The gables of the transept are decorated with open parapets; and at the

east end, below a rose window remarkable for its tracery, an arched

niche protects the water of the fountain of Soloman the idiot: the

actual spring itself being beneath the high altar.

These waters, like those of the lovely fountain of St. Jean du Doigt,

are supposed to be miraculous, and are the object of many a pilgrimage,

though fortunately for the village, the day of its _Pardon_ is not the

chief occasion for the assembling together of the blind, halt, maimed

and withered folk of Brittany. But the pilgrims bathe in the waters,

which are said to possess the gift of healing, and we know that faith

alone will often perform miracles. As we looked upon the clear,

transparent water, we felt at least the innocence of the charm, and

therein a great virtue.

The interior of the church has been much praised by competent judges,

and very justly so, for in its way it is very perfect. Yet, to us, its

beauty was marked by a certain heaviness; and the "dim religious light"

that adds so much to the effect of many an interior, here brought with

it no sense of mystery. Perhaps it was not sufficiently subdued; or the

heaviness of the stone may have had something to do with it. Also, it

looked singularly small, in comparison with the exterior. It has been

much altered since it was first built, and has lost nearly all its

arches, which have been replaced by Gothic canopies in the form of

ornamental projections.

Much of the interior is beautifully and elaborately sculptured, and will

bear long and close inspection. The nave and aisles are under one roof,

like the church of St. Jean du Doigt: an arrangement not always

effective. The choir is short, as also are the aisles, the south

transept being the longest of all. A very effective rood screen

separates the choir from the nave. It is constructed of Kersanton stone,

and consists of three round arches, above which are canopies supporting

a gallery of open work decorated with quatrefoils. The effect is

extremely rich and imposing; and the foliage of the screen is a perfect

study of complications.

At the end of the south transept is the Fool's Chapel. The frescoes are

a history of his life, which is yet further carried out in the windows

and on the bas reliefs of the pulpit. The high altar under the rose

window is very finely moulded, with its canopied niches and beautiful

tracery. There are many statues of saints in the church, dressed in

Breton costumes, that would no doubt astonish them if they came back to

life and saw themselves in effigy. Many parts of the church are

decorated with wonderful carvings of vegetables, fruit and flowers.

But the general impression is heavy and sombre, the true Kersanton

effect and colour. Time and the elements have softened, subdued and

beautified the exterior; but the tone of the interior, unexposed to the

elements, remains what it originally was: wanting in refinement and

romance; it is the beauty of elaborate execution that imposes upon one.

All the windows are remarkable for their lovely Flamboyant tracery, that

of the rose window being especially fine and delicate.

The exterior is far finer, far more wonderful. One never grew tired of

gazing; of examining it from every point of view. It was a dream picture

and a marvel. Nothing we saw in Brittany compared with it, excepting the

Cathedral of Quimper. Before it stretched the dreary plain; behind it

were the humble houses composing the village, very much out of sight and

not at all aggressive.

On the south side was the Gothic college built by Anne of Brittany; and

here she and Francis the First lodged, when they came on a pilgrimage to

le Folgoët. It is a Gothic building of the fifteenth century, with an

octagonal turret of rare design; but its beauty is of the past. We found

it in the hands of the restorers, who were doing their best to ruin it.

Originally it harmonised wonderfully with the church, but soon the

harmony will have disappeared for ever.

Our carriage had gone on to the neighbouring town of Lesneven, to rest

the horses and await our arrival, leaving us free to examine and loiter

as we pleased. No one troubled us. The inhabitants were all away; or

sleeping; or eating and drinking; the scene was as quiet and desolate as

if the church had been in the midst of a desert.

But the time came when we must leave it to its solitude and go back into

the world--the small but interesting world of Brittany; the world of

slow-moving people and sleepy ways, and ancient towns full of wonderful

outlines and mediæval reminiscences.

We took a last look round. We seemed alone in the world, no sight or

sound of humanity anywhere; the very workmen despoiling the Gothic

college had disappeared, leaving the mute witnesses of their vandalism

in the form of scaffolding and very modern bricks and mortar. Beyond was

a village street and small houses well closed and apparently deserted.

Nearer to us rose the magnificent church, with its towers and spire, all

its rich carving fringed against the background of the sky. The longer

we looked, the more wonderful seemed its solemn and exquisite tone. The

trees beneath which we stood waved and bent and rustled in the strong

wind that blew; and beyond all stretched the dreary plain; dreary and

desolate, but adding much to the charm of the picture. It was a scene

never to be forgotten; but it was, after all, a scene appealing only to

certain temperaments: to those who delight in the highest forms of

architecture; in walls time-honoured and lichen-stained; who find beauty

and charm ever in the blue sky and the waving trees; a charm that is

chiefly spiritual.

Leaving the church behind us, and the dreary plain to our left, we

passed into a country road with high hedges. This soon led us to a

pathway across the fields. About a mile in the distance the steeples of

Lesneven rose up and served us as beacons. The day was still young and

the sun was high in the heavens. Small white clouds chased each other

rapidly, driven by the strong wind that blew. We soon reached the quiet

town and found it quiet with a vengeance. Not knowing the way to the

inn where our coachman had put up, it was some time before we could

discover an inhabitant to direct us. At length we found a human being

who had evidently come abroad under some mistaken impression, or in a

fit of absence of mind. At the same time a child issued from a doorway.

We felt quite in a small crowd. It was a humble child, but with a very

charming and innocent expression; one of those faces that take

possession of you at once and for ever. For it does not require days or

weeks or months to know some people; moments will place you in intimate

communion with them. You meet and suddenly feel that you must have known

each other in some previous existence, so mutual is the recognition. But

it is not so, for we have had no previous existence. It is nothing but

the freemasonry of the spirit; soul going out to soul. For this reason

the "love at first sight" that the poets have raved about in all the

ages, and in all the ages mankind has laughed at, is probably as real as

anything we know of; as real as our existence, the air we breathe, the

heaven above us.

But we were at Lesneven, in the midst of the little crowd of two--we

must not keep it waiting. And although the day is still young, yet the

golden moments will fly, and the sun sinks rapidly westward.

So we inquired our way and were politely directed, and the little child

declared it would be her pleasure to accompany us: "_il étoit si facile

de s'égarer_," she declared, in very grown-up tones, and in her peculiar

patois. _Il étoit_. We had not heard the old-fashioned expression since

our childhood, in the villages of our native land.

We accepted the escort, and the little maiden chatted as freely as if we

had been very old acquaintances. "She supposed that, like all strangers,

we had been to see le Folgoët? It was a fine church, but its miraculous

fountain was the best of all. Once, when she hurt her foot, grandpère

carried her across the fields to the fountain. She bathed her foot in

the water and said a prayer and offered a candle, and--vite, vite!--the

foot was well. In three days she could run about. But that was two years

ago, when she was a very little girl; now she was quite big."

"How old was she now?"

"She was twelve, and very soon would do her first communion, dressed all

in white, with a beautiful veil over her head. Should we not like to see

her?"

"We should, very much."

"Could we not come again next year, when it would take place? She should

so much like us to see her. Là! voilà l'hôtel!" she cried, passing

rapidly from one subject to another, after the manner of childhood. "Now

she must run back home. And we were to be sure and come again next

year."

And before we could turn, the child had darted away, evidently to

prevent the possibility of reward: a refined instinct for which we

should scarcely have given her credit. She may have been a Bretonne, but

not a true Bretonne; her gracefulness and intelligence almost forbade

it. Yet there are exceptions to every rule, and Nature herself delights

in occasional surprises.

[Illustration: LE FOLGOËT.]

We found Lesneven very dull and sleepy, but picturesque. There was a

singular old market-house of timber work, the quaintest we had ever

seen; and some of the houses formed ancient and interesting groups. Our

coachman had made an excellent déjeuner, if we were to judge by the

self-satisfied expression of his face, which resembled the sun at

mid-day seen through a red fog. He was now sitting in the courtyard

under a very lovely creeper, drinking his coffee out of a tall glass,

and of course smoking the pipe of peace. The creeper distinctly lent

enchantment to the view: the coachman did not.

We wandered about whilst he made his preparations for starting. The

market-place was broken and diversified in its outlines; one or two of

the streets turning out of it looked quite gabled and mediæval. The

covered market-house, with its curious roof and ancient timbers, gave it

a very distinctive and very individual appearance; so that it now rises

up in the memory as one of the many Breton pictures which make one's

experience of the little country a very exceptional pleasure.

Out of the Collège poured a small stream of boys, startling the silence

of the sleepy little town. We were mutually surprised at seeing each

other. They looked and gazed, and walked around and about us--at a

certain distance--and seemed as interested and perplexed as if we had

been visitants from other regions clothed in unknown forms. But they

manifested none of the delicacy of our little guide, and were not half

so interesting. Yet probably the roughest and rudest boy amongst them

might be the maiden's brother; for we have just said that Nature

delights in surprises, and not infrequently in contradictions. The

building they poured out of, now the Collège, was an ancient convent of

the Récollets, dating from 1645.

A commotion in the courtyard of the "Grande Maison," which was just

opposite the timber market-house, and the appearance of the driver on

his box, in all the dignity of office, was our signal for departure. We

looked back after leaving the town, and there in the distance, uprising

towards the sky, was the lovely spire of le Folgoët, a monument to

departed greatness, superstition, and religious fervour; a dream of

beauty which will last, we may hope, for many ages to come.

We soon re-entered the road we had travelled earlier in the day; and in

due time, after one or two narrow escapes of being overturned, so high

was the wind, so blinding the dust, we re-entered Landerneau, a haven of

refuge from the boisterous gale.

Our host had prepared us a sumptuous repast, of which the crowning glory

was a pyramid of strawberries flanked on one side by a ewer of the

freshest cream, and on the other by a quaint old sugar basin of chased

silver, of the First Empire period. Could mortals have desired more,

even on Olympus--even in the Amaranthine fields of Elysium?

It was not yet the dinner-hour and we had it all to ourselves, with the

waiter's undivided attention, who hoped we had not been disappointed in

our little excursion. "He had been five years in Landerneau, but had

never yet seen le Folgoët. Dame! he had no time for pilgrimages, and

doubted whether, after all, they did much good. For his part, he didn't

believe in miracles. Du reste, he had nothing the matter with him; was

neither blind, lame, nor stupid--grâce au ciel, for he had his living to

get. As for the church, to him one church was very much like another:

and he would rather arrange a pyramid of strawberries than contemplate

the spires of his native Quimper."

So true is it that water will not rise above its own level--and perhaps

so merciful.

In due course we returned once more to our now old and familiar haunt,

Morlaix. We came back to it each time with our affection and admiration

heightened. Its old streets seem to grow more and more picturesque; and

more and more we appeared to absorb into our "inner consciousness" this

mediæval atmosphere. We seemed to be living in a perpetual romance of

the past; and the men and women who surrounded us were so many puppets

animated by invisible threads. It was the perfection of existence, in

its particular way and for a short time.

The shades of evening had fallen when we once more found ourselves

descending Jacob's Ladder. The Antiquarian's door was closed, but a

light gleamed through the crevices of the shutters, as antiquated as

some of his cherished possessions. We would not disturb him, though we

felt sorely inclined to lift the latch and look in upon the picturesque

interior. We imagined him perhaps telling his beads, his grey head bowed

before the crucifix which, artistically and religiously, was the object

of his veneration; mentally we saw the son bending over a plain piece of

wood, which gradually assumed a form and design that would make it a

thing of beauty for ever. By lifting the latch, all this would be

revealed, delight our eyes and refresh our spirit. But what more might

we see? The cherub probably was in bed, but the rift within the lute?

Ah, that was uncertain; we could not tell. So we thought we would leave

the picture to our imagination, where at least it was perfect.

So we went on without lifting the latch; and H.C. fell into raptures

over the rising moon and the quaint gables that stood out so gloriously

and mysteriously in the pale light. A warmer glow illumined many a

lattice. We were surrounded by deep lights and shadows, and felt

ourselves steeped in a world of the past, holding familiar intercourse

with ghosts that haunted every nook and crevice, every doorway, every

niche and archway of this old-world town.

At the hotel, we found Madame Hellard taking the air at her doorway, her

hands calmly folded in her favourite attitude of rest and

contentment--or was it expectation?

"Was I not a prophet?" was her first greeting. "Did I not say this

morning 'No umbrellas?' Have we not had a glorious day!"

"But the dust?" we objected.

"Ah!" cried Madame, "on oublie toujours le chat dans le coin, as they

say in the Morbihan. Yet there must always be a drawback; you cannot

have perfection; and I maintain that dust is better than rain. But what

did you think of le Folgoët, messieurs?"

We declared that we could not give expression to our thoughts and

emotions.

"A la bonne heure! Did I not tell you that we had nothing like it in our

neighbourhood--or in any other, for all I know? Did I in the least

exaggerate?"

We assured Madame that she had undercoloured her picture. The reality

surpassed her ideal description.

"Ah!" cried Madame sentimentally, "our beau-idéals--when do we ever see

them? But personally I cannot complain. I have a husband in ten

thousand, and that, after all, should be a woman's beau-idéal, for it is

her vocation. Oh!" with a little scream, pretending not to have heard

her husband come up quietly behind her; "you did not hear me paying you

compliments behind your back, Eugène? I assure you I meant the very

opposite of what I said."

"If you are perverse, I shall not take you to the Regatta next Sunday,"

threatened Monsieur, in deep tones that very thinly veiled the affection

lurking behind them.

"The Regatta!" cried Madame. "Where should I find the time to go

jaunting off to the Regatta? We have a wedding order to execute for that

morning--my hands will be more than full. Figurez vous," turning to us,

"a silly old widow is marrying quite a young man. She is rich, of

course; and he has nothing, equally of course. And what does she expect

will be the end of it? I cannot imagine what these people do with their

common sense and their experience of life. But I always say we gain

experience for the benefit of our friends: it enables us to give

excellent advice to others, but we never think of applying it to

ourselves."

"But the Regatta," we interrupted, more interested in that than in the

indiscretions of the widow. "We knew nothing about it, and thought of

leaving you on Saturday. Is it worth staying for?"

"Distinctly," replied Madame Hellard. "All Morlaix turns out for the

occasion: all the world and his wife will be there. It is quite a

pretty scene, and the boats with their white sails look charming. You

must drive down by the river side to the coast, and if the afternoon is

sunny and warm, I promise you that you will not regret prolonging your

stay with us."

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF LE FOLGOËT, SHOWING SCREEN.]

This presented a favourable opportunity for a compliment, but at that

moment Catherine's voice was heard in the ascendant; a passage-at-arms

seemed to be in full play above; commotion was the order of the moment;

and Madame rapidly disappeared to the rescue. The compliment was lost

for ever, but a dead calm was the immediate consequence of her presence.

Catherine's authority had been defied, and the daring damsel had to be

threatened with dismissal if it occurred again.

"Ma foi!" cried Catherine, as we met her on the staircase, "a pretty

state of things we should have with two mistresses in the

salle-à-manger! I should feel as much out of my element as a hen that

has hatched duck's eggs, and sees her brood taking to the water."

"And apparently there would be as much clucking and commotion," we slily

observed.

Catherine laughed. "Quite as much. I always say, whatever you have to

do, do it thoroughly; and if you have to put people down, let there be

no mistake about it. By that means it won't occur again."

And Catherine went off with a very determined step and expression, her

cap streamers flying on the breeze, to order us a light repast suited to

the lateness of the hour. She was certainly Madame's right hand, and she

ministered to our entertainment no less than to our necessities.

Sunday rose fair and promising; a whole week of sunshine and fine

weather was a phenomenon in Brittany. Quite early in the morning the

town was awake and astir, and it was evident that the good people of

Morlaix were going in for the dissipation of a fête day.

The morning drew on, and everyone seemed to have turned out in their

best apparel, though, to our sorrow, very few costumes made their

appearance. The streets were crowded with sober Bretons, somewhat less

sober than usual. Every vehicle in the town had been pressed into the

service. Every omnibus was loaded inside and out; carts became objects

of envy, and carriages were luxuries for which the drivers exacted their

own terms. The river-side, to right and left, was lined with people, all

hurrying towards the distant shore; for though many had secured seats in

one or other of the delectable vehicles, they were few in comparison

with the numbers that, from motives of economy or exercise, preferred to

walk. It was a gay and lively scene, and, sober Bretons though they

were, the air echoed with song and laughter. Rioting there was none.

The distance was about five miles; but something more than the last mile

had to be taken on foot by everyone. We had secured a victoria which was

not much larger than a bath chair, but in a crowd this had its

advantage. True, we felt every moment as if the whole thing would fall

to pieces, but in case of shipwreck there were plenty to come to the

rescue.

Nothing happened, and we walked our last mile with sound wind and limbs.

Much of the way lay on a hill-side. Cottages were built on the slopes,

and we walked upon zigzag paths, through front gardens and back gardens,

now level with the ground floor window, now looking into an attic; and

now--if we wished--able to peer down the chimney or join the cats oh the

roof.

At last we came to the sea, which stretched away in all its beauty,

shining and shimmering in the sunshine. In the bay formed by this and

the opposite coast, the boats taking part in the races were flitting

about like white-winged messengers, full of life and grace and buoyancy.

Some of the races were over, some were in progress.

Our side of the shore was beautifully backed by green slopes rising to

wooded heights. In the select inclosure, for the privilege of entering

which a franc was charged, the élite of Morlaix walked to and fro, or

sat upon long rows of chairs placed just above the beach. We did not

think very much of them and were disappointed. All round and about us,

rich and poor alike were clothed in modern-day costumes, as ugly and

ungainly and ill-worn as any that we see around us in our own fair,

but--in this respect--by no means faultless isle.

The few costumes that formed the exception were not graceful; those at

least worn by the men. Umbrellas were in full array, and as there was no

rain they put them up for the sunshine. A large proportion of the crowd

took no interest whatever in the races, which attracted attention and

applause only from those either sitting or standing on the beach. The

crowded green behind gave its attention to anything rather than the sea

and the boats. More general interest was manifested in the sculling

matches; especially in the race of the fish-women--tall, strong females,

the very picture of health and vigour, becomingly dressed in caps and

short blue petticoats, who started in a pair of eight-oared boats, and

rowed valiantly in a very well-matched contest until it was lost and

won. As the sixteen women, victors and vanquished, stepped ashore, the

phlegmatic crowd was stirred in its emotions, and loud applause greeted

them. They filed away, laughing and shaking their heads, or looking down

modestly and smoothing their aprons, each according to her temperament,

and were soon lost in the crowd.

On the slopes in sheltered spots, vendors of different wares, chiefly of

a refreshing description, had installed themselves. The most popular and

the most picturesque were the pancake women, who, on their knees, beat

up the batter, held the frying pans over a charcoal fire, and tossed the

pancakes with a skill worthy of Madame Hellard's chef. Their services

were in full force, and it was certainly not a graceful exhibition to

see the Breton boys and girls, of any age from ten to twenty, devouring

these no doubt delicious delicacies with no other assistance than their

own fairy fingers. After all, they were enjoying themselves in their own

fashion and looked as if they could imagine no greater happiness in

life.

We wandered away from the scene, round the point, where stretched

another portion of the coast of Finistère. It was a lovely vision. The

steep cliffs fell away at our feet to the beach, here quite deserted and

out of sight of the crowd not very far off. Over the white sand rolled

and swished the pale green water with most soothing sound. The sun shone

and sparkled upon the surface. The bay was wide, and on the opposite

coast rose the cliffs crowned by the little town of Roscoff, its grey

towers sharply outlined against the sky. Our thoughts immediately went

back to the day we had spent there; to the quiet streets of St. Pol de

Léon, and its beautiful church, and the charming Countess who had

exercised such rare hospitality and taken us to fairy-land.

The vision faded as we turned our backs upon the sea and the crowd and

entered upon our return journey. The zigzag was passed and the houses,

where now we looked down the chimneys and now into the cellars. In due

time we came to the high road. It was crowded with vehicles all waiting

the end of the races and the return of the multitude. Apparently it was

"first come, first served," for we had our choice of all--a veritable

embarras de choix. It was made and we started. Very soon, on the other

side the river, we came in sight of our little auberge, _A la halte des

Pêcheurs_, where on a memorable occasion we had taken refuge from a

second deluge. And there, at its door, stood Madame Mirmiton, anxiously

looking down the road for the return of her husband from the Regatta.

Whether he had recovered from his sprain, or had found a friendly

conveyance to give him a seat, did not appear.

We went our way; the river separated us from the inn and there was no

ferry at hand. Many like ourselves were returning; there was no want of

movement and animation. It was not a picturesque crowd, for there were

no costumes, and the _bourgeoisie_ of Morlaix are not more interesting

than others of their class.

At last loomed upon us the great viaduct, and a train rolled over as we

rolled under it. The vessels in the little port had mounted their flags

and looked gay, in honour of the occasion. We entered Morlaix for the

last time, for we were to leave on the morrow. Madame Hellard was not

taking the air; she and Monsieur were enjoying a moment's repose in the

bureau. They now invariably greeted us as _habitués_ of the house.

"But you have neither of you been to the Regatta," we observed.

"I go nowhere without my wife," gallantly responded our host.

"And I was too busy with our wedding breakfast to think of anything

else," said Madame. "And, to tell you the truth, I don't care for

regattas. I can see no pleasure in watching which of two or which of

half-a-dozen boats comes in first. The people interest me; but it is

really almost as amusing to see them passing one's own door, and not

half so tiring. I hope, messieurs, you have returned with good

appetites: I have ordered you some _crêpes_. Was it not funny to see the

old women tossing them on the slopes?"

"Al fresco fêtes," chimed in Monsieur. "Ah, la jeunesse! la jeunesse!

Youth is the time for enjoyment. _Donnez-moi vos vingt ans si vous n'en

faites rien!_ So says the old song--so say I. And now you are going to

leave us, and to-morrow we shall be in total eclipse," he added,

determined not to leave us out in his compliments. "But you are

right--you cannot stay here for ever. You have seen all that is of note

in Morlaix and the neighbourhood, and you will be charmed with Quimper."

"Quimper? I would rather live fifty years in Morlaix than a hundred in

Quimper," cried Catherine, who came in at that moment for the menus.

"The river smells horribly, the town is dirty and stuffy, and it always

rains there. And as for the hotels--enfin, _you will see_!"

[Illustration: MORLAIX.]

It was very certain that we should not alight upon another Catherine.

For the last time we wandered out that night when the moon had risen, to

take our farewell of the old streets that had given us so much pleasure.

We knew them well, and felt that we were communing with old friends.

Their outlines, their gabled roofs, the deep shadows cast by the pale

moonlight, the warmer reflections from the beautiful latticed

windows--all charmed us. We moved in an ancient world, conversed with

ghosts of a long-past age; the shades of those who had left behind them

so much of the artistic and the excellent; who had, in their day and

hour, lived and breathed and moved even as the world of to-day--had been

animated with the same thoughts and emotions; in a word, had fulfilled

their lot and passed through their birthright of sorrow and suffering.

It was late before we could turn away from the fascination. After the

crowded scenes of the day, we seemed surrounded by the very silence and

repose, the majesty of Death. Everyone had retired to rest; the curfew

had long tolled, and the fires were nearly all out. Only here and there

a lighted lattice spoke of a late watcher, who perhaps was searching for

the philosopher's stone or the elixir of life, wherewith to turn the

grey hairs of age to the flowing locks of youth--the feeble gait of one

stricken in years to the vigour and comeliness of manhood. Vain wish!

and needless; for why will they not look at life in its truer aspect,

and feel that the nearer they approach to death the younger they are

growing?

MY MAY-QUEEN

(_Ætat_ 4).

Come, child, that I may make

A primrose wreath to crown thee Queen of Spring!

Of thee the glad birds sing;

For thee small flowers fling

Their lives abroad; for thee--for Dorothea's sake!

Hasten! For I must pay

Due homage to thee, have thy Royal kiss,

Our thrush shall sing of this;

--In many a bout of bliss

Tell how I crown'd thee Queen, Spring's Queen, this glad May-day.

JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A.

SWEET NANCY.

Shenton was a dull and sleepy village at the best of times; but then it

was situated so far from any town. Exboro' was the nearest, and that was

ten miles away. To reach it you must traverse a range of pine-clad

hills, descending now and again into cool valleys, full of sweet scents

and sounds in summer, but dreary enough in winter, when the snow lay

thick and the wind whistled through the leafless branches.

Shenton consisted of one long street, terminating in a green on which

the church and school-house stood. After that there were no more houses

till you reached Exboro', excepting a few scattered farms a mile or two

away at Braley Brook. There was also a large farm, known as the Manor,

half-a-mile in the opposite direction, occupied by one Jacob Hurst, who

was the owner of the farms at Braley Brook.

The last house in the long street, at the Green end of it, was occupied

by Miss Michin, a milliner and dressmaker, as a card in the window

informed the passer-by. Not that the card was necessary, as of course in

so small a place everybody knew everybody else; but it was a sort of

sign of office, and was always most carefully replaced when Sarah Ann,

Miss Michin's Lilliputian maid, cleaned the window, which she did much

oftener than was necessary--at least, Mrs. Dodd, the post-mistress, who

lived opposite, said so. But then Mrs. Dodd had the shop and a young

family to attend to, and did not find it possible to keep her own

windows equally bright; so it was perhaps natural that she should find a

comfort in remarking on her opposite neighbour in the manner we have

described.

Miss Michin's front parlour window was draped with white muslin

curtains, which covered it entirely, preventing the eyes of the curious

from taking surreptitious glances at the finery therein displayed, and

destined to be seen for the first time at church on the persons of the

fortunate owners. Just now, a fortnight before Christmas, the array of

gay dress material which lay about on tables and chairs was more than

usual; and Miss Michin and Nancy Forest--her decidedly pretty

apprentice--were working as if their lives depended upon it. Nancy was

the only apprentice Miss Michin had, and she had taken her when she was

fourteen without a premium, on condition that when she should be "out of

her time" (that would be in three years) she should give six months'

work in payment for the instruction she had received.

Nancy was now working out the six months, which fact shows her age to be

between seventeen and eighteen. At that age a girl--above all, a pretty

girl--likes to wear pretty things; and Nancy had many little refined

tastes which other girls in her class of life have not--due, perhaps, to

the fact that while a child she had been a sort of protégée of Miss

Sabina Hurst's up at the Manor Farm. Miss Sabina, who was herself not

quite a lady, was nevertheless far above the Forests, who were in their

employ, and had charge of an old farmhouse at Braley Brook. She was Mr.

Hurst's sister, and had been mistress at the Manor since Mrs. Hurst had

died in giving birth to her little son Fred.

Mr. Hurst--a hard and relentless man in most things--was almost weak in

his indulgence of his son. All his fancies must be gratified, and in

this Miss Sabina concurred. One of Fred's fancies had been to make a

playmate of little Nancy Forest. It followed, then, that she had been a

great deal at the Manor; but when the children grew older, and Fred took

what his aunt and father termed "an absurd fancy" to be a musician, as

his mother had been, it occurred to them that possibly later on he might

take a yet more absurd idea, and want to marry his old playmate. Nancy

was therefore banished from the Manor Farm.

But Fred, who was not accustomed to be crossed, often met his old friend

on the hills and in the valleys; and after she had become apprenticed,

he would often walk home with her part way--not as a lover, however. For

the last two months he had broken this habit, and Nancy had not seen

him.

But we were saying that girls of Nancy's age liked pretty things to

wear. Nancy was no exception, but she had no pretty things; her clothes

had, in fact, become deplorably shabby, though by dexterous "undoing"

and "doing-up" she did manage to make the very most of her dark blue

serge costume. The dress and rather coquettish little jacket were of the

same material; and she had a felt hat of the same colour, which in some

mysterious way altered its shape to suit the varying fashions. Last

winter the wide brim was straight; this winter it was turned up at the

back, with a bunch of dark blue ribbons on the crown. Altogether her

appearance was picturesque, though the odd mingling of the rustic with

the latest Paris fashion-plate might call up a smile to your lips. The

smile which the costume provoked was sure to die, however, when you

looked at the girl's face. You wondered at once why the lovely brown

eyes looked so sad and appealing, and why the little mouth was so

tremulous, and why the colour came and went so frequently on the

finely-moulded cheeks, which were just a little thin for perfect beauty.

And if you happened to be a student of human nature, you would read in

one of Nancy's glances a story of conflicting emotions--disappointment,

timid expectancy, hope, and a dawning despair: at least, this is what I

read there when I looked at Nancy from the Vicar's pew one Sunday

morning at Shenton church. I was on a visit at the Vicarage then.

Of course, it must not be supposed that Miss Michin read Nancy Forest's

face in this way; but the little dressmaker had a warm heart, though

worried by the making of garments, and more by making two ends meet

which nature had apparently not intended for such close proximity; but

she had certainly noticed that for the last few weeks Nancy had not

looked well.

It was growing dark one Thursday evening, and Sarah Ann had just brought

the lamp into her mistress's parlour. Miss Michin turned up the light

slowly, remarking, as she did so, "I don't want this glass to crack. I

might do nothing else but buy lamp-glasses if I left the turning-up of

them to Sarah Ann. This one has been boiled, which, Mrs. Dodd says, is a

good thing to make them stand heat." Then she broke off suddenly, and

stared at her apprentice, exclaiming, "Nancy, child, how pale you look!

You must leave off and go home. You shall have a nice cup of tea first.

Where do you feel bad?"

The sympathetic tone brought the tears to Nancy's eyes, perhaps more

than the words, but she answered hastily: "Oh, indeed, dear Miss Michin,

I need not go home. I have a headache, that is all, and I must not leave

off before my time. I ought to stop later, and you so busy."

"That frock of Emma Dodd's is just on finished, isn't it?" said Miss

Michin, in answer.

"All but the hooks," replied Nancy.

"Then sew them on while I make some tea, and you can leave it at the

post-office as you go."

Nancy protested, but Miss Michin insisted, and in a short time the dress

was pinned up in a dark cloth, and Nancy having drunk the tea, more to

please her kind friend than because she thought it would cure her

headache, donned the little jacket and fantastic hat, and went across to

the post-office, which was also a shop of a general description.

Mrs. Dodd was engaged in lighting her shop-window when Nancy entered.

"I have brought Emma's dress, Mrs. Dodd," she began, when that lady had

descended from the high stool on which she had mounted to place the

lamps in the window. "Miss Michin told me to tell you there wasn't

enough of the plush to finish off the lappets to match the collar and

cuffs, but she thinks you'll like it just as well as it is."

Mrs. Dodd examined the little dress, and, having approved of it, asked

in a friendly way what Nancy herself was going to have new this

Christmas.

"Oh, I don't know yet," answered Nancy, colouring deeply. "You see, I'm

not earning yet, and father's wages are small, you know."

"Mr. Hurst is real mean, I know that," exclaimed the post-mistress,

decidedly. "None but a very mean man would have cut your poor father's

wages down after he was laid up with a bad leg so long."

"But father says himself that he can't do as much since his accident,

and he doesn't want to be paid beyond what he earns," Nancy explained,

hastily.

Mrs. Dodd began to fold up Emma's dress, remarking, as she did so, "It's

a queer go as Mr. Hurst should have let young Mr. Fred do nothink but

music; but, to be sure, he do play beautiful. My Benny, as blows the

organ for him, says it's 'eavenly what he makes up himself. He's

uncommon handsome, too; much like his mother, who was, poor young lady,

a heap too good for the likes of Jacob Hurst. She used to play the

church organ like the angel Gabriel."

Mrs. Dodd glanced at Nancy to see the effect of this simile, which was

quite an inspiration, but the girl was intent on smoothing the creases

out of her very old and much-mended kid gloves.

"Folks do say, Miss Nancy," went on Mrs. Dodd, "as young Mr. Fred had a

fancy for you at one time, and as you sent him to the rightabouts. Now,

I say as--"

"Oh, please don't say anything about it, Mrs. Dodd," broke out Nancy,

excitedly. "It's all a mistake--I am not his equal in any way--he never

thought of anything like that." She would have added, "Nor I;" but she

was too truthful. An overwhelming sense of shame came over her. How

could she have given her heart away unsought!

With a hasty good-night she left the shop, closing the door so sharply

in her self-condemnation as to set the little bell upon it ringing as if

it had gone mad. She could hear its metallic tinkle till she was close

upon the church. Here other sounds filled her ears. There was a light in

the church, and Fred Hurst was there playing one of Bach's Fugues.

Nancy's heart fluttered like a captive bird. For a brief space she

leaned against the cold railings, looking intently at a branch of ivy

which the north wind was tossing against the diamond-shaped panes of the

window--then she drew herself up hastily and proudly, and walked on

rapidly towards the bleak hills which she must cross to reach her

father's farm at Braley Brook.

"How I wish I was out of my time," she said to herself, as the crisp

snow crackled beneath her small feet. "I could go away then and earn my

living, where I could never see him--or hear him--. Oh, Fred!" she broke

out in what was almost a cry, "_why_ have you met me and walked with me

so often, if you meant to leave off and say no more? It must be because

my dress has grown so shabby--I don't look so--so nice as I did--yet if

his father were not hard I might have more." And poor Nancy being now

far from any habitation gave herself the relief of a good cry, knowing

she could not be observed.

In the meantime the organ at the church had ceased playing, and the

young man who was seated at it began turning over a pile of music which

lay beside him. But this he did mechanically--he was not going to play

again that evening, he did it as an accompaniment to perplexed thought.

He remained so long silent that Benny Dodd, who had been "blowing" for

him, ventured out from among the shadows cast by the organ pipes and

asked, "Please, Mr. Fred, are you going to play any more?"

Fred Hurst looked up smiling, and feeling in his waistcoat pocket for

the customary coin, said cheerfully, "I had quite forgotten you, Benny!

No, I shall not play any more to-night."

The small boy clattered down the stone aisle noisily, and Fred Hurst

began to push in the stops preparatory to closing the organ. In doing so

he caught a glimpse of his face in the small mirror which hung at one

side, and he burst out laughing.

"What a tragic look I have managed to put on," he thought. Then he

locked the organ, and was about to blow out the candles, when he changed

his mind and took out a scrap of printed paper from his pocket and read

it by their light. It was a favourable review of a song he had composed,

and which had just been published. "Though there is no genius displayed

in this little composition, it is extremely pleasing; the air is

catching, and the accompaniment is tuneful without ostentation. 'Winged

Love' should become a popular favourite." This is what he read; and

having read it (of course not for the first time), he seemed to form a

sudden resolution on the strength of it. He looked at his watch; it

marked a few minutes past six; he blew out the lights and left the

church, hesitating a moment by the railings on which Nancy had leaned an

hour before. "I think this justifies me," he meditated. "If 'Winged

Love' is so well spoken of I am sure to get on, and in time make an

income sufficient for us two: poor child, she hasn't been used to

luxuries, and a simple home would content her. She must be part way home

by now. Yes, I will follow Nancy, and explain why I have not met her for

so long, and ask her to love me and wait till I can ask her to be my

wife."

But Nancy Forest had left Shenton early, as we have seen, so Fred Hurst

did not overtake her. He went all the way to Braley Brook, however, and

right up to the ruinous old farmhouse where the Forests lived, and

waited in the orchard some time, hoping that Nancy would come out to

bring in some linen which hung to bleach among the bare apple trees. He

knew that Nancy always helped her mother in the evenings. But on this

evening no errand seemed to bring her out of doors, and Fred Hurst went

away without seeing her, meaning to meet her next day.

It would have been wiser if Fred had gone boldly to the farmhouse and

asked to see Nancy; but we are none of us wise at all times, and we have

generally to pay in pain for our lack of wisdom as well as for our

actual faults, though perhaps not in the same degree.

II.

Fred Hurst's father was Nancy's father's master, as we have seen; and a

hard enough master, as Mrs. Dodd had said. John Forest and his

family--that is, his wife and Nancy--lived in the only habitable part of

what had once been a considerable farmhouse. John worked on the "land,"

took care of the horses and other live stock--there were not many--and

his wife attended to the poultry, which were numerous enough. She also

earned a little by mending the holes which the rats bit in the

corn-sacks. In harvest-time she made gentian beer for the men, and a

kind of harvest cake, originally made for a four o'clock meal, which

explains the word known as "fourses." But with all these little extras

the Forests found it sufficiently hard to live, and of course Nancy was

not yet earning.

"You ought to have sent that girl of yours to service," Mr. Hurst would

not infrequently say to Nancy's mother. He, moreover, said the same

thing to his maiden sister Sabina, when Fred was present.

It was then that Fred's eyes opened to the fact that Nancy Forest was

more to him than anything else in the world--far, far more than the old

playmate he had thought her. Send Nancy to service! sweet, delicate,

lady-like little Nancy, with her dimpled white hands. Perhaps Nancy had

no business to have white hands, and dainty, refined ways; but she had,

and that was Aunt Sabina's fault for having her so much at the Manor. It

was partly nature's fault, too, certainly, for Nancy had always seemed

like a changeling, she was so above her surroundings.

Fred Hurst having thus discovered his own love, proceeded to discover

Nancy's. It was all clear to him now, he was sure she had given her pure

childlike heart to him, perhaps unwittingly, as he had done. How blind

he had been! With knowledge, caution came. Fred made up his mind that he

must no more walk with Nancy till he was prepared to do so in his true

character--that of a lover. This would be impossible till he could offer

a home to Nancy. It might be that his father would even turn the Forests

away, if he suspected his son's affection for their only child. He could

not risk that. So two months passed.

Fred was organist at the parish church and had been composing songs, as

we have seen. Most of them had come back to him accompanied by polite

notes of refusal; one or two had come out and failed to attract any

notice. Now, "Winged Love" was proving a success--so he had resolved to

speak to Nancy herself, though not yet to the parents on either side.

It was a pity he didn't take the straightforward course--it pays best,

did people but know it. Had Fred Hurst gone to the house boldly that

night, it might, as I have said, have saved much misery. Had he glanced

through the uncurtained window of the "house-place," I think he would

certainly have gone in, for he would have seen Nancy in tears.

Mrs. Forest was a woman whose temper could not have been sweet under the

best of conditions. It will be understood, then, that it developed into

something very bad indeed under the worrying influence of a master like

Mr. Hurst, who was never satisfied, and whose method of dealing with

those he employed was one of incessant bullying. He was, moreover,

subject to delusions about being cheated, and his suspiciousness was

always in evidence.

This last fault was also one of Mrs. Forest's own, and if anything a

worse one than her bad temper, and was not infrequently the occasion of

an exhibition of the latter. When Nancy got home from Miss Michin's on

the night when Fred Hurst tried to meet her, she found her mother in one

of her worst moods. Mr. Hurst had been there all the morning,

superintending the killing and packing of the turkeys for the London

market. Nancy had made up her mind on her way home to ask her mother for

a little money to buy herself some new gloves. She resolved to make her

request at once on entering the house-place, where her mother

was--partly from a desire to get what generally proved a disagreeable

business over as soon as possible, and more, perhaps, because she saw

her father sitting smoking his pipe in the chimney-corner. John Forest

usually supported his daughter, who was a great favourite of his. He

generally called her "Sweet Nancy," because she was so pretty and

dainty, and, above all, so good-tempered--a quality he knew how to

appreciate.

"I was wondering, mother," Nancy began hesitatingly, as she removed her

hat and advanced towards the wood fire, above which Mrs. Forest was

hooking-on a huge kettle of fowls' food--"I was wondering if I might

have some new gloves for Christmas."

"And where, I should like to know, is the money for them to come from?"

demanded the mother sharply. "I want lots of things I go without. It

takes all I can scrape and spare to buy saucers for them chickens to

break. It's a shame of the master not to buy proper drinking dishes for

them; and when I asked him for some, he said your father could dig a

hole and sink the old copper-boiler in it, and fill that with water for

them, just as if he hadn't the sense to see as how every blessed chicken

'ud get drowned, and me be blamed for it, as usual."

"Here is half-a-sovereign as the master gave me for you to pay for the

sacks. Couldn't Nancy have some of that?" inquired John, fumbling in his

pocket for the coin.

Mrs. Forest took the money from his hand and placed it upon the

chimney-piece, intending to put it away presently in the tea-pot in the

corner cupboard, which, however, she forgot to do, otherwise this story

would never have been written.

"I want all that ten shillings to get a new cocoa-matting for the front

room floor," she said, decidedly. "The bricks strike as cold as a grave

since the old matting was took up."

"I must go and grind the turmits for the sheep, and move 'em into the

other fold for the night," said John, knocking out the ashes from his

pipe and rising to go. As he was closing the door behind him he called

to his wife, "You let the cocoa-matting bide, and give Nan a shilling or

two for her gloves."

"That I shall do nothing of the sort, then," shouted Mrs. Forest after

her husband; then, turning on her daughter angrily, she asked: "What do

you want gloves at all for, I should like to know? I don't wear gloves;

and why should you, who do nothing to earn them?"

"I shall be out of my time soon," Nancy answered, beginning to cry; "and

I will pay you back then all I have cost."

"I daresay," sneered her mother; "it'll take all you can earn to deck

yourself out to catch young Mr. Fred's eyes. Don't you think as I'm not

sharp enough to see which way the wind blows."

"Mother!" cried Nancy, rising indignantly to her feet, her eyes

flashing, her cheeks burning with shame and anger. "How dare you talk to

me so? You have no right!"

"Haven't I no right?" almost shrieked Mrs. Forest. "I stand none of your

impudence!" And with these words her passion so took possession of her

that she leaned forward and with her open hand struck her daughter a

stinging blow on one of her cheeks. "You are fond of crying," she said,

"so take something to cry for--for once."

But Nancy did not cry: she stood still, staring in a bewildered way at

the burning log upon the hearth, the flame from which danced upon her

reddened cheek.

Had Fred remained a little longer in the orchard, trouble might have

been prevented; for he would have seen Nancy, whom Mrs. Forest sent to

bring in the new linen which was bleaching. Mrs. Forest gave her this to

do, because she could not bear to see her stand so silent and dazed. She

was, indeed, heartily ashamed of the act she had committed the moment it

was over, but knew what was done couldn't be undone. She had never

struck her daughter before, and resolved never to do so again; but it

did not occur to her to tell Nancy so. Had she done so, the warm-hearted

child would have responded at once to such an advance; but she only

said: "Well, well; have done staring in the fire, Nan; and run and fetch

the linen from the orchard."

Nancy obeyed mechanically, little knowing who had just left the spot,

and feeling in her young heart all the bitterness of utter desolation.

III.

A night of sorrow is said to give place to a morning of joy. This would

be a comforting thought were it not that the morning must likewise give

place in its turn to another night.

The morning which followed the night of Nancy Forest's bitter

humiliation was certainly a bright one--at least, by contrast; and,

unfortunately, much so-called happiness is only such. Were the world not

a dark and naughty one, a good deed might not shine so brightly. In the

first place, Nancy was young and healthy; so the wintry sun, though it

shone on a frozen ground, cheered her. Then Mrs. Forest was unusually

amiable at breakfast, and paid some attention to her daughter, which she

generally found herself too busy to do. Her father made much of her, as

was his habit. He had apparently heard nothing of last night's episode.

The walk across the hills to Shenton was exhilarating, and at the end of

it a pleasant surprise awaited Nancy. She found Miss Michin already at

work on a dress for Miss Sabina Hurst when she arrived. The good-natured

little woman greeted her apprentice brightly. "You are looking better,

Nancy; the walk has given you a colour." Then she reached out her hand

to a table near her, and took a little parcel from it and gave it to

Nancy.

"It is nothing," she explained, as the girl looked at it curiously.

"Open it, dear; it is a trifle for a Christmas gift. I wish it was

more."

Nancy could only say "Oh, Miss Michin--how kind!" to begin with. Then

she unwrapped the paper and saw a dainty pair of brown kid gloves with

ever so many buttons. This matter of the buttons was not unimportant in

Nancy's eyes. Had her mother given her the money, she thought, she could

never have bought gloves with more than _two_ buttons.

"This is just what I needed--oh, thank you so much," she exclaimed, when

she had looked at them.

"That was what I thought," said the dressmaker; "so now we must set to

work and get a good day."

And Nancy did work well that day, never looking up from her work, except

once to glance across to the Post-office at the time she knew Benny Dodd

usually came out to go to the church. She could not see Fred, so it was

some pleasure to her to look at the small boy who blew the organ for

him.

But Benny did not perform that office for the young musician on this

day, for Fred Hurst had gone to London that morning, summoned thither by

a letter from Messrs. Hermann and Scheiner, music publishers. The marked

success of "Winged Love" had disposed these gentlemen to make the young

composer a good offer for his next song. The more immediate cause of

their determination was the fact that Señor Florès had chosen to sing

"Winged Love" at the last Saturday afternoon concert at St. James'

Hall, and its reception had been such as to establish a certain sale for

songs from the same hand. "Who is this Fred Hurst?" people in London

were asking.

Miss Sabina, in her showy drawing-room up at the Manor Farm, thought

over the event all day in her own critical way, and predicted evil as

the result. There was an old Broadwood grand piano in the room where she

sat, covered with a pile of old music--Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Haydn,

and all the composers whose music Miss Sabina disliked. This music had

belonged to Fred's mother, a fair and unfortunate creature, whose own

story I shall some day write. Miss Sabina's performances upon the

pianoforte were limited to such compositions as the "Canary Birds'

Quadrilles," "My Heart is Over the Sea," etc., which she never played at

all now. But she looked at the old piano, and recalled her

sister-in-law's pretty baby looks and tragic end, and prophesied evil

for Fred. Jacob Hurst laughed the whole business to scorn. The one being

in Shenton who could have genuinely rejoiced at Fred's success knew

nothing about it.

Nancy's thoughts were constantly with him, however, and when her work

ended for the day, and she walked homeward across the hills to Braley

Brook, she connected many an inanimate object she passed with some look

or word of his. These looks and words had always been so kind, so

gentle, that as the brook, where the forget-me-nots grew in summer, or

the bank in the hollow where the primroses grew thickest in spring, or

the fallen tree, which, as the weeks passed, would become golden with

moss and lichen again--as all these would awaken to summer sunshine and

gladness;--so would her heart. Fred's love for her--she felt sure he had

loved her--was only hidden away like the flowers under the snow, to

bloom forth again in spring. It was her winter, that was all, she told

herself. She must wait as the flowers did.

When she reached home, her mind was filled with hope--hope which but too

soon was to give place to despair. Last night Mrs. Forest had struck

her--but then she had not looked nearly so angry as she did now when her

daughter appeared before her.

"Where is my ten shillings?" she cried menacingly, as Nancy closed the

kitchen-door behind her. "What have you done with it, you ungrateful,

unnatural girl?" she repeated loudly.

"Indeed, mother, I know nothing of it," poor Nancy answered, trembling

violently.

"Is it in that there teapot?" inquired the enraged mother, thrusting the

article in question close to the frightened girl's face. Nancy glanced

rapidly from the empty teapot to the chimney-piece.

"You needn't look there, you hussy," Mrs. Forest continued, seeing the

direction Nancy's eyes were taking. "There's _nothing_ on the

chimney-piece--the money's gone, and you've took it, because your father

said you were to--it wasn't his to give--did he mend the sacks? tell me

that! I'll have my money back--every halfpenny, so you'd better give it

me before I make you."

"Mother, I have not touched it; I know nothing about it, really I

don't," said Nancy desperately.

"What's that you've got in your hand?" demanded Mrs. Forest, catching

sight of the parcel containing the gloves.

Nancy did not answer; she was looking at the round table, which was

covered with the shining brass ornaments which had been removed from the

chimney-piece in the search for the missing coin. There they

were--candlesticks, pans, snuffer-tray, and beer-warmer, articles she

remembered from earliest childhood as never in use, and always highly

polished. Now as the firelight flickered upon them they seemed to be

looking at the distracted girl with countless fiery eyes which twinkled

in malice. Nancy could not take her eyes from these other eyes, she

could not think for the moment. She vaguely knew that her mother took

away her parcel, and presently Mrs. Forest's rasping voice recalled her

from her stupefied reverie.

"So you spent it in gloves, did you? Six-buttoned ones, too--! Oh, you

ungrateful, selfish, wasteful girl."

"Mother, mother," wailed Nancy, taking hold of Mrs. Forest's gown with

one hand convulsively, while she pressed the other to her brow, where

her wavy locks of hair lay all damp and ruffled. "You _should_

believe--you _must_ believe me--Miss Michin gave me the gloves--I have

never seen your money--oh, mother, I couldn't have touched it--I

_couldn't_."

"Don't add lies to it," broke out Mrs. Forest in a greater passion than

ever.

Than this last remark, nothing could have easily been more unjust. Nancy

had always been a very truthful child.

"If you can no longer trust me, it is perhaps better for me--to--to go

away," said Nancy, softly.

"Yes--go--go now," replied her mother, who had arrived at that stage of

rage when people use words little heeding their meaning.

Nancy buttoned her little jacket once more, and tied a silk handkerchief

round her neck, and passed out at the door in a wild, hurried fashion.

Mrs. Forest looked at the door and smiled. "She'll none go," she said to

herself; "where could she go _to_?"

But Nancy did not resemble her mother in hasty moods, she was rather the

subject of permanent impressions. Her mother's conduct had wounded her

to the quick. She could no longer endure it, she thought. Hitherto, her

father's love had rendered it bearable--but now, even that seemed

powerless to keep her under the same roof as her mother. Where could she

go? She would walk on, no matter in what direction; then, when she could

walk no more, she might perhaps be calm enough to think.

IV.

"Where is Nan?" asked John Forest, when he entered the house, an hour

after Nancy had left it.

"Oh, she'll be here presently," replied the mother evasively. Of course

Nancy would come soon, she thought to herself, and what was the use of

rousing John?

Another hour passed. "Nan's very late to-night," said her father. "I've

a mind to go and meet her."

"You bide by the fire, John," responded his wife. "Nancy's in a tantrum

because I found out as she'd took that bag-money--she'll come in when

she's a mind."

"The _bag-money_!" repeated John in a puzzled way. "Nan take it!--she

never did, barring you give it her."

"She did then, and bought gloves with it, to do up with six buttons, and

there they be now beside you on the settle," retorted Mrs. Forest. John

looked in the place his wife had indicated, and there, sure enough, lay

the brown kid gloves. This evidence did seem conclusive. John shook his

grey head as he held the dainty gloves across his rough palm, and

presently said, "You have kept her too short, wife--girls wants their

bits of things." He paused and sighed heavily, and then added, "I'll go

and look for her."

"It's all your fault, John," broke out his wife as he rose to go. "You

as good as told her to do it."

"You ought to have given her some money, Eliza, and you've been nagging

at her and driven her out this cold night; if harm comes of it--" said

John as he went out.

"Fiddlesticks about harm; what harm can come to her, I should like to

know?" retorted his wife, without allowing him to complete his sentence.

Then the door closed and Eliza Forest was alone, with the ticking of the

eight-day clock to bear her company.

Slowly the hand of the clock travelled on. A clock is a weird

companion--above all, one that strikes the hour after a preliminary

groaning sound as this clock did. Mrs. Forest tried to occupy herself

with the stocking she was knitting, but she was uneasy and let her work

fall in her lap while she reflected to the accompaniment of that

metallic "Tick-tick" of the clock. "My mother always said that my temper

would get me down and worry me," she meditated; "and I believe it _will_

before it's done."

Ten o'clock struck--eleven o'clock, and Mrs. Forest grew really alarmed.

She rose and placed her knitting on the high chimney-piece--she

generally put it there out of the way of the cat, who played with the

ball--and opened the door and peered out into the darkness. There was a

sound of footsteps along the frozen high road. She listened intently,

but the horses began to move about in the stable close by and she could

no longer hear the footsteps.

The cold wind blew right against her, chilling her through and through.

But she still stood there in the doorway. By-and-by there were

unmistakable footsteps near at hand. A moment more and John was beside

her. He was alone. "Wife," he began in a hollow voice, "Nan left Miss

Michin as usual; has she been home?"

"I told you she had," gasped the mother. "I told you she and me had had

a tiff about the money."

John Forest made no comment, he was too desperate for that. He knew well

enough that if his quiet, patient little Nan had gone away, she must be

in a state of mind out of which tragedies come. He would go and rouse

Jim Lincoln, who slept in the stable loft, and they would search for

her. Mrs. Forest watched her husband disappear in the dim starlight, and

then went back to the kitchen. Vague fears took possession of her. She

dreaded she knew not what. All her unkindness to Nancy, culminating in

last night's blow, seemed to rise up against her. Even as to the taking

of the money, Nancy had had her father's sanction and might have thought

that enough. But Nancy denied having touched the money; _what if, after

all, she had spoken the truth!_ She had always been particularly

truthful in even the smallest matters. Mrs. Forest would try not to

think any more; it was too painful. She would reach down her knitting

and try to "do" a bit.

She rose and took down the half-knit stocking, but the spare needle was

missing. She felt with her hand upon the chimney-piece, but could not

find it. Then she mounted a chair and searched. It was nowhere to be

seen. "It may have slipped into the nick at the back," she thought, and

she got a skewer and poked it into the narrow groove. Out fell the

needle--and something else which made a clinking sound as it fell upon

the brick floor. She stooped to see what it was, _and there glittering

in the firelight lay the missing half-sovereign_.

* * * * *

When Fred Hurst had seen Messrs. Hermann and Scheiner, he was in the

highest possible spirits: a whole future seemed to open out before him.

It may appear that Fred was conceited, and "too sure;" but we must

record that he went to a jeweller's and bought a little pearl ring for

Nancy, meaning to place it on her third finger next day when her lips

should have given him the promise he knew her heart had long since

given. Having made his purchase he took train from Liverpool Street to

Exboro', from which place he would have to walk to Shenton, where he

could not arrive until one o'clock in the morning. He had performed some

miles of his walk across the hills, and was within an appreciable

distance of Braley Brook, when he observed a dark figure crouching on a

fallen tree. He was at first a little startled, for it was most unusual

to meet anyone in this place, above all at such an hour: it was after

midnight. On coming nearer he saw that the figure was that of a woman.

It might be one of the cottagers from Shenton--who had been to Exboro'

and been taken ill on the way home--he would see.

He came close and touched the crouching figure, and asked gently, "Are

you ill? Can I do anything for you?"

The figure started violently and looked up at him, and in the starlight

he recognised the face of Nancy Forest.

In a moment he was seated on the fallen tree beside her, and had placed

his arm about her. "Nancy, dearest Nancy," he cried, pressing burning

kisses on her cold cheek--the first he had ever given her. "Nancy, speak

to me; tell me what is the meaning of your being here."

But she could not answer him then; she simply laid her cheek against his

shoulder and wept bitterly. But she did tell him all presently; and he

told her what he had long since wished to tell, and they walked together

to the old farm, for, of course, Nancy must return to her parents for a

little time--only a very little time, they decided. When they reached

the farm, John Forest and his wife were standing by the round table in

the house-place, where the half-sovereign lay. John was hard and

relentless; his wife was sobbing aloud. And then the door opened, and

Nancy and Fred stood before them.

With a wild cry, Eliza Forest clasped her daughter to her heart,

imploring her forgiveness. "My temper 'welly' worried me this time,

Nancy," she said; "but after this I will worry _it_."

So here the story properly ends, for Mr. Hurst, to the surprise of

everyone, yielded a ready consent to the marriage, and even offered an

allowance to the young couple and one of his small farms to live in.

Miss Sabina allowed her old interest in Nancy to revive, and sent her

the material for her wedding dress, which Miss Michin announced her

intention of making up herself--every stitch. Nor was this all. Mrs.

Dodd, the worthy post-mistress, with whom Nancy had always been a

favourite, begged her acceptance of a prettily-furnished work-basket

which she had made a journey to Exboro' to buy.

And the half-sovereign?

It was never spent, but was always in sight under a wine-glass, to

remind the owner--so she said--"of how her temper nearly worried her."

JEANIE GWYNNE BETTANY.

PAUL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ADONAIS, Q.C."

It was a great surprise and disappointment to me when Janet, the only

child of my brother, Duncan Wright, wrote announcing her engagement to

the Honourable Stephen Vandeleur.

I had always thought she would marry Paul. Paul was the only surviving

son--four others had died--of my dead brother Alexander, and had made

one of Duncan's household from his boyhood. I had always loved

Janet--and Paul was as the apple of my eye. When the two were mere

children, and Duncan was still in comparatively humble circumstances,

living in a semi-detached villa in the suburbs of Glasgow, I kept my

brother's house for some years, he being then a widower.

I cannot say I altogether liked doing so. Having independent means of my

own, I did not require to fill such a position, and I had never got on

very well with Duncan. However, I dearly loved the children, although I

had enough to do with them, too. Janet was one of the prettiest,

merriest, laughing little creatures--with eyes the colour of the sea in

summer-time, and a complexion like a wild-rose--the sun ever shed its

light upon; but she had a most distressing way of tearing her frocks and

of never looking tidy, which Duncan seemed to think entirely my fault;

and as for Paul, he certainly was a most awful boy.

He was fair as Janet, though with a differently-shaped face; rather a

long face, with a square, determined-looking chin; and, besides being

one of the handsomest, was assuredly one of the cleverest boys I ever

knew. He had a good, sound, strong Scotch intellect, and was as sharp as

a needle, or any Yankee, into the bargain.

But he _would_ have his own way, whatever it was, and was often

mischievous as a fiend incarnate; and in his contradictory moods, would

have gone on saying black was white all day on the chance of getting

somebody to argue with him. Duncan paid no attention whatever to the

lad, except, from time to time, to speculate what particular bad end he

would come to.

But I loved Paul, and Paul loved me--and adored Janet.

The boy had one exceedingly beautiful feature in his face: sometimes I

could not take my eyes from it; I used to wonder if it could be that

which made me love him so much--his mouth. I have never seen another

anything like it. The steady, strong, and yet delicate lips--so calm and

serious when still, as to make one feel at rest merely to look at them;

but when in motion extraordinarily sensitive, quivering, curving, and

curling in sympathy with every thought.

I loved both children; but perhaps the reason that made me love Paul

most was--that whilst I knew Janet's nature, out and in, to the core of

her very loving little heart, Paul's often puzzled me.

There was not much in the way of landscape to be seen from that villa in

the suburbs of Glasgow; but we did catch just one glimpse of sky which

was not always obscured by smoke, and I have seen Paul, lost in thought,

looking up at this patch of blue, with an expression on his face--at

once sweet and sorrowful--so strange in one so young, that it made me

instinctively move more quietly, not to disturb him, and set me

wondering.

However, what with one thing and another, I was not by any means

heart-broken when Duncan married again--one of the kindest women in the

world; I can't think what she saw in him--and thus released me.

So the years flew on--and the wheel of fortune gave some strange turns

for Duncan. By a series of wonderfully successful speculations he

rapidly amassed a huge fortune.

They left Glasgow then, and built a colossal white brick mansion not far

from London.

When Janet was eighteen and Paul twenty-one, I paid them a visit there.

Except that Janet was now grown up, she was just the same--with her

thriftless, thoughtless ways, and her laughing baby face, and her yellow

head--a silly little head enough, perhaps, but a dear, dear little head

to me.

She had the same admiration, almost awe, of the splendours of this world

in any form; the same love of fine clothes--with the same carelessness

as to how she used them. It gave me a good laugh, the first afternoon I

was there, to see her come in with a new dress all soiled and torn by a

holly-bush she had pushed her way through on the lawn. It made me think

of the time when she had gone popping in and out to the little back

garden at Glasgow, and singing and swinging about the stairs--a bonnie

wee lassie with a dirty pink cotton gown, and, as often as not, dirtier

face.

Paul seemed to me, in looks at least, to have more than fulfilled the

promise of his boyhood. A handsomer, more self-reliant-looking young

fellow I had never seen; and I was not long in the house before I

observed--with secret tears of amusement--that it was not only in looks

he remained unchanged. The same dictatorialness and sharp tongue; the

same thinly-veiled insolence to Duncan; the same swift smiles from his

entrancing lips--thank Heaven undisfigured by any moustache--to myself;

the same unalterable gentleness to Janet. His invariable courtesy to

Duncan's wife made me very happy. It was as I said: there was much good

in the boy.

Paul had a little money of his own to begin with, and I did think

Duncan, with his fortune, might have sent an exceptionally clever lad

like that to one of the Universities, and made something of him

afterwards--a lawyer, say; but instead of that, Paul was put into

business in London, and, I was glad to hear, was doing very well.

As for Duncan's hideous white brick castle, with its paltry half-dozen

acres, entered by lodges of the utmost pretension, and his coach-houses

full of flashy carriages, with the family coat-of-arms(!) upon each, I

thought the whole place one of the most contemptible patches of snobbery

on this fair earth; and I was glad my father's toil-bleared eyes were

hid in the grave, so that they should not have the shame of resting upon

it.

In spite of what I thought, however, I did my best to keep a solemn face

at Paul's smart speeches, which were often amusing, and often simply

impudence.

Duncan, as of yore, went as though he saw him not.

I had not been at Duncan's palace long before I came to the conclusion

that there was some private understanding betwixt the two young people;

and, at last, just before I left, my suspicions were confirmed.

Hastily pushing open the library door, which stood ajar, I saw Paul with

his back to me, at the end of the room, looking into the conservatory.

He had evidently just entered from the garden. "Janet," he called, in a

voice the import of which there could be no mistaking; and with a rush,

I heard several pots crash; Janet, who had no doubt happened to have her

head turned the other way, sprang into view, and threw herself into his

arms.

I quietly withdrew, and went away very, very happy. I knew Paul had a

promise of a first-rate appointment abroad, by-and-by; and supposing I

should hear more of this before long, I went placidly away home to the

far north. Instead of that, in six months or so, Janet wrote announcing

her engagement to the Honourable Stephen Vandeleur.

Of course I went south for Janet's wedding.

If I had thought she was being forced into this marriage (Duncan was

snob enough) I should not have gone a step, but should have done my best

to prevent it; but I could not think that from the tone of the letter;

and Paul wrote as well all about it. I could but think I had been

mistaken; that there had been no serious engagement between them, but

only a flirtation, as they might call it, or something of that sort: a

very reprehensible flirtation, with my Puritanical notions, it seemed to

me. I need not say I was greatly disappointed.

So in due course south I went.

Paul met me--handsomer and more dictatorial than ever; his blue eyes

clear and piercing as before. He seemed quite pleased; said Stephen

Vandeleur was a good fellow; was most impertinently sarcastic about

Duncan's aristocratic guests; and altogether appeared in good spirits.

Janet I did not think looking well. She seemed very nervous, and made

the remark that she wished it were six months ago; but of course it was

natural a girl should be a little hysterical on the eve of her

wedding-day.

The morrow came, and the wedding with it. I thought it a very

unpleasant one. Whatever might be Stephen Vandeleur's own feelings, he

seemed, as Paul said, a very good fellow. It was evident his friends

only countenanced it on consideration of the huge dowry Janet brought

with her. Some of them were gentlepeople, as I understand the word, and

some were not; but Duncan, who appeared really to think the mere

accident of superior birth in itself a guarantee of personal merit, as

Paul very truly put it, grovelled all round, until I was sick with

shame. Paul, however, was at his best and wittiest and brightest, and

kept everybody in tolerably good humour.

When the carriage came to take the bride and bridegroom away, I

remembered some trifle of Janet's that had been left in the

conservatory; and, as I was in the hall at the time, ran hastily outside

and round by the gravel to the door opening from the lawn, which was my

shortest way to the conservatory from there.

Suddenly I stood quite still. Paul was looking out of the library

window, and Janet, ready for departure, came falteringly in and stood

behind him. He did not look towards her. "Paul!" she whispered

entreatingly; and although so low there was the utmost anguish in the

tone: "Paul." As though not knowing what she did, she raised her arm,

standing behind him there, as if to shake hands. Abruptly he wheeled

round, with a face down which the great tears coursed, but awful in its

pallor and sternness; and, taking no notice of her outstretched hand,

pointed to the door. Weeping bitterly, she swiftly turned and went.

I cannot describe the shock this terrible scene gave me. It did not take

half-a-dozen short moments to enact, but it represented, unmistakably,

the blasting of two lives--the lives of those dearest in all the world

to me.

I do not know, I never knew, whether Paul saw me. I think I must have

become momentarily unconscious, and when I came to myself he was gone.

I sat where I was, weeping bitter tears--bitter as Janet's--and thought

of the little lassie in the dirty pink frock that had sung and swung

about the stairs, and of the boy who had stood day-dreaming, looking up

into the blue sky. Sometimes I was wildly angry. Whose fault was it? Who

was answerable for this? If it was the young people's own fault, someone

ought to have looked after them better, ought to have prevented it. No

one, not even I, could help them now, that was the bitterest, bitterest

part of it; no one and nothing--save time, or death.

I wished that day I had never left my children.

II.

I must pass over a long period now--I suppose I should have said I was

writing of a great many years ago, and come to the time, twenty years

later, when Paul came home from abroad. He had not been home all these

years, and neither had I been once in the south.

Janet, my poor Janet, was long since dead. She had died before she was

quite two years married. It was an additional pang to my grief that I

had never said good-bye to her at all; but no good-bye was better than

that awful one I had witnessed of Paul.

What was the precise explanation of it I never knew. It was easy to

divine that Janet had indeed been engaged to marry Paul, and had given

him up; but whether this was the result of some quarrel, or whether she

had deliberately done it, dazzled by the prospect of a union with an

earl's son, I cannot say. Anyhow, I am sure she quickly regretted her

determination. I am certain she loved only Paul. But the word had been

spoken, and whatever Vandeleur may have been, Paul was not a man to give

any woman a chance of trifling with him twice. So my poor Janet had to

reap what her folly had sown, as best she might.

Janet left one little child, a daughter, called Janet, after her; and

this child, becoming an orphan at an early age by the death, next, of

Stephen Vandeleur, was brought up with his family in Ireland.

She was in Scotland once when she was about fourteen, and I saw her, and

was not favourably impressed. She was quiet and prim and proper, as cold

as an icicle: a very pretty little girl, I owned that; but then I had

thought to find something of _my_ Janet, and was disappointed. Her eyes

were indeed blue, but looked one in the face calmly as though they had

belonged to a woman of forty; and her hair and long eye-lashes were as

dark as night. She had just this of my Janet, her pink and snow

wild-rose complexion. She seemed to me, in all else, a Vandeleur to her

finger-tips.

She occasionally paid Duncan long visits; and as she grew up, I heard

that Duncan tried to make these visits as frequent and as lengthy as

possible. She was immensely admired, it seemed, and Duncan liked her to

stay with him because of the people she attracted to his house. I was

sure this was true. It was so like one of Duncan's horrid ways. He still

lived in that white brick edifice, and was richer then ever. A good deal

of gossip drifted to me, in the far north as I was. I was told that

Janet had a Manchester millionaire, an American railway king, and a real

live lord, all madly in love with her--and she not yet quite nineteen!

Just then Paul returned home, and Duncan wrote inviting me to come down

and see them. Paul was to stay with them--and Duncan was quite proud

about it. His predictions had turned out all wrong; for Paul had come

home a personage of importance, and a very rich man indeed. I was almost

sorry that Janet's child happened to be at Duncan's just then, thinking

her presence would revive old memories better forgotten. And then, if

Paul were at all like what he used to be, I was sure her calmly

superior, supercilious little ways would irritate him intensely. I had

never seen her at Duncan's, but I could fancy how she would look there.

When I saw Paul, just for the first minute or so I felt quite startled.

He seemed so marvellously little changed. He was forty-one, and would

have looked young for thirty. Of course by-and-by I saw there were lines

in his face which had not before been there. I could not say, not

talking of appearance but of character, that I thought him improved. He

no longer spoke scornfully to or of Duncan, but was always coldly

courteous; yet often I would see a sneer on his curving lips that was

more biting and bitter than any words, and made them look evil. He was

not dictatorial all round to everybody as he used to be, but I thought

him harsh in particular instances. His smiles to myself were more rare;

his eyes colder: he seemed to me cynical of all on earth; I feared, too,

with keen sorrow, of all in Heaven.

Others spoke of the changes the wear and tear of life abroad had made on

Paul, but I had seen his face as it looked--for the last time on

earth--upon Janet that day, and had my own sad thoughts.

But although I speak of these changes, I do not mean to say that Paul

was not as gentle and loving to me as he had ever been, and that I was

not exquisitely happy to be with him again. Many a pleasant walk had we

about Duncan's garden, I leaning on Paul's strong arm, a support which I

felt the need of now. Twenty years had not come and gone without leaving

plenty of traces on me. We neither of us ever mentioned Janet, _my_

Janet, that is to say. Janet's daughter (Janet II., as I used to

mentally designate her for convenience' sake) was here as I expected,

and for a while, just as before, I did not take to her. I left her alone

and she left me alone; that was her way.

She was lovely, certainly; ethereally lovely; almost too lovely for

one's senses to grasp the fact that she was but common flesh and blood

like all the rest of the world: a poem in human form if there ever was

one. Gossip had spoken truly for once; there were the three

distinguished lovers, and goodness knows how many more besides.

Paul and I never spoke of this girl, any more than we did of my Janet;

but, at first, I often fancied I saw his gaze fastened on her; the same

unpleasant sneer on his lips which disfigured them when he looked at

Duncan. By and by I grew rather to like her. I believe I, at heart,

resented Paul looking like that at my Janet's bairn. I began to fancy

that, for all her apparent calmness, she was shy. If we met in the

garden she would give me a swift glance to see if I were going to stop

and speak to her, and, I thought, seemed pleased when I did. At last

there came an odd little episode.

Paul was very fond of animals--that was always one of his good

traits--and he one day found a little stray white kitten somewhere about

the place, and brought it into the room where I sat alone at work. He

began grimly to play with it. Just then Janet opened the door. She gave

a delighted exclamation, and, coming eagerly forward, smilingly held out

her arms for the kitten. She was dressed for the evening, and the

little thing began clawing about her lovely gown, and in one instant had

pulled to shreds a very expensive bit of trimming.

I started up in distress; but Janet, putting the kitten gently back on

the table, burst into laughter. I am very sure I had never heard Janet

laugh before, and I don't think Paul ever had. A prettier, happier, more

silvery little peal could not be imagined; but it was not so much that

which struck home to my heart as the fact that if I had shut my eyes I

could have thought _my_ Janet stood in the room. The girl had her

mother's laugh.

I returned hastily to my work, and did not dare to lift my head until

Janet was gone--then I looked stealthily at Paul.

The sun was just setting--the sky a rolling roseate glory from end to

end. Paul--my Paul--my Paul, with the old beautiful light in his face,

stood, with arms crossed, looking up into it. All at once something came

into my throat which almost stifled me, so that I could not have sat

where I was for any consideration whatever. I slipped quietly away and

left him.

From this day I loved the girl. Whether it was her carelessness about

the dress--so like her mother--or the laugh--or what--I loved her now

almost as much as I had loved her mother.

It seemed to me that from this day, too, Paul became more like his old

self: a very much toned-down and softened old self; no longer so much

the hard, cynical Paul of later years as the boyish Paul of old. Of

course, no sooner had my feelings changed in this way than I became

greatly interested in Janet's lovers. I thought the cotton millionaire

vulgar; and the American railway king I could not make this or that of;

but the lord seemed a very nice, simple-mannered young man; so that I

hoped--for although I am a bit of a Radical, I lay claim to having some

common-sense too--if it were to be one of these three, it would be he.

But the calm indifference with which this slip of a girl treated three

such lovers was truly appalling. I can't think how they stood it: I

shouldn't.

I cannot remember exactly when it was that I made a discovery. Opposite

to the library, of which I have already spoken, now a venerable old

room, was my bed-room; and there was no other room until you had gone

along a passage and crossed a hall. It was my custom to go to bed very

early, and I did so here at Duncan's, long before the rest of the

household. I suppose they thought I went fair off to sleep, too; for

this part of the house was always deserted after I had gone into my

room.

It was thus I made the discovery that every night, before retiring

herself, Janet came to the library and stayed a few minutes; and I could

hear her sometimes moving about books on the table.

For a considerable time I felt hopelessly puzzled. All at once it struck

me--girls are the same all over the world and in all ages--that she

must come there to look at the photograph of someone she cared for; to

say good-night to it; perhaps to murmur a prayer over it. Girls are made

so. Doubtless she would take it away with her altogether to some place

more convenient for such oblations but that Duncan was much in the

library, and had lynx-eyes.

I grew troubled, these nocturnal visits continuing, and wished that I

could help her. I thought if I could only find out whose the photograph

was, perhaps I might.

One night I could bear it no longer. I am aware that I must seem a most

prying old woman; but somehow or other this library was fated to be

mixed up with my life. I rose and just peeped round the library door to

see what she was doing. She was standing in the clear moonlight--not, as

I had expected, with an open photograph album, but holding a little

miniature, taken from its place on the table. I went back to bed, my

heart bounding. I knew now! I did not sleep much that night.

Perhaps I acted rashly--but I thought I should apply to Paul for help. I

was sure, from various signs, that he did not hate my Janet's bairn now.

I told him of these stolen visits to the library, and tried to persuade

him to conceal himself and watch there--for the purpose of finding out

whose the portrait was. I did not tell him, deceitful woman that I was,

that I myself already knew. Old people like him and me, I said, should

help the child out of her trouble. I must have startled him terribly: he

grew, at first, so white. Then he looked at me long and intently; and

by-and-by began to cross-examine me. We were canny Scots, both of us,

and fenced.

"You say it was a photograph you saw her with?"

"I did not say I saw her."

"You have heard her open an album?"

"I have heard her move books."

I have seen the time when I could have broken a lance with the best; but

I was growing old, and he finished by getting me into rather a

hobble--when he abruptly left me, a great flush sweeping over his face.

He came back by-and-by, and took me out into the garden. If he never had

been the real old Paul before--he was so now. He cut the pansies from my

best cap, and decorated Duncan's coat-of-arms--which had broken out

about the walls now-a-days--with them. But he might have cut the cap in

two for all I cared just then.

That night--I hoped he had not forgotten--I hoped he would come.

Presently I heard a quiet step which I knew to be his. Then I sat down

and listened again. Swish, swish--here she was at last. I had listened

too often to the soft rustle of her trailing gown to make any mistake

now. In my excitement--you see I was an old habitué at prying and

peering about the library by this time--I put one eye round the door, at

her very back. She had gone a few steps into the room--and now stood,

rooted to the spot, startled. There, with his face--and all that he

would have it say--fair and bright in the moonlight, stood Paul. He

opened his arms.

"Janet," he said.

With a little cry, and a sob, the girl rushed into them.

I went away back to my own room. I am sure it is superfluous to explain

my little plot: that it was not a photograph, but an old miniature of

Paul I had seen Janet with--an old miniature which I had painted on

ivory myself in the far-distant days. I am sure Paul never had a

photograph taken. Of course it was because I had recognised this that I

wanted Paul to wait in the library; but he was a better fencer than I,

and made me admit more than I intended. I sat down now, a world of old

memories whirling through my brain. I mixed this that I had just

seen--with something very like it in the long, long past--with the crash

of pots, and another figure that had thrown itself into Paul's arms.

There was the old room: _Janet_ had been said there, too; and the lips

through which the word had trembled were the same: and the voice was the

same also. Only the figure that had darted forward--was different.

I did not go to bed at all that night; but sat looking out over the

quiet, moon-lit garden and over the fields beyond, where the corn-crake

was calling, calling; the river slipping like a silver thread at the

far-away end of them; and patter, patter out and into the back-garden at

Glasgow went the little feet again; and to and fro ran the fair-haired

little lassie in the dirty pink cotton, tugging me this way and that by

the hand; and such a singing and swinging went on about the stairs. Oh,

how I wondered whether Paul would ever tell Janet her mother's story.

I was not going placidly away north _this_ time, to wait to hear more

about anything by-and-by. I did not leave that factory-like erection of

Duncan's until I had seen them married.

THE CHURCH GARDEN.

"We cannot," said the people, "stand these children,

Always round us with their racketing and play;

Yon Church-garden set right down among our houses

Is really quite a nuisance in its way!

"True, their homes are very dull, and bare, and dismal,

And the narrow courts they live in dark and small,

And we think they love that sparsely-planted acre--

But we do not want to think of them at all!

"There are surely parks enough to make a play-ground,

And we might be spared these noisy little feet;

But the parks, the Clergy say, are all too distant,

And so they planned this garden in the street!

"No doubt the seats are pleasanter than curb-stones,

While the trees make quite a shelter from the sun,

And the grass does nicely for the crawling babies--

But somebody must think of Number One!

"And the air the children get of course is purer;

But then the noise they make is very great,

With their laughter and their shouting to each other,

And the everlasting banging of the gate!

"And the wailing of the sickly, puny babies

Is enough to fret one's spirit through and through--

No doubt they cry as much in those dark alleys--

But then we never hear them if they do!

"Half the Parish talks to us of self-denial,

Of kindly duties lying at the door,

And of One who says the Poor are always with us;

But we can't be always thinking of the Poor!

"We are older, we are richer, we are wiser;

Why should we be vexed and troubled in our ease?

Just because the children like the Vicar's garden,

With its faded grass and smoky London trees!

"Still we feel sometimes a little self-convicted,

When we hear the hard-worked kindly Clergy say

That it helps them often in their weary labours,

Just to see the children happy at their play!

"Yet we think they try to make the thing too solemn,

When they put aside our protests with the plea:

'Whatsoe'er ye did to such as these, my brethren,

To the least--ye did it even unto Me.'"

Thus the people murmured, but the children's Angels

Smiled rejoicing, and a richer blessing falls

On the Church that made a shelter for the children

Underneath the holy shadow of her walls.

CHRISTIAN BURKE.