I pointed to Hatton. 
 
 " And this is our way to Dene," said Miss Milicent, lead- 
 ing me to the beginning of the sloping green pathway on the 
 side of the down. " I am not going there to pay a visit — 
 only on business, and you can let Mrs. Price understand 
 this." 
 
 Jessie caught the word Dene. " Then you are going to 
 Dene, Ursie," she said. 
 
 " Ursie Grant and I are both going there," said Miss 
 Milicent. " She knows Mrs. Price, and I don't ; though I 
 have had dealings enough with her of one kind and another." 
 
 " I knew Jane Shaw ; I don't know Mrs. Price," I re- 
 plied. " She is too fine a lady for me. Miss Milicent ; and, in- 
 deed, she will be likely to receive you much better without me." 
 
 " I know Mrs. Price very well," said Jessie, with scarcely 
 concealed satisfaction at having what she considered a grand 
 friend. 
 
 " Do you ? Then you will be just the person to say what 
 I want," said Miss Milicent ; " only you will just let Ursie 
 Grant and me walk aside and have a little talk together." 
 
 It was most unfortunate. My first impulse was to leave
 
 URSULA. 257 
 
 Jessie and Miss Milicent to manage their visit as they could, 
 and make my way at once to Longside ; but then I was so 
 afraid to trust Jessie alone, knowing how easily she might be 
 persuaded to stay and see Mr. Macdonald again ; and even 
 if her present intentions were good, which I was not sure of, 
 I could not for a moment have depended upon them, if she 
 were placed in the way of temptation. Care for him she did 
 not, but she might be flattered by his admiration, and touched 
 by his expressions of affection ; and how many women marry, 
 and make themselves miserable for life, under no greater in- 
 ducement ! 
 
 Miss Milicent took no notice of my hesitation, but telling 
 Jessie to go on to the white gate, and wait for us, she planted 
 herself deliberately in my way, and said, in an under tone, 
 " We have had news of my father, Ursie." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I exclaimed. I must have changed colour 
 from surprise, for Miss Milicent added directly, " You look as 
 white as my mother did. She shook like an aspen leaf, and 
 went into a fit. She would have gone quite, if Matilda 
 Temple had not scolded her." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent, scolded her ! " I exclaimed ; " who 
 could do that ? Poor lady ! no wonder she was upset." 
 
 " No wonder, indeed. If you had been there to see it ! 
 We had such a scene ! But Matilda Temple didn't carry 
 the day, though she tried hard for it. She would have kept 
 the letter from my mother if she could." 
 
 " And you heard from Mr. Weir himself?" I said. 
 
 " No, only from a gentleman abroad who has seen him, 
 and knows where he is, and tells us that if we want to hear 
 more of him we must find out a Lieutenant Macdonald. He 
 is at Dene, Ursie, and that is why I am going there." 
 
 It was a most incoherent story. I could make nothing of it, 
 and I had to ask many questions before I found out the whole. 
 John Hervey, it seems, had been doing for Mrs. Weir what 
 he wished me to do ; he had been keeping his eyes and ears 
 open for any thing which might interest or be of use to her. 
 It was through some acquaintance of his that a rumour came 
 of Mr. Weir having been seen somewhere in France — in Paris 
 I think it was. John said nothing, but he made inquiries, and 
 at length he found out an English gentleman who had lately
 
 258 U B SU L A . 
 
 been in company with Mr. Weir, but knew nothing of his 
 history, or how he was living, or what he meant to do — only that 
 he had with him a Lieutenant Macdonald, who at that time 
 was upon the point of starting for England. " Mr. Hervey 
 is clever enough," continued Miss Milicent, when she had 
 reached thus far ; " and he put two and two together, and 
 made out at last that the Lieutenant Macdonald mentioned 
 in the letter was the same who is now at Dene ; whereupon 
 he wrote to me to tell me, — a very civil letter it was ; not 
 at all putting himself forward ; he is a young man who knows 
 his place, and does not interfere. But when I had read it, I 
 made up my mind I would just go over to Dene myself, and 
 see Lieutenant Macdonald, and hear all he has to say. I 
 may as well take in some fresh air for strength before," she 
 added, as she turned round to the wind, thrust her hands into 
 her coat-pockets, and opening her mouth, drew a long breath, 
 as much I am sure to help her mind as her body, 
 
 I did not dare say I felt for her. She never would have 
 borne that, so I remarked quite coldly, " It would be more 
 proper for Lieutenant Macdonald to call upon you. Miss 
 Milicent. No doubt he would be quite willing to give him- 
 self the trouble." 
 
 " I don't know what is proper or what is not, Ursie 
 Grant. I have lived long enough, and seen folly enough, to 
 put propriety out of the question." 
 
 " But it would have been easier for you to have seen him 
 at Stonecliff," I observed. " There are such odd people some- 
 times at Dene." 
 
 " If they are odd they are more like myself," she replied ; 
 '' and I'll tell you what, Ursie, you don't know anything 
 about it. There is Matilda Temple, at Stonecliff, with eyes 
 and ears in every corner of the house ; and my mother's door 
 locked against me and open only to her. No ! whatever I 
 learn shall be by myself, without her interference." 
 
 " Of course you know best, Miss Milicent," I replied, 
 " but it would not seem to me that Mrs. Temple was likely 
 to interfere in anything which concerned Mrs. Weir; she 
 could have no object in it." 
 
 " Then you don't know her, Ursie, and you are an inno- 
 cent baby, which I never thought you before, for you never
 
 URSULA. 259 
 
 gave a truer warning than when you said we had better not 
 make one with Matilda Temple." 
 
 " It was you who thought so first, Miss Milicent," I said. 
 " You always told me you distrusted her." 
 
 " And so I did, and so I do. How I ever came to give 
 way to her I can't think. I do believe, Ursie, we don't any 
 of us know in the least what we are like." 
 
 There was more thought in the remark than I quite saw 
 then. I answered, indifferently, " I suppose we can't know 
 till we are tried. But things won't last long as they are. 
 Miss Milicent. I think you told me one day, that Stone- 
 cliff was only taken for a year." 
 
 " And what is to happen to us before the year is over ? It 
 is only just begun, and if we go on at the rate we are going 
 now, we maybe without a penny before it is ended." 
 
 I felt uncomfortable when Miss Milicent said this. I did 
 not think I was the person to hear about the money affairs of 
 the family, but Miss Milicent was so strange ; she could be 
 as close as possible at times, but if the impulse once seized 
 her, and she felt confidence in the person to whom she was 
 talking, everything came out at a rush. I looked towards the 
 white gate to give her a hint that we must hasten on, but 
 she never took hints. 
 
 " We were to share housekeeping," she continued, " but 
 — I don't know how it is, I am sure — I have no means of 
 ordering matters, and there are so many little things put 
 down to my mother. I don't believe she wants them, but 
 Matilda says she does. Matilda boasts she keeps within her 
 own income ; if she does it must be by eking it out with ours." 
 
 " Perhaps," I ventured to say, " if there is news of Mr. 
 Weir, it might be the occasion of making a change." 
 
 " I don't say, perhaps," she replied. " I say it must be ; 
 only Matilda Temple will work, and work, at my mother to 
 prevent it. Now she has her in her hands she won't let her 
 go easily, you may depend upon that. That was why she 
 wanted me not to show Mr. Hervey's letter. It was all pre- 
 tence saying it would upset my mother. We had a regular 
 battle about it, and I told her a bit of my mind. We are 
 not the better friends for that. Depend upon it, Ursie, it is 
 a trying life we have of it ; " and, for almost the first time 
 since I had known her, I heard Miss Milicent sigh.
 
 260 URSULA. 
 
 It was her own doing, all to be attributed to her neglect 
 of her mother, which had paved the way for Mrs. Temple's 
 influence, but it was not my place to reproach her with it ; 
 and, I fancied she was beginning to feel it. 
 
 " Mr. Richardson talks to me about looking after my 
 mother," she continued ; " he is always throwing me back 
 when I want him to give me more parish work. I don't see 
 what business he has to interfere. As I tell him, he can't 
 know the ins and outs of a family. My mother wouldn't 
 have me with her if I wished it." 
 
 " I am sure Mr. Richardson means kindly," I remarked, 
 " whatever he may say. He has been a good friend to Roger 
 and me, at least." 
 
 " Well, of course, yes ! and I dare say I may be wrong, 
 but that won't mend matters now ; and, Ursie, I don't like 
 your always taking side against me." 
 
 I only laughed a little ; there was no good in arguing with 
 her or contradicting her. Besides, time was getting on. 
 The sun was sinking low, and already there was a yellow 
 gleam over the bay, and a mist gathering behind the white 
 cliffs. 
 
 " If you please. Miss Milicent," I said, we really must be 
 going on. Jessie has to return to Hatton, and you will find 
 it lonely walking back to the Heath. Are you quite sure you 
 had not better wait, and call at Dene to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure that, if it must be night before I am 
 back, I will see that Mr. Macdonald to-day," she exclaimed. 
 " Since you are like the rest of the world, Ursie, you can go 
 your own way. That young girl and I can manage without 
 you." 
 
 She strode on for some distance, and had nearly reached 
 the white gate, when she stopped, turned round to me as I 
 was following her, caught hold of my hand, and grasped it 
 with the firm clutch, I can call it nothing else, which was 
 peculiar to her, and said, " I am like a hack-horse tired, 
 Ursie. Every one is setting at me to go their way, but you 
 will forgive." 
 
 She would not wait to hear what I had to say in answer, 
 but, pushing open the gate before Jessie could do it for her, 
 she entered the grounds of Dene.
 
 URSULA. 261 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Dene was very little altered. I could not tell whether 
 I was more glad or sorry for that. It would have been a 
 great pain to see the old familiar walks destroyed ; but then, 
 to look upon them with such changed associations ! I won- 
 dered how Miss Milicent could bear it. She went on 
 bravely, and, as it seemed, carelessly, only I don't think she 
 allowed herself to look about much ; and she did not speak a 
 word, but walked before us by herself. 
 
 Jessie, pleased to show her intimacy, said she should run 
 round by the verandah, and tell Mrs. Price we were coming. 
 Miss Milicent and I went to the carriage entrance. 
 
 A footman, in very gay orange-coloured livery, opened 
 the door, but he was almost immediately followed by Jessie. 
 I thought she was going to put herself forward to welcome 
 us, but she had better tact than people would have given her 
 credit for, knowing her thoughtless ways. She came up to 
 Miss Milicent, and said, " I thought, Ma'am, perhaps you 
 would like to know that Mrs. Price has a visitor with her." 
 
 " Thank you ; I shall not keep Mrs. Price more than a 
 minute. Ursie, where are you going ? " and Miss Milicent 
 looked back after me. 
 
 " If you have private business with Mrs. Price, Miss 
 Milicent, I could wait here very well," I said, in an under 
 tone. 
 
 " Private, with her ! " was the answer, in a loud whisper. 
 " You know I am not come to see her." 
 
 " You had better let your mistress know that Miss Weir 
 would be glad to speak to her," I said aloud to the servant, 
 for I was resolved that Mrs. Price should not think I had 
 called upon her for my own pleasure. 
 
 " The dining-room is empty, I am sure," said Jessie to 
 me ; and the man took the hint, and ushered us in. I can't 
 say how Uncomfortable I felt ; it was so very awkward to be 
 there, and I could not see why Miss Milicent had insisted 
 upon it ; only, I suppose, she disliked the visit, and thought 
 that I should help to make it go oflf well.
 
 262 U K S U L A . 
 
 Jessie was very nervous and excited. She went out 
 into the passage to see if the visitor was going, — then came 
 back and stood at the door, — then looked out of the window. 
 Her eyes were constantly turning from one side to the other, 
 and every little noise made her start. For myself, I was 
 really thankful to have my thoughts occupied by her and 
 Miss Milicent. To sit in the dining-room at Dene, and feel 
 myself a visitor to Jane Shaw, would have been more than 
 I could have borne patiently, if I had had leisure to think 
 of it. Presently there was a loud talking in the passage, 
 some very hearty good-byes were exchanged, and then the 
 dining-room door was thrown open very wide, and Jane 
 Shaw, — I beg her pardon, Mrs. Price, — in a splendid figured 
 green silk, rustling with stiff lining and flounces, sailed into 
 the room. As for being introduced, there was no need of 
 that ; she was at home with us directly. 
 
 " Good afternoon. Miss Weir ; very glad to see you. 
 Mrs. Weir is pretty well, I hope ? — How d'ye do, Ur- 
 sula ? " 
 
 She was not the least altered. In spite of her handsome 
 dress — her hair beautifully plaited according to the newest 
 fashion — her rings, and chains, and bracelets — she was 
 Jane Shaw still. Little Jessie Lee was ten times more at- 
 tractive, and Miss Milicent in her rough coat and beaver 
 bonnet much more like a lady. 
 
 Miss Milicent's reply was abrupt, as might be expected 
 from her, but there was a curious kind of civility in the tone 
 which I was not used to — it seemed to throw one at a dis- 
 tance. I wondered whether Jane felt it. 
 
 " My mother is as well as usual, thank you. I ought 
 not to have come so late ; I must beg you to excuse it, but I 
 have business with a gentleman staying here." 
 
 " A gentleman, indeed ! We have a good many gen- 
 tlemen here, haven't we, Jessie ? " The poor child col- 
 oured crimson. 
 
 " I wish to see Mr. Macdonald," continued Miss Mili- 
 cent. " If he is in the house, perhaps you would let him be 
 told that I am here ? " 
 
 " Lieutenant Macdonald 1 I can't say. He went out this 
 morning. He may be returned. The gentlemen are not to
 
 URSULA. 263 
 
 be reckoned upon in this shooting season, as Jessie knows." 
 She added in a familiar tone. " Perhaps dear, you would 
 just see if the Lieutenant is in the book-room ? " 
 
 I rose and looked into the library myself. A man 
 dressed in a shooting-jacket was lying full length upon a 
 sofa. His face was handsome but the expression very disa- 
 greeable. It was Lieutenant Macdonald ; I just knew him 
 by sight, and Jessie Lee in contrast with him seemed to me 
 like an angel. 
 
 " Mr. Macdonald is there, I think, Miss Milieent," T 
 said, as I drew back from the door ; " Would you wish to go 
 in ? " and I made room for her to pass, yet in such a way as 
 to prevent Jessie from being seen. Mrs. Price followed to 
 introduce her. 
 
 I closed the door behind them, and we heard only the 
 low murmur of voices. 
 
 Then I went up to Jessie. " Promise me one thing," I 
 said, hurriedly, " that you won't stay here, Jessie ; that you 
 will come home to Sandcombe with me." 
 
 She hesitated. " You must," I continued ; " you don't 
 know what you may be led into." 
 
 Mrs. Price's hand touched the handle of the door — I was 
 in agony for the answer — I don't know what possessed me, 
 but I added, " What shall I be able to say of you to 
 Roger ? " 
 
 Jessie's countenance changed in an instant. She looked 
 at me with a winning smile, and said, " I will do what you 
 wish. I should not like to vex Mr. Roger." 
 
 I kissed her. She seemed to me like a child saved from 
 danger. Immediately afterwards, Mrs. Price burst in upon 
 us. She could not have understood how or why I was 
 there ; indeed, I should have had a difficulty in explaining it 
 myself. But she was very gracious ; most unpleasantly so. 
 " You find the place altered since you were here, Ursula," 
 she began. " We have just added a room to your cottage, 
 and enlarged the billiard room ; you had a small parlour, I 
 think, and the kitchen. I dare say you would like to go 
 over and see it, and you would like to see the drawing-room, 
 too, no doubt — Captain Price has put up some pictures, and 
 made it look quite different from what it was in poor Mrs.
 
 264 URSULA. 
 
 Weir's time. Our groom lives in your cottage ; it just does 
 for him and his wife, and they have one child. I will show 
 you the way, if you like it. Jessie, dear, if you'll just run 
 up to my room, and fetch my shawl — not the silk one, but 
 the cashmere — I shall be obliged to you." 
 
 Jessie looked proud of the commission, and hurried away, 
 whilst Mrs. Price took me into her drawing-room, profess- 
 ing to show me the pictures, but pointing out also the new 
 carpet, and curtains, and tables, and chairs, everything in 
 fact which could in the least display her wealth, and contin- 
 ually repeating, " We have been obliged to make such 
 changes. The old furniture did well enough for poor Mrs. 
 Weir, I dare say ; but it wouldn't suit us." 
 
 I could never have been very cordial to her under any 
 circumstances, and now every word she said jarred upon me, 
 and presently, when she began to talk of Jessie, I was more 
 than jarred, I was provoked. " Jessie was such a sweet girl," 
 she said, " she was quite glad to have the chance of being 
 useful to her They saw a good deal of company, and Jessie 
 had many admirers. When she was well dressed, there 
 wasn't a prettier girl anywhere round the country. No 
 doubt she would marry well." 
 
 I made but a short answer ; if I had said all that was in 
 my mind, she might have thought me jealous ; but looking 
 out of the window, I observed, " that we must be thinking of 
 going ; Miss Milicent seemed likely to be kept some time, 
 and though we had walked over to Dene together, we were to 
 return separately. Miss Milicent had asked me to come 
 with her, because she was a stranger." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed 1 I didn't understand. I wasn't aware why 
 I had the honour of a visit." Mrs. Price's manner was pe- 
 culiar. I could not tell whether she felt pleased or dis- 
 pleased at having the acquaintance renewed. Jessie brought 
 down the shawl, and we went over to the cottage. Mrs. 
 Price reminded me again how small it was, and only fit for 
 the groom, and tried to impress upon me that she was a great 
 lady, and I was no lady at all ; and yet she asked me ques- 
 tions about Sandcombe, and every now and then hinted that 
 of course I should come and see her again. I let her talk as 
 she liked, not professing to be equal to her in worldly
 
 URSULA. 265 
 
 position ; it did not distress me to be put down by her, my 
 only difficulty was to keep myself from looking down upon 
 her for other causes. But that which was more in my 
 thoughts than anything else was, what could be done with 
 Jessie. If she were to go with me to Longside she would be 
 in the way ; but I did not choose to let her walk to Hatton 
 alone, and still less could I bear to leave her at Dene. It 
 seemed to me as though she had been providentially placed 
 under my care, and that I wan responsible for her. I could 
 not tell what to decide. We went into the cottage, and 
 spoke to the groom's wife, and I looked round upon the old 
 familiar walls with an eye that in fact saw nothing. I could 
 have sat there for hours and thought, if I had been alone, 
 but I had no feeling whilst Jane Price was at my side. 
 Only for one moment, whilst she, and Jessie, and the woman, 
 were talking apart, the present seemed to vanish away like a 
 mist, and the past was all before me. Roger in his arm- 
 chair, the table set out for tea, the kettle standing on the 
 hearth, so cheerful, so peaceful ! — Oh, what a pang shot 
 through me ! Would such days ever return again ? 
 
 Miss Milicent came out of the house just as we were re- 
 turning to it. A burning spot flushed her cheek, and she 
 rushed up to me. " We will go now, Ursie ; are you ready ? 
 Mrs. Price, I am sorry to have interrupted you," and Miss 
 Milicent made a wonderfully polite bend. " I wish you good 
 evening." 
 
 The words were not thoroughly articulate, they came out 
 so fast, and Miss Milicent hurried on up the hill, whilst I 
 vainly tried to overtake her, and then looked back, and to 
 my dismay saw Lieutenant Macdonald issue from the house 
 and join Mrs. Price and Jessie. I returned to them 
 directly, but not before a few words had been interchanged 
 between Jessie and Mr. Macdonald. " Please be quick, 
 Jessie," I said, " Miss Milicent is gone." 
 
 Jessie looked at me, half doubtful, half frightened. 
 
 " Come," I repeated, decidedly. " I must follow Miss 
 Milicent." 
 
 " You were not going with her ; I don't know what you 
 mean," replied Jessie; and Mrs. Price turned upon me 
 hastily, and said that Jessie was intending to stay with her. 
 Vol. 1—12
 
 266 URSULA. 
 
 " You promised, Jessie," I said. 
 
 " Promised, what ? She is engaged to me," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Price. She began, I am sure, to suspect my motive for 
 interference. 
 
 Mr. Macdonald had withdrawn a few paces, and I took 
 care that he should not have the opportunity of addressing 
 Jessie again, though what she had already said had been, 
 evidently, in no way pleasing to him. Jessie herself seemed 
 so irresolute, that once more I was induced to use the wea- 
 pon of persuasion which I had tried successfully. 
 
 " You know, Jessie," I said, " you told me that you did 
 not wish to vex me nor any one else." I stressed the last 
 words, and saw that she understood them. She made a con- 
 fused excuse to Mrs. Price, a half curtsy to the Lieutenant, 
 and we followed Miss Milicent up the hill. 
 
 I breathed freely when I found myself outside the white 
 gate ; yet the relief only lasted for a few moments. I felt so 
 provoked with Jessie for her weakness ; so annoyed at having 
 my engagement for the evening interfered with ; so anxious 
 too, for Miss Milicent, who was still striding on at a man's 
 pace before us. 
 
 I kept Jessie's arm within mine, but without talking to 
 her. Really I did not know what to say. After a few mo- 
 ments I looked at her, and saw she was crying. My heart 
 softened towards her then ; I said, gently, " You are not 
 sorry you kept your promise, Jessie, are you ? " 
 
 The tears only came the faster for the inquiry. I re- 
 peated it. 
 
 " I didn't keep it," she exclaimed. " I can't keep any- 
 thing or do anything that's right, Ursie ; you had better tell 
 Mr. Roger so at once, and then he will give me up as good 
 for nothing." 
 
 Her thoughts were dwelling then upon Roger. I noticed 
 it, but it did not strike me as unsafe or unwise. It was like 
 the feeling of a child for a parent. 
 
 " Neither Roger nor I will give you up, Jessie," I said, 
 " not for all the world. But if you don't want to run the 
 risk of making j^ourself miserable for life, you must keep out 
 of the way of temptation. Dene is not a fit place for you. 
 Jane Shaw wasn't over careful in her conduct as a girl, and
 
 URSULA. 267 
 
 she is not any better, that I can hear, now that she is mar- 
 ried ; she has very few women friends, and the men are a 
 bad set, as you quite well know, and it would just be ruin to 
 you in all ways to be mixed up with them." 
 
 I waited for her to assent, but she only said, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, " Then Mr. Roger wouldn't like to see me 
 married." 
 
 " Yes, he would like it very much," I answered, " if you 
 were to marry respectably ; so would all who care for you." 
 
 " I don't believe that any one who is respectable, as you 
 call it, will ever take up with me," exclaimed Jessie. " If 
 Mr. Roger thinks I have a bad name, so will others." 
 
 She longed for me to contradict her, I am sure, but I would 
 not do so just then. She was out of conceit with herself, 
 and wished me to say something civil that might put her in 
 again ; but though I was very sorry for her, I was certain it 
 was good for her to feel that her careless ways had done her 
 harm in people's opinion. Besides, I had no wish to go on 
 talking about Roger. I felt I had not been wise in saying 
 as much as I had about him. Jessie was so fond of being 
 talked about, even in the way of being scolded, that it only 
 increased her vanity to remind her that any one was anxious 
 about her, especially a person whom she so much respected 
 and looked up to as Roger. I cut the conversation short by 
 saying that I must run on and have a few words with Miss 
 Milicent. That, however, was not so easily accomplished. 
 Miss Milicent had walked on so fast that I could not over- 
 take her, and when I began to consider, though I thought it 
 very strange in her to go off from me in such a sudden way, 
 I saw it was no business of mine to thrust myself upon her. 
 Instead of following her, therefore, I came back to Jessie, 
 and proposed that we should both make the best of our way 
 to Sandcombe. How disappointed I felt at losing my visit 
 to Longside I can't say ; and I thought how they would be 
 expecting me, and once or twice was sorely tempted to go 
 there after all ; but it would never have done to take Jes- 
 sie ; it would quite have cut up our evening. If I had 
 wished to have any talk with Mary I must have left Jessie 
 alone, or burdened Mrs. Kemp with her, and that I should 
 have disliked extremely, for she was not over pleased, as I
 
 268 URSULA. 
 
 well knew, with the character that Jessie had gained for 
 herself. One has no right to put people together till one is 
 tolerably sure they are willing to be friends. 
 
 Moreover it was not a fixed engagement at Longside. I 
 was always obliged to say I would come if I could, but they 
 must not expect me for certain. I could never answer for 
 what might happen with Leah to detain me at home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A STORM of hail came on just when we were off the 
 Down, which made me the more glad that I had decided to 
 return. It had been gathering for some time, but I had not 
 noticed it much, having my mind given to other things. It 
 would have drenched us thoroughly long before we could 
 have reached Longside, and I should have been sorry for 
 this, more for Jessie's sake than my own. I was strong and 
 able to bear all weathers ; but Jessie was of a weak consti- 
 tution and often taking cold. 
 
 " They will be just sitting down to tea, Jessie," I said, 
 as I took her up-stairs to my room, that she might leave her 
 bonnet and shawl there ; " they will be surprised to see us." 
 
 Jessie was disinclined to go down ; she looked pale and 
 tired, and proposed to wait where she was till the hail was 
 over, and then walk to Hatton. But this I would not hear 
 of. She could sleep, I said, very well in my bed ; and one 
 of the farm boys who lived at Hatton, would carry a mes- 
 sage to say where she was. " I am sure, Jessie," I added, 
 " that whenever you are at Dene, Mrs. Morris doesn't expect 
 you back till she sees you, and so she won't be in any fright 
 about you, knowing that you set off with the intention of 
 walking there." 
 
 Jessie blushed but made no answer ; and a fear crossed 
 my mind, that perhaps she was in the habit of paying visits 
 to Dene oftener than her friends knew. I could not bear to 
 think it of her, for she was true by nature, though sometimes 
 inclined to keep things back from fear. But vanity and love 
 of amusement will lead to so much evil, which no one has 
 any idea of at first.
 
 URSULA. 269 
 
 I left her to go and explain to Leah why I had returned ; 
 but when I entered the parlour I found no tea prepared, — 
 not even the tea-tray put out, — and the room looked so cheer- 
 less ! The fire had gone out, and some one had been trying 
 to re-light it ; for a few sticks were lying about, and the coal- 
 scuttle stood in the middle of the room. I went to the 
 kitchen, and found no one, but I heard voices in the dis- 
 tance, loud and angry ; they came, I was nearly sure, from 
 the dairy, and I went there to see what was going on. 
 
 It was so dark that I stumbled over something which 
 was lying on the ground at the door ; it was like part of a 
 broken dish, and my foot went into a pool, whether of milk 
 or of water I could not see. Leah and Esther were in the 
 dairy. They did not perceive me ; Leah was in what I can 
 only call a towering passion, a thing rare for her ; she was 
 bitter and cross, but not generally passionate. I heard my 
 name mentioned. " Miss Grant lets you do it, does she ? 
 You are not to attend to Miss Grant, you are to attend to 
 me, I am your mistress. But you'll leave me ; I don't keep 
 good-for-nothing girls, who tell lies ! " And then Esther 
 rejoined, not very respectfully but very earnestly, denying 
 that she had said anything which was untrue ; and was im- 
 mediately contradicted by Leah with fresh threats of being 
 turned off instantly. What was the beginning or likely to 
 be the end of the quarrel, I could not see ; but I was quite 
 sure that Esther had been kept at work later than was right, 
 and that she would have a long dark walk over the hill by 
 herself, if some one did not take thought for her ; so I quietly 
 drew back, and made my way into the farm-yard, and told 
 Sam Hobson, Kitty's father, whom I knew 1 should find at 
 work there, that he was not to go without having a word 
 with me first. He was a steady man, and lived near the 
 Smithsons, and I was sure he would see Esther safe home. 
 Then I went back to the dairy. Leah had left it, but I 
 found Esther sobbing at the door. She told me her grievance. 
 She had washed the milk-buckets carefully, as I ordered her, 
 and cleaned the ladles, and prepared everything for the milk 
 when it was brought in ; and she was going to scour the 
 pans that would be wanted the next morning, when she was 
 called away by Martha, and sent on a message across the
 
 270 URSULA. 
 
 fields, which took her more than a quarter of an hour. 
 When she came back she found some milk, which had been 
 put into a brown pan, spilt, and the pan itself broken to 
 pieces. She had no more to do with it, she said, than I had ; 
 and she went directly and told Martha, but Martha didn't 
 believe her, neither did Mrs. Grant. No one else, they said, 
 had been near the dairy, and it must have been her doing ; 
 and so they wanted to make her confess it. " But I wouldn't 
 tell a story for them, nor for the Queen ! " exclaimed Esther, 
 indignantly. " I didn't do it, and if they were to cut my 
 head off, I wouldn't say that I did." 
 
 There was one point, however, in which Esther no doubt 
 was wrong ; it was part of her usual carelessness ; she had 
 been always told to shut the dairy door when she came out, 
 and this had been forgotten. But she owned it at once. 
 She was a thoughtless girl, but not given to falsehood. I , 
 had no doubt myself that the mischief was done by the cat, 
 and I made her fetch a candle, and we went into the dairy 
 together. I pointed out the marks of the creature's feet on 
 the boards ; Esther was satisfied then, she thought the 
 trouble was over. As for the threatening, and the scolding, 
 she had been used to them from one or the other all her life, 
 and I doubt if she considered it possible to get on without 
 them. She had learnt to look upon herself as fated to do 
 wrong. As she once said to me, " Please, Miss Grant, I 
 was born to go crooked." 
 
 I was very provoked with Leah in my own mind for having 
 raised such a storm, without having given herself the trouble 
 of inquiring into the case, but I supposed it would all be 
 right when once I explained matters. I did not understand 
 Leah, however ; perhaps I should more truly say I did not 
 understand human nature. There is no saying how far we 
 are all at times tempted to depart from what is just, from the 
 shame of allowing that we have been unjust. When I went 
 in, Leah was kneeling down before the parlour fire trying to 
 re-light it. Esther had brought damp sticks, and they would 
 not catch ; the shavings were burnt out, and there were only 
 a few scraps of paper to use instead. 
 
 " It was too late to get to Longside, Leah," I said, by 
 way of explanation, " so I am come back. Can't I help
 
 URSULA. 271 
 
 you ? There's a ' Weekly Messenger ' in the drawer which 
 I suppose may be used." 
 
 '' You'll please let that stay," was the reply. " There's 
 an advertisement in it which William wants to have kept. 
 It's all that girl's fault — green sticks like these ! They 
 won't light for a twelvemonth." Leah caught up the match- 
 box, rubbed her last match, and found that it wouldn't go 
 off, and then tossed the box upon the table, and sat down in 
 William's leathern arm-chair with her arms folded. I went 
 out to the kitchen, and brought back some more shavings, 
 and another box of matches. " Certainly," I said, as I 
 gathered up the green sticks, " it is very tiresome. There 
 are plenty of dry faggots in the wood-house, I know." 
 
 " This sort of thing won't go on," said Leah, not at all 
 hastily, but in a tone which to me was much worse. 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 " I shall go over to Compton to-morrow," she continued, 
 " and tell Mrs. Richardson so. I can't have liars in my 
 house. They will look a long time before they see any more 
 of my money for Compton school, if that is the way they 
 bring their girls up." 
 
 I was afraid I should only irritate her more by answer- 
 ing, but I could not hear a false accusation without trying to 
 put it right, .so I explained what had really been the case 
 about the milk. All I gained in reply was, " Very likely; 
 it might be true, or it mightn't; but Esther was a girl who 
 wasn't to be trusted. She could not even lay a fire. She 
 never remembered a thing that was told her; and if she 
 didn't break the dish herself, she was the cause of its being 
 broken, and that was just as bad. So impertinent she was 
 too, — and sm h a quantity of milk spilt, — Mrs. Weir must go 
 without it, there wouldn't be a drop for her, — old customers 
 must be attended to first." These and many more remarks, 
 equally annoying, I had to bear in the best way I could, and 
 that I thought was silently ; but silence only made matters 
 worse. When Leah found herself uncontradicted, she turned 
 her wrath upon me. It was all my doing, I was at the bot- 
 tom of every mischief: it was I who had insisted upon 
 taking Esther ; I, who had taught her badly — indeed, had 
 entirely neglected her. If I could have believed her, my
 
 272 URSULA. 
 
 love of going about visiting was the cause of the mishap in 
 the dairy, and the green sticks, and the extinguished fire. 
 
 I was not unaccustomed to such accusations. I went on 
 trying to make the fire burn, and by the help of the bellows 
 succeeded at last, so that the room was quite cheerful with a 
 blaze ; and then I set out the tea-tray, and brought in the 
 bread and butter, and put out some cake for William, Leah 
 all the time not taking the least notice, but sitting moodily 
 apart. At length, when she found she could not get a word 
 from me, she went up-stairs. 
 
 I give no credit to myself for forbearance. It was 
 simply a matter of necessity. If I had said one word I must 
 have said a hundred. I was, in fact, so angry, that I could 
 not trust myself to speak. Perhaps, with such a violent 
 temper as mine was naturally, and a principle of religion 
 which had not, as it were, come to its full growth, this was 
 as much as I could expect. But it would have been better 
 if I had learnt to turn my wrathful feelings into prayers. I 
 might not then have heard all the bitter things Leah said, 
 and I am sure I should not have treasured them in my heart 
 as I did. I went up-stairs to find Jessie, and gave vent before 
 her more than I ought to have done, and that did me no 
 good, especially as Jessie was inclined to take Leah's part, 
 partly, I think, because she felt vexed with me for not having 
 flattered her more. 
 
 After a while, I sent Jessie down to explain for herself 
 why she was there, and to make tea if she was wanted, and 
 presently I heard her talking away quite cheerfully to Wil- 
 liam. I could not make up my mind to go down myself, 
 but there I sat close to the window, looking out upon the 
 heavy clouds which came floating across the sky, tinged 
 with a faint glow from the sunset. I was better in some 
 degree, for I had tried to pray for a few moments when 
 Jessie left me, and my temper was quieter ; but I could not 
 forget what had passed, and my thoughts were gloomy as the 
 deepening twilight. Mrs. Price, Leah, Jessie, Esther, all seem- 
 ed going the wrong way ; some from one cause, some from an- 
 other. And there was no way of doing good. I thought I was to 
 be useful to Esther, but she was to be taken away from me. I 
 wished to save Jessie, but she depended upon Leah more than
 
 URSULA. 273 
 
 upon me. I had cherished a hope, when I came to Sandcombe, 
 of persuading William, if not Leah, to look upon things in 
 a different way, but I did not see that I had the slightest in- 
 fluence. William was not at all more constant at church 
 because I went twice. He took the Sunday afternoons for 
 settling the accounts just the same, and never read anything 
 but the " Mark Lane Express " or the " Hove Advertiser ; " 
 and the way things went on about the farm and the servants 
 was not altered in the least. My life seemed quite thrown 
 away. And as to my own temper and principles, I had only 
 to look at myself at that moment and see all the angry, proud, 
 revengeful feelings which were struggling for the mastery, to 
 be quite sure that there was very little improvement in them. 
 If I had only remained with Mrs. Weir, I said to myself, — 
 and I went off in thought into a consideration of what might 
 have been the consequence, both to her and myself, when 
 Jessie ran up-stairs to bring me down to tea, saying that 
 William was tired of waiting. 
 
 Leah was not in the room. Tea was poured out, and she 
 did not come ; and, when William went up to her, he brought 
 back word that she had a headache, and was lying on her 
 bed. William was in very good spirits, rather merry than 
 otherwise. He was pleased to have Jessie there, and joked 
 her about Dene, and especially, to my great annoyance, about 
 Lieutenant Macdonald. I rather imprudently carried on 
 the subject, by repeating what I had heard of him, and es- 
 pecially of his habit of drinking ; and William, really, I 
 believe, for the mere amusement of contradicting, took his 
 part, and made light of it, saying that it was what all young 
 men would do if it came in their way, only some had the 
 cleverness to conceal it. I was sure, and I told him so, that 
 he was wrong. I don't believe that either Roger or John 
 Hervey ever did such a thing, and William himself was always 
 sober from a boy. It vexed me that he should say such 
 things before Jessie. It is so bad for any one to have a low 
 opinion of others ; and moreover it has always been a puzzle 
 to me, how persons can talk lightly of such a habit as Mr. 
 Macdonald's. Putting aside the evil in this world, the Bible 
 always classes it with the worst sins. To hear a drunken 
 scene turned into ridicule, is to me like hearing people laugh 
 Vol. 1—12*
 
 274 URSULA. 
 
 about the devil. It makes me shudder. But then, the 
 world would say I am over particular. 
 
 When Jessie went up-stairs to take Leah a cup of tea, I 
 made a remark of this kind to William, and brought him to 
 agree with me. I did not like to tell him how matters really 
 stood between Jessie and the Lieutenant, but I said enough 
 to put him on his guard, and make him feel that to encourage 
 Jessie in thinking about such a man, was very unwise to say 
 the least. There was something in William which I could 
 always reach when I had him to myself. It was not good- 
 ness or principle, I am afraid, but it was a kind of straight- 
 forward sense and perception of truth. Selfishness blinded 
 him whenever he did see things crookedly. The provoking 
 thing was, that one never could depend upon him. He might 
 agree with everything that was said one minute, and the 
 next he would go and act directly against it. 
 
 Jessie, when she came down, said that Leah's head was 
 very bad, and she thought she had caught cold standing about 
 in the dairy ; I offered to go up to her, but Jessie thought I 
 had better not. She did not exactly say that Leah was too 
 much put out with me to see me, but I was certain it was so. 
 It did not strike me, however, that there could be much the 
 matter, for Jessie told me that Leah had talked about a 
 dinner party which she thought of giving the week after 
 Christmas, and a card party had been mentioned too. Gen- 
 erally speaking but little visiting went on round Sandcombe, 
 the farms were so scattered, William and Leah however always 
 gave rather a grand party at Christmas- time, and Leah went 
 out a good deal then, sometimes as often as twice in the week. 
 
 Jessie cared little for dinner or cards, what she wanted 
 was a dance ; but she could not bring Leah round upon that 
 point, she said, and I own I was not very sorry for it. 
 
 We sat rather long gossiping over the fire after tea. 
 When William went out to look round the farm, Jessie very 
 good-naturedly offered to see to one or two things which I 
 was in the habit of attending to, and left me at my work. 
 But presently she came back with a note in her hand. It 
 had been brought, she said, from Stonecliff, and the man was 
 waiting to know if there was any answer. 
 
 " Let him go and warm himself by the kitchen-fire,
 
 URSULA. 275 
 
 Jessie," I said, " it will take some time to read this ; and 
 perhaps you will just look out a pen and some paper for me, 
 in case I should have to write." 1 drew the candle near 
 and began to read. No spectacles were required ; Miss 
 Milicent's letters might have been distinguished from each 
 other, half across the room : — 
 
 " I went away from you to-day in a hurry, Ursie Grant, 
 but why did you not come after me ? I expected you. 
 There is a great deal to say to you ; more than I can put on 
 paper to-night. Lieutenant Macdouald was half-tipsy, I 
 don't think he knew what he was saying. Come over to- 
 morrow morning if you can, and if you can't, come to-mor- 
 row afternoon. Matilda Temple complains of the Sandcombe 
 butter ; I don't eat butter myself My mother has had a 
 bad nervous attack ; Matilda Temple has been with her all 
 the afternoon. As I said, she won't let her go to my father. 
 I should like to know how much we are to believe of the 
 news. I should not like to live in France, but it might be 
 better than Stonecliff. Matilda Temple means to go and 
 hear the school-children examined at Hatton to-morrow. It 
 is not her parish, but it will take her out of your way, if you 
 come over. If you hear of any one who wants sea-anemonies, 
 you may send me word ; I shall give mine away if we go to 
 France. 
 
 " I am, Ursie Grrant, 
 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 " MiLicENT Weir." 
 
 Not much of an answer could be given to this note, it 
 was too perplexing ; but I wrote because I would not trust 
 to a message, lest there might be some fret with Mrs. Temple. 
 If she knew I was likely to be at Stoneclifi", she might pos- 
 sibly put herself in my way. I merely said, however, that 
 if I possibly could, I would walk over in the course of the 
 afternoon, but Miss Milicent must not be vexed with me if I 
 did not come, for I could not answer for myself; and the 
 man was sent back. 
 
 " Ursie," said William to me that night, when I went to
 
 276 U E S U L A . 
 
 bed, " Leah has a terrible cold ; what do you think I had 
 better give her ? " 
 
 I recommended something warm, but I did not offer 
 again to go and see her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 I WOKE the next morning with the feeling that all the 
 business of the house depended upon me. I was dressed 
 long before daylight, and down-stairs helping Jessie to get 
 breakfast, because Esther came late. I went to the dairy, 
 and fed the poultry, and gave the orders for the day, and I 
 made the tea, and cut the bread for breakfast, and talked to 
 William and Jessie, and arranged for Jessie to stay the day, 
 because of Leah's being ill ; in fact I did everything for 
 every one, except myself I was in a proud mood, and I 
 would not get the better of it ; " If Leah does not send for 
 me," I said to myself, " she may just do without me." 
 
 Jessie declared she was very feverish. I asked if a 
 doctor should see her, and William laughed at the notion. 
 In the afternoon, before I went over to StonecliflF, I told 
 Jessie to go up-stairs and let Leah know I was going. I 
 thought perhaps that she would wish to see me then, for 
 there had been some more trouble about the butter, and I 
 knew she had a message to send. But Jessie only brought 
 back word that I was to tell Mrs. Weir there would be no 
 butter all the winter. It vexed me more than I would quite 
 own to myself to go off and leave her, though it would be 
 only for a few hours, without having had a word of peace 
 with her, and the next day Christmas-day too, and I prepar- 
 ing for the Communion. I actually turned back, after I had 
 reached the farm-yard gate, resolved to see her, but Jessie 
 told me she was asleep then, so it was of no use, and I con- 
 tinued my walk. 
 
 Stonecliff was a much better house than the cottage on 
 the heath. It had, besides, a good-sized garden, and a coach- 
 house and stables. A tolerably large income would have 
 been required to live there comfortably, for it was a kind of 
 place which would naturally occasion expenses.
 
 URSULA. 277 
 
 The garden gave most trouble, for the place lay quite open 
 to the south-west, and the salt spray dried up the vegetation ; 
 but there was a glorious view to make up for it, all over the 
 bay to the great white cliflPs, and the far distant coast, which 
 could be seen like a grey cloud on the edge of the sea ; and 
 the sound of the dashing waves, and the feeling of the fresh, 
 free breeze, came to one with such a gift of life, and hope, and 
 strength — in spite of its wildness, I could have been very 
 fond of Stonecliff if it had been my home. 
 
 I found Miss Milicent in a little study, opening out of 
 the drawing-room. She was drying sea-weeds ; but said as 
 I entered, without looking up from her occupation, " There's 
 a chair for you, Ursie; I am glad you are come." 
 
 " I hope Mrs. Weir is better to-day, Miss Milicent," I 
 said. 
 
 " She may be better, but she is not quieter." 
 
 " Was the news yesterday so very bad? " I ventured to 
 ask. 
 
 She pushed aside the table at which she had been busy, 
 and turning round to face me, replied, " Your name is not 
 Weir, Ursie Grant, and you can't understand." 
 
 " Perhaps not, entirely," I said, " but no one can blame 
 you, nor Mrs. Weir, Miss Milicent, whatever may be wrong." 
 
 " Listen to me, Ursie," she continued, and she leaned 
 her clenched hand on the table, and bent forward with 
 eagerness. " I had to talk to that man yesterday, and he 
 was not sober, and he called himself our friend, the friend of 
 the family, and he wanted to shake hands — who was to bear 
 that ? " 
 
 " He was not the more your friend for calling himself 
 so," I replied. 
 
 " But he is," she added, bitterly, and she walked away 
 suddenly to the other end of the room. " You are an honest 
 girl," she added, returning, and placing both her hands on 
 my shoulders. " You won't think lower of us because our 
 name is Weir ; I was proud enough of the name once," she 
 added, in a lower tone. 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Milicent," I said, " you know well enough 
 that it is an honour to me to do anything I can for you. 
 You have only to tell me what. I am very sorry you were
 
 278 URSULA. 
 
 so annoyed yesterday with seeing that disagreeable man, but 
 perhaps you won't have to do it again." 
 
 " I shall though, Ursie. I must go there again. There 
 is a great deal to arrange with him. He knows all my 
 father's concerns." 
 
 The veins in her forehead swelled as she spoke the words. 
 I gazed at her in surprise. Such proud feelings I had never 
 remarked in her before, and yet I could scarcely call them 
 proud. In her place I should have felt as she did, and not 
 blamed myself. Mr. Weir had once been a gentleman, 
 honoured and respected. She could never forget that. 
 
 " Mr. Richardson, or Mr. Temple, would see him for you," 
 I began ; but she interrupted me. 
 
 "No, Ursie, no spies, no strangers, none but his daughter 
 shall hear of him. And I couldn't talk to any one but you," 
 she added, as large tears coursed themselves down her cheek. 
 
 Poor thing ! Words can't express how sorry I felt for her, 
 but I could not understand why she should choose me to talk 
 to. It came out, however, very soon. 
 
 " You know all, Ursie," she said, " the difficulties and 
 tempers ; my mother's ways, and Matilda Temple's ; you un- 
 derstand it. I can't go and tell Mr. Richardson every thing ; 
 and I trust you, Ursie; I trust you with all my heart." . 
 
 I gave her my hand, and she grasped it heartily. 
 
 " The trouble is about helping him," she continued. 
 " This man says he wants money, and that he is going to 
 join in a business— wine-selling, I think ; but I don't put 
 faith in what is told me ; only he declares, my father is so 
 poor now, if he could have help he would go on steadily. 
 What does Lieutenant Macdonald mean by steadiness ? " 
 
 " You must not trust Lieutenant Macdonald," I said. 
 " If Mr. Weir is found, some one else must go and see him, 
 and judge what is really the state of the case." 
 
 " And who ? " she exclaimed. " My mother ? '' 
 
 " Oh, no ! Miss Milicent, never. How could you think 
 of such a thing ? " 
 
 " Then I ? By myself ? Leaving my mother with Matilda 
 Temple? I have thought about it." 
 
 For the moment it seemed the only plan. Yet for her to 
 go abroad alone, it was next to impossible, and I said, " You 
 would not trust Mr. Temple, I suppose. Miss Milicent ? "
 
 URSULA. 279 
 
 " Trust a baby in long clothes ! Ursie, where are your 
 senses ? " 
 
 " John Hervey ! " I exclaimed, as with a sudden inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 She sat down, and leaned her head upon her hand. I 
 heard her murmur to herself, " He knows him ; he can't 
 think worse of him." 
 
 " John Hervey knew Mr. Weir years ago. Miss Milicent," 
 I said. " He would respect and help him for the sake of 
 those old times." 
 
 Her countenance worked with a conflict of feeling ; but 
 presently she said, quite calmly, " If he could go he must be 
 paid." 
 
 " His expenses must be paid," I said. " He woidd give 
 his time, I am sure, if possible." 
 
 " Matilda Temple holds the purse-strings," observed Miss 
 Milicent. 
 
 I was silent — that subject was beyond me. 
 
 Miss Milicent sat lost in thought ; her cogitations seemed 
 to come to no satisfactory termination, for, after a silence of 
 at least five minutes, she said to me abruptly, " You will go 
 up-stairs and see my mother, Ursie. She knows you are here. 
 Not a word about plans remember. Under any circumstances 
 she can't go." 
 
 I left her. My suggestion would, I knew, work better in 
 solitude than if I was with her ; and with a slow step, very 
 diff'erent from that with which in former days I had been ac- 
 customed to seek Mrs. Weir's presence, I went up-stairs and 
 knocked at the door of her sitting-room. 
 
 " Come in," said the gentle voice, which always sounded 
 more sweet to me than any other. " Oh! Ursula, it is you ! 
 How are you ? Will you sit down ? " 
 
 Mrs. Weir pointed to a chair, and then turned away her 
 face, and I saw her take up her handkerchief to wipe away 
 the tears which filled her swollen eyes. 
 
 I longed to go near her, and show that I was sorry for 
 her, but I could not make the first advance. I could only 
 say, " Miss Milicent tells me, Ma'am, that you have had a bad 
 night." 
 
 " Kather disturbed, Ursula. I never sleep well now. I
 
 280 URSULA. 
 
 thought I should have done well to take a sleeping-draught 
 before I went to bed, but my niece did not like it." 
 
 " You used to take it occasionally, Ma'am, if I remem- 
 ber," I said. 
 
 " Yes, occasionally ; it is a very bad habit. My niece says 
 I ought to cure myself of it ; and she never takes such things 
 herself, though she is very nervous, and lies awake half the 
 night." 
 
 A pause followed. Not knowing what to say next, I re- 
 marked, without thinking what I was saying, that I was 
 afraid Miss Milicent had a cold dark walk, the last evening. 
 She was out so late, 
 
 " Milicent is always out late," replied Mrs. Weir. " She 
 is away all the day. I don't see her, I only see my niece, 
 and no one ever comes to call, except Mr. Richardson, and he 
 has not been to see me so often as formerly." 
 
 " Perhaps your friends don't know you would like to see 
 them. Ma'am," I replied. 
 
 " Perhaps so, Ursula ; but people change. I did not think 
 they would. I thought if they loved me once they would 
 love me always. But we are not to put our trust in human 
 friends ; my niece tells me that." 
 
 " But indeed, dear Ma'am," I exclaimed, rather hastily, 
 " I don't know where we are told to distrust them." 
 
 " I do not remember any verse, Ursula," replied Mrs. 
 Weir, quietly; " but God teaches us by experience ; only it 
 takes a long time to learn the truth." 
 
 " I hope it will take a very long time before you learn to 
 distrust me, dear Ma'am," I said ; " if I might be so bold as 
 to consider myself your friend." 
 
 " Did I say distrust, Ursula ? I did not mean it ; but 
 young people go away and forget, and we ought not to ex- 
 pect that it should be otherwise." 
 
 I could not help understanding this, and yet I did not 
 know how to take it up. 
 
 Mrs. Weir continued, still in the same mournful tone 
 which was her nearest approach to anger, " My niece has 
 sent some messages to Mrs. Grant, Ursula, about the butter, 
 but I dare say you were too busy to attend to the orders." 
 
 " What orders ? " I could not remember any, and I said
 
 URSULA. 281 
 
 " It does not signify, it will do no good to vex ourselves 
 about such trifles," added Mrs. Weir. " I told my niece that 
 I did not care about it. I was only sorry, Ursula, because 
 I thought you would have managed it for me, but I am sure 
 you could not help it ; I was only hurt for the moment ; " 
 and she held out her hand to me kindly. 
 
 Just for an instant I thought I would try and explain, 
 but any one who had looked at Mrs. Weir would have seen 
 that explanation upon any subject then must be useless. 
 Even this little fault-finding had put her into a state of ner- 
 vousness, which was quite painful. I could only take her 
 hand, as she offered it me, and say heartily, " Dear Ma'am, 
 you will never understand how things are till I can come 
 back and stay in the house a little, and look after you." 
 
 Her sad face lighted up with such a bright smile for a 
 second, but it clouded again, and she said, gravely, " Oh, 
 Ursula, if you ever came to live with me I should want you 
 to speak quite plainly, and tell me everything, and you would 
 not like that. You know you did not like to tell about the 
 little broken chessman." 
 
 I felt stung to the quick ; that she should remember that 
 trifle, and take it up so wrongly too ! It must have been 
 dinned into her ears every day, or she would surely have for- 
 gotten it long ago ! 
 
 Mrs. Weir saw that I was vexed, and with her usual im- 
 pulse of kindheartedness, tried to do away with the effect of 
 her words, by reminding me how well I used to nurse her, 
 and what a comfort I had once been to her. But she could 
 not deceive me. I felt chilled, and I confess I was unjust 
 to her. I forgot her weak health, and the ease with which a 
 person in her state may be worked upon, and attributed the 
 misunderstanding to fickleness. " I am afraid, Ma'am," I 
 answered proudly, " that you can have but little pleasure in 
 the company of a person whom you suspect of not speaking 
 the truth, so I had better go." I stood up, intending to wish 
 her good morning, but she looked at me with an earnest, even 
 an imploring gaze, as she said, whilst every limb seemed to 
 tremble with agitation, " Then, Ursula, you do not care for 
 me any more than my other friends do." 
 
 I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. " Dear Ma'am,"
 
 282 URSULA. 
 
 I exclaimed, " Indeed I don't understand you. Nobody 
 cares for you more than I do, if you would only believe it, 
 and not listen to the unkind things which are said against 
 me. Who could help loving you ? " I added. 
 
 " Ah, Ursula," she replied, and her lips quivered, " peo- 
 ple have left off loving me since I came to Compton. My 
 niece knows the world, and she showed me that my friends 
 cared for me when I lived at Dene ; but they have left me 
 now. I ought not to mind it. I have my niece, and she is 
 very good to me. She says I shall never go away from her ; 
 but, Ursula, do you know," her voice sank, as she looked 
 timidly round the room, " we have had news — news of my 
 husband — Mr. Weir. Do you not think I ought to go to 
 him? Do not answer loudly ; they hear sometimes." 
 
 " There is no one to hear now, Ma'am," I said quickly ; 
 " but I think, if you will let me say it, that you had better 
 not trouble yourself about Mr. Weir just now. You can 
 wait till you learn more about him, and then by and by you 
 can go if it should seem right." 
 
 " By and by," she repeated ; " yes, soon, that would be ; 
 if my niece would allow it. But I ought to go, Ursula, I 
 am his wife, only Mrs. Temple thinks it wrong. I shall tell 
 her what you say." 
 
 Poor lady ! all her old loving confidence in me was re- 
 turning, and as I perceived it, every remaining feeling of 
 annoyance on my side vanished. I sat down again, I felt I 
 might comfort and soothe her, and I was happy. But the 
 door opened, and Miss Milicent entered. 
 
 " Mother, have you finished talking to Ursie Grant ? " she 
 began. 
 
 " Do you want her, Milicent ? I shall be sorry to say 
 good-bye. She is so kind in coming to see me." 
 
 " There is no time to spare. Mother. Matilda Temple 
 will be back directly. I must have you, Ursie." 
 
 " Matilda is coming now, I think," said Mrs. Weir. 
 
 No one else had heard the footstep, but Mrs. Weir was 
 right. 
 
 Miss Milicent beckoned to me. " Come, Ursie, come, we 
 are better out of the way." 
 
 " If you please, I will wait and see Mrs. Temple," I re- 
 plied, for I was resolved not to be abashed by her.
 
 URSULA, 283 
 
 There was a pause on the staircase ; Mrs. Weir's old 
 feeling of restraint seemed to have returned. She said ner- 
 vously, " Good-bye, Ursula; you will come again some day, 
 when you have time." 
 
 Even she then wished me to go, and I went. I passed 
 Mrs. Temple in the lobby, and received from her a bend of 
 the head, so slight as scarcely to -be noticed. A feeling came 
 over me as though I had left Mrs. Weir in the hands of a 
 gaoler. 
 
 " I have settled, Ursie," exclaimed Miss Milicent, as she 
 led the way to the study, and closed the door behind her. 
 " I won't be indebted to any one, I will go myself" 
 
 I could not tell what to reply, and Miss Milicent added, 
 hurriedly, " Don't object; I can't bear objections." 
 
 Few people can, I thought to myself; but the scheme 
 was mad. 
 
 " I shall go," she continued. " I know a person who 
 will go with me, an old servant. She has been in France ; 
 she travelled with us eight years ago. I shall talk to Lieu- 
 tenant Macdonald again ; perhaps he may be more sober. I 
 must go, Ursie. I must have my own way." 
 
 Who would doubt that ? Miss Milicent ought to know 
 more of the difficulties than I did, but they crowded upon 
 me. It seemed an expensive plan, taking two people instead 
 of one. I doubted if Miss Milicent would know how to 
 help her father when she was with him. I believed that 
 such matters of business required a man's head to arrange 
 them. I thought that to leave Mrs. Weir was giving up a 
 first duty. I was sure that trouble would follow if Mrs. 
 Temple was allowed to go her own way so entirely without 
 check. But Miss Milicent was totally undisciplined ; what- 
 ever she took into her head must always be carried through ; 
 and at the bottom of the decision there lay — I don't believe 
 she saw it, but I am not the less sure that it was there — the 
 desire to escape from a wearisome life, the struggle of con- 
 science, and contact with Mrs. Temple. Any duty rather 
 than that which was at hand. 
 
 I believe it is so with us all at times. 
 
 I continued to put in my word of advice, and that rather 
 boldly. "Miss Milicent," I said, "you do not know under
 
 284 URSULA. 
 
 what circumstances, or in what company, you may find Mr. 
 Weir ; it may be very unfitting for a lady to go where he is." 
 
 She would not hear me. It was all nonsense, she said. 
 Where there was a will there was a way. She didn't know 
 what fear was, and as for the opinion of the world, she cared 
 not a whit for it. That very afternoon she should write to 
 the servant, and inquire wether she could go. 
 
 I had nothing to ofi"er in reply. I could but say that I 
 hoped she would consider the matter well before she decided 
 upon it. She disliked the appearance of opposition, and when 
 I proposed to leave her, she was glad that I should go. 
 
 Something seemed to strike her just at last about her 
 mother, for as I was going away she said, holding my hand, 
 and speaking very earnestly, " You will be near, Ursie, if my 
 mother wants anything; and you won't mind Matilda Tem- 
 ple's humours." 
 
 It was a satisfactory thought to Miss Milicent, but it was 
 anything but satisfactory to me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Instead of going home over the down, I went round by 
 Hatton, and up the stony lane. It was a long walk, but I 
 had a little shopping to do in Hatton. In the grocer's shop, 
 I met Mr. Hervey. I told him where I came from, and that 
 I was on my way back to Sandcombe ; and he offered to walk 
 with me. He had been over to Hatton on business of his 
 own, but he was going back to Longside, to be present at the 
 giving away of a loaf of bread to all the families who lived 
 in Farmer Kemp's cottages, and to all his labourers and boys. 
 It was an old Christmast-eve custom ; and there was to be a 
 dinner for the labourers the next day, so there was enough to 
 do at Longside ; and Mary, I heard, was very busy, and 
 very provoked with me for not having gone to her the even- 
 ing before. 
 
 All this was told me as we walked slowly up Hatton lane ; 
 but John Hervey had something else in his mind, and I had 
 something else in mine j and yet we neither of us liked to
 
 UR'SULA. 285 
 
 speak of it. He could not tell me of his private news about 
 Mr. Weir, and I could not tell him of Miss Milicent's plans, 
 though I knew he would be likely soon to hear of them. 
 We were much more silent than usual, and once or twice I 
 cut him rather short in something he was saying, — not 
 meaning it, but merely because I was thinking of other 
 matters. It never struck me that he might notice my man- 
 ner, till we parted ; then he said in a marked tone, " We 
 used to be great friends, Ursie, and have a good deal to say 
 to each other, — but somehow times seem changed." 
 
 My colour came, not because I was angry, but ashamed. 
 . I really had never regularly made up with him since the 
 evening we had that little fuss about Mrs. Weir and my 
 interference. 
 
 " I didn't think you had a memory for old grievances, 
 Mr. Hervey," I said, laughing a little awkwardly; "I am 
 sure if there is a change it is not in me." 
 
 " There are no grievances, Ursie," he replied, more 
 gravely than I expected ; " only if I am a friend once, I am 
 a friend always." 
 
 " And so am I, I hope," was my reply ; " we are making 
 a great deal out of nothing, Mr. Hervey." 
 
 " Yes, it is nothing," lae said ; " nothing to you, Ursie. 
 There is no reason why it should be anything else. Good-bye, 
 I didn't mean to say anything disagreeable." 
 
 He held out his hand, and I shook it very warmly, for I 
 liked him heartily. But he was cold-mannered still. I told 
 him to give my love to Mary, and to bring her over to see 
 me as soon as he could. But he made no promises, and it 
 rather provoked me to see him so odd and moody. 
 
 He could scarcely have left me more than two or three 
 minutes, when I heard a voice calling behind me, " Ursie, 
 stop ! Ursie, why don't you stop ? " William was coming 
 after me. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I said, turning round slowly. 
 
 Instead of answering me, he asked quickly, " Who was 
 that with you ? " 
 
 " John Hervey," I replied ; " look, he is going along the 
 down now;" and without another word, William was off 
 like a shot. I thought it strange, and waited to watch what
 
 286 URSULA. 
 
 would pass between them. William overtook Mr. Hervey 
 in a few seconds ; then I saw them talking together in a great 
 hurry, and to my surprise, John Hervey changed his path, 
 and was away towards Compton in less time than I could 
 have thought possible. 
 
 William rejoined me. " He's gone for the doctor/' he 
 said ; " it was better than my going. Ursie, she is desperately 
 ill!" 
 
 " She ! — who ? " I exclaimed ; whilst all the blood in my 
 veins seemed chilled, and my heart for a second stopp ed 
 beating. 
 
 " Leah ! — Haven't you heard ? It is worse every hour." 
 
 " It ! — the fever ! — I didn't know she had any ! " 
 
 " You have not been near her," said William, bitterly. 
 " It was coming on when you went off this afternoon." 
 
 I said not a word for myself If he had told me I had 
 killed her I should have acquiesced. 
 
 " Jessie has been with her," continued William ; " we 
 should have sent for you, but we expected you in every 
 instant." 
 
 " I wish with all my heart you had sent ! " I exclaimed. 
 " I could have been back nearly an hour ago. But — I don't 
 understand — it was a cold, nothing else." 
 
 " Nothing else that you knew," said William ; " but I 
 thought it wasn't all right this afternoon myself; and if you 
 had been there, I should have made you go to her. Jessie 
 is such a child, she is not fit for anything. The fever has the 
 upper hand now, she is wandering." 
 
 " Leah is always feverish when she has a cold," I said. 
 " She may only be a little more so than usual." 
 
 " You can judge for yourself," was William's answer, and 
 he did not say another word as we hurried across the farm- 
 yard and into the house. 
 
 I rushed up to Leah's room, drew aside the curtain, and 
 looked at her. William was right ; she was desperately ill. 
 
 I need not say what that evening was like. How in a few 
 hours the whole aspect of a house may be changed by the 
 presence of serious illness almost all know by sad experience 
 It was as though every person's business had been suddenly 
 put an end to, as if indeed it was unfeeling for any one to
 
 URSULA, 287 
 
 attend to anything. "William sat brooding over the fire, 
 Jessie ran up and down-stairs on useless errands, Martha 
 gossiped with the men about " mistress's illness," and 
 Esther Smithson, whom I had kept to sleep at Sandcombe, 
 thinking she might be wanted, was ordered to do all which 
 no one else had time for. 
 
 And I — I don't know what I felt, — I believe I was thank- 
 ful to be busy. There was a heavy load at my heart which 
 would otherwise have been unendurable. 
 
 No neglect had I been guilty of intentionally. No sus- 
 picion of real illness, much less of danger, had for an instant 
 crossed my mind when I left Leah that morning ; but I had 
 given way to a proud temper ; she had done me wrong, and I 
 had waited for her to apologise, instead of taking the first 
 step towards reconciliation myself. I had allowed the " sun 
 to go down upon my wrath," and to rise upon it again, and 
 the ill feeling had kept me from her. I might not indeed 
 have been of use to her. Her husband was the person re- 
 sponsible, if any one was to blame, for not having sooner 
 perceived the serious nature of the illness ; but I could not 
 be innocent in my own eyes, nor, as I could perceive, in those 
 of William and Jessie. 
 
 John Hervey came back with the doctor from Compton, 
 and when he heard that it was a serious matter, he proposed 
 to ride over himself to Hove for further advice. William 
 hesitated, but I urged it ; I was resolved there should be no- 
 thing more to reproach myself with. John went, and was 
 back again with a second doctor before eleven o'clock. Then 
 he offered to stay all night — and I should have been thank- 
 ful to keep him, he had such a quick thought and ready hand 
 in times of difficulty — but William objected, for he liked no- 
 thing that put him out of his ordinary way ; and hiding his 
 face from danger, tried to forget that it existed. 
 
 I sat up with Leah, alone. She did not know me ; in her 
 delirium she complained of me, and thought I was treating 
 her unkindly. Once she called out for me, and said I would 
 not come near her. The fever increased; I expected no- 
 thing better ; the Hove doctor had talked of nine days before 
 the crisis; he was not sure, but he thought it likely, and I 
 summoned up my courage to bear the suspense. Such
 
 288 URSULA. 
 
 anxieties are scarcely dependent upon affection. I did not 
 love Leah, but I could have willingly taken her place, and 
 been in her danger to save her. 
 
 Morning dawned, that freezing dreary dawn which be- 
 longs to the depth of winter, and Jessie stole into the room 
 to beg that I would go to rest. But I turned from the 
 thought of rest ; and when she took my place at the bedside, 
 I went down-stairs to give the men their Christmas break- 
 fast of ale and toast, the only relic of the old customs in my 
 mother's time. 
 
 They were respectful and sympathising in their manner, and 
 I felt myself among friends and was cheered ; but when I left 
 them, I heard their jokes go on as though nothing was amiss. 
 It was Christmas-day to them. It was no day to me until, as 
 I stood for a minute at the open window of my own room, I 
 heard the peal of the merry bells of Hatton church. Then 
 a better feeling came over me, and I knelt down and prayed 
 God to forgive me in whatsoever I had done amiss in my 
 intercourse with Leah, and to spare her, and raise her up 
 again to live from thenceforth to His glory. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 It was not the will of God that my prayer should be 
 granted. Nine days afterwards, and Leah was dead. In 
 that short period I had lived as it seemed through years ; 
 for I had gazed upon death, and faced the terrors of 
 Eternity. 
 
 I cannot write about it minutely. At the time I was in 
 a troubled dream. Looking back, I can feel nothing but 
 wonder and thankfulness at the Mercy which sustained me 
 through the trial. For all was left to me from the begin- 
 ning. William was at first stunned. His wife had been in 
 many ways unsuited to him, she had given him many hours 
 of vexation, but he was used to her, and understood her ; he 
 had taught himself to depend upon her ; and the thought of 
 being left alone filled him with unspeakable dreariness. When 
 she was gone, he went about his daily business, but I saw
 
 URSULA, 289 
 
 him often turn from the empty parlour, and sit down within 
 the wide hearth in the kitchen, and cry like a child. 
 
 People told us we had one great comfort, that after the 
 first everything had been done which could be ,• and it was 
 true. No money had been spared to give her doctors' ad- 
 vice, a nurse had been hired thac she might never want at- 
 tention, Mr. Richardson had called every day, and prayed 
 for her when he could not pray with her, and at the end, 
 when consciousness came back to her, there was the comfort 
 of knowing that he had done all he could to make her pre- 
 pare for her great change. But I could never forget the 
 beginning of her illness, and if she had not before the last, 
 said, " Good-bye, Ursie," and looked at me kindly, I think I 
 should have been broken-hearted. 
 
 Yet I did not dwell so much upon her, I felt I must 
 trust her with all her faults, all her short comings, to Him 
 who alone knew her heart, its trials and struggles, but rather 
 I turned with a bitter self-distrust to my own position. 
 
 Who was I that I should venture to rule others, when 
 conscience told me I had so little rule over myself ? When 
 for the first time I sat at the head of William's table, as the 
 acknowledged mistress of his household, it was with a feel- 
 ing very difierent from that which had led me to criticise 
 Leah's arrangements in other days. I had continually 
 failed in humility, in gentleness, and charity. I had obey- 
 ed, — but from necessity, not from a willing heart, and the 
 first qualification necessary for those who would govern well 
 is the power of obeying well. It seemed as though it were 
 meant to punish and humble me, that all my duties presented 
 themselves in confusion, — one interfering with another, my 
 own will and William's perpetually coming in contact, and 
 claims from without, and anxieties from within, pressing 
 upon me, so that there were moments when I felt inclined 
 to sit down with my hands folded, and let others take their 
 way, merely because I had not the spirit to try and make 
 them go mine. 
 
 It was about a fortnight after Leah's funeral — that pain- 
 ful time succeeding a great shock, when we try to look upon 
 the present and the past as one, and find that God has 
 placed a great gulf between them, which in this world can 
 Vor. L— IB
 
 290 UESULA. 
 
 never be bridged over — I thouglit I would steal a few mo- 
 ments of quietness to think of all I wished to do, and to alter 
 the arrangements whicli in Leah's time I had found fault 
 with, and said that if I were at the head of aifairs they 
 should be different. These were many ; some, of course, 
 more important than others, but all requiring consideration 
 and contrivance. 
 
 The men and boys who slept in the house were left en- 
 tirely to themselves. They were placed together in an old 
 part of the house, reached by a staircase, which led to the 
 women-servants' rooms as well. So there was no one to look 
 after them. 
 
 I had heard through Martha that they were often very 
 profane in their language, and that if a boy, fresh from 
 school, with good habits, knelt down to say his prayers, they 
 would mock him till he gave up the practice. I had spoken 
 about this to Leah ; I had told her that at least she ought to 
 take Martha away from the risk of such company. But I 
 was always put off with a laugh at my particularity, as it 
 was called. What had done very well for the Sandcombe 
 servants for thirty years, I was told, would surely continue 
 to do for them for thirty years to come. This was a thing 
 to be remedied at once, and yet I was met instantly by a 
 difficulty as to fitting up what was now a lumber room, for 
 Martha, and so bringing upon William expenses which he 
 would consider unnecessary. Sunday was another burden 
 upon my miud. Martha never went to church in the morn- 
 ing, so that she had no opportunity of receiving the Com- 
 munion, even if she had wished it. I had several times of- 
 fered to remain at home myself, but she would not hear of 
 it. I could do as I liked now, but if I was not at church, I 
 was sure William would never trouble himself to think about 
 the men or see if they were there. In fact he was very ir- 
 regular in his own attendance, remaining at home on the 
 least excuse, and I had strong suspicions that the men often 
 took advantage of this, and went to public houses, and got 
 into bad company, on a Sunday. It was impossible for me 
 to be at home and at church too, and wherever I was^ I 
 seemed compelled to leave something neglected. As for 
 Sunday reading, the men, if they read at all, followed Wil-
 
 UK SUL A . 291 
 
 Ham's example, and spent tlieir time in spelling over a news- 
 paper. I thought I might do something to help in that way 
 by bringing them together, and asking Mr. Richardson to 
 lend me some interesting book to read to them, but I was 
 very ignorant, and shy too, and fancied I should never have 
 courage to begin, even if William were to allow it, which 
 was doubtful. 
 
 But the thing I had most set my heart upon was having 
 family prayers. They were managed at Longside, and I 
 earnestly desired to have it so with us. In the morning, 
 indeed, when the men were all out in the fields, only Farmer 
 Kemp's own family and the in-door servants could attend ; 
 but, in the evening, all who slept in the house met in the 
 room where the maids sat, and where most of the needlework 
 was done ; and then Farmer Kemp regularly read a chapter 
 in the Bible, and had prayers.. I remember hearing him 
 describe the difficulty he had iif beginning the practice, and 
 how the men only made a mock of it ; but he persevered, 
 and now there could not be a more well-behaved congrega- 
 tion in a church, than that which met at Longside every 
 evening. 
 
 But Farmer Kemp was master there, and had all his 
 family on his side. William was master at Sandcombe, and 
 would be entirely set against the notion. The fulfilment of 
 my wish seemed a great way off, and I had but few things 
 externally to help me in the meantime. Sandcombe was so 
 far from Mr. Richardson, and from Compton Church, that I 
 could gain but little comfort from them. I saw Mr. Richard- 
 son every now and then, but I could not go to him to talk 
 over my every-day difficulties ; and as for church, I could 
 very seldom go, except on Sundays. The services were too 
 early and too late, and the utmost I could hope was to manage 
 the walk occasionally, on the saints' days, when there were 
 prayers and a short sermon at eleven, and when I might have 
 /flffusincss to take me to Compton. 
 
 «P Perhaps the improvement which I had the greatest chance 
 « carrying out, was as to the outward behaviour of the men 
 who worked on the farm. Both William and Leah had a great 
 notion of being respectable, and anything which created a 
 scandal, or made people talk about them, was dreaded. And
 
 292 U K S U L A . 
 
 yet they would often keep men about them whose characters 
 were known to be bad, and who did untold mischief to others. 
 This arose, in a great measure, from Leah's indolence, and 
 William's dislike to face anything disagreeable. There were 
 one or two men about whom I had heard things which made 
 me urge William to rid himself of them ; but he never would 
 inquire into the stories, and Leah always said that the men 
 were not her concern, and so they worked on, and every day 
 I was sure that they were doing harm, especially to the wo- 
 men and girls, who were often employed in the fields, and 
 heard their bad language, and saw their evil ways. Once, 
 when there was a press of work, and a lack of hands, it was 
 proposed to send Esther into the fields, but I managed to 
 prevent that myself. I felt that I was in a certain way 
 answerable for her to Mrs. Richardson, and I could not bear 
 to think of her being corrupted by such company. 
 
 It struck me that if I could only inquire, and find two steady 
 labourers to take the place of those whom I wished to turn 
 ofi", I might, without much difficulty, bring William to agree 
 to it, and this would be the beginning of what I hoped might 
 at length prove a great amendment. 
 
 I sat alone, as I before said, planning all these changes, 
 when I was interrupted by William. He was accustomed now 
 to wander into the house many times in the course of the 
 day. No particular business brought him, but he was rest- 
 less, — always thinking to ease the burden at his heart by 
 change. Just at first, I thought that he had come at the 
 right moment, and I was upon the point of opening out my 
 wishes to him, but I remembered how he disliked changes, 
 and I knew, too, that old governments are very jealous of new 
 ones, and so I thought I would delay, or, at least, sound my 
 way before I made any propositions. And it was fortunate 
 that I did, for I should surely have met with opposition. He 
 was bent upon an arrangement of his own. Poor fellow ! he 
 wanted the appearance of a settled state of things, even if he 
 could not have the reality, and he was come to make a pror 
 posal to me, he said. 
 
 I did not like the sound of the word, but I answered : 
 " Anything, William, by which I can be a comfort to you, 
 you know I shall be very glad to do."
 
 URSULA. 293 
 
 " It would be comfort for yourself too, Ursie," he said, 
 " you know you have your own living to get in the world, at 
 least there is little enough for you without, and you may 
 just as well make your money with me as with anyone else. 
 I would give you a fixed sum by the year, and you might be 
 able to put something away out of it." 
 
 So strangely blind we are ! It will scarcely be believed 
 that up to this moment, I had never put before me the fact, 
 that Leah's death might be the means of separating me from 
 Roger for ever. 
 
 My heart seemed to rise i\j) in my throat and choke my 
 voice. 
 
 William thought I was touched by the feeling of the 
 great change which had come over us. He said to me kindly, 
 " It would be the best thing for us both, Ursie. We understand 
 each other, and shall get on very well together. Things 
 can't be as they were, but we must make the best of them." 
 " And Roger ? " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh ! Roger will" marry," was his carelc-^s answer ; " he 
 is sure to marry in that out of the way country." 
 
 I rose up, and turned away my face from him, whilst I 
 held up my work to the window under the pretence that I 
 could not see to thi-ead my needle, though in fact I only 
 wanted time to recover myself. I spoke to him after a few 
 seconds, I think quite calmly. " It is very kind of you, Wil- 
 liam," I said, "to wish to make a fixed agreement that shall 
 continue, but it might not be quite wise. Only as long as I 
 stay with you I should be very much obliged for an allowance, 
 because now that I have to look after everything, I can't give 
 any time to needlework." 
 
 As the words came from my lips, I felt how cold they 
 were, seemingly ungracious and unthankful, and "NV^illiam 
 longing, as I could see, for something to turn to and be fond 
 of. I tried to make them better. I said he was always kind 
 to me, that I was sure we should manage very well if we had 
 to be together. I turned my sentence in the way I thought 
 mo.«t likely to please him, but I could not say what I knew 
 he wished to hear. " William, it will make me happy to live 
 with you." 
 
 He was a proud man, and shy, as proud men often are.
 
 294 URSULA. 
 
 He was thrown back by me, and he could not make a second 
 advance. " You shall do as you like, Ursie," he said, " I 
 don't wish to put constraint upon any one. I thought it 
 would be wise to place things on a regular footing, but if you 
 like better to continue as you are, living as it were from hand 
 to mouth, why you must please yourself." 
 
 No, this was not at all what I liked. I must have things 
 put on a regular footing, as he called it, if I was to remain 
 with him ; but the sacrifice which this might involve, I was 
 not prepared" for. 
 
 " William," I said, " you must let me think this over by 
 myself. We are all in a bewilderment now. I don't think 
 we either of us know what we wish or want. A month hence 
 we may tell better." 
 
 He looked at me for a second, tried to whistle as he used 
 to do when half angry and half astonished, broke off abrupt- 
 ly in the middle, and went away. 
 
 As I ran up-stairs to my own room, I heard him giving 
 some orders in a loud, strained voice, and then I saw him 
 walk off with lono; strides across the fields. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 I HAD greatly pained William, and at the very time when 
 I was most anxious to give him consolation. But how could 
 it be otherwise ? Was it possible, was it in any way to be 
 expected, that I should entirely sacrifice my own happiness 
 for the sake of being what, after all, could only prove a 
 secondary comfort to him ? 
 
 This was the question which I put to myself, when I was 
 once more alone, in my own chamber, with my door bolted, 
 and kneeling before God that I might be the better able to 
 answer it in all sincerity. 
 
 Time was passing on rapidly, in a very few months I 
 might expect, if not to see Eoger in England, at Jeast to re- 
 ceive my summons to Canada. Was I to say " No " to it ? 
 Could I leave Koger to face loneliness in a distant land ? 
 After all he had done for me, would it not be selfish, ungrate-
 
 URSULA. 295 
 
 fill, to draw back and allow him to toil on, away from home, 
 friends, every early association of happiness, to full ill per- 
 haps and die, and none to comfort him '? ■ 
 
 I wept most bitter tears as I conjured up the spectre of 
 the evils which might be lurking in the dimness of futurity. 
 But there was another side to the case. Roger was young, 
 healthy, and full of hope ; likely, as I had so often been 
 told, to marry. He had not gone to Canada for me, but for 
 himself. If he sent for me, it would be because I had no 
 home but his. The tie between us was voluntary. If I 
 were called upon to break it by a stronger claim he would 
 be the first to give it up. 
 
 And William was my brother also, an elder brother, suf- 
 fering from a grief which Roger had never known. He had 
 a household dependent upon him, and no one to manage it ; 
 duties incumbent upon him, which, without help, he would 
 find the utmost difficulty in fulfilling ; and he had been kind 
 to me when I most needed it, he had taken me into his home 
 when I had no other home. If I had not been happy there 
 it was from no intentional neglect on his part. He might be 
 a selfish man, but he was never deliberately unkind. Could 
 I put aside his claim as slight ? It was the revival, in an- 
 other forru, of the difliculty which had so greatly troubled 
 me when I left Dene ; but it touched me more closely, for it 
 was a question of separation, not for a year, but, probably, 
 for ever. 
 
 God forgive me if I found the cross He had laid upon 
 me too hard to bear; if, for a while, I again pondered the 
 case, striving to escape from the decision, of my conscience, 
 and convince myself that Roger was to be my first consider- 
 ation, and that it was less a cjucstion of my own wishes, than 
 of the comparative happiness of my brothers. I was young 
 then. I had made a duty to myself of my afi"ections, and I 
 had not learnt that, unless supported by the claims of the 
 work set before us by God, afiectiou is not a duty but a 
 temptation. 
 
 Before I had in any way reached the end of my deliber- 
 ation I was called down-stairs to speak with Jolm Hervey. 
 I had not seen him since the day of the funeral, but I had 
 been expecting him constantly. Ho seemed now so much a
 
 296 U K S U L A . 
 
 part of ourselves that I was comforted at the thought of 
 talking to him, though I did not feel that I could ask his 
 advice. 
 
 " How is it with you to-day, Ursie ? " he said, kindly, as 
 I entered the room, " and how is William ? " 
 
 " William is rather better," I replied. " He is in the 
 fields looking after the men. Do you want him ? " 
 
 " I can't do him any good, I am afraid. Time will do 
 that, through Grod's help ; but I have a letter for you, 
 Ursie." 
 
 " A letter ! " I jumped up and caught it from his hand. 
 He turned away as I opened the seal. 
 
 " Dearest Trot, — I send you some hearty good wishes for 
 Christmas-day, as I am writing to John Hervey upon a little 
 business. You shall hear more soon. Lots of thanks for 
 your last letter ; nothing keeps a man up like hearing from 
 home. We have had rather a bad time here. Mr. Pierce 
 has been very ill, and is so now, and I have been good for 
 nothing myself. Please God, though, we get through this 
 winter, we shall all be better oif next. John will tell you 
 about my work. I have not time for more. Grod bless you 
 always my little Trot. From your very loving brother, 
 
 " Roger Grant. 
 
 " Love to William, and Leah, and all friends." 
 
 I let the note fall upon my lap, and burst into tears. 
 John Hervey drew near, frightened. "Is it ill news?" he 
 said, " there was nothing particular in mine, except about 
 Mr. Pierce." 
 
 I could not answer him, my tears came so fast. Per- 
 haps it was the careless mention of Leah's name which had 
 opened the flood-gates <of my sorrow. 
 
 John took hold of the note, and I put it into his hand to 
 read. 
 
 " He has been ill," was the only remark he made upon it, 
 " but he tells me he is better." 
 
 " He is not better," I exclaimed passionately, " I know 
 what he means by putting things in that light way. I must 
 go to him, and nurse him. He is nothing to you, Mr. Her-
 
 URSULA. 297 
 
 ve}^, but lie is my all — my all ! " I repeated ; and it gave me 
 a kind of fierce pleasure to feel that there was nothing in the 
 world I loved like him. 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to see my letter," said jMr. 
 Hervey ; " there doesn't seem much amiss from that, as far 
 as Roger is concerned, though I should be afraid about Mr. 
 Pierce ; and you see he says that if anything were to happen 
 to him, it might be a great draw-back." 
 
 I seized the paper almost without thanks. I would not 
 let JMr. Hervey read it to me. There was a pleasure in let- 
 ting my eyes rest upon the letters which Roger had formed. 
 I waded through two pages of farming business, understand- 
 ing nothing : then I came to a few words about himself, less 
 than what he had said to me. I found no comfort in them. 
 " He doesn't complain," said John. 
 " He never does," I replied. 
 
 " Spring will be coming soon," he continued, " the worst 
 will be over." 
 
 " And winter will be coming again," I answered, " but he 
 won't spend it alone." 
 
 " You are bent upon going to him then," said John, in 
 rather an anxious tone. 
 
 " I am not only bent upon it, I must do it." 
 " I thought you might have stayed a little while with 
 "William," continued John. " He will be much put to with- 
 out you." 
 
 I shrank from the suggestion. " "William will get a house- 
 keeper," I said ; " and Roger wants me, and I promised him 
 to go." 
 
 " And you wish it ? " said John, and his eye rested upon 
 me, with an earnest gaze, which for the moment puzzled me. 
 " Yes," I exclaimed, " of course I wish it. "NVho is there 
 that can be to me what Roger is? Wiio took care of me 
 when I was a child, and gave me a home, and watched over 
 me, and taught me ? It was not William, Mr. Hervey ; you 
 know that as well as I do. If he had been all I had to de- 
 pend upon, I might have been at this time working for my 
 bread in service, or starving upon dress-making. If William 
 wants me now, it is for his own good, not for mine." 
 
 " There is certainly more gratitude due to Roger," said 
 Vol. L— 13*
 
 298 URSULA. 
 
 Mr. Ilervey. He stressed the word gratitude. It fretted 
 me. 
 
 " Gratitude ! " I exclaimed. " No, Mr. Hervey, it is not 
 gratitude. I am grateful to Farmer Kemp, to Mr. Richard- 
 son, to you, to any one who has done me a kindness. I have 
 something more than gratitude for Roger." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself to be grateful to me," he said, 
 gravely. 
 
 I scarcely heeded his words : " You can't understand," I 
 exclaimed ; " no one can." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, in a tone of singular calmness, " I can 
 understand. You love Roger better than any one else in the 
 world." 
 
 " I love him better than my own life," I said. " I would 
 be thankful to sacrifice every hour of my existence to him. 
 I wish for nothing better than to live with him always. 
 There are many kinds of love in this world, Mr. Hervey, I 
 don't see how we are to measure them. I only know that a 
 sister's love for a brother may make earth a Paradise, 
 Dene was my Paradise," I added, in a lower tone. 
 
 I did not look at John Hervey as I spoke, my gaze was 
 riveted upon Roger's letter. 
 
 When, however, John said, touching the paper, " May I 
 have it? " I gave it to him reluctantly, and then raising my 
 eyes, I was for the first time struck with the expression of 
 his face. It was strangely pale, and there was a look in it 
 as though it had been cast into a mould ; a kind of stony 
 look. I did not like to ask him what was the matter. As 
 he folded up the letter, he said to me abruptly ; " I came 
 over for another purpose. Miss Weir is going to France ; I 
 suppose you know it." 
 
 " I had heard of it ; I did not know it was a fixed plan." 
 
 " I hear that she has engaged a servant, and has had di- 
 rections from Mr. Macdonald." 
 
 " Miss Milicent is mad ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Not far from it. She leaves her mother to Mrs. 
 Temple's care." 
 
 " It will be safe care," I said. 
 
 " It may be," he replied. 
 
 " I saw he was too proud to ask me again to interfere in
 
 URSULA. 299 
 
 anyway; and I smiled and said: " You want me to look 
 after Mrs. Weir, Mr. Hervey, but you won't say so ? " 
 
 " My wishes are not likely to weigh much with you, Ursie, 
 I know ; " was his reply : " but if Miss Weir goes, Mrs. 
 Weir will be left without a friend." 
 
 " Mrs. Richardson," I said. 
 
 " She will be left without any friend," he rejieated. 
 " Mrs. Temple keeps her to herself" 
 
 " But she likes it." 
 
 " Perhaps she does, I can't say ; but she seldom sees any 
 one. Mrs. Richardson is constantly denied admittance." 
 
 " For what purpose ? " I exclaimed. " It can do no 
 harm to any one." 
 
 " You women ai-e strange beings," he replied ; " you are 
 all fond of power." 
 
 " Because you men give us so little of it," I said ; " what 
 is rare is always precious." 
 
 " Oh, Ursie ! " he exclaimed, and he caught hold of my 
 hand ; " you have a great deal more power than you know, 
 — if you were only able — " 
 
 "To do what?" 
 
 " To use it rightly, — kindly, I mean." 
 
 I laughed a little, and said, I would come to him for in- 
 structions. It seemed odd that I could laugh. I was not 
 in the least happy in the depth of my heart ; but laughter 
 lies on the surface. We had some more conversation after 
 that about many things. John told me little about Miss 
 Milicent that I did not know, except the fact that her journey 
 was actually settled. She had not come to him for any 
 help, he said ; she had gone entirely her own way. I suppose 
 it was her pride, and the consciousness that her friends dis- 
 approved, which i^reventcd her from consulting any one; 
 nothing else that I can imagine, would have induced her to 
 have frequent interviews with such a man as Lieutenant 
 Macdouald. He, it seems, besides telling her Avhere Mr. 
 Weir was, had given her some instructions as to her journey ; 
 and this kind of business had taken her frequently to Dene, 
 where Mrs. Price made a great deal of her. So strange it 
 was that Miss Milicent could bear it ! But I have lived to 
 wonder at nothing I see in the way of intimacies. All iu-
 
 300 URSULA. 
 
 dulged faults bring us sooner or later to humiliation of some 
 kind. Miss Milicent's self-will and pride made ber take 
 rather a pleasure, I suspect, in going contrary to the opinion 
 of the world. She thought she showed her contempt for it in 
 this way ; but we do not take trouble to oppose what we 
 despise. I don't mean by this that Miss Milicent was inti- 
 mate with Mrs. Price, but only that she bore to meet her 
 upon a footing of equality. I inquired anxiously about Mr. 
 Macdonald, and was thankful to find that he was to leave Dene 
 in a few days. Our late trouble had put thoughts of Jessie 
 out of my mind, but they were returning again, with the 
 more force, because I felt myself to be in a measure, holding 
 Leah's place. Jessie had written a refusal, so she assured 
 me ; I did not doubt her word, and yet I had a lingering 
 misgiving. The one thing which Jessie could never be made 
 to understand was, that she had no right to indulge her 
 vanity, by having a double mind in these matters ; she might 
 refuse Mr. Macdonald, but I was not at all sure that she 
 would not continue to flirt with him, and of course in such a 
 case a refusal would go for nothing ; especially as I had 
 reason to believe that Mr; Macdonald sought Jessie for some- 
 thing besides her beauty; it being confidently believed by 
 many people, that Mrs. Morris was very rich, and meant to 
 leave Jessie a good sum of money. I was so anxious to hear 
 of his departure, that John promised to let me know as soon 
 as he was gone. I believe John thought I only wished him 
 away, because of his interference in Mrs. Weir's affairs. We 
 separated after having been together more than an hour 
 Just before John left me, I said, " You are going to write to 
 Roger ? " 
 
 " Yes," was his reply ; " and so are you." He went to 
 the door, came back again, and added : " Ursie, we don't 
 always see things rightly when we have a strong wish," 
 
 1 knew that better perhaps than he could tell me. When 
 I found myself alone. I took a sheet of paper, and wrote a 
 long letter to Roger, telling him that I must give up all hope 
 of joining him at present. Howl had arrived at the conclu- 
 sion, I don't know. I believe it was through contact with 
 an honest mind.
 
 URSULA. 301 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 If William and I had in the least understood each other, 
 we could never have gone on as we did during the nest few 
 weeks. We were both veiy unhappy, but if we had ex- 
 plained the cause of our unhappiness we must inevitably 
 have quarrelled and separated. As it was, we lived lives 
 apart, but without disagreement. The very absence of any- 
 thing like real sympathy enabled us to avoid the subjects 
 which would have jarred, for we kept upon the surface of all 
 things. In my self-conceit, believing that I had more thought, 
 intellect, and principle, than Leah, I imagined at first that I 
 could eventually fill her. position, even in William's estima- 
 tion, for his love for his wife was by no means an overpowering 
 affection ; but I was soon convinced to the contrary. As there 
 is " a time for every purpose under the heaven," so I believe 
 there is also a place for every person. The great man can- 
 not fill the little man's position ; self-sacrifice cannot make 
 up for the absence of congeniality. Not that I was great, 
 nor that my life was one of self-sacrifice. I only used the 
 expressions by way of illustration. Leah's likings and dis- 
 likings, her pleasures and pains, even her temper and fancies, 
 were part of William's home associations ; and therefore ne- 
 cessary to him. I believe I actually fretted him by trying to 
 make no complaint of the servants, nor to say sharp things of 
 my neighbours. The watchfulness which I was striving to 
 acquire was stagnation to him, and I was too sad at heart to 
 be able to cheer him by talking much upon other subjects. 
 I had Jessie Lee with me whenever she could be spared, as 
 much for William's sake as for my own. The meals and the 
 evenings were so quiet and silent, I was thankful to have 
 some one to bring forward new subjects of conversation, and 
 Jessie was generally bright and amusing in her way, and 
 seemed glad to be with me. She was not, however, in her 
 usual spirits, but that could scarcely be expected, for she 
 was very affectionate, and felt Leah's death extremely. 
 "Whether there was any other cause of melancholy I could 
 not make out. As to StoneclifF, there was still the same
 
 302 URSULA. 
 
 talk, week after week, of ]\Iiliccnt's going abroad, but the 
 journey was always put off. When a woman will follow her 
 own fashions, instead of those marked out for her by the 
 common sense of others, it is surprising what a mine of diffi- 
 ' culties she is likely to sink into. No one without seeing 
 would have believed the fancies which Miss Milicent gave 
 way to respecting her French journey ; whims about her 
 boxes, her dresses, which way she was to go, how she was to 
 guard against the weather — it was as if she was the first 
 person who had ever crossed over to France. She took it 
 into her head to come frequently to Sandcombe, under pre- 
 tence of asking mo what I thought about her plans, but not 
 in the least meaning to listen to what I said. She took up a 
 good deal of my time in that way, but I did not care so much 
 for that. I had always a very kindly feeling towards her, 
 but what I did dislike was the frequent mention of Lieuten- 
 ant Macdonald's name in Jessie's presence. There is noth- 
 ing like talking of people to keep up an interest. Even if 
 disagreeable things are said, it helps to I'etain them in one's 
 recollection, and gives one a kind of interest in them ; and 
 Miss Milicent of course could not always be complaining of 
 the Lieutenant's habits and character. Most frequently she 
 spoke of him in reference to some information he had given 
 her, and then I saw Jessie colour up, and listen eagerly. 
 Once or twice, too, Miss Milicent had taken Jessie over to 
 Dene with her, because she said she liked a companion, and 
 this kept up the Dene intimacy ; and, moreover, at last, Mrs. 
 Price actually came and called upon nie, pretending she was 
 bound to return the visit I had paid with Miss Milicent. I 
 could not understand that in the least, until John Hervey 
 put me up to it. " Mrs. Price," he said, " is not noticed by 
 any of the country gentlemen's families, and, as she finds 
 Dene dull without company, she falls back upon her old 
 friends." I was not flattered by the reason, but it did not 
 trouble me much. I was not bound to return the visit, and 
 I never did. 
 
 It was March before Miss Milicent was ready to set ofi" on 
 her expedition. Up to that time I had only twice been at 
 Stonecliff, and then had not been permitted to see Mrs. 
 Weir. I had tried, however, to show that I thought of her,
 
 URSULA. 303 
 
 by sending her little presents of fresli eggs and vegetables. 
 I hoped she had thena and knew they came from me, but Miss 
 Milicent always seemed in a mist as to what was done with 
 them, or indeed with anything which once entered the house 
 at Stonecliff. The second week in March, as I was in the 
 kitchen putting up a little basket of things to be left for ]\Irs. 
 Weir by Esther Smithson on her way home in the evening, 
 William came in from the fields looking very serious, and said 
 to me, " Do you know, Ursie, I have had bad news. I can't 
 make out whether it is quite true, but our Hatton boy «ays 
 that Mrs. Morris is very ill. Have you heard it ? " 
 
 " No," I replied ; " and we should have heard it certainly. 
 There can't be anything in it ? " 
 
 "I should think not," he answered; "but WiW declares 
 that his father was sent ofi" to Hove for Mr. Sutton." 
 
 " Suppose you ride over and see," I said ; " it would be 
 the shortest way." 
 
 William was of a perverse disposition; he never liked 
 having things suggested to him. " I don't know about leaving 
 the men," he replied ; " they always go wrong when I'm 
 away." 
 
 " Well, then, wait till they come in to their dinner," I 
 said. " As for your own, they will give you some at 
 Hatton." 
 
 " Not if the old lady is ill," was his answer. " There will 
 be no one to get it." 
 
 " I could go myself, if you liked it," I observed. 
 He went to the window and looked out. " The clouds are 
 coming up very stormy away to the west ; you can't walk." 
 
 " But I could be driven," I said, " if you could spare Joe 
 Goodenough for the chaise." 
 
 " Just what I can't do, as it happens. I have sent Joe 
 Goodenough to Hove." 
 
 " Well, if it is so, we must even wait," was ray answer. 
 " 111 news flics apace, so if there is anything amiss, we may 
 be sure it will reach us before night." 
 
 " Wait and get a character for unfeelingness all round the 
 country," replied William. " I don't want to do that. I shall 
 see about it. I suppose I must try and go myself."^ 
 
 He went oif to do what I was sure from the beginning ho
 
 304 URSULA. 
 
 meaBt to do. I should have preferred going myself, for if 
 Mrs. Morris was ill, I was more likely than "William to be a 
 comfort to hei\ But what he said about walking was very 
 true. I should certainly be caught in a storm. The kitchen 
 window looked to the west, and over St. Anne's hill and the 
 reach of down below it the clouds wei'e like ink. There was 
 a driving wind, which perhaps might serve to keep the rain 
 oif for a time, but it was sure to fall heavily before many 
 hours were over. I went out after William, to beg him to 
 put on his great-coat, but he would not listen to me, though 
 he shivered as he stood talking to one of his men, and said it 
 was bitterly cold. I saw him set oif, and warned him to 
 make haste back ; the sky looked more threatening than ever, 
 but it tempted me to go to the top of the lane, that I might 
 see it gathering over the sea. I walked by the side of AVil- 
 liam's horse, telling him to be sure and bring back word if 
 Jessie was uneasy, and if I could be of any use ; and after 
 watching him across the down till he was out of sight, I stood 
 still and looked round me. It was a glorious sight from the 
 top of the hill. The waves were tossing furiously in the 
 bay ; the white breakers glittering for a moment, as the sun 
 j^ierced the masses of clouds, and then disappearing beneath 
 the heavy shadows which swept over the sea, covered the cliifs, 
 and rushed across the land, like demons of darkness. 
 
 From infancy it had been a delight to me to watch a 
 storm; even thunder and lightning excited far more than 
 frightened me. The spectacle of the vast Power over which 
 human beings had no control, raised my thoughts above earth. 
 It was as though I was no longer the weak, ignorant girl, of 
 no account even in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but a be- 
 ing of a higher race, permitted to draw near and watch the 
 wonderful workings of Grod's Wisdom. The feeling had been 
 encouraged by Roger. Often, as we stood together in former 
 days upon St. Anne's hill, when the rough winter winds were 
 rushing past us, I have heard him murmur to himself the verses 
 in the psalms which speak of " the Lord that commandeth 
 the waters : " " the glorious God, that maketh the thunder." 
 
 The words came back to me now ; and as I looked at the 
 wild waves breaking upon the line of red shingles, I continued 
 them aloud : " It is the Lord that ruleth the sea ; the voice
 
 URSULA. 305 
 
 of the Lord is mighty in operation : the voice of the Lord 
 is a glorious Voice." 
 
 " Is it you, Ursie Grant ? " said some one, tapping me on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " Miss Milicent ! I beg your pardon ; I didn't see you." 
 
 " How should you ? I came from behind. What are you 
 doing here ? " 
 
 " Watching the storm," I said ; " it will soon come to 
 us." 
 
 '' But not stay, I hope. I go to-morrow, Ursie." 
 
 " Not in such weather, surely ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, Ursie ; I must be off anyhow." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent, are you right ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I must do what I have set my mind to 
 do ; and what does it signify, Ursie, storm or no storm, one 
 shall reach the end somehow." 
 
 Her tone was so excited, that I turned to look at her 
 with anxiety. 
 
 " When we do what is put before us, we needn't be afraid, 
 I suppose," she continued ; " and if the end cuts us short, it is 
 God's will, and no matter whether it be by storm or fever." 
 
 " I should be glad, though, to feel that I was doing His 
 work," I replied ; " but that is the doubt to me very often, 
 Miss Milicent." 
 
 She stopped before answering. " Do you often doubt, 
 Ursie," she said, " really doubt?" 
 
 " Very often," I replied ; " I think at the time I am right. 
 When I look back I see I was wrong." 
 
 " That can't be a pleasant discovery," she replied, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " No," I said ; " but it has come upon mc more fre- 
 quently than usual of late. Death makes us think, Miss 
 Milicent, whether we will or not." 
 
 " It is the end of the storm," she said, and a singular 
 look of awe crossed her face. " Ursie, if I were never to 
 come back, what should you say of me ? " 
 
 An exclamation of pain at the idea escaped me. She 
 stopped me short. "No matter for the thought, Ursie ; I 
 am not a bit nearer to it for uttering it. What should you 
 say of me ? "
 
 306 URSULA. 
 
 " In -what way, Miss Milicent ? " I asked. " You have 
 been a good friend to me always." 
 
 "Pshaw ! " she exclaimed, impatiently. " What is being 
 a good friend ? I have not beaten you nor turned you out 
 of doors, — that's all. Would you say, Ursie, that I had 
 gone the right way through life ? " 
 
 " I think you wish to go, Miss Milicent, as I wish it my- 
 self." 
 
 " I think you wish to go ! " she repeated. " I don't think 
 you have gone, that means. Ursie, you are a coward and a 
 humbug like other people." 
 
 " It is not my place," I began — but she would not hear 
 me. 
 
 " It is your place to answer my questions, if it is my will 
 to put them. What does place mean, Ursie ? Look ! " and, 
 as a large drop of rain, the beginning of the storm, fell upon 
 her hand, she thrust it before me ; — " God's warnings touch 
 all alike; there is but one place before Him." 
 
 I was greatly touched by her earnestness. I longed to 
 speak to her freely, but the difficulty I felt was insurmounta- 
 ble. As in so many other cases she had committed herself 
 to a certain course of action, and now sought for approval. 
 I was not the person to give her sanction or to condemn her. 
 
 She waited patiently ; so patiently, indeed, Avith her 
 large, fierce eyes softened by an expression of suspense, that 
 the very consciousness of her presence took from me the 
 power of thinking correctly. I really could not answer her ; 
 I scarcely knew, indeed, what she wished or desired me to 
 say. 
 
 " Miss Milicent," I replied at last, " If you really want 
 help in these matters, there are persons much more fitted 
 than I am to give it." 
 
 " I don't want help," she exclaimed ; "I want only truth. 
 Good-bye, Ursie. I shan't get it from you." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Milicent ! " I exclaimed, and I took hold of 
 her dress as she turned from me ; but she would not be de- 
 tained. When she hurried away, I saw her put her shawl 
 over her bonnet to shelter herself from the rain, which was 
 beginning to fall fast, and as I turned to descend the hill, I 
 lost sight of her completely.
 
 URSULA. 307 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 Often and often, in looking back upon that conversation, 
 I have blamed myself for not taking advantage of the op- 
 portunity afforded me of speaking freely to Miss Milicent 
 upon the mistakes I felt she was making. And yet, if I 
 could place myself again in the same position, I doubt 
 whether I could bring myself to act diiFercntly. What is 
 fitting is such a strong instinct in us all, unless we have been 
 spoilt by education. Miss Milicent had no right to make me 
 her judge and reprover ; though, if she had waited but a 
 few minutes longer, I think I might by degrees have felt en- 
 couraged to state my opinion more openly. As it was, I felt 
 that she would throw upon me the blame of having been too 
 cowardly to advise her. What had brought her to such a 
 state of mind now I could only guess. She was coming 
 from Compton ; it was probable that some conversation with 
 Mr. Richardson had made her angry, and yet touched her 
 conscience. I knew through Mrs. Kemp, that from tlie be- 
 ginning he had told her she was forming foolish plans by 
 herself. Most likely he had been making a last eifort to 
 bring her to reason, and wishing to find some support for her 
 own wilfulness, she had turned to me. I was uncomfortable 
 when I reached home, and thought a good deal about her as 
 I took my solitary dinner; but I was too busy afterwards to 
 dwell upon the subject, except when the wind rose higlier, 
 and I remembered what she had said about the next day, 
 and wondered whether she would still persist in her determi- 
 nation to go whatever might be the state of the weather. 
 
 There was one person, however, whom no press of busi- 
 ness could drive from my recollection. We were expecting 
 letters from Roger, the first that could have arrived since he 
 had heard of Leah's death. I did not believe they would come 
 that evening. They could not, unless some one brought them 
 out from Hove, and I knew no one had been sent in ; but the 
 bare possibility agitated me. As the afternoon closed in, 
 and the wind went down, and the rain turned first into .«<loet, 
 and then into a heavy fall of snow, I drew my chair near iho 
 fire, waiting for, and expecting William's return ; and whilst 
 I ^Yorked busily with my fingers, occupied myself with
 
 308 URSULA, 
 
 anxious thotifrlits of Rocjer in his distant Canadian home, and 
 I am afraid with many other anxious and repining fancies, 
 suflBcient, if I had examined them, to prove to me that my 
 own mind was far too undisciplined to allow of my attempting 
 to discipline Miss Milicent's. 
 
 By half-past five it was so dark that I lighted a candle, 
 which made everything beyond its own sphere darker. I 
 wished William would come, and began to be afraid that he 
 was really detained by Mrs. Morris's illness. When I listened 
 for his horse's steps, I heard nothing but the low moaning of 
 the wind, as it drifted the snow-flakes to the earth, and the 
 solemn ground-swell, betokening that worse weather was at 
 hand. I grew nervous at last. The candle flickered as 
 draughts of air made their way through the closed shutters 
 of the old windows, and then the shadows on the wall seemed 
 to move, and I fancied the door was opened, and when I went 
 to close it I caught, as I imagined, a murmur of strange 
 voices by the front stairs, and stole along the stone passage to 
 listen, and hear nothing ; and made my way back again with 
 the feeling that I ought not to be alone, that I must find 
 some one in the parlour waiting for me — Leah used to be 
 there. 
 
 • I was ashamed of such fancies — I felt they were wrong. 
 I thought I would read a Psalm to myself and chase them 
 away, and I turned to that which had been so vividly brought 
 before me on that very day. I read it aloud to myself — 
 again I came to the words, " it is the Lord that ruleth the 
 sea," when a sound struck me — a sound once heard, never to 
 be forgotten — the faint but heavy booming of a gun — a signal 
 from a ship in distress. 
 
 It was not unusual. There were many wrecks in the 
 winter season. The coast had been known as dangerous, 
 from the days when the old monks lighted their beacons on 
 the summit of St. Anne's, and prayed that God would pro- 
 tect his servants in perils of waters. More than ever, I 
 wished that William was at home ; he would have sent off his 
 men to the shore instantly, probably even he might have 
 gone with them, for he was kind-hearted when roused by any 
 urgent call. I did not like .to take the responsibility of 
 sending the men myself, and yet I could not endure the idea 
 of sitting still and doing nothing, and, in my restlessness, I
 
 URSULA. 309 
 
 went out to the front door to listen again. Another booming 
 sound reached my ears. I could bear it no longer, and as 
 tlie figure of a man at that instant crossed the yard in the 
 dusk, I ran out to stop him. " I must speak to you," I ex- 
 claimed, " come in; do you hear the gun?" and I touched 
 him, thinking to gain his attention. He made no answer. 
 " Do you hear it ? " T repeated. Still there was no reply, 
 but he followed me into the house. I stopped at the door. 
 There was a faint light in the passage from the fire in the 
 kitchen. " Is it you, Joe Goodenough ? " I said. The man 
 laid his hand upon mine, and, as I started back, a voice, 
 half-laughing, half-trembling with agitation, said, " Not Joe, 
 my little Trot, but Roger ! " 
 
 I don't think I screamed. I am quite sure I did not 
 faint. I remember that I led Roger into the parlour, and 
 took off his great-coat, and put him into the arm-chair, and 
 sat myself down beside him, even as if we had been parted 
 only for a few hours, and never till then asked him the ques- 
 tion where he came from, and what brought him. Once 
 with me and all seemed natural. He inquired hastily about 
 William, and seemed very anxious to know how tilings were 
 going on, and then he said, " Mr. Pierce is dead. Trot ; I am 
 come home at his last request. That is one thiug. Poor 
 Leah's death is another." 
 
 I knew all that was contained in the last sentence. He 
 had thought of me. I answered, " There have beeu terrible 
 changes. We feared Mr. Pierce might die." 
 
 " Yes, it has been a grievous business. He was not fitted 
 for the climate or the work. I hope I was a comfort to 
 him. But you have had a hard time too, my little Trot, my 
 precious little woman." He seized me with his old bear's 
 hug, and I felt tears drop upon my cheek ; we could neither 
 of us trust ourselves to say more just then. He had landed 
 only that day, and had had little to eat. I went out to order 
 something for him, and came back again to ask him about 
 the ship ;' should any one be sent off? He satisfied my mind. 
 As he came ofi' the down he had met people going across. 
 There would be sufficient help. The night was calm, though 
 dark, and he did not think I need be uneasy. 
 
 Oh ! the blessing of resting upon another instead of de- 
 ciding for oneself Women may like power, but I can never
 
 310 URSULA. 
 
 believe that it is in their nature to like the responsibility 
 which goes with it. I told Martha to get tea quickly, and 
 would have gone away myself to hurry her, but Roger was 
 just as he used to be, so patient about his own comfort. He 
 should like a biscuit and a glass of wine, he said, and then he 
 would wait till William came. We would have tea together. 
 " Home faces are better than tea," he remarked, as he grasped 
 my hand, and held it tight. " Oh ! Ursie, there's nothing 
 like Old England after all" 
 
 We spoke of Leah then. He felt so tenderly about her. 
 I saw he could not reconcile himself to Sandcombe without 
 her. His loving heart seemed to have no power of retaining 
 disagreeable impressions of any one living, much less of the 
 dead. To hear him talk of his old neighbours and ac- 
 quaintances, even of the Shaws and Prices, one might have 
 thought that they had been conferring favours upon him all 
 his life. 
 
 People had been very kind to him in Canada, he said, 
 and he had no doubt that if he chose to go back ho should 
 do well. But the necessary exposure to the intense cold 
 during this first winter, and the anxiety about Mr. Pierce, 
 had tried him greatly. The voyage home had done him 
 good, and he was looking well, but this first experience of 
 exile had not been quite successful. As he went more into 
 details about his own alFairs, I found that Leah's death had 
 in some way afi"ected his money arrangements with William, 
 and there was a question about laying out his little capital 
 in Canada, which could not well be determined until he had 
 had a communication with William. " So you see I had 
 more reasons than one for returning, Ursie," he said, " and 
 as poor Mr. Pierce took care to provide me with the means, 
 I thought I shouldn't be wrong, though I felt it was follow- 
 ing my own wishes. I had a longing — " 
 
 " To see me," I said, as I looked up at him eagerly. He 
 patted my cheek and laughed ; but a grave look came over 
 his face, and directly afterwards, he went on saying some- 
 thing about Leah. I knew as well as possible all that passed 
 through his mind ; it was what passed through mine like- 
 wise. We could not part perhaps for ever without one more 
 meeting. 
 
 We waited till seven o'clock, and still William did not
 
 URSULA. 311 
 
 come. I made Roger liave his tea then, and in my happi- 
 ness did not think of being uneasy about William, only I 
 was impatient that he should see Roger. But when the 
 clock struck nine, I did really think it very strange, and I 
 agreed to Roger's proposal, that he should go up to the top 
 of the hill and call out. The night was pitch dark, and the 
 snow still falling, and in spite of William's knowledge of 
 the tracks over the down, it was not at all impossible that 
 he might lose his way. I could not help being amused at 
 the contemptuous tone in which Roger spoke of the weather. 
 " What was English cold ? " he said, as I helped him on 
 with his great-coat, but he knew how to wrap himself up 
 uncommonly well, and went out pleased, I am sure, rather 
 than not, at having to encounter his old enemy. 
 
 Not above ten minutes afterwards, I heard quite a 
 chorus of men's voices in the entrance. William was there 
 and Roger, and there were one or two others besides. But 
 they were merry enough, and I was satisfied there was no- 
 thing amiss. The men went into the kitchen, William came 
 into the parlour, blinking at the light, and putting a hand- 
 kerchief to his eyes, but with his hand resting upon Roger's 
 shoulder, and asking him more questions than could by any 
 possibility be answered. " He was lost," said Roger, laugh- 
 ing heartily. " You would not believe it, Ursie, but he was." 
 
 " And frightened out of my senses when I was found," 
 exclaimed William. " What was I to make of it, Ursie, when 
 I heard a man, who I thought hundreds of miles away, hal- 
 looing close at my side in the dark ? I would walk fifty 
 miles, and be present at a hundred shipwrecks, before I 
 would have such a fright again. But welcome for all that, 
 my good fellow," and he shook Roger's hand till I thought 
 it would have come oiF. 
 
 " Then there has been a shipwreck ? " I inquired anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " A wreck, but no lives lost. Heaps of oranges for tlie 
 Hatton people to feast on to-morrow, and plenty of salt wa- 
 ter to give them a pleasant flavour. I should have been 
 back here three hours ago but for the wreck. It was bitter 
 work down on the shore ; and the wind seems to have caught 
 my eyes, they smart terribly." 
 
 " And how did you find Mrs. Morris ? " I asked.
 
 312 URSULA. 
 
 " Baddish, very bad, Jessie says. I didn't see ber. Tbe 
 doctors tbink it is a break up." • 
 
 "Poor Jessie!" I exclaimed. "Did you tell ber I 
 would go over to ber any moment ? " 
 
 " Sbe does not want belp, so sbe declares, but I promised 
 ber you sbould be tbere to-morrow. Sbe is not a girl to be 
 left to berself in a difficulty." 
 
 " I could drive you over, Ursie," said Roger. 
 
 " Yes," I said, carelessly ; " but, William, wbo are tbose 
 men in tbe kitcben ? " 
 
 " Compton fellows, wbo were down on tbe sbore belping 
 about tbe wreck. AVe were all going wrong togetber wben 
 Roger bailed us. It's bis doing, baving tbem in and giving 
 tbem a glass of ale. I am not given to sucb extravagance, 
 Ursie," and William laugbed tbe first bearty laugb I bad 
 beard since Leab's deatb. 
 
 I went out to tbe men myself to see if tbey bad every 
 tbing comfortable, Tbey were making a bearty supper, and 
 it did my beart good to see sometbing like tbe old Sand- 
 combe bospitality, wbicb I used to bear of in my young days. 
 Tbey were not gone till nearly ten o'clock. Wben I went 
 back to tbe parlour I found William and Roger sitting over 
 tbe fire, deep in business already. Roger started up as I 
 put a candle before bim, and told bim it was time to go to 
 bed. 
 
 " Time ! not yet. Trot ; why tbe evening is just begun." 
 
 " It is time, tbougb," I said, " for folks wbo must get up 
 witb tbe cock-crowing." 
 
 He lingered a little, tbinking. " Trot, you and I used 
 to tbank God for taking care of us, before we went to bed. 
 I bave come tbrougb a rougb time lately. Wbat do you say, 
 William ; migbtn't we bave prayers ? " 
 
 William was taken so by surprise be could not object, 
 and I don't believe be wisbed it. I stepped out of tbe room, 
 and called Martba, and we all knelt down, and Roger said 
 some of tbe prayers from tbe evening service, and thanked 
 God for bringing bim safe bome. Tbat was tbe first begin- 
 ning of family prayer at Sandcombe. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME, ^
 
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