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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Those Three, an electronic edition
Author: Marshall, Emma, 1830-1899
Publisher: James Nisbet & Co.
Place published: London
Date: 1891
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Front cover of Marshall's Those
Three.Spine of Marshall's Those Three.THOSE THREE.Frontispiece from Marshall's Those Three.THOSE THREE;OR, LITTLE WINGS.A Story for Girls.BY EMMA MARSHALL, AUTHOR OF "MISTRESS
MATHCETT'S MISTAKE," "EASTWARD HO!" ETC. ETC."Small things are best; grief and unrestTo rank and wealth are given.But little things, on little wings,Bear little souls to heaven."LONDON:JAMES NISBET & CO.,21 BERNERS STREETMDCCCXCI.Be useful where thou livest, that they mayBoth want, and wish thy pleasing presence still;Kindness, good parts, quiet places, are the wayTo compass this. Find out men's wants and will,And meet them there. All worldly joys go lessTo the one joy of doing kindness."--GEORGE HERBERT.Table of contents for  Marshall's Those
Three.Table of contents for Marshall's Those
Three.THOSE THREE.
CHAPTER I.THE COTTAGE."PLEASANCE! Pleasance! I have called you three times. What are you doing?""Asleep and dreaming as usual, mother," said her sister Corisande. "Pleasance is like the fat boy in Pickwick; she goes off at the least provocation.""I am not asleep. I suppose I may shut my eyes without going to sleep.""Well, appearances are deceitful; that is all I have to say," as Pleasance drew herself out of a low garden-chair, pushed her hat farther back on her head, and walked slowly across the smooth turf to the verandah under which her mother was sitting on one of the loveliest June days of an exceptionally lovely summer."Yes, mother; do you want me?""I should not have called you three times if I had not wanted you. Here is a letter for you."Pleasance's face underwent an immediate change. Instead of the placid contentment which was its normal expression, it became suddenly alive. The colour came to her cheeks, her lips parted with a, smile, and her eyes, lately so dreamy in their expression, became luminous."Is this letter from Miss Macdonald, Pleasance?""Yes, mother.""I have told you often I do not altogether approve of this acquaintance.""This friendship, please, mother. Evelyn is my best—very best friend.""I am not so sure of that, Pleasance. Evelyn Macdonald has ideas and notions which are not wholesome for you to encourage. Her life is so entirely different from ours. Money commands everything, and she has the power which money gives to gratify every whim and indulge every selfish desire.""Oh, mother! you don't know her. Why do you judge her without knowing her? She does not care one bit for fine things or fine people, and that is why she has been afraid of coming here, because she knows that we are, though poor"—Pleasance stopped—" of a good family, and all that sort of thing. Evelyn knows, or rather feels, that you and Corisande look down on her, and——"Poor Pleasance hesitated more and more, and her voice had a suspicious tremble in its tones as she tried to speak in defence of her friend.A laugh from the chair next to that which Pleasance had just left was now heard."Oh, that is good, I must say! We look down on the grandeur of High Wycherly! High Wycherly looks down on us!"Corisande rose from her chair now, and drew nearer the verandah, where poor Pleasance still stood, her letter clasped tightly in her hands, which trembled with suppressed excitement."My dear child," Corisande said, "you have a craze for Miss Macdonald; it will die out as other crazes have done before. Mother need not be uneasy."Corisande was apt to lash her little sister with a certain quiet irony, which gave an effect to her words which it is difficult to express."You have always some idol set up, Pleasance. They fall on their faces and crash to atoms at regular intervals, and then you wipe your tears and go in quest of another. Miss Evelyn Macdonald of High Wycherly is the last. But you really must not expect your family to join in your worship, or weep bitter tears with you when you find out your mistake."But Pleasance could bear no more. She rushed into the pretty old-fashioned drawing-room which opened on the verandah, and then away out by the house through the orchard, over a turnstile to an old gnarled oak, left forlorn on the slope of a grassy knoll when all his contemporaries had long since fallen under the woodman's axe.Pleasance loved the old oak, and, with a single bound, she had gained her accustomed seat in the bend of a stout branch, which was so rounded as to make a convenient rest for Pleasance's back against the strong deeply furrowed trunk of the ancient tree—a tree which (so report said) was mentioned in Domesday records, and had weathered the storms of eight hundred winters.It was slow to put forth its scant foliage every spring, and now, though May had melted into June, its leaves still wore a delicate greenish bronze, growing pretty thickly in some parts, but scanty on the topmost branches, which stretched up bare arms to the blue sky above.Pleasance did a very foolish, but perhaps a natural, thing when she was safe in the arms of her old friend,—she pressed the thick envelope to her lips and burst into tears. The old oak could tell no tales, and Pleasance would not for the world have allowed Corisande to see her cry; but it was a relief to let the tears of vexation have their way when no one was there to see.Presently she wiped her eyes, for it is not easy to read a letter with a tear-dimmed vision, and then opened the precious envelope. It was sealed with a large gold and blue cypher, and "High Wycherly" was printed at the top of the page in the same colours, while below there was the same cypher and a crest above it. Corisande had levelled shafts of irony at that same emblazoned cypher not many days before, and even Joyce had said, "Isn't it a little vulgar to put such grand things on a letter?"In her secret heart Pleasance wished there had been no such adornment to the paper, but this could not spoil the pleasure of the letter as she read:—"DARLING PLEASANCE,—My Pleasance, I want you to come over for a long day to-morrow."I will call for you in the pony-carriage at ten o'clock, and take you back after tea. I know Lady Victoria will let you come, and don't ask your sisters' leave, especially Corisande's. She does try to freeze me to ail icicle when I meet her; but I am not freezable. I met her yesterday, and smiled blandly in return for her bow. Why is she as stiff as buckram? Never mind! You are soft, and tender, and pliable, and I love you. Good-bye till to-morrow.—Your faithful"EVELYN."Such a hand as it was, with all kinds of eccentric twists, and strokes, and oddities! Written, too, with a very blunt pen, and looking—as per-haps the writer wished it to look—original. In the eyes of Pleasance, however, the letter, like the writer, had no faults, and it was read and re-read, and then Pleasance resigned herself to meditation again.It was an afternoon full of delicious murmurs of happy life. At the foot of the little Knoll on which the old oak stood, a rivulet made gentle music. There was a rustle of twigs and leaves as birds flew to their nests to feed their little ones in a copse near by. Then from afar came the lowing of cows, the call of the cuckoo, the caw of rooks, and the hundred half-articulate sounds which go to make up the fulness of summer joy on a day in June.Pleasance drank it all in with that delightful sense of living which comes to sensitive and imaginative temperaments like hers, in early youth. She was just fifteen, but, though in appearance child-like and younger than her years, she was in other respects older.Her home training had not been likely to correct her dreamy temperament. Lady Victoria Fraser led a very retired life, and as she had no means which she thought at all sufficient to allow her to take up her proper position in the world, she drew back from that world altogether, and held herself apart from the few neighbours who might have been disposed to be friendly had she wished it.It was, however, evident that she did not wish for anything more than acquaintances. To these she was courteous and gentle in manner, but no one cared to try twice to overstep the barrier—that intangible barrier which people like Lady Victoria know so well how to set up.The education of her three girls had been a little desultory. They had picked up what they knew as they liked.Corisande, clever and bright, had read a great deal, and all three girls had learned German and French from a succession of Frauleins and Mademoiselles, who came and went, and found life at The Cottage extremely dull. Now there was neither Fraulein or Mademoiselle, in evidence. The last had gone straight to High Wycherly, and had, to Lady Victoria's great vexation, opened by this means communication between the two houses, against which she had so carefully guarded herself.High Wycherly was another name in Lady Victoria's opinion for vulgar pretension, and great was her vexation when she found Mademoiselle Forêt planned her walks with Evelyn Macdonald so that she might meet her daughters, and that thus what she called an unhappy acquaintance had sprung up between Pleasance and the only daughter of Mr. Macdonald of High Wycherly.Lady Victoria was too well-bred to be rude, but Mrs. Macdonald had reason to remember to her latest day the call she made at The Cottage, and the quiet but determined fashion with which her overtures were repulsed.Mrs. Macdonald determined that she would not attempt to call at The Cottage again for some time, yet it was hard to resist the temptation; for Mrs. Macdonald was not insensible to the fact that the inhabitants of The Cottage were desirable acquaintances, and how gladly she would have made them friends.Pleasance's meditations were now interrupted for a second time by the sound of her name."Pleasance! here you are! I knew I should find you here.""Come up, Joyce," Pleasance said. "Here, take my hand. That's it; don't upset me, though."Joyce was the middle one of the three sisters, and some people thought the plainest. She had a good sensible face, and her red-gold hair crowned a well-shaped head. Joyce's "carrots," as she called them, often got her into trouble. They would not submit to pins or plaits, or any confinement. They were always falling down when they ought to keep up, and when down, covered her rather square short figure far below the waist. This hair and her deep blue eyes, with perhaps too light eyelashes, and her fair clear skin with a sprinkling of freckles, betrayed her Scotch origin, which was still more apparent in the wide mouth, furnished with a set of white even teeth, and generally parted with a pleasant smile. Good-nature and perfect contentment with the world in general, and herself in particular, were Joyce's distinguishing characteristics, and it was said by the people in the village that Miss Joyce beamed when she spoke, and it warmed anybody's heart to get a smile from her.The smiles were frequent enough and the frowns rare, but as she seated herself by her sister's side, supporting herself by throwing her arm round her waist, Joyce's brow was knit as if she were trying to solve a hard problem."Pleasance," she began, as the inevitable hair, shaken by the jump into the old oak, fell on every side, "Pleasance, I think you had better give up going to High Wycherly to-morrow; it does make Corisande so cross, and another hates your going.""I must go this once," Pleasance said in a plaintive tone. "Evelyn will come for me. I can't be so rude as to let her drive six miles for nothing. I am sure we have few friends or acquaintances, Joy. We live too much alone—I mean alone with each other. It makes us dull and narrow-minded.""Speak for yourself, Pleasance. I am never dull.""You know what I mean; and when I can have a little variety, and a brilliant and beautiful girl——""Oh, come, Pleasance; not beautiful; brilliant in dress, if you like.""She is beautiful; her eyes are luminous."Joyce laughed."I really cannot enter into such rhapsodies, Pleasance; and the long and the short of it is, that if mother dislikes this friendship, you should give it up or let it cool. I cannot imagine how it is that you, a dear, soft, quiet little thing, gentle and sweet——""I don't feel sweet now," Pleasance interrupted, but there was a sign of a smile at the corners of her rosy mouth. "I don't feel sweet—I feel cross and vexed, because it is all Corisande's spite. She heard that Evelyn in fun called us 'Those three,' and she thinks it is taking a liberty.""Who told her?""Mademoiselle, I expect.""Mademoiselle is an old gossip; she would tell anything of anybody. But where is the harm of calling us 'Those three'? I can't see what harm there is in it.""No harm exactly.""Those three!' Well, we are three, and not four, and we can't
change it. I am sure I wish there was a fourth in the shape of a
brother. A brother would soon stir us up and tease us, and a brother
would not allow mother to live here in this secluded place. Even a
cousin would be a blessing. Fancy how nice to have a brother or cousin coming from Eton or Oxford! It is a misfortune to have no brothers.""Perhaps they would be a nuisance," Pleasance said, in her meditative tone; "who can tell? I don't want them.""We must go in now; it is time for tea."Then Joyce let herself down from her perch, her hair catching in a twig, and making her call out—"Oh, Pleasance! don't pull the lock out! Oh, dear! Oh, my horrid carrots!—what a bother they are!"Pleasance was in the act of trying to disentangle "the carrots," and laughing her low sweet laugh as she did so, when a boy, of any age between fifteen and seventeen, was seen jumping over the hedge which divided the knoll from the field, and exclaiming, "Let me help you down!"The boy had a fishing-basket slung round his waist, and a rod in his hand. He threw the rod down on the grass, and with two or three long strides was at the foot of the old oak, where, in the most ungraceful of fashions, Joyce hung, one foot touching the ground, the other trying in vain to reach it, the great shining lock of hair holding her prisoner."Cut it! do anything, Pleasance! Don't be so silly!" for Pleasance was convulsed with laughter. "Cut it, do you hear?""I can't. I've no scissors."Then, with a frantic effort, Joyce struggled to free herself, but in vain. The hair twisted more and more firmly in the rough knots and notches of the old oak."I've a knife; look out!" exclaimed the newcomer. "You'll hurt yourself awfully if you tug like that;" and then a knife with a sharp blade was handed up to Pleasance, and the twig which held the gold strand was severed at last, with much saving and difficulty. When both girls were safely on the ground, Pleasance said—"Thank you very much; it was a funny position to find us in.""Yes; I was like Absalom," Joyce said. "I say, I have hurt my head; and do look at the big lock you have left in the tree, Pleasance. Be thankful you have not such hair as mine. Your smooth brown head has never a hair astray."The boy was now gathering up his fishing-tackle, and said—"I am afraid I am trespassing. Can you tell me the best way to get into the village? This is Abbotsbourne, is it not?""Yes," Pleasance said; "come through this way—through our garden; we live at The Cottage. This way, through the orchard."The Cottage! Oh, then my sister knows you. Are you those—the three Miss Frasers?""Those three Miss Frasers!" said Joyce. "Yes; Pleasance and I are two of those three!"Joyce laid an emphasis on those, and then looked up archly into the speaker's face."All right!" was the reply, with an answering smile. "I have heard Eve speak of you, even in the few days I have been at home; but I don't know how it is that I have never seen you before, except that I have been at school, and did not come home at Easter, but went a tour with a tutor. I am come home now because something infectious broke out in our house, and we were sent packing, to our 'supreme satisfaction' as Eve would say. But," he went on questioning, "how was it I never heard of you till now? I was at High Wycherly at Christmas.""It was at Christmas Mademoiselle left us," Pleasance said, "and, well, that brought about the acquaintance, because, you know, she went to live with Mrs. Macdonald. Mother," Pleasance said, with deepening colour, "this is Evelyn Macdonald's brother; he helped Joyce to get out of the oak—her hair caught in a branch.""I am afraid I was trespassing," Claude said in that frank, bright manner which is often the characteristic of the public-school-boy—frank without being forward, and modest without being shy.Lady Victoria said quietly, in the measured tone with which she always spoke, "I have to thank you for giving assistance to my daughter. My dear Joyce, do go and put yourself tidy.""I must get my fair cut short, mother," Joyce exclaimed vehemently. "Good-bye!" she said, turning to Claude. "Good-bye! and thanks for that sharp knife."Corisande, who had been practising in the room opening on the verandah, hearing voices, came out, and looked inquiringly at her mother for information as to who the boy with the fishing-rod could be."Mr. Macdonald, Corisande."Corisande gave one of those bows which Evelyn called "freezing." "He has been of kind assistance to your sisters."Claude returned Corisande's greeting with a good-tempered smile, and then he said—"I must be going home now; it is a five miles' run to High Wycherly. Good evening!""Mother, mother," Pleasance said, trying to attract Lady Victoria's attention. "I may send a message. I may go to-morrow, please?""Very well," said Lady Victoria coldly, "but——"Pleasance waited to hear no "but;" she ran after Claude, who had just let the gate swing behind him, and said eagerly—"Will you give my best love to your sister, and say I shall be ready at ten o'clock to-morrow? She has asked me to spend the day at High Wycherly.""All right! I am very glad you are coming; but I hope your sister will come also.""No, she is not invited," Pleasance said, "thank you!""I'll invite her now, and I know Eve will be glad to see her. One of 'those three,'" he added laughing, as he took off his cap for the last time and ran quickly off down the road."How pretty she looks when the colour comes to her face!" he thought. "But it is the red-haired one I like best; she is a joke. That hair of hers is like the hair of those big women in the pictures in the Louvre—is it?—painted by Rubenstein. No, that's the name of the piano man old Banks is so cracked about; it is Rubens, of course. Well, I never saw such hair before except in a picture. "Then Claude began to whistle and sing alternately—
"Pepita, O Pepita! I've had a sad fall!Pepita, Pepita! it's that garden wall!"CHAPTER II.ABBOTSBOURNE.HIGH WYCHERLY was an imposing-looking house, not modern, but respectably old.It had square bays and twisted chimneys; and from the southern side a wing of more modern times stretched out towards an old-fashioned pleasance, which, on this June afternoon, was brilliant with flowers,—the flowers which come between the spring crocus and daffodils, before the geraniums and begonias have their turn—many-coloured pansies and the endless variety of wallflowers, scarlet anemones and white anemones, scarcely past their first beauty.Beyond the pleasance was a sloping lawn and a terrace above it, with the inevitable old sun-dial, and the peacocks strutting up and down as peacocks have been supposed to strut on such terraces from time immemorial.High Wycherly bore its date on a stone shield above the great stone porch, and that date was 1620. No Macdonalds lived under its stately roof then, for truth compels me to say that Mr. Mac-donald had only had possession of it for six years. By the process of slow but sure decay, which is seen in some of the families of our country gentry, the original owners of High Wycherly had fallen by degrees from affluence to poverty.The last Vernon who had possession of the place had deserted it and lived an idle luxurious life in Paris. He died without an heir. All leis effects were put in the market to clear off the claims of numberless creditors, and Mr. Macdonald became the happy purchaser of the old house and the few acres adjoining, and he was justly satisfied with his bargain.Many changes had been wrought in these six years. The exterior was restored, and plate-glass filled the windows of the square bars, while within everything bespoke the presence of that treat factor, money. It was all "spick and span," as its present owner said with pride, and furnished regardless of cost; rather with regard to the most costly things that could be obtained.In these days taste is ruled by the opinion of decorators, and the very first decorator who understood the matter thoroughly, had been employed.All that soft Persian carpets below and fresco ceilings above could do was done, while draperies and walls were all en suite; the panels filled with silk tapestry, and an abundance of old china and new china oil shelves, and over-mantels and "over-doors" gave every room its appropriate character; while copies from the old masters hung on the walls of the dining-room, and old Vernons frowned or smiled down from the panels of the great entrance-hall. They had been sold with the house, and there was one face amongst them which presided over the great open fireplace, which always seemed to be looking down with a cynical smile on those who came and went in the spacious halls which once were his.If there was a certain feeling of exultation in Mr. Macdonald's heart that he, at least, did not live in one of the pasteboard "villa houses," all gilt and gimcracks, which are supposed to be the natural abodes of the nouveaux riches, he had sometimes misgivings as to the inclination his wife showed of posing as the inheritor of High Wycherly. Mr. Macdonald was a thoroughly straightforward, honest man, and was at times a little uneasy about the "tall talk" in which Mrs. Macdonald was rather prone to indulge.Perhaps he carried the ready confession of his origin to the farthest limit in the other direction."I have made my own way, as my father did before me. I am a tradesman, and I am not ashamed to own it. Why should I be ashamed?"Perhaps there was about as much pride in this assertion as in his wife's constant desire to conceal the fact that, though the misfortune of trade hung to his family, hers was free from this fault. Mrs. Macdonald was the daughter of a solicitor, who was as poor as old Mr. Macdonald was rich, and had been only too glad to see his daughter married to a good man, of what really might be called enormous wealth.Mr. Macdonald was in London attending to his business four or five days out of the six, but he was always at High Wycherly on Saturdays and Sundays. But this day was Wednesday, and Mrs. Macdonald was left as undisputed mistress of her grand house.Claude glanced anxiously at the clock as he threw his fishing-tackle and basket down in the hall, for it was nearly half-past seven, and his mother expected him to be dressed and ready to go into the dining-room with her punctually at the right moment. Claude bounded up the wide stairs, along the corridor which led at the top in two different directions, and made a hasty toilette. He was a very nice-looking boy, and in his Eton jacket and white collar he could hold his own anywhere.When he was ready, the gong was booming out its crescendo and diminuendo, and he was in the small drawing-room, where his mother was waiting for him, in time to escape a reproof.Evelyn was behindhand for once, and Mrs. Macdonald was beginning to grumble in a low tone at unpunctuality, when Evelyn appeared."Hallo, Claude! you are a nice person to keep a promise. You said you would ride with me after luncheon, and you went off somewhere without a word.""Ah! I beg your pardon, Eve; but when I tell you where I have been, you will be interested and envious."They were in the dining-room now, and Evelyn's curiosity was roused as Claude said—"I give you three guesses; come, begin.""My dear Claude, do not worry your spoon like that, it is not the thing at all," remonstrated his mother; for Claude, waiting for his soup, was tapping his spoon against the foot of one of the wine-glasses."Come, Bennet," he said, "make haste; I am frightfully hungry."The brown and white soup were handed by a gave footman, with the usual question; and Claude further shocked his mother by saying, "Both," then, with a laugh, "but not both at once.""Do tell me where you have been, Claude, and who did you see?""Guess," said Claude."You have been to Bromley, and you have seen Aunt Sophy.""Wrong; try again. Well, do you give it up, Eve?" Claude said, having discussed with treat appetite a double share of the entre handed to him. "Poor little Eve! What do you say to my having seen, and not only seen, but talked with, and not only talked with, but been smiled on and thanked for my services by—'Those three!'""Nonsense, Claude!""It's not nonsense. I have been to The Cottage. I have made myself very agreeable, and I brought you the best love of the youngest of 'those three.' I am glad to say she is coming to-morrow. She will be ready by ten o'clock, so you will have plenty of her company.""Oh, that is splendid!" Evelyn said. "Mother, do you hear? Pleasance is coming!""I am a little doubtful about a visit when Miss Fraser's mother declines myacquaintance. Living in a poor way like that, it is rather odd that Lady Victoria should give herself airs. Not that she is as bad as the eldest of those three girls. I shall never attempt any kind of intimacy with her, for such pride is quite beneath notice."It is only Corisande's manner, mother," Evelyn said. "She does not mean anything. Mademoiselle says when she was ill at The Cottage, Corisande was so good to her, and that all the poor people in the village like her as well as any of the three.""But it is the girl with red hair I like best," Claude said, as he prepared for himself a large plate of early strawberries and cream. "Why did not you ask her to come with the other? She is so jolly, and it was fun to see her hanging by her hair in the tree, and your friend, Eve, only laughing at her, till I produced my knife.""Claude, what do you mean?" Evelyn said."What I say. One of 'those three' had got her hair twisted round the branch of the tree where she had been sitting with the other one, like two white doves in a nest. There is a pretty simile for you, Eve. I saw them from the other side of the hedge, and jumped over, though I knew I was trespassing. How I startled them, and the girl with the red hair tried to get down; but, as I tell you, her hair refused to let her, and then I came to the rescue with my knife; lucky it was so sharp.""I never heard of such unladylike proceedings for people who give themselves airs," Mrs. Macdonald said. "But I really shall have to tell Mrs. White that I must make a change. Did you ever see anything worse cooked than that chicken? Disgraceful! Mrs. White ought to be ashamed of sending up such a dinner; she would not dare to do it in some houses. Now, Evelyn, pray don't eat any more strawberries.""I have not the chance, mother. That greedy boy has had the last."Evelyn Macdonald was a striking-looking girl, tall for her age, and with a lithe, supple figure. She had a bright complexion, and sparkling eyes of no particular colour, but varying with the light in which you saw them and the mood in which their owner looked at you.Evelyn had a great variety of dresses, and they were always perhaps a little too smart for her age, or indeed for any age. But her dress certainly helped to convey the idea which gentle little Pleasance expressed when she said Evelyn was brilliant as well as beautiful. Joyce, as we know, would not allow the last was true, and yet she felt there was some justice in the description.Evelyn was brilliant in appearance, but then tastes differ about that quality. Some people may like and admire a full-blown peony; others may prefer a delicately coloured tea-rose. We do not see people or things with the same eyes, and what is called the "point of vision" differs with different observers.Evelyn looked her brightest and best the next morning when she drew up her high-stepping little horse Zoe before the gate of The Cottage. She wore a white dress, plentifully adorned with ribbons of what is called a "full pink," not the subdued pink known as vieux-rose. The dress was covered with embroidery, and had very high puffed sleeves. The whole was surmounted by a hat which a wreath of wild roses nearly covered, and from under which a merry smile greeted Pleasance as she hastily advanced to the gate, which the groom had opened for her."What a good girl you are to be so punctual! I am afraid I am late."Then Evelyn covered Pleasance's knees with the pretty carriage-wrap, worked with her cypher in the centre in red letters on a brown ground, with appropriate corners, and touching the horse with the whip, the carriage gent off full speed.Corisande and her mother were at the bay-window of their little morning-room upstairs, watching Pleasance's departure.Joyce had not ventured to the gate, though she longed to do so, for fear her mother should object to it; but she had seen the carriage drive off with a little pang of envy."How I should like to go," Joyce sighed; i'such fun it would be to see that grand place and that nice brother of Evelyn's! It is just what we want—a brother life him. Pleasance ,s a darling, but she is too prim; and Corisande is as much grown up as she ever can be. 'Well-a-day—ah! well-a-day.' She is singing that song now, and nothing suits my mood better—except that I never had a sweet dream to prove but a dream."Joyce gave a coaxing pat to her rebellious locks, and thrust a long pin through them which she picked up on the floor of the verandah, where, half-hidden by a clematis, now in the full glory of its snowy stars, she had watched her sister go forth for her day's pleasure.Corisande had finished her song when Joyce reached the morning-room, and was seating herself at the table with Justin M'Carthy's "History of Our Own Times" open before her. Lady Victoria was settling herself into an attitude of attention with her knitting, and Joyce was admonished to get her needlework, and then Corisande began to read. She had the voice and tone which always tell of refinement and culture, and she read well.Just as Corisande was half through the first sentence, Joyce broke in, "Mother, did you see Pleasance drive off in that pretty pony-carriage?""My dear, do not interrupt your sister. Yes, I saw Pleasance drive off.""I wonder she liked to go so expressly against your will, mother," Corisande said quickly. "It is really extraordinary that Pleasance should care for that flashy, fast Miss Macdonald.""She is very handsome," Joyce began."My dear," her mother said, "do not interrupt. Go on, dear Corisande."So the peaceful morning passed, as many others had passed before it, almost ever since the girls could remember anything.The foreign governesses had never interfered with those two hours alone with their mother. The afternoon was given to languages and music, the morning Lady Victoria considered her own with her children.Lady Victoria had been left a widow early in life, and her father's title and family, that of a Scotch peer, had died out in the direct line. Certain distant branches of that family might be found, but as Lady Victoria's father was the last Earl of Fergustoun, and as he had no son living, the title became extinct.There could be no doubt that what Joyce said was true. The three sisters might lament over the scarcity of relations, for brothers and cousins, even in the remotest degree, did not come into their quiet lives.Colonel Fraser had one married sister living, but his only brother had died early in life, like himself, and of this aunt the only surviving sister, the girls knew very little."Your aunt, Mrs. Kennedy," was mentioned occasionally, but never with great cordiality, by Lady Victoria.The girls had only seen this relation once, long ago, it seemed to them, when they were quite small children, and had lately lost their father, and once in later times.The father was but a dim memory to them, for he had died in Africa in the course of the Zulu war, when Pleasance was almost a baby and her sister scarcely more. For these three girls were only divided by one year in age. Pleasance was fifteen, Joyce sixteen, and Corisande—the grave, self-contained, dignified Corisande—had only lately passed her seventeenth birthday.Lady Victoria's establishment was small, but at its head was an old servant, who had known her mistress in the early days of youth, and had lived with her from her marriage to this time. The man-servant, who performed varied duties, was a relation of Margaret's—Mrs. Grey, as she was called in the house and in the village. When Lady Victoria decided to take her three little girls to the retired cottage at Abbotsbourne, she asked Margaret if she could recommend her a man-servant who would accommodate himself to circumstances, as Margaret herself was prepared to do, and yet never forget that he served a mistress of ancient lineage.Margaret knew the very man, in the person of Sandy Macintyre, who was her sister's son, and whose father had been in good service and knew what real gentry were.Sandy proved a great success; he had not the smart, jaunty manners of the men-servants Lady Victoria had left in her London house, but he was respectful and honest, and, as his aunt said, "knew his manners and his place." Sandy's fidelity had now been proved by ten or eleven years' service, and he was as much a fixture as Margaret herself. He had a boy under him, and Margaret had two girls—one to assist in the house, the other in the kitchen.It was considered a great honour when an Abbotsbourne lass was chosen by Mrs. Grey for her situation; for I need not say the management of the household was mainly left in Margaret's hands by her mistress. If the servants' misdemeanours had to be reported, this was done in a solemn and private interview with Lady Victoria. To discuss the merits or demerits of servants in the presence of others was held, by mistress and housekeeper alike, an offence against the ethics which ruled the conduct of "real gentry;" and there is a great deal to be said in favour of silence as to domestic concerns, and, if observed, much mischievous gossip would be avoided.When the morning's study was over, the girls were free to amuse themselves, and Lady Victoria went her accustomed walk in the village. She looked after the poor, but, though kind, was not exactly sympathetic. Still, if any great trouble happened, or any child met with an accident, it was always the first thought to send up to The Cottage and let her ladyship know through Mrs. Grey. There had been no such message this morning, and Lady Victoria only paid a short visit to two or three old women whom she supplied with Scotch yarn for knitting, and then paying them for their work, kept a store of stockings and comforters for Christmas gifts.The parish of Abbotsbourne was small and scattered. All told, there were not more than two hundred people actually within its limits, and at this time it was without a clergyman, the duty being performed weekly by a poor curate in "want of work." The living had been offered, on the death of the last old rector, to several clergy-men, who had come to look at it with their wives, and had gone away thinking any one who accepted it would be buried alive. So far was Abbotsbourne from railways, that even the distant sound of the engine-whistle seldom broke the stillness. The market-town of Bromley was four miles on the farther side of High Wycherly, and the less important town of Ashworth quite four miles in the opposite direction.In these days it is difficult to realise a district so completely out of the track of the busy world as is this district lying along a spur of the Cotswold Hills, and rising several hundred feet above the broad valley, towards which the land slopes in an easy descent of some five or six miles of varied country. In. the valley itself cattle browsed peacefully, and lichen-covered roofs of farms and homesteads nestled, with here and there a grey church-tower half hidden by immemorial elms, or little knolls crowned with firs, and with copses clothing their sides in some places with spruce and larches, which were now hanging out their emerald tassels of new-born foliage. Far away, over the broad valley, there was generally to be seen a light mist or cloud, which showed where, in the populous city of Monksborough, there were many toilers and busy workers, of whom Abbotsbourne knew only by report.As might be expected, the Abbotsbourne folk were slow and deliberate; no one was ever in a hurry, for there was nothing to hurry for. The old postman, who tramped daily across the country with the letters, never hurried himself, but walked along with his stout stick in one hand and clutching the leather strap of the post-bag with the other, at a regular stated jog-trot, neither looking right nor left.As Lady Victoria was returning from her walk she met him, and said—"Are there any letters for The Cottage, postman?"The old man twisted his bag round, and diving into its depths, said, as he deciphered the address—"Two, my lady—two and a paper. Will you take it, or shall I leave it at the house, my lady?""No, give them all to me," Lady Victoria said. "It is fine weather. Good morning!"In her quiet fashion, Lady Victoria had always a pleasant word for her humble neighbours. Her hauteur was reserved for their superiors.The handwriting on one of the envelopes was surely familiar, though she had not seen it for a long time. "Yes," she said, "it is Grace's writing;" and then, when she had let the gate of The Cottage swing behind her, she sat down on the garden-seat under the spreading lime-tree, where Corisande and Pleasance had been sitting, on the previous day when the letter with the grand cypher, which had been so offensive, had arrived.This letter had no such ornament, it was enclosed in a very ordinary envelope of oblong shape, with a pink Queen's head in the right-hand corner—such envelopes as are used for convenience-sake by those who have many letters to write. The paper on which the letter was written was not very thick or highly glazed, and the writing was not very easy to decipher. It began:—"MY DEAR VICTORIA,—I write in haste for the post, to tell you that Henry's health having broken down with his labours in this populous parish, the Bishop has proposed to him to take the living of Abbotsbourne. Will you take us in for a day or two, that we may see if the place will suit us? The Bishop says Abbotsbourne is very healthy, and a small population; and we want rest and quiet. It is so long since I heard from you. I hope the dear girls are well. I never forget them, and I hope they will not be sorry to renew acquaintance with their dear father's sister."Just give me a line by return to say whether we may come on Saturday. Henry would take the duty on Sunday, and judge if the church suited him. He sends his love to you and his cousins.—Ever your affectionate sister,"GRACE KENNEDY."4 ORIANA STREET,BIRMINGHAM.Wednesday."P.S.—I had closed my envelope, and forgot in my haste I had not given you our address; but I am in such a whirl."Lady Victoria turned the letter over and read it a second time."Of course Henry is in orders; I forgot that. Grace's letter is like herself—she always was in haste—in haste to marry poor Mr. Kennedy, though she knew he was dying of consumption. I daresay the son has inherited the malady. I must receive them, of course, but it is not a very agreeable prospect. There is one consolation—they are certain to say, as every one else has said, that Abbotsbourne is too far out of the world."The gong sounded, and Corisande and Joyce came out of the French window."Letters, mother! is there one for me? are they interesting? Oh," said Joyce, "only the Guardian and a circular!"Lady Victoria made no reply; she went quickly upstairs, and Margaret was in her room, ready to assist her mistress to lay aside her long grey dust-cloak and remove her shady hat."I am late," Lady Victoria said; "I have been reading my letters in the garden. I shall want to make arrangements to receive Mrs. Kennedy and her son on Saturday. We can manage to do so, I suppose?""Well, your ladyship, The Cottage is not made of ingi-rubber; but if it is to be done, it must be done. Either Miss Joyce or Miss Pleasance must give up their room to the gentleman, and there is the spare chamber for the lady, which is always kept aired, though nobody wants it.""It is wanted now, Margaret. Let everything be in good order; and you will remember Mrs. Kennedy is Colonel Fraser's sister.""Yes, your Ladyship;" and then she added in an undertone, "She will take care not to let me forget it."Lady Victoria apologised to her two girls for unpunctuality when she seated herself at the table. "Company manners" were unknown at The Cottage. Lady Victoria was the same at all tinges, gracious and courteous.But Corisande saw that her mother's usually calm face was a little less calm than usual; and as soon as Sandy had left the room to repair to his own excellent dinner with Margaret, Lady Victoria said—"Your Aunt Grace proposes herself on Saturday, with your cousin Henry Kennedy. The Bishop has offered him this living, and he is coming to see whether the place will suit him.""Oh, mother!" Joyce exclaimed, "you won't like them to come and live here. Isn't Aunt Grace awfully fussy.""She is your father's sister," Lady Victoria said gravely, "and do not catch up Miss Macdonald's expressions, Joyce.""Every one says 'awfully,' now, mother.""I hope not," was the quiet answer.Corisande, who had not yet spoken, now said—"It is a delightful prospect, certainly; but, mother, there is this consolation, Henry Kennedy will never take the living. The rambling old Rectory will never suit his ideas, I should think; and fancy Aunt Grace here! Why, she would be miserable with nothing to fuss about."Lady Victoria smiled."She will fuss about us probably, and set us to rights," exclaimed Joyce. "Oh, how I hate the notion! Dear me! let us tell her how dull we are here, and make the very worst of the dear place, to keep her out of it."CHAPTER III.A SWIFT DRIVE.AWAY on the wings of the wind—so it seemed to Pleasance—flew the fleet, high-stepping little bay horse, and Evelyn, sitting on a raised box-seat, had perfect command of her steed."I should have come in the high tea-cart," she was saying, "but I thought your mother and sisters would have been shocked. But that is the way to enjoy driving, when you are high above the dust and see over the hedges, instead of being, as we are, shut in by them. I rather want to drive as far as Bromley. Do you mind?""No," Pleasance said; "I think it is delightful—quite delightful with you.""You dear little thing!" Evelyn said, looking down on her companion. "It is nice to think you care for me, for I am a harum-scarum; but I can be serious sometimes. I was serious this morning, for instance, before I started. There was a letter from Aunt Sophy about little Susie, which made me feel ashamed of myself. Oh, I forgot; you don't know about Aunt Sophy.""No; tell me," Pleasance said.The little agile horse now chose to take a steep hill slowly, and his mistress let him have his way for a few minutes."Aunt Sophy is mother's sister. She married a poor man, and—well, mother did not like it much. Mr. Anderson is a partner in some firm of lawyers, not what is called first-class lawyers, and I believe Mr. Anderson does all the work for boor pay. So they live in a scrubby house at the back of Findlay Crescent in Bromley, and poor little Susie is always ailing. We don't do enough for them, we who live at High Wycherly; but," checking herself, "I won't bother you with family differences, only I have told you this because I have stuffed some things for Susie under the seat behind, and I thought you would not mind driving on to Bromley. It does not matter to Zoe whether I make her run six miles, or ten, twelve, or twenty. Does it, Zoe?"Zoe having ascended the hill at her own leisurely pace, now responded to a touch of her mistress's whip, arched her neck, jumped a little gaily, and set off again like another Pegasus.Pleasance said to herself, "How kind and generous Evelyn is! If only Corisande knew her better—if only mother knew! Perhaps they will find out some day."After this the girls talked of a variety of matters interesting to themselves, but not worth recording.The departure of Mademoiselle was one topic."I thought she would have stayed," Evelyn said, "but somehow governesses and people do not stay with us. Mother is never satisfied, and then they grumble, and then they go. As I am sixteen, I don't think we shall have any more Mademoiselles or Frauleins. Mother now talks of a companion to improve my mind and read with me. She has given up music as hopeless. I hate it, or the trouble of learning; and to sit down and worry a sonata of Beethoven's to death, as I do, seems perfectly wicked. There is more sense in painting, and a sketching man is coming, I believe, to educate me in that. If you care for sketching, you could come with me; thatwould be delightful.""I can't draw," Pleasance said, "but Corisande can, and you know she has a lovely voice.""Has she?" said Evelyn drily. "I never heard her speak, much less sing.""She is the clever one of us," Pleasance said, "and I think mother does wish her to have lessons in singing and painting; only I don't know how it will be managed.""And what does the other sister do? Claude gave us such an amusing account of finding her 'up a tree,' and caught in a branch by her hair."Pleasance laughed."Yes, it was funny; and how I had to saw away at the branch with your brother's knife. It was odd our meeting him like that. Joyce and I had just been talking about brothers, and how delightful it would be if we had one.""They are uncertain blessings, my dear," Evelyn said, "and certain plagues. I am very fond of mine, all the same, though he is selfish, and so am I. How can we help ourselves, with everything we want, and hundreds of things we don't want, and never thinking of anybody but our precious selves?""Oh, Evelyn! you think of others—you think of me; and are you not taking things to your little cousin? That is not selfish.""I do it because I like it," was the quick answer. " When I first saw you in the wood last February, gathering snowdrops, do you remember?"Yes, indeed, I do remember," said Pleasance fervently; "and how Mademoiselle screamed with joy to see her Corisande.""I fell in love with you, and thought you were like a snowdrop yourself."Pleasance laughed and blushed. The inappropriateness of the simile did not matter, for there was really nothing of the fragile "fair maid of February" about her. She was rather short, and inclined to embonpoint; her face was round, and her chin dimpled. The charm about her was the sweet, guileless expression of her eyes and the general simplicity and naturalness of her manner.Whatever Lady Victoria had lost for her daughters in their quiet retired life at Abbotsbourne, she had gained something in their unaffected and perfectly simple manners, which were what the French so well call les bonnes façons. But Pleasance was not insensible to Evelyn's outspoken liking, and she responded—"And I admired you so much, though I could not say you were like a 'fair maid of February.They were in the streets of Bromley now, and it was market-day. Zoe had to be guided with more circumspection, and there were many perilous corners to turn, and carts and barrows to avoid.At last Zoe was pulled up before a red-brick house in a dull street, and the groom, swinging himself down from the back seat of the carriage, gave a rat-tat with a large old-fashioned knocker, that brought a little maid in a white cap and apron to the door."Is Mrs. Anderson at home?" Evelyn asked, leaning forward to ask the question before the servant had time to do so."Yes, miss," with a smile; and then, as Evelyn sprang up the three white steps before the door, the smile faded."Miss Susie is very poorly.""Worse since yesterday?" Evelyn asked."She has had a bad night, miss.""There is a basket in the carriage; just go down the steps, and Birch will give it you. Now we will go in," Evelyn said to Pleasance, who hesitated. "Yes, come in; Aunt Sophy is sure to be glad to see you."They turned into a sitting-room on the right-hand of the hall, but no one was there."I will tell my mistress," said the maid, "if you will please to wait here."The room was the usual sitting-room of the family, and bare of ornament, but very neat in its arrangements. On a small table by the fireplace was a work-basket, and a child's picture-book lay open by its side. The two windows looked out on the dull street, and immediately opposite was a house the precise copy of Mr. Anderson's, on the door of which was a brass-plate with the words, "Miss Marsden's School for Young Gentlemen." A young gentleman was presently seen coming out of the door, followed by half-a-dozen others, who were evidently in hot pursuit; but the child evaded them, and was across the street and up the steps in a moment, Evelyn exclaiming—"Here comes poor little Bruce."Bruce presently burst into the room crying out, "Mamma, those boys!" Then he stopped suddenly as he saw Evelyn and Pleasance, and darted back into the hall again, where he was captured by the maid and carried off, as there was "company" in the dining-room.Pleasance thought that Evelyn could not have been a very frequent visitor, or the little maid would not have regarded her in the light of "company." Another minute passed, and Evelyn began to be impatient."I wish Aunt Sophy would come," she said; "I shall catch it if we are not back by luncheon-time," and Evelyn had her hand on the bell to tell the maid she was in a hurry, when Mrs. Anderson came in.Pleasance expected to see another Mrs. Macdonald, and was never more surprised than when a gentle sweet voice exclaimed—My dear Evelyn, it is very kind of you to come.""I brought Susie a few things in the basket. I left it in the hall, Aunt Sophy. How is Susie?""She has had a night of pain, a very frequent thing for her; but she is easy just now, and would like to see you." Then Mrs. Anderson looked at Pleasance, saying, "Perhaps your friend will not mind waiting here?""Oh, I forgot!" Evelyn said in her abrupt, brusque fashion. "I never introduced Pleasance Fraser;" then adding with a heightened colour, "Lady Victoria Fraser's daughter, of Abbotsbourne."Mrs. Anderson did not seem at all unduly oppressed with the title, which Evelyn brought out half shyly, half proudly."There are some books on the table you may like to look at, Miss Fraser, while we are gone. The Illustrated Magazine for June has some pretty things in it."Then Pleasance was left alone, and, although she turned over the pages of the magazine, she employed herself chiefly with inspecting the music on the top of the piano, and the titles of the books on the shelves which filled in the recess of the fireplace. She was rather surprised to see so many books, which Corisande would have said were worth having. A handsomely bound Dante, several editions of Shakespeare and Milton on one shelf; on another, the poets of to-day—Mr. Browning in the familiar brown binding, and Tennyson in the little red volumes published monthly some years ago.As Pleasance was pursuing her observations, a scuffle was heard at the door, which was presently pushed open, and Bruce, held fast by the collar of his sailor suit by the maid, struggled to free himself and get into the room."I want to see the company," he vociferated, and with a last violent effort he freed himself from the detaining grasp, and shaking himself as a little terrier would do in similar circumstances, he came up to Pleasance with ruffled hair and crimson cheeks, saying, "I am come to amuse you. I heard you were alone, and I hate being alone. Don't you?"Pleasance, as we know, was wholly unaccustomed to the "article boy" at any age; but the child's beauty quite took her heart by storm. For Bruce Anderson was one of those lovely children, who are, I cannot help thinking, oftener met with in these days than was the case thirty years ago. Perhaps it is that the dress of children is now so much more picturesque, and the fashion of the short hair, lying, as Bruce's did now, in fluffy confusion on the forehead, gives a charm even to less attractive boys than Evelyn's little cousin.Bruce was nearly six years old. He had a well-knit and yet graceful figure, which his blue sailor suit set off to perfection. His eyes were of the deepest gentian colour, and his small nose, a little retrouss, gave his face a piquancy which was fascinating. His complexion was like the lily and rose combined, and his coral lips parted to show pearly teeth, in which there had as yet been no gaps!Pleasance thought she had never seen anything so beautiful, and wished Corisande could only see him, for she would make a study of him for a picture. But Pleasance felt shy of introducing any subject of conversation; she did not know how to talk to children, and felt embarrassed; but Bruce speedily put her at her ease.He began a long history of a warfare he had waged that day at school with a boy who called him "Miss Betsy,' cause I was like a girl. I am not like a girl one bit," said Bruce, rising into the proud assurance of full-blown manhood. "Girls are silly things, except," with a sudden change in his loud, ringing voice, "except Susie. She is ever so good and nice. I say, did you bring that basket in the carriage? Are there heaps of nice things in it? If there are, Susie is sure to give me some of them."Pleasance was greatly amused and a little bewildered by this outpouring of confidences, but she assured Bruce that she did not bring the basket; it was his Cousin Evelyn."My cousin, is she?" the child said; then wistfully, "Are you my cousin?""No; I am only Evelyn's friend.""I'm rather sorry, for I like you, and you might as well have been my cousin. Have you got any brothers?""No," Pleasance said; "only sisters—two sisters.""That's a pity," said Bruce thoughtfully. "You see, we've too many boys, and only one girl here—Susle—and she is always ill, and, mother says, always with a pain in her leg or her back. You would not think so," Bruce added confidentially, "for when I go and see her, she screws up her mouth for a minute, and then she laughs, and we play, making boats. She makes beauties; and I have a fleet of big men-of-war, all paper, you know; but Susie paints the hulls, and they look real. I'll fetch them, if you like."But Bruce's rush out of the room in search of his fleet was stopped by meeting his mother and Evelyn at the door."We must go now, Pleasance," Evelyn said; "we are very late. Good-bye, Aunt Sophy! I'll come again soon, and——"Mrs. Anderson's rejoinder was made in a low voice."Do not come," she said, "unless you have full permission, dear Evelyn. It is a long drive."Evelyn's reply to this was an emphatic kiss, and then in a few minutes she and Pleasance were driving off to High Wycherly.Evelyn was silent at first; she seemed to concentrate her attention on avoiding market-carts and barrows, and turning the perilous corners in safety. Presently, when they were out of the town, Pleasance said—"What a lovely child little Bruce is, and what a sweet good face your aunt has!"Still Evelyn made no reply."Surely," Pleasance thought, as she looked up at the fine profile which she could see under the wreath of wild roses, "surely that was a tear on Evelyn's dark eyelashes."At last Evelyn spoke in her quick rapid manner."I wish you had seen the child upstairs; she is"——then the young voice faltered. "Pleasance, when I saw her, and think of all the pain she bears like a saint, I feel ashamed of myself—hate myself for being so well and rich and happy, while people like Aunt Sophy and Susie are poor and in pain. It's all wrong somehow, and who is to put it right? Why are we, with more money than we know what to do with, making a fuss about little stupid things, and the Andersons in trouble about the boys' school-bills and how to pay them, and Susie lying there in that little dull room, never, never, quite free from pain! Oh, it makes me mad to think of it!"And Zoe felt a stronger touch of the whip than often fell on her sleek coat, and resented it by jumping a little too much for Pleasance's nerves, and then darting off at a pace which never slackened till they reached the lodge of High Wycherly.At the door stood Claude. He raised his cap and smiled at Pleasance."You'll catch it, Eve," he said. "You are late, as I knew you would be."Then, as the girls got out of the carriage, Claude jumped in to drive Zoe round to the stables.CHAPTER IV.HIGH WYCHERLY.PLEASANCE had never been to High Wycherly before. Mademoiselle had dilated on its glories, but of late her descriptions lead always ended with a shrug of her shoulders, which showed increasing dissatisfaction, and the end of her tenure of office at Mrs. Macdonald's had come a week or two before the time. But, in spite of all Mademoiselle had said, Pleasance had not expected so much state and display. There seemed to her unsophisticated eyes a very alarming amount of servants at luncheon, and a most unnecessary amount of dishes. A quiet little person with a sad, depressed appearance was at the table, and Mrs. Macdonald made a faint effort at introduction which Pleasance did not hear. If she did not catch her name at first, she heard it often enough during luncheon. Miss Greenfield was taken to task for several sins of omission or commission in the dishes, the arrangement of the flowers, the extraordinary mistake which the maid had made about some order that had been given about a dress; then one of the footmen was repri-manded; and when, at last, the servants had retired to their dinner, Mrs. Macdonald became more at leisure to speak to her guest. Presently Claude came in."Late as usual!" his mother said. "I really must speak to your father about this unpunctuality.""I have been looking after Zoe," the boy said."I say, Eve, you did drive her hard. She is in an awful sweat, and——""Claude, Claude, spare us such dreadful details," his mother exclaimed. "But where have you been, Evelyn?""I have been to Bromley," said Evelyn shortly."Bromley! and to Abbotsbourne first! No wonder Zoe is tired. What induced you to take Miss Fraser to Bromley? Miss Greenfield would have done any shopping for you this afternoon.""Oh, yes," said Miss Greenfield; "I have to go in this afternoon about the curtains for the morning-room. I can do anything for you, Miss Macdonald.""I want nothing done, thanks. I went to Bromley to find out how poor little Susie is, and I took her some strawberries.""How very unnecessary! I am sure Miss Fraser would have preferred a more interesting drive," and Mrs. Macdonald's brow darkened."I enjoyed my drive very much," Pleasance said; "and while Evelyn went up to see her cousin, the most lovely little boy I ever saw amused me. He is really beautiful!""Oh, poor little Bruce! He was terribly untidy, I expect, and I am afraid he has no manners.""Indeed I thought him charming," Pleasance said. "He asked me if I were his cousin, and said he wished I was. I thought it a treat compliment.""Miss Greenfield, you will make those people understand, if the curtains are not ready by next 'Thursday, I shall decline to take them; and say I thick sixpence three farthings much too high a price for the trimming of the drapery in the blue room. These country tradespeople are so apt to impose. Does not Lady Victoria find it to be the case, Miss Fraser?"Pleasance did not know what to reply to this question."I don't know," she began; then she added simply, "We do not have many new things, and I think mother does most of her shopping in London.""Of course! But there are little trivial matters that one is forced to get in the country.""Susie has had a great deal more pain lately, mother. Aunt Sophy told you so in her letter.""Poor little girl! She is a great sufferer.""I wish we could have her out here, mother, and see if change would do her good.""My dear child, no change of air can possibly affect hip-disease. Now, what do you propose doing to amuse Miss Fraser?""Oh, we shall sit about; it is too hot for tennis, and there is no one to play, if it wasn't. We shall be very happy, shan't we, Pleasance?"Pleasance smiled, with her emphatic "Oh, yes."And then Mrs. Macdonald, again reverting to the curtains and the trimming at sixpence three farthings a yard, while Miss Greenfield stood patiently receiving instructions, the two girls left the dining-room, while Claude still kept his place at the table, eating an unlimited amount of Stilton cheese and hard biscuits."I say, Eve," he called, "shall we go and punt about in the pond, and get some water-lilies?""Yes, when you have finished your luncheon, if ever you do finish it," said Evelyn. "Perhaps you would like to see the drawing-room," Evelyn said, pushing aside a heavy portière which divided the first room, where Mrs. Macdonald generally sat, from a long, low gallery, which had a wide bay window at the end, commanding a delightful prospect of distant hills and a shining expanse of water, blue as the sky above it. "This gallery is old, you know; it has a curious roof; and these funny little windows are thought very rare. I believe papa threw out this bay, and made the gallery into a large drawing-room."Pleasance had eyes for the view more than for the gorgeous furnishing of the old gallery.A vast array of Persian and mosque carpets lay at intervals on the polished floor. The deep window seats were cushioned with beautiful crimson velvet, and draped with some material that was life a peacock's wing in the sun. The panels were all filled with silk tapestry and——but it would be tiresome to describe all the contents of that room, which indeed were not fully appreciated by Pleasance.She hastened to the window, saying, "How pretty the church tower of Bromley looks, and the hills and mouth of the Severn! We see that from Crook's Point, you know, above Abbotsbourne, where they say King Charles sat when he had lost the city of Gloucester.""I daresay; I never heard of it," Evelyn said. But come along to my room, and let us get our hats and go out and punt about in the pond, if that boy has made an end of the cheese and biscuits! The amount of things boys consume is surprising, and Claude is like a cormorant."Evelyn's room was, like the rest of the house, furnished with every luxury."As big as our drawing-room at The Cottage Pleasance thought, "and much, much grander."Evelyn threw herself into an easy-chair by the window and invited Pleasance to tape another."Poor Mademoiselle used to like to sit there and grumble," Evelyn said. "The school-room, or study, as mother likes it to be called, is across the corridor, and there the governess always lived. There is a bedroom through it. It is a dull place, and I shirked it on every possible opportunity.""I don't wonder you like this room best," Pleasance said. "I could sit and dream here all day.""Take 'forty winks' if you like," Evelyn said, "and I will do the same."Pleasance laughed."Corisande says I am like the fat boy in 'Pick-wick and that I go to sleep at the least provocation.""Well, Corisande isn't here, so you can act the fat boy and go off without fear of her displeasure, and I'll pinch you when you ought to wake. Corisande!" Evelyn repeated, "Corisande! What would she say if she heard me daring to call her by her Christian name?"Evelyn then proceeded to put her advice to Pleasance into practice and shut her eyes; but for once Pleasance was not ready to "go off," as Evelyn called it.She gave herself up to the lazy enjoyment of her surroundings, and the rest in the luxurious chair was very pleasant. The window was open, and a magnolia lifted one of its lovely waxen globes against the ledge, filling the room with a luscious fragrance. Bees hummed, and now and then a thrush gave out a few sweet notes, as a practice or rehearsal of his even-song, which he would delay till his mate answered him from the distant copse, in the shadow of which lay the pond.Softly on the breath of the summer air came the sound of the chimes which every hour rang out from the belfry of St. Winifred's Church at Bromley, and they were now ringing for three o'clock.Pleasance was, as we know, given to meditation, and to let her imagination have its reins and carry her with it. So she pictured to herself what she would do, and how she would feel if she had a home like this, and how strange it would be if one day some knight of our own times came and carried her off to a beautiful place like High Wycherly.Then some lines came into her head, which seemed to contradict the notion that such a state of things would be unmixed bliss. What were the lines? In the effort to recall them her eyelids drooped, and the sleep, induced by the heat and the morning's drive, overcame her, and she remembered no more till she felt a touch on her cheek followed by a kiss."You look such a little darling asleep," Evelyn said; "I was unwilling to wake you.""Have I been asleep?" Pleasance said. "Oh, how long?""Just half an hour; and if we are to go to the pond, we ought to be off. We shall have tea at five, acid then I shall drive you home. I wish I could have you here every day."Pleasance started to her feet."I cannot think what made me so lazy. I was trying to remember some verses, and then I went off.""What were they? I am not poetical or romantic, but still you may, as well try to inspire me.""'Small things are best;Grief and unrestTo rank and wealth are given.But little things,On little wings,Bear little souls to heaven.'"Evelyn made no remark to this; it was Pleasance who said—"From what you told me, I am sure your cousin is one of the little souls who are borne to heaven by little wings, which she makes out of her pain.""Oh, I daresay; but I can't see anything like wings in the suffering that poor little mite has to endure. I can see that I am selfish, and that I have no business to be living like this, while she is——but I am not sentimental, Pleasance," Evelyn said, breaking off abruptly. "So come along, for I hear Claude whistling, and he hates to be kept waiting."The two girls were soon on the terrace, and following Claude across a wide stretch of close-shaven lawn to the wood, in the shadow of which the old fish-pond of the monks, who are said to have lived once upon a time at High Wycherly, preserved their trout and grayling.At the end of the terrace was the old sundial, and Pleasance stopped."What are the words cut round it?" she said. "The letters are such an odd shape, I can't make it out.""'I only count ye sunny hours.' It is counting four just now with its black finger, and it is sunny enough let us hope. It really is awfully hot; let us get into the shade."I only count ye sunny hours,'" Pleasance repeated. "It has counted some sunny hours for me to-day," she added; "it has all been delightful."Claude had got the old boat out of the boat-house, and the girls were soon lying back on the cushions, while he punted to the farther end of the pond—the still, dark end, overshadowed by some solemn old fir trees, standing in a row on either side of a turf path, where some rabbits were calmly feeding in perfect security and peace."It is cool enough here," Evelyn said. "Look at that bib trout! Now we will turn into the second pond, where the water-lilies brow. It is very gloomy here; but, Claude, look! there is a man!"Claude, who had his back turned to the turf path, now wheeled round."What do you want?" he asked. "These are private grounds.""I ought to know that," the man said; "it's not the first time I have been here, youngster!"The tone was anything but conciliatory, and Claude retorted—"Well, keep a civil tongue in your head, and if this is the last time you are here, the better pleased I shall be.""Very fine, my young man, very fine! I am come to see the master, and I wait here till I do see him.""You'll have to wait all day and all night too," Claude answered. "Take yourself off by the way you came."The man was shabbily dressed in an old short coat, buttoned tightly round his waist; his face was pale and wan, and his hands were nervously playing with the long stem of a yellow flag which he had picked from the edge of the water."The master will have to see me sooner or later. I am not the man to bear injustice quietly. I see you are a chip of the old block, young sir, and all I can say is——""Claude, Claude, turn the boat and come away; don't parley with that dreadful man!"Claude was about to do as his sister requested, when the man said—"Ask the master what he meant by turning off my daughter and giving her no character. Ask him that!""How should I know who your daughter is?" Claude called out."Claude, don't say another word," Evelyn said in a low voice. "I expect he is Janet Forbes' father, whom mother thought had taken that money, but I never saw him before.""Here, Thompson!" Claude shouted to the head-gardener. "Here! there's a man lurking about on the premises; see he goes out the way he came in."Pleasance now spoke for the first time—"He looks so poor and so sad," she said; "I am so sorry for him.""Sorry! I'm sorry you should be sorry. Now, look out, Eve, and I can reach those water-lilies with the end of the oar. I daresay you would like to take home some," Claude said; and very soon the lovely lilies with pearly drops hanging to them were in the bottom of the boat.Pleasance could not, however, take her eyes from the bent and dejected figure of the man, who, hearing what Claude said to the gardener, had turned away, and Pleasance's eye followed him till he had reached the end of the green turf path."Can he get out this way?" Pleasance asked."The way he came in," Claude said. "They have no business to leave the bate open, or he would not have trespassed."Evelyn was silent, and nothing more was said about the man.Tea followed in the small drawing-room, and there were several people there to whom Pleasance was carefully introduced as "Lady Victoria Fraser's daughter, Miss Pleasance Fraser.""A very appropriate name," an old man said, as he handed Pleasance her tea. "Pleasant in name—pleasant in every way."Pleasance coloured, and could not join in the laugh with which this was received by two ladies, who laughed still louder when the old gentleman added—"A pretty piece of pleasantry, eh! Miss Salter?""You are always so amusing, Mr. Grey," Mrs. Macdonald said; but she saw that the object of Mr. Grey's sally, which had drawn attention to Pleasance, brought a bright colour to her face, and that she looked more confused, and even distressed, than amused.It was a relief when Claude came in to say the pony-carriage was come round, but that the groom declared Zoe must not be taken out again; she had been over-driven in the morning in the heat. So the old grey cob Bess had been put into the carriage, and he would drive Miss Fraser home."You will do nothing of the kind, Claude. I can drive old Bess as well as Zoe, and I mean to do it too."A sharp discussion, almost amounting to a quarrel, followed between Evelyn and Claude, to which Pleasance had to be deaf, and which Mrs. Macdonald tried to cover by asking her friends to come and look at a rare lily in the conservatory, which had been brought in that morning. Evelyn came off victorious, and it was with a sense of relief that Pleasance found herself once more alone with her, driving back to Abbotsbourne.The water-lilies were put in a basket, and Pleasance held them carefully, looking at them from time to time with great admiration."Are they not lovely?" she said."Oh, yes," Evelyn replied; "but you ought to have had a heap of flowers from the conservatory; but we are all afraid of Thompson, and dare not ask for flowers unless lie offers them."The old grey cob jogged soberly along, at a very different pace born that of Zoe. When they had gone about a mile, a loud halloo was heard, and Claude came leaping over a gate and sprang up on the back-seat by the groom.Claude had quite recovered his good-humour, and said—"You see I was not to be cheated of going home with Miss Fraser; and I know, Eve, you'll let me drive back, won't you?""Very well; it is no pleasure to drive this stupid old Bess, so you are welcome to take the reins, I am sure."The return to the gate of The Cottage was not in anything like the style of the departure in the morning, and every one seemed in subdued spirits. But Claude was gratified by a greeting from Joyce, who had not been able to resist coming to the date to meet Pleasance."Oh, what lovely flowers!" she exclaimed. "Thank you very much," as Claude handed her the basket, waiting till Evelyn and Pleasance had said their good-byes."I say, Eve," Claude began as he laid the whip across old Bess's back as his sister resigned the reins, "next time you invite Pleasance, ask the sister with the red hair; she is so awfully jolly."CHAPTER V.THE STORY OF THE DAY."WELL, how have you enjoyed it? Do tell me, Pleasance; and I have some news to tell you—but first, is High Wycherly as charming as you thought it would be?""It is a beautiful place," Pleasance said, "and I have plenty to tell you; only I am sure we ought to get ready for dinner, or we shall be late. I must take these lilies to Corisande; she will make a lovely study of them."Pleasance ran upstairs to the morning-room, where she found her sister alone."Look, Corisande!" she said, holding up the basket."Yes; very pretty," was the quiet reply. "Where did you get them?""From the pond at High Wycherly. It is quite a little lake, or rather there are two little lakes. It is where the old monks kept their fish, you know; but I must go and get ready for dinner. Will you arrange the lilies for me?" Then, in rather a disappointed tone, "I thought you would like to make a picture—a study, I mean—of them.""Yes," Corisande said; "thank you, Pleasance; but water-lilies are very difficult flowers to paint.""Nothing that comes from Evelyn could please Corisande," Pleasance thought as she went to her room, where Joyce, as she termed it, had already " got into her white frock " and was waiting for her."Now for my news. Either you or I have to give up our room on Saturday and sleep together. Guess why? Of course, I will give up mine—you shall not be turned out; and Janet is going to put up the little chair bedstead in the corner, and I'll try not to be very untidy, dear little Pleasance; for I do feel exactly what Janet calls me, 'like a bull in a china-shop,' when I am in your room, with all its little possessions so dainty and trim.""But, Joyce," Pleasance said, trying in vain to stem the torrent of the long and hastily uttered harangue, "you do not tell me who wants your room.""Aunt Grace and her son are coming here on Saturday.""Her son! He is a clergyman, is he not?""Yes, of course he is; and he is to have the living of Abbotsbourne, which so many people have been to look at and have declined with thanks. Let us hope Cousin Henry will decline with thanks. I am sure we do not want him here, or Aunt Grace either. She will come and find fault, and bustle and worry darling mother, who does so hate to be bustled and worried. But there is the bell; we must go downstairs now, and finish our talk after dinner."Pleasance went up to her mother and kissed her, saying, "I feel as if I had been away an age, mother, and I am so glad to get back.""Even from the glories of High Wycherly!" Corisande said."My darling," Lady Victoria replied, "I am thankful you are safely home again. I was really nervous about you when I saw the carriage dash off at such a pace; but Miss Macdonald seemed to have command over the horse.""Oh, yes, mother. Evelyn drives so splendidly."And then, when once seated at dinner, Pleasance relapsed into silence. She was contrasting the table and its simple arrangements with that where she had sat at luncheon a few hours before. contrasting her mother's quiet dignity with Mrs. Macdonald's continuous fault-finding of the dishes set before her, of the servants, of Claude, and her long discussion with poor Miss Greenfield about the curtains for the morning-room.Yes, there was a great difference; and as Sandy handed the few and simple dishes with the respectful attention which comes of heart-service, Pleasance thought how much nicer it was to have Sandy than the brand footman and that pompous butler, who did everything as if he was conferring a favour in condescending to attend to her wants at all."Small things are best!" Certainly Mrs. Macdonald never seemed at rest, and although she must be so rich, seemed to fuss herself greatly about the price of the trimming of the curtains of the morning room. But, through all, Evelyn shone brightly in Pleasance's eyes. Nothing could change her in that friendship, she thought; and how kind she was to the little sick cousin, and how she had risked everything in her desire to take her some flowers and strawberries, which apparently no one else would ever have thought of. Yes, whatever Evelyn's surroundings might be, she was still, and ever would be, delightful beyond all others in Pleasance's eyes.When Sandy had left the room, Lady Victoria said—"You will have heard of your aunt's intended visit, clear Pleasance? I suppose, as you are the youngest of the sisters, I must ask you to give up your room.""No, mother, please," Joyce began eagerly; "if you don't mind, we have settled it. I am to turn out, and Pleasance is going to take me into her room.""Very well, dear; if your sister is ready to do so, I can have no objection; and we must all try to make your aunt's visit pleasant to her, remembering she is your dear father's sister."A portrait of Colonel Kennedy in his full-dress regimentals hung over the mantelpiece, and Joyce, following the direction of her mother's eyes, said—"Aunt Grace is not one bit like father, is she?""No," was the answer. "Here is your father's representative," and, as they had all risen from the table, Lady Victoria put her arm round Corisande as she spoke; and Pleasance said—"Yes; every one can see that Corisande is wonderfully like that picture."The evening was soft and warm, and the girls went out into the garden, which was sweet with the scent of pink - hawthorn, and lilacs, and an early tea-rose which climbed up the verandah. Joyce and Pleasance went together towards the orchard and their familiar knoll, and left their mother and Corisande in the verandah."After all, you have told me very little about the day, Pleasance. Did you really enjoy it?""Oh, yes; but, Joyce, I like The Cottage, our dear home, better than High Wycherly; it suits me better, at least.""Then you are not in love with Mrs. Macdonald? I am so glad!" Joyce said. "I knew she would not suit you, my quiet little Pleasance. I knew you would hate all the grandeur and finery.""I don't know that I did exactly hate it. I loved the pond and the water-lilies; and it was nice to sit in Evelyn's lovely room, with a big magnolia flower coming in at the open window. I sat and dreamed there.""Went to sleep?" Joyce said. "Oh, it is well Corisande does not know! But I hope, Pleasance, that boy improved on further acquaintance. I am sure he has no airs and nonsense about him. Do you like him?""Yes; I don't understand boys, for we know no boys. There were some things I did not quite like; he seemed to think that Evelyn must do as he wished, and Evelyn and he had very nearly a quarrel about driving me home. But I don't wish to seem fault-finding; they were all very kind to me, and I want to tell you one thing about Evelyn, which you will admire.""Her grand hat with the roses?" Joyce said archly."Nonsense! You are so foolish about Evelyn, Joyce.""Go on; don't be vexed with me, Pleasance. What am I to admire?""The Macdonalds have relations in Bromley, not very well off—indeed quite poor, I think. They live in a dark back-street; and there is a little girl called Susie, who is always in great paid with something wrong with her hip. Evelyn drove to Bromley this morning, and took her a basket full of lovely flowers and strawberries, and I was waiting in the room downstairs while Evelyn went up to see her little cousin, and such a beautiful child, a little boy of five or six, came and amused me while Evelyn was gone. I never saw anything so lovely as that child. I do so wish Corisande could see him.""Well; but go on about Evelyn. It does not seem such a very wonderful thing for her to go and see her own cousin, and take her flowers.""You don't understand; it is a great thing for her to do, because somehow Mrs. Macdonald does not do much for the Andersons. She was vexed with her sister for marrying a poor man, I believe; and I think it is so noble of Evelyn not to mind, and not to shirk her relations because they are poor.""But, Pleasance, surely it is a sign of—well, ill-breeding to shirk any one related to you because they happen to be poor. I could not fancy mother doing such a thing; she is so particular. Margaret says that every attention should be paid Aunt Grace, as our father's sister.""Of course, I know all that, Joyce," Pleasance said in a little offended voice. "You need not tell me what are good manners; but I must say I think it is very, very nice of Evelyn to think of her little cousin.""Yes; but it would be very horrid if she did not think of her.""I see it is no use talking of Evelyn to you, Joyce. I shall give it up." Then, with a sudden start, "Look, Joyce! it is—yes, I can see it is the same man!""What man? Who is it?"The girls had strolled down to the bottom of the grassy knoll, which, as I have said, was separated by a bank and a little stream from the field-path beyond."Let us turn back," Pleasance said hastily; but the man had come to the bank, which was raised some five feet above the stream, and said—"I beg your pardon, young ladies, but is this the shortest way to Monksborough?"Pleasance was hastily retreating without answering, but Joyce said, "Monksborough is a long way off. You had better get into the road, and ask the way to Fairfield. You can get the rail-way at Bourne Junction, you know.""Railways do not suit me, miss," the man said. "I have no money in my pocket. The last sixpence was spent in getting to Bromley this morning, and I have been on a fool's errand, I believe. You were in the boat on the pond," he continued, looking straight at Pleasance, "and heard how I was treated; but—and you mind, I never say what I don't mean—I'll have right done to my girl, living or dead, and of that those who wronged her may be very sure. I'll see madam, proud as she is, and I'll have the whole thing nude as clear as day-light. A thief!—a thief, indeed! My girl a thief, and dying broken-hearted because madam wouldn't give her a character! I went to London, and I saw the master; he is a good-natured fool under madam's thumb. He offered me a sovereign, or a couple, to let the matter rest. I flung them back in his face. 'I don't want hush-money,' I said; 'I want justice, and that the girl's innocence may be made clear.'""Joyce, Joyce," Pleasance said, "do come away; mother would not like us to talk to this man; come away."But Joyce flung back a massive lock of her rebellious hair and said—"I see what you mean; you must have justice. What did they say your girl stole?""A box with money in it and a brooch. Three pounds in sovereigns and the brooch—curse them!"The pale, wan face was now distorted with anger, and Joyce's last words, "Oh, don't say that," only made the man turn round and repeat the words, with more I do not care to write here.Pleasance had fled up the knoll to the foot of the oak-tree, but Joyce stood where she had spoken to the man, watching him walking with rapid strides across the field-path till some trees hid him from sight."If what he says is true," Joyce exclaimed vehemently, "these Macdonalds are not people to be trusted.""Perhaps the girl did take the money," Pleasance said."Then they ought to have it made sure, one way or other, her innocence or her guilt."Joyce spoke with all the enthusiasm of her youth, and yet with sound wisdom."No one should be said to be guilty till the guilt is proved. Oh, I am sorry for that man.""So am I," Pleasance said. "I told Claude Macdonald and Evelyn I was sorry, for he came down a path in the wood to the edge of the pond when we were there this afternoon; but I daresay it is all a story got up, for if anything like that had happened at High Wycherly when Mademoiselle was there, she was such a sieve, she would have been certain to tell us.""It might have happened before she left us last Christmas," Joyce said.""She would have heard something about it, at any rate," and Pleasance sighed."It is very sad, but I don't see there is anything to be done. Can't you talk to Evelyn about it?"No; not unless she gives me the chance," Pleasance said. "It is impertinent to talk about other people's servants, and all that kind of thing, unless they ask what you think.""I should ask Evelyn in a minute to speak to her father or mother about that poor girl, if she were my friend; but as she is not, and never will be, I suppose I must hold my tongue."Pleasance was well used to Joyce, and her gentle, yielding nature never resented her sister's vehemence. They were, and had been from their baby days, fast friends, united by the strongest of all ties, real sisterly love; and the entire diversity of their dispositions only made the tie the stronger.Corisande stood above and beyond her younger sisters. She occupied a sort of vantage-ground in the family, and, as I have said, was far older in appearance and manners than her years. She was undoubtedly very clever, and could do many things not only well, but better than other girls. The governesses had all said she was the quickest pupil they had ever known in learning their languages; not only to speak French and German, but to write and read them with ease. Corisande had also a somewhat undeveloped talent for painting and drawing, which her mother had done her best to cultivate according to her ability. It was the same with music, and for music Corisande had a natural gift.There were times when Lady Victoria thought with foreboding anxiety that she must emerge from her retirement, let The Cottage, and take her three girls to London for the completion of their education. Although Lady Victoria professed, and indeed was fairly indifferent to the opinions of the people with whom she had any intercourse in the neighbourhood, still little casual remarks did leave an impression behind, and she was beginning to think that Corisande ought to have the advantages which her talents deserved.CHAPTER VI.ARRIVALS.LADY VICTORIA was tying up the branches of the tea-rose on the morning of the day when her sister-in-law and her son were expected, when the click of the gate made her turn to see who was coming.A small, weary-looking man, in a wide black felt hat and a long and rather threadbare clerical coat, advanced to the place where Lady Victoria stood.She drew off her thick gardening gloves, and held out a hand with a stately but kind "Good-morning, Mr. Greenfield.""I ought to apologise for intruding so early, but I have heard that the living has been offered and accepted by a relation of your ladyship. It has come as a surprise. I had hoped, perhaps"——Mr. Greenfield hesitated. "I thought that as I had done the duty for some time, the Bishop might have considered me a fit person to take it. I was intending to ask you, Lady Victoria, to mention me kindly to the Bishop, but now, as I find a relation of yours is chosen, there is nothing more to be said. I have come over as usual to-day from Monksborough. Do you think it will be agreeable to Mr. Kennedy to find me here?""My nephew has not, as yet, accepted the living," Lady Victoria said; "he is only coming here with Mrs. Kennedy to look at the place. Others have done so before, and have been dissatisfied, and then declined the living; it may be so again. It is very small emolument," Lady Victoria added, in a tone which was meant to be consolatory.Mr. Greenfield smiled sadly."All things are by comparison—I would say, must be judged by comparison. I have an invalid mother and an ailing wife and two children depending on me; and what we should have done without my sister, who helps my mother by her own exertions, I do not know."Pleasance had now come to the place where her mother stood, with a pair of garden scissors, which had been mislaid, and was just in time to hear Mr. Greenfield say—"My sister is what is commonly called a 'lady-help' in a family not far from here. Her near neighbourhood was another reason why this little piece of preferment would have been acceptable—very acceptable; but it is not to be, and I must see in it God's overruling hand, and not murmur. I find the attendance at the school has been very irregular; for the sake of the parish I must rejoice that there is a chance of a pastor coming to reside at last.""I hope you will dine with us this evening, Mr. Greenfield, and meet my nephew," Lady Victoria said graciously."No, thank you; your ladyship is very kind, but I have several people to see at the farther end of the parish, and the quiet of Saturday evening in this peaceful village is refreshing after the noise and turmoil of the town.""Poor man!" Lady Victoria said, as Mr. Greenfield bowed himself out of the gate, "he looks sadly depressed.""Oh, mother, I know his sister—such a dear, meek little person; she lives with the Macdonalds, and she was at luncheon the day I was there Miss Greenfield! Yes, I am sure they called her Miss Greenfield, though Mrs. Macdonald hardly introduced her."Joyce had now joined her mother and Pleasance."What a depressed little man that curate is, and he looks so poor!""Yes, and he looks what he is," Pleasance said; "and, Joyce, he is so disappointed he is not to have this living. And just fancy, he is Miss Greenfield's brother, the lady-help I told you about at High Wycherly. She seemed to do everything for everybody, and never got a word of thanks for her pains.""Mother!" said Joyce in her vehement, impulsive way, "don't let Aunt Grace and the reverend cousin come here. They don't really want to come; let us have little Mr. Greenfield.""My dear," said her mother gently, "I am not the Bishop—I have really nothing to do with the appointment. Now, I daresay Corisande is waiting; let us go in for our morning's work."The girls went into the house together, Pleasance saying in her low gentle voice—"Perhaps Aunt Grace will be like the other people who have come to look at Abbotsbourne, and she will think it too dull.""No, I am afraid she won't," said Joyce, "because you forget she was here some years ago; but there is just the chance; and if they do dislike it and refuse, then," said Joyce, "I really think I shall write to the Bishop, and tell him he must give the living to little Mr. Greenfield. He is dull, and I went to sleep while lie was preaching last Sunday; but then Cousin Henry may be duller, and it would be so good for those Macdonalds to know that their little lady-help had a brother the Rector of Abbotsbourne. They would not be able to sit upon her as you say they do.""'Those Macdonalds!' Take care, Joyce. You know you do not like them to call us 'Those three.'""Oh, that is quite another question!" said Joyce, as she hung her garden-hat on a peg in the room opening at the back of The Cottage on the garden behind, where such appendages in every state of dilapidation were kept."Somebody's hat" and "nobody's hat" were the familiar style and title of the battered row of straw-hats of mushroom, limpet, and umbrella shape which kept company with that which Joyce now, with an agile spring, jerked on its own particular peg in the little room which she called "the home of oddments."The reading in the morning-room went on as usual; so did the practice of a duet which Corisande hoped that Pleasance might get through creditably, if asked to play that evening to the coming aunt and cousin.Pleasance had only an easy bass to play, and her defects were covered by Corisande's admirable treble, but the performance was not very satisfactory."You are not attending, Pleasance," Corisande said; "you have played B natural through these two bars. Don't you see it is an accidental sharp."Pleasance nodded, murmuring, "It is so difficult to remember B sharp. Somehow it has no right to be sharp," with a little laugh; "it is so often flat——""Don't be foolish, Pleasance. I see nothing to laugh at."At last the duet was over, and then Pleasance said, "Are you not sorry for poor little Mr. Greenfield? He did so want the living.""Then he is different from most people, it seems," Corisande said. "Most people don't want it.""Aunt Grace does," Pleasance replied; "and I am sure we don't want her. I feel as if I should never get on with her, and never like her.""Poor Aunt Grace!" said Corisande; "I hope she will be able to support it, if you don't like her."This superior tone of Corisande's was too much accepted in her
family, and it was a misfortune for her that it was the general
feeling that she was superior to her sisters in the gifts both of mind
and person. A remarkably handsome girl, whom no one could pass
unnoticed, with considerable aptitude for music, painting, and
languages, with a certain intellectual taste and love of refinement,
and with a self-contained nature, Corisande's faults were almost the
inevitable outcome of her position. She was quite unaccustomed to the
little contradictions and rubs of which sisters with brothers
generally have a large share. Her mother looked 
"'Poor Aunt Grace!' said Corisande. 'I hope she will be able to
support it.'" —Page 80.Illustration included in Marshall's Those
Three.on her with pride, and she had made her a companion and friend from her early childhood.Gentle Pleasance was quite ready to give up to Corisande, and, till her friendship with Evelyn Macdonald had raised an antagonistic feeling between them, she was perfectly contented to believe that Corisande was superior not only to her and Joyce, but to the rest of the world. Now there was an exception; for Evelyn Macdonald was surely her equal in beauty, and in many other ways also.Joyce, though sometimes inclined to resist Corisande's authority, had such a merry, sweet temper, that, as she said, affronts and snubs rolled off like water from a duck's back. She knew she was untidy, and that her "carrots" were a nuisance, and that she was unlike Pleasance, who never did, or said, or was anything but her own dear and good little self. "Too good," if there was a fault.Of "Those three," Joyce was perhaps the most original, and the child who was least congenial to her quiet, dignified mother. And yet Joyce had a wonderfully winning way at times, and there was a nobleness in her, and a transparent sincerity, which all who lived with her—yes, and "suffered from her," as Margaret sometimes said—were constrained to acknowledge.The guests were expected about afternoon tea-time, and the arrangements for their reception and their comfort were complete.Corisande undertook that the flowers should be fresh in every room, and went round giving a finishing touch to chair-backs and curtains, and then seated herself with Lady Victoria in the verandah to await the arrival of the almost unknown aunt and entirely unknown cousin.Lady Victoria had despatched Sands to Fairfield, with instructions to secure the one cab at the White Hart in the small country town, and proceed with it to the station and inquire for Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy."It would be useless," Lady Victoria said, "to send the pony-carriage, and this was the best substitute for the brougham, which we so seldom use, and for which the pony now driven in the little carriage was far too small.""I think we ought to have a second horse, mother," Corisande said thoughtfully; "then we could use the brougham when we have to send to Fairfield.""It is so seldom that we have to meet any friends, dear," was the reply; "but I daresay you are right. I must think over it, and perhaps the time is coming when some further changes will have to be made. We have had a very happy quiet life together here; but now you are all growing up, I must not be selfish.""You could not be that," Corisande said quickly; "we all know you do what you think is best for us, mother." An answering smile made Corisande venture a little farther. "Perhaps, as you speak of change, it might be good for the others to have more advantages. Joyce does want 'taming down,' and to separate Pleasance from the people at High Wycherly would certainly be an advantage."This little conversation had taken place during the waiting time in the verandah; it was over now, for Joyce came rushing up the garden saying—"We have seen the fly coming up the hill; they will be here directly. There is a big box on the roof. I hope they are not going to stay a month.""Joyce!" said her mother reprovingly, and then Lady Victoria rose and gathered herself together, mentally and bodily, to receive her sister-in-law.""Shall we go to the gate, mother, or shall we wait here?""Wait here," was the decided reply.They had not long to wait. Mrs. Kennedy was inside the gate and moving towards Lady Victoria with outstretched hands."My dear Victoria, it is nice to see you again; and the girls—Corisande of course. I knew her at once, from the likeness to her father—and Joyce, is it? No; this is Joyce. I remember her, a dear, little red-haired maiden. This is Pleasance. Henry, make haste and come to be introduced to your aunt and cousins."Between the intervals of this speech Mrs. Kennedy had kissed every one all round twice, as Joyce, who could not quite forgive being remembered as a "dear, little red-haired maiden," said afterwards, adding—"And no one kissed in return, but only held out a cheek, first the right and then the left, or vice versa."Mr. Kennedy was by no means of the same mercurial temperament as his mother. He came up to the verandah at last, and greeted his aunt and cousins deliberately, and without any great show of pleasure."I thought you were never coming, Henry," his mother said."My dear mother, I was searching in vain for your sunshade. After all, you left it in the train.""Dear me! and I am certain to want it. Have you settled with the coachman.""The fly stands in the place of my carriage, Grace," Lady Victoria said, "and there is no settlement necessary. Tea is ready; I am sure you will be glad of it, after a hot journey."Then the party moved into the drawing-room, where Corisande had already gone, and was pouring out the tea."How pretty it all looks!" Mrs. Kennedy said, with an approving glance round the room. "After the trouble and turmoil of the town, it is a place of rest. Henry, is it not all charming?"Henry seemed to take his mother's constant appeals to him very quietly, for he did not do more than assent with a monosyllable; but Mrs. Kennedy did not cease to appeal to him for the confirmation of her opinions."She will be asking him if my hair is not red next," Joyce thought. "How tiresome it must be to be made a question-block of like that!"When tea was over, and Mrs. Kennedy had rejoiced over the cream, and the country bread and butter and delicious cake, Lady Victoria proposed taking her to her room, while Mr. Kennedy, turning to his cousins, said—"I should like to see the church, if one of you will show me the way.""Oh, yes!" Joyce exclaimed with alacrity. " May I go, mother?""Certainly, my dear; and Pleasance also, if she likes.""Yes; and I will follow," Mrs. Kennedy said. "I am very anxious to see the church and rectory, but I shall like a little talk with your dear mother first."Lady Victoria knew these "little talks" of old, and that they meant for her the ordeal of going through what is vulgarly called "pumping." Mrs. Kennedy was very fond of getting out information by a series of subtle cross-questions, which were very like those to which a witness for the defence is subjected by a clever barrister.Mrs. Grey was waiting in the room when her mistress entered it, and curtsied respectfully to Mrs. Kennedy, hoping that she was well, and begging her to mention anything that might strike her which was wanting to her comfort."Thank you, Margaret. Indeed everything looks delightful. It is pleasant to meet again. You must shake hands for old sake's sake, you know."Margaret drew back with another curtsey, after giving her hand to Mrs. Kennedy, and left the room to Lady Victoria and her guest."It is very kind of you to take us in, Victoria. Henry has entirely broken down. He has been working day and night, I may say, in that populous parish, and I could not get him to spare himself; so this living offered by the Bishop did seem so providential. He can't overwork himself here, though he will try, I daresay.""I hope Abbotsbourne will meet your requirements, Grace, as you know it is a very quiet place.""Oh, I daresay, if we come, we shall wake up the people," Mrs. Kennedy said. "It has been in very old-fashioned hands, has it not?"Mr. Ottley was a good man, but age and infirmity had, of course, lessened his powers of usefulness; but I had a great regard for him.""And I suppose 'out-of-work' curates have been taping the duty," Mrs. Kennedy said."One clergyman has done so since Easter—a Mr. Greenfield.""Oh, yes; I heard his name. He was not an acquisition, I am sure.""We could hardly judge; he was not resident here; he is a good man——""Like Mr. Ottley," Mrs. Kennedy interrupted. "But in those days we must have some 'go' and brightness and scholarship to work even a country parish. But do tell me about yourself, dear Victoria. I am a shocking correspondent, and so are you. Those three girls look charming. Corisande is a beauty, and so like poor Reginald, though without his bright expression, perhaps. And have you any neighbours—any friends for the girls?""No; my girls are not dependent on outside interests; they are very happy together, and in our quiet home life.""But, dear Victoria, is it good for them, and is it good for you? Your rank would give you the pick of the best society anywhere. Delightful as this place must be, still I suppose you intend to let the girls come out, as your daughters should, don't you?""Corisande is only seventeen," Lady Victoria answered."Well, that is very near the right age for appearing in the world; and though it was so natural that you should choose retirement in the early years of your widowhood, still, dear Victoria, you have a duty to perform to your girls, as Lord Fergustoun's grandchildren and as dear Reginald's children."Perhaps, when you are a little rested, Grace, you would like to follow your son to the church. Corisande is waiting, I expect, to be your guide;" and then Lady Victoria left the room.There is nothing more provoking than to have advice ignored or opinions not even discussed. Mrs. Kennedy dearly loved a discussion, and it was a real joy to her to make any one rise on the defensive. She felt her sister-in-law to be very hopeless, and said to herself—"Victoria is the same as ever; she irritates me to the last degree, but I daresay I shall get more out of those three girls."Two of "those three" had set out with Mr. Kennedy, rather determined not to like him, and Joyce determined that he should not like Abbotsbourne. As they turned away from The Cottage up the village street, Mr. Kennedy said, laughing—"There is not much fear of walking in the middle of this road here; no one seems about, and I suppose a carriage is not likely to roll round that steep corner and run us down.""A carriage! Oh, no," Joyce said; "it is very, very quiet here. Sometimes the carriage from High Wycherly drives through, and old Mr. Mayston's, who lives at Hackington; and then there is the doctor's gig, and Mr. Martin's horse—lie is the chief farmer; but no one ever drives here unless they have to do so; they go by the upper road, under those beech trees you see on the hill.""There are fewer people than usual about this afternoon," Pleasance said; "it is Saturday, and some of them are gone to Bromley market or Fairfield.""This is the post-office," Joyce said, "where poor Mr. Greenfield lodges. He is so poor," she added with emphasis, and Pleasance gave Joyce a warning look and said hastily—"We turn up here to the church and the rectory."The church was an old Norman church, with a low square tower, and windows with circular heads and thick mullions. The churchyard had a double row of yew trees on either side of the path leading to the porch. There were a number of old square tombs covered with lichen, and the inscriptions all but defaced, and a few old gravestones leaning towards or from each other, as the case might be.The door under the porch was closed, but not locked, for the sexton's wife was "dusting up" for Sunday. She came forward with a curtsey, and asked the gentleman if he would like to see the Cranmore Chapel."Not now, thanks," was the reply; and the two girls stood quietly by, as the future rector of Abbotsbourne advanced a few paces up the aisle with its row of Norman pillars, and kneeling, seemed absorbed in silent prayer.A simple and natural act of devotion, but their cousin's face as he joined them and left the church with them, struck both girls with a strange surprise. For the first time they thought of their cousin Henry as some one very different from those with whom they had come in contact before. There was that look of intense earnestness on his face that can never be mistaken. His figure was tall, but he stooped as he walked, and there were lines of suffering on his face, which, as soon as they were outside the church, was illuminated by a smile which suddenly seemed to soften them and make him look what he was—a young man."Well," he said, "now shall we look at the rectory?""It is a very old-fashioned house," Pleasance said, "and the last rector lived in one corner of it, as he had no wife or children. You must come a little farther up the hill," she added, " the gate leading into the garden is just at the back of the church."The rectory was a long, low, irregular house, with three windows on either side of the ivy-covered porch and a long row above them.Mr. Kennedy exclaimed—"I say! this is charming; and that sundial over the porch, what motto is that under it, I wonder? We must clear away the ivy and find out.""I saw such a pretty motto cut round a sundial the other day," Pleasance said:"'I only count the sunny hours.'""Ah!" Mr. Kennedy said, looking down at Pleasance's sweet face, "that is, as you say, a very pretty motto. We are all too much given to count our dark ones. You two children can have known very few dark hours. Children!" he repeated; "am I offending your dignity, Joyce, by calling you a child?""I am sixteen," Joyce said, "sixteen and a half, but it does not matter; and Pleasance is only fifteen and a half."Mr. Kennedy laughed."Two such young ladies have certainly a right to rebel at being called children.""Oh," said Joyce, "we don't mind; we are rather young for our age, just as Corisande is old. Guess her age.""Guess a lady's age! No, I dare not risk it.""But do," Joyce said. "I want to hear what you think.""Twenty""Twenty! No, she is only thirteen months older than I am; seventeen and a half and a little bit over."They were walking round the rectory garden now, which was neglected and weedy. A garden for which no one cares, with rose-bushes hanging their boughs in wild confusion, and beds which have ceased to be defined from the grass in which they are cut, is always a melancholy sight; and Mr. Kennedy said—"Here will be plenty of work for my mother; she will soon get things into order.""Then you really think you will come to Abbotsbourne?" Joyce said."Yes, I have almost made up my mind to come," he answered. "Do you wish me to come?"Joyce's face flushed a bright crimson, but she looked up at her cousin fearlessly with her honest blue eyes and said—"I am not sure that I do.""Oh, Joyce!" Pleasance said.But Joyce was speedily reassured."That is right," Mr. Kennedy said. "I ought not to have asked such an embarrassing question; but since I did ask it, I am glad to have an honest answer. As we cannot get inside the house this evening, it seems, let us go a little farther up the hill; the country is so sweet after the depths of a great toiling city like Birmingham; and yet I can look back on its crowded streets and dark alleys with affection, now I am leaving them.""You have been ill, haven't you?" Pleasance said."Yes; overworked, I suppose, and troubled with a complaint unknown to either of you, I expect—want of sleep and want of appetite.""You know about Mr. Greenfield; he has been taking Sunday duty here ever since the living was vacant. He looks as if he wanted everything—food to eat, not appetite to eat it. I hope he will get something to do soon, for he has a mother to take care of, as well as a wife and children."Mr. Kennedy turned quickly and looked at Joyce with a keen searching glance, but he did not speak. They had reached a bate which led into a field where cows, released from the milking, were peacefully feeding.The landscape lying before them, familiar as it was to the girls, was new to Mr. Kennedy. He leaned with both elbows on the upper rung of the gate, and gazed on it for some minutes in silence.Sights and sounds were alike soothing and restful, and with a deep sigh he raised himself at last into an upright position and said—"Well, shall we turn homewards? At what hour do you dine?""Half-past seven in the summer, because mother thinks it gives us a longer afternoon.""It is half-past six now. I shall have time to call on Mr. Greenfield first. Where shall I find him?""He lodges at the post-office, at Mrs. Batt's. We can show you the nearest way; we need not go back by the rectory.""Mr. Greenfield told mother he was going to the other end of the parish, Joyce. I do not thick he will have come back yet."But on reaching the post-office, Mrs. Batt came out with smiles and curtseys to tell the gentleman that Mr. Greenfield was having his tea, but would he walk upstairs? And then his young cousins parted from Mr. Kennedy and went quickly towards home.CHAPTER VII.A NEW ORDER.JOYCE and Pleasance found Corisande alone, already dressed for dinner, quietly seated in the drawing-room with a book, as if nothing unusual had happened."So you did not go with mother and Aunt Grace, Corisande? I think you might have gone. Poor mother will be so tired.""Don't you know the old saying, that two is company and three trumpery? I should have been in the way, and Aunt Grace showed she thought so."This was true. Mrs. Kennedy was one of those people who have no pleasure in general conversation, and who prefer a duet to a trio; she dearly liked to get one member of a family to herself, and having got information from that member, would put another through a course of the same cross-examination, and then make mental notes comparing the different versions.Not with any unkind motives in Mrs. Kennedy's case. She was a thoroughly kind-hearted woman, and sincerely interested in her brother's children. Her son had found her a most energetic helper in his parish,—his senior curate, he called her, and his lay-reader.Quick and full of determination, Mrs. Kennedy did everything by unwritten laws; she was punctual to a minute in her daily routine, and her watch on her wrist had no sinecure. It was turned towards her bright sharp eyes very often; a minute's defalcation, whether fast or slow, was detected and set right; and it was her first care on arriving at Abbotsbourne to compare it with the clock in the hall, which, on going up the village, she was quite distressed to see told an entirely different tale from the church clock, and as her watch was railway time, she insisted on the necessity of setting all other clocks and watches by it. Now Lady Victoria took many things for granted, and the condition of the clocks was one of them."My dear Victoria, how slow the church clock is!" she had exclaimed, "or is your clock in the hall fast? No," working her wrist to the right angle, "it is the church clock. How do you manage about the service? Who has the charge of the clock?""The proper people, I suppose," was the quiet answer. "The sexton and his wife attend to such matters.""We must look into this when we come. Nothing hinders work like unpunctuality. I am delighted with the place, acid it will be a haven of rest for Henry. He is all I have to live for, and I have been very unhappy about him lately. You know his father died of consumption?""Yes, indeed; and you nursed him devotedly," was the reply."I never gave up hope till the very last, and I am naturally buoyant; but I am very anxious about Henry. I must hope for the best, and the offer of this living is so providential. Henry's is more a break-down than anything really wrong. His heart is weak, and he has been very sleepless; he used to be out so late in the slums of his Birmingham parish doing mission-work, and then came in worn-out, and, as he confessed at last, too tired to eat or sleep."The next thing was to get the keys of the rectory, and they were to be had from Mrs. Batt at the post-office, who was supposed to be in charge of the empty house, to open the windows at certain times, and pass a duster or broom over such of the old furniture as had not been removed by a distant connection of the old rector's, and was left in hope of the new rector buying it.Mrs. Batt called her husband to attend the shop, While she placed a large sun-bonnet on her comely head, and, with smiles and curtseys, led the way to the rectory, the large house-key in her hand."It's a very commodious house, as her ladyship knows, and there's room for a family, and plenty, too! The new rector is calling on Mr. Greenfield, I believe, your ladyship. Mr. Greenfield lodges with me, ma'am," Mrs. Batt said, as she held the rectory gate open to allow the ladies to pass, "and a very nice gentleman he is—so humble-like, and as much as to say, 'anything is good enough for me.' Not that I take any notice of that poor gentleman."Then the big key was turned in the rectory door, and Mrs. Kennedy stepped briskly in."It is a good hall," she said. "I always like a house with a hall. Oh, this is the dining-room, and beyond is the study. Of course it is all very stuffy and close, but is capable of being made a very comfortable home.""The last gentleman was old and infirm, ma'am," Mrs. Batt volunteered, "and of course he did not use a quarter part of the rooms. The drawing-room was scarcely ever entered, and the same may be said of the bedrooms.""Yes; the only fault I can see in the house, on first acquaintance, is that it is much too large for us; but it is very pleasant, standing on the slope of the hill, and I shall enjoy putting it all in order. There is always an agreeable excitement in arrang-ing everything. I daresay we shall find the parish, like the house, in need of a good deal of reformation. And, Mrs. Batt, who looks after the clock,—the church clock? It is ten minutes slow by my watch, which is set by railway time?""Indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Batt, rising a little on the defensive, "I never heard the clock complained of. I believe Mr. Knox—he is the sexton, you know—does his duty by it, winding it up at proper times.""Ah! well," Mrs. Kennedy said, "Mr. Kennedy will look after the clock and everything else. My dear Victoria, how tired you must be of all this! I will just take a run upstairs, and then it will be time to return to dinner.""I am in no haste, Grace. I will sit down on that bench in the garden till you are ready.""Her ladyship is always quiet; she is never one to fuss and worry," was Mrs. Batt's remark to her husband, when she gave him an account of escorting the new rector's mother over the rectory."Deary me! how different the two are! I know which I would rather have to deal with; but I can hold my own with any one, and I am not to be trampled on by fifty new ladies at the rectory. Did you speak to the gentleman, Batt?""Yes; he spoke to me," was Mr. Batt's reply."What did he say, then?""It was a fine evening, and something of that sort,—nothing
more.""Then he was not like his mother; she has a tongue of her own,—chatter, chatter about the church-clock, and who wound it up, and how stuffy the rectory smelt, and a lot more. Well, she won't find every one here ready to fluster and fume for her. I never could abide folk who talked like a mill, so that no one else can get a word in edgeways."Mr. Batt gave a short laugh, and said in his low, guttural voice—"No, I rather think great talkers don't suit you, Mary Anne; you like to have the talk all your own way. You have been used to it so many years with me, and it is too late to change now."Mrs. Batt took no notice of this very obvious truth, which she did not attempt to contradict, except by slamming the door of the little parlour behind the shop with an irritable bang, which made the jars full of pink and white sweets on a shelf behind the counter shake and rattle in an alarming manner.The sweetness of the summer evening was scarcely felt in the dull street of Bromley where little Susie Anderson lay patiently on her bed, pale and suffering. Her mother had left her for an hour with the faithful servant, who, with the help of a girl, did the work of the house, and never thought she could do too much for the master and mistress she loved to serve.It may be doubted whether any one of the large establishment at High Wycherly ever felt their service any thing but drudgery, for it was never sweetened by a word of approbation, and constantly made more irksome by dissatisfaction. It was impossible to please Mrs. Macdonald, was a recognised fact in the house, and, as a consequence, no one ever tried to please her. But Nannie's service was that of the heart, and she never knew what trouble meant. It was no trouble to her to be always ready to "do the next thing," and she was one of those servants which it is the fashion to consider as belonging to a past generation, who have no interest apart from their masters and mistresses.Nannie had put Bruce to bed, and now sat with a large basket of linen before her in little Susie's room, examining each article with careful, critical eyes to see that every button and string was in its place. Susie was asleep, for her nights had been very wakeful of late, and it was a relief to her mother to leave her in peaceful slumber. But the doctor had been to see Susie for a second time that day, and he had spoken very plainly to Mrs. Anderson."The child's best chance is fresh country air," then he hesitated. "Would it be possible for your little girl to go to High Wycherly? I think, if Mrs. Macdonald knew how important change was for the child, she would receive her for a few weeks.""No," Mrs. Anderson had replied, "I do not think that plan would answer; but I will talk to my husband, and we will consider what is best to do."It was to have this talk that Mrs. Anderson had asked her husband to take a stroll with her before the evening closed in."Bruce is safely in bed, and Susie asleep under Nannie's care; so we can walk out of the town on the Wycherly road," Mrs. Anderson said.When they had left the hot and dusty streets behind them, Mrs. Anderson said, "We must try to manage, dearest, to take Susie away for change of air. She wants country air and plenty of nourishment. I have got a bright idea, if you will listen, and not shake your head so hopelessly.""My dear wife," Mr. Anderson said, "the boys' last school-bills are yet unpaid. Dr. Beresford has been very considerate, but I cannot trespass on his kindness much longer. The bills must be paid, or Gerald and Arthur must leave school—and only half the premium is paid for John in the merchant's office. He was taken as a favour at a less premium, on condition I paid by quarterly instalments. One is due at Midsummer, so is the rent; and you know, though I have Bertie in the office, it is rather on sufferance; Mr. Masters is not very gracious about it."Mrs. Anderson was silent for a minute or two; she hardly liked to insist further on the necessity of change for Susie, yet, for the child's sake, she ventured to say—"Dear John, I think we might get a country lodging for a very small sum; and if I take Susie with me, I might go on with my writing. I really believe the editor of the Moonshinewill take another story, if I have only time to finish it for the Christmas publication. Oh!" Mrs. Anderson said, with sudden and passionate entreaty, "let me inquire about Abbotsbourne. Miss Greenfield's brother has been taking the duty there, and she said the last time she was here she hoped he might eventually have the living. Let me write to Miss Greenfield, and ask her about it."Mr. Anderson beat the tall meadow-sweet in the hedge impatiently as he walked along, and then said—Poor little Miss Greenfield! I don't quite like your going to one of your sister's dependants for help.""Not help—only inquiry, John; as if there was anything unusual in making such inquiries.""Well," Mr. Anderson said, "I will go over myself to Abbotsbourne, and see what can be done. If you go, will you take Bruce with you, or leave him to take care of me and Bertie?""I think I had better take Bruce; the holidays begin at his little school next week. If dear Susie improves, I could return in time for the holidays of the other boys, and let Nannie go to her."Just at this moment a carriage rolled past Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. They stood aside to let it pass, and, when the cloud of dust it raised had subsided, Mrs. Anderson said—"That is one of the High Wycherly carriages. I caught a glimpse of Annie in it; she is going out to dinner, I daresay."Mr. Anderson took his wife's hand and drew it within his arm. He was not a man given to much demonstration of affection, but he was true and loyal to the core."And while she rides past in her grand carriage, you are walking in the dust of the king's highway with me! It is a hard fate for you, my dear wife.""Hard!" she exclaimed; "no, not hard for me; it is only for the children that I mind, John. Only the pain I feel that we cannot give this darling child of ours what the doctor says may spare her life,—her precious life; it is only for the children I mind. But if I get on with my writing, I may yet see brighter days for them and for you.""Don't work yourself to death, Sophy; nothing would compensate for that to me. I will go to Abbotsbourne to-morrow—walk over, and attend the service, and see poor little Miss Greenfield's brother. Will that satisfy you?""It is the very best plan possible," Mrs. Anderson said; "thank you so much, John."CHAPTER VIII."O DAY SO CALM AND BRIGHT!"A QUIET Sunday in the country, how sweet it is! And a Sunday in June, when all the works of the Lord seem to be praising the Lord and magnifying Him for ever, is a thing to be remembered.The mantle of peace seems to descend upon hills and flower-strewn meadows, freshly clothed trees and happy murmuring streams, and to breathe a sympathetic rest on hearts oppressed with care, while ears deafened with the din of this work-a-day world are opened to hear the music of the heavenly chimes, too often lost in the clamour of busy life, and all its manifold claims.Mr. Anderson was a good walker; probably from the fact that he had never known any other way of taking exercise from his boyhood, it was easy and pleasant to him in middle life.He had walked the twelve miles from Bromley by nine o'clock, and looking about for a place where he might find breakfast, he saw Mrs. Batt at the door of the post-office, having just dispatched her husband on his Sunday-morning round, and congratulating herself that it was a very small post that day, and Batt would soon be back and keep house while she went to church to hear the new rector."Good morning!" Mr. Anderson said. "Can you tell me where I can get some breakfast?""Well, sir, there's the 'public' just outside the village, on the hill; but I am sure I shall be happy to bet you breakfast here, if you'll step in, sir. Mr. Greenfield is just going to have his, and I don't doubt he would like your company, if you do not see any objections to him, that is to say. Mr. Greenfield has my drawing-room, poor gentleman, every week, and this is rather a sad Sunday to him, for he has served the parish well since the old gentleman's death; and, of course, he thought, when party after party declined to come to our little village, that he would be asked to do so; but these Bishops are grand folks, and must do as they please. The new gentleman is nephew to Lady Victoria, and that is something, you know, sir. Not that we've a word to say against her ladyship, nor the young ladies either."Lady Victoria and the young ladies were naturally myths to Mr. Anderson; he was very hungry after his walk, and said rather abruptly—"I shall be glad of breakfast—tea and a fresh egg, if you happen to have one—and I should like to wash the dust off before service.""You are come to hear the new rector, I suppose, sir?""Oh, no! I never heard of the old rector or the new one either," Mr. Anderson said. "I have simply walked over from Bromley to have a look at Abbotsbourne, and find out if there are any cheap lodgings to be had."This was a new idea to Mrs. Batt. She knew that very probably Mr. Greenfield's Saturday visits would soon be at an end; and the thought struck her that she might be entertaining "an angel unawares" in the shape of a permanent lodger. But as a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Mrs. Batt wisely determined not to say anything definite till she had heard what Mr. Greenfield's intentions were.Mr. Greenfield now came in, and Mrs. Batt said—"There's a gentleman who has had a long walk—would you oblige me by allowing him to breakfast in your room?""Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Greenfield; "walk upstairs, sir, and rest. Have you walked far?""From Bromley—only twelve miles," was the reply."Dear, dear! I envy your powers. I am a poor walker, and find the three or four miles from the junction at Fairford every week as much as I can manage. However, I shall not take that walk many times more," and Mr. Greenfield sighed as he laid aside his well-worn cassock on a chair, and invited Mr. Anderson to take a seat on the sofa."I have just come in from eight o'clock communion," Mr. Greenfield said. "Mr. Kennedy wished to have it, and though he only arrived yesterday, he managed to make it known; and of course, with the ladies from The Cottage, we had a fair congregation. I daresay he is right, and that the parish has been left too much to get on as it could, with an invalid and aged rector, and then a mere supply like myself. Mr. Kennedy is a young man, but has very poor health. As far as I understand the matter, he is coming here to recruit after the hard work of a town parish. I know a little about that, for I had a like cure with eighty pounds a year in a crowded city. I threw it up on account of my poor wife's illness, and was expecting a good sole charge in a seaside watering-place, when there was a hitch somewhere, and I found myself thrown out, with a wife and mother and ailing children to support, by taking occasional duty. But I beg your pardon; I am trespassing on your patience. Poverty is a hard master, and when it is joined to ill-health, it beats a man to the earth.""Yes, you are right there," Mr. Anderson said. "I know something about it. I have a large family and heavy expenses, and a dear sick child—a little girl of nine years old, who suffers great pain from hip-disease. My object in coming here, in fact, is to find out if there are any lodgings to which we might bring her.""There are these," Mr. Greenfield said; "you could not be with more respectable people. Mrs. Batt is kind and attentive, and I am sure I have reason to say so. The good woman has a long tongue, but it is a good-natured tongue, and Batt is the only sufferer."Mr. Anderson laughed."Husbands in these cases are generally the sufferers; but I will speak to Mrs. Batt about the rooms, and find out if I can afford to take them. I had no notion Abbotsbourne was so lovely till I came to it this morning. This beautiful summer weather is likely to make every place beautiful.""Except a back-street in Monksborough," Mr. Greenfield sighed."Well, the sun shines even in a back-street," Mr. Anderson rejoined; "and often we make our own sunshine; circumstances and outward surroundings do not make any one happy in themselves.""That is true, as far as it goes.""Yes; your sister lives in the midst of luxury and surrounded with fine things, but the bondage of a lady-help to women like Mrs. Macdonald is very like slavery. But it is seldom that she grumbles, very seldom," Mr. Anderson said. "Miss Greenfield is the only member of the High Wycherly house who ever comes near us.""I had no notion that you knew poor brave little Mary," Mr. Greenfield said. "Perhaps if you know those nouveaux riches with whom her lot is cast, you may be able to understand what a life it is for her.""Mrs. Macdonald is my wife's sister," Mr. Anderson said, in a manner which implied he would rather not pursue the subject further."Oh, I am sure I beg your pardon," Mr. Greenfield answered. "I had no notion that you were related to Mrs. Macdonald." And then, saying something about the Sunday-school, Mr. Greenfield hastened away.Mrs. Macdonald had a headache, and was tired after her long drive to the dinner-party, and Miss Greenfield announced at breakfast that she would not come down till dinner-time that evening. Evelyn's eyes brightened; she had been musing over a pleasant scheme for Sunday afternoon, and she knew she could by a little coaxing get her father's leave to carry it out.Mr. Macdonald always went the round of his grounds on Sunday, and visited greenhouses, forcing-houses, and conservatories, stables, and poultry-yard with that sense of possession, which is hardly to be called enjoyment, but which is common with people like him.Evelyn seized her opportunity, and followed her father into the conservatory, where a rare orchid—prized because it was rare—was being examined critically by the gardener and approvingly by Mr. Macdonald."There is not such another bloom, sir, within a hundred miles. Why, Lord Featherstone's show is just nothing compared with ours, and Mr. Scott, the gardener, nearly choked with jealousy when I took him round last evening."This piece of information seemed to give Mr. Macdonald great satisfaction, and he was so much engrossed with the orchid that he did not see Evelyn till she was close to him."Well, my dear, come to look at the prize orchid?—fine, isn't it?""Yes," said Evelyn; "but, father, I don't care so much for that orchid as the stephanotis.""Then you don't know what's what," said her father sharply; while the gardener, with a shrug of his shoulders, left the conservatory, saying to Mr. Macdonald in a somewhat peremptory tone—"You'll take care, sir, not to leave the door at the other end open, when you come out.""All right, Thompson; I'll remember.""Father," Evelyn said, "I do so want to give Miss Greenfield a treat to-day; she has so few treats. I want to drive her to Abbotsbourne to evening service. The days are so long, there is no real night; and Claude will come, so we shall not want a groom. Father, do let me have Zoe,—let me order Zoe round at five o'clock.""You had better ask your mother; she may want Miss Greenfield.""She can't want her. Besides, mother is not coming down till dinner-time. Father, let me have the pony-carriage.""Well, well, I suppose you must do as you wish; you always get your own way, you little saucy puss. But don't drive at a harum-scarum pace. You half-killed Zoe the other day, I hear.""That's all old Brown's nonsense; it does Zoe good to get rid of her superfluous energy,—like me," Evelyn said, putting her hand in her father's arm caressingly. "And, father, there is something else I must say. That poor girl Janet Forbes——""Janet Forbes! Janet Forbes! who is she?""The under-housemaid whom mother thought stole that money and the brooch. Her father was here the other day, and looked so angry. He says he will have his revenge.""Oh, I know now! The fellow came to my office, threatening me. I'll have him taken into custody if he attempts intimidation again. I offered him two sovereigns, and he flung them in my very face. Don't trouble your head about him, my dear, or the girl either.""But, father, there was no proof at all that Janet had stolen the money. Mother missed it and the brooch the same week, and thought she saw Janet at her dressing-table; and she had her boxes searched, and nothing was found except her post-office savings book, in which three pounds had been entered.""It looked suspicious, my dear. Under-house-maids don't often have a haul of three pounds to save out of wages.""I am certain she was innocent, father; and she had no character given her, and she is ill and poor. Father," Evelyn said vehemently, "I can't bear to think how rich we are, and how many are starving, and struggling and fighting for mere bread. We ought to do more for poor people.""Come, come, my dear! I do plenty. I gave a hundred pounds the other day to the new Hospital wing at Bromley, and I subscribe to dozens of charitable institutions. There is never a week that I am not besieged by some one for money. It is a great nuisance."Evelyn's lustrous eyes—the eyes that Pleasance Fraser thought the loveliest in the world—flashed as she said to her father—"I don't think giving away money ought to be a nuisance; it ought to be a pleasure.""Ah, all! my dear! you'll know better some day; but one couldn't expect an old head on young shoulders. But look after that lazy fellow Claude, for it is time to get ready for church.""And I may ask Miss Greenfield to come to Abbotsbourne, father?""Yes, yes; but if your mother wants her, don't blame me; don't let me be blamed, that's all."Evelyn ran, delighted with her news, to Miss Greenfield."You will like to come, won't you, Miss Greenfield? And you'll see your brother, and you will see the people at The Cottage. The grand stiff-starched Corisande, and the girl with red hair, as well as my sweet 'fair maid of February,' dear little Pleasance. I must get ready for church now.""You are very hind," poor Miss Greenfield began, "but I am afraid Mrs. Macdonald——""Oh, nonsense! Mother will know nothing about it till we are gone and come back again. Really you ought to be pleased.""It is very kind," Miss Greenfield began in her hesitating way, "but——""There are no 'buts' or 'ifs.' Don't be stupid, Greeny!""If you please, Miss Macdonald," said a grand personage who now came into Evelyn's room, where this conversation had taken place, "Mrs. Macdonald cannot be disturbed; 'er' ead is very bad; and she begged me to say she desired you to wear your blue Surah silk and white 'at with forget-me-nots.""I can't bother to change," Evelyn said; "I like white best this hot day. But you needn't tell mother; she can't know that I was dressed already.""Very well, Miss Macdonald; you will please yourself, no doubt. I 'ave h'acted according to h'orders, and leave the matter. Miss Greenfield, you are to please to see that Mrs. Macdonald's beef-tea is served 'ot at twelve o'clock, and the toast crisp, not tough, as was the case yesterday; and the dinner-'our is to be changed to h'aight this h'evening, and no earlier, on account of Sunday. You'll give Mrs. White the h'order."Miss Greenfield was well used to receive these arrogant orders from that important personage, who had lived in the highest families, and who had only condescended to come to High Wycherly, almost as a favour.And here was poor, refined, little Miss Greenfield, the "lady-help," the daughter of a clergyman who had left his family unprovided for, obliged to accept the superiority of a vulgar, self-important maid, who was considered a treasure by Mrs. Macdonald because she had lived in the service of the Countess of Beaulieu, and had only left it from ill-health—ill-health caused, if Mrs. Carter had told the truth, by night after night of watching for the return of her mistress during the full swing of a London season."You 'eard what I said, Miss Greenfield?" Mrs. Carter remarked."Yes," was the gentle reply, "I heard;" and then Miss Greenfield went to give the unwelcome intelligence in the servants' hall that dinner was to be half an hour later, not half an hour earlier, on this particular Sunday. A chorus of disapprobation rose from men and maids, while the house-keeper's only remark was—"It's the last time I shall serve dinner on Sunday at eight o'clock. Yes, Miss Greenfield, I know about the beef-tea and the toast. I've heard it before; a message was brought down by a housemaid, but I don't take messages from housemaids, I hope."By these little incidents it will be seen that a large staff of servants does not necessarily tend to the comfort of a household.Claude was finishing his breakfast in the dining-room when Evelyn was ready for church."Come, Claude," she said, "you should not be so lazy. Surely nine o'clock is late enough for breakfast on Sunday.""It ought to be ten," was Claude's reply. "I can't think why father makes every one a martyr, himself included, by getting up early.""You are not a martyr, anyhow. Come, make haste. I hear father's step in the hall. And, Claude, I am going to drive to Abbotsbourne this evening to church. Miss Greenfield is to come, and you are to act groom; so we shall not keep the servants at work. It is only fair they should have one day's rest.""Will you go to The Cottage if I come?" Claude said, rising with some alacrity from the table. "Will you promise to go to The Cottage if I come?""I shall be sure to see Pleasance, and I dare say she will invite us to go in; but I dare not go unless we are invited.""I dare!" said Claude, laughing. "I have already had the honour of talking to her ladyship and Miss Coromandel; but I would go through it all again to see the golden-haired girl who hung in a tree.""Red-haired—not golden, Claude.""It's not carroty, anyhow", said Claude, as he raced upstairs to get his "boxer,"—a hat only produced, as every one knows, by public-school boys on Sundays.CHAPTER IX.MEETING-POINTS."Now we are really off," Evelyn said, as Zoe trotted briskly out of the gates of High Wycherly and took the road to Abbotsbourne. "Now we are really off. Do look pleased, Greeny; it is such a lovely evening, and I feel so happy for once.""You ought always to be happy, Miss Macdonald," Miss Greenfield said."Do drop 'Miss Macdonald' for this evening," Evelyn rejoined; "it rather spoils my satisfaction to be called 'Miss' by you. I shall like to see your brother. Will he preach, do you think?""He has to do the whole service. He is hoping the Bishop may offer him the living, but I am afraid lie will not do so. If he had it, it would be a home indeed for my poor mother, and would prolong her life.""Why shouldn't he have the living? Has he tried to get it?—has he exerted himself, I mean?""Poor Willie is rather a hopeless person to get on—he always goes to the wall; and if you do that, you may stay there.""Of course," said Evelyn, "of course; and I advise you strongly, Greeny, not to do the same, but come out boldly when that impertinent Carter dares to order you about, and to decline with thanks!""That would not do at all," Miss Greenfield said. "I have accepted the position in your house, and I must not grumble. My salary is large—much larger than I should get anywhere else; and I am able to save for mother, and help Willie and the children and Cecy.""I hope Willie and Cecy, and the rest of them, are grateful, as they ought to be," Evelyn said."You work hard enough, I am sure."Miss Greenfield smiled."They don't think so, at least Cecy doesn't. She says it must be more like play than work to be a lady-help in a beautiful place like High Wycherly! Lady-helps don't get much sympathy. Governesses, I think, get a great deal more, simply because they have something definite to show for their labours, while people like me have nothing."Haven't you, then? I know that mother would be lost without you. Why, the whole machinery at High Wycherly would come to a dead stop if you left it.""It is very kind to say so," Miss Greenfield replied, "but only last week Mrs. Macdonald said I was so useless that I had better give up, she thought.""No one ever thinks anything of mother saying things like that; she is always telling the servants they can go, and very often they take her at her word. It was just the same with the governesses. Mother expects too much, and does worry herself to get everything quite like other people's brand houses, or rather grand people's houses; and I know very well, and so does father, that we are only laughed at or looked down upon for imitating those who are not, like us, merchants—tradespeople is the best word."Claude, who had been very silent during the drive, now broke in from the back-seat with a question."I say, Eve, where are you going to put up Zoe while we are at church? If you like, I'll stay with her; I have been to church once to-day.""You can't stay with her, Claude—nonsense! she must be put up. I forget; is there an inn in the village?""No, not in the village; it is up the hill, on the farther side. I say, I'll ask to put up at The Cottage. I know that good-natured girl with the golden—yes, golden, not carroty hair—would let Zoe stand in the stable. I can unharness her, and they are sure to have a groom to rub her down.""Oh, we can't ask that—at least I can't. Lady Victoria would freeze me to an iceberg, and Corisande would look, if she did not say, 'How very extraordinary of those people.'""And we might say, 'How very extraordinary of "those three" to be so uncivil.' But look here, Eve! Put me down just before we get to The Cottage, and I will go straight to the house and ask leave.""I don't think you had better do it, Claude, really; it seems rather forward, we know so little of them.""Why, you know a great deal, Eve, and so do I. Yes, I shall try my fortune; pull up, and here goes; just by this tree is a good place. Wait here till I come out again, and I will bring word that I may drive into the stable-yard. I rather like the fun!" Claude exclaimed, as he ran off towards the gate of The Cottage.The whole party were collected on the verandah or just within the drawing-room, when Joyce exclaimed—"Pleasance, here comes that boy!""What boy?" asked Corisande sharply; "who is it?"Claude now came up to the verandah, and, with a pleasant smile and an air of unquestioning serenity, he said to Joyce, who was the nearest to him—"I came to ask if you will let us put up Zoe and our pony-carriage in your stable-yard. Eve, my sister, you know, has come over to service here to-night with Miss Greenfield. She thought Miss Greenfield would like to see her brother and hear him preach."Claude waited for an answer, and Pleasance looked at Lady Victoria—"May they, mother?"Mrs. Kennedy now spoke, although the question was not addressed to her—"I am sure you can have no objection, Victoria. "Then, in an aside to Corisande, "What a charming boy! so handsome and well-spoken. Who is he?""I can unharness Zoe—just take her out of the carriage, you know, if I may drive her into the yard.""Ring for Sandy, Corisande," Lady Victoria said, "and ask him to open the gate of the stable-yard and see that Jim attends to Mr. Macdonald's horse.""Thank you awfully," Claude said; "and may I bring my sister here till it is time to go to church?"But as soon as Lady Victoria's rather unwilling consent had been given, Pleasance, who, like the rest, was dressed ready for church, had braved Corisande's disapproval, and said to Joyce—"Let us tell Evelyn to come here;" and Joyce, not unwilling, ran off with her sister, letting the gate swing behind her as she left the garden.Mr. Kennedy, who had been talking to Mr. Greenfield in the garden at the side of the house, now came on the verandah with him, just as Pleasance and Joyce were returning."Evelyn will not come in; she says she and Miss Greenfield would rather walk up to the church.""Did you say my sister was here?" Mr. Greenfield asked. "Who has brought her here?""Evelyn Macdonald. It is just like her," Pleasance went on; "she is so kind, and is always thinking how she can please other people.""May I go with Mr. Greenfield, mother, and walk to church with Evelyn?""We are all turning our steps that way," Mrs. Kennedy said, for the second time answering a question which was not addressed to her. Then looking at her inevitable watch, she said, "It is nearly twelve minutes past six, and by that eccentric church clock it may even be later. So, shall we all start, Victoria?""Yes, I am quite ready. Where is Henry?""Oh, I daresay he is gone on. He is to read the service this evening, and Mr. Greenfield is to preach. He wants to hear him, poor little man! How his face brightened when he heard his sister was here. Henry feels so sorry for him, and I am certain he will find some way of helping him. But really, Victoria, I can't forget that boy. Do tell me more about him; he has such pleasant, frank manners. Is he a near neighbour?""He is the brother of a girl for whom Pleasance has taken a craze lately, Aunt Grace. We do not know much of the people; they live at High Wycherly, about five miles from here, and four or five from Bromley."Corisande's tone of disparagement was not lost on her aunt, whose keen and penetrating eyes, looking at Corisande, seemed to convey without words that she grasped the fact that evidently they were no favourites of her niece's.As they passed up the village to the church, Mr. Greenfield told his sister that all hopes of the living were at an end. "The new rector is here, a relation of Lady Victoria Fraser.""Oh, Willie, it is a disappointment; but never mind," said the brave little woman. "I can help you, and you are certain to get something good at last. It seems rather hard, for of course these people are well off.""Yes," and Mr. Greenfield sighed. "Yes; they say all cares should be made wings to lift the soul heavenward. I am afraid mine beat my soul down earthward.""I suppose we must fight against that, William, and try to rise."Mr. Greenfield said no more, and the brother and sister walked in silence to the church.Evelyn and Pleasance were behind, and Joyce with Claude, and all were well satisfied with the arrangement.When the service was over, Evelyn said—"Can we take a little stroll together, Pleasance, away from the others? It is so nice to get a few minutes with you."Pleasance blushed crimson with mingled feelings."I am so glad to be with you," she said, "but I think mother would rather we went home to the heavy tea we always have on Sundays after service.""Oh, I don't want to come in, thanks!" Evelyn said. "I know I am not wanted; and did you see your sister Corisande bow to me when we met going into church?""I don't think Corisande means anything; it is her way.""Well, I don't like 'her way,' so I prefer to keep out of it. Walk slowly, so that I may have as much of you as possible.""Yes," Pleasance said; "and I think we can get in at the gate leading to the kitchen-garden, and go round by the knoll; that will lengthen our walk.""We must not be late in starting for home. Zoe will go fast enough, but I shall get poor Greeny into trouble if we are not home before it is dark. Do you like this reverend cousin of yours, Pleasance?""Yes; Joyce gets on with him, but she never minds what he says.""She is getting on with Claude, it seems now. They made a friendship out of the episode in the tree. Claude is furious because I call her hair red, not to say rather carroty. But she is a jolly girl, and next best to you of 'those three.'"Pleasance laughed, but she did not quite like to hear her sisters so freely discussed. In spite of all differences, the three sisters were very loyal to each other, and Pleasance would never dream of saying a disparaging word of either to Evelyn or any one else.The gate was open, and the two girls went into the garden unobserved."There's the old oak where Joyce hung by her hair that day," Pleasance said. "It is a favourite seat of ours.""Let us go and try it for a few minutes.""Oh, I think not, please! Mother would not like me to climb up there in my white frock. I should be sure to tear it or something," adding, laughing, "I have not so many costumes as you have.""You always look as if you had dozens, you are so neat and sweet and charming, my dear 'fair maid of February.' Now, I am one of those people who are dowdies unless they get up in smart things. There is no medium with them. If I were to put on a plain white frock like yours, and that shady hat with the daisies in it, I should look a real dowdy; you wouldn't know me.""Yes, I should, and you would look very nice; but," uneasily, "I think we had better go into the house now. Oh, I forgot! That man who came into your grounds the day I spent at High Wycherly was here on that very evening, and spoke to us—to Joyce and me."Evelyn's brightest colour rose in her handsome face."What did he say? Was he rude to you? Did he frighten you?""Joyce was not frightened, but I was. He said he wanted justice; and that his daughter, who had been your servant, was dying broken-hearted."Evelyn stamped her foot impatiently, saying—"It is shameful—it is wicked; it shall be found out. I believe Janet was as honest as the day; it is far more likely to be that grand maid of mother's, of whom she makes so much, because she lived last with a Countess somebody. Oh, it is disgusting!"Here they were interrupted by Joyce calling—"Pleasance! Pleasance! where are you? Mother says you are to bring Miss Macdonald in to tea.""Oh, no, thanks!" Evelyn said; "we must not stop; we shall have our supper when we get home.""Nonsense, Eve!" Claude said. "I mean to stay; don't be silly; and little Greenfield is so happy sitting by her brother. Come along!"Evelyn did not wish to have a discussion with Claude, which would probably end in a quarrel. So, holding her stately head high, and with determination not to be patronised in her whole manner, she followed her brother into the dining-room. There the whole party was seated to a plentiful meal, but, in spite of this unexpected addition to their numbers, there was no confusion and no fuss.Sandy was deliberate and slow in his movements, but his helper, one of the maid-servants, was quick and alert, and handed the tea and coffee, while Sandy carved cold meat and veal-pie on the sideboard, and saw that every one was well served.If Pleasance had been surprised by the grandeur of the luncheon at High Wycherly, Evelyn was surprised by the appearance of the supper-table at The Cottage. The flowers were simply but tastefully arranged, as Corisande knew best how to arrange them. Everything was the perfection of simple; refined taste, and entirely without display."Will you sit here, Miss Macdonald," Lady Victoria said, "next my nephew, M r. Kennedy? Your brother has already found a place, I think.""Introduce me, Victoria," said Mrs. Kennedy."My sister-in-law, Mrs. Kennedy—Miss Macdonald."Evelyn bowed stiffly, and inwardly resented Mrs. Kennedy's appraising glance.Mr. Kennedy saw that his neighbour was under some constraint, and hastened to put her at ease by a few ordinary remarks as to the beauty of the weather, the delight of a real old-fashioned summer, and so forth.Then he talked of the beauty of Abbotsbourne, and asked Evelyn if she lived in the same lovely neighbourhood."I live at High Wycherly, about six miles off. The country is not so pretty there.""High Wycherly! where did I hear that name? Oh!"—recollecting himself—"Mr. Anderson, who was here this morning, spoke of it."Evelyn turned an inquiring look on Mr. Kennedy."What did Mr. Anderson come to Abbots-bourne for?""To look for a quiet country lodging for his little girl, who is ill. He said his means were very small, and he thought he might manage to give her the change of air she needs here at little expense. He has taken the lodgings at the post-office, which Mr. Greenfield has inhabited office, which Mr. Greenfield has mentioned High Wycherly.""His sister lives with us; I brought her over on purpose to see her brother. She thought he would have the living; he is dreadfully poor.""Yes, I know all about it," Mr. Kennedy said. "I have had a long talk with him to-day. Mr. Anderson is a very clever, agreeable man, and I Hope he will manage to get his little girl here, in the sweet country air."Evelyn was struggling with something within she could hardly define.Mrs. Kennedy's eyes were upon her—those clear, somewhat hard, blue eyes, which Mrs. Batt very truly described as "sharp as needles, and ready to look you through and through."Then she said quickly, "Mr. Anderson is my uncle by marriage. Aunt Sophy is my mother's sister."The swift colour which came to Evelyn's cheeks struck Mrs. Kennedy opposite, and she thought how it heightened her beauty. She did not, with all her penetration, guess what was passing in Evelyn's mind."He will wonder how it is that we, as near relatives, do nothing for Susie. He will think of us as we deserve, and yet it is better to tell him."Then Evelyn went on—"Little Susie is a dear child, and so patient and uncomplaining. Aunt Sophy has had a great deal of trouble, and she is very brave and good. But it is very hard for them to have so many boys to educate, and the only girl is always ill. Yet Aunt Soppy is much happier than many people I know.""Ah!" Mr. Kennedy said, "happiness is not tied to any circumstances, nor unhappiness either."Evelyn turned a bright look on him."No," she said, "that is very true; I am sure I find it so. I have everything that I can want—can possibly wish for, and yet——""You are dissatisfied.""Not exactly dissatisfied; but—oh! I don't know how to express it.""Shall I express it for you?"Evelyn bent her head, and said in a low voice, "if you can.""I think I can. You are living too much to yourself, and that is but poor living. No riches, no rank, can sweeten that life; but the instant you live out of yourself, and struggle upwards as well as onwards, there will be a change. Little things that weighed you down will turn into wings to lift you up; for there never were truer words than some, I dare say, familiar to you—'Small things are best,Grief and unrestTo rank and wealth are given;But little things on little wingsBear little souls to heaven.'""Oh," Evelyn said, "how strange it is that Pleasance repeated those very lines to me only the other day! But don't you think that reaching upward and above earthly discontent is harder for some people than others? It is easy for some people to be good, and oh! so hard for others.""Undoubtedly, we are all dwelling in that strange and infinite solitude in which every individual soul moves, different one from the other; and our Father knows this, and loves as well as knows! That is always a comforting thought when the dissatisfaction with ourselves and other causes that aching sense of want, which, as I said, no outward circumstances can really affect one way or the other."CHAPTER X.SUSIE."MY dear Victoria," Mrs. Kennedy exclaimed, when, under Claude's hand, Zoe had set off homewards at what he called "a rattling pace,"—"My dear Victoria, what a charming brother and sister! The girl is so handsome and cultivated; and the boy so frank and pleasant—an Etonian I am sure. Who are they? Do tell me about them."Pleasance had been listening to these praises of her friend with delight. She looked at Corisande with a triumphant smile, as much as to say, "I see what some people, at least, think of Evelyn."But Corisande was leaning back in a chair by the window with a book turned face downwards on her knee, for, long as the twilight of the summer day lasted, it was now, at nine o'clock, too dark to read."I am sure," Mrs. Kennedy went on, "this is a most delightful place, and with a girl like Miss Macdonald as a neighbour, you have certainly one companion, at any rate, whom you must approve.""I do not know much of Miss Macdonald," Lady Victoria answered gently; "she is a handsome girl, and clever, I should think.""Oh, mother," Pleasance broke in, "Evelyn is so clever that Mademoiselle said she never had such a pupil. She is to have a companion later, and perhaps go to Somerville Hall or Girton; but she must wait till she is older.""Is she your particular friend, Pleasance?" Mrs. Kennedy asked. "Well, I congratulate you, my dear."The lamps were now brought in, and the servants, headed by Sandy and Margaret, came for the usual Sunday-evening prayers, which were varied from the accustomed routine by singing two hymns. Corisande played, and Pleasance and Joyce led the young voices of the maid-servants, which were accompanied by Margaret's rather cracked alto and Sandy's low growl, which served for bass. Mr. Kennedy did not sing; his throat was tired after, what were to him, the light services of the day, and he read a few verses from the Bible and prayers which followed the hymns in a very wear, tired voice. When he bid Lady Victoria good-night he said—"Would it be asking too much to have the carriage to-morrow to drive down with Mr. Greenfield to the Junction?""Henry," his mother exclaimed, "you are surely not leaving to-morrow? I have not made any arrangements yet.""I did not ask you to leave to-morrow, my dear mother; I am returning in the evening.""But, Henry, where are you going?""To Monksborough.""To see the Bishop, Henry?""To see the Bishop, yes; and to transact a little business also.""Shall I come with you? I don't quite like your going alone. I am so afraid you should over-tire yourself; you look dreadfully worn out to-night.""So worn out that I am going to bed at once.""What time would you like the carriage to come round, Henry?" Lady Victoria asked."The train leaves the Junction at ten o'clock. Mr. Greenfield has travelled by it every Monday lately. I suppose it takes fully half an hour to bet to Fairfield?""I will let Sandy know to come round in good time," Lady Victoria said. "I hope you will get a good night's rest, Henry," she added, "for you look like as if you needed it.""He does indeed," said his mother. "I some-times fear if he will be able to get through the duty here, his throat tires him so much. It is all from overwork, but I believe he would be miserable with nothing to do, so this does seem providential. If I could only see him get stronger! I must hope for the best.""Cousin Henry!" it was Joyce's voice; she had run upstairs before him, and now stood leaning on the banisters, her hair, as usual, falling out of its place, and making a gleam of brightness as the candle Mr. Kennedy had in his hand fell upon it. "Cousin Henry! if you are going to Monks-borough, I wonder if you could find a poor girl who is living there broken-hearted, and all because she has been shamefully and unjustly treated.""My dear little cousin, there are, I am afraid, many such broken-hearts in Monksborough. How am I to hit on the right one?""Her name is Janet Forbes; she lived at High Wycherly, and they say she stole some money. Her father is so dreadfully angry, he looks as if he could do anything to Mr. Macdonald. He came here the other day, and Pleasance saw him at High Wycherly; but, Cousin Henry, Evelyn says she believes Janet is quite innocent. Oh, I wish I knew the right address in Monksborough. I am certain you would not mind finding her out.""I should not mind any trouble if I could do any good; but I do not see how I can help her, even if I found her.""You might comfort her," Joyce said, "and hear her story, and then you might go to Mrs. Macdonald. She cares no more for her servants. I expect, than for sticks and stones.""Well, if you can get the right address for me, I shall probably be going to Monksborough again, and then I will see what can be done.""Thank you so much; and, Cousin Henry," Joyce said, tossing back her refractory hair, "I think I am glad you have come here now. I expect it will be a good thing for us all. When I said that—you know what I mean—last evening, I had not heard you preach or read the lessons, or speak so kindly to poor old Fenny Bush as she wound out her long story to you by the gate. Good night!"And then, afraid of leaving said too much, Joyce rushed away, scattering innumerable pins as she went. Her frank, outspoken words cheered a rattler heavy heart, for Mr. Kennedy had been full of misgivings as to whether he was justified in taking the living of Abbotsbourne, and he could not hide from himself that he felt almost as tired after that light Sunday work as he had done after a heavy one in the dim and crowded church at Birmingham. He had been out, as his mother said, in the highway s and hedges with ceaseless and untiring zeal, and had strained every nerve in the battle waged against the great evils of intemperance and sin, and the scarcely less evils of that subtle unbelief which is so often eating out the heart of our great populous towns, teaching the poor working-people to live as they like, for to-morrow they die and all is ended. There had never been a more loyal champion for the truth than Mr. Kennedy, and he had the sense of having been beaten in the battle, and obliged to give up a warfare for which he was physically unfit.The words of his impulsive young cousin, spoken out of the fulness of her heart, had given him fresh hope."If it is a little I can do, and if the power to do the greater is denied me, still I may do it cheerfully, and God loveth a cheerful giver, even if it be a gift no bigger than the widow's mite."That same Sunday evening Mr. Anderson returned to his home in Bromley with a light heart. He brought the good news that he had found exactly what was wanted at Abbotsbourne, and the only question now to be solved was how to accomplish the journey there."Well, father!" a cheery little voice said as Mr. Anderson opened the door of the room where Susie lay,—"Well, father! I am so glad you have come back. Are you very tired, father?""No, not a bit, my sweet one. Though I am an old man, I can walk almost as well as a young one.""Oh, father! you are not old—you are quite young.""Am I? Look at my grey hairs. But why are you alone here?""Mother is gone to church—I made her go—and Bruce went to bed early, that he might make his birthday come the sooner. Buff is six to-morrow, father. Have you forgotten? I have got him a present—I hope he will like it. Have you bought him anything?""Well, I confess I have not; but I have got a birthday treat in store for him and you, too, Susie. How would you like to go with Buff and mother to a pretty little room, where the roses look in at the window, and you can see——""The sky," Susie exclaimed, clapping her thin little hands, "and the trees.""Yes, plenty of sky, and, from the bedroom, the purple hills and a valley where cows and sheep are feeding.""Oh, father! is it true?" the child said, "is it really true? I shall be so glad to see something pretty; for though, when the sun shines, that house opposite gets rather a nice red colour, and the paces shine like gold stars in the upper windows, it 
is rather ugly when no sun shines on it.""You make your own sunshine, my Susie!" and he added tenderly, "and mine too!"The child looked up with the light of satisfied love in her sweet eyes."It's nice to hear you say that," she said."Now tell me about the little room and the roses, and everything."Mr. Anderson did as she asked him; and what with his graphic description of the church and the hills, and the pretty young ladies at a house called The Cottage, and Mrs. Batt's fine sandy cat with the fluffy tail, Susie went to sleep dreaming of all manner of delights, from which she was awoke, poor child, with one of the spasms of pain which seemed to take the very life out of her, and leave her weak and scarcely able to speak or move.She could take no interest in the plans which had delighted her so much the evening before, and to all questions from her mother as to whether she would not be pleased to go where all the flowers brew she loved so well, she could only answer "Yes."Poor Bruce, who was in the most exuberant spirits, was banished from Susie's room, and her elder brother, who came to kiss her, as was his custom before going to the office, went downstairs to his mother saying—"She is too ill to be moved, mother; it is cruel to attempt it; think how an old cab will jolt her.""Yes," Mrs. Anderson said; "if we could only have an easy carriage—one of the High Wycherly carriages, for instance.""Write and ask for it," the boy said promptly."You are too meek, mother. It is more than I can endure sometimes to see these people rolling through the town in their fine carriage, and that young fool Claude on his horse, while you, his mother's only sister, are struggling and striving, and left to get on as you can."Mrs. Anderson only smiled at this outburst from her son."My dear boy, indignation against my sister will not help us to go to Abbotsbourne. So, when you pass the Crown Inn as you come back to dinner, inquire what Mr. Chapman will charge to take us to Abbotsbourne to-morrow in the easiest fly he can provide for us."CHAPTER XI.SCHEMES.MR. KENNEDY returned from Monksborough in time for dinner, and was hailed by his mother with numberless questions. What had he done? what did the Bishop say? what were the poor Greenfields like? were they as badly off as he expected to find them? Mrs. Kennedy's fire of questions did not make so much impression on her son as might be supposed. He was so well accustomed to them, and in this he was different from Lady Victoria, who had been mercilessly attacked in turn with Corisande all day, and who had felt herself weary of the conflict.Mr. Kennedy said he had seen the Bishop, and had accepted the living; he had also seen a doctor, and he had told him that unless he husbanded his strength, it would end in his never being able to preach again."So," Mr. Kennedy said, "I shall have to get a curate, and then the services will not press heavily, and all outdoor work amongst the people, which takes me out over these lovely hills, will be good for me.""I can do so much visiting for you, Henry," his mother said. "You know I am a lay-curate. I am not sure whether it is wise to get a curate at all; what do you think, Victoria?""If Henry feels himself unequal to the whole work, I should say he was right to get assistance.""I have engaged the curate," Mr. Kennedy said quietly; "and Mr. Greenfield will come here while we are making our final preparations for departure at Birmingham."Mr. Greenfield! my dear Henry!" exclaimed his mother."Oh, I am so glad—so glad!" Joyce said. "How pleased he will be! It is so kind of you, Henry.""But is it wise?" Mrs. Kennedy rejoined; is it wise? What do you say, Victoria?"Poor Lady Victoria! these constant appeals were so wearisome; she began to feel that henceforth the even tenor of her life with her three girls would be disturbed; and dim ideas floated through her mind that she might leave The Cottage for a few months, and let Corisande, especially, have advantages in music and painting lessons."What do you say, Victoria?" Mrs. Kennedy repeated."I think Henry is the best judge of what it is best to do, and it will certainly be a very great help to poor Mr. Greenfield.""Yes; and there is Miss Greenfield at High Wycherly; now she will be able to leave Mrs. Macdonald," Pleasance said."I thought High Wycherly was so delightful in your eyes, Pleasance, that, once there, no one could ever wish to leave it."Pleasance plucked up spirit to answer Corisande, which she seldom did."I may admire High Wycherly, and—and Evelyn; and yet I may not wish to be a lady-help to Mrs. Macdonald.""Of course not," Joyce said; "as if it was likely!""Well," Mrs. Kennedy went on, determined to have the last word, "if we must have a curate, there are plenty to be had, for the asking, of a superior calibre to that poor depressed little man.""My dear mother, we may turn him into a bright and happy little man—who knows?"And then Mr. Kennedy added—"I think to-day I first understood what the distress of a poor clergyman must be. Ill-health and poverty are sad companions when they go hand-in-hand, as I have seen to-day."Lady Victoria now rose from the table, and Mrs. Kennedy was obliged to defer further discussion of Mr. Greenfield for the present. But when the three girls had turned into the garden for their accustomed stroll after dinner, Mr. Kennedy watched them as they separated.Corisande sat down, with a white shawl thrown carelessly over her shoulders, on the bench under the tulip-tree, and Joyce and Pleasance disappeared on their way to the knoll and the oak tree.Mr. Kennedy sat some time thinking over the events of the day, and the decision he had made. He saw in all that happened, not the chance-meeting of certain points bringing about a result, but the guiding Hand which is ready, if we will but follow it, to lead us in the right way."Yes," he thought, "I did not seek Abbotsbourne, nor did I strive to be free from the heavy work which was pressing me down. The way has opened, and by coming here I am able to shed brightness over a life saddened by many sorrows, and perhaps there may be a quickening influence at work in these beautiful hills which shall bear its fruit in years to come, when I have gone hence. Now, I must find my merry little cousin with the sunny locks, and tell her of the strange meeting with the very man she talked to me about. Joyce! what an appropriate name it is for her; and how Pleasance suits the little, soft, quiet sister with the dimples and smiles! And Corisande! Oh, my lady Corisande, you move in a very exalted sphere, and are somewhat of an enigma as you sit there in your white garments under the tulip-tree."And with that magnetic influence upon her, which we have all felt when some one we are looking at suddenly becomes conscious of it, Corisande looked up from her book and saw Mr. Kennedy's eyes fixed on her."It is a lovely evening," she said in her quiet, calm voice like her mother's, but with a ring of greater strength in it. "Won't you come out?""Yes," was the answer, "I was just coming. Surely there never was a lovelier June than this. What will July bring us?""Rain every day, I expect, beginning with three hot days and a thunderstorm. Yes, mother!"For a voice was heard calling her name, and Corisande, gathering her shawl round her, stepped up to the verandah with the dignity of a woman rather than the agile spring of a girl of seventeen, and disappeared.Mr. Kennedy avoided passing the drawing-room window, and went round by a path leading to the back of the house, and then on by the kitchen-garden to the knoll."I shall find the other two there," he thought, and he was not disappointed.When Joyce saw him, she sprang down from her perch in the oak-tree, and no hair caught in the branches this time."Oh, Cousin Henry, I am so glad you are come. Shall I help you up to sit by Pleasance?""Now, really, I am not quite so stiff in the oints as that," Mr. Kennedy said; and, taking hold of a branch, he swung himself into a convenient fork just below Pleasance.Joyce was up to her own perch again in a moment, and exclaimed—"This is nice! Now tell us everything.""I am going to ask a favour first, before I tell you anything. One of you three——""Oh," exclaimed Joyce, "you must not call us 'you three' or 'those three,' as Corisande will say you are taking a liberty.""Nonsense! Joyce," Pleasance interrupted; "it is quite different with Cousin Henry." Then, with a heightened colour, Pleasance said, "Evelyn Macdonald used to call us 'those three' before she knew us, and before she cared for me.""Now," said Mr. Kennedy, shifting his position a little and looking up at Pleasance, "this is very fortunate. I was just going to ask which of you three was Miss Macdonald's especial friend, because I want to be taken to High Wycherly to-morrow, and introduced in due form as the Rector of Abbotsbourne, who hopes to be inducted and in residence in a month's time.""Oh, I daresay mother will let us have the pony-carriage, if you can drive, Cousin Henry. It only holds two comfortably besides the one who drives.""But I want to come," Joyce said; "it will be such a good chance for me to see the house, and Claude Macdonald told me he would take me to the pond for some more water-lilies, if I came.""Well, we must ask mother," Pleasance said doubtfully. "If Cousin Henry really wishes to go to High Wycherly, I daresay mother won't mind so much. She does not visit Mrs. Macdonald, and that is why she does not care for us to go there—at least, I think so.""Well, we must try to manage it," Mr. Kennedy said; "for, Joyce, I wish to talk to Mrs. Macdonald about Janet Forbes.""About Janet Forbes! Did you hear anything about her?""Yes, a great deal," Mr. Kennedy said; "and heard her sad story from her father's lips.""Oh, how did you find him out?" Joyce asked, leaning forward so far on her perch that Pleasance called out—"Take care, Joy, take care! Please tell us all about it, Cousin Henry.""Well, as you know, I went to see Mr. Greenfield's house; and just as we had reached his door, a man—not a pleasant-looking man at all—with an angry defiant manner, accosted him.""The same man! the same man!" Joyce exclaimed. "Go on!""Yes; Janet Forbes's father. He accosted Mr. Greenfield roughly, and was sparing of courtesy, poor fellow! He demanded to know whether Miss Greenfield had done anything about his girl. She lived in the grand house, and for all he knew she might be the thief, for a thief he is certain there must be at High Wycherly. Poor Greenfield seemed really afraid of the man, and said he had continually been lying in wait for him on Mondays, when he knew he had been in these parts. I said if he told me his story, I would try to do something for him, but that he was not likely to gain any sympathy if he persisted in that defiant manner.""My daughter is gone," he said; "injustice has broken the heart of my poor girl. Last Christmas she was so bright and happy, coming home with presents for her mother and the children, and now she has been missing since last Friday, and is dead or starving. God help her!""Oh, did you go and see her mother, Cousin Henry?""Yes; and I believe the girl to be innocent of the theft. All that I shall ask is, that the case may be thoroughly investigated, and a search made for the girl. I am going to Mrs. Macdonald to try to wake her to a sense of her responsibility."Then Pleasance said in almost a frightened tone, "Oh, Cousin Henry, Mrs. Macdonald won't like it. She will be—well, very disagreeable.""As if that mattered!" said Joyce. "I should not care for fifty Mrs. Macdonalds, if I were Cousin Henry; and I don't care, as it is. She would never frighten me.""Then I have something else to tell you. You heard me say Mr. Greenfield was to be my curate. I think I shall let him live at the Rectory with his mother and wife and two children. It is a big house, and there will be heaps of room for every one.""Why, Cousin Henry, you are splendid!" said Joyce. "It will be quite like a new place, with so many people in it. I wonder what mother will say,""I rather wonder what my mother will say," Mr. Kennedy replied. "I must now tell her what I have determined to do; and I want you, Joyce, to arrange about our expedition to High Wycherly.""Evelyn would come over and fetch us, if she only knew," Pleasance said. "Zoe, her pony, goes like the wind; but we can't let her know in time.""I don't think we could ask her to come, even if there was time," Joyce said. "Perhaps you might do so, but no one else could. Still," said Joyce, "I'll manage it, 'by hook or by crook,' as Margaret says when she is determined to do anything."She did manage it, and so well that the little pony-carriage came round after luncheon the next day, and, to Joyce's supreme delight, permission was given for her to drive with Mr. Kennedy and Pleasance to High Wycherly.Joyce looked radiant as she took her seat by Mr. Kennedy's side, and Pleasance was quietly happy in the back-seat.Corisande and her mother turned away as the carriage drove off, the old grey pony by no means rivalled Zoe's speed, but trotting at an even pace, in that steady plodding fashion for which horses to be driven by ladies are supposed to be famous."The three hot days seem likely to end in a thunderstorm," Mr. Kennedy said, as, ascending the first hill out of Abbotsbourne, they could see the horizon bounded by a bank of dark clouds, from which every now and then a scud of stormy white messengers floated away upwards, as if announcing the coming of the heavy mountainous masses below."I don't think the storm will come our way," Joyce said; "it would never do to turn back.""I don't know," Pleasance said. "I am rather afraid of thunderstorms.""You are afraid of so many things, Pleasance," Joyce said, laughing; and Mr. Kennedy, looking at the bright young face at his side, exclaimed—"I expect you are like that boy who asked what fear was, Joyce—Lord Nelson.""I believe I am afraid of some things, but nothing outside me, if you know what I mean.""Of course I do. Many people have physical courage who have not moral courage; but if you had asked me, I should have said you had a fair share of both.""Here comes a cab with a box on the top," exclaimed Pleasance. "Who can it be?"The road was narrow, and Mr. Kennedy had to draw up to the side to let the cab pass, when Pleasance exclaimed—"It is Mrs. Anderson and Susie. Mrs. Batt said she had let the lodgings to them."Mrs. Anderson supported Susie with her arm, her feet resting on the opposite seat, while by the coachman's side sat, like a vision of beauty, little Bruce Anderson.Pleasance kissed her hand and nodded, and Bruce immediately responded by shouting in his loud but not uumusical treble—"Mother, mother! here is the girl who came to see us. Mother, mother!"Mrs. Anderson smiled at Pleasance—rather a sad smile, for Susie's little pale face, lying against her shoulder, was drawn into lines with the pain the motion of the cab gave her. Mrs. Anderson, hopeful and buoyant as she was, had many misgivings as to whether she had done right in bringing Susie away from home, dull and dreary as that home looked in the bright summer weather, when all the rejoicing sights and sounds of the country are so delightfully in harmony with it. And as the fly rumbled on along the rough country roads, Mrs. Anderson could only pray that the fulfilment of her desires for her sick child might not be full of danger, and that Nannie's words as they drove off might after all be true—"Sick folks and sick children are best at home.""Is not that boy lovely?" Pleasance asked of Joyce. "I never saw any child so lovely.""Yes," Mr. Kennedy said; "a little Lord Fauntleroy, with all that hair flowing down his back. I am afraid I would rather see a boy of that age in a serge suit with a cropped head; the little girl in the cab looked very ill.""Yes," Joyce exclaimed; "and, Cousin Henry, do imagine the Macdonalds never doing anything to help such near relations! They ought to have taken that girl to High Wycherly, and sent one of their grand carriages for her; they must all be heartless and unkind.""Evelyn is very kind to little Susie," Pleasance said, rising on the defensive. "Don't say all, please."CHAPTER XII.RESCUE.CLAUDE MACDONALD was lying stretched out on the lawn with his straw hat tilted over his eyes, that hot afternoon. Evelyn was leaning back in the dolce far niente luxury which on sultry days, it must be confessed, is always a temptation. Evelyn's book had fallen on the rug by her side, and she was too hot or too lazy to pick it up."There is the sound of wheels on the drive," Claude said; "some stupid people come to call because they want afternoon-tea. I say, Eve, did you remember the ices?""Yes," Miss Greenfield said; "we should have them, but it is not five o'clock yet."Claude yawned and rolled over on one side. Presently, Evelyn saw a footman advancing, evidently with a message."Oh, dear," she said, "mother has sent for me to talk to some visitors. How tiresome!""Don't go," said Claude promptly; but in a moment the attitude of both brother and sister was changed as the footman said—"The Miss Frasers are in the drawing-room, and a gentleman."Evelyn was on her feet in a moment."I hope it is Pleasance," she said."And I hope it is the other girl," said Claude.Evelyn smoothed her hair back from her forehead, picked up her hat, which had been lying with the book on the grass, and saying to her brother—"I advise you to make yourself tidy before you come into the drawing-room," she went towards the house.In the delightfully cool room, dimly lighted, with the blinds drawn down, and the open windows behind them admitting what little air there was, Evelyn found Joyce and Pleasance sitting in silence, and her mother talking to Mr. Kennedy. Mrs. Macdonald had not the art of putting any one at their ease; and Mr. Kennedy, after the rather overdone rapture of welcome as Lady Victoria's nephew and the new Rector of Abbotsbourne, began to feel that he should find it difficult to open the mission on which he had come."Perhaps it would have been better to write," he was thinking, when Evelyn's entrance followed by Claude made a diversion.Evelyn sprang upon Pleasance and kissed her with enthusiasm, while Joyce stood a little apart, not so sure of her welcome.It came soon after from Claude, who immediately asked her if she were come to get the water-lilies, and if it was not too awfully hot he would take her at once to the pond."We are going to have a rattling thunderstorm," he said, "so we had better make haste. Will you come?""Oh, wait a little, Claude!" Evelyn said, while Mrs. Macdonald exclaimed in a deprecating tone—"My dear boy! do not drag Miss Fraser off till we have had tea. I will order it in the conservatory, for the sound of the fountain there makes it seem cool. It is so oppressively hot to-day.""Let us go and get the lilies first," Claude said; "Joyce wants to have them.""Joyce! really, Claude, you are very disrespectful to Miss Fraser. I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before, I think," Mrs. Macdonald said, "Your sister is a friend of my Evelyn, but I have heard of you often from poor Mademoiselle. She did get so captious and so hysterical, I really had to ask her to leave us; but she had a perfect accent, though sadly remiss in the routine of teaching. I daresay you found that out.""Oh, no, we didn't," Joyce said. "We liked Mademoiselle very much, and were very sorry to lose her; only mother did not wish to prevent her from coming here.""How good and sweet of Lady Victoria! Well, but I cannot say she has any reason to regret Mademoiselle.""Mother, I want to take Miss Fraser to the pond, and we will come back to tea. Eve, you had better come also. Won't you?""What do you say, Pleasance? Shall we go?""If you like," Pleasance said; then, in a lower tone, "I don't mind where I go, if I am with you."Poor little Pleasance had the heroine-worship which is, perhaps, not so common in these days as it was a generation back. It is amusing to notice, while it lasts, that the worshipper can see no fault in the idol, and resents from any one else the idea that such a fault can exist. It is also remarkable that any two girls who entertain this devotion for each other are almost invariably as complete contrasts as were Evelyn Macdonald and Pleasance Fraser. Perhaps it is this contrast that gives a zest to the friendship of which similarity would deprive it."What is Mr. Kennedy come for?" Evelyn asked, as the two girls walked together towards the pond.Pleasance did not know whether she ought to 
"There are no sunny hours to mark to-day. The poor old thing has a
dark time of it." —Page 161.Illustration included in Marshall's Those
Three.repeat what Mr. Kennedy had said to her and Joyce the night before."I think," she began, "he wished to know you, and I think he saw that old servant of yours yesterday at Monksborough.""Not Janet Forbes!"Pleasance assented."I am so glad," Evelyn said. "I am continually thinking about her, and wondering what can be dome. But it will be no use talking to mother. Father might listen, but mother! Well, she is always against the servants—never for them, people say——"Then Evelyn stopped. She was too loyal to her mother to finish her sentence, which was to the effect that those who served Mrs. Macdonald were always thought in the wrong.As they passed the old sundial Evelyn said—"There are no sunny hours to mark to-day. The poor old thing has a dark time of it. How black the sky is! I believe we shall have an awful storm. Did you come in an open carriage?""Yes; our little pony-carriage.""Oh, then you'll have to stay here all night. That will be delightful!""I am sure we shall not do that," Pleasance said. "We shall have to get home somehow.""Do you like your cousin, Mr. Kennedy?" Evelyn asked, "because I like him, though he did say strange things to me on Sunday evening.""Disagreeable things?" Pleasance asked anxiously."True things," was the answer; "not exactly disagreeable. I suppose a clergyman has the right to speak plainly. I like him all the better for it in my heart.""He is very generous and good," Pleasance said. "He is going to keep poor Mr. Greenfield as a curate, and bring the whole family to live in Abbotsbourne.""What a nuisance for you," Evelyn said; "though I am glad for our poor Greeny, as I call her. But I know from what she has said that her sister-in-law is whiny-pink, and her mother, worn out by her own illness, has to put up with a great deal, and one of the children is delicate, and both are troublesome. So that is not a fascinating picture of the Greenfield family, is it? Where are they to live?""I believe Cousin Henry means to take them into the Rectory. He says there is plenty of room.""I never heard of such a thing; but his mother will interfere to prevent it; she has a will of her own, hasn't she?""Aunt Grace is a very clever woman, mother says."I should think she was a managing person, who will keep you all in order. She looks bright and clever enough.""I have not told you yet," Pleasance went on, "that we met your poor little cousin on her way to Abbotsbourne in a rumbling old cab. She did look so dreadfully ill, and I am sure she must have felt the bumping and thumping of that old carriage. The lovely little boy was on the box. He islovely—quite beautiful."Evelyn's face clouded over, and she said—"Yes, he is a pretty child," and then began to talk of something else.Pleasance felt that she did not wish her to say more about Bruce, but she did not know what was really passing in her mind."We ought to have sent a carriage for Susie. To think of her being taken to a little pokey lodging at Abbotsbourne, while we here have this great house with only a few rooms in use! How different we are from Mr. Kennedy, who is taking in people who have absolutely no claim whatever upon him, while the Andersons are our near relations, and we neglect them—shamefully neglect them!"Thus it was that Evelyn thought, but she would not have put these thoughts into words, wisely acknowledging that family quarrels were better kept for the ears of those who had a share in them, and not held up as a target for the outer world to shoot at with the sharp arrows of bitter criticism.When Evelyn and Pleasance reached the bank of the pond, Claude and Joyce were already in the boat, and punting round to the place where the lilies were in abundance. The pool looked so dark and solemn, shut in by the thick undergrowth of the plantation on every side, while at the farthest end a group of Scotch firs stood up like sentinels on guard. From the topmost branches of the firs there came the sighing of wind, which is so like the distant murmur of the sea, but all else was profoundly still; the birds were silent, and everything seemed asleep. There was a faint drip from the pole as Claude lazily raised it and dipped it in the water."Are you two coming into the boat?" Claude asked."No; we will wait here; it is too hot to move more than is necessary. Let us sit down and talk," Evelyn said. "I want to know if Lady Victoria thought us dreadfully in the way on Sunday evening. I hope you told her we were made to come; it was very cool, I must say, to stay to supper as we did. The only misfortune was we were very late getting home, and Miss Greenfield caught the scolding, though I deserved it. But I don't think poor Greeny minded; she was in such delight at having seen her brother; and I shall never forget how happy she looked by his side at supper—really quite pretty. She has usually such a trod-upon air, as if every minute she was expecting to be called to account for something she has done or not done.""Does she know what Cousin Henry means to do, I wonder?" Pleasance said."No I think not. Perhaps Mr. Kennedy will tell her before he leaves this evening.""Now," Evelyn said, getting herself into a comfortable position on the bench, with her arm round Pleasance, "let us have a nice quiet talk. I have been thinking a great deal the last few days of the differences in people's lives, and I can't understand it. I can't see it all means Love, as good people say it does, and that God has done all for the best. Why, Pleasance," Evelyn said, "I am sure I don't deserve all I have a bit more, nor so much as Miss Greenfield, for instance. I am not contented, or thankful, or religious. Yet here I am, with everything that ought to make life beautiful, and after all it is not beautiful to me. It is true what your cousin said on Sunday. I want something—there's a want at the bottom of it all. Do you understand, you dear little thing? No, I don't thick you can understand; you are so sweet and good; and I am sure that line in the verse you repeated to me last time you were here is true of you, 'Little things on little wings.'"But Pleasance stopped Evelyn."Please don't," she said. "I am not in the least like rising upwards on those little wings. But," Pleasance added presently, "I do not often think of myself at all—I mean, not what I am or what I am not. So please do not talk about me, as if I were worth talking about.""I shall talk about you if I choose," Evelyn said; "it's no use pretending you are not good-tempered, for instance, or meek, when Corisande, the eldest of 'those three,' you know, is aggravating; nor clever, when you can write poetry and stories. You know you told me you had written a story. I daresay you have got something new to read me in your pocket, written by yourself. Out with it!"Pleasance laughed her gentle silvery laugh."I don't know how it is that you guessed I had something to read to you, but it is true. Only it is not my own; it is something much better than any thoughts of mine." And then Pleasance pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from the depths of her pocket, out of which fell one of the few letters she had ever received from Evelyn."Why, that is my letter," Evelyn said. "Why do you keep such rubbish? and that big crest and cypher, which I begin to detest. Let me scatter it to the four winds of heaven," she said, snatching it from Pleasance's hand."Oh, no, no!" Pleasance said. "I love it—I love it, because it is the letter that made me think first you cared for me.""Care for you! I should think I did. Well, keep the old letter if you like, for there are not four winds blowing to bear it away. I think it gets hotter and more sultry every minute, and there must be a storm brewing. Come, make haste and read what you brought to read, and then we had better go indoors, and call these people who are angling for water-lilies. How well they suit each other! It is not often that like likes like, is it? Here is an instance," she added, giving Pleasance's hand a little sudden squeeze."This is translated from the Swedish," Pleasance began,—"I think it says adapted. I copied it from a newspaper which Aunt Grace brought with her on Saturday. I think it is so beautiful, and heaps of thoughts come as I read it.""It's suggestive, you mean," Evelyn said quickly."Yes; I could not get the right word. Suggestive—it is suggestive."Then Pleasance read:11 This beautiful parable of nature is adapted from the Swedish by Carola Blacker.—"One day when the birds had sung themselves

quite weary, a long pause ensued, broken at last by a philosophical chaffinch in these words—"What is life?"They were all rather startled at this interruption, but a little warbler answered at once—"Life is a song!""No; it is a struggle in darkness," said a mole, who had just succeeded in getting his head above the ground."I think it is a development," said a wild rosebud, as she unfolded her petals one by one, to the delight of a butterfly, who came to kiss her, and who exclaimed—"Life is all enjoyment!""Call it rather a short summer's day," hummed a little fly as it passed by."I cannot see anything but hard work," was the lamentation of a small ant, as she struggled on with a straw ever so much too big for her.The magpie only laughed, to cover his own poverty of thought. The general indignation at such levity might easily have produced a quarrel, had not at that moment the rain begun to fall, whispering sadly—"Life is made up of tears.""You are all mistaken," called out the eagle, as he sailed through the air on his majestic wings; "life is freedom and strength."Meanwhile it had grown dark, and a practically-minded bullfinch proposed that they should all go to rest.And the night-wind rustled softly through the branches—"Life is a dream."Silence lay over town and country, and the dawn was near, when the scholar in his lonely room extinguished his lamp and sighed—"Life is but a school."While the youth returning from a night of revelry moaned in his heart—"Life is one long desire, ever unfulfilled.""It is an eternal mystery," whispered fitfully the new-born morning breeze.Then suddenly a rosy light spread over the horizon, and tinged with its glow the tops of the forest-trees as it rose in the sky. And as the morning kissed the awakening earth, a mighty harmony rang through the world—"Life is a beginning.""A beginning," Evelyn repeated, "a beginning!" Her large lustrous eyes were full of almost anxious questioning."The beginning, Pleasance! what does it mean?""It means—at least I think it means—that this life is the beginning of the eternal life God has given us in Christ. He says it is a gift, and that He gives it; and He would not have called it eternal if this life had been meant—meant only."Evelyn was silent, then she said—"Some of us are like the mole, struggling in darkness, like me; and some like the little ant, with the straw too heavy for it, like Miss Greenfield; and some like the eagle, who sailed through the air free and strong. But there are not many such people. Oh, dear," said Evelyn, suddenly rising, but still holding Pleasance in a strong embrace, "after all, that life is a mystery is nearest the truth.""It will not always be a mystery," Pleasance said quietly. "I feel as if one day we should know so much more, and that now we know what is enough for us to know."And now two or three great drops of rain, the first of the coming thunder-shower, fell with a sudden plump into the pond, making dark and ever-widening circles as they fell."We must go indoors now. Where are those two? Claude!" Evelyn called; and Claude shouted back—"All right!"Then, just as the old boat came in sight round the corner from the farther pool, from behind a great wall of reeds and rushes, the two girls heard a great splash, a cry from Joyce, and in an instant Claude had thrown the pole to Joyce and had plunged into the water."What is it? what is it?" Evelyn cried, while she and Pleasance ran to the spot, opposite the boat."A girl has slipped into the water, and Claude has jumped in after her. Where is he? where is he? They will both be drowned."Then Evelyn exclaimed in an agony of distress, "Claude! Claude!"And almost immediately Claude's head appeared above the dark waters of the pool, struggling with a burden, and half choked with the weeds which lay on the surface, where lie had come up. Joyce did not lose her presence of mind; she punted as near the spot as she could, and held the pole towards Claude. He could speak now, and seizing the pole with one hand, he said—"To the bank! I have her fast, but I can't hold her much longer."Then putting out all her strength, Joyce held the pole fast, and the boat floated towards the place where Evelyn stood, who saying to Pleasance, "Put your arms round my waist—hold me tight," stepped down the bank to the edge of the water, and holding out both hands to her brother, she said—"Take hold! We can pull you up!"It was a moment of peril, for Evelyn knew how the bank shelved down into the water, and that if she failed to hold her brother up with his burden, they would all slip back together. But help was given to Pleasance, as if in answer to her unspoken prayer, and putting forth all her strength, she held Evelyn fast; and as Claude let go the pole Joyce had held so valiantly, he, with his senseless burden, was dragged up the bank, where he lay exhausted; and Evelyn, with a cry of amazement and distress as she looked at the pale motionless face before her, said—"Quick! run to the house, Pleasance, for help, for this girl is Janet Forbes!"CHAPTER XIII.DISCLOSURES.WHEN Mr. Kennedy was left alone with Mrs. Macdonald, he began to feel the awkwardness of his position. It was not a pleasant task which he had set himself to do, he thought, and he knew he might be misinterpreted by the handsome and well-dressed lady of the house, whose sympathy for and interest in Janet Forbes he was to try to enlist.Mrs. Macdonald had a long string of small nothings always at command, and she almost rivalled Mrs. Kennedy in the multitude of her questions."I am sure," Mrs. Macdonald said, when they returned from the conservatory to the drawing-room, now almost dark, not only from the shrouded windows, but from the darkened sky,—"I am sure Lady Victoria must be delighted to have you as near neighbours at Abbotsbourne. I think it is a most fortunate arrangement for the Frasers. Those three girls are, as you know and every one knows, very attractive. At least," Mrs. Macdonald said, correcting herself, "I ought to say two of those three, for the eldest daughter is so reserved, like her mother, that I simply know nothing of her. I believe she is very clever—at least, so Mademoiselle Forêt always said; but she is not attractive, like her sisters. I really forgot I was speaking to a near relative of the Miss Frasers. I hope you will excuse me." Then, before Mr. Kennedy could begin his subject, Mrs. Macdonald went on, "I am sure it will be an excellent thing for Abbotsbourne in every way that you should take up your residence there. The only regret one must feel about it is that your health has rendered the change necessary. You must be very careful of cast winds in March and April; they blow with great force over our barren hills. But a country life has many advantages over a town life. There is often a great deal of illness at Bromley, and lately the scarlet fever has prevailed at Monksborough."At last there was a chance for Mr. Kennedy to start his subject. In a momentary pause, occasioned by a sharp reprimand to the footman for drawing up one of the blinds only half-way, Mr. Kennedy took up the conversation with the name of Monksborough."I was at Monksborough yesterday," he said. "I went to see Mr. Greenfield's family, to ascer-tain whether I could carry out a plan I had for bringing them to Abbotsbourne, and I came across a poor man about whose daughter I wish to speak to you.""Does she want an order for the hospital? Mr. Macdonald is a liberal subscriber to all charitable institutions, and last summer we had a bazaar on the lawn for the funds of the Children's Hospital at Bromley."Again Mr. Kennedy began to feel it hard to edge in a word, but he made a sudden and bold plunge—"The girl I mean is named Janet Forbes; she was dismissed from your service on the suspicion that she was dishonest.""Oh, Janet Forbes, one of the under-housemaids. Yes, she stole a brooch—not a very valuable one, but the theft was the same—and some gold in a box carelessly left unlocked on my dressing-table was taken at the same time.""Had you direct proof that this girl was guilty?""Well, she looked so guilty when taxed with it, first turning red then pale; and on examining her box, a savings-bank book was discovered with an entry in it the day after the loss of the money.""Were her wages paid at that time?""I really cannot say. I daresay they were; but the housekeeper and Miss Greenfield always pay the under-servants.""Will you kindly inquire about this, and have it thoroughly investigated?""I think all that has been done," Mrs. Macdonald said. Her smile was fading, and she twisted the heavy gold bracelets on her wrists in an irritable manner. "Really," she said, "such things do not make much impression on me. We have so often to dismiss servants, they are such an unsatisfactory race.""They have faults like ourselves," Mr. Kennedy said. "I hope you will pardon me for what may seem interference—unwarrantable interference, but the story as told me by the girl's father touched me. The girl has disappeared from her home; she has been in a miserably morbid condition ever since she left your service. You refused to sign her character, and told those who applied for it she was dishonest.""Of course I did," said Mrs. Macdonald, with an exultant smile. "Of course I did; and if the truth was more frequently told in characters of servants, there would be less trouble in large households,—or in small ones also, for that matter.""No one is guilty by the law of England till he is proved guilty by evidence. You must pardon me if I seem presumptuous in advising you at once to take steps to prove this girl's guilt or innocence.""My confidential maid, who lived with the Countess Beaulieu, is quite convinced Janet was the thief. She never liked the girl,—she was always complaining and gloomy; and I believe her father is a dangerous character—he has been ordered off the premises several times.""Her father has been embittered by what he conceives to be injustice. Allowance must be made for him, though I am far from attempting to excuse his defiant attitude. Still, I do beg you to consider if the girl is innocent you have a great responsibility. Her brain seems to have been affected; there is no knowing what may have become of her; the police have been applied to at Monksborough, but when I left it last evening, no trace of her had been found."Mrs. Macdonald's irritation now got the better of her politeness."Really, Mr. Kennedy, I think we must drop the subject, if you please. My husband is absent, and he is the proper person to apply to. I must say you forget yourself a little.""Mr. Macdonald has been applied to," Mr. Kennedy persisted. "He offered the father money, but money will not bring back a good character. The poor girl has sent help to her ailing, mother, saved out of her wages, and has been a good and dutiful daughter.""I daresay! I daresay!" Mrs. Macdonald said angrily. "At my expense! However, it is a lesson to me to insist on everything being kept under lock and key. Indeed, everything is locked up; I never allow my drawers to be unlocked—handkerchiefs and gloves may disappear. I really think," Mrs. Macdonald continued, "the girls ought to come in, it is beginning to rain. You must stay and dine, and——"Mrs. Macdonald was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of Pleasance, gentle Pleasance, in a state of wild terror and excitement."Come! come at once!" she said. "Cousin Henry, come!"She was too breathless to speak coherently."What has happened?" Mrs. Macdonald said. "Evelyn, Claude—pray speak, Miss Fraser."Poor Pleasance gasped for breath, and Mr. Kennedy put his arm kindly round her saying—"Try to tell me what has happened.""Somebody is drowned in the pond.""Drowned in the pond!" A scream from Mrs. Macdonald rang through the room just as a loud peal of thunder rolled in the distance, shaking the house and making the windows rattle. "Evelyn! Claude! Why don't you speak, child? Who is it?""It's not Evelyn—it's a girl who—they want help—it's not Joyce."Mr. Kennedy waited no longer. He rushed away, while Mrs. Macdonald rang the bell furiously, wrung her hands, and entirely lost her presence of mind. The footman, hearing her scream, had already appeared, followed by another servant and the butler."Go—go—to the pond," Mrs. Macdonald said; "somebody is drowned. How stupid you are to stand staring at me! Go, I say!"Pleasance had in some measure recovered her breath, and, with trembling limbs and beating heart, set out to return to the pond; but the power to do so failed her. She was still shaking with suppressed emotion, ready to cry, but determined not to give way before the group of servants in the hall; while Mrs. Macdonald had sunk down on one of the velvet-covered lounges which were placed under the windows, fanning herself and sniffing at a bottle of salts the great Mr. Carter had brought down.Pleasance felt a strange recoil from Mrs. Macdonald, and stood apart, leaning against the door watching for tidings from the pond. Meanwhile, the storm drew on apace; lightning played on the inky clouds, which seemed now to be brooding over the house."They are coming," Pleasance said now. "Evelyn and Joyce are coming, and they are carrying her home.""Home! who are they carrying? You have deceived me; it is Evelyn," Mrs. Macdonald cried."I dare not look. Oh, how could you deceive me, Miss Fraser!""I did not deceive you; it is not Evelyn or Joyce."There was a murmur of exclamation from the assembled servants as one of the footmen came into the hall saying, "It is poor Janet—it is poor Janet; she has been and drowned herself."It seemed to Pleasance that the procession from the pond was moving very slowly; but at last two of the men-servants came in and laid the dripping figure of Janet Forbes upon a lounge like that on which Mrs. Macdonald lay."Is she dead?" was the first question which broke the solemn silence, and Mr. Kennedy replied—"No, thank God, she is not dead. I have despatched a servant for a doctor, and meanwhile we must do our best to restore animation."Claude now came in with his wet clothes hanging to him, and Evelyn and Joyce with him.Evelyn sprang to her mother, who held out her arms and burst into tears; for the crust of the world's selfishness had not destroyed the strong instinct of maternal love."Oh, Evelyn! I thought it was you. Such a shock—such a terrible shock! And Claude, my dear, brave boy, what a state you are in!""I am all right, mother," Claude said; "a ducking is nothing; it was those weeds which nearly choked me!""You dear, brace boy," his mother repeated; and Claude said—"You should praise the girls. Joyce held on to the pole, and the other two pulled us up the bank. But I say, mother, it is Janet Forbes. It is a queer story.""Telegraph for your father. Let some one send him a message at once. Poor unhappy girl! what will not sin lead to?"Mr. Kennedy turned round and said sternly—"I think shame, and perhaps unmerited disgrace, have to answer for this. Let us thank God her life is spared."Mr. Kennedy's self-possession and knowledge of what to do surprised the servants.His orders were given clearly, and no one thought of disobeying them. Blankets and hot-water bottles were fetched at once, and the two maidservants, who were instructed to rub Janet's back and move her arms up and down as she was turned over on her side, did as they were told; and by the time the doctor arrived, who had been happily caught on his rounds, the poor girl had opened her eyes and regular inspiration had set in.Mrs. White, the housekeeper, led the way to one of the servants' bedrooms, and there poor Janet was put to bed, and the doctor returning in half an hour, said she was recovering fast, and that he hoped no ill effects would follow, but he added—"She is very thin, and has, I fear, had some severe illness. Was her falling into the pond accidental, or, as I fear, intentional?"No one answered the doctor's question; perhaps no one liked to answer it."Well," he said, "I will come in again to-morrow. I have given your housekeeper directions, Mrs. Macdonald, for I believe the girl is one of your servants.""She was once in my service. but left it in disgrace.The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "I thought something was preying on her mind," he said; and then he was preparing to depart, when the violence of the storm was so great that to leave the house was impossible.A tremendous hurricane raged across the terraces and garden, and the flashes of lightning were almost continuous; the very heavens seemed on fire.Joyce was the only one who dared to look at the storm. Evelyn and Pleasance sat with their arms round each other, and Mrs. Macdonald, with her face buried in the cushions of the sofa, put her fingers in her ears as every crack of heaven's artillery burst over them."Something has been blown down," Claude said, as he came into the hall after changing his wet clothes. "It is one of the ornaments off the roof of the conservatory.""Don't, don't look—don't go out," Mrs. Macdonald cried. "Oh, my dear boy, I am so frightened; it is awful!"Joyce was standing with Mr. Kennedy near the door, which had two glass panels and opened on the terrace."You are not afraid?" he said."No," Joyce answered. "I like to watch the lightning, it is so grand;" and then a flash more vivid than ever played through the hall behind them, and was followed instantly by a crash overhead, which seemed as if it must be the climax of the storm.Joyce put her hand to her eyes. "That was a flash," she said; and at the same moment one of the servants exclaimed—"The tulip-tree is struck! Look!"And now the deluge of rain changed to hail, and the noise became deafening. Mr. Kennedy gently drew Joyce array from the door, and said anxiously—"Did that flash dazzle you?"Joyce rubbed her eyes and said, "Yes, I think it did rather; but never mind.""I think I must go up to that poor girl lying alone, just rescued from death, and pray with her; she is so deeply to be pitied."Then Mr. Kennedy asked one of the servants to show him the way to the servants' rooms, and so great was the tumult outside and the noise, that no one seemed to notice his departure.Joyce went to one of the easy-chairs, and hid her face in the cushion."So you are afraid at last," Claude said, going up to her. "I never saw such pluck as yours. If you had been a screaming sort of girl, I could not have saved Janet Forbes. I say, Joyce, are you hurt, or what?""I've got a headache rather, that's all. Somehow that last flash seemed to go through my head.""I am awfully sorry," he said, repeating, "I never saw such pluck as yours, never.""Except your own," Joyce said. "You have saved a life, which every one can't say they have done.""Oh, that's all stuff and nonsense," Claude replied, with boyish impatience at being praised."It doesn't want much pluck to jump into a fishpond, I hope; but I'll get those weeds cleared a bit; they are pretty nasty, and the poor thing herself was nearly choked.""I wonder what will be done about her," Joyce said."She shall have justice, at any rate; I'll see to that," the boy rejoined.CHAPTER XIV.THE WRECKAGE.As soon as the fury of the storm abated, which was not till past seven o'clock, there was a great gathering on the lawn of all the men-servants about the place, to ascertain what mischief had been done. The tulip-tree lay charred and split up the trunk, its branches scattered about, and the leaves and blossoms, which are so beautiful in June days, scorched and shrivelled. The flowerbeds were a wreck. The hail had beaten down the heads of carnations and petunias, and they lay in disconsolate heaps, their supporting sticks scattered in all directions.The old sundial alone seemed to have defied the power of the storm to make any impression on its steadfast stone pillar, and as a ray of western sunshine darted from behind a great battalion of inky clouds, the hand, as ever, kept its promise, and marked ' ye sunny hour."Thompson had been much concerned for the conservatory. Many panes of glass were broken by the hailstones, which he declared were as big as pigeons' eggs; and alas! for his pride in the white orchid! One ruthless blow from a jagged lump of ice had broken the main stem of the delicate plant, and the rare blossom lay sadly hanging over the side of the pot.A large piece of ornamental stone-work had been hurled from the coping above the conservatory, and Thompson was seen to pick it up as he came with a dejected air from the contemplation of his spoiled orchids."What has Thompson found?" Evelyn exclaimed; "he is showing something to Claude."She was standing by the window of the drawing-room with Pleasance, watching the men picking up the numberless bits of sticks and stones which strewed the lawn.Presently Claude came quickly towards the house, let the great entrance-door bang behind hull, and rushed into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Macdonald had retreated to a sofa from the hall, and Joyce had taken a place near her."Look here!" Claude cried in a triumphant voice, "look here, Eve! You will be glad. I say, it is true that it's an ill wind that blows nobody good. This wind has blown poor Janet Forbes good, and no mistake," and then Claude showed, cunningly wedged into a corner of the ornament, a shining something! and Eve exclaimed—"The brooch! the brooch! I see it all; that tame jackdaw you had at Easter, Claude, is the thief. Mother, mother! Janet was innocent!""My dear Evelyn, my dear Claude, don't shout like that. I am so terribly upset by what has happened. I am quite ill.""But, mother, it's the brooch—the little gold brooch with the pearl in the middle and grandmother's initials on the back.""Yes, it's the brooch," Mrs. Macdonald said faintly; "yes; but that does not account for the money.""It proves Janet Forbes innocent," Evelyn said, "and we must do everything possible to make amends to her for what has happened.""Your father will see to that and everything else. I wonder if any one has telegraphed for him, as I desired.""Yes; they gave the telegram to the doctor," Pleasance said. "I saw Cousin Henry give it to him; but, Joyce, do look at the brooch—it is so wonderful.""That sly old jackdaw!" Claude said. "Don't you remember, Eve, how savage I was when that bull-terrier worried it to death, just before I went back to school? Now I think it was served very well right. What do you think?" he asked, going up to Joyce. "I say, does your head hurt you still? What will you have? Mother, give Joyce the eau de Cologne."Joyce raised her head and looked at the brooch, but quickly hid her face with her hands again."I am so glad," she said; "but, Pleasance, I am sure we ought to go home now. Mother will be so anxious. Do ask Cousin Henry to come."Pleasance was looking earnestly at her sister."Joyce, there is such an odd mark on your forehead. Does it hurt?""My head aches—it's nothing; I only want to get home," she said crossly. "Do let us go home.""You must stay and dine with us," Mrs. Macdonald said; "we will hasten dinner. Miss Greenfield, what have you been doing all this time? you really ought to be more attentive. Let Mrs. White have immediate orders to put forward dinner. It really is extraordinary, Miss Greenfield, that you are never at hand when you are wanted."Miss Greenfield only smiled in reply, such a bright happy smile as had not been seen on her face for many a day."I have been with poor Janet," she said."There are plenty of people to look after her. I hope she is penitent for her shocking conduct. Something so dreadful to think what she might have brought upon us. If she had been drowned, I really never could have lived here, and certainly never looked at the pond again. Such a shock to one's nervous system! Miss Greenfield, do please attend to me. Yes, it is the brooch—there is no doubt about it," as Miss Greenfield uttered an exclamation of delight. "But it does not at all follow that the money was not taken. Go at once to Mrs. White."Miss Greenfield went with alacrity; she was treading on air—her whole existence seemed to be suddenly flooded with sunshine, as the landscape without was flooded with the last rays of the western sun. For Mr. Kennedy had told her, on their way from Janet's room, that he wished to have her brother licensed as his curate at Abbotsbourne, and that lie hoped to arrange for him and Ids family to live in the Rectory.Miss Greenfield could hardly believe that such hood news was true, and a brighter future opened before her. The necessity of staying at High Wycherly would be at an end, and she might be free to take up more congenial work, and be trained at a London hospital as a nurse.When Mr. Kennedy came into the room, Joyce surprised every one by springing towards him."Cousin Henry, I want to go home. Don't stay to dinner; take me home, please—please.""What is the matter?" he asked anxiously."I don't know, but my head aches, and I don't want to stay here."Then Claude said, "I'll order the carriage round directly. You shan't be made to stay if you don't want to stay," adding, "I am sorry you are in such a hurry to be gone, that's all.""Yes," Pleasance remonstrated in a low voice, "it is not quite polite to refuse Mrs. Macdonald's invitation to dinner. I am sure mother would say so."I can't help it," Joyce exclaimed vehemently. "I don't want to stay any longer; I want to go home."Mr. Kennedy stood irresolute for a few moments, and then he turned to Mrs. Macdonald, saying, "May I have a few minutes' conversation with you alone?""Oh, really I don't think it is necessary," Mrs. Macdonald said, moving reluctantly into the room beyond, "and you must excuse me for saying much; I am so terribly upset. My husband will be here this evening; you had better wait and see him—the telegram is sure to bring him."But Mr. Kennedy was firm, and replied—"I should think the case of this poor girl is better entered into by her mistress.""Oh, really I am willing to do anything; let her go to the hospital—let her have what she wants—I am quite ready. I never liked the girl's appearance, but that is not to the point; let her have all she wants.""She wants to have her character cleared, and an effort must be made to do it.""Oh, that is done—partly done. The brooch was found hidden in some corner of one of the stone ornaments above the conservatory. I will say no more about the other theft.""The other theft!" Mr. Kennedy repeated; "that point must be decided by competent authority. If you can prove the theft, do so; if not, declare her innocent.""I really want no further annoyance," Mrs. Macdonald said. "I must decline to have any more to say on the subject.""Pardon me, but it is a very serious subject," Mr. Kennedy persisted. "The servants in a household are for the time a part of the family they serve. They have the same feelings as we have; they deserve every consideration; they are often, as in the case of this poor girl, sensitive and tender-hearted. She had been a staff and support to an ailing another burdened with the cares of a family; her father is, I fear, by no means what he ought to have been, and yet proud of this girl and of the high wages she secured in families like yours. She bore an unblemished character, and came to you with it last September. For some months she seems to have worked to her utmost limit, and then, on bare suspicion, she is literally turned away from the door, and several applications for her character have been answered that she was dishonest and had robbed you.""Well, if I thought so, I was right, as I told you just now, to say so.""Thinking is not enough. You must prove an accusation before you assert it is true. I venture to speak to you, because I feel I am called to do so by our common Master, our Father in heaven, to whose service I am at least bound by solemn vows. I must represent to you that this poor girl, driven to despair, ill in mind and body, came here to make one last appeal. She was refused admittance this morning; she was tired with her long tramp from Fairfield Junction; she was ill, she was faint from hunger and weariness. It seemed to her that God had forsaken her when she was turned away by your own maid, who happened to be in the servants' hall, and prevented the housekeeper from admitting her. Well, the rest is soon told; you know it already. The girl's head gave way, and she went to that pond to lie down in its dark waters and find peace. The sin against God, for which she was hardly responsible, lies at your door. Her death would have been a heavy punishment for your want of consideration and refusal to look into the case. Thank God, your brave boy, with the help of his sister, and Joyce and Pleasance Fraser, saved the girl's life. Mrs. Macdonald, I crave forgiveness, as a young man, for speaking thus freely; but it may be that this sad affair may teach us all how careful we ought to be in our judgments, and considerate for those who serve us.""Indeed, servants show no consideration for us," Mrs. Macdonald said. "If you ask me, I think they are hopeless in these days—made to think too much of themselves with education and G.F.S. nonsense.""It would have been better for poor Janet Forbes if she had been a member of the G.F.S.; she would have had a friend to resort to in her difficulty and trouble, wiser than her poor father. Of course Janet must stay here till she is able to be moved, and the doctor will call main to-morrow, and will then be able to judge of her condition.""She had better go to the hospital. Mr. Macdonald is a munificent subscriber to several hospitals, and she can be taken in at St. Mary's, Bromley."Mr. Kennedy sighed. He had made no impression—he had spoken in vain. Mrs. Macdonald assumed a very lofty and offended air, and her good-bye to Mr. Kennedy was as cold as her greeting had been warm. When the pony-carriage had driven off, she burst forth in no measured terms against Mr. Kennedy to Evelyn."An arrogant, impertinent young man! I don't care if he is nephew to Lady Victoria; he forgot himself as no gentleman would, daring to lecture me! Oh, I daresay you think him perfection, Claude; you are not too respectful yourself. All I can say is, I Hope to see no more of him. And what is this nonsense about Miss Greenfield's brother? They will soon get tired of each other; it is too ridiculous. Living in the rectory with Mr. Kennedy can't be a very delightful prospect. he will send them all to the right about, perhaps he will include Miss Greenfield in the bargain," Mrs. Macdonald said as she left the room."Mother is awfully put out," Claude said. "Instead of being thankful the girl's life is saved, it seems to make her furious.""Oh, Claude! do not talk like that of mother; it is not right."Claude whistled incredulously. Then suddenly—"What had happened to Joyce Fraser, Eve?""I don't know," Evelyn said; " but, Claude, you are getting on very free and easy terms with her to call her Joyce.""Well, what would you have me say?—'Miss Joyce,' like the servants? I shall ride over to-morrow to inquire about her, if no one else does. Here is father; now for another row," Claude said as he ran out to meet Mr. Macdonald."What's all this, eh?" Mr. Macdonald said. "What's amiss? Upon my word, 'Come immediately' was enough to frighten anybody out of their senses. I threw myself into a hansom, and caught the 4.45 train for Bromley, and Jenkyns had the sense to meet me with the dogcart. He says no one is hurt, but some story of Janet Forbes trying to drown herself. Where's your mother? Where's Miss Greenfield? I never had such a fright in my life; I thought something dreadful had happened.""Something dreadful did nearly happen, father. Janet Forbes threw herself into the pond, and Claude plumed in and saved her.""And Eve helped, and so did the Frasers.""Dear, dear! what a mercy you weren't all drowned together! And where is the poor girl now?""In bed upstairs, father; she has been very ill and broken-hearted all through that affair of the money; and the brooch is found.""Found, is it? then the money will be found next. But, dear, dear! what havoc the storm has made! The tulip-tree is struck; why, it will take the gardeners a week to clear up the grounds, and your mother's garden-party coming on. Hailstones as big as hen's eggs, Jenkyns says. We had nothing so bad in London; just a heavy downpour and distant thunder.""If you please, sir,"—it was the great Mrs. Carter's voice,—"Mrs. Macdonald would like to see you at once in 'er boudowr; she is very much h'upset, and 'er nerves shook; she would wish to see you h'alone, sir.""All right, all right—I'm coming. Any harm done in the conservatory, Evelyn?""Yes, father; the hailstones broke Leaps of glass.""And the large white orchid is broken short off," Claude said."Oh, dear, dear! confound it, what a nuisance! The white orchid, worth thirty guineas if is worth sixpence. Yes, Carter, I'm coming. That white orchid, dear, dear! What does Thompson say?"And so the fall of the fair white flower, for the time at least, affected Mr. Macdonald far more keenly than the fall of the poor frail girl lying like a broken flower herself on her bed, far away in the servants' quarters, with great tears of penitence coursing each other down her pale checks, as she remembered her sin and lien deliverance.CHAPTER XV.WATCHING AND WAITING."YES, it is an oppressively hot afternoon," Mrs. Kennedy exclaimed, as she returned from what she called a voyage of discovery in the village, and, in the cool shade of the drawing-room at The Cottage, accepted Corisande's offer of a cup of tea and a fan."Thank you, dear; I daresay I look hot. My face feels hot."Corisande laughed."Yes, Aunt Grace, and it looks hot," she said. "Let me fan you while you drink your tea.""How kind! Yes, that is delightful," as Corisande sprinkled eau de Cologne on her aunt's forehead and then fanned her vigorously."Was it not a pity, Grace, to go out in the heat? I really could not stir to-day," Lady Victoria said from her secluded corner by the little table, where her especial books and work always lay."My dear Victoria, I never spare myself for heat or cold, rain or storm. I have all my life

been accustomed to exertion. There is really nothing like it for
keeping in health. I don't allow myself to think I am not as able to
do everything as I was twenty years ago. Yes, dear Corisande, I am
cooler now, thank you, and I am ready for another cup of tea! I have
been very much pleased with the people in the village, Victoria,
though they are a little too torpid and behind the time. I tried to
persuade Mrs. Batt, for instance, that she would save a great deal of
precious time by making a partition in the counter, and keeping the
little odds and ends she sells on one side, and the stamps and
post-cards on the other. And about the church clock, Victoria! it has
not been cleaned for years; Mrs. Batt could not say how many. One of
our first duties will be to see that proper time is kept. How can the
children be punctual at school, if all the clocks and watches in the
village keep different time? I am rather sorry the school is broken
up. Is is very early.""They never can keep the children at school in haymaking-time in
the country," Corisande said. "Many of the children come a long
distance from the outlying districts."I forgot to tell you, when I was at the post-office a fly drove
up from Bromley with a poor sick child in it, and a perfect angel of
a little boy on the box. I asked Mrs. Batt who they were, and she
said the name was Anderson. I think I heard

Henry say something about a Mr. Anderson on Sunday. The poor child had a sweet face, but looked sadly pinched and wan. I pitied the mother, having to settle in those little rooms with no one to help her to unpack. A very nice-looking person, but the child—the boy, I mean—was lovely.""How dark it is getting!" Corisande said; "there will be a fearful storm, I am sure. I hope the others will not have started for home.""Oh, I hope not," Mrs. Kennedy said. "Damp is so bad for Henry's throat, and in that low open carriage they would all be drenched."As at High Wycherly, about the same time the storm burst with fury, and Corisande retreated into a corner by her mother, for she had the instinctive fear of thunder and lightning which it is impossible to struggle against.Thus Corisande, generally so self-possessed and ready for emergencies, sat hiding her face in the cushions of her mother's chair, while between the peals of thunder and the swift-flying illumination of the lightning flashes, Mrs. Kennedy talked of the many thunderstorms she remembered in her life, and how thankful she was she had never felt a single throb of fear."I am surprised," she said, "to see Corisande so frightened. Now, I should have expected to see gentle little Pleasance terrified, or even Joyce.""I hope they are safe," Lady Victoria said, her quiet voice a little tremulous."Of course, they are safe at High Wycherly. They would not think of leaving a place of shelter in a storm like this."It was a terribly long afternoon when the excitement of the storm was over. Sandy appeared to report that the hail had broken four panes to pieces in the kitchen-garden and several panes of glass in the little conservatory, and gave the information that the roads were like rivers, and that a tree at the entrance of the village had been struck by lightning.Then Margaret came to inquire how her mistress did after the storm, and to say that one of the maids was quite ill with fright, and she had sent her to lie down."And Corisande looks quite ill," Mrs. Kennedy said. "My dear, what a mistake it is to be so alarmed at a storm! There is really nothing to be frightened about.""I am not so sure of that, ma'am," Margaret ventured to say. "A great deal of mischief has been done by lightning before to-day, and, for that matter, a great deal has been done here this afternoon. My dear Miss Corisande, had you not better lie quiet in your own room till dinner?""Oh, no; I am all right now," said Corisande; "but the electricity in the air always gives me a headache, and I felt sure a storm was coming in the morning."Mrs. Kennedy had seated herself at the writing-table, and between jotting down her remarks about the village, the people, and the rectory for her son on his return, she jerked out a fire of rather trying remarks and questions.The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight, and still no return of the party from High Wycherly."Eight o'clock! something must have happened, Corisande."Lady Victoria hoped this remark would not be heard by her sister-in-law, but she hoped in vain."My dear Victoria, that clock is fast, exactly four minutes," she said, turning her wrist to look at her unfailing watch. "Besides, most probably they have stayed to dine at High Wycherly. I feel sure Henry would stay if he was invited; he was, like myself, much taken by that handsome, charming girl, and the fine high-spirited boy—just the type of boy Henry delights in. Oh, you will find they have stayed to dine with the—what is their name?—Mackenzies.""We know the Macdonalds very slightly; it is not at all likely my girls would stay to dinner.""Pleasance would stay if she could," Corisande said. "She is so absurdly devoted to Miss Macdonald.""And indeed I don't wonder. I thought her charming. Corisande, you can draw, I know. Just look at this little sketch I have made for alterations at the Rectory. As Henry has taken. it into his head to do this kindness for the Greenfields, I must do what I can to help him to arrange it. You see there is a back staircase and four good rooms in the wing. Well, if a partition is put up, these people can be quite separate from us, and the scullery will do nicely for their kitchen. I can have a better grate or range put in there. Now, dear, just make a little drawing from my sketch to show Henry."Corisande's head ached, and she felt sorely disinclined for the task; but it was perhaps better to employ her fingers. She knew her mother was getting so anxious, presently she said—"It is nearly half-past eight, mother. Had we not better have dinner?""I am sure we had," Mrs. Kennedy said; "and, to tell the truth, I am rather hungry."Lady Victoria replied by ringing the bell, and when Sandy appeared she said—"We shall not wait any longer for dinner; you may serve it at once."Sandy saw his mistress was anxious; and, returning to do her bidding, stopped short in the hall, for he heard the sound of wheels at last.He returned to the drawing-room, his face illuminated with the joy of bearing good news."The pony-carriage is coming, your ladyship."Then Mrs. Kennedy threw down her pencil and rushed out into the garden, regardless of her thin shoes, and that her long gown was trailing in the little pools and lakes which had not yet dried in the path."Henry, I thought you must have stayed to dine—almost a pity you did not. Is all right? are you all safe?""Yes;" it was Pleasance's voice, as she jumped from the back-seat and ran towards her mother and Corisande, who were standing on the verandah."Oh, mother darling! have you been very anxious? Wasn't it an awful storm?"In the first confusion of question and answer and welcome, Lady Victoria did not notice how for the time Pleasance and Joyce seemed to have changed places. Joyce was always foremost—always the one to tell all that happened. Now she came slowly towards her mother, and Corisande exclaimed—"Is anything the matter, Joyce?""Joyce has a bad headache," Pleasance said.And Joyce, languid and unlike herself, said—"May I go to bed, mother, please? I don't want any dinner.""My dear, you must not starve," said Mrs. Kennedy. "Nonsense! headaches like yours and Corisande's result entirely from a nervous affection caused by electricity. A hood dinner will be the best cure."Then Joyce, the gay, jocund Joyce, whose buoyant temperament was always the life of The Cottage, surprised every one by laying her head on Lady Victoria's shoulder and bursting into tears.Mr. Kennedy had now come into the room, and he silenced his mother's repeated advice as to the benefit of dinner for nervous headaches by saying—"Joyce is a good deal upset by what has happened. We have had an exciting afternoon, but you shall hear all particulars; only," turning to Lady Victoria, "I am sure that poor child would be better in bed and kept quiet."Joyce raised her head from its resting-place and said fervently—"Thank you, Cousin Henry. I do want to be quiet."Joyce was so unlike herself, that Lady Victoria felt a pang of strange uneasiness. Sloe went upstairs with her, and Pleasance followed, for they, as we know, occupied the same room while the guests were in the house."Does your head ache very much, darling?" her mother asked."Oh, don't ask me! It does ache; and it feels so odd, and hot, and——" and then came another burst of tears."Call Margaret, Pleasance; she may be able to suggest something. Get a cold water pad to her temples, with eau de Cologne, let Margaret help you to undress, dear Joyce," as Margaret came hurriedly in."I will look after Miss Joyce, your ladyship; you must not worry yourself, and dinner is served.""Yes; go, dear mother, go," Joyce said. "I—I shall be better soon—quite well to-morrow. Do go down to dinner, Pleasance, please."So they left her to Margaret's care; but when Margaret said—"Will you order Sarah to come here, Miss Pleasance, and bring a lamp?"Joyce exclaimed—"No, no, please; I like the dark. Don't bring a light.""What has happened, Pleasance?" Lady Victoria asked, detaining Pleasance on the way downstairs. "Tell me before we join the others. Is it the storm which has so frightened Joyce?""I think it was partly the storm. Oh, it did rage at High Wycherly, mother; but Joyce was so shocked by seeing that poor girl, Janet Forbes, try to drown herself. Claude Macdonald jumped in and saved her life; and Joyce was so brave, and held the pole, while I held Evelyn round the waist as she went clown to the edge of the pond, and so we managed to drab them out—Claude and Janet, I mean. Then the storm began; and, mother, only fancy, the brooch they accused that poor girl of stealing was found—found in the hole made between two ornaments of stone-work, wedged in by Claude's tame jackdaw. So she is proved to be innocent."Lady Victoria could hardly understand Pleasance's disjointed history; but after dinner Mr. Kennedy crave it in detail, and tried to brim the whole scene more vividly before his listeners. Mrs. Kennedy took the liveliest interest in the story of the wrongfully-accused servant. Hers was a nature on which anything life injustice roused the greatest indignation. She opened a fire of angry protest against those who could condemn any one unheard, or attach guilt without proof to any one who was accused of a crime."The money is yet unaccounted for," Mr. Kennedy said; "but the poor girl's innocence is pretty well established without it. Some human jackdaw probably knows something about the gold pieces, as the other jackdaw knew about the gold brooch.""Cousin Henry," Pleasance said presently, "is not the story of Janet Forbes like that story in 'Evangeline'—Longfellow's 'Evangeline,' you know?""No, I don't know it. Enlighten me.""Shall I, Corisande?" Pleasance asked of her sister, adding, by way of explanation, "Corisande does not care for poetry; she says I dream over it too much.""I say you are learning poetry by the yard, when you had better be reading something likely to be useful," Corisande replied. "But do spout this bit out of 'Evangeline,' if you like.""Shall I, Cousin Henry?" Pleasance asked, turning to Mr. Kennedy."My dear child, you make pathetic appeals with your 'shall I's,' as if Corisande and I were judges on the bench, and you a prisoner at the bar. Let us have 'Evangeline,' or the story out of 'Evangeline,' which you thick so appropriate to what has happened to-day.""I should say the 'Jackdaw of Rheims' would be very appropriate," Corisande murmured."I cannot thick there is anything appropriate in that story of 'Evangeline,'" Mrs. Kennedy, exclaimed, "a story which always provokes me. The pair of lovers chasing each other up and down the world till they are old, and just missing each other in the most provoking way.""Oh," exclaimed Pleasance, "I think it is the most beautiful story all through; it shows love is undying.""Ah! my dear, you are at a romantic age, and in this you are like your poor father. He used to insist on spouting the 'Idylls of the King' to me when we were young together. He was full of romance, and used to say he would like to have lived in the days of Arthur's Round Table, and prove himself to be a true knight.""He did prove himself to be that, and much more."These quiet words of praise came from Lady Victoria, who soon after left the room to see that Joyce was made comfortable, and, as she hoped, to find her asleep. How was it that her husband's sister should always jar so cruelly upon her sensibilities? How was it that she could never bear to hear him talked of by Mrs. Kennedy? She could not explain it, but the fact remained. Mrs. Kennedy was a trial to her, and now so unexpectedly likely to be a daily trial, for, living in Abbotsbourne together, the occasional intercourse would be exchanged for constant communication. And Lady Victoria felt that she and the three girls would be, like the clocks, constantly set to rights!CHAPTER XVI.RECITATION.WHEN Lady Victoria had left the room, Mr. Kennedy said—"Now then, Pleasance, we are all attention; begin and tell us the story which is appropriate, you say, to what has happened to-day."Pleasance's voice trembled a little as she said—"I ought to explain that the story is told by a dear old man to another who was fuming with anger against the injustice of the English in turning out the French peasants from their dear homes in Acadia. Basil the blacksmith was angry, and shouted out—"Must we in all things look for the how and the why and the wherefore?Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest."Pleasance had a very retentive memory, which is a valuable gift, but she had also that other gift, which our greatest poet says so truly is—
"An excellent thing in woman,"
a low, sweet, musical voice.Pleasance never hesitated for a word, and as she went on, her own feelings seemed to lay their impress on the story, with no straining after effect, but as the outcome of all that had passed that day, so strangely, as it seemed, in its salient points to be the repetition of Longfellow's beautiful story.And there have been endless repetitions of the same story told since, though the sequel has not always been similar."Man is unjust, but God is just, and finally justiceTriumphs; and well I remember a story that often consoled me,When as a captive I lay in the old French fort of Port Royal.Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of JusticeStood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,And in its right a sword, as all emblem that justice presidedOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people;Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palaceThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicionFell on an orphan girl, who lived as maid in the household.She, after form of trial, condemned to die on the scaffold,Patiently met her doom at the foot of the stairs of Justice.As to her Father in Heaven her innocent spirit ascended,Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose, and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand,Down on the pavement below, the clattering scales of the balance,And in the balance was found the nest of a magpie,Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."Mrs. Kennedy scarcely waited for Pleasance's last word before saying—"Thank you, my dear; but the story is quite different from that you told us at dinner. And how very trying that hexameter is to read; you made the best of it, but there is so little poetry in it.""This is very discouraging, my dear mother," Mr. Kennedy said, "when Pleasance has been so kind as to recite for our benefit.""Oh, never mind," Pleasance said; and though the colour rose to her round dimpled face, she betrayed no vexation."I never knew that poetry depended on rhyme," Corisande said. "The best poetry—I mean the highest—is often in prose."It was a relief when the gong sounded for prayers, and Sandy opening the door, the whole party went out into the dining-room, where Lady Victoria was already seated.Mr. Kennedy was the chaplain, and there was an unusual earnestness in his voice as he said—"Let us all join in the general thanksgiving, for God has been very good to us to-day, and we shall do well to thank Him for His preservation, added to all the mercies with which He has blessed us.""Corisande," her mother said, as they were separating for the night, "I am very anxious about Joyce. I must write a note for James to take to Dr. Redmayne early to-morrow."Mrs. Kennedy caught the words, though spoken in a low tone."Let me see Joyce, dear Victoria. I have been both doctor and lay-curate in Henry's parish. Have I not, Henry? I should like to see her, if I may. What is it you fear?"Pleasance gave her mother's arm a significant squeeze."Thank you very much, Grace; but I think Joyce had better keep very quiet. Pleasance is sleeping in her room, and will call me if necessary."Mrs. Kennedy was too really kind-hearted to be offended, and did not press her services further. She was one of those good, energetic, and able people, who are quite devoid of tact, and can never see when they are likely to jar upon the sensitive feelings of others."Very well," she said. "I hope I shall hear a better account of her in the morning, and no doubt a good night's rest is the best thing any one can prescribe for her."But the good night's rest did not seem attainable. Joyce turned incessantly on her pillow, and Pleasance in vain asked if she wanted anything."No, nothing, nothing," she would answer; "leave me alone, leave me alone; don't ask me anything; and, Pleasance, please don't let Aunt Grace come to see me to-morrow. When is she going away? When is Cousin Henry going away?""Not till Thursday or Friday. I think Henry is going over to High Wycherly to-morrow, hoping to see Mr. Macdonald and make him take some steps about that poor girl. But don't talk any more, Joyce. Try to go to sleep.""I can't lie still; I wish I could, Pleasance," she said, taking her hand and holding it fast. "I think I was struck by lightning, and that's why my head aches and I ache. Did you ever hear of any one struck by lightning?""Yes; in the open fields under trees, but not in houses. Don't think of anything so dreadful, darling Joyce."Then Pleasance sprinkled Joyce's forehead with eau de Cologne, and crept back to her own bed, where she was soon sleeping peacefully.The next day brought many accounts of the violence of the storm, and the mischief done in the neighbourhood. The hail had played havoc with all the greenhouses in the neighbourhood. Cattle had been killed in the fields, a church spire had been struck, and had fallen in ruins, and one boy who had taken refuge under a tree had been taken to the Bromley Hospital insensible.The first person to arrive at The Cottage was Claude Macdonald.Pleasance met him just as she was going up the road to the post-office to inquire for little Susie."I'll come with you," Claude said. "I want to ask you about your sister. Was she hurt?""Hurt!" Pleasance repeated. "No; what do you mean?""Well," Claude said, hesitating a little, "Mrs. White, who saw her when she was getting into the carriage, says she thinks she was struck, her forehead was so black."A sharp pang shot through Pleasance's heart."Oh, I don't think she was struck by the lightning. She could not have walked from the carriage as she did when we got home. People are helpless if they are struck. Look! here is your little cousin."Bruce was coming slowly down the road from the post-office, looking right and left, surveying an unknown country."Mother said I might go as far as this house in the road by myself, but no farther; but I do want to see everything, you know; and Susie can't play Halma or talk; she has had a bad night, and she didn't like the thunder. Mrs. Batt came up and said she thought the end of the world had come. The end of the world! what did Mrs. Batt mean, I wonder?""You poor little chap!" Claude said. "Come back with us; we came to inquire for Susie.""Yes; and I'll ask your mother to let you coupe to The Cottage," Pleasance said; "but my sister is ill like yours, so we must not make any noise."Bruce put his hand confidingly into Pleasance's. "I shall like that," he said. "I know you are the girl who came with our Cousin Evelyn when she brought a lot of nice things for Susie. I had some of them;" adding, "They were given me by mamma, of course, or I should not have taken them."They had reached the door of the post-office now, and Mrs. Batt came out with a packet of pepper-mint bull's-eyes for Bruce."Your poor little sister is trying to get to sleep," she said; "you mustn't go clattering upstairs. Good morning, Miss Pleasance. I hope her ladyship and the other young ladies have not suffered from the awful storm. Dear me! My nerves are so shook, I could scarce see the letters this morning, and Batt was extra dull about the names. I told him I thought the thunderstorm had dazed him.""May I go up and see Mrs. Anderson, do you think?" Pleasance asked."Well, poor lady, I daresay she will be glad to see you; she has been up all night pretty nearly. Do you know," said Mrs. Batt confidentially, "if I had known the child was so ill, I don't think I should have closed with the offer. It seems to me she is not long for this world."Bruce had been listening with deep attention, and asked—"If you please, Mrs. Batt, who is not long for this world?""Old Mrs. Moggs at the cottage by the church, my dear," Mrs. Batt said promptly."Old Mrs. Moggs," Bruce repeated; "who is old Mrs. Moggs?""A nice old body, my dear; but we can't live for ever, and she was eighty-nine last Christmas day."Mrs. Batt, as she spoke, gave Pleasance a knowing look, as she preceded her tip to Mrs. Anderson's sitting-room, saying, "Bless that child! he is as sharp as a needle."CHAPTER XVII.ANXIETIES.MRS. BATT'S respectful tap at the door was answered by a faint "Come in.""It's the young lady from The Cottage, ma'am, wishing to see you."Mrs. Anderson started up from the chair by the window, where, after a watchful night, she had been trying to sleep before Susie called her."I thought," Pleasance began, "I should like to come and see your little girl, and find out if there was anything we could send from The Cottage. Mother would be so glad to do so, I am sure.""Thank you very much," Mrs. Anderson said. "You must forgive me; I did not recognise you at first; but I remember now. You came with my niece, Evelyn Macdonald, to Bromley last week.""Yes," Pleasance said; "Evelyn is a great friend of mine, and I was so interested to hear about little Susie. How is she?""I can hardly tell," Mrs. Anderson said. "We did it for the best to remove her here, but I almost fear the journey was too much for her; she has had great pain all night, and we arrived just before that awful storm, which was unfortunate. Have you seen my little boy? I told him he was not to go beyond the corner of the road, where I could watch him from the window.""He is with Claude Macdonald, who came over early to find out how my sister was—my sister .Joyce. We had such an exciting time at High Wycherly yesterday. A poor girl tried to drown herself in the pond, and Claude saved her, and I think Joyce helped by her presence of mind. Then the storm cause on, and Joyce thinks she was struck by lightning; but I hope it is only that her nerves were shaken with all she had gone through; for," Pleasance said, "it was an awful moment when Claude disappeared in the weeds, and came up nearly choked, holding the girl up with great difficulty. But I must not stay now, you look so tired; may we take that darling little boy home to The Cottage and amuse him? We have a pretty large garden, and I think he would like to play in it. It is quite safe; there is no pond, and the only water is the little stream by the side of the knoll.""Thank you, I shall be very glad to know Bruce is happy. I brought him with me because these are the holidays at his little school, and his father and eldest brother are out all day, so that he would have only had our dear old servant to look after him, and she will be busy, taking advantage of our absence, by house-cleaning. Would you like to look at Susie?" Mrs. Anderson said.Then Pleasance followed Mrs. Anderson to the little bedroom on the other side of the narrow passage, where Susie lay.There were lines of pain on her face, but as her mother softly entered the room, she opened her eyes and smiled such a bright smile."I'm better, mother," she said; "I have had such a nice dream. Who is this?""Miss Fraser, darling!"Then Pleasance went up to the bed and said—"I'm Pleasance Fraser.""Oh, I know," Susie said quickly. "I know. Cousin Evelyn told me about you that day she brought the big basket. She said your name was like yourself."Pleasance bent down and kissed the little pale check, where one vivid spot of crimson was burning."Shall I come again soon?" she asked. "I am going to take your dear little brother home with me, and try to amuse him.""I am so glad," Susie replied. "I was so cross to him, wasn't I, mammy dear, when he came rushing on the bed with Halma, and asked me to play. He can't play Halma one bit, and only likes to see the little men 'hoppety, hoppety.' But I was cross, I know.""You were only just washed and put tidy for the day, darling, and poor Buff is boisterous.""Poor Buff!" Susie said; "but, mother, do tell him I'm sorry I was cross.""I will tell him," Pleasance said; "but I am sure he will not think you were cross—only tired after a bad night.""Oh, yes, he will," Susie said, her lips quivering; "he called me 'A nasty cross old thing!'"Pleasance could scarcely repress a smile at this very decided proof of Bruce's feeling for Susie, but she kissed her again and said—"I shall bring Bruce back in the evening, and then perhaps you will like to see me again. Goodbye now.""I shall always be glad to see you or your sisters; but you must not let Bruce be troublesome," Mrs. Anderson said. "I am afraid we have all done our best to spoil him," she added sadly; "he is the youngest, and a great pet with us all.""I don't wonder," Pleasance said; and then she went so quickly down the narrow stairs that she came nearly headlong into the little shop."Dear me! Miss Pleasance, you gave me a fright. I hope you have not hurted yourself.""Oh, no! thank you, Mrs. Batt. I did not see the two steps at the turn at the bottom, that's all. Where's the little boy?""He went down the road with the young gentleman, and I am glad to bet him out of the way for a bit. Children are worries, even the best children; but he has nice manners, and said 'Thank you' so prettily for the peppermint balls. We are having great changes here, bliss Pleasance—I can't say for the better. After a lady like Lady Victoria, who is that gentle and composed-like, and saying so little and doing so much, the new lady is different! All fluster and worry; in the heat yesterday, up and down past the shop a dozen times; and as to the rectory—well, it's to be turned inside out. I am sure the place won't be the same. Not that I've a word to say against the new clergyman—he's wonderfully pleasant-spoken, and a real gentleman; that's easy to see by the way he speaks to me, and the same may be said of the lodger upstairs. As I say to Batt, 'You may tell real gentry, not by feathers and flowers or grandeur, but by the way they speak to servants and folks like me,' and no one would ever take a liberty with real gentry."All this time Pleasance had been trying to get away, but Mrs. Batt's tongue, when once set off, was, as her much-enduring husband said, like "the clapper at the mill." But this may be said for Mrs. Batt, that if her words were many, they were rarely unkind words, and that, to use a common expression, "her heart was in the right place."When Pleasance reached the gate of The Cottage, she saw nothing of Claude and Bruce, but Corisande, standing on the verandah, met her with the question she almost expected."Did you tell Mr. Macdonald that he might bring that child here?"Pleasance hesitated."I asked Mrs. Anderson whether I should take care of Bruce for her. I did not know Claude had brought him here.""Oh, I daresay it is all right," Corisande said; "but the house ought to be kept quiet. Joyce is not at all well.""Has Dr. Redmayne been yet?""No; I can see mother is very anxious, and really, I do wonder that Aunt Grace should stay till Friday.""Where is Cousin Henry?""He is gone to Monksborough; he wants to see the father of that girl whom your friends have treated so shamefully.""You need not say my friends," Pleasance replied; "Evelyn is my friend, and——""And Claude, I suppose, counts himself your friend," Corisande interrupted; "it seems like it by the way he looked up at me just now, as I stood here, and said, 'I suppose we may go round by the kitchen-garden to the old oak tree.' He seems to know the premises very well."Pleasance always tried her best not to resent Corisande's ready satire when the Macdonalds were concerned, and did not make a direct reply."Is not that little boy, Bruce Anderson, beautiful? I am sure you might make a lovely picture of him.""I never paint children; and besides——" Corisande stopped, and then added, with a ring of vexation in her voice, "I expect mother has thought too much of my painting. I have never had any real instruction, and without that nobody can be a true artist.""I am sure your picture of the church and the old yew-tree is beautiful," Pleasance said."The church and the yew tree are not studies of figures," Corisande replied; "but I allow that child is very pretty. He has lovely eyes, but I could not make a study of him, for he would never be quiet a moment."To Pleasance's great astonishment, she heard Joyce's voice in the drawing-room behind her."Joyce," Corisande said, "you ought not to have come downstairs. Mother will be vexed.""Joyce, dear Joyce," Pleasance said, "why did you not stay in bed till Dr. Redmayne came?""I was tired of bed; it did my head harm instead of good. But I wish you had offered to plait my hair; it is so tiresome, and won't keep up.""Come upstairs again, and I will soon make it tidy," Pleasance said; "but, Joyce, what is the matter?"For Joyce suddenly hid her face in the cushion of the sofa and sobbed convulsively."Come upstairs; you are not well enough to be here. Mother and Aunt Grace are in the morning-room.""Oh, don't let Aunt Grace bother me!""No one shall bother you. Do not cry without telling us what is the matter," Corisande said. "It is like a baby. How are we to know if you don't tell us?""Oh, Corisande," Pleasance exclaimed, "don't!" Joyce went towards the door and said crossly—"I am not likely to tell you anything; you have no sympathy for anybody.""She does not mean it. I am sure something is wrong," Pleasance said as she followed her sister from the room."Something is wrong with her temper," Corisande said. "I shall go and tell mother, that she must insist on her going back to her room."Joyce had gone down the passage to a door at the back of the house, and Pleasance overtook her."Darling Joyce!" she said, "do tell me what you feel?""I can't; I dare not. Don't ask me. Let's go to our tree and forget it.""Forget what?""Forget yesterday and the storm, and the horror when I could only see Claude's head and all the weeds blinding him, and the girl's white face."As she spoke, Joyce put her hand into her sister's arm, and with faltering, uncertain steps, very different from her accustomed swift and springing tread, she said—"Let's go to the old tree; it will be cool there. It is so hot!""Yes, the thunder has not really cooled the air; but there is no sun, for the sky is covered with dull grey clouds.""Is it?" Joyce said.When they reached the old oak, they heard the sound of children's laughter.Claude had perched Bruce in the fork of one of the lowest boughs, and lying across one of the thick branches himself, as only a boy great in the feats performed in the gymnasium of a public school could keep his balance, he was by a gentle movement of his foot swinging the low bough up and down to Bruce's intense delight."Oh, it's jolly—it's jolly!" he cried. "I shal just tell Gerard how I swung in a big tree ever so high up; he won't call me a stupid little Molly again, will he?""I should punch his head if he did," said Claude; and then catching sight of the girls, he let himself down from his big branch, lifted Bruce from the low one, and went quickly up to Joyce."I say, I hope you are better. I was awfully sorry for you last evening. Are you better?""Yes," Joyce said. "Let me sit down, Pleasance.""You must not do that; the ground is so wet," Pleasance said, "after all the rain.""I wish I could get into the tree," Joyce murmured; "but—well, my head aches rather, so I suppose I had better not try."Claude's boyish face showed signs of real concern. It was plain to him and to Pleasance that some change had passed over Joyce; her white forehead had a discoloured mark on it, and her frank, clear blue eyes were veiled by their heavy lids."You've spoiled my swinging," Bruce complained. "It was so jolly. Put me up again," he said to Claude."No, not now. We had better go back to the house; for, Joyce, I think the doctor may come any minute, and mother will not live you to be out, I know.""Come and show me the little chickies," Bruce said, pulling at Pleasance's hand that boy says there's a lot of little chickies."Pleasance thought Bruce's spirits were too much for Joyce, so she went away with him, saying—"You should not say 'that boy;' it's not polite.""But I don't know his name," Bruce asserted vociferously, "I don't know his name."Pleasance looked back at Claude, wondering if he had heard what the child said."Call me Claude, of course. I am your cousin, you know.""My cousin!" the boy exclaimed. "Why, everybody seems to be my cousin. It's rather nice. I did not know I had such a lot of cousins;" and then, nodding in a patronising way at Claude, he said, "I think you are a very nice cousin, and you'll swing me in the tree again, won't you?""We'll see about it," Claude said: "the tree isn't mine, and I don't live here, you know."CHAPTER XVIII.MISGIVINGS.JOYCE waited till Bruce's voice was lost in the distance, and then she said to Claude—"Let me take hold of your hand, please.""Take my arm," he said; "you seem very weak.""It's not that," Joyce said, "it's not that. I am going to tell you what I think it is, but I don't wish any of them to know yet. It may be fancy, it may be nervous of me, but I believe I am growing blind—yes, blind.""Oh, nonsense!" Claude exclaimed; "don't talk of anything so dreadful. You've got a headache, that's all.""Promise not to say anything. I could not bear to hear Aunt Grace pitying me, or any one pitying me, unless," she added, "they cared for me; and yet it will be so hard to tell mother and Pleasance, because they do care so much. Keep my secret till it must come out; but listen! if I put my hand over this eye, and open the other ever so wide, it is dark, or nearly dark; little zigzag sparks fly across a black-blue something, just as the lightning zigzagged across the sky; and I believe I shall be quite blind.""Oh, no, you won't," Claude said with a suspicious tremble in his voice; "you'll get all right; the doctor will cure you.""You won't tell any one? You promise?""Well, I promise; but you'll have to tell them soon, because if you don't, the doctor can't do anything for you; besides, he is sure to find it out for himself."And now Pleasance came running back."Dr. Redmayne is come, and mother is so distressed you have gone out. Come quick, quick, Joyce."But Joyce could not move quickly, and she went slowly along, still holding Claude's hand in hers with a firm grasp.Dr. Redmayne was one of those doctors who think it their duty to assume the virtue of cheerfulness, even if in their secret hearts they have it not."Well, Miss Joyce," he said, "this is quite a novelty for me to find you the invalid. Come, let us see what's the matter."Claude had loosened his hold of Joyce's hand at the drawing-room door, and Pleasance took it. Joyce stood irresolute for a moment, and then putting her disengaged hand to her head, she said—"I've a strange feeling in my head, that's all."Dr. Redmayne led Joyce to a chair by the bay window at the end of the room, while Lady Victoria stood by, a world of anxiety in her face, but still quiet and silent. Dr. Redmayne looked with a keen, searching glance in Joyce's face, felt her pulse, produced the mysterious little tube by which temperature is taken, put it in her mouth, and then made a remark to Lady Victoria about the storm and the damage it had done, and related his own experience while driving through it to see a patient over the hills.The waiting for his opinion seemed like an hour to Lady Victoria and Pleasance, who stood a little apart, clasping her hands tightly together to restrain her desire to ask the question which, till her mother spoke, she dare not ask—" What do you think of Joyce?"When the temperature had been taken, and the doctor's watch replaced in his pocket, he proceeded to examine the scorched place on the pure white forehead, and then he said—"Open your eyes, my dear—open your eyes." The heavy white lids were slowly raised, and the doctor gazed into the blue eyes intently."We must put you to bed, my dear Miss Joyce; your temperature is high, and you will feel better when you are quite at rest.""Yes," Lady Victoria spoke at last; "I did not know Joyce was thinking of getting up. Perhaps, darling, you had better go upstairs with Pleasance, and I will come presently."Pleasance looked wistfully at her mother; she was so longing to hear what Dr. Redmayne thought, but he only said—"Yes, yes, Miss Joyce, go and lie quiet, and we will soon make you well. That storm was enough to shake any one's nerves to pieces. I declare I feel quite ready to go to bed myself. Good-bye till to-morrow, when you will see me again. Good-bye, Miss Pleasance."Pleasance saw she must accept this dismissal, and left the room with her sister."Well," Dr. Redmayne said, "I cannot give a very decided opinion to-day, but I fear your ladyship has cause for anxiety. There are too evident signs that the electric fluid struck Miss Joyce's forehead, and she is evidently much affected by the shock.""You mean," Lady Victoria said, trying to speak calmly, "you mean that Joyce was struck by lightning. Is the injury likely to be permanent?""Oh, no, no; we must hope not; but, if you will allow me, I should prefer waiting till to-morrow before giving a decided opinion. Meantime, let Miss Joyce be kept quiet and free from excitement, and I will send the medicine.""I can send for it," Lady Victoria said."No, no; I shall not trouble your ladyship to do that;" and then, with a cheerful good-morning, Dr. Redmayne went quietly from the room, and climbed with the agility of a much younger man to the box-seat of his high gig, and taking the reins from his servant, was driving off, when Claude ran up to the gig."Stop a moment, doctor; tell me what you think of Miss Fraser."The doctor pulled his horse up on its haunches, and said—"I did not see who you were at first. I am going your way; jump up if you like.""No, thank you. I expect my sister here every minute, and I must wait for her. But what is wrong with Miss Fraser?""Oh, that's a question I can't answer to-day," but Dr. Redmayne gave his shoulders a significant shrug, which was by no means reassuring. Scarcely had he driven off before the swift trot of Zoe's feet was heard, and Evelyn appeared."How is she, Claude? Is she better?""No, I don't think she is," Claude said shortly, " if by she you mean Joyce.""Where is everybody? I want to see Mr. Kennedy.""You can't see him, for he is gone to Monks-borough about Janet Forbes.""You need not be so cross and snappish, Claude. If I can't get an answer from you, I shall go and ask to see Mrs. Kennedy or Lady Victoria."At this moment Mrs. Kennedy appeared struggling to drag Bruce to the gate, and Bruce with a very red face was struggling with equal determination to prevent her doing so."Leave go!" he shouted; "don't pull like that!""You are a very naughty boy. If you were my little boy, I should put you to bed and keep you there!""But I ain't your little boy; leave go!" and then another desperate struggle ensued.Mrs. Kennedy had been so occupied with Bruce that she had not noticed Evelyn was standing at the gate. But Bruce caught sight of her and Claude, and said in a voice which now sounded almost like a sob—"She said I was to stay here all day, didn't she, Cousin Claude? I——""All right!" Claude said. "I say, don't make such a row.""Oh, I didn't see you," Mrs. Kennedy said, turning towards him with a very hot face, her large shady mushroom hat pushed back, and her small black mantle very much the worse for her conflict with Bruce. "This child must be sent home; he cannot stay here. Joyce is ordered to bed. Pleasance has no time to attend to him, and Margaret complains that he has been chasing one of the hens from the nest. Where does the child live? He must be sent home.""He is my cousin," Evelyn said. "My aunt has come to lodgings here with her little girl.""Why did you not tell me who you were," Mrs. Kennedy said, relaxing her hold on Bruce, who instantly, shaking himself like a little dog who had been unwillingly held in durance vile, rushed to Claude, vociferating—"Didn't she say I was to stay all clay, didn't she?""Yes; I think she slid," Claude said; "but as I am going home now, you had better come with me.""You must go and ask Aunt Sophy, Claude; you can't take Bruce without leave.""They will be glad to get rid of him at the lodgings. The old landlady is tired of him already. Come along, Bruce; we will make it all right.""I will come presently," Evelyn said, as per her brother walked off with Bruce; "but do you think I could see Pleasance?""Oh, yes; I am sure she would be glad to see you. They are all very anxious about Joyce. The doctor has ordered her to bed, but of course these country practitioners are easily alarmed. I wished very much to see Joyce and judge for myself, but I was not admitted to her room. Do come in, Miss Macdonald, and I will call Pleasance."Evelyn followed Mrs. Kennedy into the house, and received a very stiff cold greeting from Corisande, who had come downstairs to write a note for her mother."Here is Miss Macdonald, Corisande; she has very kindly driven over to inquire for Joyce. I can tell her so little, because I know so little, but you will be able to do so.""My sister is not very well," Corisande said, "and we are ordered by the doctor to keep her very quiet.""I am so sorry," Evelyn began; "my mother wished me to come over to say to Lady Victoria how anxious she is about your sister, as we are afraid the accident to Janet Forbes was a treat shock to her, and then the terrific thunderstorm.""You are very kind," Corisande replied. "I will give my mother your message."Evelyn's spirit rose in resentment of this cold, undemonstrative manner, and she said in a very different tone, "Can I see your sister Pleasance?"I am afraid not just now; she is in Joyce's room."Let me call her, Corisande," Mrs. Kennedy said. "I am quite sure she would like to see Miss Macdonald, and all this time we have not asked about that poor girl in whom my son is so much interested. He is gone to Monksborough to-day to find out the father, and I think he intends to see Mr. Macdonald to-morrow about her, if possible."My father would like to see him perhaps; but will you come to High Wycherly to-morrow to luncheon? My father was telegraphed for yesterday, and he will not return to London this week.""Thank you! My son will, I have no doubt, be pleased to come. We have only a few days to stay, for we have so much to arrange for removal after matters are settled here. You will excuse me, I am sure, for I have to meet an architect at the rectory from Bromley."When Mrs. Kennedy was gone, an awkward pause followed.Corisande had resumed her seat at the writing-table, but out of politeness did not begin to writewhile Evelyn was there, but she did not volunteer any remark.In both girls' hearts was simmering a dislike to each other, founded, as so many dislikes are, on misapprehension. Corisande had decided in her own mind that Evelyn was vulgar and pretentious, and that association with her was unwholesome for Pleasance; while Evelyn thought Corisande proud and disagreeably conscious that the accident of birth had set a gulf between them which she feared Evelyn might wish to bridge over.Both girls were therefore under a certain constraint in each other's presence, and the silence, which was becoming oppressive to Evelyn, was broken by Corisande."Will you excuse my finishing this note. We were invited to a garden party to-day, and of course now we cannot go anywhere.""Was it the garden-party at Syston Court?" Evelyn asked. "We had an invitation also. If you will let me, I can take the note; it is very little out of my way as I drive home.""No, thanks; I need not trouble you," Corisande said.Then there was another silence, and Pleasance's entrance was a positive relief.She threw her arms round Evelyn and held her in a close embrace, saying in a low voice—"I am so miserable about Joyce.""Come out into the garden, darling," Evelyn said with a glance at Corisande, who sat immovable at the writing-table."Oh, Evelyn, I am sure there is something very, very much amiss with Joyce. She wouldn't give up like this if she did not feel very ill. I cannot get her to say anything, but 'don't talk—leave me alone.' Mother is very miserable. What do you think it is?""I think perhaps she had a slight stroke of lightning, but it cannot have been very bad, or she would have been unable to drive home. I expect a day or two in bed will cure her."Pleasance shook her head."I wish I thought so. Dr. Redmayne said he would bring another doctor to-morrow. That always sounds serious.""Well, of course, Dr. Redmayne is only a country doctor, and he may distrust himself in a case like this.""I don't know how I shall ever bear to get into our tree again," Pleasance said, "without Joyce. Oh, we have had so many happy talks there, and she has listened to my dreams, and has not laughed at me; and she was so bright and happy and never out of temper or cross—the sunshine of our home and the village too.""I don't think it is worth while meeting trouble half way," Evelyn said. "Joyce may be quite well in a day or two, and then you will wonder you made yourself so unhappy.""Evelyn," Pleasance said suddenly, "do you believe all things work together for good? Aunt Grace met me crying on the stairs, and she said that I must remember all things work for good for them who love God. I can say some things, but not all. It seems to me that our happy life here is going to be changed;—the rectory full of people; Aunt Grace fussing in the village and trying to alter everything; those uninteresting people the Greenfields coming. Fancy an ailing, peevish wife, an old mother, and two spoiled children! I think Cousin Henry did it out of the kindness of his heart; but it is so strange for him to begin his life here by doing this."Evelyn thought how precisely Pleasance was repeating her mother's opinion, which she had expressed that very morning. Mrs. Macdonald was inclined to resent Mr. Kennedy's interference about Janet Forbes, and very much inclined to resent the elevation of the poor Greenfields to the rectory at Abbotsbourne.Miss Greenfield's altered manner did not fail to strike Mrs. Macdonald. She was just as obliging and ready to please her as ever, but there was a light in her eyes—the light of hope—and a cheerful ring in her voice, which might mean that her own prospects were brightening with her brother's, and there arose the possibility that she might resign her position as lady-help, and thus bring untold inconvenience to Mrs. Macdonald!CHAPTER XIX.POVERTY AND ILLNESS.MR. KENNEDY had a busy and somewhat disappointing day at Monksborough. There are very few people who give themselves up to help the helpless, who reap what seems a full reward. Indeed, to do good, hoping for nothing again, does not bring the great and tangible reward which the words may seem to imply. The reward is great and the promise is fulfilled, but generally the fulfilment is not seen by mortal eyes."All for love, and nothing for reward," brings its guerdon; but those who expect that guerdon to be grateful appreciation or satisfaction in the effort made, will be, in nine cases out of ten, disappointed.Mr. Kennedy was to be no exception to the rule. He made his way from the station at Monksborough to the Palace, and waited for some time before he could see the Bishop.The Bishop was kind, but a little doubtful as to the step Mr. Kennedy had taken."You desire me to license Mr. Greenfield to the curacy of Abbotsbourne, Mr. Kennedy. In doing so, I need not say I look to you to take the entire care of the parish. Mr. Greenfield is an excellent man, but he has no organising power; and though he had some reason to complain of the peremptory dismissal he received from his last rector in a populous parish, I am bound to say he did not prove himself equal to his duties.""Mr. Greenfield's duties, my lord," Mr. Kennedy said, "at Abbotsbourne will be to help me in the services. My throat is very weak, as your lordship knows, and my health broken down from the strain of an over-crowded district church.""Yes, yes, Mr. Kennedy. I know all these particulars, and I feel sure that you were right in seeking lighter duty.""I hope to open a small mission-room somewhere in the outlying district on the hills, where the people are beyond the distance when, unless their hearts are set on it, they do not care to take the trouble to attend the parish church. In this Mr. Greenfield will be a valuable assistant, for he reads well and with understanding. Then I hope to have more frequent services in the church, and to visit the people in their homes.""All this is very desirable, no doubt," the Bishop said, "and I am fully aware that, on account of the great age and infirmity of the late rector, things had got a little disjointed.""I am making a few alterations in the rectory, which will, I hope, meet with your lordship's approval when you visit us for confirmation next spring.""Is there any house available for Mr. Greenfield?" the Bishop asked; "for, of course, he must be strictly resident."Mr. Kennedy smiled."I have no family, my lord, and my mother and I have been blessed by God with a competence. We purpose to take Mr. Greenfield and his family into the rectory, at least for the present. They have been living in penury—how could it be otherwise?—on a very poor stipend, when Mr. Greenfield was a curate, and since that time simply subsisting on chance duty here and there. His sister has bravely worked for her mother, and they have by her help lived; but it has been a struggle, even for daily bread.""Dear, dear," said the Bishop, "this distress amongst the poor clergy is a very grievous thought. There is a society which renders a little help; have these poor people ever applied for it?""I do not know, my lord, but I should think it probable.""Well, Mr. Kennedy, I earnestly wish you God-speed; and you may be sure the lamentations at your departure from Birmingham have reached my ears, and I need not say that it is a great satisfaction to me to think Abbotsbourne will have the benefit of your services. About Mr. Greenfield I do not feel quite as well satisfied; but I have every confidence that you will exercise a wise influence over him, and if the scheme fails, you will communicate with me. You have relations at Abbotsbourne, which will be pleasant for you in your retirement. Lady Victoria Fraser is a very charming person, and has a nice family of sons and daughters.""Only daughters, my lord—three daughters.""All!" said the Bishop, "true, only three daughters—Faith, Hope, and Charity, 'those three.' Let us hope that is applicable."Mr. Kennedy felt disappointed, he hardly knew why; but declining the Bishop's offer of luncheon, he bid him good-morning, and went to the dull back-street where Mr. Greenfield lived. "Mr. Greenfield was out," the little maid of all work announced. "Old Mrs. Greenfield would see him; young Mrs. Greenfield was in bed.""Is she ill?" Mr. Kennedy asked.The maid rubbed her very smutty face with the corner of her apron, and said—"She never gets up till afternoon."Then she scampered up the narrow stairs covered with oil-cloth, very ragged at the edges and very crumpled in the middle, and knocking a postman's rat-tat at a door on the right-hand side of the narrow passage, opened it and said—"There's a gentleman wants you, Mrs. Greenfield."In the little sitting-room Mr. Kennedy found the grandmother and the two children, the little boy lying on an impromptu couch made by a reclining board, and the little girl sitting tailor-fashion on the floor snipping paper into bits with a pair of large scissors.Old Mrs. Greenfield was seated in an arm-chair covered with cracked American cloth, which could not deserve the prefix of "easy." She had a large basket at her side filled with garments, which were in the process of mending, and at Mr. Kennedy's appearance she hastily thrust her work aside and rose to greet him.Only this one room for all the family! In the little bay-window stood a writing-table covered with sermon-paper, and a few shabby books were tucked away beneath the table, and lay in dusty heaps in the recesses formed by the sides of the window."I am sorry my son is not at home," Mrs. Greenfield said; "he is
gone to take a wedding
"'I am sorry my son is not at home," Mrs. Greenfield said." —Page 246.Illustration included in Marshall's Those
Three.at St. Mary's for a clergyman. My daughter-in-law is, as you know, an invalid, and seldom rises to breakfast."Mr. Kennedy had on his former visit scarcely realised the condition of this family, for Mr. Greenfield had borrowed the sitting-room below for their conference."I hope this change to Abbotsbourne will be beneficial to Mrs. Greenfield; it is fine air up on the hills, and I expect to see these little people get strong and well there."Mrs. Greenfield shook her head. "Cecilia, my daughter-in-law, fears it will be too cold for her and the children; but, of course, my poor son is thankful to accept your offer."The small girl, who had continued her paper-snipping vigorously, now put in her word."Mammy says she isn't going to Abbotsbourne; she says she shall stay here.""Nonsense, child," said her grandmother; "we are all going, and we shall see Aunt May oftener—that will be nice.""I ain't going," said the boy, in a querulous tone; "I don't like the country.""Hush, Jemmy," the poor grandmother said. "You must not listen to the children's folly, Mr. Kennedy. We may all be very thankful to be taken out of this hard and trying life. It is a sore trial of faith," she added, "to be so straitened for money, especially when one can look back to a bright and prosperous past.""It must be indeed a trial," Mr. Kennedy said, and then his heart failed him to offer more consolation. When visiting the poor, he felt free to speak, and try to point the oppressed and hungry to the Saviour of the world; but here he felt silenced under the pressure of what he saw.Mrs. Greenfield had all the air and bearing of a gentlewoman, and her voice was pleasant and well modulated. Her son had had a university education before the blow fell which impoverished them; for Mr. Greenfield's father had died a bankrupt, and a pittance saved from the wreck under Mrs. Greenfield's marriage-settlement was their only support over and above the remuneration her son had earned, first as a curate, but latterly as only a stop-gap in taking casual duty, such as that which had taken him to Abbotsbourne.Presently Mrs. Greenfield said, "I had a letter from my dear daughter May this morning, full of hope and gratitude to you, Mr. Kennedy, for your kindness. It is great kindness," Mrs. Greenfield said, "and my son and I both feel, with May, that you have been sent by our Heavenly Father to succour us in our need.""Grannie," broke in the little discordant voice of the paper-snipper, "shall we have nice dinners if we go to Abbotstown?""Abbotsbourne, you stupid!" came from the couch in the corner."Because I'd like that part. I get so sick of bread and treacle for pudding.""Poor children!" Mrs. Greenfield said; "you must excuse them—they have had no advantages. Their poor father has done his best, but he has had a hard battle to fight. One room which serves for everything leaves but little quiet for educating the children, and their mother is quite unequal to any exertion.""Well, I hope the dark days are passing over now, Mrs. Greenfield. I shall write to your son, unless I meet him in the town, which is probable, as I am on the look-out for the father of a girl who disappeared from home last week.""You mean the girl Forbes. Ah! that is a sad case. My daughter May mentions it in her letter; but I heard my son say the father had disappeared now. He set out searching for the girl the day you were here, and now he has not been heard of since. He is a very unsatisfactory person, and has, so they say, but one redeeming quality, which is his extreme love for this girl, who was wrongfully accused of theft, I think.""Yes, but I trust her character is cleared of sus-picion now. By God's mercy her life was saved; but the attempt to drown herself in the pond at High Wycherly is a very grave and sad feature in the case.""I think her mind had really given way, and she was scarcely accountable. She is very penitent now, poor child! for she is little more than a child.""I am afraid I cannot wait for Mr. Greenfield's return; but if I do not see him, please tell him I will write by to-morrow's post, and that all things are in train to receive you in the rectory by the beginning of August."Then Mr. Kennedy paused. He was not one of those people who think it necessary to force a religious remark on those who are greatly tried. Still, his heart went out in deep sympathy with Mrs. Greenfield, who in the evening of her days had seen her only son brought low, and his home clouded by illness and poverty, which, when they go hand-in-hand, sap the sweetness out of life, and are so wont to wear the spirit till it cleaves to the very dust. But as he pressed Mrs. Greenfield's hand at parting he said—"There are some words which in my times of trial and sorrow have often comforted me. 'Thou hast given me the defence of Thy salvation. Thy right hand also shall hold me up, and Thy loving correction shall make me great.'""Ah! it needs strong faith," poor Mrs. Greenfield said, " to realise that—to make it one's own"Yes," Mr. Kennedy replied, "yes; but if we are not sufficient for these things, Christ is sufficient."And so he left the little mean house more depressed than when he entered it, and telling himself that after all he might not have done wisely in transplanting that family to Abbotsbourne."How many—how many of the families of our clergy are in like case with the poor people I have just left," he thought. "Can nothing be done to relieve such distress on a broader basis than helping here and there a case which comes under one's own notice? After all," he thought, "it is not the gift, but the sympathy which sweetens the gift that has to be sought for. I hope—yes, I do hope my bright energetic mother will be patient with those unattractive children and their ailing mother, who seems to make no effort to help herself. There will be work cut out for my three young cousins to look after and teach these two children. Not very taking specimens of the article boy or girl, I confess. The more need we should do something for them. My three cousins——" and then he checked himself."Poor Joyce! one of 'those three.' I wonder how she is to-day, and if she was seriously injured. I have my misgivings about her, poor child."CHAPTER XX."THE POOR ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU."ALMOST the first person Mr. Kennedy met, as he turned out of the little side-street, with its rows of red-brick houses with bay-windows, into the High Street of Monksborough, was Mr. Greenfield."I have seen the Bishop," Mr. Kennedy said, "and it is all right. You are to be licensed to the curacy of Abbotsbourne, and you are all to be settled there in August."Mr. Greenfield clasped Mr. Kennedy's hand."This is your doing, and how can I thank you enough?" Mr. Greenfield's voice trembled with emotion. "Have you seen my mother?""Yes; I have just come from your house.""And did you see the poor children?—not Cecilia, I am afraid?""No. Mrs. Greenfield was not well, and was still in her room.""She is never well now," Mr. Greenfield said hopelessly, "never thinks herself well, that is to say; but my mother does everything for her, and for us also. We could never have struggled on at all without her help.""Well, now, I trust the need to struggle will be relieved. I am on the quest for Forbes, the father of the under-housemaid at High Wycherly. I must try to see him.""You won't find him, I am afraid. One of the poor children came this morning to tell me her father had gone away the day before yesterday, and they were in great distress. Let us go and see the poor wife, at least—I can give her news of her daughter, and so comfort her."The Forbes's home was in a low part of the town, and surrounded with the walls of factories near the docks, for a canal connected Monksborough with the mouth of the Channel, and many good-sized ships came up to the docks at Monksborough laden with timber and corn.John Forbes might have commanded good wages in one of the warehouses, but he was so uncertain and irregular in his habits, that he was often thrown out of work. His wife and little children were often unprovided for, and the success of Janet, who had been recommended to her first place by a lady who had taught her in the Sunday-school, and had a high opinion of her, was the brightest spot in the poor mother's life. 'Then Janet had unexpectedly got the place of an under-house-maid at High Wycherly, it was thought a great rise in life. High wages and a fine country place was a temptation not to be resisted; and a year before this time Janet had gone with an excellent character to Mrs. Macdonald's, engaged by Mrs. White, and full of hope and delight. She had saved from her wages, and had sent her little brothers and sisters presents at Christmas; and on receiving her payments, she had always entered money in the savings-bank.Accused of theft in that reckless manner, which is so wrong, with no proof, and indeed no attempt to prove it, the poor girl had been dismissed on the spot, and had gone home broken-hearted, to fall into a nervous and hysterical condition, which grew worse every day, and which raised her father's rage against her accusers to positive fury. Revenge was his great desire, and he had vowed many times he would have it. All attempts to get his daughter's character cleared were vain, several of the clergymen and ladies who had known Janet wrote to Mr. Macdonald, and begged him to have the matter thoroughly sifted, but such applications were fruitless. All that could be got from Mr. Macdonald was the promise that he would not press the charge, and, as we know, he offered Janet's father money, which he refused.Mrs. Forbes was one of those meek and patient people who bear their grief in silence, and Mr. Kennedy was much struck with her when he told her, her daughter was found, and safe."Thank God, sir," she exclaimed, "for that news."Then he told her as gently as he could all that had happened; and when he came to the story of the brooch stolen and hidden by the tame jackdaw, which the storm brought to light by hurling the stone ornament to the ground, she burst into tears, for it seemed even more to her that her child's innocence was proved beyond a doubt, than that her life was saved."She never knew what she was about, sir; she had been without proper food and drink for days. She was light-headed, or she would never have gone off as she did, for a more dutiful child never lived. She has never given me a moment's sorrow or trouble, and to see her come home as she did was enough to break my heart, as well as hers.""I will see Mr. Macdonald to-morrow," Mr. Kennedy said, "and I will let you know what we decide will be the best course to pursue with the poor girl. She must be sent to a convalescent home to recover her health, both of mind and body, and I think my mother can arrange this for her, if you will trust to us.""I did wish to see her, sir," the poor mother said; "but I'll try
to be patient. My husband has now gone off no one knows where, and he
has 
"Mr. Kennedy left behind him a substantial proof of his sympathy,
and then Mr. Greenfield walked back with him to the station." —Page 257.Illustration included in Marshall's Those
Three.been out of work ever since March. I do all I can with washing, and the little ones are taken care of by poor Janet's next sister, but it is a hard life, though I try to trust in God, who has been good to me in saving my poor child from a dreadful death."Mr. Kennedy left behind him a substantial proof of his sympathy, and then Mr. Greenfield walked with him to the station."We have forgotten our luncheon," he said. "I think I am hungry, let us order a good luncheon at the station; there will be time before the train is due."Poor Mr. Greenfield did not fail to do the luncheon full justice, and he went back to meet the trials of his home life with a heart full of thankfulness and hope.Mr. Kennedy took a ticket to Bromley instead of to Fairfield Junction, and from thence he hired a conveyance to High Wycherly. His thoughts as he travelled had been sad enough, but when the shabby old fly rumbled up the drive of high Wycherly, the sharp contrast between poverty and wealth smote him with pain. The smallness and poorness of efforts like his to relieve such suffering, when compared with the great amount that had to be relieved, made him sigh heavily. The two homes he had seen that day were both the homes where the pinch of poverty was sorely felt, and of the two, Mr. Greenfield's was the saddest. His surroundings were indeed enough to cramp his energies; and how impossible Mr. Kennedy thought it must be to write a sermon or to read to any purpose in that little room, where children, wife, and mother were all confined in a narrow space, and where meals were served, and all household matters of mending and making carried on by Mrs. Greenfield, the children quarrelsome and aggressive, the wife ailing and hysterical; and yet, Mr. Kennedy thought, the poor man is found fault with for want of organising power, and for the dulness and sameness of his sermons!"Seeing is believing," he thought. "I wish I could let these rich people in this grand house have a taste of Mr. Greenfield's life, even for a day."Mr. Kennedy was standing by the door of the rickety old fly, paying the fare, when Mr. Macdonald came up. He had a pleasant, frank manner, and he said—"I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, but step in, pray; my wife is in the drawing-room—step in.""I want a little conversation with you, Mr. Macdonald, alone, if you will kindly grant me an interview.""To be sure—to be sure. I see you are a clergyman, and I can guess the rest. Want a new aisle built to your church, eh? or a new organ or parsonage-house. Well, well! we will see about it. I am not the man to be close-fisted, as every one will tell you in Bromley,""Father,"—Evelyn now came up,—" father, it is Mr. Kennedy; you did not see him the other day.""Kennedy, Kennedy! Oh, I recollect; you are the new parson at Abbotsbourne. Come in—come in!"And Mr. Macdonald led the way to his spacious and well-appointed library in the older part of the house. A delightful room with a ribbed ceiling, panelled walls, and oak bookcases filled with handsome volumes. Beautiful soft carpets lay on the floor, and before the large library-table, with its many drawers and pigeon-holes for papers, was a luxurious chair, covered, like the rest, with dark, rich velvet."Now, sir, take a seat, and let us to business. I am not often at home so early in the week, so it's lucky you found me to-day; but I was wired for yesterday, as the storm had hit us pretty hard here. The hail smashed the conservatory, and punished some of my rarest blooms—an orchid I would not have taken thirty guineas for. But it's no use crying over spilt milk; I am too old a hand to do that. Now, open your matter, sir."Mr. Macdonald had not given Mr. Kennedy any opportunity of "opening his matter," as he called it, but now he seized the opportunity given by a short pause, and said—"I came to speak to you about one of your servants who has been accused of stealing money.""Dear, dear! when shall I hear the last of that miserable business? I really have nothing to say, except that I will offer any compensation in my power. Why, sir, I have been very forbearing with that bad fellow, the girl's father, who has hung about here in a threatening way, and came and tried to bully me in my office in London. He is not worth considering—a good-for-nothing chap, I hear, who is always quarrelling with his employers, and getting the sack, which be richly deserves. He flung a couple of sovereigns in my face with an oath I don't care to repeat to a clergy-man, and I have done with him.""But his daughter is innocent; she wants to have her character cleared.""Why, the trumpery brooch is found; is not that enough? As I told my wife, it is not worth the fuss she has made about it, a twopenny-halfpenny thing. As to the money, a paltry three sovereigns——"But it is not the value of the brooch or the amount of the money that is the question," Mr. Kennedy persisted."Then what on earth is the question? I am not going into a lot of bother about it. We will acquit the girl of taking the money, as we now know she did not take the brooch, so there's an end of it, I hope. The girl is still upstairs, and being well looked after in this house. I don't see what more can be expected of us. My wife has had a great deal of trouble about it all, and I believe she is quite ill to-day, what with the storm, and what with this girl's walking into the pond. Poor thing! she scarcely knew what she was about, or, as you know, Mr. Kennedy, I, as a magistrate, have power to commit her for attempted suicide."Mr. Kennedy rose abruptly."I see, sir, that we have nothing to hope for from you. I wish to see Janet Forbes, and I will make arrangements as soon as possible for her removal from this house. If that poor girl had perished by her own act, the sin and its consequences would have lain very heavily on your shoulders.""Come, come, sir, with all due respect for 'your cloth,' as my father used to say, I think you go a little too far. You must see Mrs. White, the housekeeper, if you want any more information about the girl. I have got several men here estimating the work for repairs to the roof of the conservatory and other places, so I shall ring for a servant to show you to Mrs. White's room, and wish you good day."Half-an-hour later, Mr. Kennedy was walking quickly down the drive of High Wycherly, glad to escape, and shaking the dust from his feet as a witness against the selfishness which seemed to deaden sympathy and charity in the breasts of its owners. But the sound of hurrying footsteps be-hind him made him pause, and turning, he saw Evelyn running to overtake him."Mr. Kennedy, do stop," she said, "do come back and rest; you cannot walk to Abbotsbourne. Let me order the carriage, and I will drive you back. I have been there to-day already, but please wait till the carriage comes round.""Claude!" she called, "Claude!" in her ringing voice."All right!" was Claude's answer somewhere from the region of the stables, which were hidden from sight at the entrance-gates by a plantation."He is showing little Bruce the horses," Evelyn said. "We brought Bruce back with us from Abbotsbourne, for there is great trouble there.""I left early this morning," Mr. Kennedy said. "Is there fresh trouble? Has the doctor seen Joyce?"'Yes; and she is ordered to lie in bed, and I am afraid Dr. Redmayne thinks something is very wrong, for he is to take a physician out from Bromley to-morrow. Shall we go and find Claude, and hasten the carriage?"They found Bruce perched on the horse-block, from which he surveyed the pigeons which had come down from the dovecot to be fed. Claude had ordered him to stay there while he went to fetch another bag of core for him to scatter to the pigeons."Well, what do you want?" Claude asked, as he emerged from the stable-door with a large brown paper-bag in his hand."I want the pony-carriage again to drive Mr. Kennedy back to Abbotsbourne."Claude greeted Mr. Kennedy in his usual pleasant manner, and said to his sister, "You can't have Zoe; you must put up with the old cob.""Will you come, Claude? Do come!""I tell you what: I think you had better stay at home. We brought this child here, and we must look after him; mother was grumbling just now because he was rampaging in the hall and threw down one of the gimcracks on the table.""He can go to Mrs. White," Evelyn said."No, he is in no favour with Mrs. White.""Let me settle the question by walking," Mr. Kennedy said."Oh, no! you look dead-beat as it is," Claude exclaimed. "I'll get the cart ready, and drive you in no time, and Eve must stay with that little chap."Bruce had exhausted the contents of the paper-bag and his patience at the same time, and was calling loudly to be lifted down from his perch.Evelyn felt very much disappointed; she would have liked above all things to talk to Mr. Kennedy about Joyce, but she was obliged to confess that Claude was right."You must not be troublesome, Bruce," she said, "or I shall pack you off to Mrs. Batt again to-morrow.""I shan't go back to Mrs. Batt; I shall go to father and Nannie. I don't like Mrs. Batt.""And perhaps Mrs. Batt does not like you," Evelyn replied.CHAPTER XXI.GOOD WORDS.MR. KENNEDY had always the power of putting boys at ease with him, and he and Claude were soon talking like old acquaintances on many subjects.Mr. Kennedy had been a public-school boy himself not so many years before, and he could discourse about football and cricket, fives and squash rackets, in the appropriate fashion which wins a boy's heart."And what are you going to take up when you leave school? Are you going to Oxford or Cambridge?""No; I am going to cram for Woolwich after Christmas. I would rather be a soldier than anything.""You are not to follow in your father's business, then?""Rather not," Claude said. "Why should I?""You are an only son, and I should think your father would like you to do so.""Oh, he does not care," Claude said, giving the sturdy cob a sudden flick with the whip. "He has made a big fortune, and there are only two of us—Eve and me. The governor—my father," he corrected himself, "does not care what we do, if we cut a good figure in the world. Eve is sure to do that; and I'll do my best if I have the chance.""And you think the army will give you the chance?""Yes, a better chance than sitting on a high stool and bothering over accounts.""Are you sure of that?"Claude turned his head quickly and met Mr. Kennedy's eyes."Yes, I am." Then, with another rather savage stroke on the cob's back, Claude added—"It would be a finer thing to get the Victoria Cross for saving a fellow's life, or leading a column as Earle did in the Soudan war, than to think of money from one year's end to another, as my father does.""Perhaps; but I am not sure.""Oh," said Claude in his usual outspoken fashion, "I see what you are driving at; you mean that I should do my duty in my father's office, and go on just as he has done and make money. I hate the thought of it, and I am sure my mother would hate it. I am bound to be a soldier; it's the only thing worth coaching for. I daresay," he added after a pause, "you who are a parson, can't understand what I mean; but I say, if my father was a poor struggling man, who could scarcely make two ends meet, and I could help him to do so, it would be different. But as I told you, he does not want me to enter the business. After all, trade is trade, and people like"—Claude hesitated—" like Lady Victoria sniff at trades-people, and would rather be poor fifty times over with their handles, than rich without them!""I don't think you have any right to reason like that," Mr. Kennedy said. "If you ask me what I think, I say that it is not the possession of wealth, honourably won, at which any right-minded man or woman 'sniffs,' to use your not very elegant expression, but at the pretension or effort to seem what they are not which makes some people shrink from acquaintance with them. Don't misunderstand me."Claude flicked away at his horse and said presently—"I see what you mean. I hate stuck-up nonsense, and I am sure Eve does. Eve is awfully good; if you knew her you would say so. We have a row sometimes, and tell each other plain truths; but I don't know what I should do without Eve, and it enrages me to think Lady Victoria does not like her girls to care for her. But I believe Pleasance thinks a great deal of Eve, and Joyce likes her. I say," he began abruptly changing the subject, "what do you think of her? I mean, do you know what is the matter? If you do, I wish you would tell me.""No; I do not know," Mr. Kennedy said. "I was off to Monksborough early this morning, and the doctor had not seen my cousin then.""Did you ever see any one who had been struck by lightning?" Claude asked."Not that I remember," was the reply."I believe Joyce was struck," Claude said, "and I hate to think it. She is the pluckiest girl, and, to my mind, the nicest of 'those three,' though Eve would not like to hear me say so. Joyce is splendid; you should have seen her yesterday holding on to the pole, and never calling out or screaming, as most girls would have done. If she had, it would have done for me; but she just stood as firm as a rock; and when my head bobbed up, I saw her face looking resolute and her hair all down. I say, did you ever see such hair as that?"Mr. Kennedy was amused at Claude's enthusiasm; but he said quietly—"It is red hair, isn't it? There is an immense quantity of it, I know.""Red!" Claude repeated. "Well, it's red-gold, then, like Rubens' women have in his pictures in the Louvre. I like it.""Rubens' liked it too, no doubt," Mr. Kennedy said, laughing. "Some people think he liked it rather too well, and that he might have made a variety."They were getting near Abbotsbourne now, and Mr. Kennedy said—"It is very kind of you to drive me back; for I was rather done up with my day's work. I was once as good at football and games as you are, but lately I have broken down in health, which accounts for my retiring to this country village. But, my boy, though I admire pluck and courage as much as you can do, and think the soldier's a fine profession, still I should like, as an older man, to remind you that physical strength and endurance is only one side of the picture. A man may have them and yet be weak when temptation comes—morally weak, and yielding to the claims of self rather than resisting them. I know, when I was your age, I rather resented what I called preachment; but I hope I shall not make you less my friend if I ask you to remember that to endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ includes in it a very panoply of strength for a young man just entering life, especially one like you, who have the surroundings of wealth, and, as you say, parents who deny you nothing. It is good to exercise a little self-restraint, even when all things encourage you to do as you like, and have what you like, and choose your own path in life. There is often hardness to be endured in what seems little things, which, if endured bravely, count for much in the formation of character. Education means to build up, and no outward help can avail to place the stones in the building in due form and fair proportion, so that at last the whole is fitly framed, unless we try with our own hands to fashion the stones, so to speak, with the sharp chisel of self-denial in what many call trifles. Now, I am not saying this for the sake of saying it, or from any other reason than that you interest me; and that if, as I hope, we shall be near neighbours, we shall be friends, and that you will look upon me as an elder brother.""I always wished I had a brother," Claude said in a gruff voice. "I daresay if I had had a brother I should not have been the selfish brute I am at home."Then, as the horse was pulled up before The Cottage, Claude said as Mr. Kennedy jumped out—"Thank you; good night," turned the horse's head towards home, and was soon out of sight and hearing."It is always difficult to say the right thing in the right way," Mr. Kennedy thought as he went into The Cottage, where his mother was anxiously expecting him. "I wonder if I have done this, or whether I have stirred any antagonism in that fine fellow's heart. I hope not; for there is something very attractive about him, and how many temptations and quicksands lie in his path, as the only son of the rich father who is a fair specimen of a careless, good-natured man, of no culture or refinement, and yet well-intentioned according to his lights.""Oh, my dear Henry, I have been so anxious! How late you are! Are you knocked up?" Mrs. Kennedy exclaimed."I am very tired, but I have done what I wanted, and I hope things are now in trim for settling matters here.""I hope so. I have had the architect, and the arrangement of the rooms at the rectory is quite easy; the Greenfields can have a separate entrance and four rooms, while we shall have the dining, drawing-room, and your study, and five bedrooms, as well as the attics. It is a large house for a rectory, and, as the Bishop said, a man with private means was necessary. The state of the unoccupied rooms is deplorable. I saw spiders as big as little mice racing about, and dust, pecks of it! But I have set three women to clean at once. They are a slow set here, Henry, but I think I shall wake them up. We have had a trying day. Joyce is in a very nervous, hysterical state. I just crept into the room to ask her how she felt, and begged her to rouse herself for her mother's sake, when she began to cry and sob, and—well I think there is a good deal of temper in it. Victoria has not been wise in bringing up those three girls to think Abbotsbourne is the world, and that all they have and all they do is right and perfect. I suppose we shall dine as usual at half-past seven; it is time to dress now," she continued, twisting her wrist to look at her infallible little watch; "yes, it is eighteen minutes past seven already. I have seen nothing of Victoria all day, nor of little Pleasance, whom I like the best of the three. By-the-bye, little Susie Anderson is very ill, and I expect the journey here was too much for her. Miss Macdonald and her brother kindly relieved us of that forward little boy; he is quite an enfant terrible. It is all very well to say he is like one of Guido's angels, but it is quite nonsense to let his hair grow down his back at six years old. It makes him look like a circus-boy, and I shall certainly advise his mother to have it cropped. By-the-bye, that was one thing which sent poor Joyce off into hysterics, when I offered to cut off her hair. It is really extra-ordinary how foolish mothers are about their daughters. Victoria, when she came into the room, hearing Joyce lamenting, said she could not consent to have Joyce's hair cut, or if it was cut, it must be done by a competent hairdresser!""Yes," Mr. Kennedy said with a smile, as he followed his mother upstairs, "mothers are foolish about their children, more especially mothers with only one son; it is extraordinary how the said sons are spoiled.""Ah! Henry, that won't do. Some sons are not to be spoiled, and if a mother tries to do it, she cannot succeed."Then, as they parted at the top of the stairs, Mrs. Kennedy and her son exchanged a loving kiss.Although they were unconscious of it, they were seen by Corisande, who was coming out of her room in her usual evening dress of soft India muslin, calm and composed outwardly, though, like her mother and Pleasance, she was in her heart very unhappy about her sister. Pleasance joined her, and they went into the drawing-room together."Cousin Henry has come back," Corisande said, in answer to Pleasance's inquiry. "I saw him and Aunt Grace embracing each other in the corridor. Dear me! it is unfortunate having them here just now.""It is nice to have Cousin Henry. I like him so much; and I am sure we ought to be the better for sermons like that we heard on Sunday.""Oh, I daresay," Corisande said in her cool, deliberate manner; "but I think we did very well as we were; and I am inclined to agree with Margaret, that Aunt Grace is likely to set every one by the ears. She has been worrying in the village all day, and she worries mother, though she does not like to confess it."The sisters went into the drawing-room together, and Pleasance said—"How long it seems since that day when mother called me to come and take Evelyn's note, and you said I was asleep! When unexpected things happen, time seems to stretch out and be long instead of short; that evening Aunt Grace was only a sort of vision, and now she is a——"Very stern reality," Corisande said, laughing."As she is father's sister we must make the best of her," Pleasance rejoined; "and I am sure she is very good, and that she cares for us for father's sake.""It is a pity very good people cannot be very pleasant also."Perhaps Corisande would have been surprised to hear that Evelyn Macdonald wished the clever Miss Corisande Fraser, whose praises Mademoiselle had often sounded, could be pleasant in her manner, as well as good also.CHAPTER XXII.A MESSENGER.MRS. MACDONALD thought herself much to be pitied that evening. Something had gone wrong with her dress which was prepared for the garden-party that week, and Mrs. Carter declared her intention of resigning her place and returning to "higher" service."It is most trying, Evelyn," her mother said, as they were sitting together after dinner. "Miss Greenfield will resign next, and then what shall I do? She is very stupid at times, and incompetent, but she knows my ways, and she is fairly capable of overlooking the servants and seeing that they do their duty. I think all this young man's schemes about Abbotsbourne very absurd, and I am sure they won't answer."Evelyn had been reading in the window in the waning light, and now roused herself to listen to her mother's complaints."It is provoking. I shall not be able to go to this party to-morrow—the first time they have asked us; though, of course, we ought to have been asked to dinner. We must have a dinner-party soon ourselves, I really think; I shall invite Lady Victoria, as you are so intimate with the girls.""Oh, no, mother, don't think of it," Evelyn said, "and while Joyce is so ill.""Ill? I did not know she was ill.""She is in bed, and there is to be a consultation to-morrow; and, mother, I am so anxious about little Susie. I should so like to have her here, to take care of and nurse her.""Nonsense, Evelyn! I have allowed you to keep Bruce for a day or two, but I can go no farther. Sophy quite understands.""Understands what, mother?""That we are so differently placed in life, that our ways lie in opposite directions. As we make our bed we must lie on it, and your aunt knew we disapproved of her marriage with Mr. Anderson.""I am very fond of Aunt Sophy, and I like Mr. Anderson; that is, what I have seen of him. He is a very well-read, cultivated man.""Oh, I daresay.""Do let me have Susie here, mother; she is such a darling child—so patient and uncomplaining.""No, Evelyn; I am sure the house is turned upside down as it is. I quite believe Carter has given warning because everything is so upset. I don't know how long this girl Forbes is to stay here. I suppose those people who have taken her up will let us hear what is to be done with her.""Mr. Kennedy is going to send her to a convalescent home, mother. Of course, we ought to pay for it.""I don't see why; but you must ask your father, who is always liberal and generous; and, Evelyn, I do not object to pay for the lodgings at Abbotsbourne for Sophy's poor child. I thought of driving over one day, and calling at The Cottage to inquire for Joyce Fraser. I wish to be civil, and, after all, I think I like her the best of those three girls. I know you like Pleasance best; she is a nice little thing, but not equal to her sister. Claude thinks highly of her; by-the-bye, where is Claude? I suppose he was asked to dine at The Cottage."Mr. Macdonald now came bustling in."I say, mamma, where's the boy? He did not come in to dinner.""He is dining at The Cottage, I expect," Mrs. Macdonald said. "I think they were certain to invite him after his courtesy in driving Mr. Kennedy home.""He has got the brown cob, which is steady enough; but if he had Zoe, I should begin to think he had met with a spill. Well, Evelyn," her father continued, " what have you done with that chill?""He went to bed long ago, father. Is not he a lovely boy?""Oh, yes; lovely enough to break that old Bristol china card-plate on the hall-table, and to tread down half-a-dozen young bigonia plants which the storm had spared. But he is a pretty boy, no doubt—just what Claude was at his age. By-the-bye, what can have become of Claude?"The servants now came in with tea and coffee, one footman setting out the table, another taking the silver service from the butler, who in his turn handed the coffee on a massive salver to his mistress, while Evelyn poured out the tea for her father.Then, after a pause, the lamps were brought in, and still no Claude!Mr. Macdonald was getting very fidgety about Claude; he went in and out from the drawing-room to the hall, and then on to the terrace and round to the stables.Evelyn began to share her father's anxiety, and wrapping a shawl round her, followed him into the garden."What has become of the boy, Evelyn? Do you think lie has dined with those folks at The Cottage?""He may have done so, father, but I do not think it very likely.""Then what on earth has become of him?" Mr. Macdonald said, beginning an irritable stampede up and down a short gravel path which led towards the stables. "It is getting quite dark, and there is no moon. I think I shall send Betts to look after him.""Claude is able to take care of himself, father; he will not like to be sent after like a child; wait a little longer."But in her secret heart Evelyn was uneasy. Claude might have dined at The Cottage, it is true, but it was not very probable, unless Mr. Kennedy, who had taken a fancy to him, had taken upon himself to invite him.He would hardly do that while every one was so uneasy about Joyce, and Claude was much more likely to prefer driving home for dinner. He had asked her to be sure to get the Halma board ready, for he meant to beat her this time, and recounted how he had been only two moves behind on the last occasion when they had tried their skill at their favourite game.Where was Claude? The clock chimed for half-past nine, the sky was very dark with clouds, over which the summer lightning played in sudden sheets of brilliancy, appearing and disappearing like the phantom of a dream."I shall send Betts—I shall go myself—I think something must be wrong," Mr. Macdonald said. "Don't tell your mother; she will be in a great flurry; go and sit with her and say no-thing.""I expect mother is already anxious," Evelyn said."Oh, you do, do you? Then you are anxious, though you don't choose to allow it," and Mr. Macdonald turned quickly down the path to the stables to order Betts, the groom, to take a look along the Abbotsbourne road and find out if Mr. Claude was coming.Just as Mr. Macdonald had disappeared in the dark shadow of the trees, a man came running up the drive from the lodge."Is this Squire Macdonald's?" he asked."Yes," Evelyn said, her heart almost standing still as the certainty of ill news seemed to root her to the spot. "Yes! What is it? What do you want?""A young gent has been found lying by a carriage half-way to Abbotsbourne. The trap is overturned, and we think it's the young squire."Evelyn gave one loud cry, "Father! father!" and then she rushed back to the house wildly, and hardly conscious of what she was doing.But presently, with a strong effort, she regained her self-control. She paused on the threshold, and asked herself what it was best to do. Tell her mother, or leave her in ignorance? keep back the had news, or give her mother some warning to prepare her for it? Evelyn had scarcely a moment to make up her mind when she heard steps coming quickly from the servants' hall, where the man had gone and given the alarm.Mrs. White, the housekeeper, came first."Oh, Miss Evelyn! the man thinks he is dead. Oh, my dear young lady!"Next, from her room on the first landing, Miss Greenfield came."What is it? what is it?" she asked."It is Claude. Something has happened to Claude."And now the buzz of voices and the swift hurrying feet brought Mrs. Macdonald into the hall."Dear mother," Evelyn said, "I am afraid Claude has had an accident. We, father and the servants and I, will go to him. Oh, mother! try to be calm."But poor Mrs. Macdonald uttered a shriek that sounded through the house, and fell senseless into Miss Greenfield's arms."Attend to mother," Evelyn said. "Give me a hat; I have a shawl. I must go with father; I must," as Miss Greenfield tried to detain her. "I must," she repeated; and snatching up a cap —Claude's cap—which lay upon one of the chairs, thrown carelessly there when he had exchanged it for a hat as he went to drive Mr. Kennedy back to Abbotsbourne, Evelyn drew her shawl round her and rushed to the stables."Take Zoe, father—take Zoe."Poor Mr. Macdonald seemed quite helpless, and yet was ready to blame every one."I can't get a sensible word from any one," he said; "that fool who comes here tells nothing. What are you all about?" Mr. Macdonald said. "Get the carriage ready. Will no one get a carriage ready? Must I harness the horses myself? Are you all asleep or drunk.""Father," Evelyn pleaded, "Betts is as quick as he can be."Then, as the man who had brought the news came round from the back-entrance with a flock of maid-servants, their aprons thrown over their heads, which gleamed white in the darkness, Evelyn went to him."Now you have got your breath, tell us more. Is any one with my brother?""Yes, two of my mates. We were coming along the road from work in the quarry, when we heard angry voices, as if some folks were quarrelling, and when we came up to the turn just by the cross-road, there was not a sound. Then we came on a bit farther, and there was the horse standing stock-still, and the carriage turned over into the hedge, and the young gent lying a few yards ahead. One of my mates said it was the young squire as he knew at High Wycherly; but lor'! it mayn't be he after all."The carriage was ready by this time, the lamps lit, and making two rays of light on either side of the yard as the horses' feet rattled on the stones, and Evelyn, her father, and one of the footmen on the box, drove off. Several other servants followed, Mrs. White having thoughtfully brought out a flask of brandy and a pillow, which she gave to one of the men to carry. Mr. Macdonald's undisciplined distress was piteous; he kept his head out of the carriage-window, shouting to the coachman to drive on, and in no measured terms reproaching every one for slowness and stupidity.Evelyn could only sit and endure, and every time her father bounced back with a heavy thud to his seat, she felt her agony of suspense about her brother almost less hard to bear than her distress to see her father so utterly unable to control himself. How often had Zoe's swift feet taken Evelyn along that road! She thought of her late expeditions along it; only that morning she had been with Claude, when they ventured to bring back Bruce to High Wycherly. She thought of her brother's kindness to little Bruce, and how he had brought his mother round to receive him graciously, and made her confess he was a nephew worth having. All Claude's faults were forgotten, only the memory of his virtues remained. Evelyn forgot that ever there had been a difference between them; she only remembered how happy his return from school always made her—how his coming seemed to bring a great clement of brightness and stir into the house; and that when the news came that his boarding-house at school had been broken up on account of illness, how delighted she had been to get him back, and, free from Mademoiselle's and Fraulein's hand, how many pleasant excursions had been planned for this unexpected holiday. In that short drive of scarcely more than three miles, how much of Claude's life and her own rose before her; and she remembered that it was only yesterday, though it seemed almost like a year, since she had seen his head rising above the weed-strewn waters of the pond, Joyce stead-fast and resolute in the boat, and she and Pleasance making a stand to help Claude and his burden out of the water."Only yesterday! was it possible?" and the dim and undefined fear took a definite shape as the carriage suddenly pulled up, and her father, leaning out of the window for the twentieth time, said—"What do you say?"And a man's voice in the darkness replied—"We've taken him into the Quarry Cottage, and my mate is gone for the doctor, but I expect
it's all no use!"CHAPTER XXIII.WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR.WHEN Claude Macdonald had deposited Mr. Kennedy at The Cottage, he whipped the old cob to a quick trot, and instead of taking the direct road home to High Wycherley, he turned up the village street to the upper road, which lay parallel with the lower one, and drove up to Dr. Redmayne's door.Dr. Redmayne had just returned from a long day's visiting across hill and dale, of which only country doctors can understand the weariness, and was stretched out in his dining-room in his slippers with a pipe in his mouth and the Times a day old on his knee."Who wants me?" Claude heard him ask the old servant, who had lived with the doctor for many years, and was his right hand not only in keeping an account of patients, and entering their names in a book, but also superintending the sending out of pills and drugs from the cupboard, where a large store was kept ready for chance customers."Who is it now? I am dead-beat. Bother! Ask if it's any one.""He's a young gentleman, sir—Mr. Macdonald. He won't keep you long, he says."The name had a magic power."Show him in—show him in," Dr. Redmayne said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and throwing the Times on the table.Claude came in with his usual pleasant smile."I hope I am not disturbing you.""Not at all—not at all. Am I wanted at High Wycherly?""No," Claude said; "I only called to ask you a question. Will you tell me what you think of Joyce—Miss Fraser? I want to know if you think, or rather what you think about——"The boy twisted his hat nervously in his hand, and the colour deepened in his face."You see," he went on hurriedly, "my sister Eve is awfully fond of one of those three sisters, and as whatever has happened to this one happened at our house, we want to know the real truth about it."The old doctor looked straight into the boy's frank blue eyes, and did not guess that he had learned from Joyce's own lips what he feared—almost knew—to be a certainty.But Dr. Redmayne assumed his professional air and said—"The electric fluid, no doubt, passed through her system; of this the discolouration of the forehead is an indisputable proof; but it is for her eyes I fear. One eye I can almost assert is seriously injured, and the nerve at the back of the pupil—the optic nerve—well, destroyed. But till I have held a consultation with Dr. Watson, of Bromley, which is fixed for eleven o'clock to-morrow, I cannot give a decided diagnosis.""You mean," Claude said abruptly, "you can't say whether she will be blind or not?"The doctor nodded."Exactly! I cannot speak with absolute certainty.""Thank you!" Claude said; "that is what I wanted to know. Eve and I could not really make out what you thought from the people at The Cottage.""Lady Victoria is very quiet and composed. I know her ladyship well. She has deep feelings, but they are under bridle and rein, if I may say so.Then, as Claude turned to leave the room, Dr. Redmayne said, clapping him on his shoulder—"You saved that poor girl's life yesterday by your pluck. She will do well, poor thing; but she is in a nervous condition, and so I ventured to recommend she should be put under care at some home or hospital. There are plenty of such institutions nowadays. These nervous hysterical young women want definite treatment. But upon my word you are quite a hero, and ought to get the medal for saving life!"Claude gave an impatient twitch of his shoulder."As if there was anything in jumping into a fishpond!" he said. "It is not half as deep as our swimming-bath at school, though, to be sure, we have not got those beastly weeds to choke us. And if any one was plucky, it was Joyce; and Eve showed she was made of good stuff too. Good evening, doctor, and thank you."The doctor went to the gate of the little garden with Claude, where old Ben stood patiently, Dr. Redmayne's man-servant at his head."Are you taking the upper road?" the doctor asked."Yes, as far as the quarry, and then I shall turn into the lower road about two miles from our gates. Good-bye!""A fine young fellow," the doctor said, as he watched the cart drive off, "a very fine young fellow; seems very much cut up about Miss Joyce. Ah, well, there's reason for it, too, I am afraid."And with this soliloquy Dr. Redmayne returned to his parlour, ordered his lamp, for the evening was dark, and there was not a gleam of light from the west, and then settled himself to his pipe and the Times, taking short naps between the leading articles, and finally, overcome with fatigue, was sound asleep in his arm-chair.Claude was in a meditative mood, and the cob had an easy time of it on the return journey.Mr. Kennedy's words had not passed away unheeded. Somehow he could not forget them. He hardly knew why, but these words had set him thinking of his life at school and his life at home. Endure hardness! Well, he had no fear of pain; he could endure a kick at football and never make a sound; he was not such a coward as that. If he went to Woolwich, he would show he knew what training for a soldier meant. Then other words came back, and he confessed they were true. He had everything he liked; his father never denied him a request for more money; his mother was ready to indulge every whim. Of course he liked good living, as every fellow did when he had been at school. What was the use of seeing all the good things before him, of having them handed to him, if he did not eat them? and what was the use of always letting Eve drive Zoe when he was at home? It was his place to drive—hers to sit still and be driven. And yet, however much he tried to defend himself to himself, with that double reasoning most of us know something about, the earnest, manly words that had so lately sounded in his ear would keep rehearsing themselves mentally to the regular slow beat of the old brown cob's steady trot. "Endure hardness—endure hardness." Then he fell to thinking of Joyce—Joyce, who had so lately come into his boy-life, so full of health and spirit, with her red-gold hair shining in the June sunshine on that first day of their meeting, when he had gone home to tell Eve he had made friends with one of "those three," and that he liked her the best of "those three," better than the smiling Pleasance, to whom she was so devoted. Then Claude thought of those terrible fears which Joyce's few broken words that morning had awakened, and which fears Dr. Redmayne had not dispelled.If old Ben could think, as I daresay he could, he must have wondered why he was allowed to keep this slow, even pace, without even a touch of the whip, with the reins so slack, with no effort on the part of his master to make him hold up his head. At last the turn by the quarry was reached, and the horse knew it, and jogged down the rough lane to the road below. Trees grew on either side of this road, and it was but a dim light from a dim-coloured sky which penetrated the branches."Come, old Ben," Claude said, rousing himself from his meditation and sitting erect, " we must make haste home, or my dinner will be cold."Ben was just beginning to flick his tail, toss up his head, and break into a quicker trot, when a man's figure appeared in the middle of the road, and seizing the bridle-rein at Ben's head, said—"Now, then, young master, you'll just tell me what you've done with my girl?""Done with your girl! What do you mean?""Ah! you may put on innocence; it won't do. I've lost her all through your cursed wickedness, and I'll have my revenge; so now you know."Claude recognised the voice, though he could scarcely make out the man's features."Come," he said, "you won't bully me or frighten me. Let me pass. Your girl is all right.""Is she, though? She is gone out of her mind by your governor's cruelty—the best girl that ever walked, and I'll have my revenge. I was on my way to your grand house yonder, but I may as well give you a bit of my mind, and thrash you instead of the old man, your father.""I think you are mad," Claude said, giving Ben a cut with the whip. "I tell you your daughter is——""A thief!" the man said; then he sprang up at Claude, and a desperate struggle ensued. He had a thick stick in his hand, and he struck the boy a fierce blow across the shoulders.Claude leaned over and hit Forbes across the face with the whip, which stung him to fury."You think to treat me like a cur, you young——"Ben had been very long-suffering, but another blow of the short cudgel aimed at Claude fell on his back instead. He started, kicked, and reared in terror. Claude had lost command of the reins, and before he could recover them the cart was pitched on its side, and he lay senseless on the road some yards in advance.At this moment the men who had been working in the quarry came down the lane along which Claude had driven the cart not many minutes before; and at the sound of their approaching footsteps Forbes plunged into the plantation through a gap in the hedge and made off."Who is it?" one of the men asked."It's the young squire from the grand house between this and Bromley.""Well, he's dead, I believe. He has knocked his head against the stone. The horse stands like a lamb, I declare! We had better carry this young gent to my cottage. My missis will look after him.""But heave up the cart first, man," said another, "and some one run to the big house and tell 'em what's happened, and when we've carried him home to our place, I'll fetch the doctor.""And who's to see to the cart and horse? Letter set it right on end, anyhow."So while one messenger was sent, as we know, to High Wycherly, the other men unharnessed Ben; and then, the stronger of the two, lifted Claude in his arms and bore him to one of two ivy-covered cottages, standing a little back from a lane leading in the opposite direction to that from the quarry.The man bore Claude as tenderly as if he were a child, and he was laid on the little bed in the cottage, which was divided from the rest of the room by a curtain."The man's wife was putting her husband's supper on the centre of a low fire, and said rather crossly—"What are ye bringing in here, Jack? You are late enough." Then, catching sight of Claude's still, white face, she uttered an exclamation—"Oh, dear, the poor boy is dead! Have you sent for the doctor.""Of course we have. He isn't dead, though, or it wouldn't be much use. Here, unfasten his collar and get some water."But Claude made no sign of life or movement.The well-knit athletic young frame was as help-less as an infant's; the eyes closed and the mouth drawn as if in pain.And so he lay, the poor woman murmuring over him kindly words till the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and Evelyn and her father came into the cottage.It was like a terrible dream to see Claude lying in that deathlike stillness in that poor cottage, the check curtain drawn aside, the light of a small lamp, which had a stifling odour, making the gloom only more oppressive, the homely but kindly woman rubbing Claude's forehead with vinegar, where the thick mass of that short curled hair was lying in damp masses.Evelyn flung herself on her knees, calling her brother by name; and her father, excited and beside himself with grief, shouted for the doctor, advised the footman at one moment to fetch Dr. Redmayne, then to take the carriage to Bromley, then to help him to get his boy into the carriage and drive home."Lift him out of this stuffy hole," he said; "he can't breathe here—no one could breathe here. Let us get him out of it, Evelyn. Will no one obey me? The boy will be choked here.""Father," Evelyn said, "these people have been very kind. Wait till Dr. Redmayne comes. Do be patient.""Patient! when my boy is——"Poor Mr. Macdonald broke down, and leaning against the whitewashed wall behind him, sobbed out, "Don't tell me he is dead, my boy, my only son, the pride of my life ! Don't tell me he is dead!"The woman, who had murmured something about "grumbling being all the gratitude some folks could show" when Mr. Macdonald had called her cottage a "stuffy hole," was now moved to pity by the poor father's grief. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.""Don't 'ee fret like that, sir," she said. "It may please the Lord to bring the poor young gent back to life. I know all about it, for my boy Sam was killed by a fall in the quarry two years ago come Michaelmas. I know all about it; but the Lord is very merciful and understanding, and He won't forsake us if we trust in Him. It's a sore trial when He takes away our darlings.""Don't talk like that, my good woman," Mr. Macdonald said; "don't tell me my boy is taken away. He will come round, won't he, Evelyn? But where are those doctors?" he said. "Why does not old Redmayne hurry himself? I declare every one moves at a snail's-pace. I had better have gone myself."A little group at the door now gave way, and the doctor come in puffing and blowing from riding fast down from his house by the lane along which Claude had driven an hour before."Stand aside—stand aside," he said; "give me a candle, quick. No, not that wretched lamp."A candle was stuck in an old ginger-beer bottle, and the woman held it to Claude's face, while the doctor had his fingers on his wrist, and burrowed his grey head against Claude's breast to listen to the heart-beat. Then he lifted the eyelids, and taking a bottle from his pocket, called for a spoon, and putting it in between Claude's lips, he said—"He is alive. It is concussion of the brain, more or less severe; of this I cannot be sure at present, but he is alive, and we must hope for the best."Evelyn, who had knelt motionless at her brother's feet till this moment, now buried her face in her hands, sobbing convulsively."Come, come, my dear young lady, we must take heart. Don't give way, but let us consider what it is best to do.""The carriage is here. Let us take him home; he can't be nursed in this miserable hole," Mr. Macdonald exclaimed; "let us take him home."And as he spoke, Claude's eyelids fluttered, and they were slowly raised. But it was not a conscious gaze, for he seemed to know nothing of what had happened, where he was, or with whom he was.He muttered something about the water being deep, and that he was choked, and then with a deep sigh the eyelids closed again; but another spoonful of the doctor's cordial was swallowed, and he said—"He will do, I hope, and we had better take him home."CHAPTER XXIV.ILL NEWS.ILL news is said to fly apace, but it was not till the next morning that Margaret, coming into her lady's room to report what sort of night Miss Joyce had passed, said—"There was an accident last night, my lady, to young Mr. Macdonald. Jim brought the news from Dr. Redmayne's groom. It was thought at first the young gentleman was dead, but they say it is percussion of the brain. Dr. Redmayne was with him all night, and the doctor from Bromley also. I suppose they will be coming in here to our precious child. It's sad," Margaret said, "to think of these two young creatures struck down as they are, so full of life and spirit. I declare, my lady, to have Miss Joyce like this is like losing the sun from the sky.""I am very sorry, indeed, to hear of Mr. Macdonald's accident. How did it happen?""No one seems to know, my lady. The cart on which he drove Mr. Kennedy was found upset in the hedge, and the old horse standing by. But the men who found him, my lady, coming down the lane from the quarry, say they heard angry voices, as if two people were quarrelling; but that may be their fancy. I hope your ladyship slept after I left you.""Fairly well, Margaret; but I feel changes are at hand, and I must face them. I shall wait to hear the doctor's opinion; but I think, whatever it may be, I shall take a house in London again. Miss Joyce must have the treatment of one of the best oculists, if, as I fear——"Lady Victoria could not get that fear into words, it was too terrible. Margaret, who was giving finishing touches to her mistress's dress, said—"I hope——"and then, unable to finish her sentence, hastily left the room.The doctors' consultation was prolonged, and the opinion, when given, was in some measure reassuring. The nerve of one eye was injured, but the other had escaped; but the utmost care must be taken that the uninjured eye should not have any strain put upon it, as there is such intimate connection between the eyes, that when one suffers, the other suffers with it by sympathy."Indeed, your ladyship, you may take a hopeful view," Dr. Cathcart, the Bromley physician, said. He was a small, spare man, the very opposite in manners and appearance to Dr. Red-mayne. "I am supported in my opinion by my friend, Dr. Redmayne," said the leading physician of the district, "and of course if your ladyship is in London, as no doubt you soon will be, an oculist may well be consulted. We should give that course our fullest sanction, Dr. Redmayne?""Certainly, certainly," was the answer. "The young lady is depressed, and though needing careful watching, she needs encouragement. The nerves are doubtless shaken; and, if I might suggest, I should advise that the condition of our patient at High Wycherly be kept from her. There is, I believe, an intimacy between the young people, and I regret to say that the state of Mr. Macdonald's son gives us great anxiety. Sir Herbert Black has been telegraphed for, and we are to meet him in consultation this afternoon.""Has the poor boy regained consciousness?""Only partially—very partially. At present a mystery seems to hang over the affair. Voices raised in angry tones were heard by the people who found him; and on examination we find that there is a very severe bruise across the back of the neck and shoulders, which has the appearance of being inflicted by some hand, and not the result of the fall. However, we may hope that the patient may soon be able to give an account of what happened."Then the prescriptions were written, and Dr. Redmayne undertook to see them well prepared in his little surgery, and then the two doctors drove off.Though Corisande immediately went to her mother to hear the report, Mrs. Kennedy was before her."It is exactly what I thought," she exclaimed; "did I not say so, Victoria, that you would find the dear girl needed rousing and encouraging, not depressed by too much attention?""The other case is much more serious. I am afraid the poor boy will never be the same again," Lady Victoria said, shrinking as usual from her sister-in-law's remarks."What! that charming boy? I am so sorry to hear it. Henry is thinking of going over—he was so much taken with that boy. Indeed, the Macdonalds seem a delightful family, and I am sure it is an advantage for the dear girls to have such friends."Lady Victoria had left the room before this speech was ended, and soon after Pleasance came in, trembling with excitement and anxiety."Oh, Corisande, what do the doctors say? Mother would not tell me when I met her on the stairs. Will Joyce be blind?""My dear girl, no," Mrs. Kennedy said. "Pray do not anticipate the worst, and above all things, do not let Joyce be discouraged. And now I am going up to see Mrs. Anderson. That dear little girl does not improve much, and she will have to go into a children's hospital, I think. I have an introduction for the Princess's ward in St. Agnes's at Monksborough, and I hope Mrs. Anderson will not be so foolish as to refuse it.'""She will never consent to part with little Susie, I am sure," Pleasance said; "she is wrapt up in her.""My dear, we have all to consider what is best for those we love, not what is best for ourselves, or our own likings or dislikings. I have kept this steadily in view about Henry. I should not choose to bury myself in the country, but it is best for him, and all other considerations sink into insignificance. Ah! here is Henry. Are you going to High "Wycherly, dear Henry?""Yes, some time in the course of the day. It will be better to wait till the doctors have met this afternoon. You look very tired, Pleasance," Mr. Kennedy said kindly. "Come out with me a little; it is a lovely morning, come to your old friend the oak."Pleasance's lip quivered."Shall I, Corisande?" she asked."Yes, I have a heap of letters to write for mother. It is the best thing you can do."And Corisande sat down to the writing-table, and, looking at a paper her mother had given her, sat quietly down to the work before her.Pleasance and Mr. Kennedy were going round towards the knoll, when Mrs. Kennedy said—"Henry, I shall want you at the school some time to day. The windows must be made to open wider, and the clock——""Yes, dear mother, I will come. But you manage these things far better than I do."Pleasance took up her position in the oak-tree, and assisted Mr. Kennedy to the forked branch near the ground, but she did not speak.When Mr. Kennedy looked up at her, her sweet face was wet with tears."It all seems so strange," she said, "all this coming, and no one dreaming of such troubles. It is here we first saw Claude coming up with his fishing-rod, looking so well and bright, and Joyce—Joyce catching her hair in the tree. Now both of them like this. Cousin Henry, it is very hard; I can't understand why such things happen. Surely neither Joyce nor poor Claude deserved to have their bright happy lives clouded. Why is it?""My dear little cousin, you have put forth a question no one can really answer. It is only faith in the infinite love of God which can help us to answer it in some faint measure.""Ah! I know," Pleasance sighed. "Good people like you can feel that everything is for the best, but oh! Cousin Henry, I can't. When I heard Joyce sobbing half the night, and saw her face this morning changed, quite changed; full of pain—pain of mind, I think, more than body, I felt angry that she should have been struck by that flash of lightning. Why was not it one of the servants, or one of the gardeners, or any one but Joyce? It would not be so bad for me to be blind as for Joyce. I like to be quiet, and they all laugh at me for a day-dreamer, and I should not care as Joyce will care about being kept in a darkened room and allowed to do nothing. I rather like doing nothing," Pleasance said, with a sort of half-pathetic, half-amused confession, which made Mr. Kennedy laugh."That is honest, at any rate," he said. "But, Pleasance, don't you know that our particular trials are fitted for us, to check some particular failing perhaps, to show us where we are weak, and to point us where to go for help to be strong? Here are you, too fond, as you say, of doing nothing but dream and write verses perhaps.""Oh, who told you I wrote verses? Was it Corisande?"No one told me, but I guessed it was true.""I learn more poetry by heart than I write.""I hope so," Mr. Kennedy said, "or I am afraid you would soon fill The Cottage with manuscript.""Don't laugh at me, Cousin Henry, please. I don't feel as if I should ever write verses any more. Oh, I have read so many to Joyce, and she has been so nice about them, and never laughed at me, as Corisande did.""I am far from being inclined to laugh at you," Mr. Kennedy said; "and I will not even ask to see your poems, unless you volunteer to show them. But to go back to what we were saying about different trials being suited—rather, I should say, applied to different natures. It is possible that your bright, energetic sister will learn a lesson of patient endurance, she could have learned in no other way. What would be, as you say, not so great a privation to you, is a great privation to her. And again, about that fine high-spirited boy who drove me here last evening. When I first heard of his accident, my first thought was how I wish I had walked back from High Wycherly, and then this could not have happened. I had a pleasant half-hour with that poor boy, and I felt that he would need the discipline of life, and even wondered how it would come to him, and in what guise. It has come with a suddenness and sharpness I little expected when I gave him as a watchword, 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.' If God spare his life, we may have to watch his career with a pride and satisfaction that, without this discipline, we might not have been able to do.""But if he should die," Pleasance said, "if he should die; surely that can't be for the best. Death looks so different to different people. Poor little Susie, if she died, it would be what Margaret—our old maid, you know—calls a happy release; but for Claude Macdonald, so bright and handsome and happy and rich, it makes me shudder to think of him dying and leaving this beautiful world, and every one and everything he cares for, to go to the dark grave!""Ah! Pleasance, this is the cry of the human heart; but there are words which seem to me to meet that cry and soothe it to rest. You have heard the 'Messiah' often, I dare say?""No," Pleasance said, "not often. Once mother took us to Monksborough to the music-meeting, and we heard the 'Messiah.'""Well, there is one chorus there which in its simple majesty seems to answer the cry of the heart oppressed with the fear of death, 'Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first-fruits of them that sleep. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.'""Even so, "Mr. Kennedy repeated the words. "Thank God for these two words, even so."Then after a pause he said, "We were talking of what trials did for us. As you are a poet——""Oh, don't, Henry ! My little verses are not poetry.""Well, as you love poetry, then, and can recite the poetry of other people so well, I will try and remember a poem of Robert Browning's, which just touches this matter of life—our life formed by the Great Master, who, like the potter forming the clay into a beautiful vase, knows precisely how to put it on the wheel, and how to get rid of every awkward and unsightly excrescence, shaping it and moulding it according to His own will, that it may be fair and beautiful when passed through the fire, and settled into the form that He designed.""Robert Browning is too difficult for me to understand," Pleasance said; "and Corisande declares it is not poetry if only a few people can understand it.""That is a mistake, I think. No doubt there is a great deal that is difficult, and the ruggedness of his manner is unlike the silvery notes of your favourite Longfellow, or the musical flow of Tennyson's beautiful verse; but Browning's is a power which it only needs study to recognise, and his unquestioning faith is perpetually shining out, sometimes where one least expects it.""Please, could you repeat the poem you spoke of? It is so comforting to talk to you, Cousin Henry. I was thinking last night what a good thing it was for us you came here—good for us, for the parish, the people, and the church. And then think of all you have done in those few days—those few days," she repeated, "which have been fuller of events than all our lives before. But do begin and recite the poem.""Yes, I will do my best; but, Pleasance, will you learn it also, and when I come again to Abbotsbourne let me hear you recite it, as you did that bit of Longfellow's 'Evangeline' the other evening?""I have not a copy of Browning—only Mrs. Browning," Pleasance said."Then I must make it my business to remedy that misfortune when I return. I can get a good selection for you, which will suffice till you are a few years older."CHAPTER XXV.SYMPATHY."I DON'T promise to repeat all the verses," Mr. Kennedy said, and looking at his watch, he ex-claimed, "I should not have time before luncheon, for it is nearly one o'clock; but I will give you those stanzas which are most appropriate to that question you asked, 'Why do such things thus happen?' Browning puts the poem into the mouth of a Jewish Rabbi, Ben Ezra, and begins:—"'Grow old along with me!The best is yet to be,The last of life, for which the first was made.Our times are in His hand,Who saith, 'A whole I planned.'Youth shows but half. Trust God; see all, nor be afraid."' Rejoice we are alliedTo that which cloth provide,And not partake, effect, and not receive.A spark disturbs our clod,Nearer we hold of God,Who gives them of His tribes that take, I must believe."'Then welcome each rebuffThat turns earth's smoothness rough,Each sting that bids us sit, nor stand, but go.Be our joys three parts pain!Strive and hold cheap the strain,Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!'"Now," Mr. Kennedy said, as Pleasance's clear, sweet eyes looked up with wistful eagerness into his face, "perhaps this is scarcely what you thought would be the answer to your question, is it?""No," Pleasance said, "not quite; but I can't understand it; and yet I do understand that part about, 'joys being three parts pain.' Nothing is really whole and perfect; there is always a want somewhere.""Yes, my dear child; and it is that very want which points to the only thing, nay, the only Person who can satisfy that want in us—that Friend who is the true and unchangeable Lord, Christ. But just listen to two or three more verses. An answer they have brought me many a tinge—a comforting answer, when all I have done has seemed so poor and small."' Not on the vulgar massCalled ' Work' must sentence pass,Things done that took the price,O'er which, from level stand,The low world laid its hand,Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice."'But all the world's coarse thumbAnd finger failed to plumb,So passed in making up the man's account;All instincts immature,All purposes unsure,That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount."' Though hardly to be packedInto a narrow act,Fancies that broke through language and escaped, All I could never be,All men ignored in me.This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped."' Ah! note that potter's wheel—That metaphor! and feelWhy time spins fast. why passive lies our clay.Those to whom fools propound,When the wine makes its round,Since life fleets, all is change—the Past gone, seize to-day!"'For all that is at allLasts ever past recall.Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.What entered into thee,That was, is, and shall be.Time's wheel runs back or stops; potter and clay endure."He fixed thee 'mid this danceOf plastic circumstance,This Present thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest,Machinery just meantTo give thy soul its bent,Try thee, and turn thee forth sufficiently impressed.'"Mr. Kennedy paused again and said, "That line seems to be the sum of the whole matter; for God tries us to turn us forth sufficiently impressed; and the poem concludes with the expression of perfect trust, which, my clear little cousin, let us strive after as a reality."' My times are in Thy hand!Perfect the cup as planned;Let age approve of youth, and Death complete the same.'""I always think," Mr. Kennedy said, "there is a prayer in our Easter Collect which seems to me to be a prayer for all days and times. If we feel that He has put into our minds good desires, so let us pray to bring the same to good effect. Dreams and wishes and longings are often vain, mere shadows passing over the pathway of life; but earnest endeavour and steady perseverance in well-doing may leave on that pathway memorials which shall last, when we have passed from work to rest, from storm to calm, to the haven where we would be.""Oh," Pleasance said, with a long-drawn sigh, "how often Joyce and I have longed for a brother; "and she added simply, "I think we have found one now."Mr. Kennedy swung himself to the ground from his seat, and taking Pleasance's hand in his, helped her down, and as they passed up the orchard to the house, kept it still in his, saying—"I, too, have wished for sisters, and was wait-ing for that among other good things at Abbotsbourne."A week passed, and Claude Macdonald remained in a condition which caused the deepest anxiety. He occasionally spoke a few words, but they did not help those around him to gather any distinct idea of what had happened.Indeed, his feeble fragmentary utterances were chiefly about his school-life, of games in which he fancied himself playing. Sometimes he thought he had fallen from a great height in the school gymnasium, and said he had pitched on his head. Then he would think he was on the topmost branches of a tree, and that he saw Joyce falling and could not catch her.In the darkened room where all was so hushed and quiet, where the doctors of the neighbourhood paid their visits twice daily, and where the great London physician was summoned for a second time by Mr. Macdonald, the boy lay in that state of dreamy half-consciousness which always follows a concussion of the brain.His mother restrained her grief in his presence, and was quiet and subdued. Maternal love is powerful, and Mrs. Macdonald's love for her children was deep and true. Mr. Macdonald was too restless and demonstrative to be often admitted to the boy's room. He could not help uttering some exclamation of distress, and this always seemed to cause Claude uneasiness. Mr. Macdonald was keenly anxious to discover what had really happened, for he could not bring himself to believe that old Ben, that long-tried and most steady-going of cobs, should have upset the cart without some provocation.The men who were first on the spot were questioned again and again, and rubbed their foreheads in hopeless despair of ever saying anything to please the Squire. They could not say more if they were paid for it; they did hear voices—yes, of course they did, but they saw nobody. They found the young gent on the road, pitched out beyond the horse, and the cart upset, and the old horse standing like a lamb, but sweating and breathing hard, as if he had been scared."Oh, Ben, that you could speak," Evelyn said when on a visit to the stable one day. She was stroking Ben's patient old head and saying, "Yes, Ben, if you could only speak, I know you could tell us something—I know you could. Dear Ben, if you had run off and dragged the cart, you'd have killed Master Claude! Oh, Ben, Ben! will he ever be like himself again?"And Zoe, fired with jealousy at her mistress's kindness to so inferior a personage as Ben and neglecting her, tossed her lovely head and put her nose over the stall, snorting vehemently with mingled anger and jealousy, and was scarcely propitiated when Evelyn went to her with her accustomed lump of sugar, saying—"Oh, Zoe, Zoe! you would have behaved very differently from old Ben; but you are a spoiled child, like your mistress, Zoe, and have never learned to control yourself. Poor Zoe! don't be offended; and oh, Zoe," and then Evelyn buried her face in her favourite's silky mane and whispered, "If he is never the same again, Zoe, I think my heart will break."And indeed the days dragged wearily on, and the longed-for change did not come. The doctors preached patience and were hopeful, but both patience and hope were rather hard to achieve."Evelyn," Mrs. Macdonald said, "I think I shall drive to Abbotsbourne this afternoon. Come with me."Yes, mother, I will come," Evelyn said rather doubtfully, for she rather dreaded an interview between her mother and Lady Victoria."I am going to see your Aunt Sophy," Mrs. Macdonald said in a choked voice. "I feel as if she would understand what I feel better than any one.""Oh, mother! I am so glad. Aunt Sophy is so full of love and sorrow about Claude.""And about Janet Forbes, Evelyn. Mr. Ken-nedy spoke to me before he went away about a convalescent home for her, but Mrs. White says she can stay; and as Carter is going off next week, there is nothing to prevent her staying here, poor thing! I wronged her, Evelyn;" then, with a sudden look of almost terror on her face, Mrs. Macdonald said, "Do you think this is a judgment on me? Oh, Evelyn! my dear, pity me"Evelyn could only kiss her mother, and try to comfort her; but she too had questioned herself whether this blight, which had fallen on them by Claude's accident, might not be to punish them all for selfishness and want of thought for others.So that afternoon the handsome landau drove into Abbotsbourne, and stopped before the post-office. Mrs. Batt came hurrying out, curtseying and smiling; it was not often that such a grand equipage drew up before her door. Her astonishment was great when the footman opened the door, and Evelyn springing out, said—"My mother is come to see Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. Batt.""Please to walk in, miss, and the lady will excuse going through the shop. This way.""Mother," Evelyn said, "this is the way," for Mrs. Macdonald stood almost as if reluctant to go farther. But Evelyn ran upstairs before her mother, to prepare her aunt for her visitor. Susie was on the little sofa, propped up with pillows, and held out her arms to Evelyn with a bright smile, while Mrs. Anderson waited to receive her sister. And when the stately lady in her beautiful toilette of grey silk, gold bracelets rattling on her wrists, and feathers nodding from her bonnet, at last made her way up the narrow, steep stairs, and crossed the threshold of the little sitting-room, everything was forgotten but a mutual grief, and with a cry of, "Oh, Sophy! I am in great trouble," the two sisters fell weeping into each other's arms."I will come back again for mother," Evelyn said presently, "and go to The Cottage to see how Joyce is to-day."Thus the sisters, so long estranged, were left together, united by that strongest of all bonds, the bond of sympathy.Evelyn found Joyce sitting in the verandah, Pleasance reading to her. At first sight there was but little difference noticeable in Joyce's appearance, but it was only at first sight. The joyousness and fire had died out of her expressive face, and the white hands folded in her lap, and the listlessness of her attitude, made her a very different Joyce from the Joyce of old.It was not the first time Evelyn had seen her since the night of the storm. The sound of Zoe's swift feet upon the road had been often listened for, and Evelyn had been eagerly watched for and welcomed.Even Corisande could not help admiring the effort she made to put aside her own sorrow for the time in order to cheer Joyce. To-day, as there had been no sound of Zoe's feet, Evelyn's coming on the verandah was a surprise. Pleasance started up and threw her arms round her friend."It is good of you to come again to-day," Pleasance said, "isn't it, Joyce?""Yes," Joyce said, "very kind. How is Claude?" It was her invariable question, and the answer was generally the same."I think he is a little brighter to-day," Evelyn said. "Janet Forbes is nearly well again, and so grateful and humble. Mother means to keep her till she is fit for service, and not let her go to a convalescent home."Then Evelyn went on to talk of Bruce and his quaint, amusing speeches, and the way he had of getting round every one, though Mrs. White said his monkey-tricks were a trial of patience."You did not drive Zoe to-day, Evelyn," Joyce said; "I did not hear her steps coming along the road. I can hear so much better, now that I can't see""Lady Victoria, taking Mrs. Macdonald's hand, said--'I hope your
son is a little better. Will you come and see my child, who is also suffering?'" —Page 321.Illustration included in Marshall's Those
Three."But you can see, Joyce," Pleasance said; "you are only advised not to try your eyes.""My eyes," Joyce said quickly; "I have only one.""We shall hear what the oculist says when we go up to London. I think mother has quite decided to go as soon as——" Pleasance hesitated."As soon as Joyce is fit for the journey," Evelyn said.Then Joyce said vehemently—"I would rather stay here; I don't want to go to London, and I like to hear of Claude every day. I could not bear to be far away," and with a sudden stretching out of her hands to Evelyn she said, "and I should miss you so dread-fully.""Oh, I would send you a postcard or a letter every day, or a telegram, if you liked it better. I am sure it will be right for you to go to London, and perhaps we may come also, when Claude can be moved."Lady Victoria now came from the drawing-room, and greeted Evelyn with a quiet kiss."I hope it is a better account," she said, "of your brother.""He is much the same," was the reply; and then Evelyn's heart beat fast, for the sound of wheels was heard, and the carriage with her mother in it drew up by the gate."That is my mother," Evelyn said; "she has been to see Aunt Sophy and Susie. I must not keep her waiting."She bid a hasty good-bye, and promised to return the next day, when, to her distress, she saw her mother descending from the carriage, and walking towards the house.Mrs. Macdonald and Lady Victoria had never met since that visit which had only been acknowledged by cards; but Lady Victoria stepped down from the verandah with a quiet grace peculiarly her own, and taking Mrs. Macdonald's hand said—"I hope your son is a little better. Will you come and see my child, who is also suffering?""There's nothing but suffering everywhere," Mrs. Macdonald said. "I am nearly heart-broken," and she burst into a flood of tears."Mother," Evelyn said, " I think we had better drive home; you are not equal to paying visits."But Lady Victoria said"Let me take your mother into the drawing-room till she is calmer, and a cup of tea will refresh her.""Thank you! thank you! you are very kind. You know what I feel about my poor boy. He will never go to Woolwich; he will never be fit for the army, on which he had set his heart. But I am very selfish; I seem to forget your trouble about your daughter. How is she?"Then the two mothers disappeared into the drawing-room, and the prejudice which had been so strong vanished under the soft influence of sympathy; for there is no bond stronger than that which sympathy in sorrow creates."You know how I feel." Much is contained in these words, for to know by experience is very different from knowing by hearsay.Mrs. Macdonald drove home with a heart softened and comforted.Evelyn did not break the silence for some time; perhaps she knew what was passing in her mother's heart."I am glad I went to see Aunt Sophy, Evelyn. I have been very selfish, and thought too much of having everything fine and grand about us. But Aunt Sophy was so loving, it brought back old times when we were girls together. As soon as Claude is better, if he ever is better, I have asked Aunt Sophy to bring the poor child to High Wycherly, and whatever the doctors advise shall be done for little Susie. She is a dear little thing, and when she saw her mother and me crying she said, 'Don't cry, darling mother; I am quite, quite happy.' Fancy being happy lying in that little poky room, in pain and weakness! She said she would like to have Bruce back, because she had been so cross to him the last day about the game she called 'hoppety.' I told her she should come to High Wycherly as soon as her poor cousin was better. And then Lady Victoria! Why, after all, I believe she has a heart; and the eldest of 'those three' took such pains to make my tea as I like it, not too strong, and with only one lump of sugar. The cups were real old Crown Derby; and did you notice the teapot and sugar basin—chased old silver? I don't think Joyce looks much amiss. Do you, Evelyn?""It is her sight that gives so much anxiety," Evelyn said, "and it is so hard for her to have to give up entirely, and she is not to use the eye that is not affected. Pleasance could have borne such a privation better."Then there was silence again, and Evelyn was thinking how happy it was for her mother that she could, in the midst of all her sorrow, turn her thoughts to such trivialities as Crown Derby teacups and old chased silver.But presently, as they drew near home, Mrs. Macdonald had begun to cry again and moan over her boy's condition.At the door they were met by Mr. Macdonald, who seemed excited and eager for their return."Claude seems more like himself, they say, and he is continually asking for Evelyn. I wonder you were away so long, my dear. Come, go to the boy at once."CHAPTER XXVI.DISCOVERED.Miss GREENFIELD and the pleasant-faced nurse from the hospital were great friends, and it may with equal truth be said that Mrs. Carter and the nurse were enemies.The nurse said plainly she wished to have no more to do with that grand personage than she could help, and entirely forbid her coming into Claude's room.On this particular afternoon Janet Forbes, who had shrunk from intercourse with any of the servants, and had sat working for Mrs. White in her own room, had come out of the servants' wing to the great staircase with a cover in her hand she had been making for an ottoman that stood under one of the corridor windows.Here Miss Greenfield met her, and said kindly, "I had a letter from my brother to-day, Janet, but there is no news of your father."Janet's colour rose and tears came to her eyes. "I don't know how mother and the children are to get on," she said."People have been very kind in Monksborough, and my brother has taken care that they are not neglected.""Thank you, miss. I don't know that father's going home would be any help, he was always so restless; but he was kind to me, Miss Greenfield, and loved me, as you know. That's why he took on about the money being lost. I do wish it could be found; I——""Don't talk of that, Janet. We all know you are innocent, and Mrs. Macdonald is only anxious to make amends to you as soon as Mr. Claude is better.""I should so like to see Mr. Claude, Miss Greenfield. May I?""I will ask Nurse Helen what she thinks.""I should like to look at him, you know, Miss Greenfield. He saved my life," Janet said, bursting into tears."Wait here, and I will find out what nurse thinks. I will go and ask if she will admit you."Miss Greenfield returned presently to say, if she could control herself, Janet might come into Claude's room; "but, remember, you must not show any agitation, and be very careful to answer Mr. Claude as if nothing were wrong, if he speaks to you."Claude was lying on the sofa, the light carefully shielded from his eyes. One hand was thrown back under his head, and the other lay listlessly on the striped silk coverlet over his feet.Claude turned his head when Miss Greenfield entered, and then a brighter gleam of recognition than had been seen on his face before passed over it."Hallo, Janet!" he said; "are you all right?""Yes, sir, quite right now," Janet said, controlling her voice, though it trembled."Ah!" he said, "I remember I pulled you out of the fish-pond;" and then Claude rubbed his hand across his forehead, saying, "It has all come back to me now."Claude's face showed some perplexity, and the nurse said—"That will do, Janet. Mr. Claude is not strong yet.""Ah! sir," Janet said, "you saved my life, and I would serve you to my last breath.""Oh, so they say I saved your life, Janet!" Claude exclaimed with a touch of his old careless manner. "Dear me! I would jump into a fish pond to-morrow if I had the chance. I only wish I had the chance."Then the brightness faded out of his face, and Miss Greenfield signed to Janet to leave the room.Claude lay quiet for a few minutes, and then he said, "Is Eve at home? I want Eve. Send her here.""Your sister is driving with Mrs. Macdonald," the nurse said."Oh, dear," Claude exclaimed pitifully, "I wish she would come. If she is not quick, I shall forget again. I have something to tell her.""She won't be long now," Miss Greenfield said. "I will go down into the hall, that she may come to you the moment the carriage drives up."In the hall Miss Greenfield found Mr. Macdonald."They ought to be back by this time," be said. "Misfortunes never come singly, so they say,—what can have happened?""I don't think anything has happened," Miss Greenfield said, "but they may have been detained at Mrs. Anderson's. I wish Evelyn would come, for her brother wants to see her.""Her brother! How provoking she should be away when wanted. Dear, dear! it is the first time he has asked for any one, isn't it?""Yes, I think it is.""Dear, dear! I wish they would come," and Mr. Macdonald began one of his restless stampedes in and out, in and out the hall for five minutes."What can have kept them so long?" he asked in an irascible tone of Miss Greenfield, as if the non-arrival of the carriage was her fault. "It is getting late. Upon my word, I wish people would be punctual."Miss Greenfield had long ago learned the virtue of silence, and knew that to reason with unreasonable people was a waste of breath. So she busied herself with rearranging some flowers on the table in the hall, and picking up two or three balls which little Bruce had been playing with.The child himself now came in from the garden, a picture of radiant beauty and health."I've got such a beautiful nestie," he said. "Jem gave it to me; it's a forsaken nestie, he says, so the mother bird won't mind. Look, Uncle James! do look!"But Mr. Macdonald turned away impatiently."What mischief will you be up to next?" he said. "Look at your coat; it is torn and dirty. What will your mother say?""She won't say nothing," Bruce said; "it's Nannie who scolds about my things when I tear them, 'cause she has got to mend them, you see. I say, Uncle James, I do so want——"But what Bruce wanted remained unspoken; the wheels of the carriage were heard, and the next minute it drove up to the door."Is anything wrong, James? Miss Greenfield, is he worse? Why are you all waiting in the hall?""There's nothing wrong here, my dear," Mr. Macdonald said, "but you are so late, I thought something was wrong with you."The servants now came to take the rugs and sunshades out of the carriage, and Miss Greenfield said in a low tone to Evelyn—"Claude wants to see you alone; he is worrying for your return."In the altercation which arose between Bruce and the footman about being lifted on the box of the carriage to drive round to the stables, Evelyn managed to follow Miss Greenfield upstairs to the door of Claude's room."He seems much more like himself, and the nurse thinks he will begin to get better now; but he must not be worried about anything, and must not talk long; he has already seen Janet Forbes, so you will be careful.""Of course I shall," Evelyn said, and then, after a sharp tap at the door, it was opened by the nurse, and Evelyn went in."I say, Eve," Claude began, "no one knows about that spill I had, do they? Well, it has all come back to me since I saw Janet Forbes. I feel as if I had been in a dream and was waking up.""Don't talk too much, dear," Evelyn said; "it is so bad for you.""I must tell you all about it, but I don't want you to tell father. It was that man Forbes who met me just as I turned the cart into the road by the quarry. He was awfully angry, and so was I. He belaboured me with a stick, and I hit back, tit for tat, you know; and then old Ben gave a great shy, and there was a crash, and I remember nothing else. Look here, Eve; if my father knew about this, he would set detectives on the track of that man, and I don't wish him to do that.""We must tell father, Claude.""Why?""Because I don't think we have any right to keep it back from him. He has worried himself about it, and is even suspecting those men who found you.""Well," Claude said, yawning, "I am tired, I suppose. Do as you like," and then the cloud seemed to fall over him again."Evelyn kissed her brother, stroking his forehead with her cool hand, and then she called the nurse and left the room.She must take time to think, if she should rouse her father's anger against the man who had wreaked his vengeance for injuries on his boy, who was the pride and joy of his life—the boy who had saved the girl's life, the boy who had so much courage when courage was needed, and whose longed-for life as a soldier now looked impossible!Evelyn was standing in the corridor thinking what she should do, what was right to do, when she saw Janet putting the cover on the ottoman, and pausing now and then to wipe the tears from her eyes.Evelyn went up to her and said—"What is the matter, Janet?""I can't bear to see Mr. Claude like that; it's enough to break my heart, when I think what he did for me.""Mr. Kennedy would tell you, Janet, and tell me, that all things are for the best, and that we must not trouble ourselves too much with circumstances or consequences, but leave them with God; and you must remember that it was not jumping into the pond to save you which made Mr. Claude ill, but quite a different cause.""You mean the fall, Miss Macdonald? Mrs. Carter says that he had hurt himself by pulling me out of the pond, and so the fall from the cart only made him worse. She says I have been the root of all the trouble in this house, and that it was a bad day for every one when I darkened the doors.""She has no business to talk like that, Janet, and you are silly to listen to her. The wrongdoing which brought about all this sorrow does not lie on your shoulders; so don't cry, but put away your work and go and find Master Bruce and take him to tea in Mrs. White's room."Then Evelyn moved slowly downstairs, taking one step at a time, instead of flying down as if she had wings, as was her want. Evelyn had suddenly grown into the cares and responsibilities of woman-hood, and she said to herself—"I feel quite as much grown up as the eldest of 'those three.' I wish I knew what to do about father, whether to tell him what Claude says or not. Which is right, I wonder, to keep it back from father or tell him? He would set the police on the search for this man, and track him out, and then he would be committed for trial, and there would be all kinds of trouble and worry. No; I think I shall keep Claude's secret. If he likes to tell father, he can do so when he gets quite well. At present I shall say nothing. The man is not a good man, but he seems to have loved Janet; and it must be hard to have one's own child accused of a crime when she was wholly innocent, and never to give her a chance of clearing her character. I don't like having a secret. I would much sooner tell anything than know something that no one else knows; but I believe I am right. I hope I am. Dear me! how I envy people like Mr. Kennedy, who can feel sure that they are doing what is right; if they ask for God's guidance. Whatever happens then, there can be no misgivings."In the hall Evelyn met her mother going upstairs to her morning-room."What did Claude want, Evelyn?""He wanted to sec me, dear mother, and he will like to see you before you go down to dinner. He is really better.""Are you sure? How do you mean he is better?""His memory seems to have come back, and he looks ever so much brighter and more like himself.""Carter is going away this afternoon," Mrs. Macdonald said; "it is very inconvenient, and she seems in a great hurry. I have not been able to think of a new maid in all this distress, and it is very unfeeling of her to go off like this. Of course, I might have compelled her to stay till her month was up, but one must never expect anything from servants. They are all alike heartless and inconsiderate.""Oh, mother, don't say that! Mrs. White is faithful, I am sure.""But she is very careless about the made-dishes. Surely with two kitchen-maids she might see the chicken-panada for Claude was flavoured as he likes it.""You had better let Janet wait on you, mother, till your new maid comes. It would please her, and show you trusted her.""My dear Evelyn, she is only a housemaid; it is quite out of the question. Besides, her health is very indifferent."Mrs. Macdonald went into her morning-room, and soon after Evelyn, who had gone to her own, heard her mother call her—"Evelyn! Evelyn!""What is the matter, mother?""Look here! I opened the drawer of my writing-table to find Lady Beaulieu's letter about Carter, when in the corner was that box.""What box? Oh, mother!" for Evelyn, looking over her mother's shoulder, saw the lost box, and in it the three missing sovereigns."Some one has put them there. Who can have done it?""The girl herself.""No, I don't believe it for a moment. I believe it was Carter, and that accounts for her sudden departure.""Carter! impossible. Why, think of Lady Beaulieu's character! I could not lay my hand on it, and I promised to send it after her. While looking for it, I came upon the box.""Janet's character is now finally cleared," Evelyn said. "Oh, how pleased Mr. Kennedy will be, and her poor mother—and her father," she added with some hesitation."We are not sure even now, Evelyn.""Not sure, mother? Why, Janet came here that day starving, with not a penny in her pocket; is it likely she had the money about her? She must be told at once.""I shall speak to your father and Mrs. White first, and Miss Greenfield. Oh, here is Miss Greenfield. Now, what do you think?" and Mrs. Macdonald displayed the box."I am not surprised," Miss Greenfield said. "I felt sure that Carter knew something about that money, and I believe before leaving this afternoon she put it back. Her manner was so odd, and she said she had had a telegram to go to a sick mother. Mrs. White does not believe she has a mother at all; but," said Miss Greenfield honestly, "I have always disliked Carter so much, I may be accusing her wrongfully, and as this has been done once, we ought to be careful; and therefore I do not wish to say more than that it looks suspicious. Janet must be told how completely her character is cleared.""Yes," Mrs. Macdonald said, "I will do so at once. Send her here; and, Evelyn, I think I will give her a trial, and see if she can arrange my hair, and wait on me till another superior maid turns up."The news flew through the house that Janet Forbes had been wrongfully suspected, and that not only the brooch stolen by the jackdaw, but the money stolen by another hand, had been restored.Evelyn could have wished her mother had spoken more warmly to Janet when she was summoned to hear that she was to be tried as maid for the present, and that all suspicion had been removed."But it is not mother's way to speak to servants as they do at The Cottage," Evelyn thought, and then she went to her room and wrote letters to Pleasance and to Mr. Kennedy, announcing the good news, and to Mr. Greenfield also, that he might take it to the poor deserted wife at Monks-borough, and assure her of the establishment of Janet's innocence.Pleasance received the letter the next day, and hastened to read it to Joyce. The large cypher and crest were still an offence to Corisande, but she was obliged to allow it was a nice letter, and showed good feeling."You cannot think, darling Pleasance," Evelyn wrote, "what a relief it is to me to know Janet's character is now so completely cleared in the eyes of every one. But I do hope it will be a lifelong lesson to me, and to us all here at High Wycherly, to treat our servants with consideration. I have always felt, if such a thing had happened, or could have happened, at The Cottage, the servant would have had kindness and consideration shown her. You would never have turned her off at a moment's notice, without giving her a chance of defending herself. You would have taken pains to find out the truth, and even the poor angry father would have had justice. I cannot help saying this, and I think how much trouble has come out of this injustice. The father was enraged against us; and the poor girl—I shudder to think of what would have lain at our door if she had really drowned herself. The sin would have been ours more than hers. Claude saved her, and for that we can't be thankful enough. Mr. Kennedy says good comes out of all trials sooner or later; perhaps good has come out of this, but it is rather hard to see it while Claude remains as he is now—a little better, but not his own, old, bright self. Darling Pleasance, I hope to come over again soon, but perhaps not to-morrow. My best love to Joyce. I should like to send it to Lady Victoria if I might, and to your sister."Corisande laughed."To the eldest of 'those three;' that is condescending of her.""Oh, Corisande! you must like Evelyn as she deserves at last.""I like her now," was the quiet reply; "but it is not my way to go into rhapsodies, Pleasance, as you must know by this time."CHAPTER XXVII.AT SAN MINIATO.THE fair city of Florence lay under the pure blue sky of a lovely April day. Giotto's tower lifted its stately head by the side of the Great Duomo, and the rugged walls of the old palaces were radiant with flowers. The Arno flowed under its many bridges, and the purple Apennines, stretching far away to the rugged masses of the Carrara mountains, were bathed in the translucent light of the western sun.Those who have stood on the piazza before the Church of San Miniato will understand the gentle sigh with which Joyce Fraser said—"Tell me about it again, Pleasance—tell me again, for I suppose we shall not sit here many times more; perhaps never again, and it makes one feel rather sad, doesn't it?"Pleasance put her hand into her sister's, and said—"You can see for yourself much better than when we first came to Florence two years ago.""Better! yes, better; but if I have to look longer than a minute at anything that is beautiful, it is all dazzle and dimness. It will always be the same now, Pleasance. I have quite settled down to it, and we are very happy.""Yes, very happy," Pleasance replied, "and merry too sometimes. I wonder how it will all look at Abbotsbourne when we go back, and how we shall like the changes; for there are many changes, some for the better. The clock keeps better time, for one thing, and the bell strikes out for service to the minute; and Aunt Grace has had a first-rate report from the school-inspector, and the mission-room is full every Sunday; and the Greenfields are sent to school at Monksborough, two naughty tiresome little creatures; it is good to think they are well out of the way. Cousin Henry will, I hope, come here with the Macdonalds; I rather dread their coming, though I do long to see Evelyn.""I know you do," Joyce said. "You are too much tied to me, Pleasance; you must want a variety.""Don't talk nonsense, Joyce. I would rather be with you than any one, you know that. But let us go inside the church and see if the Cardinal Jacopo is still asleep.""Yes, I can look at him," Joyce said; "it is so cool and shady there, and there is no sunlight to make my eyes ache, and send little spots dancing over everything."The two girls turned into the church. The floor was covered with wreaths of flowers and crosses, laid by loving hands over the graves of the dead who were sleeping under the marble pavement. It was all profoundly quiet, and the young light footsteps scarcely broke the silence. To the left of the wide nave is a chapel, where lies the marble figure of the Cardinal Jacopo, in a sleep so calm and sweet, with a smile lingering about his lips which seems to express the certainty of hope, and seems to say, "I shall be satisfied when I awake in His likeness."That awakening is not yet! For nearly five hundred years this image of the young cardinal, whose time on earth was counted by twenty-six short years, has been visited by many travellers; some, passing out of the chapel again where it lies, unmoved, consulting their guide-book, and reading his name and his country; a few, whose hearts are stirred within them, and who sit and gaze upon that wonderful triumph of an art which has indeed immortalized, as if they could never look away.When Pleasance and Joyce entered the chapel, Corisande turned her head and smiled, but went on with her work. She was trying to transfer to canvas a copy in faint colours of the recumbent figure before her.Joyce and Pleasance did not disturb her, but sat a little apart—Joyce in the episcopal chair which is placed in a niche opposite the monument, Pleasance standing by with her hand on her sister's shoulder. Joyce shaded her eyes with her hand and looked long and wistfully at the figure before her."Can it be only marble?" she said."Yes, and what a smile it is—like that of a child going off to sleep after his mother's kiss.""Pleasance, write some verses about him," Joyce said."I never write verses now," Pleasance said. "I only learn them. Ever since that clay when Cousin Henry introduced me to Rabbi Ben Ezra, I have stopped my so-called poetry. After all, it is a waste of time to string rhymes together, and to hunt for them, losing the sense in the hunt."Presently Pleasance went and looked over Corisande's shoulder."Is it good?" she asked, looking up."Yes, as good as any likeness of him can be. How long are you going to stay?""Till they close the church. You can go on homewards, and I shall overtake you."Then the two youngest of the three sisters left the chapel, and went out on the piazza again.There were no dazzling sun-rays now. The west was all one golden glory, encircling the violet-coloured hills; white villas, church domes, and campaniles were all defined in that clear outline unknown in our northern regions, while the colouring was of a depth which only the after-glow of Italian skies can know."This is so beautiful," Joyce said, "and I see better now. I think, Pleasance, I had better always live in some cloister in the shadow, for it is light that tries my eyes so much."The chill of sunset made Pleasance wrap a light shawl closely round her sister, and then, arm linked in arm, they walked slowly down towards the steep descent between the cypresses which leads down to that part of Florence called the Oltr' Arno. Before they had got far, a voice ringing in familiar tones of what seemed to the two girls a long past time, made Pleasance start, while Joyce said—"That's Claude's voice, I know."Claude! yes, and in another moment the swift fall of quick footsteps brought Claude Macdonald to their side."Two of 'those three,'" he said laughing, perhaps to hide the emotion he felt at this meeting after nearly three years; " where is the third?""Painting in the church," Pleasance said; "she will be here directly. Oh, Claude!—ought I to say Mr. Macdonald? you do look so grand and big—when did you come?""This afternoon. I went straight to the pension in the Tornabuoni and found nobody, which I call disappointing. However, Madame, the lady in command, said her ladyship was driving, and as to the three young ladies, they were gone sketching to San Miniato. So I inquired the way, and came hunting for them at once to San Miniato, and find two of 'those three.' Miss Pleasance—but I say, if I am to put this prefix it will be awkward; I shall have to say, Miss Fraser, Miss Joyce!""No," Joyce said, "I can't allow that," it was the first time she had spoken, and Claude looked anxiously into her face."That's right," he said, "we will leave formality to the other two if they like. You are all right now," he said; "you look all right, hair and all.""Oh, I am getting on very well," Joyce said cheerfully. "I am an owl, you know, and see best in the dark, but Pleasance sees in the light, so it is all right. Now tell us your news. Why did you come so much sooner than you expected? We can jog down slowly, and talk as we go, and we can sit down a few minutes.""No," Pleasance said, "not at this after-sunset time; you know that is forbidden."So they went slowly down the flight of steps, with the cypresses standing up like sentinels on either side, pausing once at the gate of a garden, which was a wilderness of tea-roses, clematis, and Banksia roses, making a flowery frame as a setting to the glimpse of the Duomo and the bell-shaped tower of the Palazzo Vecchio."Isn't it beautiful?" Pleasance asked."Yes," but Claude's eyes were oftener scanning Joyce's face than the lovely scene before' him."You can see it all?" he asked quickly."I see enough to make me thankful," was the quiet reply. "Tell me about yourself, please. and how you came, and why you came so soon?""Are you sorry I came?" he asked."Of course," she answered, with something of her old archness, "of course. I have had so much of your company for the last two years, I may well think I have had enough.""Two years and six mouths please; it will be three years in September since you left Abbots-bourne.""Oh, dear me! you never will come to what we want to know; do begin.""Well, we were obliged to have a courier, you know," with a twinkle in his eye. "For my part, I didn't want him, but my father thought my mother and Evelyn ought to have one apiece, I believe. So, as the highly recommended courier was engaged to return with a noble family next week, we had to start in a hurry to secure his valuable services!""And how is Evelyn?""Very well; but my mother was tired on our arrival, and Eve thought she could not leave her. We have a pretty large following. Janet of course, or Mrs. Forbes, as we call her now, as it sounds better, you know.""And how is Cousin Henry?""Ah!" said Claude, "I am afraid he is not very well; indeed we are putting great pressure on him to follow us here next week.""Oh, how delightful!" Joyce exclaimed. "Mr. Greenfield can take his place of course. Is it his throat?""It is everything," Claude said sadly. "He got cold in that bad weather in January, and he has a nasty cough. Mrs. Kennedy is anxious about him, I am sure. You know he will work; town or country, it makes but little difference. He only preaches, it is true, once a week, and is supposed not to try his voice; but his strength is small, and I sometimes think he will have to give up altogether.""And deliver Abbotsbourne to little Mr. Greenfield?""Oh, I don't know about that, though he is a good little man, and he is ever so much brisker since he has found bread and cheese for all that lot. But they are a lot to provide for, his wife grumbling and fidgeting and dissatisfied. The two brats are cleared off; if they had stayed in the village, Mrs. Batt declared she should go out of her mind or do something dreadful to them. They were a horrid pair.""School will improve them, let us hope.""Let us hope the boy will get a good birching; there is nothing else that would do for him. But your aunt, Mrs. Kennedy, knows how to put things straight, and she insisted on the boy going to school last midsummer, and the girl has followed.""And tell us about Aunt Sophy. Is she happy in The Cottage?""Rather! and Susie gets about on crutches, and is like an angel of patience. Bruce is a pickle, but he is the right sort, and now his hair is cropped he is a fine fellow. He is to go to the preparatory school where I was after Easter, and thence to Eton, as I did. Mr. Anderson and I are chums—I ought to call him uncle, but it is hard to get into it with a man you had never said a dozen words to till that time, when we all seemed to come to our senses. Why, here is the eldest of 'those three.'"Corisande now came to the gate with her canvas and palette packed in a basket, of which Claude instantly relieved her."Thanks very much," she said. "When did you arrive?""An hour or two ago. You are quite a distinguished artist now, I hear.""Quite! I rival Madame Le Brun, or rather eclipse her!""Indeed! Who may she be?""You will see her for yourself before you have been in Florence a day, her photograph in every window, and copies of the portrait of herself. I daresay before we get back to the Tornabuoni you will have made her acquaintance. But you had better look at her first in the gallery of the Uffizzi.""You must introduce me, you know."Then they all walked quickly on, crossing the Ponte Vecchio, till they reached the pension in the Via Tornabuoni. A carriage had just driven up, and Claude hastened to open the door. Lady Victoria gave him a warm greeting."It is so pleasant to see a face from home," she said. "Are you quite well, now?""Yes, thanks; I am well enough for all I have to do; but I must say good-bye now, or Eve will be scolding me for being away so long. We have a floor—piano, I believe, they say here—in the Piazza d'Azeglio, and I got out of the way of the unpacking.""We shall meet to-morrow, I hope," Lady Victoria said; and then Claude vanished up the street.CHAPTER XXVIII.FINAL.WHEN Lady Victoria Fraser took Joyce to an eminent physician in London, he strongly advised her to give her plenty of variety, and said a winter in the Riviera would be the best means of restoring her health.Of her eyes the oculist gave a guarded report. The nerve of one was decidedly injured, and the condition of the other requiring care, and to be used no more than was absolutely necessary.These opinions decided Lady Victoria to leave Abbotsbourne for a time, and in October of that year when the accident happened to Joyce and to Claude Macdonald, The Cottage was left to the care of Margaret and Sandy and one of the young maids, while the other accompanied her mistress on her travels.Lady Victoria had been greatly surprised, while spending the first winter of her absence from England at Mentone, to receive a request from Mr. Macdonald to be allowed to hire The Cottage as it stood for a friend. It was purely a matter of business, he said, and he named a rent which he hoped her ladyship would consent to receive.It was a very liberal offer, and Lady Victoria accepted it, only asking that her old and faithful servants, who were left in charge, should be treated by any tenants with consideration. Great was her surprise and pleasure when she found that Mr. Macdonald had arranged for Mrs. Anderson and Susie to occupy The Cottage in the summer months. Mr. Anderson frequently came over to spend Sundays, and Bruce and the other boys were at The Cottage also in the Easter and summer holidays.Mr. Macdonald was really so overjoyed that his son's life was spared, that he looked about him to find what he could do to show his thankfulness.The plan had answered so admirably, that little Susie had gained health up to a certain point, and her life was brightened and made happy in the enjoyment of all the flowers and country pleasures for which a sick town-child longs, and often longs for in vain.Mr. Macdonald had, as we know, been always liberal with money; but now the gifts were sweetened by sympathy, and Mr. Kennedy felt the value of his help in many different ways in his new sphere."Claude's life was spared," and this great gift from God seemed to have touched the deep springs long hidden in the rich merchant's heart. It was not now, as in times past, the mere putting down a sum of three figures on a subscription-list; it was the exercise of real concern for the sick, the poor, and the sorrowful, beginning with his wife's relations first. Nothing was ever heard of Forbes, but Janet's mother and sisters were not forgotten; and Evelyn, when she heard of her father's apprenticing one boy to a business and sending the others to school, felt glad she had Claude's secret safely kept, for she could not have trusted her father if he had known it was Forbes who had caused that accident which had so nearly proved fatal.But Forbes had disappeared; it was supposed he had gone across the seas; and even his patient and long-suffering wife could not wish it to be otherwise.After a winter at Mentone and a summer in Switzerland, Lady Victoria and her daughters went to Florence; they had been there for the last two years, going to the baths of Lucca and the Italian lakes in the summer, and returning to Florence for the winter.Here Corisande had developed her gifts in a very remarkable way. Her voice had been well trained by a good master, and she had worked at a studio in the Via Alfieri, and had made a study of Joyce and Pleasance in every possible position.She had given Joyce's hair the red bronze in her portraits in which artists delight, and she had caught the expression of her face in its patient endurance of the many privations which her defective eyesight caused her.Early the morning after their arrival, Evelyn and Claude arrived at the pension, and it was a joyful meeting."Letters are all very well," Evelyn said, "but as I had never seen Florence, I could not enter into your descriptions. It is beautiful here, far more beautiful than I had imagined.""I thought I would call on Mrs. Macdonald and ask her to drive with me this afternoon," Lady Victoria said; "the little carriages here are so convenient and easily hired.""I am sure mother will be delighted," Evelyn said, appreciating in her heart this act of courtesy and comparing it with times past.A very happy week followed, and then Mr. Kennedy arrived. There could be no doubt as to his need of rest and change; and although Mrs. Kennedy's presence was not so heartily welcomed by her nieces and Evelyn, still they could not wonder that she had insisted on coming out with her son."I dare not let him come without me, Victoria; he is everything to me, and chills after sunset are so dangerous in Italy; and if you had not been in Florence, nothing would have brought me here. I have a dread of fever, and really in the old town the air is—well, to say the least of it, offensive.""Oh, you will get used to that, Mrs. Kennedy," Claude said, "and indeed rather like the smells and think them wholesome. But we want to go up to Fiesole to-day, and you are so clever about arranging things, we must have your help, you know, about the picnic baskets and the carriages."Oh, I can't speak Italian. I leave that to my nieces. They are quite at home, I hear, with the language. You did a very wise thing, dear Victoria, to bring the girls abroad, though, we shall be overjoyed to see you again at The Cottage. I have kept an eye on it, and I must say Mrs. Anderson is a very careful person, and Margaret perfectly worships little Susie, and says, with a wise shake of her head, her wings are growing.It was again a lovely April day when the expedition to Fiesole was carried out. The steam-trams had not yet spoiled the beauty of that winding drive up the side of the steep hills, on the crest of one of which Fiesole stands.Claude seemed naturally to take Joyce under his especial protection, and Evelyn .and Pleasance were left to each other.Both boy and girl had passed through a furnace of trial since the day of that first meeting in the old oak tree on the knoll behind The Cottage; both understood what disappointment meant.They were separated a little from the rest of the party, and Claude felt Joyce's hand depending on him for guidance as they went to the old grass-grown desolate amphitheatre, which lies in the heart of the hills beyond the church, and where tiers of crumbled stone seats are covered with lichen, where to-day, in the brilliant sunlight, the green lizards were darting in and out."Oh, there is a queer fellow, look!" Claude exclaimed. "He is gone like a flash of lightning!""Oh, don't!" Joyce said; "I can't see in this bright light.""How stupid I am!" Claude said. "I forgot. I am so sorry. Let me hold the sunshade well over you, and let us have a talk as of old. Here is a nice seat. Gently! "as Joyce stepped down. "Now that is right! You know," Claude began, "about me, that I did not get well in time to cram for Woolwich. It was hopeless; so I gave up the army, and I am going to Oxford, and then into my father's business. You won't like me the less for that, Joyce?"How like you the less?" Joyce said. "I admire you for doing exactly what it is plainly right to do."Claude began to switch a stick of the white briar he had gathered against the ledge of stone below him."You know I had set my heart on being a soldier, and that night before I was knocked over, Kennedy had been talking to me about it. I didn't think then something was coming which would decide the matter for me, so I didn't need to decide for myself what sort of battles I should have to fight."Claude hesitated, and switched the twig in his hand more vehemently than before. But Joyce said in a low voice—"I have had to fight battles too, Claude. At first I thought I never, never could be happy with these dim eyes. When we first came abroad, when the others said, 'look at the sea, how blue it is;' or, 'do look at those flowers,' it would make me feel as if my heart would break. It was so much worse then than it is now; and then, when the people pitied me, and I heard a man saying to Corisande, 'your poor blind sister,' it was dreadful. That is all over now. I have settled down into it; "and Joyce said in a still lower voice, "I think God has helped me. I am not such a coward now; and Pleasance's eyes are mine, you know.""Joyce," Claude said, "one day I hope—oh! I do hope you will let me be your eyes. Let me take care of you, give you everything, do everything for you—if only you could like me well enough. From the first day I saw you in the tree, do you remember? Well, I was only seventeen then, I am nearly twenty-one now, and I have never cared, and never shall care, for any one as I care for you."The outspoken boyish fervour with which Claude spoke touched Joyce, but she said in a quiet, self-possessed tone—"It is very kind of you, Claude, to care so much for me, but please lead me back to the others. I don't think we should stay any longer.""Joyce, you know what I mean," Claude said, his voice trembling, "you know——""I know you are good and kind," Joyce said; "I know I shall always think of you as my friend. I cannot say any more. Please let us go."He led her up again to the open space behind the church, but no one was there."Perhaps they are in the church," Claude said; "shall we go in?""Yes," Joyce replied, "I shall be so glad to get out of the sunshine and glare. I always like shady places best; and that is as well, as I shall have to walk in them all my life."When the big door closed on them, Joyce seemed to feel her way better. She withdrew her hand from Claude, and went up the nave of the dim, old church a little apart. Something of respect, as well as love, kept Claude from following her, as he saw her kneel with bowed head leaning against a chair which was placed near the wall. A ray of sunlight pierced the surrounding gloom and touched the masses of her hair with radiance. Joyce's eyes were closed, and when she lifted her head, tears were on her face.Mr. Kennedy coming down the nave was arrested by the sight of her kneeling figure, her upturned face, her hands folded as in prayer. He waited a moment, and then, when Joyce rose, he touched her."Take my hand, Joyce; it is very cold here, we may get a chill coming out of the sun and warmth.""Ah!" she said, "but the sun is not such a friend to me as it is to you. I love the shadows now." She tried to smile, but the tears again fell fast."My dear little cousin, tell me what is the matter. Is it anything new—any fresh trouble?""No, it is only a curious mingling of joy and pain, Cousin Henry, you can't understand. Joy to have something offered me; pain to know it would be wrong to take it. Please do not say more.Meanwhile Evelyn and Pleasance had been having a long and happy talk on the stone seat below the little Dominican church, surrounded by its cypresses, which is reached by a path leading up from the old city on the hills. A wonderful panorama of mountain-crests and smiling valleys, of campaniles and domes, is seen from that vantage-ground; but the two friends were not thinking of the beauty spread out before them, so much as of the delight it was to exchange the experiences of the last two or three years. Evelyn was now a very handsome and distinguished-looking young woman; Pleasance was still very youthful in appearance—the little sweet dreamy Pleasance whom Evelyn had first loved. They spoke of Abbotsbourne and all the changes there, and of Claude and his brave acceptance of the disappointment about the army; of Mr. Macdonald and the change in him."Father is always thinking how he can make people happy," Evelyn said. "He used to give money, and cared very little what it did for people or why he gave it. Now he enters into things, and gives sympathy as well as money. And every change for the better seems to date back to that time of trouble when Claude and Joyce were both so suddenly stricken with a blow that at first seemed to mar their whole lives. It has marred neither, and the sorrow has brought good with it.""Yes," Pleasance said thoughtfully, "all things do work round for good—the bitter with the sweet; only we think more of the bitter, and forget there is sweetness with it.""Another thing," Evelyn said, "that has done so much good is Mr. Kennedy's beautiful life. People say Abbotsbourne owes him everything; but when they say that, they think of the schools and the mission-room, and the poor Greenfields in the rectory, and all his goodness to them. But all that is as much Mrs. Kennedy's doing as his. She keeps everything up to the mark—clocks, people, and bells! She is called the rectoress. You don't mind my calling your aunt that?""No," Pleasance said, laughing; "Aunt Grace manages every one, and I daresay it is good for us all, if sometimes it is not very pleasant. Mother is so patient with her, so we must try to be also.""Well," Evelyn said, "I always think of Mrs. Kennedy as the mainspring of a watch; she is so fond of clocks and watches and punctuality. I feel, if she were to break down, as my aunt Mrs. Anderson says, many things would come to a full stop. But it is Mr. Kennedy who makes the atmosphere; he bears about with him that 'something' which has not a name. We feel what he is and does, though we do not know how or why he does it. The only fear is that we shall lose him. They talk of a chaplaincy on the Riviera next winter, and leaving Mr. Greenfield in charge. He is a good little man, but very dull—still, brighter than he used to be; prosperity has had a good effect on him.""And his sister is very happy in the hospital?""Yes; when she comes to Abbotsbourne in her nurse's dress, with her bright smile, in her little blue bonnet and white strings, she looks almost pretty; and she says she finds she was born to be a nurse, and not a lady-help.""You must be proud of your sister, Corisande," Evelyn said presently, with a little effort; "she is so clever and handsome. I am quite ready to admire her and like her, though I feel I am what I have always been in her eyes—not exactly the friend she would choose for you."Although a little laugh accompanied these words, it had a ring of bitterness in it, but she added—"Never mind! Two people that can't like each other can still be civil, and that is what I wish to be to your sister, for your sake. We can't change our nature, and must be content to be as we are, and to take others as we find them; there come our two mothers! I expect what I say is applicable to them also."It was indeed. Lady Victoria did her best to be courteous and kind to Mrs. Macdonald. A common grief in the illness of their two children had made a bond between them at the time. But it is true, as Evelyn said, we cannot suddenly change and become entirely different people. It is a mistake so often made in real life. We expect a great sorrow, or it may be a great joy, to change the whole nature. This is very rarely the case; it may be a softening influence which rubs the corners off asperities or subdues foolish pretension, and makes us gentler in our judgments, more lenient to the faults of others, and, above all, less en-grossed with our own selfish aims and desires; but we do not become somebody else, and those who expect this sudden transformation are invariably disappointed.Lady Victoria felt this in her intercourse with Mrs. Macdonald. There was still the jarring note which sometimes vibrated unpleasantly, as Mrs. Macdonald's old love of display would come to the front even in Florence.She was not content, for instance, with the little Victorias, which are so easily hired for a small sum at the corner of every street. She had ordered her own carriage, and a pair of horses to be hers for the time. She talked grandly of the Marchesa, with whom she had made friends, who inhabited the lower piano of No. 64 Piazza d'Azeglio. It seemed to give her pleasure to know and to tell others that her courier was in attendance on the Earl of Brittany on his return to England, and that on her return journey he would be in attendance on her! She could not understand Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy travelling with Gaze's tickets, and thought it much better to eschew what sounded like a conducted tour!All these things, and a hundred others like them, were, as I say, a discord in the harmony of her intercourse with Lady Victoria and Corisande. But, on the other hand, there was real interest in all that concerned Joyce, and real admiration for Corisande's achievements, and a very real affection for Pleasance, and great satisfaction in the unchanged friendship between her and Evelyn. Lady Victoria could heartily enter into all these subjects, and here there was no chance of disagreement. Still less when Claude was spoken of!Lady Victoria looked on him as worthy of all praise, and was duly sensible of the noble way in which he had borne the change in his prospects, while she could rejoice with his mother that he was to matriculate, though late in the day, at Oxford, and enjoy three years there before really entering into his father's business."He deserves all consideration, I am sure," Lady Victoria said, "and he can enjoy the intellectual life of the University without taxing his brain with over-much study, and aiming only to take a pass in the Final schools."Mr. Kennedy proposed that he and Claude should walk down from the old city on the hill to the fair city in the valley together. It was a memorable walk to Claude, and one that was never forgotten.There never could be a closer and more enduring friendship than between this man of eight and-twenty and the boy who felt his words on that summer evening had been spoken at the turning-point of his life.But here the life-history of "Those Three " must stop. If any who have read it up to this point, desire to fill in any future detail, I must leave it to their imagination to do so.Enough has been told to show that, in all the changes and chances of this perilous life, the ever-ready help was given. Enough has been told to show that "all worldly joys go less to the one joy of doing kindnesses." Let us hope that joy will be realised by those three sisters and their friends, now growing into the beauty of a pure and gracious womanhood, which is wholly independent of rank and wealth or the gauds and glitter of this transitory world. We may safely leave their future in His hands who makes all things—not some things only—work together for good, the supreme good of which we have but a foretaste here, and look for the full fruition hereafter.PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND
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