A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
HOW ABSORBING IS THE IXTEEEST OF SEEING NUKSE DRES 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY; 
 
 BEING A 
 
 CHRONICLE OF THE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS 
 OF A CHILD. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS OF QUEENSBERRY 
 
 AND M. R. 
 
 WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED EXPRESSLY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE 
 
 FUNDS OF 
 
 A VILLAGE INDUSTRIAL EXHIBITION. 
 
 SLEAFORD, 
 
 VKINIED BY W. FAWCETT, MARKET-PLACF, 
 
 18G7. 
 
A17S7 
 
 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 g^aMERY early this mornino- did the e-oldeii head raise 
 B T r itself from its white pillows, and watch the line of 
 j^^ ^ light that crept through the chinks of the closed 
 00000 shutters. 
 
 " Would it ever, ever be time to get up ?" 
 
 " Could not the daylight hurry a little bit on this morning, 
 of all mornings in the year ; or, was it possible that the sun 
 did not know that it is Maye's birthday ?" 
 
 This was a new idea, and the golden head lay very still, 
 while the busy brain revolved the question. 
 
 " God knew : yes, Maye was very sure God knew, for had 
 not mother told her He knew everything. Well ! God was in 
 the sky, and the sun was in the sky. Might not God just 
 have whispered it to the sun ?" • 
 
 " Maye will ask mother. She will be sure to know." 
 
 But that last ray of sunlight streams on nurse's face, and 
 she stirs and rises. 
 
 Maye lies very still, watching her. 
 
 How absorbing is the interest of seeing nurse dress ! How 
 
 A 
 
 119 
 
D A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 neatly oue thing goes on the top of the other, and how easily 
 and quickly they are all put on. How well Maye knows the 
 inch and a half of hair which nurse combs with such care ; 
 and then, with a skilful twist of her arm, transforms into a 
 hard round knot, which is supported at the hack of her head 
 by one hair pin. Maye has often wondered what would happen 
 if nurse lost that one hair pin ! It is so peculiar, 60 bent, and 
 all the black rubbed off by constant use, so that Maye is quite 
 sure there is no other like it, in the world. Mother's hair pins 
 are quite different, they are straight, and black, and shiny. 
 
 Now comes the crackling cotton gown and the white apron ; 
 the knot is hidden by the white cap ; and — nurse is ready ! 
 
 It has come at last, the moment so longed for, and Maye 
 springs out of bed, and goes through the washing and dressing 
 with tolerable composure, considering her age and circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Then she trots down the passage, through the swing door, 
 on to the corridor that leads to mother's room, and knocks 
 gently at the door. 
 
 Maye. is full of importance now, for she has come to " say 
 my prayers." 
 
 Golden haired child ! standing there in the bright morning 
 sunlight ; does no sad presentiment of the dark days that are 
 coming, steal over you ? No thought of the time, when in cold 
 and darkness you shall stand at that same door, and knock ; 
 
 but there shall be no answer for ever? Thank 
 
 God ! no. The future is mercifully hidden from us. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 7 
 
 As no one answers, Maye opens the door, and peeps in. Just 
 what Maye guessed ! Mother is " saying her prayers." 
 
 There she kneels, Maye's beautiful young mother ! She has 
 golden hair, like the child's; and the sunbeams, streaming 
 through the window, play on the rippling tresses of her bowed 
 head, as if they loved to rest on anything so bright and fair. 
 Maye stands very still, watching her. 
 
 "I wonder if mother will soon have done," she thinks to 
 herself, "mother's prayers are very long: they are so much 
 longer than mine now, but some day I will say very very long 
 ones, perhaps as long as father's ! I do wonder why he always 
 says his in the dining-room. They must be very grand ones, 
 for all the servants go in to hear him : no one but mother 
 comes to hear me ! I wonder' ' 
 
 But the train of thought and wonder is interrupted, for the 
 young mother has risen from her knees, and is holding out 
 her hands. The golden hair of the mother, and the golden 
 hair of the child, blend and become one for an instant as a 
 fond kiss is imprinted on the little upturned face. 
 
 " So it is your birthday, my darling," says the soft loving 
 voice, "God bless you, my child, and preserve you to me for 
 many many years." 
 
 And then, with folded hands, Maye kneels by her mother's 
 side, and repeats her baby prayer. 
 
 This ceremony over, the long-restrained chatter bursts forth, 
 and trotting about the room, she examines every little comer, 
 and asks the use of every ornament on the dressing table ; 
 
b A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 A\liicli examinations have been made, and which questions 
 have been put, daily, ever since Maye was able to speak. 
 
 Willingly would she linger on in "mother's room" that 
 realization of all that is happy and delightful to these tiny 
 creatures, in whom mother-love is almost a religion ; but the 
 nursery breakfast is waiting, and she must hurry back. 
 
 So, with as many farewells and kisses as if a trackless jour- 
 ney lay before her, the child at length runs off. 
 
 She listens with her usual interest to all that nurse, and 
 Letty, the nursery-maid, have to say during that meal. 
 
 "They do say such curious things sometimes that she 
 cannot understand them, and she has often resolved to ask her 
 mother what it all means ; but generally by the time she gets 
 downstairs, she can hardly remember anything they said." 
 
 "Perhaps nurse and Letty would be just as pleased she 
 would not." 
 
 Breakfast over, Maye trots down the wide oak staircase, and 
 her little feet go pitter-patter along the gallery, till she comes 
 to the dining-room. 
 
 Here she meets all the servants coming from "hearing 
 Father his prayers," and she looks at them with a certain kind 
 of awe, as at privileged beings, admitted to mysterious doings 
 in which she has no share. 
 
 " For," she reflects to herself with a sigh, "they must all 
 know that Mother says I am "too young to come to Father's 
 prayers !" 
 
 This great degradation doeg not seem to affect the servants ' 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 9 
 
 ■with any very intense contempt for the tiny creature who 
 stands gazing at them with her great bhie eyes, as they file 
 out into the gahery ; for each has a word or a smile for her as 
 they pass ; and the old butler throws open the door, and she 
 runs into the breakfast-room. Mother and Father are stand- 
 ing by the table, reading a letter together, and they are both 
 laughing very much. 
 
 Maye's father is very tall, and has dark hair. Many people 
 think him grave and stern, but Maye's mother can always 
 make him laugh, and Maye herself is not at all afraid of him. 
 
 He comes quickly forward when he catches sight of his 
 little daughter, and he lifts her up in his arms, and covers her 
 with kisses till she is nearly smothered ; and mother comes 
 to the rescue, and says she shall be very jealous. 
 
 Fauher turns to her, and says '' Jealous of me, or of Maye ?" 
 And mother laughs her pretty soft laugh and says " Both." 
 Upon which he smiles, and gives one lingering kiss on her 
 forehead. 
 
 What it all means, Maye does not quite know, but she does 
 not understand public attention being withdrawn from herself, 
 so she puts her golden head in between them, and then they 
 both kiss her at once. 
 
 Now the hissing urn is brought in, and mother makes the 
 tea, while father reads the newspaper, and Maye stands very 
 quiet and good by the table, with her chin resting thereon, 
 and a pair of big blue eyes fixed on a paper parcel which is 
 IviuG' close bv. 
 
10 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "Look, not toncli," she whispers to herself two or three 
 times to quell the hnniiiig desire her little fingers have to undo 
 the parcel, which she is quite sure must be her birthday 
 present ! but not feeling very certain of her own powers of 
 resistance, she puts her hands behind her and squeezes them 
 tight together. 
 
 She is soon rewarded, for she catches mother's eye and 
 mother is smiling, and father has put down the newspaper, 
 and he is smiling too ; and soon, sitting on father's knee, her 
 trembling fingers wrestle with the wrappings, and a deep- 
 drawn sigh "Oh dear me" escapes from the little rounded 
 mouth at the sight of a wax doll. 
 
 Pietiring to the floor with her new treasure, Maye is soon 
 deep in a game, and it is so absorbing that she is quite 
 startled when she hears her mother say " Now my darling 
 must go out for her walk." 
 
 How hard it seems, just as dolly is so very interesting ! 
 
 But when mother says a thing, though she says it very 
 gently, Maye knows it has to be done ; and so she carries dolly 
 off upstairs, and they are soon both dressed and in the garden. 
 
 Dolly is taken to Maye's own little garden to see how the 
 flowers are coming up, and then has a turn on the terrace, and 
 is finally seated in the arbour. 
 
 Now this is all very amusing for Maye, but nurse wearies of 
 it. "Miss Ma^^e," says she " we will walk down the park to 
 the lodge ; it will be better than dawdling about the garden. 
 
 It is very odd, this, about nurse ! She always likes to walk 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 11 
 
 down the park to the lodge, and odder stiU, she ahvays waJks 
 at the very edge of the park, where a pahng divides it from 
 the high road. 
 
 Somehow too, she generally finds friends passing along the 
 high road. 
 
 Sure enough, as they go along, a voice on the other side of 
 the hedge, says, '' Good day to you Mrs. Nurse," and nurse 
 stops and talks for some time. 
 
 Presently Maye hears the voice say " There's a deal of sick- 
 ness in the village, and I can't rightly make out what it is ; 
 some kind of a fever, I reckon, but it do seem a quick spread- 
 ing one, sure-Z^, for there's two down with it on t'other side 
 of the mill, and Widow Barton's little lad was took last night." 
 
 " What does he say ?" cries Maye, running up, " is anything 
 the matter with Johnnie Barton ?" 
 
 " Hush " she hears nurse say to the man, " don't say a word 
 before the child ; Mrs. Forrester is so afraid of infection for 
 her, and Miss Maye would be sure to tell her, I wouldn't 
 for the world my mistress should know there is a fever in the 
 village. Piun away, dear," she added, turning to Maye, "I 
 am busy talking. 
 
 The child retreated a few steps, but she had heard enough 
 to rouse her curiosity, and she hstened with all her might. 
 
 But the conversation was now carried on in such low tones, 
 that she heard nothing further, till the man moved on saying, 
 " Well goodbye, Mrs. Nurse, and I'm glad to have met you." 
 
 Glad ! If any one could have told them what were to be 
 
12 A VEEY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 the results of that chance meetmg ! For some reason, nurse 
 changed her mind ahont going to the village, and turned 
 sharply off into the most secluded parts of the park. 
 
 Maye knew Widow Barton's little hoy ; he was her mother's 
 favorite little pupil at the Sunday school, and had once or twice 
 heen up to the Hall to play with her ; so she tried to find out 
 what was the matter with him. 
 
 " Nurse " said she " is Johnnie ill ?" 
 
 But nurse said hastily "Don't be tiresome, child, and, Miss 
 Maye" she added, "Don't he bothering your mother about 
 little Johnnie." 
 
 Now Maye was a wise child and made no rash promises, but 
 she shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly, and fell into a 
 train of thought. 
 
 " Mother is never bothered," she inwardly reflected, and 
 never says " don't be tiresome child. I shall just tell her all 
 about it directly I get home. I daresay she can give poor 
 Johnnie some medicine to make him quite well again." Nurse 
 did not talk any more during the walk and Maye wondered 
 what made her so grave and silent. 
 
 " Mother," said little Maye at luncheon that day, " Johnnie 
 Barton is ill." 
 
 "Bl!" said Mrs. Forrester, "little Johnnie Barton! how 
 do vou know Mave ?" 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 13 
 
 But here Maye's memory rather failed her, and she answered 
 vaguely that some one on the other side of the park palings 
 had said so. 
 
 "Not very clear," said Mrs. Forrester laughing; then to 
 her husband " I think, Gervase, I will go and see what is the 
 matter with him. Poor Mrs. Barton is always at her wits' end 
 if anything ails the boy, and knows no more than a baby what 
 to do. I might drive down in the pony carriage after luncheon, 
 and if you can't come with me, I daresay I could get a small 
 companion, in consideration of its being her birthday." 
 
 " I am afraid " answered he " that I must ride over to those 
 outlying farms to meet the bailiff, otherwise I should have 
 liked to have driven you both ; but I will not be quite cut out 
 of these birthday doings," he added, turning with a smile to 
 his little daughter, "for that would not be fair, Maye, would 
 it '? So, as you wdll be home earlier than me, you might bring 
 mother across the fields, after your drive, to meet me. Unless 
 it w^ould tire you, Mabel ?" he questioned, looking at his wife 
 with a peculiar expression she well knew, and which told her, 
 as plain as words could speak, that he only put the question 
 that he might evoke the pretty soft laugh his ear delighted in, 
 and see his answer in the bright look that broke all over her 
 beautiful face. 
 
 The bell was rung, the orders given, and Maye was sent up 
 to the nursery to dress. 
 
 " Nurse," says the important little voice "please put on my 
 things quick. I am going to drive with mother to see 
 
14 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 But somehow Maye thinks she will not tell nurse where 
 mother and she are going. 
 
 She does not know why, hut she has a yagne feeling, con- 
 nected with the morning's walk, that nurse does not like poor 
 Johnnie, and might perhaps put some objection in the way. 
 
 So nurse dresses her in happy ignorance, and then little 
 Maye runs down to meet mother in the hall. 
 
 The pony carriage is at the door, and old John lifts her in. 
 
 Father and mother are talking together in the doorway, and 
 laughing. 
 
 How pretty Mother looks to-day ! Maye wonders she had 
 not noticed it before. 
 
 Her face is lighted up as she talks to father, and her eyes 
 are dancing and sparkling with happiness. 
 
 Father is leaning against the hall door, looking down upon 
 her with his usual grave smile. He is just going to start for 
 his ride, and has on his boots and spurs, and a riding whip in 
 his hand, with which he is playing with the buttons of mother's 
 coat. 
 
 Aye ! look, little Maye ! gaze, and gaze again on that sweet 
 picture of summer sunshine and joy ; for already the dark 
 clouds are looming and gathering in the distance. 
 
 Could no kind angel step in, and warn them all from the 
 doom to which they are hastening ? But already it is too late : 
 already is the first step taken from the sunshine into the shade ; 
 and the shadow shall deepen for ever and ever, till all is wrap- 
 ped in gloom ! 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 15 
 
 For, with a gay laugh and a parting wave of the hand to 
 her husband, Mabel Forrester steps into the pony carriage and 
 drives quickly away from the door. 
 
 Merrily chatters little Maye on the way to the village. 
 
 She has something to say of every bird that flies past, and 
 of every flower in the hedge. 
 
 There is so much to ask this beautiful May- day : for the 
 pretty spring flowers are everywhere bursting into life, the air 
 is full of the songs of a thousand birds, the young lambs sport 
 in every field they pass, and the blossoms on the trees look 
 bright in the gay sunshine. 
 
 And then, Mother can answer so well ! She never tires of 
 Maye's questions, like nurse; never says "don't bother" or 
 " don't be tiresome." She knows so much of the birds and 
 the flowers ! and through the medium of the glories and beau- 
 ties of nature she leads the little mind to the love and realiza- 
 tion of the Great Creator of it all. 
 
 Maye thinks the drive only too short, for they are already 
 at Widow Barton's door. She is anxious to go in, but mother 
 thinks she may perhaps disturb poor Johnnie ; so Mrs. For- 
 rester goes in alone, leaving the child in the carriage, with old 
 John holding the pony's head. 
 
 The cottage door is open, and Maye can see right into the 
 inner room, where poor Johnnie is lying in bed. 
 
IG A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 His eyes are shut and liis cheeks are flushed with fever. 
 Maye sees Widow Barton look np gratefuhy at her mother 
 when she comes in, and the poor woman's eyes are fuh of tears. 
 
 Then Maye sees mother bend over the sick boy, and feel his 
 head and his hands. She takes off her hat, and gently lays 
 her cool hand on his burning forehead, and Maye thinks how 
 white it looks by his red, red face. 
 
 Then she gets a wet bandage, and lays it on his head gently 
 and tenderly, every now and then looking up, to speak con- 
 solingly to the poor widow, who is crying by the bedside. 
 
 There is a little lattice window in the inner room, and the 
 sun, streaming through it, gleams on mother's golden hair as 
 she bends over the bed ; and Maye thinks how like she looks 
 to a picture in the gallery at home, of an angel who is leaning 
 over a little dead boy, and preparing to fly with him up to 
 heaven. 
 
 Bye and bye, it seems to Maye as if it really trere that 
 picture, and not mother, that she is looking at : for every- 
 thing is getting indistinct : — the cottage, and the lattice, and 
 the room, are fading away; and only mother and Johnnie 
 getting more and more bright ! Presently, they seem to move ! 
 Johnnie and mother, bending over him, are slowly moving, 
 up, up, up, towards heaven! 
 
 " Why Maye, my darling ! fast asleep !" 
 
 Maye starts up, and finds the cottage is there, and the 
 lattice is there, and Johnnie is there, and mother is standing 
 l)y the pony-carriage with her own bright smile. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 17 
 
 " Is it 7Y'rt//// yon mother?" says poor little Maye, "Oh, I 
 am so glad!" 
 
 "^Eeally me, darling ! why of conrse it is ! have yon been 
 dreaming, dear '? What was it all abont ?" 
 
 Bnt somehow Maye does not feel inclined to tell her mother 
 her dream, and the recollection of it weighs on her spirits. 
 She is not thoronghly herself again till they have driven some 
 w^ay on, and she finds her mother is really laughing and talk- 
 ing as usual. 
 
 They stop at the doctor's door, to tell him to go and see 
 poor Johnnie, but the doctor is out; "Very busy indeed," his 
 servant says, so they leave a message for him and drive home. 
 
 Leaving the pony-carriage in the stables, they cross the 
 farm-yard behind the house, and go through the fields and the 
 meadows to meet father. 
 
 And running about in the green grass with mother, gather- 
 ing buttercups and the pretty wild flowers, every now and then 
 pausing to listen for the hoofs of father's horse ; Maye soon 
 forgets her troubles. 
 
 Gervase Forrester, riding home in the lovely spring after- 
 noon, was listening to the song of the birds, and revelling in 
 the sweet sounds, till there came borne to him across the 
 fields, the soft voices and rippling laughter of his wife and 
 child ; and then he cared no more for the warbling that had 
 before so delighted him. 
 
 Then, when a turn of the road brought them in sight, he 
 reined in his horse to watch them coming to meet him, and 
 
18 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 his eve drank in with love and pride the beauty of both : — the 
 graceful form and light step of the golden-haired motheT, the 
 fairy form, and bounding step of the golden-haired child, with 
 the green fields around them, and the cloudless sky above ! 
 
 And when Maye was lifted up in front of father on his horse, 
 and rode home with his arms around her, and mother walking 
 by the side, all dreams and perplexities had vanished, and 
 there was not a happier child in the county than little Maye 
 Forrester. 
 
 But the pleasures of that birthday are not half over, for 
 Maye is to have tea in the drawing-room. The drawing-room 
 bread and butter is as different as possible to the nursery kind, 
 and Mother pours out the tea quite differently to nurse. 
 
 "I wonder" reflects Maye, as with a sigh of deep satisfac- 
 tion she seats herself at the tiny tea-table, and watches her 
 mother actually putting cream into the pretty cup that is com- 
 ing to her; "I wonder why everything about mother, is so 
 much prettier and nicer than anywhere else." Father drinks 
 a cup of tea, "just to please Maye," but he seems to like it 
 very much all the same. ^ ' 
 
 After tea, there are all sorts of games, "Puss in the Corner," 
 and "Hunt the Slipper," and " Here we go round the Mul- 
 berry Bush ;" till Maye is quite tired out, and is glad to sit in 
 the window on her father's knee while mother goes to the piano 
 and sings " Little boy blue" and " Poor Cock Eobin." 
 
 Bye and bye, the sun goes dovm and the soft evening twi- 
 hght comes. " Sing us some song to suit this lovely evening, 
 
A VEEY SIMPLE STOKY. 19 
 
 Mabel," says her Imsbaud, "it must be something plaintive 
 and touching, you know, almost melancholy, if you will." 
 
 Mabel Forrester did not answer for a minute ; then running 
 her fingers lightly over the keys, she said, laughing softly 
 "You have asked for a melancholy song, Gervase, and you 
 shall have it. It is one I am very fond of myself ; but I am 
 not sure you and Maye will not think it a little too sad for a 
 birthday evening." 
 
 She played a few chords, and began, 
 
 "It may be God, wlio saw our careless life, 
 Not sinful, yet Bot blameless, my sweet wife, 
 (Since all we thought of in our youth's bright May 
 Was but the coming joy from clay to (lay,) 
 Hath blotted out all joy to make us learn. 
 That this is not our home, and bid us turn, 
 From the enchanted earth, where much was given 
 To higher aims, and a forgotten heaven." 
 
 Maye, nestled in her father's arms by the window, feels an un- 
 defined melancholy creep over her, as she listens to her 
 mother's song. 
 
 Mother's voice is so sweet and sad, and as it swells o-entlv 
 out, and mingles with the soft summer sounds in the garden, 
 unbidden tears rise to the child's eyes, and the memory of her 
 dream comes back to her. 
 
 Long will Maye remember that spring evening ! Aye ! 
 golden-haired child ! never again will you hear the rustling 
 
20 A YERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 of the breeze among the blossoms, the twittering of the l)ircls, 
 the note of the cuckoo, and the tinkle of the sheep-bell in the 
 distance ; without blending with them the sweet sad tones of 
 mother's voice, and the sweet sad words of mother's song. 
 
 Hath blotted out all joy" 
 
 All joy ! alas ! 
 
 And when, half an hour after, Mrs. Forrester came into 
 Maye's little bedroom, to hear her say her evening prayer ; she 
 found the child in sobs and tears, and to all her enquiries and 
 entreaties, she could get no answer but " oh mother I do love 
 you so, I do love you so." 
 
 And she would not be soothed till she was taken in her 
 mother's arms, and hushed and comforted as if she were still 
 a little baby. 
 
 Then, as she lay with her golden head pillowed on her 
 mother's breast, a calm came down on the little troubled soul ; 
 gradually the sobs ceased, and she fell asleep : — and then her 
 mother laid her gently back on her white pillows, and with a 
 loving lingering kiss, left her to her innocent slumber, with the 
 May moonlight streaming on her. 
 
 And so ended Maye's fourth birthday. 
 
CHAPTER II, 
 
 , HE scarlet fever has broken out in tlie villaoe — said 
 Gervase Forrester to his wife the next morninoj at 
 
 breakfast. 
 
 Mrs. Forrester started, and the quick glance at 
 Maye who was playing in a corner of the room, shewed 
 where his first thought flew : — but before she had time to 
 make any answer, her husband went on "I shall send you and 
 Maye away if it spreads at all ; but there is no cause for alarm, 
 as long as you keep clear of the village. It is a very bad form 
 of scarlet fever, I am afraid, and has already been fatal in 
 two cases." 
 
 " It is not near us at present, being chiefly on the other side 
 of the mill. I fear, though, it is creeping round, for I hear 
 Widow Barton's little boy " 
 
 "What! Gervase" interrupted Mrs. Forrester, " you don't 
 mean to say that little Johnnie Barton has this scarlet fever !" 
 
 Mr. Forrester was cutting some bread, and did not notice 
 the expression of his wife's face. 
 
 '' Indeed I do, dear" he replied " and I am sorry to say his 
 is a very bad case, and the doctor gives very little hopes of his 
 recovery. You see this black scarlet fever, as they call it, is so 
 
22 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 veiy mncli more dangerous than the ordinary kind. I am very 
 thankful to think that poor Httle Johnnie and Maye have not 
 
 lately Good God, Mabel," he suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 dropping knife and bread in violent excitement as a sudden 
 recollection swept over him, " you went to enquire after him 
 yesterday! Don't tell me" he almost shouted, putting out his 
 hands as if to keep oif what he dreaded to hear, " don't tell 
 me you went into the cottage !" 
 His wife's face answered him. 
 
 Maye, attracted by the clatter of the falling knife, looked up 
 from her game, and seeing something ailed both mother and 
 father, she ran towards them. 
 
 To her surprise and dismay, her mother recoiled from her, 
 and retreated to the other end of the room, dragging her father 
 after her. 
 
 *' Gervase" she said hurriedly " Maye did not go into the 
 cottage ; we may keep her from infection if she is put at once 
 into strict quarantine : but she must go at once from me, 
 not come near me ; send her away, quick ! every moment 
 that she breathes the same air as me, exposes her to 
 danger; only" she added in a lower tone ''tell Nurse not 
 to frighten her about me, or to put any fancies into her 
 head — let her say I will meet her in the garden. She is 
 coming near me ; oh ! be quick, Gervase, send her up stairs. 
 Go away, child," she almost screamed, as Maye, more and more 
 puzzled, advanced towards her, " run up to nurse directly !" 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 23 
 
 Maye, bewildered and frightened, turned to go, but when 
 she reached the door, she looked back to see if her mother was 
 angry. 
 
 She saw her father take both his wife's hands in his, and say 
 in a tone of forced calmness, "Now, Mabel, tell me exactly 
 what happened. It may be we are alarming ourselyes un- 
 necessarily. It does not follow that because you went into the 
 cottage you have exposed yourself to infection." 
 
 " Gervase, my own dear husband," said his wife earnestly, 
 " do not deceive yourself. I held the boy in my very arms, I 
 laid my hands on his head, nay, I even pressed my lips to his 
 brow ; how ccui I escape ! Gervase, it is impossible !" 
 
CHAl'TEIt III. 
 
 A- 
 
 i S)sT '■ 
 
 ^ADLY and wearily passed the June days to little Ivlaye 
 
 -V i Forrester, and the child's mind was filled with per- 
 I ^ T i^lexing doubts and fears. 
 
 For a change had come over everything. 
 
 She never saw her mother now ; — never since that sad morn- 
 ing, when she had been so hastily sent from the Dining-room, 
 had her eyes rested on her mother's face. 
 
 She was never allowed to go to her room in the morning, 
 never allowed to go down to the dining-room breakfast, never 
 allowed even to stray beyond the swing-door that divided the 
 nursery wing from the other part of the house. 
 
 " What could it all mean ?" 
 
 " Could it be that she had been naughty ?" 
 
 The tender little conscience began to review the events of 
 the last few days, but nothing presented itself to the innocent 
 recollections. 
 
 *' If she could only see mother just for a minute, it would all 
 be set right she knew ; but that was just the puzzle : they 
 would not let her see mother, and irln/, oh wliv could it be ?" 
 
A YEliY Snil'LK STOKY. 2o 
 
 l^iit'ortiiiiatelY, those early Jniu' (lii}S were Yery rainy, and 
 Ro she could not go out ; and she had been counting so much 
 upon this, for Nurse had told her she might meet her mother 
 in the garden. 
 
 Every morning she ran to the window, to see if it was going 
 to be fine, and every morning the ceaseless down-pour met her 
 disappointed gaze. 
 
 So the poor child roamed about the nursery, and listened to 
 the pattering rain- drops against the window, and wondered 
 wdiat had happened to make everything so miserable. 
 
 She had asked Nurse many times why it all was, but that 
 was very unsatisfactory. At first Nurse had said " wait till it 
 gets fine, and then you shall go into the garden and meet her, 
 and hear all about it" — but it never had got fine, and now, 
 when she asked. Nurse (driven to her wit's end) had taken re- 
 fuge in her old answers " don't bother," or " don't be tiresome," 
 and Maye had once made up her mind that whenever Nurse said 
 " don't bother" or " don't be tiresome," she would never ask 
 her anything again ! 
 
 And so the proud little heart shut itself up, and bore its 
 misery as best it could — alone. 
 
 At last a day came when it seemed likely to be clear for a 
 few hours, and Nurse had no peace till she had dressed Maye, 
 and taken her out in the garden for the chance of meeting her 
 mother. 
 
 The child's heart was light again, and she bounded along 
 the terrace, singing and talking, keeping one eye on the door 
 V)y which she thought it likely her mother would appear. 
 
2u A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 To beguile tlie time of waiting, it came into her liead to 
 gather her a nosegay " for a surprise." 
 
 This important work was begun at once, with all the solem- 
 nity due to so serious an undertaking. 
 
 First she tried to remember all the flowers that "mother 
 loves best;" and this was no easy matter, for the memory at 
 four years old is not very tenacious. 
 
 Then there arose a difficulty about reaching some of the 
 flowers, and Maye was determined to have all the credit of 
 making up the bouquet herself, so she would not ask Nurse's 
 help, even though the stalks of the roses rubbed her little 
 hands, and one hard-hearted thorn tried to make a hole in her 
 poor little thumb. 
 
 The labour of love was completed at last, and with her hands 
 full of flowers, and her cheeks flushed with her exertions, 
 Maye ran joyfully up to Nurse. 
 
 " Look Nurse ! won't mother be pleased !" 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Maye" objected Nurse, " the flowers are all wet 
 with the rain, and look at your nice clean frock." 
 
 But her objections and reproaches were alike unheeded by 
 Maye, for she had caught sight of her mother and father coming 
 out of the house, and with one spring she was bounding to- 
 w^ards them, w^hen Nurse caught hold of her." 
 
 "Not too close. Miss, you must not go near." 
 
 Indignation lent Maye strength, and she broke from Nurse's 
 grasp, and was rushing on, when to her astonishment and con- 
 sternation, Mother herself called out to her to come no nearer ! 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 27 
 
 It was too much for the impetiioiis tender-hearted child. •<* 
 
 One moment she stood transfixed, as if she could not believe 
 what she heard ; and then in a passion of grief and wounded 
 feeling, she turned and fled away. 
 
 On and on she ran, heedless of the voices that called to her 
 to return ; on and on, out of the garden into the park, through 
 the long avenue ; on and on, till she could run no longer ; — , 
 and then, scattering far and wide the flowers she had gathered 
 with so much love and care ; she stamped upon them with her 
 little feet, till no trace of their beauty remained, and, flinging 
 herself on the ground under an old beech tree, she gave way to 
 such tears of bitter sorrow as had never before fallen from her 
 eyes. 
 
 Many were the wild storms that had swept over that ancient 
 beech tree, but never had it bent its lofty head beneath a wilder 
 storm than that which now swept over the tiny child lying at 
 its base. For the beech tree, rooted firmly in its mother earth, 
 had had strength to withstand the fury of the blast ; but the 
 child's root in its mother's love had been shaken, and there 
 was no foundation left to withstand the furious blast of 
 wounded love and disappointment. 
 
 Mingled, too, with the grief, was a sense of injustice done ; 
 and Heaven help the child whose faith in its mother's justice 
 and truth has been taken away ! 
 
 For this utter trust, this entire confidence, is the very essence 
 of the purest, hoUest love of which our hearts are capable ; in 
 childhood we give it to our mother, in riper years we give it to 
 our God. 
 
28 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 To uproot this in a child, then, is to take away its rehgion, 
 to throw down its altars ;— the child has no mother, as the 
 sceptic has no God. 
 
 When Maye was quite weary of crying, she got up from the 
 ground, and then the reaction came. Her passion gave way 
 to remorse. 
 
 There stole over her the conviction that it was her own 
 naughty little self that had heen unjust, and not the mother 
 she loved so well ; for it was a thoroughly honest little heart, 
 and now that she was no longer blinded by passion, the child 
 gave herself no quarter. Once more she seemed to hear the 
 tones of the soft voice which had reached her ears even as she 
 fled in her anger and passion, and to which she had not al- 
 low^ed herself to listen " Come back, Maye, come back, my 
 darling, and hear what I have to say." 
 
 " Oh dear !" burst forth the child, wringing her little hands, 
 " how could I be so naughty ! oh why did I not turn back. I 
 wonder whether, if I run back quick, mother will still be there ! 
 perhaps she is waiting for me, and wondering why I don't 
 come." 
 
 At once she started off to find her w^ay back, and to tell her 
 mother how sorry she was she had been so naughty. 
 
 But, poor child ! she had not gone far before she met Nurse ; 
 who had been looking for her everywhere, and who told her that 
 her mother had got tired of waiting for her, and had gone home, 
 that it was begimiing to rain, and that she must come home too. 
 
 Maye's tears burst out afresh at this news, but she was too 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. • 29 
 
 miserable to resist, and so slie walked home very quietly by 
 Nm-se's side. 
 
 But she cried herself to sleep that night when she found her- 
 self alone in her little white bed. 
 
 With the morning light came renewed hopes of a meeting in 
 the garden, when she should by her docility and obedience, 
 atone for her misconduct. But the day was rainy, hopelessly 
 so ; the second day likewise : on the third Nurse told her that 
 her mother was ill — was in bed ; and then the last hope was 
 over, and the child gave way to despair. 
 
 She felt now in her remorse and sorrow, that if she might 
 only tell her mother she was sorry she had not run back to 
 her when she called, and feel her kiss of forgiveness ; she 
 would be content to come back to the nursery, and enquire 
 nothing more of the mystery that had clouded her happy little 
 hfe. 
 
 Every day she heard that Mother v/as " no better" and " no 
 better," and the remorse and longing grew stronger than ever. 
 
 Oh never tell me that childhood is the happiest time of life ! 
 
 It may be that a child's sorrow is transient, but while it lasts 
 I believe that it equals, if it does not surpass, ours in intensity. 
 
 There is something so hopeless, so unreasoning in children's 
 grief. 
 
 They live so entirely in the present, that when the bright 
 horizon is overclouded, it is with them the black darkness of 
 hopelessness. 
 
 " All joy is darkened, the mirth of the land is gone." 
 
 D 
 
30 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 So it seemed to little Maye Forrester through those dreary 
 days, when the melancholy drip of the rain was only varied by 
 Nurse and Letty's mysterious whispers. 
 
 At last there came a day when they talked and whispered 
 more than ever. 
 
 All day long the rain pattered drearily on the window-pane, 
 and the wind moaned and whistled all round the house. 
 
 It v>^as a wretched day. 
 
 Maye did not care to play or talk, and was so peevish and 
 miserable that Nurse, in despair, gave up trying to amuse or 
 to please her. 
 
 She stood with her forehead pressed against the window- 
 pane, looking out at the ceaseless rain, which was flooding the 
 terrace, and spoiling all the pretty flowers. 
 
 In vain did Nurse try to coax her away : she was obstinate, 
 and preferred standing there, gazing listlessly out ; but she 
 listened now and then to what Nurse and Letty were saying. 
 " It can't last through the day" she heard Nurse say, and 
 there foUowed a long whisper, mingled with deep-drawn sighs. 
 
 Bye and bye, they both went away, and the child w^as left 
 alone. 
 
 So the afternoon wore on. 
 
 Towards twilight, Nurse came hurriedly back, and throwing 
 herself into a chair, began to sob and cry. 
 
 Maye, standing with her little face to the window, would not 
 so much as look round. She had made up her mind to ask 
 Nurse no more questions ; and restless and miserable as the 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STOHY. 31 
 
 cliild was, she felt half glad that Nurse had something to cry 
 for too. 
 
 But the crymg grew so violent that Maye at last looked 
 round, and seeing Nurse rocking herself backwards and for- 
 wards in an agony of grief, the tender little heart was touched, 
 and forgetting her pride, the child ran forward, saying, '' Don't 
 cry so. Nurse, what is the matter ? oh poor Nurse !" 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear. Miss Maye" sobbed the woman "your 
 poor mother's gone !" 
 
 " Gone !" echoed the be^^dldered child " moihev gone ! where 
 to. Nurse ? 
 
 " Oh good Lord" cried Nurse " how am I ever to make the 
 child understand — she is gone, Miss Maye dear, she's dead, 
 poor dear lady !" 
 
 But the word conveyed no idea to the child's mind, and she 
 only repeated " Gone ! mother gone ! without saying good-bye 
 to Maye ! When is she coming back ? Nurse !" 
 
 " Heaven save us all" exclaimed Nurse " my poor child, the 
 dead don't come back. She's never coming back any more 
 Miss Maye — never any more !" 
 
 And Nurse hid her face in her hands, and her sobs and tears 
 redoubled. 
 
 *' Never coming back any more ! Mother never coming back 
 anymore? Nurse !" exclaimed the child, bursting into a passion 
 of tears, "you are very naughty, very wicked, to say such 
 unkind things ; and I shan't listen to you, or love you a bit !" 
 
 " Letty" she added, turning imploringly to the nursery '. 
 
32 A YERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 maid, who now came in, " ijou won't say sncli bad things: it 
 is'nt kind of Nurse, and it is'nt true, is it ?" 
 
 "Answer me directly Letty" cried the child, stamping her 
 little foot upon the ground, " why don't you speak ?" 
 
 But Letty answered only by her tears. 
 
 The child looked from one weeping w^oman to the other, and 
 her passion suddenly subsided. " Put me to bed. Nurse" she 
 said wearily, and her arms dropped listlessly at her side, "I 
 am Ycry sleepy, very, very tired !" 
 
 An hour later. Nurse stole softly into the bedroom nursery, 
 and seeing the golden head very still among the pillows, she 
 was satisfied that the child had forgotten her troubles in sleep. 
 
 She returned to the duy nursery, remarking to Letty '* She 
 did not understand, poor lamb ! but we will let her sleep to- 
 night, and to-morrow I will try to explain it better." 
 
 " She was dead tired, poor child" added Nurse, sighing, 
 " and did not speak a w^ord all the time I was undressing her. 
 She must have dropped asleep directly." 
 
 But Nurse was mistaken. 
 
 Had she looked a little closer, she would have seen that the 
 blue eyes were wide open. 
 
 The poor child had thought that if she could only get to bed, 
 and to sleep, that she might wake as on a former occasion, and 
 find it was all a dream. 
 
 But sleep was far from her. 
 
 Whichever way she turned, the words still rang in her ears 
 " never coming back any more, never coming back any more." 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 33 
 
 She tried to shut them out by putting her hands over her 
 ears, but she heard them all the same; even the " drip, drip'*' 
 of the rain falling from the roof to the window-sill, seemed to 
 sing the same sad song — 
 
 drip, 
 drip, 
 drip, 
 Never 
 coming 
 back 
 any 
 more. 
 " It is'nt true, it cant be true," sobbed the child in answer, 
 drip, 
 drip, 
 drip. 
 She's gone. 
 Miss Maye, 
 your poor 
 Mother's 
 gone. 
 ''No, no, not without saying good-bye to Maye" urged the 
 rebellious little heart. 
 
 drip, 
 drip, 
 drip, 
 Maye covered up her head, and hid her face, but still the 
 
34 A VEKY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 remorseless rain sang drearily on, and slie could not get away 
 from the sound, or help ansAvering it. 
 
 Bye and bye Nurse came to bed, shading the light carefully 
 fr'om the child, lest she should disturb her supposed slumbers, 
 and undressing quickly, she hastily extinguished the light. 
 
 Maye listened to Nurse settling herself in bed, and lay very 
 quiet and still till the regular breathing proclaimed that she 
 was asleep. 
 
 The moon now disengaged itself from the clouds, and sailed 
 along the sky, surveying the damp earth beneath, and making 
 the rain-drops on the trees and flowers glisten like so many 
 diamonds. 
 
 It lit up the park, the garden, and the terrace ; and then 
 resting with a pitying eye on a little window in the left wing 
 of the house, it flooded the bedroom nursery from one end to 
 the other. 
 
 Then, when all was still, the golden head raised iiself from 
 the pillow, and noiselessly the child slid out of bed. 
 
 Stealthily, and on tip-toe, she crept to the door — then looked 
 back at the slee^iing form in the bed. 
 
 But Nurse did not move, and Maye opened the door. 
 
 It creaked loudly, and the child's heart leapt to her mouth. 
 
 Again she looked back at Nurse, but all was quiet ; so gain- 
 ing courage, she sped on into the next room, and by the light 
 of the moonbeams found her way across it, and reached the 
 passage. 
 
 Pitter-patter go the little bare feet along the passage, and 
 pass through the swing-door into the corridor. 
 
MOrmCK : WAILS Mil 1 nil \M 1 M(1I111 U I'5 M V\ L ONLY MAYE, 
 
 on 1>I \.l MOllILl ' LLl ML IN 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 35 
 
 On a sudden, a passing cloud obscures the moon, and all 
 becomes dark ! 
 
 Maye's little heart flutters painfully, her breath comes quick 
 and short, and she has half a. mind to go back. It is very 
 cold, too, and she shivers in her little white nightdress. 
 
 She fancies she sees dark forms hovering round her, and 
 every tale of horror she has ever heard, comes crowding thick 
 and fast upon her brain. 
 
 How shall she ever cross the long dreary space that lies be- 
 tween her and Mother's room ! 
 
 Shall she turn back ? 
 
 But no ! the longing for Mother is too strong in the infant 
 breast ; so pitter-patter she goes again along the corridor ; and 
 every step is bringing her nearer to Mother ! 
 
 Pitter-patter, pitter-patter ; at last the door is reached. 
 
 The child raises herself on tip-toe, and the little hands 
 wander all over the door to find the -handle ; at last the 
 trembling fingers reach it — turn it, but turn and turn in vain. 
 
 The door is locked ! 
 
 " Mother !" wails the little voice " Mother ! it is Ma3^e, only 
 Maye, oh dear Mother ! let me in." 
 
 But no sound comes from the room, no voice replies ; all is 
 silence and darkness. 
 
 * '-Mother !" and the poor little voice rises to a sob, " I have 
 something to say to you ; oh Mother ! let me come in !" 
 
 Still no answer ; no sound but the moaning of the wind, 
 and the echo of the child's lament. 
 
3G A VERY SIMPLE HTORY. 
 
 Despair takes possession of the forlorn little heart ; when 
 suddenly a thought comes into the child's head. 
 
 She will go through the dressing-room ! 
 
 The door is ajar, and softly the little shivering figure passes 
 through, and reaches the door that communicates with the 
 bedroom. 
 
 But now what if tliat door should be locked, too ! 
 
 The handle is found — it turns — it yields — it opens ! 
 
 and the golden-haired child stands on the threshold 
 
 of the fever-haunted room, from which by so much care and 
 love she has been debarred ! 
 
 Pitying angels are there none to stay the baby footsteps ? 
 to motion back the little white-robed figure ere it be too late ? 
 
 The room is cold and chill, for all the windows are wide 
 open, and it is dark, very dark. 
 
 The child stands in the doorw^ay till her eyes grow accus- 
 tomed to the obscurity, but by degrees she discerns the many 
 familiar objects in the room ; the table, the chairs, the curtains, 
 
 the bed and yes ! Ma^^e can dimly see a form lying there, 
 
 lying so still, so very still! and with a cry of "Mother, 
 
 Mother !" the child springs on the bed, and buries her golden 
 head on that beloved shoulder. 
 
 " Dear, dear Mother" says the child " at last, at last I have 
 found you ! They told me you were gone away, and were not 
 coming back any more, but I knew you would not go without 
 saying good-bye to me. Why have you kept away from me all 
 this time. Mother ? oh why did you tell me not to come to you ?" 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 37 
 
 But Mother does not answer. 
 
 " I have come in the cold and the dark, Mother, to find you ; 
 
 won't yon just wake up one httle bit to speak to me ? 
 
 I am so cold, Mother, so very cold 
 
 Mother, dear, if you are so very tired, 
 
 I won't wake you up, hut I will just tell you venj softly all I 
 have wanted to say for so long." 
 
 " Oh Mother ! I wish I had not run away that day, and I 
 wish I had run back when you called me ! When you wake up 
 and call me again, dear Mother, I will run close, close to you ; 
 you won't tell me again not to come near, will you : and no one 
 
 shall ever take you away from me anymore 
 
 Do you hear what I am saying in your dreams. Mother? 
 
 oh how I wish you could just wake 
 
 up for a minute to give me a kiss 
 
 And oh ! Mother ! why wouldn't they let me come and say my 
 prayers to you ?" 
 
 "I haven't said them for a long while, I should think not 
 for three years ! I wouldn't say them to Nurse. Was that 
 very naughty, Mother '?" 
 
 " Let me say them now : might I say them lying down just 
 for once, because I am afraid of waking you if I move, and you 
 
 seem so tired, so tired, Mother ! 
 
 'Pray God bless Maye's dear Father and Mother, and' 
 
 oh! I am so cold so cold, Mother! 
 
 The moon, once more breaking out from behind the clouds, 
 
38 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 shines through the open windows, and sheds a pale hght on 
 the dead Mother, and on the sleeping Child. 
 
 drip, 
 
 drip, 
 
 drip, 
 goes the rain upon the window-sill, but it is only answered now 
 by the sighing and the moaning of the Vvind— 
 
 drip, 
 
 drip, 
 
 drip, 
 but its sad song is unheeded ; for sleep has overtaken the weary 
 little child at last. The golden head is nestling close to the 
 marble features, the soft round cheek contrasting with the pale 
 hue of death. 
 
 . The little hands are folded in the attitude of prayer, and a 
 smile plays about the baby lips ; as if in her dreams the for- 
 giveness has been spoken, for which she has pined so long : — 
 as if in her dreams has been vouchsafed to her the sense of 
 that presence, and of that love, which she will in life enjoy, 
 never, never again — never again ! 
 
 Such was the sight that greeted the eyes of Gervase 
 Forrester, when in the cold grey of early morning, he entered 
 the chamber of death. 
 
"™Jr^^^^''''' '"''''' "°'''' ^^'^^KJ^'*^' O^T Fi;OM BEHIND THE CLCTTDS, SHINES THROUGH THF oP, X 
 WINDOWS, AND SHEDS A PALE LIGHT UN THE DEAD MOTHER, AND ON THE SLEEPING 0/1"^, " 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ^JEEAT was the coiifnsiou that reiofued at the Hall a few 
 
 m §y: § hours later. 
 
 ^^ g The servants, with faces of consternation, ran some 
 0^00% one way and some another. 
 
 Quarantine was forgotten in the general excitement, and all 
 mingled freely together. 
 
 A horse w^as hastily saddled, and a man galloped madly off 
 for the doctor. 
 
 In the servants hall a group was assembled, all questioning, 
 answering, wondering, and crying at once. 
 
 But the upper housemaid had the most to tell, for she had 
 actually met the widower coming out of the chamber of death, 
 carrying the child in his arms. 
 
 '*I was passing my poor dear lady's room" she proclaimed 
 to her attentive audience, "before six this morning, when to 
 my surprise, I saw the door was open. Knowing that Mr. 
 Forrester had the key, I w^as rather startled, and was hesitating 
 whether I would go in, when I heard a sound like a groan from 
 within, and my master's voice saying "Both! must I lose 
 l)oth ! oh my God this is too much ! 
 
 "I had hardly time to step back, before the door was 
 
40 A VERY SIMPLE STOHY. 
 
 violently pnsliecl open, and lie came out, carrying dear little 
 Miss Maye, fast asleep, in his arms ! 
 
 " To my dying day, I shall never forget his white ashy face, 
 and set features ! 
 
 " He didn't even see me, liut strode on towards the nursery, 
 calling to Nurse, and shouting for some one to go for the doctor. 
 
 "To think" concluded the housemaid, hursting into tears 
 " that after all the pains my dear, dear lady, and everyone else, 
 took, to keep the child from infection, that the innocent lamb 
 herself should fly in the face of Providence in that way." 
 
 Many and various were the voices that broke in upon the 
 close of the housemaid's speech. 
 
 Some now remembered having heard wailing and whispering 
 in the dead of the night : others had heard, or fancied they 
 heard, the pattering of footsteps along the corridor. 
 
 The under-housemaid deposed to hearing the passage-door 
 swing, and Letty, the nursery-maid, to hearing the rattling of 
 a door-handle. 
 
 "Why did I not get up?" sighed one "and see what the 
 whispering was." 
 
 "I might have guessed" burst forth another "that the 
 passage-door would not swing by itself." 
 
 " It was all my foolish fear of ghosts" sobbed a third " that 
 prevented me running down to see who was walking about at 
 that hour of the night." 
 
 " Now it is too late" chimed in the old butler " Miss Maye 
 will have the fever, and our poor master will be " 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 41 
 
 Here the door opened, and a groom, wliose dusty dishevelled 
 appearance testified to the speed with which he had ridden, 
 informed the eager group that the doctor had arrived. 
 
 " The child is suffering from a severe chill, hrought on hy 
 so many hours exposure to damp and cold in a thin night-dress. 
 
 " I fear there are already one or two rheumatic symptoms, 
 so she will require the utmost care. 
 
 " That it will end in scarlet fever, I cannot attempt to dis- 
 guise from you. Indeed it would he a miracle did she escape 
 after so long a contamination." 
 
 Such was the verdict that fell from the lips of the doctor on 
 the ears of Gervase Forrester, as they stood together hy the 
 child's hedside. 
 
 It was now some time since she had heen put into a warm 
 bed, and every means tried to infuse warmth into the immb'd 
 little limbs. 
 
 Indeed, so cold had heen every member of the poor little 
 frame, when her father had found her, that for some minutes 
 he had doubted whether she were not as lifeless as the Mother 
 by whom she lay. 
 
 The doctor rose to take his departure, with kindly sympa- 
 thetic words and maimer. The Father w^as very calm, very 
 quiet ; his voice did not falter as he thanked the doctor for his 
 speedy answer to his summons, and accompanied him to the 
 door. 
 
42 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 But when he returned to the bedside of the still sleeping 
 child, his face was white with suppressed emotion, and his 
 features worked painfully with his efforts to hide his grief. 
 
 He stood gazing for a minute with an expression of yearning 
 tenderness on the little face on the pillow ; and then sitting 
 down by the bedside, he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 A slight movement — the child turned uneasily in her bed, 
 and an expression of pain passed over her face, as she tried to 
 move. 
 
 She fixed her eyes with a look of perplexity on the bowed 
 figure in the chair. 
 
 " Father, is that you ? where 's Mother ?" 
 
 It might have been a voice from a sepulchre that answered 
 " Gone, Maye, gone." 
 
 " You should not tell stories, Father," said the child gravely 
 "you know quite well that Mother is in her bed, lying very 
 quiet and still. Nurse told me she was gone, so I went last 
 night to see. It was so cold and dark. Father, all the way ; 
 oh ! so cold ! But I found her at last ! and she kissed me and 
 held me tight, and said I should never go away from her any 
 more !" 
 
 " But when I awoke, Father" continued Maye mournfully, 
 and the light of excitement fading from her eyes "I found 
 myself here in my own bed, with you sitting by. How did I 
 come out of Mother's room, Father ? who brought me here ? 
 
 how is it all? " and the child passed her hand 
 
 wearily over her brow ' ' oh Father ! my head aches and all my 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 48 
 
 bones ! please make me warm ! oh I feel as if I slionld never 
 be warm again." 
 
 Gervase Forrester bent over his httle daughter, and summon- 
 ing Nurse, they did all they could to warm the cold limbs, 
 with hot applications. 
 
 Anxious also to subdue her excitement, he soothed her to 
 the best of his power without answering her questions ; and 
 the pain she was now suffering in all her joints put the 
 subject out of her head, and she began to cry. 
 
 Bye and bye she fell asleep, and sle2:»t at intervals for the 
 rest of the day. 
 
 The next few days she suffered greatly ; it was acute rheu- 
 matism in all the joints, and the doctor was very fearful of 
 the result should scarlet fever set in in a very severe form. 
 Gervase Forrester never left his child's bedside during those 
 days of pain and anxiety, till he was forced to tear himself 
 away for a few hours to attend the funeral of his fair young 
 wife. 
 
 The bright July day seemed a mockery to his feelings as he 
 entered the green churchyard, and stood by the open grave. 
 
 " Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 
 
 The solemn words had been spoken, the bell had ceased to 
 toll, and the funeral train had departed ; but still Gervase 
 Forrester stood motionless, gazing do^vn upon the narrow 
 space that contained all that remained to him of the fair young 
 companion of his youth. 
 
 Not a month ago, since, as he rode home, he had heard the 
 
44 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 merry voices iu tlie fields, and wondered as Mother and Cliild 
 came to meet him, which was the fairest and the brightest ! 
 
 Now where were they ? 
 
 Hushed were the merry voices, dimmed were the laughing- 
 eyes : one struck down by the hand of death in the very zenith 
 of youth and beauty, and of all that makes life a heaven upon 
 earth ; — and the other tossing about on a bed of pain and 
 sickness, the fairy limbs contracted with agony, and the merry 
 clatter exchanged for the restless moan. 
 
 He thought of the gentle mission of charity which had caused 
 it all, and a strong feeling of resentment burnt in his breast as 
 he thought of the Widow and her boy. 
 
 She might have known, have guessed, before she let in the 
 Joy of his Manhood, the very Light and Brightness of his 
 home, to her fever-haunted cottage ! 
 
 In the excitement of his feelings, he for the first time raised 
 his eyes from the ground, and they fell upon a little, open 
 grave, close by. 
 
 A terrible presentiment came over him. 
 
 Wliat could it mean ! 
 
 Whose could it be ! 
 
 He tried to shake off the superstitious feeling, but it would 
 not go. 
 
 There, before his eyes, was his wife's open grave, and there 
 by its side, ready-made, as it seemed, was a child's ! 
 
 He made a step towards it ; and then, half ashamed of his 
 
 superstition, he turned abruptly and hastily round, and 
 
 came face to face wath Widow Barton. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 45 
 
 The poor woman's eyes, suffused with tears, were raised 
 timidly and pleadingly to liis ; but the very sight of her was 
 too much for him in his present frame of mind, and he in- 
 voluntarily recoiled from the author of so much woe. 
 
 "Oh Sir !" began the poor widow, but the words died on her 
 lips as she saw the expression of his face. 
 
 Without a word or a look, he brushed past her, and with 
 bitter feelings in his heart, he strode on through the church- 
 yard. 
 
 Only, when he reached the httle gate, he turned to take a 
 farewell look at the grave ; and saw the poor woman make her 
 way to the tiny new-made grave, and throw herself, disconso- 
 late, beside it. 
 
 A light broke upon his mind. 
 
 It was her boy, then, who rested so close to his precious 
 dead! 
 
 He, who had caused her death, should rest by her for ever ! 
 — and with a mixture of bitterness, jealousy, and withal a 
 sense of relief, in his heart, Gervase Forrester pursued his 
 way to his desolate home. 
 
 All night long, and for many days and nights, did the Father 
 listen to the ravings of his child. 
 The scarlet fever had set in. 
 Every feature of the disease recalled vividly to him the 
 
 F 
 
46 A VERY SIMPLE 8T0RY. 
 
 death-bed he had so lately attended, and he was hopeless from 
 the first. 
 
 Fearful indeed was it to witness the battle between the 
 fever and the child ; many times did the doctors despair, so 
 impossible did it seem that so slight a frame should cope with 
 so powerful an enemy, aggravated as it was by the child's 
 weakness, consequent upon the previous attack of rheumatic 
 fever. 
 
 Sometimes, in her wanderings, Maye would fancy herself 
 stealing along the corridor and moan that it was dark, all dark : 
 and that she should never find her way ! 
 
 Then she would shriek out that horrid forms were round 
 her, and guarding the door to her Mother's room. 
 
 Fixing her eyes upon her Father, she would implore him to 
 defend her from them. 
 
 Or, she would think her long dark walk was over, and she 
 was safe in her Mother's arms. Then she would become 
 soothed and quiet, and imagine herself talking to the Mother, 
 whom on earth she could never meet again. 
 
 These touchingly simple conversations would melt all present 
 to tears, by the strength of her baby love they revealed, and 
 send her Father rushing from the room. 
 
 But the fever was worsted at last, the crisis was safely passed 
 — and pale, emaciated, with her golden hair cropped close, and 
 the round beauty of childhood gone, little Maye Forrester was 
 brought from the brink of the grave, and pronounced out of 
 danger. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 47 
 
 And then the giant, Fever, was satisfied, and stallied off to 
 other places to continue its work of destruction ; leaving be- 
 hind it the homes it had blasted, the hearts it had lacerated 
 and broken, and the new green graves in the churchyard ! 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 t — ->-°°>]S[ the lono- lionrs of recovery, when the child was 
 j ^l i strono- enono^h to hear it, Gervase Forrester laboured 
 
 f gently and gradually to make Maye understand that 
 ^..^^ ^ j^^^ Mother w^as indeed gone. 
 
 He was not altogether unsuccessful, though his first intro- 
 duction of the subject was met with such a burst of tears and 
 incredulity, as utterly appalled him. 
 
 By degrees, the idea of death and eternal happiness dawned 
 indistinctly on the child's mind. 
 
 Not that it was the first mention of these things, for Mabel 
 Forrester had early inculcated, as only Mothers can, the great, 
 though simple, truths of religion. 
 
 But it was one thing for the baby understanding to accept 
 these instructions in a general way :— and another to bring 
 them home to the young Mother, who had so lately joined in 
 all her childish pastimes, and glorified her happy little ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Still, by patience and perseverance, it was done at last. 
 Every day, and little by little, it was gradually broken ; for 
 the child was weak and fearfully excitable, and it could only 
 be touched upon at times. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 49 
 
 But as the time went on, Gervase Forrester discovered what 
 puzzled him not a httle as to the course to pursue, and that 
 was Maye's firm behef that she had indeed been spoken to, 
 caressed, and forgiven by her Mother, on that fatal night when 
 she had lain for the last time by her side. 
 
 The child seemed to imagine that her Mother had died since ; 
 and Mr. Forrester saw that it was useless to attempt to argue 
 on the subject. 
 
 He did not doubt in his own mind that Maye, falling asleep 
 in the midst of her own confessions and enquiries, had dreamt 
 that her Mother had really and actually responded to them ; 
 and he saw that if he removed the impression, he was taking 
 away the child's greatest comfort and happiness. 
 
 So, after much thought, he decided to leave her the innocent 
 delusion. 
 
 ^ " Why" he argued to himself " should I disposses the tender 
 little heart of the recollection of her Mother's forgiving words 
 and caresses ?" 
 
 " Why force upon her the cold hard truth that it was to the 
 Dead she poured forth the wealth of her little heart's devotion ; 
 and that the forgiveness she so pined for, did indeed remain 
 unspoken to the last ?" 
 
 "No. I will let it be a treasure for the rest of our child's 
 hfe ; a sweet memory of the Mother who will never be any- 
 thing but a name henceforth." 
 
 These first difficulties overcome, there was much wherewith 
 to comfort little Maye : many tender messages from the dying 
 Mother were detailed by the Father with loving minuteness. 
 
50 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 As Maye grew stronger, she now and then alhidecl, in her 
 innocent childish way, to her own misery during the weeks 
 that preceded her iUness. 
 
 Attracted by some remark she made, her Father questioned 
 her on the subject, and bit by bit he drew from her the recital 
 of her sorrows. 
 
 It made his heart ache to hear the weak little voice detailing 
 all the longings, perplexities, and regrets of those sad days ; 
 more especially when he perceived that the mystery, over- 
 shadowing all, had added tenfold to her unhappiness. 
 
 The story of the flowers touched him greatly, and he deeply 
 regretted that this tender little attention of the child's should 
 never have been known to his wife. 
 
 *' If I had only guessed ivhj it all was Father" said Maye, 
 when she had finished the whole account, and had sunk back 
 somewhat exhausted on the pillow " it would not have been 
 Judf so bad. I don't understand it now, you know" she added 
 wistfully, with a look in her eyes that said plainly she would 
 demand an explanation if she dared. 
 
 The timid appealing glance was almost too much for the 
 Father, whose whole soul was moved with pity and love by the 
 tale he had now heard. 
 
 He took the little transparent hand in his, and tried to 
 explain the danger of infection, and how that it was in love, 
 and not in anger, that she had been kept away from them all. 
 
 He told her that they had purposely desired that nothing 
 should be explained to her, lest she should take alarm at the 
 thought of her Mother's probable illness. 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 51 
 
 That her Mother had always intended meeting her in the 
 open air, and gently preparing her herself for what might 
 possibly come ; — which intention had been frustrated first by 
 the inclemency of the weather, and then by Maye herself. 
 
 Gervase Forrester was anxiously watching the little pale 
 face as he proceeded with his explanation, and its expression 
 warned him that he must not linger on this part. 
 
 He therefore hurried over it, and hastened to conclude. 
 
 He was not able to judge how far the heart of his little 
 daughter was comforted by his words, for she had closed her 
 eyes, and was lying very still ; but as soon as he had ceased 
 speaking, she opened them and raised them to his, while a 
 faint smile stole over her face. "Father" she whispered, 
 squeezing his hand very tight in both of hers " I'm so glad 
 you told me. I always thought you and Mother didn't love 
 me any more, and I couldn't think why." 
 
 "I am only sorry now about the flowers; they were so 
 beautiful, and just those Mother loved best. It was so naughty 
 of me to stamp on them, and now" she added mournfully, 
 " they are quite lost, and Mother will never, never get them." 
 
 " Can you remember their names, Maye," said her Father 
 suddenly, after a pause of some minutes. 
 
 " Oh yes. Father" answered the child "for I have thought 
 of them so often since I was naughty that I know each one by 
 heart." 
 
 She repeated the names, and Mr. Forrester wrote them 
 down in his pocket-book, and put it into his pocket. 
 
52 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " And now, darling" he said, stooping over the bed, and 
 tenderly kissing the attenuated little face "yon have talked 
 enough, so I shall leave you for a little while. Go to sleep, 
 and forget everything that ever made you unhappy. 
 
 " Only for the future, my child, try and remember that how- 
 ever .dark and mysterious your Father's dealings with you are, 
 there is some great, wise, and merciful purpose hidden beneath 
 his seeming severity." 
 
 He must have been speaking more to himself than to the 
 child ; for as he ended his simple warning, his voice faltered, 
 and the concluding words were so inaudible that she did not 
 hear them. 
 
 " God knows I need the lesson now myself !" he murmured 
 as he drew down the blinds, and closed the shutters. 
 
 And then he broke down utterly, and hastily left the room. 
 
 " And so" said Maye to herself, with a sigh of relief, as she 
 closed her eyes, and clasped her little hands tight together 
 ' ' and so neither Mother nor Father were angry with me after 
 all !" 
 
 And sleep overtook her with a happy smile still playing 
 about her parted lips. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 0<.>K$<-^T was a lovelv eveiiiiio- in Ano-ust, when two fio-ures in 
 I W "^ ^^^^ mourning might have been seen at the gate 
 i> rS i of the Uttle churchyard. 
 
 ^H<-$<^ They were those of Gervase Forrester and his 
 httle daughter. 
 
 They were leaving for the Continent on the following day for 
 two years, and Maye was come at her own urgent request, to 
 visit her Mother's grave. 
 
 Threading their way among the many nameless hillocks, 
 they reached a secluded corner, where, beneath a spreading 
 yew-tree, the wife and mother lay sleeping. 
 
 Gervase Forrester looked anxiously at his child as they stood 
 in silence before it, but the tightened clasp of the little hand 
 that rested in his, was the only sign of emotion she showed. 
 
 There was a plain marble tablet at the head of the grave, 
 and a railing enclosed a little garden, where blossomed some 
 beautiful flowers. 
 
 The child's eyes, painfully large and lustrous from recent 
 illness, wandered eagerly all over the grave, drinking in the 
 minutest details. 
 
 G 
 
54 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Heaven knows wliat the cliild liacl expected to find there ! 
 or what vague hopes and dreams had filled her little mind as 
 to her Mother's last resting-i^lace ; but certain it is that a 
 shade of disappointment came over the little thin face as her 
 eye glanced over the tablet and the mound — till it rested on 
 the flowers. 
 
 And then the expression changed. 
 
 A flush mounted into the pale cheeks, and she looked up 
 eagerly and enquiringly at her father. 
 
 For there bloomed in that garden each flower of which the 
 nosegay she had once gathered for her Mother had been com- 
 posed ! 
 
 " They were not lost after all, you see, Maye" came in low 
 tones, the father's answer to the child's unspoken question 
 "the flowers her darling gathered with so much care and 
 aftection, have reached her at last !" 
 
 Presently Maye pointed to the inscription, and whispered 
 " Please read it to me, Father." 
 
 Distrustful of himself, and half fearful of the effect it might 
 have on the child, Gervase Forrester hesitated, but the earnest 
 blue eves would l)rook no denial, and he read — 
 
A VEPvY SIISri'LE STORY. 55 
 
 T THE U E M R Y F 
 
 MABEL, 
 
 T HE WIFE OF G E R V A S E F R R E S T E R , 
 WHO DIED JUNE 12th, 18(56, AGED 21. 
 
 " It may be God, who saw our careless life. 
 Not sinful, yet not blameless, my sweet wife, 
 (Since all we thought of in our youth's bright May 
 Was but the coming joy from day to day, ) 
 Hath blotted out all joy to bid us learn 
 That this is not our home, and make us turn 
 From the enchanted earth, where much was given 
 To higher aims, and a forgotten Heaven." 
 
 Very different were the hurried faltering tones to the soft 
 plaintive notes in which those words had last fallen on the 
 child's ear, but she recognized them at once, and with a half- 
 stifled sob, she sprang from her father's side towards the 
 tombstone, and hid her gushing tears behind it. 
 
 But Mr. Forrester, carried away by the association evoked 
 by the words of the song, did not observe the little girl. 
 
 That last evening, with its every detail, is around him now ! 
 
 He is thinking of the slight girlish figure at the piano, with 
 the evening sunlight on her golden hair. 
 
 He is listening to the merry baby ballads, sung for the 
 amusement of the child on his knee. 
 
 Standing brightly out against the dark background of the 
 last few weeks, comes the recollection of each word that was 
 
56 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 uttered ; of each note that was sung ; of each ex2)ression in the 
 ever varying, ever beautiful face ! 
 
 He is sitting once more by the open window, with Maye 
 nestled in his arms. 
 
 He hears again the soft happy laugh, and gay rejoinder 
 which followed his request for a melancholy song : and the 
 soft summer sounds in the garden blending with the music of 
 his wife's sweet voice. 
 
 He remembers the undefined sadness that came over him as 
 the words of the song fell upon his ear, and how, looking 
 dow^n, he had seen his own feelings reflected in the tearful eyes 
 of the child. 
 
 BuL the sweet face at the piano had never for a moment lost 
 its wonted look of happy serenity, the sweet voice had never 
 faltered, the calm eyes had not been dimmed by a single tear. 
 No ! for that " this is not our home" was a truth neither sad 
 nor strange to the pure spirit of Mabel Forrester ! 
 
 And as this thought passed through his mind, the soul of 
 the widower was comforted. 
 
 He woke from his retrospect of the past, and advancing to 
 the grave, he rested his arms on the railing which surrounded 
 it. " It was a type, Mabel" he murmured, looking down upon 
 the green sod, where little Maye's flowers were glowing under 
 the rays of the setting sun ' ' that evening was a type of what 
 now is." 
 
 " You — singing so calmly, so happily ; while your child and I 
 
A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 57 
 
 sat apart from you ^Yitll an undefined feeling of sadness rising 
 within us ; all that was but a foreshadowing of to-day — for 
 you, far on high in the realms of Eternal Bliss, are now join- 
 ing the glad song of Cherubim and Seraphim ; Avhile your 
 child and I, here below apart from you, are filled with aching 
 sorrow and desolation." 
 
 " But God be praised" he added, raising his eyes to the blue 
 sky above "for the sure and certain hope of your perfect 
 happiness in that Fair Place, where disease and death can 
 never enter, and sorrow and sighing can never come !" 
 
 The cool breath of the evening air on his forehead Avarned 
 him that it was time for the child to go home, and for the first 
 time he missed her from his side. 
 
 She had strayed on to Johnnie Barton's small grave, and 
 was gazing intently at it. The sight of her standing there in 
 recovered health, by the very grave he had once feared might 
 be her own, brought a feeling of deep gratitude to his heart ; 
 and he reproached himself for not having sufficiently considered 
 God's mercy in sparing his little daughter to him. 
 
 The dangers of the terrible illness through which she had 
 safely passed came home to him, as he marked their effects in 
 the fragility of the little figure that now came towards him, 
 and in the exceeding thinness of the little hand that came 
 nestling into his. 
 
 "Father" said the little voice " there is a tiny hill out there 
 that I think must be little Johnnie's. Will you come and read 
 me what is written on it ? It is verij short." 
 
.jS a very simple story. 
 
 A little while before, and Gervase Forrester could not have 
 acceded to his child's request, but his recent meditations had 
 soothed and softened him ; and he allowed himself to be led to 
 the grave of the innocent author of all his grief. 
 
 " Father" said the little voice again, just before they reached 
 the grave "I should very much like you to take me to see 
 Jolmnie's Mother." 
 
 Mr. Forrester's quickly averted head shewed that he was not 
 by any means prepared for such a request ; but he checked the 
 hasty negative that rose to his lips, and, anxious to avoid a 
 direct answer, he read the inscription — 
 
 JOHNNIE BARTON, 
 
 AGED 4 YEARS, 
 
 "THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER, AND SHE WAS 
 
 A W I D W . " 
 
 " Nuiv if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it." 
 
 "Father" said the persevering little voice " I should very 
 much lilic, you know, to say good-bye to Johnnie's Mother !" 
 
 " You shall, Maye" he answered, turning suddenly to her, 
 and revealing a face from which all bitter and angry feelings 
 had fled away, "it is too late and cold for you now; but I 
 promise you we will stop at the cottage, on our way to the 
 station, to-morrow morning. You and I,. Maye" he added 
 gravely " have a great deal to say to Widow Barton, which we 
 miu'ht have said long ago." 
 
A VERY SIMPLE 8T0RY. 59 
 
 He took tlie cliild by the hand, and led her away. 
 
 " Farewell, Mabel," he murmured as he opened the gate, and 
 turned to take a last long look at his wife's grave " one victory 
 over myself has already brought me nearer to you." 
 
 " Grood-bye, Mother, dear, dear, Mother, good-bye !" breathed 
 the tiny creature at his side, as she kissed her little hand in 
 the same direction. 
 
 The last golden rays of the sinking sun shone like a glory 
 around the white tombstone in the distance, and illumined the 
 figures of father and daughter, as they lingered together, 
 taking their mute farewell. 
 
 The golden ball of fire sank into his bed, as the click of the 
 latch sounded on the still air ; and the two figures passed out 
 of the light, and disappeared down the road. 
 
 And then the darkness came down on the little green church- 
 yard ; and no sound broke the solemn stillness, save the soft 
 whisper of the summer breezes : which, playing with the 
 message they had caught from the lips of the cliild, bore it 
 lightly to the grave of the Mother, and gave it into the keeping 
 of the flowers that slumbered there ! 
 
 The next morning, at an early hour, Mr. Forrester's travel- 
 ling carriage drove rapidly through the village, and stopped at 
 Widow Barton's door. 
 
60 A VERY SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 He alighted, and lifting out his little girl, he took her into 
 the cottage, and shut the door heliind him. 
 
 Ten minutes elapsed — the horses pawed the ground impati- 
 ently, the coachman looked anxiously at his watch, and more 
 than one voice exclaimed " "We shall certainly lose the train." 
 
 The excitement was at its height when the door opened, and 
 Mr. Forrester and Maye appeared, followed by Widow Barton. 
 
 When he had put Maye into the carriage, he turned back to 
 shake hands with the Widow, and said a few w^ords to her in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "Now drive on quickly" he said to the coachman, as he 
 seated himself by Maye's side. 
 
 And the carriage was soon out of sight. 
 
 The Widow remained standing at the door, gazing down the 
 road, long after the carriage had disappeared. 
 
 Her eyes and her heart were full, but she was soothed and 
 comforted. 
 
 For, with Gervase Forrester's kind words still ringing in her 
 ears, with little Maye's kisses still lingering about her lips, a 
 feeling nearer akin to happiness than any she had known since 
 her boy's death, had come down upon the soul of poor Widow 
 Barton. 
 
 " God bless them" she exclaimed fervently, as she returned 
 to her homelv avocations. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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