ANOTHER BIRTHDAY
'Rare as is true love, true friendship is still rarer.'
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
Bridget's birthday came in May--the middle of May. From the time I have
told you about in the last chapter Mr. Vane went on getting slowly
better; at least he got no worse. But it did seem very slow. At last
there came a day on which the doctor gave him leave to go downstairs.
'I want to see what he can do,' the doctor explained. 'At this rate we
might go on for months and gain little ground. Perhaps he is stronger
than he seems.'
They were all very eager and excited about this great step. It was an
'afternoon' day, as the little girls called those days on which
Celestina and Miss Neale came back again, and this afternoon Mrs.
Fairchild came with them. Mrs. Vane was thankful to have her at hand in
case of any help being needed. And all the children were sent out for a
walk, with the promise of finding papa in the drawing-room when they
came in again.
But as they were coming home they were met by Rough at the Rectory gate.
It was one of his occasional half-days. He ran out to meet them, but he
looked rather grave.
'Is papa down? Is he in the drawing-room?' cried Rosalys and Biddy.
'Yes,' said Rough; 'but mamma's been rather frightened about him. He
seems so weak. She's sent me for the doctor, and he's there now. So you
must not go in to see papa. That's why I came to meet you.'
Alie's face fell and Biddy's grew very red.
'I'm sure _we_ shouldn't hurt him,' she said. 'It's all that nasty
doctor,' and she almost looked as if she were going to get into one of
her old tempers.
Celestina took hold of her hand gently.
'Don't, Biddy dear,' she whispered. 'Perhaps when the doctor goes you'll
see him;' which did Bridget far more good than if she had overheard, as
she luckily did not, Rough's remark to Alie: 'I don't think _she's_ any
right to grumble when it's all her doing.'
It was not a kind thing to say, but then Rough's heart was sore and
anxious, and when one feels so it is difficult not to be cross and
sharp. All their hearts were sore, I think. Children jump on so fast in
their minds. Bride and Rough, and Alie too, I daresay, had fancied to
themselves that once 'downstairs' again papa would seem directly like
himself, and this news was a great disappointment. So the little party
went in rather sadly, Miss Neale telling them in a low voice to take off
their things and come down to tea in the schoolroom as quietly as
possible, Rough, over whom her authority did not extend, stationing
himself at the front door to watch for the doctor's departure.
He stayed some time, and when he had gone Mr. Vane asked for the
children.
'In a little,' Mrs. Vane answered. Then she turned to Celestina's
mother. 'This idea has rather taken my breath away,' she said, but her
voice was pretty cheerful.
'I hardly see how it is to be managed,' said Mr. Vane, for once rather
despondently.
'We will talk it all over afterwards,' said Mrs. Vane, at a little sign
from Celestina's mother; 'and now we will leave you to rest a while.'
'Oh dear, Mrs. Fairchild,' she said, when they were alone in the next
room, 'I wonder what we can do. It is dreadful to think of going
abroad--to be alone among strangers, and my husband so ill. And then
leaving the children. I cannot send them to my mother. Her house is full
with my eldest brother's family home from India.'
'I think they would get on very well here,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'And
your own governess will be back in a fortnight. Of course Miss Neale
would be too young for such a charge; besides, she cannot leave her
mother. And--you must excuse my suggesting it--but is not Madame
d'Ermont's home somewhere in the south?'
'To be sure,' exclaimed Mrs. Vane, starting up joyfully; 'how stupid of
me not to have thought of it! Thank you so much for reminding me. I have
her last letter here. You have written to her yourself, have you not?'
'Yes, indeed. I wrote to thank her very much for her kindness,' said
Mrs. Fairchild. 'It may be of the greatest advantage to Celestina some
day.'
For I have been so busy with the story of Biddy's escapade and its
consequences, that I have put off too long telling of the French lady's
kind letter to Mrs. Vane about her old friend Mrs. Fairchild and her
little name-daughter Celestina.
'It has touched me very much,' she wrote, 'to find I was still
remembered; and if ever I can be of use to little Célestine and her
mother I hope she or you will let me know.'
Well, the doctor had ordered Mr. Vane to go abroad, as I daresay you
will have guessed.
It was a sad disappointment, just when they had come to Seacove and he
seemed so well, and though no one reproached her, Bridget felt that the
consequences of her self-will were not to be soon forgotten.
It was all settled very quickly; and from the time it was settled Mr.
Vane, 'out of contradiction,' he said laughing, really seemed to improve
faster than hitherto. So that he was looking a good deal more like 'a
proper papa,' as Alie said, the day he and Mrs. Vane started on their
long journey.
'I am so glad you are going to be near that nice old lady,' said Alie,
amidst her tears; 'and oh, mamma dear, I will try to do everything you
would like.'
'I am sure you will, darling, and it is a great comfort to feel so much
happier about Biddy now. You will try to make a nice birthday for her,
I know.'
'There'll be the surprise--that's something nice to look forward to. And
we may have Celestina as often as we like, mayn't we?'
'As often as her mother can spare her, of course,' Mrs. Vane answered.
Then came Biddy. She was not crying, though she winked her eyes a good
deal.
'Mamma, I'll try to be good,' she said bluntly; 'and if papa gets quite
well again'--here her voice broke. 'Oh, mamma, if only it was the day
for you and papa to come back, and him quite, _quite_ well. Mamma, I
think I'd never be naughty again.'
This was a great, great deal from Biddy!
That day _did_ come, but a good many other days had to pass before it
came, and some of these were rather sad and anxious ones. For the first
letters from abroad were not as cheerful as Mrs. Vane would have liked
to make them for the little party so eagerly awaiting them at Seacove
Rectory. Mr. Vane was very tired by the journey, and had it not been for
the kindness of Madame d'Ermont, who would not hear of them staying
anywhere but in her house, at any rate till he grew stronger, Mrs. Vane
said she felt as if she would have lost heart altogether. But after a
little things brightened up again. 'Papa really seems to get stronger
every day,' she wrote; and on Bridget's birthday morning there came a
letter from papa himself, all scented with the sweet violets he had
slipped into it--for that was long before the days of parcel posts, by
which flowers reach us from the south of France and Italy as fresh as if
we had just gathered them in our own gardens--and telling of quite a
long walk he had been able to take without feeling too tired. The letter
ended up with wishing Biddy a truly happy birthday, and hopes that it
might be bright and sunny at Seacove. 'I only wish I could pack up some
of the sunshine here to send you,' wrote Mr. Vane, 'for we have enough
and to spare of it. But after all, the best sunshine of all is that of
happy and contented and loving hearts--is it not, my Biddy?'
There was sunshine of both kinds that day at the Rectory. Celestina came
early, almost immediately after breakfast indeed, so as to be present at
the great 'surprise.' She was to spend the whole day for once with her
friends, which was a great treat, though she saw them regularly once or
twice a week when she came to have a French lesson from Miss Millet.
Mrs. Vane had arranged this before she left, for little Miss Neale, who
now gave Celestina lessons every day at Pier Street, could not teach
French, and it was a great pleasure, and help too, to Biddy to have
industrious, attentive Celestina still her companion in something.
But to-day, of course, there was no question of lessons of any kind.
They had breakfast extra early, which some children I know, would not,
I fear, consider a treat. Indeed, I once heard of some young people,
scarcely to be called children, and by no means overworked young people
either, who chose for a holiday pleasure that they should stay in bed
for breakfast, and not get up till the middle of the day, which, I must
say, I did not at all admire. The great reason for the extra early
breakfast on Biddy's birthday was not that the Vane children were so
_very_ fond of being up betimes, but that Rough wanted to be there at
the great scene, and with some difficulty he had got an hour's 'grace'
from school that morning.
To begin at the beginning--for I know that when I was a child I liked to
be told all about everything--the first pleasure of the day, after the
reading of papa's nice letter, was the sight of the breakfast-table.
Kind Miss Millet and Alie had dressed it up with cowslips after Biddy
had gone to bed the night before, for there were cowslips, and very
pretty ones, to be had in some woods a mile or two inland from Seacove.
And May birthdays always make one think of cowslips.
The breakfast itself was very nice too--extra nice; for there was no
bread and milk for once, but only 'grown-up' things--a tempting dish of
ham and eggs, and delicious hot rolls and tea-cakes, and strawberry jam
and honey to eat with them as a finish up. And besides the letter from
papa--which had _really_ come the day before and been kept till this
morning, as, in his fear of being too late, Mr. Vane had sent it off
rather too soon--there was a neat little packet for Biddy from
grandmamma, containing a story-book called _The Christmas Stocking_, and
a lovely scarf worked in all kinds of marvellous Eastern colours,
'making one think of the Arabian nights,' as Alie said, from the Indian
cousins. So that it was with a sigh of deep content that Biddy sat down
to breakfast, knowing that something still more delightful and wonderful
was in store.
Celestina arrived before breakfast was quite over, and Rough ran out and
brought her into the dining-room, where she had to eat a roll and
strawberry jam to refresh her after her early walk. And then when every
one had finished and Rough had said grace, they all set off to the
schoolroom.
'Shut your eyes, Biddy,' said Rough. 'I'll lead you in, and mind you
don't open them till I tell you.'
There stood Biddy, as quiet as a mouse, though her heart was beating
fast, till, after one or two whispered directions--'That isn't quite
straight,' 'Put the chairs by the fire, Celestina,' and so on--came
Rough's voice--
'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.'
[Illustration: 'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.' P. 195.]
And 'open her eyes' she did, though she half shut them again the next
minute, and then had to rub them to make sure they were not tricking
her. For there in front of her, on the schoolroom table, stood, its two
big doors flung wide open, the very nicest, most complete doll-house
that, in those days at least, could have been imagined. There were six
good-sized rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, two bedrooms, nursery, and
kitchen--the last, perhaps, the most fascinating of all, with its little
kitchen-range, its rows of brightly shining pots and pans, some black,
some tin, and some copper; its dresser and shelves, and charming dinner
service, and ever so many other things it would take me a very long time
to describe. And the dining-room, with its brown and gold papered walls,
and red velvet carpet and little stuffed chairs; and the drawing-room,
with sofas covered in dainty chintz and blue carpet and gilt-framed
mirrors; and the bedrooms, one white and one pink; and the nursery, with
the _sweet_ little cradle and rocking-chair and baths and wash-hand
stands and I don't know all what--truly it was a very pretty sight.
Biddy gasped; she could not speak.
'And only think, Biddy,' said Rosalys; 'it is our own old doll-house
done up. The one mamma had herself when she was a little girl, you know.
Doesn't that make it all the nicer? You _can't_ think how we've all
worked at it. We'd begun it before--before papa and you got ill; that
was our secret that Celestina and I were always whispering about.'
And in her delight even staid Alie gave two or three jumps up into the
air! But as she came down again she felt herself caught round the neck
and hugged and squeezed. Oh, how she _was_ hugged and squeezed!
And '_Oh_, Alie,' whispered Biddy, 'you are too good to me; for you
don't know how naughty I felt about your having a secret.'
'Never mind, never mind. I daresay it was my fault. Mamma says it's very
teasing to talk about secrets, but it's all right now, and we are all
going to be so happy with the doll-house, aren't we? Now you must kiss
Celestina too; you don't know what a lot she's done. She hemmed the
sheets of the beds and the table-cloths and ever so many things, and her
mamma dressed the dolls--and--oh yes, Roughie papered nearly all the
rooms, and----'
But here Rosalys, who seemed to be turning all of a sudden into a
regular chatterbox, was interrupted by more huggings and squeezings, as
Rough rather objected to much of this sort of thing, and Biddy had still
a great deal to spare even after she had bestowed a full share upon
Celestina. She quieted down, however, when Miss Millet suggested that
unless they set to work to go all over the house and admire all its
numberless treasures, it would be getting too late for the nice walk
they wanted to have before dinner. But in the midst of the showing
everything Celestina made them all laugh by calmly taking a little
parcel from her pocket, from which she drew out three or four little
dolls, announcing that they were Eleanor and Amy and one or two new
ones, all in grand clothes for the occasion, who had come to spend the
day with the Rectory doll party.
'You did invite them, Alie, you remember, don't you?' she said, looking
a little bit aggrieved. 'They would never have come without being
invited.'
'Oh yes, I know I did,' Rosalys replied. 'It was only the funny way you
pulled them out of your pocket.'
'And some day, Biddy, mother says, perhaps you'll bring yours to drink
tea with mine,' said Celestina, quite pleased again. 'We might pretend
that mine were some cousins they had in the country who were not very
rich, you know,' she went on simply. 'And I'd make their parlour as
smart as I could. I'd try to dress it up with flowers and green, so that
it would be like an arbour.'
'Yes,' said Biddy, 'that _would_ be nice. And _we_ might have tea as
well as the dolls, mightn't we, Celestina? You know once you told me
about some little cups you have that we might have tea out of.'
'Oh yes,' Celestina replied hospitably, '_of course_ we'd have real tea
too. Mother would make some cakes and----'
'My dears,' said Miss Millet, 'I think we must be going out. You will
have all the rest of the day to play with the doll-house, but it is such
a lovely morning, and I think it's always so nice to have a good walk on
a holiday.'
The little girls were quite of their governess's opinion, only sorry
that Randolph could not make one of the party. He came home, however, in
good time in the afternoon, and they all had a very merry tea together.
'What a nice birthday it's been!' said Bride, as she and Alie kissed
Celestina, whose mother managed to spare an hour to come to fetch her
and at the same time to wish Biddy 'many happy returns.' 'How good of
you to dress the dolls for me, Mrs. Fairchild!' she went on. 'I think
I shall love the doll-house more and more every day, for, you see, it's
full of kind things you've all done for me. And I'm going to keep it
_so_ neat. Mamma will be quite surprised when she comes home to find how
neat I've learnt to be.'
'And only think, Mrs. Fairchild,' added Rosalys; 'do you know that papa
and mamma will most likely be home in one month? Just fancy, how nice!'
The 'most likely' came true. One month saw Mr. and Mrs. Vane safe back
at Seacove; 'papa' so bright and well, so bronzed and ruddy too, that it
was difficult to believe he was the same feeble-looking invalid who had
started on his long journey nine weeks before.
* * * * *
It is not often--very seldom, indeed--that I am able to tell my readers
'what became of' the children they have come to know, and sometimes, I
hope, to care for in these simple stories. But as it is now many years
ago since the Vane family came to Seacove Rectory, and as Randolph and
his sisters and Celestina Fairchild have long ago been grown-up people,
I can give you another peep of them some eight or ten years after the
birthday I have been telling you about.
The curtain rises again on a different scene.
It is a lovely, old-fashioned garden, exquisitely neat and filled with
plants and flowers, showing at their best in the bright soft light of a
midsummer afternoon. A rectory garden, but not Seacove. Poor Seacove,
with its sandy soil and near neighbourhood to the sea, could not have
produced the velvety grass of that old bowling-green, now (for we are
still speaking of a good many years ago) a croquet-ground, or the
luxuriant 'rose hedge' bordering one end. Two girls were walking slowly
up and down the wide terrace walk in front of the low windows, talking
as they walked. One was tall and slight, with a fair sweet face--a very
lovely face, and one that no one loved and admired more heartily than
did her younger sister.
'Alie dear, I do hope you've had a happy birthday,' said
Bridget--sixteen-years-old Bridget!--for Rosalys was twenty-one to-day.
'There are some birthdays one should remember more than others. A
twenty-first birthday is a _very_ particular one, isn't it?'
'Yes indeed, Biddy, it is,' Alie replied. 'I can scarcely believe it.
And fancy, in five years more _you_ will be twenty-one!'
'I hope I shall go on growing till then,' said Biddy, whose great
ambition was to be as tall as her sister. 'Some girls do, don't they?
And I have grown a good deal this year. I don't look as stumpy as I did,
do I?' and Biddy looked up in her sister's face with a pleasant
smile--a smile that showed her pretty white teeth and shone out of her
nice brown eyes. She was not lovely like Alie, but she had a dear honest
face--though she was still rather freckled, and her dark wavy hair gave
her a somewhat gipsy look.
'You aren't a bit stumpy--you're just nice,' said Rosalys, 'though I
daresay you will grow some more. Just think what a little roundabout you
once were, and how you've grown since then.'
'Yes indeed,' laughed Biddy. 'Talking of birthdays, Alie, do you
remember my eighth birthday? The one at Seacove, when papa and mamma
were away after his being so ill, and when you all gave me the
doll-house--the dear old doll-house; do you know I really sometimes play
with it still? I often think of Seacove.'
'So do I,' said Alie. 'Of course I didn't like it _as much_ as this, for
this garden is so sweet and the country all about here is so beautiful,
and then it's so nice to be near grandmamma. But Seacove had a great
charm about it too.'
'The sea,' said Biddy--'the sea and the sunsets,' she went on half
dreamily; 'I always think when I see a red sunset----' but then she
stopped. There are some thoughts that one keeps _quite_ in one's own
mind!
'I always feel grateful to Seacove,' she said after a moment's pause.
'Mamma is quite sure that the three years we lived there did more than
anything to make papa strong again. What a blessing it is that he is so
well now!'
'And quite able for all his work here, though he could never stand
London again,' said Alie. 'I wish Rough had gone into the Church too,
Bride--that is to say, I wish _he_ had wished it. Then we should have
had him somewhere near us, instead of far away in India,' and she gave a
little sigh.
'But he's getting on so well--he was just _made_ to be a soldier,' said
Biddy. 'And papa says it is like that. Some people just _feel_ what
they're meant to be. And Rough is a great comfort, even though he has to
be away--and you know, Alie,' she went on quite gravely, 'I don't think
there _could_ have been another as good as papa, not in the same way:
he's just nearly an angel.' Alie did not disagree. 'And Roughie will be
home before your next birthday, you know.'
'I hope so indeed,' said Rosalys.
'Talking about long ago,' went on Bride, to whom eight or nine years
were still a _very_ 'long ago,' 'reminds me of dear little Celestina.
What ages it is since we have heard of her--not since the year her
father died, and we were afraid they were left rather badly off. How
strange it seems, Alie, doesn't it? that poor Mr. Fairchild should have
died and papa got well, when you think how ill papa was and that he
seemed quite well then.'
'He was always delicate--Mr. Fairchild, I mean,' said Rosalys. 'But it
was very sad; they were so very fond of him. But, Biddy, we have heard
of Celestina since then--don't you remember, mamma wrote to tell Madame
d'Ermont of their trouble, and she wrote to Mrs. Fairchild inviting them
to visit her? They couldn't go--not then--but mamma had another letter,
thanking her and telling us where they were going to live. Still all
that is a good while ago, and when mamma wrote again her letter was
returned.'
'How kind they were to us at Seacove!' said Bridget. 'I would love to
see Celestina again--fancy, she must be grown up.'
What I am now going to tell you will seem to some people 'too strange to
be true,' but begging these wise people's pardon, I cannot agree with
them. Strange things of the kind--coincidences, they are sometimes
called--have happened to me myself, too often, for me not to believe
that 'there is something in it.' In plain words, I believe that our
spirits are sometimes conscious of each other's nearness much sooner
than our clumsy bodies are. How very often is one met with the remark,
'Why, we were just speaking of you!' How often does the thought of some
distant friend suddenly start into our memories an hour or two before
the post brings us a letter penned by the dear far-away fingers!
Something of this kind was what happened now. A young man-servant came
out of the house and made his way to where the girls were.
'If you please, miss,' he said, 'a young lady is in the library waiting
to see you. My mistress is out. The lady asked for both you and Miss
Bridget.'
'Who can it be?' said Rosalys.
'How tiresome!' said Biddy.
But they were accustomed to see visitors that had to be seen when their
mother was out, and they went together to the library.
Alie went in first, but she stood perplexed and a little confused as a
slight tall figure rose from a chair and came forward to meet her.
'I am afraid,' the stranger began, but before she could say another
word, or before Alie had time to do more than think to herself, much
more quickly than it takes to tell it, that surely she _should_ know
that sweet pale face and bright though gentle eyes, Biddy had darted
forward and was throwing her arms round the young girl's neck. 'Don't
you know her, Alie?' she cried. '_I_ do. It's dear little Celestina,
grown up, and oh, how nice and pretty and good you look! And we've been
speaking of you all this morning. It's Alie's birthday; she's
twenty-one, just fancy! And where have you been, and where's your
mother, and----'
Her breathlessness gave Rosalys time to come forward and warmly kiss
Celestina in her turn. Then they made her sit down; she was looking
rather tired, for she had had a long walk in the sun--and by degrees she
told them all her news. There was a good deal to tell. The last four
years had been spent by her mother and herself in France, not far from
Madame d'Ermont, whom Celestina described as having been more than kind.
'She paid for all my schooling and lessons,' the girl said simply, 'so
that mother could afford to stay with me all the time. Mother gave some
English lessons herself too. And I was able to learn French _quite_
well, which will be such an advantage to me. The last two years I taught
English at the school, so the expenses were not so great. And we spent
the summer holidays at Madame d'Ermont's château. Oh, she was _so_
kind!'
'But why have you not written to us all this time?' asked her friends.
'We have--two or three times, but the address must have been wrong, for
one letter was returned to us. I remember I put all rightly except the
county, for I did not think that necessary; and now--the other day, I
mean--when, we had answered the advertisement and were inquiring about
Calton, we found that there are actually three or four places of the
name in England. And oh, we were so delighted when we found on getting
there that Laneverel Rectory was only two miles off.'
'Are you living at Calton then? What do you mean about an advertisement?
Is your mother at Calton?'
Celestina laughed and blushed at her own confused way of explaining.
'I am so pleased at seeing you that I am losing my head,' she said.
'Yes, we have come to live at Calton. We have got the dearest little
house there. And I am French teacher at the large girls' school just
outside the town. I get sixty pounds a year--is it not delightful? So we
are quite rich. If only--you don't know how I wish poor father could
have enjoyed it too--if he could but have had a few years of the
pleasant life and rest.'
She smiled through the tears in her eyes. Biddy stroked her hand gently.
'But you yourself--it isn't all rest for you?' said Alie, thinking as
she spoke that it was 'Celestina all over,' never giving a thought to
herself.
'Oh no, I have to work of course. But I like it. And some of my pupils
are very nice and intelligent. Besides--I should be miserable if I were
idle,' she added brightly.
'Yes, indeed,' both the girls heartily agreed. 'We are very busy too,
Celestina. We have lots and lots of things to do at home to help papa
and mamma, and all the village people to look after, and the schools and
the choir and the church. You must see the church, Celestina.'
'It is just--almost, at least--perfect,' added Biddy enthusiastically,
'compared with poor old Seacove! Oh, do you remember the high pews with
curtains round, and the old clerk, and the pulpit like a Queen Elizabeth
bedstead.'
'Only _without_ curtains,' said Celestina, at which they all laughed.
They were so happy they would have laughed at anything!
Then Celestina had to be told about Rough, and how well he was getting
on, though so far away, alas! And _then_ she had to be taken out into
the garden to see its beauties, and have promises of unlimited cuttings
and seeds and I don't know all what for her own little garden. There was
poor old Smuttie's grave to show her too, in one corner, for Smut had
lived to enjoy a year or two of peaceful and slumberous old age on the
sunny doorstep in summer and the library hearthrug in winter at
Laneverel Rectory. And _then_ came the sounds of wheels, and the pony
carriage turned in at the gate with Mr. and Mrs. Vane, and all the story
of the joyful surprise had to be told over again.
The rector and his wife welcomed their old young friend as heartily as
their daughters had done, you may be sure. They pressed her to stay to
dinner, promising to drive her home in the cool of the evening, but
this, Celestina, unselfish as ever, would not do, for 'mother' might be
uneasy. So they had a very delightful 'afternoon tea' in the garden, for
afternoon teas were just coming into fashion, and Rosalys and Bride
walked half-way home with Celestina, parting with invitations and
promises on both sides. Celestina was to spend at least _half_ of her
half-holidays at the Rectory, and Alie was to drive to Calton to fetch
Mrs. Fairchild the very next Saturday, and the sisters were to pay
Celestina a long visit the following week, to see the dear little house
and all her treasures.
'You shall have tea in the sweet little French tea-cups Madame d'Ermont
gave me,' said she joyfully. 'They are a _little_ bigger than my doll
ones long ago.'
'Oh dear,' said Biddy, 'that reminds me of the time I invited myself to
tea to your house, and Alie was so shocked at me. I _was_ a horrid
little girl.'
'No, you _weren't_', said both the others. 'And any way,' added Alie
fondly, 'isn't she nice now, Celestina?'
'I've never had any friends, if I may call you so,' was Celestina's
indirect reply, 'that I have cared for as for you two,' and there was a
dewy look in her gentle eyes which said even more than her words.
* * * * *
A _real_ friendship--a friendship to last through the changes that
_must_ come; a friendship too firmly based to be influenced by the fact
that none of us, not even the sweetest and truest, are 'perfect,' that
we _must_ 'bear and forbear,' and gently judge each other while in this
world--such friendships are very rare. We are not _bound_ to our
friends, not obliged to make the best of them, as with relations, and
so, too often, we throw each other off hastily, take offence in some
foolish way, and the dear old friendship is a thing of the past, one of
those 'used to be's' that are so sad to come across in our memory. But
it is not always so. Some friendships wear well, sending down their
roots ever deeper and more firmly as the years go on, spreading out
their gracious branches ever more widely overhead for us to find shelter
and rest beneath them in the stormy as in the sunny days of life. And
oh, dear children, such friendship is something to thank God for!
My little girls, whose friendship began in the old back parlour at
Seacove, are not even young women now--they are getting down into the
afternoon of life--but they are still friends, true and tried. Friends
whom sorrow and trials only join together still more closely; whose love
for and trust in each other even death cannot destroy.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation errors have been repaired.
The original text had a frontispiece that the list of illustrations
recorded as being on page 89. It has been moved from the front to
the text it refers to.
Page 180, "springlike" changed to "spring-like".
Page 169, "beggings" changed to "begging".
Illustration that begins "----carrying" original read P. 162. Actual
text is on page 161 and the table of illustrations reads 161.
All illustration captions but one were mixed case. This was retained.