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.
 
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