Nellie Arundel. A Tale of Home Life., by Catharine Shaw

How intently they gazed at the corner of the rocks round
which Wilmot must come.

NELLIE ARUNDEL.

Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.

The girl addressed looked up from her book into her mother's face, but answered absently, without moving:

"This fire gives such a good light, mamma! And it is so comfortable sitting here."

"It is, dear; but you will find, when you have to rouse yourself at tea-time, that you are cold and cross, and not at all fit to take your part in everything cheerfully."

Ada looked incredulous, but yielded to her mother's wish, and drew nearer the table, where a shaded lamp was casting a bright and pleasant light.

"It is so much nicer to do as one likes," she said, drawing her shoulders together and shivering slightly.

"People always forget," continued Ada, "that they used to like such things when they were young."

"I don't mean you do exactly; but people want us to grow wise all at once; now don't they, mamma?"

"Yes, dear, I dare say we do. We want to save you a number of vexations which we had to bear ourselves; but I am afraid you will not let us."

As Mrs. Arundel finished speaking, a bright girl of about twenty entered, followed by two little maidens of nearly seven and eight years respectively.

"Here you are!" exclaimed Ada, starting up. "I have been longing for you so; but this last hour I had forgotten all about you, I have been so busy reading."

"Yes, here we are," answered Nellie, coming forward and kissing her step-mamma. "We have had such a nice time; but how are all at home?"

Nellie shook her head, and bent down to warm her hands, while the little girls began to throw off their wraps, and were drawing their chairs close to the warm blaze, when Nellie interposed—

"We must go up and take off our things, dears. It is of no use to settle down for a chat till we have got ready for tea. Come along."

Netta and Isabel gathered up their hats and jackets and hastened after their half-sister, only anxious to get back again as quickly as possible to their mamma and the fire.

"Now," said Ada, resuming her semi-grumble, "would you not say, mamma, that that was rather exasperating, if you didn't know that it really was the best to do?"

"Why, Nellie walking those children off, and not saying a word. Don't you think we should all have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more if we had settled down to a chat then and there?"

"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, hesitating. "Only, you see, Ada, I know so well that it is the right thing, that I am not a fair judge."

"So do I," said Ada, half smiling. "Of course I know it; for instead of sitting and spoiling their hats, and rumpling their jackets, and scorching their best boots, and having after all to turn out and go upstairs, and dreading all the time that you would tell them to go, they will now come down warm and tidy and fresh, and they will sit here for ever so long, and be quite happy, and tell you all their doings without a break, and will feel besides that they had done right; and yet, mamma, I'd have sat here all the same, if I had been allowed, and faced the disagreeable for the sake of the luxury!"

"You're a dear, good, sweet mother. And now I've done grumbling, and will be a good girl."

She closed her tempting book precipitately, drew from her pocket some tatting, and pushing her chair a little to one side to make room for the others when they came down, she commenced working.

Some readers are already acquainted with the Arundels; but to those who do not yet know them, it may be explained that they were a large family, living in a square in the middle of London, round which their father's practice as a physician lay among both rich and poor.

There were many who knew Dr. Arundel, not only as the clever and successful doctor, but as the friend who in dark hours of anxiety truly sympathized, while reminding them of One above, ruling and watching, waiting to be gracious, and to bless those who would call upon Him in their sorrow.

There were nine children—Walter and Nellie by the first wife, and seven since, the two youngest of whom, a baby boy of two years, and a little pet girl of four, were happily at tea in the nursery on this cold day in January.

Very soon the three sisters came down looking, as Ada had said, warm and tidy and fresh, or if they were not warm, they soon would be.

"She was very well, and very happy; and we really had so much to do, and were so busy over the Christmas tree, that the time flew by in an extraordinary way," answered Nellie.

"Yes, last night; just a very simple one. We did so want you, Ada! But papa had said so distinctly that you were needed at home, that Christina did not like to write."

Ada's colour came fast, and she went on with her tatting in silence, her eyes filling in spite of all her efforts when she remembered the delights she had missed, and pictured to herself how intensely she would have enjoyed it all. She knew, however, that it had not been "her turn" to go, and acquiesced in its being right; but still "how she would have enjoyed it!"

Nellie knew this well enough, and had offered to come home and send Ada instead; but Christina Arbuthnot, at whose house at Hampstead they had been staying, understood Dr. and Mrs. Arundel's wise decision, and would not allow Nellie to write and make the proposal.

"Oh, lovely!" said Isabel. "It was so pretty; and such a lot of candles; you could not have counted them, mamma, if you had tried ever so, not when they were all alight."

Ada stealthily brushed away her gathered tears, and said, without looking up, "Did they have presents on the tree?"

"Yes, lots," replied Netta emphatically; "little toys, bags of sweetmeats, pincushions, boxes, and fruit."

"We did, a great many," answered Isabel; "but of course the toys were bought. We made little bags of net, and the sweetmeats looked so pretty, showing through them."

"Then we made some net into the shape of sailor boys, and pushed pink and white lozenges into their legs and arms, and, oh, they did look so funny hanging by cottons dangling about!"

"The little ones did stare so," said Nellie, "when they were introduced into the room; and the baby gave quite a crow of delight."

"Oh, yes; he walked away with it, and began playing at once; and every time anyone came near, he hugged it tight, and said, 'This is for my own, own self now.'"

"Mamma always is full of pity," said Ada; "but I do not see why Alfy is poor at all."

"Dear mamma," said she, looking up and appreciating the soft touch; then turning to Ada, "I know why mamma thinks Alfy 'poor;' and so he is, because he has no mother."

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel; "and it is infinitely better than his running wild at the farm; and yet, Ada—"

Ada's eyes turned round the room, and a thought flashed across her; but she put it away hastily and almost angrily. "Another time," she said to herself; "not now on any account."

Just at this moment, the door was opened to admit the entrance of an invalid boy, who lay at full length on a light frame, so arranged that it could be carried up and down stairs easily, and placed upon an ordinary sofa without disturbing him.

Mrs. Arundel sometimes wondered what they would do when the now slender form should be too heavy to be carried, but she checked the thought; for, after all, did it not belong to the cares of to-morrow? And are we not told over and over that these are not to harass us?

Carrying one end of the couch was Simmons, the housemaid, and the other, little Tom's brother Arthur, a well-grown boy of fifteen. Mrs. Arundel rose, and made way for them to place him on the sofa, and then, when he was comfortable, the little girls greeted him, while Nellie sat down by him and took his hand.

"What is it?" asked Tom, looking curiously at Nellie's hand, which was disappearing into her pocket.

"It is a very wonderful knife," answered she, producing it; and while his thin little fingers explored its mysteries, all the others drew near to watch, Arthur holding the lamp above Netta's head that they might all see as well as possible.

There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.

Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the pretty present.

"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."

"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses, and then his eyes wandered to his mother.

She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his life!

The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom knew it was not so.

No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable to help venting his misery on his tender mother.

Now he had learnt a different lesson. He found one beautiful summer day, that there was another life beyond this one, that these short years are but as a drop in the ocean of eternity. He found that God had allowed him to be a sufferer; and the same God who had sent him such pain and weariness had given him also an assurance that He loved him.

Loved him! Was it possible this could be love? Could the bitterest trial that could enter little Tom's imagination be sent in love?

He found out that it was, it must be. He who had sent this blow to Tom had also given up His own Son to die for him. Greater love could not be; and he believed that love, and rested in it, and found peace.

So from that time, little Tom had been a different boy. If ever the old repining feeling came over him, he would remember words which had often comforted him, and would again repeat them over to himself.

One day he gave Nellie a shilling, and asked her in a whisper to buy him a little set of scales. She did so, wondering what he could want them for. He did not explain; but a few days afterwards, she found him busy covering two match-boxes with white paper, and painting them to imitate corded packages.

She examined one, and saw painted on the side "L. A."; and turning to the other, took it up, and found to her surprise, it was quite heavy.

He smiled slightly, and leaning over to a little box on his table, produced the scales, and placing one package in one side, and the other package in the other side, asked her to hang them up for him somewhere where he could see them.

"But what for, Tom dear?" she said, rising to get a nail. "What is the meaning of the letters on the parcels?"

Nellie looked at him enquiringly, and Tom said, though his lips quivered a little, "They are to remind me—Light Affliction now, Weight of Glory afterwards."

Nellie buried her head on his pillow, and clasped her arms round him. "Oh, Tom! Poor little Tom! Dear little Tom!"

"'These light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' For, Nellie darling, the things that we see are but for a time, but the things we do not see are for ever."

On this evening of their return from Hampstead, Tom lay looking at them all, and when Dr. Arundel came in, they all gathered round the tea-table.

Then they told their little histories over again, with some new ones in addition; and the evening flew away so fast that Netta and Isabel were astonished when their mamma said, "It is eight o'clock, my dears; and you must go to bed."

Tom generally was glad to retire soon after tea; the days were long enough for him; but on rare occasions, when his mother saw he was interested, she did not break in on his happiness, but let him enjoy as much as he could.

When Ada laid her head on her pillow that night, after she had said good-night to Nellie, the thought which she had banished so peremptorily would force itself unbidden upon her.

This was the thought, and it made her shiver, "What would home be without mamma?"

Her mind went round and round the corners of the house—the sitting-rooms, the bedrooms, the nursery; and for once in her life, Ada Arundel was thoroughly frightened at the desolation her imagination had conjured up.

"I am, mamma," answered Ada, starting up with such an overpowering sense of relief that she burst into tears.

"I was only afraid of frightening you," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I came up for the glycerine."

Mrs. Arundel made her way to the side of the bed, and, feeling for her eldest daughter, folded her in her arms.

"Not if it is God's will," gently answered her mother. "It would be hard to think of you without me; but, Ada, my child, do not cry about it now; tell it all to God. He knows best, my dear."

Kissing her again, Mrs. Arundel tucked her up smoothed her hair, wiped away her tears, and turned to the dressing-table.

Ada jumped out of bed, and gave her the glycerine, and with one more kiss jumped in again, and buried her head far beneath the clothes.

If she fought a hard battle there with her anxious fears, there was One knew it; and if she came off victorious and at rest, there was One who proved Himself, as He has so often done before, "a refuge from the storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall."

CHAPTER II.

IT may be remembered that Christina Arbuthnot was an orphan. She had met the Arundels rather more than a year before this at the sea-side, and had become very intimate with them; and eventually she had accepted Dr. Arundel's eldest son, who was now in India.

She had been left by her father in comfortable circumstances, and had intended to devote her life to bringing up little friendless orphans to usefulness and happiness.

Then Walter Arundel had come upon the scene, and had fixed all his life's hopes on winning her.

Christina had hesitated; at first she had felt it to be impossible to yield to his wishes; for there was a grave far away where a great part of her heart lay buried. But after a time, thinking more of Walter than of herself, she had consented, and had settled down at Hampstead with her orphan children quietly content, full more of the present, perhaps, than of the future.

Her house, with its large garden, pleasant rooms, and glorious sunshine, was a home in which any one far less cheerfully constituted might have been happy; and Christina was happy. She loved her aunt, who lived with her; she loved her little orphan children; and the days passed away in her care for both.

There was one little child, "the baby," who had grown very dear to Christina; for her story had been a sad one, and she had been sent to Hampstead under peculiar circumstances. She was at this time a toddling little mite of eighteen months old, with fair hair and white cheeks, in which a tender little colour was beginning to be visible, which was watched by all the inmates of Sunnyside with great interest.

Whether Margaret Fenton, the nurse, or Margaret's own little daughter, Maggie, or Christina herself, loved baby Alice best, was a problem that little Maggie often tried to solve, and she generally ended it satisfactorily by saying in an assured little tone to her mother, "At any rate, God loves her best of all!"

There was, however, no doubt as to which of her devoted admirers baby loved best. Dearly as she liked nurse Margaret, happily as she played with Maggie, her smile of sweetest welcome was reserved for Christina, and it was to her she would go in preference to anyone else.

It was generally understood in the household that, when the young mistress was married, little Alice Forbes was not to be parted from her.

One morning early in January, the nursery door opened, after a slight tap, and Ada Arundel, dressed in hat and jacket, walked into the room.

"Miss Ada, you quite startled me!" said Margaret, looking up pleasantly in the bright young face. "It seems a long time since you were here."

"Yes, I've been dutiful at home, and so I couldn't come. Where's Miss Arbuthnot?"

"I think I shall wander down the town too, presently, when I am warm, and see if I can find her. I wonder I did not meet her as I came."

Their eyes turned towards the hearthrug where the little maid was seated. Her warm winter frock was covered by a snowy pinafore, and her flaxen hair was neatly parted, with an attempt at two or three soft little curls.

"Yes," said Margaret, also with a slight hesitation in her voice, "but she wants a great deal of care, Miss Ada; I doubt if she will ever be strong."

Ada took her up on her lap, and began to talk to her in baby language, Alice staring at her with grave eyes for some moments, and then holding out her arms, with quivering lips, to her nurse.

"She is so shy," said Margaret apologetically, "we have quite a trouble with her sometimes; but we do love her so dearly!" And she fondly kissed the fair little neck, and held her close to her.

"I suppose I am warm now," said Ada, rising; "but your heath is bitterly cold at the open part there, Margaret."

Ada made her way once more over the top of the heath—"the abode of the zephyrs," she told Christina it ought to be called—and soon found herself in the midst of the shops.

After walking up and down for a few minutes, she was touched on the hand by a little girl, and was quickly drawn into a draper's shop, where she found Christina seated, while close to her, with very stolid countenance, Alfy Ross was perched, watching the proceedings gravely and without surprise.

"It was Maggie spied you; she always knows what is going on, don't you, Maggie?"

Maggie answered by a little smile; then Christina counted her change, and they all turned homewards.

When they entered the hall at Sunnyside, Christina told the children to go at once to the play-room.

Alfy, still persisted that "he didn't want to," and walked straight into the other room.

Christina took no more notice, but closing the door upon him, went up with Ada to take off their things.

"Do you often have him troublesome?" asked Ada, noticing a shade upon Christina's usually calm face.

"Yes; he is very difficult to manage; but I have found out now what to do when he is naughty. I take no notice of him at all."

"Oh, dear, yes, in the end. But it always makes me sorrowful when they are naughty, so you must not mind, Ada."

"Never to me. She is the sweetest little thing, and so well brought up. Oh, if all were like Maggie, there would be no trouble. But sometimes Margaret fears whether she has will enough of her own."

"Oh, dear!" said Ada. "One has too much, and one too little. Why, Christina, I am always struggling because I have too much."

"Now at home," pursued Ada, "I do dislike to give in to Nellie, dearly as I love her. She is so methodical, and nice, and wise; and I am 'harum-scarum,' and full of spirits, and when I am wild to do some outlandish thing, she advises me not—almost commands me—says mamma would not wish it; and then up rises my will, and I can't give in."

"But Nellie does not do it to destroy your pleasure, dear Ada, I am sure. Can you not try to consider whether it would be your mamma's wish?"

"I do, Christina; but don't you think it is a little hard to be ruled by elder sisters?"

"Well, I am afraid I'm not a good temper, and that makes me so annoyed over little things."

Ada looked up at the tone in which Christina said this, and found there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

"Is there not? Is there no balm that can be applied? No touch that can soothe and heal?"

"Oh, well," said Ada, softening, "I daresay there is in that way. But do you really think now, Christina, that if I felt a bad temper coming, I could get it cured before it got beyond me?"

"'Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.'"

"I'll remember that," said Ada, with that tenderness in her face which Christina loved to see in the proud young girl. So she kissed her lovingly, and they went down stairs.

Christina went through the dining-room purposely, and entered the play-room from that way. Margaret was at work, baby Alice slept in a crib in the corner, and Maggie was seated at the table doing her lessons.

Christina showed Margaret her purchases, and after glancing at the baby, she and Ada went into the drawing room.

Christina stirred up the fire and drew a chair close, and telling Ada to sit there, pushed one forward for herself.

"It will soon be dinner-time, but we can have a chat first. Must you be home by dark?"

"You know I have not increased the numbers as much as I at first intended. Somehow, as I knew more about it, the responsibility seemed very great, and I thought it would be wiser to wait till—"

"Partly, but not wholly, Ada. I do not think it would be right to take more children than I could provide for out of my own funds, if circumstances did not permit of my taking care of them myself."

"But, however," continued Christina, "I have found a fourth child, and I am to fetch him this afternoon."

"It is a very sad case, Ada; a drunken mother. I was travelling home from a short visit to some relations in the North last week, as you know, and when the bustle of settling ourselves in our carriage was over, and everyone subsided into quiescence, I looked round me, as I generally do, trying to fancy what homes my fellow-travellers come from, and where they are going to."

"At the other end of the carriage was a man in shabby-genteel clothes, holding on his knee a baby of about eighteen months old. Oh, his face, Ada! I said to myself—for I saw he was alone, and the child had been dressed by no careful, loving hands—I said to myself, 'You have lost your wife, and are obliged to take your baby somewhere to be looked after.' The child sat very still; it seemed as if want of love and cherishing had pressed the life out of its little nature, and my heart ached for it."

"What a loving heart you have," said Ada, as she gazed at the beautiful face, with its eyes full of tears.

"By-and-by, the man began talking to the person next him, and I caught the words, 'It's the last of eight. I'm taking him away from his mother; she is no mother to him, and I can bear it no longer.'

"When the carriage cleared at Peterborough, and we were left alone, I drew nearer to him, and asked if I should hold the baby for a few minutes. I assure you its quietness was touching. It seemed unaccustomed to notice or cheerfulness, and when I cooed at him, he looked wonderingly at me with no answering smile."

"Then the broken-hearted father told me his story, impelled to it, I suppose, by my sympathy and his own sad need.

"He and his wife kept a draper's shop in York, and had got on comfortably, and been able to educate their children. By-and-by, he noticed a gradual change in his wife; he thought it was illness, and used to comfort and nurse her with the utmost solicitude. But the often-recurring symptoms, which no doctoring relieved, at last made him consult a physician, who took him aside and told him what was the cause of it all.

"He tried to stop it by entreaty, by denial, by commands; all to no purpose. The business was slighted, the children were neglected, the home was left ungoverned, and he had to remove one child after another from her influence.

"At first she had promised amendment, but the craving for the exciting, stimulating glass was too strong to be withstood, and she let all her resolutions go to the winds.

"The tale, Ada, was long and very, very sad. The climax of taking the baby away was brought about by the wretched father finding its cradle on fire on the previous night, while its mother slept heavily by its side.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'To tell you the truth, I am taking it without warning to my sisters; but she has a large family, and I don't know that she can possibly take it. Folks don't want other people's babies,' he added, sadly smiling, while he clasped it tighter in his arms.

"Then I told him that if his sister could not have it, he could come to me, for that I knew some one who took care of such little ones. I gave him my address, and told him, you may be sure, where the only comfort and help could be found; and so we parted, he to his sister's, and I to Hampstead.

"The next morning, true to my expectation, he came; not, however, bringing the little boy with him. He soon told me that he had found his sister, in poor health and poor circumstances; that she had, in spite of this, promised to take the child for a few months, till he could see what could be done; but she had so evidently offered this in sisterly love, without really the ability to carry it out, that he had come to me to ask my advice, and to enquire about the home I spoke of.

"What could I do, Ada? I told him all, and I shall never forget how he went to the window and stood struggling with his emotion. Then he turned round and took my hand in his, and blessed me, and saying a smothered word about the baby being his only joy, and about writing to explain, he hurried out of the house, too much overcome to say anything more.

"He, however, came back in an hour, and it was arranged that the aunt should keep the baby for a week, and then I should fetch it here.

"Oh, Ada, I do believe that the poor father went back to York with a little bit of hope in his heart; for he wrote to me afterwards, and told me that he had found, as I had said, that 'God was a refuge and strength, and a very present help in time of trouble.'"

The maid now entered and announced dinner, and Christina rose and led the way into the dining-room once more.

But she received no answer, as they were already in the room. There stood the poor little man, looking unhappy enough, by the table; and there sat Maggie, as sweet and smiling as could be, opposite.

Christina asked a blessing, and served the dinner without taking the smallest notice of the offender. He followed the plates in Ellen's hands with his eyes, but did not deign to turn his head.

The meat was eaten and removed, and the pudding came on before he moved a finger. Ada looked appealingly towards Christina, who, however, shook her head. Ellen was just taking up the pudding-dish to carry it out, when Alfy's bravery gave way, and with a sob in his voice he turned to Christina, and, hiding his curly head against her, said, "I sorry, auntie!"

And Ada could not help admiring the motherliness which welcomed the first signs of relenting, and caused her to kiss the wet cheek and receive him instantly into favour.

Alfy's dinner was perhaps rather light that day; for he missed his meat altogether. Christina helped him to a large share of pudding, however, but did not keep it on the table for more.

"You can have as much bread with it as you want, dear," she said; "but you know it is a sad truth, that if we do not do right, we must suffer for it."

So a sunny little face climbed up to the table, and a little face opposite gave an angel's smile to welcome him.

CHAPTER III.

"WELL, Nellie," said Ada, turning round from a drawer she was sorting over, "what we shall do with you away at grandmamma's all this time I cannot imagine."

Nellie looked up from the depths of the trunk before her, and, pushing a pair of stockings hard into its corner, answered by a sigh.

"There," exclaimed Ada, "now I've depressed you. Of course we shall get on all right; and you like to be missed, don't you, Nellie?"

"What a goose I am," said Ada, coming over and seating herself on the floor by the trunk. "You will be glad when you are once off. I know the feeling of home-sickness when one is packing up."

Nellie brushed away two or three tears, and went on laying-in her clothes, in silence.

"You are tired," said Ada ruefully, "and I have worried you. We shall get on very nicely; and mamma says you really do want a thorough change."

"The worst is, Ada," answered Nellie, choking down a thick feeling in her throat, "I am afraid mamma looks as if she ought to have 'a thorough change,' and I do not quite see how she is to have it."

"No, no, Ada. Come, I am tired and stupid, and have got worried; but I will try and cheer up."

Ada looked in her face kindly, and went back to her drawer; while Nellie placed the last few things in the box, and then got up and began to prepare for tea.

"Because I know where the things go, and shall be able to find them when I come back."

"Very well; and it is almost tea-time, so I will go and see about it. It will be only one day before I shall have it for my duty."

She went downstairs, and Nellie was left alone. She would have given something to have had a "good cry;" but she had a great aversion to red eyes and anxious questions; and after a few rather bitter tears, she washed her face and smoothed her hair, and then stood looking out on the May sunshine across the square, and wishing from the bottom of her heart she were not going.

Her eye fell upon her Bible lying close to her, and the sight of it reminded her that she never sought its help in vain. She opened the leaves, thinking, "This is my Father's message, straight from Him to me; it must comfort me." She turned over the pages at the Psalms till her eyes fell upon some of her favourite words—words that had been her trust many times before:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."

Then she knelt down at the table, and laid her head on the open page, and before long her heart had found its rest again, "under the shadow of the Almighty." So it was a cheerful face that came down to tea, and no one but Ada knew that there had been that bit of home-sickness and fear, and she kept it to herself; for Ada "hated gossip," and if she found out someone's thoughts by accident, she always felt it to be a sacred trust, in great things or small.

The evening passed away in games and reading, and the next morning all were early; for Nellie's train started from Waterloo at ten o'clock.

Mrs. Arundel and Dolly were to go to see her off. Arthur and Ada would both have enjoyed to do this; but then school could on no account be neglected, and so they could only grumble and wish her good-bye, with many regrets at the inexorable nature of their duties.

Netta, Isabel, and Dolly were to have lessons with their mother during Nellie's absence, and they looked forward to this as a great treat.

Mrs. Arundel usually sat with little Tom during the hours of morning school, after she had got through her housekeeping; and when he heard that he was to be deprived of his tender nurse, he petitioned that "if mamma did not mind, could they all come up and have school in the nursery with him?"

The little girls considered this was a very good idea, as something fresh and interesting, and they also wished to compare their own attainments with their brother's. So it was arranged; but to-day was to be a holiday, because mamma would be too tired when she got back from Waterloo.

By nine o'clock the goodbyes were said, and they were driving in a cab through the rattling streets of London. Nellie held her step-mother's hand, but she did not say many words. Mrs. Arundel talked little chit-chat, asked her if her keys were safe and her purse; but seeing the rather tremulous lips, she did not touch on any subjects nearer their hearts than ordinary little travelling talk.

Dolly was kneeling up on the front seat of the cab enjoying herself after the manner of children, and was quite sorry when, after an extra whip-up of his poor horse, the cabman drove into the station.

They were in good time, and soon Nellie was placed in her corner, and Mrs. Arundel and Dolly stood close to the carriage window, sending messages to grandmamma and Aunt Ruth, and hoping she would not forget to write.

"Now, mamma," said Nellie, leaning out of the still open door, "you will not let the thought of your visit to the Lakes slip away to nothing, will you?"

Nellie gave her a loving look, but just then the guard came to shut the door, and they drew back. Then Dolly was lifted by her mamma for one more kiss, Nellie pressed her lips on the dear face which always was so peaceful and true, and then there was a whistle, a strange little pause on the platform, and insensibly, almost, the train moved on, and Mrs. Arundel, and Dolly, and London were left behind.

CHAPTER IV.

WHEN Nellie's train steamed into the station at Shellford, she caught sight of her grandmamma's little pony carriage waiting outside, and before she had time to open the door, a young lady came up to it, and said pleasantly, "Are you Miss Arundel?"

"Yes," said Nellie, gathering her packages together and quickly alighting, "grandmamma said you would meet me."

When they were seated in the little carriage, Nellie felt somewhat shy, for the young girl who sat beside her was quite a stranger to her, though she had heard a good deal of her.

Hope Elliot was one of a large family. She had a sister and a brother older than herself, and a number younger. Within the last three years she had lost her father, and the family had moved from Exeter, and had settled in Shellford, in order to live more economically.

Hope's eldest sister was married, and lived in London, whither also her brother was gone, and was doing well in business.

The second sister, Maude, was now her mother's right hand, and it had come to pass that Hope had become "a right hand" to Mrs. Arundel, at Fairleigh.

Soon after Mrs. Elliot had come to live at Shellford, Mrs. Arundel had found out all about her; and, ever ready to shed a little sunshine into lives that seemed to be dark, she called on the desolate widow, and invited some of her young people to come up and enjoy her garden.

Mrs. Elliot could not but be struck by the beautiful old lady, and responded most gladly to the invitation. An intimacy soon sprang up, and Mrs. Arundel and Aunt Ruth found an interest in the large family, while they on their part felt that life was not so utterly blank, now they knew the inmates of Fairleigh, and could look forward to visits and errands there.

About Christmas, when Nellie had been visiting Christina in London, Mrs. Arundel's maid, who had been with her for many years, broke her leg, and became unable to wait upon her mistress. Hope Elliot happened to call upon Mrs. Arundel on the day of the accident, and finding at what a loss the dear old lady would be without her attendant, she asked if she might come for a few days and help them.

Mrs. Arundel had looked up in her face in sudden astonishment, and when she met the candid eyes, had taken her hand and given it a warm squeeze. "Thank you, my dear," she had said simply, and with grave courtesy, "I know you mean what you say, and I shall be very glad to have you."

So Hope had taken up her abode at Fairleigh, and had never left it since for many hours; and thus it came to pass that she was sitting by Nellie, driving her home from the station on that beautiful May day.

"I cannot think how you knew me," said Nellie, for the sake of saying something.

Hope laughed. "We have not so many bright young ladies stop here that I should be likely to mistake. You seemed ready to get out."

Hope was silent; and in a few minutes they turned in at the gate of Fairleigh, and passed under the tender green trees of the little avenue that led up to the house.

The sound of the wheels brought the maid to the door, and Nellie was quickly led into the old-fashioned hall.

In an instant, her grandmamma's two hands were placed on her two shoulders, and she received the warmest of kisses, and the most loving of welcomes.

"My dear," said her grandmamma, holding her hand close, and leading her into the drawing room, "you are like a bit of your father to me; I am so glad to see you."

They all turned; for entering at the moment, with almost noiseless step, was Nellie's invalid aunt.

"I have just come to give you one kiss, darling, and to ask you how you have travelled, and how they all are at home?"

"Oh, very nicely, thank you, dear auntie! And I have had a very good journey. It is so sweet to be at dear Fairleigh again."

"You must be tired," answered her aunt, "and so our dear Hope will take you upstairs. Hope is quite like a grandchild here, and is a great comfort to us."

"How lovely everything smells!" exclaimed Nellie, as she entered the fresh country bedroom, with its snowy curtains, pretty chintzes, and dainty little ornaments.

"Oh no," said Nellie. "Fairleigh smells like no other place in the world. It is the freshness, and the flowers, and the absence of smoke and dust, I suppose, so different from London."

"It is nothing to be regretted," said the little London lady, who was as tired of it as she could be.

"Please call me Nellie; I feel you a sort of cousin, you know; and we shall have to get used to each other," she added, looking up shyly.

"Very well," said Hope; "and now I shall leave you to get ready for tea, which I am sure you must be wanting; it is such a tedious journey. You know your way down?"

When Hope closed the door, and Nellie was alone, she sat down by the dressing-table, and looked round her. What a gulf lay between the beginning of this day and the end. Her sympathies and thoughts this morning were all centered in her busy home. Now everything was strange, and her grandmamma, Aunt Ruth, Fairleigh, and Hope Elliot, filled her mind.

She got up again and went to the window. It looked over a piece of the kitchen garden, kept in beautiful order, then beyond was the field where her grandmamma's cows were feeding, and beyond that, the greenest of hedges, some fine old elms, and a piece of fiat, well-wooded country, which Nellie loved inexpressibly.

The other window looked over a part of the flower garden, divided from the orchard by a splendid yew hedge. As she looked at the orchard, Nellie held her breath, and a strange feeling came over her. It was one mass of blossom; snowy cherry-trees, green and white pear, and rosy apple-trees mingled their branches together in such wonderful luxuriance that Nellie stood entranced.

With a deep-drawn sigh, she turned at last to take off her things, and feared Hope would think she had been a long time.

When she descended to the drawing room, her grandmamma rose, and taking her arm, to which she gave a loving pressure, led the way into the dining-room, while Hope followed.

"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Arundel, emphatically; "and you will find it is very nice tea, and our old-fashioned bread and butter just the same as ever."

When tea was over, Mrs. Arundel asked Hope to ring the bell for prayers; after which they all went into the drawing room, and Mrs. Arundel took up a book of travels she was reading, while the two girls brought their work and listened to her pleasant voice.

When she retired, which she did rather early, Hope and Nellie were left together to make the best of each other.

They were both rather shy, and the conversation was not as lively as Nellie wished she could have made it.

Nellie willingly assented; so they stepped through the glass-door on to the shady lawn.

"Here is our favourite place," said Hope, leading the way to a small sheltered seat under the spreading branches of an elm.

Nellie did not need telling, and they sat down, and under the influence of the peaceful evening began to feel more at home.

"That was partly why my mamma was so pleased for me to come here," resumed Hope. "I was so busy at home all day long, and my next sister had not much opportunity to do what she would otherwise have been willing to do."

"Very much indeed. I love dear Mrs. Arundel so much; and so I do 'Aunt Ruth,' as she allows me to call her."

"Two or three times a week I run down and say, 'How do you do?' to mamma; but my sister Maude laughingly tells me to keep to my own ground!"

"Yes," answered Hope; "but we get along very well. Mamma is very good to us, and tries to forget her own sorrows to cheer us."

"Some mothers," answered Hope. "But here is Maude coming across the lawn to welcome you; so you will see some of us to-night, and some to-morrow, and next week we expect our brother Wilmot down from London to spend his holiday; then you will have seen all but one."

CHAPTER V.

"NOW, Nellie, my dear," said Aunt Ruth, as they were seated together at work in the drawing room the next morning, "tell me all about them at home."

Nellie looked up in her aunt's face—a face still young for the actual age; a face that had lived through seas of suffering, but which was the index of a heart that rested now, and ever had rested, on the Rock of Ages.

Nellie looked thoughtfully out of the window into the sunny garden, and then she added, "We think him rather more grey, Aunt Ruth, since uncle's illness and death. I fear he will never wholly get over that."

"No, dear, I am afraid not," answered Miss Arundel, a look of pain crossing her face, but this was quickly followed by a look of peace as she glanced towards the blue sky.

"We do not think her very well; but papa has not said anything about being anxious."

Aunt Ruth looked in her face, and seemed to understand. She put out her hand and took hold of Nellie's, saying reassuringly:

Nellie's eyes filled. How wonderful it was that, all the world over, the words of the blessed Book comforted those who sought its aid:

"Oh, yes!" said Nellie, brightening. "He is very well, and working hard, and longing to come home."

"I think he will, Aunt Ruth. Christina does not like India very much; and then, again, Walter wants to be near papa. It seems hard that papa should lose his eldest son altogether."

"Oh, yes! In fact, she much prefers it. She says she could not have thought of it sooner, partly because of the little children."

"What will be done with them, Nellie, when she is married? Has anything been arranged? You know, dear, letters do not tell me all I want to know."

"I do not think it is quite decided. She has only four little children, and I believe she intends, if Walter agrees, to maintain them and educate them just the same. She says if any very nice home were offered for one of them, she might accept; but she loves them so much that I do not know how she could part with them."

"Very sweet; and so beautiful! She is most accomplished; and to watch her playing with the little children, and condescending to their pranks and fun, is quite amusing to me."

"She is one of the reliable people," said Nellie, "without being an atom stuck-up or stiff. The tenderest heart, but yet so firm and pure."

Aunt Ruth looked up in Nellie's glowing face. "You are a good little lover, Nellie," she said, smiling.

"It is quite true," answered Nellie, somewhat abashed, "and not at all because Walter thinks so. I felt it long before I knew anything about that."

"And now, Nellie, I must tell you about the Elliots. They are very nice people, and Hope is the greatest comfort to us. I can hardly fancy ourselves living without her now. I am sure you and she will be happy together. But, you know, Nellie, they all need the one thing. It is so sad to see a large family without that. Hope tells me her eldest brother thinks as we do; but she does not profess to care about it herself.

"Poor Mrs. Elliot has been weighed down with cares for many years, and knows not that, perhaps, they have been permitted, as George Herbert says, 'that at least if goodness lead her not, yet weariness may toss her to His breast.' I pray it may be so. Their being at Shellford will add very much to your pleasure, I think, dear, as they are a pleasant, bright family, and perhaps, Nellie, you will have some little mission for them."

"My dear child," she said, "our Heavenly Father leads us all in different paths; but they are all His paths—all lead straight to His heavenly home, and we must try and be willing to walk in our own faithfully and joyfully. Some paths are full of suffering, others are full of work; but still each, let us remember as we walk along in it day by day, is His path, made ready for our feet."

"Yes, dear aunt," said Nellie, looking up in the worn face, and knowing that these words came from a heart which had proved what it said.

CHAPTER VI.

"MAUDE!" called Mrs. Elliot from the breakfast-parlour. "Maude! Are we not late this morning?"

"No, mamma; or at least only five minutes," answered a handsome girl coming forth from the kitchen, rolling up an apron which she had just taken off.

"I have done all the things," said Maude, "and packed up the butter, and Wilmot is picking the strawberries. The butter is as cool as possible, and will travel so in all those cabbage leaves. I put some wet muslin over it first, of course."

"Yes; and it is in the oven. I think I've done well," said Maude complacently; "and by the time we have finished breakfast, it will be baked."

"Such a lot of little pretty loaves!" said a child, who had been superintending the preparations, and was now seated at the table.

"Oh, then let us have them!" said Maude. "Nobody could have too many strawberries."

"Hope is sure to be punctual," said Maude, "so at exactly 'ten o' the clock,' we shall hear the wheels."

A picnic to Orston Cliff was one of the "institutions" of Shellford. It was about five miles off, and was to be reached in four different modes—by sea, by donkeys, by any conveyance which Shellford might boast, and by walking.

Many parties preferred going by water, but to-day the young people, having had the offer of Mrs. Arundel's pony carriage, determined to be independent of outside help, and were to walk and ride in turns.

Mrs. Elliot was to drive, and to take charge of the eatables; and these young country folks thought nothing of the walk, they said, even if their turn did not happen to come for a lift.

Before ten o'clock the little Elliots were eagerly looking up the hill towards Fairleigh for the first sight of the pony carriage. Very punctually it was seen descending the steep road, with Nellie and Hope seated in it.

Nellie had now been at Shellford nearly a month, and sea breezes and country life had wonderfully improved her. She was no longer the pale London girl, but looked as fresh and rosy as any of them, while there was just that air about her of ease and polish which Maude secretly envied and tried to copy.

The girls both got out and went into the cottage to see after Mrs. Elliot and the "supplies," as Wilmot called them.

"Mamma," said Hope, "we must consider the hampers quite equal to the weight of one person. We have agreed that only two besides you shall ride at once."

"There would not be room either," said Wilmot, coming out with the large hamper, and placing it on the front seat.

She laughed, and pointed to the back of the carriage, where two large baskets had been carefully fastened.

"Capital," said Wilmot, going behind and inspecting it. "Let us hope they are well fastened; for supposing we should arrive there and find them gone!"

"I daresay," he answered, looking roguishly at her; "and poor Wilmot would have plenty of fun, wouldn't he?"

Then there was an amicable squabble as to who should ride first, and it was settled that Nellie and Maude should be the ones chosen.

The little carriage soon distanced the walkers, and went quickly up the smooth turnpike-road for a mile or more, when at the appointed place Mrs. Elliot drew up, and they sat still waiting for the others.

"We must not let it seem long," she said, "for they cannot be here for at least ten minutes."

So they filled up the time by a pleasant little talk; and Nellie told Mrs. Elliot what she had never yet heard—about Christina's Orphanage.

"I believe she is; I never saw anyone more tranquilly and uninterruptedly happy."

"Very great indeed; but I hope brighter days will come. You know Walter will be back in less than two years."

"Why, of course not; but I should always be afraid something would happen, and that he would never come."

"But then," said Nellie, her eyes filling with tears, "if we thought of all those things, we should never be happy for a moment."

"That's just it," answered Maude; "if I had any thing I valued very much in life (which I haven't), I should be thinking all the time I should lose it."

"That would be dreadful," said Nellie; "but I think God is better to us than that."

"Yes," she answered thoughtfully; "but don't you think, Mrs. Elliot, we cannot always understand what God does, and must wait?"

Mrs. Elliot answered somewhat constrainedly, "My dear, you must not appeal to me. I have not been able to understand the dealings of Providence."

"Somehow," said Nellie hesitating, "mamma thinks that we shall be able to understand some day, though we cannot now."

"It is often very hard and very mysterious," said Mrs. Elliot, looking along the lane in a hopeless kind of way that made Nellie's heart ache.

Maude sprang up, and went to peep round a bend, to look for the others, and Nellie put her hand softly on Mrs. Elliot's. "I would rather trust Him!" she said gently, looking with full eyes into the careworn widow's face.

"I do not know, my dear; life has been a long struggle with me, and I have had but little joy, and now my best is gone, and I have nothing left but an empty chair and an empty heart."

"It must be dreadful," said Nellie; "but, oh, forgive me, if I say that I know Jesus Christ is able to give you comfort and peace."

"Thank you, dear. I know at least that you think so," answered Mrs. Elliot, pressing her hand kindly.

"Here they come," said Maude. "How pretty they look winding up the road in their fresh muslin dresses and sailor hats."

"We have overtaken you at last," said Hope; "and we have been settling the order of march for the next stage; three little ones are to ride next."

Nellie had turned to pick some wild roses in the hedge, and Wilmot followed her, saying, "Those are quite dusty, Miss Arundel, to what we shall find further on, unless you particularly want these?"

She glanced at him, and away, in some confusion, and said, nervously throwing those down she had already gathered, "Oh, it does not matter in the least. I only thought they were so pretty." She hastened after the others, while Wilmot exclaimed:

"The others would not 'like' to be kept back by us," she answered, laughing a little.

The cavalcade now turned into one of the narrow lanes so charming in Devonshire. It was early, and the road lay in such a direction that the sun had not yet peeped over the top of the high bank and hedge. The lane was therefore perfectly cool and shady, and the young people turned round and congratulated each other on the change from the dusty high road. Ferns, mosses, foxgloves, and wild flowers of all descriptions, grew luxuriantly, and the children began to fill their hands with them, as though they could not help it.

Nellie did not attempt to pick any more flowers, but walked on soberly thinking. Not unhappily; in those few moments of quiet, she had lifted her heart to her Heavenly Father; she had reminded Him that He had promised to comfort those that mourn, and asked Him to fulfil His word to Mrs. Elliot; and then she had gone on content that it would be well.

They now made their second change, and Wilmot said they had accomplished half the journey. Mrs. Elliot produced some buns, and they all sat down to rest for a few minutes. The pony was allowed to turn his head to the patch of dewy green grass by the side of the lane, and enjoy himself like the rest.

"Will you come and look at something?" said Wilmot, addressing Nellie; "one of our Devonshire treasures?"

Nellie followed him to a little break in the bank, and he stepped down suddenly, and turning round, held out his hand. "It is worth seeing," he said, smiling.

So Nellie gave a light spring, and found herself in a deep shady nook, with lovely ferns growing in the greatest profusion, broken stones lying scattered about, and that indescribable smell which belongs to verdant damp vegetation. The sound of trickling water added to the charm, and Nellie uttered an exclamation of delight.

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Wilmot, looking up in her face. "It seems to quiet the soul, and lead one far away from the turmoil of life."

"I was almost wishing I could stay here always; and then I remembered that it would be but a poor life after all, Miss Arundel."

"Yes; and I believe that all those wishes of ours come from a discontented spirit."

"I daresay they do; and instead of wishing something impossible, we should rather delight that the great Maker of all things gives these lovely bits of nature to refresh us."

"Oh dear, yes. See, I have brought this glass to fill for the others. Will you have some first?"

"Here you are!" called George Elliot from above. "Are you never coming with the water?"

"All in good time," answered Wilmot. "I'm showing Miss Arundel the beauties of our neighbourhood."

He came after her, and showed her where to place her foot, and then springing up before her, he took her hand, and in a moment she stood in the lane again, with the others close to them, just having finished their buns.

Wilmot held up the clear spring water, and the whole party must needs go down into the shady dell to taste it fresh from the spring. Nellie volunteered to stay by the pony, and even Mrs. Elliott was tempted by her description to see it for herself; for she had never happened in the three years she had lived at Shellford to visit this spot.

Nellie seated herself in the little carriage, and folding her hands on the reins, leaned back and looked up in the deep blue sky.

"'When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, what is man that Thou art mindful of him?'" she said softly to herself.

The sound of the voices came up as a murmur from the spring; the crunch of the pony's teeth as it tore away the grass, the hum of the bees in the wild honeysuckle, all were in unison with her happy spirit; and she enjoyed for a few moments one of those seasons of exquisite delight, which generally belong to youth, and which seem to strengthen for the duties of this work-a-day world.

She felt quite sorry to hear them all coming back; and it was not till half of them had emerged, that she sat upright and brought herself back from dreamland.

"Oh!" said Hope regretfully, "I would give something if—" She broke off abruptly, and the rest being now anxious to push on, there was no opportunity of knowing what Hope wanted, but Nellie guessed.

Without further adventure they reached Orston Cliff, and everyone voted for an early dinner and a long afternoon.

The mysteries of the hamper and baskets were now explored. All the little party were too natural and simple to disguise their interest, and so everybody set to and helped to spread the feast.

A place was fixed upon under some shady trees, where in front they had a beautiful view of the sea far beneath them. The ground sloped away from them gradually for about fifty yards, and then came the edge of Orston Cliff, and beyond that an expanse of sea and sky, whose blue to-day rivalled each other.

"Only it is so beautiful," answered Nellie, taking a deep breath, and turning to the baskets once more.

"Here is Maude's bread," said George, unwrapping a snowy cloth, and displaying a number of tempting rolls. "And here is another package with it."

"What's this?" said Mary, feeling it with her fat little fingers. "It feels very knobby."

"Let it alone, Mary," said Maude. "It is not to be opened till we have said grace."

Mary put it down, and found that her mamma had turned out a blancmange and some jelly, and was now unrolling something else. What could it be?

"Only a ham," said Mary, disappointed, and was hissed at by her young brothers, who did not at all disdain ham.

"That is all my contribution," said Mrs. Elliot, as she placed the strawberries at the far end of the tablecloth.

"Not so bad," said Wilmot. "I wish I could get this country fare in London, mother."

"Here are Hope's things," said Maude. "Now, Miss Hope, let us see what you can do."

"Not at all," answered Maude; "but she was perfection before she went, and what she must be now—"

There was a general rush, but Hope pushed them away, and told them dryly that that was for tea; whereupon there was a rush back again, and they all settled down to enjoy their dinner.

"Now everybody," said Maude, "here is a mysterious package; and what will you give me for its contents?"

She took up as she spoke the neatly-folded cloth which had aroused curiosity before, and began to undo it.

Inside appeared a number of queer-shaped looking dainty rolls, and Maude held up the top one, saying, "Here is my first pretty thing; whom can it be for?"

"No, it does not happen to be," said Maude, smiling; "nor for me either; it is for mamma."

"And here an H for Hope, and an N for Nellie, and so on, and so on," passing them all round with rapid fingers; and then she laughingly told them, they must put some suitable adjectives to each letter before it was eaten, applicable to the person for whom it was made.

This set them off with fine jokes, and Wilmot was pronounced "wise" and "witty" and "wilful" in a breath. But they found some of the names more difficult to match; however, it served to amuse them, and dinner was a very cheerful affair.

"Now what shall we do next?" asked Wilmot, when dinner was over, stretching himself on his back under a tree, and putting his hat over his eyes.

"I'm ready for anything," he answered; "but you would not let me help with the plates for fear of breaking them, and so I may as well wait in comfort."

"I shall rest here," said Mrs. Elliot, "and very likely go over and peep at the pony at the cottage, and have a talk with the woman who lives there all alone."

"We thought of going down to the shore; it is so lovely there, mamma," said Hope.

"Oh dear, no. I have brought my knitting, and there is a book in the pony carriage if I want it."

So they wished her good-bye, and left her. She watched their retreating forms down the green slope till they were lost in a turn of the road, and then her mind wandered over the events of the morning, over Nellie's conversation, and over the memories of her past life.

What had her life done for her? It had been one long struggle with a large family, and small means—a struggle which had been unblessed by the comforting assurance of a Father's providing care. She had worked and thought and wearied for her husband and children because she must; because life, with its treadmill round of duties, had forced her. She had not known that there was sustaining strength to bear her on her way; nor had she the comfort of the highest motive for doing her labour cheerfully, even because it was meted out to her as her portion of her Father's will.

Her burdens would have been the same perhaps; but the heart that was now such a heavy weight, would have been light.

Alas! She knew not the way. She shut her eyes to the blessing that was so close to her, and went along in darkness, dragging weary feet.

While Mrs. Elliot was thinking so sorrowfully, the young people were hurrying gaily down to the shore, full of life and merriment.

They soon reached the edge of the waves, and at first were satisfied to sit down and watch the rolling breakers. Then the girls sang, "What are the wild waves saying?" which Nellie said "was never old, and sung by the sea was always thrilling."

"Songs must get old; but relations ought never to get tired of them," said Nellie, smiling.

Nellie paused. What should she sing to this assembly? Here was an opportunity which she might not have again. How she wished she could think that all of them knew what it was to be safe! So she began in rather a tremulous tone—

"Late! late! so late! and dark the night, and chill!
Late! late! so late! but we can enter still!
Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now!"

Before many words were sung, Nellie grew brave. She did not know if anyone there would sympathize with her, unless it were Wilmot, who she fancied thought differently from them all; but at any rate her Lord and Master was with her, and was she not trying to carry a message from Him?

There was deep silence among the little party when she ceased. The painfully solemn words, the pathos of her voice, the murmur of the sea, blended together to make an impression on the thoughtless young hearts.

Wilmot drew Mary's little hand within his own, and rose to proceed on their walk, and the rest followed in silence.

"Because I shouldn't like to be left out. I often think about it, and I don't believe He will shut me out."

"I mean if once you love Christ, and ask Him to be your Saviour. Then you are safe in Him."

"And did they feel afraid of the water which was rising so rapidly round them on every side?"

"No more can anything hurt you, darling, if You have come to Jesus. The Bible says, 'No man shall pluck them out of My hand.'"

"Yes; that's as if you held something very fast, high over my head, and someone was trying to snatch it away from you."

"I see," said Mary; "and so, just the same, if I'm safe in the arms of Jesus, I can't be shut out, because if He's there, I must be too."

They were close behind, and were eagerly collecting shells, which were to be found very perfect on this part of the coast.

Mary joined in the search, while Wilmot watched them and walked along humming a song to himself, his voice blending with the song of the waves, and then falling below it, and then rising above it, but always in tune.

They were in a comparatively small bay; on either extreme to the right and left a headland jutted out into the sea, with rocks beneath them which the winter's storms had detached from the cliff above. Here the breakers played their prettiest gambols. Just now they were surrounding the rock which appeared furthest out to sea, and were dashing up its side with fountains of white spray.

"The tide is coming in," said Hope; "but we shall have plenty of time for the caves. Come along, Nellie; you will be so delighted with them."

No one could leave the edge of the sea, however, till they actually came in front of the spot they were seeking. Then they all turned landwards, and soon had traversed the strip of even clear sand which brought them up under the rocks.

The Elliots had been here twice before, and had very little difficulty in finding the opening to the caves. They all halted then, and several produced small wax candles, which they proceeded to light.

Little Mary was delighted, and begged to hold one; and George gave his up to her good-humouredly, saying, "Mind you don't singe your curls, Polly."

Wilmot led the way, and the rest followed. There was no danger in the caves, as the sea washed in to the furthest point of them every day, and they had nothing worse to walk on than a bed of exquisite sand.

They wandered about, admiring the roof and laughing at the grotesque shapes which their shadows made upon it and the rocky sides; and then George proposed to dance a hornpipe, and they should see how that looked. They were very merry over this, but as the candles began to burn rather low, they all got up to proceed homewards once more. Suddenly a cry from the younger ones in front, who were climbing along the ledges of the rock, startled them, and Wilmot and Hope hurried forward, quickly followed by the rest.

On the ground sat Alice, who was next in age to George, holding her foot, and in the half-light looking ghastly pale.

"What is it?" asked Hope, kneeling down by her, and rapidly beginning to unlace her boot.

"It is a sprain, I expect," said Hope; "but do, Alice dear, let me get off your boot."

Alice let go her clinging fingers, and once more Hope tried to undo the fastenings with gentle touch.

"Now I must draw it off, dear; but we will soon bathe it with sea-water, and then it will be better."

As she spoke she tenderly, but firmly, drew off the boot. "There," she said reassuringly, at the cry of agony which escaped the child, "now it will be easier."

The candles had by this time gone out, and though they could not see either the sky or sea, they were near enough to the mouth of the cave to distinguish all around them.

"She could not drink that," said Hope, "of course; but what a pity we did not bring any with us."

"She will be better soon," said Nellie; "but see how her foot is swelling up! Don't you think we might pour some sea-water over it?"

George and one of the others ran out for it, and in a few minutes returned with it full.

"We must be quick," said Hope, calmly proceeding to pour the contents over Alice's foot.

The cold water dashing on the painful, heated ancle, brought Alice back to consciousness. Hope asked her if she could rise.

"Come, we must go; we have been a long time, and George says the tide is rising."

Wilmot started violently, and putting his hand under his sister's arm, raised her at once, then calling to Hope to help, they proceeded to the outer air. When the view of the sea burst upon them, they found by its nearness how long they had been detained.

"Hope," exclaimed he in a whisper of intense anxiety, "shall we be able to get round the corner of those rocks?"

Hope looked. The sea was dashing among the stones directly at the base of the cliff, but some of them were still visible, and stood up black and hopeful against the spray.

"Oh, Wilmot!" she exclaimed. "Call to them; we must hasten forward. How can we reach it?"

He pointed with his disengaged hand, while he hurried forward, supporting poor Alice, who was doing her best to help herself, but could not put her foot to the ground.

The nearer they came to the projecting cliff, the quicker the ever-advancing sea seemed to come in upon them.

"What shall we do?" said Hope, when she saw that the black points were fast disappearing.

Wilmot and she were now so breathless that they were forced to give up their heavy burden to George and Maude.

"Oh, hurry on," said Maude, weeping, "and see what can be done, and whether we can pass."

Wilmot looked round. "Come, Mary; come, Miss Arundel; we will all keep together."

He did not slacken his speed for a moment, and Mary, who was holding Nellie's hand, caught his, and so they hurried on.

Alas! When they reached the cliff, the water was washing up at their feet, and far in front of them to their left, was the point, with the breakers rolling playfully in and out among the few stones that were still uncovered.

As the party came to a stop, and looked in each other's terror-stricken faces, they realized the full extent of their danger.

Behind them the cliff rose gaunt and tall; in front the sea crept nearer and nearer, slowly but surely advancing upon them.

Their eyes scanned the horizon, not a boat or sail within sight, all smiling and sunny; the ocean, holding so many secrets in its bosom, without a change on its calm face.

"Surely we can pass by wading," said Hope, gathering her clothes together and stepping into the shallow water.

The others were following, but she and Wilmot bade them wait one moment; for they found that the point was still far ahead, and the water was already nearly to their waists. It got deeper and deeper, and Hope put out her hand to her brother as she felt her feet slipping under her.

He guided her till she was within her depth again, and then he looked towards the little party on the shore. They had already retreated some feet from where he had parted from them, and now stood gazing at them with hopeless faces.

"I must swim round and get a boat; it is not very, very far to the village there. I may be back in time, Hope."

"Pray," he said. "Go back and tell them all that 'Christ is able to save to the uttermost.'"

"Oh, Wilmot, Wilmot! What will mamma say?" she exclaimed, as he wrenched off his wet coat and threw it to her, and, dropping his boots, waded into deeper water.

"My love to them all," he said, "and to Miss Arundel, and tell them not to fear, but that I will do my best."

In a moment there was nothing to be seen but his dark head. But soon they saw him clambering over the rocks at the corner of the cliff.

"Deep water!" he shouted, and waved his hand. And as he plunged in again on the other side, he felt as if he had left behind him something which he held very dear.

CHAPTER VII.

MRS. ELLIOT sat for some time after her little party had left her, thinking of many things, and when she began to feel lonely she made her way down to the cottage, which was about half-way to the shore.

The woman was busy preparing their tea, which had been ordered when they left the pony there in the morning, and Mrs. Elliot therefore sat down on the bench outside the door and opened the book she had brought.

When she looked up, after an hour or more, she felt astonished that the young people had not returned.

She went into the old-fashioned kitchen, and found the woman setting the cream and butter upon the table.

"They are late, Mrs. Mansbridge," said Mrs. Elliot; "but they will soon be here, I expect. What a pleasant room this is."

"I can well believe that," answered Mrs. Elliot. "Is it long since you lost him?"

"One thing that comforts me is, he kissed it before he went. He held it in his arms; he had so longed for it; and then he said, as he gave it back to me, 'I don't know if I shall ever see thee again, my love; but tell the little man that his father loved him and blessed him.'"

"How was it?" asked Mrs. Elliot, thinking of the long weary illness of her own husband.

"He never came back alive, ma'am. A storm came on, and one of the spars of his boat broke, and in half-an-hour, he was—'at home,' ma'am."

"And though this is not like home without him," said the woman, "yet I can wait; my Father has made me willing, ma'am."

Just then a sailor boy was seen hurrying up the hill. He beckoned to Mrs. Mansbridge through the lattice window, and she went out.

When she re-entered her face was very pale, and she came up gently to Mrs. Elliot.

"There has been an accident, ma'am," she said softly; "but a boat has been gone some time with the young gentleman."

"They were overtaken by the tide at the Caves. But take courage, dear lady; there's One above who rules all things."

The woman took her hand. "There is some hope; but the tide flows in very quickly in that little bay, and rises very high too. Still—he has been gone some time, with a boat and two sailors."

Mrs. Elliot mechanically walked out of the cottage, and turned towards the shore. Mrs. Mansbridge looked after her with pitying eyes; and while she put on a large fire, and set blankets to warm, she murmured half aloud:

"O Lord, it's easy to trust Thee in fair weather; but when the storm comes—And yet it is in the storm that Thou art most near; and Thou canst say, 'Peace, be still.'"

When Wilmot once more stood on the clear sand at the other side of the projecting cliff, so near to them all and yet divided by such a gulf, he rushed at the utmost speed to which he could force his limbs, towards the few fishermen's cottages which he could descry about a mile along the shore.

Drawn up above high water mark were two or three boats, and when he could make these out he took courage.

How weary the time seemed. He almost felt as if he were going backwards instead of forwards. At last the boats were reached; but no men were to be seen.

He shouted with all his voice, and ran up towards the cottages. Two sailors, who were smoking at their garden-gates, answered to his call, and came running down to him.

"A boat—quick—" was all he could gasp; and understanding in their precarious trade that there was danger, they quickly unfastened one, and pushed her down into the water.

Wilmot jumped in after them, and they set off. Now while the oars splashed evenly and strongly, he had plenty of time to think, and plenty of time to explain. But of explanation, he only said half-a-dozen words, and sat back at first exhausted.

His soaking, shoeless, and coatless condition, and the signs of extreme exertion which his manner indicated, showed the men, without much telling, that he considered there was urgent need of speed. Besides they knew of the treacherous tide.

"I say, master," said the man, handing him over a rough coat, "you put that on, or you'll have an illness, as sure as sure."

Wilmot roused himself, and asked if they had another pair of oars; and on being told there was, he pulled them out, and set himself to help forward the little craft; so nearer and nearer came the jutting cliff, and lower and lower sank the sun.

The men strained every nerve to push on; and Wilmot, while he aided them, could not help glancing over his shoulder every now and then to see how near they were getting.

At last they reached the cliff, and were under the projecting rocks, and were actually turning the corner. There lay the little bay before them, with the setting sun lighting up every crevice of the steep rocks, and sparkling on the water as it rolled inwards.

But as the boat came well round the point, and Wilmot could scan the length of the cliffs, there was no row of faces to welcome him; nothing on which his eye could rest but a piece of floating muslin; for the waves washed up deep and sullen against the rocks.

CHAPTER VIII.

AS Hope watched her brother plunge into the sea on the other side of the rocks, she felt forsaken indeed.

She turned landwards, and dragged her heavy soaking clothes after her through the surf, till she stood once more beside the frightened group.

"Wilmot sent you all a message," she said sadly; "and before we get more anxious I will give it to you. I wish we all understood more about it."

"Take of some of your wet things, dear Hope," said Nellie, who had been already wringing her dress. "Can we not each contribute some dry garment; we should not miss it, and it is dreadful for you to wait two or three hours in this state."

"I am not the least cold," said Hope; "and I will walk about. No, dear, I can't change, it would be such a fuss; and I am so anxious."

"This is Wilmot's message: He told us to pray; and he said, 'Tell them Christ is able to save to the uttermost.'"

The young faces all turned towards her, and Hope felt bitterly that she knew not how to comfort them.

They knelt down on the sand, and Hope buried her face in her hands; but there was silence, interrupted only by Maude's and the little ones' sobs.

"Heavenly Father, Thou who rulest the raging of the sea, who stillest the waves when they arise, look down upon us now, and send peace into our troubled hearts. May we be delivered, if it is Thy holy will; and if not, if these waves are to come nigh to us, and end our earthly life, oh! For Jesus Christ's sake, may each one of us here be willing from our hearts to accept Thy salvation; and may the waves but introduce us into Thy eternal glory. We ask Thee, in the name of Jesus our Lord, to hear us, and bless us, and be very near to us. Amen."

When they rose from their knees, Mary slipped her little hand into Nellie's, and Hope gave her a warm kiss. "Thank you, dear," she whispered.

"Now," said Nellie cheerfully, "we must all take courage. Mr. Elliot cannot be here for a long time, and perhaps the water will reach us before he comes. But let us remember that nothing can hurt us without our Father's permission, and that even if we are surrounded by water, He can yet deliver us. But, all of you, it is a solemn time, and unless you know Jesus is your Saviour, I should advise you all to seek Him;

The little party were very silent. The solemnity of a possible grave, so near, so dreadful, was enough to awe them, and beyond a passing question or conjecture hardly a word was spoken.

The water flowed in rapidly; the ground was very level, and though the sea had seemed at first an immense distance off, they were astonished to find that it crept nearer and nearer in such a way as to leave but little hope that Wilmot could get back to them in time.

In vain their eyes looked upwards to see if there were any ledges on which they might climb. The few there were, were far above their reach. One small place, however, was discovered, and on this they stood little Mary.

"She is mamma's only comfort," said Maude; and then she burst into tears, and hid her face against Mary's dress.

A steamer now came in sight round the point, but very far away. They waved their handkerchiefs wildly, feeling it was of no use, and strained their eyes for any response.

None seemed to come; for the steamer passed gradually before them till the other point hid her from view, and then Maude suddenly exclaimed, with a shriek, which shook the nerves of the whole party:

"We must pray," said Nellie, looking up towards the blue sky, "each one for ourselves."

It was an awful moment, that first wetting of their feet; worse than even when the water was up to their knees.

How intently they gazed at the corner of the rocks round which Wilmot must come!

"Halloa!" called a voice from the other side of them, and there, to their right, was a young man seated in a canoe.

His eyes scanned the cliffs; not an opening of any sort; he looked in their faces, and knew it was no fun, even before they had time to answer:

"If I come near," he answered steadily, "you will not all rush in and swamp the canoe?"

"There is no time to be lost," said the young fellow; "but I can only take one of you at once, except the little ones. Which is it to be? Be quick, and come out beyond this first wave."

Fortunately it was tolerably calm, and in this little bay there was only a swell that day.

They sprang forward, and lifted her down, and waded in with her to the canoe, taking also the next little boy with them.

The young man directed them to place the children as near to him as possible—in front of him and behind him—and telling them to hold on tight, in a moment he was paddling off as fast as he dared.

Hope and Nellie retreated to the cliff, and told Alice to be ready; for it was tacitly understood that the next in age was to go first.

"Why did he turn that way?" said George. "It is nearer to the village to the left."

They could not tell; and the minutes seemed hours till the canoe could come round to them again.

When he was seen returning, a shout of joy broke from them, for they had not expected him so soon.

"There is a large rock just round there," he said, as he came near, and they placed poor Alice beside him.

He was off again in a moment, and still the water kept on steadily rising. It was now to their middles.

"We will keep to ages, George," said Nellie firmly, "at least as far as I am concerned, till it comes to my turn, and then I should like Hope to go first. Let us have no confusion or dispute."

"Because I am sure of going 'there,'" said Nellie; "and oh, Hope, I don't mind!"

As they stood now by the rocks, the swell rippled against them, and almost took them off their feet. They held each others' hands; but it began to be apparent that all could not be saved.

"Now, George," said Hope, when the canoe was seen returning; "Nellie is quite right; you go at once."

"I say!" called the young man, "I'm afraid I dare not take you tall ones on my boat! I had great work with the last when we got into the waves at the corner, and an upset would be very serious. But if you could take hold of the sternpost, it would keep you up perfectly, and it is not far."

"I can swim a little," said George; "I think I might hold on to your rope, and then Maude could hold on to the stern. You would be back quicker for the others by taking two."

"All right," answered he, throwing his painter to him, and coming close to Maude, showed her where to hold; "just let yourself float easily," he added, "but hold firmly; don't be frightened."

"Keep up a brave heart," he said to the two who were left behind; "I will come as soon as ever I can."

"Have you courage to try to float?" said Hope; "for I too shall be out of my depth soon."

"Good-bye, then, dear Hope," said Nellie, giving her a kiss. "Look to Jesus; He knows and cares."

She spread her arms and fell backwards, committing herself not only to the deep, but to His care who she knew was "a very present help in time of trouble."

At first her agony was lest her courage should not hold out. Just floating for a few moments with a sandy shore two or three feet beneath was a very different feeling from floating on the wide ocean, drifting, it might be, out to sea.

But Nellie's habit of trust came to her aid, and she opened her eyes and looked once more calmly and trustfully up to her God.

Presently a sound of oars fell on her ears, she felt sure, above the noise of the rushing sea; and, still looking up, she felt a shadow come between her and the sunlight; her eyes were met by those of Wilmot Elliot; she was grasped by a strong grip, and lifted out of the water, and placed in the boat by the side of a dripping, shivering Hope.

CHAPTER IX.

WHILE Nellie was spending a happy time at Fairleigh, two girls sat side by side, bending over their respective desks in London. They were intent on their lessons, and it was only when the teacher had shut her book that either of them raised her head.

"Yes; I wish you had been there. I say, Ada, I shall come and see your mamma; shall I?"

"Why, you are a goose, Ada. Of course I shall like, and she will like me, too, I daresay; and I'll persuade her to let you come and see me."

"No talking," interposed the teacher, and Clara May and Ada hastily opened their exercise-books, and proceeded industriously.

When school was over for that day, Clara followed Ada to the dressing-room, and announced her intention of coming home with her that afternoon.

Ada would have hesitated had she dared, as she would have preferred to ask her mamma's permission; but Clara had already laughed at her in a good-humoured way once or twice about "asking mamma;" and as this could not be anything the least underhand, she let it take its course, though secretly somewhat anxious as to what mamma would think of her friend.

So when they left the school door, they turned Ada's way, and soon arrived at No. 8.

"Here is my friend Clara May, mamma," said Ada, entering the drawing room, where her mamma was at work.

Clara May came forward and shook hands readily. She was quite used to good society, and had but little bashfulness. Nevertheless when she looked into Mrs. Arundel's face, a new feeling came over her, and instead of at once laughingly putting her request, she began to talk of the hot weather, and of how glad she was Ada and she were in the same class.

Mrs. Arundel chatted pleasantly to her, and Clara felt it more and more difficult to say what she wanted. At last she rather hurriedly began—

"Oh, Mrs. Arundel! Would you let Ada come to see us? Mamma said she should be so pleased to know her."

"Oh, thank you," said Clara; "then you may, Ada, and I shall take you home to-morrow after school."

"You have mentioned Clara May often, Ada, but I did not picture her quite what she is."

"Why, yes, mamma, I hope so. She is a very nice girl, and all the others pay her a good deal of attention, and quite envy me her friendship."

Mrs. Arundel spoke somewhat grudgingly, and Ada thought her unnecessarily cautious.

The proposed call the next day, however, came to nothing, for Ada was detained at home with a bad cold; but the following week, she received an invitation to spend the evening at her friend's home in Eaton Square.

When she did ask Clara, she said, "It was just a few friends, nothing much, and you must come early, so that we can have a talk first."

Ada's head was now full of what she should wear. She did not like to ask Clara, and before the eventful day, was quite worried with the subject. At last it was decided that she should put on her best Sunday dress. Her mamma would have advised her white muslin, but Ada thought it would be ridiculous if there were only one or two young ladies, and Mrs. Arundel did not press the matter.

"How I should like to peep in on you, and see you sitting as fine as possible, clasping your elegant gloves."

"Hush, dear," said his mother. "Do not tease; your turn will come for this sort of thing some day."

"Not I," answered Arthur, who, boy-like, supposed that he would never have to conform to the conventionalities of life.

The day came at last, and Ada went to school as usual; but her mind was filled with thoughts of her coming treat. She met Clara just as she was entering the class-room, and looked into her face with questioning eyes. But Clara seemed exactly as usual, and was pre-occupied with her lessons. She hardly gave Ada a nod, but hurried off to her desk, and Ada followed with a sense of disappointment.

The day's work was unusually heavy, and the two girls had hardly time to exchange a word. Clara did just say, at luncheon time, "You won't forget to-night, Ada?"

When Dr. Arundel came home from his afternoon rounds, before the carriage went to the stables, Ada was to be conveyed to Eaton Square.

She came out into the hall at the sound of her father's latch-key, and he kissed her fondly.

"It seems like sending you into the world alone, my dear," he said, as he placed her in the carriage. "It is not like just going to see our own friends."

Ada was pretty well accustomed to the lighted streets, and was much more busy with her own thoughts than with outside things. She almost started when the carriage drew up at her friend's door.

As they entered the room Ada's eyes fell upon a fresh white dress spread out upon the bed. Her heart sank down, and she felt cold and miserable. Why had she not done as her mamma advised? She took off her cloak in silence; and when her friend turned round, she fancied there was a little surprise in her glance. Ada felt wretched; but though she tried to throw it off, could think of none of their usual topics of conversation.

Clara showed her the little "nick-nacks" of her room, and then told her who was coming; and Ada found that "a few friends" meant to Clara a very different affair from what it did to her.

"I'm afraid it is quite a party," she said at last, as her friend lifted the pretty dress from the bed.

"Oh, no! Not a real party; but we shall have some jolly fun. Don't be frightened, Ada; I gave you credit for more pluck."

"I am afraid I shall not be dressed enough," said Ada, flushing crimson; "I had no idea you expected so many. Do let me go home, Clara; it would be far better."

"Nonsense! But look here, Ada, I've a light silk dress here that would do, I believe, for you. Let me try it on you."

"Just as you like," answered Clara, shrugging her shoulders and looking vexed; "it would not have been so very dreadful, Ada."

Clara was too polite to add what was on the tip of her tongue—"I should have liked my friend to look as well as possible."

Ada felt somewhat taken in, and an aggrieved sensation came over her. She felt somehow that Clara had kept back the true nature of the party lest Mrs. Arundel should decline the invitation.

She however tried with all her might to throw off her depression, and busied herself about her friend's toilet with skilful fingers.

"You are ready now, are you not?" she said, looking with admiration at the graceful girl who stood before her.

There was no one in the large drawing room when they entered, and they wandered about looking at the pictures and portrait albums. The rooms seemed rather chill and gloomy to Ada, and she could not forbear a slight shiver.

"It is cool to-day, isn't it?" said Clara; "but we are always afraid of having a fire, because the rooms get so very hot with the gas and the people. Let us have some music while we are waiting."

At this moment, Mrs. May entered, and greeted Ada kindly; and then Mr. May came in, with a pretty girl carrying a heap of music.

"Oh, Clara," said she, "do come and help me find that song Captain McArthur wanted me to sing the other night."

"Which?" said Clara, without seeming to care; then suddenly bethinking herself, "This is Ada Arundel, Marion; my friend, you know."

Marion shook hands, and Ada had an impression that she looked her over from head to foot.

Clara went to the other side of the room and turned over the music with her sister; and though Ada was talking to Mrs. May, she could not help watching the girls; nor could she think it was only her fancy, when she saw Clara shrug her shoulders, that she was speaking to her sister about her.

The guests now began to arrive, and Clara was soon taken up with their entertainment. Ada found herself nearly forgotten, and was only introduced to one more person the whole evening. This time Clara did not say "my friend," but rather ungraciously added, "one of our girls."

Mrs. May spoke to her once or twice, but otherwise she was left to herself. After a few songs, dancing was proposed, and everyone brightened up.

Clara came to her, and said, rather carelessly, "Do you dance, Ada?" and on Ada's shake of the head she turned away, and was soon flitting past in her airy dress.

"You don't know those people very well, my dear,"
said the lady who was sitting by her.

"You don't know these people very well, my dear?" said the lady to whom she had been introduced, who was sitting by her.

"No," said Ada, while tears of vexation gathered in her eyes; "I did not know, ma'am, that it was to be a party."

"Never mind that," said the lady cheerily; "at least if you mean your dress, my dear. We should try and look at things from above."

"From above?" asked Ada, looking up in the placid face, and feeling at once a sense of relief.

"Yes, my dear; these things are not worth all the thought and trouble we give ourselves over them."

"Yes, I understand. There are a great many 'buts,' Miss Arundel, but the less we think of them, the happier we shall be. So your mamma advises you to look at things from above?"

"Not in those words," said Ada, smiling; "but she tells us to look at things in the light of eternity."

"Ah! And so we should, dear. It will not make much difference then whether we were at a party in Eaton Square, with a dress just a little too heavy. I am staying here with my niece, Mrs. May, and when I came downstairs to-night, rather wishing there were no party, I did not think I should meet a little body who would be glad of my old company."

Ada looked up reassured, and then she and the sweet old lady fell into one of those pleasant talks which rest the spirit, and before Ada knew how time was passing, Clara touched her on the shoulder, and whispered, "Your carriage is come for you, but you needn't go yet."

"Hush, don't make a stir; nobody thinks of moving yet, and it is not even supper-time. You must have some supper."

"Well then, if you wish it, just slip out by this door; I will bid mamma good-night for you; it will never do to make a commotion. Good-night; you will not mind my not coming up with you, because I am engaged for this dance."

So Ada whispered a good-bye to Miss Dean, and soon found herself stepping into the carriage. What was her surprise to find her father seated in it.

Ada burst into tears; and then, laying her head on her father's shoulder, she said:

"Nothing at all, papa; and that is the very vexation. It was a dancing party, and I was not well enough dressed, and so Clara rather slighted me, and I thought she left me to myself, and it was very uncomfortable."

"It certainly was unkind if she forsook you for such a reason," said Dr. Arundel indignantly; "but how came you to make a friend who could serve you so, Ada?"

Dr. Arundel was silent for some minutes, and then he said, "It is very important what friends we make, dear. A good friend or a bad friend may influence our whole lives. Did you ever ask God about her, Ada?"

"She was always so pleasant and gay, and I do like fun, you know, papa; and she used to tell us about her picnics and parties, and as she liked me, I was rather—you know what I mean, papa—rather proud to be singled out by her."

Ada nestled closer to him. "Dear papa, I feel that I have been so thoughtless and wrong, and I know it is my own fault that has brought me into this trouble."

"I know, papa, Clara did not mean beforehand to be unkind; but I can't help thinking that she knew you would not have liked me to go to such a party."

"Very likely, dear; and here we are at home. But one word, dear Ada. I am not sorry this has happened before you got entangled more. Such a friend might have led you into very serious trouble. I thank God we have discovered it thus soon."

They got out, and Ada found her mamma had already gone upstairs, so she only gave her a kiss at her door, and went up to her own room at the top of the house.

All her vexed, disappointed feeling had now vanished, and only sorrow remained that she should have tried in even a small degree to walk, as it were, alone. A line of a hymn they sometimes sang kept running in her head; and when she laid it wearily upon her pillow, she kept on repeating, till sleep overtook her—

"Choose Thou for me my friends,
My sickness or my health;
Choose Thou my cares for me,
My poverty or wealth.

"Not mine, not mine the choice
In things or great or small;
Be Thou my guide, my strength,
My wisdom, and my all."

CHAPTER X.

"Pretty well," answered Ada seriously. "I'll tell you all about it when we start for school."

Arthur looked up in her face inquiringly; but there was a gravity there so unusual that he felt touched, and forbore to take the opportunity of teasing her, which he would otherwise have done.

When they ran down the steps of No. S together, and set off towards their respective schools, Ada began at once to explain about the difficulties of the previous evening, and she received the fullest sympathy.

"I do not think I shall," answered Ada; "but of course, Arthur, I can never feel quite the same again. Not that I bear her a grudge; I really do forgive her for the pain she caused me; but I was mistaken in her, and I can't feel the same."

"I should think not," said Arthur; "but I never did admire that girl, she's far too grand to suit my fancy."

"Oh, that's nothing; she's not grand at all; there are lots of girls grander at our school. She was one of the popular girls, and I believe, Arthur," added Ada, lowering her tone, "that I liked being her friend for that reason."

Arthur whistled; and presently they came to the corner where they usually parted.

"Isn't there something about 'I will guide thee with mine eye,' Ada?" he said thoughtfully.

Ada nodded; but her eyes were tearful, and she hurried on towards school, feeling rather choked.

That morning Clara May felt very uncomfortable when she thought of meeting her friend at school. She hoped Ada would have left the dressing-room before she went in; but in a moment became aware she was there, at the other side, changing her damp boots.

When Ada raised her head, and saw who it was, she advanced directly across the room, looking frankly into her face, and said:

"Clara, I wanted to tell you that I was so sorry I was not suitably dressed last night; but my excuse must be that I had no idea it was a party."

"Oh, don't think anything more about it," answered Clara, looking away in some confusion; "it did not matter."

"No," answered Ada quietly, "not so much as we are inclined to think. I will try and forget it."

Clara looked at her curiously; but Ada said no more. She gathered her books together and hastened into class.

She never again alluded to the subject, nor could Clara detect any difference in her; but gradually from that time, they ceased to be on such intimate terms; and Ada grew much happier than she had been for some months.

At this time Arthur was extremely considerate towards her. He had been touched by her friendless condition, and in his boyish way, did his best to make up for the loss. Nellie's being away had increased Ada's feeling of loneliness, and she looked forward to her sister's return with a sense of relief and comfort which she herself wondered at.

One day she and Arthur were sitting in the drawing room. The weather was very hot, and little Tom had been carried down, and was lying on the sofa. He looked very frail and delicate, and his thin little fingers were playing with each other listlessly. A book which he had been reading lay half closed beside him, and he seemed very weary.

"I was thinking, Tom," said Ada, "whether you would like to learn to do wool-work?"

"No-o!" he answered. "But I'm so tired of lying here;" then quickly adding, "I don't want to grumble, Arthur; but of course the days do seem long."

"I am sure they must," said the strong boy, stretching his legs, and thinking for a moment what it would be to him not to be able to get up and do as he wished. He looked pityingly at Tom, but said nothing.

"Yes, here it is. Now look, Tom; watch while I do a straight row, and then you shall work a few stitches."

Tom lost his listlessness and became interested; very soon, he caught the way to do it, and went on by himself quite absorbed, while Arthur and Ada talked.

"Yes, something a little lively; but what a long time mamma is gone to the station."

"She will soon be here," said Arthur, glancing at the clock; "it is nearly one o'clock now."

Soon after this a cab stopped at the door, and they both hurried to the window to see their visitor alight.

He was a tall youth of sixteen, the son of a friend in Scotland, and had just returned from his first voyage in a merchant vessel. His father had written to Dr. Arundel, asking permission for him to spend a few days with them, until Mr. Compton should have time to come up to London and join his son.

Mrs. Arundel came upstairs, followed by the boy, who soon made himself at home with the young people.

With ready sailor wit, he amused the whole family. Tom's wool-work was quite cast aside, and his only anxiety became that he should be lifted downstairs on all possible occasions.

Frank neglected no one. He was politeness itself to Mrs. Arundel; pleasant to the servants; kind to Tom; charming to Ada and the little ones; and fraternised constantly with Arthur.

During the mornings, when Ada and Arthur were at school, he often joined Mrs. Arundel and the little ones in the nursery; but sometimes he went out for a stroll in the streets, or to the British Museum, which was near; and when Arthur was free, they were off to see some London sight which was new to the Scotch boy.

Arthur used generally to come to Ada's room at night to tell her all that had transpired; but one or two evenings the boys were home rather late, and there was not time, and when Ada said, "Come along, Arthur," one evening, he said, "Don't bother, Ada, I'm tired."

Ada looked surprised, but said nothing, and went into her room and shut the door.

"What a milksop you are," exclaimed Frank, laughing, as they entered their joint room; "what with 'mamma,' and what with 'sister Ada,' you have no time to yourself."

"I don't know that I want any," answered Arthur; but he felt angry; he did not know whether it was with Frank, or with Ada, or with himself.

"Of course I am growing up," he mentally argued, "and I have been a good bit with them; but, as Frank says, one cannot be always at Ada's 'beck and call.'"

The words sounded kind in themselves, but there was an ironical ring in them that vexed Arthur, and roused him to make an effort to get rid of his disquieting thoughts; so with a light word or two, he laughed off his ill-humour, and dashed into lively talk.

Somehow the atmosphere of the house was less placid than it had been. Tom grew restless, and, strange as it would seem, he was often called 'the weather-glass of the house.' Any change in the moral atmosphere always affected him, and now, while feverishly anxious to enjoy Frank's company whenever he was there, he did not seem satisfied with it when obtained. He was heard to sigh more after liberty; he brooded more over his affliction, and was often snappish to the little ones and fretful with his mother. These were like the old days to him, before he had found out what Christ had done for him.

What was the cause? He did not wait to ask himself, or if he did, he knew not the answer.

Mrs. Arundel looked tired and worried, and told her husband that things did not seem to go so smoothly as usual. "But then," she added, "I am always tired if Tom is poorly."

CHAPTER XI.

ONE afternoon when Arthur and Frank were at the Zoological Gardens, and were sitting under a tree resting, Frank exclaimed:

"He said it was the dreadful evil he had seen it grow to in his professional experience."

"Very likely, but everyone is not so silly; and I can't see why you should go without a pleasure and all that, just because other people abuse it. You won't take too much. Come along, I mean to have a glass; I'm awfully thirsty. You never signed, I suppose?"

"No; but I would not break my determination. You go if you like, Frank, but I shan't."

Frank laughed, and ran off towards the refreshment-rooms. He was gone some time, and Arthur had time to think. When Frank rejoined him he began again.

"Well, now I feel jolly; I am not thirsty, and I feel as refreshed as possible."

"Nonsense! that's a very different thing. But, seriously, Arthur, do you mean to be judged for and petticoat governed all your life?"

"No," said Arthur, frowning; "but in this matter it is no petticoat government; I have made up my mind."

"Very likely; but let the matter be, Frank. In some things you know a great deal more than I do, and better too, I daresay, but not in this."

Frank waved his hand airily, and rose up to go to the monkey-house, and Arthur followed, all the stronger for his victory.

Had he not good reason for his determination? Had not there been a time, not so long ago, when he had come into his father's study and found him with his head buried in his hands? He would have drawn back, but his father beckoned to him, and made him sit down by him "while he told him a story."

"Arthur, my boy, there were once two friends. Both were brought up with equal love and tenderness; both went to the same school, and then to college; both had opportunities of knowing the will of God, and of doing it. One, thank God, though with many falls and falters, passed through the temptations of youth, and came out a happy, successful man; the other—is just dead.

"At college he was the best fellow going. He was full of fun and gaiety, and scorned the idea of living like a recluse, or not using 'God's good gifts' to the full. At first he meant no harm, and was sure he could keep straight; but there was a gradual change in him. He began to keep later hours; he was tempted into more company than he had time or money for; he was ridiculed at first for his moderation, but soon threw away all caution, and took as much as he felt inclined.

"True, he suffered for it bitterly. There were days of wretchedness and anguish, days in which he cursed himself for his folly; but the insatiable longing came over him again, and once more he fell into it.

"His companions laughed at him as a good joke; where they could stop short, he had fallen.

"After a while he did not care to see his friends, and I lost sight of him. By a seeming accident, I was visiting a patient in a lodging-house in the West End, and was asked by the landlady to step in and see another lodger, who was very ill.

"I did so; and there I found a dying man, this college friend of whom I have been telling you.

"Presently he opened his eyes. 'You, Arundel?' he said, feebly stretching out his hand and holding mine in his weak grasp. 'Yes; you were right, and I was wrong.'

"'No;' he answered. 'I am like the thief on the cross; I have looked and lived. I am like the prodigal son, who, when he had spent all, came to himself and went to his father.'

"Then, my boy, I bent down and kissed him; kissed that poor worn-out, prematurely old face, which I had loved in our youthful days; and we wept together such tears as men weep.

"He told me, when we could say anything, that while he had laid on this death-bed, words spoken to him long ago, entreaties long disregarded, Scripture despised and trampled on, had come up before him, and had stared him in the face.

"He told me how despair had held him in its awful grip, and then how one night he had, as it were, seen a battle, in which One had come out victorious—One mighty to save. This One had agonized for his lost soul. This One had even died for his lost soul; and now came to him with the signs of victory in His blood-stained hands, and said to him, 'I give unto them eternal life: and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'

"He knew how degraded, helpless, wicked, he himself was, but here was One who said, 'No one shall pluck thee out of My hand;' and he laid his sin-sick soul in the hand of Jesus, and rested his weary head on the heart of Jesus, and was forgiven.

"This morning, my boy, he has gone to be with that Saviour who bought him; no longer defiled, miserable, sinful; but washed, renewed, victorious, through Him who died for him."

"I have told you all this, Arthur, that I may warn you, my son. May God bless you and keep you."

Could Arthur forget this scene? Was not the memory of this crushed, wasted life sufficient to help him to keep his resolve?

When they returned home from the Zoological Gardens that evening, Arthur was very silent.

Frank rallied him several times on his moroseness, but somehow felt it was a different sort of quiet from any of his previous fits of depression.

When tea was done, Arthur sought for his mother, and found her resting on the sofa in her room.

Mrs. Arundel put her soft hand into his, and with the greatest tenderness said, "What is it, my dear boy?"

"Mamma, I have been on the verge of—of—being tempted into actual sin. Oh, mamma, I thought I was strong! But—but—I did not know there could be so much wickedness."

"My child," said Mrs. Arundel, in a whisper of terrible fear, "What is it? What has tempted you?"

"It is nothing particular, dear mamma; it has been things Frank has told me of—things they do and say on board ship. Till to-day, I hardly guessed that he was trying to undermine my faith in you, and papa, and Ada; but this afternoon, a conversation we had put things in their true light. Oh, mamma, when I tell you that to-night we had arranged to go for a short time to the theatre!"

"We should not have been late. He promised to come away in an hour; but he said it was the late hours you and papa objected to; and somehow or other he made me feel it was only a lark, and not wrong. But I see it now; and think—just think!—if I had deceived you."

"Then he was always bringing up my love for you, and for Nellie and Ada, and making out it was 'petticoat government;' and I have been so cross and unhappy."

"Yes, mamma; the theatre was the worst. But somehow the stories he told me seem to feel the worst to me; and though I kept on telling him, I didn't want to hear, he only laughed and went on."

Mrs. Arundel laid her face on her boy's hand, and warm tears and kisses fell upon it. "My dear, dear boy!" she said.

"Do you think you will ever trust me again?" he asked, clasping her round the neck, and weeping.

"You must tell papa," said Arthur, in a low tone. "I do not think I can. But, oh, mamma, I am so very thankful I woke up in time."

"It was a story papa told me once; and when Frank and I were sitting in the Zoological Gardens to-day, it flashed across me, and all at once I felt as if I had been standing on the edge of a precipice without knowing it."

"Well, I'm afraid not, mamma," he said sadly; "we were so late, and so tired, and he kept on talking all the time; somehow—"

"Yes, dear; I understand. Oh, Arthur, my child, it is a mercy that you have been saved. Now go down, my dear; it is getting late."

He put his arms round her, and kissed her over and over again. How thankful he was afterwards that he had made this full confession, and been forgiven.

"Come, Arthur; I could not think where you were. You know you promised to show me Regent Street by gaslight."

"We shall not be long, Ada," said Arthur; then passing her, he added low, "Mamma knows."

When they slammed the front door behind them, Frank exclaimed irritably, "What a fool you have been; half our time is gone! I could not imagine where you could be. Come along; we shall have missed half of it!"

"No; I have only come into the street to tell you so quietly. Frank, I'm afraid you have been trying to lead me into evil."

"If it is that, I'll say no more," said Arthur firmly; "but I thank God He has shown me where you were leading me, and has stopped me in time."

Frank was going to add another angry word, but Arthur turned abruptly round and walked slowly home, followed, to his great surprise, by Frank.

"Look here," he said, as they came near home, "though you've turned coward, don't you go and tell."

CHAPTER XII.

WHEN they came in from their short walk, Arthur went at once in among his brothers and sisters; but Frank, full of wrath and ill-humour, ascended to his own chamber.

He entered the half-dark room, where the moonlight streamed on to the floor, the same moonlight which at Shellford was flooding the sea with its silver light.

He found her resting on the sofa, with no light
in the room but the moonlight which fell on her face.

Frank felt very unwilling; but knew not how to refuse. He had always disliked meeting Mrs. Arundel's eyes, and generally avoided doing so; and now to be called into her room for a tête-à-tête was more than he bargained for.

He found her resting on her sofa, with no light in the room but the moonlight which fell on her face. He came in, and stood by her silently, more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life.

"Do not be afraid of me," she said, with a tenderness which was the more gracious, considering the blow she had just received through him.

"I am not afraid," he said, trying to put a brave face upon it. "What do you wish to say to me?"

There was a pause. Frank stood with his face in the dark, and Mrs. Arundel looked in vain; for she could not see it.

"I should like my boy to meet me," she said; "and I am thinking of your mother, Frank."

"Well, my dear," she answered sadly, "'the wages of sin is death.' If you indulge in sin—God is not mocked—your wages will be death, eternal death."

The boy did not answer; but after a while said sullenly, "I did not know you had a sneak for a son."

"I did not know I had so noble a son. Do you not suppose, Frank, it would have been far easier to gloss it over? And even if he had repented of going to the theatre, to have avoided telling me?"

"But now, my dear, I am not going to scold you; I had no such intention in calling you in. I want to speak to you as your own mother would have done, to help you if I can, to warn you of the danger, and to advise you to begin a new life. Come, dear, trust me."

She held out her hand, and the touching heavenly look on her face won the boy's heart, and he took her hand, saying huskily:

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Arundel; I am ashamed of myself. I did not think what I was doing."

He sat down by her; but was very silent after this confession, and Mrs. Arundel only answered by pressing his hand kindly.

Presently she said gently, "Frank, if you had a garden, and you planted a seed which you were told was deadly, would you expect it to bear good fruit when it came up?"

"And if you sowed a good seed, would you expect it, after a time, to come up and bear bad fruit?"

"Well, that is just what the Bible says, 'God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.' If you sow now unholy thoughts and deeds, they will bear terrible fruit in your after life.

"I believe there is not a sin you commit now which will not, even in this life, find you out. I knew a boy who told me what his feelings were once, when he thought himself drowning. He was bathing, and the weeds suddenly wrapped round him, and in an instant pulled him under. As he sank, everything he had done in his life flashed across him in a moment of time. He saw deeds, which he had fancied harmless, in their true light, and he told me the instantaneous review was an awful thing.

"He did not drown; for the bottom of the pond was close under him, though he did not know it; but it serves as an illustration of what I mean.

"Would it not be safer, wiser, dear Frank, to obey God now, that you may reap life everlasting? You know it says, 'Thou shalt cast all my sins behind Thy back.'"

"You don't know how difficult it is, Mrs. Arundel," he answered in a smothered voice.

"Perhaps not wholly, dear, but I can guess and understand a great deal; our hearts are all the same, Frank, and I know what a hard fight it must be for you. But you will not be sorry in the end. The soldier who is victorious in the hottest battle gains the most laurels. There is always Christ, who will conquer for you, if you commit it to Him. He is the Captain of the Lord's host."

Mrs. Arundel said all this with extreme gentleness, but with a firm persuasion of its truth. The boy felt this, even while he still indulged his angry sullenness.

"You mean kindly, Mrs. Arundel, and I thank you. I will think it over. Good-night."

The next day, the moral atmosphere seemed clearer. Arthur had had a little talk with Tom, and had cheered him on his way. A few words of reminder as to how happy they used to be, and that they must not let Frank's coming disturb them, had set Tom thinking; and when once he began to think, he never stopped till he had set the thoughts in order in his mind.

"Mamma," he said, looking up in her face that morning, "I've been unhappy and fretful lately, but I've found out about it now."

Frank Compton left them soon after this, and sadly the memory of his visit remained. A painful memory to most of them; for, guarded as they had been, the world and the world's doings had been much shut out from them, and Frank had given them a peep into its wickedness. Arthur thought with thankfulness of what might have been, had he once stepped into the deception which Frank had been leading him to, and he shuddered when he remembered how near he had been to it.

Nellie's return home was now fixed for the next week, and all longed to have her presence once more. She wrote frequent letters, detailing all her doings, and told them of the proposed picnic. But while Nellie was in danger under Orston Cliff, another danger was creeping, unsuspected, nearer and nearer to that happy circle at home.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE sun rose over Fairleigh the next morning after the eventful picnic with its own calm grandeur. There was no sign in its clear shining that it had set the night before on such a scene of danger to the circle of friends living at Shellford.

Nellie and Hope were seated at breakfast with old Mrs. Arundel, who was anxiously questioning them once more as to whether they were tired, or felt to have taken cold.

Nellie said she was quite as well as ever; but Hope, though she made the best of herself, could not hide that she was miserable and shivering.

"My dears, why did you not come and tell me what danger you had been in, last night?"

"Dear grandmamma, we were dry then, and it was of no use giving you a sleepless night."

"I feel as if I might have done something for you, my dears; but, however, I thank God all are safe; I cannot be too thankful."

Before breakfast was over, Aunt Ruth entered, and begged to be told all about it. She had heard from the servant a word of the accident, and could not be satisfied till she knew all.

Her inquiries elicited that the young canoeist, who had saved so many of them, was staying at a village a few miles off; and that Wilmot would go over there to-day to call upon him and thank him.

"Only just room for them to stand, and in deep water. How horrified dear mother would have been, if she had been able to see little Mary standing there."

"It was a long job," said Nellie. "Mrs. Mansbridge put us all to bed at once. She had a roaring fire half up her chimney, and Mrs. Elliot and she stood and turned our things till they were fit to put on."

"Yes, dear mamma brought it to us. She did look so tired and wan before we all came down again."

"We were very tired," answered Hope; "but mamma and Mrs. Mansbridge both said it would be really better for us to walk. Besides, we could not have done anything else, as there was no conveyance to be had. We all set out, and mamma drove. Fortunately there was a beautiful moon, and mamma told us to waste no time, but to press on as fast as we could. We walked along generally in a string across the road, hand-in-hand. I can't tell you how it felt, Mrs. Arundel; we all seemed so dear to each other, through having been companions in danger."

"I am sure you must," said Aunt Ruth. "How little we thought, as we were quietly reading and watching the sunset, what was happening to you all."

"I wish Hope would go to bed," said Nellie, as she saw her give another violent shudder.

Before long, however, she was obliged to give in, and felt bed would be the best place for her.

Nellie went upstairs with her, and helped her to undress, and then made her as comfortable as was possible. She fetched a hot bottle for her feet, drew the blind partly down, and set some roses on a little table by her side.

"What a dear girl you are!" said Hope, gratefully looking up at her. "Where did you get those wild roses?"

"No; you were in the carriage then; it was so lovely, Hope, just like daylight, only better."

Hope drew her down and kissed her. "Nellie," she said, "I think I am going to begin a new life from yesterday."

"Yes; it was you first made me think about it. Aunt Ruth had often urged me to make a decision; but somehow I thought there was plenty of time, and that it was for older people. And then you came, and I found that, though you were young, it was like the air you breathed, you could not do without it! And then, Nellie, you asked me, that second day you were here, if I were a Christian?"

"Yes," said Nellie, blushing; "but I was dreadfully afraid you would be offended."

"That made me think more than ever; and when I began to know you, I longed to be like you."

"Oh, yes! But still, Nellie, the face of Moses shone, you know, as we were reading this morning. You need not be ashamed, dear, but rejoice that it is so."

Nellie's eyes filled with tears. How unworthy she felt of the blessing which God had laid at her feet; and yet she had prayed that she might be a help to Hope, and here was her prayer answered.

When Nellie re-entered the drawing room, her grandmamma and aunt sat in their usual places in the bow window. She thought they looked a little grave, but hardly noticed it. She carried her basket in her hand, and seating herself on a low chair close to them, prepared herself for a happy morning.

"How sweet it is," she could not help saying; then the idea of being sweet here, suggested those at home, and she added, "Have you heard to-day, grandmamma, from mamma?"

Nellie looked up at the unusually quiet tone, and said quickly, "Are they not all right, dear grandmamma?"

"Your father speaks seriously, dear," answered Aunt Ruth. "He says that he has been anxious about her for some time."

"My dear, we cannot always know what will happen; your father could not bear to make you unhappy unless it were needful."

"That has made no real difference, darling. We might always be thinking of difficulties in the future; and you will be strengthened to help by your change."

"But do tell me," said Nellie, looking up with an anguish in her eyes which was sad to see, "do you think—does papa think—that mamma is in danger?"

"Had you not, dear? Yet no; your father says he fears it will be a great blow to you."

Nellie began to take in the gravity of the news; and her loving relatives were powerless to aid her in the sorrow which she must feel.

"I am afraid it will be necessary, dear. Your father says he would like you to come at once."

Nellie rose, as if bewildered for a moment with the unexpectedness of the tidings, and stood with nervous fingers gathering her work together.

"My child," said Aunt Ruth, putting her kind arms round her shoulders, "this is a heavy trial; but we must all ask for strength to bear it, and for her precious life to be spared if possible."

"Is it so bad as that?" Nellie said once more; and then she left the room as if stunned.

She went upstairs and began to collect her things together, while Aunt Ruth followed, and gently helped her, saying nothing, however.

"When is the train?" asked Nellie, looking up once, as if only just awakened from a dream.

"I have sent down to Maude Elliot to be kind enough to see you safely off, dear."

"Oh, thank you," said Nellie. And when she had placed the last few things in the box, the maid came to put on the cord.

"Would you like to walk down and say good-bye to Mrs. Elliot, dear?" asked Aunt Ruth. "She has been very kind to you?"

"Abundance of time; it is only eleven o'clock now. You need not return here, the pony carriage shall call for you at half-past eleven."

"Going out?" said Hope sleepily; then opening her eyes, "Why, Nellie, you look sad, dear; what is it?"

"I could not bear to go without thanking you for all your kindness; but I'm afraid I have disturbed you."

"Not at all; but, Nellie, don't you mention kindness, for you know it has been all on your side. I shall never forget you."

Nellie kissed her, and was already at the door, when suddenly she came to the bedside again, and said hesitatingly, "Could you spare me one or two of these wild rosebuds to take home?"

"Certainly; but take some nice flowers out of the garden, Nellie. Pick some before you go; these are worth nothing to those."

She placed two or three in her little travelling-basket, and with one more good-bye, hurriedly left the room.

Mrs. Arundel and Aunt Ruth stood waiting for her in the drawing room, and she was clasped in her grandmamma's arms.

"My dear child," she said, "my dear child, I have enjoyed having you; we shall think of you, and pray for you constantly. Good-bye."

"I can't half thank you," said Nellie, brokenly; "but I have had such a nice time. Dear Aunt Ruth, I wanted to say lots of things to you."

So she left them, and as she hastened down the hill to Mrs. Elliot's, she felt as if all the springs of her life were dried up.

She turned in at the gate, and almost ran against Maude and Wilmot, who were coming out to take her to the station.

They needed no explanations, as they already knew the bad news that morning's post had brought.

"It is a sad good-bye," said Nellie, trying to speak calmly, as she met Mrs. Elliot, "and you must forgive me for not saying all I would wish; but I do thank you all for—for making me so welcome."

Mrs. Elliot assured her it had given them much pleasure to know her; and then Nellie went over to the sofa where Alice lay, looking pale and suffering.

"Poor child, I know you must; but," she whispered, "be patient; it helps us to think that Jesus knows all our sorrows and sufferings, doesn't it?"

Alice nodded, and in another moment the carriage was there, and Nellie was gone.

The three driving together did not say many words. Their thoughts would have been hard to interpret.

When they were walking up and down the station waiting for the train, Wilmot said to Nellie:

"I should like to think this is not a parting, Miss Arundel. May I, do you think, come and call upon you when I return to town?"

"I have no doubt papa would be pleased, if dear mamma is well enough," answered Nellie, hardly knowing what she ought to say.

"I shall come then. One does not make friends to lose them directly; and I hope we have become friends?"

He looked in her face, so pale and sorrowful; and then he remembered the face he had looked upon in the water yesterday.

When she seated herself in the train, she found herself alone, and could indulge in the luxury of being able to weep unseen. By-and-by, patience and trust reasserted themselves, and she checked her bitter tears, remembering that she would be unfit to help them at home if she arrived with a headache.

Then she thought all at once that she had not had opportunity to get any little presents for them, as she had intended, and she could not help having a good cry over this, before she finally put away her tears and determined to be peaceful.

"He will help me," she thought sorrowfully; "and He will help us all to bear His will. But, oh, mamma, mamma! How could I have left you?"

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEN Nellie arrived in London that afternoon, she was met at the station by Arthur. And on her eager enquiry for their mamma, his answer was boy-like and abrupt—

No need to dwell on that ride home in the cab. When they drew up at the door, Nellie gathered her things together and hastened up the steps, only longing to keep calm, and to be able to do what might be wanted.

Simmons opened the door and welcomed her, but it was with a face so altered and anxious that Nellie asked no questions, but went immediately upstairs.

"Dear Nellie," she said, commanding herself with great effort, "mamma is very ill, papa told me to say. Will you take off your things and come in as if you had not been away."

Nellie did as she was told, but dared not venture into the nursery on her way up. She could hear hushed voices, and the little clatter of tea-cups; but she feared lest the sight of her should raise a shout, and she passed into her room.

In a minute more, a little footstep was heard entering, and Netta, with a woebegone face, stood at her side holding a cup of tea.

"Mary sent you this, Nellie," she said, looking up shyly, and hardly expecting to be kissed.

She was folded in her sister's arms; but she soon managed to say sedately, "Mary says she cannot leave baby, but you are on no account to go down till you have eaten this piece of bread and butter and had your tea."

"She says dear mamma does not know you are come, so there is no hurry; and you will feel all the better for it."

Netta withdrew, having discharged her message, and Nellie swallowed her tea mechanically, hardly knowing what she was doing.

Then glancing in the glass, more by habit than because she thought of it, to see that she was neat, she was startled to find herself ghastly pale.

She knelt down by her bed for an instant. She knew not what to say, and no words would form themselves in her mind beyond a cry of, "Help me, oh, help me!" Then she rose, and slowly went down to her mamma's room.

How still the house was inside, and what a roar the passing cabs and vehicles made! Nellie stood outside on the mat till the wild beating of her heart should cease. She could not pray, but her thoughts went towards God nevertheless—her only Refuge.

At last she opened the door softly and entered. The room was shaded from the glare of the June sunshine, and seemed quiet and peaceful.

The first thing she saw was Ada, sitting in the window working, and then her glance took in the rest of the room; her mamma lying in a wrapper on the sofa, and her father seated by her, with her hand in his.

Mrs. Arundel's eyes turned directly towards Nellie as she entered, and she held out her hand, saying very faintly, "I am glad you are come, darling."

She kissed the ashy pale cheek, and then bent to greet her father, who rose and gave her his seat, himself leaving the room.

All this was very hard for her to understand; it had never been explained, and she could only wonder at it all in a sort of terrible dream.

Presently Ada got up, and taking a cup from a small night-lamp, she fed their mamma with two or three spoonfuls of some nourishing broth.

"I am glad you are come, dear. I trust them all to you. You will do your best for them, Nellie?"

"Yes, dear, I understand; if I am taken away. We will try to talk of it calmly. Papa says there is just a possibility, but only a little, of my recovery, and I should feel happier to say what I wish now."

"The pain has been dreadful, Nellie; but it is better now; and while dear papa is away, I will tell you what I want."

Ada had turned her back and dropped her work in her lap, and now sat with her arms resting on the table and her face looking out into the square, of which, however, she saw nothing.

"Nellie dear, you must comfort papa. You must remind him that the time will be very short before we meet again. You must do all you can to cheer him. Not at first, dear—" She paused; then gathering breath again, "But after a while; not by forgetting, Nellie, but by remembering—remembering how happy we have been, and how soon we shall meet again. We have not tried to forget your own mother, have we, Nellie?"

"No; and so I do not want you to banish my name, but think of meeting me and her so very soon—, so very soon!"

The soft voice ceased, and Nellie looked towards Ada in dismay; for a death-like faintness seemed to overspread the features. Ada hastily rose and again administered the restorative.

"Thank you, dear," said her mother, looking upon her, oh, with what love! "Kiss me, Ada."

Ada bent down and gave the required kiss, but retreated again to the table, and took up her old station there.

"Then there are our dear children. Take care of Ada and Arthur, my elder ones. Guard them, if you can, from the wicked world."

She paused, and looking upwards, seemed to be praying; and Nellie heard the words softly whispered, "I pray not that Thou shouldst take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldst keep them from the evil."

"He will care for them, Nellie. And my little ones, teach them to love Jesus. If I knew I were saying my last word on earth, it would be, 'Teach them to love Jesus.'"

"My little Tom! Nellie, I don't feel anxious about him; only so afraid of what he will suffer for a little while without me; but it may not be long. I hope for him it will not be long."

"Then my poor little baby boy. But I know you and Ada will care for him, and teach him of Jesus; will you not, Ada?"

Ada gave the promise she asked for, in a tone which was almost hoarse in its effort to be calm, and then turned away again, unable to bear it.

At last Nellie gathered courage to whisper a few words of comfort. "Dear mamma," she said with infinite tenderness, "as you dealt with the dead, so will I try to deal with you. I will faithfully do my best, God helping me, to fulfill all your wishes, even as you did what my own mother would have wished.

"I shall never, never forget your love. Now take comfort; and while it breaks my heart even to say it, yet let me assure you, Ada and I will do all we can to fill your place."

Nellie could say no more. The tender words were said with a throat that seemed to ache intolerably; and then she could only bend down, and kiss the white hand that lay in hers, over and over again.

Ada beckoned to Nellie to go down; and just at this moment Nurse Raymond stole in, and made signs to the same effect; so she gently slipped her hand from the loosening clasp, and left the room, descending to the dining-room.

There she found her father alone, drinking a cup of tea. How altered he looked. Nellie hardly dared to glance at him, but came forward, and sat down at the table.

"I told nurse to take your place, dear, for a few minutes, that I might speak to you," said her father.

Nellie was going to ask him a question about it; but now that the urgent need for calmness was removed her strong command over herself gave way, and throwing herself into her father's arms she wept as if her heart would break.

He did nothing to check her; only pressed her closely to him, and whispered from time to time "Poor Nellie; poor little daughter; poor little dear," over and over again.

At last the violence of her grief subsided, and she remembered her father's share in this sorrow. She raised herself, and began wiping away her tears.

"It was a fright," answered her father, "which developed the disease which I feared existed; a shock. They were carrying little Tom downstairs, and one of his bearers slipped. It was only a stumble; but just enough to make a commotion, and to cause Tom to give a half-scream. She seemed to bear it pretty well for an hour or two, and then—" Dr. Arundel paused.

"Three days ago. I wrote at once to your grandmamma; but I had no time to explain then. I have written again since."

"Could nothing be done?" asked Nellie, looking hopelessly up in her father's face, and knowing her question was vain, even while she put it.

"Nothing more than has been done, dear child. Two physicians have been to see her; but they both know that the heart is in a very critical state."

"Dear papa," said Nellie, hesitating, and laying her head once more on his shoulder, "we still can pray. Perhaps it may be God's will to hear us."

"Yes, my dear, I do pray, and I know He answers. He is not far off, Nellie; not far off, my child, but very, very near; so near, that I feel His love, and am sure—"

Nellie's head nestled closer to the beloved breast; but she could say no more. In presence of that faith, and in anticipation of that sorrow, no words of hers could be adequate.

"I must go up now, Nellie. Nurse Raymond will sit up part of the night; but I shall be with her for the present."

"No, dear; your strength will be needed for the care of the house. We must have all things as straight as we can, if for nothing else, than that she may know it is so."

Nellie was too downcast to do anything but acquiesce; indeed, she knew what her father said was right. She could not do everything, and there was wisdom in saving herself for greater duties.

"Papa," said Ada entering, with a face which was almost despairing, "poor little Tom is crying so upstairs. He does not like to ask to come to his usual place in mamma's room; but Mary says he fretted all last night."

"I can't talk," said Ada, without looking at Nellie, "so you will not mind. I feel as if I had no head and no heart."

She sat down stonily at the table and cut some bread and butter, pushing the loaf towards her sister, saying in a low voice, "Eat."

Then they were both silent. What could they say? The blow was too fresh and too heavy to allow of words. Arthur came in, and began his tea, like them, in silence. After they had eaten as much as they could force themselves to swallow, Ada proposed that they should go upstairs again.

When they noiselessly re-entered the sick-room, they found their mamma in bed, and beside her, with a white, patient little face, was Tom, resting his head on her pillow.

Dr. Arundel had found him prepared for bed in the nursery, and had asked him if he could trust himself to be calm, if taken to his mother? "For a great deal depends on calmness, Tom. She has been asking for you, and I should like you to be with her, if you can promise."

"I think I can, papa," he had said; "and you don't know how bad it is to be right away from her."

So little Tom was carried down, and his mother had placed her hand on her pillow, and said faintly:

"Dear Arthur," she whispered softly, "will you remember a text I have been thinking of for you?"

"This is what it is, 'Fear not; I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'"

"I will not forget, mother," he said, and as he uttered the words, he felt it was good-bye.

"Are the little ones in bed, Nellie?" she asked, as Nellie came and stood by her.

Nellie went up at once, and the little white-robed dressing-gowned flock stole in.

Mrs. Arundel kissed Netta first, and softly said, "God bless you, my child!" And she was immediately drawn away by a sign from her father.

So they were all kissed till it came to the baby's turn. Dr. Arundel took him from Mary, and lifted him over the bed.

She folded him in a close embrace, and it seemed as if her arms would never unclasp. "God bless my child!" she said at last, as she had done to the others, and let him go.

Dr. Arundel went with him to the door; then, unable to bear his grief, carried the child upstairs, and waited till he was calm.

When the little ones were gone, and the door had closed on them, their mother turned round in the bed and hid her face.

Tom lay with wide staring eyes, battling with himself to keep his promise, and succeeding; for when his mother put out her hand to take his, he was able to clasp it quietly and to whisper, "'He is able to keep;' mamma, dear."

"Yes," she answered with a sob; "able to keep that which I have committed to Him against that day."

They sat silently by her for some time, but presently Dr. Arundel whispered to them to go to bed.

Ada came and stood by the bedside and looked down on her mother; then, turning away, she left the room in obedience to her father's wish.

"I will stay with her till two o'clock," said Dr. Arundel to the nurse, "then you can come."

He sat down by her, and the only sound within was the ticking of his watch, while without, the roar and rumble of the great city went on the same as ever.

Every half-hour he was forced to disturb her, to take the required food or medicine; but he allowed her to rest again without rousing her to speak.

When, after an hour or two's quiet sleep, she opened her eyes, she found only her husband by her and little Tom breathing softly on her pillow.

"Oh, no," she whispered; "only peace. I did not know that it could be so; that He would be able to make me willing."

"He is 'able' for all things, my precious one," he said tenderly, clasping her hand.

"Yes, dearest," she answered, laying her cheek on the loved hand which had supported her for so many years. "Yes, dearest, He is able to keep—you, and me, and them."

She fell asleep again, while Dr. Arundel sat on in the quiet hours, still with her face on his hand.

As he watched, she gave one sigh, and he knew her ransomed spirit had passed from earth, to be with Him whom she had loved and served all her life.

CHAPTER XV.

THE early daylight was stealing into the room, when Dr. Arundel became certain that his dearly-loved one was no longer there.

He drew his hand from under the sweet cheek, which had not been wasted by long illness, and gently laid her back by little Tom.

He knelt down by her side and laid his head against her arm. "My dear, my dear," he said softly, "what shall I do without you?"

Then, afraid lest Nurse Raymond should come in, he pressed one kiss on the lifeless lips, and promising himself some quiet time with his beloved by-and-by, he went round the bed to lift little Tom from his resting-place.

Nurse Raymond entered at the moment; and as they carried Tom into the next room, his father heard him murmur:

"No, dear," he answered gently, hoping Tom would be satisfied without further questions.

"No, dear," answered his father tenderly; "she is gone away for a little while."

Then, overpowered by the expression in words of the dreadful certainty, he clasped his arms tighter round the frail form, and deep sobs of agony broke from him.

Tom needed no further telling, and such an anguish swept over him, that afterwards, he wondered it had not killed him.

At first he could only wail out, "Mamma, mamma!" But by-and-by, he became aware that his father's grief must be as great as his, and, used latterly to think of others, he at last checked his wild sobs, and began to quiet his quailing heart. After a few minutes, he left off crying, and put his thin little hand up to his father's face.

"She would be so grieved for you, if she could see—" murmured the little comforter.

His father roused himself. "You are right, dear; and I would not have her see. We will pray, my child."

He bent his head over his little son, but no words would come. Tom lay still, looking first at him, and then upwards; and at last Dr. Arundel spoke.

"I thank Thee, yes, I thank Thee, that Thou hast so tenderly taken my darling to be with Thee; and I say from my heart that I give her up to Thee!"

There was a long, deep silence after this, while the sun gradually rose and peeped in at the window, and stole along the floor till its bright rays touched little Tom's pale face.

"See, papa," he said softly, "the Sun of righteousness has arisen, with healing in His wings."

Nellie, entering the nursery about an hour after her father had told her the sad news, found all the little ones creeping about on tiptoe, afraid of disturbing the loved mother beneath.

Nellie went straight over to the baby, and took him on her lap, and then drew Dolly to her knee.

"Yes," answered Nellie quietly; "but I want to tell you all something. Come, Netta and Isabel, darlings, come close to me."

"Yes," she said, steadying her voice again; "her spirit is gone to heaven to be with God. By-and-by, you shall go in and kiss her dear face once more; but she will not know anything about it, because her spirit is away, quite happy with God."

Netta and Isabel hid their faces against Nellie's dress, and she drew them closer to her, while she went on softly:

"We must all die some day, you know, dears, unless, indeed, the Lord Jesus should come first and fetch us all away; but if not that, we must all die; and dear mamma told me to tell you that she wants you all to come to be where she is. How do you think you can get there?"

The little girls only clung closer to her dress; but she was glad to believe that they already knew the way, and were walking in it.

"Jesus is the way. If you ask Him, He will take you by-and-by to be where you will see dear mamma again."

Then she tenderly kissed the baby, and pointing upwards told him "that is where Jesus lives, and where mamma lives;" and then, telling them all to be very quiet, she left the room.

As she crossed the landing to her own chamber, some of the weight of responsibility which would rest on her young shoulders came over her.

Ada was there, lying across the foot of her bed, with her face downwards; she went up to her, and stood silently by her side. At last she put out her hand and softly smoothed her hair.

Ada took no notice whatever of her touch; and Nellie left the room to go downstairs, the heavy feeling at her heart intensified by being unable to give any consolation.

Nellie had been called into her father's study, and had received instructions, which had seemed to seal her desolation.

To arrange for dresses without consulting her mamma, brought overwhelmingly to her mind the extent of her loss. But there was no time to dwell on it. She felt the only thing to be done was to go through each duty as it came up, without thinking of anything beyond it.

Arthur hung about by her side, anxious to solace her if it might be possible, going backwards and forwards to the nursery, and ready to help her in any way. He loved to dwell on all the details of his dear mother's death; and Nellie and he, and little Tom, found comfort in recalling her loving life, and peaceful end.

After breakfast, Dr. Arundel took his children in to kiss their mother. Nellie brought the baby, and guided the little hands to place some white flowers on the bed, and then she had drawn them away, and left their father alone with his dead.

Ada did not move from her position on the bed, and as the morning wore away, Nellie began to feel anxious about her. She went in once and covered her over with a shawl, but received no word from the poor heart-broken girl. She asked their father what was to be done for her, and he said, "Let her alone, dear."

Ada did not seem to have moved, and Nellie busied herself with her toilet, anxiously considering what she ought to do. At last she went to her side, and said very low, "Dear Ada, you will try to come down to dinner?"

"Oh, let me be, Nellie!" irritably exclaimed the miserable girl. "I must be let alone. I cannot bear it."

"Very well, dearest; I will not trouble you any more." She stooped and kissed the sad, hopeless face, and went downstairs.

As she passed the nursery, Isabel peeped out. "Nellie, can't you find us anything to do?" she said, whispering; "we are so miserable, and nurse doesn't like us to play."

Nellie entered, and found the nurse—whose eyes were swollen with crying—holding the baby on her lap, and rocking him backwards and forwards in the most forlorn way.

"Poor dear children," she said, speaking in a hushed voice; "we must find something to do. Supposing I bring you some work that I have ready cut-out for the missionary basket?"

"Mamma would have wished them to be employed," answered Nellie, gravely and firmly; "she would have been so sorry for them, Mary."

"You can think and talk of where dear mamma is, darlings, just the same," she said when she came back. "And all the better that you are carrying out one of her wishes, to see the basket filled."

The little girls looked up comforted, and she continued, "We cannot but be sad for many a long day, but we must all try to be busy in doing what she would wish us; must we not, darlings?"

CHAPTER XVI.

She was sitting in the drawing room, Arthur and Tom being in the nursery, with some writing paper before her, but unable to begin the dreaded letter to her grandmamma, when, after a light tap, the door opened, and she looked up in the face of Christina.

Nellie threw herself into her arms and was strained in a close embrace, and she found it impossible longer to keep up the self-command which she had imposed upon herself all day.

Christina placed her on the sofa, and sat down by her side, only whispering, "Poor Nellie, what you must have gone through."

Nellie held her hand, and felt it a comfort to be able to cry, which Christina understood; for she made no effort to talk, but smoothed back her hair and stroked her hand in silence.

So they remained for nearly an hour, till Nellie had wept all her tears away. Then she sat up and looked round the room with a shiver.

Christina turned to the somewhat disordered room, and began putting the chairs in their places, and making it look as usual. Nellie watched her in silence, feeling too miserable to do anything else.

When Simmons came in answer to the bell, Christina asked if she might have a cup of tea to take to Miss Ada.

"Oh yes, ma'am," said Simmons, "it is ready, for we have just made our kitchen tea."

She hastened away, and in a minute brought back three cups of hot tea, and some bread and butter.

"You and Miss Nellie had better take some too; the Doctor will not be in till nearly six, ma'am."

"Drink yours, Nellie," said Christina; "I shall take this to Ada first. I can stay a day or two if you like."

"Dear Nellie, I am so glad to hear you say so. I shall be so glad to help you. I told my aunt not to expect me back yet."

She took the tea and went up into the darkened room, passing on her way that other room, so still and quiet, where she longed to enter, but must not yet.

Ada lay much in the same position as she had done in the morning, and Christina closed the door and placed her little tray on the table, in a firm audible way which somewhat aroused her. She listened, without moving; and Christina, when her preparations were completed, came to her side, and said kindly, "Here is your tea, Ada."

Ada looked up surprised. "I thought it was Nellie," she said without emotion; "but yet I knew it was not her step."

Christina began to raise her, and Ada so far helped herself as to sit upright and draw the tea towards her.

Christina busied herself in straightening this room as she had done the other, and Ada drank the tea and ate some bread and butter, watching Christina moving about as if in a dream. When it was done, her misery came over her again, and pushing away her plate almost pettishly, she turned round and threw herself over her bed once more, with a bitter cry.

Christina ceased to put the room tidy; kneeling down by the bed, she threw her arm round Ada, and whispered softly, "I know what it is to lose a mother."

"Ah, dear, we always wish some things had been different; but perhaps she could not."

"She did kiss me; but then she fell asleep. Oh, Christina, Christina, she can never know how I loved her, and all I meant to do to be a comfort to her!"

"I was often tiresome," said Ada, heart-brokenly, "often grieved and worried her, and I can never, never show her that I loved her all the same."

"No; oh, no! But, Christina, it is too dreadful; I could not believe it could be so."

Christina could only whisper that she had passed through the same anguish herself, and knew how it felt; and then she reminded her, too, of Him who sorrowed and wept with bereaved ones, and of what a tender heart He had.

"And think, dear Ada, of her joy now. Think of her redeemed spirit among the multitude whom no man can number. No more pain or anxiety or weariness, but with her Lord, rejoicing in serving Him with perfect service for ever."

Ada listened at last, till the soft voice and the comforting words soothed her, and ere long the eyes which had been raised, trying to follow Christina's thoughts right into heaven, gradually closed, and sleep ended to her that mournful day which had found her motherless.

Then Christina drew some bed-clothes over her, and putting her head in a more comfortable position left her, glad that for a time she would have some relief from her sorrow.

On the next landing she paused, and was just entering the chamber of death when Nellie joined her.

"Yes, only so still. She was always doing something for others before," whispered Nellie in return.

"What a lovely smile she has. Nellie, I can't cry; I can only feel just now that she has gone in to see the King."

"It brings heaven very near," said Nellie. "I have felt as if I had gone almost to the gate."

CHAPTER XVII.

"COULD you not save yourself, dear papa?" asked Nellie, looking up in Dr. Arundel's grave face as he prepared to visit his patients the next morning.

"No, my child; it would be no 'save' to me to know they were neglected or troubled. I would rather go and see them."

On that second day Ada was ill. She begged to be allowed to stay in bed, and her father had told her it would be the best place for her.

She lay hour after hour in hopeless grief. She wept till she seemed to have no more tears, and her aching, throbbing head warned her that she could bear no more thinking. And yet thought after thought came over her, and again and again she wept, till her heart seemed broken.

Tom had asked to be in the drawing room all day, so as to be near Nellie and Christina. He lay perfectly quiet, not crying or making any complaint, his anxiety seeming to be to comfort the others, and be as little trouble as possible.

Netta and Isabel brought their work downstairs, and sat in a corner busying themselves over it, wonderfully comforted to think they could be doing what would have pleased their mamma.

At times they would be overpowered by fits of weeping; but, as a rule, there was more a subdued sense of loss and sorrow, than any outward show of it.

Arthur only broke down once, and that was when he had first gone in to see his mother's face. After that he was silent and thoughtful, and only desirous of helping Nellie.

How sad were the details of the mourning and the funeral preparations. Nellie was thankful that Ada was out of it all. She continued very unwell, and would accept no one to wait on her but Christina, who went in and out with the greatest kindness and consideration.

One morning after she had put Ada comfortable, and made all neat, she stood by the bedside looking earnestly at her.

"Ada, dear, I do not like to keep you in ignorance; but would you not like to see your dear mamma before—"

"There is no hurry, dear," answered Christina tenderly; "but I knew what I should have liked."

Christina put her strong arm round her, and they went slowly downstairs. When they came to the room, Ada kissed her, and, steadying herself with a strong effort, entered and shut the door.

Long Christina waited, but not a sound came from within. At last with beating heart she ventured to go in.

In the centre of the room was all that remained of the one they so loved, and on the floor by it lay Ada, in a death-like swoon.

Christina was glad to hear Dr. Arundel's step behind her, and together they lifted the poor child back to her bed, where she lay again hour after hour, till grief should have time to spend its bitter force.

On the morning after the funeral, Dr. Arundel told them it would be wise to take up their usual avocations.

"Let us remember your dear mother always, and speak of her to each other whenever we like; but we will also do as she would wish, and that will be to remember we have One higher than even her to please; that we must go about our Father's business."

He kissed them all gravely and lovingly, and then, taking Nellie's hand, led her into his study.

"My dear child," he said, "you must thank all in the house for their consideration and love to me this week; I cannot. And to you, my dear, I must now look to be my housekeeper, and comfort, and friend. You have always been so, my child, next to dear mamma; and now I have only you."

He was too overcome to say more; and perhaps that day in which they turned over a new leaf was the most hopelessly sad one they had passed.

In the evening, just as Nellie was coming down from their mamma's duty of saying the little ones' prayers, she heard some one being shown into the drawing room.

She waited till the door was shut, and then descending, met Simmons, who told her Mr. Elliot had called, and had asked for her.

Wilmot Elliot came forward, and took her hand, and looked in her face; and Nellie looked up in his in silence.

"I am so dreadfully sorry," he said, speaking in a hushed and altered tone from any she had ever heard from him.

She was going to answer, but her lips quivered, and she hastily turned away, and sat down with her face averted.

"I longed to come, if I might be permitted to try to comfort you or help you; but yet I feared to intrude on you, and so I stayed away, Miss Arundel."

Nellie glanced up gratefully, but found it very difficult to open afresh the wounds which were so slightly healed. She could not begin yet.

"I feared she was going to be, and I was so sorry I could not stay to nurse her."

"She was very sorry to lose you; but our grief at all you came home to, seemed to put poor Hope's illness quite in the background."

"It was almost rheumatic fever; but I am glad to say she escaped it. But she is so happy, Miss Arundel."

He sat on talking for about half-an-hour; and Nellie told him the sad story, feeling comforted by his sympathy. The time flew by quickly, and just as he was rising to go, Dr. Arundel came in.

Wilmot did not, however, remain long, as he feared to intrude on the bereaved family; and soon Nellie was free to go upstairs to see how Ada was, and find Christina.

"Why did you not come down, dear?" she asked, bending over her future sister, and giving her a kiss.

"He would not know me, and I think you would get on better alone this first visit."

"Yes, it was very sad; so different from the pleasant call I thought he would make when he would come to see dear mamma."

Nellie's eyes filled with tears at the thought, and Christina stood by her with a hand on her shoulder, looking out into the twilight of the square. That night, when Nellie knew Christina and Ada were fast asleep, she tried to set her thoughts in order. How was it that things looked less unutterably sad than they had done two or three hours ago? What difference was there?

Nellie's head was buried closer into her pillow. "He was so kind and gentle," she thought; "he seemed to understand what I feel, and to sympathize so much. It did me good, I suppose."

Then she began to review all the day, and her father's words came back to her—

"Only me," said Nellie to herself; "and I must be all he wants, and stay with him always, and be his comfort. Dear, dear papa."

Long, long hours passed by before she slept. The streets got quieter and quieter; only an occasional carriage or cab broke the stillness, till the sound of the wheels died away in the distance, and all was again silent.

Through her open window, she could hear Big Ben send forth its thrilling sound as the hours went by, and when each one struck, it came almost as a knell to her.

"I have left the best of life behind," she thought sadly; and then once more she looked forward, not into the little life which was close to her, but beyond that, above the mists of the valley at her feet, up to the everlasting hills.

"In Thy presence is fulness of joy: at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore."

CHAPTER XVIII.

Christina remained with them during this time, and they hardly knew how much her presence lightened the gloom of their fresh sorrow.

She took the little girls, Nellie, and often Arthur, for a daily walk, and sometimes would persuade them into a short omnibus ride, and a walk in the park with her. Though they felt as if they could not bear to go, they yet came back refreshed and strengthened; and Christina was well repaid for her trouble, if trouble it could be called, when she saw the little girls looking happy, and Nellie's pale face relapse into a smile.

One day she told them she was going to make a call, and asked them if they would wait for her an hour; and if she did not come back to them in that time, would they return home.

"It is some one I do not know, Nellie; but when I come back, I will tell you about it; not just now. It is to the mother of that little boy I have, little Charlie Wood."

So, when they arrived at Hyde Park, Christina left them to enjoy themselves while she went to pay her visit in one of the streets near.

At the end of nearly an hour she came towards them, and asking Arthur to call a cab, she put them in it, promising to be home about six o'clock.

She returned at the appointed time, very tired; but after tea as they all sat together, Dr. Arundel having gone to his study, Christina said she would begin her story.

"I rang at the bell," she said, "and was asked up by an untidy servant to a shabby drawing room. I should however say that I knew she was in town on business, from her husband, who writes to me occasionally.

"Here's a lady, 'm,' said the untidy servant, announcing me without any warning.

"A person rose to greet me who had once been very pretty, and bowing, asked if I wished to speak to her on business.

"She looked extremely astonished; and when I sat down by her and took her hand, and told her I knew she was in trouble, she was rather angry.

"But I would not be put off; and I explained to her that I knew of her sad history, and felt sure she desired to lead a new and better life.

"After a while she broke down utterly, and confessed that she was the most miserable woman living.

"'I did love my husband, and I do love my children; but I can't do without what I take, and it's of no use. I have tried, and tried, and tried; but it's of no use.'

"'Because I grieve for you; because I have heard of your little baby without a mother's love, and I want you to begin a new life.'

"She bowed her head down on the table. 'I can't give it up,' she breathed, despair written on her face.

"'I am to-day—now, while you are talking to me; but to-morrow, or presently, when you are gone, the thirst will come on, and I shall go to it again; yes, I know I shall.'

"'Then I am sure he is not. Christ is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him. He can save you even from desiring it again, if you ask Him.'

"Then she sank on her knees by my side, and buried her face in her hands, and sobbed out words of prayer and entreaty.

"You may be sure I prayed too; and when she grew silent, and lifted her eyes to mine, I raised her up to sit by me once more.

"'Now,' I said, 'will you go for a visit to a nice house I know of at the sea-side, where they will help you to keep your resolve?'

"'Then leave all that. Your husband will see to it. He will only be too glad. I will come in an hour's time, and put you into the train, and telegraph to them to meet you, and with God's blessing, in three months' time you will be a different woman.'

"'Oh! I am not worthy,' she said, sinking beside me and burying her head in my lap.

"But as I bent over her bowed head, I remembered He had come to seek and to save that which was lost—me, as well as her; blessed Jesus."

CHAPTER XIX.

DR. ARUNDEL used to go in each morning and evening to see Ada, but the visits were not very satisfactory to either of them.

She was afraid of adding to his grief by showing her own, and generally answered his questions as briefly as possible, keeping a composed face, which was truly much more painful to him than tears would have been.

On his part, he felt obliged to keep up the same self-control. Such grief as his could only be borne by putting it in the background, and living a life apart from it.

One evening, however, before Ada had yet ventured from her room, her father tapped at the door and entered.

She was still in bed, but looking better. Just now her eyes were red with weeping, and Dr. Arundel sat down by her side, and took her hand in silence.

Ada tried to rouse herself; and quietly wiped away her tears. Her father bent down and kissed her, saying kindly, "Is anything special troubling you, my dear?"

"I think she will, dear; and I have been thinking, too, of the best way of being sure she will know."

"Oh, papa, I feel as if I should never do anything again! Life is worth nothing without her."

Dr. Arundel paused; he seemed unable to answer, and a heavy, heavy sigh escaped him; but after a minute he said:

"Ada, I am afraid that is a very rebellious thought. Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?"

"You cannot make yourself, my dear; but He can make you. Ada, submit. Oh, my child, it must come sooner or later! You are His, and He sends it in love. It is so, though we cannot see it now; but I can, and do trust Him that it is so."

Ada lay silently looking in the face which seemed almost grey with sorrow. She pressed his hand earnestly, with filling eyes.

"Think of it, my dear, and ask Him to enable you to do His will, not only by submitting, but by acquiescing."

Ada felt, as he wished her good-night, that this would never, never, be possible.

But before she fell asleep that night, she had taken the first and the most difficult step in the ladder of self-surrender.

The next morning, when Nellie came in to take away her breakfast tray, she was already half dressed.

"Yes, Nellie, I am getting on very well; you go about your business. When I am dressed, I shall go into the nursery. I'm afraid I've been very selfish."

"They will be so glad to have you," said Nellie, thankful that her sister was so far recovering.

They were very glad to have her, though greatly surprised to see her sitting there when they returned from their early walk.

How tall and slim she looked in her new black dress. Ada had felt at first as if she could not put it on; but when she had taken down her usual frock, she put it hastily back again, glad that Nellie's thoughtfulness had placed the other where she could get it without asking.

The little ones gathered round her, and many were the inquiries as to whether she was "better." They looked with somewhat of awe in their faces; for Ada had not been able to bear their presence in her room, and she felt quite a stranger to them.

They showed her their work, and she was ready to admire and praise, while Dolly's performance was duly inspected.

No one touched on the tender ground of their sorrow. The little girls felt instinctively that Ada would not be able to bear it, and they therefore did their best to comfort her in their own loving little way.

Ada shrank from going down to the empty rooms, and told Mary she should have meals with them till she felt stronger. Mary gladly consented, and was herself cheered with the prospect of someone to talk to.

"He is downstairs now," said Isabel, slightly grumbling; "he is always there; we do miss him so."

"Yes," said Netta; "but Nellie said she thought he would miss —;" she paused, and then remembering her father's words, she went on gently, "miss dear mamma less if he were downstairs with her, and Christina, and Arthur."

"We don't have any school," Isabel observed rather dolefully. "Nellie has been so busy, and all; but the days do seem so long."

Ada looked up. "Perhaps to-morrow I might give you lessons, till I go back to school myself."

"I suppose you're not well enough to tell us a tiny story, are you, Ada?" asked Dolly, looking coaxingly up in her face.

"I will try," answered Ada, "because I've been thinking of one, and perhaps it will do you good, like it did me. Get your work, children."

Mary took out her basket, and sat down to listen; the little girls ran to the cupboard to fetch theirs, and soon they settled down to quietness.

"Come, Cecil," said Ada to the baby, patting her knee invitingly, "you must be my boy now."

She took him up on her lap, and made him lean against her. Something in her eyes must have won him, for he did not generally condescend to notice her; but to-day, whether from a certain unexplainable void in his own little heart, or because his sister looked so very lovingly at him, she could not tell, but he nestled his little head against her so confidingly, that Ada felt it very difficult to go on with her story. At last she said, looking up at them:

"It is a story I once read. I do not know that I can tell it you in the same words, nor do I know where I read it, but I am sure you will like it," she said.

"There was once a large vessel. She was making a long voyage, and there were a great many people on board.

"She had been driven out of her course by long stress of bad weather, and, unable to reach the port where they usually took in water, the people began to be very short of it.

"At first they were reduced to a very small quantity, but as the days passed on they had less and less, and at last every drop of fresh water was gone.

"Oh, how desolate and sad were those poor forlorn people! Oh, the terrible pangs which that thirst gave them!

"They stood on deck straining their eyes for the sight of land, or for a friendly ship which might give them a little, till they should reach the port.

"Worse and worse got that thirst, and as the sun's rays poured down upon them, they would many of them have exchanged their misery for death, if they could have chosen.

"At last a sail came in sight. They made signals of distress, and then waited in agony to see if they would be attended to.

"Yes; the steamer altered her course and came slowly—oh, so slowly it seemed!—towards them.

"The captain had signalled that they were short of water; but as the steamer came nearer, what was the dismay of the despairing crew to find that she was not intending to stop, or put down a boat!

"The captain of the distressed ship took a trumpet and shouted, 'Water! Water! We are dying. For mercy's sake give us some water!'

"And the captain of the steamer answered back through his trumpet the mocking reply, 'Dip down your buckets and drink!'

"On sped the steamer on her way, with her flag gaily flying, while the dying, thirsting people bemoaned themselves in bitter wailing.

"Yet thoughts of the captain of the steamer having taken the trouble to come miles out of his way to tell them what he did, came over them. No one would have taken so much trouble were he ever so cruel, they thought.

"When they drew up the bucket of sparkling water, it was found to be fresh, and clear, and life-giving!

"Then the captain knew that they were sailing calmly in the mouth of the great river Amazon, and that while they had been almost dying for want of fresh water, it had surrounded them all the time!"

"We, like those sailors, sorrowful, and helpless, and thirsty, are longing to get to port, that we may be satisfied and lose our misery; and there, all the while, is the life-giving water close to us, only waiting for us to let down the bucket of our faith, and drink, and find that He satisfies every need."

CHAPTER XX.

AFTER this Christina went home, and Ada gradually resumed her old ways, so far as they could be taken up without the one who had been the moving spring of the house. There were times when she felt the misery of being motherless was almost more than she could bear; times when everything went wrong; when the children were cross, and there was no one to settle the quarrels; when Nellie wished things done which she considered unreasonable; when Arthur was wretched, and she could offer no comfort; when Tom was suffering, and there was no one to appeal to about him.

At these times Ada would chafe bitterly against the cruel blow which had ruined her happiness, and she would add to the general discomfort by going about with a cloud on her face, and irritation in her whole manner.

Such days as these were hard to bear. Nellie at times well-nigh fainted under their difficulty. But when things seemed at the worst, words would come back to her, and the blessed Spirit would remind her: "When my heart was overwhelmed within me, then Thou knewest my path;" and the thought that God knew, and was ready to help, was sure consolation, and Nellie took courage again.

"There cannot be a need greater than He can supply, dear," her father said to her one day, when he found her mending a great heap of stockings, and looking lonely and desolate.

She could only kiss his kind face, and go on with her work, blinded with tears. Her dear, unselfish father!

But where Nellie could submit, and rest on the assurance of everlasting love, Ada had to fight a hard battle, inch by inch; and in the struggle, she grew older fast, and felt as if the days were years.

This time it was in the evening, when they were all sitting together in the drawing room. Arthur was reading aloud, and Dr. Arundel rested in his armchair listening, or perhaps not listening, with his eyes closed.

When Wilmot was asked in, Dr. Arundel roused himself, and entered into a pleasant conversation with the young fellow, and Nellie learnt more about his avocations and doings in that hour's talk, than she had done all the while she was at Shellford. More in that way, but not so much in other ways, she thought.

Presently the conversation turned on the narrow escape they had all had at the picnic, and Wilmot explained to them many things which Nellie had never yet had the heart to tell them. Arthur was delighted to hear it all, and the circle gathered round their visitor, eagerly asking questions.

"Hope told me," said Wilmot, "that it would have been but a sorry affair without Miss Arundel."

He looked across to where Nellie sat, so quiet and gentle, stitching away at her work.

"That's always what our Nellie is!" exclaimed Arthur. "The best little woman in the world."

"Hush, Arthur," said Nellie, looking pained; "you know you always think too well of me."

"Do I, though?" he answered. "What should we do without you, I should like to know?"

Wilmot soon after this said he thought he had better go. He was pressed to stay to supper, but replied that, if they would allow him, he would come another day and do that.

"It is most delightful to be admitted into a family circle," he added, as he shook hands with Dr. Arundel; "I have so few friends in London."

"We shall be pleased to see you whenever you can look in," answered Dr. Arundel, feeling what a pleasant change it had been from his sad thoughts, and thinking also what a nice friend Wilmot would be for Arthur.

On the following Sunday, as Nellie, Arthur, and the little girls returned from church in the evening, Wilmot joined them, having been to their service.

"I wanted to see you for a few minutes," he said, coming close to Nellie's side and speaking in a slightly lowered tone.

"Yes; I was a little disappointed the other night when I came. You said you would be glad to see me."

Nellie was silent. Oh, what a hard struggle it was not to answer in commonplace phrase that she was glad! But her innate truthfulness refused, and she said nothing.

Arthur, noticing that Mr. Elliot seemed to have something to say to Nellie, joined his little sisters, and Wilmot went on—

She made no answer to this, and Netta ran up and told her it was beginning to rain.

Nellie raised her eyes at last and met his. "You must not be offended," she said very low; "but I am very busy at home, and my dear father has only me."

"That's nonsense," he said to himself as he walked homewards, "perfect nonsense. I'm not going to be forgotten because she is busy at home!"

CHAPTER XXI.

BUT those few quiet words meant a great deal to Nellie, and Wilmot felt they did, though he angrily refused to believe them. He allowed a whole month to elapse before he again went to see the Arundels, believing, in a kind of blind way, that Nellie would be all the more glad to welcome him. Poor little Nellie!

He took a great deal of pains about this visit. He invited Maude up from Devonshire for a fortnight's stay in his bachelor lodgings, in order that he might have the excuse of her presence for more frequent visits than he could otherwise have proposed.

The day before she was expected, Wilmot took himself with a somewhat beating heart to the house in the square, and full of pleasant anticipations, walked along planning the various excursions he would take Maude, and speculating in how many of these he could persuade Nellie to join.

At last the steps of No. 8 were reached, and Wilmot walked up them, delighted to think that the time he had set himself was at last over. He knocked, and when a servant, a stranger to him, opened the door, he asked the usual question, "Is Dr. Arundel at home?" thinking that it did not very much matter what the answer might be.

The answer, however, did matter a great deal to him; for the cook informed him that "the doctor and family were out of town; went yesterday morning."

He could only leave his card, and turn away with such a sense of disappointment as he could not have believed possible.

"It serves me right," he said to himself, as he walked gloomily homewards, "it serves me right; I was just a wretch to leave her in all her sorrow just out of 'pique.' Well, I am sorry, but that won't mend it."

Meanwhile the days had passed but slowly to Nellie and the others, as days of bereavement do pass.

Looking round on the household she was "mothering," she felt that the hot summer weather, added to their sorrow, was telling unfavourably upon little Tom, while Netta and Isabel looked pale and spiritless.

One day, after all had gone to bed, and she and her father were left alone, she came over and knelt down by his side, laying her head on his shoulder.

"No; but you will not think I am restless if I say that, perhaps, a little change might help us all, dear papa, if it could be managed?"

"Oh, not that! But you, dear papa, want a change most of all; oh, you must go too, if we do."

He seemed to be considering, and presently observed, "I was to have taken her, Nellie, just at this time."

"Well, dear—" he said with a long breath, "we will think it over. I do not wish to shut myself up, and if it would do you all good, I am willing to try it."

"Arthur looks so dull and forlorn. It is the first year for so long, that we have not gone away at this time."

"Yes, dear, so it is; we will arrange it. You think of what place you would like, and I will write about apartments."

So Nellie, Ada, and Arthur put their heads together, and decided on the Isle of Wight, if papa approved; and the following evening, when the little ones were gone to bed, they anxiously laid their plans before their father.

"We think, papa," said Nellie, "that Mary and the little ones had better be settled in at Shanklin, and then we will take you," she said, smiling lovingly at him, "excursions to different places; and perhaps we might even stop a night or two at the nicest, because, you know, it is so near, that Mary could send for us if she wanted anything."

"So that's it, is it?" said Dr. Arundel. "That's what I get by telling you to settle what you like."

He seemed pleased, however, with their plan, and very soon everything was arranged, and they actually had carried off their father for a holiday.

Nellie did not ask Christina, feeling that her father would be able to unbend more alone; and so it proved.

He left his practice in good hands, and when once they were at the sea, he would sit on the beach at first, hour after hour, by little Tom's carriage, reading a book which Nellie's thoughtfulness had provided, and doing very little; sometimes talking to Tom about the loved mother, and in the peace and quietness feeling nearer to her than he could do in the whirl of London.

Nellie watched over him as she would over a sick child. Without seeming to be taking any notice, she would manage to establish the pair who were so suited to each other, in some warm and quiet nook, and then she would draw off the younger ones, the nurse, and Simmons, for a long ramble.

Ada and Arthur generally were full of plans for themselves, which would include her if she could spare time; but generally she went quietly homewards to fulfil her housekeeping duties; and when these were done, she would take her work or mending into the verandah which faced the sea, the low hedge of the little garden having nothing but a path to separate it from high water, and with a sound of the waves in her ears she would sit and think—not only think, but pray.

Many, many tears fell over that work; tears of memory, tears for lost opportunities, tears for the depression of the trials which fell so heavily on her young heart, tears for the future, which all at once had become so blank and cold to her.

But while she wept, she would pray; and as surely as she prayed would the Comforter be sent, as He was promised, and peace would steal over her troubled heart.

So she would sit, and the song of the sea blended with other songs in her heart. Her father had once said to her, "When you have nothing else to do, it is a very good plan to count up your mercies." So sometimes she would try to remember them all, and the hours which had begun in sadness would often end in praise, and she would rise up to go to meet her father with a peaceful face, which had cast its burden on the Lord.

She would traverse the piece of path which ran along the edge of the sea, then cross the beach, and in about five or six minutes would come to her dear ones.

And her father would raise his face, with the deep lines of sorrow smoothed out for a while, and would place his book and his little Bible in his pocket, while he would say, with a sigh of content—

CHAPTER XXII.

TWO or three months passed away. Ada and Arthur returned to school, a morning governess was engaged to teach Tom and the little girls in the nursery, while Nellie carried on the management of the household faithfully and steadily, as nearly as she could like their mamma would have done.

It was not all smooth, and many difficulties Nellie had to bear alone, and many she had to tell her father, and get his advice.

Mary, the nurse, was a great help to her, and behaved kindly and wisely to the young mistress. Simmons was so good a servant, that the sudden change made no difference to her in her dutifulness; but the cook, listening to a foolish, mischief-making friend, began to grumble that "Miss Nellie expected more than mistress had."

Nellie was sure this was not the case, and was much cast down that she could not manage it without worrying her papa; but she and Arthur talked it over, and they decided it would be better to mention it to Dr. Arundel.

"I will speak to her if you like," he said, when Nellie had explained it to him; "but it would be far better if you could talk to her yourself."

Nellie knew his advice was always sound, and determined to take it; but she had much misgiving as to whether she should do it properly.

The next morning, when she was downstairs giving orders for the day, the cook, in answer to some slight instruction, said rather uppishly, "It never was so in your ma's time, Miss Nellie!"

Nellie felt her time was come, and with an instant's prayer for strength and wisdom, she looked into the servant's face, and met her eyes calmly.

"Cook," she said gently, though she felt her voice trembled, "I try in everything to follow exactly what dear mamma would wish; but my father says I am to use my judgment, and if I think a thing ought to be done, it is to be done; not because it would have been mamma's wish, but because it is my wish. I am mistress of my father's house now, and the sooner you understand this, the happier we shall be."

"You would not like to add to the cares I already find so heavy, by not behaving nicely to me, would you?" Nellie asked.

The cook twisted her apron, and then suddenly burst into tears. "It ain't a bit the same, now she's gone!" she exclaimed.

"Do you not think we must feel that, cook?" asked Nellie, with filling eyes. "Do you think I like being mistress?"

Wilmot Elliot, after the disappointment of his plans, altered his mind. A softer, humbler feeling came over him with regard to Nellie, and in the visits which he now made from time to time, he tried to show her that he was sorry for his hastiness.

He could not decide to his satisfaction whether Nellie had understood his manner before, or understood the alteration in it now.

She seemed always the same when he came; appeared to have no more to do with him than the rest had, and was just the quiet elder sister, playing the hostess with a calmness which hardly befitted her years.

What had altered her from the somewhat shy and blushing girl he had met at Shellford?

He tried in vain to answer this question. One possibility presented itself, but this he would not entertain as the solution for a moment.

He noticed that she quietly avoided any special conversation with himself, and held herself aloof. As however he had made up his mind that she was not to be won by impetuosity, he took this calmly, hoping that in time she would understand his love.

One day, very near to Christmas, being called by business near Covent Garden, he strolled in among the flowers, thinking of Nellie, and wondering if she would accept some.

He determined to try, and buying a lovely bunch of violets, hastened towards her home.

It was about twelve o'clock, and Simmons was busy upstairs. The cook opened the door to him, and without any preparation asked him into the dining-room, merely saying, "I believe they are in here, sir."

He entered, and Nellie started up from the sofa where she had been sitting, while a letter dropped on to the floor from her lap, and he found that she had been weeping violently.

He stood as dismayed as she was, and then all at once he felt a feeling of deepest tenderness come over him.

"Miss Nellie," he said, taking her hand, and leading her back to the sofa, "I want to comfort you, but I don't know how. What is the matter? Can you bear to tell me?"

"Don't take it away," he pleaded; "I want always to be able to comfort you. Oh, Nellie! What is it?"

"I—I think I will go away," she said in a broken voice. "I am not myself; but don't think me unkind. I will come back and see you presently."

She ran up to her own chamber, and, locking the door, put both her hands to her head in a bewildered way.

"It has come at last," she said trembling. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"

She threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. "He loves me," she whispered; "and I must not—must not—must not let him! Oh, what shall I do?"

Then she lifted her aching heart to Him who knew all its sorrow; and once more strengthened in her resolve, she got up, and bathing her swollen eyes, she went slowly downstairs again.

When she re-entered the dining-room, Wilmot came forward and met her, looking anxiously in her face.

"I have had a letter from Walter," she said, speaking calmly. "He sends me very unexpected news—very glad news—and that was what made me cry. He is coming home."

"He has been suddenly made a partner, and is to settle in England. It will make such a difference to us all; I can hardly believe it."

"And you were crying for joy? I would like to share the joy, and also the sorrow, Nellie. Will you let me? You cannot mistake what I mean?"

"You must not wish it," she answered, turning deadly pale; "I have wanted you to understand it for so long."

"It would be of no use; I must hear what you have to say. But, Nellie, I can't get on without you."

How sweet the words sounded in her ears; but she resolutely shut out the thought, and answered—"They cannot do without me at home. Forgive me, Mr. Elliot; I would not cause you pain if I could possibly help it; but it can never be as you say."

"Do you moan it?" he said hoarsely; "really mean what you say? Do you mean to tell me that you will blight my life, and perhaps yours, on a mistaken sense of duty to home?"

"It is not mistaken," she answered, rallying all her firmness. "No one who knows us intimately could advise me to decide otherwise."

"They would miss you," he said, sitting down again by her. "Who could help it? But it cannot be right; it cannot, Nellie."

"You must not call me Nellie," she said, rising; "I must say good-bye. If you could guess the pain I feel, you would say no more; but forgive me, and leave me."

"It is impossible," said the young man, turning bitterly away. "I'll leave you, if you wish it, and I will speak to your father; but to give you up utterly, I can't do it."

Nellie stood still, while he went to the window and looked out. At last he came back and asked—

Her colour flushed suddenly into her face and died out again. She was silent, but she moved away from him.

He waited too; and then altering again from his passionate reproach, he said softly—

"I will wait for you, my Nellie, till you can be ready. I will wait any time you name."

"I am not 'your Nellie,'" she answered, "and you must not wait. Good-bye; I can bear no more."

She turned to the door, but he came up to her once more and stood between her and it.

"I will not oblige you to leave the room," he said bitterly; "I will go. Good-bye."

CHAPTER XXIII.

GONE! Nellie would have given everything she possessed, in those first moments, to recall her lover. Her lover no longer—cut off from her by her own definite act.

She stood where he had left her, unable to shape any distinct thought, hardly knowing what she was doing.

Then her eyes fell upon the bunch of violets. She took them up off the table and looked at them a long time. "They were for me," she thought, "but I do not think I ought to have them now."

She slowly began to put the room straight. "Ada will be home soon," she said, glancing at the clock.

When all was done, and the table cleared, with the exception of the violets, she paused; then rang the bell and stood waiting.

Simmons went to fetch it, and Nellie placed them in the vase, and then, leaving them on the sideboard, went upstairs to her room.

She felt stunned. Things had not turned out as she had expected. Knowing something of Wilmot's character, she had prepared herself for a struggle; but that he should leave her in anger was almost more than she could endure. She sat down on the ottoman at the foot of her bed, the misery of having hurt him crushing her young heart.

Oh that she could have gone to bed, she thought, there to weep out her sorrow unseen!

This was impossible; the whole house would be dismayed. No, she must bear it. After all, she had passed through the worst of this decision of hers months ago. When she made that solemn promise to her dying step-mother, had she not felt the shadow of it creeping over her? When her father had claimed her entire devotion, had she not known what it must cost?

"Nellie, not dressed for dinner! The first bell has rung," said Ada, coming in hastily, and throwing her things on the bed.

"Only a sort of headache," answered Nellie, putting her hand to her forehead as if she were dazed.

"I'm so sorry," answered Ada, hurrying on with her preparations; "perhaps it will be better for some dinner?"

"I say, Nellie, who brought or sent those lovely violets? I never saw such a bunch."

The violets, to say nothing of this homecoming of Walter's, were a diversion from Nellie's headache, and her pale, sorrowful face passed unnoticed.

Dr. Arundel was truly delighted with the news which that morning's post had brought, and looked cheered at the thought of having his dear son so much sooner than had been anticipated. Thus the dinner passed in cheerful talk, and Nellie joined with the rest in surmising how soon he would come, and in all the questions which after all could have no answer.

When Ada returned from afternoon school, she ran upstairs to Nellie, and found her in the drawing room reading aloud to Tom and the little girls.

"Is your head too bad to come to Hampstead?" she asked eagerly. "Papa is waiting outside. He has a patient near there, and he says the carriage shall drive us there, and fetch him on its way back."

"Come, make haste; you can have five minutes. Put on your hat, and let's be off. I do long to know what Christina says to our news."

"Might we have the little tea-things, and have Tom all to ourselves, Nellie?" asked Isabel, imploringly.

"Yes," said Ada, "you can. I shall give you leave. Go along, 'Mrs. Ready-to-Halt,' and be 'ready to go.'"

The children laughed; and as Nellie went away, Ada put a small table close by Tom, and told the little girls to have tea early.

She fished mysteriously into her pocket, and drew forth her purse, and looking quizzically into it, pretended it was empty.

"No go," she said, throwing it up in the air; "I declare there isn't a farden' in it."

Ada opened it again, and after some more fun produced sixpence. "It's my very last," she said, pretending to cry; "but I'll give it to my starving relatives."

"Oh, Ada, we don't want it!" exclaimed Dolly, looking sober. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Ada, smiling, "that you should get sixpennyworth of buns—halfpenny buns—and enjoy yourselves."

"Sometimes," said Ada, rather grimly, thinking how little self-denial a sixpence was, compared to giving up one's wishes in some other things.

"Anything in the world you like," answered Ada, "with this reservation—that sixpence will buy it."

"Oh, that's all right then! We thought we would have three pennyworth of buns and three pennyworth of parliaments; they go so far, you know, Ada."

Nellie joined them at this moment, and Ada told the little girls not to lose their way in going to the confectioner's; Nellie also instructed Simmons to have an oversight of the drawing room party.

They found their father and Arthur in the carriage waiting for them, and were soon on their way to Christina's.

Dr. Arundel left them in the middle of Hampstead, and they then drove up over the heath to Sunnyside.

The young people quickly jumped out, and were admitted before the carriage had time to turn.

Arthur and Ada hastened in, while Nellie followed. Christina had seen the carriage stop, and came out into the hall to meet them.

Christina smiled, and disengaging herself, came up to Nellie, and kissed her lovingly.

Nellie glanced in the beautiful face with its calm brightness, a face like no other, she thought. "Dear Christina," was all she ventured to say.

They all went into the drawing room, where they found Christina's aunt, who was looking smiling and happy.

"We must talk to you, Miss Arbuthnot," said Arthur, "and let the two friends go and tell their secrets in private."

"Oh!" answered Ada grudgingly. "I wish they'd tell their secrets here; at least tell us all the news."

"So we will," said Christina, taking Nellie's hand, "but we must have a tiny talk first, Ada."

She drew Nellie from the room, and did not speak again till they were shut in her bedroom, where a fire was burning.

Christina looked surprised, and went on, "Then why does my Nellie look so triste?"

"I'll tell you about that, perhaps. I have had a trouble, but now I feel nothing but how glad I am about Walter."

"Not to-day, dear; perhaps never; I do not know. To-day I will only think of you. Have you had a long letter?"

Nellie was so overcome by this second piece of news, that she could only burst into tears again.

Christina kissed her, and did all she could to soothe her, but knew not what to say.

"You are quite worn-out," she said tenderly, "and no wonder, with so much to do and think about."

Nellie was worn-out; and when Christina wrapped her up on the sofa, and sat down by her in the firelight, she felt a strange feeling of rest and comfort stealing over her. The past months had been full of sorrow and self-command, and now that she felt it was all over, not even Walter's coming could rouse her out of a kind of blank restfulness, which was partly sorrow and partly relief.

"I am going down to see after the others," said Christina, "and you shall go to sleep."

"I shall expect you to, and I will bring you up a cup of tea when I have poured out for the rest."

"Nellie looks very tired and poorly," she observed to Ada, when she rejoined them.

"She is," said Ada. "She told me she had a headache. Wilmot Elliot was there this, morning, and Walter's letter upset her too."

Christina then explained to them that they only knew half the news, and great was the surprise of the two, to find Walter could have omitted such an important part of it in writing to their father.

She felt rather glad to escape from their questions, to go up again to Nellie. She begged her aunt to make them happy, and giving her a loving kiss, and whispering, "I think Nellie needs me," she was leaving the room, when Nurse Margaret entered, carrying little Charlie Wood for a good-night kiss.

Christina set her little tray again on the table, and turned to her new baby boy. "Well, my little man," she exclaimed, taking him proudly in her arms, "so you have come to wish Auntie good-night?"

The frail little fellow smiled with delight, and Christina went to a drawer and gave him a sugarplum, then holding him out towards her aunt, she said, smiling, "Now a kiss for Charlie, Aunt Mary."

Miss Arbuthnot did not seem surprised. In this little family, love reigned, and they treated the little children as cherished lambs in the fold of the Great Shepherd.

"Have you heard of his mother lately?" asked Ada, when Margaret had carried him off.

"Oh, yes!" said Christina. "I hear regularly every week. She is getting on so nicely; she is better in health, and has never touched one drop of spirits or anything since that day. It is worth a lifetime of self-denial to be allowed to save such a one."

"For Christmas," answered Christina. "Oh, if you could see her husband's letters! He has not seen her yet, but she writes to him."

She found by Nellie's peaceful breathing that she had fallen asleep, and she sat down by her side, glad herself to have a little quiet time to think.

In a few moments, however, Nellie stirred and gave a long sobbing sigh. "I can't, I can't!" she murmured.

Nellie sat up rather frightened, but was soon reassured by Christina's presence and love, and by the pleasant smell of the fragrant cup by her side. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea, until at last Christina said:

"I have known it would be so for ever so long. No one could see you together, at least no one loving you as I do, without knowing how it was."

"Do you think I have been right?" she asked presently. "He seemed to feel I was almost wicked."

"Dear Nellie," she answered softly, "I do not see what you could have done else, now."

"I did think it right all along," said Nellie; "but to-day I feel wretched, half fearing that I have acted unfairly to him; and yet I have tried so hard that he should understand without all this."

"I am sure you have; I have seen it when I have been with you. He must have been wilfully blind."

"You see he didn't want to believe I could be in earnest," said Nellie, very low.

"He was," answered she; "but I would not let him. Oh, Christina, you do not think I ought to have let him?"

"I was wondering whether it would be my duty to tell papa; it would add so to his sorrow; and I could not think of leaving them all now, Christina; it would be very wrong."

"I felt I ought not to accept in that sort of fashion; it seemed to me very hard on him to keep him waiting indefinitely; and I could not bear for dear papa to have this to think about, when he believes he has got me as his comfort and help."

"Yes; I see it all," answered Christina sadly; "but I feel perplexed, Nellie. I wish you would tell Dr. Arundel."

"I will, if you think I ought; anyway I should have done so after a time; but it can make no difference now," she added; "for he left me in anger, and I told him I would not. Nothing could have been plainer."

Nellie raised her head. "Don't pity me, Christina; I shall be glad soon. Just now you have caught me tired and stupid; but I shall be better soon. It has been the thought of hurting him which has been the worst."

That evening Nellie told her father in a few words of the offer she had received, and of her refusal.

Dr. Arundel heard her story, holding his arm round her, and hardly glancing at the downcast face.

At last he said, "But, Nellie, my child, I wish you would tell me; should you have refused him, if things had not been as they are at home?"

"Not now, I am sure you could not, nor would he wish it so soon; but I think you should have given him some hope, if—if you return his affection, Nellie. If people love each other, they should be willing to wait."

There was a pause, and Nellie bent her head lower. Ought she to have decided differently? Did her father think her wrong too? This was a sad blow.

"But it is all over now, dear papa," she said at last. "I tell you because I thought I ought. I am the only one you have, you know," she added, looking up from the shelter of his arm, and smiling a wan little smile; then bursting into tears, she kissed him, saying brokenly, "I could not, could not, leave you for the world!"

What tender thoughts twined round that eldest daughter of his who had just left him. "Dear little maiden," he said to himself, "I trust all will come right. I must take an opportunity of having a talk with Elliot; I cannot have her sacrifice herself. I am sorry it has fallen out so. He should have come to me first, under the circumstances. Poor dear Nellie, I hope it will all come right."

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHRISTINA and her aunt promised to spend Christmas day at Dr. Arundel's this year.

Walter's arrival was hourly expected, and it was felt by all that they could not divide their numbers; it was too sad a time for some of them, and the only way was to be all together.

To Dr. Arundel, the dread of the empty day was like a nightmare. Without allowing himself to repine, he yet could not help shrinking when he thought of the day dawning with no wife by his side to make all bright and happy, shedding her love on all around.

"I shall be helped through it," he had once said to himself, and though he knew not how he should be, yet his faith is rewarded; and his son's coming just at the dreaded time, unconsciously turned his thoughts into another channel, and lightened the gloom of his sorrow.

The day of Walter's arrival was a little uncertain, as he had not mentioned in which steamer he should sail. He had, they knew, travelled safely as far as Malta, as he had telegraphed from there, and now they were hourly expecting a second telegram to say he had landed at Southampton. For several days Nellie found herself starting, even when the postman's rap came to the door, thinking it might be the longed-for news, and every one felt excited.

About four o'clock on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Christina and her aunt arrived, and Nellie conducted Miss Arbuthnot to the spare room, and then took Christina up to her own—a usual custom, for then the girls could talk and feel at ease, which Nellie professed she never did in the spare room.

"Oh, it is nice to have you," said she, as she kissed Christina again, and helped her to take off her things.

They had not been in the drawing room more than two or three minutes, when a rap did come to the door, and Arthur exclaimed:

"That's no postman! For it is not his time." He started up and ran down into the hall, where the telegram was put into his hand.

"It is for papa," he said, leaping up the stairs three steps at a time, "but he said we might open it."

There was a general shout of joy; and Ada hastened to the nursery with the telegram, to tell the little ones.

When Dr. Arundel's latch-key was heard, Arthur was the first to get to the door, and he ran down to him. His father guessed what his eagerness meant, and asked, "Is it come, Arthur?"

"Thank God," said Dr. Arundel fervently; and then Arthur suddenly remembered that what had been all joy to him and the others, must be a fresh opening of the wound to his dear father.

Dr. Arundel went into his study, and was closing the door, when he found Arthur following. He came in and stood by his father's side in silence.

Dr. Arundel sat down in his armchair, looking tired and careworn, and Arthur put his hand on his shoulder with an affection which was somewhat rare in the strong boy.

"Papa," he said, "we don't forget what it must be to you, and you will not think in our pleasure at seeing Walter that we don't remember."

Arthur looked in his face silently, and then, kissing his forehead, left him alone.

Alone, yet not alone! And before he rejoined his children, he had cast his burden on the Lord, and, like Hannah of old, "his countenance was no more sad."

"Nellie," said Christina after tea, when they were all assembled in the drawing room, "I have lost one of my children!"

"It is all very well for you to laugh," said Christina to Arthur; "but it was a great grief to me, as well as a great joy."

"I told you that Mrs. Wood was to go home for Christmas. Well, a few days ago I received a note from her husband saying he should come to town to fetch her; for I had already arranged to see Mrs. Wood on her way through London.

"I therefore wrote to him, telling him to meet her at my house, as I should keep her till his arrival. Last Monday was the day fixed for her return, and about twelve o'clock Mr. Wood came to Sunnyside to see me.

"It would be impossible to tell you all he said of thanks to me for my efforts for her; but when he was a little calmed, I went to fetch Charlie. As you know, the little fellow is wonderfully improved since he came, but still looks delicate. His father, however, saw nothing but the improvement, and his joy was overpowering. To clasp the pretty, clean, well-cared-for little morsel in his arms again, was boundless delight.

"Charlie was a wee bit shy, but in a few minutes put his little head against his father's breast, and never offered to leave him again.

"Mr. Wood then asked me to allow him to share the expense of his wife's stay at the Home where she had received such benefit; but I knew their business had suffered much in consequence of her neglect of it, and I begged him to allow me to defray the whole of it, telling him it was freely given 'to the Lord.'

"'May He accept it, then,' he answered, 'and lay it up in heaven for you, for I can never, never repay my debt.'

"While we were sitting, I took the opportunity of saying something which was on my mind, before his wife should come.

"'Mr. Wood,' I said earnestly, 'you will forgive me for asking, but have you banished all intoxicating drinks from your table and house?'

"'Because,' I said, 'people are so forgetful; and I have heard of such sad cases of temptation and fall, from relatives selfishly continuing to take their moderate glass.'

"'Certainly,' I answered; 'it was just this. I was reading in my Bible one day, and this verse seemed to haunt me after I closed the book:

'"It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak."

"'I pondered it for a long time before I could make up my mind. It was to me a piece of dreadful self-denial not to offer it to my friends as a usual beverage; but when I remembered that thousands in our country had ruined homes and broken hearts through its use, I could hesitate no longer.'

"He grasped my hand. 'But for your self-denial, my life here and hereafter would have been ruined,' he said.

"As he spoke, for we had been so earnestly talking we had not heard the bell, Jane opened the door, and Mrs. Wood was announced.

"She came across the floor looking at me, and apparently going to speak to me first, but her eyes fell upon her husband and baby; and forgetting her former intention, she threw herself upon her knees before them, and, encircling her child with her arms, buried her face in its lap, and sobbed out in a broken voice, 'Oh, Harry, forgive, forgive me!'

"I saw him put his arm round them both with a smothered, 'My dear, I am only too glad,' and then I slipped away.

"When I went back again after half-an-hour, they were sitting side by side, holding each other's hands, and looking, oh, so happy! Charlie had fallen asleep in his father's arms, and his mother had lifted his feet into her lap, and was holding them in her disengaged hand.

"She looked up in my face with a somewhat mournful look replacing the joyful one. 'He will not come to me,' she said; 'he does not know me.'

"Her husband pressed her hand. 'He will know you soon, dear. Soon there will be no one like "mother" to him!'

"She shook her head slightly. 'I deserve it,' she whispered; 'but with God's strength, I will never deserve it again.' Then turning to me she added, 'If it were on my own strength I was building, it would be a poor affair, Miss Arbuthnot; but when it is God's strength, that must be everlasting. Those words of yours have never left me—

"'He has saved me—saved me from the punishment of my sin hereafter, and saved me from the power of it here. He is, as you said, stronger than Satan.'

"How changed and altered she was in these three or four months! Her husband gazed upon her as if he could not unfasten his eyes. Then he bent over and kissed her.

"'You do not smell any spirits now?' she asked with a little laugh, which ended in a burst of tears.

"Mr. Wood asked me if I could spare Charlie to go back with them. 'His mother feels as if she could not part with him again, and yet I hardly like to take him so suddenly—'

"'You shall have him,' I answered generously, hardly knowing then what it would cost me, to see my little darling carried out of the house in his father's arms in the afternoon.

"I cannot tell you, dears, all they said and did, nor repeat their gratitude. How little had I done, and what an abundant blessing had my gracious Father given me!

If Christina could have chosen, she would have preferred to meet Walter at Sunnyside, at her own home, with only her aunt's kindly presence to embarrass her. But ever unselfish, she had considered what a sad time this must be to them in the Square, and had yielded to their wish to join them. She could not feel happy to take Walter from them just as he arrived, and knew that his heart must be rather divided if she were at a distance.

As the evening advanced, she sat by little Tom very silent. He seemed to understand her feeling, and held her hand without speaking; but once he whispered, "Mamma would have been so glad of this day, Christina; we can rejoice in thinking of that."

She pressed his hand, and then said very low, so that only he heard it, "It is a strange day, Tom, and I do not know how to rejoice; but I shall feel better perhaps when once he is here."

"Yes, you will," said the little comforter, reassuringly; "and all the more that it would please mamma for you to be really glad."

Dr. Arundel leaned back in his armchair, but was as cheerful as the rest now, and was talking with Arthur and Ada, and telling them stories of arrivals which he had known, and reminding them that nothing was sure in this world.

Netta and Isabel sat near Nellie with their work, but they did not do much; for every cab made them look up, and sometimes go to the window to peep out.

Nellie sat very quiet too. Would Walter ask her this time if she had any secrets? She hoped not; but perhaps he would be too taken up to think of her. Then a pang of jealousy shot across her heart; a pang instantly rebuked and confessed; but the thought filled her eyes with tears. Not the thought that she was no longer first with her beloved brother, but of grief that she could have even regretted it for a moment.

In her pocket lay a letter from Hope Elliot, received that morning, which as yet she had not had an opportunity to show to Christina.

"We cannot think" (the letter said) "what can have come to Wilmot. He writes to tell us that he will be down for Christmas; but that he thinks of going abroad. He will explain his plans to mamma, he says, and obtain her sanction, and then he means to be off at once."

"Have you seen him lately, Nellie? And can you tell us what wild scheme he has got in his head? Of course mamma will persuade him out of it, or I hope so; but it is too tiresome to even suppose he will throw up his good prospects here, and go out there on a wild-goose chase."

"Before, however, you have time to answer this letter, we shall see him for ourselves, and be able to hear all about it."

"I have told you about Jack Morland, the young canoeist, whom we have got to know. Well, yesterday, he came to mamma's quite unexpectedly, and made Maude an offer, which she has accepted, and the young people are very happy. Mamma is pleased, for he is a very nice fellow, and we are all full of excitement."

This letter, with its double news, was lying in Nellie's pocket. She felt conscious of it all the time, with a dim impression of a hidden pain. She had told the wedding news in it at once; but the other must be confirmed before she would mention it.

There was a sudden "Hush!" from several of them. Yes, it was a cab at last stopping at the house; then everybody hurried to the door, and crowded down the stairs while Walter was being admitted, Miss Arbuthnot even going to the landing, and Christina and Tom were left alone.

He did not attempt to speak to her, and it was only a moment of intense bustle of arrival in the hall, before a quick light step was heard on the stairs, and Walter was once more with Christina, whom he had so longed to see.

When they could settle down to anything of quiet, after Arthur and he had helped in the carrying up of his heavy packages, all felt the blank in their midst.

Walter looked round the room with a sudden realization of what he had known and expected. His eyes met his father's, and both understood each other's thoughts.

"My dears," he said, "we are all on a journey, travelling homewards. Those we love are only a little way on in front of us; they have reached home. They would have waited for us, but our heavenly Father called them, and told them to pass on first. It can only be a little while before we follow them; and meanwhile the same Father bids us do our work cheerfully, contentedly, hopefully, leaving us this promise always close to us:

"We will thank Him for His goodness in bringing Walter home, and thus cheering our hearts."

When they rose from their knees, he kissed them all round, and telling them he should be with them again presently, went to his study.

That night, when all had retired, Walter sought his father, who told him the history of those last months.

"It is painful to me to speak of it," he said "but I feel relieved; my heart feels lighter than it has done since she left me, for I have not been able to speak much of it all. Nellie, dear girl, has had enough to bear."

"Yes, she looks very thin and tired; but Christina thinks she will recover gradually. I must try to cheer her if I can."

CHAPTER XXV.

BUT Wilmot did not come back. As Nellie had told her father, it was all over; there would be no change.

Christmas had passed, and New Year's Day dawned, bringing a second letter from Hope—a surprised, rather hurt, letter.

"I always thought men extraordinary, Nellie, but never believed it could come so 'home' to me as this.

"I told you about Wilmot's wish to go abroad. When he arrived, to our dismay, he brought all his belongings with him from London, and he and mother were closeted together for hours that night.

"I heard all this from Maude, for I could not go down to the cottage on Christmas Eve, as I was to spend the next day there, and I had little things to do, besides not wishing to leave dear Mrs. Arundel for so long.

"On Christmas day Wilmot seemed much as usual, but mamma looked pale and worried; and in the evening she told us Wilmot had decided to go to New Zealand, and had made arrangements for George to be in the same office and lodgings, and everything that he had been in, and to begin life in London in his place.

"Mamma did not explain his reasons; simply said she had given her consent, and she believed it would be very advantageous for George.

"I cannot write it all, Nellie, for I am busy, and besides my eyes ache with crying. Wilmot begged us not to make a fuss; that he should send for us in a year or two, and pictured to us what he should do, and what we should do.

"We did not pass an unhappy evening after all, though I do not consider Wilmot seemed quite like himself.

"The next day he came up and asked dear Mrs. Arundel if I might come home for a few days to help get his things ready, and she willingly assented.

"To make a long story short, we worked away night and day almost, and he is gone.

"He sailed this morning, and that is why my eyes are swollen with crying.

"Mamma feels it very much; but she makes no complaint.

"I cannot think what it has been that made him decide to go; but he always has been rather fond of travelling, and nothing but his wish to help mamma with us all, has kept him in England so long.

"I heard her say to him once, 'My dear boy, remember God is with you wherever you go. You can never be where He is not.'

"'I know, mother,' he answered; 'I do not forget it. I am thankful to know it. But for that—'

"He left the sentence unfinished, and it is the only time I heard him break down in any way.

"You will see, Nellie, that this was a good deal for mamma to say; but I do believe she is happier in that way than she was."

Nellie announced the news of Hope's letter at once, feeling it would be easier to have it over than to be dreading it all day.

Her father gave a quick glance at her face; but after that, he took it in a matter-of-fact way, for which she felt thankful.

Walter's plans, and with them Christina's, were now the chief thought amongst them.

He had waited for the week to look round upon it all, and then told his father that he should like to settle down with them at No. 8 till the next autumn.

"Christina wishes it," he added; "and I quite agree with her. It will be the best thing, if you will have me."

"Have you?" said Dr. Arundel, looking with one of his rare smiles into his son's face. "My boy, my heart has been much lighter since it has got you back."

Walter thoroughly appreciated the tone of these words; and when afterwards Nellie told him that the week had seen a wonderful change for the better in their father, he was truly relieved and thankful to know that his affection and presence could lighten the gloom which had fallen on the house since he left it, only a little more than a year ago.

One day in early spring, Nellie came into the nursery with a letter in her hand.

"Whom is this for, do you think?" she said, holding it up, and looking across the room to Tom's couch.

"Not for me, is it?" he asked, while a flush of pleasure came over his face. "I never get letters."

Netta and Isabel, who were fast getting out of "nursery children," happened to be there, and came close to see what it could be.

"The pleasure of Master Tom Arundel's society is desired at Sunnyside for a fortnight, accompanied by his sister Ada."

"Here is another letter in the same writing," said Nellie, smiling; "but as Ada is not home yet, we must wait."

Nellie sat down by Tom, and took up her work, while she listened to his plans and projects; but suddenly, he hid his face in his hands and burst into tears.

"She would have told me whether I could go or not," sobbed Tom. "Oh, Nellie, I cannot live without her!"

He sobbed violently, and Nellie knelt down by his side and put her arm under his head, but without her love seeming to make any impression on his grief.

So patiently had he borne his sorrow, that they had almost begun to think it was wearing off; but just now a tender chord had been touched, and it would vibrate.

Sensitive and shrinking, the poor child always depended on his mother's judgment for all he was to do; and now suddenly, when the occasion arose, there was no one to appeal to. It came upon him with a freshness of despair, and at first, he was too overwhelmed to listen to Nellie's assurances of its being possible, or to consider his usual source of comfort.

When his sister came again to see him, peace reigned on his pale little face. He looked up into her eyes, and held out a tiny note. It ran—

"Dear Christina,—At first I thought I could not; but now, if you will excuse such a helpless visitor, I should like to come.

"Your affectionate little Tom."

"Yes, Nellie. I find if ever I run from under the covert of His wings, I get frightened. But I'm so sorry I grieved you about mamma; you do all you can, Nellie, all that is possible for me, and I do love you and thank you; but sometimes—"

"Yes, dearest Tom; we all feel it so, and then, as you say, we find our only consolation is under the covert of His wings—

"'He shall cover thee with His feathers; and under His wings shalt thou trust.'"

"School's over for three weeks!" exclaimed Ada, bursting in, and throwing a bag of books on the table.

Isabel said, "It did; we were having a talk, and did not want to be interrupted."

"All right," said Ada, "I'll make myself scarce." With which sharp words, she hastened from the room.

"Well, Nellie; she is so hasty. I only made the remark that she did make a noise."

"Quite true," said Nellie; "but the truth is not always pleasant, and you are younger than she."

Nellie went into their room and sought Ada. "Here is a letter for you, Ada," she said.

"I wish, Nellie," said Ada in return, "that you would make those children mind their own business. They are always keeping me in order."

"You should try not to mind a little remark, dear; it is difficult to repress everything, isn't it?"

"I declare!" said Ada, reading and brightening up. "She has asked me for a fortnight to Sunnyside, and Tom, too. Can he go, Nellie?"

"She does; but you will have to be very patient with him, Ada. It will do him a great deal of good, or it might be harm. He misses mamma more than you think."

"We none of us know what each other feel," said Ada; "that's the way with people living in the same house."

CHAPTER XXVI.

FOUR years after the events recorded in the last chapter, two young ladies were sitting in a sunny room at Shanklin, looking out on to the sea.

On the knees of the elder of the two lay an infant, and over it bent a fond, lovely face, not altered but improved by its motherliness.

By the side of the other, stood a little roundabout of two years old, gazing up in her face, as she told her a history of a brightly coloured picture.

Her mother glanced at the group with a sweet, tender look. "Kind Auntie Nellie," she observed.

"How she gets on, Christina," said Auntie Nellie, looking up; "I never heard a child talk so plainly."

"I believe it is," answered Nellie, smiling. Then, turning to a little maiden of about six years old, who stood looking out of the window, she added:

The child turned and came close, putting her arm affectionately round little Eleanor.

"And so," said Nellie, continuing her story, "God gives us just what He sees the very best for us. See, that man is handing his little child a great heavy stone; and that one, in contrast, is giving his child a nice piece of bread."

"No; it is just to teach us the lesson how unkind we should think it in our father; and God is better than any earthly father."

"And He's always thinking about being kind," said Alice, with kindling eyes. "Don't you remember last week, when I was poorly, and couldn't eat any nice things or fruit for ever so long, how He sent me—told someone to send me—that tiny, tiny little text-book?"

Eleanor looked on wonderingly, only half comprehending, but still taking in part of the picture into her little mind, and carrying away with her into the garden, whither the children now ran, an impression that "God was kind."

Just outside the verandah—the same old verandah where Nellie used to sit and dream and pray—Tom, little no longer, reclined in an invalid chair. His face was altered from the delicate child's face, but it had the same sweet trustful expression, though he was now a boy of fourteen.

He had been allowed by his physicians to sit up a little every day; but his slight form was even thinner than it had been, and those round him knew that he was slowly but surely preparing to leave them.

He knew it himself, and talked of it peacefully and happily, not as a thing to be dreaded, but as a change from tender love here, to even better beyond.

His patience, as the years rolled slowly on, increased rather than diminished, and the absence of fretfulness, which had once been obtained with great inward struggle, now was habitual.

He and Nellie were the firmest friends and dearest companions; and if anything lightened her cares, it was to have "a talk" with little Tom.

When she was burdened or weary, she would sit silently by him, leaning her head on his cushion, content to be quiet; and often if they did not speak a word, comfort would steal over her. So, peaceful and still, she would remember the patiently-borne suffering of her young brother—the hopelessness of his earthly prospects, the hopefulness with which he regarded his heavenly prospects; and any repining would be rebuked when she thought of how much more enjoyment she had after all, than he.

Just now he was lying with closed eyes listening to the song of the waves, occasionally catching the low talk of the two sisters.

"Yes; but she thinks nothing about it, but just goes on her sensible way as nicely as possible."

"I have much to thank her for since dear mamma's death," responded Nellie. "She has been a dear sister to me."

"I am sure she has. There was one time that I was rather afraid, but your love and patience tided over the difficulty."

"It was very hard for her to have to yield to me, if there was a difference of opinion; and yet sometimes you know I was forced to carry out what I thought right. It was about the children generally that we had trouble; but, after all, she acted so beautifully."

"Not mine; I do not feel I can take any credit. I was always helped over every difficulty. At first I used to think I could never succeed in managing it all; and then I learnt gradually that every time I got perplexed, I had nothing to do but to ask for wisdom. Sometimes I felt as if the wisdom had hardly been given, as if things had not quite gone right after all; but I learned gradually to believe in the answer to my prayer being sent, and the more I trusted, the more I found I might trust."

Nellie smiled brightly when she got to the end of this long sentence, and Christina looked with soft appreciating glance back at her.

At this moment, a sound of merry voices came nearer and nearer. The gate creaked on its hinges, and a number of young people came quickly up the path, and entered the sitting-room.

"We have had such a lovely ramble," exclaimed Ada, holding in her hand her pet brother, a sturdy little fellow of six years old.

"I'm not a bit tired," said he, stumping along bravely; "and Ada says we've been six miles."

"Yes, that we have," answered Arthur, "and I think Cecil has done well. So your wee birdie is asleep, Christina?"

Eleanor climbed up into Auntie Ada's arms, and was carried off smiling to her nurse; while Nellie went out to Tom, and asked him if he were ready to come in.

He turned his face up to hers. What a look of affection was in his eyes! "I like being here, Nellie," he said; "and now I have this, I can come in when I like, you know."

He referred to his invalid chair, with its large, easy wheels, which he could move with a touch of his hand.

She smiled in answer, and settling his pillow stood still, looking down upon him.

"Yes; but I must expect it, Nellie. Don't look sad, darling. 'Neither will there be any more pain there.'"

Nellie kissed his forehead, and turned away. "All love," she repeated to herself, as she went up to her room; "all love.

As she looked from her window over the sea, and thought of all these things, she saw Walter come in from his walk, with Netta and Isabel leaning on him on either side, full of life and spirits.

"There's Nellie at her window," exclaimed Netta, looking up. "Nellie, Walter wants you to come down. He's cut his finger, and Christina is nowhere to be seen."

"Is it bad?" she asked, as she rapidly got out rag and calendula, which she always kept handy.

"Can't do without her for five minutes?" asked Arthur saucily from the sofa, where he lay luxuriously enjoying a delightful book.

"He cannot get one," answered Walter, as he held out his finger to Nellie's soft touch.

"She is with her little ones," said Nellie, "but will be back in a minute. Oh, here she is!"

"Papa is coming down to-night, Walter," said Christina. "I have just had a note from him, so we shall have a happy Sunday. Oh, dear, have you cut your finger?"

"It is nothing serious; I did it sharpening my knife. And so you have heard from my father?"

"Dear Mistress,—You will be glad to hear that all are well, both at Sunnyside, and at our little Home. Alfy has been a very good boy, and he sends his love to you. So do Georgie and Frank. Alfy's grandfather died the end of last week; and his grandmother is very sadly. I do not think she will last long. Miss Arbuthnot returned from the north safely, yesterday. I hope you, and master, and the dear little ones are quite well, and enjoying yourselves. We miss you all very much.

"With our respects, in which all unite—

"I am, dear Mistress,

"Your obedient servant,

"Mrs. Fenton."

"Good old creature," said Walter, when the letter was read; "it is a real treat to talk to her. I often go and have a chat with her in her cottage, Nellie."

"Yes, very well," answered Christina; "she is very good to them, and they go to school, so she does not get quite so much of them."

"The plan acts very nicely," said Walter; "and no one knows what blessing she may bring to those little lads, by her bright faith and cheerful loving service. She said, when we first told her that we thought of building two more rooms to her cottage, and getting her to mind these boys, 'Well, sir, I'll think it over, and if I find it is the work my Father has set me to do, I'll do it.' And she waited a day or two, and talked to 'her Father' about it, and then came to us and accepted."

"I do like her," said Ada; "and now, Christina, let us have your other letter, if we are to hear it."

"My dear Mrs. Arundel,—It is with the greatest pleasure I take up my pen to send you these few lines, for I feel you are the dearest friend to whom I can write. We are getting on so happily, and I am so well, and our business is much improved. All owing to you, dear Mrs. Arundel; and I can never be grateful enough.

"My husband is coming to London in September, and he promises to bring me and Charlie with him, that we may have a sight of your face, and we are longing for the time to come.

"We keep the text you gave us on our wall, and read it over very often. I have found it true many a time. You remember it, do you not?

"'God is our Refuge and Strength—a very present help in time of trouble.'

"We have proved Him that, and daily He is my strength, as He says.

"You will excuse this long letter; but it is so nice to be allowed to talk to you. I often think of the home above, where I shall, through God's forgiving mercy, meet you; for He has cast all my sins into the depths of the sea.

"With our very kind respects, and my and Charlie's love—

"Yours most gratefully,

"Clementina Wood."

"Yes; but oh, Ada! It must be dreadful to have such a past to look back upon," said Christina.

"Heigho!" said Arthur, "I have only a week more holiday, I declare, and then I must grind, grind, again."

"It isn't my idea of it," said Cecil, and the elders laughed, while Arthur was not sure whether he was being made fun of; but Cecil looked so stolidly at him after his remark, that he concluded to let the matter drop.

"So you will," said Dolly; "for besides your business, you're always going out preaching to children."

She removed it from his fidgety fingers smilingly, and said, "Yes, life is busy to us all, isn't it, Nellie?"

"Yes," answered Nellie, "very; but I for one am not quite so busy as I used to be."

She laughed; and when the little maid came, she suggested that all had come back hungry.

Nellie said she was rather tired, and would sit in the garden instead, and bear Tom company.

Tom, however, felt chilly, and soon wheeled himself into the sitting-room, which was particularly convenient, as the French door opened to the garden without a step of any kind.

He begged Nellie to sit out in the air as long as she felt inclined, as he should be reading to himself; so she sat on, thinking them rather a long time gone. When at last she heard their voices returning, she was surprised to find that they passed the house, and continued their way along the walk by the sea.

But the gate swung to, and Dolly's little feet ran lightly up the path, then through the house and into the garden, and paused by her side.

"They have taken papa a little walk, Nellie, and I've come to tell you so, and to say that there's a friend come down with papa from London, and I was to tell you so."

She hastened away, having discharged Walter's message most faithfully; and only waiting to lead their visitor through the room to the French door, she hurried back after the others, and left him to make his own introduction.

He advanced over the soft little lawn to where Nellie was standing, waiting and wondering.

As he came nearer in the half-light, she failed to recognize the stranger; but something in the sound of his step made her heart give a strange leap.

"I have come back," he said, still clasping her hand in both his; "and I want to know if you can forgive me for going away and leaving you all these years?"

"I have nothing to forgive," answered Nellie, trembling violently, and sitting down.

"I am afraid you have. Such hard, bitter thoughts at first. Such a hurry to go and leave you, and try to forget you. But after a while I came to better feelings."

"But I have come back, Nellie. I may call you Nellie now, may I not? I have waited a long time, and I have come to ask again. Can you tell me now whether, as I have loved you so long, you can love me?"

"I am sure you did not. Come, Nellie, it has been such a long weary time; can you not make me happy at last?"

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