Margie's Venture; or, When the Ship Comes Home., by Mary E. Ropes

"GOD FORGIVE YOU FOR YOUR EVIL THOUGHT AGAINST
THIS POOR INNOCENT GIRL!"

MARGIE'S VENTURE

THEY were a great contrast—these two—as they stood under the trees, in the deepening twilight of the shady garden.

She—Fay Grayling—very youthful-looking, even for her eighteen years, with her pretty, fair, flower-like face, her bright if somewhat shallow blue eyes, her light curly hair, and pouting red lips, which seemed like the unspent inheritance of childhood itself.

He—Harry Mayne—full ten years older—with his sturdy, well-developed manliness of form, his grave, earnest face, and quiet manner. The well-opened, steady eyes, and firm mouth and chin, spoke to force of character and tenacity of purpose; but there was gentleness too, and an infinite capacity for tenderness, in that dark, strong face.

Fay and Harry had plighted their mutual troth some few weeks before, and were now parting; for he was about to rejoin, as first officer, the big steamship which would carry him far away on a long year's cruise.

There were tears on Fay's round baby-cheeks as Harry at last unclasped from his arm the little hands that clung there.

"Time is going, dear; I must be off," he said firmly, though his lip quivered. "No, Fay, don't try to keep me. It is not true kindness, believe me, child. Where are your mother and sisters? I should like just to say good-bye to them. They have been so very good to me."

"They are all in the drawing-room," replied Fay, wiping her eyes; and, leading the way into the house, she opened a door, and ushered Harry in.

Mrs. Grayling and three girls were sitting round the table sewing by the light of a shaded lamp.

"Here's Harry come to say good-bye," said Fay. "He sails early to-morrow from Southampton, and he must catch the boat-train to-night."

"So you are really going, Harry?" said Mrs. Grayling. "We shall miss you very much, and our poor little Fay here will be quite inconsolable. You are one of us now, you know."

"That is a long time for you and Fay to be separated," remarked Lettie, the second girl.

All this time, Margie, the third, said nothing. Her head was bent low over her work, and she did not even look up.

"Well, I must not stay," said Harry; "to lose that train would be to lose my berth, and I can't afford that. Good-bye, Mrs. Grayling; good-bye, dear girls." And he kissed them all affectionately, as though already they were his mother and sisters.

Margie was the last. As he put his hand on her shoulder, she raised her flushed face from her work, and he saw those great grey eyes of hers brimming over with tears, and the lips were quivering as he pressed his own upon them. Somehow or other, the sight of her grief surprised and touched him, and as he lingered a moment longer with her hand in his, he heard her whisper, "God bless you, dear, dear Harry!"

Fay went with him to the door; she was crying again, and she clung to him as he bade her a fond farewell. But even lovers' farewells must end at last, for trains and tides do not wait for them. And in another minute, the door had closed and Harry was gone, while in Fay's ears were ringing his last words, "Be true to me, Fay, be true!"

"Oh dear me! Was ever a poor mother in such a dilemma? Just look here, girls! Another letter from the lawyer, and again bad news!" And Mrs. Grayling heaved a gusty sigh, and, sinking into the nearest arm-chair, stretched out a big, bony hand, in which was displayed the unwelcome letter, open to any one who wished to read it.

It was snatched from her, half playfully, half impatiently, by Mattie, a tall young woman of about five-and twenty, rather bony and angular, like the mother, but with a clever, sensible face, that atoned for her rather masculine figure, and bore no trace of the fretful anxieties that had made lines in Mrs. Grayling's worn countenance.

"Let me see too," said Lettie, who was a round, good-tempered-looking, sleepy-eyed, tow-haired girl of twenty-three or thereabouts; and she rose from her seat and came round behind Mattie, in order to read the letter over her shoulder. Margie, who was twenty-one years old; Fay, who was eighteen; and Nat, who was between nineteen and twenty, completed the family party; and all were eagerly waiting for the news in the lawyer's letter.

"Yes, mother, it is hard on you!" said Mattie, as she ran her eye through the one closely written page. "Only three months ago you heard that your income was to be reduced a hundred pounds a year, and now the value of the investments seems to have again fallen, and you are to lose another hundred, and probably more."

"I hardly know what I shall do," said Mrs. Grayling. "When your dear father was alive, he always attended to business matters, and even the household accounts; but now I am burdened with so many things, and what with this reduction of income and the increasing expenses of Fan's and Eva's schooling, I really do not know how I shall make both ends meet, unless—unless—"

"I know what you are going to say, mother," interrupted Margie. "Unless some of us marry, and take ourselves off your hands."

"Yes, my dear, that is just what I was going to say, and I think you will see that for one or two of you to have homes of your own would save my pocket and lift a load of care from my heart."

"Poor mother!" said Margie, coming nearer, and putting an arm round her mother's gaunt shoulders. "I daresay it would be a good thing, as you say; but it takes two to make a marriage, as it does a quarrel, and you see we have no gay cavaliers to serenade and carry us off; and even Fay's sailor boy," added Margie, with a sudden flush on her clear cheek, "is of no practical use at present."

Margie and her young sister Fay were the only really good-looking members of the Grayling family. Margie was tall, like Mattie, but not angular and bony. On the contrary, she had one of those natural, pliant figures upon which almost any sort of dress looks comfortable and becoming, and whose ease and grace of movement seem absolutely spontaneous and unstudied. Fay was more like Lettie, both in face and figure. But her complexion was clear and bright, her hair a pretty blonde shade, instead of dead tow-colour; her eyes had none of the sleepy languor, and her figure, though plump, none of the lumpiness which spoiled Lettie's looks.

"My dear," remonstrated Mrs. Grayling, with a dark solemnity which was in marked contrast to Margie's cheerful manner, "you should be the last to say there are no gentlemen whom you could marry. I know of two who would be thankful to have you, only that you are so dreadfully fastidious."

Margie's face became grave all of a sudden; her laughing grey eyes grew thoughtful, and her pleasant mouth assumed an expression almost grim in its determination.

"Why, of course I mean them," replied the mother quickly. "And only think what a marriage with one of them would mean! A comfortable, nay, a luxurious home, an indulgent husband, and all the pleasures that money and position can give."

"Sir Peter is an old dear!" responded the girl warmly. "There's nothing I would not do for Sir Peter except marry him. As for Mr. Elmes, he is a vulgar, purse-proud snob, with a large family of horrid grown-up children. No, thank you, mother; I'd rather be an old maid."

"You children think only of yourselves," sighed Mrs. Grayling, putting on her most fretful and disconsolate face. "You never consider me and all my troubles and worries, or how you can help me in these straits I am come to."

"I do not think we quite deserve your reproaches, mother," said Mattie, folding the letter; "there is not one of us who is not willing to do our utmost to lessen the burden upon you. I am the eldest, and I will make the first proposal. Let Fan and Eva come home, and I will teach them myself; that will save a hundred a year, will it not?"

"There's not much I can do, for I only understand one thing," said Lettie; "but I am willing to do that. Send our cook away, mother, and I will cook for the family. That will save twenty-five pounds at least."

"And I'll give up all thought of going to college," said Nat, the youth, who had not yet spoken. "I will try for a situation somewhere. Perhaps a clerk's in an office."

"And I will help with the parlour-work," said Fay, "and you can dismiss one of the maids. If we all take our share of the duties, we can get along quite well with one servant."

All this time Margie had not spoken. At last she said, "I do not know enough to teach, and if I take up other work I would rather it were not at home. I must think what I can do."

Then the conference broke up, and each member of the family went to his or her own duties.

For a few days Margie was wonderfully silent and preoccupied; but she gave no explanation of the change in her manner, and her sisters rallied her on it in vain, and teased her because during these days she was always studying the newspapers.

But Margie had a very definite object in view, and when she eventually came across the following advertisement, it struck her that she had found what she had been in search of:

WANTED, by an invalid widow lady, a respectable young person of intelligence and refinement, as attendant. She must have perfect health, pleasant looks, and a good temper. Liberal salary and a comfortable home to a suitable person. Personal interview indispensable.—Apply, Mrs. BEACH, Garden Lodge, River Park, Surrey.

CHAPTER II.

THE personal interview to which Margie readily consented did more for her than the written character which she had forwarded.

When Margie appeared, clad in a neat, close-fitting black dress, immaculate collar and blameless cuffs, and a sweet little black bonnet—half Quakerish, half coquettish—beneath which her wavy brown hair was smoothly brushed back from the temples, Mrs. Beach felt that here at last was an ideal attendant.

No fringe,—not even a love-lock,—no earrings or ornaments; only a jet brooch to fasten the linen collar. Yes, and here were the fine health (bright eyes and complexion showed this), the very pleasant looks, and, no doubt, the good temper—the three things the invalid especially desired.

Mrs. Beach was charmed with Margie's frank, natural manners; even her straightforward confession of inexperience showed the girl's truthfulness, and was a sort of pledge for the future. The interview did not last long, and when she left the cosy, roomy house, standing in its old-fashioned garden and half hidden among trees, it was with the understanding that she should come and take up her abode there that day week.

Margie had a couple of hours to travel by rail before reaching home, so she had plenty of time in which to consider how she should break the news to her mother and sisters. For she had come to her resolution and had made her own plans without consulting any one.

When at last she found an opportunity to make her announcement, it created a very considerable sensation. No real opposition was threatened to her "venture," but her mother's remark summed up what perhaps was in the minds of all the others.

"Good gracious, child! What have you done? Why, my dear, I do believe you have taken a situation little better than that of a servant."

If Margie had expected a pathway strewn with roses, and with no thorns among them, she would have been sorely disappointed. Happily, she was too sensible to have any such expectations. She had seen enough of life to know by this time that we must take it as we find it, accepting good and evil, joy and sorrow, fulfilled hopes and baffled purposes, as they come. And by the time a month had gone by, the girl had become familiar with her surroundings, and had also come to know very fairly well the people in the house.

It was rather a curious household, for it held a somewhat mixed community, and, consequently, there was friction now and again, or worse.

Mrs. Beach, however, had turned out to be just what Margie, during their brief interview, had thought her. She was a kind, motherly, unselfish woman, whose invalidism had not soured her temper, or made her suspicious or morbid. She treated Margie from the first with kindness and consideration, and the girl would have been quite content if she could have been alone with her employer, and had nothing to think of but her duties, which were not too hard for her strength at all, or distasteful to her in any way.

But there were other people in the house not so easy to deal with. In the first place, there was Mr. Nicholas Beach, the only son of the widow. He was a young gentleman of no occupation, but of self-indulgent, not to say vicious habits. As he had nothing to do but to amuse himself, he was always dawdling about the house, and Margie was continually meeting him, much to her annoyance; for she had taken a dislike to his handsome, dissipated face, and strongly resented his bold, free manner with the maids, and his ungentlemanly personal remarks.

Another member of the family who was even a greater trial to Margie was Mrs. Beach's niece, Mabel Raye, whom the aunt had brought up from a child.

She was a very handsome girl, one of those dark beauties who light up into positive brilliance under strong excitement, and who reward a tasteful and painstaking maid by looking their very best when they emerge from her beautifying hands into the bright light of a ballroom. But Mabel's mother had been a Creole, and with the glorious dark eyes and beautiful features, the girl had inherited the hot blood, the passionate, vindictive temper, the unreasoning jealousy, of the darker race. Not that she was devoid of generous feelings, of gracious impulses; but she had no principle; her conduct was governed solely by the whim of the moment. No wonder, then, that she was, an influence that had to be reckoned with in the house, and that by her sudden freaks, her stormy temper, and strange, mad jealousies, she was almost equally dangerous whether as friend or enemy.

It did not take long for Margie to realise that she must do her best not to come into collision with this girl. And as her duties kept her very much in Mrs. Beach's room, and she neither belonged to the dining-room nor the kitchen, she was usually able to keep out of the way, and flattered herself that she need never have any trouble.

The girl had not vanity enough to realise that she was quite attractive enough to rouse the jealousy of such an undisciplined character as Mabel Raye. Indeed, when Margie looked in the glass at all, it was just to be sure that her collar was straight, her hair neatly done, and that her whole dress was spotlessly fresh and tidy. It never occurred to her that she had a graceful figure, lovely brown hair, and clear, sweet eyes with an unusual wealth of lashes. She knew she was pleasant-looking, and of that she was frankly glad, but she did not guess (and here lay Margie's chief charm) how much more than pretty she appeared to others.

But Margie had reckoned without her host, as she found to her cost when a few weeks had passed. It happened on this wise. Nicholas Beach had been at home even more than usual of late, and Margie was constantly seeing him. If she took a message from Mrs. Beach, she was sure to find him dawdling about on the stairs, or sitting in the smoking-room with the door wide open, so as to watch every one who went by. Of course the girl took no notice of him, but she could not help seeing that he was beginning to dog her steps and watch for chances to see and speak to her. In short, he was evidently going to try and treat her with the contemptuous familiarity that he had doubtless found successful enough with the servants in his mother's house, when they chanced to be young and good-looking.

One day Margie was sewing in the little workroom which belonged exclusively to her. The door was shut, and she was stitching away, in order to complete the bit of sewing that night, when, without any warning, the door opened, and in walked Nicholas Beach, and with him entered the fumes of whisky and tobacco. The young man's face was flushed, his manner very abrupt, strange, and disagreeable.

"Ah," said he, with an impudent leer, "so here you are! Caught at last. Here I've been trying for ever so long to get a talk with you, but you always managed to keep out of my way." So saying, the young man flopped down into the one easy-chair the room contained, and stretched his long limbs out upon a smaller seat. Apparently he was come to stay, and as Margie was quite determined that he should quit, she braced herself up for what she felt sure would be an unpleasant interview.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything to a fellow?" said he at last, fixing his bold eyes upon the girl, who had now put down her work, and had risen from her seat by the table.

"Yes, sir, I am," rejoined Margie; "will you be kind enough to get up and leave this room at once?"

"'Pon my word, but she's a cool one!" said Nicholas Beach to himself; then to her, he added in a louder tone, "You look awfully pretty when you're angry, Margery; do it again, will you?"

"Sir," said the girl, "if you have any respect for yourself or for me, you will leave this room. If you do not go at once, I shall leave you here, and go straight to Mrs. Beach."

"You pretty little vixen, I'm sure you'll do nothing of the sort," rejoined Nicholas, with an impertinent leer. "You'd never have the heart, you know; it would be too cruel, when I admire you so."

For answer, Margie walked to the door, her head held very high, her big eyes flashing indignantly. Nicholas stared at her stupidly.

"What a little spitfire it is!" he said thickly. "I didn't want to rile you, my beauty. Come here, and make it up." And he seconded his invitation with a smile so odious in its drunken impudence, that Margie said not one word more, but opened the door and went straight upstairs to Mrs. Beach's boudoir.

Mabel Raye was sitting there with her aunt, and as Margie entered, with flushed cheeks and haughty bearing, the young lady said, "Good gracious, Margery, what's the matter with you? You look like a tragedy queen."

But Margie did not answer her. She turned to Mrs. Beach and said, "If you please, ma'am, will you allow me to bring my sewing into your dressing-room, or to take it to my bedroom? Mr. Beach has taken possession of my workroom, and declines to move."

Mrs. Beach looked troubled and annoyed. For a moment or two, she seemed as if she did not know what to say, but Miss Raye broke out passionately, "Don't believe her, auntie. It's all a lie! Nick wouldn't do such a thing. If he went into the workroom at all, it was because he was invited in. The girl's conceited, that's all, and wants to make us think he admires her. The idea! A servant, too!"

Margie turned very white, and her face was set and rigid, as she replied, ignoring Mabel entirely, and turning only towards Mrs. Beach, "I have told you the exact truth, ma'am, and I beg you to believe me. I never told a lie in my life."

Mabel started up. "I'll go and ask Nick himself," she said. "I'll soon prove to you, auntie, that this girl has made a false statement." And with a vindictive glance, Mabel Raye departed.

Margie now came nearer to where Mrs. Beach sat. The old lady was apparently in real distress, and the girl felt very sorry for her. "I am grieved, ma'am, to say or do anything to trouble you," said she very gently and tenderly; for she loved Mrs. Beach, who had always treated her well, and with perfect fairness.

"Will you tell me all that passed between my son and you?" asked the mother, with an anxious face. "I would rather know the exact truth."

"I will if you really wish it, ma'am," said the girl; "but I would rather save you the pain of hearing it. And there need be no more of this sort of thing, you know, ma'am, if you will give me leave either to be in your dressing-room or in my own bedroom upstairs."

"You really would prefer this, Margery?" said Mrs. Beach, looking at her attendant's frank, sweet young face, and thinking what an honest, straightforward girl she seemed.

"Of course I should, ma'am, very much. I should always be safe then, and no one would interfere with me."

"Then I will arrange it so," replied Mrs. Beach. "Meanwhile, go and fetch your work, my girl, and sit here for an hour. It is nearly time for Miss Mabel to go for her ride, and I shall be glad to have you with me."

Down went Margie to fetch her sewing, and there, ensconced on the sofa in her workroom, she found Nicholas Beach and Mabel Raye. The young lady's face was flushed, her black eyes blazed, while Nicholas too looked angry, though somewhat more sober than when he had first entered the room.

"So here you are, my dear!" said the young man, addressing Margie familiarly as she came in. "I thought I'd lost you when you went off in such a temper. Glad you've come back."

"For goodness sake be quiet, Nick!" hissed Mabel, more and more enraged. "As if that girl wasn't vain and brazen enough already, without any more of your compliments."

But Margie went on calmly gathering together her things, and taking apparently no notice of either of the usurpers of her domain.

"The girl's done nothing," replied Nicholas, in his turn speaking angrily. "Only, Mab, you're so mightily jealous that if I look at a woman, you're down on me. And I'll not stand it, I tell you, Mab, I won't."

"Hush, for goodness' sake hold your tongue—at least while that creature is here," said Mabel excitedly. "We don't want to discuss our private affairs with kitchen folks."

This was said with such gratuitous spite and unnecessary insult that it struck Margie ludicrously, and she could not help smiling. Had she not been a lady, with a lady's instincts, intuitions, and gifts, such a speech would have galled her pride to the quick. As it was, however, it was such a silly, causeless exhibition of malice, and seemed, to sensible Margie, so unreasonable and childish that she was only amused.

"That's a bit too bad!" said Nicholas. "Anybody can see she's not one of the usual sort. Why, Mab, where are your eyes? Look at her hands and feet. She mayn't be tip-top, but she's not common."

But this kind of personal criticism, as if she had been goods and chattels, or a horse or dog whose points must be noted and described, was too much for Margie. Colouring deeply, she hastily gathered all her things together and hurried out of the room.

"Now we're alone, you might apologise, I think, for being so rude to me," suggested Mabel. "For people who are as good as engaged, I must say we behave queerly; or, at least, you do. I've a good mind to break with you for good and all."

"Well, do, and get done with it," said Nicholas savagely. "I'm sick of having it held over me as a threat. If you're so precious jealous now, what would you be if we were married?"

"Oh, Nick dear!" said Mabel, her voice trembling, her eyes filling with tears. "If I did not care so much for you, I should not be so jealous. But when we once really belong to each other, I shall be quite happy."

"Don't count your chickens before they are hatched, Mab," said the young man almost brutally. "I tell you frankly that unless you come into that money, I can't afford to marry you, and must look out for a girl—another girl—with money."

Mabel gave a little impatient stamp of her foot on the floor. "It's too bad," she said angrily; "that tiresome creature, Clara, crippled and helpless, unable to enjoy life or to do anything, and yet she's got all the money, and I nothing till she dies. It is a shame!"

"Could you not persuade her to give you the money now instead of leaving it to you?" suggested the young man. "She could keep enough for all she wanted, and hand over the rest of the property to you, surely."

"Of course she could, if she would," replied Mabel; "but she does not like me, and—"

"Well, I am not surprised at that," said Nicholas frankly; "you've never behaved like a sister to her, so it is hardly strange she does not care much about you. Nobody can be much more horrid than you when you choose, Mab."

"And nobody nicer, too!" and the girl leaned towards him, a real love-light in those glorious eyes of hers. "Oh, Nick, say that nobody can be nicer than your madcap Mab!"

The young man laughed, and patted her cheek, as he might have done the head of a dog. "You can be nice if you choose," said he, with tardy, reluctant praise. "The worst of it is that when you're horrid you're so very nasty, and when you're nice, you're so altogether too luscious;" and he ended in a grimace.

Meanwhile, as Margie was sitting in Mrs. Beach's room, the door opened, and a woman entered, dressed in the uniform of a professional nurse, with white apron and cap. Margie had often seen her in the house, meeting her on the stairs, and exchanging greetings with her sometimes when they happened to encounter each other in the long corridor. For this passage, passing outside Margie's room, ran by the head of the staircase to the east wing of the house. Margie had never been in the east wing, but she understood from the servants that the rooms there on the third floor were given up to an invalid relative of Mrs. Beach and her nurse. Sometimes Mrs. Beach paid the invalid a visit; but very few of the others seemed to take much notice of the poor creature who spent her life in those rooms. Once or twice a week the doctor called, but hardly any one else entered the east wing, unless Mabel Raye's one visit of five minutes about thrice in the year could be counted.

"Miss Clara wants a book from the library, ma'am," replied nurse, "and wishes me to go and get it, and take a bit of a walk besides, as I've not been out for several days. But she's not very well, ma'am, and I don't feel as if I could leave her alone, so I came to ask you if you'd please arrange for some one to sit in the room while I'm away. I won't be gone over an hour, ma'am."

Mrs. Beach turned to Margie. "Will you go, Margery?" she said. "My poor afflicted niece, Miss Mabel's half-sister, is a stranger to you as yet, I suppose; but you won't mind that, will you?"

"Do so, then, at once," said Mrs. Beach. "Take her with you, nurse, and introduce her to Miss Clara before you go out."

So Margie followed the nurse down the long passage, and into a light, spacious room furnished with every comfort and luxury.

In a bed with its head turned towards the window, so that the light would be behind the invalid, lay the poor cripple, the half-sister of the beautiful Mabel Raye.

Clara was said to be as much like her fair Swedish mother as Mabel resembled the dark Creole, and no contrast could well be greater than that between the two half-sisters.

So thought Margie as she approached the bed, and stood there by the nurse's side.

"Mrs. Beach has sent Margery Grayling, her own special attendant, Miss Clara, to stay with you while I am away, and I'm sure she will take good care of you," said the nurse.

Clara Raye opened her great blue eyes and fixed them upon Margie's face so intently that the girl flushed, and dropped her own; but she lifted them again as a low, sweet-toned voice said, "Yes, nurse, now I see her, I am quite sure she will. Please thank my aunt for sending her to me;" and she put out a hand of welcome and greeting to the newcomer.

Margie took the slender white hand, and, touched by the expression of the lovely, fair, smiling face on the pillow, and the look of suffering in the heavy eyelids and on the sensitive mouth, the tears came into her eyes, and stooping she raised the hand to her lips.

Then the blue eyes met the grey ones frankly, and a flash of sympathy and understanding passed between them.

"You are the first person in this house who has found me out," replied Margie, flushing again, but smiling through her tears; "still, it is true."

And Margie, quite openly, told her the whole history, from beginning to end, including the description of all her sisters and of her brother, and speaking, too, of Fay's engagement to the best man in the whole world, as she called Harry Mayne.

Clara listened intently, her responsive face changing constantly in expression. And as Margie wound up by saying cheerfully, "So here I am, you see, in my servant's cap and apron, and not in the least ashamed of them."

Clara put up a hand, drew the brave, bright face down to her, kissed it, and said, "I think you're one of the noblest girls I ever saw, Margery Grayling, and you're just the sort of friend I've been wanting and praying to God for all my life. And now He has sent me the desire of my heart."

After Mabel Raye's scornful treatment of her, and Nicholas Beach's insulting familiarity, the sweet words fell like dew upon the parched ground, and poor Margie could only weep for sheer thankfulness and joy at having so unexpectedly found a friend.

So that, when nurse came home, she found her substitute and the patient left in her charge both enjoying themselves so much that she vowed—not being of a jealous disposition—that Margery Grayling was better than any doctor.

Margie was very much happier after this visit to Clara. It was not only in the fact that she had found a friend that she rejoiced. She was conscious of a bond of union closer than this between the patient sufferer and herself. The comprehending sympathy was much to her, and this the invalid had given her unstintingly out of an overflowing heart, but more precious to Margie than even sympathy was the knowledge that this new friend of hers was one of God's own children, bearing with uncomplaining patience the heavy burden laid upon her, and carrying her cross of pain and weakness with cheerful willingness in the steps of Him whose footprints marked the way to Calvary.

And now Margie thankfully realised that here, in this new-found friend, was one whose spiritual experience was greater than her own, and that to this friend she could go for advice and help in difficulty. For Margery Grayling, though a true and humble follower of her Lord, was as yet but a young disciple, and she gladly and thankfully welcomed—in the promise of frequent intercourse with Clara Raye—the opportunity of gaining further insight into the things of God's everlasting kingdom of truth and righteousness.

CHAPTER III.

MARGIE had letters from home regularly every week, and was eager for the news as any schoolgirl, and of late there had been several matters of more importance than usual.

At Monkston Manor there had been a very gay time indeed, for the house had been full of staying company, and all sorts of parties were given by way of entertainment. To these parties, of course, the Graylings were all and always invited, and Fay especially wrote in raptures of the "lovely time" they were having.

Lettie wrote too, and she mentioned something that Fay had carefully omitted, namely, that Howard Logan, a nephew of Sir Peter, a very good-looking but reckless and headstrong young fellow of about three-and-twenty, was apparently much smitten with Fay's youthful charms, and was paying her a good deal of attention, which flattered the young lady not a little.

"There's no harm in having a little fun if one is engaged," Fay was reported to have said. Harry was far away. It could not hurt him, and she would only just amuse herself a wee bit. Untrue to Harry of course she could never, near be; but she would seem silly, indeed, to shut herself up and have no pleasures just because she was engaged to be married. Harry surely could not be so exacting as to wish it.

So she amused herself very well with Howard Logan; so well, indeed, that her engagement to him was commonly reported. It was not true, of course, but there was little doubt in Margie's mind that her young sister had behaved very wrongly towards both men who loved her; and for Harry's sake especially—good, true-hearted, dear Harry—she felt indignant, and wrote Fay a warm letter of protest, receiving in reply a note which briefly told her to mind her own business and not meddle.

As for Mattie, she was in her element at Monkston Manor. Her talent for organising and managing, for arranging and entertaining, made her an ideal housekeeper, and the handsome salary Sir Peter gave her, enabled her to dress as became the lady hostess. Indeed, Lettie wrote that when Mattie was dressed for the evening, and had a nice colour in her cheeks, she was almost handsome.

Margie was glad to think that her old suitor, Sir Peter, had become, at last, aware of the hopelessness of his wishes to obtain her (Margie) for his bride; and she hoped that, seeing how remarkably well Mattie did the honours of his home, how reliable and high-principled she was, and how she seemed to have fallen, quite naturally and easily, into her position of lady of the house, Sir Peter would transfer his affections to the elder sister, who was more suited to him in years, and who really would make in many ways as good a wife to an old man as he could desire.

Altogether, home affairs seemed to be in a satisfactory condition, except as regarded Fay, and Fay would allow nobody to say a word to her, and showed herself in a new character—one which hitherto had been quite unsuspected by any one. Margie had always told herself that she loved Harry Mayne as a dear brother, and she felt that she was well within her duties and privileges as sister, if she strongly resented his being badly treated by any one. She felt as if somehow she were responsible for Fay's good faith, and she was bitterly ashamed that the girl whom Harry loved, and who had confessed her love for him in return, should be suspected—with more or less reason—of disloyalty to one so whole-hearted and true as Harry.

Poor Margie's heart, very full of grief and indignation for Harry's sake, must have shown itself in her face one day when she took a message from Mrs. Beach to the invalid, Clara Raye, between whom and herself a warm friendship had sprung up.

"Margery clear," said Clara, "you are in trouble of some sort; I see it in your heavy eyelids and those lines about your mouth, which make even your smile a sad one. Can I help you at all? Is there nothing I can do? I am such a poor thing, and so debarred from most means of usefulness, that it would be conferring a favour upon me, if you could let me serve you. Is it a case in which money would be of any service, Margery dear?"

Margie shook her head. "No, thank you, Miss Clara," she replied. "It has nothing to do with money. But I am puzzled to know what to do for the best, or whether I ought to do and say nothing."

CHAPTER IV.

NURSE was gone, and Margie fairly established in her place, yet managing to do a great deal besides caring for the invalid. There was not an atom of selfishness or anything that was exacting in Clara Raye's nature.

All that there was of these qualities and of jealousy had gone to mar the character of Mabel, who had never known the restraining power of religion in her own experience, the fear of God, which purifies the life; the love of Jesus, which intensifies and makes more true, more abiding, all worthy love; the vivifying influence of the Holy Spirit, at once the Convincer, the Awakener, and the Comforter of the human life that has learned the great secret of the life to come.

There was thus nothing to control the strong passions inherited from that beautiful Creole mother of hers; no steady motive to hold in check the many headlong impulses and wild ideas which seemed sometimes to take possession of this undisciplined nature, as we read the demons did of those unhappy sufferers in the olden times. And, unfortunately for Mabel, Nicholas had begun to tire and sicken of her intensity. The man's nature was fickle, changeable, incapable of any steady or faithful love; and the fierce and exacting fidelity of this girl wearied him till he could no longer hide from her his distaste alike of her passionate endearments and her equally passionate suspicions and accusations. And she, on her side, laid the whole blame of what she called this change in him upon his fancy—or supposed fancy—for Margery Grayling.

As for Margie, now that her work was all upstairs, she and Nicholas seldom met. Much of her time was spent in the east wing, where no one else went, except at rare intervals. And whenever Clara could spare her, she returned for a while to the old lady; and yet, in spite of this, Mabel's unreasoning jealousy invented all sorts of imaginary circumstances connecting together the objects of her love and hate—both love and bate bordering upon madness in their intensity.

"You're getting to care less and less for me," sobbed Mabel one evening, when she had gone down to say good-night to Nicholas, and found him alone in the library. "And I know why it is. I'd like to kill that girl, I would!"

"That detestable little minx upstairs," replied Mabel, with vindictive emphasis.

"If you mean Margery Grayling, I never see her nowadays," said Nicholas lazily. "More's the pity, for it's refreshing now and again to meet a modest lass who doesn't throw herself at a man's head, but gives him 'what-for' when he tries it on with her. I shall never forget," he went on, with more enthusiasm than one might have expected from him, "how fine she looked that day in her workroom, when she told me to get out, and I wouldn't. I tell you, Mab, I couldn't help thinking that a girl with that proper pride and dignity about her would be worth winning, however hard to be won she might be. A man values what he has to work for."

Nicholas Beach was smoking while he talked, puffing curling wreaths between the sentences, and dreamily watching them as they dispersed. Had he been looking at Mab's handsome face, he would have seen the very spirit of hate and menace flashing out from the depths of her glorious eyes and setting in hard lines the curves of that beautiful red mouth. But she made no reply; nor did she offer to kiss him as she said good-night, but merely gave him a nod as cool as his own, ere she went upstairs.

Margery slept in a little room leading out of Clara's, so her own bedchamber—used also as a workroom—was now left unoccupied, and there was no one on the same storey with Mabel, except the occupants of the distant east wing.

For a while that night, Mabel sat on the side of her bed thinking. At first her feelings were too chaotic and stormy for her thoughts to shape any definite plan.

"If I could kill that girl, I would!" she said to herself; but she knew that, strong and murderous though her hate might be, to wreak it thus would only be to separate herself from Nicholas for ever. "I can't kill her, so she must go," she said. "She must go away from this place, and with such a stain on her character that Nick will never think of her again, unless with disgust. But how am I to get her off?—That's the point! They're all so insanely fond of her. There must be very clear proof that she is unprincipled, or Aunt and Clara will never part with her."

At last, with a start, her resolution was taken. She went to her dressing-table, and, opening her jewel-case, took out a handsome diamond ring. This she wrapped up in a bit of tissue paper, and taking the little parcel in her hand, she walked across the corridor to Margie's room, which was empty now, and the door standing open.

Mabel stole in. There was light enough, from a lamp outside, to see things pretty clearly. Close by the window, opposite to the door, was Margie's table with her work-box, her little writing-desk, and a pile of sewing and mending neatly folded up, beside it. Mabel stole across the floor, looking about her in a furtive, stealthy way, till she spied the desk on the table. She opened this, slipped the tiny parcel into a corner, under a packet of envelopes, where it was quite hidden, and softly shut the lid of the desk. Then, all of a sudden, the demon of jealousy seized her again, and she began wondering whether there had not, perhaps, been some secret correspondence between Margie and Nicholas.

In the little letter-stand near was a bundle of letters tied up with ribbon. She was about to put this into her pocket to take away and examine, when she fancied she heard a slight sound, which might have been the closing of some door, and, fearful of being discovered, Mabel replaced the letters, stole out, and, after a long look up and down the corridor, she returned to her own room, closed and locked her door, and proceeded to undress, well satisfied that at all events her principal object was attained.

But the best laid plans are often defeated by what we are accustomed to call an accident, forgetting that in the universe of the Almighty's plans, accidents and things of chance have no place. That night Clara turned faint, as she sometimes did after a day of unusual pain, and Margie, finding the eau de Cologne bottle empty, remembered that there was one half full on her own dressing-table. Knowing that Mabel occupied the only other chamber opening on the corridor, and fearing to disturb her in her slumber, Margie trod the passage very softly on tiptoe, and was just about to enter her own room, when she saw, outlined against the light from the window, the tall form of Mabel Raye, with one hand holding up the lid of the desk, while with the other she slipped the packet into it.

Margie had seen enough, and she must now get away quickly, lest the plotter should spy her; but she resolved to return presently and see what new wickedness Mabel had been planning against her, for well the girl knew what a malignant enemy she had in Mabel Raye. She watched in the dark corner at the east wing end of the passage till Mabel had been a minute or two in her chamber; then she fetched the eau de Cologne, and when Clara was better, and had fallen asleep, she lighted a candle, and went softly back to her own room, and straight up to the table. She opened the desk, and after a little search—with the faint hope that she should find nothing, and that perhaps Mabel had only been wanting a sheet of paper or a pen—she suddenly came upon the little parcel, and, opening it, discovered the ring.

The whole diabolical wickedness of the plot came upon and appalled her. What could she do? She must not tell Clara; the invalid would not sleep a wink after such a story as this. And yet some one must know, and know before morning, or she would find herself involved in the web that had been spun for her, and be deprived of all defence. At last she remembered that Mrs. Beach never went to sleep till very late at night, and that it was her habit to read in bed by the light of a specially contrived lamp. Margie's resolve was taken. She first returned to Clara, and found that she was peacefully sleeping under the influence of a soothing draught which had been administered. The patient was not likely to wake, and might safely be left for a few minutes.

Down went Margie with the ring in her hand, and softly knocked at Mrs. Beach's door.

"Come in," called the old lady, and in walked Margie, and came near to the bed, having first carefully closed the door behind her.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, ma'am," said the girl, "but I have just found out something accidentally which might, had I not discovered it, have ruined my character and driven me away from here in disgrace."

"My dear girl," said the old lady, "you surprise me! What has happened? Tell me exactly, and keep back nothing."

"You know, ma'am, that Miss Mabel has always from the first disliked me; every one in the house has seen this, and of late, the dislike has, I fear, grown to hatred."

Then Margie related how she had seen Mabel putting something into her desk, and had afterwards found the ring.

"But what is to be done?" said the good old lady, much distressed. "I can hardly believe, Margery, that my niece could do such a thing as make a false accusation against you."

"Well, ma'am, I wish and pray that you may be right," replied the girl. "But, to prove it, may I propose something?"

"Certainly, Margery. You have been a dear, good girl ever since you came to me, and you shall not have your character taken away in my house, if I can help it."

The grateful tears rushed into Margie's eyes, and she kissed the kind old hand that was outstretched to her.

"If, ma'am, you will be so good as to lock up this ring in your own jewel-case, and not say one word to any one, I shall be much obliged," said Margie, as soon as she could command her voice; "then it will soon be seen what Miss Mabel intended. If she says, to-morrow or the next day, that she has lost her ring, and accuses me of stealing it, and insists upon a search being made, and in the search includes my little writing-desk, that will be unmistakable proof, will it not?"

"Alas, yes, Margery, it will!" sighed the old lady. "God grant it may not come to that!"

Then Margie gave Mrs. Beach her jewel-case and her keys, and the ring was put away safely; after which the girl thanked her mistress, said good-night, and went back to Clara's room.

CHAPTER V.

THERE was a strange light of malignant triumph in Mabel's dark eyes the next morning, and Nicholas, looking at her as she sat opposite him at breakfast, noticed the expression of her face, though he would not pay her the compliment of mentioning that he saw anything unusual.

"What do you think, Nick?" said she presently. "I've lost my best diamond ring."

"Nothing of the kind," said Mabel shortly. "I only left it out on my toilet-table while I washed my hands before dressing for dinner yesterday, and, forgetting to put it on again, thought no more about it till this morning; but I've been hunting for it high and low since I got up, and it's not be found."

"What can have become of it?" said Nicholas, helping himself to marmalade. "It can't have really gone, you know; the servants are all honest."

"The old ones are, I daresay," rejoined Mabel; "but, to tell you the truth, Nick, I have something more than a suspicion of how my ring has gone, and of who has taken it, too."

"Dear me! Really?" said Nicholas indifferently. "Give me some more coffee, Mab, will you?"

"You don't care a little bit for my annoyance and vexation, Nick," said Mabel. "If you truly loved me, you—"

Nicholas made a gesture of angry impatience, which nipped her tirade in the bud, and she stopped short.

"I have had all that so often before, Mab," said he wearily, "that I confess I am sick of it. I'm sorry you have lost your ring—that is, if it is lost, which I doubt. But one ring more or less won't matter to you;" and he glanced somewhat contemptuously at the white hands, which were too heavily jewelled for those of a young girl.

For the rest of the meal, Mabel was silent,—"in the sulks," Nicholas called it; and he was not sorry, for her conversation provoked him nearly always nowadays, and any mood was better than a talkative one.

"Such a misfortune, auntie!" said Mabel, when she went to Mrs. Beach's room after breakfast.

The old lady was not yet up, and her eyes were very heavy as though she had slept but little.

"Indeed, Mabel?" replied Mrs. Beach; but an expression came into her kind old face which the girl must have noticed had she not been so busy thinking of that plausible lie and the false witness it was to bear.

"Yes, auntie. I have lost that beautiful ring of brilliants that was mother's. You remember it, don't you? It was on my dressing-table—of that I am confident—before I went down to dinner."

"Was it there when you went to your room for the night?" questioned Mrs. Beach, with a trembling voice.

"I never thought of it again," answered Mabel, with the glibness born of the previous narration of the story to Nicholas; "but if it had been where I left it, of course I should have seen it."

"Yes; I have hunted all over my room, in every hole and corner, but unsuccessfully. I am afraid, auntie dear, there can be little doubt that we have a thief in the house."

"Surely not, Mabel. That is a dreadful thing to say. I would rather believe anything than that."

"I do not for a moment suspect the old servants; they have been here so long, and their honesty is beyond all question."

"That girl you're so fond of; that Margery Grayling, whom everybody has set up and worshipped ever since she came. I always said she was no better than she should be, and here is the proof of it."

"Of course it is; but I am sure she is the thief. She has access to all the rooms, and is upstairs so much more now, that she might do anything."

"Mabel," said Mrs. Beach, "whatever you may think, I cannot suspect that girl. I have found her so scrupulously straightforward and truthful, so high-principled and pure-minded, that unless I had overwhelming proof of her guilt, I should not believe it."

The old lady was eyeing her steadily, and somehow she did not feel quite comfortable. "What if you do find proof?" she said, somewhat constrainedly.

"Well, I propose a search in her room, and if we find the ring there, will you promise to dismiss her? That is all I shall ask."

"No; that sort of publicity is so uncomfortable for other people," replied Mabel.

Mrs. Beach rang the bell, and when it was answered by the housemaid, she said, "Send Margery Grayling to me, if Miss Raye can spare her for a few minutes."

Mabel was just going to leave the room, but her aunt said, "Don't go, Mabel. You have been laying this sin to the girl's charge; now you must accuse her to her face. It is only fair to Margery."

"You have more consideration for that shameless creature than for your own niece," said Mabel angrily.

But Mrs. Beach made no answer to this, and after a few minutes' silence, Margie entered.

"Good morning, Margery," said her mistress kindly. "Miss Mabel tells me she misses a diamond ring, and as the rest of the household have been with us so long as to be quite above suspicion, her fear is that you may perhaps have been tempted into taking it."

"I have not taken the ring," replied Margie quietly. "I am incapable of doing such a thing."

"So you say," put in Mabel spitefully; "but people who can steal, can generally lie too."

The hot, indignant blood surged into poor Margie's face, and she looked appealingly at her mistress.

"Mabel," said the old lady sternly, "I cannot have you speak thus to any one in my house. And until you have proved, to my entire satisfaction, that Margery is guilty of this crime, you will please be good enough to treat her as the innocent girl I believe her to be."

"She has befooled every one in this house except myself," cried Mabel; "but I am not so easily deceived. I demand that her room shall be searched, every possible hole and corner looked into, and I will abide by the result."

"I ask that you should dismiss, without a character, any one who is proved guilty."

"Be it so," rejoined Mrs. Beach solemnly. "I myself will superintend the search, so that it may be done with fairness."

"But meanwhile Margery must not be allowed to return to her room," said Mabel excitedly.

"Margery has no wish to return to her room until we have quite done with it," replied Mrs. Beach. "But if you are afraid, Mabel, go with Margery now, lock her door, and bring me the key."

CHAPTER VI.

WITHOUT a word, Mabel left the room, followed by Margie, and in a minute more, Mrs. Beach was in possession of the key.

"Now go away and send my maid to help me to dress," said the old lady, "and in an hour's time, we will go together and make a thorough search of Margery's room."

With a triumphant glance at Margie, Mabel went downstairs, and found Nicholas in the smoking-room.

"Well, Nick," she said, "that young and lovely attendant of your mother's will be sent packing to-day, I fully expect."

"I hope not," returned Nicholas stoutly. "Mother and Clara would be lost without her."

"They'd get over it fast enough," said Mabel scornfully. "And do you know, Nick, she is getting round Clara so fast, now nurse is not here, that I should not be surprised, if she left her money to Margery Grayling instead of to me, and then goodness knows if we should ever be married."

"I do mean it, Mab. I wouldn't marry you now, not if you'd a million sterling. I have been some time coming to this, but now my mind is quite made up. Now, no tears and reproaches, please. Nothing will change me."

What Mabel might have said in reply was prevented, much to the relief of the young man, by the entrance of a servant to say that Mrs. Beach was ready for Miss Mabel, and with a heart torn between wounded love and triumphant hate, the girl went up to join in, or rather to lead, the search. That this would be thorough and exhaustive Mrs. Beach would have taken care, even had Mabel been less eager; but the work-box and writing-desk were left to the last, Mabel fearing to call attention to the latter herself.

"Now," said the old lady at last, "we have just about completed our search, I think. No thief would dream of putting a jewel of value into such an absurd place as an unlocked work-box or writing-desk, so suppose we leave this room now and go to the others?"

"Nonsense!" cried Mabel. "That desk is the very place for it. Let me look!" And with an eager assurance which she was not self-controlled enough to hide, she opened the desk, took out the packet of envelopes under which she had hidden the ring, and in her chagrin and amazement, committed herself in the involuntary sentence: "Good heavens! Why, the thing's gone!"

Then, suddenly realising what, in her excitement and disappointment, she had said, she looked up, met the accusing eyes of her good old aunt and the clear full gaze of Margie's grey eyes, and dropped her own.

"If you want to find your ring, Mabel, you must look for it, not in Margery's room, but in my jewel-case, where it now lies. You were seen last night hiding it in that desk, where you alone had any motive in looking for it to-day. God forgive you for your evil thought and deed against this poor innocent girl!"

Mabel said not a word. With her proud head drooping, she went to her own room, and stayed there all day. The maid who took up her meals said she appeared to be packing her things. And so it proved. The next day she went out early, without saying good-bye to any one, but when she was gone, the maids reported to Mrs. Beach that several boxes were there all ready packed and locked, and they brought a note addressed to her aunt in Mabel's writing.

"DEAR AUNT,—When you got this, I shall have gone, never to return. Nick has given me up, and so, after all, I have sinned in vain. I thought he was in love with Margery, and I was determined to get her dismissed. But all is of no use. The fates are against me. Charles and Marion Digby have promised to include me in a theatrical touring company, and as you know I can act, sing, and dance, I may get on in time. Anyway, I shall never trouble you or yours again.

"MABEL RAYE."

Margie would perhaps have fretted more over the unhappy events just recorded had not her attention been distracted by two important pieces of news that reached her the same day.

One letter was from Mattie, who wrote in great grief, saying that things had suddenly come to a climax respecting Fay and Howard Logan. The girl had gone on amusing herself by encouraging him, until her own affections had become involved, and as the young man was really attached to her, Fay decided to give up Harry Mayne, whom she declared she had never loved as much as he loved her. Sir Peter Brooks on his side, and Mrs. Grayling on hers, did all they could to break off the intimacy between the young people; but the matter was decided by Fay and Howard running away together and being married at a registrar's office, much to the consternation of the families on both sides.

The second communication was from Harry himself. He wrote in very low spirits, saying that his letters to Fay had of late not been answered, or that when now and again she sent him a line, it was cold and constrained and wholly unlike the earlier correspondence. From a mutual acquaintance, too, he had heard that she had become very intimate with a nephew of Sir Peter, and that it was thought an engagement between the two young people, if not already actually existing, was imminent.

"I write to you, dear Margie, because I know that from you I shall always get the truth and nothing else. Also I have had the feeling that you cared for me more than the rest of the girls did, and that you will feel for and with me in this great sorrow. Write to me, dear sister that was to be, tell me all there is to tell; but if Fay has made her own deliberate choice between Logan and me, and loves him best, I have nothing to say. Let the child be happy in her own way, and God bless them both, say I.

"And as for you, dear, whose continued and steadfast affection I am somehow strangely counting on, as the one sweet thing left in my lonely life, do not grieve unduly for my sake. I have learned to see God's wisdom in all things, and to accept them as a child accepts all from his father's hand, whether good gifts or needful chastisement. Think of me and pray for me, my dear, that this sorrow may be sanctified to me, and make me better fitted for any work that the Master has yet for me to do.—Your loving brother that was to be, HARRY."

This letter, full of grief and yet of loving confidence, went straight to Margie's heart. Somehow as she read, over and over again, Harry's words of affection, and felt that he was counting on her love in return—sisterly, perhaps, but still love—some sudden awakening thrilled her with joy, and made known to her a truth at which she had not even so much as guessed before. She knew now that she—Margery Grayling—loved Harry Mayne as a woman loves but once in her life; she felt now, in looking back, that she had always loved him; and though, when he had shown a preference for Fay, she had resolutely determined not to think about her sister's betrothed, the love had lain dormant, not dead, ready to start up into new life at any time.

In spite of all that had happened to sadden her during the last day or two, her face was radiant when she went back to Clara after receiving and reading her letter.

"I suppose I am very silly, Miss Clara," she said, "but I have a letter from Harry this morning, and—"

"Was engaged to her," corrected Margie. "She has just married some one else, and, of course, he is very sad; but—"

"I did not know, I only guessed; and as I long ago guessed that you cared a great deal for this same Harry, nothing now would surprise me."

"I feel as though I were getting beyond surprises too," replied Margie; "for, from the greatest distress, I seem to have jumped into happiness, though quite how and why, I don't think I can explain even to myself."

Clara only smiled, however, for what Margie could not explain was plain enough to her.

CHAPTER VII.

SOON after Mabel Raye went away, Nicholas Beach set out on a Continental tour, and now, rid of the only discordant elements, the house was so quiet, so peacefully, harmoniously happy, that Margie felt almost as though she could have stayed there always—but for Harry's ship coming home some day.

Nurse came back a week after the departure of Nicholas, so Margie returned to her former duties and waited again on Mrs. Beach, more contented and at rest than she had been for long enough.

And so, quietly and restfully, after all the anxieties, time passed swiftly on, until Margie had been in Mrs. Beach's employment just a year. During the last month or two, Howard and Fay Logan, both supremely happy apparently, had called to see Margie, and Fay in her pretty clothes, and with the half-shyness of the bride hardly gone, looked so childlike and irresponsible that Margie could not find it in her heart to blame her. Fay was too light, too shallow, to have loved Harry as he deserved to be loved, and somehow Margie could easily forgive her; but how or why so easily, she did not stop to ask herself.

Meanwhile nothing was heard of Mabel Raye, except that once Clara found in a newspaper, a brief notice of a young actress in Mr. Charles Digby's touring company, who called herself Miss Mirabelle Maye, and who seemed to have become quite popular. The description of the new actress's appearance left no doubt as to her identity in the minds of those who knew every feature of her beautiful face, every line of that haughty and queenly form.

Poor Mrs. Beach wept bitterly when she read the notice. The ingratitude of this girl whom she had brought up from a baby was sharper pain than the bite of a serpent's tooth, and it seemed hard indeed that her only tidings of Mabel should have come thus casually through a newspaper.

Tenderly and regretfully, though with many tears, Mrs. Beach and Clara thought of and prayed for the wilful girl, though hardly daring to hope that their prodigal would come home to them at last.

It is a strange fact, even among habitually prayerful and devout Christians, that they are generally much surprised when their prayers are answered. So few of us have faith enough to believe that God can and will grant us anything and everything that is good for us. And although the aunt and half-sister prayed earnestly for their truant's return, it could hardly be said that they expected it, and indeed they often spoke of her as of one really lost to them.

But one day there came a telegram which seemed to break with startling suddenness the long silence. It ran thus:—

But could this thin, white-faced woman, with dim, hollow eyes and a careworn stoop in her shoulders, be indeed the splendid girl who, in all the pride of her beauty, had gone from them only so short a time before?

This was the question that Margie mutely asked herself when Mabel stepped from the cab and with faltering feet once more crossed the threshold of the home where she had spent most of her life. But greater still was Margie's surprise when Mabel pushed open the morning-room door, and staggering across the floor, threw herself down at her aunt's feet in a passion of grief and repentance.

"Oh, auntie, auntie dear, can you ever, ever forgive me?" she cried, sobbing. "God has sent me shame and sorrow, and now—oh, now at last I know what your pain must have been—the pain you suffered through me—through my wickedness, my ingratitude! And Margery too;" for, as Mabel turned, she saw the girl standing near. "Oh, Margery, I did you a grievous wrong, and God knows I have been sorely punished. I tried to deceive, and I have been deceived. I treated you with cruelty and insult, and cruelty and insult have come to me too, but not more than I deserve."

And then followed a story of wrong done and pain suffered; a sad story, which we will give only in outline. After about three months of touring, Mabel had received an offer of marriage from an actor in the same company. The man was handsome, gentlemanly, a star in his profession, and seemed devoted to her; so she accepted his offer, and they were married after a very brief engagement. They continued with Mr. Digby until he returned to London, where he dismissed them with the rest of the company; and Mabel and her husband, Victor Cunliffe, took lodgings in one of the London suburbs, there to wait until they could obtain another engagement.

But one night Victor did not come home, and in the course of the next day or two, poor Mabel heard news of him that convinced her that she had married a false and heartless man, and that he had deserted her, leaving her penniless and alone in a strange place. And later on, through a mutual acquaintance, came the tidings that Mabel had no right to her married name, for Victor Cunliffe had a wife already in the United States, and thither he had just returned.

The sudden shock, the heavy blow of shame and grief, brought on a severe illness which kept her in hospital for weeks, and it was when she emerged from the sick ward, a mere shadow of her former self, that she sent, in her sorrow and despair, the pathetic telegram to her aunt, though she hardly expected such generous forgiveness, such a hearty welcome. But the pride and the haughtiness were all gone, gone with the beauty and the passion and the longing for the love of Nicholas Beach. Emptied of self, humbled in the dust at the remembrance of her sins, there had come in answer to her cry, "O Lord, I am a great sinner," the answer of that still, small voice of love, "Then for you Christ is a great Saviour."

By sorrow her heart had been broken, and breaking, made room for the Spirit to enter, whose coming means life eternal, for He alone can take of the things of Christ and show them unto us.

And so Mabel Raye came home, and now her presence did not disturb the peace of the household; indeed, it added greatly to the happiness, not only of Mrs. Beach, but also of Clara and Margie, and they blessed God for bringing back the wandering sheep to the fold again.

So passed another few months, and Margie—but for her great longing to see Harry, a longing which grew stronger the more its fulfilment was delayed—would have been utterly content. But the time was at hand when her reward was to be given to her, greater, fuller, sweeter than she had ever dreamed of receiving.

Margie was sitting and sewing in Mrs. Beach's room one winter evening by the light of a shaded lamp, and her mistress, who was resting on the sofa near the fire, was looking at the girl as she bent over her work. What a grave, sweet face it was, the old lady was saying to herself, and how happy, how fortunate, would the man be for whom that face lighted up with love! For Mrs. Beach had come to care for this girl almost like a daughter, and depended upon her for everything.

"A gentleman to see Miss Grayling," said the servant, with much surprise in his face and voice, for gentlemen to see Miss Grayling were not common.

"What name?" inquired Mrs. Beach; but Margie did not hear her. She was out of the room and downstairs in one moment, her heart beating wildly. And there, in the morning-room, stood a stalwart man in a rough overcoat, and with hat in hand.

He turned, and their eyes met. In Margie's, Harry saw the love-light, the thing for which he was pining, to brighten his desolate life. But in his, Margie discovered what she had not expected—such a great joy, such gladness of tender affection, that it could only mean one thing.

"Margie, Margie, I have wanted you so!" he said, as he gathered her into his embrace; and she, feeling as if all troubles must be over for life, could only murmur, "Thank God, my ship has come home, and I am rich—rich for ever."

How handsomely Mrs. Beach and Clara Raye behaved to Margie when they heard she was engaged; how their generous kindness made a speedy wedding possible; how lovely the bride looked in her simple white satin, the gift of Clara; how Lettie and the two little girls were bridesmaids; and how Sir Peter Brooks, as the husband-elect of Mattie Grayling, claimed an elder brother's privilege of giving Margie away; how Nicholas Beach sent a handsome clock as a wedding gift; and Nat Grayling was the most delightful of best men—all this we will only indicate.

Enough that Margie's ship has come home with joy and love, and that we can trust, as she does, all future voyages in the never-erring hands of the Master Pilot, knowing that all will—nay, must—be well for her both in this world and beyond, in that other, where there is no more sea.

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