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THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

TEANSFOEMED

PKIXTED BY

SPOmSWOODE AND CO., XEW-STKEET SQtTAKE

LONDON

TEANSFORMED

THREE WEEKS IN A LIFE- TIME

'And a little child shall lead them'

FLORENCE MONTGrOMERY

AUTHOR OF ' MISUNDERSTOOD '

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET

:|jitblis()ers in Ortrmnro to f)tx ^ajtstu tijc ^ntm
1886

EVELYN DE CETTO RACHEL KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN

k::N, MABEL MONTGOMERY ETHEL MONTGOMERY

CONTENTS.

OPENING CHAPTER.

PAGE

JOHN RAMSAY . . . i

PAET I.

ENCELADUS.

CHAPTEll

I. SUCCESS

II. WHAT THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY

III. THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER

IV. THE SPIRIT OP THE PAST
V. AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO

21
30
46
65

PAKT II.
MIDAS.

I. UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION . . 95

II. 'friendship oblige' . . . . . 119

viu CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

III. WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED . . . .143

IV. A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR . . . 166

V, AT HIS CHILD-TEACHEr's FEET . , .197

VI. CHANGED VIEWS 215

VII. THE CHURCH IN THE OLD COUNTY-TOWN . 232

VIII. THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY . . . 251

XI. HOW IS IT ALL TO END? . . . .285

PAKT III.

NEMESIS.

I. CONSEQUENCES 301

II. THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY . . . 316
III. AN INTERVIEW 326

CLOSING- CHAPTER.

JOHN RAMSAY . . .339

Errata

Page 160, line 8,/w child's spirit r^ad child-spirit
„ 314, „ 4, /or tublmed r^«f/ tumbled
-, 330, „ 10, for And, read ' And,'

Opening Chapter
JOHN EAMSAY

OPE]S[IXG CHAPTER.

JOHN RAMSAY.

Joiix PiAMSAY was taking his ticket.

It was clone as lie did everything ;
leisurely, attentively, his mind for the
moment concentrated on the ticket he was
taking, and on nothing else.

No hnrry nor bustle ; no vagueness
nor inattention. It was so always.

Whatever he did, he did well ; giving
his whole attention to it ; which was per-
haps why he had been successful : as men
count success, at least.

For, in so far as getting, in this world,
the thing we wish to get, and have always

4 JOHN RAMS A V

been determined upon getting, constitutes
a successful life, Jolin Eamsay's life had
been successful.

But success may cost one dear for all
tliat ; and the question may nevertheless
arise — Cui bono f

He had done what he had resolved
to do ; and everyone cannot say tlie
same.

Years ago, when only a boy, not much
more than nine years old, John Eamsay
had determined within himself to make
enough money to buy back the old family
place, the old home of his childhood,
which had then, been sold to satisfy his
father's creditors.

He was fifty-nine now, and he had
done it some ten years previously.

Ilis whole life had been spent in the
effort ; and work — hard, grinding work

JOHN RAMS A Y 5

— had been the instrument lie had cm-
ployed.

As a young man he had given up
society, good fellowship, friendship, every-
thing : for his work.

He was a lawyer, and, with the one
object in view of making money, he had
worked and slaved day and night ; never
allowing himself recreation, relaxation,
rest, or change, till he had attained a cer-
tain eminence in his profession. He then
accepted a legal appointment in India, and
toiled and moiled in the heat there for
over twenty years, without ever coming
home. His object was attained when he
was forty-nine ; but he continued to work
as before.

He had lost sight of the end, in his
concentration on the means !

Work had become to him second

6 JOHN RAMSAY

nature ; and the making of money a goal,
an idol, a god almost.

He hardly cared for anything else.

The aim of his life was accomplished,
but he had ceased to care for it.

Everything was swamped in the passion
for work, and for what work brought.

To see his cains increase ; to invest
those gains ; and then to see them aug-
mented by tlie unspent dividends, which
re-invested created an ever rolling and
rolling heap, became another charm.

The momentary suspension of his con-
centration on all this while he gave his
mind to the details of buying, re-furnishing, v
etc., through agents, the family place, was
irksome to liim.

The necessary arrangements fretted him.
lie Avas dying all the time to get back to
his work.

JOHN RAMSAY 7

If his health had not begun to fail, I
do not beUeve he would ever have come
back to Enc^land at all.

But India began to tell upon him ; and
so he had, at last, come home.

But he had not, for some time, got
further than London.

He took some dingy lodgings close to
the Stock Exchange, . and there he estab-
hshed himself, in company with an old
clerk, who had been with him all his life.

He took to gambling on the Stock
Exchange ; and appeared to have forgotten
the existence of the place he had toiled to
recover.

But it was not exactly so.

He had always had, at the back of his
mind, as it were, a feeling that there was
a satisfaction in store for him in the re-
covered possession, whenever he shouldhave

8 JOHN RAMS A V

time to turn liis mind to it; it was there
waiting, whenever he chose to take it up.

All through his hard work he liad
always had this consciousness.

It was a sort of vista in the future, in
which his thoughts could always rest,
whenever he was so disposed.

So it was not so strange in him as it
seems, that he should put cfF and put off
the pleasure of going down to the old
home, so dearly bought.

But the day, however, came at length,
when he made his long-delayed pilgrimage
to it.

But once there, tlie conviction dawned
upon him that it was too late !

He realised the fact that the recovered
possession gave him no pleasure.

It was not wortli the devotion of a life-
time.

JOHN RAMS A Y 9

He felt quite out of conceit with it.

It was so much smaller than he had
remembered it. It was a mere villa, as
it seemed to him.

Its sentimental value too, to which he
had unconsciously clung all these years,
was gone.

The memory of his childhood, which
he had always supposed the sight of the
place would evoke, did not come to him.

People talk of old associations bringnig
back past scenes and past feelings ! Well !
all he could say was, the place did
neither.

His past was a blank. He could not
look back over the dim waste of years,
and merge his present identity in that of
the fair-haired, dreamy boy who had wan-
dered, and thought, and planned here ;
who had loved every stick and stone about

lo JOHN RAMSAY

tlie place, and whose name was Jolin Earn-
say, too !

JS'o ! He could get up no sentiment ; not
even when he stood on the very grass knoll
where, fifty years ago, he had formed his
resolution.

He had not even heart or imagination
enough left to be disaijpointed that his ful-
filled ambition was nothing to him.

There was no pang at his heart as he
wandered aimlessly about — only a longing,
a craving, to get back to his dingy lodging
and bury himself in figures once more.

Which he did.

His hurried visit of inspection came to
an end the very next day ; and he left the
place and returned to London.

A poorer man than before, for his one
remaininoj illusion was cone.

Back to his absorbing occupations.

JOHN RAMSAY ii

like an opium-eater — but without his
dreams.

And from that time till the moment
when we see him taking his ticket he had
never been near it again.

There was another reason which kept
him away.

A few miles from the old Manor House,
lived his onl}^ blood relation, a half-brother,
many years younger than he, to wdiom,
on its falling vacant, he had presented the
family living.

This brother was married, and had
several children, to one of whom the
brought-back property would, of course,
eventually come.

John Eamsay was glad that there was
some one to bear the family name, and live
in the family place, but there his interest
in his brother and his children beiian and

12 JOHN RAMSAY

ended. lie had a nervous dread, all the
time lie had been down there, that some of
them might come over to see him.

He felt so entirely out of sympathy
with their interests, and with family life.
And then clergymen always wanted money.

The church would want repair, or
there would be a great deal of distress in
the village, or something or other.

Not that John Eamsay was anti-reli-
gious.

He had a great respect for rehgion.
He, the highly-respectable, was a man who
never absented himself from church on
Sunday morning, even now ; while that
fair-haired shadow of the past had been
of a thouglitful, and, as long as his young
mother had lived, of a devotional, nature.

He never, I say, absented himself from
church once on Sunday, but I will not

JOHN RAMSAY 13

attempt to answer for his tliouglits while
there. But there were, figures on tlie fly-
leaves of his prayer-book, and even on the
margin of some of its pages, which certainly
did not relate to the psalms or hymns.

How far the debasing tendency of his
constant thoughts (for there is nothing so
debasing as the constant thought of money,
for its own sake, and the love of the
doubling and trebling thereof) shut out the
thought of God, and quenched the light
of his higher nature, we will not now
enquire.

His brother had come to see him imme-
diately after his return from India, and
welcomed him home with all the warmth of
fraternal affection.

But they had not been together ten
minutes before both recognised the enor-
mous gulf that divided them : the differ-

14 JOHN RAMSAY

ence of tlieir feelings, interests, aims,
and hopes, and their outlook on life, alto-
gether.

Both were embarrassed and constrained.

The clergyman, accustomed to study-
human nature, and to meet with every
variety of character, recovered himself
first.

He concealed his disappointment as well
as he could, and did not abate one jot of
his kindness and consideration.

He expressed his regret that his brother
had no intention, just then, of settling at
home, and begged him to use the Eectory
as an hotel, whenever he felt inclined to do

so.

' My children are longing to see the
unknown uncle of whom they have heard
so much all their lives,' he said (which
sentence was entirely mysterious to John

JOHN RAMSAY 15

Eamsa3^ lie could not, for long after Ids
brother had departed, conceive what he
meant by it).

To hide his confusion at tlie moment,
he asked how many children there were,
but- 1 need not say he did not listen to the
answer.

'I have one daughter and two little
boys,' the clergyman, answered. ' Come
down and see them and make acquaintance
with my wife.'

The last words of the sentence reached
John Eamsay's inner ear, and roused him
from his apathy.

A lady ! an unknown sister-in-law.

He had a poor opinion of women in
general, as well as an indifference to their
society, which amounted to distaste.

Frivolous, unbusiness-hke, talking crea-
tures, requiring little attentions, expecting

i6 JOHN RAMSA V

pretty speeches, offering to sing or play to
you.

Inwardly he shrank and shuddered, but
outwardly he only looked away, and said :
' Out of the question, at present. I am far
too busy.'

' Well ! ' said Gilbert Eamsay, ' I will
not press you, only remember when you
want a change and a holiday, how welcome
you will be.'

And with that they shook hands and
parted : and John Eamsay had not seen his
brother aszain.

lie had had an urgent letter or two
from him since, on an unwelcome subject ;
which he had not answered. And there
their intercourse had ended.

The visit to the Manor House and this
interview witli his brother were now
matters of past history.

JOHN RAMS A \ 17

But in the period which had since
elapsed, matters had somewhat changed
with John Eamsay.

That is to say, what he would not do
of himself, Nature had forced on him.

Lassitude and weariness came upon
him ; the overworked brain refused any
longer to perform the duties demanded of
it ; and the doctor, whom he had at last
unwilhngly consulted, said absolute rest
was necessary. Not only necessary, but
imperative.

This is why we see John Eamsay on
the platform of a railway station, on his
way down to the old place again.

We left him taking his ticket.

Having done so, he took his place in
the train, bought an evening paper, and
turned at once to the money article. The
bell rang soon after, and the train started.

Part I.
ENCELADUS

c -J

CHAPTER I.

SUCCESS.

The train tore alono- bearing; the silent
figure in the compartment, intent upon the
stocks and shares : never giving a look or
a thought to the beauty of the country
through wliich he Avas passing, or to the
glory of the June evening. Two hours or
so after John Ramsay was driving up to
his own door. The housekeeper was
waitin^f in the hall to welcome him
back.

She received him with a low courtesy :
and then led the way to the library, which,

22 ENCELADUS

she said as she ushered him in, she fancied
would be the room he would prefer.

He curtly replied to her observations,
and, without giving a glance round the
room, sat himself down in a big red leather
chair by the writing-table, and began to
wish she would go.

She showed, however, no intention of
doing so : but remained standing in the
middle of the room, making various re-
marks on the preparations she had made
for his arrival, enquiring as to the hour at
which it suited him to dine, etc., etc. His
repHes were so very brief and uninterested,
that she was evidently not encouraged to
continue. It was impossible to sustain so
one-sided a conversation.

She therefore withdrew, saying she
would look in again a little later, when she
hoped he might have recovered the fatigue

SUCCESS 23

of his journey. No doubt a little nap
would refresh him. She would see that
he was not disturbed.

She had a look all the time as if she
had something to say ; if only the moment
had been more opportune for saying it, or
a little more encouragement been given.

There was rather a stress laid on the
intimation that she would look in again.
John Eamsay, however, observed nothing
of all tliis. He was watching her im-
patiently. Iler presence was a gene to
him, and he was longing to be left to
himself. At last she did so. The door
closed behind her, and silence settled down
upon the library, and its solitary occupant.

Why does he wear that look of deep
dejection? Why with such a weary un-
satisfied gaze do his eyes wander round
the room, and travel, with the same

24 ENCELADUS

mournful expression, to the lovely coun-
try outside the window, lying in all the still
beauty of a June evening ?

Why ?

Because, as he sits there in the midst of
the realised hopes of a lifetime, there has
come suddenly upon him that sense of
disappointment which had not assailed him
on his former visit. A cruel sense of
disappointment in the conviction tliat his
realised joy is no joy to him whatever
after all.

He had been too much buried in his
work before to feel it. But ever since the
putting aside of the anodyne of constant
occupation had laid him bare, as it were,
to the world outside his business-room ; he
had been a prey to sad thoughts. And
now they suddeidy overwhelmed him.

He had never known till this moment

SUCCESS 25

^vhat it had been to him all his life to have
an illusion in the future : a promise of
pleasure whenever he should have time or
inclination to turn his thoufrlits towards it:
whenever he should choose to stretch out
his hand, and grasp it.

And now it was gone ! That little
beacon in the future, that little light which
had led him on and on for so many years,
was but a will-o'-the-wisp after all, and
had landed him, after Q-oinsj out itself, in a
morass of indifference and disappointment.
Ah ! not to have your wish is sad enough,
but to have it, and to find it dust and
ashes, is the saddest thing of all.

He fought with the feeling desperately,
and tried to put it aside. lie told himself
he was ill, unstrung, overwrought, morbid :
that the causes of his depression were
altogether physical.

26 ' ENCELADUS

But it Avas no use. The thouo-]it would
not leave Iiim. This longing to enjoy,
wliat had cost him so much, returned in
full force ; it was a feeling akin to pain.

It seemed so hard.

When young, he had not had the means
of enjoyment ; when middle-aged, he had
not had the leisure.

NoiD he had both means and leisure :
and the power of enjoyment was gone.

That he liad missed tlie meaning of his
life somehow, came very strongly over him
as he sat. lie was at the top of tlie hill, it
was true ; but the sun was already setting
l^ehind him, and what was there in front ?
Nothing — absolutely nothing. A cliill came
down npon his spirit to think it was all
endinL*" — and endinf^ so !

How frightfully empty his life was.
IIow joyless ! How aimless ! Everything

SLCCESS 27

tasteless, and now even tlie capacity for
work bemnning; to fail.

The means, and not the end, were, after
all, he saw, what he had been living for all
these years ; and now the power of nsing
the means was going to be taken away
from him.

The emptiness of his individual life
came home to him more and more every
moment.

He felt himself to be without interest,
without hope, without feeling : without an
object in life here, and with no definite
aspiration after that which is to come.

A strano;e feelino; of unrest came over
him ; a va^ue lonsiinsf for the thino^s that

'coo o

used to be ; for the feelinizs he used to have
in his childhood, here ; hi tliis very place.

He tried with all his mi^ht to throw
himself back into them ; into the dreams

28 ENCELADUS

and visions of his youtli, and the love of
the scenes by which he was surrounded,
that he might force liiniself to enjoy the
consciousness that all was once more his
own.

But he could not do it. He could not
catch the broken thread.

The heaven of his childhood had de-
parted, to be conjured up no more.

All seemed a blank. He could remem-
ber nothing ; could revive no past.

lie passed his hand across his forehead,
and felt quite bewildered.

A tap at the door broke in upon his re-
flections.

The housekeeper again !

What could she Avant, disturbing him
like this ?

lie glanced at her impatiently.

This time, even to his unobservant eye,

SUCCESS 29

it was evident she had something particular
to say.

She stood in the middle of the room,
smoothing down her apron with both hands,
in a somewhat nervous manner.

There was a short pause. It was broken
by the housekeeper.

30 ENCELADUS

CHAPTER 11.

WHAT THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY.

' I AM sorry to say there is bad news, sir,'
she said gravely, and her kind face was
troubled as she said it.

How such an announcement on an
arrival at home would make some hearts
beat — some stop beating altogether ! But
here comes in the advantage of having

dried-up feelings, and no ties.

John Eamsay was quite unmoved.

His pulses did not stir. His business-
mind could only conceive of one kind of
news, and he answered accordingly:

' You are mistaken,' he said, ' I have the

WHA T THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY 31

evening papers. Tliere is nothing new.
The money-market lias been very quiet,
and there is no change in the quotations
either for loans or discounts.'

' I beg your pardon, sir,' answered the
housekeeper, ' but it was not of any news-
paper news I was speaking. It is nearer
home than that. The Eector, sir, is very ill.'

She paused a moment, as if to give him
time to recover from what she supposed
must be a very painful piece of intelligence.
John Eamsay tried to shake himself free of
his abstraction, so as to understand what
she meant ; and in so doing realised two
things : first, that the Eector was his
brother ; and secondly, that, that being so,
he ouixlit to show some concern that the
Eector was ill.

' I am sorry to hear it,' he stammered.
' What is the nature of his illness ? '

32 ENCELADUS

' Typhoid fever, sir,' said the house-
keeper, in a tremulous tone ; ' and a serious
case, I am afraid.'

' He'll get through,' said Mr. Eamsay
quickly ; and his tone was so confident
that the housekeeper stopped short, in what
she was beginning to say.

' Oh sir ! ' she exclaimed eairerly. ' Have
you heard anything fresh ? Did j'ou
know something before I told you ? '

But Mr. Eamsay was only providing
himself witli an excuse for not feeling, on
the same principle that makes some people
say, ' I don't think it's true. I don't believe
it ' ; when they do not want to have the
trouble of expressing sympathy.

' No — no — ,' he answered, ' but I

feel sure I — How did he get it .^ '

he interrupted himself, not quite knowing
what to say.

W//A T THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SA Y 33

' The drains at tlic Eectory have been
getting into a bad state for a long while,'
was the answer ; ' and are, the doctor
says, the cause of the outbreak. The
Kector '

' Outbreak ? ' repeated Mr. Eamsay
rather nervously. For, as she spoke, a
dim recollection of some letters from his
brother on the subject of drains, flitted
through his mind : letters, which, only half
read, had very speedily found a resting-
place in the waste-paper basket. ' Did you
say outbreak ? Is there any other case,
then, beside my brother ? '

' I am sorry to say, sir, that two of tlie
servants have attacks of the same kind,
though of a milder form, and one of the
children has scarlatina. This last is a
slight case, but the doctor says it's from
the same cause. The Rector has been

34 ENCELADUS

continually patching up the drains this
year past : but they wanted thorough
re-doing, which was more than he could
afford.'

John Eamsay turned away rather
liastily, and said nothing more. He longed
to be left alone again, and hoped every
minute the housekeeper would go.

But she seemed to have still something
to say.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' she said, ' but
not expecting you down, and thinking you
would not object, I have had Master Gilbert
(that's the Rector's youngest little boy,
sir), over here with me to keep him out
of tlie way and to help to keep the
house quiet. And then when tlie scarlatina
appeared, it was not safe to send him back.
It is a great relief to poor Mrs. Eamsay
to feel the cluld's safe and happy with

IVHA T THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY 35

me. But I thought I'd better mention it,
sir.'

John Ramsay was much startled. A
few minutes before he would have very
distinctly shown it.

But now a certain sense of shame
kept him quiet ; and he only said,

' Well, Mrs. Prior, it's an awkward
business, a very awkward lousiness ; but
you must do your best.'

To this somewhat incomprehensible sen-
tence, Mrs. Prior — who, having a motherly
heart, could not see how the presence of a
child in a house could be considered an
' awkward business ' — answered,

' Master Gilbert is a dear little boy, sir.
I'm glad of his company in this big empty
house.'

And then she left the room, and Mr.
Ramsay leaned back in his chair. •

6 ENCELADUS

There was a very uncomfortable feeling
deep down in his breast about those letters
lying in the waste-paper basket in his lodg-
ings in London.

He had not half read them, but now the
gist of them returned to him, and they
certainly had been something? about the
Eectory drains.

He remembered feeling angry at being
asked to spend money, and impatiently
tossing them aside with the reflection that
he knew it would l)e like this — clergymen
alucaij!^ wanted money for something or
other.

But above these thoughts rose others.

The housekeeper's last words somehow
clung to him.

There was something about tlie way
she had said ' a dear little boy ' lliat seemed
to strike a chord deep down within him,

I17/A T THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SA V 37

wliicli had not sounded for many and many
a day.

It was very, very long since lie had
heard the words ' a dear little boy, and
they somehow fell upon his ear witli a
soothing effect. She spoke them so that
they sounded almost like a caress.

A dreamy feeling stole over him, for
which he could not account.

Something from the verjf far past,
seemed to come and lay its liand on Ids
head, and say ' My dear little boy.'

His eye was dim for a moment as the
thought of tliat touch and tliat voice came
over him, and involuntarily his hand stole
to a locket which hung upon his watch-
chain ; and he opened it, and looked for a
moment at tlie bright tress of hair it con-
tained.

His mother's hair ! His fair young

38 ENCELADUS

mother, wlio died wlien he was nine years
old. What centuries it seemed since he
and she in the summer twihglit had sat
hand-in-hand in this very room, and tallvcd
too-ether !

He took up the evening paper, hut
somethinfy bhirred his vision.

It fell from his hand.

' Master Gilbert is a dear little boy,
sir ! '

All unsought, his own far past began
stealino' over him with a vividness he could
not have thought possible a few minutes

ago !

Was it after all that the old associations
around him v:eTe beginninfif to tell ? Or was

CD O

it the thought of that child in the house,
lying perhaps in the very same room Avhere
that other boy used to lie ; over whom
some one with the fair hair of the locket

WHAT THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SA V 39

used to bend at iiiglit, and say ' My dear
little boy ' ?

What he had tried in vain to do for
himself, the words of the housekeeper,
ring-in"- in his ears, be<^an to do for
him.

Some key seemed to liave unlocked the
paralysed feehngs and recollections buried
for so many years. His past began slowly
rising before him. He became able to
revive it. It began to stand out clear.

First, the happy, dreamy life with his
young mother, the ' heaven that lies about
us in our infancy.' Then the terrible
wrench of the parting with her on his de-
parture for school ; and the sudden going
out of the lio'ht in his life : for from that
moment he had never seen her again.

Ere his first holidays arrived, she had
sone to lier Ion"- home, to learn the well-

40 EXCELADUS

ke])t secret "which no one comes back
to tell.

He remembered vividly the sudden
summons, the long journey, and the arrival
at the blank, desolate home — the darkened
rooms, the aching void, the emptiness,
and the closinir scene at the funeral.

And it seemed to him now that out of
that darkness and that emptiness he had
never really come. All the innocence and
the joyousness, and the poetry of his life
had, it seemed to him, gone away with the
spirit of his young mother ; and, ever
since, over him, as well as over her, the
crust of the earth — the most earthy of
earthiness — had formed. His higher nature,
all that there was of the spirit about him,
had taken flight with her spirit ; and, it
seemed to him now, had never returned.
For in those old days he had had

ll^//A r THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY d,\

aspirations, he had had longings after wliat
was good and trne and worthy of a hfe's
devotion. Where were they all gone ?

He remembered so clearly how in tliat
first school-time he had strnggled against
difficulties and temptations for her sake ;
and tlie hope of telling her all about it,
and the thought of her smile of approval,
liad kept him straight among the many
temptations and provocations of the large,
rough school, to wdiich his father had,
because it was inexpensive, sent him.

He had stored it all up to tell her,
and he had never, never been able to

do so.

He had come to lay the griefs of his
child's heart, and the weight of his young
life's burden on her loving breast ; and
had found that breast cold as marble,
in the long last sleep of death.

42 ENCELADUS

There was notliini:^ after that to strno^o-le
for, no end in view.

lie could never tell her now ; never
shew her the prize for good conduct it
had cost liim such infniite struc^oies, for
her sake, to win.

The light of his life was quenched for
ever, and from thenceforward he had been
left in the dark alone.

And coldness and hardness and in-
difference had come down upon him tlien.

Following closely upon her death had
come the break-up of the home, the sale
of the place to pay his father's debts, and
the removal to the uninteresting country
town wliere his father settled. Later on,
the cheap public school, the dull, unsatis-
factory holidays, and home became more
utterly distasteful to Iiim since his father's
second marriaf/e to a middle-a^ed, bustlincf

IV//A T THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SAY 43

woiiiaii. Then had come stronger than
ever the overmastering determmation,
formed before leaving it, of buying back
the old place some day, the place hallowed
by his early recollections. He had had a
secret hope all through his boyhood that
he shoidd by doing so recover something
of the heaven of his childhood, Avhich had
drifted ever farther and farther away.
After that, the hard work to fit himself
for his profession, the slavery at the law,

the many years' toil in India, and

This brought him back to the present
moment, when, all his dreams fulfdled, all
his aims accomplished, he w^as sitting a
successful man who had climbed to the
very top of the ladder. And now —
what? — Where was the heaven of his
childhood ? How was he to revive it ?
Too late, too late !

44 ENCELADUS

He has been Ijiuied too long.

He moved uneasily in his chair, per-
turbed by these new thoughts.

His eye fell again on the evening paper.

He took it up — and the dreams in
"which he had been indulfrino; vanished, as
also the higher thoughts to which they
miiiht have led.

The heaven of his cliildhood departs :
he and his young mother are buried once
more.

She sleeps, as she has slept for years,
beneath a marble slab, forgotten : and he
under a mountain of gold. In other words,
he is again buried under the absorbing
thoughts of his daily and hourly interests.

Stocks and shares ! Shares and stocks !
The state of the money market ! Out come
the spectacles, and now no other thought
to-ni<dit.

WHAT THE HOUSEKEEPER HAD TO SA V 45

All ! Verily ' it is easier for a camel
to go tlirougli the eye of a needle, than
for a rich man to enter into the kingdom
of God ! '

46 ENCELADUS

CHAPTER III.

THE LAUGIIIXG WOODPECKER.

It was a cbildish. ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy
To think I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

The next morning, John Ramsay descended
to breakfast without much recollection of
his retrospective musings of the evening
before.

The daily papers had arrived, and ab-
sorbed his thoughts. There was likely to
be a slight panic on the Stock Exchange
to-day, owing to certain foreign telegrams
which had arrived.

How he wished he was in London !

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 47

He liad lialf a mind to go up for tlie
day.

But no ! He knew well cnoiigli he was
not equal to the exertion. He had been
overtired even by yesterday's journey ;
and he was weary, and uurefreshed by
his night's sleep.

It was no use wishing. He must not
think of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and
sat down to breakfast.

Soon after, the housekeeper appeared
with a bill of fare for his dinner.

She volunteered, at the end of the talk
that ensued on the subject, that she had
heard that morning that the patients at the
Eectory were in much the same condition
— though he had not enquired after tliem.

Somewhat shamestricken, for he had not
even remembered his brother's illness, he
tried to say something sympathetic ; and

48 ENCELADUS

then by wa}'- still further to atone, he
added, ' By the way, how is the child
upstairs ? '

' Very well, thank you, sir,' ansAvered
the housekeeper. ' But,' she added with a
smile, ' he's not upstairs, sir. Master Gilbert
is not one that would be indoors on a day
like this. He's been out ever since
eight.'

' This must be a dull house for a child ? '
interrogatively.

' Dull, sir ! Master Gilbert's never dull.
He's a very hap^^y child, sir. Every little
thing is a pleasure to him, and a delight.'

' Everything a pleasure and a dehght.'
How strangely the words sounded in the
ears of the worn-out man. 'Everything
a pleasure and a delight, eh ? ' he repeated.
'Xow what sort of things? '

' A'most anything, sir,' was the not very

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 49

enliglitening answer. ' He turns everything
into a happiness — hke. He's a sunbeam in
a house, sir.'

Encouraged by the spark of interest
shown, she added, ' Woukln't you hke to
see him, sir ? '

' No — — ; I think not,' was tlie an-
swer, with an ahnost perceptible shudder ;
and then, as if to make amends, ' I'm not
used to chiklren, you see. Haven't an idea
what to say to them. He woukl certainly
cry.'

He ran over in his head as he spoke the
sort of thing which he imagined amused
children. A vague feeling that you crack
your fingers at them, and say, ' I see you !
1 see you ! ' several times. How even to ad-
dress them he was not quite sure. ' \Yell,
my little dear,' he thouglit he remembered
was the correct form. And then, if he was

so ENCELADUS

not mistaken, children always asked grown-
up people to ' tell them stories.'

What a ghastly idea !

He tell stories ! With a dried-up imagi-
nation and a failing memory !

He was roused by the voice of the
housekeeper, who "was answering his ques-
tion.

' Cry, sir ? Dear me ! Master Gilbert
never cries. He's past crying age, sir.'

But she had the tact to say nothing
more about his seeino- the child. She saw
how the case stood, and retired to her own
apartments below, with a sigh of pity for
an ' old bachelor who knew nothing about
children.'

Meanwhile Mr. Eamsay finished his
breakfast, and sat dow^n in the red leather
chair.

And now what next ?

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 51

What was lie to do ?

Tlie wliole long day lay before him,
and how w^as he to fill up the w^eary
hours ?

He had read the newspaper through
from end to end, and what occupation w\as
left?

The doctor had said there must be no
calculations, no brain-work whatever, for
at least a fortnight.

What was he to do ? How quiet the
country was ! How silent ! How stag-
nant !

How he missed the roar of the City as
heard through the window of his business-
room ; the roll of the traffic, and the noise
and the bustle, that told of life's eager
struggle just outside his door.

He had loved so, in the early morning,
the sense of his own pulse beating with the

E 2

52 ENCELADUS

pulse of the great city just waking up to
life. And now there was nothing to do !

Compulsory inaction the first thing in
the morning. A heavy punishment to an
active mind.

That lonely country stretching out
before him, how dull, how stagnant it
made him feel !

How he longed to fill up the great Time
intervals with fig-ures !

How he missed the usual absorbing
interest of his day !
What could he do ?

There was nothing to do but to think.
There is, indeed, he reflected, too much
time for thinking in the country. His
thoughts, too, were not particularly plea-
sant ones. They ought to be, no doubt,
but he could not say they were.

Back came the haunting regrets of last

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 53

night ; tlie aggrieved feeling tliat he should
not be able to enjoy the fulfilment of his
life's ambition, and that it brought him no
joy, not even a faint feeling of pleasure or
satisfaction.

That secret hope of recovering the
heaven of his childhood, why has it flown
away ?

Where is the light that in his youth
shone upon field and meadow ?

Where is tlie glory that used to be
everywhere? Why has it departed from
the earth ?

But he was determined, he told himself,
he would not be baulked like this.

He ivould have his reward. He would
reap where he had sown. If he could
find joy anywhere it would be here — here
in these fields and meadows, here where it
used to be.

54 ENCELADUS

It must still be here if he could only
find it.

It must be hidden somewhere in the

bright glory of the June day. He would

go and search for it ; something impelled
him.

Yes, he would go and seek it : it must
surely still be here.

He got up slowly and with the air of
one who has made a resolution ; he went
into the hall, put on his hat, and stepped
out into the garden. How gorgeous is
Nature's beauty on a June morning !

What a wealth of colour in the land-
scape ! What a world of song in the air !

Whether wc look or whetlier we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.

Every clod feels a stir of night —
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly ahove it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

Tlic fhish of life may well be seen.

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 55

Thrilling back over hills and valleys.

The cowslip startles in meadows green
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean,
To be some happy creature's palace. — Lowell.

But John riamsay felt none of all this.

He thought it oppressively hot in the
sun on the terrace, and turned away to-
wards the shady side of the house, by a
path which seemed to lead somewhere — it
did not much matter to him where — as
long as he could get out of the sun.

He found himself being led to what
appeared to be a rather bare shrubbery or
plantation, in the near neighbourhood of
the stableyard, reached through a large
gap in the tall laurel hedge which sur-
rounded it.

It was a poor, uncared-for-looking place.

The habit of looking upon everything
in the light of what could be got out of it

56 ENCELADUS

was so strong in him that even now it
chased for a moment his other thoiijzhts
away.

His utilitarian mind suilcrcd ^reat
shocks as he looked about him.

What waste of land ! What wretched
timber ! Nothing well kept.

Nothing that yielded any return !

Most unprofitable !

The stables, as he approached them
after leaving the shrubbery, appeared to be
in a very decayed condition.

A little way farther on two shabby
kennels, one containing a pointer and the
other a retriever, came in sight.

Their occupants rushed out and barked
long and furiously at the unknown figure
coming along the path.

It depressed him, he hardly knew why,
to be treated by his own so entirely as

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 57

a stranger. He turned away rather
abruptly.

He found liimself now close to tlie
kitchen-garden, and he went in. He
looked about him cautiously, warily, for
fear there should be any gardeners about
who would speak to him, or worse still,
expect him to speak to them.

What a dreary uninviting spot is a
kitchen-garden ! he thought. How dull,
how uninteresting, with its rows of straight
green ; its endless, uniform hues, all the
same colour ! There was only one human
figure in sight — that of a bent-double old
man, whether with age or with infirmity
he could not at that distance determine,
who appeared to be weeding.

' What a life ! ' exclaimed John Eamsay
to himself.

He got nearer to the solitary figure.

58 ENCELADUS

and, concealed by a raspberry bush, he
watched him.

' A true clodhopper ! ' he said to him-
self. ' A hind, with a dull, vacant expres-
sion of countenance in keeping with the
dreariness around and with the dulness of
his occupation.'

No wonder its monotony and vacuity
had passed into his face !

But his prominent feehng in studying
the old man was a less A^orthy one than
this.

He Avas looking at him from the point
of view of an employer of labour.

And in the hght of their relations as
employer and emj)loyed, he looked very
darkly at the bent, incapable figure before
him.

His utilitarian ideas again asserted
tliemselves, and he began to wonder how

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 59

much lie got a week for the very httle he
seemed able to do.

Why — the old creature could hardly
work at all !

There was great waste here again.

This must be looked into. He felt
depressed and disgusted, and he left the
kitchen-garden.

So far, certainly, he had not found that
of which he had come out in search. He
must try again. He must go to some less
prosaic part of the grounds. Somewhere,
near here, he dimly remembered, there
was a beautiful wood in which he had, as
a boy, spent many happy hours ; but it
was at some distance, if he remembered
right.

On the way to it, there used to be a
high bank, which, hi the early spring, was
covered with piimroses.

6o ENCELADUS

Wliy Can this be the high bank he

remembered ? This little tiny elevation
he was approacliing, a mere mound, it
appeared to him.

Yes, it was the same, there was no
doubt about it. Two or three paces took
him to the top. In old days, it was a long
and arduous toil to reach the summit.
And here another surprise awaited him
The wood which he had thouo-ht a Ions:
way off, was close at hand. Here it
was.

Well ! Distance, he supposed, like
elevation, was a matter of degree ; and
a child is so near the OTound, that thinf^s

CD ' C

seem different.

At any rate, he was glad to enter its
leafy coolness, for it was very hot, and lie
was getting very tired. He hoped he might
fnid a seat.

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 6i

Hie wood was no doubt cool and
pleasant. But that was all.

There was nothing of that past senti-
ment, or of that old enjoyment that he had
hoped to discover.

But suddenly hope revived. A sound
fell upon his ear which he had not heard
for years, and which did carry him back.
It was the laugh of a woodpecker.

How distinctly he remembered that
sound in that very wood I

It came back to him how he used to
chase the woodpeckers, laughing too I
How they gave back laugh for laugh, and
how aptly their laugh used to follow on
what he said !

He remembered how he used to make
foolish little riddles and jokes for the birds
to laugh at, and how unfaihngly they
applauded them.

62 E AXE LAD us

There was hope here, and he determined
to give it every chance.

So he stopped in his walk to listen, and
the woodpecker laughed again.

Bnt it did not amuse him now — not
the least.

He felt that directly.

It was not so very like a laugh after all.

It was certainly a very tiresome sound
if it went on too long.

The lono:er he listened, the more mo-
notonous and tiresome it seemed to him
to be !

And with the conviction that it bored
him, came a new pang.

It was hopeless !

To enter into the joys of childhood you
must he a child.

Stiff, old, worn-out, unimaginative crea-
ture that he was, he could no more enter

THE LAUGHING WOODPECKER 63

into the ideal Avorkl of childhood, tlian
could his rheumatic joints carry him with
youtli's elasticity in chase of the bird as
they used to do.

Hopeless — hopeless ! Too late — too late !

His body was tired out, and he was
longing to find a seat ; and his mind was
already weary of the summer sights and
sounds around him.

And with a deeper feeling of depression
than he had had yet, he turned slowly back
by the path by which he had entered the
wood, till he came to the stump of an old
tree Avhicli had been roughly fashioned
into a seat.

And as he sank down wearily upon it,
on his ear fell, once more, the laugh of the

woodpecker at a little distance.

It laughed gaily ; laughed again and
again.

64 ENCELADUS

It was wonderful liow its laugh affected
him this time. He quite shrank into him-
self, and wished he could get away from
its sound. For it seemed to him that it
was laughing at him, and not, as in the
old days, icith him ; and what a difference
there is in that !

It seemed to him the bird had a mock-
ing laugh, a cruel laugh ; as if it were
taunting him with the failure of his attempt
to revive the poetry of his childhood, and
to enter into the joys of the June day.

CIIAPTEll IV.

THE SrmiT OF THE TAST.

Come to me, oh ye children !

And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing

In your sunny atmosphere.
In your hearts are the birds and the sur.sbine,

In your thoughts the brookh'ts flow,
But in mine is the wind of autumn,

And the first fall of the snow.

He remained sitting for some time very
quiet, his eyes closed, his hands cdasped
over his stick, and his face resting upon
them ; sad tliou2:hts coursin"- throui^li his

' O DO

mind.

All was very still around him, when

66 ENCELADUS

tlie air was suddenly lilled with a new
sound : one of the loveliest of all sounds —
a child's laugh ! Clear, ringing, joyous.

Jolni Ramsay started, wondered, and
tlien with a dawnhiry conviction of what it
must be sat stiller than ever, and waited
to see what Avould follow.

He had not to wait lono-.

The sound was followed ])y light, hurry-
ing footsteps, the low branches of a tree
were parted ; and there flashed into the
sunlight the brightest, fairest thing the
June day had seen yet.

Tlie nimble, graceful figure of a boy
appeared for a moment in the pathway — ■
just for a moment — and then shot by, dis-
appearing into the recesses of the wood
from whence it appeared to have been
conjured.

His light feet hardly touched the ground

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 67

ill Ills liuny and eagcriiu,^."^. He was in full
chase after tlic woodpecker, whose laugh,
apparently echoing his, was sounding now
here, now there, now close at hand, and
now disappearing into the distance, as if
to delude him in the chase.

As the child sped along, he turned his
head round for a moment with an upward
gaze looking for the woodpecker, and John
Eamsay's worn-out eyes had a glimpse, for
that moment, of a face which had cauQ-ht
the joy of the sunlight, and embodied the
beauty of the day.

It quite dazzled him, but before he
could define it, it was gone ; and the wood
seemed dark and empty without it.

With a dim feelim? that he was nearer
the spirit he was seeking than he had been
yet ; he rose slowly up and tried to find
the path by which the child had come.

68 EACELADUS

No easy task. Siicli creatures find boughs
and branches no obstacle : but Jolm
Kamsay's stifl' back was not equal to the
strain of such bowmcr and bendino;.

However, he pushed on as best he
could ; and he was rewarded.

For, all of a sudden, and by a more
circuitous route than that by which the
child had travelled, he came upon a httle
settlement before which he stood trans-
fixed.

There lay on the ground before him a
stick, and a broken water-jug: but with
these poor tools, backed by a vivid
imagination, what a fairy-scene had been
created.

A tiny garden, little grass plots, little
gravel walks, tiny gates and palings.
Along one of the miniature paths, a little
doll, six inches higli, assumed the form of

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 69

a stately lady, and appeared to be solemnly
pacing. A tiny tent, evidently belonging to
some old box of toy soldiers, together with
a doll's sofa and chair, made a little
settlement close by, on a lawn composed
of bits of moss, carefully patted down and
watered.

Not far from this a flat tin box was
sunk into the ground and filled with
water, thus representing a lake, on which
a tiny boat, moored to a twig on the shore
by a long piece of coloured worsted, was
floating:.

Another plot of patted-down moss
formed the lawn-tennis ground : the net
manufactured by bits of cotton stretched
across between two pieces of stick.

Hay-making was evidently going on
in the little meadows beyond the fairy
garden, for little heaps of cut grass were

70 ENCELADUS

scattered about witli Ptiidicd carelessness
all over tlie adjacent territory.

Other interesting things had evidently
been in course of construction when the
little landscape gardener had been lured
away by the laugh of the woodpecker, for
there were signs of hastily interrupted
labour and unfinished wonders.

Long John Eamsay stood there, gazing
with a sort of wistful envy at the wealth
of imagination displayed at his feet. Such
a power would indeed make of any poor
spot on earth a paradise. Under its spell,
the deserts mio-ht well break forth into
sinr>in£'- and the wilderness blossom as a
rose.

A sermon he had once heard recurred
to him on the verse, ' Behold, I make all
things new.' Not different^ the preacher
had explained, and therefore strange and

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 71

unfamiliar, but new with the restoral of tlie
wonderful freshness and dehght of youth.
Not new scenes in the sense of their being
novel, but new powers of enjoying them ;
not new enjoyments, but new capacities
for enterincj into them. A world and a
life new with the l)loom and elasticity and
freshness of youth : interests that would
be enduring, and fi'eshness that would be
imperishable.

And at the same moment, following on
the recollection, came back to him the
words of the housekeeper : ' Everything is
a pleasure and a delight to him,'

' Except ye become as little children,'
he murmured. Ah ! that was it !

But how was it to 1)6 done ?

How regain what has passed away for
ever ? How revive the freshness of so far
aw^ay a past ?

72 ENCELADUS

Dimly arose in his mind tlie idea
that things seen through the eyes of
another, might regain their dead power.
This child mi^ht be able to teach liim :
might help him to get back into the
feehngs of long ago. It was a very dim
idea at first, but it gained ground with him
every moment. It was a purely selfish
feeling, as selfish, as it was extraordinary
ill a man like him : but in his present
mood he snatched at it eagerly. Fellow-
ship with the child became a fixed idea
in his mind.

If he could only see with his eyes, hear
witli his ears, partake in the illusions
whicli flooded liis ])ath with sunshine ; he
might in some vicarious manner, attain to
the fulfilment of the promise ' Behold I
make all thinfrs new ' in the sense in v/hich

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 73

the preacher had ex])lained it. He bei^-an
wonderiiio; if he should meet the cliild
ao-ain.

Had the boy seen him, lie wondered,

sitting in the wood just now?

If he Jiad., the probabihties were he
would have been frijzhtened at the si"ht of
such a stiff, stony-looking old creature. The
suggested contrast between his own appear-
ance, and the haunting sunshine of the
briijht face he liad seen, brought on a vio-
lent reaction against himself and his new
project.

He turned away abruptly and retraced
his steps to the house.

' What nonsense ! ' he muttered to him-
self as he went along ; ' as if I could have
anything in common with a child. What
communion,' he asked himself bitterly, ' has

74 ENCELADUS

light -with darkness ? What possible
attraction could I have for anything joyous
and younir ? '

He entered the library, and sank down
in the red leather chair. His idea now
seemed Utopian, and he began to give it
np. Wear}^ and dispirited he closed his
eyes and sank into a half sleep.

By-and-by as he dozed he became
dreamil}" aware of footsteps and voices on
the terrace outside, just underneath that
open window.

' But Mrs. Pryor,' said a fresli j'Oung
voice, ' do let me go to him. I want to see
him so badly.'

Then the soothing voice of the house-
keeper —

'ISTo, my dear, you liad better not.
Your uncle is an old man, you know", and
not used to children.'

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 75

' "What is it you call him ? A battle-
dore ? ' said the young voice again.

'An old bachelor, dear, j^es. And
he's not used to noise, don't you see, and
it miglit Avorry him.'

' But I'll be so quiet, Mrs. Pryor, I
won't hardly speak. I only want just to
look at him, to see what he's like.'

' You liad better not go to him, dear,
really. He wouldn't like it, I am afraid.'

' But — but — ' the young voice expostu-
lated.

The remainder of the sentence was not
distinct. Mrs. Pryor was evidently lead-
ing the child away to distract him from
his intentions, for the voices sounded every
moment farther off.

Some unwonted feelinof stirred in the
sleeper's breast.

He looked pained and distressed.

76 EXCELADUS

A feeling' of keen rera-et came over liim
that he had been represented to the child as
an old bachelor who was bored by little
children, though he knew it was entirely
his own fault.

Mrs. Pryor had onl}- too faitlifully re-
produced his own words to her that
morning.

But it was a death-blow to the hopes
he had had in tlie w^ood ; and he gave up
his new idea at once and for ever.

The voices arew fainter and fainter in
the distance ; and silence and disappoint-
ment settled down upon the old man's
heart.

CHAPTER V.

AX UNCOXSCIOUS IIEEO.

Some hours passed.

Mrs. Pryor had been m to offer kmcheon,
which had been refused ; and since then
all had been perfectly still and silent, both
"vvithin and without.

John Eamsay sank into a heavy
sleep, and hardly kncAV how the time was
passing.

It must have been well on in the after-
noon before anything caused him to stir in
his slumbers, and become at all conscious of
his surroundings.

Even then he did not really quite wake,

78 ENCELADUS

nor could lie quite define what it was that
had broken in upon his shimbers.

It was a sound of some sort in the dis-
tance on the terrace outside ; a sound as of
some one skipping along on the gravel,
and liumminG; or sino^insf, at the same
time.

The combined sounds drew nearer and
the sino[infT or hummino- assumed more defi-
nitely the shape of a song in a clear treble,
of which the words now became distinct
and audible. They were these —

Fiddle-de-dee !

Fiddle-de-dee I

The fly has married the humhle bee.

John Kamsay roused himself, and lis-
tened with amazement. The song broke

out again —

Says the fly, says she,
Will you marry me ?
And live with me,
tSweet humhle bee %

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 79

' Most curious ! ' muttered John Eamsay.

A silence followed, as if some new idea
had seized the singer, and diverted his
tliou"'hts into anew channel.

John Eamsay closed his eyes again.

There was presently a sound in the
room as if somebody or something were
getting cautiously and quietly in at the
open window.

Presently there was a slight ' flop,' as if
that somebody or something had dropped
down from an elevation and had alio'hted
upon its feet in the room.

Somebody or something was advancing
on tip-toe into the room, communing with
itself in a whisper as it came —

'Only just going to look at him —
just going to see what he is like.'

A small figure ; a creature with its
finger on its lip, as if warning some invisible

8o ENCELADUS

person not to make any noise, or else im-
posing silence on itself; was drawing every
minute nearer and nearer to tlie red leather
chair.

The occupant thereof, though fully
aware of a presence in the room, did not
open his eyes. At last the goal was
reached.

The little figure stood quite still. Ap-
parently a minute survey was being taken.
Then a small voice said to itself —

' Rather like Puppy ! '

The figure in the chair shrank into
itself. Mr. Eamsay was not familiar with
the various forms of paternal nomenclature
in vogue among children ; and mistaking
the allusion was filled with morbid sensi-
tiveness.

This sensitiveness was not dimhiished,
when the same voice, its owner apparently

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 8r

tliiiikiiig the first iinpressiou had been too
favourable, added —

' An old Puppy, of course.'

Mr. Eamsay presently felt the touch of
two small hands upon his knees, while with
a deep sigh the voice said —

' Oh ! how I irlslh he'd wake up and
speak to me ! '

Mr. Eamsay slowly opened his eyes.
They lighted on the dearest little boy he
had ever seen. Two clear hazel eyes were
looking fearlessly into his ; two confiding
hands were resting upon his knees, and a
bright smile of interest and pleasure lit up
the whole countenance.

^ At last!' said a coaxing little voice.
' You've come home at last, Uncle John ! '

Mr. Eamsay was much puzzled by this
speech ; and by the tone of deep satisfaction
with which it was uttered.

82 ENCELADUS

'Have you,' he said, feeling lie must say
something — ' have you been expecting me ? '

' For years and j-ears,' was the reply.

Mr. Eamsay looked with surprise at
the extreme youthfulness of the person in
front of him ; hut thought it best to say
nothing.

' All our lives long,' continued the little
boy, 'Jock and Mary and me have been
expecting you, and wanting you, and wait-
ing for you, and you've never, never come.
Why liave you been such a long time, Uncle
John ?

This last question was accompanied by
a coaxing little pat upon the knees.

The touch of those little hands human-
ised John Eamsay. He dared not move,
for fear the child slioidd take them away.

' And then when you did come,' con-
tinued Gillie, ' why did you stop in London ?

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 83

What did make yoii so dreadfully, dreadfully
busy, that you couldn't come home ? '

A few more questions from Mr. Eamsay :
a few more answers from Gillie, and hglit
began to dawn upon the dulness of Mr.
Eamsay's comprehension.

From the tangled web of a child's vague-
ness of description and characteristic incon-
sequence, he gathered what was to him a
strange and unaccountable fact: namely,
that he had all these years been to his
brother's children the hero of a charmed
tale which had fascinated their young imagi-
nations. Nay, more ; that the absent uncle
in India, toiling to buy back the family
place, had been held up by their father
to his little boys as an object not only
of intense interest and romance, but also as
an example and a pattern of what indomit-
able perseverance and industry can accom-

G 2

84 ENCELADUS

pli.sli. That tlie children themselves had
added on to all that they had been taught
of him, their own imaei'inative ideas ; and
had transformed him into a sort of fairy
prince, whom they were to see in the flesh
some day, and whose return to Eno-land
was the goal of all their ho2:)es.

This wonderful uncle, the owner of
Fortunatus' purse, was to be the fulfiller of
all their young dreams and wishes,

John Eamsay remembered now, as the
tale unfolded itself, that incomprehensible
speech of his l)rother's : ' My children are
longing to see the unknown uncle of whom
they have heard so much all their lives.'

His heart smote him as he listened, but
his hopes revived.

He could not keep being struck with
his brother's loyalty to him ; for it was evi-
dent he had never told his children what a

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 85

failure and a disappointniL'iit the liome-
coming had proved; what a wretched, mi-
serly old curmudgeon he had met, instead
of the flesli-and-blood l^rother he had ex-
pected. He had shielded him from the
children's blame by explaining away his
conduct with the excuse that he could not
leave London because he was ' so dread-
fully, dreadfully busy.'

' But you've come at last,' concluded
little Gillie with a lono- breath of satis-
fciction. ' Here you really are ! ' And the
speech was followed by another little coax-
ing pat upon the knee.

' Only now,' he added in a very sad
voice, ' noiv — Jock's gone to school, and
. . . and . . . '

A change came over the pretty little
face, which quite startled Mr. liamsay to
see.

86 ENCELADUS

It was so great, and so sudden, that it
pained liim. It was like a blight coming
over a sunny landscape.

The dark eyes grew mournful, and were
misty with unshed tears.

' Poor Puppy's very ill,' he said wist-
fully; and his pretty little mouth quivered,
' I don't like him to be ill,' he added with
a sob.

' He'll get well,' said Mr. Eamsa}^,
hastily.

' Oh yes, of course,' answered Gillie,
' I know that.'

' How do you know .^ ' asked John
Eamsay, puzzled by tlie com2)lete con-
fidence of tlie tone, and thhildng per-
haps the child was in possession of some
details of which the housekeeper was in
ignorance.

' Mother says so,' was the answer. The

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 87

clear eyes, shining like two stars, looked
straight into his, and their expression
shared the confidence of the tone. The
argument was evidently unanswerable.
Mr. Ramsay was silent.

' But,' added little Gilhe, ' it will be a
long, long while first — more than three
weeks still, perhaps. So that's a dreadful
long time, isn't it ? '

And the voice quivered again.

' What made him get ill ? ' he said
suddenly, looking full into his uncle's face.
' Do you know ? '

John Eamsay moved uneasily in his
chair, but said nothing.

' Jane says it was all the wicked land-
lord's fault,' he went on. 'I don't quite
know wdiy ; but that's what Jane says.
She's our nursery-maid, you know. Is it
true, what she says, do you think

fj 7

88 ENCELADUS

A long pause ; but the cliild took the
silence for assent.

' God will be very angry with that
unkind person, won't He ? ' he said, raising
his beautiful eyes, with their mournful
expression, to his uncle's shame-stricken
countenance.

Something very inaudible was the
answer, but the child again took it for
an affirmative.

' He must be a cruel man,' he said
plaintively. ' I don't love him a bit. And
God won't love him either, wull He ? '

' Don't ! ' exclaimed John Eamsay.

The exclamation escaped him before he
was aware.

He had been gratified by the friendli-
ness of this bright creature, and by finding
himself a ready-made hero, and this change
in conversation was most painful to him,

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 89

The pleading eyes reproached him, the
innocent words of unconscious upbraiding
liurt him.

He could not bear to hear the soft
little voice calhng him, even unknowingly,
the cruel landlord ; and now this last
shaft cut him to the heart.

Uidoved by God, or man. Yes : it was
no doubt true ; too true ?

Meantime, the child's mood had changed
again .

His young thoughts had returned to
the more pleasant point from which they
had started, and he was once more scanning
his uncle with interest and attention.

' You turn everything you touch into
gold, don't you ? ' he said, admiringly. ' Jock
says so.'

Yes, thought John Eamsay bitterly,
everytJmig, into something hard, cold, and

90 ENCELADUS

irresponsive ; liis own heart, and the hearts
of others too.

Hard, cold, cruel gold ! For its sake ;
from the fear of being asked to part with it,
he had broiig;ht sorrow on this bright Youn£»-
creature's head, and on all l3elon^inu' to
him.

He had laid his hand on a happy home ;
and all had turned cold at his touch.

Involuntarily he put a repentant hand
for a moment, with a deprecatory move-
ment, upon the child's bright hair.

' Perhaps you'll turn me into gold,' said
the httle fellow lau^hinj^ • as he felt the
touch on his head.

' God forbid,' muttered John Eamsay.

' Master Gilbert ! Master Gilbert ! ' said
Mrs. Pryor's voice on the terrace outside.
' AVhere are you ? wdiere are j^ou ? '

Gillie started, smiled, and then witJi

AN UNCONSCIOUS HERO 91

a merry ' She was (luite wrong in what she
said ! I must go and tell her so : ' he ran
to the open window, and made his exit in
the same way in which his entrance had
been effected.

And so, in a moment, the briglit vision
had departed, and John llamsay was alone
once more.

But it must have left a golden streak
behind it ; for life did not look quite so
empty, dry, and meaningless as it had done
before.

In spite of the sad thoughts the child's
prattle had evoked, John Eamsay felt
softened, humanised, more hopeful.

He felt less lonely, too.

The library did not seem so silent and
empty.

The bright presence seemed to linger.
He hardly realised he was quite alone.

92 ENCELADUS

He Still seemed to see the dark eyes with
their wistful expression, gazing np into his
face ; he still seemed to feel the touch of
the small coaxing hands, on tlie knees
where they had so confidingly rested.

Part II.
MIDAS

CHAP TEE I.

UTILITAEIAXISM AND IMAGIK\TION.

Mr. Eamsay descended to breakfast tlie
next morning in a very unwonted frame of
mind. The money article in the morning
papers did not seem to interest him. His
attention wandered while he read it, and
he laid it down very much sooner than
usual. He appeared to be in an attitude
of expectation.

Any httle sound on the terrace outside
made him start : any light step on the
stairs, or in the passages, caused him to
hsten — I had almost said, eagerly^ if such

96 MIDAS

an expression could be used of so very
impassive a person.

The fact was lie had come down to-
day with a fixed purpose in his mind,
and lie wanted to carry it out as soon
as possible.

The interview in the library of the
evening before had revived in his breast
the hope he had had in the wood.
Everything tliat had gone before to blight
that hope had been cancelled by the little
boy's spontaneous act : by his seeking him
out of his own accord. His winning ways
and admiring confidence still lingered in
John Ramsay's mind ; and he no longer
felt so hopeless about having anything in
common witli him.

The wish to partake in the child's sun-
shine — a purely selfish feeling as it had
been at first — was mingled now with a reso-

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION cjj

lution tliat in so far as in liim la}^ he would
act up to the chikl's idea of him ; and that
the httle fellow should find in him some-
thino- of Avhat he had been tausfht to
expect.

How to do it ; what to do, or say; how
to comport himself, he had not the shghtest
idea, but he meant to try. His mind was
made up, and the day wdiich lay before
him should be devoted to the carrying out
of this resolution. Of that he was quite
determined.

He was going, if the child gave him the
opportunity, to put his own hfe on one
side altogether, for that day at least, and
to live the child's entirely. He was going
to low^er himself to his level, and stoop to
view life from his point of view.

By this means he hoped to enter with
him into the enchanted lands, the fairy

98 MIDAS

palaces in wliicli he perpetually moved
and dwelt.

He, John Eamsay, had always hitherto
succeeded in that on which he concen-
trated his will and attention.

He hoped to do so still. He felt very
anxious, however. He feared so failing in
the child's eyes at the outset. He might,
for aught he knew, have done so already.

The little boy may have been disap-
pointed in him yesterday.

He may have detected Avhat manner of
man he was.

He wondered and wondered as he sat
at breakfast whether he would come to
him again ; or, wdiether, disappointed in
him as the hero of his childish dreams,
he would return to his own little imamna-
tive occupations, and be engrossed in his
former interests.

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 99

Everytlnng now hung on whether or
no the child chose to seek him out attain.

He could not take the initiative.

He was entirely in the little fellow's
hands : and all his schemes and plans might
prove abortive, if the child so willed.

Time passed on ; breakfast was nearly
over, and his hopes were beginning to fade
away, when suddenly dancing footsteps
were heard on the terrace, and the bright
little face looked in at the window.

' Well ! ' said a gay voice. ' Good morn-
ing, Uncle John. How are you this
morning ? '

There was a tremulous eagerness in Mr.
Eamsay's glance and voice, as he answered,
' Good morning ; how — are — you — this
morning ? '

He thoudit how formal his "freetino-
sounded, though he purposely used the

H 2

loo MIDAS

same form of salutation, word for word, as
liis little nephew.

' Won't — you, won't you — come in ? '
he said ; ' or,' he added quickly, with a
sudden revolt against his own dulness
and formality, ' perhaps you would
rather staj^ out there in tlie air — and
sunshine.'

The latter course seemed to liirn so
much more in keeping Avitli the general
appearance of the bright apparition.

For all answer, the sprite hounded into
the room through the window, and came
up to the breakfast-table.

Seen so near, the vision was brighter
than ever, and John Eamsay feared to see
it disappear.

' Won't you sit down and have some
breakfast ? ' he said.

lie spoke with a certain diffidence and

UTILITARIANISM AXD IMAGINATION loi

timorousness in liis manner. It was born
of the same sort of feeling you have Avhen
you are trying to get near a bird or a
butterfly, and are afraid to move or speak,
for fear you should scare it away.

' I've had my breakfast, long and long
acfo,' laualied Httle Gilhe ; ' but it will be
great fun to see you have yours.'

Mr. Ramsay gazed round him, won-
dering what amusement a prosaic break-
fast-table could possibly offer. He dreaded
the cliild fnidin£>- it dull, and leavinf? him ;
and felt very nervous as to his own powers
of creating; conversation.

Gillie, meauAvhile, was dragging a heavy
chair to his uncle's side, and was soon oc-
cupied in establishing himself thereon.

Mr. Eamsay watched him furtively, and
beo-an rackino- his brain for somethincj
to say.

102 MIDAS

' What are we going to do to-day ? '
asked Gillie, witli a sublime confidence that
their paths would lie together.

This was beyond what Mr. Eamsay
could have hoped for ; and he began to
feel a little more confident.

'What would you W^e to do? ' he said.

He chose his words carefully. He
was afraid of saying too httle, or too
much.

He had not really an idea what to
propose, and felt that anything he sug-
gested might appear prosaic and uninvit-
ing, or expose his entire ignorance of
children's tastes.

He wished to shift all responsibility on
tlie child, and be guided entirely by him.
His own attitude must be one of strict
neutrality. It was his oidy safety.

' Let me do whatever you do,' said the

UTILITARIAiMSM AND IMAGINATION 103

little boy. ' Let me stay with you all the
morning. Do let me

A feeling of great gratification stole
into John Eamsay's heart.

Somethini>: warm vibrated there for
a moment, and stole over his wliole
frame.

It was certainly most incomprehensible ;
but it w^as very encouraging.

' Oh ! certainly,' he said, in his stiff, old-
fashioned manner ; ' but — won't you find it
— rather — rather dull ? '

' Dull ? ' echoed Gillie. ' Hoav do you
mean dull ? '

' I thought — I thought ' stammered

Mr. Eamsay, but checked himself, feeling
it would be better not to put ideas into
the child's head.

' Will you come out directly you've
done your breakfast? ' said Gillie. ' What

I04 MIDAS

were you ineaiiing to do when you'd
done ? '

Had Mr. Eamsay consulted his own
inchnations he would have said, ' Sit and
rest in the red leather chair ' ; but true to
his resolution he put his own feelings on
one side, and answered, 'I will do what
you like. What do you generally do ?
How do you,' with a deep sigh, ' get
through — I mean spend — the long day ? '

' Long ? ' echoed Gillie. ' How do you
mean long ? It's much too short, / think.
Bedtime,' with a sigh as deep as his uncle's,
' always seems to come directly ! Well,
first of all I generally go and look for
eggs in the shrubbery and stables and
hay-loft. Then I go and see the dogs.
Then I work at my garden in the wood.
Then I go to Edmund in the court-yard to
feed tlic young blackbirds. Then But

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 105

■will you reely do all this ^vitll me, Uncle
John ? or will you get very soon tired ? '

Mr. Eamsay thought it probable, but
was afraid to say so.

The programme had certainly alarmed
him, albeit certahi parts of it were wholly
unintelligible.

What, he wondered, could the child
mean by finding eggs in a shrubbery, or,
stranger still, in a hay-loft?

Surely such things were to be found in
hen-houses ?

However, he was determined to make
no enquiries, nor objections, throw no
cold water, nor in any way expose his
ignorance.

Accordingly, he rose, put on his hat,
took his stick, and the strangely assorted
pair started on their peregrinations.

As they went along, Mr. Eamsay was

io6 MIDAS

conscious of a slight sense of disappoint-
ment when he found he was being led by
the same dull little path he had before
traversed, to the same dreary and unin-
viting spot which had so troubled him
yesterday.

He had formed high conceptions of the
quaint nooks and corners, the cool recesses
of ' forests green and fair ' to Avliich the
child would prol)ably conduct liim : of
tlie fairy visions to be realised under the
teaching of his child-guide.

However, there was no doubt about it ;
he teas being taken to that bare, neglected
shrubbery in the near neighbourhood of
the stable-yard.

They were even now entering it by the
gap in the laurel hedge.

His poetical humour fled away, and his
utilitarian reflections of yesterday returned

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 107

upon liim in full force. lie looked round
liim with disgust.

He viewed with no friendly eye what
appeared to him to be a hen, sitting on a
nest on the ground, at a little distance.

Poultry were scratching about in dif-
ferent directions.

There was evidently no hen-house at
all. The httle boy's words at breakfast
became clear to him.

The hens, apparently, laid their eggs
anywhere and everywhere.

Why, half of them must be lost !

This must be put a stop to. The place
must be cleared out, things put straight,
a hen-house built, and

' Isn't it heautlfid ! ' said an ecstatic
voice at his side.

Mr. Eamsay was really puzzled. He
simply did not understand.

io8 MIDAS

' Beautiful ? ' lie said vaguely. ' AVhat ? '

He looked all round liim with a vacant
stare, thinking the child's eye had caught
sight of something he had not observed.

' Oh, Uncle John ! ' said Gillie, indicating
the surroundings with small outstretched
liands. ' All this. It is such a lovely place !
and you can do just -whatever you like
here, for there's nothing to spoil. And
then,' he added, lowering his voice, and
looking cautiously round him, ' it's the
Land of Surprises.'

' The Land of Surprises ! ' repeated the
mystified John Eamsay.

' Yes. Hush ! you mustn't speak loud,
for fear of disturbing them.'

' Disturbing who ? ' exclaimed his
uncle.

' The hens, you know,' said Gillie ; ' you
never know when you may come upon one

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 109

sittiim on her nest. You find new-laiel
eggs in every sort of odd place, sometimes
two, sometimes a whole nestful. It is so
excitinir. All the hens have names after
the places they lay in. Do you see that
\y\si black hen walkino- alonir? That's
Mrs. Stapleton. She lays her eggs in the
stables. Whoever first finds the ei^'LTS, you
know, they become his own. Hush ! ' he
suddeidy interrupted himself excitedly.
' Look ! Here comes Lady Henrietta
Loft us.'

' Lady v:liO ? ' echoed Mr. Eamsa}^ gaz-
ing alarmed about him.

' Lady Henrietta Loftus,' repeated the
child ; ' there she comes ! She's just laid

an egcr.

' Bless my soul ! ' exclaimed the bewil-
dered man.

He looked in the direction in wliicli

no MIDAS

the child pointed, and saw a diminutive
bantam liy down from the loft above the
stable door.

' That's Lady Henrietta Loftiis,' said
Gillie, ' the hen what lays in the loft.
Come ! come ! ' he continued excitedly,
' come up into the loft.'

' Into the loft ! ' exclaimed Mr. Eamsay
in astonishment ; ' but — but why into the
loft ? '

' We must, you know. The ^gg is
there. We must get the ^gg'

As he spoke, he was advancing rapidly
towards the stables, and Mr. Eamsay me-
chanically followed him.

' Now, Uncle John, come up.'

' Come up — up there ! ' he exclaimed,
gazing in despair at the very narrow and
extremely rickety ladder which led to a

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION in

small trap-door in the ceiling. ' Ent how
can I ? '

' It's quite safe, I assure j'ou,' said
Gillie, who was already half-way up. ' We
all three, Jock and Mary and me, stand on
it at once sometimes. Come alone:. Don't
be frightened ; I'll give you my hand pre-
sently, and help you up.'

He was gradually, as he talked, dis-
appearing through the ceiling, and his
voice sounded hollow, and a long way off.
Presently nothing was visible on the ladder
but two black legs ; and then even these
disappeared, and there was a short pause,
and silence. Suddenly a beaming face
appeared in the trap-door, and two small
hands were stretched downwards. Gillie
was lying flat above, holding out the pro-
mised help.

112 MIDAS

' Come along, Uncle Jolni ; you've no
idea liow jolly it is.'

The eager face must have worked some
subtle influence, for there was no resist-
ance to the mandate from below ; and
slowly the cumbrous figure began to
ascend the ladder, which creaked and
groaned under his weiglit.

Breathless, and aching in every limb ;
covered, moreover, with dust and straw; and
presenting a most dishevelled and heated
appearance. Uncle John accomplished the
feat and reached the loft in safety.

The sight of the child's joy might
amply have repaid any one for a more
repugnant task.

He danced, he clapped his Jiands, with
delidit.

' Here you are ! Here you are ! It
wasn't half so diflicult as you expected.

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 113

was it ? Oh look ! Uncle John. Isii!t it
jolly lip here ? Isn't it a beautiful, lovely
place ? '

Uncle John, still a little panting, looked
round ; first at an untidy-looking loft,
dark, dirty, and dangerous, large holes in
the roof, large cobwebs hanging from the
rafters ; and then into the shining eyes
gazing so eagerly up at him, awaiting his
answer.

Utilitarianism and imagination gazed at
each otlier for a minute : and then utili-
tarianism turned away.

' It must be transformed in some way,
I suppose,' Mr. Eamsay murmured to him-
self. 'It depends,' he went on out loud,
' on the eyes that look at it. My old eyes
do not see the same things as yours, my
little boy, my dear httle boy,' he added,
with an unconscious repetition, stress and

114 MIDAS

all, of the housekeeper's haiintlDg words
of the other night.

'Put on your specs,' said the child,
mistaking his meaning.

' Ah ! ' he murmured, with a sigli,
' what would I not give for such rose-
coloured spectacles, as would make me
see the things that you see.'

' You might get a pair in London,'
said Gillie.

' I am afraid I couldn't,' he answered.

'Too dear?' questioned the child. 'But
you're so rich, Uncle John, it wouldn't
matter to you.'

' They would be worth half my fortune
to me,' he said sadly.

' Oh, Uncle John ! ' exclaimed Gillie,
' why half your fortune would be hundreds
of pounds, wouldn't it ? You're very, "t^evy
rich, ain't you?'

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 115

'I'm not nearly so rich as you, my
little boy,' lie answered.

The child burst into a merry laugh.

' As me ? ' he exclaimed ; ' oh ! •what do
you mean .^ Why, I've only got fourpence
in all the world, and I owe sixpence to
Jock ! '

' What Avould you do with a lot of
money if you had it ? ' enquired Mr.
Eamsay, with a sudden feeling of curiosity.

' Pay my debts,' was the prompt reply.

' Your debts ? ' he exclaimed, rather
taken aback. ' Surely, child, you have no
debts F '

' Jock's sixpence, you know,' answered
Gillie.

' Oh ! ' said Mr. Eamsay relieved ; ' what
made you borrow it, I wonder ? '

'It was one Sunday,' he answered,
' when there was a collection in church,

ii6 MIDAS

and the plate was coming round and I'd
nothing to give. So Joclv lent me tliis
sixpence. AYasn't it kind of him? I do
so hate having to let it go by, without
putting anything in. It is horrid, isn't it ?
But of course you never have to.'

Mr. Eamsay was glad the concluding
remark obviated the necessity of his an-
swering the question ; for an accusing con-
science brought up before his mind's eye
many offertory plates and bags passing
liim by, while he stood with his hands in
his pockets, inwardly inveighing against
' this new fashion of constantly handing
the hat round.'

' Well, I must go and look for the q^^
now,' said Gilhe ; ' but I won't be long.'

Mr. Eamsay remained where he was,
meditating on the, to him, astonishing fact
of these children giving all their little

UTILITARIANISM AND IMAGINATION 117

savings away to tlie poor, till he was
roused by an exclamation of joy wliicli
presently rang through the rafters ; and
Gillie came running back with the egg
in his hand,

' Look here, Uncle John,' he said, giv-
ing it to him, ' it shall be yours to-day,
because you came up into the loft, and so
in a sort of a way you found it. Are
you pleased. Uncle John?' he went on,
clapping his hands, and capering about.
' Are 5^ou glad you've got the ^^g ? '

Yes ; Uncle John z(;a5 pleased, ic as glsid.

Puzzled, he was, no doubt, sorely ; un-
certain what he was expected to do with
the egg which he held in his hand ; how,
even for the moment, to dispose of it ; and
terribly afraid of failing, in any way, in
whatever conclusion he might eventually
come to. But glad, distinctly glad, and

ii8 MIDAS

gratified. That little spontaneous gift
gave him a faint feeling of hope which was
very pleasant.

It was an indication that he was not,
in the little boy's eyes, at any rate, quite
such an irresponsive, unattractive old crea-
ture as he had supposed himself

It was more.

It was the earnest of the beginning of
a friendship witli a little child ; the dawn
of a new future, and of a brighter life.

fl9

CHAPTER II

FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE

)

Bat any man wlio walks the mead,
In bad or blade or bloom may find,

According- as bis hamoars lead,
A meauin"- salted to bis mind.

-"o

' And now,' said Gillie, ' avu'U come and see
the dos^s/

The descent was by no means easy to
Uncle John, and his heart, as well as his
footinix, almost failed him once or twice.

However, it was in the end safely ac-
complished, and he and his little companion
went towards the kennels where he had
been so rebnffed yesterday.

The reception to-day was of altogether
another kind.

I20 MIDAS

At the sight of the child, at the sound
of his httle voice, calHng them by name,
tlie dogs ^Yere beside themselves with joy
and affection. They fawned upon him,
licking his hands and his face ; tliey
almost knocked him over in their delight
and excitement. Mr. Eamsay stood in the
road lookino- on.

It was some time before Gillie could
tear himself away. When he returned to
his uncle he proposed going into the
kitchen-ffarden.

Again Mr. Eamsay was conscious of a
slight feeling of disappointment.

That dreary garden, with the solitary
figure in it, had become a sort of nightmare
to liim. He remembered vividly the dull
depressed feehng with which it had in-
spired him yesterday, Gillie must have
observed a slii/ht hesitation, for he said —

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 121

' Or would you rather go and look for
Mr. Ilobbs in the hot-house ? '

'Who is Mr. Ilobbs?' asked John
Kamsaj^

' Mr. Hobbs ! He's the head gardener.
He's ahvays in the hot-house at this time.
So we should be sure to find him if Ave
went now, and perhaps he would give
you a peach ! '

Of the two evils, the kitchen-garden
was the least, and Mr. Eamsay hastily
decided in favour of the latter. It looked
to him, when they reached it, just as it had
done yesterday : the same lines of green in
prim, monotonous rows ; the same bent
figure of the same old man, weeding the
same paths, in the same attitude. He in-
wardly defied even the child to find any-
thincj of interest here.

Gillie gazed round with a pleased smile.

122 MIDAS

' Doesn't it all look o-reen and fresh ? ' he
said. ' And the strawberries are coming on
so fast. And oh ! ' he exclaimed with a
sudden burst of joy and excitement, ' there's
dear old Thompson ! ' Mr. Ramsay was left
alone, for his little companion bounded
from his side. He stood still, his eyes
following Gillie's proceedings with wonder-
ing curiosity. He watched the child run
forward, and the stooping figure raise itself
slowly at the sound of the hurrying foot-
steps.

He could see, even at that distance,
how the vacant expression of the stolid
face which had so struck him yester-
day changed and brightened as the child
drew near. An earnest conversation
followed.

Presently the old man looked up to the
sky, and all roinid about ; tlie child's gaze
eagerly following his wherever it rested.

'■FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 123

Finally, tlicir eyes met ; there was a little
more confabulation, and then Gillie came
runnini? back to his uncle, and the old man
resumed his work as if nothing had
happened.

' What have you been talking about
to that old man? asked Mr. Eamsay as
Gillie reached him breathless.

' All sorts of things,' answered the little
Ijoy. 'I've been asking him about his
rheumatics, and about the weeds. And
then I've been askini:;^ him about the
weather. He is so clever. He always
knows whether it's going to rain, or not,
and he is hardly ever wrong. We call
him " Old Weatherwise," but his real
name is Thompson.'

'And what does he say about tlie
weather ? ' asked Mr. Eamsay.

' He says,' answered Gillie, ' tliat he
tliinks it will be showery, but it won't rain.

124 MIDAS

So now we sliall see if it comes true. But
Uncle John, why clidrLt you come and talk
to him ? He is such a dear old man, and I
am sure he would like to know you so
much. Isn't it a pit}^ he has sucli bad
rheumatics that he can't hold himself up.
Sometimes he can hardly work a bit, poor
old fellow ! He alwaj^s comes and tries^
you know, but half the time his back is so
bad he has to give it up, and rest.'

' Ha ! ' muttered Mr. Eamsay. ' Just
what I imagined ! '

' Mr. Hobbs finds him jobs, don't you
know,' continued Gillie, lowering his voice,
and speaking confidently ; ' it's a sort of
excuse^ 5^ou see, he says, for giving him
wages. It is kind of Mr. Ilobljs, isn't it ? '

' Oh, very ! ' said Mr. Eamsay, hastily,
seeing Gillie expected an answer.

' Of course old Thompson doesn't hiow

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE^ 12 5

that,' resumed Gillie. ' It would never do
to let bini know, would it ? It would hurt
his feelings, Mr. Hobbs says.'

' Why doesn't he go into the workhouse ? '
asked Mr. Eanisay abruptly, his feelings for
the moment o'ettino- the better of him .

Fortunately for his credit, Gilhe mis-
understood him, and thought he was refer-
ring to an almshouse for the ' aged poor '
there was in the village.

'He's not old enough,' answered Gillie,
' not near old enough ; you must be past
eighty, I think, or nearly a hundred, to go
there. Thompson is not so very old, you
know, Uncle John. It's the rheumatics
that make him so okVlooking, and having
no teeth.'

' Has he no teeth ? said Mr. Eamsay.

' Not one,' said Gilhe, ' nothing but
gums ! '

126 MIDAS

'How's that?'

' I asked liim about it once,' replied tlie
child, ' and he said he thought it was
" because he had neglected to have them
out when he was young." Will you come
into the wood now, and see my little
garden ? '

Mr. Eamsay gladly assented. That
little fairy settlement still lingered in his
mind's eye, and he longed to see it again.

So they strolled along till they came to
the wood, and, entering its cool recesses,
found their way to the little garden.

It wasn't half finished. Gillie said, not
half.

He wanted to make a rockery, and a
grotto. Would Uncle John help him to
collect the stones ? Yes. Uncle John
would do anything that was required of
him. And for half an hour did the said

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 127

Uncle Joliii go about, bent double, picking
up all the small stones he could find, and
submitting them to the criticism of the
little architect.

When both employer and employed
were tired out, they wandered on into the
wood, till they reached the seat John
Eamsay had occupied yesterday. There
they sat, listening to the woodpecker, who
was laughing as gaily as ever ; but who
had already lost the mocking tone in his
laugh, which had so affected John Eamsay
yesterday. For, with this bright child at
his side, with the sense of growing friend-
ship in his heart, he could defy the bird
to say he had failed to revive the joys of
childhood, or was out of harmony with
the bright June day.

* Tell me a story,' said little Gillie
presently.

128 MIDAS

' I! ' exclaimed Mr. Eamsay ; '/can't tell
stones, child. My stories,' with a sigh,
' would be very dull ones, I am afraid.'

' Oh, try ! ' said Gillie eagerly. ' Do try ! '

Mr. Eamsay's heart sank. Memory
brought up nothing to his mind. Imagi-
nation he had none whatever.

' Take me to see something else instead,'
he said.

So his little guide took him to see the
fairy rings in the meadow, and then to
pay a visit to tlie old well in another
wood beyond.

They leant over it together for a few
minutes, and then Gillie fetched a cup,
hidden under some shrubs hard by, and
filled it to tlie brim.

Uncle John saw his fate before him — a
large draught of cold water which he was
expected to quaff.

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 129

' The sweetest and most famous water
in all the country round,' the little cup-
bearer assured liim, with grave earnest
eyes fixed upon him as he drank.

Then they wandered on through the
scented lime avenue to the old llower-
o'arden.

A picturesque old place, with its high
yew hedges cut into curious shapes, its
lono" crass terraces, and beds full of old-
fashioned flowers.

In the middle of the flower-beds stood
an ancient sun-dial.

When they reached this spot, Mr.
Eamsay fell suddenly into a fit of abstrac-
tion.

He stood quite still gazing out into the
distance.

From across the waste of years lying
behind him, a breath of the past seemed

120 MIDAS

to come to liim. Sometliing in his sur-
rounclings spoke to liim dimly of days
"•one by.

Gillie, cliildlike, did not notice how
thonghtful his nncle had become.

He got up on the top of the sun-dial,
and sat there, swinging his legs backwards
and forwards, and humming a little song to
himself.

' Oh, howl wish you could tell stories !'
he said presently, with a deep sigh.

There was a moment's silence, and then
suddenly. Uncle John, speaking half to
himself and half to the little boy, began
to tell a story so life-like and so real tliat
Gillie listened to it spell-bound, his eyes
fixed upon his uncle's averted face.

]\Iinute after minute flew by ; and still
Uncle John went on telhng, and still Gillie
listened, fascinated, to tliat wonderful story.

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE 131

It was tlie story of a little boy's last
day witli liis mother l)efore he went to
school ; and of all that they had done and
said and talked over together as they
wandered about the livelong day : of the
promises the child had made her as they
stood in the twilight, by an old sun-dial,- as
tlie close of that day drew near.

Then Uncle John's voice grew very low.

' I cannot tell you the rest,' he said,
' for the end of that story is very sad. . . .'

' Oh ! make it end happily,' said Gilhe
eagerly. ' I don't like stories to end sadly.
I like them always to turn out well. Do
end it happily, do ! '

' Ah,' said !Mi\ Eamsay sloAvly, ' I wish
I could ! I wish I could ! '

' Was there a picture to the story ? '
Gillie asked presently, ratlier awed by his
uncle's manner.

K 2

132 MIDAS

' Yes,' said Mr. Eamsay, looking away,
' a picture of tlie boy and his mother,
standing by the sun-dial. She, young and
fair and smiling . . . the boy has the picture
still. And under the picture, when he sees
it, is Avritten " Broken Yows " ! '

' You're getting dreadfully sad, Uncle
John,' said Gillie pathetically ; ' what is
the matter ? And you've not finished the
story.'

Uncle John shook himself free of his
abstraction with an effort.

' Before they went home that evening,'
lie said, ' they spelt over together the
almost w^orn-out inscription which was
round the sun-dial they were standing
by. He was too young to understand it ;
but she told him that some day he
would know well enough what it meant.
And so he did.'

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 133

' How very funny ! ' said Gillie, eagerly
jumping down from his seat ; ' for there is a
worn-out inscription on this sun-dial too.
Often and often we've wanted to make it
out, but it's too much worn away. Puppy
always told us that when you came home
from India you would perhaps be able to
tell us what it was. Do you think you can
remember it, Uncle John ? '

Uncle John shook his head.

' Very little,' he answered ; ' a line or
two mi^ht come back to me. The sense
of it I remember, but you would be too
young to understand.'

' Like the boy in the story,' said Gillie,
delighted at the coincidence. ' But tell me
what you remember, Uncle John, for you
know his mother said he would know some
day what it meant. So, perhaps, / shall,
too.'

134 MIDAS

' It was somethinsf like tliis,' said Mr.
Eamsay tliouglitfiilly —

* Time flies, they say ; in truth it is not so.
Time stays ....... we go.'

' No, I don't understand it a bit,' said
Gillie, shaking his head. ' I must wait, I
suppose, like him, till I am older. But,
Uncle John, how could you say you didn't
tell stories well ? You tell them beautifully.
You must tell me another some day.'

' Ah, child ! ' said Uncle John, ' that is
the only story I shall ever be able to tell
you ! And I don't suppose, either, that I
shall ever be able to tell it again ! '

' I'm getting hungry,' said Gillie ; ' let us
see what time it is.'

' It is nearly one o'clock,' said Mr.
Eamsay, looking at the dial ; ' how quick-
ly the morning has gone ! ' he added in
astonishment.

'■FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 135

'You said the day was too long at
breakfast,' said Gillie triumphantly. ' You
see it's very short. I told you so ! '

Mr. Eamsay smiled, but said nothing.

' But if it's nearly one, I ought to be
Cfoins home to my dinner,' said Gillie.

' Come along,' said his uncle, and they
took their way to the house.

'I must feed the blackbirds first
though,' said Gillie ; ' will you come with
me to the court-yard? We shall find
Edmund waiting.'

But here Mr. Eamsay demurred. This
dual companionship was very dehghtful,
but a third, in the person of a young foot-
man, was another matter altogether.

' I'm rather tired,' he said hesitatingly ;
' so I think I'll go in and rest a bit.'

They parted at the door, Gilhe disap-
pearing in the direction of the offices, and

136 MIDAS

Mr. Eamsav returninj? to his red leather
chair.

The next few hours seemed wonderfully
long to Mr. llamsay.

He caiio'ht himself lookinc^ at his watch
more than once ; and wondering what the
child was about. He nmst, he said to
himself, have long ere this have finished
his dinner. Would he return to him or
not?

He found himself constantly looking
towards the door, or towards the open
window, hoping every minute the little
fijTure might come in si2:ht.

He was conscious of a pang of disap-
pointment when the time went on, and
nothing happened.

'It is quite natural,' he said to himself;
' of course he has many amusements, and
plenty of little occupations.'

^FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 137

But something very like a sigli escaped
him all the same.

The afternoon was very hot.

Mrs. Pryor came in, on some pretext or
other : and in an ofF-hand, would-be-indif-
ferent tone, Mr. Ramsay inquired of her
what the child generally did with himself
at this hour. Her answer was not re-
assuring. Gillie appeared to have so many
irons in the fire ; and, moreover, so many
willing companions, that there certainly
was not much necessity for liitn.

' He might,' Mrs. Pryor said, ' be help-
ing the gardener to pick the fruit for des-
sert, or he might be in the court yard with
the footman, looking after the blackbirds
they were bringing np together.'

By-and-by he would very likely look
into the kitchen, to see the cooking, or to
help to shell the peas.

138 MIDAS

' Master Gilbert was never at any loss,'
slie said, with a smile, ' and every servant,
both inside and outside the house, was his
friend.'

After this, Mr. Eamsay felt more de-
pressed than ever : and gave himself up
to an afternoon-nap.

When he awoke, it was half-past
four, and there was still no sign of the
child.

It was raining a little, and the garden
outside looked damp and didl.

After this, Mr. Eamsay ' gave it up '
altoo;ether.

The case was clear. The cliild did not
care for liis society after all.

He felt in liis lieart a dull sense of
failure and disappointment.

' It is quite natural,' he said to himself
again, ' (juite'

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 139

He got up, and -walked to the window
with a sigli.

To his surprise, curled up in tlie window-
seat, very quiet and doing nothing, was the
object of his reflection.

The truth was that Gillie, when he
had gone through his little programme,
had returned to seek his uncle : but
finding him asleep, had relapsed into
dulness, which had been followed by a
fit of home-sickness.

Mr. Eamsay, l^ending over him, ex-
tracted that he was ' so unhappy and
wretchable, that he didn't know what to
do ' ; that he was ' so dull all by himself,
with no one to play with ' ; and that he
wanted to go home very badly.

Mr. Eamsay was surprised to find how
hurt he was that it should be so.

Further enquiries elicited that he

I40 MIDAS

' couldn't bear Puppy to be so ill ' ; and
that he ' couldn't help crying whenever he
thought of it.'

This speech brought a strange pang to
the lieart of his questioner.

He was seized witli such a dread of the
return of last night's conversation on this
subject ; with such a shrinking from the
allusions to the ' cruel landlord ' which he
feared miglit follow, that he felt he must
do somethino- at once to divert the child's
thoughts.

' Can't 1 play with you ? ' he said, rather
nervously.

' You see it's a nice romping game I
should like,' said GiUie pathetically ; ' and
you can't play those sort of games, can
you?'

Mr. Eamsay admitted with a sigh that
it was too true.

'FRIENDSHIP OBLIGE' 141

' But,' he added hesitatingly, ' I can try^
if you like.'

The child's joy and gratitude were so
unfeigned that Mr. Eamsay felt himself well
repaid for the painful effort which the
game of romps that followed cost him.

Mrs. Pryor, coming in to call Gillie to
his tea in the middle of the somewhat
riotous proceedings, could hardly believe
her eyes ; and Mr. Eamsay looked rather
shame -faced at being caught in the act.
' The child seemed a little dull,' he said
apologetically.

And thus John Eamsay received his
first lesson in a, to him, new truth.
Though his limbs ached, and his head was
rather muzzy, he enjoyed, as he leaned
back exhausted, in his chair, a feeling of
satisfaction in having ministered to an-
other ; and the idea that it is more blessed

142 MIDAS

to give than to receive, entered, for tlie first
time, into his utihtarian mind.

' You'll come back,' he had said almost
imploringly to Gillie, before Mrs. Pryor
had borne him away.

And Gillie had begged to be allowed to
sit up to late dinner with him : not to eat
any himself, he had explained, but to sec
him eat it.

Mrs. Pryor, when appealed to, had
given leave : and Mr. Eamsay felt there
was thus still somethino- left to look for-
ward to.

143

CHAPTER III.

WIIEEEIX THEY DIFFERED.

Dark is tlie world to thee : tbyself art the reason •why.

' The dressing-bell is just going to ring,'
said a gay voice about an hour and a half
later, ' when are you going up to dress ? '

' I'll go at once,' said Mr. Earn say,
rising with unusual alacrity.

' And may I come and help you ? ' said
Gilhe, ' I always go up with Puppy.'

Mr. Eamsay readily assented, and the
two ascended the stairs together to the
bedroom. Here was a perfectly new field
of delight and discovery.

Gilhe wandered about in ecstasy at the

144 MIDAS

siglit of SO many things he liad never seen

before.

Mr. Eamsay was astonished and puzzled

at the child's interest in all the ordinary

paraphernaha of a dressing-table.

He was an unobservant man, and took

very little interest in the neuter gender.

He could not understand Gillie's excitement

over the trifles lying about, nor answer
half the questions he \.e])i eagerly asking.

He knew but little about the details of
his possessions. There they were ; there
they had always been. He did not remem-
ber, even if he had ever known, how the
divers familiar objects had originally found
their way to him.

The eager enquiries : Where did 3'ou
get this ? Oil ! icho gave you this ? — were
most puzzling to him. He tried feebly to
satisfy the child's thirst for information,

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 145

but bis answers were not very satisfac-
tory.

An exclamation of clebgbt broke in
npon bis endeavours.

' Ob, Uncle Jobn ! Wbat a darlhvj ! '

' Hey ! ' exclaimed Mr. Eamsay, startled,
' sometbing alive ? Wbat in tbe world is it ? '

' Ob, Uncle Jobn ! Sucb a darlinn-,
darling, bttle pill-box. Look bere ! Ob
wbat tiny, weeny little tbing ! '

' Good gracious, cbild ! ' exclaimed bis
uncle. ' Have you never seen a pill-box
before ? '

' Ob ! not one like tbis. Puppy's are
mucb bigger and bold a lot. Not like tbis
dear bttle tbing. Ob inay I bave it, if
you've quite done witb it .^ '

Mr. Ramsay sigbed as be acceded to
tbe request. He was wisbing be bad sucb
eager wisbes ; so easy of gratification.

146 MIDAS

Another sliout. ' Here's just the very
tiling I want for my boat. May 1 have it ? '

'What next?' thought Uncle John,
as an old bit of string was brought up to
him.

The dinner-bell brought Gillie's re-
searches to an end ; and he and Mr. Eam-
say descended to the dining-room.

He had been in and out of the kitchen
a good deal during the afternoon, watch-
ing the dinner being cooked ; and had been
overcome w^ith tlie suraptuousness of the
preparations, and the painstaking of the
cook. Especially had he been entranced
by a very elaborate pudding : the like of
which he had never before beheld : and
wdiich in his eyes was a work of art of an
almost transcendent nature.

He Avas thinking' about it all tln'oufdi
dinner, looking for it, expecting it : and as

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 147

tlie moment drcAV near when its appear-
ance was due, liis excitement grew great.

Therefore, when the said pudding —
more beautiful than ever now that it was
' dished up,' really came in sight, and on
being handed in all its glory to Mr. Ram-
say, was received with a cold shake of the
head, and taken out of the room almost as
soon as it had appeared — poor Gillie first
started, and then uttered an exclamation of
dismay.

' Oh, Uncle John ! ' he said, but he got
no farther.

Mr. Ramsay looked round, and, to his
horror, saw that Gillie's eyes were full of
tears.

' "What is the matter ? ' he asked
anxiously.

' Oh, Uncle John ! Poor cook will be so
disappointed ; and she did take such pains.'

I4S MIDAS

' My dear cliikl, I never eat sweets. I
will tell the housekeeper to-morrow she
need never send up any.'

' Oh, Uncle John ! Please don't : she
will be so unhappy. She thought you
^vould like them so much. And she has
bought a cookery book with her onii
money, because she was afraid she had
rather forgotten her puddings and she
wanted to teach cook some. We chose
this one out of it. And you sent it away
so quickly, just as I was going to explain
to you how the lovely pink and white
icing is done. And you hadn't half looked
at all the hundreds and thousands on the
top. I scattered most of them on myself.
Oh ! v:orit you send for it back again ?
Do, do.'

Mr. llamsay resigned himself to his
fate. ' Bring Ijack that pudding,' he said.

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 149

when the butler came in again ; and to
GiUie's joy and satisfaction, the magnificent
erection reappeared.

Mr. Ramsay was beginning to get very
nervous as to wliat further ^gastronomic
performances w^ould be expected of him.
The bill of fare told him that there was
some toasted cheese next in order ; a thing
which he knew if he indidged in it would
brin^f a certain nightmare and hours of
sleeplessness. But the anxious bro^vn eyes
fixed upon him, wdien the dish was handed
to him, influenced him even more than did
that dismal prospect ; and he helped him-
self without hesitation.

He distinctly, however, drew a line at
clieese and radishes which now followed.
Here, at any rate, he felt he w^ould not be
faihng in the child's estimation by doing
violence to the feelings of the cook.

150 MIDAS

She had had nothmg, at any rate, to do
with the preparation of tliis course.

But he soon saw he had made 2k faux pas.

Gilhe was very quiet and decidedly
downcast after the rejection of tlie course,
so much so that as soon as the servants had
gone Mr. Eamsay questioned him timidly
as to the cause of his depression.

' I thought poor Edmund looked so dis-
appointed,' said Gillie ; ' he took such pains
to get it all ready. I helped him. You
can't think what a time it took.'

' What could I do ? ' said Mr. Eamsay
nervously. ' I couldn't eat cheese twice
over, you know. But another time wlien
there is not any toasted cheese, I '

' I think it must be so sad for a foot-
man,' said Gillie, ' at a dinner party when
everybody saj^s no to the dish he is hand-
in<j. He is left standim]^ there Avith his

c o

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 151

dish not touclied. It seems so unkind.
When I am grown up I shall always take
everything that is handed to me.'

' It would make you very ill,' said his
practical uncle.

' Well, anyhow, I should say, " No thank
you ! " very kindly, and not just shake my
head, or give the dish a little push, as some
people do.'

The servants now returned, and Mr.
Eamsay glanced with uneasiness at the
display of fruit which was being placed
on the table.

It was a terrible time of year for any
one who dared not indula;e in it.

Not only were strawberries and rasp-
berries in full swing, but there were early
peaches and nectarines from the hot-houses.

Mr. Kamsay gave a despairing look at
the dish in front of him, and wondered if

153 MIDAS

he must sacrifice himself yet furtlier
to retain the good opinion of his Httle
companion.

The gardener, he liad no donbt, had
' feehno's ' as well as the cook and the foot-
man ; and he remembered with a pang,
that Mrs. Pryor liad mentioned liim as one
of Gillie's great friends, and had even said
somethiniT about his being; then enscaged in
' helping him to pick the fruit for dessert.'
The position was becoming desperate. A
happy thought struck him to try what
takiufT the child into his confidence mio'ht
do to keep him out of his difficulty. He
was a tender-hearted, sympathetic little
fellow, lie reflected, and Avould probably un-
derstand and enter into his feeling's. ' You
see, my dear,' he said, ' I'm rather an invalid
just now, and liave to be very careful what
I eat. I am under the doctor's orders, and

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 153

certain tilings he forbids altogether, of
which fruit is one.'

'What's the matter with you?' asked
GilHe.

'It's rather difficult to explain,' an-
swered Mr. Eamsay ; ' but I'm altogether
broken-down and out of sorts, and feel ill
and wretched.'

' Oil, Uncle John ! ' exclaimed Gillie
terrified, ' I hoiie you're not going to have a
fever like poor Puppy; that's jmt the way
his be^an.'

' No, no, my dear, it's nothing of that
sort. I've worked rather too hard all my
life, and I've got into what the doctors call
a " nervous state," if you understand.'

' Nervous ? ' exclaimed Gilhe. ' Why,
what are you afraid of? '

John Eamsay felt the case to be hope-
less, and hardly knew how to go on.

154 MIDAS

He made, however, one more effort.

' It is not tlicit kind of nervousness,
my dear child. It's a state of nervons de-
pression, or prostration, which upsets one's
digestion and prevents one sleeping at
night.'

' I know ! ' said Gillie. ' I know ex-
actly. I often have it.'

' You ! ' exclaimed his uncle in asto-
nishment. ' Surely not, child ? '

' Oh yes, I do ! ' he said : ' especially
when I am sleeping in a room by myself.
That's why Mrs. Pryor sleeps in my room
here, I know exacthj what j^ou mean. So
frightened that you can't get to sleep ;
fancying you hear odd noises, and see
odd things peeping in at the hole in the
shutter. Bears and Avolves and tliinsis
like tliat. It is horrid, isn't it? Poor
Uncle John,' he added, laying his hand on

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 155

his uncle's. ' I am sorry you're so fright-
ened at night.'

At this moment Mrs. Pryor appeared
in the doorway to fetch Gilhe to bed.

Mr. Ramsay breathed freer when he
was gone, for he liad been terribly afraid
of the conversation beins^ continued in the
presence of the housekeeper.

His dignity did not, however, entirely
escape the blow he had been fearing would
be thus dealt to it ; for as the two Avere
slowly ascending the big stairs, he could
hear through the door which they had left
open the child's voice evidently detailing
all that had just passed ; and the con-
cluding sentence reached him distinctly.
Mrs. Pryor was ' to be sure and give Uncle
John a night-light, as he was so frightened
all by himself in the dark.'

When Mr. Piamsay was settled in the

I5(^ MIDAS

library, he sent for Mrs. Pryor. There
were several points on which he wanted
enlightenment, and he thonght it probable
she would be able to 2:ive him the informa-
tion he required. He began by enquiring
after the invalids at the Eectory. Tlie
slio-hter cases were doing well. The little
girl with scarlatina was especially going on
most favourably. Of the Eector himself it
was impossible to speak with certaint}^

He was no doubt very ill, and the
fever running very high. The doctor felt
sure it would run the full twenty-eight
days.

As yet, however, there were no com-
plications : the question was, would his
strength, when the fever left him, bear the
great strain put upon it ?

The housekeeper's tongue was unlocked
as she spoke of the liector and his family ;

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 157

and she painted in glowing colours the
happy hfe at the Eectory ; the devotion
of the father to all his children, but to
this child in particular, and tliat of the
child to him. He was his father's special
companion, and followed liim like a little
dc' wdierever he went.

' The little boy seems happy here,' said
Mr. Eamsay. ' He seems quite at home in
this place.'

The Eectory children, Mrs. Pryor ex-
plained, had always been in the habit of
cominf over to the Manor House to spend
their half-holidays, and birthdays, etc.
They had all their haunts and glory-holes,
and games here. It was a little paradise
to them. They could do what they liked ;
and there was nothing to spoil. 'They are
free here, sir,' the kind woman said, ' and
it's hberty that children love.'

158 MIDAS

' He seems a friencll}^ child ? ' interroga-
tively.

Yes. Master Gilbert was indeed a
very friendly cliild. lie loved everybody,
and everybody loved him. He had never
known anything but love all his life, and
he looked for it from all. It was as
natural to him as the air he breathed.

How was it, Mr. Eamsay asked, that
the little boy did not seem to connect any
idea of danger with his father's illness, or
seem at all alarmed about it ?

It was Mrs. Eamsay's wish, answered
Mrs. Pryor, that the child should only know
what she had herself told him, namely
that his father's illness must last a given
time, and that he must not expect to hear
he was l)etter until that time was over.

Mrs. Eamsay understood lier little boy,
and knew what was best for him. She

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 159

knew it was better not to overstrain him
with the hope of hearing better news every
day when no real change could take place
for so long.

' Should any danger arise later on,'
added Mrs. Pry or with a sigh, ' it would
be time enough for him to be frightened.'

There was no use in saddening him
and burdening his little life with a fear
and a dread, which might, please God,
never be realised.

' Quite so,' said Mr. Eamsay shyly. ' I
can quite see the wisdom of the arrange-
ment. What I wanted to know is : How is
it the child himself is so easily satisfied, and
so content to take other people's word
for it ? '

Mrs. Pry or smiled : a pitying smile for
an old bachelor who understood children
so httle.

i6o MIDAS

' Little children are always like tliat,
sir,' she answered. ' They can't under-
stand : they must trust. Master Gilbert has
complete faith in everything his father or
mother tell him. You see, sir, he's never
known them wrong.'

She w^ent away, and left him musing
on the child's spirit : on its temper of
simple, trusting faith — the spirit without
which, our Lord assures us, we none of
us, old or young, can enter the kingdom
of Heaven.

His thoughts strayed on to other points
of child-nature, of which he had had
experience that day. That power of con-
juring up interest and enjoyment where-
ever one looks, what a wonderful thing
it was !

Tliis neglected place, which to him was
an eyesore, a desolation, was the very

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED i6i

same place which, radiated by the eyes
which looked upon it, was a joy and a
delight.

To the clear eyes of the child on all
around was the ' light which never really
shone ' : all was bathed in ' clouds of glory.'
To his own weary and worn-out eyes on
all was written ' Ichabod.'

The verj' parts he had found so dull,
so dead, were in the child's eyes, replete
with fascination.

That wi'etched shrubbery, that dark
and dirty hay-loft, that dreary kitchen-
garden — w^ere alive with his own creations.

Things, John Eamsay was beginning
to discover, were as those who look upon
them make them.

It is not so much the things themselves
as the way you approach them.

i62 MIDAS

Tlie child not only created Iiis own
world, lie peopled it also.

And tins w\ns not by the power of
imacfination. There was some other force
at work here which mystified Jolni
Eamsay. The child had a power of
seeing beneath appearances of which he
was totally devoid.

He saw tender hearts and human
feelings where he saw only ' the em-
ployed ' : he saw a being of hopes and
fears where he saw only a stiff j^oung
footman. He did more. He penetrated
beneath uninteresting and commonplace
exteriors ; and found there a reflection of
his own love and sympathy : evoked what
he bestowed. He did turn everything
into gold, if you like, Mr. Eamsay reflected,
not in the dry and prosaic way in which
lie had done; not into the cold, irresponsive

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 163

metal, as did the touch at his lingers, but
in another fashion altOGjether.

How the vacant expression of that soul-
less-looking old clodhopper had brightened
at the child's approach ! How all the
hidden gold of his nature had been con-
jured up into his face !

How much the child saw everywhere^
to which his, John Eamsay's, eyes were
closed !

'Blessed,' he said to himself half in-
voluntarily, ' are the eyes which see the
things that ye see — the ears that hear
the things that ye hear — Their ears,' with
a sudden sense of sharp contrast, ' are
dull of hearing, and their eyes they have
closed.'

To the seeing eye and the loving heart
a brighter world rises out of the common
world around.

M 2

1 64 MIDAS

But to blinded eyes and a hardened
heart no vision is vouchsafed.

And looking at things in this light,
John Eamsay reflected how much more
there might be in life if he could only see
it ; how much more to be heard of its deep
undertone, if he could only hear it ! IIow
much more in the world around him, and
in those about him, than he had yet been
able to discover : for

There's a deep below the deep,
A height above tlie height,

Our hearing is not hearing,
And our seeing is not sight.

It was a new and a far-reacliing thought
to one who had thought but little all his
life.

His mind — to quote the expression of
an American writer — was ' stretched ' by

it.

WHEREIN THEY DIFFERED 165

He pondered on it long.

• • • • •

That night, when he went to bed, Mr.
Eanisay opened, with an interest lie had
not felt for years, the Bible his mother
had given him when he went to school ;
and, after mnch searching — for he was,
unhappily, out of the habit, and could
not lay his linger with any ease on what
he wanted — found two passages Avhich he
marked, and added the day's date.

And as he shut the book, he mused
over the words of those passages ; words
not thought of till now for many, many
3'ears.

' Except a man be born again, he can-
not see the kingdom of God,' and, ' Who-
soever shall not receive the kina'dom of
God as a little child, he shall in no wise
enter therein.'

i66 MIDAS

CHAPTER lY.

A STEAXGELY ASSOETED PAIE.

That -whicli the Fountain sends forth,
Returns again to the Fountain.

The resolution formed for the one clay,
seemed likely to become the ordinary rule
of life ; for the next day, and the next,
found this strangely assorted pair spending
the best part of their time together.

John Ramsay had his reward ; for,
■wandering about in the lovely summer
weather, hand-in-hand with his child-guide,
he was daily initiated into more and more
of the delights which made the old Manor
House a paradise in the eyes of his little
nephew.

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 167

Tlie child saw beauty everywhere.
Every nook and corner teemed with ex-
citements. AVhat would otherwise have
seemed quite devoid of interest, became,
under the teaching of the child, full of
enjoyment. Everything little Gillie ap-
proached seemed to his uncle to brighten.
Everything on which his young glance
rested seemed to shine.

Every spot where his little presence
penetrated, however uninteresting before,
was radiated at once, as if the sun fell
upon it.

The more John Eamsay entered into
the little mind, the more he found in all
around him, and the more the contrast
between the child and himself forced itself
upon him.

The dilTerence between them really lay
in this : The one looked through an open

1 68 MIDAS

glass, and saw God's -world clear and
lovely ; the other had put the ' quicksilver
of his own selfishness beliind the glass, and
it gave him back nothing but his own
discontented face ' — his own unsatisfied
and unsatisfying existence, his own failure
to make himself happy, though his life had
been spent in the effort. As if anything
that begins and ends in self could be
happy !

But he was learning something already ;
learning more than he had anticipated,
when he first embarked on tliis strange
friendship ; learning something of the
divine lesson of self-forgetfulness, and of
all that that brings.

The third day was Sunday. It was not,
as we know, Mr. Eamsay's habit to absent
himself from church. But his brother's
cliurcli, he learnt from Mrs. Prvor, was

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 169

closed, and there was no other nearer
than the county town, nine miles off. Not
feeUng equal to the fatigue of a long drive,
he made up his mind to stay at home.

If he had supposed that such behaviour
would escape comment he was soon unde-
ceived.

Gilhe entered the library early, in his
Sunday best, with an unusually large-
sized prayer-book under his arm, and,
advancing to his uncle, asked him for a
half sheet of writing-paper. Mr. Kamsay
immediately supphed him with some, and
asked him, as he handed it to him, v/hat it
was for.

' I'm going to tear it into little strips to
make markers, and then find my places,'
answered Gilhe. 'I'm rather late, and it
will soon be time to be starting for
church.'

1 7G MIDAS

' I'm not going to church,' said Mr.
Eamsay, rather hesitatingly.

Gilhe stopped short in the middle of
the room, his prayer-book in one hand,
and the sheet of writing-paper in the other.
' Xot going to church ? ' he exclaimed.

' No, not to-day,' answered Mr. Eamsay.

' But Uncle John,' said Gillie, ' it's Sun-
day ! '

' I know, my dear — I know,' and then he
stopped. There was a pause and a silence,
and then a rather awe-struck little voice
said, ' Uncle John, are you a lieathen P '

' No, no, my little boy ! What could
make you think such a thing .^ '

Gillie drew a Ion" breath of relief. ' Oh !
I am so glad. You did frighten me so ; I
thouglit, you know, perhaps, that, as you'd
been so long in heatlien countries, you
miglit have got to Idc one, too, don't you

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 171

see? oil! woukln't it have been dreadful
if you had worshipped idols ! '

' " Their idols are silver and gold " : I'm
not quite so sure I don't,' muttered John
Eamsay to himself. ' What's the difference,
after all ? '

' Uncle John,' pursued Gillie, eyeing
him curiously, ' you're not a Eoman
Catholic, are you ? '

' A Eoman Cathohc ? No. Why ? '

' I thought you might be, as you didn't
go to church. There was a lady staying
with us once, and she never c^cme to church,
and so I asked Puppy why, and he said she
was a Eoman Catholic and went to a church
of her own, only there wasn't one of hers
anywhere about here. I'm glad, though,'
he added with a sigh of relief, ' that you're
not a Eoman Catholic. They're cruel
people, I think.'

172 MIDAS

' Cruel ! Why ? '

' They burn insects in church, our
nursery-maid says ; and I think that's
very cruel, don't you ? But Uncle John,
as we're not going to church, I suppose
you'll read prayers at home. Shall I go
and ring the dinner-bell ? '

' Eh ! Stoi) ! ' called out his uncle in
dismay, for Gillie had already got his hand
upon tlie door.

' I don't think,' he said more quietly,
as the little boy returned to him — ' I don't
lliink I can have any prayers.'

' Not have any prayers ? '

' I'm not a clergyman you see, my dear,
like your fatlier, and I'm not accustomed
to reading out loud to a lot of people. It

would make me very sh would, I mean,

be a o'reat exertion.'

'Oil, 1)ut,' said Gillie, 'it isn't rui:)py

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 173

tliat reads pra3'crs on wet Sundays,
because of course lie lias to go to
church whatever the wcatlier is. It's
mother, and shes not a clergyman, you
know.'

'I'm afraid I couldn't,' said Mr. Kamsay
feebly ; ' I'm not in the habit you see.
Eeadimi; out loud is all habit.'

He glanced nervously at tlic little boy
to see the effect of his words.

' Oh ! ' said Gillie slowly, only half-satis-
fied. 'Well, what shall we do then this
morning ? ' he went on. ' Can you think of
a nice Sunday game ? '

' A nice Sunday game ? ' repeated Uncle
John to gain time, hoping that in the in-
terval Gillie would propose something him-
self to which he might assent.

'I haven't got anything here but my
bricks,' Gillie said thoughtfully. ' We might

174 MIDAS

build something out of tlie Bible you
know.'

' Build somethino- out of the Bible ? '
repeated Mr. Eamsay, with careful exac-
titude.

'Yes. Can you think of any building
we hear about in the Bible ? '

' The Temple ? ' suggested Mr. Ramsay
timidl3\

' Much too grand,' replied Gillie ; ' my
bricks couldn't do all those beautiful
courts and things. No, it must be some-
thing easy. A tower or something like
that — /know— — ' he interrupted himself
joyfully, ' the tower of Babel ! '

' The tower of Babel ? ' repeated Mr.
Eamsay.

The box of ]:)ricks was fetched, and the
tower rose higher and higlier, under the
hands of the two builders. It lasted for

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 175

a great part of the morning. ' Uncle
John,' said GilUe, Avhen, after a time,
they were both taking a Uttle rest after
their exertions, 'do you think it's quite
right to learn French and Latin and all
that ? '

' Eight ? ' answered Mr. Eamsay, puz-
zled, ' what could there be wroni? in it ? '

' Well, Fin not quite so sure about it,'
said Gillie ; ' I never feel sure if it is quite
ridit.'

' Eut why ? ' exclaimed his uncle.

' Why because of that,' said Gilhe,
nodding toward his tower of bricks ; ' I
mean, don't you see, that if God wanted
every one to speak different languages, it
doesn't seem quite right for us to go and
learn each other's, does it ? '

Mr. Eamsay was nonplussed. He
could not think what to say. '

176 MIDAS

' Did you ever ask any one about it
before?' lie said ratlier nervousl}' : 'your
father or mother P '

He was anxious to share the responsi-
bihty with some one else.

' Only Jock,' answered Gillie, ' I said so
to him one day.'

' Oh ! ' said Mr. Ramsay, ratlier disap-
pointed. 'Were you building a tower of
Babel together ? '

'Oh no,' said Gillie, 'it was one day
when he was doing a very difficult French
exercise. He thought just the same as me.
But he had never thought of it before, he
said.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Eamsay to himself,
'Jock belongs to a certain class of nine-
teenth-century pliilosophers, in his small
way.'

Gillie's conscience seemed nov\^ tlio-

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 177

roughly roused. He glanced rather nerv-
ously at his tower of bricks.

' I'm not quite sure either,' he added
presently, looking rather disturbed, ' whe-
ther we ought to build a tower of Babel.
What do you think ? '

' Perhaps,' he continued, advancing to
the building and hastily knocking it down,
' perhaps we'd better not ! '

His dinner-hour had now arrived, and
he took leave of his uncle, extorting a
promise from him, ere he Avent, that they
should take a ' Sunday walk ' together in
the afternoon.

' Such a sad thing has happened,' he
said, running into the hbrary about an
hour after. ' Poor old Thompson was
taken very ill this morning ! '

'Who's old Thompson.^' asked Mr.
Eamsay.

178 MIDAS

' Oh ! Uncle Jolm. The dear old man
who works in the kitchen-garden, of
course.'

' Oh ! I remember. I'm sorry to hear it.
What is the matter with him ? '

' Something very bad with his side. I
forget the name.'

A pause. Gillie continued standing by
his uncle in an attitude of expectancy.
Mr. Eamsay having expressed his regret
his sympathy (and I fear, too, his interest)
was exhausted.

' Ain't you going oil to see him. Uncle
John ? '

'Me? No, my dear ! What good could
I do him P '

' But, Uncle John ! he's ill, poor man.'

' Well, my dear, / can't help it.*
' Puppy always goes off directly he
hears any one is ill,' said Gillie, rather

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 179

reproachfully ; 'even if he's just sat down to
dinner, he gets up directly and starts off.'

' Yes, my dear child. But I must
remind you again I'm not a clergyman.
Don't you see — that makes all the differ-
ence ? '

' Oh ! I forgot; said Gillie.

But there was an only-half-satisfied
expression on his face, which alarmed his
luicle ; and dreading any further misunder-
standings, he tried to change the subject
by proposing they should now start for the
promised Sunday walk.

Gilhe ran away to put on his things ;
and, by the time he came back, old
Tliompson, to Mr. Kamsay's relief, was
apparently forgotten.

' What sort of man is that young foot-
man ? ' asked Mr. Eamsay, as they walked

alono-.

X 2

I So MIDAS

He had a reason for his enquiry ; and
he was beginning to believe in the child's
insight into character.

' What— Edmund ? ' said Gillie. ' Oh,
he's such a nice, kind man, Uncle John !
I am so fond of him. He's always doing
kind things. He'll do anything in the
world for anybody.'

Mr. Ramsay was puzzled. The account
did not tally with that which the butler
had that mornino; been <^ivini? him of the
person in question. He had been rather
' bothering him with complaints of the
said Edmund. He had spoken of him as
idle, inattentive to his work, etc'

' Do anything for anybody .^ ' he re-
peated. ' Xow what kind of things .^ '

' Oh, well ! ' answered Gillie, ' he'll cut a
face out of a turnip for you, if you wanted
one. Or he'd bring up young blackbirds

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR i8i

for you, or give you a ride on his back.
He would, reely. Uncle John. And then
he's not a hit fiissij, don't you know.'

' Fussy ! ' repeated Uncle John. ' Now
how do you mean ? In what way ? '

' Oil ! ,well I mean, don't you know, that
even if he's right in the middle of cleaning
his plate, he'll leave it all to come and have
a race with you. He'll let the bell go on
ringing and ringing, if you're bloAving soap-
bubbles with him, or having a game of
single-wicket in the yard. " Let them ring,"
he'll say. Oh ! he is a jolly man, is
Edmund. He must be nice and kind,
mustn't lie, Uncle John ? '

' Oh, very ! ' said Mr. Ramsay, with a
vivid recollection of having been kept ten
minutes waiting, when he had rung the
Hbrary bell, yesterday.

' Some footmen are so fussy,' proceeded

iS2 MIDAS

Gillie, ' tliey rush off directly a bell rings,
and spoil games right in the middle. But
Edmund's not a bit fussy, not one bit.'

They were now passing the gardener's
cottage, and Gillie cast a longing glance at
the windows.

' I wonder how poor old Thompson is
by this time,' he said. ' Mr. Hobbs would
be sure to know. Shall we knock at the
door and ask? And oh, Uncle John, we
mio'ht ^Q> in, and see Mrs. Hobbs's new
baby ! '

' I think — I think we won't,' said
Mr. Eamsay, much alarmed. ' I don't
know the gardener's wife you see, and it
might — it might be very awkward.'

' Oh, but / do,' said Gillie. ' I know
her ver}^ well indeed. She's one of my
very <ireat friends.'

' Sunday is not a good day for visiting

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 183

these kind of people,' iiientioncd Mr.
Eamsay in desperation. ' They have their
own friends, and one is rather in tlie
way.'

It was a fortunate remark, for Gillie
answered, ' Oh yes ! they do. I can see
through the windows several people sitting
at tea. But, Uncle John, I don't think
they'd think you in the way at all, for I
know Mrs. Hobbs is longing to see you. So
is Mr. Hobbs, and lots of the people round
about. They say it seems so strange to
have a master they do not know, and

have never seen Sliall I tell you

a secret, Uncle John? Mrs. Hobbs is
ixoincf to ask you to be £!:odfather to the
new baby ! '

He paused for a moment to view the
effect on his uncle of the announcement of
the impending honour.

i84 MIDAS

' Ell ! ' said John Eamsay aghast ; but
GilHe took the expression for one of
gratified surprise.

' Yes ! ' he said dehghted, ' it's quite
true, reel]) ! The only thing she's not
quite sure about is whether you'd like
it called "Eamsay" or "John." Which
do you think sounds best with
" Hobbs " ? '

Before the godfather-elect could express
an oi:)inion, Gillie went on —

'You'll kiss the baby at the christen-
ing, Avon't you, Uncle John? Because Mrs.
Ilobbs says she would rather you had the
first kiss after it's christened than anybody
in the world. She remembers hearing her
father talk about your christening, she
says ; and he knew your father, and your
grandfather, you see.'

Mr. Eamsay muttered something in-

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 185

audible. He was befaiiniiify to realise with

a pang that ' property has its duties as well
as its rights.' Gilhe, however, was quite
content to take cordial assent for granted,
and they walked on. After the gardener's
cottage had been safely left behind Gillie
started a new subject.

' Why do you always say " the foot-
man" and " the housekeeper " and " the
gardener " ? ' he asked.

' Why, what else should I say?' asked
Mr. Eamsay.

'Why, " Edmund " and " Mrs. Pryor "
and " Mr. Ilobbs," of course,' said Gilhe.
' Is it that you can't remember their
names ? Is that why ? '

Mr. Eamsay was silent. He was con-
scious that herein lay one of those difler-
ences between him and the child on which
he had been dwelling a few nights before ;

1 86 MIDAS

that where he saw only machines neces-
sary for his comfort and well-being, little
Gillie saw individuality and human fellow-
ship.

He began quite to dread what the
child would say next. But there was a
deeper thrust coming. ' Uncle John,'
the little fellow said, as they neared
the house at the conclusion of their
walk, ' I never knew till to-day that it
was only clergymen who were kind to
poor people.'

Three times Mr. Ramsay began to speak,
and three times he stopped abruptly. He
tried to form a sentence each time by
which to excuse, if not to exculpate, him-
self; but none of them seemed to him to
express at all what he wanted to say. He
gave it up altogether at last, for everything
lie attempted appeared to him to partake

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 187

of tlie nature of the familiar Freiicli pro-
verb — Qui s' excuse s' accuse.

He tliouglit perhaps actions would be
more convincing than words. He put his
hand into his pocket.

'Look here, Gillie,' he said, taking a
couple of half-crowns out, and handing
them to the little boy, ' you may send the

footm 1 mean Edmund — with these to

old Thompson, and say they are a present
from me. Then he can buy whatever is
necessary, either of food or medicine.'

' Oh, Uncle John ! Uncle John ! ' ex-
claimed the child in delight. ' llow pleased
he will be ! Five shiUings — why I don't
suppose he's emr in his life had so much
money all at once before ! But wliij should
we send Edmund with it ? Bo let us take
it to him ourselves. I should so like to see
his joy. And Em sure if you came and

i88 MIDAS

gave it to him yourself^ lie would be miicli
more pleased with it. He Avould think a
great deal more of it. He would, reely,
Uncle John ! '

He stood, looking eagerly up into his
uncle's face, the unconscious exponent of
Lowell's beautiful thought —

Not what we give, but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare.

But there was no answer to his appeal ;
and something in the face he was looking
at must have chilled him, for he said
nothing more. He went away to his tea,
and Mr. Eamsay returned to the library,
without the matter being cleared up be-
tween them.

But the latter was uneasy and per-
turbed. He was provoked with himself
for not having thought of some tangible
excuse, which might have satisfied the

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 189

child. He kept on telling himself he
' mif?ht have said this,' or he ' miiiht have
said that.'

lie had plenty of time to think it all
over, for it was a lone while before Gillie
came back to him. When he appeared
Mr. Eamsay nervously fancied the child
looked grave and thoughtful.

' What are you thinking about ? ' he
asked anxiously. He rather courted an
oj)portunity of righting himself in the
child's eyes, and was now prepared to
offer to go with him to old Thompson,
if no middle course presented itself.

But he was too late. He had missed
his opportunity, one of those golden ones
which come across people's paths every
now and then, and, if missed, perhaps
never re-occur.

' I was thinking of old Thompson,'

T90 MIDAS

answered tlie little boy, ' he is so bad,
poor old man ! '

' Have you seen liim ? ' asked Mr.
Eamsay, ratlier crestfallen.

' Yes. Mrs. Pryor took me after tea.
And we gave liim the five shillings.'

' And was he as pleased as you
expected .^ '

' Oh ! he was so pleased,' said Gillie ;
' so pleased that he took both my hand
and kissed them ! But he said some funny
things I didn't quite understand, but Mrs.
Pryor said she knew what he meant. I
asked her about it coming home, but it
seemed to make her feel inchned to cry,
and she gave me a great many kisses.
Wasn't it funny ? '

' What sort of things did he say ? '
asked Mr. Eamsay.

' Oh ! I don't know. Something about

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 191

a loving heart being worth all the money
in the world, and about a " bright face "
and a " bit of sunshine." I didn't under-
stand what he meant.'

But Mr. Eamsay was like Mrs. Pryor :
he did.

' Do you know, Uncle John,' said Gillie,
'that we haven't read anything in the
Bible, or had any prayers all day long,
though it is Sunday ? I haven't even said
a hymn or a text. Don't you think we'd
better read a chapter together before I go
to bed ? '

It was quite impossible for Mr. Eamsay
to refuse any more requests of the child's
to-night. He was only too glad of an
opportunity of retrieving his character.
Gilhe fetched a Bible and suggested that
they should ' look over each other ' and
read verse and verse about. He was

192 MIDAS

afraid lie read ratlier slow, and the long
words he sometimes made mistakes with,
but Uncle John must not mind.

No ; Uncle John promised not to mind.

It then became a question of what
chapter should be chosen. Mr. Eamsay
kept very quiet, hoping every minute
Gillie would make his own selection.

' Look here, Uncle John,' said Gillie,
looking up with a beaming smile, ' you may
choose. Tell me one of your favourite
chapters, and then we will read that.'

Mr. Eamsay 's face grew rather trou-
bled. His brow contracted with anxious
thought.

But he was determined not to fail
again. lie must keep up his character if
possible.

IIap])ily for him, his memory had been
refreshed by the search of the night before

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 193

after those passages he had marked ; and
he timidly suggested the 18th Chapter of
St. Matthew ; it being tlie only one he
could lecall at the moment.

Gillie was delighted. It was one of his
mother's favourite chapters, too : especially
all the first part.

Wasn't it funny that she and Uncle
John should both happen to be so very
fond of the same chapter ?

So verse by verse they read the lesson,
and then Gillie kissed his uncle, and went
to bed, leaving John Eamsay musing over
what they had been reading, and wonder-
insf how much of it Gillie liad under-
stood — how much his little mind had
taken in.

It seemed to him impossible that a
child could in any way adapt to its own

194 MIDAS

comprehension, the deep truths of the
Bible.

Yet how earnestly he had listened ;
how attentively he had read.

How much did he understand of it ?
What did it convey to him ?

John Eamsay had not realised that the
Word of God is capable of infinite expansion,
and of infinite compression. So that what
fits a child in its way, and as far as he is able
at the time to understand it, fits him also
as he advances in knowledge and experi-
ence ; taking ever deeper meanings as life
goes on.

It says one thing to us at seven, an-
other at seventeen, and another at forty ;
in the same words conveying the ever-un-
folding message ; in the same words teach-
ing the young, the old, the ignorant, and

A STRANGELY ASSORTED PAIR 195

tlie wise : another iestiiiiony, if any were
wanted, to the ' endless vigour and vitahty
of tlie words of Holy Scripture.'

From that ]iis thoughts wandered on to
the depth and earnestness of a child's con-
science. He was as much struck by it this
evening, as he had been a few nights
before by the implicitness and simplicity
of a child's faith.

Then he reflected on the kindness of
the little heart, its tenderness and sym-
pathy, its consideration for the feelings
and well-being of others — its desire to
share its happiness with all.

The child seemed to him the embodi-
ment of Faith and Charity.

Old Thompson, too, played a part in
his meditations.

Thoughts, fanciful enough for a pro-

196 MIDAS

saic man, passed over the stage of liis fancy.
Dreamy ideas of how, if the old man were
called away that night ; the snnny, gnileless
face at his bedside would have spoken to
him of the ano-els he was soon to see !

197

CHAPTER V.
AT HIS child-teacher's feet.

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three :
Himself, his hungering neighbour, and Me.

And so it came to pass that, as the days
went on, Mr. Eamsay grew more and more
dependent on the cluld's companionship.

By tlie end of a week or so he could
not bear to be without him even for an
hour ; and if tlie sunny presence was not
with him, he felt everything to be unin-
terestin<»-, and as if the light had i>-one out
of his day. He became less and less will-
ing, too, to share him with others.

He was disappointed if he stayed away

198 " MIDAS

with Mrs. Prj^or, or Edmund, or any of
his numerous friends.

' It is quite natural,' he would say to
himself again as he sat listening to the
merry voice in the court-yard sometimes,
' the footman is young, and I am '

Here he would sigh, for he really
thought it very disagreeable. He would
wait and listen to every sound, and prick
up his ear when the light hurrying footstep
was heard, and look up eagerly for the
hrst sight of the bright face, with a glad
' Here you are, my little boy ! '

His mind and attention were now en-
tirely concentrated on the child, and on
the life they were living together.

It was quite in the spirit of children
that he was living. The present was all.

He did not look forward and wonder
what was to happen when the three weeks

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER^^; FEET 199

were over ; he only lived fi-om clay to
day.

The orio-inal resolution formed for self-
pleasing, and then in the desire not to
disappoint the ideal the child had formed
of him, liad been followed by a feeling
which he, perhaps, could not have defined ;
but which, if put into words, might have
been construed into a wish in some mea-
sure to atone for the blight he had been the
means of bringing upon his home, and for
the fact that the only shadow which lay
upon his sunny path was of his creating.

But even this motive was now passing
into the desire to win his affection, to
make and to keep him happy, to be the
means of bringing the sparkle of joy into
the innocent eyes, the quick flush of plea-
sure into the little face.

It was becoming by degrees his main

20O MIDAS

tlioiiglit to ])lease one so intensely capable
of pleasure, to provide enjoyment where
it gave sucli great, such infinite, gratifi-
cation.

Dawning upon him was the wish to
provide the pleasure instead of to partake
of it ; and, in accordance with tlie law of
action and reaction, the reflex joy was
enouLdi for him, and his own share fell
into the backfjround.

He sighed no more for liis own power
of enjoyment, vanished so long ago !

He was enterinu' daily into the meaning"
of the axiom that ' to love is to go out of
self; beconnng daily convinced that you
must give if you hope to receive.

He Avas learning it ^practically as well
as theoretically.

For, to begin with, in order to keep the
child witli hini — liaunted as he ever was

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S FEET 201

by the fear of his finding him a dull com-
panion and leaving him — he worked hard
to please him.

Any one who knows anything about
children, will understand tliat all this in-
volved a good deal of self-sacrifice, and
could only be done at some personal cost ;
that often he must have to do things he
would rather not do, often exert himself
when he would rather rest.

He was determined not only to win
but to retain the child's friendship ; and
with this end in view, he, without hardly
knowing it, sank self more and more, and
lived almost entirely in another.

AVith such constant study, and com-
panionship, he grew, of course, pretty w^ell
versed in children's ways ; but he con-
tinued, nevertheless, to have many sur-
prises. Their peculiarities were a continual

203

MIDAS

puzzle to him. Such things, among others,
as the frequent ' It is so nasty, do taste
it,' ' It smells so horrid, do come and smell
it,' caused him much astonishment, before
he iiTew familiar with them.

' What a very curious thing ! ' he re-
flected in his matter-of-fact way. ' Now, if
it had been anything nice^ one could have
understood it.'

Tlien the power of drawing amusement
from trifles and from common little mis-
takes incident to daily hfe puzzled him
very much.

He could not conceive why any little
foolish thing he did or said in a fit of
absence of mind, should afford Gillie such
iiitense enjoyment.

' Wiiat is that funny little song I so
often liear you singing ' — he asked one
day — ' sometliing about a wasp and a fiy ? '

AT ins CHILD-TEACHER'S FEET 203

The cliild l)nrst into a merry laugh.
'Not a icasp, Uncle John — a bee, a humble

bee.'

' Well, it's a funny little song, whatever
the insect may be. Sing it again, will you ? '

He was thinking how it had sounded
outside the library window, before he had
known liow dear the little singer was going
to be to him.

' Will you sing it with me P ' said Gillie
eagerly. ' I'll sing the first part, and you
join in the chorus.'

Wliich they accordingly did ; drum-
ming their fists upon the table by way of
accompaniment.

Gilhe was dehghted with the perform-
ance, and with his uncle's voice.

' You sing beautifully, Uncle John,' he
said, ' we'll often sing together now. But
remember,' he added, going off again into

204 MIDAS

fits of merry laugliter, ' it isn't a wasp, it's
a bee. You do make funny mistakes, don't
yon ? Do yon remember how yon poured
milk instead of water into the teapot at
breakfast this morning ? '

The mistake was one of tliose to wliich
we referred just now, and it had at the
time caused Gillie such infniite amusement
that Mr. Eamsay had reflected then, as he
did now, what a fund was in store for him, if
such little mistakes of common occurrence
were able to contribute so largely to it.

Taking salt instead of sugar, helping
yourself twice to salt, etc., why, the dullest
life, he reflected, would afford these little
incidents.

After all, how many old jokes of this
kind there arc in the world — poor to begin
with, and now well-nigli worn out by con-
stant use !

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S FEET 205

People must so often have said ten
stone instead of ten pounds ; or twelve feet
instead of twelve inches ; and yet how
inevitable the amusement such mistakes
call forth.

But it was not only in these ways, but
from trifles of all kinds, that Gillie drew
amusement and pleasure.

There seemed to Mr. Eamsay no limit
to his power of enjoyment, to his zest and
freshness in every pursuit ; to the joys and
interests that sprang up in his daily path.

He had, however, one day another
experience of children's natures in this
respect: and learned that, though trifles
give them pleasure, in the same propor-
tion trifles bring them trouble too.

As he stood shaving in the early
morning near the open window of his bed-
room, he heard low sobbing in the garden

2o6 MIDAS

below. ' oil clear ! oli dear ! ' soimded in
tlie little voice lie loved so dearly, ' wliat
shall I do ? what sliall I do ? I shall never
be happy again ! '

Lightning is the only word to express
the speed with which Mr. Eamsay com-
pleted his toilette, and was down in the
garden ; searching for the little boy, in
order to discover — and, if it lay in
his power, to remove — the cause of his
grief.

Gillie had, however, disappeared, and
he could see no trace of him anywhere.

He searched, he called, but in vain.

' Have you seen the child P ' he asked
eagerly of the gardener, as he passed him
at his work.

' Master Gilbert is in the shrubbery, I
think, sir,' was the answer, and Mr, Eamsay
sped hastily on.

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S EEET 207

But long before he readied the shrub-
bery, Gilhe came running to meet him, no
trace of tears in his eves : no sio;ns of efrief
in his countenance.

' What is it, Uncle John P ' he said.
' Did I hear you calHng me ? '

' Yes, my little fellow. What was the
matter ? What were you crying so bitterly
about just now? '

The child looked puzzled. ' Crying .^ '
he repeated. ' I forget — oh yes, I know ! —
I had lost something ' (looking rather
shame-faced), ' and I couldn't fnid it any-
where. I hunted and hunted and couldn't
find it. But I found it at last,' he added,
all the joyous animation returning to his
manner, ' and I am so glad. I wouldn't
have lost it for all the world.'

' What was it you had lost ? ' enquired
his uncle, wondering what possession could

2o8 MIDAS

be so valuable as to be wortliy of such
grief at its loss.

' Oil, Uncle John, it was that darling,
darling little pill-box you gave me — oh,
wouldn't it have been dreadful if I had lost
it ? But you see I've found it again now.
Here it is. So it's all right,' and he ran
back into the shrubbery, leaving his uncle
greatly wondering.

He had never seen him before in one
of those sudden fits of almost causeless
despair, to which all keenly enjoying,
quick-feeling children are liable.

And it brought into his mind, for the
first time, a doubt whether, after all, child-
hood is such a happy time as older people
are apt to consider it ; and whether to
feel little troubles and disappointments so
keenly is not in itself an insuperable bar to
the joy of childhood of which these older

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S EEET 209

people talk so much. After all, is tlie advan-
tage all on their side, if trifles have such a
power to make them unhappy ?

Those far on in hfe's journey, Avitli their
maturer knowledge of its trials and disap-
pointments, are perhaps too apt to look
upon children's trivial troubles as out of
all proportion to the grief and tears they
waste upon them.

But though they look infinitesimal from
our point of view, they are very real, for
the moment, from theirs.

They are really quite in proportion.
Take, for instance, the case of a baby who
can only just walk, and consider if we
shall ever know a keener disappointment
than that suffered by such a being, who,
having with intense difFiculty risen to its
feet, and with still greater difficulty toddled
across the room to get hold of something

2IO MIDAS

on a distant table, on which its heart is set,
to see the hand of authority remove the
prize beyond its reach.

No wonder the small baffled being sinks
down upon the ground in an agony of fury
and disappointment. Sometimes though,
as we have seen, Gillie had real and more
lasting phases of sadness, and would sit
very quiet, without speaking for a long
while.

When at such times lovingly questioned
by his uncle it would come out that he was
' thinking of poor Puppy, and wishing he
had not got to be so ill for such a long
time.'

These fits of sadness Mr. Eamsay had
learned to dread. He could not bear to
see the l)right face clouded.

He dreaded to see the shade of
thoughtfulness coming over the face which

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S FEET 211

lie knew would culminate in the attack
of home-sickness and depression ; and he
would do almost anything in the world to
avert it.

If the cloud were there, he would work
hard to chase it away, and to bring the
sunshine back.

All this gradual merging of self in the
child was teaching John Eamsay much.

And besides, it could not stop at Gilhe
himself. To be in sympathy with so widely
loving and tender-hearted a being, he was
obhged perforce to extend, or at any rate
to affect to extend, his interest to others.

His human sympathies began to awake
within him, and to flow forth to those
around.

Not spontaneously exactly, but vicari-
ously, as it were, through, and for the sake
of, the child.

p 2

212 MIDAS

It was for love of liim, and to keep up
his character in his eyes, that he began to
do acts of kindness to his poorer neigh-
bours.

That is, he gave money to Gillie to dis-
tril)ute.

He had no idea of charity as yet but
to put his hand into his pocket, though
that in itself was a ijreat advance in a man
of his habits and disposition.

He delighted in giving Gillie larger
sums than he either expected or wished
for : partly that he might have the plea-
sure of seeing his joy and surprise ; and
partly because he liked the little boy to
think him generous and munificent.

His own idea of the poor, as a class,
was of grasping people, wlio wished to get
all they could out of the rich ; simply and

AT HIS CHILD-TEACHER'S FEET 213

solely from love of money, and of what
money brought.

He often smiled to himself when he saw
Gillie picking- nosegays of flowers, or filling
baskets with strawberries to take to some
of his friends. ' Dear simple little fellow,'
he w^ould say to himself, ' what do tliose
sort of people care for that ? '

But when he began (unwillingly enough)
to accompany him in his visits ; and, sit-
ting stiff and silent in a corner, watched
Gillie distributing his bounties, his ej-es
opened to a new truth in the matter of
givhig. lie began to see why all that the
child did for others was crowned with suc-
cess ; why his own little gifts were doubly
welcome ; and why his sunny presence
enhanced the value of all that he brou£>-]it.

o
Who gives himself \i\i\\ his ahiis . . .

214 MIDAS

All ! that was little Gillie's secret, as it is
the secret of all true almsgiving.

That is no gift which the hand can hold :
He gives nothing but worthless gold

Who gives from a sense of duty.
But he who gives a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight —

That thread of the all-sustaining beauty
Which runs through all, and doth all unite —
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms :
For a god goes loith it, and makes it store
To a soul that ivas starving in darhiess before.

215

CHAPTER VI.

CHANGED VIEWS.

And tlie lawyers smiled that afternoon
As he hummed in court an old love tune.

At the end of a fortniglit Mr. Ramsay
received a letter from his old clerk in
London, urging him to come up, if only for
the day, to transact some business.

Strange to say the idea gave him no
pleasure.

On the contrary, the feeling uppermost
in his mind on reading- tlie letter was one
bordering on annoyance.

He had lost all wish for what, a fort-
night before, he had so longed and siglied
for.

2i6 MIDAS

His views on the subject had iindcr-
o'one a chan2;e.

He felt now that it would be a sad
waste of a June day, to spend it in the
city of London ; and he felt even more
strongly that to spend a whole da}' away
from Gillie would be thoroughly distaste-
ful to him.

However, he had no valid excuse to
ofTer. He was so much stronger in mind
and body that he knew he was quite
equal to the exertion ; and he knew, too,
that there must be, by this time, an accu-
mulation of business to which he ought
to attend.

He telegraphed back to say he would
])e in London the next morning, and then
nothing remained but to announce his in-
tentions to Gillie.

' Oh, Uncle John ! ' exclaimed the little

CHANGED VIEWS 217

fellow in dismay, '■please don't go away. I
can't let you. What should I do witliont
you ? '

Mr. Ramsay's intention wavered still
more.

Gillie never knew how nearly he gave
it all up, and let dividends and investments
take their chance.

When the next morning came he felt
quite depressed at the idea of parting with
the child, and a lump came into his throat
as he wished him good-bye. It was curious
how depressing he thought London tliat
da}", how dark and how dull he felt the
city to be. The sight of his old clerk
brought back only wearisome associations.

He found his thoughts, as he sat at
work in his business-room, constantly turn-
ing to the lovely country and the bright
summer sights and sounds he had left

21 8 MIDAS

behind him, continually wandering to the
little central figure which illumined it
all, wondering what the child was doing
— whether he missed him, or whether he
was quite happy without him — following
with his mental eye all the occupations of
his httle clay, saying, almost out loud,
' Now he's working in his garden. Now
he's feeding; his birds. . . .'

Wliat a ding-y hole this London lodi?-
ing Avas ! How dark ! How oppressive !
How dismal !

What a noise and din in the streets
outside ! What an incessant roll and roar
in one's ears instead of that deep stillness
of the fountry, broken only by the song of
the birds — by the laugh of the woodpecker
— Is he listening to it now ? . . .

He must stop this day-dreaming, and
go on with his business.

CHANGED VIEWS 219

But the thought of the child pursued
him stilL

He could almost see him skipping about
on the terrace : almost hear his light danc-
ing footsteps, and gay voice, singing his
quaint little song.

Mr. Eamsa3''s old clerk came once or
twice to the door of his business-room
that day, to ask if he liad called : for
most unusual sounds had proceeded from
within.

But no ! Mr. Eamsay had not called.

He was sitting, writing, as usual : and
seemed surprised at the interruption.

The third time the clerk did not like to
open the door and disturb his master with
the same enquiry ; and yet he felt almost
sure this time that he had called out. So
he paused for a moment outside, and be-
came aware, to his astonishment, that his

C20 MIDAS

master was humming. Humming and —
sinjrino: !

But silence followed, and the scratching
of the busy pen. Eelieved by that accus-
tomed sound, the clerk was retirino- wlien
a fresh outburst startled and arrested him.

With renewed vio:our the sinoino^ beo-an

again, and this time the words were louder,

and quite distinct —

Says the Fly, says she,
' Will you marry me,
And live with me,
Sweet humble Bee % '

The clerk's face assumed a rather ^'rave
aspect, and he slightly shook his head.

He looked cautiously all round jiim,
especially towards the room he had just
left, as if hoping no one but himself was
within earshot. All was now quite quiet
aL^ain inside his master's room, and the
scratching of the pen again audible.

CHANGED VIEWS 221

Suddenly, louder than ever, and accom-
panied by stamping of feet, and wliat
sounded like the drumming of fists upon
the taljle, it broke out again.

Fiddle-de-clee !
Fiddle-de-dee !
The Fly has married the humble Bee.

The old clerk's face grew very long-
indeed, and his eves round and scared-
looking. He retired very, very quietly,
shuttiufT everv door behind him, and shak-
ing his head sorrowfully. For he was
loyal and true ; and in his way loved the
silent, abstracted man he had served so
long.

He had been distressed enough alreadv
at the breakdown in his nerves and brain-
power ; but he had not expected anything
so bad as this ! In all these many years
he had never heard him hum or sin"'

222 MIDAS

before. And as to drumming with liis
fists ! — and stamping ! — and in tlie middle
of business, too ! ' Ah ! well, it was very
sad, very sad — but the less said about it
the better ! '

A few hours later the object of these
gloomy forebodings was tearing along in
the train on his way home, enjoying the,
to him, novel sensation that some one was
waiting for him, and expecting him and
loncrino; for liis return.

He felt quite excited when he got into
the carriage waiting at the station and
drove off towards home.

He strained his eyes as he neared the
lodge-gate, in hopes of catching sight of a
httle figure, on its way to meet him.

Yes ; there it was ! There was the little
fellow holding the gate open and waving
his hat.

CHANGED VIEWS 223

Tlie carriage was stopped, and Mr.
Eamsay got eagerly out, Gillie springing
into his arms, with a welcome as fervent
as if they had been parted for years : his
bright face belying his assurances that he
had been ' so dreadfully dull without him.'
Hand in hand, the reunited friends
walked home through the chestnut avenue,
Mr. Eamsay feehng — as he drank in the
beauty of the summer evening, and listened
to Gillie's merry prattle of all that he had
done during his absence — that he could
never go away again.

How calm and fresh the country seemed
after the long hot day in the city ! How
sweet the smell of the new-mown hay and
the roses !

He woke next morning with a feehng
of intense rehef, that his visit to London
lay behind him, and that this day, and the

224 MIDAS

next, and the next, could be devoted to
Gillie once more.

How j^leasant it was to sit in the library
after breakfast, with tliat delicious sense of
leisure and repose ! listening to the child's
gay laugh upon the terrace, while the
scent of the limes floated in at the
window.

He leant back in liis chair witli a
feeling of calm satisfaction that he was
once aQ:ain free to be the sharer in childish
avocations and simple pleasures, that his
day was once more in the little boy's
hands, and that he had only to follow in
his lead.

The days were so precious, too : for

the time was drawing on when the " three

weeks " of little Gillie's calculations would

be over. Already a fortnight was gone.

Beyond those three weeks John Ramsay

CHANGED VIEWS 225

did not allow himself to look. He knew
they must come to an end, that the ter-
mination of his brother's illness, either
way, must result in the child being taken
from him, but he turned his thouHits
resolutely away from the future. He had
got into a little oasis in the desert of his
hfe, and he would not allow himself to
think of the waste that probably lay
beyond.

For the time, the child was all his
own. . . .

'I am going to the dogs,' said a gay
voice ; and a bright, innocent face, which
seemed out of harmony with the announce-
ment, peeped in at the window. ' Will you
come, too ? '

Mr. Eamsay immediately rose from his
cliair and took his way to the terrace.
Conversation flovv^ed freely as the two'

226 MIDAS

walked along towards the kennels ; and they
had nearly reached their destination when
Gilhe suddenly stopped short, and gave an
exclamation of dismay.

' What is it ? ' said M\ Eamsay.

' My letter to mother,' he said ; ' I quite
forsfot to finish it before I came out. I
must go back.'

' We'll go back together,' said Mr.
Eamsay.

'I don't like to disappoint the poor
dogs,' said Gilhe ; ' Uncle John, won't you
go on and feed them, and I'll come back to
you as fast as I can after I've finished my
letter ? '

Of course Mr. Eamsay would do any-
thing that Gillie asked him : and he waited
patiently while the child transferred from
his own pocket to his uncle's every sort of
horrible old bone, which he had been

CHANGED VIEWS 227

saving up from the breakfast and dinner
plates.

' I sha'n't be long ' he said, when this
operation was over. ' I've only got to write
the good-byes and the P.C

'The P.C.?' repeated ]\Ir. Eamsay;
'what's that?'

' The thinf' at the end of a letter, you
know,' explained Gillie.

' Oh — the postscript ! Do you always
think it necessary to put a postscript to
your letters ? '

'Oh, yes, of course!' he answered, 'every
letter has to have a P.C. It wouldn't be a
letter, not a proper one at least, without.
But I shall be very quick. Uncle John. I
shall run after you as fast as possible.'

Mr. Eamsay stroUed on, and fulfilled
his mission.

228 MIDAS

Gillie "was a lonix time coming, but as
letter-writing was always a difficult process
with liim, his uncle was not surprised at
his non-appearance.

The P.O. was evidently a more lengthy
affair than he had anticipated.

Mr. Eamsay returned to the house, in
hopes of meeting him, but missed him
somehow on the way, and on reaching the
library found it empty.

The letter, however, lay finished on the
blotting-book, ready to be folded up, and
put into its envelope — a task which always
fell to Mr. Eamsay's share.

He advanced to the writing-table, to
take it up, and stood aghast at the sight of
the startling piece of intelligence which
was about to find its way into the quiet
country rectory.

' P.O. — Uncle John has gone to the

CHANGED VIEWS 229

(logs, and I am going aftei' liim as fast as
possible.'

They had been talking together a day
or two before Mr. Eamsay went to London
about keeping diaries, and Mr. Eamsay
had expatiated on their great interest as
you get on in life, and your memory
begins to fail

He regretted, he had said, tliat lie had
not l^ept one all his life.

Gillie had been fired to begin at once.

' Uncle Jolm, c/t>, do give me a book to
keep it in, and let me begin directly.'

' You, my little fellow ? I am afraid
you would never have the perseverance to
go on every day.'

'But when I am determined^ Uncle John,
when I make up my mind, I reely should.'

Accordingly a diary had been procured

230 MIDAS

by Mr. Eamsay in London, and Gillie was
now presented with it.

There was a good many sighs and
groans over it that evening in the library
as he wrote in the distance, perched np at
Mr. Eamsay's own business-table, with an
enormous inkstand in front of him.

Looking round at him presently as a
very deep sigh escaped him, Mr. Eamsay
saw him in an attitude of deep thought,
Avith a large quill pen stuck behind his ear.

' What is the matter, Gilhe ? '

' Oh, Uncle John, how do you spell
" determined " ? It is such a long; word.'

Letter by letter Uncle John patiently
dictated it.

' Tliere ! ' said Gillie in a tone of
triumpli ; ' now it's done, and now I shall
WTite a little bit of it every day of my life,
all my life long.'

CHANGED VIEWS 231

' Let me see what you have done,' said
Mr. Eamsay.

Gilhe scrambled down from his high
elevation, and handed the journal to his
uncle.

Mr. Eamsay took it in his hands, and
found in large text-hand the following
entry —

June 22. — ' Determined to keep a
Dairy.'

Years after he found that journal in an
old cupboard. But — alas for the futihty of
human resolutions — it was the only entry
in the book.

MIDAS

CHAPTER \^L

THE CHURCH IN THE OLD COUNTY-TOWX.

Thou blessed child,
There was a time when pure as thou,
I looked and prayed like thee — but now ! — Moore.

The Sunday after tliat no excuses were
made for not going to church.

John Eamsay felt a wish to go there
with his child-companion.

He felt quite up to the long drive to
the county-town ; more especially when he
fuiind what a pleasure nine miles in a dog-
cart would be to Gillie.

At about ten o'clock that small person
presented himself in the library, as on

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 233

the former occasion, with his large prayer-
book under his arm, and a request for a
slieet of notepaper.

'We shall just have time,' he said, 'to
find my places.'

His prayer-book, with his uncle's assist-
ance, was soon bristhng with white paper
marks in every direction.

He heaved a deep sigh as he laid it on
the table.

'Now,' he said, 'I shall be all right,
and you won't have to keep whispering to
me, " Psalms," " Litany," " Collect," and all
that.'

Nothing certainly could have been
further from Mr. Kamsay's intentions, but
he was always glad to get a hint of what
miglit be expected from him under new
circumstances.

The drive was in every way delightful,

234 MIDAS

and they arrived at the church door just
as the bell had ceased rin^^finix.

It was a large, crowded church, for the
town was a considerable one ; and it was
a few minutes before seats were found for
them at the far end of a pew already
fairly well filled. GiUie had some difficulty
in steering himself and his large prayer-
book, with its quills sticking out in every
direction, safely across the knees and feet
of all the people over whom he had to pass
on his way.

Mr. Eamsay followed him as best he
could ; and, after seating himself, was bend-
ing slightly over the hollow of his hand to
say a few words of prayer, when the look
of Ijlank astonishment in the innocent eyes
of the child at his side made him feel re-
buked, and caused him to bethink himself
and to assume a more reverent attitude.

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 235

The service presently began, and all
went well until after the reading of the
first lesson.

And now a terrible disaster occurred.

In rising from his seat at the 'Te
Deum ' Gillie either opened his prayer-
book too hastily or stood up too sud-
denly.

But be that as it may his prayer-book
received a shake and half dropped from
his hand.

The result was that a perfect snow-
storm of httle white papers fell fluttering
in every direction ; and an exclamation
of dismay burst from their distracted
owner.

' Oh, my marks, my marks ! ' escaped
his lips in an awestruck whisper, while a
scared and agonised expression overspread
his whole countenance.

2i6 MIDAS

The big prayer-book was now a track-
less desert, through which, unaided, he
woukl never find his way.

All landmarks were gone for ever. Sign-
posts, mile-stones — all had disappeared.

He put the book down on the seat be-
side him in mute despair, and an ominous
silence followed.

Presently, something like the sound of
a sob made Mr. Eamsay start.

lie looked quickly round. Quiet tears
were falling, and suppressed ejaculations
of sorrow were plainly to be heard.

'Oh, what shall I doP What shall I do?
It's no use now. I shall never, never be
able to fmd any of my places again.'

He stood disconsolate, the ground be-
neath him strewn witli the wrecks of his
former hopes.

Much alarmed, Uncle John bent over

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 237

liiin, whispering words of consolation, Ijiit
feeling very uncertain of his powers.

The readinsf of the second lesson o;ave
him an opportunity of sitting down and
drawing the child towards him.

By the time it was over, Gillie had re-
covered himself, and a whispered com-
pact had been made between him and
liis uncle that tliey should share a
prayer-book together for the rest of the
service.

Mr. luimsay got very nervous, as the
service proceeded, when he perceived
Gillie's searching and enquiring gaze
fixed upon certain little columns of figures
which appeared every now and then on
the margin of the leaves, and which he had
fondly hoped the child would not observe.
They were figures, as we know, which he
would very much rather not be questioned

238 MIDAS

about. He was glad when, tlie last hymn
bemg over, he was able to put his prayer-
book into his pocket ; and hoped that even
if observed they might be forgotten by
the time the sermon was over.

Gillie nestled up to his uncle and
rested his head on his shoulder. The
dear little hand slipped itself confidingly
into his. Its contact sent a strange thrill
to John Eamsay's heart.

The sermon beo-an.

It is a curious thing to look at a con-
gregation of people hanging on the words
of one man : their minds and intellects
held, as it were, in the grasp of another,
and turned and swayed at his will — im-
pregnated for the moment Avith his spirit,
imbued with his' tlioughts and feehngs.
Expanding under liis influence, as he
warms with his subject, they judge as he

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 239

judges, deduce as he deduces, and rise
with liim into that higher atmosphere, from
whence all here below is more justly-
judged of and balanced.

There is a very special way of looking
on thino's in church — a ' chan2;ed view of
all vital matters.'

The quiet and leisure to tliink even,
comes to some only there.

Their outlook on life is chano-ed for the
moment, and people dimly realise that there
is something more important than their daily
interests and occupations ; something that
transcends even worldly advancement or
the making of money ; something that will
last when all these things have passed
away.

It may fade, and will fade when they
get out of church, and be lost in the in-
terests which will meet them outside the

240 MIDAS

door ; but for tlie time tliey are under its
influence.

The power of the Unseen is upon them,
and they have a sense that tlie present, tlie
visible, the tangible, is slipping, slipping
from them, and that they mu.'<t one day
let it go. Tliat they are dreaming in a
land of mists and shadows which obscure
for a moment the reality and the sub-
stance beyond.

' A preacher,' says Gordon, ' stands
before his congregation as a man before
a garden full of seeds, which he has to
water in order to vivify with life. He is the
channel of communication. If the man
is worldly minded, the channel of commu-
nication is clogged, and his preaching will
be feeble.'

But the man to wliom John Eamsay
was listening was not worldly minded, and

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 241

lie was, therefore, a powerful cliannel of
communication to his hearers.

' So soon,' is the text he has chosen,
' so soon passeth it away, and we are gone.'
He is putting life before them as a whole ;
spreading it out before them as a field
wherein great things may be done ; and
forcing upon them the conviction that each
one of them can and may do them ; is, in
short, the man or woman who alone can do
them in his or her own small sphere ; in the
little niche of God's world allotted to them.

Life as a whole ; not the little bit by
which they are at the moment surrounded ;
in which they are for time engrossed ; but
the whole field of life, past, present, and
to come, with the one golden purpose run-
nin<T throuoh.

He gathers in one, as it were, all the
tangled threads of each man's varying hfe

242 MIDAS

and circumstances, and presents it to his
mental vision as one whole — an intricate
pattern indeed, but one out of which a
beautiful thing may be made.

A strong conviction of your own brings
conviction to others.

What he seems to see so clearly, they
too beccin to see.

He has raised the minds and hearts of
his hearers to a high level, and now he is
able to force them to see life from tliat
point of view.

His words are forcible in themselves,
but it is the sense of his own conviction
behind them which carries them so straight
home to his licarers.

He has embued them with his own
earnestness, his own enthusiasm, his own
high aims and lofty aspirations. He has
raised all life to a higher platform by the

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 243

way lie views it himself, by his deep sense
of its great aim and end, and he has
raised each man's life in his own eyes to
a higher possibility by the capabilities
he has shown it to contain.

For the moment all things seem possible,
and each hearer's better self rises up with
the heartfelt cry, ' Behold / come, to do
Thy will, oh Lord ! '

In the garden of seeds before which he
was standing there were, doubtless, many
that day in whom life was watered and
vivified, but we are concerned only with
one.

John Ramsay had not listened long be-
fore a new feeling for which he could not
account came gradually stealing over him.
He experienced the sense of being held in
the moral grasp of another. He found

R 2

244 MIDAS

himself, lie hardly knew how, bemg lifted
lip out of the slough of his usual worldly-
ways of thinking and judging.

Different ideas of failure and of success,
new views of the meanings of those words,
came floating down upon him.

He felt he was looking at life at last
from the right point of view, the view
which a hundred years hence every soul
in that cono;reg;ation w^ould feel to be the
right, the only, point of view. And seen in
this light, the success of his worldly, suc-
cessful life looked like failure, and his own
failure to hnd happiness in it looked like
the first gleam of success.

Every word hit like a hammer ; every
shot went home ; and brought before him so
clear a conviction of his wasted existence —
the aimless, purposeless years lying behind
him ; the total absence of a golden thread

THE CHURCH IX THE COUNTY-TOWN 245

of holy purpose running tlirougli — as to be
almost pain.

The dormant nature of his spiritual
part all this time came before him witli a
sharp pang. Dormant ! Not only dormant,
but non-existent — dead.

Not only dead, but buried. Every
avenue to his spirit choked, stopped up by
the love of money, and the absorbing inte-
rest arising therefrom which had possessed
him for forty years, to the exclusion, the
inevitable exclusion, of every better or
higher thought ; every interest, every
aspiration.

A man without a soul, a ' spiritual
giant buried under a mountain of gold,'
in whom riches had, indeed, ' choked the
word,' and from whom God and everlasting
truth were shut out. It must ever be so
when every thought is fixed upon an

246 MIDAS

earthly end or object. It need not be
money, of course. It may be cares, it may
be pleasure, it may be worldly ambition, it
may even be an engrossing pursuit, or an
absorbing human affection.

But whatever it be the result is the
same.

The kingdom of God, the power of the
Unseen, is shut out. It cannot enter. How
can it when every avenue is closed ?

As well might you expect the fresh air
to enter a room which for disinfecting
purposes has had its doors and windows
pasted up, and its fireplace hermetically
sealed.

' The kingdom of Heaven,' says our
Lord, ' is within you ' — but into such no
entrance can it find.

A seed had been planted in the dried-
up soil of John Ramsay's heart by the

THE CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 247

contemplation of the guileless child-life he
had had during the past fortnight before
him ; and now it is being watered and
vivified.

The better life is beginning to waken,
the higher nature beginning to stir.

It is rising from its long grave. Gaz-
ing down upon the innocent little face
cradled on his arm he ao;ain thouixht of
the stainless innocence of that little life,
and of the contrast it offered to his
own.

The child seemed to him the embodi-
ment of the atmosphere around him ; the
tangible shape of his own vague imagina-
tions ; and the hving representation of his
new thouo'hts.

He thought how different hfe must
appear to the mental vision of such a
guileless spirit ; looking out upon life with

248 MIDAS

its clear gaze, and colouring everything
"with its own pnrity.

He found himself shrinking from the
thought of a day ever coming, when the
child should learn to be like him : ' the
covetous man who is an idolater,' of
whom it is expressly said that he has no
inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and
of God.

And yet once^ he bitterly thought, once
his outlook had been as innocent, as pure.

A feeling of passionate regret for his
past innocence came over him.

Why had he not died in his childhood .^

Then a feeling of dread for Gillie's
future.

Why could he not always remain as
pure and innocent as he was now ?

Better for him, John Eamsay, far better,
had he been taken away with his young

772^^ CHURCH IN THE COUNTY-TOWN 249

mother, and laid to rest for ever by her

side.

Better, a thousand times better, for
GilHe to be translated now, in his innocent
state, to the kingdom where such pure
young spirits dwell.

The force of the expression, ' the Holy
Innocents,' came home to him more and
more every moment.

John Eamsay had only got as far as
innocence yet. It was a step in the right
direction, but it was only a step.

He had yet to learn that there is some-
thing better than innocence, something
higher, firmer, more enduring.

He had yet to learn that man cannot
live for ever in the o-arden of Eden, and
that moreover, if he could, it would not be
the highest state of existence.

But the thread of his reflections is

2 50 MIDAS

broken, the sermon is over, the Benedic-
tion is said, and Gillie is at the bottom of
the pew, carefully collecting all his precious
little bits of white paper.

251

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TWO FRIEXDS IX SOCIETY.

The next day, as Mr. Ramsay and his
little companion were returning home from
an afternoon ramble, Gillie descried with
great excitement the marks of recent
carriage-wheels on the gravel-sweep.

Mr. Ramsay did not appear to share
his pleasurable interest, but with an ex-
clamation that sounded like dismay, hurried
on into the house.

Gillie followed, and, finding him stand-
ing transfixed at the hall-table, pushed for-
ward to see what he was looking at.

' Take care ! ' exclaimed his uncle.

252 MIDAS

' What is it ? ' said Gillie. ' A wasp ? '

' Some tiling much worse,' muttered
John Ramsay.

' Worse ? ' exclaimed the child, peer-
ing under his uncle's elbow. 'Is it an
adder ? '

But to John Ramsay the thing lying
on the hall- table was something far worse
than either a wasp or an eadder. It was a
visiting-card ! — indeed, tu:o visiting-cards :
a small one with one name, a larger one
with several.

In his eyes a terrible meaning was
attached to those small white and appar-
ently inoffensive bits of pasteboard lying
there on the old oak -table. It was a re-
presentative misery : a coming event that

cast its shadow Ijefore. It meant

Well, what did it not mean?

It meant that his neighbours had found

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 253

liim out, that the county was beginning
to call upon him. It meant — worst horror
of all ! — that the visit would have to be
returned.

It meant society, and small talk, and
ladies, and everything else that his whole
soul shrank from.

' What 18 to be done ? ' he muttered to
himself. ' What a dreadful thing ! '

He took the innocent white things up
in his hands, touching them warily, fear-
fully, gingerly, as if he thought they would
burn, with a dismayed and disgusted ex
pression on his countenance.

He almost dropped the biggest in his
consternation, as his eye lighted on the
names of not only a lady, but of two
daufrhters.

' Too bad,' he muttered to himself. ' I
must go up to town at once.'

254 MIDAS

' Uncle John,' said little Gillie's voice
at his elbow, ' why do you look so wretch-
able when you look at those cards ? '

' Gillie,' said his uncle solemnly, ' tliose
cards icill have to he returned.''

This fearful announcement did not ap-
pear to affect Gillie in the way its emphatic
delivery deserved.

' Give them back ? ' he said. ' Oh no,
Uncle John, I don't think you need. I
dare say the lady what left them has got
plenty more.'

' I've no doubt slie has,' muttered Mr.
Eamsay bitterly. ' Look here, Gillie,' he
said, facing round upon the little boy,
' that visit will have to be returned, and
that's all about it. We shall have to go
and see these people. Don't you under-
stand ? '

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 255

' Oh, what fun ! ' exclaimed GilHe.
' When shall we go — to-morrow ? '

For the first time Mr. Eamsay felt
himself out of sympatliy with his little
nephew. But such a feeling could not last :
Gillie's anxiety to go and see a new house
and new people prevailed.

A sense of duty to his neighbours, also,
told Mr. Eamsay the visit must be returned
some day, and, therefore, the sooner it was
over the better.

Accordingly, the carriage was ordered
one afternoon, and Mr. Eamsay and Gillie
started on their expedition.

It was fine Avhen they set out, but the
weather clouded over, and it turned into
a thoroughly wet afternoon.

Mr. Eamsay's hopes of finding the
people out fell to zero.

256 MIDAS

So did his spirits, as tliey drove up to
the door.

And yet he httle knew wliat lay before
him.

The house was quite full : a large party
having been brought down from London
for Whitsuntide.

John Eamsay little knew, either, what
risks he ran.

Under such circumstances a country
neighbour sometimes fares very badly.

For it is a sad fact, though a true one,
that you often find tlie worst manners in
what is called the best society.

Any one who has ever fallen foul of a
' clique ' will endorse this opinion.

The selfishness of a ' clique,' and its
disregard for the fecHngs of others, is
proverbial.

It is at the same time the pleasantest

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 257

form of society for those witliiii it, but tant
pis for those outside.

It lias its own set, its own jokes, its
own ways of viewing people, its own
standard of judgment ; even its own lan-
guage. Or, at any rate, the constant re-
iteration of words and phrases which no
one else understands in the sense in which
they have come to be used have, by de-
grees, almost formed a language. It is,
at any rate, Greek to the uninitiated ; so
that at once makes it a lang-uafTe for the
few.

A clique of this kind is often downright
rude to ^vhat they consider an intruder ;
to any one who dares to venture into their
charmed circle — any one whom they do not
know, whose face they are unaccustomed
to see.

So that John Eamsay, as I said before,

258 MIDAS

ran a greater risk than he knew of, when
he paid his visit that clay.

Let me at once say, however, that the
circle into which lie and his little nephew
were about to be ushered was not a clique
of the kind 1 have been describiniz.

His advent was ratlier welcome. It
was a wet day. Only a few of the younger
men had ventured out for a walk : the
bulk of the party was at home.

A visitor was not an unpleasant variety
on a dull afternoon.

And then John Eamsay was ratlier a
liero in the county.

His fortune had, of course, been ex-
aggerated, and lie was looked upon as a
man of really fabulous wealth.

His history, too, interested his neigh-
bours ; and liis curious ways, his unso-
ciabilit\', tlic hermit nature of his existence

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 259

all liis life, of wliicli they liad heard,
interested them still more.

The solitary cliaracter always exercises
a certain kind of charm. Stop short of
being eccentric, and j^our lonely life will
alwa3^s have an attraction for others.

The annonncement of ' Mr. Eamsay '
was really quite an excitement.

It was tea-time, and the party was sit-
ting in groups about the room. There
were three or four middle-aged and elderly
men ; and all the rest were ladies !

Conceive poor John Kamsay's feelings.

To his blurred physical vision, as he
entered, every seat in the room seemed
occupied ; and to his mental vision, a
frivolous talking woman sat on every
chair !

Lady FoUett, the hostess, came forward
and received him wdtli great cordiality ;

S 2

200 MIDAS

sat him comfortably down, offered him tea,
regretted her husband was not at home,
and in every way tried to entertain him
and to draw him out.

Not very successfully.

There are some people who pride
themselves on beinc^ able to ' get on '
with a stiff or silent person, whom
every one else calls ' difficult to get on
with.'

' I know people say he is difficult to
get on with, but / always get on very well
witli him. He is always very nice to me^
are sentences no doubt familiar to the
reader, from the lips of his divers acquaint-
ances.

Lady FoUett was free from petty httle
vanities of this kind ; but she was a really
kind-hearted woman, and hked to make
every one round her happy and at their

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 261

ease. She Iiad not, however, often had so
tougli a subject to work upon as Jolm
Eanisay, and lier heart soon began to fail
her.

Leaving lier for tlie present to lier
arduous task, we will take a turn round
the room, and give our attention to some
of the other people.

Passing by two or three ladies, who,
Avitli heads close together and lowered
voices, are evidently talking gossip, Ave
will join a group, gathered round a lady,
Mrs. L'Estrange by name, who appears to
be holding forth to her listeners at some
length.

Mrs. L'Estrange is a lady who will talk
by the hour about herself, her concerns,
and her domestic manai^ement.

Everything Mrs. L'Estrange does — ac-
cordini? to her own account — is rifjht and

262 MIDAS

successful and far in aclv^ance of otlier
people.

Her cliilclren are the best mannered,
the best behaved, and tlie best dressed.

Yet she spends very much less on their
dress than do many others whose children
do not look nearly so nice.

There is a system of management in
her nursery, a care of the clothes, a put-
ting-by and a 2:)assing-on from one child
to a younger; which produces all these
haj)py results.

Her own dress is managed in the same
satislactory and successful way.

Almost everything she wears is made
at home, and yet her things never have a
' home-made ' look.

Many women at tliree times the ex-
pense look only lialf as well.

She has a good maid, it is true. But

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 263

then who made her what slie i«? In the
same way she has a good nurse. But tlien
who trained her ? As the head of an es-
tabhshment is responsil)le for all failure ;
so is it glorified by all success.

Mrs. L'Estrange's nursery — she lives in
London — is always out in the park by nine
o'clock. No one else succeeds in getting
their nursery out till half-past ; some not
till a quarter to ten.

While admitting that she is no doubt
'lucky in lier servants,' she manages to
convey to her hsteners that her nurse was
a ' mere girl ' when she came to her, and
that she had had some trouble to get her
into ' her ways ' ; at least, it had taken
some time. The effect a woman like Mrs.
L'Estrange produces on otliers, is curious
to observe. It varies according to their
natures. Some are profoundly depressed

264 MIDAS

by her, believe her, admire her, and feel
their own inferiority.

But in others it rouses very opposite
feelings.

'Humble-minded and modest people,'
says a writer of to-day, ' are rather dis-
posed to feel an innocent admiration for a
man who is perfectly satisfied with himself
and his doino;s . . . and take it for s^ranted
that he has adequate reasons for his self-
complacency.'

Poor little Mrs. Singleton, who was sit-
ting near Mrs. L'Estrange, felt her defi-
ciencies sadly, and Avished slie was as good
a manager. Her nurse really would make
nothing. She liad to have all the best
frocks made out. And sh,e never could
get her nursery out early. She had been
trying in vain for years. She wished she
could, etc., etc.

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 295

But liacl Lady Plumptre, who was out
of earsliot, been in Mrs. Singleton's place,
the result would have been very different.
She would have dealt with Mrs. L'Estrange
very differently.

And for this reason —

'I have noticed,' says the same writer
quoted above, ' that the sins to which men
are specially sensitive in others are pre-
cisely the sins to which they are them-
selves most inclined. . . . Other people's
vanity and conceit are offences against our
good opinion of ourselves ; and the more
modest we are the less likely we are to be
wounded.'

Those who inflict these mortifications
on others may do it fi"om a sort of igno-
rant selfishness : more so, perhaps, than
from an actual Avant of Christian charity ;
but every one who witnesses this kind of

266 MIDAS

thing must feel an inclination indignantly
to deprecate any one's right to make other
people, and especially humble-minded and
modest people, feel small and uncomfort-
able.

Sitting; not far from Mrs. L'Es trance
and her auditors is old Lord George
Norton.

Lord George is afflicted with a peculi-
arity which is getting sadly common, and
is now by no means confined to elderly
people.

I allude to tlie propensity of forgetting
at the crisis of a story or of a conversation
the name of tlie person on whom its whole
interest hinges ; so that the story or the
conversation comes abruptly to an end at
the prime moment.

This propensity is very much on the
increase. Hardly a dinner party now, that

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 267

it does not sooner or later occur, and con-
versation become thereby paralysed.

It is becoming quite a vocation in
society to supply missing names.

Lord George has just come to a dead
stop.

He was teUing a capital story, and was
working up most successfully to liis point,
when the whole tiling collapsed for want of
a name, a want whicli every one is now en-
deavouring to supply ; but as yet in vain.

He will not go on until he lias remem-
bered it, and ransacks his brain, giving
little hints now and then to his long-suffer-
inir listeners which do not throw much
light upon the subject.

' Oh, you'd know it the moment I said
it, you all know the man as well as possi-
ble. Bah ! I know his name as well as I
know my own.'

268 MIDAS

Failing that way he tries personal de-
scription.

' Tall fellow, you know. Dark, witli an
eye-glass.'

Every one suggests a friend avIio answers
to the description.

There are unfortunately so many tall
dark fellows with eye-""lasses.

Each suggestion makes him more

furious. One and all are so far removed

from the person of whom he is thinking ;
•I

and ruin, to liis mental eye, the point of
the stor}'.

Prevailecl upon at last to contiiuie witli-
out the name, he starts aL^ain —

' Well, it can't be helped — I suppose I
shall remember it by-and-l)y. At any rate
this fellow Avent down to his place last
autumn, down to '

Here Lord Georfre is brouf^ht to

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 269

another dead stop by having forgotten the
name of the place, and the conversation is
again paralysed.

' Oh, you all know the place ! — down in
Shropshire, beautiful place, famous for its
timber. Dear, dear ! what is the name of
the place ? I shall forget my own name
next. Why it's close to '

He is now getting further and further
involved by forgetting tlie name of the
post-town. He tries the parliamentary
borough for which the nameless one sits,
but he has fori^otten that too. He makes
a dash at the \ivx manufacturino- town
which is within a drive, but that name has
also escaj^ed him ; neither can he remember
the manufacture for which the town is
celebrated, and which might have been a
clue. This time nothing will persuade him
to go on. He remahis wrapt in thought ;

270 MIDAS

getting deeper and deeper into a web of
entanglement, in liis vain chase after the
missing names.

His auditors are now wearied, and turn
to other topics. A new conversation is
started, and has reached a most interestin^f
point, when there is a sudden shout from
Lord George.

He has remembered the man's name !
And the name of his place ! Also the
borough, the manufacturing town, and the
manufacture !

A perfect flood of recollection has
come over him.

' Of course ! ' he exclaims : ' Talbot of
Blaymoor — I knew I should come to it at
last. Well, Talbot went doAvn — ' but, alas,
it is too late ! The interest of his auditors
is not again to be roused. To Lord George

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 271

himself his story, under the hght of re-
covered memory, wears a new and brilhant
aspect, but to every one else it is a weariness.
Their attention has been diverted into
other channels.

He tell his story, l)ut it falls quite flat.

He then proceeds to the links of evi-
dence in the chain of association.

He relates with delight the processes of
thought by which he arrived at the missing
names, and laughs in fits as he recalls and
recounts them. But no one else is the least
amused. Leaving him to this enjoyment,
let us move on to another part of the room,
and give our attention to Colonel Cavendish,
a man with whom no doubt the reader is,
to his cost, acquainted. Colonel Caven-
dish always knows best on every subject,
from the deepest to the most trifling.

2/2 MIDAS

llis judgment is, in his own eyes, final
on all points.

He not only lays down the law, but he
disputes any one's right to venture to dis-
agree with him ; and his powers of argu-
ment and of contradiction are of the most
unfaihng order. Tlie two combined, form
his hio;hest, if not his only, idea of conver-
sation.

The effect he, and such as he, produce
on a party — when all have become tho-
roughly aware of his character and have
suffered from it — is unfortunate, but inevit-
able.

Even the weakest and least pugnacious
is roused, and every one becomes argumen-
tative and self-asserting.

Look at him now, w^andering with his
cup of tea in his lumd from one group to
another, and observe how, from whatever

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 273

part of tlie room lie may happen at tlie
moment to be, a discussion or an argu-
ment at once springs up.

You liear points, so insignificant as to
be beneath discussion, beim? discussed Avitli
an ardour and a warmth which you knoAv
they could not evoke but for every one's
knowledge of, and rebelUon against, the
nature of the man who raises them.

Even little Mrs. Singleton, who was so
crushed just now by Mrs. L'Estrange's
superiority, is fired to some sort of self-
assertion. .

The worm will turn.

From the tea-table where she is sittino-,
and which he has just reached, come now
such scraps of conversation as these —

' I am confident we turned to the left.
I feel sure it was not to the riirht.' 'No
indeed, it was not on Monday ; it was on

274 MIDAS

Tuesday. I am positive it was not Monday,'
etc., etc.

In the words of tlie poet slie inicon-
scionsly makes her protest —

' Thougli syllogisms hang not on my tongue,
I am not surely alivays in the wrong ;
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance,
A fool must now and then be right — by chance.'

Meantime, poor Lady Follett has not
even been enjoying the glory of feehng she
was ' getting on,' with a person ' difficult
to get on with.'

John Kamsay had been getting stiffer
and stiffer ever since he sat doAvn.

She had tried almost every subject, but
lie was really impossible. He was so un-
suggestive that each topic was quickly
exhausted. She had come to an end now,
and silence was reigning 1)etween them.

Poor man ! He was very miserable ;

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 275

and lie saw no chance of getting away.
And then, unfortunately, he was within
ear-shot of that subdued conversation
which we mentioned before, and to which
the reader did not stop to listen.

A flood of London gossip was thus
being poured upon him. Marriages were
being announced, commented on, talked
over, in the very way that was likely to
confirm him in his opinion of women being
talking, frivolous creatures, 'Is it a good
marriage?' 'Is he rich?' etc., etc., were
the sentences continually ringing in his
ears. The talkers were really what he,
most unfairly, imagined every woman to
be.

And then little Gillie, to whom he had
clunfj at first as a drowninf;^ man clutches
at a straw, had strayed from him, and was
enjoying himself immensely. He was being

T 2

276 MIDAS

made much of, given tea, talked to, ques-
tioned, applauded ; and was making friends
everywhere.

Lady FoUett tried to create a diversion.

She made a sio:n to her married daufjli-
ter to come to her assistance.

' If any one can make him talk, it will
be Adeline,' she said to herself.

This was, as it proved, an unfortunate
move. For Adeline was another instance
of Mr. Eamsay's pet aversions. She was
his typical Avoman, in short ; expecting
little attentions, exacting small acts of
homage, and looking upon admiration as
her due.

She was tlie beaut}^ of the family, and
liad been spoilt and made much of all her
life, first by her family and then by her
husband. Iiatlier l)ored, Init confident in
her own powers, she obeyed her mother's

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 277

si^rnal, and advanced to Jolin Eamsay's
side.

In so doing she dropped her work ;
whether purposely or not I cannot telL
Needless to say Mr. Ramsay did not stir.
Somewhat nettled, she picked it up herself,
and sat down.

Her manner was slightly affected, and
gave an idea of unreality.

' I look upon you as a most fortunate
man, Mr. Eamsay,' she began, ' much to be
envied. What a delii?htful thini? to have
accomplished one's life's aim ! And how
few people do ! '

John Eamsay felt as if turned to stone.

The manner, the implied compliment,
the suddenness of the whole thing, and the
sense of how utterly she was in the dark,
how completely mistaken, overpowered
him.

278 MIDAS

He made no answer.

Tlmt foiled.

She tried sometliini>' else.

' How nice for you to have that sweet
little boy with you ! What a lovely child he
is ! What eyes ! And what a complexion !
And then he is so amusins; and so ano;elic.'

If any subject could have roused John
Ramsay it would have been this one. But
the way in which it was broached shut him
up. First of all he was so afraid Gillie,
who was not far off, misht overhear this
torrent of fulsome flattery — and to have
Gillie's unconsciousness destroyed would
have been the height of misfortune in John
Eamsay's eyes. It was one of the things in
which he most delii^hted. And then, how
could he speak to this triller, this outsider,
of what lay so near his heart ? How could
he tell her of all that that child was to

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 279

him F — of all that he was daily and hourly
learninjT at his little teacher's feet ?

He was quite unequal to the occasion.
The very thought of the cliild brought a
lump into his throat.

Fortunately Adeline finished her sen-
tence by asking the little boy's name, and
]\Ii\ Eamsay answered the question.

Gillie, catching the sound of his name,
came running up, thinking his uncle had
called him. ' Did you want me, Uncle
John ? ' he said, in his pretty little coax-
ing way.

' I alicays want you, my dear, dear little
fellow,' Avhisj)ered Mr. Eamsay, as the child
nestled uj) to him. But out loud he only
said, ' No, Gillie, I was telling this lady
your name.'

Adeline now turned her attention to
the pretty boy.

28o MIDAS

' Before I married,' she said, putting on
nn unnecessary infantine way of speaking,
as if Gillie were three years old, ' i used
to have a little, teeny, tiny garden here,
of my very, very own.'

' Did you ? ' said Gillie, clapping his
liands with delight. 'Oh! are there any
old ruins of it left ? '

Tlie laughter that followed this naif re-
mark nettled our young friend, already pro-
voked by her non-success w^ith Mr. Eamsay.
She had married at nineteen, and rather
liked to think, though she had been married
several years, that she was nineteen still.

She left her seat and strolled towards
tlie open i)iano. Lord George now put in
his oar.

' Are you fond of music, Mr. Eamsay ? '
he said. ' I liave no doubt some of the
ladies will ^ive us some.'

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 281

'No, I can't say I am,' answered Mr.
Piamsay, bluntly ; thinking with horror of
an instrumental piece, an Italian song with
shakes, or a sentimental English ballad ; and
with still greater horror of being expected
to sa}^ something to the performer when it
was over.

Lord George was so astonished and
nonplussed that he moved away with-
out saying anything more, and gave
up any further attempt to assist in the
entertainment of so very peculiar a
person.

' I must get out of this,' said John
Piamsay to himself. But it was impossible
to move till Gillie had done his tea, and
that event seemed still a very remote
possibiUty.

However, the happy moment came
at last, and in some sort of fashion Mr.

282 MIDAS

Kamsay managed to rise from liis seat, and
to take his leave.

Lord George and another man came
witli liim to tlie door to see him of!, an
attention which John Ramsay felt indeed
to be quite superfluous.

But it had suddenly occurred to Lord
George that he and Mr. Ramsay might
possibly have a subject in common in the
shape of a friend in India, whom he
thought Mr. Ramsay might have known
there.

It was not likely in any case that Mr.
Ramsay would have met the person in
question, so it did not matter ; but it is
unnecessary to say that when it came to
the point, Lord George could not remem-
ber his friend's name ; so the attempt
proved a failure.

Mr. Ramsay did not wait to give him

THE TWO FRIENDS IN SOCIETY 283

time to search for it, Init got into the
carriage, and drove of}', leaving Lord
George standing in the hall, wrapt in
thought, trying by every means to recall
the name to his memory.

Turning at last to the other man, Mr.
Fraser, Lord George deplores his want of
success, and fears he must give it up for
the present.

He is, however, full of hope.

The name, he feels confident, will recur
to him sooner or later ; most probably in
the middle of the night, Slioidd it do so, he
promises Mr. Fraser that he will come into
his room and wake him up to tell it to
him. And Mr. Fraser earnestly implores
him not.

Meanwhile, as the carriage speeds along
John Ptamsay has leant back with a sigh
of relief, and, throwing his arm round

284 MIDAS

Gillie, has drawn the child closer to
him.

' We won't jmy any more visits, Gillie,'
he said. ' We are so much hajopier alone
together, you and I. We don't want any-
body else.'

' Wasnt it fun P ' said Gillie enthu-
siastically.

285

CHAPTER IX.

HOW IS IT ALL TO EXD ?

The return to tlie still world of child-life
was most sootliino- and refreshing; to John
Kamsay after that peep into society.

The simplicity and guilelessness of
child-nature seemed to him more attractive
than ever.

The contrast between the atmospliere
in which the child continually dwelt, and
that of which he had had experience that
day, was ever in his mind.

There was to John Eamsay such an un-
reality about it all. Tliat, he told Iiimself,
was what he hated so about it ; that it was
wdiich was so distasteful to him.

286 MIDAS

False smiles, empty compliments, un-
meaning speeches ; the expression of nnfelt
sentiments.

How real the child "was in comparison !

He never said anything he did not
mean ; he never talked for effect, nor with
an object.

What he said came straio-ht from his
heart. Take that young person. — it was so
he imvardly designated the great Adeline !
— for instance ; and compare her artificiahty
with Gillie's unconsciousness.

The fear of his ever losing it §eemed to
him a greater disaster than ever.

He thought of Gillie's nciif remark, and
the effect it had produced : how his simple
words and earnest manner had made what
she was saying, and the way in which she
was savino- it, seem hollow and unreal.

His mind strayed on to the thought of

HO IV IS IT ALL TO END? 287

that subdued conversation lie had heard
going on near him in tlie pauses of his
spasmodic talk witli Lady Follett ; and of
the ' tone ' of the speakers.

How poor, he thought, how unworthy
were their ways of thinking and judging !

His unfortunate juxtaposition to those
gossiping Ladies had had a disastrous effect
upon him.

They had in his eyes coloured, or rather
blackened, the whole atmosphere ; and
made him inchned to judge the whole of
society by a part ; the many by the few,
as people so often unfairly do.

He half felt himself he was being a
little hard even on those particular ladies,
for he muttered presently that there was
no harm exactly in those people ; it was
not the people themselves, it was the
atmosphere in which they dwelt. It was

2SS MIDAS

the worldly and hollow tone of their judg-
ments and opinion??. They took altogetlier
a false view of the meaning of life, and of
the true and relative value of things with
them : the question was not ' Is he good ? '
but ' Is he rich ? ' Not ' What is he hke ? '
but 'What is he worth?' To this he
could testify.

The reiterated enquiry, 'Is it a good
marriage .^ ' had meant not ' Is he a good
man, a man into whose keeping a parent
might safely confide a child,' but good in
the sense of ' Has he of this world's good ?
Has he much good of this kind laid up for
many years ? Can he eat, drink, and be
merry ? '

Where a person, then, is thus valued, is
judged not l)y what lie /.s, but Ijy what he
lias^ wliere, John Ilamsay asked himself, is
there any place for right judgments and

J 10 IV IS IT ALL TO END? 289

high standards ? He did not spare him-
self, or for one moment think liimself
better than they. Poor John Eamsay did
not feel inclined to say to any one^ ' Stand
back ; I am holier than thou.' He had
been all liis life, he told himself, quite as
worldly as they, quite as mistaken in life's
meaning ; his standards and aims quite as
poor, quite as unworthy, as theirs.

For anything that, by shutting out the
unseen and eternal, causes absorption in
the seen and temporal, is worldhness ; and,
viewed in that light, his hfe and theirs were
alike worldly, because they were lived at
a low level, and with a poor standard ;
levels and standards that seem so unworthy
when contrasted with the thought of what
a grand thing may be made of life, as
some have done, and are doing still ;
levels and standards that seem still more

290 MIDAS

unworthy wlien ' we take our Bibles, and
read wliat Christ said and did, and reflect
tliat we are called by His Name.'

They, like him, were not making the
most of their lives. They were wasting
them.

They were created for higher objects ;
they were w^orthy of better things. On
them, as on him, the crust of earthliness
had come down, gathered over their
better selves, and buried their higher
nature.

That the child should ever grow up to
have ignoble aims ; should come to lower
his standard to the level of the world
around him ; should live to conform a
hig;her tone to the tone of those about
him ; was to John Eamsay a thought that
he shrank from.

So once before, in the church of the

IfOlV IS IT ALL TO END? 291

old county-town, lie had shrunk from tlic
thought of a day ever coming when Gillie
should have the aspirations of his higher
nature buried, like liis, under the weight of
absorption in unwortliy things.

Then, as noAv, it seemed to him it
would be better that anything should hap-
pen to the child than that his purity and
innocence should be in any way marred or
sullied.

Then, as now, innocence was the pivot
round which all his thoughts turned.

One day, when Gillie, childlike, said
something about what he should do when
he was 'grown-up,' Mr. Eamsay gave a
little shudder, and, with an irresistible im-
pulse, drew the boy nearer to him with a
protecting movement, as if shielding him
from the future, and said : ' Never grow

292 MIDAS

up, Gillie ; always remain as you are, my
dear, dear little fellow.'

' Never grow up ! ' repeated Gillie,
rather startled. ' Wliy, then I should have
to die, shouldn't I ? Do you want me to
die^ Uncle John ? '

Uncle John made a a'csture of horriiied
dissent.

' Of course, I know I must die some
day,' said Gillie, in rather a mournful voice ;
' but I think I Avould rather die after I'm
grown up ; I'd rather be a man first. It
isn't wrong to say that, is it ? ' he said
wistfully, putting his pretty little face
close to his uncle's.

' No, no, my child,' murmured John
Eamsay huskily.

As the child spoke a new thought had
come into his mind, and he wanted to think
it out,

HO 11^ IS IT ALL TO END? 293

So he kissed him very tenderly, and
told him to run out and play, and not to
think any more of what he had said.

That Gillie should leave his purity and
innocence behind him, had hitherto been
to him a most painful tliought ; but it
seemed now hardly less painful and un-
natural tliat his little life should be pre-
maturely cut short.

What might not the fruit of a bud of
so much promise be ? What might not be
the development of so precious a germ ?

Gillie might become a noble man. He
might be one of those who pass unscathed
through the fire of this world's tempta-
tions ; he might refuse the evil and choose
the good — nay, more : he might one day
be a blessing to all around him, a strength
and a stay to others.

It did not seem to him now, after all,

294 MIDAS

as if death in childlioocl was the only solu-
tion of the difficulties of life. He had got
beyond the thought of innocence.

He had made another step.

Time, meanwhile, was speeding on.

The accounts from the Eectory varied
very little from day to da}^ ; but tlie crisis
was approaching.

In a few days, at latest, the fever would
have run its course ; and then the question
of strencrth would decide the rest.

Once or twice lately the thought, ' What
if tliere should be a fatal termination to this
illness ? ' had flitted through John Eamsay's
mind, and sudden horror had seized liim at
the thought of the bitter grief that might
be coming on the tender-hearted child.
But the thought had been so painful that
he had resolutely put it away, and was
content to enjoy the happy uncertainty ;

HOW IS IT AIL TO END? 295

to let day by clay slip away, and tlie
golden present flow on, without thought
of what was to come after.

But one eveninG^ when Gillie came to
wish liim good-night the cliild suddenly
said —

' Isn't to-day the last, day of June,
Uncle John ? '

' Yes, I think it is — the 30th ; there are
only thirty days in June. Why ? '

' Wliy, then it is the first of July to-
morrow ! ' exclaimed Gillie.

'Certainly it is, my dear cliild; but
what of that ? '

' " What of tliat ? " ' said the httle boy,
in tones of tremulous excitement. ' Wliy,
Uncle John, don't you see, Puppy will soon
be getting quite well again ; for almost
directly the three weeks Avill be over ?
Even to-morrow we shall 1)e able to say

596 MIDAS

" In a day or two more we shall see Puppy
asain." '

Mr. Eamsay sat very quiet for a long
time after the cliild had g:one to bed.

It was not a happy train of thought
which his parting Avords had set going.
He must face the truth now.

The three weeks were over. His happy
life with the child was at an end.

What had not the child done for him
in these blessed three weeks ?

What a world of pure happiness they
had opened out to him ! What an insight
they had given him into things unknown
before ! Yes ; the dream was over ; the
awakening had come.

This bright daily participation in child-
life was at an end.

It had been very sweet wdiile it lasted ;
but it was over now.

HOIV IS IT ALL TO END? 297

It liacl been so sweet because the child
so depended on him ; looked to him so
confidently for sympathy and affection;
made him so naturally the centre of all his
interests. Yes ; he must let all this go.

He must give him up to those who had
a real right to him.

He had none.

' Soon we shall be able to say : " In a
day or two more Ave shall see Puppy

again." '

The ring of joy in the dear little voice ;
the sparkle of excitement in the eye ; the
look of love and pleasure in the beaming
face : all had brouoht home to John
Eamsay what he had allowed himself to
forget — that another had a right to his
darling ; a far greater right than he.

And now what would happen to him
— what would become of him ^

298 MIDAS

Would he become again the weary
unsatisfied beino; he liad been before?

Would that horrible liardness come back
again — that coldness and indifference and
selfishness -which he now looked back upon
witli loathino' and abhorrence ?

He had got thus far in his sad medita-
tions, when there came a low tap at the
hbrary door.

Part III.
NEMESIS

'01

CHAPTEPt I.

C N S E Q U E X C E S.

' Our deeds still trnvel ■ftitli us from afar,
And ■5\hat %ve have leen, makes us \YLat Me are.'

Consequerces are unpitying. — Geoege Eliot.

SuErEiSED at such an interruption at so
unwonted an hour, Mr. Eamsay turned his
head shar])ly round as he said ' Come in,'
and saw Mrs. Pryor standing in tlie door-
way.

There was something so unusual in her
whole demeanour that he exclaimed ' Good
God ! Mrs. Pryor ! wliat is the matter ? Is
there ' — struck with a sudden panic — ' is
there anything wrono; with the cliild? '

303 NEMESIS

' No, sir,' answered Mrs. Pryor ; ' but
there is terrible news from the Eectory.'

' Is — is — my brother dead ? ' faltered
John Eamsay, turning pale.

' They say he can't live through the
night, sir,' sobbed Mrs. Pryor. ' Oh dear !
oh dear ! how is that darling child to be
told ? It'll break his heart — that's what it
will do. He'll ask me, when I go to him in
the morning, how his father is, and what
shall I say ? '

And Mrs. Pryor fairly broke down, and
cried bitterly.

Some one else's eyes were dim too.

' It ought to l)e broken to him to-
night, sir ; indeed it ought.'

' Very well, Mrs. Pryor,' said Mr.
Eamsay, in a voice which he in vain en-
deavoured to render steady, ' then you had

CONSEQUENCES 303

better go up and prepare liiiii. lie will not
be asleep yet.'

But Mrs. Pryor shrank Ijack in dis-
may.

She couldn't ! She couldn't^ she ex-
claimed, clasping her hands together. IIow
could she? She who knew better than
any one liow the child loved his father, v:hat
a father he was, and Avhat a tender lieart
the child had. No, no ! She couldn't tell
him. Mr. Eamsay must not ask her to.

'Certainly,' thought John Eamsay to
himself, as he looked at her quivering face,
and listened to her impassioned description
of the home and the family, as she had
known both for so many years ; ' certainly,
if the child is to have the terrible news
broken to him tlius^ then some one else must
do it.'

304 NEMESIS

He did not allow himself to pursue the
thoiiaht further, or to consider what the
alternative must be, or he could not have
controlled himself as he did, nor have
spoken in tliat quiet voice of unnatural
calm.

' Very well, Mrs. Pryor,' he said, ' I will
not ask you to.'

And then a very extraordinary thing
happened.

Mr. Eamsay got up from his chair, and
assumed the office of consoler as if it were
the most matter-of-course thing in the
world.

He took Mrs. Pryor's hand, and spoke
kindly and gently to her, begging her to
go to l)ed and try to get some sleep.

' You will come and tell me,' he said,
' when tlie message comes ' — he paused,
for the thought brought a spasm into his
throat — ' to-morrow ! '

CONSEQUENCES 305

He opened the door for her with an
unwonted civihty, which was not civiUty,
but a real expression of kindhness and
sympathy, and then returned to his seat,
and covered his face with his hands.

' I shall come to some conclusion in a
minute or two,' he said presently, half out-
loud, ' but I must collect my thouglits
first.'

But far from collecting them, he found
them straying farther and farther away.

lie found himself thinking of the life
that was passing away ; of that unknown
brother, his only blood relation.

lie had unconsciously formed an idea
of him from what he had gathered from
things the child had said about him, and
from the child himself, who was the result
of his trainini^ and education.

That loyalty towards himself, which had

3o6 NEMESIS

SO struck liim once before, came back to
his recollection now.

That loyalty which had shrunk from
poisoning his children's minds against their
uncle, and had never let them guess how
deeply he had been disappointed in him ;
that had concealed for them that the home-
comino; so lono- looked forward to — had
proved as much a sham and a deception as
had the vision of a loving and tender-hearted
relation, wdio would beautify their young
lives by his love and kindness.

How different tlie past three weeks
mifrht have been if a word had ever been
said to little Gillie, which would have
shattered his ideal ! But the father liad
never told the child anything which would
have made him do otherwise than accept
him, Jolm Eamsay, at once as the same
lo ving man he w as himself.

CONSEQUENCES 307

And it was this man, tlic mncli and
deservedly loved, the nincli needed, who
was going, if not already gone, Avhile he,
unnecessary to any one, was left !

He found himself picturing the home
the housekeeper had just described with
such unconscious pathos, rendered blank
and void by the absence of that central
figure.

And, then, hke a cold blast, swept over
John Eamsay the conviction, held at bay
for so long, that it was all his doinrr, all
his fault.

The happiness of that home had been
blasted by his hand.

It was no use deceiving himself ; no use
making excuses ; he was the cause of it all.

He knew it all the time the housekeeper
was speaking ; but he would not let himself
dwell on the thoudit.

s 2

3o8 NEMESIS

He could have implored her at the time
to stop ; to spare him ; to cease with her
vivid picture of the home he had blasted ;
the circle he had rent asunder ; the hearts
he had made desolate !

Yes. He was the dark shadow, lie was
the cause of it all.

' No,' said a rebellious voice within
him ; ' it is unfair to say so. I did not do
anything knowingly — I did not realise
— I did not think — Am I my brotlier's
keeper .^ '

In vain. Not a committed sin, perhaps,
but the hard cold sin of omission ; the
want of setting self aside, and putting him-
self into other people's j^laces ; the fatal
habit of looking at life only from his own
point of view ; the cruel sin of selfish-
ness.

And now Nemesis was at hand.

CONSEQUENCES 309

The thoiiglit lie had put away before
must be faced now.

He must go and prepare the child.

This was the punishment that now lay
before him. Who else was there to do it ?

Upon the being whom he would have
shielded from the slightest breath of sorrow
he had himself brought the desolation that
was coming, and he must tell him it was at
the door.

He must see innocence suffer, and know
all the while it was his own fault.

He rebelled fiercely against the inevit-
able ; told himself that the retribution was
out of all proportion to the offence, all un-
knowing and indirect as it was.

But ' the terrible law of cause and ef-
fect is inexorable, and wrong-doing inevit-
ably brings its own punishment, and that
not to the wrong-doer alone. The tendency

310 NEMESIS

of selfishness and wrong is to develop
misery on all who come within its influence,
and our deeds mnst necessarily carry their
terrible consequences ; consequences that
are hardly ever confined to ourselves.'

Tliey are not always, indeed, so apparent
as in John Eamsay's case.

' For,' continues George Eliot, ' there is
much pain that is quite noiseless ; and
vibrations, which make human agonies, are
often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying
existence.'

There are moments in life when we wish
we had no feeling ; when we would gladly
so harden ourselves that we might ' feel no
more ' ; when tlie heavens above are as brass,
and all the earth around is in darkness ;
when our prayer, '■ wild in its fervour as the
Syro-Phoenician woman's, seems to have the
same rejoly — lie answered her not a word.'

CONSEQUENCES zn

Such a moment was on John Eamsay
now.

' Oil God ! ' he cried. ' I cannot do it.
How can I ? How can I ? '

He gasped for breath. He went to the
window, threw it open, and leaned out.

But tlie calm beauty of the June night
did nothing for him.

Eatlier the scene before him made him
more wretched.

Everything he looked at spoke to him
of the child-spirit, which had glorified Hfe
to him during the past three wrecks, and
transformed all which had once seemed to
him so dreary and disappointing.

The o-ardens before him teemed with
his little presence. The now silent terrace
seemed still to echo with the sound of
his dancing footsteps, and of his merry
laugh.

312 NEMESIS

Dancing footsteps, and merry laugli,
wliicli, he told himself, would be heard now
no more !

The night was hot and oppressive : not
a breath of air was stirring.

Neither mentally nor physically was
any relief to be found. He closed the
window.

' I must go up to him,' he said to himself
once or twice ; but still he did not move.

Tlie thought unnerved him quite.

But at last, with a set face that told
of a formed resolution, he walked into the
hall, lit a bedroom candle, and went slowly
upstairs.

• ••••••

The large oak staircase echoed drearily
to his halting footsteps. It looked weird
and desolate by the flicker of the bedroom
candle.

CONSEQ UENCES 3 1 3

lie paused for a minute at the top of
the stairs ; turned down the passage ;
paused again ; stood stock still for a minute
at the half-open door of the little bed-
room, and, closing his lips firmly together,
pushed it open and went in.

A great feeling of relief came down
upon his spirit when he realised, hy the
silence that reigned in the room, that the
child was already asleep.

It was a respite anyhow ; and John Earn-
say drew a long breath, and then advanced
very softly to the bedside, and, shading the
light of the candle with one hand, stood
looking down upon the little sleeper.

In deep contrast to the storm of
thoughts which had been sweeping over
him, was the calm, rapt repose of the
slumberino; child. Few thinfi:s brinf? such
a sense of quiet and peace.

314 NEMESIS

He lay with one arm outside the cover-
hd ; the other grasping tightly his last
cherished possession.

His bright hair was tublmed all over
the pillow, and his rosy lips were parted
with a smile.

Was he dreaming on this hot oppressive
nio-ht of —

. . . cool forests far away,

And of rosy happy cliiklren laughing merrily at play,

Coming home through green lanes bearing

Trailing boughs of blooming may.

Long, John Kamsay stood there gazing,
drinking in the calm and repose which the
sight was calculated to inspire.

And now what was he to do ?

Eouse him from his sleep to sorrow?
Wake him up to grief?

Eecall him from his dreams of happi-
ness to the cold realities of life, and the
shadow of approaching trouble ?

CONSEQUENCES

J'3

No ! a thousand times, no.

' Lord, if lie sleep, he shall do well,' he
whispered.

With an indescribable feeling of love
and pity, he Ijent over the little sleeper ;
bent lower and lower till he touched the
child's forehead with his trembling lips.

' Sleep on, my fair child,' he said, ' and
dream brio;ht dreams once more.'

And Gillie smiled in his sleep, and
murmured his father's name.

31 6 NEMESIS

CHAPTEK 11.

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY.

JoHX Eamsay passed a terrible niglit, tossing
restlessly about : one moment longing for
the niglit to be over, and the next shrinking
from the morning's inevitable approach.

lie was astir earl}^ hoping to be down
before Gillie. But the child was before-
hand with him. lie coidd hear, as he
descended the stairs, the merry langli
somewhere outside in the court-yard, and
the eager chatter with the footman among
their live treasures.

Mr. Eamsay sat down, and tried to
prepare himself for what lay before him.

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY 317

He bef^au to think over what he was
going to say ; how he shoukl begin ; how

he should Oh ! that merry laugh !

There it was again ! How it was ringing
through the court-yard ! How clear !
How musical it was !

He must be quick. At any moment
the message might come from the Eectory,
and tlie child must be prepared.

Again the happy laugh rang out in the
summer stillness. He must go and stop it.
He must go and lay a chill hand on the
laughing lips, and bid all joy flee away.
It must be done.

And, as in a dream, he walked to the
end of the passage, where a window looked
out on the court-yard.

' Gillie,' he called through the open
wmdow, and his voice sounded to himself
hollow and stranc^e, ' Gillie, come into

3i8 NEMESIS

the dining-room ; I want to speak to yon.'
And, without waiting for an answer, he
hurried back into the dinincr-room, and
sat down. His heart was beating" loud
and fast. He fixed his eyes nervously on
the door by which the child would enter.
He had not to wait long. The door was
presently pushed open, and Gillie entered —
joy dancing hi his eyes ; his arms filled
with something he was cherishing? with the
greatest care and tenderness.

' Oh, Uncle John ! — Uncle John ! look
here ! Only see ! '

And in a moment four little kittens were
in Mr. Eamsay's lap, and their transported
owner was kneeling at his side, with his
bright joyous eyes uphfted to his grave
grey face. ' Oh ! ain't they lovely ! ain't
they beautiful ! Four of them, and all
mine ! Just born, or, at least, only last

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY 319

night. Tlie butler wanted to drown tliem,
cruel man ! but I said he should not till I
had asked you ; and you won't say they're
to be drowned, Uncle John, I hiow^ if I
ask you not, will you ? '

And the trusting brown eyes were
raised full of appeal.

Mr. Eamsay turned away ; he could not
bear to meet their expression.

But he murmured somethin£>' about
that ' if there were forty instead of four,
no one should touch them if the child did
not wish it.'

'I said so!' said Gillie joyfully, rising
from his kneeling position, and throwing
his arms round his uncle's neck. ' Dear, dear
Uncle John ; I knew you'd be kind to the
dear little kitties, Uke you ahvays are. And
they'll want to be kept very warm, you
know ; so I think two might sleep in your

320 NEMESIS

bed, and two in mine. Don't you ? I'm
very busy tliis morning,' lie added ; ' so can
you let me go back now, if you don't want
me this very minute ? '

John Eamsay writhed in his chair.

How lay a shadow on that bright face ?
How bring a rain of tears to those dear
speaking eyes ?

He caught the child in his arms, and
called him his ' poor little fellow ; his
' dear, dear little boy,' over and over
again.

Surprised at this unusual display of
emotion, Gilhe grew a little suspicious.
' What's the matter ? ' he said wistfully :
' why ! — why ! — why, j^ou're crying^ Uncle
John. Oh dear ! what is the matter ? '
And the sympathetic brown eyes filled
too.

John Eamsay tried to speak, but some-

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY 321

thing ill liis throat prevented a word from
becominsf audible.

And in the short silence that followed,
came through the open window — borne
from the distant villacfe on tlie win^^s of
the summer breezes — the sino-le stroke of
a church bell ! . . .

Mr. Eamsay started, turned deadly-
white, and grasped with both hands the
arms of his chair.

' Put the kittens away,' he said faintly,
' and come here.'

' Gilhe, my darllnif \ ' he exclaimed,
with a sudden outburst of passionate ten-
derness, clasping the child in his arms.
* Listen to what I am 2:oinn^ to tell vou.'

' Hark, Uncle John ! ' interrupted the
little boy in a tone of eager excitement,
disengaging himself from his uncle's
embrace, and holding up his hand.

3:2 NEMESIS

' Hark, do you hear ?^ There's the pass-
in£j; bell. . . .'

No suspicion had crossed his mind. It
was a familiar sound to the Eectory child.

' Listen, Uncle John ! ' he said eagerly.
' Let us count, and then we shall know how
old the person is who has just gone to
Heaven. '\Ve always do, when we hear it.
Hush ! don't speak, or I shall make a
mistake. Two ! . . . there it o-oes aijain !
Three! . . .'

John Eamsa}' lost his presence of mind
altoszether, and said not a word.

He sat as if turned to stone, with his
gaze fixed upon the child's face ; framing
words and sentences in his head to say
when the hell should have told its tale.

And so the two remained opposite each
other, each in a listening attitude ; the old
man bolt upright, in a stiff, strained posi-

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY 323

tion almost paralysed with repressed emo-
tion ; the child full of eager attention, his
earnest eyes raised to his uncle's, his lips
apart, and his hand lifted !

Four! . . .

Five! . . .

Six! . . .

Seven ! . . .

Past twenty now ! . . . past thirty ! .
past forty ! . . . past forty-five. ... A
mist comes over John Eamsay's eyes. He
closes them, and his grasp on the chair is
tig-htened. His head swims, he loses count
for a moment ; the w^ords and sentences
gallop, and mingle in wild confusion in his
head.

He opens his eyes with a start, tliinking
the moment must have come.

Gillie is still standino; in the same atti-
tude, still eagerly counting.

Y 2

324 NEMESIS

It seems to John Eamsay as if for years
lie has been sittms" there, strinoinfx words
and sentences together, and for years
Gilhe has been standing in front of him,
countintT, countino- !

He is roused by the sound of the child's
voice.

' Past eighty-two now, Uncle John, and
the bell still ixoino- on ! ' . . .

At the same moment the door opens,
and Mrs. Pry or enters, joy beaming in
her eyes and working in every feature.

' The message from the Eectory has
come, sir,' she exclaims : ' the Ptector has
•got safely through the night, and the
doctor has pronounced him out of danger.'

There is an exclamation of delight from

'IjiiHie as he springs towards Mrs. Pryor,

with the eager cr}- : ' Is he quite, quite well

af^ain ? Oh ! when may I go and see him ? '

THE MESSAGE FROM THE RECTORY 3x5.

and the sound of tlie good woman's en-
dearing response as slie covers tlie cliild
■\vitli kisses.

But tliere is no otlier sound in the room.

John Eamsay neither moved nor spoke.

He got up presently, slowly and feebly
from his chair, and tottered out of the
room.

The tension and then the sudden relief
had been too much for him ; and when he
reached the library he bowed his head on
his shakino- hands, and sobbed and cried
like a child.

326 NEMESIS

CHAPTER III.

AN INTERVIEW.

On a sofa near the open window, in all tlie
weakness of early convalescence, Gilbert
Eamsay was lying.

He was quite alone.

He was Iving there in liis weakness
and his depression, thinking over his posi-
tion, and trying to realise it : thinking
sadly of his strength sapped, and his w^ork
come to an end.

It required all his faith and all his
submission to face and to bow to the
prospect before him.

His health w^as, for the time, wrecked.

A.V INTERVIEW 327

He was thrown back months in his work :
his income coukl not stand the strain
which had been put upon it, and his home
was uninhabitable.

He and liis family, the doctor said,
must remove. It was imperative that they
should do so.

And he himself must have change,
rest, leisure, and otlier impossibilities, for
many months.

All this had dawned upon him recently.
He had been too ill to know much till
now ; too weak to be allowed to worry him-
self with thought of any kind.

But convalescence had now thoroughly
set in, and the future must, and icoidd, be
thou£>"ht out.

There was nothing now to hinder tlie
rush of sad and depressing thoughts which
were sweeping over him.

32 8 NEMESIS

For the moment tliey overpowered
liim.

It Avas just then tliat a maid entered
softly, and said that Mr. Eamsay from the
Manor-House was below, and wished to
know if he would see him.

The sick man visibly shrank into him-
self.

He recoiled from the thou2;ht for a
moment. He felt he could hardly bear it.
A feeling of repugnance came over him,
with which he felt powerless to contend.

' I cannot,' he said to himself. He
knew of course nothing that had passed
all this time : not even that his brother
had been livinc^ at the Manor-House. He
knew his little boy to be with Mrs. Pryor,
and he knew nothing further.

His brother meant to him only the
John Eamsay of that painful and dis-

AN INTERVIFAV 329

a]-)pointing interview ; and later on the
John Eamsay who liacl totally ignored his
appeal for help in averting the calamity
which had since overwhelmed him.

He had been willing for long to think
the best of his brother, and to put the
most charitable construction on his beha-
viour.

He had tried to give him credit for not
having received, for having overlooked, or
for not having taken in, the importance
of his original communication. So after
an interval he had written again, a more
uro-ent letter than the first.

But when that second appeal met with
the same treatment at his brother's hands
he could deceive himself no lons^er.

He was forced to realise, however un-
willingly, that his only blood-relation
cared no more for him and his children

330 NEMESIS

tlian if tliey had been utter strangers ; and
that he was what lie had half-suspected
during their interview in London, a hard,
cokl, worldly, self-absorbed, miserly man.

There was no other conclusion to be
drawn.

To a man like Gilbert Eamsay, who had
lived so long in and for others : who had
lonfr as'o dedicated his life to the service
of his Master, which meant to the service
of his fellow-men, this state of feeling was
almost incomprehensible.

That state of insensibility to the affairs
and feehngs of others, in which it becomes
at last an impossibility to detach yourself
from yourself, and to tlirow yourself into
other people, was to him unknown ; he
could not understand it. His brother and
his brother's conduct were to him sealed
books of an unfathomable mystery.

AN INTERVIEW 331

But he was a man of great toleration,
and of unbiassed judgment. He could
always look on both sides of a question,
and give each its due weiglit, even where it
conflicted witli his OAvn view of the case.

He had, in the large manufacturing
town in which he had spent half his life,
come across every kind of character ; and
his knowledg:e of human nature was de-
rived, not from books, but from the study
of the living model itself.

He vvas always ready to make allow-
ance for extenuating- circumstances. It
was not in his nature to condemn any
one unheard.

It was only for a few moments, there-
fore, that these feelings of repugnance
overcame him.

His brother might still be able to ex-
plain away his conduct. His higher nature

332 NEMESIS

prevailed, and lie said, very quietly, ' Bring
Mr. Eamsay up.'

There was a short interval, and then
the door was opened, and John Eamsay
advanced to his brother's side.

Both were shy and constrained. Gil-
bert held out his hand, and John took it in
silence.

Then, in a few faltering words, John
Eamsay said what he had long made up his
mind to say : told his brother how bitterly
he regretted his conduct, and asked his
forgiveness. Clearly this was not what
Gilbert had expected.

He looked up surprised, and the
brothers' eyes met ; they gazed at each
other.

Something in the softened expression of
the face he was looking at, struck the sick
man, and he exclaimed : ' Why John ! you

AN INTERVIEW 333

look a difTcrcut man to -wlicn I saw you
last ! '

John Eamsay's lips were unlocked now.

' All the child,' he said huskily ; and
tlien in answer to his brother's wondering,
puzzled look of enquiry, in a voice which
faltered at first, but grew stronger as he
went on, he told his tale — told how the
pure influence of a beautiful little life,
lived out daily before him in all its
simplicity, all its earnestness, all its guile-
lessness, all its love and charity, had
humanised him, softened him, raised him.

He painted vividly the state in which
he had been previously living, heart, soul,
and spirit, dead and buried — from which
hideous incarceration the child had been
the means of releasing him.

And he ended by begging his brother
to show his forgiveness by allowing him to

334 NEMESIS

do anytliing and everything that was in his
power for the future, both for himself and
his family.

And then he waited for his answer.
Gilbert Ramsaj^ did not give it for some
time.

He turned his head away to hide the
tears that rose into his eyes.

He was more moved than he conld
almost bear in his present state of physical
weakness by the thought of his child, and
of all that that child had been the instru-
ment, in God's hands, of accomplishing.

For a fcAV minutes he could think of
nothini? else.

But he controlled his thoughts with a
strong effort, for that was not, for the
moment, the point on which he wished
them to dwell. He continued to gaze
thoughtfully out of the window, but his

A.V IiYTERFJEW 335

face grew calmer, and tlie current of his
thouglits flowed into another channel. He
was accustomed, as we said just now, to put
himself (metaphorically) into other people's
places, and to try to see things from their
point of view ; knowing well that from that
standpoint other people's difficulties look
very different to what they do from your
own.

He w^as doini^f this now. He was tryini?
to put himself into his brother's place at
the time when his conduct seemed so heart-
less, so incomprehensible.

What had so puzzled and saddened him
began to be more comprehensible. There
came upon him a vivid realisation of the
state of utter desolation in which that
brother had, according to his own showing,
been living : the deeps and the darkness
in which his heart and soul had been sunk.

336 NEMESIS

He seemed to see it all with a flash.

A man, who liad quench ed the Spirit,
and was living with no hope, and without
God in the world.

He had wondered much, but he won-
dered no lono:er.

It all stood out clear.

He raised his eyes to his brother's face,
and held out his hand, saying, ' I see it
all now : I understand.' And, he added,
in a lower tone, as he took his brother's
hand in his own still feeble grasp, ' Tout
comprendre, c'est tout 2'>cirdonner ! '

Closing CiiAriER
JOHN EAMSAY

CLOSING CHAPTER.

JOIIX EAMSAY.

Maxy years have passed away since- the
interview recorded in the preceding chap-
ter ; and I will ask you to take a farewell
glance at John Eamsay, ere we leave him,
sitting in the library, to-night.

That a long period has elapsed is
evident, for he holds in his hands a letter
from an Oxford underijraduate, sijjjned with
Gillie's name.

John Eamsay's face is much altered,
since 'vve first saw him sitting in that very
place, on the night of his arrival at home ;
sitting, weary and dispirited, looking out

z 2

340 JOHN RAMS A Y

upon an empty life and an aimless future.
The M^earv, unsatisfied look has <:!;one for
ever ; a very different expression reigns in
its stead.

Though there is even greater power
and determination in the face than there
used to be, there is that blending of
strengtli and tenderness which harmonise
so beautifully together.

Life makes the countenance.

The expression alters in later years,
as the soul or self within becomes more
formed, more definite ; and looks out, as
it were, throuirh the face.

And John Eamsay's wears a spiritual-
ised expression, which used not to be
there.

Let us guess at liis inner history since
we saw him last.

He liad feared, as we know, tliat when

JOHN RAMS A V 341

the cliiki was taken from liim, tlie okl
hardness and indilFerence would return.

But just as with those who die ; so
with those from wliom we are parted —
' the charm increases when sight is changed
for memory, and the changeful irritation
of time, for changeless recollection and
regret.' ^

There is left us a ' mystic presence that
can never fade.'

And so it w^as with our Enceladus.
Midas liad left a golden light behind him,
which neither time nor change could dull,
nor any other thing extinguish.

The child was gone ; tlie contemplation
of the little life of guileless innocence was
no longer daily before him ; but the influ-
ence of its peace and of its purity remained.

It abode with John Eamsay still.

^ Little Schoolmaster Mark. — Sliorthouse.

342 JOHN RAMS A Y

And tlioiigli no cliild dies so completely
as the cliild wlio lives to grow np ; yet
the memory of the child of that three
weeks' companionship never really left
him.

It was a possession for ever.

But John Eamsay had not stopped
there. The terrible consequences of his
orifiinal selfishness had tauifht him a great
lesson.

They had given him a horror of the
state of selfishness in Avliich he had been
sunk, from which the indirect act had, as a
matter of course, sprung ; for it is from
what we are that what we do flows as
naturally as possible.

' We prepare ourselves,' sa5\s Tito, ' for
sudden deeds, by the reiterated choice of
good and evil, which gradually determines
character.'

JOHN RAMSA\ 343

His sin, lie saw, was in the heing what
he was ; and his aim l)ecame to he some-
thing very diflerent.

It was not all done in a moment, and
he went throuo:li much mental trouble on
his way.

The memory of the sermon he had
hstened to in the old county-town, when
the planted seed of the child's influence
had been watered and vivified, came back
to his assistance.

And yet the thought of the capabilities
which every man's life contains, as then
pointed out to him, had at first been all
sad and depressing.

For he had said to himself that it was
all very well for others, but too late for
him ; that his life lay all behind him, a dim
vista of wasted years, lived with no holy
purpose, devoid of any noble aim.

344 JOHN RAMS A Y

Downcast at this tlioiiglit, and at the
shortness of the time before him, he had
been well-nigh in des2:)air ; till he had re-
called to himself the man ' wlio, in his dying
moments, gathered up the fragments of a
lifetime by the intensity of one aspiration,
and is to-day with Christ, for ever, in the
Paradise of God.'

Then had arisen in his mind the firm
resolution to gather up the fragments that
remained that nothing be lost. He saw
that even at the eleventh hour there
were capabilities to be made use of; and
that God would accept the remnant of
a life — poor and unworthy though it
might be.

To this resolution he brought all the
strength of his whole heart and nature ;
that concentration and that absorption
which were such marked features in his

JOHN RAMS A Y 345

character, and wliicli liad liitlierto been
given so exclusively to an unworthy end.

The Result ? . . .

How shall I tell of it ? How put it into
prose ? How can I speak of the divine
radiance shed around the path of one who
' does justly, loves widely, and walks humbly
with his God ? '

Such a life is a poem in itself. Its
Heaven has half begun.

His human sympathies awoke within
him and began to flow forth in love and
goodwill to all around, turning everything
he touched into gold.

He entered daily into deeper and deeper
meaniniis of the axiom that ' to love is to
go out of self.'

New views of life and its meaning
came upon him; and to make the world
around him, in the niche allotted to him,

346 JOHN RAMSAY

better, and liajopier, became his lifelong
endeavonr.

He saw, that while he was searchinsr
for his past recollections, for the ' Heaven
that lay aronnd liini in liis infancy,' God
had been leadini:,^ him on to something
better worth having ; and that it was this,
which he had really wanted, all the
time !

' Such are the feelings,' says Newman,
' with which men look back npon their
childhood. . . . They are full of affection-
ate thoughts towards their first years, but
they do not know why. They think it is
those very first years which they yearn
after, whereas it is the presence of God,
which, as they now see, was then over
them which attracts them. They think they
regret the past, when they are but longing
after the future. It is not that they would

JOHN RAMSA V 347

be cliildrcn again : but tliat they would be
angels, and would see God.'
John Eamsay realised that

Not only round us in our infancy
Doth Heaven with all its splendour lie.

So liis cry is no longer ' Never grow
up, Gillie, always remain as j^ou are ! ' He
knows noAv that he need not have feared
and dreaded so much to see the child's
youth and innocence pass away.

He can bear now to see him leavinof
the c^olden o-ates of his cliildliood behind
him, and advancing across the plains of
life : because he knows there is something:
in front of him grander than the mere
innocence of youth.

Beautiful as it was, in its way, there is
a possibility before him more beautiful still.

The innocence must go, the light must
fade from the paradise of childhood ; but

348 JOHN RAMSAY

only to make room for something higher,
and more enduring.

It is neither possible, nor wise, nor even
desirable, to prolong the days of innocence.

It — like many other things that are
beautiful in their place, and in their order —
becomes unlovely by forced, or undue,
prolongation. It is only fitted to early
5''ears. Every age has its beauty and fit-
ness, if people would only believe it.

And so, in the joy of Gillie's opening
and developing life, John Eamsay finds
ample comfort and absorption.

He does not expect it to be all easy, for
he has realised that just as the highest good
is often only to be obtained through suffer-
ing, so to the highest state of perfection
the road often lies through battles waged
and conquests won.

He is prepared, and content withal, to

JOHN RAMSA Y 349

see Gillie through struggles, through
failures, through falls even, if it must be so ;
ever aiming at, though ever falling short of,
that holiness which is so far above mere in-
nocence ; and something of which is, even
here, possible of attainment to those who
really and persistently seek it.

• ••••••

And yet there are times, for all that,
when John Eamsay is glad to put aside
the thought of the present and the future,
and to let memory bring back to him the
thought of the past.

Sittinj^ alone in the library, tjazino- into
the fire, his thoughts will stray back some-
times to the bcGfinninof of it all : to the time
when the touch of the small, coaxing hands
upon his knees, the wistful brown eyes gaz-
ing up into his face, had first awakened the
dormant feelimrs of love and tenderness

350 JOHN RAMS A V

within him ; to those old (lays, long ago,
when, wandering about in the June sun-
light, hand-in-hand wdtli his child-guide,
liis e^^es had been opened to see that in the
world around him, and in those about him,
to which they had long been closed ; when
the eye of faith had begun to see clearly,
and the powder of realising the Unseen been
bestowed ; when, in a word, his long-buried
spirit had been called to life, and he had
entered the kingdom of Heaven — led by a
little child.

THE END.

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