She released Meta from the expedition to Ryde, silencing scruples on

the one hand, by a suggestion of “poor Sir Henry,” and, on the other,

by offering to exchange her for Mary. The first proposal made Mary take

such a spring in her chair, with eyes so round, and cheeks so red, and

such a shriek about Harry and the Bucephalus, that no one could have

borne to say one word in opposition, even if it had not been the opinion

of the Council that sea air would best repair Mary’s strength.

Ethel had some private fears of a scene, since it was one of Miss

Bracy’s idiosyncrasies to be hurt whenever Mary was taken out of her

hands; and she went to announce the design, in dread lest this shock

should destroy the harmony that had prevailed for many months; nay, she

almost believed, since the loss of the Alcestis had been known.

She was agreeably surprised. Miss Bracy thought Mary in need of the

change, and discussed both her and Blanche in so pleasant and sensible

a manner, that Ethel was quite relieved. She partook in Mary’s

anticipations of pleasure, forwarded her preparations, and was delighted

with her promise of letters--promises that Mary bestowed so largely,

in the fullness of her heart, that there were fears lest her whole time

should be spent in writing.

Her soft heart indulged in a shower of tears when she wished them all

good-bye; and Ethel and Blanche found the house was very empty without

her; but that was only till Meta came in from a walk with Norman, and,

under the plea of trying to supply Mary’s place, did the work of five

Maries, and a great deal besides.

Nothing could be happier than Meta’s visit, brightening the house so

that the Mays thought they had never known half her charms, helping

whatever was going on, yet ready to play with Daisy, tell stories to

Aubrey, hear Tom’s confidences, talk to Margaret, read with Norman, and

teach Richard singing for his school children. The only vexation was,

that every one could not always engross her entirely; and Dr. May used

to threaten that they should never spare her to that long-legged fellow,

Norman.

She had persuaded Bellairs to go and take care of Flora and Mary,

instead of the French maid--a plan which greatly satisfied Margaret, who

had never liked the looks of Coralie, and which Meta held to be a grand

emancipation. She persuaded old nurse to teach her to be useful, and

Margaret used to declare that she witnessed scenes as good as a play in

her room, where the little dexterous scholar, apparently in jest, but

really in sober, earnest, wiled instruction from the old woman; and made

her experiments, between smiles and blushes, and merrily glorying in

results that promised that she would be a notable housewife. Whether

it were novelty or not, she certainly had an aptitude and delight in

domestic details, such as Ethel never could attain; and, as Dr. May

said, the one performed by a little finger what the other laboured at

with a great mind.

In the schoolroom, Meta was as highly appreciated. She found an hour

for helping Blanche in her music, and for giving, what was still more

useful, an interest and spirit to studies, where, it must be owned, poor

good Mary had been a dead weight. She enlivened Miss Bracy so much, and

so often contrived a walk or a talk with her, that the saucy Blanche

told Hector that she thought Ethel would be quite second-fiddle with

Miss Bracy.

No such thing. Miss Bracy’s great delight was in having a listener

for her enthusiasm about Miss Ethel. She had been lately having a

correspondence with a former school-fellow, who was governess in a

family less considerate than the Mays, and who poured out, in her

letters, feelings much like those with which Miss Bracy had begun.

Nothing could be more salutary than to find herself repeating all

Ethel’s pieces of advice; and, one day, when her friend had been more

distressed than usual, she called Ethel herself, to consult on her

answer, owning how much she was reminded of herself.

“Indeed,” she added, “I am afraid it would only tease you to hear how

much I am indebted to your decision and kindness--”

“Nay,” said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. “You have often had to

forget my savage ways.”

“Pray don’t say that--”

“I think,” said Ethel, breaking in, “the philosophy is this: I believe

that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal out of

one; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied slights in

trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I think the thing

is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of turning one’s mind to

something fresh--”

“As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and taught me

botany--”

“And, still more, when you took to working for the infant school. Yes, I

think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many interests, so as

to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of personalities. There’s

a truism!”

“Very true, though,” said Miss Bracy. “Indeed, all your kindness and

consideration would never have done me half the good they have, dear

Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all to one’s own

feelings and self is the way to be unhappy.”

“Just so,” said Ethel. “It is the surest way for any one to be

miserable.”

“If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if a slight

were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded over. Ah!

you are laughing; perhaps you have said the same about me.”

“You would forgive it now, I think,” said Ethel.

“I never thought I did not forgive. I did not see that brooding over

vexations was not pardoning them. I have told her so now; and, oh! if

she could but have seen how true sorrows are borne here, she would be

cured, like me, of making imaginary ones.”

“None could help being better for living with papa,” said Ethel.

Ethel made Miss Bracy happy by a kiss before she left her. It was a

cheering belief that, whatever the future trials of her life might

be, the gentle little lady would meet them with a healthier mind, more

vigorous in overlooking troubles and without punctilious sensitiveness

on the lookout for affronts. “Believing all things, bearing all things,

hoping all things, enduring all things,” would be to her the true secret

of serenity of spirits.

Ethel might not have been blameless or consistent in her dealings in

this difficult intercourse, but her kind heart, upright intention, and

force of character, had influence far beyond her own perception. Indeed,

she knew not that she had personal influence at all, but went on in her

own straightforward humility.

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Enough of foresight sad, too much

Of retrospect have I;

And well for me, that I, sometimes,

Can put those feelings by.

There speaks the man we knew of yore,

Well pleased, I hear them say;

Such was he, in his lighter moods,

Before our heads were gray.

Buoyant he was in spirit, quick

Of fancy, light of heart;

And care, and time, and change have left

Untouch’d his better part.”--SOUTHEY.

Etheldred May and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing-room. The

timepiece pointed towards ten o’clock, but the tea-things were on the

table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with a sort of consciousness,

and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage,

sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book,

or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of

which Meta was employed.

“Nervous, Ethel?” said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile,

knowing how much the word would displease.

“That is for you,” retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the

enemy’s quarters. “What, don’t you know that prudent people say that

your fate depends on her report?”

“At least,” said Meta, laughing; “she is a living instance that every

one is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom’s prediction

of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her

cheek.”

“I know very well,” said Ethel, “the worst she said it would be, the

more you would go.”

“Not quite that,” said Meta, blushing, and looking down.

“Come, don’t be deceitful!” said Ethel. “You know very well that you are

still more bent on it than you were last year.”

“To be sure I am!” said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of

her dark eyes. “Norman and I know each other so much better now,” she

added, rather falteringly.

“Ay! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is

why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for

nonsense.”

“Not for nonsense, certainly,” said Meta, “but”--and her voice became

tremulous--“if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I

should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the

chance.”

“But what would you do?” asked Ethel.

“I don’t know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel.”

“Well! it won’t happen, so it is no use to talk about it,” said Ethel.

“Fancy my having made you cry.”

“Very silly of me,” said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. “I

am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind

of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so?”

“You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case!” said

Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic

was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring,

the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers,

but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair, to the

little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaiety of

her movements.

“Oh, Ethel!” cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking at herself

in the glass. “What is the matter with me? Do tell me!”

“You’ll never get rid of it,” said Ethel, “unless you get yourself

tattooed! Even separation from Bellairs hasn’t answered. And, after all,

I don’t think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or papa. I assure

you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be

prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful.”

“What is needful?” said Meta, much amused.

“I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one,

but that one’s own people may have the satisfaction of saying, ‘she

is pleasing,’ or ‘she is in good looks.’ I think Gertrude will come to

that. That’s one comfort.”

“That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of

you.”

“Of my hatchet face!” said Ethel contemptuously. “Some one must have

been desperately bent on flattering the Member’s family.”

“I could repeat more,” said Meta, “if I were to go back to the

Commemoration, and to the day you went home.”

Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, “Hark!”

“It went past.”

“It was the omnibus. She must be walking down!” Ethel breathed short,

and wandered aimlessly about; Meta put her arm round her waist.

“I did not think this would be so much to you,” she said.

“Oh, Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have been going

on. And then papa! I wish I had gone up to the station with him.”

“He has Richard.”

“Ay, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and

have a palpitation; and I can’t go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh,

I wish it were over.”

Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all would do

well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into

the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound

of overpoweringly familiar accents.

She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; the

height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of

outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious

countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by

toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her

merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had a tendency lo laugh and

cry both at once. Dr. May who had led her into the light, seemed to be

looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and

Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward.

“Ay!” said the doctor, kissing her. “I see you, Flora, now. I have found

you again.”

“I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard,” said she. “And now

for the bairnies.”

“Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you

know her?”

There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora’s arms, like

a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago.

“This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me--you that I left in

arms! And,” as she advanced into the drawing-room--“why, surely this is

not Margaret!”

“A Margaret--not the Margaret. I wish I were,” said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott

stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May

enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. “See, Flora, these black

locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she

is. Can’t you guess?”

“Miss Rivers!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her

cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment.

“Yes,” said Dr. May. “We change Mary for this little woman as Flora’s

lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting.”

“Flora and her husband! There’s a marvellous sound! Where are they?”

“They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,” said Ethel; “and Mary with

them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note

yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college

meeting.”

“And Margaret--my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?”

“Ah! poor dear,” said Dr. May, “she has not been in this room since that

sultry day in July.”

“The eighteenth,” said Richard; the precision of the date marking but

too well the consciousness that it was an epoch.

“We can keep her quieter upstairs,” said Dr. May; “but you must not see

her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow; but excitement at

night always does her harm, so we put her to bed, and told her to think

about no one.”

Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask further,

and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to

her wants, before she spoke again. “Then the babies.”

“We don’t keep babies, Gertrude would tell you,” said Dr. May. “There

are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed.

Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora--we all mind what she says.”

“Oh, papa,” pleaded Ethel, distressed, “you know it was because I

thought numbers might be oppressive.”

“I never dispute,” said Dr. May. “We bow to a beneficial despotism, and

never rebel, do we, Meta?”

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, “You are

making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who

winds up the clock and cuts the bread.”

“No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away.”

“Of course,” said Ethel, “I can’t be vituperated about hunches of bread.

I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea.”

“Your tea is very good,” said Richard.

“See how they propitiate her,” maliciously observed the doctor.

“Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil,” said Ethel. “It

is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea;

but the boys expect it to last from seven o’clock to ten, through an

unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must

be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, ‘Died of unreasonable

requirements.’”

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and

perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up

family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion.

“Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?” she asked. “My dear Harry--I

presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing

him?”

“Great hope,” said Dr. May. “He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty

little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old

Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.

“Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the

infection.”

“I am glad you did not put off your coming,” said Dr. May gravely.

“You are in time for the consecration,” said Richard.

“Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?”

“On St. Andrew’s Day. It is St. Andrew’s Church, and the bishop

fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be

present.”

“Hector?”

“Hector Ernescliffe--poor Alan’s brother, whom we don’t well know from

ourselves.”

“And you are curate, Ritchie?” said his aunt--“if I may still call you

so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be.”

“Church mouse to Cocksmoor,” said Dr. May, “nearly as poor. We are to

invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary

can find time for it. Spencer--you remember him?”

“I remember how you and he used to be inseparable! And he has settled

down, at last, by your side?”

“The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom

comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great

things--he has as clear a head as I ever knew.”

“And more--” said Ethel.

“Ay, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor’s letter, Flora. They

have had a row in his tutor’s house at Eton, and our boys made a gallant

stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a

way that does one good to hear of.”

“‘I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth,

uprightness, and moral courage,’” quoted Meta.

“Ah, ha! you have learned it by heart! I know you copied it out for

Norman, who has the best right to rejoice.”

“You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs.

Arnott.

“To be surprised at--to be thankful for,” said Dr. May, almost

inarticulately.

To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel’s

heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt

instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly

comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel

as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed

since their last meeting.

“Must you go, my dear?” said her aunt, detaining her over her fire.

“I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He

looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as

ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?”

“Not exactly anxious,” said Ethel mournfully--“there is not much room

for that.”

“My dear Ethel--you don’t mean?--I thought--”

“I suppose we ought to have written more fully,” said Ethel; “but it has

been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright,

and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so

for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her.”

“What kind of attack?”

“Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury

to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the

shock--It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr.

Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much about it?”

“No, indeed. And he bears it--”

“He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness.

But, oh! I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows.”

“My poor child!” said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her niece’s

waist.

Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. “Aunt Flora! Aunt Flora! If any

words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh,

don’t make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to

wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy

in the present. Then,” added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a

subject, “you have our Norman to see.”

“Ah! Norman’s project is too delightful to us; but I fear what it may be

to your father.”

“He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride

of us all.”

“But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers’s looks. Is it

possible that--”

“Aunt Flora,” broke in Ethel, “don’t say a word against it. The choicest

goods wear the best; and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman

is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless.

If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen.”

“Well, but--”

“Listen,” continued Ethel. “Meta is a concentration of spirit and

energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and

does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will make a noble

missionary--”

“But she looks--”

“Hush,” continued the niece. “You will think me domineering; but please

don’t give any judgment without seeing; for they look to you as an

arbitrator, and casual words will weigh.”

“Thank you, Ethel; perhaps you are right. When does he think of coming

out?”

“When he is ordained--some time next year.”

“Does she live with you?”

“I suppose she lives with Flora; but we always manage to get her when

Norman is at home.”

“You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary.”

“I have little real to tell. Good old Mary! I dare say Harry talked

to you plentifully of her. She is a--a nice old darling,” said Ethel

fondly. “We want her again very much, and did not quite bargain for the

succession of smart visits that she has been paying.”

“With Flora?”

“Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I

have not seen Flora this whole year.”

Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting

her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true chord of

anxiety.

The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret; and Mrs. Arnott was

to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the firm limbs,

blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the

little bride’s-maid, whom she remembered.

A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling,

overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if

asking to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old

tenderness. “Auntie! dear auntie! that you should have come back to me

again!”

Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for

even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and

broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret’s having behaved

very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to

go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself

still remaining; but the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much

comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so

effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey’s coming headlong in to

announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a

cathedral--drawing plans being just now his favourite sport.

“Architecture is all our rage at present,” said Margaret, as her father

hurried away.

“I am so glad to have come in time for the consecration!” said Mrs.

Arnott, following her niece’s lead. “Is that a model of the church?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Margaret, lighting up. “Richard made it for me.”

“May I show it to Aunt Flora?” said Aubrey.

“Bring it here, if you can lift it,” said Margaret; and, Aunt Flora

helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she

smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was

it not a beautiful little pierced spire?--that was an extravagance of

Dr. Spencer’s own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction

it--the model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the

rich creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking

through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was

her description, that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, “Why, my dear,

when have you seen it?”

“Never,” said Margaret, with her sweet smile. “I have never seen

Cocksmoor; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching it for me, and

Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how

it strikes you next.”

“I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable deep porch! If we could

build such churches in the colonies, Margaret!”

“See what little Meta will do for you! Yes, we had the porch deep for a

shelter--that is copied from the west door of the minster, and is it

not a fine high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not

understand its being open; he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man

and his family might live up among them. They are noble oak beams; we

would not have any sham--here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie

will see the shape.”

“Like the ribs of a ship,” explained Aubrey, unconscious that the

meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he continued:

“Such fine oak beams! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day last year to

choose them. It is a two-aisled church, you see, that a third may be

added.”

Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. “Lessons,

Aubrey,” she said. “So, Margaret, you are over your dear model?”

“Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel dear,” said Margaret; “as

you will show her the church itself.”

“You have the best right,” said Ethel; “but come, Aubrey, we must not

dawdle.”

“I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora,” said Aubrey,

running off without much reluctance.

“Ethel has him in excellent order,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it.

She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody

can understand but Norman, and he not the details; but he says it is all

coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though

he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pence.”

“I expected to be struck with Ethel,” said Mrs. Arnott; “and--”

“Well,” said Margaret, waiting.

“Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously

winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much

soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for

a moment.”

“Exactly--exactly so,” said Margaret, delighted. “It is really doing

everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday matters did not

come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make

them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner, as

if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical

household office.”

“Harry described her to me thus,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling: “‘As to

Ethel, she is an odd fish; but Cocksmoor will make a woman of her after

all.’”

“Quite true!” cried Margaret. “I should not have thought Harry had so

much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the stimulus, and made

Ethel what she is. Look there--over the mantelpiece, are the designs for

the painted glass, all gifts, except the east window. That one of St.

Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel’s window.

It is the produce of the hoard she began this time seven years, when

she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it,

spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it

for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window.”

“Most suitable,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not think she

would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of

it--the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldred,

it is the only time I ever cheated her.”

“This is a beautiful east window. And this little one--St. Margaret I

see.”

“Ah! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We

reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with

antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the dragon was not the

Margaret of the daisy; but he would have it; and said we might thank him

for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda.”

“This one?”

“That is mine,” said Margaret, very low; and her aunt abstained from

remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the

Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse:

He bringeth them unto the haven where they would be.

Beneath were the initials, “A. H. E.,” and the date of the year, the

only memorials of the founder.

Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross--Meta’s gift.

“And, besides,” she said, “George Rivers made us a beautiful present,

which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all

the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up

a library with them; but, happily, he never did, and a happy notion came

into Meta’s head, so she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted

them, and set them all to rights; and they are most exquisite. You never

saw such foliage.”

Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the

church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could

not turn away from the subject; and her aunt listened and wondered, and,

when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress

her, she expressed her wonder to Meta.

“Yes,” was the answer; “it is her chief occupation and interest. I do

not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy for every

one’s concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more than even

Ethel’s. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building better

than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his

histories of his progress. And not only with the church but the people;

she knows all about every family; Richard and Ethel tell her all their

news; she talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and

you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind

message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot

always produce.”

Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she walked

with her nieces to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate sight as in

old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave an air of

protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a centre of unity,

instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in

themselves, for the impulse of civilisation had caused windows to be

mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted, to the utmost,

cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there

was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution and hopeless

neglect.

In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a

piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at

service; but Granny Hall’s merry content had in it something now of

principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm wife, who promised to

be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Every one asked after Miss May, with a

tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated; and when

they went into the large fresh school, where Richard was hearing a

class, Cherry Elwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing

that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to

enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was wont

to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their

intelligence than she might have had, if she had not come to them fresh

from the Antipodes.

She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very

pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the

constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived how little capable

Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, and

work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the

feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar--now

and then a pencilled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector

Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two

turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living,

assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than

cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel

had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern,

and, perhaps, with less of substance than in those earlier days, when

her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set

aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from

the world whence she was passing.

Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening, and

old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked with spirit, and

laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Amott so well remembered, and Meta

Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was

always silent, and Ethel’s brow seemed to bear a weight of thought, did

it seem as if their spirits were depressed; while there was certainly no

restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running

into Margaret’s room, and making as much noise there as they chose.

Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in

every one’s confidence; but what she enjoyed above all was, the

sitting in Margaret’s room in the morning, when there was no danger

of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their

lessons, and Meta, in Richard’s workshop, illuminating texts on zinc

scrolls for the church.

Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of

shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first

meeting; she had now felt her way, and knew again--and realised--the

same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far

dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with

a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and

soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of

her illness and anxiety.

She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for

having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the

sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt

Flora’s being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling

everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother,

and, at different times, she related the whole, looking back on the

various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing

her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with acuteness

of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the Infinite Mercy that

would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for.

On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect; the brothers all

doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father.

Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked

upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel’s

child, and had long been off her mind; Hector, to her quite a brother,

would miss her almost more than her own brothers, but good honest

fellow, he had a home here; and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing

a little, “don’t tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector

told me one evening that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might

yet have Blanche at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won’t

be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches

when Hector comes near, that I sometimes think that he might have said

something like it to her.”

Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; but

Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for

their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott; then, when the

suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting

for his ordination, she said, “The fact is, that he would like to be

ordained where he is to work; but I believe they do not like to say

anything about the wedding because of me. Now, of all persons, I must

chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot

bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care

that they know this?”

As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than

when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and

hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and

much as he loved those below, he did not rest in them as once, and could

better afford to have been removed. “Besides,” said Margaret serenely,

“it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending

on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him.”

For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the

temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of

everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus

assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with

thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernescliffe, and though she still

wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them.

There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there

was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry’s

arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline; and that last gift

of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight, and above all

other earthly pursuits, smoothed away the languor and weariness of

disease, as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to

bring back a sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no

more grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one--namely

poor Flora.

Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her goddaughter was

neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole

year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion roused Margaret to

an eager defence. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been

with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice,

or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her, that she felt the

more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own.

The season had been spent in the same whirl that had, last year,

been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment

and success; and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health

weakened, Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able

to obtain an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most

affectionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve.

“If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me

enter into her troubles,” Margaret said, sighing, “I should be content.”

The consecration day came near, and the travellers began to return. Meta

was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the

disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house,

visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing-room ornaments

to rights--a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made

a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nosegays

for the vases--finally discovering that Ethel’s potichomanie vases on

the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves.

She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly

looking out of window, reported, “Ha! he is come then! At least, I see

the little thing has found--”

“Something extremely unlike itself,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Something

I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh; thirty years ago.

That’s the very smile! I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I

ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smiled to show your

white teeth.”

“That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw,” said Dr. May. “She has

taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight!”

“Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying

them!”

“They care very little for me,” said Dr. May, “but I shall have them

in. Cold winds blowing about that little head! Ah! here they are. Fine

leaves you gather, miss! Very red and brown.”

Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teasings of Dr. May,

but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he parried them by

announcing news. “No, not the Bucephalus, a marriage in high life, a

relation.”

“Not poor Mary!” cried Ethel.

“Mary! what could make you think of her?”

“As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her

ken,” said Ethel. “Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don’t care!”

“High life!” repeated Meta. “Oh, it can be only Agatha Langdale.”

“There’s only Lord Cosham further to guess,” said Ethel.

“Eh! why not young Ogilvie?” said Dr. May. “I am right, I see. Well, who

is the lady?”

“A Miss Dunbar--a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits

in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long

time.”

“It does not sound too romantic,” said Meta.

“He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful,”

said Norman.

“No doubt thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who has had an

eye to the main chance,” said the doctor. “Don’t throw stones, young

people.”

“Well!” exclaimed Meta; “he did not look as if he would go and do such a

stupid thing as that!”

“Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing,” said Dr. May.

“You are using him very ill among you,” said Norman eagerly. “I believe

her to be excellent in every way; he has known her from childhood;

he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw every chance of

happiness.”

“None the less for having followed his father’s wishes--I am glad he

did,” said Ethel, coming to her brother’s side.

“I dare say you are right,” was Meta’s answer; “but I am disappointed in

him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends

at Oxford, and he never came.”

“I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him,” said Norman; and, as Mrs.

Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in general, the master

of Glenbracken was allowed to drop.

Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the minster that

evening with Norman.

“You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have

expected from him. Why did he make promises, and then neglect his

relations?”

“I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come,” said Norman.

“I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the

Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come

here.”

“Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster! What a bad conductor!”

“I do not wish to be a conductor,” said Norman. “If you had seen

Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it would not

have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind.”

“Would they have been so violent?”

“Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good,

kind people, but with strong prejudices; and, though I have no doubt

they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son’s part,

and such conduct as Ethel’s would have been, I could not lead in that

direction.”

“Is that pride, Norman?”

“I hope not.”

“It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself,” half whispered

Meta; “but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape.”

“I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find

myself mistaken.”

“If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement?”

He laughed. “I had made myself so nervous as to the effect, that,

in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with it as

unconsciously as I could.”

“Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better than insulting

her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more

steadiness than he has shown! If a man could appreciate her at all, I

should have thought that it would have been once and for ever.”

“Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably had no

reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how

such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, surely, he was acting

dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, in not putting

himself in the way of being further attracted.”

“Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for

marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel’s equal.”

“She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; perhaps

more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel’s.”

“Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer!”

“Too short acquaintance! besides, there were the parents. Moreover, what

would become of home without Ethel?”

“The unanswerable argument to make one contented,” said Meta. “And,

certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very

delightful that one would covet it for her.”

“Any more than she does for herself.”

Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as of

Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment

about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given

away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred.

All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an

agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be

interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury

or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children,

home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she

never thought of wishing herself elsewhere.

The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many

more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken.

She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was

Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good

simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety.

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed

for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see

Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta.

It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora

was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged

expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the

sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s frame. Yet she talked

with composure of indifferent subjects--the yacht, the visits, the

Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew’s Day. She

owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well

enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook

to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This

settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly.

During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked

so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable

plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid!

But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a

hugging, a screaming, “Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!”--and

Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking

and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and

honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and

arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self-possession

developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary-like her

inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes

into Margaret’s room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things

that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous

bestowal of presents upon everybody.

Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If

she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was

in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her

knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike

home, “so funny;” she had relished most freshly and innocently every

pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of

fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight

of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal

friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than

herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora

insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights

could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora

could not bear to look at little children.

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the

next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour

of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether

Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.

CHAPTER XXV.

Behold, with pearls they glittering stand,

Thy peaceful gates to all expand,

By grace and strength divinely shed,

Each mortal thither may be led;

Who, kindled by Christ’s love, will dare

All earthly sufferings now to bear.

By many a salutary stroke,

By many a weary blow, that broke,

Or polished, with a workman’s skill,

The stones that form that glorious pile;

They all are fitly framed to lie

In their appointed place on high.

Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church.

The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn

day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the

mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.

The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the

sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow

leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew

up at Dr. May’s door.

Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and

Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even

before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had

waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit

her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling

to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the

attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real--as if she would

fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who

had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than

to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions,

sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been

only an excuse for looking at Margaret’s countenance, and drinking in

her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George’s carriage,

and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of

Ethel’s delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer,

gave her final kiss, and whispered, “In spirit with us!” then ran down

and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and

Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.

“Flora dear,” said Margaret, “do you dislike having the window opened?”

Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister’s scruples, that

she liked the air. “You always spoiled me,” said Margaret fondly. “Come

and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here,” she added, as

Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, “It is like the

old times to have you here taking care of me.”

“Very unlike them in some ways,” said Flora.

“It has been a great renewal of still older times,” said Margaret, “to

have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is

so like having mamma here,” and she looked in her sister’s face as she

spoke.

Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm

in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and

being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but,

suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret’s frame; she raised her hand

and lifted her head, with an eager “Hark!”

Flora could hear nothing.

“The bells--his bells!” said Margaret, all one radiant look of

listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in

the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white

cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted

lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.

It ceased. “Alan! Alan!” said she. “It is enough! I am ready!”

The somewhat alarmed look on Flora’s face recalled her, and, smiling,

she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, “Let us

follow the service. It will be best for us both.”

Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had

come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and

she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged

her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost

whispering, till she came to, “If they return to Thee with all their

heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither

they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou

gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen,

and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from

the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place--”

Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs

cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say

something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, “Margaret!

Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very,

very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me--and that I

may see my child again!”

“My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up.

Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not

He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!”

The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next

instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her

quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of

Margaret’s words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to

her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret’s hands were

folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a

fervency that made them broken.

Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to

believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the

aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up

their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered

feeling--could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part

of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever,

separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often

that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many

imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was

able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the

deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts.

Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into

every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the

intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the

commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel’s spirit sank

for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all

must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving;

yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind,

and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the

present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might,

there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never

had Ethel been so happy--not in the sense of the finished work--no, she

had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever

she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart

that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as

might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting

life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to

prepare strength for what may be in store.

The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while

the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As

she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church, and of

inquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved

towards the school, where a luncheon was provided for them, to pass away

the interval until evening service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites

were, meantime, to have a dinner in the former schoolroom, at the

Elwoods’ house, and Ethel was anxious so see that all was right there;

so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her

arm to Cherry, whose limping walk showed her to be very tired.

“Oh, Miss Ethel!” said Cherry, “if Miss May could only have been here!”

“Her heart is,” said Ethel.

“Well, ma’am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma’am, how all the

children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say ‘Miss

May told me--’ they are all like mice.”

“She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any one else,”

said Ethel.

More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being

overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry.

Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood’s wicket gate, but she was

arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the bishop,

and the bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much

wished to be introduced to her.

Of course, that was because she was her father’s daughter, and by way

of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage,

whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and,

entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting

down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on

account of his clerkship, presiding at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the

other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly; while

Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke

Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit

daunted by the bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old

granny told him “she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee,

when the squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn’t none of it fit to

eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure,

who would have thought what would come of Sam’s bringing in the young

gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!”

The bishop said grace, and left granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel

his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she

had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host, and that

she was his eldest sister forthcoming.

No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she saw her

father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both

which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, “Ethel, I must

carry you away;” and, in explanation to the bishop, “my poor girl at

home is not so well.”

All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would

have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held her fast, asking what

good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add

to Flora’s fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their

minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that

were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but

Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the

gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner

with which the bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes,

was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of

trial.

Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the consecration

festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though

very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the

luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the church was the gift

of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all

alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not

the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor

was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion

to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful,

or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however,

permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling; and things were

said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and

uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged

to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so

beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the

fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could

be abolished by Act of Parliament.

Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud

of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers

expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the

House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out,

for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers.

Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had

not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but,

as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learned the truth from

Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to

see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain,

for she was accustomed to Margaret’s having these attacks, and had

always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness

to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple,

good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place

of her elder sisters.

“Cocksmoor really has a church!” was note enough of joy for her, and

no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness.

Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into

decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight, which had

provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She

appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a

lift in their carriages to the distressed; and, regarding the Abbotstoke

britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition

to all their own little ones, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the

demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute, and, remaining with

Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted

were they “at the fun,” that it might have been thought the most

charming of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack

of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood’s, divested themselves of all

possible finery, and tucked up the rest; Meta was rolled up from head to

foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood’s, and Mary had a cloak

of Richard’s, the one took Norman’s arm, the other Dr. Spencer’s, and

they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee,

quite sorry when the carriage met them half-way.

It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they

reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over

them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing-room, and saw

the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche and George Rivers.

“It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off,” was

all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told when Dr.

Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings.

This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her voice

sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started

up, exclaiming at her aspect; she let him support her to the sofa, and

gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as

usual, till nurse came to dress her, but the first move had brought on

the faintness and loss of breath. It did not yield to remedies, and

she had neither looked nor spoken since, only moaned. Flora thought her

father much alarmed; and then, after an interval, she began to entreat

that they might stay there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the

Grange to make room.

Meantime, Dr. Spencer had come to the sick-room, but he could only

suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the

insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching, and trying

everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and Ethel presently

stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer turned towards him,

and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, “It won’t do--I believe it

is the death-stroke.”

“Not immediate,” said Dr. Spencer.

“No,” said Dr. May; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had

effected, and what yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl should

be broken.

Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement.

“Will there be no rally?” said Ethel, in the same tone.

“Probably not,” said Dr. May; “the brain is generally reached at this

stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven

years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong; but

suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the

spine.”

Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, saying, “I do

not think there will be much acute suffering.”

“I fear it may be as trying,” said Dr. May, sighing; and then turning to

Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, “May God make it easy to her, and

grant us ‘patient hearts.’ We will not grudge her to all that she loves

best, my Ethel.”

Ethel clung to him, as if to derive strength from him. But the strength

that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his

hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again,

they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness

prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true

state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining.

George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be

refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her

gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. “I shall

be here to-morrow,” she said to Ethel, and went.

The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of

that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be

unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her

presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May’s anxieties, chiefly

devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent

and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch,

uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched

over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much

better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only

roused herself to return her husband’s affection, or to listen to the

daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta

did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at

Stoneborough.

The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of

full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan’s

bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little

power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the

land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach

body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was

conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight

on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted

helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and

then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary

alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less

restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare,

only now and then a name, and when in most distress, “it will be soon

over,” “it will soon be over,” occurred so often, that they began to

think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a meaning.

They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, but

could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken down, as if

the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust that it was but

her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days pass. Ethel, Richard,

and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares,

and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith,

resigning her daughter to the Hands which were bearing her whither her

joys had long since departed.

Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his agony of

sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May to exert himself

earnestly for his consolation; and, at the same time, Tom, in a gentle,

almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like attention to the

smallest services for his father, as if already accepting him as his

especial charge.

It was midnight, on the longest night of the year; Ethel was lying on

her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her father’s low,

clear voice summoned her: “Ethel, she is going!”

There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labouring gasps.

Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened; she smiled once

more.

“Papa!” she said, “dear papa!”

He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond him,

“Mamma! Alan! oh, there they are! More! more!” and, as though the

unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, then looked, with

a consoling smile, on her father. “Over now!” she said--and the last

struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret

May.

Over now! The twenty-five years’ life, the seven years’ captivity on her

couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless

betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed

affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony--all was

over; nothing left, save what they had rendered the undying spirit, and

the impress her example had left on those around her.

The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual

parting; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that

they turned away, and bade each other good-night.

Ethel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge

that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than

with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like,

comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of her children with

her. He called her the first link of his Daisy Chain drawn up out of

sight; and, during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as it were to

be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the

same on his children, as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the

house; and when Harry, pale, and shocked at the blow to him so sudden,

came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief; and he sat

beside his, father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had

loved to hear from him, of Alan Ernescliffe’s last moments.

Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, for

daisies in the wintry garden; but Hector Ernescliffe went down to the

cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on

Margaret’s bosom.

The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he was

entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal

bounding, in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat,

blue-bordered collar, and dark blue dress, showed him to be a sailor,

as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood beside

him.

“I say, sir,” said the latter, as Hector’s hand was on the door, “do you

belong to Dr. May?”

Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did.

“Then, maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings.”

Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he was Mr.

Ernescliffe’s brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. “What could he

do for him?”

Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus that Mr. May

had been met, on his return to Portsmouth, by the news of his sister’s

death. The Mays had helped his boy; he had been with Mr. May in the

island; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his grave; and some notion had

crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret’s funeral--it might

be they would let him lend a hand--and, in this expedition, he was

spending his time on shore.

How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came forth from

full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked him for doing what

Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; and, in his blue sailor garb,

was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men, and two Cocksmoor

labourers, who, early on Christmas Eve, carried her to the minster. Last

time she had been there, Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what

was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer

sky, while the first snow-flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But

as they laid her by her mother’s side, who could doubt that they were

together?

CHAPTER XXVI.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,

Where lay my hope;

Where lay my heart; and, climbing still,

When I had gained the brow and top,

A lake of brackish waters on the ground,

Was all I found.

--GEORGE HERBERT.

Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little

daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, Mrs.

Arnott came to summon Dr May from the anxious vigil in the sitting-room.

“Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her,” she said, with much

alarm. “The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of

agitation, that we do not know what to do with her.”

It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of despair

was gone; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened again; and

there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep

heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed equally perilous,

but he chose the first--he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She

looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace, and said

faintly, “Now it is pardon--now I can die!”

“The cloud is gone! Thanks for that above all!” said Dr. May fervently.

“Now, my dear, rest in thankful gladness--you are too weak to talk or

think.”

“I am weak--I am tired of it all,” said Flora. “I am glad to be going

while I am so happy--there are Margaret--my own darling--rest--peace--”

“You are not going, dearest,” said her father; “at least, I trust not,

if you will not give way; here is a darling given to you, instead of the

first, who needs you more.”

He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her

mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath

in his arms, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. Arnott to

show her the child; but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was

not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears

burst out again. “Tell Ethel she will be the best mother to her. Name

her Margaret--make her a Daisy of your own--don’t call her after me,”

she said, with such passionate caresses, that Mrs. Arnott was glad to

take the babe away.

Dr. May’s next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, who needed

her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to be something

tranquillising in his wistful manner of repeating, “Don’t cry, Flora;”

and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, to stillness;

but there were still many fears for her.

Dr. May’s prediction was accomplished--that she would suffer for having

over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the

grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the

fresh sorrow for her favourite sister coming at such a crisis. There

was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary

routine, that made her almost welcome her weakness and sinking; and now

that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to

long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child;

while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to

oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness and toil in store.

The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it was but

too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels

that galled her; worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though

she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands,

and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a position for

which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence

that would not recede from it. The shock of her child’s death had taken

away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life,

and opened her eyes to see what Master she had been serving; and the

perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in

her, had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been

the more bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She

had refused council, and denied her confidence to those who could have

guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the sound principle

in which she had been brought up, had taught her to distrust her gloomy

feelings as possibly morbid; and she had prayed, keeping her hold of

faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she could not feel her own part in

it; and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path.

It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation was

so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken

to her; and she was allowed to see no one else except her aunt and the

dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by

the urgent requirements of another of her nurslings; and whom George

Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold, for taking care of his

new daughter, regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be

trusted.

Those were heavy days with every one, though each brought some shade of

improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had

immediately followed the loss of Margaret; and Ethel was especially

unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, where she could be of no

service; and with her precious occupation gone; her father absent,

instead of resting upon her; and her room deserted. She was grieved

with herself, because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas

Feast, as erst on St. Andrew’s Day; and she was bewildered and

distressed by the fear that she had then been only uplifted by vanity

and elation.

She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good deal of

that she complained of arose from bodily weariness.

This hurt her a little; but when he said, “I think that the blessings of

St. Andrew’s Day helped us through what was to follow,” she owned that

it had indeed been so, and added, “I am going to work again! Tell me

what will be most useful to you at Cocksmoor.”

Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the

hours now left vacant; and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to

church at Cocksmoor on St. Stephen’s Day; but the church brought back

the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling their

intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how Flora was, when the

unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her

down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely

spent, that the effect of returning home to her room, without its dear

inhabitant, was quite overwhelming, and she sat on her bed for half

an hour, struggling with repinings. She came downstairs without having

gained the victory, and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that

Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him

and Mary.

Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an unspeakable

help and comforter to her, not only by taking every care for her for her

sake, but by turning to her as his own friend and confidante, the best

able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in

operation for Cocksmoor, on which much consultation was needed, though

every word reminded them sadly of Margaret’s ever ready interest in

those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel’s vision of the first weeks

of St. Andrew’s Church; but it might be safer for her than that aught

should tempt her to say, “See what my perseverance has wrought!”

Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest

confidante--at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than

on earth to reap in confident joy.

Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible; but it was one of the

dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became aware of

the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that he resorted

elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and acquiesced submissively

and resolutely; but they had been so much to each other, that it was

a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of

Margaret.

Norman’s own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter

from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, as there was

educational work much wanting him, and, according to his original wish,

he could be ordained there in the autumnal Ember Week.

He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he ought to

sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he knew not how to

reconcile the conflicting claims.

Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as they paced

up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon.

“You will go!” was her first exclamation.

“I ought,” said Norman, “I believe I ought, and if it had only been at

any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt’s company would have

been such a comfort for you.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Meta.

“Considering the circumstances,” began Norman, with lingering looks at

the little humming-bird on his arm, “I believe I should be justified

in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr.

Wilmot thinks.”

“You don’t think so yourself,” said Meta. “Nobody else can give a

judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking

opinions as Balaam inquired.”

“Turning my words against me?” said Norman, smiling. “Still, Meta,

perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a

little person not far off.”

“She can be the best judge of that herself,” said Meta. “Norman,” and

her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, “I always resolved that, with

God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call

to your work. I will not. Go out now--perhaps you will be freer for it

without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all

sorts of things before I come to help you.”

“Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!”

“What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?” said Meta, trying

to laugh, but not very successfully. “Seriously, I have much to do here.

When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long

time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough

sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that

you ought to go.”

“My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to

him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required

sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid

his commands on me to wait till the autumn.”

“Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy,” said Meta, smiling; “but

I don’t think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you

out without encumbrance.”

“Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?”

“I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews but

you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so

comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come out to

her! I mean there, to convince her that I can be of something like use.”

Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were

together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The humming-bird

had hardly ever been so downcast as at present--that is, whenever she

was not engaged in waiting on her brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or

in any of the many gentle offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was

greatly disappointed, and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the

separation, but she would not give way; and only now and then, when off

her guard, would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone,

she fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and

strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he would

be safer with her.

She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over the fire

together, speaking with a would-be tone of congratulation.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. “But that is a great pity!”

Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so. “I thought you would be

glad,” she rejoined.

“Did you think me so hard-hearted?”

“I thought you believed he would be better without me.”

“My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for

nothing,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Meta, trying to answer the smile. “You have taken a

load off me!”

“I don’t like it at all,” said Mrs. Arnott. “It is a very uncomfortable

plan for every one. And yet when I know how great is the want of him out

there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear,

I’ll take all the care I can of Norman, and when you come, I shall be

almost as glad as if we were coming home for good. Poor Flora! she is

one person who will not regret the arrangement.”

“Poor Flora!--you think her really better this evening?”

“Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she

would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to

talk to Ethel--she may better understand her.”

“I have never understood Flora,” said Meta. “She has been as kind to

me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but

I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear

Margaret.”

Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been.

She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retracing, as it

did, her mother’s presence, and she responded to her tenderness with

increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive,

and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into

greater confidence.

The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun

to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous

tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her

one day almost faint with agitation--she had heard Ethel’s voice in the

next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much

grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby,

but was now gone.

“How does the dear Ethel look?” asked Flora presently.

“She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed,

but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his

pony, and I think it did her good.”

“Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can

you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s engagement?”

“Do you mean--” and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation.

“Yes,” said Flora, answering the pause.

“But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person.”

“So he is,” said Flora. “I was much annoyed at the time, but she was

resolute.”

“In rejecting him?”

“In running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen;” and

Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford.

“Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?”

“Entirely,” said Flora. “No one could look at her without seeing that

she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and

she sacrificed herself.”

“I am glad that I have seen her,” said Mrs. Arnott. “I should never have

understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to

set my correspondence going rightly.”

“Aunt Flora,” said her niece, “do you remember my dear mother’s

unfinished letter to you?”

“To be sure I do, my dear.”

“Nothing ever was more true,” said Flora. “I read it over some little

time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never

did before. I used to think it very good for the others.”

“It is what one generally does with good advice.”

“Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is

so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads

nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but

went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora--me--”

“Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full

approbation.”

“Ah! don’t you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if

she only could not see surface faults in me,” said Flora; “and how she

said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how

it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the

past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might

have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful

time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient,

and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made

me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek

my own honour.”

Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora’s continued depression, but

she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once

soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of

reserve.

“You do not know,” continued Flora, “how greedy I was of credit and

affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in

the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could

be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don’t think the things I did were

bad in themselves--brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I

knew what merits praise and blame too well for that--but oh! the motive.

I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a

grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all

I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real

person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me.

I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might

have been happy with Norman Ogilvie--for never were two people better

matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to

another--watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see

her?”

“My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She

does not think these things.”

“She does,” said Flora. “She always knew me better than I did myself.

Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall

see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk

from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could

not bear them now--and yet--oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my

dear, dear old King--my darling’s godmother--the last who was with

Margaret!”

She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible

to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much

exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May

for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that

he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and

declared that she would be better now.

The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the

twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was

almost equally divided between dread and eagerness--eagerness for her

embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in

hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. “I shall take you

in without any preparation,” he said, “that she may not have time to be

flurried. Only, be quiet and natural.”

Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to

think it so easy to be natural?

She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful

tones saying, “I have brought Ethel to you!”

“Ethel! oh!” said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a

treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness,

to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long

thin ones. “There!” said Dr. May, “now, if you will be good, I will

leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always

separates naughty children.”

Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch

after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual

dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora’s arms were round

her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made

the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of

“Flossy,” and “King,” that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they

were baby sisters, then kissed each other again.

“I can’t see you,” said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. “Why, Flora,

you look like a little white shadow!”

“I have had such weak eyes,” said Flora, “and this dim light is

comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain.”

“But what can you do here?”

“Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have

three years’ rest to make up.”

“Poor Flora!” said Ethel; “but I should have thought it tiresome,

especially for you.”

“I have only now been able to think again,” said Flora; “and you will

say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that

drama that Norman admired so much?”

“Philip von Artevelde?”

“Yes. I can’t recollect them now, though they used to be always running

in my head--something about time to mend and time to mourn.”

“These?” said Ethel--

“He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.

Eternity mourns that.”

“I never had time before for either,” said Flora. “You cannot think

how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to

another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take

up work again.”

“Mending as well as mourning,” said Ethel thoughtfully.

Flora sighed.

“And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to--” Ethel paused.

“She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was,” said Flora,

“poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little

time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must

leave her to--to the nurses.” Flora’s voice trembled again.

“Our own dear old nurse,” said Ethel.

“Oh! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us,” said Flora.

“George wished it so much. But how does poor little Daisy bear it?”

“Very magnanimously,” said Ethel, smiling. “In fact, nurse has had but

little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at

home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to return to be babies

to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery, and taking

Gertrude to live with me.”

“Have you gone back there again?”

“It would not have been better for waiting,” said Ethel; “and Gertrude

was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but

papa must not have vacancy next to him.”

“It has been hard on you for me to engross him,” said Flora; “but oh,

Ethel, I could not spare him. I don’t think even you can tell what papa

is.”

“You have found it out,” said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner; which in

sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering,

tearful murmurs of her sister.

“And my aunt!” continued Flora--“that I should have taken up such a

great piece of her short visit!”

“Ah! it is coming to an end very fast,” said Ethel, sighing; “but you

had the best right to her, and she and Meta have seen so much of each

other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meta now.”

“I am sorry to see Meta looking out of spirits,” said Flora. “I almost

made her cry by saying something about Norman. Is there anything going

wrong?”

Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject. “Only about Norman’s going

out.”

Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. It roused

Flora’s energies at once.

“This will never do!” she said. “They must marry, and go with my aunt.”

Ethel was aghast. “They would not hear of it now!”

“They must. It is the only reasonable thing. Why, Norman would be

miserable, and as to Meta--Imagine his going out and returning--a year’s

work, such an expense and loss of time, besides the missing Aunt Flora.”

“If it were not wrong--”

“The waste would be the wrong thing. Besides--” and she told of

Margaret’s wishes.

“But, Flora, think--the last week in February--and you so ill!”

“I am not to marry them,” said Flora, smiling. “If it could be in a

fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards, and come

back to us when I am stronger. Let me see--there need be no fuss about

settlements--Mr. Rivers’s will arranges everything for her.”

“It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding,” said Ethel;

“but they will never consent!”

“Yes, they will, and be grateful.”

“Papa would be happier about Norman,” said Ethel; “but I cannot fancy

his liking it. And you--you can’t spare Meta, for Aunt Flora must go to

the Arnotts’ in a week or two more.”

“Suppose papa was to let me have you,” said Flora. “If he wants you, he

must come after you.”

Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone, but

she said, “If I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora. You will miss

Meta terribly.”

“I can’t keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away,” said

Flora.

Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quickly guessed

from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that

she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta had much better not miss this

opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected; indeed,

the proposal was rather a relief to his mind, and his chief objection

was the fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle; but she

promised not to trouble herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman

could not persuade Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more

comfortable than before. Ethel felt as if she had found something like a

dim reflection of Margaret, and Flora’s fear of Ethel had fled away from

the mere force of sisterhood.

As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the

proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful; so his father carried

it to the humming-bird; and, as soon as she found that it was

not improper, nor would hurt any one’s feelings, she gave ready

consent--only begging that it might be as best suited every one,

especially Flora; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend,

owning that she was “very glad--she meant she was very glad there would

be nobody there.”

So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home together from

evening service, after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to

be spread into the waste and desolate places, which should yet become

the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening star shining on them,

like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, Who came to be a Light to

lighten the Gentiles.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Euna delle facolta singolari ed incommunicabili della religione

Cristiana questa, di poter dare indirizzo e quiete a chiunoque, in

qualsivoglia congiuntura, a qualsivoglia termine, ricorra ad essa.

Se al passato v’e rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta

lume e vigore per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo; se non v’e,

essa da il, modo di fare realmento e in effeto, cio che 1’ uom dice

in proverbio, della necessita virtu. Insegna a continuare con

sapienza cio che e stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l’animo ad

abbracciare con propensione cio che e stato imposto dalla prepotenza,

e da ad un elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irrevocabile, tutta la

santita, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le

gioje della vocazione.--MANZONI.

The wedding-day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was less

risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough to

take any share in the doings.

Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and obtained her

uncle’s kind approval, since he saw there could be nothing else; while

her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, but wished, for her

mother’s sake, to meet her in London before she sailed.

The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen to believe

that her mistress could move without her, and though mortally afraid in

crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhorring all “natives,” went

into hysterics on finding that her young lady would take out no maid but

a little hard-working village girl; and though transferred in the most

flattering manner to Mrs. Rivers’s service, shed a tear for every stitch

she set in the trousseau, and assured her betrothed butler that, if Miss

Rivers would only have heard reason, she would have followed her to the

world’s end, rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like

anything again.

So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit of

crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed by the

sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself in a large

shawl, took her brother’s arm, and walked down the frosty path with him

and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the daily service.

The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an addition to

the ordinary congregation, except the May family and Dr. Spencer; but

the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and chancel, and over the

altar stood the motto that Meta herself had woven of holly, on that

Christmas Eve of grief and anxiety, without knowing how it would speak

to her.

Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy,

that shall be unto you and to all people.

Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship,

privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all

people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in

the great joy--ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet

are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for

He is with you, who will never forsake.

Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his

son’s clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his

Confirmation vow--his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit

not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young

face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and

humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of

innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her

white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride’s-maids, their black

dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and

that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour

of love.

When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband’s arm, turned for a last look

at the altar of her own church, “Fear not,” in evergreen letters, was

the greeting she bore away.

Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight--a time of

unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly,

for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before.

Flora’s confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though

so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew

the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom

prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her

deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and

affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her

sister’s mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how,

since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the

tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing

among them her present peace.

“They are your duty,” argued Ethel. “Duty brings peace.”

“They were not,” said Flora.

“They are now,” said Ethel.

“Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show,” said Flora languidly.

“Are you come to their defence, Ethel? If you could guess how sick one

gets of them, and how much worse it is for them not to be hateful!

And to think of bringing my poor little girl up to the like, if she is

spared!”

“If they are not duties, I would not do them,” said Ethel.

“Ethel,” cried her sister, raising herself from her couch eagerly, “I

will say it to you! What should you think of George resigning his seat,

and living in peace here?”

“Would he?” said Ethel.

“If I wished it.”

“But what would he do with himself?” said Ethel, not in too

complimentary a strain.

“Yachting, farming, Cochin-Chinese--or something,” said Flora. “Anything

not so wearing as this!”

“That abominable candidate of Tomkins’s would come in!” exclaimed Ethel.

“Oh, Flora, that would be horrid!”

“That might be guarded against,” said Flora. “Perhaps Sir Henry--But oh!

let us leave politics in peace while we can. I thought we should do some

great good, but it is all a maze of confusion. It is so hard to know

principles from parties, and everything goes wrong! It is of no use to

contend with it!”

“It is never vain to contend with evil,” said Ethel.

“We are not generalising,” said Flora. “There is evil nearer home

than the state of parties, and I can’t see that George’s being in

Parliament--being what he is--is anything like the benefit to things

in general--that it is temptation and plague to me, besides the risk of

London life for the baby, now and hereafter.”

“I can’t say that I think it is,” said Ethel. “How nice it would be to

have you here! I am so glad you are willing to give it up.”

“It would have been better to have given it up untasted--like Norman,”

sighed Flora. “I will talk to George.”

“But, Flora,” said Ethel, a little startled, “you ought not to do such a

thing without advice.”

“There will be worry enough before it is done!” sighed Flora. “No fear

of that!”

“Stop a minute,” said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done anything

but lie still on her sofa. “I think you ought to consider well before

you set it going.”

“Have not I longed for it day and night? It is an escape from peril for

ourselves and our child.”

“I can’t be sure!” said Ethel. “It may be more wrong to make George

desert the post which--”

“Which I thrust him into,” said Flora. “My father told me as much.”

“I did not mean you to say that! But it is a puzzle. It seems as if it

were right to give up such things; yet, when I recollect the difficulty

of carrying an election right at Stoneborough, I think papa would be

very sorry. I don’t think his interest would bring in any sound man but

his son-in-law; and George himself seems to like his parliamentary life

better than anything else.”

“Yes,” said Flora hesitatingly; for she knew it was true--he liked to

think himself important, and it gave him something to think of, and

regular occupation--not too active or onerous; but she could not tell

Ethel what she herself felt; that all she could do for him could not

prevent him from being held cheap by the men among whom she had placed

him.

“Then,” said Ethel, as she heard her affirmative, “I don’t think it is

for his dignity, for you to put him into Parliament to please you and

then take him out to please you.”

“I’ll take care of his dignity,” said Flora shortly.

“I know you would do it well--”

“I am sick of doing things well!” said poor Flora. “You little know how

I dread reading up all I must read presently! I shall lose all I have

scarcely gained. I cannot find peace any way, but by throwing down the

load I gave my peace for.”

“Whether this is truth or fancy,” said Ethel thoughtfully. “If you would

ask some one competent.”

“Don’t you know there are some things one cannot ask?” said Flora. “I

don’t know why I spoke to you! Ah! come in! Why, George, that is a finer

egg than ever,” as he entered with a Shanghai egg in each hand, for her

to mark with the date when it had been laid. Poultry was a new hobby,

and Ethel had been hearing, in her tete-a-tete dinners with George,

a great deal about the perfections of the hideous monsters that

had obtained fabulous prices. They had been the best resource for

conversation; but she watched, with something between vexation and

softness, how Flora roused herself to give her full attention and

interest to his prosing about his pets, really pleased as it seemed;

and, at last, encouraging him actually to fetch his favourite cock to

show her; when she went through the points of perfection of the ungainly

mass of feathers, and did not at all allow Ethel to laugh at the

unearthly sounds of disapproval which handling elicited.

“And this is our senator!” thought Ethel. “I wonder whether Honorius’s

hen was a Shanghai! Poor Flora is right--it is poor work to make a silk

purse out of a sow’s ear! but, putting him into the place is one thing,

taking him out another. I wish she would take advice; but I never knew

her do that, except as a civil way of communicating her intentions.

However, she is not quite what she was! Poor dear! Aunt Flora will never

believe what a beautiful creature she used to be! It seems wrong to

think of her going back to that horrid London; but I can’t judge. For

my part, I’d rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good,

kind-hearted fellow after all! I won’t be a crab!”

So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye--all she could

say for him--and George instructed her to admire the awkward legs, and

invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in two days’ time--and they

sent him away to continue his consultations with the poultry woman,

which pullets should be preferred as candidates for a prize.

“Meta set him upon this,” said Flora. “I hope you will go, Ethel. You

see he can be very happy here.”

“Still,” said Ethel, “the more I think, the more sure I am that you

ought to ask advice.”

“I have asked yours,” said Flora, as if it were a great effort. “You

don’t know what to say--I shall do what I see to be the only way to

rest.”

“I do know what to say,” said Ethel; “and that is, do as the Prayer-book

tells you, in any perplexity.”

“I am not perplexed,” said Flora.

“Don’t say so. This is either the station to which God has called you,

or it is not.”

“He never called me to it.”

“But you don’t know whether you ought to leave it. If you ought not, you

would be ten times more miserable. Go to Richard, Flora--he belongs to

you as much as I--he has authority besides.”

“Richard!”

“He is the clearest of us all in practical matters,” said Ethel,

preventing what she feared would be disparaging. “I don’t mean only that

you should ask him about this Parliament matter alone; but I am sure

you would be happier and more settled if you talked things over with him

before--before you go to church.”

“You don’t know what you propose.”

“I do,” said Ethel, growing bolder. “You have been going all this time

by feeling. You have never cleared up, and got to the bottom of, your

troubles.”

“I could not talk to any one.”

“Not to any one but a clergyman. Now, to enter on such a thing is most

averse to your nature; and I do believe that, for that very reason, it

would be what would do you most good. You say you have recovered sense

of--Oh, Flora! I can’t talk of what you have gone through; but if you

have only a vague feeling that seems as if lying still would be the only

way to keep it, I don’t think it can be altogether sound, or the ‘quiet

conscience’ that is meant.”

“Oh, Ethel! Ethel! I have never told you what I have undergone, since I

knew my former quietness of conscience was but sleep! I have gone on in

agony, with the sense of hypocrisy and despair, because I was afraid,

for George’s sake, to do otherwise.”

Ethel felt herself utterly powerless to advise; and, after a kind sound

of sympathy, sat shocked, pondering on what none could answer; whether

this were, indeed, what poor Flora imagined, or whether it had been a

holding-fast to the thread through the darkness. The proud reserve was

the true evil, and Ethel prayed and trusted it might give way.

She went very amiably to Whitford with George, and gained great credit

with him, for admiring the prettiest speckled Hamburgh present; indeed,

George was becoming very fond of “poor Ethel,” as he still called her,

and sometimes predicted that she would turn out a fine figure of a woman

after all.

Ethel heard, on her return, that Richard had been there; and three days

after, when Flora was making arrangements for going to church, a moment

of confidence came over her, and she said, “I did it, Ethel! I have

spoken to Richard.”

“I am so glad!”

“You were right. He is as clear as he is kind,” said Flora; “he showed

me that, for George’s sake, I must bear with my present life, and do the

best I can with it, unless some leading comes for an escape; and that

the glare, and weariness, and being spoken well of, must be taken as

punishment for having sought after these things.”

“I was afraid he would say so,” said Ethel. “But you will find happiness

again, Flora dear.”

“Scarcely--before I come to Margaret and to my child,” sighed Flora. “I

suppose it was Mercy that would not let me follow when I wished it. I

must work till the time of rest comes!”

“And your own little Margaret will cheer you!” said Ethel, more

hopefully, as she saw Flora bend over her baby with a face that might

one day be bright.

She trusted that patient continuance in well-doing would one day win

peace and joy, even in the dreary world that poor Flora had chosen.

For her own part, Ethel found Flora’s practical good sense and sympathy

very useful, in her present need of the counsel she had always had from

Margaret.

The visit to Flora lasted a fortnight, and Ethel was much benefited by

the leisure for reading and the repose after the long nursing; though,

before the end, her refreshed energies began to pine for Daisy and her

hymns, for Aubrey and his Virgil, for Cherry and her scholars, and,

above all, for her father; for, come as often as he would, it was not

papa at home.

On the other hand, Mary was at a loss for Ethel every hour; Richard

was putting off his affairs till Ethel should come home; Miss Bracy

and Blanche longed for her to relieve the schoolroom from the children;

Aubrey could not perform a lesson in comfort with any one else--never

ended a sum without groaning for Ethel, and sometimes rode to Abbotstoke

for the mere purpose of appealing to her; in short, no one could get on

without her, and the doctor least of all.

Dr. Spencer, and Mr. Wilmot, and all his sons and daughters, had done

their best for him; but, in spite of his satisfaction at seeing the two

sisters so happy together, he could not help missing Ethel every minute,

as the very light of his home; and when, at last, Flora brought her

back, she was received with uproarious joy by Aubrey and Daisy, while

the rest of the household felt a revival and refreshment of spirits--the

first drawing aside of the cloud that had hung over the winter.

The pearl of their home might be missed every hour, but they could

thankfully rest in the trust that she was a jewel stored up in safety

and peace, to shine as a star for evermore.

A few weeks more, and there were other partings, sad indeed, yet cheery.

Dr. May told Mrs. Arnott that, though he grieved that so much of sorrow

had come to dim her visit, he could not but own that it was the very

time when her coming could be most comforting; and this, as she truly

said, was satisfaction enough for her, besides that she could not

rejoice enough that her arrival had been in time to see their dear

Margaret. She should carry away most precious recollections; and she

further told Dr. Spencer that she was far more comfortable about

her brother-in-law, than if she had only known him in his youthful

character, which had seemed so little calculated to bear sorrow or care.

She looked at him now only to wonder at, and reverence the change that

had been gradually wrought by the affections placed above.

Norman and his wife went with her--the one grave but hopeful, the other

trying to wile away the pain of parting, by her tearful mirth--making

all sorts of odd promises and touching requests, between jest and

earnest, and clinging to the last to her dear father-in-law, as if the

separation from him were the hardest of all.

“Well, humming-birds must be let fly!” said he at last. “Ah! ha! Meta,

are they of no use?”

“Stay till you hear!” said Meta archly--then turning back once more.

“Oh! how I have thanked you, Ethel, for those first hints you gave me

how to make my life real. If I had only sat still and wished, instead of

trying what could be done as I was, how unhappy I should have been!”

“Come, take your sprite away, Norman, if you don’t want me to keep her

for good! God bless you, my dear children! Good-bye! Who knows but when

Doctor Tom sets up in my place, Ethel and I may come out and pay you a

visit?”

It had all been over for some weeks, and the home-party had settled down

again into what was likely to be their usual course, excepting in the

holidays, to which the doctor looked forward with redoubled interest, as

Tom was fast becoming a very agreeable and sensible companion; for his

moodiness had been charmed away by Meta, and principle was teaching

him true command of temper. He seemed to take his father as a special

charge, bequeathed to him by Norman, and had already acquired that

value and importance at home which comes of the laying aside of all

self-importance.

It was a clear evening in March, full of promise of spring, and Ethel

was standing in the church porch at Cocksmoor, after making some visits

in the parish, waiting for Richard, while the bell was ringing for the

Wednesday evening service, and the pearly tints of a cloudless sunset

were fading into the western sky.

Ethel began to wonder where Norman might be looking at the sun dipping

into the western sea, and thence arose before her the visions of her

girlhood, when she had first dreamt of a church on Cocksmoor, and of

Richard ministering before a willing congregation. So strange did the

accomplishment seem, that she even touched the stone to assure herself

of the reality; and therewith came intense thanksgiving that the work

had been taken out of her hands, to be the more fully blessed and

accomplished--that is, as far as the building went; as to the people,

there was far more labour in store, and the same Hand must be looked to

for the increase.

For herself, Ethel looked back and looked on. Norman Ogilvie’s marriage

seemed to her to have fixed her lot in life, and what was that lot? Home

and Cocksmoor had been her choice, and they were before her. Home! but

her eyes had been opened to see that earthly homes may not endure, nor

fill the heart. Her dear father might, indeed, claim her full-hearted

devotion, but, to him, she was only one of many. Norman was no longer

solely hers; and she had begun to understand that the unmarried woman

must not seek undivided return of affection, and must not set her love,

with exclusive eagerness, on aught below, but must be ready to cease in

turn to be first with any. Ethel was truly a mother to the younger ones;

but she faced the probability that they would find others to whom she

would have the second place. To love each heartily, to do her utmost for

each in turn, and to be grateful for their fondness, was her call; but

never to count on their affection as her sole right and inalienable

possession. She felt that this was the probable course, and that

she might look to becoming comparatively solitary in the course of

years--then tried to realise what her lonely life might be, but broke

off smiling at herself, “What is that to me? What will it be when it is

over? My course and aim are straight on, and He will direct my paths.

I don’t know that I shall be alone, and I shall have the memory--the

communion with them, if not their presence. Some one there must be to be

loved and helped, and the poor for certain. Only I must have my treasure

above, and when I think what is there, and of--Oh! that bliss of being

perfectly able to praise--with no bad old self to mar the full joy of

giving thanks, and blessing, and honour, and power! Need I dread a few

short years?--and they have not begun yet--perhaps they won’t--Oh! here

is actually papa coming home this way! how delightful! Papa, are you

coming to church here?”

“Ay, Ethel. That weathercock of Spencer’s is a magnet, I believe! It

draws me from all parts of the country to hear Richard in St. Andrew’s

Church.”