THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES The Daughter of a Soldier TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER ! THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER AND OTHER STORES By AGNES LITTLEJOHN SYDNEY : J. A. Packer, Printer and Publisher, Dean's Place. 1907. PR PRESS NOTICES. "The Sydney Morning Herald" says: Some of these stories make a person laugh, and others make her cry. That means that the root of the matter is in this author. She has in a way the dramatic insight, and the dramatic powers of presenting pictures." "The World's News" says: ''These earnest, pictures- que little tales will interest many a reader. They tell of loves and domestic struggles and child life one of them picturing the child who asks the dourly sermonising clergy- man, her father, 'If God loves us, why is He angry?' is most appealing and convincing and are deeply instinct with always triumphant human sympathy." "The Presbyterian Messenger" says: "Many of these stories 'find you,' and stir chords of feeling in the heart and produce a suspicious mistiness on one's spectacle lenses, and some of the stories reach a considerable level of ability. We have enjoyed reading these stories, and we hope their reception will encourage Miss Littlejohn to persevere in her literary efforts." "Grit" says: "The charm of this little volume lies in its variety. The worth of these stories lies in the fact that they are well told and that they are entirely healthy in tone. The book can certainly be recommended as one that will give relaxation of mind without in any way offending any of the proprieties of life." The "Daily Telegraph" says: "There are about 30 stories in the volume, and all are marked by quiet domes- tic and religious feeling, and by many little touches of unforced pathos. Miss Littlejohn shows fertility of imag- ination in the construction of her plots, and her writing is easy and graceful." The "Amateur Gardener" says: "A very pretty sheaf of book humanity, which can be given a position in any home in the Commonwealth where the real and the true is held in high esteem. We get too many loose-jointed things than are good for us in the now-a-day fiction. It is about time we rose to an appreciation of the sweeter attributes of life. Such honest efforts as those put forth by Agnes Littlejohn will help us along the way." 2214999 Author's Note: I desire to acknowledge here my first Editor, the Rev. Dr. Maclnnes, who printed many of the shorter stories in "The Presbyterian." Contents : The Daughter of a Soldier \t "Bread, or a Stone?" 20 An Unstudied Sermon 26 Mutual Reparation 33 "Our Father" 43 "A Little Child" 49 Poor Miss Price 56 "A Tea Pound Note" 64 Ambition v. Love 73 "Put Yourself in His Place" 87 Little May 95 A Firebrand 101 "A Point of Honour" Ill The Prophet that got no Honour 115 An Adopted Daughter 126 That Darkest Hour before the Dawn 136 "Comin' through the Rye" 140 The Fading Light 146 A Message from the Sea ... ... ... ... 155 Platonic Friendship ... ... ... ... ... 162 A Child's First Grief 172 His Dying Wish 176 His Life for His Friend 182 James and I ... ... ... ... ... 187 Concerning an Umbrella ... ... ... 192 A Prodigal Son 198 Lady Beresford's Plot , 206 A Modern Pharisee ... ... ... ... ... 215 An Ocean Waif 223 The Griefs of the Poor 236 What was the Mystery? .. 247 The Daughter of a Soldier "1 can hardly tell you why," said Major Grant, "but I am grieved to hear that you have promised Maggie's hand to him in marriage." "You are hard to please," said General Car- ruthers, testily, "when even I am satisfied with my only daughter's choice." The Major quietly shook his head, but made no other answer. "Speak openly," said his friend in a piqued and injured tone, "tell me why you don't like Ainslie? Is he not a promising, and even brilliant man? Has he not gained the esteem, and even love, of all about him by his good qualities and by hie courage? Is he not well-born and bred, and if you come to looks, as bright and handsome a young fellow as you would find in a day's ride? His love for my daughter is so obvious that I need hardly touch on that. What would you have?" "He is all you say," returned the Major, soberly; "yet I distrust him, and I grieve to hear he is going to marry Maggie. My god-child is very dear to me, as you know well, and I am anxious for her welfare and her happiness." The General contemplated^ him for a moment uneasily, and a deep silence fell upon them both. "I have ever appreciated your powers of intui- tion and discernment, Duncan," said the older man at last, in disappointed tones; "but I think and hope you are mistaken now. I know you care al- most as much as I do for my Maggie's happiness. 10 THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. Give me the reasons for your distrust of Gerald Ainslie." "He is of the purest Indian descent on the mother's side," the Major answered slowly. "'I he treacherous Indian blood of the daughter of a Rajah courses through his veins. His father married an Indian princess, who died when Gerald was a child. Believe me, I have had experience of a sad kind, and I feel certain I am justified in all my prejudices and my fears. But having warned you and put you on your guard, I can do no more. I must leave you now. You know I start to-morrow on my journey home to England, and I have still much to do in the way of preparation." Left alone, the General rose with a gesture of impatience, and leant with downcast face against a pillar of the wiue verandah, where he and Major Grant had held their conversation. As he stood thus, a bright-faced English girl appeared, and, hastening her step as she observed his presence, she placed her arm affectionately on her father's shoulder, gazing rather wistfully in his dark face. "What is the matter, father? You look troubled," said the girl. General Carruthers tried to smile, and he bent to kiss her as she stood before him. But the troubled look had scarcely vanished from has face, and Maggie was not satisfied. She contemplated him thoughtfully for a moment ere she spoke again. "I know what you are thinking," she softly said at last. "You fancy you will be less dear to me now I love Gerald. But, father, that could never be. I think I love you more far more since I have cared for him. Who could help loving him? He is so brave, so noble, so true." She laid her sweet flushed face against her father's shoulder, and he stroked her hair with a caressing, loving touch that gave sufficient answer to THE DAUGHTEH OF A SOLDIER. 11 her earnest words. Ere he could speak, however, a native servant came to him, the bearer of some urgent news; and, pressing his daughter to hi* heart, he left her hastily. Maggie threw herself on a low seat, and, fold- ing her hands behind her head as she leant back, she gave herself up to her sweet waking dreams. Presently a smile stole to her lips, and a flush to her fair cheek, as the sound of a man's clear tenor voice fell on her ear : " I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more." The flute-like tones were those of Gerald Ainslie, singing softly to himself as he approached. He came up hastily at sight of his betrothed, the love- light in his eyes as they rested on her face. "Maggie! I was seeking you. My dearest, I have brought your ring the ring that binds you to me. See!" The young man opened a small case, and placing an opal ring of remarkable beauty and value on her finger, he bent his head and gently kissed her hand. As the girl's eyes fell on the handsome stones, a strange, cold chill ran through her veins, and she involuntarily shuddered, with an undefined presenti- ment of some coming evil. She shivered as she raised her face to Ainslie. "The ring is very lovely," she said softly; ' but the stones are said to be unlucky, dear. Oh, Gerald, had you chosen any other stone!" "Nonsense, darling! Do you indeed believe such silly tales? They were my mother's, Maggie, and I think the opals are to bring us luck!" Her lover laughed lightly, stooped and kissed her cheek. "When you placed it on my hand, a sudden chill came over me. But only for an instant, Gerald it is gone now. The ring is beautiful. I am quite happy now." 12 THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. Some weeks later a brilliant entertainment was given at the barracks. During the course of it, oppressed by the heat, and missing Gerald Ainslie from amidst the brilliant throng, Maggie stepped out on to a wide verandah overlooking the plantation and the jungle, to gain a moment's rest and quiet thought. The moon was shining brightly, and the open space beyond the house looked tempting in its light. Leaving the verandah, Maggie wandered down to the plantation. Fear- ing, however, that she might be missed if she de- layed too long, she was about to turn toward the house again when she heard the approaching mur- mur of a voice she did not know, and she withdrew into the dusky shadow of some dense bushes near, to wait until its owner should have passed. Two dark figures issued from amongst the trees, and she recognized the voice that made response as that of Gerald Ainslie. Much relieved at his approach, she was on the point of making her own presence known to him, when she shrank back again within her sheltered nook, struck with dismayed astonish- ment as his first words fell on her ear. "You have lost the documents!" he said in angry tones, and in an Indian dialect which Maggie understood. "Then we are lost!' He addressed the man beside him, who appeared to be a native messenger. "I dropped the packet unawares," he answered humbly, as they stood for a brief instant in a patch of moonlight. "We must search for it," returned young Ains- lie, anxiously, "though I have but little time to spare, for I dread being missed to-night. But tell me all you know of the purport of the message, in case it cannot be recovered now." Then followed a brief conversation ir. low and cautious tones. A thrUl of anguish shot through THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. 13 Maggie's heart. She heard enough from his own lips to know that her lover was a traitor of the deepest dye. And from his questions, and the native messenger's replies, she gleaned some know- ledge of the plot itself. The two men presently departed on their search, and as the girl withdrew from her sheltered nook, her dress caught on some obstacle. In stooping to free her skirt, she noticed a small packet lying on the ground, and picked it up. It had been covered by some lightly-fallen leaves, which her dress had brushed aside, and had thus disclosed it to view. Se- curing it, she returned to the house once more, and took her place amongst the brilliant company as- sembled in the lighted rooms, where she forced her- self to resume some appearance at least of her old wonted gaiety, and even to meet Gerald Ainslie as before. Relieved at last from the cruel strain upon her, by a general departure of the guests, she retired to her own apartment, where she dismissed her maid, and for some dreary hours tossed restlessly on her couch, unable to snatch a moment's rest. Her anguish at the knowledge of her lover's treachery was almost more than she could bear. She had adored him for his noble qualities. Alas ! where was his unstained honour now? the dearest of them all to her. Next day she was obliged to keep her room, but in the evening she joined her father and her lover in the drawing-room, a set purpose showing in her now calm eyes, and in her firmly-set, un- flinching, though absolutely colourless countenance. Gerald eagerly approached her as she entered. She begged him gently to be patient with her, as she was not feeling well, and went out to her father on the dim verandah, where he had gone to sit and smoke. She sat beside him, musing, and half-listen- 14 THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. ing to Gerald, who, wondering at this sudden change in her, still lingered in the lighted room, softly singing to himself, as was his wont. By-and-bye there was a pause; then the words that Maggie once had loved fell on her ear : " I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more." She shuddered as the words fell clearly, sweetly, on her ear, and almost cried out to him to cease the mockery before he broke her heart. Gerald came out to them, and sat beside her in the dusky silence of the night. Suddenly a strange, weird note of sadness broke on the still air. and, quivering in their ears in one prolonged, low cry, it died away again. "What can it be?" said the General, in a low, awed tone. "It is the wailing of a banshee, weeping for some lost and fallen spirit," Maggie whispered shud- dering, her head on her father's shoulder, and his arm about her waist. She rose and went inside the lighted room, un- able longer to endure the darkness and the stillness of the night outside. Gerald followed her. "Maggie! why are you so strange to-night?" he asked her passionately, "and why so cold to me?" He caught in his the hand on which the opals shone, and raised it to his lips. Involuntarily she drew her hand away. "What is the matter?" Gerald questioned an- xiously. "How have I offended you, or are you feeling ill?" "I hate the opals, Gerald ! I had a presenti- ment of coming evil at the time you placed them on my hand." She drew his ring from her finger hastily, and held it out to him. He contemplated her in silence, an unwonted glitter in his eyes, and stepping out on the veran- THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. 15 dah, near which they stood, he raised his arm and flung the opals with a sudden passion she had never seen in him before, far away into the dark and silent jungle. He returned to her side again, but when he spoke to her his voice was a caress, his tones were low and sweet. "Then you disliked the opals, dear? I wish I had known it ere I brought them to you. You shall have another ring. The finest diamonds in India shall be your own." He would have taken her in his arms, but drawing herself away from him, she wrung her hands together in her bitter grief, and hurried from the room. It was midnight when she sought her father in his private business apartment, where he was still busily engaged in preparing his despatches. He looked up hastily at her unexpected entrance, gaz- ing at her in a startled way, as he noticed her white face and dark, despairing eyes. "Why, Maggie, you are looking ill! What is the matter, child? Come here to me, and tell me what troubles you." "I have much, indeed, to tell you, father," said the girl; "and it must be told quickly, for time presses now, and danger lurks around. I should have told you sooner, but I had not gained the strength. Father! you have ever trained me to place honour before all else. You have instilled your sternest, noblest principles into your child, and you have taught me that we must place honour first, at whatever cost to our own private feelings. Is this so?" Still gazing at her in a doubtful, troubled way, he made a silent gesture of assent. "And if some doubtful action," she resumed, with a pale cheek, but firing eye, "even of our nearest and our dearest friend, comes to our know- 16 THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. ledge, for the sake of the public welfare we must not condone or cover it. Father ! there is a traitor in the camp." General Carruthers started up and paced the room with uneven, hurried steps. The warning of his friend now recurred to him with overwhelming force. "Stop!" he cried hoarsely, "think before you speak. I will know nothing, child recollect the dreadful penalty!" "I do," she answered firmly; "it is death!' Reassured by Maggie's calmness, her father put the horrid doubt away from him. "Then tell me all," he said. She drew the fatal packet forth and placed it in his hands. General Carruthers broke the seal and opened it, and as he read with grief and horror, he gathered from the documents the drift of the whole plot. It appeared that Gerald Ainslie nad formed a conspiracy with his own Indian kinsfolk against the English, by means of which they hoped to exterminate the whole British force ; and Ainslie, bearing Maggie with him, was to take possession of a chieftainship. He had already evidently tampered with a number of the native soldiers under him, and counted largely on their help. "Action must be taken promptly," the General said, sternly, turning to his daughter. "I shall have Ainslie closely watched to-night, and in the morning a council and court-martial must be held. Maggie, I fear you must be present can you bear it, darling?" "I can do my duty," said the girl, unflinch- ingly, although the dews of agony were already on her brow. Her father took her in his arms and kissed her with a kind of reverent affection. THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. 1? "My own brave little girl!" he said, with, strong emotion. "You are indeed the daughter of a soldier, but I know too well what you are suffer- ing." The council met next day, young Ainslie being, present, and closely watched and guarded though he knew it not. General Carruthers rose and briefly told his tale. At the first words Gerald Ainslie started violently, and his eyes were gleaming dan- gerously, but these were the only signs he gave. Not until the General had finished and called upon his witness to appear, was the traitor's name made known. As he paused, a curtain was pushed aside and Maggie passed in through the doorway. She was very white, and there was a strained and deeply-suffering expression in her eyes, but she was perfectly calm, and walked with firmness. Unable to speak, she raised her hand, and, indicating Gerald by a gesture, turned her face away. A sudden cry of mingled bitterness and infinite aston- ishment escaped the young man's lips. "Maggie! you have brought this on me! Be- trayed by the woman whom I love!" She slowly turned her mournful, sorrow-stricken eyes whence all joy and hope had fled for ever- moreupon him, and for the first time met her lover's gaze. "Yes, Gerald," she said, sadly, "it is I who have done this thing ! And yet I would have died to save your honour ; it is the loss of that that is my grief and shame." He looked at her intently, for the first time noting to the full the ravages which grief had made in her. He bowed his head for an instant in his hands ; then, turning to the council, he said firmly : "Gentlemen, it is useless to deny my guilt. The 18 THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER. packet had been lost, I knew, but I little thought it had been found, or who had found it." He was silently led away, and closely guarded, and all the precautions that were possible were taken to repel attack. At midnight an alarm was given that they were attacked by the natives from the hills, and it was now discovered that there were many unsuspected traitors in the camp. Ainslie was set free by the very men who guarded him, and he led the rebels on against the English. A furious uproar filled the barracks, and the General was in the thickest of the tumult. Most of the women were with the daugh- ter of the General in his own quarters, where they waited in suspense and trembling for the end. The tumult was at its height when, in the midst of the din without, young Ainslie, closely followed by some of his own men, rushed into the apartment where, pale and calm amidst the terrified and weeping women around her, Maggie sat, and seizing her in his arms, he forced her away with him. His Indian blood was now uppermost, and his flashing eyes were fully as wild and glittering and as unsparing as those of the wild hillsmen who followed at his heels. Bearing with them the helpless girl, they had almost escaped the limits of the barracks when a pursuing party, led by the General himself, now overtaking them, forced them to stand and fight. Ainelie was struck down and made a prisoner, and Maggie was rescued by her father. On their return to the building it was found that the attack was beaten off. The rest of the night was spent in attending to the wounded, and in keeping close watch and guard, and when the morning dawned, all the ghast- liness of the scene appeared to every eye. It was scarcely more than daylight when the General entered with a hasty step the apartment where his daughter sat amongst the women. He THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIEK. 19 advanced to her and stood beside her, with his arm resting on her shoulder, as though he would fam shield her from some bitter grief. Maggie raised her <eyes without a word, and fixed them on his calm, stern countenance as he stood by, apparently hearkening for some expected signal. An ominous sound broke the stillness presently, and, with a sudden understanding, the girl started to her feet, and her eyes met her father's, where she read its awful meaning. She uttered a sharp cry as she fell forward on his breast. "It is the death-shot of a traitor," said the General quietly, to those who stood around. And who could guess the father's anguish behind those clear, cold tones? He drew his handkerchief before his daughte: face. "Bread, or a Stone?" "Or what man is there of you, whom, if Kis son ask bread, will he give him a stone?" "Not another word, sir," said his father, furi- ously, "if you marry that girl in defiance of my wishes, I shall cut you off without a penny. There's Miss Duncan, with her fortune, who is certain to take you if you will only ask her ; yet you persist in fancying yourself in love with a penniless girl. In love," repeated the old man with an air of sub- limest scorn, "there's no such thing in the world, if you boys and girls would but believe it ! Come, Maurice, lad," he went on in a kinder tone, marry Miss Duncan to please your old father, and you shall have every penny I have to leave." "Oh, father," said Maurice, sadly, "I cannot do as you wish. I love Lettice, and she loves me, and I have asked her to be my wife." "Think a moment, boy, before you decide. This is not to be taken lightly." "I have thought, and my resolution is un- changeable." "Then leave the house!" burst forth the father, in a tumult of passionate disappointment in hi* only son; "and remember you are henceforth dead to me! You shall never darken my doors again." Maurice turned away without a word and left the room. His father cast himself into his chair, and sat down, looking after the retreating figure, and at the door long after it had vanished. "Maurice, come back!" he had almost cried after him ; but the words died away on his lips, and BREAD OR A STONE. *1 he sat there still and grim. Meanwhile, the young man was passing slowly down the stairs, his head drooping sorrowfully on his breast. At the foot of the staircase he met the old butler, who had known him from a baby. "Master Maurice!" he said with suppressed eagerness, and laying his old hand on his young master's arm, "you have not vexed your father, have you, lad?" "It's all over, Reuben," returned Maurice with a faint smile ; "he has forbidden me ever to return to my old home, and I am going now." "Oh, Master Maurice, this is sad indeed. Wait here a little, lad, and let me go to him and plead for you. You know he minds old Reuben, sir, know- ing the value of long and faithful service." "No, Reuben! it's of no use. He'll never for- give me now, I know too well. You'll send my traps after me to this address." He put it in his hand, which he grasped warmly in farewell, and went quickly out into the street. A fortnight passed away, and he had got a position as an underpaid clerk in a mercantile house in the town, which work he supplemented by writ- ing for the press, sitting up far into the night fo earn the additional pittance. He had married Lettice in the meantime, who grieved sadly over the trouble she had brought on him. "I wish, for your sake, that we had never met," she had said with trembling lips. He clasped her closely to him for reply, and looked lovingly at the lovely, sorrowful face upheld to his. "Lettice, dearest, never say that to me again," he told her gently, but with firm decision; "you are all I hold dearest in the world." They lived in cheerful poverty for two long years, then Maurice's health began to fail. A little 22 BREAD OR A STONE. child came to them, a baby Maurice, and he re- doubled his hard efforts to keep a home for wife and child. Then he began to droop. During these two years he had heard of his father from time to time from Reuben, who sometimes wrote to him, but who dared not see him in opposition to his master for Maurice's sake, whose cause he still hoped to serve. Reuben, therefore, did not know how hard the battle was to him, nor how he was sink- ing under it. One day, a slight, spare, drooping form stood before the closed door of the large and handsome house where Mr. Williams, senior, lived in solitary state. Old Reuben opened the door and started back when he saw this man. "Master Maurice!" He gave one look at him, then drew him in with a trembling hand and led him into a small room opening off the" hall. There he sat down, his old knotted hands before his face y and cried. "Oh, Reuben, old friend," said Maurice, in great distress, "you must not do this, indeed. I want to see my father, Reuben." The old servant looked at his thin white face- and sunken eyes with deep distress, and vainly tried to speak. He made a gesture towards an upper room, and led the way upstairs. They stood for a moment in silence at the door of his father's room, then Reuben softly opened the door, and the young man entered alone. His father was sitting. in an easy chair before the hearth, a book held listlessly in his hand, but he was not reading. His head was bent as if in painful thought, and the opening and closing of the door had not attracted his notice. "Father 1" said Maurice. The old man started up and faced him. "\ou you here," he cried; then stopped abruptly, startled BREAD OR A STONE. 23 at the change in his once bright, handsome, and healthy-looking boy. "Leave me," he said harshly, when he had somewhat recovered himself. "Father ! I have come to you, not for my own sake, but for the sake of my wife and child." His father stood and looked at him with an un- bending face. ""We are in trouble," said Maurice quietly; "if our rent is not paid within the next three days we shall be turned out of our one room, an attic in Nelson-street. I have done my utmost to stave this off," he went on sadly and wearily, "but all in vain. I therefore struggled with my pride and came to you. Will you help us, father?" "Leave me!" repeated the old man, with hard disdain, "and never come here more." His son gave him one intent look. "God forgive you, father!" he said calmly, and turne'd away, as he had done once before, so long ago. When he had gone his father rose and paced the room with uneven, hurried steps. "Oh, my boy, my boy," he cried in subdued tones, lest Reu- ben might overhear and come to plead for him, as he had so often done in vain. "So changed, so al^ tered ; and all through his own obstinacy and self- will!" "Not through your pride?" a silent whisper seemed to ask. And then he flung himself back in- to his chair and began to think. And there rose up before his eyes a sweet, fair face, the face of his boy's mother, whose eyes had closed in death so long ago. "What if I had been forbidden to marry her?" he vaguely wondered; "would I have done it still?" He had told his son there was no such thing as love in the world, yet he had loved once, when he was young. Then he saw once more his son's pale, haggard face, and heard him saying 34 BREAD OR A STONE. solemnly, "God forgive you, father!" and he groaned aloud. But his pride was strong within him, and he put all thought away with unaltered resolution. The next day was Sunday, and he went to the forenoon service, as he had done nearly every day ot his life. There was a strange preacher in place of the one whom he had seen there Sunday after Sunday for long months past. This preacher was an old and white-haired man, with a fine counten- ance, full of intellectual power and of deep thought, and his voice rang out with a melodious strength that was wonderful for his apparent years. He gave out his text: "Or what man is there ot you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a etone?" One hearer started as the words fell on his ears, and sat looking grimly and sternly on that fine, earnest face that looked down from the pulpit on him and on the attentive congregation. But the sternness left him as the sermon was con- tinued. He sat there, overcome and trembling, lis- tening to the melodious voice that rose and fell, now in fiery exhortation, and now again in pathetic pleading to the flock below. The service was over ; the people swept out, and the churchyard without was full of the sound of murmuring of many voices, as they discussed the powerful and searching sermon they had heard. <But one man sat apart in the church and thought. The text was ringing in his ears, and it condemned him. His son had asked for bread, and he had given him a stone ! At length, when all had scattered and gone their ways, he crept out quietly and walked away. But he did not go home yet. He walked some distance, then he took a passing cab and drove into the town ; there he dismissed the man, and walked again, turning into the poorer streets. He came at last to a doorway opening upon Nelson- BREAD OR A STONE. 25 treet, and knocked upon the battered old door. A slipshod woman came, responding to the call. "Does a person of the name of Williams live here?" he asked abruptly. "Go straight upstairs," she returned, curiously eyeing him from head to foot, "up to the attics." He went up the dirty, crazy stairway, and on arriving at the top landing, which was close and dusky, he saw a single door there, and tapped on it. Lettice opened it, her baby in her arms lying fast asleep against her breast. Her lovely face was pale and thin, with a haunting sadness in her eyes; and her once pretty form was shrunken now from want of food. "My son," the old man said, without greeting .her for what, indeed, was there that he could say ?- "I wish to see my son." "He is there, ' she answered, indicating a corner by the window, where a man sat bending over a little deal table on which were strewn some papers, and holding her infant in her poor thin arms, crooned softly to it. Meantime, her husband's father went to the little deal table and laid his trembling hand on his son's arm. Maurice sat with his pen held fast in his attenuated white fingers, his head bent forward, as though in deep thought or weariness, and resting on the other hand, with the face hidden. "Maurice!" his father said, a world of remorse- ful tenderness in his quivering tones; "Maurice, my boy, my dear eon, forgive me! I have come to beg for pardon, and to take you home ! You and your wife and little child." Maurice moved not, but sat in solemn silence, cold and still. The struggle to live had been too hard, and it had broken his heart. So his Father had taken him Home. An Unstudied Sermon "Eh!" whispered Luckie Simpson to her hus- band, "but the meenister's sermon is unco-awfu' the day!" Jamie put up his shoulders peevishly and leant back in his seat with an unhappy air. Sabbath after Sabbath had the village folk taken their seats unwillingly in the little kirk to be preached at sternly by their energetic pastor. Mild his sermons never were; he had the reputation of being a pow- erful preacher, and, being very proud of it, he was determined to preserve and deserve it. He preached of hell and all its torments to evil-doers, and did his energetic best to frighten his flock from sinful ways, and to drive them on before him along the straight and narrow path that leads to everlasting life. He thundered at them from his pulpit whilst they sat quaking and trembling below, with their pale, unhappy faces all turned towards him : for woe unto the one that wandered. "The tares are gathered and burned in the fire." This was the chosen text of the Rev. Michael Birchenough this Sabbath morning, and he expound- ed on it with great vigour, regardless of the heat; and Luckie had listened to his teachings in awe and dismay, until at last her spirit sought relief by com- munion with her husband. The service over, the little congregation crept out disconsolately and made their way homewards in great dejection of mind. The Rev. Michael de- scended from the pulpit and went to the vestry to AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. exchange his robe for his coat. His little daughter awaited him as usual at the kirk-yard gate, and he took her small hand loosely in his own and led her homewards. Eppy's mother had died at her birth, leaving old Barbara to be her faithful nurse, and mother, too. She stepped sedately by her father's side, silently glancing at him from time to time in awe and wondering. This father of her's was a living puzzle to the little girl. Why was he not like Mimi's father, who played with and petted his small daughter to her heart's content? The village folk were straggling home despondently by twos and threes at no great distance from them, and presently they had overtaken Jamie and his guidwife, who were conversing seriously with one another. "Luckie," said James Simpson to his helpmeet, as they trudged on side by side, "I dinna think I can abide to gae to the kirk the nicht." Luckie replied, "I doot we must go, Jamie; what'll the meenister say till us if we stop awa' ?" "I dinna care what the meenister'll say till us," quoth James, doggedly. "I can stan' nae mair o' his sermons the day, I tell ye, Luckie!" "Weel, man, ye mun e'en do as ye think fit," returned the woman, with indifference, "but I sail gae to the kirk." "Eh!" growled Jamie, "I ken weel eneuch what for. Ye hae your new blue bonnet the day, an' ye like weel to put Maggie Henderson's in the shade. The bonnet makes up to ye for the meenister's biting sermons. But I hae nae bonnet, Luckie," he added, scornfully. Luckie tossed her head in the aforesaid blue bonnet, but deigned no answer. "Weel," resumed James, with gathering deter- mination, "I sail not go to the kirk the nicht, to hear the meenister's sermon." 36 AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. "Wheest!" said his helpmeet, hastily, glancing over her shoulder in an apprehensive manner. "The meenieter's just behind us, Jamie, an' I doot he's heard ye!" The Reverend Michael had indeed heard Jamie's unlucky speech, and his unguarded answer to his good wife's last words, for he had been unobser- vant of the minister's approach. "Hist, Luckie!" he said tartly, "it's an ill wind blows naebody guid. The meenister's preaching is mighty strong, and makes me uncommon inclined to bide awa' an' follow the broad an' easy road." The Reverend Michael heard him with horror and dismay. He lifted his forefinger at the man as he came abreast with him, saying, sternly, "James Simpson, beware of careless speaking ! Recollect my text this forenoon, and take it to thy heart. I doubt," he added, with deep despondency, "I doubt you're one of the tares, man, and will be cast to the burning flames, and there consumed to the utter- most. Take heed, then, and stray not aside from the narrow path, where only there is safety !' : He left the trembling pair and led his little daughter home. After their midday meal he gave her a Psalm to commit to memory, and went to his study to rest and meditate. An hour had passed away when the stillness was broken by the sound of a light footfall outside his study window, and glancing up he saw Eppy passing by. He went on reading at the time, but a minute later he jumped up, suddenly, exclaiming, "The godless child! Where goes she on the Sabbath afternoon? She should be at her Psalm." He took up his hat and went out into the grounds to seek her. After a fruitless quest, he came at length to the hedge that separated Mr. Richard's orchard from his own grounds, and, peeping over, he saw two little figures reclining on the grass beneath a cherry AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. 29 tree. There was a gap in the hedge through which Eppy had probably found her way, but it was too small for him to follow, so he lost a little time going round to the gate. He found the children lying in the shade, talking softly together and eating the ripe fruit Mimi had shaken down into their hats. "Eppy! Eppy!" cried her father, stalking up to them. "What does this mean? I gave you a Psalm to learn." The children rose and stood shyly before him, their hats dangling from their hands, Eppy's red lips taking perhaps a slightly defiant curve. "Father, I know my Psalm," said Eppy. "You should not have come out to play on the Sabbath, Eppy. Why did you not remain indoors with Barbara?" "It was so hot," pleaded the little girl, "and Barbara was asleep. I wanted to see Mimi," she added, stealing a look at her little friend; "her father's coming out soon to tell us a tale. Oh ! let me stay !" "Come in with me," said the minister, gravely, taking no notice of her appealing glances at his face. He walked back towards the manse with Eppy at his side, and they had traversed half the distance thither when she broke the silence with a question. "Father," she said, suddenly, "does God love us?" The minister stopped short abruptly, and stood looking down on his small questioner in direct per- plexity. She, the minister's own child, to question such a thing? What else had he been teaching her all her short life?" "Surely, Eppy!" he replied. Then all the discontent and wonder of her little soul came forth in the hushed cry of another query. 30 AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. "Oh, father, if God loves us, why is He always angry?" juiie Rev. Michael took her hand and led her into the house without reply. He forgot to ask her for the Psalm, and sent her up to Barbara. Then he went and sat alone in his quiet study. He was dreadfully hurt and wounded. He loved his little daughter dearly, though it was one of hie principles not to show his love, lest he might be tempted to spoil his only child. Eppy, therefore, had no thought of the deep love that lay behind his apparent sternness. He wondered what the child had meant. He did not understand at all. He eagerly longed to do his duty by his child and by his parishioners, and to the best of his belief he Had done it. "If God loves us, why is He always angry?" The words returned to him again and again. Then suddenly the meaning came, bringing with it a con- viction that threatened to overwhelm him with its force and truth. Hie eyes had rested on the even- ing's sermon lying before him on his study table, one of his scathing, burning discourses, such as ter- rified, rather than led his flock into God's ways. For the first time he felt the truth of this, and now he understood what the child had meant. Sabbath after Sabbath, for as far back as he could recollect, had he delivered sermons such as this. When had he ever been as the Good Shepherd who led his sheep? He had tried to frighten them from sin lest they should make God angry and be punished ; but he had not led them to their Saviour as to a God of love and mercy. He tore the sermon up and cast the pieces from ium, and, laying his head down up- on his desk, he wept as he had not done since his young wife died. Then came to his study door a gentle tap, and Eppy entered, sent by Barbara to summon him to tea. He raised his head and held AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. 31 out his hand to her with a winning smile she had never seen on his face before, and she came timidly towards him. Then, seeing tears on her father's cheek, her habitual awe of him vanished in the ten- der pity of her sweet child's soul, and she threw her little arms about his neck, and laid her fresh, cool cheek against his, knowing only he was grieved and wishing to comfort him. He held her to him closely, and when Barbara came to see why they lingered they went into tea together, hand in hand. Eppy never went to the evening service ; even the minister recognised that she was too young for that. So, after tea, he went to his study to get his Bible and meditate ere he set out alone for the kirk. He had destroyed his sermon, and there was no time to write another, but he was not thinking of that now. His soul was full of a new, sweet peace, and he was praying for power to pass it on to his flock. As he ascended the pulpit later, he saw the seats were well filled, and James and Luckie bimp- son both were there, frightened probably by his reproof. "Hoots I the meenister has nae sermon!" whis- pered a sharp-eyed woman to a friend as he rose for the discourse. "He's ill," returned the other, in alarm, for the Reverend Michael was very pale, and there was a look on his face they had never seen on it before, and could not understand. But he was not ill, though he had no sermon. In a clear and even voice he began to speak, and they hung upon his lips; for this discourse was strange and sweet to them, and the minister spoke from his inmost soul. The sermon grew of his meditation and hie prayer, and God gave him the 32 AN UNSTUDIED SERMON. words he should say as he told them of His love and mercy. "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him." The service over, the minister went forth pres- ently on his way home, and outside the gate he found his flock still gathered together in little groups. Never before in hie experience had they lingered willingly since the first Sabbath he had preached there. They would perhaps have greeted him now, but their shyness made them move away ; only James Simpson came up to him. "Meenister! I'm sorry for the words I spoke this mornin' " said he, awkwardly. Then he raised his toil-worn face with an earnestness that did away with his shyness, as he added, softly, "Ah. meenister, if ye preach as ye did this nicht, I'll never want to bide awa' again." "Mutual Reparation." Left fatherless after eighteen happy years, Dorothy Russell had come to Sydney with her widowed mother, to live there as best they could on the latter' s limited annuity ; all that was left to her after her husband's fortune had been lost to him through the treachery of a trusted friend. Dr. Russell had resided abroad for several years with his wife and daughter previous to his loss, and had but recently returned to Melbourne when the shock came suddenly upon him. Being at the time in delicate health, he sank under it and died. His wife and daughter then came to Sydney, the latter hoping to gain a living there by teaching, that she might leave untouched her mother's little for- tune. They lived together in their quiet lodgings, Dorothy going to work as daily governess to five spoilt children, whilst her mother languidly reclined on her invalid's couch at home, longing wearily for her daughter's return, for she was declining day by day; and though the girl as yet suspected no seri- ous evil, the sick lady knew too well that she was dying. The end came suddenly at last to Mrs. Russell, tended still by her daughter's loving hands. For a few weeks the motherless girl was too stunned and ill to know much of what was going on around her; but at length she rallied, and began quickly to recover strength, if not spirits, for she wa young and fresh. Then came the time when she felt she must bestir herself to find employment, hav- ing long since resigned her local engagement in 34 MUTUAL REPARATION. order to wait upon her dying mother. She lia.d inserted several advertisements in the "Argus," and, having received an answer that seemed suit- able, she had joyfully accepted it. She was engaged as governess to the only daughter of a country squire, and a few weeks later, after a long and dreary journey in the train, arrived late in the evening at the station, where Mr. Allen was to meet her. Scarcely had she stepped upon the platform Avhen a tall, dar., man, who was standing in front of the little crowd collected there, anxiously watch- ing the passengers who left the train, came forward, and with an air of hesitation addressed her by her name. "Miss Russell, if I am not mistaken," he said in deep, rich tones; and, as Dorothy timidly replied in the affirmative, he took her hand in his warm, hearty grasp. "I am Mr. Allen. My wife, who has accompanied me, is waiting in the carriage. Let me take you to her the porter has your lug- gage." Another moment and she found herself seated in a snug, closed carriage beside a lady, who had taken her hand very gently in her own. "You are welcome," said Mrs. Allen, softly. "You must be weary now, but we will take good care of you when we get home." The tears came unbidden to the girl's eyea at the kind tones, and she knew for the first time how greatly she had dreaded the meeting with these strangers, by the sensation of relief she now experi- enced. It seemed to her so like a welcome home. By the end of the week she had become quite do- mesticated at "The Meadows," as Mr. Allen's home was called. Her pupil, Letty, a lively and warm-hearted child of twelve, she found extremely pleasant to instruct, and in her mother she found the kindest friend. One day, when she had been telling her of her residence abroad, such was the MUTUAL REPARATION. 35 interest displayed, and so kind the questions put by Mrs. Allen, that she soon found herself unfolding to her all her early life, and the sad facts concerning the death of her parents, withholding only the cause of the shock which had preceded and hastened her father's death. Of this she shrank from speaking, with a repugnance she could not overcome. "Dorothy," said Mrs. Allen, laying her hand on her shoulder, as she spoke, and gently turning the soft, fair face towards her own, "I was a governess myself before I met my husband, and I was not very happy then. When I married, I resolved that I would do my utmost to make all in my own house- hold happy. I want to be your friend, my dear," she added, with a winning smile. "Will you love and trust me, Dorothy?" The girl took the gentle hand in hers, and for answer laid her cheek caress- ingly against it. "I have had a letter," said Mrs. Allen medi- tatively one day to Dorothy, "from my cousin, Roger Stanton, who resides in Brisbane. We were brought up together, and I love him as a brother. Poor Roger has not had a happy life since we parted years ago. His is a noble nature, precise to extreme sensitiveness on points of honour, and his father greatly disappointed him. Since his death took place a year ago, Roger has suffered in- tensely on account of some disclosures made to him by Robert Stanton on his deathbed. I do not know the details," she said, sadly, "but 1 believe his father treated dishonourably some confiding friend, of whose name and position I am ignorant, and Roger took it sadly to heart. His only aim in life now seems to be to make reparation to this man for the wrong his father did him. He tells me in his letter that he thinks he is on the point at last of tracking him, though he has been for some time now lost sight of." 36 MUTUAL REPARATION. Dorothy bent her head in silence, as she plied her needle in the service of a sick child in the village. And as Mrs. Allen was called out just then to attend to household matters, her sudden pallor and her troubled looks passed unnoticed by her. "I will be silent," the girl told herself. "They shall never guess who I am, if I can kelp it. Stanton Robert Stanton 1 it is indeed the man who injured father. And so his son is seeking us in order to make reparation. He must be a noble creature to be so earnest in his endeavours. But I will take nothing at his hands," she reflected proudly. I have lost my dear ones; I can work now for myself." Ere long Mr. Stanton paid a visit to his cousin. He arrived one evening in time for dinner, and as Dorothy came into the drawing-room she saw for the first time the man who had been in her thoughts so much of late. He was leaning up against the chim- ney-piece, talking earnestly to Mrs. Allen. As Dorothy entered, she saw a smoothly-shaven face of slightly olive tint, brown eyes, sad and sombre in expression ; hair dark and wavy, and a rather stem mouth, beautifully modelled, and shown to great advantage by his shaven upper lip. Mrs. Allen rose as the girl approached, and, taking her hand, pre- sented her to him. As his eyes fell for the first time on the gentle face, where shyness lent a delicate colour to the softly-tinted cheeks, a sudden flush ap- peared in Roger Stanton' s face, and a light in his melancholy eyes. The men lingered a little over their wine that night, as Mr. Allen had some business to discuss with Roger. When they entered the drawing-room, Dorothy was at the piano, filling the room with melody. They seated themselves quietly to listen, and Roger Stanton fixed his eyes on the unconscious and refined, pure face of the performer. When she MUTUAL REPARATION. 37 ceased, he sprang forward eagerly to beg her not to stop. His cousin, delighted at his evident interest in Miss Russell's music, asked him to acccompany her with his violin. He went at once to fetch it, and presently came back with it, appearing unusu- ally animated, and followed by a man servant bear- ing a pile of music. A concert had been projected in aid of the vil- lage school, and for the next fortnight there was much practising at "The Meadows." Roger, as general manager, throwing himself with ardour into the plan of the forthcoming entertainment, had en- gaged performers from amongst their nearest neighbours, and had drawn up a programme. Every evening he and Dorothy spent a quiet hour in the drawing-room before dinner, practising their duets. A little later the concert took place with great success. Roger had been looking ill all day, and his cousin watched him anxiously, wondering what was amiss. He took his part, however, in the evening, and richly deserved the warm commenda- tions showered upon him, both as private performer and general manager. Miss Russell, too, was con- sidered a great success, and her sweet, rich melody was enthusiastically encored. Many were the mur- murs of undisguised admiration of her musical at- tainments, and her personal appearance, that fell upon the ear of Roger Stanton, as he stood by Mrs. Allen, his finely-chiselled lips compressed and stern, and his eyes to the last intently fixed on Dorothy's sweet face. Entering the library early the next morning, Mrs. Allen was surprised at the sight of her cousin lying back in an easy chair, an unopened book on hi* knee, his face haggard as though from a sleep- less night, and his lips tightly closed, as though he were in pain. "Roger! Why, Roger, my dear old boy," said 38 MUTUAL REPARATION. Mrs. Allen softly, and with infinite compassion, "you are ill and suffering. Why didn't you toll me, dear?" She came near to him as she spoke, and laid her soft, cool hand lightly on his fevered brow. "Ida, I must return to Brisbane by the mid- day train. It is imperative." "Oh, Roger, you were to stay a month longer yet. It is so long since you've been here." "Dearest Ida, I am obliged to go. Forgive me for disappointing you." He kissed her cheek af- fectionately, and hurried from the room. He ap- peared at the breakfast-table by-and-bye, pale but composed. Having made his preparations for departure, Mr. Stanton went to the library to bid his cousin farewell. Mrs. Allen sat at work with Letty, whilst Miss Russell read aloud to them. Dorothy looked up in a startled way as she heard his first words to his cousin, and when he came in turn to her, she hardly saw his outstretched hand, she seemed so dazed. "Good-bye, Miss Russell," he was saying gently; "I shall often think of the pleasant hours I have spent in your society." He gravely pressed the cold little hand in his, gave one quick glance at the sweet face from which all colour had fled, and teft the room. Matters went on as usual after his departure, though they missed him greatly. He had been gone but a few days when a letter came for Dorothy. She opened it eagerly, a warm flush dyeing her pale face at the news it contained. It was from Roger's lawyer, and it appeared he had successfully traced her father to the town where he had so painfully drawn his last breath; had heard of his death, and of the subsequent removal of his wife and daughter, and had followed up the clue to her present home. The lawyer told her further of a certain fortune MUTUAL REPARATION. 39 that was forthwith to be placed at her disposal. With firm lips and a flushed cheek the girl replieu at once to him, resolutely declining to touch a penny of the money, and desiring him to inform his client of the fact without delay. Several days passed by without her hearing further news, and she earnestly hoped no further notice would be taken of the mat- ter. One afternoon Mrs. Allen had gone with Letty to the town, leaving Dorothy at home. She was feeling ill and restless, and the air of quietness and peace pervading the whole house was very soothing to her. As she rested languidly on the couch in the old library, her thoughts travelled rapidly over all that had taken place since first she came to "The Meadows," and she mused on Roger Stanton's arri- val and his presence there. She was so absorbed in thought that she did not hear the opening and closing of the library door, and started violently at the sound of a well-known voice pronouncing her own name. "Miss Russell!" It was Roger Stanton who was speaking. His manner was nervous end hur- ried, and his face was pained and anxious. 'Tor- give me for having startled you," he said gently. "James told me that my cousin had gone out, but that I should find you here. Miss Russell, kindly allow me a short hearing. I have much to say to you. I have discovered the truth," he went on i great agitation. "I believe you have known from the first that I am the son of the man who wronged your father It is but recently, however, that have discovered who you are. I learnt, too, from my lawyer of your firm refusal to accept the repara- tion I so wished to make in my poor father's name. Your refusal has inflicted cruel pain on me," he said with a pleading look. "Miss Russell, I am here as your humble suppliant. My father implored me 40 MUTUAL BEPAEATION. on his death-bed to do my utmost to make restitu- tion ; surely you will not now refuse?" The man was terribly in earnest, and she bent her head, white to the very lips. "I cannot alter my decision." Low as were her tones, yet Roger caught them. He paced the room with rapid strides, then paused abruptly beside her. Dorothy rose trembling, longing to leave the room without delay, for she felt she could endure no more. But he detained her still. "Miss Russell, is there nothing I can say to induce you to alter your decision ? I beg, I implore, I urge you ! If you only knew how earnest I have been in my endeavours to find your father; if you only knew the bitter pain and shame, the heavy load my father's fault has proved to me; if you only knew the intense relief your acceptance of this for- tunerightfully your own would be. This was my one hope, and now you would rob me of it you, of all in the world I Dorothy, Dorothy, do you know what you are doing?" He paused, for there was almost passion in his tones. "Mr. Stanton," answered Dorothy, with sud- den firmness, and looking him full in the face with :lear and steadfast eyes, "allow me to say a few Jpords in turn. I have indeed known your story for some time, and I don't consider you are justified in taking home to yourself your father's fault, of which, moreover, I know you to have been ignorant until his death. My dear father never, to the very last, uttered one reproachful word of him, though he had, indeed, grieved sadly. I admire your keen sense of honour," she faltered, "but I cannot accept what you would give. I earnestly beg that, under the existing circumstances, you will suffer your father's memory to rest in peace, as he is resting now. My parents are dead, and I am content and happy as I am." MUTUAL REPARATION. 41 Ho stood beside her, listening eagerly to every word, and watching her face intently as she spoke; and something he saw there caused him to take her hands in both of his, and hold them with firm gentle- nesc. "Dorothy," he said earnestly, "I have loved you since ever I saw you, since the first moment you came into the drawing-room that evening I arrived. Oh, Dorothy, do you know why I kept aloof from you whenever I could? and why I hur- ried back so soon to Brisbane, regardless even of Ida's disappointment P It was because I loved you, and feared that I might forget myself and tell you ao. I dared not stay, remembering whose son I was. Dorothy, dearest Dorothy, if I had been some one else, or even if I had stayed and tried to win you, tell me, do you think I might have succeeded?" He paused, and bent his head to read her face. One startled glance she gave, and tried to draw her hands from his to hide it, but he had seen enough, and, drawing her to him, held her closely. "Dorothy, Dorothy, do you know how much I love you?" he murmured brokenly. Then, taking her face in his hands, he gently raised it that he might look into her clear eyes. "Dorothy, if you cared for me, why did you inflict the bitter pain of your refusal of the fortune your own father's right!" She hid her face again upon his breast. "It was because I loved you. I could not bear to take it then !" she said so softly, that he had to bend his head to catch her answer. "Dorothy," said Roger, after an eloquent pause, "do you fully realise, I wonder, the terrible weight you have lifted from my very soul?" She glanced into the transformed face, and at the dark, earnest eyes, so melancholy once, now shining with a tender, joyous light. "Poor Roger," she said, with an ineffable smile of 42 MUTUAL REPARATION. happiness, "how you have suffered." Then, with a deeper tone of understanding, she added softly, "Ah, Roger, I was cruel indeed, I know it now. This is but mutual reparation, after all I" As one would comfort a little, grieving child, she put a tender arm about his neck, and, drawing the dark face close to her fair, soft cheek, she held it so. "God bless you, Dorothy !" said Roger. "Our Father." "Th night is far spent, the day is at hand." A fresh case has just been brought to notice a new inmate carried into the Infirmary a woman who had been badly crushed beneath a heavy dray. AB the bearers entered, a little group of attendants gathered round, and, apparently attracted by some sudden and painful interest, a young and fresh- faced woman in the nurse's garb, who was passing through the hall, had joined them, and pressed for- ward eagerly. "Let me look at her," she said, in tones so earnest that they gave way to her at once ; and she bent forward, scanning with close attention that white, rigid face. A sudden cry escaped the nurse's lips faint and subdued, indeed, but unmistakably one of anguished recognition and, shrinking in- stinctively from the surprised and startled faces turned on her, she hastily left the group, going swiftly down a side corridor. It had all happened in an instant ; a moment later and the group of nurses had dispersed, the bearers had carried the crushed form away, and the wide hall was quiet and empty once again. Meantime Ixurse Blanche had gained a quiet nook In an unused passage, where she might find refuge from all curious notice until the first shock of an unexpected and painful recognition had passed away. With her hands pressed close against her brow and eyes, she leant against the wall and tried to still the wild throbbing of her over-bur- 44 OLE FATHER. denecl heart, and to overcome the faint sickness that stole over her. But one muttered word escaped her lips, reiterated constantly one sad, heart- wounded cry of "Mother 1" At length, she roused herself with a long, quivering sigh, and leaving her quiet refuge, ascended a flight of stairs leading to the wards above. Near the top she met two nurses, one of whom had made one of the group below, and she stopped to question her. "What have they done with the new case?" "They took her to the operating-room," was the reply; "but it is thought that next to nothing can be done for her." "Which ward will she occupy?" asked the young woman, looking up with a face as white and drawn with pain as that of the poor creature when the bearers brought her in. "There is no vacancy in mine, I fear." "It is rather an unusual case, they say one of great severity. The patient will be placed in the spare room opening off the corridor in the left wing. But how white and ill you look !" Nurse Blanche turned silently, and, leaving her com- panion, went swiftly on her way to the matron's private room, where she, fortunately, found .aiss Morse alone. "A fresh case has been brought in," she said in eager, trembling accents, on being admitted in answer to her knock. "So I have heard," the matron answered, in her calm, clear tones. "But why a-re you not at your post in your own ward?" she asked a little sharply, glancing at the young woman with cold, keen eyes. "1 came to ask a kindness. Miss Morse, will you use your influence and authority, and permit me to nurse this case? They are to put her in the private room in the left wing, that she may b OUR FATHER. 45 separated from the patients in the wards. The case is yery critical, they say. Oh, ma'am, if I may but nurse this patient I Nurse Mary could easily take iny own charge meanwhile it will not be for long," she added, with a pleading look in her white face'. "But what is she to you, that you so earnestly desire to nurse her?" asked the matron, regarding her with wonder. "She is my mother," said the nurse, with bitter anguish in her eyes, and in her low, strained tones. Miss Morse checked her own half-uttered ex- clamation of surprise, and put her hand with un- wonted kindness on the young woman's shoulder, her usually severe, calm countenance full of a kindly pity. "Go, my dear! I will arrange it for you, and at once." With one look of gratitude, Nurse Blanche left the matron's room, and a little later was by the bedside of the injured woman. All had been done for her that could be done, but it was very little, and she was moaning piteously. "Is there no help?" the nurse asked, plead- ingly, in a low tone, of the surgeon who stood by her side. Dr. Mullins shook his head in silence, and was proceeding to whisper some direction, when a wild, stifled cry broke from the feverish lips of the poor creature over whom they stood. Attracted by the nurse's voice, her eyes had wandered to her face, and had fastened there in fear and sudden re- cognition. "Nance! Is it you?" "Oh, mother, mother !" The answering cry was low, but painfully intense and bitter; and the nurse had thrown herself upon her knees by the poor maimed form. "Oh, Nance, I meant to go back to you indeed I did " "Hush, mother; never mind the past you *6 OUR FATHER. must lie still, for you are badly hurt," she an- swered in firm tones, recovering by a hard effort her own self-control, and glancing up in answer to the surgeon's warning touch upon her shoulder. She took the draught he had prepared and now of- fered her, and, supporting her mother's head upon her arm, she persuaded her to take it. Then, as she gradually sank into a quiet slumber, she took a seat beside the bed, prepared to watch. The sur- geon, who had long been her friend and knew her history, had quietly left the room with one kind, pitying look and a few last whispered words, and she was left alone beside her patient, free to hold communion with her own sad thoughts and painful memories. It seemed to her but yesterday that the mother who lay before her now so white and still had deserted her, then but a child ; and, leaving her to roam the streets alone, in poverty and dan- ger, had gone, she knew not whither. Dr. Mullins, coming into contact with her accidentally, had been interested in the wild and pretty dark-eyed girl ; and, taking her home with him, had found her oc- cupation in his household, till, discovering her gift for nursing, he had got her admitted into the hos- pital he visited as surgeon, and where, as Nurse Blanche, in time she became well known for skilful nursing. For some days she nursed her mother tenderly, who began ere long to depend on her and look to her for comfort in her sad extremity a newly- awakened confidence growing in her sordid heart and steadily increasing hour by hour. It seemed, as she grew daily weaker, as though her soul awak- ened in proportion as her life grew more uncertain. "I've been a bad mother to you, Nance, and my life has been one of wickedness," ehe said piteously one day. "And now I'm dying and I'm not fit to die!" OUR FATHER. 47 Her daughter read to her from her well-worn Testament, but she listened listlessly, and with no gleam of hope. "I've never cared about these things and it's too late. Pray? I never prayed in all my life. Oh, Nance, I dare not nowl I dare not ask God to forgive my sins." Then she added wistfully, and with a look of wonder on her fading face, "Though you have forgiven me the past I know." Nurse Blanche's eyes welled up with tears. She took the wasted hands in here and held them gently, tenderly. "Oh, mother, we all have need of pardon. And I can't believe that when His children forgive each other freely, God will refuse to pardon us when we are truly penitent!" Her mother looked up silently at her, a faint smile on her lips, a sud- den dawn of hope in her dim eyes, as she gazed earnestly on the sweet face that was her strength, and comfort when life was slipping from her. She was realising now, for the first time, that though she had never sought her God in all her life, she dared not die without Him. The last summons came at dead of night. Her daughter, kneeling by her, saw the change that was transforming the wan face. "Pray for me I" She could scarcely hear the words so faintly gasped, but half-read them from the motion of the lips, in the dim light of the night lamp. She held her mother's cold hands fast in her own firm, gentle ones, and the words fell softly, sweetly from her lips. "Can you hear and understand me, mother? Oh, say it after me, my dear I Our Father, which art in heaven " "Our Father which art in heaven" echoed the feeble, dying tones. "Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come" "Thy kingdom oome " The face grew white, but the dying tones grew quick and eager. 48 OUR FATHER. "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Forgive us our trespasses" "Forgive our trespasses" The faint tones ceased, the face, already grey with the hues of death, turned gently, till the cold cheek rested on its pillow. With that first and last appeal for pardon on her lips, her soul had fled to God. "A Little Child." Mrs. Grant sat alone in the pretty drawing- room of her seaside cottage. Book in hand, and leaning back in her low easy chair, she made a charming picture that summer afternoon. Her lithe and graceful form was robed in white, of some soft material suitable for the season, and her dark, crisp hair was gathered up in a loose, becoming knot, allowing the little tendrils to escape and wave with all their natural beauty on her white brow and shapely neck. Her face was very pensive now, but the finely-curved red lips could smile with a strange charm, and the soft dark eyes, bent dream- ily on her book, could flash and sparkle too. As she sat thus, the door was opened gently, and a bright-faced little lau of seven peeped in. He gave one quick glance round the room and ran to the lady's side. A glance was enough to tell he was her son. The same dark wavy hair lay on his open brow, and the same bright smile flashed out in res- ponse to his mother's look. He nestled up to her caressingly, and she smiled down on him, her softly- parted lips disclosing the even, pearly teeth within. "Mother," said the child, "I saw that man again to-day." "What man, my darling? Why, how hot you are ! Have you been running ? Sit down on my lap and tell me what you mean." Mrs. Grant lifted her little son upon her knees, and bent to kiss him, holding him to her bosom. "When I was on the beach with nurse the other 50 A LITTLE CHILD. day, I met him walking there. Nurse says that he is staying at the hotel. He started when he saw me, as though he knew me, mother ; and he stopped to speak to me, and asked me my name. He looked eo funny when I told him what it was. I wish you could have seen his eyes; nurse calls them mourn- ful-like. He stroked my hair, as you often do, and kissed me when he went away. He said he had a little boy like me, but lost him long ago. Did he mean that he was dead?" Mrs. Grant made no reply. She had listened dreamily, half-conscious of strange feelings roused by her boy's remarks. Ralph still sat upon her knees, lost in some childish fancy. "Mother," he said at last, "I want papa so much I The gentleman on the beach was kind and gentle with me, just like you, and made me wish that he was my papa." "Your father, Ralph?" said the mother, has- tily. "Who has spoken to you of your father?' "Nurse said she did not think papa was dead," the child said, wonderingly. "Oh! I do so want papa. Where has he gone?" Mrs. Grant was silent. The prattle of her child had roused a chord of memory that had been sleeping for years past. Her thoughts flew back, as though it were but yesterday, to the time when she, a thoughtless, girlish bride, stood by the tall, grave man whom she had partly learnt to fear, ever whilst she set at open defiance his wishes and com- mands. Then had come the mutual tacit acknow- ledgment of an incompatibility of temper, followed by a private separation; their only child, a little son, reluctantly being left to her own care. For nearly seven years she had heard nothing of the husband she had left, and had done her best to pre- vent all risk of crossing his path again. All the past rose up in her own mind, and kept her silent, A LITTLE CHILD. 51 whilst Ralph's dark eyes were fixed in childish wonder on her troubled face. He put his arms impulsively about her neck. "You are not angry, are you, mother dear?" She kissed him hastily, and put him off her knees. "No, no; I am not angry, Ralph. Inere, go away to nurse; I wish to be alone." Glancing at her timidly, he slowly went away as he was bidden. Mrs. Grant rose hurriedly and paced the room in agitation. Strong feelings in her heart had now been roused and would not sleep again. "His father," she murmured in perplexity. "My child has asked me of the father he has not seen since babyhood, and whom he does not know. He may grow up, perhaps, to long for him. Have I done my son a wrong in robbing him of a father's wise and watchful care ? Ah ! I am greatly changed since I left Lyndon, though I have scarcely thought about him all these years. My child has uncon- sciously moulded my unformed character with his soft baby hands. I was a foolish, untrained girl when I was married, and hard to bear with. Yet my husband, I remember, was ever gentle with his wayward wife till I overstrained his patience, and turned, perhaps, to sternness his natural gravity. Ah ! Lyndon Grant, I wonder where you are, and if you have ever given me a thought since the old days? Too well I see my senseless folly now!" For the next few days she continued to feel a newly-awakened dissatisfaction and unhappiness; a new-born longing for the husband she had left so wilfully. The child would often speak of the gen- tleman he had seen on the beach. It appeared they often met, and that they had become firm friends. "I wish he was papa," little Ralph said wistfully; and, looking at his flushed and eager face, Mrs. Grant began to feel a languid curiosity to see this 52 A LITTLE CHILD. friend of his. On the Sunday following she took her little son to church, and heard attentively the old minister, finding, in her new mood, unwonted interest in his discourse. During the service Ralph nestled close to her, and gently pulled her sleeve to attract her notice to himself. "The man is there," he whispered softly in her ear, as she bent over him. "Over there, mother, just across the aisle, and he is watching you!" His mother raised her head to look, and a suu- den painful crimson dyed her face as her startled eyes gazed straight into the deep-set eyes of her own husband, Lyndon Grant. He had evidently observed her presence first, and had been intently watching her for some time past. As their looks met for the first time in seven long years, an an- swering flush rose to his own dark cheek, and he turned his head away. Nor did he look at her again, though her troubled, wistful glances often sought his face. The service over, she left the church with Ralph, catching a glimpse of her husband in the distance, on his way back to the hotel. Next day she wandered pensively on the sands- with Ralph, and, giving him leave to paddle, sat in the shade of the tall cliffs to read. But her troubled thoughts would wander from her book, and she sat revolving her perplexities with an un- wonted frown of pain on her fair brow. She was thinking of her husband's parting words: "It is your earnest wish to leave me," he had said, "and I will not prevent it. Farewell, my wife ; it is not likely we shall ever cross each other's path again!" Yet fate had brought them both to the same neigh- bourhood, and they had met once more. A thought spoke in her heart that made her pulse beat fast and quick, and sent the hot blood to her pale, sad face. Why need they part, as destiny unasked had A LITTLE CHILD. 53 thrown them in each other's way again ? If Lyn don could still care for her So lost was she in her abstractions that she started violently when the sound of a terrified, childish scream broke suddenly on her ear, and she sprang up to see Ralph struggling in the waves. The little lad had ventured out too far, and, losing his footing, had fallen in the sea and been swept out of his depth, borne out upon the waves. His mother's exclamation of dismay was instantly re- echoed by a man's deep voice beside her, and she turned to him wildly, and with imploring hands stretched out to him. "For God's sake, help!" she cried. His coat was already off, and, even as she turned, she recognised her husband. "Oh I Lyndon, save our child!" "Fear not, my wife!" the answer came in the firm but kindly tones she knew so well, but had heard so carelessly of old. And the words had scarcely left his lips ere he was battling with the sea. The current was very strong, but his efforts were successful, and the little boy, unconscious now, but breathing still, was carried home with all possible speed. That evening his mother sat beside his bed, watching her sleeping darling and rejoicing in his safety. "Lyndon saved him Lyndon saved his life!" she repeated to herself with a thrill of thankful joy. "Oh, I cannot let my husband leave me now!" The door was opened gently, and her maid came in. "Please, ma'am," she said, "a gentleman is waiting in the draAving-room. He would not give his name, but asked if you would see him for a moment. He will not keep you long, he said." Mrs. Grant rose hurriedly. The beating of her heart had told her who it was. A moment more and she was in the presence of her husband, who advanced to meet her quickly. 54 A LITTLE CHILD. "I trust that you will pardon my intrusion," he said eagerly, but speaking with the quiet cour- tesy of a mere stranger. "I have come to inquire for the child's health. I leave this neighbourhood to-morrow, probably, and I wished to satisfy my- self of his recovery before I went." "He is better nearly well," she answered softly, not daring to raise her shining eyes to those re- garding her so wistfully. She felt she loved and understood this man as she had never done before, even in the first flush of her married life. "I am glad, indeed, to hear it. It will be a satisfaction to me to carry the knowledge with me when I return to the old lonely life. For go I must, unless " He stopped abruptly, and bit his lip. "I have often met the child on the sands," he went on hurriedly," and he has been a great delight to me. I fancy I have the happiness of having won his heart. It was a pure accident that brought me here," he added, after a brief pause. "I had been ill, and came for a change of air and scene. I recognised my son at the first moment, from his strong resemblance to yourself, and when he told his name I knew there could be no mistake. And I have so often watched you from a distance. Amy, you will not grudge your husband the plea- sure he has taken in the sweet and innocent^ com- pany of your child, and in the sight of you?' There was no reply, and a deep silence fell upon the two, so near together, yet with the un- crossed gulf of seven years' estrangement separat- ing them. But she raised her head, and holding out both hands, she went to him. "Lyndon," she said, and her tones went to his heart; "forgive me, husband, for the past, and take your wife once more to your warm heart. Forget all the old folly. I am much changed, my dear, and I love you, Lyn- don, as I never loved you then!" The last words A LITTLE CHILD. 55 were spoken softly in his ear, for she was in his arms, held closely there. It has been written in the Book of books that "a little child shall lead them." And, verily, Ralph's small, loving hands had drawn these two together once again. Poor Miss Price. From the very first they had called her "poor Miss Price," in a half-pitying and half-scornful way, and she had been their governess for ten long years. The girls had grown up in her care, and even Mildred admitted she had been unvaryingly kind and patient ; yet, somehow, none of them cared much for her, excepting brother Jack and little Mary. "Jack always was her champion after the first few months," said Mildred, "and wee Mary quite *dores her, though why, I do not know." "She's very mean," said May. "When sister Caroline was married even the housekeeper gave her a wedding gift, but poor Miss Price gave nothing, though Uncle Hamilton has always paid her hand- somely for teaching us." "And see her gowns," responded Lucy. "I am quite sick of that rusty black silk she sports on the few festive occasions when she honours us with her company. I often wonder, Mildred, what Miss Price does with her salary. She has been with us for so long, yet we seem to know nothing more of her than when she came." The girls sat in the morning-room that after- noon, busily engaged in finishing some work for the Church bazaar, and Mildred put down with some deliberation the fragile nick-nack she was making, ere she replied, "I'll tell you something odd, girls," she said, POOR MISS PRICE. 57 mysteriously. "You recollect the day uncle took us to the flower-ehow, when Miss Price refused to go, saying her head ached, and she would prefer to stay quietly at home? Well, just as we were starting, I ran back to the schoolroom for my gloves, and found her sitting at the table before her open desk. A number of old letters were strewn about, and little piles of sovereigns, which she was busily engaged in counting over. She evidently thought we had all gone, for she started up at once when I came in, and trembled all over like a guilty thing. She had actually been crying, too I" "I think she has some secret trouble, Mildred," observed her student brother, who had been listen- ing quietly where he lay on the sofa with a book. "I've often thought there was a mystery about Mies Price, and you girls have always been so hard on her." "Oh, Jack I" "Indeed you have. Ever since she came you've been the most provoking little monkeys." "You are unfair we've always learnt our les- sons well, even if we did dislike our governess." "No thanks to you, Miss Pert! You were too much afraid of Uncle Dick to do otherwise. And, besides, she has a perfect genius for teaching." "Well, yes," admitted Mildred; "Miss Price has certainly the knack of making her lessons in- teresting." "And she was so patient with us, Mildred, when we tormented her in the old days ; and she was al- ways ready to help a fellow with his preparation. I Sft y, girls, 1 often feel ashamed when I remember how we treated her when she first came to us." "She should have been like other people, then. We don't like mystery and stinginess. And she is always quiet and dull." 68 POOR MISS PRICE. Their uncle entered as she finished speaking. He was looking grieved and worried, and spoke a little sharply as he put a question to the girls. "Where is Miss Price? I wish to speak to her." "It's her half-holiday, you know," said May, and she has gone to pay her usual visit to some sick relative, Uncle Dick. She won't be back till tea- time, I am sure." "Tell her I would like to see her when she comes." Dr. Hamilton left the room and returned to his own study. A leading physician in the town, the possessor of a large income and handsomely-ap- pointed house, he had brought up his sister's chil- dren since her death. His nephew was studying medicine, and his nieces had been provided with an accomplished governess and good masters. Dr. Hamilton had never married. He sometimes said, laughingly, that with four nieces in the house he was not likely ever to desire to do so. He was in his prime, a fine-looking man, gentle and affection- ate, though somewhat masterful withal ; aud was almost worshipped by all with whom he came in contact. Left alone once more, the girls worked quietly on till dusk, and were about to cease their occu- pation for the afternoon, when they heard the sound of the front-door bell. "It is Miss Price," said May, looking out into the hall. "She's gone upstairs to her own room. I will run up and tell her Uncle Richard asked for her." She flew upstairs, and was soon tapping at her governess's bedroom door. A faint voice bade her enter, and she was somewhat startled at the change that had taken place in Miss Price since they had parted a few hours back. The gas was lit, and she had evidently begun to remove her outdoor things ; POOR MISS PRICE. 59 but when May entered she found her usually self- contained and quiet governess walking hurriedly about the room like a caged creature. Her face looked pained and worn, a bright spot burnt on either usually-pallid cheek, and her eyes were bright, excited, even wild. "Uncle wants to see you," faltered May. "Tell Dr. Hamilton that I will come." May hurried from the room, and Miss Price flung herself despairingly on her bed with a low moan of intense pain and bitter anguish. "Too late too late I Oh, mother, mother!" Rousing herself by a great effort, she rose and bathed her feverish face and smoothed her tumbled hair; and, passing the girls on. the stairs without a word, she entered the doctor's study, where she remained shut up with him for quite an hour. Her pupils did not see her again that night, but their uncle called them to him before they went to bed, and told them they would lose their governess. Miss Price was going away. "Going away I" cried Lucy, in astonishment. It had seemed to her Miss Price was quite a fixture in the house. None of them had ever so mucn as thought of her leaving them. "She has had a cruel blow," the doctor said. "Be very quiet and gentle, girls, when you see her in the morning. She will leave us early to-morrow." They crept away to discuss the news together ere they slept. In the morning Miss Price appeared as usual, quiet and self-possessed, though worn and pale and heavy-eyed. By-and-bye she left the break- fast-room, and when she came down to the hall she had her cloak and bonnet on, and, advancing to- wards her pupils, she bade them all good-bye. "I am sorry I could not make you like me bet- ter, girls," she said very gently and regretfully; "I 60 POOR MISS PRICE. did my best, indeed, but the strain was very great too great for me!" She shook hands cordially with her champion, Jack, and turned to little Mary, whom she held closely to her for a moment, and then went hurriedly away, entering the carriage with her veil drawn down. The doctor did not engage another governess. A few weeks later he sent his nieces with the trusty housekeeper to the seaside, telling them he was going to visit an old friend, and would join them later on. Some months passed by, during which he had come down to make arrangements for the younger girls to attend a good school in the neighbourhood, as he said he was having alterations made at home, and could not receive them for some time. He came to see them when he could, how- ever; and on one of these occasions he drew them round about him, saying he had a tale to tell. He took his youngest little niece upon his knee, and, stroking her soft hair with a gentle hand, after a slight but thoughtful silence, thus began: "Some years ago," he said, "there lived in our town a well-known lawyer with one daughter, Mar- garet. He was a widower, and when well-advanced in life he married again, a widow with a son about his daughter's age. She was a gentle, loving crea- ture, soft and beautiful, and had won his daugh- ter's heart, and they all lived very happily to- gether for a time. The boy, being remarkably hand- some and bright and winsome in his ways, was idolised by all, and became as a dear brother 1 Margaret and a son to the old man, who, however, met with an accident and died a year or so after his second marriage. His wife was terribly af- fected by his death; she never rallied from the blow, but only lived for a few months after, fading away in a decline before her step-daughter's regret- POOR MISS PRICE. 61 ful eyes. Before she died she made some sad dis- closures to the girl, and it was then that she brave- ly stooped her shoulders to take the heavy burden placed on them. It appeared that a heavier trouoie was the cause of her step-mother's illness, even than that of her husband's death. For some time she had been secretly supplying her son with money, and doing her utmost to conceal his private extravagance and ill-behaviour. Her own funds being exhausted, in her poignant distress at some disclosure made to her by her son, together with a fresh demand for money and some reckless, wicked threat, she had secretly robbed her trusting husband of a large sum for the sake of Willie's reputation. Her hus- band died without discovering her act, but the blow was too much for her to bear. She confessed it all to Margaret on her deathbed, imploring her to do her utmost to save her wretched son from the con- sequences of some fresh folly, and to redeem him, if she could, for the sake of the love she bore to her. Margaret promised solemnly, and the poor mother died in her tender arms with words of thankfulness and blessing falling brokenly from her lips. "After her death the storm burst over Margaret and Willie. The young man's employer had dis- covered certain defalcations. The girl went to him privately and succeeded in softening his stern heart towards herself, though not towards the weak and foolish boy. He gave her his word that he would hush the matter up for her sake, and give poor Will another chance, on condition that every penny of the stolen money should be repaid to him. This was promised solemnly, and from that day the girl laboured to obtain the means of paying off the heavy debt. Taking a situation as a private governess, for which she was well fitted, being bright and talented and thoroughly educated by her father's 2 POOR MISS PRICE. care, she put by every penny she could spare. Her step-mother's son, however, was a constant grief to her He had quite broken down. The knowledge of his mother's act, done for his worthless sake, and < the terrible sorrow, remorse and shame that had Burely been her death-blow, was too much for him, and he sank beneath it; his poor, unstable nature being far too weak to rise above it, and to mal him resolve to be a man and live it down. Mar- garet became aware that he was slowly dying. , did her utmost to brighten the remaining days o the querulous, fretful, suffering invalid; and worked more strenuously than ever to pay off the debt and thus partially to lighten the heavy burden of his own guilt. At length the last sum had been well- earned, and she went joyfully to place it in 1 hands. But, girls, she found him lying dead, some violent emotion he had broken a blood-vessel and in the very moment of success, her joy and the hope of raising him up even yet were dashed away. Dr Hamilton paused. His voice had trembled slightly as he ended, and he bent his head over t little niece who sat upon his knee. "Oh uncle, what a noble woman! cried, a tender mist in her blue eyes, a sympath flush in her fair cheek. "And yet you never appreciated her, my litw girl Mildred, this noble woman is Miss Price!' "Miss Price? Oh, Uncle Richard, how ashamed I am to think how hard and unkind I've often been to her, when she had such a cruel pain to bea I've called her mean, and often laughed about her poor and shabby clothes. Do let me go to her, dear Uncle Dick, and beg her pardon for it allP' "Miss Price has gone abroad, my little girl. She has been very ill, and has now gone to travel for her health." POOR MISS PRICE. 63 "Shall we never see her again, dear Uncle Dick?" "I surely hope so, dear! I intend you all to remain here for a few weeks longer, whilst I am away from home. When I return again I will take you back to town, and you shall see Mies Price." When their uncle met them at the railway sta- tion later, his nieces saw a curious change in him. He had grown younger, brighter, and was so full of merriment and fun. "Why, Uncle Dick!" they exclaimed, as the car- riage stopped before the well-known house in town, "you've had it done up 1" "I have," he smiled, "and I hope you'll think it much improved. But come upstairs, my dears. Miss Price is here, expecting you." They entered the drawing-room, and a lady who was sitting there rose hastily and came forward to meet them with a quick, light step. "Miss Price!" they cried in astonishment, "Can this really be Miss Price?" For this lady was too bright and pretty to be their quiet and faded gover- ness of the old days. They saw rose-tinted cheeks instead of pallid ones ; clear, happy grey eyes instead of sad and mournful ones; the angular and shabby figure rounded now with graceful curves, and showed to advantage in a handsome and well-fitting dress. She was smiling at them too, in a gracious, happy way, as Miss Price had never smiled. "It cannot be Miss Price!" they cried. "No!" said Dr. Hamilton, taking her hand af- fectionately in his own to lead her forward. "Mildred, this is not Miss Price, but Mrs. Hamilton, my wife! Yes, kiss her, girls, and love her very dearly, for she is your aunt." "A Ten Pound Note." My friend, Gordon Beresford, was a clergyman in Melbourne, and, being out of health, had got someone else to take his place whilst he came to the fresh country to recruit; and, naturally enough, he came to my parish in preference to any other, for we had been close friends and comrades since our early school, and, subsequently, college days, jiany an evening he spent with me and my wife hi our cosy sitting-room, and many an interesting tale he told us of his town ministry. "Yes," he said one evening, "I could give you more than one instance of what a good, true wo- man's life can do for a man. But I will tell you a special incident, not only proving this, but also the fallacy of trusting hastily to mere coincidence and circumstantial evidence, however it might be against one." This was his tale: One morning, about three years ago, a young man was leaning against the doorway of a grocer s store, looking out into the street. He was a fane, manly fellow, with a rather good-looking open face, but with nothing in his expression to betoken that he was anything more than ordinary. As he stood gazing down the street, a stout and busy-looking man came up and paused before the doorway. He appeared to be a sea-captain, and evidently had a purpose in coming there, for, as the young man moved aside, he entered the store and approached the counter. A TEN i-OUND NOTE. 65 "1 must see your employer at once, young man," the customer said abruptly. "My master is away," was the civil reply; "he- has gone to St. Kilda for a day or two, but will re- turn early to-morrow, sir." "Away from home? Dear, dear, how very tire- some!" exclaimed the man. "It's a money matter, too. What's your name, young fellow?" "Miles Trevor, sir." "Oh, I think I've heard it before. I fancy I've- often heard Mr. Grey express his trust in your in- tegrity and honesty of purpose. Well now, see here I am just starting on a voyage, and we set sail as soon as I return on board. I owe your master something for provisions supplied to me, and have- called at some personal inconvenience, for I can barely spare the time to pay him myself and say good-bye. Here's the money. Take good care of it, and give me a receipt." He placed on the counter a ten-pound note, and having got from Miles a written acknowledgment, he hurried out. The young man threw the ten-pound note into the cash-drawer, which he then securely locked, placing the key in his pocket. Miles Trevor had been in Grey's store for several years past as assistant, and an engagement between Miles and Mary Grey having been sanctioned by her father, whose only child she was, Mr. Grey resolved to take the young man into partnership, intending to leave him, in time to come, his successor in the business. Mary Grey was a girl after my own heart ; a bright and modest creature of unaffected piety and genuine sweetness. I had known her from a child, and had myself examined her when she joined the Church. I had my doubts whether Miles was worthy of the child, for though he was good enough as young fellows go, he was but a very ordinary 66 A TEN POUND NOTE. man. However, Mary loved him, and he was cer- tainly greatly attached to her, and seemed thor- oughly to appreciate her purity and worth. On the morning following Captain Weevil's visit to the store, Mr. Grey returned from St. Kilda with his daughter, who had accompanied him. Wrapped up as young Trevor was in contemplation of his betrothed, he omitted to mention to his employer the captain's call. And it was not until the evening that his master said to him, "Oh, by the way, Miles, I accidentally met Cap- tain Weevil, whose ship had been detained at the last by the merest chance; he's an old friend and customer of mine, and he told me he had called and paid the ten pounds owing me." "Oh, yes," said Miles, "I had forgotten it. Of course I have it, sir. I gave Captain Weevil his receipt, and put the ten-pound note in here." He opened the cash drawer as he spoke. Then he sud- denly turned to his master with paling face and startled eyes. "Oh, sir !" he cried, "the money's gone." "Gone?" said Mr. Grey; "What do you mean?" "I swear I put it here," responded Miles, "and that I haven't touched the drawer since. But it is gone 1" Mary Grey, hearing their excited voices from the parlour, where she had been busy setting out the tea-things, hurried into the shop and put her hand on her father's arm. She had overheard Miles Trevor's exclamations, and was greatly distressed at the expression of her father's face as he looked at him. They carefully searched the drawer, and the shop itself, in vain. "Well, Trevor," Mr. Grey observed at last, "you must be held responsible for this." An unwonted sternness pervaded his whole face, and the young man felt it keenly. A TEN POUND NOTE. 67 "I!" stammered Miles. "Surely you cannot sus- pect me of taking it, Mr. Grey?" "I don't know what to think," said his em- ployer, somewhat harshly. He would have drawn his daughter away into the parlour, but she ran up to Miles, and, gently laying her hand upon his arm, with her earnest, steadfast face upheld to his, said, "Oh, Miles! don't mind what father says. He doesn't mean it, I am sure. I am certain the money will be found and that its strange disappearance is no fault of yours. There must be some mistake." "God bless you, Mary!" he answered, gratefully, his whole face lighting up at her sweet trust in him. Mr. Grey seemed lost in painful thought. "I've trusted and liked you, Trevor," he said at last, "and for the last four years I've been your friend, and, as you know, was even thinking of making you my partner in the business and giving you my daughter for your wife. Now all is over, if you cannot clear yourself and have the money found. All this is very painful to me, Miles, but I must have you searched. Turn out your pockets, sir! The young man drew back quickly at this indignity, and, holding up his head, looked the old man full in the face with flashing eyes. "Come, come," said Mr. Grey, "this is no good! I tell you lad, I do this now to save you the shame of a more public investigation. I'll not put you to that if I can help it, for the sake of my old trust and of my daughter's love for you. Confess it, boy, he added, with a return of his old kindness, and, though you and I must part, I will forgive you-for it was a strong temptation, doubtless-and you shall go away with a fresh chance." "Oh! sir, sir, why do sou suspect me? I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed." Young Trevor gave him a grieved, reproachful look, and submitted to the search. His person and boxes were 68 A TEN POUND NOTE. examined in vain, however, and Mr. Grey's brow darkened more and more. "As you will not confess," said the inexorable old man, "1 shall be obliged to take even stronger measures, for I feel certain you have done this thing, much as it goes against my former knowledge of you." An officer of justice was then sent for. Miles Trevor groaned and covered his face with his hands in blank despair. That very night he was taken to the court, and further investigation was made next morning. A clerk at the bank now stated that the prisoner had paid in ten pounds to his own account the very day that Captain Weevil called, and that it was in one ten-pound note ; the case looked very black against him. "If he'd told me at once of the captain's call and of the money paid," said Mr. Grey, "I could have had more faith in him. But why did he wait until I brought the subject up myself? He knew Captain Weevil was going on a long voyage to distant parts, and evidently fancied he would be safe from all suspicion, especially as it was certainly by the purest accident I met my friend and heard that he had paid his last account." The unfortunate young man protested that the ten pound note he had paid into the bank had come to him by the early post on the morning of Captain Weevil's call at the store, and had been sent from New Zealand by an old friend whom he had once materially aided by the loan of ten pounds all his savings at the time, a year ago ; and who had since done well enough at Wellington to be able to repay it to him now. He was asked thereupon for some letter or other writing as a proof of his assertion, and was obliged to admit that he held none such, as he had unfortunately destroyed the letter the very day it came, as it had never been his habit to koet> A TEN POUND NtKE. papers. He was therefore disbelieved, and was im- prisoned on suspicion, to await his trial at the next assizes, now a few weeks distant. The whole case rested on the production of some proof that the ten pound note he had paid into the bank had been really sent to him by his friend in Wellington, ac- cording to his own representation ; and, failing that, that the number of the note paid in was not the same as that of Captain Weevil's. Captain Weevil's vessel being well on her way to America, communication with him would be impossible for some time to come; the former plan of writing to AVellingtou was therefore resorted to by the unfor- tunate young man. Mary stood to him through it all, and, for my part, I could not believe Miles Trevor guilty. At his request I had written to the man at Wellington, asking for a letter of proof of the truth of what Trevor had said about the loan and its subsequent repayment, and for the number of the note. And I did my utmost to seek the earliest possible communi- cation with the captain of the "Dido," for I wanted the number of the bank note which he had placed in Trevor's hands, as I was firmly resolved to clear Miles if I could. Time passed away, but no answer came from either, and poor Trevor would have broken down had it not been for Mary Grey. When I visited him in the prison I found him dull and sul- len, and the officer informed me he was wild, reck- less, or low-spirited by turns. I did my best to cheer him up, but without success; though his dull eye brightened momentarily when I spoke once of my own belief in his integrity. I went home in much sadness, to find Mary Grey awaiting me. "Oh! Mr. Beresford," she said, with tears in her bright eyes, "I hope I am not doing wrong. You see my father ordered me not to write to my poor Miles but oh, sir, how can I leave him to himself at 70 A TEN POUND NOTE. such a time, perhaps believing me against him, too? I know you go to see him, sir, so I've come to beg that you will take a message to him from my very heart. Tell him," she said earnestly, "that I love him and believe in him as much as ever, and that I will do so to the end, however things may turn out. But tell him, sir, that I am quite sure that he will be cleared yet, and that I pray for it day and night. And give him this he knows how dear it is to me, and will recognise it as a pledge of my true love and my faith in him. It was my mother's, sir." She put a small worn Testament into my hand and left me hastily. Next day I went again to the prison to visit Miles. When I gave him Mary's mes- sage and put the little Bible in his hand he trembled ; his sullenness all vanished, and, turning aside, he burst into tears. "She believes in me, indeed," he cried when he could speak again; "I know she would not part lightly with such a gift as this! Oh! tell her, sir, it's not been sent in vain !" From that day he was changed. No longer sullen or morose and reckless, he bore his punishment, deserved or not, with cheer- ful fortitude, and earned the friendship and respect of those about him. The time for the trial to take place was fast ap- proaching, and in the prolonged delay of all proof of his innocence, I was becoming intensely anxious as to what the result would be. Mr. Grey himself, I fancied, seemed to regret what had come of his own hasty harshness. I had occasion to visit him at the store one day, as I wished to pay a bill. I gave him rather a large sum and he required to give me change. The cash drawer would not open as easily as usual, and this seemed to surprise him not a little. "Why, what's this?" said he impatiently. "I've never known it so stiff before." As he spoke, he A TEN POUND NOTE. 71 gave it a strong pull, and it suddenly gave way, and, slipping from his hands from the violence of the jerk, it fell upon the floor, and the coins within were scattered all about. In stooping to slip the drawer back into its grooves, he suddenly caught sight of a piece of crumpled paper sticking to one side of the aperture, and pulled it out. "Whatever can it be?" he exclaimed, and, smoothing it out, he laid it open before me on the counter, and a burning blush overspread his coun- tenance. It was the missing ten pound note ! "I've done Miles Trevor cruel injustice," he said sorrowfully. "He must have thrown the note in carelessly, and it got stuck to the side. Thank Heaven the trial has not yet taken place." "Let us go to him at once," I cried eagerly, "and tell him the good news." "Not without Mary," said her father; "I wish to make all amends within my power. Mary must go with us, and she shall tell him 1" So we all went together to the prison. I entered first to partially prepare him for what was coming, fearing lest the shock might overwhelm him. I had spoken but a word or two, however, when he somehow guessed the presence of Mary Grey. "Mary is here," he cried. "Oh, let her come to me. She has come to say good-bye." Then the girl could contain herself no longer. She ran to him and clasped her arms about his neck, laughing and sobbing in a breath as she told him she had come to take him home. "You're cleared," she said, "dear Miles, you're cleared, and you are free." He clasped her to his heart and bent his head over her, and we turned away in strong emotion from the two. "Speak to my father, Miles," said Mary pres- ently. "Oh, Miles, he is so sorry for it all." He was indeed. He came forward, half holding forth his hand, half drawing it back again in painful hesita- 72 A TEN POUND NOTE. tion, as though he feared that he might be scornfully repulsed. But Trevor grasped it in his own, and such a look passed between the two that I could only turn aside to hide my filling eyes. But I have more to tell. Outside the prison gate we met a man who was walking hurriedly, and who, at sight of Trevor, stopped and clasped him by the hand. "Why, Adams, is it you?" cried Miles. "Yes, Miles, it's me, indeed ; an' I've come in answer to a letter I got from a clergyman some weeks ago. I heard tell you were in prison, Miles, an' all on account o' the ten pound note I sent ye! Listen to me, all who are here, an' I'll tell ye a tale. A year ago I was in trouble; my wife was clyin', my little child was sick, an' I was very poor. This man, he give me all his earnin's, because I'd been his father's friend, an' helped me to go to Welling- ton. The climate there revived my poor sick wife an' little child, an' I got work, an' soon did well again. Then I sent Miles Trevor back the ten pounds that he'd lent me. Next thing as happened was a letter come to me from a clergyman, askin' for proof as Trevor warn't a thief. I had moved mean- time, and there was some time lost before I got that there letter ; an' then I started up an' says to my wife, says I, 'Sally, I'm off at once to Melbourne ! That chap as helped us there, he's got took up an' put in gaol for helpin' us, and', who knows? keepin' of ME out!' And so, sirs, I am here." "1 nave but one remark to offer in conclusion," said Mr. Beresford with a smile of singular sweet- ness, "for I intend to leave off here. This trial, and one woman's tender faith in him, beneath suspicion and ill-report, had strengthened and chastened Trevor, so that, from being a good enough but a very ordinary young man, he became such a one as it is a pride and privilege to know." Ambition v. Love. "What a beautiful child!" The exclamation fell involuntarily from the lips of a young man who was passing along the shady side of Pitt-street one warm, bright afternoon. After going on for a few yards he paused, and, turning, retraced his steps more rapidly towards the object of his admiration. She was there still, standing at the pavement's edge, with an unconscious grace, and watching with an intelligent, alert expression in her dark eyes, the passers-by, to whom she held forth in mute en- treaty her basket of fragrant violets and mignon- ette. A foreign-looking child she was, with soft, abundant masses of dark hair, neglected now, in- deed, but with a rich luxuriance of native beauty. Her lithe, slight form possessed an undulating, supple grace of movement, and her small bare feet were beautifully formed. Bernard Wilson paused, observing her closely without himself being noticed in return, feasting his eyes upon her rich un- studied beauty, as only an artist could have done. Then he approached her, smilingly inspecting the fresh blossoms she held up to him. "I will take these," he said. As he spoke, he gathered up a handful of the fragrant flowers, and putting a coin in her out- stretched palm, he suddenly came back again. "Where do you live?" he asked with kindly in- terest. She looked up with a careless, sunny unite which displayed her perfect teeth. 74 AMBITION v. LOVE. "I sell my flowers all day, and I sleep at Mrs. Worth's." "Who is Mrs. Worth? where does she live?" "She has a florist's shop in the Arcade over there. She lets me sleep under the counter at the shop, and I get my flowers from her. She's good to me." "Have you no mother, and no other friends?" She looked at him with a faint surprise. "No, none at all. My mother's dead. I don't remember her." "Come with me," the young man said impul- sively. "I'll take you to my home, and to my mother. She will be good to you. To-morrow I will see Mrs. Worth." He spoke from sudden impulse, and he hardly understood his own thought as he spoke. He felt a vague surprise at the bright readiness with which the little street-waif slipped her hand within his own and tripped beside him when he turned his face once more toward his home. He began to wonder how his mother would receive the child, though he felt confident as to the main result. With her hand still clasped in his, he turned into the quiet street in which he lived, and knocked lightly at the door of a small, mean house. It was opened almost instantly, and a woman dressed in shabby mourning and a widow's cap stood on the threshold. She was thin and pale, and her faded countenance was drawn in hard, stern lines. It lighted up at sight of the young man. "Oh, Bernard! you have come at last. You are rather late to-day." "Scarce half-an-hour, I think," he answered, with a cheerful smile, as she moved aside for him to enter the narrow passage where she stood. "It may be so; the time drags when you are AMBITION v. LOVE. 75 not by." Then, noticing the child for the first time, she added, "You have brought home a model? It is past your usual time. Surely it will be too late to paint to-day?" "Wait a moment, mother," he said hastily. He led the child along the narrow passage to the back room which was hie studio, and which, despite the smallness and the meanness of the house, was almost luxurious, and was well-lighted by a good-sized window. Bidding the little girl sit down, he softly closed the door, and faced his mother just outside. "Mother, I should like to keep this child here for the next few days. I want to paint her. As you say, it is too late to-day ; but I can start some drawings. Will you find a nook where she may sleep?" He placed his hands persuasively and gently on her shoulders as he spoke, and, bending over her, touched with his lips her pale and faded cheek. "Of course I will do it, Bernard, if it is your wish," she responded hurriedly. The colour rose to her pale face, and she turned away almost before he could express his gratitude. Bernard re-entered his studio. The child was sitting still as he had left her, with her basket of fresh, fragrant flowers on her arm, their perfume subtly penetrating the whole room as they slowly drooped and faded in the warmth of it. Bernard stood by her side, looking down thoughtfully and kindly oil his little guest. She glanced up quietly in his face, with a sunny, trustful, questioning expression in her eyes. With a touching look of utter faith in him, she waited for him to speak. "Well," said Bernard cheerfully, "you are to stay here for the next few days. I want to paint you. Will you sit to me, my little one? By the way, what is your name?" /6 AMBITION v. LOVE. "They call me Mignonette; I have no other name." "Then I shall call you Mignon, for the name will suit you very well. Put down your basket child and come here to this seat; I want to make some charcoal studies of your head before the light is gone." The days passed by, and widened into weeks; still Bernard painted busily, and no hint was dropped as to Mignon leaving them. She displayed a passionate attachment to him, and he felt each day more reluctant to let her go away. His mother alone was cold. Late one evening, when Bernard sat alone with Mrs. Wilson in his studio, after a long, abstracted silence, he rose, with the expression of some fixed purpose in his eyes. He went over to his easel, which supported a good-sized canvas, concealed by a light covering, and gently drew this off. "Look, mother," he said brightly, "I have great hopes of this 1" Mrs. Wilson left her seat and stood beside him, gazing eagerly. It represented Mignonette as he had seen her first, with her basket of fresh flowers on her arm. The beautiful and richly-coloured child-countenance looked forth from the canvas with an almost startling appearance of reality. Ber- nard's mother gazed at it with an absorbing interest that was not lost on him. "You think it like?" he softly asked at last. "It is the best picture you have ever painted yet," she answered, with eager pride, "and it is Mignon to the very life. What shall you do with it?" "I shall exhibit first, but the wealthy Mr. Wylde has seen it, and has promised me a handsome sum for it, and has promised a commission. I Khali miss the AMBITION v. LOVE. 77 picture, mother, when it leaves my hands. The painting of it has been a keen delight to me." He dropped the curtain over it again, with a caressing touch and a slight sigh, and, taking up a portfolio, turned over, with a light and careful hand, his charcoal studies of Mignonette. At last he put them down, and approached his mother, who had returned to her seat. Sitting beside her, he leaned towards her as he took her hand affectionately in his own. "Dear mother," he said gently, "I should like you to adopt this little waif. I cannot find it in my heart to send her from me now." Hie mother quietly turned to look at him. "Bernard," she responded, with a touch of bit- terness, "do you think I have not seen this feeling growing in your mind? Don't ask me to do this! I cannot share you with another, Bernard ; you are all I have." "Dearest mother, if I make a little sister of this child, you will not be less dear to me. She will be a daughter to you if you will but take her to your heart." "I love my son so well, I have no room for any other in my heart." "Yet you will keep her, mother, for my sake?" "For your dear sake I will. I can refuse you nothing," said the stern and faded-looking woman, with a quivering lip. She drew her hand from his, and, turning hurriedly away, she left the room, followed by his wistful, tender gaze. Bernard saw her no more that night. So Mignon stayed in her new home, and Ber- nard Wilson did his best for her, although his means were scanty. He chiefly depended on the income derived from his teaching in art classes at this time. Her education was attended to, and a 78 AMBITION v. LOVE. musician a great friend of Bernard's, who was in an orchestra in one of the best theatres in the city- having heard her voice by chance, enthusiastically offered to use his interest to have it cultivated. And so the years passed by, and Mignonette grew up. Mrs. Wilson never softened to her, though outwardly she did her duty by the girl, for Bernard's sake-secretly mollified, perhaps, by her passionate devotion to her adopted brother. Mignon- ette made many an attempt to win her better lik- ing, and come nearer to her, but grew downcast on repeated failure. "Your mother doesn't care for me," she said to Bernard sadly, when she was alone with him one day. Bernard sharply turned to look at her, with a unusual attention and anxiety. It was the time she had ever touched on it. "But I care, Mignonette! Will you not with my mother's coldness for my sake? love you one day, Mignon." "Ah! you have always been so good will bear anything for you. I can never repay you, Bernard, for all you have done for me." "You shall repay me some day; 1 you how." She raised her thoughtful eyes to his in r surprise. There was a flush on his dark face, a a bright light in his eyes. "How can I repay you, Bernard?" Mignon at last. He bent down towards her and took her very tenderly between his hands, with an eager, wistful glance at her soft, dark eyes. He dropped his hands again, with a half-disappointed sigh. "Wait till the time comes, Mignon. It is too soon too soon, sweet Mignonette!" AMBITION v. LOVE. 79 One afternoon, soon after this, Bernard's musi- cal friend, Mr. Combes, dropped in to talk with him of Mignonette. "Wilson," he exclaimed, "I have good news for you. The manager of my theatre, Mr. Grose, has heard Miss Mignon sing, and has commissioned me to make her a good offer. He promises to have her trained if she will place herself entirely in his hands, and undertakes to give her an engagement after- wards. With such a voice, with such a face and figure, she is bound, he says, to be a great success. He tested her acting powers, and he declares she will do well upon the stage. He has said some- thing to her of it, I believe, and she accepted eager- ly but begged me to speak to you." Bernard controlled himself till Mr. Combes had gone, but, when Mignon entered his studio later on, he turned towards her with a gesture, half of intense anger, half of pain, and his face flushed angrily. "Tell me, iUignon, what has made you think of this?" She had approached him eagerly, with an tensity of excitement, her fresh and lovely counten- ance all flushed with joy, and unusually bright. But now she bent her head before his wrathful looks, her nervous fingers playing with some trm ming on her dress. "I hardly know you, Bernard, in this unwonted mood Don't be displeased," she murmured, plead- ingly "I must accept this offer from Mr. Grose It is time," she added, in a lower tone, ' that I should get my own living." "What has made you think of thisr* peated, with much displeasure. "I'm not your sister, Bernard, though you have always treated me as such; and I am a child no- longer, dear. And then, your mother never cared for me." 80 AMBITION v. LOVE. The artist winced and turned his head aside. The girl went on : "I think I should do some- thing for myself. And I believe I am ambitious, too," she added, as she raised her flushed face and bright eyes to glance at him. "I feel that I can make for myself a name." Bernard suddenly flung down his brushes and palette, and came close to her, where she had thrown herself upon a seat. He bent down over her, until he almost touched her face. "I wish that I had spoken to you sooner, Mig- nonette. Have you never guessed my secret, dear? Mignon, I have closely watched your growing older day by day, and I have waited till you should be of age, when I might speak and tell you what was in my heart; and I have watched and waited for some sign that you could care for me. I have observed your ever-growing beauty and your grace, and good- ness, dear longing, with intense longing, for the time to come when I might tell you all. I love you so dearly, Mignon will you let your dream of am- bitions go by, and marry me?" He spoke with an infinite tenderness and yearn- ing in his tones, and the last words were so softly spoken that she could but just hear them. She turned and looked on him, then hastily rose up and drew herself away. "I cannot promise, Bernard. Ambition burns in me : the old, quiet, happy life could not content me now. Forgive me, dear. Don't think I am un- grateful, or that I forget your generosity and kind- ness to me all these years," she added, breaking down with a sudden sob. She left the room hur- riedly, before he could detain her, and was gone. Mignon withdrew to her own room, and flung herself in bitter abandonment upon her bed, her face hidden in the pillow. However strong her am- bition was, it would cost her a bitter pang to leave AMBITION v. LOVE. 81 the man who had been so good and generous to her, and to whom she owed everything. As she lay thus, the door was softly opened and closed, as it admitted Bernard's mother. She advanced towards the bed where Mignon lay, and the girl turned listlessly towards her, with a faint surprise, as she knelt beside her, gently taking both her hands in a close clasp. "Mignon," she said, speaking very slowly and a little brokenly, "I have heard what you and Ber- nard said to one another. I have not been tender with you, child, I know, but I have never been un- kind, I think and you will not refuse to hear m now? My son is dearer to me than my life. I will go far away I will do anything to ensure his hap- piness. Oh, Mignon, do not spoil my Bernard's life ! He loves you better than he loves his mother I have known it long. Spare Bernard, Mignon, and, in sparing him, spare me! See, I give him up to you 1" A hard-wrung tear fell on the hands she held in here, and she drew her breath heavily. "I will give Bernard wholly up to you ; I will go far away ! You have always loved him, child, and if one thought of me has crossed your mind in your refusal of my son, you may now set that thought at rest for evermore. You do not care for me, I know ; I never gave you cause. What I did was done for Bernard's sake alone." Mignon drew her hands away, and, rising to a sitting posture on the bed, pushed back her heavy, loosened hair. "I never thought of you," she said, her brows contracting with sudden, intense suffering. "I should never have wanted you to go away if I had cared enough for Bernard to give up my dream. But I don't care enough," she added heavily, with a strangely-mingled discontent and self-reproachful pain. "I care more for ambition and success." 82 AMBITION v. LOVE. "Don't spoil my son's life, Mignon,'' said the older woman, with a sudden repressed passion in her tones, as she stood looking down on her, "for an empty dream 1 What are ambition and success be- side a love like his?" She suddenly checked herself and left the room. The time passed by. Mignonette had left the Wilsons, and was living with the wife of Mr. Grose, manager of the theatre where she was now engaged. She had been most successful in some minor parts, and was to take the most important character in a new play. She fully justified the manager's enthusi- astic hopes of her, and was acknowledged a pro- nounced success, for her acting was superb. Choice flowers were showered on the stage for her, and the house rang with plaudits. Amongst the rest, there fell, at her very feet, a simple bouquet of choice violets and mignonette, thrown by a quiet-looking man with a dark face, who sat in a front seat in the stalls. The successful artiste stooped and lifted it, and bent her face over it as the curtain fell for the last time. The people hurried out, and the man who had thrown this bouquet followed them more slowly, with feelings of mingled happiness and pain. "Mignon has not forgotten me," he thought, as he went home. It was the first time Bernard Wilson had seen Mignon act the first time he had seen her since she left his care and he could not but acknow- ledge that she was a success. Yet, still he felt the old repugnance to her being on the stage, and had still the old, keen longing more intense now even than of old to see her as his wife in his own home, a lonely home for Bernard now, for his mother had lately died, and he was very sad. He, too, had been successful in his art, and had sent some much-praised pictures to a London exhibi- AMBITION v. LOVE. 83 tion, where they had sold at a high price. He longed for Mignonette to share in his success. On reaching home he went to his studio, and lighted a fire in the grate, for the night was cold and chill. He felt he was too restless yet to sleep. Bernard flung himself into a chair beside the fire, with a knitted brow, and sad, vague thoughts. Then he rose restlessly and paced the room, often stopping to gaze on sketches pinned against the walls : char- coal studies of a child's charming head, dainty water-colour sketches of a young girl but always of Mignonette. Then he drew forth a dusty canvas that had been thrust out of sight these many months, and, tenderly wiping the dust from it, he gazed in- tently on the half-finished head it held. "I'll finish this to-morrow," he exclaimed, with a new light in his weary eyes, his listlessness all gone, "as she is now." The morning found him hard at work. So ab- sorbed was he that he hardly heard a light tap at the closed door of his studio. But it was opened swiftly from without, and Mignonette herself came IH. She stood before him, her dark and brilliant face raised up to his with a new beauty and new softness in it. "I couldn't rest until I came to you ! Ah, Ber- nard, when I got your message of the violets and mignonette, and saw you there, and knew you thought of me, it all came home to me, with a sharp, cruel, pain, how cold and ungrateful I had been. I knew then how I missed you, dear, and what the meaning was of the dull, constant aching in my breast. The flowers reminded me so keenly of the time when I was a homeless little waif upon the streets, when you rescued me and took me to your heart, and to your home, that their sweet, subtle fragrance almost broke my heart." 84 AMBITION v. LOVE. "And you have come to me of your own free will, at last?" "Yes, I have come to you," ehe answered softly, as he drew her closely to him, "of my own free will. I am glad it should be so. Forgive me, dearest Ber- nard, for the past." "You are not going, Mignon?" asked the happy artist, disconsolately, as she at length released her- self from his detaining hold. "Think for how long a time I have been deprived of you!" "Ah, yes; I must go now, indeed. A friend of mine came here with me; and she is waiting for me just outside the studio. I must not keep her, Ber- nard. To-morrow you must see Mr. Grose." dJut, ere to-morrow came, a hurried note arrived for Bernard Wilson from Mignonette: "I was too hasty, Bernard," Mignon wrote; Mr. Grose will not consent to my breaking my en- gagement, and ambition spurs me on. Forgive me, if you can 1" Bernard Wilson read the note with a little laugh. "I don't despair of her this time," he mut- tered softly to himself, "for once she came to me of her own free will, and she will come to me again. Mignon loves me better than ambition and successes, after all, and, although she may not know it yet, she cannot live without me. It shall be my task to prove this to my darling. My memory has rested, all unfaded, in her heart, in spite of all." He caught up his hat and went out on some business, returning late. Within a day or two he called, by appointment, on Mrs. Grose, but found her out. Mignon, however, was alone in that lady'a sitting-room, when Bernard was announced, and she half went to meet him, half hung back, whilst a deep, shamed flush rose to her face. "Bernard," she faltered, "why have you come AMBITION v. LOVE. 86 here P Surely it was better not to see me, after what I wrote? You received my note?" she added hur- riedly, in low and timid tones. "Have you come here to reproach me?" "Mignon," he responded gently, speaking very evenly and clearly, with no haste or hurry in his tones, "I have come here to give you an alternative. I have made arrangements for our being married speedily, and then going overland to Melbourne, there to take our passage in a ship that will leave Sydney this afternoon, and will call there on her way to London. I have been so fortunate as to secure two berths in her. If you fail me now, Mignon, I shall go alone in her this afternoon, to devote myself henceforth to art in London and Rome. I will not be played with any longer, Mignon ! Do you come with me, or do I go alone?" "The manager!" she breathed. "Oh, Bernard, think of my engagement, and my great success. Wait but a little, dearl" "I have already spoken with the manager and Mrs. Grose. They will rest contented, on the whole." "Oh, Bernard! Can you trust me? Can I trust myself? How can I know that I could be contented now with the old, quiet life?" "Mignon, leave all that to me," he answered passionately. "When you are my wife, you will soon learn to love me better than you think now. And your ambition and vain longing for the fever and excitement of your present life will fade away. My darling, trust to me!" He held out his hands to her, and would have drawn her to his breast, but Mignon clasped her hands together behind her, and stood knitting her level brows together in suffering perplexity. "Is it to be goou-bye?" he asked her softly, as he gently put his hands upon her shoulders, bending 86 AMBITION T. LOVE. his head to look in her deeply-troubled eyes. His low, soft tones were intense with the earnestness of his last appeal to her. Mignon bent her head, but answered not. Ber- nard suddenly released her, and turned silently to- wards the door. For the last time he was trying his power over her. He reached the door, and still she made no sign. He touched it with his hand, a sick, faint feeling stealing to his heart. His head reeled round, and his breath came thick and fast. Had he no power to move her, after all had he tried his fate in vain? In an awful agony of grief and fear, he turned the handle and unclosed the door. Then, with a fast-beating heart, he heard her step at last, as she came swiftly to his side; he felt ner tender arms about his neck ; and her soft, eager voice fell on his ear with a new and firm decision in its tones : "Do not leave me, Bernard, my beloved ! Wait for me; I will cornel" " Put Yourself in His Place." In his well-appointed residence at Glebe Point, Mr. Bernard, a well-known solicitor, was entertain- ing at dinner his young namesake, Bernard Richard- son. The tenor of their conversation was sufficiently interesting to the host at least, to judge by the earnestness with which he presently put a question to his young guest. "You have discharged William Saunders?" h* asked, as they eat together over their wine. "My dear sir, what else could we do?" "Tell me the detailed story, Bernard, that I may judge that for myself." "Well, young Saunders came to our firm a month ago, and we engaged him as a clerk. He had been for four years previously in the service of Mr. Claybourne, senior, of Melbourne, and we were satis- fied by the length of his service there that he was all that we could desire. He was a quiet and melan- choly man, much addicted to brooding fits, but he did his work excellently, and was in a fair way to become invaluable to us. "Of late, however, there had been whispers rife among our clerks and warehousemen, and it was rumoured that he had attempted to commit some robbery on Mr. Claybourne; and, being fortunately discovered in the act by a fellow clerk, he was privately discharged by the head of the firm, who would not, however, prosecute him, for reasons which, I have no doubt, were fully as mistaken as they were kind. Of course we could no longer retain in our employ one who bore a blemish on his char- acter." 88 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. "I have known him," Mr. Bernard said, "and feel convinced that for no slight cause would William Saunders thus have erred. Did you say no word for him to your father, Bernard? Above all, did you make certain of his guilt ere discharging him?" The young man turned his handsome face to- wards his questioner with an expression of surprise. "As for making certain of his guilt," said he, "there is no question concerning that; for, in fact, we showed him the justice of repeating to him what we had heard, and of inviting him to deny it if he could. My father showed some disposition to pity him and treat him leniently; but I persuaded him against overlooking such a fault, as the fellow's for-, mer employer had done thus erring against the wel- fare of society." "I am certain there is somewhat at the bottom of all this," the elder man said with deep gravity, .a troubled expression set on his fine, benevolent- looking face as he added, with a touch of stern re- proof, "Put yourself in his place; and judge not, that ye be not judged ! You don't quite understand me, Bernard," he went on, with a sad smile. "Be- fore you judge another, ask yourself if there may not have been some strong motive to make the yield- ing to temptation possible ?--whether you could your- self resist, were this or a similar case your own? Meantime, whither has William Saunders gone?" "I cannot say. One of the office boys declares he has gone back to Melbourne, but I know not whether it be true." "My business carries me to Melbourne shortly. I trust that I may meet him there." They turned aside to other matters during the remainder of the evening, and Mr. Bernard did not again recur to the subject in which he had appar- ently taken a deep and painful interest. A few weeks later his business affairs took him from Syd- PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. 89 ney to the heart of Melbourne, and some time elapsed ere he and his young friend met again. On his return, young Richardson dined with him at his pri- vate residence at Glebe Point, and was greatly struck by the saddened look on the face of his usually genial friend. "I have much to tell you," Mr. Bernard said, after the coffee had been served in the library whither they afterwards withdrew. "I might have written you from Melbourne, but was desirous of imparting to you personally what I have learnt during my ab- sence from home." "Does it in any way refer to Saunders?" ques- tioned the young man. "Bernard, he is dead." "Dead!" His tone was indescribable. "How did it happen?" he asked in a low voice. "I went to Melbourne, as you know, by sea; and finding that Mr. Green, chief clerk of the firm of which Charles Claybourne is the head, was to be my fellow passenger, I resolved to find out all I could of his past relations with William Saunders, but found him taciturn on the subject. We had been some time at sea and were expecting to land on the morrow, when I wandered to the farther end of the ship one afternoon in search of Green, intending to ask him plainly to tell me all he knew of Saunders. As I approached him unobserved, I noticed he was sitting in a somewhat insecure position, only pre- vented from falling overboard by the support of some of the vessel's gear, round which his arm was thrown ; and it appeared to me that he had taken this position that he might the better watch with keen and apparently excited interest a slightly-made young man lying seemingly asleep on a large coil of rope hard by. I thought Green's conduct very strange, the more so that I surmised from his eager movements he was endeavouring to get a glimpse 90 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. of the stranger's face, which was hidden from our view, without attracting his attention. "As I drew near, he turned towards me with a hasty exclamation, and the recumbent man then, for the first time, moved and raised his head. In the same instant a cry escaped Green's lips, as, los- ing his balance, he fell overboard. Ere I could move or speak, the young man had seized a life-buoy and leapt after him. It all happened in a flash, but I had recognised the sadly-altered face of William Saunders as he dashed past me to the rescue of Green, who was now struggling for dear life in the waves, at some distance from the moving ship. Alarm having been given, the steamer's engines were re-^ versed with all possible speed, and a boat was put off without delay. Green was totally unable to help himself, for he could not swim a stroke; and Saun- ders, accomplished swimmer though he was, found it all he could do to assist the man in keeping afloat till help should come. "The rescue-boat had nearly reached them when his strength gave way. Relinquishing to Green the life-buoy, he sank to be seen no more, in a moment when the man whose life he had so nobly saved at his own risk was grasped by the sailors and lifted into the boat. Vainly did they watch for his rescuer to rise again, and at length rowed sorrow- fully and reluctantly back to the vessel's side. "Green was cared for without delay, and ap- peared to be fairly well by the following afternoon, though he had apparently received some shock. During the few hours that yet remained to us on board the ship he brooded incessantly; and, when we arrived at Melbourne, came to me, and, with a haggard and extremely ghastly look, asked for the favour of my address. I gave it him, and the next day received an unexpected call from him at my chambers. PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. 91 " 'During the journey hither,' he began abrupt- ly and without preface, 'you often spoke of William Saunders, and, showing an obvious interest in him, you questioned me concerning his conduct and af- fairs, as you surmised he had lately been beneath a cloud. Truly none are better fitted to speak of him than I. I cast the slur on him, and he has in re- quital saved my life and lost his own. Truly hath it been said that kindness after wrongs inflicted is as hot coals of fire on the receiver's head ! Hear my tale, and then despise, detest me as you will. But I must do my best to clear his memory, though it is all too late,' he groaned, 'to restore life's sweetness to the man I wronged so cruelly for it was my remorseless hand that crushed him to the earth. It fell out thus. We were fellow-clerks to- gether in Mr. Claybourne, senior's, employ and I was chief ; yet such was our employer's sense of the value of so talented and trustworthy an agent as William Saunders that I, being painfully aware of my deficiency in certain things, was bitterly jealous of him, dreading, indeed, that he might usurp my superior position in the office. I thereupon resolved to oust him from our service whenever opportunity might offer. It came too soon. One afternoon it was my duty to place a sum of money in the safe, when Mr. Claybourne happened to be out, and 1 called young Saunders to my side on pretence of helping me. As I put the money in his hands his lips were trembling and his pale face flushed, and I knew the first impression had been made, the first step taken. His father' (Green's voice grew thick and husky, and the flush of bitter remorse and shame rose to his harsh, dark face), 'as I had taken care to find out previously, was all but dying of a painful disease which could be cured indeed, but only by the outlay of a large sum of money, and by taking him to London to be placed beneath the 92 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. care of skilful men. I saw the thought flash in young Saunders' eye as I lifted the money from his shaking hands. To prepare the ground for sowing my seed, I had often discussed with him his father's only chance, and had talked of men who questioned that guilt appertained to those who purloined sums of money with the intention of replacing them at some future time. I felt that such pernicious talk at a critical time was now having its due effect upon his mind. The key of the patent safe hung on a separate ring with a peculiar hasp, the ring itself hanging on the chain passed through the other keys. I had tampered with the hasp of the ring that held this special key, and on returning to the room which William shared with me, I let th& key slip to the floor, where it fell with little noise, which I covered, that I might not seem to have observed its fall, by throwing the heavy bunch with a loud jingling on my desk. I presently left the room, and on return- ing glanced hastily at the floor. The key was gone ! Saunders then had taken it. The second impression bad been made, the second step was taken. We locked up at the usual time. Young Saunders con- trived to secrete himself in the stores, whilst it was thought he had gone home, and I held myself in readiness to dog his movements. He may have in- tended waiting till the offices were opened in the morning, and, watching his opportunity, taking his usual seat in such a manner as to make it appear that he had just come in; and, supposing me to be ignorant of the incident of the missing key, which he might easily replace where it had dropped, he may have fancied he was entirely safe from all sus- picion. Or it might have been, as I sincerely think it was that the poor lad was just mad for the time with the strength of the temptation, to seize the means of easing his father's sufferings, and of re- storing him to health and strength, and that he PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. 93 thought of nothing else. When it grew dark I let myself in noiselessly at a point where I might con- veniently approach Mr. Claybourne's private room. A light was there already. Saunders then had even now begun his work. Concealed myself, I watched the movements of the lad. Standing before the open safe, he raised the money in his hands and turned to go. I was so startled at his changed and suffering, ghastly face when he turned round, that I stood in my dark corner, feeling as though I were indeed one of the lost and wicked spirits that tempt men on to sin and ruin. Ere I had recovered my- self sufficiently to follow him, his light glimmered on the dark walls as he returned again. He flung the money back into the safe, crying out in an agonised voice, half choked with tears, "I cannot! No! I cannot do this thing, even for my father's sake. Oh, God of Mercy, have pity on Thy child lead me not into temptation deliver me from evil !" He had fallen on his knees. " 'Then the spirit of evil took possession of my soul. Was I to be baulked of my prey in the very moment of success? I dashed forth, and laid my hand upon his arm. He started violently, and, springing to his feet, stood facing me, the drops of bitter anguish still standing on his brow and falling from his eyes." " ' "I fell," he cried, "and I have sinned in- deed, but I swear to you, by all I hold most dear, I came to put it back again !" "'Come with me!' I uttered harshly; 'for your father's sake I will be silent till the chief is told. It rests with him what the result shall be.' "'"Oh! my father! This will be his death- blow," cried he, bitterly, "and it was for his sake for nothing else would I have even entertained the thought of, and, much less, have done this thing." " 'To Mr. Claybourne I gave my own perverted 94 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. version of the tale, he was greatly shocked and grieved, but heard with sincere pity the few, half- incoherent words the young man uttered, praying him to believe he had come to put the money back when I surprised him. Mr. Claybourne dismissed him privately, declaring he would let the matter die, and I was but too glad to agree with him. Of Saunders I had seen no more till I was led to sus- pect his presence on the ship, and in the shock of recognising him, altered as he was, I lost my balance and fell overboard. Whether he knew me, too, I cannot tell. I am bitterly punished,' concluded Green, with a working face, 'by my sincere remorse. Poor Saunders was an upright man, and, I am sure, would have been so to the end of an honourable and prosperous life had I not worked upon him at a time of anguish, and placed a cruel temptation in his way. May it be mine,' he added, with a look of strong resolve, 'slightly to expiate my guilt by my devotion to the suffering father of the man I injured, who shall henceforth be to me as my own. To him and Mr. Claybourne I shall confess the truth, which I hope will tend to clear the poor lad who so nobly lost his life in saving mine, in the latter' s eyes, whilst it gives comfort to the former's griev- ing heart.' "Dying in the performance of a noble act," said Mr. Bernard, "Saunders is now with One who tem- pers justice with a tender mercy, I fear, we do not often show to our fellow-men. And, dying thus, he has brought repentance to his tempter. Bernard! I see God's hand in that. His ways are not as ours." Bernard Richardson answered nothing. The tale had made a deep and indelible impression on his mind that would last as long as life itself. His eyes were bent on the ground, and his bright coun- tenance was very grave and sad. Little May. "Where's my mother, Susan?" "Your mamma has gone to town, Miss May." "Where is Gar?" "Mr. Edgar's gone to fish, I think." "Susan 1" No reply a long, still pause. "Oh, Susan, please put down that book, and take me out!" "Dear, dear, Miss May! Why, what a tiresome little child you are. Do let me read in peace. There, take your doll and be quiet, do, for half-an- hour. I'll go out with you by-and-bye, if you are good." The careless nurse resumed her reading of the yellow-backed novel in her hand, and her little charge turned disconsolately to the window. She heaved a very sad and wearied little sigh, pressing her small face up against the pane as she gazed out wistfully across the gleaming sea. It was such a lovely day, and she did so long to be out amongst the children who were playing happily together on the yellow sands. But Susan was very cross to-day, and May must wait patiently until her nurse was ready to attend to her small wishes. As she gazed out, she saw a group of young men collecting on the beach, three of whom were evidently going out a-sailing, for they were very busy with a boat. A happy thought struck the little girl. She would go to the beach alone, and perhaps might meet her brother there. He was so fond of little May, and would surely take her with him if she coaxed, as she knew how. She slipped 96 LITTLE MAY. out quietly without disturbing Susan, and was soon running along the sands. The young men, busy with their boat, were startled by the sudden cry of a childish voice, and turned their heads to see the small, slight figure in white frock and pinafore flying down towards them. "Oh, Gar!" cried May, with a shrill little scream of joy, as she recognised her brother in the boat; "do take me with you, Garl" The lad (who was about sixteen, but who looked older by a year or two) hesitated for a moment ; but one of his companions said, with lazy good-humour, "Oh, take her if you like; it will make no difference to us." Edgar Thornton was out of the boat m an i stant, and, splashing knee-deep in the waves, caught up the child in hie strong arms, and, with an aff tionate kiss, he stowed her snugly in the boat. "There, May," said he, with a kindly laugh, "are you not happy now?" "Oh, Gar, I am! How good of you," she c wild with delight. His two companions, pleased with the pretty child and her evident joy at the treat they were giving her, were very kind to May. They anchored at some distance from the shore, and fished for an hour or so, but, having email luck, they soon pulled in their lines and talked of going back. They had been smoking and drinking spirits for some time, and the little girl sat by in silence, watching b brother with an expression of puzzled wonder u r, she said at last, "does mother know you smoke those nasty things and dnnk that stu "Hold your tongue, you tiresome little t cried Edgar, the blood mounting higher in hia flushed face, and dying it crimson. "I shall be sorry I you come, if you don't mind." LITTLE MAY. 97 The child did not cry at his rough tones, but glanced up in his face with grieved surprise. Gray, the elder of his companions, uttered a low and sneering laugh, saying a few words that brought a still deeper flush into Edgar's face, and a curious, fierce light into his eyes, as he turned to look hi* tormentor in the face. 'Hush, Gray," said Kennedy, anxiously, as he was about to utter some more cynical and cutting speech in reply to Edgar's look. "And you, Thorn- ton, please look to the sail, and never mind this foolish fellow here." He flung overboard, as he spoke, his half-smoked cigar, and, turning his head, gazed across the sea with unseeing eyes and a frown on his brow. May's accents and her wondering remark had struck some long-forgotten chord of memory in the young man's heart. He remembered hearing, when he was a child, of his beautiful young mother, who had died and been buried with a baby-sister lying on her still breast. Had his mother and little sister lived, he thought, he might have been a better man, and have lived a better life. And Edgar Thornton, hauling in ropes and tightening them, bit his lips as he heard again, in fancy, his mother's gentle voice, entreating him to avoid these chosen associates of his, and refuse the proffered glass that leads so many to the ruin of body and soul. ''We'd better hurry into harbour!" Kennedy cried suddenly; "a squall is near at hand." His companions started up and bustled anxious- ly about in the boat. The serene blue sky was over- cast, and threatening clouds were overhead, whilst the boat began to rock violently on the hitherto calm aea. "I'm so frightened. Gar!" cried the chiW LITTLE MAY. springing from the seat to throw her little arms about her brother's neck. As she spoke a sharp puff of wind blew Edgar's cap into the sea, leaving his dark, short curls un- covered. "Sit still, dear," he said hoarsely, a sudden fear for his sister's safety entering his mind; "keep still in the bottom of the boat and I'll take care of you." They would probably have got safely into har- bour had not an important rope given way, and the young men, having taken more spirits than was good for them, lost their heads at the misfortune. How it came about they never knew, but the boat-, being hopelessly encumbered, got upset, and they were soon struggling in the sea. They could all swim, and, the cold plunge having sobered them, they contrived to support themselves on the over- turned boat, looking anxiously for the child. "May, May !" groaned Edgar in agony ; and just then catching sight of a bit of white frock floating for one brief instant, he dashed wildly to- wards it, and, with Kennedy's assistance, supported the little form, which lay quite motionless upon their arms. A passing boat, hurrying back to haven, rescued them and took them to the shore. There Edgar held forth his arms to take the little inani- mate form, but the old fisherman who held her said, with a quiver on his rugged face, "No, no, my lad: ye haven't got the strength. Just let me carry the bit baby to the door. I doubt she's gone," he added, muttering to himself, "poor lamb poor lamb I" A tear fell on the curly head that rested on his breast, and he thought of his own little lass he had lost so long ago. And so, with wild, unseeing eyes and stagger- ing steps, while a pitying crowd followed them a little way behind, poor Edgar Thornton walked on LITTLE MAY. yy by the old weatherbeaten man and his precious bur- den. Oh, what a sight for the widowed mother, who had come out to gaze anxiously along the street, looking for the maid whom she had sent to seek little May on the yellow sands. "May! oh, niy darling!" was all she said, with a world of anguish in her low, strained tones, as she took the dripping little figure to her heart. Edgar, jeft alone, entered mechanically the cheerful sitting room with all its signs of mother and little May, and walked up and down, up and down, in silent agony, never heeding his wet clothes, clenching his hands till the nails cut into the flesh. He heard the doctor arrive and go up- stairs ; he heard the indistinct murmuring of pity- ing voices somewhere near at hand. He listened feverishly. He had read that when a person was be- yond all hope the doctor would quickly drop the life- less hand and turn away ; by the length of his visit then, would he first know how it was with the little sister up above. It seemed as though his heart were bursting as he waited, and the few moments that elapsed seemed an eternity then he heard the doc- tor's step on the stair; "I can do nothing, for it is too late," he was saying as he passed the open door. All hope was over then. Edgar sank into a chair, and bowed his head low on his knees, and a fearful agony came over him. Then he felt the presence of his mother, as she entered the room and came lose to his side. "Gar dear Gar!" She raised his head and drew it to her bosom, holding it as only a mother can. He looked up into her face with dull and bloodshot eyes, and a wave of tender pity overflowed her heart. Her lifeless baby lay above, but she was now with the One Who loved her even more than her mother had done, and Mrs. Thornton knew it was 100 LITTLE MAY. well with the child. And here was a living son with a terrible anguish in his soul, God help and com- fort him. "Gar, come with me!" She took his hand in hers and led him from the room, upstairs to the little bed where lay the child, wrapped in the peace unspeakable of death that is not terrible, but only lovely ! The mother had known by instinct what was best for him. One eager, hurried glance he cast at the beau- tiful, still face of the child they both had loved so well, and Edgar Thornton gave way to such a ter- rible abandonment of grief as cut his mother to the- heart to see. "Oh mother ! mother ! it was all my doing!" Yet could he have seen into the mysterious and unknown future, Edgar Thornton would nave known what little May had saved him from. He would have seen temptations manfully resisted for her sake, and a noble life lived manfully where might have been a ruined one. And the holy hope of meeting her again would take possession of his. soul. "Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain and care, And death and time shall disappear- Forever there, but never here!" Some day he would know, indeed, that the in- nocent, short life and the early death of little May had not been all in vain. A Firebrand. It was a fresh, bright afternoon in June when a young man and girl might have been seen sitting side by side on the bank of a clear, rippling stream in Devonshire, conversing together with much earn- estness. The man, Ralph Dwining, was the younger son of a wealthy country squire, who had but lately died, leaving all his property in land and money to Alexander, the elder of his two sons, Ralph being in possession only of his two hundred pounds a year, which had been left him previously by his mother, whose favourite child he was. It was with a feeling of keen pain and anxiety, and after much anxious thought, that Squire Dwining had made his will, for his younger son had given him great cause for grief, and being already extravagant and wild, his father feared to place fresh temptations in his way by giving him the means of carrying on his madcap freaks, and of sowing his wild oats ; and Ralph, being naturally brilliant and clever, he had him educated for the law, hoping he might settle down in course of time to the steady exercise of his pro- fession. Ralph's companion was Letty Duncan, the only daughter of the village rector, whose light and joy she was; the only one of his five children who had lived to gladden his fond eyes. She was a fresh- faced, gipsy-looking girl, with nut-brown hair and sparkling, laughter-loving hazel eyes; and she was usually bright and merry in her ways. Just now, however, she was looking very downcast and un- 102 A FIREBRAND. happy, as, with her eyos fixed on the rippling stream, and with drooping curves at her rich, red lips, she listened mournfully to her companion's last remark. "So you refuse to hear me, Letty?" asked the young man sadly, with an appealing look at his companion it was well for her she did not see. "I have no other choice," returned the girl, im- patiently, as rising to her feet, she leant against the trunk of a well-grown willow near, and stood look- ing dov.-n upon his upturned, eager face, with eyes in which a certain discontent and dissatisfaction with him were blended with affection and sad in- terest. "You know how my father disapproves of you," she said, "and he will never permit me to give you any promise with his sanction, I know well!" "But I will do better, Letty, and I will redeem the past. You have it in your power to make a man of me!" "No, Ralph," she said impatiently, and with decision in her crisp, clear tones. "I have no in- fluence whatever over you, or you would have done better long ago for my sake, if not for your own. You would have deserved the promise you require of me before you asktd for it." As she spoke, a bright flush dyed her face, and her eyes were keen and bright with a slight sus- picion of indignation, and perhaps, contempt. Ralph Dwining rose and stood beside her for an in- stant, and seemed about to speak, but turned abruptly on his heel and left her there, still leaning against the friendly tree, and looking after him. As he disappeared from view she bowed her head upon her hands, and, breaking down at last, wept bitterly. Could she have known what thoughts were passing in her lover's mind she might have taken comfort. "I'll prove to her I'm better than she thinks," A FIREBRAND. 103 said Ralph, with resolution, as he walked on rapid- ly. "My father treated me unjustly when he made that will ; but I will return to London and work hard at my profession for Letty's sake. I will go back and tell her so." Lost in reflection as he was, he had already wandered round again unconsciously towards tlie spot where he had left the girl. And Letty was still there; but she was not alone a tall well-made man stood by holding both her hands in his, and bending over her as he spoke earnestly, whilst Letty's face, all flushed and quivering, was raised t him as she listened with close attention to his words. Ralph had already recognised his brother Alexander. "So Alex is before me," he said, bitterly, "and Letty will probably give him the promise she denied to me." He turned hurriedly away ere they had observed his presence there, and returned to the handsome house which stood in the midst of its fine, well-kept grounds, and which belonged to Alexander Dwining now. "I'll go away at once," Ralph mut- tered, sullenly, "without seeing them again. I can- not endure to face my brother's happiness, and this his second triumph over me!" He went up to his room, and packing his port- manteau hastily, called a serving man to carry it downstairs, ordering the dog-cart to be brought round at once to take him to the Railway Station. The servant silently obeyed, being well used to his young master's hasty ways, and judging by his looks that something had occurred to put him out. (But as Ralph took his seat in the dog-cart, James ven- tured an inquiry. "Please, sir, will you leave a message for Mr. Alexander?" "No!" returned Ralph, angrily, "I leave no message, James. Drive on, Saunders." And the dog-cart dashed off at a good pace. He arrived 104 A FIREBRAND. at the station just in time to catch the train to London. He went at once to his old chambers there, and sought out the former friends of his own set, a few fast men. It was at this time he first became ac- quainted with two young fellows, scarcely more than boys, who had been sent to London to study for their profession. Ralph Dwining was one of those men who possess a strange attraction for the younger ones of their own sex, and who, unhappily, do not always rightly or wisely exercise their in- fluence over them. His two young friends enter- tained unbounded admiration and affection for him, and he had it in his power to mould them as he would, young Cecil Moore especially becoming much attached to him. Under Ralph's guidance Cecil lived a gay, fast life, and soon got very deeply into debt. Ruin stared him in the face, for his father was a stern, though conscientious man, and would not scruple, Ralph knew well, to abandon and east off his son if he came to know of his late wild doings. He knew he was responsible for the poor boy. Sit- ting alone in his own bedroom late one night, he thought the matter over with a new feeling of com- punction, and with keen regret. "I got the poor lad into trouble and I must ex- tricate him now, though it be at my own cost." he thought. Then his thoughts recurred to his own monetary difficulties, which were very pressing and heavy ; and a new thought grew of the recollection. He was idly tracing hie own name on his blotting-pad when it struck him freshly, with strange force, how alike his own handwriting was to Alexander's. He could imitate his signature with ease. With a sort of ex- citement he drew a blank sheet of paper to him and attempted it, with great success. Then a certain desperation took possession of him, and a terrible A FIREBRAND. 105 struggle betwen right and wrong ! Why should he not sign a cheque for the amount sufficient to clear Cecil of his embarrassments ? Then, having freed him from them, he himself would instantly depart for America, and losing himself there, he would work with might and main until he had earned sufficient to pay his own debts here, and so would start afresh and live a better life in the United States. It could be no sin, he thought with specious reasoning, to forge the name for the good of one whom he had led astray. It was for Cecil's sake that he would do this thing, not for himself. And then a portion of his brother's wealth ought surely to be his own, but for his father's unjust will. With a pale set face he deliberately took the necessary materials and did the deed. Then, with the forged cheque lying on the table at his elbow, he opened a locked private drawer, and took out a small packet, which he opened with a certain rever- ence, as of one who was unworthy to touch, or even look upon what it contained. In another moment Letty Duncan's portrait was disclosed to view, and the sweet, girlish face seemed to his conscience- stricken eyes to look reproachfully at him. His heart went out to her, and a wild longing came to him to go to her, and, kneeling at her feet to tell her all. And a portion of the prayer which, as a child, he had prayed nightly at his mother's knee, rang with gentle insistence in his ears, "Deliver us from evil!" Again, and yet again, until his bitter heart was almost melted. Almost, but not quite; for then arose the thought of Alexander and his happiness. He could not bear it, and. covering up the portrait hastily, he put it in his breast pocket, with a tortured heart and working face, in- deed, but with his purpose still unchanged. He unlocked another drawer and took out a re- volver, idly playing with it as he admired its silver 106 A FIREBRAND. mountings, and drew his fingers over its slightly- polished surface. Then he began to load it slowly and half dreamily, and locked it up again with a knitted brow and an expression of strange indecision and self-questioning, and of a curious perplexity. After a heavy sleepless night, he rose and waited feverishly for banking hours to come. When the time arrived when Alexander's bankers would begin the business of the day, he put a strong constraint upon himself, and entering the bank he presented the forged cheque with apparent careless calmness, though his lips were white, and his heart was beating wildly. The draft was duly honoured, and, receiv- ing the notes unquestioned, he left the building much relieved, and made immediate arrangements for the payment of young Moore's debts. He then took his passage for America, and made instant preparation for sailing thither in a few days' time. He care- fully avoided going near the bank during the re- mainder of his time in London ; but one day he had occasion to pass by, and as he was about to hurry past he saw a man come out, and, casting a hurried glance at him, he recognised his brother Alexander, who, with his eyes bent on the ground, had not observed him, and Ralph rushed on his way, a ter- rible conflict raging in his breast, and he saw still in fancy that haggard, altered face, and knew what he himself had done. "The manager must have suspected after all, and have wired to Alexander. And they have come to an understanding now. Ah! I was mad to do it; but it was done to save that poor, weak boy from utter ruin and misery." He hurried home, and locked and double-locked himself in his bedroom, where he walked wildly up and down. Then he flung himself upon a chair be- side his writing-table, his burning head buried in his hands. His heart was torn with horror and remorse, A FIREBRAND. 107 and the recollection of his brother's face, with that strange new look of shame. Ah! too well he knew for whom. And that worn and haggard counten- ance cut the younger brother to the soul, and stung him to the quick. Starting wildly up again he unlocked the table drawer and took out his revolver, with a set white face, and feverish, shaking hands. He put the muzzle to his brow, his finger on the trigger. Then, with a wild and almost incoherent prayer for help and pardon on his trembling, colour- less lips, involuntarily he let his uplifted arm drop heavily to his side. ' 'Deliver us from evil !' Oh, God, give me but one more chance to live in honour. Deliver me from evil !" And then he heard a hasty footstep enter the sitting-room, out of which his bedroom opened, and a man's voice fell on his ear, as he intently listened. He heard Alexander's familiar tones, speaking in terrible earnest. "Let me in. Ralph, I would speak with you." Ralph started violently, and touched the trigger unawares. There was a sudden, deafening report, and a dense cloud of smoke about his head, and a loud cry of horror from the adjoining room. The revolver had been overcharged in loading, and it had burst, shattering the hand that held it. His stifled groan of pain was echoed by the repetition of that agonised cry from the next room. Alexander was wildly beating on the door with both his hands, as he strove to force it open. "My brother I Oh, my brother! Oh, God! Have mercy on him and me!" Even in the midst of his own deathly pain that cry of anguish smote upon his senses, and thrilled Ralph to the heart. He staggered blindly to the door, unlocked it painfully with his uninjured hanrl. 108 A FIREBRAND. and threw it open to meet his brother's gaze. Alex- ander stood upon the threshold. "Oh, Ralph, what have you done?" he cried, incoherently. Then he caught sight of the shattered arm hanging helplessly by his side, and saw the smoking revolver lying on the floor. "Oh. my poor brother !" He caught him as he staggered, fainting, and helped him to the bed. A surgeon was soon brought by the frightened folk of the house (who had been crowding round outside the sitting-room door), and Ralph was attended to as speedily as possible. He was dangerously ill, and was delirious for many days, and Alexander, hanging over him, lis- tened painfully to what fell from his unconscious lips, gathering a clear idea of all his previous thoughts and struggles within himself. At length the turning point of his illness came to Ralph, and the delirium passed away, leaving him weak, indeed, but with a clear brain and memory once more. And turning to his brother (who had been his tender, patient nurse), he would have implored his pardon for the past, but Alexander silenced him. "Hush, my brother," he said, brokenly : "let the dead past rest, and start afresh!" "And Cecil," faltered Ralph, uneasily, with a painful flush on his white face. "I led the poor boy wrong; I have much to answer for!" "Oh, he is doing well," said Alexander, cheer- fully. "One of your old friends looks after him, and Lane, and keeps them right, as though he were their brother ; for he has felt for you, and now is truly sorry for his own wild past." "Thank God!" said Ralph. "My worst fear is now removed. I could never have held up my head again if Cecil had come to harm !" "It is quite touching to see the lad's devotion A FIREBRAND. 10 and affection for you, Ralph. He has been here each day." A smile rested on the sick man's lips like a pale touch of wintry sunshine, and he turned his face aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes. "You will come home with me," said Alexander, "as soon as you are strong enough to travel." Ralph's pale face flushed and quivered. "Letty," he faltered painfully, "I cannot face her, Alex." "Nay, you must come home with me. She would not forgive me if I went alone. I'll answer for her,, Ralph!" Then he went on very earnestly: "My brother, I learnt much from you in your delirium, and I have much to say to you. But tell me one thing, Ralph, why did you leave us so abruptly, without bidding us good-bye, or leaving any mes- sage?" Then Ralph told him all; how he had seen him standing by the stream with Letty, and of how he could not bear to stay and see her preference for him. "But everything is different now," he went on, earnestly; "you are more worthy of her, Alex., than I could have ever been. And I can wish you God- speed in your wooing," he added, with an attempt at a cheerful smile. Alexander regarded him with a very different smile. "We spoke of you that day," he answered tenderly. "Letty loves you, Ralph; has ever loved you, brother, even when she refused to hear you. And she was greatly troubled for your sake. She never cared for me, save as a sister might, and my own love for her is that of an old friend and brother. She and her father are waiting now to welcome you, believe me. I have written to them and have told them all; and I have had their an- swer. I have one thing more to say to you, Ralph when our father made his will, he also made a pri- HO A FIREBRAND. vate codicil, to be made known to you when you should change your mode of life. Half of my wealth and property are now your own, for you will make a good use of them, I know." "The good, kind old man!" murmured Ralph, with deep emotion. "How often I have wronged him in my thoughts. If I could but undo my own wild past, and efface the bitter pain I cost him once. But I will strive at least to make amends to you, for God has heard my prayer and delivered me, indeed !" He clasped his brother's hand in his own unin- jured one, and bending his head over it, lie touched it with his lips. " A Point of Honour ' -A Retrospect "And had he friends?" "One friend, perhapi, said he, 'And for the rest, I pray you, let it be." ''Three years to-day since I came here. It seems like yesterday! A few weeks hence, and I shall be at home once more with her !" And as the thought passed through his mind Gerald Staunton carefully sealed the letter he had written, and drawing forth from the breast-pocket of his coat a small morocco case, he gazed long and wist- fully on the sweet face of the fair young English girl portrayed therein. He leant his head on his hand as he sat at the writing-table, and fell into a reverie, revolving many old, sweet memories in his mind. He thought of the days when, a father- less child, he had lived a retired and simple life with his mother in their quiet and unpretending home. He remembered still the pleasure and excite- ment with which he had heard that the little or- phan, Edith Thornton, was to be his mother's ward, and share their home ; and he saw again in fancy the joy with which they both had welcomed her. "You have often longed for a little sister, Gerald," his mother had said, as she turned to him smilingly. "Edith will be your sister now." And ever since he had adored the girl. She had been his constant friend and merry playmate; they had grown up together close companions. On 112 A POINT OF HONOUR. reaching manhood he had learnt the nature of his feeling for her, but, being too poor to marry, had said no word and made no sign, holding it unmanly to secure the promise of a woman ere he had it in his power to offer somewhat more than love. It might be years, he thought, before he earned a home for her, and in his profession he would soon be go- ing out tc India to join the army there. What right had he to inflict on her the cruel, sickening pain of hope deferred? He had sometimes fancied that she had cared a little for him, and he had withdrawn from her somewhat at these moments, dreading lest he might say some irrevocable word that would destroy her peace of mind, and her sweet and placid contentment in the present. Mrs. Staunton, too, had sometimes fancied Edith cared for him. "I love her as a daughter, Gerald," she would say wistfully, when they were quite alone together. "I should be happy if you cared for one another." "We are old playmates, little mother," he had answered playfully, and Edith loves me as a sister would. I am too poor to marry, mother mine," he had added soberly, one well-remembered day ; and she turned to look in his dark face with earnest love, for his tones were almost sad. "She would wait for you, my dear, if it were a hundred years before you claimed her. I know my Edith well." "And that is why," he answered almost sternly, "I could not tie her down to uncertainty, and, possibly, a long and weary waiting. I shall work and hope, and do my best to hasten the happy time when I may be justified in trying to win my gem ! It is a point of honour with me, mother." "I have a feeling Edith cares for you. But what if some other man should step between you r Gerald?" A POINT OF HONOUR. 113- The colour left his cheek, and for a moment there was no reply ; but when he answered presently, his tones were quiet and firm. "I must take my chance, dear, and bear it like a man." "She has a little money of her own," "And I am glad to know it, mother. I could not endure to think of my darling toiling for her living. It would have been a bitter pang to me whilst I was waiting till I could offer her a home." No further word was said, but his mother un- derstood, and never spoke of it to him again. So he had left Edith Thornton with sealed lips, but yearning eyes; watching the colour fading in her cheek with an aching heart when he bade her farewell, and took from her hand the parting keep- sake, her portrait, fated ever afterwards to be hia dearest treasure. Since then he had heard of her from time to time, and had ever but one purpose in his view, the hope of winning her. And so he worked, and hoped, and waited, as time passed slowly on. Now the wheel of fortune seemed to turn for him at last. A large estate had been lately left to him by a distant relative whom he had never seen, whose very existence he had quite forgotten. And now, indeed, he felt that he might speak and ttll his darling of his steadfast love. No longer honour need admonish him to be silent for her sake. There lay his finished letter to her before him on the table, and he himself would follow it in a few weeks, and hear the answer from her own sweet lips. How long tke time would seem ere he should be with her again I At the thought a sigh, half pain, half plea- sure, rose to his lips, and he turned with a feeling of impatience towards hie orderly, who appeared now at the door. "English letters and papers for you, sir," he Ii4 A POINT OF HONOUR. said, advancing as he spoke to lay them on the tabb, and, saluting his master, as quietly retired. Gerald Staunton opened his mother's letter with much eagerness, and, after reading the first few lines, he let it fall, whilst a cry as of mortal suffer- ing escaped his lips. "Edith is married." The words seemed burnt with fire into his heart and brain. "Edith is married wealth has come too late!" Shuddering, he tore the paper open, reading the announcement in a stunned, dazed way. His face sank on his breast at this hard death- blow to his hopes; yet, even in the midst of all his pain, a sweet thought stole into his heart to com- fort him. He had done what was just and right by her. He had not asked his darling's word, nor sought to bind her to him, through uncertainty and weary waiting. It was a mere chance that had brought his wealth to him. Had it not come, he would have been as poor and as uncertain as before. Ys, at all events, he had done what he considered right, and this should be his comfort through the dark hour of his sorrow. For, in her English home, his love was happy with her husband; and he was here in India, ead, hopeless, and alone. The Prophet that got no Honour. "I've the makings of a prophet," Hezikiah aid reflectively, as he sat in the untidy kitchen on his wooden stool, a mug of tea in one grimy hand, a thick slice of bread and butter in the other. "How do you make that out?" asked Jean, with a rather derisive glance at the old man's red shock of hair and heavy-featured countenance. "It's not much prophesying you can do." The embryo Prophet paused for a moment to enjoy his tea before he answered her. "Well," he said, solemnly, "there's Miss "Wilkinson she's surely aiming to marry our master and, mark my word, she'll do it afore long. How'd you like to have a mistress in the household, Jean?" A cold, unwonted chill ran down Jean's spine as the idea was thus presented to her somewhat un- thinking mind, and she absolutely shuddered as she looked around the domain where she had worked ker own sweet will uninterrupted this many a long year, without control from woman or from man. The derisive smile had faded from her face, and there was something like respect now in the glance she cast at her fellow servant. "Are you quite certain, Hezikfeh?" she asked, with an unwonted touch of faint anxiety in her tones. "A master's quite enough for me without a mistress, surely!" 116 THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. "She's after our professor, I am sure! What else does all this coming here for fresh-laid eggs and new milk for the sick folk in the village mean ? I'm driven near to my wits' end how to keep enough of the eggs for the hens that's to be set, and of fresh milk for the dappled calf. But, though I prophesy, I'll put a spoke in her wheel yet," he said, with a grim determination in his manner. " 'Twould be the ruin of a good master," he added slowly, pondering his words, "to say naught of you and me !" Jean went on with her untidy preparations for her master's evening meal, a dark and cloudy look on her uncomely and hard-featured countenance, as. she answered him. "The master expressly told Miss Wilkinson she would be welcome any time to fresh milk and eggs for the sick folk, Hezikiah. I don't suppose there's anything in that. And 1 should think," Jean add- ed anxiously, as she spread a torn, soiled tray- cloth on the Professor's uninviting tea-tray; "the master would have more regard for our long and faithful service to his aunt, than to place a mistress over us ! And how could he be better cared for, I should like to know?" she added, with a decided touch of shrewish indignation, and a toss of her dark, untidy head. But Hezikiah, having delivered himself of his prophecy, had nothing more to say. He put down his empty mug, and, rising from his stool, he went outside the kitchen door into the yard, and strolled down thoughtfully towards the paddocks. Here he leaned awhile against the gate, gazing with com- placent fondness at the fine sleek cow and dappled calf, as he patted the little animal with an appre- ciative eye for its good condition and its plush-like coat. Then the Prophet turned towards the low- built old rambling house and looked upon the fair THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. 117 domains that were under his sole control and man- agement. There stood the well-built, comfortable hen-house, where he set his clucking hens and put his feathered flock to bed. He jingled the hen- house keys in his pocket complacently, with a pleased smile relieving his grim, unhandsome coun- tenance, as he counted up the future broods, as yet unborn, unset. Here was the garden fence with the convenient gap in the palings that separated the poultry paddock from the garden, where he loved to see his favourites disport them- selves unsparingly amongst the roses and the straw- berry beds. Where, nevertheless, sometimes he worked very hard by fits and starts, as his own fancy took him, and where the roses bloomed luxuriantly in spite of busy hens and cocks. And here were the orchard, and the big grass paddock, Avith the Professor's "one and only milky mother of the lowing herd," her plump calf running by her side. Hezikiah gazed on each in turn, and smiled complacently. "Hezikiah!" said a gentle voice behind him, and he turned his head and roused himself from his happy and contented musings to find his master standing near. A well-worn antique volume in his hand, one finger inserted to keep the place where he was reading, just as he had left his study, with an open letter in the other hand, he had approached the old man unperceived. The Professor had a gentle, studious countenance, with a rather ab- stracted look, as of one who for many years had led a retired life of continuous study in the heart of a big town. "Hezikiah," the Professor said, "I have promised Miss Wilkinson fresh milk and eggs for a sick child in the village. She will come for them to-morrow. I should like you to get them ready the first thing in the morning." The Prophet whipped round quickly, and with 118 THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. his hands in his pockets surveyed his mild-eyed master with an expression of sublimest scorn, and a forbidding firmness. "Professor! I have no fresh eggs, nor yet no milk to spare. The eggs is wanted for the setting hens, and the milk will mostly be required for the feeding of the calf. Sure, you wouldn't let the poor mite go starved and hungry!" he said, with a strain of bitter indignation in his tones. "There'll only be the four fresh eggs as usual, sir ; two for your own breakfast, and the other two for Jean to make the pudding. And, as for milk," he said impressively, "why the dappled calf '11 want most of that. And, sir, your aunt afore you, she never in- terfered, or questioned my management. She trusted me and Jean to do the best for her. And, begging your pardon, sir, what do you know of country life, who come from a crowded town?" The Professor sighed, a patient, puzzled sigh, uncomprehending. "Well," he said perplexedly, a harassed look on his gentle, studious face, "I'm very unpractical in country life, I know, and I don't understand very much about these matters, Hezikiah. I am quite aware that you and Jean managed them for many years to my poor aunt's satisfaction, before she died and left the place to me. She specially commended to my kindest care and notice you and Jean. But it seems to me," he added, with a gentle deprecation, "that the calf is well-grown enough to be fed with something else, or with the skim-milk now." "And is it grass, or skim-milk, as you'd feed to the poor calf?" demanded Hezikiah, indignantly, with unabated firmness. "And as for the hens," the Professor added,, with fresh perplexity, but with unusual courage, "we somehow seem to have an unusually large num- ber of them now, and yet they don't seem to be of THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. 11& much use to us, for we kill none of them, and we^ use so few eggs. And they spoil the garden," he said, with a rueful look around; "Hezikiah, I wish, you would repair that broken fence!" "Your aunt never interfered with my manage- ment," Hezikiah said loftily. "I'll see to it some- time, sir, when I have time. "The hens eat a great deal of grain," the Pro- fessor said reflectively, "yet they don't seem to re- pay us, Hezikiah !" "They are pleasant to the eye," the Prophet said, with a sort of stern urbanity, "and what more do you want of them, poor innocents?" He paused to survey with fond appreciation the numerous hens and cocks that ran about him, expectant of the evening meal, whilst others still scratched with eager, busy, and unsparing feet, the violet and strawberry beds. He added, with an unabated stern determination, "Master, you get your own unfailing share each day of the fresh eggs and milk ; and as for killing the chickens," he went on with a virtuous shudder, "didn't you get the good cock-a-leeky broth on Sunday, sir, and had the stew afterwards as well?" "It was a very old cock," his master said depre- catingly, though still with an unusual courage in his tones, "and it was very tough. And we don't often kill, you know, even when they get old and tough. However, regarding these special eggs, just give me what you can. The sick child must not want for them; and I promised Miss Wilkinson," he added, a faint touch of colour rising to his cheek. "I will forego my eggs for breakfast, and the pud- ding, and will take my porridge without milk." He turned away, and Hezikiah, with a shrug of his obstinate old shoulders, and a look of un- abated firmness, not to say obstinacy, on his weather-beaten, hard-lined face, went about the- 120 THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. evening duties in which his soul rejoiced. He fed his numerous feathered flock, and put his clucking hens to bed, and carefully locking the hen-house door, he fingered lovingly the keys as he put them in his pocket. He bedded up the cow and calf; and, going to his own room, he counted over his vast store of eggs, and saw in his mind's speculative eye the numerous fine broods of chicks that would be born of them. Next day, as he was pottering about the yard, he heard Jean calling that his master wanted him ; whereupon he surmised rightly that Miss Wilkinson had come. He saw her buggy waiting on the drive before the door, and Miss Mary Wilkinson herself was standing on the wide and shady, creeper-grown verandah, with the Professor by her side. "Hezikiah," his master said, turning round to him as he approached the rose-covered porch, "we shall require that basket now." With a sour, reluctant look, the old man un- willingly departed on his errand, and the young woman stood silently by the Professor, quietly noting all about her with her bright, quick, sympathetic eyes. From the open window of a room near by there hung, fluttering in the draught, a signal of distress, in the form of a grimy, tattered curtain of some material that had once been white. The Pro- fessor hospitably waved his hand towards the room. "Come into my study, please," he said, a little shyly, "and sit down whilst we wait." As he spoke, he led the way indoors, and offered her a chair. She accepted it, and he took another near her, and the two sat silent and embarrassed, each waiting for the other to make some casual re- mark. The room was comfortably furnished, but looked dusty and unkempt, and Miss Mary looked around it and then at the Professor, who had fallen into abstracted thought, with a kind of motherly THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. 121 and understanding pity in her pretty, pleasant eyee. At that moment Hezikiah returned, with a covered basket on his arm, and, coming to the open window to deliver it, he observed the look and in- voluntarily shuddered. His master, roused from his momentary abstraction, caught sight of the old man's working face, and, not comprehending, he started up with something like dismay. With real dismay depicted in his weather-beaten countenance, Hezikiah beckoned the Professor to approach, and <lrew him eagerly aside on the verandah. "Master," he exclaimed, in a hoarse undertone, "I'm a plain outspoken man, and faithful servant, and I've a warning for you. That woman's a- wanting to marry you avoid the deceiving, flowery chains of matrimony ere it be too late." The Professor, somewhat startled, as well he might be, at the suddenness of his attack, looked at him in an uncomprehending, vague astonishment, but Hezikiah thrust the basket almost rudely into his hands, and hastily withdrew. Jtiis master there- upon returned to his visitor, with a hitherto un- known and unwonted consciousness. Hezikiah's words had had the opposite effect he had intended. They had awakened his master's notice, and quick- ened his interest. The scales, as it were, had fallen suddenly before his studious, abstracted eyes. Strange and pleasant possibilities began to rise mistily before him in his mind. He dimly saw for ihe first time, and slowly began to read, the look of sympathetic pity on Miss Mary's comely face. He recognised the candid brightness of the dark brown eyes ; the modest womanliness of her every word and action ; her sweet, unselfish charac- ter. He thought of many a kindness, many an act of tender, gentle helpfulness towards the village folk. He helped her silently into the buggy, his mind full of these new thoughts and feelings. He 122 THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. looked anxiously inside the basket before he gave it up to her, and was relieved to find that Hezikiah perforce, however unwillingly, had given them good measure. Miss Mary, unconscious meantime of all this undercurrent of thought and feeling, thanked him warmly, and smilingly drove away. After this day, the Professor called more often on Miss Mary, and their friendship grew apace. She soon learnt to know his richly-cultivated mind, his sterling qualities; to understand his gentle charac- ter, to make allowance for, and help him where he showed a want of readiness in the more practical ways of life. When he asked her to be his wife, she was rather taken by surprise at first, perhaps; nevertheless, with a little hesitation she accepted him, and he soon found that his greatest happiness and his whole joy in life depended on her. "When did you first begin to care for me?' he asked her earnestly one day. "It was pity at first, I think," she said, with a pleasant little laugh. "Do you remember taking me into your untidy study the first time I called your cottage, James? I was so sorry for you, that I think I first began to like you then!" The took she gave him, took away any little sting the words might have had. ,, "The cottage is not very bright for you, 1 he said regretfully. "I was never able properly t manage country things; I have always lived town, and am only a bookworm, dear, half practical enough," he added rather sadly. "Leave it to me," she answered, gently. lot gee the country life is just what I've been used to all my life-and you must write your book. When we return from our trip it will be time enough." On the first evening of their arrival home she quietly walked into the kitchen, and, before Jean knew, already order was appearing there, Jean giv- THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. 123 ing willing, energetic, and we might even say, ador- ing help. "But I don't know what to do with Hezikiah," the Professor said helplessly; "he's quite a charac- ter!" They were walking together in the half -neg- lected garden as he spoke. "Leave him to me," said Mary, with a smile,, and was straightway lost in thought, half serious, half comical. Hezikiah, pottering about as usual in the yard next morning, saw her coming towards him in her fresh white dress, a pleasant smile of greeting on her comely face. He looked at her with sour sus- picion plainly showing in his looks. "I will appoint you your day's work," she said, with something in her pleasant eyes he could not fathom, but somehow dared not question, much less disobey. "You will first of all repair the broken garden fence, and turn the hens into the small grass paddock. That, I think, will take you the best part of the day; but you may still find time to tidy up the garden beds a bit. And, Hezikiah, please give me the keys of the hen-house. I will keep them for the future. And give me all the eggs you have on hand. We will set a few, the rest I shall put by for cakes and puddings, and the sick folk in the village." "Cakes and puddings!" ejaculated Hezikiah. "Just think of the wicked waste of what might be young chicks! The Professor's aunt ' He met his new mistress's eye, a lump rose in his throat, and he choked suddenly. "You will set about the fencing now, please Hezikiah," the Professor's wife said pleasantly, with a friendly little nod, as she quietly took the hen- house keys from his reluctant hand, and walked gently back again towards the house. The old man 124 THE PROPHET THAT GOT NO HONOUR. stood looking after her, impotent and despairing, and speechless with dismay. The sun was hot, and the Prophet worked hard all day. The perspiration streamed from his hot brow, and the old man mopped his sun-burnt face with angry desperation. In the cool of the even- ing his master and mistress came walking side by side in the garden, inspecting and admiring the un- wonted neatness of the flower-beds. Hezikiah car- ried his gardening implements away, and threw them down indignantly inside the garden-shed, with a despairing thud. "Be careful, Hezikiah, please," said a gentle voice, as his mistress paused for a moment in passing by; "you will break the gardening tools if you are not more careful." She and the Professor went indoors together, and Hezikiah stood still and looked around him. He could hear on the cool, still evening air, the cry of the impatient calf, and the uneasy and insistent lowing of its mother. He heard the discontented clucking of the hens, and felt instinctively in his empty pocket for the missing keys of his loved hen- house; he thought with a sense of irreparable loss of the many broods of embryo chicks, of the eggs of which he had been robbed. He saw the neatly- mended fence, the work of his own unwilling hands, and looked down on those same hands with a kind of dull surprise and awe. He glanced round the nicely-raked gravel paths, the neat flower-beds, where now no more his feathered favourites would disport thmselves so happily in daily scratching with their busy and unsparing feet. From the kitchen -came the unwonted, savoury smell of the fat pullet roasting for his master's evening meal, and in the distance he caught a brief and fleeting vision of the converted Jean, as she whisked about in a spotlessly- white apron and neat white cap, in willing and en- THE PEOPHET THAT GOT NO - JNOUB. 125 ergetic obedience to her mistress's behests, ere she re-entered the neat kitchen, with its polished pots and pans and fresh scrubbed floor. And he felt that his old dominions were indeed his own no more. He thrust out his grimy hands, palms up- permost, with their signs of recent honest, though reluctant toil, with an impotent, despairing gesture of protest, and heaved his shoulders up. "But a Prophet never got no honour in his- own country !" Hezikiah said bitterly. An Adopted Daughter. The afternoon was fresh and sunny, and even in these hot city streets the air was balmy and sweet to-day; and she had opened wide her ease- ment that looked upon the quiet street in which she lived, and sat there, busy with her sewing. She was small and spare, and her dingy merino gown, though neat, hung loosely on her bony little shoul- ders. Her face was sharp and thin, and her kindly gray eyes looked dim and sunken with hard work and many cares, may be ; and her scanty hair was drawn somewhat tightly back from her high brow. Her work, some delicate embroidery of exquisite de- sign and silken colours, absorbed her whole atten- tion for some time; but at length she raised her head to breathe in delightedly the balmy air. and to give one interested look around her. In the act of doing so, her attention was attracted by two pass- ers-by, who in another instant would have been out of sight had not she accidentally looked out just then. One was a slight and girlish-looking woman, in cheap mourning, unmistakably a lady in spite of her shabby dress, and a little girl, who oould just toddle, was clinging to her hand. The child was weary, and her little face was puckeijed up to cry. The mother, glancing at her, sighed, and stooped to raise her in her tired arms, i*he stag- gered beneath the burden, but was pressing bravely onwards, when Jean, unable to keep silent any longer, called to her. AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 127 "You're tired. Uome in and rest a bit." The young woman, evidently a widow, turned her head and met her gaze as she looked down com- passionately upon her from the open window. She hesitated for an instant, and then replied in faint, sweet tones: "Thank you; I should be glad, indeed, to rest!" A moment more and she was in Jean's dingy little room, in the one comfortable chair, her child upon her lap. "You have walked far," said Jean, as she quietly put a little kettle on the scanty fire to make tea for her unexpected guests. "I have walked far oh, very far 1 to-day." She lay back in her chair and gave a weary sigh. The child began to whimper, but she took no notice of her now; she just lay back \vitk closed yes and pale, quiet face. Jean came to her and lifted the child from her lap, and, as she did so, she saw with her dim, faded eyes, that her guest had swooned away. She hurried from the room, and went to the little kitchen, where she found Martha busy at the washing-tub. Unable to speak, sne beckoned to her silently, and then went quietly back again. Very soon the lady was lying on the shabby sofa, comfortably propped with pillows, pale-faced yet, but better; her bonnet off, and her pretty, silky hair straying in little rings over her white forehead. Jean was beside her, pressing her to take the tea she held to her lips; whilst Martha, with the baby on her lap, sat near her, feeding the child with hot bread and milk, her homely face lit up with affectionate interest in her little charge. I* was plain that their unexpected guest could go no further on to-day, wherever she was bound for ; and the two women exchanged glances. Their pa- tient was the first to speak. "I was going there," she said, faintly, taking 128 AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. a slip of paper from her poor purse and showing them an address. "I must go on at once." She tried to rise, but fell back helplessly. "Lie still," said Jean; "you cannot move, you see. Stay with us for to-night, and we will care for you and for the child. To-morrow you will be stronger." "I fear it is as you say," returned the young widow, sadly; "I cannot move just now. I am very poor," she said with quivering lips. "I was on my way to cheap lodgings at this address, and meant to try and procure some needlework at one of the big shops, that I might keep my little Hilda and myself. I fear I fear I cannot pay you." "Hush!" said Jean quickly; "don't speak of that. It's little enough we can do for you." "God bless you for your kindness." Martha went softly from the room, bearing in her stout arms the sleeping child. She went to lay her on her own bed in an inner room. She and Jean kept house together, they being firm friends, and poor. Martha did odd jobs, and Jean had regular orders for her beautiful and fantastic silken embroidery. She had lived in Germany for years during her early girlhood, and had developed there her natural gift for that class of work. The young widow never left their house. "We can spare you a little room," said these kindly wo- men, with hearts of gold beating beneath a plain and shabby exterior; "a little room for you and the child. We will find work for you at a big ware- house. Stay with us until you can do better for yourself." So she stayed, and her lovely child was worshipped by the three. But she faded daily. For a year or so she still lived on and worked for the people at the ware- house. By-aud-bye the needle got too heavy for her AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 129 white fingers; then she drooped. One day she quietly fell asleep to wake no more. The two women worked harder than ever for the child. They lived apart from the people round about them, but sometimes an inquisitive neighbour would look in. "What will you do with the child?" said a neighbour one day. "Keep her with us," said Martha, shortly. "But you don't know who she is?" "We know enough," said Martha, and closed her lips. The neighbour went away. Mrs. Grace, when but seventeen, had married a poor clerk against the wish of her parents, who refused forthwith to have anything more to say to her. She and her young husband had left their neighbourhood, and had come to Sydney. He was deli- cate, and had to work too hard for his strength. When his child was born he lay in his grave, leav- ing his wife entirely destitute. Jean and Martha knew all this, but not where the parents lived, nor her maiden name. The little girl grew strong and beautiful, and they tenderly loved their adopted daughter, who loved them dearly, too. She had pretty, winsome ways and loving wiles that made their daily sun- shine. "She's a born lady," saiu Martha, "and shall be brought up like one." So they slaved and toiled for her, and saved what they could, and put it in the bank. Her clothing was always delicate and fresh, and Martha took great pride in getting up her linen exquisitely. "She's growing tall," said Jean, one day; ''she should go to school." They talked it over together that night, long after she was asleep in her little bed, discussing ways and means. "We must part with her," said Jean, "for her 130 AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. own good. We must send her to a grand boarding- school, to be treated like a lady born, as is her due. She will make fine friends amongst the ladies there. No one must see us there, or know she lived with us, lest we should shame our darling. We must do well for our adopted child; and some day she will marry as becomes her birth. That will repay us well to be assured of her happiness." Martha thought with Jean. The girl was placed in a good school ; and the two unselfish women work- ed harder than ever to keep her there. They never went to see their darling, but she wrote to them often, and they were happy in her letters. She made many friends amongst her schoolmates, and spent her holidays with them; but sometimes she went home to Jean and Martha, and it was thought she went to see her nurse. It was known at school that Hilda's parents were both dead, and it was generally supposed that she had an eccentric guardian who provided her funds and left her to the care of a faithful nurse for the present. Hilda was careful they should know no more, for she thought with Jean and Mar- tha in the matter. Saving for this selfish fear, she was now a sweet and lovely girl of eighteen years, clever and accomplished, greatly admired amongst her schoolmates and the people she met while stay- ing with them. She was to leave school now, and inany an anxious consultation took place between her foster-mothers. "What shall we do now?" they asked of one another. "Her life will be spoilt if she lives here with us; and we cannot let her be a governess oh, no ! not whilst we can work for her. If only some ,nice young gentleman should marry her now !" In the meantime Hilda had been invited to stay with her best school-friend, Ida Clements. Whilst AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 131 there, she met for the first time Ida's only brother, who had been abroad. It soon became known that he had asked Hilda to be his wife. His sister was delighted, and his parents pleased. They were generally contented with most matters, so long as their children were content. "What of your guardian, Hilda?" asked her betrothed one day. She coloured, and looked dis- tressed. Robert was surprised, but silent from per- plexity. Ida interrupted them just then, and Hilda escaped to her own room. After some thought, she went to see Jean her nurse, as they all thought. She took a hansom and drove there in agitation to tell them of his question. "Come again to-morrow, darling," said Jean, looking at her with great af- fection, and admiring interest, "and we will talk it over, meantime, Martha and I." "How shall it be?" said Martha, the moment they were alone. "I fear we've somehow been doing the wrong thing by our lovely darling. We have her mother's papers and marriage certificate; she must now take them into her own hands. But we can produce no guardian, save ourselves. What shall we do? We caunot let it be known," said she, simply, "that a lady-born was brought up by two humble working women. Young gentlemen are proud, and it might ruin her prospects now, when she is so happy." "If only we knew the address of her grand- parents," said Jean. She thought profoundly for a little. "We will go to a lawyer," she said at last; "they are clever, these men; a lawyer can tell us what to do." They called on one together without delay. He listened with grave interest, and a suspicious mois- ture in his eyes, and suggested a course to them. He was a kindly man, with white hair, and dark, shrewd eyes. 132 AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. "I think it would be better, for the young lady's sake, to be open," he said, gently, "but I cannot say it is absolutely wrong to conceal your own good action, as it is your own strong wish to do so. Refer the young man to me, and I will arrange it as a mere business matter." So they went home happily together, leaving the lawyer musing deeply. "I wonder at the girl,'* said he. The marriage took place shortly after, and Robert and Hilda went abroad for a year. Ab- sorbed in her husband and her new life, Hilda for- got the devoted women who had done so much for her, and never even wrote to them. Robert know- ing so little of her childhood or her nurse, made no inquiry of her ; and so time passed on. They returned to Sydney by-and-bye, to be met by the delighted Ida, and to go on to Robert's old home to stay with his parents until their own house was ready to receive them. After dinner, on the first night of their arrival, the two girls went np together to Ida's room, to inspect some work she wanted Hilda's opinion on. As she drew it from the basket the latter was overturned, and many odds and ends were scattered on the floor. "Oh, what a mess!" cried Ida. But Hilda's quick eye had been caught by a letter addressed to herself that lay amongst the mess. She caught it up. "Oh!" said Ida, reddening with vexation; "I am so sorry, dearest Hilda. I am really very care- less, that letter came for you ever so long ago, in fact, just after you had gone abroad, and I quite forgot to send it to you." It was addressed in Jean's hand, crooked and cramped. Hilda put it, unopened, in her pocket, for they heard the front-door bell ringing, and knew that friends were coming in. It was not till AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 133 she was alone with her husband that night in her pretty sitting-room, that she remembered it again. Robert stood by the fireside, a happy smile on his handsome face, as he gazed lovingly upon the slen- der, graceful form of his young wife sitting opposite, in her delicate white dinner-dress, sweet roses at her breast, her lovely arms bare to the shoulder and decked with rich bangles that flashed and glittered in the firelight, as she drew forth and opened her letter. An instant later, and it had fallen from her white fingers, and fluttered to the ground, as she raised a deeply-grieved and startled face to her husband. "What is it, darling?" asked he, anxiously, as he raised the letter from the carpet, and bent over her with tender solicitude. She made no answer. A lump rose in her throat and seemed to choke her. She could only make a gesture towards the paper that he held, and bent her head, overcome with grieved, remorseful thoughts. She saw once more the worn and homely faces of her foster-mothers, who had loved her own mother, and thought of all their tender, unselfish care of her all her life. This happy life she owed to them. For who could say from what they might not have saved her? And yet she had forgotten and neglected them in their poverty and their old age. And now this letter, written a year ago in Jean's cramped hand, told her that Martha's face she would never see again. Even while it was being penned, Martha lay dying in a hospital of a painful disease brought on by overwork, that now had run its direful course. She bent her head and wept for grief and shame. Yet she had not known ; the letter had not come to her, she thought how was she to blame? But conscience answered sternly, she had ill repaid those women's loving goodness with cold neglect and 134 AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. silence. She had left them in their poverty, atter they had raised her up, and had dared to be ashamed of them, immeasurably her superiors in all but mere birth, and in the education they themselves had secured to her. Robert was gazing at her in some perplexity, the letter in his hand. He knelt beside her, soothing her. "My darling, this sad news grieves your ten- der heart," he said, "but who is the poor woman? The letter is written by your nurse, 1 see!" She shrank away from him, and from the love she felt so undeserved by her; and hiding her shamed but lovely face, she told him all. He listened in grieved, astonished silence, and said no word till she had ceased. "They did all this for you?" he said at last, "and you neglected them?" He broke off abruptly, unable to bear the sight of the remorseful face she turned to him. He turned away and put his hands before his own face. "Oh, Hilda! oh, my wife my darling," he said brokenly, "you are not what I thought you. How is my idol fallen !" She answered not, only sobbed low in anguish and remorse. And besides her sorrow at her own act, she had, indeed, this new grief to bear the loss of her husband's esteem, if not his love. His love ! Ah ! had she lost it too ? She raised her eyes to look at him. He was gazing at her now in love and tender pity. He read her question in her eyes, and answered it by clasping her closely to his heart, as one would do a loved and penitent child who had grieved us sorely. "We will do our ut- most now," he told her; "to-morrow we will go to Jean dear, brave, unselfish Jean and pay our heavy debt of loving esteem to her!" Hilda gave him a look of intense gratitude, and whispered softly as she clung to him : "Oh, Robert ! I can never forgive myself ! I see it all so plainly AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 135 now. I cannot make it up to Martha, my dear foster-mother, so ill-repaid for it is all too late too late!" she repeated with passionate self-reproach, "but I will do my best to show a daughter's love and gratitude to Jean!" It was not to be. The morrow dawned bright and fair, and they went together to the quiet, old street where Jean and Martha had first befriended the little orphan child. There was the old window of the dingy little room whence Jean had looked up- on the young widow and her little girl with such compassion. But why was the window closed, and the blind drawn down? And where was Jean, dear Jean? They knocked at the closed door that once stood widely open at this time of day, to let in every breath of air. They looked at one another in fore- boding silence, till a step was heard within, and the door was opened by a strange woman. "Jean," said Hilda, trembling, "Jean Roes does she still live here?" The woman looked at her from head to foot. "Come in," she said, and led them into the dingy front room Hilda knew so well. She pulled up the blind half-way, and turned to the young wife once more. "You want to see Jean Ross?" she said, in her slow, deliberate way. "I want Jean Ross!" "She is in there!" the woman said, and pointed backwards to Jean's old bedroom door. "She is ill !" cried Hilda, "or she would have come to me !" She hastened to the room, the woman following hastily and saying "Stay!" But it was too late. Robert heard one an- guished cry, and hurried in. A quiet form lay up- on the bed, with a strange, sweet smile upon its pinched white face ; and a quiet hand lay on the poor coverlet, holding in its last clasp a little child's worn shoe. That Darkest Hour before the Dawn. It was a pitch-dark night, and the rain des- cended in torrents. The waves broke madly on the shore, driven in by the merciless beating of the wind. A ship in distress had been wrecked on a reef of rocks a mile away to sea. The lifeboat was already labouring in the heavy waves, manned by stout-hearted fishermen, who were straining every nerve and muscle for the relief of the wrecked crew and possible passengers. A crowd of anxious people from the little town were gathered on the beach in the teeth of the howling gale, and the wind drove the salt spray with relentless and unsparing violence in their faces, as they strained their eyes to watch by the fitful gleam of rocket, or of light- ning, the huge dusky mass of hulk that they could just mistily discern upon the rocks. A frail boat- load from the wreck had been saved, by a j-.iracle, and landed safely. Spars and planks were tossed ashore in the restless surf by that resistless, cruel force, some with drowned or drowning human crea- tures lashed to them. The darkness was only broken by the dim light of the lanterns that sometimes showed the pallid, anxious faces round, and by the occasional gleam of lightning, or of rockets from the ship. A group of sailor-men, with lanterns in their hands, stood on the beach, consulting anxiously to- gether beside the now disabled lifeboat which they had drawn up, and which it was hopeless to think of sending forth again. A man who, coming from THAT DARKEST HOUR. 137 his lodgings out into the stormy night, had hastily donned his overcoat as he came along, slowly approached, against the wind, this little group. "The name of the ship?" he shouted, with diffi- culty making himself heard above the roaring of the storm. "We got her name from a boatload that we saved," a sailor answered in his ear, as he came close ; "she's the 'Dido,' out from Liverpool." The man seemed stricken with a death-like blow. He gripped him almost fiercely by the arm. "Man! that is the ship my little daughter travels by. My motherless little giri ! She's on her way out to me. For God's sake send the life- boat out again !" he cried, appealing wildly to the men around. "A hundred pounds to the man who saves my child. Take anything I have take all but save my little girl !" "We can't do anything," one of their number said, reluctantly and sadly; "the boat's too much disabled now without repair besides, it's too late, anyway look there!" he cried excitedly; "she's breaking up ! I knew she could not weather it for long in such a gale!" As he spoke the dark mass in the seething waters momentarily illuminated by a vivid flash of lightning, appeared for a second to rear up upon her beams' end, and then to cast herself despair- ingly in wild confusion in to the waters breaking madly over her. "We've done all we could," a sailor said; "God help them now ! We can only try to save the ones that may be cast ashore." One weather-beaten old seaman paused for a moment in his task of fixing saving tackle, and laid one rough hand sympathetically on the stran- ger's shoulder as he grasped his right hand warmly with the other. 138 THAT DARKEST HOUR. "Go home and pray," he said urgently, "for 'tis your only help I" "Pray!" the stranger answered bitterly. "I never prayed before, when life went well with me how can I now? And I never trusted or believed in God. I am an infidel." "Pray now I" the seaman said impressively ; "man, 'tis your only help, as I myself know well." He turned hastily aside to renew his interrupted labour of fixing the saving gear. The stranger turned and found his way back in the wind and rain, to his lodgings, and arrived in his own room. He threw his wet overcoat aside, and spent the next few hours in an awful anguish, sometimes wildly pacing up and down the room, and sometimes throwing himself down on his knees beside the window, facing the gray sea and troubled waves; by turns rebelling with a mad, unreasoning rebellion, against the ways of Providence or Fate then sinking on his knees again and praying as wildly for belief and comfort in his loss. But it seemed to him that he cried and was not heard. "If only I could trust to meet my little child again 1 Is there indeed a God ? Christ, help me to believe !" And even as he prayed, though he knew it not, God had been hearing, had been answering him ; had been making him capable of receiving the gift for which he prayed. Through the night the wind had become less violent, then gradually dropped, and the rain passed away, though the sea was still rough. And the first grey light of dawn was slowly, softly stealing on ; first the grey uplifting of the dawn, and then appeared the faint, thin streaks of light and delicate colour. And as he raised his sorrow-stricken eyes and looked upon the marvellous and steadily increasing light, a strange new awe and calm came over him. THAT DARKEST HOUR. 139 "There is indeed a God," he murmured to his heart in low rapt tones, and bent his head in word- less thanksgiving. And God, Who works all things in His own inscrutable and mighty way, gave him a double answer in His fathomless mercy and His love. For, his eyes still fixed on the horizon, rapt and solemn in his mood, he did not observe the little group of sailors coming along the street outside towards his lodgings. But soon he heard the muffled tread of gentle feet on the stairway, and he raised his head to hearken. Then the door was pushed gently open, and the little group came in. "Daddy! My own daddy!" The faint tones came as the sweetest music to hie ear ; the little living hands stretched forth to him were the great- est joy that life could offer him. He never thought to question how or when his little daughter had been saved ; it was enough for him that she was here. With the first faint opening of dawn yet in the sky, the first faint streaks of light, touched here and there with streaks of gold or those of faintest crimson, and of delicate transparent grey; as the coarse seaman's coat fell off from it, he took the dripping little form a precious gift indeed from those rough kindly hands, straight to his lov- ing arms and thankful heart. " Comin' thro' the Rye." "Gin a body meet a body Comin' thro' the rye; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?" He could see the trim little figure some yards in advance of him as he hurried on to overtake her, his manly, supple figure swinging along with easy movement, and his sunburnt face eager and happy in the very sight of her. She heard him coming, and well did she know whose step it was ; but (little hypocrite as she was !) she pretended not to be aware of any presence there besides her own, and went tripping lightly onwards. The rye waved all about them, high and luxuriant, as they trod the well- known path that led through the fields. Red pop- pies were thickly sprinkled there, and seemed nod- ding their gay and saucy heads and laughing as the two passed by, now but a step or so apart. Now the young man had caught her up. "Susy!" And at the name she turned at last, and he saw on her happy, blushing face the look she vainly tried to hide. "Why did you hurry off to-day?" he asked, bending over her eagerly es they walked slowly on their way, and trying to see again the sweet face she would persist in turning away from him. "I had to get home soon," returned she, softly; "Aunty 'Liza's wanting me." "Susy!" Somehow he couldn't say what he "COMIN' THRO' THE RYE." 141 wanted to when she would not look at him, and he stopped abruptly. But she wasn't going to help him out. She knew in her secret heart as well as he did what he wanted to tell her. But she walked on in an unconscious way, as though she had not heard the tender break in his honest young voice. "Susy, my darling, look at me!" he pleaded. "You must know by this time how I love you, Susy," he faltered; "I came to-night to ask you to be my little wife." He had effectually stopped her progress as he spoke by standing still in front of her, but not touching her : only gazing in reverent love and eager appeal. She was forced to look up now. "Susy, tell me, sweetheart! Tell me quick!" "Oh, Sam!" It was all she could say, for happy birds seemed singing in her heart. But the tone was enough for the eager young fellow. With his whole face lit up with love and joy, he drew her gently to him and held her fast, murmuring tender words over her bright head. And thus, amongst the gently-waving rye, in the cool, fresh evening air, he wooed and won this little village maiden. They were so happy, it did not seem as though any- thing could ever come between them. But a cloud arose on their horizon, though it was just a week before their marriage-day. She was tripping along by the well-worn path at sunset one sweet, cool evening tripping alone, for Sam was to meet her later on to-night; and, as she turned a bend of the field, she saw two figures in front of her. Annie Wells and could it be ? oh ! could it be Sam who had his arm about her slender waist as he bent his head to kiss her bonny cheek? It was Sam, in- deed! Susy felt sure of it. One eager, despairing glance she took, then hurried back the other way, and went home by the longer road, her poor little heart both sore and defiant, and her very soul 142 "COMIN' THRO' THE RYE." burning with wounded love and indignation. As she approached the cottage where she and her Aunt 'Liza lived, she heard a step behind her, apparently a little hurried. Well did she know whose step it was, but from a different feeling now, she would not even turn her head. Nor would she stop when Sam called her softly by her name. But now he was at her side, bending to look into her coldly averted face as she marched on in. silent disdain. "Susy!" he said, a surprised note in his fresh, young voice; "I've hurried so to overtake you. Did you come by the path thro' the rye-field, lassie?" She suddenly turned and faced him with indig- nant flashing eyes. "An' how dare you speak to me, Sam!" she cried, her pretty head now held straight up, and confronting him with flushed cheeks and defiant air. She would have turned away and gone on quickly then, but he moved in front of her, barring her progress ; and laying his big, brown hands lightly on her shoulders and gently forcing her to meet his gaze, he said to her quietly : "I don't know you the night, lassie! and I don't know what you mean 1 Tell me, dear, and let us part friends!" But she struggled to free herself, and he let her go, saying quietly, "Susy, lass, I love you well ; but I'll never speak to you again until you come to me and tell me what you mean!" He turned then, on his heel, and left her to go home alone. She hurried into the house, and flying up to her own little room, flung herself on the bed in a passionate fit of bitter weeping. Oh, how could Sam treat her so? And she had loved him loved him, but she could never care for him again, oh, no ! Only yesternight he had asked her to be his wife next Monday, and to-night she had seen him kiss- ing Annie Wells; and almost in the self same spot "COMIN' THRO' THE RYE." 143 where he had told his love to her in the field of waving rye. And yet he dared approach her after- wards, not knowing, she told herself with bitter scorn, that she had seen his perfidy. A gentle tap came to her door, and she hastily sat up, and raised her hands instinctively to smooth her tumbled hair. The door was opened gently, and a girl entered the dim little room. "Oh, Susy, your Aunty said she'd heard you come in, and I'd find you here. I want to speak to you," said Annie Wells; and though the darkness hid her face her voice was sweet and happy. She came close to her friend, and put her arms about her and went on. "He came to me the night as I was walking home among the rye he loves me, Susy, and I'm so happy dear !" Susy shivered, and tried to draw herself away. "What is it, Susy?" asked Annie in surprised dismay, "I thought ye'd like to be the first to hear it, lass! Won't ye bid joy to me an' Adam?" "Adam?" she cried, a little wildly. "Why, yesl Adam Stobie, from the next vil- lage, you know him well enough, I wot; he's so like Sam I" Susy flung her arms around her and kissed her silently, with a burning face and troubled heart. Then Annie went away. She fancied Susy was not well, and that would account for her strange recep- tion of the news. Meantime the girl bathed her flushed face, and went about her usual duties in a very subdued frame of mind. "What's come to ye, lassie," asked kind Aunty 'Liza; "are ye no' well?" But Susy pleaded weariness, and was dismissed early to bed that night. There she lay tossing and thinking painfully what she should do. Oh 1 what should she do? Would Sam forgive her if she went to him and told him all? But how could she go? 144 "COMIN' THRO' THE BYE." And yet, if she went not to him, he would never come again to her. She knew him well : when he passed his word once he clung to it, whatever might betide. The next day passed heavily to her. She saw Sam sometimes while at work, but he was very grave and silent, and he kept his head averted from the girl. He looked sad, too, she thought. Was he thinking of her, of their quarrel? And did he care? Oh ! how she missed his friendly looks and happy smiles; the merry jest, his ready help. How long the day was, and how weary she. The evening came at last, and she watched eagerly to see which way Sam would go home, what path he would take. She meant to keep quietly out of sight until he started and then to overtake him, and try to make it up 1 He went at last, and by the well-known path through the fields of rye. She let him get a little way ahead, and then followed, panting, trem- bling, though she walked so slow. He heard her coming, he knew her step; stopped, and half-turned. As she approached him she glanced up timidly, poor child, to see how he would look, that she might the better know how to begin. But the look that met her own dispelled her fears. She only knew that she was in his arms, held tenderly there, and sob- bing out on his broad breast her foolish little tale. For a moment only did he start with a touch of anger at her doubt of him and of his honest faith, and half put her away from him. But it was only to draw her back again more closely to the tender shelter of his strong arms. At length, both at peace once more with the world and one another, they sauntered on, when they heard from a distant field a sweet young voice singing some old song. They paused to listen, and just then a gentle breeze springing up suddenly, wafted a few words distinctly to their ears. "COMIN' THRO' THE RYE." 145 ''Comin' thro' the rye; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?" The breeze had dropped again, and the fresh voice passed on, dying away in the distance. But Sam had bent his head to look whimsically into his sweetheart's blushing face, as he asked her softly, "You'll never doubt me again, dear?" Her April look was reply enough. And so they wended their way together homewards, his arm around her slen- der form, his disengaged hand held fast in both of hers, as they trod the old worn path that led be- tween the billowy fields of gently waving rye. The Fading Light. "Well, Gray, I cannot understand how you, with your great talents, and with every likelihood of great success in your profession, if you would but apply yourself to study, have apparently so little ambition to excel. I often wonder how you contrive to do so well, when you give scant preparation to your studies. You are a constant marvel to me, Gray. But you really should work harder now, old fellow, for these stiff exams." "Oh, I'll study harder at the last, as usual, Lisle, and a dare say I'll get through well enough." "You lucky fellow!" the first speaker sighed regretfully, as, arm-in-arm with his (friend, he strolled through the College grounds. "I wish I had your talents and your ready memory. But still, I wouldn't leave it all to chance this time. If you have no ambition for yourself, I think you owe it to your father, Gray, to apply yourself a little more this year. What if you should altogether fail to pass in these coming final trials?" "I'm naturally averse to serious application, as you know," the other answered, with a careless laugh. "My father can well afford to keep me here for another year or two, and he allows me ample means. The dear old boy is far too kind and easy-going himself to quarrel with his only son for enjoying life a little before he settles down. There's no par- ticular hurry, Lisle. Of course, if I don't get through this year, I will apply myself in thorough THE FADING LIGHT. 147 earnest to succeed next time, and become a worthy member of the medical profession in due course." "But, in the meantime, think of your own credit, Gray. Can you indeed be utterly devoid of all ambition?" "Oh, that will come in time. I do indeed be- lieve that it lies latent in me, and will almost over- whelm me once it's roused. At present I elect to enjoy my youth and life." Lisle glanced at his good-looking, careless coun- tenance, and sighed once more, relapsing into silence. As they sauntered on they came in sight of a little group of College men, one of whom, glancing in their direction, presently detached himself from the others, and approached them with a letter in his hand. "Oh, Gray, well met! I have been looking for you this half-hour!" he exclaimed, with a good- humoured smile. "What are you two discussing now? I suppose Lisle has been taking you to task, as usual, for idling away your precious time ! But here's a letter for you, Gray; it was delivered here by the last post this afternoon." Gray took the letter carelessly, with some light answer, as he opened it, and the other two began a gay discussion over some recent College event. They were startled by a sudden exclamation from their friend, and turned towards him in surprise. His face was pained and eager as he read the closely-written contents with marked attention, and his cheek had an unwonted paleness. He folded the letter nervously at last, and turned to them. "My father is dangerously ill," he uttered, brokenly. "He has met with an accident has been thrown from his horse. I must go home at once!" Lisle placed his hand on his shoulder with a deeply-sympathising look, and, with one accord, the three young men turned towards the building. 148 THE FADING LIGHT. "The letter is from Mr. Osborne," Gray said presently, with an expression of deep trouble. "He is not the one to send for me unless there were great need. He is my father's lawyer and closest friend, and, I believe, knows more of his affairs than any- one. He hints at private trouble, urging my in- stant presence there, and regretting that he had not summoned me before. It seems they did not think at first that his injuries were serious." On arriving at his rooms, his two friends silently assisted him in making the necessary preparations for returning home, and Lisle accompanied him to the railway station, striving to show, by small acts of attentive kindness, his own sympathy. After an anxious and uneasy journey, Gray reached the station where he must alight, and, as the train stopped, to his infinite relief, Mr. Osborne himself appeared at the carriage door. He was unable to ask the eager question hovering on his lips, for Mr. Osborne's somewhat heavy, florid face bore tokens of distress and mental suffering as he grasped the young man's hand. "I came myself to meet you, Vernon," he said hurriedly; "the carriage waits for us outside the station will you come with ine? I must speak with you on the way home." The young man looked at him with a new dread of further trouble in his eyes, and followed him in silence. They entered the carriage and drove off together, but for a little while Mr. Osborne made no attempt to speak, and sat looking straight before him, knitting his heavy brows. Gray bent towards him nervously, and placed his trembling fingers on the old man's knee. "Speak !" he said hoarsely ; "I can bear it, for I know that you have something sad to tell me. Mr. Osborne, pray don't keep me in this cruel sus- pense!" The old man turned towards him with a deep THE FADING LIGHT. 149 grief depicted in his countenance. "My dear boy, I know not how to tell you. Vernon, all is over I your poor father is at rest!" An expression of deep anguish wrung the young man's countenance. "And I too late to see him I" he exclaimed reproachfully, with keen distress. "Mr. Osborne, you suppressed the truth from me at first, and you have caused delay. Why did you not tele- graph at once?" he added bitterly. "My boy, we did it for the best; we thought he was but slightly hurt. Bear up, for your poor mother's sake. She has enough to bear just now," he added, with a sigh. By this time they had arrived at the gates of the beautiful, well-kept grounds surrounding the handsome and luxurious house that Vernon called his home. Mr. Osborne alighted at the gates and went his way, leaving Vernon to go on alone, and a moment later he was entering the hall on his way to the library, where he was told his mother awaited him. On entering the room with nervous haste, a woman of slight figure, dressed in deepest mourn- ing, rose quickly from the couch on which she had been resting, and, meeting him, she clasped him in her arms. "Vernon, my poor boy! my dearest son! how I have longed for you to come ! Forgive me for not calling you before, it was so sudden, at the last!" She looked up piteously in his face, and for a moment her hardly-kept self-control gave way. Her son forgot his own distress to soothe and comfort her, and she soon recovered herself sufficiently to be able to tell him the sad details of his father's acci- dent and death. The next two days passed sadly by, and the necessary mournful changes had been made. Mrs. Gray, after a long private conversation with the lawyer, met her son with some anxiety. 150 THE FADING LIGHT. "I have something to tell you, Vernon," she said quietly, observing him with close attention as she drew him to a seat beside her. "My boy, you will be naturally much surprised and pained to hear the truth perhaps even more so than myself. It seems that we have been living above our means, and we have heavy debts to be cleared off. We must sell the house and furniture, and pay them out of the Bale of our effects." "And my studies, mother? Oh, I can't give up my chosen profession now !" "You shall not need, my dear. There will be a small but competent provision left for you to prose- cute your studies. It should be ample if you hus- band your resources carefully. I have discussed the matter fully with our good old friend." "And you?" he said. "I have some private means a little private in- come of my own on which I can live very comfort- ably in the meantime." Vernon Gray was silent. His eyes were down- cast, and his youthful, usually careless-looking face was sad and stern. "Don't blame your father, dear!" said Mrs. Gray with an appealing tone in her soft voice. As she spoke, she laid her hand on his shoulder with an apprehensive glance at his set face. His face cleared slightly as he returned her look, and he took her hand very gently in his warm, ner- vous clasp. "God forbid it, mother, and he so lately dead I My father was ever good and kind and generous to me. But yet, when I remember how we have lived in luxury and far above our means, and think of our altered circumstances now, I find it very hard to be content. Ah, mother, had I but the sums of money now I spent so idly end so carelessly, without one word of warning or re- proof, believing as I did that my father was a man THE FADING LIGHT. 151 of wealth and solid means! And could I but recall my wasted time! How deeply I regret that I did not work harder when I had the means of pushing on my studies at the Colleges, and of gaining honour in the noble art of healing I Mother, now when it almost seems too late, ambition has been strongly roused in me J I must I will succeed !" Time passed, and Gray had returned to his Col- lege and his friends. No need to urge him on to study now, for he worked very hard to regain lost time and ground and not without success. His old gay carelessness was gone, and his natural talents being very great, the results astonished those who knew him when he at length applied himself in real earnest to his work. His mother was living in a small town at some distance from their own lost home, and when he left her here, her son, with tender anxiety, had pleased himself in surrounding her with all the little luxuries that he could devise and procure for her, or her small cottage hold, for her comfort and benefit. It was too far from Lon- don, and their means were too much straitened now, for any visiting on either side, but their correspon- dence was regular, and a great comfort to the widowed mother. At length his final examinations were all over, and Vernon Gray was in a fever of suspense to learn the result of his hard work. He was invited to join a yachting party for a few weeks, as some old Col- lege friends of his intended taking a trip for recrea- tion after the hard brain work the recent examina- tions had entailed on them. Vernon, however, had already written to his mother, telling her that he intended joining her at once. He was surprised and pained at her reply, for Mrs. Gray strongly urged her son to take a long holiday before he came to her; and, indeed, for some reason seemed in- tensely anxious to keep him from her side. Much 152 THE FADING LIGHT. puzzled and dissatisfied, Vernon consulted his old friend Lisle. "I almost fear she may be out of health, per- * haps," he said uneasily, "and that she may desire to keep a knowledge of the truth from me. Her letters to me have been somewhat changed of late, her correspondence briefer and very irregular, and her writing looks less firm and clear than it did of old." "No doubt she has been somewhat hurried," answered Lisle. "I think you distress yourself un- necessarily ; I must say that I think your mother is quite right in what she says. You will be all the fresher for the holiday, if you go with the rest of us on this yachting trip. You are looking fagged and jaded now, and even ill. You have worked too hard of late, and, if it had continued longer, would have broken down. You are almost sure to have passed all satisfactorily, and will be able later on to meet your mother with the certain, news of your success, and will be fit to start at once in the practical exer- cise of your profession. It is worth waiting for, I think." Though somewhat uneasy still, Gray could not but own that Lisle was right, and he reluctantly agreed to join him and his other friends in the forthcoming trip. On his return to London later on, he was relieved from his suspense and chief anxiety by the news of his success with brilliant honours, even far above his dearest hopes and expectations. His relief and joy were balanced, however, by his renewed uneasiness regarding Mrs. Gray, for no news from her awaited him on his return. Now thoroughly alarmed, he made instant preparation for going to her, bitterly blaming himself for leaving it so late. On arriving at the railway station of the town, he left his luggage to be sent on after him, and took THE FADING LIGHT. 153 his way hurriedly on foot towards the little cottage where his mother lived. As he approached it nearer, he observed it had a cold and desolate appearance that struck a fresh chill into his anxious heart. The door, leading directly into the one small sitting- room, was open, and, as he approached, he saw Mrs. Gray sitting solitary by the cheerless hearth. He stood silently upon the threshold, looking in, notic- ing painfully that the room was poor and bare. There had been an air of comfort even luxury when he had left her there before he went to London. It was a chilly day, though the sun shone without, but there were only a few dying embers in the neglected grate, and she sat beside it with a drooping head. An open basket of half-finished fine embroidery stood on a small table near, and, with eyes made doubly sore with pain and anxiety, he noticed how the stitches had grown more and more uncertain and uneven in their course. The suspicion even knowledge of the truth burst on his anguished mind for the first time. He guessed all now, as in one vivid flash, and knew the meaning of the private means, the little income, she had spoken of to him. She had been working hard to keep herself, and spare him all she could, that he might work unhampered, and succeed. But how dearly his success was bought, Vernon Gray had still to learn. As he stepped forward he saw lying in her lap, and listlessly caressed by her white, fragile fingers, his own unread, unopened recent letters to her, and a deep sob rose to the young man's throat, as in some vague, uncertain way he felt instinctively that there must be some sad, pathetic reason for this cir- cumstance. As he moved nearer, she noticed his step for the first time, and turned her drooping head towards him listlessly. "Who is this? It is not like Bessie's step," her gentle, patient voice said plaintively. "How long 154 THE FADING LIGHT. the heavy hours have seemed to-day I the evening has come at last!" Cut to the heart, her son stood by, his trembling fingers resting in painful uncertainty and wonder on the little table near. He stepped towards her, and knelt by her side, clasping tenderly the hands that held the unopened letters on her knees. He looked with anxious attention on the worn and down- cast face. "Mother!" he faltered, "don't you know me? Are you ill?" "Vernon! Can it indeed be you? Have you come back to me at last? How long and tedious the time has seemed without you, dear ! How dark the room has grown ! I can't see your face ! Light the candle, Vernon; you will find it on the table there." Vernon gazed, with his whole soul in his dark eyes, on the pale, pathetic, patient face. "The sun is shining brightly, mother darling. See I it comes in through the open doorway, streak- ing the floor with golden gleams and bars of light. It is yet early in the afternoon. I walked in the bright sunshine from the station, even now, to tell you of success." The gentle face turned patiently to him, a new, strange look of mingled pain and gladness in the eoft grey eyes. "Success for you ! Thank God for that! then it has not been in vain ! You know now why I kept you from my side when most I longed for you. I wanted you to rest in happy ignorance as long as possible. But it has come at last ; it has been growing darker every day it has been growing darker every hour; it will always be dark now to me, Vernon, my son, my darling-I AM BLIND !" A Message from the Sea. The air was strangely close and still ; the even- ing light unusually dull and murky for this time of the year ; the waves tossed sullenly upon the strand, their hue of sad and sombre grey in dreary keeping with the heavy clouds that overcast the heavens ; the gulls flew screaming shorewards. It was the calm that comes before a storm. A solitary figure stood motionless on the sands, his arms crossed on his breast; his white, uncovered head unvaryingly turned towards the terrific-looking pile of frowning rocks of the wild, forbidding, iron- bound coast. As he stood thus, two other men ap- peared in view, coming slowly side by side across the long, flat waste of downs as they approached the strand, and conversing earnestly together as they came. One, tEe elder, a rough, weather-beaten man, was evidently of the fisher class, and bore the usual signs of toil and hardihood. The other was appar- ently a gentleman, and in weak health, and had come lately to this quiet fishing cove for change of air and scene, and to recover from the mental ex- haustion and the lassitude that attend on, those whose pursuits entail close occupation at a city desk. "A fine old fellow, yonder," the stranger said with interest, and indicating the solitary figure of the old, white-haired man. He turned to his com- panion as he spoke. "I have often taken notice of him, Cole, since I came here." "Ay, sir," was the reply; "old Andrew is the finest fellow of his age you would find hereabouts. I suppose as you've never heard his story, sir?" 166 A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. "No," said Mr. Simpson, with an evident in- crease of interest; "will you tell it to me, Cole?" "Well, sir, you must know as Andrew married somewhat late in life, and his young wife died when her little child was only two years old ; a bright wee thing, a winsome babe, with merry eyes as black as sloes, and a cloud of dusky hair. She was as the very apple of her father's eye, and it were a pretty sight to see him, rugged as he was, a-sitting with her on his knees, as gentle and as tender as a woman could ha' been. He had a bit of a silver band put on her tiny arm, an.' she wore it constant till it got too small for her. I was in Andrew's cottage one cold winter's night, when Bess was a fine-grown girl about fifteen, and her father had brought out the old seaman's chest he'd used aboard his ship when he were but a lad. He kept his treasures here, and many another odd and end. He was looking in amongst them for something as he wanted for his fishing gear, when the lass caught sight o' something glistening, and she just put in her hand an.' drew it out. " 'Why, daddy,' she cries suddenly, 'here's the wee silver band I wore so long ago !' "And he answered, 'Give it me it is my trea- sure, Bess! I would not part with it willingly.' "But the lassie answers with a merry laugh oh, sir, it rings in my ears now with a mournful sound 'No, daddy, let me keep it! It shall be my token and my message to you, if ever we get parted in the time to come.' "Ah, sir, that time came all too soon. When she was only seventeen she left her home an' mar- ried against her father's will. There were rumours of some good-for-nothing, ne'er-do-weel who'd over- persuaded her to emigrate with him to some far- distant land. But I never rightly knew the story or the details, sir, and her father was a sadly- A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 157 changed man from that day. He never heard of her again. It happened full five years ago. "But ever since he has been watching for her day by day, assured in his own mind as Bessie will come back to him, or send the promised sign. And he keeps all things in readiness in his own home hard by against his daughter's comin' : for I know that Andrew still clings for his comfort to those laughing words of hers, and he is ever looking for the sending of the token the message of the wee bit o' silver band." By this time they had come near to the old man, and Cole stopped short lest he should overhear. "Well, Andrew," he said cheerily, as he turned round quickly at their approach, "you're looking mighty serious to-night." "Ay, ay, sir; a storm is brewing, Ben. Look over yonder at the angry main !" "A storm is brewing, sure," said Cole, the an- xious harassed look of the old man repeating itself strangely on his own weather-beaten brow. "Heaven help all who are at sea to-night." "Amen!" responded Andrew solemnly, in low and earnest tones. As he spoke a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, succeeded presently by a smart shower, which soon came faster, growing more heavy every mo- ment. A soughing wind began to rise, steadily, though almost imperceptibly, increasing in its power and its deep note of warning ; the sea tossed in more sullenly ; the spray dashed higher as it came ; the heavens grew more overcast and lowering each mo- ment ; the air darkened momentarily, and the light was almost gone, fading rapidly into the deepest gloom. The storm was coming now I "Take shelter in my cottage, sir," said Andrew hurriedly, addressing Mr. Simpson. "Cole, you'll come with us?" 158 A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA "Not yet," responded Cole uneasily; "I've busi- ness yonder in the cove, in case of harm to-night. But I'll join you later on, maybe." The old man led the way along a narrow path, and Mr. Simpson followed him. They were but little wet when they arrived at Andrew's home, which was about a stone's throw from the shore. It was a poor place enough, but was unusually clean and very neatly kept, and there were rough signs of comfort and even of homely luxury, whilst a strange air per- vaded it, as of constant preparation, for some ex- pected but hitherto tardy guest. There was a dull fire smouldering on the hearth, and the old man stooped and patiently coaxed it into a bright blaze He gave his visitor the only easy chair, which he drew nearer the hearth for him ; and, taking his own seat on a sea-chest opposite, he filled his pipe in silence, and setting it alight, began to smoke. The storm without was at its height. The ele- ments had all this time increased in force and fury. The rain descended heavily in torrents ; the wind howled in. its fury as its gusts blew here and there; and the roaring of the sea told of the fearful dan- gers of the deep to-night. The two men sat on silently together, smoking on the hearth, and gazing at the glowing embers as they listened fearfully to the aweing, dreadful sounds without, old Andrew only moving now and then to put fresh fuel on the dying fire. They sat thus half the night, occasionally starting at some unusu- ally heavy thunder-clap. God knows what were the old man's thoughts; but his companion's were some- times with the storm, and sometimes wandering to the touching and pathetic tale which he had heard from Cole, as he fancied fitfully the girl's past life her innocent, blithe presence in this cottage home. By-and-bye, an abrupt and sudden movement attracted his attention to his host. He had risen A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 159 to his feet, and stood intently listening with an air of fixed attention. Mr. Simpson listened too, his nerves strung to the highest pitch. A shrill, peculiar sound-a long and piercing whistle-could be heard distinctly in a momentary lull of the uproar and the din. "That's Cole!" said Andrew, with a sudden agi- tation and a certain wild excitement in his hitherto monotonous, dull tones. As he spoke, the whistle came again, so wildly urgent in its entreating call and its warning note that it was heard even above the roaring of the storm itself. ^'There's a wreck at hand," cried Andrew, "and that's his call his warning to the men ashore to come and help. A ship has struck upon the coast to-night." He seized a rough sea-coat and tossed it to his guest, throwing an oilskin over his own. shoulders as they hurried out. They made their way with diffi- culty to the shore, wrestling with the wind and the fast-pelting rain alternately in black darkness, or lighted fitfully by the flashes of vivid lightning that seemed to rend the heavens in twain, and almost stunned by the terrific peals of thunder. It seemed as though the awful Last Day were at hand. Many dark figures of the fisher folk were already on the beach, all striving hard together with one object that of saving the poor souls on the wreck, which the occasional vivid flashes of the lightning showed them now and then, a dark mass looming off against the cruel, remorseless rocks of that iron- bound coast. Many on board had thrown themselves into the turbid waves when the vessel had struck, with the desperate, wild hope of swimming to the shore, and some had been dashed on it dead ; others had perished first, and only three were saved. The wreck broke up ere long, and fragments of it were 160 A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. drifted to the shore and tossed on it by the relentless waves in all their play of fury. Andrew's cottage being near at hand, the res- cued men of whom one was badly injured, one un- consciouswere taken there for shelter from the storm, and all was done for them that kindly hands and sympathetic hearts could prompt. The third man was exhausted from his buffet with the waves and struggles for his life, but was soon sufficiently recovered to tell them his sad tale. "We'd thirty souls aboard, all told," he said, involuntarily raising his arm and holding it across his eyes. "Amongst them were four women one little more than a girl, with a young child. The other women cried and shrieked with terror, but this one was quite calm and still. I brought her a life-buoy at the last," he said, rising as he spoke, and standing by the firseside with a working face, his evident excitement giving him a momentary strength; "but when I would have helped her she resisted, saying in a strained and hopeless almost stubborn way, 'It's no use; this is a judgment on me; whoever else is saved, I know that I shall never see my father or my home again !' She clasped her baby closer in her arms and turned away ; and that was the last I ever saw of her, for we broke up soon afterwards. And they've all gone down ! they've all gone down ! and only three are saved of thirty souls, all told!" Andrew had sat listening with bated breath, dry, feverish lips, and restless, working hands, to the account, and as the seaman finished and sank back again, exhausted, in his seat, he rose and passed out hurriedly into the darkness and storm. Cole tossed down his pipe and followed his old friend at once. Andrew stood already on the shore, which had been long deserted by the other men, and in the weird, bright flashes of the lightning he could see his white A MESSAGE FBOM THE SEA. 161 uncovered head and wind-tossed hair; and his arms were held out far towards the sea, and his voice rose on the storm with a wild, dreadful cry of poignant anguish and of hopeless pain : "Oh, for some sign some token it was she I Oh, for some message from her, that my erring child repented and was coming home to me! Father of Mercy! send me this, that my last breath may be drawn in peace and hope!" Even as he cried, the message came. A wave had been gathering, and it was rolling towards him now wtih its snow-crested ridges; and a vivid and protracted flash of lightning came, as it tossed to his feet the lifeless body of a little child. And on its tiny arm there shone a white gleam from a slender silver band ! Platonic Friendship They lived in the self-same street, but on oppo- site sides of the way, in the quaint old German town. Gustave was a musician, and played in the orchestra there. He had lived here many years, devoted to his profession, and making no intimate friends amongst his musical acquaintances. Rehearsals over, it was his wont to hurry home, or perhaps to take a solitary stroll about the town, or to walk as far away into the country as he could go afoot. He adored his violin and loved his books, and was quite happy in a quiet world of his own. But then came Christabel, the fair English- woman, so youthful and so sad, to live in her quiet rooms in that quaint old street with her faithful English maid, gaining wherewithal to pay her way by teaching her own tongue to German pupils in the town. Quietly she took possession of her rooms across the way, and lived there in retirement, served by the devoted Hannah, and going forth daily to give her English lessons to her pupils. Gustave often watched her passing in the street, and specu- lated in his dreamy way, longing to know her, but little thinking it might ever come about. One dull, wet afternoon, glancing from his lat- ticed casement, he saw her coming along the street on her way home, some books beneath her arm. Struggling with her umbrella in the wind, she dropped one unobserved, and, entering her house, she left it lying on the road. In a moment Gus- tave had laid down his violin, and, picking up the PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 163 book, he wiped the mud stains carefully away, and went towards her door to return it to its owner. Even as he Knocked, the door was opened from with- in, and they stood together face to face for the fisst time. Discovering her loss, Christabel had come again to seek her book. "I found it on the street," he said, in his quaint, broken English, "I saw it fall as I looked from my casement." Her sweet, sad face had brightened with a smile. "I thank you, sir," she answered, in good German. Gustave bowed, and, giving her the book, withdrew. This was their first meeting, but not their last, and the acquaintance thus begun ripened into warm and lasting friendship. He would often walk with her as far as their ways went, and, as time went on, she would invite him sometimes to take tea with her in the pleasant English fashion. Many a sunny afternoon would they sit by her open casement, where bloomed her Jiinglish flowers and sweet-smelling mignonette, looking out into the street with its quaint shadows and patches of golden sunshine, where a few German children were playing quietly. And Christabel would give him tea and the hot cakes which Hannah made to such perfection. And they would compare notes of their native countries and their ways, and hold together many an inter- esting conversation the quietness only broken by Hannah's light step, as she passed from time to time the open door, busy with some household occu- pation in the adjoining room. Christabel knew all Gustave' s tastes, and all his uneventful life, for he had told her long ago. But he knew no more of hers than what he saw, for she was ever silent on that topic, and he had never sought to intrude upon her confidence. She was simply Christabel to him the little English teacher to her German pupils; yet 164 PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. that she had a history he did not doubt. Else, why should she be thus alone in a strange land? this lovely English girl, with her sad, sweet face, and gracious, quiet ways. Was Hannah in her confi- dence? he wondered. He could hardly tell. But Hannah obviously trusted her, and served her with a tender devotion almost approaching worship of her youthful mistress. Changes came in their quiet and uneventful life. Gustave fell sick, and lay even at death's door. Then Christabel went over with her maid, and they nursed him slowly back to life. A day came when he was able to rise again, and sit once more by the old latticed casement, with his thin, wan face and wasted form ; and he would watch the street for signs of Christabel returning from her pupils. One day she was much later, but she came at last, and entered for a moment, to place before him, with a sunny smile that came like sunlight to her sad, still face, a bunch of fragrant country flowers. "Yes, Gustave, from the country, where you shall go soon!" "I?" he stammered, "but I cannot go. I must return to the rehearsals now." "Nay," she answered smiling, "I have arranged all that for you, my friend. You will like to go?" "Ah! do I not love the country well? I should like to go, indeed ; but I see not how it can be managed." "We will discuss all that when you return all strong, and fresh, and brown, from the pure, sweet, sunny air. In the meantime, you will go in silence, Gustave, to please your friend." "Ah! you have done so much for me. How cao I ever prove my gratitude?" Often did the thought return to him when he was settled at a farm-house far away from town. PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 165 Yet, in spite of the pure air and all the kind atten- tion he received, he gained no strength, and a strange, sharp pain began to come in his left side. In these days wandering solitary in the fields he often lay in the warm, sweet meadow grass, to reso and meditate: and his thoughts were all of ChrUta- bel. A strange anxiety for her welfare slowly grew on him, and he longed to know her history and her own inmost life, that he might rest assured she was not friendless and alone in the wide world. At length she came to visit him, accompanied, as usual, by the faithful maid. She was distressed at Gustave's want of strength, and marked uneasily how like the shadow of his former self her friend Lad grown. They had wandered out into a meidow, and were resting on the daisied grass together, side by side. Gustave was leaning on his arm, stretched out upon the turf, and was observing Chrrstabel at- tentively as she gazed across the downs with sad and wistful eyes. "You are unhappy," he said earnestly; "will you not trust me, Christabel ? Tell me what troubles you, and let me try to aid you." She turned towards him suddenly. "Nothing can help me no one can help me NOW," she cried, with an unwonted passion, clasping her hands in one another nervously. He laid his thin and fragile hand on her two trembling ones, speaking very earnestly : "Christa- bel, I have long feared you had some secret trouble. I have thought of you so constantly of late. Can it be that you have left your home, perhaps your father " "Oh, my father!" she cried, interrupting Him. She flung his hand away and broke down suddenly, in an utter abandonment of grief that cut him to the heart to see and hear. He sat beside her silently, 166 PLATONIC FEIENDSHIP. longing to comfort her, but not knowing how. Grow- ing quiet at last, she turned to him with a look of hopeless sadness, more painful to him even than her weeping. "You are right I have indeed a story. Hear it, Gustavo, and then, judge if I did right. My father oh 1 I loved him ; whatever he may have been, he was always kind and good to me. Yet he brought the trouble on me, for he forced on me a marriage that could bring no happiness. My earliest recollections are of poor and obscure lodgings, where we lived alone, and of my father's betting, card- playing friends. And we were very poor till Mr. Hampton came. I often wxmdered what attraction drew him there, for he did not seem like the rest, and never played or betted, but sat by, cold and stern, and sometimes watching me in a strange way I could not understand. When my father told me Mr. Hampton had asked him for my hand in mar- riage, I resisted till he told me it was for his eake, and that I had it in my power to save him from utter ruin and misery : for though my father was a gentleman by birth, he had sunk deeply in the social scale. So a price was paid for me I was literally bought and sold. I married Mr. Hampton ; but on the very day he was to take me to his home, my father died and made my sacrifice of self-respect and pride in vain. They would not let me see him," she said, trembling at some frightful recollection : "but there seemed something strange and horrible about his death, and it was whispered he had died by his own hand." Christabel paused, her fair face crimsoned still with bitter grief and shame, burning with wounded feeling and insulted womanly pride. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and such an expression of unrelenting sternness and resentment towards her PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 167 absent husband sat upon her brow and darkened her clear eyes, that Gustave, who had only known her in her gentle sadness, was amazed. "I left Mr. Hampton," Christabel went on in a low voice, "on the eve of the day he brought me to his home. I fled from him secretly, and, aided and accompanied Dy Hannah, who had been my mother's nurse and mine, I came away from England to this quiet town a year ago." She turned, and looking keenly at the man be- side her, she regarded him in silence for a little while. "Gustave!" she said suddenly, and with an al- tered manner-subdued and almost pleading-"tell me I did right in acting as I did." Gustave met her pleading eyes with a regretful, gentle firmness in his gaze. "Christabel, it was not right," he answered slowly and deliberately. I think you were unfair to him and to yourself. You acted on a rash impulse. Christabel!" he went on earnestly, "you may have been mistaken in your hasty first conclusions-that he took undue advantage of your helplessness. What proof have you that Mr. Hampton had not acted for your own dear sake, and solely for your own benefit?" "For my own sake!" she faltered, the idea occur- ring to her now for the first time. "Yes; if he loved you, it would be his earnest wish to take you from the life your father lived- from your surroundings, and from such a hurtful moral atmosphere." Gustave spoke with a quiet con- viction which, for a moment, made its impress on her mind. "You blame me?" she asked, hurriedly shaking off the influence as he rose and stood beside her. He was looking down on her with tender pity. He understood her now this fair, impulsive creature, 168 PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. with her true and tender heart, but all her youthful impatience and her pride as yet undisciplined. Now had come his opportunity and time to proTe his friendship for her, even at the cost of anger and their mutual pain. "I blame your haste," he answered, gently. "Christabel," he added eagerly, "listen to your friend. Write to your husband now, and come to an understanding with him ere it be too late. You owe him the attempt." "He would not hear me now," she answered bit- terly, "even were I willing a second time to sacrifice my pride to him." The girl had risen to her feet, and stood before him, disdain and indignation flashing from her once calm, gentle eyes. "We will speak no more of this," she said, in cold and icy tones; "I can only blame myself, of course, for giving you my confidence," she added bitterly. As she turned away from him with haughty pride, Gustave looked after her with grieved hurt eyes, pressing his hand against his side to still the keen, sharp pain that came so often now. He soon returned to his old quarters in the town, and to his work, but Christabel was distant with him now, and carefully avoided meeting him. Gustave felt it keenly. At length a day came when, as he was languidly returning home, he heard the welcome sound of her light, elastic step behind him, and he turned eagerly to meet her. In a moment she was at his side, raising a repentant face to meet his gaze. Christa- bel was looking pale and nervous, and he discovered some subtle change in her. "Will you forgive me, Gustave?" she said gently, as she put her hand in his. "I have been thinking you were right," she went on hurriedly, "and I have written to my husband, and await his answer." PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 169 Without another glance at him, she turned hastily away, and disappeared from view, Gustave looking after her with a radiant smile. "All will be well with Christabel," he thought. "My prayers for her welfare will not be in vain !" he added softly, with simple, child-like faith in the goodness of God. Their pleasant, friendly intercourse was now renewed, though they were silent on the topic that was most often in their thoughts. And so the weeks passed by, but no letter came to answer Cnristaoel. One afternoon, as Gustave was returning from re- hearsal, he was accosted by an English stranger in the street, and his heart bounded and throbbed pain- fully at his first words, for the house to which he asked his way was that of Christabel's. Gustave, offering to be his guide, walked on in silence by his side, regarding him with keen intentness as they passed along the streets. The stranger, apparently, was lost in thought, and heeded not his earnest, searching gaze as Gustave marked the nobility of traits which Christabel, alas ! in her blind haste and bitterness of spirit, had failed to see or recognise: for he knew instinctively that this was Mr. Hamp- ton, and his anxiety for Christabel was set at rest. "All will be well for her!" he murmured softly, as, having pointed out the stranger's way, he en- tered his own house, and closed the door. "How he must love her, thus coming straight to her in answer to her letter. God has been good indeed to Christa- bel !" He went to his casement, and was just in time to see the stranger enter the well-known house across the way. Gustave's hand was pressed against his side to still the old, sharp pain, and ft strange faint- ness now stole over him. But as he turned away, a bright, sweet smile irradiated his pale, suffering 170 PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. face, as he thought of the joy that would now be Chistabel's. Meantime, the girl had seen the stranger coming, for she, too, had been pensively looking from her latticed casement on the street, as she abstractedly bent over her sweet English mignonette. She was standing now just inside the door of her little sitting- room, awaiting him with paling cheek and wildly- beating heart. She could hear Hannah's exclama- tion as she showed him in ; then Mr. Hampton gently closed the door, and turned again towards his wife. He said no word, but answered the mute pleading of her eyes by taking one quick step towards her and gathering her with infinite love and tenderness to his true heart. "Christabel! poor child ! you should have tried to trust me. Why were you not more patient '? I have read your letter to me many times, and I am here to answer you. My own darling, could you not see I married you because I loved you dearly, and because I felt such tender pity and anxiety for you? Having seen you accidentally at first, I visited your father for your sake, and I resolved to save you from the degradation of surroundings so unfit for your sweet purity. I hoped that, once your husband, I should soon win your heart, but circumstances were against me," he said sadly, "and your mind was filled with pride and prejudice. You left me ere I had a chance to speak. Oh ! how I suffered, Christa- bel, when my wife fled and left no trace behind. And with what joy did I receive your letter, dear!" "Let us go to Gustave," whispered Christabel, after some time had passed, during which a thorough understanding had effaced the past. "Gustave is the friend of whom I told you. He first made me feel that I had done you wrong, and it is through him I know the sweetness of being forgiven by you !" PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 171 As she spoke, she clung the closer to the husband whom she knew and loved now for the first time in her life, hiding her happy, blushing face against his breast. So they went to Gustave's rooms across the way, and, entering softly, found him resting, with closed eyes and placid brow, upon his couch, his hand pressed to his side. "Gustave!" said Christabel, with eager joy, as she bent over him, and drawing Mr. Hampton near, "dear Gustave, we have come to thank and bless you for our happiness. This is my husband, Gustave, whom you taught me first to know." Gustave languidly unclosed his eyes. Instinc- tively he felt for Mr. Hampton's ready hand with his own feeble one, but his look was bent on Christa- bel, and his eyes beamed with a holy love not of a brother it was too intense; not of a lover it had too much of heaven in it for that : a bright, celestial smile shone on his face, and made it beautiful as he passed through the gates of Death into Eternal Life. A Child's First Grief. The children had come in from the garden, looking tired and cross. Bridget had left them in the school- room whilst she went to fetch their tea, and they stood silently swinging their garden hats in their hands, with downcast, pouting looks. Their mother joined them there as Bridget was re-entering with the tea-tray, and, putting an arm about her little girl, she drew her to her side, and smiled plea- santly at Norman, who still stood swinging his garden hat close by. "Have my children had a happy afternoon?" asked Mrs. Stewart gently ; "and are they now quite ready for their tea? Flossie, my child, how hot and flushed you are! I fear you have been running about too much on this hot day." Very gently she put back the child's soft hair, and, observing both the children very anxiously and very closely, the table now being ready for their evening meal, she left them to be washed and brushed by Bridget, and to have their tea. "Robert, I am afraid that Flossie is not quite well," the children's mother said next morning, to her husband, as they sat at breakfast. "Will you send the doctor up to see her, on your way to town?" "She seemed well yesterday," said Mr. Stewart, who was quick to take alarm about his little girl "Is it anything serious, dear?" "I don't know yet. I'm keeping the child in bed until the doctor comes, and I have told Bridget to keep Norman away from her until I am quite sure A CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. 178 there is no fear of infection. He did not sleep in the nursery last night. If Flossie should be seriously ill, I shall send Norman to his aunt's till she is better. She scarcely touched her meals yesterday, and Bridget tells me she was very feverish and thirsty all last night. Pray, Robert, send the doctor up as soon as he can come." Mr. Stewart left home that day with preoccupied and anxious looks, and his wife was about to go up- stairs to her sick child, when her little son came run- ning up to her. "Mother," said Norman eagerly, "may I not go up to Flossie now? Bridget says I mustn't; but I want to go so much ! I said I would ask you. I have not seen her since last night, at tea." "Darling, I can't let you go just yet. I am afraid poor Flossie's going to be ill, and I don't want you to be ill, too, if I can help it." "Mayn't I see her for a little while?" he pleaded anxiously. "Oh, I will be so good. Oh, mother, 1 can't bear my Flossie to be sick !" "Think of mother, Norman; it would be hard for me to have both my children sick. We don't know what is the matter with her. You shall go to her as soon as possible." She put her hand per- suasively on the child's shoulder as she spoke, and he turned away with a half-stifled sigh, and an unsatis- fied, unhappy air that she remembered afterwards. When the doctor came, it transpired that little Flossie had sickened for typhoid fever of a most malignant type, and Norman was sent to his aunt's without delay. There he remained all through his sister's illness, an unsuspected prey to an unusual amount of anxiety and suspense. In spite of all the anxious watching and the skilful care bestowed upon her, little Flossie died. The broken-hearted parents turned their thoughts 174 A CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. with yearning to the time when it might be safe to bring home again their sole remaining child, to fill their empty arms and aching hearts. The news had been broken to Norman very gently by his aunt, and she was much distressed at the way he had taken it. "Not like a child," she said, perplexed, and marvel- ling at his unwonted quietude. But he drooped and pined about the place till he was taken home. Even then, his mother's fond and close embrace made little change in him. He clasped her closely round the neck, and hid his face against her, but afterwards he went about as usual, with that strange composure and the old look of helpless, hopeless misery that no- thing seemed to break. "How he misses Flossie!" Mrs. Stewart said sorrowfully to her husband, as they sat alone, in the cool of the evening, after Norman had gone to bed. Her husband's arm was round her, and her head drooped on his shoulder, her arm lying languidly up- on his neck. "I think it is something more than that, my love. It seems to me that there is something on his mind. But we must wait, I fear, till we can get him to open his wounded childish heart to us, of his own accord. He is not in a fit state to be dealt with carelessly." Late that night the father sat alone among h books, thinking sorrowfully of his little child who had so lately died. And he was anxious, too, about his son. At a late hour he went upstairs to seek his rest. Norman, he knew, still occupied the little room to which he had been removed when Flossie had first sickened, and since her death the nursery had been untenanted. But now, as he passed by the door, he was surprised to notice that it was half open, and he was startled and alarmed at hearing a half-articu- late and smothered cry within. The light from the A CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. 175 lowered gas-jet in the passage just outside pervaded the room with a subdued and softened glow when he pushed the door open hastily and entered. A small, white night-gowned figure stood beside the empty cot of his dead child a little figure with a face of unspeakable anguish, and two small hands that beat themselves together in an agony of grief. "Norman, my child, what are you doing here?" "Papa! Papa! I thought that Flossie had come back. Oh, I want Flossie Flossie!" The child still beat his hands together in his bitter and im- potent grief. "Darling little one, you have been dreaming," said his father soothingly, as he tenderly raised him in his arms to take him back to his own room. There he sat on the bedside, still holding him against his breast, and his tears fell fast above the little head. He felt an anguished yearning for his little, dear, dead child, and for his son an undefined, vague sense of terror and alarm. Was he going to lose him, too? He drew him closer to his bosom at the thought, and bent above him with a yearning tenderness. "Tell father what troubles you, my little son." Something in his strong emotion seemed to give him power to break the spell of silence that was laid on the child's lips to his own hurt. The pent-up misery burst forth at last in tears and incoherent words, and pauses that relieved and healed the stricken, childish heart. "Papa ! I thought that Flossie had come back I went to see I Papa, I went to tell her something I That last afternoon we were together we were playing I was unkind to her. And Flossie's gone away and I can never tell her I am sorry!" His Dying Wish. "Yes, Arthur, you must leave me," the girl re- peated firmly, and repulsing the young man as he would have taken both her hands in his, where they stood in the moonlight at the vessel's side. And the dark shadow of the unseen listener in his dusky nook, hard by, moved involuntarily nearer to the two. "You must never be alone with me again," she went on wearily, but not less firmly, "whilst we are on board together. When we reach port you must leave the 'Seagull' without farewell to me." "Marjorie! Is this the way in which you love?" he asked her bitterly, "or are you made of stone?" "Don't make it harder for me, dear," she said, with a sudden break in her clear tones. How can I do otherwise than send you from me NOW?" "Why need we part at all?" he asked her pas- sionately, and turning an appealing face to her. "Arthur! What can you mean? What other course is there before us save complete separation. She looked at him with such an utter wonder in her face and voice, that his gaze sank to the waters, and he turned his countenance away from her abashed. "How came you to marry him?" he muttered hoarsely, "knowing I loved you, and that I would return to claim you when I could P" "Of what use to tell you?" she responded, with HIS DYING WISH. 177 a dreary, mirthless little laugh. "It is only the tale of 'Auld Robin Gray' again. Ah 1 Andrew does not know, and he is so good and kind. Leave me, Ar- thur ! by all that is good and manly in your heart, and never seek again to be alone with me. You came on board the 'Seagull' as a mere passenger, and apparently an utter stranger to me. Remain one till you land again." Resolve and pain were written equally upon her countenance, and the young man touched her hand with some half-muttered word of farewell, accepting his dismissal. They separated slowly, and each went their way and disappeared from view. Then the man who had been hearkening within the shadow of the mast came forward in the moon- light, and raising his face to heaven in his mingled suffering and gratitude, he disclosed the weather- beaten features of the captain of the ship. "God bless her for it she was true to me," he said. "Thank God; thank God!" Footsteps approaching him, he glanced up, as the mate passed by. "A fine night, captain," he cried cheerily; ''but the breeze has dropped a bit, and left the sails." "Ay, Joe; but it'll freshen soon, I think." The mate passed on, and the captain went below. The days passed by, the solitary passenger on board the sailing ship keeping quietly to himself, ap- parently an utter stranger to the young wife of Captain Wilson, who watched them both with a sharp and gnawing pain at his own heart. There was a slight and almost insensible change in his own manner to his wife. Always careful of her, and ten- der to her as he had ever been, his habitual gravity was now increased, and his manner grew insensibly more fatherly, with a respectful and protective gen- tleness. He noted, with mingled pain and pleasure, Marjorie's redoubled efforts to minister to his com- 178 HIS DYING WISH. fort and pleasure, and felt that she strove to be with him as much as was possible. They were sitting together on the deck one after- noon, Marjorie quie*ly reading by his side, whilst he smoked hie after-dinner pipe and mused. He was deeply absorbed in his own thoughts when the mate appeared, and, approaching them hastily, with a somewhat clouded countenance, he asked the cap- tain's leave to speak apart with him. They with- drew to the side of the ship. "Captain," the mate said anxiously, and speak- ing in low, emphatic tones, as he glanced across his shoulder to make sure he was not overheard, "the ship has sprung a leak I" "Where, Joe?" The captain's voice was short and sharp. "Down in the hold. I've been shifting the lad- ing, but I haven't found the place. I think, maybe, I'll find it soon." "I'll go below with you," said Wilson hastily, and with an anxious glance towards his wife. They went down together to the hold, and, re- turning after some delay, they held an anxious con- sultation in the captain's cabin. "We must man the pumps, Joe," Wilson said at last, "and, if we don't find the leak speedily, we'd better prepare the boats, in case the worst should befall. Meantime, keep it as quiet as pos- sible." The pumps were manned forthwith, but the leak apparently increased, and, in spite of a careful shifting of the cargo, it had not been found. A wind sprang up, the sea got rough and choppy, and they began to fear that a gale was coming on. The captain was crossing the deck next day, m anxious thought, when the mate passed by with a harassed countenance. The captain caught his look, and felt that it endorsed his own worst fears. HIS DYING WISH. 179 "Joe," said he in a low voice, as he beckoned him aside, "I fear our preparations for abandoning the 'Seagull' must be made." "Captain, one of the boats has been stove in it is unfit. And there's not time, nor men, to spare to put her to any use. I've told off the best men to flie pumps." "She won't keep afloat much longer, Joe; she's an old, uncertain vessel for rough weather at the best, when anything goes wrong. I will secure the ship's papers now, and attend to other important matters. See to the other boats; store them with necessaries, and prepare the sailors for the worst." "Captain, the remaining boats won't hold us all. I've thought it over, captain. At the best, there's two or three too many of us." "We'll manage for one or tvjo more. Put in less loading, Joe, for one of them. We'll leave this matter for the last we can't tell now." The mate turned hastily away to start the pre- parations. The time crept by. The ship was tossing on the rough grey sea ; the wind was whistling with a new, intimidating, warning note; and the hearts of all on board beat fast, for they knew now to the full the danger they were in, and the leak was gaining fast. Silently and quickly they prepared for leaving the doomed ship. Then the time came when they all drew closely round together in 'a little group, and Captain Wilson drew the mate aside. "Joe, you were rigKt. The boats won't hold ws all. One man must stay behind." "That's it, captain. I'm the man; I'll stay I" "No, Joe. You are too useful to be spared. I trust to you to get them safely through the risk, if it be in man's hand. And, Joe, I mean to stay behind." 180 HIS DYING WISH. There was a strange and solemn joy in Captain Wilson's countenance. "Captain, I'm not a married man like you, I've got no friends as would miss me overmuch. Sir, think of your wife, as is so young, and let me be the man!" The man spoke earnestly. "I think of her with all my heart and soul, and I am glad to do it for her sake, without doing wrong ! You'll be picked up if the gale does not increase, or if you weather it. We're in the usual course the vessels take. I look to you to see her safe. You will take care of her for me and him ! Joe He broke off suddenly, and indicated by a glance his wife and the passenger, who stood apart from one another, but whose looks had bridged the gulf in time of peril. Their eyes were fixed on one an- other's faces with a look that might tell an intelli- gent bystander all the tale. Vaguely understanding, vaguely guessing, though he did not know their story, the rough seaman's faithful affection for his captain caused him somewhat to divine the truth. Involuntarily he turned and pressed his hand. One boat-load was got off. Then the remaining men began to enter the last boat. The captain's wife was carefully lowered into it, many rough hands being held forth to guard her, lest she might be hurt. The solitary passenger soon followed, and the mate and captain, being It ft alone on deck, turned to one another for a last farewell, and grip- ped each other by the hand. "Joe," said the captain earnestly, "when I give you the word, push off and pull hard for your lives. Remember my charge to you." A tear started to the seaman's eye. He turned away without a word, and was quickly over the ves- sel's side, and in the boat. HIS DYING WISH. 181 "Push off!" cried Captain Wilson. The boat shot off with a sudden, powerful swing, in spite of the rough, choppy sea; and, pulled by strong, willing hands, rapidly increased the distance between the little barque and the abandoned ship. They had got some distance away when Marjorie, who had been gazing anxiously toward the crew of the other boat, seemed to become aware suddenly that her husband was not with them. She rose to her feet in a sudden terror of alarm, her face full of a passionate remorse, as she clasped her hands together on her breast. "Andrew!" she cried wildly. "Joe, my husband has been left behind. Turn the boat back again I" The mate caught her quickly by the arm, and gently forced her down in a safe place in the wave- tossed boat. She turned to the passenger, and cried passionately to him : "Save my husband, Arthur, for my sake!" She did not cry in vain. He instantly responded by a look. He had already started up, and, reading a fixed and dogged obstinacy of deliberate disobedi- ence in the seamen's eyes, he was about to plunge into the waves, as though with the intention of swimming back again, hopeless as seemed the task in such a sea. The mate caught hold of him in his turn, and held him in a firm grasp. "My lad, it's too late now. We could not save him if we would. The ship is settling down, and we'd but be drawn down with her if we went near. I have my captain's orders, and the men know what they have to do." Then, with a strong, impotent yearning for the doomed man in the sinking ship expressed in his rugged, weather-beaten face, he added solemnly, with a deep note of faltering in his tones: "He bade me leave him to his fate, and see you and the lady safe: it is his dying wish." His Life for His Friend. It was a miserable day ; the rain was beating down in torrents, and a cold, sharp wind was blow- ing, seeming to cut through the scanty clothing of a boy standing near the corner house of a street in Sydney. Huddled up for warmth, he crouched in an angle of the wall, his eyes fixed with an air of sharp attention on the closed house door, as though he watched for someone to issue forth. At length it opened, and a young and bright-faced man came out, and, lightly descending the stone steps, he bent his head to meet the sharp, keen wind. As he ap- proached the corner, the boy, on the alert, sprang up to meet him, carefully drawing a newspaper from beneath the shelter of his ragged coat. "What I are you here as usual?" Arnold Moore asked cheerily, taking the proffered paper, and feeling in his pocket for some change. "I hardly thought to find you at your post on such a day. Whew! what wretched weather." He put a coin in the boy's hand and hurried on, but, suddenly turning, he came back again. "By the way," he said, "I'm going out of town for a few days, but you must not lose your customer for all that. Will you leave my papers at the house whilst I'm away? I'll pay you for them now. What I A lucky shilling! We mustn't break that, Dick here, take it, boy, and leave my papers at the house as usual for me!" And with a bright and friendly smile he went away. HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND. 183 The lad stood gazing after him, an intense and yearning look in his brown eyes, repeating to him- self the young man's words, "Going out of town for a few days going out of town." What did any- thing matter to him now? What could anything matter till he returned again ? For the first time he felt the biting wind and merciless beating of the rain, for the sunshine had all left his boyish heart. He wondered how he should get through the long and dreary hours till he saw his only friend. No use to haunt this well-known corner now, to catch brief glimpses of him, and receive perhaps a smile or kindly word to make sunshine in his heart for hours to come, and cheer him through an otherwise bitter and hard day. And yet how little the young man, a rising surgeon at the hospital in Macquane- street, knew of the devotion of this poor boy, how unconscious was he of his patient waiting to catch even a brief glimpse of him, a look ; a smile ! But Dick had turned away, remembering with a start that he must sell his papers or brave hia father's anger and heavy hand. When evening fell he had sold nearly all, and found his way back to the wretched garret which they called their home. His bare and nimble feet bore him lightly and swiftly up the crazy stairway, and he entered the dim and cheerless garret with a timid shrinking glance to- wards the heap of rags and straw where generally lay his father's heavy form. He was not there to- night, however, and, left alone in darkness, cold and hungry as he was, the boy sobbed himself to sleep on his poor couch. The morn dawned fair and bright, and he wol from some happy dream with a smile on his lips, to hear the cheerful twitter of a sparrow just outside the broken casement, and to see a stray sunbeam flickering through. The smile soon faded away as his eyes fell on his father, lying in a heavy sleep up- 184 HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND. on the floor, and he rose quickly and crept out to the streets to his daily business of vending papers to the passers-by. A week passed on, he watched eagerly from day to day for the return of Arnold Moore, feeling a fresh pang of disappointment as each one passed and brought him not, yet rising in the morn- ing with fresh hope for the ensuing day. One after- noon a little crowd had gathered around a tall, spare man, who was delivering a sermon in the street. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend," he was saying, as Dick crept up to listen with the rest. He heard, perplexed and wondering. What could be the mean- ing of the words? and who was this of whom the preacher spoke that had said them, long ago ? Long after the crowd had dispersed and gone away, the boy still pondered deeply, and at last a light burst on his mind. He had a friend, he thought, One dear, dear friend, who knew not of his love, how gladly would he give his life for him. Thinking thus, though in a vague, dim way, he passed along the streets on his way home, for his papers were all sold, and the afternoon, was drawing to a close. Suddenly distant sounds of some disturbance broke upon his ear, excited cries of terror and of warning and he turned his head to see a hansom in the dis- tance rushing wildly on towards him. Some part of the harness had given way, and the reins having broken, the horse was beyond the control of the driver, who clung to his seat with pallid face and wide distended eyes. The occupant of the vehicle, being jammed in by the luggage piled in front of him sat gazing straight before, with contracting brow and sternly-set lips, awaiting with stern com- posure the expected danger, for the horse was neir- ing rapidly, the corner of the street where the kerb turned suddenly at a sharp angle, and was evidently rushing straight for it. An excited crowd, afraid HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND. 1S5 to make any effort to check the horse's speed, was watching its headlong course, but one swift glance at that stern, white face was enough for poor Dick, for he had recognised his friend. With an inarticu- late cry he rushed upon the horse as it approached, and sprang at its head, but, missing it, he was struck down and trampled on. He had checked its wild pace, however, and a burly policeman, seizing the opportunity the boy had made, caught its head. An instant more, and a pitying crowd had gathered round the motionless little form that lay Ic.w in the dust, foremost of them all the man whom Dick had saved from danger, and perhaps from death. "Carry him to the hospital in Macquarie- street," he said, in tones that were constrained and stern. "I am a dresser there," he added again im- peratively, repeating his command, impatient at even the momentary delay. The boy was carried there at once, and tenderly cared for by a sweet- faced nurse of the ward where he was placed, the young surgeon who had brought him in attending him anxiously. He was fearfully mutilated, and at first they feared he might be dead, but after a little while he partially revived. Towards the morning the nurse who had attended him first, was watch- ing by his side, when young Moore joined her there. The boy had lain in a kind of stupor for some time, but the young man's presence appeared to rouse him up. As he bent anxiously over the bed, Dick's eyes unclosed, and he languidly stretched out his un- wounded hand to take the young surgeon's and draw it to his lips with a look of unspeakable con- tentment and devotion. Then an expression of an- xiety agitated his white face, as though he were striving to remember something that eluded his ut- most efforts to grasp. "The words," he murmured in a feeble whis- 186 HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND. per, "I can't mind the words 'life for a friend' - 'life for a friend' " The sweet-faced nurse was bending over him, her ear to his lips. Tender and quick-witted, she caught the meaning, guessing what he wanted. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend," she repeated soft- ly. The boy's face lighted up. He looked at Arnold Moore with his whole soul in his soft brown eyes. "That's me," he said in a low tone of intense delight. Then an expression of yearning filled his eyes " The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part." It only found utterance in the words, "You was good to me." He gently turned his cheek to rest on his friend's hand, and, saying so, he died. "Would I had done something for him long ago," thought the young surgeon with unspeakable remorse, as he went down the hospital steps in the cold, grey morning light. And yet he had done more than he had known. His kindly words and cheery smiles had made bright sunshine for the boy each day, though he had little thought how much a word, a look, a smile, can do in this big, busy world of ours. James and I. We had been old schoolmates, and had played and learnt together since our babyhood. Bright and spirited as he was, James had ever been my hero and my leader, and, when he made up his mind to be a sailor, it required but slight persuasion on his part to make me follow him. We had been at sea together for some five years, when we found our- selves on board the "Beeswing" sailing-ship, and bound for Liverpool. It was Sunday afternoon, when James and I were sitting comfortably smoking in a snug corner of the upper deck. It was a bright and sunUr day ; the white clouds flecked a bright blue sky, and a gentle breeze was wafting us forward steadily upon our course. We were enjoying to the full our spell of quiet and rest. As we sat there conversing on old times, an oldish-looking sailor made his appear- ance on the deck, and after a momentary hesitation, looking about him as though in search of some quiet nook, he made his way towards us, and, apparently not noticing our presence, threw himself on a coil of rope that lay upon the deck near by. Then drawing forth a small and well-worn book from the bosom of his rough sea-jacket, he soon became ab- sorbed in it. We knew Ben Leader well. He was a grave, reticent man, but had often shown us kind- ness in his quiet, unobtrusive way. James watched him for a moment, carelessly, then he laughed light- ly, saying: "Look at Ben he's at his usual Sunday service, Joe. Let us ask him for a sermon!" 188 JAMES AND I. Ben Leader raised his head, and regarded hie young shipmate steadily, and I was struck by the expression of his grave and toil-worn face. It was a look of concentrated fatherly affection, and an indulgent, gentle smile beamed in his eyes and rested on his lips. "You're ever reading your Bible, Ben," said James, with a strain of careless amusement in his tones. "Aye, lad; but might it not be better for you if you did the same?" "I never took to books," said James, "and I get on as well without such things, so far as I can see. Religion and the Bible are for women more than men." Ben rose suddenly, and came towards us. He took his seat by James, and laid his seamed and knotted hand with a touch of infinite, fatherly ten- derness upon his strong, young shoulder. There was a strange emotion in his face, and a strange light in his eyes. "Lad!" he said, solemnly, and with a strong undertone of earnestness thrilling in his low and concentrated tones. "Lad! religion is for everyone on God's fair earth and most of all for those who run the risk of being suddenly cut off from it by sudden death!" He would have said more, perhaps, but a film had come over his earnest eyes, as though of gather- ing tears, and, with a look of mingled love and grief, he put his hand lightly on James's head, as though blessing him, and, hurriedly turning on his heel, he went away, leaving us alone together sit- ting side by side. A certain hush and awe had fallen over James, and I could see he was much struck by Ben's strange tone and manner, and by his earnest words. He rose, and leaning on the ship's side-railing, stood JAMES AND I. 189 there in unbroken silence, gazing far away to sea, with an unwonted look of sadness and of indefinable perplexity and trouble in his usually bright and merry eyes. At last he turned to me as I stood silent at his side, and threw his arm about my neck in the old boyish way, as he had often done when we had played and learnt togetker. "Joe, I've been thinking Ben is right; we sailors do run more risk of sudden death than most of those who bide ashore ; and we should surely be prepared for it. I wonder what can be beyond?" he added softly, with his earnest gaze fixed on the smiling heavens above, and a yearning, wistful look in his usually gay and thoughtless eyes, which I had never seen in them before, and which made them strangely beautiful to me. He presently shook off his thoughtful mood with his usual light laugh, at the sound of the duty call. "Well, well; I'll think of this at a more convenient time, and we'll have a quiet talk with Ben, Joe you and I." The more convenient season never came, nor the quiet word with Ben. A fearful storm came on in the night, and we were hard put to weather it. By God's mercy we escaped with little damage on the whole, but next day we came upon a wreck with but a few souls left aboard. As we crowded on the upper deck to look at her, our captain cast an an- xious glance, first at the wreck, then at the heaving sea ; a thoughtful, considering look on his keen brown face. "Man the life-boat !" he cried suddenly. "Now, boys, who'll volunteer?" James and I stood out together, side by side with Ben, and others quickly followed. The sea had gone down a good deal, but there was danger still, and we all wore our life-belts. With trouble, and carefully watching our opportunity, at length the itK) JAMES AND I. boat was lowered from the davits. As we watched our time to push her off, the "Beeswing" rolled from side to side, often scraping against us witii a shock, until it seemed as though the lifeboat must be shattered or be drawn down underneath. At last we got her off, and, after a hard and perilous pull, we reached 4he wreck. The few souls left aboard kailed us joyfully, and we got them off in safety, all but one poor wretch, who had been injured, and who had been forgotten by his comrades till the last. James, hearing this, had swung himself on board again, and at his own peril, went to seek the man. He came back, half supporting and half carrying him, and lowered him carefully down into the boat. He was about to follow, when a portion of the wreck gave way, and he fell with it. In an agony of fear for him, I caught his last look as he fell, ere he disappeared for ever from my view. A look of mingled anguish and solemnity as of an unpre- pared and thoughtless soul suddenly presented to eternity. As he fell, his life-belt burst its bonds, and floated on the turbid waters, but my old com- rade never rose again. Entangled in some heavy portion of the iron-work, he had sunk into the ocean depths to rest in his last solemn sleep, until the sea give up her dead. After doing all that could be done, with a bursting heart I mechanically did my part, as we rowed back to the ship ; each stroke of my oar in the troubled waters striking in my own heart ; for each one took me further from the friend whom I had loved and honoured all my life. When we reached the ship, I swung myself upon her deck, and hurried down below, and, flinging myself be- side my comrade's empty bunk alas, how empty now ! I gave way to my despair and bitter, un- availing grief. At length I was conscious of old Ben Leader's presence at my side. He laid his JAMES AND I. 191 knotted, toil-worn hand upon my shoulder, and I turned to look up in his face with my dreary, hope- less eyes. His own eyes were grieved and sad: I felt instinctively he mourned as much with, as for me; and he still kept his hand, with its touch of compassionate, sympathetic gentleness, upon my shoulder. At last my greatest trouble and my own perplexity found vent in words. "What is beyond?" I questioned, huskily, and unconsciously speaking in my old friend's words. "What has become of James? Where is he now?" My hands were clasped together in a nervous tension, and I spok with eager anxiety, looking up- ward into Ben's face with my heavy, grief-worn eyes, as though he were an oracle and held the fate of James in his own hands. "Speak comfort to me, Ben!" I pleaded brokenly. As he stood beside me, looking down on me, he shook his head. "I loved him as I would have loved a son," he uttered softly. "We must leave him now with God. Our Father is good and just and merciful, and, oh, my lad, He loves James more than we can do!' He stood beside me silently, his gray head bowed, and I knew he was praying, with his com- passionate, gentle, toil-worn hand still resting on my shoulder. And there came to comfort me the recollection of that earlier look of yearning, wistful, half-uncon- scious love of some vague and unknown good, which I had seen upon his dear bright face before the storm, and which had made it beautiful. For we had stood together side by side since we were boys together, James and I, and one of us was taken, and the other left. Concerning an Umbrella. How I hated the sight of that old umbrella in our hall ! And it seemed to me it was nearly always there, with its frayed black silk and its odd-looking handle, a bull's head carved in black wood, thought its owner quite as odd and disagreeable, for Mr. Gibson, a solicitor of Sydney, was plain and pale, with dark hair and short-sighted eyes. o.e> always wore spectacles and a shabby-looking coat, and was constantly coming to our house to have lom interviews with papa. Poor, dear papa-he would come forth with Mr. Gibson from the study, looking worn and worried, and, entering our cosy drawing- room, would sink into his own special chair with a weary sigh and ask Edie plaintively for a cup tea Mr. Gibson always sat near my sister, cup 11 hand, glancing at her often, and listening quietl; to all she said, but he could talk well enough t father as we knew, and was never at a loss for w with him. We often wondered why the man came often to see papa, and why they shut themselves up together in the study for so long. We asked i once, but he only gave a dismal groan, and answered shortly, "Business!" Now he hated business- knew it well, for he would let things go to an alarming extent before he would be persuaded to lool into them. Edie did her best to keep thing* straight, but they were often quite beyond her ut- most efforts, and she said sadly she did not know how it would end. "If mother had only lived !" she CONCERNING AN UMBRELLA. 19$ sighed ; "poor dear papa is getting worse and worse." Yes, that was how we thought of him ; we loved our father dearly, but we could have no faith in him r for we knew that he was weak, and let things go when he should attend to them for his daughters' sake, if not because it was only right. And so, when Edie was nineteen, and I was twelve, we were very deeply in debt. I had never known my mother, for she died when I was born ; but how could I feel my loss when I had Edie? She had been my mother- sister all my life, and I looked up to her and loved her dearly. One afternoon Mr. Gibson had been with papa as usual in the study, and afterwards they came to Edie's drawing-room for some tea. Papa was look- ing worn and harassed, and sighed heavily as he took his accustomed seat by the cheerful fire. Mr. Gibson was more silent, too, than usual, and soon took his leave. I was curled up on the wide win- dow-seat when he went out, and watched him walking down the street in the pelting rain, without putting on his overcoat (which was hanging on his arm), his head bent in abstracted thought, and his closed um- brella tucked under his arm. Edie had come to stand beside me, and she laid her soft cheek against my head whilst she looked out. "Isn't he odd and funny, Edie?" I said; "he has forgotten to put on his overcoat, and he never thinks of putting up his ugly old umbrella in the rain 1" My sister did not answer, and I looKed up in her face. There was a far-away look in her blue eyes, and a soft and tender smile on her pretty mouth I could not understand. She looked so sweet and pretty, I could only stare at her ; and then father spoke to us, and she turned round, and her expression altered suddenly as her eyes fell on his white and worried face. IJ CONCERNS AN UMBRELLA. The following day was bright and fine. Luie and I had been out walking, and when we came in she talked of sitting in the garden with our books and work, ajid of having afternoon tea out there. She had some household duty to attend to first, so I went out to wait for her; and, climbing up to my favourite perch in the leafy old apple tree, I was soon deep in my book of fairy tales. Hearing footsteps at last, I peeped down from amidst the leafy boughs, and saw my sister approaching with Mr. Gibson by her side. They sat down on a bench beneath the apple tree, and I was about to announce my presence there, when Mr. Gibson spoke ; and he so astonished me with his altered tones and his first words, that I sat quite still, forgetting my intention. "I asked you for this interview, Miss Duncan," he- was saying, "because I wished to tell you some- thing that hae long been in my heart-. Edie, your father knows I love you do you think you could learn to care for me?" He had the old umbrella clasped tightly in both of his hands, and was bending for- ward eagerly to look in Edie's face. She was trem- bling very much, and her head was bent so that I could not see, but her pretty white neck had turned quite crimson. Mr. Gibson laid hie hand 011 hers and spoke again, but so low I could not hear what he was saying. Then Edie started up, as though stung at some sudden recollection, and he rose too and stood beside her, letting the umbrella fall un- noticed on the grass. "I cannot listen to you," Edie said in great dis- tress, turning her face away from him. "It is im- possible for me to hear you, Mr. Gibson. Please go away 1 ' ' "Edie, tell me why you surely owe nfe that!" And there came such a flood of glowing eloquence CONCERNING AN UMBRELLA. 195 send tender pleading from those us-ually taciturn lips that I listened in amazement. I could see that J^uie was much shaken from some cause or otker ; but she pulled her hands away from his, and told him with such firm decision, she could have nothing to say to him, that he seemed to believe at last. He went away very sadly, leaving his umbrella lying on the grass where it had fallen, and Edie sank down on the bench. In an instant I was down beside her, with my arms about her neck, and my face pressed close to hers, and whispering, "Ftergive me, Edie dear; I was in the apple tree and heard it all. Why, Edie, your face is wet, and you are crying!" She did not answer, but drew me closer to her, and held me so. And then papa came out, and my sister hurriedly raised her head and drew her hand- kerchief across her eyes. "My dear," papa said, in a hesitating way, and looking about as though for someone else, "I hardly expected to find you here alone, Edie. You haven't sent James Gibson away, I hopeJ 1 " "I have, papa," sslid Edie, very low. "Ah, I'm sorry, very sorry ! My dear, could you not care for him? I wished so much to have it so! He has caced for you so long, my child, and it would have been a great relief to me to see you kappity married and settled down." "Father, do you want to get rid of me?" "No, no, my dear ; you do not understand. Put, Edie, tell me why you could not care for him?" "Papa, how could I listen to a man who made you so unhappy? You seemed so worried always when he came, and I was quite sure you would be pained and miserable." "Unhappy ! worried ! Why, Edie, James Gib- son's my best friend 1 Oh, child, you don't know aW te's done for me. Don't despise your father, 196 CONCERNING AN UMBRELLA. Edie, but I have been very weak, my dear, and James has been helping me to get things straight again, and pay my debts. And so you couldn't care for him? Well, well, I'm very sorry. He cares so much for you; it is a pity, a great pity." And our father went back to his study, muttering to himself. Edie sat still, and I held her dear white hand in both of mine. Her sweet face was quite pale, and her eyes were very sad. "What is it, dear?" I whispered softly. "Now you know papa would not have minded, are you sorry you sent Mr. Gibson away?" "Yes, I am sorry, but how could I know?" ske said, but more as though she were thinking aloud than answering me. "I have sent him away from me but I cared for him all the time!" We heard a footstep as she finished speaking, and looked up hastily. Mr. Gibson had approached so silently on the soft turf that we had not noticed his approach. "I I left my umbrella here," he stammered hurriedly, and then, with one swift, sudden move- ment he was by Edie's side, and somehow she seemed to vanish in his arms. "Forgive me, Edie," I heard him whisper to her, "I heard you, dear. Oh, my darling, is it possible that you love me after all?" Now, I am quite sure my sister answered no- thing ; but there was that man actually behaving as. though she had said "Yes!" But Edie caught a sudden glimpse of me, and broke away with a happy little laugh and shining eyes, whilst her cheeks were as pink as the roses on my favourite bush. ''Juat look at Dot," said she, "staring at us with her big, brown eyes!" And then she caught me to her, and covered my face with kisses. That night it poured with rain. I woke up CONCERNING AN UMBRELLA. 197 *nce to hear it descending in heavy torrents, and dashing against the window pane, and I nestled closer to my sleeping sister, as I thought how cold and wet it was without. It did not prevent Mr. Gibson from coming to see us, however, the next afternoon, and we were a very happy party in the cosy drawing- room. Whilst we sat together round about the fire, Jane came to the door and stood there giggling, and holding up some curious-looking object in her hand. "Please miss," said she, addressing Edie, "Barbara found this in the garding ; she thinks as it must nave been out there all night in the heavy rain; and, please, we thinks as how it belongs to Mr. Gibson." He rose and took it from her hand, and Jane retired and closed the door. "It's your umbrella," I said, trying not to laugh. "Why, Edie, what a mess it's in! It is quite spoilt!" Mr. Gibson was regarding it with a curious smile I couldn't quite understand. Then he gave the funny thing a tender pat and put it down. "Its day is over," he said, coming back to Edie's side. "You came back for it," she answered mischiev- ously, "and then left it behind you, after all!" He bent over her, and, his spectacles falling off, for the first time I saw his eyes without them, and wondered I had never noticed before how dark and beautiful they were. "The first time I left it behind on purpose," he said, speaking very softly, "because I couldn't bear to leave you, dear, and wanted an excuse for coming back to ask again if you were quite sure there was no hope for me." And then his eyes met hers, and there was such a glow of joy and love in them as made his plain face beautiful. A Prodigal Son. PART I. The warm Australian day had reached its close, and "Lucky Jack," as his comrades called him, waa free to throw down spade and pick, and ascend once more to the fresh air, and what was left of daylight, up above the mine. He made his way to his own tent, and sat there smoking in the doorway, luxuri- ating in his well-earned rest, and waiting for his partner to rejoin him. A year ago, after much wandering, he had come to these gold-diggings to try and make his fortune, and, having chosen a comrade, had pegged out a seemingly undesirable claim. Here he had worked with Joe Hutton, laughed, at by the miners one and all, but going on doggedly in spite of them, until one day their laughter was turned to astonishment by the striking of a specially rich and apparently inexhaustible vein. In fact, it was soon evident that "Lucky Jack," as he was henceforth called, had come upon the bed of an ancient, dried- up creek or river, where much gold had acciunulated. In seven months' time he and his mate had gained a little fortune, and, later on, had doubled it. It was then that the love of gambling had come to Jack, and almost every night he was to be seen in the miners' gambling den, where fortune seemed to smile on him, for he seldom rose a loser, had doubled his own gains there, and still won steadily. Now, as he sat smoking before his tent, he began to muse upon his gains, and think how he would soon leave the diggings and go to Melbourne or Syd- A BRODIGAL SON. 199 ney, a wealthy man, to lead a life of ease and luxury. As he sat thus, a soft voice rose on the cool, still evening air, and he turned his head to listen. It was the voice of a young mother croon- ing te her child, a strange thing to hear in this wild camp, where the best of women had grown too coarse and noisy for such soft melody. He remem- bered now having heard, whilst he was working in the mine, that a fresh man had arrived at the dig- gings, a new follower of fortune, who had brought with him his young wife and little child. How fresh and pure was the young mother's voice ! "Long may she retain her freshness and her purity in this rough camp," thought he. Unwonted tears rose to the man's dark eyes, as many a long-forgotten pic- ture passed before his memory. He saw once more a little child clasped in his mother's arms, fondling her neck with his innocent baby hands as she softly sang to him. He saw a happy schoolboy running to meet a gentle, sweet- faced woman, his bag of school books swinging in his hand as he rushed onward, eager to tell his doings of the day. A stalwart stripling, his mother's hand upon his arm, proud of his place in her affec- tions, as they walked together to the village church. And then, ah! then, the picture darkened! A widowed mother, standing sad and pale before the tall dark son who almost struck her in his angry mood at some gentle expostulation. Jack hears his very accents as he bids her an angry farewell and turns his back on mother and home, he says for ever! Now all is darkened, and "Lucky Jack" sits brooding in the twilight, his dark face bent, his pipe in fragments on the ground beside him, as it had fallen unnoticed from his careless hand. But now his comrade enters, "Why, Jack, why, man, ha' ye got the blues? An' such a run o' luck to- day I" He strikes his broad shoulders with rough 200 A PRODIGAL SON. friendliness. Jack shakes him off, and, rising, seizes a fresh pipe from off the little shelf, and, lighting it, passes off his downcast mood with a careless jes+. "Ah, now, I know ye, Jack," his comrade says approvingly. "Art going to play to-night?" he adds, lowering his tone, and moving nearer to speak more confidentially "Harkee, Jack, a word in your ear there'll be two strangers there to-night ; one, the new chap as struck his tent hard by t'other, a man from another diggin's, as has made his little pile, and has come here to double it by play or diggin' ere he goes on to Sydney We'll double it for him, eh?" He chuckled hoarsely. "I'll go," his companion said eagerly, his dreary musings vanishing before his love of gain. He rises to go to the stores to fetch supplies for the evening meal, and passes, on his way thither, the tent of the young wife of the new arrival. She is standing at the entrance, shading her bright eyes with her hand as she peers forth into the semi- darkness, hoping to see her husband coming home. The light from within falls on her soft, fair face and nutbrown hair, and "Lucky Jack" thinks vaguely that the diggings are no place for one like her. He and his mate arrive betimes at the gambling den, and by twos and threes the other miners come, and with them the two strangers. One, the younger, is a fresh-faced man, little more than a lad, the husband of the gentle singer, who has been lured hitherward to his ruin. The other, a square, broad- chested man, with sullen brow, and eager, wolfish face, an inveterate gambler, who has hitherto had luck such luck as wrings the hard-earned goia from his brother toilers. They play, and "Lucky Jack" is winning fast. Ere midnight the younger man has lost heavily ; and he draws a long, deep breath as he lays down his A PRODIGAL SON. 201 last stakes. He loses all, and, springing from his seat with a dreadful cry of desperation and despair, he flings his hands above his head and dashes out. The miners gaze after him an instant, but such scenes are too common there for much comment, and with a laugh and muttered jest that "Green- horn's down on his luck," they turn with redoubled eagerness to the play that is such a curse to them. Jack's opponent is the stranger from the other diggings, and they are playing fast and deep, for both men are bold and reckless, and well matched in skill. With a wild shout Jack rises to his feet, the victor, and rakes the stranger's gold towards him. The loser, frantic at his losses, springs upon him, his dark face like a veritable wolf's, but Jack is too alert and quick for him. The gold is already in his pocket, and he outside the reeking den, and striding homewards in the darkness, little recking of the babel and confusion he has left behind. His dreams that night are heavy. He is fall- ing down into a deep, dark gulf, and cries for help. Then a soft white hand he seems to know grasps his to help him. But the cry is still upon his lips, and he starts up to find that two dark figures stand be- side his couch and struggle with him. One strikes him with a knife, which enters his arm ; the smart awakes him quite, and he grips his attacker savagely by the throat, forcing him, now rendered unconscious by a well-planted blow, back upon the bed. other has escaped, bearing with him all Jack's win- nings, placed beneath his pillow. . Mad with rage, Jack would have made the conquered man pay dearly for it with his life, but as he raises the knife to strike, a far-off voice rings softly in his ears-or perchance his heart- he knows not which: "My son, my son I" He falters, and the knife drops from his hand. He strikes a light, and, bending over the unconscious man, recognises his features with a vio- 202 A PRODIGAL SON. lent start. It is the yonger of the two strangers, and even as he looks on him, the prostrate man comes to himself and feebly rises up. "It's you!" "Lucky Jack" says heavily. "You won all my money all I had in the world for wife and child," said the yomng mail bitterly. "I did not mean to kill, or even to hurt you," he added, as his glance fell on Jack's streaming arm, "but I came to get my own again. He my fellow sufferer at your hands persuaded me to join with him." "Ge home," Jack answered heavily, the memory of his dream now full on him. "Man I quit the dig- gings, for they are cursed to many," he adds, and pushes him towards the door. Joe Button has not yet returned. A wind has arisen, and wails round the camp like a sad and weary spirit, mourning the wickedness of men. "This life has sickened me,'' thinks Jack, "I will go and seek my long-lost home, and one who, if she be alive, thank God ! may touch this hand yet unstained with blood." PART II. Mrs. Burns steps with slow gentleness along the street of the Sydney suburb where she dwells. The constant friend of all the poor in her immediate neighbourhood, in sickness or in joy, she is return- ing from the bedside of a little lad who has been snatched from death by her own tender nursing. Her hair is white, her eyes are dim and worn, yet not so much through age as grief, may be. That she has had some heavy trouble may be gathered from the words that escape her patient lips: "May her child grow up to be a comfort and blessing to his mother." She thinks of one who had been neither to his widowed mother, but her grief has made her an angel to the sick, the sorrowing, and the poor. A PRODIGAL SON. 203 " The impulse from the earth was given. But bent her to the paths of Heaven." With the memories of her long-lost son comes the recollection of a dream she has had lately. She had been thinking of him, fancying him a little child again, clinging to her fingers as they strayed together in the sunny paddocks of a country farm, and as she stooped to pluck the fragrant clover at her feet, he had run laughing from her side, and, when she turned to look for him, she saw him trying to cross on the trunk of a fallen gum-tree the turbid and rain-swollen creek over which it lay ljke a natural bridge. She had run towards him? softly calling as she ran, fearing to startle him, yet eager to save her child from harm. Then he had turned back to be snatched in her thankful arms and held close to her breast. The same night all this had returned to her in a strange and vivid dream as she slept heavily. And when in her tender love and fear she called to her boy, and he turned back to her, lo! tlie turbid creek was an awful gulf, all black and fathomless^ and the little laughing child was become a stalwart, bearded man, and as she clasped his hand in hers to draw him back, she woke crying out in pain and terror, "My son my son!" Mrs. Burns is so absorbed in her own musings that she does not hear the distant tramp of the runaway steed that is tearing wildly along the street behind her, and the cries of the passers-by warn her of her peril, but too late. Startled and confused she stops short in the act of crossing the road, sees dimly a face that she seems to know, as a tall bronzed man dashes forward from the pavement, hears a pained astonished cry of "Mother !" and with her own faint answering one of "Jack! Oh, Jack!" still ringing in her ears, she is struck senseless to the ground by some swiftly flying force she cannot see. 204 A PRODIGAL SON. But she is raised in strong and tender arms that hold her close to a fast-beating heart, and bear her away as lightly as though she had been a little child. She is taken to the nearest cottage, and a surgeon comes whilst "Lucky Jack" waits anxiously without to hear the verdict. And soon it comes, to ease his cruel suspense. "Stunned, but unhurt," the doctor says ; "thank God, I have not lost my fellow-worker amongst the poor." "Thank God I have not lost my mother!" Jack responds in his own grateful heart. It is not long ere he sits by that mother's side, and with her hands held fast in his, tells her of his wanderings and of his narrow escape from the doom of Cain. Her eyes rest on hie manly face in sweet content, and with heartfelt peace she tells him of her life, her dream ; and questions him anxiously about the young husband and his fair girlish wife at the rough camp. "Ah!" responds her son, in deepest grief, "the sequel of that part of my tale is all too sad. After leaving my tent that dreadful night, the poor fellow sought his confederate, apparently to demand his money of him, and met him by chance as he was es- caping from the diggings, after going home to gather all he could take with him. The fiend stabbed poor Mason, mother, as I had so nearly done, and we found him lying there next morning dead. We buried him," said Jack mournfully, the honest tears of heartfelt sorrow falling from his eyes," and next day I sold out my share of the claim to my mate, Joe Button; for all my gold was stolen from me by the wretch who had escaped. I kept enough to pay my own way home to seek you, mother, and gave the rest to that poor child, who was left destitute and nearly dead with grief and horror at her hus- band's untimely and horrid death. I helped her to A PRODIGAL SON. 205 get home to her parents, who live up country, lest harm should befall her at the diggings ; for she is as innocent and helpless as her own poor babe. Oh ! I am sick at heart, for I fear, indeed, that her husband's violent death lies in a measure at my own door. Yet, I thank God, his blood was not shed by me." "Maybe," he said, with an upward, tearful gaze, "it is His will; His children sometimes shall be saved by a mother's tender love ! Maybe, He sometimes wafts their sighs and prayers to breathe upon their absent children's hearts, to save them from danger or from awful sin." The bronzed and bearded man is kneeling at her feet, her white fragile hand resting in bless- ing on his head. "I have returned to thee in love and penitence," he cries, "forgive me, oh! my mother ! ' ' Lady Beresford's Plot. All the trouble came of Arnold's summer visit to the country, and it came about at the instigation of Lady Beresford herself. She was the widow of old Sir Peter Beresford, of N , a second cousin of papa's, and occasionally came to visit us. A stiff, cold-mannered woman, with keen, observant eyes ; very fond of having her own way. We stood some- what in awe of her, though papa and she had often a slight difference of opinion, both being extremely proud. She had married Sir Peter (who was old enough to be her fatker) when she was but seven- teen, and he had died five years afterwards, leaving her a young and wealthy widow and a very lovely one. I often wondered that it could be true she had been once so gay and pretty, when I looked at her keen, grey eyes that never seemed to soften with their expression of sharp alertness, and cold, observant criticism. There were even hints that she had a romantic story of her own when she was young, before she married old Sir Peter. As she had no heir, papa was pleased that Arnold seemed to be a favourite with her : and, indeed, she made no secret of her liking for my brother, but showed it openly. On this occasion, when she came to visit us, she had expressed a wish that he should take a trip to the country to execute some business commission for her there, and she gave hint a letter of intro- -duction to the Russells, who were great friends of hers, she said, and would be glad to welcome him LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. 287 whflst he was staying in their neighbourhood. So Arnold started southwards, and Lady Beresford re- mained with us. It was when we were at breakfast one morning, not long after he had left us, that the bomb burst on our heads. Lady Beresford had found a letter lying beside her plate, which proved to be from Mrs. Russell. She took very long to read it, but at last she raised her eyes and looked straight at papa with an inscrutable expression in her face. "It appears your son has been making love to Mrs. Russell's pretty governess," said she. "My son!" We started at our father's tone, and I glanced at Faith in terrified surprise. "Lady Beresford, kindly state the facts," papa said coldly, recovering himself. "It would seem, from what Mrs. Russell says, that Arnold has actually fallen in love with Elsie Clinton, the penniless orphan daughter of a country solicitor, who has but lately died." Papa sat there in silence, listening, but he made no comment whatever when Lady Beresford ceased speaking. Then he rose and went away to his own study to write a decisive letter to his son. Faith and I crept to our room te> talk it over by ourselves. We knew papa was very proud of his name and position, and would as soon consent that the only son of the Honourable Arnold Hamilton should be- come a collier as mate with insignificance and poverty. Arnold came home shortly afterwards, and they had a long discussion, shut up alone together in the study. By-and-bye our brother came outr and joined us in the drawing-room, where we sat at work with Lady Beresford. Faith rose hastily and went to meet him. "Arnold, dear, is father very angry?" "Very angry, Faith, and I am going away. I 208 LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. have refused to give Miss Clinton up, and he will not forgive me." "Dear Arnold, what are you to do?" "Work for myself," he answered steadily, "until I can afford to marry Elsie. Good-bye, my dear!" He kissed her lovingly^, and turned to me. Lady Beresford was gazing at him quietly, with the usual inscrutable expression in her keen, grey eyes. "So you've made a fool of yourself," said she; "you had far better give Miss Clinton up, and please your father, Arnold!" His dark eyes flashed, ajnd he raised his head indignantly, with the old proud look we knew so well in father. Lady Beresford recognised it, too. "Ah! diamond cut diamond!" I heard her murmur softly to herself. "I will never give Miss Clinton up," said Ar- nold quietly. "My father threatens to disinherit and disown me if I marry Elsie. But I am going away to work and make a home for her. I know my darling will wait patiently for me," he added softly, with a bright light in his eyes. "She only cares for your position and your father's wealth, depend on it," said Lady Beres- ford, with a keen glance at him. "Arnold, be wise in time ; do not displease your father, and fling away my interest in you by this rash folly." Arnold bowed to her with cold politeness. "Good-bye, Lady Beresford," he said; and, kissing Faith and me, he turned away and left the drawing- room in silence. "I like that boy's spirit, though he's gone against my will," said Lady Beresford, to our sur- prise. She left us soon for her own home, and later on we heard she had engaged a young lady as com- panion to live with her, so that we expected to see less of her now in town. Papa grew day by day .LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. 209 more quiet and stern. Faith looked sad and wist- ful, and the household seemed depressed. Oh, how we missed our brother in these days ! It was near Christmas, and Faith and I were very sad that Arnold was still absent, and still unforgiven. He was working hard, we were told, somewhere in the city. We were thinking of him as we strolled silent- ly together, arm-in-arm, along the shady walk of our garden one afternoon. "Oh, Faith," Isighed at last, "If Arnold were but home for Christmas day !" "Come with me," she answered suddenly, a look of resolution in her thoughtful eyes. She caught my hand in hers, and led me straight to father's study, and, opening the door, she drew me in. Papa sat by his table, with some letters strewn upon it, his grey head resting on his hand. I could see the letters were all in Arnold's hand; and a single glance showed me all he had ever written home were there, from the time when he was a school-boy up to the present time. Then I knew how much papa had loved his only boy, and I got an insight into his prouS heart. He turned his head impatiently as we advanced, and would have reproved us sternly for coming in thus abruptly, but Faith had seated herself upon his knee and put her arms about his neck, as she leant her bright head fearlessly against his grey one. She had never been so much in awe of him as I was. I stood by, looking on and won- dering how she dared to be so free with him. "Father, dear," said Faith, "it will soon be Christmas now." He turned his head uneasily. I think he guessed what she was thinking of, but he was not looking stern or angry now: only quiet and sad. "We have never been apart on Christmas Day since mother died," said Faith. Papa made a sudden movement which I could 210 LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. not understand, and she bent forward to whisper in his ear "Father, dear, let Arnold come; Agnes and I have missed him so!" Papa caught her suddenly in his arms, looking in her fearless brown eyes, so like his own. "Faith, you may write to Arnold you have my permission." My sister shook her head. "He wouldn't eome for that," she said, decidedly. "Papa, will you not write yourself?" He made an impatient gesture, almost angry with her. "The boy expects too much of me," he said. "But you were very angry with him, father, and he's proud like you." She hesitated now for the first time. "Father, dear, will you not see Miss Clinton? You might come to like her very much in time, and Mrs. Russell speaks so well of her." "She is only a poor and unknown governess, and Arnold has better expectations." Papa rose hastily, and, putting us out of the room, he shut the door behind us. Faith and I stood looking at each other in dismay, and I could see she was afraid she had gone too far at once. We heard our father striding up and down his study as we turned dis- consolately away. Lady Beresford came soon afterwards to spend Christmas with us, bringing with her her companion. Miss Lydford was a sweet-faced girl of about eigh- teen, and we all got quite fond of her. She was really lovely, but we soon discovered in her more lasting and endearing charms than beauty. She was a bright and clever girl, sweet tempered and obliging. Faith and I felt we had gained an ac- quisition in her company. It was very near to Christmas Day, when one night my sister and I retired as usual to our room. I was awakened in the night by some subtle sense of danger, and started up to fancy there was smoke LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. 211 somewhere about. I was going to rise, when I heard light but hurried footsteps just outside our bedroom door, and Miss Lydford pushed it open. "Faith! Agnes! I have come to rouse you; there's a fire in the eastern wing. Dress yourselves at once, and go down, girls ! I will, meantime, call your father. There is no danger yet." She spoke quite calmly and collectedly, and seeing we were dressing quietly, she left the room. "Fire in the eastern wing! Oh, Faith, papa sleeps there !" I said. "Miss Lydford went to call him. Now, Agnes, are you ready? We must hurry down. Perhaps Miss Lydford and papa will have got down before us." The passages and halls were full of smoke, which almost blinded us as we pressed down the staircase. We hurried down, to meet Lady Beresford amongst the flock of frightened servants, and soon found everyone was safe, except Miss Lydford and papa. "They have not yet been seen," Lady Beresford said, anxiously. "I understand Miss Lydford first gave the alarm. Oh! the firemen have come at last, thank heaven !" We were all swept away and taken to a neigh- bouring house for shelter, whilst the firemen did their best to save our home. Our anxiety regarding papa and Lady Beresford's companion was soon re- lieved, for they appeared in a few moments more, both quite unharmed, and we soon heard how nobly the girl had risked her life to make her way to fa- ther's door to rouse him. He saw the danger quick- ly, and, on trying to returm with her to the main front of the building, found they were cut off from the stair-case, and so they had no means of escape save by the windows. Fortunately, the firemen saw and rescued them, and, as the fire was soon put out, 212 LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. \ve found it had spread but very little after all, and were soon able to return to our own house. "I shall never forget how this brave girl ha* risked her life to save my own," papa said after- wards. "I could love her as a daughter, had Ar- nold cared for her." "What!" Lady Beresford said, sharply; "a humble, paid companion. Miss Lydford is very well, but is no better than a poor, dependent governess. Are you in your right senses, Arnold?" Papa turned quietly away, but I had seen him wince when his cousin spoke. "You must all come to N , and spend your Christmas there with me," Lady Beresford said, decidedly. "Leave your people to get your house in order, meantime." She spoke with such decision that papa gladly consented, and we made instant preparation for leaving town. Lady Beresford went first, in order to prepare for our reception, and wrote to her cousin on arriving at her own home. Her news surprised, but also pleased us very much. "I have adopted Miss Lydford as my daughter," wrote Lady Beresford. "As I have no heir to whom I can leave my wealth, I have adopted one who is already very dear to me." Papa, especially, seemed glad to hear the news- I had fancied him a little changed of late ; and it had seemed to me that he was slowly forming some fixed resolution in his own mind. One day he told us that he had written to our brother, who was to join us at N on Christmas Eve, and had con- sented to his marriage with Miss Clinton. "My prejudice against dependents has been swept away," he said, "by Miss Lydford's heroism, and by her general worth, and I blush now to remember it. My one regret is that it is not she herself who has LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. 213 won Arnold's heart. May Miss Clinton prove half as dear 1" We arrived at N a day or two before Christmas, and on Christmas Eve we looked impa- tiently for Arnold. He was late in his arrival, and Faith and I hurried over our own dressing that we might be the first to welcome him. On entering the drawing-room, we found him there with father, who had already had a long discussion with him, which apparently had ended to their mutual satis- faction ; and the time passed happily enough till Lady Beresford came down. Ere long she appeared, leaning affectionately on her adopted daughter's arm. Miss Lydford was simply dressed in white, but her lovely neck and arms and her slim fingers were almost covered with rich, sparkling gems, family heirlooms of the Beresfords, which she now wore to gratify a whim of her adopted mother. At their entrance Arnold sprang to his feet in evi- dent amazement. "Elsie!" he cried, "you here?" and he clasped her hands in his own. Papa i'ose, too, in utter astonishment, and Faith and I looked at each other in unspoken wonder. Lady Beresford was the only one who ap- peared to understand. "Yes, this is Elsie Lydford Clinton," she said, smiling with evident satisfaction. "I am indeed much gratified to find how well my little plot has worked." Then, speaking very seriously, and with such feeling as I had never thought could lie in her, she added, "Let me explain it all to you." She had seated herself upon a couch, and had drawn her adopted daughter to her side, taking her hand in both her own. "When I was a young girl," she said, her grey eyes softening as she spoke till they were as beautiful as they had been in the old days she told of, "I had engaged myself to marry a 214 LADY BERESFORD'S PLOT. young man, the son of a country lawyer. My father, ambitious for his only child, insisted on my break- ing the engagement, and to please him, I married Sir Peter Beresford. He was very good to me," she went on softly, with grateful memory of one who was no more, "and ever gratified my every wish and whim. But my heart was never his, and I re- gretted Ernest. He, broken-hearted at my deser- tion of him, had, in the meantime, married in hot haste, but not unhappily. Sir Peter died and left me free, but the old memory of Ernest Clinton pre- vented my marrying again. When I heard of his death I sought his orphan daughter, whom I found a governess, dependent on her own exertions for her bread. I then formed my plot. I sent Arnold, on the plea of business, to meet Elsie at the Russells' home, in the hope that he would fall in love with her, and so I might bestow my wealth on my two favourites. All fell out as I expected, for I had also foreseen his father's opposition to the scheme. I therefore took Elsie to town as my companion, calling her by her second name, in order that you might all learn to love and value her for her own sweet worth. Aided by an over-ruling Providence, I have succeeded in my plot beyond my expectations, though Elsie re- quired some persuasion to join in," she added, smiling fondly at the girl, "for I must tell you she has her share of pride." As Lady Beresford paused, papa went straight to Elsie with his own well-bred grace of a perfect gentleman. "My dear, will you forgive me?" he said, earnestly. "I owe you already a debt I can never repay. I regret my conduct more than ever now, in churlishly refusing my consent to my son's marriage." Elsie's answer touched us to the heart. "Ar you not Arnold's father?" she said, simply, and held out both her hands to him. A Modern Pharisee. It was a fine, bright day in spring when Mr, Richmond, issuing forth from his handsome house in town, made his way towards St. James' Park, for his usual morning walk. Wealth and prosperity were written on his clear-cut, well-bred face, and showed themselves in the elegant appointments of his fine and upright form. Although he could not have been less than fifty, he carried his years well; his dark hair was scarcely tinged with grey, and his eye was still bright and keen. Passing along a side-walk in the park, where it was yet too early for the bustle and the haste of restless London life to show themselves, he met unawares a white-haired, care-worn man, with bent and stooping shoulders, old before his time, and leaning on the arm of a fair and bright-faced girl of seventeen. Mr. Richmond's glance first fell upon the latter, then passed on in wondering and sudden recognition to the countenance of her companion. The unexpected recognition was evidently mutual, for a bright and hectic flush had mounted to the man's worn face, and he paused and half held out his hand with an air of mute entreaty, and an af- fectionately pleading, humble look. Mr. Richmond answered it by a hard glance of disdainful scorn, flung full at him, as he went by, with one last, rapid and almost imperceptible survey of the brown- haired, dark-eyed girl. She had turned to her companion with an expression of intense astonish- ment, and, as they pnssocl on out of Mr. Rich- 216 A MODERN PHARISEE. mond's hearing, she asked the question hovering on her lips. "Uncle, who is that man?" "That is Charles Richmond," he answered brokenly, "the close companion and friend of my most innocent and happy days, when I was held in honour of all men, and dared to hold up my head and look" them in the face in the bright light of day." The young girl answered not, but bent her head and clung more closely to the arm of the broken- down and deeply-troubled man as they went on their way. Mr. Richmond, meantime, was reflecting on this accidental meeting. "Can this indeed be Edwin Strange?" he mused. "How he is altered since I knew him in old days ! And this girl May Hilliard, I am sure 1 Ah, I remember her a child of five, with a winsome little face and sunny curls. How tenderly she clung to Edwin's arm just now, and what unselfish, sweet devotion lighted up her face. No doubt she has sacrificed her fresh young life to him, even as her mother did before her. And to think that Edwin Strange was once my chosen friend and intimate associate how many years it is since I lost sight of him ! The time was when he was incapable of the mean guilt which separated us and made us strangers for all frime to come." During the next fortnight Mr. Richmond's thoughts recurred constantly to the girl, though he saw no further signs of her or her companion, often as he passed through St. James' Park. One even- ing, however, he was present at an entertainment at a house where the guests talked much of a new singer, a young girl, who had lately made' her debut in concert rooms and private drawing-rooms, and whom the hostess had engaged to sing to-nipht. A MODERN PHARISEE. 217 There was a sudden hush, and the guests looked up with eager expectancy as the slight, girlish form robed in filmy black net and lace, was led forward to the piano where the accompanist was already seated, and where she faced the audience, with a quiet, self-possession and a wistful, far-away look in her eyes. With an unwonted feeling of surprise and pleasure Mr. Richmond recognised May Hil- liard. The first clear notes of her sweet voice, fall- ing on his expectant ear, thrilled him to the heart and held him spell-bound, as, amid the wondering hush of the delighted listeners, she sang. At the close of the melody the 'drawing-room resounded with applause, and once again the sweet, pure voice rang out. Mr. Richmond sat by quietly, with no applause, but paying tribute to her singing in his inmost heart. When she ceased he still sat lost in reverie, and, when she left the room, he took his leave and passed out too. ' She was there before him, lightly descending the steps that led into the street, where she was joined upon the pavement by the shabby, stooping figure of the white-haired man, who folded her cloak more closely round her slender form, ere he drew her arm with infinite love and tenderness through his to lead her home. Mr. Richmond overheard the words that passed between them as they went. "Dear uncle," said the girl, "I could have found my own way home, indeed I cannot bear that you should come out thus, night after night, on my ac- count. These chilly walks and weary waitings are not good for you." The man responded quickly: "Dear, it is my greatest pleasure and delight if you but knew how I look forward to it, May for the evenings are long and dull without you now. And I could never let you pass along the London streets by night alone." They passed on as he spoke, and Mr. Richmond 218 A MODERN PHARISEE. heard no more. As he turned away, a strange, un- wonted feeling that was half-jealousy, half-pain, stirred at his heart, and made him wonder at him- self. Even after he got home, as he looked round the handsome but dull and dreary, lonely rooms of his fine house, with all its luxury, he still thought of May Billiard as she walked by Edwin Strange, clinging with affection to his arm. He reflected with new envy how different his house would be with her bright presence and companionship, and her pure affection to make it "home" to him as his adopted daughter. Why should Ned, dis- honoured outcast as he was, possess this blessing, and he, Charles Richmond, who had lived his life with honour and without reproach, be thus alone, unloved ? He went out more than usual now, seeking eagerly all entertainments where the sweet girl-singer was likely to be found, for it seemed to be the fashion for May Billiard to be engaged to sing in all the drawing-rooms of society. Mr. Richmond even procured the girl's address, and essayed to en- gage her to sing at his own house, but he received a cold refusal, and the entertainment was not graced by the sweet singer's presence. Meantime, his secret interest in her had strengthened and in- creased, until at last he sought an interview with her, but vainly. Meeting her alone in St. James' Park by a rare chance, he begged a moment's con- versation with her, a request which May reluctantly acceded to. Leading her to a bench, he took his seat by her, and spoke with earnest feeling of the interest she had unconsciously inspired in him, even from the moment of their first chance meeting. "My dear," he concluded, very earnestly, "it is my ardent wish to adopt you as my daughter, and make you the sole heiress of my wealth. Be- lieve me, child, when I assure you it will be my A MODERX PHARISEE. 219 first delight and my first thought to make you happy, and to anticipate and gratify your every wish." "You are very kind," ske faltered, raising her face to regard him with a look which he, in his self-complacency, was slow to understand; "but Uncle Edwin ." "You will give him up, of course," he inter- rupted quickly ; "he is utterly unworthy of your love. Edwin Strange, proved guilty of dishonesty and theft in his responsible position, and imprison- ed for five long, dreary years, is no fit companion" "Stop, sir !" said May, sternly, and rising from her seat. "Desert my uncle no! I will never go willingly where he is not received. He was my mother's dearest charge to me when she was dying, and I will keep it to the last!" "It is but a slight price I ask. For your own sake, for mine, and his for I will give him an al- lowance for your sake, my dear, leave a man who is unworthy of your sweet companionship and your devotion to him. Why should you toil for one who is a useless member of society, and broken down be- fore his time by his own weakness and his guilt? Why waste the freshness of your early youth on him?" "You censure him cruelly," the girl said passion- ately, "for a fault he bitterly repented and paid the penalty of long since. And what are we that we should dare to justify ourselves?" she went on bitterly, "not being tempted as he was. Only our Maker knows us as we are ; we, too, might fall in spite of our self-righteousness and our contempt for others less fortuuate." The tears were in her eyes as, without another look at him, she left him there, walking quickly towards her home. Mr. Richmond sat there still, long after she had disappeared from view, looking drearily along the 220 A MODERN PHARISEE. path which she had taken, a crushing sense of con- demnation and of bitter disappointment contending in his breast. May's righteous indignation made him feel how poor and mean he was in tempting her to abandon to utter loneliness and grief the broken-down man who loved her, and whose only light and joy she was. He had been willing to rob his early friend, whom he had not scrupled to abandon in his turn, and to whom he had held forth no helping hand in the painful struggles he had made to redeem his fault and bear with fortitude the cruel penalty. At length he rose and went home, too ; and, entering his private room, he listlessly turned over the pile of learned pamphlets on his desk, unable to give attention to subjects so engrossing as a rule. All his learning and self-culture failed to help him now. Approaching his book-shelves as a last resource, he examined the volumes there, striving to find one better suited' to distract him from his unhappy brooding thoughts. One small and much- worn volume caught his eye unawares, and he ex- amined it with wondering recognition as he took it from its nook. It was a little Bible which had been his own when he was but a child, and old recollec- tions, which had been long since forgotten, rushed vipon his mind, of the fair young mother who had given it to him ere he scarce could read, and of how dearly he had loved it once. Ah ! many a long day had passed away since he had conned its pages he thought with shame and a new grief how soon his love for it had withered, even with his living recollections of his dear, dead mother. As he turned its pages with a remorseful tenderness, they opened at a parable which had once been of in- terest to him. He could remember how it puszlrd his young mind, and how his mother had explained it to him in her gentle, tender way. It was the A MODERN PHARISEE. 221 story of the Pharisee and publican, and he fancied May's indignant tones rang in his ear as these words caught his eye : "The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with him- self, 'God, I thank Thee that I am not as other men re.' " A low and conscience-stricken cry escaped from Mr. Richmond's lips, as, closing the time-worn volume hastily, he clasped it in his hands, and the cry was repeated in his soul, even in the words of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner!" Meantime, May Hilliard, on returning home, had striven to conceal from Edwin Strange that she was suffering from unwonted agitation, but his loving, watchful eyes were quick to note the change in her, and he soon drew the cause of it from her reluctant lips. He made no comment, however, when she had told her tale; but a deep sigh came from his over-burdened soul, and he was silent and abstracted afterwards. In the evening, May, having no engagement for that night, stole to his side where he sat by the fire, and, sitting by him, put her arm about his neck and laid her fair young head lovingly against his shoulder. "Something troubles you," she whispered gently; "ah, uncle, dear, you cannot hide your thoughts from me!" "My darling," he responded, sadly, and return- ing her caress, "I grieve that I have been your stumbling-block to better fortune. I have ever blighted the happiness of all who cared for me. It is not the least part of my punishment ! May, I am broken down by trouble, and am almost helpless now. It breaks my heart to think that when I die, my child will be alone and friendless in the world !" "Never alone, Ned, never alone or friendless while I live," a voice said brokenly, as Mr. Rich- mond, who had entered unobserved, came forward 222 A MODERN PHARISEE. and laid his hand with reverent, protecting tender- ness upon May's shoulder. "Will you forgive me, Ned, for what is past ?" He could say no more, but clasped in eloquent silence the hand so eagerly held out to him. "I made a request of May," Mr. Richmond said, later on; "a request I now renew but with amendment, Ned, I earnestly beseech the old and tried friend of my boyhood and my youth and early manhood, to share my lonely home with her and make it bright for me." An Ocean Waif. PART I. The storm had lulled at last, and when the morning dawned the sea had gone down very much, though it was still running somewhat high. "I see something yonder, Jones," said the cap- tain of the "Dido" to the first mate, pointing with his glass across the heaving sea to some distant ob- ject floating on the waves. "Looks like a dismasted vessel," he subjoined; "we'll steer for her, and see if we can help the poor creatures who may be left on board." As they approached the wreck, however, he shook his head, for there were no signs of life on board, and she was rolling helplessly from side to side. "She'll founder soon, I've no doubt," said Jones. "Is it worth while going aboard, sir? Looks as if all her crew had perished in last night's storm." "Order a boat to be launched," returned the other, "there may be some poor soul aboard below." A little later the captain of the "Dido" had boarded the wreck, with one or two picked men, whom he ordered to make a thorough search throughout the ship, which was called the "Olym- pus," and hailed from Liverpool. After some vain search, the men decided that the crew had taken to the boats and perished, or had been washed over- board in last night's storm ; and they waited a little impatiently for their captain to give the word for the return to their own ship. He had been searching in the unfortunate commander's 224 AX OCEAN WAIF. cabin, meantime, hoping to find some papers and the ship's books. On his way thence he heard a faint and muffled cry, apparently proceeding from a cabin which had been overlooked, the door ot which was fast shut. Listening intently, he heard the cry repeated, and, setting his broad shoulder to the door, he forced it open and entered, an ex- clamation of surprise and pity on his lips. For. stretched on the cabin floor was a woman, young and beautiful, her hair unbound and all dis- hevelled, and her eyes closed in the sleep of death. And a little living child was clinging to her neck, and crying pitifully. Unwonted tears rose to John Ormond's eyes, and he passed his rugged hand across his face as he stooped to lift this little one, and hold her to his heart. She clasped her baby arms about his neck, uttering an inarticulate cry of joy. He knelt reverently by the poor dead mother's side, satisfy- ing himself that all life was indeed extinct ; and, as he was about to rise, the sparkle of a gold chain about her alabaster neck attracted his eye, and he examined it more closely. A locket, richly set with diamonds, was attached to it, and a small packet was half hidden in her still bosom. Reverently re- moving these, he placed them in his pocket, and tenderly wrapping the little one in his own great coat, he called the mate and had a thorough search made in the cabin ; but finding no further clue of any consequence, he ordered the poor dead lady to be removed, with all due reverence and care, to his own ship, where preparations might be made to bury her at sea. That night was Christmas Eve, and Captain Ormond sat in his own cabin, with the little waif asleep upon his knee. Bending over her, he touched the silky masses of the hair that clustered round her brow with wondering and tender admiration ; and AN OCEAN WAIF. 225 a new-born and, to him, strange love rose in his manly breast. His mother, the only creature he had cared for, had long ago passed to her rest, and he had sailed in his good ship ever since, with only men about him, for he had no cherished ties to draw him to a bright and happy home ashore. And this little one, he thought, most surely had been sent to him to live for and love. He would make all en- quiries for her relatives on arriving at the port the wreck had hailed from, and if he found them not, he would adopt her as his own. Thinking thus, his keen eyes softened, as he gazed on her tranquil slumbers, and his large, rough hand became as gentle as a woman's in touching her damask cheek. Laying her very carefully in his own bunk, he drew forth from their hiding-place within his coat, the locket and the packet he had discovered with the child. Placing the former with a sort of awe on his rough palm, he examined it with care and wonder ; and finding a spring, he pressed and opened it. It contained two beautifully executed miniatures, one of which was the very counterpart of the sleeping child ; the other, that -of a dark and handsome man, who bore an air of decision, almost sternness, on his brow. Amidst the exquisite chasing on the outer side were the initials "A.H," together with a date. Laying aside the trinket, he proceeded to open the packet with a feeling of reluctance, for he fancied he might be intruding on some sacred confidence not intended for common eyes to see. The papers contained therein, consisted of a certificate of marriage con- tracted by one George Hamilton and Amy Gray, and of letters from the husband to his wife. Reading them with reverence, the captain gathered that Mr. Hamilton had been obliged to leave his wife in England for a time, whHst he went to America on 226 AN OCEAN WAIF. some urgent business. The date of the latest letter was a year back. There was no mention whatever of the child. Captain Ormond made all possible inquiries for the relatives of the little ocean waif, but failing ut- terly in his search for any person who laid claim to her, he resolved to look upon her as his child, and he placed her with a widow, an old acquaintance of his own, a respectable and educated woman, residing now at Plymouth. The little Marjory, as he had named her, after his own mother (not knowing by what name she had been christened), throve in her care. Mrs. Bertrand was a refined and Christian woman, one of "God's ladies," sweet-natured, ten- der-hearted and lovable. She had taken Marjory into her inmost heart, and watched her carefully as the little bud expanded day by day. The captain also, never failed to visit her whenever it was in his power to do so ; for all the pent-up love of his strong nature had centred itself on little Marjory. At last, when she was five years old, there came a day when they heard his ship was lost at sea. She had sailed to some far-distant port, and had never been seen or heard of aftenrards. Troubles came thickly now on Mrs. Bertrand's head. The funds for the child's use had ceased ; her own means were very scanty, and her health was too delicate to allow her to work much. At this time, too, she received sad news from Inaia, where lived her only son, who had lately fallen prostrate be- neath some fell disease peculiar to the climate. If his mother wished to see him alive again, they wrote, she must come out to him at once. Yearning desires rose in her troubled breast ; ardent hopes of seeing him, of nursing him back to life and health; and, failing that, at least of seeing him once more, of holding to her heart her first-born and her only child. But here was Marjory, the little orphan en- AN OCEAN WAIF. 227 trusted to her care by one who was no more. She- could not take this tender flower with her, to brave the risks attendant on that foreign clime. She dared not leave the little one behind her in the care of anyone. Perplexed and troubled, she wandered with her down to the Plymouth Docks one afternoon, and stood in a sheltered corner there, with the little girl's hand clasped in her own, looking with mourn- ful wistfulness upon the ships hard by. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she took no notice of an ap- proaching man, a stranger, who was just then pass- ing on his way back from a ship, but she started as the sound of his voice fell on her ear. "Good Heavens!" he cried, "how like how like!" Mrs. Bertrancl looked up in astonishment. She saw, close by her side, a tall, dark man, a gentle- man, with a stern but handsome face, and an evi- dently habitual expression of repressed pain about his eyes and mouth. He was standing motionless in front of Marjory, gazing with rapt attention at the small face upheld to him in sweet, childish wonder. "Whose child is this?" he asked at last, ad- dressing Mrs. Bertrand. "Pardon me, madam," he went on earnestly, "this is no idle curiosity, indeed; I must know whose child she is." "The little girl was entrusted to me," Mrs. Bertrand said, speaking in low tones that Marjory might not hear. "Her father was Captain Ormond, commander of the 'Dido,' and has been lately lost at sea." "Ah !" The stranger drew a long, deep breath, looking intently and earnestly at the child, and muttering to himself, "Strange very strange!" "Will you kindly give me your address?" he said at last. "I should be glad to call and have 228 AN OCEAN WAIF. some conversation with you soon. My name is Vernon this is my address. Has this little girl no other relatives?" "None whatever, sir. Her father often told me so." "I will call soon," he repeated, absently. There was an expression of strong determination and deep thought upon his brow Mrs. Bertrand went home with fresh food for perplexity and thought. A few days later Mr. Vernon called on her. He was pre-occupied and earnest, and had evidently formed some strong re- solve. His opening words struck Mrs. Bertrand with surprised dismay, followed by a feeling of re- lieved delight, mingled with some natural reluc- tance. "You have told me," Mr. Vernon said, "that this child is a friendless orphan, placed in your care. On my first sight of her, I was greatly struck by her resemblance to a dear lost friend of mine, and this resembfence, accidental as it is, has so deeply stirred my he,art that I have formed the ardent wish, and, with your consent, the resolution, madam, to adopt her as my chiki. If you desire a reference, speak to your minister, to whom I am well known." He paused, and fixed his searching eyes on Mrs. Bertrand's face. She was silent for a little, her eyes cast down, as she pondered on his words and weighed the situation in her mind. Then she looked up frankly, meeting his gaze with clear and candid eyes. "I thankfully accept your offer, sir, to adopt little Marjory, though I shall greatly grieve to part with her. It seems to me that Providence has sent you to us now. The child had only me to look to, and I could have done so little for her. And I have lately learnt that my only son lies at death's door in AN OCEAN WAIF. 22 India, stricken down with fever there. I am most anxious to see my only child once more; yet I did not see my way to taking my little girl with me, nor could I bear to let her stay behind in a stranger's care. I will speak to Mr. Luke as a mere form though I am sure," she added, looking earnestly in his face, with eyes made keen by love of Marjory, "that I am not mistaken in my trust of you. You have a good and faithful countenance its sternness I discern is caused by sorrow. 1 can read therein that you have borne some deep and heavy grief." "I have, indeed," he returned, in low and shaken tones, as he turned his face aside hastily from her keen searching eyes. "Your child will be safe with me," he added firmly; "I shall devote my life, my being, to her and to her interests." He paused, and then said gently, and with much hesitation : "But your son is ill in India, you say, and you are going out to him. If I might venture," he . said softly, "to offer funds, or any assistance in my power " Mrs. Bertrand proudly raised her head, and stopped him with a look. "There need be no ques- tion of such things between us," she said quietly; "I have enough to take me to my son." "Do not be offended," he said sadly; "I made the offer with all good will, and the most courteous respect. At least take my address with you, and promise to apply to me at some future time for your son's sake." Her proud eyes softened at the word. "I fhank you, sir, and will promise you. You will let me hear now and then of little Marjory, for I shall miss my child? It is for her sake I give her up to you." "I know it," he said gently, "and will scrupu- lously comply with your request." A little later, Mm. Bertrand sailed alone for India. 230 AN OCEAN WAIF. PART II. "And it happened ten long years ago," said Marjory one Christmas night. "Ten years ago, my darling," repeated Mr. Vernon, as his adopted daughter put her arm around his neck. "Where is Mrs. Bertrand now, I wonder?" "1 know not. I wrote to her from time to time, to tell her of your welfare, but whether she is yet in India I cannot say. I believe her son re- covered from his illness." "Fancy your keeping the secret from me for so long!" "I wishe-d you to believe yourself my daughter, darling. I wanted you to grow up my own child." "I should like to see Mrs. Bertrand," the girl said dreamily; "perhaps I might learn something from her of my father my poor, drowned father!" Mr. Vernon started, and gazed intently in her thoughtful face. "Have I not been your father, Marjory?" he questioned, with a tender thrill in his rich, deep tones. "It is natural that you should think of him but do you miss anything, my darling, when with me?" "No, no," she answered quickly, clasping him about the neck with passionate affection. "I could not have loved my own dear father more than I love you, for you are all the world to me, and have been so all these years." At this moment a well-trained servant ap- peared at the study door, standing there with an unusual air of hesitation. "What is it, Charles?" his master asked, obser- ving him; "what do you want?" "A person desires to see you, sir," the man re- plied. "He's very rough, and a seaman, I suspect. I doubted whether I should let him in." AN OCEAN WALb. 231 "Oh, certainly I'll see him. Bring him here at once." The footman retired, and presently returned with a grizzled, toil-worn man, clad in a sailor's 'dress. Marjory, observing him with interest, thought his manne-- strange and odd. He remained standing just within the door the well-trained Charles had closed behind him, staring intently in her face with a curious air of wondering recognition. Mr. Ver- non, equally astonished, bade him advance and state his business. "I'd ha' known ye anywheres," he said at last, slowly addressing Marjory, but paying no heed to her adopted father. "You've grown up now, miss, the image o' your poor mother, and I'd ha' known ye anywheres. I've never forgot the pretty child as we saved from the wreck 1" "What can you mean?" Mr. Vernon cried in agitation. "Just this, an' it please ye, sir. Our captain, he trusted me ten years ago with a packet for the child he'd saved off the 'Olympus,' when she were a habe. He'd left her with a widow as took care on Tier, and I've been trying to find her almost ever isince." Mr. Vernon was greatly moved at the man's words, and Marjory sprang forward eagerly. "Give it to me, please," she said in low, strained tones. She had grown very pale. He placed the packet in her hands, and Mr. Vernon, drawing her close to him, bade the man explain more fxilly the meaning of his words, and of his presence there. "I'd best tell the whole tale straight," was his reply, and, accepting the proffered chair, the sailor cleared his voice, and began without delay. "My name is Jones," he said, "and I'd been on the 'Dido' as first mate for seven years, with John 232 AN OCEAN WAIF. Ormond for my captain, when we sighted a wreck the morning afore Christmas Day, and after a ter- rific storm as had beaten on us aM the night. We boarded iier, and the captain found a poor deaci wo- man and a living child in a cabin down below, and brought therm to the 'Dido.' We buried the poor mother at sea that day, and he took the child ashore. She were the prettiest wee thing, an' all the men on board, they grieved to part with her, and the captafcn, he set such store on her he r d never ha' done it only for her good. Well, he left her with a woman ashore to be brought up as a lassie should, and went to visit her whenever our good ship was near that port." At this point Jones paused, and bent his griz- zled head as though in pakiful thought; and then, speaking very slowly, he resumed his tale: "During our last voyage we had run short o' water, and had to go ashore for some at a wild mainland we were passing. The captain went in the boat with us, leaving trusty old Jenkins in charge of the ship. We'd got the casks all filled and in the boats, but the captai^i and I delayed behind a little way with the cabin boy, whilst the men were waiting for us in the boat, and we were just about to follow them when a terrific yell burst on our ears, and, before we could look round, a troop o' blacks had rushed on us. We fought hard, an' tried to make our way back to the boats. The poor boy had been seized on by two sturdy savages, an' was bein' dragged away when Captain Ormond received a deadly wound in rescuing of him. Some o' the men in the boats ran to our help, and we managed, being luckily well-armed, to beat off the savages, as there was but a handful of them, and we got back to the ship without delay. But our captain, he had got his death-wound," said Jones huskily, crushing his hat up nervously between his strong, brown hands. AN OCEAN WAIF. 233 "He'd got his death-wound," he repeated slowly, "an' when we reached the ship and carried him up on deck, he just lay dying there, and had but strength to take that there packet from his breast, aad, putting it in my hands as I knelt by him 'Jones,' says he, 'I'm dying give that to my little girl with my last love an' blessing!'' Jones bent his head and paused again, and, speaking a little hurriedly, resumed once more. "Well, our captain died, and we buried him at sea, and it were my duty to take the vessel on. We were almost half- way home when we struck on a rock. I and an- other man were saved by a foreign ship; the rest all perished with the 'Dido.' I was carried away to foreign lands, and wandered there awhile: but coming back to England when I could, with the packet, which I'd guarded safely all the time, I tried to find out Mrs. Bertrand, but there were no traces of her at the port. At length I came across a man of that name who'd lived in India, and in talking with him I found he was her son, but his mother had died long since. I under- stood she hatt gone out to India to nurse him in a fever, and the climate had been too much for her own strength. He had some letters with him as had been written to her by a gentleman who had adopted the child, so I came straight on here." Jones rose as he ended his tale, and told them hurriedly he must go. Marjory had been weeping silently, as she sat by Mr. Vernon's side, his loving arm about her ; but now she rose, and, advancing, took the man's rough hand in both of hers. "You were with him when he died," she said earnestly, "I shall always remember that." He looked at her with unwonted moisture in his eyes. "God bless you, miss! I've never forgot the pretty child we saved." He bent his head and 234 AN OCEAN WAIF. kissed the little hands, and, scraping awkwardly to Mr. Vernon, went away. When they were left alone once more, Mr. Ver- non took the girl tenderly into his arms, and kissed away her tears. "And he was not my father, after all," she said brokenly. "Yet I dearly love his memory. But who can be my father, if not he? And my mother oh, my sweet, dead mother whom I have never known !" She laid her head on her adopted father's breast and clung to him silently, he smoothing her hair with a very tender hand. "Let us open the packet, dear," he said at last. There was a curious expression of expectation in his eyes, the look of one who is about to penetrate a wonderful mystery. Strange hopes were surging in his breast such hopes as he himself could scarcely understand. The packet was carefully stitched up in oil-skin, worn and stained, which cost a little trouble to remove, for Mr. Vernon's hands were trembling nervously. As he took the paper from the case, the locket fell from it, and as it caught his eye, he started violently, uttering a suppressed cry of mingled agony and joy. "Ere I opened the packet, a strange and sweet "thought came to me this is the sacred proof I need no longer doubt. See, my darling," he said brokenly, and turning to the girl who stood beside him, dazed and wonder-stricken, "look at this paper which I bold it is your mother's certificate of marriage- there are my letters to her this is the locket I gave her on our wedding day. It contains my miniature, and oh! one seen by me now for the first time, the little baby I had never known ! Marjory, you are my own sweet daughter, my sainted Amy's child. Now I know what drew me to you when I saw you first, my little girl." "Father? You are my father my own " AN OCEAN WAIF. 235 "Listen, dear. When your mother and I had been married but a year, I was obliged to go to America very hurriedly, to attend to urgent business there connected with my maternal grandfather's estates. At his death I had succeeded to them, on altering my own name from Hamilton to Vernon, after him, and I placed an agent there to manage them for me, and returned home to rejoin my wife. I had written many times to her since our separa- tion from each other, and she had answered me at first, but after a time her letters to me ceased, and I grew very anxious. On my return I found she had been taken to a distant neighbourhood by the people she was residing with. I heard vague rumours of the birth of a little child, but whether it had lived or died I did not know. My later letters to my wife were returned to me unopened, and I sought for traces of her in pain and agony. At last I found that, on her recovering from sickness, im- patient of my long delay, and uneasy at not having heard from me for so long, she had started out to join me, her letters informing me of her intention having probably miscarried; and she had perished at sea, the vessel she had sailed in having been wrecked in a terrific storm. This is the grief, my darling, that has been so long locked in my inmost heart. My daughter Amy Marjory no longer named after your own sweet, sainted mother ! At Christmas time, long years ago, it was my grief to lose my cherished wife ; and, by God's mercy, at Christmas time, I have found my child." The Griefs of the Poor. it was bitterly cold, and, in the London streets,, the passers-by walked hurriedly, as though they strove to keep themselves as warm as possible. Broom in hand, a little girl stood on the snowy road, stamping her bare feet, and sweeping vigor- ously at her crossing ; her small, pinched face and scanty clothing telling sadly of privation and of wanu. AS sne paused ror a moment from her task to rest and glance round eagerly amongst the pas- sengers, to see if anyone would come her way, a blooming, happy-looking girl, in handsome furs, ap- proached her, to cross over. She paused for a moment to regard the child with interest and pity, as, drawing one daintily-gloved hand from within her cosy muff, she dropped a silver coin in her half- frozen fingers, and put her hand lightly on her shoulder as she stood beside her, looking down on her. The little girl was gazing up in her face with awe and admiration, as at a being of a different sphere. She put out one hand very timidly, and lightly touched the young lady's handsome furs, in an involuntary admiration, drawing back hastily next minute, as though afraid of meeting witi. re- buke. Understanding both her admiration and her fear-, the girl smiled pleasantly. "What is your name?" she questioned kindly; "and where do you live, my child?" "I'm Nancy," she replied; "we lives in Golden Court, up Eastcheap way." "This is your crossing, I suppose. Do you come here every day? I shall be passing here again THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. 2it; in a week or two. You must mind and be here at your post, my little one. I shall have something for you, Nancy, if you come." Withdrawing her hand from the child's shoulder she nodded brightly to her, and passed on. Nancy stood gazing after her till she was out of sight, and then turned slowly to her task again. The young girl's bright smile, her winsome face, her kindly words, had made a deep impression on her mind, and had roused a strong, but scarcely understood devotion to her in her heart. Then she thought of the promise which her new-found friend had made, and wondered, with a glad anticipation, what the promised gift would be. But she was rudely awakened from her plea- sant dream. A well-grown lad, who had been stand- ing near, and who had heard all that had passed between the child and the fair passer-by, came up to her, and roughly claimed the crossing as his own. "The crossing here is mine," he said; "I had it months ago, and I always meant to come back here again." "It's hard to find another crossin'," said the child; "an' I've been here so long. Do let me keep it now ! I don't know what we'll do at home if jou take it away from me." "I mean to have it back," he answered, rough- ly, with a threatening look. "Mother looks so for the pennies, and we're awful poor. Last rent-day we was all but turned right out into the streets, though we'd starved and pinched to save up for the rent. Do let me keep the crossin' now !" The boy gave her a violent push for answer, and the little girl resisted feebly, vainly attempting to retain her post. He thrust her from it, and, her broom being broken in the unequal struggle, she beat a wise retreat, and made her way into a 238 THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. quieter street, where she might get the better of the hot and smarting tears that rushed into her eyes. Attracted by the sound of wheels just then, she turned her head ; a snug closed carriage had just driven up, and had stopped by the kerbstone near her. A gentleman alighted and turned to help out his companion, a young girl wrapped warmly in handsome furs. Nancy recognised her friend at once, for it was the girl who had spoken to her at tiie crossing one short hour ago. Herself unnoticed in her quiet nook, she stood gazing at her wistfully, eagerly longing for a word, a look from her. 'I hey entered a large stone building, dark and sombr^- looking, which Nancy knew to be an old library, and she remained there, looking after them, and slowly rubbing one cold bare foot upon the other on the white snow-covered path outside. Forgetful for the moment of her bitter sorrow and the cold, the child stood on the snowy pavement waiting lor them to come out. They soon came forth again, each carrying some books, the girl a little in advance of her com- panion. On his way to the carriage, the latter stumbled slightly on the path, and his purse fell from his hands ; opening with the fall, its contents were scattered round about. The girl had stopped as she was entering the carriage, and she turned her bright face round to him. "Can't I help you, father?" she cried cheer- fully; "wait till I have put my books in the car- riage, and I'll help you pick the money up!" "No, thank you, dear," he answered, with a smile; "get into the carriage, Millicent; it is too cold for you to stand about." He came forward as he spoke, and, putting his own books upon the seat, he helped his daughter in, presently returning to pick up the scattered THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. 2i> coins. The child stood unobserved in her corner by the building, watching him with breathless inter- est, as he rapidly gathered up the coins. How vast, uncountable a fortune they np- peared to the little waif, and what a dream of love- liness, of comfort, and luxury they conjured up for her ! One golden coin had rolled away, and had fallen, all unnoticed, in a corner near her feet. She had almost made a movement to restore it to its owner, when a new thought came to her a keen \tu\ strong temptation, and it stayed her ready hand. She watched him eagerly, dreading lest he might notice it at the last minute ; but he had not dis- covered his loss yet, and he soon followed his daugh- ter into the snug brougham, and drove away. Nancy darted on her treasure, after one quick, fearful look round, lest she might be observed. "Findings is keepings!" she breathed exultant- ly, as she clasped it tightly in her hand, and hur- ried round the corner of the street. She was ignorant of the full value of the money ; but she knew well that food, and fire, and clothing could one and all be bought with a golden coin like this ; and, perhaps, there might be something left to buy a toy for little Ben. She ran in the direction of her home, busily planning what she would buy, and eager to tell hfr mother of her prize. Threading her way amongst the people in the crowded streets, she ran on swiftly towards a very poor and squalid quarter of the town, and, entering a wretched-looking court, she hurried somewhat fearfully past the groups of coarso, dishevelled women lounging idly round about their doors, tightly grasping the precious sovereign in her hand. Ascending a broken stairway, she climbed to a dark, unwholesome attic up above. A child of four ran up to her as she entered, lifting eagerly kit. email, pinched face to hers, as he clung to 1 <T 240 THE GRIEFS OF TfiE POOR. scanty dress. Nancy caught his hand in heT's with an involuntary sigh, and she glanced first at iiim, and then around the well-known room, as she stood still for an instant, clasping her new-found trea- sure yet more closely in her hand. The attic was bare and comfortless, indeed ; the roof in many parts had fallen in, and the broken window-panes were ineffectually stuffed with rags in the vain effort to exclude the biting cold. The only furniture con- sisted of two wretched beds of straw, on one of which a woman sat with some coarse sewing in her hands, and by her side a tiny, ailing child. She put her sewing down as the child, dis- turbed from sleep, began to wail. The mother took it in her arms, hushing it tenderly, and Nancy hurried up to her. "Nance, have you earned anything to-day? There's naught for supper, or for breakfast, if ye haven't," said the woman, anxiously. "They have not paid me for the sewing, yet." "Mother, a big boy took my crossin' from me, and my broom is broke. But a lady gave me six- pence first; and. mother, look what I have found!" "Why, child, how did you find it? It's a sover- reign, Nancy ; twenty-shillings told I It'll buy ua everything almost! Where did ye find it, dear?" "I picked it up," the child replied, reluctantly; for the first time a feeling of compunction coming over her, at her involuntary suppression of a por- tion of the truth. "I found it lying on the street." "Then that's all right. I was afraid as some- one might ha' dropped it, and we ought to find 'em out and give it back to them. But if ye found it on the street, then we can keep it, Nance, all right enough !" Nancy answered not. The bright, sweet face cf Millicent had risen in her mind. She thought of the promise which the girl had made of a gift, THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. 241 and wordered bitterly how she could meet her now I She reviewed again the scene by the library door, and a lump rose to her throat. How earnestly she wished the thing undone that she might freely meet that kindly look again ! The child turned bitterly away. "Go out and get some supper for us, child," said her mother, presently; "I'm sure you want some bad enough. And, Nance, tell Mrs. Brown as we can take those blankets now, she offered me." Nancy nodded, and, without a word, went slowly down the crazy stairway to fulfil her errand. That night, unable to sleep, she lay on her straw bed, with her little brother nestling at her side. The warm blanket over her seemed somehow to oppress her with its weight, though the night was bitterly cold, and the unwonted warmth was very grateful to her weary limbs. A bitter sob rose to her throat, try to check it as she would. "What's the matter, Nancy P" her mother's voice said, with an anxious note. "Why are ye crying, child? Come here to me." The child rose slowly from her brother's side, and went towards her mother, where she sat late at work by the light of a solitary candle that feebly waned and flickered in the gusty draught, as she bent painfully, with wearied hamds and eyes, above her sewing. The woman put her tired hands out, drawing her little daughter close to her, and gently pressing her head against her breast. "What is it, deary?" she asked softly; "tell mother what ails her girl?" "Mother, I didn't know you was still up." "I couldn't sleep for thinkin', child. I pleased myself with thinkin' what we'd buy with the money as you found to-day. You should be happy, Nancy, with such luck! What ails ye, dearP" "Oh, mother, you don't know. I saw him drop 2-M THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. it, mother and I waited an' I picked it up when he'd gone I" "Nancy!" The woman's tone was indescribable. A mingled grief and wonder in her voice. The child clung closer to her as she stood beside her; and, with her head still resting on her mother's bosom, sobbed out all her tale. "What must we do?" she faltered, timidly, at its close. The woman did not answer. She sat ponder- ing. The same hard, cruel temptation that bad been her daughter's was hers now, with all its force and strength. The gentleman was rich, she thought, he could well spare this solitary sovereign from his golden store. And they were poor so poor ! And almost starving why should they not keep the little luck had brought in their way ? And he would never know ; would never even miss the money, probably. She sat there, pondering, and wrestling with the hard and cruel temptation. Then she drew her daughter closer to her, and sighed heavily. "Lead us not into temptation!" she said softly. "Child, we must give it back to him, of course!" "But we've broke it, mother we've spent some of itl" Her mother sighed. "We must send the blan- kets back to Mrs. Brown," she said, in a low tone, involuntarily shivering in the cold draught as she epoke. "And we must just take some of the money from the rent that is put by, to make it up." "Oh, mother, an' it was so hard to make the rent! And your sewing has been paid so poor!" "But we must do it, Nancy. There's no other way." "He'll not miss it, mother," said the child, in a faint voice. "An' I don't know where he lives." "You must ask them at the library, child; the THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR, 243 man there'll know. We must just do what's right. Go back to your bed, and sleep." Nancy obeyed her silently, and lay down again by little Ben. "I wish I had given it back to him," she reflected sadly, as a few hot tears rolled down her cheek. Yet she soon fell into a peaceful slum- ber, with the heavy weight gone from her heart. Next day she went to the library and enquired about the gentleman, but the man she questioned was a stranger, and knew nothing of him, or of hie address. Too timid to push her inquiries further, she wandered about the richer portion of the city for some hours, with the vague idea of finding the rightful owner of the sovereign amongst the well- dressed crowds of people whom she met, all wearing gay and happy faces as each went his way. Nancy watched them sadly, a despairing feeling at her childish heart, an unacknowledged dread that the involuntary wrong which she had done could never be put right again. She had brought the money with her, and she wondered, if she found her, how Millicent would look when she confessed her sin, and put it in her hands. She shrank from the thought of how the girl's bright face must surely change, and of the look of censure and dislike with which she would regard the little waif who had been guilty of thus robbing them. For a week she haunted the vicinity of the old library, and at last one day, as she was standing on the pavement, she caught a brief glimpse, from a little distance, of a bonnie, blooming face she knew, the countenance of Millicent herself, as she issued from the library door on her father's arm. She was hidden for a moment in the crowd of people coming out, and when the child again caught sight of her she was seated in a carriage by her father, driving past. Nancy started to a run, crying breathlessly, 244 THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. "Stop, stop!" A few of the people nearest her turned round to glance at her with wondering dis- approval in their looks, but they took no further notice, and the carriage drove on swiftly as she rushed on after it. Soon it turned a corner to en- ter another street, and the child dashed madly after, fearful of losing sight of it. In crossing the road, regardless where she went, she was knocked down by a passing vehicle, and, stunned and unconscious, lay upon the road, white with the fall of snow. A crowd collected round her, and amongst them a policeman, whose attention had been attracted to her by the mad pace at which she had been hurry- ing. The cries of the passers-by had startled the occupants of the carriage which she had been fol- lowing ; and its owner, stopping it, had now alighted, and approached the group. "What's the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "Is this an accident? Can I do anything?" "The child was running after your carriage, sir," the policeman said, as he stooped over her. "After my carriage? Why, what could she want with me?" Millicent had now joined her father, and was beside him, leaning on his arm. "Is the little girl badly hurt?" she questioned, anxiously. "I had just turned to watch her, miss, when she was knocked down. I don't suppose she's hurt she's only stunned, I think." Millicent drew her hand from her father's arm, and impulsively approached the child, half kneeling by her on the freshly-fallen snow. "Why, father dear, it's the little girl I told you of the other night ! And she was following us, you say? She must have wanted me." Nancy had recovered consciousness, and she THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR, 245 now looked up with a bright and sudden, sunny smile, in the tender, bonnie face bent over her. "Did you want me, Nancy? Why were you running after us just now? Tell me all about it, little one, but, tell me first if you are hurt!" Nancy shook her head in silence. Her bright look had altered to uneasiness as her eyes fell with a sudden recognition on the father's countenance, where he still stood behind hie daughter, looking down on them. "Nancy, I have the gift at home I promised you. I was going to bring it to you at your cross- ing in a day or two. Let me help you up, and I will take you home." She tried to raise her, but the child was weak and giddy, and fell back again. Millioent's father turned to the policeman, and requested him to bring their carriage up. "We will drive you home," said Millicent. "I am afraid that you are really hurt," she added an- xiously. "Only a little shaken, dear," her father said, after bending over Nancy for an instant; "but we had better get her home at once." "Wait," eaid Nancy, gathering her courage with an effort; "I must tell you something as I did the other day." She lifted her clasped hand to Milli- cent, with a piteous and pleading, humble look. "Please it's his," she faltered in low tones; "h dropped it an' I picked it up and kept it. But I've brought it back to you, as mother said. It's all in silver, now," she added wistfully, as, opening her hand, she showed the coins ; "but it's all there I We broke it up, you know, so we had to take some money from the rent." "What do you mean?" asked Millicent. "I don't quite understand you, Nancy." 246 THE GRIEFS OF THE POOR. "I was outside the library the other day; he dropped his purse." "Outside the library? We never saw you, dear!" "I was standin' by, and watching you you never noticed me. I never stole before!" Their long silence seemed to puzzle her, and she trembled as she turned away her head, dreading to meet their look of censure, and perhaps of scorn. Visions of a prison and of punishment now arose before her eyes. The father had turned hastily aside, and noticing his movement, and misunder- standing it, Nancy's heart began to fail her alto- gether. A frightened, bitter sob rose to her lipa as she glanced timidly in the young girl's face, dreading to see the change that must come over it. To her astonishment, no look of horror, or anger, came; only her expression of a tender pity, and an infinite compassion, deepened and grew softer. And the tears in her bright eyes fell fast on Nancy's cheek, as sweet Millicent bent over her and kissed her tenderly. What was the Mystery? (A SURGEON'S EXPERIENCE.) CHAPTER I.-THE RIVER ACCIDENT. It was a lovely day in summer, and I was drift- ing dreamily down, the stream, as I sat in my little skiff, enjoying the fresh and balmy air and gentle motion. Willows wared gently on the banks, birds were singing there, or skimming the shallows, and Nature seemed in her sweetest mood. Another boat was drifting too, at a little dis- tance from my own, and by almost imperceptible de- grees, came nearer and nearer, until I could see the faces of the youthful occupants, two little girls and a well-grown lad ; and hear the boy's clear tones as he told some thrilling tale. As he talked he rested on his oars, and the two children sat side by side, listening intently, their earnest eyes fixed on his face, an arm about each other. One of the two was curiously like him, apparently his sister, with the same clear-cut features, the same blue eyes, and fair, wavy hair. She leant lovingly up against her little companion, an Italian-looking child, with dark and lustrous eyes, and heavy masses of dark, soft hair tumbling about her shoulders. As their boat passed mine I noticed the companion's expression al- ter suddenly. The flushed and eager look changed to an extremely dull and strained one, and her bright face had a strange pallor. At the same instant the lad was saying brightly to the fair-haired child, "Come Conny, would yeu like to try and row?" He 248 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? held out his hand to steady her, as she rose to change her seat for one beside him, and, as she did so, her companion rose too. "You love Conny best!" I heard her cry, in tones so harsh for one so young that I gazed at her in startled surprise. Conny, evidently startled too, turned round to look at her, dismayed, in the act of moving forward to the lad's side ; and, in another moment, was struggling in the water, having lost her balance, owing to the angry push her companion had suddenly given her. The boy rose hastily, with one look full at the girl, and one subdued cry of "Mona !" in accents of mingled astonishment and reproach, as he threw off his coat and sprang from the boat. I hastened up in time to assist in lifting the child in, for he had luckily caught her the second time she rose. She was in a half-conscious state as we wrapped her in her brother's coat, and, introducing myself as the new doctor, lately arrived at the little town, I of- fered my services, which were eagerly accepted. We hastened to the little jetty which extended into the water at the foot of the large garden belonging to their home, and in a very short time we had the child duly attended to, and snug in bed. My duty performed, I sought the other two. A servant showed me into the old library, and there I found them seated on a couch, the child weeping unre- strainedly in the boy's arms; he bending over her with words of comfort. As I approached she raised her tear-stained face, a look of awe, even terror, in her eyes. "I didn't know I was doing it," she sobbed. "I saw a room all filled with books, but not like this and I saw a lady; a lady with dark eyes that flashed and glittered, and with long black hbir. Thn I heard Dick saying 'Mona !' and I was in the boat again, and Conny in the water!" WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? 249 Dick held her gently to him, and soothed her into qwietude. He laid her on the couch and cov- ered her up warmly, and, tired out with excitement, she sank into deep slumber. We withdrew then to the window seat. "She was never like this before, in all her life," the boy said earnestly. "She is my father's ward, and I've known her from a baby. She and Conny are like sisters, and love each other dearly. She has always been so gentle, winning, and healthful in her ways, and I can't understand the change. My father will be home directly," he continued pres- ently, and glancing at the clock, "please wait and see him, sir." Before I ceuld reply the room-door opened and a grey-haired gentleman came in, and hastily ad- vanced towards ui. "What is this I hear, Dick?" said he, politely greeting me. Then, lowering his tone as he ob- served the little form reposing on the couch. "Tell me, dear boy James spoke of an accident to Conny on the river." Speaking in hushed accents, Richard told him all. Mr. Osborne did not speak when he had ceased, but paced the room with hurried steps. At length he paused beside the little sleeper, bending over her. "Poor little Mona !" I heard him muu- mur softly, as he kissed her cheek. She stirred a little in her sleep, a bright smile flitting across her face. He turned to me again, and, as I took my leave, pressed me to return, that we might become further acquainted with one another. In the meantime, all being well with my little patient up- stairs, I departed for my OWB home. 250 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? CHAPTER II. -THE SEALED PACKET. The years have passed since this event took place, and much has happened in the meantime. The other day I found the above in an old diary of mine, discarded long ago, and it struck me I would finish the story thus begun. Mona developed into a very lovely girl, and had never since shown any but the sweetest and most lovable of tempers, and I may truly say she was idolised by all in the household and the village. Constance and she were devoted to one another, and my old friend, Dick, was much attached to her ; and naturally so, for they were now engaged to marry one another. I was a little puzzled at the way in which her guardian behaved about this be- trothal. He did not actually forbid it, yet he re- garded the young couple with evident moodiness, and it somehow seemed to prey upon his mind. The time was fixed, however, for the marriage to take place, and preparations were put forward, when all came to a standstill suddenly, owing to the serious illness of Mr. Osborne. I attended him, and with keen regret I broke the truth to him. I said his illness would prove fatal, and that he was almost in his last extremity. To my surprise he calmly smiled on me, and pres- ently said in his usual even tone, "My friend, I was not unprepared for this. I have been long ex- pecting it." He paused and lay silent and absorbed in thought. Then, fixing his eyes on my face, he gazed intently on me, and with such questioning and such deep trouble in his look, that I laid my hand on his, saying earnestly, "Old friend, we have known each other many years now; can you not trust me with what troubles you? Whatever it may be, I'll do my best to ease your mind." He answered me : WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? 2ol "I tell you all I CAN-whether you shall know all must depend on future circumstances." He continued presently in low and eager tones : "Go to my private study when you leave me here. In my desk, of which this is the key, you will find a small, sealed packet, with no superscription on it save my own initials, which packet you will take into your charge. You remember the occasion of our first meeting? If anything strange should hap- pen to Mona, break open the sealed packet and read the enclosure privately, acting afterwards as you may thing best and wisest for all concerned. If, on the contrary, a reasonable time should elapse, and nothing happen, then destroy the packet unopened, and tell nothing. It is this chance," he murmured feebly, "that has made me undetermined. Dick loves Mona dearly, and my little girl's happiness is bound up in his. I have shrunk from telling either, for nothing further may ever happen now. The spell may be broken broken " He ended abrupt- ly, a feeble cry issued from his pallid lips, his hand was pressed against his poor, labouring heart; an- other moment yet, and then he was gone. So intense was the grief that pervaded the household after this sad event that several days elapsed before I called to mind the last injunction of my dear old friend. It was the second evening after the funeral when I suddenly remembered it. I sat in the old library with Dick and Mona. Constance was in bed with a slight feverish attack, and they had begged me to remain all night, lest she should be worse. I had no apprehensions on her behalf, but they were so anxious that I gave way, only too happy to have it in my power somewhat to alle- viate their grief, for they had turned to me with loving trust at this sad time Dick sat mournfully by the fireside, his manly 252 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? head bowed slightly, his arm round Moiia, as she sat beside him, her beautiful dark face with its pathetic eyes resting against his shoulder. I had said all I could to comfort them, but nothing seemed to do so as much as silent sympathy, and that I gave them now, for, as Shakespeare makes Brabantio to say in his immortal "Othello" : Words are words ; I never yet did hear, That the bruie'd heart was pierced through the ear. It wa when, at a late hour, they left me and retired to rest, that I suddenly recollected the im- portant packet mentioned by Mr. Osborne on his death-bed. Happening to put my hand in my pocket as I sat in the solitude musing by the dying fire, I felt for the key he had given me, and, wonder- ing, drew it forth. For a moment I gazed at it ift perplexity, then all came back to me, and I rose, determined to delay no longer. The private stmdy opened out of the library, and, taking down a taper from the chimney-piece, I opened the door of com- munication and went towards the corner where stood the desk of my old friend. Bending over it, I un- locked and raised the lid, searching for the packet. The desk was full of neatly-labelled papers, but no sealed packet appeared to be there. At last I con- cluded that Mr. Osborne had himself destroyed it, and afterwards forgotten the fact ; and, after one last careful search, during which I entirely emptied the desk, neatly replacing the papers one by one, I turned away with a weary sigh. To my surprise I heard the sigh re-echoed, and, with a chill shudder, felt a hand on my arm. I turned my head, and saw the form of Mr. Osborne standing there! He was close beside me, his eyes intently fixed on mine ; then, with a slight, swift motion, he directed my attention to the desk once more. I raised tho lid. WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? 253 In another instant he motioned me to touch a hid- den spring, and a secret drawer flew open. In the draw* lay a small sealed packet. He made a ges- ture I should take this in my hand, his eyes fixed mournfully on mine. "The spell may be broken broken " I heard his dying voice again echoing mournfully through the room. I saw his form alter and fade away; another moment yet, and I was quite alone. Rais- ing the flickering taper, I threw its faint light round the room, but could see nothing. I hastily re-closed and locked the desk, and took the packet with me to my room, where I placed it carefully amongst my private papers. I have never mentioned to any living creature what I saw in the old library that night for who would believe me? Yet I am firmly convinced in my own mind that the spirit of my dear, dead friend came there to aid me in my otherwise fruit- less search. CHAPTER III.-OF DICK'S MISHAP. Twelve months elapsed, and preparations were renewed for Richard's wedding. The three young folks, their grief much softened by kind time that heals all wounds, were very happy over it, when a second sorrow came to them. Richard Osborne, the finest, most stalwart young fellow in the neighbour- hood, and for many a mile around, was thrown from his horse (a young, half-broken one, so rash and spirited it went by the name of Demon Wild- fire), and he was brought home to lie on a bed of pain and sickness. An eminent surgeon came from town t consult with me, and we agreed that, un- less some happy and unforeseen change took place in the indefinite future, poor Dick must be a hope- less invalid and cripple, for his spine was paralysed. 254 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? The surgeon departed, leaving me to break the news. I went to the room where Richard lay, leaded by Mona and Constance, and nursed by the kindly, skilful woman who had brought them all up as children. We had made ready a room on the ground-floor when he was brought home that un- lucky day ; and the pretty French-window opening into the garden was ajar as I came in, admitting wafts of fresh, sweet air, laden with the breath of summer flowers. Mona sat beside him, his hand held fast in hers, her loving faithful eyes on his pale face, as she murmured softly to him, a few stray sunbeams making their way through the shut- ters and falling fitfully on them both. As I entered, they both raised their eyes, and Mona rose to go. I took her seat, and requested her to go into the garden for a stroll in the fresh air, saying I had come to stay with Dick ewhile. She passed out through the window to the lawn, and I sat silent, wondering how I could best tell the boy. Something in my face must have told him I was troubled, for he laid his hand on mine, and begged to know my thoughts. "Am I very ill?" he asked, a quiver in his voice. "I shall soon get well again to marry Mona." Then I nerved myself to the task, and told him all the hard and cruel truth. Poor boy! He lay for a moment in deep anguish, seeming quite un- able to comprehend. "A cripple!" he gasped out at last. "I am a cripple, to He always on this weary bed, and never go about again ! Oh ! rather let me die at once. Help me to bear it! Mona Mona!" She heard his anguished cry without, and sprang at once into the room. Her loving arms were round him, and his head was pillowed on her faithful breast. WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? 255 "Mona I can never marry you; I am a cripple, Mona!" The words fell brokenly from his parched lips. She turned to me, and read their confirma- tion in my eyes. Then she bent over him again, cooing to him softly. "Hueh, Dick! be quiet, my own love" For the poor fellow was sobbing wildly on her bosom. "I'll marry you to-morrow, dear, and nurse you back myself to health and strength." "Mona ! Mona ! You shall not sacrifice yourself your sweet, fresh, joyous life ! I am not worthy of it. Leave me, dearest, to reconcile myself to the loss of power and of you. I could never tie you to my sick bed, Mona." But she remained there, looking down on him, a smile of ineffable devotion playing about her beautiful, sweet mouth. "I'll never leave you, Dick 1 You would never have left me ! (reproach- fully.) You'll only be mine, my very own, all the more now !" I heard no more. Overcome with my emotion, I stole safely from the room. And a week later they were married. CHAPTER IV.-AGAIN. For eighteen months Richard lay quite helpless on his couch, Mona and Constance closely drawn together in their bond of loving care for him; and, excepting at odd times when he felt his loss most cruelly, and only his devoted wife could comfort him, Dick seemed genuinely happy. I attended him assiduously, and once the pain had left him, I noticed hopeful signs. I was silent, however, fear- ing to excite false hopes that might be cruelly dashed again. Yet, day by day I became more san- guine, and at length felt almost certain that he 256 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? might suddenly recover the use of his paralysed spine. But I was silent still, for after all, I thought, it might be very indefinite. It was not so, however. One lovely day we all sat out together on the sunny lawn, Richard lying on his couch, with Mona ever by his side cheering him with her lively talk, and her soft, rippling, happy laughter. James Vivien, an old friend of his, who evidently cherish- ed hopes of becoming something more, was close by Constance, talking to her in low and eager tones, as he watched intently her changing looks and sweet, flushed face. I sat dreaming over my book, a few yards apart. Soon Mona went to the house to fetch her work and to give orders for tea to be brought out to us. As she was returning presently, I noticed a sudden movement of Dick's where he lay on his couch, and, with a cry of surprised delight, in an instant he was standing on his feet. I started up, and made him recline again, as his wife flew to his side. "I felt suddenly as though I could do it," Richard said, his face alight with hope and joy. "I wanted to meet Mona, for my first stop must be towards my wife." And he gave her a look of such passionate gratitude and love that it was in itself a sweet reward for her devotion. "My dear boy, I have long hoped for this," I said. "But you must not be rash," I added an- xiously, "or you may undo it all! Yes, yes" (in an- swer to the eager questions showered on me), "I do indeed believe he will get well now ; but he must be extremely cautious, and must not be excited thus." The garden was a paradise that afternoon. After this, Richard became daily stronger, and recovered by degrees his former power, though, as I cautioned him, he would need to be careful for some time to come. WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY P 267 I now began to wonder whether the sealed packet need be still preserved. No soul appeared happier and sweeter, or more healthful than our Mona. Even Constance was not more loved, unless indeed by James Vivien, now her accepted lover. One day, however, something occurred to puzzle and sadden all concerned. We sat in the library, Dick and Mona and myself, all busily engaged in discussing plans for Richard's tenants, when Constance entered quietly. Her brother, glancing up with merry eyes, surprised her look around the room, as though searching for another occupant. "James is not here," he told her, laughingly; "Were you expecting him, my little Conny? 'He cometh not, she said,' " he quoted, rising to draw her fondly to his side and kissing the bewitching little face with brotherly affection, Mona looking on with smiling eyes; when suddenly I saw her ex- pression change as it had changed on that first day, when they were children drifting on the river in their little skiff. Her lovely colour faded, her bright eyes dulled, and she started up, a harsh, strange note in her sweet voice. "You care for Constance most!" she cried. They turned towards her in dismayed astonish- ment, and, in another instant, Constance had fallen into Richard's arms struck on the forehead by a small marble weight which his wife had snatched from the table and had flung at her. Dick turned his face on her with one intent, quick look, one cry of "Mona I" then laid his sister gently on the couch, but it proved she was not seriously hurt, and we quickly brought her to herself. Mona was sob- bing bitterly as she knelt by her side. She shook from head to foot, and when Dick took her in his loving arms to soothe and comfort her, she clung to him Hke a little child. 358 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY P "It has come back to me," she said. "Oh, Dick, we had forgotten it, that strange waking dream I had so long ago, when we were children floating on the river in our boat. Just now I seem- ed suddenly to be in a strange room where there were many books all bound alike, and arranged on old carved shelves. A woman, richly dressed, and very beautiful, sat on an antique couch, her dark eyes flashing like the diamonds she wore, her dark, luxuriant hair floating in wild disorder about her ivory-like shoulders. A man stood by the fireplace, his arm resting on the chimney-piece, a cold smile on his clear-cut face, which was fair and beautiful to look upon, but cruel and heartless. And he was talking to her in low tones, but I could not hear the words he said. Suddenly the woman started up, and was beside him ; as she raised her hand, I could see something flash. Then I heard you crying, 'Mona!' and I found myself with you again, and Constance lying in your arms, so white and still !" CHAPTER V.-THE PACKET OPENED. I felt the time had now arrived when I must open the sealed packet committed to my care. When all had retired to rest that night I sat up in my room in my favourite chair beside the glowing fire, with my mind filled with vague thoughts. I slowly opened it. It consisted only of a few closely-written lines in my old friend's well-known hand. THE ENCLOSURE. "I know not," he had written, "who may come to read these lines, but I feel it is best to write them, and to place them where they will be found, if necessary, at some future time. "In the winter of 17 , I resided in Rome, a WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY P 259 few years after my marriage. I went alone, my wife being too delicate at this time to accompany me, and I being unable to postpone my intended journey. For the greater part of my stay I was entirely engrossed in the transaction of the business that had taken me there; but, at the last, having completed all, I had leisure to pay more attention to other things, and to notice more of what went on around me. "I do not care to dwell on what was painful to me at the time, and has since proved a source of biting anxiety ; a few words, therefore, will suffice to conclude my brief narrative. "I was residing in one of the old palaces, where the floors are let to tenants. A decayed English gentlewoman, being in possession of a suite of rooms, had let to me a bedroom and a small saloon, the remaining rooms having been already taken by a young Englishman of wealth and literary habits, who lived up there with his wife an extremely bril- liant and beautiful Italian lady of high birth, who was passionately attached to him. They had hither- to lived most happily together, but recently there had been some stormy scenes. "A few days before leaving Rome for my journey home, I heard some news as sad as it was startling. The Englishman had been stabbed by his Italian wife, as they sat together in their library one evening, and that same night she died ir giving birth to a child, whom I took under my own charge next day, and carried home to my wife, telling her the sad story of her birth. My dearest darling took her to her heart, and we christened her 'Mona,' bringing her up with our own sweet little ones. "I have often dreaded lest the circumstances Mna' birth pheuld affect hr mind or 260 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? nature in the future, as I have heard of such things doing; but I trust in our Heavenly Father that all may yet be well. "I sign this, "JOHN OSBORNE. "Dated-21st Dec., 17 ." I sat long, musing over this enclosure. My fire died out, my lamp blinked and flickered, ere I thought at last of retiring to my rest. Obeying a sudden impulse, I first set alight the paper with a decaying ember on the hearth, and watched it burn- ing out with a strange satisfaction. I could not sleep, however, and lay tossing restlessly, and won- dering over the things that had already hap- pened, and over this sad tale. It seemed evident that some strange link connected them but what was the mystery? On two occasions had Mona seen in sudden vision the dead parents whom she had never known in life ; and each time had she committed actions of which she was utterly uncon- scious at the moment. It was plain some spell hung over the girl's birth. As I sat musing thus, a soft cold touch passed over my hot brow, and I heard my old friend's dying accents once again: "The links of the past are broken broken." CHAPTER VI.-THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL. The hope of the dying man who had befriended and been a loving father to his little orphan ward, was to come true. The end of my tale begins with the second birthday of Mona's little child, a sweet girl baby, idolised by her parents, and the pet and WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY f 361 plaything of all about her, especially of Constance, who was to be married in another month. We sat in the garden on the sunny lawn be- neath the shelter of the trees, one warm June af- ternoon. With the tea, the baby came, borne by her nurse. Constance sprang up to take her, and stood with a bright happy face, holding the laugh- ing, cooing thing in her young arms. Mona rose, smiling, and came over to them, holding out coax- ing hands to the little one who looked at her. But she, attracted by a bright chain on Conny's neck, drew' back again wilfully to snatch at the pretty bauble with her soft baby hands. A sudden change came over the young mother's face, and I took a step for- ward in apprehensive dread. One moment she stood ashy pale, then raised her hands to her eyes and brow in an uncertain way, and, reeling, would have fallen had not her husband caught her in his arum. "What is it, loveP" I heard him murmur an- xiously, as he bent over her caressingly. "I don't know," she answered vaguely; "all at once I felt so ill, and very dizzy; then something seemed to snap in my heart and brain." He placed her in a low seat and brought the child to her. She fondled the little thing, then turning again to Dick, who knelt close by, she leant her head against his breast, and closed her eyes. "Let her rest so/' I said to Dick, "she wiu b better soon." "Constance, come away," James Vivien whi*. pered softly, and the two went off together. Nurse bore away her charge, cooing and bab- bling to the sunshine, and I sat by with my book, but not reading it, for I was too anxious to know what effect this sudden change would have on my dear girl. Richard took a seat by Mona's side 262 WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY? She had raised her head, with a perplexed and startled look in her dark eyes. "What has happened? Where are Constance and James Vivien?" We told her she had not seemed well, and that the two were wandering together in the garden. She was quite herself again, even brighter and hap- pier than before. And never since has there been anything strange or weird about our Mona, saving the one fact, indeed, of her having utterly forgotten her former visions and subsequent actions. Neither Dick nor I will ever tell her of them. We are too happy in her entire forgetfulness. Constance is married now, and has a little one of her own, who is very dear to me ; but I love Mona' s child the best, my goddaughter May. I am an old man now, and have long since resigned my practice to a younger. I spend the greater portion of my life with my young friends, tyrannised over by my godchild, with her sweet, bright face, and loving winsome ways. When the time comes for me to leave them and meet Dick's father once again, I shall have happy tales to tell him, if, indeed, he knows not all now I And, maybe, he will have solved the problem that puzzles me so much, and be able, when I meet him, to answer me the question I so often ask myself "What was the Mystery?" THE END. J. A. Packer, Printer and Publisher, Dean's Place, Sydney UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series 4939 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 864 025 2 PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARD i: I: a B a University Research Library