And so it was agreed, and the agreement was acted on; but our best

efforts, the personal search of Thomas Brownlow, the most diligent

inquiries of myself and my friend Harrowby, during the short time

at our disposal, were unable to discover any trace of the missing

Arthur, who was gone, like the wind, without a vestige to mark his

flight. No one seemed to know or remember much about him. Those who

affected to, said some one thing, some another, and in the Law List

his name was not to be found.

The condition of the Brownlows had meanwhile become worse. The

little ready money which they had, had been expended in the journey

to London and the prosecution of the inquiries after Arthur. They

looked hungry and dejected, and I was informed that the mortgagee,

incensed at their inattention to his applications for money, had

definitely decided to put someone in possession of the farm by the

last day of May.

I recommended the brothers to make a last appeal personally before

the end of May arrived, and see if by their united rhetoric they

could soften the inflexible heart of Mr. Suamarez. This with rustic

reluctance they ultimately consented to do.

The four brothers, Hugh, William, Robert, and Thomas, proceeded to

Ashcroft. I believed they walked there, as their last horse had

been sold some months ago, and they had not a sixpence left to

pay railway fare. They arrived at the mansion of the inexorable

mortgagee, and were summarily refused admission by the servant, as

I had been. But with a pertinacity worthy of a better cause the

four men hung about the place hour after hour, with the intention

of securing a parley with Mr. Saumarez, with whom they were quite

unacquainted, having hitherto conducted their negotiations through

his agent.

Towards the evening, as they prowled about the coppice surrounding

the house, they saw the owner of the manor, accompanied by his wife

and their young children, come on to the lawn, and no sooner was the

opportunity presented than the four men burst through the bushes and

approached him.

Mrs. Saumarez turned deadly pale, and threw her arms round her

children at the sight of these four ill-clad and travel-stained

loafers, for so they looked, so suddenly appearing on the lawn

of the house, while Mr. Saumarez stood in front of his wife and

children and angrily demanded what they wanted.

"It is just this, sir," said Hugh, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve

preparatory to making a speech, "we are the Brownlows, sir, and we

have travelled fifty miles to see you, sir. You're going to evict us

from our little farm that we have had in our family for years and

years without number. Give us some delay, sir--forgo your intention

for this year--till after the harvest, at least, until we see what

sort of crops we may have, and out of the profit of them we can pay

you your demands."

[Illustration: Mr. Saumarez angrily demanded what they wanted.]

"These speeches are all idle," responded Mr. Saumarez testily. "I

made up my mind long ago. I know you to be good-for-nothing men,

through whose laziness your old father's farm has got into its

present condition. You deserve no pity, and you deserve no delay.

For the present state of affairs you have only yourselves to blame.

You must take the consequences of your conduct."

"Oh, sir." began Hugh, who was the spokesman of the rest, "think of

our circumstances. We have children, as you have; they will all be

thrown on the world----"

"Into this," replied Mr. Saumarez, "I cannot go. When the mortgage

came into my hands--which it did along with some adjoining property

about a year ago, on my return from abroad--I made a particular

point of asking my agent what sort of men conducted the farm.

And hearing from him that they were four brothers, all men of

questionable character, named Brownlow, who owed their present

degradation to their own laziness and folly, I said I wished to hear

no more, and that the farm, which stood conveniently adjacent to a

manor which is also mine, must be appropriated with no more delay

than the usual legal routine permitted of. That is what I said to my

agent. I presume--in fact, I know--he has acted on my orders. I have

nothing more to say about it, so I wish you a good evening."

"We have children--two of us are married men," exclaimed Hugh,

appealing to Mrs. Saumarez.

"We have had sickness in the family for months past," added Robert.

"It is not our fault--the harvests have been bad year after year."

But they were speaking to deaf ears. Mr. Saumarez, motioning to his

wife and children, was turning away to enter the house.

"I don't know," said Thomas, who had not hitherto spoken, "what will

become of our old father----"

"What?" inquired Mr. Saumarez sharply, turning round, "Is your old

father still alive?"

"Yes, he is," they all replied at once, staring at him with most

unfeigned surprise.

"I understood from my agent," replied Mr. Saumarez, his voice

getting thick as he spoke, "that there were only you four

brothers--men who deserved--men whom I knew to be----Look here, you

Brownlows. You tell me your old father is still living. Is he well?

Is he in fair health? Does his memory remain good? And how--how do

you treat him in his old age?"

"How do we treat him, sir?" inquired Hugh Brownlow and the rest,

speaking slowly and gazing at Mr. Saumarez as if they had seen a

ghost. "Why, as to that----"

"As to that," I said, appearing from the drawing-room with old

Mr. Brownlow on my arm--for in deference to his expressed wish,

after the departure of his sons, I had travelled with him by train

to Ashcroft in order that he too might plead, and we had just

arrived--"as to that, Mr. Saumarez, the father can best answer for

himself. See if he is not still an honoured and reverend sire. Look

at him yourself, sir; for before heaven I believe you are Arthur

Brownlow."

"Yes," exclaimed the old man on my arm, his eyes streaming with

tears, "it is my son, my own son Arthur, at last! My former ruin is

nothing to my present joy, for I see the boy whom I have wronged,

whose reproaching image has been present with me for years--I see

him at last before me; I hold him in my arms; I ask pardon of him,

profoundest pardon, for all the injustice I have done him; and I

rejoice to think that at last my lifelong sorrow is at an end."

Arthur was weeping on his father's neck. The brothers stood around

petrified with astonishment.

"It is true," said Arthur Brownlow in a voice choked with emotion;

"it is true that, had my brothers been the only parties concerned,

I might perhaps--nay, I am sure I should--without compunction have

retaliated as the world retaliates. But I never knew--I never

suspected--that you, my father, were among them. I have wept for you

as dead, for such tidings reached me some time ago. I have mourned

for the unjust opinion you held of me, mourned since my boyhood, and

even as a man I mourned. But now I hold you in my arms--alive, God

be thanked! and forgiving, Christ be praised! And greater happiness

can I not know, save if one of my own children should bring me the

same experience, and then my felicity might be as great."

The mystery of the lost identity of Arthur Brownlow was easily

explained. He had prospered in the world as Arthur Brownlow, when

my friend Harrowby knew him; but shortly after that date he had

married a Miss Saumarez, who held large estates in Jamaica, and

whose name he was compelled to take for the sake of securing the

entail of her property to the children. He had lived in Jamaica

for nearly ten years, and had recently come back, to find some

property near Hambleton added to his possessions, and with it the

mortgage over Brownlow's farm. His agent only knew that Brownlow's

farm was managed by the young Brownlows, since the old father had

long retired from active participation in it; and with this account

of the place Arthur Brownlow was naturally satisfied, since he

believed his father had died some years ago. He intended to punish

his brothers for their treachery and cruelty, but it is questionable

whether his intention would ever have gone beyond reading them a

severe, salutary lesson and then reinstating them in their freehold.

At any rate, as circumstances happened, it had no chance of doing

so, for the sight of his father so overwhelmed poor Arthur with joy,

that all was forgotten, all was forgiven, in that happy moment;

and now in the whole of my parish there is not a happier or better

conducted place than Brownlow's farm.

[Illustration: An International League of Peace]

AN INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE.

DEAR READERS OF THE QUIVER,

The recent Rescript of the Czar of Russia, inviting the Great Powers

to entertain the idea of a general disarmament, was naturally

received with joyful acclaim by the whole Religious World. There

were some, of course, who shook their heads dubiously when they

heard of it. "Can it be true," they said, "that the Autocrat of

All the Russias is on the side of peace?" And then they have

proceeded to hint at ulterior motives for the announcement. But

the great majority of Christian people have preferred to take his

Imperial Majesty at his word, and to accept, with deep thankfulness

to Almighty God, the Supreme Disposer of all men and all things,

this gracious sign of a long-hoped-for age of universal peace and

good-will, foretold by the prophets and proclaimed by the herald

angels at Bethlehem.

But the Great White Czar himself does not need to be reminded that

Governments are powerless unless they are supported by the peoples

whom they represent in the International Councils thus convened.

And this support, when voiced in a definite form, is a mighty

force which will carry everything before it. Here, then, and now,

under the inspiration of this blessed Christmas season, is given

us an opportunity of responding to the call for Peace, which, if

neglected, may not be repeated for many a generation yet to come.

We have been awaiting the inauguration of a collective expression of

Christian approval and support of the Peace Rescript, not only from

our own, but from all the Christian nations; but up to the present

no such international movement appears to have been organised. We

therefore invite our readers all over the world to join in a hearty

and thankful endorsement of the sentiment of the Czar's Manifesto,

and thus set in motion a powerful engine for good. We suggest also

that they should all enlist their adult friends, without restriction

of sex or creed, in the same Christlike cause, by obtaining their

signatures to the declaration to be found on the other side of this

leaflet.

When the sheet has been filled up With all the signatures

obtainable, it should be returned without delay to the Editor of

THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C. Further sheets will be

supplied, post free, on application, or any number of plain sheets

may be added by the collector as required.

Yours,

In the service of the Prince of Peace,

The Editor of the Quiver

An Honorarium of TEN POUNDS will be awarded to the Sender of the

First Thousand Signatures, under regulations which will appear in

our next issue.

[Illustration: THE QUIVER INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE.]

THE QUIVER INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE.

(_No person under sixteen years of age should be asked to sign._)

We, the undersigned, desire to express our earnest sympathy with the

peace proposals contained in the recent Rescript of his Imperial

Majesty the Czar of Russia, and hereby authorise the attachment of

our names to any International Memorial having for its object the

promotion of Universal Peace upon a Christian basis.

NAMES. ADDRESSES.

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

[Illustration: Our Roll of Heroic Deeds]

Our Roll of Heroic Deeds

TWO MANCHESTER HEROES.

One of the many notable acts of bravery which are constantly being

performed by the members of fire brigades all over the kingdom is

here depicted. The lower floors of a house situated in Portland

Street, Manchester, were in flames, and in an upper window a man

suddenly appeared and cried for help. A ladder was immediately

procured, but, to the dismay of the onlookers, it was too short

by several feet, and seemed absolutely useless. However, Fireman

Lawrence swarmed up the ladder, closely followed by Clayton, and

when they reached the top, the latter so placed his arms that

Lawrence could stand upon them and thus reach the narrow gutter

above, on to which he clambered. The breathless crowd beneath them

watched Lawrence balance himself on the ledge, and, with great

difficulty and at terrible peril to his life, pass the imprisoned

man to his companion. When Lawrence, by the help of Clayton, gained

the ladder in safety again, thundering roars on roars of applause

worthily greeted the plucky men in recognition of their magnificent

bravery.

AS CHAPLAIN TO MR. SPEAKER

_Some Reminiscences of Parliament._

[Illustration: EX-SPEAKER PEEL.

(_Photo: Russell and Sons._)

By F. W. Farrar, D.D., Dean of Canterbury.

MR. SPEAKER GULLY.

(_Photo: Bassano, Ltd._)]

_PART II._

I once had the honour of meeting Mr. Gladstone at a very small

dinner-party of some eight or ten persons; and after dinner I

found myself sitting beside him and one of our most distinguished

men of letters--Mr. W. E. H. Lecky, M.P. It happened to be a

time when party feeling was running very high in Parliament,

and I purposely turned the conversation in that direction. The

question of Home Rule was under discussion, and it was common for

Irish members--especially for some who were of very excitable

temperament--to be called to order. Strong language was frequently

used, such as quite passed the ordinary limits of Parliamentary

conventions. I mentally recalled the current anecdote--I do not

know whether it be true or not--that Daniel O'Connell, in one

of his fierce disputes with Mr. Disraeli, had said that he must

be descended from the unrepentant thief; and I asked the great

statesman whether, during his half-century of experience in

the House of Commons, there had been any change in the license

of vituperation, which happened at that moment to be specially

prevalent. "No," he said; "in that respect there has been no change.

At all the crises which my memory recalls there have been outbursts

of violent expression quite as strong as any which have been heard

of late." As the conversation continued, he mentioned two changes

which had occurred in the House of Commons--one a mere matter of

costume; the other of much greater significance. An American guest

at the dinner-table had observed that he could not remember any

other party since he had been in England at which he was the only

person present who wore a moustache. Mr. Gladstone said that, when

he first entered Parliament, there were actually more members who

still wore pigtails than those who wore the beard or moustache. At

that time no one, as a rule, indulged in those appendages except

officers in the army. There was one exception, the late Mr. Muntz,

who was for many years member for Birmingham; and so noticeable was

this exception, that in the House he was popularly known as "the man

with the beard."

[Illustration: MR. W. E. H. LECKY.

(_Photo: Melhuish and Gale, Ltd., Pall Mall, W._)]

The other change was this: "In old days," said Mr. Gladstone,

"the House used to have an absolute control of bores." Few of the

members took frequent part in the debates. Discussion seemed, by

common consent, to be left mainly to a score or two of leaders.

There were gentlemen who had been for long years representatives of

important cities, who were never known to have opened their lips.

I myself in my boyhood knew one highly respected member who, if I

remember rightly, had sat for a county town for nearly fifty years,

and whose sole contribution to the debates in Parliament, for all

that period, had been the single sentence, "I second the motion!"

It is widely different now. I suppose that now any member who has

sat for a number of years, and never even made his maiden speech,

is a rare exception. Although the gift of utterance is supposed to

be very much less rare than once it was, yet the few only are able

to speak really well. This, however, does not prevent members from

the free expression of their opinions, because in print one speech

does not look very much unlike another. In many cases in these days

members are speaking with far less reference to the House than to

the Press gallery. Their constituents expect them to speak, and

like to see their names and remarks in the daily papers, however

ruthlessly they may be abbreviated by the reporters. In former days

a bore was never tolerated. After a very few sentences the House

gave such unconcealed expression to its impatience, and the orator

was interrupted by such a continuous roar of "Divide, divide!...

'vide!... 'vide!... 'vide!" that the stoutest-hearted, after a short

effort, gave way, and the House was not afflicted with a wearying

tide of commonplace, "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood." At

present it is not always so. It is indeed but seldom that a member

feels perfectly willing to bestow on his fatigued fellow-senators

the whole amount of his tediousness; but I have, not infrequently,

seen a member listen with the blandest smile of indifference to

the torrent of interruptions which marred his oratory--and tire

his audience into partial silence by leaving on their minds the

conviction that he _intended_ to say out what he had meant to say,

so that the shortest way to get rid of him would be to let him

maunder on to the end!

[Illustration: DEAN FARRAR IN HIS OLD CORNER IN THE GALLERY.]

Reverting to the subject of strong language in the House, and

again speaking of O'Connell, I asked Mr. Gladstone whether he had

been present when the great demagogue had convulsed the House with

laughter by his parody on Dryden's epigram on the three great poets,

Homer, Virgil, and Milton. "Oh, yes," he answered. "I see him now

before my mind's eye, as, with a broad gleam of amusement over

his face, he kept looking up at Colonel Sibthorpe, the somewhat

eccentric member for Lincoln, and then jotting down something in his

notes. Colonel Sibthorpe, having been an officer in the army, was

exempt from the then current convention of being close-shaven, and

he was bearded like a pard. I cannot recall the exact epigram, but I

remember the incident perfectly."

[Illustration: (_Photo: Lawrence, Dublin._)

DANIEL O'CONNELL.

(_From the Painting by David Wilkie._)]

I had never seen O'Connell's epigram in print, but I quoted it as I

had, years ago, heard it quoted to me--and quite incorrectly. "Oh,

these colonels!" said O'Connell, "they remind me of the celebrated

lines of the poet"--

"Three colonels in three distant counties born,

Armagh and Clare, and Lincoln did adorn;

The first in lengthiness of beard surpassed,

The next in bushiness, in both the last:

The force of nature could no further go--

To _beard_ the third she _shaved_ the other two!"

That was the form in which I had heard it quoted, but Mr. Lecky

at once suggested that the third and fourth lines were purely

imaginary, and I have since found that they really were something to

this effect--

"The first in direst bigotry surpassed,

The next in impudence--in both the last."

Delivered as the supposed "celebrated lines of the poet" were in

O'Connell's rich brogue, and with his indescribable sense of humour,

it may well be imagined that it was long before the laugh of the

members died away!

In old days I was not infrequently present in the House during the

gladiatorial combats, which were then of incessant occurrence,

between Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli. The House was always

crowded, and the scenes were marked by an interest and vivacity

which are now of far rarer occurrence. I well remember a long and

brilliant speech of Mr. Disraeli's, which occupied perhaps two hours

or more, late at night. During the speech--as is very common--he

had to refresh his voice repeatedly by drinking some composition

or other. Water is the safest refreshment for speakers under these

circumstances, but I suppose that the friend who had been thus

ministering to the speaker's necessities had brought sherry, or

something of that kind. The consequence was that, without any

fault on his part and quite unconsciously, Mr. Disraeli--who was,

I believe, an habitually temperate man--was speaking at last with

far less point and lucidity than was his wont. At the close of his

speech Mr. Gladstone rose to answer, and began by the remark, "I

shall not notice any of the concluding observations of the right

honourable gentleman, because I am sure that the House will agree

with me in thinking that they were due to"--and then he added with

marked emphasis--"a somewhat _heated_ imagination."

It was unfortunate in those years of political antagonism that

the two eminent leaders were men of temperaments absolutely

antipathetic. It would have been difficult to find two men who,

remarkable as were their gifts, differed from each other more

widely in almost every characteristic of their minds. Mr. Disraeli

was a man of essentially kind heart, and one whom I have good

reason to regard with respect and gratitude. Much of his apparent

acerbity, many of his strong attacks, were really only on the

surface. I feel quite sure that for Mr. Gladstone--in spite of the

many interchanges of criticism which sometimes sounded a little

acrimonious--he felt not only a profound respect and admiration,

but even no small personal regard. On one occasion he spoke of his

great rival as "my right honourable _friend_, if he will allow me

to call him so." The characteristic of Mr. Gladstone's mind was an

intense moral sincerity, and he could not return the compliment.

One cannot but regret that he felt himself unable cordially to

reciprocate the kindly expression. Had he felt able to do so--had

these two political opponents been able from that time to speak

of each other as "my right honourable friend"--many acerbities of

debate might have been materially softened. But in his reply, Mr.

Gladstone, while he spoke with kind appreciation, could not, or

would not, use the phrase which Mr. Disraeli had on that single

occasion adopted. Perhaps he attached to it a meaning far deeper

than its conventional significance. At any rate, the fact remains

that, while in his response he spoke with dignified recognition of

his opponent's gifts, and was evidently gratified by the expression

he had used, he could not get himself to call Mr. Disraeli by the

sacred name of "friend," and that word was, I believe, never again

exchanged between them. But I only mention this little incident

because in different ways it seems to me to have been touchingly

to the credit of the best qualities of both. And in spite of so

many years of gladiatorial combat in the arena of the House, when

Lord Beaconsfield died Mr. Gladstone pronounced a eulogy upon him,

generous yet strictly accurate in every particular.

[Illustration: DISRAELI'S FAVOURITE ATTITUDE IN THE HOUSE OF

COMMONS.]

On another occasion Mr. Gladstone--_more suo_ in his earlier

days--had almost leapt to his feet to make a controversial speech,

which he had poured forth with all that intensity of conviction

which held the House in rapt attention even while many of its

members were being convinced against their will. Mr. Disraeli began

his reply by the remark that "Really the right honourable gentleman

sprang up with such vehemence, and spoke with such energy, that

he was often glad that there was between them"--and here he laid

his hands on the large table at which the clerks sit and at which

members take the oath, which occupies the greater part of the

space between the Government bench and the leading members of the

Opposition--"that there was between them a good solid substantial

piece of furniture." The House laughed good-humouredly at the

little harmless sarcasm and at the notion of Disraeli requiring a

barrier of personal protection against such vehement assaults! I

was told by one who heard the remark--and it is a pleasant little

incident--that, on the evening after this speech, Mr. Gladstone had

met Lady Beaconsfield at some social gathering, and, so far from

resenting the little hit at himself, had cordially complimented her

on the excellent speech which her husband had made on the previous

evening. There is, however, no doubt that Mr. Gladstone sometimes

winced under the subtle swordplay of his antagonist, just as

Mr. Disraeli must have felt the force of the rolling tide of his

opponent's oratory. But while Mr. Gladstone sat listening with every

emotion reflected on his expressive and mobile countenance, Mr.

Disraeli sat motionless, with features as unchanging as if he wore a

mask.

The Chaplain of the House has an excellent seat in the gallery--one

of the best seats for seeing and hearing--assigned to him by

the courtesy of the members. I not infrequently availed myself

of the privilege of occupying this seat, and in this way I was

present at some of Mr. Gladstone's last appearances in the House,

I particularly recall an incident which has since then been

frequently alluded to, and which was very highly to the credit of

Mr. Gladstone's essential kindness of heart. Mr. Austen Chamberlain,

son of the Right Hon. J. Chamberlain, had delivered what was, I

believe, his maiden speech. It exhibited many of the qualities of

clear enunciation and forcible statement which make his father

one of the best speakers in the present Parliament. Mr. Gladstone

and (I suppose) the Liberal party in general had felt much hurt

by the separation of Mr. Chamberlain from their councils, and by

his partial alliance with their political opponents; and this

feeling could not but be shared by Mr. Gladstone, who carried

into politics an ardour of conviction of deeper intensity than

is felt by ordinary minds. Mr. Austen Chamberlain's speech had,

of course, been delivered in favour of views which Mr. Gladstone

impugned, and nothing would have been easier to him than to bring

down on the head of the young member the sledgehammer force of his

experience, eloquence, and intellectual supremacy. So far from this,

Mr. Gladstone not only pronounced a warm eulogy on the speech, but

went out of his way to say--turning to Mr. Joseph Chamberlain,

and entirely overlooking any momentary exacerbation of political

opposition--that it was a speech which, in the ability and the

modest force with which it had been delivered, "could not but be

very delightful to a father's heart." Simple and spontaneous as the

expression was, it caused visible pleasure to all who heard it. Such

genuine amenities do much to soften the occasional exasperations of

political struggle.

[Illustration: MR. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN.

(_When making his maiden speech._)]

I have heard many fine and telling speeches in the House from its

foremost debaters, from the days of Lord Palmerston to our own;

but certainly I have heard no orators who impressed me at all so

deeply as Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright. It is, however, generally

acknowledged that most of Mr. Bright's finest and most memorable

speeches were not delivered in the House of Commons, but to vaster

and more sympathetic audiences of the people from the midst of whom

he had sprung. If I were asked what was the most eloquent speech to

which I ever listened, I should at once answer, The speech which

I heard Mr. Bright deliver at St. James's Hall at the time of the

Second Reform Bill. The meeting was a mass meeting, and a ticket had

been given me for the platform by an old friend and schoolfellow. I

was seated between him and Mr. Frederic Harrison, just behind the

orator of the evening. In the front row with Mr. Bright were the Rt.

Hon. J. Ayrton, who had been First Commissioner of Works, and Mr.

W. A. Cremer and Mr. Odger, who were prominent working-men leaders

of the time. Among the audience, in the middle of the hall, sat

Mr. John Stuart Mill, then one of the most celebrated thinkers of

the day; and, throughout the meeting, he applauded with vehemence,

freely bestowing his claps even on the obvious crudities of some

of the working-men who subsequently spoke. As I was close behind

Mr. Bright I could almost read the notes which lay before him on

his broad-brimmed hat. They showed his method, which was carefully

to write out his speech, to learn it by heart, and to refresh his

memory by having before him some sheets of paper, on which in a

large legible hand he had put down the leading substantives of

every sentence. Besides the magic of his strong, manly, sympathetic

voice, and the force of his Saxon English, and the purity of a style

formed on the best models--especially, I believe, on John Milton and

John Bunyan--he owed much of his power as an orator to the extreme

deliberation of his delivery. Owing to this, an audience was able

to see the point which he was intending to bring out, long before

he actually expressed it. They were gradually wound up into a pitch

of ever-increasing excitement and sympathy until the actual climax,

so that it almost seemed as if the speaker was merely expressing

in his single voice the common sentiment of thousands. Now, at the

time of which I speak, Mr. Bright had been passing--as all the

best and greatest men have to pass in their time--through what he

called "hurricanes of abuse, and tornadoes of depreciation." He

was commonly spoken of, in many of the daily papers, not only as

a Radical, but as a revolutionary Jacobin, a political firebrand,

and a pernicious demagogue. The point which he wanted to impress

on his deeply sympathising hearers was that it was monstrous so

to characterise him, when all that he had done was to point out

the actual existence of perils which he had neither created nor

intensified, but about which he had only uttered those timely

warnings which sometimes enable a patriot to avert the terrible

consequences that it might otherwise be too late to remedy. He

spoke as follows, and the audience, which crowded the hall to its

utmost capacity, followed him from clause to clause with breathless

stillness. I cannot quote his exact words, but they were to this

general effect:--

[Illustration: (_Photo: Fradelle and Young._)

LORD PALMERSTON.]

"I have," he said, "been called an incendiary, a firebrand, a

dangerous agitator. Now, supposing that I were to go to the

inhabitants of a village or hamlet on the side of a mountain, and

were to say to them, 'Do you see that thin blue smoke which is

issuing from the rifts of the mountain summit above your heads?'

and were to warn them that it was a menace of peril. Suppose that

they were heedless of my warning, and denounced me for awaking

unnecessary alarm: and suppose that soon afterwards the mountain

became a huge bellowing volcano, filling the heavens with red-hot

ashes, and pouring huge streams of burning lava down its sides.

Would it have been I who created that volcano? Would it have been

my hand which stored it with combustible materials? Should I have

been a dangerous agitator because I had warned the dwellers in that

mountain hamlet to avert or escape from the perils by which they

were 'menaced'?"

[Illustration: (_Photo: Fradelle and Young, Regent Street._)

Signature]

Such is my recollection of the passage which I heard so many years

ago, and which I have doubtless spoiled in attempting to reproduce.

But when the great orator, speaking with weighty deliberation, had

reached the _dénouement_ of his striking metaphor, so powerfully had

he wrought on the feelings of his hearers that an effect followed

such as I have never seen on any other occasion. The whole vast

audience, as though swayed by one common impulse, sprang to its

feet--not gradually and at the initiative of one or two _claqueurs_

and partisans, but with an absolutely electric sympathy, and they

remained on their feet cheering the speaker for five minutes. It

was by far the most decisive triumph of the magic and mastery of

eloquence that I have ever witnessed in my life.

Another remarkable incident occurred at the same meeting. Mr.

Ayrton, in moving a vote of thanks to the chairman, had alluded to

a huge procession--part of a demonstration of the working-classes

in favour of the Reform Bill--which had taken place in London a few

days previously. Lady Burdett-Coutts had witnessed the procession

from a balcony in the window of her house as it passed down the

length of Piccadilly and Oxford Street. She had been recognised,

and, knowing her generous beneficence, the working-men had cheered

her. Mr. Ayrton alluded to this, and had the very dubious taste

to express a strong regret that the Queen, who was at Buckingham

Palace, had not done the same. The allusion was singularly

misplaced, and Mr. Ayrton, as one who had been a member of the

Government, ought to have known that under no circumstances could

her Majesty thus recognise a demonstration in favour of a Bill which

excited great differences of opinion, and was still under discussion

by the House of Commons. The speech was still more _mal à propos_

because it seemed, whether intentionally or not, to attribute to

her Majesty a lack of that sympathy with the aspirations of the

people which, on the contrary, the Queen has invariably shown, so

that her kindness of heart has won a more unbounded affection than

has ever been lavished on any previous Sovereign. Mr. Bright felt

how unfortunate was this _gaucherie_, into which the speaker had

perhaps unintentionally been led. He saw also how injurious it might

be to the effect which the meeting would otherwise produce. When

he rose to acknowledge the vote of thanks to himself, he not only

defended her Majesty from the blame which Mr. Ayrton had implied,

but, alluding with touching simplicity to the long and uninterrupted

devotion which the Royal Lady had shown for so many years of

widowhood to the memory of her great and princely consort, he showed

the unfairness of the insinuation which might seem to have been

implied.

The great voices of Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright are silent. They

have passed from the heated arena of politics, "to where beyond

these voices there is peace"; and they have not left their equals

behind them. We seem to be passing through one of those interspaces

in national life which are not illuminated by minds so bright

with genius as those which have ceased to shine. The soil of the

next generation may perhaps produce a harvest as rich, or richer.

Meanwhile we may at least rejoice that

"Great men have been among us; hands that penned

And tongues that uttered wisdom:--better none."

[Illustration: The House Economical]

THE HOUSE ECONOMICAL

By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "Our Home Rulers," Etc.

"Domestic economy consists in spending a penny to save a pound.

Political economy consists in spending a pound to save a penny."

Such is an aphorism left us by one of the wisest of men. It exactly

defines the principle on which I shall deal with the subject of this

paper. Real economy means good management, and is quite apart from

penuriousness. It implies proper regulation of a household, and

careful disposition or arrangement of work. We can be thrifty of

our talents, time, and money without being niggardly, for frugality

need never descend into parsimony if we are watchful. There are more

precious things than £ s. d., after all, and looking after those

other things makes us sympathetic and original.

For instance, the real House Economical suggests sunshine and

purity. Without these, smallness of rent will be more than

counter-balanced by increase in doctors' fees. Of necessity, it must

be liberally and variously supplied, or satiety follows. It is true

that red herrings offer a larger amount of nutriment for a given sum

of money than any other kind of animal food. Yet it would not be

really economical to feed our households continually on halfpenny

herrings. A farthing dip is the cheapest light obtainable--but eyes

would be ruined if we provided nothing but single candles in our

establishments. Spices and condiments are rather adjuncts of food

than necessities, yet they are medicinal in their properties and of

extreme value in rendering food more palatable and stimulating a

jaded appetite. So far for food--for it is with food we generally

find a tendency to save begins.

True economy consists in maintaining the standard of health in a

family at its highest. Expenditure towards this end can never be

extravagant, even if it ranges from thick curtains over our doors

to silk mufflers in windy weather. Not to provide our children

with warm underclothing on the score of expense is the height of

extravagance; to be content without sanitary surroundings and

labour-saving appliances the depth of foolishness.

The House Economical may first of all be beautiful. A horizon

that is bounded by a need for thrift more often than not tends to

greyness and gloom. This should not be. Lovely surroundings are of

economic value in keeping spirits up to a certain point. Digestion

is promoted by eating in a bright, airy dining-room. A well-arranged

bedroom may be productive of sleep.

Comfortable homes are economical ones, in the best sense of the

word, saving time, fatigue, and temper. One hour's opportune rest

on a Chesterfield may save hours of malaise and headache. The

House Economical will have rules sufficiently elastic to allow of

such occasional pauses in work--"come-apart-and-rest-for-a-while"

possibilities--if called for.

One great principle in the House Economical is never to spend money

on unwanted things because they happen to be seen. Another is, when

wanted, to get the best procurable. "Cheap and nasty" is a very

true union of words. Yet we must remember that some inexpensive

substitutes are quite as good as costly things. A copper kettle, for

instance, looks just as well and wears longer than a silver one. A1

plate lasts a lifetime if taken care of. Serge is more useful than

satin, and just as suitable in its way.

"She looketh well to the ways of her household" was said of the

virtuous woman of old. In the House Economical we must most closely

follow her example in its ingle-nooks. Our average cook thinks

it good to use only lumps of orrell in the range, ignoring the

possibilities of saving in any form. Now all housekeepers know that

pokers should be absent from the hearth if we would limit coal

bills; that cinders, sifted and washed, are most useful fuel for

frying and laundry work; that a judicious admixture of wet slack

with wood or "nuts" is advisable. There are two economical ways

of building and maintaining good fires in our parlours. One is to

ignite at the top and suffer to burn _downwards_. The other is to

lay and light after the usual fashion and "backen" with a bucket

of damp coal dust. Either procedure gives a fire that will burn

for hours without attention, if not "raked" by Mary Jane. We need

not, like the ghost in Hamlet, "be condemned to fast in fires" even

in the House Economical, if we see that every hearth burns its

own cinders--that the kitchen stove consumes every bit of table

refuse--and that the coal man delivers eight bags of slack with

every ton of coal.

In the House Economical some laundry work must be done--by all

means send out starched things. But Jaeger underclothing, and

all flannels, last longer when washed at home. It has been said

that servants, nowadays, are like monkey soap--and "will not wash

clothes." But insertion of a clause in our hiring lease would show

them what is required in this line. To keep woollies soft and

unshrunken, they must be soaked in a bath containing two parts

cold to one of hot water. In this, a handful of boiled soap jelly

is stirred (to a lather) and to it one tablespoonful of ammonia

(liquid) added. This volatile spirit loosens all dirt, and our

clothing requires no rubbing, only a thorough rinsing. After shaking

well, the garments must be hung out in a shady, sunless place to

dry, and finished with a warm smoother. No "cast-iron back with a

hinge in it" is required for scientific washing, and a few minutes'

weekly supervision will enable the mistress of the House Economical

to clothe her household in double garments without fear.

In the House Economical we shall rigidly exclude everything fusty

and dusty. Therefore carpets will be conspicuous by their absence

from the sleeping-rooms, especially those threadbare old lengths

and squares usually relegated to our bedrooms. Floors will be

disinfected and stained, at the cost of a few pence, by the use of

permanganate of potash, and polished with beeswax and turpentine.

A cleanly smell, exemption from germs and spores and microbes,

and knowledge of the perfectly sanitary condition of our sleeping

chambers will result.

"A stitch in time saves nine" is the motto writ large on the lintel

of the House Economical. A supply of carpenterial tools, then,

will always be at hand to prevent recourse to that most expensive

luxury--the British workman. We shall oil locks and link chains,

keep our window cords mended and its sash running free. We shall

learn how to hammer and plane and file and screw. A bit and brace

will be no wonderful instrument to us but a much-used friend. A

handy man about the place is a well-known boon. Who can value at her

right worth the handy woman?

It is a well-known fact that "many hands make light work," but we

must remember that limbs imply mouths, and that mouths must be

filled. Hence, in the House Economical, each child will have its own

vineyard to keep. Helpful, willing little fingers will be trained

to usefulness. Our young folk find as much pleasure in _resultful_

effort as in objectless employment--making beds can be as much

"play" as arranging a doll's house--and Tommy can be taught to mend

as well as to break.

Perhaps, in the House Economical, we are inclined rather to forget

that there is a time to spend as well as a time to keep (Eccles.

iii.). The very fact of an economic course in general ought to help

us to a liberal one at proper seasons. Cheese-paring and skinning a

flint are occupations at all times to be avoided, more especially

so when festivals or hospitality call for an open hand. The royal

road to prosperity is bordered by scattered wealth and watered with

generosity. The wisest of men said so, and I believe him.

What can I say further of the many other avenues leading up to and

from the House Economical? Of the soap to be bought by the stone and

the soda in sacks? Of the plaice for luncheon instead of halibut?

Of rhubarb mixed with cherries, and such like? In treating of such

details in the House Economical, we are treading on less flowery

meads than when considering its twin sisters--the Palace Beautiful

and the House Comfortable. Yet, perhaps, it needs more real wisdom

to run a family coach on economically pleasant lines than it does

to be either artistic or cosy. "Common tasks require all the force

of a trained intellect to bear upon them." So it needs a cultivated

brain, sanctified common sense, and skilful hands, to brighten the

everyday minutiæ of life in the House essentially Economical.

[Illustration: THE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER]

THE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER

_THE STORY OF A CATHEDRAL TOWN._

By E. S. Curry, Author of "One of the Greatest," "Closely Veiled,"

Etc.

CHAPTER VII.

"BIP? BIP?"

Mrs. Lytchett was paying a homiletic visit to Mrs. Bethune. She

often did. She had great ideas of the duty of a Bishop's wife in

keeping the wives of all the other clergy up to theirs; and there

was much in the Bethune household that, in her opinion, required

exceptional looking after. She liked Mrs. Bethune very much, and

pitied her not a little. Just now, she must require help in managing

Marjorie. A girl fresh from school--and not at all the school Mrs.

Lytchett had advised for her--was almost always tiresome at first,

till she had been settled into her place. Mrs. Lytchett meant to

settle Marjorie.

"Oh, I am glad to see you up, and looking well," she said, coming in

briskly on the early afternoon's calm.

Mr. Bethune put a chair for her beside his wife's sofa, and then sat

down again to the littered table. He had long ago attuned himself

to a placidity and aloofness in the midst of chatter which nothing

ordinary could disturb.

"How dreadfully busy Mr. Bethune looks! Is it another book?" Mrs.

Lytchett said.

With a murmured, "I had better go and look after the boys," Marjorie

obeyed a glance from her mother's merry eyes, and went away through

the window. She was apt to fret and rebel at Mrs. Lytchett's

interferences, and was specially resentful at any implied criticism

of her mother.

"What a big girl Marjorie grows! She is quite startling sometimes.

One forgets she isn't a child."

"She has grown up early--to fill my place," with a little sigh.

"Oh, I hope not," was the cheery response. "She could not do that,

you know--at any rate, not so successfully. By the way, I came

partly to ask about her. Is she engaged to Mr. Warde?"

"Engaged? No. She is scarcely eighteen."

"But he evidently admires her--there is no mistaking that--he takes

complete possession of her. Now, what do you wish about it?"

"It isn't what I wish," gently. "You are very kind--but Marjorie is

a girl who will settle such a matter for herself."

"Oh, but that is nonsense! Those things can always be managed with

proper care."

"But I should be sorry to have her managed. Nothing forced upon

Marjorie will make her happy. She must be left to herself."

"How mistaken! You would not leave her to herself if a bad man were

in question."

"I should take care not to put her in the way of a bad man," with

dignity.

"You would prevent her meeting him? Exactly; then why act

differently when it is someone you like? However, there is time for

that. There is another matter. Do you know anything of Mr. Pelham's

household?"

"No, nothing."

"The Bishop likes him, thinks him a great acquisition, and he

visits at Oldstead. I had him to dinner, and he and Charity sang

nicely. I'm not sure," looking wise, "that there isn't something

between----However, he sent his baby to see me this morning--a most

wilful, spoilt little thing. That nurse will not do at all."

"You share Sandy's opinion."

"Ah! I heard your boys had taken to the baby. Perhaps that was

what made her so tiresome this morning. I warned Mr. Pelham what

mischiefs they were," candidly. "But the nurse is insufferable.

Dressed in a sort of dove-coloured dress and a hat, and all her hair

waved--kid gloves, and an embroidered skirt under her dress. I asked

her if Mr. Pelham had given her leave to dress like that."

"A man does not notice," said Mrs. Bethune, glad that Marjorie was

not by to comment.

"I told her that I should speak to him, as she did not seem to

realise her own duty, and also about the child's dress. It was

ridiculous."

"A man could not know," suggested Mrs. Bethune.

"She was very impertinent, and then we found that the baby had

run away. We could not find her anywhere, and she had got to the

Bishop's room through the window. It seems that your boys had shown

her the way. It seems rather hard that the Bishop of the diocese

shouldn't be free from intrusion in his own palace. And he was very

busy--just going off."

At mention of her boys a little tender smile crept into Mrs.

Bethune's eyes. "He is always good to the boys," she said to the

implied reproach.

"Good, yes--but that should prevent advantage being taken. And the

baby has a temper," pursued Mrs. Lytchett. "She fought and screamed

when I took her from his knee. She is evidently being brought up

very badly indeed. I am going to see about it now. Do you think

he will be back? I hear," in accents of disgust, "that he rides

backwards and forwards on one of those horrid bicycles."

Mrs. Lytchett paused to wonder a little at the sudden flush

suffusing Mrs. Bethune's face, but went on: "I hope he won't

introduce these things into the Precincts, now we have kept them

away so long. I should have thought they might very well be left to

Blackton and such places."

"Even the Duchess rides," Mrs. Bethune said softly. She felt

guiltily conscious that Marjorie and Charity, under Mr. Pelham's

instructions, had been riding for some days past--not only in the

Deanery garden as at first, but far away into the country.

"The Duchess is the Duchess," sharply. "She does and tolerates many

things that seem to me a great pity."

* * * * *

Mr. Pelham had ridden home early that day, with the idea in his mind

of taking his baby down to the Canons' Court, and himself consulting

Mrs. Bethune about her. Marjorie had said, "Mother will know";

Charity had said, "Ask Mrs. Bethune, she is the nicest woman to

consult"; and his own drawing in the direction where Marjorie might

be found made him jump at the advice.

But he had found a tearful nurse and a belligerent baby; and he was

just emerging from a lively interview in the study, where he had

been told that, "if she couldn't dress as seemed fitting in such

a house, as the attendant of Miss Pelham, not just like a common

nurse, she would like to give a month's notice," when he met Mrs.

Lytchett crossing the hall to the drawing-room.

"This is very kind of you," he began, conscious of an audible sniff

and the angry rustle of skirts behind him; and before him, Mrs.

Lytchett's tilted nose and stony eyes fixed in the same direction.

He had a man's horror of a scene, and he glanced apprehensively at

the turned-down corners of Mrs. Lytchett's mouth.

"Bring Miss Barbara, nurse," he said hastily, and ushered his

visitor into the drawing-room.

"What a remarkable apartment!" Mrs. Lytchett said in her deep voice,

looking round. "What alterations you have made!"

"I hope you like it," he said courteously.

"I daresay I shall, when I get used to it. I'm not one that approves

of changes," she responded. Then turning from frivolities, she sat

down and began seriously upon her business.

"Your little girl came to see me this morning. I am afraid that

nurse of yours is very unfit for her position, and is doing her

great harm. She is spoilt and very wilful."

"My little Barbara!" murmured Mr. Pelham, a pang filling his heart

at such words in connection with his baby, followed immediately

by a feeling that he should like to do some harm to his visitor.

Just then the door was opened widely, and the baby stood within the

doorway.

To eyes not jaundiced, she was a perfect picture in a fitting

frame. The sun shone in, through old stained glass, on the brown

panelling of the hall behind her. A ray, through a side window of

the drawing-room, fell upon her, lighting up her vivacious, dark

beauty. Nurse, on seeing the visitor, had hastily given vent to her

temper, and arrayed her in the latest Regent Street confection--a

dainty short-waisted, long-skirted white satin frock trimmed with

costly lace, under which the bare pink toes just peeped, for Barbara

had scouted the accompanying shoes.

With her face dimpling into smiles at sight of her father, she

caught up her skirt with one hand and hurried towards him.

"Noo f'ock," she called out.

Then she recognised the visitor, and paused, remembering the

morning's conflict, putting her finger into her mouth and

considering. A little to her father's dismay she tilted her

nose, and said interrogatively, "Bip? Bip?" much as if she were

questioning a terrier. Then she slowly sidled to his knee, eyeing

Mrs. Lytchett the while in evident doubt of her intentions.

"Bip? Bip?" she queried again insistently, pointing her finger at

the visitor.

"What is it, Barbie?" her father asked gently.

"She means the Bishop," explained the Bishop's wife in disgusted

tones. "That is what she was screaming all through the hall this

morning, when I brought her from his study. It is a dreadful name.

You must say 'Bishop,' little one," she commanded in deep tones,

bending towards the baby.

Barbara was not easily frightened, but the atmosphere was stormy,

and her dressing had been hurried. She glanced up into the stony

eyes above her, and perhaps gauged the lack of sympathy. With a

quiver of her rosy mouth she said faintly, "Barbedie say Bip," and

having thus asserted herself, threw herself against her father's

knees, her face buried. He afterwards related that he heard murmurs

of the obnoxious monosyllable; but fortunately the situation was

relieved by a piercing whistle that now sounded through the windows.

As she heard it, a delighted smile came over Barbara's lifted

face--a kind of record of past delight and future hope. She raised

her hand, and pointed vaguely at the outside world.

"Boy," she said ecstatically, wriggling hurriedly from her father's

knee. It was Sandy's summons to his comrade, and she hastened to

answer it.

"I think it is the Bethune boys on their way home from school," Mr.

Pelham said apologetically.

"It certainly sounds like them--no one else could make such a

dreadful noise," Mrs. Lytchett answered. "Are you going to let that

child go out like that, with no shoes on, and in that dress? Ah,

there!"

[Illustration: "What a remarkable apartment!"]

She had risen and approached the window, with the view of

intercepting Barbara's exit. But the baby was too quick. Hastily

wriggling down the steps, in a manner peculiarly her own, she

was seized upon on either hand by David and Sandy--apt at quick

evasions, as well as in seeing cause for them--and was striding

with huge strides across the lawn. Point lace and satin were of

no account with the Bethune boys, any more than were bare toes

and a hatless head. The girl-baby, all smiles to them, they found

delightful, no matter in what she might happen to be cased.

[Illustration: His keen eyes took in all the details of the scene.]

"That dress will be ruined," Mrs. Lytchett said tragically; and she

proceeded with energy to convey her opinions as to the dressing

of little children, as well as of their nurses. When she at last

withdrew to pay a visit on the Green, Mr. Pelham closed the big gate

behind her with a sigh of relief.

"I daresay she is right," he thought. "But what unpleasant 'right.'

I will ask Mrs. Bethune."

He felt always irresistibly drawn by the dark beauty of Mrs.

Bethune's eyes. No one could see the appeal in them without a pang.

Even amidst her merriment, their wistful beauty somewhat belied it.

Mr. Pelham found her helplessness and patience very pathetic. She

looked so young to be a prisoner--so young, too, to be the mother of

all those boys--whose noise was, however, curbed somewhat near her

sofa.

When she had heard his errand, she said, "I thought you had come

for your little girl. She came down half an hour ago with my boys,

in a dress fit for a princess. I feared they had stolen her away.

We have ventured to take it off, and put her into one of the boy's

blouses. I really couldn't let her go and dig in such clothes. Yes,"

in response to his look, "they are all in the garden. Go and see if

you like her in it, and then you shall have a pattern."

Mr. Pelham, on emerging through the window into the garden, saw that

the "all" included also Mr. Warde. That gentleman had shown himself

disinclined to follow the Bishop's lead in being civil to the

newcomer. He had not yet called on him--though when they met they

were friendly in discussing mutual tastes.

Mr. Warde was sitting with Marjorie under the beech tree on

the lawn, and Mr. Pelham was struck by the look of intimacy,

long-established, that the books and work scattered on the table

seemed to prove between them. He could not know that Mr. Warde

had joined Marjorie, after she had gone out to overlook the boys.

He only saw that they were sitting together in the summer shade,

talking in low voices--the man with a look on his face, and a

possession in his attitude, which could not be mistaken--the girl

with a wistful appeal shining in her dark eyes, which might well be

a response.

A cold doubt fell on the beholder as he walked slowly towards them,

and his keen eyes took in all the details of the scene. He had

heard rumours--Charity had half-revealed the understanding between

them--but his heart had refused belief.

Could it be that, after all, they were engaged? If so, he knew that

life--which, with its new possibilities, had lately become strangely

sweet--would again be a dark and careful problem.

CHAPTER VIII.

BETWEEN TWO LOVERS.

Barbara had been exercising all her fascinations in beguiling Mr.

Warde. She was attired in one of Orme's blue smocks, in which her

small body was somewhat lost, but in which she was equally pretty as

when attired in her own daintinesses. Her nurse had fostered in her

a taste for dress, which so far prompted a desire for her father's

approval; but the male tuition she was now under promised soon to

qualify this taste.

She had informed Mr. Warde of her importance in Orme's dress, and

received his sympathy, with pretty little pattings down of the blue

linen, until recalled to business by Sandy's whistle.

"Bardedie go dig," she announced, showing all her white teeth in an

alluring smile, and trotting off to the cave side.

Down below, the boys were strenuously repairing the ravages of the

thunderstorm, and all hands--and baskets--were in requisition.

The _rôle_ of highwayman, like that of ghost, having palled, they

were eager to begin the more important one of settler. David had

arranged the start for the next day, and they were excitedly making

preparations and collecting necessary stores.

These included numerous and unlikely things.

"Settlers have spades; we shan't want any, as ours isn't diggin'

ground," objected David to Sandy's list.

"It's ridic'lus to go settling wivout spades," said Sandy.

"Less to carry, and there'll be enough, and it isn't like straight,

even ground."

"We must have a blanket. That can come off a bed. It's a mountain,

Dave, 'member--the top of a mountain. An' our fambly to get up an'

all. It'll be awfly hard," said Sandy, stopping for a moment in

his burrowings to mop his heated face. Just then Barbara danced

in, planting her feet in great delight in the damp mud Sandy had

excavated.

"Me," she demanded, "me too. Barbedie dig"; and, seizing a basket,

she began to fill it, in keen emulation of Orme's business-like

labour. Orme was a most useful coadjutor in anything. When once

set to work, he always went on stolidly till he was told to stop,

or till material failed him. Nothing in the way of temptation, no

delight or allurement, could turn him aside.

[Illustration: Marjorie lifted her head to meet his gaze.]

Marjorie's tools, like his, were her two little fat hands, and these

were soon, to her delight, plastered with mud.

"How shall we get her?" inquired David, pausing and looking at the

baby, working so ardently. "Must she come too?"

"'Course she must," said Sandy. "We ain't got no other girl. 'Sides,

it ud be a shame to leave her out just when the fun begins. She'll

have to be fetched. We'll get her to tea."

The boys' heads got together over schemes which grew more and more

ambitious, and by the time the passage was cleared of the _débris_

and mud, and the little ones shunted back from discovery of its

exit, all details had been planned.

Sandy, hearing voices, reconnoitred, with only his eyes above

ground, to find out whether friend or foe were with Marjorie. He was

delighted to see Barbara's father. Here was his opportunity.

It was probably the dirtiest little boy in England who came

persuasively to Mr. Pelham's side, holding the transformed

Barbara--now almost equally dirty--by the hand.

"Your baby likes our house," he said. "May she come to-morrow, and

stop to tea?"

Barbara, gazing with delight at her unrecognisable hands, held them

up to her father's view; sufficient plea, she held these hands for a

repetition of delight. And when Ross and Orme ambled up alongside,

regarding him solemnly with their round blue eyes, awaiting his

verdict, he said "Yes."

Sandy's remnant of conscience prompted him to say, "We'll bring her

back some time--honour bright. Don't want that nasty nurse prancing

'bout."

"Hush, Sandy!" said Marjorie.

"Don't," reiterated Sandy sturdily; "her skirts scrape an'

scratch--an' she screams if you do things sudden."

"I hope it is quite safe," Marjorie said a little anxiously, as

Barbara was marched off to the nursery by all her swains, to be

cleaned, and reinstated in her satin gown. "Sandy doesn't quite

realise what a baby she is."

"No harm could happen on the way down," Mr. Pelham said

thoughtfully, "and it is but a step from my gate to the Court. I

have watched how careful they are with her."

Marjorie's solicitude for his baby prompted him to inquire, rising

unwillingly when that small person reappeared, "Are you dining at

the Deanery to-morrow?"

"Yes," answered Marjorie. "Charity has some musical people coming

down from London--and you----"

She paused, recollecting Charity's pretty air of possession when

mentioning Mr. Pelham and his singing. She had said, "Mr. Pelham

and I have been practising together a good deal--he sent for some

new songs from town. Our voices suit perfectly--there are very few

evenings, when we are disengaged, that he doesn't find his way down

the hill."

She did not mention the warm and recurrent invitation of the Dean.

Nor could Marjorie realise the allurement of the pretty drawing-room

with its charming hostess to the lonely man. Possibly, neither would

she have believed that sometimes a visionary hope that he might find

her with her friend had been his lure.

Marjorie's was a home to which he did not often like to venture

unasked. One evening, he had volunteered to be Charity's messenger;

and he had been struck by the aloofness and quiet of the little

scene into which he had been announced.

The lamp, on the minor canon's table, shining white on the scattered

papers, lit up his scholarly face, as, busy with his writing and the

thoughts it brought, he turned a far-away gaze on the visitor.

Another lamp, by Mrs. Bethune's sofa, shone on Marjorie's burnished

head, and lighted the fragile beauty of her mother. Both were

busy with needlework--the pretty smocks of the little boys. Mrs.

Bethune's slender hands rested whilst she welcomed and talked

to Mr. Pelham; but Marjorie's went on with their occupation. He

noticed, too, the open book which lay upon the table; the quiet

homeliness of this little scene, which yet Marjorie's rapidly moving

fingers made part of a more strenuous life than the one he had just

left; the work-a-day room in which were no luxuries, except the

little table of hothouse flowers, always kept fresh and fragrant

by Mrs. Bethune's many friends; and the bent, aloof figure of the

student--all gave the room a totally different atmosphere from the

luxurious apartment whence he had come. Its calm, and peace, and

withdrawal, struck Mr. Pelham with a sense of chill. He had no part

in it. Mother and child were enough for each other. Marjorie had

none of Charity's pretty restlessnesses and fusses for her visitor's

entertainment. As the conversation went on, she scarcely raised her

eyes. He talked to Mrs. Bethune, prolonging the conversation that

he might enjoy the quiet pose of Marjorie's slim figure, the pretty

curves of cheek and ear, and the moving swiftness of her fingers.

Only now and then Marjorie lifted her head to meet his gaze,

with the wistful look now becoming habitual. For Mr. Warde's

steady wooing, although, according to his promise, unvoiced, was

sufficiently assiduous; and Marjorie was unconsciously making up

her mind to a future which she realised would be a great delight

to her parents. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. It did not

occur to her that she was of sufficient importance to revolt at such

a future. She did not once say to her mother, "It is my own life I

have to live. Why should I marry Mr. Warde if I don't love him?" She

put aside the fancies of a far different lover which, in moments of

unrest, or rare idleness, filled her day-dreams.

"Life isn't a fairy tale," she settled with a sigh, at the

remembrance of an arresting look she could not banish. "He cares

for Charity. Everybody says so. How can I be so silly? And yet--and

yet----"

"Could you not come up and see my house some day?" Mr. Pelham had

asked that evening, as he was leaving. "Oh!" as a sudden thought

struck him, "I have a carriage--scarcely ever used. I believe it

could be made as comfortable as your chair. Would it shake you too

much? And then," turning eagerly to Marjorie, "your mother could

drive every day it was fine. It would be a kindness to use it!" he

pleaded.

Marjorie's face lit in response. "Mother does drive sometimes. Mr.

Warde----" and with angry dismay, the looker-on beheld the mounting

flush. "Oh, everybody is very kind in that way," she finished

hurriedly.

"But come and see my house and pictures," he persisted, turning to

Mrs. Bethune. "Come to-morrow, and I will be at home to show you

them, and see that you are not tired."

The visit had been duly paid and enjoyed, and plans for others made,

till it soon happened that, thanks also to the boys and Barbara,

scarcely a day passed without communication between the Canons'

Court and The Ridges.

And so love, unconsciously fed and fostered, had grown apace.

* * * * *

There was a silence under the beech tree after Mr. Pelham's

departure, during which both Marjorie and Mr. Warde were busy with

their own thoughts. It was broken by Mr. Warde.

"When is that engagement to be announced? Is it settled yet?"

"What engagement?"

"Pelham and your friend, Charity. I never drop in of an evening but

I find him there."

"Perhaps he says the same about you," said Marjorie, a flash of

mischief in her eyes.

Mr. Warde's speech had broken in upon a dreamy wonder, which

was making a song of joy in her heart, as to the meaning of Mr.

Pelham's lingering look as he had said good-bye. With a start of

recollection, and a pulling of herself together, Marjorie remembered

that she had known this man, on whose looks she was dwelling, just

six weeks. Six weeks! And this other man, sitting so near, with an

air of possession at which her whole heart rebelled--though she

quelled the expression she was longing to give way to--she had known

all her life! All her life he had been intimate--one of them--as

near almost as her father. And how good he had been to her, to them

all! How the household would miss the constant care--first for one,

then for another--which in so many ways he had evinced. Marjorie's

conscience smote her when she recalled his many kindnesses, accepted

as a matter of course, as between lifelong friends; kindnesses, as

she quickly remembered, entirely on one side.

The recollection of her mother's pleading for him drew Marjorie's

eyes in mute questioning to his face. Would he feel very much if she

could not bring herself to care for him? He looked so comfortable,

and healthy, and prosperous. Surely it could not matter to him what

a girl might do? And then--he turned, and looked at her suddenly, to

meet the questioning in her eyes. A queer, rigid expression hardened

his mouth. For a moment he waited, as though preparing for a blow.

Then he stood up and looked down at her, shielding her by his action

from any lookers-on from the windows.

"Well, Marjorie, you have something to say to me?" and she heard him

catch his breath, and pause to recover, before he added: "Say it

quickly, dear. Have you changed? Have you reconsidered?"

"Mother----" stammered Marjorie, taken by surprise; "no, I haven't

changed, but----"

"Yes," he encouraged; and he vaguely wondered that she was not

stunned by the loud beating of his heart. It had come at last, what

he longed for. It overmastered him.

"Mother said--it is love." Her head was bent, and her voice was a

whisper, scarcely audible in the soft summer air; but the man heard.

"And you--and you?" he breathed.

Marjorie lifted her eyes, startled. This--what was it?--this

transforming emotion, shining in the eyes, usually so quiet? She

shrank back.

"No, do not," she implored. "I do not know--I do not feel like that."

She made as though to rise, and pushed him gently away. What had she

said? What had she done to cause such feeling?

"Nay, Marjorie," he said, and he grew rigid again in self-control;

"tell me what was in your mind. I will not vex you--I will claim

nothing; only tell me--tell me," he entreated.

Marjorie, looking into her memory, searched in vain for something

that would meet this demand. A vague memory of her mother's

words about marriage and Mr. Warde, mingled with the Duchess's

conversation at the Deanery; a recollection of the constant coupling

of Charity's name with that of Mr. Pelham; a tired feeling that

she had been worsted in a struggle, and could no longer fight; a

yearning for comfort in some undefined sorrow, to which she could

give no name--a sense of irrevocableness, of emptiness, of ineffable

longing. This is what Marjorie felt, and from which she turned, as

human nature will turn from a hurt to which experience can give no

cure.

"I do not think--I do not know whether it is love," she said at

last. The man winced unconsciously at the icy aloofness of the

girlish voice. "But--if--you--care----" The words fell sighingly

from her lips.

"If I care?" he repeated slowly, and his voice was as cold as hers

in the effort at repression; "if I care? Marjorie, I care so much

that to make you happy, to win your love, I would give my life.

My darling"--he paused--"how dear--how dear--I cannot make you

understand. You shall never regret--never!"

He looked down for a second at the bowed white face, so unlike the

face of a happy girl hearing her lover tell that she is beloved, and

said softly:

"You will like to be alone; I will go. Do not think of me in any

other way than as just your old friend, until--until you give it me

willingly. I will claim nothing more."

CHAPTER IX.

MISSING!

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

Ages had passed, so it seemed to Marjorie, since the departure of

Mr. Warde, when Sandy's question reached her ear. All the boys were

standing round, looking at her with inquisitive concern. Marjorie,

a limp heap, inattentive, unready to listen to them, was a new

experience. Ross and Orme had tender hearts, not yet hardened

by contact with an unsympathetic world. The latter had dug his

elbows into his sister's knees, and was looking up pitifully into

the far-away eyes that did not even yet see him. Conscious of the

blankness, Orme felt moved to whimper; Ross thumped with sturdy

fists the limp knees which, hitherto, for baby weaknesses had

provided firm support.

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

As the question reached her far-away consciousness, Marjorie came

back to reality with a sudden start. Mr. Warde had forgotten that

the boys were still in the garden, so occupied was he and so quiet

were they. But as the tea-hour approached, first one, then another,

finally all four pairs of eyes had been cautiously lifted above

ground to survey the situation.

Something, perhaps, in Mr. Warde's appearance, some intuition of

unwonted agitation in the interview going on under their eyes, had

warned David against intrusion, and he had held Sandy back until the

visitor was gone.

[Illustration: "Seems you're struck all of a heap, Margie!"]

"Seems you're all struck of a heap, Margie," said David now. "Has he

been scolding?"

"Not exactly," faltered Marjorie; she could not meet the inquiring

glances bent on her from all sides. She felt sore and shaken; and

the familiar faces brought back to her recollection the full meaning

of the interview through which she had just passed. What had she

done? what had she said? With a shock she realised that she had

agreed to become Mr. Warde's wife. Her whole soul shrank.

"Ain't we goin' to have any tea?" Sandy inquired, his mind bent on

an opportunity for the acquisition of stores.

"Is it tea-time?"

"Bell went ever so long ago."

"Didn't you hear it, Margie?" Ross inquired, much impressed at such

absent-mindedness.

"No, Ross. Go in, all of you, and get clean," Marjorie ordered,

glancing from one to another, feeling less like a victim under

the eyes of her judges now that they too were in a position to be

criticised.

"'Stead of eatin' much," Sandy had exhorted beforehand, "you've got

to save."

If Marjorie had not been so occupied with her own perplexities, she

must have noticed, first, the ravenous appetite of the four; next,

the rapidity with which the bread-and-butter and cake disappeared.

All the pockets were bulging when Ross was deputed to say grace, but

the little boy's face looked very disconsolate indeed. Regardless of

Sandy's frowns, after struggling through the formula, in accents of

lingering unwillingness, he added--

"Ain't had a good tea--me hungry as hungry."

"Me, too," said Orme hopefully.

Marjorie glanced suspiciously round on the faces of her brothers,

and then at the empty board. Even so preoccupied as she was, she

could not but suspect that some means, other than natural ones, must

have been used to banish all that food. And when the same thing

happened the next afternoon also, when a more than usually varied

abundance graced the table in honour of Barbara's visit, she spoke.

"I can't think," she was beginning to protest, when, to Sandy's

delighted relief, Mrs. Lytchett was announced as being in the

drawing-room, and asking specially for her.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Marjorie, her mind travelling back to all her

misdemeanours. "What can it be? I hope not the cycling."

But it was. There was an amused flash in her mother's eyes, while

Mrs. Lytchett's lips looked as though they were carved in stone, so

very determined was her aspect.

"I hope it isn't true, Marjorie, what I hear?" she said in aggrieved

tones.

"What is that?" asked Marjorie.

"Three of those horrid bicycles passed me this afternoon close,

whirling by at a furious pace. I had been to the Deanery, to tell

Charity how sorry the Bishop was to miss her music. She wasn't in;

and passing the garden entrance--the garden entrance--ah, I see it

is true!"

For Marjorie's aspect was unmistakable. It was one of guilt. She did

nothing, but sat down in a somewhat limp manner in the chair near

which she stood, and looked blankly at her inquisitor.

"So I asked; I could scarcely believe my eyes. That young footman

was lounging near; I suppose he was waiting for the bicycles,

wasting his time. And he said you have all been riding a long time."

"Not so very long," Marjorie answered in excusing accents. "Only

about a month."

Mrs. Bethune laughed, though she looked at Marjorie anxiously. When

they were not too bitter, she enjoyed the humour of the encounters

between Mrs. Lytchett and Marjorie. Generally the latter showed

fight; but all that day she had been unusually quiet.

"I thought you knew how much the Bishop and I hated the horrid

things."

The tones were deeply reproachful.

"I thought--he--had changed," Marjorie stammered.

"No; he will never change, neither shall I"--in accents of

certainty. "The Bishop thinks them most unbecoming. How did you

learn? I hope that young footman----" She paused, unable to put into

words the suspicion she had conjured up.

"We learnt--Mr. Pelham showed us--in the Deanery garden. It isn't

difficult."

"I am sorry you didn't think more of your position in Norham before

setting such an example. And they cost so much!"

"Mine was a present," murmured Marjorie, unwontedly gentle.

"A present! From Mr. Pelham?"

"It came with Charity's."

"From the Dean. Oh! that is different."

Marjorie's memory went back to the sunshiny afternoon under the

chestnuts at the Deanery, when the two new glittering machines--just

arrived from the maker--had been brought out to Charity's tea-table.

"One for me!" she had exclaimed, reading the label in delight. "How

kind of the Dean!"

But when she thanked the Dean, in pretty gratitude, a little later,

he had disclaimed the gift.

"Who sent for it for me? Can it really be for me? Not Mr. Pelham,

surely?" (for it was he who, at the Dean's request, had ordered

Charity's). He, too, disowned being the giver.

"But you know?" Marjorie asked.

"Yes, I know. The giver is one who has every right to give you

pleasure."

Something in his manner put her on the track, and she remembered

that the Bishop had been in the garden when the purchase had been

talked about. When she saw him next, he did not disavow her thanks.

"I like to see you enjoying yourself, my dear," he answered in his

kind tones. "I thought how bright and happy you both looked the

other day. Only don't have any accidents."

"I don't think it was the Dean," Marjorie's truthful nature prompted

her to answer now. "It was--the Bishop."

"And I asked him not! I begged him not to carry out his intention.

Poor Norham!" with a sigh, "it has given in at last, and now you and

Charity have started, every girl in the place will follow. I blame

the Duchess."

When the visitor had gone, Marjorie stood for a moment at the

window, anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden as fast as

his legs could carry him.

"The boys have got some scheme on, I believe, mother," she said.

"Dave and Sandy have been full of mystery all day, and Ross is

pompous. I wish we weren't going to leave you alone to-night," she

said tenderly.

"I like you to go with your father, dear--he will not stay for the

music, so I shall not be alone long. And now--I must expect to lose

you gradually, dear."

"Oh, not yet." With passion Marjorie pushed the thought away.

Many little hindrances occurred whilst she was dressing. One knock

preceded the entrance of Sandy, an unwonted visitor at such a time.

He looked eager and excited; but he stood fidgeting by Marjorie's

dressing-table, watching the arrangement of her hair, and did not

appear in any hurry to explain what he needed.

"Is all girl's hair done like that? What a bover it must be," he

remarked after a little time. "I _should_ like that tiny, squinchy,

soft brush, Margie."

"What for?"

"To brush Barbie's hair. It's in a awfle mess."

"Well, take it," said Marjorie kindly. "And it's time you took her

home. She goes to bed at seven, and you promised."

"Yes, but"--objected Sandy eagerly--"not to-day. Mr. Pelham said she

might stay a bit longer. Is your bed or mine biggest, Margie?"

"Mine. What a funny boy you are, Sandy."

"Could I have a blanket off your bed, Margie? Nurse'll fuss ever so,

if I take ours--an' I can't poss'bly do wivout one."

Marjorie's thoughts had passed away from her little brother and

his needs; and the absent assent she gave was enough for Sandy. He

dragged the blanket from the bed, and ran off, hugging it in his

arms. He found always that directness was his best aid. Not often

did Sandy beat about the bush.

Marjorie went down, cloak and gloves in hand, a dainty, graceful

figure in her soft white dress. Her father was waiting for her,

sitting in unwonted idleness by her mother's sofa.

Marjorie looked at them curiously as she crossed the floor, noting,

as she would not have noted another time, that her mother's hand was

clasped in her father's. Love, the love she had pledged herself to,

was theirs. They loved each other well, it was easy to see; though,

to Marjorie, it seemed impossible that her dignified father could

ever have told his love behind a door.

Her aspect was stern, like that of a young judge, as she looked down

upon them now. Somehow, to her, love's outward features were no

longer fair.

"You look very nice, Margie," her mother said softly, looking at the

tall, slim form, crowned by its cold pure face. "That dress is a

success. Look, father."

Mr. Bethune turned his eyes upon his daughter, and smiled.

"Yes," he said; "she looks sweet and clean. She is like you,

Alysson," his voice lingering and breaking, "in the old days."

[Illustration: Anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden.]

Marjorie heard, wondering. Alysson! How sweet the name sounded with

that caressing accent on its second syllable. This was the first

time she had ever heard her father call her mother thus.

She walked beside him through the evening sunset, down the Canons'

Court, to the music of the cathedral chimes; her cloak cast round

her emphasising the youthful slenderness, which made her seem so

tall. Mr. Warde, from the Deanery steps, watched them approach, his

heart bounding with delight at her fairness. Only when they reached

the door, a thought occurred to Marjorie, and she turned to her

father in a little concern.

"I saw nothing of the children. I quite forgot them. Did you see

them?"

"Mother said"--it was work-a-day "mother" now, not the tenderly

breathed "Alysson"--"that they had gone off, she thought, with

Pelham's baby."

[Illustration: The hasty, flying figure.]

"Oh! I hope so," said Marjorie, with a little cold thrill of

prophetic fear. "How careless of me not to see! However, mother will

see that it is all right."

Charity's London friends had been late in arriving, and dinner had

been put back a little to give them time to dress. It was about

half-finished, and the timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming

half-past nine, when Marjorie saw a footman speaking to her father

at the other end of the table.

Mr. Bethune asked a quick question or two, and then rose and slipped

away.

Marjorie wondered for a moment, and then again grew interested in

her neighbour's talk. When Charity's signal drew the ladies into the

hall, she was detained a second by the enveloping skirt of one of

the ladies.

A colloquy was going on at the hall door. The soft night air

streamed in, feeling cool and grateful to Marjorie's heated cheek.

As she lingered, she caught the hurried words in a familiar voice--

"Tell Mr. Pelham, please, immediate! Mr. Bethune is gone to the

police--but he is to go, and Miss Bethune, at once to Mrs. Bethune.

Poor lady, she is----"

With a little cry, Marjorie was at the door.

"What is it, nurse?" she asked breathlessly. "Barbara?"

Almost with a note of triumph at the importance of her news, the

woman said, "Neither Miss Barbara nor any of the young gentlemen can

be found anywhere, miss. They have all clean disappeared. Oh, sir,"

in accents of direful import, as Mr. Pelham reached Marjorie's side,

"Miss Barbara is lost!"

Down the steps, waiting for no wrap, sped Marjorie; and the

twilight, now descending on the Canons' Court, closed her in. For a

second, through the dimness, Mr. Pelham saw the hasty, flying figure

in its soft white robe, and caught a glimpse of her face. It was a

vision that burnt itself on his memory.

Mr. Warde leapt with him down the wide steps.

"We shall soon find her, never fear," he said kindly--he had only

heard the end of nurse's message. "I will call my servants, and be

with you directly."

[END OF CHAPTER NINE.]

PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT.

By the Rev. George Matheson, M.A., D.D., F.R.S.E., St. Bernard's,

Edinburgh.

"But many of the priests and Levites and chief of the fathers,

who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the

foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with

a loud voice; and many shouted aloud for joy."--EZRA iii. 12.

One of the finest and most poetic touches of human nature occurs in

the most prosaic book of the Bible--the Book of Ezra. It is like a

single well-spring in a dry, parched land, like one lingering leaf

of autumn in the heart of winter. It is found at that scene where

the foundation of the new Temple is laid. The passage thus records

the mingled feelings of the spectators: "But many of the priests and

Levites and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had

seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid

before their eyes, wept with a loud voice; and many shouted aloud

for joy."