The Gabled Farm; or, Young Workers for the King, by Catharine Shaw

AUTHOR OF
"ONLY A COUSIN," "HILDA," "IN THE SUNLIGHT," "DICKIE'S ATTIC,"
"SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY," ETC.

            "I ask Thee for the daily strength,
              To none that ask denied,
            And a mind to blend with outward life
              While walking by Thy side;
            Content to fill a little space,
              If Thou be glorified."

Price Three Shillings and Sixpence each, with Illustrations.

THE STRANGE HOUSE; OR, A MOMENT'S MISTAKE.
LILIAN'S HOPE.
DICKIE'S SECRET.
DICKIE'S ATTIC.
ON THE CLIFF; OR, ALICK'S NEIGHBOURS.
FATHOMS DEEP; OR, COURTENAY'S CHOICE.
HILDA; OR, SEEKETH NOT HER OWN.

Price Half-a-Crown each, Large Crown 8vo, with Illustrations.

IN THE SUNLIGHT AND OUT OF IT.
NELLIE ARUNDEL: A TALE OF HOME LIFE.
ONLY A COUSIN.
ALICK'S HERO.

BE brave, my brother!
   He whom thou servest slights
     Not even His weakest one;
   No deed, tho' poor, shall be forgot,
     However feebly done.
   The prayer, the wish, the thought,
     The faintly-spoken word,
   The plan that seemed to come to nought,
     Each has its own reward.

Be brave, my brother!
   Enlarge thy heart and soul,
     Spread out thy free, glad love;
   Encompass earth, embrace the sea,
     As does that sky above.
   Let no man see thee stand
     In slothful idleness,
   As if there were no work for thee
     In such a wilderness.

Be brave, my brother!
   Stint not the liberal hand,
     Give in the joy of love;
   So shall thy crown be bright, and great
     Thy recompense above;
   Reward, not like the deed—
     That poor weak deed of thine;
   But like the God Himself who gives,
     Eternal and divine.

H. BONAR.

CHAPTER I.

A JULY sun was blazing down on a square in Bloomsbury, and seemed particularly to blaze on No. 8, with its wide windows and warm west aspect. At any rate the children thought so, who were listlessly playing in the drawing room. Since early morning the blinds had been down; since middle-day the sun-blinds had been unrolled; but nothing would keep out the burning rays, and the house seemed baked through and through.

"It is perfectly intolerable!" said a boy of fourteen, laying himself flat on the hearthrug, and stretching out both arms as far as they would go, with a long, low whistle, indicating extreme heat.

"If we only had something to look forward to!" said Ada, a girl of thirteen, who was pretending to read, but felt too hot to do anything in earnest.

"Yes," assented Arthur; "but the bother is we don't know that papa can get away; and it makes it ten times hotter to think we shall have to bear this for another six weeks."

"Perhaps the weather will change," suggested a quiet, pretty girl, who sat working in the darkest corner of the room.

"It won't, Nellie; you see if it does!" said Arthur scornfully. "Not if we're to stay in town!"

Nellie looked down for a moment at the face of her half-brother, as if she were going to speak; but she did not, and went on with her work.

"I cannot think how you can work, Nellie, when we are all dying of heat," said Ada, grumbling.

While Arthur raised his eyes to the gentle face, and said lazily, "Yes; why do you work, Nell?"

"I have tried both ways," said Nellie, "and I find I am less weary and miserable when I have something to do. And besides—"

"I was thinking just now of what papa told us this morning, and that helped me to—"

"Bear the heat patiently? It didn't me, I can tell you, Nell. To be shut up in a top attic, with the sun next door to you, and not a breath of air; and to be ill of fever, and no fruit, and no cool water; and no chance of country when you were better; and no friends to care whether you lived or died; and no work and no comfort; and no end to it all? No; I don't see that thinking of that, helps one to feel less hot and cross!"

Arthur turned his flushed face, which was more sympathizing than he knew, towards his sister, and kicked his foot impatiently on the rug.

"But there is an end to it, after all, Arthur, in this case; because papa says that this poor creature has a home preparing which will be—"

Arthur moved uneasily. "I don't see the good of it," he said. "Do you suppose this woman is willing to wait to have all her good things there?"

"Papa said she was. She told him that if she had had everything comfortable, as she used in the old days, she should never have been driven by despair, as she has been, to find that the love of Christ is worth more than everything else in the world!"

Arthur turned his head restlessly again, and after a moment's pause said, hesitating, "Walter thinks like that, doesn't he?"

"Indeed he does," answered Nellie; "and oh, it is such a comfort when one does."

Softly as the conversation had been carried on, it had disturbed Ada's reading. She pushed her book away, almost peevishly.

"Ada, lie down on the sofa, and I will read you both to sleep," said Nellie, looking at her kindly.

"Oh, no!" said Ada. "I'm not sleepy, and I can't do anything to-day; I feel I don't know how. I shall go and see how they are getting on upstairs."

"Worse still," groaned Arthur. But he did not do more to dissuade her; and they heard her ascend the many stairs till she reached the nursery, where her footsteps paused, and then there was a shout of, "Oh, Ada, Ada! Have you come to play with us?"

Five little ones, of various ages, were scattered about the large nursery. There were three wide, low windows, looking out on an expanse of sky, circumscribed by endless roofs and chimneys, giving the children also a good view of the pretty garden in the square.

Near one of these windows sat the nurse, a pleasant-looking young woman, and on her lap, untroubled by the intense heat, sat a chubby baby of about a year old. Close by, and just under the low windowsill, a little couch was arranged, and on it a boy of eight years lay, lying so that his weary little face could just peep through the bottom pane of glass.

Hearing Ada's step, he turned abruptly round and looked eagerly at her. "Is mamma come home yet?" he asked.

"No," said Ada. "Oh, Mary, isn't it awfully hot? I could not settle to anything down in the drawing room, and so I came to see how nearly roasted you all are."

"Oh, we are not roasted at all, Ada," said a grave little girl looking towards the empty grate, "'cause there's no fire!"

"Ada, do tell us a story, or read to us," said a little girl of about five years, who was playing in a corner with her constant companion, Netta, and their two dolls.

"Yes, do," added Netta, running to a little shelf, and taking down a book and eagerly turning over the leaves.

"Well—if I am not too hot," said Ada, looking persuadable, and taking the rocking-chair which the children invitingly pushed forward.

And they accordingly moved nearer his window; while the nurse put the baby on the ground and began to prepare for tea.

"Once upon a time," began Ada, closing the book and looking straight before her.

"Oh, yes, that's it!" said Isabel, settling herself to listen with perfect contentment, her arm round Netta's shoulder, and their respective dolls on their laps.

"Once upon a time there was a cat, a very respectable, fat, well-fed cat. Not one of the cats that walk up and down our back garden wall; not one of the cats that live on the roofs of the houses near us; oh, no! A real comfortable country cat, who had a real barn to mouse in, and a real hay-loft to sleep in, and real grass to eat if she felt sick."

"One day when the gardener went into a nice warm shed, he thought he heard a rustle, and searching about for the cause, he found pussy in an old box with three of the sweetest kittens you ever saw beside her.

"'Now that's a fine thing,' said the gardener roughly; 'however did you get in here! But one thing is, it ain't much trouble to turn you out again.'

"He was just going to do it when a bright thought struck him, 'If I let you stay,' he said crossly, 'you must catch all the mice that eat my seeds!'

"Whether puss would have promised I do not know; but the gardener probably knew she would be willing to try, and so, with another sour look, he gave the box a push, and went out and slammed the door.

"Pussy felt very relieved, though a little shaken in her spirits. 'My dear kitties,' she said, 'you have had a narrow escape. Who would have thought he would have come in! He has not been in here, to my knowledge, for at least a month; but then certainly I am not always at his heels. However, here we are, and now to make the best of it. He has shut the door, too, so we must catch mice or starve.' Pussy raised her eyes to the roof, and to her relief perceived that there were apertures under the rafters where she could creep out if her prison got too strait for her.

"Some little time passed on. Pussy found plenty of mice, but she had not been accustomed to such close confinement. And one evening as it was getting dusk, she whispered to her kitties, 'Now, my dears, if you'll be very still and not quarrel, I'll take a turn up the garden, I think.'

"'Oh, mother,' said No. 1, who was affectionate, 'shall you be sure to come back!'

"'Oh, mother,' said No. 2, who was greedy, 'shall you be able to bring us something nice!'

"'Yes, yes, my dears,' said pussy hurriedly; 'but if you ask so many questions, I shall never get away.'

"With these words she proceeded to jump on a sack of potatoes that stood near, and from thence to a shelf under the ceiling, where she came to a pause. Her kittens watched her anxiously with beating hearts. Where would she get next? She went peeping about at the different holes under the rafters, but did not seem to make up her mind to go through any of them.

"Now you must know—what I am not sure that the kittens yet knew—that cats have long whiskers, which in a wonderful way are made to grow out just as far as the widest part of their bodies, and pussy could feel if these were touched, and if they were, she did not venture to push her body into the hole.

"She found one to suit her at last, and before her kittens could wink, she had safely jumped to the ground outside, and was scampering along the wide garden path.

"Left to themselves for the first time, the kittens felt quite proud for a minute or two, and then they began to think of mischief.

"'Nonsense,' said No. 3; 'I mean to try.' After several efforts, and tumbling back into the box, No. 3 did balance himself on the edge, and did jump to the ground.

"'Now, No. 2, where are you?' he mewed in rather a doleful tone; for though a brave kitten, he felt he would like a companion if this led him into a scrape.

"'Always take care of yourself,' sneered No. 3; 'but come along, or mother will be back.'

"No. 2 managed to scramble up, and jump down, and they both set off in search of pleasure, leaving No. 1 alone; for they knew from her character that it was useless to try to persuade her.

"'I do not care about that at all,' said No. 2. 'I fancy there is something good on that table.'

"With these words, he cautiously climbed up an old hamper, and then up a slanting board, and so with great care on to the table, over which he went with increasing disappointment; for there was nothing there fit for a kitten to eat, though a mouse might have had a feast. At last, either from vexation or because he was getting nervous, he missed his footing, and being but young yet, he stumbled, and fell to the ground with a blow which nearly stupified him. He lay quite still, and as it was so dark, No. 3 did not perceive the disaster, and went on with his explorations till a sudden fear came over him, and he hastened back to the box.

"Do what he would, however, the sides were too steep for him to climb; and in despair, after many fruitless efforts, he lay down at last, cold, and tired, and sleepy, and began to cry.

"He would have given anything to be inside instead of outside the box, when he heard his mother climbing up the ivy which covered the shed. But wishing was of no use; and with melancholy interest, he heard her lightly spring to the table, and then to the ground very near him, and then softly make her way, as so many times before, into their comfortable home.

"When there, she made a great stir. Now pussy had come home in no mood 'to put up with nonsense,' as she said, and she proceeded to give the spoils of her expedition to No. 1, without a moment's hesitation. And while the little kitten tasted her first mouthful of a delicious piece of mutton-chop, her mother made many remarks as to the effects of obedience and disobedience, little dreaming that one at least of her darlings lay so near her in the sorest need of comfort. When the chop was finished between them—"

The children had been so absorbed in Ada's story that they had not heard the slight bustle of an arrival, and were extremely surprised at this moment to hear their mamma's step at the very door.

Amid exclamations and welcomes she came forward, and after a comprehensive glance at them all, from the baby upwards, she went straight to the little couch, and bent lovingly over her little invalid.

His arms clasped tightly round her neck, and he said ruefully, "You've been so long away, mamma!"

"So very long, darling? Only a few hours. And how is my little Tom, Mary? And baby?"

"Baby's all right ma'am," said Mary, holding him up for inspection with great pride; "but Master Tom has felt the heat a good deal, and your being away too."

The mother gave a little sigh, and then turned to the others, still, however, holding Tom's little frail fingers. "So you are all, I suppose, as hot as you can be, and much too hot for a piece of good news?"

Their mother nodded, smiling; whereupon there were shouts and a great hubbub, and then the little ones found that Nellie and Arthur had come up to share in the rejoicings, and were looking as radiant as could be.

"Oh, it is too delightful!" said Ada, rapturously kissing her mamma over and over, till Nellie came behind and said gently,—

"Do you not think we had better all go down and leave the little ones to their tea?"

And so, with one kiss for her fat baby, she left the room, followed by Arthur, and Nellie, and Ada.

"Our tea is just ready, mamma," said Nellie, "and I will go and make it. I am sure you must be tired."

Tea was spread this evening in the schoolroom at the back, which was as fresh and cool as the dining room was close and hot.

"What a good thought," said Mrs. Arundel with a sigh of relief as she took her seat at the tea-tray.

"Yes; that was Arthur," said Nellie. "He was saying, when we came down just now to put something away, how cool it would be, and so I told Simmons to bring it here. I thought you would not mind, mamma, even if you did not think it necessary."

The young people were too considerate to ask their tired mother any questions, though they were burning with curiosity as to the proposed trip, and as to how the change in their parents' plans had been brought about.

They had not, however, very long to wait; for after the first cup of tea had been swallowed, Mrs. Arundel began of her own accord.

"I have not told you, dears, a piece of the news which is quite a trial to me. We are to go; but your papa is afraid he will not be able to come at all this summer, or only for a few days at most."

"Oh, mamma!" they all exclaimed dolefully; and Mrs. Arundel did not speak for a minute. "Well," she said, trying to brighten up, "it is quite a trial, but we must all do the best we can. Perhaps, after all, papa may find he can get away, and it will be a great pleasure for you all to have such a nice change; and for dear little Tom."

"I am sorry," said Arthur; "for papa has been looking forward to it; and we were to have had some jolly boating too."

"It will be a disappointment to us all, my dear; but it does not seem as if it were possible just now; and papa will not have us wait, because of the heat."

"But he will have that to bear all alone," said Ada; "it's a wretched nuisance."

Mrs. Arundel looked up quickly. "Dear Ada, I do not quite like you to say 'nuisance;' when our Father points out a path for us, we must not call it that."

"'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God,'" said her mother softly, as if speaking more to herself than them. And then she went up the long flights of stairs till she came into her own room over the drawing room, where were two little cots. One of these was empty, for baby was not in bed yet; but at the other one she knelt down, and laid her head op the pillow beside little Tom.

CHAPTER II.

IT was a happy party that met at breakfast the next morning. "Going out of town" to London children means a very delightful change from bricks and mortar, glaring sunshine and hot pavements, to fresh meadows, hedges and trees, or the exquisite delights of the sea-side. Then there is the packing up; the bustle; the drive through London in a cab; the anticipation; the journey; the intense expectation as to what the new place will be like—these and a hundred more thoughts will be recognised by London children as belonging to "going out of town."

Dr. Arundel sat at the bottom of the table, with Netta and Isabel on either side of him, and he looked as pleased and smiling as all the rest.

"Papa is always so unselfish," thought Nellie, as she glanced at his peaceful face.

"And to-day is Wednesday! Oh, Nellie, how delightful!" said Ada. "It will be all bustle and packing from morning till night!"

"Delightful!" said her father, imitating her smilingly. "And poor mamma thinks so too, I suppose? 'All bustle and packing!'"

"Oh, to South Bay!" said their father. "And mamma and I are going down to-day to look for lodgings."

"So all my dear children must try to carry out their own duties faithfully," said Dr. Arundel. "For the heat will be very great, and you will all be a little excited; and perhaps, dear children," he said gravely, "just a little cross and inclined to quarrel in consequence; so you must be watchful. We shall not be home to-night, Nellie; but I hope by tea-time to-morrow to see you all again in peace."

When their father and mother were fairly gone after breakfast, and the children had waved the last good-bye to them from the window, they turned round to the unusually empty room, and Ada exclaimed, "Come along, Nellie, now we'll begin to pack!"

Nellie put her hand gently on Netta's shoulder, and was going to speak, but the hubbub drowned her voice.

"Yes; I shall get all my doll's things together, and we can pack them into the play-box, all ready," said Isabel turning to the door.

"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Arthur. "What's the good of packing up so long before? I shall get my painting, and have a long morning at it, that is if I am not too lazy."

At last Nellie's soft tones could be heard, and she spoke a little entreatingly. "Netta dear, and Isabel, I am so sorry to disappoint you; but mamma told me particularly she wished everything to go on as usual. She wished you little ones to go for your early walk, and then to have lessons."

"Mamma said so," said Nellie; "and the time will pass all the more quickly if we are industrious," she added cheerfully.

Ada stood frowning at the table. This was not at all her idea of preparing for the sea-side, and she did not like it at all.

"But, Nellie, there is lots to do, and I'm sure the children would not hurt for once."

"No; we would be so good," entreated the little girls, "and help you so much, Nellie!"

"Yes; give them a holiday, Nellie, and let us get on with all sorts of things," said Ada decidedly.

"I must not, Ada," answered Nellie, looking distressed; "mamma said what it was to be, and it must be so."

"Well, I declare," said Ada, "it is too bad; you might if you liked, Nellie, you know."

Nellie did not make any answer, but took her now pouting little sisters by the hand, and went upstairs with them. They met the nurse on the landing with the baby in her arms.

"They will soon be ready, too," answered Nellie; "you go down, Mary, with the others, and I will put on their things to-day."

Meanwhile Ada and Arthur had been left to themselves in the dining room. Ada was twisting the tassel of her apron round and round spitefully; and Arthur was leaning against the window with his hands in his pockets.

"It can't be so pleasant grinding with those young ones that you need set them all cross to begin with."

"Nonsense! Nellie has plenty of authority to alter if she pleased, and you know she has."

"Oh, well," said Arthur, "it's of no use quarrelling; so I'll leave you to your own reflections."

He swung himself out of the room, and met the two little girls in the hall coming down to join their nurse, who was already walking up and down the pavement waiting for them.

They were still looking vexed and disappointed, so being a kind boy, he wished he could do something, but hardly knew what.

"Oh, yes, Arthur!" said Netta, brightening. "What sort? And shall we bring them back to you?"

"Any sort you like for yourselves," said he, fumbling for the penny. "And look here—" glancing under their hats—"be good girls to Nellie when you come home, won't you? 'Cause it's so hot, and mamma did say so."

While Arthur felt one of those sudden bits of intense happiness which will come some day in fulness when the Lord says, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

But with the thought of having done the least thing to please Him came a sudden pang that, a minute ago, perhaps he had displeased Him in speaking hastily to Ada, and he turned again into the dining room.

Ada's "reflections" which Arthur had alluded to were not pleasant ones. A heavy cloud brooded over her, and she got up directly she saw him, and walked past him without speaking.

"I'm sorry if I vexed you," said Arthur, bolting into the subject for fear of not getting it said.

"It does not matter, thank you," she answered proudly, and shut the door on him without looking up.

Arthur felt angry in his turn; but he soon remembered that, however much Ada was in fault, he had said something which had annoyed her, and he determined to be as kind as possible when next they met, if he could. He soon sought for Nellie, and found her in the nursery sitting by little Tom, with her work in her hand.

Tom raised his eyes pleased. "Are you come, Arthur; I should like to build some bricks."

"But you will see all the ships, and the donkeys, and the great waves tumbling in!"

"Yes," said Tom doubtfully; "but I shall not care about it, my back will ache so."

Arthur paused in getting out the bricks, and looked at him silently. What could he say? What pleasures were there in store for this helpless child? He could not run, or dig, or ride on donkeys, or sail ships. What could he say to enliven him? He did not think of anything just then, so he turned again to the bricks, and placing a small invalid table over the couch, he began to build a wonderful edifice, while Tom grew interested in spite of himself.

"That is like the church you go to," said Tom. "Mary and Simmons wheeled me as far as that one day, and I saw it; and I know it is like that."

"Well, I think it is, now you say so, though I did not mean it for it. But look here, I'll make it as much like as I can remember, and if you think of anything, you must tell me."

They built on happily for nearly an hour, Arthur cleverly weaving into his building a true history of a man named Black Tom, who was a bricklayer at the works. And he brought in for his little brother's benefit all the information he had himself picked up about building. Also how Black Tom's boy was employed on the scaffolding, and how he fell and was taken up very much hurt, and had to be conveyed to the hospital. So an hour quickly slipped away, and the children would soon be home.

"Will he ever be able to walk again, do you think?" asked Tom, when Arthur paused.

"I don't know about that; but one thing I can tell you, he has no mother or nurse like you, and lies now on his back in a little close room, with nothing to see and nothing to do."

"Never; because papa goes to see him, and he told me so. And they have no easy perambulator like you, Tom, to lay him in. And he never gets sight of the park as you do, or of trees, or even shops, and looks all day long just upon the same old ceiling and ugly paper of his little dull room!"

Tom glanced round his pleasant nursery, and at the bricks which Arthur was replacing in their box.

"We have brought you some of our sweets, Tom," said Dolly, running in and holding out a little paper.

"Oh, thank you!" said Tom. "And I have been having such a nice play with Arthur."

Nellie's little girls had quite recovered their spirits when they came to the schoolroom, and their lessons were got through without any further difficulty.

Ada looked in once with a very black face; but no one spoke to her, and she did not vouchsafe any remark, but, after looking at what they were about, took herself off to her own room, where she turned out her things on the floor, and sat down amongst the confusion to pick out what she wanted to take with her to South Bay.

Out of humour with everyone, and with herself above all, she soon grew tired and hot. The ribbons seemed endless; the gloves would not pair; unexpected holes and rents appeared in garments she had thought were quite ready for packing; and at length, thoroughly disheartened, she laid her head on the side of the bed near which she was seated and began to cry.

She was startled by a cheerful "Hulloa! Here's a mess!" And Arthur came striding across the forlorn room, and perched himself on the footboard of her bedstead.

"Well, Ada, so this is packing is it? I told you it was too soon to begin, and now you've proved it. The way to pack is, wait till the last moment, then seize a carpet bag, rush to your drawers, take out one of each sort of thing, stuff them in as quick as lightning, squeeze them in somehow, lock it up, rush down stairs, jump into a cab, and hope you've left nothing behind."

Ada laughed, in spite of her bad spirits, and would have cheered up had she not looked once more on the hopeless confusion.

"I should think so; quite enough to give you the blues for a week. Shall I help you put 'em back?"

"Here goes then." And faster than they came out, Arthur stuffed them in—ribbons, neckties, gloves, handkerchiefs, collars, and clothes.

"More shame to you," said Arthur, stopping short. "Whatever would mamma say? And if I might suggest, is not that your best hat?"

"Then I'd have left them where they were till the last moment. Now, Ada, the room's clear again, and the children have done school, and I'm going down there to have a splendid painting go, till dinner; come along too."

"Very well," said Ada, sighing; "but I meant to have done so much this morning, and the time has all been wasted."

When they reached the schoolroom, Nellie was putting away the last few things belonging to lessons; and as Ada entered she turned round pleasantly, saying, "Now, Ada, I can see to things if you like."

"I was going to paint now," said Ada a little ungraciously; "and besides, I am dreadfully tired of packing."

"I was so sorry I could not help you, dear," said Nellie; "but you see how it was."

"Yes, I see," answered Ada, beginning to feel very much ashamed, but not willing to own it.

"But I can go now; what shall we begin upon? How much have you done?" asked Nellie.

Arthur wanted to speak very much, but he managed to run off for a glass of water for painting, and Ada contrived to say, "Why I got disheartened, and Arthur helped me make the room tidy again; but I am so tired now that I would rather not do any more before dinner, if you don't mind."

"I only thought perhaps we ought to get a few of our own clothes together, Ada, or there will be so much to see to at last."

She followed her sister, however, to their room, and watched her in silence while she took out their clothes one by one and laid them in little heaps on the bed. No remark was made as to the disordered state of her drawers, though she knew how much forbearance it must need to avoid condemning.

"Now, Ada," said Nellie at last, "you can come and fold all this heap off this chair one by one, and lay them on the bed so, and when we have done all the large things we will look at the ribbon drawer."

Ada groaned at the thought, but she did manage to do her share pretty well; and then Nellie proceeded to sort out the "ribbon drawer."

"There is never so long a task but it gets finished, if we go at it patiently," she said, smiling. "Which ties do you want to take with you?"

"I daresay; to irritate your temper when you get there. No; tell me which. Come, I am helping you, so it is not so very hard just to decide."

So Nellie went through the things one by one till the drawer was empty; and Ada ran off with a little heap of odds and ends to decorate the dolls with.

After dinner the sisters sat down to work, and Nellie coaxed Ada to get a few stitches done to her clothes, so that before night they might be placed in the box. And with the promise of locking the box and having something to show for their pains, quite a nice heap of things were finished off. And when Ada went to bed, she felt very well satisfied with herself.

That night, as Nellie sat turning over the leaves of her Bible after she had read her usual chapter, her eyes fell upon these words: "'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me;'" and she thought how true they had been to her that day.

"'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,'" answered Nellie thoughtfully.

"Through Christ's strength?" thought Ada dreamily. "Not my strength—I don't think I know anything about Christ's strength."

CHAPTER III.

"I SUPPOSE you all want to hear everything," said Dr. Arundel cheerfully, as he looked round on the expectant faces of the party who sat at tea the following evening.

"Well, we went to South Bay, and, as you know, it takes nearly three hours in the train. When we arrived there, we were hurried into a little shaky omnibus, and were driven into the town, and set down, according to our wish, in the very middle of all the lodgings."

"I suppose you do not care to know how many houses we went over? Nor how many disappointments we had before we found the right place?"

"I think we did. After wandering about till we were nearly footsore, we caught sight of a little settlement on the cliff about ten minutes' walk from the sea.

"And we turned our steps that way, though I will confess to you, children, that I had not much hope it would turn out anything after all. But it was something, and just the very something we had been longing for. It was a small farm, with high, pointed gables; and, to our great joy, up in one of the windows close to the lane was the welcome word 'lodgings.'

"A pleasant middle-aged woman came to the door, and asked us to enter. I assure you we were not loath to do so. The glaring sun and the unusual fatigue made us glad to sit down, and the woman seemed to understand this; for she did not offer any remark for a moment, but turned to a little toddling child who hung to her skirts, and said coaxingly,—

"'Now, Alfy, granny wants you to go in the garden; run away, there's a good little boy.'

"Master Alfy, however, preferred to stare at us, and his grandmother again tried to coax him, 'See, Alfy, here's a bit of cake; now, darling, run into the garden, do deary.'

"Alfy took the cake and ate it, but remained where he was; and as mamma had by this time got a little rested, we proceeded to look at the lodgings."

The children made sundry exclamations, but their papa soon went on with his story.

"Downstairs, looking into the lane and across to the orchard, was the sitting room, which we shall take our meals in, and the kitchen belonging to the farm; then on the other side of the house, and looking over a sweet-smelling old-fashioned garden, are two rooms, which we shall use for our drawing room and nursery. From these, you can see the sea very well, and the garden and meadow slope away down to South Bay, and the fringe of houses close by the sea. These, however, are nearly hidden from the farm by some few trees at the bottom of their first field."

"Then," resumed Dr. Arundel, "upstairs there are endless rooms, enough for all of you to be as comfortable as possible. The only difficulty will be for you to find your way about; for you go up three stairs, and down three stairs, and up three stairs again in the most fascinating manner."

Suddenly Netta laid her head on her father's arm, "But you won't be there, papa. What shall we do without you? And how dull you will be! I am so very, very sorry."

All the faces were turned full of feeling towards him. "We all are," said Ada, "only it is of no use keeping on saying so."

"Yes, my dears, so we are," he answered, looking at them all, "but it has seemed to me that I have been called to stay in London this summer. You know the physician who had undertaken my work has been suddenly taken ill; and at this time of year, everyone has made arrangements, and it was too late to find anyone else. There are a good many sick ones round us, and I cannot leave them. No; we must be patient. Perhaps further on in the autumn, I may get away; and I hope even now to come down and look in on you once or twice during your stay."

The children sighed; it was a great disappointment to them; and they felt almost guilty to be so delighted when their dear father could not share it.

The final packing up was more like Arthur's advice to Ada than the elders would have chosen. Certainly the servants, as well as Nellie and Ada, had not been idle during the two days of Mrs. Arundel's absence. But it was, nevertheless, a great bustle to pack up for so large a family. And when at last on Saturday afternoon they really did drive away from No. 8 in two cabs, and the carriage for mamma and Tom, they all were perfectly certain they had left the very thing behind that they wanted most.

Dr. Arundel was obliged to wish them good-bye at the station. They were in two adjoining carriages, in one of which Nellie, Arthur, and the little girls were established, with Simmons, the housemaid; and in the other Tom's little couch had been laid, and by him sat his mother, while at the further window Ada and the nurse and baby were making themselves as comfortable as possible.

Dr. Arundel looked at all the happy faces, and as he clasped his wife's hand, he whispered, "We have much to be thankful for, my love; may God bless you all, and strengthen little Tom."

Mrs. Arundel's eyes were full of tears as she glanced at the pale face beside her, and then back at her husband, and she only managed to say good-bye rather brokenly. But just as the train began to move, she whispered hurriedly, "Indeed I know it, so many mercies; I am not unthankful."

CHAPTER IV.

OH the delicious smell of the sea as they emerged from the little station at South Bay!

The elder ones volunteered to walk, and as the omnibus was considered too shaky for Tom, a fly had been previously ordered, and stood waiting for them.

The light frame of his couch, with his slender form, was easily lifted and placed across the two seats, and they were soon driving along by the edge of the sea before turning up the road which led to the Downs. Tom stretched his neck to see as much as he could, and his mother tried to raise him a little, but he looked so anxious and haggard that she begged him to be satisfied to leave it all till to-morrow. The child lay back exhausted, and the mother's eyes sought the nurse's anxiously.

"He will be better after his tea, ma'am," said Mary, in answer to this look; "and to-morrow I hope he will be quite himself; won't you, dear?"

They were soon mounting the little hill that led to the farm, and Mrs. Arundel said to Mary, "I hope you will not find this very heavy to push him up and down."

"Oh, no, I do not think we shall; we must all help!" answered Mary pleasantly. "You know, ma'am, we can't expect London pavements at South Bay."

"Here we are!" said Mrs. Arundel as they drew up before a gabled whitewashed house, with a gay little garden in front, and wide-open white curtained windows, with old-fashioned tiny diamond lattices.

By the time Tom had been safely lifted out, and the nurse, baby, and Dolly had been introduced to their nursery, there was a sound of voices, and Mrs. Arundel turned to greet her merry party from the station.

And Isabel and Netta joined in the chorus of gratification; while Simmons gave smiling approval.

"What a jolly sitting room! And that dear old bay window! I say, Ada, we'll have nice times here," said Arthur.

"What a little drawing room!" exclaimed Ada, rushing across the landing into the room looking towards the sea.

"Quite right, too," said Arthur; "for I believe we do make an awful row sometimes."

"Here," said Dolly's little voice from the crack of the door close by. "I've been watching you all this time. This is my nursery, and I like it very much; but Tom doesn't."

"Let's see," said Arthur. "Oh, here you are, all of you, quite settled in, I declare! Tea spread on the table, and baby looking as if he would eat the loaf if he could!"

"I am not," said Tom wearily. "I wish I could come in with you, mamma; I don't like being here."

"So you shall, dear, when we have taken our bonnets off. It is all strange at present, but we shall soon get happy. Arthur dear, help Simmons and Mrs. Ross up with some of our things."

They soon came down again, and Simmons and Arthur lifted the moveable part of Tom's couch from the nursery to the sitting room sofa. And there, slightly propped up with pillows, he was able to look round, and began to feel himself more at home.

"Just one mouthful," said his mother with gentle decision as she held his drinking-cup to his lips.

He obeyed without further demur, and then, placing the cup on his little table, which had been brought with them in the train, and putting one tiny piece of bread and butter between his lips, Mrs. Arundel left him while she attended to the others. And amid all the little bustle of preparation, Tom forgot to be cross, and unnoticed by all but his watchful mother, gradually took up piece after piece of his bread and butter till it had all disappeared. He looked all the better for it.

And happily no one said, "There, you did want your tea after all;" though it was on the tip of Ada's tongue several times.

By the time tea was over, it was getting dusk, and Mrs. Arundel advised them not to explore till the next day.

"Oh, mamma," said Nellie, "would you mind our just running down for a peep at the sea!"

Mrs. Arundel could not say no, and telling them "to wrap up, for it was very different from London," she went to see after her little flock, and in no time heard the three hurry out of the house and scamper down the quiet lane.

The little ones were soon tucked into the white fragrant beds; and Tom had been lifted upstairs on his light frame, and was now lying in the twilight waiting for his mother's good-night kiss.

He stretched out his hand and stroked her face, then said suddenly, "I wish I could run off down the lane with them."

"I wish you could, my precious," she answered tenderly; "but, Tom, God has willed it differently, and we must try and be willing. Do try, my dearest!"

"I can't," said Tom in a stifled voice. "It makes it worse to come here and half see it all. I would rather have stayed in London."

"I hope it will do you good, my dear; and you will find to-morrow that there are some pleasures you can share."

"I don't think there will be. Even baby could grab at the flowers at our nursery window the minute he came in; but I—, I could only be lifted as usual on to the sofa, and stick there."

"There now, I have made you cry," he said penitently. "Oh, mamma, I wish I could bear it better!"

He clasped his arms about her neck, and after a minute or two, she whispered his prayer, and then tenderly kissing him, she got up to go away.

Tom would like to have seen her face—the face he loved so much—but it was too dark; and he could only guess by her step that she was dejected and sorrowful. This made him very sorrowful too, and burning tears rolled down his cheeks when her footfall sounded on the last stair. Being left alone reminded him of that other boy who had no mother; that boy who had no white soft bed at the sea-side to rest in, but was probably at this moment in a dark, unhealthy room, looking at the shadow of the flickering gas-lamp on the dirty blind, in hot, dirty London.

"I wish I had not grieved her," he thought, as he had thought a hundred times before; "but I can't help it; I'm a miserable little boy, and always shall be, till the end!"

"Till the end!" Was there an end? The thought roused him again, for he was almost asleep. What made him think of that? Was it that beautiful evening star shining so calmly down upon him? Or was it words which his mother and father often spoke to him, and which, by the Holy Spirit's power, were coming back to him? He could not tell; and while he thought about it, his tired eyes closed, and he slept.

When Mrs. Arundel lifted her blind the next morning, and looked out over the orchard laden with fruit, with its grass sparkling in the morning dew and sunshine, she espied two figures, arm-in-arm, pacing up and down the lane. They were Ada and Arthur. No time must be lost on this first morning; and they were drinking in the fresh sea breezes, and enjoying, as perhaps only town folks can, the first morning at the sea-side. Very dear to their mother were these eldest children of hers; but how she longed to see in them, besides their bright earthly promise, the germ of heavenly growth.

A handful of gravel crashing against her window roused Nellie from her slumbers. She started up frightened, and then smiled as she guessed what it was.

"What a lovely Sunday," said Mrs. Arundel, when she came down stairs and found Nellie cutting the bread and butter.

"Come, Arthur; come, Ada," called Mrs. Arundel from the door, "I am sure you must be hungry."

"That we are, and I never did see such a jolly place, mamma! That orchard, when the dew is off, will be as cool and as shady as possible; and when we are tired of the beach—"

"Oh, yes, we shall; one cannot be everlastingly on the beach! It is the very thing to complete our enjoyment."

"It is very nice," said Mrs. Arundel, "and is an especial pleasure to me, because I shall be able to take my work there when I do not care to go far."

After breakfast they all gathered together, and their mother read a short passage from the Bible, and prayed a very simple prayer that all could understand, asking God their Father to take care of them, thanking Him for all His gifts, and praying that they might be enabled to live to His glory.

After this, all who were old enough prepared themselves, and at half-past ten set off to walk inland to a little church about a mile away.

After dinner, Mrs. Arundel told them to bring their books to the orchard, and little Tom was wheeled under the shade of one of the largest trees, and they established themselves in various comfortable attitudes round him. The baby rolled on the grass at their feet, Dolly was absorbed in a Sunday picture book at Nellie's knee, and the rest were sitting, with Sunday faces calm and bright, waiting to hear a story which their mother was going to read aloud. The two servants, with the maid from the farm, soon passed, going to afternoon service in South Bay. And as long as the bells were chiming, Mrs. Arundel sat silent, listening to the peaceful sound, and thinking of all whom she loved who were far away.

The children were awed by the stillness and the music floating up on the soft wind; and when the last note died away, they sat perfectly quiet, till Mrs. Arundel turned to them and opened the book.

Just at this moment Alfy ran out from the wide-open front door, and crossed the road, to have a good look at the new visitors. His exit was unnoticed evidently, for no one followed him, and he made his way, not at all abashed, into the midst of the little party. The children were all rather surprised, and there was a pause to see what he would do. "Me, too," he said, and seated himself amongst them very complacently.

Alfy turned round, and after examining her gentle face for a minute, he scrambled to his feet and trotted towards her; and as they were far enough away not to interrupt the others, Mrs. Arundel began her reading, and Nellie kept her two little ones happy and good for half an hour.

Just as Mrs. Arundel was shutting her book, Mrs. Ross appeared at the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked anxiously in every direction, at last calling in not a very pleased voice, "Alfy! Alfy! Wherever are you?"

"Here he is," said Mrs. Arundel, raising her voice a little just to reach the anxious grandmother.

"Oh, dear, ma'am, I'm sure I beg pardon for him—a naughty boy! However did he come troubling you ladies?" said Mrs. Ross, coming near.

"I suppose it was this way. Molly, the girl, was off to church, and his grandfather was having a nap, and I must needs fall asleep too. I beg your pardon, ma'am. You see we're old folks to have him on us like; but it's all we can do for him that's gone," glancing at her black Sunday gown.

"Your son's child?" asked Mrs. Arundel kindly, sympathising with the trouble in the old woman's face.

"Yes, ma'am, our only one. His wife died when Alfy was a year old; and just a year after that, our boy went out one ugly night fishing, and a storm came on, and the boats came back without his!"

All eyes were turned on Mrs. Ross; and even Alfy looked sober. Seeing them silently ask for more, she went on.

"A few days afterwards we did find him, thank God; but our brave, handsome boy, you would not have known him, ma'am; and we laid him by his young wife up there under the trees where you went this morning; and then we took Alfy home to us altogether."

"I daresay it is a comfort in some ways," said Mrs. Arundel, looking at his pretty little face, and thinking of the sailor-father.

"Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Ross hesitating, "it is in some ways; when I think of him that's gone it is. But we're getting old, father and me, and sometimes I'm afraid whether we look after him enough; and we haven't time or strength to be always at his heels. I am afraid for him if anything happened to us, or if he were to run wild. That's what our own Alfred never did, ma'am."

Mrs. Arundel looked thoughtful. And as the children were getting tired of sitting, Mrs. Ross took Alfy's hand and led the way to show them a little brook where she could pick them some water-cresses for tea. They all ran off after her; and Nellie came up to Tom, and placing the good-natured baby by his side on the perambulator, within the circle of his arm, she pushed them slowly up and down the shady lane, while Mrs. Arundel walked by her side, and they enjoyed one of those peaceful seasons that come but seldom to mothers and elder daughters of large families, and are prized accordingly.

Nellie and her stepmother loved each other dearly, and each truly sought to be a comfort to the other. It was wonderful how many ways Nellie found of doing little things for her mamma. While in her turn, Mrs. Arundel tried to fill a mother's place to the girl whom she had taken to her heart a desolate, motherless child, of four years old, just fifteen years ago.

This Sunday was long remembered; for that week a new era opened in the lives of some of that happy little party.

CHAPTER V.

"MAMMA! What time may we bathe?" was Ada's first question the next morning when they were fairly seated at breakfast.

"I have been thinking it over," answered Mrs. Arundel, "and I know you and Arthur would generally like to bathe before breakfast."

"That we should!" said Arthur. "Bathing in the middle of the day is 'girls' time.'"

"So should I," said Ada; "but oh, mamma, what a pity we did not go this morning!"

Mrs. Arundel smiled. "I thought for the first day that you would have excitement enough, so by-and-by we will see about it."

"And may we bathe?" asked Netta; including, as she always did, her beloved companion Isabel.

"Yes, with Nellie; and I shall sit on the beach and watch you, and see what brave little girls I have."

The moment breakfast and prayers were done, there was a general rush for hats and jackets. Long before Mrs. Arundel could be ready, Arthur, Ada, Isabel, and Netta were off down the lane; and Nellie was almost as anxious as they to get off. But she waited first to help to get Tom ready, and place him in his little carriage; and then, while the nurse put on her hat, she amused the little ones and held the baby.

At last they were all ready to start. Mrs. Arundel had spoken to Mrs. Ross about the dinner, and now came out, followed by Simmons, who would push little Tom, and take it in turns with the nurse to carry the baby, while for a change, Tom often asked them to set him by his side and give him a ride too.

The nursery party went down the hill more quickly than Nellie and Mrs. Arundel cared to go, and were established on the sands when they arrived. Arthur soon spied them, for he had been on the watch, and now rushed up with a face full of eagerness.

"Here you are!" he exclaimed, opening out his mother's beach chair, and longing to see her established.

But his mother was not ready yet. She went first to little Tom's side and fixed up a sort of parasol shade over him, and then put him so that he could see as much as possible without raising his head more than was permitted.

"You can see pretty well now, darling?" she said, putting her face down to the level of his.

The others waited round. They knew from experience that everyone in the family had to give place to the comfort of the poor little invalid; so it was not till their mother seemed satisfied that the most had been done that could be, that they claimed her attention.

"To be sure," said Mrs. Arundel, producing a half-crown which seemed ready; "and Arthur is the eldest, so he must lay it out to good advantage."

"Not with that, I think; but if you see anything that would amuse him, you can let me know; or stay—suppose I give you another shilling, and you use your very best discretion to get something suitable. Suitable, mind!"

The words were hardly out of Mrs. Arundel's mouth, before the children were off, Ada dragging Dolly along as fast as her little legs could carry her towards the shops.

Mrs. Arundel looked after them, smiling, when she was startled by a slight cry from Tom. A large mastiff had come up, and was putting his cool nose right up to little Tom's face.

A young lady in deep mourning sprang forward, and said quickly: "He will not hurt you, dear, in the least!" And then, coming up to them, she apologised for her dog, and tried to make friends with Tom.

"I was only startled for a moment," said Tom, looking up, rather ashamed of his fright.

"Yes," said a clear ringing voice; "and he is so big, and came so very near! But he is as gentle as can be. Come here, Lion, and show this little boy how good you can be."

Then turning to Mrs. Arundel, and finding that her face did not rebuke her for interesting the little invalid, she showed him how her dog would fetch a stick, carry her basket, and do various little tricks.

Presently she raised her veil, and then they could see her striking face and great beauty. She was probably a few years older than Nellie, but her face was full of interest and sorrow. Nellie made up her mind that it was a sorrow carried patiently, and not fought against; though she could not have told why she thought so.

Then the stranger called her dog to lie down beside her, and Mrs. Arundel and Nellie seated themselves close to little Tom, and began to think of taking out their work.

But the work did not come to much, for before long they heard a considerable crunching of the shingle behind them, and in another moment the troop came up, breathless and excited.

"Where are your pails?" said Mrs. Arundel in amazement, seeing them all empty-handed, and making up her mind that they had lost the half-crown.

"Oh, mamma!" Ada whispered eagerly. "We haven't brought them with us; but they are all right, and we are going back for them. But, mamma, there was nothing suitable for Tom under three-and-sixpence—but oh, do let us spend that! We will give the extra out of our own money."

"But, my dear, three-and-sixpence is a great deal. Whatever toy could cost that, that he could play with?"

"Oh, mamma, he'll hear!" said Ada. "But do trust us; it isn't a toy, and it isn't waste, and do trust us to buy it!"

Mrs. Arundel would have hesitated still; but the eager faces, and the necessity for secrecy, overcame her prudent objections, so she took another half-crown from her purse, and they were off again instantly.

The young lady, who had been near enough to Mrs. Arundel to gather the meaning of it all, smiled pleasantly when they were again out of sight, and said in a low tone, "They seem very fond of your little boy."

"Oh, yes! He is our first care." Then with a glance, which the young lady understood, towards the little couch, Mrs. Arundel turned the conversation to other subjects.

In about half an hour the shopping party came back, and advanced with their hands behind them, looking eagerly happy. Arthur came first, and going up to little Tom, placed in his hand a small parcel, saying, "That's your share of the spades and pails!"

They all gathered round to see, even Simmons and Mary getting up to peep over the little shoulders; and very much surprised were they to see Tom's thin fingers take out of the paper a nice little telescope!

"How kind!" he said, flushing up. "Do you think I shall be able to see through it lying so?"

"Oh, yes," said his mother, looking delighted. "It will be the very thing, Tom. How nice it was of them all to think of it."

"And here are our spades," said the little ones, bursting out with their news, now the grand presentation was over. "See, mamma, such beauties, and the pails only fourpence each!"

"No, dear; though I am a sea-side baby, I will confess," she said laughingly, turning to the stranger, who seemed quite interested by the family party.

The young lady smiled. "Ah, I am too old for that!" she said, shaking her head. "But I expect you could dig for a whole morning with pleasure."

The tide had been going down for some hours, and a nice flat strip of sand was left dry. Simmons volunteered to push Tom a little way along this, and Mary joined her with the baby.

Left thus together, as it were, Mrs. Arundel turned to the young lady, as if to finish the sentence which had been interrupted. "We never talk of him before him," she said, following the perambulator with her eyes. "He is very quick, and thinks too much about himself already; I mean his thoughts are too much centred on his affliction."

"Yes," said his mother, still looking after him, "yes; but we do know from whom it comes."

"Yes," she answered in her turn. But it was a very reserved word, and Mrs. Arundel could not ask any more just then.

"Yes; when he was nearly two years old; such a darling! The nurse—not this one—put him on the table against my often-repeated injunctions, and as she turned round to reach his hat, the child leant after her and fell. He has never sat up since."

"Very, very sad! But one day my boy will, I trust, know what it is to be all right again, and have no aches and weariness. Here they come back, and I think he looks as if he were tired. Simmons, we will return home, and leave the others to their digging. How happy they all look!"

With a word to Nellie and the nurse, who both seemed inclined to finish the morning on the beach, Mrs. Arundel turned homewards, her little son's anxious face giving her such a heart-sinking that she felt as if she could hardly walk along. But by-and-by, she lifted her eyes to the blue sky and took courage. She remembered in whose hand she was, and that nothing could happen to her boy but by His permission.

"He knows, He cares," she said to herself; and if the eyes that still looked up were dimmed with tears, they were tears of submissive faith, that trusted when she could not see.

CHAPTER VI.

Hearing the noise of wheels before she expected it, Mrs. Ross came to the door to see, and Mrs. Arundel told her that this first day the excitement had been rather too much for Tom, and that they had come home to rest.

Simmons and she soon tucked him up comfortably on the little sofa in the tiny sitting room, and with his tired eyes watching his mother sit down to her desk, he soon forgot himself, and fell peacefully asleep.

About half-past one the beach party began to return. Nurse and the little ones first, and very soon Nellie and all the rest.

When they were at tea that evening, Netta spied the postman coming up the hill. And there was a general rush to the door, in which, however, poor Netta, being small, lost her chance. Ada was the successful one, and laid the letter down in triumph before her mother.

"Prepare yourselves for a great surprise. When I was seated at my solitary tea on Saturday evening, the door opened, and Walter walked in! Yes, my dear son from India! But he must tell you all about it himself. When he has finished his business, he will come down to South Bay, about Wednesday, I suppose; so tell Nellie to keep back her impatience till then. I am too busy to say more to-day."

Mrs. Arundel rose quickly, and putting her arm round her shoulder, kissed her affectionately. "Dear Nellie, how nice it will be," she said; "don't cry; I am afraid I did not prepare you enough."

Nellie's tears caused general consternation; and when she looked up and saw the woe-begone faces of her little sisters, she could not help laughing, which astonished them much. So she soon recovered, and once more they settled to their tea, and to the joyful anticipations of Walter's visit.

Arthur and Ada were very full of it, and, to judge by what they said, intended to monopolise him entirely. Nellie looked radiant after her first agitation was over, and Mrs. Arundel sympathised so thoroughly with her, that she looked radiant too. The children were so excited with this news that they soon finished tea, and almost without asking permission set off for a walk inland, leaving everything scattered about.

Their mother began to put the room to rights. "They will have to be tidy," she said emphatically, half aloud; "for if everyone throws everything down, we shall not be able to move."

On the eventful Wednesday, dinner was soon swallowed, and four or five of them hurried off to meet the three o'clock train.

Tom was lifted across on his couch to the grass in the orchard, where he lay looking up into the trees, and thinking. His little telescope was held tightly in one thin hand; and the other stretched out listlessly, catching at the grass and clover.

Mrs. Arundel came over the road to glance at him, and he looked up in her face as if wishing to say something. She knew the look, and waited.

"It will not be nice for me; I shall not wish to see him; I don't remember him."

"But, dear Tom, he is your brother, and so kind, and when you know him, you will love him."

"No, mamma, I shall not," he answered quietly; "nothing makes any difference to me. They will all be off for walks away from me. No; I wish he were not coming."

Mrs. Arundel could not keep back a sigh, and Tom was quick to perceive it. He hated himself for his petulance, and yet he felt unable to overcome it.

"You must watch for them coming up the lane, dear," she said, trying to speak cheerfully; "and when you first hear them or see them, give a sound on your little whistle and I will come out."

"All right!" said Tom, with a trifle more energy. And then finding he could look up into the trees with his telescope, he began to adjust it, and Mrs. Arundel went indoors.

Tom was the first to hear the sound of the approaching party, and in his excitement gave a very shrill whistle, which brought his mother running out long before anything was to be seen.

But in a few minutes, they came within sight over the brow of the little hill. Nellie, looking the picture of happiness, leaning on the arm of a sunburnt, pleasant young man of about twenty-two, who was laughing and talking, and holding Isabel by his disengaged hand.

The others were conveying his bag, umbrella, &c.; for Walter certainly should not have anything to carry this first day.

He came forward quickly when he saw his stepmother, and kissed her affectionately; and before Tom had time to object, he had stooped and kissed him also, saying with a sweet smile, "Ah, Tom! Here's somebody come that will be able to push you along finely!"

Tom looked astonished, and then a little ashamed as his eyes rested on his mother's face. And her touched and grateful smile set him thinking even in that moment of arrival how it was that his mother could love him so much. He thought he would ask her some day.

After tea nobody seemed inclined to walk down into the town again, so they gathered round their mother and Walter in the orchard. And with the sweet air blowing up gently from the sea, and the scent of the flowers coming over from the garden, he explained to them how it was that he came so suddenly, and what were his plans.

"I should not have taken you by surprise if I could have helped it; but one of the partners of our firm was coming over on business, and was thrown from his horse and seriously hurt at the last moment. They were obliged to send someone trustworthy, and luckily fixed on me; so with only twenty-four hours' notice I was off, instead of him, in the steamer in which his passage was taken."

"Very," answered Walter, smiling; "for I should not have come in such style on my own account."

"How long are you likely to be able to stay?" asked Mrs. Arundel. "Or perhaps you do not know?"

"I think three clear months. So, as my father tells me you are here for a month, if you will have me, I have come to stay."

"What an age!" exclaimed Ada. "But, after all, I do not expect it will be anything nice to do."

Nellie looked pained. "I dare say it will, Ada; Walter would not propose anything disagreeable."

CHAPTER VII.

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Ada. "You are only trying to take us in. Though there are donkeys and Melton Castle, there are certainly no rolled tongue and pickled salmon."

"But, Walter, you should not tell them your bill of fare so early in the day," said Nellie, laughing.

"Well, anyone who likes all these dainties combined, must be at this door at half-past eleven precisely."

"A saddle, of course," answered Netta with dignity; "should not you, Isabel? That is, if you mean for a donkey ride."

Nellie blushed with pleasure; but she only said, "But mamma is in the secret too."

Before half-past eleven the children were all assembled; and five minutes before that time, six donkeys came up and took their stand near the door.

The children counted and counted, but could not make out how six would be enough to "go round." Walter was lying under a tree in the orchard, and all he did was to laugh at all their questions and leave them unanswered.

Still, he kept his eye on them all, and when an open carriage drove up, he leapt from the ground and hurried across the road.

"Nellie is going to condescend to a donkey," he said, laughing, "and so I shall choose the best for her."

She came out at the moment, and he mounted her first of all. And then Dolly was placed in a little arm-chair; Netta and Isabel, with their curls dancing in the sunshine, had saddles; but Walter had discovered there were some to be obtained with a sort of hoop round them, and with these they seemed delighted.

Mrs. Arundel, Tom, and the baby, with the two servants and two hampers, were packed into the carriage.

"Oh, I walk! No donkeys for me, thank you," answered Walter; "my legs are too long."

Mrs. Ross and Alfy came to the door to see them off. The carriage started at the pace of the donkeys, Walter generally walking by Nellie, and holding Dolly's bridle.

Shouts, screams, and laughter filled the air as the donkeys jogged their riders up and down. Tom leaned as far as he dared to see the merry party, and could not help enjoying their pleasure, though he kept on telling himself "it was very hard."

Arthur managed to urge his donkey alongside of the carriage. "Where are the 'goodies'?" he asked mysteriously of his mother.

By-and-by the ruins of the old castle appeared against the sky, and very soon the carriage pulled up at a low boundary-wall, after which they would have to walk.

Tom's perambulator had been fastened to the back of the carriage, and he was now placed on it. The coachman and the donkey-boy were engaged to carry the hampers up the hill for them, and Walter took Tom in charge; while shawls, rugs, and baskets occupied most of the others.

They found the hill in the burning sun rather fatiguing, but were rewarded when they reached the top by finding that part of the inside of the castle was in deep shade, and that overhanging the moat there were two fine old trees, which looked very inviting. Baskets, wraps, and hampers were quickly deposited, and the young people soon spread over the ruins in every direction.

Mrs. Arundel, with Nellie's help, aided by the two servants, now began to unpack the hampers. Tom, very interested, lay looking at them, suggesting where the viands were to be put.

"I am so thirsty!" he said, as he saw sundry bottles of water and lemonade lifted out.

The servants had a little "nursery table," as Mrs. Arundel called it, spread at a short distance for baby and Dolly; but on this at present was laid nothing but some very tempting-looking rolls, with some tarts and cakes. As to Tom, he felt so dreadfully hungry that he held his whistle in his hand, only waiting a word from his mother to give the promised signal.

And before she had time to finish the sentence, Tom gave a whistle, which woke the echoes and brought the hungry party trooping back.

"Well, I declare," said Arthur, walking round the table-cloth, and surveying the viands. "Here's a spread! Well done, mother!"

"It is 'well done, Walter,'" said Mrs. Arundel; "more than half this came from London!"

"Pickled salmon, tongue, chickens, tarts, salad, rolls, blanc-mange, cakes, lemonade, and a lot more! Well done, Walter!"

"I'm glad you are satisfied; now then to enjoy it. But first we will ask a blessing." He raised his hat reverently, and calling to Dolly to be still a moment, he thanked God for giving them all this pleasure.

Mrs. Arundel said she should begin by helping the "nursery table," and sent a goodly supply by Arthur, who was head waiter. After that they all fell to, and did ample justice to all that Walter and Mrs. Arundel had prepared.

"There is no water left, Nellie," said Netta. "What shall we do? I am so thirsty."

"I know where we can get some more," said Ada. "I saw a little cottage down the other side, and there was a board up, 'Water or tea to be obtained here.'"

"All right," said Arthur, taking a last bite of a nice tart. "And look here, mother, I don't think I have quite finished. Don't you clear it all away!" And with a laugh, he and Ada scampered off.

They willingly complied; and the sweet sound filled the old ruin, and seemed to float away on the wind. Walter lay with closed eyes; and when they had finished, no one spoke for a moment.

"Now you sing," said Dolly, getting up from her little table, and trotting round to her eldest brother.

He started up. "I? Well I will sing a funny one; and then when the others come we will see if we can sing something all together."

"Mamma," said Ada, when they came back breathless, and Nellie was pouring out the cool fresh water, "it is such a nice little cottage, and such a nice woman; she has a table under a great mulberry tree; and she said, 'Should we want tea? Because of putting on the water.'"

"Yes; we will go down there presently and tell her. I thought I had heard there was a cottage."

Arthur sat down by his mother and pretended he had not finished dinner; but after one more tart, he protested the run had taken away his appetite, and turned from the table.

"What shall we sing, Walter?" asked Mrs. Arundel. "See, I have a few hymn sheets here. The first is, 'O God, our help in ages past.'"

"Yes," said Ada, sighing; "I often think of him all alone, only it spoils one's pleasure so to think about it."

Mary, the nurse, sang a nice second, and they all drew together into one circle, and the familiar words sounded wonderfully sweet with all the voices.

On the back of this hymn sheet was printed another, on hearing the name of which Dolly exclaimed: "That's my hymn; we'll have that now!"

Everybody was willing, and the voices rose in "There is a happy land, far, far away!"

When Dolly's hymn was finished, they all dispersed. Simmons told Mrs. Arundel that she would clear up the dinner things, and see to their being packed safely. Baby had fallen asleep; Tom's eyes looked heavy; so leaving the spot where they had dined, Mrs. Arundel and Ada, followed by Netta and Isabel, walked down to the cottage to see about tea. Arthur began to climb the old castle walls; and Nellie and Walter found a little nook half way up the old tower, from which they could see the sea, and enjoy a really cosy chat—the first quiet time the brother and sister had yet had.

"Oh, Walter," said Nellie, looking up in his face, "I am so glad to see you again!"

"Dear Nellie!" he answered, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to him. "So am I. And how have you been getting on these three years? You were almost a little girl when I left, and now you are quite a little woman."

"I do not think I need ask how you have been getting on; your face, your whole life, shows that it is well with you."

"Yes; Walter, I am very happy. I have plenty to do—teaching the little ones, helping mamma, and all that; but it is happy work, and they do all love me so."

"I am sure they do," he answered warmly; "and I know by your letters that you, like myself, have found our Saviour, Nellie, during these three years; or been found of Him, for I am afraid we should never have looked for Him, if He had not looked for us first."

"No, I suppose not, Walter. It was your going away that led me. Oh, I was so miserable at first! And then, when I was reading one day, those words in the gospel of John seemed to shine out from the page:

"And then I thought, Walter, that, whatever you might do, I was not sure of rising again; and this increased my unhappiness tenfold. So I went back to my chapter to see if the words were there, and then there flashed out on me a new sentence:

"I think those words rang in my ears for more than a week, and then—somehow—so wonderfully, God in His mercy helped me to believe on Him."

"Yes, darling, it is very wonderful, and so kind of our Father to draw us both at the same time. And you have no secrets, Nellie?" he asked, looking in her sweet face.

"No; how should I?" she answered, surprised. "I always tell you everything, Walter."

Tea at the cottage was another pleasure. It was spread on a long narrow table, under the shade of the mulberry tree. The woman produced cream and milk and mulberries, besides as much boiling water as they required.

All were very glad of their tea, and the chat was very merry. Tom was propped up as high as possible, and pushed close up to the table, and for once felt himself one of the party. His eyes shone with pleasure, and his mother thought the sea air must be doing him good. He even stretched out one of his little thin hands to help pass the cups to his mamma, and all looked delighted at the success with which he managed it.

When they were nearly through tea, Walter said, with a meaning look, "Well, now I want to know what you are all doing."

Still, he looked at them with the same enquiring glance; and then, not getting any exact reply, he said, "Now, I'll begin with the youngest."

"Well baby can't answer," said Arthur, "so I'll answer for him: 'Eats and sleeps.'"

The others laughed. And Netta and Isabel began blushing and hanging their heads in anticipation of their turns coming.

"Walk, and dig, and carry baby, and sleep, and eat, and bathe, and enjoy myself."

Nellie blushed. "I don't know, Walter, but I guess what you mean, and I should like to do anything I could."

"I should think, if you really mean sensible duties," said Arthur, "that Nellie has no need to be ashamed, as she is always helping everybody, and being just as kind as she can be."

"Arthur always praises me," said Nellie; "but now, Walter, we will question you. What are you going to do?"

"Ah, that's it, is it? Well and good; but I do not mean to tell you that to-day. Is that hard? I am only going to give you a hint, which will last you till to-morrow to think about. I shall not even explain a word about it, and just leave you this text to think of. I will tell you my little plans to-morrow."

He drew from his pocket a well-worn little Bible, and turning over the leaves soon found these words: "'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'"

After tea, Walter proposed a game at rounders. Ada and Arthur were capital players; Netta and Isabel were not to be despised; and the game went on with great spirit. Nellie said she would rather watch, and she held the baby while the nurse and Simmons did the final packing up; and then she sent them to explore the castle.

At seven o'clock the carriage and the donkeys came up the road leading to the cottage, and Tom was told to give a loud whistle to collect the party. The advent of the donkeys was a fresh delight. The children did not need much telling as to which steed to choose. They were soon off; the donkeys were on their homeward road, and knew it; and the children had plenty of jogging before they had done. Bump, bump, they went, until Nellie said she should be too stiff to walk to-morrow. Ada and Arthur declared they did not mind a bit, and let the animals go at any pace they chose; only sorry that they soon distanced the others, and had to bump along without the pleasant sympathy of fellow-sufferers. It was all fun, however, and perhaps the greatest enjoyment of that enjoyable day.

By the time all reached the farm, they were pretty well tired out. Tom was carried up to his mother's room, and she and Simmons quickly and tenderly undressed him, and laid him in his little bed. Nurse meanwhile did the same for her baby; Dolly had a few tears, but denied that she was the least tired. Nevertheless, before Nellie had well tucked her up, she was fast asleep. The rest were glad to take arm-chairs, sofas, or stools, and to rest quietly; while Mrs. Arundel took out the interesting book she was reading to them and offered to begin.

"No; I have not been shaken to pieces by a delightful donkey!" answered Mrs. Arundel. "I can easily read, if you all like. We will have supper early, and go to bed soon. Netta and Isabel, do you care to sit up?"

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN Walter and Arthur were returning together next morning from their early bath, Walter referred to the conversation of the previous evening.

"On and off I have thought about that sort of thing for a good while," said Arthur, reddening; "but I do not quite see what you want me to do now."

"That I am going to explain to you all after breakfast; but there is one thing that comes first by rights, and that is to remember the opening words of our text."

"Yes; not our own at all. Servants to do the will of another. Are you His or your own, dear Arthur?"

"I should like to be His, but I don't know yet," answered the boy in a low tone.

"'Ask, and ye shall receive,'" said Walter earnestly; and no more was said till they reached the farm.

When the children assembled at breakfast, to their surprise they found a text, nicely painted, pinned by its four corners to their dining room wall. They could all see it, for it was large; they could all read it, for it was plain: "Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's."

"It is a message for you all," said mamma gently. "But now, dears, to breakfast, and we can talk about the text afterwards."

When the first clatter of knives and forks had subsided, and the cups had been filled the second time, Walter began to explain his plans.

"You all know that there are many children down here, come like yourselves for a summer holiday. Of these many, no doubt, are from Christian families, and have been taught about God and the Bible as you have. But there are others who have heard very little of Jesus, or having heard, have not cared. Should we not like to reach even one of these children who have never heard?"

"I know we should; but I see the question on your lips—How? Well, there are several ways; but the way that seems easiest to me is to try and gather them together on the sands, and tell them about Jesus."

"I could not do anything," said Ada decidedly; "I should hate to be seen going about like that."

"Yes, I know it needs a little bit of self-denial at first; but if we remember our text, that will help us," he answered, glancing at the opposite wall.

"But we can't preach," said Arthur; "and you said you had something for us all to do."

"So I have. Nellie can sing, Ada can sing, so can Isabel and Netta a little; the rest can give round hymn papers, invite the children, and join in looking pleased and happy to see them come."

"We shall see," answered her brother patiently; "meanwhile, Ada, think of our text, dear, and try not to say anything to discourage the others. And then we must pray."

"For God's blessing on what we do; for His help to get the children together; for His Holy Spirit to send the arrow to the dear little hearts. When we get to the beach, I will set you all to work. I have brought some hymn sheets with me."

Nellie felt the responsibility great of being considered "able to sing," And as they all with beating hearts walked down to the shore, she said to her brother, "I am afraid you count on me too much. I can start the tune, or I will try to, but my voice is not very loud, and if the children do not catch it up, I am afraid—"

"Don't be afraid," said Walter; "it will be sure to be all right, and someone will be there, I daresay, who will help. Think of our text."

Nellie smiled, reassured, and they soon reached the beach, where Walter set the children to work to make a circle on the sand. Tom's little carriage was wheeled into one side of it, and while the children were diligently digging a trench round the circle, Walter took a cane and wrote on the smooth sand in the centre what he called "their text."

When this was done, he began inviting a few children who stood near to help them. "We are going to have a little service," he said, "only lasting half an hour, and we want you to come and sing a few hymns; will you?"

Some of the children stared; others turned away; but one or two, who had seen the same sort of thing at other places, joined very heartily, and the circle was soon made, and some of the children began seating themselves with their feet in the trench.

Mrs. Arundel had her camp stool close to little Tom, and she too would be able to help the singing.

They were to begin at half-past eleven. The hymn sheets were handed round; and when Walter had given out in a clear voice the number, and read one verse of "A charge to keep I have," Nellie in rather trembling tones set the tune.

If Ada had not loved Nellie she told herself that she would not have joined, but in order to help her sister she did her best. And before the end of the first verse, the children took it up, and the hymn went well to the end.

Nellie found a lovely voice helping, close behind her, but was too nervous to turn; but when they all sat down she caught a glimpse of Miss Arbuthnot's dress, and guessed it was she who had sung so sweetly.

"Walter said we should find someone," thought Nellie thankfully; but she had no time to think more, for Walter, who was standing close to the upper end of the little circle, began in his pleasant voice—

"Now, children, can you all read our teat? It is upside down to a few of you; but see, I have written it so as to be read by those at the bottom, and I know it by heart. Let me see if you can all say it after me—'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'

"Now I shall only keep you half an hour altogether; and as we are going to sing two hymns there will not be too much time, so I hope you will all be very attentive, and be able to tell your mammas every word I say.

"Some of you will say, I belong to mamma; some of you will say, I belong to papa, or to my grandparents, or to whoever has the charge of you. But whom do you belong to?

"It says here—can you read it?—'Your body and your spirit are God's.' Yes, you belong to God; therefore you must serve Him! Some of you love to please those who have the charge of you. Now do you not? How nice it is to hear one who loves you say, 'That is a good boy!' 'That is a good girl!' Yes, I know you do. But much, much more you will like to hear God say to you, 'Well done, good and faithful servant!'

"There was once a little boy—he was a slave in South America—whose master was very hard and cruel, often having him beaten when he had done no harm, and teaching him many cruel and wicked ways.

"One day a traveller came to this hard master's plantation. He was driven to take shelter there while a swarm of locusts passed over. His horse refused to go a step further, and turning in at the gate, he asked if he might remain there for a few hours. Leave was readily given; for people are very hospitable in South America, and this little slave was sent forward to put the stranger's horse in the stable.

"The traveller noticed the miserable plight of the poor boy, and gave him a kind word, at which the boy looked up astonished. He pitied the little slave, and afterwards, conversing with the master of the plantation, offered to buy him.

"'What, Harry?' said the master. 'He is a rascal, as idle as can be! But if you want him you shall have him, at my price; but you'll repent it!'

"The traveller paid the price, and by-and-by went out to find his horse and his slave. The boy was lying under a verandah; not attempting to work, but thinking how he could be idle, and yet avoid a fresh beating.

"'No good working, massa,' answered the boy sullenly. 'Harry work, gets a beating; Harry no work, gets beating too. So Harry please 'self, and no work.'

"'Yes, massa,' said the boy, rousing himself a little at the mild tone; 'I get your horse for you.'

"'Yours, massa?' said the boy, leaping up. 'Yours? Why me not know dat; me do anything in worl' for you, massa!'

"The traveller smiled. 'Will you, Harry? And why will you do anything in the world for me?'

"''Cause massa's kind,' said the boy huskily; ''cause massa say nice words; 'cause massa's bought me from my cruel old massa!'

"Yes, children, you are not your own; you are bought with a price! What price? Is it money? No! Something much more precious than money! What can it be?

"God has plenty of money, but that would not do for you! He had only one precious thing that would do to buy you! What was it? For He gave it! The Bible says, 'Bought with the precious blood of Christ!' It was His own only Son! Yes; He gave His Son for all of you! Will you spring up as Harry did, and say to God, 'I did not know that; I will do anything in the world for you'?

"Now all repeat our text once more: 'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'"

By this time quite a little group had gathered together; but most of the inner circle had been too absorbed to notice. They now sang another hymn, which was well taken up; and after two or three words of prayer to ask God's blessing, the little party broke up, just as the clock near the beach struck twelve.

"Was it so very dreadful?" Walter said to Ada; but she turned away hastily, and would have nothing to say about it.

The children now dispersed to their digging or bathing; Walter and Arthur pushed Tom off on a promised expedition; and Miss Arbuthnot sat down by Nellie and Mrs. Arundel.

"Thank you for helping us so nicely," said Nellie. "We all felt it rather an ordeal, never having done such a thing before; but—"

CHAPTER IX.

THREE months before this, two visitors were sitting in one of the large houses in South Bay. The blinds were down, and the room, though large and handsome, seemed dull and cheerless.

"Dear father," said the girl, addressing the old man tenderly, "you will feel better for a cup of tea."

And the old man allowed her to persuade him into drinking half a cup, but he would not eat or come to the table.

Christina ate a slice of bread and butter mechanically, and swallowed her tea, and had an almost guilty feeling when she felt less unutterably desolate than she had done half an hour ago.

Her mother had died early in the afternoon. As yet the real desolation had not swept over her. That would be, perhaps, when she had ministered all she could to her bereaved father, and came to lay her head on her pillow at night. Yes; the sorrow must wait till then.

She seated herself again by the arm-chair, and softly stroked her father's hand. She felt anxious about him. He had given way to no sorrow, had not, broken down in any way; but she thought he looked exceedingly pale, and there was a gravity about him which she did not quite like.

He soon took her hand in his, with a mute intimation that he did not wish to be stroked. And after a long silence, he said gravely, "Christina, my child, I do not think it will be long ere I follow your mother home."

"Dear father," she answered deprecatingly, "do not say so; you will feel better soon, I hope."

"I do not say it lightly, my dear; nor can I tell you why I think so; but I feel assured of it."

Christina's heart gave a strange leap, and she felt powerless to say anything to break the spell, as it were, of her father's words. It was like walking with her eyes open over a frightful precipice. She shuddered.

"My dear child," he continued quietly, "you have been a good daughter to us—God bless you!—now I want to leave a few directions with you in case it should be as I think it will. You will have enough to live on; plenty for you, and a friend to take care of you. Christina, I should like you to ask your aunt Mary to come and live with you. Promise me."

Christina, even in that bitter hour, felt a certain repugnance to comply with her father's wish in this respect; but how could she hesitate? She would have time to talk it over with him another day—not now; oh, not now!

So she promised. "Anything you wish, my precious father!" she said, with anguish in her voice.

They sat on in deep silence for some time longer. Then he spoke again; but this time the voice was not grave and authoritative, but loving and simple: "Christina, your mother and I have loved each other for forty years. We have never been separated for a single day; we have walked hand in hand all our pilgrimage; she has gone just a little way in front, and I am following. My dear, let no one think I am following her. Oh, blessed, blessed truth!

"It is Jesus we follow, my dear. He has taken her this afternoon across the water, and He tells me He thinks it is time for me to go too. But if He did not, my dear, I should have to wait; yes, wait patiently for the Lord.

"My child," he said again, clasping her hand tightly, "you must wait for the Lord! I had hoped we should all welcome Him together when He came; but He knows best!"

As the room darkened, Christina's desolation crept over her. She still believed her dear father would feel better to-morrow; but, oh, why could not she raise her head and trust in her God? What was this anguish at her heart which made her shudder to think she should never, never hear her mother's voice again? All the tenderness that she had received from her, all her own waywardness in past times, all the sins of her youth, flashed over her mind.

The room grew darker still. She ventured to chafe the fingers of the loved hand she held. He did not respond; and she rose to light the gas, feeling for the first time that perhaps she ought to speak to the doctor about her father's low condition. But the fingers did not yield as usual to her movement, and, terrified, she called him over and over again. Then she stooped and kissed his forehead; it was cold; and at that moment she knew that he too had been safely carried through the dark river, and landed on the other side.

When supper-time had passed, and the maid at last entered the room, the sight that met her eyes remained printed on her memory for many a long day. In the arm-chair sat the dear old gentleman who had won all their hearts, and kneeling before him, with her arms tightly clasped round his neck, and her face buried in his breast, lay his daughter. Worn out by long watching, spent with grief, and finding comfort for a few moments in her passionate embrace, Christina had fallen asleep.

The people at the lodgings dared not wake her, but sent quickly for the doctor, who lived near. He soon came; and in a moment whispered that "their care must be for her."

A small mattress was lifted in; her clinging arms were tenderly loosened, and she was laid upon it, and borne into the next room.

"He was all I had left," she murmured, as her head touched the pillow—"all but Jesus."

CHAPTER X.

WHEN the slumber passed away, which had mercifully deadened Christina's sensations, she started up with a bewildered look round the room.

It was the bedroom her father had lately occupied. But no father lay in the bed. She also found herself dressed in her clothes, and on a bed on the floor.

Her father; where was he? Was he still sitting in the chair—so cold! Could she not go and entreat him to rest?

She hurried to her feet; and as her senses became more fully awakened, she began to have a certain dim perception that it would be of no use to go to her father. Still she went. She opened the door noiselessly, and stood on the quiet landing, in the still early morning before anyone was up. Then she hesitated, and finally very cautiously opened the drawing room door. The room was very still—very, very still, she felt. She looked towards the arm-chair, and then she remembered more of what had happened. Then her glance took in the sofa, hidden under a snowy covering.

She knew now; knew all. She went up to it gently, and softly lifting the sheet, gazed on the features. Then she stooped and kissed the forehead tenderly.

Turning away, she went softly upstairs. In the room above lay the other loved one. She entered and, as she had done downstairs, lifted the covering, and looked once more on this face too. She meant to be very strong, and after softly kissing her mother's forehead was again turning away, when a horror of great darkness fell upon her, and throwing herself on her knees she gave way to the wildest weeping.

"Mother, mother!" she sobbed, "Why did you both leave me? My mother! My father! I am bereft of all!"

She wept on till it seemed as if she had no more tears to weep, and then she lay exhausted. Her own words kept on coming back to her—"Bereft of all!" Ah! No one knew but her father and mother what she had lost, only such a little while ago. No one could comfort her now—no one!

"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you;"

"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."

Over and over again the words seemed repeated to her distracted heart; and after a time her faith began to take hold of them.

"I know it, Lord," she whispered; "why did I forget? Thou art my portion! Thou dost comfort me!"

She rose now, and not daring to glance again at the bed, she went back into the chamber where she had slept.

She washed her face and smoothed her hair, put her dress to rights that she might look somewhat as usual, as if with a feeling of loyalty towards Him who was taking her in His keeping; and then she descended to the dining room and rang the bell. The maid answered it quickly.

"It is early," said Christina; "but I should like some breakfast, Ellen, as soon as you can."

"I have seen my dear father," she said gravely, in a steady voice; "and you know, Ellen, he is where he wished to be—with Jesus; so we must think of him so!"

But Christina gently pointed towards the table, as if she could not bear much more, and the girl hastily disappeared.

"She's like a ghost," she said downstairs, "for all she's so quiet; and she would not let me talk to her, nor tell her how sorry I am."

"Better not, my dear," said the landlady kindly; "she has been up in her mother's room this long time, for I saw her go in; and the best thing you can do is to get her a cup of tea as quickly as you can."

In the long, quiet days which followed, Christina had ample time to recollect her promise to her father. Tender as was the memory of that conversation, dutiful as Christina was, she sought hard for some excuse to evade the keeping of her promise.

"He would never have asked it from me if he had known how it would add to my distress," she said to herself.

"To have fixed on her, above all people; she is so particular; and—Oh, I do wish he had not asked it!"

Still he had asked it, and she had promised it, and very soon her conscience told her there could be no evading this duty. She had given directions that this aunt should be asked to the funeral. And she herself, now her mind was made up, wrote a little note inviting her to stay with her for a while. She could not make herself give a more definite invitation.

The day before her loved ones were carried to the grave, Miss Arbuthnot came. Christina met her at the drawing room door, and led her in, looking in her face to see if she could do anything towards filling the void at her heart. Her aunt pressed her hand earnestly, but did not speak, and Christina undid her wrappings without a word.

"I thought you would wish it; they are here," she answered, drawing her aunt into the back room. Side by side, in the centre of the room, lay the two peaceful faces, prepared for their long rest till the resurrection morning. Christina made no remark; but when her aunt had printed an agitated kiss on the two faces, and they were turning away, she said solemnly, "I have come to feel it is better as it is; I do not know what I could have done with one without the other. They loved each other so tenderly. I am thankful it is as it is."

Thus Christina and her aunt settled down to their joint life. Christina found her a very different companion from what she had feared. God's grace had done much for Miss Arbuthnot. The loss of a favourite nephew had almost broken her heart, and driven her to find comfort in God; and now she could better sympathise with Christina's loss, and behaved as wisely and as tenderly as was possible.

Thus the sacrifice on Christina's part was rendered less great than she anticipated, and by-and-by she began to perceive some of the reasons which might have made her father exact from her that promise. Her generous heart soon told her that her aunt was very lonely living by herself, and incidentally she gathered that when her father died, some of her aunt's income ceased.

"Doubtless he knew that," thought Christina; "and I believe he trusted me to be good to her. I will."

Thus Christina obeyed in "the letter and the spirit," and found increasing happiness in doing so.

CHAPTER XI.

"BROTHER," said Netta, on Saturday morning, "are you going to have a little service to-day?"

"Then we must collect a circle of stones to sit on, and get the children to heap up shingle for seats."

"Well," answered Walter, "it is another way of giving away tracts, as some do. You see these are all sweet little hymns, and often sink into the heart when other words are forgotten."

"I see," said Arthur; "so you look at giving those away as some part of the work you want us to do?"

"No; I have twelve different sorts. That will be a change, you see, for twelve days; and then begin again."

"I have heard," answered Mrs. Arundel, "that the children sometimes make little cardboard portfolios to hold them, as, if they love the hymns, they do not like to lose them and get them scattered."

"I will show you," answered their mother, "if you will buy some cardboard and narrow ribbon in the town to-day."

About eleven o'clock Walter appeared on the sands, and began to select the spot for his little service. While his helpers were digging out the trench as they did the day before, Walter wrote his text on a smooth place on the sand—

And underneath this he drew a picture of the life-boat belonging to South Bay, with which they were all familiar. Many inquiring glances were directed to the text and the picture; and very soon more and more children brought their spades and began to help. Nurses and mothers grouped themselves near: the promised shortness of the service being a great attraction to many.

"I wonder what it will be about?" said a child to Ada, who was busily digging out sand.

"You will see," answered Ada; "I guess the life-boat has something to do with it."

Just before half-past eleven, Christina came up to Mrs. Arundel, and sat down close to little Tom. Tom turned his head with a pleased look.

"So I will, when I am here. Did you like it yesterday, Tom?" she said softly, looking in his face with her dark eyes.

"Yes," said Tom, hesitating; "but it was not meant for me. I cannot do anything for God!"

"Can you not, dear? I think you can. I will tell you another time. See! They are going to begin."

Walter now gave out, "Safe in the arms of Jesus," which they sang through; and then he asked the children to read his text over as on the day before.

"Now, children, you have the key to understand what our text means. You have often heard that text before; but I do not suppose you have ever thought about Jesus being like a life-boat, have you? No, I daresay not; and that is why I want you to think about Him in quite a new light to-day.

"Not far from here, one very stormy day, a vessel was driven, by the violence of the waves, on to that sandbank over there."

All eyes followed Walter's; and now on this calm sunshiny morning, far out at sea, there was a little gleaming line of white to be seen near the horizon.

"There is the sandbank! Even on this calm day, when we have hardly a ripple here, the waves dash and foam over there; but if they do so in this weather, what must it be in a storm?

"That day the gale was very, very severe; and the coastguard watching heard a signal of distress, and very soon the brave sailors had manned the life-boat, and she was on her way to the wreck.

"What do the people on board that sinking vessel think when they see the life-boat battling with the waves, yet steadily and surely coming nearer and nearer? Do you think they are glad? Or do you think they do not care? Ah, they know their danger! Soon, soon their ship will sink; soon the waves which now wash over almost every part of the vessel must engulf them. No doubt whether they are glad!

"The life-boat comes nearer. Between the awful breakers they can see her, rising and falling. She is close now. For a moment the rush of the waves lessens.

"The brave men seize their opportunity. 'Jump!' they shout—'Jump!' Several obey, and are safe; but the giant waves rush forward, and the lift-boat is carried far beyond the wreck.

"'No, no!' says the captain, and they put the head of the life-boat towards the ship again.

"A man stands on the edge of the vessel. He grasps a heavy bag. The boat comes nearer again.

"'Jump!' shouts the captain once more, and four of the perishing ones obey. But the man who holds the bag of gold hesitates one moment, then, as the life-boat is carried back on the relentless wave, with a shriek, he springs forward. The boat is too far off! The bag which he still grasps in his hand becomes entangled, and drags him down and down, and still holding it, he sinks, never to rise again.

"The life-boat bears her freight of saved men and women safely to land; and you can imagine the rejoicing when they arrive there."

"Long before this, children, you will have made your own application of my subject; so I will not be long.

"Jesus is our Life-boat. We are on a sinking ship! The waves of our sins are washing over us! Do any of you doubt it? Have you ever felt a sin? Have you ever done a thing that you would not like your mamma to see? I know that each of you at this moment is confessing to yourself with a prick at your heart, 'I should not like her to have seen that!' Well, then, if so, the waves of your sins will sink you.

"The Life-boat is come close to every one of you to-day. Will you jump? It may never come so near you again. Jump now! Jump now, children! Do not be like the man that held back, who wanted to take his earthly things with him. You can't do it, dear children. You must leave all behind; think of nothing but the Life-boat, and that will carry you safely to every blessing. Jump into the Life-boat now, children! Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'"

CHAPTER XII.

"TOM, dear," said Christina, when the others had separated, and Mrs. Arundel had left them to do a little shopping. "Tom, dear, I once used to think as you do."

"As I do?" said Tom, raising his eyes to the beautiful face that bent over him. "Were you ever helpless like me?"

"Not quite in the same way, dear little Tom, but quite as miserable and tired of life."

Tom breathed hard. "I did not know that you guessed I was so tired," he said reluctantly.

"No, perhaps not; but, Tom, there is Someone else who knows just how sad and tired you are."

"No, I did not mean your mother; I meant your Saviour. It says, 'He is touched with the feeling of our infirmities.'"

"Perhaps you have; but if you had ever felt it, you would know it is worth thinking about. But I was going to tell you how I came to know it.

"I was very ill, Tom. God had taken away from me what I prized more than my life, or anything else in the world; and, like you, I thought I had nothing left to care about or make me happy. One day, as I lay moaning on my bed, the Lord Jesus seemed to come and take His stand just by my side. I turned my head that way, and I seemed to feel Him there as plainly as you can feel me, Tom, now, if you shut your eyes. You know I am here, and I knew He was there.

"In my desolation, and misery, and pain, I felt sure He had something to say to me. Oh, Tom, how I listened! At first my heart beat too loudly for me to hear; but after a minute or two, the sweetness of His presence made everything else grow dim. Then He seemed to speak to me:

"'I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'

"I listened till the words seemed to cease, and then there was deep silence. Still He stood by me for a long time, and I could feel that He was holding me, as He said, by my right hand, and was helping me.

"Then I said, 'Blessed Saviour, Thou hast loved me so much I will do Thy will, whatever it is! I leave it all to Thee!'

"Tom, dear, I gave it all up; yes, willingly. He had loved me, He had given Himself for me; could I do less? And from that moment I have never been so sad or so desolate any more."

Christina's eyes were full of tears as she gazed at the face of the suffering child beside her, and Tom was looking at her intently with eyes also blinded with tears.

"I never thought it could be because He loved me," he said, squeezing her hand tightly; "but I will try, I will try; perhaps He will stand by me too."

"He does, dear, this very day; He longs to have you rest in His loving arms. Oh, Tom, I know it! And it is such rest to feel He does best."

Tom lay quite silent, and Christina sat by him silent too. She was praying earnestly that this little sorrowful lamb might be gathered into the Shepherd's tender arms.

By-and-by, he moved slightly, and whispered, "Was the Life-boat meant for helpless children as well as strong ones?"

"Yes, indeed, dear; if they were on the wreck, they wanted saving as much as the others."

"Then I have asked the Life-boat to come very near for me, because I can't step alone; and Jesus has come close and lifted me in."

"Then you are Safe in the arms of Jesus,'" said Christina. "Oh, Tom dear, I am so very, very glad!"

"Mamma," said Tom, as his mother rose from her knees, after saying his prayers with him that night, "mamma dear, I want you to forgive me for being so often cross and tiresome."

"Forgive you, my darling!" she answered, almost crying. "Why, dear Tom, I always forgive you; I never think of it again."

"No," he answered softly, stroking her face as she again knelt down by him, "I know you have forgiven me; but that has not made me right in being so cross; I will try to be better, dear mamma."

"Well, mamma, I've told Jesus about it, and He has told me He'll help me; and so now I am not going to be sad about it any more."

"You could not give me more joyful news, my darling," she said, while some of the happiest tears she had ever shed fell down upon his face.

"Are you crying, mamma?" he asked, putting up his little hand to feel her face. Then burying his own in her neck, he wept too, till all the pent-up sorrow and discontent of his little life seemed to melt away, and he was at peace.

"This morning, mamma, Christina was talking to me about Him, and all at once I felt as if I must go to Him then, and I did. Dear mamma, now kiss me; give me a good-night kiss, dear mamma; a real forgiving good-night kiss!"

CHAPTER XIII.

"HERE are two large sheets of cardboard," said Ada, after tea on that Saturday evening; "and a lot of ribbon, mamma, blue and pink, to bind the edges with."

"Nellie did," said Ada; "but I am sure I should not, if she had not suggested it."

"I brought my large scissors, fortunately, and I have some tolerably stout needles. Now, Arthur, how many nearly square pieces will that sheet cut? See, we must have at least an inch outside the edge of the hymn sheets all round."

"I think it will cut three the top way, and as it is not square, it will allow three the other way too; then they will be slightly oblong. Is that right?"

They looked round the room. "I don't see anything," said Ada, leaning both her arms on the table, and resting her chin on her hands.

Suddenly a bright thought struck Arthur. "The edge of that sideboard drawer is straight enough, I daresay."

Arthur lifted it out, and laid his novel T square as carefully as he could on the cardboard, and then drew a bold line with his pencil from end to end.

When he had measured and drawn two lines both ways, he proceeded to cut the sheet into nine squares, which turned out to measure nearly ten inches by seven each.

Nellie sat by with her thimble on, and Christina had been also invited to tea to-night, specially to help. Ada quickly seized upon a piece, threaded her needle with pink silk, and taking one end of the pink ribbon was the first to set off binding. Arthur passed Christina another piece, and she took the other end of Ada's pink ribbon.

"About a quarter of an inch; do not backstitch it, they will look better on both sides if you do not."

"Here's a piece for you, Nell," said Arthur, cutting off another, "and one for mamma."

"Yes; I am going to help them," said their mother. "Come, dears, and sit close to me."

Arthur turned out to be the most absorbed of the party, and Netta and Isabel nearly equalled him.

He bent over his cardboard, and hardly looked up till he laid his two pieces, very tolerably done, before his mother.

"This will not take long," said his mother encouragingly. "See, Christina has done hers."

"Of course; she's a girl. Well, 'may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!' as the man said to excuse himself. Is this the way you mean?"

"Yes; sew them on each side. And Ada, just look in my basket; I believe I have some elastic there. Those I saw had two pieces of elastic inside, from top to bottom, to hold the hymn sheets."

"The very thing. Now I should not put it tight, but just slightly drawn so that it will not pull the cardboard."

"They need not; if you do them with silk just into the binding I do not think they will."

"I was coming to that," said Mrs. Arundel. "Arthur, have you any scraps upstairs? Did you bring them with you?"

Netta had some time ago gone out to Mrs. Ross with a message from her mother, and at this moment, the maid came in with a basin of stiff paste.

"Well done!" said Arthur, coming in with his scraps, and nearly running over the paste.

"I have not many," he said, "but we can get some on Monday. Here is a pretty one for the front of yours, Netta; and very appropriate too—a picture of a shepherd carrying the lambs."

"Oh, dear Arthur, how nice!" said Netta, as she e looked with pride on her first side, which was now nearly finished.

"Mine is to be for you, Tom," said Christina; "but I am going to make it pretty at home, and I shall hope to bring it to you on Monday morning."

Meanwhile all the rest had been eagerly turning over Arthur's scraps, and he had very good-naturedly allowed them all to pick and choose. Isabel was delighted with a ship on a very blue sea, and Ada was thinking of arranging a number of small ones in a pattern round the centre of hers, on which she intended to write her name.

"What a working party!" he said, walking in; "why I meant to be present, but my walk took me longer than I expected. Let's see," going up to Netta and Isabel. "Very well indeed, children; that's right."

"And we are going to get up early on Monday, and do the other sides, because we can't work so fast as the others."

"Could you illuminate me a text on mine, do you think, Walter—just a very simple one?"

"Very well; tell me what text, and I am your humble servant." He went up to get his colour box, and soon he had joined the "working party" too, as Netta said.

"But these take a jolly long time!" exclaimed Arthur. "Did you mean, mamma, that we were to make for other children?"

"Oh, no! But I expect we shall have to make a couple to lend as patterns; they will all want to make their own."

"That is very kind indeed," said Walter, who was busily sketching in the letters in pencil of the text Nellie had pointed out to him. On one side it was to be, "He shall gather the lambs with His arm;" and on the other, "And carry them in His bosom."

On Monday, just before the service, Christina appeared, and placed in Tom's hand a really beautiful portfolio. She had painted in water-colours a very good representation of the storm, with the life-boat in the middle, and just to be seen between two great waves, the sinking wreck in the distance. On the other side were the words—"Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners."

Tom's delight was unbounded, and he placed his two hymn sheets in it with the greatest satisfaction.

Christina quite understood his tremulous lips when he tried to thank her, and told him it was some of the pleasantest work she had ever done.

CHAPTER XIV.

LATE on Saturday night, by the last train, Dr. Arundel came down to have a peep at them. He was not expected; but a patient who had been needing his almost hourly care had been taken "home" that morning, and he found that he could manage to leave just for the Sunday.

All were in bed at the farm; but the moment his ring was heard at the door, Mrs. Arundel guessed who it was, and opening her window, asked "if it was papa?"

He was soon admitted; said he wanted nothing to eat, but would have a glass of milk, which Mrs. Ross soon got for him, and then, without waking anyone else in the house, the three elders closed up quickly, and soon sleep reigned again at the quiet farm.

Great was the surprise of Walter and Arthur to be joined halfway down the lane early next morning by a tall gentleman, who came striding after them. But greater still was the astonishment of the little ones at breakfast, when they found their own dear papa seated at the bottom of the table. There was plenty to tell him, and all to explain about the little services and the hymns, and Christina, and Melton Castle.

"Oh, the most beautiful lady you ever saw!" said Ada rapturously. "She helps us sing, and she talks to Tom, and she is coming to tea to-night!"

"Then I shall hope to see her," said papa; "and certainly if she is the most beautiful lady, it will be a treat."

"Why she's a visitor," answered Ada; "she came here with her mother, who was ill; and now she has lost both her parents, and she has an aunt living with her, an old maid."

"An old—a maiden lady. I forgot, papa," said Ada, colouring. "However, she and mamma and Nellie are quite getting friends; and mamma thought she would like to come to tea and walk to church with us to-night. We shall come back by moonlight."

Sunday passed away very happily. Walter had his little service in the afternoon, and persuaded his father to give the children the address instead of him.

So Dr. Arundel was introduced to Christina on the sands, and walked home with her to the farm, during which time he had ample opportunity to make up his mind as to her beauty. This he told himself was undoubted; but he could not help being still more interested in the look of peace which was written quite as plainly on her face as the beauty.

"She is a gem in His crown," he said to his wife, as he joined her in the orchard.

After tea, the young people started in a body across the corn-fields to church. The harvest moon was beginning to be bright in the evenings, and they looked forward to their walk home by its light as only young people can who have all life before them. If Christina had any reservation in her joy, she at least did not say so.

Dr. and Mrs. Arundel stayed at home on this evening to take care of the little ones, sending the two servants out. The baby was very good, and had allowed himself to be hushed to sleep before his nurse's departure; Dolly and Tom were also in bed. The mother and father softly paced up and down the lane in front of the house, within hearing of the least sound, and yet feeling at rest enough to enjoy the peaceful time. Mrs. Arundel told her husband about what little Tom had said, and they rejoiced together, believing this would be the turning-point in their little invalid's life.

"I am very hopeful," she answered; "but, you know, we have felt for a long time that Arthur was thinking about these things."

"Yes, she does live out those hackneyed words, 'Charity begins at home.' We must not forget, love, that while this outside work is most important and useful, it ought never to come before home duties and home happiness."

"I think they feel that," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I have tried to remind them of it from time to time, and Walter and Nellie set such a good example. They are always watchful at home to do the little kindnesses."

Meanwhile the young people were returning in the moonlight. Ada and Arthur, accompanied by Netta and Isabel, were on in front; and Nellie, Christina, and Walter followed slowly.

It was most lovely. The shadows of the branches were as distinct upon the ground as if the branches themselves lay there, and the plash of the waves could be heard plainly when they stood still to listen. The moon shone down upon the water in a flood of silver light, and as they watched, one little vessel with her sails set glided across the track.

The three were silent. Each had different thoughts. One dwelt on the past; another was living in the present; and the third gave a brief glance into the future. When the little ship passed out of the light into the darkness, they turned and went on their way homewards; and if each of those hearts could have expressed the conclusion of its thoughts, all might have been summed up in these words—

For each of these young people, schooled in very different ways, had already learned to value doing God's will above their own. They had been taught to a certain extent that their Father's will was the wisest and the best, and would lead them into much fuller happiness than their own. But they had to learn more yet.

Thus peaceful, happy days passed away. The mornings were mostly taken up with bathing, and amusing the little ones till the service; after which Nellie and Christina made it a rule now to sit down by Mrs. Arundel and Tom with their work. Christina's aunt, Miss Arbuthnot, often joined them; and while the younger ones were digging, and Ada and Arthur were searching among the rocks for sea treasures, Walter would throw himself down at the feet of the ladies, and read to them till it was time to return to dinner at two. In the afternoon, the little ones generally rested; Mrs. Arundel did the same, or wrote letters; and the others took a country walk, sometimes joined by Christina, and sometimes not.

Thus the little party began to be very friendly indeed. In the evenings they would go on the pier, or sit in the orchard; and supper at nine was supposed to finish their day.

But the moon just now was too tempting. Mrs. Arundel would be drawn to the door to look, and then Ada and Arthur would coax her for "just one turn." She would yield to their loving invitation, and with an arm round each, some of their happiest moments were spent.

Nellie and Walter did not need any coaxing. The moment supper was over, he would say, "May we, mamma?" And they would be off for the brief half-hour which they prized above all the pleasures of the day put together.

CHAPTER XV.

ONE evening, when they had been at South Bay more than a fortnight, Walter as usual asked Nellie to come out after supper.

"We shall not have the moon many more evenings, though it has been a splendid one, Nellie."

They had spent a very pleasant evening; for Christina had been a long walk with them, and they had sat on a promontory, about two miles away, watching the sunset, and singing.

Christina had a very rich voice, and sang with wonderful taste and training; but she had said that evening to Nellie, "I wish I could sing as you do."

"As I do?" said Nellie, astonished. "Why my voice is nothing compared to yours."

Christina shook her head. "When you sing, I can hear every word; when I sing, people can hear a sound."

"I know what you mean," said Nellie, "and it is only by trying to sing the words very distinctly. I learned it when papa took me once or twice to sing to an aged dying man.

"He said in his weak voice, looking kindly at me, 'Very nice, little miss; very nice indeed! But what is it about, my dear?'

"When I explained to him that it was about 'Jesus,' he said, 'Then I wish I had heard it better, little miss.'

"I went home that day making up my mind to sing so that no one should miss His name; and so I got into the habit."

"Oh, very! But after a few times (and papa took me at first to the very old or very young) I got used to it, and it helped me to remember it was God's message which He wished me to give."

"I wish I could," said Christina thoughtfully; then turning to Walter, "You have made me wish to set to work too. I thought, till I met you all, that I had only to bear; but I think differently now."

Walter looked at her earnestly with a sudden joy in his face, and Christina went on—

"I sing ever so many—'The Ninety and Nine,' 'The Great Physician,' 'There is Life for a Look at the Crucified One,' and many more out of the same book."

"Do," said Nellie. "You cannot think, Christina, how nice it is to hear perhaps that the last words a dying man said were, 'There is Life for a Look at the Crucified One.'"

This had been some of their conversation that evening; and now that Nellie and Walter had found a quiet, sheltered nook in the old rick-yard, where the moon could pour down her beams upon them, the talk of the sunset came up before both their minds. Walter was unusually silent, and Nellie allowed him to do as he pleased, quite satisfied that her hand was in his, and that they were together.

"It is almost ten," said Walter, at length rousing himself, "and we shall hear mamma's bell in a minute."

"Nellie," he said, looking down, and then turning round and boldly facing her, "did I promise to tell you all my secrets?"

"You said you always did," she answered, hesitating a little at his strange tone.

"Well, then, I have discovered that I have a secret which I have not told you." Then, lowering his voice and squeezing her hand very hard, he said, softly, "I have found out that I love Christina!"

"Walter, oh, dear Walter, how delightful it would be!" she exclaimed, kissing him warmly.

"No doubt of that," said Nellie confidently; "she could not help loving you, Walter!"

They got up quickly, much more quickly than they would have done if they had not been talking secrets, and hurried across the rick-yard.

"Mind," said Walter suddenly, as they went into the shadow of the house, "you must not let this out by look or tone; mind, Nellie!"

"Do not fear," she said. But she knew the warning was needed, when she felt her face sober down from the lines of intense pleasure which this piece of news had caused.

She wished her mamma hastily good-night and went upstairs. She was too excited to go to bed, but sat down by the open window and let the air blow in upon her hot cheeks. Here she sat building many airy castles, with Walter and Christina as king and queen, and her cheeks got hotter and hotter, and her eyes more shining.

Then she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. "Father," she whispered, "it must be according to Thy will. I have been making plans, and forgetting Thee; oh, forgive me!"

CHAPTER XVI.

"I HAVE a letter here which obliges me to run up to town for a day or two," said Walter the next morning as they sat at breakfast.

He looked very disappointed, but the "ohs" that went round the table made him smile.

"Yes, that quite makes me sorry; but I think I shall go directly after it to-day, and try to be down early the day after to-morrow; that is, if I can; but duty must come first you know."

That afternoon Mrs. Arundel, going upstairs for something, found Nellie in her room crying bitterly, and drew back astonished.

"My dear Nellie," she said kindly, when she saw her entrance was perceived, "is there anything the matter?"

But she only obtained sobs for her answer. Really puzzled, Mrs. Arundel stood waiting until she was quieter, and then poor Nellie began to apologise.

"It is so stupid of me," she said; "and I never thought of your coming up, mamma. But I am all right now."

"But what is it, dear Nellie? What has made you sad? You would not cry without a cause. Are you ill?"

"I am so ashamed, mamma," she said, tears falling afresh. "I am afraid I was counting too much on Walter's being here, and now he has gone!"

Mrs. Arundel sat down by her, and took her little trembling hand while she said soothingly, "It is a long lesson, dear, and hard to learn, not to prize some of God's gifts too highly; but it is one which He would have us learn without the bitter sorrow we sometimes bring upon ourselves. What if by this short separation, Nellie, He is wishing to give you a gentle reminder that you are living too entirely for Walter?"

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Nellie, deeply distressed. "Have I been? Did you think so? Have I been neglectful of other duties?"

"Not so bad as that, dear; I have thought once or twice that I ought to warn you, but then I could not bear to break in on your happiness."

Her mamma touched her softly. "Darling, don't cry any more. Look up, Nellie. The loving Father above saw the danger before I did, and has prepared just what would make you think."

"But I shouldn't have thought, if you had not happened to come in," she answered brokenly. "I should only have pitied myself for being disappointed."

"Ah! But then He prepares all things, my dear, and sent me up just at the right time, perhaps."

With a kind and comforting kiss, she rose and left the room, only turning at the door to say cheerfully, "Lie down for an hour, Nellie, and then we will have tea, and a pleasant evening of reading."

Left alone, Nellie again burst into tears—not tears of pity for herself, but tears of repentance; for this conversation, so unexpected and so painful, had revealed to her, what she had no idea existed, the way in which all her thoughts, anticipations, and joys were bound up in Walter and Walter's hopes. She knew it was wrong; it did not take her tender conscience long to be assured of that. And as the review of her thoughts of the last fortnight passed before her, she felt deeply grieved to think how much they had been occupied with her brother, and how little with her Saviour.

So she told Him all about it; how sorry she was; how thankful that He had stopped her in time; and then the Holy Spirit whispered words of healing, and she arose, leaving the burden behind her.

"'Thy sins are forgiven thee.'"

"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.'"

The next day passed very quietly. Great was the surprise of the children on the beach to be informed there would be no service, and a good many looked really sorry.

Christina and her aunt joined the Arundels as usual on the sands, and they spent their morning in work and reading; but Walter's absence made a blank which all felt.

"Arthur, will you and Ada walk dawn to the Royal Parade and fetch me this evening?" said Nellie at dinner.

When she arrived at Christina's house, she was shown into the drawing room, where Miss Arbuthnot sat alone, knitting.

"I am so glad to see you, Miss Arundel," she said, kindly taking Nellie's hand, "for I owe you all a debt of gratitude."

Nellie looked up to see what she meant. "My niece has been a different creature since you came."

"I am so glad if we have done anything," said Nellie, "but I did not know we had."

"You have given her something besides her grief to think of; it has been a new interest."

Miss Arbuthnot seated herself, and went on quietly, in her old-fashioned manner: "I was at a loss at first to know how to help her after her sorrow; and indeed it was impossible for any earthly help to reach her, so I was obliged to wait patiently. Now, I thank God, He has sent her just what she needed most."

Christina entered at this moment. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but my dog hurt his foot a little this morning, and I was just dressing it."

With one of her bright smiles she took Nellie's hand, and led her out of the room.

"When you have taken off your hat, we will have a nice talk, Nellie; for I want to consult you."

"To be sure; who better? My aunt rests between four and six o'clock, so we shall be all to ourselves."

When they re-entered the drawing room, Miss Arbuthnot was gone, and they sat down in two arm-chairs close to the open French window, and began to be "cozy."

"Do you remember giving me a little paper to read the other day?" asked Christina.

"That I am going to tell you presently. You know I shall not always care to live here in lodgings; it is a life I do not like, and it has cost me a great deal of thought where I should fix my home."

"Anywhere," answered Christina, sighing; then, checking the sigh, she added, "Where would you choose if you had all England before you?"

"I have thought of that. But there are some things which make me wish to live within easy reach of London; for one thing I want to be somewhere near all of you."

"Oh, we should be so glad!" said Nellie earnestly. "It would be the greatest pleasure."

Christina paused. "I do not know much of Hampstead, except by name, and for the donkeys; is it nice?"

"Very nice; we have an aunt living there. It is such a breezy place, and has such views."

Christina smiled, and answered, "Well, supposing we say Hampstead. I will go and look at it at any rate. But I am keeping you in the dark, Nellie. The paragraph in that paper was about a lady who had gathered some little children round her, and was making them happy, when otherwise they would have been workhouse children, and it said, 'Why did not women who had no ties'—" She stopped short for a moment at that word, and her face turned very pale.

"Yes, dear," she said, recovering herself, "no ties—'why did not they find some little outcast children, and bring them up for the Good Shepherd, and meanwhile fill their own empty hearts with joy and happiness?' I read the piece over and over. Was I meant? Was that written for me? It occurred to me that this was work I might do; and ever since the thought has been growing upon me, and has made me so happy."

Nellie was so carried away by Christina's enthusiasm, that she had not time for a thought; but now Walter's hopes flashed upon her.

"You don't agree?" asked Christina, looking slightly disappointed. "Am I too—too—not suitable?"

"Everything that is dear and lovely," said Nellie, turning scarlet. "But, dear Christina, you may be—married perhaps."

Christina's eyes turned from Nellie's glowing face to her own hands, which lay so quietly in her lap, with one ring sparkling against her black dress.

She hesitated a moment, and then said very low, "I thought you knew—or I never thought about it—Nellie, I was to have been married. This August I should have been married a year. Oh, Nellie, when I think of it, of what might have been, I can hardly bear it! He died just two months before the day fixed."

"Dear Christina," said Nellie, with full eyes, "I had no idea. I would not have said that for the world had I known."

They were silent for a moment. Nellie was trying to command herself to face the bitter disappointment which was sweeping over her like a deluge of cold water, and Christina was filled with thoughts of the past which were sweeping over her.

Nellie dared not think of Walter. She shuddered at the bare idea of his return. But she remembered his words, and with one instant's prayer for help, she again touched Christina's hand.

"He died away from me," she said softly. "I will tell you all now, and then we need not refer to it again till I can speak of it more calmly. It was small-pox—on the Continent. There was a delay in the letters; and before my parents and I reached the place, he was gone, and all that remained to me was a new-made grave. Dear Nellie, don't cry so.

"We had a very simple stone put, on which our favourite words were engraved in three languages, that all might know that he who rested there was among the multitude that no man can number. The words were:

"'I am the Resurrection, and the Life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'

"'Tell her,' he said, 'that it is only for a little while, and then we shall be for ever with the Lord.' Those were his last words."

CHAPTER XVII.

IT was difficult to turn from the remembrance of Christina's great sorrow, besides which Nellie had her own private distress and anxiety to bear up against and hide as well as she might. At last she managed to rally herself sufficiently to ask Christina further of her project, and how she thought of beginning it.

"She is not very far," answered Nellie, smiling; "and, do you know, Christina, I should very much like my sister Ada to hear about it; that is if you do not mind; she is such a bright girl, and would be so interested, and might perhaps do something to help you."

"If you carry out your idea, you will want plenty of little clothes, for instance."

"Clothes! So I shall; I really think, Nellie, I had only thought about loving them and teaching them. Look here! Should you consider me dreadfully unpolite if we went up to consult your mamma after tea, instead of sitting here?"

"She will not mind; and I do not wish to say anything till I have my ideas a little more in shape. Fancy my having forgotten clothes!"

Nellie laughed pleasantly; and as the maid entered at the moment with the tea, she turned her attention to Lion, who lay with his foot bound up, looking rather miserable.

Lion did not condescend to accept her caress, but looked lazily towards his mistress, who was busy cutting the cake.

"It was at Boulogne. There was a wreck, and a good many of the sailors had been picked up; but Lion saw one floating out to sea, and plunging in, swam towards him, and dragged him by his hair safely to land."

Lion lay looking at them, wagging his tail. He knew he was being talked about, and had heard the story before.

"Glad? The joy was overpowering. I felt almost as glad as I did that day when little Tom told me he had come to Jesus."

"Yes," said Nellie earnestly; "it has been such a great blessing. Dear little Tom has been so different since."

"He is so much more patient, and bears his sad trial in quite a different way. He does not say much, you know, but his face looks altered."

"Dear little Tom!" said Nellie. "You do not know how we all love him and pity him."

"Will he ever be strong again?" said Christina kindly. "I have not liked to ask your mamma."

"Papa does not think he will; he does not improve in health as we could wish; but I am sure mamma's greatest burden is relieved now."

Miss Arbuthnot and the teapot both came in at this moment, and the conversation turned to other subjects. After tea, Christina said she should walk home with Nellie.

"Yes; I have a few things to speak to Mrs. Arundel about that I will explain to you, dear aunt, to-morrow; so we are going now."

When they entered the passage at the farm, Mrs. Arundel was just coming down from little Tom. She seemed surprised to see them, and noticed directly that Nellie looked pale and tired.

"Nothing," said Christina cheerfully; "and you will wonder to see us; but we want to have a little talk with you. Is Ada in?"

"Yes; just sitting down to mend her stockings," said Mrs. Arundel, smiling slightly.

They found Ada seated in the bay window, looking rather sulky. She was watching Arthur, who, across in the orchard, was having a fine swing.

"How early you are!" she said, rather ungraciously. "I thought Arthur and I were to come and meet you?"

"So we intended; but we have something so interesting to tell you, that we came up instead," said Nellie.

Mrs. Arundel drew out her work, and Nellie fetched hers, and then they all sat down comfortably—except that Ada did not look comfortable, and turned her back upon them.

Christina coloured. "It seems very formidable to tell you straight out like this; and I am afraid too, that what Nellie and I have been looking at with rose-coloured spectacles may seem to you absurd and impossible," she faltered.

Still Christina hesitated. At last she said, looking down and speaking softly, "You know that I am alone in the world, and dreadfully want something to do. Nellie lent me a paper the other day, in which it spoke of women who are circumstanced as I am; and it advised them to fill their homes and their empty hearts with little sad and forlorn children; and then I felt as if that paragraph had been written specially to suit me. It seemed to give me hope and joy at once; to propose to me a work which I feel myself suited for, something I can do for my God."

"It would be very nice indeed; but have you thought over all the difficulties it involves?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"I do not know about all; but I have thought of some of them. I think perhaps I could find a house somewhere with a garden, and there we would settle ourselves, my aunt and I, and gather round us two or three little ones at first. Then I should see how I got on before I sought any more."

"But supposing you got tired of it, dear Christina, or sickness came, or you changed your plans? I do not want to object; only to suggest the things that probably might arise."

"Oh, yes! Please do; it must not be hastily entered into. I have thought about it a great deal for the last few days, though I did forget the clothes."

"I forgot they would wear out those they came in," said Christina with a little laugh; "but Nellie soon brought me up."

"I told her that we could help her in that, Ada," said Nellie, looking towards the window.

Christina raised her eyes a little surprised; and Ada got up and hastily left the room. She flew to her bedroom, locked the door, and then threw herself across the bottom of her bed.

"How horrid I am with my wretched temper," she moaned. "Here they are talking over what I should delight to help in, and I must needs sit like a stone, and never give a word; and Christina will think I do not care about it at all."

Hot tears forced themselves down her cheeks, and fell heavily on the counterpane.

"I hate myself," she went on, angrily kicking her foot about; "but it was all those stockings. Mamma knows I hate mending above everything else; and do abominate to sit in all the evening doing horrid work. Certainly mamma did wish me to do them this afternoon; but I did not wish to, and so there it is. Now I want to go down; they will be talking all the nice things while I am away, and arranging everything, and my temper will have lost it all. I don't know how to get over my temper, I'm sure. It always overcomes me, and always will."

Then, as she lay still, somehow the thought came over her of that evening before they came to South Bay, and of Nellie's words as she sat so quietly reading her Bible:

Ada's eyes filled again with softer tears. "How patient Nellie was that day! Was that Christ's strength? It must have been. Perhaps, if I were to ask—"

She slipped on to her knees by her bedside, and after a minute or two she said, in a broken voice—

"Lord Jesus Christ, I am so weak and so wrong, and I do not know how to get on alone; but, oh, forgive me! Give me of Thy strength, and help me to overcome!"

It was Ada's first real prayer, and she rose from her knees a new creature. Yes, a new creature in Christ Jesus. It was very simple, so simple that she was astonished; but she had found out that she was a helpless sinner, and Jesus a mighty Saviour. There only wanted the link between these two truths, and that link was, that she was willing to take Him for her Saviour. And she did; she knew it distinctly; and, with a happiness never before experienced, after a few moments' silence, she unlocked her door and went downstairs. When she re-entered the dining room, Arthur had joined them, and was sitting with his arms on the table, looking very interested.

Ada went up to Christina and gave her a soft little kiss, saying humbly, "I should very much like to help you, if you would let me."

Christina glanced at her, pressed her hand, and said, "Thank you, dear Ada; there will be plenty to do."

"We were saying," said Nellie, "that it would be difficult to love the dirty, disagreeable children as well as the nice and clean ones."

"I suppose," said Arthur bluntly, "you will not leave them dirty, however disagreeable they may be."

"And I think you will find," said Mrs. Arundel, "that when you have had them a little while, you will get to love them in spite of their being tiresome. Like I do mine," she said, smiling.

"No, I do not suppose it is, very, if Christina has the motherly heart in her; and she would not have thought of this plan, if she had not."

"But who are you going to have?" asked Ada; then turning to her mamma quickly, "Do you think, mamma, that Mrs. Ross—"

"Yes. Do you not remember how she said she was too old to mind him? And only yesterday I heard her say to Mary, 'I shall have to send him to school, a little plague, that I shall.'"

At this opportune moment the door opened, and the chubby little urchin himself trotted in.

"I shan't! I want 'dranny. 'Dranny p'omised me a bit of sudar if I was dood; and me am dood, so where's the sudar?"

"What have you been doing to-day?" asked Christina, bending forward and holding out her hand.

"Well, it is dirty, Alfy," said Nellie; "but granny won't mind, if you are obedient."

He stared at her. "Me doe now," he said, and was off to the door and out before they could persuade him further. After which they heard him shouting— "Dranny, me dood! Me want my sudar!"

"When you are established," said Arthur condescendingly, "I will come and visit you, and inspect your arrangements."

"Thank you," answered Christina, making a little bow to him; "I shall be very happy to see you."

"But now, seriously, Christina," said Mrs. Arundel, "supposing you have your little ones ill, shall you want to give it up directly?"

"I do not think so; I shall have to bear it, and nurse them. One cannot expect to go through life without illness and trouble."

"No; and when they come to us in our own family we do not exactly want to run from it; but I fancy it makes a difference if it seems a thing we have gone into, as it were, of our own accord."

Christina looked a little puzzled. "Perhaps," she said; "but, dear Mrs. Arundel, do tell me, am I presumptuous to undertake it at all? Do you think (and that, after all, is the whole question), do you think it is God's call to me, or is it all for my own satisfaction?"

There was a pause; Nellie looked up anxiously, and Ada and Arthur almost exclaimed.

At last Mrs. Arundel said very gently, "You should know yourself, dear Christina; what was your first thought of all about it?"

"The homeless workhouse children! Then that I might be able, like that lady, to give my life to them to bring them up for Jesus, instead of their growing up wicked. Yes; that was what I thought first."

"Then it was, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven?'"

"I think it was," said Christina humbly; "but since then, the thought has become so very delightful."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Arundel; and there was a hearty ring in her voice that pleased the young, eager listeners very much.

"She will, indeed," said Mrs. Arundel; "more than she guesses now. Will your aunt agree, dear?"

"I have still to ask her; and if she should strongly object—" Christina paused, and then finished her sentence gravely: "I suppose I should have to give it up for the time, as my dear father wished me to make her a home for a few years."

"I hope not either. What should you do, Mrs. Arundel, if she does object at first?"

"I should try to wait, and I should pray. If it really is the path your heavenly Father has marked out for you, He will bring it all to pass."

There was a pause. The room had grown dark, and they had long since put down their work.

"Yes," exclaimed Christina in joyful faith, "He will! If it is His path, He will bring it to pass. I will be content to wait."

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Nellie shut herself into her room on the evening Christina's plans had been explained, she sat down on a chair, and rested her head on her hand. Ever since the afternoon, she had been trying her hardest to be outwardly calm, but the effort had been almost more than her gentle nature was able to bear. And now that the strain was removed, she sat as one stunned. A tap at the door made her start; but she did not move, and her mamma came in and stood by her. Nellie looked up with a white face, and her mamma bent down and kissed her tenderly.

"Darling," she said, "I guess it all! I wish I could have spared it to you and Walter; but I did not know till something she said to-day that his hopes would be in vain."

"How did you guess?" said Nellie, leaning her tired head against the loving shoulder.

Nellie shook her head sorrowfully. "I thought, mamma, I was disappointed enough about his going away for a few days; but this—I never, never thought it could end so."

"No, dear; it is indeed a grief for him, poor fellow; but I do think, Nellie, I should try to cheer him with hope; Christina is young."

"Well, dear, we shall see. We must ask God to help him to bear it, and to show us what to do in it. We must wait patiently, Nellie; God brings light out of darkness."

Nellie's heavy eyes could hardly look up. She nestled nearer her kind stepmother. "Thank you, dear mamma," she said lovingly, "you are so good to me."

"Now, darling, go to bed; you can do Walter no good by thinking about it to-night. Tell our Father in a few words how it is, and then leave the burden with Him. He loves Walter better than you do, Nellie."

"My dear child, I do grieve; but let that thought comfort us both in all our trials. He loves our beloved ones better than we do; what can we ask more, Nellie?"

Then she got into bed, and, worn out with her trouble and excitement, fell asleep.

"Poor little thing," she said to herself, "it is almost her first sorrow. May they both win well through it."

When Nellie got a letter the next morning telling her that Walter hoped to arrive at eight o'clock that evening, she found it hard work to settle down to any employment. Her dread grew with each hour as it passed, and Mrs. Arundel was quite grieved to see what a hold this disappointment had taken on her.

She went to meet the train alone. No entreaties from her brother and sister could prevail to let them come too.

"Don't tease her," answered Ada, who had noticed that Nellie's usually calm face had looked worried during the last day or two.

The uncommon occurrence of Ada's being unselfish, and of something in herself being noticeable, set Nellie thinking very deeply as she walked down alone to the station.

"Am I adorning the doctrine of God my Saviour?" she asked herself. "Why am I so cast down? Mamma said God loves him better than I do. Oh, I must try! How very unprepared I have been for such a trial. I thought I had only to guard myself from impatience with the children, or getting tired of endless little duties; but I never thought such a temptation as this could overtake me. It is harder than anything else could be. I suppose God sends it on purpose, just to show me how very weak I am, how sinful, how unable to stand alone. I do hope He will forgive me and strengthen me."

It did not take Nellie long to look up and turn this wish into a prayer. Long ago she had learned the habit from her stepmother of telling God everything the moment it happened; and she did so now. And before she reached the station, her extreme fear and depression had passed away.

Walter's bright face when he jumped out of the train gave her a pang; but she tried to remember her mamma's words, "God loves him," and taking his arm, they left the station.

But all Nellie's plans were frustrated; for just outside, they met Christina and her aunt, who had an inquiry to make at the station, and willingly consented to Walter's proposal to accompany them back to the Farm.

Thus it happened that he heard from Ada and Arthur all about what Christina hoped to do almost directly he arrived.

He did not say much to it, beyond a word or two of how nice it would be for the little children; but then Nellie knew that this project of itself would not be enough to give him a hint of the true state of the case.

"I do not think there will be any moon to-night, Nellie; but we will have our little walk," he said, "unless you are tired?"

He took the road leading upwards towards the country. "Well, Nellie?" he asked presently.

"Pretty well, Walter; and now I do not know how to tell you something that will grieve you."

"What is it, Nellie? It will be no better for waiting. What has happened, dear?"

Nellie still hesitated; then she said slowly, "I do not think Christina will ever marry."

His tone was light and easy, and suited ill with Nellie's highly-wrought feelings.

"Because she was to have been married once, and he died," she answered very low.

Walter did not answer. There was a long silence, broken only by the tread of their feet on the rough road, and by the beating of Nellie's heart, which to her sounded above everything else.

"An absurd scheme!" he exclaimed angrily. Then suddenly stopping short. "No; if it is as you say with her, it is a good, noble scheme, and she could not do better. Let us go home now, Nellie."

She turned with him, her heart aching at the suffering he was trying to hide. Then she remembered she had not said much about "hope," and she tried to think what would comfort him most.

"Dear Walter, it is a good while ago now, more than a year; perhaps some day—"

The tone was very quiet; but Nellie felt there was a depth of disappointment which she could not fathom.

"Another day we will talk it over, Nellie; but not to-night, my dear. I must hear what my Heavenly Father has to say to me about it first."

CHAPTER XIX.

"PUT away that work, child," said a clean-looking elderly woman, who was carrying a saucepan across a bright little kitchen.

She placed it on a very small fire, and turning round, faced a young woman in black, who was bending over some fine needlework in the window.

"Not till you are ready for me, mother," she returned, without raising her eyes.

"Take a run down the garden, child," still persisted the older woman; "you will not lose any time for it in the end."

Yielding to this second injunction, the young woman folded up her work quickly and carefully, and placing it in a little covered basket in the windowsill, she turned to the door which led straight from the kitchen into the garden.

Just in the doorway, looking very sweet and clean, but rather thin, sat a little girl of four years old.

"Why, Maggie," she said, "I did not know you were there. Come and have a run with mother."

"And Maggie shall have it," said the young mother, bending her golden head down over the child with a fond embrace, "grandmother is getting it ready."

Thus assured, the child raced down the little garden, and her mother, not yet twenty-four years old, ran after her till she caught her.

Then they sat on a little bench under an apple-tree, and Maggie climbed up in her mother's lap, and laid her head on her bosom. It seemed a place well-known; and when the young woman softly began talking, the child did not seem surprised, but raised her eyes and listened.

"Long ago, Maggie, there was a poor woman. She was very poor indeed; but she had one thing that made her rich."

Her mother pressed her closely. "Well, they were very poor, so poor that at last they had only a little flour and a little oil left."

"Just as they were gathering some sticks to make a fire to bake their last little loaf, a man came up and asked the woman to fetch him some water.

"In the country where they lived, Maggie, people could not get water everywhere, and he had been a long journey, and was very thirsty. So she went directly to get him some; but he called her back, and said he was hungry too, would she give him some bread?"

"No; and she explained this to the man; but he promised her in the name of the Lord God of Israel, whom he served, that if she would do as he asked, she should never want as long as the famine lasted."

"When people have eaten up all the bread there is, and there is no more, even in the shops."

"But this poor woman believed that the Lord could do what He said, and every time she went to the barrel of flour, she found just as much in it as there was before; and so there was in the bottle of oil, it never wasted away."

"Yes; the Lord took care of them; and the prophet Elijah, for that was the man's name, and the widow, and her son, had enough to eat all the time."

The child needed no second bidding, and they were soon seated round the table, on which stood one covered dish and three plates, and a salt-cellar.

The grandmother rose, and the others rose too, as was their custom. "Father," she said, "we thank Thee that Thou has kept Thy promise to us, and given us our daily bread; may we have contented hearts to serve Thee, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

Then the grandmother uncovered a large dish of steaming, floury potatoes, and helped them round. It was a simple meal; but it was cooked beautifully, and was served clean and hot. The colour came into the younger woman's cheeks as she ate.

The moment the frugal dinner was over, the young woman took up her work and diligently went on with it; while the grandmother arrayed Maggie in a fresh pinafore, and sent her off to the village school; after which she washed up the few plates, and swept up the kitchen.

"I wish, child," said the woman, "you could get something to do that tried your eyes less, and that paid you better."

"So do I, mother," she answered, passing her hand over her eyes wearily; "but I do not hear of it."

"I am afraid this hard fare is injuring your health, Margaret; you have not been brought up to it, and it makes such a difference."

"He is not here to see," said the girl, lowering her head, while there was a sound of distress in her voice.

"No, my blossom; if he were here to see, he would soon alter it; but God has taken him from us. Still, child, we must be wise and do the best we can. You see you have been used to service all your life till you married my Jack, and I can't help thinking it would suit you better than this close needlework."

"True, I don't forget her; but you could earn good wages as a nurse, child. There's Mary at Mrs. Arundel's, how nice she gets on."

"But I should have to leave my Maggie," said Margaret, shaking her head; "I don't think I could do that, mother, even with you."

"I would take good care of the child, that you know. And my little bit of washing would keep the home over our heads; if only I could get more of it."

"Yes; there is nothing to be got in our village; but, mother, she was sent me by God, and while He gives me strength, I will try to bring her up for Him. No one must take my duty while He spares me."

"So be it, Margaret; then we must wait God's time. We have never really wanted yet."

That evening as they sat at tea, which was their favourite meal, the postman came up the garden. "Why here's a letter from Mary!" exclaimed the grandmother joyfully. "I didn't expect one to-day."

   "My dear Margaret,—Our young lady, Miss Nellie, came into my nursery last night, and she says, 'Mary, have not you a sister-in-law, a widow, with one little girl?'

   "Of course I said, 'Yes.' And she asked a lot of questions about you and Maggie; and then she says, 'Do you think she would be willing to take a nurse's place, where there might be nine or ten little children?'

   "I said you would not leave Maggie; and she says quickly, 'Oh, no! I never meant her to; she would bring Maggie with her, and Maggie would be brought up with the other children.'

   "I suppose it is some sort of school; but Miss Nellie did not explain. She said I might write and ask you; and if you were pleased at it, her friend (that's Miss Arbuthnot, I fancy) would pay your fare to come and see her.

   "What do you think of it, dear sister-in-law? Please write and tell me at once.

   "Give my love to dear mother. We are going home in two or three days now; but we are very happy, and all are well, as I hope this finds you.

"Your affectionate sister,

"MARY FENTON."

Margaret's tears were falling fast and bright; and the letter was in danger of being obliterated.

"If it is all it looks, mother," she said, "it is like the barrel of meal and the cruse of oil."

CHAPTER XX.

"ONLY four days more, and here is a soaking wet one!" exclaimed Ada dolefully at breakfast one morning. "What shall we do with ourselves, Arthur?"

"Ah, capital!" exclaimed Arthur. "And Mrs. Ross said we might go there when we liked, but we have only been once."

"Well, mind, if you do, you shut down the trap-door safely; and I shall have to come and see the little ones safely up and down the ladder."

They were soon assembled, with two balls and several books; and Walter helped them whisk across the dripping wet rick-yard, and helped them all carefully up the ladder.

"Now," he called, "if any of you get tired and want to come in, Arthur is to fetch Nellie or mamma; mind! I am going down to the reading room."

A grand romp was the first excitement in the hay-loft, and the enraptured children climbed up the hay, first up, one following another in clambering, and then sliding down the steepest place they could find—one after another, one after another, some feet first, some head first, some rolling and tumbling in wild frolic. Dolly soon got into the wars, and had to be comforted by Ada before they could go on playing; but when her tears ceased to flow, they set off again, and shouts and screams were all that could be heard.

At eleven o'clock, Nellie made her way across in the rain with a large jug of milk, and began calling at the foot of the ladder. Bump, bump, bump, went the feet overhead; shout, shout, shout, went the voices. It was of no use; she set down her jug and went back to the house.

"I can't get them to hear; you never heard such a commotion in your life, mamma; what shall I do?"

So Nellie again set forth, and this time with more success. A tinkle of the bell was heard between the up and down rush, and Arthur hastened to the trap-door and looked down.

"Yes; here it is! And a nice dance you have led me," she answered good-naturedly. "Now is anybody tired, and wishing to come down?"

"Oh, no!" answered everyone. And several very flushed and rosy faces peeped cautiously through the trap-door.

"That's all right," said Nellie. "Now here is a stock of bread and butter, and plenty of milk; and it is of no use your wanting more, for you won't get it!"

With these words, she handed the jug to Arthur, who had descended a few steps to reach it, and then the bread and butter, and a mug, and nodding at them, she turned away, telling them to remember their rule.

Lunch was very acceptable, and the children found that they were both hungry and thirsty. They all sat down on various comfortable trusses of the sweet hay, and began to find out that they were also tired as well as hungry and thirsty.

"I shan't play any more," said Ada, when lunch was finished; "it's too hot; but we have had a jolly game."

"All right; then you must all lie down and be very still, and I'll shut my eyes and begin."

They soon settled themselves;
even Arthur was not sorry to hear a story.

They soon settled themselves; even Arthur was not sorry to hear a story, because, as he said, "he had read all their books through and through; but this was sure to be something quite fresh."

"I saw in my dream a lovely valley. The mountains on either side were grand and picturesque. The rocks, ferns, and trees filled the eye with beauty and freshness. I heard the sound of splashing water, and turning round to see where it came from, I perceived a waterfall, and by the side of it a boy, stooping to drink of the clear stream.

"'This is an exquisite spot,' I said to him; and he raised his eyes and looked at me surprised.

"'I do not care about it,' he said, sighing; and turning rather abruptly, he walked on.

"I noticed in my dream that he appeared not to be as straight and beautiful as I had first thought; for his back seemed misshapen, and I wondered if that was why he looked so sad.

"Just at this moment a little girl came in sight leading a baby-child. She was pulling it along roughly, and every now and then she gave it a little shake. 'What a plague you are,' she said angrily; 'I wish I could do anything else but lead you.'

"The child sobbed and moaned, and then began pushing away the hand that so rudely hurt it. 'I am tired,' it said wearily, 'and I can't get along. Why do you pull me so, sister?'

"The girl moved vexedly, and as she moved, I saw that she too seemed to have something on her shoulders under her dress.

"A young woman now appeared, and besides the baby on her bosom, I saw she too had a burden to carry.

"I was not near enough to ask them about it, so I still went on thinking. By-and-by two boys came up. They, were very disfigured by their burdens, and yet they seemed not to be troubled about it themselves, but were chatting gaily.

"'We will have a bath in this stream,' they said. So they cast aside their clothes; but, to my horror, I saw that each one carried his burden into the water with him—they could not take them off.

"My heart bled for them; so I drew nearer, and when they came out of the stream I said—

"They laughed carelessly. 'Burdens? Nonsense; we were born as we are, what need to change? We don't care; let us be happy while we can.' They hastened away, and I fell to musing deeply.

"Presently a lovely lady and a girl came in sight, and I noticed at once that the lady appeared to have no burden at all, while the child's was large and heavy.

"'Do not walk on the stones, my dear,' I heard the lovely lady say in a gentle voice, 'you will hurt your feet.'

"'I am sure you will, my dear,' answered her mother—for I took them to be mother and child.

"In a few moments the girl stumbled and fell; and her mother, full of tenderest pity, raised her, comforted her, and did what she could for her. But I noticed that somehow the burden always seemed in the way, and when the lady would have drawn the girl to rest on her bosom, the burden got between them, and the girl hastily pushed herself away. Then the mother went to the stream and fetched some clear water, and bathed her child's bruised foot, and by-and-by was so successful that the girl fell asleep with her head resting on a grassy mound. Then I ventured to speak.

"'You have no burden,' I said softly; 'how is it that all I see here have them?'

"'It is very strange they do not. There is a stream not far from here; they have only to plunge in it, and the burden falls off, melts away. Only the way to it is narrow, and does not look inviting; but, oh, it is very different when you get to it!'

"'Yes, indeed. The King of this country has made it so. These burdens were fastened on at birth by His enemy, and as we grow they grow; and each year we carry them they get heavier and heavier, so that sometimes a very large burden has to be carried by a very weak person. No water that was in this land could cause these burdens to melt away; for it must be dyed with blood.'

"'Yes, with the blood of His own Son. But the King had pity; it was so sad to see the poor people living all their lives with these great burdens; and as the Son was willing to shed His life-blood, the King gave Him up.

"'So the stream I speak of is dyed with blood. Many shrink back for this very reason, and will have nothing to do with it; but when one thinks it is the only way to get rid of the burden, and that bathing in it gives an entrance to the King's palace at the end of the journey here, and that it is given to us at such a price—'

"'Of course, there is every reason to accept it; gratitude alone would be enough.'

"At this moment the girl woke. 'My foot hurts me,' she exclaimed, fretfully, 'and I cannot lie comfortably because of my burden. How I hate it!'

"'My dear,' said her mother soothingly, 'let us go to the stream; you could lose it there, if you would, in a moment.'

"The girl shook her head. 'I don't see how,' she said, 'and the stream looks so cold and dark. Let us go on our journey, mother.'

"So I saw that the mother could not put her in without her own consent; she could only lead her to it.

"When I next saw the travellers, it was in a different part of the King's country. Before me was a turning, narrow and steep, that led down to a dark water. 'This must be the blood-dyed river,' I thought.

"This narrow way was very short, oh, very short indeed so near that no one could think the journey too hard, that the most weary feet could have no excuse. It was only one step, but still it was narrow.

"First the boy, who had drunk at the stream, got to the place, and he read, engraved on the rock at the entrance, 'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest;' signed with the King's name. He looked at the words earnestly, then he shifted his burden upon his shoulders, and was just turning away, when he thought he would read them once more. He did so; they were very sweet, and he stepped into the narrow path and stood at the edge of the water. When there, he could not help hearing some words which a King's messenger kept on repeating over and over, 'He was wounded for our transgressions, and with His stripes we are healed.' So he plunged in, and, lo! The water which had looked so dark before seemed to be a silver stream, giving life, and health, and peace.

"Then he felt on his shoulders for the burden, and found it had melted all away.

"The boy hastened to obey, and when he reached the valley, he soon met the girl and the child.

"'Yes I shall, I expect,' said the girl; 'but come along faster, child, and let us see.'

"And she read the words; then she remembered the radiant look of the boy, and knew there must be something in it, and she turned down to the stream.

"'I suppose so,' said the girl; and with her aching heart, and her cross temper, and her heavy burden, she dipped, and came back relieved of all.

"The little child too stepped in—for it is never too deep, and never too shallow.

"'He is kind,' said the baby-child, plunging under the refreshing wave; 'I love Him!'

"My dream seemed to change here, and I could not see. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the young mother walking on, still with her babe and her burden: she had not been to the stream, alas!

"Soon the two boys came up. 'Who ever heard of such a thing?' they jeered. 'We do very well as we are!' And they passed on, and I saw them no more.

"At last I noticed the lady who had no burden come close to where I stood looking. Her daughter's was such a heavy one, she could hardly get along. She limped with her sore foot, and her burden had grown quite twice the size since I saw her last. She was pettish and cross; but she excused herself because her burden was so heavy, and made her more miserable than ever. She came near too, and read the words.

"'I am heavy laden,' she said; 'and now I have come again so close to the stream, I really must plunge in and lose my burden, for it is heavier than I can bear.'

"So she stepped into the narrow way. Her loving mother was close to her—so patient, so good! Her burden pressed hard; she heard the words of the messenger, and believed they were true; so she too plunged in. When she lifted her head from that wave of blood, her burden had slipped off for ever."

Ada paused. The children were gazing on her face, for they saw her eyes were full of tears.

"Children," she said softly, "that girl was Ada Arundel. Her burden was Sin, and the blood of Jesus has taken it all away! Will you not plunge in the stream too?"

Arthur got up from the hay, and walking straight over to Ada's side, laid his hand on her shoulder with unusual solemnity. "Ada," he said, "we will set out on the journey together. I did so hope and pray that you might as well as I, and now you have."

CHAPTER XXI.

WHEN Walter closed his little service on the last morning, he looked round on the circle of young faces, and told them he should have to bid them "good-bye."

"This is the last time, dear children, I shall see you all in this world. But we may meet, every one of us, before our Father's throne, if we like.

"We shall be sorry to part; but now I want all of you to go away and work for Jesus, your King. The first work of all is to believe on Him; and having done that, the next work is to keep His commandments, and to be loving to all around you. Then you must pray that He will teach you what else He would like you to do for Him. And He will, children. Every prayer sent straight from your heart to God's ear, and presented in the name of Jesus, is heard, and is answered. So wait patiently for the answer. Now good-bye, my dears; may God bless you all."

He shook hands with them, and many were the loving eyes raised to his face, and many the warm pressures of loving little hands, as the grateful children separated.

"We shall miss you much," said a mother, coming up to Walter. "My children have been so interested since you came, and there has been a different spirit among them."

Walter looked very glad, and he answered pleasantly, "Then you must go on encouraging them. There is nothing like teaching them diligently from the Bible every day."

Several friends gathered round them for a few parting words; and the morning slipped away so fast, that they were quite surprised to find it time to fold up their beach-chairs and start homewards for dinner.

"We must go and see the sunset to-night from our cliff," said Walter. "Mamma, will you go?"

"Oh, certainly! I should be very sorry to miss it; and we shall have a beautiful sunset, I believe, by the look of the day."

"Then we will all come," said Nellie; "and mamma will allow Netta and Isabel for once."

The afternoon was spent by all in busy packing—a very different affair from the coming packing; for this time there was only, as Arthur said, "to stuff in all their possessions." Everything must go home. The rooms looked very empty and forlorn by tea-time; and the young people professed to be very tired, "but not too tired to go out; oh, dear, no!"

When they arrived at the piece of breezy cliff which jutted out into the sea, and looked round, it appeared to them all that on this last evening the ocean seemed more blue, more lovely than usual. Arthur was looking at it a little discontentedly; Ada was thinking how much had happened since she had come there, and with what a changed and thankful heart she would go home; Nellie felt her sorrow revived as she gazed on the boundless expanse; and Christina was thinking deeply and lovingly of her plans. And Walter? Where were his thoughts?

They all assented heartily, and sang over some of the hymns which had become so very familiar during the last month. Then the conversation fell naturally into the discussion of some of Christina's projects, and she told them of a talk she had had with Mrs. Ross about Alfy, and how she had obtained a willing consent to let him go to her, promising that he should come down to see his grandparents every now and then.

"They are really well enough to do to put him to school," said Walter; "your home is not meant for children of that class exactly, is it?"

"No," said Christina; "but I have a feeling, that whatsoever my hand finds to do, I must do it; that is, wherever there is a child in need of care and training who comes under my notice, I must not refuse."

"You are right, I believe," said Walter; "all these little ones have souls, and it is not the will of our Father that one of them should perish."

Meanwhile the time slipped by, while the sun, waiting for no one, slowly and majestically dipped into the sea.

"I am so fond of these words," Walter said, addressing Christina; "there is infinite comfort in them. 'Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'"

"Yes, they are beautiful," she answered softly; while her eyes watched the last streak of light go down, all too quickly.

"Come, Ada," said Arthur, catching her hand, and then Nellie's, "come, let us have a race down the cutting for the last time; 'little ones,' you catch us."

Nellie would have preferred to stay with the others, but some intuition made her run down to the beach after the young ones.

"Forsaken!" said Walter with a smile. "We must follow, but we will not go so fast."

"You have laid out very different plans for yourself from those I had been laying out for you, Christina," said Walter rather huskily, turning towards the descent.

"You had made for me?" she said, looking up; then seeing something unexpected in his face, she exclaimed hastily, "Oh, please—please don't!"

"Yes, dear Christina, I must. You will be so very kind as to hear me patiently."

"But it is of no use; and, oh, if you would not say it! I never dreamed of hurting you, Walter."

He paused an instant. "The worst pain is past, Christina. At first I thought I could get over it; but that is of no use; I have given you the love of all my life."

"Oh, Walter!" she exclaimed sorrowfully, "I would do anything for you but that."

They stood now at the edge of the waves, the spray almost touching their feet, and they were both silent. Walter knew it would be of little use to hurry or distress her, and yet he wanted her to understand that this hope was very near to his heart. At last he told her so, and Christina stood listening, not knowing what to answer.

"I know; but three years is a long time, and we can provide for them then, if—"

"No need to say now," he said earnestly; "we can pray about it, dear Christina; and you know I speak truthfully when I say that I would not wish to do it, if it were not His will."

Walter's feelings were very mingled, and he did not seem to have gained as much as he wanted.

"I do not know what I shall do with only this slight hope for three years," he exclaimed at length, as if forced to say the words.

"Do not talk any more about it, Walter," she said in a broken voice; "I will promise to think of it at any rate."

"I must be satisfied with that," he answered; "but think kindly and tenderly, dear."

So Walter said his say, and went home to the farm that night more dejected than he had been once since his return from London; and not all Nellie could do to cheer him was of any avail.

He went early to his room, and locked the door on himself and his grief. Well was it for him that he could not exclude that ever-present Comforter, who is with us in spite of bars and bolts, and who is acquainted with the most secret chambers of our inmost hearts.

"And if in lonely places, a fearful child, I shrink,
He prays the prayers within me I cannot ask or think;
The deep unspoken language, known only to that love
Who fathoms the heart's mystery from the throne of light above.
His Spirit to my spirit sweet words of comfort saith,
How God the weak one strengthens who leans on Him in faith;
How He hath built a city of love, and light, and song,
Where the eye at last beholdeth what the heart had loved so
long."

"'He knoweth the way that I take: when He hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.'"

He read out of his precious Bible; and, like a little child, he placed his hand in that of his Father, and was at peace.

CHAPTER XXII.

"SO I have all my flock safe," said Dr. Arundel, glancing round the table where the greater portion of his family were assembled. Even Tom had petitioned to come down to tea for once, and poor little Dolly's eyes had looked very wistful as he was lifted out of the nursery.

"Another night, dear," Nellie had said gently; "but it will be too much for mamma, will it not Mary, to have all down?"

"Yes, indeed," said Mary; "poor mamma! Besides, Dolly, see what cook has sent us up for tea—some of her nice buns; and yours is here, look!"

Dolly peeped her chin over the edge of the table, and being somewhat satisfied, she pushed her high chair nearer, and climbed up by the baby.

So the others felt, and the tongues flew as fast or faster than the knives and forks.

Christina and her aunt had been prevailed upon to accompany them home, and to stay with them for a few days till they could meet with apartments; so they were seated in the place of honour, and were included in all the plans and projects of the next few weeks.

"To-morrow," said Christina, turning to her aunt, "we must search for apartments, and then, if we find them, Nellie and I are to have an expedition to Hampstead. I shall not drag you about, Aunt Mary, till I see something very suitable."

"Very well, my dear; and perhaps I can be thinking over what new furniture you will want."

"Yes," said Christina; "for I can't put little clodhopping shoes on crimson damask chairs."

They all laughed; and Netta said, "Are the chairs you are going to buy crimson damask?"

"Not those I am going to buy, but those I have; they are stored away carefully somewhere, waiting for me."

"You will have to come and see me, Tom dear, when it is all done," said Christina.

Directly after tea, Dr. Arundel rang the bell, and told Simmons to collect all for prayers.

So they all gathered together. Even baby came down, as he always did in the morning, and sat very still on his mother's knee, looking round gravely at the unusual sight of lamps at prayers, which he could not make out at all.

The next morning, true to their intention, Christina and her aunt started forth on their lodging-hunting expedition. They were not very long gone, but returned in about an hour, having found what would suit them very well, for the few weeks before they could expect to settle into the new home. So after dinner, Christina asked Nellie if it would be possible for her to get away for the "house-hunting," and Mrs. Arundel answered for her, that she should go by all means.

So the three went together, and when at seven o'clock they returned, they had to confess that they were thoroughly tired.

"Pretty fair," answered Christina, "the only objection being that the house we like is almost taken!"

"Well," said Nellie, "we saw large and small, all sorts; but at last we came to this one that Christina thinks would do. It is old-fashioned, with quite a large garden; and there are fruit trees, and vegetables, and plenty of flowers."

"It is all I could wish," said Christina. "The front is dull; but the back windows look out on the garden and on the Heath. Oh, such a view! No wonder Nellie praised it up!"

"But then it is almost let?" said Dr. Arundel. "Yes; they will know in a day or two."

"It is hard for everybody," said Walter; "but sometimes it is just the lesson God has for us to learn."

His eyes rested for an instant on Christina, and he felt Nellie's hand slipped into his lovingly.

"I do not know anything much harder," said Dr. Arundel. "I see a great deal of that by the bedsides of my patients."

CHAPTER XXIII.

"YOU have come to see me," said Christina rising, as Margaret Fenton was shown into her sitting room in Gower Street.

"Sit down," she said, "and I will explain what I should want you to do. I hear you are very fond of children."

"So I heard. Now, you know, the place I want you to fill is not exactly a nurse's situation, it is more that of a matron. I am very lonely, and I am going to take care of a few little children, and try to bring them up to be useful and happy; but above all things I wish to teach them to love our Saviour."

"I have almost settled on a house at Hampstead, and I shall want, I believe, three servants; that is, a nurse-matron, a cook, and a housemaid. My own maid Ellen has consented to be the housemaid, at any rate for a time, and if you are willing to be nurse, there only remains the cook to find. But first I must tell you that I shall not be rich, so your wages will have to be moderate."

"Oh, I am quite willing!" exclaimed Margaret. "To have my child with me, and to be engaged in such work, I should only want just enough to keep me respectable."

"You shall have that, you may be sure. But I mean this: I shall not be able to pay you according to the amount of trust I put in you, but rather according to what I can afford."

"I quite agree," said Margaret earnestly. Then, hesitating, she said shyly: "Have you made up your mind, ma'am, what sort of person you wish to have for a cook?"

"It has been my only trouble in accepting your kind offer, ma'am—my mother-in-law; she will, I fear, be so very strange without me and Maggie; but I did not know if she would be too old. She is very strong and able, ma'am, and an earnest Christian woman too."

"I should be most thankful to find such an one. But when could I see her?" asked Christina, while an inward thanksgiving rose to the Father who was helping her forward step by step.

"Well, ma'am, as it happens, she has come up to town with me to-day. I had earned an extra shilling or two, and I gave her and Maggie the treat, as I thought it might be a long time before I could again."

Margaret went to the window and looked out, and Christina also glanced down the street, and in a minute the grandmother and child appeared pacing slowly on the opposite side of the way.

"There they are!" exclaimed Margaret. And hastily asking permission, she ran down, and soon touched her mother-in-law on the shoulder.

Christina was struck with the calm face of the elder woman as she turned to cross the road; her white plaited cap-border setting off the peaceful face and neat hair; and again she thanked God and took courage.

"So here is Maggie," said the ringing voice, while the beautiful face bent down and kissed the little one. "Maggie is to be my first little niece; eh, Maggie?"

The child drew back a little shyly, and her mother spoke. "Maggie dear, this is the lady that is going to give us all such a nice home! You will like to speak to her."

"Yes, Maggie," said Christina; "and I shall love you so much; and you, and mother, and perhaps grandmother, will be so happy, I hope."

Maggie came forward under the influence of those kind eyes, and laid her hand in Christina's. "Thank you, ma'am," she said, "'cause mother's eyes are very tired with that work."

Christina kissed her again, and thought of their talk about the clean children being the nicest, and then she turned to the grandmother. It had all to be explained again; but Mrs. Fenton did not accept it as quickly and readily as her daughter-in-law and Christina expected.

"It is a great change in my life, ma'am," she said at last; "and I think I must have time to consider it well. I should like very, very much to do it; but I would not wish to break up my little home, and lose what work I have now, and then repent it!"

"I wonder," at length she said, "whether we could manage it in rather a different way. There is a gardener's cottage, a very small one, adjoining the house I think of having, and I was going to let it off; but supposing you lived there and did our washing for us?"

Margaret looked anxiously at her mother, as if this must be the very thing for her.

The woman paused again. "I am extremely obliged, ma'am," she said, with great feeling in her voice, "and I will ask my Father about it, and let you know. I cannot go a step without Him, ma'am."

Christina held out her hand kindly and gravely. "You are quite right; and remember we shall all be one family in Him, whatever our different callings may be."

She rang the bell, and told Ellen to give her visitors a comfortable lunch in the dining room, and to ask Miss Arbuthnot to step upstairs.

"Oh, aunt, I wish you had been here, only I was so nervous in anticipation! But she is the dearest old creature you ever saw."

Christina then told her aunt all about the interview, and they both hoped the decision would be in favour of accepting her proposal.

Miss Arbuthnot had been extremely surprised when Christina had first propounded her plans to her; but she had quick and ready sympathy; she knew the desolation of the young heart; and she had read enough of the life of workhouse children to know that to rescue even a few of these from the deadness, apathy, and sin which prevailed in such places, would be no mean work. So she had consented cheerfully, and Christina had given her a warm, grateful kiss, and had said, "I will try to make your life too as happy as I can, dear aunt."

CHAPTER XXIV.

A WEEK or two passed away. The gentleman did not take the house at Hampstead, and Christina did.

Old Mrs. Fenton consulted "her Father," as she said, and decided to come and make her home in the gardener's cottage, bringing with her her little stock of furniture, her plants, and her washing paraphernalia.

She was soon settled into her tiny home, and after a few days, felt as if she had lived there for years. Her own fender, table, old-fashioned chest of drawers, cuckoo-clock, etc., made her feel homelike at once; and she trusted she had come to a right decision.

One day before Christina left Gower Street, she privately asked Nellie if she could be spared to help her arrange her house; but Nellie answered that it would be impossible, and begged her not to put the question to her mamma. "She would do anything to give me pleasure, and I would not have her asked on any account."

"If you really feel so, Nellie, I shall ask Ada; for I believe it would be an interest for her; only, you know, dear, you are my friend."

Nellie smiled gratefully. "No one could be more pleased," she said, and then blushing deeply, she added softly, "Some day we may perhaps be more than friends."

"Hush!" said Christina, putting her hand in front of Nellie's mouth. "I can't have that spoken of."

"We never have mentioned it," answered Nellie, looking up to see if Christina were displeased; "but I should like to tell you once how happy it would make me."

"Dear Nellie, I know; but it would not make you happy unless I could with all my heart?"

Ada was enraptured at the invitation which Nellie brought for her that evening; and the only difficulty was how her attendance at her school could be arranged for. After some consideration, and with many promises to take care, Ada was to be trusted to go and return daily by omnibus for the two weeks after her school began; and Arthur willingly undertook to meet her in the morning, before his own school hours, and see her safely into the omnibus again after one o'clock.

Ada thought it was very good of her mamma to allow this, and a few days afterwards packed her box, and went with Christina to "Sunnyside," as the house was called.

The next day there came, by parcel delivery, about two o'clock in the afternoon, a basket of lovely flowers from Christina's garden. It was directed to Tom; and just inside, on a slip of paper, was written, in her clear hand:

Tom's face, when the basket was opened, was eloquent; but he turned away and burst into tears. Never before in his life had he possessed such flowers, and to think they had been sent to him quite overcame him.

When Nellie, with tasteful fingers, was arranging them in all the vases she could muster, he said to her:

"I should like that little boy, Black Tom's son, to have some of them; do you think you could take him a bunch, Nellie?"

Tom was silent; and after a few moments he said: "Could you say they come from a little boy who loves Jesus?"

"And say I am like him, but that the Lord Jesus has comforted me, and I don't mind so much now."

"Which bunch shall it be, Tom?" she asked. She held each in turn where he could see them comfortably, and he decided on what he considered the best.

"Then I think I shall take them vase and all," said Nellie, "and tell him I shall fetch the vase when I think they are faded."

"Yes, do; they will look prettier so. I suppose there will be plenty of flowers in heaven," said Tom musingly.

"I should not wonder, for trees are spoken of; but I believe, Tom, above everything else will be the joy of seeing Jesus. It says, 'The Lamb . . . shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shalt wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"

"Yes," answered Tom, looking thoughtfully out of the window towards the clear sky, for he was lying in the nursery; then turning round again, "I would like you to go now Nellie, so that he may see them by daylight."

So Nellie fetched a sheet of silver paper, and standing her vase in it, lightly pinned the corners at the top, and telling her mamma where she was going, set forth.

A short walk brought her to one of the "gone down" and miserable-looking streets which abound in London the moment you turn out of the large thoroughfares. She went down this, and presently came to the house she sought. It was not by any means one of the "dens" of the vast city, but miserable and squalid enough notwithstanding. She rang the top bell of the four, and in a minute, a woman looked out from the bottom room and asked what she wanted.

"He's at home, safe enough!" said the woman, with not unkind humour. "Go up and find him, miss; you know the room."

Nellie entered the dirty little room, and unpinned her parcel on the table. The flowers, with their elegant arrangement, standing on the snowy paper, looked strangely incongruous in the untidy apartment; but Nellie had not brought them in there for nothing.

She looked up in the woman's face, "Who made these, do you think?" she asked her.

The woman shook her head, then smelt at them, and said suddenly, "Why, I suppose it's God Almighty?"

"Yes, God Almighty. He gave them to us, and we should all have had lovely gardens, and every happiness, but for sin; that has spoiled everything. But, do you know, He has made a way by which we may have it all again, and that is by believing in Jesus Christ His Son, and having all these sins forgiven."

The woman looked at the flowers again. "It's a hard world," she said; "I wish I could think there ever could be anything different."

"There will be for those who will look to Jesus," said Nellie. "Think over that, will you? And you will find everything will look altered."

Tom Taylor's boy might have lived in a very different room from this; but his father's good earnings were spent at the public-house at the corner of the street, and the poor little boy often went short even of the necessaries of life.

She entered. In the room were two small beds, and on one of these, at some distance from the window, lay a boy of about ten or eleven years. He was somewhat propped up by two pillows, but still he seemed obliged to lie very flat. Over his shoulders an old worn jacket was drawn and buttoned in the front, which did not however hide the soiled and tattered shirt beneath.

Nellie had been there once before, and she knew the smell of the close little room; but she came forward to the bedside.

Nellie set the parcel on a little table which was pushed against the side of his bed, and opened it the second time.

The child looked and looked at it, clasping his thin and wasted hands. "I never saw such beauties, never," he said, and slowly, as he looked, tears trickled down his cheeks, and ran on to the collar of his old jacket. And while he gazed at them, Nellie softly and clearly sang words which melted that hard young heart as much as the flowers had, and completed the work they had begun.

"The great Physician now is near,
   The sympathising Jesus;
He speaks the drooping heart to cheer:
   Oh, hear the voice of Jesus!

      "Sweetest note in seraph song,
         Sweetest name on mortal tongue,
       Sweetest carol ever sung,
         Jesus, blessed Jesus.

"Your many sins are all forgiven;
   Oh, hear the voice of Jesus!
Go on your way in peace to heaven,
   And wear a crown with Jesus.

"His name dispels my guilt and fear,
   No other name but Jesus;
Oh, how my soul delights to hear
   The precious name of Jesus!"

The boy listened to every word of the long hymn, looking at the flowers till he was too blinded with tears; then he turned away his head, and hid his face in the sheet. When Nellie had done, there was silence; at last the boy stretched out his hand to draw the flowers nearer to him. He bent his head down, and drew in their lovely fragrance, and then touched one of them tenderly and reverently with his finger.

"A little boy who lies helpless like you sent them, because he loves Jesus, and wishes you to love Him too."

"I never did before," said the boy; "I always thought it was so dreadfully hard. But these flowers—" he covered his face again, and sobbed.

"Did he? What?" he answered, wiping his eyes again on the sheet, and looking up.

"He said, 'Tell him I am like him; but the Lord Jesus has comforted me, and I don't mind so much now.'"

"Tell him then," said the boy, "that his Jesus has comforted me too; for though I cry, miss, it's only because I can't thank Him enough for wanting to save me."

Nellie passed her hand over his forehead, and pushed back the tangled hair. "I will tell him," she answered very tenderly; "and he will be so very glad, Tom. But now I must go, and I will try and come to-morrow, and see if I can make you a little more comfortable."

She made her way down the dingy staircase again, and stopped at the door of the front room, as she had promised.

It stood wide-open, and the woman came forward. She had been busy while Nellie was upstairs, and had whisked away many untidinesses, and had brushed up her hearth, and now stood with a smile of welcome.

Nellie was quick to perceive the change, and said, "You have made it tidy for me; thank you very much." Then stopping short, in her gentle, modest way, she said, "There's another visitor would willingly come in."

"Who, miss? A friend of yours?" then guessing from Nellie's face whom she meant, she sat down in a chair, and exclaimed, "This ain't no fit place for Him!"

"No; but He says He loves to come and dwell in the lowly and contrite heart; and if you are sorry for all the past, and willing to take Him for your visitor, and Saviour, and King, no one will be more glad than He to come."

"Bless you, miss!" said the woman, wringing her hand hard. "I never thought of it; but I will do as you say, and the first thing as ever I do shall be to clean my place up a bit for Him."

Nellie smiled with a glad look. "Ah!" she said. "It's the heart, remember, He wants."

CHAPTER XXV.

DR. ARUNDEL'S carriage rolled swiftly towards Hampstead. In it were the Doctor and Mrs. Arundel and Tom, while Arthur found a seat on the box by the coachman. Nellie had already gone by omnibus with Netta and Isabel. They were all going to pay Christina the much-talked-of visit.

Arthur informed them he was "Prince Arthur" going to open and inspect "The Orphanage," and pretended to be very grand. Christina and he had kept up this little joke whenever she had made her flying visits to No. 8. He had told her that, as he was such an august personage, he must not go till everything was ready; but he had kept away with great difficulty, as the accounts from Nellie and Walter made him long to be able to talk it over and enjoy it with them. They had been backwards and forwards a good deal—Nellie to help in suggesting and arranging, and Walter to hang pictures, move furniture, and assist generally in a most wonderful way, Christina thought; for she had never before met a gentleman who could "use his hands," as she called it.

Walter was invaluable, and Ada, who was chief "aide-de-camp," used to suggest sending for him whenever the least difficulty arose. He looked in, however, on them nearly every day, and Miss Arbuthnot, who was ignorant of the episode of that walk along the shore, heartily wished that the two whom she considered so suitable for each other should find it out. She, too, remembered the past; but she had wisdom enough neither to refer to it nor to make any remark as to the present. She welcomed Walter gladly, and thought the day seemed rather blank which had not brought his pleasant face. Did Christina think so? If so she kept it to herself; for nobody could guess.

As Dr. and Mrs. Arundel drove along Seymour Street on this bright afternoon of their visit to Christina, the carriage was brought to a stand by a crowd collected round some object at the side of the road.

The by-standers made way for him, and he found himself in a moment by the side of a woman who was lying on the curbstone, her head supported by the friendly knee of an elderly woman who had been passing when she fell. Even in her fainting condition she was clutching an infant, who was crying painfully, in her wasted arms.

Dr. Arundel begged the people to stand further away to give her air, while he dipped his handkerchief in a jug of water which someone had brought, and bathed her face and hands, and then sent a message to his carriage for his wife's smelling-bottle. Gradually the poor creature began to revive; and as she did so, she held her baby tighter to her breast.

"Stay, you will hurt it," said Dr. Arundel tenderly; "no one will take it away; do not press it so."

She instantly desisted, but opened her eyes and gazed at his face in a wild kind of way.

"Where is your home? You are not fit to be out, my dear," said the kind doctor in his fatherly manner, gently preventing her rising.

The by-standers who could hear this looked appalled, and several hands were put in pockets to draw out some money.

"I have no home," she answered in a low tone. "I was taking her to the river—when—I can't remember," she said, looking bewildered.

"No, no, not there! I was driven to it," she said huskily, "she was so hungry; I had nothing for her—she cried so dreadfully. I had sold everything; I had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and I could not see her starve, so I started. But, oh, my baby, it is so hungry!"

She looked down on its wee pinched face, and wrapped her thin tattered shawl closely round it again protectingly, and, oh, so tenderly.

"My poor girl, you are very ill," said the doctor; "but if you will come to a good woman I know of, she will take care both of you and baby; should you like that?"

"Not be separated?" she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Oh, say that again! How can I part with my baby?"

The crowd had begun to disperse. Several small coins had been placed in the doctor's hands for the woman's relief, and he looked round now at the shops near. A chemist's was close, and next door to it a second-rate coffee-house. He told the poor creature he would be back in a moment, and hastened in and asked for a cup of coffee. The woman who was serving had seen the commotion, and quickly poured out some, asking, as was natural, "What is the matter, sir?"

"Too true; there is many a respectable woman who goes down, and down, and down, and dies at last, sooner than ask for help."

He took the cup, and returned to the dying woman. He poured a little in the saucer, and put it to her lips.

"Not coffee for her; get some milk," he said, looking up at the coffee-house keeper, who had followed him out.

Meanwhile the sick mother had with difficulty raised herself from the still-supporting knee, and had settled her babe in her lap, so that when the milk came she might be ready for it. Then she stretched out her wasted hand for the coffee, and drank it eagerly.

When the milk arrived, the young mother took the spoon and poured a little into the poor little mouth. The child stopped crying, and swallowed it; but before she could get ready the next spoonful it began again.

"I had nothing for it," she answered, "so I spent my last halfpenny last night for a hap'orth of milk, and it had the rest of that early this morning."

"Poor little baby," he said pityingly. "Now while you give it a few more spoonfuls, I will go and get a cab, and will take you where I promised."

He went to his wife, who had been anxiously looking out of the carriage window, but could not leave little Tom.

"Starvation!" he said sadly. "Poor things. I cannot go with you, love; I must take her to Cromer Street. What a mercy our little hospital room has a bed vacant!"

"No; I am so very sorry; but it will be a wonder if she pulls through the next few hours. She is revived now, and we must get her to bed as fast as possible; she is in the last stage of consumption."

"Yes; and I want to speak to her of Christ, so good-bye. Ask Christina if she can attempt a baby three or four months old; for there will be very shortly another little orphan cast on the world."

"Drive on now, love; you can do no good to her; and I shall call a cab at once."

He gave the signal to the coachman, and the carriage once more proceeded on its way.

Tom was very silent. He had heard enough to understand, and he held his mother's hand tightly, but did not like to ask her any questions; for she seemed sad, and Tom kissed her hand softly over and over again, without getting more than a loving pressure in return.

Tom kissed her hand again, and then said softly, "You often say, mamma, we must trust everything to Jesus; I suppose, if she loved Him—"

"Yes, my dear," she answered, rousing herself; "that is the only way. 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.'"

"Very soon; we are just up the second hill, and soon we shall have a third. That shows how high it is, Tom."

"Here is the Heath," exclaimed his mother; "and here are the donkeys Christina so dislikes! And now we turn down to the left, and shall be there in a moment."

As she spoke they drew up at Sunnyside. There at the gate stood Christina and Ada, while just inside the garden they could see Nellie, Isabel, and Netta, who had already arrived. Walter came forward when he heard the carriage, for he had been specially invited for the grand occasion.

"Where is Dr. Arundel?" said Christina, looking astonished when he did not appear.

"He was prevented at the last moment; we must tell you about it," said Mrs. Arundel.

"He was so sorry, and so was I. He sent you a message, which I must give you presently."

Mrs. Arundel turned to superintend the lifting out of her invalid; but Arthur and Walter were accustomed to moving him, and now did it very cleverly, so that without a shake, he was laid on the drawing room sofa.

"We got here ever so long before you," said Isabel, bounding in through the French window; "what made you so long?"

Mrs. Arundel explained all about it to a very interested audience, and then gave Dr. Arundel's message to Christina, who looked very grave for a moment when she heard the age of the baby.

"I do not see any insuperable objection as you have Margaret Fenton, but if you had not, it would be another thing. It will, however, fill her hands and yours in a wonderful way; you will begin work in earnest then."

"Just what I should delight in," said Nellie; "but, oh, we are forgetting the poor young mother!"

The sad story rather sobered the happy party, and it was some little time before they could turn their thoughts away from it.

"Oh," said Christina, "this is not the part you will care about! When Tom is able, we must go into the other room."

Tom soon said he should like to go, so Arthur and Walter carried him between them, while Christina led the way.

The "other room" was "the play-room." The name "nursery" had been discarded, because Ada said, "There might be children of all ages."

Like the drawing room, it had windows to the ground, with a south-west aspect, looking over the garden, the Heath, and the Surrey hills.

The floor was covered with a bright-coloured kamptulicon, while a very ample hearthrug was laid at the fireplace, which had a large wide-barred guard.

The walls were decorated with tasteful pictures, several really good engravings, and half a dozen plainly illuminated texts, which had been Walter's gift. The pictures were all Scripture subjects; for, as Christina said, earliest impressions last the longest.

On one side of the large room three small tables, hardly two feet high, were standing, and near them were six or eight tempting little wooden chairs, of various shapes, which would just suit the tables and the little occupants of the play-room.

Ada sprang forward when her mamma was looking at these. "Now these are my especial pets," she exclaimed; "they are the dearest little tables and chairs. Christina, let me fetch Alfy!"

The little ones, who were with Margaret Fenton in the dining room, came rushing in. And though Maggie was very shy, Alfy feeling he was with old friends, calmly walked to the little table nearest him, and took his seat in a small arm-chair.

He proceeded to open a box of toys which stood conveniently there, and took no further notice of the guests. Maggie, however, kept close to Ada; for her mother had wisely closed the door, and disappeared.

Near the window were two rocking-chairs and a medium-sized table, the rest of the floor was left unoccupied, except by a few chairs against the wall.

Two large cupboards had been fixed on either side of the fireplace. On the door of one of these was painted in neat letters, "No fresh toy to be taken out till the last one is put away." This had been Nellie's suggestion; for though the children could not read perhaps, the nurse could read it to them.

On the other cupboard was painted likewise, "Each toy to be put neatly into its own box when done with."

Arthur laughed heartily at this, and said, pinching her soft pink cheek, "That's exactly like our Nell—as practical and as tidy as can be."

This was somewhat like other dining rooms, but was also covered with kamptulicon, and a good many high chairs stood round the wall; while Christina's long dining table, sideboard, and handsome chairs gave an air of comfort to the room.

"Sometimes, perhaps; but I have my aunt to think of too; and I fancy we shall perhaps make our lunch when the children have dinner, and then dine alone at six o'clock."

The kitchen was next inspected, and there they found the new cook, and Ellen, who looked delighted to see them all again.

Next came the bedrooms. There were six—Miss Arbuthnot's, Christina's, a spare room, and a servants' room, while two of the largest had been reserved for the children.

The walls of these were painted a pale green, and "could be washed," as Ada explained. The little beds and cribs were covered by snowy counterpanes, and were so arranged that a single strip of green carpet could be put down the middle of each room. The blinds were green, and the window-hangings, which were devised to take down and put up "with no trouble," were white. The china was also green and white, and everything looked fresh, and countrified, and peaceful.

Tom was deposited in some convenient place in each room in turn, and took a keen interest in it all.

"And here is a bath-room," said Ada, opening a door close by, "with hot and cold water laid on."

Christina opened a drawer in one of the chests, and asked them to look. They all gathered round, and as they peeped in they saw neatly arranged a complete suit of clothes for a little child of about Maggie's size.

"These are all Ada's work," said Christina proudly; "every stitch! and I can assure you she has been industrious to get it done, besides all the other things she has been doing for me from morning till night, and her school too."

Mrs. Arundel was delighted, and could not forbear giving her daughter a loving kiss.

Ada blushed deeply at the praise, but said softly, "It was very little to do after all the goodness and love—"

"Ah!" said her mother, understanding the unfinished sentence. "But He accepts the least thing done for His sake, dear."

"Here is another contribution," said Nellie, for Netta had been squeezing her hand during the last few minutes, and now brought forward a little parcel which she and Isabel had conveyed to Hampstead with the greatest care and pride.

On being undone, the parcel was found to contain two nicely-made little petticoats, and two list bodies, lined with unbleached calico, which looked as if they would wear for ever.

They were delighted with the loving thanks which they received, and with seeing their work placed cosily by the side of Ada's.

Walter, who was standing close behind holding Tom's frame safely on one of the little beds, now said to Christina, "Did you hear the sound of a tea-bell?"

She smiled, and said, "I think I did; but they must go round the garden first, or it will be dark. What a beautiful October day it is!"

For it was the first of October, the month that was the last of Walter's holiday.

They then went round the pretty garden and visited Mrs. Fenton's cottage, where Mrs. Arundel would have liked to stay to have a chat with the dear old woman; but Christina stood beckoning to them, and they had to cut their wanderings short.

They had a very happy tea-time; and there was plenty to talk of, and many questions to ask Christina about what she would do, and how she would arrange, while Miss Arbuthnot sat next to her niece, and looked very happy and contented.

"Aunt Mary likes my orphanage better than she expected," she said, laying her hand on her aunt's.

"Yes, my dear, I do; and I feel pleased to try and help in any way. I have no doubt when Christina gets more children, our hands will be very full."

"No fear of there being plenty of children when once you are ready," said Walter.

"But what is this 'hospital room' you were mentioning, where that poor creature is gone?" asked Christina. "I have never heard of it."

"That is one of papa's little quiet bits of 'work for the King,'" answered Mrs. Arundel. "He rents two rooms in Cromer Street, near us, where he has put a sort of Bible-woman nurse, who lives in one of them, and undertakes to nurse and care for any special sick one whom papa may send to her. She is able also to visit a few very poor invalids, who are without the means to pay for even a little attention, and to these her periodical visits are the greatest boon. She settles her own patients comfortably, and then goes out for an hour about eleven o'clock, and again later in the day, to make a bed for someone here, or a little gruel for someone there, and then home again almost before she is missed. We have had several very interesting cases, and the gratitude of the sick for a little kindly nursing is most touching."

"It is a beautiful plan," said Christina warmly, "and so very simple and natural."

"There is the carriage come for us," said Arthur, "and 'the Prince' has been so very interested in everything that he has forgotten to be as grand as he intended! What a pity; but he has enjoyed himself extremely notwithstanding."

CHAPTER XXVI.

WHEN Dr. Arundel turned from seeing his wife on her way, he called a cab, and placing the poor woman and her baby in it, drove quickly to Cromer Street, directing the man to stop at a house near the middle.

"I have brought you another patient," said Dr. Arundel cheerfully; "and a baby this time, too."

The nurse held out her arms for it, and the poor weak mother, after a glance at her kind face, yielded it to her, tottering, however, after her as quickly as she could.

"Give her two or three spoonfuls of beef-tea at once, and get her to bed, and in about twenty minutes I will call in and see how she is."

With an unspoken explanation, which the nurse seemed to comprehend, he turned away to visit another patient near.

The nurse helped the sick woman into the back room, and proceeded to lay the now sleeping babe upon one of the two beds, in the second of which was an elderly woman who was asleep. Everything in the room was the picture of cleanliness; there was a curtain which could be drawn from side to side, and the nurse now noiselessly drew this on its easy rings, and then went into her own room to place a little saucepan of beef-tea on the fire.

Meanwhile the poor woman had sunk on a chair exhausted; the little spark of life which had carried her thus far seemed failing.

"I'll undress you, my dear," said the nurse kindly; "take no trouble, I'll do everything; just sit still, you're too weak to help yourself."

"Indeed I am," moaned the sick woman. "No one knows what I have gone through the last week or two with my poor baby; at last—"

"There, don't talk," said the nurse, noticing the pallor which overspread her face at these words, "you shall tell me everything when you are nicely in bed."

Meanwhile she had been swiftly and tenderly unfastening the poor shabby clothes, and soon her patient was resting in the soft bed, with clean and fresh linen round her, and her own old garments noiselessly removed to the other room, to be seen to and hung up presently.

The nurse returned with the beef-tea, and proceeded to feed her with it spoonful by spoonful.

"How kind you are," she exclaimed, looking up. "Oh, what it is not to hear baby crying!"

"Yes, my dear; now be quiet. See, your baby is quite happy by you, and if it wakes, I'll see to it; don't you fret."

"This is rest," said the woman, giving her aching body up to the sense of repose.

The nurse looked at her fixedly. "My dear," she said, "I ought not to let you go to sleep without saying one word about Him who has given you this rest."

"No; better than that; Jesus, the Saviour. You feel helpless enough, don't you? Ill, and weak, and fainting?"

"Aye, God knows you do! Well, that is just the time when He can take us in hand. 'While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'"

The doctor, with his quiet footstep, now stood beside the bed; he had come in, finding the door open.

"My dear," he said kindly, "supposing your rest which you so crave should end in your not waking again—end in death?"

She moved slightly without opening her eyes. "Let me rest," she entreated. "I should have been dead now but for you; so what does it matter when it is?"

"Not if you are content to go to the end of the journey," said the doctor in a tone intended to rouse her. "Where are you going, do you think?"

"I can't think; I only know I meant to take my baby with me, and we should have been together."

"I do not think you would," said the doctor; "but you may be for ever if you like."

The woman's dulled senses here failed her, and she fell into a heavy sleep which was almost stupor.

"We must let her sleep for an hour, and then I shall try to awaken her. How awful it is to see a soul dying without God!"

He went into the other room and sat down, while the nurse quickly cleared up the poor woman's things, and put the kettle on for a cup of tea for her dear doctor, who however sat very silent, his heart rising in imploring supplication that this soul might be plucked as a brand from the burning.

He asked her a few questions as to other cases she had in her charge, and then they sat silent again; while the doctor drew out his Bible and read it near the window, to catch the remaining light in that dull little street.

By-and-by he looked at his watch, and went into the other room with the nurse. The woman and her babe still slept the sound sleep of the utterly exhausted.

Doctor Arundel poured a little beef-tea, which had been kept warm on the hob, into a teacup, and going to the bedside with it, he began to raise the poor creature's head.

She still resisted obstinately, and he tried another plan. "If you don't take it, as I wish, you will wake your baby up, and what a pity that would be!"

"Oh, don't wake her for the world!" murmured the woman, yielding slightly to their touch.

So she drank it, and, as he expected, it roused her a little from her dead slumber.

"It is too late for me," she said half to herself, as if continuing something she had been saying in her dream; "I never gave it a thought before, and now it is too late, too late."

"If your baby had fallen into the river, and you could pull it out, would you stop on the bank, and say it was 'too late'?" asked the doctor earnestly.

"No!" said the woman. "At least, not if it fell in alone, and I was safe on the shore."

"Supposing it was in a burning house, and you could still rush up the staircase, would you wring your hands at the bottom, and say it was 'too late' to rescue it?"

"No, no!" exclaimed the woman, now fully awake, and turning to clasp her baby to her breast. "No, no, never while I could get to it. My baby! My baby!"

"Ah, then, it is not too late for you. You are drowning, you are in a burning house; but Jesus has come to seek you, to save you. Oh, stretch out your arms to Him now, my dear! Do, or you will be lost."

The woman looked in the face of her babe earnestly and longingly, with unspeakable yearning, and at last she whispered, "Did you say we might be separated after all?"

"Indeed you might. There is only blessedness with Jesus, and if you will not believe He died for your sins, if you will not look to Him to save you, you can never go to be with Him, where I hope your baby will go."

The woman still clasped her child, but did not answer. She was thinking deeply, with what little power of thought she had left.

"When He was on earth," resumed the doctor, "He took such little babies as yours up in His arms, and said He should like to have them with Him in heaven."

"He was indeed, and He loves you and your baby so much that He died to save you."

She sank down again, and the exhausted frame was once more at rest in profound slumber, nor did she even wake when her baby stirred; but the nurse gently withdrew the tiny little thing from her arms, and took it into her own room, where she fed it, and washed it, and made it more comfortable than its poor sick and poverty-stricken mother had been able to do for many a long day.

The nurse then took the babe back, laid it by the side of its sleeping mother, and afterwards went to her other patient, and told her a little of what she had gathered of the young woman's history.

She had explained to Dr. Arundel in the cab that her husband had died two or three months ago, and that ever since she had been struggling with poverty and ill health, until at length she had been forced to abandon what little work she could find, and begin the downward road of selling her things one by one to obtain food. At last illness and starvation had deprived her of all hope, and she had given herself up to utter despair.

"And no wonder," added the nurse; "for what must such a life be without God to trust in?"

They spoke low, and so the evening hours passed away, and it grew on to ten o'clock.

The nurse was sitting silent watching the dying woman, when she perceived that she had opened her eyes, and was looking at her earnestly.

"You shall have some beef-tea," she said, rising and fetching it, without attending to the woman's shake of the head.

The woman was going to refuse, but altered her mind, and took it. She seemed very grave, but there was a clear look about her eyes which the nurse had not seen since her arrival.

"I have not been asleep all the time," she said in a whisper; "I have been thinking about the Saviour that held the little babies."

"I have been telling Him I should like Him to take care of my little baby when I am gone. Do you think He will?"

"Are you?" she asked, her eyes full of the deepest longing. "You cannot know how awful it is to me to think of her being taken to the workhouse!"

"I have told Him; but, oh, I deserve it all! Did you know, did I tell you, if I had not fainted, or been brought here, I and my baby would be lying now in the cold, dark river? Think of that!"

"Very sorry," said the poor creature, her eyes filling with long dried-up tears; "I hope He'll forgive me."

"He will, He will," said the nurse earnestly. "He gave His own life to save you, and to bring you to God."

The poor woman was silent and exhausted; and then suddenly she leant towards the nurse, and seizing her hand, kissed it over and over again.

"I am going, I think," she said feebly, falling back, "but you said He died to save me; will He save me after I have been so wicked? How can He love me?"

The woman looked upwards. "I will," she said; "for I have no one else; and please, dear Saviour, take care of my poor little child."

Again she appeared to become unconscious, but the nurse and the other patient, who had also been listening to and praying for her, rejoiced with the angels over the repenting sinner.

About half-past ten Dr. Arundel came in, and after feeling her pulse and examining her features closely, took a chair by the bedside and waited. The slight touch of his fingers, however, roused her again, and she spoke to the nurse in a painful whisper, "I can't breathe; do put me up higher."

"Let me hold my baby once more," she gasped; and the nurse quickly and kindly obeyed, placing the little creature in the poor trembling arms.

"Oh, no! She has been washed and fed. See how much better she looks," said the nurse.

The poor woman bent over her and kissed her passionately; then laid her face against the little head and wept tears of anguish. "I can't leave her," she sobbed; "I never can leave her, and yet I must!"

"Do you remember," said the nurse soothingly, "you were going to trust her to Jesus? He loves her."

The woman listened; she relaxed her passionate hold, though still clasping her babe tenderly and protectingly.

"I remember now," she answered; "and as He has loved me, He'll love her! Yes; I can leave her to Him."

She hid her face again in the tiny little bosom, and sobbed as if her heart would break; but the listeners knew that the weeping was submissive this time, and they rejoiced that the loving Saviour was gently bringing the weary sheep home to the fold.

"The way is rough," said the doctor, turning to the nurse; "but, oh, the glory!"

"I have a message for you about your baby, if you can bear it," he said to the poor creature.

"A dear young lady who loves the Lord Jesus has offered to take care of her, feed her, and clothe her, and bring her up happily, and teach her about heaven, where you will be."

The woman once more kissed her baby passionately; and they heard her murmur words of thanksgiving over its little head. "He's so good, baby," she whispered, "so kind; He's given you a home, and my child must love Him, and thank Him, and come to mother some day, because He died to save us both."

They were her last words; for she seemed to fall asleep with her child still on her bosom; but after a little while they saw she had gone "home," and was with "the multitude whom no man can number, who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE next morning, after the poor young mother's death, a cab stopped at Sunnyside, and the nurse got out with the little babe in her arms.

Ellen opened the door to them, and ushered them into the drawing room, where Christina was sitting, while by her stood Walter, who had but that moment arrived with the message that the babe was on its way, but had not had time to give it.

"Here she is, ma'am," said the motherly nurse, coming forward. And Christina held out her arms, while a sudden qualm came over her as to whether she would be able properly to fulfil her trust.

When the little tender form rested on her knees, and she looked into its white, half-starved face, and thought of all the love that young mother had lavished on it, but that now it could never know such a love again, she bent her head over it, and burst into tears.

"Don't cry, ma'am," said the nurse kindly; "you will be like a mother to it, poor lamb; it will never know the difference, and the poor creature that's gone to glory trusted it to you and her Saviour."

Christina wiped the tears away which had fallen on the baby's face and shawl, and stooped and kissed it tenderly. "Poor wee thing. Oh, Walter, I wish I knew more how to do for it, and comfort it!" she said, while she could not help crying afresh.

"You will soon learn; and I believe will not need much learning either," he said, touched by her tears and her tender face.

Christina turned to the nurse and said, looking up, "You will like some lunch, I am sure, nurse; but let me know when you are ready to go; I have a note to send."

When Walter and she were again alone, Christina once more bent and kissed the little sleeping face.

"Walter," she said, looking up, and speaking earnestly, "I could never part from this little one while God spares her life. She is taken into my heart for once and all; so young, so helpless, left me by her mother, lent to me by God! I can never part with her."

"I would not ask it," he said very low, while the sudden hope rushed into his heart and face at once, that now might be the time for Christina's answer.

"Have I waited long enough, dear?" he asked, his voice trembling strangely. "Could you give me hope now?"

"Dear Walter!" she said, laying her soft hand on his for an instant. "How patient and kind you have been."

He looked in her face questioningly, and their eyes met: hers, still dewy with tears; his, strong, faithful, true.

"I must not keep you waiting for ever," she said hesitating; "and if you care so much still—why—Walter, I shall miss you dreadfully when you go."

"Then fetch Margaret too, I want her to see the little baby. Look, Ellen, shall we not all long to put some colour into these thin little cheeks?"

"Yes," said Christina; "but she died trusting in Christ; what a mercy that was."

"Yes, indeed," answered Ellen, going off to fetch Margaret, whose motherly arms soon held the baby. "We ought to have a fire for it," she said to Christina, "if you will allow it, ma'am."

"That she would lend you whatever you wanted more than these, till you had time to get some made. Nellie has already begun to cut out several little garments; and Netta and Isabel had on their thimbles when I came away."

"What dear little girls they are," said Christina; "we shall all have to be busy. Did you hear its name, Walter?"

The baby gave a little sound, which rather startled them all; and Margaret said she should take her to the play-room at once, and feed her.

"See, Maggie!" she exclaimed, entering, "here's the dearest little baby for us!"

"Me don't 'ike babies," said Alfy, who was standing by the guard watching Ellen's quick movements in igniting the already laid fire; "me 'ike to see the fire."

"What tiny feet!" said Margaret, taking no notice of Master Alfy. "Look, Maggie. I never did see such a thin baby, Ellen; it makes my heart ache dreadfully!"

"That will burn," said Ellen, getting up and replacing the large guard. "Margaret, these guards are much nicer with these wide-apart bars going downwards, so that they cannot climb, and yet can feel the heat."

"Yes; so I thought when I first saw it. Now, baby, come and spread your poor little toes at this blaze."

Alfy's eyes had wandered in the direction of the baby in spite of his intentions, and he now drew a little nearer, and carefully pulled the old shawl aside to get a view of her face. He made no remark, however, but went back to his favourite arm-chair and little table.

Christina soon came in with the parcel and began opening it on the table, assisted by Maggie, who was extremely interested in its contents.

"Here is a little frock, and here's another," she exclaimed; "and here's a flannel petticoat; and, oh!" Jumping down, "Let me warm it, mother, ready for the baby."

"Do," said her mother; "for I think, ma'am, I shall bathe it just as if I had had it all night, it will be all the better for it."

"Yes," said Christina; "and if you want any help, remember I shall always be ready to come, or will send someone."

"I must go," he said regretfully; "but I will come back again if you will let me?"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THOSE last weeks flew quickly by. But before the end of them, Nellie had wonderfully cheered up; for she had been obliged to confess to herself that she had latterly felt strangely dull. However, as Walter's face brightened, so the weight passed away from her heart.

The new baby was a great interest to all, and kept them well employed in working to provide it with a wardrobe.

Arthur said it was hard that he should not be able to contribute; for, having spent all his available pocket-money at South Bay, he had nothing left. His mother, however, often had a remedy for the small evils of life, and she asked him if he could not think of anything to make, which he could sell, and afterwards spend the money for the baby. He sat a very long time silent; and his mother did not help him while he could help himself. At last he looked up, "Do you think I could make a blotting portfolio, something like those we did at South Bay?"

"Yes," answered his mother; "or needle-books made in the same way, only very neatly, are pretty; or you might make a scrap-book on coloured calico, and paint the pictures nicely for some nursery."

"Indeed I think they would, but whichever you like best, dear; or you can do fretwork."

"So I can; that's the best thought, because I can make something really pretty, and it would be sure to sell."

So Arthur made a fretwork book-stand, and after some little trouble and inquiry found a purchaser in his grandmamma, who happened to be visiting London at the time. He received four shillings; and when it was safely in his hand, he felt very proud and happy.

Ada, who had now returned from Hampstead, willingly proposed to help him; and after a little consultation with their mother, the two set forth. They made their way to the shop mentioned by Mrs. Arundel; and Ada rather bashfully asked to see some warm stuff suitable for a baby's pelisse.

The shopkeeper knew the children, and guessed it was for some charitable object. "Is it for your own baby brother?" he asked prudently.

"Well," said he pleasantly, "I have something very nice here—a remnant—how much were you to spend?"

"Three shillings, and a shilling for some narrow velvet," said Arthur; "I'm afraid it will not buy anything very nice."

"I should be pleased to let you have this remnant for that money, for a little orphan," he answered, "if you will allow me to help to that small extent. And do you think a couple of yards of flannel would be acceptable?"

So the children returned home delighted with their parcel, and unfolded before their mother's appreciating eyes sufficient warm, soft, grey french merino to make a beautiful winter pelisse, displaying also the nice piece of flannel which would be so useful too.

That evening, while Arthur read to them, Ada and Mrs. Arundel proceeded to cut it out, and all hands set to work to get it made. It was to be very plain—"none of your grand furbelows," Arthur had said, and Mrs. Arundel's taste said the same; the little motherless babe should be very quietly dressed.

In two days, the busy fingers had finished it. "Ada will be quite a seamstress," said her mamma; "I never thought she would be so industrious."

Arthur and Ada went together to Sunnyside to see it put on the baby. Two weeks of good air and plenty of food had already told upon the little creature, and in its clean clothes and comfortable surroundings, it looked its best when introduced for the first time to Arthur.

Christina was delighted with the pelisse, said it was the thing of all others she wanted, "for baby has not been beyond the garden yet; as I was rather ashamed of its shawl, and all the pelisses I could see were either so common or else so splendid that I would not buy one; but this is perfection!"

October was slipping away all too fast; and much as some of the little party wished to defer it, the very last day of Walter's stay in England at length arrived.

Christina had come to No. 8 to spend it with them there; and she and Walter had been for a long walk in Regent's Park. In the evening they all gathered in the drawing room, and talked over the many new interests of the last three months.

"Your text has borne fruit, dear Walter," said his stepmother, while her hand rested lovingly in little Tom's.

"It has indeed, thank God," he answered; "though I was but watering the seed you and my father have been sowing for so many years."

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel thoughtfully; "so that 'he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together.'"

"I have only one word of caution to say to you all, dears," he said, "Christina and I have been thinking of it a great deal this afternoon. Remember that whatever work we do outside our homes is as nothing compared to the work inside. If we were to be ever so busy at work, but be cross, or fretful, or disobedient at home, it could not be accepted by Him who says it is the heart He wants: 'I dwell with him who is of humble and contrite heart, and who trembleth at my word.'"

"No, dear, indeed; but there is a tendency in all of us to neglect our own souls, especially when we are busy in work for God. Never let anything hinder you all from reading your Bibles and spending a little time with God every day. It would be as foolish for us to think of going to our daily tasks without it, as it would be of a young man to attempt to climb a mountain without his breakfast."

"There is the clock striking nine, and we agreed to say good-bye then," said Walter; "and afterwards I must take Christina home. Nellie, I shall see you to-morrow before I start at five."

The farewells were spoken hurriedly now; and Walter only seemed to hear his father's words, "My son, I bless God for the day you came home."

When he parted from Christina at her own door an hour later, he said, "How I wish it were 'taking you home' instead of parting from you. But one thing, dear, I do feel, and that is my only comfort, you are safe in more tender, more protecting, more wise, and more loving care than even mine could be. Good-bye till—"

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The Gabled Farm;