'I wish Richard was at home!' said Flora.

'I know!' cried Ethel. 'Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am sure he can walk so far now. I'll ask him.'

Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining brass lock, before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and the governess seemed annoyed. 'Ethel does not consider,' said she. 'I don't think your mamma will be pleased.'

'Why not?' said Flora.

'My dear—a gentleman walking with you, especially if Margaret is going.'

'I don't think he is strong enough,' said Flora; but I can't think why there should be any harm. Papa took us all out walking with him yesterday—little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe went.'

'But, my dear—'

She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming girl of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five. 'Good morning, Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the request we have to make to you?'

'Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a lawless place Cocksmoor is?'

'That was the doubt,' said Margaret, but papa said he would answer for it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you would be so kind.'

'It is unlucky,' began the governess, but stopped at the incursion of some new comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel at the head of them. 'Oh! Harry!' as the gathers of her frock gave way in the rude grasp of a twelve-years-old boy. 'Miss Winter, 'tis all right—Mr. Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the walk, and will like it very much, and he will undertake to defend you from the quarrymen.'

'Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen?' hallooed Harry. 'Shall I take a club?'

'I'll take my gun and shoot them,' valiantly exclaimed. Tom; and while threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, in a low voice, 'Did you ask him to come with us?'

'Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was there, and said it was not too far for him—besides, there's the donkey. Papa says it, so we must go, Miss Winter.'

Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel began to perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going to speak, when Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain deepening colour in her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and whispering, 'I'll see about it. Don't say any more, please,' glided out of the room.

The sons and daughters were divided in likeness to father and mother; Ethel was almost an exaggeration of the Doctor's peculiarities, especially at the formed, but unsoftened age of fifteen; Norman had his long nose, sallow complexion, and tall figure, but was much improved by his mother's fine blue eyes, and was a very pleasant-looking boy, though not handsome; little Tom was a thin, white, delicate edition of his father; and Blanche contrived to combine great likeness to him with a great deal of prettiness. Of those that, as nurse said, favoured their mamma, Margaret was tall and blooming, with the same calm eyes, but with the brilliance of her father's smile; Flora had greater regularity of feature, and was fast becoming a very pretty girl, while Mary and Harry could not boast of much beauty, but were stout sturdy pictures of health; Harry's locks in masses of small tight yellow curls, much given to tangling and matting, unfit to be seen all the week, till nurse put him to torture every Saturday, by combing them out so as, at least, to make him for once, like, she said, a gentleman, instead of a young lion.

Little Aubrey was said by his papa to be like nothing but the full moon. And there he shone on them, by his mamma's side, announcing in language few could understand, where he had been with papa.

'He has been a small doctor,' said his father, beginning to cut the boiled beef as fast as if his hands had been moved by machinery. 'He has been with me to see old Mrs. Robins, and she made so much of him, that if I take you again you'll be regularly spoilt, young master.'

'Poor old woman, it must have been a pleasure to her,' said Mrs. May—'it is so seldom she has any change.'

'Who is she?' asked Mr. Ernescliffe.

'The butcher's old mother,' said Margaret, who was next to him. 'She is one of papa's pet patients, because he thinks her desolate and ill-used.'

'Her sons bully her,' said the doctor, too intent on carving to perceive certain deprecatory glances of caution cast at him by his wife, to remind him of the presence of man and maid—'and that smart daughter is worse still. She never comes to see the old lady but she throws her into an agitated state, fit to bring on another attack. A meek old soul, not fit to contend with them!'

'Why do they do it?' said Ethel.

'For the cause of all evil! That daughter marries a grazier, and wants to set up for gentility; she comes and squeezes presents out of her mother, and the whole family are distrusting each other, and squabbling over the spoil before the poor old creature is dead! It makes one sick! I gave that Mrs. Thorn a bit of my mind at last; I could not stand the sight any longer. Madam, said I, you'll have to answer for your mother's death, as sure as my name's Dick May—a harpy dressed up in feathers and lace.'

There was a great laugh, and an entreaty to know whether this was really his address—Ethel telling him she knew he had muttered it to himself quite audibly, for which she was rewarded by a pretended box on the ear. It certainly was vain to expect order at dinner on Saturday, for the Doctor was as bad as the boys, and Mrs. May took it with complete composure, hardly appearing sensible of the Babel which would sometimes almost deafen its promoter, papa; and yet her interference was all-powerful, as now when Harry and Mary were sparring over the salt, with one gentle 'Mary!' and one reproving glance, they were reduced to quiescence.

Meanwhile Dr. May, in a voice above the tumult, was telling 'Maggie,' as he always called his wife, some piece of news about Mr. Rivers, who had bought Abbotstoke Grange; and Alan Ernescliffe, in much lower tones, saying to Margaret how he delighted in the sight of these home scenes, and this free household mirth.

'It is the first time you have seen us in perfection,' said Margaret, 'with mamma at the head of the table—no, not quite perfection either, without Richard.'

'I am very glad to have seen it,' repeated Alan. 'What a blessing it must be to your brothers to have such a home!'

'Yes, indeed,' said Margaret, earnestly.

'I cannot fancy any advantage in life equal to it. Your father and mother so entirely one with you all.'

Margaret smiled, too much pleased to speak, and glanced at her mother's sweet face.

'You can't think how often I shall remember it, or how rejoiced I—' He broke off, for the noise subsided, and his speech was not intended for the public ear, so he dashed into the general conversation, and catching his own name, exclaimed, 'What's that base proposal, Ethel?'

'To put you on the donkey,' said Norman.

'They want to see a sailor riding,' interposed the doctor.

'Dr. May! cried the indignant voice of Hector Ernescliffe, as his honest Scottish face flushed like a turkey cock, 'I assure you that Alan rides like—'

'Like a horse marine,' said Norman.

Hector and Harry both looked furious, but "June" was too great a man in their world, for them to attempt any revenge, and it was left for Mary to call out, 'Why, Norman, nonsense! Mr. Ernescliffe rode the new black kicking horse till he made it quite steady.'

'If it was but English. Something like this:— For what is equal to the fame Of forgetting self in the aim? That's not right, but—'

'Ethel, Norman, what are you about?' cried Flora. 'Do you mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day?'

'Oh yes!' cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; 'only I've lost my blue-edged handkerchief—Flora, have you seen it?'

'No; but here is your red scarf.'

'Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I'll overtake you— Purer than breath of earthly fame, Is losing self in a glorious aim. Is that better, Norman?'

'You'll drive us out of patience,' said Flora, tying the handkerchief round Ethel's throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which of course were inside out; 'are you ready?'

'Oh, my frock! my frock! There 'tis—three stitches—go on, and I'll come,' said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little pink frock. 'Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I'll overtake you.'

'Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all.'

'I shall wait for her,' said Norman. 'Go on, Flora, we shall catch you up in no time;' and, as Flora went, he continued, 'Never mind your aims and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse's pardon, and say how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!' said Norman, repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded.

'Oh! yes; but oh! dear, I've done. Come along,' said Ethel, crumpling her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves— then, as they ran down stairs, and emerged into the street, 'it is a famous subject.'

'Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won't break down somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I should like to see old Hoxton's face, if you were to show him up some of these verses.'

'I'll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius flatter himself with the fame he was to get—it is too like the stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say— Rome—my country—the eagles—must win, if they do—never mind what becomes of me.'

'But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and glory—they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death.'

'O no, no,' said Ethel. 'Fame is coarse and vulgar—blinder than ever they draw Love or Fortune—she is only a personified newspaper, trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely—I wished they would give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well.'

'It would make a very good theme, in a new line,' said Norman; 'but I don't give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame, that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man's greatness!'

'I'm not sure,' said Ethel; 'I think looking for fame is like wanting a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame, when he threw himself on the spears?'

'He got it,' said Norman.

'Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please himself. Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it.'

'But!' said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep hill. Presently Norman slackened his space, and driving his stick vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, 'It is no use talking, Ethel, it is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That's the spirit of the things—that's what the great, from first to last, have struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.

'I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so replied Ethel; 'but is not there the difference, that here all may win—not only one? One may do one's best, not care whether one is first or last. That's what our reading to-day said.'

'That was against trumpery vanity—false elevation—not what one has earned for oneself, but getting into other people's places that one never deserved. That every one despises!'

'Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn't you mean Harvey Anderson?'

Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, 'It is pretension that is hateful—true excelling is what one's life is for. No, no, I'll never be beat, Ethel—I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you take pains,' he added, looking exultingly at his sister, 'and I never will be.'

'O Norman!'

'I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for all the world.'

'O no, no, poor Richard!'

'He is an excellent fellow in everything else,' said Norman; 'I could sometimes wish I was more like him—but how he can be so amazingly slow, I can't imagine. That examination paper he broke down in—I could have done it as easily as possible.'

'I did it all but one question,' said Ethel, 'but so did he, you know, and we can't tell whether we should have it done well enough.'

'I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if I don't with to be known as the man whose brother was plucked,' said Norman.

'Yes,' said Ethel; 'if papa will but let you try for the Randall scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so young.'

'And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,' added Norman. 'I don't like coming into contrast with him, and I don't think he can like it, poor fellow, and it isn't his fault. I had rather stay another year here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones for those who can do no better.'

In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of-fact. The others had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back at the town—the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid motion.

'Here you are!' exclaimed Flora. 'I told them it was of no use to wait when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.'

'Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say,' cried Ethel, 'which do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?' Her eloquence always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps, Margaret.

'Ethell' said Norman, 'how is any one to understand you? The argument is this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring.'

'A mighty one!' said Alan; 'but I think, as far as I understand the question, that Ethel has the best of it.'

'I don't mean that people should not serve the cause first of all,' said Norman, 'but let them have their right place and due honour.'

'They had better make up their minds to do without it,' said Alan. 'Remember "The world knows nothing of its greatest men."

'Then it is a great shame,' said Norman.

'But do you think it right,' said Ethel, 'to care for distinction? It is a great thing to earn it, but I don't think one should care for the outer glory.'

'I believe it is a great temptation,' said Alan. 'The being over elated or over depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the world, independently of the exertion we have used—'

'You call it a temptation?' said Ethel.

'Decidedly so.'

'But one can't live or get on without it,' said Norman.

There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be crossed, with a gate that would not open, and that seemed an effectual barrier against both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by persuasive eloquence and great gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe performed the wonderful feat of getting the former over the tall fence, while Norman conducted the donkey a long way round, undertaking to meet them at the other side of the plantation.

The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a mile along a cart-track, through soft tufted grass and heath, and young fir trees. It ended in a broad open moor, stony and full of damp boggy hollows, forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they met Norman again, and walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built huts, of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading waggons with them, rude wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at them.

They were directed to John Taylor's house, a low mud cottage, very wretched looking, and apparently so smoky, that Mr. Ernescliffe and Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the ladies entered.

Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected, but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly. She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.

Flora asked when the babes would be Christened.

'I can't hardly tell, Miss—'tis so far to go.'

'I suppose none of the children can go to school. I don't know their faces there,' said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl, of thirteen or fourteen.

'No, Miss—'tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl, she can work very nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.'

'You would hardly know what to do without her,' said Miss Winter.

'No, ma'am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to, ma'am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my Church—but it is a bad place to live in here.'

No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness of the people, from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be no visible means of improvement. The parish Church was Stoneborough, and there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The incumbent, Mr. Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of Clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work to the two under masters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harrison, who did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor!

'There would be a worthy ambition!' said Etheldred, as they turned their steps homeward. 'Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a Church on Cocksmoor!'

'How many years do you give us to do it in?' said Norman.

'Few or many, I don't care. I'll never leave off thinking about it till it is done.'

A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, 'Margaret?' and her heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father's eyes intently fixed on her. 'Did you speak of her?' he repeated.

'Yes, dear papa,' said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in extreme fear of what the next question might be. 'She is quiet and comfortable, so don't be uneasy, pray.'

'Let me hear,' he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be entirely roused. 'There is injury? What is it—'

He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her sister's condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least wait for Mr. Ward; but the Doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming.

Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her, as she looked at him in despair.

'You see he is quite himself, quite collected,' he said; 'you heard how clear and coherent his questions were.'

'Can't it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.'

'I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do, upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need not be alarmed.'

'But you know,' said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she whispered and signed towards the door, 'she is there—it is mamma's room, that will tell all.'

'I believe he knows,' said Alan. 'It was that which made him faint after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was afraid to hear about her—your sister, so that our mention of her was a great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.'

Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way.

Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a second going to Church; but Blanche was very glorious, as she led him down to drink tea, and, before going up again, he had a conversation with Alan Ernescliffe, who felt himself obliged to leave Stoneborough early on the morrow.

'I can endure better to go now,' said he, 'and I shall hear of you often; Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to write.'

'Aye, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you were a letter writing man.'

'I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to write much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken in me here—'

'Well,' said the Doctor, 'mind that a letter will always be welcome, and when you are coming southwards, here are your old quarters. 'We cannot lose sight of you any way, especially—' and his voice quivered, 'after the help you gave my poor boys and girls in their distress.'

'It would be the utmost satisfaction to think, I had been of the smallest use,' said Alan, hiding much under these common-place words.

'More than I know,' said Dr. May; 'too much to speak of— Well, we shall see you again, though it is a changed place, and you must come and see your god-daughter—poor child—may she only be brought up as her sisters were! They will do their best, poor things, and so must I, but it is sad work!'

Both were too much overcome for words, but the Doctor was the first to continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He seemed to wish to excuse himself for giving way; saying, with a look that would fain have been a smile, 'The world has run so light and easy with me hitherto, that you see I don't know how to bear with trouble. All thinking and managing fell to my Maggie's share, and I had as little care on my hands as one of my own boys—poor fellows. I don't know how it is to turn out, but of all the men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should choose myself as the worst.'

Alan tried to say somewhat of 'Confidence—affection—daughters,' and broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected.

'Yes, yes,' said the Doctor, 'they are good children, everyone of them. There's much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck up heart to feel it.'

'And you are convinced that Marga—that Miss May is recovering.'

'She has made a great advance to-day. The head is right, at least,' but the Doctor looked anxious, and spoke low, as he said, 'I am not satisfied about her yet. That want of power over the limbs is more than the mere shock and debility, as it seems to me, though Ward thinks otherwise, and I trust he is right; but I cannot tell yet as to the spine. If this should not soon mend, I shall have Fleet to see her. He was a fellow-student of mine, very clever, and I have more faith in him than in anyone else in that line.'

'By all means—Yes—' said Alan, excessively shocked. 'But you will let me know how she goes on—Richard will be so kind.'

'We will not fail,' said Dr. May, more and more touched at the sight of the young sailor struggling in vain to restrain his emotion; 'you shall hear. I'll write myself, as soon as I can use my hand, but I hope she may be all right long before that is likely to be.'

'Your kindness—' Alan attempted to say, but began again. 'Feeling as I must—' then interrupting himself. 'I beg your pardon, 'tis no fit time, nor fit— But you'll let me hear.'

'That I will,' said Dr. May, and as Alan hastily left the room, he continued, half aloud, to himself, 'Poor boy! poor fellow! I see. No wonder! Heaven grant I have not been the breaking of their two young hearts, as well as my own! Maggie looked doubtful— as much as she ever did when my mind was set on a thing, when I spoke of bringing him here. But after all, she liked him as much as the rest of us did—she could not wish it otherwise—he is one of a thousand, and worthy of our Margaret. That he is! and Maggie thinks so. If he gets on in his profession, why then we shall see—' but the sigh of anguish of mind, here showed that the wound had but been forgotten for one moment.

'Pshaw! What am I running on to? I'm all astray for want of her! My poor girl—'

Mr. Ernescliffe set out before sun-rise. The boys were up to wish him good-bye, and so were Etheldred and Mary, and some one else, for while the shaking of hands was going on in the hall, there was a call 'Mr. Ernthcliffe,' and over the balusters peeped a little rough curly head, a face glowing with carnation deepened by sleep, and a round, plump, bare arm and shoulder; and down at Alan's feet there fell a construction of white and pink paper, while a voice lisped out 'Mr. Ernthcliffe, there's a white rothe for you.'

An indignant 'Miss Blanche!' was heard behind, and there was no certainty that any thanks reached the poor little heroine, who was evidently borne off summarily to the nursery, while Ethel gave way to a paroxysm of suppressed laughter, joined in, more or less, by all the rest; and thus Alan, promising faithfully to preserve the precious token, left Dr. May's door, not in so much outward sorrow as he had expected.

Even their father laughed at the romance of the white 'rothe,' and declared Blanche was a dangerous young lady; but the story was less successful with Miss Winter, who gravely said it was no wonder, since Blanche's elder sister had been setting her the example of forwardness in coming down in this way after Mr. Ernescliffe. Ethel was very angry, and was only prevented from vindicating herself, by remembering there was no peace-maker now, and that she had resolved only to think of Miss Winter's late kindness, and bear with her tiresome ways.

Etheldred thought herself too sorrowful to be liable to her usual faults, which would seem so much worse now; but she found herself more irritable than usual, and doubly heedless, because her mind was pre-occupied. She hated herself, and suffered more from sorrow than even at the first moment, for now she felt what it was to have no one to tame her, no eye over her; she found herself going à tort et à travers all the morning, and with no one to set her right. Since it was so the first day, what would follow?

Mary was on the contrary so far subdued, as to be exemplary in goodness and diligence, and Blanche was always steady. Flora was too busy to think of the school-room, for the whole house was on her hands, besides the charge of Margaret, while Dr. May went to the hospital, and to sundry patients, and they thought he seemed the better for the occupation, as well as gratified and affected by the sympathy he everywhere met with, from high and low.

The boys were at school, unseen except when at the dinner play-hour, Norman ran home to ask after his father and sister, but the most trying time was at eight in the evening, when they came home. That was wont to be the merriest part of the whole day, the whole family collected, papa at leisure and ready for talk or for play, mamma smiling over her work-basket, the sisters full of chatter, the brothers full of fun, all the tidings of the day discussed, and nothing unwelcome but bed-time. How different now! The Doctor was with Margaret, and though Richard tried to say something cheerful, as his brothers entered, there was no response, and they sat down on the opposite sides of the fire, forlorn and silent, till Richard who was printing some letters on card-board to supply the gaps in Aubrey's ivory Alphabet, called Harry to help him; but Ethel, as she sat at work, could only look at Norman, and wish she could devise anything likely to gratify him.

After a time Flora came down, and laying some sheets of closely written note paper before her sister, said, 'Here is dear mama's unfinished letter to aunt Flora. Papa says we elder ones are to read it. It is a description of us all, and very much indeed we ought to learn from it. I shall keep a copy of it.'

Flora took up her work, and began to consult with Richard, while Ethel moved to Norman's side, and kneeling so as to lean against his shoulder, as he sat on a low cushion, they read their mother's last letter, by the fire-light, with indescribable feelings, as they went through the subjects that had lately occupied them, related by her who would never be among them again. After much of this kind, for her letters to Mrs. Arnott were almost journals, came,

'You say it is long since you had a portrait gallery of the chicken daisies, and if I do not write in these leisure days, you will hardly get it after I am in the midst of business again. The new Daisy is like Margaret at the same age—may she continue like her! Pretty creature, she can hardly be more charming than at present. Aubrey, the moon-faced, is far from reconciled to his deposition from babyhood; he is a sober, solemn gentleman, backward in talking, and with such a will of his own, as will want much watching; very different from Blanche, who is Flora over again, perhaps prettier, and more fairy-like, unless this is only one's admiration for the buds of the present season. None of them has ever been so winning as this little maid, who even attracts Dr. Hoxton himself, and obtains sugar-plums and kisses. "Rather she than I," says Harry, but notice is notice to the white Mayflower, and there is my anxiety—I am afraid it is not wholesome to be too engaging ever to get a rebuff. I hope having a younger sister, and outgrowing baby charms may be salutary. Flora soon left off thinking about her beauty, and the fit of vanity does less harm at five than fifteen. My poor Tom has not such a happy life as Blanche, he is often in trouble at lessons, and bullied by Harry at play, in spite of his champion, Mary; and yet I cannot interfere, for it is good for him to have all this preparatory teazing, before he goes into school. He has good abilities, but not much perseverance or energy, and I must take the teaching of him into my own hands till his school-days begin, in hopes of instilling them. The girlishness and timidity will be knocked out of him by the boys, I suppose; Harry is too kind and generous to do more than teaze him moderately, and Norman will see that it does not go too far. It is a common saying that Tom and Mary made a mistake, that he is the girl, and she the boy, for she is a rough, merry creature, the noisiest in the house, always skirmishing with Harry in defence of Tom, and yet devoted to him, and wanting to do everything he does. Those two, Harry and Mary, are exactly alike, except for Harry's curly mane of lion-coloured wig. The "yellow haired laddie" is papa's name for Harry, which he does not mind from him, though furious if the girls attempt to call him so. Harry is the thorough boy of the family, all spirit, recklessness, and mischief, but so true, and kind, and noble-hearted, that one loves him the better after every freely confessed scrape. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to my boy for his perfect confidence, the thing that chiefly lessens my anxiety for him in his half-school, half-home life, which does not seem to me to work quite well with him. There are two sons of Mrs. Anderson's at the school, who are more his friends than I like, and he is too easily led by the desire not to be outdone, and to show that he fears nothing. Lately, our sailor-guest has inspired him with a vehement wish to go to sea; I wish it was not necessary that the decision should be made so early in life, for this fault is just what would make us most fear to send him into the world very young, though in some ways it might not do amiss for him.

So much for the younger bairns, whom you never beheld, dear Flora. The three whom you left, when people used to waste pity on me for their being all babies together, now look as if any pair of them were twins, for Norman is the tallest, almost outgrowing his strength, and Ethel's sharp face, so like her papa's, makes her look older than Flora. Norman and Ethel do indeed take after their papa, more than any of the others, and are much alike. There is the same brilliant cleverness, the same strong feeling, not easy of demonstration, though impetuous in action; but poor Ethel's old foibles, her harum-scarum nature, quick temper, uncouth manners, and heedlessness of all but one absorbing object, have kept her back, and caused her much discomfort; yet I sometimes think these manifest defects have occasioned a discipline that is the best thing for the character in the end. They are faults that show themselves, and which one can tell how to deal with, and I have full confidence that she has the principle within her that will conquer them.'

'Poor little things!' said Margaret laughing. 'It is only my foible for making a thing look nice. And, Ethel,' she added, drawing her down close over her, 'I did not think the trouble wasted, if seeing me look fresher cheered up dear papa a moment.'

'I spoke to papa about nurse's proposal,' said Margaret presently to Flora, 'and he quite agrees to it. Indeed it is impossible that Anne should attend properly to all the children while nurse is so much engaged with me.'

'I think so,' said Flora; 'and it does not answer to bring Aubrey into the school-room. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, and Miss Winter does not like it.'

'Then the question is, who shall it be? Nurse has no one in view, and only protests against "one of the girls out of the school here."'

'That's a great pity,' said Flora. 'Don't you think we could make her take to Jane White, she is so very nice.'

'I thought of her, but it will never answer if we displease nurse. Besides, I remember at the time Anne came, dear mamma thought there was danger of a girl's having too many acquaintances, especially taking the children out walking. We cannot always be sure of sending her out with Anne.'

'Do you remember—'said Ethel, there stopping.

'Well,' said both sisters.

'Don't you recollect, Flora, that girl whose father was in the hospital—that girl at Cocksmoor?'

'I do, said Flora, 'She was a very nice girl; I wonder whether nurse would approve of her.'

'How old?' said Margaret.

'Fourteen, and tall. Such a clean cottage!'

The girls went on, and Margaret began to like the idea very much, and consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection, before nurse was prejudiced by hearing of her Cocksmoor extraction. At that moment Richard knocked at the door, and entered with Tom, helping him to bring a small short-legged table, such as could stand on the bed at the right height for Margaret's meals or employments.

There were great exclamations of satisfaction, and gratitude; 'it was the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it?'

'Don't you recognise it?' said he.

'O, I see; it is the old drawing-desk that no one used. And you have put legs to it—how famous! You are the best contriver, Richard!'

'Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing; here's a corner for your ink to stand flat; and there it is down for your dinner.'

'But he has a great name. How many people come from a distance to consult him! he is looked upon, too, in other ways! he can do anything with the corporation.'

Margaret smiled. 'All this does not sound grand—it is not as if he had set up in London.'

'Oh dear, I am so glad he did not.'

'Shall I tell you what mamma told me he said about it, when uncle Mackenzie said he ought? He answered, that he thought health and happy home attachments, were a better provision for us to set out in life with than thousands.'

'I am sure he was right!' said Ethel, earnestly. 'Then you don't think the dream meant being beaten, only that our best things are not gained by successes in this world?'

'Don't go and let it dwell on your mind as a vision,' said Margaret. 'I think dear mamma would call that silly.'

An interruption occurred, and Ethel had to go down to breakfast with a mind floating between romance, sorrow, and high aspirations, very unlike the actual world she had to live in. First, there was a sick man walking into the study, and her father, laying down his letters, saying, 'I must despatch him before prayers, I suppose. I've a great mind to say I never will see any one who wont keep to my days.'

'I can't imagine why they don't,' said Flora, as he went. 'He is always saying so, but never acting on it. If he would once turn one away, the rest would mind.'

Richard went on in silence, cutting bread and butter.

'There's another ring,' said Mary.

'Yes, he is caught now, they'll go on in a stream. I shall not keep Margaret waiting for her breakfast, I shall take it up.'

The morning was tiresome; though Dr. May had two regular days for seeing poor people at his house, he was too good-natured to keep strictly to them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there was a procession of them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid queries and the talismanic figures made by his left hand on scraps of paper, with which he sent them off to the infirmary. Ethel tried to read; the children lingered about; it was a trial of temper to all but Tom, who obtained Richard's attention to his lessons. He liked to say them to his brother, and this was an incentive to learn them quickly, that none might remain for Miss Winter when Richard went out with his father. If mamma had been there, she would have had prayers; but now no one had authority enough, though they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as the gig came to the door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in haste, and as soon as prayers were over, declared he had an appointment, and had no time to eat. There was a general outcry, that it was bad enough when he was well, and now he must not take liberties; Flora made him drink some tea; and Richard placed morsels in his way, while he read his letters. He ran up for a final look at Margaret, almost upset the staid Miss Winter as he ran down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was off.

It was French day, always a trial to Ethel. M. Ballompré, the master, knew what was good and bad French, but could not render a reason, and Ethel, being versed in the principles of grammar, from her Latin studies, chose to know the why and wherefore of his corrections—she did not like to see her pages defaced, and have no security against future errors; while he thought her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by her questions. They wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt injured.

Mary's inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull look when she found that coeur must not be pronounced cour , nor cur , but something between, to which her rosy English lips could never come—all this did not tease M. Ballompré, for he was used to it.

His mark for Ethel's lesson was ' de l' humeur .'

'I am sorry,' said Miss Winter, when he was gone. 'I thought you had outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase.'

'I can't tell how a language is to be learnt without knowing the reasons of one's mistakes,' said Ethel.

'That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to renew it all, but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, call Blanche, and you and Ethel take your arithmetic.'

So Flora went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly and playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered piteously over the difficulties of Compound Long Division. Ethel's mind was in too irritated and tumultuous a state for her to derive her usual solace from Cube Root. Her sum was wrong, and she wanted to work it right, but Miss Winter, who had little liking for the higher branches of arithmetic, said she had spent time enough over it, and summoned her to an examination such as the governess was very fond of and often practised. Ethel thought it useless, and was teased by it; and though her answers were chiefly correct, they were given in an irritated tone. It was of this kind:— What is the date of the invention of paper? What is the latitude and longitude of Otaheite? What are the component parts of brass? Whence is cochineal imported?

When this was over, Ethel had to fetch her mending-basket, and Mary her book of selections; the piece for to-day's lessons was the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius; and Mary's dull droning tone was a trial to her ears; she presently exclaimed, 'O Mary, don't murder it!'

'Murder what?' said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes.

'That use of exaggerated language,'—began Miss Winter.

'I've heard Papa say it,' said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss Winter. In a cooler moment, she would not have used the argument.

'All that a gentleman may say, may not be a precedent for a young lady; but you are interrupting Mary.'

'Only let me show her. I can't bear to hear her, listen, Mary.

'That is declaiming,' said Miss Winter. 'It is not what we wish for in a lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.'

Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all the morning, Ethel's eagerness checked by Miss Winter's dry manner, producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit Margaret on the way.

She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. 'See here,' she said eagerly, 'I thought you would like to make up this old frock for one of the Cocksmoor children; but what is the matter?' as Ethel did not show the lively interest that she expected.

'O nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.'

'What was it?'

'Every thing, it was all horrid. I was cross I know, but she and M. Ballompré made me so;' and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of her grievances, when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but he had not once failed to come home, in the interval allowed for play after dinner, to inquire for his sister.

'Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest. What is doing at school? are you dux of your class?'

'Yes, said the boy, wearily.

'What mark for the verses?' said Ethel.

'Quam benè .'

'Not optime? '

'No, they were tame ,' Dr. Hoxton said.

'What is Harry doing?' said Margaret.

'He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.'

'Dinner!' said Flora at the door. 'what will you have, Margaret?'

'I'll fetch it,' said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was a considerable clatter of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret.

'Where? Do tell me.'

'Only don't tell papa. I went down with him to the play-ground this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he, are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor.'

'But they ought not; should they?' said Mary. 'Papa would be very angry.'

'Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell. Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, when I could not help it.'

'But Harry would not let him?'

'Aye. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he is so much younger; and he said he would not have me bullied.'

'That's a good Harry! But I wish he would not go out shooting!' said Mary.

'Mind, you don't tell.'

'And where's Hector Ernescliffe? Would not he go?'

'No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson teazed him, and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn't allow him tin enough to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden.'

'I wish he would. We never have any fun now,' said Mary; 'but oh! there he is;' as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led, from the field, into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr. May's since his brother's departure, and he was rather shy, but the joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed him for a good game at play in the wood house. Mary ran up-stairs to beg to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily for her, Miss Winter was in Margaret's room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and hearing 'not very,' gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery, under the superintendence of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where yellow mud was attainable, whereof the happy children concocted marbles and vases, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boys' pockets, that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated that her sisters should be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss Winter looked grave, said, 'Poor things, a little thorough play will do them a great deal of good.'

Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt; and Margaret perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to follow out her mother's views for the children, without vexing the good governess by not deferring to her.

'Is he there now?'

'Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now.'

'No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, O Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?' and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, 'Hark! was not that his step?' and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.

'Well,' said he, 'I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.'

'Poor thing,' said Margaret. 'He was a good old man.'

'Yes,' said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out voice. 'One can't lightly part with a man one has seen at Church every Sunday of one's life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over his counter. 'Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier—"the clouds return again after the rain." Thank you, my dear,' as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.

'Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?' said Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the bustle of the children down stairs. 'Thank you,' as he gave a smile of assent.

That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffoniere, that Flora exclaimed, 'Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?'

'I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I'll set it to rights,' said Ethel, gulping down her dislike to being reproved by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.

'My dear!' cried Flora presently, jumping up, 'what are you doing? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you think they will ever stand? let me do it.'

'No, no, Flora;' and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and despair.

'He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,' said Flora.

Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means Ethel, without being in the least irritated, gave the chiffoniere a thorough dusting and setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and finding her own long-lost 'Undine,' at which she was so delighted, that she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to read it, curled up on the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle hint from Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to make Flora declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pronounce it to be all neat and ship-shape.

There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning—it was French day—and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave better; and whether there were fewer idioms, or that she was trying to understand, instead of carping at the master's explanations, they came to no battle; Flora led the conversation, and she sustained her part with credit, and gained an excellent mark.

Flora said afterwards to Margaret, 'I managed nicely for her. I would not let M. Ballompré blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel feels too deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a great talent for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian!'

'That she does,' said Margaret. 'Suppose you send her up, Flora—you must want to go and draw or practice, and she may do her arithmetic here, or read to me.'

It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it did not please Flora, who had learnt to think herself necessary to her sister, and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She was within six weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be sent down again to the school-room, when she had been so good a manager of the whole family. She was fond of study and of accomplishments, but she thought she might be emancipated from Miss Winter; and it was not pleasant to her that a sister, only eighteen months older, and almost dependant on her, should have authority to dispose of her time.

'I practise in the evening,' she said, 'and I could draw here, if I wished, but I have some music to copy.'

Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not understanding the whole of it; 'You know, dear Flora,' she said,' 'I need not take up all your time now.'

'Don't regret that,' said Flora. 'I like nothing so well as waiting on you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.'

'I'll tell you why I proposed it,' said Margaret. 'I think it would be a relief to Ethel to escape from Miss Winter's beloved Friday questions.'

'Great nonsense they are,' said Flora. 'Why don't you tell Miss Winter they are of no use?'

'Mamma never interfered with them,' said Margaret. 'She only kept Ethel in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as to change sometimes and sit in the school-room, we could spare Ethel, without hurting Miss Winter's feelings.'

'Well, I'll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but Mary to hammer upon.'

Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret's conjectures on the cause of it, were cut short, by Ethel running in with a slate in one hand, and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled down on the stairs.

'O, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has set Mary to read "To be, or not to be," and it would have driven me distracted to have stayed there. I have got a most beautiful sum in Compound Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up a carcase, and as soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say my ancient geography, and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso; and if we have any time after that, I have got such a thing to tell you—only I must not tell you now, or I shall go on talking and not finish my lessons.'

It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, 'Now for what I have been longing to tell you—Richard is going to—' But the fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in, expecting to be amused; next came Norman, and Ethel gave up in despair; and, after having affronted Flora in the morning, Margaret was afraid of renewing the offence, by attempting to secure Ethel as her companion for the afternoon; so not till after the walk, could Margaret contrive to claim the promised communication, telling Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her.

'I should have been very glad of you last evening,' said she, 'for papa went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.'

'O, I am sorry; how I pity you, poor Margaret!'

'I suppose I have grown lazy,' said Margaret, 'for I don't mind those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect and consider.'

'It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a magic lantern,' said Ethel; 'I never like to be quiet. I get so unhappy.'

'I am glad of resting and recollecting,' said Margaret. 'It has all been so like a dream, that merry morning, and then, slowly waking to find myself here in dear mamma's place, and papa, watching over me. Sometimes I think I have not half understood what it really is, and that I don't realize, that if I was up and about, I should find the house without her.'

'Yes; that is the aching part!' said Ethel. 'I am happy, sitting on her bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being my own dear Peg-top! You are very lucky to miss the mealtimes and the evenings.'

'That is the reason I don't feel it wrong to like to have papa sitting with me all the evening,' said Margaret, 'though it may make it worse for you to have him away. I don't think it selfish in me to keep him. He wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits him; we are too many now, when he is tired.'

'O, it is best,' said Ethel. 'Nothing that you do is selfish— dont talk of it,' dear Margaret. 'It will be something like old times when you come down again.'

'But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much to hear,' said Margaret, 'about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard has taken it up.'

'That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, and teach the children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we can but make them wish to learn. It is a much better plan than mine; for if they care about it, they can come to school here on Sunday.'

'It is excellent,' said Margaret, 'and if he is at home till Easter, it will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you through the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so well walk home without him.'

'Yes, and then we can all teach; Flora, and Mary, and you, when you are well again. Richard says it will be disagreeable, but I don't think so—they are such unsophisticated people. That Granny Hall is such a funny old woman; and the whole place wants nothing but a little care, to do very well.'

'You must prepare for disappointments, dear Ethel.'

'I know; I know nothing is done without draw-backs; but I am so glad to make some beginning.'

'So am I. Do you know, mamma and I were one day talking over those kind of things, and she said she had always regretted that she had so many duties at home, that she could not attend as much to the poor as she would like; but she hoped now we girls were growing up, we should be able to do more.

'Did she?' was all Ethel said, but she was deeply gratified.

'I've been wanting to tell you. I knew you would like to hear it, It seems to set us to work so happily.'

'I only wish we could begin,' said Ethel, 'but Richard is so slow! Of course we can't act without papa's consent and Mr. Wilmot's help, and he says papa must not be worried about it, and he must watch for his own time to speak about it.'

'Yes,' said Margaret.

'I know—I would not have it otherwise; but what is tiresome is this. Richard is very good, but he is so dreadfully hard to stir up, and what's worse, so very much afraid of papa, that while he is thinking about opportunities, they will all go by, and then it will be Easter, and nothing done!'

'He is not so much afraid of papa as he was,' said Margaret. 'He has felt himself useful and a comfort, and papa is gentler; and that has cheered him out of the desponding way that kept him back from proposing anything.'

'Perhaps,' said Ethel; 'but I wish it was you. Can't you? you always know how to manage.'

'No; it is Richard's affair, and he must do as he thinks fit. Don't sigh, dear Ethel—perhaps he may soon speak, and, if not, you can be preparing in a quiet way all the time. Don't you remember how dear mamma used to tell us that things, hastily begun, never turn out well?'

'But this is not hasty. I've been thinking about it these six weeks,' said Ethel. 'If one does nothing but think, it is all no better than a vision. I want to be doing.'

'Well, you can be doing—laying a sound foundation,' said Margaret. 'The more you consider, and the wiser you make yourself, the better it will be when you do set to work.'

'You mean by curing myself of my slovenly ways, and impatient temper?'

'I don't know that I was exactly thinking of that,' said Margaret, 'but that ought to be the way. If we are not just the thing in our niche at home, I don't think we can do much real good elsewhere.'

'It would be hollow, show-goodness,' said Ethel. 'Yes, that is true; and it comes across me now, and then what a horrid wretch I am, to be wanting to undertake so much, when I leave so much undone. But, do you know, Margaret, there's no one such a help in those ways as Richard. Though he is so precise, he is never tiresome. He makes me see things, and do them neatly, without plaguing me, and putting me in a rage. I'm not ready to bite off my own fingers, or kick all the rattle-traps over and leave them, as I am, when Miss Winter scolds me, or nurse, or even Flora sometimes; but it is as if I was gratifying him, and his funny little old bachelor tidyisms divert me; besides, he teaches me the theory, and never lays hold of my poor fingers, and, when they won't bend the wrong way, calls them frogs.'

'He is a capital master for you,' said Margaret, much amused and pleased, for Richard was her especial darling, and she triumphed in any eulogy from those who ordinarily were too apt to regard his dullness with superior compassion.

'If he would only read our books, and enter into poetry and delight in it; but it is all nonsense to him,' said Ethel. 'I can't think how people can be so different; but oh! here he comes. Ritchie, you should not come upon us before we are aware.'

'What? I should have heard no good of myself?'

'Great good,' said Margaret—'she was telling me you would make a neat-handed woman of her in time.'

'I don't see why she should not be as neat as other people,' said Richard, gravely. 'Has she been telling you our plan?'

And it was again happily discussed; Ethel, satisfied by finding him fully set upon the design, and Margaret, giving cordial sympathy and counsel. When Ethel was called away, Margaret said, 'I am so glad you have taken it up, not only for the sake of Cocksmoor, but of Ethel. It is good for her not to spend her high soul in dreams.'

'I am afraid she does not know what she undertakes,' said Richard.

'She does not; but you will keep her from being turned back. It is just the thing to prevent her energies from running to waste, and her being so much with you, and working under you, is exactly what one would have chosen.'

'By contraries!' said Richard, smiling. 'That is what I was afraid of. I don't half understand or follow her, and when I think a thing nonsense, I see you all calling it very fine, and I don't know what to make of it—'

'You are making yourself out more dull than you are,' said Margaret, affectionately.

'I know I am stupid, and seem tame and cold,' said Richard, 'and you are the only one that does not care about it. That is what makes me wish Norman was the eldest. If I were as clever as he, I could do so much with Ethel, and be so much more to papa.'

'No, you would not. You would have other things in your head. You would not be the dear, dear old Ritchie that you are. You would not be a calm, cautious, steady balance to the quicksilver heads some of us have got. No, no, Norman's a very fine fellow, a very dear fellow, but he would not do half so well for our eldest— he is too easily up, and down again.'

'And I am getting into my old way of repining,' said Richard. 'I don't mind so much, since my father has at least one son to be proud of, and I can be of some use to him now.'

'Of the greatest, and to all of us. I am so glad you can stay after Christmas, and papa was pleased at your offering, and said he could not spare you at all, though he would have tried, if it had been any real advantage to you.'

'Well, I hope he will approve. I must speak to him as soon as I can find him with his mind tolerably disengaged.'

The old woman's reply was a tissue of contradictions: the girls were idle hussies, all contrary: they plagued the very life out of her, and she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the least injury she promised them; till Mary, beginning to think her a cruel old woman, took hold of her brother's coat-tails for protection.

'But I am afraid, Mrs. Hall,' said Richard, in that tone which might be either ironical or simple, 'if you served them so, they would never be able to get to school at all, poor things.'

'Bless you, Sir, d'ye think I'd ever lay a finger near them; it's only the way one must talk to children, you see,' said she, patronizing his inexperience.

'Perhaps they have found that out,' said Richard.

Granny looked much entertained, and laughed triumphantly and shrewdly, 'aye, aye, that they have, the lasses—they be sharp enough for anything, that they be. Why, when I tell little Jenny that there's the black man coming after her, what does she do but she ups and says, 'Granny, I know 'tis only the wind in the chimney.'

'Then I don't think it seems to answer,' said Richard. 'Just suppose you were to try for once, really punishing them when they won't obey you, perhaps they would do it next time.'

'Why, Sir, you see I don't like to take the stick to them; they've got no mother, you see, Sir.'

Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from behind her brother.

'I think it would be kinder to do it for once. What do you think they will do as they grow older, if you don't keep them in order when they are little?'

This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate on the troubles she had undergone in their service, and the excellence of Sam. There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel forgot her charge of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken with her, nor could they any of them help giving credence to her asseverations that Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday.

They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman stood in their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them with a low curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing herself to Flora, who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the person of most consequence.

'If you please, Miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a little girl here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no shoes for her.'

'Why surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can go to school,' said Flora.

'Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.'

'But I'm not ill—what are you feeling my pulse for?' said Norman, uneasily.

'To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.'

Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked, 'What o'clock is it?'

'A little after twelve.'

'What does make you stay up so late, papa?'

'I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done all I want.'

'Pray don't stay here in the cold,' said Norman, with feverish impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. 'Good night!'

'No hurry,' said his father, still watching him.

'There's nothing the matter,' repeated the boy.

'Do you often have such unquiet nights?'

'Oh, it does not signify. Good night,' and he tried to look settled and comfortable.

'Norman,' said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, 'it will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close yourself against her.'

Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: 'It is no good saying it—I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that's it. I cannot bear the being without her.'

Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings.

'My poor boy,' said he, hardly able to speak, 'only One can comfort you truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.'

'I thought it would grieve you more,' said Norman, turning his face towards him again.

'What, to find my children feeling with me, and knowing what they have lost? Surely not, Norman.'

'And it is of no use,' added Norman, hiding his face again, 'no one can comfort—'

'There you are wrong,' said Dr. May with deep feeling, 'there is much of comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one can only open one's mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake with such talk; I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the matter.'

'I did not know it,' said Norman, 'I really believe I am well, if I could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.'

'I can't think why,' said Flora. 'I never saw a person of pleasanter manners.'

'Did they talk of old times?' said Margaret.

'No,' said Ethel; 'that was the thing.'

'You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,' said Flora.

'No,' again said Ethel; 'but papa has a way—don't you know, Margaret, how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.'

'What was the conversation about?' said Margaret.

'They talked over some of their old fellow-students,' said Flora.

'Yes,' said Ethel; 'and then when papa told him that beautiful history of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever, what do you think he said? "Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant things." Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.'

'And what did he say?'

'Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that.'

'Most entertaining in its kind,' said Flora: 'but—oh, Norman!' as he entered—'why they are not out of the dining-room yet!'

'No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come for an hour.'

'Are you going to bed?'

'Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.'

'Then sit down there, and I'll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret's. Come, Ethel. Good night, Norman. Is your head aching to-night?'

'Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.'

'It would have been wiser not to have gone in,' said Flora, leaving the room.

'It was not the dinner, but the man,' said Norman. 'It is incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I'd as soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend!'

'You are like me,' said Ethel, 'in being glad he is not our uncle.'

'He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!' cried Norman, indignantly.

'Why, what is the matter with him?' asked Margaret. 'I can't find much ground for Ethel's dislike, and Flora is pleased.'

'She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,' said Norman. 'I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. 'I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please papa—but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!'

Norman's indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard's, when he came in late to wish her good night, after he had been attending on Sir Matthew's examination of his father's arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon's delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with Dr. May's own than with Mr. Ward's. Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and trouble-some, and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: 'Asleep, Margaret? I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake.'

'Was he?'

'Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you.'

'Yes, dear papa, what a comfort it is!'

'Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can only do for you as well—but it is of no use talking about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?'

'I am trying—indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious for me—though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night: "O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will,    I will lie still, I will not stir, lest I forsake. Thine arm    And break the charm That lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast    In perfect rest." Is not that comfortable?'

'As if school keeping were for luxury!' said Dr. May. 'It is the worst thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet! One's blood boils to think of those poor children being cast off because our fine young ladies are too grand to teach them! The Clergyman leaving his work to a set of conceited women, and they turning their backs on ignorance, when it comes to their door. Voluntary subscribers, indeed! I've a great mind I'll be one no longer.'

'Oh! papa, that would not be fair—' began Ethel; but Margaret knew he would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her.

'One thing I've said, and I'll hold to it,' continued Dr. May; 'if they outvote Wilmot again in your Ladies' Committee, I'll have no more to do with them, as sure as my name's Dick May. It is a scandal the way things are done here!'

'Papa,' said Richard, who had all the time been standing silent, 'Ethel and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we could not do something towards teaching the Cocksmoor children, and breaking them in for the Sunday school.'

What a bound Ethel's heart gave, and how full of congratulation and sympathy was the pressure of Margaret's hand!

'What did you think of doing?' said the Doctor.

Ethel burnt to reply, but her sister's hand admonished her to remember her compact. Richard answered, 'We thought of trying to get a room, and going perhaps once or twice a week to give them a little teaching. It would be little enough, but it might do something towards civilizing them, and making them wish for more.'

'How do you propose to get a room?'

'I have reconnoitred, and I think I know a cottage with a tolerable kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for an afternoon for sixpence.'

Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward, and sitting on the ground at her father's feet, exclaimed, 'O papa! papa! do say we may!'

'What's all this about?' said the Doctor, surprised.

'Oh! you don't know how I have thought of it day and night these two months!'

'What! Ethel, have a fancy for two whole months, and the whole house not hear of it!' said her father, with a rather provoking look of incredulity.

'Richard was afraid of bothering you, and wouldn't let me. But do speak, papa. May we?'

'I don't see any objection.'

She clasped her hands in ecstacy. 'Thank you! thank you, papa! O Ritchie! Oh! Margaret!' cried she, in a breathless voice of transport.

'You have worked yourself up to a fine pass,' said the Doctor, patting the agitated girl fondly as she leant against his knee. 'Remember, slow and steady.'

'I've got Richard to help me,' said Ethel.

'Sufficient guarantee,' said her father, smiling archly as he looked up to his son, whose fair face had coloured deep red. 'You will keep the Unready in order, Ritchie.'

'He does,' said Margaret; 'he has taken her education into his hands, and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock and stick in pins.'

'And to know her right hand from her left, Eh, Ethel? Well, you deserve some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea, and talk it over.'

'O thank you, papa! When shall it be? To-morrow?'

'Yes, if you like. I have to go to the town-council meeting, and am not going into the country, so I shall be in early.'

'Thank you. O how very nice!'

'And what about cost? Do you expect to rob me?'

'If you would help us,' said Ethel, with an odd shy manner; 'we meant to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is only fifteen and sixpence.'

'Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turn-out of my pocket to-morrow.'

'Thank you, we are very much obliged,' said the brother and sister, earnestly, 'that is more than we expected.'

'Ha! don't thank too soon. Suppose to-morrow should be a blank day.'

'Oh, it won't!' said Ethel. 'I shall tell Norman to make you go to paying people'

'There's avarice!' said the Doctor. 'But look you here, Ethel, if you'll take my advice, you'll make your bargain for Tuesday. I have a note appointing me to call at Abbotstoke Grange on Mr. Rivers, at twelve o'clock, on Tuesday. What do you think of that, Ethel? An old banker, rich enough for his daughter to curl her hair in bank notes. If I were you, I'd make a bargain for him.'

'If he had nothing the matter with him, and I only got one guinea out of him!'

'Prudence! Well, it may be wiser.'

Ethel ran up to her room, hardly able to believe that the mighty proposal was made; and it had been so readily granted, that it seemed as if Richard's caution had been vain in making such a delay, that even Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by-and-by was leading to the house of never. Now, however, it was plain that he had been wise. Opportunity was everything; at another moment, their father might have been harassed and oppressed, and unable to give his mind to concerns, which now he could think of with interest, and Richard could not have caught a more favourable conjuncture.

Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next day, very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step he had taken, shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the discussion in the evening, and would almost have been relieved, if Mr. Wilmot had been unable to accept the invitation. So quiet and grave was he, that Ethel could not get him to talk over the matter at all with her, and she was obliged to bestow all her transports and grand projects on Flora or Margaret, when she could gain their ears, besides conning them over to herself, as an accompaniment to her lessons, by which means she tried Miss Winter's patience almost beyond measure. But she cared not—she saw a gathering school and rising Church, which eclipsed all thought of present inattentions and gaucheries. She monopolized Margaret in the twilight, and rhapsodized to her heart's content, talking faster and faster, and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to feel a little overwhelmed, and while answering 'yes' at intervals, was considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent inconsiderate mood all day, and whether it would seem unkind to damp her ardour, by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her guard over herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was talking of a story she had read, of a place something like Cocksmoor. Margaret was not ready with her recollection, and Ethel, saying it was in a magazine in the drawing-room chiffoniere, declared she would fetch it.

Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return 'in one moment,' and with a 'now-or-never' feeling she began, 'Ethel dear, wait,' but Ethel was too impetuous to attend. 'I'll be back in a twinkling,' she called out, and down she flew, in her speed whisking away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret's knitting and all her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out of reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at her own impatient feeling.

Ethel was soon in the drawing-room, but the right number of the magazine was not quickly forthcoming, and in searching she became embarked in another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs were apt to carry him into every part of the house where he was neither expected nor wanted, marched in at the open door, trying by dint of vehement gestures to make her understand, in his imperfect speech, something that he wanted. Very particularly troublesome she thought him, more especially as she could not make him out, otherwise than that he wanted her to do something with the newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old newspaper, a very hasty and frail performance, and told him to sail it on the carpet, and be Mr. Ernescliffe going away; and she thought him thus safely disposed of. Returning to her book and her search, with her face to the cupboard, and her book held up to catch the light, she was soon lost in her story, and thought of nothing more till suddenly roused by her father's voice in the hall, loud and peremptory with alarm, 'Aubrey! put that down!' She looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a great flaming paper—he dropped it at the exclamation—it fell burning on the carpet. Aubrey's white pinafore! Ethel was springing up, but in her cramped, twisted position, she could not do so quickly, and even as he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey's merino frock, which he crushed over the scarcely lighted pinafore, and trampled out the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of dreadful fright, but the next assured them that no harm was done.

'Ethel!' cried the Doctor, 'are you mad? What were you thinking of?'

Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his father's voice and manner, burst into loud cries; the Doctor pressed him closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood by, pale and transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry with her, than she had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, as she smelt the singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey's pinafore, while the front of his frock was scorched and brown. Dr. May's words were not needed, 'What could make you let him?'

'I didn't see—' she faultered.

'Didn't see! Didn't look, didn't think, didn't care! That's it, Ethel. 'Tis very hard one can't trust you in a room with the child any more than the baby herself. His frock perfect tinder. He would have been burnt to a cinder, if I had not come in!'

Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, gathered him up in his left arm, and carried him away, looking back at the door to say, 'There's no bearing it! I'll put a stop to all schools and Greek, if it is to lead to this, and make you good for nothing!'

Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything, but that she had let her little brother run into fearful peril, and grievously angered her father; she was afraid to follow him, and stood still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return; then, with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, 'Oh, papa!' and could get no further for a gush of tears.

But the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was sorry for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some displeasure. 'Yes, Ethel,' he said, 'it was a frightful thing,' and he could not but shudder again. 'One moment later! It is an escape to be for ever thankful for—poor little fellow—but Ethel, Ethel, do let it be a warning to you.'

'O, I hope—I'll try—sobbed Ethel.

'You have said you would try before.'

'I know I have,' said Ethel, choked. 'If I could but—'

'Poor child,' said Dr. May, sadly; then looking earnestly at her, 'Ethel, my dear, I am afraid of its being with you as—as it has been with me;' he spoke very low, and drew her close to him. 'I grew up, thinking my inbred heedlessness a sort of grace, so to say, rather manly—the reverse of finikin. I was spoilt as a boy, and my Maggie carried on the spoiling, by never letting me feel its effects. By the time I had sense enough to regret this as a fault, I had grown too old for changing of ingrain, long-nurtured habits— perhaps I never wished it really. You have seen,' and his voice was nearly inaudible, 'what my carelessness has come to—let that suffice at least, as a lesson that may spare you—what your father must feel as long as he lives.'

He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder, and left her, without letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried upstairs to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her arms round her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken words, told how dreadful it had been, and how kind papa had been,and what he had said, which was now the uppermost thought. 'Oh! Margaret, Margaret, how very terrible it is! And does papa really think so? '

'I believe he does,' whispered Margaret.

'How can he, can he bear it!' said Ethel, clasping her hands. 'O it is enough to kill one—I can't think why it did not!'

'He bears it,' said Margaret, 'because he is so very good, that help and comfort do come to him. Dear papa! He bears up because it is right, and for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that perfect love they had for each other. He knows how she would wish him to cheer up and look to the end, and support and comfort are given to him, I know they are; but oh, Ethel! it does make one tremble and shrink, to think what he has been going through this autumn, especially when I hear him moving about late at night, and now and then comes a heavy groan—whenever any especial care has been on his mind.'

Ethel was in great distress. 'To have grieved him again!' said she, 'and just as he seemed better and brighter! Everything I do turns out wrong, and always will; I can't do anything well by any chance.'

'At Stoneborough,' said Norman, a little amused at the thought how angry Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the county paper, where 'N. W. May' was recorded as prizeman and foremost in the examination, had not penetrated even to Abbotstoke Grange, or rather to its owner's memory.

However, his father could not help adding, 'He is the head of the school—a thing we Stoneborough men think much of.'

This, and Mr. Rivers's civil answer, made Norman so hot, that he did not notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful vases, stuffed birds, busts, etc. tastefully arranged, and he did not look up till they were entering a handsome dining-room, where a small square table was laid out for luncheon near a noble fire.

The two ladies were there, and Mr. Rivers introduced them as his daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal that Norman had ever seen, the plate, the porcelain, and all the appointments of the table so elegant, and the viands, all partaking of the Christmas character, and of a recherché delicate description quite new to him. He had to serve as his father's right hand, and was so anxious to put everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attracting notice, that he hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to admire a fine Claude, on the opposite wall, and embarked in a picture discussion. The Doctor had much taste for art, and had made the most of his opportunities of seeing paintings during his time of study at Paris, and in a brief tour to Italy. Since that time, few good pictures had come in his way, and these were a great pleasure to him, while Mr. Rivers, a regular connoisseur, was delighted to meet with one who could so well appreciate them. Norman perceived how his father was enjoying the conversation, and was much interested both by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever seen, and by the talk about their merits; but the living things in the room had more of his attention and observation, especially the young lady who sat at the head of the table; a girl about his own age; she was on a very small scale, and seemed to him like a fairy, in the airy lightness and grace of her movements, and the blithe gladsomeness of her gestures, and countenance. Form and features, though perfectly healthful and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature painting, and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark soft smiling eyes. Her hair was in black silky braids, and her dress, with its gaiety of well-assorted colour, was positively refreshing to his eye, so long accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations of the line of beauty and grace, with its elegant outline, and S-like tail, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread which she from time to time dispensed to it.

'Oppositus ,' said Tom, twisting his fingers, and gazing first at Ethel, then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceiling and floor, the while he drawled out the word with a whine, 'why, oppositus from op-posor .'

'A poser! aint it?' said Harry.

'Don't Harry, you distract him,' said Richard. 'Come, Tom, say at once whether you know it or not—it is of no use to invent.'

'From op —' and a mumble.

'What? I don't hear— op —'

Tom again looked for help to Harry, who made a mischevious movement of his lips, as if prompting, and, deceived by it, he said boldly, 'From op-possum .'

'That's right! let us hear him decline it!' cried Harry, in an ecstasy, ' Oppossum, opottis, opposse , or oh-pottery! '

'Harry,' said Richard, in a gentle reasonable voice, 'I wish you would be so kind as not to stay, if you cannot help distracting him.'

And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his book into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door to give his last unsolicited assistance. 'Decline oppossum , you say. I'll tell you how: O-possum re-poses up a gum tree. O-pot-you-I will, says the O-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opossum poses them and declines in O-pot-esse by any manner of means of o-potting-di-do-dum , was quite oppositum-oppositu , in fact, quite contrairy .'

Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of schoolboy wit, which threw Ethel back on the sofa in fits of laughing, and declaring that the Opossum declined, not that he was declined; but, in the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up to her, and whispered, 'Do tell me, Ethel.'

'Indeed I shan't,' said she. 'Why don't you say fairly if you don't know?'

He was obliged to confess his ignorance, and Richard made him conjugate the whole verb opponor from beginning to end, in which he wanted a good deal of help.

Ethel could not help saying, 'How did you find out the meaning of that word, Tom, if you didn't look out the verb?'

'I—don't know,' drawled Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half piteous, which he always assumed when out of sorts.

'It is very odd,' she said, decidedly; but Richard took no notice, and proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, except the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding, into which Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did attend, she perceived that Tom had brought a right answer, without understanding the working of the sum, and that Richard was putting him through it. She began to be worked into a state of dismay and indignation at Tom's behaviour, and Richard's calm indifference, which made her almost forget Jane Sparks, and long to be alone with Richard; but all the world kept coming into the room, and going out, and she could not say what was in her mind till after dinner, when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret's room, she ran after him, and entering it, surprised Margaret, by not beginning on her books, but saying at once, 'Ritchie, I wanted to speak to you about Tom. I am sure he shuffled about those lessons.'

'I am afraid he does,' said Richard, much concerned.

'What, do you mean that it is often so?'

'Much too often,' said Richard; 'but I have never been able to detect him; he is very sharp, and has some underhand way of preparing his lessons that I cannot make out.'

'Did you know it, Margaret?' said Ethel, astonished not to see her sister looked shocked as well as sorry.

'Yes,' said Margaret, 'Ritchie and I have often talked it over, and tried to think what was to be done.'

'Dear me! why don't you tell papa? It is such a terrible thing!'

'So it is,' said Margaret, 'but we have nothing positive or tangible to accuse Tom of; we don't know what he does, and have never caught him out.'

'I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that oppositum in some wrong way—if he had looked it out, he would only have found opposite. Nothing but opponor could have shown him the rendering which he made.'

'That's like what I have said almost every day,' said Richard, 'but there we are—I can't get any further.'

'Perhaps he guesses by the context,' said Margaret.

'It would be impossible to do so always,' said both the Latin scholars at once.

'Well, I can't think how you can take it so quietly,' said Ethel. 'I would have told papa the first moment, and put a stop to it. I have a great mind to do so, if you won't.

'Ethel, Ethel, that would never do!' exclaimed Margaret, 'pray don't. Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor Tom.'

'Well, so he deserves,' said Ethel.

'You don't know what it is to see papa angry,' said Richard.

'Dear me, Richard!' cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty well what his sharp words were. 'I'm sure papa never was angry with me, without making me love him more, and, at least, want to be better.'

'That's right,' said Dr. May, much rejoiced. 'Are you sure you do it with ease, and without its haunting you at night?'

'Oh, yes; quite sure. I can't think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so much less time to oneself as dux.'

'What! with keeping order?'

'Aye,' said Norman. 'I fancy they think they may take liberties because I am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once, and do my own work by snatches, as I can.'

'Can you make them attend to you?'

'Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point—"will you, or will you not." Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being the eldest fellow amongst us.'

'But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to master the dead language than the live tongues?'

'A pretty deal,' said Norman; then added, 'one knows what to be at with the dead, better than with the living; they don't make parties against one. I don't wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.'

'Shameful!' said the doctor, warmly; 'but never mind, Norman, keep your temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such petty spite.'

'I hope I shall manage rightly,' said Norman; 'but I shall be glad if I can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used to be, and if you don't think me too young—'

'No, I don't; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can be patient with these fellows, you'll be of great use where you are. If there had been anyone like you at the head of the school in my time, it would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is not likely to fall into this set I trust.'

'I am not sure,' said Norman; 'he does pretty well on the whole. Some of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson, junior, rather making up to him, and I don't know whether they don't think that tempting him over to them, would be the surest way of vexing me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the steadier sort before next half.'

After a silence, Norman said; 'papa, there is a thing I can't settle in my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys, and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?'

'Certainly not, or why is power given to you?'

'So I thought,' said Norman; 'I can't see it otherwise. I wish I could, for it will be horrid to set about it, and they'll think it a regular shame in me to meddle.—O! I know what I came into the study for; I want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave Harry my little one.'

'You are very welcome. What do you want it for?'

Norman coloured. 'I met with a sermon the other day that recommended reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting away into the cloister.'

'Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear but that you'll know how to manage.'

Norman's rapid progress affected another of the household in an unexpected way.

'Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,' said Miss Winter, re-appearing when Margaret thought everyone was gone out walking. She would have said, 'I am very sorry for it'—so ominous was the commencement—and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. 'I wished to speak to you about deal Ethel,' said the governess; 'you know how unwilling I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her present way of going on.'

'Indeed,' said Margaret. 'I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she had been taking great pains to improve.'

'So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.'

Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel's temper, and was inclined to take her sister's part. 'Ethel's time is so fully occupied,' she said.

'That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl of her age.'

This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to relinquish any of her cherished pursuits.

'You see there is that Cocksmoor,' said Miss Winter. 'You do not know how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl to be walking continually in all weathers.'

'That's a question for papa,' thought Margaret.

'Aye! That's the way—the Mays are all like girls—can't keep a secret—not one of them. There, I've done more for you than ever one of them would have done—own it—and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him.'

'But—but he'll ask when he finds it out—'

'Let him. We know nothing about it. Don't be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won't do—I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down.'

Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.

But the next morning, his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether anyone knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry's name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith's Antiquities at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother's face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.

'This book,' said Mr. Harrison, 'was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?' A silence, and he continued, 'Who was in school at the time? Anderson, junior, can you tell me anything of it?'

'No, Sir.'

'You know nothing of it?'

'No, Sir.'

Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. 'Larkins, do you know how this happened?'

'No, Sir,' said Larkins, boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.

'Ernescliffe, were you there?'

'No, Sir.'

Tom's timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, 'Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess. May junior, I saw you,' he added, hopefully and kindly. 'Don't be afraid to speak out, if you did meet with a mischance.'

Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct faslehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.

'No, Sir.' He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.

Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burthen, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for school-boys.

The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who, as head boy, had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.

In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest—in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code—and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people's tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequence, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.

Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions, that the bottles so called, contained something contraband.

'August,' said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, 'did I see you coming over the bridge?'

Tom would not answer.

'So you have been at Ballhatchet's gate? I can't think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty's are just as good. What made you go there?'

'Nothing,' said Tom.

'Well, mind you don't do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know.'

Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. 'I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won't you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?' but, receiving no answer, he went on. 'You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can't never be found out.' This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. 'If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.' Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than anyone else would be, and Norman grew warmer. 'If you let Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you'll never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, and trust to me and straight-forwardness, when you get into a mess.'

'I'm in no scrape,' said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, and spoke with more displeasure. 'You will be then, if you go out of bounds, and run Anderson's errands, and shirk work. You'd better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can't let you off for being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet's again, you may make sure of a licking.'

So the warning closed—Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.

Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.

'What are you doing here?' said Norman, sternly, marching Tom into the field. 'So you've been there again. What's that under your jacket?'

'Only—only what I was sent for,' and he tried to squeeze it under the flap.

'What is it? a bottle—'

'Only—only a bottle of ink.'

Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation was mixed with sorrow. 'O Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!'

Tom cowered, but felt only terror.

'Speak truth,' said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; 'is this for Anderson junior?'

Under those eyes flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson's threats chained him, and he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak.

'I am glad it is not for yourself,' said Norman; 'but do you remember what I said, in case I found you there again.'

'Oh! don't, don't!' cried the boy. 'I would never have gone if they had not made me.'

'Made you?' said Norman, disdainfully, 'how?'

'They would have thrashed me—they pinched my fingers in the box—they pulled my ears—Oh, don't—'

'Poor little fellow!' said Norman; 'but it is your own fault. If you won't keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But I must not let you off—I must keep my word!' Tom cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. 'I can't help it,' he said, 'and now, don't how! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us.' Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, 'There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can't have hurt you much, have I?' he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. 'It is nothing to care about, I am sure, look up;' and he pulled down his hands. 'Say you are sorry— speak the truth—keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.'

Very different this from Tom's chosen associates; but he was still obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to those kind words. After one more, 'I could not help it, Tom, you've no business to be sulky,' Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelt, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river, when Tom exclaimed, 'O don't, don't! what will they do to me? give it to me!'

'Did they give you the money to pay for it?'

'Yes, let me have it.'

'How much was it?'

'Fourpence.'

'I'll settle that,' and the bottle splashed in the river. 'Now then, Tom, don't brood on it any more. Here's a chance for you of getting quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight, I'll take care no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and do well.'

But Tom's evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse silence really distressed his brother.

'If you will go on in this way, I can't help it, but you'll be sorry some day,' said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to see whether Tom were following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way, how he should avert his tyrant's displeasure.

Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding a silver fourpence to him. 'Anderson junior,' said he, 'there's your money. I am not going to let Stoneborough school be turned into a gin palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now, you are not to bully May junior, for telling me. He did not, I found him out.'

Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him, he entered the Cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had lain, on the examination-day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green grass where the graves were. 'Mother! Mother!' he murmured, 'have I been harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy?' I couldn't help it. Oh! if you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should Tom be kept from this evil?—it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly, sullen—all that is worst—and your son—Oh! Mother! and all I do only makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father's heart, and you will not be there to comfort him.'

Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his father's resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer, resolution, and hope.

He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the occasion; but, alas! Tom had learnt to look on all reproof as 'rowing,' and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower, who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and truthful spirit.

In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before. 'Suppose,' Ethel had once said to him, 'that when you are a Clergyman, you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a Church there.'

'When?' said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a Curate with a view to Cocksmoor, and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his studies. Everyone thought the delay of his examination favourable to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison, but Richard thought he was getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared that ever since Norman's return from London, he had been assisting Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the world have published that he was fit to act as his elder's tutor.

One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, 'How came that book here?'

'It is Mr. Harrison's.'

'Yes, I know, but how came it here?'

'Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.'

'Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has made into a tippet?'

'Perhaps I meant Mary's own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would she have done much good with them otherwise?'

'No, she would have played. Oh! then, you like the presents because they are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?'

'Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home, Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her sugar-plums out of her own mouth!'

Blanche clasped her papa's hand tight, and bounded five or six times. 'They are our presents, not yours,' said she. 'Yes, I see. I like them better now.'

'Aye, aye,' said the Doctor. 'Seeing Miss Rivers's must not take the shine out of yours, my little maids; for if you can't give much, you have the pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour of love.' Then thinking on, and speaking to Flora, 'The longer I live, the more I see the blessing of being born in a state of life where you can't both eat your cake and give it away.'

Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father; she could not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the mark, 'You would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers?'

'No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across me—most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I like to see one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but she has not.'

'So she has not the same merit?' said Flora.

'We don't talk of merit. I meant that the power of sacrifice is a great advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a large family is a discipline that only-children are without; and so, with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want.'

'In effect, they can do much more,' said Flora.

'I am not sure of that. They can , of course, but it must be at the cost of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words, "Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee." And such as we have it is that does the good; the gold, if we have it, but, at any rate, the personal influence; the very proof of sincerity, shown by the exertion and selfdenial, tells far more than money lightly come by, lightly spent.'

'Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less good than one who taught one child?'

'If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take care of itself—nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.'

'Suppose we could build, say our Church and school, on Cocksmoor at once, and give our superintendence besides?'

'If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train herself, as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.'

Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncomfortable to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralizing for their good, but that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly had it in their power to do great things, and might work as hard themselves; besides, it was finer in them, there was so much éclat in their stooping to charity. But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a moment that he could say aught but from the bottom of his heart—no, it was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. 'It was just like papa,' and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of his enthusiasms, he was so very fond of Ethel, probably because of her likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward—they all helped at Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind was, that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared with Ethel.

Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, 'that it was so nice; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers's fine presents at all, for papa said what one made one's self was better to give than what one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a good thing not to be rich, for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away.'

Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much to Blanche's credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, after the little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange's the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of discontent and its occasion, the meeting with Meta Rivers, were discussed.

'Yes,' said Mr. Wilmot, 'those Riverses are open-handed. They really seem to have so much money, that they don't know what to do with it. My brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant so well, and they are so kind-hearted and excellent, that it is a shame to find fault, and I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at such a squire proves them the most spoilt of all.'

'Indiscriminate liberality?' asked the Doctor. 'I should guess the old gentleman to be rather soft!'

'That's one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few to shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to country people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy cows and poultry—all that offends the eye out of the way.'

'Making it a matter of taste,' said the Doctor.

'I'm sure I would,' said Norman aside to Ethel. 'What's the use of getting one's self disgusted?'

'One must not begin with showing dislike,' began Ethel, 'or—'

'Aye—you like rags, don't you? but hush.'

'That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers,' said Dr. May; 'he has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his daughter has no lack of wit.'

'Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she is entirely inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much money to throw about. She pays people for sending their children to school, and keeping their houses tidy; and there is so much given away, that it is enough to take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate on it, and take it as a right; by-and-by there will be a re-action—she will find out she is imposed upon, take offence, and for the rest of her life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are!'

'It is a pity good people won't have a little common sense,' said Dr. May. 'But there's something so bewitching in that little girl, that I can't give her up. I verily believe she will right herself.'

'I have scarcely seen her,' said Mr. Wilmot.

'She has won papa's heart by her kindness to me,' said Margaret, smiling. 'You see her beautiful flowers? She seems to me, made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she goes.'

'O yes, they are most kind-hearted,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'It is only the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they are most valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time— I only hope she will not be spoilt.'

Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning's argument confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was no reason why wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were at the head of such an establishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated as to be the subject of general approbation.

She wanted to find someone else on her side, and, as they went to bed, she said to Ethel, 'Don't you wish we had some of this superfluity of the Riverses for poor Cocksmoor?'

'I wish we had anything for Cocksmoor! Here's a great hole in my boot, and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and-sixpence gone! I shall never get the first pound made up towards building!'

'And pounds seem nothing to them,' said Flora.

'Yes, but if they don't manage right with them—I'll tell you, Flora, I got into a fit of wishing the other day; it does seem such a grievous pity to see those children running to waste for want of daily teaching, and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed, and thought it was all no use while we could not do more; but just then I began to look out the texts Ritchie had marked for me to print for them to learn, and the first was, "Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee ruler over many things," and then I thought perhaps we were learning to be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever with the little we have if it were not for Ritchie and Margaret. By the time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps I shall have more sense.'

'Got the money! As if we ever could!'

'Oh, yes! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, Ritchie says, and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from the money for hire of the room, and the books and clothes, and, in spite of these horrid boots, I shall save something out of this quarter, half-a-crown at least. And I have another plan besides—'

But Flora had to go down to Margaret's room to bed. Flora was always ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be the most useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts of greatness interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor.

The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of much undoing of their own arrangements, finished their preparations so much too early, that at half-past eleven, Mary complained that she had nothing to do, and that dinner would never come.

'It is very curious ginger-beer indeed, Mr. Ballhatchet,' said Norman; 'and since it is liable to have such strange properties, I cannot allow it to be used any more at the school.'

'Very well, sir—as you please, sir. You are the first gentleman as has objected, sir.'

'And, once for all, I give you warning,' added Norman, 'that if I have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentlemen, the magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it.'

'You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it—you as has such a name for goodness.'

'I have given you warning,' said Norman. 'The next time I find any of your bottles in the school fields, your license goes. Now, there are your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen-pence. I wonder you are not ashamed of such a charge!'

Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. Larkins, triumphant, 'Ha! there's Harrison!' as the tutor rode by, and they touched their caps. 'How he stared! My eyes! June, you'll be had up for dealing with old Ball!' and he went into an ecstasy of laughing. 'You've settled him, I believe. Well, is justice satisfied?'

'It would be no use thrashing you,' said Norman, laughing, as he leant against the parapet of the bridge, and pinched the boy's ear. 'There's nothing to be got out of you but chaff.'

Larkins was charmed with the compliment.

'But I'll tell you what, Larkins, I can't think how a fellow like you can go and give in to these sneaking, underhand tricks that make you ashamed to look one in the face.'

'It is only for the fun of it.'

'Well, I wish you would find your fun some other way. Come, Larkins, recollect yourself a little—you have a home not so far off. How do you think your father and mother would fancy seeing you reading the book you had yesterday, or coming out of Ballhatchet's with a bottle of spirits, called by a false name?'

Larkins pinched his fingers; home was a string that could touch him, but it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a carriage approached, the boy's whole face lighted up, and he jumped forward. 'Our own!' he cried. 'There she is!'

She was, of course, his mother; and Norman, though turning hastily away that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy fly over the door of the open carriage, and could have sobbed at the thought of what that meeting was.

'Who was that with you?' asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had obtained leave to have her boy with her, while she did her shopping.

'That was May senior, our Dux.'

"Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another rather than thine own.

"Choose always to have less rather than more.

"Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior to everyone.

"Wish always and pray that the will of God may be wholly fulfilled in thee."

'I liked them the more, because it was just like her last reading with us, and like that letter.—Well, then I wondered as I lay on the grass at Groveswood, whether she would have thought it best for me to be reinstated, and I found out that I should have been rather afraid of what you might say when she had talked it over with you.'

Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last was said, but his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. 'So you took her for your counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find out what was right.'

'Well, there was something in the place, and, in watching poor Lake's windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting on, and having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for those had been driven out of me, and you know I never felt as if it were my right when I was made Dux; but now I find it is all come back. It does not do for me to be first; I have been what she called elated, and been more peremptory than need with the lower boys, and gone on in my old way with Richard, and so I suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish it were not disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it will vex Harry so much; but since it is come, considering all things, I suppose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people's expense.'

His eyes were so dazzled with tears, that he could hardly see to drive, nor did his father speak at first. 'I can't say anything against it, Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should consider. If Dr. Hoxton should view this absurd business in the way he seems to do, it will stand in your way for ever in testimonials, if you try for anything else.'

'Do you think it will interfere with my having a Confirmation ticket?'

'Why no, I should not think—such a boyish escapade could be no reason for refusing you one.'

'Very well then, it had better rest. If there should be any difficulty about my being Confirmed, of course we will explain it.'

'I wish everyone showed themselves as well prepared!' half-muttered the Doctor; then, after long musing, 'Well, Norman, I give up the scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than we do, and if the boy is a shabby fellow, the more he wants a decent education. But what do you say to this? I make Hoxton do you full justice, and reinstate you in your proper place, and then I take you away at once—send you to a tutor—anything, till the end of the long vacation.'

'Thank you,' said Norman, pausing. 'I don't know, papa. I am very much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You would be uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, and it would be hardly creditable for me to go off in anger.'

'You are right, I believe,' said Dr. May. 'You judge wisely, though I should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is to become of the discipline of the school? Is that all to go to the dogs?'

'I could not do anything with them if I were restored in this way; they would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it is, but, even for my own peace, I believe it is better to leave it alone. All my comfort in school is over, I know!' and he sighed deeply.

'It is a most untoward business!' said the Doctor. 'I am very sorry your school-days should be clouded—but it can't be helped, and you will work yourself into a character again. You are full young, and can stay for the next Randall.'

Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, the rest of the world were nothing to him; but, perhaps, the driving past the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into the house slowly and dejectedly.

He told his own story to Ethel, in the garden, not without much difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations; and it was impossible to make her see that his father's interference would put him in an awkward position among the boys. She would argue vehemently that she could not bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was a great shame of Dr. Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a boy as Harvey Anderson go unpunished. 'I really do think it is quite wrong of you to give up your chance of doing good, and leave him in his evil ways!' That was all the comforts he gave Norman, and she walked in to pour out a furious grumbling upon Margaret.

Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in conversation after he had left them—Margaret talking with animation, and Flora sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant assents. 'Has he told you, poor fellow?' asked Margaret.

'Yes,' said Ethel. 'Was there ever such a shame?'

'That is just what I say,' observed Flora. 'I cannot see why the Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us.'

'You would not, if you saw the place,' said Dr. May. 'I believe Norman is very angry with me for letting them go near it.'

'Ah! but they are of real use there!'

'And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of Abbotstoke! I commiserate her!' said the Doctor.

'If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke!'

'Harm!' exclaimed Margaret.

'They went on very well without me,' said Meta; 'but ever since I have had the class, they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday; and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all—the one I liked best, and had done everything for—she began to mimic me—held up her finger, as I did, and made them all laugh!'

'Well, that is very bad!' said Margaret; 'but I suppose she was a very little one.'

'No, a quick clever one, who knew much better, about nine years old. She used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby; and we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home, and send her to school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted.'

The Doctor smiled. 'Ah! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was the best disciplinarian.'

Meta looked extremely puzzled.

'Papa means,' said Margaret, 'that if she was inclined to be conceited, the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought forward at school.'

'I have done everything wrong, it seems,' said Meta, with a shade of what the French call dêpit . 'I thought it must be right and good—but it has only done mischief; and now papa says they are an ungrateful set, and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them!'

'It does not vex you so much as that, I hope,' said Margaret.

'O, I could not bear that!' said Meta; 'but it is so different from what I thought!'

'Ah! you had an Arcadia of good little girls in straw hats, such as I see in Blanche's little books,' said the Doctor, 'all making the young lady an oracle, and doing wrong—if they do it at all—in the simplest way, just for an example to the others.'

'Dr. May! How can you know so well? But do you really think it is their fault, or mine?'

'Do you think me a conjurer?'

'Well, but what do you think?'

'What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think?'

'I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which I have done. Last Sunday, she told me she thought I had better have a steadier class, and I know whom she will give me—the great big, stupid ones, at the bottom of the first-class! I do believe it is only out of good-nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a great mind I will not; I know I do nothing but harm.'

'What shall you say if I tell you I think so too?' asked the Doctor.

'O, Dr. May! you don't really? Now, does he, Miss May? I am sure I only want to do them good. I don't know what I can have done.'

Margaret made her perceive that the Doctor was smiling, and she changed her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case; for if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school, and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of mismanagement, yet, with a sense of its truth, used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her first reverse, and had come partly with the view of consulting Flora, though she had fallen on other counsellors.

'Margaret, our adviser general,' said the Doctor, 'what do you say? Put yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Miss Rivers teach, or not?'

'I had rather you would, papa.'

'Not I—I never kept school.'

'Well, then, I being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified if Miss Rivers deserted me, because the children were naughty. I think, I think I had rather she came and asked me what she had better do.'

'And you would answer "teach," for fear of vexing her,' said Meta.

'I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach.'

'The point where only trial shows one's ignorance,' said Dr. May.

'But I don't want to do it for my own sake,' said Meta. 'I do everything for my own sake already.'

'For their's, then,' said the Doctor. 'If teaching will not come by nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of service in that line. Perhaps, it was the gift that the fairies omitted.

'But will it do any good to them?'

'I can't tell; but I am sure it would do them harm for you to give it up, because it is disagreeable.'

'Ha! There's Ned Anderson coming,' cried Mary. 'Now! Let him see you, Harry.'

'What matters Ned Anderson to me?' said Harry; and, with an odd mixture of shame-facedness and cordiality, he marched full up to his old school-fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in the plenitude of his officership, to afford plenty of good-humoured superiority. Tom had meantime subsided out of all view. But poor Harry's exultation had a fall.

'Well!' graciously inquired 'Mr. May,' 'and how is Harvey?'

'O very well. We are expecting him home to-morrow.'

'Where has he been?'

'To Oxford, about the Randall.'

Harry gave a disturbed, wondering look round, on seeing Edward's air of malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured him, except the quietness of Norman's own face, but even that altered as their eyes met. Before another word could be said, however, the Doctor's hand was on Harry's shoulder.

'You must not keep him now, Ned,' said he—'his sister has not seen him yet.'

And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on Harry's shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the young sailor ventured no question. Only Tom's lips were quivering, and Ethel had squeezed Norman's hand. 'Poor Harry!' he muttered, 'this is worst of all! I wish we had written it to him.'

'So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh! if I were but a boy to flog that Edward!'

'Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved.'

They were entering their own garden, where, beneath the shade of the tulip-tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held out, and Harry threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her caress, Norman and Tom were gone.

'What is this?' he now first ventured to ask.

'Come with me,' said Dr. May, leading the way to his study, where he related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman had incurred. He was glad that he had done so in private, for Harry's indignation and grief went beyond his expectations; and when at last it appeared that Harvey Anderson was actually Randall scholar, after opening his eyes with the utmost incredulity, and causing it to be a second time repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned very red, and ended by laying his head on the table, and fairly sobbing and crying aloud, in spite of dirk, uniform, and manhood.

'Harry! why Harry, my boy! We should have prepared you for this,' said the Doctor, affectionately. 'We have left off breaking our hearts about it. I don't want any comfort now, for having gold instead of glitter; though at first I was as bad as you.'

'O if I had but been there!' said Harry, combating unsuccessfully with his tears.

'Ah! so we all said, Norman and all. Your word would have cleared him—that is, if you had not been in the thick of the mischief. Ha! July, should not you have been on the top of the wall?'

'I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given Axworthy and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not have shown in school for a week? They had better look out!' cried Harry, savagely.

'What! Ah officer in Her Majesty's service! Eh, Mr. May?'

'Don't, papa, don't. Oh! I thought it would have been so happy, when I came home, to see Norman Randall-scholar. Oh! now I don't care for the ship, nor anything.'

Again Harry's face went down on the table.

'Come, come, Harry,' said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles that had become very dewy, 'don't let us make fools of ourselves, or they will think we are crying for the scholarship.'

'I don't care for the scholarship, but to have June turned down —and disgrace—'

'What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that I know better now.'

'He is! he is—he is June himself, and no mistake!' cried Harry, with vehemence.

'The prime of the year, is not it?' said the Doctor, smiling, as he stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous July did not fall far short of it.

'That he is!' exclaimed Harry. 'I have never met one fellow like him.'

'It will be a chance if you ever do,' said Dr. May. 'That is better than scholarships!'

'It should have been both,' said Harry.

'Norman thinks the disappointment has been very good for him,' said the Doctor. 'Perhaps it made him what he is now. All success is no discipline, you know.'

Harry looked as if he did not know.

'Perhaps you will understand better by-and-by, but this I can tell you, Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation, has done more to renew Norman's spirits, than all his prosperity. See if it has not. I believe it is harder to everyone of us, than to him. To Ethel, especially, it is a struggle to be in charity with the Andersons.'

'I should not have seen her,' said Ethel, 'for she was not well enough to let us in.'

'Was it not pushing?' said Flora. 'There were the Andersons leaving their card!'

'Those Andersons!' exclaimed the Doctor; 'I am sick of the very sound of the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I'll include it in Margaret's book of fines.'

Flora looked dignified.

'They are always harping on that little trumpery girl's nonsense,' said Harry—'Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, eh, Norman! If it was about those two fellows, the boys—'

'You would harp only on what affects you?' said the Doctor.

'No, I don't; men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth.'

'One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women?' said Dr. May.

'It is rather a female defect, indeed,' said Margaret.

'Defect!' said Flora.

'Yes,' said Dr. May, 'since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment.'

Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved.

'Andersons again!' cried Dr. May, 'One, two, three, four, five, six forfeits!'

'Papa himself, for he said the name,' saucily put in Blanche.

'I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest,' said Ethel.

'What! in order to catch Flora's pence for Cocksmoor?' suggested Harry.

'No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike, or a grudge in our hearts at them—talking for ever of nasty little miserable irritations makes it worse.'

'Then why do you do it?' asked Flora. 'I heard you only on Sunday declaiming about Fanny Anderson.'

'Ha!' cried out all at once. 'There goes Flora!'

She looked intensely serious and innocent.

'I know,' said Ethel. 'It is the very reason I want the rule to be made, just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say more than is right.'

'Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the ninth commandment cannot be broken with regard to them,' observed the Doctor.

'Most likely they are saying much the same of us,' said Richard.

'Or worse,' rejoined Dr. May. 'The injured never hates as much as the injurer.'

'Please, Sir, Toby brought it to me.'

'What, is Toby your dog?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Are you so hungry as to eat dog's meat?'

'I have not had nothing before to-day, Sir.'

'Why, where do you live? hereabouts?'

'O no, Sir; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him.'

'How do you live? do you beg your way?'

'No, Sir; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks said I owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it left, and bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat, I was glad of it, Sir, but I would not have taken it—'

The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless excitement, rushed back with their story.

Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had been inspired by Harry's uniform, but the examination of Jem Jennings put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth; and the choicest delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind the barrow, and feeding them with such viands as they had probably never seen before.

The boy could not read writing, but he had his father's letter in his pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on finding that Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the Alcestis. It gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta the having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey, instead of doing it by subscription.

However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby, who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned —he could not be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail—but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of Nanny Brooks.

So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May's coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest either sketched, or wandered, or botanized. Flora acted the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta's admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate, confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the Doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta's unfeigned enthusiasm for the Doctor was the sure road to Ethel's heart. She was soon telling how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in to-day's scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach of Harry's departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora's first letter on the news of last October's misfortune.

'My aunt in New Zealand,' explained Ethel.

'Have you an aunt in New Zealand?' cried Meta. 'I never heard of her!'

'Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!'

'Is she Dr. May's sister?'

'No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma's sister. I don't remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says, the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora's going away.'

'Did she live with them?'

'Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr. Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here.'

'Perhaps she will come.'

'No; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether. He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But grandpapa died, and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again, quartered at Whitford, and papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and helped them—and Mr. Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny life they had! Once they had their house burnt in Heki's rebellion— and Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet—but, in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm, besides an office under government.'

'Oh; so he went out as a settler; I was in hopes it was as a missionary.'

'I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary work,' said Ethel, 'teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her mother, and she has quite a doctor's shop for them, and tries hard to teach them to take proper care of their poor little children, when they are ill—and she cuts out clothes for the whole pah, that is, the village.'

'And are they Christians?'

'Oh! to be sure they are now! They meet in the pah for prayers every morning and evening—they used to have a hoe struck against a bit of metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and they were so delighted. Now there comes a Clergyman every fourth Sunday, and, on the others, Uncle Arnott reads part of the service to the English near, and the Maori teacher to his people.'

Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well exhausted Ethel's stock, she said, 'How nice it must be! Ethel, did you ever read the "Faithful Little Girl?"'

'Yes; it was one of Margaret's old Sunday books. I often recollected it before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor.'

'I'm afraid I am very like Lucilla!' said Meta.

'What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a Missionary?' said Ethel. 'Not in being quite so cross at home?' she added, laughing.

'I am not cross, because I have no opportunity,' said Meta.

'No opportunity. Oh, Meta! if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for.'

'Really and truly,' said Meta, thoughtfully, 'I never do meet with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions.'

'Well, but—' said Ethel, 'it is the state of life in which you are placed.'

'Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?'

'I thought you had them,' said Ethel. 'Margaret told me about your maid. That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross.'

'Oh! no rational person,' cried Meta. 'It was so nice to think of her being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her.'

'And your school children—you were in some trouble about them?'

'Oh! that is pleasure.'

'I thought you had a class you did not like.'

'I like them now—they are such steady plodding girls, so much in earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by kindness. I would not give them up for anything now— they are just fit for my capacity.'

'Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not mind anything—which?'

'Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for minding it.'

'Then it must be all your good temper.'

'I don't think so,' said Meta—'it is that nothing is ever disagreeable to me.'

'Stay,' said Ethel, 'if the ill-temper was in you, you would only be the crosser for being indulged—at least, so books say. And I am sure myself, that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one's will is with them, that signifies.'

'I don't quite understand.'

'Why—I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what would have been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, and always, when there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up an interest in it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or something—if I can stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it must be the same with you, only your will is more easily set at it than mine.'

'What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never followed anything but my will.'

Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some thought almost beyond her. 'If our will and our duty run the same,' she said, 'that can't be wrong. The better people are, the more they "love what He commands," you know. In Heaven they have no will but His.'

'Oh! but Ethel,' cried Meta, distressed, 'that is putting it too high. Won't you understand what I mean? We have learnt so much lately about selfdenial, and crossing one's own inclinations, and enduring hardness. And here I live with two dear kind people, who only try to keep every little annoyance from my path. I can't wish for a thing without getting it—I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that are at ease—one of the careless daughters.'

'I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that made you find no vexation.'

'But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,' she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, 'don't you remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member—it seemed ungrateful.'

Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words. 'Discipline,' said she, 'would not that show the willingness to have the part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing.'

'Would not that be only making up something for oneself?' said Meta.

'No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book,' said Ethel. 'I mean one can do little secret things—not read story-books on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed.'

'I'll think,' said Meta, sighing. 'If only I felt myself at work, not to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!' she cried, springing up, 'I do believe I see Dr. May coming!'

'Let us run and meet him,' said Ethel.

They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, 'You both look grave, though—have they deserted you?'

'No, papa, we have been having a talk,' said Ethel. 'May I tell him, Meta? I want to know what he says.'

Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented.

'Meta is longing to be at work—she thinks she is of no use,' said Ethel—'she says she never does anything but please herself.'

'Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself,' said Dr. May, kindly.

'And she thinks it cannot be safe or right,' added Ethel, 'to live that happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?'

'Yes, I think it is,' said Meta. 'I seem to be only put here to be made much of!'

'What did David say, Meta?' returned Dr. May.

'Then you think,' said Meta, much touched, 'that I ought to look on this as "the pastures fair," and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful.'

'O, no,' said Ethel. 'It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good soldier, was it not?'

'Ah! my dear,' he said, 'the rugged path and dark valley will come in His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shephered is giving you what is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod and staff in your sunny days.—' He stopped short, and turned to his daughter.

'Ethel, they sang that Psalm the first Sunday I brought your mamma home!'

Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline, of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the staff—perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on.

Dr. May spoke once again. 'Don't let anyone long for external trial. The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the happier we are, the more we praise, then all is well.'

But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off.

Others had seen Dr. May's approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled. However, they had it all to themselves, and the Doctor took up the subject as keenly as could have been hoped, but the poor boy being still fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he would not then waken him to examine him, but came and sat down in the semicircle, formed by a terraced bank of soft turf, where Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora, had for some time taken up their abode. Meta brought him the choice little basket of fruit which she had saved for him, and all delighted in having him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport very much, as he reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and making inquiries as to the antiquities lately discovered.

Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Roman Emperor, Tiberius V. V., and Meta, correcting it, there was a regular gay skirmish of words, which entertained everyone extremely —above all, Meta's indignation when the charge was brought home to her of having declared the 'old Duke' exactly like in turns to Domitian and Tiberius—his features quite forbidding.

This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and rioting till they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down on the grass, Blanche petitioned for something that everyone could play at.

Meta proposed what she called the story play. One was to be sent out of earshot, and the rest to agree upon a word, which was then to be guessed by each telling a story, and introducing the word into it, not too prominently. Meta volunteered to guess, and Harry whispered to Mary it would be no go, but, in the meantime, the word was found, and Blanche eagerly recalled Meta, and sat in the utmost expectation and delight. Meta turned first to Richard, but he coloured distressfully, and begged that Flora might tell his story for him—he should only spoil the game. Flora, with a little tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. 'No woman had been to the summit of Mont Blanc,' she said, 'till one young girl, named Marie, resolved to have this glory. The guides told her it was madness, but she persevered. She took the staff, and everything requisite and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported every fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy heights she attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, supported the bitter cold, and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at the topmost peak, looked forth where woman had never looked before, felt her heart swell at the attainment of her utmost ambition, and the name of Marie was inscribed as that of the woman who alone has had the glory of standing on the summit of the Giant of the Alps.'

It was prettily enunciated, and had a pleasing effect. Meta stood conning the words—woman—giant—mountain—glory—and begged for another tale.

'Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora's,' said Harry. 'We have an old sailor on board the Alcestis—a giant he might be for his voice—but he sailed once in the Glory of the West, and there they had a monkey that was picked up in Africa, and one day this old fellow found his queer messmate, as he called him, spying through a glass, just like the captain. The captain had a glorious collection of old coins, and the like, dug up in some of the old Greek colonies, and whenever Master Monkey saw him overhauling them, he would get out a brass button, or a card or two, and turn 'em over, and chatter at them, and glory over them, quite knowing—' said Harry, imitating the gesture, 'and I dare say he saw V. V., and Tiberius Cæsar, as well as the best of them.'

'Thank you, Mr. Harry,' said Meta. 'I think we are at no loss for monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes next? Ethel—'

'I shall blunder, I forewarn you,' said Ethel, 'but this is mine. "There was a young king, who had an old tutor, whom he despised because he was so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle sport. One day, when he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran before him, till she guided him to a castle, and there he found a lady, all dressed in white, with a beamy crown on her head, and so nobly beautiful, that he fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry to see another prince who was come to her palace too. She told them her name was Gloria, and that she had had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on herself—she could only be won by him who deserved her, and for three years they were to be on their probation, trying for her. So she dismissed them, only burning to gain her, and telling them to come back in three years' time. But they had not gone far before they saw another palace, much finer, all glittering with gold and silver, and their Lady Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white dress, but in one all gay and bright with fine colours, and her crown they now saw was of diamonds. She told them they had only seen her every-day dress and house, this was her best; and she showed them about the castle, and all the pictures of her former lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer retaining her than anyone, only the fever prevented it; there was Pyrrhus, always seeking her, but slain by a tile—Julius Cæsar—Tamerlane—all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two would really prove worthy and gain her, by going in the same path as these great people.

"So our prince went home; his head full of being like Alexander and all the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up his armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But the old tutor told him he was under a mistake; the second lady he had seen was a treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by her deceits, and whose real name was Vana Gloria. If he wished to earn the true Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good, and to be virtuous. And he did; he taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it patiently and kindly when they did not understand. But by-and-by, the other king, who had no good tutor to help him, had got his armies together, and conquered ever so many people, and drawn off their men to be soldiers; and now he attacked the good prince, and was so strong, that he gained the victory, though both prince and subjects fought manfully with heart and hand; but the battle was lost, and the faithful prince wounded and made prisoner, but bearing it most patiently, till he was dragged behind the other's triumphal car with all the rest, when the three years were up, to be presented to Vana Gloria. And so he was carried into the forest, bleeding and wounded, and his enemy drove the car over his body, and stretched out his arms to Vana Gloria, and found her a vain, ugly wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. But the good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady-love bending over him. "Oh!" he said, "vision of my life, hast thou come to lighten my dying eyes? Never—never, even in my best days, did I deem that I could be worthy of thee; the more I strove, the more I knew that Gloria is for none below—for me less than all."

'And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, "Gloria is given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for faithfulness is glory, and that is thine."'

Ethel's language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in the tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. Norman asked where she got the story. 'Out of an old French book, the Magazin des enfans ,' was the answer.

'But why did you alter the end?' said Flora, 'why kill the poor man? He used to be prosperous, why not?'

'Because I thought,' said Ethel, 'that glory could not properly belong to anyone here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would be all spoilt. Well, Meta do you guess?'

'Oh! the word! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know what it must be, but I should so like another story. May I not have one?' said Meta, coaxingly. 'Mary, it is you.'

Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa told the best stories of all, she said, and Meta looked beseeching.

'My story will not be as long as Ethel's,' said the Doctor. yielding with a half reluctant smile. 'My story is of a humming bird, a little creature that loved its master with all its strength, and longed to do somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot, because it seemed merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightingale sang praise, and the woods sounded with the glory of its strains; the fowl was valued for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume, but what could the little humming bird do, save rejoice in the glory of the flood of sunbeams, and disport itself over the flowers, and glance in the sunny light, as its bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to dazzling flame-colour, and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly trace them, as it darted its slender beak into the deep-belled blossoms. So the little bird grieved, and could not rest, for thinking that it was useless in this world, that it sought merely its own gratification, and could do nothing that could conduce to the glory of its master. But, one night, a voice spoke to the little bird, "Why hast thou been placed here," it said, "but at the will of thy master? Was it not that he might delight himself in thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the sunshine? His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the love of all around, the sweetness of the honey drop in the flowers, the shade of the palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his; value thine own bliss, while it lasts, as the token of his care and love; and while thy heart praises him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that praise, then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no vain-glory of thine own, in beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving as best thou canst to his glory.'"

'I know the word,' half whispered Meta, not without a trembling of the lip. 'I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as good as the humming birds.'

The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time to go home; and Jem Jemmings having been seen rearing himself up from behind the barrow, the Doctor proceeded to investigate his case, was perfectly satisfied of the boy's truth, and as ready as the young ones to befriend him. A letter should be written at once, desiring his father to look out for him on Friday, when he should go by the same train as Harry, who was delighted at the notion of protecting him so far, and begged to be allowed to drive him home to Stoneborough in the gig.

Consent was given; and Richard being added to give weight and discretion, the gig set out at once—the Doctor, much to Meta's delight, took his place in the break. Blanche, who, in the morning, had been inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now finding it a popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it; and Flora was made over to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for, though it separated her from Meta, it made a senior of her.

Norman's fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of the break, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth from below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of abandon more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened temperaments, when roused or drawn out for a time. Meta's winning grace and sweetness had a peculiar charm for him, and, perhaps, his having been originally introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had given her manner towards him a sort of kindness which was very gratifying.

And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty world; the last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he must return to the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted his school career, be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and without generous feeling, and find all his attainments useless in restoring his position. Dr. Hoxton's dull scholarship would chill all pleasure in his studies—there would be no companionship among the boys—even his supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone, and Harry would leave him still under a cloud.

'Yes, he is coming to see her this afternoon, and that is the reason that papa wants us to be all out of the way.'

'Did papa tell you this?'

'Yes,' said Ethel, beginning to perceive the secret of her displeasure, 'but only because I was the first person he met; and Norman guessed it long ago. Do put on your things! I'll tell you all I know when we are out. Papa is so anxious to have the coast clear.'

'I understand,' said Flora, 'but I shall not go with you. Do not be afraid of my interfering with anyone. I shall sit here.'

'But papa said you were to go.'

'If he had done me the favour of speaking to me himself,' said Flora, 'I should have shown him that it is not right that Margaret should be left without anyone at hand in case she should be overcome. He is of no use in such cases, only makes things worse. I should not feel justified in leaving Margaret with no one else; but he is in one of those hand-over-head moods, when it is not of the least use to say a word to him.'

'Flora! how can you? when he expressly ordered you.'

'All he meant was, do not be in the way, and I shall not show myself unless I am needed, when he would be glad enough of me. I am not bound to obey the very letter, like Blanche or Mary.'

Ethel looked horrified by the assertion of independence, but Richard called her from below, and with one more fruitless entreaty, she ran down stairs.

Richard had been hearing all from his father, and it was comfortable to talk the matter over with him, and hear explained the anxiety which frightened her, while she scarcely comprehended it; how Dr. May could not feel certain whether it was right or expedient to promote an engagement which must depend on health so uncertain as poor Margaret's, and how he dreaded the effect on the happiness of both.

Ethel's romance seemed to be turning to melancholy, and she walked on gravely and thoughtfully, though repeating that there could be no doubt of Margaret's perfect recovery by the time of the return from the voyage.

Her lessons were somewhat nervous and flurried, and even the sight of two very nice neat new scholars, of very different appearance from the rest, and of much superior attainments, only half interested her. Mary was enchanted at them as a pair of prodigies, actually able to read! and had made out their names, and their former abodes, and how they had been used to go to school, and had just come to live in the cottage deserted by the lamented Una.

Dr. May could not conceal his trouble, and rendered Ethel almost as unhappy as himself, after each conversation with her, though her hopes usually sprang up again, and she had a happy conviction that this was only the second volume of the novel. Flora was not often called into his councils; confidence never came spontaneously from Dr. May to her; there was something that did not draw it forth towards her, whether it resided in that half-sarcastic corner of her steady blue eye, or in the grave common sense of her gentle voice. Her view of the case was known to be that there was no need for so much perplexity—why should not Alan be the best judge of his own happiness? If Margaret were to be delicate for life, it would be better to have such a home to look to; and she soothed and comforted Margaret, and talked in a strain of unmixed hope and anticipation that often drew a smile from her sister, though she feared to trust to it.

Flora's tact and consideration in keeping the children away, when the lovers could best be alone, and letting them in, when the discussion was becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, her evening music that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra annoyances, were invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them, as, indeed, Flora took care that she should.

Margaret begged to know her eldest brother's judgment, but had great difficulty in dragging it out. Diffidently as it was proposed, it was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better send Sir Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret's present condition, and abide by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the hope of her restoration.

Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with which his suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed obvious that others should have already thought of it. After the tossings of uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question to some external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed strong dislike to Sir Matthew becoming the arbitrer of Margaret's fate, and were scarcely pacified by Dr. May's assurance, that he had not revealed the occasion of his inquiry. The letter was sent, and repose returned, but hearts beat high on the morning when the answer was expected.

Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, carried the letter to her, and kissing her, said, with an oppressed voice, 'I give you joy, my dear.'

She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir Matthew thought her improvement sure, though slow, and had barely a doubt, that, in a year, she would have regained her full strength and activity.

'Nonsense, Norman, you know better!' cried Ethel. 'You know it is for your own sake, and to make up for their injustice, that he invites you, or Flora either.'

'Hush, Ethel! he gives himself quite airs enough already,' said the Doctor.

'Papa!' said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to show it was all in good humour, while he went on, 'I am glad to hear they do leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing too! Where else should a great gawky schoolboy be?'

'Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be,' muttered Norman, though he contrived to smile, and followed Flora out of the room, without subjecting himself to the imputation of offended dignity.

Ethel was displeased, and began her defence: 'Papa! I wish—' and there she checked herself.

'Eh! Miss Ethel's bristles up!' said her father, who seemed in a somewhat mischievous mood of teazing.

'How could you, papa?' cried she.

'How could I what, Miss Etheldred?'

'Plague Norma,'—the words would come. 'Accuse him of airs.'

'I hate to see young fellows above taking an honour from their elders,' said Dr. May.

'Now, papa, papa, you know it is no such thing. Dr. Hoxton's parties are very dull—you know they are, and it is not fair on Norman. If he was set up and delighted at going so often, then you would call him conceited.'

'Conceit has a good many lurking-places,' said Dr. May. 'It is harder to go and be overlooked, than to stay at home.'

'Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited!' cried Ethel. 'You don't believe that he is any such thing.'

'Why, not exactly,' said Dr. May, smiling. 'The boy has missed it marvellously; but, you see, he has everything that subtle imp would wish to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather used to say.'

'Ah! if you knew, papa—' began Ethel.

'If I knew?'

'No, no, I must not tell.'

'What, a secret, is there?'

'I wish it was not; I should like to tell you very much, but then, you see, it is Norman's, and you are to be surprised.'

'Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche's birthday presents, a stage aside.'

'No, I am going to keep it to mysalf.'

Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his hiding-place behind Dr. May's arm-chair.

'Come, August, how have things gone on?'

'Oh! I don't know.'

'What's your place?'

'Thirteenth!' muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, for two or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own fault, for not accepting Ethel's help. He took little heed, but crept to his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped, if she should torment him there.

Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom he had worked, gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom's part, than all the congratulations that met him the next day.

He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls from Mary availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the usual reading and Catechism.

Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary's verse was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. As soon as the books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder ones about the truant—Flora opining that the Andersons had led him away; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must arise from his not being well; and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared they had judged much amiss last spring.

Norman heard in silence, and walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary's voice in expostulation: How could you not come to read!'

'Girls' work!' growled another voice, out of sight.

'But Norman, and Richard, and Harry, always come to the reading. Everybody ought.'

Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the speakers from him, here lost their voices, but, as he emerged in front of the old tool-house, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, at the same moment, she darted back, and fell over a heap of cabbage-stumps in front of the old tool-house. It was no small surprise to her to be raised by him, and tenderly asked whether she were hurt. She was not hurt, but she could not speak without crying, and when Norman begged to hear what was the matter, and where Tom was, she would only plead for him—that he did not intend to hurt her, and that she had been teasing him. What had he done to frighten her? Oh! he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was troublesome; she did not mind it, and Norman must not—and she clung to him as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches in the tool-house, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel-basket, lurked Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of Gil Blas in his hand.

'You here! Tom! What have you hidden yourself here for? What can make you so savage to Mary?'

'She should not bother me,' said Tom, sulkily.

Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he would not revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the basket upside down, and perching himself astride on it, he began: 'That is the kindest, most forgiving little sister I ever did see. What possesses you to treat her so ill?'

'I wasn't going to hurt her.'

'But why drive her away? Why don't you come to read?' No answer; and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom were really hopelessly ill-conditioned and sullen, but he persevered in restraining his desire to cuff the ill-humour out of him, and continued: 'Come! there's something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. Tell me—don't be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again?'

He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start of pain were the result. 'So they have licked you? Eh? What have they been doing?'

'They said they would spiflicate me if I told!' sighed Tom.

'They shall never do anything to you—' and, by-and-by, a sobbing confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as if Tom expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his foes. Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken advantage of his brother's absence, to heap on him every misery they could inflict. There had been a wager between Edward Anderson and Sam Axworthy as to what Tom could be made to do, and his personal timidity made him a miserable victim, not merely beaten and bruised, but forced to transgress every rule of right and wrong that had been enforced on his conscience. On Sunday, they had profited by the absence of their Dux, to have a jollification at a little public-house, not far from the playing-fields; and here had Tom been dragged in, forced to partake with them, and frightened with threats that he had treated them all, and was liable to pay the whole bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well as that he should be at least half-murdered if he gave his father any suspicion that the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though poor Tom's conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring, the offence, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child brought up as he had been, to be palliated even in his own eyes. The profanation of Sunday, and the carousal in a public-house, had combined to fill him with a sense of shame and degradation, which was the real cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read with his sisters. His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman's indignation was such as could find no utterance. He sat silent, quivering with anger, and clenching his fingers over the handle of the hoe.

'I knew it!' sighed Tom. 'None of you will ever speak to me again!'

'You! Why, August, man, I have better hopes of you than ever. You are more really sorry now than ever you were before.

'I had never been at the Green Man before,' said poor Tom, feeling his future life stained.

'You never will again!'

'When you are gone—' and the poor victim's voice died away.

'Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go to Balliol, you leave Stoneborough, and go to Mr. Wilmot as pupil. Those scamps shall never have you in their clutches again.'

It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy still sat on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news hardly penetrated the gloom; and, after a disappointing silence, recurred to the most immediate cause of distress: 'Eight shillings and tenpence-halfpenny! Norman, if you would only lend it to me, you shall have all my tin till I have made it up—sixpence a week, and half-a-crown on New Year's Day.'

'I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy's reckoning,' said Norman, rather angrily. 'You will never be better till you have told my father the whole.'

'Do you think they will send in the bill to my father?' asked Tom, in alarm.

'No, indeed! that is the last thing they will do,' said Norman; 'but I would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking reason.'

'But the girls would hear it. Oh! if I thought Mary and Margaret would ever hear it—Norman, I can't—'

Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason that these passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters. Tom was excessively afraid of his father, but he could not well be more wretched than he was already; and he was brought to assent when Norman showed him that he had never been happy since the affair of the blotting-paper, when his father's looks and tones had become objects of dread to his guilty conscience. Was not the only means of recovering a place in papa's esteem to treat him with confidence?

'Yes,' said Margaret, 'she is one of the kindest people there is, and I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor, was the best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of pleasant occupation provided for us all.'

'That is the bright side, the surface side,' said Ethel.

'And not an untrue one,' said Margaret; 'Meta will not be vain, and will work the more happily for Cocksmoor's sake. Mary and Blanche, poor Mrs. Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part.'

'You think so?'

'Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion meddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be desirable.'

'No,' said Ethel, 'but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good time, without hastiness—only earnestness.'

'You had made a picture for yourself,' said Margaret, gently. 'Yes, we all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we shall see that it is all guided.'

Ethel sighed. 'Then having protested to my utmost against this concern, you think I ought to be amiable about it.'

'And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your endless glazed calico bonnet strings.'

'Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.'

'Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.'

Ethel laughed, and said, 'I did not think Mary was in such awe of me. I'll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to give up my time to it?'

'Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of your company work—just enough for you not to annoy everyone, and seem to be testifying against them. You would not like to vex Meta.'

'It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see her deluded.'

'I don't think she is,' said Margaret; 'but she does not set her face against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little humming-bird, she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.'

'Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, and leaving the evil; always sacrificing something, and then being happy in the sacrifice!'

'No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done— least of all Meta herself.'

'Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that sacrifice—and no sacrifice,' said Ethel.

'What was that?' said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved, and had been listening to their few last sentences.

'Did not you hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as much as I always admired her.

'Tell me,' said Norman. 'When was it?'

'Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London: indeed, papa says it would be the death of him; but Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gaieties; and, last year, when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her for the season. Now, Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone, and wanted not to have gone at all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised her to yield, and go for some short fixed time.'

'Yes,' said Margaret; 'as all her elders thought it right, I did not think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a promise.'

'She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Langdales were satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep her. They little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution is only spoilt-child wilfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did you Margaret? Even papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very much to be at home; for poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without her, though he would not let her know, because Lady Leonora had persuaded him to think it was all for her good.'

'What did they do with her in London?' asked Norman.

'They did their utmost,' said Ethel. 'They made engagements for her, and took her to parties and concerts—those she did enjoy very much—and she had lessons in drawing and music, but whenever she wanted to see any exhibitions, or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I believe it was very charming, and she would have been very glad to stay, but she never would promise, and she was always thinking of her positive duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain almost as if they had been a sin; but she said—dear little Meta—that nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself, whenever she was going out, "I renounce the world." It came to a crisis at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented— the drawing-room was after the end of her three weeks—and she held out against it; though her aunt laughed at her, and treated her as if she was a silly, shy child. At last, what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle, Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least necessity for her to go to court.'

'Then she gained the day?' said Norman.

'He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, and admired her determination. He told papa so himself—for you must know, when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl, and said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed, and spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh! he was perfectly won by her sweet ways. Was not it lucky? for before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr. Rivers, and obtained from him a letter, which Meta had the next day, desiring her to stay for the Drawing-room. But Meta knew well enough how it was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, she would return on Monday.'

'Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to heep her.'

'Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in here on their way from the station where he had met her! How she danced in, and how she sparkled with glee!' said Margaret, 'and poor Mr. Rivers was quite tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from fondling her every minute, and coming again into the room after they had taken leave, to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home, and her poor old father, to all the pleasures in London. Oh! I was so glad they came! That was a sight that did one good! And then, I fancy Mr. Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa and Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to Mrs. Hoxton.'

'Ha! Flora!' said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. 'I suppose she would have given the world to go!'

'I was so sorry,' said Ethel, 'but I had to go instead, and it was delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. Rivers went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful wandering with Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all about it. I never knew Meta so well before.'

'Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much for him.'

'Oh! what beautiful things! ' cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had never stretched to the marvels she beheld.

'Aye! we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James's, isn't it?'

In fact, Lady Leonora's marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks, which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked, with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to which she set her hand.

Miss Cleveland's counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect taste of Flora's wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole was very bright and gay.

Blanche could hardly look; so anxious was she for Flora, to tell her the locality of her treasure.

'There she is,' said Meta, at last. 'George is fixing that branch of evergreen for her.'

'Flora! I did not know her,' cried each sister amazed, while Mary added, 'Oh! how nice she looks.'

It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad chip-hat—which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had agreed to wear. It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, look strikingly elegant, and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for the first time, that Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the bazaar—no one but Meta Rivers could be compared to her, and that little lady was on so small a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed fit to act the fairy, where Flora was the enchanted princess.

Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her brother—a great contrast to herself, though not without a certain comeliness, tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless black eyes, and a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling rather thick lips. Blanche reiterated enquiries for her watch-guard.

'I don't know,' said Flora. 'Somewhere among the rest.'

Blanche was in despair.

'You may look for it,' said Flora—who, however hurried, never failed in kindness—'if you will touch nothing.'

So Blanche ran from place to place in restless dismay, that caused Mr. George Rivers to ask what was the matter.

'I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before, but her feelings are always being hurt!'

'Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?'

'I hope we are,' said Ethel; 'but how can we tell what vexes her?'

'And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?' asked Dr. May, incredulously.

'Well, papa,' said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it so impossible. 'I had often thought I ought to tell her that these sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps— indeed I know I do—I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day, and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would find they were only a form of pride and temper.'

'It did not come well from you, Ethel,' said the Doctor, looking vexed.

'No, I know it did not,' said Ethel, meekly; 'but oh! to have these janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!'

'Once a week?'

'It is really as often, or more often!' said Ethel. If any of us criticize anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected—I can't tell you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till-oh! till we are both half-dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.'

'Why do you argue?'

'If I could only help it!'

'Bad management,' said the Doctor, in a low musing tone. 'You want a head!'—and he sighed.

'Oh! papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you, if I had remebered—but I am worried to-day, and off my guard—'

'Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for hearing everything.'

'These were such nonsense!'

'What may seem nonsense to you, is not the same to her. You must be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependance is prone to morbid sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of themselves.'

'It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,' said Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments, she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion.

Dr. May's chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part. of the weak, and he answered, 'You know nothing about it. Among our own kin, we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is right—we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!' he continued, as the picture wrought on him. 'Each trifle seems a token one way or the other! I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell her so at once.'

He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the school-room door, while Ethel stood, mortified. 'He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have, at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her pardon for it—but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will stick to it.'

'Ethel!' cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and whispering; 'You did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered.'

'No—not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?'

'She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she said, my sister Ethel said, she was ill-tempered.'

'She made a great exaggeration then,' said Ethel.

'I am sure she was very cross all day!' said Mary.

'Well, that is no business of yours,' said Ethel, pettishly. 'What now? Mary! don't look out at the street window.'

'It is Flora—the Grange carriage—' whispered Mary, as the two sisters made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room.

Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the school-room. Miss Bracy had ceased her tears before he came—they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not intended the world to know of them. Half-disconcerted, half-angry, she heard the Doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea, that meekness consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving herself guilty of a lesser one.

'Miss Bracy,' said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look; 'I am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you. You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.'

Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology, for her imagined offence, from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd, she murmured something of "oh no;" and "being sure," and hoped he was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls having made her appear so ridiculous.

No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself, saying, with a smile, 'You see, you must trust us sometimes, and overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough, careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to them.'

Miss Bracy exclaimed, 'Oh! no, never, they were most kind.'

'We wish to be,' said Dr. May, 'but there are little neglects—or you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful —for that would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only nervous—'

Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary.

He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. 'You will let me speak to you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true cure. Don't brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.'

'Oh! but Dr. May!' she exclaimed, shocked; 'nothing in your house could call for such feelings.'

'I hope we are not very savage,' he said, smiling; 'but, indeed, I still say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?'

'You are right; but my feelings were always over sensitive;' and this she said with a sort of complacency.

'Well, we must try to brace them,' said Dr. May, much as if prescribing for her. 'Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?'

She felt as if she could at that moment.

'Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only deepens the sense of them, and discussions do not good to anyone. My daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know.'

'Oh! they are most kind—'

'But, you see, I must say this—' added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating—'as they have no mother to—to spare all this—' and, then, growing clearer, he proceeded, 'I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped. They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you—I hear myself called.'

Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused Ethel's patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of her sensitiveness, did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first. She hoped everyone would forget all about it, and resolved not to take umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but she was not a person of much resolution.

The Doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought Flora home, and were in the drawing-room, where Margaret was hearing another edition of the history of the fair, and a bye-play was going on, of teasing Blanche about the chain.

George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him; and her refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in the midst of the other conversation—'No! I say—no!'

'Another no, and that will be yes.'

'No! I won't! I don't like you well enough!'

Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away, to take their walk, and the brother and sister, soon after, took leave, when Flora called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies' Committee, that they might arrange the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds, the amount of their gains.

'To see the fate of Cocksmoor,' said Ethel.

'Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk?' said Flora, looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. 'Poor Ethel! I am doing you good against your will! Never mind, here is wherewith to build the school, and the management will be too happy to fall into our hands. Do you think everyone is as ready as you are, to walk three miles, and back, continually?'

There was sense in this; there always was sense in what Flora said, but it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathizing in her to be so gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel would have been very glad of a short space to recollect herself, and recover her good temper; but it was late, and Flora hurried her to put on her bonnet, and come to the Committee. 'I'll take care of your interests,' she said, as they set out. 'You look as doleful as if you thought you should be robbed of Cocksmoor, but that is the last thing that will happen, you will see.'

'It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then for us to put them out of the management,' said Ethel.

'My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave the real power to us of themselves.'

'You like to build Cocksmoor with such instruments,' said Ethel, whose ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argue with Flora.'

'Bricks are made of clay!' said Flora. 'There, that was said like Norman himself! On your plan, we might have gone on for forty years, saving seven shillings a year, and spending six, whenever there was an illness in the place.'

'You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did!' said Ethel.

'That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how to deal with them. I will take care—I will even save Cherry Elwood for you, if I can. Alan Ernescliffe's ten pounds is a noble weapon.'

'You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no time!' said Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and of her sister's patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the unpleasant truths that in her better moods were held back.

Still Flora was good tempered, though Ethel would almost have preferred her being provoked; 'I know,' she said,'I have been using you ill, and leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was all in your service and Cocksmoor's; and now we shall begin to be reasonable and useful again.'

'I hope so,' said Ethel.

'Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with Norman to dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers begged us to come; he is so anxious to make it lively for his son.'

'Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be likely to get on together. What a bad style of wit! You heard what Mary said about him?' and Ethel repeated the doubt between hating and detesting.

'Young men never know how to talk to little girls,' was Flora's reply.

At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Andersons, and Flora began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday's events with great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, brightened as it was by the peculiarly engaging address which she had inherited from her father, and which, therefore, was perfectly easy and natural. Fanny Anderson was flattered and gratified, rather by the manner than the words, and, on excellent terms, they entered the Committee-room, namely, the school-mistress's parlour.

There were nine ladies on the Committee—nine muses, as the Doctor called them, because they produced anything but harmony. Mrs. Ledwich was in the chair; Miss Rich was secretary, and had her pen and ink, and account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling and greeting; Ethel, grave, earnest, and annoyed, behind her, trying to be perfectly civil, but not at all enjoying the congratulation on the successful bazaar. The ladies all talked and discussed their yesterday's adventures, gathering in little knots, as they traced the fate of favourite achievements of their skill, while Ethel, lugubrious and impatient, beside Flora, the only one not engaged, and, therefore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking tongues.

At last, Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress's watch, in its paste-board tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceeding to business. So they all sat down round a circular table, with a very fine red, blue, and black oil-cloth, whose pattern was inseparably connected, in Ethel's mind, with absurdity, tedium, and annoyance.

The business was opened by the announcement of what they all knew before, that the proceeds of the Fancy Fair amounted to one hundred and forty-nine pounds, fifteen shillings and tenpence.

Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to consider what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in this most gratifying manner. Everyone except Flora, Ethel, and quiet Mrs. Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal about Elizabethan architecture, crossed by much more, in which normal, industrial, and common things, most often met Ethel's ear, with some stories, second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvellous mistakes; and, on the opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. Ledwich, impressively saying something to the silent Mrs. Ward, marking her periods with emphatic beats with her pencil, and each seemed to close with "Mrs. Perkinson's niece," whom Ethel knew to be Cherry's intended supplanter. She looked piteously at Flora, who only smiled and made a sign with her hand to her to be patient. Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power; but she could not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when, having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse on Mrs. Elwood's impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson's niece, she leant towards Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her: 'Ask Mrs. Ledwich if we should not begin with some steps for getting the land.'

Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, 'Just so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take steps for obtaining it.' Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who "always did things methodically," moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the land requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies held up their hands, and resolved it.

Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder suggested that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, or Government, or something; whereat Miss Rich began to flourish one of the very long goose quills which stood in the inkstand before her, chiefly as insignia of office, for she always wrote with a small, stiff metal pen.

Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they had the land to build upon?

The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of hardness of heart were mentioned; the most relevant of which was, that the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. Holloway's proprietary Chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich was suddenly struck with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might be prevailed on to come to Stoneborough, to preach a sermon in the Minster, for the benefit of Cocksmoor, when they would all hold plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel a tranquillizing pat, and, as Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether she thought Dr. May, or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she said, with her winning look, 'I think that consideration had better wait till we have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this land question?'

'Quite true!' they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong? —and what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson, because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they had no chance, for he was an old miser—and six stories illustrative thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle, because Mr. Southron's cow had tumbled down a loam-pit, when her mother was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there, and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr. Bramshaw knew all about it.

Flora's gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak— (Ethel would have done so long ago.) 'If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to M— College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson.'

Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson, that Miss May had stated it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and write at once to the Principal of the College. But who was to write? Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was negatived. Everyone declared that he would never take the trouble, and Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward, who was opposite to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride, after banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the Committee would sit upon Miss Rich's letter.

'My dear Miss Flora!' began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted with the rest at the end of the street, 'How am I to write to a Principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or my Lord, or is he Venerable, like an Archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?'

'Why; it is not a correspondence much in my line,' said Flora, laughing.

'Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at Oxford! You must know—'

'I'll take advice,' said Flora, good-naturedly. 'Shall I come, and call before Friday, and tell you the result.'

'Oh! pray! It will be a real favour! Good morning—'

'There,' said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards; 'Cherry is not going to be turned out just yet!'

'How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and you said not a word against it!'

'What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse.'

'Dr. May is the man most looked up to in the town,' said Flora, and that gives weight to us in the Committee, but it is all in the using.'

'Yes,' said Ethel, hesitating.

'You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education, as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the largest subscribers, added to his personal character,' said Flora; 'so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone prevented us from assuming our post sooner.'

They were at home by this time, and, entering the hall, perceived that the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soapsuds and some tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist; even Margaret's couch being drawn close to the window.

Bubbles are one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down to blow "a honeycomb," holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand, and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity. Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks at her empty fingers with a puzzled "All gone!" as plainly expressed by Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them, striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy.

Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson's garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of tongs, and then ran down-stairs screaming that there was a ghost in her room; but that was in Harry's time, the heroic age of the May nursery.

He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable current of air—the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars; no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up, but it wilfully descends—they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high with their breath—there is a collision between Mary and Blanche—Aubrey perceives a taste of soapy water—the bubble is no more—it has vanished in his open mouth!

Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight—all rush to assist it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed! Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson's elm, over the topmost branch—hurra! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated —but earthwards! it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A general blank!

'You here, Ethel?' said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other's baffled faces.

'I am more surprised to find you here,' she answered.

'Excitement!' said Norman, smiling; one cause is as good as another for it.'

'Very pretty sport,' said Dr. May. 'You should write a poem on it, Norman.'

'It is an exhausted subject,' said Norman; 'bubble and trouble are too obvious a rhyme.'

'Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That's right!' Everyone joined in the outcry.

'Whose is it?'

'Blanche's—'

'Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!' said the Doctor, 'that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble that flies! Don't we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight, is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?'

'The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the house,' said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. 'It is a fair pattern of life and fame.'

'I did not think that you would be against it,' said Flora, in a choked voice, her face still averted.

'Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my dear,' he answered; 'but have you considered what it would be to spend your life with a man that has not three ideas; not a resource for occupying himself—a regular prey to ennui —one whom you could never respect!' He had grown more and more vehement—and Flora put her handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were flowing.

'Come, come,' he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, 'we will not talk of it any more to-night.—It is your first offer, and you are flattered, but we know "Colours seen by candle-light, Will not bear the light of day." There, good night, Flora, my dear—we will have a tête à tête in the study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own mind.'

He kissed her affectionately, and went up-stairs with her, stopping at her door to give her another embrace, and to say, 'Bless you, my dear child, and help you to come to a right decision—'

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified by George Rivers's admiration, she regarded him with favour and complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible person in her sphere, made her so regard his appreciation of her, that she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed, that he was less dull with her than with most others.

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be delighted and grateful—to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician, with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance! She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her, as she looked at the sleeping Margaret's pale face, and thought of surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel's keeping. And what would become of the house-keeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not sway her— out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the Ladies' Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable woman she would be! The Doctor would be the person to come to his senses in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.

'Well, Flora,' he said, at last, 'have you thought?'

'Do you know any cause against it?' said Flora, still looking down.

'I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his character, or conduct. Those would be a subject of enquiry, if you wish to carry this on—'

'I see you are averse,' said Flora. 'I would do nothing against your wishes—'

'My wishes have nothing to do with it,' said Dr. May. 'The point is—that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.'

'I know he is not clever,' said Flora; 'but there may be many solid qualities without talent.'

'I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I cannot see the recommendation!'

'I place myself in your hands,' said Flora, in a submissive tone, which had the effect of making him lose patience.

'Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some dislike or prejudice of my own! Don't you think I should only rejoice, to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were worthy?'

'If you do not think him so, of course, there is an end of it,' said Flora, and her voice shewed suppressed emotion.

'It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think, Flora. What I want you to do is this—to consider the matter fairly. Compare him with—I'll not say with Norman—but with Richard, Alan, Mr. Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him —come to him for advice?' (Flora never did come to anyone for advice). 'Above all—do you think him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?'

'I think you under-rate him,' said Flora, steadily; 'but, of course, if you dislike it—though, I think, you would change your mind, if you knew him better—'

'Well!' he said, as if to himself, 'It is not always the most worthy—' then continued, 'I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be assured of his father's consent, for they may very fairly object, since, what I can give you, is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and, if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle, and right feeling, as you can trust to.'

'Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.'

'Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be satisfactory.'

'I will do as you please.'

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the school-room reading, and heard Dr. May declaiming away, in the vehement manner, that always relieved him.

'Such a cub!' These were the words that met her ear; and she would have gone away, but he called her—'Come in, Ethel; Margaret says, you guessed at this affair!'

'At what affair!' exclaimed Ethel. 'Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has he done it?'

'Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!' said her father.

'You don't mean that she likes him?'

'She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!'

'She does not mean it?' said Ethel.

'Yes she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent —provided Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything outrageous; but there's no hope of that—he has not the energy. What can possess her? What can she see to admire?'

'He is good-natured,' said Margaret, 'and rather good-looking—'

'Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?'

'I am afraid it is partly the grandeur—' said Ethel.

She broke off short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora; Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself, as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted, with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting him.

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification, than would have been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief, when Flora and Meta came in together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora, whose quiet grace, and maidenly dignity, were never more conspicuous, than, as with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came forward to receive Mr. Rivers's caressing affectionate greeting.

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped, after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta's ecstacies would all be bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point.

'Now then, you are property of my own!' she cried. 'May I not take you all for sisters?'

Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice.

'Ethel,' said Meta, 'I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don't think poor George good enough for Flora.'

'I never meant to shew it,' said Ethel.

'You need not mind,' said Meta, smiling; 'I was very much surprised myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and you would think some of our relations very queer. My aunt Dorothy once told me all about it— papa was made to marry the partner's daughter, and I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don't think he could have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By-and-by, you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he married again, poor George had been so spoilt by these aunts, and was so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.'

'A great lubberly boy,' Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment.

'He is thirteen years older than I am,' said Meta, 'and you see it has been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would have given him if he had been born later; and he can't remember his mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much of—almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted good fellow he is—he has never been otherwise than so very kind to me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman, has taken him in hand; he does not care for papa's tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has a real good-temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him, and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!'

'Thank you for telling me,' said Ethel. 'It is much more satisfactory to have no shamming.'

Meta laughed, for Ethel's sham was not too successful; she continued, 'dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly matched—but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George, he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won't teaze you to be so.'

'I can like it better now,' said Ethel. 'You know Norman thinks very highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by-and-by.'

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and Ethel parted with her, liking her , at least, better than ever. There was a comical scene between her and the Doctor, trying to define what relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a good deal to mollify her father.

The history of George's life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity was, indeed, akin to love in the good Doctor's mind. In fact, George was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging—a necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in him, and a great deal of good-nature. His constant kindness, and evident liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora's perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with "the old gentleman"—a name under which she failed to recognize her father.

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts, and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about bridesmaids, than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that quite scandalized Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of her having been a six-year old bridesmaid to Flora's godmother, Mrs. Arnott.

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of everyone without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora's unaffected, quiet manner, was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations, while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage.

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his son, so an understanding arose that the wedding should take place near the end of the Christmas holidays.

Flora shewed herself sensible and considerate. Always openhanded, her father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be allowed the sight of her trousseau . Her wedding-dress, white silk, with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta's London dress-maker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils, and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when the Miss Andersons came for their inspection, to see their concealed disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels, lace, nor pocket handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable, was Margaret's beautiful marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding presents—Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own, grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these, the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never would have been shabby, and were of opinion that, when Miss Ward had married her father's surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more edifying spectacle.

The same moderation influenced Flora's other arrangements. Dr. May was resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair. If the bride had been anyone else, she could have enjoyed making all go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed with. George was glad to avoid "a great nuisance." Mr. Rivers feared the fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and, as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector, the splendours in store for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no Harry to enjoy the fun.

The bride-maiden's glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an unsatisfactory chief, for such as desired splendour. She protested against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff and grey duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin garb in the heart of winter. The baby bridesmaid was, at last, the chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan's-down. Meta was charmed with the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan, and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size, trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers' good taste could endure, as little as Dr. May's sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade to her face. Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa had a penchant for swan's-down; and, on Margaret's promising to wear a dress of the same as theirs.

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora's dislike of parade, and attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact; the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora's mind. Hitherto, she had preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family, and had encouraged the idea of Ethel's gaucherie ; but now she desired to render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to put her in good heart.

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular, necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the office, Flora would not hear of Ethel's consenting. If it were her proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade her, that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her keep house for a fortnight, with so much success, that she began to be hopeful.

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was the security; and Ethel, who had felt herself much less unhandy than before, was to succeed to the abode, in her room— Blanche being promoted, from the nursery, to the old attic. 'And,' said Flora, consolingly, 'if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on me.'

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies' Committee, to hear the reply from the Principal of the College. It was a civil letter, but declined taking any steps in the matter, without more certain intelligence of the wishes of the Incumbent of the parish, or of the holders of the land in question.

The Ladies abused all Colleges—as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson's niece to take the school, while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped the Ladies' Committee of Market Stoneborough, inflicted a severe blow on the Principal and Fellows of M— College.

'Never mind, Ethel,' said Flora. 'I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the Muses. If we can get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way, without obligations.'

'You forget the money!'

'We will keep them from dissipating it—or that might be no harm! A hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our own hands. Besides, you know, I don't mean to give up. I shall write a polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.'

'You mean to come down with the external authority,' said Ethel, smiling.

'True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won't come out, and you will find that carries all before it.

'A talisman!' said Ethel laughing. 'But I had rather they yielded to a sense of right!'

'So had I,' said Flora. 'Perhaps you will rule them that way?'

'Not I!' cried Ethel, terrified.

'Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously —I do mean that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps we shall have the Minster restored.'

Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for them, and that her situation would be turned to their profit; but there was something, for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of the two masters, whom we cannot serve at the same time?

Richard came home for 'a Parson's week,' so as to include the wedding. He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, though still gentle and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, and had, now, a very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him; and Ethel, more than anyone, except Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor histories were poured upon him; and what comparing of notes about his present school children! He could not enter into the refinements of her dread of the Ladies' Committee, and thought she might be thankful if the school were built by any proper means; for, if Cherry Elwood were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance, that did not come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend— so Ethel gave it up—feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented herself with the joy that his presence produced at Cocksmoor, where the children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with ecstacy, whenever he even looked at one of them.

Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologized for having made an engagement for him—as Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and the school Clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than assist in the service. Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no sermon; and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sisters' company, for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent on it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything.

Ethel could not see well, as far as the reading desk, but she saw her father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away; and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche's breathless whisper, 'Oh, he looks so nice!' Those white folds did truly suit well, with the meek, serious expression of the young Deacon's fair face, and made him, as his sisters afterwards said, like one of the solemnly peaceful angel-carvings of the earlier ages.

His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were too much used, either to carelessness, or to pomposity. The sermon made his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of the Gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep, and rising high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation, such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected—or, rather, they forgot all their own expectations, and Richard himself, and only recollected their own hearts, and the great future before them.

Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going to Church much better.

When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much pleased. 'So, Mr. Ritchie,' he said, 'you have made quite a sensation —everyone shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son's sermon. You will be a popular preacher at last!'

Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it would be the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves, rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject; but the Doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who were greatly delighted.

Flora's last home Sunday! She was pale and serious, evidently feeling much, though seeking no tête à têtes , and chiefly engrossed with waiting on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her mind—probably, she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable pensiveness, and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in the family, to whom she talked much, was Norman, who continued to see many perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to impress the same on the others; and to make them think his great talent for silence, such a proof of his discretion, that they were not staggered, even by his shy blundering exclamation, that his wedding would be a great nuisance—a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him, what Est il possible was to his namesake of Denmark.

Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any, though there was a careful watch kept, to see what were his first impressions. None transpired, except something about good nature, but it was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit esteem.

There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the packing, everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then the children were up early, refreshing the Christmas hollies, and working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table.

Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about; and Flora looked paler and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and, when Ethel went to the bed-room, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken down, and was kneeling beside Margaret's sofa, resting her head on her sister's bosom, and sobbing—as Ethel had never seen her weep, except on that dreadful night, after their mother's death.

In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed; but the worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. 'Oh! Margaret! I cannot leave you! Oh! how happy we have been—'

'You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,' said Margaret, fondly.

'Oh! what have I done? It is not worth it!'

Ethel thought she caught those words; but, no more, Mary's step was heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly. She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness, and even cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things, and dressing her bridemaids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and Miss Bracy. Ethel's long Scotch bones, and Mary's round, dumpy shapelessness, were, in their different ways, equally hard to overcome; and the one was swelled out with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she gasped and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about, beautiful to behold, under their shady hats; and presently, with a light tap at the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all felt, that to try to attain to such an appearance, was vain.

Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time—Dr. Hoxton's carriage was come to take up the bride.

Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own; and she quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that, just in front of her, were the little ones, over whose heads she could see her father, with Flora's veiled bending figure.

That pause, while the procession was getting into order, the slow movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the Church, brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those strange echoings on the mind, repeated in her ears the words, 'For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain—'

There was a little pause—George did not seem to be forthcoming, and Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red, and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best-man, Norman, whose countenance was at the brightest—and almost handsome.

Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, "assisted by" Richard. It had been Flora's choice; and his loud sonorous voice was thought very impressive. Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy, and important, with Flora's glove. Gertrude held Mary's hand, and gazed straight up into the fretted roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt, but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking, or feeling. She saw and heard—that was all; she could not realize.

They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as witness. She took up the pen, looked at the Flora May, written for the last time, and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half-smiling, that she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt overcome.

'No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.'

He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch, and look. The thought of his past joy—the sad fading of hope for Margaret—the fear and doubt for their present bride— above all, the sense that the fashion of this world passeth away; and that it is not the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last for ever.

The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash, that gave Ethel some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the house, where Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive them, looking very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair complexion, and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora's agitation, in the morning; but she was very calm and bright, in the affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and bridegroom, as they came in.

Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta was seized by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, George standing upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried, as she reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and drawing it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was useful.

As they came down stairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head to foot, and leaning on her; Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs, and folded his daughter in a long embrace; Flora gave herself up to it as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over her then, what the father was, whom she had held cheaply? what was the worth of that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she only clung tightly—if her heart failed her—it was too late "Bless you! my child!" he said at last. "Only be what your mother was!"

A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and Norman continuing the operation, Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round the slices. George did full justice thereto, as well as to the more solid viands. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon as George had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the last kisses were given—Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken back in haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the Continent, and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out into a piteous fit of sobbing—rather too unrestrained, considering her fourteen years.

Poor Mary, she was a very child still! They pulled her into the study, out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner said how Flora would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand school-feast, to which she was at once going to take her friends, than the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed —all the Abbotstoke children—all Flora's class at Stoneborough, and as many Cocksmoor scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fare, at one o'clock, at the Grange, and Meta was in haste to be at home to superintend the feast.

Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey went with her, under the keeping of Miss Bracy, the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking at her, ceased her coaxing importunity.

'I see,' she said, kindly; 'even school children will not be so good for you as peace.'

'Thank you,' said Ethel, 'I should like to be quiet till the evening, if you will let me off. It is very kind in you.'

'I ought to know how to pity you,' said Meta, 'I who have gained what you have lost.'

'I want to think too,' said Ethel. 'It is the beginning to me of a new life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.'

'Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret—has it been very trying to her?'

'I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be together.'

'Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.'

And quiet it was in another hour—Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr. May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard and Margaret down-stairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties that had devolved on her, and to grapple with them. She recalled the many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so bewildering, that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burnt the last torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress Margaret's eyes for order—then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, she sat down in Flora's fire-side chair, opened her desk, and took out her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside, and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper, took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had been free, was one sacrifice—it must go now, to ordering dinner, seeing after stores, watching over the children's clothes, and the other non-descripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her. Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as something of her own! She would have been thankful could she have hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly improbable—boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three notes she wrote at the foot of her paper.

N. B. These are a standard—not a bed of Procrustes.

Musts —To be first consulted.— Mays —last. Ethel May's last of all.

If I cannot do everything—omit the self-chosen.

Mem. —Neither hurry when it depends on myself, nor fidget when it depends on others.

Keep a book going, to pacify myself.

Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh, and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading.

Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him, and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case, or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements, such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the engagement.

'But why,' said Richard—'why should you wish to distress him?'

'He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.'

'Mr. Ramsden—how is he?'

'No better—he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.'

'Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the Muses? I found a note from the secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?'

'Pretty well,' said Ethel. 'Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about the mistress beating that Franklin's girl—and what do you think I did, Flora? I made bold to say the woman should shew her to papa, to see if she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled, and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in her.'

'To reward her!' said Flora. 'That is always your way—'

'Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,' said Ethel.

'You will manage the ladies at last!' cried Flora.

'Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!'

'I'll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room—'

'May not I come? said Meta. 'I must see when—'

Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of enquiring after Mr. Rivers, and then for George.

Mr. Rivers was pretty well—George, quite well, and somewhere in the garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly know him; while, Flora added, that he was delighted with the Oxford scheme.

Flora's rooms had been, already, often shewn to her sisters, when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing room, with the large bay window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.

Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced about it, to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical palace.

And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if she had been born and bred in the like.

There were signs of unpacking about the room—Flora's dressing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.

Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue and white silk.

'Paris fashions?' said Ethel, carelessly.

'Yes; but I don't parade my own dresses here,' said Flora.

'Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?'

'No!' and Meta laughed heartily.

'Your French maid's then?' said Ethel. I dare say she dresses quite as well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English maid's taste.'

'I am glad you like them,' said Flora, maliciously. 'Now, please to be good.'

'Who are they for then?' said Ethel, beginning to be frightened.

'For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is going to Oxford.'

'Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,' as Ethel saw Meta in fits of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous spring of ecstacy.

'Come!' said Flora, 'you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like, I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a scare-crow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of you. Look at yourself in the glass.'

'I'm sure I see no harm in myself,' said Ethel, turning towards the pier-glass, and surveying herself—in a white muslin, made high, a black silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and Meta, it had a scanty, school-girl effect. 'And,' she continued, quaintly, 'besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose—a good useful silk, that papa chose at Whitford —just the colour of a copper tea-kettle, where it turns purple.'

'Ethel! you will kill me!' said Meta, sinking back on the sofa.

'And, I suppose,' continued Flora, 'that you have sent it to Miss Broad's, without any directions, and she will trim it with flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and discovers—'

Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora's bed-room, and thence came forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still! The dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly, and neither in material nor ornament, were otherwise than suitable to the occasion, and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora—that she could not but feel—nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should not be spoken, till she should have consulted her father.

In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and entertained by Mary's extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary—it was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment's thought of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer womanhood.

Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked her with a fervency wanting in her own case.

She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses, and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora showed; so he only smiled at Ethel's doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt delight on the beautiful print, that she had brought him from Ary Scheffer's picture of the Great Consoler.

Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing, and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law.

Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about Flora—she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the eye.

The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret—caressing to all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she gratified Miss Bracy, by visiting her in the school-room, and talking of French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster-street, to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.

So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from Stoneborough.

Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little trouble.

He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could make them eat at the Swindon station, asking for impossible things, and wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in her hand.

'I am the more sorry,' said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten minutes, 'as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora!'

'Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr. Ogilvie,' said Flora.

'Mr. Ogilvie!' said Ethel, 'the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad! I have wanted so much to see him!'

'Ah! he is a great hero of yours,' said Flora?

'Do you know him?' said Meta.

'No; but he is a great friend of Norman's, and a Scottish cousin —Norman Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.'

'Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,' said Flora.

'This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,' said Ethel. 'It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James IV.'s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose, and had their castle burnt by the Covenanters, and since that they have been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I want to hear the rights of it! Norman is to go, some time or other, to stay at Glenbracken!'

'Yes,' said Flora, 'coming down to times present, this young heir seems worthy of his race. They are pattern people—have built a Church, and have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and very good and clever—he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work; but he is a great sportsman, George,' added she; 'you will get on with him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.'

Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing his long nose under his College cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but brightened at the sight of the party. After the question—whether there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father were coming?—and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising them his two guests, departed.

Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected the grey buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive—it was dreamy and confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to dress, till Flora, and her Frenchwoman, came in, and laid violent hands on her.

The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well, when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect.

'Well done, Flora!' he said. 'Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one of my sisters was very plain!'

'Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,' said Flora. 'Ethel is very much obliged to you. By-the-by,' she said, in her universal amity, 'I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of these days?'

Norman started—and his face said, 'Don't.'

'O, very well; it is as you please. I though it would please Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protégé of yours. What has he been doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton was boasting of his two scholars.'

'Ask him,' said Norman, hurriedly. 'At least,' said he, 'do not let anything from me prevent you.'

'Has he been doing anything wrong?' reiterated Flora.

'Not that I know of,' was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet, and tame, as he used to be in the school-boy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learnt the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was going on between the others.

The dinner went off well—there were few enough for the conversation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each other—Flora put in a word or two—Ethel grew so much interested in the discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had been only between her father and brother—keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case, to sketch the colloquy, for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her, for never allowing anyone to think of rest. Meta said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted—the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his College were, for having insisted on her brother's sending in his poem. 'Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction, next week,' he said.

'Have you seen it?' she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative movement of his head.

'I read my friend's poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give me my cue—it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages—something beginning with "O woman!" but it is well to be in readiness—if you would only forewarn me of the telling hits?'

'If they cannot tell themselves,' said Ethel, smiling, 'I don't think they deserve the name.'

'Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively, is not always what ought to tell on them.'

'I don't know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them and with me.'

'I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a copy here—made by yourself—' and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman were looking.

'Let me see,' he said, as she paused to open the MS., 'he told me the thoughts were more yours than his own.'

'Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked over between us; the rest is all his own.'

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance shew evident tokens of surprise and feeling.

'Yes,' he said, presently, 'May goes deep—deeper than most men—though I doubt whether they will applaud this.'

'I should like it better if they did not,' said Ethel. 'It is rather to be felt than shouted at.'

'And I don't know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men would do much without the hope of fame,' said Norman Ogilvie.

'Is it the question what they would do?' said Ethel.

'So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother's philosophy comes from.

'I do not call it a low motive—' Her pause was expressive.

'Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something divine?'

'For a heathen—yes.'

'And pray, what would you have the moving spring?'

'Duty.'

'Would not that end in, "Mine be a cot, beside the rill?"' said he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment.

'Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the yoke—or Winkelried on the spears?'

'Nay, why not—"It is my duty to take care of Lucy."'

'Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.'

'Not at all! It is Lucy's duty to keep her Colin from running into danger.'

'I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so.'

Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend Mr. Everard, and had learnt from him that the cause of the hesitation, with which his name had been received, was that he had become imbued with some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among their own immediate contemporaries. Norman's powers of argument, his eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high, and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious brilliancy of his rival.

Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the day.

'Why, Flora! ask him! Norman—'

Norman had turned away with the simple answer, "any day."

'Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,' said Flora. He knows that Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful and becoming.'

'I do not think it right,' said Ethel, stoutly; 'I believe that a a line ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who openly tamper with their faith.'

'Never fear,' smiled Flora; 'I promise you that there shall be no debates at my table.'

Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the window.

'It is vain to argue with her,' she said: 'but, Norman, do not you think it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny—'

She stopped short, frightened at his pale look.

He spoke in a clear low tone, that seemed to thrill her with a sort of alarm. 'If the secrets of men's hearts were probed, who could cast the first stone?'

'I don't want to cast stones,' she began; but he made a gesture as if he would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room.

Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother's meaning—here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with the new scenes around, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb , which a few years bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin.

Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the "eight" whose success in the boat-races was one of Norman's prime interests, and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father's old Cambridge adventures.

He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other, and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appeared on the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on hers, though he was too good and serious at heart to carry it too far.

At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense, and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe Mayflower's well, he gathered a fern leaf, to shew her the Glenbracken badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister Marjorie, and the little Church in the rocky glen. He gave the history of the stolen meetings of the little knot of Churchmen during the days of persecution, and shewed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie who was "out with Montrose," now that the upper structure of young England was for a little while put aside.

After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman's mind, and he was very anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains.

Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish, Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken.

After Norman's visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well remembered, and now nothing should keep him away!

Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel's development—her abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished, that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing fainter every day.

The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent the invitation without another word—he came with half-a-dozen other gentlemen—Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her, and she thought of him no more.

'A lucky step!' thought Flora. 'A grand thing for Ethel—a capital connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.'

It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure, how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety.

The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta's vivacity into sunny sparkles.

Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented with his lionizings, which were given much more quietly and copiously than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways, showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to find greater security in Norman May's assistance, though it was but a feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step.

Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry, or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burthen hung upon him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the enjoyment of the party.

On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments of Church service, they went to walk in Christchurch meadows. They had begun altogether by comparing feelings—Ethel wondering whether Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie's, to speculate whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from beneath—with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked into his future life.

Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances of his blunders.

Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear Abbotstoke Church, and Mr. Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this earth could render them, were being offered up.

Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was quite comfortable.

Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise, with pure lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.— Her last thought she spoke aloud.

'I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to turn into praise,' she said.

'It was an accident,' said Ethel, looking straight before her. 'It was when papa's arm was hurt. The carriage was overturned.'

'And—' repeated Dr. Spencer, earnestly.

'She was killed on the spot,' said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.

He was dreadfully shocked—she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight, suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt, 'Margaret had some harm done to her spine—she cannot walk.'

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.

They had just passed Mr. Bramshaw's office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, 'Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!' and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.

'Miss Ethel!' he said, breathlessly, 'I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?'

'No!' said Ethel. 'Have they had that paper at home?'

'Not that I know of,' said Edward. 'My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it—not while Dr. May was away.'

'Thank you—that was very kind of you.'

'And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?'

'We hope not,' said Ethel, kindly—'we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on.'

'I am so glad,' said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. 'We are very anxious for news of my next brother's ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific—'

'More!' exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; 'Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!'

'He is not unhappy,' said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.

'How long ago was this?' said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.

'Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good.'

'When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!' he sighed, then collecting himself. 'Forgive me, I have given you pain.'

'No,' she said, 'or rather, I gave you more.'

'I knew her—' and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, 'This garden is not much altered.'

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels—'But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!'

'A startling anouncement!' said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors.

'Ethel! Ethel! screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.'

'That will do! that will do, old man—let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my dear.'

Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?

'Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins's poor baby.'

'George Larkins has been here,' said Aubrey. 'And I have finished Vipera et lima , Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!'

'What is your name, youngster?' said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on Aubrey's head.

'Aubrey Spencer May,' was the answer.

'Hey day! where did you steal my name?' exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.

'Oh!' exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, 'Is it really the boy that climbed the market cross?'

'You see your fame lives here,' said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer evidently heard.

'He was a little boy!' said Aubrey, indignantly, looking at the grey-haired man.

'There!' said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.

'The tables turned!' he said, laughing heartily. 'But do not let me keep you—You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?'

'I am all of them,' said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true good-breeding.

There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her home-sick Ethel. 'Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you would have been happy there!'

'So I was,' said Ethel, hastily; 'but who do you think I have brought home?' Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, ran after her, and checked her.

'Ethel, have you heard?' she said.

'Have you?' said Ethel.

'George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not believe it.'

'And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary.'

'Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?' Poor Mary's full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh of weep, in full faith in her sister's answer.

Ethel told of Meta's captain, and the smile predominated, and settled down into Mary's usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable.

Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstacies with him.

They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.

She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of turmoil.

Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of her papa's presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and conscious by them.

She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she heard her father come home, among the children's loud welcomes, and go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their rooms.

'So Margaret does not know?' he said.

'No, Mary has been so very good;' and she told what had passed.

'Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you see!'

'And we don't speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we keep things from her?'

'That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it.'

'Won't you, papa?'—

'You had better—It will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it myself—'

Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the subject to Margaret.

'How was the Larkins' baby?'

'Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?'

'I put him into Richard's room. The children were eating him up! He is so kind to them.'

'Aye! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with me.'

'What a delightful person he is!'

'Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you what I owed to him as a boy—all my life, I may say— Ethel,' he added, suddenly; 'we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now—I never guessed it then , but one is very hard and selfish when one is happy—'

'What do you mean, papa?'

I see it now,' continued Dr. May, incoherently; 'the cause of his wandering life—advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he banished himself!'

'Why?' asked Ethel, bewildered.

'She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said —nor did he say, to show how he sacrificed himself!'

'Who was it? Aunt Flora?' said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning.

'I own I have not stirred in the matter,' said Dr. May. 'I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with—' and, as he heard a sound a little like 'pish!' he continued, 'and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head—or no head. There's nothing for it, but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independant, insubordinate action.'

'You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!'

'The cure is worse than the disease!'

'There spoke the Corporation!'

'Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.'

'Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee, swinging on hooks in in his sides.

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary Clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship, and example, of the English physician.

'Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,' said Dr. May.

'I dare say you have, Dick!' and they both laughed—the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.

'Just so ,' replied Dr. May; 'and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right—I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don't write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been.'

'I see, I see!' said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, 'but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?'

'The Vicar won't stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him, for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me, than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it.'

'Who is he?'

'Sir Henry Walkinghame.'

'Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him—irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh's tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!

'I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.'

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and grey loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.

'No thank you.' (He had them by this time). 'But I am going to Cocksmoor.'

'Will you allow me to be your companion?'

'I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone,' said she, smiling, however, so as to shew she was glad of such pleasant company. 'I forewarn you though that I have business there.'

'I will find occupation.'

'And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can't have papa set against it again—besides, he would mind you more.'

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange waggoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be "lions in the path."

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.

'If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?' he asked. 'You know it will not do to go and say, "Be pleased to give me a piece of land," without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land's End.'

'I see, that was one of the blunders,' said Ethel. 'But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry.'

They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very ill—he had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and only contained these few words:—

Dear E.

I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my things.

R. M.

Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness, but it was but for a moment—the next she was in a state of over bustle and eagerness. She wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.

'Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.'

'I? I can't be of any use! Oh! if you could go! If Flora were but here! But I must go, Margaret.'

'I will put up your father's things,' said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing tone. 'The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be full time.'

Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel's own goods, which she would otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of council, that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.

Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory over head, and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the Life Everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel's agitation was calmed away.

The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary, from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad, home party. She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta's room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta's voice was more cheerful than she had expected. 'How kind of you, dear Ethel!'

'Papa sent for me,' said Ethel.

'He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?'

'Oh, yes! but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.'

'He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,' said Meta. 'If he only would! But will you come up to my room. That is nearer.'

'Is papa with him?'

'Yes.'

Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure.

Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days' weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his countenance at once.

Not so Meta. 'How is he? May I go to him?' cried she.

'Not now, my dear,' said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. 'Yes, my dear, the struggle is over.'

'The election? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned?'

'Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to stand. The only danger is, that Sir Henry Walkinghame should think of it.'

'Rivers in parliament! Well, sound men are wanted.'

'Fancy Flora, our member's wife. How well she will become her position.'

'How soon is it likely to be?'

'Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news (Papa says he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch of comparative anatomy), found out from the Clevelands, that Mr. Esdaile meant to retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to take the field at once, that papa was afraid of its hurting her, and Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her baby.'

'Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to understand each other.'

'Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogilvie to come and stand.'

'I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfil his old promise of coming to us.'

'I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called after her.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Norman.

'Yes, I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George's aunt, but Flora is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meta. I am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one should have been chosen.'

'Has Meta been comfortable?'

'Dear little thing! Everyone says how beautifully she has behaved. She brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained, what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with her, and asked leave to go on. Very few could have been set aside so simply and sweetly in their own house.'

'Flora was sensible of it, I hope.'

'O yes. She took the management of course, but Meta is charmed with her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and George makes the stable men go to Church—a matter which had been past Meta, as you may guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned herself quite astonished.'

'I wonder only at her being astonished.'

'Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations, with no one to accommodate them to. But she would not give way— she set up more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving singing lessons at Cocksmoor; and she forced herself to read, though it was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora.'

'Is Ethel there?'

'No; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils about sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.'

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

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

'At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah! you have the Claude, I see.'

'Yes, it is too large for this room; but papa put it here that I might enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the sunset light.

Norman was soon at Abbotstoke; and, as he drew his rein, Meta's bright face nodded to him from Flora's sitting-room window; and, as he passed the conservatory, the little person met him, with a summons, at once, to his sister.

He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered with notes and papers. She was sitting up writing; and, though somewhat pale, was very smiling and animated.

'Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing!'

'Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.'

'They want to make a regular prisoner of me,' said Flora, laughing. 'Papa is as bad as the old nurse! But he has not been here to-day, so I have had my own way. Did you meet George?'

'No; but Margaret said he had been with her.'

'I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. If he found it so, he meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw; for, though he is so dull, we must make him agent.'

'Is there any danger of opposition?'

'None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa's name will secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward, so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat.'

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called, 'Ethel, can you come and speak to me?'

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. Go! go, Ethel,' she said, 'don't keep me waiting.'

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said, 'Is it?' and he made a sorrowful gesture.

'Both?' she asked.

'Both,' he repeated. 'The ship burnt—the boat lost.'

'Ethel, come!' hoarsely called Margaret.

'Take it,' said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; 'I will wait.'

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list began thus— Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe. Mr. Charles Owen, Mate. Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year. There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr. Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the other boats' crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way home.

'O Margaret, Margaret!' cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face. 'I did not write the letter!' she said.

'What letter?' said Ethel, alarmed.

'Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is well.'

'All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.'

'He never had the pain. It is unbroken!' continued Margaret, her eyes brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer.

'As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, except Tomkins, and even he held his tongue; I did not think it of them,' said the Doctor, almost overcome; 'but there is much more goodness of heart in the world than one gives it credit for.'

And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was like himself.

'But it was Richard's own doing,' he continued. 'Those sermons made a great impression, and they love the boy, because he has grown up among them. The old Mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard.'

'Good old Mr. Doddesley! I can see him!' cried Ethel.

'I expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; but no, he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view —they liked him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took after his fathers that went before him— and they thought we might like to have him settled near!'

'How very kind!' said Margaret, as the tears came. 'We shall love our own townsfolk better than ever!'

'I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm, sound hearts, every one of them! I declare, I did not know which way to look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.'

'Disappoint them!' cried Margaret, in consternation.

'I was thinking,' said Ethel. 'I do not believe Richard would think himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so diffident.'

'Yes,' said Dr. May, 'if he were ten or twelve years older, it would be another thing; but here, where everything is to be done, he would not bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death, for individuals, without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very sorry to have disappointed you so much—it would have been as great a pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here—'

'And Cocksmoor,' sighed Ethel.

'I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of it,' continued the Doctor; 'but look you here, it was my business to get the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, I believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals; I don't think we can conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best Vicar for Stoneborough.'

Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret. 'Besides,' continued Dr. May, 'after having staved off the sale of the presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.'

Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared the refusal.

'I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the right and consideration for us. A Vicar here ought to carry things with a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man's own home, especially for a quiet lad like him.'

'Yes, papa, it was quite right,' said Margaret, recovering herself;' it has spared Richard a great deal.'

'But are we to have Mr. Wilmot?' said Ethel. 'Think of our not having heard!'

'Aye. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his calibre, perhaps I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had.—With help, and Ethel—'

'No, no! papa,' said Margaret. 'You are making me angry with myself for my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, and for us all, as well as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot!'

'He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school!' cried Ethel. 'How did you manage it?'

'I did not manage at all,' said the Doctor. 'I told them exactly my mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work; and though no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, and I thought he deserved something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second master. Tomkins growled a little, but, fortunately, no one was prepared with another proposal, so they all came round, and the Mayor is to write by this evening's post, and so shall I. If we could only have given Richard a dozen more years!'

Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for Richard, and now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than ever. His soft calm manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers; but her father's decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had to undergo more toil and annoyance, than perhaps his health would have endured.

Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters, on her father's proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did not tend to peace with Ethel; but she told her husband that she did not regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income, and his father's likewise, in paying Curates, and raising funds for charities. She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as he was, of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the Ladies' Committee.

However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time, his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed, and soon was installed in his own place, with his god-daughter, Mary, blushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee.

'Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor? How like old times!'

'Oh!' cried Ethel, 'we are so glad you will see the beginning of the school!'

'I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.'

'Much against Ethel's will,' said Margaret; 'but we thought Cherry not easily spoilt. And Whitford school seems to be in very good order. Dr. Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the authorities.'

'Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,' said Dr. May. 'I have some hopes of Stoneborough now.'

Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after Granny Hall, and the children.

'Polly grew up quite civilized,' said Ethel. 'She lives at Whitford, with some very respectable people, and sends Granny presents, which make her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded her to go to Church in it, though, she said, what she called the moon of it, was too small.'

'How do the people go on?'

'I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done nothing. So very few go to Church regularly.

'None at all went in my time,' said Mr. Wilmot.

'Elwood always goes,' said Mary, 'and Taylor; yes, and Sam Hall, very often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk home with the children.'

'The children? the Sunday scholars?'

'Oh! everyone, that is big enough, comes to school now, here, on Sunday. If only the teaching were better—'

'Have you sent out any more pupils to service?'

'Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer's little groom,' said Ethel.

'But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the Doctor's patience to train him,' added Margaret.

'It is hard,' said Dr. May. 'He did it purely to oblige Ethel; and, I tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.'

Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie Brown.

'There was Ben Wheeler,' said Mary, 'who went to work in the quarries; and the men could not teach him to say bad words, because the young ladies told him not.'

'The young ladies have not quite done nothing,' said Dr. May, smiling.

'These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the chief of them,' said Ethel. 'Oh! it is grievously bad still,' she added, sighing. 'Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and tampers, such godlessness altogether! It is only surface-work, taming the children at school, while they have such homes; and their parents—even if they do come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as they call it—turned out of their places in Church, and they will not run the chance.'

'The Church must come to them,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'Could the school be made fit to be licensed for Service.'

'Ask our architect? said Dr. May. 'There can be little doubt.'

'I have been settling that I must have a Curate specially for Cocksmoor,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'Can you tell me of one, Ethel—or perhaps Margaret could?'

Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating.

'Seriously,' said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, 'do you think Richard would come and help us here?'

'This seems to be his destiny,' said the Doctor, smiling, 'only it would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous—that the Town Council had a great mind for him.'

The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal more struck by Dr. May's conduct, than the good Doctor thought it deserved. Everyone was only too glad that Richard should come as Cocksmoor Curate; and, though the stipend was very small— since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other assistance—yet, by living at home, it might be feasible.

Margaret's last words that night to Ethel were, 'The last wish I had dared to make is granted!'

Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal, and engaged to come home as soon as his present Rector could find a substitute.

Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to such possibilities in designing the plan of the school.

The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot's coming was, that Dr. Spencer was cured of the vagrant habits of going to Church at Abbotstoke or Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend, Dr. May, who could never get any answer from him except that he was not a Town Councillor, and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the sermon.

To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the Minster to a far less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week-day. It was at first pronounced that time could not be found for going to Church on week-days without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose to the school-room, began gradually to slip down to Church whenever the Service was neither too early nor too late; and Gertrude was often found trotting by her side—going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it, from some confusion between the Church and the Cloister, which Ethel was in no hurry to disturb.

Lectures in Lent filled the Church a good deal, as much perhaps from the novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to pastoral care, that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged to report cases of sickness to the Clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than Ethel had expected.

Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable assistant in Dr. Spencer. Everyone respected the opinion of the travelled Doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence. As to the Ladies' Committee, though there had been expressions of dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one of the whole "Aonian choir" liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it only the natural state of things, that the Vicar should reign over the charities of the place.

The Committee was not dissolved—that would have been an act of violence—but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his Curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the books—a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot, had been the chief mover.

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper of the lending library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up, now that the period was over, of each "doing right in her own eyes."

'In fact,' said Dr. Spencer, 'when women have enough to do, they are perfectly tractable.'

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel's chief anxiety. It seemed as if now there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon, since poor Alan Ernescliffe's annual £10 was at an end. However, Dr. May leant over her as she was puzzling over her pounds shillings and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face. 'We must make Cocksmoor Harry's heir,' he said.

By-and-by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe's mind. The boy's letters to Margaret had been brief, matter of fact, and discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays, but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret.

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern Captain, to the fatherly warm-hearted Doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the pleasure of possession had not come yet; he had no companion of his own age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to his tenants and neighbours.

There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the Captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to read.—The Captain was always at him to read musty old improving books, and talking about the position he would occupy! The evenings were altogether unbearable, and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other—and very well matched too! He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy, who wrote a letter to the Times , complaining of extra weeks.

As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had spoken to the Captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone and answered that it was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor had no claims upon him, and he could not make it up out of his allowance; for the old fellow would not give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that was too much.

There was a great blur over the words "wooden-head," as if Hector had known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not shew his subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so much, that Hector's writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneborough. Each letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged her not to think about them.

'Nothing can do me much good, or harm, now,' said Margaret; and seeing Ethel's anxious looks, 'Is it not my greatest comfort that Hector can still treat me as his sister, or, if I can only be of any use in keeping him patient? Only think of the danger of a boy, in his situation, being left without sympathy!'

There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to thoughts, and conversation; indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to! However, he was a good deal tranquilized by an introduction to Dr. Spencer's laboratory, where he compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm than was reasonable, to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that, if Tom had chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have regretted a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful of his own beauty to do any such thing.

Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and heartily grateful for the part his father had taken. To work at Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot, and to live at home, was felicity; and he fitted at once into his old place, and resumed all the little home services for which he had been always famed. Ethel was certain that Margaret was content, when she saw her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family, was something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and demonstrative than he was.

Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The inhabitants were still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some effect—some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all, glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel's perseverance had done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate scholars shewed the influence of her lessons.

'That you have!' said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of being again treated as his friend.

'I want to consult you. Don't you think now that Richard is settled at home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be spared.'

'Spared!' exclaimed Ethel. 'You are not much at home.'

'I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish—' he paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. 'Do you think it would give my father too much pain to part with me as a Missionary to New Zealand?'

She could only gaze at him in mute amazement.

'Do you think he could bear it?' said Norman, hastily.

'He would consent,' she replied. 'O Norman, it is the most glorious thing man can do! How I wish I could go with you.'

'Your mission is here,' said Norman, affectionately.

'I know it is—I am contented with it,' said Ethel; 'but oh! Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more excellent way.'

'Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives as yours.'

She made a sound of inquiry.

'I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish life of competition and controversy—'

'I thought you were so happy with your Fellowship. I thought Oxford was your delight.'

'She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted or perplexed.'

'Perplexed?' repeated Ethel.

'It is not so now,' he replied. 'God forbid! But where better men have been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.'

'You knew it!' said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.

'I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.'

Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, 'It is past.'

'Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know it.'

'When was this?' she asked, timidly.

'The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought to read this book, and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Any way, they left a sting. It might be, that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue, chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.'

Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of self-contemplation.

'I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have seen into the secrets beneath.'

Ethel took hold of his hand. 'You seemed bright,' she said.

'It melted like a bad dream before—before the humming-bird, and with my father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.'

'How could you? Was it safe?'

'I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or—or—things at the Grange, would bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.'

'I suppose examination was right,' said Ethel, 'for a man, and defender of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought away. But I can't tell how it feels.'

'Worse than you have power to imagine,' said Norman, shuddering. 'It is over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on our side.'

'And prayed—' said Ethel.

'Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever. It had never gone for a whole day.'

Ethel breathed freely. 'It was life or death,' she said, 'and we never knew it!'

'Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me. And far more than argument, was the thought of my father's heart-whole Christian love and strength.'

'Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a bewilderment of your intellect.'

'I think you are right,' said Norman. 'To me the doubt was cruel agony—not the amusement it seems to some.'

'Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,' said Ethel. 'And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?' she still asked, anxiously.

He stood still. 'For ever, I trust,' he said. 'I hold the faith of my childhood in all its fullness as surely as—as ever I loved my mother and Harry.'

Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks—Ethel sprang to her, 'Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don't you see? Speak to her, Harry.'

He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, exclaimed, 'Mary, dear old Polly, here I am! O, won't you speak to me?' he added, piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed her, startled at the cold touch of her cheek.

The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that rang through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry's hand convulsively.

'What have I done?' he exclaimed, in distress.

'What's this! Who is this frightening my dear?' was old nurse's exclamation, as she and James came, at the outcry.

'O nurse, what have I done to her?' repeated Harry.

'It is joy—it is sudden joy!' said Ethel. 'See, she is better now—'

'Master Harry! Well, I never!' and James, with one wring of the hand, retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the time that he didn't ought to have come in such a way, terrifying everyone out of their senses! and as for poor Miss May—

'Where is she?' cried Harry, starting at the sight of the vacant sofa.

'Only up-stairs,' said Ethel; 'but where's Alan? Is not he come?'

'Oh! Ethel, don't you know?' His face told but too plainly.

'Nurse! nurse, how shall we tell her?' said Ethel.

'Poor dear!' exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof of her mouth. 'She'll never abear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that, when Master Harry is come back such a bonny man!'

'I'm better now,' said Mary, with an effort. 'Oh! Harry, speak to me again.'

'But Margaret!' said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary in his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstacy, upon his breast—'but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. I'll come, when I can speak quietly—Oh! poor Margaret! If Richard would but come in!'

Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult of joy, grief, dread, and perplexity.—At that moment a little voice said at the door, 'Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly.'

'At a shop at Auckland,' said Harry, much amused.

'Kept by a savage?' said Tom, to whom it was no laughing matter. 'See that seam!'

'Have done, May!' exclaimed Hector. 'He will think you a tailor's apprentice!'

'Or worse,' said Norman. 'River's tailor kept all strictures to himself.'

Tom muttered that he only wanted Harry to be fit to be seen by the fellows.

'The fellows are not such asses as you!' cried Hector. 'You don't deserve that he should come to see you. If my—'

There poor Hector broke off. If his own only brother had been walking beside him, how would he not have felt? They had reached their tutor's house, and, opening his own door, he made an imploring sign to Harry to enter with him. On the table lay a letter from Margaret, and another which Harry had written to him from Auckland.

'Oh, Harry, you were with him,' he said; 'tell me all about him.'

And he established himself, with his face hidden on the table, uttering nothing, except, 'Go on,' whenever Harry's voice failed in the narration. When something was said of 'all for the best,' he burst out, 'He might say so. I suppose one ought to think so. But is not it hard, when I had nobody but him? And there was Maplewood; and I might have been so happy there, with him and Margaret.'

'They say nothing could have made Margaret well,' said Harry.

'I don't care; he would have married her all the same, and we should have made her so happy at Maplewood. I hate the place! I wish it were at Jericho!'

'You are captain of the ship now,' said Harry, 'and you must make the best of it.'

'I can't. It will never be home. Home is with Margaret, and the rest of them.'

'So Alan said he hoped you would make it; and you are just like one of us, you know.'

'What's the use of that, when Captain Gordon will not let me go near you. Taking me to that abominable Maplewood last Easter, with half the house shut up, and all horrid! And he is as dry as a stick!'

'The Captain!' cried Harry, angrily. 'There's not a better Captain to sail with in the whole navy, and your brother would be the first to tell you so! I'm not discharged yet, Hector—you had better look out what you say!'

'May be, he is the best to sail with, but that is not being the best to live with,' said the heir of Maplewood, disconsolately. 'Alan himself always said he never knew what home was, till he got to your father and Margaret.'

'So will you,' said Harry; 'why, my father is your master, or whatever you may call it.'

'No, Captain Gordon is my guardian.'

'Eh! what's become of the will then?'

'What will?' cried Hector. 'Did Alan make one after all?'

'Aye. At Valparaiso, he had a touch of fever; I went ashore to nurse him, to a merchant's, who took us in for love of our Scottish blood. Mr. Ernescliffe made a will there, and left it in his charge.'

'Do you think he made Dr. May my guardian?'

'He asked me whether I thought he would dislike it, and I told him, no.'

'That's right!' cried Hector. 'That's like dear old Alan! I shall get back to the Doctor and Margaret after all. Mind you write to the Captain, Harry!'

Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, but Harry paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make such a fool of himself as he had done to-day.

'Not he,' said Hector. 'He is liked as much as anyone in the house—he has been five times sent up for good. See there in the Eton list! He is a real clever fellow.'

'Aye, but what's the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy?'

'Oh, he'll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is a puppy for a bit,' said Hector, philosophically.

Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, and, hearing it was from the desire to see his brother respectable— Stoneborough men never cared for what they looked like, and he must have Harry do himself credit.

'You need not fear,' said Norman. 'He did not require Eton to make him a gentleman. How now? Why Tom, old man, you are not taking that to heart? That's all over long ago.'

For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad's memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect that there was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to trifles. He was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever found the way to anything like confidence, and Norman had vexed him by the proposal he had made in the holidays.

He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd undecided gaze.

'Well, what now, old fellow?' said Norman, half fearing ' that ' might not be absolutely over. 'One would think you were not glad to see Harry.'

'What does the Captain say?' asked Harry.

'He is rather astounded, but he owns that the estate can bear it, for old Halliday had saved a great deal, and there will be more before Hector comes of age.'

'And Hector?'

'Yes, we get him back. I am fellow-trustee with Captain Gordon, and as to personal guardianship, I fancy the Captain found he could not make the boy happy, and thinks you no bad specimen of our training.'

'Famous!' cried Harry. 'Hector will hurrah now! Is that all?'

'Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish relations. But poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don't be long in coming.'

With all Ethel's reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable how her force of character made her always called for whenever there was the least dread of a scene.

She turned abruptly from Harry; and, going outside the window, tried to realize and comprehend the tidings, but all she could have time to discover was that Alan's memory was dearer to her than ever, and she was obliged to hasten up-stairs.

Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the other; she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret's fair wan face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating smiles.

'I thought so,' she said, as Ethel came in. 'Dear Ethel, are you not glad?'

'I think I am,' said Ethel, putting her hands to her brow.

'You think!' exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed.

'I beg your pardon,' said Ethel, with quivering lip. 'Dear Margaret, I am glad—don't you believe I am, but somehow, it is harder to deal with joy than grief. It confuses one! Dear Alan—and then to have been set on it so long—to have prayed so for it, and to have it come in this way—by your—'

'Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have done it. He used to make projects when he was here, but he would not let me tell you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood—whereas this would have been his pleasure.'

'Dear Alan!' repeated Ethel. 'If you are so kind, so dear as to be glad, Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.'

Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of rejoicing which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstacy of the fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had intended; he had figured to himself unmixed joy, and she wanted to see it, and something of the wayward impatience of weakness throbbed at her heart, as Ethel paced the room, and disappeared in her own curtained recess.

'Asleep,' he said; 'I hope the pulses are quieter. All depends on her wakening.'

'Poor, poor Flora,' said Meta, wiping away her tears.

'What have you done with the woman?'

'I sent her to Mrs. Larpent's. I knew she would receive her and keep her till she could write to her friends. Bellairs took her, but I could hardly speak to her—'

'She did it ignorantly,' said Dr. May.

'I could never be so merciful and forbearing as you,' said Meta.

'Ah! my dear, you will never have the same cause!'

They could say no more, for George awoke, and the argument of his exclusion had to be gone through again. He could not enter into it by any means; and when Dr. May would have made him understand that poor Flora could not acquit herself of neglect, and that even his affection was too painful for her in the present state; he broke into a vehement angry defence of her devotion to her child, treating Dr. May as if the accusation came from him; and when the Doctor and Meta had persuaded him out of this, he next imagined that his father-in-law feared that he was going to reproach his wife; and there was no making him comprehend more than, that if she were not kept quiet, she might have a serious illness.

Even then, he insisted on going to look at her, and Dr. May could not prevent him from pressing his lips to her forehead. She half-opened her eyes, and murmured "good-night," and by this he was a little comforted; but he would hear of nothing but sitting up, and Meta would have done the same, but for an absolute decree of the Doctor.

It was a relief to Dr. May, that George's vigil soon became a sound repose on the sofa in the dressing-room; and he was left to read and muse uninterruptedly.

It was far past two o'clock before there was any movement; then Flora drew a long breath, stirred, and, as her father came and drew her hand into his, before she was well awake, she gave a long, wondering whisper—'Oh! papa! papa!' then sitting up, and passing her hand over her eyes, 'Is it all true?'

'It is true,' my own poor dear,' said Dr. May, supporting her, as she rested against his arm, and hid her face on his shoulder, while her breath came short, and she shivered under the renewed perception, 'She is gone to wait for you.'

'Hush! Oh don't! papa!' said Flora, her voice shortened by anguish. 'O, think why—'

'Nay, Flora, do not, do not speak as if that should exclude peace, or hope!' said Dr. May, entreatingly. 'Besides, it was no wilful neglect—you had other duties—'

'I cannot think what he will do or feel?' sighed Ethel.

'Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see her better before post time.'

'You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall,' said Ethel, abruptly, not to say fiercely.

'Ho! you don't trust me?' said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that she was ashamed of her speech. 'You shall speak for yourself, and I for myself; and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her as to have others sacrificed to her.'

'That is true,' said Ethel; 'but she misses papa.'

'Of course she does; but, depend on it, she would not have him leave your sister, and she is under less restraint without him.

'I never saw her like this!'

'The drop has made it overflow. She has repressed more than was good for her, and now that her guard is broken down, she gives way under the whole weight.'

'Poor Margaret! I am pertinacious; but, if she is not better by post time, papa will not bear to be away.'

'I'll tell you what I think of her by that time. Send up your brother Richard, if you wish to do her good. Richard would be a much better person to write than yourself. I perceive that he is the reasonable member of the family.'

'Did not you know that before?'

'All I knew of him, till last night, was, that no one could, by any possibility, call him Dick.'

Dr. Spencer was glad to have dismissed Ethel smiling; and she was the better able to bear with poor Margaret's condition of petulance. She had never before experienced the effects of bodily ailments on the temper, and she was slow to understand the change in one usually so patient and submissive. She was, by turns, displeased with her sister and with her own abruptness; but, though she knew it not, her bluntness had a bracing effect. She thought she had been cross in declaring it was nonsense to harp on her going to London; but it made Margaret feel that she had been unreasonable, and keep silence.

Richard managed her much better, being gentle and firm, and less ready to speak than Ethel, and he succeeded in composing her into a sleep, which restored her balance, and so relieved Ethel, that she not only allowed Dr. Spencer to say what he pleased, but herself made light of the whole attack, little knowing how perilous was any shock to that delicate frame.

Margaret's whole purpose was to wind herself up for the first interview with Flora; and, though she had returned to her usual state, she would not go down-stairs on the evening the party were expected, believing it would be more grateful to her sister's feelings to meet her without witnesses.

The travellers arrived, and Dr. May hurried up to her. She barely replied to his caresses and enquiries in her eagerness to hear of Flora, and to convince him that he must not forbid the meeting. Nor had he any mind so to do. 'Surely,' said he, when he had seen the spiritualized look of her glistening blue eyes, the flush on her transparent cheeks, and her hands clasped over her breast, 'surely poor Flora must feel as though an angel were waiting to comfort her.'

Flora came, but there was sore disappointment. Fond and tender she was as ever, but, neither by word nor gesture, would she admit the most remote allusion to her grief. She withdrew her hand when Margaret's pressure became expressive; she avoided her eye, and spoke incessantly of indifferent subjects. All the time, her voice was low and hollow, her face had a settled expression of wretchedness, and her glances wandered drearily and restlessly anywhere but to Margaret's face; but her steadiness of manner was beyond her sister's power to break, and her visit was shortened on account of her husband. Poor George had quite given way at the sight of Gertrude, whom his little girl had been thought to resemble; and, though Dr. May had soothed him almost like a child, no one put any trust in his self-control, and all sat round, fearing each word or look, till Flora came down-stairs, and they departed.

Richard and Ethel each offered to go with them; they could not bear to think of their spending that first evening in their childless home, but Flora gently, but decidedly refused; and Dr. May said that, much as he wished to be with them, he believed that Flora preferred having no one but Meta. 'I hope I have done Margaret no harm,' were Flora's last words to him, and they seemed to explain her guarded manner; but he found Margaret weeping as she had never wept for herself, and palpitation and faintness were the consequence.

Ethel looked on at Flora as a sad and perplexing mystery during the weeks that ensued. There were few opportunities of being alone together, and Flora shrank from such as there were—nay, she checked all expression of solicitude, and made her very kisses rapid and formal.

The sorrow that had fallen on the Grange seemed to have changed none of the usual habits there—visiting, riding, driving, dinners, and music, went on with little check. Flora was sure to be found the animated, attentive lady of the house, or else sharing her husband's pursuits, helping him with his business, or assisting him in seeking pleasure, spending whole afternoons at the coachmaker's, over a carriage that they were building, and, it was reported, playing ecarté in the evening.

Had grief come to be forgotten and cast aside without effecting any mission? Yet Ethel could not believe that the presence of the awful messenger was unfelt, when she heard poor George's heavy sigh, or when she looked at Flora's countenance, and heard the peculiar low, subdued tone of her voice, which, when her words were most cheerful, always seemed to Ethel the resigned accent of despair.

Ethel could not talk her over with Margaret, for all seemed to make it a point that Margaret should believe the best. Dr. May turned from the subject with a sort of shuddering grief, and said, 'Don't talk of her, poor child—only pray for her!'

Ethel, though shocked by the unwonted manner of his answer, was somewhat consoled by perceiving that a double measure of tenderness had sprung up between her father and his poor daughter. If Flora had seemed, in her girlhood, to rate him almost cheaply, this was at an end now; she met him as if his embrace were peace, the gloom was lightened, the attention less strained, when he was beside her, and she could not part with him without pressing for a speedy meeting. Yet, she treated him with the same reserve; since that one ghastly revelation of the secrets of her heart, the veil had been closely drawn, and he could not guess whether it had been but a horrible thought, or were still an abiding impression. Ethel could gather no more than that her father was very unhappy about Flora, and that Richard understood why; for Richard had told her that he had written to Flora, to try to persuade her to cease from this reserve, but that he had no reply.

Norman was not at home; he had undertaken the tutorship of two school-boys for the holidays; and his father owned, with a sigh, that he was doing wisely.

As to Meta, she was Ethel's chief consolation, by the redoubled assurances, directed to Ethel's unexpressed dread, lest Flora should be rejecting the chastening Hand. Meta had the most absolute certainty that Flora's apparent cheerfulness was all for George's sake, and that it was a most painful exertion. 'If Ethel could only see how she let herself sink together as it were, and her whole countenance relax, as soon as he was out of sight,' Meta said, 'she could not doubt what misery these efforts were to her.'

'Why does she go on with them?' said Ethel.

'George,' said Meta. 'What would become of him without her? If he misses her for ten minutes, he roams about lost, and he cannot enjoy anything without her. I cannot think how he can help seeing what hard work it is, and how he can be contented with those dreadful sham smiles; but as long as she can give him pleasure, poor Flora will toil for him.'

'It is very selfish,' Ethel caught herself saying.

'No, no, it is not,' cried Meta. 'It is not that he will not see, but that he cannot see. Good honest fellow, he really thinks it does her good and pleases her. I was so sorry one evening when I tried to take her place at that perpetual ecarté , and told him it teased her; he went so wistfully to her, and asked whether it did, and she exerted herself into such painful enjoyment to persuade him to the contrary; and afterwards she said to me, "Let me alone, dearest— is the only thing left me."'

'There is something in being husband and wife that one cannot understand,' slowly said Ethel, so much in her quaint way, that Meta laughed.

Had it not been for Norman's absence, Ethel would, in the warm sympathy and accustomed manner of Meta Rivers, have forgotten all about the hopes and fears that, in brighter days, had centred on that small personage; until one day, as she came home from Cocksmoor, she found "Sir Henry Walkinghame's" card on the drawingroom table. 'I should like to bite you! Coming here, are you?' was her amiable reflection!

Meta, in her riding-habit, peeped out of Margaret's room. 'O Ethel, there you are! It is such a boon that you did not come home sooner, or we should have had to ride home with him! I heard him asking for the Miss Mays! And now I am in hopes that he will go home without falling in with Flora and George.'

'I did not know he was in these parts.'

'He came to Drydale last week, but the place is forlorn, and George gave him a general invitation to the Grange.'

'Do you like him?' said Ethel, while Margaret looked on, amazed at her audacity.

'I liked him very much in London,' said Meta; 'he is pleasant enough to talk to, but somehow, he is not congruous here—if you understand me. And I think his coming oppresses Flora—she turned quite pale when he was announced, and her voice was lower than ever when she spoke to him.'

'Does he come often?' said Ethel.

'I don't think he has anything else to do,' returned Meta, 'for our house cannot be as pleasant as it was; but he is very kind to George, and for that we must be grateful. One thing I am afraid of, that he will persuade us off to the yachtting after all.'

'Oh!' was the general exclamation.

'Yes,' said Meta. 'George seemed to like the plan, and I very much fear that he is taking a dislike to the dear old Grange. I heard him say, "anything to get away."'

'Poor George, I know he is restless,' said Margaret.

'At least,' said Ethel, 'you can't go till after your birthday, Miss Heiress.'

'No, uncle Cosham is coming,' said Meta. 'Margaret, you must have your stone laid before we go!'

'Dr. Spencer promises it before Hector's holidays are over,' said Margaret, blushing, as she always did, with pleasure, when they talked of the Church.

Hector Ernescliffe had revived Margaret wonderfully. She was seldom down-stairs before the evening, and Ethel thought his habit of making her apartment his sitting-room, must be as inconvenient to her, as it was to herself; but Hector could not be de trop for Margaret. She exerted herself to fulfil for him all the little sisterly offices that, with her brothers, had been transferred to Ethel and Mary; she threw herself into all his schemes, tried to make him endure Captain Gordon, and she even read his favourite book of Wild Sports, though her feelings were constantly lacerated by the miseries of the slaughtered animals. Her couch was to him as a home, and he had awakened her bright soft liveliness which had been only dimmed for a time.

The Church was her other great interest, and Dr. Spencer humoured her by shewing her all his drawings, consulting her on every ornament, and making many a perspective elevation, merely that she might see the effect.

Richard and Tom made it their recreation to construct a model of the Church as a present for her, and Tom developed a genius for carving, which proved a beneficial interest to keep him from surliness. He had voluntarily propounded his intended profession to his father, who had been so much pleased by his choice, that he could not but be gratified; though now and then ambitious fancies, and discontent with Stoneborough, combined to bring on his ordinary moody fits, the more, because his habitual reserve prevented anyone from knowing what was working in his mind.

Finally, the Rivers' party announced their intention of going to the Isle of Wight as soon as Meta had come of age; and the council of Cocksmoor, meeting at tea at Dr. May's house, decided that the Foundation Stone of the Church should be laid on the day after her birthday, when there would be a gathering of the whole family, as Margaret wished. Dr. Spencer had worked incredibly hard to bring it forward, and Margaret's sweet smiles, and liquid eyes, expressed how personally thankful she felt.

'What a blessing this Church has been to that poor girl,' said Dr. Spencer, as he left the house with Mr. Wilmot. 'How it beguiles her out of her grief! I am glad she has the pleasure of the foundation; I doubt if she will see the Consecration.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Wilmot, shocked. 'Was that attack so serious?'

'That recumbent position and want of exercise were certain to produce organic disease, and suspense and sorrow have hastened it. The death of Mrs. Rivers' poor child was the blow that called it into activity, and, if it last more than a year, I shall be surprised.'

'For such as she is, one cannot presume to wish, but her father —Is he aware of this?'

'He knows there is extensive damage; I think he does not open his eyes to the result, but he will bear it. Never was there a man to whom it came so naturally to live like the the fowls of the air, or the lilies of the field, as it does to dear Dick May,' said Dr. Spencer, his voice faltering.

'There is a strength of faith and love in him, that carries him through all,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'His childlike nature seems to have the trustfulness that is, in itself, consolation. You said how Cocksmoor had been blessed to Margaret—I think it is the same with them all—not only Ethel and Richard, who have been immediately concerned; but that one object has been a centre and aim to elevate the whole family, and give force and unity to their efforts. Even the good Doctor, much as I always looked up to him—much good as he did me in my young days—I must confess that he was sometimes very provoking.'

'If you had tried to be his keeper at Cambridge, you might say so!' rejoined Dr. Spencer.

'He is so much less impetuous—more consistent—less desultory; I dare say you understand me,' said Mr. Wilmot. 'His good qualities do not entangle one another as they used to do.'

'Exactly so. He was far more than I looked for when I came home, though I might have guessed that such a disposition, backed by such principles and such—could not but shake off all the dross.'

'One thing was,' said Mr. Wilmot, smiling, 'that a man must take himself in hand, at some time in his life, and Dr. May only began to think himself responsible for himself, when he lost his wife, who was wise for both. She was an admirable person, but not easy to know well. I think you knew her at—'

'I say,' interrupted Dr. Spencer, 'it strikes me that we could not do better than get up our S. P. G. demonstration on the day of the stone—'

Hitherto the Stoneborough subscribers to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel had been few and far between; but, under the new dynasty, there was a talk of forming an association, and having a meeting to bring the subject forward. Dr. Spencer's proposal, however, took the Vicar by surprise.

'Never could there be a better time,' he argued. You have naturally a gathering of Clergy—people ought to be liberal on such an occasion, and, as Cocksmoor is provided for, why not give the benefit to the missions, in their crying need.'

'True, but there is no time to send for anyone to make a speech.'

'Husband your resources. What could you have better than young Harry and his islanders?'

'Harry would never make a speech.'

'Let him cram Norman. Young Lake tells me Norman made a great sensation at the Union at Oxford, and if his heart is in the work, he must not shrink from the face of his townsmen.'

'No doubt, he had rather they were savages,' said the Vicar. 'And yourself—you will tell them of the Indian Missions.'

'With all my heart,' said Dr. Spencer. 'When my Brahminhee Godson—the Deacon I told you of, comes to pay me his promised visit, what doings we shall have! Seriously, I have just had letters from him and from others, that speak of such need, that I could feel every moment wasted that is not spent on their behalf.'

Mr. Wilmot was drawn into Dr. Spencer's house, and heard the letters, till his heart burnt within him.

The meeting was at once decided upon, though Ethel could not see why people could not give without speechifying, and her two younger brothers declared it was humbug—Tom saying, he wished all blackamoors were out of creation, and Harry, that he could not stand palaver about his friend David. Dr. May threatened him with being displayed on the platform as a living instance of the effects of Missions, at which he took alarm, and so seriously declared that he should join the Bucephalus at once, that they pacified him by promising that he should do as he pleased.

The Archdeacon promised a Sermon, and the active Dr. Spencer worked the Nine Muses and all the rest of the town and neighbourhood into a state of great enthusiasm and expectation. He went to the Grange, as he said, to collect his artillery; primed Flora that she might prime the M. P.; made the willing Meta promise to entrap the uncle, who was noted for philanthropical speeches; and himself captured Sir Henry Walkinghame, who looked somewhat rueful at what he found incumbent on him as a country gentleman, though there might be some compensation in the eagerness of Miss Rivers.

Norman had hardly set foot in Stoneborough before he was told what was in store for him, and, to the general surprise, submitted as if it were a very simple matter. As Dr. Spencer told him, it was only a foretaste of the penalty which every Missionary has to pay for coming to England. Norman was altogether looking much better than when he had been last at home, and his spirits were more even. He had turned his whole soul to the career he had chosen, cast his disappointment behind him, or, more truly, made it his offering, and gathered strength and calmness, with which to set out on tasks of working for others, with thoughts too much absorbed on them, to give way to the propensity of making himself the primary object of study and contemplation. The praise of God, and love of man, were the best cures for tendencies like his, and he had found it out. His calm, though grave cheerfulness, came as a refreshment to those who had been uneasy about him, and mournfully watching poor Flora.

'Yes,' said Dr. Spencer, 'you have taken the best course for your own happiness.

Norman coloured, as if he understood more than met the ear.

Mary and Blanche were very busy preparing presents for Meta Rivers, and everyone was anxious to soften to her the thought of this first birthday without her father. Each of the family contributed some pretty little trifle, choice in workmanship or kind in device, and each was sealed and marked with the initials of the giver, and packed up by Mary, to be committed to Flora's charge. Blanche had, however, much tronble in extracting a gift from Norman, and he only yielded at last, on finding that all his brothers had sent something, so that his omission would be marked. Then he dived into the recesses of his desk, and himself sealed up a little parcel, of which he would not allow his sisters to inspect the contents.

Ethel had a shrewd guess. She remembered his having, in the flush of joy at Margaret's engagement, rather prematurely caused a seal to be cut with a Daisy, and "Pearl of the meadow" as the motto; and his having said that he should keep it as a wedding present. She could understand that he was willing to part with it without remark.

Flora met Meta in her sitting room, on the morning of the day, which rose somewhat sadly upon the young girl, as she thought of past affection and new responsibilities. If the fondness of a sister could have compensated for what she had lost, Meta received it in no scanty measure from Flora, who begged to call George, because he would be pleased to see the display of gifts.

His own was the only costly one—almost all the rest were homemade treasures of the greater price, because the skill and fondness of the maker were evident in their construction; and Meta took home the kindness as it was meant, and felt the affection that would not let her feel herself lonely. She only wished to go and thank them all at once.

'Richard says we do not guess how well Norman speaks.'

'Richard thinks Norman can do anything he can't do himself! It is all chance—he may do very well, if he gets into his " funny state ," but he always suffers for that, and he will certainly put one into an agony at the outset. I wish Dr. Spencer would have let him alone! And then there will be that Sir Henry, whom I can't abide! Oh! I wish I were more charitable, like Miss Bracy and Mary, who will think all so beautiful.'

'So will you, when you come home,' said Margaret.

'If I could only be talking to Cherry, and Dame Hall! I think the school children enter into it very nicely, Margaret. Did I tell you how nicely Ellen Reid answered about the Hymn, "From Greenland's icy mountains." She did not seem to have made it a mere geographical lesson, like Fanny Grigg—'

Ethel's misanthropy was happily conducted off via the Cocksmoor children, and any lingering remains were dissipated by her amusement at Dr. Spencer's ecstacy on seeing Dr. May assume his red robe of office, to go to the Minster in state, with the Town Council. He walked round and round his friend, called him Nicholas Randall redivivus , quoted Dogberry, and affronted Gertrude, who had a dim idea that he was making game of papa!

Ethel was one of those to whom representation was such a penance, that a festival, necessitating hospitality to guests of her own rank, was burthen enough seriously to disturb the repose of thankfulness for the attainment of her object, and to render difficult the recueillement which she needed for the praise and prayer that she felt due from her, and which seemed to oppress her heart, by a sense of the inadequacy of her partial expression. It was well for her that the day began with the calm service in the Minster, where it was her own fault if cares haunted her, and she could confess the sin of her irritated sensations, and wishes to have all her own way, and then, as ever, be led aright into thanksgiving for the unlooked for crowning of her labours.

The Archdeacon's sermon amplified what Margaret had that morning expressed, so as to carry on her sense of appropriateness in the offerings of the day being bestowed on distant lands.

But the ordeal was yet to come, and though blaming herself, she was anything but comfortable, as the world repaired to the Town-hall, the room where the same faces so often met for such diverse purposes —now an orrery displayed by a conceited lecturer, now a ball, now a magistrates' meeting, a concert or a poultry shew, where rival Hamburg and Dorking uplifted their voices in the places of Mario and Grisi, all beneath the benignant portrait of Nicholas Randall, ruffed, robed, square-toed, his endowment of the scholarship in his hand, and a chequered pavement at his feet.

Who knows not an S. P. G. meeting? the gaiety of the serious, and the first public spectacle to the young, who, like Blanche and Aubrey, gaze with admiration at the rows of bonnets, and with awe at the black coats on the platform, while the relations of the said black coats suffer, like Ethel, from nervous dread of the public speaking of their best friends.

Her expectations were realized by the Archdeacon's speech, which went round in a circle, as if he could not find his way out of it. Lord Cosham was fluent, but a great many words went to very small substance; and no wonder, thought Ethel, when all they had to propose and second was the obvious fact that Missions were very good things.

Dr. Hoxton pompously, Sir Henry Walkinghame creditably, assisted the ladies and gentlemen to resolve that the S. P. G. wanted help; Mr. Lake made a stammering, and Mr. Rivers, with his good-natured face, hearty manner, and good voice, came in well after him, with a straightforward speech, so brief, that Ethel gave Flora credit for the best she had yet heard.

Mr. Wilmot said something which the sharpest ears in the front row might, perhaps, have heard, and which resulted in Dr. Spencer standing up. Ethel hardly would have known who was speaking had her eyes been shut. His voice was so different, when raised and pitched, so as to shew its power and sweetness; the fine polish of his manner was redoubled, and every sentence had the most graceful turn. It was like listening to a well-written book, so smooth and so fluent, and yet so earnest—his pictures of Indian life so beautiful, and his strong affection for the converts he described now and then making his eyes fill, and his voice falter, as if losing the thread of his studied composition—a true and dignified work of art, that made Dr. May whisper to Flora, "You see what he can do. They would have given anything to have had him for a lecturer."

With half a sigh, Ethel saw Norman rise, and step forward. He began with eyes fixed on the ground, and, in a low modest tone, to speak of the islands that Harry had visited; but gradually the poetic nature, inherent in him, gained the mastery; and though his language was strikingly simple, in contrast with Dr. Spencer's ornate periods, and free from all trace of "the lamp," it rose in beauty and fervour at every sentence. The feelings that had decided his lot gave energy to his discourse, and repressed as they had been by reserve and diffidence, now flowed forth, and gave earnestness to natural gifts of eloquence of the highest order. After his quiet, unobtrusive beginning, there was the more wonder to find how he seemed to raise up the audience with him, in breathless attention, as to a strain of sweet music, carrying them without thought of the scene, or of the speaker, to the lovely isles, and the inhabitants of noble promise, but withering for lack of knowledge; and finally closing his speech, when they were wrought up to the highest pitch, by an appeal that touched them all home; 'for well did he know,' said he, 'that the universal brotherhood was drawn closest in circles nearer home, that beneath the shadow of their own old Minster, gladness and mourning floated alike for all; and that all those who had shared in the welcome to one, given back as it were from the grave, would own the same debt of gratitude to the hospitable islanders.'

He ceased. His father wiped his spectacles, and almost audibly murmured, "Bless him!" Ethel, who had sat like one enchanted, forgetting who spoke, forgetting all save the islanders, half-turned, and met Richard's smiling eyes, and his whisper—"I told you so."

The impress of a man of true genius and power had been made throughout the whole assembly; the Archdeacon put Norman out of countenance by the thanks of the meeting, for his admirable speech, and all the world, except the Oxford men, were in a state of as much surprise as pleasure.

'Splendid speaker, Norman May, if he would oftener put himself out,' Harvey Anderson commented. 'Pity he has so many of the good Doctor's prejudices!'

'Well, to be sure!' quoth Mrs. Ledwich. 'I knew Mr. Norman was very clever, but I declare I never thought of such as this! I will try my poor utmost for those interesting natives.'

'That youth has first-rate talents,' said Lord Cosham. 'Do you know what he is designed for? I should like to bring him forward.'

'Ah!' said Dr. Hoxton. 'The year I sent off May and Anderson was the proudest year of my life!'

'Upon my word!' declared Mrs. Elwood. 'That Dr. Spencer is as good as a book, but Mr. Norman — I say, father we will go without the new clock, but we'll send somewhat to they men that built up the Church, and has no Minister.'

'A good move that,' said Dr. Spencer. 'Worth at least £20. That boy has the temperament of an orator, if the morbid were but a grain less.'

'O Margaret,' exclaimed Blanche. 'Dr. Spencer made the finest speech you ever heard, only it was rather tiresome; and Norman made everybody cry—and Mary worse than all!'

'There is no speaking of it. One should live such things, not talk over them,' said Meta Rivers.