Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head,

under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs

asked her if she would have a light.

“No, no, thank you--the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel

went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the

window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her

in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?”

he asked.

“The same,” said Ethel. “I can’t bear to leave her alone, and to have

said nothing to comfort her.”

“It is too soon as yet,” said Dr. May--“her mind has not taken it in. I

hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when

she wakens.”

“She was utterly unprepared.”

“I could not make her understand me,” said Dr. May.

“And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!”

“It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind

seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.”

“Must we leave her to herself all night?”

“Better so,” said Dr. May. “She has been used to loneliness; and to

thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.”

Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did

not understand.

“I used to try to force consolation on people,” said Dr. May, “but I

know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.”

“You have seen so many sorrows,” said Ethel.

“I never understood till I felt,” said Dr. May. “Those few first days

were a lesson.”

“I did not think you knew what was passing,” said Ethel.

“I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than

those two days,” said Dr. May. “Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan

sitting by me; but I don’t believe I had any will. I could no more have

moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but

for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never

to disturb grief.”

“And what shall we do?”

“You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I

can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the

spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.”

“If only I were anybody else!”

Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt

that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and,

together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what

was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death.

Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner,

that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his

ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like

scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their

conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full

understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with

the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.

Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as

might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to

shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been

with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her

half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for

breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the

happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down,

nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked

wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered,

as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not

to mind--Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not

seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being

reminded.

Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take

the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her

urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued

voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had

rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned

round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if

confused.

“Cannot we help you?” said Ethel.

“I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other

people--”

“I have no one to go to this morning,” said Dr. May. “I am ready to stay

with you, my dear.”

Meta came closer to him, and murmured, “Thank you!”

The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta,

looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low

voice, “Now tell me--”

Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft,

sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father’s last

hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely

down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There

was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, “Thank you, for it

all. Dear papa!” And she rose up, and went back to her room.

“She has learned to dwell apart,” said Dr. May, much moved.

“How beautiful she bears up!” said Ethel.

“It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her strength

and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “she has trained herself by her dread of

self-indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh! what a break up it is

for her! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her?”

“I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid

of her after those blessed tears.”

Dr. May was right; Meta presently returned to them, in the same gentle

subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by

mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were

truly upheld; and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw

herself on them in utter dependence or self-abandonment.

She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often

obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but

refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame arm. All

that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles Wilmot, and

was refreshed by his reading to her; and when Dr. May desired it, she

submissively put on her bonnet, and took several turns with Ethel in the

shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs

rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired,

she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by,

she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings

that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It

occupied her very much--she made Ethel promise to go and see about her

to-morrow, and sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could

devise.

On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable

time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations

with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the

unavowed care which hung on their minds; while Meta was a most sweet and

loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful

things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire

and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and

brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages; he slept at the

Grange each night, and Meta used to sit in the corner of the sofa and

work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with

Ethel, and now and then herself joined.

George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements;

but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return;

and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a

satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a

part of Scotland.

At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler

brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta at once begged that

he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked

very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever,

and he could hardly find utterance to ask, “How is she?”

“As good and sweet as she can be,” said Ethel warmly; but no more, for

Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her

hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak; Meta’s own soft

voice was the first. “I thought you would come--he was so fond of you.”

Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak gentle words

of soothing. “There is so much to be thankful for,” she said. “He has

been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him; and he was

so happy about George.”

Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and

George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the first

letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had received both together in

the evening, on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they

had wished to set off instantly; but Lady Glenbracken would not hear

of Flora’s travelling night and day, and it had at length been arranged

that Norman Ogilvie should drive Norman across the country that evening,

to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since.

George was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home

to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father-in-law

to make arrangements.

Ethel went to see the burned child, leaving Meta to take her walk in the

garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant

reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for

her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him the

shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur.

To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and

the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they

parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such

a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and

lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as

great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little,

but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could

not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was

nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!”

“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and

Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very

busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so

heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and

ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over.

“May I come back to-morrow?”

“Why--yes--I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I

think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked

disappointed.

Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried

at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been

desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed

the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as

possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present.

Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to

talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was.

“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel.

“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.

“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will,

which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered

Norman--left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.”

“Has he, indeed?--how very kind, how much Norman will value it.”

“It is remarkable,” said Dr. May; and then, as if he could not help it,

told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his

daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and

delighted, that he grew alarmed and said, “You know, Ethel, this must be

as if it never had been mentioned.”

“What! you will not tell Norman?”

“No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of

each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I don’t know, whether it

is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess

at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand

pounds, and I don’t know how much more.”

“Thirty thousand!” said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his

had been almost of objection.

“It would open a great prospect,” continued Dr. May complacently; “with

Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first

men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I

doubt.”

“He would not care for it,” said Ethel.

“No; but the field of usefulness; but what an old fool I am, after all

my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy; to be set a-going by

such a thing as this! Still Norman is something out of the common way. I

wonder what Spencer thinks of him.”

“And you never mean them to hear of it?”

“If they settle it for themselves,” said Dr. May, “that sanction will

come in to give double value to mine; or if I should see poor Norman

hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way; but you see,

Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty

little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from

fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere--why, we

will be contented.”

“I don’t think I should be,” said Ethel.

“She is the most winning of humming-birds, and what we see of her now,

gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted,

helpless girl that he, poor man, would fain have made her! And she has

a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits that would be the very thing

for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness--he would not hurt

her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing--but we

must never think about it again.”

“If we can help it,” said Ethel.

“Ah! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. We shall not so easily

be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way

they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at match-making!”

But, turning away from the subject, “You shall not lose your Cocksmoor

income, Ethel--”

“I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have

been all one family.”

“Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocksmoor can have

the interest, if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, papa.”

“It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally,

to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew I admired so

much. He has been very kind! But, after all, we ought not to be talking

of all this--I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to

read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s house, Ethel! I wonder how

poor dear little Meta will feel the being a guest here, instead of the

mistress. I wish that boy were three or four years older! I should

like to take her straight home with us--I should like to have her for a

daughter. I shall always look on her as one.”

“As a Daisy!” said Ethel.

“Don’t talk of it!” said Dr. May hastily; “this is no time for such

things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here--Flora and

Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of

relations. By their letters, those Riverses must be quite as queer a

lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we

have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have.”

“There is Lord Cosham,” said Ethel.

“Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but he could not

have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. But we shall

see.”

Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little

sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether

Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority.

Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and George and

Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and

George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called

her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly, and even violently.

Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George

felt it dreadfully; and then came forward, touched him gently, and told

him that he must not overset Meta; and, drawing her from him, kissed

her, and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry

they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best

hands.

“Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I was quite

well off,” said Meta.

“And you must look on us as your home,” added Flora.

“How can she?” thought Ethel. “This is taking possession, and making

Meta a guest already!”

However, Meta did not seem so to feel it--she replied by caresses, and

turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down

of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour gave his new relations

a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to

entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller

nature; and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon

him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at

his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her;

nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table; but when they had

gone in to dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He

was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all Dr.

May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend to any of

the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to

Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault.

Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta

to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly

express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora

perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt

unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora

took the invitation upon herself.

So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she

remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by

making the numbers rather less scanty; but both sisters declared her to

be the greatest comfort possible; and when Meta shut herself up in her

own room, where she had long learned to seek strength in still communing

with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister

to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on

Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous--but then Flora had not been here

from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very

kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete

absence of affectation; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little

complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father

had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to

be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret

satisfaction in being ‘somebody’.

She told the whole history of her visits; first, how cordial Lady

Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at

Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming

in their various ways; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, and so highly

thought of in his own country.

“Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you?”

“Yes, you said so.”

“What has Coralie done with it?” continued Flora, seeking in her

dressing-case. “She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh, no, here

it is. I had been looking for Cairngorm specimens in a shop, saying I

wanted a brooch that you would wear, when Norman Ogilvie came riding

after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some

other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty?”

It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a silver

fern-leaf lying across it, the dots of small Cairngorm stones. “The

Glenbracken badge, you know,” continued Flora.

Ethel twisted it about in her fingers, and said, “Was not it meant for

you?”

“It was to oblige me, if you choose so to regard it,” said Flora,

smiling. “He gave me no injunctions; but, you see, you must wear it now.

I shall not wear coloured brooches for a year.”

Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to be worn

for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that Glenbracken

brooch; and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse it would be much

worse, and would only lead to Flora’s keeping it, and not caring for it.

“Then it is your present, Flora?”

“If you like better to call it so, my dear. I find Norman Ogilvie is

going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him here on his

way.”

“Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things!”

“Do you really and truly, Ethel?”

“Certainly not, at such a time as this,” said Ethel.

Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvie.

“Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel?” she asked presently.

“Say what is proper,” said Ethel impatiently. “You know what I mean, in

the fullest sense of the word.”

“Do I?” said Flora.

“I mean,” said Ethel, “that you may say, simply and rationally, that I

like the thing, but I won’t have it said as a message, or that I take it

as his present.”

“Very well,” said Flora, “the whole affair is simple enough, if you

would not be so conscious, my dear.”

“Flora, I can’t stand your calling me my dear!”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Flora, laughing, more than she

would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. Ethel

was sorry at once.

“Flora, I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be cross, only please don’t

begin about that; indeed, I think you had better leave out about the

brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a

return as this.”

“You are right,” said Flora thoughtfully.

Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself

from speculating what had been Mr. Ogllvie’s views in procuring it, and

whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was

his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up

in her guide-book.

Meta’s patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such musings.

How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that

long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in

the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, “Do you

think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little

burned girl, as Mr. Wilmot is away to-day, and she has no one to go to

her?”

Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the

garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, not

talking much, except that Meta said, “Well! I think there is quite as

much sweetness as sadness in this evening.”

“Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty?” said Ethel. “Look at the

golden light coming in under the branches of the trees.”

“Yes,” said Meta, “one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it

must be--”

The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much

gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was almost too

much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a few soft little

words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her voice and smile to

convince her that the small mournful face, under all that black crape,

belonged to her own dear bright teacher.

“It is odd,” said Meta, as they went back; “it is seeing other people

that makes one know it is all sad and altered--it seems so bewildering,

though they are so kind.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ethel.

“One ought not to wish it to go on, because there are other people and

other duties,” said Meta, “but quietness is so peaceful. Do you know,

Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days, before anybody

came, with you and Dr. May, as something very--very--precious,” she said

at last, with the tears rising.

“I am sure I shall,” said Ethel.

“I don’t know how it is, but there is something even in this affliction

that makes it like--a strange sort of happiness,” said Meta musingly.

“I know what it is!” said Ethel.

“That He is so very good?” said Meta reverently.

“Yes,” said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, that it

was because Meta was so very good.

“It does make one feel more confidence,” said Meta.

“‘It is good for me to have been in trouble,’” repeated Ethel.

“Yes,” said Meta. “I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to feel it,

for I think dear papa would wish it; but I do not feel as if--miss him

always as I shall--the spring of life were gone from me. I don’t think

it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach him, and there

is--don’t you think, Ethel, that I may think so?--especial care for the

orphan, like a compensation. And there is hope, and work here. And I am

very thankful! How much worse it would have been, if George had not been

married! Dear Flora! Will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her

to take the command of me? Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in

the world to make me useful to her.”

“I will,” said Ethel.

“And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget, and take upon me, as

if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not mean it, and I hope

that she will check it.”

“I think there is no fear of her forgetting that,” said Ethel,

regretting the words before they were out of her mouth.

“I hope I shall not,” said Meta. “If I do, I shall drive myself away to

stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don’t want to do that at all. So please

to make Flora understand that she is head, and I am ready to be hand and

foot;” and Meta’s bright smile shone out, with the pleasure of a fresh

and loving service.

Ethel understood the force of her father’s words, that it was a brave,

vigorous spirit.

Dr. May came back with George, and stayed to dinner, after which he

talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually amazed

him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, and do what was

needed.

Meta meanwhile cross-questioned her brother on the pretty village by the

Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remembrance, and heard from

him of the numerous kind messages from all her relations. There were

various invitations, but George repeated them unwillingly.

“You won’t go, Meta,” he said. “It would be a horrid nuisance to part

with you.”

“As long as you think so, dear George. When I am in your way, or

Flora’s--”

“That will never be! I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way?”

“No, indeed! Meta and I understand that,” said Flora, looking up. “Well,

I suppose Bruce can’t be trusted to value the books and prints.”

Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with Flora, for,

as he said to Ethel as they went home together, “Certainly, except Lord

Cosham, I never saw such an unpresentable crew as their relations. You

should have heard the boys afterwards! There was Master Tom turning up

his Eton nose at them, and pronouncing that there never were such a

set of snobs, and Norman taking him to task as I never heard him do

before--telling him that he would never have urged his going to Eton,

if he had thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably

better than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for

such observations--whereat poor Tommy was quite annihilated; for a word

from Norman goes further with him than a lecture from any one else.”

“Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time.”

“So he was. But we had a good deal of them, waiting in the inn parlour.

People make incongruities when they will have such things done in state.

It could not be helped here, to be sure; but I always feel, at a grand

undertaker’s display like this, that, except the service itself, there

is little to give peace or soothing. I hate what makes a talk! Better be

little folk.”

“One would rather think of our own dear cloister, and those who cared so

much,” said Ethel.

“Ah! you were happy to be there!” said Dr. May. “But it all comes to the

same.” Pausing, he looked from the window, then signed to Ethel to do

the same--Orion glittered in the darkness.

“One may sleep sound without the lullaby,” said Dr. May, “and the

waves--”

“Oh! don’t, papa. You don’t give up hope!”

“I believe we ought, Ethel. Don’t tell her, but I went to the Admirality

to-day.”

“And what did you hear there?”

“Great cause for fear--but they do not give up. My poor Margaret! But

those stars tell us they are in the same Hand.”

CHAPTER XIII.

Shall I sit alone in my chamber,

And set the chairs by the wall,

While you sit with lords and princes,

Yet have not a thought at all?

Shall I sit alone in my chamber,

And duly the table lay,

Whilst you stand up in the diet,

And have not a word to say?--Old Danish Ballad.

“Oh, Norman, are you come already?” exclaimed Margaret, as her brother

opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of December.

“Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you, Margaret?”

“Pretty brave, thank you;” but the brother and sister both read on each

other’s features that the additional three months of suspense had told.

There were traces of toil and study on Norman’s brow; the sunken look

about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his cheek, Margaret knew

betokened discouragement; and though her mild serenity was not changed,

she was almost transparently thin and pale. They had long ago left off

asking whether there were tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted

to, though the whole family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow.

“How is Flora?” he next asked.

“Going on beautifully, except that papa thinks she does too much in

every way. She declares that she shall bring the baby to show me in

another week, but I don’t think it will be allowed.”

“And the little lady prospers?”

“Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her. First,

papa declared her something surpassing--exactly like Flora, and so I

suppose she is; but Ethel and Meta will say nothing for her beauty, and

Blanche calls her a fright. But papa is her devoted admirer--he does so

enjoy having a sort of property again in a baby!”

“And George Rivers?” said Norman, smiling.

“Poor George! he is very proud of her in his own way. He has just been

here with a note from Flora, and actually talked! Between her and the

election, he is wonderfully brilliant.”

“The election? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned?”

“Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to

stand. The only danger is that Sir Henry Walkinghame should think of

it.”

“Rivers in Parliament! Well, sound men are wanted.”

“Fancy Flora, our member’s wife. How well she will become her position.”

“How soon is it likely to be?”

“Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news (papa says

he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch of comparative

anatomy), found out from the Clevelands that Mr. Esdaile meant to

retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see

me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it

excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so

much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to

take the field at once, that papa was afraid of its hurting her, and

Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her

baby.”

“Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to

understand each other.”

“Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogilvie to

come and stand.”

“I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfil

his old promise of coming to us.”

“I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have

her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called

after her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Norman.

“Yes; I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George’s aunt, but Flora

is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meta. I

am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one should have been

chosen.”

“Has Meta been comfortable?”

“Dear little thing! Every one says how beautifully she has behaved. She

brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to

be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained,

what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with

her, and asked leave to go on. Very few could have been set aside so

simply and sweetly in their own house.”

“Flora was sensible of it, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. She took the management of course, but Meta is charmed with

her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the

scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and George makes the

stablemen go to church--a matter which had been past Meta, as you may

guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned

herself quite astonished.”

“I wonder only at her being astonished.”

“Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the

heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations, with

no one to accommodate them to. But she would not give way--she set up

more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving

singing lessons at Cocksmoor; and she forced herself to read, though it

was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora.”

“Is Ethel there?”

“No; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils about

sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.”

“Would Flora be able to see me, if I were to ride over to the Grange?”

“You may try; and, if papa is not there, I dare say she will.”

“At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers

too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah! you have the Claude, I

see.”

“Yes, it is too large for this room; but papa put it here that I might

enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the

sunset light.”

Norman was soon at Abbotstoke; and, as he drew his rein, Meta’s bright

face nodded to him from Flora’s sitting-room window; and, as he passed

the conservatory, the little person met him, with a summons, at once, to

his sister.

He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered with notes

and papers. She was sitting up writing; and, though somewhat pale, was

very smiling and animated.

“Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing!”

“Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.”

“They want to make a regular prisoner of me,” said Flora, laughing.

“Papa is as bad as the old nurse! But he has not been here to-day, so I

have had my own way. Did you meet George?”

“No; but Margaret said he had been with her.”

“I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that

Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. If he found it so, he

meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw; for, though he is so dull, we must

make him agent.”

“Is there any danger of opposition?”

“None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa’s name will

secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward,

so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat.”

“It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted,” said

Norman. “The questions of the day are no light matters; and it is an

immense point to save Stoneborough from being represented by one of the

Tomkins’ set.”

“Exactly so,” said Flora. “I should feel it a crime to say one word to

deter George, at a time when every effort must be made to support the

right cause. One must make sacrifices when the highest interests are at

stake.”

Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice--she had never appeared more

brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Roman matron; and the

ambition that was inherent in his nature, began to find compensation for

being crushed, as far as regarded himself, by soaring for another. He

eagerly answered that he fully agreed with her, and that she would never

repent urging her husband to take on himself the duties incumbent on all

who had the power.

Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George’s intended

address, which was lying on the table. He approved of the tenor, but

saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. “Give it,” she said,

putting a pen into his hand; and he began to interline and erase her

fair manuscript, talking earnestly, and working up himself and the

address at the same time, till it had grown into a composition far

superior to the merely sensible affair it had been. Eloquence and

thought were now in the language, and substance--and Flora was

delighted.

“I have been very disrespectful to my niece all this time,” said Norman,

descending from the clouds of patriotism.

“I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,” said Flora,

“but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.”

The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young

mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful pride. Norman

was perfectly entranced--he had never seen his sister so charming or so

admirable, between her delight in her infant, and her self-devotion to

the good of her husband and her country--acting so wisely, and speaking

so considerately; and praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He

would never have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs.

Rivers had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day; and,

besides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, where

he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself of her state

of spirits.

Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was

enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy

in these visits--mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was

quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little

grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take

her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms

than Flora’s hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to

ring for lights.

“Not yet,” he said. “Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give yourself a

little rest?”

“I want you to hear George’s address. Norman has been looking at it, and

I hope you will not think it too strong,” and she turned, so that the

light might fall on the paper.

“Let me see,” said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it.

“This is a rough copy, too much scratched for you to make out.”

She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly--Norman’s

touches, above all; and Flora’s reading had dovetailed all so neatly

together that no one knew where the joins were. “I will copy it fairly,”

she said, “if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and ask whether he thinks

it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too; he would be more gratified if he saw it

first, in private, and thought himself consulted.”

Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a desk of her

blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight.

“Flora, my dear,” he said, “this must not be. Have I not told you that

you must be content to rest?”

“I did not get up till ten o’clock, and have been lying here ever

since.”

“But what has this head of yours been doing? Has it been resting for ten

minutes together? Now I know what I am saying, Flora--I warn you, that

if you will not give yourself needful quiet now, you will suffer for it

by and by.”

Flora smiled, and said, “I thought I had been very good. But, what is to

be done when one’s wits will work, and there is work for them to do?”

“Is not there work enough for them here?” said Dr. May, looking at the

babe. “Your mother used to value such a retirement from care.”

Flora was silent for a minute, then said, “Mr. Esdaile should have

put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time for the

election.”

“And you can’t let the election alone?”

She shook her head, and smiled a negative, as if she would, but that she

was under a necessity.

“My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better not go

on at all.”

She looked very much hurt, and turned away her head.

Her father was grieved. “My dear,” he added, “I know you desire to be of

use, especially to George; but do you not believe that he would rather

fail, than that you, or his child, should suffer?”

No answer.

“Does he stand by his own wish, or yours, Flora?”

“He wishes it. It is his duty,” said Flora, collecting her dignity.

“I can say no more, except to beg him not to let you exert yourself.”

Accordingly, when George came home, the doctor read him a lecture on his

wife’s over-busy brain; and was listened to, as usual, with gratitude

and deference. He professed that he only wished to do what was best for

her, but she never would spare herself; and, going to her side, with his

heavy, fond solicitude, he made her promise not to hurt herself, and she

laughed and consented.

The promise was easily given, for she did not believe she was hurting

herself; and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly to

prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What could be a

greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness?

Moreover it was but proper to invite Meta’s aunt and cousin to see

her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement and the

gratification of her neighbours. It was only grateful and cousinly

likewise, to ask the “Master of Glenbracken”; and as she saw the

thrill of colour on Ethel’s cheeks, at the sight of the address to the

Honourable Norman Ogilvie, she thought herself the best of sisters. She

even talked of Ogilvie as a second Christian name, but Meta observed

that old Aunt Dorothy would call it Leonorar Rogilvie Rivers, and thus

averted it, somewhat to Ethel’s satisfaction.

Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. Ogilvie would

come. What was it to her? Suppose he should; suppose the rest. What a

predicament! How unreasonable and conceited, even to think of such a

thing, when her mind was made up. What could result, save tossings to

and fro, a passing gratification set against infinite pain, and strife

with her own heart and with her father’s unselfishness! Had he but come

before Flora’s marriage! No; Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose

for the moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the

slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such a

tumult--all, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings and

sense of tedium had once been subdued--why should they be roused again?

The answer came. Norman Ogilvie was setting off for Italy, and regretted

that he could not take Abbotstoke on his way. He desired his kind

remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all his cousins.

If Ethel breathed more freely, there was a sense that tranquillity is

uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a romance,

that all the permanent present effect was a certain softening, and a

degree more attention to her appearance; and after all, this might, as

Flora averred, be ascribed to the Paris outfit having taught her to wear

clothes; as well as to that which had awakened the feminine element, and

removed that sense of not being like other women, which sometimes hangs

painfully about girls who have learned to think themselves plain or

awkward.

There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to Ethel, under

the anxiety that strengthened by duration, and the strain of acting

cheerfulness for Margaret’s sake. Even Mary was a care. Her round rosy

childhood had worn into height and sallowness, and her languor and

indifference fretted Miss Bracy, and was hunted down by Ethel, till

Margaret convinced her that it was a case for patience and tenderness,

which, thenceforth, she heartily gave, even encountering a scene

with Miss Bracy, who was much injured by the suggestion that Mary was

oppressed by perspective. Poor Mary, no one guessed the tears nightly

shed over Harry’s photograph.

Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, burdened

expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as formerly, seek

relief in confidence to her, shunning the being alone with her, and far

too much occupied to offer to walk to Cocksmoor. When the intelligence

came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham had peacefully gone to his

rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom was a good deal affected,

in his peculiar silent and ungracious fashion; but Norman did not seek

to talk over the event, and the feelings he had entertained two years

ago--he avoided the subject, and threw himself into the election matters

with an excitement foreign to his nature.

He was almost always at Abbotstoke, or attending George Rivers at the

committee-room at the Swan, talking, writing, or consulting, concocting

squibs, and perpetrating bons mots, that were the delight of friends and

the confusion of foes. Flora was delighted, George adored him, Meta’s

eyes danced whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer admired him, and Dr.

Hoxton prophesied great things of him; but Ethel did not feel as if he

were the veritable Norman, and had an undefined sensation of discomfort,

when she heard his brilliant repartees, and the laughter with which he

accompanied them, so unlike his natural rare and noiseless laugh. She

knew it was false excitement, to drive away the suspense that none dared

to avow, but which did not press on them the less heavily for being

endured in silence. Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving

way to outbursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who

made it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually

the kind recipient.

And though the bustle of the election was incongruous, and seemed to

make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a compensation in

the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real and heartfelt

pleasure.

Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. He had always

been the same man, excellent in intention, though hasty in action, and

heeding neither praise nor censure; and while the main tenor of his

course never varied, making many deviations by flying to the reverse

of the wrong, most immediately before him, still his personal character

gained esteem every year; and though sometimes his merits, and sometimes

his failings, gave violent umbrage, he had steadily risen in the

estimation of his fellow-townsmen, as much as his own inconsistencies

and theirs would allow, and every now and then was the favourite with

all, save with the few who abused him for tyranny, because he prevented

them from tyrannising.

He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had nothing

to do but to float in on the tide of his favour. The opposite faction

attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph more complete,

and gave the gentlemen the pleasure of canvassing, and hearing, times

without number, that the constituents only wished the candidate were

Dr. May himself. His sons and daughters were full of exultation--Dr.

Spencer, much struck, rallied “Dick” on his influence--and Dr. May, the

drops of warm emotion trembling on his eyelashes, smiled, and bade his

friend see him making a church-rate.

The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so admirable,

that Dr. May often embraced Norman’s steady opinion that George was

a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious how much he contributed

to these compositions, he knew far less how much was Flora’s. In his

ardour, he crammed them both, and conducted George when Flora could not

be at his side. George himself was a personable man, wrote a good

bold hand, would do as he was desired, and was not easily put out of

countenance; he seldom committed himself by talking; and when a speech

was required, was brief, and to the purpose. He made a very good figure,

and in the glory of victory, Ethel herself began to grow proud of him,

and the children’s great object in life was to make the jackdaws cry,

“Rivers for ever!”

Flora had always declared that she would be at Stoneborough for the

nomination. No one believed her, until three days before, she presented

herself and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, who was

too much delighted to be able to scold. She had come away on her own

responsibility, and was full of triumph. To come home in this manner,

after having read “Rivers for ever!” on all the dead walls, might be

called that for which she had lived. She made no stay--she had only

come to show her child, and establish a precedent for driving out, and

Margaret had begun to believe the apparition a dream, when the others

came in, some from Cocksmoor, others from the committee-room at the

Swan.

“So she brought the baby,” exclaimed Ethel. “I should have thought she

would not have taken her out before her christening.”

“Ethel,” said Dr. Spencer, “permit me to make a suggestion. When

relations live in the same neighbourhood, there is no phrase to be more

avoided than ‘I should have thought--’”

The nomination-day brought Flora, Meta, baby and all to be very quiet,

as was said; but how could that be? when every boy in the house was

frantic, and the men scarcely less so. Aubrey and Gertrude, and the two

jackdaws, each had a huge blue and orange rosette, and the two former

went about roaring “Rivers for ever!” without the least consideration

for the baby, who would have been decked in the same manner, if Ethel

would have heard of it without indignation, at her wearing any colour

before her christening white; as to Jack and Jill, though they could

say their lesson, they were too much distressed by their ornaments to do

ought but lurk in corners, and strive to peck them off.

Flora comported herself in her usual quiet way, and tried to talk of

other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek showed her anxiety

and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out from Dr. Spencer’s

windows towards the Town Hall. Her husband gave her his arm as they

went down the garden, and Ethel saw her talking earnestly to him, and

pressing his arm with her other hand to enforce her words, but if she

did tutor him, it was hardly visible, and he was very glad of whatever

counsel she gave.

She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was in

despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was left, as

his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the Gaulish women with

the impedimenta in the marshes--whereas Tom had added insult to injury,

by a farewell to “Jack among the maidens.”

Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their

protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a

mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when assured

that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that he thought

Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden without Meta

to protect him.

She would not allow any one else to relieve her from the doughty

champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she did

not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to come in

with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh for crowds,

turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did not withdraw her

hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at each resounding shout, nor object

to his conducting her to see his museum in the dark corner of the

attics, most remote from the tumult.

The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinctly, and

see only a wilderness of heads; but the triumph was complete. Dr. May

had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; George Rivers had made

a very fair speech, and hurrahs had covered all deficiencies; Hector had

shouted till he was as hoarse as the jackdaws; the opposite candidate

had never come forward at all; Tomkins was hiding his diminished head;

and the gentlemen had nothing to report but success, and were in the

highest spirits.

By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her, spied

a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in the hall

cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such distress, that

it was long before any explanation could be extracted, but at last it

was revealed--when the door had been shut, and they stood in the dark,

half stifled among the cloaks, that George’s spirits had taken his old

facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hearing of Hector!

The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, conscious of not

comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and Blanche having been a

baby-coquette, was the more susceptible. She hid her face again from the

very sound of her own confession, and resisted Ethel’s attempts to draw

her out of the musty cupboard, declaring that she could never see either

of them again. Ethel, in vain, assured her that George was gone to the

dinner at the Swan; nothing was effectual but being told that for her

to notice what had passed was the sure way to call Hector’s attention

thereto, when she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she

looked as if she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again

be unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a

style of notice, that might otherwise have been a temptation.

Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of

wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering manner

deserved; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her patronage of

all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature allowed. Ethel,

she did not attempt to patronise, but she promised all the sights

in London to the children, and masters to Mary and Blanche, and she

perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan asylums for her sisters.

She would have liked nothing better than dispersing cards, with Mrs.

Rivers prominent among the recommenders of the case.

“A fine coming-out for you, little lady,” said she to her baby, when

taking leave that evening. “If it was good luck for you to make your

first step in life upwards, what is this?”

“Excelsior?” said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had not

caught half the meaning. “May it be the right excelsior” added Ethel, in

a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did not. They were

all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a sense of sadness,

and thought of Flora’s story long ago, of the girl who ascended Mont

Blanc, and for what?

All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who was sure

that Mrs. Rivers thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and was

afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her sister.

Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was giving

herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased to be in

a position to help her friends; and tried to turn it off, but ended

by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make people

over-lavish of offers of kindness.

“Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no one like

you!” cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand.

If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently

punished.

What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, “Miss Bracy! Miss

Bracy! I can’t have you sentimental. I am the worst person in the world

for it.”

“I have offended. You cannot feel with me!”

“Yes, I can, when it is sense; but please don’t treat me like a heroine.

I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is worrying, without

picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure way to make an old

crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, one parting piece of advice,

Miss Bracy--read ‘Frank Fairlegh’, and put everybody out of your head.”

And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back, and

kissed the little governess’s forehead, wished her goodnight, and ran

away.

She had learned that, to be rough and merry, was the best way of doing

Miss Bracy good in the end; and so she often gave herself the present

pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and hard-hearted;

but the violent affection for her proved that the feeling did not last.

Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the day,

outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing.

It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. She

was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted to the

infant mind; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had been her

chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting how little

she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the agitations

excited by the doubts about her coadjutor.

She took out her Prayer-book, and read the Service for Baptism,

recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister’s

orphaned christening, “The vain pomp and glory of the world, and all

covetous desires of the same.” They seemed far enough off then, and

now--poor little Leonora!

Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly; yet she could not help

picturing to herself the future--a young lady, trained for fashionable

life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means of

rising in the world; taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for

admiration--a scheming for her marriage--a career like Flora’s own.

Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to declare, on

her behalf, that she renounced the world. But, alas! where was not the

world? Ethel blushed at having censured others, when, so lately, she had

herself been oblivious of the higher duty. She thought of the prayer,

including every Christian in holy and loving intercession--“I pray not

that Thou wouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldest

keep them from the evil.”

“Keep her from the evil--that shall be my prayer for my poor little

Leonora. His grace can save her, were the surrounding evil far worse

than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the trial,

and is it not so everywhere--ever since the world and the Church have

seemed fused together? But she will soon be the child of a Father who

guards His own; and, at least, I can pray for her, and her dear mother.

May I only live better, that so I may pray better, and act better, if

ever I should have to act.”

There was a happy family gathering on the New Year’s Day, and Flora, who

had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to enjoy

a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the Christmas

beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home, in honour of Miss

Leonora Rivers.

Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her

far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood than in the days

of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew every one, and gave little select

dinner-parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the

bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them

greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation; and as to the

Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she had received

in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-room with

the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sit serenely admiring

the handsome rooms. “A very superior person, extremely pleasing and

agreeable,” was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers. Lady Leonora

struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant

to take Meta to London. The only fault that could be found with her was

that she had so many brothers; and Flora, recollecting that her ladyship

mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence at the

Grange, and took every precaution against any opening for the suspicion

that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in-law.

Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies’ Committee, or Cocksmoor. As to the

muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities about the chair

passed between the Member’s lady and Mrs. Ledwich, ending in Flora’s

insisting that priority in office should prevail, feeling that she could

well afford to yield the post of honour, since anywhere she was the

leader. She did not know how much more conformable the ladies had

been ever since they had known Dr. Spencer’s opinion; and yet he only

believed that they were grateful for good advice, and went about among

them, easy, good-natured, and utterly unconscious that for him sparkled

Mrs. Ledwich’s bugles, and for him waved every spinster’s ribbon, from

Miss Rich down to Miss Boulder.

The point carried by their united influence was Charity Elwood’s being

sent for six months’ finish at the Diocesan Training School; while a

favourite pupil-teacher from Abbotstoke took her place at Cocksmoor.

Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked Mrs. Ledwich into

magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry dreaded the ordeal, but

she was willing to do anything that was thought right, and likely to

make her fitter for her office.

CHAPTER XIV.

‘Twas a long doubt; we never heard

Exactly how the ship went down.--ARCHER GURNEY.

The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred

had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when

spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would be almost

glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair.

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again

alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room

door, and Dr. Spencer called, “Ethel, can you come and speak to me?”

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. “Go!

go, Ethel,” she said, “don’t keep me waiting.”

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said,

“Is it?” and he made a sorrowful gesture. “Both?” she asked.

“Both,” he repeated. “The ship burned--the boat lost.”

“Ethel, come!” hoarsely called Margaret.

“Take it,” said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; “I will

wait.”

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they

read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other

on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his

official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list

began thus:--

Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe.

Mr. Charles Owen, Mate.

Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year.

There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr.

Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without

loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far

distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night

of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of

Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had

sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the

service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their

gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the

other boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way

home.

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

“I did not write the letter!” she said.

“What letter?” said Ethel, alarmed.

“Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is

well.”

“All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.”

“He never had the pain. It is unbroken!” continued Margaret, her eyes

brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel

into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but,

as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his

face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish

bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the

present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as

if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as

he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as

though to recall her.

“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile.

“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel.

“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a

ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But--ah! I had forgotten.”

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel

nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid

for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand

he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without

daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him,

who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction.

Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress,

but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had

allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten

in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which

seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle,

that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only

able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think

for herself.

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the

hall, as if he could not bear to come in.

“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment

in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms.

“You know it?” he whispered.

“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?”

“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How--” He could not say the words,

but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.

“Quiet. Like herself. Come.”

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much

there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over

Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.

“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him

up.”

“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live

for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and--”

Tears choked his utterance--Margaret gently stroked his hand.

“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said.

“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain

and perplexity.”

“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved

not to find you better.”

“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot

help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to

turn to any one else.”

“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily.

“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been

too dreary. But it is best as it is.”

“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all

down.”

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging

over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences

of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then

crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word.

Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed

to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came

to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and

looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty

kiss.

“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing

was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry.

Then she could be warm, and not morbid.

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great

Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and

the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads,

and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him,

and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he

prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the

same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints.

Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose.

“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.”

She put the case into his hands, and ran away.

He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him.

“I am only come to know where I shall go for you.”

“Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls.”

“They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength.”

“They have--” He turned aside, and burst out, “Oh, Spencer! you have

been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have

missed almost as much sorrow!” And, covering his face, he let his grief

have a free course.

“Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have

left.”

“I do. I try to do so,” said poor Dr. May; “but, Spencer, you never saw

my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower of them

all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness, and with

such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty would be gain,

but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see

my boy’s face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first time I could rejoice

that his mother is not here!”

“She would have been your comforter,” sighed his friend, as he felt his

inability to contend with such grief.

“There, I can be thankful,” Dr. May said, and he looked so. “She has

had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little

thought--but there are others. My poor Margaret--”

“Her patience must be blessed,” said Dr. Spencer. “I think she will be

better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will be more

rest.”

“Rest,” repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and, looking

up dreamily--“there remaineth a rest--”

The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought

that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him,

therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, and learn, once

more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the patients

and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May

had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their

complaints in sighs for their kind doctor’s troubles; and the gouty

Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his

recollections of the bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the

praises of the whole May family, and especially of the mother.

Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in the

course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking and

suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would

be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children.

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines,

begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would

not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over her

letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away; but

she said it did her good.

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret

to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kindness had been

inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association,

either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing

again. “If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying,” she sobbed,

“and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better.”

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to

contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was

trying to nerve herself by faith.

“Mary,” she said, “that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that

we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It makes no

differences to them now--”

“I know,” said Mary, trying to check her sobs.

“And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious

great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to

me,” said Ethel, looking up, “as if resting there was like being buried

in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new birth. It must be the

next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the

daisies in our own cloister.”

“Say it again--what you said about the sea,” said Mary, more comforted

than if Ethel had been talking down to her.

By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple

girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was like losing

Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not for the

world seem to grudge it to her father.

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it

almost made him smile. “Poor Mary,” he said, “is she so fond of it? It

is rather a libel than a likeness.”

“Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three

strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by

his name.”

“Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!”

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate

to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, she proffered

it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at

night; and she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal.

“It is exactly like--” said she.

“It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,” he answered kindly, “but

after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.”

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than

ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had

taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration.

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of

the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in

the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as

for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning

the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which

the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other

youngsters, who keenly regretted him.

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe had

made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died

intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of young

Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the

kindness that the lad had received.

Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on the

whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in future

time.

Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he

found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not

inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour,

but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to

ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the

rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force.

Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he

could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her.

Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready

to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little

pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s baby; as

well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and accuracy that

astonished him, and asking questions about his parish and occupations,

so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly called the

greatest possible treat.

If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen

upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied;

but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this

composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him.

Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less

capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and

that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to

know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him

with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should

be confirmed in her own.

The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of

his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If

he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low

under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard

was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more

congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the

ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak,

and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as

unthankful; and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed,

that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they

walked to Cocksmoor together.

This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were

rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend’s work for

the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of

Mr. Ramsden who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept

alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty

years’ cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad--his

affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood;

and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat

sorrowfully moralising and making excuses. “People in former times had

not so high an estimate of pastoral duty--poor Mr. Ramsden had not much

education--he was already old when better times came in--he might have

done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him,

etc.” Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures,

“Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than his sixty-seven!”

“Better improve a talent than lay it by!” said Ethel.

“Hush! Ethel. How do you know what he may have done? If he acted up to

his own standard, he did more than most of us.”

“Which is best,” said Ethel, “a high standard, not acted up to, or a

lower one fulfilled?”

“I think it depends on the will,” said Margaret.

“Some people are angry with those whose example would show that there is

a higher standard,” said Ethel.

“And,” said Margaret, “some who have the high one set before them

content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully attained, and

will not try.”

“The standard is the effect of early impression,” said Dr. May. “I

should be very sorry to think it could not be raised.”

“Faithful in a little--” said Ethel. “I suppose all good people’s

standard is always going higher.”

“As they comprehend more of absolute perfection,” said Margaret.

CHAPTER XV.

The city’s golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strongest;

But now it is the churchyard grass,

We look upon the longest.--E. B. BROWNING.

A disinclination for exertion or going into public hung upon Dr. May,

but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the Town Council meeting,

which was held a few days after the vicar’s funeral, to decide on the

next appointment. If it had depended on himself alone, his choice would

have been Mr. Edward Wilmot, whom the death of his good old father had

uprooted from Settlesham; and the girls had much hope, but he was too

much out of spirits to be sanguine. He said that he should only hear a

great deal of offensive stuff from Tomkins the brewer; and that, in

the desire to displease nobody, the votes should settle down on some

nonentity, was the best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he

set off, and his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw

him come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them

augur well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth

turning up. “I see,” said Ethel, “it is all right.”

“They were going to have made a very absurd choice.”

“But you prevented it? Who was it?”

“Ah! I told you Master Ritchie was turning out a popular preacher.”

“You don’t mean that they chose Richard!” cried Margaret breathlessly.

“As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, except

Tomkins, and even he held his tongue; I did not think it of them,” said

the doctor, almost overcome; “but there is much more goodness of heart

in the world than one gives it credit for.”

And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was

like himself.

“But it was Richard’s own doing,” he continued. “Those sermons made a

great impression, and they love the boy, because he has grown up among

them. The old mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they

had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they

could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard.”

“Good old Mr. Doddesley! I can see him!” cried Ethel.

“I expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; but no,

he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view--they liked

him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took

after his fathers that went before him--and they thought we might like

to have him settled near!”

“How very kind!” said Margaret, as the tears came. “We shall love our

own townsfolk better than ever!”

“I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm,

sound hearts, every one of them! I declare, I did not know which way to

look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.”

“Disappoint them!” cried Margaret, in consternation.

“I was thinking,” said Ethel. “I do not believe Richard would think

himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so

diffident.”

“Yes,” said Dr. May, “if he were ten or twelve years older, it would be

another thing; but here, where everything is to be done, he would not

bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death, for

individuals, without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very

sorry to have disappointed you so much--it would have been as great a

pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here--”

“And Cocksmoor,” sighed Ethel.

“I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of

it,” continued the doctor; “but look you here, it was my business to get

the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, I

believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals; I don’t think we can

conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best vicar for

Stoneborough.”

Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret.

“Besides,” continued Dr. May, “after having staved off the sale of the

presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let

my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private

ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.”

Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared

the refusal.

“I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the

right and consideration for us. A vicar here ought to carry things with

a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man’s own home, especially

for a quiet lad like him.”

“Yes, papa, it was quite right,” said Margaret, recovering herself; “it

has spared Richard a great deal.”

“But are we to have Mr. Wilmot?” said Ethel. “Think of our not having

heard!”

“Ay. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his calibre, perhaps

I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had. With

help, and Ethel--”

“No, no, papa,” said Margaret. “You are making me angry with myself for

my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, and for us all, as well

as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot!”

“He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school!” cried Ethel.

“How did you manage it?”

“I did not manage at all,” said the doctor. “I told them exactly my

mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work; and though

no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best

man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, and I thought he deserved

something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second

master. Tomkins growled a little, but, fortunately, no one was prepared

with another proposal, so they all came round, and the mayor is to write

by this evening’s post, and so shall I. If we could only have given

Richard a dozen more years!”

Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her

father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for Richard, and

now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than ever. His soft calm

manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always

yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers; but

her father’s decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish

it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had

to undergo more toil and annoyance than perhaps his health would have

endured.

Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters on her father’s

proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did not

tend to peace with Ethel; but she told her husband that she did not

regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income, and his

father’s likewise, in paying curates, and raising funds for charities.

She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as

he was, of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and

unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the Ladies’ Committee.

However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time,

his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if

he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed,

and soon was installed in his own place, with his goddaughter, Mary,

blushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee.

“Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor? How like old times!”

“Oh,” cried Ethel, “we are so glad you will see the beginning of the

school!”

“I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.”

“Much against Ethel’s will,” said Margaret; “but we thought Cherry not

easily spoiled. And Whitford school seems to be in very good order. Dr.

Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the

authorities.”

“Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,” said Dr. May. “I have

some hopes of Stoneborough now.”

Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after

Granny Hall, and the children.

“Polly grew up quite civilised,” said Ethel. “She lives at Whitford,

with some very respectable people, and sends granny presents, which make

her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded

her to go to church in it, though, she said, what she called the moon of

it was too small.”

“How do the people go on?”

“I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done

nothing. So very few go to church regularly.”

“None at all went in my time,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“Elwood always goes,” said Mary, “and Taylor; yes, and Sam Hall, very

often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk

home with the children.”

“The children? the Sunday scholars?”

“Oh, every one that is big enough comes to school now, here, on Sunday.

If only the teaching were better--”

“Have you sent out any more pupils to service?”

“Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer’s little

groom,” said Ethel.

“But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the doctor’s patience to

train him,” added Margaret.

“It is hard,” said Dr. May. “He did it purely to oblige Ethel; and, I

tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for

him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.”

Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie Brown.

“There was Ben Wheeler,” said Mary, “who went to work in the quarries;

and the men could not teach him to say bad words, because the young

ladies told him not.”

“The young ladies have not quite done nothing,” said Dr. May, smiling.

“These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the chief of

them,” said Ethel. “Oh, it is grievously bad still,” she added,

sighing. “Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and tempers, such

godlessness altogether! It is only surface-work, taming the children at

school, while they have such homes; and their parents, even if they do

come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as

they call it--turned out of their places in church, and they will not

run the chance.”

“The church must come to them,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Could the school be

made fit to be licensed for service.”

“Ask our architect,” said Dr. May. “There can be little doubt.”

“I have been settling that I must have a curate specially for

Cocksmoor,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Can you tell me of one, Ethel--or perhaps

Margaret could?”

Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating.

“Seriously,” said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, “do you think Richard

would come and help us here?”

“This seems to be his destiny,” said the doctor, smiling, “only it

would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous--that the Town

Council had a great mind for him.”

The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal more struck

by Dr. May’s conduct than the good doctor thought it deserved. Every

one was only too glad that Richard should come as Cocksmoor curate; and,

though the stipend was very small--since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other

assistance--yet, by living at home, it might be feasible.

Margaret’s last words that night to Ethel were, “The last wish I had

dared to make is granted!”

Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal,

and engaged to come home as soon as his present rector could find a

substitute.

Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to

such possibilities in designing the plan of the school.

The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot’s coming was, that Dr. Spencer

was cured of the vagrant habits of going to church at Abbotstoke or

Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend. Dr. May, who could

never get any answer from him except that he was not a Town Councillor,

and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the

sermon.

To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an

over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the minster to a far

less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up

unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells

was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week-day. It was at first

pronounced that time could not be found for going to church on week-days

without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose

to the schoolroom, began gradually to slip down to church whenever the

service was neither too early nor too late; and Gertrude was often found

trotting by her side--going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it,

from some confusion between the church and the cloister, which Ethel was

in no hurry to disturb.

Lectures in Lent filled the church a good deal, as much perhaps from the

novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal

of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to

pastoral care, that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged

to report cases of sickness to the clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the

people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began

to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than

Ethel had expected.

Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger

days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable

assistant in Dr. Spencer. Every one respected the opinion of the

travelled doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction

to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence.

As to the Ladies’ Committee, though there had been expressions of

dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one

of the whole “Aonian choir” liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he

talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by

taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it

only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the

charities of the place.

The committee was not dissolved--that would have been an act of

violence--but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his

curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the

books--a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that

Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the

chief mover.

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper

of the lending-library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and

Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up,

now that the period was over, of each “doing right in her own eyes.”

“In fact,” said Dr. Spencer, “when women have enough to do, they are

perfectly tractable.”

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel’s chief anxiety. It seemed as if now

there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon,

since poor Alan Ernescliffe’s annual ten pounds was at an end. However,

Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings,

and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face.

“We must make Cocksmoor Harry’s heir,” he said.

By and by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe’s

mind. The boy’s letters to Margaret had been brief, matter-of-fact, and

discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to

be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays,

but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret.

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his

brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came

thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been

unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright

home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain, to the fatherly

warm-hearted doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the

pleasure of possession had not come yet; he had no companion of his own

age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to

his tenants and neighbours.

There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the

captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to read. The captain

was always at him to read musty old improving books, and talking about

the position he would occupy. The evenings were altogether unbearable,

and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon

beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and

leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other--and very well matched

too! He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy,

who wrote a letter to ‘The Times’, complaining of extra weeks.

As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had spoken to the

captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone and answered that it

was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor had no claims upon him, and he

could not make it up out of his allowance; for the old fellow would not

give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that was too

much.

There was a great blur over the words “wooden-head,” as if Hector had

known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it

out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him

to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not show his

subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so

much, that Hector’s writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneborough. Each

letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged

her not to think about them.

“Nothing can do me much good or harm now,” said Margaret; and seeing

Ethel’s anxious looks, “Is it not my greatest comfort that Hector can

still treat me as his sister, or, if I can only be of any use in keeping

him patient? Only think of the danger of a boy, in his situation, being

left without sympathy!”

There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them

that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to thoughts and

conversation; indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other

direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or

George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to. However, he was a good deal

tranquillised by an introduction to Dr. Spencer’s laboratory, where he

compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm

than was reasonable to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that,

if Tom had chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have

regretted a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful

of his own beauty to do any such thing.

Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new

charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and heartily grateful for

the part his father had taken. To work at Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot,

and to live at home, was felicity; and he fitted at once into his old

place, and resumed all the little home services for which he had been

always famed. Ethel was certain that Margaret was content, when she saw

her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security

that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was

something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and

demonstrative than he was.

Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The inhabitants were

still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant

evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some

effect--some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all,

glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel’s perseverance had

done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate

scholars showed the influence of her lessons.

CHAPTER XVI.

Then out into the world, my course I did determine;

Though, to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming.

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education;

Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation.--BURNS.

In the meantime, the session of Parliament had begun, and the Rivers’

party had, since February, inhabited Park Lane. Meta had looked pale

and pensive, as she bade her friends at Stoneborough good-bye; but only

betrayed that she had rather have stayed at home, by promising herself

great enjoyment in meeting them again at Easter.

Flora was, on the other hand, in the state of calm patronage that

betokened perfect satisfaction. She promised wonders for Miss Bracy’s

sisters--talked of inviting Mary and Blanche to see sights and take

lessons; and undertook to send all the apparatus needed by Cocksmoor

school; and she did, accordingly, send down so many wonderful articles,

that curate and schoolmistress were both frightened; Mrs. Taylor thought

the easels were new-fashioned instruments of torture; and Ethel found

herself in a condition to be liberal to Stoneborough National School.

Flora was a capital correspondent, and made it her business to keep

Margaret amused, so that the home-party were well informed of the doings

of each of her days--and very clever her descriptions were. She had

given herself a dispensation from general society until after Easter;

but, in the meantime, both she and Meta seemed to find great enjoyment

in country rides and drives, and in quiet little dinners at home, to

George’s agreeable political friends. With the help of two such ladies

as Mrs. and Miss Rivers, Ethel could imagine George’s house pleasant

enough to attract clever people; but she was surprised to find how full

her sister’s letters were of political news.

It was a period when great interests were in agitation; and the details

of London talk and opinions were extremely welcome. Dr. Spencer used to

come in to ask after “Mrs. Rivers’s Intelligencer”; and, when he heard

the lucid statements, would say, she ought to have been a “special

correspondent.” And her father declared that her news made him twice

as welcome to his patients; but her cleverest sentences always were

prefaced with “George says,” or “George thinks,” in a manner that made

her appear merely the dutiful echo of his sentiments.

In an early letter, Flora mentioned how she had been reminded of poor

Harry, by finding Miss Walkinghame’s card. That lady lived with her

mother at Richmond, and, on returning the visit, Flora was warmly

welcomed by the kind old Lady Walkinghame, who insisted on her bringing

her baby and spending a long day. The sisters-in-law had been enchanted

with Miss Walkinghame, whose manners, wrote Flora, certainly merited

papa’s encomium.

On the promised “long day,” they found an unexpected addition to the

party, Sir Henry Walkinghame, who had newly returned from the continent.

“A fine-looking, agreeable man, about five-and-thirty,” Flora described

him, “very lively and entertaining. He talked a great deal of Dr.

Spencer, and of the life in the caves at Thebes; and he asked me whether

that unfortunate place, Cocksmoor, did not owe a great deal to me, or to

one of my sisters. I left Meta to tell him that story, and they became

very sociable over it.”

A day or two after--“Sir Henry Walkinghame has been dining with us. He

has a very good voice, and we had some delightful music in the evening.”

By and by Sir Henry was the second cavalier, when they went to an

oratorio, and Meta’s letter overflowed with the descriptions she had

heard from him of Italian church music. He always went to Rome for

Easter, and had been going as usual, this spring, but he lingered, and,

for once, remained in England, where he had only intended to spend a few

days on necessary business.

The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady Leonora’s

pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in so pressing a

manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. Meta expressed some

disappointment at missing Easter among her school-children, but she

said a great deal about the primroses and the green corn-fields, and

nightingales--all which Ethel would have set down to her trick of

universal content, if it had not appeared that Sir Henry was there too,

and shared in all the delicious rides.

“What would Ethel say,” wrote Flora, “to have our little Meta as Lady

of the Manor of Cocksmoor? He has begun to talk about Drydale, and there

are various suspicious circumstances that Lady Leonora marks with the

eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edifying to see how, from smiles, we

came to looks, and by and by to confidential talks, which have made her

entirely forgive me for having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr.

Rivers! Lady Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that

sweet girl that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion; it

is so delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her

beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, I

believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but this

would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied with such

a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing esteem, with a

man so well suited to her, and fixing her so close to us. You must not,

however, launch out into an ocean of possibilities, for the good aunt

has only infected me with the castle-building propensities of chaperons,

and Meta is perfectly unconscious, looking on him as too hopelessly

middle-aged, to entertain any such evil designs, avowing freely that

she likes him, and treating him very nearly as she does papa. It is

my business to keep ‘our aunt,’ who, between ourselves, has, below the

surface, the vulgarity of nature that high-breeding cannot eradicate,

from startling the little humming-bird, before the net has been properly

twined round her bright little heart. As far as I can see, he is much

smitten, but very cautious in his approaches, and he is wise.”

Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed, as she handed this

letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could be

alone with her father. “Could nothing prevent it? Could not Flora be

told of Mr. Rivers’s wishes?” she asked.

“His wishes would have lain this way.”

“I do not know that.”

“It is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here, and

though I can’t say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be. The

long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you anything

about it.”

“Poor Norman!”

“Absurd! The lad is hardly one-and-twenty. Very few marry a first

love.” (Ah, Ethel!) “Poor old Rivers only mentioned it as a refuge from

fortune-hunters, and it stands to reason that he would have preferred

this. Anyway, it is awkward for a man with empty pockets to marry an

heiress, and it is wholesomer for him to work for his living. Better

that it should be out of his head at once, if it were there at all. I

trust it was all our fancy. I would not have him grieved now for worlds,

when his heart is sore.”

“Somehow,” said Ethel, “though he is depressed and silent, I like it

better than I did last Christmas.”

“Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our hearts,”

said Dr. May, sighing. “It is a luxury to let oneself alone to be

sorrowful.”

Ethel did not know whether she desired a tete-a-tete with Norman or not.

She was aware that he had seen Flora’s letter, and she did not believe

that he would ever mention the hopes that must have been dashed by it;

or, if he should do so, how could she ever guard her father’s secret? At

least, she had the comfort of recognising the accustomed Norman in his

manner, low-spirited, indeed, and more than ever dreamy and melancholy,

but not in the unnatural and excited state that had made her unhappy

about him. She could not help telling Dr. Spencer that this was much

more the real brother.

“I dare say,” was the answer, not quite satisfactory in tone.

“I thought you would like it better.”

“Truth is better than fiction, certainly. But I am afraid he has a

tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake him out of

it.”

“What is the difference between self-contemplation and

self-examination?”

“The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah! you think that

no answer. Will you have a medical simile? Self-examination notes the

symptoms and combats them; self-contemplation does as I did when I was

unstrung by that illness at Poonshedagore, and was always feeling my

own pulse. It dwells on them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh,

dear! this is no better--what a wretch I am. It is always studying its

deformities in a moral looking-glass.”

“Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and humble.”

“The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse of your

father, who is the most really humble man in existence.”

“Do you call self-consciousness a fault?”

“No. I call it a misfortune. In the vain, it leads to prudent vanity; in

the good, to a painful effort of humility.”

“I don’t think I quite understand what it is.”

“No, and you have so much of your father in you, that you never will.

But take care of your brother, and don’t let his brains work.”

How Ethel was to take care of him she did not know; she could only

keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took Tom out for a long

walk--a companion certainly not likely to promote the working of the

brain--but though it was in the opposite direction to Cocksmoor, Tom

came home desperately cross, snubbed Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey; but,

then, as Blanche observed, perhaps that was only because his trousers

were splashed.

In her next solitary walk to Cocksmoor, Norman joined Ethel. She was

gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth saying to him,

and for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, until he first began,

“Ethel, I have been thinking--”

“That you have!” said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of

being again treated as his friend.

“I want to consult you. Don’t you think now that Richard is settled at

home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be spared.”

“Spared!” exclaimed Ethel. “You are not much at home.”

“I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish--” he

paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. “Do you think it

would give my father too much pain to part with me as a missionary to

New Zealand?”

She could only gaze at him in mute amazement.

“Do you think he could bear it?” said Norman hastily.

“He would consent,” she replied. “Oh, Norman, it is the most glorious

thing man can do! How I wish I could go with you.”

“Your mission is here,” said Norman affectionately.

“I know it is--I am contented with it,” said Ethel; “but oh! Norman,

after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more

excellent way.”

“Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives

as yours.”

She made a sound of inquiry.

“I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish

life of competition and controversy--”

“I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was

your delight.”

“She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not

her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted

or perplexed.”

“Perplexed?” repeated Ethel.

“It is not so now,” he replied. “God forbid! But where better men have

been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if

the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able

to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.”

“You knew it!” said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.

“I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I

suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.”

Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, “It is past.”

“Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know

it.”

“When was this?” she asked timidly.

“The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought

to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with

arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in

doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be

that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue,

chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.”

Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of

self-contemplation.

“I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own

convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew

how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have

seen into the secrets beneath.”

Ethel took hold of his hand. “You seemed bright,” she said.

“It melted like a bad dream before--before the humming-bird, and with my

father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.”

“How could you? Was it safe?”

“I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or

the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or--or--things at the Grange, would

bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could

be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.”

“I suppose examination was right,” said Ethel, “for a man, and defender

of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought

away. But I can’t tell how it feels.”

“Worse than you have power to imagine,” said Norman, shuddering. “It is

over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on

our side.”

“And prayed--” said Ethel.

“Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever.

It had never gone for a whole day.”

Ethel breathed freely. “It was life or death,” she said, “and we never

knew it!”

“Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me.

And far more than argument, was the thought of my father’s heart-whole

Christian love and strength.”

“Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a

bewilderment of your intellect.”

“I think you are right,” said Norman. “To me the doubt was cruel

agony--not the amusement it seems to some.”

“Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,” said

Ethel. “And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?” she still

asked anxiously.

He stood still. “For ever, I trust,” he said. “I hold the faith of my

childhood in all its fullness as surely as--as ever I loved my mother

and Harry.”

“I know you do,” said Ethel. “It was only a bad dream.”

“I hope I may be forgiven for it,” said Norman. “I do not know how

far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last

Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again

till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this

compensation--that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and

doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.”

“You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,” said Ethel.

“I do not dread the like shocks,” said her brother, “but I long to leave

this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be

a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my

own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the

comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.”

“I thought ‘praise was your penance here.’”

“I would fain render it so, but--in short, I must be away from it all,

and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and

forgetting subtle arguments.”

“Forgetting yourself,” said Ethel.

“Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,” said Norman.

“I am never so happy as at such times.”

“And you want to find work so far away?”

“I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you

can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?”

Ethel thought and thought. “I know he would not hinder you,” she

repeated.

“But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his

profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I

believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a

few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him.”

“Tom will not stand in your place,” said Ethel.

“He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,” said Norman.

“None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If

you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set

against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of

Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I

would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the

study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a

shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession.”

“I am more than ever amazed!” cried Ethel. “I thought you detested it. I

thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve.”

“He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,” said Norman.

“With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his

duty.”

“How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would

be so glorious!”

“Glory is not for me,” said Norman. “Understand, Ethel, the choice is

New Zealand, or going at once--at once, mind--to study at Edinburgh or

Paris.”

“New Zealand at once?” said Ethel.

“I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must

be avowed,” said Norman hastily. “And now, will you sound my father? I

cannot.”

“I can’t sound,” said Ethel. “I can only do things point-blank.”

“Do then,” said Norman, “any way you can! Only let me know which is best

for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready

one,” he added kindly. “I believe you are the one who would be shoved in

front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk.”

The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his

cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how

much she was to repeat of their conversation.

“Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not

think it fine in me.”

Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from

doing that.

It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always

looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long

with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the

drawing-room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once

into the matter, she said, “Papa, there is something that Norman cannot

bear to say to you himself.”

“Humming-birds to wit?” said Dr. May.

“No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you

think of--of--there are two things; one is--going out as a missionary--”

“Humming-birds in another shape,” said the doctor, startled, but

smiling, so as to pique her.

“You mean to treat it as a boy’s fancy!” said she.

“It is rather suspicious,” he said. “Well, what is the other of his two

things?”

“The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you.”

“Heyday!” cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, “does he

think me so very ancient and superannuated?”

What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental to-night?

Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the

conversation, and answered, “No, but he thinks it hard that none of your

sons should be willing to relieve you.”

“It won’t be Norman,” said Dr. May. “He is not made of the stuff. If

he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring

himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon be an end of him!”

“He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty.”

“This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. What is

the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it is what I was

afraid of!”