SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE

"GO! YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE"

"READ IT," HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER

DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST. "YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO

ME"

*LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*LOVE AND HOPE.*

Little sweetheart, stand up strong,

Gird the armour on your knight;

* * * * *

There are battles to be fought,

There are victories to be won,

Righteous labours to be wrought,

Valiant races to be run:

Grievous wrongs to be retrieved,

Right and justice to be done:

* * * * *

Little sweetheart, stand up strong,

Gird the armour on your knight:

Sing your bravest, sing your song,

Speak your word for truth and right.

ANNIE L. MUZZEY.

"You know, Doris, to-morrow I shall be of age and shall come into my

inheritance, the inheritance which my dear father left me," and the

speaker sighed lightly, as his thoughts went back for an instant to the

parent whose loving presence he still missed, although years had passed

since he died.

"Yes, dear, I know," said Doris, lifting sweet sympathising eyes to his.

"And, Bernard, it will be a trust from him; he knew you would use it

well; you will feel almost as if you were a steward for him--for him and

God," she added, almost inaudibly.

He gave her a quick nod of assent. "Money is a talent," he said, "and of

course I shall do heaps of good with mine. But you know, dear, I've not

got such a wise young head as yours. I shall be sure to make heaps of

blunders, and, in short, do more harm than good unless you help me."

He looked at her very meaningly. But her eyes were fixed on the green

grass of the hill on which they were sitting, and instead of answering

she said, rather irrelevantly, "You will be a man to-morrow; quite

legally a man. I'm thinking you'll have to form your own opinions then,

and act upon your own responsibility."

"Well, yes. And one day does not make much difference. I _am_ a man

now." He held himself up rather proudly; but the next moment, as "self

passed out of sight," he drew nearer to his companion, looking down into

her sweet flushed face very wistfully.

"To-morrow will make a difference," she said lightly:

"The little more, and how much it is!

And the little less, and what miles away!"

she quoted.

"I was thinking of those lines, too," said the youth, "but not in

connection with my coming of age. Doris, dear, the day after to-morrow

I shall return to Oxford." He hesitated.

"Yes, I am sorry you are going."

"Not half so sorry as I am to have to leave you!" he exclaimed.

"However, it is my last term at Oxford. When I return next time it will

be to stay." He hesitated a little, and then, summoning his courage,

added hastily, "Doris, couldn't we become engaged?"

The girl looked up, startled, yet with love and happiness shining in her

bright blue eyes. "Is it your wish?" she asked. "Is it really and truly

your wish?"

Bernard assured her that it was, and moreover that he had loved her all

his life, even when as children they played together at making mud-pies

and building castles in the sand, on the rare and joyous occasions when

their holidays were passed at the seaside.

"You see, dear," he proceeded, after a few blissful moments, while the

autumn sunshine fell caressingly upon their bright young faces, "I am

rather young and could not speak to you quite like this if it were not

that to-morrow I shall be fairly well off. My money--oh, it seems

caddish to speak of money just now!--is invested in Consols, therefore

quite safe, and it will give me an income of L500 a year. We shall be

able to live on that, Doris."

"Yes." The girl looked down shyly, her cheeks becoming pinker, and her

blue eyes shining. She was only nineteen, and she loved him very

dearly.

"Of course I shall have to assist my mother," continued Bernard. "She

has very little money and will have to live with us when we marry. You

won't mind that, dear; if we keep together there will be enough for us

all."

"Yes, of course." But for the first time a shadow stole across the

girl's face. She was rather afraid of Mrs. Cameron, who was the

somewhat stern widow of a Wesleyan minister.

Bernard Cameron divined her thoughts. "Mother's sure to like you,

Doris," he said. "She's a bit particular, you know. But you are _so

good_. She cannot fail to approve of you. Ours will be a most suitable

match in every way. Mother will be very pleased about it."

The shadow passed away from Doris's face, and she smiled. Bernard knew

his mother much better than she, therefore he must be right. And her

last misgiving vanishing, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the

present.

Time passed as they sat there on the pretty hill at Askern, where so

many lovers have sat and walked, plighting their troth and building

castles in the air; and it seemed as if these two, who were so young and

ardent, would never tire of telling their version of the old, old story

of the love of man for woman and woman for man. It was all so new to

them that they would have been both startled and incredulous if any one

had suggested that the same sort of thing had gone on continuously ever

since Adam first saw Eve in the Garden of Eden.

However, everything comes to an end, and the best events always pass the

quickest; and so it happened that, in an incredibly short time, the sun

sank low in the heavens and finally disappeared, leaving a radiance

behind, which was soon swallowed up in twilight and the approaching

shades of night. The girl first became uneasy at the lateness of the

hour.

"We must go home," she said. "Mother will think I am lost. Oh,

Bernard, I did not know it was so late."

"Never mind," said he, "we have been so happy. This has been the

first--the very first of many happy times, darling."

"But I don't like annoying mother," said Doris penitently. "Oh,

Bernard, let us hurry home!"

"All right, darling."

So they went down the hill and across the fields to the village of Moss,

situated between Askern and Doncaster, where they lived; and as they

walked they talked of the bright and happy future when they would be

together always, helping and encouraging one another along the path of

human life.

It was so fortunate for them, they considered, that Bernard Cameron's

father had left him L25,000 safely invested. Doris's father, Mr.

Anderson, a retired barrister, was one of Bernard's trustees, the other

was a Mr. Hamilton, a minister, who knew little about business but had

been an intimate friend of the late Mr. Cameron's. Mr. Hamilton was

expected at Bernard's home on the day following, when both trustees

would meet to hand over to the young man the securities of the money

they held in trust for him. Mrs. Cameron would then cease to receive the

income that had been allowed her for the maintenance of her son, and it

would become Bernard's duty to supplement her slender resources in the

way which seemed best to her and to him. There were people who blamed

the late Mr. Cameron for leaving the bulk of his property to his son,

instead of to his widow--that happened owing to an estrangement which

had arisen between husband and wife during the last years of Mr.

Cameron's life.

Bernard mourned still for the father of whom his mother never spoke; but

he was attached to her also, for she was a good mother to him, and he

meant to do his duty as her son. It was his intention after taking his

degree to devote himself to tutorial work, as he was fond of boys. In

fact he intended to keep a school, and he told Doris this as they walked

home together, adding that he should realise part of his capital for the

purpose of starting the school. He talked so convincingly of the number

of boys he would have, the way in which he would manage them, the

profits which would accrue from the school-keeping, and the enormous

influence for good which he hoped the scheme would give him over the

young and susceptible minds of his pupils, that Doris felt convinced

that the enterprise would succeed, and admired his cleverness,

business-like ability, and, above all, his wish to help others in the

best and highest way.

Timidly, yet with a few well chosen words, she sought to deepen and

strengthen his purpose, assuring him that nothing could be nobler or

more useful than to teach and train the young, and promising that she

would do everything in her power to assist him.

*CHAPTER II.*

*A TERRIBLE WRONG.*

All day and all night I can hear the jar

Of the loom of life, and near and far

It thrills with its deep and muffled sound

As the tireless wheels go round and round.

Busily, ceaselessly, goes the loom,

In the light of day and the midnight's gloom.

The wheels are turning, early and late,

And the woof is wound in warp of fate.

Click! Click! There's a thread of love wove in:

Click! Click! another of wrong and sin--

What a checkered thing will this life be

When we see it unrolled in eternity!

_Anon._

It was late when Bernard Cameron left Doris at the garden-gate of her

home--so late indeed that the girl hurried up the path to the house with

not a few misgivings.

How angry her mother would be with her for staying out so late with

Bernard! Doris was amazed that she had dared to linger with him so

long; but time had sped by on magic wings, and it so quickly became late

that evening. Well, she must make the best of it, beg pardon and

promise not to offend in that way again. And perhaps when her mother

knew what had been taking place, and that she and Bernard intended to

marry when he had obtained his degree and was ready to launch out into

his life-work, she would be pleased and would forgive everything. For

Mrs. Anderson admired Bernard very much, and had been heard to say that

she almost envied Mrs. Cameron her son.

"He will be mother's son-in-law in time," thought Doris. "I am sure she

will like that."

Doris had reached the hall door now. It was locked, and she hesitated

about ringing the bell, being dismayed at the unusual darkness of the

house. Why, it must be even later than she had imagined, for the

servants appeared to have fastened up the house and gone to bed! The

top windows which belonged to them were the only ones that were lighted.

No one appeared to be sitting up for her, and, not liking to ring the

bell, she went round to the French windows of the drawing-room, in the

hope that she might be able to open one of them. But they were closed

and in darkness. Then, going a little farther, Doris turned to see if

the library window would admit her, and found, to her satisfaction, that

a gleam of light from behind its curtains revealed the fact that it was

an inch open and that some one was within.

The girl was about to open wide the window and enter the room, when her

attention was arrested by hearing her father exclaim, in tones of agony:

"I am ruined! I am quite, _quite_ ruined! And what's more I've

speculated with Bernard's money--and it's all gone! It's all gone! And

to-morrow they'll all know! Everything will come out--and I shall be

arrested!"

"Oh, John! John! What shall we do!" It was her mother's voice,

speaking in anguish.

Tremblingly poor Doris drew back, away from the window, feeling

overwhelmed with horror and consternation. What had she heard? Bernard,

her lover, ruined by her father! She felt quite stunned.

How long she stayed there in the dark, afraid to enter by the library

window lest her appearance just then should grieve her parents, and

uncertain what to do, she never knew; but at last she found herself

standing under her own bedroom window.

There was a pear-tree against the wall. A boy would have thought

nothing of climbing it and of entering the room through the window;

Doris herself had often done that as a child, but now she hesitated,

feeling so much older because she had received her first offer that day

from the man whom she loved devotedly, and because, since then, great

shame and pain had overwhelmed her in learning that it was against

him--of all men in the world!--her father had sinned. Therefore she

felt it impossible to climb that tree, as a child, or a light-hearted

girl, might easily have done. So she stood beneath it, with bowed head,

feeling stunned with misery and utterly incapable of effort.

Above her the stars looked down, and the lights of the village shone,

here and there, at a little distance, while the night wind stirred the

trees and shrubs close by, and gently swept the hair from off her brow.

Just so had she often seen and felt the sights and voices of the night

from her bedroom window up above; but everything was different now. No

longer a child, she was a girl engaged to marry Bernard Cameron, whom

she had always loved, and whom her father had plundered of all that made

his life pleasant and that was to make their marriage possible.

For a moment Doris felt angry with her parent, but only for a moment: he

was too dear to her, and through her mind surged memories of his

kindness in the past and of his pride and joy in her, his only child.

It might have been that in speculating with Bernard's money he was

animated by the thought of still further enriching the son of his old

friend. At least Doris was quite certain that her father had not meant

to do him such an injury.

"But oh, father, if only you had not done this thing," thought the poor

girl distractedly, "how happy we should be! But now, what shall we do?

What will poor Bernard do? And I, oh! what shall I do?"

For a little while she stood crying under the old pear-tree, and then a

prayer ascended to the throne of Grace from her poor troubled heart.

*CHAPTER III.*

*THE PENCIL NOTE.*

The winter blast is stern and cold,

Yet summer has its harvest gold.

Sorrow and gloom the soul may meet,

Yet love rings triumph over defeat.

The clouds may darken o'er the sun,

Yet rivers to the ocean run.

Earth brings the bitterness of pain,

Yet worth the crown of peace will gain.

The wind may roar amongst the trees,

Yet great ships sail the stormy seas.

THOS. S. COLLIER.

It was impossible for Doris to stay out in the garden all night, within

reach of her comfortable bedroom, and presently she took courage to

climb the tree and enter by the window.

The little room, with its snow-white bed and dainty furniture, including

well-filled bookshelves and a pretty writing-table, looked different

from of old; it did not seem to belong to Doris in the familiar way in

which it had always hitherto belonged to her. Everything was changed.

Or perhaps it was she who was changed and who saw everything with other

eyes than of yore, and, recognising this, she sobbed, "It will never be

the same again--never, never! I shall _never_ be happy again."

And then, because she was so lonely and so much in need of help, she

knelt down by her bedside, and poured out her full heart to Him who

comforts those who mourn and who strengthens the weak and binds up the

broken-hearted. After which, still sobbing, though more gently, she

undressed and went to bed.

Thoroughly tired out in mind and body the poor girl slept heavily and

dreamlessly for many hours, so many in fact that she did not awake until

quite late the next morning.

Then, oh, the pain of that awaking, the pain and the shame! Would she

ever forget it?

The maidservants came into her room one after another, the young

housemaid and cook, and Susan Gaunt, the faithful old servant who acted

as working-housekeeper; they were all in consternation, asking question

after question of the poor distracted girl. Where were her parents?

Would she tell them what she knew about them? When had she seen them

last? What could have happened to them? and so on.

Doris asked what they meant? Were not her father and mother in the

house? What had happened? What were they concealing from her? "Tell

me everything?" she implored in piteous accents.

The servants, perceiving that she knew nothing of her parents'

disappearance, began to answer all together, making a confusion of

voices. Their master and mistress had gone away: they had vanished in

the night. Their beds had not been slept in. No one knew where they

had gone. And this was the day upon which Mr. Bernard Cameron was to

come of age. Mr. Hamilton and the family lawyer were expected to lunch,

and so were Mrs. Cameron and her son. What should they (the servants)

do if the master and mistress were absent?

Doris, half stunned and wholly distracted, ordered every one to leave

the room, and, turning her face towards the wall, shed a few bitter

tears. That, then, was what her parents had done; they had run away and

had left their unhappy daughter behind. "It's not right! They have not

done the right thing!" Doris said to herself. "And they might have

offered to take me with them," was the next thought: though, upon

reflection, she knew that she could not have borne to leave Bernard in

such a way, and neither would she have consented to flee from justice

with those who had wronged him, even though they were her own parents.

It was no use lying there crying, with her face turned towards the wall,

and so she arose, and, having dressed, began to search for a letter or

message which might have been left for her.

After a long search, by the accidental overturning of the mat by her

bedroom door, she discovered a note which had been left under it and had

thus escaped earlier recognition. It was from her mother.

Doris locked herself into her room in order to read the letter, which

was blotched and blurred with the tears that had been shed over it:

"MY DARLING CHILD,--

"I am grieved to tell you that a very terrible thing has happened. Your

father has unfortunately lost all Bernard Cameron's money. He

speculated with it as if it were his own, in the firm belief, he says,

that he would be able to double the capital. However, he lost

everything, and he is overwhelmed with grief and remorse, realising now,

when it is too late, that he had no right to speculate with Bernard's

money. Indeed, a terrible penalty is attached to such a mistake--the

law deems it a crime--as he has made. He dare not face Bernard and his

mother, Mr. Hamilton and the lawyer to-morrow, and his only chance of

escaping from a dreadful punishment is by flight. Doris darling, my

heart is torn in two; I cannot let him go alone for _his heart is

broken_--and something dreadful may happen if he is left to himself--so

you will forgive me, darling, but I must go with him--_I must_. For

twenty years we have been married, and I cannot leave his side, now that

he is in despair. Oh, I know it would be better of him, and more manly

and just, if he would stay and face the consequences of his sin, but I

_cannot_ persuade him to do it, though I have implored him with tears,

and so, if it is wrong to flee, I share the wrong-doing, and may God

forgive us! Now, my dear Doris, when we have gone you must tell Susan

that she must give notice to our landlord that we give up our tenancy of

the house; then she must arrange with an auctioneer to sell all the

furniture; and tell her when that has been done, after paying the rent

and taxes and the tradesmen's bills, she must put the remainder of the

money in the bank to your father's account.

"And then, as for yourself, my dear child, it will be better for you to

know nothing of our whereabouts, or our doings. You must go to London

to my dear old friend Miss Earnshaw, and ask her _for my sake_ to give

you a home. I am sure she will do that, for she is so good and loves me

dearly. She lives at Earl's Court Square; and you must go to her at

once, travelling by train to King's Cross, and then taking a hansom

there.

"Once before, long years ago, Miss Earnshaw wanted to adopt you and make

you her heiress, but your father and I could not give you up. Tell her

we do so now, and consent that you shall take her name--which was the

sole condition she made--it will, now, be more honourable than our own.

Farewell, dear, my heart would break at parting from you thus were it

not that what has happened has broken it already.

"Your loving Mother,

"DOROTHY ANDERSON."

Doris read the letter over and over again before she could quite realise

all that it meant. She was nineteen years old, had received a fairly

good education, and now her parents had forsaken her, leaving her

entirely to her own resources, except for the command that she should go

to London to Mrs. Anderson's old friend, Miss Earnshaw.

Doris had never been to London, and she had never stayed with Miss

Earnshaw, though the latter came to be at the hydro at Askern every

year, and never left without visiting them for a few days. She was rich

and generous, and Doris knew that she would be willing to give her a

home.

"But oh," said the girl to herself, "it is hard to have to leave here in

this way--never to return--under a cloud, too, a dreadfully black

cloud!" And she sighed deeply, for it was difficult for her to

understand how her father could possibly have speculated with money that

was not his own. He was a reserved man, who had never spoken of

business matters to her, and she was a child yet in knowledge of the

world, and did not comprehend such things as speculating on the Stock

Exchange; but she knew that he had done wrong--for had not her mother

acknowledged that?--and realised, with the keenest pain, that Bernard

Cameron, her lover, was ruined by it, absolutely ruined, for he could

not continue his career at Oxford, and the capital with which he meant

to start his school, afterwards, was all lost, too. Moreover, they

could not marry, for he was penniless, and she a beggar, going now to

beg for a home in London. All thoughts of a marriage between them must

be over. It was a bright dream vanished, a castle in the air pulled

down and shattered.

"I suppose we must prepare the luncheon, Miss Doris?" said Susan, when,

at length, in answer to her persistent knocking at the door, Doris

turned the key to admit her, and as she spoke the woman cast an

inquiring glance toward the letter in Doris's hand.

"Lunch? Oh, yes, Susan! Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Cameron, and the others

will be coming--although----" The poor girl broke down and wept.

"Don't, Miss Doris! Don't cry so, dear!" said Susan, pityingly, wiping

her own tears away as she spoke. "Master and mistress may return in

time to sit down with their guests."

"No, they won't. They'll never come back!" exclaimed Doris, with

another burst of sobs.

"What do they say in the letter?" asked the old servant.

"It's awful!" replied Doris. "Just see"--she passed the letter, with a

trembling hand--"see what mother has written to me. _You_ may read it,

Susan, though no one else shall. There's a message for you in it about

the house."

Susan adjusted her glasses and began to read the letter with some

difficulty, for tears were in her eyes, and she had to take off her

spectacles again and again in order to wipe them away.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she ejaculated more than once, as she read the

letter. "That I should have lived to see this day! My poor mistress!

What she must be suffering!"

"And father!" exclaimed Doris. "Oh, how miserable he must be! For it

is his fault, you know, and the knowledge of that must be so dreadful."

"I cannot understand his doing it," said Susan, looking deeply pained.

"Such a high-minded, honourable gentleman as he always seemed. Your

poor mother! your poor mother!" she repeated. "What must she be

feeling."

"It's bad for me, too," said Doris, "to be deserted, to be left behind

like this."

"Aye, dearie, it is," sighed the old servant, looking at her with great

affection. "But you must remember, 'When my father and mother forsake

me then the Lord taketh me up.'"

"I don't feel as if He takes _me_ up," sobbed Doris, whose mind was too

full of trouble to receive any comfort just then. "Father and mother

_might_ have kissed me and said good-bye! Oh, it was cruel, cruel to

steal away when I was asleep!" And again she cried as if her heart

would break.

Susan endeavoured to calm her, but for some time in vain. At last,

however, the old servant, glancing at the small clock on the

mantelpiece, exclaimed:

"We _must_ prepare to meet the visitors who are coming! Miss Doris,

rouse yourself, be brave; we have our work to do now--afterwards we can

weep." Susan brushed away her own tears as she spoke, and, drawing

herself up, added in her more usual, matter-of-fact tone, "I should like

to have this letter, or at least the part of it containing that message

to me, so that I may be able to show it to those who may question my

right to sell the furniture, etc."

"I can't spare the letter," replied Doris, "but I will tear off the half

sheet containing the message to you."

"Yes, do, dearie, and write your mother's name after it, and your own,

too."

"Very well," said Doris, "I will write my own name beside mother's--then

it will be seen that I have written hers for her." She did so, adding

"pro" before writing her mother's, and then Susan took the half sheet

and went to prepare for the coming guests.

An hour afterwards, as Doris was mechanically arranging the drawing-room

in the way her mother always liked to have it when visitors were

expected, Bernard Cameron entered unannounced.

"Doris!" he exclaimed, coming up to her with outstretched hands. "My

dear Doris, what has happened? Crying? Why, darling, what is the

matter?"

"Oh, Bernard! Bernard!" She could not tell him for her tears; but the

touch of his cool, strong hand was comforting, and she clung to it for a

moment.

He soothed her gently until she was able to speak and tell him what had

happened since she parted from him the night before, then she allowed

him to read her mother's letter.

It was a great blow to the young man full of bright anticipations and

ambition, in the full tide of his Oxford career, on the eve of his

engagement of marriage, and on the day of his coming-of-age, to learn

that he was bereft of his entire fortune and rendered absolutely

penniless by one who had undertaken to care for him and protect his

rights; who was, moreover, the father of his beloved, with whom he

intended to share all that he possessed. Small wonder was it that the

young man drew back a little, covering his face with his hands, and

uttering something between a boyish sob and a manly sigh.

The next minute he would have turned to Doris again, in order that he

might say kind, reassuring words; for not for a moment was his love for

her affected by her father's wrong-doing, but they were interrupted, Mr.

Hamilton being announced.

The trustee looked worried. He came forward nervously, inquiring if

Doris knew where her father was. It was evident that he had already

heard from the servants of Mr. Anderson's absence.

Doris could not speak. She looked helplessly at the man, and then at

Bernard, rose as if to leave the room, made a step or two forward,

stumbled over a footstool, and would have fallen if Bernard had not

caught hold of her.

"All this is too much for you," he said, in a quick, authoritative

manner. "You must go and lie down. Mr. Hamilton, be so good as to

touch the bell. Thank you. Doris does not know where her father is.

That will do, Doris. No need to say any more at present. Susan," he

continued, as the door opened, "help Miss Anderson to her room. She is

ill."

He handed Doris over to the maid with care; but it seemed to the poor

girl that he was only too anxious to get rid of her, now that he was

aware of the wrong her father had done him. She was, however, relieved

to be able to go to her own room, and, under the plea of illness, escape

the harassing questions which, otherwise, the coming guests might oblige

her to answer. In sending her to her room Bernard was really doing the

kindest thing. It never occurred to him that she could possibly imagine

that he blamed her, or in any way felt his love for her diminished by

her father's heinous conduct.

It was a pity, and the cause of much unhappiness, that he had not time

to say one kind word to the poor girl, after the grievous disclosure she

had made to him.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*A HARD WOMAN.*

O for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

LONGFELLOW.

"I have come to say a bit of my mind, Doris Anderson!"

The words were hard and uncompromising. Mrs. Cameron, who, in the

twilight, had sought and obtained access to the bedroom of the missing

trustee's daughter, stood over her with a gesture which was almost

menacing. The difficulty she had met with in forcing her way upstairs

against the wishes of Susan and the other frightened maidservants, in

whose eyes she looked terrible in her wrath, had much increased her

displeasure. She now longed to "have it out" with the only member of

Mr. Anderson's family within her reach, or, as she expressed it to

Doris, to give her a "bit of her mind."

It was not a nice mind, Doris knew, so far as gentleness, charity, and

courtesy constitute niceness, and the poor girl shrank away from her

visitor, burying her tear-stained face still deeper in the pillows. A

pent-up sigh escaping as she did so might have appealed to a more

tender-hearted woman, but only served to still further incense Mrs.

Cameron, who, tossing her head with a muttered malediction, forthwith

proceeded to disclose the real vulgarity and unkindness of her nature.

"It's no use sniffing and crying there, young woman," she said, "and

it's not a bit of good your playing the innocent, and pretending you

knew nothing of what was going on. Your father is a thief and a

scoundrel! Now what is the use of your sitting up, with that white

face, and pointing to the door like a tragedy queen? I shall say what

I've come to say, and no power on earth shall stop me. John Anderson,

your father, has stolen my poor boy's money, and wasted every penny of

it! There is nothing left! Nothing! All has gone! Twenty-five

thousand pounds were entrusted to your father by his dying friend

Richard Cameron, my husband, who had unlimited faith in him, as had also

Mr. Hamilton; and it's all gone! There is nothing left! Nothing!

_Nothing_! My poor boy is ruined, absolutely ruined! Just at the

starting of his life, when he is doing so well at Oxford, with all his

ambition----"

She broke down for a moment, with something like a sob, but, suppressing

it, frowned the more fiercely to hide the momentary weakness, "He has

this blow hurled at him by one of the very men who, of all others, were

appointed to protect his interests, and make everything smooth before

him. It isn't as if your father wasn't paid for being acting executor,

or trustee. My husband, who was always just"--Mrs. Cameron was one of

those wives who abuse and quarrel with their husbands while they have

them, but after their death wear perpetual mourning and lose no

opportunity of sounding their praises--"left John Anderson a legacy of a

hundred pounds, to repay him for any trouble the business of

administering his estate might cause. Little did he think what a thief

and rogue the man would turn out to be!"

"Leave the room!" gasped poor Doris, sitting up and waving her hand

frantically towards the door. Whatever her father had done, she could

not listen to such abuse of him.

"Leave the room, indeed!" cried Mrs. Cameron, sitting down on a bedroom

chair, which trembled beneath her weight--she weighed at least twelve

stone, being stout and tall--"I shall leave it when I choose, and when

I've said what I have to say, and not before! And it doesn't become

you, Doris," she cried--"it doesn't become you to speak saucily to me.

You're as bad as John Anderson, no doubt. Like father, like daughter!

You're all tarred with the same stick. If you didn't actually take my

boy's money yourself, perhaps you used some of it; or, if you didn't, no

doubt it was your extravagance and your mother's that made Anderson want

money so badly that he took what was not his own. However," she went on

inconsequently, "you are as bad as he if you defend him, and take sides

against my poor boy, who never did anything to harm you in his life----"

"Oh, I don't!" interrupted Doris, distressed beyond measure at the idea

of such a thing. "If you only knew how I esteem Bernard, and I----" She

broke off with a saving instinct which told her that not by pleading her

love for Bernard would she soften his mother's heart.

"Esteem him, and yet take the part of the villain who has robbed him of

everything?" cried the other indignantly.

"You forget"--almost soundlessly murmured Doris, her white lips only

just parting for the words to escape--"you forget, the wrong-doer is my

father. Yes, he has done wrong--I acknowledge it," she cried

pathetically. "But still he is my father!" And the tears fell down her

cheeks.

It was a sight to melt a heart of stone; but Mrs. Cameron was not

looking. Though her eyes were fixed upon Doris, and her ears heard the

faintly uttered words, she perceived nothing but her boy's wrongs and

her own, the vanished L25,000, the stopping of Bernard's education at

Oxford, the failure of her own tiny income to provide for their daily

bread and the commonest clothes, the sinking of her son into a poor,

subordinate sphere at the very commencement of his life, the slipping of

herself into squalid, poverty-stricken surroundings, and a narrow,

meagre old age. Another picture, too, presented itself the next moment,

and that was the mental vision of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson enjoying

themselves abroad, in the lap of luxury, eating and drinking at the best

hotels, arrayed in handsome clothing, and laughing, yes, actually

laughing together about the way in which they had lightened the Camerons

pockets.

That being so, it was no wonder that Mrs. Cameron's next words were even

harsher than those which had preceded them.

"Yes, you've a scoundrel for a father! You must never forget that!" she

cried. "Never, never, for one moment! Wherever you are, whatever you

may be doing, you must never forget that. You'll have to take a back

seat in life, I can tell you. Not yours will be the lot of other girls.

With a father who is a felon in the eyes of the law you can never marry

into a respectable family without bringing into it such a load of

disgrace as will do it a cruel wrong."

She fixed her eyes sharply on the girl's pale miserable face as she

spoke, with more than a suspicion of a love affair between her and

Bernard, which she determined to quash, cost what it might to Doris.

"If you marry," she continued harshly, "you will take your husband a

dowry of disgrace--that, and nothing else!" She laughed harshly.

"Why," she ejaculated the next minute, "why, the girl's not listening!"

for she perceived Doris springing from her bed and beginning, in

trembling haste, to dress herself.

To get away from that terrible voice, and the sound of those cruel

words, was Doris's first determination; her second was to go where she

could hide for ever and ever from Bernard Cameron, lest in his noble,

disinterested love for her he should venture, in spite of what had

occurred, to insist upon marrying her. The idea of bringing him a dowry

of disgrace was so frightful that it over-balanced for the moment the

poor, distraught mind of the suffering girl.

Mrs. Cameron was one of those women who, when wronged, are blind and

deaf to all else; suffering acutely, they pour out torrents of words,

unseeing, unheeding the mischief they may be doing to others. She,

therefore, continued talking, in a loud, harsh voice, with unsparing

bitterness, all the time Doris was dressing and putting on her plainest

outdoor apparel; and the mother's mind having turned to the subject of

marriage, and her wish being to destroy any thoughts Doris might have

cherished of Bernard as a possible husband, she said:

"My son, though poor as a pauper now--thanks to your father--bears an

unblemished name. Honourable as the day, he comes of a most honourable

race of men. In time, when he has worked up some sort of position for

himself, he may marry a girl with money, and thus, in a way, attain to

something like the position he has lost. It is all a chance, of course,

but it is the only chance he has. There are lots of girls with money.

He is handsome and taking; he must marry one of them. Do you hear me,

Doris? I say he must! It is the only chance he has. Are you not glad

for him to have just that one little chance?"

Doris was silent.

"Ha! You do not answer? Can it be, can it possibly be," Mrs. Cameron's

voice grew hysterical, in her fear and anxiety, "that from any foolish

words the poor, ruined lad has said--such words as lads will say to

giddy girls--you can possibly consider him at all, in any way, bound to

you?"

The poor girl would not answer. She looked appealingly around. Was

there no one who could save her from this woman? Where was Bernard?

Why was he not at her side, to shield and protect her? The next moment

she realised the impossibility of his being there in her bedroom; and

again her eyes roved longingly round the limited space.

On the morrow no doubt pitying friends, hearing of her trouble, would

rally round her: the clergyman's wife, the doctor's, the ladies to whose

school she used to go, and others, acquaintances more or less intimate.

There was not one of them who would not be kinder to her than this

woman, who was goading her now beyond endurance. But they were

absent--and Mrs. Cameron was so very, very present.

"Do you mean to say--do you mean to say--there is anything between you,

the daughter of a criminal, who shall yet be brought to justice, if

there be any power in the arm of the law, and my son--my stainless,

innocent child? Will you answer me?"

The room, which was going round and round, in a cloud of darkness

crossed by sparks of light, seemed to Doris to assume once more its

ordinary appearance, as she came round out of a half-swoon. What to

answer, however, she knew not. She could only dimly comprehend the

question. Was there anything between her, overwhelmed as she was with

disgrace, and Bernard, poor, defrauded, yet honourable in the eyes of

all men? Was there anything between them? Yes. There was something

between them--there was love. But could she speak of that to a third

person, and that third person one so aggressive as Mrs. Cameron? She

felt she could not: therefore again she was silent, while the woman

poured out on her the wrath which now completely over-mastered her.

"You bad girl!" she cried. "Not content with your father's having

ruined my boy by stealing all his money, you are mean enough and wicked

enough to deliberately determine to cut away his one remaining chance of

rising in the world! 'Pon my word"--all the vulgarity of the woman was

coming to the surface--"you would ruin him body and soul, if you could!

All for your own ambition, that you, too, may rise in the world; you

intend to cling to him as a limpet clings to a rock--and he won't be

able to raise you, not he, poor lad! but you will drag him down into the

mire, which will close over his head and then--then perhaps you will be

content."

She waited for Doris to speak, but still the girl was unable to

articulate a word. She was fastening her hat now, and putting the last

touches to her veil and gloves; in a moment or two she would be able to

escape into the open air, and into the night, now fast coming on.

"It is to his chivalry, doubtless, that you are trusting, to his

generosity, his love, his charity, his magnanimity. By his virtues you

would slay him, that is, I mean, debase him in the eyes of the

world--the world we live in," continued the upbraiding voice.

Then Doris, stung beyond endurance and driven to bay, made answer,

confronting Mrs. Cameron proudly, with her little head held high:

"You may keep your son. I will never marry him. He is nothing to me

now--_nothing_."

"I can tell him that?"

"Tell him," cried Doris passionately, "tell him that I would not marry

the son of such a mother for any consideration in the world! Tell him

that I would _rather die_." She felt at that moment as if she would,

for the woman's cruel words had dragged her heart far from its moorings.

The next moment Mrs. Cameron was alone, standing in the middle of the

room, where she had so brow-beaten and insulted the innocent daughter of

that unhappy house, listening to Doris's retreating footsteps on the

stairs and in the hall, and then the gentle closing of the outer door.

*CHAPTER V.*

*BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS.*

Life is so sad a thing, its measure

Brims over full with human tears;

A blighted hope, a buried treasure,

Infinite pain, delusive pleasure,

Make sorrowful our years.

* * * * *

Heaven is so near, oh friend, 'tis yonder,

God's word doth clear the uncertain way;

His hand will bear thee, lest thou wander,

His Spirit teach thee thoughts to ponder

Till thou hast found the day.

LOLA MARSHALL DEANE.

Doris had gone. She had promised never to marry Bernard. The young

people were parted for ever. Mrs. Cameron, though poor, had her son,

her dear, if penniless, son all to herself. By a vigorous onslaught she

had defeated and driven away the enemy, utterly routed and confounded.

It was a moment of triumph for her, and yet she felt anything but

triumphant; and it was with a cross and gloomy countenance that she

proceeded downstairs in search of her son, whom she found at last

closeted with Mr. Hamilton in the study.

"How is Doris?" asked Bernard, rising as his mother entered, and

offering her a chair.

Mrs. Cameron sat down heavily, a little disconcerted by this

interrogation.

"What does that matter?" she snapped. "The question is how are we, the

wronged, defrauded, robbed?"

Her son looked at her impatiently. "After all, it is worse for Doris,"

he said, with great feeling.

"Worse?" ejaculated his mother.

"Worse?" echoed Mr. Hamilton. He was a long, lean man, remarkable for

his habitual silence and great learning.

"Yes, ten thousand times worse!" cried Bernard. "We have lost only our

money, but she has lost her parents, her home, her money, and

everything--that is, almost everything," correcting himself, as a smile

flitted across his face, "at one stroke."

"Bernard is right--and the poor girl has the disgrace to bear as well,"

interjected Mr. Hamilton.

"Humph!" Mrs. Cameron tossed her head. "The Andersons deserve all that

they have got," she was beginning, when Bernard stopped her hastily.

"Mother," he said, and his tone had lost its usual submissiveness in

speaking to her, "Doris has nothing to do with the cause of our

misfortunes. She knew nothing about all this until after it had

happened."

"How do you know?" asked Mrs. Cameron sharply.

"Doris told me so."

"Doris told you so! And you believed her?"

"Yes, and always shall!" cried Bernard, his face glowing and his eyes

flashing. "And I would have you understand, mother, that I will have no

word said against Doris. She and I are engaged to be married. She is

my promised wife."

There was a dead silence in the room when his clear, manly voice ceased

speaking. His mother was too much astounded and disturbed to easily

find words; she had not imagined things had gone quite so far as that

between the young people. And Mr. Hamilton, not knowing what to say,

shrank back into his habitual silence.

"She is my promised wife," said Bernard again, and there was even more

pride and confidence in his young tones. A smile, joyous and brilliant,

broke out all over his handsome face. Forgotten were the pecuniary

troubles now, the broken career at Oxford, the school that would never

be his. In their place was Doris, his beautiful beloved, who would more

than make up to him for all and everything. To his mother's amazement

and consternation he went on rapidly, "I shall marry her at once, then I

shall have the right to protect her against every breath of

calumny,--though indeed, if you will respect my wish, Mr. Hamilton," he

added, turning to the minister, "and will not tell the police, or

prosecute Mr. Anderson, the matter can be hushed up as far as possible,

and her name will not be tarnished. But in any case, _in any case_," he

repeated, "Doris is mine. I shall marry her and work for her. If the

worst comes to the worst, I can get a clerkship, or a post as

schoolmaster--and with Doris, with Doris," he concluded, "I shall be

very, _very_ happy."

His mother's words broke like a bombshell into the midst of his fond

imaginings. "Doris has just been telling me," she said, in low, cruel

tones, "that she will _never_ marry you!"

"What? What are you saying?" exclaimed Bernard, agitatedly, the joy in

his face giving place to an expression of great anxiety.

His mother said again, "Doris has just been saying to me that she will

never, _never_ marry you. She told me I was to tell you so."

"But this is most unaccountable!" cried Bernard, beginning to walk up

and down the room. "This is most unaccountable," he repeated. "Why,

she told me----" he broke off, beginning again, "Where is she? I must

see her--must hear from her own lips the reason of this change."

"You cannot see her, Bernard," said his mother, in slow, icy tones.

"You cannot see her. She is not in this house----"

"Not in this house? Not here? What do you mean?"

"She has gone away."

"But where? Where has she gone?"

"I do not know."

"But has she left no message for me?" he asked, with exceeding

anxiousness.

"She left the message I have given you," answered his mother. "Tell

Bernard," she said, "that I will never, _never_ marry him!"

"That message I refuse to receive!" cried Bernard. "Poor Doris was in

such trouble she did not know what she was saying--I am sure she did not

mean that."

"I suppose you think I am telling you a lie?" began his mother hotly.

Bernard did not reply, indeed he did not apparently hear her words. He

hurried out into the hall, got his hat, and then returned to the room to

say to his mother:

"Have you no idea where Doris has gone?"

"Not the least!" snapped Mrs. Cameron.

"I shall find out. I shall follow her, wherever she has gone. You will

not see me again till she is found!"

"Bernard! You silly lad!"

But he had gone. No use, Mrs. Cameron, in rushing after him into the

hall, with all the arguments you can think of! No use in standing

there, frowning and execrating his folly! The influence that draws him

after Doris, in her poor distracted flight, is stronger than that which

binds him to your warped and selfish nature. Love is spurring his

footsteps onward, far, far away from you. If you wish to keep him by

your side, you, too, must have some of its magic.

Bernard first went on his bicycle to Doncaster, to the railway station,

where, after many inquiries and much futile questioning, he ascertained

that a young lady answering to the description he gave of Miss Anderson

had booked for King's Cross, London, and had set off to go there by the

7.34 train.

Without hesitation he determined to follow her by the next express,

which was to leave Doncaster at 11.18. It was then eight o'clock, so he

had time to cycle back to Doris's home, there to question Susan Gaunt as

to what relations or friends Miss Anderson had in London besides Miss

Earnshaw, for he thought that in case Doris had not gone to her, as her

mother had directed in the letter he had seen, she might be with other

friends.

Susan was in a state of great distress and anxiety when she heard that

her dear young lady had gone alone to London so late in the evening.

"There will be no one to meet her when she arrives!" cried the good

woman. "It will be night, and Miss Doris has never been to London

before! She won't know what to do. There won't be any one to take care

of her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what will she do?"

"Well, I'm going after her," said Bernard, "as fast as I can. And I

intend to go straight to Miss Earnshaw's in Earl's Court Square. She

will go there, I suppose?" And he looked searchingly into the old

servant's face.

"Yes, sir. She will go there, for her mother told her to do so."

"But, in case she is not there when I arrive?" said the young man

tentatively, "have you any idea of any other friends in London to whom

she may go?"

"No, sir; no," answered Susan, shaking her head. "She knows no one in

London except Miss Earnshaw. How should she when she has never been

there? Oh, my poor young lady! My poor, dear young lady! God grant she

may find Miss Earnshaw!"

Bernard left her in tears, and hurried off to his home, in order to pack

a small bag which he could carry on his bicycle to Doncaster Station.

Having trimmed his bicycle-lamp and eaten a little supper, without much

appetite, he strapped his bag on his bicycle and again set off for

Doncaster, arriving there in time for the first night express.

During the hours of that long, rapid journey south he was full of fears

and doubts; fears for the welfare of the girl who had run away from her

old home in such terrible grief, and despair and doubt as to his power

to find, console, and persuade her to take back her promise not to marry

him.

The hours of the night wore slowly away, until at 3.5 in the morning his

train arrived at King's Cross. Nothing could be done at that hour, and,

after making inquiries at the station as to whether any young lady had

arrived by the train from Doncaster, which reached King's Cross at 10.45

P.M., without eliciting any satisfactory information, he lounged about

for a couple of hours, and then went out in search of a coffee-house,

and was glad to find one at last where he could obtain some hot, if

muddy, coffee, and a little bread and butter.

The homely fare caused him to realise the state of his finances as

nothing else would have done. This was what it meant to be bereft of

fortune! For others would be the comforts and pleasant appointments of

good hotels; for others would be ease, culture, and luxuries: he himself

would have to take a poor man's place in the world. He would have to be

content with penny cups of coffee and halfpenny buns, with poor clothes

and a little home--thankful indeed if he could secure that.

"But no matter," he said to himself, raising his head and smiling so

brightly that several persons in the coffee-house turned to look at him.

"No matter, if I win Doris for my wife. With her dear face near me, and

her sweet and gentle words of encouragement sounding in my ears, I can

bear all and everything. She will transform a plain little cottage into

a palace by her presence, and will make a poor man rich. I can be

content with anything, shall want nothing, when I have Doris." And

afterwards, when he was walking about in the soft, misty rain, which

seemed to him so black and cheerless, he said again to himself, "It

doesn't matter. Nothing matters now that I am going to Doris."

For he felt confident that he would find her at Earl's Court Square when

he arrived there. Of course she would have gone straight there in a

cab, as it would be night-time when she arrived at King's Cross. There

was nothing else that she could do.

He would follow her as soon as he possibly could. Dear little Doris!

How glad she would be that he had not taken her at her word, if indeed

she had sent him that cruel message! How devoted she would think him to

follow her at once! How much comforted she would be to receive the

protestations of unchanging, nay, more, increasing love!

Time seemed to drag with leaden wings, until what he thought a decent

hour for calling upon Doris began to approach. Then he took a hansom in

a hurry, bidding the cabman drive to Earl's Court Square as fast as he

could.

It was scarcely ten o'clock when he stood at the great door of the house

in Earl's Court Square, touching the electric button, and waiting in

breathless suspense for the door to open. No one answered his summons

for quite five minutes--which seemed an eternity to him--then the door

slowly opened, and a lad in plain livery stood before him.

"Is Miss Anderson in?" inquired Bernard.

"Miss Anderson, sir?" asked the page slowly.

"Yes, Miss Anderson. Has she not arrived?"

"No, sir. I don't know whom you mean, sir. There is no one here of that

name."

Then Doris had not arrived! It was a great blow to poor Bernard. "Can

I see Miss Earnshaw?" he asked at length.

"No, sir. You can't, sir. She is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, sir. She died suddenly yesterday of heart disease. Very sudden

it was, sir."

Dead! Miss Earnshaw! Then what had become of Doris? "Are you quite

sure that a young lady did not come here in the early hours of this

morning?" asked Bernard, slipping a coin into the youth's hand.

The touch of silver seemed to quicken the latter's memory. "I was in

bed, sir. But if you wait here I will ask Mr. Giles, the butler," he

said, inviting Bernard into the hall and going in search of the

information he needed.

Presently he returned with a deferential butler, who said to Bernard:

"There was a young lady came to this house in a hansom, sir, about one

o'clock this morning. She wanted Miss Earnshaw, and seemed terribly cut

up to find she was dead. She saw Mr. Earnshaw, Miss Earnshaw's distant

cousin, who inherits everything. But I think he couldn't do anything

for her, sir, for she went away in great trouble."

"Where is Mr. Earnshaw?" demanded Bernard excitedly.

"He went off by an early train to Reigate, where he lives. He won't

return until the day of the funeral."

"When will that be?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Give me his address. I must wire to him!" exclaimed Bernard. "Did you

observe whether the lady went away in a cab or walked?"

The butler had not noticed the manner of her departure, nor had any one

else in the house. All the inquiries Bernard made--and they were

many--resulted in nothing. Doris had vanished as completely as it was

possible for any one to vanish in our great and crowded metropolis.

Bernard was in the greatest distress and anxiety about her, and sought

for her in every possible way, by advertising, through the police, by

telegraphing, and when he returned from Reigate by a personal interview

with Mr. Earnshaw, who said that he had told her that any claim she,

Miss Doris Anderson, had on Miss Earnshaw could not be considered at all

by him, for he had nothing to do with it, and could not see his way to

do anything to help her.

Bernard said strong words, and looked with exceeding anger upon the

wealthy man who had just inherited the great house. But the warmth of

his feelings only hastened his own departure, for Mr. Earnshaw requested

his servant to show him out with all speed.

And nowhere in London could Bernard discover a trace of Doris Anderson,

though he sought for her diligently and with care.

Bernard was a true Christian, possessing earnest faith, otherwise he

would have been perfectly overwhelmed by these sad reverses of love and

fortune; as it was, although he was very unhappy, hope never quite left

him, and in this, his darkest hour, he was able to trust in God and take

courage.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*DORIS ALONE IN LONDON.*

Most men in a brazen prison live

Where is the sun's lost eye,

With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly

Their lives to some unmeaning task, work give,

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.

But often in the world's most crowded streets,

And often in the din of strife,

There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Doris felt quite stunned when she found that her friend Miss Earnshaw

was dead, and that Mr. Earnshaw, the heir, refused to recognise any

obligation to be kind to one whom she had loved. Night though it was

when Doris arrived in London she hurried to Earl's Court Square in a

cab, for she knew not where else to go. It seemed to her most fortunate

that Miss Earnshaw's house was lighted up, little knowing the reason for

it. And then the shock of learning the sad news of the sudden decease

of her old friend was great, and the cold and almost rude behaviour of

Mr. Earnshaw, who would have nothing to do with one whom he looked upon

as a protegee of his late cousin's, gave poignancy to her distress.

[Illustration: "THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT."]

Doris had very little money in her purse, and knew not what to do.

Mechanically therefore she returned to the cab, whose driver she had not

paid, and re-entered it.

"Where next, madam?" asked the cabman.

Not knowing what to say, Doris made no answer. Was there in all the

world, she wondered, a being more deplorably hopeless, homeless, and

overwhelmed with trouble than she? Where could she turn? What could

she do? It was out of the question that she should return to Yorkshire,

where there was now nothing but ruin and disgrace for an Anderson. She

would not encounter Mrs. Cameron again if she could by any means avoid

doing so, and she had promised never to marry her son. Bernard would be

sorry for her now, she knew, yes, very sorry indeed. Still he had shrunk

from her and looked very strange upon hearing of her father's

misappropriation of his money and absconding, which was enough truly to

seriously lessen his affection for her. Indeed, Doris thought he could

no longer love her, in which case she had certainly lost him entirely.

Father, mother, lover, all gone; cut off from friends by a black cloud

of disgrace and shame, penniless and alone, terribly alone in a world of

which she knew so little, amidst dangers more vast than she, with her

limited experience, could imagine, what could she do? Surely God as

well as man had forsaken her! She turned quite sick and faint.

"Where to, lady?" asked the cabman again, and this time there was a note

of compassion in his rough voice which appealed to Doris.

She burst into tears.

The man turned his head aside. He was one of nature's gentlemen, though

only a poor cabman, and it was not for him to look upon a lady's tears.

He stepped back to his horse the next minute, and pretended to busy

himself with the harness.

Doris had time to recover. In a few minutes she was able to check her

tears. Then she beckoned to the cabman to approach.

"I am in trouble," she said; "the friend to whose house you have driven

me died suddenly yesterday----" She broke down pitifully.

The cabman nodded. "That's bad!" said he, looking down on the ground.

"I don't know what to do," added Doris in tones of despair.

"There'll be servants in this big house, won't they take you in for the

remainder of the night, at least," suggested the man.

"I dare say they would if they were alone," answered Doris. "But there

is a man in the house--I cannot call him a gentleman--who says

everything is now his, and that I have no claim upon him, and he will do

nothing for me."

The cabman muttered something strong, and then broke off to apologise

for speaking so roughly. "You'll excuse me, miss," he added, "if I say

I should like to punch the fellar's 'ead. May I go to the door and make

'em take you in if I can?" he asked finally.

"No, thank you," replied Doris. "I am poor and homeless"--her lips

quivered--"but I am too proud to intrude where I am not wanted." She

turned her head on one side.

The horse started forward a step or two, and the cabman went to its

head. A sudden gust of wind and rain swept over Doris through the open

door, causing her to shiver. The man returned to her side.

"We can't stay here any longer, miss," he said.

"No"--Doris hesitated--"no, but----" she paused.

"Where shall I take you, lady?" asked the cabman.

"I don't know," replied Doris miserably.

The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently. All was silent in the

square: there were no passers by, except one solitary policeman, who

stood to look at them for a moment, and then passed on.

"Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris at length.

"Yes, lady."

The cabman drove her to two or three hotels without avail; either they

were closed for the night, or the night-porter on duty refused to admit

a lady without any luggage.

Again the cabman came to Doris for orders. "What will you do?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Doris, pitifully, with quivering lips. She felt

terribly desolate and lonely.

Fortunately for her the cabman happened to be an honest man, who had a

wife and children of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so helpless,

and so entirely ignorant of the great city, with its immense dangers for

a young and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the night-time, he

suggested, "You might go to a decent lodging, lady, until morning."

"Yes, I should be glad. But how can I find one? Do you know of one?"

asked the girl desperately.

"There's my mother at King's Cross. She's poor, but respectable, and

she lets lodgings and happens to have no one in them at present."

Doris looked at him as he spoke. Could she venture to go to his mother?

He seemed an honest man. And what else could she do?

"Mother's house is clean," continued the cabman. "She lives in a quiet

street a few doors from where I live with my wife and children.

Mother's always been very particular about her lodgers: and she's so

clean," he persisted. "Any one might eat off her floor, as they say."

The simple words appealed to Doris; they bore the stamp of sincerity,

and so also did the honest kindly face of the poor man. But still she

hesitated: her common sense told her she could not be too careful.

"Perhaps you'd look at this, miss," said the man, putting his hand in

his breast pocket and producing a small New Testament. He opened it and

pointed to the inscription written on the fly-leaf, which Doris read by

the light of the cab-lamp:

"Presented to Sam Austin by his friend and teacher the Rev. Charles

Barnett, as a small acknowledgment of his valuable assistance in the St.

Michael's Night School, London, N."

"How nice!" said Doris. "Thank you for showing that to me. I will go

to your mother's. I am sure she must be a good woman."

"She is indeed, lady. A better woman never lived, though I say it."

"Drive me there, please," said Doris.

The man shut the door of the cab and returned to his seat.

An hour afterwards poor tired Doris found herself comfortably lodged in

a small but respectable house near King's Cross, and before retiring to

rest she thanked God for His providential care of her during the

difficulties and dangers of the night.

Downstairs Mrs. Austin was giving her son a cup of cocoa and asking

questions about the young lady he had brought to her.

"We don't know anything about her, Sam," she said cautiously. "There is

of course no doubt about her being in trouble, and looking as good as an

angel, too, but one can never tell. I'd rather she'd have had some

luggage. Don't you think if she had come up from the country to stay

with her friend, now, she'd have had some luggage?"

"Well, yes, so she would in an ord'nary way--but we don't know all the

circumstances. And it was a first-class big house in a fashionable

square, and she went up to the door as boldly as if she expected a

welcome----"

"Which she didn't get, and they wouldn't have anything to do with her

there. That looks bad. For the rest you have only her own tale to go

by."

"Mother, are you going to turn her out?" asked Sam, with reproach in his

voice.

"No, Sam, I can't do that. But I shall keep my eyes open."

"You'll be good to her, mother, I know."

"Yes, of course." Mrs. Austin smiled, and her son knew that she would

keep her word.

He went away then with his cab, and Mrs. Austin closed her house for the

night and went upstairs to bed, pausing on the landing by her new

lodger's door. Did the girl want anything, she wondered, and after a

low knock she opened the door softly.

Doris was kneeling by her bed-side, and with a little nod of

satisfaction Mrs. Austin withdrew.

Doris's sleep, when at last she sought her couch, was long, so that when

she awoke it was afternoon and she found her landlady standing by her

bedside, with a little tray, on which was tea and toast.

"You are very good to me, Mrs. Austin," she said, gratefully, as she

partook of the refreshing tea.

"I'm very pleased to have such a nice lodger, miss," said the widow,

completely won over and forgetting all her misgivings, as her stout,

good-humoured countenance expanded in a broad smile. "There are some

who like gentlemen lodgers best, but I don't. 'Give me a nice young

lady,' says I, 'and you may take all your gentlemen!'"

Doris smiled a little dolefully. "But I haven't very much money----"

she began.

"Don't you worrit yourself about that, miss! The sovereign you gave me

when you came in will see you through at least two weeks here, so far as

lodging is concerned--of course the food will come to rather more--but

it may be that you will find work, if it is work you are wanting, miss,

though you do seem too much of a lady for that sort of thing."

"I shall have to work," said Doris, "because I have very little money,

and no one to give me any more."

"Dear me, that's bad. Might I make so bold, miss, as to ask if you have

been running away from home--from your parents, miss?"

Running away from her parents? How different the case really was! It

was her parents who had run away from her! But she could not tell Mrs.

Austin this. She therefore only shook her head, saying gently, "I lost

my parents before leaving home. The--the reason I have no luggage is

this, I--I was in great trouble when I came away, and so I forgot to

pack any."

"Then can't you send for your luggage, miss?" asked the woman.

"No, no. There are reasons why the people I left, at least one of them,

must not know where I am. So I can't send. Besides, I left in debt,

and as I cannot pay the money, I want the people to have my clothes and

jewellery."

Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened wider. It was queer, and her first

feelings of compassion, which had been aroused by her lodger's pitiable

situation, and by the fact that she had seen her on her knees, became

mingled with doubts and suspicions. This young lady left the last place

she stayed at in debt; it would behove her present landlady to be

careful lest she, too, should be taken in. Miss Anderson was very young

and innocent-looking, but it was wonderful how sharp those baby-faced

girls could be!

"I shall have to buy a few things," said Doris, "and that will cost

money. But I must look out for work immediately. The question is, what

can I do?"

"I should think you can do a great many things, miss," said Mrs. Austin.

"A young lady like you will almost have been taught everything."

Doris shook her head. "I know a smattering of many things," she said,

"but I doubt if I could earn money by any one of them."

"Well, miss, time will show. I wouldn't worrit myself about it this

evening, if I were you--I would just lie still and go to sleep. You're

worn out, that's what you are."

Doris took this good advice so far as to lie down again after she had

her tea, with her face to the wall. But for some time she did not go to

sleep, for her heart ached too much; yet she did not weep, though there

was a pain at the back of her eyes which hurt more than tears, and did

not give her the relief that they would have given. She felt keenly her

changed circumstances. Two days ago she had a good home, kind parents,

an ardent lover, and many friends and acquaintances; now she had lost

all. She was homeless, her parents had forsaken her, she and her lover

had parted for ever. She was without friends and without acquaintances,

for they, too, were left behind. "I am alone, quite alone," she

thought; and then remembered that the best Friend of all, her Heavenly

Father, was still with her. That idea saved her from despair, and gave

birth to the resolve that she would not allow herself to sink beneath

her troubles, but would keep a brave heart and endeavour to live

worthily. Her life would be different from of old; yes, but it need not

be worse--rather, it should be better. Longfellow's familiar words rose

to her mind:

Not enjoyment and not sorrow

Is our destined end or way;

But to act that each to-morrow

Finds us further than to-day.

And she grasped the idea, even then, in that hour of bitter humiliation

and despair, that the brave soul is not made by circumstances, and the

environment which they bring, but, strengthened by Him who first trod

the narrow way, it makes stepping-stones of what would otherwise deter

and hinder it, pressing on to the prize of our high calling, the "Well

done, good and faithful servant!" of our Master.

So Doris said to herself, "I will live to some purpose, and first of all

I will set before myself one aim above all others. If I possibly can

earn money enough, in some way or other, I will repay Bernard the money

of which my father robbed him--yes, that shall be my ambition. To pay

the debt--the debt my father owes him."

Twenty-five thousand pounds! An immense sum truly! But immense are the

courage and the hopefulness of youth, inexperienced, ignorant but

magnificent with the rainbow hues of undaunted imagination.

When at last Doris fell asleep the last words she murmured to herself

were these:

To pay the debt.

And her last thought was that she would be honourable and true to the

teaching of that Voice which is not far from any one of us, if only we

have hearing ears and an understanding heart.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*FRIENDS IN NEED.*

Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads

Let Love through good deeds show.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

This is a very hard world for those who, untrained for any special

vocation, find themselves through stress of circumstances driven into

the labour market, to oppose with unskilful hands and untrained brain

the skilful and highly trained labour of professional workers.

Pretty golden-haired Doris, with her slender array of accomplishments

and small amount of book learning, found herself at a great disadvantage

as compared with girls who had received a sound Board School, or High

School, education. As a teacher she could find no employment, having no

certificates, and testimonials, or references to give. After answering

many advertisements, which entailed much expenditure in bus and train

fares, though she walked whenever she could, thereby saving her pennies

at the cost of shoe leather, she was obliged to come to the conclusion

that not by teaching would her money be earned. The same ill success

attended her search for a situation as lady's companion. Her want of

references alone debarred her from any chance of success in that

direction.

One day, when passing down a well-known street in north London, she

perceived a notice in a dress and milliner's shop window stating that

young girls were much needed as junior assistants. She therefore went

in to make inquiries, and found that if she liked to go there and sew

from morning to night she would receive in payment a couple of meals a

day and eighteenpence a week. It would be impossible for her to be

lodged also, the manageress said, as they had as many hands living in as

they had beds for. Plenty of girls were to be had for that trifling

wage, as they went there to get an insight into the business, hoping to

pass on to better work and higher wages in due course.

As it was impossible for Doris to pay for a bedroom out of such a wage

she was compelled to decline the work; and as the weeks passed by and

nothing better turned up she at last found herself in a pawn shop,

trying to raise a little money on her watch and chain, and undergoing a

truly humiliating experience.

The day came, only too soon, when Doris was obliged to confess to her

landlady that she could no longer pay for her week's lodging in advance.

By that time, however, Mrs. Austin had conceived a real attachment to

her young lady lodger. When, therefore, Doris stated her sad case, with

tears in her eyes, the good woman's heart was touched.

"Now don't you take on about that, miss, don't!" she cried. "I shall

not ask you for any more money till I am obliged, miss. I know you will

pay me when you can."

"You may be quite sure I shall do that," said Doris. "I am only too

distressed at the idea of your having to wait for the money."

Mrs. Austin went out of the room, to return, however, in a few minutes

with what she thought might be a "helpful suggestion."

"If you can paint, miss," she said, "perhaps they may be willing to sell

your pictures at some of the picture shops."

Doris's face brightened. Her little water-colour and oil paintings had

been very much admired at home. But she sighed the next moment, as she

said gently, "I have no paints here, or brushes, or canvas, or

anything!"

"I have thought of that," said Mrs. Austin cheerfully. "Just you come

upstairs with me."

She led the way up the narrow stairs to the back bedroom where she

slept, and pointed to a chest of drawers with no little pride. "My Sam

made that," she said, "when he was a joiner and cabinet maker, before he

took to cab driving, which I wish sometimes he had not done. For it's a

life of temptation. The fares so often give drinks to

cabmen--'specially on cold nights. Sam says it's almost impossible

sometimes to keep from taking too much; and his wife has cried more than

once because he has come home 'with three sheets in the wind,' as they

call it. And he's reckoned a sober man, for he's that naturally, only

he lives in the way of temptation. But now, look here, miss!"

Opening a drawer Mrs. Austin displayed all sorts of painting materials

heaped up within it. Water-colour paints, drawing blocks, palettes,

oil-tubes, canvases, pencils, and chalks were all mixed up together.

"These belonged to my dear son Silas," said Mrs. Austin, wiping her eyes

with a corner of her apron. "He was never strong like Sam, he was

always a delicate lad. He couldn't do hard work, with his poor thin

hands and weakly legs. But he was a rare lad for a bit of colour.

'Mother, I'll be an artist,' he oft said to me. And I had him taught.

He used to attend classes, and go to a School of Art--I was at a deal of

expense--and now, now he's gone!" She broke down, sobbing bitterly,

while Doris put her arms round her neck and kissed her poor red face,

which was all she could do to comfort her. "He's gone," continued the

widow pathetically, "to be an artist up above, if so be it's true that

God permits people to carry on their work on high."

"On the earth the broken arcs, in the

Heaven a perfect round,"

quoted Doris softly.

"Ay, miss, I think so," said the poor woman, whom sorrow had taught

much. "My Silas, he said to me when he lay dying, 'Mother, God is the

Master Artist, He began me, just as I begin my pictures, and He never

makes mistakes, or wastes His materials; He'll turn me into something

good over there, as it isn't to be down here.'"

"He had beautiful faith," said Doris, "and I am sure it will be as he

said."

"Oh, my dear young lady," cried the other, with great feeling, "I thank

God that He sent you here! I do feel so comforted to have you here, and

I do hope you will do me the favour to accept these painting

things--every one of them, please. Then you can paint pictures and sell

them, as my poor dear boy wanted to do."

Doris, however, was reluctant to accept so much, and only did so at last

on the understanding that if she were so fortunate as to sell her

pictures Mrs. Austin should have a percentage of the pay, for the use of

the materials. That settled, it became necessary to arrange where the

work should be done; for both Doris's bedroom and the little front

parlour, where she sat and had her meals, were too dark for the purpose.

Mrs. Austin was equal to the occasion. "Why shouldn't you have the top

attic, where my boy used to paint?" she said. "There's a sky-light, you

know; and my Silas always said the light fell beautiful in his study, or

studio, as he used to call it. Do come upstairs and see what it is

like?"

Doris did so, and found a large attic lighted by a huge sky-light.

Boxes and lumber littered the floor, an old square table was against the

wall, and a rather decrepit easel stood under the sky-light; a few

plaster casts, and big discoloured chalk drawings, were scattered about,

or stuck on the walls with gum-paper, or sealing wax. The atmosphere of

the attic was close and fusty, it having evidently been shut up for a

long time.

"Why, this is the very place for me to paint in!" exclaimed Doris.

"Will the skylight open? Oh, thanks!" as the landlady, opening it, let

in a pleasant draught of fresh air. "That is charming!"

"I will clean and tidy up the place for you, miss, and bring a chair or

two in, and scrub the table clean, and then you can begin as soon as you

like."

Mrs. Austin was as good as her word, and when Doris returned to the

attic in the afternoon quite a transformation had taken place, and, if

not an ideal studio, it was certainly a light and extremely picturesque

one. An old but clean rug had been found for the centre of the floor,

an old-fashioned Windsor armchair and a three-legged stool were placed

near the table, on which was spread a large old crimson cloth, while a

little cheap art muslin of the colour of old gold was draped here and

there as curtains to hide the unsightly lumber. The attic smelt rather

strongly of soft soap and soda, but that, the landlady remarked

succinctly, was "a good fault," and certainly through the open sky-light

came remarkably good air for London.

Doris could not do anything that first day, as by the time she had put a

few touches to the room and arranged her things it was too dark to

paint. But there was gas laid on, so she sat at the table that evening,

with pencil and paper before her, making little sketches from memory of

places she had seen, which she intended to utilise for her paintings by

daylight. And as she did so, for the first time since the dreadful

night on which she had heard of her father's crime, something like

happiness returned to her.

Great is the power of work to tide us over waves of trouble--waves

strong enough, if we sit brooding over them, with idle hands clasped on

our knees, to sink our little crafts in the sea of life, so that they

will never reach the quieter waters where they can sail serenely. "Work

hard at something, work hard," said the Philosopher of Labour, over and

over again. "Idleness alone is worst: idleness alone is without hope."

Work, he went on to say, cleared away the ill humours of the mind,

making it ready to receive all sweet and gracious influences. And in

Doris's case it was so for a while that evening; and day by day

afterwards as she sat busily working in her attic, the cloud of

shame--laid upon her innocent shoulders by her guilty father--lifted and

disappeared; for she felt instinctively, as she worked, that she, at all

events, had no part nor lot in that matter, but was doing her

best--feebly enough, yet nevertheless her best--to destroy one of the

consequences of his sin, which was certainly the right thing to do.

And as she worked Hope came, touching with rainbow hues the dreary

outlines of her dismal thoughts, letting a little light in here and

shutting a little dark out there, until the future began to look less

drearily forlorn, and even became gradually endowed with pleasant

happenings. She would sell her pictures, at first for low prices which

would tempt purchasers; they would be liked, orders would pour in, she

would raise her prices, earning more and more money. Living on quietly

where she was, with good, kind Mrs. Austin, she would save what was not

actually needed for her simple wants; and thus would begin that secret

hoard which, she hoped, would one day grow to such dimensions that she

could pay part of the debt her father owed Bernard Cameron.

Then she grew happier every day, and as Mrs. Austin never failed to

applaud loudly every little picture that was made she thought that

others, too, would see some beauty in them. She knew, of course, that

the good landlady was only an uncultivated, ignorant woman, and

therefore one who could not be a judge of art, yet Doris fondly imagined

that, having had a son who aspired to be an artist, Mrs. Austin must

know more of such things than ordinary women of her class.

She was disillusioned only too soon. There came a day upon which,

having half a dozen little pictures finished, she ventured out bravely

for the purpose of offering them for sale. Sam Austin, who took a great

interest in the project, had, at his mother's solicitation, written down

for her the names and addresses of three or four picture-dealers, and,

not content with doing that, he was most anxious to drive her to their

shops in his cab, in order that she might make a good impression.

"It won't do, mother," he said, "to let them dealers imagine that she

can hardly scrape together a living by her work. They would not think

it very valuable in that case. Folks usually take us for what we appear

to be in this world; and if we want to get on we must not let outsiders

peep behind the scenes."

Doris would have preferred to go alone, in order that she might make her

little venture unobserved even by the cabman's friendly eyes; but, not

liking to grieve him and his mother, she accepted the offer of his cab,

and was accordingly driven over to what she hoped would be the scenes of

her triumph and success, but which proved instead to be those of bitter

humiliation and disappointment.

Cheerful and brave she was when she stepped out of her cab and entered

the first picture-dealer's shop, with her brown paper parcel in her

hand, to return saddened, disheartened, and chagrined ten minutes later,

with the same parcel rather less tidily wrapped up. The cabman, who

hastily opened the cab-door for her, guessing the truth, regarded her

very seriously, whereupon she endeavoured to smile; but the attempt was

a failure, and only her pale face quivered as she bowed assent to his

proposition that he should drive her on to the next dealer's. Here, as

before, she was received with effusive politeness--for, coming up, as

she did, in a cab, the driver of which hurried down from his seat to

open the door for her, touching his cap most deferentially as he did so,

the shopkeeper expected that at least her parcel contained some valuable

picture which they were to frame for her. But when it turned out that

she was only offering them what one or two men rudely termed "amateur

daubs" for sale, their manner changed with extraordinary rapidity. It

appeared that they did not want any pictures to sell, either in oils or

water-colours. They had more of that sort of "stuff" than they could do

with. Young ladies supplied them with any amount for a nominal payment,

and did the paintings better, too, than those which were being offered.

"Even if we bought yours," said one dealer, "and I tell you they are not

good enough for us, we should only offer you a price which would

scarcely pay for your materials."

It was plain to poor Doris at length that there was no market at all for

her wares, and Sam waxed furious as he read the truth in her pitiful

face. As he drove her homeward he was divided in his mind as to two

lines of conduct. Should he go back and give these dealers a bit of his

mind, or should he try to speak words of comfort to the poor young lady

as he left her at his mother's door? Finally he decided to do the

latter, and therefore as he opened the carriage door for her to alight

he ventured:

"I ought to have told you, miss, that it's terrible hard for any one

without a connection to get a footing in the business world. Dealers

always know people who can do work for them if they require it, and

outsiders have but little chance." This was a long speech for Sam to

make to a lady, and he only got through it by looking into his hat

steadily all the time he was speaking.

"Yes," said Doris, "I suppose so. I am very much obliged to you, Mr.

Austin," she added gratefully. "I am sure," she continued, her pale

face lighting up with a smile, "if these picture-dealers were more like

you they would be much improved."

"If I was a picture-dealer," said Sam to himself, as he drove off with

his empty cab, thinking over this compliment, "I'd buy the whole

bloomin' lot of pictures at a price that would ruin me rather than bring

tears to the eyes of that blessed little angel. It's horsewhipping, or

else shooting, them dealers want, and I'd give it them if I was the

Government, I would, as sure as my name is Sam Austin."

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*NEW WORK FOR DORIS.*

Have hope, though clouds environ now,

And gladness hides her face in scorn:

Put thou the sadness from thy brow,

No night but hath its morn.

SCHILLER.

That was a dark time with Doris. Long afterwards she looked back upon

it as the hour of her deepest humiliation, when the tide of her life was

at its lowest ebb, and Giant Despair held out claw-like hands to seize

her for his own.

She was unsuccessful: the pictures she had thought so pretty were of no

commercial value, her only hope of making a living for herself, not to

mention her magnificent project of repaying Bernard Cameron some of the

money of which her father had robbed him, was completely destroyed. She

had no gift by means of which she could

Breast the blows of circumstance

And grapple with her evil star,

And make by force her merit known.

And she was friendless, except for the Austins, and alone in London;

moreover, she was absolutely penniless, nay, worse than that, she was in

debt, not having paid for her food and lodging for at least three weeks.

Going upstairs as quickly as possible, in order that she might escape

Mrs. Austin's questions and even her sympathy, which just then she could

not bear, Doris entered her little room, and, locking the door, flung

herself on her knees by her bedside.

She had no words with which to beseech the intervention of the

All-Powerful; but words were not needed, her very attitude was a prayer,

her want of words a confession of the extremity of her need. It was

impossible for her to do anything more for herself. She knelt there and

waited for assistance.

Now it happened that Mrs. Austin, on an errand to her grocer's, meeting

her son Sam, as he was driving away with his empty cab, learnt the truth

about Doris's failure from him, greatly to her disappointment.

"Oh, poor dear young lady!" she cried, "what will she do now? Whatever

will she do now? Painting was the only thing she could do?"

"Well, she'll have to do something else," said Sam, "since those

picture-dealers won't 'ave her work."

"But what else can she do?" ejaculated Mrs. Austin in consternation.

Sam did not know; but he was obliged to drive on, having spent more time

than he could afford on Miss Anderson's business that morning. Mrs.

Austin returned home, and, by way of comforting Doris, set the kettle

on, and began to prepare a little meal for her. As she was thus busily

engaged the door-latch was raised, and a youth entered dressed as a

shop-boy and bearing a family resemblance to the Austins.

"Good afternoon, aunt," he said, looking round the room with sharp eyes

that noted everything.

"Good afternoon. I suppose you are in want of a bite or a sup?" she

remarked sagaciously.

"Well, I do feel a bit of a sinking here," and he made a rapid gesture

indicative of hunger.

"Sit you down then; I'm just making a little dinner ready, and a cup of

tea for my lady-lodger, and you shall have some too, Sandy, if you'll

wait."

"All right, I'll wait," and so saying he sat down and watched his aunt

as she boiled a couple of eggs and made tea in a little brown teapot

which had seen many days.

As she worked Mrs. Austin talked, and, because her mind was full of

Doris she spoke most of her, not exactly revealing her artistic efforts

and subsequent failure to effect a sale of her pictures, but still

graphically portraying her need of remunerative work.

Sandy listened with scanty attention. He was much more interested in

the egg and large cup of tea which his aunt placed before him, and it

seemed as if he were the last person in the world to do Doris any good.

Indeed, Mrs. Austin suddenly perceived that her words were absolutely

wasted, and therefore pulled herself up short, with the exclamation, "I

declare, I might as well talk to this lampshade as to you!" She glanced

as she spoke at the pretty crimson shade over the gas-light. It was

made of crinkled paper, tied together with a narrow ribbon.

"You never have an idea in your head, Sandy," she added.

Sandy grinned. "Who made that lampshade?" he asked, as he cut the top

off his egg.

"What shade? Oh? the gas-shade! Miss Anderson, my lodger, you know,

made that for me one evening, with a bit of crinkled paper that only

cost 2-1/2*d*. Very handy she is with her fingers."

Sandy made no further remark until he had finished eating and drinking

everything that was placed before him. "There," he said, at last, "I've

done! Now then for a look at this shade," rising to look at the pretty

lamp-shade, tied with a knot of crimson ribbon, which Doris had made in

a few minutes with her clever fingers, as a small thank-offering for her

landlady.

"Well, what do you think? Isn't it pretty?" asked Mrs. Austin.

"Pretty? Yes, well, it's pretty. I reckon if your lady-lodger made

some of these for our shop they'd sell."

"Would they now?" There was eagerness in the question. Could this

possibly prove to be a chance of work for poor Miss Anderson?

"Yes. We sell lots of flimsy silk lampshades that cost heaps of money.

And we're often asked for something cheaper. Our manager might be

inclined to buy some like this."

"Would he indeed? Oh, Sandy, Sandy!" In her eagerness the good woman

caught hold of his arm. "Poor dear Miss Anderson does not know where to

turn for a penny. Could you get her this work to do, for good pay, do

you think?"

Sandy grinned again. "You said I never have an idea in my head," he

began teasingly.

"I did. Yes, I did, but I won't say so again. I won't if you'll get my

dear young lady some work that will keep the wolf from her door."

"The wolf? What wolf?" Sandy looked round with an assumed air of

alarm.

"The wolf of hunger."

"I shouldn't have thought you would have allowed him to come near a

lodger of yours."

"Get out with you!" Mrs. Austin pushed him towards the door. "Run and

see if there is a chance for Miss Anderson."

"A chance? Oh, I see what you mean. Just ask her first if she would be

willing to do the work at a fair price."

"Willing? She'd jump at it. But I tell you what, Sandy, we must not

have her disappointed again. I won't say anything to her about it until

we know whether she can have the work and on what terms."

"But the manager will want to see a specimen," protested Sandy. "He's a

big man. You can't rush before him with nothing. He'd order me off at

once for fooling round in that way."

"Specimen? Oh, well, if you want one, take this," said Mrs. Austin,

carefully taking down the pretty shade Doris had made, blowing the dust

from it, and wrapping it lightly up in a huge newspaper. "Now you must

hold it in this way not to crush it," she said, "and make as good terms

as you can for my young lady; tell your manager she is a real lady, who

won't do things for nothing."

"All right!" Sandy darted off with the shade, and Mrs. Austin went

upstairs with her tea-tray.

Doris opened the door slowly. Her eyes were red with weeping, and her

hair was dishevelled and dress untidy. "Oh, Mrs. Austin," she said,

"I've been so unfortunate! No one will have my pictures. They are not

good enough to sell----"

"Nay, nay. That's not it. But there's no market for such pretty

things. I know all about it, my dear young lady. I met Sam and he told

me. He is so sorry, he has a feeling heart, has Sam. But there, there,

don't you take on so! Don't cry, dearie!" She was crying herself, with

sympathy.

Doris had burst into tears, and sat down weeping as if her heart would

break.

"Come! come! we mustn't give way. It's always the darkest hour before

the dawn," said the good woman soothingly.

"If only I hadn't wasted all this time, and used your painting

materials! And now what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried Doris.

Mrs. Austin's resolve not to tell her about the lamp-shade making until

Sandy returned with good news vanished in the stress of this necessity,

and she hastily related to Doris that her nephew had thought of some

paying work which she might be able to do.

The girl was startled at the idea of such work. It was very different

from what she had been attempting; but her downfall was too real for her

to be able to indulge in her former hopes, and her need of money was too

great for her to be fastidious, she therefore brightened up a little,

and began to talk about the new project. At all events this might

provide her with sufficient money for food and lodgings until she could

procure something better.

The two went on discussing the matter whilst Doris drank her tea and ate

her egg and bread and butter; and then Mrs. Austin took the tray down,

and waited impatiently for the return of her nephew.

At last he came in, bringing the manager's compliments to Miss Anderson,

and he begged her to call upon him the next day.

Doris, therefore, went to the ironmonger's shop in the morning, was duly

shown into the manager's room, and, after remaining there, some little

time talking over the matter with him, the result was that she was

engaged to work at lamp-shade making for the firm, in a little room

behind the shop, for eight hours a day, at a salary commencing at

sixteen shillings a week.

This arrangement Doris thought a more desirable one than another which

would necessitate her providing her own materials, making the shades in

her attic, and receiving so much a dozen for them. She stipulated,

however, that if the shades sold well her salary should be increased in

proportion.

Weeks and months of pretty, if monotonous work followed for Doris. Her

candle- and lamp-shades were a decided success, and sold quickly at low

prices. One window of the shop was given up for a display of them, and

they made a "feature," or a "speciality," which attracted customers.

The head of the firm, Mr. Boothby, sent for Doris one day, praised her

handiwork, and raised her salary to a pound a week.

Doris was very thankful for the additional money, as it enabled her

gradually to pay her kind landlady all she owed, and still have fifteen

shillings a week for her board and lodging. More than this the good

woman would not take, and as for Sam, he stoutly refused to be paid

anything for the use of his cab on the picture business. One favour

only he begged, and that was that Miss Anderson would give him one of

the little pictures he had endeavoured to assist her to sell.

Doris chose one of the best, and wrote his name on the back of it, much

to his delight.

She became contented, if not happy, as time went on, knowing that she

could earn her living by work which was not too hard for her strength;

but her old dream of partially repaying Bernard Cameron was no nearer

fulfilment, for what could she do with only a few shillings a week for

dress and personal expenditure? Sometimes, as her fingers worked

busily, her thoughts were turning over new schemes for earning money,

which might in the future develop into something greater and more

lucrative than what she had in hand just then; and on a Saturday

afternoon or Sunday, when walking or sitting in Regent's Park, or more

occasionally in Hyde Park, or even at Richmond or Kew Gardens, her

thoughts would fly to those who loved her, and she would long to see

again her mother and father, and look once more on the beloved face of

Bernard Cameron.

Did they ever think of her? she wondered. Would she ever meet them

again? They could have no possible clue to her whereabouts. She, buried

in a little back room at the ironmonger's shop for eight hours a day,

had small chance of being seen by any one except workpeople and shop

assistants. And even if she were out-of-doors more, walking about in

those North London streets, or in the parks, or mingling with the

"madding crowd" within the City, what likelihood was there that she

would run across any of the three who, in spite of the sad separation

from her, yet occupied the largest share of her heart of hearts? Where

were they now? Probably her parents were hiding away somewhere abroad,

perhaps in America or Australia, banished for ever from England by her

father's sin and fear of the penalty of the laws which he had broken.

It was wretched to think of them in their self-imposed, compulsory

exile. Her mother's words, "Farewell, my child: my heart would break at

parting from you, were it not that what has happened has broken it

already!" recurred to her, to fill her eyes with tears, and make her

heart ache painfully.

Scarcely less painful was it to think of Bernard, and of his tender

love, because that was followed by his shrinking back from her when she

last saw him, and by his mother's upbraiding and harsh cry, "If you

marry, you will take your husband a dowry of shame." And again, "Do you

mean to say that there is anything between you, the daughter of a

criminal who shall yet be brought to justice if there be any power in

the arm of the law, and my son, my stainless, innocent child?" and then

her excited denunciation:

"You bad girl! Not content with your father having ruined my boy by

stealing all his money, you are mean enough and wicked enough to

deliberately determine to cut away his one remaining chance of rising in

the world! You would ruin him ... you intend to cling to him as a

limpet clings to a rock ... he won't be able to raise you, poor lad, but

you will drag him down into the mire, which will close over his head!"

Well, she had given him up; goaded by those words, following his obvious

shrinking from her, she had left him a message which, if he loved her

still, would sting him to the quick, and, in any case, had sufficed to

sever them for ever.

It was done now. She must not brood; that would do no good, it would

only unfit her for her daily work. Perhaps in time the feelings which

racked her heart when she thought of these things would grow blunt, the

hand of Time would still the pain, and her Heavenly Father would send

angels down to whisper to her words of peace and consolation.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS.*

Yet gold is not all that doth golden seeme.

SPENSER.

"Good-morning! Some one has told me that you have a garret to let in

this house." The speaker, a merry girl a little over twenty, stood in

Mrs. Austin's doorway, smiling up at her, one hot day in summer.

"A garret, miss. Who for?" asked Mrs. Austin, smiling back at her

visitor.

"Well, for me," answered the girl, quite gaily.

"For you, miss?" exclaimed Mrs. Austin, in surprise. "Why, you don't

look like one who would sleep in a garret!"

"Well, no. I don't think I should like to sleep in a garret, unless it

were a very pretty one. But I want to rent one, if I can find one with

a good skylight. I want it for artistic work."

"Oh, indeed, miss! Are you an artist?"

There was respect, and even awe, in Mrs. Austin's tone. She had not

imagined that such a merry-looking lady could be one of the elect.

"Well, yes, in a way I am; and I want to do something--paint some

pictures, you know--in a quiet, respectable garret, where I shall not be

interrupted. Is it true that you have one to let?"

"Yes, miss. I have one to let. I had an artist son once who used to

use it. He's gone"--Mrs. Austin wiped her eyes with the corner of her

apron--"and since then," she continued, "I let my young lady lodger have

the use of it for her painting. Not that she uses it now,--poor

dear!--still, it's supposed to be hers."

"If she does not use it, would she object to my having it?"

"I don't know, miss. I'll just run over to Boothby & Barton's shop, in

the next street, and ask her. It is there she works."

"Tell her I shall be immensely obliged if she will give up the garret to

me--that is, if it suits me--as I particularly want to have a garret

with a good skylight, and I should like you to be my landlady." The

young lady smiled again in Mrs. Austin's face.

"Well, miss, you are flattering!" Mrs. Austin caught up an old bonnet

and proceeded to put it on. She looked doubtfully at her visitor as she

did so. Would it be safe to ask her to sit down in the house until she

returned? She thought so, and yet, "One never knows who strangers are,"

she said to herself. She, therefore, closed the door, locked it, and

put the key in her pocket, saying, "Perhaps you'll step along with me,

miss, then you'll know sooner if you can have it."

"Very well. And now," the girl continued, as they walked down the

street, "I must tell you my name. I am Miss Sinclair."

"Oh, indeed! And I am Mrs. Austin."

"How much a week shall I have to pay you for your attic, if I take it?"

"Well, miss, there is not very much furniture in it."

"All the better. I shall require a good deal of room for my own

things."

"Shall you require much attendance?"

"Oh, no, very little! But people will come to see me sometimes, and

they will bring things and take them away--there will be a little wear

and tear of your stair carpets."

"I see, miss. Would six shillings a week be too much for you to pay?"

"No, I can pay that." The girl's face brightened; she had feared the

rent would be heavier. "And I can give you a month's pay in advance."

Mrs. Austin looked pleased. When they reached Messrs. Boothby &

Barton's she went in alone to see Doris, and speedily returned, saying

Miss Anderson had readily consented to the arrangement. She would

remove her few things out of the garret that evening, and then it would

be quite ready for Miss Sinclair.

"That is very kind of her. She must be very pleasant," said Miss

Sinclair. "I have been wondering," she continued, "what work a lady who

paints can find to do in a shop like this?"

Mrs. Austin told her, for Doris made no secret of her employment, and

the stranger was greatly interested, and could easily understand the

difficulty she had experienced in trying to sell her paintings. "The

fact is, too many people paint," Miss Sinclair said. "There are nearly

as many amateur artists as there are people to look at their

productions. Your lodger is quite right in taking a more practical line.

I'm doing that sort of thing myself."

"Indeed, miss! What may you be doing?"

Miss Sinclair did not answer, but went upstairs to look at Mrs. Austin's

garret when they got to the house, and, expressing herself as very well

satisfied, engaged it at once, saying she would begin to use it on the

morrow.

Accordingly, the following day, just after Doris had gone to her work,

Miss Sinclair arrived early, together with a couple of boys bearing

great packages, canvas frames, and millboards. The boys went to and fro

a great many times, bringing pots of paint, sheets of gelatine, etc.

Mrs. Austin's eyes opened wide with astonishment at some of the things

which were carried up her stairs that day, but she did not interfere.

Her new lodger made the boys assist her to prepare the garret for her

purposes and arrange her work. Then she sent them away, and remained

alone in the attic for two or three hours. When at last she left it she

locked the door, saying to Mrs. Austin, as she passed her on the stairs,

"You may have another key for the garret, but please do not allow any

one to enter it, or even look in. I know I can trust you." She put her

hand in the widow's as she spoke.

Mrs. Austin rose to the occasion. "No one shall enter or look in,

miss," she said. "You have paid for the garret for a month, and it is

yours."

When Doris returned home in the evening, however, Mrs. Austin confided

to her that she thought Miss Sinclair must be a funny sort of artist, if

indeed she was one at all.

Doris felt a little curious, too, about the girl who painted with such

odd materials. But as she came after Doris went to her work in the

mornings, and had usually gone before Doris returned in the evenings,

several weeks passed before their first meeting. As time went on Mrs.

Austin told Doris tales of beautiful oil-paintings being carried out of

the garret and downstairs by men who came for them.

"I only just catch a glimpse of them sometimes," she said, "and they

fairly stagger me, they are so gorgeous. Mountains and lakes, cattle

and running streams, pretty girls and laughing children, animals of all

sorts and I don't know what besides! Miss Sinclair must be a popular

artist."

Doris felt a little sceptical. A young girl like Miss Sinclair to do

such great things all alone, and so quickly, too! It seemed very

strange.

"I wonder if they are real paintings?" she said.

"You might almost think she is a magician, or a fairy godmother, or

something or other," said Mrs. Austin. "Oh, yes, they are saleable

goods, for she gets lots of money for them--I know she does. She told

me she was getting on so well that she could give me half a crown a week

more for the garret, and would be glad to do that, for she liked it so

much."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Doris kindly. "You deserve every

penny, dear Mrs. Austin."

"Eh! dear, there's no one like you, Miss Anderson. I am well off to

have two such lodgers--one that pays so much, and the other that upholds

me with good words."

Another evening she said to Doris, "Do you know, miss, I heard a dealer

saying to Miss Sinclair to-day, 'Well, I'll buy as many dozens of that

picture as you can do for me."'

"Dozens of that picture!" Doris opened her eyes widely. _Dozens_?

What was this artist who painted dozens of paintings all alike?

"I'm afraid, miss," continued Mrs. Austin, reading her thoughts, "that

although the paintings do seem really beautiful to me when I get a

glimpse of them from the garret door, or pass them as they are being

carried out of the house, they are not what may be called genuine works

of art. Still, they're very pretty: and they bring in lots of

money!--and what more do you want?"

What indeed? Dealers would not buy the painstaking efforts of amateur

artists, and yet they flocked to a garret to purchase dozens of

pictures, which, to put it mildly, could not be called genuine works of

art. The public must buy these things, or the dealers would not want

them.

"What a strange girl Miss Sinclair must be!" thought Doris, "to work

away at that sort of thing all alone. And she must be clever, too. I

wonder how she does it, and why she does it?"

Doris was soon to know. Her work grew slack at the ironmonger's shop.

A rival firm in the same street had started selling tissue paper

lamp-shades, which were prettier than those Doris made, and cheaper

also. Messrs. Boothby & Barton tried to do it as cheaply but failed,

although they reduced Doris's wages and bought commoner tissue paper for

less money. Doris tried to improve her shades, or at least copy those

in the rival shop, but could do neither well, and, disheartened and

dissatisfied, her work grew irksome to her.

It was then extremely hot weather, and Doris, drooping in her little

close workroom, grew pale and thin. She needed change of air and scene,

rest and freedom from anxiety as to ways and means, and she could get

none of these things. A presentiment that she would lose her employment

weighed heavily upon her mind: and one night she returned home in such

low spirits that Mrs. Austin discovered the whole state of affairs.

The good landlady endeavoured to comfort Doris as best she could,

declaring that if she lost her work something better would turn up.

"And in any case, my dear," she said in her motherly way, "you must put

your trust in the Lord and He will provide." And when at last she left

Doris it was with the words, "Don't lose heart. You have at least one

friend in the world who, although only a poor woman, will share her last

crust with you."

The next morning, when Miss Sinclair was working hard in her garret,

with her door locked as usual, Mrs. Austin stood outside, knocking for

admittance.

"If you please, miss, might I speak with you?" she asked through the

keyhole.

The worker within uttered an impatient exclamation, but opened the door,

saying, with a little sigh, "Well, come in. I thought it would come to

this sooner or later."

[Illustration: "SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE."]

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, miss," began Mrs. Austin. Then she

uttered an exclamation of surprise, as she looked round on the oil

paintings propped up on the table, against the walls, on the old easel,

and indeed everywhere about the room. Three or four were duplicates of

the same picture, and the colours were very vivid and brilliant. Most of

them were landscapes; but there were one or two ladies in ball-dresses,

and a couple of gaily dressed lovers.

"What do you think of them?" asked Alice Sinclair, who stood by the

easel, a slight, tired girl in a huge, paint-smeared apron that

completely covered her dress, which fell open at the throat, revealing a

pretty white neck.

"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated the landlady. "I never saw such pictures!

Have you done them, miss?"

"Yes, I have painted them--that is, I mean, I have coloured them. Do

you like them, Mrs. Austin?"

The landlady thought of her son Silas, and the pretty sketches Doris had

taken such pains over, and her answer came slowly, "They'd just suit

some people. Now, my son Sam, who was never satisfied with his

brother's paintings, would go wild over these."

"Is Mr. Sam an artist?"

"No, he's a cab-driver."

Alice began to laugh rather hysterically, and, turning playfully to Mrs.

Austin, she pushed her gently into the Windsor armchair. "Sit there,"

she said, "and listen to me. I like you because you speak the truth!

I'm a bit of a sham, you know, and so are my pictures, and you have

found me out."

"I'm sure I beg pardon, miss."

"No, it is I who must beg your pardon for using your garret for such a

purpose."

"The garret's no worse for it, miss. And there'll be lots and lots of

people who will be that pleased with your pictures!"

"Yes, there are more Sams in the world than Silases!" said Alice, with a

little sigh. "And I give people what they want for their money."

"Yes, of course, miss. When my boys were little 'uns they used to spend

their pennies over humbugs. The money soon went, and so did the

humbugs. But they were quite satisfied, having had their humbugs."

"Just so--and my pictures are like the humbugs, only they don't vanish,

they stay. I'm a bit of a humbug myself," continued Alice ruefully. "I

must say this, however," she added, "what I do I do from a good

motive----"

"And the motive's everything," interposed the widow.

"Mine is to make money--and I succeed in making heaps."

"Oh, but, miss, surely to get money isn't a very high motive, if I may

say so."

"But I did not tell you what I want money for. It is in order that I

may be able to support and maintain one of the greatest of God's

artists, whilst he works at his heaven-sent tasks. He would have been

starved to death by now, or would have had to abandon his work, if it

had not been for this!" She waved her hand towards the pictures. "I

hate the work. I loathe it," she went on, with a little stamp of her

foot, "and never more so than now--for, to tell you the truth, I am

feeling ill and overworked--yet I am obliged to go on, as my artist has

only half finished his picture. _I must go on_."

"But not to kill yourself," interrupted Mrs. Austin, whose opinion of

her lodger had gone through various stages since she entered the garret.

At first she disapproved of Miss Sinclair's work, then greatly admired

the noble, self-sacrificing spirit of the worker, and now the latter's

ill looks appealed to her motherly heart.

"Oh, it does not matter about me," said Alice, with a little tired

smile; "but I must not waste any more time in talking. A man will be

here for these pictures in a couple of hours, and I haven't quite

finished them off. Why did you come? I mean, what did you come for?"

"Bless me! I'm forgetting. I came to ask you if you could help poor

dear Miss Anderson, who is in trouble. Her wages have been reduced, and

she has reason to think she will lose her employment."

"I should think she is about tired of it," said Alice.