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 CHURCH BOOK DEPOT 
 
 RECTOR 
 
 SUPERINTENDENT 
 

 
 3nly a Girl's Li 
 
 a Stor^ wbicb I0 too ^rue 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. JEROME MERCIER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "CAMPANELLA," "CHRISTABEL HOPE," ETC. 
 
 ■ Do noble things, not dream them, all day long, 
 And so make Life, Death, and that vast For Ever, 
 One grand sweet song ! " — C. Kingsley. 
 
 LONDON 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK
 
 \ie
 
 TO MY KIND FRIENIX, 
 
 MRS. MEDHURST, 
 THH FRIEND OF ALL KIND DEEDS, 
 
 THIS LIITLE BOOK 
 WITH AFFECTIONATE REGARIX 
 
 2131235
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If this simple narrative cannot tell its own 
 tale, no preface will do so. Yet a few words 
 may perhaps be added, if only to state that 
 Marjory Earnshaw's is no fictitious history 
 invented for a purpose ; it is true — true almost 
 to its smallest details ; true in its main facts, 
 but in them, reticent A woman's pen refuses 
 to do more than trace in outline, and viewed 
 (as it were) through the glass of a pure mind, 
 the sad and strange trials to which one entire 
 social class — and that neither a small nor 
 unimportant one — is constantly subjected. 
 The extreme attractiveness of appearance in 
 many — nay, in most-^-of the girls situated 
 
 ife
 
 y\ Preface. 
 
 as Marjory was, adds infinitely to those 
 temptations. 
 
 Certainly the state of the case is known 
 to few: may the knowledge call out the 
 help — sympathetic, loving, individual help 
 alone will suffice — which is so urgently 
 needed. 
 
 " Then let us nothing douDt, of none despair, 
 Join hands with all thx'i we the more may save ; 
 Be all the braver that we are but few. 
 A work is to be done. Arise and do." 
 
 A. M.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 'AGJ- 
 
 I. GOOD-BYE TO THE MOORS 1 
 
 II. IN PLYMOUTH SQUARE. ..... 7 
 
 III. MARY CARTER 2? 
 
 IV. WORRIES ..•..<>•>• 42 
 
 V. A DAY OF REST .....<«. 5° 
 
 VI, A DAY OF LABOUR ..,»»». 74 
 
 VII. FACING THE ENEMY 82 
 
 VIII. WHERE WAS THEN THE GENTLEMAN . 94 
 
 IX. BY THE SEA .,,,»...• I08 
 
 X. A PROJECT ■. . 120 
 
 XI. ON A PRECIPICE 1 26 
 
 XII. PLANS MATURED . . 13I 
 
 XIIL A WOMAN'S LOVING-KINDNESS . . ,. 1 ^7
 
 Vlll 
 
 Contents. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 XIV. AFTER CHURCH . . . » . 
 
 XV. LOST AND WON . , . . o 
 
 XVI. CLOUDED WEATHER . . , . 
 
 XVII. A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS . « 
 
 XVIIL THE JOURNAL CLOSED . . , 
 
 XIX. THE JOURNAL RE-OPENED . . 
 
 PAGB 
 . , 163 
 
 . , 208 
 
 213 
 235
 
 ONLY A GIRL'S LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GOOD-BYE TO THE MOORS. 
 
 " Lebt wohl, ihr Bcrge, ihr geliebte Triften, 
 Ihr traulich stille Thaler, lebet wohl !" 
 
 " Farewell, ye hills and pastures dearly loved. 
 Familiar, silent valleys, fare ye well !" 
 
 Schiller, The Maid of Orleaiis. 
 
 Jan, 26, 1868. — How beautiful my moors 
 looked this afternoon ! Oh ! it was so hard 
 to bid them good-bye. I had gone up Dun- 
 low Top to see the sun set over them for 
 the last time, and there they lay all smooth 
 and swelling, like a great sheet covering 
 some grand gift hidden from sight. I 
 have read in books that the snow is like a 
 shroud ; but to me there is always so much
 
 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 life about the very shape of the moors, that I 
 can never think of death. The fresh deli- 
 cious wind upon them helps the feeling, 
 perhaps. When the sun began to drop, and 
 a sweet rose-colour came upon the snow and 
 grew richer, and then the sky above began to 
 turn grey, I thought they had never looked 
 so very, very dear. And then I began to feel 
 angry, and as if they were looking so beau- 
 tiful on purpose to tempt me to stay with 
 them ; and all on a sudden, the thought of 
 London streets, and smoke, and the lonely 
 life there, came over me as it does sometimes 
 in nightmares. I said my good-bye very 
 quickly, and began to run down towards our 
 dear little Duncliffe, which lies so cosy and 
 warm among the hills, I was feeling so 
 tossed about in my mind that it seemed like 
 a flash of light to remember (as I did, all 
 of a sudden), that the doors of our church — 
 the pride of the country round, they say — 
 were always open, and I could slip in and 
 be quiet there for a few minutes, I did. It
 
 Good-bye to the Moors. 
 
 was very dark. The saints in the windows 
 were all black. Oh ! but it was strange to 
 hear the bare boughs tapping against the 
 panes, to feel it all so still and solemn there, 
 almost terrible if one had not known that God 
 was near. I did not think much ; I just 
 prayed a few words now and then, asking 
 for strength in my new life which I knew so 
 little about ; but a feeling came into me, 
 which did not come from my poor prayers, 
 that there would be help, and that there is 
 a great Rest about us somewhere and some- 
 how, in which we may lay down our troubles 
 and leave them there. 
 
 As I left the church, dear kind Mrs. Wat- 
 kins, our Parson's wife, came out from the 
 Rectory side gate and across my path. 
 
 "Why, Marjory Earnshaw," she said, "where 
 have you been so late this cold afternoon 1" 
 
 I told her I had been saying good-bye to 
 the moors and the church. 
 
 " Very unnecessary !" she said, as nearly as 
 possible as if she were cross.
 
 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Watkins ?" 
 
 " Because you need never go. What are 
 you going for ?" 
 
 " You know well, ma'am, that father cannot 
 send our John to Rossall school without it ; 
 and you know what a sharp lad he is, and 
 what a man we think he'll make." 
 
 " Stuff about John ! Sometimes I lose 
 patience, Marjory, to think of you going to 
 that great, bad city all alone. John would 
 make his way without you, if he has it in 
 him. What will a girl like you do without 
 a friend in London ; such a — well — such a 
 country-looking lass .?" 
 
 " I shall do well enough if I hold by 
 what mother has taught me — and you, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " And then, again, if you must go, why go 
 to such work as this } My daughter has 
 helped you to learning enough to be a gover- 
 ness. Why, you have been teaching Mrs. 
 Whitehead's children this year past." 
 
 " I'm sure I can never be grateful enough
 
 GoocT-bye to the Moors, 
 
 to dear Miss Ellen for all she did for me, 
 and I have tried to do my duty by the 
 doctor's children. But they are but little, 
 and it was only c-a-t, cat, with them. That's 
 all I am fit for, indeed, Mrs. Watkins. I've 
 got ijiO French, and no music but the choir- 
 singi ig ; and I know, for all the pains Miss 
 Ellen, took, my speech must be downright 
 Yorkshire brogue o^ten enough. It would 
 be bujt a twenty pound a year or so if I got 
 a governess's place, and wii3t is that to help 
 Jack ? And then, please let m? tell you, it 
 is just your kindness and the teaciiing you 
 have ^iven me, that makes me long for Jack 
 to haye learning higher than mine could ever 
 be. Oh ! but I would be proud to see Jack 
 a learned man some day." 
 
 " Well, well ; I have said it all before a 
 doz(>n times, and you know what I think. 
 But as you will go, I was just coming round 
 with a few wraps for your journey, and to 
 bid your mother give you some good advice. 
 I have written to a lady in London, the wife 
 
 B
 
 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 of a clergyman at Southwell, to ask her to 
 look after you a little," 
 
 Dear, dear, Mrs, Watkins. 
 
 It was hard to hear the reading and prayers 
 this night, sitting round the peat fire, and 
 seeing for the last time the blaze flicker 
 and fall on the old pewter dishes and pots, 
 and the earthenware on the dresser, ayid on 
 father's white head and mother's. But the 
 sight of Jack, with his clever face, yelped 
 me over it. 
 
 Now I must lay me down to sleej) here 
 for the last time. Ah ! where shal ' I be 
 to-morrow night ?
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN PLYMOUTH SQUARE. 
 
 " Thoughts of the morrow. 
 Its care and sorrow. 
 And the toil for daily bread. 
 Filled my heart with a wild misgiving: 
 Without a friend to love or pity. 
 All alone in this crowded city. 
 Where is the use of living?" 
 
 Tom Hood, Song of a Lark in the City. 
 
 Jan. 29. — The last question in my book : 
 " Where shall I be to-morrow night ?" is an- 
 ^swered plainly enough. Here in Plymouth 
 Square, New Road, I am settled, I suppose, 
 for many a day. I ought to say, I Jiope I am, 
 but that is hard to speak. Mrs. Watkins' 
 nice shawl and comforter wrapped me up 
 very warm ; all the dear folks stood by to see 
 me mount into the cart ; our kind old Parson, 
 and his wife, and Miss Ellen, and my folk of 
 course, and even Mrs. Whitehead. They
 
 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 all told me to bear up, and I thought I 
 could ; but when it came to kissing father, it 
 was hard, hard work. Besides, a lump of 
 dread lay somewhere in my heart about 
 London, for mother had given me such awful 
 warnings about it at Mrs. Watkins' desire, 
 and said it was such a difficult place to be 
 good in, that I should have been quite cast 
 down but for her last words of all — 
 
 " When all's said, Joy, I've faith that there's 
 no harm can come in any part o" God's 
 world to a girl that strives to love Him and 
 do her duty as her parents have taught her ; 
 and that I think thou'll do, or my ^^hild isn't 
 what I've believed her." 
 
 It was very heartening to have Jack jump- 
 ing up into the cart and taking the reins 
 with a flick. It was for him I was doing it, 
 and so the very sight of him gave me courage. 
 As we drove along, and the village was be- 
 hind us, and all the dear folk, and I could but 
 cry a bit, the good lad said — " There, Marjory, 
 lass, don't take on. You shan't have done it
 
 hi Plymouth Sqtiare. 
 
 for nothing. I'll be such a man as you'll be 
 proud of, or my name's not Jack Earnshaw." 
 
 And he will, I know. 
 
 It wa5 a long, weary, cold drive to S^ipton, 
 and all the daylight was gone when we 
 stopped at Mrs. Aked's door. I had but 
 once been so far before, but I did not care 
 now for the new place ; I had rather ixdve been 
 back by the old hearth, vvith the peats burn- 
 ing, and father and mothe^ :itting one on each 
 side of it. But Mi Aked was so very kind 
 I was bound to try to seem cheerful. She 
 h"-^ promised to put us up for the night, and 
 wneii her lad Tom came in from the mill, he 
 took Jack round Skipton to see the shops, after 
 we had all had the best of teas, with three sorts 
 of tea-cakes, and oat-cake, and fatty -cake, 
 and everything the good woman could set 
 before us. 
 
 " You'll maybe like to go with them, lass V 
 she said. 
 
 But I told her no ; I had rather sit quiet 
 and talk with her.
 
 lo Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " You'll be thinking you'll see bigger shops 
 nor ours to-morrow. Do you like the thought 
 of seeing London ?" 
 
 I made a pretence of it, that Jack might 
 not fancy I was going against my will ; 
 but when we were sitting in the high- 
 backed chairs opposite one another, she 
 knitting a mat with string and bits of cloth, 
 and I stroking a bonny little tabby cat that 
 she had, I could but tell her true, that I was 
 very shy of going to the unknown city all alone. 
 
 ** But it's a grand place you're going to," 
 she said. "They tell me it's one of the 
 biggest shops in London." 
 
 " Yes, it's very big ; they call it Prince and 
 Prim's. I am to help sell the cloaks. It 
 must be a big place, for they say there are 
 thirty young women, let alone the men." 
 
 " And what may they give you the year .''" 
 
 " Sixty pound I'm to have, and more if I 
 stop." 
 
 " Why, lass, it's grand for you ! How did 
 you get it ?" 
 
 ** It was the maid that came with Lady
 
 In Plymouth Square. ii 
 
 King-, aunt to Mrs. Whitehead, our doctor's 
 wife. I taught Mrs. Whitehead's httle children, 
 and sometimes they used to say, if I took 
 pains, I could be a better kind of governess. 
 So this maid, who was a very grand person 
 (grander than her mistress in her ways), told 
 me one could make a deal more in a shop like 
 that than in any governess's place /could ever 
 get. And so I thought how much I could do 
 for Jack, and what nice presents I could send 
 to father and mother, and I got her to promise 
 • to ^peak for me to her cousin, who is foreman 
 at Prince and Prim's ; and now I have heard 
 from her that she's got me the place. 
 
 " It needs a face and figure like yours for 
 it, though," she said. 
 
 I write this down, because I thought over 
 it next day in the train, what she could mean, 
 for mother had always laughed at me for 
 being as tall as a lamp-post, and having a 
 pink-and-white face ; that, she said, was like a 
 doll, or some one in consumption ; "and, 
 thank Heaven, thou's neither," she used to 
 say.
 
 ta Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " But you didn't get her to promise it with- 
 out your mother's leave ?" asked Mrs. Aked. 
 
 I fairly stared at her. 
 
 " I could never do such a thing without my 
 mother." 
 
 " That's right, lass. Mind what she's told 
 you, now you're parted, and you'll do well. 
 Your mother knew what she was doing. They 
 say there's many a one goes wrong in London, 
 but not one in a thousand, I'll answer for it, 
 without the inclination. And where will you 
 live ?" she asked. 
 
 " Plymouth Square is the name of the 
 place, and they say all the young women 
 live together. It must be a monstrous big 
 house." 
 
 Then Mrs. Aked began to tell me of my 
 father, as she had known him when they were 
 lad and lass together, and his courting my 
 mother, and a hundred other oki tales, till 
 Jack and Tom came home, and had their 
 suppers, and we all went to bed. We had to 
 be up before eight, and sud our porridge while
 
 In Plymouth Square, 13 
 
 it was hot enough to scald us, and then off to 
 the early train. 
 
 I need not think of how it felt in the train 
 when Jack and all were gone, and I and my 
 box were rushing quite alone on our way to 
 London, I shivered with something that was 
 not cold, and then a great swelling wave of 
 fear began to go from my heart to my throat. 
 I was right glad when an old lady and gentle- 
 man got in at Shipley, and they were very 
 kind, and asked about my home, and my 
 business in London, and told me they were 
 going to see their married daughter there. 
 That lightened the journey a bit, by making 
 me forget myself, and by-and-bye other people 
 got in, and I was curious to see them and the 
 different places we passed on the journey. 
 Then I got hungry, and was glad to eat the 
 tea-cake Mrs. Aked had given me, and then 
 I read a chapter (as I had promised Mrs. 
 Watkins I would do daily), in the pretty little 
 Testament Miss Ellen had given me ; and 
 then there were more new places to sec, and
 
 14 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 so we came into London, just as the short 
 daylight was going again. 
 
 Oh ! what a bustle and noise, and rushing to 
 and fro ! I seemed to lose my wits and myself 
 together, and to feel no more active than my 
 own wooden box. Dear old box, covered 
 with purple mottled paper ! It seemed quite 
 a home friend among all those hurrying 
 strangers. The kind old couple who had been 
 with me in the train saw me when they came 
 back from the luggage-van with their hamper 
 of country presents. I was standing by my 
 box looking very foolish and lost, and (I 
 fancy) half ready to cry, when they came up. 
 
 ** Lor !" cried the old lady, " hasn't ever a 
 body met you, my dear ?" 
 
 " There is no one to meet me here," I said. 
 Then they put me into a cab, and made the 
 man tell me what the fare to Plymouth 
 Square would be, and said good-bye, as if 
 they had been old friends. 
 
 Some of the shops I passed were very fine 
 and bright, but there is a dirty thickness
 
 In Plymouth Square. 15 
 
 everywhere, in the air, and under foot, and on 
 all the houses, that made me feel quite sad, 
 as if no one could ever be happy in London. 
 At last, we stopped at the door of a tall, dull 
 house in a square, with some grass and trees 
 shut into a railing, in the middle. I felt so 
 very small as I went in, the servant-maid 
 staring at me ; a dull, cold passage, and then 
 a parlour, not half so clean or bright as our 
 dear old "house," with the white hearth-stoned 
 patterns on the floor. It had a fire which had 
 just been lighted, and had smoked : so the 
 window was opened, and a dreadful draught 
 came in. There were high wire blinds in the 
 windows, and an ugly oilcloth on the table, 
 and an old, dingy carpet on the floor, and a 
 great many chairs stiff against the walls. Our 
 home is simple, but how much more comfort- 
 able than this ! This looked as if it never 
 could be a home. No one came to say 
 welcome, but I heard a voice coming scold- 
 ing all the way up some lower stairs. It 
 was a woman's voice, and she seemed to be
 
 1 6 Only a GirVs Life 
 
 scolding some one in the kitchen ; but soon 
 the voice came nearer, and began, instead to 
 scold the maid who had let me in, and who 
 seemed, by the draught, to be still standing with 
 the door open. At last, the voice came in, and 
 then it became a very little kinder, as it said — 
 
 " How do you do, Miss — a — ? You come 
 from Yorkshire, don't you ?" 
 
 I said " yes," and looked at the woman, who 
 is the housekeeper. She was not handsome, 
 and not young, and not tidy. 
 
 "The young ladies wont be home for an 
 hour yet," she said. " Would you like to go 
 up and see your bed ?" 
 
 " I should like to go to bed, if I may," I 
 answered ; " I am so very tired." 
 
 " Yes ; you've come a long way ; I'll send 
 you up some tea, if you like." 
 
 I thought her very kind, and told her so, 
 but that I wanted no tea. She said she should 
 send me some, however, and did so when I 
 was half asleep in the plain little bed — one 
 of five which stuck straight out from the
 
 In Plymouth Square. 1 7 
 
 walls of a big room. I was fast asleep before 
 any one came in but the servant with my 
 tea ; and this morning my joints were still 
 so stiff with the cold, that I seemed quite 
 unable to turn when I was first awakened 
 by the noise of four other girls, laughing and 
 chattering as they dressed. I felt nervous and 
 frightened of them, and so hid my head 
 under the clothes and waited till they were 
 gone. I had heard one of them say, " There's 
 the new girl, let us wake her." But another 
 answered, " Oh, no ! never mind. She isn't 
 wanted early to-day." And as I knew it 
 was so, I ventured to wait and get up quietly 
 by myself I was to go and see Mr. Prim 
 this morning. When I came down, the other 
 girls were gone ; breakfast was still on the 
 table, though half cold. I deserved that, as 
 I told the housekeeper when she said so, but 
 that did not matter much. I only wished I 
 had not felt so much as if I had caught a 
 thorough cold in every limb. Before ten 
 o'clock I had started to see Mr. Prim at the
 
 i8 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 shop. I felt frightened enough, but I found 
 the place and saw Mr. Prim, who is a kind 
 gentleman, and told me very pleasantly he 
 hoped I should be comfortable, and if I was 
 not, I must let him know. Then he sent me 
 up into the show-room to learn my work. 
 " I think you will do very well," he said. 
 His kindness must have made him say so, 
 for he could not know by only looking 
 at me. But I will do my best, at any rate ; 
 it would be hard indeed if, after having 
 come so far, I did not work with all my 
 might 
 
 I went up, past lovely dresses, which the 
 men were unfolding and doubling up in 
 shining folds quite dazzling to see ; and then 
 between fine carpets and shawls hanging 
 over the baluster of the stairs. There were 
 carpets under my foot as soft as moss. This 
 a shop ! thought I ; for all I knew of shops 
 was the smedl places at Skipton. It seemed 
 to me like something in a fairy tale. At the 
 top of the stairs we found a great room
 
 In Plymouth Sqtcare. 19 
 
 with velvet seats, and with handsome cloaks 
 hanging all about. 
 
 " This is the show-room, miss," said the 
 young man who had brought me. A tall, 
 red-haired woman, with a fine figure, came 
 up, and said : — 
 
 " Oh ! is this the new young lady T in the 
 sort of hard voice people seem to get by 
 being always busy in telling others what to 
 do. 
 
 I said, Yes, my name was Marjory Eam- 
 shaw, and I had come up from Yorkshire 
 yesterday. 
 
 " Oh, very well !" answered the tall woman. 
 " You can look about you to-day. You will 
 have the fourth sales under Miss Carter. Is 
 Miss Carter there Y* 
 
 Another tall woman, much younger than 
 the first, with black eyes that shone like 
 glass, came up and stared at me so that I felt 
 quite ashamed. Then she gave a sort of little 
 sniff, which I don't think proceeded from a 
 cold.
 
 lo Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " This young lady, Miss — a — ** 
 
 " Earnshaw," said I. 
 
 " Earn-j^^w. (Dear me ! never heard the 
 name.)" 
 
 " Sounds like a sneeze," said Miss Carter. 
 
 " will take the fourth sales under 
 
 you. Please to let her help you a little 
 quietly to-day, so as to see into her work ready 
 for to-morrow. I suppose you will want a 
 dress before you can begin," she added to 
 me. "Would you please take off your 
 cloak ?" 
 
 I did so. I had on my new brown linsey 
 which mother and I had made, and plain 
 clean cuffs and collar. Miss Carter sniffed 
 again, and seemed to think it funny. 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; we all wear black here," said 
 the forewoman. " You can have a dress by 
 to-morrow." She went to the door of an 
 inner room, where other persons were dressing 
 up some wire skeleton ladies. I followed. 
 
 " Miss Taylor, have you some nice-made 
 skirts that would suit this young lady "i"
 
 In Plymouth Square. ii 
 
 "Yes, Miss Lindsay." 
 
 Miss Taylor, a plain, pleasant-looking 
 woman, brought out of a wardrobe several 
 handsome black skirts, from which I chose at 
 last a long and full one made of stuff called 
 rep, which hangs in soft, rich folds. Miss 
 Taylor wore one. She whipped out an inch- 
 measure. 
 
 " We'll soon have you fitted, my dear," she 
 said. It was not much, but it was the first 
 kind word I had heard since I had said good- 
 bye to mother ; and it made my eyes 
 water. 
 
 Miss Lindsay here went away, bidding me 
 return to her when Miss Taylor had measured 
 me. 
 
 " Are you new to London ?" asked Miss 
 Taylor, 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It must seem very strange to you. Hold 
 up your arm. Thanks. Are you living in 
 Plymouth Square ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 c
 
 a a Only a Girls Life. 
 
 "I hope you will find some nice com* 
 panions." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I am sure I shall." 
 
 " Um ! — Will you tell me your name ?^ 
 
 " Marjory Earnshaw." 
 
 " What a pretty name !" 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad you think so. Miss 
 Carter thought it very funny." 
 
 •' Now your waist. What a little waist ! — 
 and that will do. I will put the body in hand at 
 once, and be sure to let you have it to-night." 
 
 "Thank you very much. Do you live in 
 Plymouth Square ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Oh, I wish you did !" 
 
 " I live with an old aunt. I shall be very 
 glad to see you at my house sometimes, if you 
 like to come." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you ; how kind you are.** 
 
 " Not at all. And — one word ; don't be 
 too free with the girls in Plymouth Square, 
 until you know them better. Remember, will 
 you r
 
 In Plymouth Square. 43 
 
 ^i*... ■ ■■■■.■ - — ■■■ — ,■-■-■ ,, , — — II. 
 
 ** I will indeed. Thank you ; good-bye." 
 
 These few simple words with Miss Taylor 
 had seemed to give me courage, and I went 
 back to the show-room with new spirit. Miss 
 Carter seemed to have changed her mind by 
 this time, and showed me very kindly where 
 the things were kept Then she pointed out 
 a quiet corner where I could sit. 
 
 "You can't do much here till you have 
 your new dress, you know," she said ; " but 
 you can just hand me a thing or tv/o when I 
 ask you." 
 
 I was glad that my corner was near the 
 dress-room, and I could see Miss Taylor 
 going about. The skeleton ladies were dressed 
 up by this time, and looked very stylish ; 
 though, having no necks, they let their bonnets 
 hang back on their shoulders very funnily. 
 
 Presently customers came, but not many 
 nor very grand ones till after dinner, where 
 we went on the ringing of a bell. It was a 
 very good plain dinner, served in a room 
 below the shop. There were so many strange
 
 34 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 faces of men and women there, that I should 
 have been too frightened to eat (especially as 
 many of them stared dreadfully) but for kind 
 Miss Taylor, who made me sit by her, and 
 talked to me so nicely. 
 
 It was very interesting in the afternoon to 
 see the fine ladies who came so beautifully 
 dressed, and scattering pleasant little breaths 
 of roses and violets as they went by. I should 
 never have tired of looking at them ; but I 
 had a little work to do now in handing cloaks 
 to Miss Carter. 
 
 About five o'clock Miss Lindsay told me I 
 i^ight go home, as there was no more work 
 for me till the morrow. I went, though I 
 was rather afraid of going alone. But once 
 in the street, I forgot everything else in the 
 splendour of the shop-windows. They were 
 lighted up. Our window was more beautiful 
 than any, with evening dresses as soft as 
 clouds, and golden flowers or rosy coral sprays 
 laid upon them ; and one dress, which was 
 quite too pretty to wear — white satin with
 
 In Plymouth Square. 45 
 
 stripes of pale blue, and butterflies of all 
 colours fluttering on the blue. As I went 
 home, I kept thinking of that dress : who 
 would wear it, and in what grand rooms ? 
 Surely only a princess, or a duchess at the 
 least, could bear such magnificence. And then 
 I passed a jeweller's, all glittering and spark- 
 ling, and stopped to look, and said to myself. 
 Which of all these fine bracelets and brooches 
 would suit that dress } I had just fixed on a 
 band of diamonds for the wrist, and a brooch 
 and hairpin of trembling diamond flowers, 
 nid-nodding on their stems, if possible more 
 beautifully than the wild clematis, thick with 
 dew, sways up and down in the morning sun- 
 light — ^when some one spoke to me. It was 
 a man. I don't know what he said, I was so 
 dreadfully frightened, and I hurried along as 
 fast as my feet would go, losing my way 
 once, but set right by a woman at the door of 
 a greengrocer's shop. So I came here — came 
 home, I was going to say, but it is not home 
 yet, and I don't think it ever will be. I shook
 
 26 Only a Girl's Life* 
 
 very much at first from the fright I had had, 
 but by-and-by I quieted myself by writing to 
 mother ; and now I have written all this, be- 
 cause it will please her to see it written down 
 like a story when I go home. When I go I 
 Ah ! I must not think of that. 
 
 They have come in to lay the tea, and I 
 hear the young ladies at the door. 
 
 I know I shall dream of a duchess In the 
 blue and white satin I
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MARY CARTER. 
 
 •* What is lighter than the wind ? 
 The lightness of a woman's mind. 
 And what is lighter than the last? 
 Ah ! there, my friend, you have me fast." 
 
 Feh. 20. — I think Mary Carter is the prettiest 
 girl I ever saw. 
 
 She came here from her home in Berkshire, 
 where she had been schoolroom-maid in a 
 great family. Her sister got her this situa- 
 tion. She has only been here a fortnight. 
 She has a round face, all red and white, waving 
 brown hair, a pretty little doll's figure, and 
 such blue eyes as I never saw. And then she 
 has a charming, child-like expression, and a 
 sort of clinging way, which would make any 
 one love her. I love her, though I think she 
 is quite a child still, with many of a child's
 
 28 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 naughty little faults. And I fear her sister is 
 not the best guide for her in this great wild 
 city, where every one seems able to do as he 
 likes. I begin to feel how hard it is to know 
 what is right to do. For instance : when I 
 had been here a week, Miss Carter, who sleeps 
 in my room, but whom I see seldom because 
 she spends almost every evening out, she has 
 so many friends — Miss Carter said to me — 
 " Have you ever seen a pantomime .''" 
 We were undressing. I was brushing my 
 hair, and I turned round and said— 
 " Oh, no. Are they not very grand V 
 " You can see for yourself if you like. I 
 am going to-morrow. Will you come too T 
 
 I thanked her very much, and felt at first 
 delighted with the thought. But when I was 
 saying my prayers, I remembered that my 
 mother once spoke about the London gaieties 
 when I asked her if I might ever go to 
 theatres and such places. She said it all 
 depended on those whom I went with ; 
 that if there were older persons with me, and
 
 Mary Carter. 29 
 
 I did not go out too often, she did not wish 
 to bind me down never to take such pleasures, 
 but that it behoved a girl in my station to be 
 very careful with what companions she should 
 go to public places. So when I was up from 
 my knees, I asked her if any one else was 
 going. 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure," she answered. " I 
 wouldn't thank you to go by ourselves. Miss 
 Tomkins is going, and Mr. Brown in the Silk 
 department, and perhaps another gentleman 
 or so." 
 
 "Not Miss Taylor?" I asked, timidly. 
 
 " Miss Taylor !" she gave her little sniff 
 again. "No; we don't want any wet 
 blankets." 
 
 I did not answer, but I felt very doubtful 
 what I ought to do ; not wanting to lose the 
 pleasure, nor to vex Miss Carter, and yet sure 
 that she and Miss Tomkins (a very pert girl 
 who slept in our room) and one or two young 
 shopmen would be very unfit companions. I 
 lay awake two hours thinking of it, and the
 
 go Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 next day I found a quiet moment before 
 dinner to ask Miss Taylor's advice. 
 
 " My dear," she said, ** I am so glad you 
 came to me ; I am sure your mother would 
 be very sorry for you to go like that. If you 
 really want to see the pantomime, I will try to 
 contrive some nice way of taking you. Will that 
 do } And will you come and take tea with 
 my aunt and me to-night i*" she said. " Then 
 perhaps you can make a better excuse to Miss 
 Carter." 
 
 My excuse was bad enough even with this 
 help, for it seemed to offend Miss Carter very 
 much when I said I thought my mother would 
 not like me to go to the play without some 
 older person. 
 
 " Oh ! I didn't know you were a baby !" 
 she said, with a hard little laugh ; and she 
 did not speak to me, except about cloaks, for 
 three days after that 
 
 My visit to Miss Taylor was very happy. 
 I went home with her, for she lives a long 
 way off, at Clapham, and she kindly offered
 
 Mary Carter. 3J 
 
 me the half of her bed for the night, as it 
 would have been so very far to come back to 
 Plymouth Square alone. It seemed to me we 
 were driving along for hours, and then we had 
 a little walk before we reached Miss Taylor's 
 cottage. It is the neatest little place, and in 
 summer must be lovely, for the little porch at 
 the side is covered with a rose-tree, and there 
 is ivy on the front wall. In the little parlour, 
 which has curtains, and sofa, and window-seat, 
 all of flowered chintz, sat a very beautiful old 
 lady, with a little red on her cheeks, and dark 
 bright eyes and small curls as white and 
 shining as silver. She wore a black dress, 
 and a white cap, and a grey shawl, and was 
 the picture of purity and goodness, as she 
 rose and held out her hand to me when Miss 
 Taylor brought me in, and smiled so, that I 
 wished I could always see her smiling. 
 
 " Welcome, my dear !" she said ; " Jane 
 has told me of you. And where is my little 
 ministering angel } I want my kiss." 
 
 "An ugly little angel," said dear Jane,
 
 32 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 coming up and giving her the kiss. "And 
 how have you been all day, Auntie ?" 
 
 " Very well, my dear. Jeremy Taylor and 
 I and Pussy agree very well together." I was 
 a little puzzled till she laid her hand on an 
 old book which she had been reading. As to 
 Pussy, there was no need for her to explain 
 him ; he lay, a fine big fellow, with a monster 
 tail, curled up in a ball on her sofa. The fire 
 burned bright ; the primulas and hyacinths 
 in the window sent out a sweet scent ; I 
 thought it all looked the very home of 
 peace. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Taylor ! what a happy little 
 place," I said. 
 
 " Call me Jane here," she answered, " and I 
 will call you Marjory. I liked you so for telling 
 me your Christian name at once. I hate the 
 eternal Miss at the shop, as if we were always 
 playing at being ladies." 
 
 She laughed her good-natured laugh and 
 took me up to her room to leave my bonnet 
 there. Jane is short and dark and sallow,
 
 Mary Carter, 33 
 
 with no pretty features, and yet it is such a 
 nice kind face ! Then we came down again, 
 and Jane got the tea, while the dear old lady 
 asked me about my home. We did not do 
 much, and I do not remember what we said. 
 After tea, Jane sewed, and the old lady, who 
 has wonderful sight, read us a chapter of her 
 favourite book — " Holy Living and Dying," it 
 was called ; she said it had been a favourite 
 with her grandmother before her, so it must 
 be a very old book. Then we talked again, 
 and then we had a bit of supper, and prayers, 
 and went to bed. But there was a feeling of 
 rest about it all which I had never known 
 since I left home, and hardly so much even 
 there, for Jack was always about, making the 
 place bright and noisy. And then it felt also 
 what people call " refined ;" at least, I fancy if 
 I were a lady I should think so. Certainly their 
 voices have not that particular clear proud 
 sound that the ladies' voices have, and I dare- 
 say their words are often wrong, but all they 
 thought was as good and true as any born
 
 34 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 duchess could think. How different it was 
 from the chatter, chatter of the shop-girls ; 
 for they are nothing else, and silly girls too, 
 I fear. 
 
 I am glad that I told Jane, when we lay 
 down side by side, what a comfort it was to 
 me to have said my prayers once more in 
 quiet, without the noise of their talk and 
 laughing in my ears. I told her I could not 
 really think it, and yet it seemed at times as if 
 they were laughing because I said my prayers, 
 and I could not tell when they said theirs, 
 for I never saw them. Jane thinks they do 
 not say them at all ; but really I camiot 
 believe that ; but I do believe her now 
 she says she has no doubt they laugh on pur- 
 pose, for she has known such things done to 
 frighten and vex girls out of the habit. And 
 yet, why should they } I don't understand 
 it. I will at least do as she advises, and never, 
 never be turned from my God by ridicule. 
 
 It is a long time since I have been able to 
 write my journal, for we have been very busy ;
 
 Mary Carter. y^ 
 
 I have come home very tired, and mother's 
 letters, two a week, must never be missed. 
 She writes that they are all well, and Jack is 
 to go to Rossall in a few days, and Mrs. 
 Whitehead and Mrs. Watkins sent kind 
 messages. It is so sweet to dream of the 
 dear place, as I do often and often. I am out 
 on the moors in the sunshine, looking down 
 upon little Duncliffe nestling in the valley ; 
 or in the spinney, picking bilberries off the 
 grey stones. Then this tiresome cough wakes 
 me up, and I try to go to sleep and dream 
 again, and often cannot for hours. The cold 
 in my head, which I caught on my journey, 
 has gone, and also the cold and pain in my 
 limbs. The housekeeper here is kind in a 
 rough way, and has given me hot water for 
 my feet many a night, and once or twice 
 made me a mustard plaster. But the cold 
 has turned to a nasty little cough which 
 worries me. However, spring is coming, and 
 it will go then. 
 
 Valentine's Day is past, and the girls had
 
 36 Only a GirTs Life. 
 
 a great many valentines ; but why they made 
 such a mystery over them, and pretended to 
 be so angry over some (for it was all pretence, 
 except with the ugly ones), I cannot think. I 
 had one myself, to my great surprise ; and 
 such a nice one — three pairs of gloves ! I 
 have always thought, if I were a lady I would 
 wear good gloves, and now I can. But who 
 can have sent them } I have no notion. 
 Some one said Mr. Brown in the Silk depart- 
 ment, but Miss Carter was sure it was not he, 
 and seemed quite cross ; and as he is faf 
 from nice, I would rather it was some one 
 else. At any rate, no doubt it is some very 
 kind person who has seen what inferior gloves 
 I wear, for I always thought them a bit of 
 extravagance. And so I wear my gloves on 
 Sundays, and feel very proud. 
 
 March 7. — My last entry but one says that 
 no one but a princess could wear that satin 
 dress with the butterflies. I have found my 
 mistake. For, one evening, on going into tjiy 
 bedroom, I found Miss Carter there with that
 
 Mary Carter. 37 
 
 very dress on, low-necked, with lace and tulle 
 on the sleeves and boddice, and beautiful 
 flowers in her hair. At first I did not know 
 her, and started back, feeling as if I were 
 dreaming. 
 
 " Miss Carter !" I criec' 
 
 She was twisting about before the glass to 
 see the fit. Mary stood by, holding a candle. 
 
 " Don't you admire me ?" she asked. 
 
 " I do. How lovely it is !" And indeed 
 it shone like the glistening of water. " But 
 what are you trying it on for ?" 
 
 " To see if it fits, to be sure." 
 
 " It isn't yours 1" 
 
 " Isn't it ?" 
 
 " Is it ?•' 
 
 " To be sure it is. Here, Mary, put a pin 
 in there. And I am going to wear it to a 
 ball on Wednesday, and there is Mary's. She 
 shall have one like this some day." 
 
 Miss Carter did look very handsome, and 
 she knew it and was pleased. 
 
 Then I saw upon Mary's bed a soft white 
 
 o
 
 38 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 crape dress with camellia sprays, white gloves 
 and boots, and an opera-cloak. I had never 
 seen anything so pretty. But when I looked 
 at the plain room and thought who we were, 
 it seemed unfitting ; and I suppose I looked 
 as if I thought so, for Miss Carter turned on 
 me suddenly, and said, in a sharp voice — 
 
 " I have another ticket, and you may have 
 it if you like ; and then you can have a dress 
 as handsome as any one's and go with us." 
 
 " No, thank you," I said. 
 
 " Why do you say, No ?** 
 
 " I don't wish to go, that is all ; I am 
 much obliged to you all the same." 
 
 "Now, look here. Miss Earnshaw," she 
 said, her eyes sparkling very brightly. " We 
 can't have people among us who think them- 
 selves too high, or too good, or too anything 
 else to join in our pleasures, and go on as we 
 are accustomed. We can't have people here 
 who may come preaching at us, or, perhaps, 
 telling falsehoods about us, or Heaven knows 
 what I tell you I wont have it If you
 
 Mary Carter. 39 
 
 will fall in with our ways, we will be friendly 
 enough ; but if not, I, for one, will make the 
 place too hot to hold you. So now you know." 
 
 She turned round to the glass and began 
 to arrange her flowers. Mary stood by, half 
 crying. I was silent at first, but I felt very 
 wicked and angry, and at last I spoke almost 
 as sharp as she in regard to the words, though 
 I tried to keep my voice quiet. I said — 
 
 " I have never preached at you, nor told 
 falsehoods of you. You know you are say- 
 ing that only for bravado. But I have as 
 good a right to my own opinion as you have, 
 and that is, that we shall do no good to our- 
 selves by going out of our station." 
 
 Miss Carter turned round very angrily. 
 " Our station, indeed ! What's that ?" 
 
 " The station of shop-girls," I said, " and 
 nothing else." 
 
 " Speak for yourself," said Miss Carter ; 
 " I never heard such vulgarity." 
 
 " Of course I speak for myself," I answered ; 
 " but I think what is vulgar is to pretend to
 
 40 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 be fine ladies when we are not, instead of 
 trying to act rightly as what we are." 
 
 Miss Carter was, I think, too angry to 
 answer, and I saw in a moment how rude 
 and wrong my speech had been. I said, in a 
 much lower tone — 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I should not have 
 spoken like that. What I mean is, that I 
 think it so very bad for us — so very dangerous 
 for us." 
 
 "You need not trouble to apologize; 
 you will repent what you have said soon 
 enough," answered Miss Carter ; and she 
 added never another word to me, but took 
 off her beautiful dress and laid it by. Mary 
 looked half frightened and half vexed, and 
 it touched me to see the loving look she gave 
 at her white crape. But when I thought 
 what a bad thing it would be for her to be 
 in that public room, dancing with any one 
 who asked her, and looking so sweet in her 
 pretty dress, I felt for the first time how 
 dangerous London is. I felt it for her as I
 
 Mary Carter. 41 
 
 could never feel it for myself, and I almost 
 cried over it, and on my knees I asked God 
 to help me to keep little Mary from evil ; and 
 in the hours that I lay awake, stifling my 
 cough under the bedclothes for fear of awak- 
 ing my companions, I thought over and over 
 again how I should try to keep her from it, 
 and I came to the conclusion that our Father 
 in heaven would help me, and dear Jane 
 Taylor would help me on earth.
 
 M^ ^S 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WORRIES. 
 
 " Little things 
 On little wings 
 Bear little souls to Heaven.'* 
 
 March lo. — I did not succeed in keeping 
 Mary from the ball ; for, indeed, I had no 
 right to oppose her sister, and I could not 
 wonder at the child's pleasure when I saw her 
 dressed. I call her a child, though she is but 
 a year younger than I, for in all her ways 
 she seems such. She came running up to 
 me as I was writing to mother, dancing round 
 and round, and then making what we call " a 
 cheese" before my feet, with all her pretty 
 dress spread out around her — a white floating 
 cloudy thing with sprays of flowers, and a pale 
 blue cloak. She threw her arms round ray
 
 Worries. 43 
 
 neck and gave me two kisses. " There, you 
 cross old darling ; don't I look nice ? " she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, you do," I said. 
 
 "And I mean to enjoy myself and to 
 dance, oh ! so much, and have such fun ! I 
 only wish you were going. To think that I 
 should ever be dressed as nicely as Lady 
 Fanny, and go out to balls like her. There's 
 the cab. Good-bye." 
 
 And so she went, like a fairy. She was 
 very tired when she came home, but I heard 
 all about it before long. It had been such an 
 ;njoyment that I felt as if I must have been 
 selfish and cross indeed to wish to rob her of 
 it ; and yet at times, when she told me in her 
 innocent way the silly compliments which had 
 been paid to her, I felt again as though the 
 mere listening to such words would hurt her, 
 as it would hurt a rosebud to be opened by 
 force, or a fruit with its new bloom on to be 
 touched. Eliza — Miss Carter — has told me 
 fairly that she is my open enemy now ; and
 
 44 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 indeed she is sometimes so unkind in her 
 words and ways that I feel as if I could not 
 stay. But the thought of Jack, now learning 
 so hard at Rossall, and of the presents I shall 
 send to mother, and a certain spirit of my 
 own, help me on, and I do not let her see 
 what I feel. She and Miss Tomkins spend 
 most of their time when we are together, — in 
 our room or at meals — in talking to me or at 
 me in the same unpleasant way ; but I will 
 not set down any of their words ; I will try to 
 forget them instead. The worst is, that they 
 never now let me say my prayers, or read my 
 Bible, in peace. I can stop my ears, but their 
 noises seem to come into my very head, and 
 even so I cannot keep out their laughter. 
 They push me, too, while I am kneeling, and 
 play tricks on me. It is really hard to know 
 what to do, for no one could pray amidst all 
 that, and sometimes I think that it would be 
 better to get quietly into bed and pray there 
 when they are asleep. I almost did so one 
 night, but then the words, " Let your light
 
 Worries. 45 
 
 shine before men," came so clearly into my 
 mind that I felt as if God were speaking to 
 me. And so, although my prayers seem now 
 a mere form, I have determined, He help- 
 ing me, never to seem to be ashamed of 
 them. 
 
 I was strengthened in this one day by little 
 Mary asking me, as we walked together to the 
 shop (her sister being a little late that 
 morning) : 
 
 " Why do you go on praying, when they are 
 so cruel to you ? " 
 
 " Because it is right," I said 
 
 " But we don't, you know." 
 
 ** Is that true, Mary ? Not even when you 
 are in bed ? " 
 
 ** Oh, no ! one is too tired, you know." 
 
 " Were you not taught to pray ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! when I was little, of course ; but 
 at great houses like Lady Mortmain's, where 
 I was, one finds that it is not at all the usual 
 way. One gets tired, and then it is not worth 
 while."
 
 46 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 *'■ Do you never pray ? " 
 
 ** Yes ; I generally say * Our Father' 
 on Sunday nights, if I am not too 
 sleepy." 
 
 " And you have never been to church since 
 you have been here 1 " 
 
 For she had told me so, having spent 
 the days with her sister at other friends' 
 houses. 
 
 "Why do you ask such stupid questions, 
 Marjory ? " 
 
 Then I asked her to listen to me just a 
 little, while I told her how dearly Christ loves 
 us and how we ought to love Him and serve 
 Him as well as we can, and how the very least 
 we can do in return for all He did for us, is 
 to pray to Him constantly as a Friend, by 
 ourselves and in His own House. I told her, 
 too, that if I felt as the saints had felt and as I 
 knew I ought to feel, I should be proud to 
 have a little trial now to bear for His sake. 
 She listened just like a good simple child, 
 but oh ! how ignorant !
 
 Worries. 47 
 
 ** If we pray to Him, what will He do for 
 us ?" she asked, at last. 
 
 " He will make us happy," I said. 
 
 That night the two were worse than usual, 
 and I found my mind all astray during my 
 reading, so that I scarcely remembered one 
 word ; but when I was kneeling down, asking 
 for help, I felt a little hand creeping into 
 mine, and Mary came and knelt beside me, 
 and I heard her saying — " Our Father," under 
 her breath. I could but thank God who had 
 done it. 
 
 Her sister began to sneer at her most bit- 
 terly when we arose, calling her names that 
 I cannot write ; but the little one was braver 
 than I thought. She said — 
 
 " I think you are very cruel and wrong to 
 teaze Marjory so ; and she says it is right to 
 pray, and I will pray if I like." 
 
 Little Mary has a will of her own, then ; 
 for even Eliza Carter could not turn her. 
 Heaven grant her will may go in the right 
 way I
 
 48 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 The wind is very trying now, but with 
 April, warmth will come and my cough will 
 go. Why do I feel the cold here so much 
 more than in the north ? The wind over the 
 moors gave me only a delicious feeling of 
 lightness and strength, while this seems to 
 nip me up. I think it is the draught at every 
 street-corner, or perhaps a sort of weakness 
 that has seemed to hang about me ever since 
 I came. London air is so heavy; it is like 
 breathing dust, not pure air. 
 
 March 31. — It was Mr. Brown who sent me 
 the gloves. He has told me so, and has been 
 offering me other things — a great many tickets 
 for concerts and a brooch. Eliza Carter has 
 been very angry, and has said most unkind 
 and wicked things to me — accusing me of 
 trying to " catch " him, as she calls it. Me, 
 to catch Mr. Brown — that vulgar ! — But stop, 
 my pen is going on too fast ; there is no 
 merit in being proud about it The man is 
 as well as he knows how to be ; and when I 
 had refused all his presents, he was offended,
 
 Worries. 49 
 
 and gave them to Miss Carter ; which was 
 just what she wished, though it does not make 
 her forgive me. I only wish 1 had not worn 
 out the gloves.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DAY OF REST. 
 
 ** A Sunday well spent, 
 Brings a week of content. 
 And health for the toils of the morrow.** 
 
 April 20.— I feel as if I had found a pearl 
 of great price. I have had at last one happy 
 Sunday since I left home. What were those 
 pretty words Miss Ellen Watkins made me 
 learn ? — 
 
 * The Sundays of man's life 
 
 Threaded together on Time's string, 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the Eternal King." 
 
 She told me they were written by an old poet 
 called George Herbert, and that the wife of 
 the Eternal King means the Church. How 
 well I remember her saying the words to me. 
 It was one of our best August days, and
 
 A Day of Rest. 51 
 
 after afternoon school Miss Ellen said to me, 
 "Come up to the tops, Marjory." So we 
 went up by the pine-wood, which smelt like 
 frankincense in the Temple, and clambered 
 up the slippery steeps of short moor grass, 
 like glass from the drought. The sheep 
 stopped and looked at us boldly, and we 
 found pretty white flowers on our path. Hot 
 and thirsty as it was in the valley, there was 
 a fine air out on the tops, and when we got 
 there we lay down, shading our faces with 
 bracken, and looked first down and away on 
 all the curving sea of tops, and little Dunclifife 
 nestling in the bottom, with the bluff of 
 Keilsa Crag standing out behind the village. 
 And then we looked up till our eyes ached, 
 into the dazzling blue sky over us, which 
 seemed to turn lead-colour as we looked ; our 
 poor eyes were too weak to bear that splendid 
 colour. Miss Ellen said it was a rest-day for 
 all the world ; even the little white clouds 
 looked quieter and happier ; and then she 
 said that verse of poetry.
 
 52 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 Well, I have my one pearl for the bracelet 
 of our Queen, and this was how it came 
 about : 
 
 One day when I returned from the shop to 
 Plymouth Square, the housekeeper said to 
 me, "A lady has been asking to see you 
 There is her card on the mantelpiece." 
 
 I took it and read : Mrs. Bertram Lin- 
 gard. 
 
 " She cannot have asked for me : I do not 
 know her," I said. 
 
 " Then she made a mistake, that's all," re- 
 turned the housekeeper, with a laugh, and so 
 the matter passed until, two days later, I 
 received a note : — 
 
 " Dear Miss Earnshaw, 
 
 "Mrs, Watkins, of Duncliffe, has 
 written of you to me. I should like to know 
 one of whom she speaks so well, and perhaps 
 a day with us might be a pleasant change 
 for you. 
 
 " Will you then come over here as early as
 
 A Day of Rest. c^'>, 
 
 possible next Sunday ? I trust you may be 
 in time for church. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Lucy Lingard. 
 
 " S, Bank Terrace, Southwell." 
 
 Now I remembered the lady, a clergyman's 
 wife, to whom Mrs. Watkins had written con- 
 cerning me. Sometimes I had thought of her, 
 wishing I had such a friend ; but I told 
 myself it was very unlikely a lady would 
 trouble herself about me ; and now here wa? 
 this kind little note, coming like a friend's 
 voice to give me a pleasure. How I dwelt 
 on the very writing till I knew it by heart, 
 thinking each letter so pretty ! I wrote my 
 very best in return, saying how very kind I 
 thought her to take so much trouble for me, 
 and how delightful it would be to talk to a 
 friend of my dear Mrs. Watkins and Miss 
 Ellen. All the week, the vision of next Sun- 
 day was before my eyes ; I looked forward to 
 it as to the dear old Sundays at home. Not 
 that there could be much likeness between it
 
 54 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 and them, for Southwell is only a suburb of 
 this close tiresome London, but the thought 
 that Mrs. Lingard knew my dear Yorkshire 
 folk was enough. 
 
 Sundays are not happy here. Most of the 
 girls go out with their friends, and the house- 
 keeper is better pleased with those who go 
 than with those who stay ; she often tells us 
 that in many establishments the girls are 
 expected to go out every Sunday ; but think- 
 ing of my own case, I see that this must 
 be a shocking thing, for if it were so here, 
 where could I go } and when I think of such 
 a girl as Mary Carter in my place, so pretty 
 and so thoughtless as she is, I feel that such 
 a plan would be no less than wicked. They 
 are not so unkind here, however ; the house in 
 Plymouth Square is still open to us on Sun- 
 days, but it is very dull. The Carters always 
 go out ; the few who remain lie late in bed 
 and read novels, or gossip about dress for the 
 rest of the day. I have tried to get one or 
 two to read with me or go to church, but they
 
 A Day of Rest. 55 
 
 do not like it, and generally I find that on 
 Sundays they send me, as they say, to 
 Coventry. Church would be a refuge, but 
 the churches here are so dull ; square, ugly 
 places with high pews, and women bustling 
 about to shut people in or out of them ; the 
 music is so different from our hearty, clear 
 West Riding voices, and the sermons are hard 
 to understand — not like the kind words, as 
 from a father to his children, which Mr. 
 VVatkins used to speak, and speaks still. Oh 
 dear me ! I sit in one of these high pews and 
 let my thoughts wander home — it is wrong, I 
 know, but so pleasant ! I think of the dear 
 old church, with its texts in colours on the 
 wall, and all the dear well-known folk kneel- 
 ing and standing and singing, and responding 
 so willingly ! While here, everyone's mouth 
 seems shut for fear his neighbour should hear 
 him. I have spent a Sunday with Jane 
 Taylor, and in itself that was a happy 
 day ; it is better than many a sermon 
 only to look at her aunt's sweet old face ;
 
 56 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 but the church there was no better than 
 here. 
 
 How did I know that Mr. Lingard's would 
 be of another sort } I could not know it, and 
 so it must have been only the association with 
 home which made me so long to go. 
 
 The expected Sunday came, bright and 
 spring-like. The lilac-bushes in our square 
 looked nearer bursting into flower than ever 
 before ; the little clouds fled quickly over the 
 sky, which had a fresh look, as if washed with 
 rain. As I went to the omnibus, I opened 
 my lips a little to drink in the pleasant air, 
 which seemed just to whisper that my moors 
 were still waiting for me. A girl offered me 
 violets from a basket ; I felt as if she and 
 everyone else were friendly to me, and J 
 smiled at her and said, " I wish it were not 
 Sunday ; I would buy some." 
 
 I hope I am not growing extravagant in 
 dress ; I must remember that the object of 
 my coming here, where I make so much 
 money, is not that I may spend it on myself
 
 A Day of Rest. 57 
 
 But as all the girls have a nice fresh dress to 
 wear when they go out, I have treated myself 
 to a suit of grey rep, and I have a straw 
 bonnet trimmed with white. It was new that 
 day ; I felt as if it were right to honour the 
 day with a new bonnet. The girls call me a 
 Quaker, because of my greys and blacks ; but 
 I like them best ; they are neat and pretty, 
 and fit (I think) for a girl in my position. 
 
 It was a long way to Southwell ; the omnibus 
 passed through the fine streets, and beside 
 the parks, and then through poor streets, and 
 then out into new country with little squares 
 and rows of houses, with gardens before them. 
 At last, it stopped at the end of Bank Terrace, 
 a row running down from the main road, 
 having a field and trees on one side, and new 
 houses on the other, — small houses, but plea- 
 sant ones, with bow- windows and high steps 
 to the door, and a little terrace in each garden, 
 covered with turf, and crocuses springing in 
 the beds. All the bells were ringing for 
 church.
 
 58 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 There was one window which looked pret- 
 tier, yet quieter than the rest ; it had dark- 
 green curtains, and a little white figure stand- 
 ing there, and a basket of ferns hanging. This 
 was Number Five. I felt very shy as I rang 
 the bell, but the maid had hardly opened the 
 door when a lady came into the passage and 
 said, " Is that Miss Earnshaw ?" Then she 
 took my two hands and kissed me, and said — 
 " I'm so glad you are come, my dear ; you 
 are in nice time for church, I stayed at 
 home from school on purpose to see you." 
 
 Mrs. Lingard is a middle-aged woman, yet 
 she looks young ; she is not pretty, and yet 
 she seems so ; her dress is very plain, and yet 
 it looks stylish ; that i& to say, it has a style 
 of its own. Were I in a room full of fine folk 
 and Mrs. Lingard among them, I know I 
 should watch her all the time. I do not think 
 I can describe her : she has a broad forehead, 
 with a peculiar wave of the hair upon it ; 
 sweet grey eyes, with long lashes ; a nose 
 which is round, and certainly ugly ; a full,
 
 A Day of Rest. 59 
 
 sweet mouth, and a rather square chin. She 
 is short, and her hands and feet are small, and 
 very pretty. Her bonnet seemed all black 
 lace, falling gracefully, though it was not a 
 fashionable bonnet ; she wore a good shawl, 
 square on her shoulders, and a grey stuff 
 dress. There ! that is all I can say, and that 
 is not Mrs, Lingard. 
 
 "The rest are all at school," she said. 
 " Are you tired .? Will you have something 
 before we go ?" 
 
 I thanked her, but said " No," so we started 
 at once for church. We talked, on our way, 
 about the Watkinses, and Duncliffe, and a 
 little about Plymouth Square, There was 
 no lack of interesting talk ; she asked me 
 questions in a voice that seemed to say — 
 " I care for every little thing you can tell me 
 about yourself. I care for you very much," 
 I could not help feeling this, and so I talked 
 to her more and more freely than I have ever 
 talked before ; yet afterwards I felt that it 
 must be but manner ; who am I that she
 
 6o Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 should care for me ? I have a new thought 
 now, that it is her own large loving mind that 
 goes out to everyone, great and small, and 
 that she does care for all she meets. By-and- 
 by we turned into a region of small, poor 
 streets, mostly new, with men hanging smok- 
 ing about the doors, or sometimes with shops 
 open and women buying and bargaining even 
 more than on week-days. Here Mrs. Lingard 
 had many " How-d'ye-do's .?" to say, and they 
 were just as cheerful to the people who were 
 buying as to those who were clearly going to 
 church. She explained this at last. 
 
 " Poor things !" she said ; " they know no 
 better yet. We try to teach them, but it is 
 hard work to get at them, and meanwhile 
 there is no use in frightening them from us. 
 Besides, there are many more than the buyers 
 in fault." 
 
 Presently we came to a gate opening from 
 the street into a little court, and at the end of 
 it stood a church of red and yellow brick, 
 with a little spire, of a sort which Mrs. Lin-
 
 A Day of Rest. 6j 
 
 gard told me afterwards is called a flkhe, 
 which it seems is a French word. 
 
 " Here is our church, God bless it ! we love 
 it so !" said the dear lady. Many people 
 were standing round the door, " Good morn- 
 ing," she said, " Come in ; we are in nice 
 time ; we shall find room, I am sure." 
 
 I was surprised to hear her say this, for 
 there had been no lack of room in the London 
 churches I had as yet seen ; but I was no 
 sooner inside than I saw that this was a dif- 
 ferent kind of building from the square- 
 galleried ones with a great pulpit in the middle, 
 which seem to me so very ugly. The walls 
 and pillars were of coloured brick ; the seats 
 were very plain wooden ones, open and free ; 
 and the pulpit stood aside, as in our own 
 church at home, to let one see the Lord's 
 Table. The place was nearly full. I felt 
 happy and peaceful and free, and kneeling 
 down beside my friend, I had time to speak 
 out of my heart to God before the singers 
 and the clergymen came in. Through all tJic
 
 ffa Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 service I felt as I used to do at home. Nay, 
 I felt better, because at home I had not yet 
 learned what loneliness is, and the want of a 
 place where one may meet God as a friend. 
 My own room is no place of peace to me now, 
 and the churches, from my feeling of strange- 
 ness and loneliness, seem not so much so as I 
 should have hoped ; but here I was beside 
 one whom I already felt to be a friend, and 
 the music was sweet (though none is ever so 
 sweet to me as that clear, hearty Yorkshire 
 singing of ours) ; and Mr. Lingard's words 
 when he preached were plain and kind, and 
 went down to my mind and made me feel my 
 own sins and God's love. When all the people 
 were moving away, I was down on my knees, 
 crying. Mrs. Lingard must have known it, 
 for when at last I was able to get up, she was 
 standing before me, covering me from sight. 
 When we came out we found her children 
 waiting for us — a girl of fourteen, a boy and 
 girl who were younger. Then Mr. Lingard 
 came out and another person with him, whom
 
 A Day of Rest, 63 
 
 I had seen in the choir, and who seemed to 
 lead the voices there. Mr. Lingard said — 
 
 " Well, conrie to tea with us at five, Brandon, 
 and we will talk that matter over," and then 
 he turned and shook hands with me. 
 
 He is a fine, kind-looking gentleman, with 
 grey hair, and black whiskers, and dark eyes, 
 which gives him a strange and very in- 
 teresting look ; but of course I was a little 
 afraid of him, and I do not suppose he can 
 ever be to me what his wife is. 
 
 I could linger over every moment of that 
 happy day, but there is no need ; I remember 
 it all well enough. After dinner they all went 
 out — Mrs. Lingard and the children to a 
 Sunday-school, he to a sort of cottage-service 
 in a poor and bad street. I would have liked 
 to go too. but she said. No, I must make it 
 a rest day, and stay at home with a book. 
 So she gave me " Good Words" and the 
 " Monthly Packet," and I sat by the fire and 
 meant to read them. But the pleasant place 
 stole all my thoughts, and I could but lean
 
 64 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 back in that dear little soft chair and look at 
 the graceful ferns in the window, and the 
 bookcases and the little desk-table, and the 
 rich dark colours of the furniture, which was 
 well worn when one looked closely, but 
 seemed so chosen as to rest the eyes. I have 
 not seen many ladies' rooms, but if I were a 
 lady, however rich, I think I would have one 
 room for my own self just like that. 
 
 Then they came back, and Mr. Lingard 
 went to his study, and the children took their 
 books, and dear Mrs. Lingard talked to me. 
 She asked me many questions about this 
 place, and did not much like my answers 
 they seemed sometimes to make her quite 
 sad. 
 
 " Oh ! how very, very sorry I am," she said, 
 when I told her how I had at first believed 
 the girls must pray somewhere and somehow, 
 but that I had now found out most of them 
 never pray at all, and how they act when I 
 pray. " And are they all like that } is there 
 none whom you can make a real friend of?"
 
 A Day of Rest, 65 
 
 I told her of Jane Taylor. 
 
 " Dear woman ! what a blessing to be like 
 that," she said. "But she is not in Ply- 
 mouth Square. Are there none like her 
 there T 
 
 I told her, None : but then I spoke of little 
 Mary Carter and her pretty ways and pretty 
 
 face. 
 
 " You must be very careful of her," said 
 Mrs. I.ingard : " God must have put her near 
 you for a purpose." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Lingard ! I cannot keep myself 
 right, far less her." 
 
 " Helping others helps one's own soul, and 
 nothing helps any of us so much, I think, as 
 the feeling that we have a real work to do, and 
 can be useful in God's world. — But how 
 utterly sad this is ! Is it the same with all — 
 
 all " 
 
 " Shop-girls } " 
 
 «« Yes — I am so glad you use that word. 
 Do they all call themselves so .-* " 
 ^ Oh no ! They say it is vulgar."
 
 66 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " Just a little mistake : never mind ; are 
 they all as godless, do you think ? " 
 
 " Jane Taylor says she thinks it is the rule, 
 and from what Eliza Carter says I am sure 
 she thinks all are like her." 
 
 She sat quite still for a few minutes and 
 then said suddenly : " Marjory Earnshaw, 
 what can we do for them ? " 
 
 She turned upon me so quickly and so 
 earnestly that I was taken quite by surprise, 
 and had nothing to say. 
 
 " What can I do, Marjory ? " 
 
 " Do, Mrs. Lingard ? You ? " 
 
 " Yes, I. You know, you have just told me 
 of a work that wants doing, a part of God's 
 vineyard that stands untilled, and there seems 
 no one to do it ; and your telling me of it is 
 God's call." 
 
 She sat still again and thought, then she 
 put the matter aside and talked of other 
 things. Presently we heard the door-bell. 
 "There is Mr. Brandon," she said, "but he 
 will go down to Mr. Lingard till tea. Did
 
 A Day of Rest. 67 
 
 you notice him ? He is such a worthy fellow : 
 he is our schoolmaster, and trains the choir ; 
 he has a fine voice. I do not know what we 
 should do without him." 
 
 " He looks like a gentleman," I said. 
 
 " And so ought not to be a schoolmaster, you 
 think?" 
 
 " Our schoolmasters were very plain 
 bodies," 
 
 " Yes, no doubt, Now-a-days we want a 
 new stamp of man in London districts ; these 
 Battersea men, or the best of them at least, 
 have a great deal of refinement. Of course 
 they don't call themselves gentlemen, or they 
 would be far less so than they are. Mr, Brandon 
 is a man whose whole heart is in his work," 
 
 At five tea was brought in and the two 
 men followed. It was new to me to see the 
 manner of Mr, Brandon to his clergyman. In 
 Duncliffe, the schoolmaster was a sort of 
 upper-servant, and said "Sir" to the Rector, as 
 respectfully as his gardener did ; but this man 
 talked freely and yet with modesty. He was
 
 68 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 ^ • '— " • 'III — ■■ . ^— ^M I ■! 
 
 not a gentleman, even I could see that ; but 
 he was a man who seemed quietly to feel his 
 right to a certain place in the world which he 
 had and meant to keep. 
 
 When tea was cleared away, Mrs. Lingard 
 said — 
 
 " One song, please, Mr. Brandon, before 
 service." 
 
 He got up at once and went to the little 
 music-stand. 
 
 " Is it to be the * hammer ' ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, please." 
 
 He chose a red book, which, I learned 
 afterwards, contained the music of an oratorio 
 called " Elijah," by Mendelssohn. 
 
 " Shall you never get tired of that ?' asked 
 Mr. Lingard. 
 
 " Never" answered his wife, " if I hear it 
 every day." 
 
 She began to play a very difficult accom- 
 paniment, and Mr. Brandon stood up quietly 
 and sang. I had not cared for his face before. 
 He is a tall, broad-shouldered, plain man ;
 
 A Day of Rest. 69 
 
 but now, as he opened his great mouth to the 
 music, and his face flushed with the excite- 
 ment of singing, I could but watch him, and 
 feel as if he were part of the music I was so 
 much enjoying. Out rolled those notes. Ah ! 
 it was like home again, for we had had one or 
 two men who had sung almost as well — Mr. 
 Whitehead, and a young fellow working in 
 Bradford, who came over sometimes to see 
 his friends in Duncliffe, and who told us of the 
 famous concerts there. 
 
 " Is not his word like a fire, and like a 
 hammer that breaketh the rock into pieces .?" 
 
 The music told its own tale ; one heard 
 that hammer splitting the stone. Then, when 
 it was over, and all the grand, rolling, 
 thundering noise was done, Lucy Lingard, 
 the eldest girl, asked for "that pretty 
 hymn." 
 
 " Do you sing ?" her mother asked of me. 
 
 I said, " Yes, a little ;" so they gave me a 
 book and asked me to join. It was that very 
 beautiful hymn : 
 
 F
 
 7© Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 ** I heard the voice of Jesus say, 
 
 ' Come unto Me and rest ; 
 Lay down, thou weary one, lay down 
 
 Thy head upon my breast.' 
 I came to Jesus as I was. 
 
 Weary and worn and sad : 
 I found in Him a resting-place, 
 
 And he has made me glad. 
 
 • I heard the voice of Jesus say : 
 ' Behold, I freely give 
 
 The living water ; thirsty one. 
 Stoop down, and drink, and live.' 
 I came to Jesus, and I drank 
 Of that life-giving stream : 
 My thirst was quenched, my soul revived, 
 And now I live in Him. 
 
 ** I heard the voice of Jesus say : 
 • I am this dark world's Light, 
 
 Look unto Me, thy noon shall rise, 
 And all thy day be bright.' 
 I looked to Jesus, and I found 
 
 In Him my star, my sun. 
 And in that light of life I'll walk 
 
 Till travelling days are done." 
 
 X tried to sing with them at first, but my 
 cough soon stopped me, and I sat and listened 
 to their voices, — Mrs. Lingard's so sweet, 
 though weak ; Mr. Brandon's subdued to the
 
 A Day of Rest. 71 
 
 rest ; the children's pretty treble, and a sort 
 of quiet hum from the clergyman. How 
 beautiful those words are ! They seemed to 
 speak what I had felt, as if, in bringing me to 
 a glimpse of this happy home, my Master 
 was giving me one draught of living water ; 
 and yet I knew they went far deeper than 
 any little cares I have known yet, and that 
 He can give more precious water still to those 
 who are far, far more sadly thirsty than I, 
 who have at least work and friends, and a 
 hope of doing some good for those I love. 
 
 When they had finished, it was time to 
 dress for church. 
 
 " What a sad cough you have, dear," said 
 Mrs. Lingard ; " and you do not look 
 strong." 
 
 She said it when we were alone together in 
 her room. I told her of the heavy cold 1 had 
 taken on my way south, and how, now that 
 spring was here, I was looking for my cough 
 to go away. 
 
 " Poor child !" she said, " you must take care
 
 72 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 of yourself ; it wont do to have you falling 
 ill in this strange city. If you feel ill or low 
 at any time, as if you wanted a friend, you 
 must send or come to me ; remember that, 
 Marjory," she added, taking my hand and 
 looking at me seriously. 
 
 The evening service was still more hearty, 
 earnest, and joyous than the morning, or else 
 it seemed so to me because I knew it was the 
 last bit of my happiness. As we walked 
 home I thanked Mrs. Lingard earnestly. 
 
 "There is nothing to thank me for," she 
 said ; " I have been so glad to see you." 
 
 "You do not know how hard it is to go 
 back ; that is the worst." 
 
 " I want to ask you one favour," she re- 
 joined. " Will you pray with me and for me, 
 that you and I may be helped to see how we 
 can wake those poor girls from their evil 
 sleep } Will you pray ?" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " I see now for the first time what is meant 
 by ' the world,' " she said, sadly. " There is
 
 A Day of Rest. 73 
 
 an evil spirit abroad indeed ; he has great 
 power, if he can keep young girls back thus 
 from their Creator. And for you, Marjory, 
 this is not well. You, too, may be led astray, 
 for you are but young. Keep yourself un- 
 spotted from the world, my dear, if you can; 
 or, rather, ask Him who can to keep you 
 so. 
 
 She spoke almost with tears in her voice. 
 I said solemnly that I would obey her. 
 
 Oh ! but it was hard to bear, was tlie girls' 
 talk that night
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DAY OF LABOUR. 
 
 •* But a Sunday profaned, 
 Whate'er may be gained, 
 Brings nothing but labour and sorrow." 
 
 May 27. — When last I wrote, I had much 
 to say, and it was a happy subject, happy and 
 good. Now I have that to write which is not 
 good ; but I will not shrink from it. I have 
 done amiss, and I must shame myself. 
 
 When I had known what a Sunday might 
 be, even in London, why did I yield to the 
 temptation of making it a day of common 
 pleasure ? I cannot tell ; I think I was mad. 
 
 Last week was a fine, sunshiny week, and 
 it seemed hard to be shut up all the time in 
 four walls. The trees in the square seemed 
 to tempt me out to the fields where the trees
 
 A Day of Labour. 75 
 
 grew free. Then, when Mary begged me so 
 hard to go with their party to Richmond on 
 Sunday, I felt weak. I ought to have kept to 
 my first " no ;" but she pleaded so hard, " Is 
 it wrong to see the country on Sunday, Mar- 
 jory dear ?" No ; I could not say that was 
 wrong. " And we are kept in all the week, 
 may we not be free on Sunday .-•" Did she 
 ask those questions of herself, or had her 
 sister bidden her ask them } I do not know. 
 There is no cause to ask now ; the fault was 
 mine. The prophet was punished for his own 
 sin when he ate and drank against God's bid- 
 ding, thoughhewastempted in God'sown name. 
 I knew my first " no " was right, and yet I 
 tampered with my conscience ; I said to my- 
 self : " Sunday is a day of rest. It is more 
 rest to us who are all the week in walls, to be 
 in the air on Sunday. The Jewish laws 
 are not ours." I never thought that the 
 day of rest must be for all, not for us 
 only — even if it is more rest to us to go out 
 than to stay quietly at our home, which I
 
 76 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 doubt now — but also to all those whom our 
 journey must set to work. 
 
 Well, I gave way and went. The trees 
 were all out now ; the air was very sweet. I 
 told myself that I might persuade Mary to go 
 to church with me then. The two Carters 
 and two other girls were of the party. At 
 the Victoria Station, when we got out of the 
 omnibus, I saw at once three of the young 
 «ien from the shop. 
 
 "They are not going .-'" I said to Eliza Carter. 
 
 " Why not ?" she answered, sneeringly. "Do 
 you think it would be any fun to go by our- 
 selves ?" 
 
 I had thought we were going so, and she 
 knew it, for she had made Mary persuade me 
 on that very plea. It was her cunning, to 
 make me enter into one of her plans of amuse- 
 ment, and then she thought I would enter into 
 all, and no longer reproach her with that 
 higher standard which, thank God ! my mother 
 and my dear friends have given me. 
 
 Is not this Adam's excuse — " The woman
 
 A Day of Labour. 77 
 
 enticed me and I did eat "? In the end, the 
 fault was mine. 
 
 I was too weak then to turn and go away, 
 even when I saw Mr. Brown among the men, 
 though I knew then that all my chance of a 
 true Sunday was gone — a Sunday out among 
 the trees, such as I had dreamed of I should 
 have known that the way to get happiness is 
 to do as God tells us, simply and trustingly, 
 not to seek for happiness just where we think 
 we may find it. 
 
 Eliza Carter was as much surprised and 
 displeased as I was, to see Mr. Brown there. 
 She had not asked or expected him. She 
 was very angry, and showed it, but towards 
 me, not him, and so I suffered on either side. 
 
 Well, now I am in the midst of my story, I 
 find I was foolish to say I would not shrink 
 from it. I do shrink, and rightly, from 
 putting down here the petty worries and 
 humiliations of that day. Let the lesson 
 remain, the miserable learning of it may pass 
 away if it can. There was no joy in the sun-
 
 yS Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 shine, or the spring beauty, or the blue-bells : 
 all the talk was hollow and foolish and false, 
 I spoke to little Mary of the church, and as 
 we passed the door of one, I almost drew her 
 in. But she was very loth, she almost cried, 
 and when the rest saw what I was trying to 
 do, they so laughed and jeered and talked, 
 that I thought it was better to yield than 
 persevere. I learned at least that it is the 
 beginning which makes the wrong ; after- 
 wards, it is so very hard to get right again. 
 The beautiful sky seemed to mock our folly ; 
 but the place, lovely as it is (especially in 
 that one view of the river, which drew me for 
 a moment away from all other things), was 
 spoiled by the many pleasure-seekers, all 
 destroying each other's pleasure. We dined 
 at an inn, and then we went upon the river, 
 and then we came back to the inn for tea 
 in an arbour in a garden sloping to the 
 Thames. It might have been all peaceful and 
 beautiful, but for that odious Mr. Brown — 
 poor man ! shall I laugh or cry at him .? He
 
 A Day of Labour. 79 
 
 meant no harm, I suppose ; but when he 
 began to talk nonsense, and we were alone for 
 a minute in that arbour (a weeping willow 
 grew over it ; I remember the sunset through 
 the leaves), and he made a regular proposal 
 in his own poor vulgar way — which he could 
 not help, I know ! — I felt myself to be a 
 lower thing than I have ever felt before. My 
 first thought was : how did he dare speak so to 
 me ? And, since, I have had to remember 
 that I am but on his social level. Then for 
 the first time I saw that I had done wrong in 
 coming ; our place is too public for a girl who 
 is brought up to feel that her modesty is her 
 chief treasure. 
 
 I was so angry and disturbed that I could 
 not answer the man at first ; but when Eliza 
 Carter passed by, and saw us, and gave a 
 loud harsh laugh, and made some bitter jest 
 to her companion, my recollection returned, 
 and I moved to go : 
 
 " Never mind Eliza," he said ; " she is 
 jealous."
 
 8o Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 — ^^^_— .11 ■. ■ ! ■ ■■■ ■ . ■■ .1. MMM ■■■! Ill I ■ . ■ I I — M^ 
 
 I think I answered : 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Brown ; you mistake a 
 little. I am very sorry to have given you 
 cause to speak to me in this way ; it is quite 
 useless ; " and then I went away, and joined 
 the rest 
 
 Eliza Carter cast her taunts at me then and 
 thereafter, I know ; but I did not heed them 
 then. I made Mary stay by me for the rest 
 of the time and talked to her only. My mind 
 was in too great confusion to heed much, 
 and that night I forgot my prayers. 
 
 And yet the poor man meant no harm. 
 Harm } I suppose I ought to think he was 
 paying me an honour, and I fear I gave him 
 pain. But no ; hardly that ; now I remember 
 he seemed so well satisfied with himself, so 
 sure that I should be very proud of his 
 favours, that on the whole I conclude, when 
 he saw I did not feel that pride, he would 
 certainly renounce me as a person of no dis- 
 crimination. 
 
 It was all my fault ; I might have avoided
 
 A Day of Labour, 8i 
 
 that and all Miss Carter's horrid gibes, had I 
 but spent the Sunday as I should. 
 
 I re-read my paper. How odd it is to 
 think that if the girls here were to read it 
 they would not know what I mean. After 
 all, what happened } An offer of marriage ? 
 I have heard some of them count their offers 
 on their fingers to each other. Dear me ! if 
 all offers are as uncomfortable as this, I hope 
 mine may never reckon beyond the thumb ! 
 
 "^t €y^^)^^
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FACING THE ENEMY. 
 
 And if, in time of sacred youth, 
 
 We learned at home to love and pray. 
 
 Pray Heaven, that early love and truth 
 May never wholly pass away. 
 
 Thackeray. 
 
 June lo. — Miss Tomkins has left; her 
 manner displeased the ladies. There were 
 several complaints, and at last it happened 
 that old Lady Shirley, one of our best cus- 
 tomers, refused downright to be served by 
 her. Indeed, her manner is always fast and 
 forward, and I do not much wonder at the 
 end. 
 
 It so happened that her ladyship's eyes 
 rested on me at the moment, and in her 
 funny blunt way she said — 
 
 " That's the sort of girl one likes. Come 
 here, my dear, and show me those cloaks."
 
 Facing the Enemy. 83 
 
 By those words the odd old lady made my 
 fortune in a small way, for the very next day 
 Mr. Prim sent for me and told me I was to 
 have Miss Tomkins's place, with a rise of 
 20/, a year. He was so kind as to add that 
 he had only waited till there should be an 
 opening for me. Mother will be so glad to 
 hear it ; and now I have at once sent her off 
 that good soft black silk, the best I could get, 
 which I have so long wanted to give her. 
 
 Mr. Prim asked also if I were comfortable 
 in Plymouth Square } I thanked him, and 
 said "Yes," but in a tone (I suppose) which 
 made him doubt it, for he said — 
 
 " Pray tell me if anything is wrong } We 
 like to know. — The housekeeper V 
 
 "Oh, the housekeeping is all very nice, 
 thank you." 
 
 " Then it is only the women's tongues, I 
 suppose !" he rejoined, laughing. " No one 
 can help that ; but if you are really annoyed 
 you had better speak, for J know you are 
 alone here."
 
 84 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 How kind it was of him ! — How many 
 people are kind to me ! 
 
 I should not have liked to tell tales of Miss 
 Carter, or any one else, and now I think it 
 will not be necessary ; for I have had quite a 
 fight with Miss Carter on my own account, 
 and I fancy it has done good to her, though I 
 am sorry to have had to speak so sharply. At 
 one time I should have been called a very 
 naughty girl for it, but that dear time seems 
 far back now, and I suppose one is bound to 
 speak up for oneself occasionally. 
 
 This was how it happened : — 
 
 Four days ago, two splendidly-dressed 
 women, and a young gentleman, whom the 
 ladies called Sir John, came into the show- 
 room, and asked for mantles. Miss Lindsay 
 called me to serve them. They were hard to 
 please ; they wanted to see every fashion and 
 every material, and it took a good hour and a 
 half to show them what they wished. 
 
 The gentleman seemed very much dis- 
 tressed at first in having to wait ; he sucked
 
 Facing the Enemy. 85 
 
 the top of his cane, and tilted back in his 
 chair, till I thought certainly the top would 
 come off, and he would go down with a crash. 
 Mary Carter, who now assists me (her figure 
 being too short to show the mantles well), 
 thought so too, and could hardly keep down 
 her giggles as she went to and fro. I had to 
 look severely at her once or twice, and then 
 her guilty, wicked, roguish look almost upset 
 me too. The young man was certainly 
 amusing, with long whiskers and — generally 
 speaking — the look of those figures on which 
 great tailors sometimes set up suits of clothes. 
 But he soon ceased to be amusing by becom- 
 ing very annoying indeed. He began to take 
 up the idea that I was there not merely for 
 the ladies' pleasure, but for his too, and stick- 
 ing a glass into his eye, he filled up his time 
 by staring and making odious grimaces — 
 meant to be fascinating — at me from behind 
 the ladies. 
 
 I tried not to see him, and also had hard 
 work to keep down the angry scornful look 
 
 G
 
 B6 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 that seemed to come naturally into my own 
 countenance. Am I too proud ? I almost 
 fear it, seeing how I felt towards this young 
 man, and poor conceited, complimentary, 
 vulgar Mr. Brown. Yet after all, there must 
 be a woman's pride in herself, which rises up 
 in indignation at any attempt to make her a 
 lower thing than God made her to be. I pray 
 to Him that I may have only that pride and 
 no other, for He knows I have no other cause 
 for pride than having come from His hand 
 with his breath of life in me. 
 
 At last the party went away, Sir John 
 lingering a moment to whisper something 
 which I did not wish to hear, and did not 
 beyond the words " charming " and " coy," 
 which stick by me and make me feel very, 
 very angry even now. What right had he 
 to insult me by his praise more than he would 
 insult any modest woman of his acquaintance, 
 be she the highest in the land t Can it be 
 that men think themselves so much the lords 
 of creation that they have a right to insult
 
 Facing the Enemy. 87 
 
 any woman in this way ? Or is it partly the 
 woman's fault ? 
 
 Perhaps Miss Carter had seen all, and was 
 jealous. Jealous of that! And at the tea- 
 table she began before all the girls to make 
 a great many remarks which were anything 
 but pleasant. But I bore them. The next 
 day, lo ! about four o'clock, the odious Sir 
 John appeared again with one of the ladies 
 who had accompanied him before, and another 
 lady with her. Again I had to show mantles 
 to them, though I asked Miss Lindsay to let 
 me off, and again the eyeglass and the odious 
 grimaces made me feel more cross than any- 
 thing had ever done in my life before. Again 
 the gentleman remained somewhat behind ; I 
 think he again tried to say something which 
 I would not listen to this time ; though, as I 
 was following the ladies with a parcel which 
 I was going to hand to one of the young men 
 to be put into the carriage, I could not turn 
 away from him altogether. All on a sudden 
 he put out his hand and popped a note into
 
 88 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 mine. I let it fall as if it had burnt me, and 
 my face flushed all over. I felt it as hot as 
 fire. 
 
 Mary Carter was standing near, " Here is 
 something dropped," I said to her ; " please 
 pick it up and give it to the ladies." 
 
 She was going to do so quite innocently, 
 when Sir John, looking as if the surprise were 
 not pleasant, snatched it up and hurried 
 away, muttering. So I think I have ended 
 his impertinence. 
 
 But not Miss Carter's. She began again 
 that evening, and again at tea. 
 
 "There are some young ladies here," she 
 said, in a loud voice, to her opposite neigh- 
 bour at table, " who are not satisfied with the 
 young gentlemen of the establishment. They 
 are all very well for a beginning, but we must 
 go on to young sprigs of nobility who come 
 to the place with their friends. Perhaps we 
 may catch a duke if we play our cards well. 
 Our red and white face can't do much, 
 perhaps ; but cleverness can do a great deal,"
 
 Facing the Enemy. 89 
 
 and so on, for some time. The girls giggled ; 
 some looked pleased, others surprised. Only- 
 little Mary seemed vexed. 
 
 At last I thought I had borne enough. I 
 had thought over the matter before, and now 
 I said (pretty quietly, I think) : — 
 
 " Miss Carter, I have borne a great deal 
 from you in many ways. Hold your tongue, 
 I will speak (for she was interrupting) ; and 
 the only cause I see for it all is that I do not 
 wish to join in all your pursuits. You have 
 defied me already and told me you would do 
 all you can to make me unhappy — as Mary 
 knows — and now I suppose you are trying it. 
 But it is not right or fair that one girl should 
 persecute another in this way, and so I will 
 not bear it." 
 
 " Don't see how you can help bearing what 
 I choose to say." 
 
 " I shall help it by reporting you to Mr. 
 Prim." 
 
 " Oh ! you are a sneak and a tell-tale, as 
 well as a saint ; they usually go together."
 
 90 Only a GirVs Life, 
 
 " You will not frighten me by hard names. 
 I stand up against you for the good of us all, 
 because it is not just that one girl should dare 
 to be as cruel as she likes to another without 
 suffering for it. Mr. Prim is a fair man, and 
 will listen to me if I go to him. I have given 
 you warning, and Mrs. Day and all the rest 
 can bear me witness that it is so, and that I 
 mean what I say." 
 
 " I don't know what you are aiming at," 
 answered Miss Carter, carelessly ; " I have 
 not named you once to-night. Are you fit- 
 ting the cap on .?" 
 
 " I am quite able to understand what you 
 mean," I said ; " and you understand me 
 too." 
 
 After that she only muttered and spoke low 
 to her neighbour. She told me in our room 
 that she had no idea I had such a frightful 
 temper, and often asked if I should go at once 
 and tell so-and-so to Mr. Prim. But as I kept 
 quiet, she quieted down too, and now she 
 worries me very little, I hope it may last
 
 Facing the Enemy. 91 
 
 I hardly know whether she is afraid of losing 
 the place if I speak — such a smart girl could 
 always find another — or whether she is one of 
 those who can only bluster to people who 
 never oppose them. I may be unjust, but I 
 cannot bring myself to believe it is a better 
 feeling. 
 
 June 12. — I have had a very great pleasure. 
 Yesterday, when I came home, a parcel was 
 waiting for me and a letter. The letter was 
 from Mrs. Lingard, and it said that she had 
 sent me some books to read, and would send 
 me more whenever I returned those ; that I 
 must bring them back my own self and spend 
 another Sunday there ; that she had an idea 
 on which she wanted to consult me, and would 
 have asked me to come at once but that her 
 little son had been ill, and nursing him had 
 taken away all her own strength, so all of 
 them but Mr. Lingard, who could not get 
 away for more than a few days, were going to 
 Ventnor. Such a kind, affectionate letter ! 
 ** We shall stay there a month ; is there any
 
 93 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 chance of your coming down for a few days ? 
 We should be very glad to see you. I often 
 remember your face with sorrow ; it was much 
 too delicately red and white when you came 
 to me." 
 
 How much love Mrs. Lingard must have 
 in her heart to pour it out so freely on one of 
 whom she knows as little as she knows of 
 Marjory Earnshaw ! 
 
 I opened the books eagerly. There were 
 two volumes of poems called " Legends and 
 Lyrics," by Miss Procter ; there were the 
 " Heirof Redclyffe," and "The Daisy Chain," 
 and " Dynevor Terrace," all by one person ; 
 and a dear little square book called "The 
 Christian Year," with my own name written 
 in it by Mrs. Lingard. A slip of paper was 
 also inside, on which was written, " This is 
 my dearest friend of any book but my Bible; 
 may it be so to you !" 
 
 I have already begun " The Daisy Chain," 
 and I can see what a treat it will be to have 
 some noble speakers to listen to, as it were, in-
 
 Facing the Enemy. 93 
 
 stead of hearing only the frivolous talk about 
 me. There is a girl in the book called Ethel 
 May, who is (I think) just what I would like 
 to be if I were a lady.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WHERE WAS THEN THE GENTLEMAN? 
 
 " Who misses or who wins the prize? 
 Go, lose or conquer as you can: 
 But if you fail or if you rise, 
 Be each, pray God, a gentlemaiu" 
 
 " A gentleman, or old or young, 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays). 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 
 
 Upon the first of Christmas-days s 
 The shepherds heard it overhead. 
 
 The joyful angels raised it then : 
 ' Glory to God on high,' it said, 
 ' And peace on earth to gentle men.* ** 
 
 Thackeray. 
 
 June 24. — Midsummer Day ! Last Mid- 
 summer day I was up and out with Jack, 
 trailing a great spray of wild roses over my 
 shoulder, because it was so pretty I could not 
 let it go, and curtseying to my Lady Sum- 
 mer on the very top of Dunlowe. Oh ! for 
 one breath of that keen, free air4 I almost
 
 " Where was then the Gentleman?'* 95 
 
 sicken for it. My lungs seem choked with 
 dust. As I draw in this thick atmosphere 
 which one can almost see, every bit of me 
 seems to cry out for the breath of the moors. 
 Well, well ; since that can't be had, it had 
 better be forgotten, and, thank Heaven ! I 
 have good news from my dear folks there, 
 and Jack has come home with a prize ! How 
 glad I am ! 
 
 I have been reading the beginning of this 
 book, to remember how I felt when I was 
 yet at home ; and what strikes me most is, 
 that I seem to have changed in myself since 
 then. I remember myself as I stood on 
 the Tops looking out over the snow with the 
 red flush on it, and I seem to have been then 
 another girl from the one who now writes 
 these words — a more timid and ignorant, 
 and shy and innocent girl. Innocent ? No ; 
 1 will not say more innocent, and I do not 
 think I need ; for though, living here in 
 London and among so many girls whose 
 minds are very low and false, one cannot
 
 96 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 help learning of many things which one 
 would rather not know at all, yet the know- 
 ing cannot hurt even a young woman much 
 if she keeps close to her heart the laws of 
 God and the words of her Saviour, and the 
 good example of such a mother as mine. 
 Pray the Lord I may keep them very close 
 to my heart, and then true innocence will 
 never fly away ! 
 
 June 25. — I had much more to say when I 
 began to write yesterday ; but the thoughts 
 of the old midsummers carried me away, 
 and I would not write complaints of any 
 human being after that. But now I must 
 tell my little story to my journal. 
 
 Good gracious ! is it possible that many 
 young men are such fools ? Have they not 
 work or proper pleasures and amusements to 
 employ their time, without worrying and harm- 
 ing young girls who would never think twice 
 about them but for that ^. Lords of creation 
 people call them. I wonder if any one can 
 be in a real true way lords and masters of
 
 " Where was then the Gentleman?'' 97 
 
 anything or anybody, when they take no 
 pains to get or keep their own self-respect 
 and the respect of others ! 
 
 It is that poor silly Sir John who makes 
 me write all this. What have I ever done to 
 him that he should annoy me so ! One 
 evening, when it was very sweet and cool, 
 and pleasant after the hot stifling show-room, 
 where I had been all day, I turned, as I some- 
 times do, into the Regent's Park for a stroll. 
 Near the Colosseum, two gentlemen on horse- 
 back passed me ; one bowed, but I never 
 thought it was to me. I went on, and when 
 I was standing beside the water a gentleman 
 came hastily up, and said, " Good evening.'* 
 It was Sir John. I remembered his broken 
 teeth and unpleasant smile. I flushed up 
 with anger at the impertinence, turned and 
 walked on. He followed and walked beside 
 me, saying many very stupid things about my 
 having dropped his note and not replying to 
 his bow as he passed me on horseback that 
 evening. 1 was at first so vexed and flurried
 
 98 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 that I could not tell what to say or do, but 
 walk on as quickly as I could. At last, I 
 stopped short, looked him full in the face, 
 and said — 
 
 " Sir, I do not know you in the least." 
 
 It was a silly thing to say, but what can a 
 girl do when she is so worried } 
 
 " I wish to remedy that evil," he answered. 
 
 " / have not the smallest wish to make 
 your acquaintance." 
 
 "That is because you have not tried," he 
 replied ; and added that he admired me more 
 in a passion than out of it. I can almost 
 laugh at his impudence now, but I shall never 
 cease to wonder that a gentleman of good 
 birth can waste his time and wits in such a 
 way as this. 
 
 I had to collect my thoughts, and tell my- 
 self that I was acting very stupidly ; that if 
 I only knew how to behave, there was no 
 doubt I could get rid of him ; and while he 
 went on talking his nonsense, I concocted my 
 little sentence. We were walking on again.
 
 ** Where was then the Gentleman?" 99 
 
 " Sir," I said (we were over the Suspension 
 Bridge now — how funny it is, that as I write 
 I can remember the ducks swimming round 
 about in their slow dignified way, and a little 
 girl feeding them with biscuit), " Sir, you annoy 
 me very much, and I assure you that your 
 conduct does not make me respect you at all. 
 It is anything but fit for a gentleman like you 
 to be seen walking with a girl like me ; and 
 as for me, I know very well that it is as 
 dangerous as it is disagreeable to be walking 
 beside you. I do assure you I have not a 
 word to say to you, and I do not care for one 
 word you can say to me. All I want is that 
 you will go away and not worry me any 
 more. Will you not be kind enough to do 
 so?" 
 
 " Cold and lovely as Diana," he said, and 
 did not make the least attempt to go. Again 
 I can't help laughing to myself, and yet I was 
 so angry and so miserable. I wondered what 
 on earth Ethel May would have done in my 
 place. But she was a lady and never could be
 
 loo Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 put in such a position. I sometimes think it 
 is rather hard for girls like me, who have so 
 few safeguards to keep them right. And yet 
 what can be done ? I cannot say. 
 
 So that dreadful Sir John went on till we 
 came to New Street, and there at last I found 
 a refuge in a baker's shop. I knew the mistress 
 a little, and when she came out of her parlour, 
 seeing Sir John outside and even looking in- 
 clined to come in, I glanced at him and 
 asked her to let me go into her parlour for a 
 little while. She was a kind woman, and 
 understood, and took me in at once ; I stayed 
 about twenty mmutes, and then she let her 
 boy go home with me. It was but a step. 
 When we came out. Sir John was gone. I 
 was determined he should not go up to Ply- 
 mouth Square by my side. 
 
 From this time, I never would go to or 
 from the shop alone ; but as Mary Carter is 
 my only friend (for though the rest are now 
 very civil, they none of them like me), it was 
 sometimes hard to manage. However, I saw
 
 " Where was then the Gentleman?" loi 
 
 nothing more of Sir John for some days, and 
 hoped he was gone for good. Once indeed, 
 I thought I saw him walking and staring on 
 the other side of the street, but as Mary and 
 another girl were with me, I was safe, and I 
 did not look again to make sure. 
 
 But one Sunday afternoon, as I came out 
 of church with Mary, whom I had persuaded 
 to go too, there he was again. Perhaps he 
 had watched us there. I don't know how he 
 had contrived, but at the very gate he joined 
 us, and Mary did not seem any protection. 
 In despair, I looked at the people coming out 
 with us, but they were all so busy and took 
 no notice ; I dared not speak to them. 
 
 Mary was inclined to laugh at his non- 
 sense ; but I pinched her hand savagely, and 
 so she stopped, with one of her wonderful 
 childish looks. I don't mean to set down 
 what he said : I would rather forget it. I 
 only said once : " Oh ! it is too cruel," and 
 that rather to myself than to him, for I knew 
 now he had no honourable feeling. Is such 
 
 H
 
 I02 ' Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 a person called a gentleman^ I wonder, among 
 his own people ? do ladies ask him to their 
 houses and dance with him, and treat him as 
 a friend ? do any of them let him talk his 
 odious trash to them ? If so, ladies and 
 gentlemen must be very different from that 
 which I have fancied them. 
 
 At last we came to a broad street crossing 
 that along which we were walking. Dowr 
 the other side of it was coming a tall strong- 
 looking man. I thought with a kind of pang 
 how ignorant I was of what might be right to 
 do, and if I could or could not go and claim 
 this person's protection against my persecutor. 
 In another moment, I saw to my great joy 
 that it was Mr. Brandon, Mr. Lingard's school- 
 master. I ran across the street, and met 
 him. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Brandon, please," I said, 
 gasping. 
 
 He knew me at once, and bowed very re- 
 spectfully, looking rather puzzled. The others 
 were close behind.
 
 " Where was then the Gentleman f^ 103 
 
 " That gentleman — he will follow us : I 
 cannot get rid of him." 
 
 In a moment Mr. Brandon had taken my 
 hand and put my arm through his, and stood 
 up beside me so tall and strong, such a tower 
 of strength against the enemy. An instant 
 before I had felt so wretched, so doubtful if 
 what I was doing was right and he could 
 possibly understand my difficulty. But he 
 quite understood, and I felt as if Jack were 
 there again, as when, quite a little fellow, he 
 turned and frightened off Farmer Goff's red 
 bull which was running at me. Only Sir John 
 was, I think, worse than the bull, and Mr. 
 Brandon was so much stronger than Jack. 
 
 Sir John looked rather foolish, and did not 
 seem quite to know what to do. 
 
 " I am this lady's friend, sir," said Mr. 
 Brandon, sternly ; " I shall have the honour 
 of protecting her from any annoyance." 
 
 Sir John grew red and angry, and switched 
 his little cane. I do not know what he would 
 have done if my protector had not been so
 
 104 Only a Girls Life. 
 
 big and so calm. As it was, he said, in a 
 furious voice : — 
 
 " I should be very sorry to interfere with so 
 good a cause," and with an ironical bow, he 
 went away. 
 
 Mr. Brandon gave a little laugh, and stood 
 looking after him angrily for a few seconds. 
 Then we all went on walking together. 
 
 " He is gone now ; do not be so frightened," 
 said Mr. Brandon, kindly ; for I was trembling 
 so that I felt as if I could hardly stand. 
 
 " Do you know the man T 
 
 " He has been twice to the shop with ladies, 
 and he has followed me before. Oh, dear! 
 how can people be so rude and so unkind .?" 
 
 " His name is Sir John," said Mary. 
 
 " Sir John what ?" 
 
 " I don't know quite ; some of the young 
 ladies think he is Sir John Lengrave." 
 
 " He is no gentleman, for all his title," said 
 Mr. Brandon. 
 
 "I thank you so very, very much," 
 said I.
 
 " Where was then the Gentle^nanf" 105 
 
 " Don't speak of that," he answered ; and 
 then he turned to Mary and talked a httle to 
 her, I think he did it to give me time to grow 
 calm. He told her he had just been to a church 
 called St. Anthony's, where he always went if 
 he could spare an afternoon. 
 
 " You should ask Mrs, Lingard about St. 
 Anthony's," he said to me. " She always 
 went there before she married, and even now 
 she goes whenever she can get a chance." 
 
 " I wish I could ask Mrs. Lingard about it ; 
 but she is from home." 
 
 " Yes, at Ventnor. She said you were 
 perhaps going there too. Are you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no !" 
 
 " Are you not } It would do you good." 
 
 " She said something about my going in a 
 letter I had from her ; but it is too good to 
 think of: she could not mean it." 
 
 '' I assure you she did. I heard her speak 
 of it. She said you were not strong, and even 
 a few days' change would do you good." 
 
 " How nice it would be to go!"
 
 io6 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " Are you better than you were V 
 " I have not been ill at all, thank you." 
 ** You had a nasty cough in the spring." 
 I was surprised at his remembering it. 
 "The summer has taken it away," I 
 
 answered ; " but I think surely no one can 
 
 ever feel quite well in London." 
 
 "Ah ! you come from the country 7" 
 
 " From the Yorkshire moors." 
 
 " How you must miss them !" 
 
 " I never could tell any one how much f 
 
 " Are you not going home this summer ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! it is too far. We are not near a 
 
 railway at home. And we have very few 
 
 holidays here." 
 
 Then I suddenly remembered that we were 
 
 taking him out of his way, and tried to bid 
 
 him good-bye, but he said he must see us safe 
 
 home ; else (he added, smiling) he could not 
 
 answer for it to Mrs. Lingard. 
 
 Then we talked of her, for Mr. Brandon 
 
 admires her, in his owti way, almost as much 
 
 as I do ; and he told us of the many good
 
 " WJiere was then the Gentleman?" 107 
 
 works that are done in Mr. Lingard's parish, 
 and amused us with funny stories of his 
 scholars ; and so the way seemed very short, 
 and I felt almost quiet again when we came 
 to our door, and bade him good-bye, with 
 many, many thanks.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 " As the sun when it ariseth in the high heaven, so is the 
 beauty of a good wife in the ordering of her house," 
 
 Ecclus. icivi. i6. 
 
 yulj/ 1 6. — Ventnor — Let me write the dear 
 word in big letters. How glad I am to be here ! 
 How surprised I am to find myself here! It was 
 a second letter from dear Mrs. Lingard which 
 first made me think it really possible I could 
 come. She sent me a plain, clear invitation, 
 which there was no mistaking. At first I 
 thought I could not get away, and then that 
 I ought not to spend money on myself. I 
 told Jane Taylor the news at dinner, fully 
 believing that she would agree with me ; 
 perhaps a little afraid to hear her do so. But 
 she said —
 
 By the Sea. 109 
 
 " Ask Mr. Prim, at least, and see if you 
 cannot get away ; and as for spending money, 
 it would do you good, child." 
 
 " But it would cost at least five pounds.** 
 
 " Well, you are not a miser." 
 
 " But how much one could buy with 
 that." 
 
 " I know what you mean." 
 
 That was all she said then, but as I was 
 going away, Mr. Prim, who happened to have 
 stayed at the shop later than usual, came up 
 to me kindly, and said — 
 
 " What is this Miss Taylor tells me about 
 your wanting to run away .■'" 
 
 " Oh, sir," I said, " I am sorry she spoke. 
 I don't think you can spare me." 
 
 " Well, let's see," he answered ; so I showed 
 him Mrs. Lingard's invitation. 
 
 " You might go for three or four days, I 
 think," he said, very kindly. " You are a good 
 steady girl, I fancy, and obliging, and the 
 ladies seem to like you. So I will give you a 
 holiday if you like."
 
 110 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 "I thank you very much indeed, sir," I 
 said. " May I think it over ?" 
 
 He said, " Certainly ;" but when I remem- 
 bered how it is entirely for father, and mother, 
 and Jack that I came, it seemed too selfish 
 to spend so much on myself. The next day 
 Jane told me that her aunt had sent her love, 
 and wished me to go back with her that 
 evening, and spend the night with her. I was 
 very glad, and it was quite a treat to walk 
 home (as we did) for the greater part of the 
 way. Westminster Abbey looked so beau- 
 tiful and old and solemn. We went in for a 
 few minutes and looked at some of the tombs, 
 and saw the light come lovely through the 
 coloured windows. Then we stopped a mo- 
 ment to see the evening sunshine on the river, 
 where the boats were moving about ; and the 
 Houses of Parliament stood up, fanciful and 
 grey, beside the water ; and the great free 
 open bridge, with the low parapet stretching 
 on either side of us, gave one a feeling of 
 great space. Jane, who reads a good deal,
 
 By the Sea. iii 
 
 told me that the poet Wordsworth had written 
 some lines on Westminster Bridge in the 
 early morning, and that they began — 
 
 "Earth has not anything to show more feir." 
 
 I never felt to love London so much. I think 
 the parts by the river are the dearest and 
 most homelike parts of it all. 
 
 When we reached Clapham, and Jane's 
 home, the little cottage was looking beautiful, 
 with a bright bed of flowers in front and a 
 rose in blossom in the window, and the beau- 
 tiful old lady ready to kiss and welcome me, 
 all in her exquisite grey and white clothing, 
 sitting like a soft shadow beside those pretty 
 old curtains of flowered chintz. 
 
 I should think no house anywhere could be 
 quite so peaceful and joyous as Mrs. Lingard's, 
 and yet this, simple as it is, gives me in part 
 the feeling of rest and ease which I had that 
 happy Sunday. I suppose it is the people — 
 not money or furniture — that make a home 
 delightful. Now I have written that, I see
 
 112 Ojily a GirVs Life. 
 
 that it is a thing which every one knows ; but 
 when an idea strikes one for the first time as 
 true, however old it is, it seems quite a new 
 thought. 
 
 As we sat over our tea, old Mrs. Taylor 
 began — 
 
 " So you are going to Ventnor, Mar- 
 
 jory r 
 
 " Oh, no ! I don't think so." 
 
 "Jane tells me Mr. Prim has given you 
 your holiday." 
 
 " Yes ; but the journey costs so much." 
 
 "And what else would you do with the 
 
 money T 
 
 " Oh, a suit of clothes and some books for 
 Jack, and a new chair for father, and " 
 
 " I see ; but you must not quite forget 
 yourself. This change would do good both 
 to your body and mind." 
 
 " I know that ; but " 
 
 " If you were with your mother, would you 
 not do as she wished you T* 
 
 « Certainly."
 
 By the Sea. 113 
 
 " Well, I am an old woman, and I am sure 
 that your mother would wish you to take this 
 holiday. Having had children of my own, I 
 k7tow that she would rather you did so, than 
 that you gave the handsomest presents to 
 your family with the money. Believe an old 
 woman, Marjory." 
 
 I thanked her, and promised to consider 
 her advice, and the end is — I am here. How 
 beautiful was the railway journey, with the 
 pools and the fir-trees on both sides, and then 
 the Southampton water all violet and silver in 
 the sunset, and then Ryde Pier, with dear 
 Mrs. Lingard waiting for me. We crossed 
 the Isle of Wight by rail, and found Mr. 
 Lingard waiting for us at the station with his 
 children ; and then we walked down to a 
 sweet little rose-covered cottage, in a street 
 built on a steep hill-side, with all the garden- 
 walls sloping downwards. The windows of 
 their sitting-room open on a sort of terrace 
 garden, from which one can see the sea ; and 
 after tea we walked here, watching the moon-
 
 114 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 light. To-morrow morning we shall go down 
 to the shore. 
 
 July 7. — It is more than pleasant, it is 
 good to be here. The short, simple, hearty 
 prayers, with which the Lingards begin and 
 end their day, seem to hallow the whole of it. 
 And then to me, who love her so, Mrs. 
 Lingard's presence makes everything good. 
 When I woke this morning, Lucy Lingard, 
 with whom I slept, was gone ; and when I 
 came down no one was to be seen. I walked 
 in the garden, and looked at the sea again, 
 and at the bathing-machines, like moving 
 boxes on the shore ; and then up through the 
 rose-bushes came laughing and voices, and 
 Mrs. Lingard, with her children clinging about 
 her. All their hair was wet. 
 
 " Good morning ; we have just had a dip in 
 the sea," she said. " I would not let you be 
 called, because you were tired. You shall do 
 as you like to-morrow." 
 
 After breakfast, we took some dinner in 
 little baskets, and walked to Bonchurch. It
 
 By the Sea. 115 
 
 is a village about two miles from Ventnor ; we 
 went along such a pretty, pretty road : tirst on 
 cliffs above the sea, then under great trees, 
 and (in one part) beside a dim, shadowy pool 
 with swans upon it ; then the dear little old 
 church and the sea again, seen blue and 
 sparkling between two trees whose boughs 
 leaned over to kiss each other. It was my 
 first sight of the sea, and a great and happy 
 sight it was. Lucy led me to a low grave 
 with a cross lying along it, but supported a 
 little above the stone, so that the shadow fell 
 always upon the tomb. 
 
 " Adams is buried here, who wrote ' The 
 Shadow of the Cross,' " she said, " Is it not 
 beautiful .'' " 
 
 Miss Ellen had given me ' The Shadow of 
 the Cross' long ago, and it gave me a sort of 
 thrill, to think of the dead hand that wrote it 
 lying cold under the sign he loved so well. 
 
 " Mamma says we ought all to lift up our 
 little crosses, to see which way we are to go," 
 said the little boy, Arthur.
 
 1 16 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " Yes," said Mamma, coming up and laying 
 her hands on his shoulders, " all of us have to 
 do that ; little crosses and big crosses both 
 show the way. Does your cross show you 
 your way yet ? " she asked of me. 
 
 I was not sure that I understood her, and 
 she did not ask again. 
 
 " Mamma says the lady who wrote ' Amy 
 Herbert' lives in this village," said Lucy, as 
 we moved away. 
 
 I had not read "Amy Herbert." 
 " I will lend it you when we get home," she 
 told me. "It is such a pretty book, and 
 Mamma says the same lady has written one 
 called ' My Experience of Life,' which is one 
 of the most beautiful stories she ever read. 
 The lady must be very, very clever," said Miss 
 Lucy, with a sort of awe. 
 
 We went down to the shore and ate our 
 dinners, and then Mrs. Lingard sat and 
 worked and talked to me, while Mr. Lingard 
 played with the children. Presently he took 
 a poetry-book and read beautifully to us and
 
 By the Sea, 117 
 
 Miss Lucy, while the little ones still played. 
 We had tea afterwards at an hotel, and then 
 we walked home in the evening. Oh ! what a 
 happy day ! Are there any sorrows in life 
 here ? 
 
 yufy 18. — This morning I bathed too, but 
 it made me sob and feel cold, so Mrs. 
 Lingard said I had better not try again. She 
 and the children swam about like fishes, but 
 I did not like it much. We walked in another 
 direction to-day along the cliffs to St. 
 Lawrence, where there is a tiny church — the 
 smallest in England they say, though Mr. 
 Lingard thinks there is one smaller some- 
 where. It looks as if a man could hardly 
 stand upright in it. On our way we passed a 
 beautiful spot where Mrs. Lingard told me 
 some kind people are thinking of building a 
 hospital for persons in consumption, where 
 each would have a separate bed-room. It 
 seemed to me as if this would be a great 
 benefit to such poor creatures, and if God has 
 sent to any one such a heavy trial, it must
 
 ii8 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 indeed be a blessing to find a last home on 
 earth in a place like this, with that grand sea 
 before one, seeming always to speak of God's 
 greatness. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard told me, as we walked 
 along, of some sad cases of consumption which 
 she had known. What a terrible disease it is ! 
 How it seems to seize on those who are just 
 entering on life ; so often on those who are 
 just about to be happy ! How would one feel, 
 I wonder, if such a blow should ever happen 
 to oneself — if just at the moment when life 
 seemed to open most joyfully, a wall of ice 
 should rise up between us and it, and a voice 
 should seem to say, " All is over ; you must 
 die ! " Would one — could one — take it as God's 
 work } Would it be His work or Satan's, 
 like the sicknesses which Christ healed ? Ah 
 well ! thank Heaven, I need not trouble about 
 the answer. 
 
 I have but two days more, and I will no 
 longer spend any part of the precious time in 
 writing. What stands here now will be
 
 By the Sea, 
 
 119 
 
 enough to remind me of the dear little house 
 where I wrote it. Whether or no I ever see 
 this town again, I shall always remember it 
 as a sort of haven of rest — a Sabbath place, 
 made to me quite holy by this woman, the 
 best and dearest and most loving woman I 
 know.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A PROJECT. 
 
 "Wait; yet I do not tell you 
 The hour you long for now 
 Will not come with its radiance banished. 
 
 And a shadow upon its brow; 
 Yet far through the misty future, 
 
 With a crown of starry light. 
 An hour of joy you know not 
 Is winging her silent flight." 
 
 A. A. Procter. 
 
 Aug. lo. — Plymouth Square again. Back 
 in harness once more. Well, I have had my 
 day, and it would be very wrong to grumble. 
 Comparisons are odious, they say, and a 
 comparison between Ventnor and Plymouth 
 Square would be very odious, I'm sure ; but I 
 must not let my treat unfit me for work, so I 
 will only now and then, on a quiet, rainy 
 Sunday afternoon, as now, indulge myself 
 with dreaming that I am there agaia
 
 A Project. lai 
 
 On the evening before I left them, Mr. 
 Lingard and the children had gone for a row, 
 and we — my dear lady and I — sat on the 
 beach. Their boat seemed rowing out straight 
 to the sunset — a world of golden islands, and 
 gleaming, golden seas, and strange dashes of 
 green and rose among it all. The light flushed 
 and trembled on the trembling water. My 
 sweet Mrs. Lingard reached out her hand and 
 took mine, and held it, and said : " I am so 
 sorry this is your last evening. We will 
 always remember it — shall we ? — as a very 
 happy and beautiful one." 
 
 " I think I can never have a happier till I 
 am in heaven," I said, scarcely knowing what 
 I said, for sorrow at going away. 
 
 " The land that is very far off," she said, in 
 a murmuring tone. 
 
 " Is not that like the Golden City.?" I cried, 
 pointing out shining castles on one of those 
 airy islands. 
 
 " And there is the sea between us and it," 
 she said, smiling half sadly.
 
 laa Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " Ah ! Marjory, if one of us knew the sea of 
 trials which lie between him and that Golden 
 City, could he bear it ? Thank God, we do 
 not know." 
 
 I sat and listened, and thought and felt fit 
 for crying, when she broke off. 
 
 " Why, how dismal we are growing ! It is 
 work and not trials we have to think of. And 
 now I want to ask your advice, Marjory, about 
 a bit of work I have set my heart on." 
 
 " My advice !" 
 
 " Yes, yours, — for you are the one who has 
 experience in the matter. It is about the 
 girls in Plymouth Square. What you said 
 of them has set me thinking very deeply, and 
 so sadly ! I think it is so very, very sad for 
 these young creatures — almost all handsome — 
 trying to live their life without God ; for- 
 getting to seek him in prayer. Oh ! Marjory, 
 how can they live without prayer .-'" 
 
 " They do ; and they seem happy." 
 
 " But their souls must be dying ; — yes, 
 dyings for want of food. Their poor starving
 
 A Project. 123 
 
 souls ! Oh, Marjory ! I dream of them ; I 
 dream they are lost, and crying out and 
 accusing me. I dare not hear of women — 
 young women, sisters of mine through our 
 dear Lord and Elder Brother — forgetting 
 Him, and going astray from Him, and not 
 try to bring them back. I think He would 
 forsake me if I do. But, then, how can I help 
 them ?" 
 
 I had not a word to say. 
 
 " One is so helpless," she murmured, sadly. 
 Then, after a while, she began again : 
 
 " I have a little plan." 
 
 And she told me her plan. I thought it 
 might be very good. If such a woman as she 
 would come among us to carry it out, I am 
 sure it would be good. Many of the girls 
 have that in them (I think) which such a soul 
 as hers, strong, yet very loving, could bring 
 out, and then it might help to turn all their 
 lives into a new and better course ; without 
 her, I am sure the plan would fail. I told 
 her so.
 
 124 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " Then it is too weak," she said. " I am 
 nothing. I dare not let it rest on me as 
 mer 
 
 " It is you, as you, that would do the work, 
 if anything could," I said. " They have never, 
 most of them, never once, met a true lady 
 who cared for them, or tried to do them good, 
 and raise them, for the love of Christ. The 
 thought is new to them all. I think they will 
 not understand you at first. But it would be 
 a chance for them, only to see you." 
 
 She did not understand me. How could 
 she 1 She does not know how good and sweet 
 and noble she is ; if she knew it, she would 
 lose half her beauty. She cannot know how 
 one's heart warms to her, and clings to her. 
 
 " Well," she said at last, " you think I may 
 try my plan ?" 
 
 " I wish you would," I said. 
 
 " Do you think there are many who would 
 join us .?" 
 
 " I cannot tell. I do not know them. They 
 seem so vain and foolish to mc. But they
 
 A Project. 125 
 
 have souls, and some one must be able to 
 touch them." 
 
 " Yes, they have souls," she said, and then 
 she lost herself in thought. 
 
 I am to see her at Southwell once more 
 before she begins to try her new plan.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ON A PRECIPICE. 
 •* Charity . . • thinketh no evil." 
 
 Aug. 17. — What grieves me most now is 
 the change which has come over my httle 
 Mary. I saw it at once when I returned from 
 Ventnor. Something was wrong. I had 
 often thought of her during those happy four 
 days, and had spoken of her much to Mrs. 
 Lingard, who already takes a deep interest 
 in the Httle pretty, childish, thoughtless thing. 
 As I came up to Plymouth Square, I felt 
 quite a longing to see her and kiss her. It 
 was evening. I had written to say I was 
 coming, and I fancied she would be there to 
 meet me. But she was out with her sister, 
 Mrs. Day said, and my second coming was as 
 cheerless as the first. I sat down and wrote 
 a long letter to mother, and then it was bed-
 
 On a Precipice. iay 
 
 time. I woke up from my first sleep when 
 the two Carters came in, rather late ; but 
 Eliza's " good-night " was quite as warm as 
 Mary's, though when I said : " Won't you 
 kiss me ?" she came and gave me a kiss. 
 Both were dressed in silks and opera-cloaks. 
 I asked where they had been. Eliza answered, 
 quite pleased, " To the play ; in a box on the 
 first tier." Mary said nothing. I was so 
 hurt and surprised at her coolness that I 
 asked no more. When I awoke in the morn- 
 ing, she was already gone. I dressed in 
 haste, finding myself late, and all the while I 
 scolded myself for my fancies, and said my 
 little Mary was tired, or I had been half 
 asleep, and I would meet her as usual this 
 morning, and forget my silly notion. But 
 when we met, it was clearly no notion of 
 mine. She would hardly speak to me. I 
 cannot say how grieved I felt. As soon as 
 the shop closed, I tried to speak to her ; but 
 she had gone home with another girl, who 
 (like Jane Taylor) lived with her family ; and
 
 1 28 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 there she spent the night. It was two days 
 before I could speak with her alone. Then 
 I stopped her (I had met her on the stairs 
 leading up to the show rooms), and put my 
 arms round her, and said : — 
 
 "Who has been speaking against me to 
 you, Mary ?" 
 
 " No one," she said colouring. 
 
 "But, Mary love, something is wrong. 
 
 What is it ? If I have done anything which 
 
 you think unkind, or if any one has told you 
 
 I have done such a thing, let me know it, that 
 
 1 may explain." 
 
 " Oh ! it is nothing of the sort " 
 
 " Mary, I don't want to lose my dear little 
 friend for nothing." 
 
 " Marjory, why will you fidget so .?" she 
 cried, twisting herself away from me. " There's 
 nothing the matter. If you only wouldn't 
 fancy things !" 
 
 " It is not fancy." 
 
 " Then I say it is, so there is nothing more 
 to be said."
 
 Oil a Precipice. 129 
 
 She was away in a moment. But on the 
 night of the day after this, when I was in bed 
 and all was dark, I felt two arms creeping 
 round my neck and Mary's cheek laid against 
 mine, and she whispered — 
 
 " Let me come in, Marjory.** 
 
 I took her into the narrow bed, hardly big 
 enough to let two of us lie there. But we 
 managed it. She cuddled up to me, and I 
 put my arms round her, and so she went to 
 sleep at last, crying. Once she put up her 
 face and kissed me, and said — 
 
 " Never mind my ways, Marjory ; I do love 
 you." 
 
 Yet the next day, she was odd and con- 
 strained still, though not so cold as at first. 
 Even Eliza saw it, and blamed her. I think 
 she spoke to her about it when I was not 
 there also, for I saw Mary trying hard to be 
 to me as she had been before. She could not 
 succeed. Something is amiss with my little 
 girl, and she will not tell me what it is. I 
 sometimes think Eliza is in fault, somehow ;
 
 130 
 
 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 and yet I see no reason for thinking so. The 
 sisters go out together a good deal more than 
 they used, and seem better friends. This 
 must be good, at any rate. 
 
 I wish Mary had not come here : the place 
 is not fit for such a girl as she.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PLANS MATURED. 
 
 " Tis clear if we refuse 
 The means so limited, the tools so rude. 
 To execute our purpose, life will fleet. 
 And we shall fade, and leave our task undone." 
 
 Browning, Paracelsus. 
 
 August 30. — I have taken back the books, 
 and spent another happy Sunday at Mr. 
 Lingard'a It was much like the first, except 
 that now there was no shyness to damp my 
 pleasure, only a great desire to see all their 
 dear faces again. The service was as beautiful 
 as before, and the sermon went right home to 
 my heart. I could not but feel a thrill of 
 pleasure and gratitude when I saw my kind 
 friend Mr. Brandon coming in, in his white 
 surplice, and taking his place in the choir ; 
 and then his fine voice rose up and led all the
 
 132 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 other voices, I feel he is a real friend ; he is 
 such a true gentleman, or at least he showed 
 himself so to me ; so much more really a 
 gentleman than that silly young baronet, who 
 would, I suppose, look down contemptuously 
 on this schoolmaster. 
 
 I had told Mrs. Lingard of my little adven- 
 ture, of course, and so when we left the church 
 she said, "You will like to speak to Mr. 
 Brandon," and stopped talking to her poor 
 people till he came out. He walked with us 
 a little way, and Mr. Lingard asked him to 
 come to tea again. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard was not very well that day, 
 and so she gave up her afternoon-class to a 
 friend, and stayed at home and talked with 
 me. She read the poem for the day in the 
 " Christian Year " to me, and talked about it, 
 and made it far clearer than it would have been 
 without her. I think some of those poems 
 are very hard to understand, and told her so. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " because the thoughts are 
 deep ; but one does not grudge the trouble of
 
 Plans Matured, 133 
 
 digging for gold ; and why should we grudge 
 the trouble of digging for precious thoughts ?" 
 
 Then she asked me how I was getting on 
 with my companions, and I told her about 
 Mary. 
 
 She looked very grave. 
 
 " You don't think it is temper, do you, 
 Marjory ?" 
 
 " I don't know what to think. She is 
 usually such a sweet-tempered little thing." 
 
 " You must take care of that child. She 
 might get into trouble before she knew it." 
 
 " There is her sister, you see." 
 
 " I know the difficulties, dear ; but it always 
 seems to me that if there is clearly a work to 
 be done, and one sees oneself to be the only 
 person who perceives the need, that is God's 
 way of pointing out that it is we who have to 
 do the task. And what God says we must 
 do, we always can do, I think." 
 
 " I try, and will try ; but I know so little. 
 I think your plan would help her more." 
 
 " Yes, I have been thinking long enough 
 
 K
 
 i 34 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 - ■ -^1 I ■ -i - — ■■ -^ ■ ■■< 
 
 about my little plan, and now I must begin 
 to put it in practice. It seems to me that I 
 must first see Mr. Prim, and lay the matter 
 before him," 
 
 " He is a very kind, sensible gentleman." 
 
 " I do not suppose he is awake to the evils 
 which may and do arise in such a nest of 
 women as yours." 
 
 " I do not think he is ; and if he was, what 
 could he do "i We are well sheltered and fed, 
 and there is even a case of books for our 
 use." 
 
 " As you say, what could he do } Who can 
 check or understand the evil that breeds 
 among a number of women living together 
 without control, especially when their very 
 position tends to foster their vanity ?" 
 
 " That is so, certainly. Our dress and ap- 
 pearance are bound to take up a great deal of 
 our time and thoughts. It is part of our work 
 to look as well as we can." 
 
 " Oh ! Marjory, I feel very timid about this 
 little scheme of mine. Can it ever do any
 
 Plans Matured, 135 
 
 good, think you, or is it mere folly to at- 
 tempt it ?" 
 
 " For the scheme I do not know, ma'am ; 
 but I am sure that seeing you, and knowing 
 you take an interest in them, will help them 
 if anything can." 
 
 " Ah, you think so because we are friends ; 
 I have grave doubts. But, there — I believe all 
 this is want of faith. It is not my own little 
 scheme I must trust in, but the belief that I 
 am called to try to help these poor girls to 
 higher and better aims, I will do my best. 
 What says Browning ? — 
 
 " ' 'Tis clear if we refuse 
 The means so limited, the tools so rude 
 To execute our purpose, life will fleet. 
 And we shall fade, and leave our task undone* 
 
 I will use my rude tools, and do the best I 
 can. I am sure of this, that any real change 
 must begin in the heart and mind, and that 
 outward changes without that are of very 
 little use. Well, when shall I come and see 
 Mr. Prim T
 
 136 Only a Girls Life, 
 
 ** He is almost always about the place from 
 ten to four." 
 
 " Do you think Tuesday morning may suit 
 him ? " 
 
 *' I should think so, ma'am.** 
 
 " Marjory, you must not call me ma'am ; 
 you have done so twice in this conversa- 
 tion." 
 
 " Is it not a fit mark of respect from me to 
 you ? " — ma'am, I was going to say again, 
 but checked myself. 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 "But a girl in my position cannot ven- 
 ture " 
 
 '* All depends on the girl, Marjory. There 
 may be some of you in whose mouths ma'am 
 would not sound unfitting. But you, with the 
 pleasant independence of your north country, 
 softened by constant intercourse with such 
 people as the Watkinses, need not speak as 
 if you belonged to any class in particular. I 
 want you to be my friend, not my protegee." 
 
 ** What am I to say, then — Mrs. Lingard ? "
 
 Plans Matured, 137 
 
 "That is worse, if possible, because false 
 gentility uses that mode of constantly repeat- 
 ing surnames and titles." 
 
 She laughed as she spoke. 
 
 ** Then how a^n I to show how much I feel 
 the difference between you and me ? " 
 
 " Your tone and way of speaking must show 
 all you want to show. Now my lesson of 
 manners is over : I deserve a penny for it. 
 And here comes Mr. Brandon." 
 
 Then we chatted till tea, and after tea we 
 again had music, as before. It was such a 
 treat to listen to those fine notes. " Why do 
 the nations rage," from The Messiah, was 
 chosen this time. Then we all went to 
 church, and Mr. Brandon took his place 
 beside me as we walked. I could not forget 
 the last time I had walked beside him. At 
 length he began to speak of it himself. 
 
 " I hope you have not been annoyed again 
 by " 
 
 I hastily assured him that I had not 
 " How glad I am you were coming by," I said.
 
 138 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 "Yes, I was indeed fortunate," he answered 
 kindly, and went on talking of other things. 
 There is something so easy and kind in Mr. 
 Brandon, as if he had known me all his life, 
 and yet he is quite respectful. I never felt 
 at ease with anyone so quickly. If Jack were 
 grown up I think I should lean on his friend- 
 ship as I could on Mr. Brandon's. I hope 
 Jack may ever be as clever. 
 
 After church Mr. Lingard and Mr. Brandon 
 kept us waiting a little. They were talking 
 alone in the vestry ; at last they came out, 
 and Mr. Lingard said to his wife — 
 
 "Brandon will come home with us to 
 supper." 
 
 " We shall be very glad to see him," she 
 answered pleasantly, but this time I could not 
 give her up for any other companion. She 
 gave me such a sweet kiss as we came down 
 together from the room where I had put on 
 my bonnet to go away. 
 
 " I shall soon see you again, dear ; pray 
 to God for a little success for me," she said.
 
 Plans Matured, 139 
 
 When I came into the dining-room Mr. 
 Brandon got up and took his hat. 
 
 "Let me see you to the omnibus," he 
 said. 
 
 I could not bear to think of troubling him. 
 I declined ; but he would go. We had a 
 long way to walk before an omnibus came, 
 and then, quite to my distress, he got in 
 too. 
 
 " Oh no ! " I cried ; " I cannot give you so 
 much trouble." 
 
 " It is no trouble, believe me," he answered, 
 so decidedly that I was obliged to believe 
 him. It was a fine moonlight night, and 
 at the Circus he proposed to walk to Ply- 
 mouth Square, if I did not mind. Of course 
 I did not mind, except for his trouble, and 
 that he declared to be nothing. We had such 
 a nice talk. What a pleasure to have a friend 
 who knows so much and is so good ! We 
 spoke of churches, and he told me a great 
 deal about the Church of England which I 
 had never heard before, though Mr. Watkins
 
 1 40 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 used to teach us well about it. He told me 
 of the noted preachers of the day ; how some 
 preach of what they know ; some of what 
 they think ; some of what they love. 
 
 " Of which sort is the Vicar of St. 
 Anthony's.?" I asked. 
 
 "Can't you guess," he answered, smiling, 
 " by my going there whenever I can 1 I wish 
 you would go and see for yourself. Let me 
 take you to St. Anthony's some day." 
 
 "Oh, you need not do that. I can go 
 alone." 
 
 " Then you won't let me take you } " 
 
 "Thank you so much. But why should 
 you.?" 
 
 " Because I should like it," he answered, 
 smiling. 
 
 "I don't know; — I think — what would 
 Mrs. Lingard say ? " 
 
 " Will you ask her .? " he answered eagerly. 
 " And if she says Go, may I take you on 
 Sunday week — a fortnight to-day? Next 
 Sunday I cannot."
 
 Plans Matured. 141 
 
 " You are so kind," I said. " I will ask 
 Mrs. Lingard." 
 
 I wonder why I feel so shy about it. To 
 go to church once with a man who is so good 
 and has been so kind to me, and whom I feel 
 I can trust perfectly, does not seem an 
 alarming thing. Still, I tnust ask Mr& 
 Lingard. She will know what is right
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A woman's loving-kindness. 
 
 " Love begets love." 
 
 Sept. 20. — Almost a month has passed 
 since I wrote. There are signs on the London 
 trees that summer is passing away, and I have 
 a good deal to say to my journal. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard came on the Tuesday and 
 saw Mr. Prim, who agreed to her plan. She 
 then came up into the show-room, and went 
 straight to Miss Lindsay, the forewoman. 
 She did not notice me, though I was near 
 enough to hear her say — 
 
 " I am anxious to have the pleasure of 
 spending an hour with any of these young 
 ladies who care to be at home to meet me 
 in Plymouth Square next Tuesday evening. 
 Mr. Prim fully consents. I wish to say a few
 
 A Womaiis Loving-kindness. 143 
 
 words about a society for young women which 
 I desire to form." 
 
 She added some few kind words, and soon 
 won over Miss Lindsay, who indeed was 
 much more civil than I expected, for she 
 always seems to me exceedingly cold and 
 formidable. 
 
 With Miss Lindsay's consent, which she 
 carefully asked, dear Mrs. Lingard went round 
 to the girls and spoke a few kind words to 
 each, asking if she could be at home on Tues- 
 day evening. Most of them said Yes, and all 
 spoke respectfully, for, although Mrs. Lingard 
 afterwards told me she had felt very nervous, 
 her dignity was more marked than usual. 
 She came up to me last of all, and though she 
 only took my hand and said, " It is all right, 
 Marjory ; do what you can for me ; I shall 
 be there next Tuesday at eight," yet she 
 smiled and pressed my hand in a way that did 
 my heart good. Then she went into Jane 
 Taylor's room. Jane knew all about it, and 
 thanked her sincerely for coming. She spoke
 
 144 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 to the girls under Jane, and then left the 
 shop. 
 
 I did not write to her about Mr. Brandon's 
 question, because I thought it would be time 
 enough to ask it when she came. 
 
 On the Tuesday evening, there were perhaps 
 twenty out of the thirty ready to receive her. 
 Eliza Carter would not stay at home, and 
 tried to persuade Mary to go out too ; but 
 Mary was her dear old self again, and said she 
 would stay with Marjory. In truth, I was 
 not sorry Eliza was out this first time of 
 Mrs. Lingard's coming, for she might have 
 spoiled all by saying or doing some rude 
 thing. 
 
 Our tea was hardly over when the knock 
 came at the door. The dear lady came in so 
 bright and cheerful and sweet ; it was like a 
 draught of fresh air, or a lily in full bloom, to 
 see her. Some of those who had stayed to 
 meet her, were inclined to mock ; others were 
 shy ; but her kind way conquered every- 
 one
 
 A Woman s Loving-kindness. 145 
 
 ** Don't let me disturb you at your tea. 
 Have you really finished ? Perhaps I may 
 have just one cup. Thank you." 
 
 She spoke so sweetly to the untidy Mrs. 
 Day, that that person was won over at once. 
 "A real lady," she said afterwards. Then 
 it was : — 
 
 " Marjory, dear, tell me who my new friends 
 are. This is Mary Carter } Oh ! I know her 
 so well by name. And Miss Taylor I know 
 already. How is your dear aunt, of whom 
 Marjory has told me .''" And then a word or 
 smile to each, and all their hearts were hers 
 before the table was cleared and she drew 
 out of her leather bag her cards and little 
 books. 
 
 Girls are easy to win and hard to keep, I 
 think ; I only trust this good woman may 
 keep firm and steady all the hearts she has 
 won to herself here. 
 
 When we were seated, ready to hear her, 
 she began by saying that she had often 
 thought about us all, and felt as if she already
 
 146 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 knew us. That although we were so comfor- 
 tably housed, and our employers so kind, and 
 we ourselves all quite rich in comparison 
 with many others, yet she felt it a sad thing 
 for us. She did not wish by any means to 
 make us discontented with our lot ; she had 
 quite another aim ; but while almost all girls 
 at our age were under the care of parents, or 
 those who stood in the rilace of parents, here 
 were we, parted from all who had a right to 
 direct our conduct, chosen actually with re- 
 ference to our personal appearance, which 
 alone, if at all attractive, is the cause of sore 
 temptations, and she could not but feel this 
 to be very sad — very lonely. If some of us did 
 not feel it so, it was perhaps all the sadder for 
 them. She thought that we must often think 
 of our mothers with deep regret, and long for 
 a word of love or counsel from them, or at 
 least for such a word from a friend who 
 could feel for us just a Little as a mother 
 feels. 
 
 She said much more in this kind way, and
 
 A Woman's Loving-kindness, 147 
 
 I saw that some of the girls were touched. 
 To my surprise, there were tears in the eyes 
 of Miss Lindsay, who seemed before so hard 
 and cold. Knowing, as I did, all that my 
 friend was going to say, I could not help 
 watching its effect on the rest. 
 
 Then she said that she wished to be to each 
 of us such a friend as she described, and, 
 looking at her dear face lighted up by loving- 
 kindness, no one could doubt her. She was 
 ready to listen to any of our trials and 
 troubles, if we would honour her by telling 
 them, she said : and if ever we felt the need 
 of a friend's advice, we had but to write or go 
 to her ; her time should be ours ; we need 
 never fear to break in on her other duties ; 
 she would make time for us, I saw two 
 or three of them looking up with glad sur- 
 prise as she said this earnestly. 
 
 Now she took up her cards, and said that 
 we must remember no two human beings 
 could be friends for life in a deep, real sense, 
 unless each loved Jesus better than any
 
 »48 07ily a Girl's Life. 
 
 earthly friend ; that, without this love to Him, 
 angers and jealousies and coldness would 
 come between us and our human friends. 
 And, therefore, to base our new friendship 
 with her on the sure Foundation, she would 
 ask all those among us who felt willing to 
 take her offered affection, to join her in a 
 simple Society for Christian Women, which 
 she had called "S. Margaret's Society." Then, 
 passing the cards round among us, she pointed 
 out that each member would have two ; that 
 on the larger were written simple, hearty 
 prayers for morning and night, asking God 
 for strength to go through the day in His 
 fear, doing our work honestly and well, bear- 
 ing ourselves modestly towards the world, 
 and kindly and lovingly towards our friends ; 
 and then at night we were bidden first to 
 think over the past day, and recall what we 
 had done that was wrong, and then to ask 
 God to forgive us, and purify us from the 
 stain of our faults, and to keep us and those 
 we loved safe in His holy care. These prayers,
 
 A Wo77ian*s Loving- kindjiess. 149 
 
 she said, we must add to any we were accus- 
 tomed to offer up. Then we were to promise 
 to read some verses at least of the Bible before 
 sleeping — one or two verses — however tired 
 we were, and to promise also to attend church 
 once at least on every Sunday. Those who 
 were confirmed were not to forget the duty 
 of communicating. She talked to us about 
 these simple rules ; she showed us how, 
 simple as they were, if we carried them out 
 with all our hearts, strengthened by the 
 thought that each of us was but one of many — 
 that we belonged, first, to the great Society, the 
 Church, and, next, to the small Society of S. 
 Margaret — they would help to bring us 
 nearer to God, and might purify our souls 
 and all our life and work. She explained 
 that it was called S. Margaret's, first, because 
 her husband's church, which she loved so, was 
 dedicated to that saint, and secondly, because 
 of the story of S. Margaret herself. She 
 told it to us ; explained that it was an 
 allegory, and that Margaret's victory over the
 
 150 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 Dragon showed the power of Purity over Sin 
 — that very power which she desired for us. 
 Then she asked us to pray, first using some 
 prayers from the Prayer-book, and then one 
 from her own heart, asking God's blessing on 
 us and on her work, and that He would please 
 to bind us all together in the ties of Christian 
 fellowship. 
 
 When she rose, she asked if any there felt 
 wishful to join her Society. Six of us came 
 forward at once, among whom, of course, were 
 Jane and I, and Miss Lindsay was with us. 
 Eight more (among whom was Mary) came 
 timidly, as if they hardly knew whether to say 
 "Yes," or "No." Mrs. Lingard left cards with 
 us all, both the six and the eight, asking us to 
 think and pray upon the matter, and that she 
 would be with us again on the following 
 Tuesday, to hear who had really decided for 
 it She would not persuade one of us, she 
 said ; the thing must be according to our own 
 free will and wish. She spoke kindly to those 
 who stood aloof. Then, taking up the rest of
 
 A Woman s Loving-kindness. 151 
 
 the cards and the books of S. John's Gospel, 
 which she meant to give to each one who 
 joined, she told me to keep them till she 
 came again. She then looked at our book- 
 case, and seeing that most of the books were 
 stupid enough, she promised to bring some 
 every month and leave them for us to read. 
 That was indeed a treat in store. Then, 
 shaking hands with us all, she went away. It 
 was to me as if the night had been beautiful 
 before, and then the moon had set 
 
 When she was gone, those who had stood 
 apart began to laugh and sneer, but Miss 
 Lindsay (who has much power with us) would 
 not bear it, and sternly begged all to re- 
 member that Mrs. Lingard had come to do us 
 a great kindness, and that any one must be an 
 ungrateful fool, who mocked at such an offer, 
 whether they accepted it or no. 
 
 Just as she was leaving I found a moment 
 to ask her about S. Anthony's. She smiled 
 and said : " Dear child, you may trust your- 
 self in this. If you can go with pleasure with
 
 15a Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 Mr. Brandon, go ; he is one whose companion- 
 ship can never hurt you." 
 
 I felt so glad ! So she promised to tell him 
 I would go. 
 
 On the Sunday he came for me. I was 
 all ready and we went at once. How pleasant 
 it was! how restful it is to think of! that 
 quiet walk with some one who had so many 
 interesting things to talk about, and then the 
 solemn service in the fine church, where the 
 light came rich and dim through coloured 
 windows and the music seemed to lift up one's 
 thoughts. I could not refuse when he asked 
 leave to take me there again some day. Such 
 talk as we had together makes one feel better 
 all the week. 
 
 On the Tuesday Mrs. Lingard came again. 
 Several of the girls had asked me quietly 
 many questions about the Society ; did I think 
 they ought to give up going- out to amuse- 
 ments if they joined it } I told them (and 
 Mrs. Lingard said I was right) that I was sure 
 it would not prevent any innocent amuse-
 
 A Woman s Loving-kindness. 153 
 
 ments in proper company, but that I thought 
 it would be wrong, having joined it, to go to 
 such places or with such people as would pre- 
 vent our being what is called in the prayers 
 " quiet and modest in our behaviour.'' Some 
 drew back at this ; three in all of the eight who 
 had wavered, now distinctly said they would 
 join. Mary was among them, but I had to 
 persuade her, much to my surprise ; I 
 thought she would have been eager for it. I 
 showed her that she could not wish for such 
 pleasures as alone she would have to give up ; 
 that there is no real pleasure in things that are 
 wrong. At last she said she would join, after 
 we had prayed together quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard did not speak to us all 
 together this time, but saw us separately, and 
 spoke to each of us as a dear friend and 
 mother might. Of course I do not know 
 what she said to the rest, except that she 
 asked all if they had been confirmed, and, if 
 so, whether they were communicants. Mary 
 came out, looking very solemn. We signed
 
 154 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 our names in a book, paid a little subscription 
 which will go towards some of the expenses, 
 and received our cards to hang over our beds. 
 I have forgotten to say that the second card 
 is a sort of almanack, to serve for three 
 months, on which we are to mark daily, if we 
 have done, as we ought to do, our simple 
 duties of the Society. The marking of this 
 card is left to our honour, and is to remind us 
 if we have failed ; a short prayer that we may 
 mark it justly, is to be said in the heart, as we 
 write upon it, Mrs. Lingard will come on a 
 Tuesday evening once every month, change 
 our books, speak to us of that portion of 
 Scripture which we have read for the Society, 
 and be just our kind and loving friend, whose 
 very presence will give us pleasure. As each 
 of us left her, she kissed us. It was as if she 
 felt us now to be bound up with her. She 
 has told me since, that when she kissed Miss 
 Lindsay, that silent, stern woman broke out 
 into crying and said, " No one has ever kissed 
 me since my mother died." Miss Lindsay is very
 
 A Woman's Loving- kindness. 155 
 
 jT- —.... — .■■II . - . I ■ II ^.i I .. ■ — 
 
 kind to me now in her own way ; not that she 
 ceases to speak sharply to me in the show- 
 room, but that there is something friendly in 
 her eyes when I meet her, and I think she is 
 very sincere. It will make her so much 
 happier if she can care for any of us, or 
 feel that we care for her. S. Margaret's will 
 be a boon indeed to her, if it leads to that
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AFTER CHURCH. 
 
 *' Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 As Love's young dream." 
 
 Nov. 4. — Six weeks, and I have not written 
 a line ! Well, little book, you must bear it ; 
 I have something better to do with my spare 
 time than to attend to you. You are like 
 those friends whom we seek when we want 
 consolation, and whom we neglect when we 
 are happy. 
 
 Let me see ; what have I to say } I will 
 first set down all the lesser things. 
 
 I was surprised one day to find that Eliza 
 Carter knew that Sir John Lengrave is in 
 Scotland, or has been there, and is now in 
 Devonshire. How could she know } She let 
 it out one day, and then when I said : " How
 
 After Church. 157 
 
 can you know?" she giggled, and made a 
 mystery of it I suppose it is her nonsense, 
 and she has seen his movements in one of 
 the fashionable papers which she reads. 
 Somehow it made me uneasy that Mary's 
 sister should know anything of the man, but 
 this is my folly. I really think I am over 
 prudish. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard has been again, and spent an 
 evening with us. It was very pleasant. She 
 brought us some new books of different kinds ; 
 there were biographies, a " Simple History of 
 the Church," by Churton, and several stories — 
 " Emma," ** My Experience of Life," " Rivers- 
 ton," and others. It is such a pleasure to 
 have them, and some of us S. Margaret's 
 girls stay at home more often of an evening 
 to read aloud and sew. I see that the Society 
 is already having a good effect ; two or three 
 of us are quieter in manner, and the constant 
 habit of prayer must be a great blessing. 
 Eliza Carter has not joined, but she does not 
 teaze us so much about our prayers as I
 
 158 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 should have feared. She is very civil to 
 me. 
 
 I have written of S. Margaret's, even, as a 
 lesser thing. How shameful to be so taken 
 up with one's own joys ! My little story will 
 be short in the telling, and ought to be simple 
 and easy. 
 
 It was the third Sunday on which Mr. 
 Brandon took me to S. Anthony'% when 
 they sang my favourite hymn : 
 
 •• I heard the voice of Jesus." 
 
 It rang in my ears as we left the church, 
 and in his, too, for as we went along he 
 hummed it : 
 
 " I came to Jesus, and I found 
 In Him my Star, my Sun, 
 And in that Light of life I'll walk 
 Till travelling days are done." 
 
 "Dear me! if I knew any manners, I 
 should think I was behaving very badly," he 
 said, laughing ; " but that is such a fine 
 hymn. I was thinking about the hymn."
 
 After Church. 159 
 
 ** I wonder how long the ' travelling days * 
 will last," I said, more to myself than to him. 
 I was wondering whether, when Jack had been 
 two or three years at Rossall, I could go home 
 again, or if I ought to work on still for him 
 and the dear old folks. Beautiful music 
 always makes me think of home. " I wonder 
 how long the * travelling days ' will last," I 
 said. 
 
 " A long, long time, I hope," he answered, 
 " and a very happy one. My most earnest 
 desire is, that we may spend them to- 
 gether." 
 
 I did not understand him at all. I vaguely 
 wondered what he might mean, when he 
 went on : — 
 
 " Do you think I may ever have my 
 desire T- 
 
 Something in his voice made me_/^<?/what 
 he meant. 
 
 "I — I don't know. I don't understand." 
 I think I stammered words like these. 
 
 Then he said plainly :-—
 
 i6o Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " I love you : I love you dearly : I could 
 wish to prove it by my life." 
 
 I remember those words well, I think none 
 were ever so dear. Were there ever any such 
 in the love stories, so simple, and kind, and 
 true .? Although we were only walking along a 
 London street, with a chill yellow fog coming 
 down, I was happier than if I had been a 
 fairy in the bosom of a rose. How kind he 
 was, and gentle, and tender over me, and 
 when I looked up, startled and pale and then 
 suddenly red, how he chid himself for 
 having taken me by surprise. I don't know 
 what I said at all. I don't think I said many 
 words. I think he asked me by-and-by 
 if I could love him, and I believe I 
 said : — 
 
 " I suppose I do." 
 
 At any rate, he jokes me now, declaring I 
 said so ; and it does not much matter what I 
 said, for the end was, that when he left me 
 I felt I had found my one true friend and lover 
 for life.
 
 After Church, i6i 
 
 I am to spend every Sunday with Mrs. 
 Lingard now, and have been already twice. 
 How can I thank her and Mr. Lingard for 
 their goodness ? I can only give them love 
 and gratitude. It seems so wonderful that 
 they will insist on my going there each week 
 to disturb their day of rest ; but it must be 
 rest to them to do a kindness. There is no 
 need to say how happy those days are ; I 
 could not tell you, my journal, if I would — 
 and there is no need, for I shall never forget 
 them. 
 
 Oh ! God is good to me. Life seems open- 
 ing sweetly and brightly, and there is much 
 hope. Motiier has written by Jack a beautiful 
 letter, and so have dear Mrs. Watkins, and 
 Miss Ellen ; and John — that is, Mr. Brandon 
 — has promised to take me home in the 
 summer. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lingard have been asking us 
 what we mean to do. I thought it was enough 
 done as it was, at least for a long, long time, 
 and I said I must go on earning money for
 
 l62 
 
 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 Jack. They said, of course it was full early 
 to speak of such things yet, but that they 
 would not advise waiting over long : the shop 
 was not a very good place for me, they said, 
 and Jack need not suffer, for he could come to 
 Battersea, where John had been, and that 
 would be little cost, and if he was really 
 clever he might soon get on. Mr. Brandon 
 thinks with them. Well, we shall see. All 
 is so happy now, I should like the world to 
 stop a little.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 LOST AND WON. 
 
 •* Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the 
 fowler ; the snare is broken, and we are delivered." 
 
 13, Lansdowne Place, Brompton. 
 March 15, 1869. — The sight of these pages 
 comes upon me with a Httle shock, Hke a 
 meeting with a friend whom one had been 
 used to see very often before a great change 
 came, and whom we had for the time almost 
 forgotten through our grief or trouble. These 
 close-written pages were filled at a time when 
 I felt very differently. I had hope then and 
 light-hearted ness. As I look at my last entry, 
 I see so well the place where I wrote it — the 
 bare parlour in Plymouth Square ; the table 
 covered with ugly oil-cloth ; the old carpet ; 
 the wire blinds, I am far more comfortably
 
 164 Only a Girls Life. 
 
 housed now : tiny as this room is, it is pretty 
 and homehke ; Mr. Lingard's presents of 
 ornaments and bookshelves, and the flowers 
 which my companions keep fresh for me, 
 make it a very different sort of home from 
 that in Plymouth Square. But there, as I 
 said, I had hope to brighten everything. 
 
 I have no work to do to-day, and I am 
 tired of reading, so till the other two return I 
 will write a little. It may interest my mother, 
 or even dear Jack some day, to read of that 
 which befel me. 
 
 The last words of my last entrj- expressed 
 a wish that the world would stand still with 
 me awhile. I was so happy then. It did not 
 stand still long. For a month more all went 
 on peaceably : there were the happy Sundays 
 at Mrs. Lingard's, and I was feeling very much 
 better in health ; and at home there were her 
 nice books to read. Mrs. Lingard came every 
 fortnight about the Society ; it worked well ; 
 more girls joined ; some of those who did not 
 join laughed at us who did, and made game
 
 Lost and Won. 165 
 
 of our cards ; but on the whole they did no 
 harm. It was a great help to us that Miss 
 Lindsay was on our side. 
 
 Christmas came : I had hoped to go home 
 for a few days. Last winter, when I stood 
 looking out over the moors all covered with 
 snow, and red with the last sunset I saw upon 
 them, I promised myself in my heart to be 
 back with them before a year should have 
 passed. But John and Mrs. Lingard persuaded 
 me not to go, it was too far, too cold ; I was 
 not strong enough yet ; John should take me 
 next summer. So I did not go. I had a 
 happy Christmas with Jane Taylor instead, 
 and her aunt asked John Brandon to come 
 too. There was no evening service on Christ- 
 mas day at his church, so he was able to 
 spend the evening with us. It was such a 
 happy time ; we had all sorts of fun — roasting 
 chestnuts, making toffy (I showed them how 
 to make it, they knew nothing of the down- 
 right good old toffy before) ; telling stories ; 
 and, best of all, singing carols 
 
 M
 
 1 66 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 Jane had asked Mary Carter to spend the 
 day with her also, and Mary would have come, 
 but that, a few days before, the sisters had 
 been called home to see their father, who was 
 ill, and died soon after they had seen him. 
 Their own mother had died when they were 
 children, and their stepmother was not kind 
 to them ; she had also seemed to turn their 
 father against his girls, for they always spoke 
 of him with more fear than love ; but at the 
 last, Mary told me when she returned, he was 
 far kinder and gentler than they ever remem- 
 bered him to have been before. He blessed 
 them, and bade them be good girls. They 
 had leave to stay in Berkshire for the funeral, 
 so Mary was away at Christmas. She was 
 rather graver when she came back, but not so 
 much so as might have been, had her father 
 made himself more tenderly loved. Both the 
 girls said this made a difference. They had 
 no home now. 
 
 Mary was very good and dear at this time 
 —my own sweet little pet again ; but she had
 
 Lost and Won. 167 
 
 not been back in town a month, before I felt 
 the old change creeping on again. Creeping ? 
 nay, it came with a sudden leap. One day- 
 she had been as my beloved little sister — we 
 had talked and read together happily ; the 
 next, there was that strange freezing wall of 
 separation between us. I had told myself, 
 when that happened before, that she was not 
 a girl of steady mind ; that any little thing 
 said, or done, or repeated, took effect upon 
 her and beguiled her away from her old 
 friends. And now I fancied the grievance 
 was a little jealousy of Mr. Brandon. She had 
 said once, with a pretty pout, " Ah, you don't 
 care for Mary now ; you have some one else 
 to care for." I had tried to convince her that 
 I should love her always just the same ; but 
 she flung away, saying, " Never mind, I can 
 get some one too." I laughed at her then, but 
 afterwards, being rather reserved, I did not 
 like to pry into the cause of her coldness, 
 trusting to time and her own good sense to 
 remove it. Poor little Mary I it was more than
 
 1 68 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 a fancied jealousy that was amiss with hen 
 Oh, if I had only known it in time ! Her 
 Society card unmarked, and her pettishness, 
 when I reminded her of her prayers, ought to 
 have put me on my guard ; but I was foolish 
 and blind. 
 
 It was towards the end of January when 
 John Brandon was taking me to a splendid 
 concert at Exeter Hall. I had looked forward 
 to it for many days. We had come by 
 omnibus into the Quadrant, and were walking 
 on, when suddenly John started, stopped 
 short in the words he was saying, and looked 
 fixedly down the little street which leads off 
 corner-wise from the Quadrant. We were 
 close by a music-shop. 
 
 " Step in there," he said ; " wait a second 
 — some one I want to see," and rushed 
 away. In a few minutes he came back to 
 me. 
 
 "They were gone," he said. " I could not 
 find them," 
 
 " Who was it ?"
 
 Lost and Won. 169 
 
 " Oh ! some one I wanted to see," and that 
 was all. 
 
 We went on to the concert — the Stahat 
 Mater and "The Hymn of Praise." How 
 glorious it was ! Did ever any one equal our 
 great English tenor in the Cujus Animam, or 
 those two ladies who sang Quis est homof 
 John had translated the Latin hymn to me 
 before, and so, knowing the meaning, I was 
 ready to be touched by the music, and when 
 the voice came down with something like a 
 sob on tanto supplicio, I could have cried for 
 the Virgin mother's woe. John told me after- 
 wards that the style of the music is somewhat 
 too light and operatic for the word.s, but 1 
 cannot see it. It may be light, but it is so 
 exquisitely touching. 
 
 That which struck me most in the " Hymn 
 of Praise " — fine as it is throughout — was the 
 yearning and longing, and reaching forward 
 of the music in that tenor song, " Watchman, 
 will the night soon pass ? will the night soon 
 pass.?" It was as if a load of darkness and
 
 170 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 sorrow lay on the soul of the sinner, and there 
 were no words great enough to tell his desire 
 for the dawn. And then came in the Angel 
 voice : "The night is departing, departing." 
 
 I heard it with shut eyes, and felt as I 
 think one must sometimes feel in Heaven. I 
 did not know what the night was then ; now 
 that I know the night and am looking for the 
 dawn, I wonder if a voice will ever speak in 
 my soul like that, and say : " The night is de- 
 parting, departing." 
 
 As we were coming home, John said : — 
 " I would not spoil your evening, but I think 
 you ought to know who those people were 
 whom I thought I saw." 
 I waited for him to tell me. 
 " Mary Carter and Sir John Lengrave ?** 
 " Oh ! no, John ; no. It could not be." 
 "Perhaps not Have you any reason 
 against it ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! a hundred reasons. He is in 
 Devonshire." 
 . " Indeed ! When did you hear that ?"
 
 Lost and Won. 171 
 
 Then I remembered it was two months ago 
 that I had heard he was there. I told 
 him so. 
 
 " But she *• 
 
 "Well, where is she to-night? Perhaps 
 you know she is elsewhere, Marjory, and all 
 is right." 
 
 No ; I did not know where she was. I had 
 asked what she was going to do that evening, 
 and she had refused to tell me. 
 
 " Oh, how wicked of him ! Surely it cannot 
 be !" I was almost crying. 
 
 He tried to soothe me, saying, if it were so, 
 it was far best for Mary that we knew it. 
 
 "What shall I do?" I asked him, in 
 despair. 
 
 He advised me to ask her, as soon as I 
 could see her alone, where she had been that 
 evening. If she gave a good account of herself 
 and I could in any way discover it was true, 
 he was mistaken ; but if she hesitated, I was 
 to tax her with what he had seen, and then to 
 urge and implore her not to run into danger.
 
 17a Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 "Very likely her vanity is flattered, 
 and she is as ignorant as a child of any 
 harm." 
 
 "But, John, how shameful it seems to 
 suspect one's friend !" 
 
 "You do not suspect, Marjory; you think 
 (or I think) that you know that she is in a 
 terrible danger, and it is in love to her you 
 must try to stop her, as if you saw her walking 
 blindfold towards a precipice." 
 
 He was so good, and kind, and wise: he 
 could not bear to leave me in such trouble, he 
 said ; but I must write and tell him or Mrs. 
 Lingard all about it, and I knew well how 
 wise a friend she could and would be to Mary, 
 if there was need. 
 
 I thought and dreamed of nothing else, but 
 it was two days before I could get speech of 
 Mary ; she clearly avoided me. At last, one 
 afternoon, as we were preparing to go home, 
 I said : — 
 
 "Walk with me, Mary, dear; I v/ant to 
 speak to you."
 
 Lost and Won. 173 
 
 " I— I think I must go with Miss Walker," 
 she answered, confusedly. 
 
 " Go with me, Mary ; do !" 
 
 " No ; you don't want me; I will go with 
 Miss Walker." 
 
 " I want to speak to you." 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" 
 
 *• I want to speak to you alone.'* 
 
 " Then you must tell me to-morrow." 
 
 She was running away, when I caught her 
 and held her back. 
 
 " Mary, I am determined to speak to you, 
 and if you don't let me see you alone, I will 
 speak here before them all." 
 
 That frightened her, and she came with 
 me, but unwillingly and pouting. 
 
 " Mary," I said, as soon as we were away 
 from the rest, "where were you on Friday 
 night r 
 
 " Friday ! I don't know. What do you ask 
 for ? I can't remember everywhere I go." 
 
 " You must try to remember." 
 
 " How cross you are, Marjory ! I don't
 
 t74 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 know. Was I at tea at Miss Walker's 
 
 cousin s ? 
 
 " No, that was Thursday.** 
 " Well, then, I was at Mrs. Gates's.** 
 " No, that was Saturday ; I want Friday.' 
 " How cross you are ! I catit remember, 
 
 and I wont. I wont walk with you any 
 
 more." 
 
 Again she was slipping off, and I held her 
 
 fast. 
 
 "Mary," I began — my voice trembled, but 
 
 I tried to make it firm ; perhaps I made it too 
 
 severe ; " you were out with Sir John Len- 
 
 grave." 
 
 " How do you know ? — I mean No, I 
 
 wasn't." 
 
 " Mary, darling, don't tell lies about it. 
 
 The thing is bad enough and sad enough as 
 
 it is ; but it will be far worse and sadder, if you 
 
 try to hide it." 
 
 That was something of what I said. It 
 
 was very hard to get any answer from her, 
 
 but when at last she grew more clear and
 
 Lost and Won. 175 
 
 began to excuse herself, I was all too ready 
 to believe her excuses. 
 
 She had met him by chance, she said, and 
 certainly she told me she had never met him 
 before since Mr. Brandon had come up and 
 freed us from his impertinence. She walked 
 with him a little way, but Eliza was with her, 
 and would walk with him, and then they had 
 gone to see a person they knew, who kept a 
 shop near there, and they saw no more of 
 him. She would never see him or speak to 
 him any more, she promised me : she had 
 only hidden this because she knew I disliked 
 him, and should be cross. 
 
 Perhaps she did not say all this, but I 
 thought she did, and she listened with tears 
 in her eyes as I told her of the dangers there 
 were. All of a sudden, she said : — 
 
 ** You say he is a bad man, Marjory ; but 
 suppose he were not, and suppose he were 
 to — to like and admire one : one might be a 
 lady ; or, at least, Eliza says so." 
 
 " Oh, Mary, love !" I said ; " don't listen to
 
 176 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 Eliza if she says such things. They are not 
 true. He is not a man to sacrifice himself, 
 and men in his station cannot stoop to ours. 
 They would never dare to introduce us to 
 their mothers and sisters. That would be the 
 test." 
 
 "Would that prove it, Marjory, if they 
 did .''" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " I suppose so ; but they would never do 
 it ; their lady friends would look down upon 
 us so. Don't think of such nonsense any 
 more, Mary ; it only leads to danger." 
 
 " No, 1 wont think any more about it," she 
 answered sincerely, and so sadly that I ought 
 (if I had not been blind and foolish) to have 
 seen that there was more in the matter than 
 she said. I believe she gave her promise in 
 sincerity. 
 
 I tried to speak to Eliza about the affair, 
 but she stopped me decidedly, said it was no 
 business of mine, and she would stand no 
 interference. 
 
 Mary's manner continued to puzzle me, and
 
 Lost and Won. 177 
 
 it was a week later when I was surprised by 
 her buying two splendid new silk dresses — a 
 black and an exquisite grey. She stayed at 
 home now in the evenings to make them, and 
 worked with all her might, Miss Walkef 
 helping her. They only had the bodices to 
 make, for the skirts came ready-made with 
 rich trimming from the shop. Eliza was very 
 cross at this time, though I could not make 
 out why. The first evening when the 
 dresses appeared, she almost spoiled the 
 grey by jogging Mary's elbow, so as to 
 make her throw her cup of tea over it. 
 Miss Walker stopped it very cleverly, and 
 cried — 
 
 " Take care, Eliza ; you nearly spoiled 
 Mary's dress !" 
 
 " Only a parcel of nonsense spoiled if I 
 had," she answered, crossly. 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Eliza," said Miss Walker, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " How am I foolish .-'" she asked, tartly. 
 
 " By being so cross and jealous. You'll
 
 178 Only a GirFs Life. 
 
 reap the benefit, don't you see ? Don't be 
 like the cow that put her foot in the milk- 
 pail." 
 
 Eliza was silent, after a toss and a grumble. 
 She went out that evening with another girl ; 
 I stayed at home, writing. Only one very 
 quiet person remained at home besides ; she 
 was reading, and interfered with no one. 
 Mary and Miss Walker strewed the table 
 with silk and fringe, and stitched away as fast 
 as their fingers would go, talking to each 
 other sometimes in whispers. They did not 
 speak to me at all. At last I looked up, and 
 asked why Mary was having such handsome 
 new dresses 1 I tried to speak pleasantly, 
 though I felt puzzled and vexed at her for so 
 wasting her money, and for buying a pale 
 grey silk so soon after her father's death. 
 Mary murmured something which I could not 
 hear. Miss Walker answered, as if anxious 
 to explain — 
 
 "She is going to spend a week with her 
 aunt, in Lincolnshire ; aren't you, Mary ,? And
 
 Lost and Won. 179 
 
 her aunt is very well off, so she will want good 
 clothes." 
 
 " So soon after " 
 
 " Oh, her aunt has a fine house and three 
 maids and a man and a carriage, hasn't she, 
 Mary ? So she sees a great deal of fine com- 
 pany, carriage-people to dinner whenever she 
 likes. And when one has relations like that, 
 one is bound to dress nicely; not like those that 
 have only some common country people for 
 their relations," she said. I knew that she was 
 trying to hurt my feelings about the poverty 
 of my own dear parents ; but I should be 
 ashamed to let any word of such a person as 
 she is pain me in the least, concerning such 
 noble and dear people as they are. I was 
 uneasy about Mary ; I had never heard her 
 speak of this grand aunt. 
 
 " Is it so, Mary ?" I asked. 
 
 " Of course it is," she answered, pettishly. 
 Miss Walker for some time after that con- 
 tinued to talk to me, or at me, because I had 
 not at once believed her word ; but I took no
 
 i8o Only a Girls Life. 
 
 notice and said no more. I spoke the next 
 morning to Jane Taylor, and by her advice I 
 told all to Miss Lindsay, even to my very un- 
 easiness and vague suspicions. She went at 
 once to Mr. Prim, and asked him how Mary 
 had got leave to go away so soon again. It 
 seems, Eliza Carter had stated for her that an 
 aunt in Lincolnshire, who had married a very 
 rich man, had sent to invite Mary to stay with 
 her, and that it might be hurtful to the pros- 
 pects of both sisters if she refused. Mr. Prim 
 being a very kind person, had given her leave 
 of absence. This story being so exactly like 
 Miss Walker's, seemed probable. I thought 
 perhaps it was only a little anger or shyness 
 with me that had made Mary act so strangely. 
 I quite believed the account which was given 
 to me, and even hoped that the rich aunt 
 might perhaps keep my little Mary altogether, 
 and save her from the dangers of this great 
 city. 
 
 Two mornings later she went away. She 
 was to go by an early train, so her cab was at
 
 Lost and Won. i8i 
 
 the door while we were at breakfast. Eliza 
 was Grosser than ever — her face was quite a 
 thundercloud. Presently, when the cab had 
 waited five minutes or more, Mary came run- 
 ning in, looking very, very pretty, in a hand- 
 some travelling dress of shining black cloth, 
 with sealskin fur, and the prettiest hat with a 
 white feather. She said good-bye to Mrs. 
 Day ; she tried to say good-bye to Eliza, who 
 would not speak ; she parted from Miss Walker 
 and the rest with some merry nods. I thought 
 she would pass me by, but she pulled my 
 skirt, and so I followed her out into the pas- 
 sage. There she threw her arms round my 
 neck and kissed me on each cheek, saying — 
 
 " Remember, though I have been naughty 
 to you, I do love you, Marjory — I love you 
 very much ; and when I am rich and grand 
 you shall come and stay with me, and I will 
 give you every mortal thing you wish 
 for!" 
 
 Her childish blue eyes opened wide as she 
 made this promise, and with another squeeze, 
 
 N
 
 1 8a Only a GirVs Life, 
 
 she ran away and Jumped into the cab, where 
 her luggage, very nicely packed, was waiting 
 for her. 
 
 I was touched by her love shown at this 
 last moment : I thought her ideas of future 
 riches came from the notion of her aunt's 
 adopting her, the notion I had had ; but 
 somehow I was uneasy and worried about the 
 child, and at four o'clock Miss Lindsay said 
 tome — 
 
 "You have a bad headache, have you 
 not ?" 
 
 I said yes. She told me I might go home 
 and rest, for it was not a busy day. I 
 thanked her, and went gladly. My head was 
 very bad. I missed my little Mary. When 
 I went into our room, I found it strewed with 
 her things. The black dress she wore in the 
 shop was tossed into one corner. I picked it 
 up, shook it, and hung it on a naiL As I 
 shook it, a note fell from the pocket. I picked 
 that up too. It was in a man's hand, and I 
 think I need not be ashamed to say I looked
 
 Lost and Won. 183 
 
 at the signature. It was "John Lengrave." 
 A sort of hot glow shot through me — a glow 
 and yet a shiver. It began, " My darling 
 little angel," and went on to reproach the 
 angel for being over cautious, and begging her 
 to come to his place at Burham in Bucking- 
 hamshire, where his mother would be happy 
 to receive her. But she was to come alone. 
 Even her " charming sister " was not wanted, 
 and certainly not that meddling prude. Miss 
 Earnshaw. What a trap was here t What 
 did it mean } I could not tell. I was in a 
 fever of fear and doubt. Armed with the 
 note, I hurried back to the shop and showed 
 it to Jane Taylor. She was still more shocked 
 than I. 
 
 " Depend upon it, his mother is not there ; 
 it is some trick," she said. " No lady in that 
 rank would invite a girl of our station, and 
 certainly not through her son." 
 
 What I had said about the mothers and 
 sisters of such men as Sir John, and Mary's 
 eager question, flashed upon me.
 
 1 84 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 " But she is so innocent and ignorant," I 
 said, 
 
 " I think so," answered Jane. " It is some 
 wicked trap." 
 
 " What shall we do .?" 
 
 " I hardly know." After a moment she 
 added : " Let us tell Miss Lindsay ; she 
 knows more of the world than we do." 
 
 We went to her and called her aside, and 
 showed her the note. She was shocked. 
 
 "This is very bad," she said. 
 
 "Are you sure his mother is not there ?'^ 
 I asked, desperately. 
 
 " The most unlikely thing in the world," 
 said Miss Lindsay. 
 
 " But we are not sure." 
 
 " No, not quite ; we soon can be." 
 
 " How r 
 
 " By going to their house. I know it ; it is 
 in Portman Square.*' 
 
 " Shall we ask Eliza what she knows ?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Ahl" Miss Lindsay thought for some
 
 Lost and Won. 185 
 
 moments silently. Then she answered : " No ; 
 she will tell lies, and mislead us : she is at 
 the bottom of this." 
 
 " But she seems so angry with Mary." 
 " Because she is jealous that she is not to 
 go too. We will not ask her ; we will go at 
 once to Mr. Prim." 
 
 She went and told him we were in some 
 doubt about Mary Carter ; we feared her 
 sister was leading her into terrible danger. 
 She asked leave to go away with me, which 
 was given at once. Mr. Prim was much con- 
 cerned, and asked if he could do anything. 
 Miss Lindsay said no, she thought we could 
 do all that could be done. We then went 
 straight to the house in Portman Square. It 
 was closed ; the family were out of town ; but 
 a servant answered our ring, and said (when 
 Miss Lindsay had shown she meant to be 
 answered civilly) that Sir John's letters were 
 to be sent for the present to Burham, where 
 he had gone for the hunting, but that Lady 
 Lengrave was in Italy : she had been there
 
 i86 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 all the winter. No doubt now it was a 
 trap. Miss Lindsay walked slowly away ; I 
 beside her. 
 
 " What can we do T I cried, feeling half 
 wild with helplessness. 
 
 " Let me think," answered Miss Lindsay. 
 
 She did not speak again till we had walked 
 through two streets. My head felt whirling 
 with impatience. Then she said — 
 
 " Where does Mr. Lingard live T 
 
 I gave the address. 
 
 " You must go and fetch her back, and you 
 must have a gentleman with you. He 
 would go. I cannot be spared, or I would." 
 
 " No, no ; I will go ; I must. Yes, he will 
 go! How clever you are. I will go at once 
 and ask him." 
 
 " Not you ; you are tired already, and this 
 will be a trying journey. I will telegraph — 
 or, no, I will go. I will take a cab and bring 
 him back with me. You go home ; dress 
 warm for travelling — (very warm, mind !) and 
 tell Mrs, Day to give you some tea at once.
 
 Lost and Won. 187 
 
 Don't say no ; I will hear nothing of that 
 nonsense : you shall not go till you have 
 eaten and drunk well, and if you have not 
 done so when I bring Mr. Lingard, he shall 
 wait till you have, even if you lose the train. 
 Tell her to put you up some brandy and 
 some sandwiches, and take a warm shawl. 
 If you haven't one of your own, get some one 
 else's. Now go. Give me the address again." 
 
 I gave it her ; I felt like a toy in her hands ; 
 but it was comforting to have such a friend to 
 lean on. 
 
 " I don't like to ask Mr. Lingard/' I said ; 
 " would Mr. Brandon not be better ?" 
 
 She knew about my engagement. 
 
 " Mr. Brandon .? no ! He can't be spared, 
 and it wants a clergyman to deal with these 
 cases. You couldn't go off with Mr. Brandon, 
 either. Leave it to me, and get home as fast 
 as you can." 
 
 I obeyed her in everything. I even 
 managed to eat a little, and I drank several 
 cups of tea ; they did my head good. I
 
 i88 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 dressed very warmly, and waited what seemed 
 a bitterly long time. It was really a very 
 short time though, all things considered, be- 
 fore the cab rattled up with the two inside. 
 Mr. Lingard was coming in as I met him at 
 the door. 
 
 " Make haste, jump in !" said Miss Lindsay 
 to me ; " you may just catch a train." 
 
 She came in with us, and the cab tore off 
 to Euston Square. We did just catch the 
 train, she had timed it well. Mr. Lingard 
 and she had been talking a little on the road, 
 but I did not notice one word ; it was all like 
 a dream till we were in the railway-carriage. 
 She said — 
 
 " Have you a shawl, and the brandy and 
 sandwiches ? Right ; Good-bye !" 
 
 Mr. Lingard was very kind to me ; wrapped 
 me up in my shawl and his rug, and got a 
 warmer for my feet ; but I could hardly listen 
 to him when he spoke ; my head was throb- 
 bing again, and it was such a cold night — a 
 raw night. I had not been used to feel the
 
 Lost and Won. 189 
 
 cold at Duncliffe as I feel it now, though it 
 was much colder there than here. But it was 
 a brisk dry cold. This damp cold chills me 
 to my bones, and on that night, I felt stiff and 
 numb and dumb with cold. 
 
 It was between eight and nine o'clock when 
 we stopped at our station. We went straight 
 to an inn, where they told us that Sir John's 
 house was four miles away. They knew Lady 
 Lengrave was not there ; she was in Italy. 
 Mr. Lingard ordered a fly to be got ready as 
 quickly as possible, and made me drink a 
 little hot wine and water, which, with a bit 
 of sopped biscuit, really did me a world of 
 good. 
 
 " This trouble has quite knocked you up, 
 Marjory ; I wish you need not have come, but 
 I may need you for poor Mary. My wife 
 could not leave Lucy, who is very unwell 
 to-day." 
 
 " I hope I shall be better soon," I answered ; 
 "it is stupid to be upset hke this. I think 
 when I see Mary I shall know what to do. It
 
 190 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 is so wonderfully good of you to come with 
 me. 
 
 " Not good at all ; it is just my duty as a 
 servant of the Good Shepherd, to save a lamb 
 from the wolf if I can." And this, I know, is 
 the feeling that moves him always. 
 
 The fly was ready in a few minutes, and, I 
 suppose, reached the house in a very short 
 time, though to me it seemed an age. I felt 
 in a nervous fever. I prayed all the time ; 
 but when one is so nervous as I was, even 
 prayer does not seem to quiet one. When 
 we stopped at the door, however, a sudden 
 change came over me ; I was wonderfully calm 
 all at once. 
 
 A footman opened the door, and said, 
 rather pertly, that Sir John was engaged. He 
 knew that no clergyman would be a welcome 
 visitor there. But Mr. Lingard spoke very 
 sharply and haughtily — quite a different tone 
 from any I had heard from him before, and 
 the footman had to obey. 
 
 I now noticed, for the first time, that a
 
 Lost and Won. 191 
 
 policeman had come 021 the box from Burham 
 with us. He got down and stood quietly by 
 the door. Presently, he walked into the hall 
 and sat down. I followed Mr. Lingard. He 
 said to the man — 
 
 " I want to see Sir John at once. Show 
 this lady to a room where she can wait 
 quietly." 
 
 The servant obeyed him unquestioningly 
 now, though sulkily. Perhaps he thought he 
 should lose his place, and I dare say he did. 
 He showed me into a sort of study, and then 
 said to Mr. Lingard — 
 
 " My master has but just done dinner, sir ; 
 he is with his friends. I carit show you 
 straight in." 
 
 " Take my card in and I will follow you. 
 Tell him quietly I must see him at once. 
 If he says he cannot come out, I shall 
 go in." 
 
 They went away and left me waiting there. 
 I waited, by the clock, half an hour. It was 
 a wonder to myself how calm I remained,
 
 19* Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 quietly waiting, A few minutes after the 
 half hour, the door opened. I stood up. 
 Mr. Lingard came in, leading Mary. 
 
 She wore her beautiful grey silk. She was 
 crying, and by her face I could tell that she 
 had been crying before. She exclaimed, 
 " Oh, Marjory !" in a sort of glad, yet heart- 
 broken voice, and ran up to me and put her 
 arms round me, and slipped on to the floor 
 beside me on her knees, and cried and sobbed 
 like a child. Mr. Lingard rang the bell. The 
 same footman appeared. 
 
 "Tell one of the maids to put up this 
 young lady's things, and to be veiy careful 
 she packs them all, and to do it instantly," 
 he said. " Then let me know when it is 
 done." 
 
 " You know best how to manage her," he 
 said to me, in quite a different voice ; " I will 
 leave her to you. We have come in time ; 
 she was deceived, not persuaded." 
 
 He took a book, and went and sat at the 
 other side of the room, leaving us to our'
 
 Lost and Won. 193 
 
 selves. Mary could hardly speak. She said 
 once — 
 
 " Oh ! Marjory, it was such a wicked trick. 
 I think they only wanted me to make a fool 
 and a laughing-stock of me." 
 
 " Never mind, darling, you shall tell me 
 ifterwards," I said. 
 
 By-and-by, she became quieter, and when 
 the footman told us that her box was ready, 
 she was much more fit to go. We asked for 
 her bonnet and cloaks, which a very pert 
 maid-servant brought. She was far more 
 disagreeable than the man, but that mattered 
 little. 
 
 "You are sure you have put up all 
 Miss Carter's things," said Mr. Lingard, 
 who no doubt had good reason to doubt 
 
 it. 
 
 " Ho, yes ! there's few enough," she an- 
 swered, with a toss. He looked at her with a 
 sort of amused expression, which she did not 
 seem to like, and called her back when she 
 was going away.
 
 194 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 ** Wait, and see if you are wanted," he said. 
 Certainly, he makes people obey him. 
 
 At last, we were ready, and then once more 
 we were safely driving off. My heart was full 
 of thankfulness ; it was so much better than 
 I had hoped, to get my little girl back with 
 her own free will and desire. What I had 
 most feared was her refusing to leave. 
 
 After waiting for some time at the station, 
 we caught the last up-train. Mary seemed 
 much ashamed and very miserable, and did not 
 speak much, nor did I wish her to excite her- 
 self. As we came near London, she said — 
 
 " You will stand up for me to Eliza, wont 
 you, Marjory .?" 
 
 She was evidently afraid of the meeting. I 
 promised her I would, but said we would say 
 as little as possible to Eliza this night. Mr. 
 Lingard was asleep at the other end of the 
 carriage, but I could not sleep for the cold, 
 and my cough, which had come on again. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me all about it now, 
 Mary, dear," I said. "Then we shall know
 
 Lo$t and Wofh 195 
 
 what to do, and I can much better see how to 
 take your part," 
 
 She did not wish to hide anything, nor to 
 tell any more stories. Poor Mary ! with all 
 her faults she is no hypocrite, and the lies she 
 told me before made her very miserable. 
 
 It seems that Sir John had marked her out 
 as a pretty girl on the day when I called Mr. 
 Brandon to our help — much prettier than 
 me, and so she is, I daresay it was partly 
 through spite and partly through revenge that 
 he made a point of meeting her afterwards. 
 That was when I first saw a change in her 
 manner to me. He used to ask her and 
 Eliza to go to places of amusement, and he 
 made them both handsome presents some- 
 times. Eliza thought that he, or at any rate, 
 a friend of his whom they met with him, 
 admired herself, and they kept up the idea to 
 see more of Mary, for Eliza would not have 
 let her go alone. Then Sir John went to 
 Scotland, and that stopped it all for the time, 
 but after Christmas, he came to town for a
 
 ig6 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 few days, and again invited her to a theatre 
 and supper. When John Brandon saw them 
 in the street, Eliza and the friend were on 
 before. My words frightened Mary, for in 
 her ignorant little heart, she thought she was 
 very likely to marry Sir John. She told him 
 what I said, and he seemed confused at first, 
 but afterwards assured her he had spoken to 
 Lady Lengrave, and she would be happy to 
 receive her as a daughter. Then came the 
 letter and invitation which I had so fortu- 
 nately seen ; thank God that I found it ! 
 " When I got to Burham this morning," said 
 the little thing, half crying, half pleased yet 
 at her comedy queen's part, "there was a 
 grand carriage waiting, and the footman 
 touched his hat to me, and the porters looked 
 respectful and ran about with my box. And 
 when I came to the house. Sir John received 
 me, and said such pretty things, and introduced 
 me to some other gentlemen, and there was a 
 grand lunch. But Lady Lengrave was not 
 there. When I asked how that was. Sir Johc
 
 Lost and Won, 197 
 
 said she was not very well, and begged me to 
 excuse her till dinner-time ; but I thought I 
 saw him wink at his friends. After lunch, he 
 asked me what I should like to do, and I 
 asked for a ride in a carriage. So he had 
 out a carriage and pair this time, and the 
 gentlemen took their horses, and we had a 
 lovely drive." 
 
 " Oh, my silly Mary ! " I cried, " what 
 sort of position did you think you were in 
 among them all .''" 
 
 " Why, Marjory, of course I thought I was 
 engaged to Sir John, and I thought all his 
 fine speeches were quite right and proper." 
 
 " Mary, what a child you are ! But you 
 had been crying, I think, even before we 
 came." 
 
 " Yes, for at dinner there was no Lady 
 Lengrave again. And then I remembered 
 what you said, and I felt frightened and vexed, 
 and said I would not sit down to table unless 
 Lady Lengrave were there, I said it in my 
 little pettish way, you know, Marjory, and 
 
 o
 
 198 Only a Girls Life, 
 
 Sir John got rather cross. I heard one of the 
 gentlemen say, * It's a shame !' and another 
 said, ' Let Lengrave manage his own affairs.* 
 But when I persisted, Sir John said he would 
 go himself and ask his mother to come, 
 though she was not well ; and he went, and 
 presently came back saying she would come 
 directly, if we would begin dinner. At last a 
 person came in whom he introduced to me 
 very respectfully as his dear mother, and she 
 kissed me, and said she was glad to see me. 
 But oh, Marjory ! I saw at once she was no 
 lady ; not so much as we are ; not half so 
 much as you. I have lived among real great 
 ladies, and I know what they are, and this was 
 only a servant dressed up fine. I stood and 
 looked at her, and then I said so." 
 
 "What did you say.?" 
 
 " Well, I looked hard at her first, thinking 
 if she was a. lady it was the first of the kind 
 I had seen. And then I remembered to have 
 heard that you can always tell ladies by their 
 hands, and I looked at hers and saw they
 
 Lost and Won.. 199 
 
 were coarse and rough. * I know what ladies 
 are,' I said, * and you are not one. You are 
 not Lady Lengrave at all* When I had said 
 it, I was frightened, and feared I had done a 
 very wrong thing ; but then, though Sir John 
 and the Person began to bluster, I saw by the 
 faces of the rest that I was right, and all at 
 once it flashed upon me that they were 
 playing a wicked trick.** 
 
 " What did you do then V 
 
 ** I turned my back on those Two, and I said 
 to the rest : ' Gentlemen, will you tell me truly.!* 
 is not Sir John playing me a trick ? He invited 
 me here to see his mother. Is that his mother, 
 or is she here at all ?' Most of them looked 
 awkward — they were nearly all very young — 
 but one got up and stood beside me and said, 
 ' No, my girl, she is not here at all ; it w a 
 vile trick, and it shall go no further if I can 
 help it.* Then Sir John and he began to 
 quarrel, and there was a great talk, and I sat 
 down and began to cry, and Sir John spoke, 
 oh ! so cruelly to me, saying no one but a
 
 200 Only a GirVs Life, 
 
 fool and a baby would have believed that his 
 mother would so much as look at me ; and 
 the strange gentleman still stood my friend, 
 and just then the footman said some one 
 wanted Sir John, and he only swore at the 
 man, and then Mr. Lingard came in." 
 
 "Tell me what he did." 
 
 " He came straight to me and said, ' My 
 poor girl, Marjory and I have come to fetch 
 you away.' Then I thanked him gratefully, 
 and he stood up with one hand on my shoulder 
 and looked at them all and said some words 
 which I do not remember, but which seemed 
 to make them all very much ashamed. Then, 
 a horrid man, older than the rest, began to talk 
 very rudely to Mr. Lingard, who said to him, 
 ' Sir, I have a policeman outside ;' and he 
 turned to me, and said, ' Go and wait for me 
 in the ante-room.' So I went. I heard the 
 noise of their voices, bu^ that was all. I am 
 sure Mr. Lingard would speak well, and that 
 the strange gentleman would take his part." 
 
 That was all her story. What a web of
 
 Lost and Won, aoi 
 
 folly and vanity it was. Poor child ! it is a 
 bitter lesson, but I think it will change and 
 improve her whole nature. 
 
 They are coming home: I will write the 
 rest another dav. 
 
 
 i:^^
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CLOUDED WEATHER. 
 
 " The earth is full of mourning, and the heart 
 Knows its own bitterness, O God, our God ! 
 We blindly grope, nor know Thee who Thou art ; 
 We know that Thou art Love, but feel it not." 
 
 MS., A. D. 
 
 March lyth. — Again I have time to tell my 
 tale. When we brought Mary home we found 
 Miss Lindsay sitting up for us with hot coffee 
 ready. It was such a relief that she said never 
 a word of reproach to Mary, nor asked any 
 questions ; but when Mr. Lingard was gone 
 (he went directly he had seen us safe home, 
 for it was the middle of the night) she made 
 us take off our cloaks and warm ourselves by 
 the fire and the coffee. But I was chilled 
 through, and said so. The brandy which she
 
 Clouded Weather, 203 
 
 had made me take was untouched, and now 
 she made me drink some in coffee. I felt a little 
 thawed then, but still it seemed as if I could 
 never be really warm again. She told me she 
 had begged of Mrs. Day a little room for us 
 two which was just then empty, and that some 
 new comers were to have our old beds. 
 
 " I thought it would be better for Mary to 
 be away from Eliza," she said. 
 
 Then she sent Mary to bed, and asked me 
 a few questions as to what we had done. 
 
 " Mr. Prim must know it all to-morrow," 
 she said. " Now go ; you look quite ill." 
 
 She actually kissed me when I thanked her 
 for all her kindness. 
 
 " What's the good of our Society if we want 
 thanks for such things as these," she said. 
 
 The next morning we were allowed to lie 
 late, and oh ! I felt so ill, so feverish and 
 chilled. But I got up presently, and dragged 
 myself to the shop, for I knew Mr. Prim must 
 see me. We told him everything. He was 
 very, very indignant with Eliza, and sent for
 
 ao4 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 her. She tried to tell lies, but he would not 
 hear them, and told her she was unfit to have 
 the charge of a sister, and that she must leave 
 the shop, and he should write to her step- 
 mother. This last threat frightened her much, 
 but she bore all the rest boldly. The end of 
 Eliza is that she went away to stay with a 
 friend, but first told her story in her own way 
 to Mr. Brown in the silk department, and in 
 a few days they are to be married. Poor Mr. 
 Brown ! 
 
 Mary was quite subdued, and very sad and 
 humble and grateful to every one. Mr. Prim 
 talked to her in a kind and fatherly way, and 
 urged her to stay while Miss Lindsay and I 
 were there to take care of her. He did this 
 because he guessed Eliza would try to force 
 her to leave too. So she did, but Mary stood 
 firm. The step-mother wrote some sensible 
 but cold letters, and so, outwardly, this sad 
 matter ended for the rest But not for me. 
 Well, I will not dwell upon it how my cough 
 got worse and worse, and a pain came in my
 
 Clouded Weather. 1105 
 
 side, and the doctor whom dear Mrs. Lingard 
 sent said I must be very careful, and I had to 
 stay at home for several days, and then once, 
 after a fit of coughing, there was a rush of 
 blood, and all my health and strength are 
 gone — for ever. Ah me ! I cannot be 
 patient yet ; I cannot say Thy will be done. 
 Have I not written in this very book my 
 wonder how those who are called to die 
 just when life is brightest can ever bear 
 the blow } For me, I bear it very, very ill. It 
 is so hard to sit here, growing weaker daily, 
 looking for nothing but death, and to think 
 what life might have been. John Brandon 
 cannot bear it yet, but we hide our murmurs 
 from one another. There — enough of that I 
 will only tell my tale. 
 
 Mrs. Lingard and the doctor wanted me to 
 go into the Brompton Hospital at once, and 
 very kindly got me a letter, which I know is 
 hard to get ; but when I went with Mrs. 
 Lingard to see the physician, he said there 
 would not be room for me there for two
 
 ao6 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 months, and at the end of that time . Yet 
 
 I was not very sorry ; I could not be, for 
 when Mrs. Lingard described the wards, as I 
 asked her, and I found there were so many 
 invalids in one room, I felt that I would give 
 up almost anything for the privilege of bearing 
 my sorrow and seeing my friends, and the one 
 whom I love best of all, in some home of my 
 own, however little and poor. 
 
 Then that good Jane Taylor asked me to 
 go and live with her ; and I should have gladly 
 done so, but the doctor said Clapham was no 
 place for me ; and then that staunch, sincere, 
 stern Miss Lindsay showed herself the Good 
 Samaritan she is, and suggested that she and 
 Mary and I should rent a lodging in Bromp- 
 ton, which is good for such complaints as 
 mine, and where I can see the doctors often. 
 So we came some weeks since to this place ; 
 it is small, but my dear kind friends have 
 made it pretty, and it is very calm and quiet. 
 I sew for the shop ; Jane Taylor sends me 
 work, and so I am not quite helpless. I had
 
 Clouded Weather, so; 
 
 some money left after sending my presents 
 home, and Mr. Prim is very kind, and has 
 given me a ten-pound note. Then John and 
 Mrs. Lingard come often, and bring me flowers 
 and fruit, and jellies and books, and comfort 
 me by their talk. How dare I murmur and 
 repine ? How many suffer worse than I, and 
 how few have so much comfort ! But oh ! 
 mother and father and Jack, and the dear old 
 home among the moors, and the fresh wind 
 which I shall never, never feel again ; and 
 dearest of all, that little home that was to be 
 some day ! it is so hard to say Good-bye to 
 you all. 
 
 God forgive me ! God ! help Thy wretched 
 child!
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 " And when I raised my face, lo ! there it shone. 
 The bright and morning star; peerless, alone. 
 As the first morning of the eternal day- 
 Shall dim the brightness of all earthly noons. 
 
 On this I rose, and saw 
 God's glory gild the gateways of the day ; 
 His strength was on my soul, and seemed to say, 
 • Be still!' He loveth when He chasteneth." 
 
 MS., A. D. 
 
 March 2ird. — Some light has broken in 
 upon my darkness. God grant it is but the 
 beginning of a fuller dawn ! 
 
 Yesterday I was alone when John came, as 
 he so often does. 
 
 He brought me one beautiful rose, and I 
 looked at it and smelt it and cried. I was 
 so vexed with myself for the cowardly weak-
 
 A Break in the Clouds. aoq 
 
 ness ; was it mere feebleness of nerve, or 
 thoughts of such roses that used to grow 
 where I shall never see them any more ? I 
 don't know; but it overset his courage too, 
 and he threw himself down beside me, and 
 all the calmness that we keep up to deceive 
 each other was gone, and he said, with a face 
 and voice of bitter pain — 
 
 "What do they say now, Marjory? Do 
 they give us any hope ?" 
 
 I waited and prayed an instant, and then 1 
 was better able to say — 
 
 " They don't talk of hope, John ; they say 
 very little. Doctors will never say much. 
 But we must not hope, dear ; I have no 
 hope." 
 
 "And for that reason I am hopeful," he 
 answered, eagerly. " They say, those who are 
 dying of consumption never believe it." 
 " Don't let us talk of hope," I said. 
 " And you can bear it quietly ! You can 
 leave me and never care !" 
 " Not care /"
 
 aio Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 This was hardest of all. 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, love !" he said ; ** you 
 know I am half mad with trouble." 
 
 Then I took off that mask I had been 
 wearing on my soul, and I told him all I felt, 
 and how I could not feel that a dear Father 
 was taking me by the hand, and saying, 
 " Come home." I knew it, but in my heart 
 of hearts there were rebellion and disbelief 
 and despair. " Oh, John ! you know God's 
 love ; help me to see it too ; if I can but see 
 that, all the darkness will be gone." 
 
 He sat still a long time, with his head 
 upon his hands, and then he knelt down and 
 prayed. He prayed for light and help for 
 both of us, in a few broken words. 
 
 I gave him my Bible after that, and he 
 opened it and read — 
 
 " Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me." 
 
 He read on to the end of the chapter, but 
 I think all my heart had gone out in those 
 first golden words. I wanted no more ; that
 
 A Break in the Clouds. an 
 
 was enough. When he stopped, I asked him 
 to read them again, and then again. It was 
 not the words alone : I had read them often 
 since this sickness came. It was the light 
 from Heaven which God Himself was shedding 
 down upon them for us. 
 
 Once, on my moors, I saw a gray sky, all 
 folds of gray, and a break in the clouds, and 
 a white light coming down in rays, and 
 making a wedge of brightness. 
 " It is like the Ascension," I said. 
 " Of the descent of the Spirit," answered 
 Miss Ellen, who was with me. 
 
 So, like that light, the Spirit of God came 
 down and made a golden spot upon that 
 verse for me. Let not your heart be troubled 
 — you believe in God, the Father who made 
 you, who has given you love and friends, and 
 joy and kindness, all your life through, ever 
 since you were a little child. You believe in 
 all these things, these marks of his power and 
 grace, because you know them by experience. 
 And will you refuse to believe also in Me,
 
 212 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 who am the Father's love shown to man ; 
 will you not trust Me who suffered so much 
 for your sake, and who now call on you to 
 suffer a little for mine ? Will you refuse to 
 lay yourself in my arms, like a lost lamb in 
 the arms of the Good Shepherd, to be car- 
 ried wherever He will ? 
 
 Could I refuse ! Ah, no ! I folded my 
 hands, and said, " Lord, I believe ; help Thou 
 mine unbelief!" A great peace came in 
 upon my soul, and seemed to bathe and flood 
 it all like a soft, full, sunny river. 
 
 "John, love," I said, "the good God has 
 made me ready to go." 

 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE JOURNAL CLOSED. 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, 
 The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun — 
 For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
 And what is life, that we should moan? Why make we 
 such ado i" 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 April 9. — This spring is like summer. I 
 never feel at ease but with the window open, 
 and yet the air is treacherous. I am stifling in 
 these rooms and in this street. That looks 
 so ungrateful as I write it : I trust I am not 
 really ungrateful. Now that I have found the 
 deeper comfort which has never wholly left me 
 since, though it has sunk and wavered some- 
 times, these little outward circumstances ought 
 not to affect me. I have doctors, ease, and
 
 a 14 Only a Girl's Life, 
 
 rest, and many, many comforts from my 
 friends, and yet I cannot help longing and 
 yearning and pining for just one breath of my 
 moorland air. Sometimes the feeling is like 
 a thirst : I dream of Dunlow Top nearly every 
 morning ; I am out there with my feet among 
 the heather, and the wind blowing in my 
 hair, and this makes me glad to sleep. I 
 know that the wish is foolish ; I know that I 
 might go home at once ; mother has begged 
 me to go. But the doctor says I may not. 
 It seems strange that the air in which I grew 
 up so well, will not suit me now ; but this 
 miserable cough, and the long cold which 
 I caught coming south, always hanging 
 upon me, seem to have changed me into 
 some other person. Then, when I know I 
 cannot see the moors, I think of the sea, and 
 always of Veiitnor, where I was so happy. 
 I spoke of this to the doctor once, and he 
 said Ventnor would do very well ; could I 
 go ? I asked if there was any hospital at 
 Ventnor, but he said. No, not yet ; he hoped
 
 The journal Closed. 215 
 
 there would be soon. So I must (and ought 
 to) be thankful for all I hav"". and not long 
 like a child for the moon. Yesterday, Mrs. 
 Lingard came, as she often does, and she 
 rtsked if I felt any stronger. I said, some- 
 times a very little. Then she said, earnestly — 
 
 " Is there anything you much desire, Mar- 
 jory .? I know sick people have fancies, and 
 often if the fancies can be indulged, it does 
 them good." 
 
 " I have so many comforts," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but is there nothing you long for V* 
 
 " Only something very unreasonable." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " Only fresh air. I seem to feel a kind of 
 
 thirst for it. Oh, what would I not give for 
 one half-hour there !" 
 
 " Where } At your home } You must not 
 go there yet, Marjory." 
 
 " No, nor ever. Sometimes I long for the 
 sea and Ventnor again, but that 's just as im- 
 possible." 
 
 "isitr
 
 21 6 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 "Oh! yes." 
 
 She reflected for a minute. 
 
 " I wish that hospital were built." 
 
 " I think it would save my life if it were," 
 I said, with more earnestness than I knew 
 of. I had often thought of that hospital to 
 be built on the cliff, and what a priceless 
 boon it would be to girls like me. 
 
 She answered — 
 
 "Mar]or>, if you care for it so much as 
 that, you must go." 
 
 " I cannot r 
 
 *' Why not ? You have some money, have 
 you not .''" 
 
 "Yes, several pounds. But I must bear 
 my share of these lodgings now the others 
 have come on purpose for me." 
 
 "You need not think of Mary in that 
 light," said Mrs. Lingard, rather bitterly for 
 her. 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Lingard, she is so good, and 
 so very very sorry." 
 
 " She ought to be."
 
 The yournal Closed. 217 
 
 '•' Well, she is ; but it was chiefly Eliza's 
 fault or folly." 
 
 " Don't palliate Eliza's wickedness ; I am 
 of one mind with the author of Ecclesias- 
 ticus : ' Give me any plague but the plague 
 of the heart, and any wickedness but the 
 wickedness of a woman.' " 
 
 I knew it was useless to contend. 
 
 " At least, I ought to consider dear Miss 
 Lindsay." 
 
 " Yes, but your own health is first ; be 
 wise, Marjory, and see that. And it might 
 be made up to them about the lodgings." 
 
 " Then there are many little things which 
 I need, and when — when the end comes, I 
 must have a little left, not to be a burden 
 on you all." 
 
 " Oh ! Marjory, you are a foolish, silly, 
 incorrigibly unselfish girl ; we must take you 
 out of your own hands." 
 
 I cannot write any more to-day. 
 
 April 14. — I am to go to Ventnor ; what hap- 
 piness! It is all Mrs. Lingard's doing. As
 
 aiS Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 soon as she left me after our talk about 
 Ventnor, she began to work in my behalf, 
 wrote to dear Mrs. Watkins, and has made 
 up a little collection from her and Miss Ellen, 
 and some unknown friends, who (I know) are 
 her dear self and my John, and perhaps some 
 of the rich kind folk of her acquaintance. So 
 that there is enough to keep me by that 
 beautiful sea for some weeks, and I go to- 
 morrow. I dread the journey more than I 
 can say, but when I think of the sea and the 
 fresh air and the open sky at the end of it, 
 I feel I could almost give up my life for 
 them. Mrs. Lingard hopes it may do my 
 health good ; John hopes so. I cannot ; I 
 dare not ; and so I feel I am almost wrong 
 in taking their money for that in which (1 
 think) they are deceiving themselves. I told 
 her so, but she smiled, and said — 
 
 " Don't torment yourself ; we do it in 
 hope and faith, come what may." 
 
 I can write no more to-day ; I am very, 
 very tired ; I never sleep till morning be-
 
 The Journal Closed. 219 
 
 cause of my cough, and I am cowardly 
 through the fear of another of those terrible 
 weakening rushes of blood. 
 
 When I next write, it will be from Vent- 
 nor. 
 
 April 20. — ^Ventnor. — I think I can write 
 a little to-day, if only to say it is good to be 
 here. I sorely miss one thing — my John's 
 visits, which came almost every day ; the 
 strong big form bringing kind looks and 
 smiles and comforting words in through that 
 little door which he had to stoop to pass 
 under. It was the saddest thing in all my 
 life, that last time I saw him. We were very 
 cheerful up to the last, and enjoyed the 
 grapes he brought me, for I made him eat 
 some of them too. We had had our most 
 solemn parting the day before, when Mr. 
 Lingard gave me the precious body and 
 blood of Christ. But we could not talk of 
 that ; the peace and calm of it lay deep down 
 in our hearts, but we knew we must not talk 
 of that which would touch us both so nearly,
 
 220 Only a Girls Life. 
 
 and I needed all my strength for next day's 
 journey. We talked of this cottage where 
 Mrs. Lingard had procured me a room, and 
 of her own great goodness in planning to 
 take me down, and stay a week with me here, 
 and of the nice young person in the house 
 who (Mrs. Lingard thinks) will be a kind 
 friend to me, and give me the help which, in 
 so many ways, I cannot now do without. 
 
 But when the last moments came, and 
 he had to go, it was very hard, for we could 
 not know whether we shall ever see each 
 other's faces again before we stand on the 
 other shore of that deep great awful sea. 
 
 "My child, I wish I could do some one 
 last thing for you," he said. " Give me some- 
 thing to do." 
 
 " Yes, I will," I answered ; " sing me that 
 hymn, * I heard the voice of Jesus,' " 
 
 He sat down by me again and began at 
 once, with his rich full voice, subdued and 
 yet satisfying, and soft and deep as it always 
 must be. Every word went home to me,
 
 The y'ournal Closed. 221 
 
 ana with the sweet air and the dear voice, 
 a great value was given to the words. The 
 last lines were very sweet : — 
 
 " I came to Jesus, and I found 
 In Him, my Star, my Sun, 
 And in that Light of Life I'll walk 
 Till travelling days are done." 
 
 His voice failed in the last words. 
 
 It was while that hymn was still in our 
 minds, that John had first told me he loved 
 me, and then I had said : " I wonder how 
 long my travelling days will be." They are 
 nearly over now, but I can say, out of a true 
 full heart, that I walk in the Light of Life, 
 which is my Saviour and my Master and 
 my Lord. 
 
 At length the last moment came, and then 
 he was gone. Oh ! that was bitter ! I cannot 
 think of it. 
 
 The parting with Mary was trying too ; 
 the dear child clung to me and s^id : — 
 
 "Oh! Marjory, get well, get well, or I 
 shall have killed you "
 
 222 Only a Girls Life. 
 
 ** It is all as God wills, love," I told her, 
 "and you must not torment yourself with 
 that which is not true. It is not you that has 
 harmed me, and it can be no harm at all to 
 go a little sooner to our Master." 
 
 The last time I saw her was when she was 
 waving her handkerchief from the door, all 
 her pretty face stained with tears, and Miss 
 Lindsay, as she packed me into the cab, was 
 crying too. Dear, kind people ! When I 
 thanked her for all her wonderful goodness, 
 she kissed me and said — 
 
 " You can repay me by getting well." 
 
 April 24, — I am beginning to recover 
 from the effects of the journey, and can 
 more entirely enjoy the hours passed upon 
 the shore. What a treat it is to have 
 my dear Mrs. Lingard all to myself ; to feel 
 her beside me as I lie awake at nights, and 
 to see her every day and all day long, to be 
 able to hold her hand and talk to her in the 
 quiet evenings when the sun is going down 
 and while the room grows dark, before we
 
 The yournal Closed. 223 
 
 light the lamp. There is but one other in 
 the world who could give me more happiness ; 
 even a sight of my own dear parents could 
 only give me as much, not more, I think. 
 
 My mother still asks me to go home, but 
 Mrs. Lingard has told her I cannot, in a 
 tender, beautiful letter, like herself. Then 
 Jack answered for the dear old folks — a godly, 
 simple, honest, loving letter, like the hearts 
 of those three. If he had known (he said) 
 that this would happen, not for Rossall — 
 no, nor for Oxford itself — would he have let 
 me go. But it made me so protud to see this 
 clever letter written by my Jack,iand to show 
 it to Mrs. Lingard, who said it proved great 
 intelligence, that I felt I could even make the 
 sacrifice over again. A sacrifice it is ; I know 
 it now. 
 
 April 25. — I have had a more beau- 
 tiful letter even than usual from John 
 Brandon ; his written words, coming every 
 morning, are a daily joy and pain in one.
 
 2 24 Ofily a Girl's Life, 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to think that our last good-bye 
 has been said ; for I think it has. 
 
 " God bless you, my own girl," he says at 
 the last ; " and may He give you back to 
 me. 
 
 He will give us back to each other, John, in 
 the land which is very far off. 
 
 April 29. — The doctor has forbidden me 
 to write any more, except a line now and 
 then to mother and John ; for this I 
 prayed very, very hard, and at last he 
 granted it. 
 
 Therefore, I shut my journal. God's will 
 be done.
 
 CHAPTER XIX, 
 
 THE JOURNAL RE-OPENED. 
 
 " Lay thy sweet hsuids in mine and trust to me." 
 
 The PRiHCBbS. 
 
 " They who have sought new hope to find, 
 Wear not so bright a glance ; 
 They who have won their earthly mind, 
 Less reverently advance. 
 
 But where, in gentle spirits, fear 
 
 And joy so duly meet. 
 These sure have seen the angels near. 
 
 And kissed the Saviour's feet." 
 
 Keble, Tuesday in Easter Wetk, 
 
 August 7, 1870. — S. Brelade's, Jersey.— 
 Yesterday, turning out a store of old books, 
 I found Marjory's journal, wrapped in a Hol- 
 land case, kept with the most dainty neat- 
 ness, as is everything of hers. There was a 
 struggle for its possession, but I was the 
 victor. I have read it this morning up on
 
 226 Only a Girls Life. 
 
 the heights above this beautiful bay where we 
 are spending a week of our summer holiday, 
 and I find it tender and true like herself. 
 Now, I shall finish it for her. 
 
 When Mrs, Lingard was obliged to return 
 home, leaving Marjory alone at Ventnor, the 
 real bitterness of solitude first began for her. 
 That dear friend, who excites in all who know 
 her truly, an almost passionate enthusiasm 
 and reliance, had hitherto replaced for her, 
 parents, brother, and friends. But when she 
 was gone, and only strangers remained, kind 
 though they were (no one could help being 
 kind to my Marjory), a great desolation 
 weighed down her heart and spirit ; the fear 
 of death had fallen upon her ; the thought of 
 what seemed slipping away rather than that 
 of heavenly joys, began to fill her mind. 
 The very beauty of the scene around hef 
 made her more loth to give it up. 
 
 This was a sore time with my poor Mar- 
 jory, We saw something of it from her little 
 letters, and heard more from a clergyman's
 
 The journal Re-opened. 227 
 
 wife at Ventnor who (at Mrs. Lingard's re- 
 quest) saw much of Marjory, and was very 
 good to her, and wrote an account of her to 
 us. But we had a great joy in this lady's 
 letter, for she told us that the doctors now 
 began to give hopes of my girl ; that the pure 
 soft air of the place was so admirably adapted 
 for her system, that were it not for her low 
 mental tone, our anxieties might be much 
 lessened. 
 
 At this, a longing which had been growing 
 more keen and gnawing day by day, flamed 
 up in me so that I could no longer repress 
 it. Come what might, I felt I must go to 
 Marjory and take care of her. It was only 
 duty to Mr. Lingard which had withheld me 
 so far ; now I went and frankly poured out 
 my mind to him. I expected dissuasion ; 
 I had done him injustice ; I ought to have 
 known him better. He heard me quietly ; 
 then said — 
 
 " Let me think it over, Brandon." 
 
 And the next day he gave me his answer.
 
 228 Only a GirVs Life. 
 
 He thought the step would be right ; as for 
 his own inconvenience, it must not weigh a 
 straw in the balance. The choir should and 
 ought to manage without me for a time, and 
 there was Briggs, my predecessor, retired on 
 account of ill health, who was able and 
 willing to be my substitute in the school. 
 The way was smoothed, thanks to this most 
 excellent minister of God, and I was free to 
 go to my poor girl. She had a letter from 
 me the next morning to announce my coming, 
 and I was with her before night. My pre- 
 sence there simply as a friend, would be of 
 little use ; I was determined to marry her at 
 once. I had talked it over with Mrs. Lin- 
 gard, and after a time she saw as I did, 
 though at first she felt it her duty to lay 
 before me the sorrow attendant on a marriage 
 with an invalid. I heard her patiently, but 
 we were talking at cross-purposes ; what she 
 said might be very just for men seeking for 
 the comforts of a home and a good house- 
 keeper ; but it was not to avoid sorrow that
 
 The yournal Re-opened. 229 
 
 I sought for Marjory ; sorrow as bitter as 
 death had come already. My thought was 
 all for her, how to comfort her in her sick- 
 ness, to nurse her back to health, if it were 
 God's will, with a tenderness more than a 
 mother's ; or, if that were His will, to hold 
 her hand in her passage through the Dark 
 River. 
 
 I cannot speak of our meeting. 
 
 I went at once to the clergyman whose wife 
 had been so good to her, and told him my 
 case. He was kind enough to take a friendly 
 interest in us, and, as Ventnor was now filling 
 fast, engaged me for his choir during the 
 whole of the summer months, if I could stay 
 so long. He also recommended to me a 
 decent lodging at a low rent. Nor had I 
 been there a week before he introduced me 
 to a lady visiting Ventnor for the health of 
 her two delicate sons, for whom she required 
 instruction during a few hours of each day. 
 I obtained the post, and thus found myself 
 almost freed from the necessity of drawing on 
 
 1
 
 230 Only a Girts Life. 
 
 the little sum left me by my father, which I 
 have invested for the proverbial " rainy day." 
 Marjory's fund was not yet exhausted. I 
 calculated that about our wedding-day it 
 would be so ; but then I hoped for more 
 work " somehow " (what a word of hope that 
 is !) ; or at the worst, there was my tiny pa- 
 trimony. 
 
 I did not at first plague Marjory with the 
 idea of marriage, seeing that it had never 
 entered her head. She felt no hope for her 
 own life, and (as I once said to her) this 
 very hopelessness of hers gave me hope. 
 Nor, though the doctor's report was en- 
 couraging, and I saw, with immense joy, a 
 change for the better — would I yet excite 
 hopes which might after all be false. For a 
 week or more nothing of this sort was said. 
 I spent all my spare time with her ; drew her 
 in a chair to the shore, carried her to her 
 place, talked to her, read to her, wrote for her. 
 
 One evening, as we sat hand in hand 
 watching the sunset, she said softly —
 
 The y ournal Re-Opened. 231 
 
 " I could almost say I wish you had not 
 come, John ; for it will be so hard to see you 
 go again. Oh ! you do not know what it- is 
 to be dying alone ! And you must not stay 
 long away from your work for me," 
 
 " My darling," I answered, " I am never 
 going to leave you any more." 
 
 " John ! what do you mean T she cried. 
 Her sudden look of doubting joy was deli- 
 cious to me. 
 
 " Did you not promise to be my wife ?" 
 
 " Oh ! not now ; not like this, John." 
 
 Then I told her what I had come for. She 
 only answered — 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ; \t must not be," and in some 
 broken sentences said the same things which 
 I had heard from Mrs. Lingard. 
 
 I told her I had heard them all before, and 
 much better put. I laughed at her, and told 
 her that our banns had been published once 
 already, and that she had but about ten days 
 to make her wedding dres,s.
 
 43* Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 " I am half afraid I shall have to take you 
 without one, Marjory," I said. 
 
 She would only say No, no ; but I saw by 
 the look in her face that she felt the need of 
 some one always by to comfort her, and that 
 this prospect was dear to her. 
 
 The next day she began again to argue — 
 
 " It is but for such a little time, John. If 
 you will stay with me to the end, let it be as 
 we are now." 
 
 " I have paid half-a-crown for the banns," I 
 told her. " We cannot afford to throw away 
 half-crowns." 
 
 " Oh ! John, John ; you must hear reason." 
 
 " You have given me none to listen to yet," 
 I answered ; and so I would not let her be 
 solemn or sad over the matter. 
 
 Her kind friend, the clergyman's wife, came 
 at my request, and showed her how much 
 better I could nurse and help her as my wife ; 
 and so she yielded with a good grace (you 
 know you did, Marjory I), and one day, one 
 morning when the almond trees were glowing
 
 The yournal Re-opened. 233 
 
 like peach-coloured flames, and the sea was 
 as blue as a sapphire-stone, and the sun was 
 joyous and kind, I took my bride to church. 
 Her sweet pale face, with a calm, happy, 
 trusting smile upon it, looked to me like an 
 angel's. I watched her with a sort of awe 
 and wonder, that so saint-like, and pure, and 
 fragile a thing should belong to a great, 
 rough man like me ; but I knew, God helping 
 me, I could take good care of her, and so I 
 dared to take her, as one might hold a little 
 frightened, wounded dove. 
 
 She wore something warm and white. 
 Some ladies had come to the church, whether 
 by chance or design. One came up and 
 kissed her with tears in her eyes, and said, 
 *' God bless you, dear." 
 
 Marjory held in her hand all the time the 
 letter she had had that day from Mrs. Lin- 
 gard. It was her fancy. Her chair was 
 drawn up before the altar, but she was able 
 to kneel a little. I think no man could ever 
 have said more heartily than I the words
 
 jt34 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 which bound me to keep my wife " for richer 
 for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love 
 and to cherish, till death do us part." I felt 
 as if the words came fresh from my own 
 heart, and I were the author of them. 
 
 So Marjory and I were married, and in 
 that matter of loving and cherishing I have, I 
 think, kept my part. She has been all the 
 world to me ever since. And as the hopes of 
 her life grew stronger from day to day, my 
 {gratitude and joy increased ; at last, I ven- 
 tured to tell her that perhaps God would 
 not part us yet. She looked at me "with 
 wide open eyes as in a picture." 
 
 " Not to die, John } not to leave you .?" 
 
 "We hope and trust not yet, Marjory," 
 Then she drew her breath with a panting sob, 
 and burst into a great fit of crying. 
 
 " Oh ! I never, never knew before how hard 
 h would be to go," she said. 
 
 And she did not go. God has spared her. 
 I have her still, and next year we hope to see 
 Duncliffe together.
 
 The journal Re-opened. 335 
 
 It was Ventnor which saved her. We feel 
 a personal gratitude to the place. We have 
 a strong desire to help on the scheme of the 
 hospital there ; for we feel that there is many 
 a one whose life might be saved if the malady- 
 were taken in time, and who yet could not 
 find the means (as our friends did for Mar- 
 jory) to take a lodging of their own. More- 
 over, we feel that the separate room provided 
 here would be a comfort unspeakable, for 
 which the weekly sum that will be required 
 would be gladly paid. We think that this 
 Ventnor hospital will be a missing link be- 
 tween the excellent but over-crowded hos- 
 pital at Brompton, and the comforts of the 
 wealthy sick. We intend, therefore, to aid 
 it as far as our means will allow, as a mere 
 debt of gratitude ; and if this history of my 
 wife's can at any time be of use for the same 
 end, we shall freely give it 
 
 When the summer months were over, all 
 present fears for Marjory had disappeared 
 also ; but yet she shrank from a life in
 
 2^6 Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 London. She yearned towards our honoured 
 and beloved friends, the Lingards ; towards 
 Miss Lindsay and Jane Taylor, and poor little 
 Mary Carter. But I saw that, in spite of this, 
 the close air of London would be dreadful to 
 her. I resolved, therefore, against it. I had, 
 of course, long since informed Mr. Lingard 
 that my absence seemed likely to be pro- 
 longed, and he had found a capital fellow to 
 replace me. Our ties in London, therefore, 
 were weakened. Mary was sobered, and was 
 going on well under Miss Lindsay's care ; and 
 Jane Taylor, having lost her dear old aunt by 
 a quiet and painless death, the two were 
 about to remove to the Clapham Cottage, 
 which now belonged to Jane. So we hope the 
 best for Mary. Her letters are very loving, 
 and ring true. Jack Earnshaw is winning 
 prizes at Rossall, and we hope to see him do 
 something brilliant in the future. The old 
 parents are well in the little house at Dun- 
 cliffe. 
 
 Small engagements for teaching enabled
 
 The y ournal Re-opened. %yj 
 
 me to support us at Ventnor for a time, until 
 I saw that Marjory's health was re-established 
 to some extent, and then I looked about for 
 an engagement in some part of the country 
 likely to suit her. At last, I successfully 
 answered an advertisement, which brought 
 me to St. Heliers as organist and choir- 
 master, with fair opportunities of private 
 lessons. My wife has pupils of her own ; a 
 little school of girls who hum about her all 
 the day like bees, and seem to love her very 
 much. We have a little cottage covered with 
 a scarlet-flowered creeper, looking towards 
 the sea, from which it is but at five minutes' 
 distance. A grassy garden slopes downhill 
 from our door ; fuchsias and hydrangeas and 
 Guernsey lilies flourish and bloom there, and 
 make bright spots of colour. 
 
 Now, in our short summer holiday, we have 
 brought one of Marjory's pupils, who is in 
 weak health, to a little farm in this broad and 
 sunny bay. The golden-coloured rocks stand 
 up jagged and sharp from the sea, which is
 
 i^S Only a Girl's Life. 
 
 blue with a perfect blue we are never tired of 
 watching. We pass long hours out on the 
 short grass of the hills, basking like flies in 
 the warmth and brightness. 
 
 It is a very pleasant holiday. 
 
 I think this is all I have to say. 
 
 John Brandon. 
 
 But I, Marjory, have to add, God bless 
 my dear, dear husband. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson 6* Co. 
 Edinburgh <&» London
 
 Frederick Warne akd Co.'s Publications. 
 
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 97 What She Could. Ditto. 
 
 100 Wych Hazel. Ditto. 
 
 101 Gold of Chickaree. By S. 
 
 Waknbr. 
 
 102 Diana. Ditto. 
 
 105 The Letter of Credit. By 
 
 8. Warner. 
 
 106 The End of a Coil. Ditto. 
 
 108 The Daughter of Fife. By 
 
 Amelia E. Barr. 
 
 109 The Bow of Orange Rib- 
 
 BON. By AMELIA B. Barb. 
 
 110 Between Two Loves. Ditte^: 
 
 113 My Desire. ByS. Wabneb. 
 
 114 Nobody. Ditto. 
 119 Philip Mordant's Ward. 
 
 By M. Kent. 
 
 123 Jan Veddar'a Wife. By 
 
 Ht8. a. B. Bark. 
 
 125 Beulah. 
 
 126 At the Mercy of Tiberius. 
 
 128 The Gayworthys. By Mrs. 
 
 Whitney. 
 
 129 Naomi. By Mrs. Webb. 
 
 130 A Divided Duty. By Ida 
 
 Lbuon. 
 
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 Mrs. E. Prentiss. 
 
 14 From Jest to Earnest. By 
 
 Rev. E. P. Roe. 
 
 15 Mary Elliot. By C. D. Bkll. 
 
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 21 Kenneth and Hugh. Ditto. 
 
 22 Rosa's Wisli. Ditto. 
 
 23 Margaret Cecil. Ditto. 
 26 What Katv did at School. 
 
 By S. COOLIDGE. 
 
 28 Wearyfoot Common. By 
 
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 30 Aunt Jane's Hero. By Mrs. 
 
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 31 Aunt Ailie. By 0. D. Bell. 
 
 32 What Katy Did. By S. 
 
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 FRCDBRICK WarNE and CO.'e ir'USI.iOATIONC. 
 
 Wabnb's Stab SHEnsa — continued. 
 
 88 The Flower of the Family. 
 
 By Mrs. B. Prentiss. 
 
 S9 Madame Fontenoy. By the 
 
 Author of " Mdlle. Mori" 
 
 41 Toward Heaven. By Mrs. 
 
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 42 Little Camp on Eagle Hill. 
 
 By S. WiRNBR. 
 
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 DAVID. By Rev. J. H. Inoraham. 
 
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 67 Little Women. By Louisa 
 
 AJjCOTT 
 
 58 Little Wives. Ditto. 
 
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 60 Opening a Chestnut Burr. 
 
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 63 Dorothy. By J. A. Nora. 
 
 69 Huguenot Family. O.D.Bblii. 
 
 70 Only a Girl's Life. By Mrs. 
 
 Mercier. 
 
 74 Bessie Harrington's Ven- 
 
 TURS. 
 
 By Rev. 
 
 85 
 93 
 
 Heart. 
 Ditto, 
 
 76 Without a Home. 
 
 B. P. Roe. 
 
 77 Moods. By Louisa Aecott. 
 
 81 The Torn Bible. By Alioh 
 
 SOMERTON. 
 
 82 Lily Gordon. ByC.D.BBLEi. 
 
 83 AKnight of the Nineteenth 
 
 CENTURY. By Rev. E. P. Roe. 
 
 84 Near to Nature's 
 
 By Rev. E. P. Roe. 
 
 His Sombre Rivals. 
 Una. By M. Bird. 
 94 A Young Girl's Wooing. By 
 
 Rev. E. P. Roe. 
 
 98 The House in Town. By 
 
 S. Warner. 
 
 99 Trading. By S. Waeneb. 
 104 What Katy Did Next. By 
 
 S. COOLIDOB. 
 
 112 The Queen of Spades. By 
 
 Rev. E. P. Rob. 
 
 115 Mariamne. NathanielOglb 
 
 116 A Titled Maiden. By C. A. 
 
 TJf A QrtW 
 
 My Lady Nell. By Emily 
 
 Wbavbb. 
 
 118 In Safe Hands. By M. H. 
 
 Howell. 
 
 124 lohn Ward, Preacher. By 
 
 Margaret Delanh. 
 127 Taith Geirtney's Girlhood. 
 
 By Mrs. Whitnkt. 
 
 117 
 
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 INGE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID; or, Three Years in the 
 y City. By the Rev. J. H. Ingeaham, LL.D, With Original 
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 olume illustrates the decadence of the Hebraic power, and the final cul- 
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 olume illustrates the grandeur of Hebraic history when ' The People of 
 attained, \inder the reigns of David and Solomon, the height of their 
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 before the reader much that is important and interesting with 
 
 the social life of the peoples who were then engaged in 
 history. 
 
 WORKS BY THE ADTHOB OP " ZENOBIA." 
 
 \, Queen of Palmyra : A Tale of the Roman Empire in the 
 s of the Emperor Aurelian. By the Rev. William Ware. 
 b Steel Illustrations. 
 
 ^N ; or, Rome in the Third Century. Being Letters of Lucius 
 i^iso from Rome, to Pausta, the Daiighter of Gracchus, at 
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 ; or, Scenes in Judea. By the Rev. William Ware. With 
 
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 CHARACTERS OF HOLY WRIT. By the Rev. Hugh Hughes, 
 
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 le lircA of more thnn tweatj of tha mothers utd vosuen of Israal 
 m« by a loving h;\.i(tl."