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 THE GOLDEN FLEECE
 
 Philomel received and opened the box. 
 
 G. b.
 
 T^HE GOLDEN FLEECE 
 
 * BY A. L. O. E. 
 
 Thomas Nelson and Sons 
 
 London, Edinburgh, Dublin 
 and New York
 
 HO 00 
 
 n 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 / 
 
 Owls and Eagles 7 
 
 II. 
 
 Ladies in Council 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 19 
 
 /// 
 
 A Shot at the Owl 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 35 
 
 IV. 
 
 Aim Higher . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 5i 
 
 V. 
 
 Will it Strike t 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 VI. 
 
 A Slackened Bow 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 VII. 
 
 A Golden String 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 III. 
 
 Something to Bear . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 93 
 
 IX. 
 
 Random Shots 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 X. 
 
 Who Wins the Friz 
 
 tf 
 
 
 
 
 
 114 
 
 765371
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Philomel received and opened the box . . Frontispiece 
 
 Mr. Coffin did not rise from his easy-chair . . .10 
 He showed me a sovereign and a large gilt medal . . 31 
 Philomel Lamb sat at her toilet table . . . .81
 
 THE GOLDEN FLEECE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 |WLS have, no doubt, their proper place in 
 the social as -well as the natural world, 
 but of all birds under the sun — or moon — 
 they are the last that I should have chosen 
 as types of wisdom ; unless it be wisdom 
 to prefer darkness to light, and to see, by choice, 
 the night-side of everything in creation ! To my 
 mind, the lark that soars singing towards the sun 
 in summer, or the robin that whistles his merry lay 
 in the winter, is more emblematic of wisdom than 
 all the owls that ever hooted ! " Such were the re- 
 flections of Meredith, as he quitted Burnesbey Abbey, 
 and sauntered along the broad avenue bordered with 
 ancient beeches.
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 " There goes one of your eagle-spirits, always for 
 mounting and soaring, and leaving comfort and 
 common sense a long way behind him ! " This was 
 the comment of Caleb Coffin upon his late visitor, 
 as the new proprietor of Burnesbey Abbey stirred 
 his fire (no matter what the weather might be, Caleb 
 had always a fire), and then leaned back in his easy- 
 chair, and rubbed his lean wrinkled hands. Caleb 
 Coffin was an elderly man, wrapt in a gray dressing- 
 gown, with a black velvet cap on his head, and a 
 large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles resting upon a 
 hooked nose. That beak-like nose, the goggle 
 glasses, the round contour of the face, and the 
 peculiar expression which it wore, gave Caleb a 
 whimsical resemblance to the bird of Minerva. 
 Though Mr. Coffin liked his fire, his warm dressing- 
 gown, and his easy-chair, he was no valetudinarian, 
 but a man in full vigour of body and mind — one 
 disposed to enjoy life, much as an owl might be 
 supposed to enjoy it, wrapping himself up in his 
 feathery mantle, and screeching at the follies of the 
 rest of the world. A sneer lurked in the corner of 
 the lip overshadowed by the beak, a satirical gleam 
 in the keen gray eyes that peered through the 
 glasses, that bespoke the cynic. But if Caleb was 
 a modern Diogenes, he had learned at least to line 
 his tub with down.
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 9 
 
 The owner of Burnesbey Abbey had nothing of 
 the air of a country gentleman, and had looked 
 much more in his natural sphere at his office-desk 
 in Threadneedle Street^ than in the ancient mansion 
 which he had lately inherited from a distant relation 
 The lord of the manor appeared as little suited to 
 his new position, as his dusty ledger books would 
 have been to one in his study panelled with carved 
 oak, or a pane of ground glass from his office window 
 to a place amongst the fine-stained diamonds of the 
 mullioned casement behind him. 
 
 Meredith had been Coffin's ward, and had from 
 childhood been familiar with the eccentric humour 
 of the merchant ; but this had been his first visit 
 to the landed proprietor since, by a singular coinci- 
 dence, each of the two men had come by inheritance 
 into possession of a large estate. Characters are 
 often so much influenced and altered by circum- 
 stances, that Meredith had felt some curiosity to see 
 how the shrewd money-making, money-loving mer- 
 chant of Threadneedle Street, would play the new 
 part assigned him in the drama of life. Would 
 Caleb Coffin exemplify the lesson taught to ParnelTs 
 hermit of the effect of sudden prosperity upon a 
 selfish, niggardly nature ? — 
 
 " Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
 By heaping coals of fire upon its head :
 
 10 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
 And, free from dross, the silver runs below." 
 
 But Meredith had found nothing changed in Caleb 
 except his surroundings : it was the old picture in 
 a new frame, and one that did not harmonize with 
 it. Mr. Coffin did not rise from his easy-chair to 
 welcome his guest, but holding out to him two thin 
 fingers, nodded to Meredith to take a seat. The 
 following conversation then passed between them : — 
 
 Caleb. — An odd twirl of Fortune's wheel this, 
 Meredith, that has landed me in a romantic old 
 abbey — and you in a coal-pit ! Matters would have 
 been better had we exchanged places. I should have 
 squeezed gold out of coal dust without minding 
 blacking my fingers ; and you would have played 
 the grand signor to perfection, throwing away your 
 money like a cavalier of old, entertaining ragged 
 villagers by the hundred, and building scores of 
 picturesque cottages for grateful tenants — he ! he ! 
 he ! " (Mr. Coffin's laugh was peculiar, being 
 usually accompanied by a hiss uttered between his 
 closed teeth.) 
 
 Meredith. — I shall have tenants enough in North- 
 umberland. There are more than two thousand souls 
 on the Pitsmouth property. 
 
 Caleb. — And you'll look upon all these black 
 diamonds as your especial care to polish and pre-
 
 Mr. Coffin did not rise from his easy-chair. 
 
 G, F.
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 11 
 
 serve — he ! he ! he ! I'll be bound you've wasted 
 quires of foolscap already in planning houses and 
 schools, lecture-rooms, libraries, and that sort of 
 thing; that you mean to be a protector, pastor, 
 parent, patron, and pattern to every one of your 
 grimy friends, and spend at least twelve hours out 
 of the twenty-four groping underground like a mole. 
 Have you not some such mad schemes as these in 
 your brain ? 
 
 Meredith. — Of course I shall endeavour to look 
 after the wants of my people. 
 
 Caleb. — Don't I know you as you've been from 
 your boyhood — with your philanthropic Quixotism, 
 your mania for night schools and ragged schools, 
 your dashing at misery, vice, and dirt, as the Knight 
 of the rueful countenance went full-tilt at the wind 
 mills — I daresay with much the same result — he ! 
 he ! he ! I know how you'll go at them at Pits- 
 mouth — reforming here, building there, trying to 
 manufacture poets, philosophers, and saints out of 
 grimy miners, till — till you get a wife, and she'll 
 tether you down, and tame you down from a soaring 
 eagle into a quiet domestic barn-door fowl. 
 
 Meredith (smiling). — Perhaps I shall find a wife 
 who will rise higher far than myself as regards these 
 same plans and projects for usefulness which seem 
 to you so Quixotic.
 
 12 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 Caleb. — Wheugh ! don't believe it, Meredith. I 
 don't mean to say that a fellow of your inches, with 
 a good deal of the manner that takes with women, 
 and plenty of the cash which constitutes " an 
 eligible," will have any difficulty in finding a girl 
 willing to go to Pitsmouth, or to Kamtschatka itself, 
 as your wife. Ay, and ready to enter into every 
 freak and fancy of yours — building all her air-castles 
 of coal — willing to go down with you in a bucket 
 to the deepest depths that ever were dug, declaring 
 that she really prefers black to white, and that 
 miners, to her mind, are the most interesting beings 
 in creation Of course your fair lady will say all 
 this, and may believe that she feels it, — there's no 
 more accounting for a girl's fancies than for those of 
 a philanthropic mine-owner. But wait a bit, my 
 dear fellow, and see how the coal-castle in the air 
 goes off into smoke ! When the good lady finds 
 that she must be perpetually changing her curtains, 
 and covering up her butter from coal-dust ; when 
 she sees that her geraniums will not flourish, and 
 discovers that her own pretty face is always wanting 
 washing ; when friends think Northumberland much 
 too far off for a visit ; and even miners do not 
 appear thankful for being taught, tutored, and 
 trained ; — why, then, you'll find matters changed. 
 Your wife will not say, mark ye, " I wash my hands
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 13 
 
 of the whole concern ; " but she'll find that Northum- 
 berland air don't suit her health, or the health of 
 her squalling baby, and she'll rush up to London by 
 train — pay a round of visits — do no end of shopping 
 . — see the exhibitions, and half a score of doctors, 
 and get the opinions of the faculty that she, or baby, 
 can't possibly live so far north as Northumberland ; 
 that Mentone, or Florence, or Algiers, or Patagonia, 
 is the only place in the world for her — or the pre- 
 cious brat. And so — coaxing woman in one scale, 
 Pitsmouth plans, projects, and philanthropy in the 
 other — you will find, as plenty of husbands have 
 found, that a man can't do good unless his wife will 
 let him ; and that had Quixote himself married 
 Dulcinea, he would soon have settled down into a 
 sober, sensible, family man. 
 
 Meredith. — I think that you do injustice to the 
 fair sex, Mr. Coffin. In eveiy work of beneficence, 
 woman is found ready to lend effectual aid. In her 
 labours she is usually more devoted and more dis- 
 interested than man. 
 
 Caleb. — My dear fellow, you know little of the 
 world, least of all of the female half of it. There 
 are two motives which sway the human race — 
 interest a*nd vanity, the love of gold and the love of 
 praise. Now woman, I grant ye, has, as a rule, 
 less of the money-making quality than we have ;
 
 14 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 but of the vanity, the love of praise, woman has a 
 thousand times more. It comes out in everything 
 that she does ; it is her very mainspring of action. 
 Not " What will it be ?" but " How will it look ? " 
 is woman's perpetual question. Depend on't, woman 
 invented the vile Kussian dinner, such as Lady 
 Macaw gave yesterday to introduce me as lord of 
 the manor to the society of Thwayte. There was 
 everything to please the eye no doubt — plenty of 
 plate, glass, and flowers (one can't eat plate, glass, 
 and flowers) — but the dishes handed round were but 
 so-so, and the cheap wines handed round but so-so; I'd 
 have had a much better dinner at home, bating of course 
 the company, the plate, the glass, and the flowers. 
 
 Meredith. — Lady Macaw has no great fortune. 
 
 Caleb. — But she must make a great display — that's 
 the point. She must keep her carriage ; she must 
 entertain ; she must be the leader in society ; she 
 must manage everything and everybody ; — she tried 
 to manage me — he ! he ! he ! I guess she'll find 
 that a tough job ! 
 
 Meredith. — What course did she take ? 
 
 Caleb. — Not a straight one. Her ladyship tacked 
 towards every point in the compass, sounding care- 
 fully as she went. She could not well work upon 
 my self-interest, so she'd get round me by means of 
 my love of praise. I was soon well-informed as to
 
 OWLS AND EAGLES. 15 
 
 what a country gentleman of large property — one of 
 an ancient honourable family — is expected to do 
 when he comes to take possession. I believe that 
 Lady Macaw would have him cut a hole in his 
 pocket, and strut about dropping gold guineas at 
 every step that he takes. Amongst other things, 
 she tried to nail me down to patronizing her stall at 
 the fancy-fair to be held at G for some non- 
 sensical object. I suppose that when she and the 
 pretty girls of her working party constrain old 
 bachelors to buy their bibs and pink socks, pin- 
 cushions, pinafores, and parrots, they fancy that they 
 are doing a deed of charity — I would simply call it 
 pocket-picking. 
 
 Meredith. — But we have wandered somewhat from 
 the point from which we started, the disinterested 
 beneficence of woman. 
 
 Caleb. — That it is disinterested is just what I deny. 
 I tell you that every woman, plying her fingers to 
 work, or her tongue to beg, looks for payment in 
 pleasure or praise. There's my little niece Philomel 
 Lamb, the parson's daughter, as good a creature as 
 lives, and as deep as you yourself could desire in 
 schools, and savings' banks, and cottage visiting — a 
 philanthropist over head and ears ! Why, where' s 
 the self-denial in this ? She sets to her work be- 
 cause she likes it, and because the world says that 
 
 (208) 2
 
 16 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 it becomes a parson's daughter to look after her 
 father's flock. She likes all the curtseying and 
 bobbing of the village children, and the name of 
 being clever, active, and good. I don't say that 
 there's harm in her liking it, — if she hadn't a bit of 
 vanity she wouldn't be a woman — he ! he ! he ! 
 
 Meredith (to himself). — What a blind owl this is; 
 and yet he fancies himself clearer sighted than the 
 rest of the world ! 
 
 Caleb. — Why, that merry black-eyed damsel, Lucy 
 Langton, who sat next to me yesterday evening, 
 can play at charity when she has nothing better to 
 play at, hunt out "cases" when there's no other 
 game to hunt, and I daresay cuts and snips and 
 stitches for Lady Macaw's fancy-fair, as energeti- 
 cally as she would whirl round and round in a polka. 
 And her pretty sister, Miss Delia, with her perpetual 
 simper, will think herself doing a mighty good deed 
 when showing off her taper fingers and jewelled 
 rings selling frippery behind a counter. Folk must 
 mount their hobbies ; and charity with most of your 
 good people, especially the ladies, is an easy-going 
 hack, that carries bells on its harness and trots all 
 che better for the jingle — he ! he ! he ! With fiery 
 philanthropists, like yourself, it may be like a hunter, 
 that bears you right over hedge and ditch, but I 
 suppose that you find pleasure in the excitement^
 
 OWLS AND EAOLKS. 17 
 
 and on neither hack nor hunter is the rider likely 
 to take the leap of Quintus Curtius. 
 
 Meredith. — But surely, Mr. Coffin, you cannot so 
 close your eyes to facts as to deny that real sacrifices, 
 great sacrifices, are made for the sake of charity by 
 women. 
 
 Caleb. — No one denies it, my good fiiend, so you 
 need not look so indignant as a champion of the 
 sex. Woman sometimes will, and does sacrifice, 
 money, time, strength, and a good deal besides, for 
 the sake of being, or of seeming, charitable ; don't 
 shake your head so impatiently — the two things are 
 closely connected. All that I argue for is, that 
 there is one thing which woman does not, and will 
 not sacrifice, and that is her vanity, her love of being 
 admired. She'll go anywhere with that wind in 
 her sails, but she can't beat up channel against 
 it. Find me a girl who will do good in the dark, 
 prove that she cares not a straw for what the world 
 says of her doings, that she wants neither praises 
 nor thanks, and I'll believe in the phcenix, or mer- 
 maids, or anything else that you will ; I'll believe 
 that you've chosen a wife who will help, not hinder 
 you, in making a paradise of Pitsmouth ; you shall 
 have a rare gift for your nonpareil bride, and I'll 
 dance myself at the wedding ! 
 
 Meredith (rising). — Take care what you promise,
 
 18 OWLS AND EAGLES. 
 
 Mr. Coffin ; I may one day hold you to your 
 word. 
 
 Caleb. — Mind you, I must have the choice of the 
 test, and be satisfied that the metal ha^ fairly stood 
 it ; I must look through my own good spectacles, 
 and not through your lover's eyes. 
 
 And so the companions parted, as we saw at the 
 commencement of the chapter ; the eagle to make 
 bitter reflections on the dull cynicism of the owl, 
 and the owl to hoot ridicule at the romantic flights 
 of the eagle. The remarks of Caleb Coffin had, 
 however, disturbed the serenity of the young owner 
 of Pitsmouth more than he chose to own. Meredith 
 had seen in his own family the power of a domestic 
 tether to keep down an ardent spirit ; he had seen a 
 woman's influence divert into channels of ostenta- 
 tion what had once flowed in that of charity ; and 
 the thought had often crossed his mind, that the 
 philanthropist who would soar high must be content 
 to soar alone.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 EILE Mr. Coffin was criticisiog the ladies 
 of Thwayte, the ladies, on their part, 
 were passing judgment upon Mr. Coffin. 
 When the late easy-tempered, open- 
 handed, good-natured proprietor of 
 Burnesbey Abbey had paid the debt of nature, the 
 character of his successor became a subject of curious 
 conjecture, a matter of personal interest to all who 
 dwelt in the neighbourhood. Sir John Coffin had 
 held no very lofty place in men's esteem during his 
 lifetime ; but, like many more noble than himself 
 the fox-hunting squire was destined to be more 
 highly appreciated after his departure from earth 
 than during his residence in it. 
 
 At the dinner-party given in his honour by Lady 
 Macaw, Mr. Coffin may be said to have made his 
 first appearance in that circle in which his position 
 as a large landed proprietor would henceforth give
 
 20 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 him a prominent place. Caleb had indeed spent 
 two or three days in the parsonage of Thwayte 
 during the lifetime of his sister, Mrs. Lamb, the wife 
 of the vicar — but years had elapsed since that visit. 
 Lady Macaw, who had chanced then to meet him, 
 had described Mr. Coffin to her husband as a satiri- 
 cal, talkative man, who looked as if he would be 
 shrewd in business and sharp in driving a bargain. 
 The lady had almost forgotten the merchant's exist- 
 ence when, by succeeding to the Bumesbey estate, 
 Caleb suddenly became to her, as to the other resi- 
 dents near him, an object of curious interest, and a 
 topic of gossiping talk. Lady Macaw had, as we 
 have seen, asked the lord of the manor to dinner, 
 giving him a formal entertainment, the preparation of 
 which had cost her a good deal of consideration and 
 arrangement, if it had cost her little besides. Lady 
 Macaw, who regarded herself as the ruling spirit in 
 Thwayte, had determined to secure, if possible, the 
 master of Bumesbey Abbey, as one of the ministers 
 of her will. 
 
 "First impressions are everything," as Lady 
 Macaw observed to Sir Patrick, her meek little hus- 
 band, who passed a quiet life of obscurity under the 
 shadow of his wife. 
 
 What impressions had been made on Mr. Coffin 
 may have been gathered from the conversation re-
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 21 
 
 lated in the last chapter ; -what impressions the new 
 lord of the manor had himself made upon Thwayte 
 society, shall be recorded in this. 
 
 Let me introduce my reader into the pretty 
 country-residence to which Lady Macaw has given 
 the name of the Villa of Hoses. In her drawing- 
 room is gathered together the little working-party 
 of ladies who meet on each Tuesday to make pretty 
 trifles for the fancy-bazaar, the proceeds of which 
 are to place a bronze statue of a very distinguished 
 
 statesman in the market-place of G , the nearest 
 
 county town. The room is furnished in modern 
 style, and with some regard to taste. Chromo- 
 lithographs, in elegant frames, adorn the gilt papered 
 walls ; mirrors, on either side, reflect each other in 
 endless perspective ; from the ceiling hangs the 
 bright chandelier, lighted only on grand occasions ; 
 every angle and " coign of vantage " holds the nar- 
 row shelf, laden with old porcelain, carved ivory, 
 Italian cameos, or Chinese idols (Sir Patrick made 
 his money, and won his title, in China). A large 
 table, near the centre of the room, is heaped with 
 muslin, silk, tape, bobbins, dolls, things made and 
 in process of making, and at this table sits Lady 
 Macaw, the presiding genius, a woman of portly 
 dimensions, large nose, and prominent chin, dressed 
 with strict regard to the fashion, and bearing herself
 
 22 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 with an air of stately condescension which she mis- 
 takes for dignity. Lady Macaw is the self-consti- 
 tuted patroness of the village of Thwayte in general, 
 and of its three unmarried ladies in particular; 
 Philomel Lamb having lost her mother, and Mrs. 
 Langton, the doctor's sickly wife, being little better 
 than a cipher in the eyes of Lady Macaw. 
 
 The two Misses Langton form a striking contrast 
 to each other. There, on a footstool, sits merry 
 black-eyed Lucy, making her " love of a hedgehog " 
 pincushion bristle all over with pins, as she laughs 
 and chats with her nearest neighbour, achieving as 
 much in the talking way as she does in the work- 
 ing. She is a girl ever ready for frolic and fun, 
 a restless little creature, who can never be happy in 
 one place for a fortnight together, and who is always 
 paying visits or flying off on her travels. Lucy 
 has climbed the mountains of Norway, dived into 
 the catacombs o" Rome, ascended the Great Pyra- 
 mid itself, and ^at her initials on the top. Re- 
 clining amongst soft cushions, appears Delia, her 
 sister, a fair pretty girl, with languid air and 
 conscious simper, toying affectedly with the long 
 strip of patchwork which is lying across her knee. 
 The one maiden reminds us of the swallow, all 
 energy and action ; the other, of some pretty gold- 
 finch, pruning its feathers in sunshine.
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 23 
 
 Near to Delia appears an elderly lady. In her 
 turned and faded blue-green poplin, and long dingy 
 olive-green veil, how familiar is the stunted form of 
 PrisciUa Eccles to every child in the village ! No 
 working-party would be complete without her ; 
 whenever a kind act is to be done, especially if it 
 involve inconvenience and trouble, the aid of good 
 Miss Eccles is always invoked, and is never refused. 
 Save a weakness for gossip, a little disposition to be 
 curious about her neighbour's concerns, natural to 
 those who lead a secluded life in a village, Miss 
 Eccles has few faults. Thwayte is a little world to 
 the elderly maiden-lady, and though she occasionally 
 visits G for shopping (rather to execute com- 
 missions than to improve her own slender wardrobe), 
 such a journey is as great an undertaking to Miss 
 Eccles as one across the Atlantic would be to Lucy 
 Langton. 
 
 The only member of the little working-party at 
 the Villa of Roses who remains to be mentioned is 
 Philomel Lamb, the vicar's daughter, a girl with a 
 bright sweet face, simply attired, and wearing no 
 ornament but a profusion of golden tresses, which 
 shadow her temples and fall on her shoulders. It 
 is from this fashion of wearing her hair as she did 
 in the days of her childhood, that Philomel has ac- 
 quired the playful cognomen of " the Lamb of the
 
 24 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 golden fleece." Never has that luxuriant hair been 
 imprisoned in plait, or twisted up into chignon. In 
 vain had Lady Macaw given hints about attention 
 to fashion, and the incongruity of a young lady 
 " who has come out " wearing her hair in a way 
 only suitable to a child, or a wax dolL Lady 
 Macaw, who plumed herself on deep knowledge of 
 human nature, thought that there was a little vanity 
 and love of singularity in Philomel's choosing to 
 keep her curls when every other lady brushed her 
 hair from her brows, and wore a chignon at the 
 back of her head. Miss Eccles, more good-natured 
 in her judgment, had suggested that Philomel kept 
 to her old way " because Mrs. Lamb, poor dear 
 soul, was so fond of her child's yellow curls." Delia 
 believed that the vicar's daughter studied the becom- 
 ings, and liked to make the most of her only 
 beauty ; while Lucy always laughingly averred that 
 Philomel chose the style of coiffure which cost her 
 least trouble and thought. It is needless to decide 
 which conjecture was most correct, perhaps each had 
 some shadow of truth ; be that as it may, Philomel 
 retained her flowing locks, and her name of Lamb 
 of the golden fleece. 
 
 "And what did you think of our new squire?" 
 inquired Miss Eccles, in an audible whisper to Delia, 
 The elder lady had not been at the dinner-party on
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL, 25 
 
 the preceding evening ; she had not even had the 
 usual invitation to drop in at tea. Lady Macaw, 
 after due consideration, had decided that " the 
 worthy old creature" would not improve Mr. 
 Coffin's first impressions of Thwayte society. 
 
 " He's an owl," lisped Delia. 
 
 11 He's an old horror," cried Lucy ; both sisters 
 replying in a breath. 
 
 " My dears, you forget that Mr. Coffin is Philo- 
 mel's uncle," said Lady Macaw, glancing at the 
 vicar's daughter, who was seated at the open 
 window, busy with a child's little frock. 
 
 " Oh, there is no one more provoked with him 
 than I am," cried Philomel, without raising her 
 eyes from her work. 
 
 " Certainly Mr. Coffin has less idea of what 
 society demands from one in his position than any 
 land-owner whom I ever met with," observed Lady 
 Macaw. " He carries the habits and ideas of the 
 counting-house into the fine old country mansion. 
 When I expressed, as in courtesy bound, a hope that 
 I should see him at the fancy-fair to be held in 
 June, ' You go there to sell, I suppose,' said he, 
 ' but I should go there to be sold. You should 
 have Butler's lines over the door as a motto, — 
 
 " Doubtless the pleasure is aB great 
 Of being cheated as to cheat ; "
 
 26 LADIES IN COUNCIL, 
 
 only I for one don't subscribe to the axiom.' Fancy 
 any gentleman giving such a reply to a lady !" 
 
 " I daresay that he thought it witty," cried Lucy, 
 " though every one else would think it simply rude ; 
 and that he ended with that horrid little hiss of a 
 self-gratulatory laugh, which irritates more than his 
 words. I sat next to Mr. Coffin at dinner, you 
 know, so had an opportunity of testing his humour. 
 I told him that we all looked to him to keep up 
 good old customs in the place ; that I delighted in 
 riding, and hoped often to follow his pack as I had 
 done that of Sir John, whoso hospitality and public 
 spirit were famous over the county." 
 
 "And what did Mr. Coffin reply?" asked Delia, 
 pausing in her occupation of snipping pieces of 
 many-coloured silks for her patch-work. 
 
 " That he would like to see me riding after 
 hounds, but that they should not be hounds fed 
 in his kennels ; and that, as for hospitality, though 
 he liked a good dinner well enough, he'd no notion 
 of keeping open house for every one else who might 
 do so." 
 
 There was a murmur of disapprobation amongst 
 the fair workers ; and Lucy stuck her pins into her 
 hedgehog with savage rapidity, in a manner which 
 suggested the idea that she would willingly have 
 bestowed her quick pricks in another direction. Mr.
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 27 
 
 Coffin was sinking lower and lower in the estimation 
 of the ladies of Thwayte. 
 
 " I had very little to say to the old owl/' lisped 
 Delia. " I only asked him whether we should see 
 him at the archery meeting on "Wednesday, to which 
 he assented. Then I ventured to observe that this 
 time we had no prize worth shooting for, the ladies' 
 prize being but a poor brooch in form of a silver 
 arrow. I showed him my own prize bracelet, which 
 1 won last year, and remarked, quite en passant, 
 you know, that Sir John had always presented a 
 twenty guinea prize for the ladies to shoot for. 
 ' Did he ? ' said Mr. Coffin drily, peering through his 
 goggles at my bracelet, as if he meant to bid for it. 
 I observed that Sir John had been a popular man." 
 
 " How did Mr. Coffin take so delicate a hint from 
 a fair young lady?" inquired Lady Macaw, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Oh, he answered me in his own cynical way. 
 ' So Sir John gave twenty guineas, did he ? ' I 
 assented. ' And Sir John bought popularity with a 
 check for that sum?' I did not know what to 
 reply to so odd a question, but I suppose that Mr. 
 Coffin took my silence for consent, for he went on, 
 ' I think that popularity was dear at the figure — 
 he ! he 1 he ! — he might have made a much better 
 bargain.' "
 
 28 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 " Vulgar I" exclaimed Lady Macaw, with a slight 
 toss of her stately head. 
 
 " Mean !" muttered the indignant Lucy. 
 
 " But I have something worse — much worse to 
 tell," said Philomel Lamb, laying down her work on 
 her knee. So alarming an announcement excited the 
 curiosity and attention of every member of the little 
 conclave. Delia suspended her snipping, Lucy her 
 vigorous pin-sticking, Lady Macaw left off counting 
 her stitches, and the knitting-needles of Miss Eccles 
 ceased their almost perpetual motion. 
 
 " You know that for years and years before I was 
 born," said Philomel, "the pretty cottage on the 
 moor has been used as our village school." 
 
 " From time immemorial it has been so," observed 
 Lady Macaw. 
 
 " It has been as natural to go to the class there 
 on Sundays as to church ! " cried Lucy Langton, who 
 had taught by fits and starts, as she did everything 
 else, plunging into philanthropy with the same 
 energy that she did into pleasure. 
 
 " I never even knew until to-day," continued the 
 Lamb of the golden fleece, " that the cottage was 
 part of the Burnesbey Abbey estate, though we all 
 were aware that the schoolmaster's salary was paid 
 by the lord of the manor. The money had come 
 so regularly, so much as a matter of course, that
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL, 29 
 
 what had gone on for so long seemed as if it must 
 go on for ever." 
 
 " Certainly it did," said Lady Macaw. 
 
 " But Uncle Coffin does not think it a matter of 
 course," pursued Philomel Lamb. "He means to 
 stop the salary, turn out the good Arkwrights, 
 break up the school, and make a village inn, as 
 he calls it — I should say a public-house — of the 
 cottage." 
 
 " Impossible I" cried both the Misses Langton. 
 
 "Impossible!" echoed Lady Macaw; while Miss 
 Eccles, looking aghast, dropped half-a-dozen stitches 
 in her dismay. 
 
 " Papa is so dreadfully vexed about it," continued 
 Philomel Lamb ; " all he could say he has said to 
 prevent it ; but there is no use arguing with Uncle 
 Coffin, so the school will be given up." 
 
 " This can't be allowed," cried Lady Macaw, with 
 decision. 
 
 "How can it be hindered?" faintly sighed poor 
 Miss Eccles. 
 
 " Can't we get up a school in some other spot ?" 
 inquired Lucy. 
 
 " There's not another cottage available, I am 
 afraid ; and then there's the master and mistress's 
 salary," began Philomel. 
 
 "Never mind salary!" exclaimed the energetic and
 
 30 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 unpractical Lucy; "we'll have it an honorary affair; 
 you'll take the girls — I'll go in for the boys." 
 
 "My dear, my dear, you forget that you are 
 going to Paris next week," interrupted Lady Macaw; 
 " there must be salaried teachers, and where is the 
 money to come from?" 
 
 " Where, indeed ? " said Miss Eccles, who could 
 hardly be expected to contribute much out of her 
 fifty pounds per annum. 
 
 "Would not the people of G help?" asked 
 
 Lucy, with animation ; " I should like us to show 
 this skin-flint that we can do very well without him." 
 
 Lady Macaw shook her head with the grave 
 
 dignity of a Burleigh. " The people of G will 
 
 do nothing in the matter," she said ; " no interest 
 will be felt m the school of a village five miles away. 
 
 G could not get up subscriptions sufficient for 
 
 the statue in its own market-place without the 
 assistance which I am giving it." 
 
 Miss Eccles whispered something to Delia, which 
 no one else could hear. The young lady slightly 
 shrugged her shoulders, and raised her pretty eye- 
 brows as her only reply. Philomel guessed that the 
 elderly lady in the faded green veil had been giving 
 voice to the thought in her own mind, that a school 
 in Thwayte was a good deal more needfnl than even 
 a statue in G .
 
 He showed me a sovereign and a large gilt medal. 
 
 G. F.
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 31 
 
 " I'll tell you what I will do," said Lady Macaw ; 
 every one present was silent to hear the proposition 
 of the ruling spirit in Thwayte. " I'll write to Mr. 
 Coffin myself." 
 
 " Much he is likely to care for that," was the 
 silent comment on the lady's words made by her 
 hearers. 
 
 " Why should not Philomel try what she can 
 make of her uncle?" cried Lucy Langton "Most 
 men have a weak point, if one only knows where to 
 hit it. For aught that I know, the old screech-owl 
 may be excessively fond of his niece." 
 
 Philomel shook her curly tresses. " I am afraid 
 there is no strong affection between us," she said ; 
 " though my uncle has been rather kind after his 
 own peculiar fashion, and gave me the first sovereign 
 that I ever possessed in my life." 
 
 " Ah, he can then give something better than 
 sneers and bad iokes," observed Delia. 
 
 " It was a long time ago," said Philomel, " when 
 
 my uncle came here on a visit. He showed me a 
 
 sovereign and a large gilt medal, and asked me 
 
 which I would have for my own. Child as I was, I 
 
 fancied that the medal was but a larger piece of 
 
 gold coin, and was about to choose it as that with 
 
 which I could buy most (for my dear parents had 
 
 already taught me something of what money can 
 WW
 
 32 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 do), when the hole in the medal attracted my notice. 
 ' What is that hole for ?' I asked. ' To put a ribbon 
 in,' said my uncle, ' that you may hang the pretty 
 thing round your neck. The big piece is for orna- 
 ment, the little piece is for use.' I then took up 
 the sovereign at once, saying, ' that I liked to have 
 money to spend, and not to hang round my neck.' 
 Uncle Coffin clapped me on the shoulder, and said, 
 laughing, ' Well done, my little curly-poll, may you 
 always have the sense to prefer use to show.' " 
 
 " Then there is a way of getting round the old 
 owl !" cried Lucy. 
 
 " I daresay that he has a kind heart after all," 
 observed Miss Eccles. 
 
 " I will certainly write to him," said Lady Macaw, 
 folding by her piece of German work with an air of 
 calm self-complacence and reliance on the power of 
 her pen, which roused a little spirit of emulation in 
 the Lamb of the golden fleece. 
 
 " I will do my best, my very best, to coax my 
 uncle to let us have the cottage for our school-house 
 still, and to continue the salary to the Arkwrights, 
 so kindly paid by Sir John. I will go over to the 
 Abbey at once," said Philomel, rising from her seat, 
 for she felt impatient to try her powers of persuasion, 
 and being young and of a buoyant spirit, she was 
 now full of hope of success.
 
 LADIES IN COUNCIL 33 
 
 " You will not come with us, then, to practise 
 archery in the field?" asked Lucy Langton. "Re- 
 member the bow-meeting is to be to-morrow ; and 
 if the silver arrow is scarcely worth contending for, 
 we must shoot for the credit of the ladies of 
 Thwayte." 
 
 ' The school is of more importance than the silver 
 arrow," replied Philomel; "and to save it from 
 being broken up might do as much for the ladies of 
 Thwayte as caiTying off a prize from all the archers 
 in England." 
 
 " By-the-bye, is Mr. Latour to be at the meet- 
 ing?" inquired Miss Eccles of Philomel Lamb. 
 
 The question was a simple one, but it was accom- 
 panied with a knowing, inquisitive look ; and it 
 certainly heightened the colour on the cheek of the 
 village maiden. The blue eyes sank, perhaps 
 because, for some reason or other, all the other eyes 
 in the room were turned towards her. 
 
 " I don't know — probably — I'm not sure," re- 
 plied the young lady. 
 
 " But I am sure," replied Miss Delia Langton. 
 " Mr. Latour told me that he would certainly be present, 
 and shoot ; no doubt he'll carry off the gentlemen's 
 prize, for we've no other such archer in the county." 
 
 Perhaps it was only fancy that made Philomel 
 detect a slight emphasis on the first personal pro-
 
 34 LADIES IN COUNCIL. 
 
 noun used by the prettiest girl in Thwayte, and 
 only prejudice that made her feel provoked at what 
 she thought a conscious simper upon the lips of 
 Delia Langton. 
 
 " Well, Philomel, if you're really bound for the 
 Abbey on your philanthropic mission," cried Lucy, 
 " I heartily wish you success. May you bring 
 down the owl with your first shot, pluck his plum- 
 age to your heart's content, and wear as a trophy a 
 feather in your cap, or your flowing hair, to the end 
 of your days."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 IRIGHTLY fell the sunshine upon meadow 
 and hedge-row, enamelled with the blos- 
 soms of May, as Philomel lightly trod 
 the path through the fields which led to 
 Burnesbey Abbey. Her spirit was in 
 tone with the season, and with the warbling of 
 linnet and thrush. The young maiden was as one 
 of Nature's wild-flowers opening its petals to the 
 light, or as the free bird that has never beaten 
 its wings against the wires of a cage. Philomel 
 was bound on what she felt to be a noble mis- 
 sion ; a grander opportunity of benefitting her kind 
 appeared to be now before her than had ever 
 before occurred during her quiet, secluded life. 
 Perhaps the young girl, as she tripped along in 
 her straw hat and waving scarf, while the May 
 breeze played with her golden tresses, did not 
 scan very closely her own motives for undertaking
 
 36 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 her mission. Philomel had a natural pleasure in 
 conquering difficulties, in the hope of exercising 
 power over a hard and sordid nature, of doing what 
 the self-reliant Lady Macaw would never be able to 
 do. It is not to be denied that a spirit of emula- 
 tion, if it did not act as a spur, gave at least a zest 
 to Philomel's expectations. She pictured to herself 
 the pleasure of being the benefactress of her native 
 village, and the tenfold increased delight which she 
 would take in the school if it owed its preservation 
 to her efforts. 
 
 And other thoughts would steal in — sweet and 
 pleasant as the breeze of spring — so sweet that 
 Philomel unconsciously slackened her steps to pro- 
 long the delicious reverie in which they now en- 
 tranced her. The winner of the gentlemen-archers' 
 prize had, according to the custom of the place, the 
 privilege of presenting the ladies' prize to the fair 
 nctor, who, on her part, as Queen of the day, pre- 
 sented his trophy to him. Philomel had a presenti- 
 ment that Delia would not be the one on the morrow 
 to receive the silver arrow, and her own heart 
 throbbed, and her blue eye sparkled, as fancy con- 
 jured up a bright scene. Philomel heard in imagina- 
 tion words softly spoken, congratulations uttered by 
 lips that never flattered, to her who had won some- 
 thing better than trophy of silver or gold — the
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 37 
 
 power of being a blessing to many. And so the 
 maiden's thoughts flowed on and on — ever in a 
 deepening channel, with brighter sunshine glittering 
 upon them, till the stream became lost in a wide- 
 spreading sea of blissful hope, all the more dazzling 
 because Philomel scarcely dared to own to herself 
 what caused that intensity of light. As she heard 
 the linnet calling to his mate, and the lark on 
 buoyant wing sprang up from the meadow which 
 she was crossing, almost unconsciously Philomel 
 warbled to herself verses from Lytton's May-song: — 
 
 " Wherefore, light bird, art thou bearing 
 Twig and moss to yonder tree ? 
 For the home that I am rearing, 
 High from earth, as Love's should be. 
 
 " If thus rudely I begin it, 
 
 Love itself completes the nest, 
 And the downy softness in it 
 Comes, lover, from the breast. 
 
 " All the while the buds are springing, 
 May is round thee and above, 
 As the bird sings he is singing, 
 As the bird loves canst thou love?" 
 
 Philomel hushed the song on her lips, but not the 
 music in her heart, as she approached the romantic 
 old pile of Burnesbey Abbey, which from its anti- 
 quity and picturesque beauty had been the show- 
 place of the county in the days of Sir John, who
 
 38 A SHOT A.T THE OWL 
 
 had even winked at pic-nics held under the shadow 
 of its walls by tourists who did not despise creature- 
 comforts when in search of the picturesque. There 
 was no danger now, however, that Philomel would 
 come suddenly upon a pleasure party, or find the 
 long grass strewn with fragments of sandwiches, or 
 the corks of ginger-beer bottles. Save for the sounds 
 of Nature, the place had been profoundly quiet since 
 the gray owl had come to take possession of his 
 nest. 
 
 Originally, as its name denoted, Burnesbey Abbey 
 had been built for religious worship. The family 
 into whose hands it had fallen in the reign of King 
 Harry the Eighth, had, in successive generations, 
 added to the pile, with little regard to symmetry of 
 design. The student of architecture saw, with sur- 
 prise, massive stone gateway, Gothic arch, and dim 
 cloister — relics of the feudal age — in juxtaposition 
 with half-ruined Grecian colonnade, and the ilded 
 and carved ceilings of the reign of Louis Quatorze, 
 the latest date which could be assigned to any part 
 of the building. But Nature had done her utmost 
 to harmonize all that otherwise would have seemed 
 incongruous — she had draperied the Gothic arch 
 with ivy, thrown round Italian columns a mantle of 
 wild clematis, and set alike on old brick and more 
 ancient stone the gray-green lichen and the dull
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 39 
 
 orange-stain ; she had planted the wall-flower in the 
 niche, and half hidden the mullioned windows with 
 leaves. Sir John had never suffered painter or 
 builder to touch his romantic old home ; he had left 
 stone to crumble and lichen to grow, the owl to form 
 her nest in the ivy, and the jackdaw to wheel round 
 the tower ; a hundred generations of swallows had 
 made their homes under the eaves of Burnesbey 
 Abbey, no one had ever disturbed them. To Philo- 
 mel the wildness and solitude of the place gave it a 
 singular charm. Though she had often, in company 
 with others, partaken of Sir John's hospitality, this 
 was the first time that she had visited Burnesbey 
 Abbey on foot and alone. Never had she admired 
 it half so much as when, in the stillness which 
 brooded over it, fancy could people the ancient 
 building with forms of the past. As Philomel 
 crossed the rough bridge over the dried-up moat, she 
 paused to gaze up on the time-worn abbey, and the 
 exclamation, " How picturesque — how exquisite it 
 is !" escaped from the maiden's lips. 
 
 It was like the breaking of a fairy spell, when, as 
 Philomel was gliding past the windows of what — 
 ages before — had been the monks' refectory, she 
 caught sight of her uncle, in brown coat, black 
 velvet skull-cap, and goggle spectacles, seated within 
 at a table, with a plate of biscuits and a decanter of
 
 40 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 old port before him. Caleb Coffin saw his niece, 
 rose, came to the window, and threw open the 
 lattice. 
 
 " Why, Curly-poll, is that you, looking as bright 
 and rosy as a May morning, come to cheer up a 
 sulky old uncle in this strange rambling tumble- 
 down old prison, into which his good or bad fortune 
 has thrown him? Talk of country delights indeed ! 
 There's something in London to tell one that the 
 world is alive — a roll of wheels and a hum of voices 
 ■ — but here! I'd give something for a street ciy; 
 even a grinding organ would not come amiss to me 
 now !" 
 
 " uncle, you have the birds ! " cried Philomel 
 Lamb. 
 
 "Yes indeed; I've endless cawing of rooks; chat- 
 tering, chirping, and twittering of swallows. I can't 
 light a fire in my bed-room, but the chimney must 
 smoke ; because the birds, forsooth, have chosen to 
 fill it up with their nests. They build in the 
 gutters, they stop up the pipes, they wake me every 
 morning with the noise of their chirping. I'll tell 
 John to get the long ladder and pull down every nest 
 in the place, and tear off the ivy that only serves as 
 a harbour for earwigs, and give a decent respectable 
 look to the building." 
 
 "The birds and the ivy! Oh, without them half
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 41 
 
 the charm of the abbey would be gone I" exclaimed 
 PhilomeL 
 
 " That may be your opinion — that's not mine," 
 said Caleb Coffin drily. " Maybe you've a taste for 
 cobwebs also, and would think it desecration to let 
 a carver and gilder set to work upon the old- 
 fashioned ceilings. But I mean to have workmen 
 down from London — I've just been drawing up 
 estimates of what I think that it would cost to put 
 this old place into thorough repair. I don't want 
 gimcracks, or kickshaws, or show, but being neither 
 an old baron nor an old monk, I like to have things 
 decent about me. 'Twill cost a good round sum, 
 I've no doubt; but I've made up my mind to 
 spend it." 
 
 Philomel might at another time have burst into 
 earnest expostulation against this scheme for trans- 
 forming a beautiful old abbey into a prosaic "eligible 
 residence" for a merchant from London. But 
 Philomel had come with a definite object, and on an 
 important mission, and was only too glad to find 
 the old owl not only in a gracious humour and in- 
 clined to welcome a visitor, but also disposed to 
 loosen his purse-strings. She therefore cheerfully 
 accepted Caleb's invitation to come into the house 
 and have a chat with him. 
 
 " You'll find the little door which opens on the
 
 42 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 tumble-down colonnade on the latch," said Mr. 
 Coffin ; " don't bother yourself or John by ringing 
 at the great front entrance ; you can always get in 
 without announcing yourself; and come at what 
 hour you will, you will always be welcome." 
 
 Philomel passed along that graceful colonnade, 
 which, though much less ancient than the Gothic 
 portion of the building, bore traces quite as evident 
 of the touch of the finger of Time. The latch-door 
 opened into a passage dark, vaulted, and low, and 
 through the nail-studded door at the end of it the 
 young lady entered the low refectory, where she was 
 kindly received by her uncle. 
 
 "Now, child, you must taste my old port — 'tis 
 prime, ninety-six a dozen, and cheap at the figure," 
 said the owner of Burnesbey Abbey, laying his 
 wrinkled hand upon the decanter before him, and 
 nodding to his niece to occupy one of the large 
 heavy chairs enriched with faded blue velvet, which 
 had been bought in the reign of Queen Anne to 
 supersede the old oaken benches. 
 
 " Thanks, uncle ; but I have long ago taken my 
 unfashionable early dinner, and I have the bad taste 
 to prefer cowslip-wine to port a hundred years old," 
 replied Philomel. " Let me sit on this footstool be- 
 side you, and tell you what brings me here to-day." 
 Philomel drew out the footstool and seated herself at
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 43 
 
 the feet of her uncle, so that she could rest her 
 clasped hand upon his knee, and look up into his 
 face. She felt that in this child-like attitude of 
 confidence and ease she could better prefer her re- 
 quest, and that the stately old velvet cushioned chair 
 would have imparted to her its own stiffness. The 
 merchant was looking down upon his niece through 
 his tortoise-shell glasses with as much kindliness as 
 it was in the nature of the old owl to show. If 
 there was a being on earth who had a nook in his 
 selfish heart, it was this only child of the sister 
 whom he had lost. 
 
 " I've come to ask a favour — a great favour," said 
 Philomel, as she raised her bright face towards her 
 uncle's, and her straw hat fell back upon her ringlets 
 of gold She won from him an answering smile, 
 which had nothing cynical in it, as Caleb playfully 
 observed, " Ah, I guess that you did not visit the 
 old man for nothing. I'll be bound that to-morrow's 
 archery-meeting was in that little head of yours as 
 you came tripping along." 
 
 " I confess that it crossed my mind," owned the 
 conscious maiden. 
 
 "You think you'll win the archery prize ?" 
 
 "I hope so," said Philomel, smiling. 
 
 "And you came to ask me to give something 
 handsome for the ladies to shoot for — eh, Curly- 
 
 (208) 4
 
 44 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 poll ? If I were sure that my little niece would be 
 the one to get it — why, I shouldn't so much mind 
 doing the handsome thing once in a way." 
 
 " No ; my wishes fly higher than that, uncle ; I 
 am going to ask a much more important boon," 
 said Philomel Lamb. "lam going to entreat my 
 kind uncle to oblige not only me, but all who dwell 
 near him, by continuing to do what Sir John did 
 for our little school on the moor." 
 
 The manner of Caleb instantly changed ; he 
 uttered a low hiss, and roughly drew away the 
 hand upon which Philomel had laid her own. 
 " The child is crazy," he said. " Why, the rent of 
 that cottage, the salary and all, can't come to less 
 than seventy pounds per annum, the interest of 
 two thousand pounds at three and a half per 
 cent! You don't suppose that you have only to 
 hold out your little hand and have two thousand 
 sovereigns drop into it, like a ripe plum from a 
 tree?" 
 
 " I know that I am asking a great favour," said 
 Philomel timidly, for Caleb's roughness of manner 
 discouraged her ; " but you know that it is not for 
 myself. Your own honour, your own satisfaction, 
 and—" 
 
 " Fiddlety dee 1" exclaimed Caleb Coffin, rising 
 abruptly from his seat ; " don't attempt to humbug
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL, 45 
 
 me with all those fine words, I'm not such a gud- 
 geon as to snap at that bait ; though," he added 
 more good humouredly, "if I were, I should have 
 plenty of idiots to keep me in company. What 
 says the epigram ? — 
 
 ' Tho world of fools has such a store, 
 That he who would not see au ass, 
 Must shut his shutters, bolt his door, 
 And — break his loohing-glast ! ' 
 
 Though that's the last thing that a woman would 
 ever think of doing — he ! he ! he !" and, restored to 
 complacence by his own joke, Caleb quietly resumed 
 his seat, and stretched out his hand to the de- 
 canter. 
 
 "But, uncle," expostulated Philomel, "you would 
 not really have Thwayte without a school, and we 
 cannot support one unless you help us. The chil- 
 dren have been so well taught." 
 
 "What have they been taught?" interrupted 
 Caleb, with the bottle in his hand. 
 
 " Reading, writing — " 
 
 'Humbug!" cried Caleb Coffin; "what is their 
 reading and writing to me ? If a lad sweep away 
 my dead leaves, I'll not ask him whether he has 
 ever turned over the leaves of a book ; if my house- 
 maid rub up my furniture well, what care I how 
 her brain may be furnished ; let my cook mind her
 
 46 A SHOT AT THE 0"W"L. 
 
 pans, not her pens — 'tis food for the body and not 
 for the mind that I expect from my kitchen ;" and 
 Caleb, having given out his sentiments, filled his 
 glass with the costly wine. 
 
 Philomel felt shocked by the selfishness of the 
 master who regarded his servants simply as instru- 
 ments to minister to his own comfort. As he sat 
 holding up his glass to the light, as if to examine 
 the colour of its contents, and then slowly sipping, he 
 looked to her eyes the picture of selfish indulgence. 
 
 "There is some knowledge," Philomel observed, 
 "that all should have — the knowledge that will 
 make them better Christians as well as better ser- 
 vants. I am sure that if poor Sir John could speak 
 now, he would tell us that there is no part of his 
 fortune which he spent more wisely, more for hia 
 own happiness here and hereafter, than that with 
 which he earned the blessings of the poor around 
 him." 
 
 Caleb Coffin set down his glass, and through his 
 goggle glasses peered searchingly into the face of 
 his niece. " I should like you to sift your own 
 argument, for I take it there's more chaff than grain 
 in your sack," he observed; "though all that sounds 
 very pretty, and I daresay that your father gets 
 you to help him to write his sermons, do you 
 mean to say that my poor cousin, Sir John — who
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 47 
 
 was no great saint, you'll allow — bought for himself 
 a certain reversionary interest in the other world, by 
 a certain expenditure in this?" 
 
 Philomel was embarrassed by the question, and 
 the searching gaze oppressed her. Sir John had 
 been notoriously careless of even the forms of re- 
 ligion, only going to church twice or thrice in the 
 year, and then doing so merely as "a compliment 
 to the parson." He had been suddenly cut off in 
 the midst of a worldly career ; and, liberal benefactor 
 as he had been to the village, no one ever imagined 
 that he had ever given a shilling from motives of 
 piety. Sir John had kept up a school as he had 
 kept a pack of hounds and a plentiful board, because 
 to do so naturally belonged to his position as the 
 wealthy lord of the manor. 
 
 "Do you suppose," continued Mr. Coffin, "that 
 Sir John was able to keep a kind of debtor and 
 creditor account with Heaven ; that if a jovial care- 
 less sort of life, with an oath here and there, weighed 
 down the balance against him, he had just to chuck 
 a school and schoolmaster into the opposite scale, 
 and have all even again? This abbey here was 
 built, they say, by a robber baron of old, as a kind 
 of compensation for cutting a score of throats. 
 Neither consciences nor throats, I take it, can be 
 mended with brick and mortar ; yet some such idea
 
 48 A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 seems to lie at the bottom of a good deal of what is 
 called charity now — a notion of purchasing by alms- 
 giving here a reversion after death. But that's not 
 ray idea of religion." 
 
 " Nor mine neither," exclaimed Philomel with 
 warmth ; "it would be impiety to entertain it for a 
 moment." 
 
 " Then what return did Sir John really get for 
 what he laid out on that school? I'll tell you," 
 said Caleb Coffin, beginning to count on his fingers. 
 " First, he got Lady Macaw and her set to own 
 that, with all his faults, he understood his position. 
 Then, when he died, he got ditto ditto to say over 
 their whist, ' Dear, what a pity ; Sir John is dead ! 
 — spades are trumps. I wish he'd remembered the 
 school in his will, but he was always so thoughtless, 
 poor man ! I'm afraid that we'll find his successor 
 a sad stingy fellow — will you let me see the last 
 trick?'" 
 
 Philomel could not forbear smiling at the mimick- 
 ing tone and manner of the cynic. 
 
 "Thirdly," continued the owl, "Sir John will 
 probably get the words, ' Liberal to the poor,' in 
 black letters upon his monument ; and now I think 
 that I've summed up the full amount of the return 
 for the interest of two thousand pounds expended 
 by my cousin on the school, and I can't say that the
 
 A SHOT AT THE OWL 49 
 
 result tempts me to lay out my money on a like 
 speculation." 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Caleb, do you not take into account 
 the present pleasure of doing so much good?" 
 
 Perhaps that was a pleasure of which Mr. Coffin 
 had no large experience, for he did not seem in- 
 clined to reckon it as an additional item in his cal- 
 culation. " It's all very well for romantic young 
 folk like yourself or Meredith," he observed, with a 
 shrug of his shoulders, "to talk of such present 
 pleasure, but I'll be bound that if you'd nothing 
 else to set you going on works of charity, you'd 
 precious soon come to a stop. Ay, Curly-poll, look 
 indignant if you will, but I take it that it was not 
 pure pleasure in doing good that brought you here 
 begging to-day." 
 
 "I am sure that I neither asked nor wished for 
 anything for myself," said Philomel Lamb, in the 
 tone of one whose feelings are wounded. 
 
 " Nothing in the coin of the realm, I grant you ; 
 nothing in gold, silver, or copper ; but maybe some- 
 thing that you like better in the crackling bank- 
 notes of praise. Was there no pride in showing 
 your power to squeeze money out of a millstone; no 
 thought of what would be said of the pretty little 
 maid who had coaxed her crabbed old uncle into being 
 liberal and kind against his will and his nature ? "
 
 BO A SHOT AT THE OWL. 
 
 The fair young face of Philomel Lamb was suf- 
 fused with crimson ; it seemed as if those keen gray 
 eyes, peering through their tortoise-shell spectacles, 
 were reading the secret which had made her walk 
 to the abbey a time for such delightful musings. 
 Covering her confusion with an air of childish petu- 
 lance, Philomel Lamb hastily rose from her seat, 
 and drew over her curly head the straw hat which 
 had fallen back on her neck. 
 
 " I see, Uncle Caleb," she said, " that whatever 
 motive brought me here, at least I have come to no 
 purpose. I only wish that our school had had a 
 better and a more successful pleader than I am." 
 
 And so, with something of coldness, the young 
 lady bade good-bye to her uncle, and, mortified and 
 disappointed, retraced her steps. With emotions of 
 indignation against a selfish, stingy old man, were 
 mingled a feelins: of discontent with herself. There 
 had been self-seeking in her attempt to influence her 
 uncle, the secret desire to please one had been at 
 least as strong as the wish to benefit many. It was 
 certainly not love for the little scholars of Thwayte 
 that had lent the most vivid tints to the picture 
 which fancy had been drawing in Philomel's mind, 
 of woman, like some beneficent being, scattering 
 blessings on the world at her feet.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AIM HIGHER. 
 
 ^EYOND the ancient gate, through which 
 Philomel emerged from the grounds be- 
 longing to the abbey, spread to the left 
 a tract of moorland. On the further side 
 of this were seen the spire of the church, 
 village roofs, and the shrubbery surrounding the 
 vicarage, to which Philomel Lamb was now bound. 
 To the right lay the pleasant meadow-path which 
 she had pursued when coming from Lady Macaw's 
 on the breaking-up of the little working-party at the 
 Villa of Roses. Philomel paused before crossing the 
 moor, as she saw the stunted figure of Miss Eccles, 
 conspicuous from afar by the long green veil which 
 she wore, coming from the direction of the villa. 
 The elderly lady quickened her pace as much as a 
 slight lameness would permit when she caught sight 
 of the vicar's daughter, and Philomel, turning out 
 of her way, went to meet her old friend.
 
 52 AIM HIGHER. 
 
 " My dear, you've just come from the abbey ? " 
 cried Miss Eccles, as she limped towards Philomel, 
 panting partly from eagerness to know the result of 
 the visit, partly from breathlessness caused by 
 walking unusually fast. 
 
 " Yes, I've seen my uncle," said Philomel. 
 
 "And what success have you had?" cried Miss 
 Eccles. 
 
 Philomel sighed and shook her head as she an- 
 swered, "None." 
 
 " If Mr. Coffin does not care for what you say, it 
 is not likely that he will care for what Lady Macaw 
 writes," said Miss Eccles with a look of disappoint- 
 ment, glancing down on a pink-tinted and musk- 
 scented note which she held in her hand. 
 
 " Are you carrying a letter from Lady Macaw to 
 my uncle?" 
 
 " I offered to do it ; her servants are busy pre- 
 paring for to-morrow's archery-meeting, you know. 
 I am sure that I would do anything to help to keep 
 up the school," continued the lady, raising her 
 cotton handkerchief to her heated face, "but there's 
 nothing that a poor old creature like me can do, 
 except heartily wish and pray that those who have 
 the means to do great good may have the heart also." 
 
 " Better to have the heart than the means, Miss 
 Eccles," said Philomel kindly.
 
 AIM HIGHER. 53 
 
 " It may be, my dear, it may be ; but I own that 
 I did feel a little covetous to-day. I've everything 
 I need for myself, but I should like to be able to 
 give something more than good wishes. But I will 
 not detain you, my dear ; I promised to take the 
 letter at once." 
 
 Philomel pressed her old friend's hand, cased in 
 its neatly-mended cotton glove, for, except upon very 
 rare occasions, kid was a luxury unknown to Miss 
 Eccles. The two then separated, and Philomel 
 watched for a minute the little limping form as it 
 hurried away on an errand of kindness. 
 
 " There," thought she, " goes one who is ready to 
 take a servant's office, and to press on tired and 
 heated on a mission which will bring her no credit 
 and scarcely a word of thanks. I sometimes think," 
 reflected Philomel, as she turned to the path across 
 the moor, " that Miss Eccles cares less about self 
 than any one else in our village circle. She is 
 1 content to fill a little space/ which is more than 
 can be said of most of us. I wonder whether in her 
 youth she ever got up little dramas in her own 
 fancy of which she was the heroine, inventing 
 speeches that would never be spoken, and imagining 
 looks that would never be given." Philomel sighed 
 aa she pursued her reflections. "What idle folly 
 was mine ! How my charity was but a froth
 
 54 AIM HIGHER. 
 
 covering the surface of vanity — a froth so light, that 
 a breath of satire could blow it away ! My uncle's 
 society oppresses and chills me. He has no faith in 
 what is lofty, noble, and generous; he cannot believe 
 in any motive higher than that of covetousness or 
 vanity. He would do with life what he is going to 
 do with his beautiful old abbey — tear away the 
 clinging associations, the blossoming hopes, silence 
 the wild music, and reduce all, if he could, to one 
 tame uniformity of selfish comfort ! All charm of 
 poetry destroyed, the beautiful sacrificed to the 
 useful ; as if the beautiful had not a use of its own, 
 and as if the heart were not likely to be the happier 
 and the purer for the poetry in it !" 
 
 As Philomel approached the cottage on the edge of 
 the moor, she saw that the little scholars of Thwayte 
 were dispersing to their various homes, as their 
 afternoon lessons were just over. But there was no 
 joyful sound from 
 
 " The playful children just let loose from school." 
 
 Tidings had already spread through the village that 
 the place where the little ones and their parents 
 before them had learned to fear God and read His 
 Word was to be turned into a public-house, and the 
 children were thronging together in groups, with 
 looks of grave concern that were strange on their 
 chubby faces. Philomel could scarcely bear to think
 
 AIM HIGTTER. 55 
 
 that the drunkard's song might soon be heard within 
 those walls which had so often resounded with 
 hymns. Without her usual merry smile, the vicar's 
 daughter acknowledged the bobs and curtseys from 
 the various groups that she passed. As she went 
 up to the cottage porch, a little child ran up to 
 her, caught her by the dress, and looked up wist- 
 fully at Philomel, with her eyes brimming over with 
 tears. 
 
 "What ails you, my little Mary?" said Philomel, 
 tenderly, stooping down to the child. 
 
 " Oh, I hopes, I hopes it's not true as teacher is 
 goin' away, and we won't never have no more 
 school! You won't let it be true, will you?" 
 pleaded the child. 
 
 It was bitter to Philomel to be able to speak no 
 word of hope to the child, who seemed to have such 
 confidence in the lady's power to help. 
 
 "Shall I find Mrs. Arkwright within?" asked 
 Philomel, glancing towards the cottage. 
 
 Little Mary nodded her head. " She's a bin a- 
 crying, and so has a lot on us — we be all so sorry as 
 teacher is goin' away;" and the tears that had been 
 glistening in the eyes overflowed and ran down the 
 sunburnt cheeks. 
 
 With a sigh Philomel crossed the threshold of the 
 little schoolhouse, and found the mistress not resting
 
 56 AIM HIGHER. 
 
 after her teaching was over for the day, but busily 
 engaged with her needle, while her foot rocked the 
 cradle of her baby. Two elder children, but lately 
 emerged from infancy, were quietly playing together 
 in a corner of the room. Through the open back- 
 door, Arkwright, with his eldest son, could be seen 
 digging up potatoes in his garden. The cottage- 
 scene would have presented a picture of domestic 
 happiness, but for the shadow of approaching trouble 
 darkening what had appeared to Philomel one of the 
 most cheerful homes in the world. 
 
 Philomel had known Mrs. Arkwright so long, 
 and had so often come to consult her in any dif- 
 ficulties that might arise in the parish, that the 
 schoolmistress had become to the vicar's daughter 
 almost like a personal friend. Mrs. Arkwright 
 poured out no complaints — her manner as she 
 greeted the young lady was quiet and placid as ever ; 
 but the sight of her pale cheek and reddened eyelids 
 touched the heart of Philomel Lamb. 
 
 "I own, miss, that we were both taken aback 
 when the notice to quit came yesterday," Mrs. Ark- 
 wright observed, in reply to something said by her 
 guest; "it was so sudden, and we had not looked 
 for it, seeing that all had been going on so well. 
 But John and I have been reminding each other 
 that nothing happens by chance, and that if the
 
 AIM HIGHER. 57 
 
 school be a blessing to the place, God can find some 
 way of keeping it going still" 
 
 "I see none," said Philomel, sadly; and then she 
 told the quiet listener by whom she was seated of 
 the vicar's futile endeavours, and then of her own 
 unsuccessful attempt to move her uncle to change 
 his intentions. 
 
 "But I might as well have wasted my breath in 
 attempting to stir the monument by it," said Philo- 
 mel, in conclusion. " I wish that I had not gone 
 near him ; I might have known that all would be 
 useless." 
 
 "And yet, dear Miss Lamb," said Mrs. Arkwrigkt, 
 "surely it was better to fail than not to try. You 
 have the comfort of knowing that you have done 
 what you could to please our heavenly Master, 
 and what is done unto Him can never be quite in 
 vain." 
 
 " Unto Him," repeated Philomel, thoughtfully ; 
 " I am afraid," she added, looking down, " that not 
 much of what we do, even in charity, can be said 
 to be done unto Him." 
 
 The conversation then took another turn, and ere 
 long the vicar's daughter rose and quitted the 
 cottage, with her spirit calmed by contact with the 
 meek piety and submission of the schoolmistress of 
 Thwayte. Philomel's eyes had almost unconsciously
 
 58 AIM HIGHEK. 
 
 rested on a copy in round text-hand of a rhyme 
 which had lain on the table, — 
 
 ' Our good works will be judged — and few will bear the trial — 
 By our purity of motive and our strength of self-denial." 
 
 And now the simple lines haunted her mind as she 
 walked on. Was Caleb right, after all; was there 
 no such thing to be found as pure disinterested 
 charity ; was the name but borrowed to cover vanity, 
 ostentation, and pride ? Philomel thought of Lady 
 Macaw's patronizing beneficence, Lucy Langton's 
 impulsive activity, Delia's sentimental pity, Sir 
 John's free and careless liberality, her own dreamy 
 delicious musings when going on an errand of 
 mercy. 
 
 " Unto Him" repeated Philomel to herself; " may 
 not all true charity be concentrated in these two 
 words, as the future oak in the acorn ? What, then, 
 is much to which we so readily, so self-complacently 
 give the name ? Is it not as the mistletoe, clinging 
 to the tree and yet not of the tree, mingling its 
 leaves with the oak's leaves, yet neither drinking of 
 its sap nor partaking of its nature ? The cynic 
 grasped the parasite plant and it yielded to his 
 grasp, but he could not have thrown down the oak. 
 He pulled down the false, because it was false — even 
 he would have reverenced the true. What chords 
 did I attempt to touch in the heart of my uncle ?
 
 AIM HIGHER. 59 
 
 I spoke of pleasing his neighbours, gratifying myself, 
 satisfying his own mind, doing good to the village ; 
 the deeper notes never were struck ; the key-note 
 of all was not struck ; I never alluded to the work 
 of giving instruction to the Lord's lambs being a 
 good work done unto Him." 
 
 Philomel looked on the sky, now crimson with 
 the last glow of sunset, and then over the moor to 
 the abbey. Why should she not go back to her 
 uncle, impelled by a higher, holier, purer motive, to 
 plead again the cause of the poor? Caleb Coffin 
 was a worldly, a selfish man ; but he was one who 
 showed respect for at least the forms of religion, and 
 who dared affirm that there was no spark of its real 
 life within him ? Philomel felt, indeed, a natural 
 repugnance to entering on serious subjects with her 
 uncle. On such subjects, above all she dreaded his 
 sneer. But the vicar's daughter was thoroughly in 
 earnest ; she had promised to do her best, and she 
 felt that she, as yet, had not done it. It was at 
 least in no spirit of vanity or emulation, that Philo- 
 mel Lamb, for the second time on that day, entered 
 through the ancient gateway the grounds that en- 
 vironed the abbey. 
 
 .208) 5
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WILL IT STRIKE ? 
 
 |HILOMEL hailed as a good omen the sight 
 of her uncle's form, with the evening glow 
 upon it, standing in the colonnade, which, 
 of that beautiful old building, had seemed 
 to her the most beautiful part. She could 
 better plead with him, the fair petitioner thought, with 
 the fresh air of heaven around, and the rich sunset 
 sky before them. Had not the master of Burnesbey 
 Abbey come out to enjoy the deep calm of Nature 
 at its holiest hour, and would he not, at such a time 
 and in such a place, be more open to kindly and 
 generous impressions ? 
 
 It was well that Philomel did not know that 
 Caleb, as he glanced upward at the graceful capitals, 
 the clematis-wreathed arches, the crumbling statue 
 on its time-worn pedestal, was not gazing in admira- 
 tion, but simply calculating "whether it would be 
 worth while to improve and modernize the western
 
 WILL IT STRIKE? 61 
 
 face of the mansion, by clearing away all this 
 ruinous rubbish, which serves as a shelter to the 
 bats." 
 
 When Caleb caught sight of the slight figure of 
 his niece advancing towards him, he went to meet 
 her, with that peculiar expression on his face which 
 he intended for a smile, but which had something 
 so cynical in it, that it was wont to excite rather 
 an uneasy suspicion of ridicule in the person whom 
 he might be addressing. 
 
 " So here you are again, Curly-poll, like a bad — 
 sovereign, I suppose I must say ; for it would be 
 uncivil to compare a young lady to a bit of copper, 
 be it bad or good." 
 
 "Nay, if either coin be false," replied Philomel 
 Lamb, "the sovereign is the worst of the two, as 
 having the higher pretensions, and causing the 
 greater disappointment. You may wonder indeed 
 to see me again to-day, but I have come — " 
 
 "I know why you've come," said Caleb, pulling 
 from the pocket of his waistcoat a little tinted and 
 scented note; "as your own arrow fell short, you've 
 come to see whether this had hit the mark. He ! 
 he ! he ! I suppose that I shall have to stand as 
 target for all the ladies of Thwayte — one off, an- 
 other on ; but there's not one of 'em as will strike 
 the gold !— he ! he ! he 1 "
 
 %2 WILL IT STRIKE 1 
 
 " I did not expect that Lady Macaw would suc- 
 ceed—" 
 
 "Where my pretty little niece had failed, eh, 
 Philomel?" interrupted Mr. Coffin. "You are a 
 genuine woman ; you would have been rather pro- 
 voked than pleased had her ladyship hit the bull's 
 eye. There was precious little chance of that, 
 though she sent her arrow high enough — right over 
 my head. Of all things I hate the using religion 
 as a mask for worldliness ; and a pretty specimen 
 of that kind of hypocritical cant is enclosed in this 
 dainty pink note." 
 
 This was a discouraging commencement to the 
 conversation, and Philomel felt at the moment as if 
 it had placed a leaden padlock upon her own lips. 
 But, conscious of the goodness of her cause, and 
 resolved not to return home until she had made an 
 appeal to her uncle's better feelings, Philomel linked 
 her arm closely in his, and, in that half-clinging 
 position, began to speak in a tone which betrayed 
 her nervous emotion. 
 
 "I am really afraid to tell you what I have come 
 here to say, lest you should apply the same hard 
 words to me. I have been reproaching myself for 
 the selfish, worldly spirit in which I visited this 
 place an hour ago; but now" — and warming with 
 her theme, forgetting self in her subject, Philomel
 
 WILL IT STRIKE 1 63 
 
 pleaded earnestly and fervently, as to a Christian 
 man, influenced by Christian motives ; looking 
 beyond the narrow sphere of this world, with its 
 passing interests and empty praise, to the beneficent 
 Being from whom he had received all freely, that 
 he too might freely give — the Friend of the needy, 
 who forgets not the smallest service done to His 
 poor, if done unto Him. The voice of Philomel 
 trembled with earnestness as she spoke ; the pro- 
 found silence observed by her hearer encouraged her 
 to go on ; her eyes were fixed not upon him, but 
 the crimson drapery of the clouds, as if she drank 
 in courage from the sight of their radiant beauty. 
 
 " You have accused me," she said in conclusion, 
 " of vanity and selfish desire to win credit while 
 trying to do good, but I will show you that I am, 
 now, at least, seeking nothing for myself, not even 
 1 the crackling bank-notes of praise.' If you will 
 write an answer to Lady Macaw, assuring her that 
 you will keep up the village school, never will I 
 hint to any mortal that my persuasions had the 
 slightest influence ; the credit shall be hers — yours 
 — any one's " — here Philomel looked her uncle full 
 in the face with her honest blue eyes ; "I will 
 have no thanks and no praise, for 
 
 ' Our good works will bo judged — and few will bear the trial — 
 By our purity of motive, and our strength of self-denial.' H
 
 64 WILL IT STRIKE t 
 
 " So that is your division of labour, is it ? " said 
 Caleb abruptly, smiling down into the eyes raised 
 to his, but with his own cynical smile. " You have 
 the ' purity of motive ' — granted — and you make 
 over the ' strength of self-denial ' to me ! I protest 
 against the division ! Tis clear that you know, 
 when two carry a burden on a pole, how to get hold 
 of the lighter end. I am to expend two thousand 
 pounds ; you ladies any amount of words, which 
 cost you nothing ! But 
 
 ' Words without deeds 
 Are — husks without seeds ! ' 
 
 Would that fine Lady Macaw give up the gold cord 
 on her footman's shoulder for all the schools in the 
 world, or Miss Lucy one gallop after the hounds, or 
 her pretty simpering sister one dress a la mode, or 
 you — but I'll put you to the proof ! " exclaimed 
 Caleb Coffin, suddenly interrupting himself, and 
 changing his animated manner to one of cold busi- 
 ness-like decision; "listen to me, Philomel Lamb — 
 Lamb of the golden fleece, as somebody called you. 
 I will consent to do as you have proposed ; return 
 a favourable answer to that fine lady's officious note 
 — tell her that I am going, not only to keep up the 
 school, but to endow it in perpetuity." 
 
 " Oh, uncle, you darling ! " exclaimed Philomel, 
 with a burst of delight and gratitude, pressing the
 
 WILL IT STRIKE 1 65 
 
 arm on which she was leaning with both her little 
 hands. She could hardly believe in her own success, 
 it was so much beyond her hopes. 
 
 " Softly, softly — hear the conditions first ; if I'm 
 to set up in the self-denial line, I'll take care to 
 have you in partnership," said Caleb Coffin, with 
 his irritating laugh. " My conditions are three, 
 Philomel Lamb, and must be observed to the very 
 letter, or not one farthing of my money will I throw 
 away on that school." 
 
 " Oh, tell me them at once ; don't keep me in 
 suspense ! " cried Philomel gaily. " I shall not be 
 easily frightened, I assure you. I would engage to 
 walk up to London, and back, or to reap a field, 
 or to leap over hedge and ditch with Lucy ; any- 
 thing that would tax my strength or my courage — 
 and I have not a great share of either — to induce 
 you to write such a letter to Lady Macaw." 
 
 " I will neither tax your strength nor your cour- 
 age," said Caleb drily ; " your task shall be quite 
 proportioned to your powers. My three conditions 
 are these: First, you shall clip off — pretty close to 
 your head, mind you — every lock of your golden 
 fleece "— 
 
 " Uncle Caleb ! " exclaimed the astonished Philo- 
 mel, quitting her hold of Coffin's arm, and drawing 
 backwards.
 
 66 "WILL IT STRIKE 1 
 
 "Secondly," pursued the owl, pronouncing every 
 sentence with deliberation, and keenly watching 
 through his goggle-glasses the effect of his words, 
 "you shall appear with your clipped poll — and no 
 wig, no false tresses, mind you — at the archery- 
 meeting to-morrow, and shoot for the prize as if 
 nothing had happened." 
 
 " Every one present would think me crazy ! " 
 cried Philomel Lamb. 
 
 "Perhaps they might" saio her uncle drily, "but 
 not more crazy than I should think myself were I 
 to fling away two thousand pounds on a school. 
 Now for my last condition. You shall never convey 
 a hint, by word or by look, to any one living why 
 you have cut off your curls." 
 
 " Uncle Caleb, I know that you are jesting ; 1 
 am sure that you are ! " exclaimed Philomel, attempt- 
 ing to laugh off the annoyance and disappointment 
 which she felt. 
 
 " I never was more serious in my life," said Caleb 
 Coffin. " I have made you a fair offer, Philomel — 
 a handsome offer, I should call it — golden coin for 
 golden ti-esses ; you keep these, I keep that : but 
 I'll never listen to another word, I promise you, 
 about maintaining and endowing that wretched 
 school for the brats of the village." 
 
 " You never could wish me to make myself the
 
 WILL IT STRIKE 1 *>? 
 
 laughing-stock of the county ! " cried Philomel, with 
 an expression of indignation, which painted itself 
 upon her expressive face. 
 
 " Wish it — no, certainly I neither wish nor ex- 
 pect you to play the fool ! " cried the wily old man. 
 " I only want you not to wish or expect another to 
 make sacrifices which you do not choose to make 
 yourself. But see — all the colour has gone from 
 the clouds; it has transferred itself, I think, to your 
 cheeks — I never saw them before with such a fine 
 crimson tint ; it's mighty becoming, set off by the 
 tresses of gold ! You had better return home, 
 Philomel, before it grows dark, namesake though 
 you be to the warbler of night. The nightingale 
 herself, I take it, only chooses to sing in darkness 
 that she may have the field, or rather the bush, all 
 to herself. Go home, Philomel Lamb, go home ; the 
 nightingale was never intended to soar to the lofty 
 height which you were attempting just now, she 
 had better keep to her quiet bush and her pleasant 
 song. Be as charitable as you like in a sober, easy, 
 comfortable way, but leave fools and fanatics to 
 follow the example of the eider duck, that to warm 
 others is ready to strip off the very down from her 
 breast ! "
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 ITH wounded feelings and an embittered 
 spirit, Philomel Lamb trod her home- 
 ward path in the twilight, averting her 
 eyes as she passed the picturesque village 
 school-house on the edge of the moor. 
 Caleb Coffin, she saw clearly, had been trifling with 
 her. He had craftily found a method of silencing 
 her earnest pleadings for what he was resolved not 
 to grant. The cynic was hugging himself in the 
 comfortable conviction that selfishness is a necessary 
 constituent of solid sense, and that enthusiasm in 
 any cause is but the bubbling up of weaker fluid, 
 easily stirred, easily heated, without form or con- 
 sistency of its own. 
 
 As she hurried on her way the sweet sounds and 
 sights of nature seemed for the time to have lost all 
 attraction for Philomel Lamb. A thought came 
 flitting ever and anon across the mind of the maiden,
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 always thrust impatiently aside, yet ever returning. 
 Again and again the words, " Could I — ought I — 
 no — absurd! impossible!" unconsciously escaped 
 from Philomel's lips, as she approached the green 
 gate which opened on the vicarage lawn, and its 
 half circle of narrow gravel-drive. 
 
 Fresh hoof-marks were on that gravel ; none had 
 been there when, after her early dinner with her 
 father, Philomel had left her home on her visit to 
 the Villa of Roses. Visitors must have surely 
 been rare, or why should the heart of Philomel 
 have fluttered at sight of those hoof-prints ; and 
 why should she have looked so eagerly towards 
 the porch to see if a saddle-horse were stand- 
 ing before it? All thoughts of Caleb Coffin, the 
 Arkwrights, the abbey and the school, at once 
 passed away from her mind. With rapid step 
 Philomel passed along the drive, unconsciously 
 smoothing back from her brow with her hand the 
 light hair that the breezes had ruffled. There was no 
 steed fastened by the rein to the rose-covered porch, 
 yet it was not without a sensation of disappoint- 
 ment that the young lady, on entering the sitting- 
 room, found her father alone. 
 
 " Why, Philomel, what has become of you ?" was 
 the greeting of the vicar to his daughter, as she 
 hurried in, a little flushed and panting. "The
 
 70 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 water is getting cold in the tea-pot. I told Sarah 
 not to bring the tray up till you made your ap- 
 pearance, but Sarah is a bit of clock-work herself, 
 and makes no allowance for the vagaries of young 
 ladies." 
 
 " I'm sorry to be late, papa," said Philomel, as 
 she hastily proceeded to perform the duties of the 
 tea-table, after unloosing her straw-hat and throw- 
 ing her scarf across the back of a chair. Mr. Lamb 
 was a punctual man, and the hands of the little 
 brass clock on the mantelpiece — the most steady- 
 going of clocks — pointed to quarter of an hour 
 beyond the usual time at which the vicar partook 
 of his simple repast. 
 
 " Any news, papa ? " asked Philomel, as she un- 
 locked the rosewood caddy. 
 
 " That wretched business about the school can 
 hardly be called news now," said the vicar ; " nothing 
 has ever happened in this parish that has given me 
 more annoyance." 
 
 "Has any one been here?" inquired Philomel, 
 with her eyes fixed upon the water which she was 
 pouring into the cups to heat them. 
 
 " Yes, poor old Barnes was here ; he wants me 
 to get him a weekly allowance from the Board. I 
 think that the honest old fellow should have it ; I 
 told him I'd do what I could."
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 71 
 
 Philomel was persuaded old Barnes had not come 
 upon horseback, and felt no strong interest at that 
 moment in the worn-out ploughman. 
 
 11 And Mrs. Bullen called for a letter to the G 
 
 Dispensary for her child. I'll go and see poor little 
 Martha to-morrow ; I'm afraid that she'll never get 
 the better of that attack in her chest." And the 
 vicar, as he took his seat at the table, looked almost 
 as grave as if the washerwoman's child had been 
 one of his own. 
 
 "Any other visitors, papa?" asked Philomel, 
 after a pause. Had she seen the mark of wheels 
 as well as of hoofs on the gravel, she would have 
 asked the question more boldly. 
 
 " Visitors — yes/' said the vicar, rousing himself 
 from an apparently painful train of thought to speak 
 on a subject of indifference. " Young Latour was 
 here ; he came just when I was up to my ears in 
 the parish accounts, and sat for nearly an hour. 
 These young fellows seem to think that time is 
 of no more value to others than it is to them- 
 selves." 
 
 " I suppose that he'll be at the bow-meeting to- 
 morrow," said Philomel Lamb. 
 
 " I don't know — yes — I remember he said that 
 he was going," replied the vicar; "but really my 
 mind was so much taken up, what with the accounts
 
 72 
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 and what with the conduct of Coffin regarding my 
 school, that I could scarcely give attention to what 
 my visitor was saying." 
 
 Philomel felt provoked with herself for having 
 gone a second time to Burnesbey Abbey upon her 
 unsuccessful mission. 
 
 "Stop — that's enough — you've put in three 
 lumps already ; I don't want the sugar-basin emptied 
 into my cup," said the vicar good-humouredly. "If 
 the tea prove colourless and cold, you seem resolved 
 at least to have it sweet. I might as well have 
 asked Latour to stay and share our bread and 
 butter," continued the vicar, drawing his cup 
 towards him ; "I wish that he had called a little 
 later, when I should have been more at leisure. I 
 like the young man ; he is not one of your drawing- 
 room puppies, dangling after ladies, and retailing 
 mere gossip. I believe that Latour has both heart 
 and brains ; and he is none the worse for shooting 
 better than any other man in the county." 
 
 The vicar himself had been no contemptible 
 archer, and during the earlier period of his resi- 
 dence in Thwayte might have been cited as a speci- 
 men of muscular Christianity. Lady Macaw had 
 been somewhat scandalized by the pastor's energetic 
 cricketing on the green with his parishioners, and 
 had often observed that a vicar who would pull oft
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 73 
 
 his coat and rush about madly with butcher-boys 
 and plough-boys, could not have a becoming sense 
 of the dignity of his position, nor 'inspire respect in 
 his flock. It was certain, however, that Thomas 
 Lamb succeeded in winning their affections, for he 
 threw himself heart and soul into their interests, and 
 would walk twenty miles and miss his dinner any 
 day to serve the poorest of his people. The vicar 
 had for years given up cricketing and archery ; Miss 
 Eccles said that he had had no heart for such sports 
 since the death of his poor dear wife ; while Lady 
 Macaw averred that Mr. Lamb was growing stout, 
 and that it was not heart but breath that he 
 wanted. In confirmation of the latter opinion, the 
 rosy, cheerful face of the parson was still always 
 seen wherever his people gathered together for 
 harmless amusement; and his hearty "Well done i r 
 would resound over the green when there was 
 a high leap over a hurdle, or a skilful hit at a 
 wicket. 
 
 In the pulpit Thomas Lamb was a simple, earnest, 
 straightforward preacher, who forgot himself in his 
 work. He spoke plainly and always to the point, 
 and grappled with sin in his parish, as, in his youth, 
 he would have grappled and wrestled with an op- 
 ponent in one of the athletic contests in which he 
 then delighted. Thomas Lamb was, however, no 
 
 ,208) 6
 
 74 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 eloquent preacher in the pulpit, no ready writer at 
 the desk. It was no easy matter to the worthy 
 vicar to compose a single sermon in the week, espe- 
 cially since the loss of his wife, who had helped him 
 to write it; and he always on Sundays preached 
 two. Thomas Lamb drew from his library what he 
 could not draw from his brain ; and, to the great 
 disgust of Lady Macaw, made no secret of doing so. 
 
 " I really y much as I dislike using my carnage on 
 
 a Sunday, have often to drive to G to attend 
 
 service there," the lady would say, in a tone of 
 pathetic complaint. " Of course it is right to set 
 an example of regular attendance at a parish-church ; 
 and I know, in a village like Thwayte, the people 
 naturally look up for direction to those in a position 
 like mine ; but really, to see a clergyman taking a 
 book, a bound book, iuto the pulpit, shocks all one's 
 ideas of propriety. I actually presented Mr. Lamb 
 with a black silk manuscript cover, and suggested 
 that if he must preach the sermons of others, he 
 should at any rate copy them out, so that he might 
 at least appear to his congregation to be giving them 
 the fruits of his own toil and study ; but he has 
 never had the grace to take the hint, or make use 
 of the cover." 
 
 " If it is right for me to give my flock better 
 sermons than I can make myself, why should I be
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 75 
 
 ashamed to let them know that I do so ?" had been 
 the observation of honest Thomas Lamb. " If a 
 man lend me his good cloak to cover my threadbare 
 suit, it seems to me only fair to let him have credit 
 for the loan." 
 
 The vicar of Thwayte was a kind-hearted, cheer- 
 ful-tempered, hard-working parson, more popular 
 perhaps in the cottage than the hall, but everywhere 
 welcome, and everywhere at home. He enjoyed a 
 good story, he relished a good jest, but never when 
 mirth had the slightest tinge of profanity, or the 
 joke could cause the smallest degree of pain. Thomas 
 Lamb was one of the fondest of fathers ; he had 
 been Philomel's playmate in her childhood — quite 
 as fond of a game of romps as herself; and often 
 had the vicar raced up and down the slip of garden 
 at the back of his house with his little one perched 
 on his shoulder, her golden locks streaming behind 
 her, while the mingled laughter of father and 
 daughter sounded merrily on the breeze. Though 
 the gaiety of the Lambs had now a more sober cast, 
 Philomel still found in her surviving parent not 
 only a guide and instructor, but the most genial and 
 cheerful of companions, fondly partial, tenderly in- 
 dulgent ; whose rebuke seldom went beyond a smile 
 and shake of the head, or a playful admonition 
 conveyed in a jest. But Thomas Lamb's own
 
 76 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 standard of duty was high ; and he had so im- 
 pressed his views and principles on his daughter, 
 that the bridle of roses by which he held her was 
 in his hands a very powerful curb. Philomel would 
 have shrunk more from bringing a cloud over that 
 frank loving face, whose smile made brightness in 
 her home, than many a girl would from bringing 
 upon herself the sternest displeasure of a parent less 
 tenderly beloved. 
 
 There was no smile on the face of the vicar, how- 
 ever, as he sat with his daughter at their humble 
 repast in the twilight of that spring evening. There 
 was an unwonted stamp of care on the brow of the 
 pastor, and not a single story or joke escaped him 
 as he slowly stirred his tea and emptied his plate. 
 Philomel also felt little inclined to converse. Her 
 thoughts, however, were of a more chequered char- 
 acter than those of her father, sunshine or shadow 
 prevailing as they reverted to the disappointments 
 of the day, or the expected pleasures of the morrow. 
 To judge by the softened yet bright expression of 
 her blue eyes, the sunshine predominated ; for at 
 the silent tea-table, as in the flowery fields, Philo- 
 mel was indulging in day-dreams. From these she 
 was roused by an exclamation from her father, 
 whose meditations had been of a more sombre and 
 practical cast.
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 77 
 
 "It will do incalculable mischief!" and a sigh 
 followed which came from the depth of the vicar's 
 soul 
 
 " Ah, papa, you were thinking of the schooL" 
 
 " I was thinking of the public-house," said Mr. 
 Lamb, pushing back his chair and rising from the 
 table. " Here have I been for twenty years battling 
 against drunkenness in my village, giving up my 
 own glass of ale for the sake of example ; and when 
 I hoped that I was showing a good front to the foe, 
 there comes my own brother-in-law and attacks me, 
 as it were, from the rear. Look at poor Wakefield, 
 father of six children (every one of them attending 
 the school) ; he is just struggling out of the mire, 
 making resolutions not to drink, and keeping them 
 sometimes for three weeks at a time ; what chance 
 will he have to become a sober fellow at last, when 
 a new public-house is planted almost opposite to 
 his own door ; and where will these wretched chil- 
 dren of a drunkard be taught anything but mischief, 
 when the only school-house within four miles of 
 them is turned into a pest-house instead !" The 
 vicar used a good deal of gesture in speaking, and 
 his manner, usually animated, had now the warmth 
 of just indignation. 
 
 " I wish that Sir John had lived till he was a 
 hundred years old," cried Philomel.
 
 78 A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 " I wonder whether you could do anything with 
 your uncle?" said the vicar, as the idea suddenly 
 presented itself to his mind. " He cared not a 
 straw for my words ; I've not much of the knack of 
 persuasion, but a woman can sometimes coax when 
 a man cannot convince ; and you, Philomel " — the 
 father's hand was on the shoulder of his daughter, 
 playing with her soft golden tresses — "you have 
 been rather a pet with your uncle; suppose that 
 you take him in hand." 
 
 " I have been twice at the abbey to-day," said 
 Philomel Lamb. 
 
 "Ah, I might have been sure that you would 
 leave no stone unturned. You are the willing horse, 
 my darling, that never needs the spurring. But, of 
 course, your request, like my own, met with flat 
 refusal. Had the least hope been held out by Caleb, 
 you would have shared it with me at once." 
 
 Had honest Thomas Lamb been fronting his 
 daughter instead of standing behind her ; looking at 
 her countenance suffused with crimson, instead of 
 toying with her curls, notwithstanding the deepen- 
 ing shades of approaching night, he must have seen 
 the confusion caused by his observation. That con- 
 fusion became more painful as the vicar went on. 
 " I know that you have the matter just as much 
 at heart as I have, and I would willingly part
 
 A SLACKENED BOW. 79 
 
 with my right hand to preserve that school to my 
 village." 
 
 A sharp pang shot through the heart of Philomel. 
 She rose hastily and busied herself with putting by 
 sugar, locking the caddy, and ringing the bell for 
 Sarah to clear away the tea-things and bring the 
 lighted candle. Philomel then brought her work- 
 basket from its corner. This was the hour when 
 the vicar delighted to listen to her music — to hear, 
 as he said, his nightingale sing in the gloaming — 
 but Philomel felt this evening that she had not the 
 heart to sing. After Sarah had brought in the 
 single light, Philomel proposed that her father should 
 read aloud to her as she worked ; Mr. Lamb made 
 an attempt to do so, but neither he nor his daughter 
 could fix their thoughts on the page. The volume 
 was soon closed, and the vicar's conversation again 
 recurred to the schooL Philomel, bending over her 
 needle, was a very silent listener. 
 
 Thus the evening wore on heavily till the time 
 had arrived for Bible-reading and prayer. In. his 
 simply-expressed supplications, the vicar especially 
 remembered the subject then uppermost in his mind. 
 He earnestly prayed that He who has all hearts in 
 his hand would preserve the village-school, and make 
 it a blessing to many ; and give to those who had 
 power to help it a ready will, a self-sacrificing spirit.
 
 flO A SLACKENED BOW. 
 
 As Philomel knelt by her father's side, two bright 
 drops fell from her closed eyes upon her clasped 
 fingers, but so faint was her whispered " Amen " at 
 the close, that it reached no human ear.
 
 CHAPTER VH 
 
 A GOLDEN STHING. 
 
 [HE brightest day may close in wind and rain 
 — the joyous hopes which spring from the 
 young heart, like free birds on the wing, 
 be driven back chilled and drooping, like 
 the same birds cowering for shelter from the rattling 
 hail and roughening blast. How different was Philo- 
 mel when she sought her quiet chamber that night 
 from what she had seemed when, with elastic step, 
 she had crossed the fields on her way to Burnesbey 
 Abbey ! Schemes of philanthropy had then blended 
 in her fancy with dreams of earthly delight, so closely 
 intertwined, that she had deluded herself into the 
 idea that she was devoting herself to her duty. 
 Caleb Coffin's hand had rudely drawn aside a silvery 
 veil, had disenchanted fairy-land, and awakened a 
 dreamer who would willingly have dreamed on her 
 pleasant dream stilL 
 
 Philomel Lamb sat at her toilette-table, before
 
 82 A GOLDEN STRING. 
 
 an old-fashioned oval mirror ; the light of a single 
 candle fell upon her fair face and luxuriant hair, 
 and their reflection in the glass looked like some 
 antique picture of a Saxon beauty, with a dark 
 background to throw out the figure. Almost as 
 motionless as if they were indeed a work of the 
 painter's art, the thoughtful sad eyes from the 
 mirror, seemed to gaze into the living eyes which 
 they reflected. Philomel was lost in thought, and 
 scarcely conscious that she was looking upon her 
 own image, as she sat with her cheek resting on 
 the hand which was half hidden beneath tresses of 
 falling gold. 
 
 " He said that he would give his right hand," 
 murmured Philomel, "and with him it was no idle 
 boast; what my father says, he would do. For the 
 good of his flock, for the honour of his Master, I 
 believe, I know that my father would cheerfully 
 bear the loss, the suffering, the dependence which 
 such a sacrifice must bring. And I, — no anguish of 
 frame, no daily, hourly deprivation of comfort is re- 
 quired of me ; a temporary disfigurement, a sacri- 
 fice of petty vanity is all that is now asked, and 
 from that sacrifice I draw back ! Yet, in my en- 
 thusiasm, I have oft envied the missionary's labours, 
 almost coveted the martyr's crown. It has seemed 
 nothing strange to me that tenderly nurtured women
 
 Philomel Lamb sat at her toilet table. 
 
 G. F.
 
 A GOLDEN STRING. 83 
 
 should give themselves up to a living death, hard- 
 ship, separation from all that they loved, if but the 
 sacrifice could be sweetened by thought that it was 
 accepted. I have longed for more ample means, 
 that I might employ my wealth in works of charity. 
 Now every one of these locks is worth a hundred 
 times its weight in gold ! In a few seconds, I could 
 do more for the good of others than I am likely to 
 accomplish in all the course of my future life. My 
 uncle would keep his word, he has never yet broken 
 his promise ; he believes, indeed, that he will never 
 be called upon to fulfil it, that a woman's vanity 
 must be stronger within her than mercy, gratitude, 
 devotion ! Can he be right — can he be right, at 
 least, in his judgment of mine!" 
 
 Philomel raised her head, and stretched out the 
 hand upon which it had been resting towards a 
 small work-box, which lay so near that she could 
 reach it without rising. Slowly she drew the box 
 towards her, slowly she opened it, and took out a 
 little pair of scissors, fashioned in the shape of a 
 stork, the two points uniting to form the bill. 
 Philomel's large cutting-out scissors were in her 
 work-basket below, in the sitting-room, where the 
 vicar, whose hours were later than his daughter's, 
 usually read or wrote for some time before he retired 
 to rest. Mr. Lamb was neither reading nor writing
 
 84 A GOIPEN STRING. 
 
 at this moment ; Philomel heard the sound of his 
 steps as he paced up and down the room below, as 
 he never did but when his mind was troubled. 
 
 "Oh, that I could but go to him now !" thought 
 Philomel, with her hand on the scissors, "lay my 
 head upon his shoulder, ask his advice, tell him what 
 is disturbing my conscience. If I had but papa's 
 smile and word of encouragement, I believe — yes — I do 
 believe, that I could let his dear fingers clip off every 
 one of these locks. He would be more proud of his 
 school than ever, if he owed its preservation to his 
 child. But I must not consult even my father, he 
 must not know my secret ; if he did, it would soon 
 be a secret to no one." Philomel smiled to herself, 
 as she thought how impossible it would be to her 
 parent to keep silence upon such a subject. " Why, 
 I might make papa angry at the very time when I 
 was doing my utmost to please him. Lady Macaw 
 would have the credit of being the one to influence 
 my uncle, and confer a benefit upon all the village." 
 And, in the mirror of her fancy, Philomel saw the 
 lady patroness of Thwayte in her sweeping robe of 
 rustling silk, with a smile even more self-complacent 
 than usual, receiving congratulations and thanks 
 from the little circle of which she was the self-con- 
 stituted queen. Impatiently Philomel pushed the 
 scissors aside, she would never sacrifice her hair to
 
 A GOLDEN STRING. 85 
 
 swell the pride of that stately dame. Let the school 
 be given up, rather than be retained as a memorial 
 of what one pushing, managing, ostentatious woman 
 could accomplish. 
 
 " There comes the spirit of emulation and pride 
 again," exclaimed the vicar's daughter, half aloud ; 
 " the very spirit which impelled me onwards a few 
 hours ago, is now drawing me back. Why should I 
 care, if another be thanked and lauded for a work 
 which is not her own ? I must prize, indeed, 
 those crackling bank-notes of praise, when I am thus 
 jealous of their being appropriated by another. 
 Where is my purity of motive ? Where my simple 
 desire to do my duty, seeking for no earthly re- 
 ward ? " 
 
 Philomel took up the scissors ; again she fixedly 
 gazed into the glass of the old-fashioned mirror. 
 " Cutting off the hair — why, to that every nun 
 submits before she takes the black veil ! But 
 then, all the world knows why the nun is clipped, 
 and she has not to go the next day to an archery- 
 meeting." The point of the scissors drooped, the 
 hold on the rings relaxed ; — fair reader, had you been 
 in Philomel's place, would you have grasped them 
 more firmly ? 
 
 For several minutes Philomel sat buried in 
 thought, or listening to the restless footsteps heard
 
 86 A GOLDEN STRING. 
 
 from below, or the mellow note of a nightingale 
 warbling from a neighbouring tree. Then again the 
 maiden raised the scissors, opened them, and enclosed 
 one fair little lock within the gaping bill of the 
 stork — but she had not the courage to press the two 
 steel rings together. Pride and jealousy might be 
 overcome indeed, but there was a more powerful 
 obstacle than either in the heart of the poor little 
 maiden. A very different form from that of 
 Lady Macaw was flitting before her fancy. Once 
 more the stork, and the little hand which held 
 it, rested upon the table — the released tress fell 
 again to its accustomed place on Philomel's temple. 
 The maiden shook her head, as if in reply to 
 some question which she put to herself, and leav- 
 ing the scissors before the mirror, rose and went to 
 the window. 
 
 Philomel drew back the little white muslin 
 curtain, opened the lattice, and looked forth into 
 the night. The balmy spring-air came softly 
 through the leaves of the clustering creepers, cooled 
 the maiden's flushed cheek, and stirred her golden 
 hair. In the deep blue vault a few stars were 
 glimmering with pale pure light. There are few 
 things that so raise and solemnize the mind as 
 silent contemplation of these orbs of beauty. Philo- 
 mel thought for how many ages these "sentinel
 
 A GOLDEN STRING. 87 
 
 gtars had kept watch in the sky," while generations 
 of men came and passed, like successive waves on 
 the beach, rising, rolling onward with their freight 
 of hopes, fears, sorrows, and joys, breaking and 
 passing away. Thousands of years before, the same 
 feelings which moved her spirit had influenced 
 hearts which were now undistinguishable dust ! 
 
 " They suffered — but their pangs are o'er ; 
 Enjoyed — but their delights are fled ; 
 Had friends — their friends are now no more ; 
 And foes— their foes are dead ! " 
 
 Was there then nothing enduring amidst that 
 ever-flowing tide and ebb of human existence and 
 decay, nothing firm and solid, nothing abiding, more 
 lasting even than those stars upon which Eve 
 gazed from Eden? Ye3; the memory, the joy, the 
 blessing of God on the smallest act done unto Him ! 
 
 The mind of Philomel reverted to her father, his 
 simple earnestness, his fervent prayer; and linked 
 with that thought came one, if sadder yet sweeter, 
 of the deathbed by which she had once stood in 
 childish awe, which almost overpowered sorrow, 
 when she had felt the last pressure of a thin wasted 
 hand on her head, and heard a mother's faintly- 
 whispered blessing. But Philomel now thought not 
 of her mother as dead. Might not the spirit's home 
 be amongst those glittering stars ; might she not be
 
 86 A GOLDEN STRINU. 
 
 hovering near, her eyes looking down on her child ; 
 could her voice be heard on the night-breeze, would 
 it not be an echo of what conscience was even now 
 whispering so clearly ? 
 
 Philomel turned suddenly from the casement, her 
 eyes brimming over with tears. She took up the 
 little scissors and again enclosed a golden fore-lock. 
 This time she did her work in earnest. But it 
 seemed as if the delicate instrument refused to obey 
 her will ; Philomel found a mechanical difficulty in 
 severing the hair by the bill of the stork — the 
 screw of the scissors loosened with the strain on the 
 lever, and some seconds elapsed ere the forelock 
 dropped on the toilette-table — the first real sacrifice, 
 perhaps, that the vicar's daughter ever had made. 
 
 A gasping sigh escaped from the maiden as she 
 gazed on the soft severed tress which lay before 
 her ; she was startled at her own act. It was 
 cutting the bridge behind her, for it would be 
 almost as difficult to account for the loss of one lock 
 as for that of all ; the sacrifice of the first made 
 that of the rest more easy — more indispensable — 
 for if it remained alone it would be a sacrifice made 
 in vain. But Philomel laid down the little fancy 
 scissors. 
 
 " I should be half the night cutting off my hair 
 with these," she said to herself; "I will go for the
 
 A GOLDEN STRINQ. 89 
 
 large pair in my basket down-stairs as soon as papa 
 has left the parlour ; just now I could not bear to 
 meet him." 
 
 A strange feeling of impatience came over Philo- 
 mel Lamb. Either she mistrusted her own resolu- 
 tion, or the delay in its execution was to her a 
 prolonged mental torture from which she longed to 
 escape. The sound of her father's tramping excited 
 in the girl painful nervous irritation. To soothe it 
 Philomel employed the waiting-time in devotion, 
 making the school for which she was sacrificing so 
 much, a subject for special prayer. Philomel 
 remained on her knees till she heard the parlour 
 door open, and then her father's well-known tread 
 up the stair. She rose and intuitively counted each 
 step, and listened to hear the closing of Mr. Lamb's 
 door, before, with a nervous touch, she noiselessly 
 opened her own. 
 
 The staircase was quite dark, save for the feeble 
 glimmer of starlight through the unshuttered window 
 which looked on the staircase ; but Philomel could 
 find her way about the familiar dwelling without 
 need of using her eyes. She knew well the little 
 table in the angle of the sitting-room where her 
 basket was regularly placed at night, for order as 
 well as punctuality was the rule in the vicarage of 
 Thwayte. Philomel in the darkness easily found
 
 90 A GOLDEN STRING, 
 
 what she sought, but the cold feel of the scissors 
 made her shiver as she carried it away. 
 
 Mr. Lamb heard the rustle of her dress as she re- 
 ascended the stairs. He opened his door a little, 
 surprised at his daughter's moving about the house 
 at so late an hour. 
 
 "My darling, is anything wrong? Why are you 
 not at rest ? " he inquired. 
 
 "I only went for my scissors, papa," replied 
 Philomel Lamb. 
 
 There was a "Good night," and a "Bless you, 
 my child ! " The blessing went warm to poor 
 Philomel's heart, and when she had regained her 
 own apartment, she set to her stern work with more 
 courage. 
 
 There was certainly nothing of the stoic about the 
 vicar's daughter. Philomel dared scarcely trust 
 herself to think of what she was doing ; but as each 
 tress was shorn from her head, she tried to fix her 
 thoughts upon some individual child in her little 
 school-class who would benefit by the sacrifice 
 which she was painfully making. 
 
 "There is for my little Mary. She did not 
 plead to-day in vain, but she little guessed what the 
 pleading would cost me. There is for my dark-eyed 
 Katie ; how her eyes will sparkle to-morrow when 
 she hears the good news that my uncle will keep up
 
 A GOLDEN STRING. 91 
 
 the school! There is for Annie Wakefield, poor 
 child, who prays night and morning that father 
 may keep sober." This blending of personal interest 
 in individuals did not detract from Philomel's 
 "purity of motive," while it softened the pain of 
 sacrifice, and increased her "strength of self-deniaL" 
 It was over — all over — at last ; the golden fleece 
 lay a mass of rich beauty on Philomel's knee ; she 
 had done what could not be undone. Did the 
 maiden repent of the act ? She could hardly have 
 answered that question, but she dared not look in 
 her mirror. Philomel gathered the fair hair in a 
 littlo heap and placed it upon her toilette-table ; she 
 then rose and went to a drawer, from which she 
 took out a white card-board box. From this she 
 emptied out the contents — a few ribbons, laces, and 
 trinkets, which had once belonged to her mother. 
 Philomel returned to her seat with the box, and 
 then, one by one, placed in it the golden tresses 
 which since her childhood had been her richest 
 adornment. The girl handled each lock with a kind 
 of tender regret, as though it had been a living 
 thing — and if she left a few diamond drops on the 
 gold, few young ladies will blame her for the 
 weakness. Philomel closed the lid over the box 
 which held her offering, went to her little desk, and 
 wrote a few hurried lines : —
 
 92 A GOLDEN STRING. 
 
 " The other conditions will be kept as faithfully 
 as the first. Kemember your part of the bond." 
 
 Philomel put the note on the top of the box, 
 enclosed the whole in paper ; and after carefully 
 sealing up the parcel, addressed it to Caleb Coffin. 
 A little flash of triumph came over the maiden's 
 spirit as she directed that packet. She fancied the 
 look of surprise on the crafty merchant's face when 
 he should raise the lid of the box, and see the 
 golden contents. Would not the cynic be con- 
 vinced at last that woman is capable of making a 
 silent sacrifice, not only of her selfishness but of her 
 vanity ! 
 
 And so the weary girl at last retired to rest, with 
 a sweet consciousness that she had indeed kept her 
 promise, and done her best — she would not now 
 reflect at what a price. If her sleep was not 
 altogether refreshing — if her dreams were troubled 
 — it was because there was one special hope — un- 
 defined, unconfessed, yet perhaps the most precious 
 of all — that was driven shivering back upon her 
 heart, as the bird cowering in its nest from the 
 force of the pitiless storm.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 
 
 [HE day broke in sunny beauty. At " the 
 breezy call of incense-breathing morn," the 
 merry birds filled the air with their twitter- 
 ing, and the bleat of the lamb was heard 
 from the meadow. Man roused himself to his 
 various labours. The sound of the woodcutter's 
 axe came from the forest, the clink of iron from the 
 village forge, and the slow creak of the waggon from 
 the lane. Under the eaves the swallows were chat- 
 tering, and the " cock's shrill clarion " rose from the 
 yard. Pleasant was the blending of rural sounds 
 which roused Philomel to consciousness that another 
 day had begun. 
 
 But the vicar's daughter awoke with a sense of 
 oppression at her heart which excluded all pleasure, 
 a feeling that some strange thing had occurred, that 
 something painful was before her, though when she 
 first opened her blue eyes to the light, full cod-
 
 94 SOMETHING TO BEA.lt. 
 
 sciousness had not returned, and she knew not what 
 caused the oppressive sensation. Then she felt a 
 chilliness at her head, and intuitively Philomel put 
 up her hand to that which some hours before had 
 been so warmly, as well as so richly, clothed ; the 
 first touch recalled to her in a moment all that had 
 happened upon the preceding evening. 
 
 How different often are our sensations in the 
 morning from those experienced in the night — in 
 what an altered light events and objects appear ! 
 If Philomel had been earnest, resolute, devoted, 
 when the quiet stars were shining over her — if the 
 curtain of night had seemed to shut out the world — all 
 her courage and spirit of self-sacrifice now appeared 
 to have faded away with the stars. She sprang 
 from her pillow with a feeling akin to desperation, 
 and for the first half-hour, while her fingers intui- 
 tively went on with her toilette preparations, her 
 mind was wildly revolving schemes of escape from 
 the consequences of what appeared to her now a 
 senseless, almost suicidal, act. Where should she 
 hide herself — what could she do ? should she feign 
 sickness, keep her apartment, shroud herself in dark- 
 ness from the gaze of inquisitive eyes, the reach of 
 impertinent gossip ? Philomel was half wild with 
 vexation when she looked at herself in her mirror ; 
 there was a choking sensation in her throat ; but
 
 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 95 
 
 she was too much excited to cry, she was rather 
 disposed in a fit of passionate distress to fling herself 
 down on the floor. This was all very childish 
 indeed, but poor Philomel was no heroine. She 
 had done what could not be undone, and was not 
 able at first to remember that "things without 
 remedy should be without regard," and that the loss 
 of her golden fleece was not the heaviest of mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 The first thing to soften the distress of the shorn 
 lamb was the distant sound of children's voices 
 singing a hymn which Philomel had herself taught 
 them in the little school-house on the moor. She 
 threw open her lattice to let in the music, and with 
 it came in the sweet morning air, laden with per- 
 fume from the garden. Tears came into Philomel's 
 eyes as she listened, and then she turned them to- 
 wards the parcel which she had directed to Caleb 
 Coffin on the preceding night, and something of 
 thankful pleasure mingled now with her pain. 
 
 "It has not been for naught; there is comfort at 
 least in that thought. If I am a loser, others are 
 gainers. Those dear little voices — how sweet they 
 sound ! I think that they were sent to cheer me, 
 and give me courage to go on ; for go on I must ! 
 I am like one climbing a cliff, who has reached a 
 point whence he cannot go back. I must not stop
 
 96 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 
 
 on my way, or the fruit of my effort is lost. I 
 must go on — I must go on ! " Philomel repeated 
 these last words again and again. If, according to 
 her own simile, she had been as one clambering up 
 the steep face of a cliff, till there was no way of 
 turning or descending, a jutting crag seemed to be 
 overshadowing her now; her nerve was failing her, her 
 courage was sinking, and yet she must rise above 
 that obstacle, or all the hard upward struggle already 
 experienced would avail her nothing. 
 
 Philomel's window looked out on a fair lawn 
 girdled with shrubbery, dotted with parterres. The 
 village lay beyond it, backed by the wood, and 
 above the trees rose the tower of the church, its 
 gilt weathercock gleaming bright in the morning 
 beam. Job, the labourer employed at the vicarage, 
 was standing on the dew-sprinkled lawn, by the 
 lines of newly-mown grass, whetting his scythe, 
 and merrily whistling. There were sounds of move- 
 ment within the dwelling. Philomel heard Sarah 
 the maid setting down the jug of hot water and the 
 cleaned boots outside the door of the vicar's apart- 
 ment. It was time that another step should be 
 taken on Philomel's difficult path, another point by 
 an effort be gained. She called the maid to her 
 room, strangely dreading to meet even the eye of 
 the simple Scottish general-servant.
 
 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 97 
 
 Sarah obeyed the young lady's call. Philomel 
 did not look at her as she entered ; fancy painted 
 vividly enough the expression of blank amazement 
 on the face of the maid as she saw her mistress for 
 the first time divested of all her long flowing hair. 
 Philomel pointed to the parcel which lay on the 
 table, and in as steady a voice as she could command 
 bade Sarah ask Job to take it directly to Burnesbey 
 Abbey. Philomel had to repeat the order in a 
 more peremptory tone before it was obeyed, for the 
 servant was so much astonished by what she saw, 
 that she could scarcely take in the sense of what 
 she heard. It was a relief to the vicar's daughter 
 when Sarah had quitted the room with that precious 
 packet, though Philomel was porsuaded that the 
 first words which would escape the maid's lip3 
 would be, "Sure my young leddy has gone clean 
 daft ! " 
 
 Philomel watched Job from her window as he 
 stopped in his mowing to receive the message and 
 parcel from Sarah. Few words seemed to pass 
 between the two. Job wiped his scythe, hung it 
 up in a blossoming lilac, took up his fustian jacket 
 which had lain on the gravel drive, put it on, and 
 then set off on his errand, little guessing what were 
 the contents of the small white parcel which he 
 earned under his arm.
 
 98 SOMETHING TO BEAK 
 
 "I have now compromised myself fully," mur- 
 mured Philomel Lamb to herself, as Job passed 
 through the green gate, and she heard its clink as 
 it swung back behind him. " He carries my 
 plighted promise as well as my hair. Oh, may my 
 uncle faithfully fulfil his part of a bond as strange 
 as that made by Shylock, I had almost said — as 
 cruel ! " 
 
 Philomel, though heavy-hearted, was no longer 
 excited. The Rubicon had been crossed, there was 
 no more painful struggling with indecision and 
 doubt. The vicar's daughter quietly read her 
 chapter, and knelt at her morning devotions; she 
 had never engaged in them with a more simple, 
 confiding faith. There is to a loving heart a sweet- 
 ness in sacrifice ; notwithstanding all her fears and 
 regrets, when Philomel rose from her knees she felt 
 no longer unhappy. 
 
 " Oh, that I could but tell my father why I have 
 done this," murmured Philomel half aloud, as she 
 heard the vicar descending the stairs. " For the 
 first time in my life I fear to face him. Papa will 
 be so much surprised, so much annoyed ; my con- 
 duct will seem so inexplicable to him. His vexa- 
 tion will be the worst — or almost the worst — part of 
 my trial." Philomel went to her drawer, took out 
 her small store of ribbons, carried them to her
 
 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 99 
 
 toilette table, and forced herself to look calmly into 
 the mirror. She must wear no false hah* — even had 
 any been at hand, that was a part of her bond — but 
 she might soften the effect of the disfigurement 
 which the loss of her ringlets occasioned. Philomel 
 used the scissors here and there where the golden 
 fleece had been hastily and unevenly clipped ; and 
 she bound a blue ribbon round her temples, letting 
 the ends fall behind on her shoulders. The maiden 
 felt little satisfied with the effect of her simple 
 coiffure, and yet not all the charm of her face had 
 been lost with her curls. The contour of the head 
 was classical, the hair on it smooth and shining as 
 gold, the countenance beneath looked more youthful 
 than ever, with its rosy blush, and expression of 
 mingled shyness and sweetness. 
 
 Thrice Philomel went to the top of the staircase, 
 thrice she returned to her own apartment, before 
 she could summon up courage sufficient to meet her 
 father at the breakfast-table before family prayers. 
 Delay, however, could not make the inevitable trial 
 more easy to be borne, and when Philomel did enter 
 the parlour at last, it was with a rapid, hurried step. 
 The vicar had his back to the door when it was 
 opened by his daughter, ho was looking out the 
 chapter for the day; but when he turned round and 
 suddenly confronted Philomel, his surprise at her
 
 100 SOMETHING TO BEAR. 
 
 altered appearance was expressed in an ejaculation 
 which was rarely known to escape from his lips. 
 
 " Bless me," cried the vicar three times, and each 
 time with stronger emphasis, "what has the child 
 done with her hair ! " 
 
 Philomel went up to her father for her usual 
 morning salute, but instead of giving it the vicar 
 held her back by her shoulders, that he might gaze 
 with a long, puzzled, scrutinizing look at the head 
 shorn of its locks. Embarrassed and distressed by 
 his gaze, poor Philomel dared not raise her eyes, 
 and felt her whole countenance suffused with a 
 burning glow. 
 
 " What mad freak is this ? " said the vicar at last 
 in a tone of displeasure. " You are the last person 
 whom I should have expected to play the fool in a 
 silly attempt to follow the fashion." 
 
 "It is not the fashion at all," replied Philomel, 
 scarcely knowing whether to cry or to laugh. 
 
 "Fashion or not — it is frightful; you look like a 
 charity-child," bluntly observed the vicar. " I hate 
 the masses of false hair with which girls now-a-days 
 disfigure their heads, and I thought that the pern 
 dulum of fashion might be swinging back to no hair 
 at all, but the latter fancy would be the most 
 absurd of the two." 
 
 " I hope, papa, that you don't mind much," said
 
 SOMETHING TO BEAR, 101 
 
 Philomel, timidly approaching and giving the kiss 
 which her parent, for once, did not return. 
 
 " Well, I suppose that a girl has a right to do 
 what she pleases with her own hair ; dress it like a 
 Chinese or an Ojibeway Indian, if it takes her fancy 
 to do so," said the vicar, still looking a good deal 
 disturbed; "but I am sorry that a daughter of 
 mine should make herself the talk of the village. 
 Of course you do not intend to show your cropped 
 poll at the archery-meeting to-day." 
 
 " Indeed, papa, I believe — I think — I know that 
 I mustn't break my engagement." 
 
 The vicar merely shrugged his shoulders, and to 
 Philomel's relief at that moment Sarah came in for 
 family prayers. 
 
 At breakfast the vicar was unusually silent; 
 When Sarah brought in the steaming kettle, she 
 observed to herself that master looked put out, and 
 no wonder, he had taken such pleasure in Mis3 
 Philomel's hair. Mr. Lamb was, however, a good- 
 tempered man, and had a kindly heart. He saw that 
 his daughter was pained, and he would not distress 
 her by questions. Only, during breakfast-time, Philo- 
 mel several times found her father looking at her 
 Bhort hair with a perplexed and troubled expression, 
 
 " I shall not dine at home to-day," said Mr. Lamb, 
 as he concluded his meal ; " I shall go to see Bullen'a
 
 102 SOMETHING TO BEA.R. 
 
 sick child, and then on to G . I shall look in 
 
 there on the rector, and probably take early dinner 
 with him." 
 
 " Then will you not accompany me to the archery- 
 meeting, papa?" asked Philomel, who dreaded 
 facing the company without the support of her 
 father's presence. 
 
 "Not accompany you, but join you there. I 
 shall be in time, no doubt, to see you receive the 
 silver arrow, if you win the prize," said the vicar 
 smiling. " But, in truth," he added, more gravely, 
 " I am scarcely in a mood for all these gay doings 
 to-day. This niggardly conduct of Coffin's weighs 
 on my spirits ; my own village will look as strange 
 to me without my school, as — as you do, child, 
 without your ringlets." 
 
 " Oh, papa, I don't despair of our keeping on the 
 school !" exclaimed Philomel, with a brighter glance 
 than had beamed on her face since she had met her 
 father that morning. 
 
 The vicar sighed, and shook his head. " Caleb 
 Coffin," he observed, " is not a man to be changed 
 by a word or led by a hair." 
 
 "We shall see," said Philomel, smiling; and aa 
 she went up the stairs to her room her heart felt 
 much lighter than it had done when she had de- 
 scended them before breakfast.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 RANDOM SHOTS. 
 
 'HAT will be my uncle's reply to my note? 
 Will he write ? will he come ? He wit 
 be a little sorry, I think, for the loss of 
 my poor hair; but a great deal more sorry 
 for the loss of his money." Such were 
 the thoughts perpetually recurring to the mind of 
 Philomel Lamb, as she pursued her little household 
 avocations, or, seated in her own apartment, com- 
 pleted her simple preparations for the afternoon's 
 fete by fastening collar and cuffs on the white 
 muslin dress with blue forget-me-nots printed upon 
 it, which she was to wear at the archery-meeting. 
 Philomel's fancy moved more rapidly than her 
 needle, and several times she laid down her work, 
 and went to her little flower-mantled casement to see 
 if no messenger were in sight coming from the direc- 
 tion of Bumesbey Abbey. Was it possiblo that her 
 
 uncle would deceive her ; would the close-fisted, 
 (2os; 8
 
 104 RANDOM 8HOTS. 
 
 cold-hearted cynic actually discover some method of 
 keeping his promise to the ear, and breaking it to 
 the sense ? Philomel felt indignant with herself at 
 letting such a suspicion cross her mind for a moment. 
 The clock on the stairs had just struck the mid- 
 day hour, as if echoing the chime from the church, 
 when Philomel once more went to her casement, and 
 looked down on the shrubbery and lawn. Her 
 father was quitting the vicarage to go on his errands 
 of kindness, umbrella in hand, according to his 
 invariable habit, though there was not a cloud in 
 the sky. 
 
 " An honost man, tight buttoned to the chin, 
 Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within." 
 
 Mr. Lamb had just issued from under the porch 
 of the vicarage, when Philomel heard the familiar 
 click of the shrubbery gate, and saw Miss Eccles, in 
 her faded green poplin, with her long veil hanging 
 limp behind her, hurrying into the grounds as fast 
 as lameness would let her. The face of the elderly 
 *ady was all aglow with delight, her mouth ex- 
 panded in the broadest of smiles ; it might be 
 merely from pleasure at meeting her pastor, but a 
 child could have read fair weather in the barometer 
 of that kindly old face. Miss Eccles held an open 
 note in her hand, and Philomel guessed from her 
 eager gesture that the note must contain good news.
 
 RANDOM 3HOT3. 105 
 
 The vicar's daughter watched with curious interest 
 the meeting between her father and her friend, 
 though she could not at the distance distinguish a 
 word that was uttered. Miss Eccles met her pastor 
 half-way on the gravel drive, with both her hands 
 extended towards him ; she said something as she 
 held out the note to Mr. Lamb, which made him 
 give a little start of pleasure or surprise. Of course, 
 his back was towards the vicarage ; Philomel as she 
 bent forward from the casement would have given 
 anything for a glimpse of her father's face, for she 
 guessed what were the tidings which the joyful 
 messenger had brought. Her wish was quickly 
 gratified ; as Mr. Lamb returned the note to Miss 
 Eccles he turned suddenly round, looked up at the 
 window at which his daughter was standing, every 
 feature of his countenance radiant with honest plea- 
 sure, took off his hat and waved it aloft, then joy- 
 ously went on his way. 
 
 Philomel ran down-stairs to welcome Miss Eccles 
 and hear the glad tidings of which she was evidently 
 the bearer ; in the excitement of joy and hope, the 
 lamb quite forgot the loss of her fleece. 
 
 She met Miss Eccles in the porch. The elderly 
 lady was smiling and panting, but the expression of 
 her face changed by a sudden transition to that of 
 wonder, when her glance fell on the vicar's daughter.
 
 106 RANDOM SHOTS. 
 
 " Why, Philomel," she exclaimed, drawing back, 
 " who on earth has been clipping off your hair ?" 
 
 "Never mind my hair, tell me your news!" 
 cried Philomel eagerly, catching from the hand of 
 her old friend the open note, in which she recog- 
 nized the formal, peculiar handwriting of Caleb 
 Coffin. 
 
 " Lady Macaw sent it for you and your father to 
 see ; she received it not half an hour since. I 
 chanced to be calling. But, dear heart! dear heart! 
 what has become of your beautiful golden curls?" 
 
 Philomel scarcely heard the question, she was 
 eagerly reading the note, which was brief) as the 
 epistles of Caleb Coffin were wont to be. 
 
 " Dear Madam, — There are some arguments which cannot be 
 refuted, some requests which cannot be denied. It ig possible that 
 woman's persuasion may after all prop up the school, and turn an 
 old cynic into a philanthropist in spite of himself. You shall know 
 my final decision at the archory-aioeting to-day. — Faithfully yours, 
 
 " Caleb Coffin." 
 " To think of his granting to Lady Macaw what 
 he refused to you and your dear excellent father ! 
 Tis a strange world," exclaimed Miss Eccles. " I 
 little knew that the tiny pink note which I carried 
 myself to the abbey would have worked such a 
 wonderful charm. It must have been a very clever, 
 coaxing letter indeed. She is a remarkable woman, 
 is Lady Macaw. You should see her pride and de-
 
 RANDOM SHOTS. 107 
 
 light ; she is really looking ten years younger to-day. 
 She told me that she had never yet set her heart 
 upon any object which she did not accomplish ; that 
 she had felt persuaded from the first that she could 
 twist the old man round her finger." 
 
 " She had better not let the old man know that 
 she says so," observed Philomel with a smile, as she 
 accompanied her visitor into the parlour. 
 
 Philomel's pleasure at her own success was not 
 to be without much alloy. She needed all its sus- 
 taining power to enable her to endure with tolerable 
 patience the cross-questioning which followed from 
 the elderly lady regarding the loss of her tresses. 
 The weakness of Miss Eccles was curiosity, and, 
 with all her kindliness of nature, she was utterly 
 deficient in tact. She was very inquisitive, very 
 desirous to know why Philomel had so disfigured 
 herself, what she intended to make of her hair, 
 whether it were to be turned into a wig, or whether 
 — here Miss Eccles lowered her tone to a mysterious 
 whisper — she meant to sell it for some charitable 
 purpose ; she had heard before of such strange things 
 being done. Philomel, half amused, half angry, and 
 a good deal perplexed, felt inclined to make some 
 excuse for escaping to her own room, and so 
 abruptly ending a conversation which teased her 
 almost beyond her powers of endurance.
 
 108 BANDOM BHOTfl. 
 
 "Why, here come the Langtons !" exclaimed 
 Miss Eccles, suddenly intei-rupting herself in the 
 midst of an earnest recommendation of Macassar oil, 
 to stimulate the growth of short hair. 
 
 " Oh, I can't stand all this !" thought poor Philo- 
 mel, starting to her feet, and feeling like a hunted 
 creature in her own father's home. 
 
 Lucy Langton, eager and impetuous as usual, 
 came in first, brimful of news ; she had heard by 
 this time — all the village had heard — of the note to 
 Lady Macaw, and the story, passing from mouth to 
 mouth, had of course received additions by the way. 
 The Langtons — after calling to congratulate the 
 Arkwrights — had hastened on to the vicarage to tell 
 Philomel, should she uot have heard of it already, 
 that Mr. Coffin, in the handsomest manner, had 
 made a gift of schoolhouse and endowment to the 
 lady of the Villa of Roses ! But the rapid current 
 of Lucy's thoughts was quickly turned into a new 
 channel by her first glance at Philomel Lamb. 
 Bursting into an uncontrollable fit of merriment, the 
 young lady threw herself into an arm chair, and 
 rocked herself backwards and forwards, almost con- 
 vulsed with laughter. Lucy could hardly articulate 
 between her bursts of mirth, " Shorn lamb ! shorn 
 Lamb ! what has become of your fleece ?" 
 
 Lucy's exuberant merriment was infectious, and
 
 RANTVOM SHOTS. 109 
 
 though Miss Eccles bit her own lip and pinched her 
 own arm to suppress by pain her inclination to join 
 in it, and Delia, pressing her handkerchief to her 
 mouth, turned away towards the window, Philomel 
 found herself the unwilling cause of great amuse- 
 ment to the three ladies, a position which caused 
 her considerable embarrassment and annoyance. 
 
 " I seem to afford you a good deal of diversion," 
 said the poor young girl, struggling to speak in a 
 tone of good humour. 
 
 "Oh, dear child, I beg your pardon !" cried Lucy, 
 with tears of laughter in her merry black eyes ; 
 "but really you do look so funny, as if you had 
 just come out of an hospital or a prison — or — or a 
 lunatic asylum !" A little explosive sound of mirth 
 escaped from under Delia's handkerchief, and Miss 
 Eccles desperately walked to the piano, and pre- 
 tended to examine the pieces of music on the top. 
 " But I don't know when wonders will cease. If the 
 owl suddenly is transformed into a bird of paradise 
 — the last thing I should ever have expected — it is 
 no wonder if the nightingale herself appears in the 
 new character of an unfledged yellow — " 
 
 " Come, come, you're too hard on her," tittered 
 Delia ; " there's no accounting for tastes ; perhaps 
 Philomel has been studying the becomings, or has 
 anticipated a new style of coiffure not yet intro-
 
 110 RANDOM SHOTS. 
 
 duced from Paris, and we shall all be roundheads 
 before winter!" This weak attempt at a jest 
 elicited another burst of laughter, though Miss 
 Eccles, who had returned to her seat, cried again 
 and again, " Tis too bad !" more in the way of self- 
 reproach than of rebuke to the others. 
 
 "Perhaps, when your mirth has exhausted itself 
 you will tell me what you meant by the owl becom- 
 ing a bird of paradise," said poor Philomel, who was 
 anxious to effect a diversion. 
 
 " Oh ! have you not heard ? — surely you must 
 know," cried Lucy, eagerly ; " Miss Eccles must 
 have told you what has made all Thwayte beside 
 itself with joy. We were at the schoolhouse just 
 now, and you should have seen the rejoicings, heard 
 the clamour. Mrs. Arkwright was almost in tears." 
 
 The countenance of Philomel brightened. 
 
 "But to think of Mr. Coffin's granting the boon 
 to Lady Macaw," cried Delia ; " it really detracts 
 from one's pleasure at having the school retained. 
 Her ladyship stood on a high enough pedestal al- 
 ready." 
 
 " I expect to have a proposition to have Lady 
 
 Macaw's statue in the market-place of G 
 
 instead of Lord 's," laughed Lucy. " I'm 
 
 certain there will be a paragraph in the Times, all 
 about the school, and probably a picture of it in the
 
 RANDOM SHOTS. HI 
 
 Illustrated. It will be the Macaw School from this 
 time forward, for one could not call it the ' Coffin,' 
 you know." 
 
 " Certainly Lady Macaw will take good care 
 that the world is informed of her share in the 
 matter," lisped Delia. 
 
 " I wonder," observed Lucy, " whether the bene- 
 factress and patroness of Thwayte over heard of the 
 lines, — 
 
 • Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 
 Will ne'er inscribe the marble with his name. ' 
 
 They come into my mind so often when I am at the 
 Villa of Roses." 
 
 "Come come, my dear, Lady Macaw is a very 
 charitable kind creature," said Miss Eccles, grateful 
 for an invitation to the archery-meeting. 
 
 " She beats out her gold very thin, and makes it 
 cover a marvellous wide space," said Lucy. " I 
 should like to know the exact point at which gold 
 takes the title of gilding." 
 
 " She has done a good deed now," expostulated 
 the elderly lady; "have you se^n Mr. Coffin's note to 
 Lady Macaw?" 
 
 "I should like to see it of all things!" cried 
 
 i 
 
 Lucy; "it would be a most amusing specimen of 
 the correspondence of a cynic metamorphosed into a 
 courtier."
 
 112 RANDOM SHOTS. 
 
 Miss Eccles had already drawn from her bag the 
 note which she had brought to the vicarage. It was 
 eagerly seized upon by Lucy, who read it aloud, 
 mimicking the tone of Caleb Coffin as she did so. 
 As she concluded the little epistle, she dropped her 
 hands on her knee with the exclamation, " Depend 
 on't, 'tis all a take in ! The old miser is laughing 
 in his sleeve at the lady who lets herself be hum- 
 bugged so readily !" 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried poor Miss Eccles, 
 looking aghast at the doubt suggested. 
 
 " Don't you see," exclaimed Lucy, striking the 
 paper, "he does not compromise himself ; he pro- 
 mises nothing; that word 'may' is a loophole through 
 which he can always back out." 
 
 " Certainly," observed Delia, " from what I heard 
 I had imagined that Mr. Coffin had given a much 
 more decided assurance of his intentions to Lady 
 Macaw." 
 
 " She'll find her pedestal crumbling beneath her," 
 said Lucy, laughing as she returned the note to Miss 
 Eccles, who looked crest-fallen and anxious. " I 
 wish that I were as sure of the silver arrow to-day 
 as I am that the owl is not a bird to be caught 
 by any spring prepared for him at the Villa of 
 Roses." 
 
 The visitors soon after took their departure, and
 
 RANDOM SHOTS. 113 
 
 Philomel seemed to breathe more freely when they 
 had gone ; but the ridicule to which she had been 
 subjected had left a sore pang behind. " Will he 
 regard me as they regarded, though chivalrous cour- 
 tesy will prevent him from showing outwardly what 
 he thinks?" was the question which she asked her- 
 self with a sinking heart. " I have had trial enough 
 for one day — I cannot, dare not meet him at the 
 archery-fete. And yet, what Lucy observed is true. 
 My waiy uncle has not compromised himself yet — 
 he is doubtless in hopes that though I have ful- 
 filled his first condition, I will shrink back from the 
 last. He has kept a loop-hole open, and I — I only 
 — can close it ! Heigh-ho ! 'tis a painful ordeal 1 I 
 would that the day were over !" 
 
 The idea of entering a nunnery or a prison would 
 scarcely at that moment have appeared so formid- 
 able to Philomel, as that of joining a gay throng 
 of neighbours and acquaintances at that fete to 
 which she had once looked forward with keenest 
 delight.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHO WINS THE PKIZE ? 
 
 'OST auspiciously shone the sun on the fete 
 at the Villa of Roses; no weather could 
 be more favourable for an archery-meeting; 
 there was not even a puff of southerly 
 breeze to blow an arrow aside. Soft 
 white clouds lay like snowy mountains on the 
 horizon ; all above was blue as the sky of Italy. 
 
 Lady Macaw, brilliant in a dress that might have 
 suited a duchess, and with a gracious condescension 
 of manner that might have befitted a queen, received 
 her numerous guests at the top of the steps which 
 led down into her pretty pleasure-grounds, beyond 
 which lay the field with the targets. The terrace, 
 where an hour before nothing had been heard but the 
 song of a bird, was now crowded with gaily-dressed 
 ladies, and the hum of their voices filled the air. 
 The school of Thwayte afforded a topic which super- 
 seded even that of the weather. Lady Macaw im-
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZB ? 115 
 
 parted information and received congratulations on 
 all hands, with serene self-consciousness of having 
 well earned the laurels on which she reposed. The 
 unfavourable opinion which she had formed of the 
 master of Burnesbey Abbey had been much modified 
 by his note ; though even that, as she owned, be- 
 trayed an ignorance of the forms of society such as 
 might hardly have been expected in a man of his 
 station. " Mr. Coffin," Lady Macaw blandly ob- 
 served, " is one whose character is misunderstood by 
 many, and therefore severely judged. He has a 
 great knowledge of the world, but has unfortunately 
 not seen the best side of it. But there is a great deal 
 of warmth of heart and generosity of nature under a 
 cynical manner ; and no doubt, with a little judicious 
 advice from those whom he trusts and esteems, our 
 good friend will soon understand and fulfil all the 
 duties attending his position." 
 
 Carriage after carriage set down its fair freight, 
 and dresses and parasols of every hue gave to the 
 lawn the appearance of an animated flower-bed. The 
 gentlemen-archers and some of the ladies appeared in 
 uniforms of Lincoln green appropriate to the occa- 
 sion : but such a costume was not de rigueur, and 
 Delia Langton and Philomel Lamb, two of the best 
 lady-archers in the county, had both resolved not to 
 wear it ; the latter from economy, the former because
 
 116 WHO WINS THE PRIZE 1 
 
 " cloth is so dreadfully heavy, and green so shock- 
 ingly trying to the complexion !" Delia adopted in- 
 stead a more becoming dress of white muslin, with a 
 cerise-coloured scarf, and a long feather of the same 
 brilliant hue drooping from a hat of the smallest 
 dimensions. A graceful quiver hung from her 
 shoulder, filled with many -tinted darts ; and as she 
 stood leaning on her bow, which was adorned with 
 ribbon of cerise, Delia Langton might certainly have 
 been pointed out as the prettiest girl in the gay as- 
 sembly had she not looked so conscious of being so. 
 Poor little Miss Ecclcs moved uneasily amongst 
 the gay throng. She was far more in her element 
 in the cottage or at the sewing-class, than in a scene 
 so brilliant as this. She was conscious that even her 
 dress looked peculiar amongst the fashionable robes 
 around her, though she had donned her best — her 
 only silk gown, that which her brother had presented 
 her with on his marriage, and which had since ap- 
 peared, "just as good as new," at the christenings of 
 most of his nine children. After perambulating the 
 walks in a vain search for Philomel, by whose side 
 she would feel more at ease, the shy little woman 
 took refuge under the wing of Delia, whom she had 
 known from her cradle, and who was standing in an 
 attitude which some might call graceful and others 
 affected, under a laburnum's gold-dropping boughs.
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 117 
 
 " My dear, I'm so glad to see yon ; it's so nice to 
 be near somebody one knows," cried Miss Eccles, 
 limping up to the belle of Thwayte, who happened 
 at the moment to be speaking to no one. " I feel 
 bewildered in such a gay crowd. I've been hunting 
 for Philomel Lamb — old Mrs. Brown was to bring 
 her from the vicarage. I wonder what can make 
 her so late ! The shooting will begin in a few 
 minutes, I suppose; people are moving already towards 
 the meadow." 
 
 " There is Philomel," observed Delia coldly, glanc- 
 ing in the direction of a walk through the shrub- 
 bery, from which two figures were emerging. 
 
 " Ah, yes, with her father — but that's not Mr. 
 Lamb ; no, no, how dull my old eyes are growing ! 
 It's Mr. Latour in his archery dress, bow, quiver, 
 and all ! The two seem engaged in a very interest- 
 ing conversation. How happy our Philomel is look- 
 ing — her cheeks are as bright as your ribbon ! 
 Dearie me ! I should never have believed that she 
 could have looked so well with all her pretty ring- 
 lets cutoff!" 
 
 " She has made a fright of herself," observed 
 Delia, and the cerise feather quivered as she spoke. 
 
 " Some one does not think so, I'll be bound," 
 said Miss Eccles, with a knowing smile. Like most 
 unmarried ladies, she took special interest in any- 
 
 (208) 9
 
 118 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 
 
 thing that might end in a wedding. " I've thought 
 for a long time," she added, dropping her voice to a 
 confidential whisper, " that there was a fancy in that 
 direction." 
 
 " The fancy is all in your own brain," replied 
 Delia, with the slightest approach towards asperity. 
 The expression of her face, however, instantly 
 changed, and her pretty teeth were shown in a 
 gracious smile, as she caught the eye of Mr. Latour, 
 who raised his cap, and came forward to greet her. 
 Miss Eccles limped off at once to Philomel, near to 
 whom, faithful as a shadow, she remained during 
 the rest of the fete. 
 
 After a few commonplace observations had been 
 exchanged between Mr. Latour and Miss Langton, 
 relative to the weather, the company, the shooting, 
 the archer, bending his tall form so that his accents 
 might be heard by his companion, without reaching 
 any ear but her own, said, with a little hesitation in 
 his tone, " I believe that you and your sister are 
 veiy intimate with Miss Lamb. Can you inform me 
 — have you any idea why she has adopted that new 
 mode of wearing her hair ?" 
 
 " Wearing it ! — rather of not wearing it," said 
 Delia, with a little affected simper. " She has cer- 
 tainly confided nothing to us, though Miss Eccles 
 and we were putting her to the question about it
 
 ■WHO WINS THE PRIZE? 119 
 
 this morning. I suppose that Philomel Lamb has 
 her whims and fancies, like other people." 
 
 " I should not think that Miss Lamb is one likely 
 to act upon mere whim," observed Mr. Latour. " She 
 has perhaps some reason which she does not choose 
 to make known." 
 
 "Oh, surely young ladies are not bound to have 
 reasons for all that they do I" replied Delia, gently 
 stroking down the feather of an arrow which she 
 had drawn from her quiver. " Some people like to 
 be odd, and different from others. Philomel belongs 
 to rather an eccentric family." 
 
 " I never heard that before," said the archer, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Her aunt was eccentric — very eccentric. I 
 know that she was once under restraint, poor 
 thine: ! " observed the benevolent Delia. 
 
 " Mr. Coffin never had a sister except Mrs. Lamb. 
 I suppose that this poor lady was a sister of the 
 vicar ? " The observation took the interrogatory 
 form. 
 
 " Yes ; that is, sister-in-law," replied Delia, bit- 
 ing her lip ; for she intuitively perceived that she 
 was not raising herself in the estimation of Mr. 
 Latour. To change the conversation, the young 
 lady abruptly remarked : " Of course, you have 
 heard that Mr. Coffin has held out hopes of his
 
 120 WHO WINS THE PRIZE 1 
 
 keeping up our dear little schooL Do you believe 
 that he will actually do so ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt upon the subject," the archer 
 replied. " I had a very interesting conversation 
 with Mr. Coffin at Burnesbey Abbey this morning. 
 Ah ! here he conies to answer for himself. I believe 
 that we were only waiting for his arrival to commence 
 the shooting. Will you permit me to string your 
 bow, Miss Langton ? " 
 
 Caleb Coffin was just entering the gate leading 
 to the Villa of Roses when he was overtaken by his 
 brother-in-law, Thomas Lamb. The vicar came, 
 umbrella in hand, heated after his long walk to and 
 from G . 
 
 " I've just dropped in to see my little girl shoot," 
 he observed, after shaking hands with Mr. Coffin. 
 
 " What's this that I hear about Philomel ? " 
 asked Caleb, abruptly. " People say that she has 
 clipped off all her gold curls. What could induce a 
 young girl to do anything so absurd ? " 
 
 The old merchant fixed his keen eyes, as he spoke, 
 on the vicar, with a penetrating glance of inquiry. 
 
 " I cannot conceive why she did it. It passes 
 my comprehension," replied the honest pastor, 
 shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 " What ! you have not asked her ? " inquired 
 Caleb Coma
 
 W UO WINS THE PRIZE 121 
 
 "She keeps ber own counsel,'' replied the vicar, 
 looking rather annoyed. " I never before knew my 
 little girl have anything like a secret with me." 
 
 Caleb indulged for a moment in his little hissing 
 laugh ; and then, in his stiff, ungainly manner, 
 advanced towards Lady Macaw, who came down 
 the steps with both hands extended to welcome her 
 guest. She was too much absorbed in doing the 
 honours to the liberal master of Burnesbey Abbey, 
 to have much attention to bestow on the simple 
 honest-hearted vicar who stood at his side. 
 
 Caleb received all the courteous and flattering 
 things that were said to him by Lady Macaw with 
 a little shake of the head and twinkle of the eye, 
 which puzzled and somewhat disconcerted her. 
 She noticed (nothing ever escaped the notice of 
 Lady Macaw) that Mr. Coffin was followed by his 
 servant, bearing two narrow boxes under his arm. 
 She inquired the meaning of this with her eyes ; 
 but as Caleb Coffin either did not understand that 
 kind of language, or did not choose to appear to do 
 so, she left him to make his explanation when he 
 pleased. Lady Macaw had her own ideas, her own 
 hopes, regarding the contents of those mysterious 
 boxes, but had sufficient tact not to trouble her 
 eccentric guest with questions. " After a salmon 
 has taken the bait, it must be given line, and
 
 122 WHO WINS THE PEIZE 1 
 
 humoured and played with, or it may break away 
 after all," thought the sagacious lady of the Villa of 
 Roses. 
 
 All the company now adjourned to the field 
 where the archery contest was to take place. A 
 double set of targets had been put up ; one at long 
 range for the gentlemen, the other at shorter range 
 for the ladies. While the archers, bow in hand, 
 betook themselves to their own appointed place, by 
 far the larger portion of the company ranged them- 
 selves in a semicircle behind one of the ladies' 
 targets, as the point of greatest interest. In the 
 centre of this semicircle stood Lady Macaw, her 
 long train sweeping the grass. Caleb Coffin was at 
 her side. A little to the left, ever keeping as close 
 as possible to Philomel when her turn for shooting 
 arrived, appeared the vicar, leaning with both hands 
 on his umbrella, firmly planted in the sod ; while 
 Miss Eccles kept rather in the background, save when 
 the flight of an arrow shot by a friend was succeeded 
 by the plop which told that the target was struck, 
 when her eagerness made her press forward a little. 
 
 Philomel Lamb looked bright and hopeful, as she 
 slowly drew the lengthening cord, A spring of 
 pleasure was rising in the young maiden's heart, 
 not altogether springing from a sense of duty per- 
 formed, though owing much of its sweetness to that
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 123 
 
 Bource. The vicar's daughter had felt that in the 
 eyes of one at least she was not disfigured ; and 
 such being the case, she could cheerfully part with 
 the admiration of all the world beside. 
 
 Several ladies from G and its neighbourhood 
 
 contended for the silver arrow; but it was soon 
 evident that one of the fair archers of Thwayte was 
 likely to carry off the prize. The arrows of Lucy 
 Langton, indeed, seemed as erratic as herself : 
 over or under the mark, to the right or the left — 
 now ringing against the iron stand of the target, 
 now disappearing no one knew where — it was clear 
 that the silver prize was not likely to be won by 
 her bow. But Delia had practised diligently, had 
 a good eye and a steady hand, and had set her 
 heart upon being the queen of the day. In shoot- 
 ing, no lady approached her except Philomel Lamb, 
 who kept for some time but a little behind her. 
 The vicar's daughter was encouraged and animated 
 by the hearty sympathy of her father, who was 
 standing near her, eagerly watching the flight of 
 each of her arrows. The vicar's love of archery, 
 and partiality for his child, made him take a keen 
 interest in the sport ; and he could not refrain from 
 calling out directions as Philomel pointed her arrow, 
 or exclaiming with hearty pleasure when that arrow 
 quivered in the target.
 
 124 WHO "WINS THE PRIZE ? 
 
 The last arrows were at length to be shot off. 
 Delia and Philomel were the last to shoot ; and 
 before they did so, both were in advance of all their 
 rivals. The prize must therefore, of necessity, be 
 gained by one or other of these fair maidens of 
 Thwayte. Delia had marked a point higher than 
 Philomel before this last decisive trial, and there- 
 fore the chances of success were in her favour. 
 Very slowly and cautiously Delia took her aim and 
 drew the tightening cord. The arrow flew through 
 the air. 
 
 "A hit ! — 'tis in the outer circle," exclaimed 
 Caleb Coffin, who, peering through his goggle spec- 
 tacles, showed more interest in the game than was 
 consistent with his character of cynic. 
 
 " Now, success to you, my child ! " cried the 
 vicar, as he handed the last arrow to Philomel ; 
 then drew back, eagerly awaiting the result 
 
 A shout from the spot where the gentlemen were 
 shooting was heard at this moment. 
 
 " Latour has it ! " was the cry. 
 
 Philomel paused, turned her head for an instant 
 to listen, and then, with a bright smile on her lips, 
 drew her bow, and her last arrow went quivering 
 right into the centre of the gold ! The vicar could 
 not refrain from a shout, and Miss Eccles clapped 
 her hands with delight
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 125 
 
 " Well done, lamb of the shorn fleece I — well 
 done!" exclaimed Caleb Coffin. "I thought you 
 would win the day. You've hit the right point in 
 more than one sense." 
 
 There were smiles and congratulations on all 
 sides, in which the gentlemen archers, who now 
 joined the circle around the^ ladies' target, united. 
 There was but one face on which a cloud rested. 
 Delia unstrung her bow with a feeling of deeper 
 mortification at her heart than could have been 
 caused by mere failure in winning the silver brooch. 
 
 " And now let us adjourn to the Villa of Roses," 
 said Lady Macaw, " that our Robin Hood and the 
 Bylvan queen may receive the prizes which are 
 awaiting them there. Mr. Latour, you have won 
 the privilege of escorting Miss Lamb, and of pre- 
 senting to her — our fair victor — the silver arrow, 
 trophy of success." 
 
 "A moment — excuse me. Let me have a part 
 in this matter," said Caleb Coffin, who, as soon as 
 the contest had been decided, had beckoned to his 
 servant, who had been waiting at a little distance 
 while the shooting went on. " Let Mr. Latour and 
 my niece Philomel respectively have the honour, or 
 pleasure, or privilege, or whatever you may call it, 
 of presenting each other with prizes ; but I have 
 on this occasion followed your suggestion, Miss
 
 126 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 
 
 Delia Langton." Caleb seemed to take a little 
 malicious pleasure in teasing the discomfited lady 
 archer. " You showed me your golden prize brace- 
 let, and gave me a pretty strong hint that if I 
 wished to be a popular man in Thwayte, I should 
 follow Sir John's example by giving something 
 worth shooting for. I am not above taking a lady's 
 advice. I am going to appear in my new character 
 of a popular man. I have provided prizes not only 
 for the lady, but for the gentleman winner also ; 
 and I hope that I may have succeeded in pleasing 
 the taste of each." 
 
 There was a murmur of applause through the 
 circle, and the proceedings of Caleb Coffin were 
 watched with no little interest as he took the first 
 box from his servant and said, as he placed it in 
 the hands of Mr. Latour, "Meredith, present that 
 to the lady whose arrow struck the centre of the 
 gold." 
 
 Smiling and blushing and sharing in no small 
 degree the curiosity of those around her, Philomel 
 received and opened the box which contained the 
 gift of her uncle, and drew out a piece of parch- 
 ment written over, signed, and sealed. 
 
 " What is it ? what can it be ? " passed from 
 mouth to mouth, as inquiring glances were exchanged 
 amongst the spectators.
 
 WHO WINS TRE PRIZE ? 127 
 
 "Allow me to explain," said Meredith Latour, 
 who was assuredly not the least pleased or interested 
 member of the throng. "This parchment is a 
 deed, which I had the gratification of signing as 
 witness this morning, by which my late guardian, 
 Mr. Coffin, makes over the cottage now used as a 
 schoolhouse in Thwayte, with a liberal endowment 
 in perpetuity, to any trustees whom Miss Lamb, his 
 niece, may be pleased to appoint." 
 
 There was a general murmur of satisfaction, 
 amidst which Lady Macaw's faint "Oh !" was un- 
 heeded and unheard. 
 
 " In the name of all my parishioners, as well as 
 in that of my daughter, I thank you most heartily, 
 Caleb Coffin, for your generous gift ! " cried the 
 delighted Vicar of Thwayte. 
 
 " There is no generosity in the matter, nor is that 
 deed a gift," replied Caleb, with a significant nod 
 at Philomel, whose eyes spoke the joy and gratitude 
 which she could not put into words. " The affair 
 is a mercantile transaction between my niece Philo- 
 mel and me. I have had a quid pro quo for my 
 money, goods delivered beforehand, an honest bargain 
 has been made and kept by both parties concerned, — 
 he! he! hel" 
 
 " What on earth can he mean ! " exclaimed Lady 
 Macaw. Curiosity becamo intense, and the circle
 
 128 WHO WINS THE PRIZE 1 
 
 of listeners drew closer, while Philomel, embarrassed 
 notwithstanding her happiness, would gladly have 
 made her escape. 
 
 " But let us finish our business before we tell our 
 stories," said Caleb. "Philomel, queen of the bow, 
 it is your duty now to present the prize to the 
 victor." 
 
 Philomel gave over her own box with its precious 
 contents to her father, and receiving the other from 
 Mr. Coffin, shyly and with downcast eyes placed it 
 in the hands of Meredith Latour. Every one, except 
 Caleb and the winner of the prize, gave an exclama- 
 tion of amazement when the lid was raised, and 
 disclosed the contents of the box to be rich tresses 
 of golden hair ! 
 
 " There ! talk of generosity now, if you will !" said 
 the cynic gaily, turning towards the astonished 
 vicar. "That little heap of lady's locks has cost 
 me two thousand guineas this morning. I challenged 
 you yesterday," continued Caleb Coffin, addressing 
 himself to Meredith — " I challenged you to find in 
 the world a woman who would sacrifice vanity to 
 duty, who would be content to do good in the dark, 
 and I promised a golden forfeit should such a phoenix 
 be found. Philomel has twice purchased the deed 
 which she has received — first, by the sacrifice of 
 her hair, and secondly, by her silence ; and now
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZE t 129 
 
 I redeem my pledge — the Golden Fleece is your 
 own." 
 
 Philomel caught the exclamation of "My noble 
 girl ! " and felt the pressure of her father's hand on 
 her shoulder. The words and the pressure filled her 
 with keener joy than the volley of applause and 
 congratulation which resounded on all sides. 
 
 " I was certain that she had her reasons — that 
 she must have her reasons ! " exclaimed Miss Eccles, 
 almost crying with pleasure. 
 
 " I never saw anything so shocking — so — so im- 
 proper," whispered the indignant Delia to her sister. 
 
 II Only fancy the bad taste — that word is a thou- 
 sand times too mild — shown by tho horrid old 
 owl in presenting his niece's hair as an archery 
 prize to a gentleman ! What on earth will he do 
 with it ? " 
 
 " Oh, he will know well enough what to do with 
 it," laughed Lucy, greatly amused. "Meredith 
 Latour has the golden chain — the gold ring is sure 
 to follow. Caleb Coffin would never have given 
 the fleece, had he not had the best reasons for 
 knowing that the lamb was sure to follow it." 
 
 " Mr. Latour will be carrying her off to North- 
 umberland," said Miss Eccles, confidentially. "I 
 always guessed, you know, that something was 
 going on in that quarter."
 
 130 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 
 
 " I pity her — from my soul I pity lier !" observed 
 Delia, shrugging her shoulders. "I would prefer 
 Newgate to Northumberland with its horrid colliers 
 and coal-dust ! To crop her hair close before send- 
 ing her to prison was really a sensible thing ! " 
 
 Philomel neither felt nor looked an object for 
 pity at that moment, though she who had "done 
 good by stealth " might and did " blush to find it 
 fame." She longed, indeed, to be out of the throng, 
 and freed from its embarrassing gaze — alone, if but 
 for an hour, with her father or somebody else ; but 
 the intensity of her happiness overpowered even 
 the pain of her shyness. 
 
 Lady Macaw had at first experienced a sense of 
 disappointment, as one who finds that she has been 
 unconsciously appropriating and wearing the laurel- 
 wreath due to another. She had the tact, however, 
 not to betray her mortification. Approaching the 
 shy young maiden before her, she took her graciously 
 by the hand, and said, addressing herself to the 
 master of Burnesbey Abbey : — 
 
 " We have all to thank you, Mr. Coffin, not only 
 for your munificent gift to our village, but for 
 making known to us the full value of the treasure 
 which we have long cherished amongst us. Phil- 
 anthropy will be named from henceforth in Thwayte, 
 ' the Order of the Golden Fleece ; ' and I hope that
 
 WHO WINS THE PRIZE ? 131 
 
 it will be found that we have many ' companions ' 
 in that illustrious order." 
 
 " With Lady Macaw for grand-master," whispered 
 Lucy Langton to her sister. 
 
 "Nay, nay," observed old Caleb, in his own 
 cynical manner ; "to give money may be common, 
 to beg money more common ; there's many a man 
 will do the first — many a woman the second ; but 
 I've been told that 
 
 1 Oar good deeds must be judged — and few will bear the trial — 
 By our purity of motive and strength of self-denial. 1 "' 
 
 If Philomel's proof of sincerity were made the 
 touchstone for all, I suspect that many whose names 
 figure on subscription-lists, and whose fair persons 
 at charity-meetings, would hardly come forward to 
 claim the honours of this new order of 
 
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