THE WELL-MEANING MISCHIEF-MAKER
'And in that shadow I have pass'd along,
Feeling myself grow weak as it grew strong;
Walking in doubt and searching for the way,
And often at a stand--as now to-day.
* * * * *
Perplexities do throng upon my sight
Like scudding fogbanks, to obscure the light;
Some new dilemma rises every day,
And I can only shut my eyes and pray.'--Anon.
Mildred had been secretly reproaching herself for allowing Dr. Heriot's
pleasing conversation so completely to monopolise her, and even her
healthy conscience felt a pang something like remorse when, half an hour
later, they came upon Olive sitting alone on a tree-trunk, having
evidently stolen apart from her companions to indulge unobserved in one
of her usual reveries.
She was too much absorbed to notice them till addressed by name, and
then, to Mildred's surprise, she started, coloured from chin to brow,
and, muttering some excuse, seemed only anxious to effect her escape.
'I hope you are not composing an Ode to Melancholy,' observed Dr.
Heriot, with one of his quizzical looks. 'You look like a forsaken
wood-nymph, or a disconsolate Chloe, or Jacques' sobbing deer, or any
other uncomfortable image of loneliness. What an unsociable creature you
are, Olive.'
'Why are you not with Chrissy and the Chestertons? I hope we have not
all neglected you,' interposed Mildred in her soft voice, for she saw
that Olive shrank from Dr. Heriot's good-humoured raillery. 'Are you
tired, dear? Roy has not ordered the carriage for another hour, I am
afraid.'
'No, I am not tired; I was only thinking. I will find Chriss,' returned
Olive, stammering and blushing still more under her aunt's affectionate
scrutiny. 'Don't come with me, please, Aunt Milly. I like being alone.'
And before Mildred could answer, she had disappeared down a little
side-walk, and was now lost to sight.
Dr. Heriot laughed at Mildred's discomposed look.
'You remind me of the hen when she hatched the duckling and found it
taking kindly to the unknown element. You must get used to Olive's odd
ways; she is decidedly original. I should not wonder if we disturbed her
in the first volume of some wonderful scheme-book, where all the
heroines are martyrs and the hero is a full-length portrait of Richard.
I warn you all her _denouements_ will be disastrous. Olive does not
believe in happiness for herself or other people.'
'How hard you are on her!' returned Mildred, finding it impossible to
restrain a smile; but in reality she felt a little anxious. Olive had
seemed more than usually absorbed during the last few days; there was a
concentrated gravity in her manner that had struck Mildred more than
once, but all questioning had been in vain. 'I am not unhappy--at least,
not more than usual. I am only thinking out some troublesome thoughts,'
she had said when Mildred had pressed her the previous night. 'No, you
cannot do anything for me, Aunt Milly. I only want to help myself and
other people to do right.' And Mildred, who was secretly weary of this
endless scrupulosity, and imagined it was only a fresh attack of Olive's
troublesome conscience, was fain to rest content with the answer, though
she reproached herself not a little afterwards for a selfish evasion of
a manifest duty.
The remainder of the day passed over pleasantly enough. Dr. Heriot had
contrived to make his peace with Miss Trelawny, for she had regained her
old serenity of manner when Mildred saw her again. She came just as they
were starting, to beg that Mildred would spend a long day at Kirkleatham
House.
'Papa is going over to Appleby, to the Sessions Court, and I shall be
alone all day to-morrow. Do come, Mildred,' she pleaded. 'You do not
know what a treat it will be to me.' And though Mildred hesitated, her
objections were all overruled by Richard, who insisted that nobody
wanted her, and that a holiday would do her good.
Richard's arguments prevailed, and Mildred thoroughly enjoyed her
holiday. Some hours of unrestrained intercourse only convinced her that
Ethel Trelawny's faults lay on the surface, and were the result of a
defective education and disadvantageous circumstances, while the real
nobility of her character revealed itself in every thought and word. She
had laid aside the slight hauteur and extravagance that marred
simplicity and provoked the just censure of men like Dr. Heriot; lesser
natures she delighted to baffle by an eccentricity that was often
ill-timed and out of place, but to-day the stilts, as Dr. Heriot termed
them, were out of sight. Mildred's sincerity touched the right keynote,
her brief captiousness vanished, unconsciously she showed the true side
of her character. Gentle, though unsatisfied; childishly eager, and with
a child's purity of purpose; full of lofty aims, unpractical, waiting
breathless for mere visionary happiness for which she knew no name; a
sweet, though subtle egotist, and yet tender-hearted and womanly;--no
wonder Ethel Trelawny was a fascinating study to Mildred that long
summer's day.
Mildred listened with unwearied sympathy while Ethel dwelt pathetically
on her lonely and purposeless life, with its jarring gaieties and
absence of congenial fellowship.
'Papa is dreadfully methodical and business-like. He always finds fault
with me because I am so unpractical, and will never let me help him, or
talk about what interests him; and then he cares for politics. He was so
disappointed because he failed in the last election. His great ambition
is to be a member of parliament. I know they got him to contest the
Kendal borough; but he had no chance, though he spent I am afraid to say
how much money. The present member was too popular, and was returned by
a large majority. He was very angry because I did not sympathise with
him in his disappointment; but how could I, knowing it was for the
honour of the position that he wanted it, and not for the highest
motives? And then the bribery and corruption were so sickening.'
'I do not think we ought to impute any but the highest motives until we
know to the contrary,' returned Mildred, mildly.
Ethel coloured. 'You think me disloyal; but papa knows my sentiments
well; we shall never agree on these questions--never. I fancy men in
general take a far less high standard than women.'
'You are wrong there,' returned practical Mildred, firing up at this
sweeping assertion, which had a taint of heresy in her ears. 'Because
men live instead of talk their opinions, you misjudge them. Do you think
the single eye and the steady aim is not a necessary adjunct of all real
manhood? Look at my brother, look at Dr. Heriot, for example; they are
no mere worldlings, leading purposeless existences; they are both hard
workers and deep thinkers.'
'We will leave Dr. Heriot out of the question; I see he has begun to be
perfection in your eyes, Mildred. Nay,'--and Mildred drew herself up
with a little dignity and looked annoyed,--'I meant nothing but the most
platonic admiration, which I assure you he reciprocates in an equal
degree. He thinks you a very superior person--so well-principled, so
entirely unselfish; he is always quoting you as an example, and----'
'I agree with you that we should leave personalities in the background,'
returned Mildred, hastily, and taking herself to task for feeling
aggrieved at Dr. Heriot calling her a superior person. The argument
waxed languid at this point; Ethel became a little lugubrious under
Mildred's reproof, and relapsed into pathetic egotism again, pouring out
her longings for vocation, work, sympathy, and all the disconnected iota
of female oratory worked up into enthusiasm.
'I want work, Mildred.'
'And yet you dream dreams and see visions.'
'Hush! please let me finish. I do not mean make-believes, shifts to get
through the day, fanciful labours befitting rank and station, but real
work, that will fill one's heart and life.'
'Yours is a hungry nature. I fear the demand would double the supply.
You would go starved from the very place where we poor ordinary mortals
would have a full meal.'
Ethel pouted. 'I wish you would not borrow metaphors from our tiresome
Mentor. I declare, Mildred, your words have always more or less a
flavour of Dr. Heriot's.'
Mildred quietly took up her work. 'You know how to reduce me to
silence.'
But Ethel playfully impeded the sewing by laying her crossed hands over
it.
'Dr. Heriot's name seems an apple of discord between us, Mildred.'
'You are so absurd about him.'
'I am always provoked at hearing his opinions second-hand. I have less
comfort in talking to him than to any one else; I always seem to be
airing my own foolishness.'
'At least, I am not accountable for that,' returned Mildred, pointedly.
'No,' returned Ethel, with her charming smile, which at once disarmed
Mildred's prudery. 'You wise people think and talk much alike; you are
both so hard on mere visionaries. But I can bear it more patiently from
you than from him.'
'I cannot solve riddles,' replied Mildred, in her old sensible manner.
'It strikes me that you have fashioned Dr. Heriot into a sort of
bugbear--a _bete noir_ to frighten naughty, prejudiced children; and yet
he is truly gentle.'
'It is the sort of gentleness that rebukes one more than sternness,'
returned Ethel in a low voice. 'How odd it is, Mildred, when one feels
compelled to show the worst side of oneself, to the very people, too,
whom one most wishes to propitiate, or, at least--but my speech
threatens to be as incoherent as Olive's.'
'I know what you mean; it comes of thinking too much of a mere
expression of opinion.'
'Oh no,' she returned, with a quick blush; 'it only comes from a rash
impulse to dethrone Mentor altogether--the idea of moral leading reins
are so derogatory after childhood has passed.'
'You must give me a hint if I begin to lecture in my turn. I shall
forget sometimes you are not Olive or Chriss.'
The soft, brilliant eyes filled suddenly with tears.
'I could find it in my heart to wish I were even Olive, whom you have a
right to lecture. How nice it would be to belong to you really,
Mildred--to have a real claim on your time and sympathy.'
'All my friends have that,' was the soft answer. 'But how dark it is
growing--the longest day must have an end, you see.'
'That means--you are going,' she returned, regretfully. 'Mother Mildred
is thinking of her children. I shall come down and see you and them
soon, and you must promise to find me some work.'
Mildred shook her head. 'It must not be my finding if it is to satisfy
your exorbitant demands.'
'We shall see; anyhow you have left me plenty to think about--you will
leave a little bit of sunshine behind you in this dull, rambling house.
Shall you go alone? Richard or Royal ought to have walked up to meet
you.'
'Richard half promised he would, but I do not mind a lonely walk.' And
Mildred nodded brightly as she turned out of the lodge gates. She looked
back once; the moon was rising, a star shone on the edge of a dark
cloud, the air was sweet with the breath of honeysuckles and roses, a
slight breeze stirred Ethel's white dress as she leaned against the
heavy swing-gate, the sound of a horse's hoofs rang out from the
distance, the next moment she had disappeared into the shrubbery, and
Dr. Heriot walked his horse all the way to the town by the side of
Mildred.
Mildred's day had refreshed and exhilarated her; congenial society was
as new as it was delightful. 'Somehow I think I feel younger instead of
older,' thought the quiet woman, as she turned up the vicarage lane and
entered the courtyard; 'after all, it is sweet to be appreciated.'
'Is that you, Aunt Milly? You look ghost-like in the gloaming.'
'Naughty boy, how you startled me! Why did not you or Richard walk up to
Kirkleatham House?'
'We could not,' replied Roy, gravely. 'My father wanted Richard, and
I--I did not feel up to it. Go in, Aunt Milly; it is very damp and
chilly out here to-night.' And Roy resumed his former position of
lounging against the trellis-work of the porch. There was a touch of
despondency in the lad's voice and manner that struck Mildred, and she
lingered for a moment in the porch.
'Are you not coming in too?'
'No, thank you, not at present,' turning away his face.
'Is there anything the matter, Roy?'
'Yes--no. One must have a fit of the dumps sometimes; life is not all
syrup of roses'--rather crossly for Roy.
'Poor old Royal--what's amiss, I wonder? There, I will not tease you,'
touching his shoulder caressingly, but with a half-sigh at the reticence
of Betha's boys. 'Where is Richard?'
'With my father--I thought I told you;' then, mastering his irritability
with an effort, 'please don't go to them, Aunt Milly, they are
discussing something. Things are rather at sixes and sevens this
evening, thanks to Livy's interference; she will tell you all about it.
Good-night, Aunt Milly;' and as though afraid of being further
questioned, Roy strode down the court, where Mildred long afterwards
heard him kicking up the beck gravel, as a safe outlet and vent for
pent-up irritability.
Mildred drew a long breath as she went upstairs. 'I shall pay dearly for
my pleasant holiday,' she thought. She could hear low voices in earnest
talk as she passed the study, but as she stole noiselessly down the
lobby no sound reached her from the girls' room, and she half hoped
Olive was asleep.
As she opened her own door, however, there was a slight sound as of a
caught breath, and then a quick sob, and to her dismay she could just
see in the faint light the line of crouching shoulders and a bent figure
huddled up near the window that could belong to no other than Olive. It
must be confessed that Mildred's heart shrank for a moment from the
weary task that lay before her; but the next instant genuine pity and
compassion banished the unworthy thought.
'My poor child, what is this?'
'Oh, Aunt Milly,' with a sort of gasp, 'I thought you would never come.'
'Never mind; I am here now. Wait a moment till I strike a light,'
commenced Mildred, cheerfully; but Olive interrupted her with unusual
fretfulness.
'Please don't; I can talk so much better in the dark. I came in here
because Chrissy was awake, and I could not bear her talk.'
'Very well, my dear, it shall be as you wish,' returned Mildred, gently;
and the soft warm hands closed over the girl's chill, nervous fingers
with comforting pressure. A strong restful nature like Mildred's was the
natural refuge of a timid despondent one such as Olive's. The poor girl
felt a sensation something like comfort as she groped her way a little
nearer to her aunt, and felt the kind arm drawing her closer.
'Now tell me all about it, my dear.'
Olive began, but it was difficult for Mildred to follow the long
rambling confession; with all her love for truth, Olive's morbid
sensitiveness tinged most things with exaggeration. Mildred hardly knew
if her timidity and incoherence were not jumbling facts and suppositions
together with a great deal of intuitive wisdom and perception. There was
a sad amount of guess-work and unreality, but after a few leading
questions, and by dint of allowing Olive to tell her story in her own
way, she contrived to get tolerably near the true state of the case.
It appeared that Olive had for a long time been seriously unhappy about
her brothers. Truthful and uncompromising herself, there had seemed to
her a want of integrity and a blamable lack of openness in their
dealings with their father. With the best intentions, they were
absolutely deceiving him by leaving him in such complete, ignorance of
their wishes and intentions. Royal especially was making shipwreck of
his father's hopes concerning him, devoting most of his time and
energies to a secret pursuit; while his careless preparation for his
tutor was practical, if not actual, dishonesty.
'At least Cardie works hard enough,' interrupted Mildred at this point.
'Yes, because it will serve either purpose; but, Aunt Milly, he ought to
tell papa how he dreads the idea of being ordained; it is not right; he
is unfit for it; it is worse than wrong--absolute sacrilege;' and Olive
poured out tremblingly into her aunt's shocked ear that she knew Cardie
had doubts, that he was unhappy about himself. No--no one had told her,
but she knew it; she had watched him, and heard him talk, and she burst
into tears as she told Mildred that once he absolutely sneered at
something in his father's sermon which he declared obsolete, and not a
matter of faith at all.
'But, my dear,' interrupted the elder woman, anxiously, 'my brother
ought to know. I--some one--must speak to Richard.'
'Oh, Aunt Milly, you will hear--it is I--who have done the mischief; but
you told me there were no such things as conflicting duties; and what is
the use of a conscience if it be not to guide and make us do unpleasant
things?'
'You mean you spoke to Richard?'
'I have often tried to speak to him, but he was always angry, and
muttered something about my interference; he could not bear me to read
him so truly. I know it was all Mr. Macdonald. Papa had him to stay here
for a month, and he did Cardie so much harm.'
'Who is he--I never heard of him?' And Olive explained, in her rambling
way, that he was an old college friend of her father's and a very clever
barrister, and he had come to them to recruit after a long illness.
According to her accounts, his was just the sort of character to attract
a nature like Richard's. His brilliant and subtle reasoning, his long
and interesting disquisitions on all manner of subjects, his sceptical
hints, conveying the notion of danger, and yet never exactly touching on
forbidden ground, though they involved a perilous breadth of views, all
made him a very unsafe companion for Richard's clever, inquisitive mind.
Olive guessed, rather than knew, that things were freely canvassed in
those long country walks that would have shocked her father; though, to
his credit be it said, Henry Macdonald had no idea of the mischievous
seed he had scattered in the ardent soil of a young and undeveloped
nature.
Mildred was very greatly dismayed too when she heard that Richard had
read books against which he had been warned, and which must have further
unsettled his views. 'I think mamma guessed he had something on his
mind, for she was always trying to make him talk to papa, and telling
him papa could help him; but I heard him say to her once that he could
not bear to disappoint him so, that he must have time, and battle
through it alone. I know mamma could not endure Mr. Macdonald; and when
papa wanted to have him again, she said, once quite decidedly, "No, she
did not like him, and he was not good for Richard." I noticed papa
seemed quite surprised and taken aback.'
'Well, go on, my dear;' for Olive sighed afresh at this point, as though
it were difficult to proceed.
'Of course you will think me wrong, Aunt Milly. I do myself now; but if
you knew how I thought about it, till my head ached and I was half
stupid!--but I worked myself up to believe that I ought to speak to
papa.'
'Ah!' Mildred checked the exclamation that rose to her lips, fearing
lest a weary argument should break the thread of Olive's narrative,
which now showed signs of flowing smoothly.
'I half made up my mind to ask your advice, Aunt Milly, on the
rush-bearing day, but you were tired, and Polly was with you, and----'
'Have I ever been too tired to help you, Olive?' asked Mildred,
reproachfully; all the more that an uncomfortable sensation crossed her
at the remembrance that she had noticed a wistful anxiety in Olive's
eyes the previous night, but had nevertheless dismissed her on the plea
of weariness, feeling herself unequal to one of the girl's endless
discussions. 'I am sorry--nay, heartily grieved--if I have ever repelled
your confidence.'
'Please don't talk so, Aunt Milly; of course it was my fault, but'
(timidly) 'I am afraid sometimes I shall tire even you;' and Mildred's
pangs of conscience were so intense that she dared not answer; she knew
too well that Olive had of late tired her, though she had no idea the
girl's sensitiveness had been wounded. A kind of impatience seized her
as Olive talked on; she felt the sort of revolt and want of realization
that borders the pity of one in perfect health walking for the first
time through the wards of a hospital, and met on all sides by the
spectacle of mutilated and suffering humanity.
'How shall I ever deal with all these moods of mind?' she thought
hopelessly, as she composed herself to listen.
'So you spoke to your father, Olive? Go on; I will tell you afterwards
what I think.'
There was a little sternness in the low tones, from which the girl
shrank. Of course Aunt Milly thought her wrong and interfering. Well,
she had been wrong, and she went on still more humbly:
'I thought it was my duty; it made me miserable to do it, because I knew
Cardie would be angry, though I never knew how angry; but I got it into
my head that I ought to help him, in spite of himself, and because Rex
was so weak. You have no idea how weak and vacillating Rex is when it
comes to disappointing people, Aunt Milly.'
'Yes, I know; go on,' was all the answer Mildred vouchsafed to this.
'I brooded over it all St. Peter's day, and at night I could not sleep.
I thought of that verse about cutting off the right hand and plucking
out the right eye; it seemed to me it lay between Cardie and speaking
the truth, and that no pain ought to hinder me; and I determined to
speak to papa the first opportunity; and it came to-day. Cardie and Rex
were both out, and papa asked me to walk with him to Winton, and then he
got tired, and we sat down half-way on a fallen tree, and then I told
him.'
'About Richard's views?'
'About everything. I began with Rex; I told papa how his very sweetness
and amiability made him weak in things; he so hated disappointing
people, that he could not bring himself to say what he wished; and just
now, after his illness and trouble, it seemed doubly hard to do it.'
'And what did he say to that?'
'He looked grieved; yes, I am sure he was grieved. He does not believe
that Roy knows his own mind, or will ever do much good as an artist; but
all he said was, "I understand--my own boy--afraid of disappointing his
father. Well, well, the lad knows best what will make him happy."'
'And then you told him about Richard?'
'Yes,' catching her breath as though with a painful thought; 'when I got
to Cardie, somehow the words seemed to come of themselves, and it was
such a relief telling papa all I thought. It has been such a burden all
this time, for I am sure no one but mamma ever guessed how unhappy
Cardie really was.'
'You, who know him so well, could inflict this mortification on him--no,
I did not mean to say that, you have suffered enough, my child; but did
it not occur to you that you were betraying a sacred confidence?'
'Confidence, Aunt Milly!'
'Yes, Olive; your deep insight into your brother's character, and your
very real affection for him, ought to have guarded you from this
mistake. If you had read him so truly as to discover all this for
yourself, you should not have imparted this knowledge without warning,
knowing how much it would wound his jealous reticence. If you had
waited, doubtless Richard's good sense would have induced him at last to
confide in his father.'
'Not until it was too late--until he had worn himself out. He gets more
jaded and weary every day, Aunt Milly.'
Mildred shook her head.
'The golden rule holds good even here, "To do unto others as we would
they should do unto us." How would you like Richard to retail your
opinions and feelings, under the impression he owed you a duty?'
'Aunt Milly, indeed I thought I was acting for the best.'
'I do not doubt it, my child; the love that guided you was clearer than
the wisdom; but what did Arnold--what did your father say?'
'Oh, Aunt Milly, he looked almost heart-broken; he covered his face with
his hands, and I think he was praying; and yet he seemed almost as
though he were talking to mamma. I am sure he had forgotten I was there.
I heard him say something about having been selfish in his great grief;
that he must have neglected his boy, or been hard and cruel to him, or
he would never have so repelled his confidence. "Betha's boy, her
darling," he kept saying to himself; "my poor Cardie, my poor lad," over
and over again, till I spoke to him to rouse him; and then he
said,'--here Olive faltered,--'"that I had been a good girl--a faithful
little sister,--and that I must try and take her place, and remind them
how good and loving she was." And then he broke down. Oh, Aunt Milly, it
was so dreadful; and then I made him come back.'
'My poor brother! I knew he would take it to heart.'
'He said it was like a stab to him, for he had always been so proud of
Cardie; and it was his special wish to devote his first-born to the
service of the Church; and when I asked if he wished it now, he said,
vehemently, "A half-hearted service, reluctantly made--God forbid a son
of mine should do such wrong!" and then he was silent for a long time;
and just at the beginning of the town we met Rex, and papa whispered to
me to leave them together.'
'My poor Olive, I can guess what a hard day you have had,' said Mildred,
caressingly, as the girl paused in her recital.
'The hardest part was to come;' and Olive shivered, as though suddenly
chilled. 'I was not prepared for Rex being so angry; he is so seldom
cross, but he said harder things to me than he has said in his life.'
Mildred thought of the harmless kicks on the beck gravel, and the
irritability in the porch, and could not forbear a smile. She could not
imagine Roy's wrath could be very alarming, especially as Olive owned
her father had been very lenient to him, and had promised to give the
subject his full consideration. In this case, Olive's interference had
really worked good; but Roy's manhood had taken fire at the notion of
being watched and talked over; his father's mild hints of moral weakness
and dilatoriness had affronted him; and though secretly relieved, the
difficulty of revelation had been spared him, he had held his head
higher, and had crushed his sister by a tirade against feminine
impertinence and interference; and, what hurt her most, had declared his
intention of never confiding in such a 'meddlesome Matty again.'
Mildred was thankful the darkness hid her look of amusement at this
portion of Olive's lugubrious story, though the girl herself was too
weak and cowed to see the ludicrous side of anything; and her voice
changed into the old hopeless key as she spoke of Richard's look of
withering scorn.
'He was almost too angry to speak to me, Aunt Milly. He said he never
would trust me again. I had better not know what he thought of me. I had
injured him beyond reparation. I don't know what he meant by that, but
Roy told me that he would not have had his father troubled for the
world; he could manage his own concerns, spiritual as well as temporal,
for himself. And then he sneered; but oh, Aunt Milly, he looked so white
and ill. I am sure now that for some reason he did not want papa to
know; perhaps things were not so bad as I thought, or he is trying to
feel better about it all. Do you think I have done wrong, Aunt Milly?'
And Olive wrung her hands in genuine distress and burst into fresh
tears, and sobbed out that she had done for herself now; no one would
believe she had said it for the best; even Rex was angry with her--and
Cardie, she was sure Cardie would never forgive her.
'Yes, when this has blown over, and he and his father have come to a
full understanding. I have better faith in Cardie's good heart than
that.'
But Mildred felt more uneasy than her cheerful words implied. She had
seen from the first that Richard had persistently misunderstood his
sister; this fresh interference on her part, as he would term it,
touching on a very sore place, would gall and irritate him beyond
endurance. He had no conception of the amount of unselfish affection
that was already lavished upon him; in fact he thought Olive provokingly
cold and undemonstrative, and chafed at her want of finer feelings. It
needed some sort of shock or revelation to enable him to read his
sister's character in a truer light, and any kind of one-sided
reconciliation would be a very warped and patched affair.
Mildred's clear-sightedness was fully alive to these difficulties; but
it was expedient to comfort Olive, who had relapsed into her former
state of agitation. There was clearly no wrong in the case; want of tact
and mistaken kindness were the heaviest sins to be laid to poor Olive's
charge; yet Mildred now found her incoherently accusing herself of
wholesale want of principle, of duty, and declaring that she was
unworthy of any one's affections.
'I shall call you naughty for the first time, Olive, if I hear any more
of this,' interrupted her aunt; and by infusing a little judicious
firmness into her voice, and by dint of management, though not without
difficulty, and representing that she herself was in need of rest, she
succeeded in persuading the worn-out girl to seek some repose.
Unwilling to trust her out of her sight, she made her share her own bed;
nor did she relax her vigil until the swollen eyelids had closed in
refreshing sleep, and the sobbing breaths were drawn more evenly. Once,
at an uneasy movement, she started from the doze into which she had
fallen, and put aside the long dark hair with a fondling hand; the moon
was then shining from behind the hill, and the beams shone full through
the uncurtained windows; the girl's hands were crossed upon her breast,
folded over the tiny silver cross she always wore, a half-smile playing
on her lips--
'Cardie is always a good boy, mamma,' she muttered, drowsily, at
Mildred's disturbing touch. Olive was dreaming of her mother.