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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
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 URSULA
 
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 ii a::i> LOl
 
 URSULA 
 
 A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 
 
 Come away : for Life and Thought 
 
 Hero no longer dwell ; 
 
 But in a city glorious, 
 A great and distant city, have bought 
 
 A mansion incorruptible. 
 
 Tennyson 
 
 NE IV EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 18S6
 

 
 
 T1R 
 
 S3 +f 
 ^ URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT is pleasant to remember the events of years gone by. I 
 shall try to recollect those of my own life. I may not be 
 able to put down everything regularly, but some things that 
 have happened cannot be forgotten, and these will help rne to 
 others. Mrs Weir was very kind in teaching me as she did 
 when I was a girl. I suppose she never thought of the use 
 I should put my learning to ; and perhaps, after all, it may 
 not be of use. I took little heed to advice which was given 
 me when I was young, and so, perhaps, no heed will be given 
 to me when I tell of my mistakes and difficulties. But time 
 goes on fast, and I would fain, if I could, act up now to what 
 Mrs Weir used to say, in her gentle way : ' Ursula, my child, 
 we must do good in our generation.' God knows, I have done 
 little enough in mine. I may not always have fallen short 
 wilfully, but there is not much comfort in such a thought when 
 one sees what has been neglected, except as regards one's self 
 and the hope of forgiveness. Anyhow, I can but strive to make 
 up for it, and the thought of having striven may be a comfort 
 when I come to die. 
 
 I must begin at the beginning, the time which I can first re- 
 member. That was when we all lived at Sandcombe — my father, 
 and mother, and William, and Roger, and I ; — but I don't know 
 much of those days. The farm must have been very different 
 then from what it is now, and people's ways of going on must 
 have been different too. I remember my mother always wore a 
 cotton or stuff gown, with a coloured handkerchief folded over 
 her neck, and used to get up at four o'clock in the morning, and 
 
 A 
 
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 2 URSULA. 
 
 help about all kinds of things which \vc should leave to the 
 maids, and I can quite well recollect going out with her to see 
 the cows milked, and her teaching one of the dairymaids how to 
 churn the butter ; but almost everything else is gone from mc, 
 for I have known Sandcombc since, and so the notions 1 have of 
 it are confused. My father and mother died when I was about 
 six years old. My father was taken first ; he had been failin 
 long time : he caught a cold from being overheated at harvest, 
 and never recovered it, and my poor mother took a fever soon 
 after, and was ill for a month, and then she went too. It was a 
 great grief to mc, though I could not understand it properly. 
 My mother was a very good woman, and taught mc in the bost 
 way she could ; but she had never had much learning, and was 
 always busy, and so 1 had been left a good deal to my own 
 ways, and was spoiled and very headstrong. The only person who 
 could manage me properly was my brother Roger, and I don't 
 know how he did it, for he was never quick with mc as William 
 was, but somehow I loved him more than any one else from the 
 time I was a baby. They used to say, that when I was in arms, 
 if I cried, they always gave mc to Roger to be quieted ; and I 
 suppose the same feeling grew up with mc afterwards : yet in 
 those days I could not have known properly what there was to 
 love in him, and there were some tilings about him which might 
 naturally have frightened mc. lie was a very tall, large-made 
 man, quite noted all round the country for his strength, — the 
 best rider and cricketer to be found for miles. lie had a power 
 of work which was quite wonderful ; up in the morning with the 
 labourers, and later to bed than any of us, and never seeming to 
 want sleep as others did. His manner, though kind, was rough, 
 and his voice was rather harsh. He spoke out his mind plainly 
 when called upon, but at other times he was much given to 
 nee. These things were not likely to win a child's heart ; 
 but there is something, I am sure, which God gives to such little 
 ones to teach them whom they may trust; and so it was that not 
 a baby ever came into the house but it would go to Roger at 
 once. It was his fancy for children which they felt, I sup- 
 pose, for he was curiously fond of them. He had a tender way, 
 indeed, with everything which was put under his care, or made 
 to loan upon him : colts, and kittens, and puppies were hij 
 d( light, when he could not get hold of a child. It was such a 
 pleasure to him, I imagine, to feel his own great strength by the 
 side of their weakness. I don't think he was ever happier than
 
 URSULA. 3 
 
 when he could take me up in his arms and carry me out to the 
 yard, and set me on the back of one of the huge waggon-horses, 
 and make it carry me round the field. He and the horse seemed 
 to be so entirely of one mind ; and when he saw I was not 
 frightened, he would pat me on the shoulder, and say, ' There 's 
 a Trot ! ' — it was his pet name for me, — ' she '11 make a woman 
 after all !' He had a great notion that women were not to be 
 cowards, and I don't think I was a coward about anything but 
 the dark ; I never liked that. All this alone, however, would 
 never have made me feel for Roger as I did when I grew up. 
 But when I began at all to understand things, I felt that there 
 was something about him different from most other people, 
 beside his tender heart and his great strength. William was 
 kind too, and a strong, bluff-looking man, with a hearty, good- 
 natured manner ; but the two brothers were quite unlike. In 
 those days we did what is seldom, I believe, done now ; we dined 
 at the same time as the servants, in a little room opening out of 
 the kitchen, which has since been altered. When William came 
 in to dinner every one had to make way for him, and he had the 
 best of all there was put before him, and nothing was thought of 
 till he was cared for. It was all very proper, for he was the 
 eldest and the master ; but then he took it so much as his right, 
 and never seemed to consider whether others were comfortable 
 so long as he had what he wanted himself. But Roger never 
 forgot any one. Before he sat down he had a kind word, though 
 it might be rough-spoken, even for the little girl who helped in 
 the dairy, and whom he never saw except at meal-times. He 
 was a little hasty, and so was William ; but Roger always said 
 he was sorry, and William never did. They had different ways, 
 too, of doing kindnesses ; William made a fuss about his, and 
 talked as if he was afraid they would be forgotten, but I don't 
 think Roger ever knew when he was kind ; it came to him as 
 easily as eating or drinking. He was not, like some people, put 
 out by being thanked, but he laughed as though it was strange 
 to him that what he had done should be thought of any conse- 
 quence. There were deeper things, besides, which made the 
 difference, — things which I can see into now, though I could 
 only feel them then. William would give out an oath some- 
 times, when he was very angry ; but let Roger be provoked to 
 the utmost, yet a bad word never passed his lips. He had the 
 fear of God before his eyes more than any man I ever knew : 
 not in talking, — he was shut up about religion to grown-up people,
 
 4 URSULA. 
 
 and seldom came out about it at all, indeed, except to children, 
 — but he made everybody feel it, in a way which was wonderful. 
 When William had let out an oath, he would beg Roger's pardon, 
 as though he had been a clergyman. After my mother's death, 
 Roger was the person who took care that I should remember to 
 o.-.y my prayers, and learn my Catechism. He was fond of read- 
 ing himself, and liked to see me take to it, and when I was a 
 \ ry little thing, he used to hear me read a hymn on Sunday, 
 and then, when I was older, a chapter in the Gospel, and when 
 I had done, he would set me on his shoulder as a reward, and 
 carry me round the kitchen. He was more my teacher in those 
 days than any one. I had a kind of nurse to look after me, but 
 she had work to do besides, and she was very ignorant, only a 
 labourer's widow, who had never been to school. I might have 
 grown up like a little heathen but for Roger, for I was so young, 
 and so tiny of my age, that my brothers did not like me to go 
 across the down by myself to school, either to Compton or 
 Hatton ; and Sandcombe was a very lonely place, there were 
 no older children near who could take me with them. The plan 
 was talked about sometimes, and the clergyman from Compton 
 called several times, and said it would be a good thing ; but 
 William always put it off, and declared there was time enough, 
 before me. Thus I went on till 1 was nine years old, without 
 having had any teaching except what 1 had learned first from my 
 mother and then from Roger. But I knew a great deal, for such 
 a child, about pigs, and horses, and cows, and dairy-work, and 
 that might have been as good for me as books ; for I had such 
 a natural liking for learning, that when 1 was put in the way of 
 it, I took to it at once, without any trouble, and the liking has 
 stood by me all my life. 
 
 1 lived at Sandcombe, never thinking of a change, for what 
 child ever does think of it ? Roger was all in all to me, and I 
 had no thought of being parted from him. So it was, that it 
 came upon me one day suddenly like a thunderbolt, that there 
 was an idea of his leaving us. I don't think 1 quite believed it, 
 — it seemed like an impossibility, — but it frightened me without 
 my understanding it, and 1 jumped upon his knee (he had been 
 playing with me just before 1 went to bed, and he was sitting 
 inside the great open hearth in the inner kitchen), and put my 
 arms round his neck, and said he was rather Roger and Brother 
 Roger, and I would go wherever he went, and no one should 
 take me from him.
 
 Ursula. $ 
 
 I believe those words decided my fate. My father had diea 
 Only moderately well off; he had his farm-stock, but not much 
 else. All had been left to my mother, and after her to my 
 brothers. I dare say it was intended to make some provision 
 for me, but the business was put off and never done. William 
 managed the farm for my mother whilst she lived. He and 
 Roger were both a great many years older than myself. There 
 had been a number of children between us, but they had all died 
 very young ; and I suppose this circumstance made me all the 
 more a pet. 
 
 After my mother's death, William proposed co keep on the 
 farm, and Roger stayed on for some time to help him, but some- 
 how it did not quite do ; William liked his own way and was 
 apt to speak out, and Roger remembered (I know it, because he 
 often told me of it in after years) that saying in the Bible, ' A 
 brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city ;' and so 
 he would not put himself any longer in the way of it, but pro- 
 posed, instead, that there should be some equal division of the 
 property made, and then that he should go forth to seek his own 
 fortune. 
 
 That was quite Roger's fashion, — avoiding offence, he used to 
 call it. Some persons said he was often unwise, and could not 
 stand up properly for his own rights ; and there might have been 
 some truth in their words, but I loved him all the better for 
 giving up, because it was so unlike what I should have done 
 myself. Of all things I hated being put upon ; and when I was 
 a very little thing I used to strike my fist upon the table, and 
 say 'You dare!' when any one offended me, and I might have 
 gone on saying 'You dare!' till now, but for Roger. 
 
 William was honest and just in his ways, according to the 
 world's notion of justice, and he and Roger settled their business 
 very amicably, both of them agreeing that a portion should be 
 set aside for me ; and, no doubt, I was as well off as though the 
 will had been made out by a lawyer. 
 
 When William put his name to the agreement, he said out 
 strongly (so Roger told me afterwards), that the child should 
 never know want whilst he had a penny to give her. It was 
 very kind of him. I dare say he talked more than Roger, who 
 said little about things he cared for. 
 
 They put aside two hundred and fifty pounds forme, and then 
 Roger and William divided the rest. 
 
 And now Roger meant to leave Sandcombe. William intended
 
 6 URSULA. 
 
 to marry as soon as he could, for he said he should never manngi* 
 without a 'missis' to look after things. As for me, there was a 
 notion of sending me to school. We were about eight miles from 
 Hove, the market-town. It was a very good-sized, flourishing 
 place, and there were decent schools in it : one was kept by a 
 cousin of my mother's, and it was thought that I should do very 
 well there. I was to come back to Sandcombe for the holidays, 
 and William hinted that by and by, when he had a ' missis,' 
 I might return and live there entirely. 
 
 er had sometimes thought of going to Canada, and sett 
 up for himself there as a fanner ; and no doubt he might base 
 done very well. But then he could not possibly have taken me 
 too ; and seeing me so bent upon staying with him, he began to 
 think of something else. I fancy also it came across him that I 
 might have a doubtful kind of life with William and his v. 
 William was all for this world, — making money; not dis- 
 honourably, but still making it, — and he had his eye (Re 
 knew this) upon a hard kind of young woman living at Hatton 
 Farm, two miles from us, whose father was said to be very well 
 to do in the world. Leah Morris was her name. Roger never 
 liked her, and she never liked Roger. I don't think he took 
 kindly to the notion of my being left under her. 
 
 lie kissed me very much when I clung to him that night, but 
 he made no promises; only he whispered, ' Ursic, little one, wc 
 will do what God tells us ;' and then he bade me go tp bed, and I 
 went and cried myself to sleep. 
 
 I did not see Roger again till the next day at dinner. He was 
 out to work too early for me ; but I always dined with him and with 
 William in the little parlour. The farm servants sat at a long 
 table in the kitchen, and we in the inner room could see all that 
 went on. William was very strict with his servants ; he kept 
 them all in excellent order; and treated them very fairly. They 
 had good food, and enough of it. Sandcombe bacon had quite a 
 name in the country; and the cheese, though it was so hard that 
 it almost required a hatchet to cut it, had a very good flavour 
 when it had been kept a little while ; and some of our friends at 
 Hove used to have a present of a cheese made them once a year, 
 they were so fond of it. It was a pretty sight enough to see the 
 dinner. The inner kitchen was much higher than the rooms that 
 are built in these days. It had a great oak beam going across it, 
 and there were odd things hung about the walls, — a pair of stag's 
 horns, and some guns, and an old leathern jack, such as people
 
 URSULA. 7 
 
 used to drink out of in very old days ; it was given to my grand- 
 father, and was very much prized. And all the pots, and pans, 
 r.nd dishes were kept bright and clean, and the stone floor was 
 constantly swept and scrubbed. It was a very bright kitchen in 
 summer, when the sun came in, in a kind of dancing way, 
 through the leaves of the clematis, and the Virginia creeper, which 
 had been trained up the divisions of the windows. But I liked 
 it best in winter ; when the flames of the wood-fire in the open 
 hearth made the near part of the room look as if it was coloured 
 red ; whilst out in the corners there was a kind of goblin dark- 
 ness, even in the day-time. Sometimes, when it was very cold, 
 I used to beg to have my dinner by the kitchen fire, and then I 
 took a little wooden stool quite inside, under the black walls of 
 the hearth, and sat snugly with my plate in my lap, and the 
 servants turning round to look at me, and asking if I was com- 
 fortable, and trying to entice me out to their table. That was 
 all very happy. I felt myself to be cared for by every one. 
 But, on the day I have mentioned, I had no wish to go to the 
 kitchen hearth, though it was very cold for the spring season. I 
 kept close by Roger in the little parlour, and said nothing ; the 
 sight of him made me ready to cry. What he had said about 
 going away came back to me so sadly. He and William sat 
 together after dinner with their pipes, as was their custom. 
 William wished me away, I suppose ; for I know that when I 
 took my doll to play with, that I might have an excuse for sitting 
 by Roger's knee, he said sharply, that I must be off to the 
 kitchen, I was only in the way there : and I ran off, half angry, 
 half sorrowful, and told Deborah, the kitchen girl, that I was 
 come to help her to put away the things ; but all the time that 
 I was carrying the plates into the scullery, I was watching 
 William and Roger, for I was quite sure that they were talking 
 about something which concerned me. 
 
 And so, sure enough, they were. It was a very long conver- 
 sation ; and Deborah, who was rather given to be pert, said to 
 me, that she thought master had forgotten there was any work 
 to be done in the world, he spent so much time over his pipe ; 
 but they both came out of the parlour together at last ; Roger 
 looking very brimful of something important ; and before I 
 could speak, he caught me up in his arms, and said, ' Well, 
 Ursie, what do you say? will you go with brother Roger to live 
 at Dene?' 
 
 I don't know what I answered, for I scarcely knew what he
 
 8 URSULA. 
 
 meant j but my heart seemed to leap up into my mouth for joy, 
 and I kissed him a great many times ; and he was in such 
 spirits, he put me on his shoulder (for I was very small, not 
 much bigger than many children of six), and carried me across 
 the room as he used to do ; whilst Deborah screamed with 
 fright, and William told him he ought not to make a fool of 
 himself, 
 
 I did not understand why we were to live at Dene till a long 
 time afterwards, and then no one told me exactly, but I learned 
 about it by degrees. 
 
 Dene was a gentleman's house lying under the down which 
 rose just behind S mdcombe. The two places could not have 
 been more than three-quarters of a mile apart ; but I had not 
 often been close to Dene, for whenever I went away from the 
 farm, I used almost always to go over the down to Compton, or 
 in the opposite direction along the ridge to Hatton, those being 
 the two villages nearest to us. 
 
 The family at Dene were only there every now and then, and 
 we had nothing to do with them, for they kept cows, and 
 poultry, and pigs for themselves, and we sent all ours to the 
 market at Hove. 
 
 But just at this time, it seemed, Mr Weir wanted to make 
 some change in the place, and had an idea that it would be a 
 good tiling to have a respectable head man living there, who 
 might look after the cottages belonging to the estate, and also 
 superintend things about the grounds ; and searching about for 
 such a person, he heard of Roger, and made him the offer of 
 going there. 
 
 It was not quite to Roger's taste. lie had been used to a 
 farm, and to more freedom in his ways. Though William often 
 spoke out to him when he was angry, it was not like iavin i 
 master over him. He could answer again, if he liked it : not 
 that he ever did ; but there is a comfort — I have found it my 
 — in feeling that one might answer if one chose. Now Mr 
 Weir had the character of being a stern, fidgety man, and 
 Roger was likely to have a good deal of trouble, and perhaps 
 not to please him after all ; though, if he could not, I don't 
 know who could. Rut then, on the other hand, there was no 
 risk. He would have a fixed sum, and a house to live in, and a 
 home for me. That told with him more than all the rest. He 
 would be able to keep a girl to look after me, and I might be 
 taught to read, and write, and cypher, at Compton School, and
 
 URSULA. 9 
 
 he would have me always with him. It might not have been a 
 very wise reason for Rogers choice. Perhaps it would have 
 been better for me to have been sent to people who could have 
 kept me more strictly ; but I suppose there was something in 
 the feel of my arms round his neck, and the many kisses I gave 
 him, which touched him and made him think, as he said, that 
 God had given me to him, and he could not part with me. I 
 have felt in that way myself in after years, when a child has 
 seemed to love me very much. People ! say it is a woman's 
 weakness, but I think men have it oftener than they choose to 
 own. 
 
 What went on after that I do not at all recollect, though I 
 know it seemed to take a long time to settle everything. William 
 and Roger had a great deal to manage with the farm, and ques- 
 tions about money to arrange. After some talking, it was 
 decided that some of Roger's money should be left with William 
 to lay out upon the farm, and that he should have good interest 
 for it, and be able to claim it again, after due notice, whenever 
 he wished. It seemed the best plan for the time ; and William 
 was very trustworthy. Roger had an additional reason for being 
 prudent, because he was to take charge of me, and he wished to 
 put by my little money for the time when I should be grown up, 
 and keep me himself now out of his own. There was no actual 
 right in the matter, not what the world calls right ; yet I have 
 always felt that the fair way would have been for William to 
 have helped. But he never said anything ; he seemed to take it 
 for granted that Roger would manage it all comfortably. He had 
 a fashion of letting his own share of a burden fall upon another 
 person's shoulders, and never appearing to think that he was 
 bound to assist in carrying it. And because he kept so aloof, 
 people imagined at last that he had nothing to do with it. I 
 don't think it ever entered Roger's head that he was undertak- 
 ing more than his share in paying all my expenses ; and I am 
 sure that William never thought himself anything but a most 
 excellent brother.
 
 io URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 \\ TK walked over to Dene late one bright summer's evening 
 V about two months after the plan had been first talk 1 
 about. I just remember that. I don't recollect what the country 
 looked like ; but it must have been very beautiful if it at all 
 resembled — as of course it did— what I have known it since. 
 
 The down behind Sandcombe is a Ion.; ridge, as I have said ; 
 but towards the south it rises up in a great hill, called St Anne's 
 Hill, from the summit of which there is a view for many miles 
 round, over the land and over the sea ; for it is very near the 
 not above a mile distant. The coast forms part of a Ljrcat bay, 
 indented by smaller ones. The shore is closed in with red sand- 
 cliffs, rather low, broken, and jagged ; but away to the west the 
 red sand changes into chalk, and the cliffs become very sti 
 and rise to a great height ; standing out against the sky, when 
 the sun shines on them, until they almost dazzle the eye ; and at 
 other times covering themselves, as it were, with a bluish veil of 
 mist, and looking out proudly from behind it. I always liked 
 the white cliffs very much, yet my eye never rested upon them 
 long, but wandered still farther, to a distant stretch of gray land, 
 looking like a cloud, which could be seen just where the sea and 
 the sky met. It was an island very far off. The shepherds on the 
 down, I have been told, often watch it to see whether it is clear 
 or misty. Whenever it is seen quite plainly, they say there is to 
 be a change of weather. That was not my reason for gazing 
 upon it as a child ; but it was a spot which I could not reach, or 
 hope to reach, and I had notions of a life there which should be 
 quite apart from trouble or care, and in which I should have the 
 rule, and make every one happy ; and so it was the land of my 
 day-dreams. 
 
 lie low the ridge of Sandcombe Down the ground is very flat 
 for a long way. From the edge of the cliff it is level for miles, 
 cut up into corn-fields and pastures, with a few trees dotting the 
 hedge-rows. People have said that it is a barrendooking coun- 
 try, and wants wood, but it was never barren to me. There 
 was always variety in it. The clouds, when they drifted over the 
 sky, cast shadows upon the fields ; and the sun, when it burst out, 
 gleamed across them in long streaks of light ; and sometimes 
 touched the tower of a church, or seemed as if it were trying to 
 light up the old castle, standing on the hill close to Move. For
 
 URSULA. 1 1 
 
 we could see as far as Hove, and beyond it, from Sandcombe 
 Down : away, indeed, to where the river, which had its source 
 close to us, and was then only a tiny brook, became quite a 
 broad stream, and deep enough to float vessels. We could fol- 
 low it till it reached a little seaport a few miles from Hove, and 
 trace beyond it a blue line of sea, appearing here and there, as the 
 land rose or sunk. There was an opposite coast, too, in that 
 direction, and we could plainly distinguish the houses, looking like 
 white dots, and the great chalk-pits, like patches on the sides of 
 the misty hills. I was never tired of the view ; yet it was not so 
 grand as the open sea, and the white cliffs from St Anne's ; and 
 I think it gave me more thoughts of the world. It made me pic- 
 ture to myself men, and women, and all their cares and troubles, 
 and hopes for things which belong to earth ; but the sea seemed 
 to have come at once from God, and to belong to Him alone. 
 When human beings passed over it, they left no mark behind 
 them. One view was like time and the other like eternity. In 
 former days there had been a little chapel on St Anne's Hill ; 
 an oratory, I believe, it was called. It was connected with some 
 old ruins in Compton village, which are now built into barns 
 and granaries, belonging to the Abbey farm. I have been told 
 that some one of the monks who lived in the abbey used, in old 
 times, to be sent to the chapel on St Anne's to say prayers, and 
 to put lights in the tower as a warning to the vessels when they 
 came too close to the shore. In after years a regular lighthouse 
 was built there, but it has fallen quite into decay. It was not 
 worth while to keep it up, for thick mists from the sea often rest 
 upon the Hill, and in the stormy night the gleam from the light- 
 house could seldom be seen. Only the stones scattered upon 
 the green turf, and a portion of the lower walls, remain ; and a 
 gooseberry bush, which grew in the little garden belonging to the 
 lighthouse, is the sole mark that any care had ever been taken 
 to make such a place habitable. But the eight-sided tower of 
 the oratory stands as firm as ever, — the walls dark gray, and 
 brown, and green, where lichens have covered them ; whilst 
 the foundation of the chapel can also be traced without diffi- 
 culty. I have heard people wonder, as they talked about the 
 oratory, what could make any person content to live there ; and 
 I have heard them say, too, that there was much evil in the 
 days when it was used, and that we are more enlightened. 1 
 dare say they are right. I am very thankful for the blessings 
 granted me, and I would not, for all the -world, go back to
 
 M URSULA. 
 
 times when I Could not read my Bible for myself; but I can 
 never think that the watchers in the oratory kept less guard 
 upon their lights, because they knelt by them and said their 
 prayers ; and I have myself rested against the wall, on the steep 
 side looking over to the sea, and prayed with a deeper feeling, be- 
 cause I felt that the spot was like a church, and had been made 
 holy by the devotion of those who had stood there before me. 
 
 But I must not linger so long describing Sandcombc Down, 
 and the view from St Aniv-'s, only they are mixed up with so 
 in iny things which happened in my childhood, that it is a 
 pleasure to me. The evening that I walked over to Dene with 
 Rog< r, we turned quite away from St Anne's Hill, and went to 
 the other end of the long ridge, towards the north. That, too, 
 was a marked spot, for a stone pillar had been placed upon it to 
 note the visit of a foreign emperor to England. I had sometimes 
 been as far as the pillar when I went over the ridge to Compton, 
 or came back from it ; but I was always stopped there by Mr 
 Weir's grounds ; for just above Dene the side of the down was 
 very steep, and formed a deep hollow, which Mr Weir had 
 planted thickly, making winding walks among the trees, and 
 separating the plantation from the down by a light iron fence. 
 
 A broad, smooth, sloping path, cut along the side of the hill, 
 in the green turf, was the nearest way from Sandcombe Farm 
 to Dene. Furze and beautiful red foxgloves grew there in 
 plenty ; their look, and something in the scent, will often come 
 before me even now, and make me feel as if there must be some- 
 thing young in me which can never die. Perhaps it belongs to 
 that part of myself which is to live again in heaven. This path 
 went very gradually down the side of the hill, and then a white 
 j; ate gave admittance to the grounds of Dene, and to a broad 
 r.,ad at the foot of the plantations, which led by the back of the 
 house to the entrance. 
 
 ler things have become clouded in my memory, but I can 
 quite remember my feelings as Roger opened the white gate, 
 and said, ' Now little one, we are at home.' I had a fancy that 
 the whole place belonged to us, that we were in some way raised 
 in the world, and yet I looked round with a grave wonder, and 
 kept close i r's side, fearful that I might be trespassing if 
 
 I went a step to the right or the left. The word trespass was a 
 very awful one to me. I had seen it set up on boards in Mr 
 Weir's plantations, and it was mixed up in my mind with visions 
 of a disnv 1 dungeon, and bread and water.
 
 URSULA. 13 
 
 Roger went up to the house-door and rang at the bell. A girl 
 answered it, and then there came out a stout, old lady, dressed 
 in black silk, with a very gay cap on her head : as grand as a 
 queen she seemed to me. She patted me on the shoulder, and 
 spoke civilly to Roger. He went aside with her, and they talked 
 for some minutes. I thought at first she must be Mrs Weir 
 herself, but as we turned away to go a little further down the 
 carriage-road, Roger told me that she was Mrs Mason, the 
 housekeeper, who had the care of everything in the house, as he 
 was to have the charge of everything out of it. I found after- 
 wards that Mrs Mason lived there, more that she might have a 
 home, being an old servant of the family, than for any other 
 reason. 
 
 The stables were very near the house, on the opposite side of 
 the carriage-road. They, and the coach-house, and a kind of a 
 barn, in which things could be stored away, being ail built of 
 good stone, formed quite a grand set of buildings. There was a 
 large clock over the coach-house, — very much needed, for Dene 
 was a most out-of-the-way place. Compton was three miles off 
 by the road, though only a mile and a half by the cart-track over 
 the hill ; and that was only a village. It had no shops nor any- 
 thing of that kind. The nearest gentleman's house must have 
 been four or five miles distant from Dene ; whilst Hove, which 
 was the only place we could get anything from, was seven miles 
 off : so there was great need of the clock to keep us all regular 
 and punctual. 
 
 Next to the coach-house, joining it indeed, but nearer to the 
 house, a set of rooms had been built, and these we were to have. 
 I cannot say they were anything very grand. Certainly they 
 were nothing like the farm-kitchen at Sandcombe. They did not 
 look as if they belonged to a regular house ; and I could not 
 understand what Roger meant when he opened the door, and went 
 into the little kitchen, and sat down in an arm-chair, looking 
 round him half sad and half pleased. I asked him where we 
 were to go next. 
 
 ' No farther, Ursie ; this is home. We '11 be very jolly here, 
 little Trot.' And then he took me upon his knee, and covered 
 me with kisses. I don't think he liked me to see his face. He 
 must have thought a good deal of Sandcombe, and my father and 
 mother, and old times, and it was very solitary for him. I was no 
 companion, though he did love me so dearly. 
 
 The next day a girl was to come to look after me, but there
 
 i 4 URSULA. 
 
 had been some mistake about the time, and she was not there to 
 meet us. Because of this we were to go over to the house and 
 have our tea with Mrs Mason. So when Roger had unpacked 
 some of the things, and I had tued myself with running up and 
 . n the steep flight of stairs to look at the bedrooms, we 
 went across to the house. I should say first, however, that we 
 had a very comfortable lodging upon the whole. Besides a tidy 
 parlour, a kitchen, and two bedrooms, and a closet in which 
 another bed could be put, there was a little room within the 
 kitchen, where a servant might sleep if it was necessary. But 
 the plan was for the girl to come for the day only, as she lived at 
 a cottage quite close ; so the kitchen room was only likely to be 
 used as a place for lumbi r. 
 
 Neither water nor soap had been provided for us, and wc went 
 across to the house just as we were when wc came from our walk. 
 1 did not think of such things, but Roger did. lie was wonder- 
 fully neat in his ways for a man who had so much rough work 
 to attend to. He resembled my mother, who was famed for tidi- 
 ness and cleanliness. I dare say, too, he knew what Mrs Mason 
 would like, for we were no sooner inside the house, than she took 
 me up-stairs to her bedroom, a very comfortable one, near the 
 kitchen, and made me put myself to rights, and wash my hands 
 and face before we went down to tea. 
 
 We had our tea in the kitchen. Mrs Mason had a little sitting- 
 room to herself, but it was very small, and so, indeed, was the 
 house, though it appeared grand enough to me just at first. Mr 
 Weir only used it for a few months in the autumn, when he came 
 for shooting, and there were not many contrivances for comfort in 
 it, and very little space for servants. But I knew nothing about 
 such matters that first night, and only felt it to be very strange 
 and pleasant to be sitting by Roger's side, eating lard cake, drink- 
 ing tea out of pretty brown cups with gilt edges, and able to 
 watch Mrs Mason, as she sat before the tea-board, in her black 
 silk dress, looking grander than ever. 
 
 Roger and Mrs Mason talked about a great many things which 
 I did not understand, and their tea lasted much longer than mine ; 
 but when I was tired of sitting up and listening, they let me get 
 down by the hearth, and play with a tabby kitten, and Mrs 
 Mason made the girl bring a cork and string, and tempt the 
 kitten to run after it. I did not remark anything that went on, 
 till 1 heard Roger say, ' I never knew that both the ladies were 
 coming.' That made mc attend. I don't know why. I could
 
 URSULA. 15 
 
 not think who the ladies were, and I was always rather curious. 
 Mrs Mason looked grave and odd, and answered, 'Yes, both of 
 them. Miss Milicent used to say she didn't like the place, but 
 she has turned quite round now. She 's a queer one. You may 
 thank your stars, Mr Grant, that you are not likely to have any- 
 thing to do with her.' 
 
 I think Roger must have noticed my eyes fixed upon him, for 
 he stopped suddenly as he was about to reply, and said, ' It is 
 nearly the little woman's bed-time.' 
 
 'Ah ! yes, to be sure ;' and Mrs Mason called me to her, and 
 asked if I was sleepy. 
 
 'No,' I said, quickly : 'Why does that Miss come here?' A 
 fit of laughter followed, and something was muttered about ' little 
 pitchers and long ears;' but I was not to be daunted, and I 
 asked again, 'Why does that Miss come here ?' 
 
 'Because it's her home,' said Roger, very gravely; 'but 
 little children must never trouble themselves with what doesn't 
 concern them : ' and I asked no more, for his look showed me he 
 was not pleased. He said I must go over to the cottage to sleep ; 
 but Mrs Mason interfered. No one was there to put me to bed, 
 she said, and nothing was ready for me ; she could not be sure 
 even that there were sheets in the bed ; for Fanny (that was the 
 name of the girl who opened the door for us) had been so busy, 
 there had not been time for her to go across and see about it. It 
 would be much better for me to sleep at the house ; there was 
 plenty of spare room. 
 
 Roger objected because of the trouble, but he was soon over- 
 ruled. Mrs Mason liked children, and was very good-natured ; 
 so she called Fanny, and told her to take me up to the little back 
 room and put me to bed. 
 
 ' Miss Milicent's room, ma'am, did you say!' asked Fanny, 
 who was rather deaf. 
 
 'Miss Milicent's room, child! What are you thinking of? 
 The little back room — the peacock room. You know what I 
 mean. Miss Milicent's room, indeed ! ' I heard her murmur to 
 herself, 'there would be a fuss !' 
 
 Fanny carried me off to bed. I whispered to Roger, as I said 
 good night, ' Please come and see me after I 'm in bed.' He 
 was going to say no. I suppose he thought he had no business 
 to go about the house as if it was his own ; but Mrs Mason 
 promised me he should, and I went away happy. Roger's last 
 charge being that I should remember to say my prayers properly ;
 
 16 URSULA. 
 
 and then he would hear mc repeat my verse before I went tz 
 sleep. 
 
 Fanny took me through a short passage into a little hall, then 
 up some narrow, winding stairs to a lobby, with several rooms 
 opening into it. The first on the right hand side was the pea- 
 cock room. 
 
 It never entered my head to ask why it was so called ; but, full 
 of my curiosity, I chatted away to Fanny about Miss Miliccnt 
 all the time I was undressing. 
 
 1 learned that she was Mr Weir's daughter, which sounded 
 strange to me, for I thought that Miliccnt was a surname ; but I 
 found afterwards that she was called Miss Milicent because there 
 was a cousin who had more right to be Miss Weir. 
 
 I was informed also that she had a mother but no brotheis or 
 sisters. Miss Weir, the ccusin, Fanny said, sometimes came to 
 Dene but not often. This cousin I cared very little about, 
 especially when I heard that she was not expected now, and 
 might never come again, as she was engaged to be married to 
 a Mr Temple ; but I made Fanny tell me what kind of person 
 Miss Milicent was, and when she said 'grumpy,' I was nearly 
 as much in the dark as before. I only guessed it was some- 
 thing disagreeable ; and I mixed up Mr and Mrs Weir, and 
 their daughter together, and fancied them all like the ogres I 
 had read of in fairy tales. I should have been frightened and 
 unhappy, only I was sure that Roger was a match for them all. 
 
 He came to me as he had promised, and I repeated my verse 
 to him, and then he kissed me and said, 'God bless you, my little 
 Ursic,' and left me. I listened to his heavy tread as he went 
 down-stairs : and when all was silent I turned and tossed in the 
 large bed, not daring to open my eyes lest I should see the dark- 
 ness, and wishing very much that I had been allowed to sleep in 
 the little room at the cottage close to Roger. But I fell asleep 
 at last. 
 
 A strange noise woke me very early in the morning ; a harsh, 
 scrooping sound, which amused, and yet a little frightened mc, 
 and made me sit up in bed to listen. When I could not under- 
 stand where it came from, I jumped up and ran to the window 
 to look out. A light fence of trellis-work was just below, — a 
 screen for a little area in front of the pantry, — and on this trellis- 
 work roosted a peacock and peahen. My delight ! how can I 
 possibly express it ? There they sat, the peacock proudly turning 
 his beautiful purple neck on all sides, and his long tail, spotted
 
 URSULA. 17 
 
 with glittering eyes, drooping over the fence ; and the peahen 
 looking so quiet and gentle, and beautiful too, only seeming not 
 to wish to be noticed because she had such a grand companion. 
 I believe I screamed with delight, I was told so afterwards ; and 
 Fanny always declared that I begged to be allowed to open the 
 window, and pull only one feather out of the peacock's tail, for 
 he had so many I was sure he would never miss it. I know 
 myself that the peacock and the peahen seemed like the fairies 
 of the place to me then, and for years afterwards ; and even now, 
 if I could have money to throw away upon fancies, I should be 
 tempted to have some always with me, in the hope that they 
 might bring back the feelings of unbounded gladness, which are 
 by this time almost forgotten. 
 
 It was a sunshiny morning the first day at Dene. Roger went 
 out directly after breakfast to his business of looking after things, 
 and I was left with Mrs Mason and Fanny. For that one day I 
 was to run about and do as I chose ; but Mrs Mason put on a 
 grave face as she said that idleness was not good for little girls ; 
 and it was settled that Roger was to take me over to Compton 
 the very first day he could spare the time, in order that I might 
 have my name put down for the school. 
 
 Mrs Mason made me help Fanny wash up the tea-things when 
 breakfast was over ; and then she said we might go round the 
 garden, only Fanny was to take particular care that I did not 
 tumble into the pond. So Fanny and I went forth together, first, 
 however, running all over the house, and peeping into every nook 
 and corner, even into Miss Milicent's room, which was nothing 
 remarkably different from any other, except that it was the 
 largest, and had the prettiest view. Fanny said that Miss Mili- 
 cent always had the large room because of her boxes. 
 
 The house at Dene had been first a labourer's cottage ; that 
 was before Mr Weir took a fancy to come there for shooting. 
 He built two rooms, a dining-room and a drawing-room, not at 
 all large, and rather square, only with a kind of bow for the 
 window. These rooms were on each side of the little passage or 
 hall, and there were no more sitting-rooms in the house, at least, 
 when first we went there. Miss Milicent's room was over the 
 drawing-room, and Mr Weir's over the dining-room ; and there 
 was another room, which was used as a dressing-room, besides 
 the peacock room and some attics ; that was all the house then, 
 except the chambers over the kitchen, where Mrs Mason and 
 Fanny slept. The attics were what T liked best ; we had to go 
 
 B
 
 18 URSULA. 
 
 up such a droll little staircase to reach them, and they hid such 
 a beautiful paper, a kind of Chinese pattern, with a bridge and 
 some houses, and little men and women going over the bridj , 
 They, too, like the peacock, were part of the fairy things belong- 
 ing to Dene, and I seemed to have more to do with them than 
 with Mr Weir and Miss Miliccnt. The attics opened upon the 
 leads of the house, and the peacock had been up there and left 
 behind him one of his small feathers — not one with an eye, but 
 with a soft feathery fringe — such a purple green ! there is no 
 colour like it elsewhere that I have seen. Fanny crept out of 
 the window and brought it back to me, and I have it now. Un- 
 less it was a duty, I would not part with it for any sum of 
 money. 
 
 Going over the house was very pleasant, but it was nothing to 
 the garden ; and when Fanny opened the front door, I rushed 
 out wild with delight, and scarcely heeding her as she called to 
 me, in a frightened voice, not on any account to run so fast, or I 
 should be in the pond. 
 
 Dene stood very high. The ground sloped directly from the 
 house, but there was a broad pavement in front, covered by an 
 open verandah, which had been made by a very old man, a 
 country carpenter, and was esteemed quite a wonder, for its 
 pretty patterns and crossings. The house would have been 
 homely-looking on the outside, except for the verandah ; but 
 that gave it a look unlike other places, and the arches made a 
 separate frame for each portion of the country that was to be 
 seen from it. 
 
 The view from the house, like that from the down, might, I 
 suppose, have been called wanting in wood ; but paradise could 
 scarcely have been more lovely to Eve, when she first opened her 
 eyes upon it, than Dene was to me on that summer morning, and 
 many, many others which followed. It looked to the east, and 
 the sun, therefore, shone full upon it. The turf was smooth as a 
 carpet of velvet, and not a weed was to be seen in the bright 
 flower-beds. In the centre of the lawn a fountain, which the 
 gardener set playing to please me, rose up like a silver thread 
 into the air, and in the pond round the fountain, bright gold-fish 
 floated about, catching at the bread crumbs with which I was 
 allowed to feed them. Another pond, with an island in the 
 centre, and a walk round it, was to be seen still lower, but it was 
 always a place of mystery to me. I never reached the island, 
 though I always longed to do so. Beyond the garden lay an ex-
 
 URSULA. i 9 
 
 p&nse of country, such as could be seen from the down. It had 
 one or two marked spots, an old manor farm, surrounded by 
 trees, nearly opposite to Dene, and a church on a bit of rising 
 ground, and a zigzag road across a moor — part of the high road 
 to Hove ; and immediately opposite was a ridge of hills, very like 
 Sandcombe Down, with what was called a semaphore at the top. 
 I believe it was used for making signals about ships to persons 
 a good way off. It was a view in which there seemed always 
 something new to find out ; and especially I used to please my- 
 self on Saturdays, when Roger was gone to Hove, by watching 
 the carts, and waggons, and horses moving like dots over the 
 zigzag road, and guessing which might belong to him. But that 
 is going on beyond my first morning. 
 
 Fanny led me all round the garden, and then, as we came back, 
 she stopped at the foot of a steep bank covered with shrubs, 
 which parted the grounds of Dene from the down, and pointing 
 to a flight of rough steps, said I might go up there if I liked. 1 
 ran before her, scarcely contented to make use of the steps, but 
 every now and then scrambling up the bank, till I reached the 
 top ; and there I found a seat, and a little wicket-gate, opening 
 upon the carriage-road close to the down. Crossing the road, 
 Fanny made me enter the plantation, which, as I before said, 
 filled the hollow of the hill behind the house. We went on and 
 on along narrow, winding paths, sometimes stopping to rest upon 
 a bench under a tree, sometimes going quite to the edge of the 
 bank, to look down through the mass of branches, and leaves, 
 and flowers, which seemed to sparkle like emerald and silver, 
 upon a green field just at the bottom of the plantation, in which 
 Mr Weir's cows were feeding ; and then we ran on again till we 
 came to a little summer-house— a real house, with a table, and 
 some wooden chairs, and a tiny fireplace ; so cool and pleasant- 
 looking it was !— but we could not go in, for Mrs Mason kept 
 the key, but Fanny lifted me up that I might peep in at the 
 window. 
 
 It was all more happy to me far than words "can tell, but I can 
 never by description make other people feel the same. Fanny, 
 though she was not much more than a child, seemed to care little 
 about it. All that she appeared to think of then, or afterwards, 
 was the gossip about the few people who lived in the neighbour- 
 hood. We passed out of the plantation by clambering over an 
 iron fence, and came round to the house in a different direction, 
 ■across an open bit of pasture land, which seemed once to have
 
 20 URSULA. 
 
 formed part of the down. There it was that Fanny was induced 
 to stop, that she might point out the cottage in which Sarah's 
 father and mother lived. Sarah was the girl who was to take 
 care of me and cook our dinner and make our beds. They were 
 labouring people, she said, and they were very glad to get Sarah 
 a place. Sarah was to have gone to the gamekeeper's, but his 
 wife had a cousin who was come to help. And then she led 
 me a few steps on, that I might look at the gamekeeper's nice 
 cottage, with its strip of garden so neatly kept. The game- 
 keeper's wife, she said, had had some tiffs with Miss Milicent, but 
 that was no wonder. Fanny did not think proper, however, to 
 tell me what the tiffs were about, but wandered off to another 
 subject, saying, that she must take me home, for she had to run 
 down to Longside Farm to get some eggs for Mrs Mason. The 
 people at Longside were very well to do in the world, she in- 
 formed me ; Farmer Kemp, folks declared, was worth a mint of 
 money ; and he was very careful, not at all like the Shaws, who 
 lived at the Manor Farm, called White Hill, which we had seen 
 from the garden. The Shaws were very set-up people, and 
 laughed at the Kemps, and the Kemps had given up visiting 
 them. 
 
 A good deal of this I knew before, and very little I cared for 
 it ; yet I cannot help noting it now. It was the beginning of a 
 long tale, and I think of it as I think of the little stream that 
 welled forth from the plantation behind the house, and after 
 being caught in a stone basin, where it sparkled clear and 
 bright, made its way stealing by fields, and through ditches, till 
 it became a broad river, with which mud and shingle and all 
 impurity had mingled. Nothing but the sea could cleanse that 
 stream, and nothing but the ocean of God's redeeming love 
 can cleanse the foulnesses that even the best must contract as 
 their life flows forth to eternity. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT would be useless to attempt a description cf all that hap- 
 pened when we first went to live at Dene, and I have put 
 into the account of that morning's walk over (he grounds nearly 
 all there is to say about the place, and added some things which
 
 URSULA. 21 
 
 fitly ought to have come in further on. But I write just as the 
 thoughts enter my head, and should not be able to get on at all, 
 when there is so much to say, if I were to take too much time to 
 consider. 
 
 We settled ourselves into our little house, — Roger and I, — and 
 Sarah came as it had been agreed, and two days afterwards Roger 
 took me over to Compton to the clergyman there, and arranged 
 that I was to go to the village school. Sarah had a sister, about 
 twelve years old, who went, and she was to take care of me. I 
 know some people thought it strange that I should be sent to 
 mix with everybody's children, and declared that my father and 
 mother would never have allowed it if they had been living. But 
 William and Roger both knew what my parents would have 
 wished better than the world did, and Roger has often told me 
 that the things he heard about the schools in Hove made him 
 very unwilling to place me at one. He wanted me, he said, to 
 grow up useful, and to know my place in the world, and from 
 what he could see of the girls who had gone to those boarding- 
 schools, it was just what they had never been taught. They 
 were always trying to get out of their place. It took a good 
 many years, and a good deal of experience too, to enable me to 
 understand entirely all that Roger meant by that. As for my own 
 wish, I was so glad to escape being sent away from Roger, that I 
 would have borne real suffering rather than be sent to a boarding- 
 school in Hove. And I was quite happy at Compton ; every one 
 was very kind to me. The clergyman came to see us and in- 
 struct us himself, and I was taught to read, and write, and cypher, 
 and do needlework, in a way which has been an advantage to me 
 all my life, and, much more than that, I was made to look upon 
 religion as the one thing to be considered above all others. That 
 is the best lesson any one can acquire ; all others are easy after- 
 wards; and I thank God that He placed me so early under the 
 care of those who had learned it themselves, and so were well 
 able to teach it to me. 
 
 I had some weeks at school, and then came harvest time and 
 holidays, when Mrs Mason gave me employment at home, and 
 when I was allowed to enjoy myself by taking a book up to the 
 scat on the top of the bank, and sitting there all alone by myself, 
 reading or listening to the chirp of the grasshoppers, and the 
 songs of the birds in the plantation. I liked that seat better than 
 any other, partly, I believe, because no one else seemed ever to 
 think about it ; but there was a pleasure, too, in being close to the
 
 22 URSULA. 
 
 down, feeling that I might, if I chose (though I never really 
 wished to do so), wander all over it, and even go across St 
 Anne's Hill, to thegreat cliffs above the sea-shore, and there find 
 a vessel to cany me all over the world. 1 had many fancies of 
 that kind from the boohs I read. Reading was quite my snare ; 
 I did so delight in it, and so I do to this day. When Mrs 
 M.i son gave me work to do, I used to carry it to the upper seat, 
 fully meaning to do it, but if I had a book at my side, I spent 
 more minutes than I ought in looking into it between whili . 
 Some books I had from the school-library at Compton, and Mrs 
 Mason let me have some old magazine?, which I was never tired 
 of, though I knew most of the stories nearly by heart. 
 
 September came, and I went to school again; and just about 
 that time there was a bustle at Dene ; putting the garden \\\ 
 order, and cleaning out the rooms, and arranging the furniture, 
 because Mr and Mrs Weir and Miss Miliccnt were expected for 
 two months. 
 
 A grand time it seemed to be for Mrs Mason and Fanny. As 
 for me, I cried terribly, because I thought the family would take 
 possession of the garden, and the plantation, and all the places I 
 liked, and that I should never be able to go near them. I com- 
 plained to Roger, but he would not encourage me in such nonsense. 
 He said that if I was a good child, I should never want pleasures, 
 and if I was a naughty one, I should not deserve them. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon, so I had not been to school ; but I 
 sat in the kitchen mending my clean things, which had just come 
 from the wash ; and Sarah was busy sweeping up, and putting 
 things in order for Sunday. We heard a carriage come up the 
 road, and I jumped up and said, ' Here's Mrs Weir,' and Sarah 
 ran to the door, and stood there with the broom in her hand. 'We 
 h id not heard for certain that they would come on that day. 
 There was a chance that they might have slopped till Monday ; 
 but we were pure it could be no one else, because although there 
 was a right of footway through the grounds, no carriages had 
 any business along our road, and nothing with wheels ever came 
 by it, unless it might be every now and then Mr Weir's light 
 cart, going over the hill to Compton or Hatton. 
 
 The carriage stopped. It was closed, so that we could not see 
 who was within. Mrs Mason and Fanny came out in a great 
 hurry, and made many curtsies ; and then the footman (there 
 was a grand footman, dressed in a drab-coloured coat, with red 
 trimming, and a coachman like him, only stouter) opened the
 
 URSULA. 23 
 
 door, and an elderly gentleman got out, and walked straight into 
 the house, with his chin up in the air, not stopping to speak to 
 any one. I noticed nothing about him but his nose, — and some- 
 how, whenever I looked at him afterwards, that was the only 
 feature which ever caught my eye. It seemed to have a way of 
 speaking, as most people's eyes speak. A lady followed ; very 
 upright and well-formed she was, but so small, — she might have 
 been taken for a child, when one only looked at her back. She 
 had a sweet face, though it was very sallow and sickly ; and her 
 bonnet was made in an old-fashioned way, to come over her fore- 
 head and protect her eyes, which seemed very weak. Mrs Mason 
 helped her out of the carriage herself, putting an arm round her 
 for support, and then the lady shook her so heartily by the hand, 
 it was quite pleasant to see ; and she patted Fanny gently on 
 the shoulder, and I think asked some questions about Roger, 
 as I saw her turn round and look towards the cottage. Mrs 
 Mason must have said something to please her, for she nodded 
 her head slowly, several times, as if she was quite satisfied. She 
 seemed willing to stay and talk more, but Mrs Mason prevented 
 her, and went with her into the house, just as I saw a large foot, 
 with a boot like a man's, protrude from the carriage. The foot-* 
 man stood back, and so did Fanny and the coachman, it seemed 
 as if they could not make room enough for what was coming. 
 Yet it was not such a very large body ; when Miss Milicent 
 stood upon the ground, she was scarcely more than five feet six, 
 and stout in proportion ; but the very way in which she put her 
 head into the carriage, and out again, and called the footman, 
 and tossed a parcel to Fanny, and gave an order to the coach- 
 man, all, as it were, in one breath, made one feel at once as 
 though the world was not big enough for her. It was some 
 seconds before I quite determined what she was like. She must 
 have had a great fancy to be a man, for certainly she had taken 
 pains enough to make herself look as like one as a woman's dress 
 will allow. She had on a stuff gown, made very short, and a 
 loose black jacket, with no white collar, nor anything of that 
 kind to make it pretty ; only a red handkerchief tied round her 
 neck. Besides, she wore a black straw-bonnet, with a plain white 
 border in the inside, and not a bit of ribbon or flower. Her face 
 was like Mr Weir's, only smaller, and without quite such a nose ; 
 but she had eyes to make up for it, so sharp, they were in con- 
 stant motion, and they danced about as though they had a life 
 of their own, quite independent of Miss Milicent herself, and
 
 24 URSULA, 
 
 were determined to see everything there was to be seen in this 
 world. 
 
 I thought the trunks would never come to an end. The 
 coachman wanted to carry some of them into the house, but Miss 
 Milicent would have them all taken from the carriage first. She 
 kept every one waiting upon her, and I could not help fancying 
 she took a pleasure in occupying just double the time needed. 
 But the business was finished at last, and Miss Milicent w. s 
 able then to stop and speak to Fanny, which she did in the same 
 sort of way as I have seen a lawyer question a witness in a court 
 of justice. Fanny curtsied at every answer, but she would fain 
 have run away, I am sure, and she did after a while move to one 
 side, as a kind of hint to Miss Milicent to go in-doors. But 
 instead of that, what should we see but Miss Milicent coming 
 across the road to the cottage ! Sarah threw down the broom, 
 and ran off to hide herself in one of the outhouses ; I thought it 
 mean to follow her, and I did not see what cause I had to be 
 afraid of Miss Milicent, or of any one, if I was not doing any- 
 thing wrong ; so I went back to my seat to finish darning my 
 stocking, but I own my heart beat rather fast. 
 
 In she came, without knocking at the door, and I felt quite 
 affronted, and just for a moment could not make up my mind to 
 rise from my seat. She caught me up for it directly. ' Little 
 girls ought to learn to be civil,' she said, 'when ladies take the 
 trouble to come and see them ! What are you about there ? 
 Mending your stockings ? Very good work, but you don't do it 
 properly. You should draw the stitches together first.' To my 
 dismay, she took a pair of scissors, cut a little hole deliberately in 
 my Sunday stocking, and then, catching the needle from my 
 hand, unthreading it in her haste, sat down to show me how to 
 bring the edges together again. I was so angry, I could have 
 pricked her fingers with the needle when I gave it back to her 
 threaded. I am nearly sure I gave it a little poke with that 
 intention, but she did not seem to feel it, and, taking up the 
 stocking, made me come quite close to watch her, whilst she 
 went on talking all the time. ' Who taught you to work ? You 
 ought to know better. How old are you ? Nine and a half? — 
 you don't look more than six. You can't have had any pains 
 taken with you. Now, attend, do you see ? first one stitch, then 
 the other — drawn together closely ; that makes the hole smaller. 
 You must darn it over afterwards. I shall make them tench 
 darning in that way at Compton school. Don't forget ! I shall
 
 URSULA. 25 
 
 come and see you again, and find out if you have attended to 
 what I say. If you are a good child, I shall give you some of 
 my stockings to mend. Now get up and open the door ; you 
 always ought to open the door for ladies. They don't teach 
 you at all good manners at Compton school ; I shall see 
 about it.' 
 
 See about it ! — yes. I felt, indeed, that she would see about 
 it, and so should I. I opened the door for her because she stood 
 waiting for me to do it, but I closed it behind her instantly, and 
 rushing back to my stocking, tore out all the stitches she had put 
 in, and tossed the stocking across the room. 
 
 Sarah came back and saw me kicking my feet against a chair 
 to vent my rage. She laughed, which made me still more angry. 
 I began to scold because she had gone away and left me. ' The 
 tiresome woman wouldn't have dared cut a hole in my stocking,' 
 I said, ' if you had been here ;' and I ran to the other end of the 
 room, caught up the stocking, and thrust my finger through the 
 hole, making it half as large again, and when Sarah still would 
 do nothing but laugh, I leaned my head upon the table, and 
 fairly cried with temper and vexation. 
 
 Roger entered just at that moment. When he saw me in tears, 
 he came up to me in his kind way and took me upon his knee ; 
 but he could get nothing from me except that Miss Milicent had 
 been to see me, and cut a hole in my stocking, and I hated her, 
 and if she lived at Dene I should run away. 
 
 He must have been very much puzzled, but he knew pretty 
 well what I was like when I was in what William used to call 
 one of my tantrums ; so instead of trying to talk to me, he just 
 said, ' My little Trot will be better up-stairs for a while;' and 
 then he took me up in his arms and carried me to my room, and 
 shut the door and left me. 
 
 I was not sulky — that was never part of my disposition — only 
 terribly passionate. I stamped and screamed a good deal at 
 first, but no one came near me, and at last I went to the window, 
 and had my thoughts turned by watching the servants finishing 
 the unpacking of the carriage, and by the time Roger came back 
 I was quite quiet, and sorry for having been so naughty, and he 
 took me down-stairs again. 
 
 We sat down to tea, and after a little while Roger began ask- 
 ing me again about Miss Milicent. I was not angry with him 
 as I was with Sarah when he laughed as I told my grievance. 
 Roger often laughed at things which other people cry about, but
 
 26 I '/■ 
 
 I told him he wouldn't have liked it if it had been his Mocking, 
 
 he had had to darn it. 
 
 • I h mid not have Kked it, I .. may be, but I would have 
 n it as it was meant.' 
 
 ' It x\., to tease me,' I said, and I felt my face quite 
 
 red again. 
 
 made no answer. I saw he was vexed, and I put di 
 my bread and butter, and threw my arms round his neck, and 
 called him 'dear Father Roger.' 
 
 That always softened him. He gave me a great hug in return, 
 but still he did not speak, till I touched him and asked him what 
 he was thinking about. 
 
 'Nothing, Trot, that you can understand now ; but it wouldn't 
 be such a hard world to live in, if people looked more at v. hat is 
 meant, and less at what is done.' 
 
 lie was very silent after that, as was his wont, and when tea 
 was over he went out again, and I took up my stocking and tried 
 to mend it in Miss Milicent's fashion, feeling somehow, from 
 what Roger had said, that I had been hard upon her. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SUNDAY was the plcasantcst day in the week to mo. Roger 
 walked with me over the down quite early, and left me at 
 the Sunday-school, and went himself to see an old aunt, my 
 mother's sister, who was very infirm, and could never go out ; 
 and there he stayed till church time. I sat with the schoolchil- 
 dren in church ; but Roger's seat was very near, and I could sec 
 him, whenever I looked up, with his eyes upon his book, and 
 that made me look upon mine. Otherwise there was a good deal 
 to teach one to be inattentive : the boys sat close to us, and were 
 very troublesome ; slyly pulling at each other's books, and whis- 
 pering, and then the master would reach over into the middle of 
 them with his stick, and give a sharp tap, which just as likely 
 touched the good ones as the bad. The girls were not any better 
 than the boys. I was often tapped myself, though I don't really 
 think I deserved it so much as some of the others. There was 
 such a trouble, too, about repeating the responses. Some would 
 speak out, and some would not ; and every now and then one
 
 URSULA. 27 
 
 boy took it into his head to shout ; and down came a message 
 from the master, that if he did, he should be caned ; then we all 
 grew silent, and there came another message, that if we didn't 
 speak out we should be locked up. It was trying to know how 
 to keep straight amongst it all ; but what did me most good was 
 to see Roger standing there, so still, and grave, and earnest 
 looking, and his face different, in a way, from what it was at 
 other times. It was a very dear face always to me ; though his 
 skin was not smooth, and his hair brushed neat like a gentle- 
 man's, I often thought I would not change it for the handsomest 
 picture I had ever seen. But on Sundays, in church, another 
 look was given to it, as if all in it that had been gathered from 
 the toil and care of life had been taken away. It came across 
 the one day, when I noticed him just as he rose up from his 
 prayers, that if I were to see him in heaven, he could scarcely 
 be anything different. 
 
 That Sunday we went into church rather more noisily than 
 usual. Kitty Dove, Sarah's sister, pushed little Johnnie Rowe, and 
 nearly threw him down, and Johnnie pinched Kitty, and made 
 her cry ; and some of the bigger girls were whispering about it 
 to the mistress, and begging that Kitty and Johnnie might not 
 sit near each other. But all of a sudden there was a great 
 ' Hush ! ' The girls left off fidgeting, and put their hands in their 
 laps ; and the boys began to find out the Psalms in their prayer- 
 books. A sudden fright had taken them all. I peeped out from 
 a back corner in which I was sitting, and saw at the church door 
 Mrs Richardson, the vicar's wife, and Miss Richardson, and one 
 or two other ladies who taught in the Sunday-school, and in the 
 middle of them Miss Milicent, — not one whit different from what 
 she was on Saturday night, just the same loose jacket and red 
 handkerchief. The girls glanced round at her, and the corners of 
 their mouths went ; but not a word was said. Mrs Richardson 
 and the other ladies went to their seats ; but up came Miss 
 Milicent to us ; her eye seemed to take in all at one glance, and 
 half a dozen names were out of her mouth almost in a breath, 
 and in a whisper so loud it could be heard nearly all over the 
 church: — ' Mary Webb, how's your mother?' 'Fanny Hart, 
 what d'ye mean by'coming in that fine bonnet?' 'Johnnie, 
 you've got a swelled face, I see; come up to Dene, and you shall 
 have some stuff to do it good.' 'Jane, who is that little one by 
 you? Your sister? She is too young to come to church ; she 
 won't behave well. Mind you all attend. Keep your eyes upon
 
 28 I nSULA. 
 
 your books ; speak out properly. I shall be looking at you. 
 Mrs Richardson says you are wry idle. I shall have an eye 
 upon you.' Miss Miliccnt shook her head fiercely, and turned 
 away ; and the moment her back was towards us, and she was 
 out of the hearing of a whisper, such a buzz began as might 
 almost have drowned the clergyman's voice when he commenced 
 the service, but that a loud tap from the stick came down upon 
 the shoulders of the head boy, sounding loudly through the 
 church, and making Miss Miliccnt thrust her head forward, and 
 shake her hand at us, threatening a still severer and more 
 mysterious punishment. Yes, we were all quiet after that ; but 
 I don't think any of us remembered that wc were bound to be 
 so because we were in God's presence. 
 
 When we came out of church, Roger met me, and I went with 
 him to speak to William, who always came to Compton now, that 
 he might have a chance of seeing Roger. Before, he had been 
 accustomed sometimes to walk over the hill the other way to 
 Hatton. It was a little farther, but William rather liked making 
 a business of going to church. Roger always kept to one church, 
 and went twice if he could, though at that time it was too far for 
 me ; but William never troubled himself about service in the 
 afternoon. He said it was the only time he had for looking over 
 his accounts. I used to fancy that it worried Roger to have to 
 meet William and talk to him just after church. He never said 
 it, but he used to answer rather shortly when William began 
 consulting him about the crops ; and that was not at all his way 
 generally. But William was a great talker, and seldom noticed 
 much whether anyone was listening to him, as long as he could 
 have his say without interruption. 
 
 I was glad to be away from the school-children, for I saw 
 Miss Miliccnt go up to them again ; and I was beginning to 
 have a feeling that wherever she was, a scolding was close behind. 
 We went up the lane by the Abbey Farm, which took us to the 
 foot of the down, and then wc scrambled up a steep path which 
 was a shorter way than by the cart-track. Such a very bright 
 Sunday it was ! The sky and the sea so blue, and all the 
 country quiet, so as it never is on any other day, — a kind of 
 quietness which seemed as if it would creep into one's heart and 
 live there. How I wished that William would leave off talking 
 about the crops as he did; not letting one be at peace for an 
 instant, but pointing out first this field, and then that, and 
 reckoning how mu^h had been got from each, and complaining —
 
 URSULA. 39 
 
 William always complained, when he talked of his crops— that 
 the rent of Sandcombe was so high, it made him much worse off 
 than his neighbours ! Roger bore it very patiently ; he laughed 
 a little now and then, and said something rather sharp in a good- 
 natured way ; but he never lectured William, nor let him see 
 that he wished to get away from him, and so William was very 
 fond of him, and put forth all that was in his mind quite freely. 
 
 We were at the top of the down, and there we were to pnrt 
 company. Roger took out his watch, observing he must hurry 
 home, for there would not be time else for dinner and going to 
 afternoon service. William waited before he replied, and then 
 he said, in a kind of awkward, shy way, ' I have some other 
 business in hand for this afternoon.' He laughed so oddly that 
 I caught up his words and said, 'What business, William? 
 People should not do business, you know, on Sundays.' 
 
 'You are a prying, little body,' he answered, quickly, though 
 not at all as if he was angry. ' Roger, you '11 repent it some day, 
 if you don't keep her in better order.' 
 
 'Miss Milicent will do that,' said Roger, and he laughed; 
 'but I should like to know your business myself, William, since 
 you have chosen to mention it.' 
 
 ' Business not lying so very near home,' continued William ; 
 'taking me over to Hatton perchance.' 
 
 ' Going to church ?' I said ; ' I wish Roger would go to Hat- 
 ton Church too, and take me with him.' 
 
 ' Something to do with going to church, to be sure,' said 
 William, laughing again, as though he had a mystery in his 
 mind. ' What do you say, Roger ? Do you approve ? " The 
 better day, the better deed," you know ! ' 
 
 Roger considered, then said, ' I would have all things go 
 right with you, William, if I could. But these are not matters 
 for any to interfere in ; only I think, if you went to church first, 
 you might be better likely to come to a wise choice.' 
 
 'I can't go to church at Hatton,' said William. 'Mr Fowler 
 preaches in the afternoon ; and he's a drawler, and sends me to 
 sleep : it's no good in the world for me to go to church in the 
 afternoon.' 
 
 i Well, you must take your own way,' said Roger. ' I only 
 know that I find things go straighter when I put church and 
 such things first, than when I let them come in second ; and so 
 I thought it might be with you.' 
 
 * Men are. not like sheep, they don't ail run the same way,'
 
 50 URSULA. 
 
 replied William, rather sulkily. 'So you won't give me yonr 
 good wishes, Roger ! ' 
 
 Roger took his brother's hand, and shook it with a hearty 
 grasp. His heart seemed full, and he turned away, and walked 
 home in silence. 
 
 They thought I did not understand, but I did. That sharp 
 woman, Leah Morris, lived at Hatton, and she was going to be 
 my sister-in-law. I asked no questions of Roger, I knew it was 
 a matter that vexed him ; but we had dinner as soon as we 
 reached home, and then Roger went to church again. I sat for 
 some time in the window-seat learning my Collect and Psalm for 
 the next Sunday; and then went over to see Mrs Mason, who 
 was staying at home to let Fanny go to church, and had a game 
 of play with the kitten, and read a story out of one of the school- 
 library magazines, and when it was growing rather late, walked 
 up to the top of the down to meet Roger coming back from 
 church. After that I helped Sarah to get tea ready : we always 
 had it in the parlour on Sundays, and as there was no hurry for 
 work, we were a long time at it. I talked to Roger about 
 school, and what I learned, and how I liked the little boys and 
 girls ; and when we had finished, and Sarah was washing up the 
 tea-things in the kitchen, Roger brought out a large Bible with 
 pictures for me to look at, and soon after that it was bed-time. 
 I was very happy, but I had not forgotten all the while that Leah 
 Morris was to be my sister-in-law. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I DID not sec Miss Milicent again till Monday evening, when 
 I came back from school, for I went away early to be at 
 Compton at nine o'clock, and always took my dinner with me to 
 avoid the long walk in the middle of the day. 
 
 She was at the door talking to Roger when I reached home, 
 and I hoped she did not notice me at first. Her tongue was going 
 so fast about fences and ditches : I believe she thought she knew 
 as much about them as Roger did. I passed hcrandwent in-doors, 
 and had just taken off my bonnet and begun to learn my lessons 
 for the next day, when wide open went the door, and in she came 
 by herself. 'So,' she said, 'little body, how did you manage
 
 URSULA. 1i 
 
 your work on Saturday?' It was not an ill-natured voice after 
 all, and Roger's words were remembered ; so I answered, as 
 civilly as I could, ' that I had tried to do it right.' 
 
 'Very good ; let me see. Did y r ou wear the stockings yester- 
 day? have you got them on to-day?' Before I could speak 
 again, she had caught up my foot, and pulled off my shoe to 
 look. Couldn't I have kicked her ! I wonder I didn't ; but I 
 sat quiet, not trusting myself to speak. She spied the hole 
 directly. ' Pretty well considering. I shall send you some of 
 my darning for a pattern. Saturday is a holiday; you shall 
 come and work with me on Saturdays. Mrs Weir wants to see 
 you. Come across with me, I shall take you to her, and there is 
 something to spend in sugar-plums ; I suppose you like sugar- 
 plums.' She tossed sixpence into my lap, and I believe I said 
 ' Thank you.' I did not dare return it. I followed her across 
 the road to the house. Her step might have been a giant's 
 stride, and she went straight from one point to another, like 
 an arrow. It seemed as though she would have knocked down 
 a wall if it had come in her way. We went in by the kitchen, 
 and Miss Milicent looked in as we passed to tell the cook to 
 be sure not to let the mutton be over-roasted, and to take care 
 that there were mashed potatoes, browned, for Mr Weir, and 
 plenty of wine sauce with the pudding. The cook had a very 
 short manner, and scarcely answered her The family dined 
 late, and there was a great smell of the dinner in the passage, 
 which made Miss Milicent grumble a good deal ; indeed she had 
 not left off talking about it when we reached the drawing-room 
 door. 
 
 'Mother! I have brought Ursie Grant to see you!' That 
 was the way I was introduced, and Miss Milicent gave. me a 
 push, which, I suppose, she meant to be gentle, and left me 
 standing shyly in the middle of the room. 
 
 Mrs Weir looked even less, half-buried as she was in her 
 arm-chair, than when I had seen her standing. It was not merely 
 that she was short and thin, but her features were singularly 
 small, — her bones slight, like those of a child, and her hands so 
 white and delicate, it appeared as though the least rough touch 
 would have broken them. She reminded me of what I had read 
 of fairies, and the soft, low voice, which bade me come near and 
 say, ' How do you do ?' pleasant, and kind though it was, came 
 forth in a slow, precise way, quite different from, anything I had 
 ever heard before.
 
 }a URSULA. 
 
 * Ursi.ii.. is yftUf name, is it not, my little dear?' said Mrs 
 Weir, and she put one of her slender arms round me, and kissed 
 mc on the forehead. 
 
 ' Ursie, they call me, ma'am,' was my answer. 
 
 ' Ursie, or Ursula, it is a very good name. There has been 
 one Saint Ursula ; I trust that you may be another.' 
 
 I stared at her. She said it as if she certainly believed that it 
 was possible, and even likely, I should be a saint ; and my notion 
 of a saint was of some one whose business it was to read the 
 liible and say prayers all day. I replied, ' If you please, ma'am, 
 Roger says that if I am ever anything, he thinks I shall be a 
 dressmaker.' 
 
 Mrs Weir did not laugh, — that was one peculiarity about her, 
 — she took everybody's words just for what they meant. She 
 only answered, ' I can explain my meaning when we are better 
 acquainted. Ring the bell, Ursula,' and then she took up again 
 the work which she was doing, which was a little cotton frock 
 for a child, and I stood by her side, silent, and waiting for what 
 was to come next. 
 
 Some minutes passed before the bell was answered, and I 
 amused myself in the meantime by looking round the room. It 
 was wonderfully changed from what it had been when the family 
 were away. I could not think where all the pretty things had 
 come from. Such bright covered books there were on the round 
 centre table, and flowers, and a carved paper-knife, and a beauti- 
 ful little box inlaid with mother-of-pearl ; and, on another table 
 in the corner, a curious cabinet, with figures of animals in front 
 of each drawer, and some strange figures standing by it with 
 white dresses and copper-coloured faces — Indians I believe they 
 were. The best chintz curtains, too, had been put up, and the 
 striped coverings of the chairs taken off. All looked surpris- 
 ingly neat and pretty ; and the prettiest thing of all was Mrs 
 Weir's work-table, placed by her arm-chair. It was a tiny 
 table made in squares of black and yellow wood, and scooped 
 into hollows round the edge, and on it stood the loveliest 
 white work-box, lined with blue, and having a row of mother- 
 of-pearl reals of cotton, and silk winders, with coloured silks 
 beautifully wound, and a pin-cushion with the pins placed in 
 rows, as straight as though they had been put in by rule. It 
 was just fitted for Mrs Weir ; scissors, and thimble, and silver 
 bodkin, and smelling bottle, so small and bright, and new- 
 looking ; and on the same table was a little china flower-basket,
 
 URSULA, 33 
 
 holding a white moss rose, a carnation, and a bit of lilac verbena, 
 with a sprig of myrtle, and a piece of scented geranium. Only 
 one thing in the whole room looked unsuitable, and that was a 
 large work-basket of coloured straw, put down upon the floor 
 by the window, and out of which peeped what I am sure was the 
 heel of a knitted stocking. That could never have belonged to 
 Mrs Weir. 
 
 The footman answered the bell. Mrs Weir was not in the 
 least impatient because she had been kept waiting so long. She 
 said to him just as gently as when she was speaking to me ; 
 ' Richard, some ginger wine and sweet cake, if you please ;' and 
 Richard went away and returned with a wine decanter and a 
 plate of cake placed on a silver tray. 
 
 'Will you pour out a glass of wine, Richard, and hand the 
 cake to little Ursula Grant ? It will not do you harm, my 
 child.' 
 
 I drank off the wine, not at all sure that I liked it, and put 
 down the glass quickly on the tray. 
 
 Mrs Weir slowly raised her eyes : ' You are too rapid, Ursula. 
 If you like to take your cake home you can.' 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am ;' I caught at the permission directly, and 
 looked towards the door. 
 
 ' You are wishing to go ; that is very natural ; but you will 
 come and see me again, I hope.' 
 
 The tone was cordial and kind, and yet it seemed that Mrs 
 Weir was trying to prevent herself from showing all she felt. 
 
 Something came over me which made me say bluntly, ' I shall 
 like to come, ma'am, but I don't want wine and cake.' 
 
 ' You shall not have them, my child ; we shall do better per- 
 haps without.' 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am,' I said again, as heartily as though she 
 had promised me a present. ' I can always come at this time, 
 when I am back from school,' I added. 
 
 Such a smile came over Mrs Weir's face ; so sweet and yet 
 so sad. I could have found it in my heart to climb up into her 
 lap, as I did into Roger's, when he looked grave, and entreat her 
 to tell me what it meant. But she was too much a stranger for 
 me to venture ; and even if I had known her better, I don't think 
 I should have done it. Tears rise quickly, for they are near the 
 surface, and human love can comfort the grief from which they 
 flow ; but such a smile as that was from a depth below which 
 God only could reach. 
 
 c
 
 34 I XSULA. 
 
 That had been a very short visit to Mrs Weir, and little 
 enough had been said by cither of us ; but yet I looked forward 
 to going again. Of course people would say that in spite of 
 my refusal of the cake and wine, I secretly hoped to have more; 
 but it really was not so. I felt, directly I spoke to Mrs Weir 
 about it, that she meant what she said, as I meant what I 
 said, and that we should be friends without any things of the 
 kind. 
 
 As I was at school nearly all day, there was but little spare 
 time after I returned for anything but learning my lessons, and 
 tea, and talking to Roger, and doing a little needlework before 
 bed-time ; but I managed during the course of the next week 
 to run over to the house for a few moments, whilst Sarah was 
 trying to make the water boil, and cutting the bread and butter; 
 and each time with the hope of being called into the drawing- 
 room again to see Mrs Weir. But I kept my wish to myself, 
 for Mrs Mason was very shut up about the family, and never 
 encouraged me to talk about them ; though she was extremely 
 good-natured to me in other ways. It was Saturday, however, 
 before I went again ; the family had been at Dene a week then, 
 but it seemed a month to me, the place was so changed ; and 
 I had such a feeling of new things and people to care about 
 and think of, though it was so little that I saw of any one. 
 
 This time Mrs Mason took me into the drawing-room with 
 her. I observed that she was very thoughtful about Mrs Weir, 
 and anxious in her way of talking to her ; but it was rather as 
 if she regarded her as a child not able to manage for herself. 
 Mrs Weir looked better since she came ; she had more colour 
 in her cheeks, and Mrs Mason noticed this with much pleasure, 
 and both of them praised the air of Dene, and said there was 
 no place like it, in which I quite agreed. I was made to say 
 the hymn I had been learning at school during the week, and 
 then Mrs Weir said she should like to hear me read. I kn ..• 
 it was tea time, but I was afraid to say it ; so Mrs Mason 
 lighted a wax candle, placed in a beautiful little silver candle- 
 stick, for it was growing dark, and I took up the Testament 
 which Mrs Weir had put into my hand, and turned over the 
 pa^cs to find the Twelfth Chapter of St Luke, that being what 
 I had been told to read. I had only finished the first three 
 veiscs when wc were interrupted. The step was so loud that, 
 before I looked up, I thought it must be Miss Milicent; but it 
 was Mr Weir, and I felt very frightened, for it was the first
 
 URSULA. 35 
 
 time I had seen him so near. He stalked in and sat himself 
 down in the arm-chair without speaking. 
 
 ' Go on, Ursula,' said Mrs Weir, taking no notice of her hus- 
 band ; but her voice was less firm than it had been a minute 
 before. 
 
 Mrs Mason was going away. 
 
 'You had better take the child with you, Mason,' said Mr 
 Weir. 
 
 His tone grated upon me like a sharp saw, though it was not 
 rough or unlike that of a gentleman. 
 
 'Ursula was only going to read a very few verses, that I might 
 judge how she improves at school,' said Mrs Weir, raising herself 
 up in her chair, and leaning forward eagerly. 
 
 ' " Much study is a weariness to the flesh," is it not ? ' said Mr 
 Weir, sarcasticall)'. 
 
 Mrs Weir sank back, and folded her hands one upon the other, 
 as she said, 'Mason, the little girl may go.' 
 
 I thought Mr Weir would have relented ; but he sat brooding 
 over his own thoughts, whatever they were. He did not seem to 
 know that I was going till I reached the door ; then he called 
 cut suddenly, 'Grant is your name, isn't it, child? What have 
 you to do with William Grant of Sandcombe ? ' 
 ' He is my brother, sir,' I answered. 
 
 ' Oh ! He wants me to lower his rent for some land, because 
 he is going to be married,' continued Mr Weir, addressing his 
 wife. ' He is mistaken if he thinks I am likely to do anything 
 to encourage matrimony.' A light, hollow laugh followed the 
 speech. 
 
 I did not hear Mrs Weir answer, for Mrs Mason hurried me 
 out of the room. 
 
 ' Who told Mr Weir that William was going to be married V 
 I exclaimed, eagerly, as the door was shut behind us. 
 
 'Who but himself?' said Mrs Mason, laughing. ' Didn't you 
 hear Mr Weir say so ? ' 
 
 'But William didn't tell me,' I replied; 'and he ought; 
 sisters ought to know before any one ; and I don't like Leah 
 Morris ; I can't bear her ; I hate her.' 
 
 ' Little folks have no right to hate any one,' said a loud voice, 
 issuing from the pantry, which we were just at the moment 
 passing. Miss Milicent appeared with her sleeves turned up at 
 the wrist, and a bunch of raisins in her hand. ' It will be a very 
 good thing for you, Ursie Grant, to have a sister-in-law to keep
 
 36 URSULA. 
 
 you in order. Your brother Roger spoils you, and I have told 
 him so. Mason, there are not raisins enough for dessert ; why 
 weren't they sent for from Hove ?' 
 
 'They were sent for, Miss Milicent,' replied Mrs Mason; 
 ' only the carrier is not come back.' 
 
 'The carrier must manage to be here earlier,' continued Miss 
 Milicent. 'He stays in the town, drinking; it's a disgrace. 
 Roger Grant goes to Hove every Saturday ; I shall get him to 
 bring out the things.' 
 
 ' You won't find that So easy, I am afraid, Miss Milicent,' said 
 Mrs Mason. 'As often as not he rides in ; and he only goes 
 occasionally, when it is necessary.' 
 
 ' And he has a great many things to bring out for ourselves,' 
 I added, proudly. 
 
 It provoked me to receive no answer. I hoped I had offended 
 Miss Milicent; but she merely said, in an off-hand way, 'There 
 will be a change before next Saturday ;' and then she closed the 
 pantry door in a hurry, and went back to her employment of 
 putting out the dessert, which she always did herself. 
 
 ' She does not mean badly,' was Mrs Mason's comment ; 'but 
 she loves her own way desperately.' 
 
 Mrs Mason spoke as though she was saying it to herself ; but 
 I took up the words and replied, ' I can't tell what Miss Milicent 
 means, only she is very cross.' 
 
 ' Not so much so as she seems ; you will see that by and by, 
 Ursie. And little folks like you should never set up to be pert 
 and contrary.' 
 
 ' She makes it come all up here,' I said, and I stood still and 
 pointed to my throat. ' I can't keep it down ; and I don't think 
 Roger, nor William, nor any of them would wish it. Roger is 
 not made to be a carrier.' 
 
 Mrs Mason only laughed; and, encouraged by not being re- 
 proved, I ran on much in the same way, boasting of my own 
 pride, and saying I was not bound to obey Miss Milicent; neither 
 was Roger ; and if he was not treated well, he would go away 
 from Dene ; and then what would they all do ? 
 
 ' Find some one else in his stead,' replied Mrs Mason, care- 
 lessly. ' Roger is not every one, you know, child.' 
 
 Without answering, I let go her hand, rushed across the car- 
 riage-road to the cottage, burst open the door, and seeing Roger 
 seated at the tea-table, threw myself upon his neck in a fit of 
 trembling passion.
 
 URSULA. 37 
 
 '.Well ! Trot ! Well ! how now ? What 's amiss ? Look 
 up, Ursic ; ' and Roger patted my head. 
 
 But I was not to be so easily smoothed. I poured forth a 
 torrent of indignation against Mrs Mason, Miss Milicent, Mr 
 Weir, William, every one. I mixed them all up together, making 
 very little sense ; but letting it be seen plainly that I was as 
 full of pride and self-will as a child of my age need be ; though 
 I put it all off upon my love for Roger. 
 
 The storm was allowed to exhaust itself, and then Roger bade 
 me dry my eyes and go up-stairs, and wash my hands and come 
 down again quickly. I did as I was told, feeling in a way that 
 I had been very silly, though I would not have owned it for the 
 world. 
 
 Roger usually went out again directly after tea; but this night 
 he sent Sarah into the outhouse, and told her to wash up the 
 tea-things there ; and then he took me up on his lap, and said, 
 gravely, ' I meant to have told Trot that William was going to 
 be married, only she has heard it before.' 
 
 ' I don't care about it,' I said, gloomily. ' But I hate Leah 
 Morris. 
 
 'That is said like a very silly little girl,' answered Roger; 
 ' and it must not be said again.' He looked more stern than I 
 had ever seen him. 
 
 I drew closer to him, trying to fondle him, but he kept rather 
 aloof. 
 
 ' William has a right to marry whom he will,' he continued ; 
 ' and if Leah Morris makes him a good wife, there is no one to 
 complain. And I won't have my little Trot speaking as if she 
 knew what was best, when she doesn't and can't know. Yours 
 is a bad temper, Ursie ; and it will bring you into trouble.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't care ; I don't care for anything ; only for you, 
 Roger,' I said, more humbly. 
 
 ' Yes, you do, Ursie ; you care for yourself. If you didn't, you 
 would not fret me by putting yourself into these humours.' 
 
 4 It was Miss Milicent !' I exclaimed. ' I should never have 
 been so cross about William, only she made it all come up in my 
 throat by the way she talked. They don't want us, Roger, not 
 Mr Weir, nor Miss Milicent, nor any of them ; and Mrs Mason 
 said, that if you went away, they would find some one to put in 
 your place.' 
 
 ' Of course they would,' he said, and he laughed ; ' but I mean 
 to make myself so useful, Ursie, that they shan't very easily find
 
 3 8 URSULA. 
 
 one to take my place. That is the true way to go on, if you 
 want people to value you. But it is not the value we put upon 
 one another, but what God puts upon us, that is of consequence,' 
 he added, and the Sunday look, which seemed to take him quite 
 away from earth, came over his face. 
 
 It did more for mc than any talking ; and ihe tears came into 
 my eyes, as I said, 'I am a very wicked child, Roger j will Cod 
 ever make me good ? ' 
 
 1 We will say our prayers, both of us, and try,' he answered ; 
 ' that is the sure way. But, Ursic, you must know what to pray 
 about. You like dearly to make every one go your way ; that is 
 r fault.' 
 'Yes,' I said; and I thought for a moment, 'but if I could 
 have things my own way, I would not be like Miss Miliccnt. I 
 would make every one love mc.' 
 
 ' Xot so easy that, Trot. I may like my way, and you may 
 like yours ; and though your way were ever so good, yet, if it 
 went contrary to mine, I shouldn't be pleased.' 
 
 'Then you would give up,' I said, quickly; 'because you 
 always do.' 
 
 He looked very grave. I said again, ' You always give up, 
 because you are my own dear brother Roger.' 
 
 ' May be I have given up too much already,' he said ; ' I am 
 not so sure, Ursic, that you wouldn't be better living away at 
 school.' 
 
 I put my hand before his mouth as the words escaped, ' You 
 promised— you told me,' I exclaimed ; but he interrupted mc. 
 ' No, Ursie, I did not promise, I said we would try.' 
 ' But we have tried, and I am going to be so good, I don't 
 mean to be in a tantrum once again all the next month. O 
 Roger, Roger, I should die if you sent mc away!' I clung to 
 him, and my tears came very fast, but they were not angry as 
 before. 
 
 He soothed mc now in his own kind way ; but he said I must 
 not talk of dying because I might have to go away from him. 
 l\rhaps it would be my duty by and by. 
 
 'Kiit you are my brother,' I said; 'it can't ever be right to 
 go away; only if you wish it,' and I turned to him with a 
 sudden pang at my heart. 
 
 ' That is not very likely, Ursie ; but there are many changes 
 in this world, and it is well to be ready for them.' 
 ' lint you would not love any one more than me, ever?' I said;
 
 URSULA. 39 
 
 and I raised my head, which had been resting on his shoulder, 
 and looked him full in the face. 
 
 ' Not more, Ursie, no, not more.' His tone did not satisfy 
 me. 
 
 'And not so much,' I added ; 'no one could come into Ursie's 
 place.' 
 
 ' No one, indeed ; little Trot knows she is Roger's darling.' 
 
 'And I will be your wife. I would rather marry you than 
 any one else,' I said. 
 
 He only laughed and kissed me. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HOW conversations rest in a child's mind when no one 
 suspects it ! There was no reason that what Roger had 
 said that evening should have been remembered particularly ; 
 but it was. I fancied it a kind of agreement we had made that 
 we were to be all in all to each other ; and I thought that now, 
 when William was going to marry Leah Morris, there was 
 greater cause than ever why Roger and I should love each 
 other. This made me try to please him more, and I kept a 
 stricter watch over my temper, and learned my lessons more 
 carefully, so as to bring home more good marks from school. 
 I had much just then, I must confess, to keep me in good- 
 humour. William's marriage was a great event, and in spite of 
 my hatred of Leah Morris, it interested me very much. Be- 
 sides, Leah was such a grand lady, I had not any notion how 
 grand, till I heard the children at school talking of her. Some 
 of them had relations at Hatton, and they brought all kinds of 
 gossip about her to Compton. The Morrises lived in a farm- 
 house which was only a little smaller than the Abbey Farm 
 at Compton, and Miss Morris, as Leah was always called, had 
 been to school at Hove, and had learned to play on the piano, 
 and visited the surgeon's wife, and had been known to drink tea 
 at the parsonage. These were distinctions which made the 
 village people look up to her as somebody very much above 
 them : but, I think, what came over them most was the sight of 
 the green bonnet, and the black silk cloak with lace round it, 
 which she wore at church on Sundays. Such a beautiful
 
 4 o URSULA. 
 
 bonnet I was told it was, with such smart flowers on the outside ; 
 it was much finer than any the vicar's wife ever wore. I don't 
 mean that hearing of these things made me like Leah ; I did 
 not find that any one liked her, but I thought it a grand thing 
 to be connected with her ; and as I was not going to live 
 with her, it signified little to me then what she was in other 
 ways. 
 
 ■cr asked for a holiday for me one Wednesday, when the 
 marriage was quite settled, that I might go over to Sandcombe 
 witli him and drink tea, and sec Leah, for she and her mother 
 were to be there. Roger managed all his business earlier on 
 purpose; and I had put on my Sunday frock, and we were just 
 setting off, when a message came, saying that Mrs Weir wanted 
 to see Roger directly. It was Fanny who gave the message, and 
 as wc happened to be standing close by the kitchen door, she 
 told me to go in and wait till Roger came back. I sat down in 
 a chair watching the cook getting the dinner ready, when in came 
 Mr Weir. ' What have you got for dinner?' he said, speaking 
 out quickly. Cook answered that Miss Miliccnt had ordered a 
 couple of chickens. ' They will be over-roasted. I must put off 
 dinner. Come to me for orders, not to Miss Miliccnt ;' and he 
 stalked out of the kitchen, as if he had been too condescending 
 in putting his foot into it. 
 
 Such a fuss the cook was in ! I never saw anything like it. 
 Jr.nc, the housemaid, was in the kitchen, and cook let out her 
 anger to her. 'It was always the case,' she said; 'not a day 
 passed, but changes were made in that way ; she wouldn't stay, 
 that she wouldn't She never bargained for master's interference. 
 It was worse here than in London ; she thought they had come 
 to Dene for a quiet life, but little enough quiet there was like to 
 be with ?vl r Weil and Miss Miliccnt. And if what folks said was 
 true,' — and then she nodded her head and winked her eyes to give 
 notice of some great secret. 
 
 'It is no great matter to us what folks say, that I can see,' 
 replied Jane, 'as long as our wages are paid. I don't see what 
 is to trouble us, unless it might be Miss Miliccnt, and her bark 
 is always worse than her bite.' 
 
 'I could put up with Miss Miliccnt,' replied the cook. 'I 
 
 would rather any day be scolded than looked at. I5ut he !— it's 
 
 • than mortal woman can bear. And to see how he treats 
 
 his poor wife ; and she, as they say, quite taken in by him at the
 
 URSULA. 41 
 
 Jane was a prudent person, and I think, too, she fancied Mrs 
 Mason was coming, for I saw her point to me ; and cook took 
 the hint, and was silent. But I had heard enough to keep 
 me from taking any fancy to Mr Weir, even if I had been so in- 
 clined. 
 
 Roger waited in the drawing-room for a long time, and when 
 he came out he said we could not go to Sandcombe yet, he must 
 have a word with M r Weir first. I saw he was rather put out, 
 but I never ventured to ask him any questions about other per- 
 sons' business. So he went to find Mr Weir, and I returned to 
 the cottage, as he told me, to wait till he was ready. It was half- 
 past four before we set off ; and I thought even then we should 
 have had something to hinder us, for when we reached the top 
 of the hill, by the plantation, and were going out upon the down, 
 Roger looked back, and said he heard carriage-wheels ; a person 
 he wished much to see must be arrived, but he had not expected 
 him so soon. 
 
 'You won't stop now, Roger,' I said ; and I tried to draw him 
 on. But in vain ; he would stay to listen ; and we heard the 
 carriage drive up to the house ; and almost directly afterwards 
 the footman came panting up the hill to beg Mr Grant to go 
 back, just for a few minutes. 
 
 It was so vexatious ! I said to Roger that we had much better 
 leave Sandcombe till another day ; they would have finished tea 
 before we got there ; and he was half inclined to agree with me, 
 only he did not like to disappoint William. Down he ran again, 
 and I went inside the little wicket-gate, opening upon the upper 
 seat in the garden, and there I seated myself to wait for him. 
 
 So still and quiet it all seemed, — so far away from any vexing 
 care. I felt that if people would only let me live there undis- 
 turbed with Roger, I should have nothing else to desire. Now 
 there were always interruptions ; Roger was ordered about, and 
 people found fault with him. I did not think it could be so 
 always. And then I went off into a dream of what might happen 
 by and by, of a time when he was to be master and I was to wait 
 upon him. I never really thought I should leave Dene, I was 
 too happy there ; and yet I had a notion that Roger and I were 
 one day to have a farm together, when he was to trust and con- 
 sult me, and let me help him in everything. For I was to be 
 first in all ways : others were to respect and look up to Roger, 
 but no one was to love him like me. I did not think that at all a 
 selfish notion ; I was sure I could make him so happy. My fancies
 
 42 URSULA. 
 
 were interrupted by the sound of voices at the foot of the little 
 rough flight of steps, which led from the garden to the upper scat. 
 A few moments afterwards Mr Weir mule his way through the 
 shrubs, followed by Roger and a man, whom I guessed directly 
 to be the stranger just announced. I was not inclined to run 
 away ; my impulse almost always was to turn and face Mr Weir, 
 as I might a bull, to show that I did not care for him. I had a 
 kind of notion that he was born to be every one's enemy, and that 
 I was to rise up in defence ; so I remained in my place, only 
 standing, because I had always been taught to be respectful ; but 
 Mr Weir took no notice of my being there, which was very pro- 
 voking. I thought I would have answered him so boldly, if he 
 had asked why I was at the upper seat. He seemed to be full ol 
 business ; he did not even stop to take breath, though he had come 
 up the steps very fast, but he went on talking, and pointing to the 
 down, and saying something about rent, and value of land ; and 
 then William's name was mentioned, and I saw Roger's face 
 change. I doubt whether any one would have noticed it except 
 myself, but I knew every turn of his likings and dislikings always. 
 Mr Weir gave no time for an answer for some seconds ; but 
 when he stopped at last, the strange man replied. Mr Weir 
 turned sharply round directly, and listened with his head bent 
 forward and his nose looking exactly as if it was watching for 
 what was coming. What made people call it handsome, I can't 
 think. His face was that of a bird of prey ; not an eagle — it was 
 not noble enough for that — but some that 1 have read of. 
 
 ' I shouldn't like to give my opinion in a hurry, sir,' were the 
 first words I heard the stranger say ; and his voice had such a 
 pleasant sound, that I looked up at him with quite a new feeling. 
 
 He might have been three or four years younger than Roger 
 His face was not one which showed age ; the complexion was so 
 clear and ruddy, and the eye so bright and laughing. He was 
 not a gentleman ; at least, he had not the same kind of manner 
 as Mr Weir ; his clothes were of a different make, and his words 
 came out quickly and more harshly. But he was more up In the 
 world, I should have said, than Roger ; probably he had had a 
 better education, and seen more of things and people I could 
 perceive that he was not at all cowed by Mr Weir, which made 
 me like him directly ; and the way in which he glanced at Roger 
 gave me a notion that he knew what he was worth. I don't 
 think, indeed, either of them could have looked at e?.ch other and 
 doubted, for two honester faces I never saw.
 
 URSULA. 43 
 
 'Perhaps, sir,' said Roger, speaking to Mr Weir, 'Mr Hervey 
 and I had better walk over the hill together, and then we can 
 talk over matters.' 
 
 Mr Weir seemed only half pleased. I was terribly afraid he 
 would offer to come too ; but he had not much of an excuse for 
 that, whatever his wish might have been ; so he just said, in an 
 off-hand way, 'Well, well, if you like it. Let me see you again, 
 Hervey, when you come back ;' and then he turned off and went 
 down the steps. 
 
 ' Now, Trot, run on before us,' said Roger, opening the gate 
 upon the down. I would rather have remained close to him, but 
 I always obeyed him, and I kept at a distance in front, looking 
 for foxgloves — which I could not find, it was so late in the season 
 — and every now and then making myself a little bed amongst 
 the fern till Roger came up, when I ran on again. At the top of 
 the hill, near where the paths branch off on one side to Compton, 
 and on the other to Sandcombe, Mr Hervey and Roger stopped. 
 Roger pointed to Compton : ' The best part of the property lies 
 down there,' he said. 
 
 ' It looks compact,' observed Mr Hervey. ' It is a thousand 
 pities to cut it up : but I suppose where a lady has a fancy, there 
 is nothing else to be done.' 
 
 Roger said not a word in reply. 
 
 ' She must have had a good property of her own,' said Mr 
 Hervey. 
 
 'Dene, and the Abbey Farm, and some more land, out by 
 Hove ; a good fifteen hundred a year altogether,' replied Roger. 
 
 'And all to be sold ! Well, it is a fortunate thing we have 
 only our business to do, Mr Grant, and needn't trouble ourselves 
 with anything beyond.' 
 
 Roger hesitated; he seemed to be considering what he might 
 say. At length it came out hastily, 'Mrs Weir would rather it 
 should be mortgaged than sold. That is between ourselves.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' It was a very long ' oh,' which must have signified 
 
 a good deal. Mr Hervey's open face became grave, and he 
 added, ' So there are two minds. I guessed that.' 
 
 ' And I don't think he can sell it,' continued Roger. ' I don't 
 think the trustees would let him do it.' 
 
 'Fortunate that, perhaps,' was the answer. 'Well, at all 
 events, we will go over the property to-morrow, Mr Grant ; 
 nothing preventing.' 
 
 They shook hands heartily. Mr Hervey went back to Dene,
 
 44 URSULA, 
 
 and I caught hold of Roger's hand, and asked him what mort* 
 gaging and trustees meant. 
 
 'What I hope you will never be troubled with, Trot. Now 
 let us have a run down the lane, or they will have done tea 
 before we get there.' He lifted me over the gate into the lane, 
 and followed almost before I could turn to see if he was coming, 
 and then we had a race, in spite of the rough stones, to the 
 entrance of the farm-yard. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I"} OGER was right; we were nearly late for tea. The maid 
 v was carrying the urn into the large parlour just as we 
 arrived. I felt bound to be on my best behaviour the moment 
 we were shown into the room, for this parlour was never used 
 except on special occasions. It was a very good-sized room, 
 but not in general very cheerful-looking. The walls were a pale 
 grayish blue ; a few prints in black frames were hung against 
 them, and there was a looking-glass in a carved oak frame over 
 the mantelpiece. On one side of the fireplace was a book-case, 
 with glass doors ; and on the other an old cracked spinet. A 
 mahogany dining-room table, covered with a red cloth, stood in 
 the centre of the room, and large black horsehair chairs were 
 ranged in a very orderly way against the wall. Besides, there 
 was a great arm-chair, and a footstool worked in cross-stitch in 
 green and red, and a screen with a green parrot upon it, which 
 had always been a great delight to me. I don't recollect any 
 thing else. We never used the room except for a party. 
 
 William had certainly done his best to make it look comfort- 
 able this evening. The table was spread for tea, with the best 
 china tea-service, and a large trencher with loaves of brown and 
 white home-made bread upon it ; and there was a ham at the 
 bottom of the table, and two pots of marmalade, and honey ; 
 and the butter was put out in a glass dish, which had been a 
 ivedding present to my mother ; and in the centre there was a 
 gay cup filled with dahlias and china-asters. A person might 
 have been very willing to say 'Yes,' when asked to become the 
 mistress of such a comfortable house as William's ; that is. if 
 comfort only was to be considered.
 
 URSULA. 45 
 
 Mrs Morris, and Leah, and her brother Charles, vvei'e standing 
 up by the window when we came in. William was pointing oul 
 something in the garden. He looked round rather awkwardly n$ 
 the door opened ; but he welcomed Roger heartily, and kissed 
 me, saying he had nearly given us up ; and then he pushed me 
 a few steps forward to where Leah was standing, and said, 
 ' Ursie must be grown out of your knowledge, Leah. How long 
 is it since you have seen her ?' 
 
 ? Well, I don't know ; two years nearly, I should think. To 
 be sure, she is grown ; she is getting quite a great girl.' I could 
 feel Leah's eye surveying me from head to foot, though just for 
 the first moment I had a shy fit, and could not look at her : shy- 
 ness, however, was not much in my way, except when I had a 
 great respect for people ; and by the time she had taken in 
 everything belonging to me, from the ribbon on my bonnet to 
 the thickness of my walking-boots, I was able to confront her in 
 return. People said she was handsome, with her black curls, 
 and high colour, and flashing eyes ; if she was, I would rather 
 have looked upon something ugly. There was not a trace of 
 anything like softness, either in her face, or her voice, or her 
 manner, or anything about her. She was not ill-tempered look- 
 ing ; but one saw she could be in a passion if she chose ; and it 
 was quite certain that if she did choose, it would always be about 
 something that concerned herself. That day she did seem so 
 entirely well pleased with herself! And, perhaps, she had reason 
 to be. There she was, conscious of a fine face and a fortune of 
 two thousand pounds, and a good deal more to come, dressed out 
 in a bright blue silk dress, — what is called a Waterloo blue, — 
 and a fancy straw bonnet, and a smart shawl, and come to visit 
 her husband that was to be, and to be made much of, and to say 
 what she liked or what she did not like. It was enough to turn 
 anybody's head; not that it turned Leah's, for she was then what 
 she always was ; neither more nor less wrapped up in her own 
 concerns ; only it so happened that circumstances made it 
 appear as though she was. 
 
 We sat down to tea ; Mrs Morris poured it out, and Leah sat 
 next to William, and made me come on the other side. She 
 petted me all tea-time, offering me bread-and-butter and cake. 
 No doubt she meant it well ; but I could not help feeling that, 
 although I was a little girl, I had just as much right in my 
 brother's house to take what I liked as she had. and more too, 
 perhaps, for she was not his wife yet. There was no lack of
 
 4 6 URSULA. 
 
 conversation. Leah was not a great talker, but her mother waS{ 
 and we had all the gossip of the neighbourhood told us. Even 
 when Roger and Charles Morris began saying something about 
 farming, Mrs Morris broke in in the middle with a question to 
 Roger. 
 
 'So Mr Roger, you've got very comfortable quarters, I sup- 
 pose, up at Dene ? ' 
 
 ' Very,' was Roger's short reply. 
 
 •And all the family there now, I hear; or at least, all coming 
 soon. The bride, Mrs Temple, and her husband arc expected 
 next week, they say.' 
 ' I have not heard.' 
 
 1 Isn't that capital, now ?' and Mrs Morris turned her broad, 
 good-humoured face to William. ' Your brother is as close as a 
 locked pantry ;— as if he didn't know everything about the 
 Weirs, if he chose to say it 1 ' 
 
 Leah took up her mother shortly ' You won't make him tell 
 by asking questions, mother. You'll only provoke him to shut 
 up more.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to shut up about, that I am aware of,' said 
 Roger. 'If I knew Mrs Temple was coming, I would say so ; 
 but I don't.' 
 
 'Ah, well! then they're wise in keeping their business to 
 themselves,' said Mrs Morris, nodding her head meaningly. 
 ' But folks outside Dene are not quite so careful, Mr Roger; and 
 they say— I wouldn't for the world tell it for truth— that Mr 
 Temple is not satisfied about his wife's fortune, and is coming 
 to see her uncle about it ; and I have heard that Mr Weir will 
 have to sell part of the Dene estate ; not that I can understand 
 myself what business he has with it, for it is all Mrs Weir's, 
 settled upon her strictly, — so Mr Dillon the lawyer told Charles, 
 when he saw him in Hove last week.' 
 
 ' She won't be a wise woman if she gives it up for any of her 
 husband's claims,' said Leah. 
 
 'That is what you think, is it ?' said William, laughing. ' I 
 suppose that is to teach me what I may expect ; but I am 
 not to be daunted. Do you think there is any cause, Mrs 
 Morris ? Will Leah stand aloof and say she won't help at a 
 pinch ?' 
 
 ' Leah is a good, sensible girl, and you are not like Mr Weir,' 
 replied Mrs Morris. ' If you were, you might beg pretty long 
 before her father and I would give her to you. Why, it 's all the
 
 Ursula. 47 
 
 talk in Staffordshire, what a cat-and-dog life they lead. Down 
 here there is not so much known about them.' 
 
 ' I suppose when I turn dog, I may expect you to turn cat, 
 Leah?' said William. 
 
 ' Something like it,' replied Leah, a little quickly. I don't 
 think she fancied William's always bringing it forward in this 
 way, that she was going to be married, and that he was to be 
 her master. 
 
 ' It 's no wonder, when they married as they did,' continued 
 Mrs Morris. ' She, just out of the schoolroom, and a second 
 wife. I heard all about it the other day from the Kemps of 
 Longside. They are cousins of the Herveys in Staffordshire ; 
 and John Hervey is a land-surveyor, and has had a good deal 
 of business with Mr Weir, or at least his father had for years. 
 Poor man, he died of low fever about this time twelve months 
 ago ; since then there have been changes in the business, and I 
 hear John is likely to settle in this neighbourhood, close to the 
 Kemps.' 
 
 ' Is that the Mr Hervey that came over the hill with us, 
 Roger?' I asked; for I had been taking in eagerly all that 
 was said. 
 
 ' I suppose so,' was his short answer ; and he pushed his tea- 
 cup to Mrs Morris, and asked for another cup of tea. 
 
 ' Oh ! John Hervey is here, is he ?' exclaimed Mrs Morris. 
 ' That makes it all clear, — you know, Charles, we heard he was 
 coming. Of course, then, it is quite true about the sale of the 
 property.' She addressed herself to Roger, but received no 
 answer. 
 
 William had no dislike to gossip, so he brought her back to 
 the point she had started from. ' Well, but, Mrs Morris, you 
 have not told me the interesting part about the marriage. You 
 know it's fitting Leah and I should hear, that we may take 
 warning in time.' He looked kindly at Leah, but she only 
 smiled haughtily in return ; and when he tried to give her hand 
 a little friendly pat, she managed to draw it away, so that his 
 fingers came down upon the table instead. 
 
 'The long and the short of it is,' continued Mrs Morris, 'that 
 Mr Weir spends money faster than he can get it, and has done 
 so from a boy. He had as fine a property as a man might wish 
 to have, some six thousand a year when he came of age ; but he 
 ran through nearly all of it, and then married a Miss Le Fevre, 
 a Staffordshire heiress. I suspect there was some disappoint-
 
 48 URSULA. 
 
 ment in that quarter about money matters. She had less than 
 he expected, people said ; and the very year after her death, he 
 married -Miss Mayne, that is the present Mrs Weir, who has a 
 fortune likewise.' 
 
 'He has been a lucky man,' said William. 'Two rich wives! 
 — it 's more than he deserves.' 
 
 C A good deal more,' continued Mrs Morris. 'As to his first 
 wife, he might have done very well with her ; I never heard 
 anything about her, but this poor thing has a hard life of it.' 
 
 ' She is very strange, mother, if Jane Shaw says true,' said 
 Charles Morris. 
 
 ' Strange or not, he is enough to make her strange,' replied 
 Mrs Morris ; 'for ever thwarting and taunting her, and she so 
 ill always ! ' 
 
 'That is what provokes him, I have heard,' remarked Leah. 
 ' He can't bear anybody to be ill, because of the trouble it £ives.' 
 She cast her eyes complacently over her own substantial figure, 
 and I suppose it crossed her mind that she was not likely to 
 make William angry from a like cause. 
 
 ' Mr Roger could tell us more about that than any one else, I 
 suspect,' said Mrs Morris, ' only he is so prudent.' 
 
 'I have seen Mrs Weir,' I exclaimed, proud of my superior 
 knowledge ; 'and she sits in a great arm-chair, and looks as if 
 she was very ill indeed.' 
 
 'Oh! you are allowed to see her, are you?' was the general 
 exclamation, and all eyes were directed towards me. ' Is she so 
 very small as they say?' 
 
 ' I don't think she is above a head taller than I am,' I replied ; 
 'but she was curled up in the chair so, I can't quite tell.' 
 
 A general laugh followed, even Roger joined in it ; but he 
 added, as if to give me warning, ' It 's no use for you to try and 
 tell anything about Mrs Weir, Trot. What should such a child 
 as you know ? ' 
 
 ' But I can tell about her,' I continued ; ' I have looked at her 
 a great deal ; and I know what Mr Weir said, — that he shouldn't 
 encourage anybody to marry.' 
 
 ' i -cause of what I had been asking, I suppose,' said William. 
 ' I had been talking to him, and telling him I was likely to have 
 hard times coming, and so I hoped he would be merciful about 
 the land I rent of him.' 
 
 'And what did Mrs Weir say to him, Ursie ! ' inquired Mrs 
 Morris.
 
 URSULA. 49 
 
 ' She did not say anything,' I replied, ' only she told Mrs 
 Mason to take me away.' 
 
 ' He interferes with her always, I have heard,' continued Mrs 
 Morris. ' She never takes a fancy to anything, but what he steps 
 in and spoils her pleasure. It seems, indeed, as if he had a spile 
 against women, for he is never pleasant to them.' 
 
 ' A second wife ought to have known better than to be taken 
 in by him,' observed Leah. 
 
 ' She should have asked him to drink tea,' said William ; ' that 
 would have been the right thing.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir has not too much wisdom of any kind, as far as I 
 can learn,' replied Mrs Morris. ' I have been told she is next 
 door to an idiot.' 
 
 I started from my seat. ' Mrs Weir an idiot ! She was no 
 more an idiot than I was ! She had been very kind to me ; she 
 had given me some cake and some ginger wine. I couldn't bear 
 such things said of her.' 
 
 ' Silence, Ursie ! " Little girls should be seen and not heard ;" ' 
 and Roger laid his hand heavily on my shoulder. ' I don't 
 think any one who knows Mrs Weir can call her an idiot,' he 
 continued ; ' she is as clever a woman of business as any one 
 might wish to talk to.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you are in her confidence, I perceive,' observed Mrs 
 Morris ; ' no wonder we are so careful. But you mustn't be 
 angry, Mr Roger. I only say what the world does ; and it is 
 certain she is kept like a doll, waited upon from morning till 
 night, as if she was not able to take care of herself, and pleased 
 with pretty things set about her, as a child might be. I know 
 that from our cook, who was kitchen-maid at Dene last year. 
 She said Mrs Weir was a mere nobody, and that Miss Milicent 
 gave all the orders.' 
 
 ' Miss Milicent is likely to do that, whether she has to deal 
 with idiots or sensible women, I suspect,' observed Charles 
 Morris; 'she would rule a regiment. But how could such a 
 woman have a mother like Mrs Weir ?' 
 
 'How could Mrs Weir have a daughter like Miss Milicent? 
 you mean,' said Leah. ' But there is no rule that I ever knew, 
 why mothers and daughters should be alike.' She made a little 
 movement as she spoke, which showed that she had finished her 
 own tea, and expected every one else to finish theirs. William 
 drank up what was left in his cup, and never asked for more ; and 
 Leah, without saying anything to her mother, rose from the table. 
 
 D
 
 50 URSULA. 
 
 Mrs Morris laughed good-naturedly, and said they were leaving 
 her in the lurch, and they ought to remember that she had been 
 making tea for them all ; but Leah was not to be put out of her 
 way, and she went off with William, saying that she wanted to 
 go over the house. 
 
 Mrs Morris motioned to me to come and sit near her, to keep 
 her company, but Roger made an excuse for me. He had pro- 
 mised William, he said, to look at some fences which had been 
 put up round the yard. lie should like me to go with him, and 
 then I could see the pigs and the new calf. There would not be 
 time else, as it was growing late. 
 
 Mis Morris was only half pleased with the arrangement, I 
 could sec ; neither was I, for I felt, from Roger's manner, that 
 he was dissatisfied with me. The moment we were out of the 
 house, he said, ' You are a chatterbox, Ursie. That won't do 
 if you are to live with me. What is said and done at Dene is 
 never to be talked of outside the gates. It is a rule you will 
 have to remember all your life, that when you live with a family, 
 you are no more to talk about their concerns than you would 
 about your own. It isn't honest.' 
 
 ' Mrs Morris talked ; I didn't,' I exclaimed ; 'and I said no- 
 thing but what was true.' 
 
 ' That is no matter,' continued Roger ; ' once for all I say that, 
 if you are to live with me, you are not to repeat anything you 
 hear. There is often more mischief in repeating than in doing ; 
 and I hate a gossip.' 
 
 or only intended to give me a caution to be used generally : 
 but he could not prevent my feeling there was something of a 
 mystery about Dene. 
 
 I went with him to the yard to look at the fences, and then 
 fed the pigs, and paid a visit to the calf ; but all the time I was 
 not happy. When we were going into the house again, I stopped 
 him, and said, 'Roger, you are not angry with me? I am so 
 iorry.' 
 
 He caught me up in his great arms, and gave me such a hug ! 
 — it was like being in a bear's grasp. One had only to say one 
 was sorry, and forgiveness was ready directly. 
 
 Leah had her things on ready to go when we went back to 
 the parlour. Charles Morris had been sent to order the pony- 
 chaise ; for they had driven over, though it was nothing of a 
 walk for a strong woman like Leah. She, and William, and 
 Mrs Morris, were deep in consultation ; and directly I came in,
 
 URSULA. 51 
 
 Leah took hold of me as though she had a kind of right to me, 
 and said, ' It won't be so long now, Ursie, before you and I may 
 see more of each other.' 
 
 ' Only three weeks,' said William ; ' what do you say, Ursie, 
 to having a new sister in three weeks' time ? ' 
 
 ' I have done very well without one,' was my answer. It made 
 me angry that they should all take it so for granted that I was 
 to be pleased. 
 
 William laughed awkwardly ; but Leah answered, ' You will 
 learn to do better with one soon ; ' and then she walked away to 
 the glass to arrange her black curls. 
 
 I had managed to put all the party out by my pert speech, 
 and no wonder ; Roger especially was vexed, and made me beg 
 Leah's pardon, which I did, I fear, with a bad grace. William 
 said, when Mrs Morris and the others were gone, that I was 
 getting beyond Roger, and he was sure I was not kept strictly 
 enough. It was a good thing for me, he added, that Leah was 
 coming into the family, for there would be some one then to 
 keep me in order. He could not help thinking, indeed, that it 
 might be well if the plan that had been first talked about could 
 be carried out, and if I were to come and live at Sandcombe 
 entirely. Of course that would require some arrangement about 
 expense ; but no doubt Roger would be willing to take his share, 
 as he had no claims of his own. 
 
 I suppose William forgot that Roger took all the expense at 
 that time ; and that the claims, as he called them, were only 
 such as he had made to please himself. Strange to say, I was 
 not frightened at the proposal, I was so certain that Roger would 
 never consent to it. I only held his hand more tightly, and 
 squeezed it very hard when he said, he was afraid that Trot did 
 require a strict hand over her ; but she had been much better 
 since she went to school ; and as to parting with her, he would 
 as soon think of parting with his right eye ; many thanks to 
 William, though, for proposing it. 
 
 No ; I might have many trials in store for me in life, but a 
 home with Leah Morris I felt certain was not to be one.
 
 S 2 URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THREE weeks after that, William and Leah Morris were 
 husband and wife. They were married at Hatton Church, 
 and a grand day was made on the occasion. A party of fivc- 
 and-twenty went to church — most of them Leah's relations — for 
 \\c had scarcely any living near enough to be asked ; and there 
 were six bridesmaids dressed in blue gauze and white bonnets ; 
 and Leah herself in a figured lilac silk, with flounces which stood 
 out like a hoop, and a pink bonnet. I was one of the brides- 
 maids, the youngest, and so made much of; and I almost for- 
 gave Leah for becoming my sister-in-law, when I found myself 
 in such a grand position. The day was fine, and everything 
 went off well. Leah was a capital manager — much better than 
 Miss Milicent, for she never talked about what she did. Mrs 
 Morris took care of the eating, and Mr Morris provided some 
 wonderfully strong ale, and saw that there was plenty of wine 
 for those who liked it. and spirits for any who had a fancy for 
 something more powerful. But Leah was the person who kept 
 everything going ; at least, as long as she was there. She was 
 not at all shy, and, what was more to her praise, she did not 
 pretend to be ; so she talked to one and the other, and told them 
 where they were to sit, and what they were to do ; and even 
 helped to marshal them round the breakfast-table after they 
 came back from church. She could put her hand to anything ; 
 and William looked on as pleased as possible, feeling, I am 
 sure, that he had made a capital bargain in marrying such a 
 good manager. 
 
 Roger was very merry too ; and as for me, I laughed and talked 
 with every one ; especially 1 made acquaintance with some of the 
 Shaws, of White Hill. Jane Shaw was but two years older than 
 myself, and being the only two children who were bridesmaids, 
 we were put together at breakfast ; and Jane told me all about 
 her home, and how they kept a phaeton, and had a beautiful 
 best parlour, with pictures in it, and wax flowers under a glass 
 case : and then she made me look at her pocket-handkerchief, 
 and admire the pretty lace round it ; and showed me a bracelet 
 of large white beads (Roman pearls she called them), and a gold 
 brooch, which her mother had given her to wear. She talked in 
 a very silly way, and was so set up that she made me boast in 
 my turn, and I forgot what Roger had said about not gossiping,
 
 URSULA. 53 
 
 and described how beautiful Dene was, and how I was in the 
 habit of going to see Mrs Weir, and reading to her. Jane Shaw 
 was very curious, like every one else, about Mrs Weir. The 
 only people who could tell her anything about her, she said, were 
 the Kemps, of Longside ; and they didn't know the Kemps now. 
 She had not spoken herself to Mary Kemp, though they stood 
 close together in church. 
 
 ' Is Mary Kemp here ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; just across the table down at the lower end ; dou't 
 you see? She was talking to little Jessie Lee just before break- 
 fast. You must know her.' 
 
 ' I have played with her sometimes,' I replied, ' but not often ; 
 and I don't know Jessie Lee.' 
 
 'Not know her ! Well, that is to live shut up ! Why, Jessie 
 is a cousin of your own.' 
 
 'A cousin of mine !' I stared at her in astonishment. 
 
 'Yes, to be sure ; she is Leah Morris's — what a shame of me 
 to forget ! — she is Mrs Grant's cousin's child ; and she is going 
 to live with the Morrises. She is not much more than a baby, 
 for she is only five years old ; but she has been away lately, be- 
 cause Mrs Morris has been too busy to attend to her.' 
 
 ' I saw Roger playing with a child,' I said ; ' but I didn't know 
 who it was ; he always takes to babies.' 
 
 'The Morrises make fuss enough about her,' continued Jane. 
 'You should see how she comes to church, with her little round 
 hat and white feather. They will make her quite conceited; 
 and there is no need, for she is that already. She is a regular 
 beauty.' 
 
 Our conversation was interrupted just then, for Leah stood up 
 to cut the cake, and there was a great drinking of healths and 
 cheering; and afterwards, Leah left the table, and Mrs Morris 
 went with her to pack up the last things in her travelling-box, 
 and a few minutes afterwards she came back to say good-bye. 
 She and William were to go, that afternoon, to Hartwell, a town 
 about eight miles beyond Hove ; and the next day they were to 
 proceed to London, where they were to spend a fortnight with 
 an aunt of ours and some of Leah's relations. 
 
 Things were a little dull after she was gone, though Charles 
 Morris did get up and make a speech, in which he said that he 
 hoped all the bridesmaids would be married before that time next 
 year. Jane Shaw and I laughed, because it seemed such a droll 
 notion for us children, but I don't think any one else did. I
 
 54 URSULA. 
 
 suppose they had all heard it too often, for I believe the same 
 thing is always said at weddings. 
 
 Roger was Mrs Morris's right hand when Leah was gone. It 
 was quite a new thing to see him come out in that way. He and 
 Charles Morris did all they could to make people merry, and as 
 soon as the breakfast was cleared away (it was called a break- 
 fast, but in truth it was a dinner), a fiddler, who had been sent 
 for, was brought in, and we all stood up to dance. I was made 
 to begin, because I was William's sister, and very pleasant I 
 thought it to be at the head of the country dance, though I knew 
 little enough of what I was to do, and could never remember 
 whether I was to give my right hand or my left across. Roger 
 would not dance at first ; he said it was not in his way, and 
 there were plenty without him, but just at the last, when every- 
 body was laughing at him, he caught up little Jessie Lee, and 
 declared she should be his partner. 
 
 Jessie was frightened at first, but Roger had such a way with 
 children, they never could hold out against him ; and when he 
 had smoothed her little soft cheek with his great hand, and 
 carried her in his arms to the top of the room, she was quite 
 won ; and he managed to twist her round wherever she ought 
 to go, and ran with her down the dance and up again till we 
 were all in fits of laughter, and Jessie most of all. I don't re- 
 member much about my partners : I began with Charles Morris, 
 and one of Jane Shaw's brothers ; and after that I think I 
 danced with Mr Ilervey, for he was staying at Longside, and 
 was going to settle in the neighbourhood : so he had been 
 asked to the wedding, principally to please Roger, who had 
 made great friends with him. Altogether it was a very plea- 
 sant day, and when Leah was gone I enjoyed it heartily ; but 
 while she was present I fancied she was watching, and would 
 find fault with me. We had a gre.it supper at eight o'clock, 
 and by ten every one was gone. Roger, Mr Hervcy, and I, 
 drove home over the down, in the Sandcombe tilted-cart, 
 which Roger had borrowed for the purpose. Mr Hervcy 
 was going to sleep in our little room inside the kitchen, for 
 he had business at Dene the next day. A beautiful drive we 
 had, and when we reached the top of the long lane, leading out 
 of Hatton, and were on the ridge, just under St Anne's, the moon 
 shone out quite bright, and we could see the white cliffs over the 
 sea nearly as clearly as if it had been daylight. I wanted Roger 
 to let me climb to the top of St Anne's, and look at the moon-
 
 URSULA. 55 
 
 light upon the water, but he said it was a great deal too late, so 
 we only drove across the down slowly, Roger being afraid of the 
 ruts, and were soon within the plantation gate. I believe I had 
 talked a great deal more than I ought all the way, for Roger 
 looked a little grave when. I wished him good night, and said, 
 1 You have a whirligig head, Trot ; it 's well there is not a wed- 
 ding every day to turn it.' Mr Hervey seemed to think him 
 rather hard upon me. 'It is a very merry little head anyhow,' 
 ne said. ' I don't know who has a right to complain of it, Ursie. 
 Brother Roger would be very dull without it.' 
 
 That was kind of Mr Hervey, but not so kind and true as 
 Roger's remark. My head was like a whirligig, and it was a 
 good thing that I was not likely to be put much in the way of 
 such excitement as I had had that da)'. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I MUST give but a slight sketch of the events which followed 
 the wedding, and indeed of the next few years. William and 
 Leah came back to Sandcombe, and Leah settled herself down as 
 mistress of the farm, and carried everything with a high hand, 
 which yet could not be complained of, as she certainly was a good 
 manager, looking so carefully into everything that no one dared 
 to cheat her. She used to boast that she had never lost even an 
 ounce of dripping from the time she first became housekeeper. 
 It was not a good kind of training for William. He was too 
 much inclined to be close by nature, and now that his wife 
 encouraged him in it he was even less openhanded than before. 
 Lie was hard upon his labourers, and grumbled a good deal if 
 there was any talk of raising their wages. One severe winter, how- 
 ever, there was an outcry all round the country, and then Leah 
 persuaded him into being more liberal ; for, hard though she was, 
 she had a great notion of doing what the gentry did. This was after 
 a public meeting about the state of the agricultural population, 
 as it was called, when Mr Stewart, of Hatton, got up and made a 
 long speech, and said it was a crying sin that the labourers should 
 be kept down as they were. William rented some land of Mr 
 Stewart, and was afraid to offend him, so the labourers had a 
 shilling a week more after that ; and Leah made a great boast of
 
 5 6 URSULA. 
 
 it, and declared they were ruining themselves to keep the people 
 from starving. I heard her say it myself one day, when she had 
 come over to Dene, on her way to Longside. As I saw her scat 
 herself in the little pony-chaise, and wrap herself up in her great 
 fur tippet, I could not help thinking that if the poor were to wait 
 till she denied herself even one luxury for them, they were likely 
 to die of want. 
 
 Yet Leah and I were apparently very good friends. She was 
 quick enough in understanding, and I think she soon saw that I 
 was not to be put upon, though I was a child, and that Roger 
 would not allow it. The only way in which she showed she did 
 not like me was, by the difference of her manner to me and 
 Jessie Lee. Jessie was very often staying with her, — it bright- 
 ened her up, — for Sandcombe was a lonely place, and there 
 seemed to be no prospect of any children to make it merry. I 
 don't think either Leah or William cared much about this, for 
 children would have been an expense and a trouble, and they were 
 not naturally fond of them ; but still in the winter time, Leah 
 liked to have some one about when William was busy, and so she 
 often persuaded her mother to send Jessie over to her. It used 
 to provoke me, I must confess, when I heard her say, drawing 
 up her head and shaking her curls, ' I have just sent for poor 
 little Jessie ; it will be a help to mother to be rid of her for a while, 
 and we mustn't grudge the expense.' 1 knew well enough that, 
 when Jessie was away, Mrs Morris was sad for want of her, and I 
 knew too that Leah made full use of her when she was at Sand- 
 combe, and took good care that, if she was an expense in one way, 
 she should be a saving in another. The girl who helped in the 
 kitchen was always sent away when Jessie came ; and though Leah 
 liked her cousin to dress herself in her best, and sit in the parlour 
 in the afternoon, in case Mr Stewart, or the Shaws, or the clergy- 
 man from Hatton should call, yet she made her work like a scrub 
 in the morning. Jessie had a meek temper, and never complained, 
 and upon the whole I don't know that she had much cause. She 
 was an orphan, and left without a penny, and the Morrises had 
 quite adopted her ; and if Mrs Morris was at all in fault in the way 
 she brought her up, it was that she spoiled her. She was fond 
 of Jessie for her good-nature, and proud of her for her beauty. 
 Many pretty children don't grow up pretty ; but this was not the 
 case with Jessie. It was quite impossible not to notice her; she 
 had such a bright complexion, a good nose and mouth, and such 
 very soft blue eyes, with a kind of beseeching look in them, which
 
 URSULA. 57 
 
 touched one's heart directly she looked at one. No one would 
 Iiave thought that she had come of common parents, and indeed 
 her mother was quite a lady ; but she married badly, and fell 
 into poverty, and then her own relations cast her off, and she 
 was obliged to depend entirely upon the Morrises. Jessie bore 
 the mark of her origin in everything she did and said. It used 
 almost to startle me sometimes, if I happened to go over to 
 Sandcombe early, and found her busy at house work, to hear 
 her speak, and ask me how I was, and inquire for Roger. The 
 voice was so sweet, I could have thought it was Mrs Weir talk- 
 ing to me, only that there was no melancholy in it. I don't 
 think Jessie knew what melancholy meant. Her high spirits, 
 indeed, sometimes carried her away too far, but she was never 
 boisterous. I was always fond of her, though I could not make 
 her much of a friend, for we did not care for the same things. 
 She had very little education ; reading she did not much like, 
 and I don't think she would ever have written and spelled cor- 
 rectly, but that Charles Morris one day found out her ignorance, 
 and took her under his own teaching. They seemed to think 
 she would learn everything naturally, and she managed to make 
 a fair show, though really she could do little well beyond house- 
 work and trimming a bonnet. The life she led was too busy 
 for her to feel the need of anything more, and she had so much 
 petting and loving from every one, that she was ignorant of any 
 want in herself. I don't know quite what it was which made her 
 so lovable. No one could have called her sensible, and she was 
 very much given to dress and gaiety when she could meet with 
 them ; but even when she provoked me with her silliness one 
 minute, I could not help being fond of her the next. She had 
 such a way of saying she was sorry, and she wished she was as 
 good as I was. I suspect that won upon me, for 1 dearly liked 
 to be looked up to. Besides, I must say that she was very 
 grateful ; the least little kindness touched her ; and though 
 Leah had been ever so hard upon her, I believe she would have 
 worked her fingers off for her, because she was a Morris. She 
 always said the Morrises were the best friends she had in the 
 world. 
 
 What did Jessie more harm than anything else was the ac- 
 quaintance with the Shaws ; but I may leave that for the present. 
 It will be better to put down a few things about myself and Dene 
 first. The property was not sold, as people said it was going to 
 be ; but it was mortgaged, for how much nobody knew — or al
 
 5S UkSULA. 
 
 least if Roger knew he never told. If it had been sold I suppose 
 we should have been obliged to move, but as it was, we remained 
 On year after year. Towards the end of every summer, Mr Weir, 
 and his wife, and Miss Miliccnt, came regularly, and stayed till 
 nearly winter; and I learned, by degrees, to look forward to this as 
 fee pleasant time, in spite of Mr Weir's pride and Miss Milicent's 
 fussiness. My delight was to be with Mrs Weir, and this was 
 not strange, for she was exceedingly kind, and did more for me 
 in the way of education than I could possibly have expected. I 
 had gone on learning what I could at Compton school, and upon 
 the whole I think I was very well taught, and not at all backward 
 for my age ; but by the time I was fourteen, there was not much 
 else which the mistress could teach me; and then Leah tried to 
 persuade Roger to send me for a year to Hove, and to pay for it 
 out of the money that had been put by for me. I don't think 
 William would have allowed this; for though, as I have said, he 
 was close by nature, he was not at all wanting in affection, and 
 the money had been intended as a nest egg for me, and so he 
 would have wished it to remain increasing till I grew up. But 
 his opinion was not needed, as Roger stopped the notion at once; 
 and now that I lived with him, his will was law. 
 
 When at last I was really too old to go to Compton school any 
 longer, Roger thought it might do to send away Sarah, and give 
 me the housework to look after. Leah objected to this ; she said 
 I was not born to it ; that I had always been accustomed to a 
 servant, and she thought I should have one still ; but Mrs Mason 
 took Roger's side, and said it was a very good plan ; and Fanny 
 should help me at the cottage, and I might help Fanny at the 
 house, and she would look after us both. 
 
 That was one of the greatest helps Roger had in his care of mo, 
 I think he would rather have sent me to school than have left me 
 at home with no one to think about me ; but Mrs Mason kept me 
 very strict, never letting me make acquaintances without her 
 knowing it ; and taking care that I should have no idle time upon 
 my hands for gossiping and folly. There was very little variety 
 in my life. Once Mrs Mason took me to London to stay with her 
 for a week at a friend's house, and I saw all the chief sights, and 
 had a glimpse of a world which did not please me half as much 
 as Dene, though for the time I heartily enjoyed it ; but this was all 
 the change I had for several years. I might have found it a dull 
 life, and required more for my happiness, but for Mrs Weir. Mrs 
 Kemp, of Longside, was very kind to me, and Mary Kemp and J
 
 URSULA. 59 
 
 became great friends ; but neither of them could quite give me 
 what I wanted and found in Mrs Weir. Books were still, as 
 they had always been, my great pleasure, and as long as I could 
 go to the upper seat,— close to the down, and hidden by the 
 shrubbery and the plantation trees, and read, I had no wish for 
 anything else in the world. Mrs Weir soon found this out ; but 
 she only noticed and helped me in my taste by degrees. It 
 seemed as if she was afraid of showing that she took much in- 
 terest in anything ; and for some time I was always sent away 
 if I was in the drawing-room when Mr Weir came in. But by 
 degrees I gained a better footing. 
 
 Mr Weir delighted in hearing anything he possessed admired ; 
 he cared little what it was that was liked, or who it was that liked 
 it, all he wanted was to hear people say, ' Oh ! how beautiful ! ' 
 And so it happened that Dene being dull at times when no one 
 was staying in the house, he used to amuse himself, when I was 
 quite young, with seeing my wonder and pleasure at the garden, 
 and the fountains, and the peacock and peahen, and the pea 
 chicks, and the goldfish. It was a very honest pleasure on my 
 part ; I was never tired of holding out bread to the peacock, and 
 seeing him stretch out his beautiful long neck and snatch it out 
 of my fingers ; and I don't think the pleasure of finding the 
 feathers ever grew less ; and being naturally rather free spoken, 
 I used to say out what came into my head, and this made Mr 
 Weir laugh. I believe we are all grateful to persons who make 
 us laugh, whether they are men, women, or children ; and I can 
 imagine that Mr Weir was so particularly, for his was not a 
 laughing nature, if his countenance spoke truth. There was a 
 sneer upon it almost always, and sneers and hearty laughter 
 don't go well together. When Mrs Weir found out that her 
 husband was not likely to interfere, she made me be more with 
 her. Before I left school I was in the habit of spending a great 
 part of Saturday, after I had mended my clothes, in reading to 
 her, and at such times she chose books which were likely to im- 
 prove me, — history, and lives of celebrated people, and such 
 things ; but what she liked most was to read her favourite bits 
 of poetry to me, and to make me learn them. 
 
 I did not understand a great deal ; but even when the sense 
 was beyond me, there was a pleasure in listening to the sound of 
 Mrs Weir's voice. It came over me like the distant rush of the 
 waves upon the shingles, as I have heard it often, when standing 
 by the oratory on St Anne's ; or as the sighing of the wind
 
 60 URSULA. 
 
 among the firs in the plantation on a beautiful summer's day, 
 when a thin, gray mist floated over the level country, and every 
 now and then the breeze rolled it away, and showed the lines of 
 sparkling blue sea, far away beyond Hove. Tears have often 
 come into my eyes as I have hearkened to those sounds, which 
 seem so especially to belong to God ; and they have risen again 
 and again unbidden, at the first words which Mrs Weir would 
 read, — startling me with a sense of something that was not of 
 this world, — an echo, it might be, of a voice that had been heard 
 in paradise. Children feel these things, grown-up people reason 
 upon them ; but I think children know more about them. As 
 time went on, and I learned to know more of Mrs Weir's life, — 
 her whole history seemed to me to be told in the strange, sweet, 
 sad tone of her voice, as she read the verses in which she de- 
 lighted. It was happy for me that I was not with her always. 
 What I did see of her was good for me, I am sure, in many 
 ways ; but to have lived always with such a person would have 
 cjuite unfitted me for my real work. Roger was a little afraid of 
 tin's, and I don't think he was sorry that I had Miss Milicent 
 near, to prevent my becoming too much wrapped up in Mrs Weir 
 and my books. 
 
 There was no fear of poetry where Miss Milicent had any 
 authority. I don't think she had ever learned a verse in her life 
 except ' How doth the little busy bee;' at least that was the only 
 thing I ever heard her repeat. How she came to be so entirely 
 unlike her mother I never could understand in those days ; but 
 since I have seen more of the world, I have thought that 
 mothers who have any one particular fancy, or taste, or even 
 good principle, are apt to bring it forward on all occasions, 
 and so their children take a disgust at it, and run the contrary 
 way. 
 
 I know I have observed in religion, how persons who are very 
 good and earnest themselves, give their children a turn against 
 it, by continually talking about it. Mrs Weir did this, I sus- 
 pect, with her poetry. She did not sec what a different nature 
 Miss Milicent's was; indeed, I don't think she was quick at 
 understanding any person's nature. She was always living in a 
 kind of dream. One thing I must say for her, — Miss Milicent 
 would have been a puzzle to any one. She was not like father, 
 nor mother, nor cousin, nor anyone belonging to her, that I ever 
 saw, nor, indeed, like any one living but herself. Mrs Mason 
 said one day that she took after her grandm?lh?r ; and that might
 
 URSULA. 61 
 
 have been the case. When I first saw her, she must have been 
 about five-and-twcnty ; but she was then as old in her ways as 
 she was a dozen years after. I took it upon faith, when I first 
 knew her, that she was a good woman, and that is saying a great 
 deal ; for no faith that was ever heard of would have made me 
 believe that Leah Morris was good. 
 
 It always seemed to me that Miss Milicent fancied she was 
 sent into the world on purpose to set it to rights ; and I believe 
 honestly that she began with herself, as far as her knowledge 
 went. She was neither passionate nor sulky ; she always spoke 
 the truth, and was thoughtful for the poor, and took a great deal 
 of pains with their children ; and as for industry, she worked 
 harder than Roger. I often puzzled myself in those days to find 
 out what the fault in her was, and at last I settled that she was 
 selfish. She wished everybody to do right, and be comfortable, 
 but it must be in her way. She would deny herself like a saint 
 to carry out anything which she thought likely to be good ; but 
 she could not sit still, nor keep the room tidy, nor speak low and 
 soft, because of her mother's wishes — whimsies she used to call 
 them — that was her favourite word ; and I suppose Mrs Weir 
 had a few such ; and certainly it was irritating for a person of 
 Miss Milicent's age to be complained of as if she had been a 
 child of five ; but then she ought never to have given cause for 
 the complaint. God had granted her quick sense, and she 
 should have seen her mother's little odd ways, and made allow- 
 ance for them, and valued Mrs Weir for the many things there 
 were to be valued in her, not set herself to alter them as she did. 
 That was the cause of half the family troubles, because it de- 
 stroyed anything like sympathy between the mother and the 
 daughter ; and so each went her separate way and grew more 
 and more strange, and wedded to her own fashion. Miss Mili- 
 cent always took care that I did my work properly, and she 
 taught me many useful things ; amongst others, to knit stock- 
 ings and cut out dresses. She was clever at that, though she 
 chose to dress so oddly ; and Roger was glad I should learn, for 
 there was still an idea that it might be a good thing for me some 
 day to be a dressmaker. After a time Mrs Weir employed me 
 in doing little things for her in the way of altering dresses and 
 in plain needlework ; and Mrs Richardson, of Compton, sent 
 me common dresses to make up, and spoke for me to Mrs 
 Stewart, of Hatton, and several other persons ; and at last I 
 found I had more than enough to do ; though I never professed
 
 6a URSULA. 
 
 to take to the occupation as a business. The comfort to me was 
 that I was able in consequence to help Roger in p my own 
 
 expenses, and as I saved him a servant, and even gained some- 
 thing by assisting Fanny at the house when Mr Weir was at 
 Dene, there was no notion of sending me away to earn my own 
 living, which was what I dreaded more than anything. 
 
 Of course when I became so busy with my work I had but 
 little time for reading, though I never gave it up entirely. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 nHHINGS went on in this quiet way for along time. But 
 -A- some alterations were made in the place : a billiard-room 
 was built over the storehouse, and a sitting-room ami two small 
 bedrooms were added to the house ; and some shrubs planted 
 to enlarge the grounds. The billiard-room helped greatly to 
 amuse Mr Weir when he and his friends came down. He took 
 much more kindly to Dene after it was built, but I don't think 
 it improved him. He grew more irritable and restless, and the 
 people whom he brought with him were not such as were likely 
 to do him good. Eating, and drinking, and billiards were the 
 occupations at home, and when they went out shooting they 
 mixed with persons who were not equal to them by birth, and 
 whose characters did not stand well in the county. Young Mr 
 Shaw, of White Hill, was invited to Dene every now and then, 
 and the family held up their heads in consequence, and thought 
 themselves very grand ; and the girls dressed more smartly than 
 ever, and talked of Mr Weir as though he was quite one of them- 
 selves. But I knew better than that. Mr Weir would not have 
 spoken to any one of them but for some object of his own, for a 
 prouder man never lived. 
 
 All these things, however, affected me but little. I used to 
 hear of what went on from Jessie Lee, who was quite one with 
 the Shaws, but I followed my own ways, and lived at Dene 
 without much to trouble me till I was two-and-twenty. Roger 
 was then thirty-six ; quite an old man, and an old bachelor too. 
 People used to laugh, and say that I should be a rich heiress, 
 for Roger was surely making money all this time, and as he was 
 certain never to marry it would all be left to me.
 
 URSULA. 63 
 
 They thought he had "an easy place and a quiet life. Little 
 they knew of all the things he had to vex and fret him. Mr 
 Weir was a most tiresome man to deal with ; he had as 
 many minds as there are days in the year ; one week he 
 would have things done, and the next week he would not ; 
 and what was worse, he changed not only about things but 
 people. How he kept on so long with Roger was surprising, 
 only I believe that he felt Roger was careful, and by looking 
 after his affairs made money go farther than any one else was 
 likely to do. But as for other people, such as the gardener, 
 and the under-gardener, and the labourers, and even the game- 
 keeper, it was a perpetual one going and another coming ; and 
 Roger had to give fresh orders and directions to each new 
 person, because it was Mr Weir's will that everything should 
 be done through him. I have often heard William counsel 
 him to give it up and try something else, but Roger only 
 laughed, and said, 'Where is there a place without trouble 
 in this world ? I know the worst here, and I don't know it 
 elsewhere.' ' A rolling stone gathers no moss,' was one of his 
 favourite proverbs, and it often helped him to decide when he 
 was in difficulty ; but there is no question that it was a very 
 trying life. 
 
 The summer that I was two-and-twenty, Mrs Weir arrived 
 about the middle of August, looking extremely ill, and Miss 
 Milicent not in her usual spirits ; but there was no Mr Weir. 
 We settled down into our usual ways ; Miss Milicent busying 
 herself with the house and the garden, and going over to Comp- 
 ton to talk to Mrs Richardson about the school ; and Mrs Weir 
 living to herself, curled up in her easy-chair, working for the 
 poor, never going out, and requiring me to go and read to her 
 every evening at five o'clock ; but Mr Weir's name was scarcely 
 mentioned by any one, and even Roger seemed to take it as a 
 matter of course that he was not coming, though he never told 
 me why. 
 
 I had made tea one evening, and Roger and I were sitting 
 down comfortably together, when we heard a knock at the door, 
 and I went to open it. Mr Hervey was there, I shook hands 
 with him, and welcomed him gladly, for he was now quite an 
 old friend. He was often at Dene on business, and we met 
 frequently at Longside, the Kemps being his relations, and in- 
 deed it had been said that he was going to marry Mary Kemp. 
 He often came in in this way unawares, so we were not sur-
 
 64 URSULA. 
 
 prised to sec him, and \vc asked him, as a matter of course, to 
 sit down and tnkc a cup of tea with us. I noticed then for the 
 first time that he was flurried. He answered rather quickly that 
 lie had not time, he had just a few words to say to Roger, that 
 w.is all. I got up to go away, but Mr Hcrvey prevented me, 
 and he and Roger went together into the parlour. It was dull 
 to drink my tea alone, so I put the teapot upon the hob, to keep 
 it as warm as I could, and went to my work. I was making a 
 set of shirts for Roger, and I was obliged to snatch all the spare 
 moments I could. I happened to be sitting with my back to 
 the light, but presently a shadow darkened the window, and be- 
 fore 1 could turn round to see who it was, I heard Jessie Lee's 
 gentle little voice, saying, 'Good evening to you, Ursie. Why 
 arc you all alone ? ' 
 
 I went to the window to speak to her and ask her what she 
 had come for, but I drew back vexed, for Jane Shaw was with 
 her, and though William and Leah found no fault with the ac- 
 quaintance, I never could bear it. 
 
 ' So you don't know me,' said Jane, laughing a little angrily. 
 ' We don't see too much of each other, certainly, but I should 
 not have thought we were quite such strangers.' 
 
 I opened the window to answer her for the sake of civility. I 
 knew I had no right to show my dislike rudely ; and yet I think 
 any one who had looked at Jane Shaw, would have understood 
 what it was that I could not bear in her. 
 
 A bold, cunning-looking girl she was, yet not ugly. She had 
 beautiful hair, which she wore in large, long curls ; and though 
 her skin was freckled, it was very clear. She had a low fore- 
 head, which I disliked, quick, gray eyes, and a small mouth, 
 with very thin lips ; but she set up for being pretty, and because 
 of that spent all her money upon dress, and I had heard her say 
 that she was quite determined to marry a gentleman. 
 
 Jessie looked like a little angel by her side, — so young, and 
 sweet, and simple, — only rather too smartly dressed to please 
 me. 
 
 ' Where do you come from ?' I asked, for want of something 
 better to say. 
 
 ' We have been to Hove,' answered Jessie. ' I wanted to do 
 some shopping, and Aunt Morris (she always called Mrs Morris 
 aunt) gave me a holiday. We went in the chaise ; and com- 
 ing back, Jane and I had a wish to walk over the down to 
 Hatton, instead of going round by the road ; so the boy drove
 
 URSULA. 65 
 
 the chaise, and we came on by ourselves. Jane is going to 
 sleep at our house to-night.' 
 
 This was a very straightforward history, yet it did not please 
 me. All I could say was, ' I don't think I should have chosen 
 such a long walk after a day's shopping !' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is here, isn't she ? ' asked Jane, carelessly, and 
 leaning against the window, determined, I could see, not to 
 move. 
 
 'Yes; she and Miss Milicent came about six weeks ago,' I 
 replied. 
 
 ' Oh ! and not Mr Weir. That must be a good riddance for 
 you. But I heard in Hove that he came last night.' 
 
 ' Hove people know more about our concerns than we do our- 
 selves, then,' I said. 
 
 Jane laughed, and answered in a sharp, conceited way, ' Mr 
 Weir might not think fit to tell you all he means to do : but 
 take my word for it, he will be down soon.' 
 
 ' May be,' I replied. ' He will find everything ready for him 
 if he does come ;' and as I spoke I made a little movement as 
 though to shut the window, to give Jane a notion that she might 
 go. Then a feeling of self-reproach came over me because I had 
 been uncivil, and I forced myself to say, 'Perhaps you would 
 like to come in and take a cup of tea. Roger and I were just 
 sitting down, only Mr Hervey called and interrupted us.' 
 
 ' Well, Jessie, what do you say ?' exclaimed Jane, in her off- 
 hand way; ' it would be a good plan, I think.' 
 
 She had not the graciousness to say ' Thank you,' but Jessie 
 was very prettily grateful, and afraid they were giving trouble. 
 
 I put the teapot upon the table again, and cut some bread ; and 
 knowing that Jessie was fond of sweet things, I went to the cup- 
 board and took out a pot of marmalade, some which Mrs Mason 
 had taught me to make, and which had been much praised. 
 
 Jane had a sneer ready for everything. ' You live here in 
 comfort enough, Ursie,' she said. ' But what will you do when 
 Roger takes to himself a wife ?' 
 
 ' I shall see when the time comes,' was my short reply. 
 
 Jessie was quick in knowing when subjects were unpleasant, 
 so she said, merrily, ' Ursie is Mr Roger's wife; he doesn't want 
 any other.' 
 
 'Trust him for that,' replied Jane ; ' Roger Grant is not made 
 of different stuff from other men ; is he ?' 
 
 'Perhaps I think he is,' was my answer, half in joke and half 
 
 E
 
 G5 URSULA. 
 
 in carries'. ; for I could not have a tiff about Roger with a girl 
 like Jane Shaw ; ' but,' I added, ' one thing I know, that when 
 Roger docs take a wife, it will be a sensible one.' 
 
 ' Mary Kemp, I suppose,' said Jane, laughing; 
 
 'No,' observed Jessie.; 'Mary is going to be married to Mr 
 llervey.' 
 
 'Is that true?' I asked eagerly. 'I have, heard it said, but 
 never knew whether to believe it, as neither Mrs Kemp nor Mary 
 owned it.' 
 
 ' Miss Drown, the dressmaker, declared it was true, to-day,' re- 
 plied Jessie. ' I went there to have my new dress fitted, and she 
 t( Id us that she believed Mary Kemp's wedding-clothes were 
 ordered.' 
 
 ' Mary Kemp is a very good girl,' I replied, 'and she will make 
 a good wife. I hope they are going to live near.' 
 
 ' More than I do,' observed Jane ; ' one set of Kemps is en- 
 in a neighbourhood. What nonsense do you think old Kemp is 
 about now ? Father says he will be the ruin of the farmers, if 
 he goes on as he docs.' 
 
 "(living his labourers a shilling a week more?' I asked, rather 
 sharply; 'that was his last offence, I know.' 
 
 'Spoiling the labourers,' exclaimed Jane. 'Joining with Mr 
 Vincent, the agent, and making Mr Stewart throw away ail his 
 money upon their cottages. Father wanted a new scullery and 
 coal-house put on for us, and he spoke to Mr Vincent about it, 
 and the answer was, that he didn't think it could be done this 
 year, because Mr Stewart had a plan for rebuilding most of his 
 cottages, and giving them all two bedrooms. Such nonsense, 
 when the labourers have gone on with one for the last fifty years, 
 and never complained! And who is at the bottom of this but 
 Farmer Kemp, with Mr Richardson of Compton to back him? 
 They have been working at Mr Stewart for months. And there 
 are we, cramped up without a decent place to wash up the dishes 
 in ; and obliged to turn the wood-house into a coal-hole, merely 
 because it is Farmer Kemp's fancy that his carter should have 
 two bedrooms.' 
 
 ' Mr Richardson was over at Sandcombc talking about it, when 
 I was staying there last,' said Jessie. 'William Grant has two 
 or three cottages of his own, hasn't he, Ursie? I knew Mr 
 Richardson was begging him to sec about adding to them, and 
 Leah got angry ; and, when he was gone, said she wished day- 
 men would keep to their business of writing sermons, and not
 
 URSULA. 67 
 
 trouble themselves with matters which didn't concern them. By 
 the by, Ursie,' and Jessie spoke out quite brightly, as having 
 escaped from a tiresome subject, ' do you know of any girl that 
 will suit Leah to help in the dairy ? She told me that if I hap- 
 pened to see you I was to ask. She talked of coming over herself 
 about it; the girls she has had lately have turned out so badly.' 
 
 'They all turn out badly for that matter,' said Jane ; ' it is in 
 their nature, father says ; and he never expects anything better.' 
 
 ' So Leah says,' continued Jessie. ' She declares they have no 
 sense of what is decent, and that there is no keeping them in 
 order. Remember, Ursie, I have asked ; so it is off my conscience.' 
 Jessie stood up and put on her bonnet. 
 
 Jane waited still. She had a quick ear, and I suspect she 
 caught the sound of the voices in the parlour, and thought Roger 
 and Mr Hervey were coming in ; and so they were. Their con- 
 versation had been much longer than was proposed, and it did 
 not seem to have been very pleasant, to judge by their looks. 
 
 'Good evening to you, Mr Hervey,' said Jane, going up to 
 him. ' I did not expect to see you, though I might have done 
 so : you are here so often.' 
 
 'Business, Miss Shaw,' replied Mr Hervey, quickly, and a 
 little sharply; 'it must be attended to, you know. I won't stay 
 now, Ursie,' he added, speaking to me, — he always called me 
 Ursie, having known me from a child, — 'as you have company.' 
 
 ' Nay,' I answered, ' you must have some tea ; I have been 
 keeping it hot for you ; and Jessie and Jane Shaw have finished, 
 and they are going to walk over the hill to Hatton.' 
 
 Roger had been standing by the window, thinking. He turned 
 round then, and said, ' I am going to Sandcombe ; if they would 
 wait a few minutes, I might see them part of the way ; and, 
 Ursie, you could come, too.' 
 
 It was a temptation. I seldom had a quiet walk with Roger, 
 except on Sundays ; and I was not sorry to keep Jessie from 
 being alone with Jane Shaw, though it might be only for half an 
 hour. 
 
 Jane tossed her bonnet off, and laughed, and said she was al- 
 ways willing to have good company ; and, since they were to be 
 a merry party, it would be as well for Mr Hervey to join them, 
 ' Unless he has business elsewhere,' she added, with mischief in 
 her look. 
 
 I did not expect Mr Hervey to agree, but he did, without re- 
 quiring any pressing, and I felt quite cross with him, thinking
 
 68 URSULA. 
 
 how soon a man could be taken in by a forward woman. He 
 and Roger drank up their tea quickly, and scarcely ate anything, 
 saying they would wait for supper. I left Jessie to take my 
 place, and pour out the last cups of tea, and went to put on my 
 tilings ; and when I came down again, I found that Jane had 
 possession of Mr Hervey, and was trying to find out from him 
 all she could about Mr Weir, when he was expected, and why 
 he didn't come. She took it for granted that he knew all ; and 
 I saw from his manner that there was more on his mind than he 
 chose to tell ; but he warded her off admirably, not letting her 
 know anything he wished to keep to himself, and yet joking all 
 the time, so that she could not be angry. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WE were to have separated when we reached the top of the 
 down, at the end of the turf road, but the evening was so 
 pleasant we were tempted to go on farther, instead of turning 
 down to Sandcombe. It was Jane who proposed it ; she said we 
 might cross the down to Ilatton Lane, and then Jessie and she 
 would soon be at home. Roger was doubtful ; and whilst Jane 
 was standing urging him, Mr Hervey whispered to me, 'Can't 
 you come on, Ursie ? I have a word to say to you.' 
 
 I walked on a few paces, being sure Roger would follow ; Mr 
 Hervey and I kept in front. He did not speak till we were at 
 some distance from the others ; then he said, ' You arc not likely 
 to be startled at news as some people are, so I may as well tell 
 you at once that there is trouble coming, and that Roger may be 
 wishing you to leave Dene.' 
 
 'Trouble upon us— money trouble ! ' I exclaimed, and I felt 
 my heart sink, in spite of what Mr Hervey had said. 
 
 ' Not trouble upon you, and not money trouble, at least as far 
 /:s you are concerned,' he replied. ' But I told Roger I should 
 like to have a little conversation with you, and show you part of 
 my mind upon the subject, as regards Mrs Weir, and he was 
 willing I should, though as yet we don't see matters quite alike.' 
 
 ' He is going over to Sandcombe to talk to William,' I said. 
 
 ' Yes ; he trusts him as a prudent man, which is natural and 
 right ; and he would save you, if he could, from things which
 
 URSULA. 69 
 
 might give you pain. But you are not one to care for pain, if by 
 bearing it you can be a comfort to any one.' 
 
 ' And by staying with Mrs Weir I may be a comfort to her,' I 
 said. I seemed to understand it all in an instant. 
 
 ' A woman is a help to a woman, let her be who she may ; and 
 Mrs Weir has been very kind to you, Ursie.' 
 
 ' Very,' I said ; ' I never had a better friend.' 
 
 ' And she needs a return,' he continued. ' Ursie, did you ever 
 hear Mrs Weir's history ?' 
 
 ' Only by bits. Mrs Mason has let out a little, and some 
 things I have guessed at.' 
 
 ' Some things are clear as daylight,' said Mr Hervey, sadly ; 
 ' but there is a good deal behind which only a few know, which 
 I should never have known, but that my father was Mr Weir's 
 bailiff, and had a great deal to do with his affairs, and his father's 
 before him, and so we have become, as it were, part of the family. 
 If I tell you now, Ursie, it is not that you may talk about it all, 
 only that you may be the more inclined to be kind and under- 
 standing.' 
 
 ' Of course,' I said ; 'it will all be buried as in the grave, except 
 with Roger.' 
 
 Mr Hervey paused for a moment ; then he said, ' You know 
 that Mrs Weir is a second wife ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was told also that the first Mrs Weir 
 had less money than her husband expected.' 
 
 ' So it was said,' he replied ; 'but she left him enough to give 
 cause for his being considered rich, in spite of his extravagant 
 habits ; and, as perhaps you know, our Mrs Weir brought him 
 money also. She was a Miss Mayne, and not above nineteen 
 when she first knew Mr Weir ; very lovely, like a little fairy, I 
 have heard my father say ; one can easily fancy that from what 
 she is now. She had money of her own, left by her grandmother, 
 and she was made a great deal of,— spoiled, indeed, by having 
 everything she wished for ; naturally she was full of fancies, and 
 being delicate they humoured her in them ; and because there 
 was money at hand to buy everything, there seemed no reason, 
 at first sight, why she should not have what she wanted. Poor 
 thing! she has lived to know that there are some things which 
 no money can buy.' 
 
 'And did she marry Mr Weir when she was only nineteen? 
 I asked. 
 ' No ! When she knew him first she was in love with some-
 
 7 o URSULA. 
 
 body else; a young gentleman named Henderson. He was a 
 clerk in one of the public offices in London, and likely to rise in 
 the world ; but he had nothing of his own then except his salary. 
 Every one saw they were attached to each other. The parents 
 put no obstacles in the way of their meeting, and I believe there 
 was a kind of understanding that if they both continued in the 
 same mind they were after a while to be marri 
 • And why did they not marry ?' I asked. 
 
 ause Mr Weir came in the way. I suppose he must 
 really have taken a fancy to Miss Mayne, for he proposed to her 
 only eight months after his first wife's death.' 
 
 ' Enough to make her refuse him at once,' I exclaimed. 
 'And so she would have refused him, no doubt, if she had 
 been left to herself,' replied Mr Hcrvcy. ' But her father inter- 
 fered. He liked the notion of a rich son-in-law better than a 
 poor one, and what was more he was a selfish man, and as it 
 turned out afterwards, had involved himself in difficulties, out of 
 which Mr Weir undertook to help him, and so poor little Miss 
 Mayne was sacrificed.' 
 
 ' It is all very well to say,' I replied ; 'but it never seems to 
 me that any woman is justified in marrying a man whom she 
 cannot love, let her parents urge it ever so much.' 
 
 'Well! you are right,' answered Mr Hcrvey ; 'but when a 
 person is put on the rack one must not be severe in one's judg- 
 ment ; and, from what I have heard, they set poor little Miss 
 Mayne on a kind of rack. False stories of young Henderson 
 were brought to her, and she was made to believe he was going 
 to marry some one else ; and that, and her father's urging, and 
 Mr Weir's attentions, — for he knew well enough how to make 
 himself agreeable, — at last won her over.' 
 
 'And did Mr Henderson say nothing for himself?' I in- 
 quired. 
 
 'They managed it all when he was out of the way. He had 
 been sent abroad for a time on some matter of public business, 
 and whilst he was absent the affair was settled.' 
 ' But he might have written,' I sa 
 
 ' They took good care that his letters should never reach her ; 
 yet she did hear from him at last. A note from him was given 
 her, I have been told, on the day of her marriage, just as she 
 came back from church. You can fancy, Ursic, what a wedding 
 j. irty i'i it was. My mother watched the carriage drive I 
 the town, when Mr and Mrs Weir went off on their journey
 
 URSULA. ji 
 
 and anything so ghastly as Mrs Weir's face she has said she never 
 beheld.' 
 
 ' Poor thing ! ' I exclaimed ; ' I wonder how she could bear it. 
 I should have died.' 
 
 ' Life is made of tougher threads than you think, Ursie,' said 
 Mr Hervey, ' and I suppose we all in a way grow used to our 
 sorrows. Just at first, too, Mr Weir was not unkind to his wife ; 
 she lived near her home, and had her old friends about her, so 
 there was a good deal to soften her lot.' 
 
 ' But Mr Weir is not kind to her now,' I observed. 
 
 'No; he grew jealous, without the slightest cause, except that 
 he knew his wife had been attached to young Henderson. They 
 met — Mr Henderson and Mrs Weir, I mean — for the first time 
 at some gay party in London, and though I have heard it said 
 again and again, that no one could find the least thing to blame 
 in their manner to each other, yet no doubt Mr Weir perceived 
 that there was pain on both sides. And so he grew angry and 
 irritable, and I dare say she, having been spoiled, was not always 
 wise in her mode of dealing with him.' 
 
 'She may not have been wise,' I said, 'but she must always 
 have meant rightly.' 
 
 ' Everybody believed that of her. But Mr Weir is a strange 
 man, Ursie. If he dislikes or suspects once, there is no over- 
 coming the prejudice. And so he deliberately set himself — at 
 least, that is what people declare — to ruin young Hender- 
 son.' 
 
 'Wretch !' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Not far short of it,' replied Mr Hervey. I have that 
 opinion of him, Ursie, that, but for the sake of Mrs Weir, I 
 would never have done an hour's business for him. But I dare 
 say he would make a good excuse for himself; it was all in the 
 way of law, and therefore he called it justice. Mr Weir was 
 engaged in some speculations, — he is always speculating, — and 
 in the course of them, he and young Henderson were mixed up 
 in the same concern. Henderson was not a good man of busi- 
 ness, and ignorantly entered into some engagements which he 
 could not conveniently keep. He begged for time ; and there 
 was no doubt that with time he would have overcome his diffi- 
 culties. But his relations were poor, and he had no one to help 
 him. Mr Weir urged the person with whom he was connected 
 to press him. Henderson was in despair, for he was a strictly 
 honourable man, and at last he ventured to write to Mrs Weir
 
 7 2 URSULA. 
 
 and ask her to intercede. There was an allusi n in this letter 
 to past days, but not a word which might not have been pub- 
 lished in the market-place. Yet Mr Weir's anger was terrible. 
 They say that Mrs Weir even went so far as to beg him on her 
 knees to be merciful ; but his answer was that not an angel 
 from heaven should persuade him, — and he kept his u 
 
 'And was Mr Henderson ruined?' 1 exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes. His friends came forward at the last with offers of help, 
 but it was too late. 1 1 is agony of mind, aggravated no doubt by 
 all he had gone through before, brought on a brain fever, and 
 he died.' 
 
 Silence followed for some seconds. 
 
 Then I said, ' She slaved with her husband still ?' 
 
 'For better for worse,' replied Mr Hervey. 'There is no 
 oth;r choice' 
 
 ' I must have left him,' I exclaimed. ' There could be no law 
 to bid one stay with such a monster.' 
 
 'Mrs Weir was wiser than you, Ursie,' he continued; 'she 
 knew well enough that peace is only to be found in the way of 
 duty. But that grief made her what she is. It wrecked her 
 health and prevented her from paying attention to her child. It 
 shook her mind in a certain way,— or rather, I should say. it so 
 affected her nerves, that for a time she seemed stunned, av.d 
 unable to take in common affairs. She has recovered in a mea- 
 sure, but the bodily weakness remains, and you must have re- 
 marked yourself, that she seldom speaks like a person who has 
 an interest in this world's concerns. Only now and then, when 
 any especial case is brought before her, if one is with her alone, 
 her vigour of character seems to return.' 
 
 ' I should scarcely have said she had any vigour naturally,' I 
 observed. 
 
 'You are mistaken, then; she has a great deal. It shows 
 itself now in a singular way ; one might suppose that she would 
 have become neglectful of her husband after he had shown such 
 disregard to her feelings ; but, on the contrary, she is, as you 
 must know, even morbidly anxious to be obedient to him. Con- 
 science, particularly as regards him, seems the only thing which 
 is left thoroughly alive in her.' 
 
 1 Perhaps,' I said, • she feels that she deceived him by the very 
 act of marrying him.' 
 
 'It maybe so,' he replied. 'At any rate, duty to her hus- 
 band is the one ruling object of her life now ; not its motive
 
 URSULA. 73 
 
 though, Ursie ; there is no heart in what she does — how can 
 there be ? ' 
 
 ' How, indeed ! ' I replied ; ' but,' I added, as I thought of 
 Miss Milicent, ' that must have taken place many years ago.' 
 
 'So many,' answered Mr Hervey, 'that most persons have 
 forgotten the circumstances, if they ever knew them ; and Mrs 
 Weir is generally considered now only an eccentric, nervous 
 invalid. Yet it is not her life only which has been affected by 
 them, but Miss Milicent's also. She was allowed to go her own 
 way, and at last became too much for her mother. She was 
 clever and energetic, and Mr Weir found her useful in many 
 ways, and brought her forward, and at last she took up inde- 
 pendent notions of her own, and quite looked down upon her 
 parents.' 
 
 ' Not upon her father ?' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, upon them both ; for she was quick enough, and good 
 enough, I will say that for her, to see through Mr Weir. It 
 seems, Ursie, that when we put our hearts into our work it will 
 tell in some way or other in the end, whatever blunders we may 
 make. Sorrow, through God's grace, made Mrs Weir very re- 
 ligious, and whatever else Miss Milicent might laugh at in her 
 mother, she never laughed at that. Only, unfortunately, she 
 made a bad use of the respect which she could not help feeling. 
 She despised her mother for thinking too little of this world, and 
 her father for thinking too little of the next.' 
 
 ' She has turned out to be disagreeable enough between the 
 two,' I said. 
 
 ' Yes ; though there is better stuff in her than you might 
 fancy ; but she is not likely to be much comfort to either if 
 trouble should come; which is the reason, Ursie, why I wanted 
 you to be near Mrs Weir, if it could be, at least for a time. She 
 would have more help from you than she would ever get from 
 her daughter.' 
 
 ' But what is coming ? ' I asked, quickly. 
 
 4 That is what I can't say,' he replied. ' I am not at liberty ; 
 and I don't want to urge you against anything which Roger and 
 William may consider right ; but they will be likely to think 
 most of you, and I want you to think a little of Mrs Weir. I 
 told Roger I should say this to you, and he did not object.' 
 
 ' I will stand by her through everything,' I exclaimed. ' She 
 has been as kind to me as a mother.' 
 
 ' And you won't repent it,' he replied. ' There is great com*
 
 74 URSULA. 
 
 fort in this world in being able to help those who can't help 
 themselves.' 
 
 I answered heartily, ' Yes,' and I felt the colour rush to my 
 check, whilst my heart beat very fast I could have fought 
 against an army just then in defence of Mrs Weir. 
 
 Mr llervey laughed a little, and said he felt I was a host on 
 any one's side ; but I think he had deeper and sadder thoughts 
 in his mind, for he stood still, thinking and looking grave, which 
 was very unlike him, and quite started when Roger, and Jane, 
 and Jessie came up bantering, and asking what made us keep so 
 far ahead. 
 
 We were at Hatton Lane gate then, and there we were to part 
 company. Mr Hervcy and I were a great contrast to the others. 
 They were so merry, and Jessie said they had had a delightful 
 walk. As she stood leaning by the gate, not willing, I could see, 
 to go through, and saying good-bye to Mr Hervey, I thought 
 what a pretty picture she would make, and I made Roger remark 
 her, and he looked pleased that I should notice her kindly, and 
 said that she was too nice a girl to be left to Jane Shaw ; he 
 wished I would become her friend. I took but little notice of his 
 words, for I had no thought to give to any one but Mrs Weir. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ROGER and I went back to Sandcombe alone. Mr Hervey 
 - had some business at Compton, and walked home that 
 way. William was out in the yard, giving orders to one of his 
 carters ; but he left off directly he saw us, and made Roger go 
 with him to look at a new threshing machine which was just 
 put up. He told me I should find Leah in the house; so I 
 went in. 
 
 She was in the little parlour, alone and working. I think she 
 was not sorry to be interrupted, for she was very gracious, and 
 wondered why I had not been to sec her lately. 
 
 I told her I had been busy, what with keeping the cottage in 
 order, and cooking, and needlework, and that now the family 
 were at Dene, there was more than usual to attend to. 
 
 'You should not make yourself a slave, Ursie,' she replied, 
 'Jane Shaw and I were talking about it the other day. She
 
 URSULA. 75 
 
 says, and I quite agree with her, that the Weirs treat you as 
 nothing better than a servant, and that if you were to hold your 
 head higher, you might have as much respect paid you as she 
 has.' 
 
 'A little more, I hope,' was my answer. 
 
 ' You need not be so proud, Ursie. I don't see what right you 
 have to look down upon the Shaws in the way you do ; it is not 
 at all fitting for a girl of your age.' 
 
 ' I don't want to look down upon any one,' I replied ; ' it is 
 the Shaws who look down upon me. And, you know,' I added, 
 laughing, ' that if people will walk about in stilts, one is forced 
 to do the same to be even with them.' 
 
 ' The Shaws are higher in the world than you are, or are ever 
 likely to be, whilst you live shut up at Dene,' continued Leah. 
 ' I don't mean to approve of all Jane does. I told her the other 
 day that she went into Hove too often, and made herself too 
 much noticed by her smart dress.' 
 
 ' Yet you don't object to Jessie's going with her,' I said. 
 
 ' Jessie's. v doings are not my concern,' replied Leah. (It was 
 not strictly true, for she really had more control over Jessie than 
 any one.) ' Not but what if they were, I doubt if I should think 
 it wise to stop her, when every now and then she has the chance 
 of a little pleasure. She must look out for herself. She will 
 have to make her way in the world, and we must give her the 
 opportunity of gaining friends.' 
 
 ' Or a husband,' I said, sharply. 
 
 But Leah was not put out. 'Yes, or a husband ! It would 
 be a very good thing for Jessie to be married, — there is no doubt 
 of that ; — and she is more likely to meet with persons who will 
 take to her, if she is allowed to see a little of the world, than if 
 she stays all the year at Hatton.' 
 
 Leah said this so boldly that, for the instant, I was caught by 
 her words, and felt she might have truth on her side ; but a second 
 thought brought me round to my former mind. 
 
 ' For twenty husbands,' I said, ' I would not go to Hove on a 
 Saturday, to flaunt about the streets with Jane Shaw, and have 
 all the idle folks in the country gossiping about me.' 
 
 'You are jealous, Ursie,' said Leah, with some meaning. 
 'Jane Shaw is handsome enough and clever enough to have 
 persons going after her who would never look at you.' 
 
 'Very likely/ I said, carelessly, not choosing to show that I 
 was annoyed ; though I must own that, as Leah spoke, I glanced
 
 76 i r/..i. 
 
 at the old minor over the fireplace to sec if I was really so plain 
 that no one would ever look at me. 
 
 ' We won't talk about it,' said Leah, in a quiet, provoking 
 tone, which I knew meant that it was not worth while to argue 
 
 with me. 'You will be sorry some day for your bitterness 
 
 linst the Shaws. Is Roger come over upon any particular 
 business ?' 
 
 ' I think he is,' I replied. ' We walked over the down to 
 11 itton Gate before we came here, with Jane Shaw, and Mr 
 Hervey, and Jessie ; and, now I think of it, Leah, Jcssi* 
 me to recommend you a girl for the dairy if I could. Is Kitty 
 Hobson going away?' 
 
 I said this rather to divert Leah's attention from Roger's busi- 
 ness ; and it served my purpose. She answered quickly, ' Kitty 
 went yesterday ; she turned out good for nothing, and I could 
 not keep her. It is the case with them all. I wonder some- 
 times what is the good of all the learning the girls get at school ; 
 it does not teach one in twenty to be respectable.' 
 
 I could not help thinking there might be some fault in the 
 teaching of the girls after they left school. Leah had only lately 
 sent away an upper servant who was a great deal worse than 
 idle, and whose character she well knew, but whom she kept 
 because of her cleverness. Kitty Hobson had been under her, 
 and no doubt had learned much evil from her. 
 
 I hesitated, and then I said, ' Kitty must have had a bad 
 example since she left school.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Leah, misunderstanding me. 'Her parents 
 arc people of no thought, and the cottage is a perfect pigstyc ; 
 and they live all together more like pigs than human beings. 
 As for Kitty, she never had a notion of behaving like a decent 
 girl. Martha says it was a disgrace to be with her. If Mr 
 Richardson would look after his school, and not spend his time 
 in planning new cottages, we shouldn't hear the talcs of Compton 
 that we do.' 
 
 ' It must be a hard matter to learn decent habits when they 
 are all crowded together in that fashion,' I said ; ' how many in 
 a room are there ? ' 
 
 ' Hobson, and his wife, and Kitty, and Charles, and the baby. 
 Lately, they have put Henry Hobson to sleep in the little out- 
 house.' 
 
 'And it is William's cottage, isn't it ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes; more 's the pity. Mr Richardson was over here last
 
 URSULA. 77 
 
 week talking to William, in a way that I thought very im- 
 pertinent, about building another room, and at last William was 
 quite put. out with him, and said plainly that it was no use 
 doing anything for people like the Hobsons. He might have 
 said that it was no use giving money to Mr Richardson's school. 
 He told me afterwards, indeed, that he had more than half a 
 mind to withdraw his subscription, — you know we pay five 
 shillings a year to Compton school ; — and I think he will be right 
 since Kitty Hobson has turned out so badly, for it's a shame to 
 think that she was brought up there.' 
 
 Leah always had right on her side, in her own opinion, but I 
 could not help feeling for Mrs Hobson, who was a hard-working 
 woman, and not at all strong, and I secretly made up my mind 
 that I would go and see her, and inquire into the story before 
 long. Perhaps, between Mrs Richardson and the Kemps, some- 
 thing might be done to give Kitty a helping hand, for I only 
 understood, from what Leah said, that she was unsteady and 
 careless in her habits. 
 
 Leah was peculiar in her ways of management in all these 
 matters. She allowed things to go on as they might for a long 
 time, and then suddenly, without warning, a girl was turned off. 
 I felt with her that it would not do to keep one who was not 
 well conducted, and I had often wondered at the carelessness 
 which some of the farmers' wives showed about their servants, 
 but I did think that some pains ought to be taken first to bring 
 them into the right way. Leah saw that I took a different view 
 of the case from her, and it made her cross. She said, pettishly, 
 that she wondered what William and Roger could have to talk 
 about so long, she should go and see, and she left the room. 
 
 I felt very sad when I was left alone; what Mr Hervey had 
 told me about Mrs Weir rested in my mind, and I had a feeling 
 that changes and trouble were coming upon me. But even more 
 than this, it always put me in low spirits— at least as far as 
 anything could, for I was very cheerful naturally — to be at 
 Sandcombe. 
 
 There was something about it which so often brought to my 
 mind the story of the rich man and Lazarus. How William 
 would have laughed if I had said so to him ! He rich ? — why, 
 he believed himself to be just struggling to keep his head above 
 water. A high rent to give for his land, upon which sums of 
 money had been spent, his stock to be kept up, his labourers to 
 b? paid ; to say nothing of taxes, enough to ruin a man — land-
 
 78 JRSULA. 
 
 tax, and poor-rate, and church-rate, and taxes for houses and 
 servants— it was absurd to speak of being rich ! And besides, 
 if lie was well off one year, who was to answer for the next ? 
 Everything depended upon the weather, which, if it did well for 
 one crop, was sure to do badly for another. What was good 
 for hay was bad for turnips, — that every one knew. To b 
 William talk, you would have thought it was only by a miracle 
 he was saved from the workhouse. But, in spite of it all, the 
 Bible story would return to me. There was Leah, after her 
 day's work, sitting at case in her comfortable little parlour, 
 having had a good dinner and tea, and expecting a good supper ; 
 finding for herself just employment enough to prevent time from 
 hanging heavy on her hands — for there was a new bonnet lying 
 on the table, with the ribbon beside it with which it was to 
 be trimmed — no one to interrupt her ; people about her will- 
 ing to do what she told them ; a nice little chaise ready to 
 take her where she liked to go ; a cart and a waggon ready to 
 be sent for whatever she chose to order ; a husband whose 
 great fault and misfortune was, that he let her have her own 
 way. If it was not being rich, it was being quite comfortable 
 without riches. 
 
 l)ut it was all very proper and respectable ; there was no sin 
 in it. I never heard, though, that the rich man in the parable 
 committed any great sin : he only let Lazarus lie at his gate. 
 
 Kitty Hobson, however, was not like Lazarus ; she was good 
 for nothing, so Leah said. Why was Leah to trouble herself 
 about her? Why might not Kitty be sent back to her home, to 
 sleep in the little loft with her father, and brother, and mother, 
 and the baby ? What matter was it to Leah that the girl cotdd 
 not learn decent habits if she wished it ? She was good for 
 nothing already. What was the use of trying to keep her from 
 becoming worse ? When Leah lay down to sleep on her soft 
 bed in the wholesome atmosphere of her large room, why need 
 she vex herself with thinking of the little crowded attic in which 
 Jive living beings were to pass the night? If the rain pelted 
 against the window, why need she remember that there was a 
 hole in the roof of Hobson's cottage, and that the drops would 
 fall upon Kitty's bed ? If the wind blew, there were shutters 
 and a curtain at Sandcombc Farm, the walls were thick, and the 
 crevices carefully stopped. That was comfort for Leah ; and as 
 f>r Kitty Hobson, she was accustomed to the breezes of summer 
 and the storms of winter, for the cottage was so old that it
 
 URSULA. 79 
 
 was more worth William's while to let it tumble to pieces than 
 to attempt to mend it. 
 
 And then, if Kitty was worthless, it was no use to think of 
 improving her. It might do Leah some good to say her prayers 
 for she could knoel down quietly, and think seriously of what 
 she was about ; but what was the good of talking to Kitty about 
 prayers and the Bible ? She had, no doubt, given up any right 
 practice she might have learned at school. There would be her 
 father talking te her mother when she could have prayed ; or 
 the baby crying, or Charles complaining that he could not go 
 to sleep ; and when she got up in the morning it would be the 
 same, or rather worse, for they must all be dressing in the same 
 room, huddling on their clothes, crying out for breakfast, and 
 scolding Kitty because the fire was not lighted. If she had 
 wished to say her prayers, she could not possibly have found a 
 quiet moment or a quiet place. But she did not want it, — she 
 was good for nothing ! 
 
 Le»h might have been right; but I thought of the rich man, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 William came in alone, after I had been about ten minutes 
 by myself. He sat down in his large elbow-chair, as though 
 he was tired, and laid his hands upon his knees, and thought 
 for some seconds. Presently he said, ' Hard times, Ursie, aren't 
 they? ' 
 
 ' I am sorry you find them so,' I replied ; ' I don't know that 
 they are so particularly hard at Dene.' 
 
 'Just what I have been saying to Roger,' he replied. 'When 
 you have a certain sum coming in, be it ever so small, you are 
 better off than running a risk, as one must in taking a farm.' 
 
 ' Is that what Roger thinks?' I inquired, hastily. ' He is come 
 over with some plan, I know.' 
 
 ' Roger has the Canada fancy again,' replied William ; and he 
 fixed his eyes upon me keenly, to see by my face what I felt. 
 
 My colour may have changed ; I won't say that it did not. 
 But I was upon my guard to conceal my feelings : whatever 
 they were, they were to be told to Roger first. So I answered, 
 quietly, ' Has he ? He never told me about it.' 
 
 ' Then he had better come and tell you now,' said William ; 
 and he rose up slowly from' his chair and went into the kitchen, 
 and called Roger and Leah, who were talking together outside 
 Ihe house. 
 
 J sat still. I would not appear impatient or put out ; but my
 
 So URSULA. 
 
 heart grew sick, and a pang went through it ; for I felt that 
 R.0 jer had not treated me kindly. 
 
 Roger stepped into the room first ; and before I could make 
 up my mind to look up and speak to him, I felt his hand laid 
 upon my shoulder, and heard him say, in a tone which he tried 
 to make light, 'There's nothing settled yet, Trot; so don't be 
 cast down.' 
 
 ' I had rather hear it all from you, Roger,' I said, reproachfully. 
 ' You shouldn't leave others to tell me.' 
 
 ' I didn't mean it, Ursie ; I didn't mean it. It is a thought 
 just of an hour, — nothing more, — and it may go to the winds 
 before to-morrow.' 
 
 ' But I may be spoken to plainly,' I replied; 'I am not a 
 child, and I can bear things.' 
 
 'Bravely, Ursie. Not a woman in England better,' said 
 Roger; 'and you should have heard it all before night; only 
 William let the cat out of the bag.' 
 
 ' I was rather curious to see how she would take it, I must 
 own,' said William. 
 
 ' Ursie is a sensible woman,' said Leah, sharply. 
 
 People always say one is sensible when they are going to give 
 particularly disagreeable advice. 
 
 'If you will speak out,' I said, ' I will show whether I am 
 sensible or not. What do you all want me to do ?' 
 
 ' Stay and live here with us, if Roger goes to Canada,' said 
 Leah, bluntly. And Roger bowed his head upon his hands, for 
 it seemed he dared not look at me. 
 
 I don't think I answered directly ; but when I did, I know 
 that my voice sounded, even to myself, quite changed. 
 
 ' I thank you, Leah, for speaking out,' I said. ' I will do what 
 Roger wishes. If I am to be a help to him, I will go ; if I am 
 to be a hindrance, I will stay ; — not here,' I added, quickly, for 
 Leah was going to praise me for agreeing with her ; — ' I will do 
 something to be independent ; if there is nothing else, I will go 
 to service.' 
 
 William uttered a low whistle of surprise. Roger only look 
 my hand, and held it very tight. 
 
 ' Then you will be the first of the Grants that ever so de- 
 meaned herself,' said Leah. 
 
 'Better come with me, Ursie, than do that,' said Roger, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 'Yes, better indeed,' I exclaimed, vehemently; 'a thousand
 
 URSULA. 81 
 
 times better, Roger, go with you to the'world's end, than stay 
 behind to be a queen. And why mustn't I go ? I have hands 
 and health, and care nothing for hardships. I will work to the 
 last hour that God gives me strength ; why mustn't I go?' 
 
 ' Because it's all a chance,' said William, 'and Roger knows 
 it. He may just as likely be a ruined man as a rich one.' 
 
 1 Then we will be ruined together,' I exclaimed. 
 
 'That wouldn't help me, Ursie,' said Roger; and he looked 
 up at me with what tried to be a smile, but it was not one. 
 
 ' I don't see that there is a question of ruin for any one,' ex- 
 claimed Leah, rather contemptuously. ' Roger has money to set 
 out with if he chooses to go, and no doubt he will do better at 
 first alone. What is to come after may be left, if Ursie won't 
 ride the high horse, and be too proud to find a home with her 
 own brother.' 
 
 'I am not too proud,' I said, hastily, 'and I have proved it. 
 Who has been Roger's servant up to this time? and who will 
 continue so to his dying day if he will only say yes ? ' 
 
 1 A man who sets out as a colonist can't afford to keep a ser- 
 vant,' said William. ' If Roger is bent upon this wild plan he 
 must go alone, Ursie.' 
 
 I couldn't understand William's tone at all. I had fancied be- 
 fore that he upheld Roger's notion. He was going to say more, 
 when Roger started from his seat and stood up before me. The 
 sadness in his face was gone, and he looked like himself, fit and 
 willing to brave the world. ' We have not been fair upon you, 
 Ursie,' he said; 'you have been taken by surprise. We should 
 have talked this matter over alone, and we will do it now. Leah, 
 you have been kind in offering a helping hand ; and thank you 
 for it. Good night, William ; you shall hear more about us to- 
 morrow.' He walked out of the room, and through the passage 
 into the yard, not once looking round to see if I was following 
 him. William seemed thoroughly vexed. Leah was only rather 
 grave ; she just said, ' I hope, Ursie, whatever you resolve upon, 
 you will consider the credit of the family,' and then she let mo 
 depart.
 
 82 URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 INSTEAD of turning into the turf road to Dene, Roger said, 
 when we reached it, 'The moon will be up in a few 
 minutes, Ursie ; we might get to the top of St Anne's and look 
 at it.' These were the first words he hnd spoken, and I had 
 not interrupted his silence. I felt that he wanted time to 
 set himself right. That conversation had for some reason or 
 other disturbed him, more almost than I should have expected. 
 And it was a quieting walk along the ridge of the down ; it was 
 growing very dark, but the sky was clear, and one or two stars 
 Mere to be seen gleaming very faintly. I could just distinguish 
 between the trees the Abbey Farm, and a dark spot which I 
 knew must be the tower of Compton church ; and out in the 
 distance, where there was a glowing sheet of yellow light along 
 the horizon, the white cliffs stood up mistily, their outline mixing 
 with the sky. 
 
 ' Now, Ursie, give me your hand,' said Roger, as we stood at 
 the foot of St Anne's Hill. The way was steep ; he dragged me 
 up after him, taking care to avoid the chalk-pit, and every now 
 and then bidding me stop to rest, — though I scarcely needed it. 
 When we reached the Oratory, he made me lean against the 
 wall. The moon had risen, though as yet it cast no reflection ; 
 but a pale light was spread over the vast expanse of waters, and 
 white cuiling waves could be seen dashing upon the shingles, 
 and scattering their spray into the air. Roger took off his hat, 
 and passed his hand across his forehead. 
 
 ' We may well look at the sea, Ursie,' he said ; 'it will be the 
 highroad between us before long.' 
 
 ever,' I answered, firmly ; ' my mind is made up, Roger.' 
 
 ' But not mine. William is right ; it is a risk.' 
 
 ' Then William should not urge you to go,' I said. 
 
 ' He does not. You heard him call it a wild notion ; he 
 thinks I can stay at Dene.' 
 
 ' And why can't you ? We have one lot in life, Roger ; I 
 ought to know.' 
 
 ' Mr Weir is a ruined man ; or, if he is not now, he must be 
 before many weeks are over. John Hcrvey knows it, and came 
 to tell ire of it. Does it startle you, Ursie ? ' and he put his arm 
 round me, and drew me cio:e to him and kissed me.
 
 URSULA. 83 
 
 ' No,' I answered, ' it does not startle me ; nothing that I 
 
 could hear of j\lr Weir would. But his wife, Miss Milicent,' 
 
 my heart was full, I could not say more ; and John Hervey's 
 story and my own words came to my mind reproachfully. 
 
 ' It's bitter enough for them,' he said ; ' but we must think of 
 ourselves, Ursie ; or, at least, I am bound to think of you.' 
 
 ' And we can't help them ?' I said. 
 
 ' Not without doing ourselves harm, so far as I can see now. 
 At least I can't.' 
 
 ' But I can, and that is what Mr Hervey meant,' I said, ' when 
 he talked to me.' 
 
 'John Hervey is against your going with me,' was his answer. 
 ' Whatever he may have said about Mrs Weir is only second in 
 his thoughts ; his first notion is that you are safer in England, 
 at least for a while. William, and Leah, — they all think so.' 
 
 'And Roger thinks what?' I said; and I leaned my hand 
 upon his shoulder, and partly raised myself, that I might look 
 into his face, and see clearly what he meant. 
 
 ' Roger is a fool ! ' he said, in a husky voice. ' Ursie, I can't 
 live alone.' 
 
 All the love which had been lying deep in my heart for years 
 seemed, at that moment, to gather itself up into one overwhelm- 
 ing torrent. ' Let the whole world be against me, and I will 
 go ! ' I exclaimed ; ' God made us brother and sister ; He 
 taught us to love one another, and it can't be His will that we 
 should part.' 
 
 He pressed me to him more closely, but he did not answer. 
 
 'Is it not true?' I continued, eagerly. 'Have you anything 
 to say against it ? If God has joined us together, why are we to 
 be put asunder?' 
 
 ' That is said of husband and wife, not of brother and sister,' 
 he replied. 
 
 ' And if I were your wife you would take me with you ? ' 
 
 ' I should feel it my duty,' was the answer. 
 
 It was my turn then to be silent ; neither of us, indeed, spoke 
 for some seconds. At last I said, bitterly, ' A wife couldn't love 
 you better than I do, Roger ! ' 
 
 'Maybe not,' he replied. The words must have struck him 
 as cold, for he added, ' You love me a thousand times more than 
 I deserve, Ursie ; but that is no reason why I am to take 
 advantage of you to lead you into hardships.' 
 
 ' I shall walk into them with my eyes open,' I replied. 'I am
 
 84 • URSULA. 
 
 not a girl now, I am a woman ; I know what I can beat — every- 
 thing, Roger, except you shouldn't love me.' 
 
 1 Then you have little enough to fear in life,' he said ; ' but, 
 Ursie, it won't do to think only of our love. There is a safer 
 lulc, though not such a pleasant one, — what we can afford.' 
 
 'I shall be no expense to you,' I replied; 'and every one 
 knows how useful a woman is in a new country.' 
 
 'Yes, in some ways; but it is all an experiment. If I take 
 you, I must pay your passage, and lit you out, and all our travel- 
 ling will be doubled, and I must be more careful as to lodging. 
 If I go by myself, I may find a shelter anywhere, I shall not care 
 where I am ; but if I have you with me, I shall never bear that 
 you should want comforts ; and then, if the scheme should fail, 
 there will be the expense of coming back again.' 
 
 ' Then, why go at all, if it is to fail ?' I said, rather perversely. 
 
 'Because it's the best opening a man in my circumstances 
 can have.' 
 
 'And if you were married, you would still go, and take your 
 wife?' 
 
 ' Even so ; a family man has a much better chance in a new 
 country than an old one.' 
 
 ' But you are not married, and you have no family.' 
 
 ' No reason why I mayn't be married some day, you know, 
 Trot,' and he laughed. 
 
 ' No reason,' I answered, quietly ; but it seemed that a dagger 
 went through my heart. 
 
 I don't know whether Roger suspected it, but he went on : 
 ' There is no good in locking on into the future, Trot ; we have 
 lived very happily hitherto, and, please God, we will be happy 
 yet. My wife's wedding-clothes are not made, nor likely to be; 
 and, in the meantime, there is nothing I want but Ursie : and if 
 all goes well, by this time twelvemonth I may be writing to you 
 from over the sea, asking you to come to me : and then I don't 
 think you will say no. And you know,' he added, 'that a wife, 
 if I had one, couldn't take up so much room but what there 
 would always be a corner for you.' 
 
 lie was a man ; he did not know a woman's heart, and lie 
 thought he had comforted me by those words. 
 
 'Then it is settled; you are going,' I answered. I cotdd 
 not bring myself to say thank you for what he had been offer- 
 ing me. 
 
 'Not at all settled,' he replied; 'it depends partly upon
 
 URSULA. 85 
 
 William, and getting the money together. You know now a 
 good deal is laid out upon his farm, and I don't want to put him 
 to inconvenience. That is one reason why I said nothing to 
 you ; I felt the plan might never come to anything ; and there 
 was no use in troubling you before the time.' 
 
 ' You would not have treated your wife so/ I said, reproach- 
 fully. He was very quick at catching any change in my voice. 
 
 ' O Ursie ! — jealous ! ' He laughed, and patted me on the 
 back, as though I had been a child. 
 
 My pride was touched ; and I drew back from him. ' I only 
 wish,' I said, 'to have common trust placed in me. If I am 
 worth anything, Roger, I am worth that ; and I have never kept 
 back a thought from you.' 
 
 'Nor I from you, Ursie,' he answered, gravely. ' It shouldn't 
 have been so now if I had guessed for a moment that you would 
 take it to heart. As to a wife, the notion is too silly to talk 
 about. Twenty wives wouldn't do for me what my little Trot 
 has done.' And then he gave me what I used to call one of his 
 bear's hugs, and I prayed him to be merciful ; and said, laughing, 
 yet being more inclined to cry, that I wouldn't wish him a worse 
 punishment than one wife ; for he didn't know the least about 
 women's ways, and he had been quite spoiled. 
 
 ' True, perhaps, Ursie,' he said, thoughtfully ; and I felt com- 
 forted, though not happy. 
 
 We stood together for some minutes afterwards, watching the 
 glimmering of the moonlight which was just beginning to mark 
 a path upon the sea. I think we were both glad to forget for a 
 while that there was anything else to be thought about. The 
 light streamed doubtfully at first, seeming to catch only the crests 
 of the waves, and then a cloud passed, and it was quite hidden, 
 and a deep shadow rested upon the water ; from which, after a 
 few minutes, broke forth at intervals glittering lines and bright 
 islands of pale glory, till at length once more the moon rose high 
 and clear ; and the broad sparkling pathway was traced in one 
 unbroken flood of silvery light across the ocean. 
 
 'Do you see it, Ursie?' said Roger; and he pointed to a 
 liny vessel making its way across the ocean. ' How lonely it 
 looks ! ' 
 
 'Not lonely,' I said; 'there is another following it. Now 
 they are coming into the light; they are close together.' I heard 
 Roger sigh. 
 
 ' They are going in the same direction,' I added ;. ' they must
 
 86 f RSULA. 
 
 be bound for the same port. If storms come, they will help each 
 other. You would not part them, Roger?' . 
 
 'It is growing very late, Ursie, we must be going,' was his 
 only answer. We left the shelter of the ruined oratory; and as 
 
 the cold breeze was felt on the open hill, Roger said earnestly. 
 ' I shouldn't feel the chill, Ursie, if you were not here to share it. 
 It may be better to be lonely after all.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I WAS awakened next morning by a loud knocking at the 
 cottage door. It must have been about half-past five o'clock, 
 for I was very sound asleep, and I always woke by myself 
 before six. I waited to hear if Roger would move, and not hear- 
 ing him, I supposed he must have dressed and gone out before, 
 and as quickly as I could I went down-stairs myself, thinking 
 that most likely it was Fanny come over from the house for 
 something she wanted. 
 
 When I opened the door I saw not Fanny but Miss Milicent. 
 'Why didn't you come, Ursie,' she said ; ' I have been knocking 
 till I was tired. You are wanted ; my mother has had a bad 
 night, and says she must see you directly. It is too bad for a 
 girl like you to lie in bed so long.' Miss Milicent, I suppose, 
 thought that because I worked harder I needed less sleep than 
 she did. I could see she was like myself, only just out of bed, 
 for she had wrapped a loose kind of man's greatcoat round her, 
 the sleeves hanging down helplessly on each side ; and some 
 locks of very dishevelled black hair escaped from under her 
 garden-bonnet. I had learned to answer her, I am afraid, a little 
 in her own tone; so I said, 'Does Mrs Weir want me before I 
 am dressed, Miss Milicent?' 
 
 ' She wants you at once ; I have been up with her half the 
 night. Why weren't you at home last evening? she wanted you 
 then.' 
 
 'I had business at Sandcombe,' I said; ' I am sorry Mrs Weir 
 wanted me last night, but I will be over as soon as I can be 
 
 now.' 
 
 'And 1 shall wait for you,' said Miss Milicent; 'but mind
 
 URSULA. 87 
 
 v/hat you say to her, Ursie ; she can't bear to be contradicted ; you 
 mustn't put her out, or she wi^l be worse.' 
 
 Miss Milicent made her way into the parlour, and I went 
 up-stairs again to dress as quickly as I could. It was not very 
 unusual for me to be called in this way, though it was seldom 
 quite so early. They all knew I was an early riser, and Mrs 
 Weir every now and then sent for me the first thing to do some- 
 thing for her which she could not trust to her daughter. I must 
 confess that she was at times a little given to whimsies. But 
 Miss Milicent's manner gave me an idea of something more than 
 ordinary, and my conversation with John Harvey had frightened 
 me about what was coming upon the family. I could not dress 
 half as quickly as I wished, my hands shook so, and Miss Mili- 
 cent called to me twice before I was read)'. I would not go, 
 however, without my prayers ; they were a little shorter than 
 usual, but they comforted me with the feeling that I had trusted 
 myself and others to God's guidance for whatever might be com- 
 ing upon us. 
 
 'I have been looking at your furniture, Ursie,' said Miss 
 Milicent, when I came down-stairs again. ' Your room is 
 crowded ; that sofa would be much better round by the fire- 
 place.' 
 
 'Thank you, Miss Milicent, but it does very well where it is ; 
 it is never used; and Roger and I like to sit close to the fire our- 
 selves when it is cold.' 
 
 ' If it 's no use, why don't, you get rid of it ? you might sell it 
 for as much as four pounds, and the money would be useful to 
 you in many ways.' 
 
 'I dare say it would,' I answered, 'but Roger and I like the 
 sofa ; it was my mother's.' 
 
 I felt sorry when I had said the words. I always was sorry in 
 those days, when I let out anything of feeling before Miss Milicent. 
 I opened the door for her to go out, and she went on before me, 
 not taking any heed to my observation. Before she reached the 
 house she turned round and said, ' If ever you want to part with 
 the sofa, I think Mrs Richardson would be likely to buy it of 
 you ; she wants one.' 
 
 I do believe Miss Milicent meant it kindly, but it was beyond 
 my patience to bear it, or rather it would have been, if I had not 
 made it part of my prayer to be able to put up with her. I 
 answered, ' Thank you,' very shortly, and kept at a distance 
 from her, that she might not have the opportunity of saying any-
 
 88 URSULA. 
 
 thine; more. We wont up-stairs to tlic lobby, and there some 
 thing seemed to strike Miss Miliccnt, and she beckoned me to 
 come to her into the peacock room. 
 
 There were the birds roosting on the trellis-work ! Little 
 they knew of the cares of life, and much I was inclined to envy 
 them. 
 
 ' I suppose, Ursie, it may be as well to tell you one thing,' 
 said Miss Miliccnt, throwing open the window and sitting down 
 by it ; for the room had been shut up some days. ' My mother 
 has had some uncomfortable news, and she may talk to you about 
 it. But you are not to encourage her. It is nothing in which 
 you or any one else can do any good. Just try to draw away her 
 thoughts, and if she wants you to read a chapter in the Bible or 
 so, I suppose you can stay for it.' 
 
 I answered that I would willingly do what I could. I had 
 Roger's breakfast to get ready, and the kitchen fire was not 
 lighted, but I would remain to be a comfort to Mrs Weir as long 
 as was possible. 
 
 ' Fanny can go over and light the fire,' said Miss Miliccnt, 
 ' and she can get your brother's breakfast too.' 
 
 'Thank you,' I replied, ' but that would not quite suit Roger, 
 I am afraid ; I must go myself, if I can.' 
 
 Miss Miliccnt sat considering, which was not at all common 
 with her. Presently she said, ' You are very much given to your 
 own ways, Ursie Grant. It strikes me you might as well take a 
 little thought for others. My mother has been very kind to you.' 
 
 ' Very indeed,' I said ; ' I wish always to show my gratitude ; 
 I will do all I can for Mrs Weir, but I am afraid I can't put 
 aside Roger.' 
 
 ' It is not wise of you, Ursie. Some day he will put you aside 
 when you aren't thinking of it.' 
 
 ' I am willing to wait till the day comes,' I replied : 'but wc 
 arc wasting time now, Miss Milicent.' 
 
 Strange to say, that was a fact she needed often to be re- 
 minded of. Busy though she was from morning till night, she 
 frittered away more time than any person I ever met with. 
 
 She stopped again in her persevering way just as wc came to 
 Mrs Weir's door, and said : ' You know that when Roger Grant 
 marries, you will be obliged to leave him.' 
 
 'Yes,' I said, very coolly ; but if she had given me a blow, I 
 could not have felt the proud colour rush to my cheek more 
 quickly,
 
 URSULA. Sg 
 
 I opened the door of Mrs Weir's room, and held it for Miss 
 Milicent to pass, and in she went like a rush of wind, straight up 
 to her mother's bed, and drew aside the curtain, without a word 
 of preparation. 
 
 That was going against one of Mrs Weir's peculiar fancies. 
 She never liked to be looked at in bed, unless she was dressed for 
 it, and had on her pretty white muslin dressing-gown, trimmed 
 with lace, and her best cap. ' I have been over to Ursie Grant, 
 mother, and she is come, — here she is.' Miss Milicent pulled 
 aside the curtains still farther. 
 
 'That will do, Milicent. The light troubles me.' Mrs Weir's 
 voice was very weak, and she drew the coverlid over her face. 
 
 ' It 's only because you keep the room so dark always, mother,' 
 replied Miss Milicent. u'lf you would leave off having the 
 shutters closed at night, you wouldn't be so fidgety. Ursie can't 
 see to read, nor to do anything in this owl's light.' 
 i ' I wish to talk a little to Ursula alone, Milicent. I beg you 
 to leave us. Is Ursula there?' 
 
 I drew near, and as I did so, managed to draw the curtain so 
 as partly to hide Mrs Weir, and make her feel that I was not 
 looking at her. Miss Milicent flustered about the room (it is the 
 only word I know to express what I mean), putting the chairs 
 straight, and moving things from the dressing-table. 
 
 ' I wish to be quiet, Milicent. I should like those things to be 
 left,' said Mrs Weir, plaintively. 
 
 'You can't see, mother ; you went to bed in such a hurry last 
 night, that Cotton had no time to put anything away.' 
 
 Mrs Weir resigned herself to her fate, and let her head fall 
 back on the pillow. 
 
 ' I will see to it all, Miss Milicent,' I said, going up to her, 
 'if you will just kindly leave it. Else I may be obliged to go 
 back to Roger before Mrs Weir has had time to talk to me.' 
 
 ' Well, yes ! I settled that Fanny should go over and light the 
 fire. I shall call her and tell her so.' 
 
 A most happy thought ! it took Miss Milicent away, and she 
 departed, slamming the door so violently, that I observed poor 
 Mrs Weir put her hand to her head, showing that the noise gave 
 her pain. We heard Miss Milicent about the house for at least 
 ten minutes afterwards, up-stairs and down-stairs, ordering one 
 and another. No matter whom she had to meet : there was the 
 greatcoat with its helpless hanging sleeves, and the garden* 
 bonnet to cover her.
 
 tp URSULA, 
 
 Mrs Weir waited for some seconds to assure herself that the 
 room was free from Miss Milicent's presence, after which, she 
 said, 'Now, Ursula, if you please, sit down;' and I placed a 
 chair just behind the curtain, and sat down. 'Thank you for 
 coming,' she continued. ' I should have preferred not sending 
 to you till after I had had my breakfast, but Milicent desired it.' 
 
 'Miss Milicent thought I might be able to do something for 
 you, ma'am,' I said, ' and I should be very glad if I could.' J 
 
 ' You are very good, Ursula. 1 fe< 1 it. Will you kindly look 
 for my other cap, and the little light shawl in the left-hand 
 draw* r ; you know which I mean ; and, perhaps, if it would not 
 trouble you, you would just give me my hand-^lass, and draw 
 aside the window curtain a little, a very little. Milicent woul 1 
 open the shutters quite, though I begged her not.' 
 
 These were very common little duties. I had often performed 
 them before ; for Mrs Weir was very thoughtful about her maid, 
 and whenever she kept her up at night, took care that she should 
 have time to rest in the morning. I gave her the glass, and the 
 cap, and poured some water into a very pretty china basin, with 
 a pattern of green leaves and acorns round it, and handed her the 
 sweet-smelling soap, and the soft-fringed towel, feeling all the 
 time as if I was waiting upon a child, or even something more 
 tender and delicate, something which would be likely to break if 
 one touched it, her little hands and arms were so thin and white, 
 and her fingers so taper. She had but few gray hairs, and her 
 complexion was still very transparent. I don't think she showed 
 her age at all, except in the marks beneath her eyes. 
 
 ' Now, my eau de Cologne, if you please, Ursula; and I should 
 like the little table to be brought nearer, and wiil you put the 
 flowers so that I may look at them ? and the purple morocco 
 Testament. I thank you ; that is quite right ; no one overdoes 
 just what I wish as you do.' 
 
 No one except Miss Milicent had known Mrs Weir's ways 
 as long as I, and it had taken me a good while to learn them. 
 As for Miss Milicent, it was a matter of continued surprise 
 to me, that she and her mother had not separated years be- 
 fore. 
 
 1 1 should like you to read to me, Ursula, but I am afraid to 
 take up your time ; perhaps I had better talk to you ti 
 
 ' If you please, ma'am,' I said. And now that Mrs Weir was 
 in a measure dressed, I ventured to place my chair so that I 
 might see her more plainly.
 
 URSULA. 91 
 
 I noticed, then, that her eyes were heavy, and her eyelids red, 
 showing that she had been crying, but she was trying to look 
 happy. She was able to control herself wonderfully. I thought 
 that, perhaps, if anything painful was to be said, it might be as 
 well to let her prepare herself for it, so I offered to read the 
 second morning lesson for the day. I knew that would soothe 
 and give her strength more than anything I could suggest. 
 
 She listened with great reverence and attention, as was her 
 wont, and when I had ended she said, ' Thank you, Ursula, it 
 has done me good. Whatever there is to bear, it will not be for 
 long, and there is a bright hope beyond.' 
 
 Then she paused, and the faint spot of colour in her cheek 
 went and came, as it might have done in the face of a young 
 person. 
 
 ' You have heard bad news, ma'am, I am afraid,' I said, for I 
 felt I must help her in spite of Miss Milicent's warning. 
 
 I was standing by the bed close to her. Poor lady ! she caught 
 my hand, and looked piteously in my face, and then she leaned 
 her head on my shoulder, and cried like a child. And through 
 her sobs came the words, ' Ursula, my husband is gone, and we 
 are ruined.' 
 
 ' Dear ma'am, I heard something of it/ I said ; ' but it may 
 not be so bad as you think.' 
 
 She drew herself away from me, and a flash shot from her 
 eye. ' They talk of us, then, — they pity us. But why should 
 they not, Ursula?' and her voice was tremulous again. 'We 
 are all weak — weak — only mortals ! ' 
 
 ' Roger had heard something, and Mr Hervey, too,' I replied, 
 'but I don't fancy, ma'am, the news is commonly known.' 
 
 ' It concerns Mr Grant, Ursula,' continued Mrs Weir, her 
 voice and manner becoming calmer. ' Milicent says he must 
 go away from Dene, and you also. She tells me we must live 
 in a little cottage, and not keep any servant. I don't think I 
 could live long if Milicent waited on me ; but I must try ; we 
 must all try to do what God orders. Only, Ursula, you will 
 come and see me sometimes?' 
 
 I meant not to be silly, and I used to think that I could always 
 keep my tears in, but I broke down entirely then. 
 
 'Milicent told me, last night, all we should have to do,' pur- 
 sued Mrs Weir. ' When I could not go to sleep, she talked to 
 me about it. I dare say it was right to look at the worst ; and 
 Milicent says she shall not care for having everything to arrange;
 
 92 URSULA. 
 
 but I think, Ursul ', I might have slept better if I had been left 
 quiet.' 
 
 ' Miss Milicent is strong,' I said ; 'she does not understand 
 what you require, ma'am.' 
 
 'Perhaps not; I know she said only what was true; but, 
 Ursula, I should not vex myself with my own trials so much, if 
 I knew ni"re about my husband. Perhaps he is gone abroad ; 
 I ought to follow him. I ought to try and make him happier.' 
 
 ' I don't think you need trouble yourself about Mr Weir, 
 ma'am,' I began, angrily ; but she laid her hand upon my arm. 
 
 ' 1 made a vow once, Ursula, to love, and honour, and obey 
 him. You have never made such a vow. You cannot under- 
 Stand it. But it must be kept. Do you think Mr Grant or Mr 
 Hervcy would endeavour to find out where my husband is? I 
 might join him then. I think I would rather do so than live in 
 the little cottage with Milicent.' 
 
 I could well understand that. Great self-sacrifice is alwajs 
 more easy than patient endurance. ' You are not fit to go to 
 him, ma'am,' I said, 'if he is out of England. You would not 
 be able to bear the hardships of travelling.' 
 
 ' We should travel till we found him,' said Mrs Weir. ' Then 
 we might take a house in some place where we were not known.' 
 
 I felt whilst she spoke so easily of what might be done, how 
 little she could know what ruin meant, and I was aware that I 
 had but a slight notion of it myself. I could not picture Mrs 
 Weir living in any place without every comfort about her. 
 
 She continued, ' I thought perhaps, Ursula, that you would 
 come with us at first, if your brother would spare you ; 1 told 
 Milicent that I would ask you, but she laughed at the idea.' 
 
 ' Miss Milicent knows how many things I have to keep me at 
 home, I am afraid, ma'am,' was my reply. It grieved me to say 
 this, but she talked so like a child, fancying everything which 
 she wished might be managed, that I saw it was necessary to 
 show her the difficulties in her way. I could understand now 
 why Miss Milicent had urged me to divert her mind instead of 
 encouraging her to dwell upon her troubles. She looked very 
 cast down, more I thought, because I was so cold, than because 
 I did not say yes; so I added, ' Indeed, ma'am, you must not 
 think but that I would do everything for you I could, though it 
 would be wrong to make any promise without consulting Roger, 
 because he has plans of his own.' 
 
 ' You are very kind, Ursula, I don't want to be selfish. I told
 
 URSULA. 93 
 
 Milicent so\ She thinks that we ought to stay in England. But 
 Mr Weir is my husband, I must not leave him. I should like to 
 talk to Mr Richardson about it. Do you think he would come 
 to me? I shall pray to God and He will direct me.' 
 
 She was very nervous and agitated, and her voice shook pain- 
 fully, though the words still followed each other slowly and 
 formally in the quaint fashion which was common with her. I 
 could do nothing for her myself, and the proposal of sending for 
 Mr Richardson took quite a weight from my mind. 
 
 She caught my hand as she supposed I was going away, and 
 held it firmly. ' You will pray for me, Ursula. I want to do my 
 duty, and I think you will help me, and God will not forsake me. 
 I must remember that ; I shall see a way by and by. I hope you 
 will never know so much trouble as I have ; but I must go to 
 my husband.' 
 
 Those were the saddest words of all to me. There was no 
 love in them, only a despairing sense of duty. I longed to ask 
 her more particulars of what she had heard, but I remembered 
 Miss Milicent's warning, and I felt also that it would be im- 
 pertinent. Mrs Weir was very kind in giving me her con- 
 fidence, but I had no right to ask for more than she chose to 
 tell. 
 
 ' I must go to my husband,' I heard her repeat again to her- 
 self, as I left the room, intending to see Miss Milicent, and beg 
 her to write to Mr Richardson. This time the words sounded 
 less sad. They came to me more as a lesson for myself. In her 
 anxiety, her nervousness, and helplessness, Mrs Weir had seized 
 upon the one point which came before her as a duty. It was a 
 landmark in her difficulties ; and I knew that I must do the same. 
 The weight pressed more heavily on my heart when I thought of 
 Roger and Canada ; for I could see fresh claims starting up to 
 keep me at home. But there is strength in duty ; it is like no- 
 thing else. When troubles like quicksands are all around one, 
 it is a firm spot on which to tread, and there is nothing so sup- 
 porting to one's self as seeing others plant their feet upon it and 
 stand up boldly. Poor Mrs Weir had done more for me than I 
 could ever do for her. I went back to her again for a little 
 while, but I was doubtful whether it was good for her to have me 
 much with her. Being with any one to whom she could open 
 her heart, excited her. She spoke freely of the money difficulties, 
 and said that she had foreseen them, but it was evident to me 
 that her husband had never been open with her respecting
 
 94 URSULA. 
 
 them. About liim she said very little. Never indeed, during 
 the many years that I bad known her, had she ever spoken 
 directly or indirectly of the causes of complaint which she had 
 inst him. It was a sacred grief, known only to God. 
 I left her about seven o'clock, more quiet, and with a promise 
 that she would try and sleep a little. Indeed, I persuaded her 
 to take a few drops of an opiate ; and Cotton being dressed by 
 that time, I was satisfied that she would be well looked after. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ROGER'S breakfast was ready at half-past seven ; he had 
 been out almost before daybreak. I don't think he had 
 slept well I told him how I had been sent for by Mrs Weir; 
 and he seemed glad, upon the whole, to think that she knew the 
 worst. And yet upon talking to him, I found that it was not 
 the worst. Now that the truth had reached Dene, Roger felt him- 
 self more at liberty to speak out : and I learned from him, that 
 Mr Weir was not only ruined, but that he had gone away with a 
 stain upon his character. Strangely enough, that very business 
 w hich he had made use of to crush young Mr Henderson had been 
 the cause of his temptation and his fall. It had never been a 
 very profitable affair ; but it gave him an opening for speculation, 
 and therefore he liked it. Lately he had taken a more active part 
 in the business. Large accounts passed through his hands, and 
 now the whole concern had fallen to pieces ; and the accounts 
 having been examined, Mr Weir was accused of fraud in the 
 management He was not at hand to answer the charge — he 
 had gone off no one knew where. It was generally supposed he 
 had left England. 
 
 A most dismal story it was, with scarcely a ray of hope or 
 comfort, except that Roger believed a portion of Mrs W T cir's 
 money to have been so settled upon her that it could not well be 
 I < mched. The Dene estate was heavily mortgaged ; yet if it 
 were sold it was hoped that sufficient would be left to give her 
 And Miss Milicent enough to live upon ; and it had been sug- 
 gested that perhaps also her niece, Mrs Temple, might come 
 forward to assist, as she had received much kindness from Mrs 
 Weir's family.
 
 URSULA. 95 
 
 'But it will be a hard struggle, Ursie !' added Roger, when 
 he had given me all these details. ' Mrs Weir has been so 
 little accustomed to rough it ; and I am afraid Miss Milicenthas 
 no notion how to make both ends meet, and will burn a ton of 
 coals to save a rushlight.' 
 
 ' Penny wise and pound foolish,' I said. ' Yes ; that will be 
 very like her. I hope they won't go far away from here.' 
 
 'That you maybe able to look after them,' he said, quickly. 
 I made no answer. 
 
 ' They may take a cottage at Compton,' continued Roger, a 
 little maliciously ; ' that wouldn't be far from Sandcombe.' 
 
 ' I am not going to stay at Sandcombe ! ' I exclaimed, with 
 some anger. ' I had rather live on a crust of bread in a garret, 
 than be forced to be all day with Leah.' 
 
 ' We will wait and see how things turn out, Trot,' replied 
 Roger, quietly. 'It does not do to make rash vows, nor to set 
 ourselves against what God may appoint.' He left the breakfast 
 table, and went to the door. 
 
 'You must not go away so, Roger!' I exclaimed, following 
 him, ' I can't bear it. Something must be settled, one way or 
 the other.' 
 
 ' When ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Now, — at once. How can I go about my work all day, not 
 knowing what is going to happen to me, or where I may be to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' I thought that was what we were obliged to do always,' he 
 replied. ' The settling which you wish for, Ursie, can't be made 
 in a minute. We must see what is going to be done here, and 
 then I must find out a good deal more about Canada ; and when 
 I have done that I must look into William's affairs, and see if I 
 can have the money conveniently. Can't you put it into God's 
 hands, my little Trot, and trust it ?' 
 
 His voice and manner brought back the feeling of reverence 
 and submission with which I had been accustomed to listen to 
 him from a child. I said it was very difficult, but I would try. 
 I only begged him to let me know the very moment that any- 
 thing certain was decided upon. 
 
 ' My first claim always,' he said, laying his broad hand on my 
 head. ' You shall hear soon enough.' 
 
 ' And you won't set yourself against common sense, and make 
 up your mind in a hurry that I am not to go ?' I said. 
 
 ' Just the contrary, Trot. I was going to walk over to
 
 o6 URSULA. 
 
 Compton this morning, to look at Ilobson's cottage for William, 
 and I thought I would call in at the parsonage, and have a talk 
 with Mr Richardson about it all.' 
 
 'You will meet him,' I said ; 'he will be coming here to sec 
 Mrs Weir.' 
 
 'So much the better; I shan't have to go out of my way. 
 Hobson's cottage is a good way off from the parsonage.' 
 
 ' Here is the boy coming back from Compton with a message 
 from Mr Richardson!' I said. 'We had better wait and hear 
 what it is.' 
 
 k iger went across to the house, and I began putting away the 
 breakfast things. I could not bear, that morning, to stand still 
 and think, even for a moment. 
 
 Roger came back again very soon. ' Mrs Richardson sends 
 the answer,' he said. ' Her husband has to be at Longside at 
 ten o'clock, and after that he will come on and see Mrs Weir. In 
 that case, Ursic, I had better go to Longside directly, or I shall 
 miss him ; for I can't wait for him here. William made an ap- 
 pointment with me at Hobson's.' 
 
 ' And yen might take me with you,' I replied ; ' I have some 
 business with Mary Kemp, which I was going to do this after- 
 noon. W r e are to have cold meat for dinner, so it won't signify 
 when I go ; and cook, at the house, will boil us some potatoes.' 
 
 ' Make haste, then, child. I have been wasting more time 
 here now than I ought. But I shall like to have you with me,' 
 was added, kindly. 
 
 I put my bonnet on directly, and went over to ask cook about 
 the potatoes, and I thought too that I would inquire about Mrs 
 Weir. Not that I meant to stay at home because of her, unless 
 there was some very special reason. Though Leah said 1 was 
 treated as if I was a servant of the family, I had always taken 
 care to show my own independence. Mrs Weir herself had 
 taught me that. She said to me one day, when, by some accident, 
 I had let out a little of what I felt about Jessie Lee, and the way 
 Leah went on with her, ' Ursula, our right will always be given 
 us sooner or later, if we choose to claim it in a proper manner ; 
 and if we do not, we have no reason to quarrel with others for 
 that which is our own fault.' I think she had learned this from 
 experience. If she had stood out more against her daughter's 
 tyrannising ways, Miss Milicent would never have got the upper 
 hand as she had done. Things being as they were, Mrs Weir 
 felt she had no right to complain. At any rate, I had profited
 
 URSULA. 97 
 
 by the lesson, and had never given in to Miss Milicent, nor even 
 to Mrs Weir, as I might have done otherwise. Having so many 
 little fanciful ways, Mrs Weir might have taken up a great deal 
 of my time if I had. We were all the better friends for my in- 
 dependence. I suspect there is no foundation for friendship 
 between persons of any rank, unless there is a feeling of respect 
 which prevents either party from taking liberties, or being en- 
 croaching. 
 
 As it happened, my going or staying just then was a matter of 
 no consequence, for Mrs Weir had fallen asleep, and Cotton was 
 with her ; so I left a message to tell her when I thought I should 
 be back, and then Roger and I set off for Longside. 
 
 It was about three-quarters of a mile from Dene, by a tolerably 
 direct road — Sandy Lane as we called it — which began just after 
 we passed the gate opening from the wide pasture land immedi- 
 ately about Dene. That piece of land which was neither field 
 nor down, but only a kind of hilly common on which cattle or 
 sheep might feed, was one thing which made Dene different 
 from other places. It was like the sea separating it from the 
 rest of the world. The road through it was private, and no one 
 but ourselves seemed to have any business with Sandy Lane ; 
 whilst, standing upon such high ground, we looked out, as it 
 were, upon the world. 
 
 Roger was not very talkative that morning ; he walked on so 
 fast that I could scarcely follow him. At length he said abruptly, 
 ' Have you thought at all, Ursie, of what you will do in case we 
 should make up our minds that it is right to separate?' 
 
 ' No,' I said, ' I won't think. I can't makeup my mind, what- 
 ever others may,' 
 
 ' It would be better,' he said, 'and kinder to consider ; and if 
 you are so vehement against the notion, ten to one but it will 
 come to pass. John Hervey thinks you might be better staying 
 with Mrs Weir, even if she could only afford to keep you, than 
 you would be at Sandcombe.' 
 
 ' I should be better living on the common by myself than I 
 should be at Sandcombe,' I replied ; ' Leah and I could never 
 help coming to a quarrel ; and she does not want me. There is 
 Je5.de always to be had.' 
 
 • If you were there you might be a help and a friend to 
 Jessie,' he said. 
 
 'Not I, Roger,' and I stopped short, and spoke almost angrily, 
 •Jane Shaw is in the way. What am I against her?' 
 
 o
 
 oH URSULA. 
 
 'If the Shaws were only over the sea!' he exclaimed, vehe- 
 mently. 'They are a curse to the country.' 
 
 The speech was so different from his usual gentle way of judg- 
 ing people that I looked at him in surprise. ' You don't know 
 the mischief they are up to, Ursie,' he continued. ' Pity forbid 
 you should. John Shaw is a scamp, and Jane' 
 
 ' Is what?' I asked. 
 
 'A lady, according to her own notions,' he answered, laugh- 
 ing ; but there was something bitter and mocking in his 
 tone. 
 
 'That is she, I do believe,' was my exclamation, as I looked 
 down the lane, and saw two people coming towards us. 
 
 ' You are as blind as a beetle, Trot. It is John Hervey and 
 Mary Kemp. I dare say they were going up to Dene to sec if 
 they could do any good there. John Hervey is set upon helping 
 Mrs Weir in some way. He has wonderful thought for such a 
 
 tit-hearted fellow as he is.' 
 
 ' Yes, he is very good-natured,' I said, and I watched him and 
 Mary with a kindly feeling as they came towards us, and thought 
 what a pleasant couple they would make ; though Mary was not 
 what many men would have taken to. She was plain, and had a 
 frightened, shy, stammering way with her, which it was difficult 
 to get over. 
 
 ' Well met,' exclaimed John, when we were within hearing of 
 each other. 'Mary and I were on our wry to you. Ursie, how 
 did you get home last night ? Roger and you didn't lose your 
 way upon the down, I hope.' 
 
 ' We were not late, and there was a moon,' I said, shortly. I 
 could not epiite bear any allusion to last evening. John must 
 have seen my face alter, for his manner changed directly. ' We 
 may spare ourselves the trouble of our walk, Mary,' he said, ' if 
 Roger and Ursie arc come to tell us all we want to know.' 
 
 'I was going to inquire for Mrs Weir,' observed Mary, 
 timidly. 
 
 'And Ursie will tell us about her, no doubt,' said John, and 
 he turned to walk back. ' Were you going to Longsidc?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Roger, 'to sec Mr Richardson, if he is there.' 
 
 ' You will find him in full parley with the farmer. They have 
 brought over Mr Stewart, of Hatton, between them, and \/e 
 have been planning cottages for the last hour. If Dene is to be 
 sold I wish Mr Stewart may buy it.' 
 
 'Jane Shaw says that Captain Price, the young man who was
 
 URSULA. 99 
 
 here some time ago with Mr Weir, has his eye upon it,' said 
 Mary, in a tone so low that she could scarcely be heard. 
 
 ' What can Jane Shaw know about the matter ? ' I asked, 
 quickly. ' Captain Price is not likely to have told her.' 
 
 'Jane Shaw is going to be married to Captain Price,' said 
 Mary. 
 
 'What, Mary? what?' John Hervey actually caught hold of 
 her arm ; and Roger said more respectfully, ' It must be Hove 
 talk, it can't be true.' 
 
 1 1 don't know ; I am told that Jane says it,' said Mary. She 
 seemed afraid to assert the fact more strongly, even upon such 
 authority, when the others doubted. 
 
 'I don't see why it shouldn't be,' I said quickly ; 'they are 
 much of a piece. Captain Price, as far as I ever saw anything 
 of him, is not any better for a gentleman than Jane Shaw is for 
 a farmer's daughter. I don't see why they shouldn't make up 
 together.' 
 
 ' Ursie, you are sharp,' observed Roger. 
 
 John Hervey supported me. 'Ursie is right,' he said, 'in one 
 way ; they are neither of them good in their station, and so they 
 might just as well be out of it. Captain Price has little of a 
 gentleman belonging to him, except it may be his birth ; and as 
 for Jane, it is difficult to say what she is ; certainly nothing that 
 is a credit to any one who has to do with her.' 
 
 'Jane thinks that to marry a gentleman will make her a lady,' 
 said Mary. 
 
 'Let her try!' exclaimed Mr Hervey, laughing. Then a 
 moment afterwards he added, ' What provokes me is, that people 
 can't see their own respectability, since they think so much 
 about it. Where is there a man in all the country more respected 
 than your father, Mary ?— and I may say your father's daughter, 
 too,' he added, looking at her and smiling. 'Where is there a 
 family that has more influence? And yet where is there a 
 truer, honester, sturdier old English farmer, than Farmer 
 Kemp?' 
 
 Mary looked thoroughly pleased, and said she did think her 
 father was respected. 
 
 'Isn't he !' said Roger, heartily. 'If you were just to hear 
 what I hear said of him everywhere, — amongst high and low, 
 rich and poor, — you would feel it an honour to bear his name.' 
 
 * Perhaps I do feel it so,' said Mary. She smiled rather 
 archly, and I thought she looked quite pretty.
 
 ico URSULA. 
 
 I had it on my lips to say thnt it was more than any of old 
 Mr Shaw's daughters could feel for him, but something stopped 
 
 me. No doubt I was inclined to be sharp, and Roger often 
 gave me a hint to keep a watch over my tongue. 
 
 ' There is the old farmer out in the field by the hay- rick ! ' 
 exclaimed Mr Ilcrvcy, pointing to a rick in a field at some 
 little distance ; 'and I think — yes, Roger — that is Mr Richard- 
 son with him. If you want to catcli him, you had better be off, 
 or you will miss him.' 
 
 Roger took the hint. I think his heart was full, and he longed 
 to have all his troubles out with Mr Richardson. He stri 
 forward like a giant, and was over the gate and across the field 
 before we had reached the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LONGSIDE was much larger than Sandcombe, and more of a 
 -* manor farm. Fronting the road, indeed, the old brick 
 house, and the farmyard, and the barns were such as might be 
 met with anywhere, but on the other side, looking into the garden, 
 it was a place of greater pretension. The Shaws had lived there 
 before they went to White Hill, and old Mr Shaw had tried to 
 make it look as much like a regular country-house as he could ; 
 and a good deal of money, I believe, had been spent by him and 
 the landlord in improving it, and laying out the garden. Farmer 
 Kemp took it as it was, and let everything stay, though it 
 could not have been much to his taste. But his notion, as I 
 once heard him say, was, that if a house did not make a gentle- 
 man, neither did it make a farmer. Folks would soon see what 
 he was, and what he wished to be, and though other people had 
 spent money in building up follies, he saw no reason why he 
 was to waste his in helping to pull them down. He was more 
 to be praised for that piece of economy than for many other 
 things which men commended him for. It was a greater sacra- 
 fice to him to bear with what looked like being grand and set 
 up, than it would be for most persons to bear with things that 
 are mean. 
 
 But Farmer Kemp's wish was always to be, not to seem ; 
 his countenance showed that. Every line in it told of ttuth.
 
 1 URSULA. ioi 
 
 And a handsome face it was, too ! It struck me that day parti- 
 cularly, as we drew near, and he came to meet us with his 
 old English greeting, putting all his heart into the shake of the 
 hand. 
 
 Being in the open air so much had tanned and reddened his 
 complexion, but there was a freshness about it still, though he 
 must have been upwards of sixty. His hair was quite white, 
 and thin, and long, which gave him the look of even an older 
 man than he was ; but his blue eyes were as bright as ever, 
 — as full of life and eagerness, — and his mouth, though the 
 smile was singularly good-natured, proved that age had not 
 yet weakened his spirit of determination. Farmer Kemp was 
 no waverer nor doubter. He knew what he meant to do, and 
 he did it ; and even when people quarrelled with him they re- 
 spected him. 
 
 ' Why, Mary, lass, you are come back soon ! ' he said, after 
 he had spoken his few kind words of welcome to me. ' I thought 
 you were gone up to Dene to be useful.' 
 
 ' Ursie doesn't think there is any way of being useful just now, 
 father/ said Mary. ' Mrs Weir has heard everything, and keeps 
 up tolerably.' 
 
 'You should have gone in, though, child ; I would have had 
 you see Mrs Mason. It will be hard times with Mrs Weir and 
 Miss Milicent,' he added, turning to me ; ' they are away from 
 their own kith and kin, and they are not over friendly with the 
 gentry round, except it may be with Mr Richardson, who has a 
 short purse, and a small house, and a large family. If it came 
 to the point, there might be more real help for Mrs Weir to be 
 had from Longside than from Compton, only it might not suit 
 her to see it.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is not proud,' I said ; 'at least, I don't think so.' 
 
 ' Poverty is the touchstone of pride, so I have heard say,' 
 replied the farmer ; ' but come in, Ursie, and tell us more about 
 it. My good woman and I have been talking about you this 
 morning, thinking what an upset there would be for you from 
 all this.' 
 
 ' It is pleasant to know that some persons can take thought 
 for one,' I said; and I felt my eyes filled with tears. I don't 
 know what there was in Farmer Kemp's manner which made 
 me always feel what a happiness it would be to have an earthly 
 father. 
 
 ' So you are sad, child, are you ?' he answered. ' Cheer up ;
 
 ioa URSULA, 
 
 rain one day, sunshine the next. Come in, and we 11 have it .ill 
 out. Why, there's Roger off with Mr Richardson! What is 
 th.it for? and we had not half settled our busin 
 
 'Indeed!' obs rved Mr Hervey, 'it was all but done when 
 M try and I 
 
 •1 tell you what, man,' said the farmer, quickly, 'it wasn't 
 fun. Give me money in hand, and bricks and mortar, and I 
 u ill say something to you ; but we have not brought Mr .Stewart 
 to that point yet.' 
 
 ' He promises/ said John H( rvey. 
 
 'Promises! promises!' Farmer Kemp repeated the words 
 slowly. 'When you have lived as long as 1 have, John, you 
 will learn how to value promises, even those of good men ; Mr 
 Stewart, of Hatton, being one, — at least, as goodness is reckoned 
 now. I have been treated with promises for the last fifteen 
 years; and shall I tell you what I think of them? They are 
 uncommonly like the straw a day which the old woman's cow 
 was fed upon till she died.' 
 
 We all laughed ; but John Hervey said he had a better 
 opinion of Mr Stewart than to think he was not going to keep 
 his word. 
 
 ' Well ! yes, — well ! he will keep it in the letter, I grant you. 
 Whilst he has Mr Richardson to back him, and me knocking at 
 his door, he can't well do otherwise. But he is not a man to 
 go of his own accord against what he considers his interest. If 
 he was, he wouldn't have let things come to the pass they arc. 
 lie would never have needed our eyes for spectacles to help him 
 to see that he can't make a poor, rgnorant man a Christian by 
 ing him to live like a heathen. Why, there arc cottages on 
 the Hatton estate which aren't two degrees better than my pig- 
 sty ; and there is he, with his five thousand a year, crying out 
 nit the expense of rebuilding them, and threatening — what 
 do you think now, John, he threatens?' and Farmer Kemp 
 stopped rs we were about to enter the house, and drew John 
 Hervey aside. 
 
 ' We had better go in,' said Mary to me, i i her quiet voice. 
 
 But I was curious, and something better than curious — in- 
 terested ; for I saw the working of John Ilcrvey's face, and I 
 knew th it whatever Farmer Kemp might be telling him was 
 giving him pain. 
 
 I wondered that Mary seemed to care so little for it. She 
 \ 'ched them for an instant, and then said, composedly : ( Mr
 
 URSULA, 103 
 
 Stewart told father that if Hatton was such an expense to him, 
 he should sell it, and he knew a person willing to buy it. And 
 I can tell who that is,' added Mary, with a little more of life in 
 her tone ; 'it's Captain Price.' 
 
 'What ! he that is to marry Jane Shaw? It can't be,' I ex- 
 claimed. 'Dene and Hatton! He would he the lord of the 
 country.' 
 
 ' Father says it,' was Mary's reply. 
 
 'And you don't care about it ? You aren't worried about it?' 
 I exclaimed. ' Mary, you are a wonder.' 
 
 ' It is not come yet, and it mayn't come at all,' said Mary. 
 ' When it does it will be time enough to fret.' 
 
 That was very true ; but somehow the words did not quite 
 come home to me just then, and when I looked at John Hervey 
 again, I thought less of Captain Price, and the chance of his 
 buying Hatton, than of what John would do if he took to him- 
 self such a quiet wife. 
 
 ' You will stay now and rest, Ursie,' said Mary, opening the 
 door for me. ' Mother is in the kitchen, most likely, but she 
 will be glad to come into the parlour and see you.' 
 
 Mary left me in the passage, for I knew how to find my way 
 to the parlour — a pleasant little three-sided room, having cup- 
 boards all round the walls, and a cheerful-looking corner fire- 
 place. When Longside was built it was intended for a house- 
 keeper's room. 
 
 Mary had much more taste than William's wife, and though 
 the room was not by any means as large, and not half as well 
 furnished as the great parlour at Sandcombe, it was much more 
 comfortable. There were flower-pots in the window-seat, and 
 flowers on the table, and over the mantelpiece ; and Mary was 
 not, like Leah, ashamed of homely work, and so it was lying 
 about ready to be taken up ; whilst some books near it showed 
 that there was leisure at Longside for something besides mere 
 drudgery. One of the books was a Bible; I think Mrs Kemp, 
 and Mary, and her two little sisters, generally read together the 
 lesson for the day in the New Testament, some time in the 
 course of the morning. 
 
 Mrs Kemp came in almost immediately. In her way, she was 
 as clever and shrewd as her husband, and quite as good ; and as 
 for her kind-heartedness, there was no end to it. The good 
 woman, as Farmer Kemp always called her, was never known to 
 forget a friendly word or a friendly thought for any one. She
 
 io4 URSULA. 
 
 was alwaj s especially considerate for me. T suspect she felt foi 
 me because I was an orphan, for she had known herself what it 
 was to be brought up without father or mother. Perhaps it 
 might h been that which made her so careful about the young 
 girls who came to her as servants, or had anything to do with 
 the farmwork. I have often known people object to take ;;irls 
 who have been at farm-service, thinking they might have learned 
 evil there, but it was never so with Mrs Kemp's <;irls ; she made 
 herself their friend, and kept them out of temptation, as she 
 would her own daughters ; until it began to be considered quite 
 a recommendation in the neighbourhood to have worked at 
 Longside. 
 
 1 Early, Ursie, but always welcome,' was Mrs Kemp's greeting, 
 as she smoothed down her white apron, and pulled down and 
 fastened the sleeves of her dress, which she had turned up, I 
 suppose, whilst assisting in the kitchen. What a round, bright- 
 coloured, good-humoured face hers was ! quite pretty still, and 
 almost young. I could not help kissing her, though kissing was 
 not very much in my way with most people. 
 
 ' Farmer and I spent a good half-hour, this morning, talking 
 about you and things at Dene,' continued Mrs Kemp, drawing 
 her chair close to mine. ' I should have been up myself, only I 
 thought it might be taken for a liberty, as I don't go there often ; 
 so I sent Mary, making sure she would see Mrs Mason, if she 
 couldn't get a glimpse of you. What can we do for you now ?' 
 
 'Nothing,' I said; 'nothing now, at least. Roger is gone to 
 talk to Mr Richardson about it all.' 
 
 My face must have shown my feelings — though, the moment 
 before, I had made a strong resolution against betraying them. 
 
 ' Ah ! poor child ; yes. Dear heart ! don't take on so. Roger 
 can't go to a better friend. .So it is all up with you, is it ; and 
 you must leave Dene ? I thought as much, poor child !— poor 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I can't say what we must do,' I exclaimed ; 
 and the sorrow rose up in my heart, like a great wave about to 
 rush in upon the shore. But it broke inwards, and I was thank- 
 ful for it. 
 
 ' lie will find another place ; you will have a home again very 
 soon,' continued .Mrs Kemp. 'Such a trusty, worthy young 
 man as he is, and knowing so much about everything ! Not 
 that it will be like Dene, where you have lived so long.' 
 
 I shan't care for anything,' I said, ' as long as Roger and I
 
 URSULA. 105 
 
 are together.' I could not allude more clearly to the Canada 
 project without knowing whether Roger would like it. 
 
 But the world always knows more of one's affairs than one 
 suspects ; and Mrs Kemp jumped to my meaning in an instant. 
 
 'Ah ! then it's true ! ' she exclaimed ; 'and he's bent upon 
 going off by himself. But he mustn't do it, Ursie ; he must 
 think of you.' 
 
 ' He does think of me,' I answered, quietly. ' It is that 
 which keeps him back now. He is gone to talk it over with 
 Mr Richardson.' 
 
 'And he will take out a wife with him, I suppose,' continued 
 Mrs Kemp, thoughtfully ; ' or he will find one there for the ask- 
 ing. Well ! young men must settle themselves.' 
 
 My heart sank. Mrs Kemp, with all her sympathy, was like 
 the rest of the world ; she could not enter into griefs out of her 
 own line. A happy wife herself, she was unable to comprehend 
 that any pang could be caused by the prospect of seeing others 
 happy also. 
 
 I faced the subject boldly, and, in a proud tone, I said, ' If 
 Roger wants to marry, and go to Canada, he may depend upon 
 it I shall never be the one to stand in his way.' 
 
 'You might go with him, whether he is married or not,' said 
 Mary. 
 
 Mrs Kemp interposed. ' No, Ursie-; don't be tempted in that 
 way. When people marry, they are best left to themselves ; 
 especially at the beginning. After they have gone on some time, 
 and become used to each other's ways, and learned all there is 
 to learn, a sister or an aunt may fit in well enough, particularly 
 when there are children, and relations can make themselves 
 useful. But at first setting off, depend upon it it's best to give 
 young married folks a push into the world, turn them round 
 three times, and leave them to shift for themselves. Having 
 no one else to turn to, they are forced then to keep close to 
 each other.' 
 
 'As if they wouldn't do it naturally,' said Mary, with a shy 
 laugh. 
 
 ' That is as may be,' replied Mrs Kemp, laughing herself ; ' I 
 am not going to let you girls into those secrets. Only one thing 
 I will say to you, that if you do get a good husband, you will 
 love him better at the end of twenty years than at the beginning, 
 let his faults be what they may.' 
 
 Mary was silent. I felt that she was probably thinking of
 
 io6 URSULA. 
 
 John Hervey, and something like a pang of envy crossed m 
 for I was sure of him, at least, that, know him ever so long, one 
 should only learn to honour him the more. 
 
 The conversation wandered to different subjects after tin's. 
 Mrs Kemp made me tell her everything I could about Mrs 
 Weir, everything, that is, which could be told without betraying 
 secrets. 1 found that the state of Mr Weir's affairs had be n 
 suspected — almost known for certain, indeed — in the neighbour- 
 hood many weeks before ; and it had been no matter of surprise 
 to any one but myself that Mrs Weir and Miss Miiiccnt should 
 ie to Dene without him. 
 
 Many stories were afloat, — most of them of a disagree, ble 
 kind, — and such as made it doubtful whether he could e\er 
 show his face in England again ; but that which Mrs Kemp, 
 and the farmer also (for he came in and joined in the conversa- 
 tion) took most to heart was, the prospect of the Dene estate 
 falling into the hands of Captain Price. 
 
 Whilst poor Mrs Weir lay on her bed, unable to take any 
 thought for her affairs, the world had arranged them for her, and 
 in a very likely, sensible way, according to its own ideas. Cap- 
 tain Price had a good deal of ready money, and he was going to 
 marry Jane Shaw ; and Jane lived near Dene, and Dene must 
 be sold, or else Mrs Weir would have nothing to live upon. 
 These facts were undeniable ; -so the kind world put them all 
 together, and settled the business comfortably ; and most of our 
 acquaintances looked at Jane Shaw, and thought she was luckier 
 than one girl in a thousand ; and Farmer Kemp and his wife 
 looked at Dene, and the tenants and labourers, and sighed. 
 
 I sighed too, when I heard Farmer Kemp talk that morning. 
 He was a man who could not rid himself of an idea when once 
 he was possessed of it, and who could scarcely help forcing it, 
 haps, now and then, a little at the wrong time, upon other 
 people. Put being so earnest, he caught those who otherwise 
 might not have listened ; and this morning, though I came to 
 Dene full of my own fears and Mrs Weir's sorrows, I still was 
 carried away by what he said, so as for a time to be interested 
 by it. 
 
 Of course people who have a hobby of any kind try to make 
 you believe that the one thing upon which they have set their 
 hearts is the remedy for all evils. Farmer Kemp was so bent 
 upon this scheme for imp roving the labourers' cottages, that, to 
 hear him talk, one might have fancied that if poDr people had
 
 URSULA. ioj 
 
 sufficient space for their families to live decently, there would 
 be no evil left in the world. 
 
 But patting aside that which I suppose is the weak point 
 with us all, he certainly did open my eyes to several things 
 which I had never thought of before. He made me see how 
 persons brought up respectably may sink into actual vice from 
 the want of a comfortable home ; how the wife leaves her neat 
 habits and becomes slovenly, because she finds it useless to try 
 and be tidy, when the wet comes in at the roof, and the floor 
 is damp, and the windows are broken, and she cannot get 
 them mended, and the children are sickly from cold and draughts, 
 and huddled together in one room, and perhaps three or four in 
 one bed. And he showed me also how the husband leaves his 
 fireside because he finds no comfort there, and goes to the ale- 
 house, and so takes the first step on the road which is to lead 
 him and his family to ruin of body and soul ; — and how the 
 boys, as they grow up, are driven away from home by the dirt, 
 and quarrelling, and confusion, and lounge about in the lanes 
 with idle companions, and are at length led into great sin ; — 
 and how the daughters grow bold and forward, from being forced 
 to live, as it were, in public, and so lose the sense of all which 
 makes a woman modest and respectable, and become a disgrace 
 and burden to their families. All this, and much more, Farmer 
 Kemp put before me, — and I listened, for I could not help it, 
 though my thoughts wandered off at times to Roger and Mr 
 Richardson, and the conversation on which all my plans in life 
 were to depend. The subjects were not so very far apart as they 
 seemed. If I did not go to Canada with Roger, I might have to 
 live at Sandcombe with William and Leah ; and there were more 
 cases than Kitty Hobson's which I felt sure would trouble me if 
 I was with them. I knew that William had a good many cot- 
 tages in his own hands, and that the general opinion was that 
 he was a hard man to his labourers. After talking to Farmer 
 Kemp, it seemed more impossible than ever to be happy with 
 him and Leah. 
 
 I dined at Longside. Mrs Kemp would not let me go, and I 
 waited, expecting Roger every minute, but he did not come ; and 
 I made up my mind at last that he had gone home over the hill, 
 instead of coming back for me. As it was by that time nearly 
 half-past twelve, and Mrs Kemp pressed me much to stay, it 
 seemed better that I should. Roger, I knew> would eat his cold 
 meat alone without troubling himself about me, and I must con-
 
 io8 URSULA. 
 
 fess that it was a prcat relief to mc to be with people of my own 
 class, who could understand and feel for mc. 
 
 It was a different kind of comfort from that which I often felt 
 in conversing with Mrs Weir. It pave mc a feeling of breathing 
 
 fresh air, but it did not raise me up as talking to Mrs Weir did. 
 Mrs Kemp showed me how to make use of this world, Mrs Weir 
 how to despise it. Both were good in their way ; but Mrs 
 Kemp's lesson was the first and easiest, and it strikes mc that it 
 is the one first taught us by God. 
 
 We had a little conversation about Kitty Hobson after dinner, 
 and I was glad to find that Mrs Kemp meant to give her a trial, 
 though Leah had cast her off. 
 
 It had been upon my mind that something should be done for 
 the girl, knowing that Leah had taken no pains with her, and 
 turned her off without proper warning, but I had been too much 
 occupied with my own troubles to form any plan for her. Mrs 
 Richardson, it appeared, considered her not by any means hope- 
 less, and had persuaded Mrs Kemp to take her, and put her 
 under a steady dairymaid, who would sec that she did her work, 
 and keep her out of harm's way. I think, having so few poor 
 pie near me to care for, had made me more particular about 
 those whom I did at all know. I never could rest till I had done 
 for them all that seemed to lie in my power, though that was 
 little enough. But, as Mrs Kemp said, ' If you can only stop the 
 stone before it begins to roll down, you may keep it safe ; when 
 once it has set off, there is no checking it.' Kitty Hobson might 
 be on the brink of everything that was bad ; but she was as yet 
 only on the brink. So I was pleased to hear that she was 
 to be at Longside, and I told Mrs Kemp that, if she went on 
 well, I thought I had a stuff gown I could give her as an encou- 
 ragement. 
 
 I felt better and brighter after having settled this little 
 matter, — more able to look trouble in the face. Helping others 
 always gives one a feeling of strength ; at least, I have found 
 it so. 
 
 I shrank less from the mention of Canada when Farmer Kemp 
 and John Ilervey spoke to me about it before I went away. 
 They were very kind and straightforward, as was their fashion, 
 but both of them agreed in advising me to stay at home. I was 
 sure that John was sorry when he said it, he looked at me so 
 sorrowfully ; and when, at length, I said good-bye to them all, 
 and set off on my way back to Ucnc, he walked part of the way
 
 URSULA. 109 
 
 tvith me, and I was able to open my heart to him, more even than 
 to Mrs Kemp, because there were subjects connected with Dene 
 which lie knew more about than any one else. 
 
 He was such a bright, hopeful person, that merely talking to 
 him did me good. And he had a kind way of turning his mind 
 to the things that interested one, which led me on in spite of 
 one's self. And then he understood Roger so well, so much better 
 than other people. He knew all that lay hid under that rough, 
 silent manner of his. When I said that Roger's heart would 
 break if he was left to bear trouble by himself, he did not laugh 
 as some might have done, he only said earnestly, though cheer- 
 fully, ' It won't do, Ursie, to take more care upon yourself than 
 God intends for you. You may try to keep Roger's heart from 
 breaking ; and whilst you are doing that, you may all the time 
 be breaking some other person's. What is to hinder you from 
 running away from him some day, and setting up a home of 
 your own ? ' 
 
 ' I have a home,' I answered, eagerly. ' Roger's home is my 
 home, and it will be mine always.' I believe I said it all the 
 more eagerly, because something of misgiving lay at the bottom 
 of my heart. 
 
 John Hervey laughed, as he answered, ' You may change your 
 note some day, Ursie ; and, anyhow, it is not wise to look to that 
 only, for you know there are two wills to the bargain you and 
 Roger seem to have made ; and if, after all, he keeps to it, h** 
 has but to send for you, and you can go to him.' 
 
 John had a dreadful quantity of common sense. I don't think 
 when he was a boy he could ever have cared for the kind of 
 reading which had always been such happiness to me. He never 
 indulged in notions of what he would do if he was in other cir- 
 cumstances. I am sure he would have thought me wild if I had 
 told him one quarter of the fancies and wishes which had haunted 
 me as long as I could remember. It was just the present duty 
 with him, and nothing beyond but trust. 1 think that gave him 
 his singular look of happiness ; he was never perplexed what to 
 do, because he did what came, and left the consequences. Some- 
 times, when I have looked upon the light, rippling and dancing 
 on the waves below St Anne's Hill, I have thought that it was 
 just like John's sunny mind, making a clear, bright path where- 
 ever it moved.
 
 cro URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHEN I reached home, I found Mrs Weir awake, and 
 inquiring for me. Seeing Mr Richardson had been a 
 great comfort to her ; but she was still in a maze, not able to 
 keep any one plan or idea in her head for ten minutes together, 
 except it might be the duty of joining her ljusband. Mr Rich- 
 ardson had promised to write and make inquiry about him for 
 her, and this was the point to which she turned continually. As 
 to taking any steps for removing from Dene at present, it seemed 
 to her an utter impossibility. Servants, and carriages, and 
 horses, must all be kept ; no one could tell why, except that it 
 must be found out first where Mr Weir was. 
 
 I am afraid, poor lady ! she tried me a little. I was young, 
 with a cleiy head, and strong nerves, and a good constitution, 
 and I found it very difficult to enter into such an anxious, unde- 
 cided mind, burdened and shattered as it was by long sorrow ; 
 and I was selfish, too, for I was very unhappy, and never could 
 endure suspense, and I felt, though I did not choose to own it to 
 myself, that my plans might possibly be determined by those of 
 Mrs Weir. It was so strange to me to see her sitting in her 
 drawing-room, with all her little comforts and pretty things about 
 her, and working just as usual, not seeming to know how many 
 important things were to be discussed and arranged. I could 
 almost have thought she did not fully know what had happened, 
 only that her eyes were so weak and red ; and every now and 
 then she would lay down her work and fold her hands together, 
 and I saw her lips move, and knew that the grief was so keen 
 that it could only be soothed by prayer. 
 
 Active and sharp-sighted as people called me, I had a great 
 deal to learn from Mrs Weir. 
 
 I spent but a few minutes with her, for it had been an idle day 
 with me, and I had a great deal to do at the cottage ; yet, as I 
 left the house, a sudden impulse seized me to run up, just for 
 two minutes, to the seat upon the bank, and breathe the fresh 
 air from the down. I went by the back of the house instead of 
 by the garden, for I wished to avoid being seen ; but I was riot 
 able to escape Miss Milicent's watchful eye, and I had scarcely 
 reached the little gate opening from the road into the shrubbery 
 before she joined me.
 
 URSULA. in 
 
 1 What are you doing here, Ursie Grant ? I thought I should 
 find you at home. You have not been at home all day.' 
 
 ' No, Miss Milicent,' I said ; ' I had business away.' I am 
 afraid I had always some pleasure in baffling her. 
 
 ' I have been wanting you ; I have a great many things to say 
 to you. Are you going in now ?' 
 
 I replied that I should be in a few minutes, and, turning aside 
 from the shrubbery, I walked some paces on, as though I wished 
 to go out upon the down. 
 
 ' If you are going to walk, I will come with you,' pursued Miss 
 Milicent. 
 
 ' I would not give you that trouble,' I replied ; for I saw there 
 was no chance of being rid of her. ' If you please, I will go 
 back with you to the house.' 
 
 ' But you had business up here,' she said, scanning my face 
 Carefully. ' You were looking for some one, or waiting for some 
 one.' 
 
 ' I was going to sit by myself and think a little,' I said, quietly. 
 Such a strange, doubting look she gave me ! And then she said, 
 as though she was determined to test me, ' If it is your brother 
 you are watching for, Ursie Grant, you will most likely find him 
 at home. He came back from Compton, under the down, by the 
 gamekeeper's cottage.' 
 
 ' I was not watching for any one, Miss Milicent,' was my an- 
 swer ; ' it was as I said, I was going to sit by myself.' 
 
 I am afraid that was rather a rude speech ; but she aggra- 
 vated me uncommonly, and I had not enough religion at that 
 time to enable me to keep my passionate temper under proper 
 control. 
 
 1 It won't hurt you to go back and talk over some matters with 
 me,' said Miss Milicent, decidedly ; 'and if Roger Grant is in, 
 he can come and talk too.' 
 
 ' Roger is very busy, Miss Milicent,' I replied ; ' if there is 
 anything particular to be said, you had best, please, tell it to me, 
 and I will repeat it to him.' 
 
 She stood still for a moment, putting her hand in the pocket 
 of her black jacket. A change came over her face — I noticed 
 it though she turned aside — a flush was upon her cheek, and a 
 mist seemed to rest upon her eyes. They were not fierce eyes 
 then : there was a world of feeling in them, struggling, as it 
 seemed, to have vent. But she kept an iron rule over herself, as 
 she did over others, and, whatever there might have been work-
 
 112 URSULA. 
 
 ing within, she prevented it from coming forth in her voice, as 
 she hud her strong hand on my shoulder, and said, ' You will he 
 leaving Dene soon, Ursie Grant ; wc shall not have need of you 
 nor of Roger.' 
 
 My spirit was up then, I confess, and I said, ' We are ready 
 to go, Miss Milicent ; Roger has other work looked out for him, 
 and I came here only for him.' 
 
 Others might well have been angry at my manner, but I doubt 
 if Miss Milicent even remarked it. She went on, in her own 
 way, 'You will be finding other friends, and you are a stirring 
 woman, Ursic, so you won't have much time to think about 
 Dene.' 
 
 ' I shall think about it, Miss Milicent,' I answered. ' I have 
 been very happy here, and Mrs Weir has been very kind.' 
 
 'And I have been very cross,' she said, bluntly ; and then she 
 stopped. ' But it is no use to talk of that. If I was cross with- 
 out cause, I am very sorry now ; and if I had cause, I will try to 
 be sorry when I can think it over.' 
 
 I believe I smiled ; it was such a very odd way of being peni- 
 tent. She went on, ' I didn't come to you to talk about that so 
 much, but I would just ask the question at once —are you think- 
 ing of goin^ r with Roger wherever he goes?' 
 
 ' I can't say.' was my reply ; * it is all uncertain.' 
 
 ' But you must make up your mind before long ; and what will 
 you do till it is settled ?' 
 
 ' I have not thought about it, Miss Milicent. I can't settle 
 things in such a hurry.' 
 
 ' Then it is a pity you didn't live before the Deluge,' she re- 
 plied. 'Life isn't long enough for people who think so much 
 before they know which foot to put foremost. I have settled ill 
 my matters, and my mother's too, since breakfast.' 
 
 ' They may be easier than mine,' I said, 'and you have no 
 one but yourself and Mrs Weir to consult.' 
 
 What a foolish speech it was ! It must have seemed as though 
 I alluded to Mr Weir's absence ; but I don't know how it is, I 
 often find that if there is anything I ought not to say, I am sure 
 to say it. 
 
 Miss Milicent stamped her foot upon the ground and bit her 
 lip, but the next moment she was looking me full in the face ; 
 and, speaking almost angrily, she said, ' If you haven't any other 
 place to stay at, Ursie Grant, there is a home for you at Dene 
 whilst we are here, which won't be many weeks ; and when we
 
 URSULA. 113 
 
 go to Compton, which Mr Richardson and I think is best, you 
 can come too, and I think you may be some good to my mother, 
 if you will.' The last words escaped as though against her 
 inclination. 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Milicent,' I replied. But I couldn't say more, 
 for I scarcely understood what she meant. 
 
 She twisted a large gold ring, which she wore on her middle 
 finger, round and round, as she always did when she was put out. 
 Neither of us said more for some seconds. 
 
 '"Thank you," means you won't stay,' said Miss Milicent at 
 last. 
 
 ' It means I must do whatever duty comes before me,' I re- 
 plied. 
 
 ' Well ! but if it is a duty to help my mother ? It may be.' 
 
 'I would help Mrs Weir willingly, if I could,' I replied; 'but 
 she is not my first claim.' 
 
 'She is no claim at all/ exclaimed Miss Milicent; and her 
 face became crimson, and then all colour left it, and it grew, 
 not pale, but a kind of bluish yellow. She sat down upon the 
 bench. 
 
 'You aren't well, Miss Milicent,' I said, drawing near. 
 
 She motioned me from her, turned away her head, and almost 
 to my terror I heard, as she buried her face in her hands, some- 
 thing like a groan. 
 
 My thought was to go away. She was one who would never 
 forget having been seen to be weak and foolish. But I need not 
 have been afraid. She rose up again quite calm, and said, more 
 gently, ' It is not my mother's wish, nor mine, Ursie, to interfere 
 with any claims ; but there is much to be done, and a good 
 head wanted, and my mother has been used to trust to you ; and 
 it seemed that, just for a while, till you had another house over 
 your head, you might have been willing to stay on, and see how 
 things are going ; and so I said it ; — but if you have other claims, 
 don't think of it. We shall do ; we shall get on quite well. 
 Don't think of it;' and she waved her hand, as I was about to 
 speak, and moved towards the shrubbery gate. 
 
 How proud she was ! — but how proud I was, too! My con- 
 science gave me such a pang, I couldn't bear it. I caught hold 
 of her dress, and said, 'Stay, Miss Milicent; don't let us part 
 this way. I have claims, but not just now. I could stay, if it 
 
 were any good ; for Mrs Weir' and the thought of her sorrow 
 
 came over me, and my voice trembled.
 
 ii 4 URSULA. 
 
 1 You would be cared for,' she said, not letting herself be 
 m »ved 
 
 ' Yes ; Mrs Weir cares for everyone,' I sail. 
 
 'And you would have board, and lodging, and' ■ 
 
 'It is all I want,' I exclaimed, hastily. 
 
 'And Fanny is to stay, to cook, and do the work; and you 
 would have Mrs Mason's rooms for the time,' continued Miss 
 Miliccnt. 
 
 'Yes, yes, indeed ; I know it would be all very comfortable' 
 
 'And you could go on with your work. Nobody would ask 
 anything of you — only if now and then you had a fancy to l< 
 in upon my mother ; — but we wouldn't interfere. We would 
 have you think of your own claims. And if we move to Compt> n, 
 there would be only a very small room ; it mightn't be comfort- 
 able. We had rather you should go just your own way.' 
 
 But as Miss Miliccnt spoke, I saw by her restless eye that her 
 whole heart was set upon the plan. 
 
 I felt it best to cut the matter short. I don't think I was 
 gracious ; though I wished to be. ' It's best to take one step at 
 a time in such matters, Miss Milicent,' I said. ' We won't settle 
 anything about Compton now. There is no knowing what may 
 happen. Roger may be off to a new home, and wish me to go 
 with him; so it would not do to make an engagement. But as 
 for staying, I will do my utmost for the time being to help set 
 matters right here, and work for Mrs Weir in any way she wishes 
 it; and food and lodging will be quite an equivalent.' 
 
 Her face changed. ' That is as you think, not as I think,' she 
 said; and she held out her hand to me. 
 
 I took hold of it. Her large, strong fingers held mine quite in 
 a ripe. We gave each other a hearty shake. ' You will do my 
 mother good, Ursic Grant,' she said. 
 
 'Then I shall do myself good, and make myself happy,' I said, 
 earnestly; 'for there is no one I would serve sooner than Mrs 
 Weir.' And so we parted. 
 
 I had settled upon the next step. I did not repent it, even 
 when I thought the matter over quietly by myself. After all, 
 there was a good deal of self-pleasing in that notion of mine, 
 that I could never be away from Roger. Whatever the end of it 
 all might be, he would manage very well without me for a time. 
 William would give him a home at Sandcombe, and Leah was 
 less likely to complain if she had only one of us quartered upon 
 her. And I had decided, without any arguing backwards and
 
 URSULA. 115 
 
 forwards, and consulting my own wishes. I had determined to 
 do just the thing put before me as a duty, and not think of con- 
 sequences ; and I was beginning to learn — what I have since 
 been taught thoroughly by long experience — that when a person 
 is in a puzzle, being come to a point in life where many roads 
 meet, and there is no sign-post, there is no greater mistake than 
 to try and direct yourself by your reason. It won't help you at 
 all ; for ten to one but it is biassed by inclination. Neither are 
 friends very likely to help ; for they can, for the most, only decide 
 according to what you tell them. The first little sign of duty 
 that comes, if it is only in the way of setting your house to rights 
 or casting up your accounts, is the sign-post set up by God's 
 Providence ; and when that is done, He will be sure to open the 
 way wider, if you have only patience to wait. But we are all apt 
 to overlook the little duty, and think we will attend to it when 
 we have settled the great one ; and so we set out on the wrong 
 road, perhaps never to regain the right one. I might have 
 argued with myself for hours whether it was best to stay at 
 Dene, or go wherever Roger went, and not have come to a con- 
 clusion ; or, if I had, I should not have been satisfied that I had 
 decided rightly. But Miss Milicent's offer, and the knowledge 
 that I might help Mrs Weir, seemed to me to be God's sign-post, 
 and I was thankful that I had made up my mind to follow it. 
 
 I bustled about all the afternoon, trying to prevent myself from 
 over-thinking ; but there was no heart in what I did, for was not 
 everything to be upset and undone before long ? About five 
 o'clock I laid out the tea-things, expecting Roger to come in, and 
 I took a pleasure, though it made my heart ache all the while, in 
 putting some stocks, and sweet-briar, and a rose or two in a 
 flower- jar which Jessie Lee had given me about a fortnight 
 before. I thought whether such flowers grew in Canada, and it 
 seemed as though I could scarcely live without something bright 
 and sunshiny ; but I turned away from the subject, and ran 
 across to the house for a minute, to ask for Mrs Weir, and see 
 if there was anything I could do for her. Mrs Mason was 
 making her a cup of coffee ; so I took it up, and we had a few 
 minutes' conversation — not about anything particular, but there 
 was something in her way of speaking which made me feel how 
 glad she was to have me about her, and I went back com- 
 forted. 
 
 Roger was coming down the hill on horseback as I left the 
 house ; the horse was quite hot, so I knew he had been riding
 
 n6 URSULA. 
 
 fa t, not to be late for ten. Me called out to me directly, to say 
 he was sorry lie had kept me waiting ; and then lie jumped off, 
 and led his horse away to the stable. I did not go after him, for 
 I was ashamed of my impatience ; and besides, Roger never 
 liked to me made to tell things before his own time, — very few 
 men do. Presently he came in, looking very warm, and pushing 
 his hair off his forehead. He sat down just for a moment, and 
 then he jumped up, and said he should go in the back kitchen 
 and wash his hands ; he was not fit to sit clown to tea. I let 
 him go, but it seemed a terrible long time before he came b.-.ck. 
 He drew a chair to the table, and began cutting some bread. I 
 gave him his cup of tea, but it didn't please him, and he took up 
 the milk-jug, and poured out an ocean of milk, only slowly, 
 almost drop by drop, looking at it intently all the while. 
 
 I could bear it no longer. ' Well ! ' I said. 
 
 1 Well ! Trot.' 
 
 He smiled so pleasnntly, I could almost have believed it was a 
 dream that trouble was at hand. 
 
 ' Come out to Canada to see me this time next year, Trot ?' 
 
 'Then it's settled,' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, settled.' 
 
 I must have cut my piece of bread into twenty bits before I 
 tried to speak again. Roger laid down his knife, and stretched 
 his hand across the table. 
 
 ' Shake hands, little woman ; we will have merry days yet, 
 please God.' 
 
 ' Merry days for you, perhaps,' I exclaimed, bitterly. 'You 
 are a man, and you like change.' 
 
 ' I like doing what comes to me as right,' he said, gravely ; 
 'and so do you, Trot, when you let yourself think. I have 
 talked it all over with Mr Richardson. lie has known other 
 men go out, and do well ; and he thinks I have a better chance 
 than most. I have a fair sum to begin with, and it will go 
 farther there than here.' 
 
 'And so you are all for making money,' I said. 'That was 
 never your line before, Roger.' 
 
 He was very patient with me. He saw that sorrow made me 
 perverse. 
 
 ' Well ! yes,' he said, and he laughed. ' I am all for making 
 money, — not for money's sake, but for money's worth, — that I 
 might be of use in the world, and do a few things I have a fancy 
 for. When your wedding-day comes, Ursie, you shall have no
 
 URSULA. tlf 
 
 Cause to complain, because your brother Roger set out in life 
 with a wish to make money.' 
 
 That was too much for me. I jumped up and kissed him, 
 and then I rushed away to the window. 
 
 When I came back, we were able to discuss matters quietly. 
 He told me that Mr Richardson had entered into the business 
 very kindly, and had given him a good deal of information, 
 having some relations in Canada. He had lent him a book, too, 
 which would help him in some ways ; but the thing he most 
 advised was that Roger should go up to London, to consult with 
 a person whom Mr Richardson knew, who had been himself in 
 Canada, and had made money there. What was even more to 
 the point, Mr Richardson had advised Roger net to be too shy 
 of asking William for any money he might want. It might 
 cause him a little trouble to raise it, but it was Roger's right, 
 and if he gave up a good prospect of doing well merely from 
 over-scrupulousness, the time would come when both he and 
 William would repent it. This advice had helped Roger a good 
 deal, I could see. 
 
 ' A second conscience is a great help, Ursie,' he observed to 
 me, as he finished what he had to say of his visit. c I had a fear 
 of being hard, and selfish, and pressing my own wishes against 
 William's. But I suppose Mr Richardson may be right. To be 
 just to one's self may be the first step towards being just to others. 
 Only it is difficult to know where justice ends and selfishness 
 begins.' 
 
 ' It can't be with you, Roger,' I said ; ' you have not a grain 
 of selfishness in you.' 
 
 ' Not so sure of that, Ursie,' he said. ' Mr Richardson gave 
 me a hint this afternoon. He told me I was too fond of seeing 
 every one happy about me ; and so could not make up my mind 
 to give pain, even when it was needful ; and, after all, that is only 
 another kind of selfishness.' 
 
 ' That was when you were talking of me,' I said. 
 
 1 Partly of you, partly of William and Leah. They will be 
 sadly put out ! ' 
 
 'And what shall I be ?' 
 
 He came round to me and patted me on the shoulder. ' A 
 stout-hearted woman, who will bear whatever comes, and be 
 patient.' 
 
 ' Then Mr Richardson says I am not to go ?' 
 
 ' Not for a year ; you will come then, if all goes well, and I
 
 i iS URSULA. 
 
 determine to settle there. But Mr Richardson advises me not to 
 be hasty. He thinks his friend in London might put me in the 
 way of finding some one who would let me join with him in 
 managing and working for a year, and so give me time to look 
 about me. lie says, what is very true, that to leave one's country 
 and one's relations in a hurry, may be a thing to be repented of 
 all one's life. If I do stay, I must send for you : and there are 
 plenty of people coming out continually, who will take care of 
 you on the voyage ; and I ran easily run down and meet you 
 wherever you land.' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 ' What are you thinking of?' asked Roger. 
 
 ' Why, that you are a man, Roger, and are turning round to a 
 new life, and liking it ; and not knowing in the least what I shall 
 feel the long year when you are gone— all by myself — no 
 home.' 
 
 ' Sandcombc,' he said — but his voice was low, almost as though 
 he was ashamed of saying it. 
 
 'And would you like Sandcombe yourself?' I said, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 He thought for a moment — I saw he was annoyed. But the 
 cloud passed over ; and he answered with such a kind, honest 
 look — I never saw the same in any one else — ' No, I should not 
 like it, Trot ; and it is much harder for you to stay than for me 
 to go. But there will be an end.' 
 
 ' God grant it ! ' 1 said ; but it mayn't be the end we arc look- 
 ing for.' 
 
 ' It will be God's end, anyhow,' he replied. 
 
 He walked across the room to a table which stood in the 
 corner, by the dresser — my mother's Bible always lay upon it ; 
 the old Bible out of which he showed me the pictures on a Sun- 
 day afternoon, when I was a little girl. He turned to the parting 
 of David nnd Jonathan ; it was a favourite chapter of his. ' Look 
 here, Ursie,' he said, as he brought the book to me and pointed 
 to the last verses ; ' other people before us have had to part. 
 Just read me the verses ; I like them best in your voice.' And 
 I read : ' And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out 
 of a place towards the south, and fell on his face to the ground, 
 and bowed himself three times ; and they kissed one another, 
 and wept one with another, until David exceeded. And Jonathan 
 said to David : Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both 
 of us in the name of the Lord, saying : The Lord be between me 

 
 URSULA. 119 
 
 and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he 
 arose and departed ; and Jonathan went into the city.' 
 
 I could not talk any more of business after that ; but I went 
 up to my own room and prayed, and had a good cry. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE next two months were a perfect whirl. As fast as any- 
 thing was settled, it seemed to be unsettled ; and every 
 one's plans seemed to interfere with those of another. Day after 
 day Roger arranged to go to London, and see the Canadian 
 gentleman, Mr Green, who was Mr Richardson's friend ; but as 
 surely as he had decided to go, so surely something happened to 
 prevent him. And all this time he was working at William to get 
 the money matter settled ; and William was hanging back and 
 raising difficulties. At last, when it seemed the matter would 
 never come to an end, Farmer Kemp offered to let William have 
 the money, if he would give him the same interest and the same 
 security which had satisfied Roger ; and then there really was no 
 longer any reasonable excuse. I am sure Farmer Kemp did it 
 out of mere love to Roger ; for he and William were not even 
 as much friends as they used to be. The fret about the cottages 
 was always going on ; and Leah made matters worse, for she was 
 angry because Mrs Richardson and Mrs Kemp had taken up 
 Kitty Hobson. I did not trouble myself much about Kitty, nor 
 about any one just then, except Roger and Mrs Weir. When I 
 was not thinking of one, I was of the other. Roger approved of 
 my plan of staying at Dene as long as I could, but how long that 
 would be was a very doubtful matter. There was a report that 
 Mr Weir was in France ; and then Mrs Weir was wild to go to 
 him ; but the next day it was contradicted. A week afterwards, 
 some one declared he had been heard of in America, and the 
 week after that it was France again ; always something new, 
 and always something uncertain ; — and at last, Mr Richardson 
 and Miss Milicent consulted together, and agreed that the only 
 thing to keep Mrs Weir quiet was to put out of her head entirely 
 the notion of going to her husband. Till that was done, there 
 would be no coming to a conclusion about anything else. 
 
 Dene, as I think I have said, was Mrs Weir's own property,
 
 1 20 URSULA. 
 
 settled upon her so that the creditors could not touch it ; but it 
 was not a place she could live at, and there was nothing to be 
 done but to sell it. A good thing it was, so every one said, that 
 there was some one at hand ready to buy it. Captain Trice 
 came forward fr in the first, with a good offer for the house and 
 grounds, not the whole estate, he was by no means rich cno< 
 to buy that, for his fortune had been very much overrated. The 
 lawyers talked of trying to obtain more by an auction in London, 
 but Mrs Weir's trustees would not consent. It would bring 
 additional expenses, and after all they could not expect more 
 than the fair sum which Captain Price was willing to give. The 
 interest of this, and a little money belonging to Miss Milicent, 
 which had been left her by her grandmother, would, it was 
 hoped, enable them to live with tolerable comfort. 
 
 Mrs Weir was as passive as a child all the time the discus- 
 sions were going on. I think it provoked Miss Milicent. She 
 once said to me that she thought it quite wicked to take every- 
 thing for granted in that way. How did her mother know she 
 had a penny? she never took the trouble to ask. It was very 
 true that God fed the sparrows, but if the sparrows didn't open 
 their mouths, no food would ever get down their throats. 
 
 There was some truth in this, and I thought I would try and 
 rouse Mrs Weir a little, when I had the opportunity. And th it 
 came soon enough ; Farmer Kemp's offer was accepted, and 
 Roger was to go up to London early the next week to see Mr 
 Green ; and then Miss Milicent proposed that I should go over 
 to the house and stay there. One reason was because I might 
 not like sleeping at the cottage alone, and another because Mrs 
 Mason was going away, — a source of greater regret to me I 
 think than to Miss Milicent. I liked Mrs Mason very much, 
 and never forgot the first evening of my coming to Dene, and 
 how kind she was, and the tea Roger and I had with her. We 
 had been good friends from that day, and I owed a great deal to 
 her, and I hope I was grateful, though I was not what might be 
 called fond of her. She was strict, and had not much warmth 
 at the bottom, though a great deal of kindliness at the top. I 
 did all I could for her by helping to pack her boxes, and trjing 
 to understand about the accounts and other things which she 
 had left not quite settled, and on Saturday morning I said 
 good-bye to her, and <die went off in Farmer Kemp's light cart, 
 which was to take her to Hove ; from thence I think she was 
 going to London, to be housekeeper in some great family. It
 
 URSULA. 121 
 
 was the first departure, and it made the place seem very 
 lonely. 
 
 I don't like now to recall the last Sunday with Roger at Dene. 
 Some troubles there are in life which it is rather pleasant to look 
 back upon, one feels so glad to have escaped from them. But 
 there are others which arouse a feeling of pity for one's self, such 
 as one might have for another. I remember having read a story 
 of a lady who cried over her own funeral, and really I could 
 almost cry over my mournfulness on that Sunday. There was 
 the last walk to Compton church over the down, and the meet- 
 ing with William and Leah, and the bus}' gossip of the neigh- 
 bours, who came up and talked to us after the service, as if it 
 was the commonest thing in the world that was going to happen 
 to us. And then William would make us go back with him to 
 Sandcombe and dine, and kept us so long there, that we were 
 late at church in the afternoon, and I felt that Roger was fretted 
 with himself for giving in. But we had a quiet time afterwards, 
 and a comforting talk as we walked back to Dene, when it was 
 growing cooler, and there was a breeze on the hill just enough 
 to give motion to the light fern-leaves and the crimson foxglove- 
 bells, and to lift up the hot mist which had been hanging all 
 day over the sea, and show the sparkle of the waves in the bay, 
 and beneath the white cliffs. 
 
 They are there still, — the ferns and the foxgloves on the green 
 hill, the white cliffs, the broad blue sea, — but they have nevei 
 looked to me since as they did on that evening. 
 
 The peacock screamed as we entered the Dene shrubbery. I 
 should not have remembered it, but that it made me silly, for I 
 burst into tears, and Roger, seeing Miss Milicent in the road, 
 told me to leave him, and turn into the walks in the plantation, 
 under the hill, till I could get right again. I did not go far 
 away, but remained watching him through the trees, and 
 when Miss Milicent was gone, I ran home as quickly as I 
 could. 
 
 There was little to be done in the way of preparation foi 
 Roger's journey, so we had a nice, long evening together, talking 
 a good deal more of things past than of things to come. We 
 neither of us liked to dwell much upon them ; and we were to 
 meet again, we hoped, before long, and then our way would be 
 made clearer. Now we were like children groping about in the 
 dark. 
 
 'Yet not quite the dark,' was Roger's last speech to me as we
 
 122 URSU/,1. 
 
 took our candles to go to bed. ' God always gives us light 
 enough for the next step.' 
 
 The next day Roger was gone, at least from Dene, and I was 
 going; but whither was the question? I felt it ought to be 
 settled soon, and that very afternoon I set myself to the task of 
 bringing Mrs Weir to look her affairs full in the face, and see 
 what she was doing, and what others were doing for her, and 
 what she would wish to have done herself. Mi-s Milicent, I 
 think, had made a mistake in one respect. She had manag d 
 everything for her mother so long, that Mrs Weir was completely 
 out of the habit of managing for herself, and now Miss Milicent 
 was inclined to turn round and reproach her for it. 
 
 Poor lady ! she looked quite surprised, when I said to her as I 
 carried her cup of coffee into the drawing-room, about five 
 o'clock, 'You must have enough to do, ma'am, to settle your 
 mind when there is so much to be done. I wish I could help 
 you.' 
 
 ' I leave it all,' she replied. ' It will come right — as right as 
 it can. Do not stand, Ursula. Thank you ; please put down 
 the coffee, and there is a scat ; the evenings are very long.' 
 
 ' But growing shorter, ma'am/ I said : ' a fortnight yesterday 
 past the longest day ; and then there will only be six weeks more 
 of what one may call summer.' 
 
 ' I do not look forward, Ursula.' 
 
 ' Only when you are obliged, I suppose, ma'am. Miss Milicent 
 tells me you think of removing to the new house that is just 
 built at Compton.' 
 
 ' If it were God's will, I would not wish to move anywhere, 
 Ursula, except to my grave. I am only burdensome ; I can do 
 no good.' 
 
 ' Not perhaps in the way you would like, ma'am,' I replied. 
 ' But if we have life given us, I take it for granted there is some 
 purpose in it, if it is only to exercise others in patience.' 
 
 I really did not mean anything particular. I intended only 
 to answer her own words, though, when I had spoken, I saw I 
 ht seem rude. 
 
 But Mrs Weir took my remark so quietly ! — in the way which 
 made me often feel that she had only just missed being a saint. 
 
 ' You are right, Ursula,' she said. ' We must be content to 
 be trials, if we cannot be blessings. But that will never be your 
 lot, I feel. God has bestowed upon you health and energy, and 
 you are willing, I know, to make a good use of them.'
 
 URSULA. 123 
 
 ' I hope so, ma'am, I should like to make them useful to you 
 now, if you would let me. I shall have a fortnight clear, whilst 
 Roger is in London, before I shall be called to do anything for 
 myself; and if you were thinking of moving, I might be able to 
 assist Miss Milicent in packing.' 
 
 ' But, Ursula,' she slowly raised her eyes with a look of fear, 
 ' you are not going away ? Milicent told me she had offered you 
 a home. You could have it as long as you liked ; and no one 
 would ask you to do anything you did not like.' 
 
 ' It is not that, ma'am,' I replied. ' I hope, if I had duties to 
 attend to, I should not think about liking or disliking ; but I don't 
 see my way to remaining for long, and that is why I should be glad 
 to help you to settle yourself elsewhere now, before I leave.' 
 
 ' Milicent ! where is Milicent ?' Mrs Weir laid her hand upon 
 a little silver bell, which was one of the many ornaments of her 
 table. 
 
 'Perhaps, ma'am,' I-said, 'we might be able to manage the 
 matter without Miss Milicent. You are the person who must 
 decide.' 
 
 'Yes, I know — but Milicent — I wish she would come.' 
 
 ' If you tell Miss Milicent your wish, she will agree to it, I am 
 sure, ma'am,' I continued. ' I heard her say to Mr Richardson 
 the other day, that she only desired you to go where you would 
 be most comfortable.' 
 
 ' They will not let me go abroad, Ursula ; that is the only 
 think I ask for.' 
 
 1 They don't see where you are to go to, ma'am,' I replied ; 
 ' and whilst you are thinking about that, there is something else 
 to be done just before your eyes, if you will be good enough to 
 look at it.' 
 
 ' I do not object to the house at Compton,' she answered, ' I 
 never said I did, only it is far from the church.' 
 
 'Yes, but not so far as this ; and Miss Milicent is a good 
 walker, and it does not much matter to you, ma'am.' 
 
 ' No, Ursula, you are right there.' 
 
 ' And you would be near Mr Richardson, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Yes.' Her eyes brightened. ' Perhaps he would come and 
 see me oftener then ' 
 
 'And it is better than going quite away,' I continued, whilst 
 I watched the expression of the poor lady's face, hoping to see 
 some expression of interest ; but just then, to my great annoyance, 
 in rushed Miss Milicent.
 
 i :4 URSULA. 
 
 'Well, mother! Ursie! I am glad you arc here I have 
 been over the hill to Compton, and seen the house. They \von ! t 
 let us have it for less than fifty pounds unfurnished, and seventy 
 five furnished. I say it is a shame ; but there is nothing else to 
 be had ; so I have been to Mr Richardson, and he is coming up 
 here to-morrow, and you have only to sny yes to him, mother, 
 and then he will sec the landlord in I love on Wednesday, and 
 settle it, and we can move in by next Monday.' 
 
 Miss Milicent stuck her hands in her pockets, and leaned 
 against the mantel-piece. Mrs Weir sank back in her chair, ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 'It was just what Mrs Weir and I were talking of, Miss 
 Milicent,' I said. ' Mrs Weir seems to think that Compton will 
 be the best place.' 
 
 ' Of course ; there is nothing else to be done.' 
 
 'And you would not prefer any other place, ma'am ?' I said. 
 
 Miss Milicent looked daggers at me, and beckoned me out of 
 the room. 
 
 Instead of attending to her at once, I waited for Mrs Weir's 
 answer. 
 
 ' I do net know, Ursula ; it comes so quickly ; but it will all 
 be right.' 
 
 Miss Milicent turned round at the door. ' Ursie, there is 
 some packing I want to talk to you about.' 
 
 I followed her; she closed the door behind her. 
 
 'Are you a fool, Ursie Grant? What do you mean by put- 
 ting notions into my mother's head ? The house at Compton is 
 taken.' 
 
 'Is it quite, Miss Milicent?' I said; 'surely it is for Mrs 
 Weir to decide.' 
 
 ' Decide ! it is decided. She has nothing to do but to say 
 yes. She is not fit for more, you see.' 
 
 ' You will excuse me, I hope, Miss Milicent,' 1 replied ; 'but 
 it seems to me that Mrs Weir will never be fit to say even yes 
 for herself, whilst no one gives her the opportunity of saying 
 no.' 
 
 Any one else might have been angry at my boldness ; but I 
 will do Miss Milicent the justice to own that she always allowed 
 other people to be as free spoken as she was herself. 
 
 ' There is nothing for her to say no about,' she replied. 'What 
 s.hc wishes is to go to Compton, and it is what the trustees, and 
 Mr Richardson, and all consider to be best.'
 
 URSULA. 
 
 125 
 
 'I only thought that it was respectful to ask Mrs Weir's 
 opinion,' was my reply. ' But I beg your pardon for interfering, 
 Miss Milicent ; it is no business of mine.' 
 
 She scarcely heeded the remark ; but, as I was moving away, 
 she caught me by the arm, and said, ' There is a room for you at 
 Compton, Ursie Grant.' 
 
 Thank you, Miss Milicent ; but I am afraid it won't quite suit 
 me to use it.' 
 
 ' But it will be ready for you ; I am going to have a bed put 
 up.' 
 
 ' You are very good j but I must see what my duties at Sand- 
 combe are first.' 
 
 'You have no duties at Sandcombe, Ursie, none half so great 
 as staying with us and helping my mother. Mr Richardson and 
 I settled it was the best thing you could do.' 
 
 My spirit was up then, and I felt my cheek flush. 
 
 ' I thank you for troubling yourself about me, Miss Milicent,' I 
 said, ' but I think it might be better for me to decide for myself. 
 If you please, I will let you know what I determine by next 
 Thursday.' And making an excuse of business, that I might 
 not be urged any more, I hurried away. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE next day I went over to Sandcombe. Little as I 
 fancied taking advice from Leah, I yet felt that it would 
 be right to hear what her ideas were as to giving me a home 
 there, and whether I should be a help or a burden to her. Be- 
 sides, it was Roger's wish that I should talk matters over with 
 her and William, and though I should have liked to go my own 
 way independently, it did not seem right to keep aloof from re- 
 lations. 
 
 There was plenty of work going on in the farm-yard and the out- 
 houses, but the house itself seemed dull as I went in. I missed 
 Jessie Lee's voice. When she was there she was generally to be 
 heard singing, and the notes were like a bird's, they were so sweet ; 
 but it was all silent now, except the sound of my own footsteps 
 as I walked up the stone passage. I went straight to the little 
 parlour and knocked, thinking I should be sure to find Leah
 
 1-6 URSUJ .1. 
 
 there. It was William who said ' Come in ;' and, when I went 
 in, I found them both together, looking as though something was 
 very much amiss. 
 
 Leah broke out directly, scarcely allowing time for William to 
 shake hands ; 'Here is a fuss, Ursie ; Jessie has been as good 
 as brought up by us, and now mother is going to take her quite 
 away. So that we are not to depend upon her any more. It is 
 too hard, after all the trouble I have had with her ; but mother 
 complains of feeling lonely.' 
 
 This was not surprising, for Mr Morris had died shortly before, 
 and Mrs Morris had left the farm, and was living in a comfort- 
 able little house in Hatton, whilst her son was trying farming 
 in a distant county. 
 
 ' I thought we shouldn't be allowed to keep Jessie much longer,' 
 said William ; 'especially now Mrs Morris is ill.' 
 
 ' It is only rheumatism ; she will be well enough before long,' 
 said Leah ; ' and, of course,' she added, seeing, I suspect, that I 
 looked a little ashamed of her cool way of talking ; ' I shouldn't 
 mind giving her up for a time, just till mother is well ; but I had 
 put off getting extra help, quite depending upon Jessie ; and 
 now there is hay-making scarcely over, and harvest coming on, 
 and ever so much to be done, and I have not a creature to look 
 to.' 
 
 My heart sunk ; I saw which way things were tending, and I 
 don't think I knew till then how I dreaded the notion of a home 
 at Sandcombe. I made no answer, and Leah went on with her 
 complaints. 
 
 ' The new girl wants a sharp eye upon her, and I can't be in 
 two places at once, and Jessie looked after the dairy, and took 
 the poultry quite off my hands, and was a very fair cook, thanks 
 to my teaching. It is too hard that she should be taken from 
 me at a moment's notice.' 
 
 ' Another girl will only be another mouth to feed,' said William, 
 decidedly. ' We have too many about the place already ; Farmer 
 Kemp docs with one, and I don't see why we shouldn't.' 
 
 Leah bit her lip, and observed that she had not married to be 
 
 ide a slave, and have the Kemps thrown in her face always. 
 Mrs Kemp had Mary to help her, and she was worth fifty girls. 
 
 ' Well, then, here is Ursie,' said William, trying to look very 
 good-natured and disinterested. ' She is coming to make a 
 home here, and I am sure she will be willing enough to work for 
 her board.'
 
 URSULA. 127 
 
 A fair proposal it was ; but Roger would not have said it. I 
 answered, cautiously, ' You must not depend upon me, William ; 
 Mrs Weir wants me to stay with her.' 
 
 ' Stay with Mrs Weir ; why, she has scarcely butter enough 
 for her own bread, much less for yours,' exclaimed Leah. ' You 
 are not going to be such a goose, Ursie, as to stay with her ! ' 
 
 ' I suppose I am not likely to get much more than butter here,' 
 I replied, laughing. ' You are not going to hire me as your ser- 
 vant ; neither you nor Mrs Weir are. In both places I should 
 be required to work for my board : and at Mrs Weir's I might 
 have time to make a little money over and above for myself, by 
 needlework.' 
 
 'And what is to hinder you from having time here ? ' replied 
 Leah. 
 
 'Jessie had none,' I answered. ' If I am to work as hard as 
 Jessie, I shall not be better off.' 
 
 I could not help saying this, for I had always felt that it was a 
 shame for them to put so much upon Jessie, and not let her have 
 any help when they could very well afford it. 
 
 ' She does not want to come,' said William, speaking to Leah, 
 in a vexed tone ; ' that is the long and the short of the matter.' 
 
 He was quite right ; but I ought not to have let it out. I was 
 wrong, as I always was when I did not like things or people. 
 No wonder that I was often called ungracious. I tried to correct 
 myself, and answered, ' Please don't say that, William ; the long 
 and the short of the matter, as you call it. is, that it is my duty to 
 do the best I can for myself during Roger's absence. I have a 
 fair supply of needlework now, and could get more, and that is 
 what I have to look to to keep me in clothes, unless I take from 
 the little I have laid by, which is against Roger's wish and my 
 own too. Wherever I go I must either be paid for my services 
 or have certain time to myself, and it would only be deceiving 
 you to pretend to come here and take Jessie's place, when I could 
 not take Jessie's duties.' 
 
 ' Then what did you think of doing if you came here ?' asked 
 Leah, sharply. 
 
 I I had not thought much about it,' I replied. I could not say 
 more, for my voice was quite choked. 
 
 I think William perceived what I felt, for he said, in a tone of 
 excuse, 'Of course, Ursie, we should not talk of your working 
 for your board if we could help it, and if we didn't know it would 
 make you more comfortable. But we are sure you would never
 
 128 URSULA. 
 
 bear to be a burden, and this has been a bad year, you see ; the 
 hay is poor, and little enough of it ; and turnips want rain ; and 
 our wheat is not looking half as well as that on the other side of 
 I love; and, whit with the repairs of the cottages, and the 
 lawyers expenses which have come from Roger's whim, I am 
 likely to find myself short at Christmas. I thought you and 
 ,er would have understood this, and would have been willing 
 to lend a helping hand.' 
 
 ' I am willing, quite willing,' I exclaimed, ' I wouldn't be 
 indebted' — I was going to be ungracious again, but something 
 brought the thought of Mrs Weir and her patient gentleness to 
 my mind, and I added quietly, ' If I do come to you, William, I 
 don't think you will ever find me unwilling to lend a helping 
 hand to the utmost. I should be bound to do it, just as I was 
 bound to help Roger. But it would be foolish to promise to 
 take a girl's place, or do the things Jessie did, because I should 
 require to have some time to myself in the afternoons. That is 
 all I meant to say.' 
 
 'And that would do very well, Leah, wouldn't it?' said 
 William, and he walked to the door, and waited with the handle 
 in his hand, impatient to be gone. 
 
 ' If Ursie wasn't so uppish, she would have seen long ago that 
 it was all wc wanted,' said Leah. ' I don't understand myself 
 what all the fuss has been about.' 
 
 'Nor I neither,' said William, and he came back and kissed 
 me. ' You know, Ursie, if I was a rich man you should have a 
 home here as long as you liked just for the asking.' 
 
 'Thank you, William. When Roger and I arc in Canada, 
 whether we are rich or poor, you shall have a home without the 
 asking.' 
 
 William went off quickly, trying to hum a tune, which, some- 
 how, I don't think came quite easily. Leah turned to me rather 
 sharply. ' What did you mean, Ursie, just now, by saying you 
 were going to st^.y with Mrs Weir, when she won't have a house 
 over her head ? Dene is to be sold, and the whole estate is 
 mortgaged up to its full value and over, and there is to be a sub- 
 scription raised for Mrs Weir amongst her friends, and Miss 
 Milicent is going out as a governess.' 
 
 I burst into a fit of laughter, which made Leah quite angry 
 ' It is very well for you to laugh,' she said, ' but it's true. I had 
 it from the best authority ; of course they don't tell you every- 
 thing, why should they ? But you will find it so ; and as for
 
 URSULA. 129 
 
 your notion ofliving with Mrs Weir, you might as well think of 
 living with the man in the moon.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that I shan't think of living with him soon,' I 
 replied. ' There will be a chance of hearing less gossip and 
 more truth there than here. Jane Shaw, I suppose, told you 
 this nonsense.' 
 
 ' And she is more likely to know than any one else,' answered 
 Leah, 'seeing she is to be mistress of Dene.' 
 
 I waited before answering, for, often lately as I had heard 
 Jane's prospects spoken of, I could not yet make up my mind to 
 take the notion patiently. 
 
 ' The wedding is to come off the end of September,' continued 
 Leah, anxious to pour out all she knew. ' Captain Price's 
 sisters and an aunt are coming, and a good many gentlemen 
 friends, and Jane is thinking already about her dress, Jessie 
 says. I don't believe, though, for my part, that Dene will be 
 ready for them by that time. There will be a good deal to do 
 with papering, and painting, and furnishing, after the old lady 
 is gone. Jane says she is not going to be particular, and they 
 can wait for the new dining-room furniture till next year, but I 
 don't fancy they will when it comes to the point. By the 
 by, Ursie, you must be upon your best behaviour, and 
 remember to say Miss Shaw now. Jessie tells me Jane quite 
 expects it.' 
 
 I I am very willing,' I answered. ' She would never have 
 been Jane Shaw to me, if I had not known her from a child. 
 Is there anything I can do for you in Hatton, Leah ? I am 
 going on there to get a few things for the house.' 
 
 ' Nothing ; unless — well, you might, perhaps, carry a parcel 
 over to Jessie. She left a gown here and a pair of shoes.' 
 
 One of the farm boys lived at Hatton, and might very well 
 have taken the parcel, but I was unwilling to appear unkind. 
 Besides, it saved Leah a penny ; for the child might have 
 expected something for his trouble. I knew she would not 
 forget that. 
 
 'And when are you coining, Ursie?' was Leah's gr.,cious 
 invitation at parting. 
 
 ' I will let you know when I have settled about Mrs Weir, ! 
 I replied. 'Good-bye,' and, burdened with my parcel, I 
 departed. 
 
 I made my way up the cart-road to the top of the down, and 
 then sat down to rest for a few minutes, and if I could, to think. 
 
 I
 
 i3o URSULA. 
 
 I was in a greater perplexity than before, for I felt as though I 
 had been drawn on farther than I intended. My only thought 
 in going over to Sandcombc was to find out whether William 
 and Leah really wished me to stay with them, and were likely 
 to be in any way hearty about it. In tliat case, and if they had 
 thrown themselves at all into my position, I could have tall. 
 over everything openly and easily. But this fashion of bar- 
 gaining, and making the most of me, threw me back upon 
 myself. It was no use to ask advice of people who were 
 only bent upon seeing things their own way, for their own 
 advantage. I could, indeed, write to Roger, but it might make 
 ill-will between him and William to explain what I felt, and 
 that would never do, especially just as he was going away 
 from England, perhaps never to come back again. If a dis- 
 agreeable thing is to be done, the fewer people there are con- 
 cerned in it the better. Moreover, at the bottom of my heart 
 lay a doubt as to what Roger would say. He would very 
 likely tell me that it was a safe home, and that I had better be 
 patient and bear up, and it would soon be over, and I should 
 join him in Canada. 
 
 But that would be his man's way of looking at the great end, 
 and not seeing the little steps by which it is to be reached ; and 
 1 never shut my eyes as he did to the possibility that the day 
 for me to join him in Canada might never come, and that the 
 step I was going to take now was one which must have an in- 
 fluence upon my future life. 
 
 I hated Sandcombc. I really don't think the word is too 
 strong. I did not hale William and Leah, but I hated all their 
 ways of looking at things. 
 
 When I was with them I felt, as it were, unable to breathe. I 
 had to think of every word I said, and check even the tone of 
 my voice, lest I should show the feelings which would rise up in 
 
 te of myself, and must, I knew, give offence. A room to 
 myself in a cottage would have been Paradise compared to a 
 home at Sandcombc And there was Mrs Weir in great 
 trouble, and wanting me ; and even Miss Miliccnt setting 
 her heart upon having me. There seemed no question which 
 would be the best. Let William and Leah, and even Roger, 
 say what they might, I would up my mind to remain with 
 
 Mrs Wi 
 
 If only I had not disliked Sandcombc quite so much ! It WAS 
 the one thing which made me pause.
 
 URSULA. 131 
 
 As I sat upon the hill, meaning every minute to walk on, and 
 yet tempted to rest a little longer, I heard the soft sound of 
 horses' hoofs upon the turf. Two men were cantering across 
 the down, from the direction of Hatton gate. As they came 
 nearer I knew them to be Farmer Kemp and John Hervey. 
 
 They passed me at first without knowing me ; but, immedi- 
 ately afterwards, I heard John say, ' Why, there is Ursie Grant !' 
 and he turned his horse and rode up to me, and the farmer 
 trotted up after him. 
 
 ' Here, all alone, lassie ! ' called out the farmer, as he drew in 
 his horse. ' I should never have expected to see you sitting 
 doing nothing, so early in the day.' 
 
 ' Only resting,' I replied, and I stood up. ' I have been to 
 Sandcombe, and I am going on to Hatton.' 
 
 ' And carrying a good-sized load with you,' said John, looking 
 at Jessie's parcel. 
 
 ' Not a very heavy one,' I answered, and I smiled a little ; but 
 I suppose the smile was not a very hearty one, for the farmer 
 changed his tone directly, as he said, ' You are not doing well 
 for yourself, Ursie ; you had much better come down to Long- 
 side, and have a talk with my good woman ; it will do you more 
 good than thinking.' 
 
 ' I have some things to buy at the grocer's, at Hatton,' I said, 
 ' and here is Jessie Lee's parcel to be taken to her; I don't think 
 I can come to Longside to-day.' 
 
 ' It wouldn't take me ten minutes to ride back with the parcel,' 
 said John, very good-naturedly; 'but I don't know so well about 
 the grocer. What is to be done there, Ursie ? My housekeeping 
 has been on a small scale hitherto, so I am not up to the needs 
 of a family.' 
 
 ' Then it is time you should learn,' said the farmer, sharply, 
 but laughing as he spoke. ' Don't you think so, Ursie ? It is 
 not every man who has a wife he can trust to manage her own 
 housekeeping.' 
 
 ' He is a foolish man who marries a wife he can't trust,' I 
 replied. 
 
 John laughed merrily, and said I had made a good answer, and 
 he quite agreed with me ; and if ever he married a woman who 
 couldn't go to the grocer's, he should think he deserved the fate 
 cf a fool. 
 
 ' The fate of George Price, Esq., when he marries Miss Jane 
 Shaw,' said the farmer, twirling his whip in the air. ' If ever
 
 IJ2 URSULA. 
 
 there was a mail bent upon riding to ruin, full gallop, it s that 
 young jackanapes. There must be something in the air of Dene 
 that's catching. But come, Ursie, hand up your parcel to John, 
 .uid turn back with me. I can walk my horse, and you shall 
 tell me about Roger.' 
 
 It was a great temptation ; a kind word and a friendly thought 
 were so specially dear to me just then ; but I was in a difficulty 
 as to managing my purchases at the grocer's. 
 
 John Ilcrvey noticed my hesitation. 'Shopping and all,' he 
 said, ' I can manage it, Urhi .' 
 
 ' I have known you long enough to be sure of that,' I replied. 
 
 ' Don't trust him too far, though,' said the farmer. 'He is 
 well enough when there's no fun in the way, but let him get 
 a scent of the hounds— they are out to-day — and your parcel 
 would go to the winds, and the grocer's business after it. I 
 vow that mare understands ; she pricks up her ears at the very 
 name.' 
 
 ' I would trust Mr Hervey, hounds or no hounds,' I said ; ' if 
 he undertook it he would do it.' 
 
 John's face, which was like a sunbeam generally, clouded over 
 f r a moment. I thought I had been too bold, and spoken as if 
 I was his equal ; which I was not, for he was a man when I was 
 a child, and I had always been taught to look up to him. 
 
 ' I should not like to give you the trouble, though, Mr Hervey,' 
 I said. ' Mary Kemp and I might be able to walk over to Hat- 
 ton, late.' 
 
 The mare was becoming restive, and John jumped off 
 caught up the parcel from the ground. ' Now, Ursie, the iist ; 
 1 shall overtake you before you arc at Longside.' 
 
 I had the paper inside my glove, and I took it out and gave 
 
 it to him. He returned me such a squeeze of the hand. I cried 
 
 out, and we both laughed ; and he was mourr in, with the 
 
 parcel before him, and galloping towards Hatton Gate, before I 
 
 I time to put my glove on. 
 
 ' A capital good fellow !' said the farmer, 'and a merry one, 
 too ! Now, lassie, step out, and my Dobbin shall step in, and 
 so we '11 keep together.'
 
 URSULA. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 FARMER KEMP and I had but little conversation upon 
 anything specially important to me, on our way to Long- 
 side. I told him what I knew about Roger's plans, but it was 
 little use to consult him about Mrs Weir and Leah. It was not 
 in his way to give advice upon such matters, and the very reason 
 he was taking me back with him to Longside was, that I might 
 talk things over with his wife and Mary. But in his honest, 
 kind-hearted way, he showed me true sympathy ; even when he 
 talked about his own concerns, such as draining, and horse- 
 hoeing, and drilling, he had always a word to say about Roger 
 and his prospects, and it cheered me to hear him speak of the 
 probability of his doing well as almost a certainty. Not that 
 Farmer Kemp knew much about Canada, or how people farmed 
 there ; but I was in such a maze and doubt about everything, 
 that I clung even to straws for comfort. 
 
 The farmer took me into the parlour at Longside, and sent 
 Mary to fetch a piece of cake and a glass of wine, ordering, at 
 the same time, a cup of ale for himself, with which he drank to 
 my good health and good fortune, and a husband by that time 
 twelvemonth ; and then he kissed me on both cheeks, saying, 
 ' he didn't know why he wasn't to have an old man's privilege,' 
 and went away tramping down the passage, calling for his wife, 
 and singing the chorus of a harvest song. 
 
 Mrs Kemp came in soon afterwards. Mary offered to go 
 away, and I said nothing to prevent her, for I felt I might have 
 things to mention about others which might seem unkind, and 
 there was no need to have them poured into more ears than was 
 necessary. 
 
 ' Wall, Ursie ! so the farmer says you are come to have a 
 talk,' said Mrs Kemp ; and she went to the cupboard, and fetched 
 her work-box ; and, sitting down in the leathern arm-chair, began 
 to mend a pair of her husband's worsted stockings, ' Can I help 
 you, child ? I am willing, as you know.' 
 
 Something of a daughter's feeling towards a mother came over 
 me, as I drew my seat towards her chair, and rested my hand 
 upon the arm, and said, { Dear Mrs Kemp, if I knew what was 
 right to be done, I shouldn't care for anything.' 
 
 ' Except doing it, I suppose, you mean,' she said. 
 
 ' It would be easy enough to do, either way,' I replied. ' Roger
 
 134 ri.A. 
 
 says it is not to be foi and the farmer tells mc it will all 
 
 come right with him and me in the end. But it is the : 
 time that is the difficulty, — whether to stay with Mrs Weir, or 
 to S.mdcombe;' and I told her .ill that had passed, and the 
 rs I had had about both places. She listened very kindly ; 
 but when I stopped she made no answer. 
 
 ' Well ! ' I said, a little impatiently. 
 
 ' You have it in your ! I "rsie, to stay with Mrs Weir.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ?' I ask- . 
 
 ' From your way of putt in s ; and I don't say but that 
 
 it is natural. Leah Grant's is not such a very tempting home, 
 setting aside that it is your brother's.' 
 
 ' That makes it worse,' I said. ; ' if it was not my br 
 could put up with it ; but the aggravation of one's own relations 
 is past bearing.' 
 
 'Well ! it is hard, certainly; but it is God's will to give us 
 relations.' 
 
 'And it is His will that they should act as such, I suppose,' 
 was my reply. 
 
 ' Surely ; and I don't sec quite how William Grant and his wife 
 have failed. They will give you a home and be kind to you.' 
 
 'O Mrs Kemp! please — I don't think you understand at 
 all,' I exclaimed. ' If you had only been there and heard 
 m' 
 
 ' I should have snid they took things coolly,' said Mrs Kemp ; 
 ' but I should not have thought they were wanting in duty.' 
 
 1 1 don't care for duty ; it is 1 ve I need.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Mrs Kemp, thoughtfully. 
 
 'Don't you know what I want?' I continued. 'If I am to 
 be left alone all this year, I must be with people who are fond 
 of me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' again repeated Mrs Kemp. 
 
 I was vexed with her ; and I daresay showed it by my face, 
 for I would not speak. 
 
 don't be fretted, Ursie, dear,' continued Mrs Kemp, 
 kindly. ' You see I am not so quick at taking things in as some 
 people are ; and I must make out what you are aiming at before 
 I can lend you a helping hand. If you want to know where you 
 will be mo-.t cared for, that is one thing ; but if you want to find 
 out where it is right you should be, that is another.' 
 
 'Then yon are like Roger, and all the rest,' I exclaimed; 
 ' you would have mc go and be a slave at Sandcombc, dancing
 
 URSULA. 135 
 
 attendance upon Leah's whims, and not getting "Thank you" 
 for my pains ; and you would have me leave poor Airs Weir in 
 her trouble, and Miss Milicent not knowing in the least how to 
 manage for her. Poor lady ! she may die, for au ht I know, it 
 she is left to Miss Milicent's care.' 
 
 'Well ! but Ursie, child,' exclaimed Mrs Kemp, looking up in 
 surprise, 'she has had no one but Miss Milicent to look after 
 her these many years.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but it was different then ; she was in less trouble, and 
 she had not been accustomed to depend upon me so much ; and 
 her husband was at home; and— it was quite different then — it 
 was indeed.' 
 
 'She was in less trouble,' said Mrs Kemp; 'that is true; 
 she must want more comfort just now. But, Ursie — then you 
 have a notion of living with her always.' 
 
 ' I ! dear Mrs Kemp, how could such a thought enter your 
 head?' 
 
 ' Only, my dear, you said she was becoming accustomed to 
 depend upon you ; and I fancied what it would be next year, 
 when you would probably have to leave her.' 
 
 ' I must let next year take care of itself,' I replied ; ' she must 
 learn then to do without me.' 
 
 ' Well ! yes, that may be the best way. But, perhaps, in that 
 case, she might learn to do without you now.' Seeing that I 
 made no reply, Mrs Kemp went on, taking my hand kindly, and 
 fixing her sweet, brown eyes on my face, as though begging me 
 to bear with her if she said things I disliked to hear. ' My dear, 
 I don't want to cross you. There is not much need to tell you 
 that ; but you have no mother, and I would fain be one to you. 
 You see, it strikes me that you have rather a twisty way of look- 
 ing at this matter, to suit your own wishes, which are natural 
 enough and right enough in their way. If you settle to stay 
 with Mrs Weir, because she can't do without you this year, you 
 will have just the same reason for staying with her next year ; 
 and a much stronger one, because you will have made yourself 
 more needful to her. But you would be unwilling, I suppose, to 
 remain then.' 
 
 ' It would be out of the question,' I exclaimed ; ' I must go to 
 Roger.' 
 
 ' And, anyhow — if Roger were to marry, and yet offer you a 
 home — you would go to him ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, I must. I could never live away from Roger.'
 
 136 URSULA. 
 
 ' But there would he just the same claim, as far as Mrs Weir 
 is concerned,' said Mrs Kemp. 
 
 1 She is not my relation,' I observed. 
 
 1 No ; that is just what I was thinking. She is not a relation ; 
 she is a claim and a duty when you like it, but not when you 
 don't like it' 
 
 I felt the colour mount to my cheeks. 
 
 ' Then you would never have one put friends before relations, 
 I exclaim id, 'let the friends be never so kind, and the relations 
 never so cross ?' 
 
 ' I would try to take life as God has made it,' was the answer. 
 
 'And go to Sandcombe?' I continued. 
 
 ' Perhaps not just yet. I think it is all very true that Mrs Weir 
 wants a little comfort now ; and I would stay and give it her if I 
 could, for a certain time ; may be a month or six weeks, or any 
 time you choose, till she is settled in her new home. But, Ursie, 
 if you will take my advice, you will be careful not to put your- 
 self too forward in some things. You arc not Mrs Weir's 
 daughter.' 
 
 'No,' I exclaimed, and I laughed. 'Fancy if she or Miss 
 Milicent were to hear you say that ; as if it could be possible. 
 Why the Weirs are as proud as princes.' 
 
 ' Pride goes to the wall when folks arc in need of comfort,' 
 said Mrs Kemp. ' But, putting aside that, Lt is a thing I have 
 learned from a good many years' thought and trouble, that to take 
 other persons' duties from them is a course which never has 
 God's blessing upon it. People say — I don't ask you, for it is 
 wrong to pry — but people do say that Miss Milicent is not as 
 careful of her mother as she might be, and as she ought to 
 be. There can't be a worse sin in a quiet way than that, Ursie ; 
 and if you help her to continue in it, why you will share the 
 guilt.' 
 
 This was quite a new way of looking at the case, and it 
 touched my conscience; fori knew that lately Miss Milicent 
 had left off doing many things for her mother which at one time 
 she had been accustomed to attend to. 
 
 'And so you think I should do harm by staying,' I ex- 
 Claimed. 
 
 ' It is just this,' continued Mrs Kemp ; ' I think the question 
 for us to consider is scarcely ever whether wc shall do harm or 
 good anywhere, — for I don't believe we can judge about it ; but 
 only to find out where God sends us, and then go.'
 
 URSULA. 137 
 
 ' Of course ! of course ! ' I exclaimed. ' Who ever wants any- 
 thing else?' 
 
 ' I should have said,' replied Mrs Kemp, ' that most of us think 
 first where we wish to go, and then look to see if God hasn't 
 sent us, and that makes all the difference Mr Richardson 
 preached a sermon about Balaam last Sunday, and Farmer and 
 I, when we came home, both said we thought we had been 
 Balaams many times in our lives.' 
 
 ' And I am like Balaam now, then,' I said, half-amused, yet 
 half angry. .,. 
 
 Mrs Kemp laughed a little too, as she answered, ' Well ! 
 there is the relation — a very near one — a brother, willing to 
 have you, and wishing it ; and there is his wife left without 
 help and society, and likely to find you useful, and there is 
 Roger looking upon Sandcombe as your natural home, and 
 leaving you under William's care. It was not you who ordered 
 these things.' 
 
 ' Nor I who ordered Mrs Weir's troubles,' I replied. 
 
 ' No ; but God made you William Grant's sister, and Miss 
 Milicent Mrs Weir's daughter. That is as much as to say one 
 is to help one, and the other the other.' 
 
 j And I am to take Jessie's place, then,' I said. ' I shall not 
 do much for myself in that case.' 
 
 ' O Ursie ! you were always a contrary child,' exclaimed 
 Mrs Kemp, in a vexed tone. ' Don't you see that a difficulty 
 about that would alter the whole case. William and Leah must 
 understand. If they won't give you time to work for yourself, 
 and Mrs Weir will, why that settles the question at once ; not 
 because of your liking or disliking, or thinking you will be 
 better or do more good in one place than in another ; but only 
 because God has so ordered it, that it is needful for you to do 
 something for yourself, that you mayn't be using up the little that 
 is put by for a rainy day, and so at last come to be a burden on 
 your friends.' 
 
 I knew that quite as well as Mrs Kemp : it was just what I had 
 said to Leah, but somehow it did not come home to me pleasantly. 
 
 I would so much rather have gone to Mrs Weir with the idea 
 of helping her than of doing what was good for myself. 
 
 I sat still for some seconds, and thought ; then I got up and 
 sa'.d, I was very much obliged for the advice, and I would think 
 about it. 
 
 ' Ah ! Ursie, lassie ; you are not inclined to see the matter my
 
 URSULA. 
 
 imed Mrs Kemp, 'and I am sure I would fain sec it 
 yours if I could ; but you will never help Mrs VVcir if you begin 
 by being a bone of contention with your own illations.' 
 
 ' I will think about it ; I dare say you are right Dear Mrs 
 Kemp, I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I am very unhappy.' 
 1 could not help saying it, and the good woman laid hi I hand 
 upon mine in a fondling way, and said she was so sorry ; and 
 then we had a long talk about Sandcombe, and the ways ofgoi 
 on, and how I might help in mending matters if I went there ; 
 and before we parted I felt I might be just as useful there as 
 with Mrs Weir, and was heartily glad that the point was to be 
 settled by William and Leah, and not by me. 
 
 There was little doubt what the end would be now ; in fact, the 
 next day, a few words with William, who came over to Dene to 
 see me, decided it. I could do fairly well with him when I had 
 him alone, and he was kind enough in his way of putting things, 
 and told me that Leah was quite willing to agree to the plan of 
 my having time to myself after dinner, if I would only make my- 
 self useful in the morning, and look to the dairy and poultry, and 
 see a little to the cooking. I had a misgiving that I should be 
 put upon still, and I asked how Leah was going to manage about 
 the other things which Jessie had been accustomed to attend to ; 
 but I found that they had settled to have help from a girl who 
 was to come every now and then, when she was wanted ; and, as 
 William said, Jessie was not always with them, and so, if I was 
 there, Leah would not be really worse off than before. 
 
 He looked quite pleased when everything was arranged, and 
 talked so much about Sandcombe being my home, and how he 
 had always wanted me to come, that before he went away I 
 really did begin to think he had been very good-natured and 
 brotherly about it, and I am quite sure he thought so himself. 
 But when he was gone — oh dear ! Happily I had not much time 
 for thought, except to be thankful that, at any rate, I had not 
 pleased myself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MRS WEIR'S new house was not exactly in Compton ; it 
 might have been pleasanter for her if it had been. She 
 would have been nearer the church and the parsonage. I don't
 
 URSULA. 139 
 
 know that I could describe the situation well to any one un- 
 acquainted with the neighbourhood, and who did not know the 
 kind of country that lay on the other side of St Anne's Hill, 
 between it and the sea. But supposing a person was standing 
 on the top of St Anne's facing the sea, and then was to go 
 down the hill on that side, he would come to the top of a steep, 
 jagged cliff, broken into uneven ledges, bare and sharp, except 
 where here and there some green plant had taken root in the 
 crevices, and managed to grow in spite of the fury of the south- 
 west winds, which, in these parts, are the fiercest winds that 
 blow. 
 
 Before coming to the top of the cliffs, it seems that there is 
 nothing between them and the sea, but on reaching the edge 
 there is a sight which makes a stranger start. For below lies, 
 not the sea, but a broad tract of land, tossed up and clown in 
 little hills and valleys. It is scattered all over with huge rocks, 
 which look as though giants had thrown them about in their 
 play, and it slopes down in a steep descent towards the top of a 
 second range of cliffs. Tins range cannot, of course, be dis- 
 covered immediately underneath the upper cliffs, but it can be 
 traced towards the west for many miles, forming the outline of 
 Compton Bay. A dreary-looking country it is, but it has a 
 charm even for that very reason. As a child I only saw it 
 occasionally, and always thought of it as connected with haunts 
 of smugglers, and wild storms ; roaring waves, and shipwrecks, 
 and heavy sea mists, gathering over the hills and shutting out 
 the light, which was the only hope of the seamen's safety. It 
 must have been a fierce time on earth when the land sank away 
 from the upper cliffs, and the great rocks were hurled down, and 
 the streams, which have now worked their way through the 
 lower cliffs, and formed deep chasms, first began to flow. But 
 those days are not within the memory of man that I ever heard. 
 Yet even now it is solemn to stand and think of what once has 
 been. When I first remember that part of the country it was, 
 so to say, unknown and untraversed. There was no road 
 through it. Persons wishing to go from Hatton to Compton 
 had to go up Hatton Lane, and over the hill ; only foot-pas- 
 sengers went over the cliffs, and with them it was a difficult 
 task to find their way, especially on a dark night. They might 
 stumble among the rocks, or wander to the edge of the cliffs, 
 and be over before they were aware of it. Some people, at that 
 time, thought it an unsafe country to live in, and said that the
 
 1 4 o URSULA. 
 
 rocks would fall again ; but there was little enough really to 
 ie.ir, though certainly things did seem terrible to those who were 
 unaccustomed to them. 
 
 Perhaps the country looks all the more wild from the contrast 
 with that which immediately adjoins it. For, to the cast of St 
 /.imc's Hill, just beyond Hatton, the land turns towards the 
 
 ith, and the warm sun shines full upon it. The ground is 
 tossed about still in every direction, and huge rocks lie scattered 
 upon it. But thorns, and chestnuts, and ash trees have spr>; 
 up amongst them upon the greensward : ivy has climbed up the 
 leilgcs of the jagged cliffs ; primroses cluster upon the banks; 
 cowslips glitter on the turf; and masses of hyacinths may be 
 seen in glades, half hidden by the foliage of the thick trees, and 
 through which the jutting masses of gray rock peep out upon 
 the open sea, sparkling with silver and blue, some hundreds of 
 feet beneath them. 
 
 A lovely scene it is. There is a verse of a very different 
 country, which often comes to my mind when I think of it. ' It 
 is a land which the Lord thy God careth for. The eyes of the 
 Lord thy God are always upon it, from the beginning of the 
 year even unto the end of the year. Sometimes it has even 
 seemed to me that heaven itself can scarcely be more beautiful. 
 But that is, doubtless, the thought of my ignorance, and the love 
 which I bear to all things connected with the memories of my 
 youth. 
 
 But I must go back to Compton and Mrs Weir. I have said 
 that in former days there was no direct road from Hatton to 
 Compton ; a few years, however, before the time of which I am 
 writing, it had been determined to make- one under the upper 
 cliff, at a great expense, and, as some persons thought, uselessly. 
 That, however, was soon to be proved to be a mistake. Some 
 speculating people bought up part of the land, and buiit an 
 hotel and lodging-houses upon it, and Compton Heath, as the 
 place was called, was likely to become, in time, an inhabited part 
 cf the world. It signified little enough to Mrs Weir where she 
 went, for she was not likely to move out of the house often, when 
 once she was settled in it ; yet I could not help wishing that she 
 bad something more quiet and homedike to look out upon than 
 that broad sea, without a ship to be seen upon it, and the bare 
 rocks upon the Heath. There was, indeed, a beautiful view of 
 the white cliffs in the distance ; but everything immediately 
 about the place, though grand, was desolate — except, indeed,
 
 URSULA. 141 
 
 the garden ; but even that was new, and not likely to be kept in 
 very good order by the old man who was in charge of it. He 
 and his wife had the care of the place before Mrs Weir took it, 
 and they were to live there still, and the woman was to do the 
 cooking, and the man the gardening. Miss Milicent and I went 
 many times backwards and forwards over the hill, from Dene 
 to the Heath, before we had made the place at all what we 
 thought Mrs Weir would think comfortable. Mrs Richardson 
 helped us as well as she could ; but she was busy in the 
 parish with the poor people, and at home with her children, and 
 had but little time to spare ; and, indeed, it would have been 
 unfair to expect her to do much. I found the neighbours very 
 kind; the people at the hotel lent us a helping hand, and the 
 lieutenant, at the Preventive Station, and his wife took an interest 
 in our goings on. I don't know how Miss Milicent became ac- 
 quainted with them, but somehow she managed to know every 
 one ; and I was rather glad to think that when she and her 
 mother were settled in that out-of-the-way place, they would have 
 a man friend near to apply to in a difficulty. 
 
 I had never yet told Mrs Weir exactly what my plans were, 
 but I had given her to understand that I could not live with her 
 for a continuance, and she took the notion more quietly than I 
 had expected. As she said, she never looked forward, and I was 
 with her for the time, and that was enough. But Miss Milicent 
 was different. I had a struggle with her especially, the day be- 
 fore all was arranged for the move. I was to go over to the 
 Heath in the afternoon, and she and her mother were to follow 
 the next morning. First of all, I had thought that it would be 
 better to stay and help the poor lady to the last at Dene ; but 
 Mrs Kemp's hint was remembered, though I did not like it 
 when it was given. Cotton, the lady's maid, was going to stay, 
 so that Mrs Weir would have all the help in the way of dress- 
 ing and nursing that she usually had ; and no doubt it was 
 Miss Milicent's duty to look after her mother herself. She 
 managed it in a certain way before I was even known to them, 
 and so she ought to be able to manage it still. I said as much 
 as this to her, only I hope civilly, when she suggested that it 
 would be better for her to go and sleep at the Parsonage that 
 night, and walk up to the Heath early the next morning, and 
 get everything ready by the time her mother and I came in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is used to you in moving from home, Miss Mili-
 
 i- URSULA. 
 
 rent,' I said, 'and she is not used to me ; may be she wo 
 rather have yon.' 
 
 ' Now, Ursie Grant, you know that is not true,' she answered ; 
 'whatever I am good lor, it is not nursing, and I don't want 
 put myself forward in it.' 
 
 'This is not quite nursing,' I replied; 'and anyhow, Mi s 
 Milicent, as Mrs Weir has nobody but you to look to for the 
 future, it won't do to be out of the habit of helping her.' 
 
 ' I am so busy,' she said ; ' I told .Mr Terry (that was the pre- 
 ventive lieutenant), that I should be over at the Heath the t. 
 thing to-morrow morning, and bring Williams, the carpenter, w ith 
 me ; and then we would see about putting up some shelves, and 
 unpacking the books.' 
 
 ' I can take a message to Mr Perry, if it is needful,' I s 
 'and I thought of sleeping in the house, and so I should be 
 there to sec about gelling coffee when Mrs Weir arrived. I 
 think I could show Jenny Dale how she likes it.' 
 
 'That old Jenny won't be able to make coffee or anything else 
 to suit my mother's whimsies,' exclaimcel Miss Milicent ; 'she is 
 as particular as a queen, as you know well enough, Ursie.' 
 
 'I could try and teach Jenny,' I said ; 'and if not, Miss Mili- 
 cent, you will be there the next day, and then I might show you.' 
 
 ' And why can't you do it yourself, Ursie ? you are not used 
 to be so cross-grained.' And Miss Milicent turned round upon 
 me sharply, with a look as of twenty eyes put into one. 
 
 ' If it was so ordered that I could wait upon Mrs Weir always, 
 it would be different,' I replied, 'but as I must needs leave her 
 before very long, Miss Milicent, it would be better and kim 
 surely to put some one else in the way oi ; and if 
 
 Jenny Dale can't make the coffee, and you don't like to learn 
 yourself, Cotton might try.' 
 
 ' I tell you what, Ursie !' exclaimed Miss Milicent, angrily, ' I 
 don't take it kind of you to make all this fuss about going away 
 j al the very time we have mo: f you ; it is not what I 
 
 should have expected of you, having known you so many years, 
 and always been friends up to this time. It is very hard, very 
 hi rd, indeed.' 
 
 'It is not my wish, Miss Milicent,' I replied, trying to speak 
 gently, though I must confess her tone irritated me ; 'but I have 
 
 ken the advice of friends. One thing I can promise, if you will 
 allow it, — not to leave Mrs Weir till she is really settled com- 
 fortably at the Heath, and able to go on by herself.'
 
 URSULA. 143 
 
 'And that will be never,' exclaimed Miss Milicent. 'Don't 
 you see that my mother is getting more full of whims and ner- 
 vousness every day ? And what am I to do with her ? She 
 never did attend to me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps because you never fell into her ways,' I ventured to 
 say. 
 
 ' You speak ignorantly, Ursie Grant,' replied Miss Milicent, 
 more quietly. ' You have never known my mother as I have. 
 Her ways, as you call them, have been for years ways which no 
 one with a grain of sense could fall into, and they would have 
 been twenty times worse but for me. Other people' — Miss 
 Milicent stopped, I don't think she liked to mention her father's 
 name — ' other people scolded her one minute and humoured her 
 the next ; that did no good.' 
 
 ' It might have been better,' I said, ' to humour her in the 
 things that were rational, and try to persuade her out of those 
 which were not.' 
 
 She waited before answering, and the colour rose in her cheeks ; 
 then she said, 'You are right there, Ursie. But persons who 
 humour and persuade must be made of different stuff from me. 
 I can't, and that is the truth, and so I must e'en go my way, and 
 my mother must go hers ; and things must be managed as they 
 can : though how that is to be when you leave us is more than I 
 can say.' 
 
 I felt for her. There was something about her which always 
 touched me, when she changed from that sharp, headstrong 
 manner to be in any way true and humble. It was a glimpse of 
 a beautiful, better nature, lying, as it were, at the bottom of a 
 deep sea tossed with tempests. And I knew, too, that she must 
 have had a great deal to bear all her life long. Persons out of 
 the family could put up with Mrs Weir's oddities easily enough, 
 but it was not so with those whose daily life was troubled by 
 them. The whims of friends are an amusement : those of rela- 
 tions are trials. Only one thing I saw then, that Miss Milicent 
 deceived herself by saying 'can't' and 'must.' I believe there 
 are not two more treacherous words in the English language. 
 I did not say I would stay, though it was a strong temptation ; 
 but I repeated again that I was very sorry for her, and that I 
 would take care not to leave her till Mrs Weir was comfortable. 
 I added, though, that she must please let me go over to the Heath, 
 for the work to be done there was much more fitting for me than 
 for her.
 
 1 44 UR. ULA. 
 
 She gave in, I do believe, because she was taken by suiprisc 
 to find a will stronger than her own ; and about six o'clock that 
 evening I took my bundle under my arm, and Left Dene never 
 again to return to it as my home. 
 
 CHAi'TKR XXII. 
 
 HP I IE clouds were gathering and the wind was rising as I 
 J- crossed the down at the foot of St Anne's Hill. I thought 
 we should have a stormy night, indeed I was very certain of it, 
 for there was the noise of a ground-swell telling me so more 
 plainly than words. I walked on quickly, not exactly disliking 
 the work before me, though feeling how strange it all was. I 
 should have been miserable if I had gene direct from Dene to 
 Sandcombc, but this go-between life softened matters, and 
 there was something in the notion of being left to settle and 
 decide things for myself and for others too, and in a certain 
 fashion make my own way in the world, which gave me energy 
 As for Dene, the spirit of the place had departed when Roger left 
 it. I loved the old familiar scenes dearly — it would be hard to 
 say how dearly — but after he was gone I looked on them as upon 
 the face of a friend who is dead. I knew I had better leave 
 them, and remember them only as they were in the days of my 
 peaceful happiness ; and I thanked God from my heart for the 
 blessings He had granted me whilst living amongst them. 
 
 I made my way down a rough bank at the foot of the down, 
 and then along a field into the high road, and so up to Heath Cot- 
 tage — that was the name of Mrs Weir's new house. I mention 
 the path I took, because it gives me an opportunity of saying 
 what I did not before, that the high, broken, upper cliffs ended 
 just above the cottage ; they seemed to break off by degrees and 
 lose themselves in the slope of the down, so that the way I came 
 was easy enough for a young person, though the descent from 
 the down was very steep. 
 
 I thought, as I entered the garden, that the place was not half 
 so trim as the grounds at Dene. The little bit of road and the 
 sweep were full of rough stones, and the grass on the banks 
 wanted mowing. I determined that should be done the first 
 thing in the morning. ?.lrs Weir's neat eye would never bear
 
 Ursula. 145 
 
 the look of the place as it was, though Miss Milicent would have 
 lived there for years and never have thought about it. I saw no 
 one at work about the garden, and when I went up to the house, 
 and rang; the bell, I waited a most provokingly long time for an 
 answer. At length a little girl appeared, Jenny Dale's grand- 
 child, who I knew was often with her. She stared at me with a 
 pair of very blue eyes, and opened her mouth, but said nothing. 
 
 'Well, Polly! how d'ye do?' I said. 'Where's Granny. 
 Can't I come in ? ' 
 
 ' Granny's bad,' was the answer. 
 
 'Bad! I'm sorry for that. I must go and speak to her. 
 Where is she ? ' 
 
 ' She 's a-bed.' 
 
 ' So ill as that ? How long has she been there ?' 
 
 'Yesterday and t'other day.' 
 
 ' But I saw her the day before yesterday,' I said ; ' she didn't 
 seem ill then. Has the doctor been here ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, she's a-bed :' was the only reply I could obtain ; 
 so I asked no more questions, but went in. 
 
 Jenny Dale was neat in her way, and her kitchen was com- 
 fortably enough generally — but Polly, being left to play there, 
 had made it very untidy. The fire was burning low, and the 
 tea-kettle had been taken off it, and was standing within the 
 fender. A little deal table, with some crusts of bread soaked in 
 spilt tea, and some cups waiting to be washed, were the signs 
 that Dale and his grandchild had been having their meal to- 
 gether ; but grandfather, I was told, was gone out, and Polly 
 didn't know where he was gone, or when he meant to return, — 
 in fact, she didn't know anything except that Granny was a-bed. 
 
 'And where is Granny sleeping ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Up yon !' and Polly pointed to a corner of the kitchen, where 
 I saw nothing but the dish-covers upon the dresser. 
 
 There was a little room over one of the out-houses, as I knew, 
 so I guessed what was meant ; and putting some coals on the 
 fire, I told Polly to wash up the tea-things, and make the place 
 tidy ; and up-stairs I went. 
 
 I heard a low groaning before I reached the top of the steep 
 little staircase, and when I entered the bed room, I had no need 
 to be told that ' Granny was very bad.' She was lying on a 
 mattress on the floor, turning and rolling from side to side, 
 with an attack of feverish cold and rheumatism. The wind, 
 which was beginning to howl every minute louder and louder, 
 
 K
 
 1 1 r LA. 
 
 pou n in gusts from the liltlc fire-pla< e, close at the head 
 
 of the bed, so that she had the full benefit of it. The room Itself 
 was dr. i nough for a person in health ; there was but one 
 
 window, but that shook as if all the pane had been fastened to- 
 
 ther by pack-thread ; and the door would not shut close ; and 
 all daylong, and all night too— as I found afterwards — there w 
 the moan of the wind through that and the window, even on a 
 quiet day, — so any one may guess what it was likely to be 
 on a stormy one. there are many worse places in 
 
 which people sleep comfortably enough ; but I confess it i 
 provoke me that no one should have had the sense to move the 
 
 1 a few inches to the left, where it might have been out of the 
 way of the draught ; and this was the first thing I tried to i 
 But Jenny was in no condition to bear being disturbed even for 
 
 own comfort. She was very bad, she siid ; she didn't kn 
 but what she was a-going to die. Daddy (as she called her 
 husband) was gone for the doctor, and she hadn't no one but 
 the little maid to wait upon her ;— but for all I could say, she 
 would not have anything, or do anything, or allow anything to 
 1 - done for her. She would lie there with wind enough to turn 
 a mill rushing upon her down the chimney. When I tried to | 
 the mattress along myself, she cried out as though I were going 
 to cut off one of her legs ; so at last I had nothing to do but to 
 insist upon pinning a shawl across the fire-place to shut out the 
 draught, and leave her till the doctor came. 
 
 A comfortable beginning, and a pleasant prospect for Mrs Wc ir 
 the next day ! But there was all the more reason for exertion ; 
 
 d as soon as I had made up the kitchen fire, and put the lea- 
 
 tle on, that I might have a little tea instead of supper, for I 
 knew it would be more comforting. I went over the house to 
 what kind of state things were in. The drawing-room was habit- 
 
 ,• enough. It was a pretty little room with a deep, square v. 
 dow, commanding a lovely view of the bay and the whole cl 
 In shape it was not so '. he drawing-room at Dene; and 
 
 furniture :d properly, I thought Mrs Weir 
 
 [ht rather take to it. Uut the dining-room was dark, ; i 
 1 with boxes and rubbish ; and in the passages, and up the 
 stairs, litter of all kinds was lying about, — just the kind of li' 
 
 ch it was impossible to know what to do with. I hope I was 
 net hard upon Miss Milicent, but I i I not help thinking that 
 it was because the last two or three tim furniture and 
 
 books had been sent over from Den^, Miss Milicent had under-
 
 URSULA. 147 
 
 taken to see the boxes unpacked at the cottage, and had taken 
 things out and thrown them down anywhere, instead of arranging 
 them as she went on. 
 
 Up-stairs, Mrs Weir's bed-room was what I should have called 
 pretty and neat ; but she would doubtless see fifty things that 
 were wanted. It was a good size, which was the most important 
 point in my eyes, and had a cheerful look-out towards the south- 
 east, and a square window like the drawing-room. There was a 
 dressing-room to it, besides another good-sized room for Miss 
 Milicent, over the dining-room ; and a little room which I was to 
 have, and two attics. 
 
 I took off my bonnet and shawl, and then I went down-stairs 
 and called Polly to come and help me clear some of the rubbish 
 from the passage and the stairs. But it was growing dark, and 
 we had scarcely begun our task, when Dale came back from 
 Compton with the Doctor, who looked grave about Jenny, and 
 said she must be well looked after, and he would send her some 
 medicine, and come and see her again the first thing in the morn- 
 ing. I could not leave her without Polly after that, so I sent the 
 child to sit with her, and went on with my work by myself. 
 
 I was standing a minute to rest myself, and looking out of the 
 drawing-room window, trying to make out what was impossible 
 to see because of the darkness that was coming, when I fancied 
 I heard the front door bell ring. I listened, but not hearing it 
 again, I thought it must have been my mistake ; presently, how- 
 ever, I caught the sound of footsteps, and, going out into the pas- 
 sage, I saw two persons there, a little gentleman and a stout 
 lady, strangers. 
 
 ' Is Mrs Weir at home ?' said the gentleman, in a meek voice. 
 
 1 You had better ask for my cousin, my dear,' said the lady. 
 ' We want to see Miss Weir,' she added, not waiting for him to 
 answer. ' This is Mr Temple, and I am Mrs Temple, and we 
 are just come. You had better go at once and announce us ; 
 now, my dear/ and she walked past him to go forward to the 
 drawing-room. The gentleman followed. 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is not here, ma'am,' I said, as soon as the oppor- 
 tunity for speaking was given me. 
 
 ' Not here ! ' she stopped short ; ' very provoking ! You 
 should not have brought me, my dear,' she added, addressing her 
 husband. ' You should have come first to inquire. I told you 
 there was just the chance of not finding them. I am quite ex- 
 hausted'
 
 148 I RSVLA. 
 
 The lady threw herself down in the arm-chair, her flounoM 
 spreading out, so as to make her three times the size she w.is 
 naturally. To judge by her brilliant complexion, high colour, 
 and clear sparkling eyes, she was not likely to be overcome 
 fatigue, but appearances arc deceitful. The gentleman, who had 
 been gifted by nature with a very meek countenance, which he 
 had vainly endeavoured to render fierce by the help of a sandy 
 moustache, stood by her submissively. She handed him a little 
 bag, which she carried in her hand, and he took out a scent- 
 bottle, and gave it her, though I don't believe he thought she was 
 going to faint any more than I did. 
 
 ' I am very sorry there has been any mistake, sir,' I said, 'but 
 Mrs Weir is not expected till to-morrow. 1 am just come over 
 myself to put things in order for her.' 
 
 ' We can have beds here, I suppose?' said the lady. 
 
 'I am afraid, ma'am,' I replied, a little surprised, I must con- 
 fess, at such a bold request, 'it could not be without Mrs Weir's 
 knowledge.' 
 
 ' I thought that being Mrs Weir's relations there might have 
 been some accommodation for us,' said the gentleman. 
 
 'And Mrs Weir would wish it, I am sure,' replied the lady; 
 1 in fact, we quite reckoned upon i!.' She spoke angrily, and was 
 evidently not at all inclined to faint now. 
 
 'I am very sorry,' I repHed, 'but I could not take it upon 
 myself, without Mrs Weir's permission ; and indeed there is no 
 room properly ready, except just where I am to sleep myself. 
 Mrs Weir had no notion you were coming, sir.' 
 
 ' It was a sudden thought,' replied the gentleman, 'but' 
 
 'Young woman,' interrupted Mrs Temple, 'you will be s 
 for being uncivil to us ; your mistress will be much disple.i 
 when she hears of it. I am Mrs Weir's favourite niece. This 
 gentleman is come to transact most important business with her, 
 and he is not accustomed to disrespect ; he never puts up with 
 it. You had better at once go and prepare the rooms, and <;ct 
 us some tea, for we have had a very long journey. This is a 
 most out-of-lhe way place ; I wonder how any one can think of 
 living in it,' she add I ng to her husband. 
 
 ' I am afraid I could not get tea to suit you, ma'am,' I replied. 
 ' I don't know what there is in the house, and you will find 
 everything very comfortable at the hotel, if you will please to go 
 there to-night; and no doubt Mrs Weir and Miss Miliccnt will 
 make everything easy to-morrow.'
 
 URSULA. 149 
 
 'My dear— what do you — what do you think?' said ^lr 
 Temple. 
 
 ' That I shall stay where I am,' she replied. ' The hotel is not 
 to be put up with ; it is too full. That room we were shown into 
 was a mere hole.' 
 
 'You will be much better off there than here, ma'am,' I 
 answered. ' There is no one to wait upon you here but my- 
 self.' 
 
 ' And I suppose you know how to wait ?' she answered. 
 
 ' Not very well, ma'am. I am not Mrs Weir's servant. I 
 only came over for a time to help arrange things for her, and 
 I have much to do to-night ; I don't think I could possibly 
 undertake it.' 
 
 'Extremely uncivil!' exclaimed the lady. 'I shall go up- 
 stairs and judge of the state of the house for myself.' 
 
 ' If you please, ma'am,' I replied, but I did not offer to show 
 her the way ; I was quite confounded by her coolness. 
 
 ' My dear,' — she beckoned to her husband to follow, and he 
 went after her quite tamely. I heard her stumble over a box at 
 the doorway, and hard work I knew they would have to make 
 their way up-stairs, such a number of things were lying about ; 
 but it was all so much the better for me, for it gave me time to 
 think, and whilst they were gone I sat down to consider what 
 was to come next. A very odd business, certainly, it was. 
 
 Mrs Temple's name I had heard often enough, but I had never 
 understood that there was much kindness between her and Mrs 
 Weir, at least since her marriage, when there had been dif- 
 ferences about money matters. What business she had to come 
 troubling for Mrs Weir just at this time was more than I could 
 guess. Of course I was unwilling to do anything disagreeable, 
 but as to their sleeping in the house that night it was out of 
 the question. Mrs Temple was so long away that it is my 
 belief she must have gone up to the attics, but down-stairs she 
 came at last. 
 
 ' The room over this will do very well ; you can make up the 
 bed, and we shall not expect to have everything perfect. The 
 dressing-room will be large enough for Mr Temple when you 
 have moved out the boxes.' 
 
 ' I could not well put you into Mrs Weir's room, ma'am,' I re- 
 plied, ' it is kept for her ; and the boxes, I fear, are too heavy to 
 be moved. I am sorry to be unaccommodating, but if you w ill 
 please to go to the hotel to-night, Mrs Weir will be here to make
 
 !5o URSULA, 
 
 her own arr nts to-morrow. I must ask you to excuse my 
 
 ng you now, as I have work to 
 When I had said this I walked out of the room, for I was not 
 going to discuss the point with her any furl 
 
 I heard them talking to each other, the lady's voice becoming 
 louder and louder, as she seemed to be trying to convince h r 
 husband of something against his will ; I did not go near thcin, 
 however, but went up to see Jenny and give her her medici 
 and then, as she seemed better, Polly and I set to work again by 
 candlelight to clear away the rubbish. At last, when more th 
 a quarter of an hour had gone by, Polly saw the: wn the 
 
 passage and out of the house door, and so we were rid of them. 
 
 I can't say I was comfortable ; I did not know how 1 could 
 have done differently, but I had been quite put out of my usual 
 way. Ever since I could remember, I had been tiught to ti 
 persons according to their station, and though I was proud and 
 wilful, yet I had a natural feeling of respect for persons better 
 born and educated than myself. Even when Miss Miliccnt pro- 
 voked me to speak out, as she sometimes did, it was more that 
 I caught something of her off-hand tone before I was aware of 
 it, than that I had the slightest intention uf being uncivil ; but 
 Mrs Temple made something rise up in my heart quite unlike 
 any other feeling. It was not for myself, I really think. She did 
 n t know who I was, and if I had tried to make her understand, 
 I don't suppose I should have succeeded. But, besides the in- 
 convenience of her request, she had claimed as a right what 
 
 :i asked as a favour, and this was what I 
 had never been accustomed to. Mrs Weir used to say to me 
 sometimes in former days, ' Never take a liberty with any per- 
 son, Ursula, and never let any one take a liberty with you ; and 
 a you will know how to behave in every position in which it 
 y please (loci t . 1 ci you.' I am sure she acted upon the 
 ice herself, for all the time I was with her she never for 
 that I had my own cl urns to respect and consideration, in spite 
 y inferi ion. 
 
 i asking questions about the visitors, and would 
 c run out into the road after them, to look at them, if I 
 would have allowed her ; but I stopped her directly, and told 
 her nothing. We worked on till nearly nine o'clock, and then 
 I thought it was time to send her to bed. Dale had had his 
 supper, and was gone up-stairs; so I had the kitchen to myself, 
 and I ctirred up the fire, which had been let down again very
 
 URSULA. 151 
 
 low, and sat down, listening to the howling of the wind, and the 
 dash of the waves upon the shore ; and thinking how much I 
 should have to tell Roger when we met again. As a pleasant 
 end to the evening, there was no milk in the house, and no 
 butter, — so my hope of a warm, comforting tea, came to nothing ; 
 but I contented myself with some bread and cheese, and a glass 
 of beer, and after seeing that Jenny had everything she wanted, 
 I went to bed, and, being quite tired out, soon fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ■ Y new acquaintances did not intrude upon me the next 
 morning. I suppose they had had enough of me. Polly 
 said she saw them going down the cliffs to the sea ; but that 
 was all I heard of them, and nearly all I thought about them, for 
 there was business enough to take up every moment. Work as 
 hard as I, and Dale, and Polly, and Williams the carpenter, and 
 a girl from the village, could, it seemed as though the house 
 never would be straight by the time Mrs Weir arrived. I was 
 most anxious that it should be, for she was one of those persons 
 with whom first impressions are everything ; and if, on coming 
 to the Heath, she was to see the place untidy, I knew well 
 enough she might take a prejudice which nothing would over- 
 come. 
 
 Jenny was still quite ill, though the doctor spoke less gravely 
 about her than he did the night before. But it was useless for 
 her to think of moving ; and I had all her work to attend to as 
 well as my own. Mrs Weir was to come to dinner, and a roast 
 chicken was to be provided for her. Dale, and Polly, and I, 
 dined off some cold mutton, without potatoes, and but little 
 leisure we had to eat that. 
 
 About four o'clock the fly drove up to the gate. Williams 
 had only time to gather up some of the carpentering tools, and 
 rush out of the drawing-room window, whilst Polly carried away 
 in her lap every scrap of litter she could see, befoi'e it was at the 
 front door. My heart beat quite fast. It came over me all at 
 once what a dreary thing the new home would be to Mrs Weir ; 
 and when the flyman let down the step, and I went forward to 
 give her my arm, I scarcely had courage to look in her face.
 
 \S2 URSULA. 
 
 But I had no reason to be afraid. Mrs Weir was not B per- 
 son to give way in great trials. She rested her hand upon my 
 arm, but I did not feel it even tremble ; and, when she stood 
 up n the ground, the first words she said were, '(lod is \< 
 good, Ursula ; He gives us friends to receive us everywhere.' I 
 hoped Miss Milicent would have come with her into the drawing- 
 room, but she always left her mother to me when I was there, so 
 I took the poor lady in myself. The strangeness of € j thing 
 did then rather overcome her, and she sat down and cried a 
 little, but they were very quiet tears, — not at all like those of a 
 person who considered herself suffering from a great grief. She 
 brightened up after a few minutes, and began admiring the room, 
 and saying how comfortable it was. She was always gracious 
 and thoughtful when people had been working for her. And 
 then I thought of telling her a little about the time it had taken 
 to put everything in order, thinking by that means to distrait 
 her thoughts. It was all very awkward and odd ; I could not 
 tell what to do next, and I was wishing to be in half a dozen 
 places at once. But my work was soon settled, for in walked 
 Miss Milicent, and with her Mr and Mrs Temple. 
 
 I can't say how cross I felt. Just at the very moment Mrs 
 Weir wanted to rest and be alone ! And Miss Milicent not to 
 know better than to bring them straight into the drawing-room 
 without notice ! But it was exactly like her. 
 
 'Mother,' she said, and she went up to Mrs Weir, 'here is 
 Matilda Temple, and her husband, too. They have been wait- 
 ing to see you.' 
 
 .Mrs We ir looked up as though in a dream; she made no 
 answer. 
 
 Mr Temple held back, but his wife urged him on. 'I am 
 afraid we have called at an awkward moment,' he began. 
 
 ' Only it was impossible to resist the temptation,' interrupted 
 Mrs Temple. ' Being in this part of the world, we felt you 
 would consider it so unkind, my dear aunt, if we passed the 
 house without coming in. And our time is so short, — only till 
 to-morrow, — and there is so much to see, — such lovely scenery;' 
 and then, putting her head a little to one side, and twisting her 
 mouth, she added, ' Besides, it is so sweet to meet the friends 
 one loves.' 
 
 I watched Mrs Weir's face all the time Mrs Temple was 
 speaking, expecting to see something of anger or annoyance in 
 it. But not the least ! As gently and sweetly as ever, shs
 
 URSULA. 153 
 
 answered, ' I was not quite prepared to see you, Matilda ; but 
 Milicent and I will do our best to make you and Stephen 
 welcome.' 
 
 'We must make ourselves welcome first, mother,' said Miss 
 Milicent, bluntly. ' Cousin Matilda, I think you and Stephen 
 had better go now, and come again by and by.' 
 
 ' It is a very short peep,' said Mrs Temple. 
 
 ' Ursula ; ' Mrs Weir turned to me. ' I think I feel rather tired. 
 
 Matilda, you will excuse me. I am a little' Her voice 
 
 failed her, and she looked extremely pale. 
 
 ' Faint,' said Mrs Temple ; she came forward to push me 
 aside, and support Mrs Weir's head. 
 
 But I kept my place. 
 
 ' If you will excuse me, ma'am,' I said, ' I think Mrs Weir is 
 most used to me ; and, Miss Milicent, if you would be good 
 enough to pour out the sal volatile, and if Mrs Weir might be 
 left quite alone.' 
 
 I was obliged to speak plainly, and Mr Temple took the 
 hint, walked to the dcor, and looked back, expecting his wife to 
 follow. 
 
 ' Yes, go, my dear,' she said, nodding her head at him, ' I 
 shall come presently ; she will be better : it is only fatigue- 
 nervousness. I dare say the pleasure of seeing us was a little 
 too much. I shall come presently. Don't wait for me, my 
 dear.' 
 
 I made sureJVIiss Milicent would have burst out then. She 
 was not usually so cowed ; — but no — she went out of the room, 
 and sent Cotton in, and left her and Mrs Temple and me to- 
 gether. 
 
 No doubt it was fortunate for me that we were obliged to think 
 of Mrs Weir instead of ourselves, or Mrs Temple and I might 
 not have been such good friends. We had a difficult matter to 
 bring Mrs Weir round. It was full a quarter of an hour before 
 she recovered enough to speak, though I don't think she ever 
 quite lost her consciousness. Mrs Temple was sensible and 
 helpful enough in what she did, but the nonsense she talked 
 was not to be imagined. She seemed to think it was quite for- 
 tunate that she happened to be there, and declared several times 
 that she couldn't think how we should have managed without 
 her. ' But all things were so providentially ordered,' she said. I 
 don't believe it once entered her head that she had worried Mrs 
 Weir by thrusting herself upon her at a wrong time.
 
 154 VLA. 
 
 At 1 t, wh ;. it v.. a q i ■■ a of taking Mrs Weir up-stait*, I 
 made n stand. Cotton and I knew very well what t > do ; and 
 Mrs Temple should not come, I was resolved. I whispered to 
 Mrs Weir to beg her to go ; and the poor lady, in a very I 
 voice, thanked her niece as though she had done the most Si 
 denying act possible, and hoj ed to be better, and sec her again 
 in the evening. 
 
 I did not think even then that we should have got rid < f her ; 
 hut she twisted her mouth, and said it was a delightfu 
 to be permitted to help a friend ; and then she kissed Mrs V, 
 and departed. 
 
 All that evening Mrs Weir kept her room. Mr and 
 Temple called again, but I urged Miss Milicent to send th'. m 
 down word that her mother was not well enough to see th 
 and so they were not admitted. And, as they were to go the 
 next day, I pleased myself with thinking we should be left to 
 arrange our own affairs without interruption, and that, if Mr 
 Temple had business to talk over, he would just spend an hour 
 with Mrs Weir in the morning, and there would be an end of it. 
 But little I knew of Mrs Temple. 
 
 Mrs Weir was better the next morning ; and a message came 
 over from the hotel to say that Mr Temple would like to sec her 
 if she was able. What passed I don't exactly know. It was not 
 a very long talk, and I don't expect it was one of much conse- 
 quence, except that Mr Temple was anxious to put in a claim 
 for some old debt, of a couple of hundred pounds, which, now 
 that the Dene estate was sold, he thought might as well be 1 
 off. A letter to the lawyer would have managed the business 
 just as well, as far as I could ever understand ; and, as to Mrs 
 Temple being a favoui > Milicent herself told me that her 
 
 cousin Matilda had been the torment of the family for the last 
 ten years, though her mother had always been willing to think 
 the best ( f ' 
 
 Whilst .Mr Temple was with Miss Milicent, Mrs Temple in- 
 sisted upon going up-stairs to sit with Mrs Weir, and it was no 
 use for me to try and prevent it, as I had to be in the kitchen 
 looking after the cooking, Jenny being still too ill to move or do 
 anything but sit up for about an hour, and there being no one at 
 id to take her place. I wondered to myself at what time Mrs 
 Temple and her husband meant to go, and wished I could see a 
 fly drive up to take them away, for I had a misgiving that we 
 should have no peace till they were gone ; but just as I had Mrs
 
 URSULA. 155 
 
 Weir's luncheon ready, raid was putting it on the tray to be 
 taken up-stairs, down came Cotton from Mrs Weir's room. 
 
 ' Well ! Miss Grant/ she said (I was always called Miss Grant 
 by the servants because of its being more respectful), ' what are 
 we to do now ? I should like to know how the house is to hold 
 us all,' 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' I asked. ' Why won't the house hold 
 us all to-day, as well as it did yesterday?' 
 
 'We filled it yesterday,' she answered ; 'and when there are 
 two more to be put in, I won't undertake to say where they are 
 to be quartered.' 
 
 ' Two more !' I said, and I felt very uncomfortable. 
 
 ' Mr and Mrs Temple in the back room, and Miss Milicent in 
 the little room, and then what is to become of you, Miss Grant ? 
 I would make a stir about it, that I would. I would not submit 
 to be put up in the attic' 
 
 ' They can't come,' I said ; 'it's nonsense.' 
 
 ' They will come,' she answered, 'and it's no nonsense.' 
 
 I did not believe her — I could not ; it seemed so monstrous. 
 Mrs Weir being just come into the house, nothing arranged, 
 and she herself ill and in great grief, and having lost so much 
 of her fortune, I thought it impossible that any persons could 
 have the face to accept such an invitation even if it had been 
 made. 
 
 As for sleeping in the attic, I did not choose to talk about that 
 with Cotton. If it had been a real benefit to any one, I would 
 have slept in the kitchen or the scullery. It was not that I cared 
 for, but the notion of having that dreadful woman entirely in the 
 house, never to be free from her ; for the moment I did think that 
 I must give up, and go off at once to Sandcombe. 
 
 'The luncheon will be cold if you don't take it up at once,' 
 I said to Cotton, trying not to show that I thought anything of 
 her news. 
 
 ' Not so cold as somebody's welcome should be, if I had my 
 will,' she replied ; ' but you are very strange, Miss Grant. I 
 don't think you know a bit when you are put upon.' 
 
 Cotton was wrong ; I did know very well ; but when persons 
 serve for love, their shoulders can bear a tolerably heavy burden. 
 
 As we were speaking, Miss Milicent came out from the drawing- 
 room, looking feverish and hurried. She sent Cotton away, and 
 then said, ' Ursie, what have we got in the house ? W T e must 
 have dinner at six o'clock,'
 
 156 URSULA. 
 
 ' There are some cutlets and the remains of the chicken, which 
 I was going to fricassee,' I said ; 'I thought, with a bit of bacon 
 
 and a pudding, that would be enough, ?»lisii Milicent, for you and 
 
 Weir.' 
 
 •You had better get a leg of lamb, Ursie. Mr and Mrs 
 Temple are likely to be here.' 
 
 ' To stay, ma'am ? ' 1 said, for I thought I would have it out 
 with her at once. 
 
 ' That is as may be,' she answered, gruffly. ' They won't stay 
 for my asking, but my mother is so easily talked over. She has 
 no more power of saying " No" than a baby. And as for Mat.. . 
 Temple, she would come over a hyena.' 
 
 'Then I am sure, Miss Milicent, I am worse than a hyena,' I 
 said, and I could not help laughing, vexed though I was. ' She 
 would never come over me ; you will excuse my saying so.' 
 
 ' Don't boast, Ursie ; you have never had to do with her. You 
 sec if she is not come to quarter herself upon us for a month, and 
 neither you nor I, nor any one will be able to say her nay.' 
 
 'But indeed, Miss Milicent,' I exclaimed, 'it ought not to 
 be. She will drive Mrs Weir out of her senses. It is my 
 belief that it was .seeing her helped to make the poor lady faint 
 yesterday.' 
 
 ' If she was dying, Matilda Temple would stick by her,' 
 exclaimed Miss Milicent; 'and talk good all the time, till she 
 thought herself a saint, and made my mother think so too.' 
 
 'And where arc Mr and Mrs Temple to sleep, ma'am?' I 
 asked. 
 
 ' I shall take to the attic,' said Miss Milicent. 
 
 ' Oh ! no indeed,' I exclaimed ; 'that must not be, Miss Mili- 
 c. nt. There is my room, quite ready. I will move my things in 
 a minute, and the attic is quite as good as I shall want. 
 
 'It won't be, Ursie Grant,' she replied, catching hold of my 
 arm, as was her habit ; 'my mother won't allow it, and, what is 
 more, if she would I would not. When you came to help us in 
 our troubles we promise d you a comfortable room, and we aren't 
 going to have it taken from you by any one.' 
 
 ' Only if I give it up, it is not taken from me,' I said ; 'and, 
 indeed, Miss Milicent, it is not fitting ; I could not stay here, 
 with you sleeping in the attic, and me in the room below.' 
 
 She would make no reply, but went off, and I beard her tell 
 Fanny to come and help carry her boxes up-stairs. 
 
 It touched me, I confess. I did not believe she had so much
 
 URSULA. 157 
 
 thought, biit it made me very uncomfortable ; for really, as I said, 
 it was unfitting, and I had a kind of fear that it would make 
 mischief. 
 
 I took the opportunity of going up-stairs to Mrs Weir, under 
 pretence of carrying away the luncheon, and, fortunately, I found 
 her by herself. Cotton had persuaded her to get up and dress, 
 and she was sitting by the window. 
 
 ' I was not prepared to see you there, ma'am/ I said ; ' I 
 fancied you wouldn't get up till the afternoon.' 
 
 ' I feel better, thank you, Ursula, and lying in bed only weakens 
 me ; besides, I have had a visitor.' 
 
 ' I was afraid Mrs Temple would have been too much for you, 
 ma'am. Seeing her did you harm yesterday.' 
 
 ' No, Ursula, it only startled me a little. Mrs Temple is a 
 very good woman, and when she talks to me, she reminds me of 
 many things which I am too apt to forget.' 
 
 ' Indeed, ma'am,' was all I could say. 
 
 1 She has been very well brought up,' continued Mrs Weir, 
 1 and she has done a great deal for her husband. He was very 
 extravagant as a young man, and she has quite cured him, and 
 now he gives all his money to charities. He owes her a great 
 deal.' 
 
 ' And no doubt she takes care to make him pay it,' was the 
 uncharitable thought which crossed my mind, but I answered 
 by asking if Mrs Temple was likely to remain long in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 ' I have persuaded her to stay for three or four days, Ursula. 
 She has never seen this part cf the country, and she wishes to 
 do so very much, but she cannot be at the hotel. She cannot 
 bear it ; it is noisy, and she is not strong.' 
 
 ' Persons who travel can scarcely expect to meet with the same 
 quietness they have at home,' I replied ; ' but I never heard any 
 complaint of the hotel, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Mrs Temple docs not complain. She says, very rightly, that 
 the worst accommodation is better than creatures like ourselves 
 deserve. Indeed, she made me ashamed of being so particular 
 myself. I hope you will forgive me, Ursula, if I have ever given 
 you trouble by it. I have been very much spoiled.' 
 
 I saw a tear glisten in the poor lady's eye, and I ventured to 
 take her hand, and say, ' Dear ma'am, if you will please not talk 
 so, twenty times the trouble would be nothing in return for the 
 goodness and kindness you have shown to me for years.'
 
 158 I ■■ ULA. 
 
 'Ah ! but, Ursula, it is not right to let the mind rest upon 
 these trifles. Mrs Temple is not fanciful as I am. When 1 told 
 h r that I was afraid the bed in Milicent's room might be hard, 
 she assured nic she could s!lc;> upon the ground if needful.' 
 
 rhaps Mr Temple m ty be more fidgety, ma'am,' I ob- 
 served ; for I could not help noticing bow entirely the good 
 itleman was put aside, even by Mrs Weir. 
 
 ' Ah ! Ursula, Mrs Temple has done so much for her husband 
 in that respect, as well as in many others. She says that lie i a 
 nged man since she first knew him. He has no wish for fine 
 carpets and curtains, and soft beds, and sofas. He desires no- 
 thing but quietness. That is an excellent influence for a wife to 
 exercise.' 
 
 Mrs Weir sighed, and I knew that she was in her heart re- 
 proaching herself for having encouraged her husband in extra* 
 \ ance by her own fancifulness. 
 
 ' They will find the room small, ma'am,' I said ; 'and I don't 
 quite know what to do about the dressing-room. Fanny and I 
 had thought of filling it with the things we couldn't put else- 
 where.' 
 
 A harassed look came over Mrs Weir's face ; it always did 
 when there was the least fuss about arrangements. Her brow 
 contracted, and there was a heavy darkness across her eyes. 1 
 it would not do to make more objections. 
 
 'You can fill my room, Ursula, if you like. I am not going 
 to be so particular as I have been. What docs it signify ? I 
 shall soon be out of this world.' 
 
 ' l!ut those who love you, dear ma'am,' I said, 'will take care 
 that you shall be comfortable whilst you are in it. Please don't 
 trouble yourself ; we shall manage, I dare say ; and it won't be 
 for long, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Only for two day?, Ursula. Mrs Temple is obliged to be at 
 home. She is making preparations for a charity bazaar ; so she 
 cannot stay. I have promised to look over my things, and see 
 what I can spare for her. I was just thinking, when you came 
 up, that you might, if you would, be kind enough to unpack one 
 of my boxes, and help me to choose.' 
 
 I am afraid I felt very unwilling ; but as I did not venture 
 actually to say ' No,' I replied that, if I might be allowed, I 
 would rather wait just now, for I had to go to see about dinner. 
 
 'Thank you, by and by will do very well ; or, perhaps, Cotton 
 will bring the box.'
 
 URSULA. 159 
 
 Already in my mind I saw Mrs Temple fingering all the pretty 
 little toys and ornaments in which Mrs Weir found pleasure, and 
 my heart swelled, so that I really could not answer. But there 
 was no escape. Mrs Weir's mind, I could see, was possessed 
 with the notion of giving up something she cared for. What 
 that tiresome woman had been saying to her, I was unable to 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 1 ISS MILICENT took possession of the attic, in spite of 
 1 ' J- all I could say, and Mr and Mrs Temple were put into 
 her room ; and, as it seemed, were likely long to remain there. 
 As for going away in two days, I was sure from the beginning 
 what that would come to. If ever there was a woman who 
 might be called a burr, it was Mrs Temple. Once let her come 
 near you, and, as Miss Milicent said, she would stick to you 
 through everything. You might cast her off one minute, and 
 think you were rid of her, and the next you were sure to find her 
 clinging to you again. When the two days were over, she de- 
 clared herself to be wonderfully better for the sea air, and Mrs 
 Weir was very pleased, really so, I do believe ; she was pleased 
 at anything which did good. Mrs Temple was pressed to stay. 
 I remembered the charity bazaar ; but if there were really going 
 to be one, there was certainly no hurry in preparing for it. Not 
 but what it was still talked about. Mrs Temple was always 
 collecting sea-weeds out of doors, or cutting up bits of card- 
 board in doors, liking, she said, to employ her time usefully ; 
 and I take it for granted it was all useful, for even Miss Milicent 
 was drawn in by her, and made to search for stones and speci- 
 mens, as Mrs Temple called them, all which were to go to the 
 charity bazaar. 
 
 In a week the house had settled down as though Mrs Temple 
 had lived there, and meant to live there, always. But it was just 
 the contrary with me ; having her there opened my eyes to one 
 thing — that I was not so necessary to Mrs Weir as I imagined. 
 It was not a pleasant discovery, but it made me see how selfish 
 I might be, even in what appeared to be my best feelings. What 
 Mrs Weir Avanted was a little sympathy and amusement ; and 
 when she could obtain this, her life was tolerably comfortable ;
 
 i6o URSULA. 
 
 sh wa ■ like a child, accustomed to live just for ihc day, and 
 to trust evi rything to others. The very weight of the cans and 
 griefs which had burdened her for so many years, I belie 1 
 
 ced her to this. Her husband liar! made her helpless, and 
 kept her so; and now nothing roused h r ex< pt some great 
 call of what she considered duty, such as that whi< h had made 
 h r dwell so much upon the thought of rejoining Mr Weir. If 
 it notion were to come up again, I knew she w irLc us 
 
 all by her energy ; but now she was sinking down into a kind 
 of life which sometimes made me think of the beautiful sea ane« 
 moncs found upon the shore— half vegetable and half animal 
 — moving their long feelers, and searching, as it were, for some- 
 thing, they scarcely knew what ; yet contented to remain in one 
 peace, and appearing to find a kind of solace in spreading th 
 selves out in the sun, and taking thankfully the light and air 
 which God, in His wonderful Wisdom, h id provided for them. 
 
 It is happy for us, I am sure, that we d the same 
 
 comfort. 1 should never have found mine where Mrs Weir did, 
 in Mrs Temple's soci ty ; but in s tying this, i don't in the least 
 mean that I was, therefore, in any way better or wiser than Mrs 
 Weir — quite the contrary. It wis the very goodness and sim- 
 plicity which I never could attain to that made her take for 
 reality what always seemed to me mere outside show. Mrs 
 Temple showed herself to me the first night I ever saw her ; she 
 was oil her guard then, and the impression I had of her remained 
 by me. Perhaps, but for that, I too might have been deluded by 
 her. But I don't know ; there is something in true kindness and 
 goodness, which I fancy can never be counterfeited. All the fine 
 talking and appearance of sympathy, which Mrs Weir had such 
 faith in, sounded to me hollow from the beginning ; and I could 
 not but see by Mrs Temple's words and ways that she had one 
 great besetting sin, which, as far as I could discover, she w. s 
 totally blind to. She was a thoroughly mean woman about 
 money matters. She had not been well, and she wanted change 
 and sea air ; that was the history of her visit to Compton Heath ; 
 and as days went on, I saw that she had made up her mind from 
 the beginning to come and quarter herself upon Mrs Weir, not 
 
 one or two nights, but for a month, or six weeks, or any 
 time that might suit her. But she would not have said it for 
 the world. No, all the time it was, that she was so anxious to 
 go, only her aunt pressed her to stay, and seemed to enjoy a 
 little sympathy and affectionate companionship so much, that
 
 URSULA. 161 
 
 fifially, in her distressed state, — a state worse than widowhood, 
 — she could not make up her mind to leave her. 
 
 It was all quite true about Mrs Weir ; she did like it, at least 
 in a certain way, and for a time. To me, it was just like having 
 a wet blanket thrown over me to hear Mrs Temple converse, 
 especially when she touched upon serious subjects. I never 
 knew what to say, or which way to look ; and though I could 
 have listened to Mrs Weir for hours, when she talked to me in 
 her earnest, simple way, I never heard one of Mrs Temple's set 
 speeches without feeling as though I wished a trap-door could 
 open in the floor, and I might sink down and hide myself. But 
 dear, good Mrs Weir took it all in like a sermon. She was so 
 sincere herself that she could not suspect others of make-believe ; 
 and constant sorrow, and thinking of serious matters, and living 
 in that strange, dreamy way, out of the world, made her prepared 
 at all times for subjects which came to other people with a shock 
 and a jar. 
 
 Miss Milicent and I had a little conversation upon this sub- 
 ject one day. It was after we had been at the Heath about three 
 weeks, and I had received a letter from Roger, saying he had 
 finished his business in London, and was coming down the next 
 week to Sandcombe, and asking if I could go over and see him, 
 if it was only for a few days. As things were, it struck me, that 
 I might just as well make my move once for all. There might 
 never be a better moment ; and that afternoon, when Miss Mili- 
 cent came into the kitchen to give some orders, I determined to 
 propose it to her. I was standing there, showing Cotton how to 
 make Mrs Weir's coffee, — for Jenny Dale, though she was pretty 
 well again, and able to cook, had never managed to make coffee 
 to please Mrs Weir. 
 
 'I should like to speak to you, if you please, Miss Milicent,' 
 I said, 'if you are not busy.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am busy ; I always am,' she answered, and true enough 
 it did appear that she ought to be busy, even if she was not, for 
 it would have taken full ten minutes, rightly, to put herself tidy. 
 She had been down upon the shore, getting sea-weeds, and crabs, 
 and crawling things, to be placed in a glass, for Mrs Temple ; I 
 suppose for the charity bazaar. Such a mass of mud on her 
 short tucked-up dress, and such boots ! and the pockets of her 
 loose jacket stuck full of stones and shells, and her bonnet all 
 awry ; if I had not seen her nearly the same every day, for the 
 last fortnight, I don't think I could have kept from a smile. 
 
 L
 
 I I 
 
 But I tried to be very respectful, knowing my temptation the 
 ! I said, ' I wouldn't trouble you if you are really 
 busy, Miss Milicent, but I have had a letter this morning, and I 
 thought I should Like to talk to you about it.' 
 
 ' A Letter, have you ? Oh ! ' 
 
 Miss Milieent's look grew softer. She took a real interest in 
 ;er, and must have guessed the letter was from him ; but she 
 still went her own v. 
 
 ' I want some brown pans, Jenny,' she said, ' fiat pans ; and 
 where is the sc.i-water Dale brought up from the shore? 1 [i 
 arc beautiful things to be cared for,' and she uncovered a bat!. 
 and showed a mass of slimy-looking coloured jelly, lying upon 
 stones and sea-weeds, with tiny crabs and periwinkles, and all 
 kinds of uncouth creatures, crawling about amongst them. 
 
 'They things had best have stayed where they were born, it's 
 my opinion,' said Jenny ; ' they don't look natural-like here. 
 What am I to do with them, Miss Milicent?' 
 
 As she spoke, Jenny poked one of them with a skewer, and 
 then started back, declaring ' she wouldn't, for the life of her, 
 have anything to do with it. If she might put it in the pot and 
 boil it, she wouldn't so much care, but live jelly was what she was 
 not used to.' 
 
 I brought the pans from the scullery myself, and Miss Mili- 
 cent and I moved her creatures, as she called them, into it, and 
 then, as they began to unfold in the clear water, Jenny ventured 
 to look in upon them, and, in spite of her declarations, that 
 ' th :n't canny, and she couldn't abide them,' we left her 
 
 standing by the pans and poking them about with the skewer. 
 
 All this time Miss Milicent seemed to have no thought for my 
 business, but when her own was finished she said, ' Now, Ursie 
 (irant, if you choose to come to the dining-room, I can see the 
 1 tier,' and away she walked, expecting me to follow her. 
 
 We weal into the dining-room, and she shut to the door. 
 'Well ! what is the mischief?' she began. 
 
 'That linger is coming to Sando Miss Milicent, and I 
 
 think it is time for me to be going,' I replied. 
 
 ti have taken an uppish fit, have you?' she replied. 'I 
 thought it would come to this ; Mrs Temple said it yester- 
 day.' 
 
 [rs Temple !' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes ! she is a sharp woman, though not after my fancy in all 
 things, She said she saw it in you the first night she came;
 
 * 
 
 URSULA. ie 3 
 
 and I have a doubt that you were not too civil to her then, 
 Ursie Grant.' 
 
 I was upon the point of explaining, but I remembered that 
 evil words multiply by being taken up and cut to pieces, like the 
 creatures Miss Milicent had just brought into the kitchen, so I 
 let Mrs Temple's unkind remarks pass, and answered, 'You 
 would scarcely have said that, Miss Milicent, if you had 
 known all that went on. But I don't know what I have done 
 to make you or any one call me uppish. It can't be be- 
 cause I talk of going away, for that has been settled ever since 
 I came.' 
 
 ' I knew how it would be,' persisted Miss Milicent, in her odd 
 way, carrying on her own words just as though I had not spoken. 
 ' Matilda Temple said she was sure you would never go on long, 
 dining in the kitchen with old Dale and his wife, and not having 
 a place to sit in except your bedroom. She was wrong, though, 
 in one thing, as I told her, for it was my own will to go to the 
 ' attic' 
 
 ' O Miss Milicent !' I exclaimed, 'how can you listen to Mrs 
 Temple ; did I ever complain ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but you are going away.' 
 
 ' But not for that,' I replied, and I felt the angry colour rush 
 to my cheek. ' If there is one thing I hate more than another, 
 it is taking upon one's self to have airs, and being above doing 
 what is kind and helping. I would dine with old Dale, and sit 
 in my bedroom from this hour till the day of my death, if it was 
 my duty, and could comfort any one, much more be of use to 
 Mrs Weir, and you know it, Miss Milicent. You don't really 
 believe Mrs Temple ; if you did, it would be a hard struggle 
 with me to keep from walking out of the house and never 
 entering it again.' 
 
 ' I was wrong, Ursie,' she said, and she stretched out her 
 large hand, stained with the marks of the mud and sea-weed 
 she had been handling, and gave me something between a pat 
 and a shake. ' But it comes over me, and that's the truth, and 
 if Mr Temple and Matilda weren't here, I think I should run 
 away.' 
 
 ' I fancied you didn't like their staying,' I observed. 
 
 ' No, I had rather have you than them, any clay, but I had 
 rather have them than nobody. Don't you see how quiet my 
 mother has been since Mrs Temple has taken to being with 
 her?'
 
 164 URSULA. 
 
 'Jut for the time,' I said ; 'but Mrs Weir must sec through 
 it some day, Miss Milicent, as you and I da' 
 
 'She may, and she mayn't ; anyhow, it helps for the time.' 
 
 'O Miss Milicent!' I exclaimed, 'can you bear to see the 
 good lady deceived, and made to rest upon another, when you, 
 her own flesh and blood, that could be everything to her, are 
 close at hand ?' 
 
 I had never spoken so plainly before, and I was afraid how 
 my words might be taken. Miss Milicent winced a little, but 
 she had a way of turning off from any subject she disliked, and 
 making an excuse by finding fault with some one else. That w.is 
 how she managed to deceive herself upon this one point, and so 
 I suppose it is with us all. 
 
 'My mother is very queer, Ursic,' she said, 'as you well 
 know, and ever since I can remember, she has looked for comfort 
 out of her own family. The doctors say it 's health, and I dare 
 say it is ; but whether or not, I can't please her, and if she 
 chooses to be taken in by Matilda Temple, why she must be.' 
 
 ' But it will work some harm in the end, for certain,' I said. 
 ' You don't trust Mrs Temple yourself, Miss Milicent.' 
 
 ' Not I, not for a moment ; yet she is not such a hypocrite as 
 you think, Ursie. She humbugs herself just as much as she 
 does other people.' 
 
 That was seeing deeper than I should have given Miss Mili- 
 cent credit for, and I asked her what she meant. 
 
 ' Why, just this,' she replied ; ' I have lived a good deal with 
 Matilda Temple, and seen how things went on. She was very 
 badly brought up as a child, left quite to her own ways. She 
 never knew how to be honest and open like others, and she 
 loved nothing but herself. Then her mother died, and she went 
 to live with a kind of cousin, a Mrs Frcrc, a ;^ood woman — yes, 
 a good woman, if ever there lived one upon earth, but one who 
 was always lecturing and talking of religion. I could not endure 
 her fashion of going on myself, and 1 ran away from her when- 
 ever I saw her, yet I respected her. But with Matilda it was 
 different ; she learned to talk the same as her cousin, and Mrs 
 Frerc thought her an excellent, good child, because she could 
 quote texts, and said she liked to hear sermons, and Matilda 
 thought so herself, and she thinks so now, and nobody lias ever 
 told her differently. She has her notion of goodness, and she 
 acts up to it.' 
 
 ' If she had read her Bible, she might have found out that it
 
 URSULA. 165 
 
 was not the right notion, I should have thought,' was my reply. 
 ' To be sure, I have seen but little of her, but her ways do strike 
 me as being shabby.' 
 
 ' Shabby ! she is the shabbiest woman, and the proudest, in 
 England,' said Miss Milicent, ' and the cleverest, besides. We 
 must take all our dose of religion, Ursie, that we know ; but I 
 suppose we like to take it our own way. Matilda Temple wraps 
 up hers in talk, and makes it a good size, and then she swallows 
 it whole, and so it never tastes unpleasant.' 
 
 I did not answer directly — I could not. It came over me 
 with such a terrible dread, that we might all be doing the same 
 in some way or other. I could see it in Miss Milicent herself, 
 clear-sighted though she was to Mrs Temple's shortcomings, 
 and there was I, perhaps as great a self-deceiver as either. 
 
 Miss Milicent continued, 'It is not to be wondered at that 
 Matilda Temple should think much of herself. There's her little 
 husband obeys her like a black slave.' 
 
 'And it is true, then,' I said, 'what Mrs Weir told me, that 
 she had saved him from being extravagant?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! saved him from that, and from a great deal else, and 
 made him nearly as shabby as herself; only I must say one thing 
 for him, it goes against the grain.' 
 
 ' Really, Miss Milicent,' I exclaimed, ' you do surprise me. If 
 you think of your cousins in this way, how can you bear to have 
 them here ? ' 
 
 ' Because anything is better than being forced to give in to 
 another person's fancies all day, Ursie Grant. I must have 
 liberty. It is bad enough anyhow, to be set down in a corner of 
 the world like this, but if I am to sit in-doors week after week, 
 and talk twaddle, I shall fall ill. That is the truth.' 
 
 ' Yet there are some hours when Mrs Weir likes to be alone,' 
 I ventured to say. 
 
 ' Maybe, but you don't understand ; no one can. Parents and 
 children, and brothers and sisters, are not like other people. I 
 dare say you think I am undutiful ; I dare say I am.' 
 
 I must have looked shocked, for I always thought that if I 
 had a mother living I should feel it such a pleasure and an 
 honour to do everything for her. But Miss Milicent was better 
 than her word, I knew, and I am sure that her conscience re- 
 proached her, after she had spoken in this off-hand way, for she 
 went on : ' You know, Ursie, there 's no one but you that can 
 suit me and my mother also, and it 's the plain fact : and if w ■
 
 166 URSULA. 
 
 can have you here, everything will go well ; and if we have not, 
 we must have Matilda Temple, or any one \vc can get, and take 
 the consequences. And who is to answer for them ?' 
 
 Without waiting for me to reply, she went away, seemingly in 
 a huff. 
 
 This sudden end to our conversation was like a gust of wind, 
 ip all my ideas, and turn a round, as it were, till I 
 
 did not know where I was. Just for one moment I 
 
 Milicent was right, and that I was answerable for whatever 
 i b p| ■ n, if Mrs Temple stayed and I went away; but I 
 soon saw the folly of such an idea. God has only given us one 
 conscience to take care of, and trouble enough it is to keep that 
 clear of offence. If I went my own straightforward way, I was 
 not answerable for the crookedness of other people's. And I 
 saw, too, what Mrs Kemp had first put into my head, that my 
 staying only blinded Miss Milicent more to her own duties. 
 I sought no more conversation, but went up-stairs to my own 
 room, and wrote a letter to Roger, telling him, that nothing pre- 
 venting, I would be at Sandcombc, if William and Leah could 
 receive me, that day week. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MY stay with Mrs Weir was about to terminate less pleasantly 
 than I had expected. I seemed to have done but little 
 good to her, and less to Miss Milicent, and I knew that I left a 
 snake in the grass behind me in Mrs Temple. But for Mrs 
 Kemp's warning, I might have been even more disappointed, but I 
 was learning (very slowly, though, for it was a hard lesson to one 
 of my disposition) to make doing my duty my object, without 
 caring for seeing the fruits. Miss Milicent was surly when she 
 found I was resolved to go. Mrs Temple, who had scarcely 
 noticed me before, became suddenly very patronising and ami- 
 able ; and poor Mrs Weir, to whom I broke the news as gently 
 as I could, cried a good deal, and said if God ever made her 
 rich again, she would send for me, and beg me to come back 
 and live with her ; but her mind was for the time finding a new 
 rest, and when the day of my departure drew near, she was 
 consoled by Mrs Temple's promise of staying with her another
 
 URSULA. 167 
 
 fortnight. Her conscience, indeed, was a little troubled about 
 Mr Temple, who, she said, must find it so dull to be living 
 there with three ladies ; but Mrs Temple assured her, that 
 solitude and contemplation were his delight, and if it was so, 
 he certainly must have been in Paradise all the time he was at 
 the Heath, for he wandered about on the rocks and by the 
 shore all day, and never spoke to any one, except I believe to 
 Mr Perry, the preventive lieutenant. He was a meek man 
 now, and gifted with much endurance, whatever he might 
 have beeen formerly. I never heard him say anything in 
 opposition to his wife except, ' Perhaps it would be better not, 
 my dear.' 
 
 On the day fixed, William's cart was to be sent for me and 
 my boxes. It was to go into Hove first, and to come back by 
 Compton, so that I was not likely to leave till the evening. All 
 the afternoon, Miss Milicent was in and out of my room, upon 
 some pretence or another, talking about all kinds of things in a 
 rambling way, and often in a very cross tone, especially prophe- 
 sying that everything would go wrong when I was gone, and as 
 the climax of evil, declaring that neither Jenny Dale nor Cotton 
 would ever know how to make her mother's coffee. When the 
 last box was packed, and just going to be corded, she brought in 
 a beautiful, large prayer-book, with a very clear print. ' There 
 is no room for it,' she said, as she put it down upon the top of 
 my frilled collars. 
 
 I took it out and looked at it. She had written in it ' Ursula 
 Grant,' nothing more. 
 
 ' O Miss Milicent ! ' I exclaimed, ' it is very good of you, and 
 I shall value it so much.' 
 
 ' I have crumpled your frills,' she said ; ' you had better give 
 up wearing frills, Ursie Grant. There will be no time for 
 getting them up at Sandcombe.' 
 
 ' I don't care about the frills,' I replied ; 'but if you would 
 please, Miss Milicent, to put your name in the book too, I 
 should be greatly obliged.' 
 
 ' I have put enough to prevent its being stolen,' she said. 
 
 I could get nothing more from her. She would put the book 
 into the box herself, hiding it underneath, as though she was 
 ashamed of it, and not allowing me to say another word of 
 thanks. 
 
 Fanny came to tell me the cart was ready, and to help me 
 carry down my boxes : but Miss Milicent peeped over the stairs.
 
 ,63 URSULA. 
 
 and told her to go and fetch Dale,— her mother wanted mc • 
 
 and I went to Mrs Weir. 
 
 Mrs Temple was with her. * A pi asant afternoon you have 
 for your drive, Ursula,' she said, before Mrs Weir could speak ; 
 ' 1 hope you will enjoy it ! ' 
 
 'Thank you, ma'am,' was all my reply ; it always made me feel 
 cross when she called me Ursula, though 1 don't know what 
 other name she could well have given m !. 
 
 'I had a commission to be executed in Ilatton;' she con- 
 tinued, 'and I felt sure that you would be glad to attend to it 
 I r me. The Compton carpenter charges more than I thi 
 
 ht for the little work-frame he made forme the other day ; 
 and I wish you to see the other man,— I forget his name. — at 
 Ilatton, and inquire what he would do the same for; I shall not 
 pay more than he says.' 
 
 ' The frame cost eighteen pence, I believe, ma'am,' I said. 
 ' Yes, and it ought to have been only fifteen. I could have 
 had it made for fifteen at home; but these country people are 
 very exorbitant, and it is not ri-lit to encourage them, dear aunt, 
 is it?' and she addressed Mrs Weir. 
 
 ' I dare say not, my dear. I generally give what they ask, 
 but then I am not a person of business.' 
 
 ' It was Smithson who made the frame, I think, ma'am,' I 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes, Smithson, I believe, was the name.' 
 'He is very poor, and not a very good workman,' I continued, 
 'and I think, ma'am, you had the frame taken back twice.' 
 
 Mrs Temple's black eyes flashed as they did the first night I 
 ever saw her. 
 
 'Is that Smithson, whose wife had twins last week?' asked 
 Mrs Weir. 
 
 'Yes, ma'am ; and Miss Miliccnt, if you remember, sent her 
 some j;ruel. His girl goes to Compton school.' 
 
 ' I remember. Pray, Ursula, take care'— but poor Mrs Weir 
 stopped short, and I saw a tear in her eye ; ' you are going 
 away, Ursula, I must not trouble you. Matilda, I should like 
 Miliccnt to see what the poor woman wants. It must be a great 
 trial to have two babies at a time.' 
 
 ' Certainly, dear aunt. I have no doubt that Miliccnt will do 
 all that is necessary, if it is a deserving case; but the man, I 
 bhould fear, is not honest. However, I will not trouble Ursula 
 Grant to make inquiries for me about him ; I forgot that I was
 
 URSULA. 169 
 
 speaking to a person who took care to inform me, the first night 
 I saw her, that she was not Mrs Weir s servant. 
 
 There w;is a little red spot upon Mrs Weir's cheek, burning 
 and increasing. Her eyes turned uneasily from one to the other ; 
 I don't think anything ever so perplexed her as anger. Mrs 
 Temple rose haughtily; I think she fancied I was going to reply, 
 and that she should put me down ; but I merely said to Mrs 
 Weir, ' Dear ma'am, the cart is come ; I think, if you please, I 
 must go.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, Matilda, if you would not mind, — I think I should 
 like to speak to Ursula alone.' 
 
 Mrs Temple said not a word, but walked out of the room, like 
 a tragedy queen, I was going to say, only I never saw one, 
 though I have heard people talk of them. 
 
 Mrs Weir held my hands fast in hers, not even trying to 
 speak ; but the tears coursing each other down her face. 
 
 ' I must come over again, and see you very soon, ma'am,' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, you are not going away far, I desire to remember that. 
 But, Ursula, I won't keep you ; do you think you could sit 
 down ?' It was one of her little fancies, that she could not bear 
 to see any one standing ; it gave her the notion of hurry. I sat 
 down. She pointed to an Indian box on her work-table. ' I 
 wished to show you before you went ; I have chosen my things 
 for Mrs Temple's charity. I asked Milicent to look at them, but 
 she said there were enough without them. But I desire to give 
 them, Ursula. God gave them to me, and I should like to give 
 them back to Him.' 
 
 I brought the box to her, and she unlocked it, took the things 
 out, one by one, and ranged them in order upon the table. 
 They were nearly all foreign, and mostly Indian ; and some of 
 them so delicate, that it seemed as though any other fingers 
 than Mrs Weirs would have been unable to handle them. Par- 
 ticularly I remember a little chess-board of carved ivory, with 
 the tiniest set of chessmen that can be imagined standing upon 
 it. It had been sent her only a few months before ; and she 
 had taken the trouble herself to fasten the little figures upon the 
 board with gum. It used to stand upon the table at Dene, with 
 a glass case over it ; but I had not seen it since we came to 
 the cottage. 
 
 She looked at her pretty things as a child might have done, 
 when they were all put before her. Just for the moment she 
 seemed to have forgotten that they were to be parted with.
 
 1 70 URSULA. 
 
 1 Perhaps they will not be wanted, ma'am,' I ventured to 
 
 for I felt quite a silly dislike to her giving them away. 
 
 • I )o you think so, Ursula ?' She seemed pained at the notion. 
 ' Mrs Temple says they will make her stall very beautiful.' 
 
 * 1 dare say they will, ma'am,' I answered, shortly. 
 'And it ought not to be a sacrifice to me,' she conlii 
 
 ' They arc very little things ; I do not know why I liked them 
 so much.' 
 
 It was upon my lips to say that I should not care what was 
 done with them, if they were to go for a good object ; but I 
 stopped myself, — God looks at motives, not objects. No doubt 
 in His sight it was a holy offering. I could not take upon 
 myself to cast a doubt into Mrs Weir's mind, though in my 
 heart I felt that I could have seen the things thrown into the 
 
 1, rather than put into Mrs Temple's hands, to give her the 
 opportunity of making a show without expense. 
 
 ' And you think they are enough, Ursula ?' added Mrs Weir, 
 simply. 
 
 ' Quite, ma'am,' I said. ' I don't know how Mrs Temple will 
 contrive to take them.' 
 
 ' And I shall learn to do without them,' she continued. ' Mrs 
 Temple has written out a text for me, Ursula, and I have put it 
 in my work-box, that I may remember to try and not care for 
 all which I have cared for. She has made it very pretty ; it is 
 illuminated.' 
 
 I could scarcely help smiling. The poor lady's taste f r 
 pretty things was so strong, in spite of all she did to overcome 
 it. Mrs Temple had written the text upon perforated card- 
 board, and the capital letters were coloured. 
 
 The words were, ' Wc brought nothing into this world, and it 
 is cert. in we can carry nothing out ; and having food and 
 raiment, let us be therewith content.' 1 returned the text, 
 merely saying, that I wished we could all remember it ; it 
 might save us a great deal of anxiety. It did not strike me till 
 afterwards what a wonderful power God has given to simple 
 earnestness of heart. Mis Weir was like the bee, she could 
 only extract honey even from intercourse with a woman like 
 Mrs Temple. 
 
 'And you must go now, Ursula,' she said, as I went up to her, 
 after putting the carved box back into its place. 
 
 'Yes, dear ma'am, I think I must. I know my brother would 
 rather the cart should not be keut.'
 
 URSULA. 171 
 
 ' And ,/ou will see Mr Grant at Sandcombe, I suppose. That 
 will make you happy.' 
 
 My heart was too full for a reply. Mrs Weir continued, ' I 
 wish you to be happy, Ursula. I pray God to make you so. 
 You have not been able to make me happy, but you have com 
 forted rae.' 
 
 1 Not so much as you have comforted me, ma'am,' I said. 
 ' You have taught me things which I shall remember all my 
 life.' 
 
 She clasped her little thin hands together. ' God be thanked 
 for it, Ursula. I had a hope once that I should live actively to 
 His glory ; but now I can only " stand and wait." I should like 
 to ask you to mention my name in your prayers, — only you will 
 have so many to think of.' 
 
 I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. 
 
 1 Do you think I could ever forget it, dear ma'am ? ' I said. 
 ' But I don't like to think I am going away. I shall hope to 
 come and see you very often ; and you must always tell me 
 what I can do for you.' 
 
 ' I thank you, Ursula ; I know I may depend upon you. But 
 Mrs Temple says that I have accustomed myself to lean upon 
 you too much.' 
 
 I believe I gave an angry start. Mrs Weir did not notice it. 
 ' I have a little book,' she continued, 'which I should wish you 
 to keep for my sake ; it is Bishop Wilson's " Sacra Privata." 
 Mrs Temple recommended another, but I was not sure you 
 would like it. I am afraid I vexed her by choosing this ; but 
 you have often read part of it to me, and so I thought it would 
 help you to remember me.' 
 
 She put into my hands a tiny book, bound in purple morocco, 
 quite plain, except that the edges Mere gilt. My name was 
 written in it, — ' Ursula Grant, from her sincere friend, Mar- 
 garet Weir,' — and beneath, that text from the First Epistle 
 of St Peter, — ' But the God of all grace, who hath called 
 you unto His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have 
 suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle 
 you.' The words 'after ye have suffered a while' were under- 
 lined. 
 
 Mrs Weir pointed to them. ' I would not have you without 
 suffering, Ursula,' she said. ' It is the highway to the peace that 
 passeth understanding. God bless you.' 
 
 It was all I could do not to break down, but I thanked her in
 
 few words and a troubled voice, and left her with a heart full of 
 love : t with Mrs Tcmj le by her side, she might 
 
 one day ce are for me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 I EXPECTED to meet Roger at Sandconibc, and yet I could 
 think of Mrs Weir. That was, I suppose, partly because I 
 always had lived so much in the present moment ; but it was 
 partly also because I had forced myself of late to turn away from 
 the recollection of Roger, and to think of life for a time without 
 him. If 1 had done otherwise, I should have been too unhappy 
 to attend to my daily duties. The trials of life arc, I believe, 
 after all, wry much what we choose to make them. It was a 
 kind of instinct with me to take every one as it came, and twi t 
 and turn it till I saw it in the point of view which made it most 
 bearable. I have sometimes fancied that untoward events arc 
 like those curious padlocks formed of rings of brass, with sepa 
 rate letters engraven upon them ; when the rings arc all tur;.' d 
 properly, so that the letters form a certain word, the key goes 
 through easily ; but till this is done, one may try for ever and not 
 be able to unfasten the padlock. Perhaps the word which all 
 human trials are intended to form is Faith, for by that alone the 
 mysteries of God's Providence are unlocked. 
 
 At any rate, I know that I could never go on fretting about 
 anything, however painful ; and, when once I had made up my 
 mind that Roger and I were to be parted for a year, I said to 
 myself, 'It is God's will for some good purpose, to take fn 
 me for a while the greatest happiness I have ; but Me has left 
 me a good many blessings still, and so, instead of grieving o\ r 
 what 1 ( an't have, I will make the best of what I have.' 
 
 I don't mean to say, however, that I could do this all at once. 
 Many and many a struggle did I go through with the yearning 
 for the old times, or the dread of the new ones ; and even that 
 afternoon as I drove away from Compton Heath, and drew near 
 tr Sandcombc, all the slumbering anxieties and sorrows "seemed 
 to rouse themselves up to depress me. 
 
 In a future state of existence, it will, no doubt, be very pleasant 
 to go h r to another, and see what the different inhabi-
 
 URSULA. 173 
 
 tants are like. Where there is no sin there will be no sorrow. 
 Lut in this evil world, where a sudden change in a home ofcen 
 means only a turning from troubles of one kind to those of 
 another, such a move comes to one with a kind of shock. 
 
 The cart drove into the yard, and there I saw Roger and 
 William standing together. I jumped out before the man could 
 help me, and ran up to them. 
 
 . ' What, Ursie ! How d'ye do ?' said William, good-naturedly. 
 ' You are rather late, aren't you ? ' 
 
 Roger kissed me very hard on both cheeks, but said nothing. 
 They went on talking about some alteration in the farm. Leah 
 was gone in the chase to Hatton, and was not returned ; so I 
 went up-stairs to my room, and unpacked my boxes, and put my 
 things away in the drawers. Stupidly enough, I had forgotten 
 that I should not be at Sandcombe in time for tea ; and now I 
 should have to wait for supper, unless William thought of offer- 
 ing me anything. I dare say people would call that very 
 strange and silly, and inquire why I did not ask for some tea in 
 my brother's house ; and I can give no reason, except that any- 
 thing which put the Sandcombe household cut of its regular way 
 of going on was a trouble. You might ask and have, but you 
 were certain to be reminded of it afterwards ; and if Leah had 
 come home and found me at tea, she would have been sure to 
 say in the course of the evening that something or another was 
 left undone, because Martha had been obliged to get Ursie's tea ; 
 and this though I had put on the kettle, and cut the bread and 
 butter for myself. 
 
 Putting my things away took a long time ; after that 1 thought 
 I would sit down and read a chapter in the Bible, which would 
 make me feel more homelike and natural than anything else ; 
 but 1 had no time, for Roger knocked at my door, and, of course, 
 I was only too glad to bid him come in and hear all he had to 
 say. 
 
 He was in excellent spirits, seeing everything so hopefully, 
 that he made me hopeful too. Mr Richardson's friend had 
 smoothed the way for him, and his good character had gone 
 before him. He had received an offer which would make all 
 easy. It was proposed to him to accompany a gentleman, 
 named Pierce, who was going out to Canada on his own account ; 
 he was to stay with him for six months at least, and help him 
 in his first setting off, and thus he would have time to look 
 about him, and decide as to whether he should finally settle
 
 174 I RSULA. 
 
 in the country. This plan satisfied William, because it did 
 not require such an outlay of money at the present time, and 
 Roger was quite willing to take things quietly, and not be an 
 independent man all at once ; he had managed the greater ] 
 of his business, and the little that remained was to be done by 
 John Hervey, who was forced to go up to London the n 
 week. The ship was to sail in about a fortnight's time. For 
 myself, I confess the idea that his plans were only settled for 
 six months was a great relief. At the end of that time some- 
 thing might happen to bring him back, — who knew ? At any 
 rate, the definite time was a limit beyond which I felt I was not 
 permitted to look. 
 
 We talked on so long about Canada that I did not think of 
 putting in a word about Mis Weir, but Roger was very unlike 
 most people in one respect. Instead of conversing as so many 
 do only aboirt what interests themselves, and because others 
 listen and appear interested, fancying they hnve been very 
 kind and agreeable, and never asking a question or giving a 
 thought in return, Roger gave what he took, and because I 
 liked to hear what he had been doing, he liked to hear what I 
 had been doing. 
 
 ' Now, Trot,' he said, when there was a pause, ' you have had 
 my say, let me have yours. How has the world gone with you ? ' 
 
 'Pretty well,' I said, 'but I don't think, Roger, the world 
 misses me much. Mrs Weir has taken up with her niece, and 
 so she could well spare me.' 
 
 ' If it's Mrs Temple you mean,' he replied, 'Mrs Weir won't 
 be friends with her long ; at least, if what John Hervey says is 
 true.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is easily imposed upon,' I said, 'and Mrs Temple 
 can talk good, and I can't. Besides, she is a lady, and her re- 
 lation : only I should like to think that all the things I am sure 
 will be said of me behind my back would not be believed.' 
 
 'You will be in Canada with me, Trot, soon, and then we 
 shan't cither of us care what any one says of us.' 
 
 I knew that I should care. If I were to go to Canada, or to 
 the other side of the globe, and to feel certain of never setting 
 foot in England again, I should care. But Roger's thought just 
 then was that Canada was a cure for all evils. 
 
 ' I am thankful you are staying here, Ursie,' he continued ; 
 'it is best to be with relations. After all, they are more to be 
 depended on, and William talks very kindly about you.'
 
 URSULA. i 7S 
 
 'Yes/ I said, 'but perhaps it is more safe to reckon upon 
 myself for comfort than upon William or any one. That is not 
 wrong, I hope, Roger.' 
 
 He looked grave. ' It now and then strikes me, Ursie, that 
 you have something to learn in this world,' he said. ' But so 
 we all have for that matter. And you are a brave girl.' 
 
 ' You mean, I trust to myself,' I said ; ' but whom have I else 
 to trust to, Roger? Putting aside religion, I mean.' 
 
 ' No, you will make your way anyhow.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' I asked. 
 
 'Nothing, Trot, nothing. That's Leah's voice, isn't it? and 
 whom has she with her ? ' 
 
 I knew, for I had seen the chaise drive up with Leah and 
 Jessie Lee. 
 
 Roger opened the door and listened. ' She has brought back 
 little Jessie,' he said, thoughtfully. ' I was going to say some- 
 thing to you about her. I 'm glad she is come.' 
 
 ' It is more than I am,' I replied, ' I wanted to have you all to 
 myself, and now I must go and talk to her.' 
 
 Roger and I went out into the passage together. 
 
 Leah and Jessie were talking at the foot of the stairs, and 
 the next minute Jessie's light step was heard as she ran up 
 two stairs at a time. She pushed against Roger, by an accident, 
 when she reached the top, and stumbled. When she saw him 
 she burst into one of her pretty, merry laughs. 'O Mr Roger!' 
 she said, ' you frightened me. I thought you were a giant.' 
 
 'I never meant to frighten you,' he said, 'but you are so 
 giddy, Jessie. You run without thinking where you are going.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' she replied, ' I know it is always my own fault, 
 whatever happens. But, Mr Roger,' and she looked up at him 
 with a pleasant smile, ' what business have you here ? ' 
 
 ' Ursie ! ' called out Leah, several times, from the foot of the 
 stairs. Her voice sounded to me like the croaking of a raven ; 
 it quite drowned what Roger was saying. 
 
 ' I am here,' I said ; ' do you want me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I was coming up ; but I'm so tired. Just let Jessie put 
 her bonnet and shawl in your room, will you ? Have you settled 
 yourself? Supper's nearly ready.' 
 
 I was heartily glad to hear it, for I was very hungry. ' You 
 will go down and speak to Leah, won't you?' said Roger ; and 
 he stood rather aside for me to pass. 
 
 I did not feel in the least inclined, but I saw he wished it, so
 
 176 VRSV/.A. 
 
 I just kissed Jessie, and told her to go into my room, and down 
 stairs I went 
 
 ' I was sorry to be out when you came, Ursic,' said Leah, as 
 she threw aside a handsome silk cloak, which she always wr .; 
 round her when she went in the chaise, 'but I was obliged to 
 see about our new washerwoman ; I dont wan't to be wash 
 more than once in six weeks, now you are come, and I can put 
 things in better order.' 
 
 'Oh!' I replied. I don't know how it was, but I felt so 
 unwilling to be mixed up as one with Leah in her househi 11 
 concerns. 
 
 'Jessie is to sleep here to-night,' said Leah. ' I told her I was 
 sure she could have part of your bed, if the spare attic wasn't 
 re.idy, and I don't think it is ; and, besides, it is not worth while 
 to have the bed in the attic made up just for one night.' 
 
 ' Supper, my good woman ! Supper !' William came out of 
 the parlour and clapped Leah on the shoulder. 
 
 She gathered up her cloak. ' Ursic, if you don't mind, you can 
 just take this up-stairs. I shall go and see about supper.' 
 
 'And come down directly,' said William to me; 'don't stay 
 gossiping with Jessie. I am as hungry as a hunter.' 
 
 Up-stairs I went again. Jessie had not moved from her place, 
 nor Roger from his. Jessie looked ashamed of herself. I 
 thought they must have touched upon some serious matter, tor 
 I heard Jessie say, 'I can't be always working and thinking 
 like Ursie, Mr Roger, to please any one.' She spoke a little 
 
 ttishly, and not quite so simply as was her wont. Roger had 
 a very kind smile upon his face. He always seemed to look 
 upon Jessie as a spoiled child, and he s.ud, ' You know, Jessie, it 
 is not for me to find fault, only I disliked to hear it said, and so, 
 as I was going away tor so long, I thought I would e'en tell you 
 mys It.' 
 
 Jessie looked so put out as she followed me into my room, that 
 I could not help asking her what was the matter. She avoided 
 answering at first. 'It was nothing,' she said; 'people were 
 very cross ; they had no right to say such things, and Mr Ro i r 
 was very unkind to believe them.' 
 
 ' Then there is something,' I replied. ' You had better tell me, 
 Jessie, and if Roger is wrong, I can put him right.' 
 
 ' It was not half as bad as he declared,' she exclaimed ; 'the 
 girls in Hove do much worse, and that he knows, and you 
 know too.'
 
 URSULA 
 
 177 
 
 'I don't knew/ I said, 'for you have not told me what you 
 did.' 
 
 ' Miss Shaw and Captain Price were there,' continued Jessie, 
 tossing her head pettishly ; ' and if they saw nothing wrong, I 
 don't see what business other folks have to find fault.' 
 
 ' But what is it ? what is it ? ' I felt provoked with her, though 
 I tried not to show it. 
 
 ' It is Mr John Hervey's tale, I am certain,' exclaimed Jessie 
 1 He is always spying.' 
 
 'Really, Jessie,' I replied, ' I can't stand here all night in this 
 senseless way ; if you don't choose to explain, I must needs leave 
 you and go down to supper.' 
 
 Jessie was very much inclined to cry, but when she saw that, 
 instead of attending to her, I was going towards the door, she 
 pulled me back: 'Miss Shaw and Captain Price were in the 
 shop,' she said, ' and the two officers were their friends, and I 
 only talked and laughed a little. Miss Shaw talked a great deal 
 the loudest.' 
 
 'The old complaint !' I said rather shortly. 'Jane Shaw will 
 make herself noticed wherever she goes, and if you will go about 
 with her, Jessie, you must expect the same. Was that all Roger 
 had to say?' 
 
 ' He told me that Mrs Deer, the stationers wife, had talked to 
 him about it, and said that if I didn't take care I should get 
 myself a bad name. But Mrs Deer is envious of Jane Shaw, 
 that I know. Jane told me so herself. Hetty Deer was at the 
 race ball, and Captain Price danced with her, and so Mrs Deer 
 thought there was a chance for her, and now she is disap- 
 pointed.' 
 
 ' That may or mayn't be, Jessie,' I replied. ' One thing is 
 quite clear, that Roger has heard your name mentioned in a way 
 he doesn't like, and being an old friend, he did quite right to tell 
 you of it ; and if you will take my advice, you will give heed to 
 the warning, and not go into Hove again with Jane Shaw, or any 
 of her set. You know, Jessie, because you are left so much to 
 yourself, there is the more reason for you to be careful.' 
 
 Jessie's little fit of temper was over when she had given it 
 vent. She still held my gown, and said, ' Don't go, Ursie ; I am 
 very unhappy, and Mr Roger thinks so ill of me.' 
 
 'No, indeed!' I exclaimed. 'It is not in Roger's way to 
 think ill of any person, much less of one he has known like you, 
 Jessie, from a baby. But no doubt he is very particular as to 
 
 M
 
 i 7 3 URSULA. 
 
 ways of those he is interested in, and that may make him 
 s i ak out more strongly than seems quite kind.' 
 
 ' 1 do mean to be careful,' sobbed Jessie; 'you know, Ursic, 
 I never go on in that fashion when I am with you ; and I want 
 to be steady, indeed I do ; and I only went to Hove with Miss 
 Shaw because she begged so hard, and I thought it was the 
 only chance I might have of seeing about a dress for the wed- 
 ding.' 
 
 ' If you girls don't come down to supper, there will be none for 
 you,' cried out William, from the passage below. Jessie washed 
 h r face, and dried her eyes, and went to the glass to smooth her 
 hair, staying longer than I thought necessary; so I left her there 
 and went down aione. 
 
 Roger just looked up from his plate, when I entered, and not 
 
 seeing Jessie, ate his supper in silence. I could discover from 
 
 his troubled face that it had cost him a good deal to say what 
 
 In have seemed an unkind word to the poor little motherless 
 
 thing, but she quite needed it. 
 
 I forget exactly what passed at supper-time. I know it was 
 
 I effort to me to talk to Leah, and that Roger scarcely 
 
 spoke, and Jessie looked as shy as a frightened bird. \Yc were 
 
 not any of us natural, but we did not understand each other, and 
 
 so how could we be natural ? 
 
 There was never much time between supper and going to bed, 
 but I longed to have Roger alone, and find out what was really 
 the matter about Jessie ; and it happened that I had the oppor- 
 tunity, for Leah look advantage of having Jessie there to send 
 the maid to bed early, and she and Jessie carried away the 
 supper things, and then stayed some time talking in the kitchen, 
 and William went away too ; and so Roger ar.d I were left to 
 ourselves. 
 
 er entered upon the subject directly : ' Jessie told you 
 what I said to her, Trot,' he be. 
 
 ' Yes ; she told me in her way, which is no way, at least as far 
 as understanding goes. I could make neither head nor tail of 
 it. Why didn't you speak to me first, 1'. . r?' 
 
 lie laughed. 'Put a woman to scold a woman! you would 
 • .Iter than that, Ursic, if you were a man.' 
 
 ' But what was the mischief?' I asked. 
 
 ief,' he answered, with a flash in his eye, as though 
 
 were angry with tl I. but Hove people are not very 
 
 careful cf what they say and Jessie doesn't think. Mrs Deer
 
 URSULA. 179 
 
 heard a great noise, laughing and talking, in Hale's shop. Jane 
 Shaw, and Captain Price, and a party of officers, were there 
 having luncheon. Jessie was there too. Mrs Deer said she 
 made more noise than any, and that people stopped as they 
 went hy to listen, and that some one had heard one of the officers 
 call her Jessie, and that she laughed and seemed to like it. I 
 don't believe that ; but anyhow it was not what I liked to hear ; 
 and it's no use saying anything to old Mrs Morris, and less 
 talking to Leah, and so I thought that perhaps Jessie wouldn't 
 take it amiss from an old friend, if I gave her a word of warning 
 myself. You know, Ursie, I am going away, and not likely to 
 see her again. But I dare say I was wrong, women don't like 
 being talked to.' 
 
 ' Whether they like it or not, they must bear it, if they need it,' 
 I replied. 'But I don't think, Roger, you were quite the person 
 to speak.' 
 
 ' Likely enough ; but' — he stopped a moment, ' it was so on 
 my mind, it came out almost before I was aware, and now, I 
 suppose, she won't forgive or forget.' 
 
 ' Don't fear that,' I said ; ' she is only a silly child, and quite 
 accustomed to be scolded.' 
 
 He shut up suddenly ; all his answer was, ' Well ! it can't be 
 helped,' and then he took a candle to go to bed. 
 
 I had felt cross when Leah first proposed that Jessie should 
 sleep in my room. It was taking things for granted in a way I 
 did not like ; but, as it happened, I was glad of it afterwards, 
 for it gave me the opportunity of a little more talk with Jessie. 
 There is no time like night for a free conversation. Jessie and 
 I said little to each other as we were undressing, but when the 
 candle was out I took courage, and told her what had passed 
 between me and Roger, and how he was afraid she was angry 
 and would not forgive ; but, I added, that, for my part, I could 
 not see what cause he had to ask for forgiveness. I felt he had 
 acted like a true friend, though, perhaps, he might have been a 
 little sudden in his way of introducing the subject ; and then I 
 went on to give her some more cautions for the future, tellincr 
 her how specially needful it was for girls, left as we were, never 
 to give occasion for an unkind word. ' Roger would stand by 
 you, Jessie,' I said, ' through thick and thin, and so would I ; 
 but you won't find many to do it, especially amongst the persons 
 whose company you think so much of now.' 
 
 She caught up my words quickly, and answered that she knew
 
 I So URSULA. 
 
 I had a bad opinion of the Shaws ; but I knew nothing of them, 
 and no one had ever been able to find any real harm in them. 
 
 'As to real harm,' I replied, 'it would be dreadful indeed if 
 
 things were to come to that pass. But that is looking at matters 
 
 only as men and women look at them. There may be many 
 
 things that we count trifles, which yet are real harm in the sight 
 
 od.' 
 
 ' You have lived so much with set-up ladies and grand people,' 
 said Jessie, 'that you are over particular, Ursie. How can a 
 merry girl like me be expected to sail about stiffly, and never 
 speak above a whisper ?' 
 
 ' You turn off so, Jessie,' I replied, 'but you know quite well 
 what I mean. It is not the laughing and talking in proper 
 places, and with proper people, that any one finds fault with. 
 But Captain Price's gay friends are not your friends ; they arc 
 in your station, and there is the dang', r. When people are 
 all squal, they can have little friendly jokes, and no harm may 
 come of it. But what would be very kind in Roger, or William, 
 or John Hervey, would be a liberty in one of Captain Price's 
 idle set ; and, Jessie, Mrs Weir once said to me, and I wish to 
 my heart you could remember it, that the mere fact of being a 
 woman gives one a claim to respect ; that it is a kind of natur. 1 
 rank which even the beggar-girl in the street possesses, as long 
 as she conducts herself modestly and decently ; and she told me 
 tii t the least freedom of manner from a person above my own 
 ition, let him be gentleman, or nobleman, or prince even, 
 would be a disrespect which 1 ought never to allow.' 
 
 ' I can't help allowing it,' said Jessie. 'They lau.^h, and say 
 droll things, and then I can't help laughing in return.' 
 
 ' Which shows that it would be much better for you not to 
 mix with them,' I said. 
 
 ' But I don't see,' persisted Jessie. ' There is Jane Shaw, she 
 is not above you or me, naturally, but she has been a good d( I 
 with Captain Price, and now she is going to marry him. Where 
 is the harm : ' 
 
 ' Captam Price is no real gentleman, Jessie ; you must own 
 that,' I replied. ' Put him by the side of Mr Stewart, of Hatton, 
 ycu see the difference directly.' 
 
 ' But he was born a gentleman !' 
 
 'That may be; but his habits and ways are not those of a 
 gentleman, nor of an honest farmer neither. He is not i 1 
 
 up to by any one, and that is the reason, so far as I can see, why
 
 URSULA. iSi 
 
 he is going to marry a woman like Jane Shaw, who is much in 
 the same plight. If Captain Price had respected her, he would 
 have known well enough that he had no chance with her. An 
 offer from such a man is no honour, but the contrary. And as to 
 being intimate with him or his friends, why there is not one of 
 Captain Price's set that I would ever speak to again if he called 
 me by my Christian name ; and I have heard, Jessie, that you 
 only laugh and look pleased.' 
 
 She was silent, and turned away from me, and I heard she 
 was sobbing. Presently she said, 'Did Mr Roger tell you 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' He told me he had heard it, but he didn't believe it.' 
 
 'It was true,' said Jessie; 'I didn't think about it at the 
 time.' 
 
 'But you will think about it now,' I said. 'Jessie, why do 
 you call Roger Mr Roger? You have known him a pretty long 
 time.' 
 
 She quite started up. ' I could not call him anything else, he 
 is so good.' 
 
 'You respect him,' I said; 'and so you can't take liberties 
 with him. What respect could Captain Price's friend feel for 
 you, Jessie, when, having only seen you a few times before, he 
 ventured to speak to you more freely than you speak to Roger, 
 whom you have known all your life?' 
 
 She threw her arms round me, and kissed me, and thanked 
 me, and I felt how impossible it was not to love her; and then 
 she begged me to tell Roger that she was dreadfully sorry, and 
 it never should happen again ; only would he please not say 
 anything more about it to her. And again turning from me, she 
 fell asleep as quickly as a child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 I AM going to hurry over the parting with Roger. I seem 
 to have been telling of nothing but partings lately, and 
 moreover, to speak strictly, there was no parting. At the 
 time I felt this bitterly, but on looking back I see that it was 
 all for the best, and that I was saved a great deal. The fort- 
 night before Roger went was a very unsettled one for us all ;
 
 iSi URSULA. 
 
 so much so, that at hist, thou h every moment with him \ 
 indescribably precious, I began to wish th.it it was all over. 
 Leah, I knew, was impatient ; indeed she did not attempt to 
 conceal it. Everything was put aside to be done when Roger was 
 
 ae, lor William and he had so much to talk about and arranj 
 that there was no time to be given to an) thing else. Thenth 
 
 re perpetual interruptions from visitors; Farmer Kemp, : 
 John Hervcy, and Mr Shaw, and Mr Richardson, and even .Mr 
 Stewart, ol" HaUon, coming over to Sandcombc upon business or 
 from kindness. It was strange to find what an interest every one 
 took in Roger. I had not the least notion before, how much he 
 was respected ; but I don't think there is anything that makes 
 its way amongst country people like steady work and honesty. 
 It is better, even for this world, than great success, which is 
 thought so mucli of in town and manufacturing districts. I did 
 feel proud of Roger, as I watched him, with his fine, manly face, 
 and straightforward, yet respectful manner, standing talking to 
 Mr Stewart, and giving his opinions like a man who knows that 
 his words are of value, because they come from a true heart, and 
 a single eye, and a reverence for the laws of God and man. I 
 heard Mr Stewart say one day to William, that he never knew 
 before what they were all going to lose in Roger, and he couldn't 
 help wishing that something had been thought of to keep him in 
 England. But it was too late ; lime went on faster than I could 
 well bear to think, and at last there came the day before what I 
 light was to be the last parting. I scarcely saw Roger that 
 morning, for he went over to Ilatton to say good-bye to Mrs 
 iris and Jessie. He and Jessie were excellent friends again, 
 — all the more so for the little breeze. Nothing had been said 
 about it by either of them, but the few times that Jessie came to 
 Sandcombc whilst Roger was there, I remarked that he talked 
 more to her than he had ever done, whilst she on her part seemed 
 to lean to his opinion in all matters. 
 
 It sometimes seemed to me a pity, that he should be going 
 away, just when he was gaining an influence over her for good; 
 and yet I knew that it was little enough he could do for her. A 
 I of her age could not be guided by a man of Roger's age. If 
 any one could do her real good, it would be myself. I thought of 
 this still more when Roger came back from Ilatton. He had 
 dined there, and was going then to Longside ; and he might, he 
 said, be obliged to drive into Hove; but he hoped not, as it 
 would take up so much time. He had walked to Hatton, but
 
 URSULA. 183 
 
 intended to ride to Longside; and while his horse ivas being 
 saddled, he made me come out with him into the garden; and 
 we walked up and down, and had a long conversation, and all 
 the time about Jessie, for she weighed a good deal upon my 
 mind. He said that she had come out more in this last meeting , 
 I suppose the fact of his going away made her feel quite at ease. 
 She had told him that there was no one to look after her ; and that 
 she longed to have some person to cling to, who might guard 
 her. 
 
 ' She did not ask you to take her with you to Canada, did 
 she?' I said laughing. 
 
 He drew back his arm from me, as though I had struck him 
 with a dagger. ' I don't like those jokes, Ursie,' he said. ' If 
 you will only keep Jessie from the Shaws, she will soon find a 
 good husband without going to Canada to look for one.' He 
 was quite silent for some moments after that; and I was vexed, 
 though I had spoken innocently enough, knowing it was all 
 nonsense. He said a little more about William and Leah, and 
 bade me stay with them under all trials. ' You are too young, 
 Ursie,' he said, ' to cut the cable and set sail by yourself. Trust 
 to me, and if God should be pleased to give me health and 
 strength, we will have a home together again before many months 
 are over; and if not' — he stopped short in his walk, and laid 
 his hand upon my shoulder — 'Trot, little one, we must put 
 relations first, because God puts them first. God will help you 
 whatever comes.' 
 
 Those seem to me the last words I heard him speak ; for they 
 are the last which rested on my mind. He rode off to Longside, 
 and on his way met John Hervey, who took him on to Hove. 
 Things were to be done there which he found would keep him 
 till very late at night ; and he was obliged to be up very early 
 the next morning, to be in time for the London coach. Farmer 
 Kemp came over to tell us this, and brought a hasty note from 
 Roger, saying that he and John had settled that they must sleep 
 in Hove ; and to beg that all he had left might be sent in the 
 very first thing in the morning. Roger's hand shook, I am sure, 
 when he wrote that note ; and there was just at the end ' Cheer 
 up and trust ; God bless you ;' that was all. He had not a 
 moment to spare, Farmer Kemp said. I remember I stood quite 
 still in the middle of the room, and did not speak a word, till 
 Farmer Kemp came up to me and whispered, ' Courage, lassie; 
 and then quite quietly, for I could not bear to let any one see
 
 1 84 URSULA. 
 
 what I felt, I answered, ' The things arc very nearly ready; I will 
 go and see about them ;' and up-stairs I went. 
 
 Not one tear did I shed till I found myself in bed at twelve 
 o'clock. It took me till then before all was ready; and oh! 
 how I longed all the time for a kind word and look. But 
 William was vexed that Roger had not thought of the plan 
 b lore ; and Leah was sadly put out because I was obliged to 
 keep the maid up when she would not help me herself; so they 
 neither of them gave me much comfort. So lonely, so \ 
 ely I felt, when I lay down in my bed,— no words can 
 scribe it. I had a short night, scarcely to be called rest, and was 
 up at half-past four again, to finish the last box. At half-p.i t 
 live I watched the cart drive out of the yard ; and then I went 
 back to my room again, and instead of cryin \ I knelt down 
 and said all my troubles out to God, and that made me better. 
 
 The day after Roger went I thought i . over to sec Mrs 
 
 Weir. It must have looked, unkind not to have done so before, 
 but it was impossible. I was afraid Mrs Weir would not under- 
 stand this. People who are at leisure so little know what the 
 difficulties of busy people arc. Even now it was not very i 
 to find time for the walk ; for I had a dress to make for Mrs 
 Richardson, which had been put aside for Roger's work ; and I 
 had no means of gaining any extra hours, as Leah was inclined 
 to seize upon every moment to which she had the slightest claim, 
 and, ind-ed, upon some on which she had no claim. I had fore- 
 seen this from the beginning, and resolved to have, if possible, a 
 ( 1 ar understanding with her about it. I took the opportunity, 
 when William was smoking his pipe after dinner, and she was 
 dawdling about, before setting to work for the afternoon. 
 
 'Leah,' I said, 'I thought of walking over to the Heath this 
 afternoon ; and perhaps I might have a cup of tea there : so you 
 needn't wait for me.' 
 
 "It is early days to be going, isn't it?' she said; 'and I 
 thought you wanted to sit quiet in the afternoon, and do your 
 work.' 
 
 ' I should be back by half-past six,' I said, 'and I might work 
 between that and supper, and besides at odd times to-morrow, 
 and so make up. Mrs Weir will think it strange if I don't 
 go-' 
 
 1 There is house needlework to be done between tea and sup- 
 per,' replied Leah ; 'and as to odd times, I don't see where they 
 are to come from.'
 
 URSULA. 1S5 
 
 ' I might manage half-an-hcur before breakfast, perhaps/ I 
 sriid. 
 
 Leah looked black. ' You will scarcely do needlework, and 
 get breakfast, too,' she said. 
 
 ' I was not thinking of helping to get breakfast/ I answered. 
 ' I thought, Leah, you always did that yourself.' 
 
 'I have done it since Jessie-went/ she replied; 'but I can't 
 go on with it. There are so many things to be seen to at night, 
 I must have more rest in the morning. And as for Martha, it is 
 useless to look to her ; she has to light the fires, and boil the 
 milk for the men. There is the dairy, too. I reckoned upon 
 your attending to that, Ursie. Some one must have an eye to it 
 early ; and then Martha can clean the milkpans, and put it in 
 order, whilst we are having our breakfasts.' 
 
 All very true ; only the breakfast was Leah's own duty. 
 
 ' Don't you sec?' inquired Leah. 
 
 ' Yes, I see,' was my reply. ' But, Leah, if I take to all this 
 in the morning, you must please spare me an hour to make up in 
 the evening. I don't mean when there is a press, but generally.' 
 
 'We can see : we'll talk about that/ she replied. 'It's best 
 to go on gradually. No one can mark out a day as you would 
 have it done, Ursie.' 
 
 . 'And I suppose you would like to have the poultry fed the 
 first thing after breakfast/ I said. 'Jessie used to do that, I 
 know.' 
 
 ' 1 don't care about the poultry,' she replied, ' I have taken to 
 them myself", and I think it is better. But there's the meat in 
 the larder to be changed, and you could help Martha clean the 
 dishes ; and then there is the cooking.' 
 
 ' I am not a good hand at cooking for so many,' I said ; ' I 
 suppose I shall have the girl to help ?' 
 
 ' That is as may be. We shall see if she is wanted. After all, 
 there s not so much to be done. Bacon, and cabbage are easily 
 boiled for the men, and the maids eat after us.' 
 
 ' You give the men fresh meat sometimes in the week, don't 
 you ?' I asked. 
 
 'Well! we used. But I find they do just as well without it. 
 And these aren't times when we can afford to have fancies. 
 Wiiliam is rather particular about his own dinners, Ursie ; and 
 I dare say, having been so much with Mrs Mason, you have 
 learned some things that may please him.' 
 
 'You will want a pudding, I suppose, for the men ?' I said.
 
 186 URSULA. 
 
 'Why, res, to be sure; — it saves bacon. A], pies arc coming 
 in, but they are scarce this year, and I would have them kept for 
 William. Anything does for the men. They eat suet pudding 
 as often as not ; and baked rice and mill:, with a sprinkling of 
 sugar,— not eggs, of course. By the by, Ursie, the day after to- 
 morrow is baking day, and then William looks to having some 
 fruit tarts made ; and he complained last week that there 
 sweet cakes enough. He is like a child in being fond of sw 
 things.' 
 
 ' The cooking and baking both will be more, I am afraid, than 
 I shall be able to undertake, Leah/ I said, ' considering that I 
 have needlework of my own to do besides.' 
 
 ' It is only one day in the week,' she replied, ' and Jessie always 
 took the greatest pari upon herself.' 
 
 ' Because she has nothing else to do,' I replied. ' What I can 
 put into the morning, I will; but I would not have you look to 
 for more than that, plc~.se ; for, indeed, I don't think I shall 
 be able to manage it.' 
 
 ' We shall see ; we can't settle beforehand ; only I thought, 
 Ursie, you were come to make yourself useful.' 
 
 I did not know what to answer, being sure that, whatever I 
 said, she would take my words as a kind of promise. 
 
 'And there's washing, too,' she continued, in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 ' And help for that,' I said, boldly. 
 
 ' Yes,— some.' Leah spoke doubtfully. 'Mrs Ilobson won't 
 come, since Kitty has been turned away, and the Hatton woman, 
 whom 1 've engaged, won't be enough.' 
 
 ' But there arc Martha and the girl,' I said. 
 
 'Yes, but if they arc washing, who is to take their work ?' 
 
 ' Really, Leah,' I said, 'if you mean that I am to do it, I don't 
 see how it is possible. There will be cooking on washing-days, 
 just as on any other, in the morning, and a great deal more fuss 
 in the house. If you help yourself, or have some one else to 
 help, we may do very well ; but all the willing horses in 
 England won't be able to draw a waggon if it is loaded too 
 ily.' 
 
 ' It will only come once in six weeks,' she said ; ' I have made 
 up my mind to that.' 
 
 'And the work will be all the more heavy,' I replied. ' If you 
 would have it once a month, and get proper help,. Leah, I am 
 sure you would find it belter.'
 
 URSULA. 187 
 
 5 1 think, Ursie, you had best leave me to manage my own 
 affairs,' was the reply I had from her ; and she went off without 
 giving me any more definite notion of my work, or any bettet 
 idea of how it was all to be managed. 
 
 It was not hopeful, certainly. My thoughts turned back to 
 Roger and my hnppy home at Dene, with no one to interfere 
 with me ; all my duties regular and orderly, and Roger 
 always pleased- with me. I did not see how I could get on 
 as things were ; but still less did I see how God, by these little 
 trials, was teaching and training me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 FOR I bad great faults. They are clear to me now. At that 
 time I almost thought they were virtues. Left so early as 
 I was without a mother to search minutely into the defects of 
 my natural character, perhaps it is not surprising that they 
 were hidden from me ; although I can with truth say, that, in 
 the main, my heart's desire was to serve God and do my duty 
 conscientiously. 
 
 Wilful and hasty I had no doubt that I was ; I had been 
 punished for these faults continually, and Roger had again and 
 again corrected me for them. Some people, too, said I was self- 
 trusting and conceited ; but my conscience, on a surface examina- 
 tion, in a measure, acquitted me. If persons were set over me 
 whom I respected, I could obey, and be glad to do so. I knew 
 this, and it satisfied me, and I looked no deeper. I did not see 
 that there was at the bottom of my heart a love of rule and in- 
 dependence, even underneath my apparent submission. I could 
 not give up my own will, merely because it was ordered by God's 
 providence that I should do so. I dearly loved to feel myself 
 my own mistress, and wherever I was placed, I was inclined to 
 criticise and find fault with any person who claimed authority 
 over me ; and all this did not appear to me wrong. I had but 
 one desire — that things should be done in the right way. I for- 
 got that it was necessary also that they should be done by the 
 right person. 
 
 And so again as regarded independence of character, the 
 wish to provide for myself, and make my own way in the world.
 
 iS8 URSULA. 
 
 '1 hcse were dispositions in which I saw no harm and suspected 
 no danger. They had worked well hitherto. They had, I knew, 
 
 been a great resistance to Roger, and very much lessened his 
 anxiety in parting with me. They had given me a position in 
 Mrs Weir's household, and enabled me to be of far greater use to 
 her than I could have been if I had merely done as I was told, 
 without offering an opinion, or showing th it I was able to work 
 out my own path. I could not help feeling that I had gained a 
 standing for myself in the world, even beyond my age, and it 
 seemed to me that I had nothing to do but to go on as I had 
 1 . un, and all must be well. For several years past, day by d . 
 insensibly to myself, my self-dependence had increased. Ifl had 
 continued with Mrs Weir, gaining influence over her and her 
 household, it must have gone on increasing, and who can s ly 
 • the end might have been ? 
 
 We are often warned against our besetting sin. I am not at 
 all sure whether we do not need a much stronger warning against 
 our besetting characteristic. One thing I am sure of, that the 
 inconsistencies and weaknesses which I have marked in some of 
 the best persons I have ever known, have arisen from some 
 tendency in the natural disposition, in itself innocent, but which 
 altered the right balance of the character. Too much hope, or 
 too little, too great excitability, too great rapidity in forming 
 inions, too great fear of giving pain, too much caution ; many 
 such peculiarities there are, which are no doubt necessary as 
 forming the particular features of every individual character, and 
 yet which require in each case especially to be watched and 
 gu rd da .oust. 
 
 In my own case I knew that I had a great love of indi p nd- 
 ence ; when it became wilfulness I was scolded and punished 
 for it. Yet it was only because it was wilfulness ; no one would 
 have thought of punishing me for liking independence. It would 
 have been very unjust and unfair to do so ; but then no one 
 thought of whispering in my car : — 'Take car.- that your love 
 of independence does not become a fault by blinding your eyes 
 to duty.' 
 
 It may be said that religion ought to have set all that right, 
 I so no doubt it ought ; but how few become thoroughly reli- 
 gious at once. We may think ourselves converted because we 
 have gone through a certain state of sorrow and repentance, and 
 no doubt such feelings arc very often the beginning of a holy 
 life, but they are by no means the end. Religion must, I
 
 URSULA. 189 
 
 imagine, be with us all a matter of growth ; and as to myself I 
 do not remember that I ever had any of those seasons of excited 
 feelings which I know that many pass through. Times there 
 were, indeed, when I was more penitent, or more earnest, or 
 thankful, but it was all in a quiet way — Rogers way — in which 
 there was very little talking about feelings. 
 
 In some respects I dare say this was a snare to me, for there 
 are dangers wherever one turns. I was likely to go to sleep over 
 my duties, or do them in a slovenly manner, and this would 
 naturally hide from me many of the lesser evils of my character. 
 It is only when we are heartily zealous in our wish to please God, 
 that we search deeply into the secret corners of our hearts, and 
 through His grace are enabled to discover and root out the 
 weaknesses and infirmities as well as the sins which lie hidden 
 there. My life had hitherto been too peaceful to reveal to me 
 the necessity of such an examination. Where there was little 
 contradiction there was little to struggle against, and though by 
 no means well satisfied with myself, I certainly had much to 
 learn as to my own deficiencies. And at that time religion with 
 me was more a matter of duty than of love. I can now see, 
 through God's mercy, that duty is but a stepping-stone, one 
 without which we can never reach the point at which we should 
 aim, but which cannot by itself raise us to the height from which 
 heaven will be always in our view. Sorrow and disappoint- 
 ment in this world had their work to do in me before I cotdd be 
 brought to feel that the religion for which God has created us is 
 not merely a law of obedience but a spring of happiness, — happi- 
 ness in the consciousness of that deep, satisfying, grateful love 
 which makes the heaviest trial and the most self-denying dis- 
 cipline a joy, when submitted to for Christ's sake. 
 
 I say this of myself, because I feel that to many my feelings of 
 religion, at the time of which I am writing, may appear unsatis- 
 factory. They were so, I grant. They were unfolding, but as 
 yet they v. ere only in the bud. All I will venture to say of them 
 is, that I believe they were of the right kind. There was a deep 
 perception of my own unworthiness, a hearty wish to serve God, 
 a watchfulness against all the faults of which I was aware, a 
 spirit of thankfulness for my daily blessings, and I hope some 
 perception of the infinite love shown to us all in our Redemption. 
 I speak of this latter feeling doubtfully, because it seems to me 
 now that it is one which persons are often slow in attaining, 
 especially when, as in my case, the growth of religion has been
 
 190 I RSULA. 
 
 unaccompanied by great fears or an overpowering sense of sin. 
 and consequent relief in the consciousness of pardon. If I cm 
 judge at all of myself, I sec my own sinfulness now much more 
 fully than I did then, and so I hope I am more penitent and 
 more thankful ; and yet I can scarcely say that I am more in 
 earnest. 
 
 I walked over to the Heath in a very unhappy state of mind : 
 lonely, — I could not be otherwise, when I thought of the long 
 separation from Roger, — and fretted and perplexed as to my 
 j 'resent duties ; how far I was bound to give in to Leah in con- 
 sideration of her being William's wife, and that he was giving 
 me a home ; and how far I was called upon to stand up for my 
 own right, and the agreement which had been made as to my 
 time before Roger went away. But as I drew near the Heath, 
 other thoughts forced themselves upon me. I met Mr Ten: 
 as I was going along the side of St Anne's Mill. lie was coming 
 up from the cottage, and had moved a hurdle which was in his 
 way, and as I drew near he kept it open for me. He was a civil 
 little gentleman, and I liked as well as pitied him, so I thanked 
 him very heartily. 
 
 ' You are going down to the cottage, I suppose,' he said. 
 
 'Yes, sir/ I replied. 'I hope I shall find Mrs Weir pretty 
 well.' 
 
 'I have 'not seen her to-day,' he said. 'There have been 
 visitors, and she has not been down-stairs.' 
 
 ore visitors!' I thought to myself. 'They will kill poor 
 Mrs Weir between them soon.' 
 
 'A little pleasant society docs her good, I think,' continued 
 Mr Temple. 'She has been much better since my wife and I 
 came.' 
 
 ' She is getting over her trouble a little, I hope, sir,' I said, for 
 I did not like to agree with him, though there was some truth in 
 his words. 
 
 ' I think, if we could find a house to suit us, we might remain 
 
 re some time longer,' observed Mr Temple. He looked at me 
 askance ; he never seemed to have courage to look any one in 
 the face. I made no reply, and he went on, 'The climate suits 
 Mrs Temple so well, and we were just thinking of giving up our 
 house in the north. Do you know how many bedrooms there 
 in tl t house on the lower road — " Stonecliff," I think, they 
 it ? ' 
 
 , sir, I dor.*t,' I rcplk d, and I made a movement to go on-
 
 URSULA. 191 
 
 but Mr Temple was determined to have his talk out. I believe 
 he always kept what he had to say till he found some one to ex- 
 pend it upon, when he was out of his wife's sight. 
 
 ' Mr Richardson says it is cold in the winter,' he observed ; 
 ' did you ever hear that it was considered so ? You must know 
 this part of the country well, for you have lived here all your 
 life.' 
 
 'The houses at Compton are all new, sir,' I answered; 'I 
 don't know much about them ; but it must be very cold for a 
 delicate person like Mrs Temple. The wind cuts round the 
 corner of the cliff, and she would find the roar of the sea trouble- 
 some.' 
 
 ' I don't think she minds that,' he said ; ' it is a good house, I 
 believe, and — but, however, I won't keep you ; if you see Mrs 
 Temple, tell her I have walked over to Dene.' 
 
 I suspect a fit of caution and fear of his wife came over him 
 at the moment, and stopped his communicativeness, for he rushed 
 away, not waiting to put the hurdle back, and I watched him 
 climbing the hill by the help of his walking-stick, and then con- 
 tinued my walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A THORN had been planted in my mind, a very large one, 
 though not so large as it might have been if I had been 
 living with Mrs Weir. I only half believed what Mr Temple 
 said, for he was a very blundering man, and Mrs Temple was 
 just as likely as not to have put the notion into his head, only 
 for the sake of employing him. She was always planning some- 
 thing for him, and as soon as it was settled, undoing it £g«in. 
 But if there were any truth in it, it would be ill news indeed, as 
 far as I was concerned ; and even as regarded Mrs Weir, I had 
 a great dislike to the notion of her being taken in by any one, 
 even though it made her happy for the time. I have always so 
 dearly loved the truth in all things, and would rather know it 
 and face it, both in persons and circumstances, however unplea- 
 sant it may be, than live in the pleasantest dream that could be 
 granted me. But I don't think this was quite Mrs Weir's case • 
 a little dreaminess and imagination were necessary to her.
 
 192 URSULA. 
 
 Before I readied the house, I saw the visitors who had been 
 mentioned; they were Mr and Mrs Richardson, and they, 
 and Mrs Temple, and Miss Miliccnt were standing together in 
 
 the sweep. I think Mr and Mrs Richardson were just going 
 after paying their vis : t. I tried to make my way to the back 
 door without being noticed, but Mr Richardson saw and came 
 r me to inquire for Roger, and then Miss Milicent followed. 
 
 ' So, it's you at last, Ursie,' she said. ' I made sure you 
 finite forgotten us ; and there has been my mother fidgeting to 
 see you every day. You knocked down one of the little ivory 
 chessmen when you took out those nick-nack follies the other 
 day.' 
 
 ' Did I, Miss Miliccnt ?' I exclaimed, very much surprised and 
 • iced, and not at all recollecting at the moment on what occash n 
 I had meddled with them. 
 
 'And Matilda Temple was to have had them for the charity 
 bazaar, but they are no good now/ continued Miss Milicent, 
 'Not that I care much for that,' she added, laughing, and 
 speaking to Mr Richardson. ' Charity bazaars are not much in 
 my way. Arc they in yours?' 
 
 He looked grave, and said he did not mind having things 
 made privately and sold for charity, because many persons could 
 give work and time who could not give money ; but lie did dis- 
 like turning what was called charity into an amusement, and 
 having tents, and music, and young ladies to sell the things at 
 absurd prices, and in fact making it just as much a worldly en- 
 tertainment as a ball or a play. It was as much as to say that 
 people would not give their money without having a return. 
 There was a verse in the Bible which always came to his mind 
 when he heard of bazaars. 
 
 paused a moment, and when Miss Miliccnt insisted upon 
 hearing it, he quoted David's speech to Araunah, the Jebusite : 
 ' Neither will 1 off r burnt offerings unto the Lord my Cod of 
 that which doth c( st me nothin 
 
 le came up just as Mr Richard; in was speaking, 
 and I was afraid there would be a long discussion. I felt a little 
 id and out of my place, but I did not like to move away, 
 not knowing where exactly to go. I was relieved when Mrs 
 Richardson joined us, and interrupted the conversation by al- 
 ine. I think she f< It, like myself, that an argum nt 
 with Mrs Temple might be disagreeable. 
 
 ' Ursula,' she said, 'I am r ally glad to see you. I think
 
 URSULA. 1 93 
 
 you may help Miss Weir and me in something we have been 
 planning.' 
 
 'Oh yes, Ursie can help better than any one,' said Miss 
 Milicent ; ' and she will take a girl at Sandcombe, I am sure. I 
 think, Mrs Richardson, we might as well let her have Esther 
 Smithson ; she is the most troublesome girl in the school.' 
 
 ' I should be very happy to assist in any good work,' began 
 Mrs Temple, coming forward, and rather pushing herself before 
 me. 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Mrs Richardson ; ' but this is a business 
 which only concerns parishioners. Happily, Sandcombe is in 
 Compton parish, so that Ursula still belongs to us.' 
 
 ' Your dear mother will be wanting me, Milicent, I am afraid,' 
 said Mrs Temple, in a whining voice, which she always adopted 
 when speaking of Mrs Weir. 'Mrs Richardson, I am afraid I 
 must leave you.' 
 
 She was very short in her manner, and I saw she was dis- 
 pleased. I don't know whether Mrs Richardson remarked it, 
 but I am sure we all breathed more freely when she was gone. 
 
 ' Could you walk down the road with us a little way, Ursula?' 
 said Mr Richardson. ' I am afraid we must be going, for I have 
 an engagement at home in half an hour.' 
 
 ' Ursula will be tired,' remarked Mrs Richardson, who never 
 forgot to be thoughtful. 
 
 If I had been tired I should have gone with them, they were 
 always so pleasant and kind ; but, as it happened, I really was 
 not tired, the air on the hill had been so refreshing. 
 
 Miss Milicent followed without being asked. 
 
 'What we were talking of, Ursula,' said Mrs Richardson, 
 ' was the school.' 
 
 'The Sunday-school, ma'am?' I inquired. 'I am afraid i 
 should scarcely be able to walk over from Sandcombe as I used 
 to do from Dene.' 
 
 ' Not the Sunday-school, Ursie,' interrupted Miss Milicent, 
 before Mrs Richardson could answer, ' but the day-school. We 
 have a plan for the girls. We mean to make good servants of 
 them. They are not to be such good-for-nothings as Kitty 
 Hobson and her set' 
 
 Poor Kitty Hobson ! She had become quite a proverb of 
 wickedness ; yet Mrs Kemp thought well of her. 
 
 Mrs Richardson never interrupted Miss Milicent, which was 
 one reason, 1 think, of her being such a favourite. She even 
 
 N
 
 i 9 4 URSULA. 
 
 waited a second to hear if there was anything more coming, nn^ 
 then she said, ' It is only an experiment, Ursula ; but you know 
 how badly some of our girls have turned out lately ; and Mr 
 Richardson and I have been thinking whether it would be pos- 
 sible to give them a little domestic teaching before they quite 
 leave school. If wc could manage it, wc might send them out 
 from the school with a good character, and put them at once in 
 respectable situations, instead of leaving them to chance places.' 
 
 ' You could take one very well at Sandcombe, Ursie,' said 
 Miss Milicent; 'you must tell your brother about it. And 
 Jenny Dale shall have one too. Any girl who comes under her 
 will have a fair notion of cooking. I think it a first-rate notion. 
 If Jenny won't teach her, I will undertake it myself.' 
 
 I tried not to smile at the notion of Miss Milicent's teaching 
 cookery ; and, speaking to Mrs Richardson, I asked her to ex- 
 plain a little more clearly what she meant, for I could not see 
 my way to it. Mr Richardson answered, ' I think we all agree 
 that there is a great evil in the present state of things, Ursula,' 
 he said ; ' perhaps a lady can see more into it than a gentleman ; 
 but it strikes me that the reason why so many of our girls come 
 to misery is, that they are left to make their first start in the 
 world by themselves. They leave school, and have learned to read 
 and write, and do needlework, but they know nothing of house- 
 hold work ; and so they can seldom or never go at once into 
 superior service, but are sent to lodging-houses and farms : no 
 offence, Ursula, but you will agree with mc that ordinary farm 
 service is not good training for a girl.' 
 
 'Very bad,' I said, earnestly, for it had often and often 
 weighed upon my mind. 
 
 'Now wc think,' continued Mrs Richardson, taking up the 
 sentence where her husband had left it, ' that if a few persons in 
 the parish, who are interested in the girls, would agree to assist 
 us, wc might do something towards remedying this evil. Our 
 notion is that the ^jirls, as they grow old enough, should be sent 
 to some house, — say Mrs Weir's, or ours, or Mrs Kemp's, at 
 Longside, to work in the morning, from seven or eight till twelve; 
 having their breakfast, but not their dinner, and going to school 
 in the afternoon.' 
 
 'That is the part I don't like,' interrupted Miss Milicent 
 ' Poor starved creatures ! why aren't they to have their dinner?' 
 
 'Because if they do,' said Mr Richardson, 'they become an 
 expense, and persons won't chocse to burden themselves witk
 
 URSULA. 195 
 
 them. I would not even insist upon the breakfast. If they went 
 before eight they should have it, and if not they should get what 
 they could at home. You must remember they are not worse oh 
 than they would be if they were regularly at school, and our ob- 
 ject is to plan something which shall last, because it only touches 
 time, and not money. You and I, Miss Weir, might be very 
 willing to give the poor children a dinner every day, but Mrs 
 Burton, the surgeon's widow, would never be able to afford it, 
 and so she would never come into our plan.' 
 
 'And those who can afford it are to let the children starve for 
 the sake of those who can't,' exclaimed Miss Milicent. 'There 
 is neither rhyme nor reason in that, Mr Richardson.' 
 
 ' No rhyme, I giant, but I hope some reason,' he replied. ' If 
 we, who can afford it, give the children a dinner, we make the 
 others discontented. There must be one rule for all.' 
 
 'Besides,' continued Mrs Richardson, 'there is an exception 
 for Saturday. You may keep your girl all day on Saturday, 
 Miss Weir, and give her sixpence besides, only you are not 
 obliged to do so if you don't like it. 
 
 ' And you may want her services on some other day, for the 
 afternoon,' said Mr Richardson, ' and then, if you ask permis- 
 sion, it will be given, and you can bestow another sixpence ; so 
 you see there is an opening for as much extravagance as you like. 
 Only remember that you must let her go home by daylight, or 
 you will have the schoolmistress, and the clergyman, and the 
 committee down upon you, and be in our black books for ever 
 after.' 
 
 'Well ! it's a capital plan,' exclaimed Miss Milicent ; 'it will 
 be the making of the girls. I should like to see it begin with 
 that lanky-haired Hetty Smithson. If it answered with her it 
 would for any one.' 
 
 ' Ursula says nothing,' observed Mrs Richardson. 
 
 ' I dare say you know all there is to be said better than I do, 
 ma'am,' I replied. 
 
 'But you have objections,' remarked Mr Richardson, rather 
 in a disappointed tone. 
 
 ' I think it might answer very well, sir, if you were always 
 sure of the persons whom the girls would be placed under. It 
 is not the mistresses, but the servants, who will stand in the 
 way.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr Richardson, ' I have thought of that.' 
 
 ' If you have good upper servants, whom the girls will obey,'
 
 ic/> URSULA, 
 
 I continued, 'it will nil be easy: but if they arc young and 
 flighty, tb D y will only teach the girls evil, and if they arc cross 
 they will aggravate them, so that they will never get on to- 
 gether.' 
 
 'A difficulty, not an objection,' said Mr Richardson. 'If 
 the plan is tried in six cases and answers only in three, the t! n 
 are a gain. Nothing can be worse than the way things are 
 managed at present.' 
 
 That was true, certainly. I myself had watched Compton 
 girls, sent out into the world, one after another, taking the fust 
 place they could meet with, let it be what it might, and often 
 even working in the fields, because they had no opening for 
 service, and, in more cases than I could bear to remember, the 
 end had been grievous. Still I was not very hopeful as to the 
 present scheme. There was distance to be considered, and 1 
 mentioned this to Mr Richardson. 
 
 1 1 e had thought of it, he said, and no doubt it frequently might 
 stand in the way. The plan would be much more easily carried 
 out in a town, or in a small place where the houses were close 
 together, than in a scattered parish like Compton. ' But where 
 there s a will there's a way, Ursula,' he added, with a pleasant 
 smile. 'We want three or four persons who will set their heads 
 and their hearts to work, and consider what is good for the girl?, 
 and not what is pleasant to themselves. Then I think the diffi- 
 culty might be greatly obvi ited. The children who lived nearest 
 to you would go to you, and those who lived nearest tome would 
 come to me. I think, Miss Miliccnt, upon that principle, Mrs 
 Kemp would take Hetty Smithson, unless she can be sent to 
 Sandcombc.' 
 
 ' Mrs Kemp likes good-for-nothing girls,' exclaimed Miss Mili- 
 ccnt ; 'she has turned Kitty Hobson out quite new.' 
 
 ' By a little kindness and care,' said Mrs Richardson. ' That 
 was what first put this idea into our minds. Kitty was seized 
 just at the right moment, and taught that she had a character, 
 which was a fact she had been made to doubt ; and now she 
 thinks it worth while to try and keep it. We want to do the 
 same thing for our girls, before they have reached poor Kitty's 
 " ne'er-do-weel " state.' 
 
 'To retain being much more easy than to attain,' said Mr 
 Richardson ; and then, he added, very earnestly, ' There is the 
 analogy of God's dealings with man, to teach us that truth : 
 " Members of Christ, children of God, and inheritors of the king-
 
 URSULA. 197 
 
 dom of heaven," as the Catechism says ; we have our rank given 
 us from the beginning, and all our struggle thenceforward must 
 be to keep it.' 
 
 My mind all this time was dwelling upon Leah and Sand- 
 combe. I did not at all see how the plan was to work there. 
 
 Miss Milicent was rather cross because I said so little. ' I 
 wish, Ursie Grant,' she remarked, 'that you would speak out. 
 I am sure Mr Richardson would like it better, and I know I 
 should.' 
 
 ' I can understand Ursula's feelings,' said Mrs Richardson ; 
 ' she is taken by surprise.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' I said ; ' and I doubt whether at Sandcombe we 
 have any one who could look after a child properly.' 
 
 'Not yourself?' said Mr Richardson. 
 
 ' I am not mistress, sir,' was my reply ; and he quite under- 
 stood, without asking more questions. 
 
 'Well!' he said, after a little thought, ' let us make up our 
 minds that it will be a failure, — a failure at least, so far as that 
 many of the children will fail to obtain good from it, and that 
 the persons whom we depend upon to help us will grow weary 
 and give up. Still, is that any reason for not making the 
 attempt ? What harm can it do ? ' 
 
 ' None,' said Mrs Richardson. 
 
 ' And,' he continued, ' we will try to hold out a reward for 
 good behaviour. The school is not rich ; but I think we could 
 afford half a sovereign, if not more, to any girl who, having gone 
 out to work in the morning, whilst at school, should afterwards 
 be placed in a permanent situation, and remain in it with a good 
 character for a year. That would, I hope, be a little induce- 
 ment to the parents to keep their children at school longer ; and, 
 I confess, one of my main hopes of good is in the fact that the 
 girls, even whilst they are learning to be servants, will still feci 
 that they are children, and under school discipline. Besides 
 the afternoon lessons, there will be the Sunday-school and 
 church for them regularly, so that their good habits will be 
 kept up.' 
 
 'Well, Ursie, isn't it all right now ?' exclaimed Miss Milicent, 
 appealing to me. 
 
 But Mr Richardson answered for me. ' Pardon me, Miss 
 Weir; we won't have Ursula's assent drawn from her unwil- 
 lingly. We will try the plan, and then she shall say what she 
 thinks of it. All we will ask, Ursula, is that you should men-
 
 t/BSUt I. 
 
 I the notion to Mrs Grant, at Sandcombc, and try to persuade 
 to let us send a girl to her.' 
 
 of a refusal. Leah would like any help she 
 
 ild get when there was no eating and drinking in the case ; 
 
 1 I said at once, heartily, that I was sure there would be no 
 
 ficulty. I confess I felt very glad not to have to give an 
 
 inion as to whetht r the scheme would succeed. I had always 
 
 ii( k eye for difficulties ; and 1 thought, moreover, that ladies 
 
 and gentlemen could not will understand the ins and outs ot 
 
 farm-hou 
 
 The principle on which Mr Richardson acted was beyond me 
 i. He said something to his wife just before we parted, 
 which, th iugh it rested in my mind, it required a long experience 
 to understand. 
 
 'These are no days for waiting for perfect plans,' he said. 
 ' Evils are crowding upon us so fast, that we must seize the first 
 ipon which offers itself to withstand them, so that it is one 
 which we can use conscicntiou-ly ; and we must be contented to 
 it feebly — to strike at hazard — often uselessly; yet always 
 with zeal, hope, and faith, remembering that '• the battle is not 
 ours, but the Lord' 
 
 —The plan ailudcd to has been tried successfully in different places, with 
 modifications according to the wants and peculiarities of the neighbourhood. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ' \7"OU will find my mother in her room, Ursie,' said Miss 
 JL Miliccnt; and ; hc walked on with Mrs Richiudson, 
 I went back to the cottage alone, pondering in my own 
 id upon the sfmnge way we human beings have of looking at 
 our duties ; and uOv Miss Miliccnt could throw her whole heart 
 I soul into a plan for making Esther Smithson a good re- 
 table girl, and yet could not put herself out of her way lor 
 an I cheer her poor sick mother. I hope I did not forget 
 
 th t I was liable to the same kind of delusion myself. 
 
 Jenny Dale kept me talking for a few minutes in the kitchen, 
 before I could go up-stairs. She was full of complaints ; and I 
 could almost fancy that things v ere worse, because I was not
 
 URSULA. 199 
 
 there. Mrs Temple, she said, was becoming so domineering, 
 there was no bearing her. She had actually taken to ordering 
 dinner, and came out into the kitchen every morning, and would 
 peer about in the larder to see after the scraps. She was very 
 fond of having scrap dinners for the kitchen, and did not ap- 
 prove of having the bits given away ; and this had nearly caused 
 a downright quarrel between her and Jenny; for Jenny had been 
 told by Miss Milicent to keep the bits, and give them to the poor 
 people who were down in Mr Richardson's list. Miss Milicent 
 had interfered, and been angry ; but I suppose she did not see 
 that she had no one to thank for the storms but herself. I told 
 Jenny plainly that I thought she ought not to give in to Mrs 
 Temple, but go to Miss Milicent at once, whenever such things 
 were done, and she promised me she would ; but she was a weak 
 kind of woman, and I could not reckon much upon her words. 
 Then she complained of Fanny, who was made much of by Mrs 
 Temple, because she waited upon her. Fanny was always a 
 little inclined to be set up, and Mrs Temple had turned her into 
 a kind of lady's maid, for she and Cotton had quarrelled, and 
 Cotton would do nothing for her. Fanny dressed Mrs Temple 
 in the morning, and was learning to do her hair, and Mrs 
 Temple talked to her all the time ; and t ^. :y, it seemed, was 
 beginning to think herself a great person. Oh, dear ! the mis- 
 chief that one tiresome woman may do in a house ! 
 
 I did not say half nor a quarter of what I thought about it all, 
 but I went up-stairs to Mrs Weir in no very pleasant humour. 
 The ill-feeling vanished directly I saw her. She was by herself, 
 which was a great relief, and looking so sweet and kind — but 
 thin, and I fancied rather harassed. 
 
 ' I heard you were here half an hour ago, Ursula,' she said, 
 as I went up to her sofa, ' and I have been hoping you would 
 come up to me ; but my niece said you were gone back part of 
 the way to the Parsonage, and I have no doubt that was pleasant 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Mr Richardson wished to speak to me, ma'am,' I said ; 'that 
 was the reason I went. I hoped you had not been told I was 
 come. I know you' don't like waiting.' 
 
 ' I ar\ afraid, Ursula, I do not like many things. I have 
 wished to see you often since you went away ; but you have not 
 been able, I suppose, to take so long a walk.' 
 
 I was just a little chilled by her manner, and answered, ' I 
 have not stirred beyond the farm, ma'am, except to go to church
 
 200 URSULA. 
 
 on Sundays. My brother's going, and the settling in a new 
 place, have taken up all my time.' 
 
 'Very likely, Ursula ; but you promised; I should not have 
 fliought so much about it else.' 
 
 The tone was a little — a very little — impatient ; but the poor, 
 Jear lady was on the watch, and a smile came over her face 
 directly after, and she held out her hand to me, and said, ' If we 
 did not like persons, Ursula, we should not care how long th( y 
 stayed away from us. Will you sit down and tell mc about your 
 brother ? ' 
 
 And I did sit down, and told her everything I could think of; 
 making it, as well as I could, into a kind of story, for that was 
 what she liked. She was no great talker, indeed talking soon 
 tired her ; but she enjoyed listening ; and even when I was a 
 little girl, I was in the habit of describing minutely what I did 
 and said, yet with great exactness, for she was very quick and 
 particular, and always stopped me when she thought 1 was in 
 the least exaggerating. She used to bay to me that the habit of 
 exaggeration is a leak in a person's character, through which 
 truth, and therefore confidence, escape unnoticed. This may 
 seem rather contrary to what I said before of her liking to live 
 in a dream, but it is not so really. There is a great difference 
 between inventing facts and arranging them. Mrs Weir hail a 
 special power of the latter kind, and I think being with her had 
 helped me a little in the same way, for it certainly was not in me 
 by nature. Her eye turned to what was bright and beautiful in 
 i verything — mine, I am afraid, was inclined rather to the reverse. 
 1 1 we had both looked upwards on a summer day, her gaze would 
 have rested upon the blue sky, mine would have dwelt upon the 
 clouds. 
 
 It did mc good to talk about Roger and my new life in this 
 way ; it was rather like reading a book, and took off the hard 
 ■i from my troubles. For a short time I was so carried 
 aw ly that I could have imagined myself back again at Dene ; 
 but there was an end to the enjoyment very soon. The door 
 1) ippened to be open. I heard in the passage the kind of sweep- 
 ing rustle which always accompanied Mrs Temple's movements, 
 anl Mrs Weir's attention was immediately withdrawn from me, 
 and she said, a little nervously, 'I think, Ursula, you had better 
 explain to my niece why you were not able to come and sec me 
 before. She thought that it seemed unkind, but I was sure that 
 it was not.'
 
 URSULA. 20 1 
 
 Explain to Mrs Temple 1 Why should I ? My proud temper 
 was up at the very notion. When she came in I would willingly 
 have left the room, but she waved her hand graciously, and said, 
 ' Sit down, Ursula, don't let me disturb you. My dear aunt, I 
 have brought you your medicine.' 
 
 'It is a tonic, Ursula,' said Mrs Weir, looking at me. 'My 
 niece has persuaded me to try it, and I think it does me a great 
 deal of good.' 
 
 ' I hope it may, ma'am,' I said ; though I could scarcely find 
 it in my heart to be pleased with any remedy proposed by Mrs 
 Temple. 
 
 Mrs Weir smiled as she used to when I was a child, and she 
 wanted to put good thoughts into my head. ' I pray that it may, 
 Ursula,' she said ; ' and I have not had the neuralgic pain so 
 violently since I have tried it, so I have great reason to be 
 thankful.' 
 
 Mrs Temple chimed in with a sentence of the same kind ; yet 
 what I listened to with pleasure and profit when spoken by Mrs 
 Weir, was utterly distasteful to me when uttered by her niece. 
 Doubtless it was the sense of effort and a want of reality. Mrs 
 Weir's words were natural, Mrs Temple's forced. From Mrs 
 Weir, indeed, I could bear anything. She seemed always to 
 understand how and when to introduce religion. She never 
 jarred upon me by dragging it in at a wrong moment ; and I was 
 then much more sensitive upon that point than I am now. 
 Young people, with the hopes and joys of this life before them, 
 shrink from the sudden mention of subjects connected with death 
 and eternity ; but when the thought of death rises with us in 
 the morning, and lies down with us at night, and eternity is the 
 long day on which we feel that we have even now entered, there 
 is no moment at which a reference to them can find us un- 
 prepared. 
 
 Mrs Weir, in her simple way, took her niece's words as being 
 spoken in all earnestness, but she was not disposed to say much ; 
 indeed, I could not help perceiving that she was less at ease 
 with me now than before we were interrupted. Mrs Temple, 
 who never thought it possible for her to interrupt any one, sat 
 herself down opposite to us, as though determined to listen to 
 what we were saying. I was resolved not to seem awed by her, 
 so I went on with something I had been telling Mrs Weir about 
 Roger, but Mrs Temple scarcely let me finish my sentence before 
 she broke in with —
 
 URSULA, 
 
 ' M rgive me for reminding you, but have you 
 
 I rsula about the chess-board? The circumstance 
 
 tO be Cl :]).' 
 
 Mrs Weir's pale face was tinged with pink; the nearest 
 roai h to excitement which ever betrayed itself. ' It is of no 
 isequence, Matilda; I would rather nothing should be said 
 about it.' 
 
 ' But it is right, my dear aunt ; excuse me, but such uv 
 Oil lit to be investigated.' 
 
 •l)o you mean, ma'am, about the broken chessman?' I 
 replied. 
 
 ' Yes ; you see, aunt, she knows it ;' and Mrs Temple was 
 put quite off her guard, and spoke hurriedly. ' We have reason 
 to complain, Ursula, that it was not mentioned before. It was 
 due to Mrs Weir that it should have been, and it has interfere I 
 with her excellent intentions ; the little toy is quite useless now, 
 and it might have been turned to excellent account.' 
 
 it it does not signify, Ursula,' said Mrs Weir, gently; 
 'only if you had told me that the chessman was broken, I should 
 have been less sorry.' 
 
 ' Really, ma'am,' I exclaimed, and I stood up, and I have no 
 doubt looked very angry, ' I don't understand you.' 
 
 Mrs Temple's voice sank to the softest tone, as she answered 
 for her aunt, ' Restrain yourself, Ursula. Recollect that agita- 
 may do harm.' 
 ' I do not care about it, Ursula,' said Mrs Weir, her voice 
 . id her hand trembling. 'I had no wish to mention 
 the subject ; indeed, I do not care. I cannot bear to vex you.' 
 She took hold of my hand and looked at me quite beseechingly. 
 ' Dear ma'am,' I said, ' you can't vex me. I could bear any- 
 thing from you ; but, if you please, I will go into another room 
 and have my say with Mrs Temple, for I must know what she 
 thinks, and what you think too.' 
 
 ' Tl -ion for any such explanation,' replied Mrs 
 
 : • we only wish to warn you, Ursula, as you are setting 
 out in life by yourself, that openness and straightforwardness 
 will gain you more friends than the contrary line of conduct.' 
 
 'But you were in haste when you left me,' said Mrs Weir, 
 
 'and you were unhappy; I have no doubt that you did not 
 
 .mber it, Ursula ; if you please, we will think no more 
 
 I it ':' 
 
 this time I was so indignant that the very strength of my
 
 URSULA. 203 
 
 feelings forced me to try and put a restraint upon them. ' I 
 have not been told yet, ma'am/ I said, ' what I have been 
 accused of. I imagine Mrs Temple means to say that I was like 
 a naughty child, and, having broken the chessman, did not like 
 to mention it. I may have broken it, I won't say that I did not. 
 I am afraid I have not the knack of handling such delicate things 
 properly, but I had no idea of having done it.' 
 
 ' Only you knew what we meant the moment the subject was 
 brought forward,' said Mrs Temple, and she looked at Mrs Weir 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Was it in human nature to bear such an aggravation quietly ? 
 I know it was not in mine ; and it was in no gentle tone that I 
 answered, ' If you would have the goodness, ma'am, to inquire 
 btfore you make charges, you would be more likely to be correct. 
 Miss Milicent mentioned that the chessman was broken, and 
 that was the first I heard of it. If you please, ma'am,' I added, 
 speaking to Mrs Weir, ' I will come and see you again another 
 day, for I am sure you are quite tired now, and I am very sorry 
 I have been the cause of it.' 
 
 I could not help saying this, for Mrs Weir was looking so ill 
 from nervousness and vexation that she quite fidgeted me. Mrs 
 Temple suggested that she would be the better for a little more 
 of the medicine, and made me pour it out whilst she gave it. 
 She made no answer herself to anything I had said, but treated 
 me coldly and haughtily, whilst Mrs Weir, whose voice was 
 quite faint, could only manage to say, in broken sentences : ' I 
 have no doubt it is right. Ursula, if you will come again soon, 
 I shall be better, I dare say. I hope you will hear from Mr 
 Grant ; you will please to let me know when you do.' 
 
 Explanation and conversation were out of the question in such 
 a state of things, and as for staying to help Mrs Weir, it was 
 simply useless. Mrs Temple had stepped into all her ways, and 
 the poor lady turned to her as naturally as she used to do to me. 
 I stood by her side a few minutes, and was asked to fetch a shawl, 
 but I was not allowed to put it over her. Evidently I had no 
 further business with her. Mrs Temple said, in a very pointed 
 way : ' My aunt has had too much agitation, Ursula ; she needs 
 perfect rest;' and all I could do was to wish Mrs Weir good-bye, 
 without saying another word. 
 
 I found Miss Milicent waiting forme at the foot of the stairs : 
 ' Come here, Ursie,' she said ; and she opened the dining- 
 room door. ' I want to speak to you ; you have no need to be
 
 204 VRSUL. 1. 
 
 in a hurry, I told Jenny Dale to get you a cup of tea before you 
 went back.' 
 ' It is very good of you, Miss Milicent,' I replied, ' but if you 
 
 please, I had rather go.' Instead of entering the dining-room I 
 drew back. 
 
 'That's perverse of you, Ursie ; I have a great deal to say to 
 you, and you must stay. What have you paid sucli a short visit 
 fur ?' 
 
 ' .Mrs Weir was tired,' I replied ; 'and I think, Miss Milicent, 
 that having Mrs Temple and mc together was too much for 
 
 ' Oil ! that is the matter, is it ? ' she exclaimed ; ' I was sure by 
 your face something had ^one wrong ; but Ursie, I told you how 
 it would be if you went away, so you have no one to thank but 
 yourself.' 
 
 •And Mrs Temple,' I could not help adding. ' Indeed, I 
 Milicent, 1 can't believe that anything would be wrong if she 
 away.' 
 
 'Come in ; why will you stand talking in the passage?' She 
 seized my dress, and actually forced mc to enter, shutting the 
 door behind her. 'Now, sit down, and hear what I have to say, 
 1 rsie Grant; it is all your doing, and, what is more, worse 
 things will come. She is rooted here ; she never would have 
 been that if you had remained. You would have made the house 
 too hct to hold her.' 
 
 I did not think that much of a compliment, I confess, but, 
 before I could reply, Miss Milicent continued: 'She has been 
 working at my mother ever since you went away, putting things 
 into her head; and my mother, as you know well enough, alwaj -, 
 takes what is given her without asking questions ; so Matilda 
 has had it all her own way. No use for mc to say anythi 
 even if I had time, ami I have been very busy. Mr Temple lis 
 a finding out new creatures for my ;^lass, and he and I have 
 been down on the shore a good deal ; and twice a week there is 
 a class of ploughboys and such like, who come to mc to learn to 
 write and cipher ; and all that, to say nothing of putting the house 
 to rights, has taken up more time than I can say. So you sec 
 there has been no one to interfere with Matilda Temple, and the 
 end is that she has bewitched my mother, who can't get on with- 
 out her. Then the servants have all been at sixes and sevens. 
 Cotton and Matilda Temple have quarrelled, and Jenny Dale 
 threatens to leave, and what is to become of us all I don't know,
 
 URSULA. 205 
 
 for Fanny, poor silly thing, says she can't do the work she used, 
 because she wants time to read Mrs Temple's books. If it was 
 not for the girl from the school who is to come now, we might 
 just stand still altogether.' 
 
 I did not see what Miss Milicent meant by standing still ; 1 
 always had a notion that there was no standing still in this life, 
 — that it was always going on, in some form or other ; the 
 difference being only whether you drove yourself, or let others 
 drive you. 
 
 But Miss Milicent continued, and my ideas became clearer. 
 ' It 's a great trouble all this, Ursie, and if you were here, as I said 
 before, it wouldn't have happened. But there is a new notion 
 come up, which Matilda Temple thinks is to set everything right, 
 and I should just like to know your opinion about it.' 
 
 ' For Mrs Temple to go and live at Stonecliff ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Now, who told you that ? How things do get about ! But 
 it is not that exactly. She is wild to go there herself, but she 
 and her husband can't go alone because of the expense ; and 
 she wants us to join housekeeping, and share the rent between 
 us.' 
 
 ' Live together ! ' I exclaimed, in a tone of amazement. ' O 
 Miss Milicent !' 
 
 ' I knew what you would say,' she replied, in a disappointed 
 tone. ' I told her that I was sure any one who knew the ways of 
 the house, — and I mentioned you particularly, — would decide that 
 it couldn't be. But she took the high hand then, and said she 
 didn't know why we were to trouble ourselves with the opinions 
 of this person or that ; what we chose to do ourselves was the 
 question.' 
 
 ' Mrs Temple was right there, Miss Milicent,' I replied. ' It 
 could not be of consequence what I, or any one in my position, 
 might say, though, of course, we are at liberty to form an opinion 
 for ourselves, and I can't but think you would do better if you 
 never mentioned my name to Mrs Temple.' 
 
 ' She can't abide you, Ursie Grant, and that's a fact,' said Miss 
 Milicent, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her jacket ; ' I 
 don't know what you have done to spite her.' 
 
 ' Let her see that I don't like her, I suppose, Miss Milicent,' 
 I replied; 'there can't be a greater offence than that for any 
 one.' 
 
 Miss Milicent laughed. ' Matilda might hate me too, if it was 
 only that,' she said ; 'but, anyhow, we are neither of us in her
 
 206 URSULA. 
 
 good I •> ks just now, for I kept back in giving an opinion about 
 this new plan, and I said I should talk it over with you, just 
 because you knew my mother so much better than any one 
 
 Those blundering ways ! Miss Milicent could have done no- 
 thing worse, either for herself or me. 
 
 you will excuse my saying so,' I replied,'] think," 
 icent, yi u m tde a mistake there. As for this new plan, ; 
 Uy must be the judge yourself) I don't know how the money 
 •.ers would answer, and I can't pretend to say whether Mrs 
 r would like it." 
 'There is no doubt of that,' she replied ; 'my mother is like 
 a child in giving up, and certainly Matilda docs know how 
 manage her. She has got her to dress an hour earlier since 
 you went away; and yesterday my mother actually went for a 
 drive for the first time since we came here. I should never have 
 thought of the plan for a moment, if I had not felt that it would 
 nely for her when the Temples were go 
 ' Then the money question is the only difficulty,' I 
 " Perhaps, Miss Milicent, your lawyer could help you about that 
 better than I can.' 
 
 u have a twist, Ursie Grant ; you don't like the plan, and 
 you won't say it out like an honest woman.' 
 
 ' I have no objection to saying it out,' I replied. ' I don't like 
 th ■ plan, Miss Milicent : but my liking or disliking has nothing 
 to do with it.' 
 
 It had, though ; more than I could at the moment see. Miss 
 Milicent's conscience was uneasy, and she wanted support. She 
 that she was putting case for the present before what would 
 ■ood in the long run ; that is what many of us do. 
 .nd why don't you like it ?' she inquir- 
 ' I beg your pardon if I have to speak plainly,' I replied ; ' but, 
 Milicent, I don't think that mixing two families togetl 
 r answers, unless it is so ordered by God that it cannot be 
 helped ; and then His blessing goes with it and makes things 
 smooth.' 
 
 'We shouldn't quarrel,' srid Miss Milicent; 'we have not 
 
 quarrelled now. I should keep house, and Matilda Temple would 
 
 . .ilt' r my mother.' 
 
 I smiled. This reversing of duties reminded me of what had 
 
 1 din my own mind when I disliked going to Sandcombc. I 
 
 help saying, 'That sounds very much, Miss Milicent,
 
 URSULA. 207 
 
 as though you were Mr Temple's wife, and Mrs Temple was 
 Mrs Weir's daughter.' 
 
 ' It might have been better if it had been so,' she said ; ' not 
 that I could have married a little man like Mr Temple ; he is 
 too meek ; but we get on very well together.' 
 
 ' Theyare on a visit,' I replied. ' People on a visit and people 
 at home are very different.' 
 
 ' It would give me time to help Mrs Richardson,' continued 
 Miss Milicent ; 'and if Matilda Temple had a larger house, she 
 could have a friend or two occasionally to see her, and that 
 would help to amuse my mother.' 
 
 Or rather, as I could not help saying to myself, save Miss 
 Milicent the trouble of doing it. The whole scheme seemed to 
 me so silly, that I had scarcely patience to talk of it. I was 
 silent for a few seconds, and, indeed, looked towards the door, as 
 though I intended to go. 
 
 ' Speak out !' exclaimed Miss Milicent ; ' I know you have a 
 good opinion of your own judgment, Ursie Grant.' 
 
 'No, indeed, Miss Milicent,' I answered; 'I have had too 
 much experience of it lately to have a good opinion of it. I 
 could not say that the plan is a wrong one, or that it mayn't be 
 a comfort to Mrs Weir, or set you more free. But I do think 
 that it is against the v common ways of the world, and, in a 
 measure, of the Bible too, and so I don't think it will answer.' 
 
 ' The Bible ! ' she exclaimed ; ' well, that is too foolish ! What 
 has the Bible to do with our taking Stonecliff ?' 
 
 ' You know, Miss Milicent,' I replied, ' that when God ordered 
 men to marry, He told them that they were not only to cleave to 
 their wives, but to leave their fathers and mothers. It strikes 
 me that must have meant that they were to live distinct, what 
 we call setting up housekeeping for themselves. And being 
 placed in separate families, I suppose we should do well to re- 
 main so.' 
 
 ' It is no argument at all ! ' exclaimed Miss Milicent. ' If 
 people were to act in that way, the world couldn't go on.' 
 
 I did not feel that it was an argument ; a great deal might be 
 said against it ; but I did think it a kind of hint, and I knew 
 that it was safer to follow God's hints than man's reasons. But 
 Miss Milicent was not a person whom any one could really talk 
 to with any hope of convincing her. That one great omission in 
 her duties — her neglect of her mother — had warped her mind. 
 She never dared look her own motives in the face ; and so,
 
 208 URSULA, 
 
 though naturally truth-telling nnd open, she had got into a wny 
 of deceiving herself. She did not like Mrs Temple ; she neither 
 trusted nor respected her ; but she liked anything better than 
 having her time taken up by attending upon her mother ; and so 
 she smoothed it all over, and thought she was only wishing to 
 do what would be best for every one, and make .Mrs Weir in i t 
 ■ m fort able. She would not, however, say this, when she found 
 that I did not give in ; she kept on repeating that it was onlj 
 idea, it might never come to ai Mrs Temple might 
 
 change her mind ; Mrs Weir might not like it. But I knew in 
 my heart that it would come, even if it had been twenty times as 
 objectionable. I knew it as surely as we may all know by ex- 
 perience, that the proposal which is brought forward year after 
 year, by those who rule the nation, let it be never so contrary 
 to long-established custom, or even justice and religion, will in 
 the end become law, because people will have become accus- 
 tomed to it. If Miss Milicent had been told the first night of 
 Mrs Temple's arrival that she could ever have endured the 
 prospect of living with her, she would have said it was impos- 
 sible. Watching the course of the world, I have often thought, 
 that if we could see the devil himself frecpjcntly, we should at 
 least learn to like him. 
 
 CIIArTER XXXI. 
 
 AND so I went back to Sandcombe — witli what feelings of 
 vexation and disappointment there is no need to say. Mis 
 Milicent pressed my having tea, but I had no heart to st 
 Perhaps I was more worried than I ought to have been ; and if 
 
 I id have thrown off all care for Mrs Weir and her concerns, 
 
 it might have been the happier for me. But it was not in my 
 nature to do that ; I did really love her ; I would have done 
 anything in my power to comfort her ; whilst I dare say there was 
 something of wounded pride, in the knowledge that now I was no 
 longer necessary to her. As an especial aggravation, came the 
 consciousness that with all her goodness she was very likely to 
 be prejudiced, and that nothing would be more easy than for 
 Mrs Temple to continue to insinuate things to my disadvantage 
 —even as she had already begun. I had said nothing to Miss
 
 URSULA. 209 
 
 Milicent about the broken chessman, I felt ashamed of justing 
 myself from such a charge ; but I made up my mind not to go 
 to the Heath again for some time, lest I might give some fresh 
 cause of offence ; and especially, I resolved to wait until some 
 more settled plan had been decided about Stonecliff. I had no 
 confidence in Miss Milicent's tact or discretion ; and I was sure 
 that what I said was likely to be repeated to Mrs Temple, and 
 by her to be turned in some way against me. The visit did me 
 good, however, in one way ; it kept me from pining after my 
 former life, and enabled me to sit down more contentedly to my 
 duties at Sandcombe ; and these soon became quite sufficient to 
 occupy me thoroughly. 
 
 Leah, as I expected, took kindly enough to the notion of a 
 school-girl coming to help, — that was the way she talked of it, 
 and I could not put any other idea into her head, though I knew 
 well enough that the help which a girl of that age could give was 
 much less than the trouble of looking after her. Still I felt it 
 was right to aid Mrs Richardson if possible. ■ The three head 
 girls in the school were to go out at once. Mrs Kemp was to 
 take one ; another was to work at the Parsonage ; and Esther 
 Smithson was to come to us. The plan was not actually carried 
 out till after harvest, when we were obliged to have extra help. 
 Up to that time we had a girl on baking and washing and brew- 
 ing days ; but the maid and I managed to do all the rest of the 
 work, of course with the assistance of Leah ; who, to say the 
 truth, was not so much a fine lady as selfish and disposed to be 
 lazy. I did not dislike the life ; indeed I should have been fond 
 of it, if I had been living with people who understood and gave 
 me sympathy. But it was all business and money-getting from 
 morning till night ; the very clods of earth seemed to be looked 
 at only with the thought of how they might be turned into bank 
 notes and gold. Yet it was only for a year, I said to myself, and 
 when I had received Roger's first letter, telling me he had arrived 
 in Canada, and was making himself useful to the gentleman who 
 took him out, and looking out for the best means of settling 
 himself permanently, I felt as if half the time of separation was 
 over. 
 
 One thing I felt about Sandcombe was, that it was very out 
 of the way. To be sure the same might have been said of Dene, 
 but there I had interest enough in the place and the people never 
 to wish to go further, except to Longside, where I was always 
 welcome. At Sandcombe, though Leah often went out, and 
 

 
 2io URSULA. 
 
 sometimes had friends to tea, there were none whom I cared 
 particularly to meet ; and indeed, as often as not, Leah would 
 make the excuse of my being at home for William and herself to 
 go out and leave me behind. 
 
 It was about half-past four o'clock one afternoon, just in the 
 inning of September ; I had been sitting at work by myself, 
 making a silk jacket for Jane Shaw, whose wedding was to come 
 off in about three weeks, and who had asked me to do some little 
 things she had not time for herself, and did not choose to put 
 into the hands of a town dressmaker. I was enjoying being 
 nlone, and counting the days tiil I could hear again from Roger; 
 Leah had been in and out of the parlour all the afternoon, doing 
 rirst one thing and then another; and a few words with her, and 
 the farm-house sounds, which I always liked particularly, pre- 
 vented me from feeling lonely, especially as I was very intent 
 upon my work, wishing to finish it that evening. Presently 
 I. ill came in to me in a hurry, and said, ' Ursie, there's a 
 chaise coming down the lane ; I do think it must be the Kemps. 
 I wish you would just go and skim the milk for me, for Martha 
 is too busy, and you must mind and bring in cream enough for 
 If it is the Kemps, they will be sure to stay.' 
 
 This was a little instance of the kind of thing Leah was con- 
 stantly doing. She knew the Kemps always carne particularly 
 to see me, and that I should be vexed at missing any part of 
 their visit, but she still seized upon them as an excuse for mak- 
 ing me do her duties. I said nothing, however, but put down my 
 work directly, and went to the dairy, looking up the lane as I 
 scd through the yard, and seeing Mrs Kemp and Mary in the 
 chaise, and John Hcrvcy driving them, as was natural. 
 
 I was detained longer in the dairy than I intended, for Martha 
 
 - untidy in her ways, and I happened to sec the bucket which 
 ihe man was going to use for the evening milking, and it was not 
 erly washed ; so I had to find fault, which was what I very 
 much disliked, as I always felt that fault-finding ought never to 
 be the business of more than one person in a house. Martha 
 was cross, to >, and would do just contrary to what I wished. 
 She saw visitors, and knew they were likely to give her work and 
 keep her in the house, and I was sure she wanted to be out of 
 irs gossiping, a thing which she particularly liked, and I 
 
 pecially dreaded. Altogether it was as much as half an hour 
 before I could get back to the parlour. 
 
 L h made a kind of apology when I went in, and said she
 
 URSULA. 211 
 
 did not think I should have been kept so long ; ' but you need 
 not mind so much, Ursie,' she added, 'for Mrs Kemp has come 
 to drink tea.' 
 
 ' I did not say that,' replied Mrs Kemp, good-naturedly ; 
 'though a cup of tea never comes amiss. But the days are 
 beginning to close in, and we must not be late, especially as we 
 are driving.' 
 
 John Hervey laughed, and said that was a slur on his driving. 
 He could make his way over the hill at midnight, he was sure ; 
 and if he could not, the horse could, which was better. 
 
 ' Fogs are worse than darkness, I always think,' said Mary 
 Kemp ; ' and there is one coming up now, I do believe.' 
 
 No one had noticed it before, yet it was already quite thick ; 
 but that was the way with those sea fogs, they rushed over the 
 hill all of a sudden, and then cleared away, as it seemed, without 
 any cause. 
 
 ' I thought, Ursie,' said John, ' that you might have been at 
 Compton lately, which was one reason I had for coming here. 
 I have not been there myself, I can't tell the time when.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is going to take Stonecliff, so William heard in 
 Hove, on Saturday,' said Leah. ' But Ursie is so close, we 
 have not heard it from her, even if she knows it.' 
 
 Mr Hervey only remarked that he never believed one half of 
 what he heard in Hove. 
 
 ' Had not I better go and see about tea ? ' I asked, for I wanted 
 an excuse to go away. I never liked talking about Mrs Weir 
 before strangers. 
 
 ' Perhaps you might as well,' said Leah. ' Here is the key 
 of the closet. I wish you would bring in some of that pound 
 cake which William is so fond of. I should like Mrs Kemp to 
 taste it.' 
 
 ' Pound cake of your making, Ursie ? ' asked Mrs Kemp. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said. ' It was one of Mrs Mason's receipts ; but 
 Martha was careless with the oven, and it is rather burnt.' 
 
 ' Martha is enough to plague one's life out,' said Leah. ' If we 
 were not going to try this new girl from the Compton school, I 
 should tell William we must send her away.' 
 
 ' When is your new girl coming ?' asked Mrs Kemp. 
 
 'To-morrow, I believe; isn't it, Ursie? It is Ursie's concern. 
 She has undertaken to teach her.' 
 
 ' Not quite,' I replied. ' I said I would look after her as well 
 as I could in the morning, but I never promised more.'
 
 212 URSULA. 
 
 1 1 shall wish \ou joy if she is like our ^irl, Ursie,' said Mary 
 Kemp ; 'she is duller than dull; Kitty Hobson was a treasure 
 to her.' 
 
 'And what lias become of Kitty?' asked Leah. 
 
 ' She's gone to be kitchen-maid at Mr Stewart's,' replied Mrs 
 Kemp. ' I knew the cook, and she promised to look after her, 
 and I have great hopes that Kitty will turn out well.' 
 
 'More than I have,' said Leah; 'but girls are all alike. I 
 dare say we shan't find this new one any better than the rest.' 
 
 ' It depends upon what you expect,' said Mrs Kemp. 'One 
 can't put old heads on young shoulders, and so one must make 
 up one's mind to take trouble, and look after them, else of course 
 they will go wrong. I was obliged to be strict with Kitty, for 
 when she came to Longside first, she was out in the yard talk- 
 ing at all hours ; but my Mary took her in hand, and gave her 
 plenty to do, and saw that she did it, and sent her to bed early, 
 before the men and hoys had their supper, and by the time she 
 left us, we hail worked her out of a good many of her idle ways. 
 Then, to be sure, I must say Mary has a way with her,' added 
 Mrs Kemp, with a mother's pride. 'She used to make the girl 
 read to her on Sundays ; and now and then Kitty sat with 
 lu r and helped in the house needlework, and that gave her a 
 notion of being more tidy and respectable in her ways. It was 
 giving her a lilt in the world, which, I suppose, is what we all 
 want.' 
 
 I had lingered to hear what Mrs Kemp was saying, hoping to 
 gain some hints for myself, but I saw Leah look impatient, and 
 indeed time was running on fast, and, much against my inclina- 
 tion, I went to get tea. 
 
 I did not notice that John lb rvey followed me, but, as I was 
 taking the cake out of the closet, he came behind me, and quite 
 startled me by offering to carry it for me. 
 
 4 You don't want me,' he said, laughing, as he noticed my look 
 of surpri 
 
 'To tell the truth, I don't think I do,' I replied ; 'Leah is not 
 1 of having persons spying about her cupboards.' 
 
 'I don't want to 1 ok at the cupboard, I only want to have a 
 few words with you, Ursie ; and there is no chance of our being 
 alone, that I can sec. Have you heard about Mrs Weir and 
 Stonechff?' 
 
 ' Since you ask,' I replied, ' I must needs say I have ; but it is 
 no business of mine.'
 
 URSULA. 213 
 
 He stood thinking; then he said, 'It won't do, Ursie, and it 
 ought to be prevented.' 
 
 'Who is to prevent it?' I asked. 'What business have 
 either you or I with it ? ' 
 
 'With me it's just this,' he answered. 'Airs Wor's family 
 have always been very kind to my family ; and if it was not for 
 them I shouldn't be where I am. She is left here to manage 
 for herself, with no more knowledge than a baby what to do ; 
 and Miss Milicent not much wiser; and so, if one sees them 
 likely to make a blunder, one would fain, if one could, stop 
 them.' 
 
 ' If you mean as regards money,' I said, ' Miss Milicent is not 
 likely to be misled there ; she has a sharp eye.' 
 
 ' Not so sharp as Mrs Temple,' said John ; ' she will squeeze 
 every penny out of them, if they live together, and make her 
 share of expenses a third, instead of half. I know her of old, 
 for I have had dealings with her. Ursie, you must try and talk 
 over Miss Milicent.' 
 
 ' Not I,' I replied ; ' I have given up trying to talk over any 
 one. The world must go its own way.' 
 
 A cloud came over his face. ' That is not as you used to talk, 
 Ursie,' he said. ' I remember the time when you would have 
 made any venture to be of use to such a friend as Mrs Weir has 
 been to you.' 
 
 ' That was when I was young,' I replied, trying to laugh, 
 though my heart was heavy. ' I have grown wiser since.' 
 
 ' It can't be wisdom to let people go to ruin without stretching 
 out a hand to save them,' he replied. 
 
 'Who is to say it is ruin?' was my answer ; 'I am sure I 
 couldn't. Indeed, Mr Hervey, we must leave Mrs Weir to 
 manage her own concerns ; or, if any one is to interfere, it can't 
 be myself.' 
 
 'It won't be me,' he said, rather quickly. 'Well! Ursie, I 
 didn't think you were so changeable.' 
 
 I turned round upon him at the word. 'Changeable!' I ex- 
 claimed ; ' I am sure I have never shown myself so.' 
 
 ' One week bent upon living with Mrs Weir, and the next not 
 troubling yourself to go near her, and not willing to put yourself 
 out of your way to serve her,' he said ; ' I don't know what you 
 call that but changeable.' 
 
 ' I know what I call fault-finding without reason or know- 
 ledge, Mr Hervey,' I said ; for, my proud temper being roused,
 
 2i 4 URSULA. 
 
 I couKl not brii If to explain what made mc seem change 
 
 able. 
 
 He turned off with a laugh J but I noticed that, instead of 
 going back to the parlour, he went out into the garden ; and my 
 conscience reproached me, for I knew I had been wrong. Still 
 he had no business to take me to task in that way ; and it was 
 talking in ignorance to suppose that I had any power to pre\ 
 .Mrs Weir and Mis Mdiccnt from doing whatever they wish d. 
 I fancied that I had some right to be cross with him, and I was 
 cio -. and said to myself that, with all his good-natured looks 
 and ways, he was much more fond oi ordering and correct 
 than Roger. So far, Mary Kemp was well fitted to him. She- 
 would obey him without a word. As for me, I had not yet 
 thoroughly learned to obey any one. 
 
 Leah was quite put out when I went back ; I had been so long 
 
 ;ing tea. She asked me what I had been doing. 
 
 'Talking to John Hervey,' said Mary Kemp, laughing; 'I 
 saw them together.' 
 
 ' Vis,' I replied ; ' Mr Ilcrvey came out after me, and wc had 
 a few words together ; but I should have been quicker, only the 
 water did not boil.' 
 
 ' 1 don't think it boils now,' said Leah, pouring out a cup of 
 tea. 'There's no strength in the tea. Come, Mrs Kemp, take 
 
 >:r seat ; and, Mary, there's a place for you. Ursic, just run 
 out into the yard, will you ? and tell William to come ; he 's sure 
 t i !• ■ there.' 
 
 1 did as I was asked, and turning the corner of the house 
 sharply, I came full upon John Hervey. 
 
 • Friends, Ursie ?' he said, and he held out his hand to me. 
 
 ' Friends, if you will,' I answered ; 'but I didn't know we were 
 enemit s, Mr Hervey.' 
 
 'Well! not quite enemies,' he said, smiling; 'only just in- 
 clined to snap at one another. Hut, Ursie, you will have a 
 thought for Mrs Weir, if possible?' 
 
 II'- seemed the most pertinacious man I had ever met with, 
 the most determined to carry his point ; and so, out of a in 
 -pint of contradiction, I answered: 'I have a great many 
 thoughts for Mrs Weir always, Mr Hervey. Whether I shall 
 have many words is quite another question.' 
 
 ' You arc a perverse body,' he said, lightly ; and he went into 
 the house, leaving me vexed that I had not been able to vex him 
 more. It was not that I didn't like and respect him heartily
 
 URSULA. 215 
 
 but I believe nothing provokes us women more than to find that 
 we can't teaze when Ave wish to do so. 
 
 Tea was rather hurried over, for the fog was becoming heavier 
 William said they had better wait for the chance of its clearing 
 off after the sun went down, but Mrs Kemp thought the farmer 
 would be fidgety, and they had better get home as soon as they 
 could. She pressed me very much to go and spend a day with 
 them at Longside,but Leah declared I couldn't be spared. The 
 new girl was coming, and I should be wanted to teach her. 
 
 ' Look after her, more than teach her, Ursie,' said Mrs Kemp 
 to me, in a low voice, which Leah couldn't hear. 'And, lassie, 
 if you can with truth, give her a little praise at first setting off. 
 The farmer says it 's needful for us all, as capital to begin the 
 world with.' 
 
 Mary Kemp was anxious to go ; she was rather a coward, and 
 if the fog continued, she declared they were as likely as not to 
 miss their way. But, in spite of all she could say, Mr Hervey 
 would linger to say a few words to me about Roger. I had for- 
 gotten my perverseness, and was very glad to talk to him upon 
 the subject nearest my heart, but I could not help thinking that 
 he was not as mindful of Mary as he might have been, and it 
 gave me the first really uncomfortable feeling I had ever had 
 about him ; a misgiving lest, after all, he might be selfish, and 
 even rather cold, in spite of his hearty, pleasant ways. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ESTHER SMITHSON was at Sandcombe the next morn- 
 ing by half-past six o'clock : that was as early as could be 
 expected, for she had a good way to walk. Leah took it as a 
 matter of course that I was to be down-stairs to look after her, 
 and I was not sorry for it, as it enabled me at once to arrange 
 her work, so as to put her to that which was most fitting for her. 
 I found her untidy, but clever and willing. From the first I was 
 determined that she should not be made a mere drudge to wait 
 upon the men, and Martha and I had a little fight upon the 
 subject that very morning, but I gained my point. My mother 
 would have been particular about me, and it was my duty to be 
 particular about Esther, all the more because she came of an idle
 
 2i6 URSULA. 
 
 family, and was likely to have a bad example set her at home. 
 But I was not to have my own way quite so easily. When the 
 morning work was over, and William, and Leah, and I, sat down 
 to dinner, Leah said to me, ' Well ! (Jrsie, what do you think of 
 
 ther ? is she likely to do ?' 
 
 'It is early to judge,' I replied, 'but she seems willing and 
 handy. She set out the bre ikfa t things quite cleverly.' 
 
 ' Set out the breakfast things !' exclaimed Leah ; ' you don't 
 mean to say she ha. been in here tins morning ? ' and she L< m ■!:• d 
 round the room with a turn of her lip, as though she had seen 
 something disagi 
 
 ' It was part of her business,' I said ; ' I saw how she did it, 
 and took care that she was tidy and clean in her ways ; and I 
 found her very willing to learn.' 
 
 William spoke now, and quite in Leah's tone. 'I must tell 
 you once for all, Ursic, for it is better to come to an under- 
 standing plainly, I don't want your dirty, slatternly school-girls 
 fussing about in my parlour. They have the kitchen and the 
 scullery for their proper place, and I must beg you will keep them 
 • 
 
 ' But Esther is come to learn to be a servant,' 1 said, ' and she 
 can't learn if she is not put in the way.' 
 
 ' She is come to make herself useful,' said Leah, ' and specially 
 1. i t ike the odds and ends of work, which you, and I, and Martha, 
 don't choose to do.' 
 
 ' Mis Richardson doesn't understand this,' was my reply. 
 'The agreement was that Esther was to be taught' 
 
 ' And she will he taught,' repli d Leah. ' If she is a girl of 
 any sense, she will learn of her own accord ; and if she has no 
 !, all die tea( hin ; in the world won't give her any.' 
 
 ' We have not set up a school for idiots, yet,' said William, 
 with a short laugh. 
 
 ' It is what Ursic will set up some day,' I do believe,' replied 
 Leah. 
 
 ' Mis Mason used to take a great deal of pains with me, and I 
 should like to do the same with Ksther,' I replied ; ' and as for 
 trying to tench, unless one is willing to make sacrifices, it seems 
 to me nonsense to attempt it.' 
 
 • Possibly,' replied Leah, 'hut we don't profess to teach here ; 
 the teaching his been done at Compton school. When girls go 
 out into the world, they must learn to make their own way.' 
 
 'Toss them in, and let them sink or swim as they may,' I
 
 URSULA. 217 
 
 exclaimed, rather bitterly. ' Leah, that was not your case nor 
 mine.' 
 
 ' It was mine,' exclaimed Leah. ' I went my own way from 
 the time I left Mrs Prince's school, at Hove, and that was when 
 I was fifteen, just a few months older than Esther Smithson.' 
 She drew herself up with a proud air, as though defying anyone 
 to say a word against her. 
 
 I was silent ; it was no use to continue the argument, and, 
 after all, Leah was mistress. But, in my own mind, I deter- 
 mined that if I found it really impossible to be of use to the 
 poor child, I would ask Mrs Richardson to look out for another 
 situation for her. 
 
 Leah watched me narrowly after that conversation, bein"- 
 afraid, I could see, that I was going to make too much of Esther, 
 but I was careful not to offend her ; and, indeed, I did not wish 
 myself to be too particular about the girl. I only wanted to give 
 her the kind of work which would keep her out of the way of 
 gossiping and idle talking with the men about the farm. Esther 
 was much given to chattering, and, though I did not encourage 
 her, she told me of her own accord some things which I certainly 
 was much interested in hearing. 
 
 Her mother had been sent for to work at Stonecliff, the large 
 house under Compton Heath. It was to be cleaned and put in 
 order for a family who were to take possession almost im- 
 mediately, and Esther said was nearly sure that it was Mrs 
 Temple who had given all the orders. This confirmed Mr Her- 
 vey's information, and settled my mind as to saying anything to 
 Miss Milicent. If matters had gone as far as that, it would be 
 useless. 
 
 The news was confirmed a few days after; when, as I was 
 sitting alone by mysdf, at work, there was a knock at the front 
 door, and I heard some one say — 
 
 'Is Ursula Grant at home?' The voice took me quite by 
 surprise. It was Mrs Temple's. I thought I had better go out 
 to her. She was in a little pony-chaise ; one that belonged to the 
 hotel, and Mr Temple was with her. I asked them to get out 
 and walk in, and Mr Temple seemed willing, but Mrs Temple 
 declined. They must return at once, she said. She had only 
 called about a little matter of business ; perhaps it would be as 
 well to see Mrs Grant. ' Mrs Grant is not at home, ma'am,' I 
 replied ; for Leah had gone over to her mother at Hatton. 
 
 ' Well, then ! perhaps you will do as well, if you will explain.
 
 2iS URSULA. 
 
 My dear, the pony is fidgety, just pet out and stand by its head,' 
 And Mr Temple, being always obedient, alighted, 
 
 A cold wind was blowing, and I was afraid of toothache, and 
 put my apron round my head, but Mrs Temple did not notice it, 
 and kept me standing in the draught. ' 1 wanted to inquire 
 about having butter from Sandcombe,' she said. ' I shall want 
 enough for rather a large family; — Mr Temple, and my 
 Mrs and Miss Weir, and cur servants, besides friends ! — we are 
 to be at StoneclittV She looked at me as though I had been an 
 utter stranger, who had never heard of her before. 
 
 id not appear surprised, or even interested, but merely said, 
 ' We send our butter to Hove, ma'am, generally.' 
 
 'I suppose you do ; but of course you would be willing to 
 accommodate persons in the neighbourhood. We find it difficult 
 to procure good butter, and I am particular about it.' 
 
 ' I will speak to Mrs Grant,' was my reply. 
 
 I think she was struck by the tone, for she added more gra- 
 ciously, 'Mrs Weir would have a claim upon you, I am sure.' 
 
 ' Certainly, ma'am, my brother and I — all of us would do any- 
 thing we could for Mrs Weir,' I answered. ' But the butter can 
 always be bought at Hove.' 
 
 ' Yes, perhaps so ; but I should prefer — you have a girl here 
 who comes from Compton school, she might bring it over.' 
 
 She was bent upon saving the carriage, I saw that in an 
 instant. 
 
 'The girl's hours would scarcely suit, I am afraid, ma'am,' 
 I replied ; ' and the butter for a large family would be a load for 
 her.' 
 
 'Oh ! a strong girl ; she would not care, and she must learn 
 to make herself useful. Mrs Richardson would wish it. She is 
 one of the Compton girls, I know ; there can be no difficulty.' 
 
 ' I could promise a pound occasionally, for Mrs Weir, ma'am,' 
 I said, 'but I would not undertal ;iore. The butter has 
 
 n sent to Hove now for a good many years, but of course I 
 speak about it to Mrs Grant.' 
 
 ' I shall call again, and speak for myself,' she exclaimed. ' I 
 am not accustomed to incivility. My dear,' and she touched her 
 husband with the driving-whip, 'my dear, are you ready? We 
 must call again another day ; or perhaps, — tell Mrs Grant I 
 should wish to see her if she should be coming over to Compton 
 in the course of the next week.' 
 
 I curtsied, and Mrs Temple drove off.
 
 URSULA. 219 
 
 Was it not irritating? — and she professing herself to be so 
 wonderfully good, so Christian-like. It would have made me 
 doubt whether anything like real religion and humility were to 
 be found in the world, if I had not known persons like Mrs Weir, 
 and Mr and Mrs Richardson. Curiously enough, Mrs Temple 
 always came over me as something new. It takes a long time 
 to make one believe that persons with high professions can really 
 be self-deceivers, and whenever I was away from Mrs Temple, 
 I took myself to task for disliking her as I did, and suspected it 
 might be my own fault that we were not friends. ' Perhaps,' 
 I sometimes said to myself, ' if I was more in earnest, I should 
 enter more into her ways of going on, and understand them 
 better.' But it was no use to scold myself; one meeting was 
 enough to make me turn from her as much as ever. 
 
 But the thing which worried me now far more than Mrs 
 Temple's ungraciousness, was the thought that Mrs Weir and 
 Miss Milicent were so entirely under her influence, and that they 
 could so have forgotten their old kindliness for me, as to make 
 such a great change as that of moving from the Heath to Stone- 
 cliff, and joining housekeeping with Mrs Temple, without troub- 
 ling themselves to let me know that it was a settled plan. I dare 
 say they had spoilt me in a measure in former days, and made 
 me too much their friend ; but I own I felt as though I had been 
 dealt unkindly by, and my first impulse was to take my revenge 
 by not helping them in return. Leah was little likely to upset 
 the arrangements of her dairy, to please either Mrs Weir or 
 Mrs Temple, and though I had said truly that the butter could 
 be bought at Hove, I had a strong suspicion that it was nearly 
 always caught up at once by old customers. But I was in a 
 better mind than that before Leah came home. I had an old 
 habit, I don't remember exactly when or how I began it, of read- 
 ing the Evening Psalms about that time in the day, and when I 
 had put out the tea-things, I went up to my room and took out 
 my prayer-book as usual, and somehow or other the very act of 
 doing it made me feel what a sinful temper I was indulging. 
 There was a hard struggle before I could overcome it, but God 
 helped me, and I gained the victory, and that same evening I 
 tried, though unsuccessfully, to persuade Leah to alter her 
 market arrangements to suit them. I was vexed at having 
 failed, but satisfied at having made the attempt, and never 
 suspected that any fault could be laid at my door.
 
 2 20 UKSrf.A. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI IT. 
 
 CHRISTMAS came. It would take too much time to note 
 all that happened before, though there was a good deal in 
 different ways, both at home and abroad. Jane Shaw was mar- 
 ried ; that, I think, was the greatest event of all. Of course I 
 was not asked to the wedding, but Jessie Lee was ; and very 
 pi tty she looked, as I was told, and very much notice she hail 
 in consequence from Captain Trice's gay friends. Her little 
 head was sadly turned, for the time, by the flattery she received. 
 She came over to us once or twice dressed so handsomely, that 
 1 really felt ashamed for her ; but she took what I said to her 
 about it very properly, and if she did not alter her ways, at least 
 she was not angry with me for trying to induce her to do so. 
 She was a great deal at Dene, which was what I disliked m 
 i any thin 
 
 Mrs Morris and Leah quite changed their tone about her, 
 when they found how much was made of her there. Instead of 
 a drudge, they seemed resolved to turn her into a young lady ; 
 and to own the truth, she played the part better than many who 
 set up for being well born and well bred. What kind of society 
 there was at Dene I could not well understand. No one whom 
 we knew, except Jessie, ever visited, or even went there, unless 
 it might be now and then on business ; but rumours reached us 
 which were anything but satisfactory to me, though William and 
 1. ah appeared to think little enough about them. 
 
 Leah was possessed with the idea that I was jealous of Jessie ; 
 and so, if I ever made a remark upon anything I had heard, or 
 repeated any of the stories which now and then came to my ears, 
 I was only half believed. Leah could not sec as I did that the 
 very fact of having Jessie's name mixed up with people like 
 Captain and Mrs Price, whom every one was talking about, was 
 to her disadvantage. I relieved myself, when I was very much 
 worried with this sort of thing, by writing it all out to Roger. 
 I had always been accustomed to tell him every trouble as it 
 arose; and I had no doubt of his taking part in this, for he 
 never failed to mention Jessie in his letters, and to beg that I 
 would remember him to her. Poor fellow! before Christmas 
 came, he was beginning to be very homesick, for troubles had 
 come upon the gentleman he was with, and so in a measure 
 upon him. Yet he wrote cheerfully, and seemed quite resolved
 
 URSULA. 221 
 
 to be brave and bear the hardships well, and in time he said 
 there was no doubt that things would be brighter. At any rate, 
 he might work independently whenever he chose. I tried not 
 to see that he said less about having me with him. The possible 
 idea of remaining away from him longer than a year was so 
 dreadful, that I would not face it. I bore the worries of Sand- 
 combe well enough in the hope of a speedy end, but I did not 
 know what I should do if there was any prospect of their being 
 a lasting burden. Taken separately, indeed, they were but trifles, 
 but put together they were sometimes very heavy. 
 
 Busy times were the pleasantest. Leah was in good humour 
 whenever she was roused to be very active ; and one of the most 
 peaceful seasons I ever remember whilst I was with her, was in 
 November, when the whole house was at work for two days, 
 salting meat and melting lard. It was all to be done at once, 
 so there was no leisure for grumbling ; and as it happened, 
 Esther Smithson made herself remarkably useful, and was in 
 consequence hired for extra work in the afternoon ; and Leah 
 even said to me that she thought I must have taken pains with 
 her, for she was turning out a very handy girl. This pleased 
 me, I own, for certainly I did take a good deal of pains with 
 Esther in one way and another ; and though she had some 
 faults which it was very difficult to overcome, I could see that 
 at any rate she had not gone back since she worked at Sand- 
 combe. 
 
 My time and thoughts were occupied more and more every 
 day with Sandcombe, and I dare say it was right that it should 
 have been so, but there was a place in my heart still, which was 
 filled with remembrances of Dene and care for Mrs Weir. How 
 soon portions of one's life become like a dream to one ! I was 
 living scarcely more than a mile and a half from Mrs Weir, I 
 heard her name constantly, there were opportunities for going 
 over to see her tolerably often, yet by the time Christmas arrived 
 I felt quite removed from her. The days when I used to be 
 allowed to go and sit with her, and read to her, and nurse and 
 c mfort, and be useful to her, seemed like the days of my child- 
 hood, calm and bright, happy with an untold happiness, but too 
 indistinct to give me the feeling that they had once formed part 
 of my own existence. 
 
 Yet nothing had occurred outwardly to alter Mrs Weir's 
 kindly feelings towards me, and I could not with truth say that 
 they were altered ; but she was living with Mrs Temple at
 
 222 URSULA. 
 
 StoneclilY, and this put mc always on my guard when I was 
 with her, lest what I said should be repeated, and then taken 
 
 up and turned against me, I was not so open, therefore, as I 
 used to be, and no doubt Mrs Weir found it more difficult to 
 talk to me. There was a kind of floating mist between us, and 
 though I loved and honoured her too much ever really to alter 
 in my feelings towards her, yet I confess it now vexed me to 
 know that 1 was at Mrs Temple's mercy; and every now and 
 then I could not help perceiving symptoms of distrust which 
 went to my heart. 
 
 But there was one person who, I must say, never chai 
 11. r showed the slightest symptom of change. Miss Milii 
 I I had lived together rather in the cat-and-dog style at 
 ne ; but we liked c;;ch other at heart, and now that we were 
 no longer in danger of mutual interference, I think we began to 
 see more clearly our respective good points. 
 
 One thing I certainly did wonder at very much. I used to 
 imagine Miss Miliccnt such a determined person ; one whom it 
 was impossible to lead, who would go her own way, and that 
 often a very strange way. But 1 begin to think that people who 
 self-willed and troublesome in temper, are often as tired of 
 their own humours and oddities as their friends can be ; and as 
 willing, but lor their pride, to give way, if they meet with a will 
 stronger than their own. 
 
 The day before Christmas-eve I was asked over to Longside. 
 Mrs Kemp wished me to go the next evening, but there were 
 sons against it ; one which concerned only myself. I wished 
 to have a quiet time before Christmas-day. Mr Richardson 1 
 
 riven some cautions and directions about preparing for 
 Christmas, which I was desirous, if possible, to attend to, for I 
 was beginning to be more careful not to neglect advice upon 
 these points. Being so much alone tended to make mc thought- 
 ful. I always made a point of telling Leah what I meant to 
 in the way of going for a walk, or drinking tea with a friend ; it 
 was due to her, though she had no absolute control over m. ; 
 but it was a sore trial sometimes ; she had such a provoking way 
 of suggesting difficulties. 1 often felt, when I had gained my 
 point, as though I had been struggling through a furze bush, 
 and was pricked all over. 
 
 'Going to Longside!' she exclaimed, that day after dinner, 
 when I happened to mention Mrs Kemp's invitation. 'Why, 
 i '11 be frozen ! There must be snow before long.'
 
 URSULA. 223 
 
 ' Not much appearance of it at present,' I said ; ' the sky is 
 clear.' 
 
 ' And you can't set off till late, for I have kept Esther here to 
 help this afternoon.' 
 
 ' I don't quite see why that should prevent me,' I replied. 
 
 ' Only that you know she always gets into a scrape, if you 
 are not by to look after her. She and Martha never hit it off 
 together.' 
 
 ' I am afraid they must learn to do so,' I said. ' I can 
 scarcely undertake to be Esther's guardian all day.' 
 
 ' Martha trusted her to wash the milk-buckets, and clean the 
 pans, last time she stayed,' continued Leah, 'and she did it 
 disgracefully. I shall be obliged to see to it myself next.' 
 
 ' I will give her a caution if you think it necessary,' I replied ; 
 'but perhaps it would come better from you, as you are the 
 mistress. I did not know, though, that it would be necessary to 
 keep her, as there is not so very much to do.' 
 
 ' Really, Ursie, you are enough to try the temper of a saint,' 
 exclaimed Leah. ' Not much to do ! with all the dairy-work and 
 the poultry, and tea, and supper, and the day after to-morrow 
 Christmas-day ! ' 
 
 I tried not to smile, as I answered, ' I did not think of putting 
 you to inconvenience ; my work, as you know, does not interfere 
 much with yours in the afternoon.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, it doesn't ! ' exclaimed Leah ; ' you sit in the 
 parlour with your needle till you have not the least idea of what 
 is going on in the house. If you were mistress, as I am, you 
 would soon see that it does not do to go gadding about the 
 country whenever the fancy seizes one. Esther is not to be 
 trusted with the dairy-work at all,' she added, in an under-tone. 
 
 ' Well, then ! let Martha undertake to scour the pans,' I said, 
 ' and Esther can do something else.' 
 
 'Martha has her hands full,' replied Leah. 
 
 'If you like,' I said, 'I can have an eye to the milk-buckets 
 and the pans before I go. There is no difficulty in the matter, 
 except Esther's carelessness.' 
 
 ' I don't know what difficulty you would have greater,' ob- 
 served Leah ; ' and it is nonsense of you, Ursie, to talk of 
 waiting to look after her ; why, you wouldn't be off before dark ; 
 and how are you to come back again ? You can't think of 
 bringing Farmer Kemp out at night to walk such a distance, 
 and I am sure you ought not to come alone.'
 
 224 URSULA. 
 
 ' Mary said her father would not at all mind the walk,' 1 
 replied ; 'and it" it should be a bad night, he would drive me 
 back.' 
 
 h made no reply, but just as she was going out of the 
 room she turned round, and said, 'I wish you just to rememl 
 Ursie, that if there are complaints about the milk and butter, it 
 won't be my fault.' 
 
 I could have found it in my heart at the moment to give up 
 ray visit, anything seemed better than to have to bear these 
 t. units, but I knew that I should gain nothing by yielding. Leah 
 would only have called me perverse, and determined to make 
 myself a martyr. I resolved, though, that she should have no 
 real cause for complaint, and therefore I went to Esther, and 
 took her myself into the dairy to show her exactly what she was 
 to do, telling her especially that she was to give herself plenty of 
 time, so as to have the pans quite ready for the new milk when 
 it should be brought in. There really was nothing else of any 
 consequence to be attended to, for as to the preparations for 
 Christmas-day, 1 had been busy with them all the morning, and 
 William was not so bountiful to his people as to require much to 
 be done for them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 LEAH kept out of my way, and did not say good-bye to me. 
 -* I went off with a mixed feeling,— a light heart from the 
 prospect of my holiday, but a heavy one from the thought of the 
 
 nstant fret of temper which I was to bear, — no one could say 
 how long. The light-hearted ncss, however, won the day by the 
 time I had reached the top of the Down, and could look over 
 the sea, with the white waves curling and tossing as they rushed 
 in upon the shore. I stood for a few moments to enjoy the 
 
 ht, and then finding I had more time than I expected, I took 
 it into my head to go to the summit of St Anne's Hill, and stand 
 by the ruined oratory, as I had done on that evening when 
 i i first told me that we might be parted. I went up so 
 (|iiickly that I was quite out of breath, and when I reached the 
 tower, I rested against the wall to recover myself. I did not 
 know that any one was near till I heard a little cough, and when 
 I looked round the corner I saw Jessie Lee.
 
 URSULA. 225 
 
 Like myself, she was leaning against the tower with an open 
 letter in her hand, which she was trying to read ; but the wind 
 caught it every instant, so that she could scarcely manage it. 
 ' You had better come round this side, and not face the wind in 
 that way, Jessie,' I said, gently, not wishing to startle her. 
 
 But she did start, and stand up, and the colour came to her 
 cheeks and mounted up todrer forehead, while she crumpled up 
 the letter in her hand, and tried to hide it. 
 
 ' I didn't mean to frighten you,' I said ; ' but I was going to 
 Longside, when the fancy took me to run up here for a few 
 minutes and look round. The air on St Anne's always does 
 one good.' 
 
 'Yes, it is very fresh. I didn't know you were going to 
 Longside. I think I must say good-bye;' and Jessie moved 
 away. 
 
 But I called after her. ' Don't run off in such a hurry,' I 
 said, as she came back ; 'it is not often that we meet now, 
 Jessie ; you are always gay or busy.' 
 
 ' Sometimes ; I am not busy now,' she answered, stopping 
 unwillingly. 
 
 'Only gay?' I said. 
 
 The words seemed to strike her like a mockery ; she turned 
 round upon me quite* sharply. 'You didn't use to be fond of 
 sneering, Ursie.' 
 
 ' I never meant to sneer, Jessie,' I replied ; ' I only repeat what 
 others say.' 
 
 'And I thought you knew better than to believe the world's 
 talk,' she answered. ' No one can call Hatton a gay place.' 
 
 ' Not Hatton but Dene,' I said. 'You must own, Jessie, that 
 Captain and Mrs Price keep open house.' 
 
 ' It is their concern, not mine,' she answered ; ' why should 
 people talk about me ? ' 
 
 She spoke hastily ; but I suspect she was not entirely vexed 
 that people should talk of her, in whatever way it might be.' 
 
 ' We must live in the desert, if we mean not to be talked about 
 in this world,' I said ; ' and even then I suppose people would be 
 troubling themselves to gueas why we went there.' 
 
 'And that is why I wonder you take any heed to what you 
 hear about me, Ursie,' continued Jessie ; ' you know so well how 
 foolish it all is.' 
 
 'I am not quite so sure of that,' I said, gravely. 'I don't 
 think, Jessie, that any girl's name is ever mentioned lightly, 
 
 P
 
 URSULA. 
 
 unless she herself 1ms given cause for it ; at least, that is what 
 Mrs Kemp has often .said to me, and Roger used to tell me the 
 ie.' 
 
 Jessie stood with one foot forward, wishing, I could see, to 
 run away from mc, but at the mention of Roger's name she drew 
 it bnck, and her fingers seemed to grasp more firmly the letter 
 which she held. 
 
 ' Roger wasn't well when you last heard from him, was lie?' 
 she said in a careless tone. 
 
 ' Not very ; the cold tries him. I must go out to him as soon 
 as I can to take care of him.' 
 
 1 lie will want that,' she said. 
 
 ^ ; he takes very little thought lor himself.' 
 
 1 But he likes Canada?' continued Jessie. 
 
 ' Yes, in a way ; it will never be like England to him ; he 
 cares so much for his old friends.' 
 
 Jessie looked up thoughtfully. 'You tell him all the gossip 
 about them, I suppose, Ursie.' 
 
 ' I tell him what I hear ; sometimes truth, sometimes gossip, 
 just as it may happen.' 
 
 ' And he believes it, of course ? ' 
 
 ' He believes what I tell him is true.' 
 
 'And if people say ill-natured things about me, he takes them 
 for fact then,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' He takes for fact what I say is fact,' I replied ; ' that Jessie 
 Lee is too much at Dene for her happiness or for her good 
 name.' 
 
 ' My good name ! ' she exclaimed ; and her eyes, usually so 
 sweet and soft in their expression, flashed like lightning. ' 1 tell 
 you what you may say to him, which will put a stop to any 
 remarks upon my good name or my bad.' 
 
 She waited a moment, — began to speak, stopped, and at length 
 exclaimed, 'Jessie Lee is going to be married;' and, scci 
 I suppose, that I looked rather incredulous, she thrust her letter 
 into my hand, saying, impatiently,' Read it ; read it.' 
 
 I turned away from the wind, and opened the letter; Jessie 
 watched me intently. 
 
 The handwritin difficult to decipher ; she thought I had 
 
 reached the conclusion before I had made out the meaning of 
 the first four lines. 
 
 'Well!' she said, 'it's all true, — plain; no mistake, Ursie.' 
 Still 1 read on ; when at length I came to the concluding words,
 
 URSULA. 227 
 
 I folded up the paper again, and gave it to Jessie without 
 speaking. 
 
 ' You see,' she said, ' it is an offer.' 
 
 ' Yes ! an offer.' 
 
 'And a very proper one. I shall be the wife of Lieutenant 
 Macdonald, of the Marines. Roger will have nothing to say 
 against that,' 
 
 The tone of her voice was strange ; there was more pique 
 than pleasure in it. I thought I would try an experiment with 
 her. 
 
 ' No, Jessie,' I said, ' you will not be Mrs Macdonald.' 
 
 ' Why not ? Who is to hinder me ? 
 
 ' Yourself. You don't know anything about Lieutenant Mac- 
 donald that is good, and what is more, you don't care for him.' 
 
 ' As for caring, he is very polite ; you can't find fault with his 
 letter.' 
 
 'Yes, I can,' I said. 'It is the letter of a man who has not 
 a particle of respect for you, and thinks he has nothing to do 
 but to flatter you ; and, Jessie, you know as well as I do, that 
 Lieutenant Macdonald's habits would make any woman miser- 
 able. Who would marry a drunkard ? ' 
 
 ' You may just tell Roger that it is going to be,' she said, 
 laughing. ' It will be a fine subject for your next letter.' 
 
 I was provoked more than frightened. With all her folly, I 
 believed that Jessie had too much real respect for goodness, thus 
 deliberately to throw herself away ; but then her vanity, — it was 
 such a fearful stumbling-block. I could not let her leave me in 
 this wild mood. 
 
 ' Jessie,' I said, and I caught hold of her dress, and made her 
 listen to me. ' You were always fond of teasing, but this goes 
 rather beyond what one can bear. You can't mean really to say 
 "Yes" to this man ; but you will do a very wrong thing if you 
 don't at once say " No."' 
 
 ' I don't know why I should,' she replied. ' You see, he says 
 that if I cannot at once like him, he will be content to wait for 
 what time may do.' 
 
 'And for what purpose?' I inquired. 'Do you think he is 
 going to reform for the love of you ?' 
 
 ' He may,' said Jessie. ' Men do reform sometimes.' 
 
 ' But women are worse than mad who marry upon the chance 
 of reformation,' I said. ' Jessie, even if you cared for him, there 
 is not one of your friends who would consent to the marriage.'
 
 2 :8 URSULA. 
 
 i I don't want consent,' she replied, 'at least, not yet ; there is 
 
 no hurry.' 
 
 'Indeed, Jessie,' I exclaimed, 'you are mistaken. There 
 is no baiting between yes and no in a case like this. If you 
 don't mean to marry him, you have no business to keep him 
 hanging on.' 
 
 ' 1 don't say that I shall not marry him, 1 she replied. 
 
 'Well, then, you will talk to Mrs Morris, and Leah, and your 
 friends, and if they approve, you will say "Yes."' 
 
 'Perhaps "Yes," perhaps "No." I can't answer for what I 
 may do.' 
 
 She provoked me so that I jumped up, and spoke, I am afraid, 
 hastily: 'Jessie,' I said, 'this is wicked trifling. People talk 
 lightly of love and marriage, but they are very serious matters, 
 and we shall have to answer before God for the way in which 
 we manage them. If Lieutenant Macdonald was a man whom 
 you could respect, I could understand your hesitation. But he 
 is a drunkard ; his character is notorious. You know you have 
 told me about him many times.' 
 
 'He says he is very fond of me,' said Jessie ; and there was 
 more real feeling in her tone than I could have imagined possible 
 in connection with such a man. 
 
 I saw at once what was working in her mind. 'Jessie,' I saiel, 
 gravely, 'what is the love of a bad man worth ?' 
 
 'Nothing, nothing; only, Ursic, it is very pleasant to be 
 loved.' 
 
 All the flippancy and pervcrsencss of her manner had vanished, 
 and she leaned her head upon my shoulder and cried bitterly. I 
 lit of Longsidc, and felt I should be late, but what could 
 I ? ' Dear Jessie,' I said, 'it is very pleasant to be 1 
 there is no doubt of that, it is what we all long for. But love 
 alone won't make you happy, and, what is more, such love as 
 this won't last. Lieutenant Macdonald may possibly think he 
 cares for you much, but I am quite sure that he cares for himself 
 . He won't give up his wine and his bad companions to 
 I se you.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he will, if I ask him,' persisted Jessie. 
 
 ' But you have no right to ask him, unless you mean to do 
 something for him in return ; unless you have made up your 
 mind to marry him, and that, you know, you have not. And. at 
 all events, one thing is clear ; you are bound to be open with Mrs 
 Morris in the matter, and to do nothing without consulting her.'
 
 URSULA. 229 
 
 Jessie stood twisting the letter into various shapes. Presently 
 she said, rather bitterly, ' You are not lonely as I am, Ursie.' 
 
 ' Not quite, I have Roger ; but he is away.' 
 
 ' That is nothing ; he thinks of you more than of any one else ; 
 he loves you best.' 
 
 Why was it that a creeping misgiving seemed to glide through 
 my veins, and chill my answer ? I merely said, 'Yes, I suppose 
 he does.' 
 
 ' Suppose ! you know it, you are sure of it,' exclaimed Jessie 
 eagerly. ' If I had a love like Roger's Ursie, I could go through 
 the world without a wish. I would work, slave, bear torture, 
 anything to be loved first — best.' 
 
 ' But not by Lieutenant Macdonald,' I said. 'A drunkard ! 
 O Jessie, think ! ' and I myself shuddered unconsciously at the 
 idea. 
 
 She put her arm within mine without saying another word, 
 and we moved away from the tower. Then she stopped, and 
 said, 'Which way are you going, Ursie ?' 
 
 ' Over the hill, to Longside. I ought to have been there half 
 an hour ago.' 
 
 ' We can walk together, then, and you can go through Dene ; 
 no one will notice.' 
 
 ' Not together,' I replied, 'if you are bound for Hatton.' 
 
 ' I must go to Dene first,' she answered with some hesitation ; 
 'I promised Mrs Price to see her to-day.' 
 
 ' It would be better to write to Mr Macdonald first,' I said. 
 ' If he is at Dene, as I suppose, it will be awkward meeting him 
 before you have written.' 
 
 ' He is not likely to be there. The gentlemen were all to be 
 out shooting. That is why I promised to go. I must keep my 
 word. Now, give me your hand and we'll run ;' and she drew 
 me with her to the brow of the hill. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 I WOULD not run down St Anne's Hill, for it was a great deal 
 too steep to be safe, and Jessie knew better than to attempt it ; 
 but she was in such a state of excitement, that really she scarcely
 
 2 3 o URSULA. 
 
 knew what sht said. When we readied the foot of the hill, I 
 again urged her returning to Hatton. As to going through Dene 
 elf, 1 did not like the idea, for my acquaintance with Mrs 
 Price had dropped since her marriage, and I did not desire to 
 renew it, neither did I know how she was likely to look upon 
 such an intrusion. Jessie could not understand my scruples. She 
 was so at home at Dene herself, and she fancied every one else 
 must be the same. 
 
 We went on in the direction of Dene, neither of us having 
 quite made up our minds what to do, and I trying to persuade 
 Jessie that it was more fitting for her at once to go back to 
 1 i.itton, and put the case before Mrs Morris, when, as we reached 
 the little sheep-path leading off the down to Compton, who 
 should we see coming up but Miss Milicent, dressed in a kind 
 ( 1" loose greatcoat and a close beaver bonnet, and helping herself 
 to mount the hill by the aid of a heavy stick. 
 
 ' Ursie Grant, is that you ?' she called out. ' Stop, will you ? 
 I want you.' 
 
 She came up looking flushed and excited, but somewhat cau- 
 tious, as she saw Jessie. 
 
 ' I thought you were alone,' she said, in a tone which Jessie 
 could scarcely help hearing, and which made her stand aside f< r 
 a few seconds, and then, to my great annoyance, walk on slowly 
 by herself towards Dene. I called out after her, 'Just wait, 
 Jessie ; I shall not be a minute.' 
 
 ' Yes, you will be, I have a good many things to say to you,' 
 said Miss Milicent. ' Who is that girl?' 
 
 ' A kind of cousin of my sister-in-law, Miss Milicent,' I replied. 
 ' If you will excuse me, I must not let her walk alone.' 
 
 'Why not? She is no baby. Where is she going ?' 
 
 ' I am not quite sure; perhaps to Dene?' 
 
 1 To Dene! That is just where I am going, and you are going 
 
 with me.' 
 
 'Indeed, Miss Milicent, I don't know,' I said, taken quite by 
 surprise. 'I will walk with you to the gate; but I can't say 
 about going in.' 
 
 ' It is going in that I am bent upon. I have a great deal to 
 say to you, Ursie Grant. ' Can't that girl walk on instead of 
 waiting ? She is a very pretty girl. I like her face.' 
 
 It was a face to like, especially at that moment. There was 
 so much thoughtfulness in it. I could see that Jessie was having 
 a si with herself. She was almost determined to go back
 
 URSULA. 231 
 
 to Hatton. If we had but been alone, I should have persuaded 
 her. 
 
 ' That is your way,' I said to her, laughingly, yet in a tone I 
 knew she must understand, and I pointed to Hatton. 
 
 'And this is our way to Dene,' said Miss Milicent, leading me 
 to the beginning of the sloping green pathway on the side of 
 the down. ' I am not going there to pay a visit — only on busi- 
 ness, and you can let Mrs Price understand this.' 
 
 Jessie caught the word Dene. 'Then you are going to Dene, 
 Ursie,' she said. 
 
 ' Ui^ie Grant and I are both going there,' said Miss Milicent. 
 ' She knows Mrs Price, and I don't ; though I have had dealings 
 enough with her of one kind and another.' 
 
 ' I knew Jane Shaw ; I don't know Mrs Price,' I replied. 
 'She is too fine a lady for me, Miss Milicent; and, indeed, she 
 will be likely to receive you much better without me.' 
 
 ' I know Mrs Price very well,' said Jessie, with scarcely con- 
 cealed satisfaction at having what she considered a grand 
 friend. 
 
 'Do you? Then you will be just the person to say what I 
 want,' said Miss Milicent ; ' only you will just let Ursie Grant 
 and me walk aside and have a little talk together.' 
 
 I was most unfortunate. My first impulse was to leave Jessie 
 and Miss Milicent to manage their visit if they could, and make 
 my way at once to Longside ; but then I was so afraid to trust 
 Jessie alone, knowing how easily she might be persuaded to stay 
 and see Mr Macdonald again ; and even if her present intentions 
 were good, which I was not sure of, I could not for a moment 
 have depended upon them, if she were placed in the way of temp- 
 tation. Care for him she did not, but she might be flattered by 
 his admiration, and touched by his expressions of affection; and 
 how many women marry, and make themselves miserable for 
 life, under no greater inducement ! 
 
 Miss Milicent took no notice of my hesitation, but telling 
 Jessie to go on to the white gate, and wait for us, she planted 
 herself deliberately in my way, and said, in an under-tone, ' We 
 have had news of my father, Ursie.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' I exclaimed. I must have changed colour from 
 surprise, for Miss Milicent added directly, ' You look as white as 
 my mother did. She shook like an aspen leaf, and almost went 
 into a fit. She would have gone quite, if Matilda Temple had 
 not scolded her.'
 
 232 J' I. A. 
 
 'O Mi-s Milicent! scolded her!' I exclaimed ;' who could do 
 
 that ? Poor lady ! no wonder she was upset.' 
 
 I wonder, indeed. If you bad been there to sec it ! Wc 
 had such a scene ! But Matilda Temple didn't carry the day, 
 though she tried hard for it. She would 1. t the letter 
 
 1 in my mother if she could.' 
 
 'And you have heard from Mr Weir himself?' I said. 
 
 ' Xo, only from a gentleman abroad who has seen him, and 
 knows where he is. and tells us that if wc want to hear more i I 
 him we must find out a Lieutenant Macdonald. He is at D< 
 ie, and that is why I am going there.' 
 
 It wa a most incoherent story. I could make nothing of it. 
 and I had to ask many questions before I found out the whole. 
 I bn Hervey, it seems, had been doing for Mrs Weir what he 
 wished me to do ; he had been keeping his eyes and cars o 
 for anything which might interest or be of use to her. It was 
 through some acquaintance of his that a rumour came of Mr 
 Weir having been seen somewhere in France— in Paris, I think 
 it was. John said nothing, but he made inquiries, and at length 
 he found out an I.n li h gentleman who had lately been in com- 
 pany with Mr Weir, but knew nothing of his history, or how he 
 was living, or what he meant to do — only that he had with him 
 a Lieutenant Macdonald, who, at that time, was upon the point 
 of starting for England. 'Mr Hervey is clever enough,' con- 
 tinued Miss Milicent, when she had reached thus far ; 'and he 
 put two and two together, and made out at last that the Li 
 tenant Macdonald mentioned in the letter was the same who is 
 now at Dene ; whereupon he wrote to me to tell me, — a very 
 civil letter it was; not at all putting himself forward ; he is a 
 young man. who knows his place, and does not interfere. But 
 when I had read it, I made up my mind I would just go ov< r to 
 Dene myself, and see Lieutenant Macdonald, and hear all he 
 has to say. I may as well take in some fresh air for stren.th 
 bi fore,' she added, as she turned round to the wind, thrust her 
 hands into her coat-pockets, and opening her mouth, drew a long 
 breath, as much I am sure to help her mind as her body. 
 
 I did not dare say I felt for her. She never would have 
 I' rne that, so I remarked quite coldly, 'It would be m< 
 proper for Lieutenant Macdonald to call upon you, Miss Mili- 
 cent. No doubt he would be quite willing to give himself the 
 trouble.' 
 
 w wh t is proper or what is not, Ursic Grant, I
 
 URSULA. 233 
 
 have lived long enough, and seen folly enough, to put propriety 
 out of the question.' 
 
 'But it would have been easier for you to have seen him at 
 Stonecliff,' I observed. ' There are such odd people sometimes 
 at Dene.' 
 
 ' If they are odd they are more like myself,' she replied ; 'and 
 I 11 tell you what, Ursie, you don't know anything about it. 
 There is Matilda Temple at Stonecliff, with eyes and ears in 
 every corner of the house ; and my mother's door locked against 
 me and open only to her. No ! whatever I learn shall be by 
 myself, without her interference.' 
 
 'Of course you know best, Miss Milicent,' I replied, 'but it 
 would not seem to me that Mrs Temple was likely to interfere 
 in anything which concerned Mrs Weir ; she could have no 
 object in it.' 
 
 ' Then you don't know her, Ursie, and you are an innocent 
 baby, which I never thought you before, for you never gave a 
 truer warning than when you said we had better not make one 
 with Matilda Temple.' 
 
 'It was you who thought so first, Miss Milicent,' I said. 
 ' You always told me you distrusted her.' 
 
 'And so I did, and so I do. How I ever came to give way to 
 her I can't think. I do believe, Ursie, we don't any of us know 
 in the least what we are like.' 
 
 There was more thought in the remark than I quite saw then. 
 I answered, indifferently, ' I suppose we can't know till we are 
 tried. But things won't last long as they are, Miss Milicent. I 
 think you told me one day, that Stonecliff was only taken for a 
 3 r car.' 
 
 'And what is to happen to us before the year is over? It is 
 only just begun, and if we go on at the rate we are going now, 
 we may be without a penny before it is ended.' 
 
 I felt uncomfortable when Miss Milicent said this. I did not 
 think I was the person to hear about the money affairs of the 
 family, but Miss Milicent was so strange ; she could be as close 
 as possible at times, but if the impulse once seized her, and 
 she felt confidence in the person to whom she was talking, 
 everything came out at a rush. I looked towards the white 
 gate to give her a hint that we must hasten on, but she never 
 took hints. 
 
 ' We were to share housekeeping,' she continued, ' but — I don't 
 know how it is, I am sure — I have no means of ordering matters,
 
 ru URSULA. 
 
 and there arc SO many little things put down to my mother. I 
 d n't believe she wants them, but Matilda says she does. 
 Matilda boasts she keeps within her own income ; if she does it 
 '. be by ekin ; it out with ours.' 
 
 ' Perhap ,' I ventured to say, 'if there is news of Mr Weir, it 
 might be the occasion of making a change.' 
 
 'I don't say perhaps,' she replied. ' I say it must be ; only 
 Matilda Temple will work, and work, at my mother to prevent 
 it. Now she has her in her hands, she won't let her go easily, 
 you may depend upon that. That was why she wanted me not 
 to show Mr Hervey's letter. It was all pretence saying it would 
 upset my mother. We had a regular battle about it, and 1 told 
 her a bit of my mind. We are not the better friends for that. 
 Depend upon it, Ursie, it is a trying life we have of it ; ' and 
 f r almost the first time since I had known her, I heard Miss 
 Milicent sigh. 
 
 It was her own doing, all to be attributed to her neglect of her 
 mother, which had paved the way for Mrs Temple's influence, 
 but it was not my place to reproach her with it ; and I fancied 
 she was beginning to feel it. 
 
 ' Mr Richardson talks to me about looking after my mother,' 
 she continued; 'he is always throwing me back when I 
 want him to give me more parish work. I don't see what busi- 
 ness he has to interfere. As I tell him, he can't know the ins 
 and outs of a family. My mother wouldn't have me with her if 
 I wished it.' 
 
 ' I am Hire Mr Rich irdson means kindly,' I remarked, 'what- 
 ever he may say. He has been a good friend to Ro i and me, 
 at least.' 
 
 'Well, of course, yes ! and I dare say I may be wrong, but 
 th t won't mend matters now ; and, Ursie, I don't like your 
 always taking side against me.' 
 
 I only laughed a little ; there was no good in arguing with 
 or contradicting h r. Besides, time was getting on. The 
 sun was sinking low, and already there was a yellow gleam over 
 bay, and u mist gathering behind the white cliffs. 
 
 ' If you please, Miss Milicent,' I said, 'we really must be going 
 on. Jessie has to return to Ilatton, and you will find it lonely 
 walking back to the Heath. Are you quite sure you had not 
 belter wait, and call at Dene to-morrow?' 
 
 ' I am quite sure that, if it must be night before I am back, I 
 will see that Mr Macdonald to-day,' she exclaimed. 'Since you
 
 URSULA. 235 
 
 are like the rest of the world, Ursie, you can go your own way. 
 That young girl and I can manage without you.' 
 
 She strode on for some distance, and had nearly reached the 
 white gate, when she stopped, turned round to me as I was fol- 
 lowing her, caught hold of my hand, and grasped it with a firm 
 clutch, I can call it nothing else, which was peculiar to her, and 
 said, ' I am like a hack-horse tired, Ursie. Every one is setting 
 at me to go their way, but you will forgive.' 
 
 She would not wait to hear what I had to say in answer, but 
 pushing open the gate before Jessie could do it for her, she 
 entered the grounds of Dene. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 DENE was very little altered. I could not tell whether I 
 was more glad or sorry for that. It would have been a 
 great pain to see the old familiar walks destroyed ; but then to 
 look upon them with such changed associations ! I wondered 
 how Miss Milicent could bear it. She went on bravely, and, as 
 it seemed, carelessly, only I don't think she allowed herself to 
 look about much ; and she did not speak a word, but walked 
 before us by herself. 
 
 Jessie, pleased to show her intimacy, said she should run round 
 by the verandah, and tell Mrs Price we were coming. Miss 
 Milicent and I went to the carriage entrance. 
 
 A footman, in very gay orange-coloured livery, opened the 
 door, but he was almost immediately followed by Jessie. 1 
 thought she was going to put herself forward to welcome us, but 
 she had better tact than people would have given her credit for, 
 knowing her thoughtless ways. She came up to Miss Milicent, 
 and said, ' I thought, ma'am, perhaps you would like to know 
 that Mrs Price has a visitor with her.' 
 
 'Thank you ; I shall not keep Mrs Price more than a minute. 
 Ursie, where are you going ? ' and Miss Milicent looked back 
 after me. 
 
 ' If you have private business with Mrs Price, Miss Milicent 
 I could wait here very well,' I said in an undertone. 
 
 ' Private, with her!' was the answer, in a loud whisper. - Y'Hi 
 know I am not come to see her.'
 
 =36 URSULA. 
 
 •You had betterlef your mistress know that Mi s Weir would 
 be ; la 1 to speak to her,' I said aloud to the servant, for I was 
 Mis Price should not think I had called upon 
 
 i"i- my own p] .1 lire. 
 
 'The dining-room is empty, I am sure,' said Jessie to me; 
 and the man took the hint and ushered us in. I can't say how 
 uncomfortable I fell ; it was so very awkward to be there, and I 
 lid not see win- .Miss .Milicent had insisted upon it J only 1 
 suppose she disliked the visit, and thought that I should help to 
 in ike it go oil" well. 
 
 J ie was very nervous and excited. She went out into the 
 passage to see if the visitor was going,— then came hack and 
 stood at the door,— then looked out of the window. Her eyes 
 were constantly turning from one side to the other, and every little 
 noise made her start, Kor myself, I was really thankful to h: 
 my thoughts occupied by her and Miss Milicent. To sit in the 
 dining-room at Dene, and feel myself a visitor to Jane Shaw, 
 would have been more than I could have borne patiently, if 1 
 had had leisure to think of it. Presently there was a loud talking 
 in the passage, some very hearty good-byes were exchanged, and 
 then the dining-room door was thrown open very wide, and Jane 
 Shaw,— I beg her pardon, Mrs Price,— in a splendid figun d 
 green silk, rustling with stiff lining and llounces, sailed into the 
 room. As for being introduced, there was no need of that ; she 
 was at home with us directly. 
 
 'Good afternoon, Miss Weir; very glad to see you. Mrs 
 Weir is pretty well, I hope? How d'ye do, Ursula?' 
 
 She was not the least altered. In spite of her handsome dress 
 — her hair beautifully plaited according to the newest fashion — 
 In i rings, and chains, and bracelets — she was Jane Shaw still. 
 Little Jessie Lee was ten times more attractive, and Miss 
 Milicent in her rough coat and beaver bonnet much more like a 
 lady. 
 
 Miss Milicent's reply was abrupt, as might be expected from 
 her, but there was a curious kind ot civility in the tone which I 
 was not used to — it seemed to throw one at a distance. I won- 
 d i d whether Jane felt it. 
 
 ' My mother is as well as usual, thank you. I ought not to 
 have come so late ; I must beg you to excuse it, but I have 
 business with a gentleman staying here.' 
 
 'A gentleman, indeed? We have a good many gentlemen 
 here, haven't we, Jessie ?' The poor child coloured crimson.
 
 URSULA. 237 
 
 ' I wish to see Mr Macdonald,' continued Miss Milicent. ' If 
 he is in the house, perhaps you would let him be told that I am 
 here?' 
 
 'Lieutenant Macdonald! I can't say. He went out this 
 morning'. He may be returned. The gentlemen are not to 
 be reckoned upon in this shooting season, as Jessie knows,' she 
 added in a familiar tone. ' Perhaps, dear, you would just see if 
 the lieutenant is in the book-room ? ' 
 
 I rose and looked into the library myself. A man dressed in a 
 shooting-jacket was lying full length upon a sofa. His face was 
 handsome, but the expression very disagreeable. It was Lieu- 
 tenant Macdonald ; I just knew him by sight, and Jessie Lee in 
 contrast with him seemed to me like an angel. 
 
 'Mr Macdonald is there, I think, Miss Milicent,' I said, as I 
 drew back from the door ; ' would you wish to go in ? ' and I made 
 room for her to pass, yet in such a way as to prevent Jessie from 
 being seen. Mrs Price followed to introduce her. 
 
 I closed the door behind them, and we heard only the low 
 murmur of voices. 
 
 Then I went up to Jessie. ' Promise me one thing,' I said, 
 hurriedly, ' that you won't stay here, Jessie ; that you will come 
 home to Sandcombe with me.' 
 
 She hesitated. ' You must,' I continued ; ' you don't know 
 what you may be led into.' 
 
 Mrs Price's hand touched the handle of the door — I was in 
 an agony for the answer — I don't know what possessed me, but 
 I added, ' What shall I be able to say of you to Roger ?' 
 
 Jessie's countenance changed in an instant. She looked at 
 me with a winning smile, and said, ' I will do what you wish. I 
 should not like to vex Mr Roger.' 
 
 I kissed her. She seemed to me like a child saved from 
 danger. Immediately afterwards Mrs Price burst in upon us. 
 She could not have understood how or why I was there; indeed, 
 I should have had a difficulty in explaining it myself. But she 
 was very gracious ; most unpleasantly so. ' You find the place 
 altered since you were here, Ursula,' she began. 'We have 
 just added a room to your cottage, and enlarged the billiard 
 room ; you had a small parlour, I think, and the kitchen. I dare 
 say you would like to go over and see it, and you would like to 
 see the drawing-room, too, no doubt — Captain Price has put up 
 some pictures, and made it look quite different from what it was 
 in poot Mrs Weir's time. Our groom lives in your cottage ; it
 
 238 URSULA 
 
 just docs, for him and his wife, and they have one child. I will 
 show you the way, if you like it. Jessie, dear, if you'll just run 
 up to my room, and fetch my shawl — not the silk one, but the 
 cashmere — I shall be obliged to you.' 
 
 1 sic looked proud of the commission, and hurried away, 
 whilst Mrs Price took me into her drawing-room, professing to 
 show mc the pictures, but pointing out also the new carpet, and 
 curtains, and tables, and chairs, everything in fact which could 
 in the least display her wealth, and continually repeating, 'We have 
 been obliged to make such changes. The old furniture did well 
 enough for poor Mrs Weir, I dare say ; but it wouldn't suit us.' 
 
 I could never have been very cordial to her under any circum- 
 stances, and now every word she said jarred upon me, and pre- 
 sently, when she began to talk of Jessie, I was more than jarred, 
 I was provoked. 'Jessie was such a sweet girl,' she said, 'she 
 was quite glad to have the chance of being useful to her. They 
 saw a good deal of company, and Jessie had many admirers. 
 When she was well dressed, there wasn't a prettier girl anywhere 
 round the country. No doubt she would marry well.' 
 
 I made but a short answer ; if 1 had said all that was in my 
 mind, she might have thought me jealous ; but looking out of 
 the window, I observed, that 'we must be thinking of going; 
 Mi>s Milicent seemed likely to be kept some time, and though 
 we had walked over to Dene together, wc were to return sepa- 
 rately. Miss Milicent had asked me to come with her, because 
 she was a stranger.' 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed ! I didn't understand. I wasn't aware why I had 
 the honour of a visit.' Mrs Price's manner was peculiar. I 
 could not tell whether she felt pleased or displeased at havi 
 the acquaintance renewed. Jessie brought down the shawl, and 
 wc went over to the cottage. Mrs Price reminded mc again how 
 small it was, and only fit for the groom, and tried to impress upon 
 me that she was a great lady, and I was no lady at all ; and yet 
 she asked me questions about Sandcombe, and every now and 
 then hinted that of course I should come and sec her again. I 
 let her talk as she liked, not professing to be equal to her in 
 worldly position ; it did not distress mc to be put down by her, 
 my only difficulty was to keep myself from looking down upon 
 her for other causes. But that which was more in my thoughts 
 than anything else was, what could be done with Jessie. If she 
 were to go with mc to Longsidc she would be in the way ; but I 
 did not choose to let her walk to Hatton alone, and still l<
 
 URSULA. 239 
 
 could I bear to leave her at Dene. It seemed to me as though 
 she had been providentially placed under my care, and that I 
 was responsible for her. I could not tell what to decide. We 
 went into the cottage, and spoke to the groom's wife, and I 
 looked round upon the old familiar walls with an eye that in fact 
 saw nothing. I could have sat there for hours and thought, if I 
 had been alone, but I had no feeling whilst Jane Price was at 
 my side. Only for one moment, whilst she, and Jessie, and the 
 woman were talking apart, the present seemed to vanish away 
 like a mist, and the past was all before me. Roger in his arm- 
 chair, the table set out for tea, the kettle standing on the hearth, 
 so cheerful, so peaceful ! — Oh, what a pang shot through me ! 
 Would such days ever return again ? 
 
 Miss Milicent came out of the house just as we were returning 
 to it. A burning spot flushed her cheek, and she rushed up to 
 me. ' We will go now, Ursie ; are you ready ? Mrs Price, I am 
 sorry to have interrupted you,' and Miss Milicent made a won- 
 derfully polite bend. ' I wish you good evening.' 
 
 The words were not thoroughly articulate, they came out so 
 fast, and Miss Milicent hurried on up the hill, whilst I vainly 
 tried to overtake her, and then looked back, and to my dismay 
 saw Lieutenant Macdonald issue from the house and join Mrs 
 Price and Jessie. I returned to them directly, but not before a 
 few words had been interchanged between Jessie and Mr Mac- 
 donald. ' Please be quick, Jessie,' I said, ' Miss Milicent is 
 gone.' 
 
 Jessie looked at me half doubtful, half frightened. 
 
 ' Come,' I repeated, decidedly. ' I must follow Miss Milicent' 
 
 'You were not going with her ; I don't know what you mean,' 
 replied Jessie ; and Mrs Price turned upon me hastily, and said 
 that Jessie was intending to stay with her. 
 
 ' You promised, Jessie,' I said. 
 
 ' Promised what ? She is engaged to me,' exclaimed Mrs 
 Price. She began, I am sure, to suspect my motive for inter- 
 ference. 
 
 Mr Macdonald had withdrawn a few paces, and I took care 
 that he should not have the opportunity of addressing Jessie 
 again, though what she had already said had been, evidently, in 
 no way pleasing to him. Jessie herself seemed so irresolute, 
 that once more I was induced to use the weapon of persuasion 
 which 1 had tried successfully. 
 
 'You know, Jessie,' I said, 'yt~* told me that you did not
 
 240 URSULA. 
 
 wish to vex mc nor any one else' I stressed the last words, 
 and saw that she understood them. She made a confused excuse 
 to Mrs Price, a half curtsey to the lieutenant, and we followed 
 Mi>s Milicent up the hill. 
 
 I breathed freely when I found myself outside the white gate; 
 yet the relief only lasted for a few moments. I felt so provoki 1 
 with Jessie for her weakness ; so annoyed at having my engage- 
 ment for the evening interfered with ; so anxious too for Miss 
 -Milicent, who was still striding on at a man's pace before us. 
 
 1 kept Jessie's arm within mine, but without talking to her. 
 Really I did not know what to say. After a few moments I 
 looked at her, and saw she was crying. My heart softened 
 towards her then ; I said, gently, ' You are not sorry you kept 
 your promise, Jessie, are you ?' 
 
 The tears only came the faster for the inquiry. I repeated it. 
 
 ' I didn't keep it,' she exclaimed. ' I can't keep anythin 
 do anything that's right, Ursie ; you had better tell Mr Roger 
 so at once, and then he will give me up as good for nothing.' 
 
 Her thoughts were dwelling then upon Roger. I noticed it, 
 but it did not strike me as unsafe or unwise. It was like the 
 feeling of a child for a parent. 
 
 'Neither Roger nor I will give you up, Jessie,' I said, 'not 
 for all the world. But if you don't want to run the risk of 
 making yourself miserable for life, you must keep out of the way 
 of temptation. Dene is not a fit place for you. Jane Shaw 
 wasn't over careful in her conduct as a girl, and she is not any 
 better, that I can hear, now that she is married ; she has very 
 few women friends, and the men are a bad set, as you quite well 
 know, and it would just be ruin to you in all ways to be mixed 
 up with them.' 
 
 I waited for her to assent, but she only said, after a moment's 
 pause, 'Then Mr Roger wouldn't like to see me main 
 
 ' Yes, he would like it very much,' I answered, ' if you were 
 to marry respectably ; so would all who care for you/ 
 
 ' I don't believe that any one who is respectable, as you call 
 it, will ever take up with mc,' exclaimed Jessie. ' If Mr Ro. r 
 thinks I have a bad name, so will others.' 
 
 She longed for me to contradict her, I am sure, but I would 
 not do so just then. She was out of conceit with herself, and 
 wished me to say something civil that might put her in again ; 
 but though I was very sorry for her, I was certain it was good 
 for her to feel that her careless ways had done her harm in
 
 URSULA. 241 
 
 people's opinion. Besides, I had no wish to go on talking about 
 Roger. I felt I had not been wise in saying as much as I had 
 about him. Jessie was so fond of being ihought about, even in 
 the way of being scolded, that it only increased her vanity to 
 remind her that any one was anxious about her, especially a 
 person whom she so much respected and looked up to as Roger. 
 I cut the conversation short by saying that I must run on and 
 have a few words with Miss Milicent. That, however, was not 
 so easily accomplished. Miss Milicent had walked on so fast 
 that I could not overtake her, and when I began to consider, 
 though I thought it very strange in her to go off from me in such 
 a sudden way, I saw it was no business of mine to thrust myself 
 upon her. Instead of following her, therefore, I came back to 
 Jessie, and proposed that we should both make the best of our 
 way to Sandcombe. How disappointed I felt at losing my visit 
 to Longside I can't say ; and I thought how they would be 
 expecting me, and once or twice was sorely tempted to go there 
 after all ; but it would never have done to take Jessie ; it would 
 quite have cut up our evening. If I had wished to have any talk 
 with Mary, I must have left Jessie alone, or burdened Mrs Kemp 
 with her, and that I should have disliked extremely, for she was 
 not over pleased, as I well knew, with the character that Jessie 
 had gained for herself. One has no right to put people together 
 till one is tolerably sure they are willing to be friends. 
 
 Moreover, it was not a fixed engagement at Longside. I was 
 always obliged to say I would come if I could, but they must not 
 expect me for certain. I could never answer for what might 
 happen with Leah to detain me at home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A STORM of hail came on just when we were off the down, 
 which made me the more glad that I had decided to 
 return. It had been gathering for some time, but I had not 
 noticed it much, having my mind given to other things. It would 
 have drenched us thoroughly long before we could have reached 
 Longside, and I should have been sorry for this more for Jessie's 
 sake than my own. I was strong, and able to bear all weathers; 
 but Jessie was of a weak constitution, and often taking cold. 
 
 o
 
 24^ URSULA. 
 
 ' They will be just sitting down to tea, Jessie, 1 I said, as I 
 took her up-stairs to my room, that she might leave her boii. I 
 and shawl there ; ' they will be surprised to ee us.' 
 
 Jessie was disinclined to go down ; she look d pale and tin d, 
 and proposed to wait where she was till the hail was over, and 
 then walk on to Hatton. But this I would not hear of. She 
 could sleep, I said, very well in my bed ; and one of the farm 
 boys who lived at Hatton would carry .< ; e to say wh 
 
 she was. 'I am sure, Jessie,' I added, 'th.it whenever you are 
 at Dene. Mis Morris doesn't expect you bi ck till she si < 
 and so she won't be in any fright about you, knowing that you 
 set off with the intention of walking there.' 
 
 lushed, but made no answer ; and a fear crossed my 
 mind, that perhaps she was in the habit of paying visits to D 
 oftener than her friends knew. I could not bear to think it of 
 her, for she was true by nature, though sometimes inclined to 
 
 j) things back from fear. But vanity and love of amusenv 
 will lead to so much evil, which no one has any idea of at first. 
 
 I left her to go and explain to Leah why I had returned ; but 
 when I entered the parlour I found no tea prepared, — not even 
 the tea-tray put out, — and the room looked so cheerless ! The 
 lire had cone out, and some one had been trying to re-liyht it ; 
 for a few sticks were lying about, and the coal-scuttle stood in 
 the middle of the room. I went to the kitchen, and found no 
 one, but I heard voices in the distance, loud and angry ; they 
 came, I was nearly sure, from the dairy, and I went there to see 
 what was going on. 
 
 It was so dark that I stumbled over something which was 
 lying on the ground at the door; it was like part of a bri 1 
 dish, and my I t went into a pool, whether of milk or of water 
 I could not see. Leah and r were in the dairy. They did 
 
 not perceive me ; Leah was in what I can only call a towering 
 passion, a thing rare for her; she was bitter and cross, but not 
 generally passionate. I heard my name mentioned. 'Miss 
 Grant lets you do it, does she ? You are not to attend to Miss 
 Grant, you tlcnd to mc, I am your mistress. But you'll 
 
 leave me; I don't keep good-for-nothing girls, who tell hes!' 
 And then Esther rejoined, not very respectfully but very ear- 
 nest 1 ;.-, denying thi t she had said anythin which was untrue; 
 and waa immediately contradicted by Leah with fresh thr ats <<i 
 ng turned off instantly. What was the beginning or likely to 
 be the end of the quarrel, I could not see ; but I was quite sure
 
 URSULA. 243 
 
 that Esther had been kept at work later than was right, and that 
 she would have a long, dark walk over the hill by herself, if some 
 one did not take thought for her ; so I quietly drew back, and 
 made my way into the farm-yard, and told Sam Hobson, Kitty's 
 father, whom I knew I should find at work there, that he was 
 not to go without having a word with me first. He was a steady 
 man, and lived near the Smithsons, and I was sure he would see 
 Esther safe home. Then I went back to the dairy. Leah had 
 left it, but I found Esther sobbing at the door. She told me her 
 gric\ ance. She had washed the milk buckets carefully, as I 
 ordered her, and cleaned the ladles, and prepared everything for 
 the milk when it was brought in ; and she was going to scour 
 the pans that would be wanted the next morning, when she was 
 called away by Martha, and sent on a message across the fields, 
 which took her more than a quarter of an hour. When she came 
 back she found some milk, which had been put into a brown 
 pan, spilt, and the pan itself broken to pieces. She had no more 
 to do with it, she said, than I had ; and she went directly and 
 told Martha, but Martha didn't believe her, neither did Mrs 
 Grant. No one else, they said, had been near the dairy, and it 
 must have been her doing ; and so they wanted to make her 
 confess it. ' But I wouldn't tell a story for them, nor for the 
 Queen ! ' exclaimed Esther, indignantly. ' I didn't do it, and if 
 they were to cut my head off, I wouldn't say that I did.' 
 
 There was one point, however, in which Esther no doubt was 
 wrong ; it was part of her usual carelessness ; she had been 
 always told to shut the dairy door when she came out, and this 
 had been forgotten. But she owned it at once. She was a 
 thoughtless girl, but not given to falsehood. I had no doubt 
 myself that the mischief was done by the cat, and I made her 
 fetch a candle, and we went into the dairy together. I pointed 
 out the marks of the creature's feet on the boards ; Esther was 
 satisfied then, she thought the trouble was over. As for the 
 threatening and the scolding, she had been used to them from 
 one or the other all her life, and I doubt if she considered it 
 possible to get on without them. She had learned to look upon 
 herself as fated to do wrong. As she once said to me, ' Please, 
 Miss Grant, I was born to go crooked.' 
 
 I was very provoked with Leah in my own mind for having 
 raised such a storm, without having given herself the trouble of 
 inquiring into the case, but I supposed it would all be right 
 when once I had explained matters. I did not understand Leah,
 
 244 URSULA. 
 
 however; perhaps I should more truly say I did not understand 
 human nature. There is no saying how far we are all at times 
 tempted to depart from what is just, from the shame <>f allowing 
 that we have been unjust. When 1 went in, 1 s kneeling 
 
 down before the parlour fire trying to re-light it. Esther had 
 brought damp sticks, and they would not catch ; the shavings 
 were buriicd out, and there were only a few scraps of pap r to use 
 instead. 
 
 ' It was too late to get to Longside, Leah,' I said, by way of 
 explanation, ' so I am come back. Can't I help you ? There's 
 a Weekly Messenger in the drawer, which I suppose may be 
 used.' 
 
 'You'll please let that stay,' was the reply. 'There's an 
 advertisement in it which William wants to have kept. It's all 
 that girl's fault — green sticks like these ! They won't light for 
 a twelvemonth.' Leah caught up the matchbox, rubbed her 
 last match, and found that it wouldn't go off, and then tossed the 
 box upon the table, and sat down in William's leathern arm- 
 chair with her arms folded. I went out to the kitchen, and 
 brought back some more shavings, and another box of matches. 
 ' Certainly,' I said, as I gathered up the green sticks, 'it is very 
 tiresome. There are plenty of dry faggots in the wood-house, I 
 know.' 
 
 ' This sort of thing won't go on,' said Leah, not at all hastily, 
 but in a tone which to me was much worse. 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 ' I shall go over to Compton to-morrow,' she continued, 'and 
 tell Mrs Richardson so. I can't have liars in my house. They 
 will look a long time before they see any more of my money for 
 Compton school, if that is the way thy bring their girls up.' 
 
 I was afraid I should only irritate her more by answering, but 
 I could not hear a false accusation without trying to put it ri 
 so I explained what had really been the case about the mil!:. 
 All I gained in reply was, 'Very likely ; it might be true, or it 
 mightn't ; but Esther was a girl who wasn't to be trusted. She 
 could not even lay a fire. She never remembered a thing that 
 was told her ; and if she didn't break the dish herself, she was 
 the cause of its being broken, and that was just as bad. So im- 
 pertinent she was too, — and such a. quantity of milk spilt, — 
 Mrs Weir must go without it, there wouldn't be a drop for 1. 
 — old customers must be attended to first.' These and many 
 more remark 5 ;, eqmlly annoying, I had to bear in the best way
 
 URSULA. 24$ 
 
 I could, and that I thought was silently ; but silence only made 
 matters worse. When Leah found herself uncontradicted, she 
 turned her wrath upon me. It was all my doing, I was at the 
 bottom of every mischief; it was I who had insisted upon taking 
 Esther; I, who had taught her badly — indeed, had entirely 
 neglected her. If I could have believed her, my love of going 
 about visiting was the cause of the mishap in the dairy, and the 
 green sticks, and the extinguished fire. 
 
 I was not unaccustomed to such accusations. I went on 
 trying to make the fire burn, and by the help of the bellows 
 succeeded at last, so that the room was quite cheerful with a 
 blaze ; and then I set out the tea-tray, and brought in the bread 
 and butter, and put out some cake for William, Leah all the 
 time not taking the least notice, but sitting moodily apart. At 
 length, when she found she could not get a word from me, she 
 went up-stairs. 
 
 I give no credit to myself for forbearance. It was simply a 
 matter of necessity. If I had said one word, I must have said a 
 hundred. I was, in fact, so angry that I could not trust myself 
 to speak. Perhaps, with such a violent temper as mine was 
 naturally, and a principle of religion which had not, as it were, 
 come to its full growth, this was as much as I could expect. 
 But it would have been better if I had learned to turn my 
 wrathful feelings into prayers. I might not then have heard all 
 the bitter things Leah said, and I am sure I should not have 
 treasured them in my heart as I did. I went up-stairs to find 
 Jessie, and gave vent before her more than I ought to have 
 done, and that did me no good, especially as Jessie was inclined 
 to take Leah's part, partly, I think, because she felt vexed with 
 me for not having flattered her more. 
 
 After a while, I sent Jessie down to explain for herself why 
 she was there, and to make tea if she was wanted, and presently 
 I heard her talking away quite cheerfully to William. I could 
 not make up my mind to go down myself, but there I sat close 
 to the window, looking out upon the heavy clouds which came 
 floating across the sky, tinged with a faint glow from the sunset. 
 I was better in some degree, for I had tried to pray for a 
 few moments when Jessie left me, and my temper was quieter ; 
 but I could not forget what had passed, and my thoughts were 
 gloomy as the. deepening twilight. Mrs Price, Leah, Jessie, 
 Esther, all seemed going the wrong way ; some from one cause, 
 some from another. And there was no way of doing good. I
 
 /■■/.. I. 
 
 thought I was to be useful to Esther, but she was to be taken 
 away from ine. I wished t<> save Jessie, but she depended u] 
 
 than upon me. I bad cherished a 1 ■ ame 
 
 to Saudcombe, of persuading William, if i h, to look upon 
 
 things in a different way, but I did not see that I bad the 
 htest influence. William was not at all more const, at . t 
 church because I went twice. He took the Sun 
 for settling the accounts just the same, and never read anythi 
 but the Mark Lane Express or the Ilo-.-e Advertiser; and the 
 way things went on about the farm and the servants was not 
 altered in the least. My life seemed quite thrown away. And 
 as to my own temper and principles, I had only to look at myself 
 at that moment and see all the angry, proud, revengeful feelings 
 which were struggling for the mastery, to be quite sure that 
 there was very little improvement in them. If I had only re- 
 mained with Mrs Weir, I said to myself— and I went n(f in 
 thought into a consideration of what might have been the conse- 
 quence, both to her and myself, when Jessie ran up-stairs to bring 
 me down to ten, saying that William was tired of waiting. 
 
 Leah was not in the room. Tea was poured out, and she did 
 not come ; and when William went up to her, he brought back 
 word that she had a headache, and was lying on her bed. 
 William was in very good spirits, rather merry than otherwise, 
 lie was pleased to have Jessie there, and joked her about Dene, 
 and especially, to my great annoyance, about Lieutenant Mac- 
 donald. I rather imprudently carried on the subject, by repcat- 
 what I had heard of him, and especially of his habit of 
 drinking ; and William, really, I believe, for the mere amuse- 
 ment of contradicting, took his part, and made light of it, saying 
 that it was what all young men would do if it came in their way, 
 only some had the cleverness to conceal it. I was sure, and I 
 told him so, that he was wrong. I don't believe that cither 
 Ri ger or John Ikrvcy ever did such a thing, and William him- 
 self was always sober from a boy. It vexed me that he should 
 say such things before Jessie. It is so bad for any one to have 
 a low opinion of others ; and, moreover, it has always been a 
 puzzle to me, how persons can talk lightly of such a habit as Mr 
 Macdonald's. Putting aside the evil in this world, the Bible 
 nlways classes it with the worst sins. To hear a drunken scene 
 turned into ridicule, is to me like hearing people laugh about the 
 :1. It makes me shudder. But then, the world would say I 
 am i ticular.
 
 URSULA. 247 
 
 When Jessie went up-stairs to take Leah a cup of tea, I made 
 a remark of this kind to William, and brought him to agree with 
 me. I did not like to tell him how matters really stood between 
 Jessie and the lieutenant, but I said enough to put him on his 
 guard, and make him feel that to encourage Jessie in thinking 
 about such a man was very unwise, to say the least. There was 
 something in William which I could always reach when I had 
 him to myself. It was not goodness or principle, I am afraid, but 
 it was a kind of straightforwaixl sense and perception of truth. 
 Selfishness blinded him whenever he did see things crookedly. 
 The provoking thing was, that one never could depend upon 
 him. He might agree with everything that was said one minute, 
 and the next he would go and act directly against it. 
 
 Jessie, when she came down, said that Leah's head was very 
 bad, and she thought she had caught cold standing about in the 
 dairy ; I offered to go up to her, but Jessie thought I had better 
 not. She did not exactly say that Leah was too much put out 
 with me to see me, but I was certain it was so. It did not strike 
 me, however, that there could be much the matter, for Jessie 
 told me that Leah had talked about a dinner party which she 
 thought of giving the week after Christmas, and a card party 
 had been mentioned too. Generally speaking, but little visiting 
 went on round Sandcombe, the farms were so scattered ; Wil- 
 liam and Leah, however, always gave rather a grand party at 
 Christmas time, and Leah went out a good deal then, sometimes 
 as often as twice in the week. 
 
 Jessie cared little for dinner or cards, what she wanted was a 
 dance ; but she could not bring Leah round upon that point, she 
 said, and I own I was not very sorry for it. 
 
 We sat rather long gossiping over the fire after tea. When 
 William went out to look round the farm, Jessie very good- 
 naturedly offered to see to one or two things which I was in the 
 habit of attending to, and left me at my work. But presently 
 she came back with a note in her hand. It had been brought, 
 she said, from Stonecliff, and the man was waiting to know if 
 there was any answer. 
 
 ' Let him go and warm himself by the kitchen-fire, Jessie,' I 
 said, ' it will take some time to read this ; and perhaps you will 
 just look out a pen and some paper for me, in case I should have 
 to write.' I drew the candle near and began to read. No spec- 
 tacles were required; Miss Milicent's letters might have been 
 distinguished from each other, half across the room —
 
 2 4 S URSULA. 
 
 ' I went away from you to-day In a hurry, Ursie Grant, but 
 why did not you come after me ? I expected you. There is a 
 great deal to say to you ; more than I can put on paper to-night, 
 I. untenant Macdonald was half-tipsy, I d n't thin'; he knew 
 what he was saying. Come over to-morrow morning if you c 
 and if you can't, come to-morrow afternoon. Matilda Temple 
 nplains of the Sandcombe butter; I don't cat butter myself. 
 My mother has had a bad nervous attack ; Matilda Temple 1 
 n with her all the afternoon. As I said, she won't let her 
 to my father. I should like to know how much we arc to believe 
 of the news. I should not like to live in France, but it might 
 he better than Stonecliff. Matilda Temple means to go and hear 
 the school-children examined at Hatton to-morrow. It is not her 
 parish, but it will take her out of your way, if you come over. 
 If you hear of any one who wants sea-anemones, you may send 
 me word ; 1 shall give mine away if we go to France. 
 
 ' I am, Ursie Grant, 
 
 'Your sincere friend, 
 
 ' Milicext Weir.' 
 
 Not much of an answer could be given to this note, it was too 
 perplexing ; but I wrote because I would not trust to a messa 
 lest there might be some fret with Mrs Temple. If she knew I 
 was likely to be at Stonecliff, she might possibly put herself in 
 my way. I merely said, however, that if I possibly could, I 
 would walk over in the course of the afternoon, but Miss Mili- 
 cent must not be vexed with me if I did not come, for I could 
 not answer for myself ; and the man was sent back. 
 
 ' Ursie,' said William to me that night, when I went to bed, 
 ' Leah has a terrible cold ; what do you think I had better give 
 her?' 
 
 I recommended something warm, but I did not offer again to 
 go and sec her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 I WOKE the next morning with the feeling that nil the busi- 
 ness of the house depended upon me. I was dressed long 
 before daylight, and down-stairs helping Jessie to get breakfast,
 
 URSULA. 249 
 
 because Esther came late. I went to the dairy, and fed the 
 poultry, and gave the orders for the day, and I made the tea, 
 and cut the bread for breakfast, and talked to William and 
 Jessie, and arranged for Jessie to stay the day, because of Leah's 
 being ill ; in fact, I did everything for every one, except myself. 
 I was in a proud mood, and I would not get the better of it. ' If 
 Leah does not send for me,' I said to myself, 'she may just do 
 without me.' 
 
 Jessie declared she was very feverish. I asked if a doctor 
 should see her, and William laughed at the notion. In the after- 
 noon, before I went over to Stonecliff, I told Jessie to go up-stairs 
 and let Leah know I was going. I thought perhaps that she 
 would wish to see me then, for there had been some more trouble 
 about the butter, and I knew she had a message to send. But 
 Jessie only brought back word that I was to tell Mrs Weir there 
 would be no butter all the winter. It vexed me more than I 
 would quite own to myself to go off and leave her, though it 
 would be only for a few hours, without having had a word of 
 peace with her, and the next day Christmas-day too, and I pre- 
 paring for the Communion. I actually turned back, after I 
 had reached the farm-yard gate, resolved to see her, but Jessie 
 told me she was asleep then, so it was of no use, and I continued 
 my walk. 
 
 Stonecliff was a much better house than the cottage on the 
 Heath. It had, besides, a good-sized garden, and a coach-house 
 and stables. A tolerably large income would have been required 
 to live there comfortably, for it was a kind of place which would 
 naturally occasion expenses. 
 
 The garden gave most trouble, for the place lay quite open to 
 the south-west, and the salt spray dried up the vegetation ; but 
 there was a glorious view to make up for it, all over the bay to 
 the great white cliffs, and the far distant coast, which could be 
 seen like a gray cloud on the edge of the sea ; and the sound of 
 the dashing waves, and the feeling of the fresh, free breeze, came 
 to one with such a gift of life, and hope, and strength — in spite 
 of its wildness, I could have been very fond of Stonecliff if it 
 had been my home. 
 
 I found Miss Milicent in a little study, opening out of the 
 drawing-room. She was drying sea-weeds ; but said as I en- 
 tered, without looking up from her occupation, ' There 's a chair 
 for you, Ursie ; I am glad you are come.' 
 
 ' I hope Mrs Weir is better to-day, Miss Milicent/ I said.
 
 250 URSULA. 
 
 ' She may be bet:er, but she is not quieter.' 
 
 ' Was the news yesterday so very bad ? ' I ventured to ask. 
 
 She pushed aside the table at which she bad la en busy, and, 
 turning round to face me, replied, 'Your name is not Weir, 
 Ur I : t, and you can't understand.' 
 
 ' Pi rha] s not, entirely,' I said, 'but no one can blame you, 
 nor Mrs Weir, Miss Miliccnt, whatever may be wron . 
 
 ' Listen to me, Ursic,' she continued, and she leaned 
 clenched hand on the table, and bent forward with eagerm 
 ' I had to talk to th.it man yesterday, and he was not sober, and 
 he called himself our friend, the friend of the family, and he 
 w. inted to shake hands — who was to bear that?' 
 
 "He was not the more your friend for calling himself so,' I 
 replied. 
 
 'But he is,' she added, bitterly, and she walked away sud- 
 denly to the other end of the room. 'You are an honest girl,' 
 she added, returning, and placing both her hands on my 
 shoulders. 'You won't think lower of us because our name is 
 Weir ; I was proud enough of the name once,' she added, in a 
 lower tone. 
 
 'Indeed, Miss Miliccnt,' I said, 'you know well enough that 
 it is an honour to me to do anything I can for you. You have 
 only to tell me what. I am very sorry you were so annoyed 
 yesterday with seeing that disagreeable man, but perhaps you 
 won't have to do it again.' 
 
 ' I shall though, Ursic. I must go there again. There is a 
 at deal to arrange with him. He knows all my father's 
 concerns.' 
 
 The veins in her forehead swilled as she spoke the words. I 
 gazed at her in surprise. Such proud feelings I had never re- 
 marked in her before, and yet I could scarcely call them proud. 
 In her place I should have felt as she did, and not blamed my- 
 self. Mr Weir had once been a gentleman, honoured and re- 
 spected. She could never forget that. 
 
 'Mr Richardson, or Mr Temple, would sec him for you,' I be- 
 gan ; but she interrupted me. 
 
 'No, Ursie, no spies, no strangers, none but his daughter 
 shall hear of him. And I couldn't talk to any one but you,' she 
 added, as large tears coursed themselves down her cheek. 
 
 I'. r thing ! Words can't express how sorry I felt for her, but 
 I could not understand why she should choose me to talk to. It 
 came out, however, very soon.
 
 URSULA. 251 
 
 'You know all, Ursic,' she said, ' the difficulties and tempt is ; 
 my mother's ways, and Matilda Temple's ; you understand it. I 
 can't go and tell Mr Richardson everything ; and I trust you, 
 Ursic ; I trust you with all my heart.' 
 
 I gave her my hand, and she grasped it heartily. 
 
 'The trouble is about helping him,' she continued. 'This 
 man says he wants money, and that he is going to join in a 
 business — wine-selling, I think ; but I don't put faith in what is 
 told me ; only he declares, my father is so poor now, if he could 
 have help he would go on steadily. What does Lieutenant Mac- 
 donald mean by steadiness ?' 
 
 'You must not trust Lieutenant Macdonald,' I said. 'If Mr 
 Weir is found, some one else must go and see him, and judge 
 what is really the state of the case.' 
 
 ' And who ? ' she exclaimed. ' My mother ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no! Miss Milicent, never. How could you think of such 
 a thing ? ' 
 
 ' Then I ? By myself ? Leaving my mother with Matilda 
 Temple ? I have thought about it.' 
 
 For the moment it seemed the only plan. Yet for her to go 
 abroad alone, it was next to impossible; and I said, 'You would 
 not trust Mr Temple, I suppose, Miss Milicent?' 
 
 ' Trust a baby in long clothes ! Ursie, where are your 
 senses?' 
 
 'John Hervey !' I exclaimed, as with a sudden inspiration. 
 
 She sat down, and leaned her head upon her hand. I heard 
 her murmur to herself, ' He knows him ; he can't think worse 
 of him.' 
 
 'John Hervey knew Mr Weir years ago, Miss Milicent,' I 
 said. ' He would respect and help him for the sake of those old 
 times.' 
 
 Her countenance worked with a conflict of feeling ; but pre- 
 sently she said, quite calmly, ' If he could go he must be paid.' 
 
 'His expenses must be paid,' I said. 'He would give his 
 time, I am sure, if possible.' 
 
 'Matilda Temple holds the purse-strings/ observed Miss 
 Milicent. 
 
 I was silent — that subject was beyond me. 
 
 Miss Milicent sat lost in thought ; her cogitations seemed 
 to come to no satisfactory termination, for, after a silence of at 
 least five minutes, she said to me abruptly, ' You will go up« 
 stairs and see my mother, Ursie. She knows you are here.
 
 :5^ URSULA, 
 
 Not a word about plans, remember. Under any circumstances 
 she can't go.' 
 
 I left her. My suggestion would, I knew, work better in 
 solitude than if I was with her ; and with a slow step, very differ- 
 ent from that with which in former days 1 had been accustomed 
 ;i k Mrs Weir's presence, I went upstairs and knocked at the 
 r of li r sitting-room. 
 
 'Come in,' said the gentle voice, which always sounded more 
 swl- t to me than any other. ' O Ursula ! it is you ! How are 
 you ? Will you sit down ?' 
 
 Mrs Weir pointed to a chair, and then turned away her face, 
 and I saw her take up her handkerchief to wipe away the tears 
 which filled her swollen eyes. 
 
 I longed to go near to her, and show that I was sorry for her, 
 but I could not make the first advance. I could only say, ' Miss 
 Milicent tells me, ma'am, that you have had a bad night.' 
 
 * Rather disturbed, Ursula. I never sleep well now. I tin. 
 I should have done well to take a sleeping-draught before I went 
 to bed, but my niece did not like it.' 
 
 ' You used to take it occasionally, ma'am, if I remember,' I 
 said. 
 
 1 Yes, occasionally ; it is a very bad habit. My niece says 
 I ought to cure myself of it : and she never takes such things 
 herself, though she is very nervous, and lies awake half the 
 night.' 
 
 A pause followed. Not knowing what to say next, I re- 
 marked, without thinking what I was saying, that I was afraid 
 Miss Milicent had a cold, dark walk, the last evening. She was 
 out so late. 
 
 ' Milicent is always out late,' replied Mrs Weir. ' She is away 
 all the day. I don't see her, I only see my niece, and no one 
 ever comes to call, except Mr Richardson, and he has not been 
 to see me so often as formerly.' 
 
 ' Perhaps your friends don't know you would like to see them, 
 ma'am,' I replied. 
 
 ' Perhaps so, Ursula ; but people change. I did not think 
 they would. I thought if they loved me once they would love 
 me always. Put we arc not to put our trust in human friends ; 
 my niece tells me that.' 
 
 ' But indeed, dear ma'am,' I exclaimed, rather hastily, ' I don't 
 know where we are told to distrust them.' 
 
 '1 do not remember any vers?, Ursula,' replied Mrs Weir,
 
 URSULA. 253 
 
 quietly; 'but God teaches us by experience; only it takes a 
 long time to learn the truth.' 
 
 ' I hope it will take a very long time before you learn to 
 distrust me, dear ma'am,' I said ; ' if 1 might be so bold as to 
 consider myself your friend.' 
 
 ' Did I say distrust, Ursula ? I did not mean it ; but young 
 people go away and forget, and we ought not to expect that it 
 should be otherwise.' 
 
 I could not help understanding this, and yet I did not know 
 how to take it up. 
 
 Mrs Weir continued, still in the same mournful tone which 
 was her nearest approach to anger, ' My niece has sent some 
 messages to Mrs Grant, Ursula, about the butter, but I dare say 
 you were too busy to attend to the orders.' 
 
 What orders ? I could not remember any, and I said so. 
 
 ' It does not signify, it will do no good to vex ourselves about 
 such trifles,' added Mrs Weir. ' I told my niece that 1 did not 
 care about it. I was only sorry, Ursula, because I thought you 
 would have managed it for me, but I am sure you could not help 
 it ; I was only hurt for the moment ;' and she held out her hand 
 to me kindly. 
 
 Just for an instant I thought I would try and explain, but any 
 one who had looked at Mrs Weir would have seen that explana- 
 tion upon any subject then must be useless. Even this little 
 fault-finding had put her into a state of nervousness which was 
 quite painful. I could only take her hand, as she offered it me, 
 and say heartily, ' Dear ma'am, you will never understand how 
 things are till I can come back and stay in the house a little, 
 and look after you.' 
 
 Her sad face lighted up with such a bright smile for a second, 
 but it clouded again, and she said, gravely, 'O Ursula! if you 
 ever came to live with me I should want you to speak quite 
 plainly, and tell me everything, and you would not like that. 
 You know you did not like to tell about the little broken chess- 
 man.' 
 
 I felt stung to the quick ; that she should remember that 
 trifle, and take it up so wrongly too ! It must have been dinned 
 into her ears every day, or she would surely have forgotten it 
 long ago. 
 
 Mrs Weir saw that I was vexed, and with her usual impulse 
 of kind-heartedness, tried to do away with the effect of her words, 
 by reminding me how well I used to nurse her, and what a
 
 254 URSULA. 
 
 comfort I had once been to her. But she could not deceive me. 
 I felt chilled, and I confe ■ I was unjust to her. I forgot her 
 ik health, and the ease with which a person in her state may 
 be worked U| on, and attributed the misunderstanding to fickle- 
 ness. ' I am afraid, ma'am,' I answered proudly, 'that you can 
 have but little pleasure in the company ol on whom you 
 
 suspect of not speaking the truth, so I had better go.' I stood 
 up, intending to wish her good morning, but she looked at me 
 with an earnest, even an imploring gaze, as sh>- said, whilst 
 
 ery limb seemed to tremble with agitation, 'Then, Ursula, 
 you do not care for me any more than my other friends do.' 
 
 I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. ' Dear ma'am,' I 
 exclaimed, 'indeed I don't understand you. Nobody cares for 
 you more than I do, if you would only believe it, and not listen 
 to the unkind things which are said against mc. Who could 
 help loving you?' 1 added. 
 
 'Ah, Ursula,' she replied, and her lips quivered, 'people 
 have left off loving me since I came to Compton. My niece 
 knows the world, and she showed me that my friends cared f r 
 me when I lived at Dene ; but they have left me now. I ought 
 not to mind it. I have my niece, and she is very good to me. 
 She says I shall never go away from her ; but, Ursula, do you 
 know,' her voice sank as she looked timidly round the room, 
 ' we have had news— news of my husband— Mr Weir. Do you 
 not think I ought to go to him ? Do not answer loudly ; they 
 hear sometimes.' 
 
 'There is no one to hear now, ma'am,' I said quickly; 'but 
 I think, if you will let mc say it, that you had better not trouble 
 yourself about .Mr Weir just now. You can wait till you learn 
 more about him, and then by and by you can go if it should e m 
 right.' 
 
 ' by and by,' she repeated ; 'yes, soon that would be, if my 
 niece would allow it. But I ought to go, Ursula, I am his wife, 
 only Mrs Temple thinks it wrong. 1 shall tell her what you 
 
 Poor lady ! all her old lovin g a nfidence in me was return 
 and as I perceived it, every remaining feeling of annoyance on 
 my side vanished. I sat down again, I felt I might comfort and 
 soothe her, and I was happy, but the door opened, and Miss 
 Milicent entere 
 
 'Mother, have you finished talking to Ursie Grant?' she 
 began.
 
 URSULA. 255 
 
 * Do you want her, Milicent ? I shall be sorry to say good-bye. 
 She is so kind in coming to see me.' 
 
 'There is no time to spare, mother. Matilda Temple will be 
 back directly. I must have you, Ursie.' 
 
 'Matilda is coming now, I think,' said Mrs Weir. 
 
 No one else had heard the footstep, but Mrs Weir was right. 
 
 Miss Milicent beckoned to me. ' Come, Ursie, come, we are 
 better out of the way.' 
 
 ' If you please I will wait and see Mrs Temple,' I replied, fori 
 was resolved not to be abashed by her. 
 
 There was a pause on the staircase ; Mrs Weir's old feeling of 
 restraint seemed to have returned. She said nervously, ' Good- 
 bye, Ursula ; you will come again some day, when you have 
 time.' 
 
 Even she then wished me to go, and I went. I passed Mrs 
 Temple in the lobby, and received from her a bend of the head, 
 so slight as scarcely to be noticed. A feeling came over me as 
 though I had left Mrs Weir in the hands of a gaoler. 
 
 'I have settled, Ursie,' exclaimed Miss Milicent, as she led the 
 way to the study, and closed the door behind her. ' I won't be 
 indebted to any one, I will go myself.' 
 
 I could not tell what to reply, and Miss Milicent added, hur- 
 riedly, ' Don't object ; I can't bear objections.' 
 
 Few people can, I thought to myself ; but the scheme was 
 mad. 
 
 ' I shall go,' she continued. ' I know a person who will go with 
 me, an old servant. She has been in France ; she travelled with 
 us eight years ago. I shall talk to Lieutenant Macdonald again ; 
 perhaps he may be more sober. I must go, Ursie. I must have 
 my own way.' 
 
 Who would doubt that ? Miss Milicent ought to know more 
 of the difficulties than I did, but they crowded upon me. It 
 seemed an expensive plan, taking two people instead of one. 
 I doubted if Miss Milicent would know how to help her father 
 when she was with him. I believed that such matters of busi- 
 ness required a man's head to arrange them. I thought that to 
 leave Mrs Weir was giving up a first duty. I was sure that 
 trouble would follow if Mrs Temple was allowed to go her own 
 way so entirely without check. But Miss Milicent was totally 
 undisciplined ; whatever she took into her head must always be 
 carried through ; and at the bottom of the decision there lay — 1 
 don't believe she saw it, but I am not the less sure that it was
 
 256 URSULA. 
 
 there — the desire to escape from a wearisome life, the struggle of 
 conscience, and contact with Mrs Temple. Any duty rather 
 than that which was at hand. 
 
 I b< lieve it is so with us all at times. 
 
 1 c ntinued to put in my word of advice, and that rather boldly. 
 'Miss Milicent,' I said, 'you do not know under what circum- 
 
 nces, or in what company, you may find Mr Weir ; it may be 
 \ rv unfitting for a lady to go where he is.' 
 
 Shewould not hear me. It was all nonsense, she said. Where 
 there was a will there was a way. She didn't know what fear 
 was, and as for the opinion of the world, she cared not a whit 
 for it. That very afternoon she should write to the servant, and 
 i in pi ire whether she could go. 
 
 I had nothing to offer in reply. I could but say that I hoped 
 she would consider the matter well before she decided upon it. 
 She disliked the appearance of opposition, and when I proposed 
 to leave her, she was glad that I should go. 
 
 nething seemed to strike her just at last about her mother, 
 for as I was goine; away she said, holding my hand, and speaking 
 very earnestly, ' You will be near, Ursie, if my mother wants 
 anything ; anil you won't mind Matilda Temple's humours?' 
 
 It was a satisfactory thought to Miss Milicent, but it was any- 
 thing but satisfactory to me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 INSTEAD of going home over the down, I went round by 
 Hatton, and up the stony lane. It was a long walk, but I 
 had a little shopping to do in Hatton. In the grocer's shop, I 
 met Mr Ilervey, I told him where I came from, and that I was 
 on my way back to Sandcombc : and he offered to walk with me. 
 He had been over to Hatton on business of his own, but he was 
 going back to Longside, to be present at the giving away of a 
 f of bread to all the families who lived in Farmer Kemp's 
 cottages, and to all his labourers and boys. It was an old 
 Christmas-eve custom ; and there was to be a dinner for the 
 >urcrs the next day, so there was enough to do at Loi ; 
 
 and Mary, I heard, was very busy, and very provoked with me 
 for not having gone to her the evening before.
 
 URSULA. 257 
 
 All this was told me as we walked slowly up Hatton lane ; but 
 John Hervey had something else in his mind, and I had some- 
 thing else in mine ; and yet we neither of us liked to speak of it. 
 He could not tell me of his private news about Mr Weir, and 
 I could not tell him of Miss Milicent's plans, though I knew he 
 would be likely soon to hear of them. We were much more 
 silent than usual, and once or twice I cut him rather short in 
 something he was saying — not meaning it, but merely because 
 I was thinking of other matters. It never struck me that he 
 might notice my manner, till we parted ; then he said, in a marked 
 tone, 'We used to be great friends, Ursie, and have a good deal 
 to say to each other — but somehow times seemed changed.' 
 
 My colour came, not because I was angry, but ashamed. I 
 really had never regularly made up with him since the evening 
 we had that little fuss about Mrs Weir and my interference. 
 
 ' I didn't think you had a memory for old grievances, Mr 
 Hervey,' I said, laughing a little awkwardly ; ' I am sure if 
 there is a change, it is not in me.' 
 
 ' There are no grievances, Ursie,' he replied, more gravely 
 than I expected ; ' only if I am a friend once, I am a friend 
 always.' 
 
 ' And so am I, I hope,' was my reply ; ' we are making a great 
 deal out of nothing, Mr Hervey.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is nothing,' he said ; ' nothing to you, Ursie. There 
 is no reason why it should be anything else. Good-bye, I didn't 
 mean to say anything disagreeable.' 
 
 He held out his hand, and I shook it very warmly, for I liked 
 him heartily. But he was cold-mannered still. I told him to 
 give my love to Mary, and to bring her over to see me as soon 
 as he could. But he made no promises, and it rather provoked 
 me to see him so odd and moody. 
 
 He could scarcely have left me more than two or three minutes, 
 when I heard a voice calling behind me, ' Ursie, stop ! Ursie, 
 why don't you stop ? ' William was coming after me. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' I said, turning round slowly. 
 
 Instead of answering me, he asked quickly, ' Who was that 
 with you?' 
 
 'John Hervey,' I replied ; 'look, he is going along the down 
 now ;' and without another word, William was off like a shot. 
 I thought it strange, and waited to watch what would pass 
 between them. William overtook Mr Hervey in a few seconds ; 
 then I saw them talking together in a great hurry, and to my 
 
 R
 
 25S URSULA. 
 
 surprise, John Ilcrvcy changed his path, and was away towards 
 Com p ton, in less time than I could have thought possible. 
 
 William rejoined me. 'He's gone for the doctor,' he said ; 
 ' it was better than my going. Ursie, she is desperately ill !' 
 
 ' She ! — who ?' I exclaimed ; whilst all the blood in my veins 
 seemed chilled, and my heart for a second stopped beating. 
 
 ' Leah ! — Haven't you heard ? It is worse every hour.' 
 
 ' It ! — the fever ! I didn't know she had any !' 
 
 'You have not been mar her;' said William, bitterly. 'It 
 was coming on when you went off this afternoon.' 
 
 I said not a word for myself. If he had told me I had killed 
 her, I should have acquiesced. 
 
 'Jessie has been with her,' continued William ; 'we should 
 have sent for you, but we expected you in every instant.' 
 
 ' I wish with all my heart you had sent !' I exclaimed. ' I 
 could have been back nearly an hour ago. But— I don't under- 
 stand — it was a cold, nothing else.' 
 
 ' Nothing else that you knew,' said William ; 'but I thought it 
 wasn't all right this afternoon myself; and if you had been there, 
 I should have made you go to her. Jessie is such a child, she is 
 not fit for anything. The fever has the upper hand now, she is 
 quite wandering.' 
 
 ' Leah is always feverish when she has a cold,' I said. ' She 
 may only be a little more so than usual.' 
 
 'You can judge for yourself,' was William's answer, and he did 
 not say another word as we hurried across the farm-yard and into 
 the house. 
 
 I rushed up to Leah's room, drew aside the curtain, and looked 
 at her. William was right ; she was desperately ill. 
 
 I need not say what that evening was like. How in a few 
 hours the whole aspect of a house may be changed by the pre- 
 sence of serious illness almost all know by sad experience. It 
 was as though every person's business had been suddenly put an 
 end to, as if indeed it was unfeeling for any one to attend to any- 
 thing. William sat brooding over the fire, Jessie ran up and 
 down stairs on useless errands, Martha gossiped with the men 
 about 'mistress's illness,' and Esther Smithson, whom I had 
 kept to sleep at Sandcombe thinking she might be wanted, was 
 ordered to do nil which no one else had time for. 
 
 And I, — I don't know what I felt, — I believe I was thankful 
 to be busy. There was a heavy load at my heart which would 
 otherwise have been unendurable.
 
 URSULA. 259 
 
 No neglect had I been guilty of intentionally. No suspicion 
 of real illness, much less of danger, had for an instant crossed my 
 mind when I left Leah that morning ; but I had given way to a 
 proud temper ; she had done me wrong, and I had waited for her 
 to apologise, instead of taking the first step towards reconciliation 
 myself. I had allowed the ' sun to go down upon my wrath,' 
 and to rise upon it again, and the ill feeling had kept me from 
 her. I might not indeed have been of use to her. Her husband 
 was the person responsible, if any one was to blame, for not 
 having sooner perceived the serious nature of the illness ; but I 
 could not be innocent in my own eyes, nor, as I could perceive, 
 in those of William and Jessie. 
 
 John Hervey came back with the doctor from Compton, and 
 when he heard that it was a serious matter, he proposed to ride 
 over himself to Hove for further advice. William hesitated, but 
 I urged it ; I was resolved there should be nothing more to re- 
 proach myself with. John went, and was back again with a 
 second doctor before eleven o'clock. Then he offered to stay all 
 night, — and I should have been thankful to keep him, he had 
 such a quick thought and ready hand in times of difficulty, — but 
 William objected, for he liked nothing that put him out of his 
 ordinary way ; and hiding his face from danger, tried to forget 
 that it existed. 
 
 I sat up with Leah alone. She did not know me ; in her de- 
 lirium she complained of me, and thought I was treating her 
 unkindly. Once she called out for me, and said I would not come 
 near her. The fever increased ; I expected nothing better ; the 
 Hove doctor had talked of nine days before the crisis : he was 
 not sure, but he thought it likely, and I summoned up my courage 
 to bear the suspense. Such anxieties are scarcely dependent 
 upon affection. I did not love Leah, but I could have willingly 
 taken her place, and been in her danger to save her. 
 
 Morning dawned, that freezing, dreary dawn which belongs to 
 the depth of winter, and Jessie stole into the room to beg that I 
 would go to rest. But I turned from the thought of rest ; and 
 when she took my place at the bedside, I went down-stairs to 
 give the men their Christmas breakfast of ale and toast, the only 
 relic of the old customs in my mother's time. 
 
 They were respectful and sympathising in their manner, and 
 I felt myself among friends and was cheered ; but when I left 
 them, 1 heard their jokes go on as though nothing was amiss. It 
 was Christmas-day to them. It was no day to me until, as I
 
 l6o URSULA. 
 
 stood for a minute at the open window of my own room, I heard 
 the peal of the merry bells of Hatton church. Then a better 
 feeling came over me, and I knelt down and prayed God to for- 
 give me in whatsoever I had done amiss in my intercourse with 
 Leah, and to spare her, and raise her up again to live from thence- 
 forth to His glory. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 IT was not the will of God that my prayer should be granted. 
 Nine days afterwards, and Leah was dead. In that short 
 period I had lived as it seemed through years ; for I had gazed 
 upon death, and faced the terrors of eternity. 
 
 I cannot write about it minutely. At the time I was in a 
 troubled dream. Looking back I can feel nothing but wonder 
 and thankfulness at the mercy which sustained me through the 
 trial. For all was left to me from the beginning. William was 
 at first stunned. His wife had been in many ways unsuited to 
 him, she had given him many hours of vexation, but he was used 
 to her, and understood her ; he had tnught himself to depend 
 upon her; and the thought of being left alone filled him with 
 unspeakable dreariness. When she was gone, he went about his 
 daily business, but I saw him often turn from the empty parlour, 
 and sit down within the wide hearth in the kitchen, and cry like 
 a child. 
 
 People told us we had one great comfort, that after the first 
 everything had been done which could be ; and it was true. No 
 money had been spared to give her doctors' advice, a nurse had 
 been hired that she might never want attention, Mr Richardson 
 had called every day, and prayed for her when he could not pray 
 with her, and at the end, when consciousness came back to her, 
 there was the comfort of knowing that he had done all he could 
 to make her prepare for her great change. But I could never 
 forget the beginning of her illness, and if she had not before the 
 last, said, ' Good-bye, Ursie,' and looked at me kindly, I think I 
 should have been broken-hearted. 
 
 Yet I did not dwell so much upon her ; I felt I must trust her 
 with all her faults, all her shortcomings, to Him who alone knew
 
 URSULA. 261 
 
 her heart, its trials and struggles, but rather I turned with a 
 bitter self-distrust to my own position. 
 
 Who was I that I should venture to rule others, when con- 
 science told me I had so little rule over myself? When for the 
 first time I sat at the head of William's table, as the acknow- 
 ledged mistress of his household, it was with a feeling very dif- 
 ferent from that which had led me to criticise Leah's arrangements 
 in other days. I had continually failed in humility, in gentleness, 
 and charity. I had obeyed, — but from necessity, not from a willing 
 heart, and the first qualification necessary for those who would 
 govern well is the power of obeying well. It seemed as though 
 it were meant to punish and humble me, that all my duties pre- 
 sented themselves in confusion, — one interfering with another, 
 my own will and William's perpetually coming in contact, and 
 claims from without, and anxieties from within, pressing upon 
 me, so that there were moments when I felt inclined to sit 
 down with my hands folded, and let others take their way, 
 merely because I had not the spirit to try and make them go 
 mine. 
 
 It was about a fortnight after Leah's funeral — that painful 
 time succeeding a great shock, when we try to look upon the 
 present and the past as one, and find that God has placed a 
 great gulf between them, which in this world can never be 
 bridged over— I thought I would steal a few moments of quiet- 
 ness to think of all I wished to do, and to alter the arrangements 
 which in Leah's time I had found fault with, and said that if I 
 were at the head of affairs they should be different. These were 
 many ; some, of course, more important than others, but all re- 
 quiring consideration and contrivance. 
 
 The men and boys who slept in the house were left entirely to 
 themselves. They were placed together in an old part of the 
 house, reached by a staircase, which led to the women-servants' 
 rooms as well. So there was no one to look after them. 
 
 I had heard through Martha that they were often very profane 
 in their language, and that if a boy, fresh from school, with good 
 habits, knelt down to say his prayers, they would mock him till 
 he gave up the practice. I had spoken about this to Leah ; I 
 had told her that at least she ought to take Martha away from 
 the risk of such company. But I was always put off with a 
 laugh at my particularity, as it was called. What had done very 
 well for the Sandcombe servants for thirty years, I was told, 
 would surely continue to do for them for thirty years to cowie.
 
 262 URSULA. 
 
 '1 liis was a thing to be remedied at once, and yet I was met 
 instantly by a difficulty ;is to fitting up what was now a lumber- 
 room for Martha, and so bringing upon William expenses which 
 he would consider unnecessary. Sunday was another burden 
 up in my mind. Martha never went to church in the morning, 
 so that she had no opportunity of receiving the Communion, 
 n if she had wished it. I had several times offered to remain 
 at home myself, but she would not hear of it. I could do a-> I 
 liked now, but if I was not at church, I was sure William would 
 never trouble himself to think about the men and see if they 
 were there. In fact, he was very irregular in his own attend- 
 ance, remaining at home on the least excuse, and I had strong 
 suspicions that the men often took advantage of this, and went 
 to public-houses, and got into bad company, on a Sunday. It 
 was impossible for me to be at home and at church too, and 
 wherever I was, I seemed compelled to leave something ne- 
 glected. As for Sunday reading, the men, if they read at all, 
 followed William's example, and spent their time in spelling 
 over a newspnper. I thought I might do something to help in 
 that way by bringing them together, and asking Mr Richardson 
 to lend me some interesting book to read to them, but I was 
 very ignorant, and shy too, and fancied I should never have 
 courage to be^in, even if William were to allow it, which was 
 doubtful. 
 
 But the thing I had most set my heart upon was having family 
 prayers. They were managed at Longside, and I earnestly de- 
 sired to have it so with us. In the morning, indeed, when the 
 men were all out in the fields, only Farmer Kemp's own family 
 and the in-door servants could attend ; but, in the evening, all 
 who slept in the house met in the room where the maids sat, and 
 where most of the needlework was done ; and then Father Kemp 
 regularly read a chapter in the Bible, and had prayers. I re- 
 member hearing him describe the difficulty he had in beginning 
 the practice, and how the men only made a mock of it ; but he 
 persevered, and now there could not be a more well-behaved 
 congregation in a church, than that which met at Longside 
 every evening. 
 
 But Farmer Kemp was master there, and had all his family on 
 his side. William was master at Sandcombe, and would be 
 entirely set against the notion. The fulfilment of my wish 
 seemed a great way off, and I had but few things externally to 
 help me in the meantime. Sandcombe was so far from Mr
 
 Richardson, and from Compton church, that I could gain but 
 little comfort from them. I saw Mr Richardson every now and 
 then, but I could not go to him to talk over my everyday diffi- 
 culties ; and as for church, I could very seldom go, except on 
 Sundays. The services were too early and too late, and th$ 
 utmost I could hope was to manage the walk occasionally, on 
 the saints' days, when there were prayers and a short sermon at 
 eleven, and when I might have business to take me to Compton. 
 
 Perhaps the improvement which I had the greatest chance of 
 carrying out, was as to the outward behaviour of the men who 
 worked on the farm. Both William and Leah had a great 
 notion of being respectable, and anything which created a 
 scandal, ,or made people talk about them, was dreaded. And 
 yet they would often keep men about them whose characters 
 were known to be bad, and who did untold mischief to others. 
 This arose, in a great measure, from Leah's indolence, and 
 William's dislike to face anything disagreeable. There wore 
 one or two men about whom I had heard things which made me 
 urge William to rid himself of them ; but he never would inquire 
 into the stories, and Leah always said that the men were not her 
 concern, and so they worked on, and every day I was sure that 
 they were doing harm, especially to the women and girls, who 
 were often employed in the fields, and heard their bad language, 
 and saw their evil ways. Once, when there was a press of 
 work, and a lack of hands, it was proposed to send Esther into 
 the fields, but I managed to prevent that myself. I felt that I 
 was in a certain way answerable for her to Mrs Richardson, 
 and I could not bear to think of her being corrupted by such 
 company. 
 
 It struck me that if I could only inquire, and find two steady 
 labourers to take the place of those whom I wished to turn off, 
 I might, without much difficulty, bring William to agree to it, 
 and this would be the beginning of what I hoped might at length 
 prove a great amendment. 
 
 I sat alone, as I before said, planning all these changes, when 
 I was interrupted by William. He was accustomed now to 
 wander into the house many times in the course of the day. No 
 particular business brought him, but he was restless,— always 
 thinking to ease the burden at his heart by change. Just at 
 first, I thought that he had come at the right moment, and I was 
 upon the point of opening out my wishes to him, but I remem- 
 bered how he disliked changes, and I knew, too, that old govern-
 
 .dd URSULA. 
 
 ments arc very jealous of new ones, and so I thought I would 
 delay, or, at least, sound my way before I made any propositions. 
 And it was fortunate that I did, for I should surely have met 
 with op] osition. He was bent upon an arrangement of his own. 
 Poor fellow! he wanted the appearance of a settled state of 
 things, even if he could not have the reality, and he was come to 
 make a proposal to me, he said. 
 
 I did not like the sound of the word, but I answered: 'Any- 
 thin.,', William, by which I can be a comfort to you, you know I 
 shall be very glad to do.' 
 
 ' It would be comfort for yourself too, Uisie,' he said, 'you 
 know you have your own living to get in the world, at least there 
 is little enough for you without, and you may just as well make 
 your money with me as with any one else. I would give you a 
 fixed sum by the year, and you might be able to put something 
 away out of it.' 
 
 So strangely blind we are ! It will scarcely be believed that 
 up to this moment, I had never put before myself the fact, that 
 Leah's death might be the means of separating me from Roger 
 for ever. 
 
 My heart seemed to rise up In my throat and choke my voice. 
 
 William thought I was touched by the feeling of the great 
 change which had come over us. He said to me kindly, ' It 
 would be the best thing for us both, Ursie. We understand 
 each other, and shall get on very well together. Things can't 
 be as they were, but we must make the best of them.' 
 
 'And Roger?' I exclaimed. 
 
 'Oh ! Roger will marry,' was his careless answer ; 'he is sure 
 to many in that out-of-the-way country.' 
 
 I rose up, and turned away my face from him, whilst I held up 
 my work to the window under the pretence that 1 could not see 
 to thread my needle, though in fact I only wanted time to re- 
 cover myself, I spoke to him after a few seconds, I think quite 
 calmly. ' It is very kind of you, William,' I said, 'to wish to 
 m ike a fixed agreement that shall continue, but it might not be 
 quite wise. Only as long as I stay with you, I should be very 
 much obliged for an allowance, because now that I have to look 
 after everything, I can't give any time to needlework.' 
 
 As the words came from my lips, I felt how cold they were, 
 seemingly ungracious and unthankful, and William longing, as 
 I could see, for something to turn to and be fond of. I tried to 
 make them better. I said he was always kind to me, that I was
 
 URSULA. 265 
 
 sure we should manage very well if we had to be together. I 
 turned my sentence in the way I thought most likely to please 
 him, but I could not say what I knew he wished to hear : ' Wil- 
 liam, it will make me happy to live with you.' 
 
 He was a proud man, and shy, as proud men often are. He 
 was thrown back by me, and he could not make a second ad- 
 vance. ' You shall do as you like, Ursie,' he said, ' I don't wish 
 to put constraint upon any one. I thought it would be wise to 
 place things on a regular footing, but if you like better to con- 
 tinue as you are, living, as it were, from hand to mouth, why, you 
 must please yourself.' 
 
 No, this was not at all what I liked. I must have things put on 
 a regular footing, as he called it, if I was to remain with him ; 
 but the sacrifice which this might involve, 1 was not prepared 
 for. 
 
 ' William,' I said, 'you must let me think this over by myself. 
 We are all in a bewilderment now. I don't think we either of 
 us know what we wish or want. A month hence we may tell 
 better.' 
 
 He looked at me for a second, tried to whistle as he used to do 
 when half angry and half astonished, broke off abruptly in the 
 middle, and went away. 
 
 As I ran up-stairs to my own room, I heard him giving some 
 orders in a loud, strained voice, and then I saw him walk off 
 with lonsr strides across the fields. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 I HAD greatly pained William, and at the very time when I 
 was most anxious to give him consolation. But how could 
 it be otherwise ? Was it possible, was it in any way to be ex- 
 pected, that I should entirely sacrifice my own happiness for the 
 sake of being what after all could only prove a secondary com- 
 fort to him. 
 
 This was the question which I put to myself, when I was once 
 more alone, in my own chamber, with my door bolted, and 
 kneeling before God that I might be the better able to answer it 
 in all sincerity,
 
 zb6 URSULA. 
 
 Time was passing on rapidly, in a very fc v months I might 
 expect, if not to sec Roger in England, at least to receive my 
 summons to Canada. Was I to say ' No' to it ? Could I leave 
 Roger to face loneliness in a distant land ? After all he had done 
 for mc, would it not be selfish, ungrateful, to draw back and 
 allow him to toil on, away from home, friends, every early asso- 
 ciation of happiness, to fall ill, perhaps, and die, and none to 
 comfort him ? 
 
 I wept most bitter tears as I conjured up the spectre of the 
 evils which might be lurking in the dimness of futurity. But 
 there was another side to the case. Roger was young, healthy, 
 and full of hope ; likely, as I had so often b>:cn told, to marry. 
 He had not gone to Canada for me, but for himself. If he sent 
 for me, it would be because I had no home but his. The tie 
 between us was voluntary. If I were called upon to break it by 
 a stronger claim, he would be the first to yive it up. 
 
 And William was my brother also, an elder brother, suffering 
 from a grief which Roqer hid never known. He had a house- 
 hold dependent upon him, and no one to manage it ; duties in- 
 cumbent upon him, which, without help, he would find the 
 utmost difficulty in fulfilling ; and he had been kind to me when 
 I most needed it, he had taken me into his home when I had no 
 other home. If I had not been happy there, it was from no in- 
 tentional neglect on his part. He might be a selfish man, but 
 he was never deliberately unkind. Could I put aside his claim 
 as slight? It was the revival, in another form, of the difficulty 
 which had so greatly troubled me when I left Dene ; but it 
 touched me more closely, for it was a question of separation, 
 not for a year, but, probably, for ever. 
 
 God forgive me if I found the cross He had laid upon me too 
 hard to bear ; if, for a while, I again pondered the case, striving 
 to escape from the decision of my conscience, and convince 
 myself that Roger was to be my first consideration, and that it 
 was less a question of my own wishes, than of the comparative 
 happiness of my brothers. I was young then. I had made a 
 duty to myself of my affections, and I had not learned that, 
 unless supported by -the claims of the work set before us by God, 
 affection is not a duty but a temptation. 
 
 Before I had in any way reached the end of my deliberation, 
 I was called down-stairs to speak with John Hcrvey. I had not 
 seen him since the day of the funeral, but I had been expecting 
 him constantly. He seemed now so much a part of ourselves
 
 URSULA. 267 
 
 that I was comforted at the thought of talking to him, though I 
 did not feel that I could ask his advice. 
 
 'How is it with you to-day, Ursie?' he said, kindly, as I 
 entered the room, ' and how is William ? ' 
 
 ' William is rather better,' I replied. ' He is in the fields 
 looking after the men. Do you want him ? ' 
 
 1 1 can't do him any good, I am afraid. Time will do that 
 through God's help; but I have a letter for you, Ursie.' 
 
 'A letter!' I jumped up and caught it from his hand. He 
 turned away as I tore open the seal. 
 
 1 Dearest Trot, — I send you some hearty good wishes for 
 Christmas-day, as I am writing to John Hervey upon a little 
 business. You shall hear more soon. Lots of thanks for your 
 last letter ; nothing keeps a man up like hearing from home. 
 We have had rather a bad time here. Mr Pierce has been very 
 ill, and is so now, and I have been good for nothing myself. 
 Please God, though, we get through this winter, we shall all be 
 better off next. John will tell you about my work. I have not 
 time for more. God bless you always, my little Trot. From 
 your very loving brother, 
 
 Roger Grant. 
 
 ' Love to William, and Leah, and all friends.' 
 
 I let the note fall upon my lap, and burst into tears. John 
 Hervey drew near, frightened. ' Is it ill news?' he said, ' there 
 was nothing particular in mine, except about Mr Pierce.' 
 
 I could not answer him, my tears came so fast. Perhaps it 
 was the careless mention of Leah's name which had opened the 
 flood-gates of my sorrow. 
 
 John took hold of the note, and I put it into his hand to read. 
 
 ' He has been ill,' was the only remark he made upon it, ' but 
 he tells me he is better.' 
 
 ' He is not better,' I exclaimed, passionately, ' I know what 
 he means by putting things in that light way. I must go to him 
 and nurse him. He is nothing to you, Mr Hervey, but he is 
 my all — my all ! ' I repeated ; and it gave me a kind of fierce 
 pleasure to feel that there was nothing in the world I loved 
 like him. 
 
 • Perhaps you would like to see my letter,' said Mr Hervey ; 
 * there doesn't seem much amiss from that, as far as Roger is 
 concerned, though I should be afraid about Mr Pierce; and you
 
 26S URSULA. 
 
 see he says that if anything were to happen to him, it might be 
 a great drawback.' 
 
 I seized the paper almost without thanks. I would not let 
 Mr Hcrvey read it to me. There was a pleasure in letting my 
 eyes rest upon the letters which Roger had formed. I waded 
 through two pages of farming business, understanding nothing ; 
 then I came to a few words about himself, less than what he had 
 said to me. I found no comfort in them. 
 
 ' Ho doesn't complain,' said John. 
 
 1 He never docs,' I replied. 
 
 ' Spring will be coming soon,' he continued, ' the worst will 
 be over.' 
 
 'And winter will be coming again,' I answered, 'but he won't 
 spend it alone.' 
 
 ' You are bent upon going to him, then,' said John, in rather 
 an anxious tone. 
 
 ' I am not only bent upon it, I must do it.' 
 
 ' I thought you mi^ht have stayed a little while with William,' 
 continued John. ' He will be much put to without you.' 
 
 I shrank from the suggestion. ' William will get a house* 
 keeper,' I said; 'and Roger wants me, and I promised him 
 to go.' 
 
 'And you wish it?' said John, and his eye rested upon me 
 with an earnest gaze, which for the moment puzzled me. 
 
 1 Yes,' I exclaimed, 'of course I wish it. Who is there that 
 can be to me what Roger is ? Who took care of me when I was 
 a child, and gave me a home, and watched over me, and taught 
 me? It was not William, Mr Hcrvey; you know that as well 
 as I do. If he had been all I had to depend upon, I might have 
 been at this time working for my bread in service, or starving 
 upon dressmaking. If William wants me now, it is for his own 
 good, not for mine.' 
 
 ' There is certainly more gr.ititude due to Roger,' said Mr 
 Hcrvey. He stressed the word gratitude. It fretted me. 
 
 'Gratitude!' I exclaimed. 'No, Mr Hcrvey, it is not gr.iti- 
 tude. I am grateful to Farmer Kemp, to Mr Richardson, to 
 you, to any one who has done me a kindness. I have something 
 more than gratitude for Roger.' 
 
 ' Don't trouble yourself to be grateful to mc,' he said, 
 gravely. 
 
 I scarcely heeded his words : ' You can't understand,' I ex- 
 claimed ; 'no one can,'
 
 URSULA. 269 
 
 'Yes,' he replied, in a tone of singular calmness, ' I can 
 understand. You love Roger better than any one else in the 
 world.' 
 
 4 1 love him better than my own life,' I said. ' I would be 
 thankful to sacrifice every hour of my existence to him. I wish 
 for nothing better than to live with him always. There are many 
 kinds of love in this world, Mr Hervey, I don't see how we are 
 to measure them. I only know that a sister's love for a brother 
 may make earth a Paradise. Dene was my Paradise,' I added, 
 in a lower tone. 
 
 I did not look at John Hervey as I spoke, my gaze was riveted 
 upon Roger's letter. 
 
 When, however, John said, touching the paper, 'May I have 
 it?' I gave it to him reluctantly, and then raising my eyes, I 
 was for the first time struck with the expression of his face. It 
 was strangely pale, and there was a look in it as though it had 
 been cast into a mould — a kind of stony look. I did not like to 
 ask him what was the matter. As he folded up the letter, he 
 said to me, abruptly, * I came over for another purpose. Miss 
 Weir is going to France ; I suppose you know it.' 
 
 ' I had heard of it : I did not know it was a fixed plan.' 
 
 ' I hear that she has engaged a servant, and has had directions 
 from Mr Macdonald.' 
 
 ' Miss Milicent is mad !' I exclaimed. 
 
 'Not far from it. She leaves her mother to Mrs Temple's 
 care.' 
 
 ' It will be safe care,' I said. 
 
 ' It may be,' he replied. 
 
 I saw he was too proud to ask me again to interfere in any 
 way ; and I smiled and said, ' You want me to look after Mrs 
 Weir, Mr Hervey, but you won't say so ?' 
 
 'My wishes are not likely to weigh much with you, Ursie, I 
 know,' was his reply ; ' but if Miss Weir goes, Mrs Weir will be 
 left without any friend.' 
 
 ' Mrs Richardson,' I said. 
 
 ' She will be left without any friend,' he repeated. ' Mrs 
 Temple keeps her to herself.' 
 
 ' But she likes it.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she does, I can't say ; but she seldom sees any one. 
 Mrs Richardson is constantly denied admittance.' 
 
 'For what purpose?' I exclaimed. 'It can do no harm to 
 any one.'
 
 270 URSULA. 
 
 ' You women arc strange beings,' he replied ; 'you arc all fond 
 of power.' 
 
 ' Because you men give us so little of it,' I said ; 'what is rare 
 is always precious.' 
 
 ' O Ursic ! ' he exclaimed, and he caught hold of my hand ; 
 'you have a great deal more power than you know, — if you were 
 only able' 
 
 'To do what?' 
 
 ' To use it rightly, — kindly, I mean.' 
 
 I laughed a little, and said I would come to him for instruc- 
 tions. It seemed odd that I could laugh. I was not in the least 
 happy in the depths of my heart ; but laughter lies on the surface. 
 We had some more conversation after that about many things. 
 John told me little about Miss Milicent that I did not know 
 except that the fact of her journey was actually settled. She had 
 not come to him for any help, he said ; she had gone entirely her 
 own way. I suppose it was her pride, and the consciousness that 
 her friends disapproved, which prevented her from consulting 
 any one ; nothing else that I can imagine would have induced 
 her to have frequent interviews with such a man as Lieutenant 
 Macdonald. He, it seems, besides telling her where Mr Weir 
 was, had given her some instructions as to her journey; and this 
 kind of business had taken her frequently to Dene, where Mrs 
 Price made a great deal of her. So strange it was that Miss 
 Milicent could bear it ! But I have lived to wonder at nothing 
 I see in the way of intimacies. All indulged faults bring us 
 sooner or later to humiliation of some kind. Miss Milicent's 
 self-will and pride made her take rather a pleasure, I suspect, in 
 going contrary to the opinion of the world. She thought she 
 showed her contempt fur it in this way ; but we do not take 
 tr uble to oppose what we despise. I don't mean by this that 
 Miss Milicent was intimate with Mrs Price, but only that she 
 bore to meet her upon a footing of equality. I inquired anxiously 
 about Mr Macdonald, and was thankful to find that he was to 
 leave Dene in a few days. Our late trouble had put thoughts of 
 Jessie out of my mind, but they were returning again, with the 
 more force, because I felt myself to be in a measure holding Leah's 
 place. Jessie had written a refusal, so she assured me ; I did not 
 doubt her word, and yet I had a lingering misgiving. The one 
 thing which Jessie could never be made to understand was, that 
 she had no right to indulge her vanity, by having a double mind 
 in these matters ; she might refuse Mr Macdonald, but I was
 
 URSULA. 271 
 
 rtot at all sure that she would not continue to flirt with him, and of 
 course in such a case a refusal would go for nothing ; especially 
 as I had reason to believe that Mr Macdonald sought Jessie for 
 something besides her beauty ; it being confidently believed by 
 many people that Mrs Morris was very rich, and meant to leave 
 Jessie a good sum of money. I was so anxious to hear of his 
 departure, that John promised to let me know as soon as he was 
 gone. I believe John thought I only wished him away, because 
 of his interference in Mrs Weir's affairs. We separated after 
 having been together more than an hour. Just before John left 
 me, I said, ' You are going to write to Roger?' 
 
 'Yes,' was his reply, 'and so are you.' He went to the door, 
 came back again and added, ' Ursie, we don't always see things 
 rightly when we have a strong wish.' 
 
 I knew that better perhaps than he could tell me. When I 
 found myself alone, I took a sheet of paper, and wrote a long 
 letter to Roger, telling him that I must give up all hope of 
 joining him at present. How I had arrived at the conclusion, 
 I don't know. I believe it was through contact with an honest 
 mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 IF William and I had in the least understood each other, we 
 could never have gone on as we did during the next few 
 weeks. We were both very unhappy, but if we had explained 
 the cause of our unhappiness, we must inevitably have quarrelled 
 and separated. As it was, we lived lives apart, but without dis- 
 agreement. The very absence of anything like real sympathy 
 enabled us to avoid the subjects which would have jarred, for 
 we kept upon the surface of all things. In my self-conceit, 
 believing that I had more thought, intellect, and principle than 
 Leah, I imagined at first that I could eventually fill her position, 
 even in William's estimation, for his love for his wife was by no 
 means an overpowering affection ; but I was soon convinced to 
 the contrary. As there is 'a time for every purpose under the 
 heaven,' so I believe there is also a place for every person. The 
 great man cannot fill the liule man's position ; self-sacrifice 
 cannot make up for the absence of congeniality. Not that I
 
 272 URSULA. 
 
 was groat, nor that my life was one of self-sacrifice. 1 only used 
 the expressions by way of illustration. Leah's likings and dis- 
 likin-s, her pleasures and pains, even her temper and fancies, 
 were part of William's home associations, and therefore necessary 
 to him. I believe I actually fretted him by trying to make no 
 complaint of the servants, nor to say sharp things of my neigh- 
 bours. The watchfulness which I was striving to acquire w.\s 
 stagnation to him, and I was too sad at heart to be able to 
 cheer him by talking much upon other subjects. I had Jessie 
 Lee with me whenever she could be spared, as much for 
 William's sake as for my own. The meals and the evenings 
 were so quiet and silent, I was thankful to have some one to 
 bring forward new subjects of conversation, and Jessie was 
 generally bright and amusing in her way, and seemed glad to 
 be with me. She was not, however, in her usual spirits, but 
 that could scarcely be expected, for she was very affectionate, 
 and felt Leah's death extremely. Whether there was any other 
 cause of melancholy I could not make out. As to Stonccliff, 
 there was still the same talk, week after week, of Miss Milicent's 
 going abroad, but the journey was always put off. When a 
 woman will follow her own fashions, instead of those marked 
 out for her by the common sense of others, it is surprising what 
 a mine of difficulties she is likely to sink into. No one without 
 seeing would have believed the fancies which Miss Miliccnt 
 gave way to respecting her French journey ; whims about her 
 boxes, her dresses, which way she was to go, how she was to 
 guard against the weather — it was as if she was the first person 
 who had ever crossed over to France. She took it into her 
 head to come frequently to Sandcombe, under pretence of 
 asking me what I thought about her plans, but not in the least 
 meaning to listen to what I said. She took up a good deal of 
 my time in that way, but I did not care so much for that. I had 
 always a very kindly feeling towards her, but what I did dislike 
 was the frequent mention of Lieutenant Macdonald's name in 
 Jessie's presence. There is nothing like talking of people to 
 keep up an interest. Even if disagreeable things are said, it 
 helps to retain them in one's recollection, and gives one a kind 
 of interest in them ; and Miss Milicent, of course, could not 
 always be complaining of the Lieutenant's habits and character. 
 Most frequently she spoke of him in reference to some infor- 
 mation he had given her, and then I saw Jessie colour up, and 
 listen eagerly. Once or twice, too, Miss Milicent had taken
 
 URSULA. 273 
 
 Jessie over to Dene with her, because she said she liked a 
 companion, and this kept up the Dene intimacy ; and, more- 
 over, at last, Mrs Price actually came and called upon me, 
 pretending she was bound to return the visit I had paid with 
 Miss Milicent. I could not understand that in the least, until 
 John Hervey put me up to it. ' Mrs Price,' he said, ' is not 
 noticed by any of the country gentlemen's families, and, as 
 she finds Dene dull without company, she falls back upon 
 her old friends.' I was not flattered by the reason, but it did 
 not trouble me much, I was not bound to return the visit, and I 
 never did. 
 
 It was March before Miss Milicent was ready to set off on her 
 expedition. Up to that time I had only twice been at Stonecliff, 
 and then had not been permitted to see Mrs Weir. I had tried, 
 however, to show that I thought of her by sending her little 
 presents of fresh eggs and vegetables. I hoped she had them 
 and knew they came from me, but Miss Milicent always seemed 
 in a mist as to what was done with them, or indeed with anything 
 which once entered the house at Stonecliff. The second week in 
 March, as I was in the kitchen putting up a little basket of things 
 to be left for Mrs Weir by Esther Smithson on her way home in 
 the evening, William came in from the fields looking very serious, 
 and said to me, ' Do you know, Ursie, I have had bad news. I 
 can't make out whether it is quite true, but our Hatton boy says 
 that Mrs Morris is very ill. Have you heard it ?' 
 
 'No,' I replied; 'and we should have heard it certainly. 
 There can 't be anything in it.' 
 
 ' I should think not.' he answered ; 'but Will declares that his 
 father was sent off to Hove for Mr Sutton.' 
 
 'Suppose you ride over and see,' I said; 'it would be the 
 shortest way.' 
 
 William was of a perverse disposition ; he never liked 
 having things suggested to him. ' I don't know about leav- 
 ing the men,' he replied ; ' they always go wrong when I 'm 
 away.' 
 
 'Well, then, wait till they come in to their dinner,' 1 said, 
 ' As for your own, they will give you some at Hatton.' 
 
 ' Not if the old lady is ill,' was his answer. ' There will be no 
 one to get it.' 
 
 ' I could go myself, if you liked it,' I observed. 
 
 He went to the window and looked out. ' The clouds arc 
 coming up very stormy away to the west ; you can't walk.' 
 
 S
 
 274 r/CSULA. 
 
 ' But I could bo driven/ I said, ' it' ypil could spare Joe Good- 
 enough for the cluii .' 
 
 'Just what, .1 can't do as it happens. I have sent Joe Good- 
 enough to Hove' 
 
 'Well, if it is so, we must even wait,' was my answer. ' 111 
 news flics apace, so if there is anything amiss, we may be sure it 
 will reach us before night.' 
 
 ' Wait and get a character for unfcelingness all round the 
 country,' replied William. ' I don't want to do that. 1 shall 
 sec about it. I suppose I must try and go myself.' 
 
 He went off to do what 1 was sure from the beginning he 
 meant to do. J should have preferred going nnself, for if Mrs 
 Mi rris was ill, I was more likely than William to be a comfort 
 to her. But whatdie said about walking was very true. I should 
 certainly be caught in a. storm. The kitchen window looked to 
 the west, and over St Anne's Hill and the reach of down below 
 it the clouds were like ink. There was a driving wind, which 
 perhaps might serve to keep the rain off for a time, but it was 
 sure to fall heavily before many hours were over. I went out 
 after William, to beg him to put on his greatcoat, but he would 
 not listen to me, though he shivered as he stood talking to one of 
 his men, and said it was bitterly cold. I saw him set off, and 
 warned him to make haste back ; the sky looked more threaten- 
 ing than ever, but it tempted me to go to the top of the lane, 
 that I might see it gathering over the sea. I walked by the side 
 of William's horse, telling him to be sure and bring back word 
 if Jessie was uneasy, and if I could be of any use ; and after 
 watching him across the down till he was out of sight, I stood 
 still and looked round me. It was a glorious sight from the top 
 of the hill. The waves were tossing furiously in the bay ; the 
 white breakers glittering for a moment, as the sun pierced the 
 i isses of clouds, and then disappearing beneath the heavy 
 shadows which swept over the sea, covered the cliffs, and rushed 
 across the land, like demons of darkness. 
 
 From infancy it had been a delight to me to watch a storm ; 
 even thunder and lightning excited far more than frightened me. 
 The spectacle of the vast Power over which human beings had 
 no control, raised my thoughts above earth. It was as though I 
 was no longer the weak, ignorant girl, of no account even in the 
 eyes of my fellow-creatures, but a being of a higher race, per- 
 mitted to draw near and watch the wonderful workings of Gods 
 Wisdom. The feeling had been encouraged by Roger. Often,
 
 URSULA. 275 
 
 as >\C stood together in former days upon St Anne's Hill, when 
 the rough winter winds were rushing past us, I have heard him 
 murmur to himself the verses in the Psalms which speak of ' the 
 Lord that commandeth the waters : ' ' the glorious God, that 
 maketh the thunder.' 
 
 The words came back to me now ; and as I looked at the wild 
 waves breaking upon the line of red shingles, I continued them 
 aloud : ' It is the Lord that ruleth the sea ; the voice of the 
 Lord is mighty in operation : the voice of the Lord is a glorious 
 Voice.' 
 
 'Is it you, Ursie Grant?' said some one, tapping me on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Miss Milicent ! I beg your pardon ; I didn't see you. 
 
 ' How should you ? I came from behind. What are you doing 
 here?' 
 
 'Watching the storm,' I said ; 'it will soon come to us.' 
 
 1 But not stay, I hope. I go to-morrow, Ursie.' 
 
 * Not in such weather, surely ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes, Ursie ; I must be off anyhow.' 
 
 ' O Miss Milicent ! are you right ?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I must do what I have set my mind to do ; 
 and what does it signify, Ursie? storm or no storm, one shall 
 reach the end somehow.' 
 
 Her tone was so excited, that I turned to look at her with 
 anxiety. 
 
 ' When we do what is put before us, we needn't be afraid, I 
 suppose,' she continued; 'and if the end cuts us short, it is 
 God's will, and no matter whether it be by storm or fever.' 
 
 ' I should be glad, though, to feel that I was doing His work,' 
 I replied; 'but that is the doubt to me very often, Miss 
 Milicent.' 
 
 She stopped before answering. ' Do you often doubt, Ursie, 
 she said, ' really doubt ?' 
 
 ' Very often,' I replied ; ' I think at the time I am right 
 When I look back, I see I was wrong.' 
 
 ' That can't be a pleasant discovery,' she replied, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' No,' I said ; ' but it has come upon me more frequently thar. 
 usual of late. Death makes us think, Miss Milicent, whether 
 we will or not.' 
 
 ' It is the end of the storm,' she said, and a singular look of 
 awe crossed her face. ' Ursie, if I were never to come back, 
 what should you say of me ? '
 
 276 URSULA, 
 
 An exclamation of pain at the idea escaped me. She stopped 
 me short. ' No matter for the thought, Ursie ; I am not a bit 
 nearer to it for uttering it. What should you say of me ?' 
 
 'In what way, Miss Milicent?' I asked. 'You have been a 
 good friend to me always.' 
 
 'Pshaw!' she exclaimed, impatiently. ' What is being a 
 good friend ? I have not beaten you nor turned you out of 
 doors, — that's all. Would you say, Ursie, that I had gone the 
 right way through life ?' 
 
 ' I think you wish to go, Miss Milicent, as I wish it myself.' 
 
 'I think you wish to go!' she repeated. 'I don't think you 
 have gone, that means. Ursie, you are a coward and a humbug 
 like other people.' 
 
 ' It is not my place,' I began — but she would not hear me. 
 
 ' It is \our place to answer my questions, if it is my will to 
 put them. What does place mean, Ursie? Look!' and, as a 
 large drop of rain, the beginning of the storm, fell upon her 
 hand, she thrust it before me ; — ' Cod's wainings touch all alike; 
 there is but one place before Him.' 
 
 I was greatly touched by her earnestness. I longed to speak 
 to her freely, but the difficulty I felt was insurmountable. As 
 in so many other cases she had committed herself to a certain 
 course of action, and now sought for approval. I was not the 
 person to give her sanction or to condemn her. 
 
 She waited patiently ; so patiently, indeed, with her large, 
 fierce eyes softened by an expression of suspense, that the very 
 consciousness of her presence took from me the power of think- 
 ing correctly. I really could not answer her ; I scarcely knev, 
 indeed, whit she wished or desired me to say. 
 
 ' Miss Milicent,' I replied at last, 'if you really want help in 
 these matters, tin re are persons much more fitted than I am to 
 give it.' 
 
 'I don't want help!' she exclaimed; 'I want only truth. 
 Gcod-bye, Ursie. I shan't get it from you.' 
 
 'O Miss Milicent!' I exclaimed, and I took hold of her 
 dress as she turned from me ; but she would not be detained. 
 When she hurried away, I saw her put her shawl over her 
 bonnet to shelter herself from the rain which was beginning 
 to fall fast, and as I turned to descend the hill, I lost sight of 
 her completely.
 
 URSULA. 277 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 OFTEN and often, in looking back upon that conversation, I 
 have blamed myself for not taking advantage of the op- 
 portunity afforded me of speaking freely to Miss Milicent upon 
 the mistakes I felt she was making. And yet, if I could place 
 myself again in the same position, I doubt whether I could 
 bring myself to act differently. What is fitting is such a strong 
 instinct in us all, unless we have been spoiled by education. 
 Miss Milicent had no right to make me her judge and reprover; 
 though, if she had waited but a few minutes longer, I think I 
 might by degrees have felt encouraged to state my opinion 
 more openly. As it was, I felt that she would throw upon me 
 the blame of having been too cowardly to advise her. What 
 had brought her to such a state of mind now I could only guess. 
 She was coming from Compton ; it was probable that some con- 
 versation with Mr Richardson had made her angry and yet 
 touched her conscience. I knew through Mrs Kemp, that from 
 the beginning he had told her she was forming foolish plans by 
 herself. Most likely he had been making a last effort to bring her 
 to reason, and wishing to find some support for her own wilful- 
 ness, she had turned to me. I was uncomfortable when I reached 
 home, and thought a good deal about her as I took my solitary 
 dinner ; but I was too busy afterwards to dwell upon the subject, 
 except when the wind rose higher, and I remembered what she 
 had said about the next day, and wondered whether she would 
 still persist in her determination to go, whatever might be the 
 state of the weather. 
 
 There was one person, however, whom no press of business 
 could drive from my recollection. We were expecting letters 
 from Roger, the first that could have arrived since he had heard 
 of Leah's death. I did not believe they would come that even- 
 ing. They could not, unless some one brought them out from 
 Hove, and I knew no one had been sent in ; but the bare pos- 
 sibility agitated me. As the afternoon closed in, and the wind 
 went down, and the rain turned first into sleet, and then into a 
 heavy fall of snow, I drew my chair near the fire, waiting for, and 
 expecting William's return; and whilst I worked busily with my 
 fingers, occupied myself with anxious thoughts of Roger in his 
 distant Canadian home, and, I am afraid, with many other 
 anxious and repining fancies, sufficient, if I had examined them.
 
 278 URSULA. 
 
 to prove to me that my own mind was far too undisciplined to 
 allow of my attempting to discipline Miss Milicent's. 
 
 By half-past five it w.is so d.irk that I lighted a candle, which 
 made everything beyond its own sphere darker. I wished 
 William would come, and began to be afraid that he was really 
 detained by Mrs Morris's illness. When I listened for his 
 horse's steps, I heard nothing but the low moaning of the wind, 
 as it drifted the snow-flakes to the earth, and the solemn ground- 
 swell, betokening the worst weather was at hand. I grew 
 nervous at last. The candle Bickered as draughts of air made 
 their way through the closed shutters of the old windows, and 
 then the shadows on the wall seemed to move, and I fancied the 
 door was opened, and when I went to close it I caught, as I 
 imagined, a murmur of strange voices by the front stairs, and 
 stole along the stone passage to listen, and hear nothing ; and 
 made my way back again with the feeling that I ought not to be 
 alone, that I must find some one in the parlour waiting for me 
 — Leah used to be there. 
 
 I was ashamed of such fancies, — I felt they were wrong. I 
 thought I would read a Psalm to myself and chase them away, 
 and I turned to that which had been so vividly brought before 
 me on that very day. I read it aloud to myself,— again I came 
 to the words, ' it is the Lord that ruleth the sea,' when a sound 
 struck me — a sound once heard, never to be forgotten— the 
 faint but heavy booming of a gun, — a signal from a ship in 
 distress. 
 
 It was not unusual. There were many wrecks in the winter 
 season. The coast had been known as dangerous from the 
 days when the old monks lighted their beacons on the summit 
 of St Anne's, and prayed that God would protect His servants 
 in perils of waters. More than ever, I wished that William was 
 at home ; he would have sent off his men to the shore instantly, 
 probably even he might have gone with them, for he was kind- 
 hearted when roused by any urgent call. I did not like to take 
 the responsibility of sending the men myself, and yet I could 
 not endure the idea of sitting stdl and doing nothing, and, in 
 my restlessness, I went out to the front door to listen again. 
 Another booming sound reached my ears. I could bear it no 
 lunger, and as the figure of a man, at that instant, crossed the 
 yard in the dusk, I ran out to stop him. ' I must speak to you,' 
 I exclaimed, 'come in ; do you hear the gun?' and I touched 
 him, thinking to sain his attention. He made no answer. ' Do
 
 URSULA. 279 
 
 you hear it?' I repeated. Still there was no reply, but he 
 followed me into the house. I stopped at the door. There was 
 a faint light in the passage from the fire in the kitchen. ' Is it 
 you, Joe Goodenough?' I said. The man laid his hand upon 
 mine, and as I started back, a voice, half-laughing, half-trem- 
 bling with agitation, said, ' Not Joe, my little Trot, but Roger ! ' 
 
 I don't think I screamed. I am quite sure I did rot faint. I 
 remember that I led Roger into the parlour, and took off his 
 greatcoat, and put him into the arrr-"k?ir, and sat myself down 
 beside him, even as if we had been parted only for a few hours, 
 and never till then asked him the question where he came from, 
 and what brought him. Once with me, and all seemed natural. 
 He inquired hastily about William, and seemed very anxious to 
 know how things were going on, and then he said, 'Mr Pierce 
 is dead, Trot; I am come home at his last request. That is one 
 thing. Poor Leah's death is another.' 
 
 I knew all that was contained in the last sentence. He had 
 thought of me. I answered, ' There have been terrible changes. 
 We feared Mr Pierce might die.' 
 
 ' Yes, it has been a grievous business. He was not fitted for 
 the climate or the work. I hope I was a comfort to him. But 
 you have had a hard time too, my little Trot, my precious little? 
 woman.' He seized me with his old bear's hug, and I felt tears 
 drop upon my cheek ; we could neither of us trust ourselves to 
 say more just then. He had landed only that day, and had had 
 little to eat. I went out to order something for him, and came 
 back again to ask him about the ship ; should any one be sent 
 off? He satisfied my mind. As he came off the down he had 
 met people going across. There would be sufficient help. The 
 night was calm, though dark, and he did not think I need be 
 uneasy. 
 
 Oh ! the blessing of resting upon another instead of deciding 
 for one's self. Women may like power, but I can never believe 
 that it is in their nature to like the responsibility which goes 
 with it. I told Martha to get tea quickly, and would have gone 
 away myself to hurry her, but Roger was just as he used to be, 
 so patient about his own comfort. He should like a biscuit and 
 a grlass of wine, he said, and then he would wait till William 
 came. We would have tea together. ' Home faces are better 
 than tea,' he remarked, as he grasped my hand, and held it tight 
 4 O Ursie ! there's nothing like Old England after all.' 
 
 We spoke of Leah then. He felt so tenderly about her. I
 
 23o URSULA. 
 
 saw he could not reconcile himself to Sandeombe without 1. r . 
 His loving heart seemed to have no power of retaining disagree- 
 able impressions of any one living, much less of the dead. To 
 hear him talk of his old neighbours and acquaintances, even of 
 the Shaws and Prices, one might have thought that they had 
 been conferring favours upon him all his life. 
 
 People had been very kind to him in Canada, he said, and he 
 had no doubt that if he chose to go back he should do well, 
 liut the necessary exposure to the intense cold during this 
 first winter, and the anxiety about Mr Pierce, had tried him 
 greatly. The voyage home had done him good, and he was 
 looking well, but this first experience of exile had not been 
 quite successful. As he went more into details about his own 
 affairs, I found that Leah's death had in souil; way affected his 
 money arrangements with William, and there was a question 
 about laying out his little capital in Canada, which could not 
 well be determined until he had had a communication with 
 William. ' So you see I had more reasons than one for re- 
 turning, Ursie,' he said; 'and as poor Mr Pierce took care 
 to provide me with the means, I thought I shouldn't be wrong, 
 though I felt it was following my own wishes. I had a 
 longing' 
 
 ' To see me,' I said, as I looked up at him eagerly. He patted 
 my check and laughed ; but a grave look came over his face, 
 and directly afterwards, he went on saying something about 
 Leah. I knew as well as possible all that passed through His 
 mind ; it was what passed through mine likewise. We could 
 not part perhaps for ever without one more meetin % 
 
 We waited till seven o'clock, and still William did not come. 
 I made Roger have his tea then, and in my happiness did not 
 think of being uneasy about William, only I was impatient that 
 he should see Roger. But when the clock struck nine, I did 
 really think it very strange, and I agreed to Roger's proposal, 
 that he should go up to the top of the hill and call out. The 
 night was pitch dark, and the snow still falling, and in spite of 
 William's knowledge of the tracks over the down, it was not at 
 all impossible that he might lose his way. I could not help being 
 amused at the contemptuous tone in which Roger spoke of the 
 weather. 'What was English cold?' he said, as I helped him 
 on with his greatcoat, but he knew how to wrap himself up un- 
 commonly well, and went out pleased, I am sure, rather than not 
 at having to encounter his old enemy.
 
 URSULA. 281 
 
 Not above ten minutes afterwards, I heard quite a chorus of 
 men's voices in the entrance. William was there and Roger, and 
 there were one or two others besides. But they were merry 
 enough, and I was satisfied there was nothing amiss. The men 
 went into the kitchen, William came into the parlour, blinking at 
 the light, and putting a handkerchief to his eyes, but with his 
 hand resting upon Roger's shoulder, and asking him more ques- 
 tions than could by any possibility be answered. ' He was lost,' 
 said Roger, laughing heartily. ' You would not believe it, Ursie, 
 but he was.' 
 
 'And frightened out of my senses when I was found,' ex- 
 claimed William. ' What was I to make of it, Ursie, when I 
 heard a man, who I thought hundreds of miles away, hallooing 
 close at my side in the dark? I would walk fifty miles, and be 
 present at a hundred shipwrecks, before I would have such a 
 fright again. But welcome for all that, my good fellow,' and he 
 shook Roger's hand till I thought it would have come off. 
 
 ' Then there has been a shipwreck?' I inquired, anxiously. 
 
 ' A wreck, but no lives lost. Heaps of oranges for the Halton 
 people to feast on to-morrow, and plenty of salt water to give 
 them a pleasant flavour. I should have been back here three 
 hours ago but for the wreck. It was bitter work down on the 
 shore ; and the wind seems to have caught my eyes, they smart 
 terribly.' 
 
 ' And how did you find Mrs Morris ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Baddish, very bad, Jessie says. I didn't see her. The dec- 
 tors think it is a break up.' 
 
 '.Poor Jessie !' I exclaimed. ' Did you tell her I would go over 
 to her any moment ?-' 
 
 ' She does not want help, so she declares, but I promised her 
 you should be there to-morrow. She is not a girl to be left to 
 herself in a difficulty.' 
 
 ' I could drive you over, Ursie,' said Roger. 
 
 'Yes,' I said, carelessly; 'but, William, who are those men in 
 the kitchen?' 
 
 'Crompton fellows, who were down on the shore helping 
 about the wreck. We were all going wrong together when Roger 
 hailed us. 'It's his doing, having them in and giving them a 
 glass of ale. I am not given to such extravagance, Ursie,' and 
 William laughed the first hearty laugh I had heard since Leah's 
 death. 
 
 I went out to the men myself to sec they had everything com-
 
 i : URSULA . 
 
 fortablc. They were making a hearty sup| cr, and it did my 
 
 heart g'~>od to sec something like the old Sandcombe hospitality, 
 whi h I used to hear of in my young day-. They were not gone 
 till nearly ten o'clock. When 1 went back to the parlour I found 
 William and Roger sitting over the fire, deep in business already. 
 er started up as I put a candle before him, and told him it 
 was time to go to b 
 
 'Time ! not yet, Trot ; why the evening is just begun.' 
 
 'It is time, though,' I said, 'for folks who must get up with 
 the cock-crowing.' 
 
 1 le lingered a little, thinking. ' Trot, you and I used to thank 
 God for taking care of us before we went to bed. I have come 
 through a rough time lately. What do you say, William ; mightn't 
 we have prayers?' 
 
 William was taken so by surprise he could not object, and I 
 don't believe he wished it. I stepped out of the room, and call d 
 Martha, and we all knelt down, and Roger said some of the 
 rs from the evening service, and thanked God for bringing 
 him safe home. That was the first beginning of family prayer 
 at Sandcombe. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE first waking the next morning would have repaid me for 
 double the pain I had suffered since Roger's absence. It 
 was so wonderfully happy. My nature was not one to dwell long 
 on future troubles, so I took the blessings brought by the present 
 moment, and only felt that Roger was with me, and that for the 
 time all must go well. And my feeling was shared by every one 
 in the house. Roger's return was like letting the light of the sun 
 break in upon our sad household. William expanded, as it were, 
 under its influence in a manner which was surprising to me; 
 ecially as he had a good deal to make him uncomfortable in 
 other ways. I mentioned that the evening of the wreck he came 
 in shading his face from the light, and putting a handkerchief 
 to his eyes. All that evening he complained of a shooting pain 
 in them, and the next day they were very much inflamed. He 
 had caught cold in them ; for in consequence of being so silly as 
 not to take a greatcoat with him, he had no defence against the
 
 URSULA. 283 
 
 snow, and he had been exposed to it a long time. We forced 
 him to send for the Compton doctor; but the lotion which was 
 ordered did no good, and then he said he would see some one in 
 Hove. Instead, however, of letting the doctor come to him, he 
 would go into Hove himself on a day when there was a bitter 
 wind blowing, and of course he returned worse than he went. 
 These things were very vexatious, but I could talk out my 
 troubles to Roger, and that was sufficient comfort to me for the' 
 time. The accounts from Hatton continued very indifferent. 
 Mrs Morris kept her bed, and Jessie was in constant attendance 
 upon her. Roger and I saw Jessie for a short time the day he 
 drove me over, and she was very pleasant in her behaviour to 
 both of us, — very glad to see Roger, and full of thanks for our 
 coming ; but her mind was so engrossed by all the cares pressing 
 upon her, that she did not seem to take in anything else 
 thoroughly. I thought myself how much prettier and more 
 winning she was in this subdued mood than in any of her wilful 
 humours, and I was pleased that Roger should see her to advan- 
 tage, even though her manner contradicted some of the things I 
 had lately written to him about her. Jessie told me that day 
 that Miss Milicent was actually gone. She had learned it from 
 some one who came over from Dene, and said that Mr Mac- 
 donald knew it for certain. There was a great deal too much 
 communication kept up still between Dene and Jessie and the 
 lieutenant. I did not feel at all easy in my mind as to the end. 
 
 After Jessie's information, I resolved to make an effort to go 
 and see Mrs Weir, even at the risk of facing Mrs Temple, and 
 perhaps offending her. It was a little pleasure to me also whilst 
 Roger was away, for he was obliged to go to London for a few 
 days to see Mr Pierce's relations. Yet I did not feel comfort- 
 able in thinking what kind of reception I might meet with, and 
 I was rather nervous as I rang the bell. The page opened the 
 door, and I asked if I might see Mrs Weir. He did not know 
 — he would go and see — and he ran off. I stood looking down 
 the road, and saw Mrs Temple coming up. She was going on 
 beyond the house, but on perceiving me she drew near. I made 
 a curtsey, and said I had walked over to inquire after Mrs 
 Weir. 
 
 ' Oh ! Mrs Weir is not at all well to-day.' 
 
 1 1 was afraid she might not be, ma'am,' I replied. 'Parting 
 with Miss Milicent must have made her anxious.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is too excellent a person to allow herself to be
 
 284 URSULA. 
 
 nnxious upon any subject,' was the answer. ' I will tell her that 
 you called.' 
 
 'I had hoped that I might have seen her, ma'am,' I said. 
 ' Having been accustomed to me so long, I fancied it would not 
 make her nervous.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir sees no one but her friends,' was Mrs Temple's 
 answer; ' I will tell her that you called to inquire, and no doubt 
 she will be much obliged to you.' 
 
 Just then Mr Temple and some strange gentlemen crime up, 
 and Mr Temple asked his wife if she was going on fanner. 1 
 saw she disliked leaving me at the door, and again she repeated, 
 ' I will tell Mrs Weir that you called,' — which was as much as 
 to say, ' You have come, and now you may go back again,' but 
 1 kept my stand, waiting for the answer from Mrs Weir herself. 
 
 'Are you ready, my dear?' said Mr Temple, in his meek 
 voice, and he offered her his arm : she really had no excuse then, 
 and was obliged to depart. 
 
 The pa^e came back almost directly afterwards, followed by 
 Cotton. He began telling me that Mrs Weir was very ill, that 
 she had had a bad night, that she did not see any one, — but 
 Cotton gave him a tap on the shoulder, and sent him off to the 
 kitchen, and, even before he was out of sight, exclaimed, ' Little 
 rascal ! — he would say his face was copper-coloured for six- 
 pence ! ' 
 
 1 Isn't Mrs Weir ill ? ' I said. ' Can she see me ?' 
 
 Cotton replied by stepping out into the road, and looking up 
 and down it. 
 
 ' She is gone. That is her purple bonnet. Now, Miss Grant, 
 if you wish to come, you must make the most of your time.' 
 
 'What does it mean, Cotton?' I exclaimed, 'I don't under- 
 stand.' 
 
 'Don't ask questions, and you won't have answers. At any 
 rate, seeing you will do my mistress good, for yours will be the 
 first face belonging to any one out of the house that she has 
 caught sight of for the last three weeks' 
 
 ' Has she been so ill as that?' I inquired. 
 
 ' Only learning to be quiet, she will tell you,' said Cotton. 
 1 Before I would put up with such folly ! But we aren't all made 
 alike, that is one blessing.' 
 
 I followed her, greatly perplexed and pained. 
 
 'Mrs Weir's sitting-room was wanted for any stray visitors, 
 whispered Cotton to me, as she saw me look round the lobby at
 
 URSULA. 285 
 
 the head of the stairs, not quite knowing where I was to be 
 taken to. ' She has Mr Temple's little dressing-room fitted 
 up for her now, and her bedroom is along the passage to the 
 right.' 
 
 1 It is not comfortable for her, is it?' I asked; and Cotton 
 shrugged her shoulders, and answered, ' We must like what is 
 given us, when we are not mistresses in our own house.' 
 
 Mrs Weir looked a least a year older since the last time I had 
 seen her. Her complexion, naturally so singularly clear and 
 smooth, had become withered and sallow, and her eyes were 
 heavy ; but she was much more self-controlled, and if I could 
 have felt that her appearance and manner were natural, I might 
 have fancied there was a change for the better. 
 
 1 You find me in a new room, Ursula,' she said, as Cotton left 
 us, and I sat down beside her. ' It must seem strange to you.' 
 
 Yes, it was very strange, so cold-looking, and comfortless ! 
 Nothing but Mrs Weir's work-basket, and a Bible on the table ; 
 no flowers even to brighten it. 
 
 ' I have been here since Milicent left me,' she continued. ' My 
 niece wished me to be near her ; and she has friends coming to 
 see her, so that the house will be full.' 
 
 ' It doesn't look like your room, certainly, ma'am,' I replied. 
 
 ' You miss the little ornaments ; but they were better in the 
 visitors' room ; and, you know, Ursula, all things increase in 
 value when they give pleasure to others.' 
 
 ' This room is very small, ma'am,' I observed, ' and I am 
 afraid you will feel the draught from the door.' 
 
 ' My niece has lent me a thick shawl, and I put it on when I 
 feel the cold. You see, Ursula, I am not fit to travel, because I 
 do feel things so much. My niece tells me that.' 
 
 Her voice faltered a little, and I heard her murmur to herself, 
 1 It is right : God help me ; it is all right.' 
 
 ' You will be better, ma'am, when you have heard from Miss 
 Milicent,' I said ; ' her being away must make you anxious.' 
 
 ' I ought not to be anxious, Ursula. I have so many bless- 
 ings ; and I could not go. Milicent will do without me — she 
 
 always does without me, but it is lonely, and I wish ' she did 
 
 not finish the sentence. 
 
 'What do you wish, dear ma'am ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Nothing, Ursula. God has taught me that I must have no 
 wishes,' and Mrs Weir folded her little hands together, as a child 
 would do in prayer.
 
 286 URSULA. 
 
 ' Only perhaps it would do you good, just to say out your 
 wish, ma'am,' I said ; 'even if you don't think it right to en- 
 courage it.' 
 
 ' No, Ursula ; no wishes, no longings.' 
 
 ' Some, dear ma'am,' I exclaimed, 'some we must have, whilst 
 we live upon earth.' 
 
 ' If God would grant me to see my duty dearly,' she answered ; 
 ' I try to understand what they tell me — yes, I try. But, Ursula, 
 a wife has a great duty to a husband.' 
 
 ' No one would wish you to go to Mr Weir now, ma'am,' I an- 
 swered. 
 
 'That is what is said. Is it true, Ursula? I made a vow 
 once. Does God forget our vows?' 
 
 'He does not wish us to do what is impossible, ma'am,' I re- 
 plied, 'and your friends judge rightly, I am sure, in telling you 
 that you would do harm to yourself, and no good to Mr Weir, 
 by insisting upon joining him.' 
 
 ' You say so, do you ? you arc like them all, but I forgot — I 
 am to be quiet. Cotton ought not to have brought you here, it 
 was wrong. My niece would not like me to see you, and she 
 knows what is best. But I am quiet— only if they would tell 
 me why they allowed Miliccnt to go without me. Ursula, I will 
 pray. God will help me if I pray.' 
 
 All the assumed self-control was over. Her hands trembled 
 violently. I took hold of them to keep them still, but she did 
 not seem to think of my presence as, with her eyes closed, she 
 poured out her prayer with all the simplicity of a child, and the 
 earnestness and devotion of a saint. She prayed for submission, 
 for guidance, for humility, and charity. 1 could with difficulty 
 follow the course of her thoughts. There seemed to be a burden 
 upon her heart, which she could scarcely find words to expn 
 
 After a few moments she lay back upon the sofa. I thou 
 she was faint, and offered her a bottle of salts, but she would not 
 take it. ' No, Ursula,' she said, ' I am better now, I will not 
 talk any more ; and you had better go.' 
 
 ' I can't leave you alone, >,' I r< pli< d. 
 
 'Cotton will come to me, and my niece wiil return. I would 
 rather, Ursula.' 
 
 ' Rather,' meant duty, not inclination, I was sure, and I felt 
 very determined. ' I was in hopes, ma'am,' I said, ' that I might 
 have stayed a little with you to tell you about my brother Ro r 
 — the one who went to Canada, you know— he is come baek.'
 
 URSULA. 2»7 
 
 Her eyes quite brightened at this little bit of news from the 
 outer world. She said eagerly, ' O Ursula ! that must be very 
 pleasant ; will you not tell me about it ? Was that why you 
 did not come to see me ? My niece thought you had forgotten 
 me.' 
 
 ' I have had a great deal of trouble, ma'am,' I said, and I 
 began to give her an account of Leah's illness, lengthening out 
 what I had to say, so as to gain her attention thoroughly, and 
 it was quite curious to me to watch the effect my little story had 
 upon her. She laid her hand upon mine when I spoke of the 
 sorrow that had come upon us, smoothing it kindly, and looking 
 at me at the same time intently, and though she grieved with me, 
 and tears stood in her eyes, yet the haggard look passed from her 
 face, until I told her how I had watched Leah, and nursed her, 
 and been with her at her death. Then it came back again most 
 painfully, and she said, ' You have done all you could, Ursula ; 
 you have nothing on your conscience, and now God has sent 
 you a reward.' The words gave me a pang, as I thought how 
 little they were deserved. I changed the subject, knowing what 
 was in her thoughts, and spoke of Roger, but I could not seize 
 upon her attention again, and as she looked towards the door 
 nervously, I felt that I had been there long enough. 
 
 I rose to go, promising to come and see her again, but I had 
 no response. It almost seemed that she wished me not to 
 come, for she only said, ' Yes, Ursula, when you have time ; but 
 you are very busy, and you have your brother.' 
 
 I aid not notice the change in her manner, and insisted upon 
 placing the cushions comfortably, and throwing a shawl over her, 
 as in the good old days at Dene. Just as I was leaving the room 
 I said, ' I think I must send you over a few crocusses and snow- 
 drops, ma'am, from Sandcombe. You don't seem to have any, 
 and you used to like them so much.' 
 
 ' O Ursula ! thank you, indeed that will be so kind ; but my 
 niece would like some for the visitors' room, if you could spare 
 them. She says we must all try and make that pretty and com- 
 fortable for her friends.' I made no more offers. If it had been 
 possible to be angry with Mrs Weir, I think I should have been 
 then. 
 
 Cotton was keeping guard in the lobby. I was going down 
 stairs, but she hurried me away to her own room — a little attic. 
 
 ' I shall get into a scrape for this,' she said ; ' but I couldn't 
 help it. I couldn't bear it any longer by myself
 
 283 URSULA. 
 
 ' I don't understand it all,' I said. 
 
 ' How should you, or any one who doesn't live in the house ? 
 I thought Mr Richardson might have been of use, but she's too 
 much for him.' 
 
 ' She ! who ? Mrs Weir ?' 
 
 ' No, no ; how foolish ! Mrs Temple. She keeps him at .inn's 
 length. Ever since Miss Milicent went has he been trying to get 
 in, and never succeeded once.' 
 
 ' But why not ?' I exclaimed ; 'why shouldn't he come?' 
 
 'Just sit down, and I'll tell you ;' and Cotton gave me a chair 
 and seated herself on a trunk, delighted, as I perceived, to have 
 some one to whom to pour out her troubles. It seemed that 
 ever since the first news had been heard of Mr Weir, Mrs Weir's 
 nervousness and fidgets, as Cotton called them, had increased 
 tenfold. It was the old feeling which we had battled with at 
 Dene, only much more vehement. Mrs Weir could never have 
 loved her husband, latterly she must have been very unhappy 
 with him ; yet she had kept herself up by the one principle, 
 which was, in fact, all the strength of mind she possessed,— a 
 sense of religious duty. But for this she might long ago have 
 been considered incapable of judgment upon any subject. I 
 suppose, naturally enough in her state of health, the principle 
 had become exaggerated. She was morbid in her conscientious- 
 ness, but still it was the only thing to rest upon in dealing with 
 her. In the present instance I gathered from what Cotton said, 
 that she might have been managed easily enough but for Miss 
 Milicent's wilfulness. If any one else had been sent to find Mr 
 Weir, and inquire into his condition, Mrs Weir would, at least 
 for a while, have been satisfied ; but the moment Miss Milicent 
 talked of going, Mrs Weir became excited, and said she must go 
 too,— and the idea so possessed her that it became a kind of 
 monomania. 
 
 ' I should have given in to her,' I exclaimed, as Cotton told me 
 this. 
 
 ' So should I,' she replied. ' Mrs Weir is just one of those odd, 
 nervous persons, who can do wonderful things when they have 
 their own way, and can't stir an inch when they have not. 
 I hvard Mr Richardson say this myself to Mrs Temple. He did 
 all he could to keep Miss Milicent from her wild scheme, and I 
 know he put before her the harm all the fuss was doing her 
 mother, — but you might as well have talked to a stone wall ; 
 and ther he took the other tack, and turned to Mrs Temple,
 
 URSULA. 289 
 
 hoping something might be managed to satisfy Mrs Weir, — and 
 there was another stone wall.' 
 
 1 He must have had enough to do with them all,' I said. 
 
 ' You would think so if you had known everything that went 
 on ; how we used to be kept up, night after night — Mrs Temple 
 preaching to my poor mistress about patience, and trying her so 
 that she must have been better than Job if she had not been 
 impatient, and at last sending her off into hysterics ; and Miss 
 Milicent coming in in the middle, with worries about her boxes, 
 and what she should take, and what she should leave behind, 
 and never seeing that the very mention of packing set Mrs Weir 
 off worse than ever.' 
 
 1 Mrs Weir is quiet enough, now,' I said. 
 
 ' Hasn't she been tutored, — fairly tutored and trained into it ? 
 But the trouble is not over.' 
 
 ' I suppose Mrs Temple did only what she thought was for 
 the best,' I said. 
 
 Cotton gave a little contemptuous laugh. ' Why, Miss Grant, 
 you are not taken in by her, are you ? She thinks it the best for 
 herself that Mrs Weir should stay, there is no doubt of that. If 
 she did not, my poor mistress would have been off for France, 
 or for Australia, or for any other country, by the next packet.' 
 
 ' I don't precisely see what good it can do Mrs Temple to 
 have Mrs Weir here,' I said, 'she can be only a trouble.' 
 
 'There is a house to be kept up,' replied Cotton. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' but Mrs Weir's income is very small.' 
 
 ' Not so small but that it helps Mrs Temple pretty consi- 
 derably ; that I know from good authority,' continued Cotton. 
 ' And just see in what a style \\ e have things — footman, and 
 page, and pony-carriage, and gardener. Mrs Temple didn't live 
 in that way in her own home, and she would not live so here, if 
 it was not for Mrs Weir's help. She has all the money in her 
 own hands, and she doesn't choose it should go out of them.' 
 
 ' Still,' I said, not choosing to own to Cotton how much I 
 agreed as to her opinion of Mrs Temple, ' it was best for Mrs 
 Weir to stay.' 
 
 'That mayor mayn't be,' replied Cotton. 'As you yourself 
 said just now, Miss Grant, when her heart was so set upon it, I 
 should have run the risk. But I wouldn't quarrel about the plan, 
 only the way it has been managed. If ever there was a hard 
 gaoler, it's Mrs Temple. You must have seen enough yourself tt> 
 make you guess that.' 
 
 T
 
 290 URSULA. 
 
 'I see that Mrs Weir is afraid of Mrs Temple,' I said, 'and I 
 don't like her being moved into that small room, and not having 
 everything comfortable about her.' 
 
 'Oh! that's sacrifice, discipline/ exclaimed Cotton; 'I know 
 the words by heart, for I've he. nil nothing else since we came 
 to StonecliiT. If it's possible, Miss Grant, for a woman to make 
 her way to heaven by proxy, depend upon it that woman's Mrs 
 Temple. Why, there isn't a duty that she has to perform which 
 she doesn't make someone or another do for her. Miss Mili- 
 ccn t — she sees the poor for her, and goes to the school ; and Mr 
 Temple, he pays her visits, and writes her letters; and Mrs 
 Weir finds money for charity, and does poor-work, and gives up 
 all her little comforts to make things pleasant to the visitors, 
 and Mrs Temple counts up all that is done, and takes the sum 
 total to herself.' 
 
 ' I can't bear to hear you talk so, Cotton,' I said. ' I don't 
 believe it can be true.' 
 
 'Just come here for a month, and see if it isn't,' exclaimed 
 Cotton. 'A month ! why, you 'd find it out in a week ! I have 
 ; ^one in and out of the room whilst visitors have been there, and 
 have heard her go on— 'We do this, and we do that' — till you 
 wouldn't believe it, but I have been almost taken in myself; and 
 no wonder my poor mistress is.' 
 
 'Then it was not Mrs Weir's wish to change her room ?' I 
 asked. 
 
 • So more than it is to cut her head off. It was all done by 
 Mrs Temple's preaching about sacrifice and discipline. Mrs 
 Temple has the command of the whole house, and goes where 
 she likes, and does what she likes ; and because she is in the 
 drawing-room all day, and does not want a sitting-room to h i - 
 self, she made my poor mistress fancy that it was too great a 
 luxury for her to have the comfortable south room, which she 
 chose when she came here; and so, after Miss Mnicent was 
 gone, and when there was actually an additional spare bed- 
 room, she teased her into moving into that little poky dressing- 
 room.' 
 
 'Miss Milicent ought not to have gone,' I could . not help 
 saying. 
 
 ' She wasn't much good when she was here,' continued Cctton ; 
 'she never saw anything that went on.' 
 
 Cotton was mistaken there. Miss Milicent, I was sure, saw a 
 great deal, only with her awkwardness she did net know how to
 
 URSULA. 291 
 
 remedy it. I felt really afraid for Mrs Weir, especially as 
 Cotton continued her tissue of complaints, which might indeed 
 be exaggerated, but for which I could scarcely doubt there was 
 a foundation of truth. She had her own special grievance, 
 which was natural enough ; it was one which the servants could 
 not help feeling — Mrs Temple's stinginess. I was aware of the 
 characteristic, but I confess I was not prepared for all the little 
 ways in which Cotton declared it was shown* The Dene house- 
 keeping had been lavish, wrongly, so very often, and no doubt 
 there was much which required correction ; but I could feel 
 keenly with Cotton when she described how even the char- 
 woman's wages were cut down, and all kinds of make-shifts 
 forced upon the kitchen in order to make a show in the parlour. 
 
 What I heard was very painful to me, and as for remedying 
 any part of the evil, I saw no way to it. For unless Mr and Mrs 
 Richardson were freely admitted to the house, there were none 
 of Mrs Weir's friends near to be aware how things went on, or 
 to take her part. 
 
 ' Mrs Temple is very jealous of you, Miss Grant/ said Cotton, 
 as the conversation ended, ' and I don't know whether it isn't as 
 much as my place is worth to have let you in now. But I felt I 
 must get hold of you, and if you can come over again before long, 
 I '11 try and smuggle you in ; and if I can't, perhaps you won't 
 mind the trouble of the walk for nothing, for I assure you it 's 
 charity.' 
 
 Cotton did not feel the difficulty which was present to me. 
 Mrs Temple was the mistress of the house. If she did not like 
 me to go there openly, I could not be smuggled in by the lady's 
 maid — that would be entirely against all my principles, and I 
 felt it would do no good in the end. If I was ever to be allowed 
 to be any comfort to Mrs Weir, there must be no flaw in my 
 conduct for Mrs Temple to seize upon. No, I must let it all 
 rest in God's hands, knowing that, when the time came for me 
 to be of use, He would open the door for me.
 
 292 URSULA. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 MISS MILICENT crossed ovci to France safely, we heard 
 that from John Hervey, and she was going on to Paris, 
 hoping to find Mr Weir there, and to be with him in his lodging, 
 and learn his plans, and help him with her advice. It sounded, 
 just at first, very dutiful and self-denying, and I believe Miss 
 Milicent herself thought it so ; but I hope it was not very wicked 
 in me, I could not help remembering that she would find more 
 amusement in Paris than at StoneclifF, and that if her father 
 claimed her on the one side, her mother had an equal claim on 
 the other. I was glad, however, to hear that so far her journey 
 had prospered, and I tried not to be uneasy about what might 
 come afterwards. Some persons might have wondered why I 
 should have cared enough for her to feel anything like uneasi- 
 ness ; but it must be remembered that my circle of interests 
 was small, and that it was in my nature to throw myself very 
 much into other people's concerns. An orphan as I was, and 
 having no sister, I suppose I kept my heart more open than I 
 might otherwise have done, for what befell myfiicnds, especially 
 those connected with my childhood. Many a heartache have 
 I had for Mrs Weir, which I dared not speak of to any one, 
 not even to kind Mrs Kemp, knowing she would not under- 
 stand it. 
 
 Roger's stay was uncertain. It depended upon some business 
 connected with Mr Pierce's affairs ; hut he had made up his 
 mind that it should not be more than three months ; and I 
 knew he would keep to this determination i( possible. We 
 seldom spoke of the coming final separation. Sometimes I 
 faced it. Sometimes I buoyed myself up with the hope that 
 even yet events might occur to prevent it. I would not let 
 myself be miserable. I only felt that I might be so. And we 
 had soon one engrossing thought at Sandcombe. Mrs Morris 
 was sinking rapidly. I was with Jessie as much as possible, 
 and William and Roger were both as kind and considerate as 
 could be desiied, willing to spire me at all hours, and to put 
 up with any inconvenience, so that the poor child should not be 
 left. It was a trial to William especially to be without me, for, 
 since his eyes had been so bad, he had depended upon mc a 
 good deal. I kept all his accounts and read the paper to him 
 in the evening. Roger did this when I was away, besides look-
 
 URSULA. 293 
 
 Ing after the farm. William said to me, more than once, that 
 Roger was his right hand, and it would be a bad day when we 
 had to part with him again. 
 
 I was with Jessie the night that Mrs Morris died. The old 
 lady sank quietly, and there was much to comfort us in the 
 circumstances of her death ; but Jessie was heart-broken. As 
 I followed her into her room, when all was over, helping her 
 to undress and go to bed, she clung to me hysterically, ex- 
 claiming, ' Keep me with you, Ursie. I have not a relation nor 
 a home.' And she said what I knew to be, in a great measure, 
 true. 
 
 We took her back with us to Sandcombe on the clay of the 
 funeral. It was the only place she could go to. She shared 
 my room ; for I did not like her to be alone. Her grief was 
 very touching. I had never seen anything so real and deep ; 
 and it brought out all the better parts of her nature. She was 
 earnest, humble, affectionate, and singularly gracious in her 
 thankfulness for everything which was done for her. I was 
 almost sorry to see how she clung to us, knowing, as I did, 
 that there might be a hard lot in store for her — a life amongst 
 strangers. 
 
 I knew nothing for certain of the condition in which Mrs 
 Morris had left her affairs ; but I had a suspicion, from some- 
 thing which passed between Roger and William on the day of the 
 funeral, that it was not what had been expected. If this were so, 
 and if Jessie had to make her own way in the world, it would be 
 cruel to delude her by keeping the truth from her. I asked 
 Roger, but he gave me an. unusually short answer, and even im- 
 plied that it was not quite kind to enter upon the subject then. 
 I inquired of William, but he informed me the accounts were 
 not made up ; he could tell nothing till they were. This was a 
 week after the funeral. 
 
 Jessie came down-stairs and sat with us, for the first time, that 
 evening. Before, she had really been too unwell to leave her 
 room ; and I had spent a good deal of my spare time with her. 
 liut this was dull for William and Roger, and not good for her : 
 so I persuaded her at last to make an effort to join us. She cer- 
 tainly did look uncommonly pretty. Her black dress set off her 
 clear complexion ; and she had taken pains with her hair, and 
 made it look particularly nice ; and, without meaning to be 
 affected, for I am sure she was not that in the least, there was a 
 little shyness in her manner to William and Roger, caused, I sup-
 
 294 URSULA. 
 
 pose, by the strangeness of her feelings, which, with her grief, 
 gave her the quietness and softness which she sometimes wanted 
 when in high spirits and good health. I asked her to come and 
 sit by nic at the tea-table, and, wishing to give her something to 
 do, be ■;.;< d her to put the sugar into the cups, whilst I went out 
 into the kitchen to give an order. When I came back I found 
 that Roger was doing it for her, and that she was sitting in the 
 window-seat, away from the fire, crying. It vexed me a little, 
 that she should give way so soon ; and, being afraid of showing 
 any particular sympathy for fear of makin > her worse, I merely 
 said, 'Come, Jessie dear, tea is ready. Here is a place for you 
 1 y me.' 
 
 ' It will be cold there, by the door,' said Roger; 'this is your 
 place, Jessie ;' and not seeing that it was inconvenient to me, 
 as it crowded me, he placed a chair for her with her back to the 
 fire. 
 
 Her being there just moved William out of the seat which he 
 always preferred, and I did not like him to be turned out of it, 
 now that his eyes were bad ; and I knew lie felt the cold. I was 
 sure Jessie would not care, and I said, 'We will have the door 
 shut ; but if Jessie does not mind, that is William's place.' Jessie 
 was going round to the other side directly, but Roger came up 
 to the table, and pushed the tea-tray aside. ' Now, there is 
 room for both,' he said ; and as Jessie looked at me rather apolo- 
 gising for having disturbed me, he added, ' Oh ! Ursie does not 
 mind ; she can make tea just as well at one side of the table as 
 the other.' 
 
 It would have been foolish to mind such a trifle, but I could 
 not help thinking to myself, what would poor Jessie do if she had 
 to go into the rough world after being so petted as not to be 
 allowed to sit away from the fire. We were rather constrained 
 all tea-time ; Jessie scarcely ale anything ; and by some unfor- 
 tunate stupidity we were constantly bringing up subjects which 
 were, in a measure, painful to her. 
 
 Yet I thought myself careful. Miss Milicent's journey seemed 
 tolcral ly safe, and I mentioned it ; but then something was said 
 about Lieutenant Macdonald, and I saw Jessie blush and look 
 conscious, and William, with very bad tact, and forgetting my 
 warning, was, as usual, going to joke her about him. Only a 
 very few words were said, scarcely enough for Roger to notice ; 
 and I was not sure, indeed, whether he heard them, for he was 
 just then lifting the tea-kettle from the hearth. He saw, how-
 
 URSULA. 295 
 
 ever, that Jessie was discomposed, and made an effort to put 
 things comfortable again ; in fact, both he and William treated 
 her like a petted child, and I could not blame them for it, though 
 I felt in my own mind that it was bad for her. 
 
 There were several things to attend to after ten, and I suc- 
 ceeded in making Jessie help me a little, and then I gave her 
 some needlework, and persuaded her to go to bed early, as she 
 had slept badly the previous night. I am sure I felt as kindly 
 towards her as possible, and wished to do everything I could to 
 make her happy again, but, knowing her disposition, I felt that 
 the less fuss made about her the better. And this manner of 
 treating her. it seemed, did not quite please either of my brothers. 
 As soon as she was gone up-stairs they began. 
 
 ' Ursie," said William, ' I think you are rather hard upon poor 
 Jessie. You set her to work as though she was your servant.' 
 
 ' I only wanted to employ her,' I replied. ' It was better for 
 her than sitting still and thinking.' 
 
 ' When people are in trouble they can't always make up their 
 minds to work,' said Roger ; and he threw down the newspaper, 
 as though he had a good deal to say upon the subject. 
 
 ' Jessie certainly is in a good deal of trouble,'* I said ; ' no one 
 feels it more than myself; and I would do my very utmost to be 
 kind to her ; but I don't think you can know quite so well as I 
 do what is best for a young girl. I am sure she feels obliged to 
 me for giving her something to distract her thoughts.' 
 
 ' You put her on a footing with Martha,' said Roger. 'She 
 might not thank you so much for that.' 
 
 'O Roger!' I exclaimed, and I felt the colour rush to my 
 cheeks ; ' you don't mean that Jessie could have an unkind 
 thought of me for that. Why, I help Martha myself every even- 
 ing. There is not a thing I asked Jessie to do which I would 
 not have done willingly.' 
 
 ' Only, my little Trot has not known what sorrow and changed 
 fortunes make others feel,' said Roger, kindly ; and he came 
 round to me, and leaning over my chair, kissed me. 
 
 I turned my face up at him, and endeavoured to smile ; but 
 my spirit was roused, and I said, ' Perhaps neither you nor I 
 know that, for we have both been tolerably prosperous. But, 
 Roger, if Jessie's fortunes are changed, there is all the more 
 reason why she shouldn't be spoiled.' 
 
 'You women are always hard upon one another,' exclaimed 
 William.
 
 296 URSULA. 
 
 Tears of vexation filled my eyes. There was nothing I dis- 
 liked more than that kind of haul nature which tries to subdue 
 sorrow by not allowing that it exists ; and I had been waiting 
 upon Jessie all day nearly, in one way and another, doing little 
 kindnesses, and putting myself out of my way in a manner my 
 brothers had no notion of; and the very reason why I asked her 
 to help me that evening was that she might feel herself at home. 
 But if they had an impression I was hard, it was no use to 
 argue about it, so I made rather a light answer, and said, ' We 
 will ask Jessie this day six months which she thinks her best 
 friend.' 
 
 ' She is not likely to be here then,' said William. He spoke 
 somewhat shyly, as though approaching a disagreeable subject. 
 'Have you had a letter from the lawyer?' exclaimed Roger, 
 turning round shortly. 
 
 'A long rigmarole,' said William, drawing a paper out of his 
 pocket ; ' but the upshot of it is that, when all the debts are paid, 
 there will be little enough of a legacy left.' 
 
 This was the first approach to a statement of Jessie's position 
 which I had heard, and I begged William to explain it more 
 clearly. 
 
 ' Has Mrs Morris died so very poor?' I inquired. 
 'Not so very poor,' answered William shortly ; 'but Jessie is 
 not her daughter.' 
 
 How stupid I had been, not to see at once how matters stood! 
 Of course, whatever there might be which was not left to Charles 
 Morris would most probably belong to William himself, in right 
 of his wife. 
 
 'Then Jessie has nothing,' I observed; and I suppose my 
 tone showed my disappointment, for William answered di- 
 rectly — 
 
 ' V u must remember, Ursie, that Jessie has no real claim 
 upon any one, and that Mrs Morris did for her more than could 
 have been expected in bringing her up. She has left her a legacy 
 of a couple of hundred pounds, and with her pretty face she'll 
 soon make her way in the world.' 
 
 'Hut has she two hundred pounds?' said Roger, who had re- 
 turned to his newspaper. 
 
 'The debts may not be so much as we think,' answered 
 William. 
 
 Roger stood up, turned his back upon William, and faced the 
 fire. A fev minutes afterwards he k ft the room.
 
 URSULA. 297 
 
 Neither William nor I spoke. William sat broodingly by the 
 hearth, and I worked very fast. Presently, when I saw William's 
 head fall back, as though he was asleep, I went out to find Roger. 
 He was in the large parlour, sitting there alone in the dark. I 
 only discovered him by hearing him cough. He laughed when 
 I cnme in with the candle in my hand, and said the little parlour 
 was so hot. 
 
 'Not so hot with the fire as with the conversation,' I replied. 
 'What is the matter, old man ?' and I rested my hand upon his 
 head, and smoothed his hair. 
 
 'William does not mean to do anything but what is just,' he 
 exclaimed ; 'but, Trot, Jessie Lee is an orphan.' 
 
 'Yes,' I said ; 'and we are the nearest friends, not to call us 
 relations, she has, except Charles Morris. I don't forget it, 
 Roger, though I did ask her to help Martha this evening.' 
 
 'And two hundred pounds is little enough for her,' he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 ' It won't keep her from working for her bread ; but she will be 
 none the worse off for that,' I replied. 
 
 ' Only it ought to be two hundred pounds,' he continued ; 
 'and William says it won't be near that when the debts are 
 paid.' 
 
 ' I don't understand,' was my remark. 
 
 ' Mrs Morris drew up her will herself,' he said ; ' so it is oddly 
 enough put together. She has left two thousand pounds to 
 William, as you know.' 
 
 ' I was not told the sum exactly,' I replied ; 'but I knew there 
 was something considerable.' 
 
 'Well! there are some debts to be paid,' continued Roger. 
 ' Mrs Morris evidently did not know how they would mount up, 
 so she has ordered that they should be settled from the same fund 
 out of which Jessie is to have her money. There is no doubt 
 that she meant the legacy to come first ; but she has worded it 
 so as to allow of the debts having the first claim. In that case 
 Jessie will lose half her legacy.' 
 
 'But William and Charles Morris will surely undertake to pay 
 the debts, if there is not enough in any other way ?' I said. 
 
 ' Charles Morris says no,' replied Roger ; 'and William is all 
 for law and justice ; and he has had a lawyer's opinion, and the 
 debts are to come first and the legacy second.' 
 
 'It can't be!' I exclaimed. 'It is cruelty: actually taking 
 the orphan's money ! And William so well to do in the world.
 
 99* URSULA. 
 
 and having no children,— not even like Charles Morris in that 
 respect :' 
 
 ' It is law,' was all Roger's answer. 
 
 It came to my lips to say, ' That is harder dealing than asking 
 Jessie to help Martha ;' but it would have been mean to taunt 
 him, and besides, I was myself sorely troubled 
 
 ' We musn't allow it,' I said, after a little thought ' Roger, I 
 have money of my own. I would rather part with every penny 
 of it than that Jessie Lcc should have less than was intended for 
 her.' 
 
 ; My own honest, little Trot ! Yes, I know you would. But it 
 won't come to that ; there are other ways and means.' 
 
 ; Not breaking in upon your money." I exclaimed. ■ You told 
 mc the other day of what consequence it was to you just now to 
 h ive every penny you could lay your hands on.' 
 
 'There is a greater consequence than that, Ursje,— to do justly 
 in God's sight. But I have not made up my mind. I don't know 
 what I shall do. Be off now ! I shall go and smoke my pipe. 
 It will all be right' 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 HAD not seen Mrs Kemp for weeks, and I thought it 
 -*- would do Jessie good to go out a little ; so the next daj* 
 being very fine, I had the chaise ordered, that I might drive her 
 over myself to Longsidc. I wanted, too, to make Mrs Kemp 
 better acquainted with her ; for I knew she was prejudiced 
 against her, and really Jessie seemed now so much improved, 
 that I felt this to be in a certain degree unfair. Roger came to 
 the door to see us off; he was just the same as usual, — not at all 
 put out, apparently, by what had passed the previous evening ; 
 but he said he must go over to Mr Stewart at Hatton, and have 
 a little talk with him about Canada business. It would not do 
 to be dawdling on in England much longer. That was not a 
 very enlivening speech to hear, just as I was setting out with 
 Jessie ; and she herself seemed hurt by it, and, when he was 
 gone, turned to me, and observed, she did not know what Sand- 
 combe would be like without him. It would be to her just like
 
 URSULA. 299 
 
 losing a brother. The remark seemed to open the door to a very 
 important subject. From many little observations which had 
 dropped from Jessie, I gathered that she looked to Sandcombe 
 as her home. It was not unnatural that she should do so. 
 Partly from her disposition, and partly from the way in which 
 she had been treated, she really was a mere child still, leaning 
 upon every one, and always thinking that she should be provided 
 for without thought of her own. And at first I should have said 
 that Sandcombe would be the best place for her, at least for the 
 present ; but that was under the idea that Mrs Morris had left her 
 enough to live upon. Now, with only two hundred pounds in 
 the world, and perhaps not that, it was, I feared, necessary that 
 she should look out for some situation in which she could 
 work for herself. William, indeed, might make a compromise 
 with his conscience, and think that he atoned for what was 
 almost like taking possession of Jessie's little fortune, by 
 giving her a home for some months ; but I felt that the plan 
 would ,be very objectionable, even if it were proposed for a 
 permanence. Sandcombe could only be Jessie's home under 
 certain circumstances. If I were to go away she must go too ; 
 and if William were to die, we must both go. It would be 
 nothing like a reparation, however good-natured it might appear. 
 A wound made by injustice cannot be healed by kindness ; and I 
 grew indignant as I thought that William could be fidgety about 
 Jessie's exerting herself in a way which could not possibly be 
 painful beyond the moment, whilst he was deliberately making 
 up his mind to deprive her of at least half of the little she might 
 call her own. 
 
 Jessie herself had no thoughts of the kind. She liked going 
 for a drive ; she liked anything, indeed, which made her feel 
 like a lady having nothing to do but to enjoy herself. She was 
 anxious that we should go over the down and through Dene in 
 order to reach Longside ; but I strongly objected to it. Not 
 liking, however, to thwart her unnecessarily, I merely said that 
 if we went round by Hatton we should have a longer drive ; and 
 this seemed to satisfy her, and she wrapped her cloak round her, 
 and arranged her crape veil very becomingly, and leaned back 
 at her ease in the pony-chaise, as pretty a picture of a young 
 girl as could be desired. It was very painful to have to break 
 in upon the dream in which I felt she was indulging, and my 
 heart beat fast as I said, whilst we were driving through the 
 outskirts of Hatton, 'Everything must seem sadly changed to
 
 3 oo URSULA, 
 
 vou, Jessie dear ; but you will become more reconciled by and 
 by.' 
 
 ' 1 shall try to be,' she said, 'and I ought to be when everyone 
 s so kind to me. But 1 shall miss Mr Roger terribly. ' 
 
 1 We shall all miss him,' 1 replied ; 'unless, indeed, n were pos- 
 sible for me to go back with him.' 
 
 'To Canada? O Ursie !— but what would Mr (".rant do 
 without you :' 
 
 ' I can't say ; it is difficult sometimes to know where one's duty 
 lies. If I were to go, Jessie, I should think a great deal about 
 you, and long to hear how you were getting on. I suppose th' re 
 are not any of Mr Morris's friends who would take care of you 
 for a time, until something turns up which might suit you ? ' 
 
 The poor child sat quite silent. I believe she did not tho- 
 roughly understand my meaning, though my words sounded 
 s.ul to her. I drove on slowly, till I saw her take out her hand- 
 kerchief and wipe her eyes, and pull down the veil over her face, 
 and then I said : ' (iod will help you through it, dear Jessie, if 
 you will only look to Him.' 
 
 I had only just said the words when I heard the tramp cf 
 horses coming behind the chaise, and drew to one side to let 
 them pass. ' You have not driven very fast,' called out Roger's 
 cheerful voice. He was en his way to Mr Stewart's, and John 
 Hervey was with him. Jessie kept her face averted, and I saw 
 Rowr look at her intently. I am sure he quite well knew she 
 was crying. John Hervey came round to me at the other side, 
 and spoke in rather a low voice, 'They have heard again from 
 Miss Milicent, Ursie.' 
 
 ' So far so good,' I said. 
 
 'Yes, if she can stay with him ; but it seems an odd kind of 
 place he is in— somewhere in the heart of Paris. She writes in 
 good spirits enough, but I am afraid she is going to be taken in.' 
 
 ' It will be her own (loin ,' I said. ' What have you heard of 
 Mrs Weir lately?' 
 
 ' Nothing, except that Mrs Temple is on the look-out for some 
 one who will neither cat, drink, nor sleep— but read to Mrs 
 Weir all day, and sit up with her all night, for fifteen pounds a 
 year. Now, Roger, we shall be late ; good-bye ;' and they both 
 rode off. 
 
 I don't know what had passed between Jessie and Roger ; but 
 I saw that Jessie had put up her veil, and it was not drawn down 
 again till we arrived at Longside.
 
 URSULA. 301 
 
 Mrs Kemp was in the front of the house, feeding some tame 
 partridges, which the farmer had taken a fancy to have, and 
 they, and a number of young chickens and ducks, were gathered 
 about her, making her so busy that she did not perceive when 
 we came into the garden. Her welcome to Jessie was as hearty 
 as I could expect — though I could see in her manner just the 
 suspicion which was all the unkindness she ever indulged in. 
 Mary, she said, was full of work, for it was baking day — but she 
 would find time to have a little gossip with me ; and, begging 
 Jessie to wait in the parlour for a few minutes, she took me with 
 her to find Mary. We were no sooner, however, out of the room 
 than I begged her to stay and have a little chat with me first ; 
 not that I did not wish to see Mary, but I had a good many little 
 things to talk over with her. 
 
 ' I don't know where to take you, my dear,' she said, con- 
 sidering a moment : ' my room has been scoured this morning, 
 and the floor is damp ; you '11 take cold if you go there. But 
 here 's the farmer's smoking-room, do you mind going in?' The 
 smoking-room was very small, and near the kitchen. I believe 
 the farmer did smoke a pipe there occasionally, when there were 
 persons in the house who disliked the smell of tobacco, but it 
 was used for a lumber-room besides. 
 
 ' Now, sit down, my dear, and say your say ;' and Mrs Kemp 
 placed a chair for me, and sat down herself in the window seat. 
 * We shan't be interrupted, and no one will guess where we 
 are.' 
 
 ' But I must not leave Jessie too long,' I said. 
 
 Mrs Kemp looked up with some surprise. 'Are you so very 
 particular ? ' 
 
 'Not always ; only just now, when she is in trouble.' 
 
 ' Well ! yes, all right. But, my dear, what is she going to do 
 with herself?' 
 
 ' That is the question ; — I don't know. William may ask 
 her to stay with us.' Mrs Kemp looked very grave. ' You 
 don't approve,' I said, and then, after a moment, added, ' no 
 more do I.' 
 
 Her face brightened up. ' I was afraid, my dear, you were 
 going to burthen yourself with her.' 
 
 ' You don't like her,' I exclaimed, and I almost regretted that 
 Jessie's name had been mentioned. 
 
 ' No, I don't like her, my dear. I had rather say that out at 
 once, and then there's not likely to be so much prejudice in it.
 
 302 URSULA* 
 
 We arc too near the Prices to like her ; and it docs nut please 
 me, Ursie, th.it you should bave so much to do with her.' 
 
 ' I think — I am sure, indeed — that you believe her to be much 
 more mixed with the Trices than she really is,' I began. 
 
 'Very likely, m\ dear; but, as the farmer says, "a man is 
 known by his friends," and I suppose it's the same case with a 
 woman ; and Mrs Price's ways are just those which a modest, 
 well-behaved girl would turn from. To sec her drive by with 
 her smart cloak and fly-away bonnet, and two or three idle men 
 following, just as we are going off to church on a Sunday, is 
 quite sufficient for me. Jessie Lee may be an angel by nature, 
 yet when she goes to stay at Dene — I don't want to say any- 
 thing unkind — but it seems to me that she puts herself in the 
 way of being a fallen one.' 
 
 I don't know when I had seen Mrs Kemp so excited, and her 
 old-fashioned notions of propriety were quite scandalised by the 
 new customs of Dene. There was an exaggeration in her feel- 
 ing against Jessie, but I had no time to spend in arguing her 
 out of it, so I merely said : 'Whatever Mrs Price may be, it is 
 quite clear that it is our business now to take charge of Jessie, 
 and keep her out of harm's way.' 
 
 'Yes, if you can ; and for that end, my dear, you had better 
 keep her out of Lieutenant Macdonald's way.' 
 
 ' There is no fear there,' I said. ' She has refused him.' 
 
 'Refused him ! has she ? Well, that's more than I gave her 
 credit for. Every one about here said that she had been warned 
 about him, but that she was determined to have him.' 
 
 'So you sec she is good for something,' I continu 
 
 ' Yes ; something.' 
 
 'A good deal, if she only had some one to advise and to love 
 her.' 
 
 'And is that to be you, my dear?' asked Mrs Kemp, simply. 
 
 ' No, I wish it could be ; but I don't think it is possible ;' and 
 in a few words I put before Mrs Kemp what was Jessie's posi- 
 tion ; not, of course, mentioning anything about William and the 
 legacy, but merely saying that the sum left her by Mrs Morris 
 was very small, and there might be claims upon it, and that at 
 any rate it would not support her by itself, though it might keep 
 her in clothes if she lived with us. 
 
 'Just as the farmer thought,' she exclaimed; 'just what he 
 said to me only last night. " I am afraid," said he, " that Jessie 
 Lee is tied on to Ursie for life."'
 
 URSULA. 303 
 
 But I interrupted her. 'Dear Mrs Kemp/ I said, 'indeed 
 the farmer is mistaken ; it is what I feel must not be ; but how 
 to prevent it is the difficulty. I don't think men like to do dis- 
 agreeable things, and William won't put before her that she can't 
 stay with us, though he will be sure to complain if she does ; 
 and how I am to do it I don't know.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp pondered a little. ' You must find something else 
 for her to do, my dear,' she said. 
 
 'But I can't look about, and inquire behind her back, as it 
 were. She would think it so very unkind, if it came to her ears.' 
 
 ' That is true. Nothing is ever gained in this world by not 
 being straightforward.' 
 
 'And then it comes into my mind sometimes whether it is 
 necessary after all ; whether she is not very much in the same 
 case that I was when I first came to Sandcombe.' 
 
 ' Only, Ursie, you always knew what you had to look to, and 
 were set upon working for yourself,' she replied. 
 
 ' Yes, and Leah wanted me, and I can manage very well 
 without Jessie. The only thing is, she is so little able to go 
 alone.' 
 
 ' She has two legs of her own,' said Mrs Kemp. 
 
 I smiled as I answered, ' Yes, but very weak ones.' 
 
 ' I doubt if you will help her, my dear, by adding a wooden 
 one of yours,' replied Mrs Kemp. 
 
 ' It may be better to go halting,' I said, ' than to tumble 
 down.' 
 
 ' I never heard of any human creature yet that was able even 
 to halt with three legs,' replied Mrs Kemp, laughing. ' If you 
 want to make Jessie Lee strong, my dear, it strikes me you 
 must put her in a position in which she will feel that she has no 
 legs but her own to depend upon, and then she will learn how to 
 use them.' 
 
 'And if she should never learn, and get into mischief,' I said 
 anxiously. 
 
 'You can't think, surely, that you will be responsible,' replied 
 Mrs Kemp. ' We are bound to help others to walk in the right 
 way, and God knows how much we may have to answer for in 
 not doing it ; but I don't see that we are bound to break our 
 backs by carrying them, for fear they should wander into the 
 wrong ; and I suppose, Ursie, that if we do, the chances are that 
 we shall all fall to the ground together.' 
 
 ' I was afraid,' I said, ' that I might be deciding hardly, and
 
 304 URSULA. 
 
 I wanted another opinion. I believe I wish her to be indepen 
 dent, and so 1 am the more afraid of my own reasons.' 
 
 'As the firmer says: two and two make four, whether we 
 wish it or not,' replied Mrs Kemp, 'and we need not be afraid 
 to own it. In Leah's day, Ursie, things would have been dif 
 ferent, no doubt. She was a married woman, and had a home 
 of her own, and Jessie was all but brought up by her, and it 
 would have been her duty, no doubt, to find a place for her cousin 
 by her own fireside, especially as she had no children. But you 
 are not Leah, my dear, and you have no house of your own yet, 
 though I hope some day you will have, — and moreover, you are 
 but a young girl, having enough to do to look after yourself. 
 Don't you see that to take upon yourself to be answerable 
 for Jessie is putting upon your conscience what God never in- 
 tended should be there. I should say, try and find out some- 
 thing which may be good for her to do, and in the meantime 
 keep her at Sandcombe, and teach her all the sensible things 
 you can. I can't but think \ ou will do more for her by far in 
 that way than by tying her on to your apron strings, and fancy- 
 ing she is going ri^ht because she has not the opportunity of 
 doing anything else.' 
 
 ' 1 tried to open the subject this morning,' I said, ' but it was 
 difficult.' 
 
 ' I wish you could put something before her which she might 
 like to undertake,' said Mrs Kemp. 'The farmer sometimes 
 tells me that the quickest way of pulling down old notions is by 
 building up new ones. It is the plan he has gone upon in bring 
 ing folks to his way of thinking, about improving the cottages. 
 He might have talked to them for the hour, and he would not 
 have persuaded them ; but when they saw what he was doing 
 himself, they came round quite naturally. And so, Ursie, my 
 dear, it may be the same with Jessie, if you want her to put 
 aside the notions she has been accustomed to of late, and take 
 to others.' 
 
 A sudden thought struck me. ' I did hear of something,' I said, 
 ' as I was coming here, but it would not do ; no, it could not.' 
 
 ' Think again, my dear. My mother used to declare that 
 there was a " lion in her path," whenever a new notion was pro- 
 posed to her. Perhaps there is one in yours.' 
 
 'Mrs Tempi: is the lion,' I said, laughing. 'If it were not 
 for her the plan might do. .She wants some one to look alter 
 Mrs Weir, and read to her, and nurse her. Jessie might suit
 
 URSULA. 305 
 
 well enough for that, for she has very gentle ways, and I think 
 Mrs Weir would be fond of her ; but then I know that a good 
 deal would be put upon her. I dare say, in fact, she would be 
 made to do a great deal of work besides ; I should scarcely like 
 to propose it.' 
 
 ' No ; and yet it would be close at hand, and you could have 
 your eye upon her. It would be worth inquiring about ; there 
 might be worse plans.' 
 
 That was very true, but I did not take at all kindly to the 
 suggestion. Mrs Kemp urged me a little more. She thought 1 
 still had a lurking wish to keep Jessie at Sandcombe ; but she 
 was quite mistaken there. I was only glad to have another 
 opinion to support that which I had formed myself. We had 
 been talking longer than I had intended, and I was afraid I 
 should have but little time left for Mary ; so I proposed to go 
 to her, and Mrs Kemp agreed, adding, ' It seems to me, Ursie, 
 that you may just as well make use of this notion about Stone- 
 cliff to sound Jessie, and see what she thinks of doing, even if it 
 should come to nothing.' 
 
 The idea was a good one, and yet I was so perverse that it 
 made me feel almost cross. The fact was, I believe, that I did 
 not like the thought of Jessie's filling the place which had once 
 been partly marked out for myself. I would not have gone to 
 Stonecliff on any account, even for the prospects of waiting 
 upon Mrs Weir ; but it did not please me that Jessie should go. 
 I could better have borne to see a stranger there. Persons are 
 very fortunate whose tempers are not perverse, — mine always 
 was so. As in looking through a telescope, I generally had to 
 make two or three twists with my mind before I could see things 
 rightly. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 EVENTS followed each other quickly about that time. It 
 was not more than ten days after the drive to Longside, 
 that William was off to London to consult an oculist. Farmer 
 Kemp and Roger were frightened about him, and they frightened 
 me too ; and between us we persuaded him, though not without 
 much difficulty, to go. What chiefly alarmed us was the fact, 
 that my father's sight had been very bad before his death ; and 
 
 U
 
 306 URSULA. 
 
 it was sai<l that if he had lived he would almost certainly have 
 been blind. Something of the same tendency, \vc feared, might 
 be inherited by Willi ni. A cold would scarcely hue produced 
 Such consequences, if there was not some predisposition before- 
 hand ; and William was so extremely careless about himself, 
 that we had no hope of his adopting even ordinary remedies, 
 unless he was put under strict discipline. He was extremely 
 unhappy, and, beyond measure, fidgety, when he was ill ; but 
 for all that, he would never do what he was told in order to 
 get better. 
 
 As it happened, he could not have gone at a better time, since 
 Roger was at hand to attend to things in his absence ; and we 
 were satisfied as to his comfort when away, for he was to be at a 
 house belonging to Mrs Mason, formerly of Dene. She had, 
 within the last year, given up being housekeeper, and taken to 
 let lodgings. I knew she would look after him; but I made him 
 promise that if any operation was to be performed, or if he should 
 be at all ill, I was to be sent for immediately. Oh, that promise ; 
 though I urged it earnestly, it fell upon my heart like lead, for I 
 knew that God was binding me to William by ties of duty and 
 kindness which it would be sin to break. 
 
 The effect of William's departure was to bring me to a positive 
 decision in my own mind as to Jessie. If I should be called to 
 London, she could not stay at Sandcombe. This seemed the 
 simplest and easiest way of putting the case before her ; and I 
 was most thankful for it ; for up to this time we had been so 
 occupied with William, and so anxious about him, and indeed 
 Jessie had made herself so useful in reading to him and writing 
 for him, that I do not know what I should have done without 
 her. I had heard, again, of Mrs Temple's plan of a kind of 
 companion for Mrs Weir, from Mrs Richardson, who kindly 
 came over to see us when she knew of William's trouble, and I 
 found, as I had expected, that the new person was to take the 
 place of Cotton, and only to have a girl besides to help her. I 
 could not help fearing that Cotton might have got into disgrace 
 by admitting me to Stonccliff, or perhaps by some incautious 
 complaints ; but it was useless to vex myself about it, for I was 
 quite tied to Sandcombe, and could not possibly have found time 
 to walk over and inquire about it. I felt for poor Mrs Weir 
 very much, as I knew that Cotton would prove a loss that it 
 would be almost impossible to replace. 
 
 The day that Mrs Richardson called, which was two day*
 
 URSULA. 307 
 
 before William went, I mentioned Jessie to her, and asked if she 
 thought it likely she would do for the situation. Her youth 
 seemed the great objection, but it was not a very serious one, as 
 there were elderly servants in the house, and Mrs Richardson 
 seemed glad of the idea ; but I begged her not to say anything 
 about it, for I felt in my own mind that I had a hard task before 
 me in bringing Jessie even to think of it. 
 
 My hope was that I should have Roger to support me. His 
 common sense, I thought, would make him see the necessity of 
 the case directly, and I introduced the subject the very day 
 William left us. It was after dinner, and Jessie was gone out 
 of the room, and I knew she was likely to be busy for half an 
 hour or more, so I began : 'Jessie looks much better ; don't you 
 think so?' 
 
 'Yes; quite a different person. It is your company which 
 has done her good, Trot.' 
 
 'Time and occupation, rather,' I said. 'She has not much 
 of my company ; and if I am called to London, she will have 
 less of it ; we must make haste and find something to suit her 
 before that.' 
 
 I saw that the notion had struck Roger for the first time. 
 
 ' I thought she was going to live here,' he said, quickly. 
 
 'No; who dreamed of such a thing?' I exclaimed. 'Not 
 William, I am sure.' 
 
 'He never said anything to the contrary.' 
 
 'Because it is not his way to take business upon himself 
 which does not belong to him. He knew that I should be on 
 the look-out for something for Jessie.' 
 
 'And have you found anything?' inquired Roger. 
 
 ' I have heard of something,' I said. ' Mrs Weir wants a 
 person to read to her, and look after her, half a companion and 
 half a lady's-maid. What do you say ? Will it do ? ' 
 
 ' I am no judge,' he replied, and he took up his hat, which 
 was on the table, and left the room. 
 
 That evening, before we separated, and as Jessie was busying 
 herself in putting away some of the supper-things, Roger said, 
 'Jessie, has Ursie been talking to you at all about her plans for 
 you ? ' 
 
 I can't say how surprised I felt at his beginning in this sudden 
 way. I answered for her quickly ; ' There is no hurry ; we 
 r.eed not talk about it to-night.' 
 
 Jessie looked from one to the other.
 
 3 oS URSULA. 
 
 ' It will be no such great evil, I trust,' continued Roger ; and 
 he made a movement, as though be would have gone up to her, 
 
 but he stw,-; ed : ' If Ursie is obliged to go to London ' 
 
 'I can go to Mrs Price,' exclaimed Jessie, whilst her eyes 
 sparkled with pleasure. 'She said she would be delighted to 
 have me.' 
 
 I glanced at Roger, — he looked pained, not angry,— and did 
 not answer. 
 
 ' I am afraid that won't do, dear Jessie,' I said, as kindly as I 
 possibly could, whilst feeling more cross with her than I should 
 like to acknowledge. ' What you will want will be some place 
 where you can make a little something for yourself; and fond as 
 Mrs Price may be of you, I suppose she is not likely to pay you 
 for staying with her.' The colour mounted to Jessie's checks : 
 ' You mean I have to provide for myself,' she said, proudly. 
 
 • Every one is better for being independent, dear Jessie,' I 
 said, 'and you know you have been accustomed to work all your 
 life.' 
 
 •Amongst my friends,' she replied. « It is a very different 
 thing going amongst strangers.' She looked towards Roger, as 
 though craving his support. He was leaning over a chair, 
 moving it backwards and forwards, but his countenance was 
 imperturbable. 
 
 There was a momentary pause, and Jessie sat down, and the 
 tears came fast ; I saw him start then, but he controlled himself, 
 and left it to me to soothe her. I put before her everything 
 which I thought could calm or elevate her mind. I told her that 
 I could understand all her feelings ; that I did not know how 
 soon I might not be obliged to do the same myself, and 1 urged 
 her to be brave, and face the trial with a trusting heart, knowing 
 that God who had sent it, would enable her to bear it. Lut the 
 only answer I obtained was, ' It is not the same, Ursie. You 
 have a home and relations ; I am an orphan, and have no 
 home.' 
 
 I had nothing to reply, and my heart reproached me for 
 cruelty. Roger came to my assistance. 'Jessie,' he said, ' it is 
 quite true that you are an orphan, and have no home, but God 
 has given you true friends, who won't forsake you. "Whilst 
 William, and Ursie, and I live, wherever we may be, you may 
 always count upon us, and you won't vex us now, I am sure, by 
 putting yourself against what comes in the way of God's ordcr«
 
 URSULA. 309 
 
 Still the tears fell, and at last Roger pushed aside the chnir, 
 and going up to her, took one of her hands in both his, and said, 
 4 You can't think we don't care for you, Jessie.' 
 
 The tone of his voice must have touched her, for she gave him 
 one of her sweetest smiles ; he still kept hold of her hand, till 
 something seemed to strike him, and he let it drop suddenly, and 
 turning to me, said, ' Tell her what you have heard of.' 
 
 ' Not now,' I replied, ' not till she wants to know ; we need 
 not press it upon her.' 
 
 But Jessie looked up at me, and said: 'Yes, now, I may as 
 well know the worst.' 
 
 ' It might not be so very disagreeable,' I said, ' if you were to 
 be companion to Mrs Weir, and read to her, and look after her 
 while Miss Milicent is away. You would be sure to love her.' 
 Even in the midst of my worry, I could have smiled at the 
 change in Jessie's face. It brightened in a way that was quite 
 marvellous, as with all the eagerness of a child, she exclaimed : 
 ' Read to Mrs Weir ! well ! I should like that. I thought I was 
 to scrub floors ! Is it settled?' 
 
 'Only talked about,' I replied. 'We wanted your consent 
 first : but you will find some disagreeables, Jessie ; you must 
 think well about it.' 
 
 ' Thought won't make much difference, where there is such 
 a brave spirit,' said Roger. ' Jessie is fit to face the world, I 
 see.' 
 
 'She is fit for bed now,' I observed; 'you look quite tired, 
 dear Jessie. Just take your candle and go, and we will say all 
 there is to say to-morrow, only think by yourself whether you 
 could bear the kind of life.' Roger lighted her candle, yet she 
 lingered, asking me questions, some of which I answered, but 
 she teased me with others, though very good-humouredly. It 
 must have been nearly ten minutes before I could persuade her 
 that I was in earnest, and did not mean to stay and talk any 
 more to her. It would have been useless to do so, she was ia 
 such a childish mood, the question cf chief importance being 
 whether Mrs Weir liked story-books. 
 
 ' There are not many girls of her nge who would bear a reverse 
 of fortune like that,' said Roger, when Jessie left the room. It 
 would have seemed unkind in me to differ, so I said nothing. 
 
 Roger took up the plan for Jessie's going to Mrs Weir with 
 his usual quiet energy and good sense. He made me talk it 
 over again with Mrs Kemp, and suggested what I doubt if I
 
 3 io URSULA. 
 
 should have thought of myself, that she should be the person to 
 arrange the business with Mrs Temple, so that no jealousy 
 might be excited, and that Mrs Kemp might, in a manner, be 
 considered as Jessie's adviser and friend. He did an excellent 
 deed in this. Both Mrs Kemp and the farmer had gain tl 
 themselves a character in the neighbourhood, which even Mrs 
 Temple was obliged to acknowledge; and better terms v. 
 made for Jessie through their mean ih in could ever have 1 ( i 
 obtained by me. So kind it was of Mrs Kemp to take up the 
 matter as she did ! but she was one of those who never let a 
 I rejudice stand in the way of a duty. 
 
 Jessie's money was still left unsettled. I asked Roger about 
 it, but he could sive me no definite answer, and merely said that 
 before he left England he should certainly sc : thai something 
 satisfactory was arranged about it. I could not help thinking 
 that his efforts towards placing Jessie at Stonccliff had something 
 to do with his sense of justice, and that he felt himself all the 
 more obliged to be her friend because William was inclined to 
 deal hardly with her. Of William himself we 1. indif- 
 
 ferent accounts. The doctor was extremely doubtful whether 
 anything could be done for his eyes. He was trying different 
 lotions, but they had no effect, — rather indeed upon the \vh 
 his sight grew worse, and he was becoming impatient and fretful. 
 Still he remained in London, but nothing was said about my 
 going up to him. Tidings :>f Miss Milicent were equally un- 
 satisfactory. Her letters, as far as I could gather from John 
 Hervey, and I saw no one else who knew anything about them, 
 were only mist and vapour, except as regarded the need of 
 money. John knew that, because ever since the crash of Mr 
 Weir's affairs, he had himself been employed to collect Mrs 
 Weir's rents, and do little matters of business for her, which if 
 they had been put into the hands of a lawyer would have run 
 away with a good deal of money. As far, he told me, as he could 
 gather from the few words which dropped occasionally from Mrs 
 Temple when they met on business, Mr Weir was speculating 
 again, and Miss Milicent was entering into his concerns and 
 encouraging him. They had removed to belter lodgings, and 
 upon the whole Miss Milicent seemed to be rather enjoying her- 
 self than not, and there was no talk of her returning hoi: 
 
 Every one, I suppose, has had experience of that kind of 
 transition, that expectant state, in which wc were at tins time 
 living at Sandcombe ; feeling that changes must come before
 
 URSULA. 311 
 
 Iong r and finding ourselves, indeed, advancing sutely towards 
 them, yet so slowly that the progress from day to day was 
 scarcely perceptible. Jessie's going to Stonecliff, indeed, broke 
 in upon the routine of our lives ; but even that came in a way 
 which did not much disturb me. I had really nothing to do with 
 it, for I had not ventured to go over to speak to Mrs Weir about 
 her, lest I might do mischief. She walked over to Stonecliff 
 one afternoon, and Roger and I with her. There were no solemn 
 leave-takings, or fears, or warnings. Jessie took her new life as 
 she might have done the idea of a visit to Dene ; and there was 
 something which roused all our kindlier feelings of interest in 
 the simple way in which she trusted that every one would be 
 kind to her, and that she should be very happy, and free, and 
 allowed to come over and see us from Stonecliff just as she used 
 to do from Hatton. I could not damp her by assuring her that 
 it would not be so. If she made friends with Mrs Temple it 
 might be so. All I could say was, that the only way to find 
 pleasure in any life, is to set one's heart upon its duties, and so 
 I begged her to turn her whole mind to the wish of making Mrs 
 Weir comfortable. 
 
 I was sorry to part from her, and yet more happy than I 
 can say, to be at last quite alone with Roger. When we said 
 good-bye to Jessie on the top of the hill above Stonecliff, and I 
 put my arm within his, and we walked together over the down, 
 as in the old times, and I knew that we were probably to have 
 that evening and many others to ourselves, without interruption, 
 I felt a peace at my heart which seemed very near to what we 
 hope to enjoy in heaven. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 MAY pass over many weeks. It was summer, and Roger 
 was with us still, detained partly by lawyer's business, 
 partly on account of William's infirmity, which was become very 
 serious. Sandcombe was cheerful with haymaking and the 
 prospect of a good harvest, and I was busy working hard, but 
 willingly myself, and leading others to do the same. 
 
 Since Jessie went away, Esther Smithson had been regularly
 
 312 URSULA. 
 
 hired, and another school-girl was in training, so that there wai 
 no over-work. William would not yet give up looking after 
 everything or pretending to do so ; and he stood in the way of 
 many of my little plans of improvement ; yet I managed to 
 carry out several, and I was hop ful about more. Now that 
 Roger was at home, the men were regular at church ; and any 
 cases of bad conduct in the wcclc were immediately noticed. 
 The boys also were kept more apart from the men, and encou- 
 raged by a kind word from Roger to attend to good habits. We 
 could not yet rival Longside in the respectability of our labourers, 
 but wc were advancing towards it. Roger still worked at 
 William about the old question of the improvement of the cot- 
 tages, and advanced so far as to obtain a promise that when his 
 eyes were better he would see about them, —a very vague pro- 
 mise to me, and I suspect to Roger also. All that 1 could do in 
 the meantime was to see some of the cottagers' wives myself, 
 and try to put them in the way of managing better with the 
 little space they had. They were inclined to think me very 
 interfering at fust, but Sandcombe was a place to which they 
 looked for help when they were ill, or out of work, and so they 
 did not like quite to neglect my instructions. Upon the whole, 
 my life at that time was very bright, more so indeed inwardly 
 than outwardly, for there was a hope dawning upon it which I 
 could not willingly allow myself to perceive, because it came 
 through another's trial. 
 
 With regard to Jessie, the accounts were as pleasant as 
 we had any reason to expect. Mrs Weir liked her, and Mrs 
 Temple put up with her. This was the best I had anticipated, 
 but I don't think it satisfied Roger. What he may have pic- 
 tured to himself for her, I don't know, but he thought the pi. ice 
 a hard one ; and I could not persuade him that any place would 
 be h.ird to a poor child like Jessie, sent into the world for tnc 
 first time to provide for herself. He worried himself about it 
 so much at times, that 1 was quite glad he had not more oppor- 
 tunities of seeing her. The time when we generally had her 
 with us was on a Sunday afternoon, about once in three weeks. 
 Mrs Weir was very particular as to her going to church, and 
 now and then she was allowed to walk home with us and drink 
 tea ; in fact, it was part of the agreement made for her by Mrs 
 Kemp. These were the occasions when we had an outbreak of 
 complaints. 
 
 ' It won't do, Ursie,' said Roger, coming to me one Sunday,
 
 URSULA. 313 
 
 just as I was getting tea ready, and when Jessie was gone up- 
 stairs. ' It's worse than the slaves.' 
 
 'What has Jessie been telling you now?' I asked; for they 
 had been walking home part of the way together, whilst I stayed 
 behind to say a few words to Mary Kemp. ' I don't wonder at 
 her not being able to bear it,' he continued. ' English people 
 were never made to put up with spies.' 
 
 I laughed a little — ' Oh !' I said, ' I know what you are talking 
 about ; — Mrs Temple's way of finding out everything which goes 
 on in the house. It is very odious, I confess ; but Jessie is not 
 likely to have much to betray ; and so Mrs Temple will, one 
 must hope, be tired of it before long.' 
 
 Just then Jessie came in. Roger placed a chair for her next 
 me. ' I have been telling Ursie,' he said, ' what you were telling 
 me just now. It is too bad.' 
 
 Jessie's colour rose. ' Oh, it is nothing,' she said, ' nothing to 
 signify. Ursie won't think it of consequence.' 
 
 ' Indeed I shall, Jessie,' I said, ' if there is anything unfair in 
 it, or unlike what a lady should do.' 
 
 ' One can't have one's things to one's self,' said Jessie ; 'but I 
 suppose a girl like me has no right to expect it.' The tears were 
 in her eyes in an instant. 
 
 ' Mrs Temple likes to know everything that goes on, I am 
 aware,' I said. 
 
 ' But she need not let her servants pry into letters, and ask 
 impertinent questions,' said Roger. 
 
 ' What is the grievance, Jessie ?' I said; ' I don't quite under- 
 stand.' Jessie, I saw, was unwilling to answer ; she moved to let 
 William pass, — for he was just come in to tea, — and made a 
 lijde fuss with him, wishing, I could not help thinking, to change 
 the subject. 
 
 I did not like to press her any farther, and some trifling 
 remarks were made which led at last to an observation about 
 Dene. Lieutenant Macdonald's name was accidentally men- 
 tioned, Jessie's cheeks were crimson instantly. Whether there 
 was anything in it more than her trick of blushing and being 
 conscious, I could not tell ; but I disliked seeing it. By this 
 time she ought at least to have been able to hear Mr Mac- 
 donald's name with indifference. I suppose I must have been 
 led into a train of thought upon the subject, or in some way 
 shown by my manner that I was not quite comfortable, for 
 Roger called me aside after tea, and said ; ' Ursie, you shouldn't 
 
 - *k
 
 314 URSULA. 
 
 be hard upon little Jessie ; she wants some one to sympathise 
 with her.' 
 
 I quite started. 'Sympathise!' I exclaimed. 'I do sympa- 
 thise to the utmost. No one can know better than I do how 
 hateful it is to live in the same house with Mis Temple. But 
 Jessie didn't tell me what the particulars of the present trouble 
 were.' 
 
 ' You didn't ask,' he said ; ' and she is so quick in her feelings, 
 she will never come out to you if you don't encourage her.' 
 
 'Really, Roger,' I said, 'I can scarcely think Jessie requires 
 encouragement to come out, as you call it, to me, when we have 
 been together like relations from childhood.' 
 
 ' Relations arc just the very persons to whom it is often most 
 difficult to talk,' he said, 'and, besides, Jessie looks up to you, 
 and thinks, naturally enough, that you will expect of her the 
 same kind of endurance which you can practise yourself.' 
 
 1 I can't say much for my endurance,' I said, laughing. ' I 
 know I used to go into my room, at the Heath, and bolt the 
 door, and walk up and down, storming against Mrs Temple. 
 There wasn't much endurance in that, I am afraid ; but it won't 
 exactly do, Roger, to say this to Jessie. You know .-he has been 
 a little spoiled, and always makes the most of her troubles. I 
 don't mean, of course, that I won't try and give her all the sym- 
 pathy that is reasonable.' 
 
 'The question is, what is reasonable?' said Roger. 
 
 ' Well ; tell me what the case is, and then perhaps I can 
 judge.' 
 
 ' I shall leave Jessie to explain for herself, 1 he replied. ' St 
 always lose their point coming second-hand.' 
 
 He was a little odd in his manner ; and I am sure he knew it, 
 for after he had left the room, he came back again and kissed me, 
 and said, ' One can't expect all the world to be as wise as you, 
 my little Trot.' 
 
 I went to Jessie directly, for I felt that perhaps I had been a 
 little wanting in tenderness. She was in my room, crying, and 
 that alone would have made me feel gently towards her, if 1 had 
 been inclined to be otherwise, which I certainly uas not. All I 
 longed to know was that she was not in any way encouraging 
 thoughts of Lieutenant Macdonald. I could not be gentle on 
 that point, it would have been wrong. 
 
 In reply to my questions, however, I could gain only very 
 unsatisfactory answers. The principal grievance resolved itself
 
 URSULA. 3i5 
 
 inlo the fact that she had one day found the housemaid spying 
 into her drawers, and that Mrs Temple had been told that she 
 received a great many letters, which Jessie declared to be false, 
 ^ince then, she said, she had never received a letter without the 
 post-mark being examined, and hints given as to where it came 
 from. 
 
 ' Very disagreeable, Jessie,' I said, 'but you can't have cor- 
 respondents enough to make it signify, and if you don't show 
 that you care, the servants will soon leave off troubling you. 
 Nothing stops people's teasing so soon as being indifferent 
 to it.' 
 
 I don't think Jessie was satisfied. Either she felt herself more 
 of a martyr than she could bring me to acknowledge, or there 
 was some deeper cause of annoyance than I knew of. 
 
 She seemed once as though she was upon the roint of telling 
 me something more, but hearing Roger call out to her to put on 
 her things quickly or she would be late, she turned away, saying, 
 ' There is no time now, I will talk of it another day.' 
 
 I urged the present moment, but the wish, whatever it was, 
 had left her. She went on talking upon other subjects all the 
 time she was preparing to go, and I gained more insight into her 
 present life in those few minutes than in the whole two hours 
 before. 
 
 She was very fond of Mrs Weir — who, indeed, would not have 
 been — and I hoped that the good lady's earnestness was having 
 some effect upon her. Jessie said she read the Bible to her 
 every day, and some other books which Mrs Temple provided. 
 Mrs Weir had asked once for a story-book which she had 
 heard of, but it had never been forthcoming, and the history 
 books which Mrs Temple recommended made Mrs Weir's head 
 ache, so there was not much variety in the reading ; but Jessie 
 had her time fully employed in other ways. She did all the 
 needlework which Mrs Weir required, and some for Mrs Temple 
 besides. That, she said, was the most disagreeable part of her 
 business. Mrs Temple was so very particular, and did not care 
 how many times she had a dress altered. Jessie had heard some 
 talk of Mrs Temple's maid leaving, and she was afraid, she said, 
 that it might be proposed to her to take the place, besides wait- 
 ing on Mrs Weir. 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' I observed. ' We couldn't hear of such a thing, 
 Jessie ; you musn't think of it.' 
 
 ' I don't, you may depend upon that,' she replied. ' I said to
 
 3t6 URSULA. 
 
 the cook, when she told me it had been suggested, that I should 
 leave at once if it was at all insisted upon. Why, Ursie, a girl 
 might well have two days in one to get through all her work if 
 she has to wait upon Mrs Temple. She sits before the glass, 
 when she is dressing, fidgeting with her hair, and her maid 
 standing behind her, just as though there was nothing else in 
 the world to be thought of but that she should look her best, 
 and the morning is gone before one has time to look round. I 
 will do anything in the world for Mrs Weir ; but I would 
 rnther fifty times over scrub the floor than attend upon Mrs 
 Tempi .' 
 
 'You must keep your own ground, Jessie,' I said. ' It is the 
 onlv way with Mrs Temple. But take care to be respectful to 
 her> 
 
 ' I am that, I think,' said Jessie, 'and the servants tell me I 
 am a favourite ; but it is not home, Ursie.' 
 
 That was the root of the matter ! and I don't think there was 
 any want of affection in my manner then, as I tried to console 
 her, telling her that Sandcombe was a home whilst I was in it, 
 and that God would never leave her without one if I were re- 
 moved from it. The way in which she listened to me made me 
 feel what Mrs Weir was doing for her, leading her to the right 
 comfort, and showing her by example that religion is a dress to 
 be worn every day, and not kept for Sunday. It was the one 
 thing Jessie needed to give her strength, — and how charming 
 she would be if she had it ! only I wished I could be quite sure 
 that nothing was kept back from me. Roger, like me, noticed 
 Mrs Weir's influence. He and I went with Jessie half across 
 the down, and we talked about serious things, chiefly about a 
 sermon upon trust which Mr Richardson had preached that after- 
 noon. His remark to me afterwards was, 'A written sermon may 
 be good, Ursie, and a spoken one better ; but an acted one is the 
 best of all. Jessie has gained a whole year in thought and prin- 
 ciple since she has been with Mrs Weir.' 
 
 I was not sure myself whether it was so much as a year, but 
 time woulu show*.
 
 URSULA. 317 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE Saturday after that I went into Hove for some shopping 
 and marketing, and Mary Kemp with me. I stopped at 
 Longside on my way back, and had a cup of tea, and sent the 
 parcels home in the chaise, intending to walk myself. We ex- 
 pected the farmer and John Hervey to come in about the same 
 time, and I hoped that Roger might make his appearance too, as 
 he also had been into Hove ; but, finding they were late, I did not 
 like to wait, and set out to walk home alone, leaving word for 
 Roger that I meant to go through Dene. The Prices were, I knew, 
 absent, so I thought I might take their road, which shortened 
 the way. I never ventured on such a liberty when they were 
 at home, though there was in fact a right of way through the 
 grounds for every one. The place was kept in good order, and 
 as I had not seen the garden for some time, I asked the gardener 
 if I might go in at one of the little gates of the shrubbery and 
 walk round. The plantation, which I remembered as a collection 
 of stunted shrubs, intersected with sandy walks, was now grown 
 into a little copse of thick trees, pleasantly shading the house. 
 Passing through it, I crossed the turf and went down to the 
 lower pond that I might have a full view of the garden. The 
 foliage of the trees was beautifully fresh and green ; the flower 
 beds on the sloping lawn were filled with roses ; the turf was as 
 smooth as on the day I first looked upon it, smooth as no other 
 turf ever was in my eyes. There stood the low stone house with 
 its bow windows, and trellised verandah sheltered on one side by 
 the steep, woody bank, in which was cut the rough flight of steps 
 leading to my favourite seat ; whilst behind rose the darker mass 
 of trees planted in the hollow of the down, and the stone column 
 above them raising its head, as it were, to meet the white clouds 
 which floated majestically across the summer sky. It was very 
 lovely and intensely quiet. The fountains were not playing, so 
 that there was not even the plash of water to break the stillness ; 
 and when the old clock over the stables struck six, it gave no 
 impression of a disturbing sound, but only of a solemn voice 
 bidding me mark and ponder upon the silence. 
 
 I took off my bonnet for coolness, and sat down upon a bench 
 to rest, for I was very tired. My thoughts carried me back to 
 the days gone by when Dene was my home. They were thoughts 
 that seemed to have no direct purpose. They might rather be
 
 318 URSULA. 
 
 called attempts at recollection, which were almost like a dream, 
 there was so little connection in them. But they were /cry 
 pleasant, even though some sadness mingled with them. I 
 indulged them, not thinking how time was going on ; so little 
 conscious indeed of what was passing at the moment, that before 
 I was aware of a footstep I felt two hands on my shoulders and 
 a kiss on my forehead, and, starting up, saw Roger behind me. 
 
 'How could you frighten me so?' I exclaimed. 'I did not 
 know you were near.' 
 
 ' I thought it was the kindest way,' he said. ' It ought not to 
 frighten you ; I always came upon you so when you were a child.' 
 
 ' Only, I am not a child now,' I replied, laughing, ' and so I 
 am not accustomed to be "come upon." Is it late? must we go ?' 
 and I stood up. 
 
 ' Not yet,' he said, ' there is no hurry,' and he threw hill 
 on the grass at my feet. ' It looks very pleasant, Trot.' 
 
 'Very,' I said, and I sighed, and sat down again. 
 
 1 Very,' he repeated — ' but I would not go back to be as we 
 were.' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 ' I would not go back to be as we were,' he repeated. ' I would 
 rather take the hope of what we may be.' 
 
 1 O Roger ! ' I exclaimed, ' never. If a home in Canada were 
 Paradise, it could never be to us like Dene ; and you know' 
 
 ' What do I know ? ' he said, and a half smile curled his lips. 
 
 I looked him full in the face, and then I brought out the words : 
 ' You know I can never be with you.' 
 
 'Are you so sure of that, my little Trot ?' he said. 
 
 He did not change countenance in the least, except that the 
 curling smile seemed to spread so that he could with difficulty 
 repress it. 
 
 'Sure/ because of William's condition,' I replied. 'I did think 
 at one time that perhaps he would many again, and so I should 
 be set free, but I see no prospect of it now.' 
 
 'Neither do I,' was Roger's reply. 
 
 'Then I must stay,' I said. 'I could not leave him' 
 
 ' No, surely.' 
 
 'And I can never live with you/ I exclaimed. ' O Roger! can 
 you bear it so quietly ?' 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 'Can you bear it so quietly ?' I repeated, and I felt the chok- 
 ing grief rise in my throat.
 
 URSULA. 319 
 
 'Suppose I stay too,' he said. He turned round and looked 
 at me earnestly. 
 
 I could not speak ; I was afraid to misunderstand him. 
 
 He went on hurriedly : — ' We might do very well together, 
 and it might be better in many ways, and we need not leave 
 Sandcombe. We might be very happy ; you and I, Trot, and' 
 — he hesitated. 
 
 I started back, as I was about to fling my arms round his 
 neck, for I heard the words — ' Jessie Lee, if she will have me.' 
 
 I have tried to exercise self-control on many occasions. I 
 never struggled so hard as at that moment. 
 
 In a calm, forced, yet gentle tone, at least, I think it was 
 gentle, I said — ' Roger, dear, when did that thought come into 
 your mind?' 
 
 He leaned his head upon his hands, as he answered — ' From 
 her childhood, I believe — but I don't know, don't ask me, Ursie. 
 It might have been better that I had never seen her.' 
 
 The impulse I felt to speak out my thoughts was checked. 
 It was no dawning love, that I could battle with it. It was a 
 d^ep-seated affection, and I must accept it. My heart was 
 crushed with a pressure which few could understand, but I 
 said, as I passed my hand fondly over his head — ' If she will 
 make you happy, no one will wish that you had never seen 
 her.' 
 
 4 You don't like it,' he exclaimed, and he rose up. 
 
 I I can't say ; talk of yourself,' I replied. ' Had we not better 
 go home?' 
 
 'There is no hurry. Surely you can spare me five minutes, 
 Ursie.' 
 
 Instead of answering him I walked on. He followed me. 
 We said nothing for several minutes, at length Roger spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' I don't know why I have mentioned it to you, except that I 
 can't keep anything from you. It may all come to nothing. I 
 have no reason to think she cares for me ; perhaps,' and he 
 paused, 'perhaps the reverse. I thought I would ask you first, 
 for you would know.' 
 
 ? Do you mean whether she loves any one else ?' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, she might, and I am so much older, — like her father, — 
 she may be afraid of me.' 
 
 ' Dear Roger,' I said, ' those are questions which no one ought 
 to answer but Jessie herself. If I were to give you my opinion
 
 320 URSULA. 
 
 twenty times over, you" would not take it. No is nc\er n">, 
 unless it is said by the right person.' 
 
 'And you won't give me hope?' he said. 
 
 ' I will give you neither hope nor fear. If, upon due consi- 
 deration,' and I know that I stressed the words, 'you think that 
 Jessie Lee is the woman above all others likely to make you a 
 good, useful, sensible wife, then go and ask her yourself; you 
 are your own master, and she is her own mistress.' 
 
 I felt quite sure that I had piincd him, and my heart re- 
 proached me for my tone. 
 
 'You can't understand, Ursie,' he said, after a pause ; and a 
 dagger's thrust could not have given me the anguish of those 
 few words. 
 
 ' I can ; yes, — I can, indeed,' I exclaimed, — and I spoke truth ; 
 for a dawn of light had broken upon me. ' It is you, Roger, — 
 but don't let us talk about that ; — you know how I love you, — 
 only be happy.' 
 
 He repeated the word happy in a doubtful tone, adding, ' One 
 can't be happy in suspense.' 
 
 We were then on the top of the down. Roger stopped irreso- 
 lute. I saw what was in his thoughts. He looked towards 
 Compton. 'Are you going that way?' I said. I turned in 
 the other direction, but he delayed me. ' Ursie, I can't bear 
 this ; you must stay and listen to me. God knows how I have 
 fought with myself, and He knows also how I have thought of 
 you.' 
 
 We sat down upon the heather, and I prayed that I might 
 bear what was coming. He continued : ' I told you that I had 
 loved Jessie from a child ; but I never deceived you. I did 
 not know it, — and you have been dearest always ; — you arc 
 dearest now, in your own way. The two affections cannot 
 interfere. You will not lose a brother, you will only gain a 
 sister.' 
 
 ' Please, Roger, dear,' I said, ' if you will only not think of me. 
 It is all right, — epiite right; but I was not prepared. I wish 
 only to see you happy.' 
 
 ' That does not satisfy me,' he replied. ' I don't care for my 
 own happiness. l( I could feel that I was injuring you, Trot, 
 I would give up my hope at this moment, though with it I 
 should give up all that makes life dear ; and it lias not been till 
 to day that I have felt I could think of myself without injustice 
 to you.'
 
 URSULA. 321 
 
 'O Roger!' I said, and the tears, which I had so long been 
 striving to retain, burst forth against my will; 'injustice is 
 such a cold, cold word.' 
 
 'But I must use it,' he said. ' It has been in my mind always, 
 that if I did marry, it should not be selfishly. You were my 
 first claim, Ursie, and if I could not have formed a new home 
 without turning you out of the old one, I would have lived and 
 died unmarried.' 
 
 ' That would have been little kindness to me,' I said, — ' to 
 make me feel that I stood in the way of your happiness.' 
 
 ' But you should not have felt it,' he replied. ' I could have 
 crushed my love, and I would have done so, through God's help, 
 and you should never have known it.' 
 
 4 You think little of a woman's penetration,' I said. 
 
 'But I have done it,' he replied. ' If I had been obliged to 
 return to Canada, neither you nor Jessie would ever have known 
 what was in my heart.' 
 
 ' Not Jessie ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' No, not Jessie ; the climate would have killed her. I knew 
 it, for I asked the question of the doctor at Compton. And, 
 Ursie, it would have cost her no pang. She would have married 
 another, without any thought of me. She may do so now.' 
 
 The tone in which he spoke was inexpressibly sad and anxious. 
 I could but answer, though my voice seemed to fail me, 'Roger, 
 she must love you, you will be happy.' 
 
 A brilliant smile passed over his face. 'My precious little 
 Trot, always my comforter. But I want to speak more of you 
 now, to tell you how things have come about. William and I 
 talked over business matters this morning. He knows his own 
 state now, he is not fit to manage the farm, and he wishes me to 
 take it from him. That might be better than Canada, Ursie. 
 He will have his home with us still ; we shall be together, as we 
 were for those few happy weeks, when Jessie was staying with us. 
 And William sees things rightly as regards you, Ursie. He 
 knows that he must make a provision for you, and he is willing 
 to do so, now that he has no other claim. You will be no loser.' 
 
 I tried to stop him, but he continued : ' I must say it, because 
 it has been a chief thought with me. To leave you to the 
 chance of struggling on in the world, as best you might, after 
 all we have been to each other, would bring a curse upon me. 
 I couldn't do it, even though it were to save Jessie from a life 
 like it. I knew that I must see you out of the mire before I 
 
 x
 
 322 URSULA. 
 
 thought of myself, and now God has opened the way to carry 
 out my wish. < > Ursie ! can't you say to me that you think His 
 blessing will be on it.' 
 
 I pressed his hand, — no words would come. 
 
 ' She is not what you expected for me, I know,' he said, an- 
 swering what he felt to be in my mind. ' But, Ursie, I could 
 not love a grave, staid woman of my own age.' 
 
 ' No/ I replied, ' I am aware of that. I feel what you want, 
 Roger ; but, — let me say it now, for I may never do so again, — 
 arc you sure that you know Jess 
 
 ' I have seen her,' he exclaimed, ' in times of trial : I have 
 watched her through Mrs Morris's illness, and when she was 
 with us; and now, troubled as she is by her life at Stonecliff. 
 Whatever she may have been as a child, Ursie, sorrow has, 
 through God's grace, made her a noble woman.' 
 
 I could not tell him the depth of my fear that the change as 
 yet was not to be relied upon for a continuance. I had even 
 then learned that it is no part of true wisdom to endeavour to 
 give our own impression, to the disparagement of any individual, 
 when the person with whom we are conversing, and from whom 
 we differ, has the same facts as ourselves from which to judge. 
 The unfavourable opinion has no effect except to excite a 
 suspicion of prejudice, and the words hastily spoken leave 
 behind them wounds which perhaps will never be healed. What 
 I said of Jessie at that moment might influence the whole of our 
 future lives. 
 
 Roger waited for me to reply ; but, instead of doing so, I 
 kissed him once more tenderly, and whispered : 'God guide you 
 to what is best ; I can't, Roger,' and turned away. 
 
 And I was blind, senselessly blind ! I had not seen, what was 
 self-evident to the eyes of others ; I was surprised at the exist- 
 ence of feelings which I had myself been instrumental in no 
 slight measure in bringing about ! 
 
 I confess all ; — I can only say for myself, in excuse, that 
 others have done likewise. As in illness, so most frequently in 
 love, the persons most deeply interested are the last to perceive 
 the existence of dar. 
 
 But had I really. t to consider it danger? When I 
 
 rushed up to my room, and poured out, to Him who alone 
 could comfort me, the bitter anguish of ' the wounded spirit — 
 which who can bear?' was I justified in my wretchedness? Let 
 those fear to judge who have never been similarly tried.
 
 URSULA. 323 
 
 Yet without doubt I was selfish and unreasonable in my love 
 for Roger. I had found in him all I needed to satisfy my ima- 
 gination and my reverence ; and my affection had indeed so 
 engrossed me that I scarcely thought about other men except to 
 feel that they were his inferiors. I may not be believed when I 
 say this, but it is true. But in this overpowering feeling I forgot 
 that I did not stand in the same relation to him. I filled the 
 place which in God's providence was intended to be second, and 
 I thought it the first ; because the first was vacant. The world 
 saw it. Again and again I had been told that Roger would 
 marry, but I clung to the image of my own love, reflected in his, 
 and in my heart felt myself wiser than the world. This was the 
 root of bitterness. If Jessie had been an angel of goodness, I 
 must still have been wretched for the time, for the foundation on 
 which I had unconciously built up my fabric of earthly happi- 
 ness was undermined. But the circumstances of my trial were 
 aggravated, as it appeared to me, a hundredfold by Roger's 
 choice : Jessie was unworthy of him. She might be gentle, 
 sweet tempered, winning in manner, anxious to act rightly, but 
 she was essentially inferior to him, and Roger was blind in not 
 perceiving it. I acknowledged his consideration, his generous 
 thought for myself, his singular unselfishness. I longed to be 
 grateful. I hoped I was so ; but his weakness I could not 
 forgive. 
 
 As we go on in life, we open our eyes to the facts of human 
 inconsistency, and, knowing that all are fallible, we cease to 
 expect infallibility. But it is not so when we are young and the 
 first dawning upon the mind of a failing in one whom we respect, 
 is one of the most painful trials which at that age we can be 
 called upon to bear. When I thought of Roger as deceived, 
 deluded, caught by a sweet smile, and the expression of a pass- 
 ing wish to do right, which might never be carried into action, I 
 felt as though I had no longer any judgment upon which to rest. 
 He had erred in this case, the most important upon which a 
 man can be called upon to decide, and he might err in others 
 likewise. Even if Jessie were to refuse him, it would not comfort 
 me. He had loved her — that was enough. The dreariness and 
 disappointment which took possession of me I can never 
 describe. As I sat clown on a low seat by my bedside, I felt 
 deadened. Prayer, all powerful though it was, could not restore 
 my dream of human perfection. I do not know how long I re- 
 mained alone. It grew quite dark. I heard Martha movin"-
 
 324 URSULA. 
 
 about below, and William's voice called out for candles, and I 
 thought I ought to go down-stairs to him ; but I made an excuse 
 to myself because of my grief. I let him stay by himself, and 
 fancied that I was excused from attending upon him. The moon 
 rose slowly over the hill, and its cold light streamed in upon my 
 room. I knew that Roger must soon return. I was sure he had 
 been to Compton, and had seen Jessie ; and I went to the 
 window, which looked out upon the lane, and watched for his 
 coming. I thought I could tell even by the way he walked 
 whether his mission had been prosperous. I had not long to 
 wait. A dark figure stood upon the brow of the hill, full in the 
 moonlight. Never before had I seen Roger draw near without 
 a thrill of untold love and delight ; now, nervous and heartsick, 
 I watched his footsteps, counting them as it were by the beat- 
 rigs of my heart, and scarcely able to restrain myself from rush- 
 ing out to upbraid him with his folly, and pour out the full tide of 
 my doubts and my complaints of Jessie, even before I had heard 
 his story. 
 
 God is more merciful to us than we know in withholding the 
 opportunity of speech when we most desire to have it. Roger 
 went into the parlour, and found William there alone. I heard 
 him inquire for me, and he was coming up-stairs, but William 
 detained him. They talked together for nearly a quarter of an 
 hour, and in that time I had leisure to recover myself. Martha 
 took in supper, and I was compelled to go down. William was 
 suffering very much from his eyes, and was cut of spirits. 
 Roger exerted himself to amuse him, and we talked upon in- 
 different subjects ; and after supper I read a little to him out of 
 the newspaper which Roger had brought from I love. Then came 
 prayers, family prayers, — never more blessed than on that night 
 When I heard Roger's solemn and most earnest voice, speaking 
 from the depths of his heart, the bitterness and exaggeration of 
 my feelings died away in self-reproach, and I felt that I, not he, 
 had in God's sight been weak and worthy of condemnation. 
 That was a good preparation for what was to follow ; but the 
 trial was still great. Roger came up to my room — happy, so 
 intensely happy, he neither saw nor imagined any want of 
 sympathy on my part. Jessie had accepted him, with more love, 
 more humility, trust, and simple religious feeling than even in 
 his most sanguine moments he had anticipated. lie could with 
 difficulty bring himself to tell me how he managed to sec her. 
 The little details of his message, and the excuse he had made of
 
 V&StlLA. 32s 
 
 having a parcel to give her, and the circumstance of Mrs 
 Temple's having gone out to dinner, — all important to me, — 
 were scarcely remembered. He could only say, again and again, 
 1 Ursie, God is too good to me ; it frightens me. She is an 
 angel.' And I could only reply, ' Dearest, may God grant ycu 
 to be happy with her !' 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 I ROSE the next morning at my usual hour, after a dis- 
 turbed night. There was but little shock in the waking, for 
 thoughts of Roger had been with me all night. I dressed 
 myself mechanically, thinking of him still. I went about my 
 work with this one idea present to me. Everything I saw, 
 heard, or did, had reference to it. A change had come over 
 life, such as that which I have heard described as experienced 
 by the man who fell into a trance, and was aroused from it after 
 a lapse of fifty years. I found myself grown old and indepen- 
 dent, and I marvelled to see that others could quietly pursue 
 their ordinary occupations. If I could have had my will, I 
 would have bade the world, at least my own little world, stop 
 in its course, wind up its affairs, bid farewell to the past, and 
 begin for the future a new life, with new hopes, and, in some 
 degree, new principles. 
 
 But life seldom knows such sudden breaks. We must all 
 pass through the period of transition, more trying to the tem- 
 per, if not the feelings, than the fulness of sorrow or of joy. 
 Roger called me to him after breakfast, and asked what I was 
 going to do with myself all day. 
 
 ' A good many things/ I answered ; ' it is washing day, and I 
 shall be very busy.' 
 
 ' You wouldn't have time, I suppose, for a walk. Jessie wants 
 very much to see you.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she had better come over here,' I answered. ' I 
 can't see her with any comfort at Stonecliff.' 
 
 ' She said she was afraid it was impossible. Mrs Weir is 
 more ill than usual.' 
 
 ' Is she ? You never told me that,' I said, quickly. 
 
 ' I thought you knew it,' was Roger's reply.
 
 3^ URSULA. 
 
 ' Xo,' I said. ' I seldom go near Stonecliff now. Is J 
 anxious about her?' 
 
 ' Slie did not seem so ; only she thought it wouldn't quite do 
 to a_-k fur a holiday. But that won't last long now, Ursic' 
 
 I thought for a few seconds, feeling strangely aggravated. 
 Then I said : ' I will try and go over in the course of the after- 
 noon ; but I must go alone.' 
 
 lie looked sorely disappointed. 'Yes,' I said, ' you must let 
 me see Mrs Weir and Mrs Temple, and tell them the state f 
 things ; and then if you want to see Jessie there will be no 
 difficulty. But it won't do, Roger, to have people making re- 
 marks, as they are sure to do if you don't give your reasons for 
 seeking Jessie's company.' 
 
 ' Well/ he said, ' I suppose you are right. Nothing stops 
 people's mouths like being open about your affairs. And neither 
 Jessie nor I have anything to hide in the matter.' 
 
 ' And I suppose you will tell William this morning,' I said. 
 
 'I have told him ; I spoke to him before I said anything to 
 you. Only I begged him not to mention the matter, because I 
 wanted to have it out with you myself.' 
 
 I am afraid something in my countenance betrayed the an- 
 noyance which I felt in my heart. William to be told before 
 me ! I could not have imagined it. 
 
 ' You are vexed with me, my little Trot,' said Roger, kindly ; 
 'but I mustn't have you misunderstand. William is such a 
 chief person in all our plans, that if he had greatly objected, the 
 whole thing might have fallen to the ground. I was bound, 
 therefore, to find out his mind upon the matter fir-t.' 
 
 A very maiter-of-fact answer ; but it did not soothe my ru 
 feelings. I walked away, but he followed me. ' Ursie, darling, 
 the fust day of the new happiness is not to be the last of the 
 old, is it ?' 
 
 I answered him by a burst-ef tsars. ', lie sat down by me in 
 the window-seat, and drew me fondly towards him ; but the 
 touch of his hand was to me like the touch of cold lead, and I 
 withdrew myself from him, saying : 'I'm very wicked, Ro.j;er, 
 I know. You ought to hate me, and you will, for I hate 
 myself.' 
 
 ' You arc jealous, Ursie,' he replied, gravely. ' I suppose I 
 ought to have been prepared for it. But I thought you loved 
 ie so well, that \ou looked on her as a sister already.' 
 
 'Look on her!' I exchimed. 'Yes, Roger; but what is
 
 URSULA. 327 
 
 that? You would know if you were a woman ; but you can't— 
 you are a man.' 
 
 'Then, perhaps, I had better not try to know,' he said, in the 
 same grave tone ; and he stood up to leave me. I could not 
 bear that. I took hold of his hand, and looked piteously in hi? 
 face. My heart was so full, I felt as though it would burst. 
 ' O Roger ! love me,' I said. And he stooped down and pressed 
 his lips to my forehead, and I threw my arms round him and 
 kissed him as in former days, with the yearning tenderness of 
 my exceeding love ; and then the cold blank fell upon my heart 
 again, and I knew that I had said farewell to that first joy of 
 my youth for ever. 
 
 I had strong, passionate, exaggerated affections, but I had also 
 a certain share of right principle and common sense. And what 
 was often almost equally important to me, I was keenly sensible 
 of the slightest absence of sympathy, or want of perception of 
 the nature of my feelings in those with whom I lived. I might 
 give way to an outburst of grief or joy under the pressure of 
 excitement ; but the slightest change of voice, or shade of in- 
 difference in manner, restored me to my self-possession ; and I 
 could then quietly take out my feelings, as it were, and looking 
 at them by the light in which they were seen by the world, keep 
 them under stern control, and compel myself for the future to 
 show only so much as my friends could comprehend and ap- 
 preciate. 
 
 After that interview with Roger, I felt lowered in my own 
 eyes. He could not understand, neither would others. To be 
 so distressed at the idea of a brother's marriage with a person 
 whom I had known, and in a certain way loved all my life, must 
 to the world be a simple absurdity, — more especially when 
 Roger was about to remain in England instead of making for 
 himself a home in Canada. Many, probably, will scarcely be- 
 lieve that I would rather have been parted from him for years, 
 with the full conviction that I was first in his affections, and 
 that I could still look up to him without distrust of his judg- 
 ment, than have lived with him for the remainder of my life, 
 under present circumstances, in the most perfect English home 
 that could be offered me. But so it was. I said it to myself in 
 so many words, and then I added : ' That is my view of the 
 case ; now I will see what is required of me by the opinion of 
 the world.' 
 
 I must prepare myself first for congratulations; and self-
 
 328 URSULA. 
 
 respect and feeling for Roger and Jessie demanded that I should 
 receive them cheerfully, in the spirit in which they were offered. 
 Let the bitterness be what it might, no one must know it. 
 Another trial, and perhaps a worse one, would be the necessity 
 of a thoroughly cordial, affectionate meeting with Jessie. That 
 must be gone through immediately, the sooner the better. When 
 I understood her view of her future position, I should be better 
 able to determine in what way to regard my own ; and there 
 must be no further exhibition of feeling with Roger. Either it 
 would deaden his affection, or make his home wretched. I had 
 been weak, but he should be taught to look upon the feeling as a 
 temporary jealousy ; he should never be reminded how deep was 
 the wound he had unconsciously made. I looked at all these 
 necessities calmly, and with somewhat of a feeling of strength. 
 To be without aim or purpose in trouble, that it was which tri -1 
 me. When I had once made up my mind what I was to do, and 
 what I should be called upon to struggle against, I could be 
 comparatively satisfied ; and I prayed now that God would help 
 me to keep my resolution, for I knew that my stumbling-block 
 was self-confidence. 
 
 About eleven o'clock William was accustomed to come in from 
 the field, and take a glass of ale and a bit of bread. He liked 
 rather to linger about then and talk, for he was beginning, poor 
 fellow ! to feel the clays long. I knew that would be the time 
 when I must hear what he might have to say about Roger and 
 Jessie, — how naturally the two names seemed already to run 
 together ! — and I took my needlework into the parlour about ten 
 minutes before the time, and sat down waiting for him. He came 
 in, drank off his <dass of beer, and began upon the subject at 
 once. ' Well, Ursie, what do you say to the new plans ? odd 
 enough, aren't they?' 
 
 ' Not odd that Roger should stay in England,' I said. ' It is 
 the best thing that can be done, and as to Jessie' 
 
 ' She is not the kind of girl I should have thought would have 
 taken his fancy,' continued William. ' But one never knows. 
 Yet somehow, Ursie, I think if it was not for you he miijht find 
 he had made a blunder.' 
 
 'Jessie will learn how to manage things, I dare say,' I said ; 
 ' and it gives her a home.' 
 
 ' Yes, it does that ; and — well, it might have been worse. 
 Only I looked to his marrying a woman with some money.' 
 
 ' I think that is just one of the reasons why he has thought
 
 URSULA. 329 
 
 of h?r,' I replied, remembering an expression which Roger had 
 let fall when lie told me that he could not, even for Jessie, have 
 married to leave me to struggle alone. ' He felt for her, I am 
 sure ' 
 
 ' He had no cause to do that,' answered William, quickly. 
 ' He knows she has as much as she had a right to expect — more, 
 indeed ; and we have all been very kind to her. If my poor 
 Leah had been her sister twenty times over, she could not have 
 done more for her. But Roger always was crotchety from a 
 boy. However, he is going to marry her now, and there is an 
 end of the matter.' 
 
 William hurried away much sooner than usual ; and that was 
 all the help or consolation I was to receive from him. I began 
 to feel very lonely, not the less so because I was setting out for 
 Stonecliff. 
 
 In the afternoon, Roger came to me and gave me a note to 
 take to Jessie. How to manage my visit I could not tell. First 
 I thought I would go direct to Mrs Temple ; then I decided that 
 it would be a breach of confidence with Jesste ; and again I was 
 perplexed as to what I s' h .ould say to soften the trouble to Mrs 
 Weir. The very thinking about these things did me a great 
 deal of good, and by the time I arrived at Stonecliff I was as 
 little excited, and as much fidgeted, as a person need be who 
 wishes to act wisely under trying circumstances. There is 
 nothing so good for preserving the balance of common sense as 
 a dose of matter-of-fact worries. 
 
 ' I want to see Miss Lee,' was my address to the saucy little 
 page who opened the door, and I spoke in a determined tone, to 
 assure him there could be no doubt as to my gaining my point. 
 
 ' He did not know ' — pages never do know — ' whether such an 
 interview was possible.' But I urged him to decision by insist- 
 ing that, if I could not see Miss Lee, I must see Mrs Weir, or 
 Mrs Temple, or some one ; and I made my way into the h.r.il, 
 and seeing the door of the little breakfast-room open, and know- 
 ing that it was very seldom used, I said, ' I \\ ill just wait here, 
 and you can let Miss Lee know that I want to see her.' 
 
 He stared at me, but finding that I was not open to any im- 
 pressions of awe, he left me. 
 
 I confess I felt uncommonly nervous. I sat down and tapped 
 my foot upon the floor, then I stood up and looked at the pictures 
 on the wall, then I walked to the window and watched a boy 
 weeding one of the flower-beds, and at last I went to the door
 
 330 URSULA. 
 
 and listened. Distant sounds in ihc kitchen, those were all I 
 could hear, and I thought the page had proved faithless, and was 
 upon the point of seeking him out and expostulating, but a light 
 footstep came along the passage at the top of the stairs, and the 
 next minute Jessie had thrown herself into my arms, her face 
 covered with blushes, as she exclaimed — 'OUrsiel isn't it too 
 happy?' 
 
 How thankful I was for her excitement, I really could not 
 attempt to say. It saved me completely. I don't believe she in 
 the least suspected any coldness on my side. She was so full of 
 her own delight, that it never entered her thoughts that every 
 one else was not to be delighted too. And then Roger was to 
 stay in England, and she was to live at Sandcombe, dear Sand- 
 combe ; she had never loved any place so well, and I was to be 
 with her, and to be her sister. She was in a perfect ecstasy of 
 happiness. I didn't know whether it was hard in me to think 
 that this childish exuberance was not quite the tone I should have 
 desired for Roger's wife, but of course I did not attempt to check 
 her. All th tt I really had set my heart upon discovering was 
 the full extent of her feeling for him. Even this it was not easy 
 to obtain : she was surprised, grateful, flattered, and rather awe- 
 struck. ' She could not have supposed it possible,' she said, 
 ' so good he was ! so much respected, and so much older too ! 
 At first she could not believe it. Love him ? — oh, yes ! — she 
 loved him better than any one else in the whole world, and she 
 knew that I loved him so much too, and we should all live 
 together, that was the delightful tiling : and to have a home of 
 her own would be so nice, though she should be very sorry to 
 leave Mrs Weir who had been so kind to her.' 
 
 Oh dear ! I don't know what there was in it all which made 
 my spirits sink lower and lower, till at length even Jessie herself 
 remarked that I looked grave, and inquired if anything was the 
 matter, and if I felt ill. 
 
 1 No,' I said, 'not at all, only a little tired with my walk ; and 
 you know, Jesaie, these are exciting days.' 
 
 'Very. I lay awake for hours last night. It seems so very 
 strange. Did you ever think, Ursic, that Roger could be fond 
 of me ?' 
 
 'We arc all fund of you,' I answered evasively. 
 
 'Yes, to be sure, and we have known each other all our lives. 
 Rut then he is so superior. Do you know, I think I am a little 
 afraid of him ; and I told him so.'
 
 URSULA. 331 
 
 'You won't love him the less for that,' I said; 'and, Jessie, I 
 will tell you this about Roger, there is nothing in the world that 
 you need fear with him except not being open upon all points ; 
 you won't mind my saying that, will you ?' 
 
 ' No, of course, we are sisters.' But Jessie did not look quite 
 comfortable. 
 
 ' I don't know any one who can understand things, or make 
 allowances as he can,' I continued. ' But then he must have 
 full trust placed in him.' 
 
 ' He is strict,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' Strict with himself, and that makes him appear strict to othei 
 people. But only try him, Jessie. Say out everything to him, 
 and then see if all will not go smoothlv.' 
 
 She did not speak directly ; when she did, it was merely to 
 say that she was longing for Mrs Weir to know everything : 
 Roger was so impatient for all to be settled, but she did not like 
 to mention it herself. 
 
 Something — it was very trifling — in her manner gave me the 
 impression that she was turning away from a disagreeable sub- 
 ject. I had a strong inclination to pursue it whether she liked 
 it or not. If I had loved her heartily, I should have done so, 
 but I stood upon doubtful ground. So I only replied by a 
 remark upon Mrs Weir's health. 
 
 Jessie's face was bri-ht again directly. Mrs Weir, she said, 
 was much worse than usual, and there had been a fuss with Mrs 
 Temple. She did not, of course, know what it was all about, 
 but she had an idea that it had something to do with money and 
 a letter from Miss Milicent. She had heard Mrs Temple say 
 there would be no money forthcoming, and the only thing to be 
 done was to leave Mr Weir to go to ruin again his own way. 
 And then Mrs Weir had been very nervous, and cried a good 
 deal, and Mrs Temple had scolded her. 
 
 It was not a very hopeful condition of affairs, considering the 
 communication I had to make. I should only be adding to the 
 family disturbance. Yet I felt that in justice to Roger I must 
 not delay. 
 
 * I must see Mrs Temple, Jessie, dear,' I said, ' and tell her 
 everything : I promised Roger I would.' 
 
 She blushed painfully. ' Must you ? I had not thought of 
 that. She will be angry, and— but it is very kind of you, 
 Ursie ; you always help me out of difficulties.' 
 
 'And I must see her at once,' I said, ( if she is in the house.'
 
 332 URSULA. 
 
 Jessie was not quite in such a hurry ; lIic lo iked, but did not 
 move towards the door. 'Will you go?' I add 
 
 ' Yes ; but, Ursie, Mrs Temple is not very good-natured, you 
 know that.' 
 
 'Better than you do, perhaps; though I don't see what her 
 good or ill-nature can have to do with the present business.' 
 
 ' I don't think she has liked me quite so well lately ; you 1. 
 what I told you about the letters.' 
 
 1 I know everything, dear Jessie ; I know Mrs Temple fifty 
 times better than you do, only go now, and ask if I may s\ 
 with her.' 
 
 'And if she should say unkind things, you won't believe 
 them,' continued Jessie. 
 
 ' I will believe nothing of which there is net proof,' I said ; 
 'but one would think you were afraid of being accused of 
 murder? If there is anything to tell, why not say it to me 
 now ?' 
 
 'Oh! there is nothing; nothing, you misunderstand. It is 
 all foolishness,' she exclaimed. ' I kit Mrs Temple was angry at 
 my going over to Dene one afternoon, when Mrs Weir let me 
 
 take a walk, and she has been cross ever since, and then' I 
 
 think Jessie meant to say more, but at that instant Mrs Temple 
 entered the room, and Jessie hurried away without saying even 
 good-bye. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 I HAD not spoken to Mrs Temple since the day when I had 
 my interview with Cotton, and I was sure that she must have 
 felt herself injured from the fact of my having seen Mrs Weir 
 then without her permission, to say nothing of my having been 
 the recipient of Cotton's complaints. But possessing a clear 
 conscience upon these points, I w.is able to look her boldly 
 in the face, and I curtsied, and said that I hoped I had not 
 come at an inconvenient time, but I had a little business with 
 Jessie. 
 
 ' It would be better, another time, if you were to send word 
 beforehand when you wish for an interview,' said Mrs Temple, 
 standing, and making me stand also. 'Miss Lee is much en- 
 gaged, and Mrs Weir is not as well as usual.'
 
 URSULA. 
 
 jjj 
 
 ' I am sorry, ma'am,' I replied, ' but I had also something to 
 say to yourself, if you could be so good as to spare me a few 
 minutes.' 
 
 She took out her watch. 
 
 ' I have an engagement almost immediately, perhaps you will 
 let your communication be brief.' 
 
 ' It is soon made, ma'am,' I replied. 'Jessie Lee is engaged 
 to be married to my brother Roger, and as she will be wishing 
 to leave Mrs Weir almost immediately, I thought it better to let 
 you know.' 
 
 A cloud came over Mrs Temple's fane as though I had actually 
 done her an injury. 'Very singular!' she exclaimed; 'Miss 
 Lee gave me no idea of any plan of the kind. I have not been 
 treated fairly.' 
 
 ' The engagement was only made yesterday, ma'am/ I re- 
 plied; 'we have taken the earliest opportunity of informing 
 you.' 
 
 'There was an agreement,' continued Mrs Temple, 'and 
 Miss Lee suits Mrs Weir very fairly well. I consider that I had 
 a right to expect more consideration.' 
 
 'Jessie will, I have no doubt, be anxious to remain with Mrs 
 Weir, if possible, until some one is found to take her place,' 
 I replied ; 'but of course I can make no promise, as everything 
 must depend on my brother's plans.' 
 
 'Your brother is a rash young man,' said Mrs Temple, look- 
 ing at me scarchingly. ' I should recommend him to inquire 
 before he commits himself to the step he contemplates. You 
 may tell him so.' 
 
 'My brother will, no doubt, be obliged to you for your advice, 
 ma'am,' I replied ; ' but as he is past thirty, I imagine he con- 
 siders himself able to judge in such a matter for himself. I should 
 not, therefore, like to interfere.' 
 
 'Age may not imply wisdom,' said Mrs Temple. ' Has your 
 brother known this young woman long ?' 
 
 ' From her childhood, ma'am,' 1 replied, and turning from the 
 unpleasant subject, I added : ' May I ask how long you think it 
 will be before Jessie will be able to leave Mrs Weir, without in- 
 conveniencing her ?' 
 
 ' I can't say. Your- brother has known this young woman 
 long ? Docs he know her friends and acquaintances ?' 
 ' Nearly all of them, I believe, ma'am,' 1 replied. 
 'Nearly all, you believe. It would be better if it were quite
 
 334 URSULA. 
 
 nil. 1 give the caution with no unfrieil f . Good morn- 
 
 ing. I must request you not to attempt to see Mrs Weir, she is 
 too ill.' 
 
 I was not to be treated in that way,— and I followed Mrs 
 Temple into the hall. ' Excuse me, ma'am,' I said, ' but I can't 
 hear hints ainst Jessie. My brother's happiness is in- 
 
 volved. If you would only be good enough to explain what you 
 refer to.' 
 
 ' I give no explanations. I am not the person to bring for- 
 ward accusations. Your brother will judge for himself when he 
 inquires.' 
 
 I had no power of detaining her ; she sailed past me, — her 
 pony-chaise was at the door, and she drove off, leaving me to 
 my own conjectures. I went back to the little room, and sat for 
 a few moments in thought. Then I rang the bell, and asked 
 again if I might see Miss Lee. The message brought back was 
 that I was to go up to Mrs Weir's room. 
 
 I was in utter perplexity. Disobey Mrs Temple's express 
 wishes I could not, for she had a right to expect obedience— b::t 
 if Mrs Weir re: ily wanted to sec me, I might do her harm by 
 refusing. I sent word to Jessie that she must do as I said — she 
 must come to mc, and almost before I thought the message 
 could have reached her, she was with me. But it was onlj 
 entreat that I would not lose a moment, that I would go in- 
 stantly to Mrs Weir, for she was very ill — very stranjc — it was 
 impossible to know what to make of her, and Jessie was so pale 
 and trembling, that I could not doubt her having real cause for 
 alarm. 
 
 ' She takes it to heart dreadfully,' whispered Jessie to mc, as 
 we stood at the door of Mrs Weir's sitting-room. 
 
 ' To heart ! you have not told her, Jessie, suddenly ?' 
 
 ' You said she was to know, and I thought you were in the 
 house, and it was better over. But, Ursic, I never saw her in 
 such a way. Do go in. She will listen to you.' 
 
 I don't wonder that Jessie was frightened. Mrs Wtir was in 
 a perfect agony of nervous distress, rocking herself backwards 
 and forwards in her chair, crying like a child, — and murmuring 
 from time to time, ' All alone ! all alone I — yes, they all go — they 
 won't let me go too — all alone ! ' 
 
 Jes-ic went behind her chair. I motioned to her to keep out 
 of the way, and went up to Mrs Weir. 'Dear ma'am,' I said, 
 4 you are not all alone, for there is some one here who cares for
 
 URSULA. 335 
 
 you very much. You always used to say that you were sure 
 Ursula would never leave you, and you see she does not.' 
 
 She grasped my hand like a vice ; I did not know she had so 
 much strength in her. 
 
 ' You have left me,' she said, ' there is no one but Jessie now, 
 and she is going too. If God would but take me — no one goes 
 away in heaven.' 
 
 'That will come in His good time, dear ma'am,' I said ; 'but 
 you have often told me that He stays with us, whoever of our 
 earthly friends may chance to leave us.' 
 
 ' I am very wicked. God pardon me, Ursula, — I used to 
 love you, — now I love Jessie. I will try not to love any one 
 again.' 
 
 ' Would not that be wrong, dear ma'am ? ' I said. ' God means 
 us to love one another surely. And no one has left off lovine 
 you. You can't think I have.' 
 
 ' Yet, Ursula, you do not come to me, and you have kept things 
 back from me, and you would not let me have what I wanted 
 from the farm, and then Cotton talked to you, and that did her 
 harm, and she went away, and now you are wishing Jessie to go 
 too. I would not have treated you so, Ursula, for I loved you 
 very much.' 
 
 My heart sank, and in the extremity of my vexation I burst 
 into tears. The poor lady softened towards me in an instant. 
 The sight of my distress roused her from her own. 
 
 ' Do not cry, Ursula,' she said ; ' it makes me sad — and I do 
 not want that ; and I am going to bear it all now, for it was 
 wrong in me to care. Jessie Lee will marry and be very happy, 
 and I like people to be happy. Perhaps God will some day let 
 me be happy in heaven.' 
 
 I took hold of her hand, and kissed it many times. She gazed 
 at me,— strangely and earnestly; then she said : 'They told me 
 you would not help me.' 
 
 ' Whoever told you that, told you what is false, ma'am,' I ex- 
 claimed. ' There does not live on the face of the earth a single 
 human being who would help you, even to death, more truly than 
 I, if I only knew the way.' 
 
 'Would you?' she replied, and she looked round the room 
 timidly. 
 
 'Leave us for a minute, Jessie,' I said; and when the door 
 was closed, I added : ' There is no one here now to listen, ma'am, 
 so you can say out whatever is in your mind.' Mrs Weir hesi-
 
 33 r > URSULA. 
 
 tated, her features worketl nervously, and I could feci the quick, 
 thin, interrupted beating of her pulse, as she laid her hand on 
 mine. ' Ursula,' she said, in a low voice, ' my husband does not 
 want me ; but I must go to him, or I shall die. It lies here 
 heavy on my heart, — but they will not think it. When they say 
 I must not go, God lets me be tempted. I feel bitter things. 
 1 am not resigned to His will, anil I strive — I strive; but the 
 struggle is very weary. And I have had a thought sometimes 
 lately, that I would «o away, all by myself. It comes to me in 
 the ni;_;ht, and I think I will get up and go, but it is an evd 
 spirit that puts it into my head. It is an evil spirit, is it not? 
 You know, because your mind is clear, and mine is tired; O 
 Ursula ! it is very tired ; but it never rests from thinking.' 
 
 I was frightened, yet I did not suppose her brain was wander- 
 ing, only strained ; her words were calm and her look was quiet, 
 though intensely mournful. My reply was from instinct, — I had 
 no time for reflection. 
 
 'Dear ma'am,' I said, 'I don't think it is an evil spirit that 
 puts the wish into your heart, for it seems to me quite natural ; 
 and now you have said it out to me, perhaps you will be better.' 
 
 ' I ought not to have said it,' she said, turning her head 
 quickly. 'My niece tells me that I am to crush the wish, and 
 kill it, but it will not die. I have never told her of that wicked 
 thought, that I would go away by myself. I have told you, 
 Ursula, because I cannot help it. I have never told any one 
 else ; when you are with me I always think you love me.' 
 
 I answered as quickly and decidedly as I could, ' You don't 
 merely think I love you, ma'am, but you know it ; and there is 
 nothing in the world to hinder you from speaking of anything 
 you wish to me. God sees no harm in the wish to go away and 
 join Mr Weir, — that I am quite certain of. The only trouble is 
 how it is to be managed. But the way will no doubt be put 
 before you soon if it is right, and till it is I know you will pray 
 to God to give you patience.' 
 
 A smile more touching to me than tears stole over Mrs Weir's 
 face. ' I could wait very long with hope,' she said ; 'but, Ursula, 
 are you sure?' and again the look of doubt was upon her, — 'my 
 niece says I ought to crush the wish.' 
 
 ' Say it out, dear ma'am,' I replied. ' It will die away all the 
 quicker for that, if it is fit that it should. You know,' I added, 
 and I laughed a little, 'the steam docs more mischief when it is 
 kept in than when it is allowed to escape.'
 
 VRSVLA. £tf 
 
 ' I think so, Ursula. I feel better, and I will try and not 
 think till you come to see me again. But then you never come 
 now.' 
 
 ' I mean to come as often as I can, ma'am,' I said; 'you may 
 always depend upon my doing my utmost to comfort you, and I 
 shall have to ask you to help me about some work, for I want to 
 make something pretty for Jessie when she is married.' 
 
 I was almost afraid what the effect of the allusion might be; 
 but it was taken quietly, though mournfully, and Mrs Weir said, 
 — ' Yes, she will leave me soon. She has been very kind to me, 
 Ursula. I should like to give her something, that would please 
 her, but my money is gone, — all I have to give. I must keep 
 the rest, you know, it is wanted.' 
 
 'You may knit her something, dear ma'am,' I said ; 'she 
 would value that more than anything else.' Mrs Weir's face 
 brightened like a child's with pleasure. ' That is a good thought,' 
 she said. ' I have some patterns for shawls; would you look in 
 the drawer of my work-table, Ursula ? I think you will find 
 them there.' 
 
 The patterns were found and discussed; and one was chosen. 
 The shawl was to be white, with a pink border. Mrs Weir 
 threw herself into the idea with an animation which I fancied 
 she had entirely lost, and before I left her I doubt whether the 
 pain of parting with Jessie was not almost counterbalanced by 
 the pleasure of working for her. 
 
 Jessie and I had but a few words together before I left the 
 house, — and they were of no importance. I did not at the 
 moment remember that I had intended to have spoken to her on 
 the subject of Mrs Temple's hints, for other cares were pressing 
 on me. I had bound myself to Mrs Weir, by giving her 
 sympathy and encouragement, in a way I did not perceive till I 
 found myself walking alone over the hill, and able to think 
 quietly upon what had passed. I was sure my words would not 
 be forgotten, and I scarcely wished they should be. That inter- 
 view had given me a more painful impression of the state of 
 Mrs Weir's mind, and the necessity of some interference, than 
 I had ever had before. Of course I did not believe that Mrs 
 Temple was willingly worrying Mrs Weir out of her senses. No 
 doubt she had a good deal of reason on her side. But she was 
 acting selfishly, and on a system ; and persons who work upon 
 others on system seem to forget that God has willed there 
 (should be infinite variety in this world, both in nature and ia 
 
 Y
 
 33S URSULA. 
 
 human beings, — and that to suppose that what suits one will 
 th refore suit another, is simply m king ourselves out to be 
 wiser than God. Mis Temple, I knew, was strongly imbued 
 with the belief that all persons' nervousness, except her own, 
 could be cured by severity. I had often heard her say so ; and 
 Mrs W'cir, in her simple timidity, acquiesced in the notion, and 
 took the discipline bestowed upon her as medicine, — very dis- 
 
 r cable, but quite right for her to submit to ; only unfor- 
 tunately it did her no good. Y t wh n I say that I had a pain- 
 ful impression of the slate of Mrs Weir's mind, I do not mean 
 to imply that I thought she was going out of it. I had no idea 
 of the kind. Mrs Weir saw all things truly — there was no dis- 
 tortion of facts, and no absence of the power of reasoning upon 
 them. Even in her weakest, most irritable, and excitable 
 moments, there never had been anything of that nature. It was 
 merely that she was possessed (if I may so express myself) by 
 one idea founded upon reason ; and from bodily weakness, and 
 an absence of self-discipline, allowed it to assume an exagge- 
 rated importance. Keeping this to herself in no way lessened 
 the evil ; rather it increased it, for the thoughts upon which we 
 brood in secret arc tenfold more oppressive than those which we 
 openly discuss. The crushing and killing which Mrs Temple 
 recommended would, I was sure, be of no avail. A thou, lit 
 which has a rational foundation cannot be killed ; all we can 
 do with it is to give it light and air, and sec it in its true pro- 
 portion. Mrs Temple treated poor Mrs Weir's conscientious 
 scruple, about being absent from her husband, as she would one 
 of those absurd, irrational fancies which are sometimes allowed 
 to try p' rsons otherwise perfectly reasonable, and which can 
 only be destroyed by a vigorous effort of the will. Crush these 
 for a time, and reason itself steps in afterwards to prove their 
 follv. But to reason against reason is useless ; and when 
 conscience and reason act together, the difficulty becomes in- 
 surmountal 
 
 I am putting down now the result of long observation. I had 
 none of these thoughts on the day when I walked back from 
 Stonccliff to Sandcombe, for, as I said before, I had been act- 
 ing on instinct rather than reflection ; but I could not help 
 seeing that I had committed myself more than was perhaps 
 prudent I had held out to Mrs Weir the hope that something 
 would be done to enable her to rejoin her husband, and I had 
 explicitly told her that I would see her frequently, and that she
 
 URSULA. 339 
 
 might depend upon me for comfort. Whether wise or unwise, 
 I must keep my word, and that against any objection or inter- 
 ference on the part of Mrs Temple. Very much troubled I was 
 as I thought of this, and when my mind turned to my usual 
 adviser, Roger, I was met by the dispiriting conviction that I 
 could not expect to gain his full sympathy, and scarcely his 
 attention, and I resolved not to attempt it. It is unfair to try 
 any individual beyond the ordinary limits of human power ; and 
 a man in love is always to be looked upon as free, for the time 
 being, from the claims of extensive sympathy ; not however from 
 any principle of right or duty, but as a concession to that known 
 infirmity of which we all partake. The knowledge of this fact 
 was painful to me, but I felt safer and happier in not putting 
 Roger to the test than in doing so with the risk of failure. I was 
 already beginning to look upon him as subject to the same 
 weaknesses as his fellow-creatures. 
 
 Mr Richardson was my only resource, and I determined to go 
 over to Compton the first day I could, and put all I knew and 
 felt before him. Even if he could not help me, I should then 
 have at least the satisfaction of feeling that I was not acting 
 entirely on my own responsibility. 
 
 I reached home just in time for tea. Roger and John Hervey 
 met me at the farm-yard gate. Roger's face was full of eager 
 expectation. He wanted me to come with him at once, and tell 
 him all that had passed. John Hervey said, as Roger walked 
 away, ' I hope they will be happy, Ursie. You don't want me to 
 congratulate you.' 
 
 My heart bounded with a sense of relief. I looked up at him 
 and said, 'Thank you, Mr Hervey, that is like a friend.' 
 
 He said not another word, and walked into the house, but I 
 was brighter that evening than I had been since I heard of 
 Roger's plans, for I felt that there was still some one in the 
 world who understood me. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 MR RICHARDSON was away attending upon his father, 
 who was dying. Such was the information given me 
 when I went to Compton to see him. I must manage, then, as
 
 3 t o URSULA. 
 
 best I l ithout his advice, and after some consideration I 
 
 felt that it might be well to be bold, and make u >e of Julie's 
 affairs as an excuse for seeing Mrs Weir frequently. If I did 
 not appear to perceive Mrs Temple's dislike, I hoped it mi 
 not actually be exerted against me ; and if I c< uld interest Mrs 
 Weir, and help to keep her quiet, I might even become neces- 
 sary. At any rate I would try. I thought too of Jessie much 
 and anxiously. Mrs Temple's hints were by no means for- 
 gotten. I pondered upon them deeply, and again thought I 
 would call upon her to explain them, lint she had spoken 
 proudly and angrily, and the more I considered what had 
 passed, the less weight I was inclined to attach to her words. 
 Jessie's life was no mystery. I seemed to know what she had 
 done and said, I could almost add what she had thought, from 
 childhood. Her intercourse with Mrs Price and acquaintance 
 with Mr Macdonaid were the only things which I could really 
 disapprove, and I knew much better than Mrs Temple how fir 
 ihese had been carried. To make inquiries would be implying 
 suspicion, and might involve explanations which I did not feel 
 myself at liberty to give. 
 
 Neither could I say anything to Roger. I had always felt 
 that before people are engaged one is free to offer general 
 warnings, but that afterwards nothing but indisputable facts 
 can justify interference. A man cannot break his promise be- 
 cause he hears what he ought to have been aware of before he 
 made it. I had great trust, too, in Jessie herself. I saw no 
 reason for thinking that anything serious was amiss. She had 
 always given me her confidence, and the little air of secrecy I 
 had observed in our interview at StoneclifF was accounted for 
 by Mrs Temple's suspicious temper and prejudice. No douLt 
 Mrs Temple disliked Mr Macdonaid and Mrs Price, and 
 thought that Jessie was unwise for having them for her friends. 
 So did I. Put Je-sie knew this already. It could do no good 
 to make a fuss about the matter, just at the moment when 
 the acquaintance was likely, as I hoped, to be entirely broken 
 off. Altogether I thought it better to say nothing, except 
 continually to urge upon her the necessity of treating Roger 
 with perfect openness. If she would do this, all would be 
 well, and I could not but believe that as she knew him better, 
 his gentleness and sympathy would win mere and more upon 
 her affections, and lead her to confide every thought and feeling 
 to him.
 
 URSULA. 341 
 
 So I went on, not blindly, not happily, but trying to make the 
 best of a state of things which I felt could not be mended. 
 
 In six weeks only from the day of their engagement, Roger and 
 Jessie were to be married. I suppose if the marriage had been 
 the event which above all others I most desired, there would stdl 
 have been some aggravations attending it. The mere upsetting 
 of household arrangements, the discussions, the preparations, the 
 little thoughtlessnesses and exclusivenesses, if one may use the 
 word, of two persons who are all in all to each other, and feel 
 that, for the time being, they are the pivot on which the world 
 turns, must alone give rise to annoyances. But in my case there 
 were other and much more serious causes fur vexation. I say 
 nothing of my own individual feeling with regard to Roger. I 
 have already expressed it. If it is not understood, no words of 
 mine will cause it to be so, and if it is, no further explanation 
 will be needed. But as day after day went by, and I had fresh 
 opportunities of studying Jessie's character, I became more dis^ 
 heartened and perplexed at the ignorance of Roger's choice, and 
 the difficulties which were in preparation both for him and me. 
 If I could have seen why he fell in love with Jessie, I fancied I 
 could have been happier. But it was a moral problem which I 
 was wholly unable to solve. A problem also was my future 
 position at Sandcombe. 
 
 In his great kindness, his wish to make everything easy for 
 every one, Roger was always saying that his marriage would 
 make no change in the family. William was the master, I was 
 the mistress, Jessie and he would live with us, and would do 
 everything in their power to help us ; but they had not the 
 slightest wish to interfere. And Jessie was lavish in her pro- 
 mises, and, I am sure, perfectly sincere in her intentions. But at 
 the very moment Roger was saying this, he was directing all that 
 went on, both with regard to money matters and the management 
 of the farm. William was becoming every day more unfit to look 
 after his own affairs, and Roger was the responsible person not 
 only in little daily matters, but even in actual business. He had 
 thrown some of his money into the farm, laying it out in ways 
 which were considered advantageous, upon the express under- 
 standing, and indeed the written agreement (for he was parti- 
 cular enough in such ways) that when the new lease was made 
 cut, which it would be, according to Mr Stewart's promise, very 
 shortly, it was to be in his name. He would then be the master 
 of Sandcombe, and his wife of course would be the mistress, and
 
 342 URSULA. 
 
 what was I to be ? I put the case before him, and to my cx- 
 cee ling surprise found that he actually would not sec any diffi- 
 culty in it ; — though, if he had been an indifferent person, the 
 awkwardness would have been as evident to him as the sun in 
 the heavens! lie said that I was wishing to draw lines where 
 no lines could be drawn ; that all would work well if left to itself ; 
 where people loved each other as we did, it must do so ; that 
 Jessie had the highest opinion of my judgment, and would l.e 
 entirely guided by me; that ho felt the same; and he addul 
 that he could not have thought of marrying with any idea of 
 turning me out of the place which I had always held. As to 
 names, they were nothing. What did it signify who was call 1 
 mistress ? Neither Jessie nor I had any foolish love of power, 
 and for his own part he had not the slightest doubt of our 
 working together delightfully. Much more he said of the same 
 kind, and at the conclusion he left me with the conviction 
 impressed more than ever on my mind, that names constitute 
 one of the greatest moving powers of this fallen world ; that 
 every name implies relations and duties ; and that to assume the 
 name when we are unable to fulfil the duties belonging to it is to 
 involve ourselves in inextricable confusion and wretchedness. 
 
 I did not say so to Roger, but I went to Mrs Kemp. It was 
 just a fortnight before the wedding was to take place. The next 
 day Jessie was to leave Mrs Weir, and come to us. I felt I 
 must have my mind made clear upon this subject beforehand. 
 Not that Jessie was likely to think about it, but I was quite sure 
 she would feel ; and persons who feel and don't think are the 
 most difficult of all to manage. I had also a little business to 
 settle with Mrs Kemp, as to the young person who was to fill 
 Jessie's place. Mrs Kemp, in her kindness, had exerted herself 
 to find one, in order that Jessie might the sooner be set free, and 
 Jessie had given me some messages for her successor, and begged 
 me to talk to her about Mrs Weir, so that I had to arrange a 
 meeting with her. Strange it was that such duties should fall to 
 my share, but I was, as I had anticipated, necessary just then at 
 Stonccliff. Mrs Temple could not bear me, but she did not 
 hesitate to make use of me ; and as long as Mrs Weir was 
 quieted by talking to me about the white shawl with the pink 
 border, she put up with my presence. I think she began to feel 
 that she might strain her authority over Mrs Weir too far. 
 But enough of this ; even Mrs Weir was but secondary at that 
 time.
 
 URSULA. 343 
 
 Mrs Kemp, like John Hervey, had never congratulated me 
 upon Roger's intended marriage. She did not approve of Jessie 
 Lee well enough to do so. But I think that just at first she had 
 fancied that having Roger with me in England would make up 
 for any disappointment. A very happy, prosperous, married 
 woman herself, she did not quite picture to herself the vexations 
 that a marriage may bring upon the persons only indirectly con- 
 cerned in it. Her simple, good sense, would, however, I was 
 sure, understand them the minute they were put before her. Of 
 course I did not intend to speak to her of my own peculiar feel- 
 ing for Roger. There was no one to whom I could open my 
 heart upon that point, unless — it may seem strange, but I could 
 have talked to Mrs Weir, if she had been well enough to listen. 
 
 I entered upon my subject immediately with Mrs Kemp. It 
 was not a pleasant one, so the less delay the better. ' I am 
 come,' I said, ' to consult you about the future. We are going 
 to begin a new life at Sandcombe, and I should be glad to know 
 how best to carry it out.' 
 
 ' Surely, my dear,' said Mrs Kemp, and she rubbed her spec- 
 tacles, put them on, and took up her work — signs that she meant 
 to give me time and attention. ' Where is the difficulty ?' 
 
 ' Who is to be mistress ? ' I said. ' Roger thinks there can be 
 two mistresses. I think there can't be.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp smiled. ' He would not like that there should be 
 two masters, my dear. And I dare say he would quote the Bible 
 to prove that the thing is impossible.' 
 
 I dare say he would, but he is very kind, and does not like to 
 hear that I am to be turned out.' 
 
 ' Yet it must come to that, and it seems to me, Ursie, that 
 when a wound is to be made, it is kinder to do it with one cut 
 than with half-a-dozen ; but men are very tender-hearted.' 
 
 ' I wish they were not,' I replied. ' If Roger had come to me 
 at once, and agreed with me how things were to be, he might 
 have been a great help to me. As it is — trying to make things 
 easy, which can't be easy — he has left me to bear the burden 
 alone. For I must see all truly,' I added. 
 
 ' Quite right, my dear,' and Mrs Kemp patted my hand 
 approvingly. ' As the farmer sometimes says to me when I 
 grumble, " Patty, we are to fit our wishes to our circumstances, 
 not our circumstances to our wishes." If Roger marries, and 
 upsets your household, he must learn to look the change full in 
 the face.'
 
 344 URSULA. 
 
 'Or I must,' I said; 'for I don't expect much fr im liim ' I 
 am afraid I said it a little bitterly. Mrs Kemp th< light that 1 
 alluded to his choice of a wife, and she answered, ' It may turn 
 out better than you expect, my dear. Marriage brings troul 
 and if people arc good for anything, trouble brings improvement. 
 Jessie may be a very different person as a wife from what she 
 has been as a girl ; though to say she is what I thought Roj i 
 would have chosen, would be saying what is not true.' 
 
 ' Why did he choose her?' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Well, my dear, there may be a good deal said for him. I 
 don't know that he is different from most other men. Looking 
 upon the world with my old eyes, it often seems to me that 
 women are like the blocks in a barber's shop, which each man 
 dresses up to suit his own fancy. The block may be worth 
 something, or it may not be, it matters little for the time being. 
 What the man falls in love with is not the reality, but the ap- 
 pearance ; so it happens that the cleverer, and better, and more 
 kind-hearted a man is in himself, the more danger probably there 
 is of his making a blunder in his choice, because, you see, he has 
 such a charming notion of what a woman ought to be, all ready 
 prepared in his mind, that he has nothing to do but to fit it to 
 the first girl he meets, of a right age, and look, and manner, and 
 there is his perfect wife, ready made.' 
 
 I sighed. It seemed to me just what Roger had done. 
 
 'Jessie isn't like you, my dear,' continued Mrs Kemp. 
 
 .' No, indeed,' I continued. 'Dear Mrs Kemp, I may say it 
 to you, — I could not to any one else, — I have loads of faults, 
 terrible faults ; but I do think I have done more for Roger's hap- 
 piness than Jessie ever will or can do.' 
 
 'Time will show, my dear,' was the reply. 
 
 'But,' I said, — 'please don't think me conceited — I have more 
 sense than Jessie, and I certainly know more of the world, 
 and how to manage ; and I believe, too, that I have more fixed 
 principles.' 
 
 'Excellent qualities, Ursie, my dear, for a sister ; but I sup- 
 pose a man like Roger wants something else in a wife.' 
 
 ' He wants a pretty face,' I exclaimed, ' and a winning manner.' 
 
 ' Not so much the face as the manner, my dear. Roger is so 
 strong in himself, that he doesn't want any one to make him 
 stronger.' 
 
 ' And I am too strong for him,' I replied. 
 
 'Perhaps so. in You zee you can • lone, and act
 
 URSULA. 345 
 
 for yourself, and form your own opinions, and you have away of 
 putting them out strongly ; and these are very good and useful 
 qualities in a sister, or a friend, but they don't suit all men in a 
 wife, especially not a strong man like Roger, with such a tender 
 heart. What he wants is something to pet.' 
 
 It was very true. Roger's tender-heartedness had been his 
 snare. 
 
 'Well!' I said, 'the deed is done, or all but done: the only 
 thing now is to make the best of it, and I don't think that will 
 be by following Roger's plan, and having two mistresses.' 
 
 ' Certainly not, Ursie ; at hast so far as I have had any 
 experience. As the farmer says, whatever you do in life, ray 
 dear, take care that you plant your foot upon ground which has 
 a sure foundation ; if you don't, before long you will find yourself 
 standing above an earthquake ; and there is no sensation more 
 unpleasant, as I have been told.' 
 
 ' But how to manage it ? ' I said. ' Roger won't hear of it, — 
 he is almost angry when last 1 talked to him. I don't think it 
 will do to insist upon it.' 
 
 ' You can act upon it, my dear, and that will be better than 
 insisting. To insist upon having your own way, seems to me, 
 most times, like giving a man a blow in the face, — he returns it 
 as a matter of course.' 
 
 'I don't quite understand you,' I said. 
 
 ' It is just this, my dear. If you go to Roger and Jessie, and 
 say that you insist upon Jessie's taking her place as mistress, 
 whether she likes it or not, they will very probably turn round 
 upon you, and think you are in a pet, and they may even com- 
 plain, and say that it is hard to put upon Jessie duties for which 
 she is not prepared.' 
 
 'Not prepared?' I exclaimed. 'How has she a right to 
 marry if she is not prepared to undertake every duty which her 
 position requires of her ? ' 
 
 ' Women do a great many things which they have no right to 
 do, my dear,' replied Mrs Kemp, quietly. ' We must take them 
 as they are. Many girls, cleverer than Jessie, go on groping 
 through life, and never discover their duties, except by knocking 
 their heads against them.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' was my only answer ; for I felt cross and dis- 
 heartened. 
 
 'And you sec, my dear,' continued Mrs Kemp, 'that would be 
 a bad beginning for you all, to quarrel at the outset.'
 
 346 URSULA. 
 
 ' Then I am to give in,' I said. 
 
 'Not at all. Only don't raise the question. Take your own 
 view of your position, and act upon it. A person with a fi 
 purpose has always the advantage over one who trusts to circum- 
 stances to work out life.' 
 
 'It is very droll,' I exclaimed, and I could not help laughing 
 a little, 'to sit here and talk over with you how to make mj 
 second, when most people would think that my chief wish must 
 be to be first.' 
 
 i ! Ursie, you love truth better than power, and that's why 
 I love you,' replied Mrs Kemp. 
 
 'Yes,' I said, earnestly ; 'truth is the one thing I love I 
 and chiefest, and dearest of all things ; let me only have tl 
 and I am satisfied.' 
 
 ' Well, then, the truth of things now is, or will be, that Roger 
 owns Sandcombe, and that Jessie Lcc will be his wife ; and, in 
 spite of all they may say to the contrary in their good-nature, 
 that is the position they are to hold.' 
 
 'And the position they would wish to hold,' I replied; 'at 
 least I speak of Jessie. I am quite certain that if I were to put 
 myself in any way above her, she would be up in arms before 
 Ion..;.' 
 
 'To be sure. A girl may be very gentle and humble in her 
 ways of thinking before she is married ; but let her once be 
 called Mrs, and notions of her own position come as a matter of 
 course ; and if she is weak in herself, she is likely to lay an un- 
 wise stress upon them. Not but what, as I said before, Jessie 
 may turn out much better in that way, and in others, too, than 
 you and I are inclined to think. We must not be hard u] 
 her.' 
 
 ' I don't wish to be hard,' I replied ; ' but we can't help seeing 
 things, and I had rather not put myself in the way of wounding 
 Jessie upon such a point.' 
 
 ' Right enough, Uut, I think, my dear, it will all be tolerably 
 easy, if you go to work carefully. If I were you, I should not 
 make the least fuss about the matter ; 1 should not, for instance, 
 go and tell the servants that they were to consider Jessie their 
 mistress ; but I should make a point of always speaking of her 
 as such ; in fact, I should take it as a matter of course, and I 
 should consult her about everything, and make her sit at the 
 b ad of the table, not because she is mistress, but because she is 
 a married woman ; and so, by degrees, you will put her in her
 
 URSULA. 347 
 
 true place, and please both her and Roger. For they will be 
 pleased, in spite of all they may say to the contrary, and then 
 you will all be where you ought to be, and therefore be com- 
 fortable.' 
 
 I doubted as to the comfort ; but I was sure Mrs Kemp was 
 right, and, feeling strengthened by her opinion, I turned to othei 
 subjects, — first Mrs Weir, and then the preparations for the 
 wedding. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 I WENT to Hove that day week, shopping with Jessie. Roger 
 drove us in, and then left us to do what we wished in the 
 way of purchases, saying he would be ready for us about half- 
 past five, and we were to meet him at the King's Arms. It was 
 a market day, and Hove was very full. A good many carriages 
 were in the town, besides officers walking about, and the place 
 looked gay. I was not often in Hove, for, as I could not well 
 leave Sandcombe with no one to take my place there, I generally 
 made Mary Kemp do my shopping ; but when I did go, I quite 
 enjoyed it. Even on this day, though I must confess that I did 
 not feel very light-hearted, I could find a good deal of amuse- 
 ment in walking about ; and Jessie was entirely happy. She 
 had to try on her wedding-dress, — a dove coloured silk, to be 
 worn with a white muslin mantilla, trimmed with pink, and a 
 white silk bonnet, — and I really did not wonder at the pleasure 
 she seemed to take in twisting and turning before the glass, for 
 anything prettier I had seldom looked upon. Then the dress- 
 maker was so civil, and made so much of her, and showed her 
 such a number of pretty things, while she held in her hand a 
 five-pound note, Roger's gift that morning, to be spent upon 
 anything which took her fancy ! Older and wiser heads than 
 hers have been placed in the same position, and felt themselves 
 excited and elated. I did not blame her ; only, — if she had not 
 been Roger's intended wife ! 
 
 We might have had luncheon at a friend's house ; but, think- 
 ing we should lose time, we agreed to go to the pastry-cook's ; 
 and, as Jessie was tired, we sat down in the little inner room to 
 eat our veal patties. A glass partition separated us from the
 
 34S URSL LA. 
 
 other part of the shop. I sal with my back to it, for I dislilo <\ 
 being seen ; but Jes lie ('.row her chair so as to be able to ioi 1: 
 through it, and very amusing remarks she mule upon the 
 pi rsons who came in. 
 
 ' Did you ever see such a bonnet, Ursie ? Just look, if it isn't 
 exactly like a coal scuttle ? It must have been made before the 
 flood. And that little gentleman, with the red hair and the 
 moustache ! What a pair they arc ! I hope they won't come 
 in here ; I don't think they will He is talking to such a hand- 
 some officer now,— and, — well, I do think that is Mrs Trice just 
 come in. I must go and speak to her.' 
 
 She started up. I laid my hand upon her arm. 
 
 'Jessie, I won't have Mrs Trice brought here.' 
 
 I am afraid my tone was angry. Jessie sat down, and was 
 silent ; but she laid down her knife and fork, and gazed through 
 the glass. 
 
 ' Do turn away,' I said, ' they will see you.' 
 
 I I can't help it if they do,' replied Jessie, in a tone of annoy- 
 ance. ' If we have luncheon in a public shop, wc must take our 
 chance.' 
 
 'They won't stay long,' I said ; ' they are only buying sugar- 
 plums for her little nephew ; and you know it would be very 
 awkward for me to see Mrs Trice, because I have never returned 
 her visit.' 
 
 ' She wouldn't mind that ; she is not at all particular,' said 
 Jessie. ' She has been so kind to me, Ursie, I can't give up the 
 acquaintance, so you had better speak to her at once, for you 
 will be obliged to do so before long.' 
 
 There was truth in this suggestion, but it did 'not make me 
 feel more amicably towards Mrs Trice to discover that the 
 intimacy which I had so long striven to avoid, might be forced 
 upon me by Jessie's marriage. 
 
 Jessie took my silence, I suppose, for assent and approval, 
 for without saying anything more, she suddenly walked into the 
 outer shop. Mrs Trice started ; there was no great cordiality 
 in her manner. 
 
 'Jessie, my dear, you here? What a wonder! Where did 
 you come from ? ' She looked at the officer, then at Jessie, hesi- 
 tating, I thought, whether she should introduce them to each 
 other ; and Jessie looked also, and seemed to expect it, — but 
 Mrs Trice apparently determined against it. She said some- 
 thing to Jessie in an undcr-tone, which I could not hear, and I
 
 URSULA. 349 
 
 yaw Jessie change colour. I suppose it was On accouht of an 
 allusion to her marriage. 
 
 ' You have taken us by surprise/ I heard Mrs Price say, and 
 Jessie made a low, timid answer. Mrs Price drew her nearer to 
 the inner shop, and away from the rest of the party, and then 
 continued, ' I have friends here you see, but it is no use to 
 trouble you with introductions. You have taken a different 
 line.' 
 
 ' I hoped we should always be friends,' I heard Jessie say. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; friends, of course. But a married woman, — it will 
 be quite different : — in short, I am disappointed, Jessie, and you 
 know I have reason to be.' Mrs Price spoke with the tone and 
 manner of wounded affection. Jessie's eyes were raised to her 
 with a look of wonder and vexation. 
 
 ' 1 don't mean to be severe, my dear,' continued Mrs Price, 
 'but really, after the opportunities I have given you, — the ad- 
 vantages you have had, — and knowing as you must know, — but 
 I won't talk of that. Poor fellow ! his fate is a hard one.' 
 
 I just heard Jessie say, ' I did not think he would care,' and 
 then I walked forward and presented myself before them. 
 Jessie's countenance expressed relief; Mrs Price's pride. I 
 spoke as though the meeting was accidental and indifferent, 
 asked after her husband, and made an observation upon the 
 weather, and then begged Jessie to finish her luncheon, for we 
 had still a good deal of shopping to do. 
 
 ' Pay for us, will you,' said Jessie, ' whilst I eat my patty.' 
 
 1 Yes, but I think I left my gloves on the table,' I said, making 
 an excuse that I might net leave her alone again with Mrs 
 Price ; and I went back with her to the inner room. I lingered 
 there, watching till Mrs Price should leave the shop, but she 
 was now engaged with the little spoiled boy, who could not make 
 up his mind what lozenges he liked. I saw there was no hope 
 of being rid of her, and as Jessie's luncheon was ended we went 
 back again. I had the money ready in my hand, that we 
 might not be detained, and I stood between Mrs Price and 
 Jessie, laid the sum on the counter, and turning round directly, 
 saw Mrs Price slip a note into Jessie's hand, and heard her say, 
 in a low voice, ' You will see it has been a hard matter to say 
 good-bye.' 
 
 Jessie's colour was crimson one moment, the next she became 
 perfectly white. She hurried out of the shop without another 
 word. We went across the street to a stationer's to buy some
 
 330 URSULA. 
 
 paper. Then, whilst I was choosing what I wanted, I observed 
 her take up a book under pretence of looking at it, and slipping 
 the note between the le '. . r» ad it, as I suppose she imagined, 
 unperceived. After that she seemed quite to have recovered 
 herself, and we finished the remainder of our busint kly, 
 
 and at half-past five met Roger and were driven back again to 
 Sandcombe. 
 
 As I sat in the back scat of the chaise, I pondered ninny 
 things in my mind ; most especially how far one could be at 
 liberty to found uncomfortable suspicions upon mere trifles. 'J 
 result of my deliberations I communicated to Jessie when I fol- 
 lowed her that night to her room. 
 
 I began at once. 'Jessie, I have something upon my mind. 
 \> u know I am always outspoken, so you must let me be so now. 
 I don't like Mrs Price, and I don't like what she said to you in 
 the shop to-day. I could not help hearing it.' 
 
 ' I don't like her as I used to do,' replied Jessie. ' I felt to- 
 il. iy, Ursic, that you were right about her, and that I was 
 
 wroncr.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' I continued. ' She is underhand, and I 
 think she might lead you into mischief if you were to see mui h 
 of her.' 
 
 ' I am sure of it, and I don't mean to see much of her,' 
 Hcd Jessie. 
 
 I paused— and thought of the note. 'You don't intend to 
 keep up anything like a correspondence with her, of course, 
 then,' I ventured to say. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ! We have never written to each other except 
 about little matters of business.' 
 
 Surely that was enough to satisfy mc — yet I added one caution 
 more. 
 
 ' I shall be glad when you have learned to like only those whom 
 Roger approves of. He could never like Mrs Price.' 
 
 ' lie told me so, this evening,' she replied. 'Indeed, Ursie, I 
 quite feel with him.' 
 
 I could but ki-s her, and tell her that if she was guided by her 
 husband, she would go safely and happily through life, and with 
 a lighter heart I went down-stairs to say a few words to Roger. 
 
 We discussed the affairs of the day ; the purchases and orders, 
 the wedding guests, the household arrangements. Just as we 
 had finished, he said to me, 'I have had such a charming talk 
 wi'.li Jessie to-night, Trot. I wish you could have heard it. She
 
 URSULA. 351 
 
 is so simple, just like a child, and yet with such capital good 
 sense. She quite sees all that you and I see in Mrs Price.' 
 
 4 I think she does,' I replied. ' She said as much to me just 
 now, and I am very glad, Roger, that she can talk out to you 
 about everything.' 
 
 ' I don't believe she has a thought kept back,' she replied. 
 'Even about that stupid Lieutenant Macdonald she came out 
 freely, though some girls might have been shy. I don't know 
 why I should call him stupid, though,' he added, laughing, 'as I 
 am sure I never had any cause to be jealous.' 
 
 ' It was a silly business,' I said, though feeling greatly relieved ; 
 1 Mrs Price was at the bottom of it. She grows worse and worse 
 to me. I can bear with her when she forgets herself, but when 
 she puts on the fine lady, as she did to-day, I have scarcely 
 patience to look at her.' 
 
 ' She is odious,' he exclaimed. ' Did Jessie look very sweet 
 in her wedding-dress ? I want her to let me see her in it before 
 the day.' 
 
 ' We won't forestall pleasure,' I said ; ' at any rate, Roger, you 
 may be satisfied with having a very pretty wife.' 
 
 ' And a very good one, Ursie ' — and he became suddenly 
 grave. ' I am not quite such a fool as I seem, though when I 
 look at her' — he stopped short, and then added : ' if I did not 
 think that my choice was good in God's sight, I could give her 
 up even now.' 
 
 Fears, suspicions, warning ! where could they be after that 
 speech ? I went to bed, and to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 "^HE twelfth of June was as brilliant a day as ever dawned 
 -L upon this fallen earth. If it is pictured in my memory in 
 shades of darkness, the fault is mine and mine alone. I could 
 scarcely have had more than four hours' sleep the night before. 
 I went to bed very late, and I was up again soon after sunrise. 
 Even now I can recall the soft beauty of the morning mists 
 floating over St Anne's ; the glittering of the dew on the turf, the 
 clear song of the birds, and the fresh scent of the warm air pass-
 
 353 URSULA, 
 
 ingover the down. And I was with Rogfir at Sandcombe ; the 
 home of my infancy. I was to live with him there for years —for 
 life, if so 1 willed. The prayer I had often made was granted, 
 but so ns to be my trial, not my joy. 
 
 We were to be a small party. Mary Kemp and I were to be 
 the bridesmaids, and Mrs Kemp had promised to come Ov«r 
 early to help me with the preparations for breakfast. Some of 
 i ir friends were to meet us at Compton church, and come back 
 with us, and after breakfast Roger and Jessie were to drive ii 
 Hove, and take a fly from thence to a small village, a kind of 
 watering place, about ten miles off. Roger meant to take Jessie 
 to London afterwards, but he wished to have a Utile quiet with 
 her first. So the day was mapped out. There was so much 
 household business to be attended to, that I could not dress, 
 myself for the wedding at once, but I put on my common gown, 
 and went down-stairs to help Martha, and look to the poultry 
 and the dairy just as usual. There was nothing to make me f< 1 
 the change that was coming upon me, except the weight at my 
 h< ait, and the sight of ihe chairs put in order against the great, 
 round dining-table in the large parlour. That had been done 
 the night before ; Roger and Jessie had helped to place them, and 
 had passed many jokes as to where every one should sit. Their 
 voices seemed still to linger in the empty room. 
 
 About half-past seven I went up to help Jessie, but she was 
 not ready for me, and I strolled out into the garden to gather 
 some flowers for her to put in her dress. Roger was there before 
 me for the same purpose. He greeted me tenderly, so indeed as 
 I can never forget, and we took a turn round the garden 
 together ; but we neither of us seemed to know what to say to 
 e ich other, and when he had put his flowers together, he said he 
 would take them up to Jessie himself, and he went auay and 
 left me. 
 
 'lh.cn William came out, groping rather than walking, for his 
 eyes were failing him almost entirely. I could not let him be 
 alone, and I joined him. He was afraid that we should be late, 
 I he complained of Jessie's want of punctuality, and said he 
 was sure she would drive Roger frantic, if she went so, and at 
 1 st he came so fidgety that I was obliged to go in to hasten 
 Jessie. I found her standing before the glass, with her dress on, 
 ready to be fastened. When I gazed upon her, so young, fresh, 
 lovely, and loving, a spring of fondness welled up, as it were, 
 from the depths cf my heart, and, as I kis.^d her, I whispered,
 
 URSULA. 353 
 
 1 Jessie ! you look as though you would make Roger happy, 
 and I am sure he will make you so.' 
 
 She turned her soft eyes upon me earnestly. 'Do you think 
 I can make him happy, Ursie ? I am afraid he may have made 
 a mistake.' 
 
 I smiled. ' It is too late to think of that,' I said ; ' he must 
 take his chance.' 
 
 Still she was grave. Instead of moving so that I might dress 
 her, she went on : ' He thinks better of me than he should 
 Ursie, have you told him all my faults ?' 
 
 ' He has known you long enough to find them out,' I answered. 
 ' At any rate, they must be left for the present. William will 
 be so vexed if we don't go down.' 
 
 'Mrs Temple would give me a worse character than I give 
 myself,' persisted Jessie. 
 
 I became a little impatient, and answered : ' Dear Jessie, you 
 have chosen the worst moment possible for such a subject. You 
 should have made your confessions before.' 
 
 'It came over me last night,' she said. 'I couldn't sleep. 
 But, Ursie, I love him dearly. That is the chief thing, isn't it?' 
 
 ' ^ r es, indeed, it is all he asks now, except confidence.' 
 
 ' I told him about Mr Macdonald,' she said, ' all I could. I 
 think he understands.' 
 
 'If he doesn't, you must make him. There is nothing in it to 
 pain him.' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ! nothing ! It was all folly. I am ready now ' 
 please dress me. I am so glad you say it is nothing.' 
 
 Her face brightened into its usual light-hearted expression. 
 She made me fasten her mantilla with the gold brooch, which 
 was William's gift; and clasp the hair bracelet, which was mine; 
 and then with a merry step she ran to the head of the stairs, 
 returning to say, — ' Ursie, you are to be my wisdom, Roger 
 declares, and I am to do everything you tell me.' 
 
 I was pleased. I don't think I knew then how little human 
 wisdom can aid in a struggle with the temptations of a sinful 
 heart. 
 
 The farmer and Mrs Kemp, Mary, and John Hervey arrived 
 just as Jessie was ready. They came over in the farmer's double 
 chaise. I was very glad to have them all with me ; they took 
 off much of the duty of being in good spirits, — the most trying 
 duty a person can have to perform ; and I left William, and the 
 farmer, and John to have their jokes, whilst I went with Mr*
 
 354 ^''' s ' ' - '■ 
 
 mp and M.ry to show them how we had arranged for the 
 p rty after church. Mrs Kemp had brought over some sweet 
 things in the chaise,— jelly and blanc-mange, which she and 
 iv had made for me. I was quite satisfied with the look of 
 the breakfast when it was laid out. Rogei lingered about by 
 himself, for Jessie was gone up-stairs. We are expecting the 
 fly every minute. I longed to be with him, and yet I was afraid. 
 At la't I did summon i ourage, and I went and said, with a little 
 laugh, as I put my hand on his shoulder, 'Arc 3 j unpa- 
 
 ticnt ? We can't have many minutes to wait.' 
 
 lie turned round to me quietly, and said, ' People arc not 
 impatient, I'rsie, when they are quite satisfied, 1 
 
 There was no room for sympathy, and I moved away. 
 
 lie was the only man I ever saw who did not look scared on 
 his wedding-day. 
 
 We drove to church,— Jessie, Mrs Kemp, Mary, and I in the 
 fly; and Roger, William, the farmer, and John in the chaise. 
 The country people had collected in the churchyard, and many 
 were in the church. Farmer Kemp led Jessie up the aisle, and 
 placed her before the altar by Rogers side. 
 
 It had all been a dream to me till then. Mr Richardson's 
 voice, as he addressed the congregation, telling them wherefore 
 they were met together, — even 'to join together this man and 
 this woman in holy matrimony,' was the first sound which awoke 
 me to a sense of reality. 
 
 No marvel that Roger was grave. There is but one thing 
 more awful than marriage, — and that is death. 
 
 It was but a short service, performed without blunder or 
 hesitation ; Jessie's voice never failed her ; and Roger, as he 
 grasped the small hand so lovingly given him, vowed unfalter- 
 ingly, with all the honest fulness of his heart, to take Jessie for 
 his ' wedded wife, to have, and to hold, to love, and to cherish, 
 till death.' The ring was placed upon her finger, the prayer 
 offered for the performance of that solemn covenant, and they 
 were joined together, and no man could put them asunder. 
 
 The words which made them one were the same which, in the 
 secrecy of my heart, I knew must make Roger and myself two. 
 
 It was a bitter consciousness, but it was to be put away from 
 me now for ever. I trust and believe there was no trace of it 
 in the kiss which I gave Jessie when Roger brought her up to 
 me and said, ' She is your sister.' I know I resolved that, 
 through God's help, there should be none thenceforth, in
 
 URSULA. 355 
 
 thought, or word, or deed. A considerable bustle and confu- 
 sion took place when we left the church. Our friends, who 
 were to be at the breakfast, came up to offer their congratula- 
 tions, and when Roger and Jessie went off in the fly, arrange- 
 ments were to be made to carry back Mary Kemp and me, as 
 there was only one vacant place for Mrs Kemp in the chaise. 
 I wished, and had settled to walk, but no one would hear of it, 
 and at last Mr Richardson insisted upon it that we should have 
 his little pony-chaise, and John Hervey offered to drive us. I 
 don't know quite how it was, but just as we were setting off, the 
 farmer called out to Mary that there was a place for her now in 
 the chaise ; and as we had all been running to and fro like 
 hunted sheep, Mary jumped in, and John Hervey and I were 
 left behind. I was sorry for the moment, but I did not care 
 much about. I did not care for anything, indeed, except silence, 
 and that I knew John Hervey would understand. I don't think 
 we spoke half a dozen words all the way home ; but when he 
 helped me out of the chaise, he said, ' Marriages are trying 
 things, Ursie ; one doesn't know whether one's foot is on land 
 or water.' 
 
 'I know where mine is,' I said, hastily; 'on water.' He 
 grasped hold of my hand kindly, and I could almost have said 
 there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 'It is very wrong in me,' I exclaimed, ' I ought not to have 
 said it, but you will forget it.' 
 
 ' If I can. But things often turn out better, Ursie, than we 
 expect.' 
 
 'And if they turn out worse, there is no use in dwelling upon 
 them,' I said. ' Now, Mr Hervey, we are going to be very 
 merry.' And I ran away from him, went up-stairs, set myself 
 in order, — by a short prayer and a deluge of cold water to my 
 face, — and then re-appeared, to be the cheerful, attentive, happy 
 hostess of the party at Roger's wedding-breakfast. 
 
 Nothing can be more same than weddings. I have already 
 described William and Leah's ; and there was an oppressive 
 phantom-like feeling of repetition in all that went on on the 
 occasion of Roger's marriage. Healths were drunk and speeches 
 made; and many of the persons present were those who had 
 congratulated Leah Morris on the pleasant prospects before her 
 when she became the mistress of Sandcombe. If it had not been 
 for a glance at poor William's helpless movements, and the sight 
 of Jessie's pretty little face, turned so sweetly upon Roger, and
 
 356 URSULA. 
 
 smiling and blushing with surprise whenever <dic was addressed 
 as Mrs Grant, I could almost have believed that Time had 
 flowed backwards. Almost, not quite ; when I had leisure to 
 think of myself, the weight at my heart told me what a burden 
 of experience and thought Time had brought, as it had borne 
 me onwards. 
 
 Roger and Jessie did not leave us till late in the afternoon ; 
 that helped the day very much. Roger's thoughtfulncss was 
 greater than I can describe. He seemed to understand exactly 
 all the little things which might trouble me when I was left alone 
 to manage everything for every one by myself ; and he and 
 John Hervcy made arrangements about the wine for the evening, 
 and the supper for the men who were attending to the horses, 
 and settled, in fact, a number of things which would never have 
 entered my head, but which would have perplexed me if they 
 had taken me unawares. For the time I seemed to be more in 
 Roger's thoughts than Jessie, who was finishing the packing, with 
 Mary Kemp to help her. He was so like what he ever had been, 
 I could not think why I felt any difference, till some one came 
 up to him laughing, and said, ' Mr ('.rant, your wife wants you.' 
 The smile that stole over his face then made me walk away and 
 mix with the guests, fidget about Jessie, and keep myself in a 
 continual bustle till the fly drove up to the door, the luggage 
 was ] ut in, and — they were gone. How I talked and laughed 
 that evening, and did everything, indeed, like everybody else, 
 except eat and drink, I cannot imagine, now that I look back ; 
 but I know that I was told it was delightful to see me enjoy 
 myself, and I believe there might even have been something like 
 enjoyment in the excitement of feeling which forced me to exert 
 myself. But the reaction came. When the wedding-guests were 
 gone — when Farmer Kemp had given me his parting salute on 
 both cheeks, and Mrs K;mp and Mary had said their affectionate 
 good-bye, and John Hervcy had offered me a quiet shake of the 
 hand, which did not want words, and I was left alone with 
 William, and his irritable fatigue, and the burnt-up candles, and 
 the em; ty glasses, and the disarranged chairs — who shall won- 
 der th .t I stole up to my room and cried bitterly?
 
 URSULA. 357 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 FOR three weeks longer I was to be the undisturbed mistress 
 of Sandcombe. The days were sufficiently occupied in pre- 
 paring for the time when my authority was to be shared, if not 
 entirely surrendered. I cannot say that the prospect was plea- 
 sant, little as I fancied I loved power. According to the old 
 proverb, 'The value of anything is never known till it is lost ;' 
 and I had not till this time been aware how much my comfort 
 had been increased, latterly, by having no one to dispute my 
 will in little domestic matters. Mrs Kemp's advice I knew to be 
 wise, but it was not easy to bring myself to act upon it. I could 
 have resigned my office at once formally, and found some satis- 
 faction in the sense of freedom which would follow. But to have 
 all the labour and responsibility, and compel another to take the 
 dignity of power, was trying to human nature, and especially such 
 a nature as mine — hasty and resolute, able to undertake great 
 works, or practise great self-denials, but fretting against petty 
 restraints, and peculiarly irritated by the difficulties involved in 
 the untruthfulness of a false position. Happily, however, I had 
 no leisure to forestall evils. Between William, and the farm, and 
 the kitchen, I was incessantly occupied, and had only time to go 
 over to Stonecliff once, to inquire for Mrs Weir. The visit was 
 unsatisfactory. Mrs Temple made many complaints of the new 
 attendant, and seemed to think that I was answerable for her 
 faults, because I had first mentioned her name. She did not 
 allow me to see Mrs Weir alone, and before I departed hinted 
 that great changes might soon be expected. ' Mr Temple 
 thought of letting Stonecliff for a time; perhaps they might 
 remove from it altogether. Of course, wherever they went 
 Mrs Weir would go also. She could not live without them.' I 
 made no observation at the time, but when I returned home, 
 without asking advice of any one, I wrote a letter to Miss Mili- 
 cent. It was a strong measure to take, but I felt it to be neces- 
 sary. For Mrs Weir to be dragged about wherever Mrs Temple 
 chose to carry her, and with no one to be a check upon her, 
 seemed to be not only cruel but dangerous in the poor lady's 
 present state. If anything could bring Miss Milicent to see her 
 duties in a straightforward way, I thought it might be such a plan 
 as this. 
 
 I was waiting for the answer to the letter when the day arrived
 
 35* URSULA. 
 
 on which Roger and J ie were expected home. We had sent 
 the chaise into Hove for them, and tiny were to be with us about 
 six o'cl < ':, in time for tea, which was put ready for them in 
 'iir. I had gathered some flowers to make the 
 ; >ok fresh and pretty, and made some tea-cakes which I 
 
 ie was particularly fond of. I pleased a it la 
 
 i inking that Roger would like these little attentions, and as I 
 wait d at the garden gate, looking up the lane by which they 
 v. uld conic, I almost believed that I was anticipating the m 
 in.; with p] :asure. It was a glorious evening, warm and yet 
 h, the very feeling of life was enjoyment ; and even William, 
 who came in about this time from the farm, and joined me, 
 seemed to regain his spirits under its influence. He leaned over 
 the gate, straining his poor dim eyes, and fancying he saw, and 
 being almost certain he heard them coming, whilst he talked to 
 me of the comfort of having Roger with us, and : Jessie 
 
 for her thoughtfulness in having written often ; and it did me 
 good to heat him. His was a much more thankful, contented 
 mind than it used to be. 
 
 'There they are, I am sure those are the wheels now, Ursic,' 
 he exclaimed. ' They are at the top of the lane ; — hark ! don't 
 you hear ?' 
 
 No, I heard nothing but the noises of the men with the cows 
 and horses in the farm-yard. But William's ear was sharper 
 than mine. He was right A turn in the lane had hid th m 
 from us ; but in a few seconds the chaise was seen, coming 
 slowly down the hill. William threw open the gate and went 
 out. 
 
 ' Hollo ! stop ! what are you going round there for ? ' 
 
 Roger was driving the chaise into the yard, but he drew uj>, 
 I jumped out, and before speaking to us turned round to h Ip 
 ie. 
 
 ' Well ! my good fellow ! welcome home again. And, Jessie, 
 I may have a kiss now,' and William sized Roger's hand, whilst 
 i. kissed Jessie, and then shook both their hands again, scarcely 
 able to express his delight. 
 
 'Trot! my little Trot!' Roger disengaged himself from 
 William, and gave me a bear's hug, and then stood aside whilst 
 I welcomed Jessie. ' How arc you, dear Jessie ? Arc you very 
 1? Have you had a long journey? You must want your 
 t It is quite ready for you.' The words were cold to my own 
 ear;, I hope they were not so to hers. Wc went in at I den
 
 URSULA. 359 
 
 gate. Jessie put her arm within Roger's, and went first, William 
 and I walked behind. 
 
 ' She is a little tired,' said Roger, turning round to me as we 
 went in-doors. ' We had such a day of business and sight-seeing 
 yesterday, but we were determined to see everything. To-night 
 she must go to bed early, and have a good rest.' 
 
 ' As early as she likes,' I said, ' only we will give her some tea 
 first. I am afraid, Jessie, you won't find everything quite com- 
 fortable in your own room. I thought the new chest of drawers 
 would have been sent to-day, but that stupid Thompson at Hove 
 has disappointed me.' 
 
 ' Never mind, we don't care for chests of drawers, do we, love ?' 
 said Roger. ' Home is the thing. Run up-stairs and take oft' 
 your things, and then come down to tea. And, Ursie, if you 
 will just not let her unpack her boxes to-night. What are you 
 burdening yourself with that for?' he added, as Jessie took a 
 large brown paper parcel in her hand ; ' all you will want now 
 will be the small carpet-bag.' Jessie said there w^as something 
 particular in the parcel, she must have it, and Roger then took 
 it from her, and went up-stairs with it. He had left the carpet- 
 bag, and as it was small I carried it up myself. 
 
 1 If you will rest it here, Ursie,' said Roger, pointing to a 
 chair, but not offering to lift the bag, ' I can unlock it, for 
 I have the keys. I wouldn't trust her with them/ he added, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' How pretty the flowers are,' said Jessie ; 'and how pleasant, 
 and bright the room looks, Ursie ; you must have taken a great 
 deal of trouble about it.' 
 
 Roger gave me a kindly smile. ' She is a good, little Trot,' he 
 said. ' The flowers are not quite so grand, Jessie, as those we 
 saw in London, are they ? Such a sight, Ursie, in Covcnt 
 Garden ! I took Jessie there quite early ; but she will tell you 
 all about it, all we have seen and done. A capital traveller she 
 makes, and she remembers everything.' 
 
 ' Ursie, dear, you look tired,' said Jessie, when Roger went 
 away ; ' I am afraid you have been working too hard for us.' 
 
 I did feel very tired, but I evaded an answer. I don't think I 
 felt inclined for pity, and I went down-stairs. 
 
 'The place of honour for you, Jessie,' said William, as he drew 
 out an arm-chair for her, when she entered the room ; Jessie 
 placed herself in it at once. ' She does not look much the 
 worse for her fatigue, does she?' said Roger, gazing at her with
 
 ;,i URSULA. 
 
 a satisfaction which he did not endeavour to conceal. 'That 
 gown is the one Mrs Kemp gave yen, love, is it not? You 
 must tell her how useful it has been;' anil he stretched out his 
 hand and smoothed down the frills, — an action which I could 
 tind no fault with, but which gave me a most uncomfortable 
 sensation. 
 
 ' by the by, I have some news to tell you about Mary Kemp,' 
 said Jessie ; ' wc heard it in the waiting-room to-day, just as wc 
 were starting.' 
 
 * A'uout John Hervey, rather,' said Roger ; ' that old uncle of 
 his is dead at last, and has left him five thousand pounds, to say 
 the least.' 
 
 ' ( )f course he will make up to Mary Kemp at once,' said 
 Jesic. 
 
 ' I an; not so sure of that,' I replied. ' They go on very oddly, 
 and I know they are not engaged, for Mrs Kemp told me so 
 herself. She only thinks they like each other.' 
 
 ' And you have never said anything to Mary,' asked Jessie. 
 
 'No; how could I? If she was not engaged, how could I 
 ask her whether she cared for him ?' 
 
 ' I should have found it out somehow,' said Jessie. ' I always 
 thought there was a regular engagement.' 
 
 'Women can't understand waiting and fearing,' said Roger; 
 and he laughed. 
 
 ' It is the fact of there being no engagement which puzzles 
 me,' I said. ' Mary is the last person to let a man dangle on, 
 paying her attentions, without coming to any conclusion. She 
 has no vanity in her.' 
 
 'That is saying more than I would say for any woman,' 
 observed William. 
 
 ' I don't know that women are more vain than men,' said 
 Roger; 'and if they arc, they have more cause to be, haven't 
 they, Jessie ?' 
 
 Jessie laughed, and blushed, and gave no direct answer, 
 merely remarking that Mary Kemp was better than most people. 
 
 'I think you must know more about the affair between her 
 and Mr Hervey than any one else,' I said, addressing her; 'I r 
 I remember it was you who set the rumour afloat, and I have all 
 along half credited it, because you told me it was so.' 
 
 ' ?\Irs Price, not I,' said Jessie. ' She is given to gossip, and 
 she always declared they would many.' 
 
 'Time will show if we wait long enough,' observed Roger,
 
 URSULA. 361 
 
 'and m the mean season, we will give them both our best wishes. 
 Jessie, love, you are not eating anything. Have some more tea- 
 cake ; this is just the kind you like.' 
 
 Jessie helped herself to a small piece, but Roger insisted upon 
 her taking what was left, which was little enough. William and 
 he never touched such things, he said, and as I had made the 
 cakes, I was likely to have had enough of them, so the chief duty 
 devolved upon her. 
 
 My face was nearly hidden by the urn. Jessie peeped round 
 it and said, ' He is very unfair upon you, Ursie. I don't at all 
 see why, having made the cakes to please me, which I am sure 
 you did, you are not to enjoy them ; do have some.' 
 
 I shook my head, and murmured something ; but I did not 
 venture to do more, and making an excuse to fetch some sugar, 
 I left the room. Turning into the large parlour, I put down the 
 candle upon the table, closed the door, and walked up and down 
 the room. 
 
 To be vexed about such trifles ! to care for Roger's not offering 
 me a piece of cake, or letting me carry a carpet-bag, or omitting 
 to notice my flowers. I could not have believed it was in me. 
 And to be irritated with Jessie, and her little kind thoughtful- 
 ness ; — it was actually mean. Did I indeed so dearly love 
 power, that I could not submit to common civility from her, 
 because I had hitherto considered it my place to show rather 
 than to receive attention ? But it was not power that I cared 
 for ; I felt sure it was not. If Roger had only recognised that I 
 had worked for him ; if he had only said that he knew I had 
 done all to please him, I hoped I should have been satisfied. 
 But he was engrossed with his one object, and what could I 
 expect ? Jessie's thanks and attentions were galling, because 
 he was silent. 
 
 I could not comfort myself ; I could not even set myself right 
 by owning that I was quite wrong. The feelings were so mixed. 
 They were selfish and unjust, and yet not without cause. I 
 waited for a few minutes, just sufficient to recover my composure, 
 and then with a hard feeling of endurance, under which lay a 
 quick irritability, ready to spring forth at the least provocation, 
 I returned to my place at the tea-table. I had not been missed. 
 Roger was giving an account of his London experiences, and 
 calling upon Jessie to corroborate them ; and she was adding 
 little comments and anecdotes, which helped to amuse William, 
 and made our evening brighter than it had been since she left
 
 36: URSULA, 
 
 us. They talked fast and merrily, and seemed satisfied wiih my 
 attention, as I now and then added a word, whilst I helped the 
 servant to carry away the tea-things, and then went to look after 
 some other household matters. 
 
 It must have been merely a fancy of R . . th '. J -sic was 
 tired. She chatted on as though she had only just risen from a 
 good night's rest, and moved about quite briskly. A little while 
 before prayers, fur instance, Roger was telling us something 
 about an exhibition they had seen, and wishing he had a book 
 that he had bought, which described it ; he said he was too lazy 
 to go and search for it. 
 
 Jessie started up in a moment. ' I will go ; let me go, Ri 
 I know just where it is.' 
 
 1 le smiled kindly upon her. ' No, love, I can't let you trouble 
 yourself; we will look at it to-morrow.' 
 
 ; Let me go,' I said ; 'where shall I find it ?' 
 
 'I cant describe where, exactly,' said Jessie; 'though I can 
 guess, for I packed all his things myself. I suspect it is hidden 
 with some other treasure?, between your second-best coat and 
 your wedding waistcoat, Roger,' she added, laughing, as against 
 his orders, she ran up -stairs. 
 
 I sat down again, wondering at the change which had come 
 over the world, and which had transformed the thy. respectful 
 Jessie Lee, scarcely able to look upon Mr Roger without awe, 
 into the attentive, but free and merry little wife. She came 
 down again, bringing with her the book, and also a note, which 
 Martha had just given her for Roger from Mr Stewart of 
 llatton. 
 
 'What is there in it?' she said, and she peeped over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 lie smiled and held it for her to read. 'Nothing of conse- 
 quence, you see. I will go over some day soon.' lie put the 
 r in his pocket, and went on tali about the exhibition. 
 
 If I felt chilled and jarred, pcrha ry he excused, \\Lv.n 
 
 it is remem that hitherto I had b en the petted and privi- 
 
 leged person to whom Roger turned on every occasion, and 
 that now I could not consider myself at liberty to go to his room, 
 or inquire the contents of a note, without something like an 
 apol. 
 
 Yet Jessie was right in all she did ; that was the greatest 
 grievance of all, for if so, surely I must be wrong. 
 
 The first week of Jessie's return was unsettled. She had her
 
 URSULA. 3<5j 
 
 things to unpack, and Roger was coming to her upon one excuse 
 or another every hour, taking her with him to see this, or give 
 an opinion upon that. He did not put me aside, but he was 
 continually remembering me, and this must always be painful to 
 one who has been accustomed to be thought of. We had a 
 good many visitors, and wine was handed round, and wedding- 
 cake eaten ; and Jessie looked very pretty, and behaved very 
 pleasantly. She seemed quite in her fit place, as she sat up in 
 her best silk dress to receive the congratulations, and I felt 
 myself in mine as I waited upon every one. If I could only 
 keep her a doll, and work for her, my task would be easy. But 
 Mrs Kemp's admonitions sounded in my ears, and as many 
 days went by, and the excitement of the return went off, I felt 
 that we must all face our new positions, and follow out life 
 accordingly. 
 
 And how to begin ? I made my first effort on a baking-day. 
 We were very busy as usual, but I heard something about a 
 drive for Jessie in the afternoon, and I knew that she was up- 
 stairs doing something to her dress in preparation for it. 
 
 I sent Esther Smithson to her, to ask if she would be home 
 late, and whether Jane, our little school-girl, was to be kept to 
 help clean up the kitchen. 
 
 Esther brought me back word, that if I would just settle the 
 matter, Mrs Grant would be obliged. It was uncertain how late 
 she should be. 
 
 Upon this, I went up to Jessie, and found her at her work, 
 and, as it happened, Roger with her. He had come in from the 
 farm only a few minutes before. 
 
 'What do you want, Trot?' he said, cheerfully, as I entered 
 the room. ' She is a bird of ill omen, Jessie, isn't she ? always 
 full of business.' 
 
 ' Mine is an easy business, for once in a way,' I said. ' I only 
 want to make Jessie say what she wishes.' 
 
 'Anything that you wish, Ursie, I am sure,' said Jessie. 'You 
 know a great deal better than I do. Do you think, Roger, we 
 shall have time to go round by Stonecliff, if we set off at half- 
 past three ? ' 
 
 'We will try,' he said ; ' I know you have set your heart upon 
 going to Mrs Weir.' 
 
 ' If you do go that way/ I said, 'you might just stop and see 
 little Jane's mother, and talk to her about the child's coming 
 earlier in the mornings.'
 
 3 r >4 URSULA. 
 
 ' If we pass the cottage, we can,' answered Jessie ; 'but I am 
 not sure that we shall go tli t road.' 
 
 'What is little Trot thinking of?' said Roger, patting mc on 
 the shoulder, and noticing, as I suppose, my grave face. 
 
 'Only,' I said, lightly, 'that if Mrs Grant docs not give licr 
 own orders, people won't understand that they are bound to obey 
 ih em.' 
 
 '.Mrs Grant has such an excellent substitute,' said Jessie, 
 laughing. 'She docs not want to give orders. Why, Urate, you 
 know twenty times more about housekeeping than I do.' 
 
 • Then isn't it time you should learn?' I said. 
 
 'She will learn from you,' said Roger, quickly; 'she can't 
 h ive a better teacher. You know I told you, Ursie, that no one 
 wanted to turn you out of your place.' 
 
 'But I may want to vacate it,' I said, and then observing that 
 Roger and Jessie both looked rather uncomfortable, I added, 
 'At any rate, I don't like to fill it entirely by myself; so, Jessie 
 dear, do tell me how long ycu think you shall be out this after- 
 noon, and whether you would wish us to keep Jane.' 
 
 ' I suppose she may as well stay,' said Jessie, 'if you think it 
 necessary.' 
 
 ' There is a good deal to do,' I said, ' because of the baking.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I forgot. How stupid of me ; I ought not to have 
 fixed my drive for to-day ! But now it is all arranged. I suppose 
 it does not very much signify.' 
 
 ' Not much. Will you remember to tell Jane's mother what 
 you have to complain of? ' 
 
 ' If I don't forget, I will, certainly ; and, Ursie, will you and 
 William try to settle a day for a party? People are asking me 
 out so, I must have them here in return, mustn't I, Roger?' 
 
 He smiled an assent, and Jessie, who had left her work to talk 
 to mc, went on with it diligently. 
 
 Roger followed mc as I went away. ' You are vexed, Ursie, 
 about something, what is it ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing,' was my answer. 
 
 ' N thing has no meaning ; I must know.' 
 
 ' Nothing that you can remedy ; or at least that you will re- 
 medy,' I said. 
 
 ' Then you think me very much altered. I always have wished 
 to remedy what you found fault with.' 
 
 x altered, Roger. Oh no ! it was what I ought to have 
 known ;' but I felt myself becoming mysterious, and knew tint
 
 VkSULA. 365 
 
 Would make me irritating, so I burst through all reserve and 
 prudence, and added, ' I am afraid you are going the way to 
 spoil Jessie.' For almost the first time in his life 1 saw him 
 look proud and hurt. 
 
 ' That is a grave charge,' he said. I don't quite perceive what 
 reason you have to make it.' 
 
 ' If you make a doll of her,' I said, ' you must spoil her.' 
 
 ' Making a doll of her, I suppose, means making her useless. 
 She is scarcely that, for she is always busy.' 
 
 ' Yes, with her own concerns, and I don't mean to say that she 
 does not help me when I ask her.' 
 
 'And when you don't ask her,' he said. ' She has taken u; on 
 herself entirely the duty of waiting upon William.' 
 
 ' Because she likes reading aloud,' was on my lips ; but I 
 would not say it, for it would have annoyed him, so I answered, 
 ' People speak of her as the mistress of Sandcombe, and there- 
 fore it is right that she should attend to the duties.' 
 
 He misunderstood me completely, my ill-concealed irritation 
 misled him as to my feelings, and he replied, ' Nobody wishes 
 to take power from you, Ursie ; Jessie least of all.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course not, — I don't think of such a thing ; — 
 Roger, why can't you understand ?' 
 
 ' Because you create difficulties where there are none,' he 
 replied ; 'Jessie is willing to make a slave of herself, if it is 
 needed. She will work herself to death if I will let her. All she 
 wants is just to be told what to do ; and, Ursie, I have quite de- 
 pended upon you for that.' 
 
 Quite right — quite true ! but there was a falsity at the bottom, 
 and I could not make him see it. Jessie went for her drive, saw 
 Mrs Weir, called upon little Jane's mother, came home and told 
 me of it, as if she had done a meritorious deed, — then helped me 
 in the kitchen, read to William ; and because I asked her to do 
 it, hemmed table-cloths after tea, and went to bed thinking, I am 
 sure, that she had done me a favour, and sacrificed herself to 
 assist me in my duties.
 
 366 SC/LA. 
 
 CHAPTER LVt 
 
 MY letter from Miss Miliccnt came, though not till after con- 
 siderable delay. I opened it anxiously, prepared to be 
 prov iked if it were only by Miss Milicent's scrawling letters 
 
 upon the thin foreign paper. 
 
 'Dear Ursi e G r a n t, 
 
 ' I received your letter a fortnight ago. I should have an- 
 swered it before if I had known what to say. Matilda Temple is 
 doing just what I thought she would ; I can't think why my 
 mother submits. 
 
 ' It you were to tell her that you think it bad for my mother 
 to go away, perhaps she would be frightened and stay where she 
 is, for she does net like you, and thinks you spe.de your mind. 
 As to my coming home, I should do no good if I were there, for 
 my mother never listens to me, and Matilda Temple and I can't 
 help quarrelling. My father and I are going into Normandy 
 soon, he has some business there. If I come home at all, it 
 must be to get some money, for no one sends me any. I am 
 sorry your brother Roger has married Jessie Lee. I thought he 
 was a wiser man. I never had a sister-in-law, so I don't know 
 how I should like one. I am glad you have taken to seeing my 
 mother oftener. She likes you better than most people, and you 
 understand her whimsies. I should like to hear about the 
 school-children at Compton. This is a strange place, the 
 people's ways are so odd. As I don't go to their churches, I 
 very like a heathen. 
 
 ' My father is out a good deal, and I only know a few persons, 
 but it will be pleasant enough going into Normandy. I wish, if 
 you hear of any one coming to France, you would send me a 
 pair of stout boots, such as the shoemaker at Hatton used to 
 make for me. I can't get such here. Paris is a very flimsy 
 place. I have great trust in you, Ursie Grant, and am sure that 
 you will manage best in ' g my mother near you. 
 
 ' I am glad you wrote to me, for I don't often hear any Comp- 
 ton news. 
 
 ' Your sincere friend, 
 ' Milicent Weir' 
 
 Did all the world do their duty by deputy ? That was almost
 
 URSULA. 367 
 
 my first thought when I had finished Miss Milicent's letter. 
 Such a quiet way of setting a claim aside, and letting it fall upon 
 another, was so startling that, really, it was enough to make me 
 think I was under a mistake — and that Miss Milicent was not 
 bound to come home and take care of her mother, but might 
 rightly leave all to me. 
 
 Persons who have a clear eye to their duties lay themselves 
 open, I have observed, to much more blame from the world than 
 those who turn away and don't appear to see them. The 
 standard we set up for ourselves is that which, for the most 
 part, people expect us to follow. As, for instance, when a man 
 is indolent, or extravagant, or selfish, it is commonly said, ' Oh, 
 yes! but what can you expect from such a man?' As if the 
 faults which he permitted to himself were his excuse. I found 
 this even with regard to Miss Milicent I believe Mrs Kemp 
 and myself were almost the only persons who had not learned 
 to say, 'Well, she is so odd and so wilful, that it does not much 
 signify. She must go her own way, for she will never go any 
 other person's.' And I know I was thought uncharitable, when 
 I saw that the fact of her not being able to be of use to her 
 mother was a fault, and could never be an excuse for remaining 
 away. In this free country of England, we are, upon the whole, 
 willing to let every one be what he chooses, so long as he gives 
 notice of it, that others may not come in his way. But England 
 is not heaven, and we English people are not angels, and I sup- 
 pose the judgment of the angels in heaven may be somewhat 
 different from ours. I was wrong, though, in saying that Mrs 
 Kemp and myself were the only persons, there was one other 
 — John Hervey ; and I had an opportunity of talking to him 
 upon the matter soon after receiving Miss Milicent's letter. He 
 was less at Sandcombe than he used to be, and when he did 
 come we said but little to each other. Though I felt he under- 
 stood my disappointment about Roger, I could not talk of it, 
 and he was just so intimate that there was no choice between 
 keeping on the surface of all things, or going deep into them. 
 Mrs Weir, however, was neutral ground, and I was pleased to 
 have his sympathy, and pleased, too, to hear a little about the 
 money that had been left him, and to sound him about Mary 
 Kemp. His feeling for her was a real perplexity to me. Like 
 her I was sure he did, and she liked him. They were excellent 
 friends and cousins, and quite at home with each other. Only 
 too much so, I thought, for anything more serious. The world,
 
 368 I 'RSVI.A. 
 
 however, had so long set it down that they were to be married, 
 it was difficult to rid one's self of the impression. The time when 
 I had the longest talk with him was one day when he came 
 over to dine, and was to rid'.- into Hove with Roger afterwards. 
 I saw him by myself before dinner, and showed him Miss 
 Milicent's letter, about which he felt as I did, and said that I 
 ought not to give in so easily, but should make another effort to 
 put her duty plainly before her. Mrs Weir would no doubt be 
 pleased to have her home again, and this new plan of Mrs 
 Temple's was just the opportunity for breaking up the joint- 
 household, and settling Mrs Weir again in a home of her own. 
 I asked him whether Miss Miliccnt was at all necessary to her 
 father, but he said that from all he could learn she did more 
 harm than good to Mr Weir, for she encouraged his schemes, 
 which were fast leading him into difficulties abroad, as they 
 had done in England ; and having her with him was an excuse 
 for living in an expensive part of the town, and seeing more 
 company than he ought Moreover, he was always falling back 
 upon his daughter's money, and making her write urgent letters 
 for remittances, to which he could have no right except on her 
 account, and which prevented Mrs Weir from putting by any- 
 thing to pay his old debts as she much wished to do. 
 
 'Altogether, Ursie,' concluded Mr Hcrvey, ' the case is not 
 such a perplexing one as people choose to think ; and though it 
 would startle folks to hear me say it, I believe it would be 
 settled more justly in God's sight by a calculation of pounds, 
 shillings, and pence, than by any Uilk about right and wrong, 
 and conflicting claims, which are only determined by every 
 one's own fancy.' 
 
 ' People don't like pounds, shillings, and pence,' I said ; 'it is 
 such a mean way of arranging things.' 
 
 ' Very true,' he replied. ' But, Ursie, isn't it mean because 
 we choose to make it so? After all, there must be some gnat 
 use and intention in a thing which has such an enormous influ- 
 ence in the world as money ; it can't be only a snare. And 
 sometimes when I think— which you know,' he added, laughing, 
 ' I only do now and then for a change, — but when I do think, it 
 seems to me that money is the representative of many chief 
 virtues, — justice, and generosity, and self-denial, — and that if a 
 man could, through God's help, keep himself quite straight with 
 regard to it, he would travel fast and far on the road to perfec- 
 tion j whilst a fault with regard to it seems to me, in like
 
 URSULA. 3C9 
 
 manner, to be no trifle, but a deep, fundamental flaw at the root 
 of a person's character, which there are ten chances to one will 
 in the end lead him quite astray.' 
 
 He was right, I felt, and I could have talked more to him, only 
 dinner was ready. I gained a new notion of him from that con- 
 versation, more like what I used to have of Roger. He was not 
 apt to come out with thoughts, though he was very quick, and 
 shrewd, and infinitely good-natured. One thing I forgot to 
 mention, he told me that Mrs Temple was actually making in- 
 quiries for a tenant to take the remainder of her lease at Stone- 
 cliff. That threatened a speedier removal than I had calculated 
 upon, and it worried me not a little. 
 
 Jessie, that day, was full of her party : she called it hers and 
 talked of ' what I wish,' 'what shall I do,' quite naturally. 
 Roger laughed at her a little, and reminded her that they must 
 both ask Mrs Housekeeper's permission, meaning mine ; and 
 then she would turn round to me very pleasantly, and ask me 
 what I thought about things, which if I objected to would, I 
 knew, be carried against me by the mere power of her pretty 
 entreaties. Still I did object sometimes, because I considered 
 it right ; but I don't feel at all sure that I did it as I ought to 
 have done, or without showing annoyance. The great question 
 was whether it should be only a common tea-party and supper, 
 or whether we should try to get up a dance. I preferred the 
 tea-party ; it was more what we had been used to. I thought, 
 at first, we should not have enough for a dance. Besides, I had 
 a dread of beginning that kind of thing for Jessie ; her head was 
 so easily turned ; and if we set the example, others would be 
 sure to follow it, and then there would be constant going out, 
 and the regular farm life would be quite interrupted. What I 
 wished was to ask a few neighbours at a time to drink tea, or 
 even to dine, if we liked it, and entertain them in the old- 
 fashioned way ; perhaps with a rubber of whist, if they were 
 elderly people, or with forfeits and games if they were young. I 
 should not have cared either if we had chosen to send for a 
 fiddler, and dance just amongst ourselves when the evening came, 
 but the thing I disapproved of was the notion of giving a large 
 dancing party ; and this I saw was what William and Roger 
 both disliked also in their hearts, only to humour Jessie, they 
 would not openly object. 
 
 John Hervey quizzed her, declaring that she wished to show 
 off like Mrs Price ; and asking her how she would send out her 
 
 2 A
 
 3:o LA. 
 
 invitations ; whether she meant to be 'at home ' on such an 
 evening, as he had heard the great London people were. She 
 bore his bantering extremely well, and seemed rather to enjoy 
 it than otherwise. I wished I could enjoy it too, but things 
 were too serious underneath all this joking. I felt they so little 
 knew, any of them, the mischief they were doing her ; Ro r 
 would have seen it if he had looked upon her as a responsible 
 on, with serious duties to attend to, and he would then have 
 objected strongly to all the fuss, and trouble, and upsetting of 
 our ordinary life. But I was the manager and mistress, and the 
 farm would, he knew, go on just as well whether Jessie went out 
 and gave parties, or stayed at home quietly. His trust in me 
 was unbounded, and the more he trusted the more he was in- 
 duced to indulge his wife. 
 
 I carried my point so far that Roger at last took my side in 
 saying he should not like to ask people to a regular dance, and 
 William supported us ; but when we began to talk over the 
 guests to be invited the numbers mounted up so fast, that I felt 
 tolerably certain how r tl ir would end. Jessie, I was sure, 
 
 was longing to ask Mrs Price. She gave several hints about it, 
 but Roger did not take them, and I pretended not to understand 
 them, fur I thought it better to talk the matter over with her 
 when wc were by ourselves, and when I might be able to show 
 her quietly the unfitness of such a proposal, which as likely 
 as not might give Mrs Price offence. We were lingering over 
 the dinner, talking, and I was beginning to feel a little impatient, 
 having a good deal of work before me for the afternoon, when 
 her Smithson came running into the room, in a great hurry, 
 to tell us that there was a horse coming down the lane at 
 such a pace, she thought it must be running away, the gentle- 
 man did not seem able to stop it. One of the parlour windows 
 looked towards the lane, and we all hurried to it, and saw, 
 as Esther had described, a horse at full gallop coming up to the 
 farm ite. 
 
 'He will be thrown,' said Jessie in a frightened tone. 
 
 'The : te had better be opened, Roger,' said William, but 
 before he had spoken, Roger had gone out. He was not in 
 time, however ; the hor^e curie to a sudden and violent stop, 
 and the shock threw the rider upon the ground, with his head 
 against the gate. We were naturally v ry much alarmed, and 
 all except William ran out directly. Put before we reached 
 the spot we heard the farm men saying there were no bones
 
 URSULA. 371 
 
 broken, the gentleman was only bruised, and we soon saw him 
 sitting on the bank, holding his head with both hands, but 
 otherwise apparently not much hurt. I knew him directly — it 
 was Mr Macdonald ; and Jessie knew him too, and kept, as I 
 observed, a little in the background. He did not seem to re- 
 mark any of us particularly, but thanked us generally for ou 1- 
 anxiety, and said he would mount his horse again and ride back 
 to Dene. It was a stupid business, the animal had taken fright 
 at a wheel-barrow. 
 
 I earnestly hoped that Mr Macdonald would do as he proposed, 
 but Roger, I suppose, thought it inhospitable, and pressed him 
 to come in and have a glass of wine. 
 
 ' Not wine, I hope,' was my whisper to John Hervey as we 
 stood apart : ' do let him go ; Roger knows nothing about him.' 
 
 John smiled, and putting himself forward, said : ' With such a 
 bruise as Mr Macdonald has, the kindest offering would be oint- 
 ment and bandages. I don't know whether there are such things 
 at Sandcombe.' 
 
 'At any rate, rest won't hurt any one after such a fall,' said 
 Roger, rather in a persisting tone. ' Jessie, will you just go in, 
 and tell Wrlliam that Mr Macdonald is coming.' 
 
 John Hervey and I cast despairing glances at each other ; he 
 seemed amused, so was not I. Mr Macdonald rose from his seat 
 on the bank directly he heard Jessie's name, and going up to her, 
 shook hands, and said he had not known her, he hoped she would 
 excuse it, but his head was in such a state of confusion ; and he 
 put his hand up as though he was in pain. 
 
 Jessie curtsied and looked very awkward, — and urged nothing 
 about his going into the house, till Roger mentioned it again ; 
 and then both she and I were obliged to say something, merely 
 that we might not appear inhospitable. But I confess I did it 
 with a bad grace ; and when Jessie went on before, I walked 
 behind with Mr Hervey, and left Roger to entertain our new 
 guest. 
 
 He made himself agreeable enough in the house, perhaps the 
 fall had cleared his head ; and when I could get over my innate 
 dislike to him, I was obliged to own that Jessie was not so abso- 
 lutely to be condemned for having liked him. Roger, after a 
 while, went off with John Hervey, and told Jessie to do the 
 honours ; so she took her work and sat down in the parlour, — 
 and I did the same, though it was very inconvenient to me. 
 Mr Macdonald must have stayed nearly an hour, talking all the
 
 372 URSULA. 
 
 time, though still complaining of his head. A good deal passed 
 between hiiu and Jessie about people whom I only knew by 
 name, but it was all in a light way ; though I thought I could 
 perceive something like pique in his tone, and Jessie was nei 
 vous and short in her answers. If I had not known how affairs 
 had once stood between them, I should not have noticed any- 
 thing particular. But I was provoked with Jessie for sending a 
 message to Mrs Price through him, and still more provoked with 
 William for saying, as Mr Macdonald bade him good-bye: ' You 
 have found your way to Sandcombe once, sir, accidentally. I 
 hope the next time you will come on purpose ; wc shall always 
 be very glad to see you.' The moment he was gone I could not 
 help expressing what I felt, and saying that I thought a man with 
 Mr Macdonald's known habits was not desirable company ; but 
 William only laughed, and told me that if I was so strait-laced, 
 I must needs shut myself up entirely. And then, I suspect, being 
 a little conscience-stricken, he called to Jessie, and asked her to 
 fetch the newspaper and read to him, — and so the conversation 
 was stopped. 
 
 But I was not going to let the matter rest. I went to Roger 
 that same evening, when he came back from Hatton, — not telling 
 him exactly that I wanted to talk to him, for I don't think men 
 like that, they always think something must be going wrong in 
 money matters, — but entering upon the subject accidentally, as 
 it were, as we strolled round the garden. ' Mr Macdonald,' I 
 said, ' stayed a long time, and made himself more agreeable than 
 I expected.' 
 
 1 Yes,' replied Roger. 'He is a good kind of inoffensive young 
 man. I don't half believe what the world says of him.' 
 
 ' I was wondering about it myself, this afternoon,' was my 
 reply. ' But I am afraid it is all but too true, and I was sorry 
 on that account that William asked him to come again.' 
 
 'Arc you?' said Roger, and he thought a little. 'Well! 1 
 don't know that I am.' 
 
 ' He won't suit you,' I said. 
 
 'No, not at all,' and Roger laughed. 'But you know, Ursie, 
 when one has done a man an unkindness, without meaning it, 
 one is not sorry to have the opportunity of showing him a civility. 
 I couldn't have pressed him to come to Sandcombe myself, but 
 I am not sorry that William did it.' 
 
 'He has no right to think it an unkindness/ I said ; 'you had 
 as much ii ;ht to fall in love with Jessie as he had.'
 
 URSULA. 373 
 
 * Unkindness is not perhaps the right word ; but it must make 
 a man feel odd to see the person who has carried off just the very 
 thing which he had wished for. And if, under such circum- 
 stances, he can meet one with an open hand and an open heart, 
 why, I think it is to his credit.' 
 
 1 The credit of his taste, perhaps,' I replied ; ' I don't know 
 that it says quite so much for his feeling.' 
 
 ' You would like a little jealousy,' he said. • I think women 
 always do. But I never was jealous myself, Ursie, and I don't 
 understand jealousy in others ' 
 
 ' How can you tell that you are not jealous,' I said ; ' you, who 
 were accepted the very first moment you made the offer.' 
 
 ' Well ! that is true. But one thing I know, Ursie, that if I 
 had had the slightest notion that Jessie doubted about her feel- 
 ing for me, — if there had been any other person for whom she 
 had even the inkling of a preference, I would have waited three, 
 six, twelve months, and would at last have given her up entirely, 
 rather than marry with the chance of finding that my wife had 
 made a mistake.' 
 
 ' Then you are jealous,' I said. 
 
 1 No, not in the least. It would not have been from jealousy, 
 but the wish to see the woman I loved happy, whether it were 
 with me, or with any ether person.' 
 
 ' You say more than many would,' I replied. 
 
 ' I say what I believe every honourable man, not eaten up by 
 selfishness, feels, if he does not say it. You may not put faith in 
 me, Ursie, but Jessie did.' 
 
 An uncomfortable misgiving came over me. ' You mean,' I 
 said, ' that Jessie assured you she hid never cared for any one 
 but you ?' 
 
 ' I did not ask her the question. I was not going to search 
 into all the secrets of her little heart in days gone by. I had no 
 right to do so. But I did ask whether at that time she felt her- 
 self free to give me a full, undivided affection.' 
 
 'And she answered, yes ?' 
 
 ' Of course, heartily, yes. If she had not, we should not now 
 have been man and wife. More than that, of her own accord, 
 afterwards she assured me that the only person who had ever 
 paid her any decided attention was Lieutenant Macdonald, for 
 whom she had never felt anything approaching to real regard. 
 You see, Ursie, it would be too silly now to turn round and be 
 jealous.'
 
 374 URSULA. 
 
 'Too silly, indeed,' I said; but an impression of something 
 disi ined on my mind. I was tempted to say, ' I 
 
 suppose you know that Mr Macdonald actually proposed to 
 Jessie?' but I was prevented by the dread of interfering in the 
 slightest degree between husband and wife, — a dread first incul- 
 cated by Mrs Weir in bygone days, and since deeply impressed 
 upon me by experience. Roger saw that I was not satisfied, but 
 his thoughts took a different direction from mine. He fancied 
 that in some way I did not do justice to Jessie. 
 
 ' I think, Ursie,' he said, 'that you scarcely understand Jessie. 
 You look upon her as a child still, and seem to wonder that I 
 should treat her as a woman.' 
 
 ' Xo, indeed/ I replied ; ' I only think that she is young.' 
 
 : Not so very much younger than you are ; and I am sure no 
 or.e can behave more discreetly than she does.' 
 
 What could I say ? It would have been irritating to tell him 
 she had not yet been tried. So I made no reply, and Roger was 
 pained, and thought I was cross; and thus we separated. 
 
 The invisible barrier which had lately been growing up 
 between us, was by degrees becoming visible. Jessie took 
 apparently very little interest in Mr Macdonald, and scarcely 
 mentioned his name. I saiel to her in the evening that it was 
 strange he should have been brought to Sandcombe in that way, 
 for it certainly must have been unpleasant to him ; and her reply 
 was, ' Oh, he must have forgotten all that nonsense now.' But 
 as soon as she said the words, she trieel to change the subject ; 
 and I, being determined to satisfy myself upon one point, con- 
 tinued it. 
 
 ' I am glad Roger knows about it all,' I said. ' It is so much 
 better not to have secrets from a husband.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; much better — much' — 
 
 'And,' I added, 'they met very pleasantly and cordially, con- 
 sidering that Mr Macdonald was a disappointed man.' 
 
 'I don't think he took his disappointment much to heart,' 
 replied Jessie. 
 
 ' I suppose Roger knows he actually made you an offer?' I said. 
 
 ' No — yes — no. I told him everything generally.' 
 
 The answer did not please me. ' Dear Jessie,' I said, 'you 
 won't mind my telling you that Roger likes to hear things par 
 ticularly, not generally. It can't make any difference to you or 
 to any one, his knowing this fact ; and yet it is just one which 
 he might be annoyed to think was kept from him.'
 
 URSULA. 375 
 
 ' I can't go back to the old subject,' said Jessie. ' I hate it, 
 and, as you say, it won't make any difference.' 
 
 ' I have known Roger longer and more intimately than you 
 have, Jessie,' I said. ' I know he has such strict notions of con- 
 fidence between husband and wife.' 
 
 I could not imagine why my words took such effect upon her, 
 but she turned quite pale, and, bursting into tears, said she was 
 sure I did not love her, and that I did not like her marriage. 
 She had felt it from the beginning, my manner had never been 
 cordial, and people had noticed it. 
 
 It was the most trying of all accusations, — the least admitting 
 of explanation. I could only say that she was wrong in listening 
 to such nonsense ; that I loved her very dearly, and was only 
 anxious for her to be happy ; and by degrees the fit of petulance 
 subsided ; but I could not again approach the subject of Mr 
 Macdonald, though it rested on my mind as a weight which I 
 tried in vain to shake off. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 BEFORE I again heard from Miss Milicent, an application 
 had been made for Stonecliff ; it was to be let for a year, 
 and Mrs Temple was preparing to go to the neighbourhood of 
 London. Though I had been warned beforehand, the news came 
 upon me like a thunderbolt, and in a moment faults of omission 
 and neglect as regarded Mrs Weir, which I had never thought 
 of before, seemed to rise up and reproach me. 
 
 I had been placed in a very difficult position, and had it but 
 little in my power to serve her. 
 
 There were a hundred excuses to be made, but I felt that I 
 had not done my utmost for her. Latterly, especially, I had 
 been so engrossed in our own home affairs, that I had given her 
 comparatively few of my thoughts and little of my time. Partly, 
 indeed, this was owing to Mrs Temple, who often Interfered to 
 prevent my seeing her ; but Mrs Weir could not be expected to 
 understand this, and, whenever I did visit her, always seemed 
 to be so comforted by her trust in me, that it made me more 
 and more anxious to be of some permanent use to her. I believe
 
 376 URSULA. 
 
 she fully believed that I was working all this time to further her 
 wishes, whilst 1 was conscious that I was doing and could do 
 nothing for her. This always made me very unh.r py, and 
 she was to be taken quite away from me for months, perhaps 
 even entirely ; for, in spite of Mrs Temple's economy, I shrewdly 
 suspected she had been living beyond her means, and that the 
 removal from Stonccliff was but the first step to larger measures 
 of retrenchment. If this were so, Mrs Weir, as long as she 
 was with her, would be the first to suffer. I pondered the matter 
 till I grew nervous in my anxiety, and at last I did, what lately I 
 had been almost afraid to do ; I went to Roger to open my 
 heart to him. 
 
 I found him consulting with Jessie over several notes which 
 had just been received, answers to the invitations to the party. 
 I was a little surprised to see so many, and Roger and Jessie 
 were surprised also. They were reckoning up numbers, and 
 found that if we asked any more, we should have at least ten 
 more than we had at first calculated upon. Jessie enjoyed the 
 prospect ; she liked a crowd, she said, they should be all the 
 merrier. Roger looked a little grave \ but turned the case over 
 to me. 
 
 ' We are in a difficulty, Ursie,' he said ; ' I don't see how the 
 rooms will hold them all.' 
 
 ' There is the barn,' I said, in a joking tone. 
 
 'The barn! oh! yes, how delightful!' exclaimed Jessie. 'I 
 never thought of that. Don't you remember, Roger, when Mr 
 Stewart gave his tenants' ball, we all danced in the barn ? I de- 
 cl ire, Ursie, you have the best head of us all.' 
 
 ' But I am not Mr Stewart,' said Roger, 'and I have no 
 tenants.' 
 
 ' And I did not know we were going to give a grand dance,' 
 I added. 
 
 Jessie's face showed her disappointment. Roger smoothed 
 her hair, and kissed her, as he said, ' We must keep within 
 bounds, dear love, or folks will laugh at us. You know I am 
 but Roger Grant of Sandcombe, and you are but Roger Grant's 
 wife. I don't think it will quite do to go to the expense of fitting 
 up the barn for a dance.' 
 
 ' It would not be more expense than dancing in the great 
 parlour.' said Jessie ; ' but of course if Ursie objects' 
 
 ' if Roger objects, you mean,' I said. ' I have no voice in the 
 matter.'
 
 URSULA. 377 
 
 'O Ursie ! as if Roger did not do everything you thought 
 right. Why, you know you are quite mistress here.' 
 
 1 Both are mistresses,' said Roger, quickly. ' Ursie, for the 
 sake of auld lang syne, and Jessie, because she has such a grand 
 name — Mrs Grant. You know the world will expect a great 
 deal of Mrs Grant,' he added, smiling fondly upon her. 
 
 'Yes,' I said, 'and so for once in a way I want Mrs Grant to 
 take a little authority upon herself, and order things her own 
 way, and leave me to go about a little business I have in hand. 
 Roger, can I speak with you for a few minutes ?' 
 
 He looked at Jessie, unwilling to leave her. ' You are vexed, 
 little one,' he said ; ' but you don't think I would say " No" if 
 I could help it?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Jessie, ' only ' 
 
 ' Only what ? let us have it out.' 
 
 ' Only Ursie does put herself against things, and if, as he 
 says, I am mistress ' 
 
 ' But you are not mistress, love. How should we get on 
 without Ursie ?' 
 
 ' But Jessie is mistress,' I said, ' and she must learn to manage 
 for herself. I only want her to do it in all things, not only when 
 it is a question of a party.' 
 
 'You are sisters,' said Roger; 'which will settle the differ- 
 ence. You agree to that, don't you, Ursie?' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, but I don't think my tone pleased him. He 
 looked from one to the other in annoyance. I knew so well what 
 was passing in his mind. ' Oh ! you women, how difficult you are 
 to manage, with \ r our petty jealousies ! ' Perhaps I might have 
 retaliated with, ' Oh ! you men, how provoking you are with 
 your want of straightforward, moral courage !' But I could not 
 retaliate upon Roger, it was too deeply painful to me to feel that 
 in any way, even in judgment, he could be in fault. 
 
 Jessie, who really was very good-tempered upon the whole, 
 quickly recovered herself, and saying that she did not want to 
 make a fuss, no doubt we knew best, carried off her notes to 
 make a list of the persons who had accepted the invitation, after 
 which she said, she should 'go and look after William.' 
 
 'She is very good and dear, isn't she?' saiel Roger, gazing 
 after her as she left the room. 
 
 ' I don't know what William would do without her,' was my 
 reply ; ' I am sure I could never rind time to read to him as she
 
 3;S URSULA. 
 
 ' And yet you are not satisfied with the place she takes in the 
 house,' continued Roger, 'and you won't accept the joint dignity 
 of a sister.' 
 
 'How do you know?' I inquired, and I laughed a little, 
 ing to turn off the subject lightly. 
 
 ' I couldn't help seeing it,' he said — 'your face always was a 
 ••ilc. Trot.' 
 
 ' Never mind what I will accept, or what I won't,' I said. 
 ' We shall do very well if Jessie will only remember that some 
 day I may leave her, and that she had better practise being 
 mistress beforehand.' 
 
 lie thought a little upon the answer, but he did not press the 
 matter. I think he knew me too well to force upon me a subject 
 which he saw I avoided; and we began talking about Mrs Weir. 
 Then he was quite himself — the Roger of the olden time, full of 
 sympathy, understanding just what it was that troubled me, and 
 giving me the best advice. I was not, he said, to consider myself 
 responsible for the duties which others might choose to put upon 
 me. Miss Milicent's having said that I was to look after her 
 mother did not make it my business or take the burden from her, 
 so he begged me not to trouble myself because occupations at 
 home had prevented my doing as much for Mrs Weir as I could 
 have wished. The hopes I had held out myself were of more 
 consequence. He thought I had been a little hasty in leading 
 Mrs Weir to trust so much in me, but I was bound to help her 
 if I could, and he considered that I ought to go over to Stone- 
 cliff and S'.e her again, and if I found her seriously nervous at 
 the prospect of going away, I should lose no time in putting the 
 case before Mr Richardson, and consulting with him cither by 
 speaking, or writing to him if he was still kept away, upon the 
 best measures to be taken to bring Miss Miliccnt back, and 
 replace Mrs Weir in an independent home. Of course this 
 ]• quired thought and judgment, for I was in a position which 
 would make it extremely impertinent in me openly to interfere. 
 Roger ended his advice by a hearty kiss and an assurance that 
 lie trusted me entirely, and did not know any person who would 
 manage such a difficult business better. 
 
 The praise was very pleasant, but I could not live upon it. It 
 elated and brightened me for the rest of the day, and Roger was 
 satisfied, I suspect, at seeing me in good spirits; but when tilings 
 rest upon a false foundation, there can be no real stability for 
 happiness. I had said all I d red say about the party, but when
 
 URSULA. 379 
 
 I found Jessie still bent upon asking every one at once, I had 
 nothing to do but to give in, — and arrange it in the best way I 
 could. It certainly did provoke me to have so much trouble put 
 upon me, as if it was only my proper share, and I could not help 
 thinking that if Jessie had been in my place, she would have been 
 less anxious for numbers ; but I tried, I hope heartily, not to 
 show what I felt. The party was fixed for that day week. The 
 notion of the barn was given up. Roger was firm about it, and 
 William quite scouted the idea, and we did not say we were going 
 to dance ; — but when such numbers were brought together,— 
 especially people from Hove, who would come a distance of seven 
 miles, — I knew we must do something in the way of dancing, to 
 amuse them. I think Jessie was pleased when she heard in a 
 roundabout way through Martha, that every one was talking of 
 the grand party to be given at Sandcombe, and I was pleased so 
 far that it brought Mrs Kemp over to know the truth of the 
 report, and ask if she could be of any use. John Hervey drove 
 her over. I was glad to have the opportunity of talking to him 
 about Mrs Weir, for I knew that I might not have him long to 
 consult. He talked of taking another house now that he had 
 more money, and moreover he was so continually at Longside, 
 and with Mary Kemp, that I had little doubt how things were 
 going on, and that he would soon be entirely taken up with his 
 own affairs. ' What is all this I hear, Ursie ? ' said Mrs Kemp, 
 as she came into the parlour, looking the picture of kindness 
 and good-humour. ' Fine doings and strange ones they tell me ! 
 — I hadn't a notion that Sandcombe could excite such a commo- 
 tion in the world.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' I said. 
 
 'Why! I was in Hove yesterday, gossiping as you know 
 one always does there — and wherever I went it was " Well ! 
 Mrs Kemp, of course we are to meet you at Sandcombe," — till 
 at last I opened my eyes, and found that I was in for a grand 
 entertainment, instead of a quiet little tea-party. Whose doing 
 is it?' 
 
 ' I can tell,' said John Hervey ; 'not Ursie's, you may be sure.' 
 
 ' Not mine, indeed,' I said ; ' but when one hasn't strength to 
 go against the stream, one must needs turn round and go with 
 it ; — so, dear Mrs Kemp, you are come just in time to give me 
 all kinds of advice, — and, Mr Hervey, you are just in time too, 
 for I wanted to ask you what you had heard lately about Stone- 
 cliff and Mrs Weir.'
 
 tfo URSULA. 
 
 'About Mrs Weir is soon told,' he said ; 'she is gone.' 
 
 'Gone!' I exclaimed; and I felt terribly frightened. 
 ' Where ? What do you mean ? Gone ! By herself?' 
 
 ' Not quite so bad as that. Mrs Temple has carried her off 
 safely enough. But the report is, that it was not till Mrs Weir 
 l,.i 1 made the effort to walk off by herself.' 
 
 I sat quite silent for a (c\v moments, for I was thurj 
 struck ; bitter tears of self-reproach gathered in my eyes, and I 
 d — 
 
 ' I would have seen her, I would have done anything for her, 
 God knows ; but lately they would seldom let me go near her. 
 Poor lady ! and she must have thought me so neglectful. Did 
 she really try to go away by herself?' 
 
 'So they say,' replied John. 'That is, the night before last 
 she got up, and began packing her things, and saying she 
 couldn't be absent from her husband any longer, and talking so 
 that the young woman who took Jessie's place was quite fright- 
 ened, and called up Mrs Temple : and the end of it was, that 
 yesterday afternoon they all went off, where, no one seems quite 
 to know. Letters are to be sent to London. The cook who is 
 left in charge of the house brought me a note from Mrs Temple 
 about some business matters, and that was how I heard it all, 
 for they kept it very close. She says that she is nearly sure Mrs 
 Weir believed she was really to be taken to her husband, but of 
 course there is no thought of that.' 
 
 ' They are much more likely to take her to a lunatic asylum,' 
 said Mrs Kemp. 
 
 I started up, and almost screamed. ' Oh ! never, never, it is 
 impossible. She is no more out of her mind than I am. It is 
 only the way they have gone on with her.' 
 
 'There is no fear of an asylum,' said Mr Hcrvcy. 'At least 
 not without clear proof that her brain is troubled. Mrs Temple 
 knows quite well how far she may go. Most likely she is taken 
 up to London for medical advice.' 
 
 ' One drop of kindness would do more for her than a hundred 
 drops of medicine,' I exclaimed. ' Oh ! if I had never left her, 
 if I had only gone my own way and lived with her !' 
 
 ' Matters mightn't have been one jot better,' said Mrs Kemp, 
 quietly. 'We mustn't judge of anything we do by its conse- 
 qu nces, Ursie V 
 
 I fan ied John Ilervey looked as though he rather agreed with 
 me, and considered I had keen wrong ; and I remembered how,
 
 URSULA. 381 
 
 some time ago, he had blamed me for not interfering to prevent 
 Mrs Weir's going to Stonecliff. The thought was very painful 
 to me, and my head was in such a state of confusion from sur- 
 prise and worry that I could not reason clearly. 
 
 'Poor child! I don't like to see you take on so,' said Mrs 
 Kemp, for I could keep up no longer, and my tears fell fast. 
 
 ' I believed I should hear from Miss Milicent to-day,' I said ; 
 'and then I meant to have gone over at once to Mr Richardson, 
 if he is come back, and consulted him.' 
 
 ' He came last night,' said John ; ' I should not wonder if that 
 had something to do with Mrs Temple's sudden move. She has 
 a mortal dislike to Mr Richardson, only one degree greater than 
 she has to you, Ursie.' 
 
 ' She is a wretch,' I exclaimed ; ' a hypocrite ! ' 
 
 Mrs Kemp gently touched my arm. 'Not quite, Ursie. I 
 dare say she thinks that she is going the right way to work.' 
 
 ' She may do so,' I replied ; 'but one thing I am quite sure 
 of, that the thing which deludes Mrs Temple, if she is deluded, 
 is her own selfishness. It was to suit her own convenience that 
 she first took Mrs Weir into her house, and it is to suit her own 
 convenience that she keeps her there, and it was for that she was 
 always preaching about self-denial, and taking from Mrs Weir 
 all the little things which amused and pleased her. And it is 
 selfishness, too,' I added, ' which keeps Miss Milicent abroad ; 
 and they may, both of them, build up ever so fine a fabric of 
 good in their own fashion, but the foundation is selfish, and 
 therefore I have no faith in any of it. I must say it out, and 
 then I shall be better.' 
 
 John Hervey smiled. ' Well ! Mrs Kemp,' he said ; ' we shall 
 know where to come if we want to learn the use of strong words. 
 I think I had better go out, and find William or Roger, and leave 
 you to calm Ursie down if you can.' 
 
 It seemed very unkind in him to leave me so ; but I was too 
 proud to show what I felt. 
 
 He went to the door, and then came back looking for his hat. 
 
 ' You needn't part as if you were angry,' said Mrs Kemp. 
 
 ' I am not angry,' I replied, ' but I know Mr Hervey blames 
 me. Yet it cannot be so much as I blame myself. If I had lived 
 with Mrs Weir, all this would never have happened.' 
 
 ' That is, if you had had the ordering of events, they would 
 have been different,' said Mrs Kemp. ' Ursie, that is surely a 
 bit presumptuous. You did your duty.'
 
 38a URSULA. 
 
 I longed, I can't tell how much, for John to say the same. I 
 felt it was the onl) thing which would satisfy me. 
 
 'John Hervey thinks so,' continued Mrs Kemp. 
 
 ' John Hervey does not think so,' I replied, looking at him. 
 
 He stood quite silent fur an instant, then taking my hand as 
 though to wish me good-bye, lie said earnestly, 'John Hervey 
 does not know what he thinks, except that he would cut off his 
 right hand to see you happy. If possible, you shall have news 
 of Mrs Weir in the course of a clay or two.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp's eyes were fixed upon me intently. 
 
 'He is such a true, kind friend,' I said, as he left the room. I 
 was afraid whether she might think he was heartier in his man- 
 ner to me than he was to Mary. 
 
 CIIAITKR LV1II. 
 
 MRS KEMP 
 Jessie was 
 
 KEMP and I were left alone for nearly an hour. 
 is gone over to Dene to call on Mrs Price. I 
 had wished Roger to let the acquaintance drop, but, as he said, 
 there seemed a kind of ungraciousness in this, when Mrs Price 
 had shown Jessie so much kindness, and therefore he went with 
 her, making an excuse of business with Captain Price. I did 
 not know that there was much to object to, only it was perpetually 
 going about, and this I said to Mrs Kemp when she asked me, 
 in her blunt way, how things were working. 
 
 'If I was not here,' I said, 'she and Roger would both see 
 matters differently, and I don't think he would be so foolish with 
 her ; but as it is, there is no doubt he spoils her. Sometimes I 
 fancy it would be right in me to determine upon making a change 
 for myself.' 
 
 ' You had better wait till the way is pointed out,' replied Mrs 
 Kemp. ' It would be making yourself responsible for a good 
 to go away and leave Jessie to herself ; though I don't at all 
 say it might not be better for her by and by.' 
 
 ' If one could be quite sure of her,' I said ; 'but she frightens 
 
 me a good deal sometimes. Her very good-nature is a snare, 
 
 she is so willing to please every one, and that, and the love of 
 
 ; out, one can never say how much mischief it may lead to 
 
 — and Roger, so blind as he is.'
 
 URSULA. 583 
 
 'There will come some children, by and by,' said Mrs Kemp, 
 ' raid that will make a great difference. It sobers a woman 
 vastly, Ursie, to have little helpless things to take care of.' 
 
 'And till then I must look after her,' I said. 'Dear Mrs 
 Kemp, are sisters made for nothing but to look after their 
 brother's wives ? ' 
 
 'You are sharp, Ursie,' replied Mrs Kemp. 
 
 Yes, I was sharp, and I was sorry for it directly. 
 
 ' If it had been anyone but Roger,' I said; 'but that he 
 should have thrown himself away !' 
 
 ' Roger was your idol, my dear,' said Mrs Kemp very gravely. 
 
 Her tone struck me forcibly. I did not know she read my 
 heart so well. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' he was my idol.' 
 
 'And God has broken your idol. It seems to me you have 
 more cause to be thankful than to complain.' 
 
 'Ah,' I said, 'you don't know. The feeling grew up with me 
 from childhood, I had no one else to look to.' 
 
 'Except God.' 
 
 I could make no answer. 
 
 ' I suppose, my dear,' continued Mrs Kemp, 'most of us make 
 idols to ourselves some time in our lives. I know I have done so ; 
 and I remember how unjust I was in consequence.' 
 
 ' Unjust ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 'Yes, my dear. It must be unjust to fancy a man an angel, 
 and then to quarrel with him because he proves himselt a 
 man.' 
 
 'You mean,' I said, ' that I am hard upon Roger.' 
 
 ' I think, my dear, that what would be called mistakes in other 
 people, are called faults in him, and that is rather hard.' 
 
 ' Only because I loved him, because I do love him so dearly,' 
 I said ; ' there is no one like him now.' 
 
 ' I don't think there is, my dear. The way he goes on work- 
 ing, and improving, and setting an example all round the country, 
 is quite a lesson, as the farmer says ; and if he does let his wife 
 go out a little, and see her friends, it is never at the expense of 
 his own business. Just see how Sandcombe has improved since 
 he has had it.' 
 
 'Yes,' I said, for I was delighted to hear him praised, 'he 
 has turned off the idle men, and the new ones are kept twice as 
 strictly, and he has his eye upon all the cottages ; and as to the 
 house, it is not like the same place.'
 
 384 URSULA, 
 
 'And he has but one fault,' said Mrs Kemp; 'lie over- 
 indulges his wife' 
 
 'Only one,' I replied ; 'but that is a great fault; at least, it 
 may lead to great evil.' 
 
 'I grant you that,' she answered. 'A good man's one fault, 
 1 often think, does more mischief than a bad man's twenty sins, 
 which sounds a hard doctrine, but I doubt if it isn't a true one. 
 Anyhow, it is vexatious.' 
 
 ' And it seems so unkind to dwell upon it so much,' I continued, 
 ' when I think how very kind and thoughtful he has been towards 
 me. How few brothers would have hesitated to marry because 
 their sisters had an indirect claim upon them ? And I am sure 
 Roger was quite honest when he said that he would not have 
 thought of his own happiness if it had stood in the way of my 
 having a home and a provision.' 
 
 ' Very few, indeed, my dear,' observed Mrs Kemp, emphati- 
 cally ; ' and yet it would be wrong to quarrel with those who 
 take a different view of duty. We must not lay more burdens 
 upon others than God has thought fit to do. There is no doubt 
 that you could very well have worked for yourself.' 
 
 ' And so it was all the more kind of Roger to be so considerate," 
 I added. 'Yes, I see that plainly ; it is a constant reproach to 
 mc when I feel provoked with him or with Jessie. But, den- 
 Mrs Kemp, how can one help one's feelings ? 1 think I am a 
 little better than I was ; but just at first, when they came home, 
 every word and action seemed to jar upon me.' 
 
 ' There is fault on both sides, probably,' she replied. 'All 
 your life, Ursie, you have expected more from Roger than any 
 sister has a riedit to do.' 
 
 ' It was love,' I said, ' not exactingness.' 
 
 ' But love is no excuse,' answered Mrs Kemp ; 'at least so it 
 seems to me. You know, Ursie, God has been pleased to put us 
 in certain relations to each other, by the ordering of His provi- 
 dence. YYc may alter these relations, but we can't expect Hits, 
 therefore, to alter His providence.' 
 
 ' I don't quite understand,' I said. 
 
 'Why, it is just this. God made you and Roger brother and 
 sister, not husband and wife. It is His will that a wife should 
 come first, and a sister second. Now, if you bestow upon Roger 
 a wife's affection, — and you do so when you arc anxious to keep 
 him all to yourself, and give up'everything else for him,— you do 
 in a way alter the arrangement which God has been pleased to
 
 URSULA. 3S5 
 
 mark out, and you mustn't be surprised if things don't go quite 
 easily in consequence.' 
 
 I did not quite like this repeated allusion to my private feelings. 
 I hoped no one had ever noticed them. But Mrs Kemp was so 
 simple and straightforward, there was no escaping from her 
 remarks. 
 
 ' I don't think,' I said, ' that I have had any choice in the 
 matter. Whatever feeling I may have had for Roger, it grew up 
 unconsciously.' 
 
 ' But there was common sense to teach you, my dear,' replied 
 Mrs Kemp; 'to say nothing of experience. Brothers marry, 
 and sisters are parted from them, every day. But I do think you 
 never would see that it was likely to be the same with Roger and 
 you.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp was right there ; I had wilfully shut my eyes. 
 
 She continued : 'And so, Ursie, I am afraid that some of the 
 aggravations are of your own making. That doesn't mean that 
 I am not sorry for you, dear child,' and she laid her hand kindly 
 on mine. 
 
 I felt proud for the moment, and answered, ' No doubt I am to 
 blame ; but I can't help thinking that if Roger had been only 
 like any other brother to me, I should still have been jarred by 
 a great many things when they first came home.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' she replied. 'It is a rare case when new rela- 
 tions are formed in a family without jarring. Sisters are jealous, 
 and brothers are inconsiderate, and young wives don't quite know 
 their proper position ; and so between them, as often as not, they 
 make a-mess of it.' 
 
 * I don't think Roger is inconsiderate,' I was going to say, but 
 I stopped, for I remembered some trifles in which he certainly 
 had been so ; but not choosing to blame him, I added : ' It may 
 have been quite right, but it did seem strange to see Jessie, all of 
 a sudden, taking upon herself to do everything for Roger which 
 I had been accustomed to do, and to hear her enter into all our 
 affairs as if they were her own ; when, three or four weeks before, 
 she would have felt it quite a favour if we had told her anything 1 
 about them.' 
 
 ' That is just what I meant,' replied Mrs Kemp. ' I speak the 
 more about it, because it was the blunder I made myself when I 
 married. I rushed into my husband's family, and because they 
 were good-natured to me, thought I couldn't do better than make 
 myself quite one with them ; and so I took it for granted that I 
 
 2 B
 
 3o6 URSULA. 
 
 was lo lic.ir everything, and talk of everything) and give my 
 
 opinion, till at last I found out that, what they were quite willing 
 to offer me as a favour, they were not at all willing that 1 should 
 all ( .f a sudden claim as a right. I drew back then, and was more 
 timid, and only worked my way by degrees, and in the end it all 
 
 c.uiie right, hut it was some time first, liven as regards attention 
 to her husband, a young wife is more prudent in keeping a little 
 quiet when she is with his family. She will have opportunities 
 enough of looking after him in her own home. Remember 
 though, Ursic,' added Mrs Kemp laughing, ' that is only one side 
 of the question. I say it is prudent and kind for a wife to 
 remember these things; but I don't say that a sister has any 
 right to quarrel if she forgets them. Husband and wife are 
 meant to be all in all to each other.' 
 
 'And to show that they arc so?' I said. ' I wish I could have 
 thought of that more when Roger and Jessie fust came home ; 
 I am sure I should have borne things better. Jessie has no notion 
 of concealing anything she feels; and it was "darling" and 
 "dearest" constantly, and a ileal more expression in all 
 
 ways than I should have thought Roger could bear. But I was 
 wrong. I do really think I was wrong in caring about it.' 
 
 ' Such a time is trying to all, my dear. I don't think you were 
 wrong exactly. It is a thing one can't be expected to get over 
 suddenly, when persons who, a short time before, were just kind 
 and polite to each other, begin using such very affectionate terms 
 without hesitation. And you had but a short apprenticeship ; 
 for Roger and Jessie weren't engaged very long, and she always 
 seemed to me rather loo much afraid of him than to be very 
 outspoken as to her feelings. If we could place old heads upon 
 'young shoulders, young people would be careful how they thrust 
 their fondness for each other upon their relations, however near 
 and dear. It is not pleasant to witness, I know that by experi- 
 ence.' 
 
 ' No,' I exclaimed, ' not at all ; and what is worst, is for them 
 to turn round, remembering one is present, and give one a kiss, 
 as a kind of apology.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp smiled. ' Trials ! my dear, trials ! But there is 
 one cure for them, — to look at the truth. The feeling is not 
 wrong, only the expression is unwise. Happy marriages are 
 so frequent that one should be put out at anything which ; 
 proof of affection. If Roger had been gloomy, and Jessie cold, 
 you would have been much more unhappy.'
 
 URSULA. 3S7 
 
 * I should have been miserable,' I exclaimed.' 
 
 *And twenty years hence, if it should please God to spare 
 all your lives, the very words and actions which give you 
 a turn now, will be your comfort and delight. I am sure, 
 Ursie, you like to see old married people fond of each other ; 
 witness what I 've heard you say about my dear old man and 
 me.' 
 
 ' If you were to kiss and call each other " dearest " all day long, 
 I shouldn't care/ I exclaimed, earnestly. ' Dear Mrs Kemp, you 
 know it does my heart good to see the farmer and you to- 
 gether. It makes one feel that, after all, married love is not 
 delusion.' 
 
 ' It is no delusion, my dear,' she answered ; 'it is a very great 
 and blessed reality. But when first granted, young folks don't 
 understand it, and their heads are most times turned by it ; all 
 the more reason, Ursie, why old folks, and quiet-minded ones, 
 should be patient, and exercise the " charity which beareth all 
 things." ' 
 
 Mrs Kemp talked a good deal more after this upon more gene- 
 ral subjects, and in most of them I think we agreed. One piece 
 of advice given me I particularly remember. It was as to the way 
 in which I should look at disagreeable things ; such, for instance, 
 as the frets caused by the false position in which Jessie was 
 placed, — mistress, when she chose to give orders, and not mis- 
 tress when she wished to escape from her duties. 
 
 ' It is very awkward and unpleasant, my dear,' said Mrs Kemp ; 
 'and I don't think you will gain anything by trying to persuade 
 yourself that it is not. You know, Ursie, if you go to a child 
 with a dose of medicine, which is not really nasty, and tell him 
 that it is nice wine, ten to one but the child turns quite against 
 it ; whereas, if you say that it is medicine, he drinks it down, and is 
 surprised to find it so little disagreeable. We are all like children, 
 it seems to me, and must needs treat ourselves upon the same 
 principles ; and perhaps life itself, with all its trials, would be less 
 hard if at the beginning we faced the fact, that it was intended 
 to be medicine and not wine.' 
 
 Those words were a great help to me. Roger, and Jessie, and 
 William, were so satisfied with everything, and so willing to 
 imagine that I was satisfied also, that I had been trying lately to 
 bring myself into their views, and fighting, as it were, against my 
 own convictions. My mind rested quite quietly in the certainty 
 that I had trials intended for my good, and that all was not as I
 
 3 83 URSULA. 
 
 could wish, but as God saw best for me ; and I was able then to 
 acknowledge more thankfully the great alleviations which He had 
 dully provided. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 FOR there were very great and hourly alleviations, and not 
 alleviations only, but blessings. Looking back on the tone 
 of complaint which has pervaded all I have lately been writing, 
 it would seem as though I entirely overlooked them. But I trust 
 this was not so. With a home and friends, and constant useful 
 occupation, and the prospect of a certain independence, I mi 
 have been a source of envy to thousands. Perhaps the very 
 absence of great anxieties made me all the more alive to lesser 
 ones. Moreover there was one circumstance which I knew I 
 ought never to forget. If Roger had settled in Canada, and I 
 had been compelled to remain with William at Sandcombc, my 
 life would not only have been sadly dreary; but the responsi- 
 bility would have been greater than I could, with any comfort, 
 have undertaken. As it was, the place was always cheerful, and 
 Jessie, in her good nature, took a great deal from me in the way 
 of waiting upon William, though even then she never seemed to 
 acknowledge that the duty belonged to her especially, and that 
 if she neglected it, no one else could be expected to attend to it. 
 If an invitation or a plan for any kind of pleasure was proposed, 
 she left William without a thought, considering apparently, that 
 it was quite my place to provide for him whilst she was away. 
 The result of this was, as I saw, that the occupation was in the 
 end likely to become irksome, for no duty is a pleasure, unless 
 we feel that it cannot be performed without us. Then it becomes 
 important, and when it is important, we like it. 
 
 But I am always talking of Jessie and her shortcomings, and 
 never of myself. In some ways I feel the subject too grave and 
 painful to be entered upon willingly, for indeed this was not a 
 d and happy period of my life internally. To be always in a 
 lr t, always prepared to be irritated, and to feel, whether justly 
 or unjustly, that you have a cause for such irritation, is by no 
 mc:;ns conducive to that holy calmness and trust which we should
 
 URSULA. 389 
 
 ail strive to attain. And as Mrs Kemp suggested, I had begun 
 life with a delusion. For I do not call my love for Roger in 
 itself a fault. It was founded upon the pure and hallowed feel- 
 ings of affection which God has implanted in every breast. But, 
 in its extent, it was, little though I imagined it, very selfish. To 
 keep him to myself, I would have excluded him from the highest 
 happiness which earth can give. Now my heart in its loneliness 
 was wandering over the dreary world, seeking rest and finding 
 none, and at times returning to the ark, which had once been 
 its shelter, only to find the door closed against it, and to set 
 forth again on the seemingly hopeless search after a love on 
 which to repose undoubtingly. Yet I did not understand myself. 
 I did not know what I was suffering from, or what I needed, 
 though it is all plain to me know. I believed, indeed, I felt that 
 I was religious; I acted upon religious principles, I tried to 
 frame my life according to the precepts of the Bible. When I 
 spoke to others of their duties, it was always with reference to 
 the one great motive of pleasing God. And the thought of the 
 great account which I should one day have to give before Him, 
 if not always uppermost in my thoughts, had still sufficient in- 
 fluence to be a constant check upon my evil inclinations, and a 
 warning whenever I had given way to them. 
 
 But through it all, my heart, — my quick, earnest, devoted 
 love,— was given to Roger. Instead of loving him for God's 
 sake, I loved God, if I may say so, for his sake, and the result 
 was that religion had never made me thoroughly happy. I do 
 not say that I had yet found out my mistake, but my eyes were 
 opening to it. When human affection disappointed me, my 
 reason, if not my feelings, turned to God. Rest and comfort, and 
 fulness of joy were I knew to be found with Him, and in the 
 bitterness of my disappointment, I turned to Him almost without 
 understanding why. Again and again when I had no one else 
 to speak to, no friend to whom I could explain my wretchedness, 
 I said it out to my Saviour, not so much praying Him to help 
 me, as telling Him what I suffered. It was a relief always at 
 hand, and insensibly it became very precious to me, and the 
 thought that He could quite understand, that He knew and 
 would make allowance for the worn and fretted feelings, which 
 to others would have appeared only unreasonable murmurings, 
 gave me a sense of freedom and confidence which I had never 
 before enjoyed. So, by degrees, I began to understand the 
 difference between the influence of religion as a duty, and as a
 
 J90 URSULA. 
 
 personal affection. Through the door which had bfen opened 
 by disappointment religious love stole into my heart ; and when 
 at length it nestled in the empty chamber, the peace tli.it accom- 
 panied it, left no room for regret for the ed earthly 
 ings which had d< parted for ever. 
 
 But I write as if all had been easy, as though when my 
 was broken, I could at once turn and raise an altar to the true 
 God. It v. so. There was an enemy ever at hand, . 
 
 there is one still, striving to | the entrance of the holy 
 
 affection which was henceforth to be my joy. That enemy was 
 myself, my old, impatient, hard-judging self, urged and stimu- 
 lated doubtless by the Evil Spirit who is wailing- to destroy us. 
 All that I have recorded of myself must plainly show how much 
 I had to fi-ht against. Even when I judged rightly, I erred in 
 the manner of expressing my judgment. I have heard that I 
 used to be called angular, and I have learned to look upon 
 angularity as a great offence. In that last conversation with 
 Mrs Kemp, though I really had tried to keep down my irritable 
 feelings, and though she had said nothing which ought to have 
 
 ivoked them, yet I had spoken so as to stir up the unkind nature 
 within me, and aggravated myself merely by the expression of 
 my own opinions. And this was continually the case in talking 
 to Roger ; I was beginning to feel that he felt it, and that he 
 avoided the subjects on which we might differ in consequence. 
 One hasty sentence destroyed the effect of twenty gentle ones. 
 So, again, this sharpness of mine gave a bias to the view which 
 I took of all that ! ie did. I was very clear and 
 
 decided in my self-government, and I carried out the same prin- 
 ard to others, and was never contented till I Lad cut 
 and apportioned, as it were, every one's conduct, and settled 
 under what head each action was to be placed. Having i n e 
 made out to my own satisfaction that Jessie had no strict guid- 
 ing principle of duty, and that Roger was weak in his affection 
 for her, I allotted their various actions to these motives, and for- 
 
 I that there might be others, far better, which were influencing 
 them. For instance, when Jessie read to William till she was 
 tired, I said to myself, 'she docs it because she likes it 
 than looking after the servants.' I did not remember th it, no 
 doubt, she had an anxious wish to do something for her hus- 
 
 :;d's brother in his helpless state; and wh< n Roger to k her 
 
 out with him, and left me to attend to the duties at home, I said 
 
 llowing out his unwise system of indulgence. I
 
 URSULA. 391 
 
 did not consider that it is a husband's duty to make life pleasant 
 to his wife if it lies in his power. 
 
 This was not a state of mind favourable to Christian charity, 
 and it was therefore of necessity opposed to the love of God. I 
 look back upon it now with great regret, and with only one 
 comfort, that I was never blind to it, and never indulged it. On 
 that day after the talk I had had with Mrs Kemp, I went to my 
 room feeling discontented with myself without having anything 
 positively to lay to my own charge, only being conscious when 
 I took up my Bible, as I was accustomed to do, to read the 
 Evening Psalms, that a mist was floating between myself and 
 my Saviour ; that I could not come into His presence with that 
 clearness of conscience, and quietness of spirit, which are essen- 
 tial for the enjoyment of His love. Of course there was only 
 one thing to be done, to pause at once and inquire, with 
 God's help, where the fault lay. Mrs Kemp had suggested 
 it. I went over in my own mind all that had passed since 
 the period of Roger's engagement, and saw as I had never 
 seen before how false had been the relation in which up to 
 that time I had placed myself with regard to him. I faced 
 the future, its possible trials and certain vexations, and owned 
 that there was but one way of meeting them ; to put away 
 self once and for ever, to consider the good of others first, 
 and my own feelings second ; to act, in fact, justly and truly in 
 the new familv relations which had been formed, recognising; 
 every claim, however distasteful, and then to trust that God 
 would, in His mercy, heal the wound which had been made, by 
 making me dear to Roger and Jessie, not merely from natural 
 affection, but from the consciousness that I was their truest and 
 kindest friend, and therefore essential to their happiness. When 
 this point had been gained I was able to attend to my reading 
 and prayers, and after they were ended I went down-stairs, and 
 finding Jessie waiting upon William, took the opportunity of 
 telling her that she was a much bettor sister to him than myself, 
 for I had scarcely seen him all day. Jessie's face brightened as 
 with sunshine when I said it, especially when William joined as 
 lavishly in her praises. Whatever other faults Jessie might have, 
 there was certainly no temper or angularity in her. 
 
 No news of Mrs Weir, beyond the fact that Mrs Temple had 
 taken her to London ! A hundred anxious fancies crowded into 
 my mind, all based upon that one speech of Mrs Kemp, that they 
 might probably carry her to a lunatic asylum. Being very
 
 392 URSI LA. 
 
 ignorant of the ways of the world in such cases, I did not know 
 that this is more easily said than done, and I was certain that, 
 when nervous and excited, Mrs Weir was quite strange etioi 
 
 to induce any one to think that she was out of her mind. Not 
 liking to interfere myself, I persuaded John Hervey to make 
 fiiends with the woman who was left in charge of Stonecliff, and 
 by her means, as she sometimes wrote to Mrs Temple's maid, to 
 let me know what was going on. Miss Milicent's silence dis- 
 turbed me a good deal, I feared my last letter must have gone 
 astray, and I remembered what she had said about visiting 
 Normandy, and thought it probable that might interfere with 
 our having tidings of her for some time. Mr Richardson thought 
 the same when I went over to Compton, and, finding him 
 turned, told him exactly how matters stood, and why I \\:s 
 uneasy. He was a very cautious man, and did not let out much 
 of his mind to me, but I could discover that he did not think I 
 was anxious about Mrs Weir entirely without cause, and he 
 said that he would himself write to Mrs Temple, and make in- 
 quiries, and would let me know what she said. He had no 
 idea himself, that anything was amiss with Mrs Weir beyond 
 nervousness, but he felt that unwise treatment might at last 
 bring on the malady which Mrs Temple had often hinted to 
 him she feared. 
 
 With this I was obliged to be satisfied, and there was not much 
 leisure for indulging useless anxieties, as my attention was claim d 
 by the preparations for the party, which interfered in no slight 
 degree with the ordinary business of the farm. Indeed, since 
 Jessie had gone out so much, it was almost more than I could 
 do to keep things straight, and I often over-worked myself, not 
 liking to ask for extra help, lest it might begin a system which 
 in the end would be ruinous to Jessie's good principles, even if 
 :cr could bear the expense. Jessie did now often say herself 
 that I had so much to do ; but I knew she would not care if there 
 was another servant, and, once used to a certain number, she 
 would never think she could do with less. We were to have a 
 dinner for the Kemps and one or two of our particular fiiends 
 first, and the rest were to come in the evening, and having only 
 the two parlours to put every one into, there was a good deal of 
 difficulty in the arrangements. But Jessie saw none. The small 
 parlour, she said, would do for dinner; it would not signify being 
 a little crowded ; we could bring in the round table from the 
 other room, so that there would be plenty of space for the dishes,
 
 URSULA. 353 
 
 and everyone would understand how it was; and then we could 
 put the kitchen benches round the wall in the large parlour; and 
 if there were not enough, we might borrow some, and so accom- 
 modate all in the evening; and whilst people were amusing them- 
 selves there, the little parlour might be cleared out for tea, and 
 for any of the old people ; and afterwards supper might be laid 
 out in it. All this betokened a deliberate intention of dancing ; 
 for, without this, there was no reason why we should all crowd 
 in such a way into the small parlour ; and at last I taxed her 
 with it, laughingly, saying I saw what she was aiming at, and 
 she had much better own it at once, or we should make some 
 great blunder. 
 
 She turned round to Roger, who had been listening to her 
 plan with a face half-grave, half-pleased, being amused, as I 
 could see, with her ingenuity. 
 
 ' I knew Ursie would not allow it, Roger,' she said. 
 
 'Please, dear Jessie !' I exclaimed, 'indeed, that is such a 
 false way of putting it. Roger, will you only say what you 
 wish ? ' 
 
 ' To please every one,' he replied, with a smile ; ' which is just 
 what you will say, Ursie, is impossible ; and so, I suppose, it is. 
 But it seems to me we are rather in for a dance, though we have 
 not given out that it is to be one.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' I said, lightly, for I felt it was no use any longer 
 to fight the question ; ' if we are to do it, we must see to some 
 things at once, — music, for instance.' 
 
 ' The fiddler from Compton will do quite well,' said Roger. 
 
 'He scrapes so,' said Jessie, looking disappointed. 'I said 
 something to Mrs Price the other day, and she told me that when 
 they gave their party at Dene, they sent for a man from Hove, 
 who played beautifully, and, with the piano, they had charming 
 music' 
 
 ' Dear Jessie ! ' I exclaimed, ' did you really talk to Mrs Price 
 about the party?' 
 
 'Yes. Why shouldn't I?' 
 
 ' It is so awkward to consult a person about a thing which she 
 is not to take part in.' 
 
 ' I did say I wished she could come ; but I didn't exactly 
 invite her,' said Jessie, in a hurried tone. 
 
 ' And what answer did she make, my dear ?' inquired Roger, 
 quickly. 
 
 'She had an engagement for that evening,' replied Jessie, 'so
 
 394 URSULA. 
 
 it was out of the question. But you both look at mc as if I ha 1 
 dune something very wrong. Mrs Price is not comin .' 
 
 ' It would have been better to have consulted Ursie before you 
 said anything,' replied Roger. 
 
 1 Ursie doesn't like Mrs Trice,' said Jessie ; ' and, Roger, dear, 
 I didn't mean any harm ; but it came quite naturally, when 1 
 was there, having known her so many years, and she having 
 been always so kind to me. And, besides, if we visit, I don't see 
 why she is to be left out.' 
 
 It was a difficulty, certainly ; and Roger, with Jessie by his 
 side, was not likely to solve it. I could only be thankful for the 
 engagement. But we were not to be set free from Dene quite so 
 easily, fur Jessie added, ' I had a note from Mrs Price just now, 
 saying that she thought she could put off her engagement, and I 
 was going to ask what answer I had better send back, only we 
 began talking about other matters.' 
 
 'You never told me anything about this before, my d 
 said Roger, so gravely, that I thought if I had been Jessie I 
 should have been frightened. 
 
 She answered, nervously, ' I forgot it when we drove home 
 that day, and it has scarcely entered my head since ; and as Mrs 
 Price was not coming there was no need to think of it.' 
 
 ' Put there is need now,' I said. ' May we sec the note, 
 Jessie?' 
 
 Her manner showed hesitation : she did not seem to know 
 where she had left it. 
 
 ' You had better go and find it, my dear,' said Roger, and he 
 sat himself down in a kind of determined attitude, which I knew 
 meant that he was considerably put out. 
 
 Jessie went off. We remained silent for some moments. 
 Then I said, ' It is awkward ; but she cannot be expected to see 
 things as we see them.' 
 
 Roger made no answer ; and I did not venture any further 
 remark. Just as we heard Jessie's step in the passage, however, 
 he said, 'You and I should probably have done the same, Ursie.' 
 And when Jessie entered, he went up to her, and took the note 
 out of her hand with a good-humoured smile, quite as though 
 nothing was the matter. He read the note aloud : — 
 
 ' My dear Jessie, — I find I can alter my day for dining in 
 Hove, and as it would be great fun to see your first party, I have 
 a notion of driving over, with as many gentlemen as I can bring, 
 which I know will make me welcome. I don't know whether I
 
 URSULA. 395 
 
 shall persuade Macdonald to come ; but, anyhow, you may ex- 
 pect your affectionate friend, 'Jane Price.' , 
 
 Roger laid down the note, and I caught it up. 
 
 'Gentlemen!' I exclaimed. 'I am sure we don't want any 
 of Mrs Price's gentlemen here. What does it all mean ?' 
 
 ' It means what a good many people think a good deal of,' 
 said Roger, laughing. 'We ought not to quarrel with Mrs 
 Price for a word, Ursie. But this threatens more than we were 
 prepared for.' 
 
 ' I don't think Mr Macdonald will come,' said Jessie, and I 
 thought she looked very uncomfortable. 
 
 ' There is something else scratched out,' said Roger, ' which I 
 suppose refers to him, only it is not honourable to try and 
 read it.' 
 
 I took the note from him, — I really don't know why, — certainly 
 with no intention of making out what had been erased. Then 
 I laid it down, and accidentally looking at my fingers saw that 
 they were slightly stained with ink. The erasure was a fresh 
 one. 
 
 The feeling that came over me I shall never forget. I looked 
 at Jessie, and my head seemed dizzy with doubt. Was it possible 
 there could be any deception in her ? 
 
 No, it was impossible. That sweet, smiling, confiding face 
 could not be a mask, and she was even now making all the 
 amends in her power for the foolish thing she had done, by taking 
 upon herself more than the blame which Roger was inclined to 
 give her. 
 
 'It was very wrong in me, I know,' she said; 'I ought to 
 have asked first, but the wish came into my head, and was out of 
 my mouth, before I had time to consider ; and I repented directly, 
 and was so glad when Mrs Price said ' No.' It was quite a relief 
 to me, and then it all passed away as if it had never happened, 
 and I thought of mentioning what I had clone, but I forgot it. 
 That is all I have to say, but I am very sorry, very sorry indeed. 
 Please, dear Roger, forgive me.' 
 
 It was but a small fault. No wonder that Roger forgave it 
 easily, with such a look of happy, trusting love. I could see then 
 why he had kept such a guard over himself— that he might not 
 show anger till he had heard the whole story. He was a man of 
 singular self-command, and had tutored himself so that he never 
 to my knowledge said a word to repent of. 
 
 'We must make the best of the business, now,' he said ; 'and 
 
 t>
 
 396 7 7,/. 
 
 if Mrs Price and the — what must we call them, Ursie ? — come, 
 they shall have the best welcome I can give. All the more be- 
 cause the vibit is not likely to be repeated often. Jessie, 
 Sandcombc and Dene were never made to run toj . md so 
 
 I 'm sure you will remember, and let your communications with 
 Mrs Price be kept within careful limit .' 
 
 lie was quite enough in earnest then to satisfy even mc, and 
 Jessie, I perceived, was rather awed by him. 
 
 'Ursie quite feels with me, I am sure,' he added, turnir, I • 
 me just as he was leaving the room, 'and you will do well to 
 consult lur upon all points.' 
 
 He did not lcok at me, and I was thankful for it. The very 
 ment he was gone, I went up to Jessie, and with the note in 
 my hand, pointing to the erasure, said: 'Jessie, the ink was not 
 dry. You scratched that cut yourself.' 
 
 Her check flushed, she paused, then answered, 'Yes, I 
 scratched it out. It was only, "he is not sure whether he would 
 be welcome," and I thought Roger would not understand, or 
 would ask questions, and I can't bear t Iking of it at all.' 
 
 The explanation was not satisfactory, and I answered, ' 1< 
 understands most things. Even if he did not, it would be better, 
 Jessie, to annoy him than to make a mystery.' 
 
 ' Well, yes, I dare say you arc right,' and she went away. 
 
 She did not like my advice I saw, neither did I like her way 
 of dealing with Roger. I was more really anxious about her 
 that dav than I had been at alL 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 WEDN-ESDAY morning, the day of the party, arrived. It 
 was a bright and calm day for the beginning of October, 
 and I was glad to think that our friends who came from a dis- 
 tance would not be annoyed with wind and rain. Though I 
 may seem to have set my face so much against the party, and to 
 have complained of the work it caused, it must not be imagined 
 that in my heart I at all disliked it. Every one, unless very 
 v. ell-disciplined, is apt to grumble more or less ; — I don't mean 
 that as an excuse, but a fact, — and when one is telling a story 
 the little black dots of troubles stand out more clearly in one's
 
 URSULA. 
 
 397 
 
 mind than the bright lines of pleasure. But I really liked the 
 bustle, and was delighted when I found the whipt-creams turn 
 out as well as they did, and enjoyed teaching Jessie to make the 
 cake, and she and I and Roger had quite a merry half-hour, 
 setting out the supper table, and describing all the dishes to 
 William, whilst he, poor fellow ! was pleased and glad to think 
 he should meet so many of his friends. And then there was to 
 be the cosy dinner first of all, with the Kemps, and old Mr and 
 Mrs Brown, who had taken Hatton Farm, and I got quite into 
 the spirit of the party before the day came, and rejoiced in the 
 sunshine as much as Jessie herself. We were to dine at four 
 o'clock ; I did not like to have the dinner earlier, not knowing 
 what we should do with the guests all the afternoon. Roger 
 had given in to the notion of having the Hove fiddler for the 
 evening, but he would not go to the expense of a piano, though 
 Jessie urged it. About expense or show he always had his own 
 way. All the morning I was very busy, and Jessie too, more so 
 indeed than we need have been, for Martha, whose temper was 
 never very good, took it into her head to be particularly contrary 
 in all her ways, and gave us more trouble than was necessary. 
 A piece of boiled beef, a pie, and some roast chickens, with 
 sweet things, was to be our dinner, and the beef I knew would 
 take a long time before it was properly done, but all I could 
 say I could not persuade Martha to have it ready for boiling 
 at the time I had named, and I had lost a good deal of my 
 power over her since she had learned to call Jessie mistress, so 
 that I could only beg, not order. At last Jessie came to me in 
 despair, begging me to go once more and see about it myself, for 
 Martha had let the fire go down, and then had heaped up such 
 a quantity of coal, there was no heat in it, and all she could get 
 from her was, there was plenty of time, and it would do very well. 
 I was setting out the dessert, but I left it directly, and went into 
 the kitchen, and Jessie undertook to finish what I had begun. 
 'You will never do without bellows, Martha/ I said; 'just go 
 and fetch them ; ' and when they were brought, I knelt down 
 before the fire and began to blow. Martha's temper grew worse 
 at every puff. She kept near me, putting herself in my way, and 
 leaning over the fire to stir something in a pot. I told her, that 
 if she did not take care she would upset the saucepan, but my 
 words were not attended to, and whilst looking round to see what 
 the weather was like, I heard a cry, and at the same moment the 
 hot water poured down upon me. Happily the greater portion
 
 URSULA. 
 
 fell upon my dress, but Martha, of course, screamed as though I 
 I been killed, and brought in Jessie, and Esther Smithson, 
 and the charwoman, and William, and a man from the yard, all 
 < r to know what was the matter. I believe I was the only 
 quia person in the kitchen. I was burned, and in a good deal <>( 
 pain, but ?t might have been much worse. Thanks to Martha's 
 tire, the water was not actually boiling, and if I covered up 
 my hand at once with cotton wool, I knew I might save myself 
 from any great suffering. .My chief thought then was for I 
 
 led beef, and I would not near of Jessie's attending to me ; ' 1 
 could manage,' I said, 'very well for myself.' 
 
 ' You will find some cotton wool in my second drawer,' ob- 
 served Jessie, as I left the kitchen, 'if you happen to have nore 
 of your own.' 
 
 It was a happy suggestion, for I had not bad sufficient experi- 
 ence to keep a quantity of wool to provide against scalds and 
 burns, so I went directly to Jessie's room. My hand b 
 
 nful, 1 wrapped the wool round it at once, instead of carrying 
 it off, and sat down by the dressing-table to rest, for I was more 
 flurried ai.d frightened than I quite knew at first. Jcs -, 's 
 work-box was on the table, and opening it to find a bit of t 
 I saw Mrs Price's note laid in it, apart from the envel 
 Merely for the sake of neatness, I put the note into its cover. As 
 I did so, my eye fell upon some words which I read without 
 thinking, under the belief that they referred to the party. ' I 
 have much to say to you, for I can't understand you after the 
 1 tti rs I have seen. I shall be glad to hearwhat you have to 
 for yourself. I only saw the letters yesterday.' It was m 
 startling than the scalding water, more painful far than the 1; 
 of the burn. 1 sat with the envelope in my hand thinking on i:, 
 asking myself what it could possibly mean, whilst every la' 
 fear and suspicion rose up within me to increase my perplexity. 
 I low to satisfy myself, was my difficulty. To doubt is the n 
 
 of all the offences which can be committed against family 
 union. If Jessie once imagined I doubted her, all my influence 
 over her, and I had much, would be gone instantly. And what 
 it was I doubted or suspected, I could not tell. Jessie had ci 
 tainly been silly and vain before her marriage, and I could i 
 that she was silly and vain still, but I could not imagine fa r 
 deceitful, and her love for Roger it was absolutely impossible to 
 question. I had seen her much lately when thrown with differ- 
 ent persons, and made a centre of interest and attraction, and
 
 URSULA. 399 
 
 though she might be excited and pleased by the attentions she 
 received, I always noticed that her eye sought Roger's, and that 
 she was never satisfied unless he was near. He himself was so 
 certain of this, that he would have laughed to scorn the notion 
 that she had a thought or feeling which was not shared with him. 
 And yet here was proof positive that she had. Mrs Price's 
 words referred to something which he knew nothing of. And 
 then Jessie's hesitation, and the words which had been erased. 
 There must be a mystery. My heart sank within me. If it 
 were only a case of want of confidence, thoughtlessness, girlish 
 folly, yet if it shook Roger's mind, if it opened his eyes to the 
 fact that he had made a mistake in his choice of a wife, what a 
 life-long disappointment would be in store for him. 
 
 I was left to myself for nearly twenty minutes ; it was sup- 
 posed that I was suffering pain and unable to work. I was 
 suffering pain indeed, but of a very different kind from any which 
 was suspected. But the quietness and solitude were very useful 
 in soothing my perturbed mind, and before I again went down- 
 stairs I had made up my mind what was to be done ;— nothing. 
 The whole thing might be a trifle, at any rate it was evidently 
 past. I would not make Jessie angry by inquiring into it, 
 especially as she would be very likely to misunderstand the 
 means by which I had gained my knowledge ; but I would watch 
 carefully all that went on ; I would guard against anything like 
 intimacy with Mrs Price ; I would be very kind and affectionate 
 to Jessie ; and then, when I had fully gained her affection, and 
 made her forget her conviction that the marriage was not entirely 
 agreeable to me, I would some day discreetly lead the subject 
 round, and if possible bring her to an explanation. By that 
 time, for I felt it would be a work of time, she and Roger would, 
 as I hoped and believed, understand and be so necessary to each 
 other, that any confession of past youthful folly or„ imprudence 
 would be a less shock to him. 
 
 The one thing I dreaded was Mrs Price. An unprincipled 
 woman is much more dangerous than a bad man. The one is 
 generally an open, the other a secret foe, and a young person 
 like Jessie is so easily won upon, so willing to trust and be led, 
 whilst there are no natural cautions to teach prudence and 
 reserve. If once thoroughly influenced by Mrs Price, and led 
 by her into anything like deceit, Jessie might risk Roger's 
 happiness and her own for ever. 
 
 To say that I was as light-hearted when I went down-stairs
 
 4 oo URSULA. 
 
 as I was when I came up, would be far from the truth. Happily 
 my burned hand was a sufficient reason for being rather subdued, 
 and every one supposed I was in pain, and blamed Martha 
 for her carelessness accordingly. For myself I scarcely found 
 it in my heart to blame her. Though I said that Mrs Price's 
 words might only refer to some past trilling matters, I still had 
 the dread that mischief might lurk beneath, and so I could not 
 be too thankful for the accident which had led to my being pre- 
 1 ..red for it. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 WE had not been a very punctual household lately, Jessie's 
 gaieties had interfered. Lut William was determined 
 that everything should be in time on this day, and gave us no 
 rest with his cautions about it. Jessie went up to dress at 
 three o'clock, but I was not able to get away from the kite hen 
 till half-past three, and even then I left it rather with fear, 
 and was obliged to say that I would be down again to see 
 that all was ready before dinner was taken in. I was decidedly 
 the head servant and not the mistress now, — for Jessie was 
 called upon to receive the guests, and I had to work till the last 
 moment. 
 
 It was a good thing that I made up my mind to my posi- 
 tion beforehand, because, having done so, I was not annoyed 
 at it. My best dark-green silk dress was soon put on, with a 
 temporary apron over it, in case I should Lave anything m ie 
 to do in the kitchen ; but Jessie's dress was a much more im- 
 portant affair. 
 
 I am afraid I was a little like Roger, and inclined to spoil her 
 in some ways, I was so pleased to see her look pretty ; and 
 though I strove not to show that I thought much of her beauty, 
 I was always watching to see what people would think of her 
 when she came in and out of a room. 
 
 The art of dress, too, I think, generally goes with beauty. It 
 is not that pretty people always think so much of what they shall 
 wear, but that it is a kind of instinct with them. 
 
 I am sure I might have tried for months, and I should never 
 hive turned myself out to look in the slightest degree as well as
 
 URSULA. 401 
 
 Jessie when she went to the parlour dressed in her delicate wed- 
 ding silk. I stood looking after her as she ran down-stairs, and 
 when she was out of my sight, remained still in the same position 
 thinking about her, not happy thoughts, but tender, loving ones, 
 — more so than she or Roger fancied. Hardness, severity, angu- 
 larity, — they were all on the surface. There was a place deep 
 down in my heart for Jessie. 
 
 Mr and Mrs Brown were asked to please William. I should 
 have been better satisfied myself if they had been left out, we 
 should have been such a snug party with only the Kemps ; but 
 perhaps it was better as it was on the whole, for we had one 
 great disappointment. John Hervey, who as a matter of course 
 had been asked also, did not make his appearance. We waited 
 for him nearly a quarter of an hour, and then fearing the dinner 
 would be spoiled, we thought it better to sit down. William was 
 put out, more by the delay than by John's absence, but he kept 
 his temper, as most of us can before strangers. Jessie took the 
 top of the table, and did the honours very well. It was the first 
 time since her marriage that we had had anything like a dinner 
 party, and I fancied she would be nervous and ask me to carve ; 
 but she seemed fully to understand her right place, and many 
 pleasant compliments were paid her by old Mr Brown, which she 
 seemed quite to enjoy. Mrs Brown praised her for the way the 
 dinner was sent up, and for the sweet things, which certainly 
 were very successful. They happened to be all my making, and 
 Jessie said so, colouring, as though she was rather ashamed to 
 own it. 
 
 ' It is not every one that has such a right hand,' said Mr Brown, 
 thinking he must be civil to me. 
 
 ' No, indeed,' replied Jessie. ' Ursula is a great help, I don't 
 know what I should do without her.' 
 
 'What, indeed?' I thought to myself, and I was almost 
 tempted to say that a person with so many engagements as Jessie 
 wanted a right hand to keep die house straight ; but, of course, I 
 did not say it, and the conversation went on about housekeeping 
 and farm troubles, and servants, in all which Jessie bore her 
 part as though she v/as quite at the head of affairs ; whilst 
 whenever any little matter went wrong, she quietly turned to 
 me to put it right, as I can fancy the Queen would do to one of 
 her ladies-in-waiting. It was one of Jessie's peculiarities that 
 she could fit herself into any position in which she might be 
 placed, and now I could see that Roger was quite pleased with 
 
 2 C
 
 402 URSt/LA. 
 
 and proud of her, — she was so attentive and hospitable. Nothing 
 
 was said at dinner which at all touched upon Dene, but wh< n 
 
 dessert was pi iced on the table, M n prais- 
 
 sonu cowslip wine, which she declared reminded her or 
 
 s me she had tasted elsewhere ; but she could not remember 
 
 where, and at last she said, that she thought it must have b 
 
 at Dene. 
 
 Mrs Kemp looked up surprised. ' I did not know you ever 
 
 went there,' she said. 'I shall think better of Mrs Trice if she 
 
 h ;s such steady friends.' 
 
 ' Don't call us friends,' replied Mrs Brown ; ' it was only that 
 
 my husband went over there accidentally to p:iy some money, 
 
 and there came on a pouring shower, and so we were obliged to 
 
 take shelter, and then Captain Price offered us cake and wine, 
 
 which was more than his wife would have done ; if I don't do 
 
 her wrong in saying it.' 
 
 ' I think you do wrong her,' said Jessie, quickly. ' She is very 
 
 kind-hearted, and would make friends with any one who would 
 
 be friends with her.' 
 
 'Oh! yes, well, I dare say,' and Mrs Brown looked a little 
 
 awkward, ' I forgot ycu and she were cronies ; indeed, I thought 
 
 that would be all over now.' 
 
 ' My wife knew Mrs Price when they were both children,' 
 
 observed Roger, before Jessie could speak again ; 'and as she 
 
 is good-natured we must be civil, which is the reason why we 
 
 have asked her here this evening.' 
 
 A general blank seemed to fall upon the party. Mrs Brown 
 looked at Mrs Kemp, and murmured something which sounded 
 like ' No doubt, it is all right.' But it was evidently not all 
 right in her estimation, and the silence became so uncomfortable 
 that I lost my presence of mind, and began pressing Mrs Kemp 
 to take some apple jelly when she had some already on her plate, 
 and poured out a glass of sherry for Mary Kemp, though she had 
 fur currant wine. Roger, I saw, was fully aware that 
 the announcement he had made was disagreeable, but he was not 
 in the least cowed by Mrs Brown's stiff manner. Having once 
 made up his mind that it was right to ask any one to his house, 
 lie was very indifferent as to what might be said about it ; but I 
 perceived he was vexed when Jessie, for want, I suppose, of 
 something to say, went on to boast of her intimacy at Dene, to 
 describe the place and the alterations, and to talk of the persons 
 she had rly met there. Some of them, I suppose, laying
 
 URSULA. 403 
 
 claim to the title of gentlemen and ladies, but not such as we had 
 been accustomed to respect. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said at last, ' those days are over. You were 
 Jessie Lee then, you are Jessie Grant now,' and Mrs Brown 
 pursed up her lip, and looked at Mrs Kemp with a matronly 
 smile of approbation, which seemed to say, ' That is right. I 
 am glad the husband can assert his authority over the giddy 
 young thing.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp, Mary, and Mrs Brown went into the large parlour 
 as it grew dark, whilst Roger and his other friends stayed to have 
 their talk over public matters. There were so many little trifles 
 still to be seen to that I was glad to have them all quietly dis- 
 posed of, and I called Jessie into the kitchen, to arrange one or 
 two things about the supper, which Martha and Esther would be 
 likely to forget. When I went back to the parlour and Jessie 
 was gone up-stairs, Mrs Kemp and Mrs Brown were in full talk, 
 but they stopped directly I went in. Mary was sitting silent as 
 usual. I fancied she was out of spirits because of the disap- 
 pointment about John Hervey. 
 
 ' They will be here soon, I suppose,' said Mrs Kemp, making 
 room for me to sit down. ' Come and warm yourself, Ursie, you 
 won't be so well able to do that presently.' 
 
 'Thank you, I said, ' but I have been out in the kitchen, 
 which is like an oven.' 
 
 1 1 wish you would come,' said Mrs Kemp, looking round to 
 see that I was alone. 'Now, Mrs Brown, just tell Ursie what 
 you have been hearing, it will come better from you.' 
 
 'I dare say she knows,' replied Mrs Brown; ' unkind 
 words fly fast, and I am not the one to wish to make them go 
 faster.' 
 
 'It's no unkindness to give a warning,' said Mrs Kemp; 
 ' and Ursie is quite safe.' 
 
 ' Well ! all I would say is, that if your brother Roger does 
 the w r ise and respectable thing, he won't let Mrs Price bring 
 herself and her idle friends to Sandcombe. His wife has been 
 too much with them already, and when it 's well known that there 
 was flirting going on with that Mr Macdonald, whom people 
 said last year she was sure to marry, up to the last moment 
 before she turned round and said ' Yes ' to your brother, you 
 will understand that the world will talk of her as one of the 
 Dene set.' 
 
 ' People say what is false ! ' I exclaimed, though as I said the
 
 404 URSULA. 
 
 word a ; ing of d t through inc. 'After Mrs Morris's 
 
 i :',i. i rectly here, and www. from us to Mrs 
 
 triple, where she was kept so close that if she \ to 
 
 1 'cue twice during the whole time it is more than I can ans\ 
 fi r.' 
 
 ' May be. I trust it isn't true,' said Mrs Brown. ' You know, 
 my dear, I don't want to vex y< .1 shouldn't have said it if 
 
 it had not been for Mrs Kemp's wi h; but hearing thing 1 
 do from everyone, 1 can't help getting inklings of strange doings 
 
 metimes, and it docs scan to me a pity that, after all the 
 stories that has gone abroad about Mrs Price and her gjbings 
 
 . she should be asked to Sandcombe just the first party that a 
 young person like Mrs Roger Ljivcs.' 
 
 ' Ursie doesn't know half the stories,' said Mrs Kemp, in a 
 l'. '.ling tone. 
 
 'No,' 1 said, 'I don't. I have always tried not to hear 
 them. I think that kind of scandalous gossip is odious, besi' 
 being wrong ; but without hearing the stories, I know quite 
 enough to understand that Mrs Price is not a fit friend 1 r 
 Jessie-. No woman who acts so as to have herself talked about 
 tan be.' 
 
 'Quite right, my dear,' said Mrs Kemp. ' Girls won't think 
 it ; but the worst thing that can befall them is for their name to 
 be in every one's mouth.' 
 
 'And the worst thing for a husband is for his wife to be talked 
 about,' said Mrs Brown, who was rather inclined to be severe. 
 ' Your brother Roger is the hist person, Ursula, who would bear 
 that.' 
 
 The last indeed ! Perhaps no one but myself knew how keen 
 Roger's feelings would be on such a point. I don't know what 
 I could have said in reply, but at that moment our circle v. 
 disturbed by the arrival of visitors. 
 
 I went to receive them with the words ringing in my cars — 
 ' Roger is the last person who would bear that.' The quests 
 arrived one after the other very quickly. Jessie came down to 
 do the honours, and I went to the party in the little parlour, and 
 1 them they must leave it whilst I made it ready for tea, 
 William grumbled a little at being obliged to move, and I was 
 obliged at last to scold and be impatient, — he and Farmer Kemp 
 would stay so long trying to finish an argument. 
 
 'Why, lassie, what's come to you,' said the farmer, catching 
 hold of me as I laughingly held open the door and told him
 
 URSULA. 
 
 405 
 
 plainly I wanted him gone. ' She has taken to rule every cue 
 to-night, William, and that's not her way generally/ 
 
 ' She loves a bustle dearly,' said William. ' I don't believe 
 she is ever happy unless she is ordering something or some* 
 body.' 
 
 I suppose my countenance betrayed that I was not thoroughly 
 well pleased with the remark, for as William departed the 
 farmer stayed behind, and added good-naturedly, ' They may 
 quarrel with you, Ursie, as much as they like for ordering, but 
 they would none of them get on without you. But why don't 
 you ask my girl to come and help you ? she would rather be 
 here than talking grand in the parlour ; she isn't in very good 
 spirits to-night, the why and the wherefore I dare say you will 
 hear before long, only don't ask questions now, for it will upset 
 her, and I don't want that.' 
 
 Farmer Kemp had most unpleasantly and anxiously excited 
 my curiosity. Mary's spirits were so even, I was sure it must 
 be something very unusual which could depress her enough to 
 excite notice. Puttings things together, I naturally concluded 
 the vexation must be about John Hervey. When I went back 
 to the parlour I found Mrs Price arrived, and with her two Dene 
 visitors, not exactly strangers. Roger had met them when he- 
 was riding out with the fox-hounds, which he did every now 
 and then. Mrs Price was making much of them, sitting up at 
 the top of the room, looking quite like the grandee of the com- 
 pany. The moment I went in I felt what a mistake had been 
 made in inviting her, for her presence was like a wet blanket 
 on the rest of the party. I glanced round to see what Jessie 
 was doing, and was glad to find her, under Roger's care, trying 
 to make herself generally agreeable. My dread was that, in 
 spite of all she had once said to me about having changed 
 her opinion of Mrs Price, she would now devote herself to 
 her. -Roger seemed to be as much alive to that possibility as 
 I was, and was going round with her from one to the other, 
 and giving her hints as to what she should do to be civil 
 and kind. He was resolved, I saw, that if Mrs Price forced 
 herself upon us, she should find herself placed quite on an 
 equality with the rest of the world. Finding how things were 
 going on, I was relieved from a sense of responsibility, and, 
 following Farmer Kemp's suggestion, went to Mary, and asked 
 her to come with me into the parlour, and help set out tea. 
 Then she and 1 might stay there and make it, and Jessie nuVht
 
 4o6 URSULA. 
 
 bring in different parties, as the room was too small to have 
 all together. Mary was only too glad, she said, to be useful, 
 and went back with me to the little parlour directly ; but she 
 had another reason for desiring to be alone with nic, for the 
 moment Martha, who was setting out the tea, was gone, she drew 
 out of her pocket a little note. ' It is from John Hcrvey,' she 
 said. ' I was to give it you when you were by yourself, in case 
 he didn't come, and I have no hope of him now.' She spoke 
 very calmly, but a sigh followed the words. It sounded strange 
 to me. Mary seldom laughed, often smiled, and scarcely ever 
 sighed. 'Just sec to the tea, Mary, dear,' I said, and I drew 
 the candle towards me hurriedly. I had a dread that the note 
 contained ill news. 
 
 'Dear URSIE, — I have had a note from a London doctor 
 asking me odd questions about Mrs Weir's being able to attend 
 to business. I don't understand it, and don't like it, so I am 
 going off myself to see what it all means. You shall hear again. 
 If there should be anything in which your testimony as to 
 Mrs Weir's soundness of mind is likely to be of use, I am sure 
 you would not object to giving it. A rumour has reached me 
 that Mr Weir is dangerously ill, at some little village in 
 Normandy. If I could have been with you to-night, I should 
 have found out something from Mr Macdonald, who, I heard 
 accidentally, was likely to be one of the party. He is in 
 correspondence with Miss Miliccnt. If you could ask him what 
 he knows, and send me word, I should be glad. Of course, I 
 am very sorry not to be one at your merry-making, though I 
 like Snndcombe best when you are all alone. Don't say to 
 any one why I am gone. 
 
 'Very sincerely yours, 
 
 'John IIekvey.' 
 
 As I folded up the note again, I remarked that Mary had 
 left off arranging the tea-cups, and was standing with her gaze 
 intently fixed upon me. She blushed when our eyes met, and I 
 thought she half expected me to give her the note, but I put it 
 into my pocket without saying anything, and she finished pre- 
 paring the tea, and then asked if she should go and tell Jessie it 
 was ready. It was as though she was glad to leave me. A 
 second enre frequently neutralises a first, and a third will often 
 prevent one from thinking of either. What with Jessie's secret 
 and Mary's, and anxjety about Mrs Weir, I had so much to
 
 URSULA. 407 
 
 perple.v mc that I could do nothing but put it all aside, and 
 take just the business of the moment. I laughed and talked 
 with every one who came in, made myself, I am tolerably sure, 
 agreeable to Mrs Price, and behaved very civilly to her friends. 
 In fact, I could not properly keep any one fixed idea in my 
 mind, and having intended to watch Jessie, I found myself at 
 last quite disregarding her. Tea being over, some of the elderly 
 people remained in the little parlour to play whist and back- 
 gammon, and the young ones began to dance. I was asked to 
 dance almost before any one, but I was obliged to refuse, 
 at least for a while, since Jessie quite depended upon me 
 to set everything going. Roger had left her to her: elf now, 
 and I thought she looked a little fagged, as if such numbers 
 were too much for her, and I begged her to go and sit down 
 by Mrs Kemp, and rest a little and not talk. Mrs Kemp, I 
 said, would quite understand her wishing to be quiet. This was 
 just when a country-dance was beginning, and she left me, as I 
 thought, intending to do what I had proposed, but to my annoy- 
 ance I perceived that Mrs Price, who, I fancied, was sure to 
 dance, was sitting down also, and that Jessie went up to her 
 immediately. 
 
 I noticed her but little after that for nearly half an hour ; the 
 dance was kept up merrily, and I went to see how all things were 
 going on in the little parlour, and then stayed a few minutes in 
 the kitchen, giving an order about supper. On my return to the 
 dancing-room, Mrs Price and Jessie were not to be seen. I 
 looked, and waited, and watched, and looked, but they were still 
 absent. They were gone, I felt sure, to Jessies room, that they 
 might have Jessie's favourite amusement — a talk. Nothing would 
 annoy Roger more, and Mrs Kemp, I saw, was noticing Jessie's 
 absence, and Mrs Brown's quick eye wandering all round the 
 room, as she wondered what had become of her. This would 
 not do. She must be brought down, and made to be attentive 
 to her company at all events, and I hurried up-stairs, knocked 
 at Jessie's door, heard Mrs Price's voice say ( Come in,' and 
 entering, found Jessie in a flood of tears. My consternation 
 need not be described, but Mrs Price came forward to explain 
 with the utmost coolness — ' Poor Jessie was a little over-tired, 
 hysterical— she had been working too hard — such a large party 
 was a great undertaking. If I would only leave her to her, she 
 would take the greatest care of her, and bring her down again 
 in a few minutes quite well.'
 
 408 ' . /. 
 
 hink, if you will ne to say so, Jessie had bettor be 
 
 left to m ' I know y what is good for li r.' 
 
 ' Oh ! i ,' .Hid Mrs Pric 
 
 'but Jessie herself will be the best jud •(•. Such an old friend as 
 I am, I think, might be allowed to stay.' 
 
 ave us, Ursie, vou must,' said Jessie, in an e: 
 
 voice. 'They can't do .about you down- irs. [ would r.ith r 
 . and 1 shall be i rectly ; 
 
 ' I had ; ' - \m ■ 1 v ' itil ■.' J .iid ; ' you v. 
 
 do without it.' 
 
 'I want nothing, nothing,— it isn't anything. I only wish — 
 ;e just go.' 
 
 'I shall send Roger to you,' I said, quietly, for I felt that Mrs 
 e, if not Jessie, was deceiving me. Jessie's voice show 
 neither hysterics nor faintness, but only great mental disquiet. 
 I left the room, heard the door close violently behind me, 
 hurried down the stars, and at the bottom, rushed up against 
 some one in the dark passage, and found myself in contact with 
 Mr Macdon 
 
 He made a hasty apology for coming so late, which I was too 
 worried to attend to; why he came at all was the question I was 
 most inclined to ask. I thought we had been safe from him. I 
 could not find it in my heart to be gracious and civil, and I don't 
 know what I said, until we stood at the parlour door ; then I 
 suddenly recollected John Hervey's note, and, seizing upon the 
 present moment as the most favourable 1 could hope to have, 
 ged for a few moments' conversation with him. lie seemed 
 astonished, and I thought nervous, but of course he a 
 and much, I suspect, to the surprise of the friends who knew or 
 thought about me, wc entered the room rather confidentially 
 Before, however, I could begin the subject of Mr 
 Weir, Mrs Kemp came up to me and inquired for Jessie ; was 
 she ill ? — tired — was anything amiss. ' Nothing,' 1 said, shortly. 
 'She will be down directly,' Mrs Kemp looked vexed, and drew 
 back. I asked where Mrs Grant was, and he put 
 
 up his eye-glass and glanced round the room. 
 
 'Oh ! I sec. 1 beg your pardon, but I will return directly;' 
 and he left me to go up to Jessie, who, just at that instant, came 
 in, her arm within Mrs Price's, as if they were the dearest 
 friends possible. 
 
 The meeting certainly was a curious one. I, who knew Jessie 
 ' '.ell. could read at once in her countenance a mixture of fear,
 
 URSULA. 409 
 
 dislike, and excitement, which she vainly endeavoured to hide 
 under an appearance of ease. Mr Macdonald's face was not so 
 well known to me ; but if 1 could at all guess its meaning, there 
 was a great deal of pride and spite in his heart. Mrs Price was 
 full of flattery and airs, making such a fuss about him, that I 
 could not bear to look at her, and talking so loudly that every 
 one was noticing her, and necessarily observing Jessie also. 
 This could not be allowed to continue. I felt as though I must 
 rush up to Jessie, and carry her away from them by force ; but 
 just then, the reel which had been going on when 1 came in, 
 was finished, and, in the general movement, Jessie was obliged 
 to move also, and Mr Macdonald returned to me, ready, as he 
 said, for our conversation. It was precisely what I did not 
 want, — to have a private talk with him when every one was 
 sitting down, and might remark upon us ; but a clear conscience 
 makes one bold, and knowing full well that I would never have 
 said half-a-dozen words to him but from necessity, I began at 
 once — 
 
 ' You have heard from Miss Weir, lately, I think, Mr Mac- 
 donald, have you not ?' 
 
 ' Yes, this week. I have had that honour.' 
 
 'And may I ask what the accounts of Mr Weir are ? Some 
 one told me he was very ill.' 
 
 ' Miss Weir mentioned an indisposition — a fever, I think, she 
 called it.' 
 
 He looked so intolerably conceited, I turned away my head, 
 because I could not endure to watcli him. ' Is it a dangerous 
 illness?' I said. 
 
 ' Well ! yes, I suppose it may be. Miss Weir's communica- 
 tions touch slightly upon the subject ;' and he put on a very 
 mysterious air. 
 
 ' I suppose you would not mind giving me Miss Weir's direc- 
 tion,' I continued ; ' I am wishing to write to her.' 
 
 He hesitated. ' I believe Mr Weir is moving about. If you 
 wish that a letter should be forwarded, and would entrust it to 
 me' 
 
 'Thank you,' I said, hastily; 'but it is not written. Miss 
 Milicent told me she should be in Normandy.' 
 
 ' In Normandy? yes, she may be.' 
 
 'But you must know where she was when you last heard 
 from her,' I said. ' If you would only tell me that, it would 
 help me.'
 
 • i i URSULA. 
 
 'It was an odd direction. French names arc difficult to re- 
 member, I may be able to give you the information to-mon 
 
 or the next day, — or, — I am almost afraid I may have mislaid 
 the It: r.' 
 'Or you don't wish to tell me, Mr Macdonald,' I exclaii 
 
 • I m sorry I have asked you.' 
 
 lie made a kind of bow, more in mockery than politeness, 
 and murmured sonv thin j about being unfortunately unable to 
 tify my curiosity; and then walked away. 
 
 Mary Kemp drew near to me, as I stood thinking. 'Ui 
 she said, 'that is an odious man. How Jessie hates him !' 
 
 ' Docs she ?' I replied. ' How can you tell ? ' 
 
 ' From her look when she saw him. But she liked him once. 
 1 1 w is it she is so changed?' 
 
 ' She knows him better,' I said. 'And she has Roger.' 
 
 ' Yes, Roger, to be sure, that would be enough as a contrast ; 
 but I should be afraid if I had jilted Mr Macdonald. I should 
 think he would be revenged.' 
 
 The expression struck me, and I repeated it, pondering upon 
 it, but adding, 'Jessie did not jilt him.' 
 
 ' I thought she did ; people say so.' 
 
 I was called away, and there was no time to undertake Jessie's 
 defence ; but I felt as though a clue had been given me, a: I 
 throughout all the remainder of that evening's excitement, I was 
 upon the one object of following it. 
 
 Jessie, Mrs Price, and Mr Macdonald, were never for five 
 minutes absent from my thoughts or my watchfulness. I 
 that Jessie appeared to have recovered herself, but that her eye 
 was restless, and her cheek flushed, and I noticed that Roger's 
 entrance made her shrink from Mrs Pri e, evidently unwilling 
 t he should see them together. I noticed that she gave herself 
 up almost exclusively to .Mrs Price's friends, dancing twice with 
 the strangers, and only once with any of her old friends, and at 
 List I saw her stand up with Mr Macdonald, looking at the 
 same time, frightened and nervous, but t dking as was her wont, 
 all the time to cover her awkwardness. And, towards the end 
 of the dance, I observed also that she became much graver, even, 
 1 might have said, unhappy ; whilst there was something in his 
 manner which implied, not liking certainly, but satisfaction and 
 triumph. Mary Kemp might be right, but jilt him ! No, Jcsde 
 certainly was free from that charge. And what could be his 
 revenge ? Oh ! if Roger could but see with my eyes, if he
 
 URSUL/t. 411 
 
 could only be alive to the weakness of Jessie's character, and 
 keep her from those who might lead her to deceit. But he saw 
 nothing except that his wife was winning, and lovely, and devoted 
 to him. He was the only person in the room that night, — I 
 felt it with uneasiness and dismay, — who did not perceive that 
 some strong tie had been formed between Jessie and the inmates 
 of Dene which, whether it existed with or against her will, could 
 tend neither to his happiness, nor to her own goodness and 
 respectability. 
 
 About eleven o'clock we were ready for supper. Mrs Price 
 went in first, and Jessie with her of course. I stayed behind to 
 take care of the second party. So I lost sight of her. Supper 
 was a long business. I was very tired and glad to remain quietly 
 by myself for a few minutes in the great parlour. Farmer Kemp 
 came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder : ' Asleep, lassie ; 
 you ought to be waking.' 
 
 ' My business is nearly over,' I said, ■ I may begin to think of 
 sleep.' 
 
 ' Not yet,' he said, earnestly. ' What can that flaunting 
 woman and her friend be talking about to your pretty little 
 sister-in-law?' 
 
 I looked round ; they were close to the open door. I was 
 behind them, and I could not see their faces. When I moved, I 
 caught sight of Jessie's countenance, sadly anxious ; Mrs Price's 
 sarcastic, the other was hidden. I heard Mrs Price say, ' I 
 really must go and put on my cloak, it is late.' She went 
 up-stairs, and Jessie stayed behind ; she did not notice me, — I 
 could have said, indeed, that she was too engrossed to noti e 
 anything except the person before her. ' O Mr Macdonald ! ' I 
 heard her say, in a low, hurried voice; 'it is not honourable, 
 and they can be nothing to you now.' 
 
 I did not catch his answer. 
 
 'You have deceived me,' I heard Jessie add; 'you said they 
 were destroyed ;' and then, seeing me, every trace of colour left 
 her cheeks, and she rushed away. 
 
 Mrs Price's departure was quickly followed by others, only a 
 few lingered round the supper-table till after twelve. Farmer 
 Kemp and his wife, and Mary, were the very last. William sat 
 in the corner of the room fast asleep, while Roger and Jessie were 
 attending upon the friends who were just going. We heard the 
 repeated 'Good-byes' and 'Thank you,' and 'We have had 
 such a pleasant evening,' and Jessie's voice was cordial, and
 
 4 12 URSULA. 
 
 Roger's full of ;h satisfaction that eveiything had passed 
 
 so well, and then they came back into the little parlour 
 
 her. 
 
 'Here is a scat for you, little one, in the arm-chair,' said 
 cr. lie placed Jessie in it, and brought her a footstooL 
 ' You are tired out, I know ; but so well you did everything ! 
 Didn't she, Ursic? I don't know when we have had such a jolly 
 evening. What do you like to have, love? A glass of wine is 
 best' 
 
 ' I like to have you next me/ said Jessie, ' I d tn't want any- 
 thing else ;' and her tired face resumed its bright look, as Roger 
 lauj sat clown at her feet, and asked Farmer Kemp to give 
 
 her a bit of chicken, and he would sec that she ate it. The farmer 
 cut the chicken as he was desired, but directly afterwards turned 
 to me. 
 
 'Somebody else wants looking after,' he said; 'you've I 
 upon the move for how many hours, Ursie ?' 
 
 ' I am too tired to reckon,' was my reply. 
 
 Roger jumped up from his seat, and came up tome. 'Are 
 you really so tired, Trot?' 
 
 'Really,' I said, 'is it surprising ?' and I laughed a little. 
 
 ' Tired with thinking of every one but herself,' said Mrs Kemp f 
 kindly, for she was extremely fond of me. 
 
 I might have been vexed at Roger's coldness at any other 
 time ; but just then I really could not think about myself at all. 
 ' We must send Jessie to bed at once,' I said ; ' she will be quite 
 knocked up if we don't.' 
 
 ' And leave you to set the house right, I suppose,' said Farmer 
 Kemp. ' Well, there is nothing in this world like a good heart 
 for v. oik. Come, mistress!' and he spoke to his wife, 'since 
 going is the order of the day.' 
 
 Mrs Kemp had her bonnet and cloak on, and was quite ready, 
 so was Mary. I put one or two other wraps round them, for the 
 t was cold. 
 
 As I was doing this, Mary Kemp said, in a low voice, ' Have 
 you any ncte, any message, for John llcrvey ? Perhaps I shall 
 be writing to him.' 
 
 ' None, thank you. I have not had time to think about 
 things.' 
 
 I fancied Mary looked rather blank, but my attention was 
 drawn to another matter, for Roger said quickly, 'A glass of 
 water, Ursie ; quick ! Jessie is faint.'
 
 URSULA. 413 
 
 Her head was leaning back, and she was deadly pale, but she 
 had not fainted away. 
 
 Roger was alarmed, I was anxious, Mrs Kemp was quite cool, 
 and took it as a matter of no consequence. We all stood by 
 looking at Jessie. 
 
 ' She has been talking, and laughing, and standing about more 
 than is good for her/ said Mrs Kemp, 'but she will be quite 
 well to-morrow. Now, my dear, if you feel better, let Roger take 
 you up-stairs.' And before Jessie seemed to be quite aware that 
 she was able to move, Mrs Kemp had gently forced her to stand 
 up, and, supported by Roger, she left the room. 'Good night, 
 Ur'sie, my dear, and go to bed, and to sleep, as quickly as you 
 can,' said Mrs Kemp, as I went out with her into the passage. 
 'And don't worry yourself, if you can help it, about things which 
 can't be helped or mended.' 
 
 ' And keep an eye upon that giddy little woman, Ursie,' added 
 the farmer. ' Depend upon it, if you don't, she '11 get you all 
 into a scrape some day, through that flighty friend of hers.' 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 I SLEPT but little, in spite of my fatigue. Thoughts of Jessie 
 were haunting me ; not the hard thoughts which Farmer 
 Kemp might have had. There was no such vanity in her now 
 as would make her disobedient to Roger, that I was convinced 
 of ; whatever folly she might be led into would be the conse- 
 quence of some difficulty in which she had involved herself by 
 past imprudence. Mrs Price had no real affection for her, but 
 was making up to her for purposes of her own ; perhaps wishing 
 to show that she was not entirely overlooked by persons of re- 
 spectability ; perhaps — and just as likely — merely because she 
 knew that we had set ourselves against the intimacy. Mr 
 Macdonald, if he had ever really been attached to Jessie, which 
 I very much doubted, clearly disliked her now ; yet it seemed to 
 me as though he and Mrs Price had her in their power, and 
 were in some way tyrannising over her. And how this might 
 end was, I confess, a very anxious and uncomfortable thought. 
 Jessie was so weak, and so painfully deficient in moral courage, 
 that I could never feel sure of her. Some deception there must
 
 4 i i URSULA. 
 
 have been already, and more there might be ; and with her 
 
 i orance and thoughtlessness, she would easily, without the 
 
 it intention of real evil, be led to do and say things which 
 
 would materially injure her in the eyes of the hard-judging 
 
 world. I trembled for Jessie, but I was miserable for Roger. 
 Even now, if he could sec and know all that I knew, he would 
 in all probability discover that his trust in his wife had be n 
 blind and mistaken, and how could I prevent the evil from going 
 further? — how could I induce Jessie to be open, with that p 
 feet openness which is the only security for married happiness, 
 when she knew, even better than myself, that the acknowledg- 
 ment of any past deception must shake Roger's confidence, and 
 would almost necessarily be a great trial to his affection ? 
 
 Jessie was not the person who would risk a present suffering 
 for the sake of avoiding a greater future evil. Rather she would 
 go on contriving, and evading, and delaying, and intending, 
 keeping her eye upon truth in the far distance, and forgetting as 
 she did so that she was following the untruth which stood im- 
 mediately in her pith. 
 
 An effort, however, must, I knew, be made at once. I had 
 discovered quite enough to give me cause for demanding an ex- 
 planation, and if she hated me for it, I still must have it. It 
 was with this full intention that I went down-stairs to our late 
 breakfast — yet one which was too early for Jessie. She did not 
 make her appearance. Roger was up and out before I was 
 ready, and William and I breakfasted together. The post came 
 in before we had finished. There was a letter for me in John 
 Ilervcy's handwriting; but William had some business letters, 
 and I was obliged to read them first, and put my own aside. I 
 was kept talking about things in which I felt no interest for 
 more than ten minutes, and then, finding that William would 
 not allow me any silence, I carried off my letter to read alone. 
 It required but a few moments to get through it, but it left me in 
 a state of bewilderment. It was written in pencil, and dated 
 from the house of Mrs Weir's physician. 
 
 1 Dear Ursie,— 
 1 1 have but five minutes to save the post. I have seen Mrs 
 Temple, Dr Green, and Mrs Weir. Mrs Temple is frightened, 
 and not without cause. But they all say that if you could come 
 up you might be of great use, for Mrs Weir is always asking for 
 you, and they can't tell how to satisfy or keep her quiet. I said
 
 URSULA. 415 
 
 plainly to Mrs Temple that she must undertake your expenses, 
 and she is prepared to do so. Only don't delay. If you can 
 be here to-morrow by the train which comes in at 3.2;, Mrs 
 Temple's maid will be at the station to meet you, and I shall be 
 there too, if I possibly can. If you can let Alary Kemp know 
 that you have heard from me, do. It will explain my not writing 
 to her, but she shall hear to-morrow. 
 
 ' Very sincerely yours, 
 
 'John Hervey.' 
 
 Thoughts of Jessie were for the moment chased from my 
 mind as though they had never been ; and no wonder. I had 
 but one hour to prepare myself. Go, of course I must. The 
 hopes of comfort which I had held out to Mrs Weir were a claim 
 upon me, putting aside every consideration of early kindness. 
 When anxiety for Jessie again presented itself, I could only de- 
 termine to write to her. I went to Roger and consulted him, 
 talking over what should be done in my absence, and settling 
 nothing, because I did not imagine I could be detained more 
 than a few days. Then I packed up my small box, wrote a line 
 to Mary Kemp, ran up to Jessie's room, and finding her in bed, 
 sat down and said all I could think of. and forgot everything I 
 most wished to remember, except that I did beg her to keep 
 clear of Mrs Price ; and, at nearly the last moment, examined my 
 purse, found I had not sufficient money for my journey, and had 
 a long, tiresome business in explaining to William — for I never 
 mixed my accounts with Roger and Jessie — what I should want ; 
 and, at length, just as the clock struck nine, found myself driving 
 into Hove, on my way to London. Roger would have gone with 
 me, but I would not allow it. I had travelled alone when I came 
 back from my visit to Mrs Mason, a year or two before, and 
 knew what I was to do, — and for us both to have been away 
 from the farm would have been extremely inconvenient. He 
 was most affectionate and understanding, and begged me to 
 write the very moment I arrived, that they might have a letter 
 the next morning. 
 
 All railway journeys are very much alike, unless there is the 
 pleasant variety of breaking your limbs or being crushed to 
 death, and my journey was in no way remarkable, except that I 
 had very silent companions, who gave me a sufficient oppor- 
 tunity for meditation. We reached London at 3.25 precisely. 
 Mrs Temple's maid, whom I knew by sight, was standing on the
 
 4i6 URSULA. 
 
 platform of the station, and behind her was John Hervcy. He 
 greeted me as though we had not met for weeks. 
 
 'A glad sight, Ursie ! I began to think whether you would 
 come ; but you arc always to be depended on. Of course you 
 are going at once to Wimpole Str< 
 
 'Yes, I hope so; but I must have a few words with you first. 
 What shall we do with Andrews ?' 
 
 1 Leave her with your box and the cab till you are ready. She 
 won't mind waiting. These are strange times, Ursie.' 
 
 John gave his directions, which Andrews seemed to think 
 quite natural, and then turned aside with me. We sat down 
 an instant, but I could not bear that, and we paced the platform. 
 
 ' Now, tell me,' I said ; ' what is the true state of the case ?' 
 
 'I can't make out, neither can the doctors; that is wh 
 have sent for you. Mrs Temple insists upon it that Mrs 
 Weir's mind is quite gone, she really thinks so, and is frightened. 
 The doctors say " No ; " and I should say " No," as far as bi 
 ness is concerned. She had some affairs to settle with me 
 yesterday, and was very fairly collected and sensible. But she 
 cries all day, eats nothing, and every now and then answers so 
 strangely that really it is difficult to believe that she is sane.' 
 
 ' But I don't see what I am to do,' I said. 
 
 'She wants a soothing influence; that is what Dr Green 
 declares. You know I came to London yesterday. I saw him 
 then at Mrs Temple's ; he wanted to find out from me what 
 kind of state she was in for business. Afterwards, I had a 
 private talk with him, and put him up to a good deal which he 
 had no notion of before. He felt that Mrs Weir was not in good 
 hands ; but there was no moving her. At last a bright thought 
 struck me, and I mentioned you. He caught at the notion, and 
 Mrs Temple came, and it was proposed. She set herself against 
 it, as you may imagine. I think her manner was quite sufficient 
 to show the doctor what she really is, and he was more deter- 
 mined ; and, at last, he carried his point.' 
 
 'So, I am come quite against Mrs Temple's wish,' I said. 
 
 'Not that entirely. Dr Green frightened her at last into 
 thinking that you were likely to be her best friend. You will 
 find her tolerably civil. She is quite a different person to me, 
 so gracious, I don't know where I am when I am speaking to her. 
 Yet wishing much to have you here, I would not trust to her 
 writing, in spite of her promises, so I proposed to do it myself, 
 and she was quite willing, which was odd enough, only she has
 
 URSULA. 417 
 
 just now taken up the line of not having a voice in any arrange- 
 ment. I fancy she thinks it safer as putting away all responsi- 
 bility. That was why I wrote you that scrawl from Dr Green's 
 house. He waited to make some memorandums of things I had 
 told him, and took me back there for the purpose. I was terribly 
 afraid it would be too late for the post, he kept me talking so 
 till the last minute. But you are come, Ursie, and the load isn't 
 half so heavy.' 
 
 That was natural enough ; for a very large share of it had been 
 put upon me by this hurried explanation. The doctor, and Mrs 
 Temple, and John Hervey — they all looked to me, it seemed, 
 and a more ignorant, inexperienced being in such matters there 
 could not be. 
 
 However, there is nothing like seeing no means of escape from 
 a difficulty, and having been brought into my present position by 
 God's Providence, I trusted that He would enable me to do my 
 duty in it, kindly and bravely. 
 
 ' I shall not go with you to Wimpole Street,' said John. ' I 
 shall see as little of you as possible, only perhaps I shall call 
 to-morrow ; after that, indeed, I must go home. It won't do to 
 make Mrs Temple think there is anything like a plan between 
 us, though what it could be about is more than I can tell. But 
 I know she is always suspicious of something wrong, when two 
 people agree in opposing her. Whatever you do, Ursie, must be 
 done by yourself, with Dr Green's sanction. He will side with 
 you, I am sure. And if there is any notion of removing Mrs 
 Weir from Mrs Temple's care, all the servants will take your 
 part, for they are tired out, so Andrews tells me, with having 
 her there. The young woman who took Jessie's place went 
 away when they left Stonecliff.' 
 
 'Remove Mrs Weir,' I said; 'but where ?— what is to be 
 done with her?' 
 
 ' I can't tell ; no one can tell, Ursie ; it all rests upon you.' 
 Very poor comfort, indeed ! But there was real help in John's 
 hearty sympathy, which I felt I was sure of under all circum- 
 stances. He put me into the cab with Andrews. I had only- 
 time to say, hoping to please him, ' Mary has your message,' and 
 he nodded his thanks just as we were driving off. 
 
 We rattled through the streets at a quick pace, but I wished 
 it had been quicker. I was beginning to feel painfully nervous. 
 Andrews, knowing I had only been once in London before, 
 pointed out all that was worth seeing, but I scarcely saw any- 
 
 ' 2D
 
 4i 8 URSULA* 
 
 thing ; — only every moment I thought the cab was going to 
 stop, and then my heart stopped too, and went on at an increased 
 rate afterwards, to make up, I suppose, for lost time. The thunder- 
 ing rap at the door was speedily answered. My box was taken 
 out, the cabman paid, and I was ushered into the house. 
 
 ' Wait here,' said Andrews, opening the dining-room door, 
 'and I will tell Mrs Temple you arc come.' The room was 
 dingy ; it had a very lodging-house look, for Mrs Temple had 
 only taken a part of the house for a few weeks. I thought of 
 Dene, and the Heath, and Stonccliff, and pictured to myself 
 what Mrs Weir's feelings must be, shut up in this London prison. 
 Folding-doors divided the dining-room from an apartment at the 
 back of the house. As I sat thinking, a low moaning sound 
 came through the crevice, and soon I heard a voice — Mrs 
 Temple's voice — not quite so harsh as usual, but evidently 
 striving against impatience. Still the moaning continued. At 
 last I heard Mrs Temple say, ' If you will only do what the 
 doctor tells you — but you can't have anything you wish, aunt, 
 till you do.' And poor Mrs Weir, for it could be no one else, was 
 silent for a few seconds, and then Mrs Temple left her and came 
 into me, and the moaning went on as before. 
 
 Mrs Temple was changed since I last saw her. She had 
 passed through a good deal of trouble, and much of her statclincss 
 of manner was gone, it was turned into irritability. But to me 
 she was quite civil ; I felt, at once, that, owing to the pressure 
 of circumstances, I should have but little difficulty in obtaining 
 and keeping an independent position, if only I was not afraid to 
 decide and act upon my decision. 
 
 She thanked me for coming, — coldly, — but still I was thanked, 
 and then she began to explain her view of Mrs Weir's case. It 
 may be expressed in a few words. Her aunt's mind, she said, 
 was quite broken down, and nothing remained to be done but 
 to put her under strict medical care. The object in sending 
 for me was, that as I had known Mrs Weir so long, I might 
 prepare her for this necessary step, and induce her to submit to 
 it gently. 
 
 The two ideas seemed to me inconsistent. If Mrs Weir was 
 in a state in which by reasoning she could be brought to submis- 
 sion, her mind certainly could not be quite broken down. But I 
 was not going to commit myself in an argument before I had 
 had an opportunity of forming a judgment, and I begged at once 
 to be allowed to go to Mrs Weir.
 
 URSULA- 419 
 
 'Presently. My aunt must not be taken by surprise,' was the 
 Answer ; but I repeated my request, ' If I may but be allowed, 
 ma'am, I should like,' I said, ' to see Mrs Weir in her natural 
 state, as I cannot suppose that, in her present condition, any 
 person's presence would have much effect upon her.' And as I 
 made a movement towards the folding-door, Mrs Temple no 
 longer opposed me. 
 
 I found Mrs Weir sitting in a small, darkened bedroom, close 
 to the fire, wrapped up in shawls, — her eyes fixed, and a settled 
 melancholy in her features. I had often seen her so before, but 
 only for a short time. 'Now,' Mrs Temple whispered to me, 
 ' she is always so, except when she is crying.' I went up to her 
 and spoke, and she looked at me, and answered, quite recognis- 
 ing me, but not as if she was surprised, or pleased, or in anyway 
 excited by seeing me ; and presently, as I said something to 
 Mrs Temple, thinking to attract her attention, she began again 
 the moaning sound which I had heard through the folding-doors. 
 Mrs Temple pointed to a tray on which lay the untasted dinner, 
 and observed, ' There is no making her eat, she has tasted no- 
 thing all day.' I did not make a direct reply, for I felt it must 
 be bad for Mrs Weir to be talked of helplessly as a third person, 
 so I addressed her naturally. 
 
 ' Dear ma'am,' I said, ' your dinner is ready and growing 
 cold ; suppose you were to move your chair, and come to the 
 table, and if we were to draw up the blind, there would be a 
 little more light. It is such a dark afternoon, and London is not 
 so bright as Stonecliff, is it ? ' 
 
 It seemed to me as though the poor lady was quite unused 
 to be spoken to cheerfully. She turned towards me with a kind 
 of wonder, and when I said, ' Now, ma'am ! ' and moved her 
 chair a litde, she made no objection, but suffered me to wheel it 
 round. 
 
 Mrs Temple put in a word. ' Well, aunt ! I am glad to see 
 you do as the doctor tells you.' 
 
 Mrs Weir looked up pleadingly, ' I don't want to eat, Ursula ; 
 only they will be angry.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear ma'am ! ' I said, ' no one will be angry, and you 
 need not eat at all, unless you fancy it.' 
 
 'You are wrong, Miss Grant, quite wrong,' exclaimed Mrs 
 Temple, 'she must eat.' 
 
 'Mrs Weir likes little odd things, at odd times, I know, 
 ma'am,' I said. ' I dare say she doesn't fancy her dinner just
 
 +ao SI/LA. 
 
 now. Should you like to hear how long I have been on my 
 journey, ma'am?' I added, addressing Mrs Weir again; and 
 without waiting for an answer, I went on, in the old fashion, 
 telling my story. I saw that .Mrs Tempi* t me nearly as 
 
 much out of my senses as Mrs Weir could be, for I describi d 
 every little trifle, in a manner so minute . ticular, as to a 
 
 ^on in an ordinary state of mind must have seemed little 
 t of absurd. 
 
 But I gained my point. Mrs Weir listened, and at last said 
 of her own accord, ' You have been a long time without cati 
 Ursula, arc you not hungry ':' 
 
 1 was terribly afraid of taking a liberty, but I ventured to say, 
 '■ If I might be allowed to have a biscuit, ma'am, I think I should 
 like it.' 
 
 A plate of biscuits was on the table, Mrs Temple pushed it 
 towards me, she could do no less, and then I went a step further. 
 ' These are such very nice biscuits, dear ma'am/ I said ; 'quite 
 like those we used to have at Dene ; don't you remember them ?' 
 I handed her the plate, and she took one, not from liking or want- 
 ing it, but I had touched her curiosity. She would not try a second 
 time, but the spell was a little broken; she felt that she could 
 cat ; her existence was not quite so unnatural. For that, I had 
 little doubt, was the secret of her morbid and melancholy silence. 
 She had been treated as though unlike every other person, unable 
 to determine or think for herself, and requiring authority to con- 
 trol her weakness of mind, and at length the evil which was to be 
 averted was actually almost produced. I do not mean to say 
 that there were not circumstances which aggravated the misery 
 of her state, or that it was erne which might not easily be mis- 
 t.iken ; a very little observation showed me that Mrs Weir had 
 gone many degrees back in her condition as a rational being 
 since I last saw her at Stonccliff ; but I still believed that the 
 mischief was more in the management than in herself. I ques- 
 tion whether any of us, even in the soundest state of mind, if 
 told we were in danger of losing our reason, and treated accord- 
 ingly, would not finally be brought to the point of insanity ; and 
 Mrs Temple, partly from impatience, partly from wrong judg- 
 ment, had allowed herself to speak of Mrs Weir, before her, in 
 a way which so strongly implied hi r having no power of ju< - 
 ment upon any point, that Mrs Weir herself believed it, and 
 even alluded to her own state as one which must end in a still 
 stricter control.
 
 URSULA. 421 
 
 I am not going to detail every little thing that Mrs Weir did 
 or said in this our first interview, or every method I took to 
 shake her from her morbidness ; it would be only tiresome ; 
 and, moreover, I have no such faith in my own knowledge in 
 these matters, as to be at all sure that I acted always judiciously. 
 On the contrary, as I sat with her that afternoon trying all kinds 
 of experiments, sometimes succeeding, and very often failing, I 
 was more than once inclined to think that I was going 0:1 a 
 wrong system ; or that, at any rate, if my efforts were based on 
 a right foundation, they were attempted too late to be of use. 
 Between seven and nine o'clock Mrs Weir went back to her old 
 moaning state, only now and then stopping to cry bitterly, and 
 say that she had neglected all her duties, that God would never 
 love her, and that every one had left her ; and then wandering 
 off into some strange fancies, in which I, who knew her so well, 
 could trace an association of ideas of things which had struck 
 her in her reading, especially in the Bible, — all connected with 
 her over- scrupulousness of conscience, — but which, certainly, 
 to any person hearing only the disjointed sentences, would 
 have sounded very much like the dreamings of a bewildered 
 mind. 
 
 It was a sad, sad evening. When I saw Mrs Weir asleep, 
 about half-past eleven, quiet and peaceful for the first time for 
 so many hours, I could scarcely have grieved if I had been told 
 that she was never to wake again. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 MRS WEIR rose very late the next day. I saw John 
 Hervey in the morning, and heard that he was to leave 
 London in the afternoon. He was in a great hurry, and we 
 said only a few words about Mrs Weir. He begged me to stay 
 as long as I could, and promised to ask Mary Kemp to help 
 Jessie with advice as to how to manage things at Sandcombe. 
 I did not tell him how earnestly I wished Mary could give 
 advice upon other and more important matters. Before he left 
 me I sent an affectionate message to Mary, and told John I was 
 glad he was going back to her, and he owned that it would be a 
 eomfort, It was pleasant to think that there were, at least two
 
 fa URSULA. 
 
 persons in the world likely to be happy that clay. Mrs Temple 
 kept herself aloof from mc, and it was awkward enough in the 
 morning, for I did not know where to sit or what to do ; but 
 after Mrs Weir was dressed, and when Dr Green had paid his 
 visit, I was told that I was to remain in Mrs Weir's room, and 
 I accordingly took my work there, and also finished a letter I 
 had begun to Jessie. Mrs Weir was not much better than when 
 I fust saw her. She sat by the fire, as on the preceding day, 
 not working or employing herself; but, following out my id 
 of taking everything naturally, I made no remark upon this, but 
 only told her that I had to send a letter home, and hoped she 
 would not think I was taking a liberty in writing it in her room ; 
 and then I left her for a while to herself. 
 
 Perhaps it was a good thing upon the whole that I was hurried 
 and interrupted in my letter to Jessie ; it made what I said more 
 forcible, and prevented me from enlarging upon facts which 
 might have irritated her. All I could say was that I had noticed 
 some things which had made me unhappy and uneasy, because I 
 could not understand them, that if I did her injustice in thinking 
 she had anything upon her mind, she must forgive me ; but that 
 I earnestly entreated her, if she had, to tell mc what it was, that 
 at least I might comfort her, even if I could not advise her ; and 
 then I mentioned what I had heard and observed on the night of 
 the party. I said nothing about her telling Roger, for 1 knew I 
 should only have a vague answer, and that it never would be 
 done; but I did hope that she might possibly place confidence 
 in me. I concluded very affectionately, and assured her that her 
 happiness and Roger's would alone have induced me to enter 
 upon the subject. 
 
 I don't think I had much hope of obtaining a satisfactory 
 answer, but I had cased my conscience, and I was then able to 
 give my undivided attention to Mrs Weir. I must add, however, 
 that I enclosed a note to Roger, telling him all the particulars he 
 would want to know, besides the few facts I had written on the 
 preceding evening, and, adding, that my letter to Jessie was on a 
 little business, and I did not wish him to sec it. That was, to 
 my mind, the safest way of dealing with a reasonable being like 
 Roger, who must know that cases might arise in which things 
 could be said to his wife which could not be mentioned to him. 
 
 Before the close of that day I saw clearly that I could not 
 hope to retu.n to Sandcombe as soon as I had intended ; at 
 least if I was to be of any permanent use to Mrs Weir. Dr Green
 
 URSULA. 423 
 
 thought her better, more interested and collected in manner, when 
 he talked to her ; but he said, what we all knew, that anything like 
 recovery would be a work of time. He told me, when I happened 
 to see him alone, that he saw I was exercising a good influence, 
 and he begged me to stay. He said the same to Mrs Temple 
 afterwards, but she would not second his words. The moment 
 she felt a little less anxious, the old jealousy and dislike began 
 to return. John Hervey, before he left me, had promised to see 
 Mr Macdonald and obtain from him the information which I 
 had failed to extort about Mr Weir, as we both agreed that we 
 must get Miss Milicent back at all hazards, as soon as she could 
 leave her father. I sat in Mrs Weir's room all the morning, but 
 in the afternoon I left for about an hour, and went out. The 
 change was desirable for her and for me. She did not like my 
 leaving her, which I thought a good sign. Mrs Temple gave me 
 a commission for a knitting-box, and I contrived that she should 
 talk about it before Mrs Weir, and made some difficulty in the 
 ir.att.ej of choice, merely to prolong the conversation. I wanted 
 to let a breath of fresh air into the shut-up mind. Afterwards, 
 when I returned, I brought three or four boxes to look at. Mrs 
 Weir did not seem to remark them when I laid them near her, 
 but when Mrs Temple had made her choice, she asked to see it, 
 and said it was pretty, and the words were like music to me. At 
 the time when I had noticed, the evening before, that her spirits 
 began to fail, and her mind to grow weak and confused, I begged 
 Andrews to let me have my tea, and, seeing me enjoy it, Mrs 
 Weir was persuaded to take a little herself, and I am sure it 
 did her good. She kept up much longer, and liked, I saw, to 
 hear me talk ; and when at length she grew tired and began to 
 cry, and say strange wandering things, I stopped her, by pro- 
 posing to read a Psalm to her, and then the maid came and she 
 went to bed. But how long was this state of things to last? and 
 what could I decide upon doing ? 
 
 I worried myself with the question at night, and in the 
 morning felt how worse than vain and useless had been my 
 perplexity. 
 
 Three letters were brought to me ; one from Jessie, one from 
 John Hervey, and a third from Miss Milicent. Jessie's was 
 opened first, and with a trembling hand. 
 
 ' My dearest UrSIE, — It is very kind in you to write to me, and 
 if you were here, perhaps, I might be able to talk to you, for I
 
 4:4 URSULA. 
 
 am not very happy, but you know I cannot express myself in a 
 ■r ; I have not been taught how ; and I dare say I shall do 
 very well, and when things are gone by there is not much good 
 in saying anything about them. I have had a bad headache all 
 day. Roger is gone to Hove. Esther broke a glass bottle I 
 morning. Two of the little chicks are dead, we cannot think 
 how. I am, your very affectionate sister, 
 
 'Jessie Grant.' 
 
 Little comfort, indeed, there was in that! The words 'not 
 very happy' went to my heart. But writing was evidently u - 
 less. I had forgotten that Mrs Weir had taught me to express 
 myself easily and correctly, and that Jessie had had no teaching 
 .it all. To think of gaining her confidence by letter was like 
 seeking to obtain entrance into a blocked-up house. I turned 
 to John Hervey's letter; a feeling, which I could not explain, 
 made me keep Miss Miliccnt's to the last. 
 
 'Dear Ursie,— Mr Weir is lying ill at a little inn, at a 
 place called Andcly, in Normandy ; that will be Miss Miliccnt's 
 address. I can get nothing out of Mr Macdonald, but I be^in 
 shrewdly to suspect that he and Captain Price have money 
 embarked in the same speculations as Mr Weir, and that the 
 object in keeping Miss Milicent there is to persuade her to throw 
 her little fortune into it, which she is as likely as not to do. I 
 hope some one will be able to interfere, though I don't see how 
 it is to be done, unless she can be brought back to England. I 
 (ndy saw Mary for a minute last night ; she is very well, and will 
 be much cheered by news I have had. I trust you are getting 
 on well. In haste, very sincerely yours, 
 
 'John Hervev.' 
 
 That was easy to comprehend, except, what did he mean by 
 the news which had cheered Mary ? 
 
 Miss Miliccnt's letter was less scrawling than usual : the date 
 was Andcly : — 
 
 ' Dear Ursie Grant,— I have had two letters from you, 
 both at one time. French people don't trouble themselves much 
 witli the post. My father is very ill, and I can't come home 
 anyhow. We left Paris about a month ago, and have been at 
 a great many places since, but now my father is so ill, we can't 
 move about. He has a fever ; the doctor, I think, says he is 
 bctt r. but he talks odd Fr< nch, and as I am not well up in the
 
 URSULA. 425 
 
 language, I don't always understand him. I wish my governess 
 had taught me French better, but she didn't know I should go 
 abroad. If my father doesn't get better, he must get worse ; 
 that is why I should be glad to have a friend here, but there is 
 not any woman I know in France who would come ; indeed, I 
 don't take to women generally, and have made most friends 
 with men. If my mother's trustees, who are always trouble- 
 some, were here, I should like to talk to them. There are ways 
 of making money in France which there are not in England. 
 My mother would do well to think of this. Perhaps, if you were 
 to talk to her about it, it might rouse her up. I always found 
 that when we settled up accounts, she put herself more in a fuss 
 than at other times. I like French ways, they are so indepen- 
 dent. The other day I sat down on a box at the railway station 
 and mended the braid of my dress, and nobody looked at me. I 
 sit up with my father at night ; it is very lonely. I am sorry 
 Matilda Temple worries my mother so much ; I always knew 
 she would. My father might have done without me at Pans, 
 but he could not here, so it is all well I came. He was very 
 kind, and took me travelling about to see Normandy. We 
 walked a good deal, which is how he caught the fever. I think 
 when he gets better we may go into Brittany. He will want 
 change, but if I am to stay with him I must have that money 
 my aunt left me put into my own hands. I mean to write to the 
 lawyer about it. I don't think my father is so well to-day. You 
 will see why I can't come home. Mr Macdonald wrote to my father 
 lately on a little business ; he says he often sees you and your 
 pretty sister-in-law. People said she would have married him 
 if she had not married your brother. But she has made the 
 best choice, for Roger Grant is an honest man. I keep my 
 eyes and ears open, as is necessary, and I am never taken in by 
 any one. Good-bye, Ursie Grant : you must quite see why 
 I have done right, and I shall be obliged to you to write and 
 tell me so. 
 
 ' I am, your sincere friend, 
 
 ' Milicent Weir. 
 
 ' P.S. — I only want to be in England for a doctor for my 
 father. I never was down-hearted before, but this is a very out- 
 of-the-way place. I shall write to my mother, and tell her about 
 my father, and that will explain all. He has been talking of her 
 and sent her a message.'
 
 42U 
 
 I had tliis letter open in my hand, when Mrs Temple knocked 
 V. my bedroom door and immediately entered. Her quick eye 
 taught the handwriting directly. 
 
 ' You have h id a letter, I see, from Miss Weir.' 
 
 'Yes, ma'am ; she informs me Mr Weir is very ill, and says 
 that she intends writing to Mrs Weir. May I ask if she has 
 done so ? Miss Milicent tells me that her father has b< 
 talking of Mrs Weir, and has sent her a message.' I came to 
 the point at once ; it was the only way in dealing with Mrs 
 Temple, to take her unprepared. 
 
 She hesitated, stammered, began a negative, then suddenly 
 changing her tone, said, confidentially, ' I think, — yes, I believe, 
 there may be a letter; but in Mrs Weir's present state, it will 
 ii t do to alarm her.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, ma'am,' I said, ' being alarmed may do her good.' 
 
 'Oh no! impossible. With her shattered nerves, quiet 
 is the one important point. I could not answer it to Dr 
 Green.' 
 
 It was an opportunity for being bold, and I was resolved to 
 take advantage of it. 'If you will excuse my saying it, ma'am,' 
 I replied, ' it seems to me that quiet has been tried upon 
 Mrs Weir already, without much effect. What comes in the 
 ordering of Providence may be better for her than any plan of 
 ours.' 
 
 ' But Mr Weir is ill, you say ; surely you don't intend to take 
 upon yourself the responsibility of telling Mrs Weir. If you 
 do, I put the case out of my hands entirely. I will have nothing 
 to do with it, — nothing. It is the height of imprudence ; I must 
 send immediately for Dr Green.' 
 
 ' I have no wish to tell Mrs Weir anything, ma'am,' I said ; 
 ' but if I were left to myself I should take what seems to be sent 
 in a natural way ; and as Miss Milicent has written, I should 
 give the letter.' 
 
 ' Milicent's letter! — and with a message in it! — Mrs Weir 
 will be frantic. She will say instantly that she must go.' 
 
 'And I should let her go, ma'am.' 
 
 Mrs Temple turned away from me, and walked to the other 
 end of the room. Then facing me suddenly, she said, 'And 
 who is to go with her ?' 
 
 I made no answer, for I could think of none. 
 
 'You see !' exclaimed Mrs Temple, ' it is an impossibility ; it 
 has been so from the beginning. People have taken upon them,
 
 URSULA. 427 
 
 I know, to condemn my course of action ; things have been said, 
 —very unkind things, — unjustifiable ;' — and she fixed her eyes 
 upon me, — ' but the moment any other course is proposed, in- 
 surmountable difficulties are discovered. Mrs Weir is but a 
 child, and must be treated as such. She is worse than a child, 
 indeed; there can be only one end to this sad business. Miss 
 Grant, you are but playing with Dr Green, in pretending that 
 you can do anything. You know as well as I do how long 
 this evil has been going on ; the sooner Mrs Weir is placed 
 under strict control, the better it will be for herself and for her 
 friends.' 
 
 I had scarcely listened to the greater part of this tirade, my 
 thoughts had been centred on one point. When Mrs Temple 
 had finished I made no reply, beyond remarking that I hoped 
 the case was not quite so sad ; and assuring Mrs Temple that I 
 would take no responsibility on myself without Dr Green's per- 
 mission, I begged her to excuse my leaving her, and went down- 
 stairs to Mrs Weir. 
 
 As I sat in the room working, and trying to talk, my mind 
 was revolving the difficult answer to Mrs Temple's question. It 
 was one for which I felt I must be prepared before I could urge 
 my wish with regard to the letter. Certainly to tell Mrs Weir 
 that her husband was dangerously ill, and then to shut her up 
 as before, would be merely driving her frantic. But on the 
 other hand, to keep the intelligence from her, and at last, per- 
 haps, have to inform her that he was dead, was a probability 
 frightful to contemplate in its effects. Mrs Temple's objection 
 I believed to be based principally upon an obstinate belief in 
 her own system. In Mrs Weir's present state it could no longer 
 be a point of importance to keep her in the house. She was an 
 incessant anxiety, and medical expenses were running away with 
 any advantage that might be expected from sharing housekeep- 
 ing. The one natural way of solving the difficulty would be to 
 offer to go to France myself ; and a short time before, I should 
 have proposed it without a moment's hesitation. But through 
 all this painful time of trouble on Mrs Weir's account I had one 
 thought, more painful, more anxious, than any other, — it con- 
 cerned Jessie. To picture her as unhappy, awoke a feeling 
 which I scarcely knew to exist. She had become dearer to me 
 than I was at all aware of. Her gentleness had won upon me. 
 Her very ignorance and seeming helplessness had formed a tie 
 between us ; above all, she was Roger's wife, and now that the
 
 428 URSULA. 
 
 first bitterness of disappointment was over, that was a claim 
 
 upon my affection which I could not but feel I longed to he 
 
 at Sandcombe again. Since the ice was broken, I thought I 
 
 : wonders with her,— console, advise, guard her, — 
 
 ive all, bring her to openness with Roger. If left to herself, 
 I had fears of continued decepti in, thoughtlessness, extrava- 
 
 icc, weak yielding to Mrs Price's influence; all likely to le id 
 to irretrievable mischief between her and Roger. Unhappy ! so 
 early in her married life ! It seemed that I must go back i i 
 her. Rut it was not to be. Dr Green came before I couid 
 
 ke up my mind what was to be done. I saw him alone, and 
 put Mrs Weir's case before him. He took my view. There 
 was a visible improvement since my arrival ; and he was inclined 
 to think that it would be wiser to act according to the natural 
 course of events. 'No excitement,' he said, 'could be worse 
 the dreary melancholy into which Mrs Weir had fallen. 
 Of course, I was prepared to go with her, if she wished to join 
 her husband.' He took it as the simplest, easiest thing in the 
 world — as though I had no claim, or interest, or occupation, 
 a; art from Mrs Weir. I believe he rather imagined — so little 
 did he know of my circumstances — that I was accustomed to 
 wait upon and manage persons whose minds were diseased. I 
 did not contradict him, because I felt it would be hopeless to 
 make him see as I saw ; and when I hesitated, he was so sur- 
 prised, and so hasty, that my courage quite failed me in talking 
 to him, and I only stood still and listened to what he said. 
 
 Mrs Temple came in, and the question was discussed with her, 
 and being thoroughly provoked, she naturally threw all the bur- 
 den upon me. ' The idea was to her,' she owned, ' quite prepos- 
 terous ; but she could only bow to Dr Green's opinion. As I 
 advocated the scheme, and had so much confidence in my own 
 powers, I was the ft person to carry it out. She wished it to be 
 understood that it was entirely against her judgment, and from 
 this moment she repudiated all responsibility as regarded Mrs 
 Weir. As for me, I was very young ; I had no experience ; I 
 was perfectly ignorant of the French language ; I was weakly 
 indulgent in my treatment of Mrs Weir ; but it was useless to 
 say anything ; in fact, all had been said that could be ; but no 
 one considered her opinion.' I can't go on any further. Mrs 
 Temple talked for at least five minues without pause, scarcely 
 stopping to take breath. At the end of this time, Dr Green, 
 who had become perfectly cool, whilst listening to her, remark 1
 
 URSULA. 429 
 
 quietly, that I had shown so much judgment already, he could 
 not believe but that I should be equal to any emergency. Mrs 
 Temple left the room haughtily, and he went on with some 
 more inquiries and directions concerning Mrs Weir. 
 
 But I was determined to make no hasty engagement. I begged 
 to be allowed a day to consider. ' I was by no means prepared,' 
 I said, ' to go abroad.' Dr Green thought that money was the 
 difficulty, and assured me he would undertake that I should be 
 sufficiently recompensed. But this was not in my mind for a 
 moment ; I only wished to see what was right. As I stood there, 
 I began weighing the conflicting claims, especially considering 
 whether it would be possible to find some one to take my place, 
 when Mrs Temple rushed into the room in alarm. Mrs Weir 
 had learned the news — her state of agitation was terrific, and we 
 must go to her directly. She looked very much alarmed, and 
 well she might be, for in her irritation and perverseness, she 
 had pretended to misunderstand Dr Green's intentions ; and 
 wishing, as she said, to have the business over, had given Mrs 
 Weir Miss Milicent's letter without any word of preparation or 
 kindness. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the scene we had to go through 
 in consequence ; it would be too painful. Mrs Weir was thrown 
 back to a state much worse than that in which I had found her. 
 She could be calmed only by strong opiates. I had no longer 
 any doubt where my duty lay. Leave her I could not, even to 
 go back to Sandcombe for a clay to see Jessie, and satisfy my 
 mind about her. The journey to France was a last alternative, 
 but it must be tried, unless I wished to have it upon my con- 
 science that, by refusing to go, I had forgotten the kindness 
 shown me in past years, and the hopes of assistance I had lately 
 held out, and aided in shattering the little remaining strength of 
 Mrs Weir's mind. I was the person commissioned to tell her that 
 she was going, and that I would accompany her. It was very 
 touching to hear her— not at first taking in the possibility — 
 saying, ' She was a prisoner ; she was not fit to go about ; and 
 she was losing her senses, her niece had often told her so. But 
 she should wish to go ; and Mr Weir, she thought, had sent her 
 a message; only, she might have dreamt about him. And he 
 was her husband, and God would wish her to attend to him ; but 
 then she couldn't go. Would God be angry with her because 
 she didn't ?' And, at last, holding my hand very tightly, and 
 saying, again and again, ' I love you, Ursula ; you are very kind
 
 430 URSULA. 
 
 to me, and you won't be angry with inc. I love you very much; 
 but 1 am Losing my senses, and they will shut me up, and that 
 
 will be beat for me.' And then crying so bitterly, that it made 
 my heart ache to hear her. I began to feel at last as though we 
 were really in a prison, and that. nothing would go well with us 
 till wo were out of it. 
 
 Such an amount of business as I had then upon my hands 
 would have made my brain nearly as confused as Mrs Weir's but 
 for Dr Green's help. I think he saw plainly now how matters 
 stood, and was prepared to find Mrs Temple interposing diffi- 
 culties, which it would be his business to overcome. The first 
 thing he did was to find a trusty maid who understood French, 
 and to put her under my authority. He gave me instructions 
 himself as to passports, and railroads, and steamers, and hotels, 
 and gave me full directions as to any medical care which Mrs 
 Weir might require. Mrs Temple was seldom referred to, which 
 I was sorry for, since it gave her a more bitter feeling against 
 me, and induced her to worry her husband, who, in his good- 
 nature, and being rejoiced, I suspect, to be rid of Mrs Weir 
 made himself very useful in messages and inquiries. We had 
 what Miss Milicent would have called a very trying time ; and, 
 in the midst of all this external worry, I had my own secret 
 anxieties which could be mentioned to no one. I wrote again 
 to Jessie, urging her, by every argument and motive that I could 
 possibly suggest, to talk openly to Roger as she would to me, 
 and to throw herself entirely into his hands ; and, feeling in my 
 own mind that my words would be without effect, I did what, 
 under other circumstances, I should have shrunk from. I wrote 
 to Mrs Kemp, begging her, as she loved me, to keep her eye 
 upon Jessie, and to interfere, if necessary, to guard her from the 
 Dene intimacy, even at the risk of making Roger angry, and 
 telling her that I had very serious reasons for this request. My 
 words, I knew, would be open to misconstruction, and might 
 increase Mrs Kemp's prejudice, but she was honest-hearted and 
 very kind, and would act upon them. That was all I cared for 
 at the moment. To Roger himself I wrote, chiefly upon business 
 matters. He would understand, I knew, the pressing claims 
 which had forced me so suddenly to leave all my duties. It 
 would never cross his mind to blame me because he was incon- 
 venienced. 'I hoped,' I said, 'I should return soon, but in the 
 meantime, I thought that Jessie would manage tolerably well, if 
 he could, for a little while, let her have some additional help in
 
 URSULA. 431 
 
 the kitchen, so that she might chiefly have to superintend and 
 give orders.' I said this particularly, because he was beginning 
 to be anxious about her health. Next spring there might be a 
 little Jessie, and I knew this fact would make him anxiously care- 
 ful about her, and think she ought not to do anything ; whereas 
 occupation would be the greatest safeguard she could have. I 
 sent, also, a few lines to William, that he might not think him- 
 self forgotten ; and I wrote to John Hervey, telling him all I 
 thought he would wish to know, and adding a kind word about 
 Mary. When I had despatched all these letters, I felt that my 
 English business was done. I had then only to think of France 
 and Miss Milicent, to whom I sent a few lines, telling her she 
 might expect her mother very shortly, but that I could give her 
 no fixed day for our arrival. Louise, the new maid, however, 
 assured us that Andely was a respectable town, and we should 
 be sure to find accommodation there. What was to be done 
 afterwards depended much on Mr Weir's state. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 WE crossed to Havre on a calm night. Mrs Weir bore the 
 journey to Southampton better than I anticipated ; but 
 she was very tired when we got on board the steamer, and I 
 persuaded her to go to bed immediately. I found her docile as 
 a child, and, generally speaking, with a clear comprehension 
 of all that was being done and said ; only, now and then, espe- 
 cially when suffering from any kind of physical exhaustion, the 
 nervous excitement returned, and she would talk hurriedly and 
 incoherently. When this happened, I took no notice, except by 
 giving her a soothing draught, recommended by Dr Green, which 
 quieted her for a time, and, indeed, put her into a kind of torpid 
 state, but he had urged me on no account to use it often. ' His 
 hope was,' he said, ' that change of scene, and absence of mental 
 worry, would, by degrees, in a measure restore her nerves, with- 
 out any such assistance. She was likely to prove a good sailor. 
 If she was not, it would do her no harm.' The matter was in- 
 different to him, but it was not so to me, for, as I had never been 
 on the sea before, I had great misgivings on my own account, 
 nnd, feeling very dizzy and uncomfortable, it was no slight relief
 
 432 URSULA. 
 
 to tr.e to rcc Mis Weir asleep in her berth, under the care of the 
 new maid, Louise, and to be able to go on deck for a little fresh 
 air myself. There were but few passengers, and scarcely any 
 foreigners. No one cam ! near me to interrupt me, and as long 
 as I stayed on deck I really enjoyed myself. The sky was bril- 
 liant and cloudless ; the sea so calm that one star was reflected 
 in the water as though it had been the moon. I was more at 
 peace than I had been since I left Sandcombe. I wis not, in- 
 i d, free from uneasiness, and that of a serious kind, but my 
 home cares were necessarily, for the time being, put away, and 
 sense of powcrlcssncss is sometimes a great rest. As it grew 
 1 ite, I went down into the cabin. A berth had been provided 
 for me just above Mrs Weir's, and I clambered into it and slept, 
 not a comfortable sleep, for the incessant noises of the ship dis- 
 turbed me greatly, and whenever I woke certain very disagree- 
 able sensations reminded me that I had better not attempt to 
 move. But there was something in the novelty which lessened 
 discomfort, and a strange, awful, yet pleasureable feeling, in 
 looking out of the port-hole upon the wide waste of waters gleam- 
 ing in the moonlight It carried me back in imagination to St 
 Anne's Hill, and the times when I had looked from it upon the 
 same sea, and thought it the image of eternity ; and that unknown 
 and endless existence seemed nearer to me than it had ever been 
 before, for I felt that there was indeed but ' a step between me 
 and death.' I woke very early, dressed myseif quickly, and was 
 prepared to wait upon Mrs Weir before Louise, who was but a 
 bad sailor, was able to leave her berth. The luggage was trusted 
 to her, so she went on deck to look after it, and I persuaded Mrs 
 Weir to follow as soon as she could ; but she shrank from the 
 thought of strangers, and fancied it impossible to mount the nar- 
 row stairs. When at length I succeeded in persuading her, I 
 regretted having done so, for the confusion was, to my inexperi- 
 enced eye, hopelessly bewildering. We were just about to land, 
 and some strange Frenchmen, with cocked hats, and swords, 
 were on the deck, giving orders as if they were lords of every 
 one, and people were calling from the shore, and answering 
 from the ship, and rushing hither and thither, with boxes, bags, 
 and trunks, and every now and then addressing me in sen- 
 tences made up ol two English words to six French ones. 1 
 could only obey Louise, who, at intervals, came up to us, saying, 
 ' Sit still, sit still ; don't be impatient,' and I should have sat 
 there till night if I had not been told to move, and so, I think,
 
 URSULA. 433 
 
 would Mrs Weir, for she seemed quite cowed by the bustle. How 
 at last we got on shore, and found a carriage, and were placed in 
 it, with our luggage, I have never been able to tell. I only know 
 that we did manage everything, and without much difficulty, and 
 that we were driven through some narrow streets to the hotel 
 which Dr Green had recommended; and I know also that I 
 could have been very much amused, that I was so indeed, at 
 intervals; only I was so occupied in thinking of Mrs Weir. It 
 came over me, I remember, as we turned away from the port, and 
 I looked back upon the sea which separated me from England, 
 that perhaps after all we had made a mistake. 
 
 And certainly there was some reason to fear it that afternoon. 
 Mrs Weir was so tired and ill, it was useless to think of going on 
 farther the same day, though we had landed about seven in the 
 morning. Louise said she would require a rest of several days ; 
 but I was sure that a settled delay in one place would increase 
 her illness, unless she was actually unable, from bodily weakness, 
 to attempt the journey. I nursed her all the morning, just as I 
 should have done in London, reading her to sleep, and talking 
 till I was nearly worn out ; and it was not till late in the afternoon 
 that I could leave her for half-an-hour, just to walk round the 
 town and see what the place was like. But even that half-hour 
 did wonders for me, — it was better than sleep, or reading, or 
 anything that could have been offered me to distract my thoughts. 
 It was like a new fresh life. The quaintness, and prettiness, and 
 strangeness of everything, were a perfect cordial to my spirits. 
 I went back to the hotel with all kinds of absurd things to tell 
 Mrs Weir, and feeling as though I had purchased a new book 
 which I was sure would interest her ; and by and by, greatly to 
 my wonder, she made me push the sofa, on which she was lying, 
 close to the window, that she might look out and see the curious 
 things I had been talking about. Louise must have been quite 
 surprised at my delight. She knew little about Mrs Weir, and 
 France was her native country, though she had lived chiefly in 
 England. To me the sight of Mrs Weir, pointing to a Nor- 
 mandy cap, worn by a peasant who passed underneath our 
 windows, brought one of the most hopeful feelings I had ever 
 experienced. Our next day's journey was by railway to Rouen. 
 Dr Green had recommended our trying short distances, so as to 
 avoid over-fatigue, and to give Mrs Weir an opportunity of be- 
 coming interested in the places we passed through. His advice 
 was certainly wise, for on the second day Mrs Weir was so 
 
 2 E
 
 «4 
 
 roused by the novelty of everything, and so calmed by the 
 thought that she was at length going to her husband, that she 
 was at intervals quite as well as when I last saw her at Stone- 
 cliff. We arrived at Rouen early, and with her usual unselfish- 
 ;, she made a point of sending me out ; and I am afraid 1 
 took advantage of the permission to stay longer than I ought to 
 have done, as it was nearly dark when I returned. But 1 left 
 Mrs Weir inclined to sleep, and Louise with her, so that 1 was 
 not anxious ; and really the beauty and strangeness of the place 
 made me quite forget how time went. I should have been 
 tied at w. liking about in a foreign town by myself, so the 
 mistress of the hotel very good-naturedly sent one of her little 
 boys, who had learned to speak a few words of English, with me ; 
 and with his help, I made my way through numbers of narrow 
 streets, looking into churches and public buildings as I went 
 along, till I was in a maze of bewilderment and delight All I 
 really wanted was to have Roger with me, that I might now and 
 then give vent to my excitement, and say, 'Do look, how beauti- 
 ful ! or how droll !' I believe I did catch hold of my little com- 
 panion once or twice, to his great astonishment. One th 
 though, I could not reconcile myself to, and that was the dirt. 
 Yet even that was unlike English dirt ; if it had been, I don't 
 think I could have endured to stay in the place. Rut it had a 
 look of its own, quite different from anything I ever noticed, or 
 could have imagined, — a kind of suitableness it was, which made 
 me feel as though Rouen would not have been Rouen without it ; 
 and I laughed at it to myself as I walked along the street, and 
 when I went back to the hotel, tried to for-et it. As to the 
 churches, I can't in the least describe properly the effect they 
 had upon me. Having seen nothing but Compton church, and 
 Ilatton, except once, when being in London for a few days, I was 
 taken to St Paul's and Westminster Abbey, they came upon me 
 at first like buildings that could not belong to this world, — they 
 were so vast and beautiful. Then as 1 hurried through them, 
 such odd things struck my eye, — tawdry images, and little 
 candles, and artificial flowers, — and such a very dirty pavement, 
 — I was quite surprised. Neither did I know what to make of 
 the people who were in them ; some seemed very earnest at their 
 prayers, and others were looking about all the while they were 
 repeating them. I thought that, perhaps, I had better not try 
 and form any opinion, for it was impossible in that short peep 
 that I could understand about their religion. I should have
 
 URSULA. 435 
 
 liked very much to stay and say my prayers in one of the 
 churches myself, but I was afraid people would notice me; and 
 I thought, too, that perhaps no one was allowed to do so except 
 Roman Catholics. As I could not speak French, and my little 
 companion was only able to understand short sentences, it 
 seemed better to leave the matter. 
 
 1 We were to start from Rouen about twelve o'clock the next 
 day, to go by railway to Gaillon, and from thence to Andely. 
 What kind of place this Andely was I could not make out. 
 Louise declared it was f very well, very good, — I need not make 
 myself to fidget, — we should get on beautiful.' But then she 
 had adopted this tone about everything we had seen since we 
 landed in France. Even the dirt of Rouen was in her eyes 
 sacred. My chief comfort was that Mrs Weir was able to put 
 up in a wonderful way abroad, with things which would have 
 distressed her for days at home. The bodily fatigue, and the 
 calmer state of her mind, caused her to sleep better ; and this 
 quieted her nerves. I was not going to allow myself to be 
 anxious, for that would do no good ; and moreover, I trusted 
 implicitly to Louise. At the railway stations she managed 
 everything ; I only undertook the charge of Mrs Weir. So it 
 was that the next day, when we were prepared to set off, I left 
 the luggage in her care, and sent her to have it registered before 
 Mrs Weir and I arrived. Greatly to my annoyance, I found 
 her at the station gossiping with some friends whom she had 
 met. I disliked the notion of her having any acquaintances ; 
 but I could not exactly find fault. She assured me everything 
 was right, and I took my seat with Mrs Weir, leaving Louise to 
 follow in a second-class carriage. I don't think a railway 
 journey is ever pleasant ; and it was provoking to find every- 
 thing abroad so much like what it is in England. Mrs Weir 
 had little to amuse her, and sat quiet, with that depressed air 
 which I so much dreaded. I tried to attract her attention, but 
 she did not care for the view, which was very pretty, though 
 we passed through the country so quickly that the pleasure 
 of looking at it was much lessened in consequence. We went 
 along the banks of the Seine, which wound in and out so that 
 we could not always tell on which side the railway was carried. 
 A range of low hills bordered it on the left bank, and there were 
 openings between them, showing glimpses of what I thought 
 would be very lovely valleys ; but wherever there was any 
 Cultivation, the country looked dreary from the absence of
 
 436 URSULA. 
 
 hedgerows ; and there was a want of trimncss in the way the 
 land was farmed, which I was sure would shock Roger's i 
 Besides, I did not at all like the little long strips of fields, like 
 cottagers' gardens. It did not seem as though there could be 
 any people in France holding the same place as Farmer Kemp, 
 and William, and Roger. But there again, as it was with the 
 churches, perhaps I was no judge about it. Louise told me thai 
 people in France are obliged to divide their property equally 
 amongst all their children, or at least, I believe, the eldest son 
 has two shares. The notion of an equal division pleased me at 
 first, for it appeared just ; but when I thought it over, it seemed 
 as if, in the end, the property which a person might have would 
 be cut up, and the portions become less and less, until all would 
 be poor together. 
 
 The distance to Gaillon was not great : when the train 
 stopped, I got out quickly, collected the cloaks and shawls, 
 helped Mrs Weir to alight, led her to a scat, and then looked up 
 for Louise. She was standing quite calmly, waiting for I knew 
 not what. The train rushed off. I went up to her, ' Louise, 
 where is the luggage?' 
 
 ' Oh ! quite right,' was the reply, ' it is always right in 
 France.' I turned away contentedly, but recollecting that wc 
 were not to stay at Gaillon all night, I went back, and asked 
 where we were to find a carriage to take us on to Andely. 
 
 ' It will come quite in time, don't trouble yourself, there is 
 one in communication,' and Louise walked away from me, and 
 began talking to a Frenchman. I was not satisfied, there was 
 no sign of either carriage or luggage ; Mrs Weir was beginning 
 to feel chilly, and in spite of the commendations of Louise, 
 I felt in my own mind that a French railway station is not 
 always as comfortable as an English one. I put a cloak round 
 Mrs Weir, and then looked again at Louise, her countenance 
 expressed the utmost consternation. She rushed up to me, 
 wringing her hands. 'Ah! the luggage! the luggage! it is 
 gone, the stupid wretch, not to have known — not to have heard! 
 I told him.' 
 
 'Who? what?' I exclaimed. ' The luggage gone? you told 
 me it was all right.' 
 
 ' Ye?, right, it is right ; it was registered for Paris. It is 
 gone there.' 
 
 I did not in the least understand, and it was some time before 
 I could be made to do so. Louise, in her inexcusable carelessness,
 
 URSULA. 437 
 
 had told one of her friends to have the luggage registered instead 
 of attending to it herself. He had blundered, and thought from 
 something she said, that she was going on to Paris : so the lug- 
 gage had not been taken out at Gaillon, and whilst we were 
 standing and quietly looking on, our boxes and bags were rushing 
 away from us at the rate of twenty miles an hour. I believe 
 what aggravated Louise more than her own foil)', was my stupidity 
 in not being able to make out why the registering was of such 
 consequence. French railways were things I was only just 
 beginning to comprehend. For the future, however, I felt I 
 must exert myself, and learn to manage matters my own way, so 
 I left Louise to meditate upon her provoking negligence, and 
 explain to the station-master that he must telegraph for the lug- 
 gage, and walked away to see what hope there might be of finding 
 a carriage to take us on to Andely. A very tiny omnibus was 
 standing at the station ; by it was an old, sunburnt, gray-headed 
 Frenchman, dressed in a kind of blue smock-frock, with a long 
 whip in his hand. My heart sank. Louise came up. ' Is that 
 our carriage?' I asked. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, a very good carriage ; what can be expected better 
 at a country station ? You have always omnibuses in England.' 
 
 Very true, but Mrs Weir was not accustomed to travel in 
 them. The old man pointed to the vehicle, intending we should 
 get in. Louise was about to do so, but I stopped her. ' I don't 
 think it will do,' I said ; ' I don't think Mrs Weir can go in 
 that thing, and no luggage, and not knowing what sort of place 
 Andely is. She can't do it.' Misfortunes seemed to crowd upon 
 me, and I could have found it in my heart to begin reproaching 
 Louise again. 
 
 'You will find nothing else/ said Louise; 'there is not a 
 carriage to be had,' and she appealed to a man near her, who 
 went forward and opened the omnibus door to assure me there 
 was no alternative. There really was no time for deliberation. 
 We might perhaps have slept at Gaillon, but if the luggage 
 did not reach us, what should we do? and at Andely, there 
 would be Miss Milicent to help us. I did not suggest a diffi- 
 culty to Mrs Weir, for I had found by experience that it was a 
 bad plan, but going up to her, I said, ' There is a strange little 
 carriage waiting for us, dear ma'am, I am afraid it won't be very 
 comfortable ; but we shall soon be at Andely now, it is only a 
 few miles.' 
 
 She w^as too tired and too depressed, even to answer me, but
 
 433 URSULA. 
 
 taking up her travelling I . he put her arm within mine and 
 walked very slowly to the omnibus. I saw she moved feebly, and 
 it struck me that perhaps after all we had better not go on, but 
 when I just said to her, " Suppose, ma'am, we ask if we can 
 have beds here ? ' her face of distress made me feel that it 
 would not do to suggest it. All that tiresome railway journey, 
 and the delay had given her time for thought, which was the 
 worst thing she could have. We drew near the* omnibus. I 
 was about to help Mrs Weir in. A Frenchman's head peeped 
 out, then another, and another ; we were actually to travel eight 
 inside. And the men were stout farmers, a greater perplexity 
 to me than anything I had yet seen in France, my notion of a 
 Frenchman having always been that of a skeleton, kept alive by 
 thin soup and sour bread. It was not chilly in the omnibus ; I 
 let down the window to admit a little fresh air, and my French 
 neighbour immediately drew it up again, and when I appealed to 
 Louise to explain that it was bad for Mrs Weir, she said it was 
 no use, French people did not live in draughts like the English. 
 We waited at the station, I suppose for outside passengers, till I 
 was quite tired, but at last the horse neighed, and the driver 
 smacked his whip, and shouted and yelled, and off we set jolting 
 over the rough road. 
 
 Mrs Weir's pale face of endurance made my heart sad ; the 
 heat was becoming very oppressive, and I had a dread of her 
 growing faint. We had gone but a very little way, when we 
 stopped at the bank of a river, the Seine, as Louise informed me. 
 What was to be done then ? Even Mrs Weir turned her head 
 to look, but the old driver took it very composedly. A ferry- 
 boat was waiting for us ; omnibus and horse, and Frenchmen, 
 and ourselves, by dint of pushing and pulling, and shouting, were 
 all put on board, and launched forth into the middle of the river. 
 How odd I thought it, how my mind turned to Sandcombe, and 
 Roger, and Jessie, and Mary Kemp, and John Hervey, when I 
 looked on the broad river, and then on my novel companions, and 
 remembered that I was in the middle of the Seine, with Mrs 
 Weir under my charge, I need not attempt to say. Louise had 
 sunk from irritability to sullcnncss, and was pondering, I hope, 
 witli repentance, upon her carelessness. Mrs Weir was pale, and, 
 1 was afraid, frightened, for she held my hand very tight. The 
 Frenchmen chattered fast, and at the highest pitch of their 
 voices. There was no beauty in the river, nothing to divert one's 
 thoughts from the unpleasant contemplation of the present and
 
 URSULA. 439 
 
 the future. But the crossing was the work of a few Minutes, and 
 once more on dry land, on we went again, jogging over a narrow 
 cross-road. Presently we stopped at a small farmhouse, and a dis- 
 agreeable looking man, not a gentleman, though dressed as if he 
 meant to pass for one, came'out. There was certainly no room in 
 the inside, and I imagined there was not likely to be any on the 
 outside; but he was bent upon having a place, and mounted to 
 the top, much, I suspect, to the annoyance of the outside pas- 
 sengers, and certainly to ours, for the creakings and groanings of 
 the poor little omnibus were alarming, and made Louise put her 
 head out of the window and call out loudly to the driver, explain- 
 ing to me afterwards in English, that she had told him we were 
 all going to be cracked. I had calculated upon our having about 
 five miles to travel, and the distance might not really have been 
 more, but the sight of Mrs Weir's face made it appear double; 
 and what was the more provoking, every now and then we came 
 to what seemed the entrance to a village, but which proved to 
 be nothing of the kind. Presently one of the Frenchmen mut- 
 tered something in a tone which was evidently meant for the 
 company at large, and pointed to the window. I looked out and 
 saw on the right some ruined walls and a kind of castle on the 
 top of a hill, but there was nothing very remarkable in it, and 
 my heart just then was set upon rinding a comfortable, house, 
 and not a ruined castle, so I paid but little attention to it. Soon 
 afterwards we did really arrive at a village. I begged Louise to 
 ask the name of the place. It was Little Andely, and as Mrs 
 Weir heard the name she started up, drew her shawl round her, 
 and taking hold of my hand tried to move, but we were to be 
 disappointed again. Little Andely was not our place of destina- 
 tion. We saw passenger after passenger descend, and amongst 
 them the ill-looking Frenchman, but our turn was not yet. We 
 had still a longer distance to travel, and Mrs Weir was too tired 
 to be excited, when at length we did reach a kind of town, with 
 some streets, and a few shops, and decent-looking houses. We 
 stopped at the door of a little inn. My first impulse was to rush 
 in and ask for Miss Milicent, but alas ! I had no French know- 
 ledge to help me, and I was obliged to trust to Louise. I had 
 just helped Mrs Weir out of the omnibus, and paid the driver, 
 when she came back utterly disconsolate. 
 
 ' No one knew anything of Miss Milicent, or Mr Weir, or any 
 English ; it was all a mistake, and we had left England for 
 nothing.'
 
 440 URSULA. 
 
 I was thunderstruck, I confess, but I would not show it. Mrs 
 Weir clung to me trembling. I dr< idi d the effect of such news, 
 but she did not seem to comprehend what was said. 
 
 •Take me to my husband, Ursula,' she murmured. 'Ask 
 
 these good people where lie is? ' 
 
 Loui ■ wished to explain, but I motioned to her to be silent, 
 and led Mrs Weir into the inn. We entered a small cofi' - 
 room, decked out with prettily-painted walls, artificial flow. 
 and a marble slab for a table. It was much better than I had 
 expected, but Mrs Weir could not remain there, and I told 
 Louise that we must be shown up-stairs. A bright-look, 
 French girl, with a very white cap, came forward to know what 
 we wanted, and Louise followed her to see the rooms. Mrs 
 Weir sat down on a bench. I heard her repeating some verses 
 of the Psalms to herself, yet in rather a wandering way, and then 
 suddenly she turned to me and said, ' My husband and Miliccnt 
 will come soon, Ursula; you must tell them to come, then 1 
 shall go to bed.' 
 
 I hoped she would not expect any reply, but she did, — her 
 tycs were fixed anxiously upon me, and I was obliged to say, ' I 
 must go and find them, ma'am. If you will lie down on your 
 bed for a little while, I will look for them.' 
 
 She trusted to me so implicitly, that she was satisfied in a 
 moment, and my conscience almost reproached me for decep- 
 tion. Yet, what could I do ? and I was sure that we could not 
 be quite mistaken. Some intelligence we must obtain before 
 long. Louise returned saying that ' the rooms were good — very 
 good' — beautifully clean— quite like France ; but there was 
 rather a steep staircase to get to them. It was certainly steep, 
 and very dirty too. So also was the passage, and it was a w< rk 
 of great difficulty to take Mrs Weir to her room ; which, how- 
 ever, when we reached it, was tolerably comfortable. Mrs Weir 
 lay down on the bed perfectly exhausted. I bathed her face 
 with water, and gave her eau-de-Cologne ; but the very first 
 thing to be thought of was something in the way of refreshment, 
 and I sent Louise to order some coffee for her directly, whilst I 
 gently prepared her for the fact that Mr Weir was not in the 
 house, and that further inquiries must be made respecting him 
 I found, as I had always done, that the shortest and simplest 
 way of proceeding was the best. Mrs Weir, with all her ccccm 
 tricities, was still to be governed by reason and truth, and I said 
 to her th it ' God had sent her a trial, for that we had made a
 
 URSULA. 441 
 
 mistake in coming to this inn. Mr Weir was at some other 
 place, but we should, I hoped, soon find out where. In the 
 meantime she might know that she had done her duty in trying 
 to join him. No doubt we should soon learn where he was.' 
 She was distressed, as I feared she might be, but to be told that 
 she had done her duty was strengthening to her. She said to 
 me, in a feeble voice, 'Yes, Ursula, I tried to do my duty ; my 
 niece told me it was not my duty, but you thought it was, and 
 Dr Green too, and I am come. I think I will try to sleep ; 
 when you have found my husband you will wake me.' 
 
 Whatever the end might be, that was better than the mournful 
 depression, and though a foreboding of sorrow came over me, I 
 had no regret for the step we had taken. Finding Mrs Weir so 
 quiet, I left her for a few minutes and went down-stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 I FOUND Louise doing what I wished 1 had been able to do, 
 asking questions which might lead to some information about 
 Mr Weir. She told me that she could learn nothing except that, 
 a few weeks before, two gentlemen, one French and the other 
 English, with an English lady, had passed through the town, 
 and slept there one night. No one seemed to know what had 
 become of the English people, but the Frenchman was staying 
 at a farm-house, some way beyond Little Andely. The clue was 
 worth something. I recollected the unpleasing-looking man 
 who had been our fellow-passenger in the omnibus, and thought 
 he might be the Frenchman alluded to. Most probabiy also I 
 should find Mr Weir and Miss Milicent at the village through 
 which we had passed ; at any rate it was worth while to try. 1 
 asked if there was any carriage which would take Louise there ; 
 but we had arrived at a most unfortunate moment. A fair was 
 being held at Vernon, a neighbouring town, and not a vehicle 
 of any description was to be had, except the little railway omni- 
 bus. The oldconducteur, as I found he was called, came to my 
 assistance. ' He was going back,' he said, 'to the station, and 
 should return. He would put Louise clown at Little Andely, 
 and call for her on his way back.' Nothing could be better, 
 and I hastened up-stairs to Mrs Weir, to comfort her with the
 
 443 
 
 URSULA, 
 
 intellig ace, if necessary. I found her restless. She was over- 
 tired, and wanted her coffee. I would not tell her what we were 
 going to do till she had taken it. The peasant girl brought it 
 up, without milk, in three small cups, — also three liqueur glasses 
 and a tottle of brandy. All were set down on the corner of a 
 
 I table. I could have laughed heartily at the arrangement, 
 
 but the suggestion was good. I poured a tcaspoonful of brandy 
 
 into the coffee, without telling Mrs Weir what I was doing, and 
 
 I her to drink it like medicine. She was so docile, I 
 
 seldom had any trouble with her on such points. 
 
 Very different from Louise ; when I proposed to her to go in 
 the omnibus to Little Andely, she flatly refused. ' It was too 
 
 .' she said, ' and no use. The English people were not there ; 
 they would have been heard of if they were. She had be n 
 hired to wait upon Mrs Weir, not to obey me ; and she was very 
 tired, and had a dreadful headache, — in fact, she felt quite ill ; 
 
 and' I was not inclined to hear more. I had but a limited 
 
 authority, ami no time to exercise it, even if I had not felt that 
 Louise, from her knowledge of the language, was in a great 
 
 tee my mistress. The omnibus was at the door, and the 
 conducteur would not wait. Mrs Weir, who had learned what 
 we wished to do, was becoming roused and uneasy by the dis- 
 cussion and the delay. She urged me to go myself, and there 
 
 3 no alternative. Not disputing the point with Louise, — for 
 a dispute is generally a loss, unless you have the power of 
 enforcing obedience, — I departed. A few words of French I 
 did know ; 1 had learned them from a conversation-book, wh'u.h 1 
 had studied at intervals during our short journey ; and when I 
 was set down at the door of a small inn in Little Andely, I was 
 able to ask, though with what kind of pronunciation I will not 
 
 -, 'Y r.-t-il des Anglais ici ? ' My old friend, the conducteur, 
 waited to hear the answer ; he knew my . and was inti p 
 
 d in it. But the reply of the landlord of the inn was long, 
 and utterly uninti . We stood looking at each other, 
 
 miking grimaces and signs. 1 opened m\ conversation-bo 
 In my perplexity, I had a notion that if I could spell the English 
 words to him he would understand them better, and I actuali- 
 zing out the letters ; and then left off, laughing at my 
 own stupidity, and again put the question, ' Y a-t-il des Anglais 
 ici?' This time I had an English answer. The Frenchman 
 from the farm-house made his appearance from some little salon 
 near the door, and informed me that he spoke English well, and
 
 URSULA. 443 
 
 that he could tell me everything-. What did I want ? As to 
 speaking English well, the gentleman was under a mistake, but 
 it was well enough for my purpose, and I inquired directly for 
 Mr Weir. A change came over his countenance — distrust and 
 uneasiness were shown. He began asking me questions, instead 
 of replying to mine ; but I would tell him nothing, not who I 
 was, nor where I came from, nor whom I was with. I gave him 
 no clue of any kind, only I said I must see Miss Milicent. He 
 seemed more satisfied when I mentioned her, but he was still 
 disinclined to admit me into the house. 'Miss Weir,' he 
 said, 'was gone out ; she had walked somewhere ; he thought 
 it must be to Chateau Gaillard, the castle on the hill. He 
 advised me to go after her ; ' and with a tolerably civil bow, 
 he turned away from me. If I had been confidential with him, 
 he might have told me all I wished to know, but I disliked his 
 face. I felt sure he must be one of Mr Weir's speculating 
 friends, who were leading him again to ruin and dishonour. I 
 would not trust him with the knowledge of what I had heard 
 about Mr Weir and his illness. Whatever there was to learn I 
 would hear from Miss Milicent herself; and knowing that I 
 could find my way to the castle which I had seen on our road 
 from the railway station, I set forth by myself. It was but a 
 little distance, and I soon reached the foot of the hill. The 
 castle looked very different on a near approach — much grander 
 than I had imagined. It stood on a steep promontory ; a 
 winding path along the grassy hill led to the summit. I 
 hurried up. If I did not find Miss Milicent there, at least I 
 might discover which road she had taken. The ascent was 
 difficult, and I was out of breath before I stood on the summit 
 of the green hill, with the great keep of the castle immediately 
 before me. But I could not pause to rest. Scrambling over 
 the huge masses of stone, I made my way into the ruin ; and, 
 through the broken arch formed by the massive wall, looked 
 down upon a scene so lovely that for the moment it took from 
 me all thought of anything except its beauty. The strong- 
 foundations of the castle were partly cut out of the solid 
 rock, partly built up with even masonry. At its base lay the 
 little village of Andely, and beyond flowed the Seine, crossed 
 by a suspension bridge, and winding its way through a bright 
 valley bordered by low hills. The glorious colours of sunset 
 were lighting up the wide expanse of the sky, and steeping the 
 atmosphere in a rich glow which seemed scarcely to belong to
 
 44+ URSULA, 
 
 earth. It was a kind of ma;;ic picture seen through the frame- 
 work of the ruined arch. I felt that the castle must have a 
 his: ing to far-off ages, and in comparison of whii h 
 
 my petty cares and interests must be worthless even in my own 
 eyes. But I was not caring for myself then, I was thinking 
 of and acting for others ; and there is a greatness in that con- 
 usness which r ven the smallest anxieties of moment. 
 
 Even at Chateau Gaiilard, after the first burst of admiration, 
 I thought only of Mrs Weir and Mi s Milicent I turned from 
 the view, walked round the walls, peeped into caverns w! 
 1 ight have been dungeons or stables, and at length, on a point 
 ( i the hill overlooking the road by which I had ascended, 
 stumbled upon a person dressed in a stuff gown, red handker- 
 chief, and straw bonnet, standing with her hands in the poi k t 
 of her cloth jacket ; — Miss Milicent, — the same, precisely the 
 same, so it seemed to me, as when we had parted on St Anne's 
 Hill. We recognised each other at the same instant. 
 
 I thought she might be startled, but no, she merely tossed 
 up her arms with a momentary surprise, and came wp to me, 
 holding out both hands. ' Ursie Grant ! where have you 
 dropped from ? I am glad to sec you. You have come when 
 I was looking for you ;' and she shook my hand almost pain- 
 fully in her heartiness. 
 
 ' How is Mr Weir ?' was my first hurried question. 
 
 She did not answer it. ' You arc come alone, to be sure,' she 
 said. 
 
 • No,' I replied. ' Mrs Weir is at Andely.' 
 
 Miss Milicent's countenance expressed great consternation. 
 ' I wrote you word, Ursie Grant, that Andely was not a place 
 for my mother ; I said you were to keep her at Rouen. You 
 have done wrong.' 
 
 Mi s Milicent might have written, but certainly I never re- 
 ceived the letter, and we had all trusted to Louise. I again 
 inquired how Mr Weir was. 
 
 ' As ill as he need be, and better than I expected he would 
 be. I would rather have had the Grand Turk here than my 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is very quiet, and very easily managed,' I said ; 
 'she puts up with things in a wonderful way. I don't think, 
 s Milicent, you would have kept her away, if you had been 
 with her.' 
 
 ' I don't know ; you are all idiots. Cut I think,— yes, I
 
 URSULA. 445 
 
 am glnd you are come, Ursie. I like women after all;' and 
 Miss Milicent's voice softened, and she put her hand on my 
 shoulder with a movement as nearly caressing as any she ever 
 indulged in. 
 
 'You have been very anxious about Mr Weir/ I said. ' Is he 
 out of danger ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, so they say ; and high time he should be. France isn't 
 a place to be ill in, Ursie. They have no curtains to their beds. 
 I don't care for that, but my father does ; and — but where are 
 you going to sleep to-night? There's no room for you where 
 we are.' 
 
 I told her we were at Great Andely, and explained our mis- 
 fortune about the luggage. She scarcely seemed to think of that, 
 but answered, 'Not close, that's a good thing; but you blun- 
 dered, Ursie, you had no business to come at all. People only 
 put up with things here because they want to see this old castle. 
 I have seen it now till I am tired of it. I had rather look over 
 upon the sea from St Anne's Hill.' 
 
 'Then why not come back, Miss Milicent?' I said; 'you 
 know you are wanted.' 
 
 ' You are a girl of no sense, Ursie Grant ; you are always 
 asking, " Why." Sensible people don't need to ask, "Why;" 
 they know without asking. There are more reasons than I can 
 tell why I can't come home.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir's state is very sad,' I said. 
 
 ' You needn't tell me that, Ursie ; you think it isn't upon 
 my conscience, but it is. All I want to know is, which is 
 one's right hand, father or mother, for that is to be the most 
 valued.' 
 
 She was bent upon standing on the defensive ; I could not 
 argue with her, and only asked some particulars of Mr Weir's 
 state. In her blunt, wandering way, she told me that he was 
 able to sit up, the fever had left him, and he was suffering only 
 from weakness ; she hinted at mental worries, but was not open 
 about them. When she last wrote, it seemed, Mr Weir had been 
 anxious about himself, and some feeling for his wife had touched 
 him, and occasioned the message which had been sent. 'But 
 I don't know what he will say now,' added Miss Milicent : ' he 
 is not prepared for her, and he takes things queerly ; I can't at 
 all answer for him.' 
 
 ' He will be in no mood to find fault with Mrs Weir,' I said, 
 'when he sees her. She is greatly changed.'
 
 44 f' URSULA. 
 
 I think my lone must have struck Miss Miliccnt. She an- 
 BV I, 'You didn't make me think that.' 
 
 ' I tried to do so, Miss Miliccnt. I have said everything I 
 coidd think of to make you aware of it ; but it appears to mc 
 that words have no meaning of their own, but only according to 
 the mind of the person who receives them.' 
 
 ' You are right there ; yes, you are right, certainly. But I 
 wish you hadn't come. My mother's whimsies won't be attended 
 to by French people.' 
 
 I answered, ' Mrs Weir has no whimsies, as you call them, left 
 now, Miss Miliccnt. She has been trained to overcome them. 
 Hers has been a hard life of self-denial of late.' 
 
 'Ah ! Matilda Temple ! It's her doing.' 
 
 ' Is it ?' I said ; I could bear her blindness no longer. 
 
 She turned round upon mc, sharply. • Have it out, Ursie. 
 What is it you mean ! ' 
 
 ' I would rather not tell you, Miss Miliccnt,' I said; 'I would 
 rather you should come and see Mrs Weir and judge for 
 yourself.' 
 
 She shrank back. 'My mother is my mother, Ursie, and I 
 don't forget it : but I can't do for her what you can. 5 
 
 ' Miss Miliccnt, you might, and you must. Excuse mc for 
 saying it. I have brought Mrs Weir here. She is now in your 
 charge' 
 
 She stamped her foot upon the ground. ' Ursie Grant, you 
 forget yourself. It is your own will, your own act and deed.' 
 
 'I have followed medical advice,' I said. 'When Mrs Weir 
 is with her husband and her daughter, she ought to want for 
 nothing.' 
 
 Miss Miliccnt was silent for some seconds. She bit her lips 
 and frowned. Then she said, shortly, ' You go back, I suppose, 
 by to-night's train ? ' 
 
 ' No,' I said ; ' I go back when I feel that I can leave Mrs 
 Weir with safety and comfort. When that will be, Miss Miliccnt 
 depends upon yourself.' 
 
 Without replying, she turned from me, and descended the hill. 
 I followed her. She strode forward for nearly a quarter of a mile. 
 We were drawing near the village when she stopped suddenly. 
 'Who's doing your work at Sandcombc?' she asked. 
 
 'It is done as it can be,' I said ; ' I have been obliged to 
 leave it.' 
 
 Again there was a pause. I heard the sound of wheels, and
 
 URSULA. 4.17 
 
 saw the little omnibus coming behind. Miss Milicent looked 
 back also. 'That omnibus goes to the town, Ursie ; I shall go 
 in it ! ' 
 
 ' So must I,' I said ; ' I came in it ; and, Miss Milicent, per- 
 haps you would remember that Mrs Weir is without her luggage, 
 and looks to you for help.' She made an impatient movement. 
 ' It's a blunder from beginning to end, Ursie ; my mother ought 
 to have stayed in England ; I don't know what I can do for her.' 
 She stood in great perplexity : then hurried into the house, 
 telling me to moke the omnibus wait, — which, as I did not know 
 what to say, was a difficulty ; but the French stranger again 
 came to my assistance. He appeared at the door full of civility : 
 he was glad I had found Miss Weir. He wished he could have 
 accompanied me in the search ; what further help could he give 
 me ? 
 
 My short answers could not have been encouraging ; but he 
 would not be thrown back by them. After giving the message 
 to the omnibus-driver, he again began questioning me as to my 
 errand. Miss Milicent returned before I could answer, with a 
 bundle in her hand. She passed the Frenchman as I thought 
 rudely. - Monsieur Dalange, my father is going to sleep, and 
 does not wish to see any one ; I shall not be back till late.' 
 She peeped into the omnibus, saw it was empty, and motioned 
 me to seat myself beside her. We drove off. Miss Milicent 
 caught hold of my hand. ' Ursie Grant, you are a hard judge, 
 but you have done kindly by me. If I am odd and forgetful, I 
 have troubles you don't know of ; but I will see my mother. 
 May God help her, and me, and all of us ! Now don't talk to 
 me, I must think.' 
 
 And she did think, and bitter thoughts they must have been ; 
 for the hard lines of her marked features seem to deepen with 
 some intense inward feeling, whilst she clutched the handle of 
 the carriage door, and leaned her head out of the window, 
 striving, though in vain, to hide the signs of agitation. When 
 we arrived at the inn, she scarcely waited for the omnibus to 
 stop before she was out of it. I said to her that I would go up- 
 stairs, and prepare Mrs Weir for seeing her ; but her impatience 
 could with difficulty be controlled. She would not wait in the 
 public room, but followed me into the passage. Louise, who 
 did not seem to think that I had any cause to be annoyed with 
 her, came out of Mrs Weir's room, to tell me that she had been 
 asleep, and was better ; only she had been asking for me.
 
 443 URSULA, 
 
 I forgot my anger, as entirely as Louise did its cause. Mo- 
 ling to her to go into her own room, I wont softly up to Mrs 
 Weir, who was lying on the bed, and was just beginning to tell 
 her that I had been successful, — when a long arm was stretched 
 across me, and Miss Miliccnt pushed me aside, and said, ' You 
 have had Ursie Grant long enough with you, mother, I am 
 come to know myself how you are going on ; and I have brought 
 you a bundle of clothes ;' and she tossed the parcel on the bed, 
 and stooped down and kissed her mother, roughly indeed, but 
 heartily. I dare say it was the best thing that could have been 
 done. It was not arranged as I wished, but no doubt prepara- 
 tion would only have made Mrs Weir more nervous. As it was, 
 she was startled, and looked at her daughter, as though not 
 quite recognising her; and the strange gaze had such an effect 
 on Miss Miliccnt, that she turned aside and burst into tears. 
 
 'What does she cry for, Ursula?' said Mrs Weir, recovering 
 herself. ' It is very kind of her to come, and it does me good ; 
 and now I will go to my husband.' She sat up on the bed, and 
 put out her hand for Miss Miliccnt to draw near. 
 
 ' Mrs Weir didn't know you, Miss Miliccnt,' I said ; speaking 
 as naturally and brightly as I could. ' You were taken quite by 
 surprise, ma'am, weren't you?' I added, addressing Mrs Weir. 
 'I found Miss Miliccnt wandering over the ruins of an old 
 castle ; she had gone out to take a walk ; afterwards we met the 
 omnibus returning from the railway, and so she said she would 
 come back with me, and see you now ; and to-morrow, or next 
 day, you will no doubt be able to see Mr Weir, for he is much 
 better, and able to sit up.' 
 
 I think it must have been the mention of the omnibus which 
 brought us all back to a natural state. Miss Miliccnt brushed 
 away her tears, came up to the bed-side, and sat down ; and 
 Mrs Weir leaned back a^ain on her pillow. 'If you would be 
 d enough to tell Mrs Weir what you have been doing lately, 
 Miss Miiiccnt,' I said, ' I am sure she will be glad to hear ; and 
 1 .;!1 go and order tea, and perhaps, if you are not in a hurry, 
 you will just be so kind as to put the table out, and have some 
 with her ; I will bring up another candle and make the room 
 look comfortable.' I said it all as if wc had been at Dene, 
 and there was nothing easier than to make things comforta' 
 but I had great misgivings as to how it was to be managed. 
 One point, however, was gained. Miss Milicent and her moth r 
 were together, and I was sure that one interview, if only of five
 
 URSULA. 449 
 
 minutes, would do more to touch Miss Milicent's heart than any 
 description that could be given. 
 
 She came out to me, as I was standing at my bedroom door, 
 having just given directions for tea. 
 
 1 1 can't stay with her, Ursie, she doesn't understand, and 
 she's quite changed.' Miss Milicent's face looked haggard. 
 
 'Mrs Weir will be better,' I said, 'to-morrow. Everything 
 that is new unsettles her.' 
 
 ' But you shouldn't have come ; what shall we do here? How 
 will she bear it ? Ursie, you have much to answer for.' 
 
 'Not so much as if we had remained behind, and waited for 
 the end, which must in all probability have come,' I said. 
 
 ' End ! — what end ? — what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' A lunatic asylum.' 
 
 Miss Milicent covered her face with her hands, and groaned. 
 
 I did not want to distress her more than was needful. She 
 had taken an exaggerated view of the present evil, and no 
 wonder. Mrs Weir, when startled, took a long time to recover 
 herself. She was not by any means, as far from rational as her 
 daughter thought ; but, impetuous and ungoverned in all her. 
 feelings, Miss Milicent would not listen to me, or believe me. 
 Yet she could not bring herself to look at the case boldly. 
 Availing herself of the claim which, no doubt, Mr Weir had 
 upon her, she made it an excuse to hurry away. She would 
 return, she said, to-morrow. She would see her mother again ; 
 she would arrange the meeting ; she would do anything, every- 
 thing I wished. But she could not bear the pain ; she shrank 
 from the responsibility. Even yet Miss Milicent had much to 
 learn. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 MRS WEIR took it much to heart that her daughter had 
 left her so soon, and I rather troubled myself as to how 
 Miss Milicent would get back to Little Andely, but she knew the 
 ways of the people, and it was a quiet part of the country ; so I 
 hoped she would not mind walking alone. But I was obliged to 
 leave her to herself, and attend to Mrs Weir, whose mind, I was 
 sure, was in much perplexity. Happily, after a little quiet ex- 
 planation, I was able to make her see how things stood. I told 
 
 2 F
 
 450 URSULA, 
 
 her plainly that Mr Weir was at a neighbouring village, and 
 that she might go to him the next day if she wished it ; but I 
 endeavoured to convince her that, as he was better, there was no 
 hurry, and she need only remain quiet, and rest after her journey. 
 She acquiesced for the time, but I could not say how long the 
 mood would last Mrs Weir ate more for her tea than I 
 pected, which was very satisfactory. Louise and I had a kind 
 of supper in the public room down-stairs, and were waited upon 
 by the pleasant-looking Normandy peasant girl, who was over- 
 whelmed with delight when she found that madamc liked the 
 roast fowl which I took up to her, and was persuaded to taste 
 the wood strawberries. We might, certainly, have been in much 
 worse quarters, for the people were extremely civil. About half- 
 past nine I made Mrs Weir comfortable for the night, and left 
 her with the door between her room and mine open, and a little 
 bell by her side, that she might call me if she wanted anything, 
 and then I thought of rest for myself. But my troubles were not 
 over, I had scarcely gone to my room when I heard sounds of 
 merriment below, fortunately away from the side of the house 
 adjoining Mrs Weir's room, but very near to mine. I supposed 
 there might be some late guests in the house, but when I lay 
 down in bed the sound of a flageolet was added, and the people, 
 whoever they were, began to dance. And such a noise as they 
 made ! — stamping, shouting, laughing, singing, clapping of hands 
 — sleep was impossible. I lay awake, studying a book of French 
 conversation, by the light of a tallow candle, till nearly two 
 o'clock in the morning ; then there came the roll of some vehicle 
 to the door, and the dancers began to disperse, and I fell asleep. 
 It must have been eight o'clock, and the sun was shining full 
 into my window, when I was awakened by the touch of no very 
 gentle hand. 
 
 ' Ursie Grant, what makes you so lazy ? I want to talk to 
 you.' I fancied myself at the Heath ; and, as I rubbed my eyes, 
 almost believed I should look out upon the cliffs and the sea. 
 Miss Milicent quickly brought me back to reality. 'I went off 
 in a hurry last night, Ursie ; I am come back to do better to-day, 
 but my mother mustn't come to us. My father isn't in a state 
 to bear it.' 
 
 I could have wished that Miss Milicent had left me time to 
 dress and prepare myself a little for the day's business, instead 
 of thus thrusting it upon me, but perhaps that was more than I 
 had a right to expect.
 
 URSULA. 451 
 
 ' I am afraid Mr Weir is not so well,' I said. 
 
 ' I can't say ; the long and the short of the matter is, Ursie, 
 that I must talk to you.' 
 
 She sat down, leaned her two elbows upon the bed, and disre- 
 garding every thought of convenience or comfort for me, pre- 
 pared herself to begin a long story. Louise was with Mrs Weir, 
 that was my only consolation, and I collected my largest stock 
 of patience. 
 
 'You know, Ursie, matters are bad with us, and have been 
 so for a long time. My father spent money faster than he got it. 
 My mother had more whimsies than there were minutes in the 
 year. I dare say I was not better myself. But people must 
 live ; my father must live. When he came abroad he took some 
 money with him ; they said he ought not to have done it, but he 
 says he must have starved without it. Then he made friends, — 
 whether they are friends or not, I can't say, he calls them so ; 
 that M. Dalange is one. He engaged with them in a kind of 
 wine business ; I suppose it is speculation, but it seems all right 
 enough to me. Mr Macdonald and Captain Price have money 
 in the same business, and they are growing rich. You see, 
 Ursie, I couldn't come home, because my father's money was all 
 gone in this business, and my money, which was sent to me, was 
 all he had to live upon. That is how the case stood. I believe 
 it would all have gone right except for Monsieur Dalange. I 
 haven't any faith in him. I believe he is a rogue. But we 
 aren't rich, though we thought we should be, and now all will go 
 to the ground unless there is some help ; and there is no one to 
 help but me and my mother ; and I think, Ursie Grant, it is a 
 good thing you are come, after all, though I didn't think so last 
 night, for now you can persuade my mother to do what she should 
 do, and give her assistance to get us all straight again. You see, 
 when she has done this, things will go on well, and we can go 
 and live where we choose. I think, perhaps, if we went to the 
 Pyrenees it would do, for my father likes mountain air, and so 
 do I, and my mother will be freshened by it.' 
 
 If a gulf had opened beneath my feet, I could scarcely have 
 been more alarmed than I was at the maze of wilfulness, folly, 
 selfishness, — and I had great reason to fear, roguery, which this 
 speech revealed to me. Miss Milicent fixed her eyes upon me, 
 and when I did not answer, touched my arm : ' You understand 
 now, Ursie, don't you ? It is all clear.' 
 
 'No, Miss Milicent,' I said. 'I don't understand; or at
 
 452 URSULA. 
 
 least I hope I don't. Mrs Weir has only just sufficient to keep 
 her in comfort, and I believe you have not more You don't 
 mean to say that you would persuade her, or allow yourself, 
 to risk money in schemes of which you know nothing, and 
 conducted by such people as Mr Macdonald, Captain Trice, 
 and this Frenchman, whom you own yourself you believe to 
 be a rogue.' 
 
 ' But I do know about the scheme, Ursie. I have had the 
 whole thing explained to me, and there will be profit for us in it, 
 there must be by and by. Only just now help is wanted. You 
 don't think me a fool, do you ?' 
 
 I kept my thoughts to myself. ' Miss Milicent,' I said, • these 
 are matters in which I can have no voice or judgment. As far 
 as I am concerned, I can only say that to trouble Mrs Weir with 
 them might have most fatal effects. She ought at least to have 
 time given her to recover herself, after the anxiety she has had ; 
 and then the whole thing ought to be a matter of consultation 
 with her friends and the lawyers. It is not for a person like me 
 to interfere at all about it.' 
 
 'Hut I hate lawyers,' she exclaimed. 'I have made a vow 
 never to have anything to do with them. They are a greedy, 
 grasping race, and 1 choose to settle my own affairs without 
 them.' 
 
 ' Of course,' I said, ' no one can interfere with your own affairs, 
 Miss Milicent, but Mrs Weir's are different ; and it seems tome, 
 if you will allow me to say it, that we women sometimes make 
 mistakes when we think we can engage in business which pro- 
 perly belongs to men.' 
 
 ' I don't know anything about "properly belongs," I know 
 what I have done and will do. Ever since I was twenty-one I 
 took my own course, and I am not going to be fettered now.' 
 
 ' And do you have no advice ?' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, people who understand much better than lawyers would,' 
 she replied. ' IJut we won't talk about it, Ursie Grant; I sec 
 you put your face against it.' 
 
 ainst mentioning the subject to Mrs Weir,' I said; 'and 
 indeed, Miss Milicent, you may think me taking too much upi n 
 myself, but if it came to the point, I would, upon my own re- 
 sponsibility, cany Mrs Weir back to England this very day, 
 rather than she should run the risk (f having it named to her.' 
 
 I wis bold — almost to the point of impertinence, yet I knew 
 well the person with whom I had to deal ; —the will which could
 
 URSULA. 453 
 
 only be governed by an assertion of power beyond its own, but 
 which was taken by surprise when that assertion was made, and 
 sank beneath it almost without a struggle. 
 
 Miss Milicent was quite silent for some seconds ; then looking 
 up at me fiercely, she said, ' It's a mess.' 
 
 'Yes,' I said, 'a great mess, and, Miss Milicent, if you trust 
 to yourself to get out of it, you will only sink the deeper.' 
 
 'And who is to help me out, Ursie? Not you — you wouldn't 
 stretch out your hand to help a dog.' 
 
 ' It is a man's business, Miss Milicent,' Vas my reply, 'a man 
 who has a head for figures, and could advise Mr Weir and 
 you, and be up to the arts of these people whom you suspect. 
 A man it ought to have been from the first,' I could not help 
 adding. 
 
 She caught me up there. ' I know what you mean — I know 
 what you are always cutting at, but I don't give in. My father 
 liked to have me, and we have had a good, pleasant time, and 
 shall come all right by and— only ' a look of extreme per- 
 plexity came over her. 
 
 ' I am afraid things are awkward now,' I said, venturing to 
 complete her sentence. 
 
 ' Yes, that 's the whole of it, and if you can let me have five 
 pounds, it can be settled between my mother's accounts and 
 mine.' 
 
 Poor thing ! I felt for her deeply, for it was a great struggle, 
 — she had such a proud spirit ! and it was hard to be obliged to 
 make the recpiest to me. 
 
 But it was still harder to me to reply. ' I am afraid, Miss 
 Milicent, I have no money to give. I have only what may be 
 wanted for Mrs Weir's own expenses, and for that I am answer- 
 able to Mrs Temple.' 
 
 ' Matilda Temple ! control my mother's money — and mine 1 
 For it is mine, too ! Ursie Grant, you don't know what you are 
 saying.' 
 
 ' You left Mrs Weir's affairs in Mrs Temple's hands, Miss 
 Milicent,' I said. 
 
 She was stung to the quick. ' And I was an idiot for doing 
 so,' she exclaimed. ' But I trusted to you,' she added, looking 
 reproachfully at me. 
 
 ' Indeed, then,' I said, 'you trusted to a person who had no 
 power, and could have none. But, Miss Milicent, it is not for 
 me to show you where you may have been wrong ; only, just at
 
 URSULA. 
 
 I isent, you will see yourself that my hands arc tied, and if I 
 hed it ever so nuich, I could do nothin u.' 
 
 wish it,' I heard her mutter to herself, and I I 
 up the words and said — 
 
 • You are right ; I *'. m't wish it.' 
 
 med her forehead upon her hands. I went on : — 'If 
 J could help you, as you ask me, it would only be help for the 
 moment ; and if you embark more money in these speculations, 
 i will only, so it appears to me, run the risk of losing it. 
 Indeed, Miss Milicent, I cannot but feel there is only one cour c 
 for you, and I should thin' Id be th< tr Weir; at 
 
 once to send for some persons whom you can trust, put every- 
 thing into his hands, and be guided by his advice.' 
 
 She looked up scornfully. 
 
 'And where am I to send ? To the moon ? Are wise coun- 
 sellors to be had for the asking?' 
 
 'They won't be had without the asking,' I replied; 'and I 
 suppose it needn't be a lawyer.' 
 
 ' It won't be,' she said, nodding her head at me, with a kind of 
 angry smile. 
 
 'Then it must be some one else,' I said. 
 
 ' And who ?' She put the question triumphantly. 
 
 'John Hervey,' I replied. I spoke on the impulse of the 
 moment, — chiefly, 1 believe, because I had once before named 
 him to Miss Milicent, and that he was always associated in my 
 mind with the thought of Mr Weir. I had no sooner mentioned 
 him, than innumerable objections suggested themselves to 
 me. 
 
 Miss Milicent was too angry to argue. 'Pshaw!' sh 
 claimed. 'John Hervey is your idol. Do you think my father 
 would talk to him ?' 
 
 I felt piqued. 'John Hervey is an honest man,' I said, 'and 
 has a good, clear head for accounts ; and he is one, also, who has 
 been always accustomed to business, and has had a good deal of 
 his own to manage, especially of late. I should think, Miss Mili- 
 cent, you might go farther and fare worse. At any rate, he is a 
 friend, and a true one.' 
 
 I touched her there. She gazed at me with moistened i 
 and said, ' Ursie, if I believed that, I should be thankful.' 
 
 'lie is one, most truly,' I repeated. 'lie has been at the 
 
 lorn of most of the thoughtful things which have been done 
 
 for you and Mrs Weir of late, Miss Milicent. If you could
 
 URSULA. 455 
 
 bring yourself to confide in him, you might bless the day on 
 which we have had this conversation/ 
 
 She stood up suddenly. ' You have pens and ink, Ursie ; 
 where are they?' 
 
 'There is no hurry,' I said; 'surely you will go back and 
 consult Mr Weir.' 
 
 ' I will consult no one ; I have had too much of consultation 
 already. And that French rogue in the house, too, expecting to 
 be told everything ! John Hervey would be murdered before he 
 got here, if it was thought he was coming.' 
 
 I did not dread quite such tragic consequences ; but I did see 
 that it might be better not to put either Mr Weir or his friend 
 on their guard by letting the idea be known. Miss Milicent 
 scrawled a few lines, and put the paper into my hands, telling me 
 that I was to write, and explain more fully. She had only said 
 she wanted to see him. 
 
 ' And where is he to come ? ' I inquired. ' Here ? ' 
 
 'Here? No. Why should we stay here? When my father 
 can move, we shall go back to Paris, — if we don't go to 
 Brittany.' 
 
 So wild and vague she was still, and there were so many 
 questions to be settled ! I made another effort after something 
 definite. 
 
 ' Mrs Weir must see Mr Weir to-day,' I said. 
 
 'Well! Yes, I suppose so.' But Miss Milicent said it un- 
 willingly. 
 
 'But he must not mention money to her.' 
 
 ' I can't say. People are waiting to hear what we determine.' 
 
 ' If he does/ I replied, ' he will bring on an attack of nervous 
 excitement, which may end no one knows how.' 
 
 ' I can't answer for him,' was Miss Milicent's rather sullen 
 answer. 
 
 ' But you really must answer for him, Miss Milicent/ I said. 
 ' What is the use of sending for John Hervey if you are to de- 
 termine what shall be done before he comes ? As for Mrs Weir, 
 she is not now in a state to form a correct judgment about her 
 own affairs ; and if anything is forced upon her now, I will be the 
 person to come forward and say it is illegal.' 
 
 Whether I had a right to threaten in this way I had not the 
 least idea, but I was driven to it, and Miss Milicent, who was as 
 ignorant as myself about all law matters, was frightened by it. 
 
 'We have no money for the present time, unless something is
 
 456 URSULA. 
 
 done,' she muttered in an undertone. ' M. Dalange will advance 
 some wh< n we have signed the agreement,' 
 
 Her inconsistency exasperated and alarmed mc ; I said, 'Miss 
 Milicent, upon one condition, I can help you, at least for the 
 present. Let Mr Weir engage that nothing shall be said to 
 Mrs Weir about money for the next three weeks, until, that is, 
 she has recovered from her journey, and do you promise yourself 
 that you will enter into no engagement with these speculating 
 men till you have seen John Hcrvcy. Mr Weir and yourself cm 
 in that case join Mrs Weir, nnd your expenses will be paid by 
 mc, acting for Mrs Weir, for the present, and can be repaid 
 when your affairs nrc more settled. I think,' I said, ' I am not 
 going beyond my limits by offering this.' 
 
 A door of relief seemed opened, but it was to Miss Milicent 
 rather than to mc. At the moment, it seemed to me, that if I 
 had had an idea of this troubled sea into which I was to be 
 thrown, I never should have ventured to bring Mrs Weir aw.iy 
 from England. 
 
 Miss Milicent, however, saw everything by the light of her 
 own eyes. She had come to mc evidently in such perplexity, 
 that the very thought of escape seemed the escape itself. 
 
 ' If they could have present help, her father,' she said, ' would 
 promise, — yes, she could make him promise, she was sure; he 
 was in such a fret, he did not know how to get on from day to 
 day, and he had been so ill, and was longing so to go back 
 to Paris. Now we should all go there directly. And M. 
 Dalange, — she did not know what could be done about him, 
 but he must wait ; she thought she could put him off, and when 
 John Hcrvcy came he would see things clearly, he would not be 
 like mc, afraid to risk a penny ; and then the money which was 
 wanted would be advanced to M. Dalange, and the business 
 would go on well, and they should all grow rich together.' 
 
 I did not contradict her ; I only tried to impress upon her 
 more strongly, that nothing Mas to be said to Mrs Weir, and 
 afterwards I suggested as civilly as I could that she should leave 
 me to dress. She went down-stairs into the public room, for 
 Mrs Weir was not ready for her, and I dressed as quickly as 
 possible, feeling half asleep, and extremely tired, but seeing a 
 great deal of work before me.
 
 URSULA. 457 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 I COULD never be said to have known Mr Weir. When he 
 was at Dene, I seldom even saw him latterly ; when I did, 
 it was rarely that he spoke to me. I had a strong prejudice 
 against him, partly arising from his unpleasant manner, but 
 more from all that I had heard of him ; and when there is this 
 kind of natural aversion, it is almost sure to be perceived and 
 returned. And Mrs Weir's arrival was the last thing which her 
 husband was likely to desire. It would interfere with his plans, 
 and trouble his daily comfort ; and he knew enough of my con- 
 nection with his family to be aware that 1 had been instrumental 
 in brinsrinc about the meeting. It was not likelv, therefore, that 
 anything that I could do would find favour in his eyes. Most 
 especially he was likely to resent the idea of my imposing con- 
 ditions upon him. I felt my position to be extremely awkward, 
 and with a feeling of nervous dread, such as I had rarely ex- 
 perienced, I found myself in the afternoon in a little shaky 
 carriage, the only one which could be met with in the place, 
 accompanying Mrs Weir to pay the long anticipated visit to 
 her husband. Miss Milicent, after seeing her mother for a few 
 minutes in the morning, had gone back to prepare Mr W T eir for 
 what was to come, and I would willingly have persuaded Mrs 
 Weir to wait till another day, but now that she was a little rested, 
 her earnestness upon the subject was returning, and I dared not 
 delay ; especially as I had received a few lines from Miss Mili- 
 cent, since our interview, telling me that her father had consented 
 to the meeting, and gave his promise as I desired. Money must 
 indeed have been much needed at the moment, or Mr Weir 
 would never have bound himself so readily to an agreement 
 which stood in the way of his schemes, but having been given, I 
 had no right to doubt that it would be kept. 
 
 Mrs Weir herself was the greatest lesson I could have had 
 upon the duty of simple faith, in times of difficulty. When I 
 told her that the carriage was at the door, and that she was going, 
 I prepared myself to see her excited and agitated. But it was 
 not so. She merely said, ' 1 am ready, Ursula ; God will help 
 me ;' and that was the first expression which gave me the idea 
 of the fear which I am sure was at the bottom of her heart, even 
 when she was most pleadingly bent upon joining her husband. 
 She did not speak nor look about her as we drove along, but kept
 
 45^ URSULA. 
 
 her hand in mine, and I felt it tremble very much. At last, just 
 as wo reached the vil) he said, 'He will not be an 
 
 Ursula; do you think^or and when I answered lightly, 'Oh: I 
 ma'am, what could he be angry nbout?' she received my assur- 
 ance with childlike submission, and never repeated the question. 
 
 Miss Milice-nt was waiting at the door to receive us. I had 
 never seen her look so subdued, and I thought she had had ;i 
 stormy morning. The inn was by no means so good as ours. It 
 ved me that Mrs Weir should have to mount the narrow 
 iicase, and I thought the stifling air would affect her breath- 
 ing ; but with my help she went up firmly, though slowly, only 
 once or twice stopping and glancing round with rather a wander- 
 ing, unsettled gaze, which I did not thoroughly like. 
 
 1 Here's my mother come, father,' said Miss Milicent, throwing 
 open the door of Mr Weir's room. I was drawing back, but M rs 
 Weir grasped my arm, and I led her into the room. It \ 
 tolerably large, but very scantily furnished. Mr Weir was 
 sitting by a stove, with an uncovered deal table at his right 
 hand ; his bed was in one corner in a recess. The cold, poverty- 
 stricken air of the apartment was perhaps the more remarkable 
 to 'my eye, because I was not accustomed to the French fashion 
 of living without curtains and carpets ; but it was not the room 
 which fixed my attention, it was Mr Weir himself. He was 
 thin, and his face showed that he had been very ill. He wore a 
 loose dressing-gown and slippers. His hair was long, and his 
 beard had been suffered to grow ; all these things make a great 
 change in a man ; but no such external differences could have 
 given me the impression which I gained from his face. It was 
 sunk, lowered. As Mrs Weir, in her most childish incoherent 
 movements, bore the tokens of a nature which must at last rise 
 above human infirmity ; so did this cold, selfish man of the world 
 carry about with him the signs of one which must, ex> 
 through some miracle of mercy, eventually fall below it. It was 
 t thing which struck me ; yet he was a gentleman still, 
 rose when we entered, came forward, and kissed his wife, 
 in,:, 'Welcome, my dear,' and placed her in a chair by his 
 side, making a distant bow to me. 
 
 There was a pause. Mrs Weir looked at him steadily for a 
 few seconds ; then, turning round to me, asked, ' Who is it ?' 
 
 I could not answer. 
 
 ' He is glad to see you, mother.' said Miss Milicent, cominc; 
 up to her.
 
 URSULA. 459 
 
 'Very glad, my dear,' said Mr Weir. ' Young woman,' he ad- 
 dressed himself to me, ' i forget your name, perhaps you will 
 have the goodness to go down-stairs, and ask for a bottle of 
 lemonade ; it will refresh Mrs Weir.' 
 
 It was an excuse to send me away, and I was going, but I 
 could not free myself from Mrs Weir. 'Is it he, Ursula?' she 
 said in a low voice ; 'it seems so long, I think I have forgotten ; 
 but he speaks kindly.' 
 
 ' Mr Weir is very glad to see you, dear ma'am,' I said ; ' you 
 know he has been very ill, so of course he doesn't look as \ ou 
 remember him.' 
 
 ' No, Ursula ; but he may be angry with me. Perhaps now 
 he would wish me to go back again, and I would do it. What 
 God wills I would do. Just tell me, Ursula, tell me.' 
 
 I looked appealingly to Miss Milicent, but she was greatly 
 distressed; I saw it by the way in which she bit her lip; she 
 would not trust herself to speak. 
 
 Mr Weir came to my relief with the cold polish of manner 
 which I now so well recollected. ' I can only be flattered by 
 your having come so far to see me, my dear,' he said. ' It would 
 be uncourteous to wish you to return. All I can regret is that I 
 have not better accommodation to offer you ; but perhaps,' he 
 added, and he turned to me with a tone of proud indifference, 
 'perhaps, if Mrs Weir were able to remove to Paris in a few 
 days, you might be able to find some more comfortable lodging 
 for her. I suppose she is equal to the journey.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir will be ready to go wherever you go, sir,' was my 
 reply. ' It was her object in coming abroad.' 
 
 ' Certainly, certainly. I am not strong yet, but I think — 
 Milicent, my dear, I leave you and this young woman to arrange 
 your plans. When they are settled, I can fall into them.' 
 
 'You will like to go to Paris, mother?' said Miss Milicent. 
 
 Mrs Weir did not directly answer, so the question was impa- 
 tiently repeated. 
 
 'Paris is not like this place, Ursula, is it?' said Mrs Weir, 
 giving her answer to me. ' My husband has been ill. I ought 
 to see that he is comfortable in France, but I do not know how. 
 Will he ' her voice trembled, and for the first time she ad- 
 dressed her husband directly : ' George, will you come back to 
 England ? ' 
 
 There must have been something in that familiar name, which 
 touched with warmth even Mr Weir's heartlessness. It might
 
 460 URSULA. 
 
 have been an association of bygone years, of the clays when his 
 wife in het simplii ity and childish awe, first ventured to address 
 him by it ; ii might have contrasted with the h< pis he had then 
 given her, and the wreck of health and happiness of which he 
 too well knew himself to be the cause. Be that as it may, lie 
 rose from his scat, drew near her, and taking her hand, said, 
 ' England cannot be my home, my dear, but you must come and 
 sec me in France, ' immediately afterwards, as though ashamed 
 of having given way to that slight expression of feeling before 
 me, he added in a light tone : ' We have forgotten the lemonade. 
 You must have some to drink to my better health ; they have no 
 wines fit for such a purpose here.' 
 
 I was afraid to leave him, for I feared the subject he might 
 introduce; but I did him injustice. His word was given, and 
 he would not have dared to break it. Yet, no doubt, for other 
 causes he disliked seeing me in the room. I must have seemed 
 to him a spy and an intruder. I disengaged myself from Mrs 
 Weir and went down-stairs. M. Dalangc was in the salon. 
 The look with which he greeted me showed me at one glance 
 that we were enemies. I curtsied to him, and having given 
 the order for the lemonade, sat clown. He drew near and 
 addressed me in his broken English. He hoped I was well, not 
 the worse for my late walk ; he seemed as before determined to 
 make acquaintance, but my answers were short. He was not, 
 however, to be repulsed ; after an observation to which I made 
 no reply, he said abruptly,—' We have a friend, known to us 
 both, I think, — a Mrs Price.' 
 
 I replied that I knew Mrs Price to speak to her, — I could not 
 call her a friend. 
 
 'Ah! yes, I thought so.' lie did not appear to compre- 
 hend my denial of friendship. 'Have you seen Mrs Price 
 lately?' 
 
 1 I know nothing of her or her concerns,' was the answer I 
 longed to make, but an uneasiness I could not conquer led me to 
 pursue the subject. 'Not very lately,' I said. ' I have not been 
 at my home for some weeks.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! yet she interests herself much about you.' 
 
 This really was too intolerable. Mrs Price interest herself 
 about me, and write or talk of me to this French stranger ! It 
 was an impertinence not to be imagined. I hope I did not quite 
 show all I felt, and I know I tried to answer quietly, ' I think, 
 sir, you arc mistaken. Mrs Price is a very distant acquaintance,
 
 URSULA. 461 
 
 and has no interest in me, and no concern in any of my affairs. 
 There must be some mistake.' 
 
 M. Dalange smiled sarcastically, ' Oh dear, no ; not at all. 
 There can be no mistake. Surely you are friends. I think a 
 sister of yours must have been staying in the house of Mrs Price. 
 Could it not be so ?' 
 
 ' I really don't know, sir,' was my reply, and I instantly rose 
 and left the room. 1 walked out into the road — there was no 
 other place I could goto — in a storm of irritated feeling. What- 
 ever Mrs Price had said about me must have been in reference 
 to the speculations and Mr Weir's affairs. She had no doubt a 
 right to say anything she chose, but the mere fact of being talked 
 of, or written about, by those one dislikes always, I think, seems 
 an impertinence ; and the manner adopted by M. Dalange in- 
 creased my annoyance. A few moments' reflection convinced 
 me that it would be foolish to allow myself to take offence, 
 especially at a foreigner— a man whom I might never see again ; 
 but one fact remained, which reflection only rendered more 
 anxious — communications were passing between Mrs Price and 
 Jessie. There was no end to the intimacy. Stay at Dene she 
 could not, I was sure Roger would never allow it. But some 
 intercourse there must be, and that of a kind which betokened 
 more than ordinary friendliness ; and yet no one mentioned it ; 
 no one wrote to me. Mrs Kemp, I knew, would be on the watch, 
 after receiving my letter, and she would surely have written to 
 me if she had seen or heard anything she disapproved. Could 
 Jessie's acquaintance be carried on secretly ? — and if so, what 
 could be the motive ? 
 
 As I thought, I almost made up my mind at once to write out 
 all my fears and suspicions to Roger. I hoped he would under- 
 stand, and trusted he would be merciful. But again I hesitated. 
 The ground upon which a husband and wife stand, is known 
 only to themselves. All other persons are placed in certain re- 
 lations to each other, which may be calculated according to 
 some general principles of human nature ; but marriage forms, 
 as it were, a new combination, which no one but the individuals 
 themselves can be acquainted with. The fact of the tie being one 
 of choice, like that of friendship, and yet indissoluble, like that 
 of birth, puts it beyond the reach of ordinary laws. Each case 
 must be dealt with separately ; and what chord in Roger's 
 breast I might touch by insinuating the slightest doubt of his 
 wife's perfect openness in all her dealings with him, I could not
 
 462 URSULA. 
 
 venture to predict. Generous, loving, and forgiving, as he would 
 be to me his sister, there might; be a depth of wounded feeling 
 with regard to his wife, which might even render him unjust. 
 
 i, Jessie herself, could be the only person safely to suggest 
 ie's faults. 
 
 It must be left for the present, for a few weeks, — it could not, 
 should not be more. Once in Paris, with John Ilervev to sup- 
 port me, Miss Miliccnt must be forced to open her eyes to the 
 wrong course she was pursuing. She must be compelled to 
 ;rn to England with Mrs Weir ; whose morbid mind would, 
 I hoped, be satisfied, at least for a while, now that she had once 
 seen her husband, and proved to him her willingness to join him. 
 What was to come after that, 1 could not at present think. Per- 
 haps some plan might be arranged for a meeting at certain 
 times, — once a year, or not so often, — anything that would 
 satisfy Mrs Weir ; and yet enable her friends to w.a 
 her, so that she and Miss Milicent might not be ruined by their 
 tess, and Mr Weir's wild and selfish speculations. I 
 need not trouble myself with thinking of all that distant future, — 
 only, go home I must, the very first moment I could be spai 
 Till then, — prayer and faith. What would the world be without 
 them ? I turned back to the inn, and went up-stairs, inquired if 
 Mrs Weir was ready to return, and found Mr Weir engaged in 
 giving her an account of his illness, and Miss Milicent placing 
 cushions at the back of her chair. She looked placid, but v< 
 weary ; yet I was satisfied. When I remembered her condition 
 in that dark bedroom in London, I felt we had done wisely. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 TIME moves slowly when one is describing ; but not so 
 slowly as when one is waiting and expecting. We wi re 
 detained at Andclymore than a week. Our luggage was ret: 
 to us the day after we lost it, and we then regularly establish) d 
 ourselves at the inn. Mr Weir regained his strength with 
 
 ble rapidity ; but his illness had been severe. Ever. 
 Mrs Weir drove over to si e him, sat with him for about a quar- 
 f an hour, asked the same questions, and heard the same
 
 URSULA. 463 
 
 answers, and returned to lie down on her bed, and be nursed for 
 the remainder of the day. 
 
 With the discomforts of the little inn, the smallncss of the 
 rooms, the increasing cold of the weather, and the absence of 
 the niceties to which Mrs Weir had been accustomed, it would 
 have been very hard to bear but for the prospect of removal. In 
 Paris, Miss Milicent assured her mother they should be quite 
 comfortable. She evidently believed that Mrs Weir was going 
 to stay there for a permanence, and that I intended to remain 
 and take care of her. I did not endeavour to undeceive her. I 
 lived in the hope that all would be made easy by the arrival of 
 John Hervey. 
 
 M. Dalange went the day after my conversation with him — 
 that was no slight relief to me — but Miss Milicent informed me 
 that we should probably meet him again at Paris, and that per- 
 haps Mr Macdonald would join us. A pleasant prospect ! But 
 they could scarcely be more disagreeable to me than Mr Weir, 
 whose satirical politeness made me feel every day more and 
 more how entirely I had made him my enemy. But I cared for 
 none of them. I did not think of any of them. My one object 
 and interest was Mrs Weir ; and the attentions which she 
 claimed were very engrossing. I was by no means satisfied 
 about her. Not that I regretted for a moment having brought 
 her abroad ; it was the one hope which remained ; it had been 
 tried under medical sanction, and, no doubt, to a certain extent 
 it had succeeded. Mrs Weir's mind could scarcely be said to 
 have been strengthened, but at least it was calm. There was 
 nothing, however, which indicated any permanent return to the 
 state in which she had been even a year ago. We could not 
 induce her to work, or occupy herself in any way ; and she would 
 listen to no reading except the Bible. It was beautiful, though 
 in some respects mournful, to see how this one pillar of strength 
 supported her weakened intellect. The contrast was so great. 
 The very clearness of her faith, the fulness of her comprehension 
 on the one subject of religion, made the shattered condition of 
 her mind upon all worldly matters only the more painful. It 
 was like that rare gilt of simple belief which we sometimes are 
 permitted to see developing itself in a little child, shut out by 
 illness from all instruction, or even from communication with 
 the world about it, and so living, by the grace of God's Spirit 
 working on the vividness of its infant imagination, in the reali- 
 ties of the world unseen. They who have never watched such a
 
 464 I WSl L. f. 
 
 phenomenon are not likely to believe in its existence. They who 
 have, treasure it silently in their hearts as a token sent from the 
 ' better land,' not to he exhibited, but to be kept in store against 
 the hour of temptation, liven now, in these weary days of delay, 
 deprived of her usual comforts, with perpetual little annoyances 
 as regarded food, and warmth, and careful attendance, there was 
 one sentence always ready from Mrs Weir's lips, 'God sends it, 
 1 rsula ;' and when she had said this, there was no more thought 
 of complaint. She would lie on her bed waiting, till my patience 
 was quite exhausted, whilst something was being prepared for 
 her which had been ordered, and misunderstood, or forgotten. 
 Several times I wished her to let me try my own English cookery, 
 but the habit of submission and endurance which she had learned 
 during her hard discipline under Mrs Temple was now so fixed, 
 that I could not persuade her to allow it. ' What was sent,' she 
 said, ' that she would take ; ' and once or twice, when unknown 
 to herself I had contrived some little delicacy which I thought 
 she would fancy, she discovered it with singular quickness, and 
 observed, gently, but reproachfully, 'Ah! L'rsuln, you would 
 make me troublesome as I used to be ; that is not right ;' and I 
 could scarcely persuade her to touch it, except by looking vexed 
 and disappointed. The feeling was not reasonable, not like com- 
 mon sense, yet it seemed to me to belong to some sense which 
 was higher and better — only, perhaps, it required to be trans- 
 planted to another world. 
 
 I had no news from home except a few lines from Roger, who 
 was never in the habit of writing long letters. He told me 
 everything was going on well, and that Jessie had been into 
 Hove, but nothing else except about household and farming 
 concerns. From John Hervvy I had a short note, saying that 
 he hoped to be in Paris in the course of the next week or ten 
 days, but that he could not fix the exact time. 
 
 When Miss Milicent found that he had really agreed to her 
 proposal, I think she became a little frightened as to the step she 
 had taken, but I did my best to reassure her, for every day made 
 me see more and more that if she was allowed to follow her own 
 guidance, or place herself in Mr Weir's hands, great mischief 
 would follow. After receiving John's letter, I urged our departure 
 for Paris as soon as possible. The change I hoped might be 
 serviceable to Mrs Weir, and it was a very dreary, uncomfortable 
 life \vc iv< re living at the little inn. 
 
 Movement was delightful to Miss Milicent. She was in high
 
 URSULA. 465 
 
 spirits on the morning we were to leave Andely, and took all the 
 arrangements of the journey on herself. We went back to Gaillon 
 in the shaky carriage which had lately been hired for Mrs Weir, 
 and sent Louise with the luggage by the little omnibus ; and 
 very different the road seemed to me, when viewed by the light 
 of a bright sun, from what it was on the evening of the dreary 
 journey which brought us to Andely. I felt exceedingly thank- 
 ful, that so far my plans might be said to have prospered, for 
 whatever might be the event as regarded the object for which I 
 had left England, at least I hoped to be instrumental in saving 
 Miss Milicent from further folly. 
 
 We were to take possession of the same rooms at Paris, which 
 Mr Weir and Miss Milicent had before occupied. Miss Milicent 
 assured me they would be very comfortable for her mother, and 
 I was obliged to trust to her. I believe the woman of the house 
 promised as many bedrooms as could be wanted; but, not 
 understanding French, I could only leave these things to others, 
 and content myself with paying — and very fast the money went. 
 When I was told that a French franc, so like our English shil- 
 ling, was tenpence, I fancied everything in France must be cheap, 
 and certainly they made us pay wonderfully little at Andely ; but 
 I soon changed my mind when we arrived at Paris. 
 
 The journey was short and easy, and Mrs Weir bore it very 
 well ; and though she did not take much notice of anything her- 
 self, she sat quiet and allowed me to look about as I wished. I 
 was in the first-class carriage with her, for Miss Milicent would 
 not undertake the charge of her father and mother both, and, 
 indeed, I think it would have been more than she could manage, 
 though it troubled me a little to find how Mrs Weir depended 
 upon me, and I thought how I should ever manage to leave her. 
 
 We entered Paris about half-past two, or nearly three o'clock. 
 Miss Milicent was highly excited. ' Now, Ursie, look — do you 
 see ? here is the station. We shall stop directly. You keep 
 with my mother. Father, don't you trouble yourself, I will see 
 to the luggage, and will come after you with it.' And the 
 moment the train stopped, Miss Milicent jumped out, called a 
 cab, or what in London we should say was a cab, made her father 
 and mother, Louise and myself, get into it, gave the direction to 
 the driver, and sent us off. What we were to do without her I 
 could not tell ; but she would not hear my expostulation, and 
 away we drove through the streets of tall houses, gay with shops, 
 and crowded with people — and my head was distracted with
 
 466 /. /. 
 
 the noise, and my thoughts reverted unci mfortably to the lug- 
 e, Left in the charge of Miss Miliccnt. I don't think I half 
 enjoyed that first sight of Paris, except in recollection. We 
 stopped in rather a narrow street, and entered a curt-yard. A 
 woman appeared from a little room like the bar-room at an hotel, 
 which opened into it, and there was some talk with Louise, and 
 on we went into an inner court, in which one or two pen; le were 
 standing, idling about. Louise knocked at a green door, and 
 made some more inquiries ; but Mr Weir, seeming quite at 
 home, entered, telling us to follow. Such a dirty, uncarpetcd, 
 winding staircase as we had to mount ! It was as though all 
 the little boys in Paris had been amusing themselves that morn- 
 ing, by running up and down with muddy shoes on. I hope Mrs 
 Weir did not notice it, but the way in which she put her foot upon 
 the first step made me fear she did. At the top, however, it was 
 better, the lobby was wide, and when we opened another door we 
 were in a dark but clean passage. 
 
 ' This will be your room, my dear,' said Mr Weir, as he threw 
 open the door of a little sitting-room with rather a grand air. I 
 had expected something very pretty ; but my dismay was great 
 when I saw a cheerless-looking apartment, with a polished floor, 
 a small table in one corner, looking as though it had come there 
 by accident, a chiffonnier, a {ew chairs, and a window looking 
 out upon the leads of the neighbouring house. 'And this will 
 be your bedroom,' continued Mr Weir, with the same grand air 
 which reminded me of the time when he had been accustomed 
 to show off the beauties of Dene. There was more hope in the 
 bedroom; a French bed always looks comfortable; and there 
 were besides one or two ornamental vases, and a little clock, and 
 some artificial flowers, and a sofa ; and the window fronted the 
 court-yard, in which were a few plants. Mrs Weir might make 
 herself at home there. Put that dreary salon ! It quite weighed 
 upon my mind. It need not have done so, however; I don't 
 think Mrs Wi.ir was able then to remark anything, she was too 
 <1, and I only had to put her upon the sofa, and make her 
 rest herself, till the e came. Mr Weir soon left her, which 
 
 was a blessing ; his presence always oppressed her. I hoped she 
 would fall asleep, but she was restless, and I was a little afraid 
 she might be feverish. At last, however, she did close her eyes, 
 and I was just thinking how glad I was, when a great noise was 
 heard outside the room, the door was burst open, and in came 
 two ir.cn with boxes, followed by Miss Miliccnt. ' There, Ursic ;
 
 URSULA. 467 
 
 now haven't I managed well ? Mother, how are you ? Louise, 
 where is Louise ?' and away hurried Miss Milicent, leaving the 
 two Frenchmen behind her. They stayed, evidently not for a 
 moment thinking they were in the way, talking and moving the 
 boxes about, and going out into the passage and bringing in 
 more packages, till Miss Milicent and Louise returned, and in- 
 creased chattering went on, and another man, I believe the 
 master of the house, was called up to settle some question about 
 payment. It nearly drove me frantic, till I heard Mrs Weir's 
 gentle voice say, — < Ursula, if they would be kind enough not to 
 speak quite so loudly I should be glad. My head is aching.' I 
 could not be frantic then, even for her. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 BEFORE I had been many days in Paris I was inexpressibly 
 thankful for the back rooms and the court-yard. The 
 noise in the streets was distracting ; a loud clatter, far worse than 
 the continual rumble in London. If I had been alone, and wish- 
 ing only to amuse myself, of course it would have been different. 
 I should have willingly borne the noise for the sake of seeing 
 everything ; but amusement was by no means in my thoughts. 
 I went out once or twice with Miss Milicent at her mother's re- 
 quest ; but I could less and less bear to leave Mrs Weir. She 
 was becoming very weak. The weight which had oppressed her 
 mind seemed now to be doing its work upon her body. In 
 London I should have said that she might have lived for years, 
 —a saddened, dreary life. In Paris, as I watched her day by 
 day, it seemed as though the breath of her existence was but the 
 nickering of a light flame, soon about to be extinguished for 
 ever. I doubt if any one saw it but myself. Mr Weir, in his 
 extreme selfishness, no sooner found himself settled in tolerable 
 comfort, and living at the expense of another, than he seemed to 
 set aside anything like care or thought, and to turn his atten- 
 tion only to the easiest means of whiling away the time which 
 hung heavy upon his hands. He was expecting M. Dalange, 
 and, as I soon understood, Mr Macdonald. When they arrived, 
 no doubt he fully anticipated gaining his point with his wife, and 
 plunging again into speculations. In the meantime, he rose very
 
 468 URSULA. 
 
 late, and went out as much as he could, taking Miss Milicent 
 with him ; she herself, as I perceived, being only too willing to 
 go. It surprised me less, as I saw more of Paris, that Miss 
 Milicent should have had such a twisted sense of her duty 
 whilst living there. It is a city to make one forgetful. There is 
 in it such a tone of living for this world's pleasures. To think 
 of self-denial and self-discipline when walking through the 
 Boulevards, or driving up the Champs Elysdes, seems as much 
 out of place as a sermon in a ball-room. No doubt there arc 
 very good and earnest people to be found there : it would be ex- 
 tremely uncharitable to say the contrary. But as in London the 
 chief thought seems to be how best to transact worldly business, 
 so in Paris the one ever-present object appears to be how to fu.d 
 worldly amusement. 
 
 I dared not sound Mrs Weir as to her wishes for any future 
 plans. I could only divert her mind, and occupy it as best I 
 might for the present, hoping that when John Hervcy arrived, I 
 should see my way more clearly. I had written home again, 
 and hoped, now that we were in Paris, I might hear frequently 
 and more regularly, if I set a good example. One disadvantage, 
 however, I found, was likely to arise from being moderately 
 within reach of England. I was not as before free from Mrs 
 Temple's interference. She wrote to me almost immediately on 
 my arrival in Paris, complaining that I did not consult her, or 
 tell her anything, and calling herself very ill-used. In return I 
 reminded her that I had given her all general information, 
 and for medical particulars begged to refer her to Dr Green, 
 to whom I had written fully. Mrs Temple was one of thooc 
 persons who can only be controlled by men. There was a hint, 
 almost a threat, at the end of one of her letters, that if I was n t 
 more communicative, she should think it her duty to follow us 
 to Paris to see how matters were going on ; but I would not 
 dwell upon the idea, hoping it was only a mode of venting her 
 irritation. 
 
 A thankful day it was for me when I heard that John 
 Hervcy might be expected in Paris the next evening. The 
 news came in a businessdikc note to Miss Milicent, and a very 
 great excitement it put her into. She came to me as I was 
 sitting in Mrs Weir's room after breakfast, and beckoned me to 
 the door. ' Here, Ursie! here,' she said in a loud whisper, whii h 
 I knew Mrs Weir particularly disliked. ' What is to be done? 
 He is coming. I am not prepared to see him ; you must settle it.'
 
 URSULA. 469 
 
 I left the room, closing the door behind me. ' John Hervey, 
 do you mean, Miss Milicent ?' I said. 
 
 'Yes; come here, Ursie,' and she drew me into a tiny bed- 
 room, originally meant for a dressing-room, the chief furniture of 
 which, besides the bed, consisted of a large black trunk. ' You 
 see, I have said nothing to my father ; and what is to be done 
 with Mr Hervey when he arrives ?' 
 
 ' He will go to an hotel, no doubt,' I said. ' He does not ex- 
 pect to be received here.' 
 
 ' What folly you talk, Ursie Grant ! He could sleep in the 
 passage, if sleeping were all. But who is to begin business with 
 him?' 
 
 ' You, Miss Milicent,' I said. ' Mr Weir is never out of his 
 room till twelve o'clock. You will have a couple of hours in the 
 morning quite undisturbed.' 
 
 She did not wish the difficulty to be surmounted so easily. ' I 
 mightn't be ready for him at that time ; and I don't see how I 
 am to explain matters. He had better wait and talk to M. 
 Dalange and Mr Macdonald.' 
 
 ' That may be necessary. But he must hear some statement 
 from you first, Miss Milicent.' 
 
 'Must! must! It is all a mistake, Ursie. You had better 
 never have advised me to send for him.' 
 
 She was the most provoking of women ; but if driven up into 
 a corner, I knew she would manage for herself, and I was quite 
 resolved not to manage for her ; so I merely said that I thought 
 if I were in her place I should make a memorandum of anything 
 I might wish to say or explain to Mr Hervey ; and with this 
 suggestion I left her; and soon afterwards she went out with 
 her father. In the evening, however, before I went to bed, she 
 called me again into her room, and holding up a sheet of 
 scrawled paper, exclaimed — 'There ! it's done ; all ready ; every- 
 thing put down. He will understand from this better than any 
 lawyer would explain. And he is a sensible man. He is not 
 like you, Ursie.' 
 
 I never so fully comprehended before the lesson to be learned 
 from the practice of birds, when they bring their young ones to 
 the edge of the nest, and, giving them a push, force them to 
 discover the use of their own wings. Miss Milicent was the 
 strangest mixture of wilfulness and dependence I ever met with; 
 but I suspect that all strong points of character have an opposite 
 weakness existing with them.
 
 47o URSULA. 
 
 \ I!< rv( y*s visit was ostensibly to me. That was a great 
 comfort to me, for it would give me the opportunity of seeing 
 him alone, and hearing all he hid to tell me of Sandcombe. 
 
 When I was not occupied with Mrs Weir, I was beginning to 
 long for home, not merely from anxiety about Jessie, but from a 
 it il wish to be there again. 
 
 Two days afterwards, he arrived late in the evening. Mrs Weir, 
 being more tired than usual, had gone to bed very early ; and I 
 was working in her room, watching till she was asleep. I 1 
 my meals in a little room, used by the people of the house for 
 chance purposes, a kind of waiting-room ; and I was just ex- 
 pecting to be called down to supper, when Louise came to tell 
 me that a stranger wished to speak to me. I motioned to her 
 to take my place, and ran down-stairs. It was a new joy to me to 
 meet a friend in that foreign land, and I rushed into the 
 room, exclaiming, — 'O Mr Hervey, this is pleasant!' and 
 holding out both my hands, gave his such a hearty shake 
 welcome, as I am sure they never received from me before. He 
 was much quieter than I was ; but I could not think him unkind, 
 for he asked so anxiously how I was, and whether I was much 
 worried, and was evidently so interested about me. Yet I did 
 not inquire in return what kind of journey he had had, which 
 was very selfish in me, but I began upon Sandcombe news 
 directly, making him laugh as he answered me, by every now 
 and then bursting into the middle of a sentence with the excla- 
 mation — ' I am so glad to see you. I don't think 1 was ever so 
 glad to see a friend before.' 
 
 ' And so you have not brought me anything from Roger,' I 
 said at last, after there was a moment's pause. 'I thin': he 
 might have written.' 
 
 'He has not so much time as he used to have,' was the reply. 
 ' lie is turning quite into a gay man, Ursie.' 
 
 ' Not with his own consent,' I said. 
 
 ' Well ! I don't know, if a man and his wife, as they say, are 
 one. And what is a poor fellow in Roger's case to do ?' John 
 Hervey did not speak lightly, though the words might have 
 tided so. 
 
 ' Roger is strong enough to be master,' I said ; ' and he ought 
 to I 
 
 ' It is not so easy as you think, Ursie, to be that ; especially 
 when a man has once set out on a wrong tack ; you won't mind 
 my saying that.'
 
 URSULA. 471 
 
 e Not at all,' I replied, and in fact I felt relieved, and added : 
 'it has been in my thoughts, Mr Hervey, longer than you may 
 think, though I have not said anything.' 
 
 ' I was sure of it ; Mrs Kemp, and Mary, and I, were talking 
 only the other evening, and saying that if you were at home we 
 were sure you would be vexed.' 
 
 ' But why does not Mrs Kemp write to me?' I exclaimed; 
 ' I begged her to do so.' 
 
 ' I can't exactly say why, seeing I don't know what you told 
 her to write about ; but what she would most likely have to tell, 
 Ursie, would be things better explained by word of mouth than 
 by letter. They might be made too much of if they were written 
 down.' 
 
 ' I dread trifles,' I said. 
 
 ' So do I,' was his reply, ' especially between a man and his 
 wife in the first year of their married life. They are both ex- 
 ploring in unknown lands, and it's an anxious thing to look on 
 and see which way the discoveries are tending, whether to 
 happiness or the contrary.' 
 
 ' Roger's discoveries seemed all satisfactory when I left home,' 
 I said. 
 
 ' Perhaps they were, I don't say they are not so now. But, 
 Ursie, I do think that Roger must be surprised to find what a 
 taste his wife has for gaieties, and it's a good thing he does not 
 hear the remarks I hear about it.' 
 
 ' People are extremely ill-natured,' I said. ' When a woman is 
 married, she is expected to alter her tastes and become domestic 
 and stay at home all at once. Now, any one may know that such 
 sudden changes are not in human nature.' 
 
 ' And men might do well to consider that before they marry,' 
 said John, thoughtfully. ' No offence to our friend, Roger, 
 Ursie, than whom a better man does not live. But, I own, it does 
 fret me to hear observations made about his wife which, if they 
 were made about my sister, if I had one, I should shut her up.' 
 
 I started. ' Remarks made upon Jessie!' I exclaimed. 'Is 
 she really so imprudent ? O Mr Hervey ! this is far worse than 
 I had imagined.' 
 
 ' Now, don't be so hasty,' he answered, laughing a little. ' I 
 did not say anything, or, at least, mean anything, which you need 
 take such fright at. I am so particular myself, that to hear a 
 sister of mine called flighty would be enough to make me turn 
 the key upon her, and say, " Stay at home, because you are n t
 
 47-2 URSULA. 
 
 fit to go out ;" but that is not the way of the world, you know. 
 Ursic ; and young women in the present day have very free-and- 
 easy fashions, and yet after a time come all right.' 
 
 'I bate their fashions,' I exclaimed; 'for a womnn to bring 
 herself into such notice by dress, or manner, or action, let the 
 thing be ever so innocent in itself, is detestable.' 
 
 'I quite agree with you,' he said; 'and all th.it I meant 
 about Jessie was, that she does manage to do things which draw 
 such notice. Her dress is one point, and I heard Mrs Kemp 
 say she did think she should mention that to you. It is my 
 belief that somehow or other your sister-in-law takes the patterns 
 after Mrs Price ; any way, I know that when I saw her in church 
 last Sunday I did not know her, she had such a showy look, and 
 r was quite grave when some one joked him about it.' 
 
 ' She is too silly,' I replied ; ' she has always been a perfect 
 baby about dress, taking to every new fashion as it came out, and 
 never once considering how unfitting it might be.' 
 
 ' There is one thing graver than all, though,' said John, ' as 
 we have stumbled upon the subject. I didn't mean to worry you 
 about it, only' 
 
 ' Tell me everything,' I exclaimed ; 'let me know the worst.' 
 
 ' How impatient you are ! Not at all changed for being in 
 France,' said John, laughing. ' You may probably know as 
 much as I do, for it concerns the past more than the present.' 
 
 ' The past ! ' I said ; ' what past ? What do you mean ? I 
 know nothing.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' he replied. 'Not that Jessie was writing letters 
 to Mr Macdonald, and encouraging him, up to the very day she 
 accepted Roger?' 
 
 'To the best of my knowledge,' I replied, 'she refused Mr 
 Macdonald flatly, and afterwards never had anything to do with 
 him, except going over to Dene occasionally with Miss Milicent.' 
 
 ' The world does not say so,' answered John, gravely. 
 
 'Then the world tells falsehoods, as it always does,' I re- 
 plied. 
 
 ' I wouldn't have you be so sure of that,' he answered. ' It 
 is said that Mr Macdonald has letters of hers in his possession, 
 and that he shows them about as a proof of her having jilted 
 him.' 
 
 I did not start then, or even speak ; I sat quite still, for I felt 
 stunned. 
 
 'Have I troubled you so very much?' said John, looking
 
 URSULA 473 
 
 much distressed. ' I thought, to be sure, you knew everything, 
 and Roger too. Many girls will flirt with one man, and then 
 turn round and marry another ; though I can say nothing to 
 excuse them. But, of course, in such a case people will talk.' 
 
 ' Talk ! ' I exclaimed, and the sound of my voice was, even to 
 my own ears, sharpened by anger and misery. ' Talk of Roger's 
 wife ! O Mr Hervcy ! is it to be borne ?' 
 
 ' Ursie, you must be reasonable,' he said, and his tone, though 
 kind, was severe. ' 1 will tell you nothing if you will not use 
 common sense to control yourself. I had not the least idea of 
 raising such a storm.' 
 
 ' You don't know,' I replied, ' you can little imagine what 
 may come from all this. Jessie a jilt ! Think what Roger 
 would say ! ' 
 
 ' I don't like to think,' he said. ' But no one can undo the 
 past. What I really want to explain to you is the state of things 
 at present.' 
 
 ' I don't want explanation,' I replied, proudly. ' I scorn the 
 opinion of the world. Let Jessie have been what she may, she 
 is as true in heart to her husband now as the most model wife 
 that ever breathed.' 
 
 ' So say I,' replied John, ' so says Mrs Kemp, so say all who 
 really know her. But the world will not judge her so kindly, 
 Ursie, when it sees her seeking the company of such persons as 
 Mrs Price and her friends, — walking with them in Hove, joining 
 them after church, — and this besides going out visiting far more 
 than people are used to in our neighbourhood, and dressing in a 
 way which even quiet Mrs Richardson has been heard to lament 
 as setting a bad example. A woman's character before marriage 
 follows her afterwards, Ursie, as you yourself will be inclined to 
 allow ; and people who declare that Jessie was a flirt and a jilt 
 — it grieves me to use the words, though I only tell you what I 
 hear — before she became Roger's wife, still look askance at her; 
 especially when Mr Macdonald goes about talking of all that 
 went on with him, and Mrs Price is heard to lament that her 
 poor little friend has made a mistake.' 
 
 ' They are mean, miserable, revengeful,' I exclaimed. ' There 
 is no truth nor honour in them.' 
 
 ' I don't think there is,' he replied. ' I am quite sure, indeed, 
 from things I have heard, that Mr Macdonald speaks ill of her 
 from spite and wounded vanity. He does not choose to let it be 
 believed that another was really preferred to him.'
 
 URSULA. 
 
 'And Mrs Price is spiteful also,' I said. 'She had reckoned 
 
 upon Jessie as one of her own set, and she is provoked with her 
 having married out of it ; and now she is resolved to have 
 her . whether it is Roger's will or not I don't care 
 
 for tli m, Mr Hervey. I don't care for the world, or its opinions, 
 or its talk, except with the anger of a moment What I do care 
 
 for is ' 
 
 :,' said John, and his voice trembled, I thought, with 
 
 kindly sympathy. I would not look towards him ; I could not 
 
 bear him to sec my tears. 'You have been more Roger's wife 
 
 in devotion to him than Jessie has been,' he added, 'though her 
 
 may be great now.' 
 
 I paused to reply. An indescribable yearning for affection — 
 a sense of wasted feelings — oppressed me. It was sonv thing 
 with which I could not trust myself, and I turned from the sub- 
 ject abruptly, and said, 'We must talk now of Mrs Weir ; we 
 ■ said enough of Sandcombc.' 
 
 All John Ilervey's thoughtful tenderness of manner vanished, 
 I could not tell why. He became the straightforward, prudent 
 man of business ; and in a few moments we were as deep in the 
 intricacies and difficulties of Mrs Weir's afi'airs as though R03 I 
 and Jessie, Sandcombe and Dene, had existed only in fiction. 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 MISS MILICENT would not see John Hervey that even- 
 ing, and I was half afraid that she might take it into her 
 head again to make some excuse the next morning ; but she 
 came to me soon after eight o'clock, prepared, as she said, 
 to go into all particulars. I think her resolution had been 
 strengthened by hearing that M. Dalange might be in Paris 
 almost immediately. She wished me to be present at the inter- 
 view ; but I declined. My position in the family was already 
 sufficiently awkward. I had more authority than could prop I 
 have belonged to me under ordinary circumstances, and it was 
 a perpetual effort to me to keep my place so as not to create 
 ill-will. I was more especially particular as regarded money 
 matters. What I had done already was entirely on the plea of 
 ", health, for which I felt myself responsible. I 1
 
 URSULA. 475 
 
 no business to interfere in any other way, and I had already 
 made John Hervey aware of the danger I dreaded from Miss 
 Milicent's imprudence, so that he would be quite sufficiently on 
 his guard. 
 
 The interview was a very long one. I began to be fidgety as 
 it drew near to twelve o'clock, lest Mr Weir should come out of 
 his room, and be roused by the sight of a stranger ; but, just as 
 the clock struck, the door of the salon opened, and John Hervey 
 ran down-stairs, whilst Miss Milicent went to her room. That 
 augured no satisfaction on her part ; if she had been pleased, 
 she would have come at once to tell me. 
 
 Mr Weir had his breakfast, and read his letters. I happened 
 to go into the room at the time, and remarked that he looked 
 troubled. He spoke to me hastily, and desired me to tell Miss 
 Milicent to be ready for him in ten minutes. This was an excuse 
 for going to her, which I was glad to have. She heard my mes- 
 sage without making any reply ; but as I was going away, she 
 called me back again. 
 
 ' You are dying to know, Ursie. I wish you would speak out 
 and say what you want. Your John Hervey and I have had a 
 quarrel.' 
 
 I replied that I had fancied as much. 
 
 ' Yes ; we have had a quarrel, and we may have many more 
 before we have done. He talks law to me, and I can't endure 
 law.' 
 
 ' Only, unfortunately, Miss Milicent, we are all forced to do 
 so,' I said. 
 
 ' I don't choose to be forced. I never have attended to it yet, 
 and I don't see why I am to begin now. It may be law, but it 
 isn't justice, Ursie Grant, that a woman should not have the 
 control of her own money.' 
 
 ' And how can Mr Hervey interfere ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' He says there are trustees. I don't care for trustees. When 
 my old aunt left me my money, she meant me to do what I liked 
 with it, for she was very fond of me. She always gave me five 
 shillings at Christmas, and half-a-crown at Easter, and she never 
 dreamed of my being worried in this way.' 
 
 ' But if Mr Hervey tells you the truth, Miss Milicent,' I replied, 
 'you will scarcely be angry with him.' 
 
 ' I don't see that. When the doctor gives you a dose of medi- 
 cine, you are not obliged to him, and, ten to one, but you would 
 throw it away if you could,'
 
 47 6 URSULA. 
 
 ' Not quite,' I answered. ' I take it, though I dislike it.' 
 
 'Well! and so have I taken whit John Ileivey says. I 
 listened to him like a lamb ; but I told him 1 didn't believe a 
 word he said ; and I mean to talk to my Hither about it.' 
 
 This would indeed produce a storm. I trembled for the con- 
 sequences of my advice when I thought how it might affect .Mrs 
 Weir. 'Is Mr Hervey coming here again, Mis; Milicent?' I 
 asked. 
 
 'I don't know. He will be of little use if he does c 
 What am I to say to M. Dalange ? ' 
 
 'That you can have nothing to do with his schemes, I 
 imagine.' 
 
 ' Very well for you to say, Ursie,' was her answer ; ' but if you 
 
 have to save a father from ruin ' her voice trembled, and she 
 
 stopped. 
 
 It was very true. In my interest for Mrs Weir I forgot the 
 claims of the other parent, and I longed to see John again, that 
 1 might hear from himself what advice he had given. From 
 .Miss Milicent I could expect nothing but vagueness. She went 
 out with her father, and left me alone with Mrs Weir. It was a 
 very cold day, and the wood tire, though bright and cheerful, 
 did not thoroughly heat the apartment like one of English coal. 
 Mrs Weir sat hovering over it. I could not make her warm, 
 though I wrapped her in shawls, and rubbed her feet and hands. 
 She only allowed me to do this for a little while, and said she 
 was afraid I should tire myself. 'And it is not well to be waited 
 upon so much, Ursula,' she added ; 'so you had better go out 
 and leave me.' 
 
 ' I have not read to you to-day, dear ma'am,' I replied. 
 ' Perhaps if you would let me do that you would be better.' 
 
 ' No ; not now, thank you. I am cold, Ursula. People in 
 Paris are always cold. They said so when I was young. It was 
 a long time ago. I came to Paris then, and I had a little sister, 
 and she came too, and somebody else came. But I wish to do 
 my duty to my husband, and so I am with him. If he wishes 
 to go back, I shall go back too.' 
 
 There was a connection of ideas in the speech, incoherent 
 though it was. I, who knew her history, could trace it, and I 
 thought I would try the experiment of taking her back to those 
 old times. ' Were you a large party, ma'am,' I said, ' when you 
 first came to Paris ?' 
 
 'There were five of us, Ursula ; my father, and my mother,
 
 URSULA. 477 
 
 and my sister, and — my husband doesn't like his name men- 
 tioned, so you won't ask me about him. But Paradise is a 
 haupy place. He must be quite at home there now, for he has 
 been there a long time.' 
 
 ' It won't be very long before we shall all be at home there, I 
 hope, dear ma'am,' I said. 
 
 ' Not long ; — no ; and Mr Richardson said, one day, I need 
 not be afraid, and I don't think I am. But, Ursula, I should 
 like to be thankful as I ought ; for you know heaven is a gift.' 
 
 ' It is not easy to be thankful aright, I am afraid, ma'am,' I 
 said ; ' many care so much more for earth than they do for 
 heaven.' 
 
 'Is it so?' and Mrs Weir looked up at me with an air of 
 momentary wonder. ' They cannot know what it is. Ursula, do 
 you ever think how pleasant the angels' language will be?' 
 
 Think ! alas ! that future existence in which Mrs Weir 
 already lived, was to me — busy, and anxious, and interested 
 in the things of this life — still far, far off. I laid my hand upon 
 hers, and said : ' Dear ma'am, I have never learned to think as 
 I ought, though you have often tried to teach me, but if you will 
 tell me now about the angels' language, I am sure I shall be glad 
 to listen.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' she replied, sadly, but very gently. ' It cannot be 
 told, it can only be thought about. My mind wanders when with 
 you, Ursula. It never wanders with my Saviour, only sometimes 
 it grows so mournful because He suffered, and had no help, and 
 no one thanked Him. And then I do not quite know about my 
 life now ; I cannot think, and I forget ; yet I still talk to Him ; 
 and if my head is confused He understands. But I should like 
 the angels' language. They must always tell quite what they 
 mean, and I cannot.' 
 
 Mrs Weir passed her hand over her eyes, and a painful look 
 of bewilderment rested on her features. Yes, she was confused, 
 troubled, — life was a misty perplexity to her ; yet through it all, 
 the Love which is the one great, enduring reality, was growing, 
 and strengthening, and gathering into itself every other feeling, 
 — even that which had been the blissful dream of her youth. 
 She was urgent with me that I should go out ; and, finding that 
 I really could be of no material use to her for the next hour or 
 two, I consented, as I had really seen very little of Paris, and the 
 woman of the house had promised to take me to the Hotel de 
 Ville, and several other places which she said were worth seeing.
 
 478 LA. 
 
 A greater contrast could n . have existed than between the 
 quietness and sacredness of Mrs Weir's room, with the sociay 
 of one whose thou re dwelling with tl Is, and I 
 
 crowd which thronged the streets of Paris. I was am / d : 
 ] i ,.! |p being so, and for the time I grossed by 
 
 the scene. Now, I doubt if I could be, under similar circum- 
 uces ; but those were comparatively young days, and life, 
 with all its trials, and even some at the moment very pressing, 
 was full of novelty and excitement in that foreign land. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXl. 
 
 WE went to the Hotel de Ville, and the Church of Notre 
 Dame, and afterwards to the Palais dc Justice and 
 the Sainte Chapelle. My eyes were dazzled with bright colours, 
 and I was almost tired of saying, 'How beautiful!' for I had 
 never seen anything in England that could be in the least 
 compared to the grandeur and richness of the buildings in 
 Paris. Put my mind was a little distracted by the thought of 
 John Hervey. I did so very much wish to sec him, and hear 
 from his own lips what had passed in his interview with Miss 
 Milicent. I looked for him at every turn, fancying I should 
 know his English face and figure at any distance ; but it was 
 a useless search, and I had given up the wish as foolish, 
 when just as we were ascending the steps leading to the Palais 
 de Justice, a party came up whom I recognised as .Mr Weir, 
 Miss Milicent, and, I thought, M. Dalange. I don't know 
 that I was exactly surprised to see them M. Dalange had been 
 expected every day, but I very much disliked meeting him, and 
 I hurried forward with my companion, hoping the others would 
 go into the Sainte Chapelle, and that I might in that way lose 
 sight of them. But the Sainte Chapelle did not appear to be 
 their object. Miss Milicent and her father remained in the 
 open space in front of the Palais de Justice. M. Dalange came 
 up the steps, hurried by me without noticing me, and went — 
 where I could not tell. It was along a passage, and through a 
 door, but he was evidently at home in the place, and his visit 
 had nothing to do with sight-seeing. The Palais de Justice did 
 not interest me ven much, and it seemed as if we were intruding
 
 URSULA. 479 
 
 amongst the lawyers, but I still lingered, being unwilling to 
 encounter Mr Weir and Miss Milicent. In about five minutes, 
 M. Dalange appeared again. I saw him go down the steps, and 
 watched him talking eagerly to Mr Weir, and then they seemed 
 to turn upon Miss Milicent, who looked very eager and excited. 
 After a while they left the place, and I thought I saw Miss 
 Milicent and Mr Weir get into a cab, but I was not quite sure. 
 I had not yet been into the Sainte Chapelle, and I was told that 
 it was more worth seeing than anything in Paris, so very richly 
 ornamented with beautiful colours and gilding ; but — I don't 
 know why it was — the sight of the persons whom I had just 
 been watching, had rather destroyed my pleasure, and I felt as 
 though I did not care for the Sainte Chapelle. My thoughts 
 dwelt more upon Miss Milicent, left to be worked upon by those 
 men. She seemed to me entangled in a net, and I half regretted 
 not having gone up to her, that at least she might have had the 
 opportunity of speaking, if there was anything amiss. I stood 
 looking at the spot from which I fancied the carriage had driven 
 off, and without turning my head made an observation as I 
 thought to my companion, when to my surprise and satisfaction, 
 it was answered by the friendly voice of John Hervey. ' Ursie, 
 here alone !' 
 
 ' No, not alone,' I answered, pointing to my friend ; ' but 
 where did you come from ? I have been looking for you all the 
 morning, This seems quite a meeting place. Mr Weir and 
 Miss Milicent and M. Dalange have just been here.' 
 
 ' Who ? Not that rogue, Dalange V 
 
 'Yes,' I said ; ' I am sure I was not mistaken.' John moved 
 as though he would have rushed away from me, but he stopped 
 short. 
 
 ' How long have they been gone? which way did they go ?' 
 
 ' They are but just gone, not two minutes. Mr Weir, I think, 
 was in a cab with Miss Milicent. Look, in that direction, to 
 the right. What are you so anxious about?' 
 
 ' I did not expect M. Dalange so soon,' he said ; 'and Miss 
 Milicent is so ignorant, she knows nothing whatever of money 
 matters. They will get every penny from her, and it is all a 
 fraud, a monstrous fraud.' 
 
 ' But she can't do anything without the consent of the trustees,' 
 I said. 'You told her that yourself.' 
 
 ' But these men may make her take responsibilities upon her- 
 self which the trustees can't refuse to acknowledge. I talked to
 
 4 ) URSULA. 
 
 Iter, Ursie, this morning, till I was hoarse. She was mad with 
 mc ; but I would make her hear me, and I hoped I had stop 
 the thing for the time. I have been writing this very day to 
 one of the trustees, who is a lawyer, begging him to interfere' 
 
 ' That will only make matters worse,' I said ; 'the very name 
 ol a lawyer makes her angry.' 
 
 'Then she must go her own way,' he said. ' If it is to ruin, 
 it must be so.' 
 
 ' No,' I exclaimed, ' it must not be. Mr Hervey, you must 
 stop her;' and I caught his arm as he was turning away from 
 me. 
 
 He stood in silent thought. 
 
 ' For her mother's sake, — for mine. O Mr Hervey ! it is 
 very near my heart.' 
 
 1 Everything is near your heart, Ursie,' he exclaimed, 'except 
 — but you wish it — I will try, though I have no hope ;' and so he 
 left me. 
 
 I entered the Sninte Chapellc. It was wonderfully beautiful, 
 but I had not the heart to enjny it. I felt thoroughly disap- 
 p tinted. John Hervey's coming was of no use, and the counsel 
 which I had thought so wise, so sure to bring everything right, 
 had failed. I became entirely desponding, and went back to the 
 lodgings, prepared to find that all I most feared with respect to 
 Mis Weir had occurred, that Mr Weir had taken advantage of 
 my absence to press upon her those unfortunate business matters, 
 and that, in consequence, the work of weeks had been wholly 
 undone. But Mrs Weir was lying quietly on the sofa, and 
 Louise sitting by her at work. Mr Weir and Miss Milicent, I 
 was told, had not returned, but the dinner was nearly ready, and 
 it was supposed they would be in almost immediately. Soon 
 afterwards, as I was in my room, I heard Miss Milicent come 
 up-stairs, but she went directly to her own apartment, and locked 
 the door. That was about half-past five. We waited till six, 
 seven, half-past seven, still Mr Weir did not appear, and Miss 
 Miliccnt's answer, when we knocked at her door to ask about 
 him, was that she knew nothing, she did not want any dinner, 
 she had a headache ; and still no one was admitted to her apart- 
 ment. Mrs Weir was aware of something unusual, for h r 
 husband generally paid her a visit of a few minutes every day 
 before dinner. This day of course she missed him, but she was 
 satisfied on being told that he must have had some engagement 
 to detain him. I was thankful that she remained so quiet, but I
 
 URSULA. 481 
 
 began to be uneasy myself; and I could not prevail upon Miss 
 Milicent to admit me to her room, or to give any answer to what 
 was asked, except that she would not be disturbed. I persuaded 
 Mrs Weir to go to bed early. She inquired several times for 
 her husband, but, like a child, was satisfied as soon as the slightest 
 i-eason was given for his non-appearance. Miss Milicent opened 
 her door to take in a cup of coffee and a roll, but this was all. I 
 was sure that something painful had occurred, but all my trust 
 lay in John Hervey. Whatever it might be, he would surely 
 come to tell me of it, and I listened to every footstep on the 
 stairs, and every noise of an opening door, thinking there would 
 be some tidings of him. Louise went to bed. I sat up. Latterly 
 I had slept on a little sofa in Mrs Weir's room. She was often 
 restless at night, and I was afraid to leave her alone. It must 
 have been half-past ten o'clock, and I was thinking whether I 
 ought not to summon courage once more to apply to Miss Milicent 
 to throw some light upon the mystery, when I did really hear 
 sounds of an arrival, talking at the foot of the stairs, questions 
 and answers, and one voice, — I thought I could not be deceived, 
 yet I listened several times before I could feel sure — it was cer- 
 tainly Mrs Temple's. 
 
 The sinking of my heart, the trembling nervousness which 
 came over me, caused me to catch hold of the nearest chair, as 
 though seized with faintness. Before I could recover myself, 
 Miss Milicent was standing in the passage, like myself, listening. 
 She saw me, and seizing me by the arm, dragged me into her 
 room, and again locked the door. 
 
 ' Ursie Grant, is it she? You have sent for her, you are in 
 league with her,' and she looked at me with fierce anger. 
 
 'I don't understand you, Miss Milicent,' I said. ' I believe 
 it is Mrs Temple ; but why she is come, I know no more than 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' But you wrote to her.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' I said. 
 
 ' Then John Hervey did ; some one must have told her.' 
 
 ' No one,' I replied, ' that I am aware of. And, Miss Milicent, 
 you know she has been threatening to come for the last week.' 
 
 'But just now, — to triumph over me, — to get me under her 
 power ! Ursie, I won't bear it.' 
 
 It was all a mystery, and I had no time to inquire into it, for 
 a servant came to say that Mrs Temple was in the salon. 
 
 I drew back for Miss Milicent to pass before me ; but she 
 
 2 h
 
 .. 
 
 LI • the black trunl I bei arms, and said 
 
 quietly, ' I shall not 
 
 ' But, indeed, Miss Milicent, 1 I observed, 'if you will excuse 
 me for saying so, you must. It is not my place to receive Mrs 
 Temple. 1 
 
 1 1 don't move. You may go and tell her what she ■ 
 know, and send her away.' 
 
 ' I have nothing to tell,' I replied ' Miss Milicent, you have 
 kept us all sadly in suspen 
 
 'Kept you in suspense/ she exclaimed. * Ursic, you 
 pretending ; it is your plan. You know as well as I do that we 
 are all gone to ruin again ; and that my father is off. John 
 Hervey may have meant well, but he has acted cruelly.' 
 
 ' It is no plan of mine,' I said, trying not to be angry at her 
 accusation. ' I know nothing, though I can guess something. 
 John Hervey told me that the speculation of M. Delange was a 
 fraud, and I suppose he has interfered to stop it.' 
 
 'Interfered by French law!' she exclaimed, 'which is no 
 better than English. The man may be in prison now for aught 
 I know to the contrary ; perhaps it may be the best place for 
 him ; but my father is off again, and now you may go and tell 
 Matilda Temple that, and let her rejoice over it.' 
 
 She stood up and pointed to the door with an air which was 
 almost dignified in its proud bitterness. I could not urge my point 
 further. The key was turned as soon as I had left the apart- 
 ment, and I had to face Mrs Temple alone. As I passed Mrs 
 Weir's room, I looked in. She was sleeping, and oh ! how ear- 
 nestly I prayed that she might be gaining strength for the trials 
 which were awaiting her ! 
 
 'I was not expected, I perceive,' was Mrs Temple's 
 greeting, as I entered the salon. She had drawn her chair to 
 the fire, and was endeavouring to stir up the dying embers. 
 
 ' Xo, ma'am,' I replied, 'you were not expected, and I am 
 afraid you will find it cold. Can anything be got for you? 
 Weir is not at hi 1 Miss Milicent has a bad head- 
 
 ache.' 
 
 ' I see,' she said, sternly, ' it is as I expected. Young woman, 
 you are to understand that you are no longer mistress in this 
 family. If Milicent Weir is as weakly blind as her mother, I 
 warn you there are others on the watch for her interests, who will 
 not let her be cajoled to ruin by the arts of a cunning girL' I 
 was taken by surprise, yet I did not lose my calmness. Mrs
 
 URSULA. 483 
 
 Temple's manner and words always had the effect of giving me 
 a feeling of indifference and self-possession. 
 
 ' I suppose, ma'am,' I said, ' that you refer to myself. If you 
 will have the goodness to explain your meaning, I will answer 
 you as best I may.' 
 
 ' No doubt you have an answer ready,' she exclaimed ; ' but I 
 require actions, not words. I insist upon your instantly giving 
 up the charge of Mrs Weir to me, and making your arrange- 
 ments for returning to England to-morrow. It is for that pur- 
 pose I am come.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it will be impossible to oblige you, ma'am,' I 
 replied ; ' I am responsible to Dr Green, who placed me in my 
 present position, and Mr Weir and Miss Milicent also must have 
 a voice in the matter. When they and Mrs Weir wish me to go, 
 I shall be quite ready, indeed glad, to do so, but I could not 
 make any change by myself. And perhaps,' I added, ' you will 
 be good enough to let me know the grounds upon which you 
 wish me to do so.' 
 
 ' It is easy to pretend ignorance,' she replied ; 'but there are 
 proofs which you will find it anything but easy to answer. Do 
 you know this handwriting ? ' and she produced a portion of a 
 torn letter from her pocket-book, and pushed the candle towards 
 me. 
 
 ' It is my sister-in-law's handwriting,' I said, feeling very 
 much startled. 
 
 ' Ah ! you own that ; perhaps this too will throw some light 
 upon my business.' She showed me another long letter signed 
 ' J. Macdonald,' and pointed to the postscript, ' I enclose a 
 portion of a note from Mrs Grant, which will confirm my asser- 
 tions.' 
 
 I felt the colour forsake my cheeks, and I sat down in the 
 nearest chair, for I trembled all over ; but it was not for any 
 cause that Mrs Temple would divine. 
 
 She kept her eyes fixed upon me. ' You had better confess at 
 once,' she said. 'You see that I have the power of discerning 
 all your machinations. Your giddy sister-in-law is not likely to 
 keep your secrets from her friends at Dene.' 
 
 Angry and agitated though I was, I managed to reply, quietly : 
 ' Whatever my sister-in-law's note may have contained, ma'am, it 
 could be no confidential communication about me, for Jessie has 
 nothing to tell.' 
 
 ' That may or may not be,' said Mrs Temple, in the same
 
 4S4 URSULA. 
 
 satirical tone. ' Mrs Grant at least writes to them openly, and 
 tells them your plans, and your address, as you may sec for your- 
 self,' and she again put the torn paper into my hand. 
 
 My eyes were dim ; everything seemed to swim before me, and 
 it was with difficulty I could make out the words : ' Indeed you 
 must believe that I tell you all I know. Ursula does not say 
 when she shall return home. She is still at the same lodgings in 
 Paris with Mrs Weir, and I do not see how she can leave her. 
 I think but for her they would all go to ruin again, but she 
 manages everything her own way ; even Mr Weir docs exactly 
 what she wishes.' 
 
 ' Mrs Weir is much obliged to you, doubtless,' continued 
 Mrs Temple, scarcely giving me time to finish, 'for managing 
 everything for her, but her friends would like to inquire a little 
 more minutely into the particulars of this management. There 
 have been some singular interferences of late. Mr Hervcy, I 
 understand, is in Paris, summoned thither by Milicent Weir. A 
 very singular adviser, certainly. Doubtless that was upon your 
 recommendation.' 
 
 I made no direct answer to this last remark. I cared nothing 
 for Mrs Temple's insinuations, nothing at that moment for any- 
 thing or any person except Roger and Jessie. With the heavy, 
 heavy aching at my heart, I was only anxious to come at once to 
 the root of all this mystery, and so to rid myself of it. Confront- 
 ing Mrs Temple without shrinking, I answered, ' I can make no 
 l ply or explanation as to anything you have said, ma'am, unless 
 you will do me the favour to tell me plainly and openly what it 
 is which you accuse me of, and how you have gained your infor- 
 mation. If you decline this, I am afraid I shall be obliged to 
 leave you as it is very late, and I shall be afraid of disturbing 
 Mrs Weir by conversing any longer.' 
 
 I suppose she saw from my manner that I was epiite deter- 
 mined, and that nothing was to be obtained from me by indirect 
 means, for, in a more hasty and .'ess sarcastic tone, she answered : 
 ' Suspicions are quickly told when the) arc certainties. I accuse 
 you of using undue influence in this house. I know that you 
 assume the entire control not only of Mrs Weir's income, but of 
 her daughter's ; I know that you have been planning to get 
 Milicent Weir's money into the hands of this man, Hervcy, who 
 is a mere land-surveyor and speculator, — for what purpose I do 
 pretend to say ; but he and you are too well known as 
 acquaintances and friends of long standing not to make it certain
 
 URSULA. 485 
 
 that there is a complete understanding between you. I have 
 reason to believe, moreover, that you are striving to work upon 
 Mrs. Weir's mind in your own favour, and are taking advantage 
 of her insanity, whilst you persist in the assertion that she is in 
 the possession of sound reason. Some of these accusations I 
 make from my own observation and experience ; others I have 
 heard from persons residing in the neighbourhood of Stonecliff, 
 and acquainted with the Mr. Macdonald in whom Milicent Weir 
 has so strangely confided ; and who, as well as Mrs. Price of 
 Dene, is, as every one knows, most intimate with your family, 
 whether to your credit I do not pretend to say.' And with the 
 air of profound Christian charity, Mrs. Temple heaved a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 Such a maze of truth and falsehood. I was in complete be- 
 wilderment. How was I to extricate myself, and where was I 
 to begin ? Mrs. Temple waited patiently, though trying to awe 
 me by severe looks ; at last I said : ' If you please, ma'am, I will 
 refer you to Miss Milicent to-morrow, to explain all things. Per- 
 haps to-night you will be contented to know that Mr. W T eir has 
 again got himself into great difficulties, and that Mr. Hervey has 
 helped him out of them. Mr. Weir is not expected home to-night, 
 and if you would wish to have his room I will order it to be made 
 ready for you at once, otherwise I am afraid the people of the 
 house will be gone to bed.' 
 
 I never in my life saw any one so angry as Mrs. Temple was 
 then. I believe my quiet indifference exasperated her more than 
 the fiercest storm of passion. 1 could not repeat all she said, nor 
 even all she did, as she paced up and down the room ; in the 
 midst I heard a shrill cry, like the voice of a terrified child, and, 
 rushing to Mrs. Weirs room, found her in a state of frightful 
 nervous excitement. Happily my first impulse was to lock the 
 door behind me. When I went up to the bedside, the poor lady 
 actually clung to me in alarm. ' She is come back, Ursula, she 
 is come to take me ; I must go. They will shut me up. Oh ! 
 save me.' And then she nearly threw herself out of bed in her 
 fright, and when I forced her back, and made her rest her head 
 on the pillow, she sank into a state of complete exhaustion for a 
 few minutes, only to be roused again to fresh fears. She had 
 heard Mrs. Temple's voice. She must hear it again. I felt there 
 was nothing to be done but to acknowledge the truth, and try to 
 reassure her by saying that I would remain with her, and that no 
 one could take her from me. She made me repeat the words
 
 4 S6 URSULA. 
 
 n and again ; she caught at tbem as the drowning sailor 
 hes at the plank that is to save him. Uut Mrs. Temple 
 ', ked at ; r and inquired how her aunt was, and the 
 
 us horror returned again. What was to be done with her 
 I could not tell. When she was again calm for a few minutes I 
 left her, 1 eking the door on the outside and carrying away the 
 key, and went to call Louise and make her wait upon Mrs. 
 Temple, and then 1 returned to watch by the bedside. Mrs. 
 Temple, I believe, went to bed, for she did not endeavour to 
 admittance again ; probably she felt it would be useless. 
 It was a sad and most anxious night. If the case had been 
 merely physical, I should instantly have sent for medical advice 
 but what could a strange physician do in an illness so compli- 
 cated and distressing? Mrs. Weir's pulse was fearfully quick. 
 I trembled lest violent fever might be coming on, but I was 
 afraid to call up Louise or Miss Milicent to ask their opinion 
 as to what should be done, lest Mrs. Temple should insist upon 
 joining in the consultation. Of course I had no rest ; I had not 
 even an hour's quiet watching which might enable me to think 
 over my difficulties, and seek for help in so great anxieties. I 
 could but say a few short prayers from time to time for Mrs. 
 Weir, Miss Milicent, myself, above all — oh, with what depth 
 of earnestness was the petition offered !— for my dear Roger 
 and for jeasie. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXII. 
 
 THERE was no doubt as to Mrs. Weir's state in the morn- 
 Fever had not only begun, but was increasing 
 rapidly. A physician was sent for before Mrs. Temple was 
 . .Mi Milicent was thoroughly frightened, and willing 
 to do everything she was told, though in her own peculiar way ; 
 and it was by her representations that I obtained from the 
 physician, what I most desired, a strict command that no fresh 
 person should be admitted to Mrs Weir's room. ' I told him, 
 id Miss Milicent, when relating her interview, 'that 
 da Temple was a Turk, and that the sight of her would 
 .• my mother into convulsions, and that quite decided him- 
 Temple was extremely indignant, and threatened all kinds 
 of interference in revenge, but she did not venture to do more ;
 
 URSULA. 4S7 
 
 and I kept carefully out of her way, and made Miss Milicent 
 take upon herself the part which fitly belonged to her. If this 
 state of things could but last, I felt we might be able to weather 
 the present storm. Miss Milicent, subdued by fright and anxiety, 
 was more able now to give me a rational account of the proceed- 
 ings of the previous day. In low tones, as she watched by Mrs 
 Weir, who lay tossing on her bed in restless unconciousness, she 
 informed me that after leaving the Palais de Justice, she, and Mr 
 Weir, and M. Dalange, had gone direct to the hotel where the 
 latter had for the time taken up his abode. There M. Dalange 
 proposed to put before her the state of her father's entanglements, 
 which he declared demanded instant relief. She was not to be 
 called upon to pay down any money at once, but she was only 
 to be guarantee for certain sums which M. Dalange was to 
 advance. She was frightened, and did not know how to refuse, 
 and her father seemed quite desperate when he found she hesi- 
 tated. They were in the midst of the discussion when they 
 were interrupted by the entrance of John Hervey and a French- 
 man, who appeared to have some legal authority. Miss Milicent 
 said she could not understand all that went on, they talked so 
 fast, and M. Dalange got into a violent passion ; but he was 
 taken off at last, evidently against his will, and John Hervey then 
 brought her home. 
 
 ' And what became of Mr Weir ? ' I said. 
 
 ' He went off. John Hervey tells me he is gone to Brussels.' 
 
 ' But was he allowed to go ? ' I said. ' Was he not in as much 
 danger as M. Dalange ? ' 
 
 ' My father is no swindler, Ursie,' replied Miss Milicent, 
 haughtily; 'he may speculate, but it is in good faith. John 
 Hervey says there is no such accusation against him as there is 
 against these Frenchmen ; but he is gone. The Frenchman did 
 not know who he was, and had no directions about him, and 
 almost as soon as the fuss began, my father slipped away, and 
 that was the last I saw of him !' 
 
 It did not seem very like innocence, yet I felt thankful that 
 Mr Weir was at least saved from more public disgrace. 
 
 Miss Milicent was silent after this ; she seemed very unwilling 
 to allude to common subjects, and I did not wonder at it. It' 
 anything could convince her of the folly of trusting as she had 
 done to her own judgment, I should suppose it would be the 
 present condition of her family affairs ; but she would say 
 nothing, not one word of regret or acknowledgment, and when
 
 488 URSULA. 
 
 not actually attending upon her mother, sat brooding over tlie 
 lire with her hands upon her knees, apparently lost in melancholy 
 reflections, Mrs Temple bad a dreary, solitary day, but she 
 showed no symptoms of being tired or of intending to leave us. 
 She remained alone in the salon, working, and reading, and 
 keeping watch, and when the doctor came in the middle of the 
 day, had along private conference with him. She spoke not one 
 word to mc, indeed I scarcely gave her ihe opportunity of doing 
 so, and her communications with Miss Milicent were very brief. 
 As to myself, I went on from hour to hour doing what was 
 i eded, and longing for two things, — one, that I might sec John 
 Hervey, and the other, that 1 might find half an hour's leisure 
 before the post went out to write to Jessie. Neither was granted. 
 No John Hervey came, and as it drew towards the evening, 
 Mrs Weir became much worse, and I could not possibly leave 
 her. The doctor, when he was sent for about eight o'clock, 
 looked very grave. Mrs Temple insisted upon coming into the 
 room, and as Mrs Weir was then quite insensible to what was 
 passing, it did not signify. I think she was shocked by the 
 change that had already taken place ; indeed I never saw her 
 so really distressed, but the result was different from my expec- 
 tation. Instead of declaring, as I had feared, that she would 
 herself be head nurse, she took a sudden fright, and when the 
 physician was gone, summoned Miss Milicent, announced bi r 
 belief that it was a case of decided infection, and stated that 
 she should leave the house and go to a neighbouring hotel. It 
 may well be believed that no one objected ; and when Louise 
 had packed up her things, and seen her set off in a cab to an 
 hotel in the next street, 1 think we one and all felt as if half the 
 burden of our care was removed. 
 
 The next morning brought mc letters from home. I read 
 them as I went to lie down in Miss Milicent's room after my 
 night of watching. Weary though I was, every feeling of 
 fatigue, or inclination for sleep, was forgotten in the anxiety 
 with which I opened them. One was from Mrs Kemp, the 
 other from Roger. I put the latter aside. Mrs Kemp wrote as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' My Dear Ursif.,— 
 ' It has been no want of thought or of love which has kept me 
 from writing, but we have had busy times, with a change of ser- 
 v?nts, and Mary and I have had a good deal of needlework on
 
 URSULA. 489 
 
 hand, besides other matters, and we wish you had been here to 
 help us. Of course, after your letter, I have tried to have an 
 eye upon Mrs Roger, but she has been here very little, not more 
 than once for the last month, and what I hear I don't take much 
 notice of, though it is not so much to her credit as I could like, 
 and the farmer tells me her name is mentioned in a light way at 
 Hove, which is to be expected if she will be so free with the 
 Dene people. But there is nothing for me to take up or talk 
 about to Roger, though I pity him, poor man ! from my heart, 
 and can't help seeing, as everybody else sees, that he has had a 
 grave look of late, which he did not use to have. He is very 
 anxious for his wife that she shouldn't over-fatigue herself, and 
 so he must be the more vexed at her going out so much. She 
 was dining at Dene, I heard say, last week, when Roger went to 
 London for a day or two on business. That does not sound well 
 in itself, besides its being wrong in her to leave William alone. 
 Anyhow, my dear, things will be much better when you are at 
 home, and my plain opinion is, that you have more claim there 
 than you have with poor Mrs Weir, who, they say, scarcely 
 knows one person from another, and who, at any rate, is no 
 relation. You won't mind my saying that, I hope, seeing we 
 are such old friends. One thing which tells against Mrs Roger, 
 in everybody's opinion, is the way Mrs Price talks about her. 
 A person I know heard Mrs Price say in Hove, that her mar- 
 riage was all a mistake, and that she was very much in love with 
 Mr Macdonald at the time. I contradicted it, because I had 
 heaid from you of her having refused him, but people won't 
 believe that, and one person, — I won't mention names for fear of 
 making mischief, — said that Mr Macdonald had letters in his 
 possession which proved that she had jilted him. However, I 
 don't believe all that the world says, and I only tell you, my 
 dear, because you asked me to let you know everything. Now I 
 will only repeat that it will be a happy day for us all, and a 
 very fortunate one for Sandcombe and Mrs Roger, when you 
 are at home again to put things straight ; so hoping to see you 
 before long, 
 
 ' I remain, 
 
 ' Your affectionate friend, 
 
 'Anne Kemp. 
 ( P.S. — I have forgotten to tell you about Mary ; but I take it 
 for granted you will hear everything from John Hervey. We 
 like Richard Bennett very much, and are well pleased upon the
 
 URSUJL I 
 
 whole. Mary says she would rather talk than write ; but she 
 sends you her be:-! love' 
 
 Richard Bennett : who was he ? A new labourer most likely ; 
 
 but his name came in oddly. I put down the Letter and took up 
 
 Just then there was a knock at my door and Louise 
 
 came to tell me that Mr Hervey was in the salon, and wished 
 
 to speak to me. 
 
 1 must have looked like a ghost after my sleepless nights 
 and anxious thoughts; but I went up to John Hervey with 
 a smile on my face, for my heart was gladdened by the sight 
 of him. 
 
 ' Are we alone ?' he said, and he looked round uneasily. 
 ' Yes, quite. Mrs Temple is gone, frightened by the thought 
 of infection. Don't look so horrified, it is only her fidget ; but 
 she keeps away. Perhaps, though,' I added, 'you didn't know 
 she was here.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have seen her. She is mad with you and me, Ursie.' 
 'Is she?' I said. 'I can't say that I care. Tell me about 
 Mr Weir.' 
 
 • Miss Milicent has given you the story, of course,' he said. 
 ' She promised me she would.' 
 
 ' 1 hen she did not keep her promise,' I replied. ' She came 
 k and locked herself up in her room, and would say nothing 
 to any one. It was only yesterday morning that I drew a few 
 particulars from her.' 
 
 'She is so strange,' he said, 'one never knows how to deal 
 
 with her. I thought I had made her see the matter rightly. 
 
 There was no other way of managing it, Ursie. Before I came 
 
 abroad, I inquired of persons who knew our friend, Mr Mac- 
 
 lald, and this M. Dalange, and I found out quite enough to 
 
 ce me that ihcy were both as great rogues as one could 
 
 desire to sec, and Miss Milicent's own information as to their 
 
 proceedings put me on the right scent for discovering more. 
 
 Since I have been in Paris, a friend has helped me to get at the 
 
 ile truth. Mr Weir, with all his shrewdness, has been fairly 
 
 n in by them. The case is a serious one as regards M. 
 
 i !e is accused of forgery ; but that does not concern 
 
 us, only I wanted, if possible, to have the affair put into the 
 
 Is of the authorities quietly, so as to prevent Miss Milicent's 
 
 from being brought forward, and to save Mr Weir from 
 
 being in any way publicly disgraced. If Miss Milicent had been
 
 URSULA. 491 
 
 less wilful, it might all have been managed ; but at last, as you 
 yourself know, there was no way of saving her from becoming 
 entangled, except by having the Frenchman seized at once. 
 Mr Weir has taken fright, and is off to Brussels. Though said 
 to be innocent, I suspect he feels safer there than in Paris for 
 the present.' 
 
 'And have you explained this to Mrs Temple?' I asked 
 ' She came to Paris, imagining, I actually believe, that you and 
 I were in a plot to cheat Mrs Weir and Miss Milicent out of all 
 their money. I don't know clearly now who put the notion into 
 her head.' 
 
 ' That man, Macdonald, from what I can understand,' replied 
 John. ' He was mixed up with the French business, and no 
 doubt learned from M. Ualange that you were standing in the 
 way of their getting possession of Miss Milicent's money. At 
 any rate, it was a letter of his, which Mrs Temple showed me, 
 written to a friend of hers who has taken Stonecliff, which made 
 her so alarmed as to what you and I were about, that she came 
 off directly.' 
 
 I thought of the scrap in Jessie's handwriting, and longed to 
 know if he had seen that also ; but I could not bring myself to 
 ask. 
 
 ' This letter,' continued John, ' pretended to be strictly con- 
 fidential, but said that it was high time that Mrs Weir's friends 
 should interfere to have you recalled.' 
 
 ' Hypocrite ! ' I exclaimed ; ' when he himself was working 
 to get everything into his own hands ! But Mrs Temple be- 
 lieved the folly, and that is not much better.' 
 
 ' It is too absurd to make one angry,' replied John ; ' who can 
 care what such a woman thinks ?' 
 
 'You would not say so if you had to deal with her,' I said ; 
 ' she has been a thorn in my side for months.' 
 
 ' But she will not continue so,' he replied ; ' I must leave 
 Paris this afternoon, and grieve to my heart that you should bear 
 the brunt of this trouble alone ; but it will be over before long, 
 Ursie. Whichever way it ends, you will come back to us, and 
 Be happy again.' 
 
 The word happy touched me to the quick. I was very silly, 
 but both mind and body were overworked, and I leaned my 
 head upon the table, and my tears fell fast. 
 
 He drew near me, and his voice was kind and very soothing. 
 He called me dear Ursie ; he said there were many who loved
 
 492 URSULA. 
 
 me, and rested upon me ; that I was Roger's comfort, and Jessie's 
 
 irdian angel : that I d< served happiness, and I must be happy. 
 But my heart was very heavy, and, raising my head, I answered 
 bitterly, as I wiped away my tears, ' Ah, Mr Hervey ! it is easy 
 for you to talk of happiness ; life is bright before you. Mary 
 Kemp will never disappoint you as Jessie has disappointed 
 Roger.' 
 
 lie drew back. 'Mary Kemp!' lie said, ' disappoint me! 
 I don't understand you, Ursic. Mary Kemp is going to be 
 happy, I trust, but there is no question of disappointment as far 
 as I am concerned.' 
 
 ' Not when she is to be your wife ?' I replied, and my burst 
 of sorrow ended in a feeling of angry amazement. 
 
 ' My wife ! Ursie, you are talking wildly. Mary Kemp is en- 
 gaged to my cousin Richard Bennett. lie made an offer to her 
 just before you left England. 
 
 A sense of the ridiculous seized me, and feeling too weak to 
 control myself, I laughed almost hysterically. But John Hervey 
 stood by me quite grave and silent. 
 
 ' Richard Bennett, I thought he was a labourer ! ' was my ex- 
 clamation, as soon as I could recover my breath. ' No wonder 
 I was puzzled. But, Mr Hervey, what has all the mystery be< n ? 
 Farmer Kemp, and Mary, and Mrs Kemp have all misled me. 
 What have you had to do with the matter?' 
 
 ' Merely,' he replied, in the same grave tone, ' that there was 
 a difficulty as usual about money matters. Richard Bennett is 
 a clerk in a counting-house with a very good prospect of rising ; 
 but his salary was not sufficient, so the farmer thought, to insure 
 Mary's having a comfortable home, and I managed to have it 
 increased. Mary is indebted to me for this, and nothing more. 
 I can't think how you could have made such a mi-take, Ursie,' 
 lie I, a little bitterly, 'you always spoke as if you under- 
 
 stood, and it must have struck you as strange that I never 
 talked about Mary.' 
 
 'We have scarcely seen each other lately, if you remember,' I 
 said ; 'and 1 am afraid I was too much engrossed in my own 
 affairs to think much about it. It was very selfish of me,' I 
 added, for my heart reproached me ; ' but, indeed, Mr Hervey, 
 setting aside Mrs Weir, there are other cares which may be my 
 excuse. And then I had never heard of Mr Bennett. He is 
 like a man from another world.' 
 
 'He saw Mary six months ago,' replied John, 'and said
 
 URSULA. 493 
 
 nothing, because he had nothing to offer. But Mary, as it 
 seems, lost her heart to him, and when he did propose, the 
 thing was soon settled.' 
 
 'And you have not been in love with Mary all your life, 
 then ?' I asked. 
 
 He looked at me with an expression so wondering, earnest, 
 and anxious, it seemed to thrill through me. 'O Ursie !' he 
 said, 'have you thought it possible ?' He paused, Mrs Weir's 
 bell rang, and I rushed out of the room. 
 
 John Hervey loved me ! I suppose there is no woman to 
 whom such a consciousness comes for the first time, without some 
 feeling of pleasurable excitement ; but the next moment, in my 
 case, brought a pang of deep and most painful regret. The 
 feeling was not returned. Yet my heart beat quickly, — my head 
 was dizzy with emotion ; and, as I entered Mrs Weir's chamber, 
 I could scarcely summon sufficient presence of mind to answer 
 Miss Milicent's hasty question, whether Mr Hervey had brought 
 any tidings of her father. 
 
 'I think, if you please, you had better go and ask, — he will 
 tell you everything, and I can wait here,' I said ; and I hurriedly 
 took my place at the bedside, and motioned to Miss Milicent 
 that I was willing to remain. She left me, and I was alone, able 
 to think. Yes, he did love me ; I saw it clearly as though writ- 
 ten before me. I traced the feeling through the course ot years. 
 I felt that it had been constant and increasing. I knew that 
 there were times, when, unconsciously to myself, I might even 
 have given it encouragement. And I was excited, flattered, 
 grateful, but I had nothing except gratitude to offer in return. 
 John Hervey had not been the idol of my imagination, I had 
 bestowed but few thoughts upon him. His presence or absence 
 gave me nothing but a passing pleasure or pain. It seemed cold 
 and cruel. I thought I had deluded him, and I pictured to 
 myself his disappointment, and longed — no one can tell how 
 earnestly — to comfort him. Just for an instant, it even crossed 
 my mind whether we might not be happy together, for as 
 a friend I could have rested upon him, and found pleasure 
 and support in his society. My dread ot giving him pain was 
 so great, that I could have made any personal sacrifice to avoid 
 it. And life with John Hervey as a companion, would never be 
 unhappy. But there was something required beyond this, and 
 the very effort I made to think of him as my husband proved 
 that it could never be my duty to accept him.
 
 URSULA. 
 
 And then I smiled scornfully at myself as I remembered that 
 1 was thinking of rejection before the offer had been received 
 It was unmaidenly and unwomanly. But no ; it was not so. I 
 was but facing that which I believed to be a truth, and which, if 
 I returned to say good-bye, would, I felt assured, be expressed. 
 One moment, if I had remained, and 1 should have heard the 
 full outpouring of his feelings, and have been called upon to 
 accept or reject him. I have heard that there arc some womi a 
 who look upon such events as triumphs, and who, in the grati- 
 fication of their vanity, forget the pain they arc inflicting, and 
 rejoice in the opportunity, for once afforded them, of placing 
 themselves in a position superior to men. God knows, I say it 
 in all sincerity, I am in no wise freer from vanity, or more 
 thoughtful or tender-hearted than the generality of my sex ; and 
 yet this feeling of triumph is one into which I cculd never enter. 
 A man's grief is so very terrible to witness, and surely there is 
 nothing but exceeding pain, in seeing those to whom nature bids 
 one look up, humbled, under any circumstances, whether of pain 
 of body or anguish of mind. It is a false position, and as such 
 it can never be a rightful cause for triumph. But be this as it 
 may, I had received from Mrs Weir, years before, a counsel 
 which now came to my aid, and which would alone have been 
 sufficient to guide me as to the course I was to pursue. ' Re- 
 member, Ursie,' she once said to me, when talking of the possible 
 difficulties of my future life, 'if it should ever happen that you 
 perceive the affection of a worthy man before he has declared it, 
 and find yourself so circumstanced that you cannot accept him, 
 save him, if possible, the pain of being rejected, by never giving 
 him occasion to make the offer. It may be less flattering to 
 yourself, but it is more generous to him.' I had but little time 
 lor thought now. I expected Miss Milicent every instant to 
 return, but my resolution, though made hastily, was not, I hope, 
 therefore, unwise. I would not see John 1 1 ervey again, and I took 
 up a piece of paper, and wrote inst 
 
 ' My dear M ey, 
 
 ' I am so very tired, having been up all night, that I really think 
 I must go and lie down, and not wait till you and Miss Milicent 
 have finished your conversation. Please not to think it unkind. 
 I hope you will have a pleasant journey. Give them all my best 
 love at home. I do trust to be there before long. 
 
 ' Yours very sincerely, 
 
 'Ursula Grant.'
 
 URSULA. 495 
 
 It was painfully cold, almost ungracious, after the interest he 
 had taken in me, but I felt as though the very coldness was his 
 safeguard. If he could be quite assured of my indifference, his 
 thoughts would turn into another channel, and, young as I was, 
 I had had sufficient experience to be aware that the food of love 
 is hope. Destroy the one, and the other will most probably die. 
 How anxiously I listened after Louise had taken the note, very 
 much fearing that he would insist upon seeing me again — and 
 yet, womanlike, longing to be forced into saying something 
 more kind ; and how, afterwards, when I heard Miss Milicent 
 speak to him in the lobby, and counted his footsteps descending 
 the stairs, a perverse, injured feeling took possession of me, and I 
 alternately blamed myself for the foolish vanity of my suspicions, 
 and accused him of wounded pride for having so quickly 
 accepted my note, every one who knows the weaknesses and 
 inconsistencies of the human heart will easily imagine. Any- 
 how, the deed was done. I was never to know his feelings, and 
 vanity must from thenceforth be contented to sleep in ignorance, 
 whether the love that had been rejected was a truth or an 
 imagination. 
 
 I do not know whether it may appear selfish or unnatural, but 
 it was not till John Hervey had left the house, — as I learned 
 from Miss Milicent, without any word of remembrance or ques- 
 tion as to my plans, — that I recollected I had still an unopened 
 letter from Roger to read. Then, as I once more sat alone in 
 my chamber, with an indescribable feeling of dreariness and 
 disappointment at my heart, I opened it, and in a few moments 
 I was transported back to Sandcombe, satisfied, quite satisfied, 
 that I had done rightly. 
 
 ' My dearest Ursie, — 
 
 I I have not written to you lately, because I have been con- 
 stantly expecting you home. We none of us thought, when you 
 left us, that you would be away so long. I don't wish to hurry 
 you, or make you uncomfortable, but I want very much to see 
 you. When I was in Canada I did not mind being away from 
 you so much, because it was necessity, and you were coming out 
 to join me ; but Sandcombe is different, and there are a good 
 many things about which we should like your opinion. It may 
 look selfish to write in this way, when you are so usefully em- 
 ployed, and I had a battle with myself before I made up my 
 mind to say anything, but I don't speak for myself only, though
 
 496 URSULA. 
 
 I could do so. Wc lived so many years together, dear Trot, and 
 they unc very happy ones. Women are said to have braver 
 hearts than men, and I begin to think ii must be true, for you 
 can (1 ) better without mc than 1 can without you. I am a 
 man of few words, and very often I can't say things when I wish 
 to do so ; but you have been a chief blessing to me, and may God 
 reward you for it, and make you happy. I am afraid at times I 
 have vexed you, especially of late; but there' has been DO la< k 
 of love. I sorely want you home.' The rest of the letter con- 
 tained merely some details about the farm and housekeeping, but 
 Jessie's name was not once mentioned. 
 
 Leave Roger and Sandcombc, and marry John Hcrvcy! If 
 the most devoted love that ever mortal felt had been offered me 
 in compensation, I could not then have accepted it. There was 
 a tone in Roger's letter, a quiet, sober sadness, which spoke to 
 mc of his disappointment far more than words. It was only dis- 
 appointment ; there was no anxiety. If there had been he would 
 have mentioned it openly, for he hated mysteries; but it was a 
 sadness which I fancied he did not himself comprehend, and 
 which he seemed to turn tome to explain and soothe. He was 
 very childlike in some of his ways, at least with those whom he 
 quite knew and trusted; his expressions of affection were always 
 so simple and straightforward, and his penitence was the same. 
 When he did anything wrong, or which he considered wrong, he 
 owned it in a few words, and always without any excuses. I felt 
 now as though he was no match for Jessie ; as if, with all his 
 manliness and sense, and knowledge of worldly things, he was 
 too innocent and true to be on his guard against the deception 
 of a woman's weak, vain heart, and the gentler feelings which I 
 had lately bestowed upon Jessie were turned into bitterness, as I 
 thought once more how unworthy she was of him. 
 
 The letter shown me by Mrs Temple ! I had not forgotten it, 
 though with the incessant press upon my mind I had as yet found 
 no leisure to determine what should be done about it. I did not 
 choose to ask questions about it, and so expose myself again to 
 Mrs Temple's unkind remarks. But I could not make up my 
 mind to whom it was addressed, or for what purpose it had been 
 written. Though it had been sent to Mrs Temple through Mr 
 Macdonald, it was most probably part of some communication 
 made to Mrs 1'iicc. However that might be, it so increased my 
 distrust of Jessie's prudence and openness, that I think it would
 
 URSULA. 497 
 
 have driven me home at all hazards, if I had not felt that the 
 time was past when her folly could do harm to others, whatever 
 it might to herself. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIII. 
 
 1\/T ^ WEIR'S fever increased, and she was in great danger. 
 i- » J- We watched her incessantly for many days. At last 
 she was so ill that we gave up all hope. Then there came a 
 sudden change, and she sank to sleep and awoke exhausted, 
 so that life could scarcely be discovered, yet calm and conscious 
 —conscious that she was dying. For there was no thought in 
 any of us that she would recover, and I may add, indeed, no 
 hope, except-— yes— Miss Milicent hoped. If ever there was 
 a bitter wakening to the knowledge of neglected duties, and a 
 wish to make amends, in the heart of any human being, it was 
 in hers during that period of troubled watching. We were alone 
 in the midst of the crowded world of Paris, without visitors or 
 friends, for Mrs Temple's suspicious guardianship was lessened 
 by her fears, and wishing apparently to have no excuse for com- 
 munication with what she considered an infected house, she had 
 left Paris, and stationed herself at St Germains, to be within 
 reach whenever any change should take place. One letter had 
 been received from her father by Miss Milicent. In it Mr Weir 
 made some general inquiries for his wife, and said that he was 
 still for the present at Brussels. And now that Mrs Weir's 
 consciousness had returned, the difficulty was how to com- 
 municate the fact that he had again left her. This, however, 
 was not so difficult a task as I had feared. It seems as though 
 God were pleased at times to bestow at the close of life a sin- 
 gular quietness of mind and forgetfulness of worldly anxieties to 
 those who have long striven to please Him. And of one thing 
 I am quite certain, that the habits of self-control and acquies- 
 cence in His will which are attained, it maybe, only through 
 long struggle, and with a constant sense of defeat, whilst the 
 spirit is in its full energy, bring forth their perfect fruit in hours 
 of weakness, being ripened into fulness by the sunshine of God's 
 more abundant grace. Mrs Weir, from her nervous, susceptible 
 
 2 I
 
 49* URSUF.. 1. 
 
 temperament, her disappointments and sorrows, had passed a 
 troubled life; repose had been a blessing unknown to her. 
 
 I' n i. n externally there was little to disturb her, her over- 
 scrupulous conscience, and her little whims and peculiaril 
 had been a fertile source of unhappincss. But she had batl 
 
 h these temptations. For years she had sought to control 
 herself, to suffer patiently, and to feel that ' in quietness and 
 confidence must be her strength ;' and, latterly, forced more 
 
 trously into the conflict by Mrs Temple's ignorance of the 
 human heart and natural severity of character, she had brought 
 herself to a degree of self-denial and self-control which it was 
 even painful to witness. I thought it hard upon her at the time, 
 and, notwithstanding the result, I would not for worlds inflict 
 the same penance myself, neither would I advise any other per- 
 sons to attempt such a course of discipline. There are certain 
 drugs which arc dangerous poisons in our own hands, though 
 1, aling medicines in the hands of a wise physician; and so 
 there arc chastisements and trials which, brought upon us by 
 God's Providence, work for our eternal good, whilst, if inflicted 
 by our own will, they tend to spiritual pride and narrowness 
 of mind. If the life which Mrs Weir led under Mrs Temple's 
 government had been marked out by her own conscience, it 
 would probably have ended in some morbid delusion ; as it 
 
 , though often exaggerated, and tinctured by the peculiarities 
 of her character, there was to be found in it the spirit of simple 
 submission and humility, and the ornament of that 'meek and 
 quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.' 
 
 And now it had its reward. Yet it seems to me that there is 
 nothing more striking, I may even say startling, than the know- 
 ledge of the 'much tribulation' through which those who may 
 truly be called the saints of God have been prepared for the 
 enjoyment of His kingdom. If they, so pure-minded, humble, 
 '. loving, required so much sorrow, what must be needed 
 for us, who now in health and prosperity are giving half our 
 
 it to the service of Christ and half to the service of 
 Mammon? As I watched Mrs Weir gradually, hourly, sink- 
 ing into her grave, I felt as though the hard probation of cen- 
 turies would never bring me to the same heavenly mind. That 
 was a distrust of God's grace, but it was not easy to overcome it ; 
 even the gentle tenderness and affection towards myself, 
 sh wn in Mrs Weir's every look and tone, and repeated to me 
 in words of live which can never be forgotten, made me only
 
 URSULA. 499 
 
 feel the more my own coldness and the depth of my ingratitude 
 towards God. 
 
 Mrs Weir asked for her husband almost the first moment that 
 she was restored to consciousness. Miss Milicent and I had 
 arranged beforehand what we should say, and we told her that 
 he had left Paris on account of some business, and that we did 
 not think he would be able to return just yet. She received the 
 information very quietly, and, as I thought at the time, without 
 suspicion ; but the following day, when she rallied for a few 
 hours, she called Miss Milicent to her bedside, and made her 
 bring a pen and ink, and write a few lines from her dictation. 
 They were very few, and I saw the large drops fall from Miss 
 Milicent's eyes as she noted down the words ; 'when they were 
 ended, she brought the note to me, and laying it before me, said, 
 1 It's no use to deceive her, Ursie. She has a quicker sight than 
 we have.' I read, — 
 
 ' Dearest George, — 
 ' Something tells me you are gone away in trouble. May God 
 help you in it ! I have never been any comfort to you. I ask 
 your forgiveness for this, and all my other shortcomings, and I 
 thank you that you have allowed me to be with you. Our 
 daughter, Milicent, will do more than I have ever done to make 
 you happy. I pray you to love and cherish her. Dearest 
 George, though I am a grievous sinner, God, of His great mercy, 
 has given me peace through Jesus Christ. I beseech Him to 
 give it to you also. If it had been His will, I should have been 
 glad to tell you myself, that I am now, and have ever been, your 
 dutiful and affectionate wife, Margaret Weir. His will be done. 
 There is a place in Heaven for all.' 
 
 After writing this note, Mrs Weir asked no questions. It 
 seemed as though the earthly anxiety was not allowed to linger 
 in her mind, and her heart was no doubt at rest, from the feeling 
 that she had fulfilled her last duty to her husband. I was very 
 thankful for this. If Mr Weir had been with us, his presence 
 must have been distressingly uncongenial, — and Miss Milicent 
 would have felt it to be so even more than Mrs Weir. All the 
 good that was in her came out now, — and yet in a very painful 
 and often strange way. Longing to nurse her mother, and do 
 things which might make up for her neglect, she yet put me for- 
 ward on every occasion, saying that she was not fit to wait upon
 
 500 URSULA. 
 
 any one so good, — but I was determined that this state of feeling 
 should not continue, and I urged, and at last induced her to sit 
 with her mother, and read to her just the few verses from the 
 Psalms, or the Gospel, which were all Mrs Weir could bear to 
 hear. An English clergyman, who w.is most attentive and kind, 
 came every day, and then Miss Milicent was obliged to speak, 
 and take her proper place in the family ; but when we joined in 
 the prayers, she kept aloof in a distant part of the room, kneel* 
 ing by herself, and with such a look in her face when she rose 
 up ! — as if the self-reproach of a whole life had been weighing 
 upon her. Ii was the third day after the fever had taken a turn 
 that I said something to her about Mrs Temple, who had come 
 back to Paris, and sent messages of inquiry. Somewhat of the 
 old spirit appeared, and she said to me hastily, 'There can't be 
 any message sent except that we don't want to see her. 1 should 
 run out of the house if she came in.' An instant afterwards she 
 corrected herself and added, ' Vet she might have as much cause 
 to turn away from me. Ursie Grant, I am a great sinner, and 
 you must say some prayers for me.' 
 
 I did pray for her constantly and fervently, more so than she 
 could possibly have imagined ; and now, seeing her thus moved, 
 I ventured to say, ' It might be right that Mrs Temple should 
 come, if she wishes it.' 
 
 She stood silent ; then said, ' Yes, send for her,' and made no 
 other remark. 
 
 I had no fear for the meeting now. Mrs Weir's spirit was too 
 near the hour of its eternal freedom to dread the presence of one 
 connected with the remembrance of only earthly bondage. Yet 
 I felt it right to prepare her, and 1 was sure that Miss Milicent 
 would not undertake the duty. The greater part of the day was 
 spent now in a torpor, which was nearly, though not quite, sleep. 
 Late in the afternoon she was roused a little, and I went to her 
 and said, 'Dear ma'am, there has been a friend anxious to see 
 you ever since you have been ill— Mrs Temple. She would 
 think it kind if you would let her come.' 
 
 There was just a shadow of pain on Mrs Weir's face ; then she 
 said, ' My niece is always good, Ursula, and I should like to 
 thank her that she let me live with her. It is right of you to 
 think of it.' After this she did not close her eyes again, but 
 seemed to be more alive to what was going on, and fearing she 
 might at last be restless, I sent directly for Mrs Temple, and 
 asked her not to delay. Yet I did not in reality expect her.
 
 URSULA. 501 
 
 After the fear of infection, which she had expressed so strongly, 
 I thought she would be far too much afraid. I suspect now, how- 
 ever, that the true cause of her keeping so aloof was not fear, but 
 wounded pride. As she could not take the upper hand and have 
 everything her own way, she chose to give up entirely, only re- 
 maining in the neighbourhood to watch what was being done ; 
 the dread of infection, I believe, was only an excuse. But the 
 presence of death brings truth to us all, and Mrs Temple, I cannot 
 but think, was in her heart too conscious of the unkindness which 
 she had often been guilty of, not to wish to soothe her conscience 
 by some last tokens of thought and affection for her aunt. She 
 came almost before I thought the message could have reached 
 her, and we went together into Mrs Weir's room. I felt kindly 
 towards her then for the first time in my life. How could I do 
 otherwise when I saw the heavenly smile on Mrs Weir's face, 
 and heard her say, ' I gave you a great deal of trouble, Matilda; 
 I should like you to say you forgive me ?' 
 
 Mrs Temple was no monster, and genuine tears of grief, 
 perhaps of repentance also, moistened her eyes. ' I may have 
 seemed hard to you, dear aunt,' she said. ' I did for the best.' 
 
 ' It was all quite right ; quite right. I would not have one 
 trial less. We are going the same road, Matilda. May our dear 
 Saviour bring us both to a happy end.' 
 
 Mrs Temple kissed her, and then asked if she would like her 
 to pray, and the next minute I found myself joining in an ex- 
 tempore prayer without any shrinking or coldness. But Mrs 
 Temple's feeling was real ; the mode of its expression might not 
 suit my individual taste, but her prayer was sincere, the offering 
 of a heart which for the moment, was simple and in earnest, and 
 when we stand with a fellow-creature on the banks of the dark 
 stream which flows between Time and Eternity, all differences 
 are forgotten in the thought of the great change which ' cometh 
 alike to all.' 
 
 When I rose up from my knees I felt as though I had never 
 understood before the meaning of those words, ' And now abideth 
 Faith, Hope, Charity ; these three ; but the greatest of these is 
 Charity.' 
 
 The next day we received the Holy Communion together. 
 Mrs Weir kept up wonderfully well during the service. Mrs 
 Temple went home afterwards. Miss Milicent was very tired, 
 and lay down in her bed, and I sat with Mrs Weir. Still and 
 peaceful, though so worn and wasted, her face had recovered
 
 502 URSULA. 
 
 somewhat of the expression which 1 remembered when I : 
 saw her at Dene; and oh, how my thoughts travelled back to the 
 days which 1 had spent there, whilst visions of its brightness and 
 beauty came to me like the remembrance of a happier and a 
 nolier world amidst the din of the great i ity of earth's distrac- 
 tions ! I think the same memories may have haunted Mr.->\\ eir 
 also, for, after remaining a Ion- lime silent, she raised her < 
 to mine, and, as they sparkled with momentary brilliancy, said 
 ' You will go back to your home, Ursula; you will sometimes be 
 at Dene again. I love no place on earth but that. When you 
 see it, you will remember me.' 
 
 • How could I help it, dear ma'am?' I said; ' I am sure being 
 with you there was the first thing that seemed to set me forth on 
 the right road.' 
 
 ' Heaven is perfect,' she continued, ' but earth is lovely and 
 very pleasant. Do you remember how free the birds at Dene 
 were — free and tame, and their songs so sweet in the wood under 
 the hill ? They seemed to come Vrom far away over the sea to 
 tell me of other lands ; but 1 shall hear the voices of an 
 soon ; and, Ursula, they will sing to me of heaven.' 
 
 The last sentence was scarcely audible. There had been a 
 sudden spring of life tor the instant, but it was dickering and 
 ing fast. I watched her anxiously as she leaned her head 
 back on the pillow. Her countenance changed a little, yet it was 
 not like death. As I bent over her, listening to her breathing, I 
 caught some indistinct words ; they told me where her thoughts 
 were resting, — on the one great Atoning Love which alone could 
 be her help. Miss Milicent soon afterwards came in. She was 
 more startled than I was, for she saw a greater alteration. The 
 contrast between the stern anguish that convulsed her face, and 
 the peaceful, though wasted, beauty of her mother's, I shall never 
 jet. I held Mrs Weir's hand in mine. We stood by the 
 bedside, watching for about twenty minutes. Then came the 
 look whiek I knew too well. 
 
 ' I rsula,' I heard Mrs Weir whisper, and she tried to turn 
 her head, ' is Milicent here?' The large rough hand was laid 
 in hers. Mrs Weir's eyes I d me: 'both— blessings,' 
 
 she said. 'God's love' the prayer was unfinished, the 
 
 breathing became scarcely audible ; then it ceased, and Miss 
 Milicent threw herself upon the bed with the bitter cry, 'O 
 mother, mother ! '
 
 URSULA. 503 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIV. 
 
 I NEED not describe in detail what followed that hour of 
 sorrow, — for sorrowful indeed it was, — most sad and 
 desolate. Yet I could not think of myself when I saw Miss 
 Milicent's grief. She sank under it completely. All the energy 
 of her nature was turned into repentance, and she exaggerated 
 her own neglects as much as she had hitherto excused them. 
 Mrs Temple came every day and took all arrangements upon 
 herself. I think she imagined I should wish to interfere, but 
 my task was over ; and I had now but one desire, to be 
 permitted to stay till I had seen the remains of my dear and 
 most honoured friend laid in their last resting-place. It was 
 my hand which assisted in laying her in her coffin, and strewed 
 over her a few late flowers, and mine was the last loving eye 
 which gazed upon her sweet face before it was shut out from our 
 sight for ever. 
 
 Dear lady ! whether we think it or not, we all by our lives 
 preach a sermon, either of warning or example. Hers could 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 It was very hard for me to turn from the stillness of that death- 
 chamber to plans for the business of life ; still more hard to feel 
 that the seas would soon roll between me and the last home of 
 one of the best of friends. If Mrs Weir had died at Stonecliff, 
 I might have tended her grave myself; and the occupation would 
 have brought back to me her holy counsels and her simple 
 faith, and urged me forward on the path to heaven. But it 
 was not to be, and I could but pass beyond this temporary 
 separation on earth, to the hope of an eternal reunion in a 
 better world. 
 
 During the few days that followed her mother's death, Miss 
 Milicent had kept closely to her room, refusing to admit any 
 one. On the day of the funeral she appeared, looking very ill, 
 but quite quiet and self-controlled. Mr Temple and she were 
 the chief mourners. Mr Weir dared not appear. I felt how 
 much more worldly show than sincerity there is in such public 
 demonstrations. Mrs Weir's death was nothing to Mr Temple ; 
 to me it was a lifelong sorrow ; yet I was obliged to keep in the 
 background, and to remember that no one, not even Miss 
 Milicent, could understand the depths of my grief. When we 
 returned home, Miss Milicent called me into her room, and
 
 504 URSULA. 
 
 seizing hold of me before I was aware what bhc was going to 
 
 do, kis ed me, and said, 'Ursic, thank you ; ' and then fitting 
 down on her black trunk, gave way to a violent burst of giicf. 
 I let it have its course, and it ended as suddenly as it had 
 UK, She dashed away her tears, and confronting me, said, 
 abruptly, ' Ursie, I am going to live with Matilda Temple.' 
 
 I was startled. I had thought of what her future would be, 
 and had supposed that, of course, she would join her father. 
 
 ' Look,' she continued, and she drew a letter from her pocket, 
 and her lip quivered, ' my father won't have me.' 
 
 She had expressed the fact broadly, but it was so in reality. 
 As I had often suspected, Mr Weir was encumbered by his 
 daughter's presence. He took advantage of his present un- 
 toward circumstances to inform her of it. The letter was like 
 himself, not uncourteous, not unkind, but utterly selfish, whilst 
 putting his determination entirely upon the ground of considera- 
 tion for her. He said his movements were uncertain : he might 
 be obliged to encounter many roughnesses which would not suit 
 her ; Mrs Weir's death would place Miss Miliccnt in possession 
 of a comfortable income, which he had no doubt she would be 
 willing so to manage as that he himself should have enough to 
 subsist upon, without becoming a burden to his friends. This 
 was, perhaps, reversing the common order of things, which re- 
 quired that the parent should support the child, but after the 
 many misfortunes which he had met with in life, it was his only 
 resource. He required very little, only sufficient to give him 
 the ordinary comforts of life without care ; — and then he named 
 a sum which took away at least two-thirds of the small addi- 
 tional income which Miss Miliccnt would now inherit in addi- 
 tion to her own slender fortune. But she was too generous to 
 think of this. If he had asked for it all, she would have given 
 it cheerfully. What really distressed her was his wish to live 
 alone. She was fond of him, and overlooked his many faults, 
 and flattered herself that during the last year she had added 
 materially to his happiness. To find that she had not only by 
 her advice and encouragement assisted in bringing him into 
 difficulties, but that she had failed to increase his comforts — and 
 this was most clear from the tenor of his letter, — was a most 
 bitter blow. Poor thing ! I felt for her from the bottom of my 
 heart, and the way in which she clung to me, as though I was 
 the only person in the world who had the slightest affection for 
 her. touched me inexpressibly.
 
 URSULA. 5o5 
 
 The plan of living with Mrs Temple, most distasteful though 
 it unquestionably was, seemed certainly the best that could be 
 arranged for the present. I think Miss Milicent found some 
 satisfaction in the very fact of its being painful. She was in 
 that unhappy, self-reproachful state of mind, in which we 
 naturally long to do penance, for our own comfort, without the 
 slightest thought of being able to make reparation or atone- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I shall feel what my mother felt, Ursie,' she said, ' I had 
 rather ; if it were to be scourged I should be glad. Write to 
 me sometimes; don't forget me; I could not bear that. If 
 Matilda Temple is unbearable, I must let it out to you, only my 
 mother did not do it ; she kept it all in and never complained. 
 O Ursie, Ursie ! why was not I born a saint like her ?' 
 
 'You may be one, you know, Miss Milicent,' I said, 'if you 
 only go the same way to work, and you will have enough to 
 exercise your patience and forbearance.' 
 
 'Enough ! yes, enough to try ten thousand saints ; but I will 
 put up with it, Ursie. I mean to bear it, and one ought, you 
 know, after making friends as we have lately. But she will 
 worry me out of my life. She means to travel, — I like travel- 
 ling, I don't like anything else ; but I can't endure being 
 worried.' 
 
 This travelling notion was a new one, and I thought it 
 sounded well. Miss Milicent explained that Mrs Temple 
 wished to remain on the continent for a year or two. It was a 
 plan of economy. ' And perhaps we may meet with my father 
 somewhere ; perhaps he may join us, — that would be a comfort, 
 Ursie,' said Miss Milicent, catching hold of the least vestige 
 which remained of her former life. 
 
 I did not throw doubts on her hopes, rather encouraged her to 
 look at the plan in the most cheerful light. I knew she would 
 have quite sufficient wretchedness to undergo when I was gone, 
 and she had no one to whom to open her heart, to require all the 
 support which a sanguine nature could give. But my mind was 
 certainly relieved by the present plan, and I ventured to look 
 further into futurity, and to suggest to Miss Milicent that if, after 
 her return to England, she had a fancy to live by herself, she 
 might take a cottage at Compton, renew her duties in the parish, 
 and allow me occasionally to see her, and talk over old times 
 and happier days. I think this prospect soothed her more than 
 anything else. She shook my hand with both hers, and told me
 
 v /j LA. 
 
 that die had always felt I had been sent tu be a blessing to 
 
 them, and she wished she had followed my advice before ; tli 
 was no person in all the world she depended upon so thorou id . 
 
 ' I was not much comfort to any one in the old days, when you 
 first knew me, Miss Milicent,' 1 said. 'Do you remember your 
 on about the darned stocking ? 1 behaved worse than you 
 knew then.' 
 
 ! Ursie, you went my way, you were wilful ; but you 
 turned back soon. It was at Dene, I recolhct; those were 
 pleasant days ; there is no place like Dene ! ' 
 
 ' None,' I repeated, earnestly. 
 
 'So my mother thought,' she continued ; 'well! some day I 
 may go back and see it — only it may be all changed.' 
 
 'We needn't look forward,' I said; ' often places remain un- 
 changed for very long.' 
 
 ' Some do, some don't ; I can't think Dene will. It will come 
 to ruin, and be forgotten like us ;' she paused. 'There! Ui 
 that's foryou ;' and pushing into my hand a beautiful mournii 
 
 ■■;, containing some of her mother's hair, .Mi^s Milicent i 
 the door, motioned me from the room, and the interview endi d. 
 Many persons would have thought her not only strange, but cold ; 
 others might have said she had no religious feeling, no earnest- 
 ness ; but I knew her better. There was sincerity of purpose 
 underneath all this roughness ; a struggle with her own self-will ; 
 a humbling consciousness that she had done wrong; a willing- 
 ness to accept whatever might be in store for her in the dis- 
 pensation of God's Providence. It was as much as I expected. 
 As Miss Milicent herself expressed it, she certainly was not 
 born a saint, and it was hard to expect her to become one 
 all at once. 
 
 Mrs Temple was civil to me all this time. I believe that 
 which weighed with her in my favour more than any other cir- 
 cumstance, was the fact that Mrs Weir had not put by any 
 money for me, or left me any remembrance except a copy of 
 hop Jeremy Taylor's Sermons. I Icr fortune was entailed up< I 
 Miss Milicent, and with regard to any personal property, l.er 
 will had been drawn up several years before, and latterly she had 
 been far too nervous and ill to make any change in it. I don't 
 remember that a thought ol what might be left me had ever 
 crossed my mind, but certainly I was very much relieved that 
 things were as they were, when I found that one of Mrs Temple's 
 constant fears was, that I should in some way, I really don't
 
 URSULA. 507 
 
 know how, induce her aunt to favour mc to the disadvantage of 
 her relations. 
 
 After Mrs Weir's will was read, her manner visibly changed ; 
 and I was not in a mood to bear malice, and was willing to 
 accept the alteration, and be thankful for it. I was, however, 
 only a useless burden to the family now, and in spite of Miss 
 Milicent's entreaties that I would stay just for the few remaining 
 days they were in Paris, I made my preparations for leaving 
 without delay. Mr Temple procured my passport ; Mrs Temple, 
 though she made no apology for her accusations, paid me the 
 money that was due, and said that she believed I had tried to 
 do my duty ; Louise gave me innumerable instructions about 
 the Custom-house, and Miss Milicent accompanied me to the 
 railway station. 
 
 The French practice, of not allowing any person to go upon 
 the platform except those who intend to travel, was a real trial 
 to us both. We lingered together as long as we possibly could, 
 saying very little, but each, I am sure, feeling that every moment 
 was crowded with dear and hallowed remembrances ; till at last, 
 looking at her watch, Miss Milicent drew me to the door which 
 led to the waiting-room, once more kissed me, muttered a hasty 
 ' Now, Ursie, go — God bless you : ' — and we parted. 
 
 As I placed myself in the railway carriage, I felt that Paris 
 would from thenceforth be a dream ; that my real life lay at 
 Sandcombe. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXV. 
 
 THE journey was long and uncomfortable. It is surprising to 
 me now how I managed it as I did ; but I had received full 
 instructions, and having no one to think of but myself, I was free 
 from nervousness. That is a great help always. I suppose we 
 scarcely know how heavy is the burden of responsibility for 
 others, even when all seems to go well, until it is for a time re- 
 moved. It was perfect rest,, in spite of the bodily discomfort, to 
 lie still in my berth, as we crossed from Havre to Southampton, 
 feeling that I was not answerable for the well-being of any single 
 individual on board the vessel ; not till I had again landed on 
 English ground, and felt myself drawing near home, did the
 
 508 URSULA. 
 
 cares of life begin again to press upon mc. In the interval I 
 had gained strength for whatever was to come. Roger w.is to 
 meet me in Hove. I had written to make the appointment, not 
 .it the station, but in the town, where he had business ; and as 
 
 the omnibus, which took mc from the railway station, stop 
 at the court-yard of the Red Lion, I saw the Sandcombc chaise 
 just ready to be brought out. A few moments afterwards, Roger 
 himself appeared at some little distance down the street. I for- 
 got all proprieties, and ran forward to meet him. 
 
 ' Well ! my little Trot ! there arc some things blessings in 
 life;' and Roger drew my aim within his, hurried mc on, and as 
 soon as wc were safe within the shelter of the inn yard, gave 
 mc such a greeting as I certainly had not received since I left 
 England. 
 
 I looked up at him then anxiously, but he did not seem in any 
 way altered, his face had just the same honest brightness in 
 it, and as I kept my eyes fixed upon him, and said, ' I had been 
 away such a long, long time,' he laughed, and asked me if I 
 thought his hair would have turned gray in three months. I 
 don't know what I thought, but it was certainly a relief to see 
 him apparently so unchanged. I asked after Jessie ; he an- 
 swered me rather shortly, but not as if he was troubled about 
 her. ' She was very tolerably well, 1 he said ; ' she had been 
 doing a little too much lately ; but now that I was returned all 
 would be right,' and then he hurried me into the chaise, observ- 
 ing that we should be late home, and the nights were cold and 
 dark. All the way to Sandcombc we talked incessantly about 
 everything, and everybody. 1 said the most, but that was 
 natural, there was so much to tell, and Roger kept on asking 
 me all kinds of questions. I felt it would be unkind to trouble 
 him with my grief for Mrs Weir ; he would have sympathised 
 with it, but it would have marred the happiness of our meeting ; 
 and besides, the feeling was becoming sacred, it could not be 
 approached except at certain times, and under certain cir- 
 cumstances, so I dwelt principally upon things which I thought 
 would amuse him. He had never been in France, and was 
 interested in my descriptions of the people and the places I had 
 visited, though in truth I had seen very little, and certainly not 
 enough to enable me to form an opinion. ' I won't tell you what 
 I think about the country myself,' I said, in answer to his in- 
 quiry, ' for I don't seem to know it. Some things there are in it 
 which I like very much, and others very little, and I suppose
 
 URSULA. 5°9 
 
 that is the case with most other countries that are different from 
 one's own. Louise has an English friend, a lady's-maid, who 
 declares that it "is inside out, and upside down, and all wrong;'' 
 but that is because she was so scandalised at the way they 
 spend their Sundays.' 
 
 Roger laughed. ' Well,' he said, ' I don't think France would 
 suit me in that way, and, by the by, Ursie, you remind me that 
 we are getting out of some of our good ways at Sandcombe. 
 Jessie has been too tired, since you have been away, to hear 
 Esther Smithson read, and I have a fear that she is not quite so 
 steady as she was.' 
 
 ' She might be made to read to herself, if Jessie is not able to 
 hear her,' I said, 'but it takes only a short time.' 
 
 ' Yes,' and he became thoughtful. ' Two pair of hands are 
 better than one, Ursie. They will feel that at Longside when 
 Mary is gone.' 
 
 ' When is she to be married ? ' I asked. ' She has treated me 
 shamefully, and not written to me once.' 
 
 'A letter is a trouble to her, I suppose, as it is to me. I be- 
 lieve the wedding is to come off early in April. Somehow, Trot, 
 I can't help thinking that John Hervey and she have made 
 rather a mess of it. John has altered since this affair has been 
 settled. He came back from France with all his spirits gone, 
 and looking quite ill.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' I answered ; I did not trust myself to say more, 
 though I was terribly conscience-stricken. 
 
 'John says so little about himself at any time,' said Roger, ' it 
 is not easy to get at what he thinks, in spite of his open ways. 
 It strikes me sometimes, Trot, that there is nothing more deceiv- 
 ing in this world than that sort of manner which makes you 
 think you know persons thoroughly at first sight.' 
 
 Roger spoke as if he was a little aggrieved, and I taxed him 
 with it. 
 
 ' No !' he said, ' I have nothing to find fault with, except, per- 
 haps, that John does not come over to Sandcombe as he used 
 to do, and is always busy. Change must come, I suppose, in all 
 ways,' and he sighed. ' I remember the time when John Hervey 
 wouldn't have kept back a thought from me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he finds that you keep back some from him,' I said. 
 * A married man is different from a single one, Roger.' 
 
 He became quite silent, and continued so for a long time. I 
 thought it a bad sign, and fell into a train of thought in conse-
 
 5 jo URSULA. 
 
 nee. When we sp in, ii was only to complain of the 
 
 •Jmcss of the lane leading off the down, for wc were fast 
 drawing near to Sandcomb 
 
 ' Is that Jessie ?' I exclaimed, as I saw in the dusk a figure 
 standing in the entrance passa 
 
 Not Jessie, — it was Esther Smithson. Jessie was waiting 
 for me in the parlour. I hurried in ; Roger followed me 
 closely. 
 
 ' I have brought her home, you see,' he said. ' She was 
 punctual to her time lo a minute.' 
 
 'Not like me,' said Jessie, approaching to assist me in un- 
 fastening my cloak. Her tone was a little sharp. 
 
 ' I don't know that I said so,' was Roger's quick reply. 'Sit 
 down by the fire, Trot, and warm yourself. Jessie, what have 
 you got for her for tea ? She must be starving, for wc had not 
 lime to have anything in Move.' 
 
 'There is some cold meat, I believe,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' It ought to be hot,' replied Roger. ' Isn't there some broth 
 in the house ? You would like a basin of broth, Ursie ?' 
 
 'Yes; I really think I should very much,' I said. 'I have 
 learned to like potagc, as the French call it, from never having 
 had a dinner without it for the last two months.' 
 
 ' We arc not up to French soups, I am afraid,' said Jessie, 
 slowly moving to the door. ' I don't know whether there is any 
 broth ; but I will go and see.' 
 
 ' I 11 go,' said Roger, hurrying after her. 'You sit still. Jessie, 
 and hear all that Ursie has to tell. And where is William ? He 
 will be wishing to see her.' 
 
 'William was here just now,' said Jessie. ' But, Ursie, dear, 
 had not you better go up-stairs and take off your things, and make 
 yourself comfortable, and then come down and talk afterwards?' 
 It was the wisest plan certainly, and I followed the suggestion. 
 Jessie lingered over the fire, and Roger called out, ' I will take 
 hi r boxes up-stairs. Just see, Jessie, that tea is got ready, will 
 you ?' And seizing the smallest box, he carried it up before me, 
 and uncorded it. 
 
 ' Jessie isn't strong,' he said, in a tone of apology, ' and we 
 arc obliged to be careful of her. She will be quite a different 
 person now you arc come back, Ursie' 
 
 'I can scarcely judge how she looks,' I said, 'having only 
 seen her by fire-light. You are not anxious about her ?' 
 
 ; not exactly.' And there was the same sudden silence
 
 URSULA. 5 1 1 
 
 as before, when Jessie's name was mentioned. Yet Roger did 
 not seem at all inclined to leave me. His way of lingering made 
 me think of Jessie's arrival after her marriage, and I don't know 
 what kind of feeling came over me, as he sat down on my trunk, 
 looking at me whilst I took off my bonnet, and not offering to go 
 till I said to him, laughingly, that I should think he had been 
 to France himself, and learned to make a parlour of a bedroom. 
 It was scarcely pleasure, though yet it was very pleasant, to find 
 him so glad to have me at home again. It was more a sense 
 of unfitness, as if I was receiving an affection which was not 
 my due. 
 
 The tea-table was certainly the most comfortable sight I had 
 seen since I went away ; and William's welcome was nearly as 
 hearty as Roger's. ' Home is home, be it never so homely/ says 
 the proverb ; and my heart bounded with thankfulness, as I 
 thought of the many blessings to which I had been permitted to 
 return. By candle-light I was able to examine more closely the 
 countenances in which I was so deeply interested. William was 
 looking remarkably well ; but his eyes, he told me, were as bad 
 as ever. He was beginning to employ himself in knitting; there 
 were so many hours when he was forced to be within doors, and 
 Jessie was not able to read aloud much. Roger — I was not 
 satisfied about him. The happy look which had cheered me 
 when we first met was gone now. He had his old grave face, — the 
 face belonging to the latter days of our life at Dene, when he 
 was projecting his expedition to Canada. I could gather but little 
 from it, however. Roger's uniform sobriety of manner was as 
 repelling to curiosity as other persons' perpetual brightness. 
 Jessie I not only looked at, but watched most carefully. She was 
 a greater problem than Roger. She looked thin, and ill, and 
 restless, and unhappy ; but the unhappiness I knew was not 
 necessarily mental ; for whenever her finger ached she was 
 miserable. It was her manner to Roger, and his to her, which 
 I felt I must study, if I wished to discover how things really 
 stood between them ; and here, again, there was much to per- 
 plex me. Roger was very attentive, extremely thoughtful about 
 her ; no one could have been more so ; but it was a thoughtful- 
 ness which rather distressed me ; it seemed as though there was 
 too much duty in it. And Jessie was grateful, but absent in 
 manner, and a little inclined to take offence, as she seemed to 
 expect him to find fault with her. 
 
 They were the merest trifles which gave me these impressions ;
 
 5 i2 URSULA. 
 
 no one but myself probably would have noticed them ; and we 
 hula pleasant, cheerful evening, and stayed up talking much 
 later than usual; and when at last I went to my room, I was 
 too tired to be kept awake even by anxiety. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVI. 
 
 I HAD made up my mind that I would have an explanation 
 with Jessie, directly I found myself at home. Three weeks 
 went by, Christmas came and passed, and the New Year opened 
 upon us, and still there was a mysterious silence between us. 1 
 hope it was not my fault ; I can scarcely accuse myself, strietly 
 speaking, of want of moral courage ; but Jessie had the most 
 singular and ingenious way of avoiding the dreaded subject ; 
 and twice, when we drew so near that my next question would 
 certainly have been an entreaty that she would open her mind 
 to me, she became so painfully agitated, that I actually dreaded 
 to make the experiment again. And all this time there was 
 nothing exactly to remark upon in her way of going on, but only 
 a half-hidden and unceasing restlessness, which made every 
 occupation a burden, and every conversation wcari6ome, and 
 which often compelled Roger to turn to me for the assistance 
 and sympathy which it seemed in vain to expect from her. 
 
 It was the beginning of January, a Saturday ; Roger was gone 
 to Hove, and we did not expect him home till late. We had our 
 tea, and prepared a little hot supper for him, for he was likely to 
 come in cold and hungry. There had been somewhat of a press 
 in the money-market for some weeks ; every one was feeling it, 
 and Roger, with all his prudence, could not hope to escape better 
 than his neighbours. The farmers generally were grumbling, 
 but Roger never grumbled, he only looked a little thoughtful, 
 and begged me to keep an eye upon the house expenses. We 
 were all listening particularly for Roger, on account of this un- 
 easiness in our minds, though any misgiving we had was more 
 for others than ourselves ; and all at the same moment caught 
 the sound of his horse's hoofs coming down the lane. I rather 
 made way for Jessie, thinking she would hurry out to meet him; 
 but finding she did not, I went out myself.
 
 URSULA. 5'3 
 
 'Well! what news?' I said, as I helped him off with his 
 greatcoat. 
 
 ' Not so good as it might be, but nothing to affect us. I arn 
 later home than you expected, I suppose.' 
 
 I was always painfully quick in understanding Roger's tone, 
 lie did not wish to dwell upon the subject, and I left it to 
 William to ask disagreeable questions. Jessie and I laid out the 
 supper, and gave him some hot beer, for he was bitterly cold, 
 and stood in front of the fire saying nothing, very much as 
 though his words were frozen also. 
 
 ' Eat your supper,' said William, good-naturedly ; ' and then 
 tell us your news. We are all willing to wait.' 
 
 ' I have no money news that concerns us,' answered Roger. 
 ' Every one is complaining and talking, and saying a great deal 
 which had better not be said. Jessie, my dear, if you are tired, 
 you had much better go to bed.' 
 
 ' But I should like to wait and hear what you have to tell,' 
 said Jessie. 
 
 ' Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Roger, ' except that there 
 has been a run upon a London bank, which you won't under- 
 stand anything about.' 
 
 ' I know that people are very often ruined by such things,' 
 said Jessie. 
 
 ' We are not ruined, my dear, nor any of our friends ; so you 
 need not distress yourself about it ; but go,' and he lighted a 
 candle for her. 
 
 I think she felt as though she was treated like a child, and I 
 felt the same, and was a little inclined to blame Roger for carry- 
 ing on the old system of making her a plaything. But no one 
 would have thought this night that there was any idea of play in 
 his mind ; and as soon as Jessie was out of the room both 
 William and I exclaimed, ' There is something, Roger ; for pity's 
 sake, let us have it out.' 
 
 ' If the world could have its tongue stopped !' he said, quietly 
 helping himself to a mutton chop, very much as though he had 
 no appetite for it. ' That scamp, Mr Macdonald, and John 
 Hervey have had a quarrel.' 
 
 'A quarrel,' 1 exclaimed, — 'what about?' — and my heart 
 beat very fast as a host of absurd fears and fancies crowded into 
 my mind. 
 
 ' It is almost more than I can tell, — what about,' — replied 
 Roger. ' I didn't hear the beginning. They were in the 
 
 2 K
 
 5 1 4 URSULA. 
 
 coffee-room at the Red Lion, — your name was brought in, 
 Ursic.' 
 
 I started from my seat. ' Mine ! my name brought in by Mr 
 Macdonald.' 
 
 ' Don't be frightened, Trot,' said Roger, speaking with forced 
 quietness, 'the man's a rogue, and every one knows it, and the 
 utmost he could say against you was that you had kept poor 
 Mrs Weir from falling into his clutches ; and for this I thought 
 John Hervey would have knocked him down.' 
 
 ' He needn't have troubled himself to do that,' I said ; ' .Mr 
 Macdonald is beneath the notice of any right-minded person.' 
 
 ' Quite,' said Roger ; ' but he was insolent, and half-tipsy, and 
 there was no knowing how to deal with him.' 
 
 Roger's manner was strange still. I did not feel as though he 
 had told us all. 
 
 ' I wish it hadn't happened on a Saturday, and at the Red 
 Lion,' said William ; 'reports get about so oddly. But tell us 
 all about it. I don't understand.' 
 
 ' I shall only vex Trot,' said Roger, kindly ; ' and the thing is 
 past now.' 
 
 ' I would rather hear,' was my reply ; ' I may have to defend 
 my own cause, so I may as well know what accusations are 
 brought against me.' 
 
 Still Roger hesitated. ' I think I had better leave it to John 
 I Icrvcy,' he said ; ' I begged him to come over on Monday and 
 explain, and he promised he would. He took your part gallantly, 
 Trot.' 
 
 ' He would be sure to do that,' said William. ' If it wasn't 
 that we have all been thinking him in love with Mary Kemp up 
 to within the last month or two, I should have said that he had 
 a considerable fancy for Ursie.' 
 
 This was more than I could endure, and the idea of a long 
 private explanation with John Hervey upon matters so nearly 
 concerning myself, actually made me treml 
 
 ' I don't choose to wait till Monday,' I said ; ' I wish to hear 
 all there is to tell to-night. I shall not sleep the worse for it, 
 Roger, for I have nothing on my conscience.' 
 
 ' Nothing,' he said, patting my shoulder affectionately. ' I '11 
 answer for that, and so will any one who ha n my little 
 
 Trot as long as I have. But at the best you will only ■ I a rig- 
 marole story from me, Ursie. I went into the coffee-room, and 
 found John Hervey and Mr Macdonald at high words. As far
 
 URSULA. 515 
 
 as 1 could gather, the conversation had begun about banks and 
 speculations, and Macdonald boasted, so I was told, of some of 
 his, not rightly knowing, as you may believe, what he said ; 
 and John Hervey took him to task, being aware that they were 
 not much better than frauds. I told him afterwards that he 
 would have done better to let the man alone ; but he said, he 
 felt it right to speak out, because of some present who were 
 listening, and might have gone away with a false impression. 
 Well ! Macdonald got angry, and was impertinent, and accused 
 John in return. I heard that myself. He was not enough in 
 his senses to make what he said quite plain, but the upshot of 
 it was that you, Ursie, and John Hervey had been in league to 
 defraud poor Mrs Weir, and had actually got a large sum of 
 money from her.' 
 
 I laughed ; the idea was too absurd to make me angry. 
 
 ' It wouldn't signify if there had been no one by to hear,' said 
 William ; ' but I suppose the room was full.' 
 
 ' There were two or three men there, most of them Macdonald's 
 friends, and they backed him up.' 
 
 'And what did you do?' I said; 'you couldn't stand by 
 quietly and hear such atrocious falsehoods uttered about your 
 sister ? ' 
 
 'You had a champion in John who needed no support,' said 
 Roger ; ' but you needn't fear, Trot, but that I gave all the help 
 in words I could— till ' — he hesitated — 
 
 'Till what?' I asked. 'Speak out, Roger, I am able to stand 
 up against anything Mr Macdonald may say.' 
 
 'Till' — and Roger's voice grew quite hoarse and hollow — 'till 
 he declared that my wife had told him everything, and that he 
 could produce letters from her in proof ; and then I gave him 
 the lie direct, and turned him out of the room.' 
 
 I was silent. William exclaimed, ' Bravo ! ' 
 
 Roger rose from the table, took out a memorandum book, and 
 began to make some notes in it. There was an awkward silence, 
 and I asked if he had finished his supper. 
 
 ' Yes, quite.' 
 
 I cleared the table, and the servants were called in to prayers. 
 
 Roger read as calmly as usual ; there was no indication in his 
 voice of any trouble in his mind, but when I looked at his face 
 as we rose from our knees, I felt I dared not ask him any more 
 questions, and I bade him good night. My kiss must have told 
 him what I could not express in words.
 
 q. URSULA. 
 
 I beard him come up*stairs very scum after mc. I was not 
 surprised at that, for William was not likely to pi rceive that 
 < ruin subjects could not be approached, and Rog< r would be 
 
 thankful to escape from him. Jessie's room joined mine ; I 
 
 a wished that it did not, for I could not help sometimes 
 
 hearing the tune in which she and Roger conversed, tin.;: 'i i > 
 
 words were intelligible. I tried n t to listen this evening, but 
 
 the very effort seemed only to increase my natural quickness of 
 I. aring. First came a few light observations, then something 
 like an anxious inquiry from Jessie, and grave words in answer. 
 Questions and replies followed quickly, and at last a lo: 
 si eech from Roger, in a voice which struck mc as though he 
 were trying to keep his feelings under control. A quick, faint 
 answer fr&m Jessie succeeded, and a burst of hysterics. 
 
 The next minute Roger knocked at the door of my cham 
 ' Ursie ! Trot ! can you let me in ?' and I admitted him. lie 
 looked very much distressed and frightened. 
 
 'Have you any sal volatile? Can you go to Jessie? Poor 
 little darling ! I ought to have prepared her better, but she 
 would know. That good-for-nothing wretch ! but I won't think 
 of him. Go to her, Ursie ; you can manage her.' lie followed 
 me into Jessie's room ; I forced her to take the medicine, and 
 spoke to her rather decidedly upon the necessity of controlling 
 herself, and for a moment she was calm. Rut when Ro 
 addressed her in his gentle, tender way, the excitement returned 
 again. 'Just leave her to me,' I said at last, 'we shall do 
 nothing while you arc here. Go down-stairs, and when she is 
 better again, I will call you;' and after some hesitation, and 
 many words of fondness, he consented, and Jessie and 1 were 
 left alone. 
 
 As I had expected, she recovered herself then, at least to a 
 certain degree, but this was no common attack of hysterics. I 
 could insist upon her being quiet, and she was so, but when she 
 sat quite still, the expression of her face d tii most in- 
 
 tense mental suffering. After seeing her comfortably in bed I 
 was going to tell Roger that she was better, when she grasped 
 my hand, and said in a faint voice, ' Ursie, you know.' 
 
 'Yes,' 1 said, gravely, ' indeed I know ; but it may be betti r 
 not to talk to-night.' 
 
 ' Stay, stay,' she exclaimed, fancying I was going to leave her. 
 ' 1 have told him. Ursie, he knows that the only letter that 
 could have been meant was to Mrs Price.'
 
 URSULA. 517 
 
 'Was it really?' It might have been hard in me, but there 
 was doubt in my tone. Yet she was not indignant. 
 ' ' Yes, indeed, indeed ; O Ursie ! I am very miserable.' 
 
 'Why ?' I asked ; and still there was a lingering suspicion in 
 my mind. ' Is Roger so angry at your having written foolishly 
 to Mrs Price?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no ; he has forgiven ; he does not think— Ursie, it 
 really was to Mrs Trice.' 
 
 ' You have told me so before, dear Jessie,' I replied. ' I con- 
 fess I am relieved, for Mrs Temple herself showed me when 
 I was in Paris a portion of the letter which I suppose was 
 alluded to, and certainly gave me to understand, though I did 
 not believe her then, that it had been written by you to Mr 
 Macdonald.' 
 
 ' It was a letter I wrote to Mrs Price once when she was in 
 London,' said Jessie. ' It was very foolish of me to say what I 
 did, but she was always asking about you ; and I did not mean 
 any harm, Ursie, indeed I didn't.' 
 
 'It was foolish,' I said, 'but not, of course, the same as it 
 would have been if you had written about our private affairs to 
 Mr Macdonald. Jessie, dear, if you have told all, go to sleep 
 now, and to-morrow talk the matter over quietly with Roger. 
 Don't be afraid.' 
 
 'Wouldn't you be afraid?' she said. 'Wouldn't you really 
 
 care ? ' 
 
 ' Not if it was merely a thoughtless letter to Mrs Price.' 
 
 1 But if— Ursie, I did not speak at once, when Roger asked 
 me to assure him that it was all false,— and his look— oh ! it was 
 so terrible.' 
 
 ' Terrible, without cause, then,' I said. ' Jessie, you wrong 
 Roger by being so afraid of him.' 
 
 'You would be afraid if you were like me ; but you are his 
 sister, not his wife.' 
 
 ' And, as a wife's love is greater than a sister's,' I said, 'so 
 should her confidence be greater also. Jessie, dear, you have 
 had something upon your mind for months, — you have acknow- 
 ledged this to me.; I don't ask what it is, but I entreat you to 
 take advantage of the present opening, and confess everything to 
 Roger.' 
 
 She turned her face away from me, and I heard her murmur, 
 ' I could have told you.' 
 
 ' Then let me hear,' I said ; ' but remember, Jessie, that
 
 5i3 URSULA. 
 
 Roger must know at last, and who is to tell him so well as your- 
 self?' 
 
 'I didn't mean — I didn't think about it. O Ursie ! they 
 have used me cruelly.' 
 
 'I suppose you mean Mrs Price and Mr Macdonald,' I said. 
 ' I could not be surprised at anything they did.' 
 
 ' So unkind !' persisted Jessie, ' to turn my words against me, 
 and bring you into difficulty ; 1 never thought they would have 
 so.' 
 
 She was wandering from the important point, and I recalled 
 
 h t. ' Don't trouble yourself about anything that concerns me, 
 
 r Jessie,' I replied. 'Nothing which Mr Macdonald can 
 
 say will affect me, for my conscience is free, at least on all 
 
 ts in which he can have any concern.' 
 
 ' Free !' murmured Jessie. 'Oh ! how happy.' 
 
 ' And you may be happy too, dearest Jessie,' I said, ' if 
 
 She interrupted me. 
 
 'Happy! Oh! never, never. Ursie, you don't know. He 
 can't forgive.' 
 
 'He can and will forgive everything,' I replied. 'He must 
 do so,' I added, rather weakening my own words, for I felt as 
 though there might be some things, — deceit amongst them, — 
 which it would be almost impossible for a husband to forgive, at 
 least, in such a sense as to feel the same trust as before. 
 
 She took up the expression. 
 
 ' He must ! but if he shouldn't, Ursie, it would break my 
 heart.' 
 
 Just then Roger knocked at the door rather impatiently. 
 Jessie trembled all over. 
 
 'Take courage,' I whispered ; 'pray that you may be helped. 
 Dearest Jessie, it can but be worse by delay.' 
 
 ' I can't, Ursie ; stay with me ; don't leave me.' 
 
 Another knock. I forcibly withdrew my hand, kissed her 
 tenderly, and, with a prayer that God would aid her, turned 
 away. 
 
 The voices in the room adjoining mine were again heard; the 
 tone of the conversation was lower than before ; at times it seemed 
 to cense, and then it began again. I could gain nothing from it. 
 I lingered and waited, — cold, and tired, and uneasy, — expecting I 
 scarcely knew what, and at last went to bed.
 
 URSULA. 519 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVII. 
 
 I DREADED the next morning more than I can tell. All the 
 time I was dressing I was trying to guess what trouble 
 might be in store for me, but Roger's face, when we met at 
 breakfast, was a cordial to my heart. He was always very 
 happy on a Sunday. He had a knack, which I could never 
 attain, of putting aside anything which troubled him, and never 
 allowed himself to be distressed with earthly cares on the one 
 day of heavenly rest ; and to my great astonishment, his cheer- 
 fulness on this morning was particularly marked, and his first 
 words were — 
 
 'Jessie has slept well; she is rather tired though, and not 
 going to get up to breakfast;' and then he added, 'she is a 
 forgiving little woman, she won't let me give that fellow, Mac- 
 donald, the dressing he deserves. But I must make him eat his 
 own words, for her sake, though really no one, except his worth- 
 less companions, would believe anything he said.' 
 
 ' I suppose I may go to her after breakfast,' I observed. 
 
 'Yes, if she is awake ; but I promised not to let her be dis- 
 turbed, as she was still drowsy. She won't be able to go to 
 church to-day, and I think I shall stay and read to her now, and 
 go myself in the afternoon.' 
 
 I can't say how strange it was to me that he could take what 
 had happened thus quietly. I fancied him so sensitive that the 
 least imputation on his wife would have driven him nearly wild. 
 It was evident that something had occurred to make such 
 thoughts secondary. He insisted upon carrying up Jessie's break- 
 fast himself, and stayed with her for some time. When he came 
 down he said she complained of a little headache, and he thought 
 it was better perhaps to let her be quiet, and for me not to go to 
 her. William went out before church, and I had several things 
 to attend to. Roger took up a book in the parlour, but I soon 
 saw him saunter into the garden, and pace up and down the 
 middle walk in the sunshine. When I was ready for church 
 I joined him there. 
 
 ' It is a blessed day, is it not, Trot ?' he said, putting his hand 
 fondly on my shoulder. ' Doesn't it often strike you how quiet 
 everything is on a Sunday in the country, as if the very birds 
 and insects knew that it was a time of peace ?' 
 
 We stood still and listened. Very far off there was a soft,
 
 52C 7Z/LA. 
 
 soothing murmur, the of the waves as they reached the 
 
 shore, but no other sound broke the stillness. 
 
 ' I could not bear to be without that one sound,' he said. ' It 
 it is like the breathing of a human being, a sign of life which can 
 scarcely be called sound. And it docs not disturb one. God is 
 very gracious,' he added, .looking up reverently to the sky, 'to 
 urs like these after days of storm. lay wa a 
 
 tempest to me, Trot, but it is all past now, as thi ugh it h d 
 r been.' 
 
 'Except,' I said, 'that you must have an explanation with 
 Mr Macdonald.' 
 
 'Yes, I know ; but don't talk about him. I shall soon make 
 him retract. And, Ursie, he can't trouble me,— nothing can, 
 whilst my darling* ■ He stopped. 
 
 'Goon,' I said, and I laughed kindly. 'Don't be ashamed 
 to show that you are as weak as other men.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose it is weakness,' he said, like myself, 1 m ' ; 
 a little. ' But life would be worth little without it. And, Ursie, 
 when people are first married, there is a good deal to learn.' 
 
 c They are making discoveries in unknown lands,' I replied; 
 ' t least, so John Hervey says.' 
 
 ' Does he ? Well, he is right. I hope before long he may have 
 the opportunity of travelling on his own account. At least, if 
 he is sure of comiag to th • same result as myself.' 
 
 ' Dearest Roger,' I said, 'no one can be so thankful as I am 
 tli .1 you are happy.' 
 
 lie was silent at first, but after a few moments of considcra- 
 
 :, said, 'You must not misunderstand me, Ursie. Neither 
 
 Hervey nor any one else can expect to find perfection, — 
 
 .■ love,' he added, and his tone sank as though he shrank from 
 
 saying so much even to me. 
 
 4 Jessie does love you devotedly,' I said ; 'no one can doubt 
 that.' 
 
 ' Xo one, no one,' he said, hastily. ' But, Ursie, you women 
 are problems, and often make us unjust.' 
 
 ' Because we are inconsistent,' I said. 
 
 ' You show the worst part of yourselves in everyday life. 
 There seems to be a mist of petty weaknesses over you, and then 
 comes disappointment in consequence, till a storm arises, — th n 
 shine out like the sun.' 
 
 ' I dare say you arc right,' I said. * And so one ought to be 
 thankful for the storm?'
 
 URSULA. 521 
 
 • Most thankful ! ' he replied. ' I could say it to no one but 
 you, Ursie ; I never knew how Jessie loved me till last 
 night.' 
 
 I don't think I was ever more perplexed in my life as to what 
 I should answer. The whole conversation was so entirely 
 different from anything I had anticipated. My silence ap- 
 peared like want of sympathy, but I could not speak. William's 
 appearance at the further end of the walk was an immense relief, 
 and hastening towards him, I made him take my arm. Whether 
 Roger noticed anything uncomfortable in my manner, I can't 
 say. I believe he was too much at peace that morning with 
 God, the world, and himself, to be disturbed by any one. Even 
 Mr Macdonald was put aside for a future day of reckoning. 
 
 William and I went to church together. I told Roger that 
 possibly I might not return till after the afternoon service, for 
 Mrs Richardson had made a proposal to me to take a class at 
 the afternoon Sunday-school, and I was anxious if possible to 
 oblige her. With Jessie to share my duties at home, I thought 
 it might be managed. In case I did this, Mrs Richardson had 
 kindly said she would give me luncheon at the Parsonage. It 
 was not certain that I should be wanted till the next Sunday, 
 but it was as well to be prepared. All the way to church I was 
 obliged to talk to William, and he would bring forward the dis- 
 agreeable subject of Mr Macdonald. Roger, he said, bore the 
 matter too quietly ; the man was a rascal, and deserved to be 
 prosecuted for a libel. ' Roger takes to heart what was said about 
 Jessie, much more than what concerns you though, Ursie,' added 
 William, ' and that aggravates me, I confess ; for, after all, Jessie 
 might have been a little foolish and gossiping, but nothing worse 
 could be brought against her. It was not like accusing you of 
 fraud.' 
 
 ' That notion is so simply absurd,' I said, 'that I really don't 
 trouble myself about it.' 
 
 ' I can't help wishing that John Hervey had not made such a 
 disturbance,' persisted William. ' It spreads the thing; I always 
 thought him rather hot-headed. The only excuse is, as I said 
 last night, Ursie, that he certainly has a half-liking for you; why 
 shouldn't you make up to each other?' he added, turning round 
 upon me sharply. 
 
 I replied, ' Merely, I suppose, because it does not suit us.' 
 
 'Not suit you! But why shouldn't it ? He has a comfortable 
 income of his own, and is getting on in his business. And ii
 
 522 URSULA, 
 
 thcie come some little Rogers and Jessies, Sandcombe won't be 
 lar i hold us all.' 
 
 V ry like William that was ! Putting things just in the way 
 most likely to fret me; and yet not imagining himself— or indi 
 meaning to be otherwise than very good-natured. I took the first 
 opportunity of ^changing the conversation, and soon afterwards 
 we reached the church. There arc times when past days come 
 back to one, seemingly without cause; and the sight of the school 
 children under the gallery brought to me the recollection of 
 Miss Milicent, and the fust time I saw her in Compton church, 
 dressed in the cloth jacket and red handkerchief, and trying to 
 awe us all into order. I felt that I should very much like to sec 
 her again, for my heart clung tenderly to the days associated witli 
 the remembrance of her ; and the loss of Mrs Weir left still a 
 blank at my heart, which nothing could fill. Country churches 
 remain for years unaltered, and Compton church was precisely 
 the same now as it was in those old days, except that a new 
 generation of little figures might be seen on the wooden benches. 
 I was glad to think that I should have to teach them ; it gave me 
 a fresh interest, and when Mrs Richardson came up to me after 
 the service, and said she should be much obliged if I could stay, 
 I was very willing to accede. William, I knew, would find his 
 way home with the farm people ; but just as he was setting forth, 
 I saw John Hervey join him, and they entered into conversation. 
 I was turning away to follow Mrs Richardson, and feeling thank- 
 ful to have an excuse for escaping from John, when Willi 
 called to me. ' Ursie, where are you marching to? Have you 
 no thanks to give your champion ?' 
 
 John's colour came up into his face, in a manner which was 
 perfectly distressing. Indeed, I am not sure, whether to see a 
 man blush is not worse than to see him shed tears. He put 
 out his hand, drew it back, and stammered, and at last burst 
 into a fit of laughter— really, I believe, because he did not know 
 what else to do; for certain I am there was no mirth in his 
 merriment. 
 
 I was very conscious, —which is a most uncomfortable feeling 
 at all times, — and in my wish to be quite at case, I said some- 
 thing which I am very nearly sure was nonsense. At any rate 
 it made William interpose with, 'Well ! if you two are not the 
 strangest beings, one would think you had never met before. 
 Ursie, surely you can say " Thank you," to a man who took your 
 part as John Hervey did last night.'
 
 URSULA. 523 
 
 •I don't think Mr Hervey needs words,' I said; 'he must 
 know how grateful I am ; only it is not a very pleasant subject 
 to enter upon.' 
 
 ' Indeed it is not ! ' exclaimed John. ' I wouldn't have a word 
 said, except — I am afraid, Ursie, I must ask to have a few 
 minutes' conversation with you.' 
 
 ' We will wait till to-morrow,' I said ; feeling myself at the 
 same time to be the most cold, ungrateful creature living. 
 
 There was a tone of mournful bitterness in John's voice, as he 
 said, 'I am quite aware that I am urging you against your will, 
 but to-morrow it will be too late.' 
 
 ' I must leave you to settle matters your own way,' said 
 William, 'or I shall not be in time for dinner. Ursie, I shall 
 send Roger to church in the afternoon, and he can walk home 
 with you.' 
 
 I was left standing in the road with John Hervey, the villagers 
 watching us. Six months ago I should no more have cared for 
 this than I should for being seen holding a conversation with 
 William or Roger ; but now it made me uncomfortable, and in 
 order to escape it, I said, ' We cannot stay here. Perhaps you 
 would not mind coming down to the Parsonage with me. Mrs 
 Richardson would let us have our conversation there, I am 
 sure.' 
 
 'Just as you wish,' he said, quietly, and we walked on 
 together. 
 
 Mrs Richardson was a very simple-minded person, who never 
 suspected any one of a double meaning, and when I went to her 
 and told her that Mr Hervey and I had a few words to say to 
 each other, and that I did not like standing about in the road, 
 she offered us at once to go into the school-room, whilst her 
 children were having their dinner in the dining-room. 'And 
 something shall be kept hot for you, Ursula,' she added, kindly, 
 ' though don't be long, or you will have no time to eat it.' So 
 John Hervey and I were once more doomed to a private inter- 
 view, though happily we had a definite subject to talk about, 
 which I felt to be a safeguard as long as we could keep to 
 facts. 
 
 John began the conversation with another excuse for having 
 forced it upon me, but I cut him short. 
 
 ' There is no occasion to say anything of that kind,' I observed ; 
 'you have been very good to me, Mr Hervey, in taking up my 
 cause, and I am only sorry that you should have been called
 
 524 URSULA. 
 
 upon to do it. But to say that I care much for what .1 man like 
 Mr Macdonald may choose to assert when he is tipsy, would be 
 untrue, and I should be glad to be certain that you felt as indif- 
 >t about it as 1 do.' 
 
 * It is not for you to care, Ursie, nor for me,' he replied. ' If 
 one troubled one's self about false reports, life might be miserable. 
 I thoroughly frightened Macdonald last night, and I have good 
 ;on to believe that he will never venture to repeat his false- 
 hoods. If he does, I have the means of punishing him in my 
 
 n hands. But he said something abmit your sister-in-law 
 which unfortunately is true. She did write to him when j 
 were away. It was from her that he learned what your move- 
 ments were likely to be, and by that means they were com- 
 municated to M. Dalange.' 
 
 'Begging your pardon,' I said, 'I think you are under a 
 mistake. Jessie wrote one note to Mrs Price, part of which I 
 saw. It was sent, I believe, to Mrs Temple, by whom I don't 
 know, with the long letter from Mr Macdonald, which you your- 
 self read in Paris. There was a thoughtless observation in it 
 about my influence with Mrs Weir, and Jessie is very sorry she 
 made it, but as for anything more of consequence having tran- 
 spired through it, I am all but certain that it is impossible.' 
 
 ' I wish I could believe it,' said John, earnestly. ' I wish to 
 my heart I could believe it. Put Macdonald, as you know, talks 
 about it, and it is unquestionable that everything you and I 
 
 mned was told immediately to Macdonald, and through him 
 to his French friend, who came to Paris expressly, because he 
 knew that I was daily expected, and was afraid that I might be 
 working against him. Mrs Temple also, as you are aware, was 
 sent there in the same way. It is a pity that you were not more 
 cautious in what you wrote.' 
 
 'It is a pity/ I replied, 'yet what I said was very little; 
 'ling, indeed, that I can remember, except that we meant to 
 
 ve certain places on certain days, and that Miss Miliccnt was 
 
 ng to consult you about some of her affairs. And I wrote 
 quite privately to Roger, thinking, of course, that nothing which 
 was mentioned would go beyond our own circle. It never 
 entered my head to s iy, " I J n't show it to Jessie.'" 
 
 ' It did go beyond your own circle,' said John, 'but that is not 
 your fault, Ursie. Only, indeed, I am very sorry about your 
 sister-in-law.' 
 
 ' But it is not true,' I said ; 'forgive me for speaking hastily,
 
 URSULA. 525 
 
 Mr Hervey, but I can't help it. It is all an exaggeration.' 
 Then recollecting the short conversation which had passed 
 between myself and M. Dalange at Andely, I added, ' M. 
 Dalange once mentioned Jessie to me, and implied she had 
 been staying at Dene, and that was entirely untrue. He 
 thought, too, that I was a great friend of Mrs Price, which was 
 another complete mistake. You see, one cannot depend upon 
 any of them.' 
 
 ' M. Dalange,' replied John, 'only wished to find out whether 
 Macdonald was playing him true or false as to the persons from 
 whom he professed to get his information. With regard to the 
 note you mention, I can tell you how Mrs Temple got it. It 
 was through the people who took Stonecliff. Mrs Price pressed 
 an acquaintance with them, as I understand, and they, coming 
 into a new neighbourhood, and not knowing anything about the 
 residents, let her make up to them ; and so, by degrees, as they 
 grew more intimate, I suppose, they talked about Mrs Temple, 
 and Mrs Weir, and ail the family, and Mrs Price put them up 
 to her notion of what was going on, and through them alarmed 
 Mrs Temple, who, I believe, is a distant relation. The object 
 of it all, of course, was to have you recalled.' 
 
 'I suppose it must have been so,' I said; ' but what motive 
 could Mrs Price have had to interfere at all in the matter?' 
 
 ' First of all, she hates you as much as she hates any one on 
 the face of the earth,' said John. ' You have kept aloof from 
 her, and made other people do the same ; and she has never 
 forgiven Jessie's marrying into your family ; and if she could do 
 you an injury, and make Roger and Jessie miserable, she would 
 be only too glad. But besides this, I pretty well know that her 
 husband was in a certain degree mixed up with Macdonald's 
 speculation, and it was a matter of importance to her, therefore, 
 to get hold of Miss Milicent's money, which, as long as you were 
 there to watch, could not be done. But all this, Ursic, is com- 
 paratively nothing ; I must again go back to the fact of the 
 accusation against your sister-in-law, and say that it ought to be 
 contradicted at once if it is untrue ; and if it is net, the sooner 
 it is crushed the better.' 
 
 ' It is not true,' I again said. 
 
 ' Well, then, some one must get a direct acknowledgment that 
 it is false from Macdonald himself. Now, Ursie, if you think I 
 might venture, I believe I could do so, and this very day. Mac- 
 d. a all leaves Dene to-morrow.'
 
 5=6 . /. 
 
 ' I don't know,' I said. ' To interfere without Roger's cons* at I 
 I don't quite sec how it could be done.' 
 
 'I was in hopes/ he said, 'that it might be the easiest way. 
 1 have Macdonald under my thumb, and, in his sober senses, 
 he knows that full well. I could without difficulty bring him 
 
 ore a court of justice for being mixed up with the French- 
 man's frauds. Anything that I insist upon his doing he will 
 do, when he is sober, that is. And I am now going to Dene 
 with the full determination of making him sign a paper retract- 
 ing every word he had the audacity to utter against you and me 
 last night. If you were quite sure, quite certain that the accu- 
 sation against your sister-in-law is as unfounded as that brought 
 against us, I could easily force him to retract it at the same 
 time.' 
 
 If! In spite of Jessie's protestations and Roger's happiness, 
 and the absence of anything that could be called proof to the 
 contrary, I hesitated ; and John perceived my hesitation, I am 
 sure, but he could not bear to notice it. Neither could I bear 
 to allude to it. 
 
 ' I think,' I said, after a few moments' consideration, ' that 
 you may very fairly tax him with exaggeration, and with having 
 implied that his intelligence came direct from Jessie, when in 
 fact he only learned it through Mrs Price. More than this I am 
 afraid we cannot demand, for Jessie was incautious, and the 
 1 tier to Mrs Price ought not to have been written at all.' 
 
 ' It will be a great deal if we get that,' said John. ' Ursie, if 
 you can only stop the acquaintance with Mrs Price, you will 
 do a kinder act both toward Roger and Jessie than you at all 
 imagine.' 
 
 I made no answer, for I felt very desponding. 
 
 'You are displeased with me, I am afraid,' he continued. 'I 
 am interfering.' 
 
 His tone woke me up from a kind of dream. We were leaving 
 facts ; and feelings were dangerous ground. 
 
 Speaking quickly, and rather coldly, I said, 'Oh ! no, indeed. 
 You are very good to take so much trouble. I am sure Rogei 
 and we all shall be extremely obliged to you.' 
 
 It went like an arrow through me to see the pained expression 
 of his face. He took up his hat, wished me good-bye, and did 
 net even say that I should hear from him. 
 
 As the door closed behind him, my impulse was to rush after 
 him, to beg him to return, to tell him that I thought him the
 
 URSULA. 527 
 
 best, kindest, truest of friends ; that I 'trusted him as I had 
 never trusted any one except Roger; that if I could only see 
 him happy I would be contented to be unhappy myself for the 
 remainder of my life. But marry him ! No, I had not come to 
 that yet. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
 
 ROGER came to me at the school, and walked with me to 
 church. He was not so comfortable as when I left him in 
 the morning. Jessie, he said, was so extremely depressed ; she 
 seemed to take so very much to heart the having been spoken 
 of in that public manner, even by a person whom every one 
 despised. 'And I am afraid,' he added, 'that a few words of 
 mine may have increased her unhappiness. Poor little thing ! 
 she is so timid ; and you know, Ursie, I have not been ac- 
 customed to deal with women of a timid mind, and what I 
 feel I express strongly. I left her at last very miserable, be- 
 cause of something I said about the trust I had always hitherto 
 placed in her, and the full confidence I had in her word ; and 
 she seemed to fancy that it implied some change now. I 
 should scarcely have made up my mind to go away from her, 
 only she put herself into a perfect agony about my missing 
 church.' 
 
 ' It certainly must be very strange to you,' I said, not quite 
 knowing what other remark to make. ' You have had so very 
 little to do with women.' 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing at all, so to say ; for I always felt, Trot, 
 that you stood upon your own ground, and did not want petting 
 and humouring. Lately I have thought,' — and he paused,—' I 
 don't know that I have been quite wise with Jessie ; she has 
 been such a child to me always.' 
 
 4 Perhaps,' I said gently, for I was not sure that he would be 
 pleased to find me agreeing with him, ' it might have been better 
 to put her in a more decided position of authority, and to have 
 given her more responsibilities. But then, to be sure, that has 
 been tried since I have been away.' 
 
 'Not exactly,' he said, in a quick tone ; 'she might have done 
 better, probably she would, if you had not been expected home 
 every day, as it were. But matters of business were put off—
 
 538 URSULA. 
 
 and — I suppose it is natural — she likes going out. Young 
 i ; don't they?' 
 I could almost have laughed,— it was a simplicity with whi< h 
 one would have been really inclined to find fault, but that it 
 
 arose from an intense humility. He did literally feel quite ig 
 rant about women, and was in a constant dread of being hard or 
 exacting with his young wife. 
 
 ' Dear Roger,' I said, ' you must really cease to look u 
 ie as a young thing, as you call her. When a woman marries 
 she takes upon herself certain responsibilities; and, whatever 
 her youth may be, she can't shake them off. And you will not 
 mind my saving that Jessie would be much hap] ier in the end 
 by being made to fulfil her duties than by being assisted in the 
 endeavour to avoid them. And if,' I added, ' my being at Sand- 
 combe in any way stands in the way of this, I needn't say to you 
 that, let it be what pain it may to part, I shall be the first to 
 propose it.' 
 
 'No, Ursie, never, never,' he exclaimed eagerly; 'it is 
 your home always. But you are right; yes, you arc right; I 
 do believe, in other ways, I have been a fool. I don't blame 
 her, poor darling ! she was a child ; I could not have expected 
 more.' 
 
 He became very silent after this. We were drawing near the 
 church, and with his usual feeling of reverence, he was doubtless 
 preparing himself to enter rightly upon the service. As I kn< '.t 
 by him, I Ik aid the words of the confession repeated, oh ! so 
 fervently, with such deep, deep humiliation. I felt that he was 
 crowding into it all the errors of which lie felt himself to have 
 ben guilty in his conduct towards Jessie. If there was one 
 prayer on my lips uttered that afternoon more earnestly than any 
 r, it was that God would eave to them both the ' peace whi< li 
 the world cannot give ; that their hearts might be set to o 
 His commandments, and their time be passed in rest and 
 quietness.' 
 
 When that prayer was made, I was comforted by the feeling 
 that any unkind jealousy I might once have felt was melting 
 away under the influence of true and unselfish affection. 
 
 It was growing dusk before we left the church, for we had a 
 christening and a long sermon, and the days were short. As 
 we walked back, I told Roger what had passed between John 
 Hervey and me ; and he agreed thai it mi ;ht be better for John 
 lo interfere in the matter than for him. He could scarcely do it,
 
 URSULA. 529 
 
 he said, without making what, perhaps, would be an unwise fuss ; 
 and he had no such hold over Mr Macdonaldas John possessed. 
 We referred also to the conversation just before church. Roger 
 was an energetic person in dealing with himself. He never, like 
 some people, sat looking at a fault, and thinking that by looking 
 he was destroying it. The moment he perceived anything to be 
 amiss, he steadfastly set himself to subdue it ; and now, having 
 begun to perceive that his love for Jessie was more self-indulgent 
 than self-denying, — for that was the root of the matter when the 
 case was examined, — he was determined to correct the evil with- 
 out delay. He and I talked over many little ways in which we 
 might bring Jessie round to a sense of her true position in the 
 family, working at our object by degrees, for we both felt that it 
 would not do, especially in her present weak state, to make any 
 sudden change. ' By and by,' said Roger, 'if it please God all 
 should go well with her, there will be a claim upon her which no 
 woman can put aside, and so she will naturally learn to be more 
 managing, and exercise greater authority. I only hope, Ursic, 
 she won't come in your way.' 
 
 'There is not much fear of that,' I said. 'I can mark out 
 certain duties which ought to belong especially to me, and those 
 I can attend to ; and you know, Roger, it is the principle we 
 want from Jessie, more than the actual work. When she has a 
 baby to attend to, she won't be able to do so much in other ways, 
 but as long as she feels herself responsible, it will not signify. 
 You mustn't quarrel with me,' I added, ' if sometimes I let 
 things go wrong, just to show her that if she does not attend to 
 them nobody else will. It seems to me rather spoiling a person, 
 whether it may be Jessie or any one else, always to finish what 
 is left undone. There are so many who are quite satisfied to see 
 duties performed without troubling themselves to ask who does 
 them. As I once heard Farmer Kemp say, " One-third of the 
 world takes two-thirds of the world's duties, and the other two- 
 thirds share the remainder between them, and so the work is 
 done, and every one thinks he has had his right share.'" 
 
 Roger laughed a little, and said the farmer was always severe 
 upon idlers, but no doubt he was right ; adding, ' I can't thin':, 
 however, that there is any lack of will for work in my Jessie.' 
 
 I agreed with him in a certain way, but I did not enter into 
 what I felt to be the essential difference between Jessie's view of 
 life and mine. With me work was the object, and amusement 
 the accident of existence; with her, amusement was the object, 
 
 2 L
 
 530 URSULA. 
 
 and work the accident Roger would quite have agreed with 
 
 me, but lie would not have been pleased to be told that his wife 
 differed. He was feeling very tenderly towards her, having dis- 
 covered, as he supposed, in his own wrong management, the 
 Cause of all which of lntc had disturbed him ; and in his noble 
 unselfishness, being thankful to take the whole burden of blame 
 upon himself, so that he might but spare her. 
 
 Roger and I entered the house together. I went into the 
 parlour to warm myself, and have a little chat with William; 
 and Roger, finding Jessie not there, ran up-stairs to her. I was 
 afraid she was not so well, for William said she had kept to her 
 room all the afternoon. We had said but a few words when 
 Roger came down again. ' Jessie must be in the kitchen,' he 
 observed, ' she is not up-stairs.' 
 
 ' She was not there a minute ago,' I replied, ' for I looked in as 
 1 went by ; but she may be in the scullery, or perhaps in the dairy.' 
 
 ' She ought to keep quiet,' said Roger, anxiously. ' I must 
 have her in directly ;' and he hurried away. 
 
 We heard him call, and speak to the servants, and go out into 
 the back yard, and then he came back again. ' She is not out,' 
 he said ; ' she must be up-stairs ;' and now feeling a little fidgety 
 myself, I followed him, and we went from room to room, but no 
 Jessie was to be found. Roger grew very pale, very quiet, instead 
 of rushing from one place to another, as he had done at first, 
 he slowly opened every door, every closet, asked each of the 
 servants separately where their mistress had last been seen, and 
 then put on his hat and went out again. I dared not ask him 
 what he thought, and I returned to the parlour. 
 
 ' She is taking a little fresh air,' said William, as he sat com- 
 fortably by the parlour fire, not in the least disturbing himself. 
 ' I never trouble myself about these matters, they arc sure to 
 come right.' 
 
 'Jessie is not so very fond of fresh air,' I said ; ' all to-day she 
 has been feeling so unwell.' 
 
 ' All the more reason that she should want air,' he replied. 
 ' Now, I remember, I did hear the front door close, soon after 
 Roger went to church. I thought he might have come back for 
 something, but 1 dare say it was Jessie.' 
 
 ' She ought to be returned then by this time,' I said ; ' hark ! 
 what is that?' 
 
 It was Roger's voice calling in the garden, clear and full, but 
 sharpened by intense anxiety.
 
 URSULA. 531 
 
 * I must go out to him,' I said ; ' I can't bear this.' And I 
 hurried out and joined him in the yard by the great barn. 
 
 1 She is not here ; she must have heard me if she had been,' 
 he said. ' O Ursie ! ' and he put his hands to his forehead, and 
 actually staggered against the wall, 'what does it mean?' 
 
 ' She is ill, or she has taken some strange fancy in her head,' 
 I said. ' Are you sure, Roger, that she was not frightened at 
 anything when you left her ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he exclaimed. ' She was frightened at me, — at me, who 
 loved her better than life. Ursie, I don't know what I said to 
 her, but she cried, — poor child ! poor darling ! God forgive me, 
 I am a wretch.' 
 
 ' She is gone to Dene,' I said. The words came out without 
 thought, and they were scarcely uttered when Roger was to be 
 seen in the dim twilight tearing up the lane like a madman. 
 
 It was in vain to follow him, I could not go back to William, 
 and I went up-stairs to my own room. There sitting down, I 
 strove to bring before my mind all which I dreaded. 
 
 But I could not steadily face anything. One fear after an- 
 other crowded upon me, all connected with Jessie's insincerity 
 and Mrs. Price's fatal influence. I felt certain Jessie was gone 
 to Dene ; but ill, weak, alone, in Roger's absence — there must 
 be some very strong motive to lead her to such a step ; she 
 must at least have reckoned upon doing it secretly. 
 
 There was deception, and Roger must know it. His delusion 
 would be at an end ; and where then would be his happiness ? 
 My heart grew faint. 
 
 I remained by myself, praying, thinking, fearing, listening, and 
 at last, remembering William, roused myself to the effort of 
 going down-stairs again. I was glad I did, for William himself 
 was by this time as anxious as I could be, and showing his 
 anxiety by giving the most contradictory and senseless orders. 
 Every corner and nook had been searched, both in the house 
 and out of it, but he insisted upon the servants going round 
 again, and was quite angry with me because I did not accompany 
 them. I could have done so willingly for the sake of occupa- 
 tion ; to sit still was unendurable, but my comfort was to dress 
 myself in a cloak, go to the front door, and hearken, catching 
 the hoarse murmur of the sea, and the moaning of the wind 
 rushing across the downs, and thinking, as the sounds mingled 
 with the nervous ringing in my ears, that I heard voices calling 
 out that she was returned.
 
 532 URSULA. 
 
 ck came. Roger might have been to Dene and 
 
 come back ; at any rate, it could not be long before lie was with 
 n^. Whenever I went into the parlour, William sent me to 
 listen again, and at last followed himself ; and we stood together 
 at the house-door in silence. 
 
 William spoke first. There had been a sudden gust of wind 
 followed by a lull. 'A cry, Ursie ; you heard it ? ' 
 
 ' No,' I said ; 'it was the wind.' 1 left him, and went forward 
 a few paces, hearing nothing. 
 
 'There it is again!' called out William. But still all was 
 silent to my i 
 
 William himself, when I went back to him, thought he had 
 been deceived. 1 begged him to go in-doors, for it was bitterly 
 !, and rather reluctantly he consented, and was just turning 
 away when both of us at the same moment exclaimed. ' Y 
 there is some one.' And William called again, whilst I ran into 
 the house to tell Joe Goodenough to take a lantern, and go out. 
 
 'It is John Ilcrvey's voice,' said William, when I rejoined 
 him ; and my heart sank. I thought it must surely have been 
 I : _, r er with Jessie. Whoever it might be, the time seemed end- 
 less before Joe had lighted his lantern, and gone forth ; and then 
 I thought he moved as though his feet were clogged. ' Give me 
 the light ; let me take it, and you follow,' I exclaimed, throwing 
 my cloak over my head ; and the man did as I bade, striding 
 after mo as I ran up the lane. When we were at the top, and on 
 the green down, 1 told my companion to shout, and his call was 
 immediately answered. The voice came from the ri;_;ht, in the 
 ction of Dene ; and I went on, till I reai hed the green path- 
 way in the side of the down, and then ran down as hard as I 
 could. I saw no one ; but before I had gone about a couple of 
 hundred yards, a voice from amidst the furze and fern which 
 clothed the steep descent at the ; the path, called out, 
 
 'Holloa! who's there? Stay, will you, and lend a helping 
 d.' 
 
 ' Mr Hervey ! ' I exclaimi 
 
 ' Ursie ! ' was uttered almost at the same moment. 
 
 'Where are you? What do you want ?' I inquired. 
 
 'Are you alone? Hold the light this way.' And doing as 
 I was bid, whilst bending forward to peer into the darkness, 1 
 saw John Hervey, with something in his arms, struggling lo 
 make his way up the ascent. 
 
 Joe was by his side before I could tell what was to be done ; 

 
 URSULA. 533 
 
 and John Hervey called out in a cheerful voice, ' We shall do 
 now,— all right she will come to herself again presently.' 
 ' What ! Jessie ? ' 
 
 He made no answer, for he was breathless ; but having such 
 good help, in a few moments he was at the top of the bank, with 
 his motionless burden. 
 
 ' She is dead ! ' I exclaimed in horror, as I put the lantern to 
 her face. 
 
 'Not at all that, ma'am,' said Joe; 'she is only in a kind of 
 faint. We '11 soon have her home ; ' and, with John's assistance, 
 he raised her again, so as to carry her more conveniently between 
 them, and they went on. I asked no questions, for I felt it was 
 not the moment. 
 
 She was taken into the house, carried up to her room, and laid 
 upon the bed. No doubt she had fainted, but it was a worse 
 state of faintness than usual. She revived for a few moments, 
 but only to die away, as it were, again. John and William 
 stiyed outside the door. I saw they were both extremely uneasy- 
 I heard William asking questions, but I could not attend to the 
 answers ; all my thoughts were given to Jessie. After a few 
 minutes I made up my mind to send into Hove for a doctor. It 
 might not be necessary, but at any rate it was safe, and Joe was 
 ordered to ride off directly. John Hervey said he would go out 
 and look for Roger, who most likely was out upon the downs. 
 I wanted to get Jessie regularly into bed before Roger came. I 
 felt he would be less frightened then. But before I could 
 manage this, a hasty step on the stairs, and a quick but very 
 gentle knock, told that Roger was returned. I opened the door, 
 and, without speaking to me, he went up directly to the bed, and 
 stood looking at his wife for some moments. She is bettej 
 now,' I said ; ' we will get her into bed ; and I have sent for the 
 doctor from Hove. You had better go down, and leave her to 
 me.' Still he did not answer ; but he bent down, and kissed 
 Jessie's poor, little, pale face, and parted her hair from her fore- 
 head, and lifted her in his arms, that I might unfasten her chess; 
 and I heard him whisper, 'Jessie, my Jessie, just smile once.' 
 But though she opened her eyes, it was not as though she knew 
 him, and they were immediately closed again. 
 
 I told Roger to go down-stairs, and said I would call him 
 again when I was ready. 
 
 He moved away, but it was only to go outside the door, and 
 prce up and down the passage.
 
 5K 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 Martha and I undressed Jessie, and put her into bed, but she 
 never spoke or looked at us in any way as though she was con- 
 scious, only she moaned a good deal, and I began to fear that 
 she must have met with some bad accident, although there were 
 no broken limbs. 
 
 ' We will make the room comfortable, and then leave your 
 master to watch her,' I said to Martha, and I began putting 
 away the things, and sent Martha to fetch some more water. 
 Roger came into the room as Martha went out. He sat down 
 by the bed, and I came and stood by him with Jessie's dress in 
 my hand. The pocket was heavy, and I took the things out of 
 it and laid them on the bed, one by one ; her thimble, and a 
 little pocket-book, and needlecase, and pincushion, and, at last, 
 a packet of letters, some of which fell to the ground. Roger 
 picked them up ; something made me look at him just then ; 
 one letter was in his hand ; he was holding it to the light. 
 The expression of his face I shall never forget. I can't describe 
 it ; I don't know what it said, but it was so ghastly, — so ter- 
 rible, that I uttered a faint scream, and caught the letter from 
 him. 
 
 The address was, ' Lieutenant Macdonald, Dene.' The writ- 
 ing was Jessie's. 
 
 I examined the others ; they were all alike. There must have 
 been at least a dozen. 
 
 RoGfer and I looked at each other, but we said not a word. I 
 referred to the post-mark, it was nearly illegible. ' They must 
 be old ones,' I said. ' Won't you look ? ' 
 
 Without answering, he collected all the letters together, went 
 to his writing-desk, took out a sheet of paper, and carefully folded 
 them within it, sealed the packet, and directed it, whilst I stood 
 by him, and then put it in his pocket. The address was ' For 
 Jessie Grant ; from her husband.' 
 
 He did not look at Jessie again, but left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIX. 
 
 ABOUT ten o'clock Joe Goodenou^h returned with the doctor. 
 I went to tell Roger of it. He was in a little spare room 
 close by mine. He came out directly. I did not notice any 
 alteration of manner greater than the circumstances of Jessie's
 
 URSULA. 535 
 
 illness would account for easily. We were both present when 
 John Hervey told the story of where he had found her, lying 
 senseless at the bottom of the steep bank. He supposed she 
 must have missed her footing in the dusk, and fallen. William 
 made the awkward remark that he could not see what business 
 she had there, and inquired of Roger whether she had been at 
 Dene. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the short reply, and the tone was such as to silence 
 even William. 
 
 Roger did not go up-stairs with us, but when the doctor had 
 seen Jessie he waited for him in the passage, and I heard him ask 
 Mr Harrison what he thought. 
 
 'She has had a bad accident,' was the answer; 'you must 
 take great care of her ; especially if there should be symptoms of 
 fever. I will come over again to-morrow.' 
 
 This was all we could get from him. There was no intimation 
 whether we had anything to fear. 
 
 William remarked, when Mr Harrison was gone, that Roger 
 took it very quietly. John Hervey came up to me, and said, 
 1 Ursie, can you let me tell you what I have done ? ' 
 
 We went together into the large parlour. I sat down, pre- 
 pared to hear what was painful. John began, nervously : ' I am 
 troubling you, Ursie ; I would not do it now, but it may be of 
 consequence. See,' and he drew a paper from his pocket ; 
 ' Macdonald has retracted every word about you and me, he 
 won't retract about Jessie.' 
 
 ' Let it go,' I exclaimed. ' Mr Hervey, it is very miserable.' 
 
 ' Very,' he said, kindly, but with a certain shyness of manner, 
 as he added, ' You won't mind my saying I feel for you.' 
 
 I wanted comfort so very, very much ; I felt as though I must 
 have it at all risks, and I held out my hand to him, and answered, 
 ' O Mr Hervey ! you have always helped us in other troubles, 
 but you can't help us in this.' 
 
 It seemed that he was afraid to accept my friendliness, and he 
 rather drew back, and said, ' Her accident maybe a blessing; it 
 will keep her quiet, and the gossip may blow over.' 
 
 ' But it "won't set all right with Roger,' I exclaimed : ' and 
 that is all I care for.' 
 
 ' All ? ' he said, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' I repeated, ' all. There is nothing to be said of 
 Jessie which any one but Roger has a right to take notice of.' 
 
 And then, as the words escaped my lips, the remembrance of
 
 536 URSULA. 
 
 kct of letters flashed across me, and a sudden feclii j • f 
 i lint terror came over mc, which made m 1 m b < : : in my chair, 
 and put my hand up to my head. 
 
 John did m I appear to see what I was suflR ling. I am sure 
 was keeping a strict guard over himself, and so indeed was 1 
 now. His cautiousness made me ashamed of the feeling which 
 1 had for one moment expressed. Hi me what was to be 
 
 said to Roger. I had not thought of this before, and it was 
 a serious difficulty. I longed to escape the task, but it was 
 cowardly, and I said, ' Leave it to mc, and I will manage it ;' 
 then I stood up to show that the interview was over, and John 
 wished mc 'good night,' and we parted. 
 
 I was standing by Jessie's bed, as I heard the farm-yard gate 
 close, and knew that he was gone. I did not understand before 
 how dreary my heart could be without him. 
 
 The opportunity for mentioning the result of John 1! r 
 interview with Mr Macdonald was not given me, as Roger must 
 have guessed it without being told; he never exchanged one 
 word with me upon that subj< ct or the letters, and of course 1 
 could not introduce the matter. 
 
 No mother could have been more thoughtful, tender, helpful, 
 than he was in the long weeks of nursing which followed Jcs 
 accident. He sat up at night, gave her all her medicine, moved 
 her pillows, watched her, whenever he was able to give up his time 
 to her, with an unremitting attention ; but the ghastly look of 
 wretchedness never left his face, and, by degrees, I saw it settle 
 into a fixed impress, which s* t wrinkles in his forehead, and 
 marked dark lines about his mouth, so that persons who saw him 
 only for a moment were heard to say, ' Roger Grant's anxiety 
 for his wife is breaking his heart.' 
 
 There was cause for anxiety, independent of any secret grief. 
 Jessie was more ill than any person I had ever up to that time 
 seen, who was not very near death. SI w us all, especially 
 
 Roger ; but I think she scarcely had a clear recollection of any- 
 thing which had pr.sscd immediately before her accident. At 
 any rate she was too weak to allude to it. She was hovering 
 between life and death, and the doctor said that the birth of her 
 child would certainly, according to al! human calculation, deter- 
 mine the point. In the meantime the slightest agitation would 
 1 e fatal. Every one was very kind to me. Mis Kemp and 
 Mary cimcovcr to sec mc frequently. Mary's marriage was to 
 take place sooner than had been anticipated, and though th< y
 
 URSULA. 537 
 
 were, in consequence, very busy, they always found time to spare 
 for me. I made Mrs Kemp tell me all she heard. I thought it 
 was right to know what kind of impression had gone abroad 
 respecting Jessie's accident. Some remarks I was sure would be 
 made, from the stories repeated by the servants. Mrs Kemp told 
 me she had heard all kinds of contradictory things. Some quite 
 absurd, such as that Jessie and Roger had quarrelled, and she 
 had run away from him, and had gone to take refuge with Mrs 
 Price. The fact that she had been at Dene that Sunday after- 
 noon was undeniable, for the servants had admitted her into the 
 house, and said she looked scared and wild, so that they were 
 quite frightened to see her. There was another corroboration 
 of that circumstance, which I knew only too well. No doubt, 
 excited and distressed by Roger's expressions of confidence, 
 knowing that at the time of her marriage she had deceived him, 
 and that her letters could at any moment be produced against 
 her, — she must have felt that at all risks they were to be obtained 
 and destroyed. 
 
 This was a probable reason for her conduct, but was it all ? 
 
 John Hervey came to see us much more frequently. He was 
 still just as constrained in manner, but his was such a kind heart, 
 that at any sacrifice to himself he would have clone whatever he 
 thought might add to another's comfort. And there were many 
 things in which he was now of the greatest use — giving Roger 
 help in matters connected with the farm, and undertaking 
 business for him which might lie at a distance. Nothing was a 
 trouble to him, and many times my heart smote me as I felt what 
 use I made of him, and yet what a poor return I could offer him. 
 Thanks, only thanks and gratitude ; so I said to myself still ; and 
 I thought I was sufficiently careful over my words and actions, 
 and never showed how much I rested upon him, lest my manner 
 should be misinterpreted. I think there was something of pride 
 within me, which forbade me to acknowledge to myself that he 
 was becoming at all dearer to me. He was so unlike my ideal 
 of what I could love ; so different from Roger ; so much more 
 approachable ; and resembling every one else ! And then I had 
 often made up my mind that it would be quite impossible forme 
 to love any one as well as I once loved Roger, and anything 
 short of that would be unsatisfactory. I had long set myself 
 down as a confirmed old maid, and I did not choose this notion 
 of myself to be disturbed. It was all very well in theory ; quite 
 natural and necessary, so it seemed to me ; but I had left out one
 
 538 ,r/. /. 
 
 most important item in my calculations— the knowledge «.f John 
 Hcrvcy's love. I did not think about it ; I even tried to put it 
 entirely aside ; but whenever in moments of dreariness I looked 
 round the world for comfort, and amongst all my friends and 
 relations found none, not even Roger to love me best, I turned 
 uneasily to the true, honest, devoted heart, which one word or 
 look might, as I knew, make my own possession for ever ; and 
 t ■ thought of being the wife of John Ilervcy no longer strip k 
 me as an impossibility. 
 
 But I am wandering on too far. Those feelings were of slow 
 growth, and very secretly developed in my own sight ; and as 
 day by day went on, each brought its burden to occupy my mind ; 
 whilst Roger's face was alone sufficient to make me feel as 
 though it were a sin even for a moment to dream of future happi- 
 ness. I heard often from Miss Milicent, and the accounts were 
 upon the whole satisfactory. She enjoyed the travelling, and 
 was learning, as she said, to put up with Mrs Temple. Rut 
 there was no feeling which would enable them to live together 
 f r a continuance ; and in every letter Miss Milicent reverted to 
 the hope I had held out of being able at last to establish herself 
 in a home of her own at Compton. 
 
 ' I have a thought, Ursie,' she wrote to me, in a letter dated 
 from Dresden, ' of settling myself some day at the Heath, i 
 don't know where the money is to come from, for I have not a 
 penny to spare, having just paid two shares of our journey here, 
 because Matilda Temple said it was fair, as she only came for 
 me, that I might see the pictures. I don't care for pictures 
 enough to pay so much for them ; but that is no matter— any- 
 thing to keep the peace ; and I don't forget that in former days I 
 spent money to please myself, and so it is not to be wondered at 
 if now I am obliged to do it to please others. But you see, Ursie, 
 ive a double share of hope to what some people have ; and so 
 I believe that somehow the way will turn up for what I wish. In 
 the meantime, I satisfy myself by thinking about it ; and if it 
 does not come at last, why, no doubt there will be something else 
 in its stead. I am obliged to think ; n this way, or Matilda 
 Temple's doings would drive me daft.' 
 
 The Heath would be a very pleasant home for Miss Milicent. 
 I already fancied I saw her established there ; but she, like 
 myself, had probably an ordeal, to pass before rest could 1": 
 attained. 
 
 .\nd what did Jessie feel all this time ? That was a question
 
 URSULA. 539 
 
 which I put to myself many times, but to which I never found 
 an answer. I think her weakness and the feeling of illness 
 must have been such, that she could scarcely have collected her 
 ideas sufficiently to think, in any strict sense of the word ; other- 
 wise she could scarcely have borne Roger's presence ; still less 
 have endured his waiting upon her with that quiet, sad thought- 
 fulness which made me wretched whenever I saw him approach 
 her. She went through the forms of religion. Roger read a 
 little to her every day, and prayed with her ; and Mr Richardson 
 came very frequently, and once proposed to administer the Holy 
 Communion ; but she seemed to shrink from this, and no one 
 ventured to press it upon her ; the doctor had given such strict 
 injunctions about keeping her from anything that might agitate 
 her. It was a relief to Roger, as I fancied, to have it delayed ; 
 and so it was to me in a certain way. If she was not conscious 
 and penitent, it would have been such a mockery ; and yet it was 
 very terrible to see her gliding on, as one might say, to what 
 might too probably be death • and never to be allowed to hint at 
 anything, past or present, which might reveal to us the state of 
 her mind, burdened as we knew it must be. How often I thought 
 then of the warning not to put off repentance to a sick bed. I 
 had heard it so many times in sermons, but it never touched me 
 in the way it did then. 
 
 And with all this great uneasiness about Jessie's state, was 
 mingled so much true affection. I don't speak of Roger. No 
 earthly being, I am sure, could penetrate into the depths of the 
 love which he still felt. His was a heart which might break, 
 but could not change ; but for myself, Jessie was to me really a 
 younger sister ; her faults did not shock me. I had known them 
 for years. Even their bitter consequences were scarcely a sur- 
 prise to me, and now, as I saw her lying so helpless and suffering, 
 waiting, like a criminal under sentence of execution, for the hour 
 which might bring death, and a death for which I could not but 
 fear she was unprepared, every tender feeling of sympathy was 
 increased a hundredfold, and there were moments when I knelt 
 beside her bed in anguish of spirit, praying that God would yet 
 be merciful to her, and pardon, and spare her.
 
 540 URSULA 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX. 
 
 A ND so lime went on, and \vc thought we were all ready, and 
 l\ believed that every possibility had been provided against. 
 le one sat up with her every night. I had taken my turn, 
 and, feeling very much worn out, went to bed, leaving the nurse 
 with Jessie. I must have slept very soundly. I think I had 
 an indistinct consciousness of unusual sounds ; but no one 
 came to call me, and, though generally on the alert at the le 
 disturbance, it was dawn before I awoke, and, starting up with 
 a sudden impulse of anxiety, hurried to Jessie's room. The 
 door was ajar. I saw Roger kneeling by the bedside, his eyes 
 fixed upon Jessie's face, stamped with the impress of death. 
 The nurse was standing with her back towards me. As I softly 
 i ntered, she turned round, and laid in my arms her litde burden, 
 — Jessie's baby. 
 
 I don't think at the first moment I quite understood what had 
 pened ; it seemed all so unexpected, so bewildering. I gave 
 back the baby to the nurse, and went round to Roger, and knelt 
 down by him, and put my arm round him ; but he had no look 
 or voii e for me. As though by his steadfast gaze he could arrest 
 the hand of death, he remained still in the same posture, with 
 Jessie's hand clasped in his, his face as pale, his form as motion- 
 less as hers. I beckoned to the nurse to give me the infant 
 
 ain, and asked what had been done about the doctor. 
 
 ' He must be here directly,' was the reply ; 'he was sent for, 
 but he must have been out elsewhere.' 
 
 ' Can nothing be done ?' I asked. 
 
 The nurse shook her head. 
 
 ' Have you no hope? ' 
 
 She drew mc aside, that Roger might not hear, and whispered, 
 'None.' 
 
 I t d wn by the fire. Martha was in the room also. She 
 the baby from mc. But 1 would not part with it. 
 A new, clinging affection had, in a moment, sprung up within 
 me ; it seemed all that was left to give mc comfort. 
 
 The doctor came. He spoke to the nurse and to Roger. I t 
 apart and watched whilst he inquired into Jessie's state. I think 
 I was the first person who saw the expression in his countenance, 
 which told that he did not despair, and I uncovered the face of 
 my little treasure, and pressed a kiss upon its velvet forehead,
 
 URSULA. S4i 
 
 whilst I whispered a prayer of unutterable thankfulness. As I 
 glanced at Roger, I saw that his hope was not like mine ; he had 
 too much depending upon the issue. 
 
 Jessie's life hung upon a thread. We had known that for many 
 weeks ; but the fact had never been present to us as it was during 
 the few days which followed the birth of her child. It was a sus- 
 pense continued without interruption from hour to hour, for there 
 were no seasons of rallying, or of any visible improvement ; only 
 one stagnant condition, if one may so call it, about which the 
 utmost that could be said was, that it was not entirely devoid of 
 hope. And during this time, the care of the child, making ar- 
 rangements for a nurse, watching over it, even loving it, seemed 
 to be left entirely to me. I think that to Roger it must havo 
 seemed the herald of its mother's death ; for when the nurse once 
 forced him to take it in his arms, and said he might be proud of 
 his little daughter, who would no doubt grow up to be a comfort 
 to him, he kissed it fondly, and then put it from him, as though 
 he could not bear to look at it. 
 
 After the first week, the doctor spoke more cheeringly, and 
 told us that the worst was over. The news brought joy to every 
 heart at Sandcombe, except, as it seemed, to Roger's. Relieved 
 he was, and thankful ; but there was a deepening gloom on his 
 brow which no effort could shake off, and I saw that by degrees 
 he kept away from Jessie's room, except when some one else was 
 there ; whilst, whenever the remark as to the child's likeness to 
 its mother was made before him, he turned it oft" with a laugh 
 which actually grated upon my ear. I longed to make him talk 
 to me ; I felt that perhaps together we might extract some 
 comfort from the facts which we both knew, and sometimes I 
 thought whether he would not be justified, under the circum- 
 stances, in opening the letters, and satisfying himself as to the 
 extent of the deception which had been practised upon him. 
 But that was not like Roger. With his power of self-control, 
 his strength of will and endurance, he would have borne the 
 torture of the drop of water falling upon his head moment by 
 moment, and never by the slightest impulse of impatience have 
 striven to hasten the hour appointed for the cessation of his 
 agony. 
 
 The only comfort I had was that I believed I thoroughly 
 understood him, and knew exactly what he feared. To have 
 been deceived — that was his bitterness ; and if Jessie had laid 
 herself open 10 the worst condemnation of the world, the heart
 
 s ._ URSULA. 
 
 of a man like Roger could scarcely have been more utterly 
 
 crusl 
 
 That particular time was more distressing to me than any 
 which went before it. In great danger there is great excitement. 
 There was none now. The future lay before me chill and blank 
 both for Roger and myself, for if he was miserable how could I 
 Lie happy ? The explanation with Jessie, which at a distance I 
 had sometimes fancied might succeed in restoring confidence, 
 must, I felt, as we approached it, end wretchedly ; and as Jessie 
 
 idually regained her strength, 1 had a cowardly feeling of 
 relief each day that the subject was delayed, and yet a longing, 
 at times almost uncontrollable to rush into it at once, and hear 
 and know the worst. 
 
 So I think it must have been with Jessie hkewise. Yet I 
 could not tell whether she was summoning courage to speak to 
 Roger, or whether indeed she perfectly remembered all that had 
 happened before her illness. Her reserve was most painful, and 
 sometimes I thought it was becoming a fixed habit of mind which 
 
 »uld end in complete depression. Her baby was the only thing 
 she seemed to live for ; for her fear of Roger was evident. At 
 times I could have been almost jealous of her claim upon the 
 child. It was the first baby that had been given to us as a family, 
 and many probably will understand how great is the feeling 
 which such circumstances may create. Every night before we 
 went to bed William made me take him to the cradle, that he 
 might kiss the little thing as it lay asleep ; and most touching it 
 was to observe the softening of his rough features, and the 
 lowering of his voice, as he bent over, straining his darkened 
 eyes to catch just the outline of its little form. For myself it 
 was Roger's child, and when I' held it in my arms and felt its 
 tiny fingers helplessly clasping mine, a thrill of unspeakable ten- 
 derness passed over me, which, though it could not have been a 
 mother's love, must have been something very nearly approach- 
 ing to it. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXI. 
 
 JESSIE had been out for the first time, wrapped in the white 
 shawl, Mrs Weir's wedding-gift ; the day was dcliciously 
 warm for the season and Roger had procured a little hand-car-
 
 URSULA. 543 
 
 riage for her, that she might be drawn up and down the garden. 
 William, Roger, and I were with her. 
 
 1 had the baby in my arms as usual. We were standing 
 round Jessie, and I was feeling painfully that I was making an 
 effort to enjoy the brightness. William had lately become quite 
 a relief to us ; he was some one to be attended to, his spirts were 
 improved, and he was interested in things not connected with us, 
 and so gave us other subjects of conversation than those on which 
 our thoughts were dwelling. 
 
 Jessie did not speak at all, — Roger very little; the conversation 
 was kept up between William and me. 
 
 ' When is Mary Kemp's wedding to come off, Ursie ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' This day three weeks,' I replied, ' and she has asked me to 
 be bridesmaid. I should like it, only, really, I cannot afford a 
 new dress.' 
 
 'Why you must have that which you wore at Jessie's wedding,' 
 said William. ' I am sure you have not been gay enough since to 
 spoil it. Or if you want anything very smart, and likely to be 
 cheap, I advise you to go and try for some of Mrs Price's gowns. 
 I did not tell you, Roger, the news which Joe Goodenough 
 brought in just now, — that the Prices have all gone smash, and 
 everything they have is to be sold.' 
 
 Jessie uttered an exclamation of distress. Roger said very 
 quietly, ' Indeed ! ' and stood further aloof from Jessie. 
 
 'O William !' I observed reproachfully, as I saw that Jessie 
 was much upset, ' you shouldn't have told it so abruptly.' 
 
 'Why not?' he replied ; 'Jessie is not such a goose as really 
 to care for those people, and all the world have known what 
 must come. Macdonald is in for it, too ; so they will be all out 
 of the country soon, and there will be no more gossip, which will 
 be one comfort for you, Jessie, my dear. Your friends would 
 have got you into a scrape if they could. By the by, Ursie,' 
 he added, ' I never quite understood whether John Hervey 
 made Macdonald retract what he said that night at Hove. I 
 remember I asked, and you only gave me a kind of blundering 
 answer.' 
 
 Roger turned round shortly,' 'Jessie has been out long enough; 
 it is time she should go in.' 
 
 ' Would you like it, dear ? ' I asked, as I arranged the cushion 
 for her at the back of the chair. 
 
 ' She had better go in,' repeated Roger. The tone of his voice- 
 struck William.
 
 544 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 ' Why, your husband is growing quite fierce, Jessie,' lie said. 
 ' 1 would not let him be such a tyrant.' 
 
 Jessie trembl d all over, — she tried to speak, but I could not 
 hear her words. 
 
 ' 1 have not had my question answered yet,' said William, in 
 a persisting tone. ' If John Hervey has not got Macdonald's 
 written words, Roger ought to insist upon them himself; only 
 he is such a tame-spirited fellow.' 
 
 I saw Roger start, and a storm of indignation crossed his face. 
 The expression was still there, when he drew near Jessie and 
 said, ' I shall take you in.' She looked up at him,— she kept 
 her eyes fixed upon him. It was as though she were paralysi d 
 by fear. I feared also, — yet Roger's momentary excitement was 
 quite subdued. 
 
 ' I will tell you about it another time,' I said to William. 'Jut 
 now I must go with Jessie.' Something was wrong, William 
 saw then ; he asked nothing more. Jessie made me walk by her 
 side ; when we went into the house, and Roger lifted her out of 
 the chair, she still clung to me; but I had the child in my arm , 
 and was not able to support her. After attempting to mount the 
 stairs in vain, Roger took her in his arms, and carried her to her 
 room. Then he left us together. 
 
 Jessie lay on the sofa. I put the baby into the cradle, and 
 asked if I could get anything for her. She refused ; it was not 
 being tired, she said,— she did not want anything ; but the 
 trembling agitation increased. 
 
 ' You must see Roger,' I said, at length, and I looked at her 
 steadily. I think she must have undcistood me, for she put her 
 hand across her forehead, as if to clear her thoughts. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. It was Roger ; I did Dot 
 dare look at him. He put into my hand a note and the packet 
 of letters, and went away, and I returned back to Jessie. She 
 had recognised his step. II r murmur to herself, as 1 
 
 opened the note, ' He won't come to me,— he will leave mo,— 
 ( ; help me.' 
 
 The note wai written in pencil, and was scarcely legible. 
 '(live them to her, Ursic. I have never looked at them. I 
 never will. From this hour the subject shall never be mentioned 
 to her again.' 
 
 Jessie watched my face,— she caught the note from me and 
 leal it twice. As she gazed at me in bewilderment, I put the 
 packet into her hands. She broke the seal.
 
 URSULA. 545 
 
 The expression of her countenance was not fear or sorrow, but 
 a cold, calm despair. 
 
 4 You see,' I said, bitterly ; 'there is nothing to fear, — he has 
 not read them.' 
 
 Without replying, she rose from the sofa as if a new impulse 
 of strength had been given her, and moved towards the door. 
 
 ' You will not find him,' I said, and I tried to prevent her from 
 going out. She sat down again quite still, — upright. 
 
 The baby began to cry, but she took no notice ; her face was 
 quite stony. I felt frightened, and thought I would rouse 
 her. 'Shall I put them away for you?' I said, taking up the 
 letters. 
 
 Her only answer was, ' Let me go to him.' 
 
 ' No,' I said, 'he will come to you, if you wish to see him, — 
 shall I call him?' 
 
 She did nothing to stop me, and I went down-stairs. Roger 
 was waiting below. I motioned to him to follow me. When he 
 stood at the threshold of Jessie's room I drew back. 
 
 ' No,' he said, quietly. ' Ursie, I have no secrets,' and he 
 went in after me, and stood waiting for Jessie to speak. 
 
 It was like a dreadful dream to me. I looked from one to the 
 other, — but there was no hope or comfort in either face. 
 
 Twice Jessie tried to speak, and each time her voice was 
 stopped. 
 
 ' Roger,' I said at length, ' she has done very wrong, but she 
 will acknowledge it.' 
 
 He pointed to the note. ' I have said it — I know nothing. 
 
 ' Speak to him,' I began, turning to Jessie, 'tell him' 
 
 But Roger stopped me : ' Ursie, I cannot hear, — I wish for 
 no extorted confidence. Jessie, from this moment the past is 
 buried.' 
 
 The sound of Jessie's own name seemed to break the spell 
 which bound her. She drew near to Roger, and laying the 
 letters before him, said, though without the least softening of 
 the stony expression of misery, ' Read them.' 
 
 He pushed them from him. 
 
 'It is just, — right,' I exclaimed; 'Roger, you must read 
 them.' 
 
 ' They can make no difference,' he said, coldly. 
 
 Jessie turned to me imploringly. 
 
 'He has been deceived, Jessie,' I said; 'you must forgive 
 him.' 
 
 2 M
 
 546 I r RSl LA. 
 
 Roger moved as if to 140, but Jessie caught his arm. 'Will 
 you bo unjust?' she said. 
 
 He took up one of the letters and opened it, but the papef 
 seemed to be burning to his touch. 
 
 ' Read, Ursie, 1 said Jessie, 'read them all, every word; they 
 were written long ago, all except one.' 
 
 She sat down, hiding her face in her hands. 
 
 Roger's eye glanced rapidly over the first letter, — then he 
 proceeded to read the others, slowly, in the manner of a jud 
 receiving evidence. As he read, he handed each letter to me. 
 No one spoke, the baby had censed crying, and the only sound 
 heard was that of the rustling paper ; and still Jessie never 
 looked up, as wc sat before her, perusing these evidences of her 
 folly and dec it. 
 
 They were letters written to Mr Macdonald, after the time 
 when I had fully understood, from what she told me, that she 
 had refused him ; and they were carried down to within one 
 week of her acceptance of Roger. They were childish and 
 foolish, complaining of the interference of her friends, and the 
 hardness of her fate ; and although there was no open declara- 
 tion of her feeling for Mr Macdonald, there was certainly enough 
 in them to make any man suppose that she was much attached 
 to him. Besides these there was one short note, written after 
 her marriage, begging him to return the letters. 
 
 The last letter was read by Roger and laid upon the table. I 
 ventured then to glance at him. His countenance was unaltered, 
 except for its ashy paleness, and the look of his eye, which made 
 me tremble. I gathered the letters together, and mehanically 
 said, ' Thank you, dear,' and then I stooped down and kissed 
 Jessie. Indeed, I pitied her so much, I could not do otherwise. 
 She turned aside from me, and, slowly rising, went and stood 
 before Roger. 
 
 ' I have deceived you.' she said firmly, ' but not as you think. 
 You asked me if I could give you my full, fiee affection, and I 
 said 'Yes.' It was true; true then, as it is now, true in the 
 sight of God. Roger, I have never loved any one but you ; but, 
 
 Ursie ! ' and she turned to me, and leaning her head upon my 
 shoulder, sobbed convulsively, 'you warned me, and I would not 
 listen. I did not care for Mr Macdonald, but I liked having his 
 letters, and writing, and flirting; so I would not say entirely "No ;" 
 
 1 r at least, though I did say it, I still let him believe I was noli 
 in earnest. Tilings went on much farther than I ever intended.
 
 URSULA. 547 
 
 Only when Roger asked me to marry him, my eyes seemed to 
 open ; I had never thought it could be, it seemed too great 
 happiness. I told him I was wicked, and that I should disap- 
 point him. I could not say anything else. I thought if I confessed 
 to him what I had done, and if he were to see the letters, he would 
 suppose I cared for Mr Macdonald, — and I did not really. I 
 was afraid it would turn his heart from me, and so I said nothing 
 about them. When I was married, I thought Mr Macdonald 
 would destroy the letters, and everything would be forgotten. 
 He promised me he would ; he wrote me a note saying so. 
 Ursie, you will remember my having it. Mrs Price gave it to 
 me when we were together in Hove. But he was false to me, he 
 kept them, and I think— I am nearly sure — Mrs Price made 
 him do it. She talked to me about them, and frightened, and 
 made me miserable ; and I could never get them back. Some- 
 times they were promised me, but they were never given. Oh ! 
 it has been so wretched ! so wretched ! They both forced me 
 to do whatever they liked, for they said that at any moment they 
 could make Roger hate me. When you were away, Ursie, they 
 were always forming plans for me to meet them, and be with 
 them, and requiring me to tell everything I knew about you, and 
 what you were doing in France. I knew I ought not, but I 
 dared not refuse. I felt as though I was a spy upon you, but I 
 could not draw back. At last — I don't know how I did it — I 
 was nearly mad — that night that Roger came from Hove, and 
 the next day— the Sunday — it seems all misty, but I got the 
 letters. I think Mr Hervey had been there and frightened 
 them ; I don't know — only' — her voice became forced and 
 hollow — ' I told them I would never return to my home without 
 them ; and it was true, I would have died first. 
 
 She paused, faint and breathless. 
 
 ' Confession was all that was required, from the beginning, 
 dear Jessie,' I said. 
 
 ' And I would have confessed,' she said, sinking into a chair, 
 and clasping my hand, whilst still keeping her eyes fixed upon 
 Roger. ' I meant then to have told all ; I would have done so 
 now, lately, but, Ursie, I knew he had them. I saw it in his 
 face.' 
 
 'And the note which I saw in Paris,' I said, doubtfully ; ' was 
 that really not to Mr Macdonald ?' 
 
 ' Indeed not, indeed it was as I told you ; but I equivocated. 
 I was obliged to send messages, and answer questions : he did
 
 543 URSULA. 
 
 hc.ir many things from mc, though I never wrote, except that 
 one note, which you have seen, — never, that is, since I have hcen 
 Roger's wife. O Ursie ! won't you believe me ?' 
 
 Poor child ! it was impossible not to believe her then. But 
 what wretchedness had vanity and want of moral cour. 
 ln'i night upon her ! 
 
 ' Speak to him for me, Ursie,' she whispered ; 'tell him I will 
 go where lie likes, he shall never see mc again ;' and as she said 
 the words, I saw her glance at the cradle, and a shudder shook 
 her frame. 
 
 I went up to Roger. ' She has confessed all,' I said ; ' Roger, 
 it is for you to forgive.' 
 
 He answered, ' I have told her ; the past is buried.' 
 
 'Not buried, but forgiven !' exclaimed Jessie, and she threw 
 herself at his feet; 'else let me lave you.' 
 
 1 Buried,' repeated Roger. ' We are man and wife, and none 
 ran part us.' 
 
 ' Roger,' I said, ' God docs not deal so with us.' 
 
 ' Forgiveness means confidence,' was his reply. 
 
 'I do not ask confidence !' she exclaimed. ' O Roger, no! 
 Distrust me, watch me, I will bear it all, all, — everything. I 
 will thank you, and bless you. Only, can you never love me 
 again ?' 
 
 His face expressed agony, yet not relenting. She held him — 
 she clung to him — her look was piteous in its anguish. When 
 still he turned from her she slowly arose, and, going to the 
 cradle, lifted her baby from it, and again kneeling before him, 
 s lid, in a tone of quiet despair, ' Roger, I am its mother.' I saw 
 him bend down and kiss her; I watched the large tears fall 
 upon the face of his unconscious child, and heard him say, 
 ' Jessie, may God forgive us both ! ' — and then I left them. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXII. 
 
 I WALK ED that afternoon to St Anne's Hill. I stood by the 
 tower of the oratory, and gazed over the sea towards the 
 white cliffs, and the dim island in the far distance; and I locked 
 upon the tower of Compton church, and the cottages in the vil- 
 lage, and the remains of the ruined abbey; and, as 1 looked, my
 
 URSULA. 549 
 
 thoughts travelled back through my life, and I read it as it had 
 been in the pages of a book. I thought how changed I was 
 since those early years when I had first learned to love the view 
 from St Anne's , how then it had been associated with but one 
 interest and one affection, and how that affection had dis- 
 appointed me, and the hopes which I had cherished had 
 crumbled into dust. I remembered my own character as it was 
 then, and I saw how, by means of that disappointment, I had 
 been chastened, and trained for higher duties, and truer views 
 of my position in the world. 
 
 I thought of Mrs Weir, her long suffering ; her patient saint- 
 liness, and the lesson for eternity which had been taught me 
 through her means. I knew that, as she had said, when speak- 
 ing of herself, I had not had one trial too much, not one that 
 could have been spared. And then my mind turned to others, 
 and I marked how the same discipline was being carried on with 
 them. I saw, or fancied I saw, how even Roger, with all his 
 goodness and nobleness of disposition, had suffered himself to 
 be blinded by feeling, and how the sorrow had now come upon 
 him, which, with all its mercy, was surely mingled with judg- 
 ment. I felt that he could never be as he had been ; that a new 
 life was to begin for him, and for Jessie ; a life full of watchfulness, 
 and effort, and self-restraint, and endurance ; and as I pondered 
 upon all these things, my heart insensibly became burdened with 
 the sense of an awful reality, a perception of that wonderful fact, 
 that the events of life are in themselves nothing, that they are 
 but the body, destined to decay ; yet that each, however trifling, 
 bears within it the seed that is to exist for eternity ; and I felt 
 that I could yield myself passively to any circumstances, whether 
 happy or unhappy, neither wearying myself with regrets for the 
 past, nor burdening myself with cares for the future, so only that 
 the present moment might add its grain of faith and holiness, to 
 the treasure garnered in the hand of God against the Great Day 
 of account. 
 
 At that moment I had no visions for myself of any happiness 
 in this world which might yet be in store for me. I thought 
 that I had accepted my lot from God, both as regarded myself 
 and those I loved ; and that I did not even wish for change ; 
 and in that mood of mind I descended the hill, and wandered on 
 over the down, till I reached the tall column at its extremity, and 
 was close upon the woods of Dene. There I met with John 
 Hervey. He had passed through the grounds, for the place was
 
 L'JiSl 
 
 . dj Captain Price, his wife, Mr Macdonald, the ser- 
 vants, were all Everything was given up to satisfy the 
 claims of creditors. John asked mc to go with him into the 
 garden, he wished to speak to the man who had charge of it. 
 It did not enter my mind to refuse ; what I did seemed unim- 
 portant, and I was less watchful and conscious with him than I 
 had been. Perhaps, too, I liked his society ; perhaps it was 
 cheering to me. Doubtless, if I had felt as I did when we 
 parted in France, I should have been less easily persuaded, but 
 I was not thinking of myself at all, and scarcely of him; my 
 thoughts were all with Roger and Jessie. 
 
 And so were his, at least in appearance. He made me turn 
 with him, and walk up and down the stone pavement under the 
 verandah, and then he spoke to me openly about all that had 
 lately occurred, lie touched upon my own feelings with regard 
 to Roger and Jessie. He put before me all that I had thought, 
 and feared, and all that I had hoped ; he seemed to know every- 
 thing by instinct. He told me that I had given my best affec- 
 tions to Roger, and demanded of him in return more than any 
 brother could give. He said that I had formed my ideas of hap- 
 piness without regard to the ordinary arrangements of God's 
 providence, and that in consequence I had had much to bear. 
 He warned me that I must prepare myself to see Roger suffer 
 greatly from disappointment, for that his eyes must open by 
 degrees to Jessie's character ; and though she might improve, 
 she could never be the wife whom he might naturally have 
 expected to find. And then he commented, and, as I thought, 
 erely, upon the fact of Jessie's conduct which he himself had 
 learned. 
 
 The subjects were such as 1 could not have imagined myself 
 able to endure from any one, when handled so plainly ; and yet 
 I did bear them from John Jlcrvey. lie had a way of putting 
 what he said — I think it was from his simple, honest goodness of 
 heart— which made me feel that he would never wilfully mis- 
 understand ; and he led me on till— I hope it was no breach of 
 confidence— I found myself telling him at last the scene which 
 had occurred that morning. It seemed only justice to Jessie ; 
 his suspicions were likely to go beyond the truth, and I could 
 not bear him to be hard upon her. 
 
 He heard what I had to say without interruption ; when I had 
 finished he paused for some moments in thought ; then he said, 
 "And Roger has forgive
 
 e 
 
 URSULA. 55 f 
 
 * Quite,' I replied. c Quite, I believe ; I hope so.' 
 
 4 He is a noble fellow,' continued John. ' Ursie, he is bettei 
 than I could be.' 
 
 ' And better than I could be,' I said. 
 
 ' Once deceived, always deceived,' said John, 
 
 And I added, ' Yes, where one has loved.' 
 
 ' You are right, where one has loved,' he continued. ' For- 
 giveness is an easy matter when the heart is not wounded. So, 
 Ursie, I should be very cautious ; I should take a long time 
 before I risked my happiness in marriage. There must have 
 been an intimate knowledge, careful observation, the experience 
 of many circumstances of trial. In a matter of life or death — 
 and marriage in my eyes is that, and nothing short of it- 
 there must be no chance of failure.' 
 
 ' Roger thought he was right,' I said. 
 
 « I don't blame him ; it would be very presumptuous. But, 
 Ursie, I could not have done like him.' 
 
 ' I don't think you could,' was my reply. Roger is so trusting.' 
 
 He paused as though hurt by the remark ; then he said, 
 ' Trust is either wisdom or folly, according as it is founded upon 
 reason. Let my reason be convinced that I have grounds for 
 trust, and I hope, I know, I could give it fully and heartily.' 
 
 I did not reply. Something in his tone and manner made my 
 heart beat quickly. 
 
 He turned to me suddenly. ' Don't you believe me, Ursie ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; but ' 
 
 ' But what ? ' 
 
 ' No one can be quite certain of what another is ; and you will 
 think you have found perfection, and ' 
 
 'Well!' 
 
 ' There must be faults ; marriage must be a lottery.' 
 
 * No, Ursie, no ; not always. Where one has watched, and 
 
 loved long, and waited patiently, and prayed earnestly' he 
 
 stopped. 
 
 ' I trust it may not be a lottery with you,' I answered, and my 
 voice trembled. 
 
 ' It cannot be,' he exclaimed, impetuously. ' Ursie,' he paused, 
 and a deadly paleness overspread his countenance, ' say only the 
 word, and it will not be.' 
 
 I looked in his face and answered, as I laid my hand in his, 
 ' If you do not fear, John, how can I ?' 
 
 And so we were engaged.
 
 Sf: URSULA. 
 
 I wandered with John Ilcrvey through the grounds of Dene. 
 I listened to the plash of the fountain, the scream of the peacock, 
 the striking of the old clock, and the rustling murmur of the 
 wind amongst the plantations ; but I thought not of the joys of 
 my childhood, for the present was bright with the sunshine of 
 an unclouded happiness. I stood with him upon St Anne's Hill, 
 but I had forgotten my calm acceptance of life, my resignation 
 to its cares, and indifference to its pleasures. The sea sparkled 
 in the glowing sunset, and its flitter seemed the reflection of the 
 gladness of my heart. The breeze floated by me, and bore with 
 it the murmurs of a happiness which could never forsake me. 
 The birds winged their way to their rest, and I thought that my 
 i >t had begun ; and when I gazed upon the tower of the ruined 
 oratory, and turning to John reproached myself that I could so 
 dwell upon an earthly joy, he answered, ' Ursie, the love which 
 God blesses in its birth, can never know death.' 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
 
 ONLY when I returned to Sandcombe was my mind brought 
 back to the perception that life is, and always will be, 
 probation. 
 
 People speak of forgiveness, as though it must necessarily 
 imply entire forgctfulness. That has always seemed to me a 
 mistake. We may cease to dwell upon an offence, but when it 
 has revealed to us faults which we never suspected — when it has 
 shaken our confidence — forgctfulness is impossible. New feel- 
 ings may spring up, but the old can never return. I think 
 Jessie opened her eyes but slowly to that truth, whilst Roger 
 saw it from the beginning. lie was at heart a brave man — 
 morally brave — except perhaps when called upon to give pain 
 to others ; and he allowed himself now no self-deceit, in a ques- 
 tion in which the vital happiness of his life was involved. Jessie 
 had disappointed him. He did not try to hide from himself the 
 fact. He looked at it boldly — with what bitterness and self- 
 reproach, what deep compassion and sympathy and tenderness, 
 only God can tell, and only one who knew him as I did could 
 inc. His manner to Jessie was quite altered. It had lost 
 the gentle flattering attention of the lover, and had become the
 
 URSULA. 553 
 
 watchful, thoughtful guardianship of the father. Every want 
 was provided for, every necessity foreseen ; but the hasty wish 
 was checked, the fancy of extravagance reproved. It was his 
 duty to train her, for he had chosen her untrained. Some of her 
 faults might be called her own, but others were in a manner his, 
 for he had himself placed her in a position for which she was 
 unfitted, and then shrunk from insisting upon its duties. Now 
 the task of instructing her was laid upon him. It struck me 
 much how anxiously and conscientiously he entered upon this 
 duty ; with what firmness, and yet what singular humility and 
 self-distrust, never regretting or upbraiding, always bearing in 
 mind that he had marked out his own lot, and that it was only 
 God's great mercy and kind providence which had prevented it 
 from being a hundredfold more bitter. 
 
 It was a very different married life from that which those who 
 knew and loved Roger would have anticipated, for Jessie was 
 not changed at once. That is another mistake which we are 
 apt to fall into. We hear of striking events, a great shock of for- 
 tune, an alarming illness, some painful tearing aside of the veil of 
 self-deception, and think that because great feeling is aroused 
 great changes must follow. There may be — there often is — a 
 great change of principle, but the work is carried on according 
 to natural laws. Vanity, wilfulness, selfishness, faults which are 
 the growth of years, it will take years to subdue. So it is that 
 the true conversion of the heart in middle age will yet leave the 
 hard lines of an indulged evil temper strongly and painfully 
 marked. Jessie was willing to bear her discipline. She was 
 humbled and penitent ; but the old self still remained, even 
 whilst she struggled against it. My greatest hope of her attain- 
 ing to strength of character was based upon her anxiety for her 
 child. I remembered what Mrs Kemp had said about the way 
 it sobers a woman to have little helpless things to take care of; 
 and I thought I could see the beginning of this steadiness and 
 thought even now. In the prospect of my soon leaving her, she 
 was continually talking to me about what was to be done when 
 I was gone, and how she was to manage to bring up her child 
 rightly — to be different from herself; that was her great desire. 
 But I did not entirely share that wish, neither I am sure did 
 Roger. The old romantic love was over, but a new and more 
 lasting appreciation of her good qualities was dawning upon him. 
 Jessie, in her best moods, was very winning, and truly deserving 
 of all the affection that could be bestowed upon her. At this
 
 554 URSULA, 
 
 time especially, her unselfishness made mc cling to her with a 
 
 daily increasing affection. 
 
 I don't think cither she or Roger gave one thought to them- 
 selves when they knew I was engaged to John Hervey, thou 
 the change came at a time when they could least of all spare me, 
 and when both of them looked to me not only for help but com- 
 fort. I was never made to feel, either by look or tone, or even 
 by a sigh, that my happiness was to be purchased at the expense 
 of their daily ease ; and yet they gave me all the affection which 
 in my most exacting moments I could demand. It is often said 
 that there is a great deal uf ingratitude in the world, and no 
 doubt there is ; but I will never believe that if a person really 
 tries to put self second, there is any lack of reward even on earth. 
 I can say with truth that this had been my object, as I can also 
 say with greater truth that I had constantly failed to attain it. 
 Witness the way in which I took Roger's marriage. Now it 
 seemed as though kindness, and consideration, and sympathy 
 were actually showered upon me. I believe Mrs Kemp was only 
 one degree less interested for me than she was for Mary, whose 
 marriage was to take place about a month before mine. The 
 cottage in which John and I were to live was very near Longside, 
 and half Mrs Kemp's time was spent in arranging about furni- 
 ture and alterations. She really took all the trouble off my 
 hands. William did what I little expected of him, and certainly 
 could not have asked ; he promised to give me five hundred 
 pounds on my wedding-day, and declared he should leave every- 
 thing he had equally divided between Roger and mc. With 
 John's consent, I arranged to let Jessie have one hundred out of 
 my five put aside for her at once. The question of her money 
 had been a trouble to me from the beginning ; and when both 
 Roger and she objected, and said that William would not like 
 it. John and I determined to have it settled upon the baby. I 
 felt that I must begin my married life with a clear conscience 
 about all such matters. I could not take William's money with 
 the thought that Jessie had any claim upon it. I did not mean 
 to let William know anything about it ; but it did come to his 
 ears, and he then said he would make the arrangement himself. 
 This pleased me as much as anything that happened then. Not 
 because of any saving to myself, but I was so thankful to 
 that he had a notion of restitution. As for the kindness of the 
 friends in the neighbourhood, it almost oppressed me, I had such 
 a number of good wishes, and such pretty i resents. But what
 
 URSULA, 555 
 
 pleased me most of all, I think, was a parcel from Germany, 
 containing a note of congratulations from Mrs Temple, and 
 a few lines from Miss Milicent, accompanied by some speci- 
 mens of Swiss wood-carving, a salad fork and spoon, and a 
 paper knife, and a very pretty dish to stand on the table in my 
 parlour. 
 
 Mrs Temple's note, though short, helped me to understand 
 the blessing of being 'in charity with all men.' As for Miss 
 Milicent, her congratulations were so hearty that they made the 
 tears come into my eyes ; whilst I felt truly humbled by the 
 thought of how little they were deserved. 'Dear Ursie Grant,' 
 she wrote, ' you have been a good sister, and a good friend, and 
 God's blessing is upon you, and be sure He will prosper you. I 
 shall say a hearty prayer for you on your wedding-day, as I have 
 done every day of my life for many years. People declare that 
 the saints know what is going on upon earth ; I don't pretend to 
 judge upon that point, for never having been where they are, and 
 there being nothing about it in the Bible, I should think it pre- 
 sumption to decide ; but if my mother, who was a saint if ever 
 there was one, knows anything about your plans, she will for 
 certain give you her blessing on your marriage ; and as we can't 
 say surely, I send it to you for her, praying God that in all times 
 of trouble, you may meet with a friend as true as yourself, and a 
 greater good in an earthly way, I can't ask for any one. And 
 so, good-bye, — and I hope before long to come back to England, 
 and to see you and John Hervey at your cottage. 
 
 ' From your most sincere and affectionate friend, 
 
 ' Milicent Weir. 
 
 ' P.S. — I should like to know what the rent of the Heath is 
 now. I hear the house has changed hands. I have quite for- 
 given John Hervey, and think him a wise man, and worthy to be 
 your husband. And I beg you will give him my good wishes, 
 and tell him so.' 
 
 Time sped on so quickly, my wedding-day drew near before I 
 seemed at all ready for it, though what remained to be done, 
 concerned others more than myself. Roger wanted to make a 
 list of things which it would be well for Jessie to attend to ; he 
 asked me to write down what I did with the servants in the way 
 of teaching them, and what my rules were. He was bent upon 
 having a strict, regular household ; and Jessie tried very much 
 to follow what I suggested. Of course I was obliged to make a
 
 55'» URSULA. 
 
 good many changes ; for with her baby to attend to, she could 
 not possibly undertake all that I did ; and Roger was very con- 
 siderate, not at all wishing to press her. What she could not do, 
 he said, he would try to do himself; and with this hi lp 1 had 
 
 no fears for Jessie. 
 
 She had many, however, for herself. We were talking together 
 on the Saturday before my marriage, which was to be on the 
 Tuesday following, — sitting in the deep window-scat in the par- 
 lour, the baby lying ii. my lap, — for, now the time seemed so 
 short, I made Jessie spare it to me whenever I had a moment'! 
 Li isure. It was a beautiful, calm evening, and the fresh scent of 
 the mignonette and roses in the garden, and the myrtle which 
 was trained against the wall, seemed quite to fill the room. 
 Home seemed very pleasant and dear to me now I was going to 
 leave it, and I said so to Jessie. 
 
 'O Ursie !' she answered, and tears filled her eyes; 'how I 
 shall miss you. Looking back ever so long, I have always de- 
 pended upon you ; and I can't go to Roger for every little 
 thing.' 
 
 ' You must learn to do so,' I said ; ' he likes it, and he is 
 never impatient.' 
 
 ' No, never, — but, — Ursie, — I think a woman can understand 
 one's foolish ways, and make allowance for them. I never feel 
 afraid of owning how ignorant I am to you.' 
 
 ' You won't be ignorant soon,' I said ; ' you are setting to work 
 to learn so fast' 
 
 ' liut it is too late to begin,' she answered, 'after one is mar- 
 ried. If I could only go back ! Ah ! little one,' and she bent 
 down to look at the baby ; ' you shall never be such a thought- 
 less lassie as your mother.' 
 
 ' You never can remember your mother,' I said ; ' that makes 
 a great difference.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is an excuse ; I don't know — I believe it was in 
 mc to be bad, Ursie. I always pray that baby may take alter 
 Roger, and not after me. I never like to hear people say she is 
 like me.' 
 
 ' There is no need for her to be so very different, dear Jessie,' 
 I replied ; 'all that she will want will be more careful training 
 than you ever had.' 
 
 ' I don't mean to spoil her,' she answered. 
 
 ' I am sure you don't. But, Jessie, may I tell you what my 
 fear is ? '
 
 URSULA. 557 
 
 'Yes, speak out ; I don't care what I hear from you.' 
 
 ' Well, then ! I am afraid you won't begin training her soon 
 enough ; and I think, too, that perhaps Roger will fall into the 
 same mistake. He was inclined to indulge me when I was little.' 
 
 ' Would you have me scold her at once ?' said Jessie, laughing, 
 as she stooped down to kiss her baby. ' You have a cruel aunt 
 Ursie, little one.' 
 
 ' I think the training of a child, as far as obedience is con- 
 cerned, ought to be over by the time it is five years old,' I 
 replied. 
 
 Jessie started. 
 
 ' Yes,' I continued, ' I know it sounds extremely cruel, but 
 one thing I am quite sure of, that little things of that age will 
 bear any amount of strictness, — of course I don't mean unkind- 
 ness, — but strict order and discipline as to obedience, so long as 
 they have great tenderness shown them at the same time. 
 Children, I believe, are actually taught to be disobedient by the 
 folly of their parents.' 
 
 ' I don't want obedience half so much as love,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' You will never get one without the other,' I replied. ' Dis- 
 obedience is selfishness ; and a selfish child does not properly 
 understand what love means.' 
 
 ' And what is to be done after five years old ?' asked Jessie. 
 
 ' I suppose good example,' was my reply ; ' a sterner dis- 
 cipline for one's self than one would like to attempt with a child, 
 great earnestness, and especially great calmness, and a ready 
 sympathy and tenderness of manner.' 
 
 ' I shall not be wanting in tenderness,' said Jessie ; ' I shall 
 love my little one too well for that.' 
 
 ' What I should fear most for myself,' I said, ' would be im- 
 patience. I know from experience that no amount of affection 
 will do away with the effects of a hasty word. An irritable 
 person can never gain confidence; not that you are irritable, 
 Jessie; I was speaking more of what I remember in my own 
 childhood. William, when he did pet me, was much more in- 
 dulgent than Roger ; but I never felt sure of him, and so I never 
 opened my heart to him.' 
 
 ' If my baby is to be taught by good example, there will be 
 very little hope for her,' said Jessie, ' except that she has a father 
 as well as a mother.' 
 
 ' I scarcely see how she is to be taught without example,' I 
 said. 'I remember hearing Miss Milicent lecture the children
 
 558 URSULA. 
 
 • ompton about reverence, talking to them in a loud voice in 
 church, just as the service was about to begin. Naturally 
 enough they all became irreverent directly ; whereas one look at 
 Rog r was sufficient to make one remember where one was. 
 And, Jessie, as to reverence, I cannot but think, if we mean to 
 make a child reverent to. God, we must begin by making it 
 reverent to its father and mother.' 
 
 ' Roger will do that,' said Jessie. 
 
 'Yes, I think he will ; it is in him. But a great deal must 
 tend on the mother. You know Mrs Kemp brought up Mary 
 in that way. Many times I have heard her say, " My dear, you 
 may take liberties with your companions, but you must never 
 t ike them with me." Mary was obliged to come in and out of 
 the room quietly, and to stand aside for her mother to pass ; and 
 was so particular about saying, "Thank you;" and everything 
 her mother did for her was considered such a favour. It quite 
 shocks me sometimes now to see children make slaves of their 
 parents as they do, fancying that their only business is to please 
 and work for them.' 
 
 ' I should never have thought Mary Kemp had been brought 
 up in that way,' said Jessie ; ' she always gave me the notion of 
 being so independent, and going her own way without contra- 
 diction. I know when Aunt Morris used to scold me so much, 
 I used to think of Mary with envy, because it seemed as though 
 she did just as she liked, and was never found fault with.' 
 
 'That was because there was no occasion to find fault with 
 her,' I replied. 'Mrs Kemp declared that she never had cause 
 really to scold Mary after she was fifteen. You see she had 
 been brought up so well till then, that her mother was able to 
 let the reins loose; and so, just when she was beginning to have a 
 will of her own— as girls will have at that nge — it was a right 
 will which there was no occasion to oppose. I remember Mrs 
 Kemp saying to me one day that what mothers frequently do 
 is to spoil their children up to five years old, try experiments 
 up n them up to fifteen, and then contradict them up to twenty, 
 and by that time there is an end to confidence, and too often to 
 lov 
 
 ' I should be afraid,' said Jessie, ' that all that kind of strict- 
 ness would m ike a child so formal, and so afraid of its mother.' 
 
 ' No doubt it will where there there is no tenderness or sym- 
 pathy,' I replied. ' But Mrs Kemp has such a very affectionate way 
 with her, and throws herself so heartily into children's pleasures,
 
 URSULA. 559 
 
 that they could not be afraid of her. As for being cold-mannered 
 to children, indeed, it seems to me impossible, though I know 
 people who are so upon what they call principle, thinking it right, 
 they say, to teach self-control. As if children's affections could 
 be destroyed by shutting up the natural vent, and as if they were 
 not the very means God has given us to soften necessary disci- 
 pline. I don't think myself one can be too affectionate to 
 children if one is only strict at the same time.' 
 
 'Well, Ursie !' said Jessie, laughing, ' there is only one thing 
 to be done that I can see : you must just go and tell John Hervey 
 that I can't spare you, for I shall never bring up my child rightly 
 without you.' 
 
 'I have been preaching, I know,' I said, feeling rather ashamed 
 of myself; 'and I have no business to do so.' 
 
 'You shall preach to baby when she grows old enough,' 
 said Jessie ; ' I am sure it will do her the greatest possible 
 good.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' I said, heartily; ' I hate preaching, I don't think 
 any good is ever done by it.' 
 
 ' Yes, you have done me good,' replied Jessie. 
 
 ' Because you sought the preaching, as you choose to call it,' 
 I replied. ' But, Jessie, if I had thrust it upon you, I should only 
 have made you angry.' 
 
 ' Still one must preach a little,' replied Jessie ; or how is my 
 poor baby ever to become what she should be ?' 
 
 'Teach, but not preach,' I said; 'at least, to judge by my- 
 self, children like teaching very much, but preaching they can't 
 endure. It makes them shrink like a sensitive leaf when it is 
 touched.' 
 
 'And so my little one is to grow up like a heathen,' said 
 Jessie, half smiling at her own exaggeration. 
 
 ' So far as a baptized child, who is taught to pray, and read 
 the Bible, and say its Catechism, and obey its parents, can be a 
 heathen,' I said. 
 
 ' But that is not all, Ursie,' said Jessie, earnestly. 
 
 ' What there is beyond, must, I should think, be left to God,' 
 was my reply. ' We can't give grace ourselves, you know, 
 Jessie, and we shall never make it grow by searching into the 
 heart to see if it is there. But I believe that the grace will 
 never be wanting, if a child is kept in the way of duty and 
 obedience, while we are at the same time thoroughly in earnest 
 ourselves, and pray heartily for God's blessing and guidance.
 
 S6o URSULA. 
 
 '1 'lie good seed may not appear just in the way, or at the time 
 we wish ; but it will ripen in due time, one may be certain.' 
 
 Jessie bent sadly ever her baby. ' If I could only be sure,' 
 she said ; ' but 1 have gone so far wrong myself. I often 
 think that my punishment will be sent to me through my little 
 one.' 
 
 ' You must remember Roger,' I replied. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! that is my comfort. A blessing must rest upon hij 
 child, Ur-ie ; don't you think so ?' 
 
 ' I am certain of it,' I said. 
 
 'Baby is like him, the eyes are like, aren't they?' continued 
 Jessie ; 'she does not take only after me.' 
 
 I looked into the clear dark eyes, already beginning to dawn 
 with something like intelligence, and fancied I saw in them the 
 traces of the earnest, generous spirit, which had been my guide 
 and support through life. 
 
 ' If she was a boy she would be just like him,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' But being a girl she is not at all like him,' said a merry 
 voice. John Hervey came up to the window, and Roger with 
 him. 
 
 ' What are you two wasting your time about?' asked John. 
 
 'Planning to make a wise woman of Roger's daughter,' I 
 said. 
 
 John came round into the room. ' I don't believe she is a 
 daughter yet,' he said; 'or anything but an "it." Hand hi r 
 over to me, Ursie. I seem scarcely to have looked at her.' I 
 did as he bade me. Roger half sat, half leaned on the window- 
 sill, gazing intently upon the baby's face ; presently he said : 
 ' She is not a little Christian yet ; she will be to-morrow, please 
 God ; but we have not settled upon a name for her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' I exclaimed, ' you have. She is to be Jessie, of 
 course, if you insist upon only one name.' 
 
 'Jessie won't have it so,' replied Roger, gravely. 
 
 ' No ! why not?' I looked at Jessie, and repented that I had 
 asked the question. Her eyes were swimming with tears. 
 
 Roger put his hand upon her fondly. ' My little woman, why 
 mustn't it be ? you see Ursie thinks it right.' 
 
 Jessie wiped away her tears, but still she answered : ' I can't, 
 Roger, indeed, I can't have it. She must never be Jessie in 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Not if I wish it?' he said. 
 
 ' Not if you wish it. You don't understand now what Jessie is.'
 
 URSULA. 561 
 
 ' I understand she is my darling little wife,' replied Roger. 
 
 Jessie looked up at him with an expression of almost painful 
 gratitude. ' Not Jessie,' she whispered, ' but Ursula.' And 
 Roger turned to me, as I was standing close to him, and giving 
 me one of those kisses which seem to concentrate in them years 
 of affection, he joined my hand with John's, and said, ' It seems 
 too much to ask for the blessing of a second Ursula Grant.' 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIV. 
 
 NO one can expect me to describe my wedding-day. If I 
 were to attempt it, it would rot be like the reality, for in 
 truth I had but a very indistinct consciousness of anything that 
 was passing around me that morning. I remember only Jessie's 
 sweet smiles and tearful eyes, and Roger's more than fatherly 
 thoughtfulness, and William's kindness, and much, much more 
 that was good and pleasant from neighbours and friends ; and 
 above all, the one happy, honest-hearted, loving countenance, 
 which was now dearer to me than all others. How I was 
 dressed, how I looked, may have been a matter of consequence 
 to others, it was very little to me. John was satisfied, and I 
 cared for nothing else ; and the .dearest ornament which I wore 
 was the moss rose bud gathered by him and given me in ex- 
 change for one which I had laughingly insisted should be worn 
 in his button hole on his wedding morning. 
 
 If marriage is an awful thing to those whose merely look upon 
 it, it is far too sacred and solemn to be described by those who 
 actually take part in it. 
 
 Rather 1 would tell of my first arrival at my new home a fort- 
 night afterwards ; — the pretty gable-ended cottage, covered with 
 creepers ; the pleasant little parlour, ornamented with my wed- 
 ding presents, and having casement windows that looked out 
 upon a tiny bit of lawn ; a large kitchen-garden, and a paddock 
 beyond, in which two cows and a pony were feeding ; the view 
 from the arbour of Compton church and the ruined oratory on 
 St Anne's Hill, the soothing murmur of the sea, which had been 
 familiar to me from infancy ; and the pealing welcome from the 
 merrv church bells. The cottage was within reach of all I loved and 
 
 2 N
 
 562 LA. 
 
 for. I ' I evening when we fust drank tea in it as 
 
 our home, seemed the 01 a bappy life; and, God be 
 
 thanked, it lias nol Failed. I have lived to love and honour 
 my husband every day more and nunc. I am the mother of 
 three children, whom God his blessed with health and 
 dispositions. 1 have a competency for tl --nt. and faith 
 
 for the future ; and if 1 have known cares, and disappointments 
 and anxieties, they are but the lot of all ; and I trust ti 
 through God's infinite mercy, they are doing the work of tr. 
 I v < ternity. 
 That is the thought which is now most often with me; fir 
 j c ars hurry on and bring with them the consciousness that one is 
 hastening to the time when all these earthly blessings must be 
 left, and God must be all in all. There arc moments when 1 
 think of my husband and my children, and feel as though I could 
 cling hold of life, grasping it with all my strength, that it should 
 not be taken from me. Those are moments of temptation, the 
 temptation of a happy married life ; but there are others wh 
 God gives me another and a holier feeling ; when I can place all 
 in His hands, lying stdl before Him and waiting cheerfully fi>r 
 whatever may be to come, because I have learned not only to 
 trust, but to love Him. I fear it is almost bold to say so, yet Mrs 
 Weir often talked to me about it. It is a feeling which comes to 
 me most often in the long summer evenings, when the children 
 arc asleep, and I am waiting for John to return from some business 
 whicb has taken him to a distance. Then I often kneel and pray 
 whilst the moon shines full into my window ; and the soft night 
 breezes rise, seeming to wail for the world's sorrows whilst it 
 "deeps. The deep sounds in the calm, awful light, might well 
 in. i! e Hi tremble, even if tbey did not make me s id. But it i-- 
 not so ; I can feel rest then, which I seldom do in the day — rest 
 which is quite rest, which has no wish for anything but to remain 
 rest. I know that I have God quite close to me, and I can say 
 what comes into my mind and be sure that every word is under- 
 stood. I can tell Him of my love for my precious earthly trea- 
 sures, and yet feel that He, who knows my heart, sees that it is 
 truth, when I say how I have longed all my life with a great, 
 great longing to love some being quite perfect ; and how, now I 
 have found whit I wanted, — even Him who in His wondro 
 mercy gave Himself for me, — and can give all in return — all ; 
 every wish and hope and joy, not wishing to keep anything back ; 
 caring for those whom He h s given me here.as Heonlykno
 
 URSULA. 563 
 
 but turning again to Him, oh ! with such a rush at my heart ! — 
 it makes the tears come, because it is so happy. 
 
 If God should give me that feeling when I am called to die, 
 — death would be great joy. 
 
 But I must work for Him now ; and there is still much to be 
 done, both for myself and others. 
 
 I see Roger and Jessie often. I think and believe they are 
 happy ; not so happy as John and I — our lot is rare in its 
 blessedness, and Jessie, gentle and affectionate though she is, can 
 never fully supply all the needs of such a heart as Roger's, — yet 
 so happy as to feel that they are journeying on the same road to 
 the same home of peace. They have but one child. I sometimes 
 am inclined to wish they had more, when I see what a pet she 
 is ; and yet for myself I am quite contented, for I could never 
 love another so well, and I should not wish to be partial. My 
 own children are dear to me beyond what words can express. 
 It would be folly to suppose that any other love could ever equal 
 that of a mother ; yet there is a peculiar feeling connected with 
 little Ursula ; a remembrance of the first moment when I held 
 her in my arms and thought of her as Roger's child, that must 
 always give her a claim upon my heart, with which no one else 
 can interfere. Inherited love — the love that clings to the child 
 because the parent has been dear — is a strong tie ; and the 
 second Ursula Grant is far more gentle and loving and teach- 
 able than the first ever was or will be. Her uncle William is 
 her great charge ; and she waits upon him with a devotion and 
 thoughtfulness. mingled with much of her father's early piety, 
 which are very touching ; and often I think that Roger is 
 blessed, through his child, by seeing his brother gradually but 
 surely brought to follow in the same good path which he him- 
 self has so long trod. 
 
 Farmer Kemp is growing old, but works as heartily as ever ; 
 and Mrs Kemp is young again in the happiness of having a mar- 
 ried daughter and grandchildren. Miss Milicent is settled at 
 the Heath. Her father's death, which took place about two years 
 after my marriage, relieved her of the claim upon her fortune, 
 and she has now a small but sufficient income, which is managed 
 oddly still, but far more sensibly than in days of yore. She is 
 a busy and useful person, always having some plans of charity 
 in her head, and occasionally much perplexing Mr and Mrs 
 Richardson by her desire to carry them out. But she is not 
 wilful as she was. Past lessons have not been forgotten, and
 
 564 URSULA. 
 
 when she is very unmanageable, Mr Richardson generally 
 applies to me ; and a little talk in our parlour, or a conversation 
 on the sea-shore, whilst the children, of whim she is very fond, 
 are picking up shells, and searching for Miss Milicent's 'crea- 
 tures,' seldom fails to bring her to reason. It is not my own 
 sense or eloquence which can affect her, but (iod's grace work- 
 ing through the remembrance of her mother. Truly, I often 
 think to myself, 'the path of the just is like the shining light,' 
 in more ways than one, for it is a guide through many a 
 darkened way. 
 
 And Dene — the bright home of my childhood, the 1 
 spot in which my heart knew its earliest and most untroubled 
 joy?— 
 
 Miss Milicent's prophecy has come true, it has followed the 
 fortunes of her family. 
 
 I will describe it as I last visited it. 
 
 I walked over St Anne's Hill, and along the top of the down, 
 but when I wished to descend the sloping green path, I found 
 myself stopped by fences and ditches, for the end of the down 
 was enclosed, and Dene was no longer accessible in that direc- 
 tion. I went down on the other side, and made my way at the 
 I' ck of the plantation, till I came to a gate opening into the 
 direct road to Hove. It was barred and padlocked. I clambered 
 over it, and went up to the house. The shrubbery was grown 
 into a thick, dark plantation ; the broad road was green with 
 damp ; the wood work of the stables, the coach-house, and the 
 cottage was unpainted ; the clock was silent. A woman with a 
 little child appeared at the front door, wondering apparently to 
 see any living being. She told me that I might walk round, 
 and I went to the little gate leading to the side entrance, and 
 when I opened it found the path blocked up, and made my 
 way by stooping amidst overgrown laurels to the front of the 
 house. 
 
 No verandah was to be seen ; the work of the old carpenter, 
 which had been the pride and ornament of the place, and the 
 wonder of the neighbourhood, had vanished entirely ; — the plain, 
 stone house stood in its bare desolation, with only the broad 
 pavement before it. I turned to the lawn, once so exquisitely 
 smooth and soft. It was fast becoming rank grass. Twostrag- 
 ling flower-beds were left, but without a flower to brighten them. 
 The fountains had ceased to play, the ponds were nearly empty, 
 the walks round the garden were so overgrown that I did not
 
 URSULA. 50$ 
 
 attempt to pass by them, nor even to mount the steps of my 
 favourite seat. In the inside of the house a few pieces of fur- 
 niture still remained in the two sitting-rooms, making a mockery 
 of comfort ; the bed-rooms were empty. 
 
 I asked the woman what was to be done with the place, and 
 she told me that she believed it was to be sold to a stranger, and 
 the house was to be pulled down. 
 
 Such is Dene now. 
 
 In a few years another and a grander house may stand on its 
 site. Lovelier flowers and walks and fountains may then adorn 
 it ; eyes more fitted to appreciate may look on it with delight ; 
 and lips more eloquent far than mine may speak its praise. Lut 
 to me Dene is gone for ever. 
 
 And the happiness associated with it, the rush of glee, the 
 entrancing dreams, the thrill of wondering admiration ! — Vain, 
 indeed, would be the effort by any power of wealth and taste to 
 recall that cloudless joy. It is to be found but in the blessed 
 memories of childhood and the glorious prophecies of heaven, 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Witt's Myths of Hellas, translated by F. M. Yonnghosband. 
 
 — The Trojan War, — — 
 
 — The Wanderings of Ulysses, — 
 
 Crown 8vo. 10.!. id. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 9*. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 Crown 8vo. 3-. 
 Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY, BOTANY, &. GARDENING. 
 
 Allen's Flowers and their Pedigrees. Crown 8vo. Woodcuts, 5s. 
 Decaisne and Le Maout's General System of Botany. Imperial 8vo. 31s. 6rf. 
 Dixon's Rural Bird Life. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 5s. 
 Ilurtwig's Aerial World, 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Polar World, 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Sea and its Living Wonders. 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Subterranean World, 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Tropical World, 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 Lindley's Treasury of Botany. Fcp. 8vo. Cs. 
 Loudon's Encyclopaedia of (iardening. 8vo. 21s. 
 
 — — Plants. 8vo. 42s. 
 Rivers's Orchard House. Crown 8vo. 6 
 
 — Rose Amateur's Guide. Fcp. 8vo. 4s. 6</. 
 
 — Miniature Fruit Garden. Fcp. 8vo 
 
 Stanley's Familiar History of British Birds. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Wood's Bible Animals. With 1 1 - Vignettes. 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Common British Insects. Crown 8vo. ;: 
 
 — Homes Without Hands, 8vo. 10s. I 
 
 — Insects Abroad, 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Horse and Man. 8vo. Ms. 
 
 — Insect3 at Homo. With 700 Illustrations. 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Out of Doors. Crown 8 vo. 5s. 
 
 — Petland Revisited. Crown 8vo. 7.*. 
 
 — Strange Dwellings. Crown 8vo. 5s. Popular Edition, 4to. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 
 
 THE FINE ARTS AND ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS. 
 
 Dresser's Arts and Art Manufactures of Japan. Square crown 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 Eastlake's Household Taste in Furniture, &c. Square crown 8vo. 14*. 
 Jameson's Sacred and Legendary Art. 6 vols, square 8vo. 
 Legends of the Madonna. 1 vol. 21s. 
 
 — — — Monastic Orders 1 vol. 21*. 
 
 — — — Saints and Martyrs. 2 vols. 31*. 6<7. 
 
 — — — Saviour. Completed by Lady Eastlake. 2 vols. 42s. 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Home, illustrated by Scharf. Fcp. 4to. 10*. Gd. 
 The same, with Ivrp and the Armada, illustrated by Weguelin. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d!. 
 Moore's Lalla Rookh, illustrated by Tenniel. Square crown 8vo. 10*. 6<f. 
 
 New Testament (The) illustrated with Woodcuts after Paintings by the Early 
 
 Masters. 4to. 21*. cloth, or 42*. morocco. 
 Perry on Greek and Roman Sculpture. With 280 Illustrations engraved on 
 
 Wood. Square crown 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 CHEMISTRY, ENGINEERING, 8c GENERAL SCIENCE. 
 
 Arnott's Elements of Physics or Natural Philosophy. Crown 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 Bourne's Catechism of the Steam Engine, Crown Svo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 — Examples of Steam, Air, and Gas Engines. 4to. 70*. 
 
 — Handbook of the Steam Engine. Fcp. Svo. 9*. 
 
 — Recent Improvements in the Steam Engine. Fcp. Svo. 6s. 
 
 — Treatise on the Steam Engine. 4to. 42*. 
 
 Buckton's Our Dwellings, Healthy and Unhealthy. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 Crookes's Select Methods in Chemical Analysis. Svo. 24*. 
 
 Culley's Handbook of Practical Telegraphy. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 Fairbairn's Useful Information for Engineers. 3 vols, crown 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 — Mills and Millwork. 1 vol. 8vo. 25s. 
 Ganot's Elementary Treatise on Phvsics, by Atkinson. Large crown 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Natural Philosophy, by Atkinson. Crown Svo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Grove's Correlation of Physical Forces. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Haughton's Six Lectures on Physical Geography. 8vo. 15s. 
 
 Heer's Primaeval World of Switzerland. 2 vols. 8vo. 12*. 
 
 Helmholtz on the Sensations of Tone. Royal Svo. 28s. 
 
 Helmholtz's Lectures on Scientific Subjects. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. each. 
 
 Hudson and Gosse's The Rotifera or 'Wheel Animalcules.' With 30 Coloured 
 
 Plates. 6 parts. 4to. 10s. Gd. each. 
 Hullah's Lectures on the History of Modern Music. 8vo. 8*. Gd. 
 
 — Transition Period of Musical History. 8vo. 10*. 6<2. 
 Jackson's Aid to Engineering Solution. Royal 8vo. 21s. 
 
 Jago's Inorganic Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 
 Kerl's Metallurgy, adapted by Crookes and Rbhrig. 3 vols. 8vo. £4. 19s. 
 Kolbe's Short Text-Book of Inorganic Chemistry. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Lloyd's Treatise on Magnetism. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Macalister's Zoology and Morphology of Vertebrate Animals. Svo. 10*. 6d. 
 Macfarren's Lectures on Harmony. 8vo. 1 2*. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 8 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Miller's Elements of( I eal and Practical. 8 vols. Kvo. Tart I. 
 
 Chemical l'lij-i ■ ■.-, 16*. I'art 1 1. Inorganic Chemistry, 24 <. I'art III. Organic 
 
 OiBtry, | Tlee 81*. id. 
 
 Mitchell's Mautuil of Practical Assaying. 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 Northcott's Lathes and Turning. 8vo. 18*. 
 
 Owen's Comparative Anatomy nnd Physiology of the Vertebrate Anlnmln 
 
 3 Tola. 8vo. 73*. Gd. 
 Payeu's Industrial Chemistry. Edited by B. H. Paul, Ph.D. 8vo. 42*. 
 Piesse's Art of Perfumery. Bqn a 8vo. 21a 
 
 Reynolds's Exi>erimeutal Chemistry. Fep. 8vo. Part I. Is. G<l. Part II. 2*. 6J. 
 
 Part III. 3*. Gd. 
 Schellen's Spectrum Analysis. 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 Sennett's Treatise on the Marine Steam Engine. 8vo. 21*. 
 Smith's Air and Rain. 8vo. 24*. 
 
 Stoney's Tlie Theory of the Stresses on Girders, 4c. Royal 8vo. 36*. 
 Swinton's Electric Lighting : Its Principles and Practice. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Tilden's Practical Chemistry. Fcp. 8vo. 1*. Gd. 
 Tyndall's Faraday as a Discoverer. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 — Floating Matter of the Air. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 — Fragments of Science. 2 vols, post 8vo. 16*. 
 
 — Heat a Mode of Motion. Crown 8vo. 12*. 
 
 — Lectures on Light delivered in America. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 — Lessons on Electricity. Crown 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 
 — Km trical Phenomena. Crown 8vo. 1*. sewed. 1*. Gd. cloth. 
 
 — Notes of Lectures on Light. Crown 8vo. It. sewed, Lt. fid. cloth. 
 
 — Sound, with Frontispiece and 203 Woodcuts. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Watts's Dictionary of Chemistry. 9 vols, medium 8vo. £15. 2*. Gd. 
 Wilson's Manual of Health-Science. Crown 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 
 THEOLOGICAL AND RELIGIOUS WORKS. 
 
 Arnold's (Rev. Dr. Thomas) Sermons. 6 vols, crown 8vo. 5*. each. 
 Boultbee's Commentary on the 39 Articles. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Browne's (Bishop) Exposition of the 39 Articles. 8vo. 16*. 
 Colenso on the Pentateuch and Book of Joshua. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Conder's Handbook of the Bible. Post 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 Conybeare &i Hot son's Life and Letters of St. Paul : — 
 
 Library Edition, with Maps, Plates, and Woodcuts. 2 vols, square crown 
 
 8vo. 21*. 
 Student's Edition, revised and condensed, with 46 Illustrations and Maps. 
 1 vol. crown 8vo. 7.!. Gd. 
 Cox's (Homersham) Tb'- First Century of Christianity. 8vo. 12.<. 
 Davidson's Introduction to the .Study of the New Testament. 2 vols. 8vo. 30*. 
 Edcrsheim's Life and Times of Je- si:ih. 2 vols. 8vo. 4L'<. 
 
 — Prophecy and Historj In relation bo the Messiah. 8vo. 13*. 
 
 Ellie " ' Mi B*. '"/. 
 
 BphesuuiB, 8*. Gil. Pastoral i . id. P ppian . ColoaBiana and 
 
 Philemon, 10*. 64. T.' • alonians, It. id. 
 
 Lectures on the Life of our Lord. Svo. 12*. 
 
 Id's Antiquities of Israel, tran . 8vo. 12*. 6d. 
 
 — History of Israel, transla; . r enter & Smith. Vols. 1-7, 8vo. £5, 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GBEEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Hobart's Medical Language of St. Luke. 8vo. 16s. 
 Hopkins's Christ the Consoler. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 Jukes's New Man and the Eternal Life. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — Second Death and the Eestitution of all Things. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 — Types of Genesis. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — The Mystery of the Kingdom. Crown 8vo. 3». 6d. 
 
 Lenormant's New Translation of the Book of Genesis. Translated into English. 
 
 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 Lyra Germanica : Hyrnns translated by Miss Winkworth. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 Macdonald's (G.) Unspoken Sermons. Second Series. Crown 8vo. Is. 6d. 
 Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost. Crown 8vo. 8s. 6d. 
 Martineau's Endeavours after the Christian Life. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — Hymns of Praise and Prayer. Crown 8vo. is. 6d. 32mo. 1*. 6d. 
 
 — Sermons, Hours of Thought on Sacred Things. 2 vols. 7s. 6d. each. 
 Monsell's Spiritual Songs for Sundays and Holidays. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 18mo. 2s. 
 Mailer's (Max) Origin and Growth of Religion. Crown 8vo. Is. 6d. 
 
 — — Science of Religion. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 Newman's Apologia pro Vita Sua. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — The Idea of a University Defined and Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Is. 
 
 — Historical Sketches. 3 vols, crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 — Discussions and Arguments on Various Subjects. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — Certain Difficulties Felt by Anglicans in Catholic Teaching Con- 
 
 sidered. Vol. 1 , crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. Vol. 2, crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. 
 
 — The Via Media of the Anglican Church, Illustrated in Lectures, &c. 
 
 2 vols, crown 8vo. 6s. each 
 
 — Essays, Critical and Historical. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 12s. 
 
 — Essays on Biblical and on Ecclesiastical Miracles. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent. 7s. 6d. 
 Overton's Life in the English Church (1660-1714). 8vo. 14s. 
 Rogers's Eclipse of Faith. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 — Defence of the Eclipse of Faith. Fcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 Sewell's (Miss) Night Lessons from Scripture. 32mo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — — Passing Thoughts on Religion. Fcp. 8vo. 3.?. 6d. 
 
 — — Preparation for the Holy Communion. 32mo. 3s. 
 Smith's Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 Supernatural Religion. Complete Edition. 3 vols. 8vo. 36s. 
 
 Taylor's (Jeremy) Entire Works. With Life by Bishop Heber. Edited by the 
 
 Rev. C. P. Eden. 10 vols. 8vo. £5. 5s. 
 Tulloch's Movements of Religious Thought in Britain during the Nineteenth 
 
 Century. Crown Svo. 10s. 6d. 
 
 TRAVELS, ADVENTURES, &c. 
 
 Aldridge's Ranch Notes in Kansas, Colorada, &c. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Alpine Club (The) Map of Switzerland. In Four Sheets. 42s. 
 Baker's Eight Years in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 — Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Ball's Alpine Guide. 3 vols, post 8vo. with Maps and Illustrations : — I. Western 
 
 Alps, 6s. 6d. II. Central Alps, 7s. 6d. III. Eastern Alps, 10s. 6d. 
 Ball on Alpine Travelling, and on the Geology of the Alps, Is. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 Bent's The Cyclades, or Life among the I: Crowi o. 12j. 6d. 
 
 I :u\<{ Storm in ti Crown 8vo. 7*. M. 
 
 — Voyage in the Yacht 'Sunbeam.' Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. School Edition, 
 
 tip. 8vo. 2.i. Popular Edition. 4to. 
 
 — In the Trades, the Tropics, and the 'Roaring Forties.' Edition dc 
 
 Luxe, 8vo. £3. 13*. Cd. Library Edition, 8v< . 
 Crawford's Acro~ the Pampas and the Andes. Crown 8vo. Is. Gtf. 
 Dent's Above the Snow Line. Crown 8vo. 7s. M. 
 Fronde's Oceana ; or, England and her Colonies. 8vo. 18*. 
 HassaU's San Remo Climatically considered. Crown 8vo. 5.«. 
 Howitt's Visits to Remarkable riaces. Crown Svo. 7s. 6J. 
 Maritime Alps (The) and their Seaboard. By the Author of ' Vera.' 8vo. 2U. 
 Three in Norway. By Two of Them. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 6*. 
 
 WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 Beaconsfield's (The Earl of) Novel- and Tales. Hughenden Edition, with 2 
 Portraits on Steel and 11 Vignettes on Wood. 11 vols, crown 8vo. £2. 2s. 
 Cheap Edition, 11 vols. fcp. 8vo. 1*. each, sewed ; Is. 6d. each, cloth. 
 
 Black Poodle (The) and other Tales. By the Author of ' Vice Versa.' Cr. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Braboume's (Lord) Friends and Foes from Fairyland. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 Harte (Bret.) On the Frontier. Three Stories. 16mo. U. 
 
 — — By Shore and Sedge. Three Stories. lGmo. i*. 
 
 In the Olden Time. By the Author of ' Mademoiselle Mori.' Crown 8vo. 6.». 
 Melville's (Whyte) Nereis. Cheap Edition. 8 vols. fcp. 8vo. I*, each, sewed; 
 
 Is. 6rf. each, cloth. 
 The Modern Novelist's Library. Crown 8vo. price 2.s. each, boards, or 2s. &d. 
 
 each, cloth : — 
 
 By the Earl of Beacon-Scid. K.G. 
 Lot hair. 
 Sybil. 
 Coningsby. 
 Tancred. 
 Venetia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
 Contarini Fleming. 
 Alroy, Ixion, Sic. 
 The Young Dnke. &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 Endymion. 
 
 By Bret II 
 
 In the Carquinez Wools. 
 
 By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 In Trust, the Story of a Lady 
 and her Lover. 
 By James Payn 
 
 By Anthony Trollope. 
 
 Barchester Towers. 
 
 The Warden. 
 By Major Whyte Melville. 
 
 Digby Grand. 
 
 General Bounce. 
 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 The Gladiators. 
 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 Jtolmby House. 
 
 The Interpreter. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. 
 By Various Writers. 
 
 The Atelier du 
 
 Atherstone Priory. 
 
 The Burgomaster's Family. 
 
 Blsa and her Vulture. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 
 
 of the Valleys. 
 
 Unawares. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 3*. (yd. 
 
 Thicker than Water. 
 Oliphant's (Mrs.) Madam. Crown 8vo. 3«. 
 Payn's (Jam'-s) The Luck of the Darn IK 
 Reader's Fairy Prince Follow-my-Lead. I i. 5s. 
 
 Sewell's (Miss) Stories and Tale3. Cabinet Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 
 gilt edges, price 5s. 6./. ( 
 
 Herbert. Cleve Hall, 
 irl'a Daughter. 
 Experience of Life, 
 Gertrude. It i 
 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 Katharine Ashton. 
 ton Parsonage. 
 M rgaret PercivaL Ursula. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 

 
 General Lists of Works. 11 
 
 Stevenson's (R. L.) The Dynamiter. Fcp. 8vo. 1*. sewed ; 1*. Gd. cloth. 
 
 — — Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Fcp. 8vo. 1*. 
 
 sewed ; Is. 6d. cloth. 
 Sturgis' My Friend and I. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 
 
 Bailey's Festus, a Poem. Crown 8vo. 12s. Gd. 
 
 Bowdler's Family Shakespeare. Medium 8vo. 14s. 6 vols. fcp. 8vo. 21s. 
 Dante's Divine Comedy, translated by James Innes Minchin. Crown 8vo. 15s. 
 Goethe's Faust, translated by Birds. Large crown 8vo. 12s. Gd. 
 
 — — translated by Webb. 8vo. 12s. Gd. 
 
 — — edited by Selss. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Ingelow's Poems. Vols. 1 and 2, fcp. 8vo. 12s. Vol. 3 fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Bome, with Ivry and the Armada. Illustrated by 
 
 Weguelin. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. gilt edges. 
 The same, Annotated Edition, fcp. 8vo. Is. sewed, Is. Gd. cloth, 2s. Gd. cloth extra. 
 The same, Popular Edition. Illustrated by Scharf. Fcp. 4to. 6d. swd., Is. cloth. 
 Macdonald's (G.) A Book of Strife : in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul : 
 
 Poems. 12mo. 6s. 
 Pennell's (Cholmondeley) 'From Grave to Gay.' A Volume of Selections. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 
 Reader's Voices from Flowerland, a Birthday Book, 2s. Gd. cloth, 3s. Gd. roan. 
 Robinson's The New Arcadia, and other Poems. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 Shakespeare's Hamlet, annotated by George Macdonald, LL.D. 8vo. 12s, 
 Southey's Poetical Works. Medium Svo. 14s. 
 Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. Fcp. Svo. 5s. 
 Virgil's JEneid, translated by Conington. Crown Svo. 9s. 
 
 — Poems, translated into English Prose. Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 
 AGRICULTURE, HORSES, DOGS, AND CATTLE. 
 
 Dunster's How to Make the Land Pay. Crown Svo. 5s, 
 
 Fitzwygram's Horses and Stables. 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 Horses and Roads. By Free-Lance. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Lloyd, The Science of Agriculture. 8vo. 12s. 
 
 Loudon's Encyclopasdia of Agriculture. 21s. 
 
 Miles's Horse's Foot, and How to Keep it Sound. Imperial Svo. 12s. 6<J. 
 
 — Plain Treatise on Horse-Shoeing. Post Svo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Remarks on Horses' Teeth. Post 8vo. Is. Gd. 
 
 — Stables and Stable-Fittings. Imperial 8yo. 15s. 
 Nevile's Farms and Farming. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 — Horses and Riding. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Steel's Diseases of the Ox, a Manual of Bovine Pathology. 8vo. 15s. 
 Stonehenge's Dog in Health and Disease. Square crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Greyhound. Square crown Svo. 15s. 
 
 Taylor's Agricultural Note Book. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 Ville on Artificial Manures, by Crookes. Svo. 21s. 
 Youatt's Work on the Dog. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 _ _ — — Horse. Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 12 General Lists of Works. 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES. 
 
 The Badminton Library of S)>ort> andPaatimea. Edited by the Duke of Beaufort 
 and A. E. T. Watson. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10*. 6<f. 
 each. 
 
 Hunting, by the Duke of Beaufort, <tc. 
 
 Fishing, by 11. ciM.iniomieley-lVnnell, fcc. 2 vols. 
 
 Racing, by the Earl of Suffolk, &c. 
 Campbell- Walker's Correct Card, or How to Play at Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. M. 
 Dead Shot (The) by Marksman. Crown 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 Francis's Treatise on Fishing in all its Branches. Post 8vo. 15*. 
 Jefteries' The Red Deer. Crown 8vo. 4*. 6d. 
 Longman's Chess Openings. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 6d. 
 Peel's A Highland Gathering. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 Pole's Theory of the Modern Scientific Game of Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 6<f. 
 Proctor's How to Play Whist. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 Ronalds's Fly-Fisher's Entomology. 8vo. 14*. 
 Vemey's Chess Eccentricities. Crown 8vo. 10*. 6<f. 
 Wilcocks's Sea-Fisherman. Post 8vo. 6*. 
 Year's Sport (The) for 1885. 8vo. 21*. 
 
 ENCYCLOPAEDIAS, DICTIONARIES. AND BOOKS OF 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 
 Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families. Fcp. 8vo. 4*. 6d. 
 
 Ayre's Treasury of Bible Knowledge. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Brande's Dictionary of Scieuce, Literature, and Art. 3 vols, medium 8vo. 63*. 
 
 Cabinet Lawyer (The), a Popular Digest of the Laws of England. Fcp. 8vo. 9*. 
 
 Cates's Dictionary of General Biography. Medium 8vo. 28*. 
 
 Doyle's The Official Baronage of England. Vols. I.-III. 3 vols. 4to. £5. 5*. ; 
 
 Large Paper Edition, £15. 16*. 
 Guilt's Encyclopaedia of Architecture. 8vo. 52*. Cd. 
 
 Keith Johnston's Dictionary of Geography, or General Gazetteer. 8vo. 42*. 
 Latham's (Dr.) Edition of Johnson's Dictionary. 4 vols. Ho. £7. 
 
 — — Abridged. Royal 8vo. 14*. 
 
 M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation. 8vo. 63*. 
 Maunder's Biographical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Historical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Scientific and Literary Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Bible Knowledge, edited by Ayre. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Botany, edited by Lindley S: Moore. Two Parte, 12*. 
 
 — Treasury of Geograpny. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Knowledge and Library of Reference. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Natural History. Fcp 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Quain's Dictionary of Medicine. Medium 8vo. 31*. 6<f., or in 2 vols. 34*. 
 
 Reeve's Cookery and Housekeeping. Crown 8vo. 7*. C<7. 
 
 Rich's Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. Crown 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 
 TJre's Dictionary of Arts, Manufacture, and Mines. 4 vols, medium 8vo. £7. 7*. 
 
 Willich's Popular Tables, by Marriott. Crown 8vo. 10*. 
 
 London: LONGMAN-, GREEN, & CO.
 
 A SELECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WOEKS. 
 
 TEXT BOOKS OF SCIENCE, MECHANICAL AND 
 PHYSICAL. 
 
 Abney's Treatise on Photography. Fcp. Svo. 3s. Gd. 
 Anderson's Strength of Materials. 3s. Gd. 
 Armstrong's Organic Chemistry. 3s. 6d. 
 Ball's Elements ot Astronomy. 6s. 
 Barry's Bailway Appliances. 3.?. Gd. 
 Bauerman's Systematic Mineralogy. 6s. 
 — Descriptive Mineralogy. 6s. 
 
 Bloxam and Huntington's Metals. 5s. 
 Glazebrook's Physical Optics. 6.?. 
 Glazebrook and Shaw's Practical Physics. 6s, 
 Gore's Art of Electro-Metallurgy. 6s. 
 
 Griffin's Algebra and Trigonometry. 3s. 6d. Notes ami Solutions, 3s. Gd. 
 Jenkin's Electricity and Magnetism. 3s. 6d. 
 Maxwell's Theory of Heat. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Merrifield's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration. 3s. Gd. Key, 3s. Gd. 
 Miller's Inorganic Chemistry. 3s. Gd. 
 Preece and Sivewright's Telegraphy. 5s. 
 Rutley's Study of Rocks, a Text-Book of Petrology. 4s. 6c?. 
 Shelley's Workshop Appliances. 4s. Gd. 
 Thome's Structural and Physiological Botany. Gs. 
 Thorpe's Quantitative Chemical Analysis. 4s. Gd. 
 Thorpe and Muir's Qualitative Analysis. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Tilden's Chemical Philosophy. 3s. Gd, With Answers to Problems. 4s. 6i. 
 Unwin's Elements of Machine Design. 6s. 
 Watson's Plane and Solid Geometry. 3s. 6'/. 
 
 THE GREEK LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bloomfield's College and School Greek Testament. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 Bolland & Lang's Politics of Aristotle. Post Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 Collis's Chief Tenses of the Greek Irregular Verbs. Svo. Is. 
 
 — Pontes Graeci, Stepping-Stone to Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Praxis Qneca, Etymology. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Verse-Book, Praxis Iambica. 12mo. 4s. Gd. 
 Farrar's Brief Greek Syntax and Accidence. 12mo. 4s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Grammar Rules for Harrow School. 12rao. Is. 6'/. 
 Hewitt's Greek Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Isbister's Xenophon's Anabasis, Books I. to III. with Notes. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 Jerram's Graecfe Reddenda. Crown 8vo. Is. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 14 
 
 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 Kennedy' rammer. 12mo. 4.«. I 
 
 LlddeU A Boot i !I;irc 12mo - "'• 6d - 
 
 Linwoi , Greek Text, Latin Notes. Ith Edition. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 Mahnffy's Classical Greek Lit • rown8vo. Poet-. 7t.9&. Pro-* Writ 
 
 . ■■!. 
 Morris's Greek Lessons. Sqo • Part I. 2s. M. ; Part EL 1*. 
 
 Parry's Elementary Greek Grammar. 12m i. it. Bd. 
 
 Pluto's Republic, Book I. Greek Text, English Note- by Hardy. Crown 8vo. 3s. 
 
 I'vans's Notes on Thncydid , ■ iwn 8vo. 7*. 64 
 Tbucydides, Book IV. with N<> I ton and Qhavaase. Grown Svo. 5s. 
 
 Vnli Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2j. (»/. Key, is. dl. 
 
 White's Xenophon's Expedition of Cyrus, with Bnglish Notes. 12mo. 7s. Gd. 
 Wilkins's Manual of Greek Prose Composition. Crown Svo. .">«. Key, 5s. 
 
 — Exercises in Greek Prose Composition. Crown 8vo.4j. CJ. Key, 
 
 — New Greek Delectus. Crown Rvo. Zs. Gd. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Delectus. 12mo. 4s. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Anthology. 12nv>. 
 
 — Scriptores Attici, Excerpts with English Notes. Crown 8vo. 7j. r„). 
 
 — Speeches from Thuoydides translated. Post 8vo. 6s. 
 Yonge's English-Greek Lexicon. 4to. 21* ; Square 12mo. 8*. M. 
 
 THE LATIN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bradley's Latin Prose Exercises. 12mo. 3s. Bd. Key, 
 
 Continuous Lessons in Latin Prose. 12mo. 5.!. Key, 5*. Gd. 
 
 Cornelius Nepos, improved by White. 12mo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 Eutropius, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Ovid's Metamorphoses, improved by White. 12mo. is. C</. 
 
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 Valpy's Latin Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. Key, 3s. Gd. 
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