Under the silence and gloom of the church walls, away from the lights

inside and out, Frank stopped, and laid his hand upon his wife's.

"You are vexed, Daisy, because I cannot go to church; but when my

patients really need me I must not and will not neglect them. For a

long time now you have seemed to live in a state of constant

discontent and resentment against me. What the cause is, I know not. I

do not give you any, as far as I am aware. If it is that you are

dissatisfied with our present position--and I am not surprised that

you should be--I can only say how much for your sake I regret that I

cannot alter it. But that is what I am not yet able to do; and to find

your vexation constantly turned upon me is hard to bear. Let us,

rather, look forward to better days, and cheer on one another with the

hope."

He wrung her hand and turned away. His voice had been so loving and

tender, and yet so full of pain, that Daisy found her eyes wet with

sudden tears. She went into church. What with resentment against her

husband, her own strong sense of misery, and this softened mood, life

seemed very sad to her that night.

And as the service proceeded, and the soothing tones of the sweet

chant chosen for the _Magnificat_ fell on her ear and heart, the mood

grew more and more softened. Daisy cried in her lonely pew. Hiding her

face when she knelt she let the tears rain down. A vision came over

her of a possible happy future: of Frank's love restored to her as by

some miracle; of Rosaline Bell and these wretched troubles, lost in

the memory of the past; of the world being fair for them again, and

she and her husband walking hand in hand, down the stream of time.

Poor Daisy let her veil fall when she rose, that her swollen eyes

should not be seen.

And the sermon soothed her too. The text was one that she especially

loved: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I

will give you rest." Daisy thought none had ever been so heavily laden

before as she was; just as the lightly chastened are apt to think.

"If I can only be a little more pleasant with him, and have patience,"

said she to herself, "who knows but things may work round again."

But the heart of man is rebellious, as all the world knows; especially

rebellious is the heart of woman, when it is filled with jealous

fancies. The trouble to which Mrs. Frank Raynor was subjected might

bear precious fruit in the future, but it was not effecting much good

in the present. No sooner was she out of church, and the parson's

impressive voice and the sweet singing had faded on her ear, than all

the old rancour came rushing up to the surface again.

"I wonder if he is there still?" she thought. "Most likely. I wish I

could find out!"

Instead of turning her steps homeward, she turned them towards West

Street, and paced twice before the house that contained Dame Bell and

her daughter. A light shone behind the white window blind, indicating

the probability that the room had inmates; but Daisy could not see who

they were. She turned towards home, and had almost reached it when

Frank came hastily out of the surgery, a bottle of medicine in his

hand.

"Is it you, Daisy? I began to think you were late. I meant to come to

the church and fetch you, but found I could not."

"Shall I walk with you?" asked Daisy, trying to commence carrying out

the good resolutions she had made in church, and perhaps somewhat

pacified by his words. "It is a fine night."

For answer he took her hand, and placed it within his arm. Ah, never

would there have been a better husband than Frank Raynor, if she had

only met him kindly.

"Who is the medicine for?" asked Daisy.

"For Dame Bell. I am walking fast, Daisy, but she ought to have it

without delay."

"Have you been with her all this time?"

"Yes. I was coming away when she had a sort of fainting-fit, the

second this evening; and it took more than half-an hour to get her

round."

"She is really ill, then?"

"Really ill!" echoed Frank in surprise. "Why, Daisy, she is dying. I

do not mean dying to-night," he added; "or likely to die immediately;

but that which she is suffering from will gradually kill her. My uncle

suspected from the first what it would turn out to be."

Daisy said no more, and the house was gained. As Frank rang the bell,

she left his arm and went a few steps away; beyond sight of any one

who might open the door, but not beyond hearing of any conversation

that might take place.

Rosaline appeared. Frank put the bottle into her hand.

"I brought it round myself, Rosaline, that I might be sure it came

quickly. Has there been another fainting-fit?"

"No, not another, Mr. Frank," replied Rosaline. "She is in bed now and

seems tranquil."

"Well, give her a dose of this without delay."

"Very well, sir. I--I wish you would tell me the truth," she went on

in a somewhat agitated voice.

"The truth as to what?"

"Whether she is much worse? Dangerously so."

"No, I assure you she is not: not materially so, if you mean that. Of

course--as you know yourself, Rosaline, or I should not speak of it to

you--she will grow worse and worse with time."

"I do know it, sir, unfortunately."

"But I think it will be very gradual; neither sudden nor alarming.

This evening's weakness seems to me to be quite exceptional. She must

have been either exerting or exciting herself: I said so upstairs."

"True. It is excitement. But I did not like to say so before her. For

the past few days she has been complaining that my father worries

her," continued Rosaline, dropping her voice to a whisper. "She says

he seems to be in her mind night and day: asleep, she dreams of him;

she dwells on him. And oh, what a dreadful thing it all is!"

"Hush, Rosaline!" whispered Frank in the same cautious tones: and as

Daisy's ears could not catch the conversation now, she of course

thought the more. "The fancy will subside. At times, you know, she has

had it before."

"Blase Pellet excites her. I know he does. Only the other day he said

something or other."

"I wish Blase Pellet was transported!" cried Frank quickly. "But

it--it cannot be helped, Rosaline. Give your mother half a wine-glass

of this mixture at once."

"I am so much obliged to you for all, sir," she gently said, as he

shook hands with her. "Oh, and I beg your pardon for asking another

question," she added as he was turning away. "I have been thinking

that I ought perhaps to leave my situation and stay at home with my

mother. I always meant to do so when she grew worse. Do you see any

necessity for it?"

"Not yet. Later of course you must do it: and perhaps it might be as

well that you should be at home to-morrow, though the people of the

house are attentive to her. You may rely upon me to tell you when the

necessity arrives."

"Thank you, Mr. Frank. Good-night."

"Good-night, Rose."

Frank held out his arm to his wife. She took it, and they walked home

together. But this time she was very chary in answering any remark he

made, and did not herself volunteer one. The interview she had just

witnessed had only served to augment the sense of treason that filled

the heart of Mrs. Frank Raynor.

CHAPTER VII.

MEETING AGAIN.

Time flew on. Summer had come round again: and it was now close upon

three years since Mrs. Raynor and her children had quitted Eagles'

Nest. Certainly, affairs could not be said to be progressing with

them. The past winter and spring had again brought trouble. The three

younger children were attacked with scarlatina, and it had left Kate

so long ill that much care had to be taken with her. Mrs. Raynor was

laid up at the same time for several weeks with bronchitis; and the

whole nursing fell upon Edina.

With so much on her hands, and Mrs. Raynor invalided, Edina could not

continue to do the work which helped to keep them. A little of it she

continued to take, but it was very little: and she had to sit up at

night and steal hours from her rest to accomplish even so much. This

did not please the people who supplied her with it; they evidently did

not care to continue to supply her at all; and when things came round

again, and she and Mrs. Raynor would have been glad to do the same

quantity of work as before, the work was not forthcoming. Their

employment failed.

Such, in these early days of June, was the state of affairs: the

family pinching and starving more than ever, Charles wearing out his

days at the office, Alice teaching at Mrs. Preen's. Never had the

future looked so dark as it was looking now.

One day when they were at dinner, Alice came in. Perhaps the little

pinched faces around the scanty board--and both Kate's and Robert's

looked pinched--struck unpleasantly upon Alice, for she was evidently

in less good spirits than usual. She had come down by the omnibus, and

taken them by surprise.

An idea, like a fear, flashed into the mind of Mrs. Raynor. It was so

very unusual for Alice to come down in this unexpected manner. "You

have brought bad news, child!" she faintly said. "What is it?"

And, for answer, Alice burst into tears. The knowledge of their home

privations was to her as a very nightmare, for she had a warm heart.

What with that and other thoughts, her spirits were always more or

less subdued.

"I don't know how to tell you," she cried; "but it is what I have come

to do. Mamma, I am going to leave Mrs. Preen's."

Mrs. Raynor sank back in her chair. "Oh, child! For what reason?"

Alice explained as she dried her eyes. Mrs. Preen, who had not been in

strong health lately, was ordered for a lengthened term to her native

place, Devonshire, where she would stay with her mother. She could not

take her two elder children with her, neither did she care to leave

them at home during her absence. So they were to be placed at school,

and Alice had received notice to leave at the end of a month.

"If I were sure of getting another situation at once, I would not mind

it so much," she said. "But it is the uncertainty that frightens me. I

cannot afford to be out of a situation."

"Misfortunes never come alone," sighed Mrs. Raynor.

"Let us hope for the best," said Edina. "A whole month is a good

while, Alice, and we can make inquiries for you at once. Perhaps Mr.

Jones at the library can hear of something. I will speak to him: he is

very kind and obliging."

"Do you ever come across that Bill Stane now, Alice?" cried Alfred, as

he picked up his cap to go off to school. "We saw in the paper that

Sir Philip was dead. That is, we saw something about his will."

"He comes now and then to Mrs. Preen's," replied Alice, blushing

vividly, for she could not hear William Stane's name without emotion.

"What did you see about Sir Philip's will?" she added, as carelessly

as she could speak.

"Oh, I don't know--how his money was left, I think Charley reckoned up

that Bill Stane would have ten thousand pounds to his share. Charley

says he is getting on at the Bar like a house on fire."

"Shall you not be late, Alfred?"

"I am off now. Good-bye; Alice. It will be jolly, you know, if you

come home."

"Not jolly for the dinners," put in poor Katie, who had learnt by sad

experience what a difference an extra one made.

"Oh, bother the dinners!" cried Alfred, with all a schoolboy's

improvidence. "I'll eat bread-and-cheese. Goodbye, Alice."

"Did you chance to hear what Sir Philip died of, Alice?" questioned

Mrs. Raynor, when the doors had done banging after Alfred.

"No, mamma."

"But you see William Stane sometimes, don't you?"

"Yes, I see Mr. Stane now and then. Not often. He has not said

anything about his father in my hearing. When I first went to Mrs.

Preen's he was very cold and distant; but lately he has been much more

friendly. But we do not often meet."

"Well, child, I can only say how unfortunate it is that you should

lose your situation. It may be so difficult to get another."

Another matter, that had been giving Mrs. Raynor and Edina concern for

some little time, was the education of the children. Alfred ought now

to go to a better school; Robert ought to be at one. The child was

eight years old. Sometimes it had crossed Edina's mind to wish he

could be got into Christ's Hospital: she thought it high time, now

that Alice was coming home, to think about it practically. If poor

little Bob could be admitted there, it would make room for Alice.

Talking it over with Mrs. Raynor and Charles that same evening, it was

decided that the first step towards it must be to obtain a list of the

governors. It might be that one of that body had known something of

Major Raynor in the days gone by, and would help his little son. How

was the list to be procured? They knew not, and went to bed pondering

the question.

"I will go to the library and ask Mr. Jones," said Edina the next

morning. "Perhaps he has one."

Mr. Jones had not a list, but thought he knew where he could borrow

one. And he did so, and left it at the door in the after-part of the

day. Edina sat down to study it.

"Here is a name almost at the beginning that we know," she said,

looking up with a smile.

"Is there!" exclaimed Charles, with animation, and taking an

imaginative view of Robert, yellow-stockinged and bareheaded. "Whose

name is it, Edina?"

"George Atkinson, Esquire, Eagles' Nest," read out Edina.

"How unfortunate!" exclaimed Mrs. Raynor. "The very man to whom we

cannot apply."

"The very man to whom we will apply," corrected Edina. "If you will

not do so, Mary, I will."

"Would you ask a favour of _him?_"

"Yes," said Edina emphatically. "Mr. Atkinson has not behaved well to

you: let us put it in his power to make some slight reparation."

"Edina, I--I hope I am not uncharitable or unforgiving, but I do not

feel that I _can_ ask him," breathed poor Mrs. Raynor.

"But I don't want you to ask him, Mary; I will do that," returned

Edina. "Perhaps I shall not _like_ doing it more than you would; but

the thought of poor little Robert will give me courage."

"Those governors have only a presentation once in three years, I

fancy," observed Charles. "George Atkinson may have given away his

next turn."

"We can only ascertain, Charley. And now--I wonder how we are to find

his address? I hope he is in England!"

"He is at Eagles' Nest, Edina."

"At Eagles' Nest!" repeated Edina.

"He took possession of it six months ago, and gave Fairfax, who was in

it, a house close by. And I know he is there still, for only a day or

two ago I saw Preen address a letter to him."

"Well, I am glad to hear it, for now I shall go to him instead of

writing," concluded Edina. "In these cases a personal application is

generally of more use than a written one. And, Mary, you will, at any

rate, wish me God speed."

"With my whole heart," replied Mrs. Raynor.

Once mere Edina Raynor stood before the gates of Eagles' Nest. As she

walked from the station, the great alteration in the place struck her.

Not in Eagles' Nest itself: that looked the same as ever: but in its

surroundings. The land was well-cared for and flourishing; the

cottages had been renovated into decent and healthy tenements; the row

of ugly skeletons had been completed; all were filled with contented

inhabitants; and the men and women that Edina saw about as she passed,

looked respectable and happy. None could look on the estate of Eagles'

Nest as it was now, and not see how good and wise was its ruler.

"Is Mr. Atkinson at home?" asked Edina, as a servant whom she did not

know answered her ring.

"He is at home, ma'am, but I do not think you can see him," was the

answer. "Mr. Atkinson is very unwell, and does not see visitors."

"I think he will perhaps see me," said Edina. And she took a leaf from

her pocket-book, and wrote down her name, adding that she wished to

see him very much.

The man showed her to a room. He came back immediately, and ushered

her into his master's presence. As she entered, George Atkinson rose

from a sofa on which he had been lying near the window, and went

forward to meet her.

"Edina!"

The old familiar name from the once loved lips--nay, perhaps loved

still: who knew?--in the old familiar voice, brought a tremor to her

heart and a tear to her eye. Mr. Atkinson handed her to a chair and

sat down in another. The window stood open to the delicious summer

air, the morning sunshine--for Edina had come early, and it was not

yet much past eleven--to the charming landscape that lay stretched

around in the distance. But the impulse that had prompted the warm

greeting seemed to die away again, and he addressed her more coldly

and calmly.

"Your coming here this morning seems to me to be a very singular

coincidence. You see that letter on the table, just ready for the

post: have the kindness to read the address."

Edina did so. It bore her own name: and was addressed to the "Care of

Charles Raynor, Messrs. Prestleigh and Preen's."

"I did not know your address. That it was somewhere in or near London,

I did know, but not the exact locality. The letter contains only a

request that you would kindly come down to me here."

"I!" exclaimed Edina.

"Yes. I wanted to see you. But I will ring for my housekeeper to show

you to a room where you can take your bonnet off.

"I have not come to remain," replied Edina. "Half-an-hour will be more

than enough to transact my business with you.

"But half-an-hour will not transact mine with you. Remain the day with

me," he pleaded, "and enliven a poor invalid for a short time." And

Edina made no further objection.

When she returned to the room, looking cool and fresh in her summer

muslin, old though it might be, with her brown hair braided from her

pleasant face, and the brown eyes sweet and earnest as of yore, George

Atkinson thought how little, how very little she was altered. It is

these placid faces that do not change. Neither had he changed very

much. He looked ill, and wore a beard now; a silky brown beard; but

his face and eyes and voice were the same. And somehow, now that she

was in his presence, heard that musical voice, and met the steadfast,

kindly look in the grey eyes, she almost forgot her resentment against

him for his conduct to the Raynors.

"You are a governor of Christ's Hospital, I believe," she began,

entering upon her business at once as she resumed her seat.

"I am."

"I came here to ask for your next presentation to it. Is it promised?"

"Not yet. It falls due next year."

"Then will you promise it to me?" continued Edina. "It is for the

youngest child of Mrs. Raynor. Will you give it to him?"

"No."

"No!" she repeated, tone and spirit falling with the disappointment.

"But why not?"

"I have a boy in my eye who is badly in want of it: more than Mrs.

Raynor's son will be."

"It is almost impossible that any boy can want it more than poor

Robert does."

"In that matter our opinions differ, Miss Raynor."

"And it would be making some trifling reparation to the family."

"Reparation for what?"

"For--what you did," answered Edina, hesitating for a moment and then

speaking up bravely. "For turning them out of Eagles' Nest."

"What would you have done in my place?" questioned Mr. Atkinson

good-humouredly. "Have left them in quiet possession of Eagles' Nest?"

"I--don't--know--whether I should, or not," hesitated Edina, for the

question puzzled her. "Of course Eagles' Nest was legally yours, and I

cannot say you were wrong to take it. But I think you might in some

way have softened the blow. _I_ could not have turned a family from

their home and not inquired how they were to live in the future."

"I am aware you could not: for, unless I am mistaken, it was you who

provided them with another. The Raynors wanted a lesson read to them,

and it was well they should have it. What did I find when I came home;

what did I hear? Was there a single good act done by any one of them

whilst they were at Eagles' Nest? How did they use the property they

came into: well?--or disgracefully? Yes, I repeat it, disgracefully.

Things were going to rack and ruin. The poor tenants were ground down

to the dust, the uttermost farthing of rent was exacted from them,

whilst they were uncared for; body and soul alike abandoned, to get

through life as they could, or to perish. And all for what?--to add to

the pride, the folly and the prodigality of the Raynors. Could you

approve of all this, Edina, or find excuse for it?"

She shook her head in the negative. He seemed to have called her Edina

again unconsciously.

"It was self with them all; nothing but self, from Major Raynor

downwards," he continued. "Show, extravagance, and vanity! Not a sound

moral, or prudent, or worthy aim was inculcated on the children, not a

penny given away in charity. Charles Raynor, the supposed heir, was an

apt pupil in all this. He even had writs out against him, though he

was under age."

Edina could not gainsay a word. It was all too true. "You had this

reported to you on your return, I presume, Mr. Atkinson?"

"I had. But I did not take the report uncorroborated. I came down

here, and saw for myself I was here for many weeks, watching."

Edina felt surprised. "How could that have been? The Raynors did not

see you?"

"I came down unknown. No one knew me in the place, and I stayed on in

my lodgings at Jetty the carpenter's and looked about me. The natives

took me for an inquisitive man who was fond of poking himself into

matters that did not concern him; a second Paul Pry. Mr. Charles

Raynor, I heard, christened me the Tiger," added the speaker, with a

smile.

Edina held her breath. What a singular revelation it was!

"I was in Australia when I heard that Mrs. Atkinson had left Eagles'

Nest to me," he resumed. "The news reached me in a letter from

herself, written only a day or two before her death; written chiefly

to tell me where her will would be found--in the hands of my

solicitors, Callard and Prestleigh. She also stated that a duplicate

copy of the will was kept in this, her own house. But that, I think,

must have been a mistake."

"Had one been here, it would have been found at the time of her

death," remarked Edina.

"Just so. When this letter of hers arrived at Sydney," continued Mr.

Atkinson, "I was travelling in the more remote and unfrequented parts

of the country, and I did not receive it for some six months

afterwards, on my return to Sydney. Rather an accumulation of letters

awaited me at Sydney, as you may suppose; and I found, by those from

my partner, Street, and his brother the lawyer, that the former will

was alone known to exist, and that Major Raynor had entered into

possession of Eagles' Nest. Now what did I at once resolve to do? Why,

to leave him in possession of it; never to speak of this later will,

but destroy it when I got back to England, and say nothing about it.

The major had a right to Eagles' Nest; I had not any right at all to

it: and the resolve did not cost me a moment's thought----"

"It is just as I should have expected you to act," put in Edina, her

cheeks flushing.

"Don't give me more credit than I deserve, Miss Raynor. I cannot tell

what I might have done had I been a poor man. Kept the estate,

perhaps. But I was a rich one, and I did not want it. I sailed for

England; and, on landing, went direct to London, to Street the

banker's, arriving there at night. He chanced to be at home alone; his

wife and children were at Brighton, and we had a few hours' quiet

chat. The first thing I heard of, was the miserable state of affairs

down here. Eagles' Nest was going to ruin, Street said, and the major

and his son were probably going to ruin with it. 'I will go down

incog. and see for myself,' I said to Street, 'and you need not tell

any one of my return at present.' I did go down, as I have told you:

went down the next day; and Street kept counsel as to my having

returned to Europe, and when he wrote to me at Grassmere, addressed

his letters to 'Mr. George.' There I stayed, looking about at my

leisure."

"How was it my uncle Francis did not recognize you?"

"He never saw me. At first I kept out of his way lest he should do so;

but I soon learnt that there was little chance of our meeting, as he

never went beyond his own gates. Had he met me, I don't think he would

have known me, my beard altered me so much; and I always pulled my

broad-brimmed hat well on. No, I felt quite easy, and remained on

until my purpose was answered."

He paused, as if recalling the scenes of that past time. Edina made no

remark. Presently he resumed.

"What I saw here shocked me. I could not detect one redeeming point in

the conduct of Major Raynor and his family, though I assure you I

should have been glad to do so. To leave the estate in their hands

would be little less than a sin, as I looked upon it, and a cruel

wrong upon the poor people who lived on it. So I deliberated on my

measures, and finally took them. Edwin Street announced my speedy

return, and conveyed a letter from me (apparently written in

Australia) to Callard and Prestleigh, informing them that they held

the will, and ordering them to produce it, that it might be proved and

acted upon. I was more than justified in what I did, as I thought

then," emphatically concluded Mr. Atkinson, "and as I think now."

"Well--yes, I cannot say you were not," acquiesced Edina. "But it

seemed to us so bitterly hard--never to inquire what became of the

Raynors; never to offer them any help."

"Stay," said he. "I did inquire. I heard that Miss Edina Raynor had

come forward from Trennach with her help, and had established Mrs.

Raynor in a school in which she was likely to do well. I heard that

Charles Raynor was about to be taken by the hand by an old friend of

his father's, one Colonel Cockburn, who meant to put him forward in

the world. In short, I left England again in the belief that the

Raynors were, in a smaller way, as prosperous as they had been at

Eagles' Nest."

"What misapprehensions exist!" exclaimed Edina. "That home was soon

lost again through a fire, and Colonel Cockburn only saw Charles to

tell him he could not help him. Their life for the last three years

has been one long course of humiliation, poverty and privation."

"Ay! and you have voluntarily shared it with them," he answered,

looking straight into her eyes. "Well, they needed the lesson. But I

would have been a friend to Charles Raynor had he allowed me, and not

shown himself so haughtily upstart; and to his cousin the doctor also.

When Charles was in a mess at Eagles' Nest, in danger of being

arrested for debt, I asked him to confide his trouble to me and let me

help him. Not a bit of it. He flung my words back in my face with as

much scorn as if I had been a dog. So I let him go his own way: though

I privately settled the debt for him. Had he known who I was, and that

I had power to eject him and his family from their heritage, I could

have understood his behaviour: but that was impossible, and I think I

never met with so bad an example of conduct shown to a stranger. Yes:

Charles Raynor needed a lesson read to him, and he has had it."

"Indeed he has. They all have. Charles Raynor is as true and good a

young man now as he was once thoughtless and self-sufficient. There

will be no fear of his lapsing in this life."

"I saw him a year ago in Preen's office," remarked Mr. Atkinson, "and

liked his tones. Preen gives me an excellent account of him and his

sister."

"They deserve it," said Edina. "But oh, you do not know what a

struggle it is for us all," she added, her voice almost broken by

emotion, "or what a boon it would be to get Robert into the Bluecoat

School. If you did, I think you would grant it me."

"No, I should not," persisted he, smiling. "The presentation falls due

next year; and by that time little Raynor will not want it. He may be

back here again at Eagles' Nest."

Edina gazed at him. "What do you mean?" she gasped.

"I have not had particularly strong health--as you know; but a couple

of months ago I was so ill as to fear the worst. It caused me to wish

to revise my will, and to consider certain of its provisions. I think

I shall leave Eagles' Nest to you."

"I won't have it," cried Edina, bursting into tears. "I will not. How

can you be so unjust, Mr. Atkinson? What right have I to Eagles'

Nest?"

"Right! You have shared your home with the Raynors when it was a

humble one--for the home is virtually yours, I am told: you can do the

like, you know, when you become rich."

"I will not have Eagles' Nest," she cried. "It is of no use to think

of such a thing, for I will not. I have told you the Raynors are

worthy of it themselves."

He almost laughed at her alarm; at the frightened earnestness with

which she spoke.

"Well, well, the bequest is not made," he said in a changed tone; and

an idea flashed over Edina that he had only been joking with her.

"Very thankful I am to say that health and strength appear to be

returning to me; the doctors think I have taken a turn, and shall soon

be quite well again; better than I have been for years. So, as my

death seems improbable, I have thought of making over Eagles' Nest to

Charles Raynor by deed of gift. That request for your presence here,"

glancing at the letter on the table, "was to ask you whether he was so

changed in heart and conduct that it might safely be done."

"Oh yes, indeed he is," responded Edina, drying her happy tears. "I

told you so before I knew of this, and I told you only the truth."

"I fully believe you. But I must have an interview with him. Let him

come down here on Saturday and remain with me until Monday morning. If

I find that he may be fully trusted for the future, in a short time he

and his mother will be back at Eagles' Nest. London will be hereafter

my chief home. They shall come and see me there when they please: and

I shall doubtless be welcome to come here occasionally."

"And you do not intend to go wandering again?"

"Never again. I have had enough of it. It may be, that I should have

enjoyed better health had I been contented to take more rest. I have

purchased the lease of a house in London, to which I shall remove on

quitting Eagles' Nest. I am also looking out for some snug little

property in this neighbourhood--which I have learned to like--and,

when I can find it, shall purchase that."

"How was it," asked Edina, "that you did not take possession of

Eagles' Nest when the Raynors left it? We were told you would do so."

George Atkinson smiled. "I had seen enough of Eagles' Nest while

staying at Jetty's. And perhaps I did not care to be recognized

immediately by the community for that same prying individual."

"Have the lost bonds been found?"

"No. I feel more than ever convinced that they are in the ebony desk.

Unless, indeed, your aunt left no money behind her; in which case

there would of course be no bonds anywhere. I begin to think that

whoever has the desk must have found and used the bonds."

"You have not heard of the desk?"

"No. The advertisements Street inserted in the newspapers brought

forth no more result than the previous inquiries."

"Perhaps if a larger reward had been offered?" said Edina. "We thought

the sum small."

"Ten guineas was the sum offered first; twenty afterwards. I suggested

increasing it to fifty, or a hundred: but the cautious lawyers said

no. Such a reward offered for a desk, would have betrayed that it

contained something of value--if the possessor of the desk had not

already found that out for himself. It was certainly singular that I

should not have thought to ask whether the secret compartment of that

desk had been searched when I first knew the bonds were being looked

for; but I did not. It altogether escaped my memory."

A servant came in to lay the cloth for dinner: since his illness Mr.

Atkinson had taken that meal at one o'clock. The tears rose to Edina's

eyes as she sat down to the abundant table, and a choking sensation to

her throat. George Atkinson noticed her emotion.

"What is it, Edina?"

"I was only wishing I could transport some of this to London," she

answered, glancing at him through her wet eyelashes with a smile.

They sat at the open window again after dinner, talking of the past

and the future, and Edina stayed to make tea for him--which came in

early. As she put her hand into his, on saying farewell, he left a

small case of money in it.

"Shall you be too proud to accept it for them?"

"I have not any pride," answered Edina with a grateful smile. "If I

ever had any, the experience of the past three years has taken it out

of me."

"I never intended to keep Eagles' Nest," he whispered. "I think you

might have divined that, Edina. You knew me well once."

"And suppose Charles Raynor had continued to be unworthy?"

"Then Eagles' Nest would have passed away from him for ever. Its

inheritor would have been Edina."

The evening was getting on at Mrs. Raynor's. Charles, who had been

detained late at the office was sitting down to his frugal supper,

which had been kept warm over the fire, and little Robert was in bed.

They had been saying how late Edina was. Mrs. Raynor had a very bad

headache.

"Let me place that cushion more comfortably for you mamma," said

Charles.

"It will do very well as it is, my dear," she answered. "Get your

supper: you must want it."

"Oh, not very much," said Charles, making a pretence of eating slowly,

to conceal his hunger. "Alfred, do be quiet!--don't you know mamma is

ill? Kate, sit down."

"There's Edina!" cried Alfred, clattering out to meet her in the

passage.

She came in, looking pleased and gay, with sundry parcels in her hand.

Kate and Alfred jumped round her.

"How have you sped, Edina?" asked Mrs. Raynor. "Has George Atkinson

given Robert the presentation?"

"No; he will not give it him."

"I feared so. He must be altogether a hard-hearted man. May Heaven

have mercy upon us!"

"It will, it will," said Edina. "I have always told you so."

She was undoing the papers. The young eyes regarding them were opened

to their utmost width. Had a fairy been out with Edina? Buns,

chocolate, a jar of marmalade, a beautiful pat of butter, and--what

could be in that other parcel?

"Open it, Charley," said Edina.

He had left his supper to look on with the others, and did as he was

told. Out tumbled a whole cargo of mutton chops. Ah, that was the best

sight of all, dear as cakes and sweets are to the young! Mrs. Raynor

could see nothing clearly for her glistening tears.

"I thought you could all eat a mutton chop for supper, Mary. I know

you had scarcely any dinner."

"Are we _all_ to have one?" demanded Alfred, believing Aladdin's lamp

must really have been at work.

"Yes, all. Charley and mamma can have two if they like. Don't go on

with your miserable supper, Charles."

"Robert," cried Kate, flying to the door, "Edina's come home, and she

has brought up so many things, and a mutton chop apiece."

Why, there he was, the audacious little Bob, peeping in in his white

nightgown!

"A _whole_ mutton chop!" cried he, amazed at the magnitude of the

question.

"Yes, a whole one, dear," said Edina turning to him. "And not only for

to-night. Every day you shall have a whole mutton chop, or something

as good."

"And puddings too!" stammered Kate, the idea of the fairy becoming a

certainty.

"And puddings too," said Edina. "Ah, children, I bring you such news!

Did I not always tell you that God would remember us in His own good

time? Mary, are you listening? Very soon you will all be back again at

Eagles' Nest."

Charles's heart beat wildly. He looked at Edina to see if she were

joking, his eyes fearfully earnest.

"I am telling you the truth, dear ones: Eagles' Nest is to be yours

again, and our struggles and privations are over. George Atkinson

never meant to keep it from you. You are to go down to him on

Saturday, Charley, and stay over Sunday."

"I'll never abuse him again," said Charley, smiling to hide a deeper

emotion. "But--my best coat is so shabby, you know, Edina. I am

ashamed of it at church."

"Perhaps you may get another between now and then," nodded Edina.

"What's _this?_" cried Kate, touching the last of the parcels.

"A bottle of wine for mamma. She will soon look so fit and rosy that

we shan't know her, for we shall have nothing to do but nurse her up."

"My goodness!" cried Kate. "Wine! Mamma, here's some wine for you!"

But there was no answer. Poor Mrs. Raynor lay back in her chair unable

to speak, the silent tears stealing down her worn cheeks.

Charles bent over and kissed her. Little Bob, in his nightgown,

crouched down by her side at the fire; whilst Edina, throwing off her

shawl and bonnet, began to prepare for supper.

CHAPTER VIII.

HARD LINES.

Lying in her darkened chamber, sick almost unto death, was Mrs. Frank

Raynor. A baby, a few days old, slept in a cot by the wall. No other

child had been born to her, until now, since that season of peril at

Eagles' Nest: and just as her life had all but paid the forfeit then,

so it had again now. She was in danger still; she, herself, thought

dying.

An attentive nurse moved noiselessly about the room. Edina stood near

the bed, fanning the poor pale face resting on it. The window was wide

open, behind the blind: for the invalid's constant cry throughout the

morning had been, "Give me air!"

A light, quick step on the stairs, and Frank entered. He took the fan

from Edina's tired hand, and she seized the opportunity to go down to

the kitchen, to help Eve with the jelly ordered by Dr. Tymms; a

skilful practitioner, who had been in constant attendance. Daisy

opened her eyes to look at her husband, and the nurse quitted the

room, leaving them together.

"You will soon be about again, my darling," said Frank, in his low,

earnest, hopeful tones, that were worth more than gold in a sick

chamber. "Tymms assures me you are better this morning."

"I don't want to get about," faintly responded Daisy.

"Not want to get about!" cried Frank, uncertain whether it would be

best to treat the remark as a passing fancy arising from weakness, or

to inquire farther into it--for everything said by his wife now bore

this depressing tenor.

"And you ought to know that I cannot wish it," she resumed.

"But I do not know it, Daisy, my love. I do not know why you should

speak so."

"I shall be glad to die."

Frank bent a little lower, putting down the fan. "Daisy, I honestly

believe that you will recover; that the turning-point has come and

gone. Tymms thinks so. Why, yesterday you could not have talked as you

are talking now."

"I know I am dying. And it is so much the better for me."

He put his hand under the pillow, raising it slightly to bring her

face nearer his, and spoke very tenderly and persuasively. He knew

that she was _not_ dying; that she was, in fact, improving.

"My darling, you are getting better; and will get better. But, were it

as you think, Daisy, all the more reason would exist for telling me

what you mean, and why you have so long been in this depressed state

of mind. Let me know the cause, Daisy."

For a few minutes she did not reply. Frank thought that she was

deliberating whether or not she should answer--and he was not

mistaken. She closed her eyes again, and he took up the fan.

"I have thought, while lying here, that I should like to tell you

before I die," spoke Daisy at last. "But you don't need to be told."

"I do. I do, indeed."

"It is because you no longer love me. Perhaps you never loved me at

all. You care for some one else; not for me."

In very astonishment, Frank dropped the fan on the counterpane. "And

who is--'some one else'?"

"Oh, you know."

"Daisy, this is a serious charge, and you must answer me. I do not

know."

She turned her face towards him, without speaking. Frank waited; he

was ransacking his brains.

"_Surely_ you cannot mean Edina!"

A petulant, reproachful movement betrayed her anger. Edina! Who was an

angel on earth, and so good to them all!--and older, besides. The

tears began to drop slowly from her closed lashes, for she thought he

must be trifling with her.

"You will be sorry for it when I am gone, Frank. _Edina!_"

"Who is it, Daisy?"

A flush stole into her white cheeks, and the name was whispered so

faintly that Frank scarcely caught it.

"Rosaline Bell!" he repeated, gazing at her in doubt and surprise, for

the thought crossed him that her senses might be wandering. "But,

Daisy, suppose we speak of this to-morrow instead of now," he added as

a measure of precaution. "You----"

"We will speak of it now, or never," she interrupted, as vehemently as

any one can speak whose strength is at the lowest ebb. And the sudden

anger Frank's words caused her--for she deemed he was acting

altogether a deceitful part and dared not speak--nerved her to tell

out her grievances more fully than she might otherwise have had

courage to do. Frank listened to the accusation with apparent

equanimity; to the long line of disloyal conduct he had been indulging

in since the early days at Trennach down to the present hour. His

simple attempt at refutation made no impression whatever: the belief

was too long and firmly rooted in her mind to be quickly dispelled.

"I could have borne any trial better than this," concluded she, with

laboured breathing: "all our misfortunes would have been as nothing to

me in comparison. Don't say any more, please. Perhaps she will feel

some remorse when she hears I am dead."

"We will let it drop now then, Daisy," assented Frank. "But I have had

no more thought of Rosaline than of the man in the moon."

"Will you go away now, please, and send the nurse in?"

"What on earth is to be done?" thought Frank, doing as he was ordered.

"With this wretched fancy hanging over her, she may never get well;

never. Mental worry in these critical cases sometimes means death."

"How is she now?" asked Edina, meeting him on the stairs.

"Just the same."

"She seems so unhappy in mind, Frank," whispered Edina. "Do you know

anything about it?"

"She is low and weak at present, you see," answered Frank, evasively.

And he passed on.

Frank Raynor lapsed into a review of the past. Of the admiration he

had undoubtedly given to Rosaline Bell at Trennach; of the solicitude

he had evinced for her (or, rather, for her mother) since their stay

in London. Of his constant visits to them: visits paid every three or

four days at first; later, daily or twice a day--for poor Mrs. Bell

was now near her end. Yes, he did see, looking at the years carefully

and dispassionately, that Daisy (her suspicions having been, as she

had now confessed, first aroused by the waiting-maid Tabitha) might

have fancied she saw sufficient grounds for jealousy. She could not

know that his friendship and solicitude for the Bells proceeded from a

widely different cause. That clue would never, as he believed, be

furnished to her so long as she should live.

"What a blessing it would be if some people were born dumb!" concluded

Frank, thinking of Tabitha Float.

The slight symptoms of improvement continued; and at sunset Frank

Raynor knew that his wife's condition would bear the carrying out of

an idea he had formed. It was yet daylight outside, though the drawn

curtains made the room dark, when Daisy was conscious of a sad,

beautiful face bending over her, and an entreating voice whose gentle

tones told of sadness.

"Don't shrink from me, Mrs. Frank Raynor," whispered Rosaline--for she

it was. "I have come to strive to put straight what I hear has been so

long crooked."

And the few words she spoke, spoke earnestly and solemnly, brought

peace to the unhappy wife's heart. Daisy was too ill to feel much

self-reproach then, but it was with some shame she learnt how mistaken

she had been.

"Oh, believe me!" concluded Rosaline, "I have never had a wrong

thought of Mr. Frank Raynor; nor he one of me. Had we been brother and

sister, our intercourse with each other could not have been more open

and simple."

"He--he liked you at Trennach, and you liked him," murmured poor

Daisy, almost convinced, but repentant and tearful. "People talked

about it."

"He liked me as an acquaintance, nothing more," sighed Rosaline,

passing over all mention of her own early feelings. "He was fond of

talking and laughing with me, and I would talk and laugh back again. I

was light-hearted then. But never, I solemnly declare it, did a word

of love pass between us. And, in the midst of it, there fell upon me

and my mother the terrible grief of my father's unhappy death. I have

never laughed since then."

"I have been thinking these past two years that he went to West Street

only to see you," sobbed Daisy.

Rosaline shook her head. "He has come entirely for my mother. Without

fee, for he will not take it, he has been unremittingly kind and

attentive, and has soothed her pains on the way to death. God bless

him for it! A few days, and I shall never see him again in this world.

But I shall not forget what he has done for us; and God will not

forget it either."

"_You_ are not going to die, are you?" cried poor puzzled Daisy.

"I am going out to New Zealand," replied Rosaline. "As soon as I have

laid my dear mother in her last home--and Death's shadow is even now

upon her--I bid farewell to England for ever. We have relations who

are settled near Wellington, and they are waiting to receive me. Were

Mr. Raynor a free man and had never possessed any other ties on earth,

there could be no question, now or ever, of love between him and me."

Daisy's delicate hand went out to clasp the not less delicate one that

rested near her on the bed, and her cheeks took quite a red tinge for

her own folly and mistakes in the past. A wonderful liking, fancy,

admiration, esteem--she hardly knew what to call it--was springing up

in her heart for this sad and beautiful young woman, whom she had so

miserably misjudged.

"Forgive me my foolish thoughts," she whispered, quite a painful

entreaty in her eyes. "I wish I had known you before: I would have

made a friend of you."

"Thank you, thank you!" warmly responded Rosaline. "That is all I came

to say; but it is Heaven's truth. I, the unconscious cause of the

trouble, am more sorry for it than you can be. Farewell, Mrs. Raynor:

for now I must go back to my mother. I shall ever pray for your

happiness and your husband's."

"Won't you kiss me?" asked Daisy with a sob. And Rosaline bent over

her and kissed her.

"Are you convinced now, Daisy?" questioned Frank, coming into the room

when he had seen Rosaline out of the house. "Are you happier?"

All the answer she made was to lie on his arm and cry silently,

abjectly murmuring something that he could not hear.

"I thought it best to ask Rosaline to come, as you would not believe

me. When I told her of the mischief that was supposed to have been

afloat, she was more eager to come than I to send her."

"Forgive me, Frank! Please don't be harsh with me! I am so ashamed of

myself; so sorry!"

"It is over now; don't think about it any more," kissing her very

fervently.

"I will never be so stupid again," she sobbed. "And--Frank--I think I

shall--perhaps--get well now."

Rosaline had said that Death's shadow lay upon her mother even while

she was talking with Mrs. Raynor. In just twenty-four hours after

that, Death himself came. When the day's sunlight was fading, to give

place to the tranquil stars and to the cooler air of night, Mrs. Bell

passed peacefully away to her heavenly home. She had been a great

sufferer: she and her sufferings were alike at rest now.

It was some two hours later. The attendant women had gone downstairs,

and Rosaline was sitting alone, her eyes dry but her heart overwhelmed

with its anguish, when Blase Pellet came to make a call of inquiry. He

had shown true anxiety for the poor sick woman, and had often brought

her little costly dainties; such as choice fruit. And once--it was a

positive fact--once when Rosaline was absent, Blase had sat down and

read to her from the New Testament.

"Will you see her, Blase?" asked Rosaline, as he stood quiet and

silent with the news. "She looks so peaceful."

Blase assented; and they went together into the death-chamber. Very

peaceful. Yes: none could look more so.

"Poor old lady!" spoke Blase. "I'm sure I feel very sorry: almost as

though it was my own mother. Was she sensible to the last?"

"Quite to the very last; and collected," replied Rosaline, suppressing

a sob in her throat. "Mr. Frank Raynor called in the afternoon; and I

know he saw that nothing more could be done for her, though he did not

say so. She was very still after he left, lying with her eyes closed.

When she opened them and saw me, she put up her hand for me to take

it. 'I have been thinking about your father and that past trouble,

dear,' she said. 'I am going to him: and what has never been cleared

here will be made clear there.' They were nearly the last words she

spoke."

"It's almost a pity but it had been cleared up for her here," said

Blase. "It might have set her uncertainty at rest, don't you see.

Sometimes I had three parts of a mind to tell her. She'd have thought

a little less of Mr. Frank Raynor if I had told."

Rosaline, standing on one side the bed, cast a steady look on the

young man, standing on the other. "Blase," she said, "I think the time

has come for me to ask you what you mean. As you well know, it is not

your first hint, by many, in regard to what you saw that fatal night

at Trennach. I have wanted to set you right; but I was obliged to

avoid the subject whilst my mother lived; for had the truth reached

her she might have died of it."

"Died of it! Set me right!" repeated Blase, gazing back at Rosaline.

"By the words which you have allowed to escape you from time to time,

I gather that you have believed my unfortunate father owed his death

to Mr. Frank Raynor."

"So he did," said Blase.

"So he did _not_, Blase. It was I who killed my father."

The assertion seemed to confound him. But for the emotion that

Rosaline was struggling with, her impressive tones, and the dead woman

lying there, across whom they spoke, Blase might have deemed she was

essaying to deceive him, and accorded her no belief.

"Are you doubting my words, Blase?" she asked. "Listen. In going home

from Granny Sandon's that night, I took the street way, and saw you

standing outside the shop, preparing to shut it up. You nodded to me

across the street, and I thought you meant to follow me as soon as you

were at liberty. When I was out of your sight, I quickened my pace,

and should have been at home before you could have caught me up,

but for meeting Clerk Trim's wife. She kept me talking for I cannot

tell how long, relating some sad tale about an accident that had

happened to her sister at Pendon. I did not like to leave her in the

middle of it; but I got away as soon as I could, though I dare say a

quarter-of-an-hour had been lost. As I reached the middle of the

Plain, I turned and saw some one following me at a distance, and I

made no doubt it was you. At that same moment, Mr. Frank Raynor met

me, and began telling me of a fight that had taken place between Molly

Janes and her husband, and of the woman's injuries, which he had then

been attending to. It did not occupy above a minute, but during that

time, whilst I was standing, you were advancing. I feared you would

catch me up; and I wished Mr. Frank a hurried good-night, and ran

across to hide behind the mounds whilst you passed by. He did not

understand the motive of my sudden movement, and followed me to ask

what was the matter. I told him: I had seen you coming, and I did not

want you to join me. When I thought you must have gone by, I stole out

to look; and, as I could not see you, thought what good speed you had

made, to be already out of sight. It never occurred to me to suppose

you had come to the mounds, instead of passing on."

"But I had come to them," interrupted Blase eagerly. "My eyes are

keener than most people's, and I knew you both; and I saw you dart

across, and Raynor after you. So I followed."

"Well--in very heedlessness, I ran up to the mouth of the shaft, and

pretended to be listening for Dan Sandon's ghost. Mr. Raynor seized

hold of me; for I was too near the edge, and the least false step

might have been fatal. Not a moment had we stood there; not a moment;

when a shout, followed by a blow on Mr. Raynor's shoulder, startled

us. It was my poor father. He was raising his stick for another blow,

when I, in my terror, pushed between him and Mr. Raynor to part them.

With all my strength--and a terrified woman possesses strength--I

flung them apart, not knowing the mouth of the pit was so near. _I

flung my father into it, Blase_."

"Good mercy!" ejaculated Blase.

"Mr. Frank Raynor leaped forward to save him, and nearly lost his own

life in consequence; it was an even touch whether he followed my

father, or whether he could balance himself backwards. I grasped his

coat, and I believe--he believes--that that alone saved him."

"I saw the scuffle," gasped Blase. "I could have taken my oath that it

was Raynor who pushed your father in."

"I am telling the truth in the presence of my dead mother and before

Heaven," spoke Rosaline, lifting her hands in solemnity. "Do you doubt

it, Blase Pellet?"

"No--no; I can't, I don't," confessed Blase. "Moonlight's deceptive.

And the wind was rushing along like mad between my eyes and the

shaft."

"I only meant to part them," wailed Rosaline. "And but that my poor

father was unsteady in his gait that night, he need not have fallen.

It is true I pushed him close to the brink, and there he tottered, in

his unsteadiness, for the space of a second, and fell backwards: his

lameness made him awkward at the best of times. A stronger man, sure

of his feet, need not and would not have fallen in. But oh, Blase,

that's no excuse for me! It does not lessen my guilt or my misery one

iota. It was I who killed him: I, I!"

"Has Mr. Raynor known this all along?" asked Blase, whose faculties

for the moment were somewhat confused.

Rosaline looked at him in surprise. "_Known it?_ Why, he was an actor

in it. Ah, Blase, you have been holding Mr. Raynor guilty in your

suspicious heart; he knows you have; and he has been keeping the

secret out of compassion for me, bearing your ill thoughts in patient

silence. All these four years he has been dreading that you would

bring the accusation against him publicly. It has been in your heart;

I know it has; to accuse him of my father's murder."

"No, not really," said Blase, knitting his brows. "I should never have

done it. I only wanted him to think I should."

"And, see you not what it would have involved? I honestly believe that

Frank Raynor would never have cleared himself at my expense, whatever

charge you might have brought, but he feared that I should speak and

clear him. As I should have done. And that confession would have gone

well-nigh to kill my poor mother. For my sake Mr. Raynor has borne all

this; borne with you; and done what lay in his power to ward off

exposure."

"He always favoured you," spoke Blase in crestfallen tones.

"Not for the sake of _that_ has he done it," quickly returned

Rosaline. "He takes his share of blame for that night's work; and

_will_ take it, although blame does not attach to him. Had he gone

straight home as I bade him, and not followed me to the mounds, it

would not have happened, he says; so he reproaches himself. And, so

far, that is true. It was a dreadful thing for both of us, Blase."

"I wish it had been him instead of you," retorted Blase.

"It might have been better, far better, had I spoken at the time--or

allowed Mr. Raynor to speak. To have told the whole truth--that I had

done it, though not intentionally; and that my poor father was lying

where he was--dead. But I did not; I was too frightened, too

bewildered, too full of horror: in short, I believe I was out of my

senses. And, as I did not confess at the time, I could not do so

afterwards. Mr. Raynor would have given the alarm at the moment, but

for me: later, when I in my remorse and distress would have confessed,

he said it must not be. And I see that he was right."

Blase could only nod acquiescence to this: but his nod was a sullen

one.

"You know that our old clergyman at Trennach, Mr. Pine, was in London

last Easter and came here to see my mother," resumed Rosaline. "I

privately asked him to let me have half-an-hour alone with him, and he

said I might call on him at his lodgings. I went; and I told him what

I have now told you, Blase; and at my request he got a lawyer there,

who drew up this statement of mine in due form, and I swore to its

truth and signed it in their presence. A copy of this, sealed and

attested, has been handed to Mr. Raynor; Mr. Pine keeps another copy.

I do not suppose they will ever have to be used; but there the deeds

are, in case of need. It was right that some guarantee of the truth

should be given to secure Mr. Raynor, as I was intending to go to the

other end of the world."

"It sounds altogether like a tale," cried Blase.

"A very hideous one."

"And as to your going to the end of the world, Rosaline, you know that

you need not do it. I am well off, now my father's dead, and----"

She held up her hand warningly. "Blase, _you_ know that this is a

forbidden subject. I shall never, never marry in this world: and, of

all men in it, the two whom I would least marry are you and Mr.

Raynor. He takes a share of that night's blame; you may take at least

an equal share: for, had you not persisted in following me from

Trennach, when you knew it would be distasteful to me, I should have

had no need to seek refuge in the mounds, and the calamity could not

have occurred. Never speak to me of marriage again, Blase."

"It's very hard lines," grumbled Blase.

"And are not my lines hard?--and have not Mr. Frank Raynor's been

hard?" she asked with emotion. "But, oh, Blase," she softly added,

"let us remember, to our consolation, that these 'hard lines' are only

sent to us in mercy. Without them, and the discipline they bring, we

might never seek to gain heaven."

CHAPTER IX.

TEARS.

Alice Raynor was sitting in a small parlour at Mrs. Preen's, dedicated

to herself and the children's studies, busily employed in correcting

exercises. The afternoon sun shone upon the room, and she had drawn

the table into the shade. Her head and hands were given to their work,

but her deeper thoughts were far away: for there existed not a minute

in the day that the anxiety caused by her uncertain prospects was not

more or less present to her mind. She knew nothing of the new hopes

relative to Eagles' Nest. In truth, those hopes, both to Mrs. Raynor

and Edina, seemed almost too wonderful to be real; and as yet they

refrained from giving them to Alice.

The corrections did not take very long, and then Alice laid down the

pen and sat thinking. She felt hot and weary, and wished it was nearer

tea-time. The old days at Eagles' Nest came into her thoughts. They

very often did so: and the contrast they presented to these later ones

always made her sad.

A slight tap at the door, and a gentleman entered: William Stane.

Alice blushed through her hot cheeks when she saw who it was, and

brushed the tears from her eyes. But not before he had seen them.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Raynor. Mrs. Preen is out, I hear."

"Yes, she is out with the two little girls."

"I am sorry. I have brought up some admission tickets for the

Botanical flower-show: they were only given me this morning. Do you

think Mrs. Preen will be back soon?"

"Not in time to use the tickets. They have gone to an afternoon-tea at

Richmond."

"What a pity! It is the rose show. I--suppose you could not go with

me?" added Mr. Stane in some hesitation.

"Oh dear, no," replied Alice, glancing at him in astonishment. "Thank

you very much."

"Mrs. Preen would not like it, you think?"

"I am sure she would not. You forget that I am only the governess."

Down sat Mr. Stane on the other side the table, and began fingering

absently one of the exercise-books, looking occasionally at Alice

while he did so.

"What were you crying about?" he suddenly asked.

Alice was taken

aback. "I--I don't think I was quite crying."

"You were very near it. What was the matter?"

"I am very sorry to have to leave," she truthfully answered. "Mrs.

Preen is about to stay for a time in Devonshire, as perhaps you know,

and the little girls are to go to school. So I am no longer wanted

here."

"I should consider that a subject for laughter instead of tears. You

will be spared work."

"Ah, you don't know," cried Alice, her tone one of pain. "If I do not

work here, I must elsewhere. And the next place I get may be harder

than this."

"And you were crying at the anticipation?"

"No. I was crying at the thought of perhaps not being able speedily to

find another situation. I--suppose," she timidly added, "you do not

happen to know of any situation vacant, Mr. Stane?"

"Why, yes, I believe I do. And I think you will be just the right

person to fill it."

Her blue eyes brightened, her whole face lighted up with eagerness.

"Oh, if you can only obtain it for me! I shall be so thankful, for

mamma's sake."

"But it is not as a governess."

"Not as a governess! What then?"

"As a housekeeper."

"Oh dear!" cried Alice in dismay. "I don't know very much about

housekeeping. People would not think me old enough."

"And as a wife."

She did not understand him. He was rising from his seat to approach

her, a smile on his face. Alice sat looking at him with parted lips.

"As _my_ wife, Alice," he said, bending low. "Oh, my dear, surely our

foolish estrangement may end! I have been wishing it for some time

past. I am tired of chambers, and want to set up a home for myself. I

want a wife in it. Alice, if you will be that wife, well: otherwise I

shall probably remain as I am for ever."

Ah, there could be no longer any doubt: he was in earnest. His tender

tones, his beseeching eyes, the warm clasp of his hands, told her all

the happy truth--his love was her own still. She burst into tears of

emotion, and William Stane kissed them away.

"You don't despise me because I have been a governess?" she sobbed.

"My darling, I only love you the better for it. And shall prize you

more."

He sat down by her side and quietly told her all. That for a

considerable period after their parting, he had steeled his heart

against her, and done his best to drive her from it. He thought he had

succeeded. He believed he should have succeeded but for meeting her

again at Mrs. Preen's. That showed him that she was just as dear to

him as ever. Still he strove against his love; but he continued his

visits to the Preens, who were old friends of his and each time, that

he chanced to see Alice, served to convince him more and more that he

could not part with her. He was about to tell his father that he had

made up his mind to marry Miss Raynor, when Sir Philip died, and then

he did not speak to Alice quite immediately. All this he explained to

her.

"And but for your coming into this house, Alice, and my opportunities

of seeing you in it, we should in all human probability have remained

estranged throughout life. So, you see that I would not have had you

not become a governess for the world."

She smiled through her tears. "It was not in that light I spoke."

"I am aware of it. But you are more fitted to make a good wife now,

after your experiences and your trials, than you would have been in

the old prosperous days at Eagles' Nest. I shall be especially glad

for one thing--that when you are mine I shall have a right to ease

your mother's straits and difficulties. She has deemed me very

hard-hearted, I dare say: but I have often and often thought of her,

and wished I had a plea for calling on and helping her."

His intention showed a good heart. But William Stane and Alice were

both ignorant of one great fact--that Mrs. Raynor no longer needed

help. She would shortly be back again at Eagles' Nest, all her

struggles with poverty over.

The hot sun still streamed into the little room, but Alice wondered

what had become of its oppression, what of her own weariness. The day

and all things with it, without and within, had changed to Elysium.

Frank Raynor attended the funeral of old Mrs. Bell. He chose to do so:

and Rosaline felt the respect warmly, and thanked him for it. He would

have been just as well pleased not to have Mr. Blase Pellet for his

companion mourner: but it had to be. On his return home from the

cemetery, Frank's way led him through West Street, and he called in

just to see Rosaline, who had been too disturbed in health, too

depressed in spirits, to attend herself. Not one minute had he been

there when Mr. Blase Pellet also came in. On the third day from that,

Rosaline was to sail for New Zealand.

"And I say that it is a very cruel thing of her to sail at all,"

struck in Blase, when Frank chanced to make some remark about the

voyage. "As my wife, she would----"

"Blase, you know the bargain," quietly interrupted Rosaline, turning

her sad eyes upon him. "Not a word of that kind must ever be spoken by

you to me again. I will not hear it, or bear it."

"I'm not going to speak of it; it's of no use speaking," grumbled

Blase. "But a fellow who feels his life is blighted can't be wholly

silent. And you might have been so happy at Trennach! You liked the

place once."

"Are you going back to Trennach?" asked Frank in some surprise.

"Yes," said Blase. "I only came to London to be near her; and I shan't

care to stay in it, once she is gone. Float, the druggist, has been

wanting me for some time. I am to be his partner; and the whole

concern will be mine after he has done with it."

"I wish you success, Blase;" said Frank heartily. "You can make a

better thing of the business than old Float makes, if you will."

"I mean to," answered Blase.

"I will take this opportunity of saying just a word to you, Blase,"

again spoke up Rosaline, smoothing down the crape of her gown with one

hand, in what looked like nervousness. "I have informed Mr. Raynor of

the conversation I had with you the night my mother died, and that you

are aware of the confession he and Mr. Pine alike hold."

Frank turned quickly to Blase. "You perceive now that you have been

lying under a mistake from the first, with regard to me."

"I do," said Blase. "I am never ashamed to confess myself in the

wrong, once I am convinced of it. But I should never have brought it

against you, Mr. Frank Raynor; never; and that, I fancy, is what you

have been fearing. In future, the less said about that past night the

better. Better for all of us to try and forget it."

Frank nodded an emphatic acquiescence, and took up his hat to depart.

Yes, indeed, better forget it. He should have to allude to it once

again, for he meant to tell the full truth to Edina; and then he would

put it from his mind.

He went home, wondering whether any urgent calls had been made upon

him during this morning's absence; and was standing behind the

counter, questioning Sam, when a sunburnt little gentleman walked in.

Frank gazed at him in amazement: for it was Mr. Max Brown.

"How are you, Raynor?" cried the traveller, grasping Frank's hand

cordially.

"My goodness!" exclaimed Frank. "Have you dropped from the moon?"

"I dropped last from the Southampton train. Got into port last night."

"All well?"

"_Very_ well. And my good old mother is not dead yet."

There was no mistaking the stress upon the first word: no mistaking

the perfectly contented air that distinguished Mr. Max Brown's whole

demeanour. Whatever cause might have detained him so long from his

home and country, it did not appear to be an unpleasant one.

"There was a young lady in the case," he acknowledged, entering on his

explanation with a smile on his bronzed face. "Lota Elmaine; old

Elmaine the planter's only daughter. The old man would not let us be

married: Lota was too young, he said; the marriage should not take

place until she was in Europe. Will you believe it, Raynor, old

Elmaine has kept me on like that all the blessed time I have been

away, perpetually saying he was coming over here, and never coming!

Never a month passed but he gave out he should sail the next."

"And so you stayed also!"

"I stayed also. I would not leave Lota to be snapped up by some

covetous rascal in my absence. Truth to tell, I could not part with

her on my own score."

"And where is Miss Lota Elmaine?"

"No longer in existence. She is Mrs. Max Brown.

"Then you have brought her over with you!"

"Poor Elmaine died a few months ago; and Lota had a touch of the

native fever, which left her thin and prostrate: so I persuaded her to

marry me off-hand that I might bring her here for a change. She is

better already. The voyage has done her no end of good."

"Where is she?"

"At a private hotel in Westminster. We have taken up our quarters

there for the time being."

"Until you can come here," assumed Frank. "I suppose you want me to

clear out as soon as possible. My wife is ill----"

"I want you to stay for good, if you will," interrupted Mr. Brown.

"The business is excellent, you know, better than when I left it. If

you will take to it I shall make it quite easy for you."

"What are you going to do yourself?" questioned Frank.

"Nothing at present," said Mr. Max Brown. "Lota's relatives on the

mother's side live in Wales, and she wants to go amongst them for a

time. Perhaps I shall set up in practice there. Lota's fortune is more

than enough for us, but I should be miserable with nothing to do. Will

you take to this concern, Raynor?"

"I think not," replied Frank, shaking his head. "My wife does not like

the neighbourhood."

"Neither would my wife like it. Well, there's no hurry; it is a good

offer, and you can consider it. And, look here, Raynor: if you would

like a day or two's holiday now, take it: you have been hard at work

long enough. I will come down and attend for you. I should like to see

my old patients again: though some of them were queer kind of people."

"Thank you," said Frank mechanically.

Thought after thought was passing through his mind. No, he would not

stay here. He had no further motive for seeking obscurity, thank

Heaven, and Daisy should be removed to a more congenial atmosphere.

But--what could he do for means? He must be only an assistant yet, he

supposed; but better luck might come in course of time.

And better luck, though Frank knew it not, was on his way to him even

then.

What with one thing and another, that day seemed destined to be

somewhat of an eventful day to Frank Raynor. In the evening a letter

was delivered to him from Mr. George Atkinson, requesting him to go

down to Eagles' Nest on the morrow, as he wished particularly to see

him.

"What can he want with me?--unless he is about to appoint me

Surgeon-in-Ordinary to his high and mighty self!" quoth Frank,

lightly. "But I should like to go. I should like to see the old place

again. _Can_ I go? Daisy is better. Max Brown has offered me a day or

two's rest. Yes, I can. And drop Max a note now to say his patients

will be waiting for him to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER X.

MADEMOISELLE'S LETTER.

"A parcel for you, sir."

"A parcel for me!" repeated Mr. Atkinson to his servant, some slight

surprise in his tone. For he was not in the habit of receiving

parcels, and wondered what was being sent to him.

The parcel was done up rather clumsily in brown paper, and appeared,

by the label on it, to have come by fast train from Hereford. Mr.

George Atkinson looked at the address with curiosity. It did not bear

his name, but was simply directed to "The Resident of Eagles' Nest.

"Undo it, Thomas," said he.

Thomas took off the string and unfolded the brown paper. This

disclosed a second envelope of white paper: and a sealed note,

similarly superscribed, lying on it. Mr. Atkinson took the note in his

hand: but Thomas was quick, and in a minute the long-lost ebony desk

stood revealed to view, its key attached to it.

"Oh," said Mr. Atkinson. "What does the letter say?"

The letter proved to be from Mademoiselle Delrue, the former governess

at Eagles' Nest. In a long and rather complicated explanation, written

partly in French, partly in English, the following facts came to

light.

When about to leave Eagles' Nest; things and servants being at that

time at sixes-and-sevens there; the kitchen-maid, one Jane--or, as

mademoiselle wrote it, Jeanne--a good-natured girl, had offered to

assist her to pack up. She had shown Jeanne her books piled ready in

the small study, and Jeanne had packed them together in several

parcels: for mademoiselle's stock of books was extensive. After

leaving Mrs. Raynor's, Mademoiselle Delrue had gone into a family

who spent a large portion of their time in travelling on the Continent

and elsewhere: much luggage could not be allowed to mademoiselle,

consequently her parcels of books had remained unpacked from that time

to this. She had now settled down with the family in Herefordshire,

had her parcels forwarded to her, and unpacked them. To her

consternation, her grief, her horror--mademoiselle dashed all three of

the words--in one of these parcels she discovered not books, but the

black desk, one that she well remembered as belonging to Major Raynor:

that stupid Jeanne must have taken it to be hers, and committed the

error of putting it up. Mademoiselle finished by asking whether she

could be forgiven: if one slight element of consolation could peep out

upon her, she observed, it was to find that the desk was empty. She

had lost not an instant in sending it back to Eagles' Nest, and she

begged the resident gentleman there (whose name, she had the pain of

confessing, had quite escaped her memory) to be so kind as to forward

it, together with this note of contrition and explanation, to Mrs.

Raynor--whose present residence she was not acquainted with. And she

had the honour to salute him with respectful cordiality.

"Don't go away, Thomas," said his master. "I want you to stay while I

search the private compartment of this desk: I fancy those missing

papers may be in it. Let me see? Yes, this is the way--and here's the

spring."

With one touch, the false bottom was lifted out. Beneath, quietly lay

the lost bonds; also a copy of Mrs. Atkinson's last will--the one made

in favour of George Atkinson, and a few words written by her to

himself.

"You see them, Thomas? See that I have found them here?"

"Indeed I do, sir."

"That's all, then. People are fond of saying that truth is stranger

than fiction," said Mr. Atkinson to himself with a smile, as the man

withdrew. He examined the bonds; ascertained, to his astonishment,

that the money they related to had been invested in his name, and in

one single profitable undertaking. And it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson

had given directions that the yearly interest, arising, should remain

and be added to the principal, until such time as he, George Atkinson,

should come forward to claim the whole.

"Little wonder we could not find the money," thought he. "And

now--what is to be done with it?" And taking only a few minutes for

consideration, he addressed the letter spoken of in the foregoing

chapter, to Frank Raynor. Which brought the latter down in person.

"I never heard of so romantic a thing!" cried Frank with his sweet

smile and gay manner, that so won upon everybody; and was now winning

upon George Atkinson, as he listened to the narrative on his arrival

at Eagles' Nest. "I am sure I congratulate you very heartily. The

hunts that poor Uncle Francis used to have over those very bonds! And

to think that they were lying all the time close under his hand!"

"I expect that very little of the money would have been left for me

had he found them," significantly remarked Mr. Atkinson.

Frank laughed. "To speak the truth, I don't think it would. Is it very

much?"

"A little over twenty-one thousand pounds. That is what I make it at a

rough calculation--of course including the interest to this date."

"What a heap of money!" exclaimed Frank. "You can set up a

coach-and-six," added he, joking lightly.

"Ay. By the way, Mr. Francis Raynor, how came _you_ to treat me so

cavalierly when I was playing 'Tiger' here?--the name you and Charles

were pleased to bestow----"

"Oh, Charley gave you that name," interrupted Frank, his blue eyes

dancing with merriment. "He took you for a sheriff's officer about to

capture him. I'm sure I never was so astonished in all my life as when

Charley told me the other day that the Tiger had turned out to be, not

a Tiger, but Mr. George Atkinson.

"I can understand his shunning me, under the misapprehension. But why,

I ask, did you do it? You were not in fear, I presume, of a sheriff's

officer?"

Frank's face grew grave at once. "No, I was not in fear of that," he

said, dropping his voice, "but I had fears on another score. I had

reason to fear that I was being watched--looked after--tracked; and I

thought you were doing it. I am thankful to say," he added, his

countenance brightening again, "that I was under a misapprehension

altogether: but I only learnt that very lately. It has been a great

trouble to me for years, keeping me down in the world--and yet I had

done nothing myself to deserve it. I--I cannot explain further, and

would be glad to drop the subject," he continued, raising his eyes

ingenuously to George Atkinson's. "And I heartily beg your pardon for

all the discourtesy I was guilty of. It is against my nature to show

any--even to a Tiger."

"As I should fancy. It gave me a wrong impression of you. Made me

think all you Raynors were alike--worthless. It's true, Frank. I was

ready to be a good friend to you then, had you allowed me. And now

tell me of your plans."

Frank, open-natured, full of candour, told freely all he knew about

himself. That he did not intend to remain at Mr. Max Brown's, for

Daisy disliked the neighbourhood, and he should look out for a more

desirable situation at the West End as assistant-surgeon.

"Why not set up in practice for yourself at the West End?" asked

George Atkinson.

"Because I have nothing to set up upon," answered Frank. "That has

been a bar all along. We must live, you see, whilst the practice is

coming in."

"You could do it on seven thousand pounds."

"Seven thousand pounds!" echoed Frank. "Why, yes on half of it; on a

quarter. But I have no money at all, you understand."

"Yes, you have, Frank. You have just that sum. At least you will have

it in the course of a few days!"

Frank's Frank's pleasant lips were parting with a smile. He thought it

was meant as a joke.

"Look here. This money that has come to light, of your aunt

Atkinson's--you cannot, I hope, imagine for a moment that I should

keep it. By law it is mine, for she willed it to me; but I shall

divide it into three portions, and give them to those who are her

rightful heirs: her brothers' families. One portion to Mrs. Raynor;

one to that angel of goodness, Edina----"

"And she is an angel," interrupted Frank hotly, carried away by the

praise. "How we should all have got on without Edina, I don't know.

But, Mr. Atkinson, you must not do this that you are talking of: at

least as far as I am concerned. It would be too chivalrously

generous."

"Why not to you?"

"I could not think of taking it. I have no claim upon you. Who am I,

that you should benefit me?"

"I benefit you as your father's son. Were he living, this money would

be his: it will now be yours. There, say no more, Frank; you cannot

talk me out of doing bare justice. You will own seven thousand pounds

next week, and you can lay your plans accordingly."

"I shall not know how to thank you," cried Frank, with a queer feeling

in his throat. "Eagles' Nest first, and twenty-one thousand pounds

next! You must have been taking a lesson from Edina. And what will Max

Brown say when he hears that I shall leave him for certain? He does

not believe it yet."

"Max Brown can go promenading."

CHAPTER XI.

SUNSHINE.

It was a warm September day. The blue sky was without a cloud; the

sunbeams glinted through the foliage, beginning to change with the

coming autumn, and fell on the smooth velvet lawn at Eagles' Nest. On

that same green lawn stood a group of people in gala attire, for this

had been a gala day with them. William Stane and Alice Raynor were

married that morning. They had now just driven from the gates, around

which the white satin shoes lay, and the rice in showers.

It had been Mr. George Atkinson's intention to resign Eagles' Nest at

the end of June, almost immediately after he first spoke of doing so.

But his intention, like a great many more intentions formed in this

uncertain world of ours, was frustrated. The Raynors could not come

down so soon to take possession of it. Charles had given notice at

once to leave Prestleigh and Preen's; but he was requested, as a

favour, not to do so until the second week in August, for the office

had a hard task to get through its work before the long vacation. And

as Charles had learnt to study other people's interests more than his

own, he cheerfully said he would remain. It was a proud moment for

him, standing amongst the fellow-clerks who had looked down upon him,

when one of those very clerks copied out the deed of gift by which

Eagles' Nest was transferred to him by George Atkinson, constituting

him from henceforth its rightful owner. Charles, who knew a little of

law by this time, proposed to himself to commence reading for the Bar:

he had acquired the habit of work and knew its value, and did not wish

to be an idle man. But George Atkinson, their true friend and

counsellor, spoke against it. The master of Eagles' Nest need be no

idle man, he said; rather, if he did his duty faithfully, too busy a

one. Better for Charles to learn how to till his land and manage his

property, than to plead in a law court; better to constitute himself

the active manager of his estate. Charles saw the advice was sound,

and meant to follow it.

Neither was Alice ready to leave London as soon as she had expected,

for Mrs. Preen's intended departure from home was delayed for some

weeks, and she also requested Alice to remain. Alice was nothing loth.

She saw William Stane frequently, and Mrs. Preen took a warm interest

in the arrangement of her wedding clothes.

But the chief impediment to their departure from Laurel Cottage, the

poor home which had sheltered them so long, lay with Mrs. Raynor.

Whether the reaction, at finding their miserable troubles at an end

and fortune smiling again, told too strongly upon her weakened frame;

or whether that headache, which you may remember she complained of the

night Edina reached home with the joyful news from Eagles' Nest, was

in truth the advance symptom of an illness already attacking her,

certain it was that from that night Mrs. Raynor drooped. The headache

did not leave her; other symptoms crept on. At the end of a few days:

days that Edina had spent at Frank's in attendance on his sick wife: a

doctor was called in. He pronounced it to be low fever. Edina left

Daisy, who was then out of danger, to return home, where she was now

most wanted. For some weeks Mrs. Raynor did not leave her bed.

Altogether there had been many hindrances.

It was getting towards the end of August before the day came when they

went down to take possession of Eagles' Nest. Mrs. Raynor was better

then; almost well; but much reduced, and still needing care.

"This place will bring back your health and spirits in no time,

mother," cried Charles, bending towards her, as they drove up to the

gates of Eagles' Nest. She was leaning back in the carriage, side by

side with Edina, and tears were trickling down her pale cheeks. He

took her hand. "You don't speak, mother."

"Charley, I was thanking God. And wondering what we can do to show our

thanks to Him in the future. I know that my life will be one long,

heartfelt hymn of gratitude."

Charley leaned from the carriage window. Talking to the lodge-keeper

was Jetty the carpenter. Standing with them and watching the carriage

was a man whom Charles remembered as one Beck; remembered, to his

shame, what his own treatment had been of the poor fellow in the

days gone by. Good Heavens! that he should have been so insolent,

purse-proud, haughty a young upstart! his cheeks reddened now with the

recollection. Ungenerous words and deeds generally come flashing back

upon us as reminders when we least want them.

Could that be Charles Raynor!--their future master? Jetty and Beck

scarcely believed that in the pale, self-contained, gentle-faced man,

who looked so much older than his years, they saw the arrogant youth

of other days: scarcely believed that the sweet smile, the passing

word of greeting, the steadfast look shining from the considerate

eyes, could be indeed meant for them. Ah yes, they might cast out

fear; it was Charles Raynor. And they saw that the good news whispered

to them all by Mr. Atkinson was indeed true: their new master would be

as good and faithful a friend to them as he himself had been during

these past three years.

"God ever helping me to be so!" aspirated Charles to his own heart. A

whole lifetime of experience, spent in prosperity, could not have

worked the change wrought in him by this comparatively short period of

stern adversity.

George Atkinson stood at the door to receive them. He had not left

Eagles' Nest. For a week or so they were to be his guests in it: or he

theirs. Some hearty joking and laughter was raised in this the first

moment of meeting, as to which it would be, led to by a remark of Mrs.

Raynor's: that she hoped he would not find the children--coming on

with Alice in another carriage--troublesome guests.

"Nay, the house is yours, you know, not mine: you cannot be my

guests," laughed George Atkinson. "How do you say, Miss Raynor?"

"I say we are your guests," answered Edina. "And very glad to be so."

"At least I did not think _you_ would side against me," said George

Atkinson, with pretended resentment. "For this day, let it be so,

then. To-morrow I subside into my proper place, and Mrs. Raynor begins

her reign.

"I have been wondering how we can ever be sufficiently grateful to

God," she whispered with emotion, taking his hand in hers. "I know not

how we can ever thank _you_."

"Nay, my dear lady, I have done only what was right and just; right

and just in His sight, and according to His laws," was George

Atkinson's solemn answer. "We must all strive for that, you know, if

we would ensure peace at the last. Here comes the other fly with the

young ones!--and that curly-headed urchin, gazing at us with his great

blue eyes, must be my disappointed little candidate for the Bluecoat

School."

The week passed soon; and the wedding morning dawned. And now that was

past, and the bridal carriage had driven off; and the white slippers

and the rice were thrown, and they had all collected on the lawn in

the afternoon sun. The only guests were Frank Raynor and his wife, who

had arrived the night before. Street the lawyer and a brother of

William Stane's had come for the morning; but had already left again

by an afternoon train.

Frank Raynor, aided by the seven thousand pounds made over to him, had

taken to the house and practice of a deceased medical man in Mayfair,

and was securely established there and doing already fairly well. Mr.

Max Brown, who, with his wife, had been spending a week with them, had

disposed of the Lambeth practice to another purchaser. Daisy was happy

again, and just as pretty and blooming as in the old days at Trennach.

Frank, without entering into actual particulars (he did that only to

Edina), had disclosed to her enough of that past night's fatal work to

account for his interest in, and care of, Mrs. Bell and poor Rosaline.

A dozen times at least in the day, Daisy, with much contrition and

many repentant tears, would whisper prayers to her husband to be

forgiven; saying at the same time she could never forgive herself.

Frank would kiss the tears away and tell her to let bygones be

bygones; they were beginning life afresh. Rosaline had sailed for her

new home and country--was probably by this time nearing its shores.

Most earnestly was it to be hoped she would regain happiness there.

Who so proud as Daisy, flitting about the lawn with her three-months'

old baby in her arms, resplendent in its white robes! The little thing

was named Francis George, and George Atkinson was its godfather. So

many interests had claimed their attention that day, that not a minute

had yet been found for questions and answers; and it was only now, at

the first quiet moment, that Mr. Atkinson was beginning to inquire how

Frank was prospering.

"First-rate," said sanguine Frank, his kindly face glowing. "I wish

with all my heart every beginner was getting on as well as I."

"And my mother has recovered her amiability," put in Daisy,

irreverently, handing the baby over to its nurse, who stood by. "I had

quite a long letter from her yesterday morning, Mr. Atkinson, in which

she graciously forgives me, and says I shall have my share of the

money that my uncle Tom left her last year. That will be at least some

thousands of pounds."

"It never rains but it pours, you know," smiled Frank. "Money drops

in, now that we don't particularly want it."

"And so," added Daisy, "we mean to set up our brougham. Frank needs

one very badly."

"Frank needs it for use and you for show," cried George Atkinson,

laughing.

"Yes that is just it," acknowledged Daisy. "I expect I shall not have

much of it, though, as his practice increases. When do you take

possession of your town house, Mr. Atkinson? You will not be very far

from us."

"I go up to it from Eagles' Nest to-morrow," was the reply. "Perhaps

not to remain long in it at present. I am not yet able to form my

plans."

"Not able to form your plans!" echoed Daisy, in her saucy, engaging

way; her bright eyes gazing questioningly into his. "Why, I should

have thought you might have laid your plans on the first of January

for all the year, having no one to consult but yourself."

"But if I am uncertain--capricious?" returned he, in half-jesting

tones.

"Ah, that's a different thing. I should not have thought you that at

all. But--pray tell me, Mr. Atkinson! What do the people down here

say, now they have found out that it was you, yourself, who lived

amongst them three years ago?"

"They say nothing to me. I dare say they conjecture that I had my

reasons for it. Or perhaps they think I was only amusing myself,"

continued George Atkinson, glancing at Edina.

Edina smiled at him in return. All's well that ends well: and that

incognito business had turned out very well in the end. To her only

had George Atkinson spoken out fully of the motives that swayed him,

the impressions he received.

Edina stood near them in all her finery. She had never been so grand

in her life: and perhaps had never looked so well. A lilac-silk dress,

and a lovely pink rose in her bosom, nestling amidst white lace. Edina

was rich now--as _she_ looked upon riches. Seven thousand pounds, and

all her own! She had held out strenuously against receiving it,

pointing out to George Atkinson that it would be wrong and unfair to

give it to her, as her aunt Ann had never meant to leave her any money

at all. But Edina's arguments and objections proved of no avail. Mr.

Atkinson quietly closed his ears, and transferred the money to her, in

spite of her protests. The first use Edina made of her cheque-book was

to send a hundred pounds to Mr. Pine, that he might distribute it

amongst the poor of Trennach.

Like George Atkinson, as he had just avowed, Edina had not formed her

plans. She could not decide where her chief residence should be. Mrs.

Raynor and Charles naturally pressed her to remain at Eagles' Nest:

but she hesitated. A wish to have a home of her own, some little place

of her own setting up, was making itself heard in her heart: and she

could visit Eagles' Nest from time to time. Should the little

homestead be near to them?--or at Trennach? It was this that she could

not yet decide. But she must do so very shortly, for she wished to

give them her decision on the morrow.

Turning away from the busy talkers, from the excited children; Kate in

white, and little Bob, not in a long skirted blue coat and yellow

stockings, but in black velvet and knickerbockers; Edina wandered

away, her mind full, and sat down on a bench shaded by clustering

trees, out of sight and sound of all. The small opening in the trees

before her disclosed a glimpse of the far-off scenery--the Kentish

hills, with their varying foliage, lying under the calm, pale blue

sky.

"I like Trennach," she argued with herself. "I love it, for it was my

girlhood's home; and I love those who are in it. I could almost say

with Ruth, 'The people there shall be my people, and their God my

God.' On the other hand are the claims of Eagles' Nest, and of Frank

and Daisy. I love them all. Mary Raynor says she cannot get on unless

I am near her; and perhaps the young ones need me too. If I only

knew!"

"Knew what?" cried a voice at her elbow--for she had spoken the last

sentence aloud.

The interruption came from George Atkinson. He had been about looking

for her, and at last had found her. Edina blushed at having allowed

her words to be heard: as he sat down beside her.

"I was only wishing I knew whether it would be better for me to settle

near London or at Trennach," she answered with a smile. "It was very

silly of me to speak aloud."

"Charles Raynor has just informed us that you intend to remain for

good at Eagles' Nest."

"Oh no, I do not. I have never said I would; and to-morrow I shall tell

them why. I should like to have a little place of my own; ever so

little, but my very own. Either at Trennach, or in this neighbourhood:

or perhaps--in London."

"Both in this neighbourhood and in London," he interrupted. "And,

sometimes sojourning elsewhere: at the seaside or at Trennach. That is

what I should recommend."

"You have made me a millionaire in my own estimation, but not quite so

rich as that," laughed Edina.

"The houses are ready for you, and waiting."

Some peculiarity in his tone made her heart stand still. He turned and

took her hands in his, speaking softly.

"Edina! Don't you know--have you not guessed--that I want you in my

houses, my home? Surely you will come to me!--you will not say me nay!

I know that it is late, very late, for me to say this to you: but I

will try and make you happy as my wife."

Her pulses went rushing on tumultuously. As the words fell on her ear

and heart, the truth was suddenly opened to her--she loved him still.

"I am no longer young, George," she whispered, the tears slowly

coursing down her cheeks.

"Too young for me, Edina. The world may say so."

"And I--I don't know that others can spare me."

"Yes, they can. Had I been wise I should have secured you in the days

so long gone by, Edina. I have never ceased to care for you. Oh, my

best friend, my first and only love, say you will come and make the

sunshine of my home! Say you will."

"I will," she whispered.

And Mr. George Atkinson drew her to him and sheltered her face on his

breast. After all the sadness and vicissitudes of her life, what a

haven of rest it felt to Edina!

"There shall be no delay; we cannot afford it. As soon as possible,

Edina, I shall take you away. And that seven thousand pounds that you

tried hard to fight me over--you can now transfer it to the others, if

you like."

"As you will," she breathed. "All as you will from henceforth, George.

I have found my home: and my master."

"God bless you, my dear one! May He be ever with us, as now, and keep

us both to the end, in this world and in the next."

The birds sang in the branches; the distant hills were fair and

smiling; the pale blue sky had never a cloud: all nature spoke of

peace. And within their own hearts reigned that holy peace and rest

which comes alone from Heaven; the peace that passeth all

understanding.

THE END.

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