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Title: Janet's boys

Author: Annette Lyster

Illustrator: W. S. Stacey

Release date: November 4, 2023 [eBook #72020]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANET'S BOYS ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

JANET AND THE BROKER. Frontispiece.

JANET'S BOYS.

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER,

AUTHOR OF

"A LEAL LIGHT HEART," "NORTH WIND AND SUNSHINE,"

"THE PIANO IN THE ATTIC," "MIDSHIPMAN ARCHIE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY.

PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE GENERAL LITERATURE

COMMITTEE.

LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.;

43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.

BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.

NEW YORK: E. S. GORHAM.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. INTRODUCTORY.

II. THE ROAD TO RUIN.

III. IN LIVERPOOL.

IV. KELMERSDALE.

V. ALL THE WAY TO GATTIGO.

VI. MRS. RAYBURN'S CAP.

VII. THE BOYS' ESCAPE.

VIII. THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

IX. IN THE NEW HOME.

X. FRANK'S MESSAGE TO "MUDDIE."

XI. MRS. RAYBURN'S LETTER.

XII. FRANK'S MESSAGE REACHES "MUDDIE."

XIII. "AS WE FORGIVE."

JANET'S BOYS.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

"FRED," said Mr. Rayburn to his only son, a well-grown handsome lad of seventeen or thereabouts, "don't you think we should be much more comfortable if we had a—if this house had a mistress?"

The speaker was a man of about sixty, but looked so fresh and hearty that one might easily have concluded him to be much younger. The room in which he and his son were sitting was a long, low one, well lighted by three bay windows all on the same side; and though not a pretty room, it used at one time to look homelike and comfortable. The room was the same, and the furniture was the same, but the comfort and the homelike look had vanished.

Ten years before the day on which Mr. Rayburn made this remark to his son, comfort had departed on the death of Mrs. Rayburn, his wife and Fred's mother.

Mr. Rayburn was the manager of Messrs. Hopper and Mason's great brewery in a town called Hemsborough, in the northern part of Staffordshire. He had filled this very responsible post for many years, inhabiting the comfortable apartments over the great gateway of the brewery. He was a very matter-of-fact man, without much sentiment about him, and on getting his good appointment he had married, choosing his wife carefully, with a view to being made comfortable and leading a peaceable life. And his quiet, docile wife had never, in all her uneventful life, had an idea beyond her simple round of womanly duties, which she did to perfection, until her only child was about six years old, when she suddenly took a severe illness and died in a few days. They had been married for many years before Fred was born, and Mr. Rayburn had no idea how to manage the child; so he sent him to school, and got on alone as best he could. Presently the servant trained by his wife married, and another came in her place, not trained by his wife, or, indeed, by any one else.

Still, the poor man existed somehow, nor did any idea of a change suggest itself to him until Fred left school, and got a clerkship in the counting-house, living of course with his father. Judith Ames, the servant, greatly resented the additional trouble thus given her: particularly was she annoyed because Fred, instead of falling into the regular round of habits which his father had adopted, and which made him "such a quiet, dependable master, for what he did one day, he did every day, and so a body knew where to have him." Instead of copying his worthy father in this, Fred ran up and down the stone stairs by which the "Gatehouse" was reached, about a dozen times every evening, and always unexpectedly. Also, he played football and cricket, according to the season; he took long walks, coming home muddy and hungry, giving endless trouble, and demanding food at inconvenient times.

Moreover, he did what his father never did. He popped into the kitchen, surprising Judith and some friends at tea, using the best china and partaking of a much daintier meal than ever found its way into the master's parlour. Fred told his father that Judith was cheating him; he complained of her dirty, untidy ways and her bad cooking, and poor Mr. Rayburn, who had long ceased to be comfortable, now found the other desire of his heart out of the question, for to live at peace was impossible to one member of a family of three when the other two were always quarrelling.

To be the son of two such prosaic people as Mr. Rayburn and his wife, Fred was rather a surprise. He was fond of poetry—even wrote something which he called by that name; he was fond of music, and played the flute a little. But quite enough too. He wished to have everything nice about him, but did not wish to take any trouble about it. He did his work as a clerk fairly well, but he did not like it, nor throw himself into it; he would have preferred to be a great painter, or a great singer, or author, or a traveller—anything, in fact, "with a little mind in it," he said to himself; and many of his poems were addressed to his mind, with which he condoled in pathetic terms. Meantime, on the whole, he enjoyed life very well; but he certainly wished Judith far away pretty frequently.

On this very day on which Mr. Rayburn asked the question about a mistress for the house, Fred and Judith had had a "row-royal" about his boots—his best, beautiful new boots, which he had not used for some days, and which he had found in the kitchen, uncleaned, and with the frying-pan standing on their toes! And the dinner had been half done, and, in fact, nothing was as it ought to be.

Now, to return to the conversation begun after dinner by Mr. Rayburn.

Fred started, and turned round to look at his father. He had been engaged in writing the word "dust" in bold, legible letters on the looking-glass over the mantelshelf, but he left the "t" uncrossed, shook the dust off his finger, and stared at his father, getting very red.

"Why, of course. Why, yes, father, I suppose we should. But I'm rather young yet, don't you think?"

"What has your age to do with it, my boy?"

"Why, of course my—that is, when I get married some day or other, the house will have a mistress, you know."

Mr. Rayburn laughed.

"I'm afraid we can't wait for that, Fred. I would part with Judith and try some one else, but that I have no hope that any servant will make us comfortable unless we went to far more trouble than I'm inclined to take. My work is quite enough for me. No, I thought of marrying myself."

Fred looked thoughtful.

"I declare, sir," said he presently, "it might be a very good plan."

"There's only one objection against it, Fred. I can make no provision for my wife in case she survives me; or at least only a very small one. Your mother's money—a few hundreds—is settled on you, and the little I have saved ought to go to you too. For, you see, you may not get my situation when I am gone, and in that case you'll want a little capital; for you'll hardly go on as a mere clerk all your life. But if I state all this honestly to the lady I have in my mind, I think she would be reasonable. She is poor, and I suspect would gladly have a house of her own."

"Who is it, father?"

"I don't think you know her, but you must have seen her in church. She is sister to my old friend James Thompson, with whom I go to play backgammon every Saturday night. Her mother was Lord Beaucourt's housekeeper, and the old lady died last year, so Miss Thompson came to live with her brother. But Thompson has a houseful of young people, and I fancy Miss Lydia might not be sorry to make a change. So it might be a mutual convenience."

Fred gave his consent very graciously, expressing at the same time a great longing to see Judith's face when the possible affliction in store for her was first announced to her. Had he but known it, he might have had that treat at once; he had only to open the door, at which the excellent Judith was listening. Something in her master's manner when he came in upon the scene about the boots had given her a fright, and she was anxious to find out if she had anything worse to fear than a severe scolding. She heard all! And tottering back to the kitchen, which, contrary to the general habits of kitchens, was at the top of the house, she sank upon a chair and began to sob.

"And such a servant as I've been to him," she moaned faintly, "such a servant!"

Then she felt that she was an ill-used woman, and clenching her hand—a good big hand she had, too—she said aloud—

"Miss Lydia Thompson! Miss, forsooth! Her mother wasn't a bit better than myself, though she wears black silk and I know my place! But wait a bit, Miss Lydia Thompson; you're not Mrs. Rayburn yet, nor shall be if I can help it."

She sat meditating various ways of putting an end to the courtship, which, I may remark, was not yet begun. Miss Lydia had as yet no idea of the promotion that lay within her reach. But Judith was no witch, and she could devise no better plan than to amend her ways, give fewer tea-parties, cook the dinners decently, and dust the furniture; nay, she even determined to polish Fred's boots.

But, alas! She was too late, even if she could have pulled herself together, which I doubt; for she had fallen into very lazy, slovenly habits. But she never had the opportunity. Mr. Rayburn was very prompt to act when once his mind was made up. He spoke to his friend Thompson that very night, ascertained that Miss Lydia had a very little money of her own, and would be glad, her brother thought, to have a house of her own too. He said also that she was a capable housekeeper, and understood the art of cookery to an extent that was a constant admiration to his wife and daughters; and that she was, moreover, good tempered and easy to get on with. So Mr. Rayburn made his plain and unromantic proposals, and was accepted after a few hours' consideration. And before Judith had well begun her projected reformation, she found, herself possessed of a mistress; but it was only for a short time. In a few days after the wedding she was quietly sent about her business, and a smart young person in white apron and cap installed in her place. Very soon the Gatehouse resumed its old air of sober comfort and spotless neatness, and once more peace and quiet reigned.

I do not think that Mr. Rayburn ever had any reason to repent of his second marriage, and yet I know that had he really understood his wife, he would have disapproved very much of her. The second Mrs. Rayburn was an utterly selfish woman, and had been utterly selfish all her life. But she was far too clever to show it openly. She had ruled her mother, but had made her rule pleasant. The good woman had sons and married daughters, whom she would at one time have liked to help occasionally; but she was convinced, she hardly knew how, that she ought to save every penny for poor Lydia, the only unmarried one. At her brother's house, Lydia had found it her best plan to be helpful and pleasant to her sister-in-law, and had made herself very useful to the girls. And now she saw that to stand well with Fred was her cue, and she proved a delightful stepmother.

I must not make this part of my story too long, as it is really only introductory, but I do not see how to make the events that follow clear without this preparatory sketch. For about ten years the household went on almost without a change. Fred settled down into a good clerk, and rose in the counting-house; he still played the flute, but he no longer wrote poetry, having, indeed, failed to find a publisher for his laments over his wasted intellect. And, indeed, though he was a good fellow enough, I do not think that any great waste was possible in that matter.

He fell in love with a very nice, pretty girl, just home from school and they were engaged with the full consent of all concerned; but Janet Gray's father thought her too young to be married just yet, so they had a long and very happy engagement. And then, Fred being twenty-seven and Janet twenty, the day was fixed for their marriage, and all the pleasant bustle of looking for a suitable house was going on, when one day, as Fred, Janet, and Mrs. Gray were inspecting the twenty-third house, all three very busy and happy, the messenger from the brewery came running up the terrace, and told Fred to hurry home, as his father was very ill. Before the young man reached home, his father was dead; in fact, he was dead when the messenger was sent, though no one could believe it.

Mrs. Rayburn was sincerely sorry. The life had been very pleasant to her, and she felt that even if she found another husband she would never like him as well. Just, too, as she was about to be rid of Fred and his flute, and free to set about the task of convincing her husband that at least half his savings ought in justice to be left to her. But she was very practical, and quickly turned her mind to consider how she could best secure her own well-being.

At first she tried to convince Fred that he ought to give up all idea of being married for a considerable time; but poor Fred, who sorely missed his kind old father, longed for Janet's companionship, and would not hear of a long delay. Mrs. Rayburn felt that in a small suburban house, with a clerk's salary and a very tiny private income, there would be no home for her! So she set herself with the kindest zeal to persuade Messrs. Hopper and Mason to put Fred into his father's place. Now, it so happened that there was a young Mr. Hopper just home from Germany, who rather wished to fill that post himself, being fond of work, and thinking that the business might be very much increased by more enterprising ways. But, of course, the son of one of the principals could not live in the Gatehouse, and do all the plodding work of the manager. So the matter ended in Fred's being appointed manager, on the understanding that Mr. Francis Hopper was to be in a very special manner his chief and leader.

For the months that intervened between Mr. Rayburn's death and Fred's marriage, the widow kept house for her stepson, and made herself so pleasant to all parties that Janet told her lover that they ought to ask her to stay as long as she liked. So she stayed, and every one was delighted with the nice tact with which she helped the inexperienced young wife. Oh, she was a wonderful woman!

All the time this wonderful woman was quietly filling her purse, looking forward to the time when Fred's family would increase, and the Gatehouse might no longer suit her as a home. She had saved a good deal of money from her housekeeping allowance, though no one suspected it, because she always kept everything so comfortable. She now began to speculate cautiously with her hoards, and thanks to a brother who was in a stockbroker's office in London, she was very fortunate.

Little did any one think, as she sat so quietly at her work of an evening, listening to Fred reading aloud or playing the flute, or perhaps to the baby crying—even good babies cry sometimes—that she was mentally gazing at the sitting-room she meant to have at some not very distant time. She meant to live in London, and to enjoy herself; her rooms were to be models of comfort and elegance, and were to be all for herself; no one to please but herself, no one to flatter, no one to humour, no flute to listen to, no baby to cry. Everything that she liked, plenty of it, and all her very own, exclusively for her own use. Mrs. Rayburn was deeply attached to her "own dear self."

CHAPTER II.

THE ROAD TO RUIN.

I WONDER if any of my readers are wondering what is the want in my first chapter? For there is a want, and I feel it myself. For all that I have said, so far, there might be no such thing as religion in the world. Self-interest is the only "motive-power" that I have mentioned. To be respectable, to be comfortable, to make or save money, to be happy in a quiet way—these are the motives I have spoken of, because, alas! They are the motives that governed the lives of those of whom I was writing.

Is it not sad to think that, in a Christian country, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, people can contentedly live as if they had never learned the truths that our Saviour taught? I do not mean that their lives would have been the same if Christianity did not exist in the country. For Christianity gives us all of civilization that is worth having, and civilization is actually necessary before a quiet life is possible. But do you not think it is very ungrateful to accept the blessings and to ignore or to forget Him Who "ascended up on high to give gifts to men"?

There were excuses for these people, no doubt, for Hemsborough was, as concerned religion, a very sleepy place. Yet they all went to church or chapel at least once every Sunday—even Mrs. Lydia did so: it was a nice quiet place for thinking over her plans. Even poor Fred, though he had aspirations and a mind, and wrote poetry and played the flute, never dreamed of questioning the usefulness of going to church: his mind did not take an independent turn.

Fred, being no longer a boy, was becoming just as anxious as any one to make money, live comfortably, and provide well for his children. The misfortune was that this wish, instead of making him work hard and find pleasure in it, made him discontented and anxious to find some short cut to fortune. He found it very galling that he was not as completely manager of the brewery as his father had been, forgetting that if such a manager as his father had been wanted, he would not have got the situation. Mr. Frank Hopper was very kind and pleasant, but he was distinctly the master; and although Fred was flattered by his friendly manner, and much pleased when he offered to be godfather to his first boy—the eldest child was a girl—still, he felt that he was only a kind of head clerk, or foreman, instead of managing the business himself, and he resented this in private.

I wonder how often "lead me not into temptation" means "give me grace to be contented"? Certainly a discontented man is a man peculiarly open to temptation. And it came to Fred through his stepmother. I do not know exactly how he discovered that she was using her money, her "insignificant little sum of money," as she called it when he spoke to her, in speculating. He warned her that she was running a risk. She assured him that she ran no risk, and that she had really increased her store "a little." But she never mentioned to him her brother, the stockbroker's clerk.

Not unnaturally Fred began to think that if a woman like his stepmother could make money in this way, he could no doubt do very much better. There was a rule in the firm that no employé should speculate, on pain of dismissal. But, then, no one need ever know! So Fred Rayburn set out gaily on the road to ruin.

When he had been married for some years, a great grief befell him and Janet. They had three children, a girl and two boys, and they all three got the measles, and the little girl died. Little Frank and the baby, Fred, recovered. Frank was a very loving little fellow, and long after they hoped he would have forgotten his playfellow, he would begin to cry at the sight of some toy or picture which reminded him of her, and his words:

"Where is Lily? Oh, I want Lily," went to his mother's heart.

At first, Janet tried to turn his thoughts into some other channel; but Frank still "wanted Lily," and at last Janet began to comfort him by telling him that Lily had gone to heaven, and was very happy—every one was happy there.

"Who takes care of her, muddie?"

"God, my dear."

"Does He love her?"

"Oh, yes; very much!"

Frank thought this over for a while, and presently remarked—

"But we love her too. Oh, I want Lily back again, muddie!"

"She cannot come," poor Janet said slowly; "but you must be very good, and then some day you will go to heaven too, and see her again."

Hereupon Frank startled her by asking, "Who told you that, muddie? How do you know about it?"

For a moment Janet did not answer. How did she know? Did she know it at all, or was it only the easiest way to comfort Frank?

"Oh, muddie, you did make that out to stop me crying! Oh, where is Lily gone?"

"I did not make it, indeed, dear. It is all in the Bible."

"What's the Bible?"

"A book, dear. I wish I knew it better, and then I could read to you about—"

"About Lily?"

"No; it was written long, long ago. But about heaven."

"Is it true, muddie?"

"Oh yes! God wrote it; that is, He told His servants what to write in it."

"Do read to me about heaven, muddie. Lily was good, wasn't she? I'll be good, too."

Janet had a beautiful Bible, one of her wedding presents. It lay on a little velvet-covered table, and it was not dusty, because Janet kept everything very neat and nice. But it was quite as new-looking as when she first had it, and she had no other. However, she opened it now, and after much turning over its leaves, she read some verses from the last two chapters of the Revelation.

But either this was above the child's comprehension, or some strange instinct told him more than Janet could say, for he set up a terrified cry, and declared with tears and sobs that "he did not want to go to heaven—it was too grand and big. And oh, Lily would not like it either."

It was long before Janet could quiet her boy; and as she sat beside his little bed that evening, and saw how disfigured his pretty little face was, all tear-stained and red, and how every now and then a great sob shook his slender frame, she began to wonder what on earth she could say to quiet him when next he "wanted Lily."

Moreover, his cry that "Lily would not like it" had awakened an echo in her aching heart. That little timid, loving girl of hers, so easily frightened, so apt to cling to "muddie"—ah, what a poor little thing to go all alone into a strange place, however beautiful, where she knew no one! Janet lived to see that these thoughts were very ignorant, and even now she had a dim feeling that she was wrong to think, thus; and so, between a desire to comfort Frank and a terrible need of comfort for herself, she began to turn over the pages of her neglected Bible, and to read a little here and there.

And if ever people tell you that there is no comfort and no help to be found in the Bible, just remember that this is generally said by people who do not read it. Janet presently came upon the story of the little ones brought to Christ for a blessing, taken up in His arms, welcomed and loved. "Suffer little children to come unto Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Yes, Lily was a lovely, innocent, good child; her mother could quite believe that "of such are the kingdom of heaven." And Christ was there; Lily would have been "suffered" to go to Him. It was a ray of comfort—just a ray of that "Light that lighteth every man"—the first that had shone into Janet's heart. But the rays of that Sun have a most wonderful power of increasing and brightening. Janet soon read her Bible for other things besides a need of comfort. She was not clever, but she had plenty of good sense; and before long, she was a different woman, and her two little boys were carefully taught and trained.

But her husband did not altogether like her "new notions;" he thought them harmless, indeed, "if she did not go too far," but he had no sympathy with them, and silenced her when she tried to share them with him. Not unkindly—Fred never was unkind.

Frank was about six years old, and little Fred about four, when events happened which broke up that little home over the brewery gate, and scattered the family far and wide.

First, Mrs. Rayburn's brother, growing overbold from long success, ventured all his own savings and all his sister's money in one great venture, and lost it. The poor woman had but a few pounds left in the world, and she took to her bed and very nearly died of the shock. Janet was so occupied with her that she failed to observe how uneasy and unhappy her husband seemed. Fred had indeed lost a good deal of money; his little capital was slipping through his fingers so fast that it was wonderful that he did not leave off his speculations, and keep what he had left. But this seems to be the last thing a man thinks of doing, if he has once taken to speculation; and the day came when he had to pay away the last of the money his father had left him.

But, though this was bad, there was worse to come. I do not understand these things well enough to tell you exactly what he did; but I know he made a reckless effort to regain what he had lost without having any capital to pay up if he failed. And he did fail, and found himself in a most miserable position. Not only did he owe money that he could not possibly pay, but, of course, the whole affair became generally known, and that meant ruin.

He was dismissed from his post, and Messrs. Hopper and Mason refused to employ him again even as a clerk: he just got a quarter's salary instead of a quarter's warning, and one week in which to pack up and turn out of the Gatehouse. And he had to go home—home! It was that no longer—and tell Janet, who knew as little about the impending misery as did poor little Frank and Fred. The children were playing in the parlour when their father rushed in, haggard and wretched.

"Where's your mother, Frank?"

"In grandma's room, I think."

"Run and tell her to come here to me. Take Fred with you, and go to the nursery, and stay there. Do you understand? Stay there."

For Frank, all unused to be spoken to thus by his good-tempered, pleasant father, was staring at him in silence.

"Yes, father; but, oh, you do look so! What ails you, father?"

"Go, child, and send muddie here. I want her. I have no time to talk to you."

Frank took the other little fellow by the hand, and they trotted off together. He knocked at the door of Mrs. Rayburn's room with a soft little hand. Janet knew the sound, and came to him.

"Muddie, father's in the parlour, and you must go to him; he wants you. Oh, muddie, he does look so!"

"What does he look like?" Janet asked, smiling.

"Well, like the p'orligal son in my picture-book," answered Frank, after considering the matter.

Janet laughed, closed the bedroom door gently, and went to the parlour. She was still laughing when she entered it. Poor Janet!

It was a cruel business, a horrible task for Fred Rayburn. It was so hard to awaken Janet's fears, so hard to make her believe that he was in earnest. But at last it was done; and then he was surprised to see how bravely she bore the tidings, and how full of practical help she was.

"Fred dear, the worst of it is your chance of being arrested. I don't think Mr. Henley has any right to threaten that, for the fault is his as much as yours. Have you any money, dear?"

"My quarter's salary."

"And I have twenty pounds—my little savings. I meant to surprise you; but, never mind that. Dear Fred, you must get away at once. The sooner you do so, the sooner you can begin life again, and we must earn enough to pay this debt. I will go at once and beg Mr. Henley to wait—not to have you searched for."

"You misunderstood me, dear. There is no danger of my being arrested at once. The danger is if Henley took proceedings against me, I might be imprisoned for—fraudulent dealing."

"Well, if you are not here, he is less likely to do that, don't you think? And, in any case, you must get away; you will suffer less so."

"How can I leave you, Janet? And yet, indeed, there is no use in my staying. As soon as ever it is known that I am dismissed, Henley will begin proceedings; but I won't go without you and the boys. Let us get away to-night; we'll go to America. I may get employment there. I must pay that money. Poor father, if he only knew! But the great thing is to get away."

"I wonder, Fred, would Mrs. Rayburn lend you money enough to pay Henley? Then you could stay here, where you are known, and—"

"Janet, Janet, do you not yet understand that to go where I am not known is my only chance? But certainly if I could quiet Henley, it would be a great thing, and I know she has money. I'll go and ask her; she is very good-natured."

"And I will pack your things. You will go to-night, and leave me to sell the furniture and follow you with the children."

"You forget—the greater part of the furniture belongs to the house. My father bought a few things after his second marriage, and there is your piano. But we'll settle all that when I have spoken to grandma. I'll go to her now. It is partly her doing, so she may well help me," he muttered as he left the room.

"What a good girl Janet is!" he thought. "Half the women I know would have cried and scolded; not one word of reproach from her! Oh, I have been a fool! And we were so happy."

It was easier to make his confession to Mrs. Rayburn than to Janet; but Fred little knew how near he was to learning more of dear, good-natured grandma's true character than he had learned in all these years! Her one consolation had been, that she still had her comfortable home; now, in a moment, she learned that she must look out for some means of earning her bread. In her sudden anger, she sat up in her bed and began—

"You don't mean to tell me that you—"

But she was very weak, having been seriously ill, and here the words died away on her lips, and she fell back, buried her face in the pillow, and burst into tears. And before she could speak again reflection had come to her aid. Fred was a young man still, and might yet be a useful friend again. So she told him sadly how things stood with herself, and that she regretted it more for his sake than for her own. For she had long thought that she would have money enough to help him to educate the darling boys, and put them into good professions. Now, alas! that would never be, for she had lost every penny; she was literally a beggar!

Fred, quite touched by her kindness, told her that they were all in the same boat, and must stick together. He looked upon her just as if she were his mother. She must come out to him with Janet.

"I couldn't think of it, Fred. You have your wife and children to care for; I must work for my own bread. I shall write to Lord Beaucourt; he had a great liking for my mother, and may help me to a situation. You have mouths enough to fill without me."

And when he had left her, she said to herself, "Ay, mouths enough, and very little to put into them! A tolerably good clerk is all you are, my boy, and now you have not even an unblemished character. I should have to work all the same, and maybe for them as well as for myself. No, thank you, Mr. Fred; it is not playing the flute that will help you now, and if my lord will get me a snug place, as he offered to do when poor mother died, I don't want to have you on my hands. I think I was a fool not to take the offer then. What great good has my marriage done me? By the way, Janet has a brother somewhere, doing well, if I remember right. But no, Fred is not likely to do well after all this; I'll keep to my resolution."

Fred, of course, had to tell Janet that there was no hope of help from grandma.

"And I think you are right, dear, and that I had better get away at once. I will take just what will pay travelling expenses, and keep me for a few days. I will write and tell you where to join me. You must settle everything here, and come as soon as I send for you. I could not stand the—the disgrace, Janet. Every one will know to-morrow that I am dismissed, and Henley won't be silent."

Poor, selfish Fred! He desired nothing so much as to get away before his disgrace was known, and poor Janet, in her unselfish love, was as anxious about it as he could be. Fred had always held his head high, and whatever private discontent he felt with his situation, he had always been considered a very fortunate young man, much better off than others of his years. To meet those who had always admired and looked up to him, in his new character, as a dismissed man and a defaulting speculator, he felt would drive him mad. So, having kissed his two boys as they slept sweetly in their little beds, he bade farewell to Janet, telling her to come to Liverpool, to the Ship Hotel, Guelph Street, where he would write to her; he could not say where he would be, as that would depend upon the boats he might be in time for. And then he was gone; and poor Janet crept off to bed, cold and stunned, and almost heartbroken.

CHAPTER III.

IN LIVERPOOL.

NEXT day, Janet sent for a broker, and pointed out to him such articles of furniture as Fred had told her belonged to him. She was in the midst of making her bargain when, to her surprise, in came Mrs. Rayburn, who had not left her room for many days.

"Betty told me, my dear, that Mr. Pitman was here; so I guessed it was about your piano, and I crept in, for I may as well dispose of my few things at the same time."

And, turning to Mr. Pitman, she proceeded to point out what she claimed. It was not very much, but it was nearly all that Janet had been speaking about, and the poor girl reddened when she found Pitman looking doubtfully at her. She said—

"I did not know, grandma, that these things were yours. We thought they were ours."

"Oh, my dear, the things my kind husband bought for me? But say no more; I know you have always had them as your own, and it was stupid of me to—"

"No, no; I only spoke lest Mr. Pitman might think I had known it before."

The business was soon settled, and a van carried off all the Rayburns' share of the furniture. Very bare the parlour looked, and Fred cried for his "pitty cot," when laid to sleep in his mother's bed. Frank, old enough to be frightened at his mother's sad face, made no plaint about anything, but ran with messages and helped her with all his might.

Their few belongings were soon packed, and all, save one box, sent off to Liverpool by goods train. Janet paid up her household bills for the last week, and then everything was done. She had no one to say farewell to save Mrs. Rayburn; her own father and mother had died since her marriage, and her only brother had emigrated. Janet had always been a home-keeping woman, and had no very intimate friends.

"What shall you do, grandma?" she asked. "Where will you live till you hear of a place?"

"I shall stay here, dear, until I'm turned out; then my sister-in-law will take me in for a few days."

"You'll write and tell me what you hear from Lord Beaucourt, won't you? Indeed I hope he will be kind to you. I have been so hurried that I hardly seem to feel things yet; but indeed I am very, very sorry for you. It is so hard on you."

"It is indeed. But Lord Beaucourt is one who never forgets them who have served him well, and my mother was his confidential housekeeper—no common servant; more like a friend, you know—for many years, and his lordship was always most kind to me. Of course, I shall write, and you must write to me. How I shall miss you, dear, and my darling boys! There's some one at the door, Janet."

"Come in," Janet called out wearily.

And in came Mr. Frank Hopper.

"Good evening, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, as she rose to meet him. The elder woman was sitting in the shadow of the window curtain, and he did not see her.

"This is a sad business, Mrs. Rayburn. I am sorry to hear that Rayburn has gone away. It struck me that you might be in difficulties, and that I had better see you."

"Of course we are in difficulties, Mr. Frank."

"Yes—but I want—I meant—in a word, Mrs. Rayburn, do you know where your husband has gone, and—are you to join him?"

"Why, certainly I am," Janet said angrily. "Oh, Mr. Frank, how could you think that Fred would desert me and the children?"

"It looked so bad, his going off in this way. I was afraid there might be—debts, you know. I wished, if possible, to help you."

"No, Mr. Hopper, you cannot help me. I have money to keep us until we go out to Fred; I could not take help from you. I think you have been very hard on my husband. I am an ignorant woman, and perhaps ought not to say this; but it seems to me that you have been very, very hard on him."

"You mean in dismissing him? But he knew the rules, and knew that we never depart from them. But I don't want to talk of that. Where's my little namesake? I have a present here for him."

"Not for him; we will not accept help from you under any names, Mr. Frank."

"Well, I would help you if I could," the young man said quietly; "but I understand and respect your feelings. Business men have to be guided by rules that seem harsh to women, I am sure. Only remember, if you ever feel that there is anything I can do, you have my address. It will give me real pleasure to help you, Mrs. Rayburn."

He bowed and withdrew, and old Mrs. Rayburn gave young Mrs. Rayburn a lecture for being so proud and so foolish.

"I cannot help it," Janet said. "Did you remark how it was all that he wished to help me; not a word of kindness for Fred, who has worked under him so long? No, I will not put up with that sort of kindness."

Janet had never left Hemsborough except to go to school in a small town not ten miles off, so the journey to Liverpool was quite a formidable undertaking for her. But she had plenty of commonsense, and managed very well. She and her boys reached the Ship Hotel in safety. And now there was nothing to do but to wait.

Waiting is always weary work, and poor Janet was anxious about her husband and uneasy about her boys. Accustomed to play about the big brewery yards and sheds, where every one knew them and took more or less care of them, the boys fretted if she kept them in her room in the hotel; and yet the street and the adjoining quays did not seem a safe playground for them. The hotel was very small, very crowded and noisy, and by no means cheap. However, Janet lived as cheaply as she could; and at last a letter came.

Fred wrote from New York, not, as she had hoped, from Halifax, for she had wished him to go there to be nearer to her brother. He had as yet failed to get permanent employment. He could just live, and that was all. People told him that he was not likely to get good employment in New York. Yet what could he do? He had not funds now to go to her brother in British Columbia, and he feared it would be some time before he could save enough. She must husband her money, and stay in England for a while, for if she came to him now, what he feared was, that they would sink into the class that just lives from hand to mouth, and that the boys would get no education. She was to write to him at once, for he longed to hear of her and the boys. Frank and Fred must not forget him.

Janet thought long and deeply over this letter, and the immediate result of her meditations was that she wrote to Mr. Frank Hopper. Poor Janet! She felt very reluctant to do it.

"Ship Hotel, Guelph Street, Liverpool.

"DEAR SIR,

"You were kind enough to say that you would help me if you could. Will you give me a few lines which I may show to any one here to whom I may apply for work? I am quite unknown here, and my husband and I have decided that it is better for me not to join him just yet. I think he will most likely go after a time to my brother in British Columbia, and there is no use in my going out till I can go there direct. I am a very good dressmaker, and wish to find work in order to help my husband.

"Your obedient servant,

"JANET RAYBURN."

Mr. Hopper at once sent her a letter which answered her purpose. She was fortunate enough to get employment in the cutting-out department of a great shop in Bold Street, where she gave such satisfaction that she was told that she should be the head of the department when the lady now over it married, which she was about to do soon. She was free at about seven o'clock, and might be free rather earlier in winter.

She sent the boys to a little preparatory school in the street in which she now lodged, Frank to learn, and Fred to be safe; and the servant at the lodgings undertook to give them their dinner when they came home, and on fine days to let them play in what she (perhaps satirically) called the garden, and generally to keep a watch upon them. Then she was able to write to Fred to say that she had got employment which, with the few pounds she kept, would support her and the boys for a time; and she sent him all the rest of the money she still had, urging him to go to her brother Gilbert, and "not to be longer about sending for her than he could help, for she felt very sad without him."

Poor Janet! She would not have admitted to any one, even to herself, that she in the least distrusted her husband. Yet, in doing this, she was unconsciously influenced by a touch of distrust. She felt that if she kept money enough to take her and the boys out, maybe Fred would go on just keeping himself; he had never taken kindly to steady, dull work, and this kind of life might have some strange attraction for him. Whereas, if he knew that she was working hard, and that he must send her the passage-money, he would certainly feel quite differently. As for herself and the children, she had no fears. God would take care of them.

But God's ways are not our ways; and Janet's simple faith was to be sorely tried. And it stood the trial, because it was simple and humble. When things happened that she did not expect, Janet did not forthwith conclude that God had forgotten His promises; she concluded that she had not fully understood them.

The summer was now past, and the winter was a severe one. Liverpool is a very cold place, too, and Janet felt it herself, though she did not actually suffer in health. But the children caught cold again and again. They would creep back to their rather dreary home when school was over, with their little overcoats unbuttoned, and their warm comforters forgotten. After a time, Janet succeeded in teaching Frank that it was his duty to take care of Fred, and of himself too, because it made poor "muddie" so wretched to see them ill. From that time, Frank remembered; and it was touching to see the tender, protecting care he took of little Fred, who really suffered far less from cold than did Frank himself. Frank grew tall and thin and white, but he never complained, for "poor muddie would be sorry, if she knew how his bones pained him."

Looking back upon that time in Liverpool, it always seemed to Janet very long, yet it really lasted but a few months. She heard regularly from her husband, and he wrote in good spirits. He had set out to join Gilbert Gray, but, having reached a town called New Durham, in British Columbia, he fell in with an acquaintance who was in business there, and who had put him up to one or two very good things; he would soon be quite independent. In sending him that money she had, he thought, laid the foundation of a fine fortune; but he would send her the passage-money very soon now.

All this made Janet uneasy, she knew not why. She felt a little uneasy, too, about grandma, as Mrs. Rayburn had for years been called in the old Gatehouse, for she had never heard from her since they parted, though she had written to her. However, in the spring she had a letter from her.

"Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley.

"MY DEAR JANET,

"I am afraid you are thinking me very unkind, getting letters from you and never writing to you; but you will understand how this happened, when I tell you how I have been knocked about. I am glad you have found work that suits you, but, in your place, I would have gone after Fred at once. I love him like a mother, but, after what happened, I think him weak, and I hardly expect now that you will ever get out to him. You ought to have left the children in England and gone after Fred. No risk in leaving them for a time; any one would be kind to those darlings. But I suppose it is too late now, as you parted with the money.

"As for me, a letter from my lord came the day after you went away, offering me my choice of two situations, matron of a big orphanage near Stafford, or housekeeper at Kelmersdale Castle. The matronship was the best pay, so I took it. But, my health being so feeble, I found the work too much, and after my little darlings, Frank and Fred, the children seemed a dreadful lot, and after a few weeks, I wrote to my lord to say my health would not stand it, and that if the other place was still open, I would prefer it. I am thankful to say my lord had not been able to suit himself, so I came to the Castle, and I just wish I had the dear boys here, with such places to play about, and every comfort.

"The place is very old, and was once besieged. I am learning all the history off by heart, for many a shilling can be got by showing visitors over the Castle in summer. My lord never lives here long, but comes on business or for the shooting. The living rooms are small, with thick walls and little windows high up. My rooms are very comfortable, and I have servants under me, and am to see all kept in order; the armour, and old pictures and furniture. But, except just when the earl is here, I have little to do but to amuse myself like any grand lady. The salary is small, or I should send you a present, as well I might after all your kindness to me, which I can never forget. I hope the darling boys have not forgotten grandma. I seem to hear Frank calling me, dear little rogue. Some day you must all come and pay me a visit; I know my lord will give leave.

"You say the boys go to school, but in the summer holidays they might be glad of a change. But take my advice and get after Fred as soon as you can; don't lose your hold over him, it will be the ruin of him.

"Ever your affectionate mother,

"LYDIA RAYBURN."

"Oh, I wish people would not say things like this to me!" cried Janet, unconscious that no one had said anything to her about her husband except Mrs. Rayburn and her own anxious, loving heart.

Mrs. Lydia Rayburn little thought when she penned that letter, so full of patronizing kindness, what the effect of her words would be; for simpleminded Janet believed that she meant every word most sincerely.

She sent the letter on to Fred, and said to the two children, "How fond grandma is of you both, boys!"

To which Frank replied thoughtfully, "Is she, muddie?"

Soon after this Fred failed to write for some weeks, and Janet was getting seriously uneasy, when she received a letter from her brother; not one of his usual brief epistles, but a long, closely written letter with a money order enclosed.

"Old Man's Ferry Farm, Gattigo, British Columbia.

"MY DEAR SISTER,

"I do not know whether what I must now tell you will be a surprise and a shock to you or not. Of course, I could see that you were not speaking out quite frankly about your husband and the loss of his good place; not that I am blaming you, for he is your husband, and you are bound to stick to him. You wrote me word that he was on his way to me, and I laid out my plans for giving him and you a start here if I could. But he did not turn up, and only ten days ago I got a letter from a lawyer in New Durham—a rising new town a good way from us—enclosing a letter from Rayburn.

"Not to make too long a story of it, your husband told me that he had been on his way to me, five months ago, when at New Durham, he fell in with an old friend, and went into some kind of business with him, putting all the money he possessed into it. They seemed prosperous for a time, and Rayburn declares that he did not know that the articles they were selling were regular cheap locks and stoves and such things, with good English names on them, which this fellow Turner had got made out here, and not even of good materials. Of course, this could only go on for a time—people here are no fools—and Turner must have found out that he was suspected, for he made off with all he could get hold of, and left Rayburn to bear the consequences. Rayburn had a narrow escape of being roughly handled by a lot of fellows who had come to the town together to have it out with Turner. In these half-settled places people have a very short kind of justice, but he got away out of the shop with a whole skin, and was taken up for the cheating. Then he told the lawyer that he was my brother-in-law, and that I could speak for him, and so they sent for me. I went, of course, and found him very ill, I really think from fretting, for there is no doubt that he was badly treated by Turner.

"They have not caught Turner, and now they will hardly do so; and I think Rayburn will get off for want of evidence against him. I would get him out on bail, but that he is so ill, that it is better for him to keep quiet. When he is free, I shall take him home with me, and Aimée will nurse him till he is all right again. And, if I find it possible, I may still do what I was thinking of—start an hotel in Gattigo to be supplied from my farm, and you and Rayburn to manage it. If he had come direct to me, all would be easy. Now I fear it may be a feeling against him, and in that case it would be risking money in setting up the hotel, and it is a great pity, for he is the very man for the place; he has such a pleasant manner. But there is no use in crying over spilt milk. I wish he was not your husband, for, truth to say, I do not like this business, though I cannot help liking him. And I will do what I can for your husband.

"Now, Janet, the fact is, if you have as much good sense and good principle as I believe you to have, you ought to come out by the next boat, and join Rayburn, and not part with him again. In some way we will find an opening for him, and with you beside him, and me at your back—particularly now you are on your guard—he may yet do very well. He is feather-headed, easily taken with anything new, and impatient of slow gains. Rayburn says you are to send the boys to their grandmother, who is sure to take good care of them, being very fond of them. He desired me to say that on no account are you to bring them with you, if Mrs. Rayburn will take them for a while, as he is very anxious that they should never hear of his being in prison here. I think myself that it would be better for you to come alone, and we will get them out as soon as we know what you and Rayburn will do; but there may be no use in your settling here, and it will be better to get them to the place you finally decide upon, direct.

"I enclose money for your journey, and, on the other side of this sheet, I will put down your exact best way, and all particulars I can think of. Do not lose a boat, and come direct to Gattigo. Rayburn will probably be here before you. The hotel plan, if still possible, would be the best for him and for you; but, unless you are here, I will not risk it. Besides, having you with him will make him seem more dependable and respectable, and, you see, he has made a bad start, and has a prejudice to get over. Do not think me unkind, though I know I may seem so, because I am not used to much letter-writing, and do not know how to wrap things up.

"My wife is just longing for you to come; there is not a woman she cares about within many miles of us.

"Your affectionate brother,

"GILBERT GRAY."

Then followed the directions for her journey, which were so clear and minute that a child could have followed them.

A year ago the idea of such a long lonely journey would have reduced Janet to tears and misery; but she had learned to know her strength, and it was not her own part in the matter that frightened her. Nor was it the leaving the boys at Kelmersdale, for she had no doubt of their well-being there, and had been thinking of asking grandma to take them for a fortnight or so, as Frank would be the better for a change of air. She had a brave heart and a childlike faith, and thought but little of herself; but oh, what bitter tears she shed over that letter! But she lost no time; in half an hour after the letter came, she was in the office of the line of boats Gilbert had named, inquiring when the next left Liverpool.

CHAPTER IV.

KELMERSDALE.

JANET found that the next boat would sail in four days; so, if she could be set free from her engagement at Gair and Co.'s, she could well be ready in time, even if she had to take the children with her. For, of course, if Mrs. Rayburn either could not or would not keep the little ones, they must needs go with her.

The first thing to be done now was to telegraph to Mrs. Rayburn. She passed an office on her way to Gair's. She sent her message, but only said, "Can you send to meet us at Rugeley to-morrow?"

"I can explain much better when I am with her," she thought; "and if she cannot take the boys, the expense is not very great, after all."

Having arranged for the answer to be sent to Gair's, she went thither herself, arriving five minutes late, for the first time.

"Has Mr. Simmons come yet?" she asked a young man who was arranging the window.

"He's in the office, Mrs. Rayburn."

And to the office Janet repaired. There she told her story, with certain reservations. Her brother, she said, had sent her money to go out to Canada to her husband, who was ill. When he recovered, her brother knew of a promising opening for him, in which her help would be necessary. Her month's salary was nearly due, but she was willing to forfeit it, if she might go at once. There was no press of work, and Miss Green was a very capable cutter-out. Mr. Simmons, a slow and solemn man, rather thought that such an abrupt departure was impossible, but would speak to Mr. Gair. Luckily for Janet, it was kind old Mr. Gair who was in the office, and he came out to speak to her himself.

"We're sorry to lose you, Mrs. Rayburn, but we will not stand in your way, as the matter seems of consequence. Pay Mrs. Rayburn up to the first of July, Simmons; she has been a steady and useful worker."

Finally, the old gentleman sat down and wrote her a regular discharge.

"Keep that, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, looking kindly at the anxious young face. "It may prove useful, though I hope your husband will do well. Do you take your children with you?"

"No, sir; I shall take them to Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley, where their grandmother is the housekeeper. If she can keep them, I am to leave them with her for a time."

"Well, good-bye, good-bye," said Mr. Gair, retreating hastily towards his private room, for his sons were wont to laugh at him for being always ready to interest himself in any one. But he took a parting glance at Janet, and something in the youth, sweetness, and determination in her face touched his heart. Muttering, "I will now; they may say what they like, just for once I will please myself," back he came.

"Are you sure you can manage all this for yourself, Mrs. Rayburn? Is there anything that I can do for you?"

Janet looked up in his face with a somewhat tremulous smile.

"I have been so afraid," she said, "but if every one is as kind as you are—but, indeed, that is not likely. I don't know how to thank you, sir; your kindness gives me such courage."

"I think you have plenty of courage," the old man answered, "and a better Friend than I can be. One who can go with you, and yet be with the children at home. Is it not so?"

"Oh, it is—it is indeed! Yes, I can say that sincerely."

"Then you serve my Master, and so you need never be afraid, for you will be cared for. God bless you, child."

Janet left the shop with that blessing warm at her heart. She went home, and busied herself in getting the boys' clothes together and packing them. She took a cabinet photograph of her husband and cut away the edges, to make it fit into a little miniature case she had among her few ornaments: this she meant to give to Frank. She made a list of the things in the trunk, which she carefully packed for the children. While thus employed, the answer to her telegram was sent on from Bold Street. It was brief, but said that a vehicle should be at the station to meet the 12 a.m. train.

Then the boys came home from school, and Janet nearly broke down when she heard their shout of rejoicing when they saw her at that unusual hour. When she had given them their dinner, she took Fred on her knee and put her arm round Frank, as he stood beside her.

"Now, listen to me, my little boys. I have something to tell you which you will not like, and neither do I; but it cannot be helped, and I want you both to be good—very good—and so help me to bear it. For I must go away and leave you for a time, and—and—it nearly breaks my heart."

"Leave us—here, muddie?" Frank said, fixing his blue eyes on her face, and growing white in the endeavour to "be good."

"Won't be left," said Fred, sturdily; "we go wif you."

"Not here, Frank, and not alone. To-morrow, I shall take you to a beautiful place in the country, where I hope to leave you with grandma. There you will have green fields to run about in, and grandma to take care of you. You remember grandma, Fred, don't you?"

Frank had slipped down, and sat on the floor at his mother's feet, staring up at her, and keeping unnaturally still, with every trace of colour gone from his face. And there he still sat, when Fred had forgotten all about this terrible parting and was playing merrily about the room, and Janet was completing the packing of the box.

"Why must you go, muddie?" he cried at last, catching at her dress as she passed him.

"My darling, my little Frank, don't look like that. I would not leave you if—if I could help it. Father is ill and, wants me. When he is well, you shall both come to us."

She sat down and lifted him upon her knee.

"The time will pass quickly, Frank. See, here is father's picture—I give it to you; keep it safe, and show it to Fred, that he may remember him. And you will be good, and not make poor muddie fret. And you will take care of Fred, and try to keep him from being troublesome to grandma."

"I will try," Frank said. "May I go to bed, muddie? I'm tired, and don't want any supper to-day."

Janet was rather frightened, he looked so white and weak. She put him to bed, and brought him some bread and milk, which he took to please her. When she woke him next morning he seemed quite himself again, and, having said his prayers, he came and stood before her, saying earnestly—

"I will try to be good, muddie, and I promise to take care of Fred all I can."

And he was good, poor little fellow, giving no trouble whatever, and trying to keep Fred quiet during the journey. But Fred had bound himself by no such promise, and was in uproarious spirits, making noise enough for half a dozen.

At Rugeley she left the train and looked about for some one from Kelmersdale. Presently a short, square-built, awkward young man came up to her, making a clumsy bow, which he accompanied by a curious movement of one foot, like the pawing of an impatient horse. But it was shyness, not impatience, that made him paw.

"Be you Mrs. Fred Rayburn?"

"Yes; is Mrs. Rayburn here?"

"No, but I have the taxcart here for you and the children. Be this your box? Come along, then."

With a final paw, which sent the gravel flying, he picked up the box and led the way to where he had left the taxcart. Janet sat in front beside the driver, with Fred in her arms, for she could not trust the excited child out of her sight. Frank and the box kept each other company, and Frank was glad, for he wanted to cry just a little without "making muddie cry." It was a lovely drive, but none of them saw much of it.

At last they drove through a great heavy gate into a paved court, walled on three sides, and with a large pillared porch on the fourth, with a great broad flight of stone steps leading to a large iron-studded door. This was wide open, and just inside stood Mrs. Rayburn, and with her a young servant, in white cap and apron and blue satin bows.

"Well, Janet dear, here you are, and here are my darling boys," Mrs. Rayburn cried. "It was a surprise—your telegraph saying that you were coming. Why, Frank looks but poorly; a little country air will do him good. Jacob, bring in that box. Fred's grown a little; as to Frank, he's run up far too fast for strength. Come to my sitting-room—isn't this cosy? Maria, we'll have dinner as soon as 'tis ready."

Maria departed, and Mrs. Rayburn went on.

"So you have a holiday—how long is it, Janet? I hope you can stay some time. My lord is never here except during the shooting season, when he has a party for the sport; so I can do just as I like. And I advise you to leave the children with me just for a bit—just till Frank picks up a colour and a little flesh. He looks very peaky."

"Yes; Liverpool does not agree with him. May the boys run out and play in the court, Mrs. Rayburn? I want to talk to you alone."

"I'll just send and get the gate shut, and then they'll be as safe as possible."

She left the room, and soon a man crossed the yard and shut the gate. The two boys went out, but only into the porch. Fred was so sleepy that he was glad to sit on the stone steps with his head on his brother's shoulder. Frank, white and weary, knowing the whereabouts of every bone in his body by a separate ache, yet manfully held the little one in his arms, and sat gazing at the paved court and the high walls. Somehow he felt like a bird in a cage.

"Now, Janet, we're alone. Let's have a talk till dinner is ready."

"Mrs. Rayburn, do you think Lord Beaucourt would be annoyed if you had my boys here for a time?"

Having just asked them to stay, Mrs. Rayburn could not very well tell a different story now; but when she made that request, she had no idea that Janet would part with her darlings for so much as a week. But, after all, the boys could not be in her way. The house was large and the weather warm; they could be out for the greater part of the day, and they would not cost her a penny. So, after an almost imperceptible pause, she said—

"My lord annoyed? Oh, dear, not at all. My mother, you know, was a confidential servant—almost a friend; and he is just as kind to me. If you like to let Frank stay here, I'll take the best of care of him—you know that."

"Yes; so you said in the kind letter I sent on to Fred. And he has sent me word by my brother to leave them with you if you really can have them without being troubled about it afterwards."

"To leave them both?"

"Yes; Fred is ill and in trouble, and Gilbert says I had better go at once. Gilbert has plans for us, but it is not quite certain yet where we shall be. I am to go to Gattigo to my brother, and Fred will meet me there, and when we know where we shall settle, we will get the boys out. It will not be for long. Gilbert thinks of setting up an hotel in Gattigo, with Fred and me to manage it. And when we are quite settled, and can make you comfortable, you must come out to us, grandma. However pleasant things may be made for you here, it is not like being in your own house with your own people."

"No, indeed, Janet, it's a deadly dull life here for one used to sociability and a large town. I often think of Hemsborough and the dear old gatehouse. I might be of use, too, in an hotel. Well, Maria is a good girl, and will help me willingly, and, as you say, it will not be for long. And what trouble is Fred in, poor dear fellow?"

"He went into partnership with a man he had known before, and this man, Turner, was not dealing fairly, and he had to run away, and Fred's money was all lost."

"If this Turner is the man who broke some years ago in Hemsborough, Fred ought to have known better than to have dealings with him. So he lost all he had?"

"Yes—but it was not much. Gilbert has got on very well, and seems sure that this hotel will succeed. But Fred was ill when the letter was written, and Gilbert says I ought to be there. They both wish me to come without the boys, but if you cannot have them, I shall take them with me." And Janet's face brightened a little, for oh! How much rather would she take them than leave them!

But Mrs. Rayburn was determined not to say anything which could make Janet think that her position at Kelmersdale was not as independent and pleasant in every way as she had represented it, so she declared that my lord would be quite pleased to know that she had the darling boys for company.

"For he knows it is a lonely life here, and he is so kind-hearted. But, you see, things were going all wrong for want of a really trustworthy confidential person at the head of the household. He will not be here till the middle of August, and perhaps not till September. Of course, they might be in the way then. But there's time enough, and you know, Janet, I'd do anything for you and Fred."

"I knew you would do this, if you could, so I have brought all their clothes. I must get back to Liverpool; the steamer sails on Thursday, early."

"Then you can stay here to-night. Do you think I'm going to let you travel back to-night, and you looking so tired and worn? No, no, stay for the night, and you'll see where the little darlings are to sleep, and how comfortable I shall make them; as well I may, remembering all your kindness to me, and how you nursed me when I was ill."

Her cordiality increased as she thought over the hotel project, and considered how pleasant it would be, when all was comfortably settled, to rejoin her stepson in Gattigo. Life at Kelmersdale was very dull to a woman whose idea of enjoying herself meant much gossip and many sociable tea-parties.

"I will stay, as you are so kind," Janet said, yet in her heart she wished she had the courage to go, and have the parting over.

Maria, a good-natured girl, with very little to do, seemed rather pleased at the prospect of a visit from the children, and said that the last housekeeper had a niece who used to stay with her for months at a time. There was a turret-room, six-sided, at the end of the passage on which Mrs. Rayburn's rooms opened, and this was got ready for the boys. Janet unpacked and arranged their clothes herself; and at night she tucked them up in an old-fashioned little bedstead, with a high back of carved wood. Conspicuous among the carving was an earl's coronet, which had once been gilded; I suppose some baby Earl of Beaucourt had once slept in the bed which now held poor Janet's boys. They slept as sweetly as any earl, and even Janet slept, worn out.

Next day, Janet said she must catch the train for Liverpool, which was due at Rugeley at a little after eleven. She had still a good deal of packing to do, some things to buy which she would want on the passage, and she must go to the school the boys had attended and pay what was due there.

She would not take the boys to Rugeley with her. When Jacob and the taxcart came to the door, she kissed Mrs. Rayburn, and whispered—

"Be—be tender with them. They have never had a harsh word. Frank will give you no trouble, and if Fred is not quite so good, oh! Have patience with him, he is but a baby. Good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness."

Then she knelt down on the stone floor of the hall, and held her boys to her heart for a few moments. Fred set up a lamentable howl, but Frank only gazed at his mother with wide eyes and a pale face. Janet rose, and walked hurriedly out into the porch; Jacob helped her into the cart, and in a moment they were gone.

"Come back, come back, muddie!" shouted Fred; "Take me wif you. I won't stay here."

"Nonsense, child!" said Mrs. Rayburn, catching him as he broke away from Frank and ran towards the door. "You've got to stay here. Come along to my room and watch the cart; you can see it from the window there."

When the cart had passed the last turn in the long road through the park at which it could be seen, Fred set up another roar. Mrs. Rayburn lifted him up, and went to where her spacious easy-chair stood, where she sat down.

"Stop that, Fred. Come here, Frank. Now, listen to me, both of you. You are to stay here for a time, and if you're good, you'll have a pleasant time of it. And I dare say you will be good, after a time, but you're both just a bit spoiled, because your mother is too soft in her ways with you. Now, I'm not like her."

"No, grandma," said Frank, with conviction.

"And if you're naughty or noisy or mischievous or troublesome in any way, I'll give you a right good whipping. If you'll be good, you'll find yourself very well off. And when you've had a whipping or two, I've no doubt I shall have no more trouble with you. Come, now, get your hats, and I'll show you a place where you may run about and play."

She took them out into the paved court, and across to a small iron gate, and, when she had unlocked and opened this gate, Frank cried out with surprise and delight—

"Oh, muddie, muddie, if you could just see this!"

On hearing this imprudent mention of "muddie," Fred began to roar; but he received a very prompt cuff on the side of his curly head, and ceased, staring hard at grandma.

To confess the truth, Fred had been quite spoiled by being the pet and plaything of the school he attended with Frank—and, indeed, of the house where his mother lodged also. He was a very handsome child, being like his father, and he was also a self-willed little monkey, who liked his own way, and was but little used to contradiction. Seeing "muddie" but for a short time each day, he was always very happy and tolerably good with her, so that poor Janet had little idea that her son had learned to get his own way—entirely with Frank, and to a great extent with others—by howling loudly when not pleased. Thus I may say that I do not altogether grudge him a little discipline, though a box on the ears is not a safe way to apply it.

Frank took his brother's hand, and drew him through the little gate into a large, old-fashioned garden, primly and stiffly laid out, and full of various flowers, though there was nothing very fine or rare. But to a child a flower is a flower, and there were walks to run up and down, little thickets of evergreen to explore, and, in the middle, a marble basin full of gold-fish. In fact, it was a Paradise, and in this Paradise, these two little Adams were to be left to their own devices.

"I shall come for you at two—that's my dinner-time, children. You must not walk on the beds nor pick flowers nor do any mischief, but play about and amuse yourselves. And I do hope, Frank, that you'll pick up a little colour, for at present, you're a show. I shall lock you in. Now mind, if you do any mischief, I shall whip you soundly."

To leave two boys, one not quite seven and the other only four, alone in a garden full of flowers, and to expect them to gather none is to expect too much of such very young human nature. Frank would never have done it, but Fred did; and Frank, though he disapproved, did not actually interfere to stop him.

Mrs. Rayburn spent the rest of the morning in writing to Lord Beaucourt, telling him what had happened (in her own way), and asking leave to keep the boys with her until their parents sent for them. As she had before given Lord Beaucourt to understand that Fred Rayburn was a ne'er-do-weel, who had ruined her, and his wife a silly, shiftless body, who never saw what mischief was going on, while she herself was a most amiable, trustful being, whose little all had been made away with by this thriftless pair, the earl was quite ready to pity her. He wrote that he was sorry that she had new difficulties with her stepson, but that the children would be in no one's way at Kelmersdale, and she could keep them, if she liked. This answer, of course, did not come for two or three days.

At two, Mrs. Rayburn went to the garden for the two boys, caught them red-handed—that is to say, Fred had his hand full of some gaudy tulips and china roses—and proceeded to administer what she called justice at once. She had found them near the marble basin, and on the edge of this she sat down.

"Did you hear me say that you were not to touch the flowers? Yes, you certainly did. And I said that if you did, I should whip you soundly."

"If we did any mischief, you said, grandma," answered Frank.

"And what do you call that?" pointing to the flowers in Fred's hand. "And what do you suppose Mr. Ross, the gardener, will say when he misses them? And the beds all trampled on, I suppose?"

"No, indeed, grandma, we never went on the beds at all. We did no mischief—flowers don't mind being picked."

"Don't you stand arguing there, sir; you were always one for arguing. It was all your fault, for Fred's only a baby, so I shall let him off this time."

And seizing Frank, she proceeded to lay him across her knees, and gave him a smart whipping. Then she set him on his feet, all flushed and giddy. The first thing he saw was the row of windows that overlooked the garden, and I think that the shame of having possibly been seen undergoing such disgrace was worse than the whipping.

Fred, hitherto staring, open-mouthed and terrified, now began to whimper.

"Oh, Fwank, was it for the f'owers? You said she'd be angwy. Beat me too, you bad woman. 'Twas me took 'em; Fwank begged me not."

Mrs. Rayburn was quite willing. Many a time at Hemsborough had her fingers itched to whip one or the other, or both, for she had scant patience with children, and Janet had perhaps too much. But as she put forth a hand to take hold of Fred, Frank pushed in between them, keeping the child behind him, and crying, as he faced her like a little lion—

"No, you've whipped me, and that's enough. If you touch Fred, I'll—I'll push you into the water! We'll run away and be lost; you shan't—you shan't touch Fred."

"Here's a row," said Mrs. Rayburn, half frightened at the violence of the usually gentle child, and the angry spark in his eyes. "I told you," she continued, "that I'd let him off this time, and I will, though he'd provoke a saint. But if you're to stay here, you must obey me, and I just mean to let you see that at once. There, now, come to dinner, and let me hear no more nonsense."

They followed her, a sad, quenched little couple as ever you saw. Frank could eat no dinner; the remembrance of that terrible scene was too much for him; and Fred, seeing this, shook his wee white fist at grandma—when her back was turned.

Dinner over, Mrs. Rayburn seated herself in her easy-chair, and took from her pocket Janet's list of the boys' belongings.

"What picture of your father is this on your list?" she asked. "It is not among your clothes. You'd best give it to me to keep for you."

"Muddie said I was to keep it, and show it to Fred every day, for fear we'd forget him. He's been so long away, you see."

"Well, show it to me."

Reluctantly, Frank drew from his pocket a little square brown case, and, opening it, showed the handsome, pleasant face of his father.

"Oh, only that! Why, it's the cabinet one just cut to fit the case. Yes, you can keep it. Fred there is very like him. You're like your mother. Eh, what's that child doing over there?"

"Nuffin," said Fred, hurriedly abandoning his design to pull the needles out of her knitting.

"You may both go now and play in the court," said Mrs. Rayburn. "There's no flowers there for you to spoil. I'm going to take a nap, for I'm tired out running after you. Now, mind me, boys, particularly Frank, as he's the eldest. I'll be good to you, if you're good; but you may as well give in at once, for I'm not like your mother, that never brought you into order by so much as a smack. Now, you know that I'm in earnest, so run away."

They stole away, hand-in-hand. Frank sat down on the white stone steps.

"Fred, dear," he said, "I do feel so sick and foolish."

"Poo' Fwank, mine own Fwankie," and the little arms stoles round Frank's neck, and the rosy cheek was fondly rubbed against the white one. "It was bad of Fwed not to mind you; Fwed will mind you always now; and be so good. Oh, Fwank, where's muddie?"

"She'll send for us as soon as ever she can. Muddie did not know that grandma would be cross."

But, it was curious enough, Frank was not one whit surprised to find her so.

CHAPTER V.

ALL THE WAY TO GATTIGO.

JANET hardly knew how the time passed during her journey back to Liverpool. She was not asleep, though her fellow-travellers thought she was, for she sat perfectly still with her eyes shut. She felt so awfully alone that she did not know how to bear it.

Arrived in Liverpool, her first care was to secure a berth on board the ship; she had not done so before, not being certain that the children would not be with her. She saw the stewardess, and got her to give her a list of the few things she might want during the passage more than what was supplied by the company. Then she went back to her lodgings, paid up her few debts, packed up everything, went to the school and settled things there; finally, she had everything ready in good time.

It was well that she had so much to do, and so little time in which to do it. For she was very unhappy, when she had time to think. She could not reconcile herself to the step she had taken at her husband's desire. To part with her boys—ah! It seemed cruel. Surely she could not have done it? Surely the door would open, and a baby face peep in, and a merry shout of "Muddie, Muddie, we've come home!" would be heard. But no, all was silence. Fred's loudest howl would have been music to his mother.

And there was another thing that she could not help feeling uncomfortable about. She had not told Mrs. Rayburn that Fred's trouble was so serious that he had been imprisoned and must stand his trial. She had no suspicion that Mrs. Rayburn was not the good-tempered, obliging person she had always appeared, but she did know that she was a great talker and a great gossip. She might write all this to her sister-in-law in Hemsborough; she might even tell the boys, from whom their father so much desired to conceal it.

It had seemed to Janet that there could be no harm in keeping back the worst part of the story, but now she felt uneasy at having done so, being a very truthful and candid woman. Events proved that it would have been wiser to tell all; yet I do not think Janet was to blame for her reticence.

At last the time came for her to go on board; and she and her luggage reached the vessel in safety. It was a lovely evening, and the Mersey as smooth as glass, yet before the vessel left the river, poor Janet was lying in her berth, deadly sick, and only hearing a voice as at a great distance, saying—

"Dear, dear, fancy being took like this before we're out of the river!"

On the river, or on the broad Atlantic, it was all much the same to poor Janet. She was never free from sickness till she found herself landed alone in a strange land. They told her on board that she would feel all right the moment she landed, but she did not feel much better than when at sea. Then she dimly hoped that a night's sleep would cure her, and that everything would cease to swim before her eyes, and leave off coming into violent contact with her when she tried to move. But the night brought no sleep, and no refreshment.

"I must go on to Gattigo. I must get to Fred and Gilbert. I'm going to be ill," she said aloud. And she dressed herself with much difficulty, and made her way to the railway station named in Gilbert's notes.

How she remembered her route, as sent her by Gilbert, how she contrived to drag herself from place to place, and to keep her luggage together—but that is, I believe, easier in Canada than at home—she never could remember. Her head ached so dreadfully that the effort of moving or speaking was agony, and every now and then she lost all sense of her present surroundings and fell into a half-conscious state of fear and misery, only to be realized by those who have endured the slow coming-on of a bad fever.

She reached Gattigo at last. No Fred was visible, but Gilbert was waiting for her.

"Why, here you are, my brave girl," he said pityingly, "and, as things have turned out, I need not have hurried you so."

Janet caught at his arm to keep herself from falling, crying out—

"Gilbert—is he dead?"

"No, no; hold up, Janet. Why, the poor girl has fainted! Here, Brett!"—to a passing railway clerk. "Lend me a hand."

"Your sister that you were expecting? Ah, poor girl, no doubt it was a shock."

"I hadn't time to shock her; she took me up wrong, and thought her husband was dead. Help me, and I'll get her into my waggon and make tracks for home. I think she's ill by the look of her, and finding every one curious about her would make her worse. I must get her home to my wife; she'll manage her."

With his friend's help, he got Janet out of the station, and into his light spring-waggon, where they made her as comfortable as possible. She had revived a little by this time, and obediently swallowed something hot which Brett brought for her. But before they had passed over the fifteen miles of rough road which lay between Gattigo and "Old Man's Ferry," she was almost unconscious; and in that state she lay for hours. Even when this passed off, and she seemed more alive, she never spoke, nor looked as if she knew what they were doing to her.

Mrs. Gray, a bright-looking little French Canadian, who, without a single really good feature except her dark, vivacious eyes, was a very pretty woman, was lost in admiration of Janet's regular features and white skin.

"But you never told me that your sister was so pretty, Gilbert?"

"I declare, I never thought about it," he answered. "Poor mother used to be very proud of her looks, and her good marriage, poor child!"

"Gilbert, is there no chance that we may keep them here? Now that she is getting better, we ought to settle what to say to her."

"You wish to keep them?"

"Well, think of our long, lonely winters! Even the children would be glad of two new companions. And for me, a woman like her—ah, what a comfort!"

"But, Aimée, the hotel notion won't work—not with Rayburn as manager; he's done for that plan."

"I suppose so; but, should you try it with another manager, you would want help here, and so should I. And you would have to drive to Gattigo much oftener than now. You could trust him?"

"Well, I hope so."

"Why, Gilbert, you always say you think him innocent."

"Yes; but he failed to convince the court of it. It is a tangled skein, Aimée, and we can settle nothing till we have him here and Janet well again."

He got up and walked once or twice up and down the long, low room, with a cooking-stove at one end and an open grate for burning wood at the other. Coming to a standstill near the stove, at which Aimée was busy, he said, as if to himself—

"And one thinks of the disgrace, too."

"Now, Gilbert, the case went against him, no doubt; but there were many who, like you, believed him innocent of all but careless folly. It would be forgotten in time if he works steadily here, and makes people like him."

"To like him would be easy; he's a taking kind of fellow enough. Whether he has it in him to bear up under all this misfortune, and live it down, is a different question."

"He would have a better chance here, under your eye, than in any other place."

"That is true. Anyhow, I have Janet and the two boys to think of."

This conversation passed one day that Janet had seemed a little better, but it was not for some time afterwards that she was really quite herself again; even then her weakness was very great. The first time she spoke was a great joy to Aimée, who had begun to fear that her mind was really affected.

Aimée had come to the bedside with a cup of soup and a dainty little bit of toast, when something in the wistful gaze she met, made her say with a smile—

"It is your soup, my dear. Let me raise you up a little."

"You are so kind!" Janet whispered. "Tell me, am I in a hospital? I do not remember coming here."

"No, you were so ill. This is your brother's house, and I am his wife, Aimée."

"And my husband—is dead," Janet said slowly.

"Not he. What made you think that? He will be here in a day or two, and will tell you all about it himself, and why he could not come sooner."

Janet took the speaker's hand, and held it with more strength than she looked capable of.

"You are sure—you do not say this only to quiet me?"

"No, my dear, indeed I would not be so cruel. Your Fred is in good health, and will be here very soon now."

Janet closed her eyes and fell asleep; indeed, it seemed to her that she did nothing but sleep until one day she awoke to find Fred sitting beside her, watching for the opening of her eyes.

CHAPTER VI.

MRS. RAYBURN'S CAP.

WE must now return to Kelmersdale. Happily for us, we can do so without being sick like poor Janet!

In spite of little Fred's good resolutions, things frequently went wrong between him and Mrs. Rayburn. She was not fond of children. Her one idea about them was that they must be well fed, go to bed early, and never be in the way at any time. Now, Fred was nearly always in the way. The children had no employment and amusement, for they never went out except into the stone court, and though they could play there for a time, when Frank got tired of running (which he did very quickly) Fred positively could not keep out of mischief of a very babyish, innocent kind; but his misdemeanours made Mrs. Rayburn very angry, and once or twice she whipped Frank for being so lazy, sitting half asleep and not seeing after his little brother.

If she had whipped Fred, she would have done no harm, for Fred was a boy to whom a whipping would have been a small affliction. He would no doubt have roared during the infliction, and laughed in her face five minutes afterwards. But Frank was very different—a sensitive, delicate child, to whom such a punishment was a real cruelty. Not that she whipped him severely; that she never did, but the injustice of her proceedings and the disgrace of the punishment was breaking Frank's heart and ruining Fred's temper. The little creature began to hate her with an intensity of which she had no idea; she never even observed the way in which he would sit staring at her with a frown on the smooth little forehead, and a sidelong look occasionally at some of her belongings, against which he was forming plans. As long as Fred lives, he will never forget her face.

Weeks passed, and no letter came from Janet. Mrs. Rayburn grumbled, but she really did not mind, as the children were no expense to her. But, after a time, she received a letter from her sister-in-law at Hemsborough which made her very angry. The letter informed her that her married niece, Mrs. John Martin, had heard from her husband, who had gone to America on business, and he had sent her the newspaper now forwarded to Mrs. Rayburn. Mr. Martin had been at New Durham, had heard people speaking of the trial that was soon to take place, and had, of course, recognized the Hemsborough name. The paper contained an account of Mr. Turner's transactions, his escape, the arrest of his partner, and the trial. The account was very brief. The prisoner had denied being a partner, though he had been assisting in the business. Of the foundry and the actual work he knew nothing. But it came out that he had advanced a sum of money to carry on the works, and the court was not satisfied that he knew nothing of the deceptions practised. The upshot was that Rayburn was sentenced to a term of imprisonment. There was no doubt that the Frederick Rayburn so sentenced was really Hopper and Mason's late manager, for Martin had been present at the trial, and knew him very well.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Maria!" Mrs. Rayburn cried, as the girl entered her sitting-room just as she finished reading all this. "There's my precious stepson been cheating right and left, somewhere in Canada, and sent to jail for it, and no doubt, he and his wife mean to make off as soon as he gets out, and leave the boys to me! And what can I do but send them to the workhouse?"

"The poor little things!" said Maria. "La! Ma'am, they do no harm here."

"But what's to become of them? I can't put them to school; I haven't a penny, thanks to their father. I just ask you what's to become of them?"

"Well, my lord will be here soon, ma'am, and maybe he'll be able to advise you about them."

For Lord Beaucourt's visits were looked upon as the time when knotty questions would be decided for the inmates of the Castle.

Presently it was time to summon the children to dinner, and when they were seated at table, and Mrs. Rayburn was carving, she said to Maria—

"Poor unfortunate little souls, what's to become of them now?"

"What's the matter?" asked Frank. "Have you had a letter from muddie?"

"No, indeed, and I doubt I never shall. I wonder, Maria, did she know of this when she was here?"

"Know of what?" Frank cried. "Do tell me, grandma."

"Indeed, I suppose you must know it sooner or later. Your father's in trouble again. First, he loses his good place, and then he goes to Canada and gets put in jail for cheating."

Fred was frightened, though he did not understand. Frank did, and said boldly—

"It's not true. Father never did that—never!"

"Poor child!" said Maria. "Never mind, it's no fault of yours, if he did."

"But he did not. He couldn't," Frank insisted.

"Don't tell him not to mind, Maria, for he'll have to know it. It is all here in black and white, printed in a newspaper."

"It's a mistake, grandma. Father did not—do that."

"My poor child, there's no use denying it. You remember John Martin—he married my niece, Annie Thompson that was—he was foreman at Timpson and Booth's, in Hemsborough? Do you remember him?"

"Yes, I do," Frank admitted.

"Well, he was at this place—New Durham, or Dorset, I forget which exactly—and he saw your father tried and found guilty. He's in jail for it now, and it would be a good thing, if they'd keep him there."

"Do you mean always? Will they keep him always?"

"It's much the same as far as you're concerned. He's got your mother out now, and got rid of you two—I only hope it wasn't a plan laid between them. Eat your dinner, child. Goodness knows how you're to get a dinner when my lord puts you out of this, and it stands to reason he will not keep you for ever."

"I can't eat. It's not that I believe it; muddie would never leave us here always—she wants us—but—but—" the clear little voice broke down—"muddie will come for us soon," he said, with a sob.

"I wish I could think so," Mrs. Rayburn said dolefully, "for I see nothing before you but the poorhouse. What's that, Maria?"

"A telegram from my lord, ma'am."

The telegram gave notice that Lord Beaucourt was coming that evening to get through some business with the steward and keepers, and to arrange with Mrs. Rayburn about rooms, etc., for the shooting-party which was presently to assemble at Kelmersdale.

All was now bustle and preparation. The notice was short, but still all could easily be got ready in time. The children were sent out into the court, and told that Lord Beaucourt must now be informed that they were left on their grandmother's hands, and that he would probably insist on their being sent away.

"And that means the poorhouse," Mrs. Rayburn said mournfully.

Frank sat on the steps, and for a time Fred was with him. The poor child, being very wretched, did not observe that the young rogue soon left him, and stole into the house.

Jacob was going in the cart to do some errands for Mrs. Rayburn. He drove into the court presently, and the great gates were left open for him to drive out again. Frank was looking wistfully out at the green glades in which he was not allowed to wander, and he felt a wild longing to run out, if only for a minute, when suddenly Fred ran out of the house, looking somewhat scared.

"Fwank, Fwank, turn and put it out—turn quick!"

"Put what out?" said Frank, getting up.

"Gwandma's cap. Oh, I only meant to burn a hole in the wibbon, just to vex her, but when I stwuck the match, it all blazed up—all the cap—all blazes, and the bed! Fwank, make haste."

The little monkey had been watching grandma, and, seeing her leave the bedroom, he had stolen in to see what she had been about. She had been laying out her best attire to wear for the earl's arrival; on the bed lay a silk dress and a large cap, with streamers and flowers enough for three; on the table lay a matchbox. Here was a glorious opportunity! How vexed grandma would be! But lace caps are highly inflammable, and the result of his experiment frightened Fred.

The boys raced through the hall, and just as they reached the bedroom, Mrs. Rayburn opened the door of her sitting-room, which was just opposite. Frank scarcely saw her; he was old enough to know something of the danger. He flung the bedroom door wide, and at the sight that met her eyes, Mrs. Rayburn set up an appalling shout. At the sound, Fred turned and ran off to hide. Jacob and several others came running; the fire was soon put out, but Mrs. Rayburn's silk gown and cap were destroyed.

"It's all out, mum; you don't need to be frightened any more," Jacob said, looking ruefully at his singed and blackened garments. "But how on earth did the things take fire?"

Mrs. Rayburn looked round. There stood Frank—and Frank (against his will, for he tried not to do it) looked at the matchbox that lay open on the floor.

"It was your doing!" she cried excitedly. "Well, that settles the matter! My lord will insist on my sending you away, and I have nowhere to send you but to the poorhouse. The boy who could set fire to things that way certainly will not be kept here. You might have burned down the Castle. It's an offence you might be sent to prison for."

"Indeed, I wish my lord would insist upon his being sent to prison, the wicked little cub," said Jacob; "but I'm sure he'll send him out of the Castle. Lock him up safe, mum, till my lord comes."

"I shall, Jacob; but he really ought to get a good flogging at once. I never thought he'd do such a wicked thing."

"I'll give him a flogging that he won't forget in a hurry," said Jacob, who, having been much frightened, was now very angry. He laid hands on the supposed culprit, and led him out into the hall. There he took a whip from its place on the wall, and desired Frank to take off his jacket, which Frank, trembling and tearful but silent, was doing, when, from some hiding-place, Fred rushed out, crying—

"'Twas me did it; you s'ant beat Fwank."

"You! I don't believe it," said Mrs. Rayburn; "why, you're only a baby."

"I'm not!" cried Fred. "I stwuck a match and set your cap in a blaze, and then I wan for Fwank to put it out."

"Hold your tongue, Fred," said the elder boy; "he'd kill you; you're too little to bear it."

Jacob, uttering some queer, inarticulate sound, hung up the whip and walked oft. As long as he lived, he never forgot the look of the slender little lad standing there ready to bear anything to shield his little brother.

Mrs. Rayburn, thus left to her own devices, took the two children to her sitting-room, and opened a queer little hiding-hole in the thickness of the wall, into which she pushed Frank, saying—

"There you both stay, till my lord says what is to be done with you;" and she was in the act of pushing Fred in too, when he dived suddenly under her ample skirts and fled, nor could she find him, though she followed as soon as she had shut Frank in.

Frank sat down on the floor of his prison, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had not quite succeeded when the door of the closet was softly opened, and little Fred crept in.

"Oh, Fwank, she'll send me away and keep you!"

"How do you know?"

"I was hid away in the big room, and she and Mawia came in to dust it and make weady; and she was telling Mawia."

"Yes; tell me what they said."

"Said I was a awful bad child, and that there was no managing the two of us. Gwandma said she'd keep you and send me away; my lord would manage it for her."

Frank scrambled to his feet.

"She'd send you to the poorhouse! Fred, it was very bad of you to set the cap on fire, and you must never do such a thing again. But she shan't part us. Who would take care of you? And I promised muddie I would. I will, too. We'll slip out—the great gate is open still, or I'd have heard the clang—and we'll run away."

"Oh, jolly, jolly!" cried Fred, performing as lively a dance as the space would permit. "We'll wun away and be beggars! Won't it be fun?"

"It can't be wrong," Frank said thoughtfully. "She'd part us, and—no, it must be right for me to save you. We'll go to Liverpool, and find our school. Mrs. Crane was very kind to us, and she'll find out where muddie is for us. That's what we'll do. Fred, stay here till I come back. I must go to our room to get my money."

He was the proud possessor of a few shillings, which his mother had given him, and a sixpence with a hole in it, given him "by father years ago," he said himself.

He shut Fred into the closet, and stole like a little mouse out of the room and along the passage. He took a brush and comb bag, and stuffed some of Fred's clothes into it, with its usual contents. Another bag—a work-bag when it was new—held some of his own clothes. The big red comforter might be useful, for if they could not reach Liverpool before night, they must sleep in the fields. Then the money. Father's picture was safe in his pocket.

Then he stole back and released Fred. They crept across the hall and into the porch. The cart was still there, for Jacob had gone to make himself presentable after his adventures as a fireman, and the great gate was still open. In a few moments Janet's two darlings were out of the court, and had darted into a side path, where some shrubs concealed them from view.

"But we must get back to the big road when we are far enough from the Castle," said Frank, "and get to the gate. I remember the gate. Jacob called 'gate,' and an old woman came and opened it."

"I can call 'gate' just like Jacob," said Fred. "Listen—gate!"

"Hush, hush! We'll be caught, if you shout. Come, let us get back into the road."

The poor little souls were as merry as grigs, running and jumping, then walking hand-in-hand, talking and laughing in the delights of their newfound freedom. They never heard the sound of wheels, till Jacob called "Hullo, boys!" When they stood gazing, and gave themselves up for lost.

"Hullo, boys! What brings you here?"

"We—came out—the gate was open," Frank answered.

"And you wanted a breath of fresh air? And, indeed, 'tis a shame to keep you mewed up in the court. But you'll be lost, and that won't do. Come now, jump in here, and I'll take you as far as the north gate, and then you can run back to the Castle. I'm doing this for you, Frank—you're a right brave little chap; not for you, Fred, that wanted to burn the old place down."

"No, not the place at all, Jacob; only grandma's cap. The west happened of itself," Fred explained.

"Fred, it was not right," put in Frank.

"I never will again, Fwank—weally never."

"You won't have a chance, you little fool," said Jacob. "Maria was telling me Mrs. Rayburn won't keep you, even if my lord would let her. You'll be sent away, and Frank will stay till he's old enough to go as a page-boy at Beaucourt. That's what Mrs. Rayburn has made up her mind to."

Fred, thoroughly frightened, clung to his poor little protector, who whispered—

"I'll save you; only don't say a word."

They soon reached the north gate. It was open, and Jacob said to the boys—

"Out with you now, and run home. I want to speak to Mrs. Price."

The boys tumbled out, clutching their bags. Jacob went to the lodge: when he came back, the boys were gone. They had run across the road and scrambled over the low fence into a field, where they hid, until Jacob came out and put his horse into a brisk trot.

"We won't go by that road, because we'd meet him coming back," said Frank. "We'll go along by the wall; it's nice and shady, too. By-and-by, we'll buy some bread, and ask the way to Liverpool. This bag is very heavy."

"So is mine," said Fred; "but come along. It's very jolly!"

Away they went—poor Janet's babies!

"WE'LL GO ALONG BY THE WALL."

CHAPTER VII.

THE BOYS' ESCAPE.

LORD BEAUCOURT arrived at Kelmersdale somewhat too early for dinner, and, having been duly informed by Mrs. Rayburn that she was in difficulties about the two children, he desired her to come to his study and tell him all about it.

"Now, Mrs. Thompson—no, Rayburn, by the way—what's wrong with you?"

"My lord, that unlucky young man, my stepson, not content with ruining himself and me, speculating and getting dismissed, has got into worse trouble in America. To the best of my belief, he's at this present time in prison for some offence or other—cheating people, I believe. He wrote for his wife, and she brought the boys to me and went off, and not a line have I had from her since. And the boys are—well, indeed, my lord, they are in mischief from morning to night, and I am worn out running after them. Since the shock I got about their father, my health is not at all good."

Being further questioned, she described the affair of that morning, and I am sorry to say that Lord Beaucourt, who was a nobleman of a merry turn of mind, laughed heartily.

"The little pickles!" he exclaimed. "They deserved a rod, no doubt."

"They might have burned down the Castle, my lord."

"Best thing that could happen to it, Mrs. Rayburn. It is nothing but an expense. But stone walls four feet thick do not burn easily. Well, I will think about it. I know several institutions that might answer; it would be easier, of course, if they were orphans. But, never mind, we'll find a school for them somewhere. I will talk to you again about it."

He had to talk to her again, much sooner than he either wished or expected. As soon as dinner was fairly served, Mrs. Rayburn, who had been assisting the somewhat inexperienced cook, went to look for Fred, whom she expected to find in the little turret bedroom, as she had done on similar occasions more than once. For Fred had quite a genius for disappearing when most wanted to answer for some choice piece of mischief. Not finding him there, she said to herself:

"He's hiding in my sitting-room, to be near Frank."

She searched the sitting-room, but, as we know, Fred was not there, nor was Frank in the closet.

"Those boys," said Mrs. Rayburn, in a loud voice, "will live to be hanged, as sure as my name is Lydia Rayburn. There's no use going on like this, boys," she went on, seating herself in her easy-chair. "You're hiding, I know, but you may as well come out. My lord will not get you punished as you deserve, and I shall say no more about it. I forgive you both this once."

She lay back, pretending to doze, but really watching the first movement of curtain or tablecloth, to pounce upon the sinners. The sinners, however, were not there to be pounced upon.

After a few moments Mrs. Rayburn's pretended doze turned into a real one, and she filled the cosy room with portentous snores. She woke up suddenly in a fright.

"Bother those boys!" she exclaimed. "Where on earth are they hid?" And, getting up, she began a systematic search. They were not in her rooms, she soon discovered, so she went out into the hall and began poking about behind the suits of armour that stood like ghostly sentinels round the walls. She was thus engaged when Jacob drove up to the porch. The hall being lighted, though but dimly, he saw the housekeeper at her queer employment.

"I had to wait some time, mum, for the parcel was sent by goods train. Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Rayburn, mum?"

"Looking for those two young pests, if you must know. I locked Frank up—the young one escaped me—just to keep them out of mischief while I was busy, and now, lo and behold! They're both gone."

"When did you lock the boy up, mum?"

"At once; just after the fire was put out."

"Well, then," said Jacob, excitedly, "the boys got out somehow, for I overtook them halfway to the north gate. I bid them run back, and I made sure they would, but they did not, I suppose. The big fish-ponds are close to the approach, just a bit to the left, and if the boys went near the ponds, they're both drowned long ago. 'Tis a dangerous place for children; keeper's two were drowned there two years ago. Well, these two were pretty boys; 'tis a pity of them."

Jacob kept on talking in this disjointed way, because he did not want to be questioned and have to say that he had given the boys a lift. In a simple, cunning way, he thought that if he frightened Mrs. Rayburn sufficiently, she would not be able to question him effectually. He succeeded, but, like many another, perhaps he wished he had not succeeded quite so well, for Mrs. Rayburn flopped down upon a hard and narrow hall bench with such reckless speed that she tumbled off at the other side, and knocked down one of the ghostly sentinels, whereupon the armour all fell apart with a tremendous clatter, and Mrs. Rayburn set up a doleful screaming which echoed through the old hall, and brought people running from every direction. Even Lord Beaucourt sent to inquire what was the matter, and received for reply a message stating that Jacob had brought word that the two little Rayburns had been drowned in the fish-ponds. On this the earl abandoned his dessert and came himself to the hall, where his presence produced silence, except for Mrs. Rayburn's cries.

"Where is this man Jacob?" said Lord Beaucourt. "Oh—well, Jacob, it is too dark for you to have seen into the ponds. What makes you so sure that the boys fell in?"

Jacob repeated his story, and, in the alarm produced by being questioned by "my lord," he began that pawing movement which was his way of showing embarrassment.

"You saw the boys near the ponds, and desired them to return to the Castle. It does not seem to me that you have any valid reason for thinking that they went to the ponds at all. Mrs. Rayburn, go to your rooms, and I will send out the few men we have here to look for your little grandsons."

When Mrs. Rayburn, still wailing in a terrified manner, had been removed by the women-servants, Lord Beaucourt turned to Jacob.

"Look here, my man. You are not telling the whole truth about this matter. You met the boys near the ponds; where did you part from them?"

"Oh, my lord, it was on the north avenue, and they got into the spring cart and came on a bit, and then I bid them run home."

"Stand still, if you please." Jacob ceased to paw. "Had you any reason for concealing this from Mrs. Rayburn?"

"Only, my lord, I thought she'd be angry, seeing the boys had run off without her knowledge."

"Another time I should advise you to avoid foolish concealments. If anything has happened to these boys, whom you were the last person to see, and about whom you tell their grandmother half the truth, adding a perfectly gratuitous suggestion that the children are drowned, you may find yourself in a very awkward position. Mansfield, bring me my hat and coat, and send some one to the keeper's lodge, desiring him to meet me at the ponds at once."

Jacob volunteered to carry the message, and as Lord Beaucourt had very little suspicion that he had put the boys into the pond, he allowed him to go. I may mention that Jacob was not in the least alarmed, being quite too stupid to understand Lord Beaucourt's meaning.

The ponds were searched. They were clear and shallow, save for one deep hole where there was a spring; this was searched with long poles tipped with hooks. Nothing was found. The park, shrubberies, and gardens were thoroughly searched, and as no trace of the boys was found, next morning the search was continued outside the estate. It was found that two boys answering to the description had been seen by some workmen going towards the bridge over the Kelmer, which crossed the road after leaving Kelmersdale Park. Near the bridge the searchers found a bag containing a brush and comb and some underclothing, marked F. R. The bag was red, with the word "Janet" worked on it in white, and Mrs. Rayburn recognized it as the boys' property.

Beyond the fact that this proved that the children intended to run away, it was a useless find, and, in spite of a most diligent search, the boys were not heard of. After a time, people generally believed that they had been tempted to clamber down to the water, and had fallen in. The Kelmer is full of deep holes, and is known as a river that seldom gives up a victim. Jacob, when he heard this conclusion spoken of, remarked that he had always said that the boys were drowned. Mansfield, Lord Beaucourt's man, who was present, replied—

"It is well for you that the old woman at the lodge declared that the boys were not with you when you passed the gate."

"Why?" asked Jacob, after a pause for meditation.

"Well, as they were seen alive on the road, and did not go out with you, don't you see that there can be no suspicion that you made away with them, though you were so queer about them that first night?"

Jacob considered this gravely, and then said, "Any man that says that I would do the like, I shall be obliged to see whether his fist or mine is the heaviest. They were pretty boys, and Frank had a lot of pluck. But I always said they were drowned," he concluded defiantly.

Mansfield shrugged his shoulders and said no more.

Where were the boys all this time? Not drowned in the Kelmer, at all events. The poor little couple had wandered on all that day, very happy in the freedom they had gained so easily. The bread they bought at a tiny village seemed to them the sweetest they had tasted since they left "muddie." They reached Rugeley, to which this hilly and devious old road led in a roundabout fashion, peculiar to old roads, about an hour after Jacob left the station with the cart. As they drew near, meaning to ask the first man they met to send them back to Liverpool, they heard a loud, rough voice from a room in the station call out, "Here's another parcel for Kelmersdale. Is that man Jacob gone yet?"

Not waiting for the reply, the boys fled as fast as tired out little legs would go. In their fright they passed the gate by which they had entered, running on all the way down the long platform until they reached the end of it. It was a raised platform ending abruptly, and in the twilight they very nearly fell off, stopping but just in time. They looked round and saw—or fancied they saw—a man coming after them. At a siding stood a couple of vans, waiting there to be joined to the goods train from the north presently; one door was open.

"In here, Fred," cried Frank, quickly.

In they clambered, sat down on some sacks of wool behind the door, and listened. Yes, a man came and put a big box in through the door, which he then shut. The boys were in utter darkness, but the sacks were soft; that is, the wool was, and they were tired. So very soon they were fast asleep. Fred lying along the sacks with his head on Frank's knee, Frank's arms round him, and Frank's voice murmuring in his sleep—

"Don't be afraid, Fred. We're quite safe, and to-morrow we—will—search for muddie."

During the night, the train was coupled on to that expected from the north, and before the boys awoke, they were stationary in another town, far enough from Rugeley. They had a glimmer of light now, but for a few minutes they could not imagine where they were. Then they remembered their escape, and how they had crept in here to hide; but that the van had moved since they entered it they did not in the least suspect.

"Oh, Fwank, I'm so hungry!" said Fred.

"Here's some bread I kept for you, because I know you're such a hungry boy. Eat it up."

Fred required no pressing; the bread disappeared.

"Where's your bread, Fwank?"

"I'm not hungry yet. When we get out we'll buy some more."

"When s'all we get out?"

"When they open the door."

After some time, Fred got so hungry, and said so with such increasing emphasis, that at last Frank was driven to call out; but no one heard him. The vans were again on a siding waiting for a train to take them to their destination further south. The greater part of the train had gone on to London.

Hungry and frightened, the forlorn pair sat side by side, tightly clasped in each other's arms. They fell asleep at last, and when they awoke the train was moving.

"Oh, Fwank, they're wunning away with us!"

"But I suppose they are going to Liverpool," answered Frank; "and won't that be nice?"

"Yes, but I'm so hungry!"

"So am I," admitted poor Frank; "but, then, fancy if we find we're safe in Liverpool!"

As he spoke the train slackened its pace, and finally stopped.

Presently a man opened the door of the van, and pulled out the big box thrust in at Rugeley. He went off with it without seeing the boys, who were behind the door. Poor little souls! They rejoiced at this escape, yet surely it would have been well had they been discovered and sent back to Rugeley. The man left the door open, and Frank peeped out. There were several men about, but they were all busy, and the boys got out of the van unperceived.

They looked very unlike poor Janet's neatly dressed and spotlessly clean little boys. Frank had got dusty in his prison closet; they had both trudged the dusty road for hours, and had finally slept in a railway van on a sack of wool. Of each and all these adventures they bore visible traces; their natty little sailor suits were all awry, their curly hair full of bits of wool. They really looked like what they wished to pass for—two little beggars. As they looked about, hoping to see some one who would tell them where they were, though they felt sure they were in Liverpool, the station-master spied them.

"Off the platform, you little ragamuffins," he shouted. "We've had quite enough of pickpockets here already."

Utterly unused to unkindness, except from grandma, Frank restrained his brother, who would have fled, and, taking his hand, walked up to the station-master, and said—

"Please, sir, is not this Liverpool?"

The man stared. All he saw, however, was a dirty little pair of children, who plainly had no right to be on his platform. The baby beauty of dark-eyed Fred, the sweet confiding smile of poor pale Frank had no effect whatever on him.

"Liverpool! Is the boy an idiot? Get out of this at once, or I'll take a stick to you."

As he spoke, a whistle sounded, and, behold! The train was moving on. Frank felt as if his last friend was deserting him. A moment more, and he was driven off the platform, Fred clinging to him in great terror, and the station-master rattling a thick stick against the iron railings that separated the railway from the road.

"Oh, Fwank, what shall we do now?"

"Don't cry, Fred. I'll take care of you, and God loves us just the same as if we were at home with muddie. But I wish I had not left my bag in the van."

A little way from the station they came to a shop, where they bought some bread; a drinking-fountain in the street gave them a drink of water. They consulted each other on the propriety of washing, but Frank thought that people might object. Then a woman came along the pathway, and Frank ventured to address her—

"Please, ma'am, isn't this Liverpool?"

"Liverpool! Did you ever hear the like? Why, child, Liverpool's a long way off. I never saw it in my life. Why do you ask?"

"Because we are going there, ma'am."

"What! You two babies? Who are you going with?"

"No one, ma'am. We must walk."

"Nonsense, child—walk indeed!"

"Oh, we can walk very well," Frank said, adding with a sigh, "We're beggars, you know."

The woman was kind-hearted, but stupid, and, moreover, in a hurry. She looked round for a policeman, intending to call his attention to the children; but there was no policeman to be seen, so she compromised the matter with her conscience by saying—

"I don't know any way of getting to Liverpool except by train, and that costs a lot of money. Go home now, like good children. Here's a penny for you, and I'm in a great hurry."

"Thank you, ma'am," Frank said gratefully. And then, as she sped away, he turned to Fred, saying, "By train—that's what she said. Then, Fred, as long as we keep near the train we're on the right road to Liverpool."

Fred, refreshed by sound sleep and a big hunch of bread, set forth gaily, skipping along beside the weary, gentle-looking elder brother, for whom, alas! Sleep had brought little refreshment, and who had stinted his breakfast that he might have bread in his pocket for Fred. Thus they left the town, the name of which they never knew, but I think it must have been Cirencester.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

EVERY ONE knows the lines in "The Babes in the Wood"—

"These pretty Babes, hand-in-hand,

Went wandering up and down;"

*        *       *        *       *

"And when they saw the darksome night,

They sat them down and cried."

Yes, it came to that with Janet's little darlings. That they had taken a southerly direction, following the railway away from, instead of towards, Liverpool, or any other place they knew, really did not matter in the least. Their enterprise was an impossible one in any case. They tried hard to keep the railway in sight, but the roads did not lie near it, and in finding easy places to creep through or over fences they wandered from it, and finally failed to find it again. This was a great relief to Fred, but Frank felt more lost than ever.

They bought bread as long as they had pence to pay for it, then they begged in good earnest, getting sometimes a little food, sometimes a penny, sometimes a hard word. They slept under a tree, or where they could; that is, Fred slept, and Frank lay as quiet as he could, and kept Fred warm, dozing at intervals and awaking in the grey dawn shivering and hardly able to get up from the ground.

Then the weather changed: it blew and rained, and the nights were cold.

Except to give them a little charity, no one took any notice of them. They looked much like any other little beggars, and if people thought about them at all, they probably concluded that they belonged to some party, and that their comrades were waiting just out of sight. It was a thinly inhabited country district; they begged only at solitary houses, and there were no policemen about, as would have been the case in any town.

There is a village in Gloucestershire which I shall call Edgestone, a large village with numerous inhabitants, mostly poor, industrious people. It had a clergyman, of course, and a doctor—and, I believe, a lawyer. Most of the men were labourers employed on the large farms which surrounded the village; their wives and children lived in more or less comfort, according to the thrift or unthrift of their parents, in the rows of cottages which formed the street. The church—a beautiful old building—stood in the middle of the village. Beyond it there was a large green, on which the children played and geese wandered about at pleasure; at the side furthest from the church was the schoolhouse, and a few houses of the better sort, with gardens; then the street again, but this part of it was very short.

In these houses on the green, the doctor and the few gentry of the place lived. The road to the village from the east lay through farms and orchards, with here and there a cottage. As one came nearer Edgestone, the cottages were more numerous, until at last you found yourself in the street.

In one of the outlying cottages—a small white one, containing but two rooms, but standing in a little garden always full of bright flowers, as indeed were the two clean windows, and even the tiny back yard—in this cottage lived a little old woman, whose name was Betty Giles. She had been a servant in her youth; then she married, and brought up a numerous family. Her husband was a good, steady man, and her married life had been happy. Then her husband died, and she was left alone, for her boys were married, and her girls either married or in service. Her married children would gladly have given her a home, for she was one who was sure of a welcome, owing to her kindly, pleasant ways and her industry.

But Betty would not go to any one of them, nor to all of them in turn, which was another plan proposed to her. She gave up her big cottage, and took this tiny one, and there she contrived to support herself by various small industries. She kept a small shop, selling bread of her own making, always light and sweet, tea and sugar and biscuits, and several other things. But her principal income was derived from her scrap of garden. She grew patches of early annuals, which somehow always turned out very fine, so that the ladies on the green would buy them eagerly instead of trying to grow them for themselves. When these were cleared away, she sowed autumn flowers. In boxes, cunningly hung from the wall at the back of her cottage, and all round the very small yard, she grew cuttings of geraniums, chrysanthemums, fuchsias, etc., the parent plants making a gorgeous show in the front garden. Betty's husband had been a gardener, and she understood and loved flowers. Whether she loved them because she understood them, or understood because she loved, I really cannot say.

Between her manifold employments and her many visits to and from her sons and daughters, Betty lived a busy and a happy life. She was a little woman, with a face like a pink-and-red apple—a rather withered apple, I confess. Her face, her dress, her cap and apron, her house and her furniture were always beautifully and spotlessly clean.

One evening in September—it was only September, but the weather had broken, and it was very cold—Betty sat in her snug kitchen reading her Bible; a very slow and solemn process was Betty's reading. Her lonely life had given her a habit of talking to herself, for she had an active tongue and no one else to talk to.

"That," said Betty, "is a tex' as sticks in the memory, so I'll stop here. Ah me! It must be fine to be a scholar like some of my young folk—no spelling out of words for them! 'Tis a blessing, for the like of me, that the Bible is read out loud in church, for one does seem to take it in better when one doesn't have to spell."

"Well, now, I think there's a touch of frost, though 'tis far too early for it, if I may say so without offence, seeing that my opinion wasn't asked. I think I'll cover the geranium slips; fine they look, and 'twould be a pity to run risks. Such a lot, too; I shall have to buy some pots. That's just a cross I have to bear—the way some folk forget to return my pots. Now, there's Miss Lavinia has a heap of them in a corner—pots properly belonging to me, and I'm afraid to ask for them, she's so quick to take huff."

"Eh—what's that? Some one at the door! I must have left the gate open. 'Tis well if half a score of dogs don't—Oh, a child! Well, little chap, what do you want? And who are you? For I don't know you, and I know every boy in the village."

The child stood before her, she standing in the doorway with a lighted candle in her hand. A pretty boy, but ragged and dirty. He had on a sailor suit of dark blue, once very natty, and over his little jacket, he wore a second, equally ragged, and far too large for him. His shoes were broken and nearly soleless, his feet blistered and bleeding, his hair was matted and twisted, but, when he raised appealing dark eyes to Betty's face, the look went to her soft old heart.

"Come to Fwank; he's sick; he can't walk any more. I'm fwightened."

"'Come to Fwank'! Who's that, and where is he?"

"On the woad under the hedge. 'Tis cold, ma'am." Here his eyes lighted on a flat cake of bread lying on the little deal table that served as a counter, and he burst out crying. "I'm so hungwy. 'Dive' me some 'bwead'!"

Betty cut a good piece and gave it to him. Before he took a morsel, the little hand was stretched out.

"Some for Fwank, though he says he's not hungwy. But we've had none—oh, for ever so long."

"Show me where he is," said old Betty; and they set out together, the boy devouring the bread. It was some way off: there was a high hedge growing on a low bank. On the side path, with his head on the sloping bank, lying on his back, with his arms stretched out and his white face upturned towards the clear starry sky, lay Frank. Betty knelt beside him, and touched him; she spoke to him, and at last raised him into a sitting posture, leaning against her arm. But the child neither spoke nor moved, not so much as to open his eyes.

"And no jacket at all! No wonder he's cold. I doubt he's colder than is natural, though 'tis a cold night too."

She got up as she spoke, and lifted him in her old arms.

"Light as a feather, too. Skin and bone—not much of it either. Come, little chap, trot on beside me. I must get this child warm—if I can."

Fred confidingly ran beside her, her walk keeping him running, and though she saw that the child was weary and could scarcely do it, she did not slacken her pace. Into the warm cottage, she carried the boy, laying him on the floor before the fire, and putting a pillow under his head. She put her hand on his heart—poor little loving, brave heart. She thought it fluttered, but not more than that. She got some milk and warmed it, giving a cupful to Fred. Then she tried patiently to make Frank swallow a spoonful, but tried in vain. Fred, having finished his share, sat down beside his brother.

"Fwank, isn't this nice and cosy? Put your arms wound me as you always do."

Betty thought there was an effort to move, but even of that she was not sure.

"Fwank never did so before. Always his arms wound me, and my head on him—so."

And the little dark head was laid on the faithful breast which had been its pillow so often, and the bright eyes closed. Fred was asleep.

Mrs. Giles, muttering to herself, "The pitifullest sight I ever saw," covered them with her warm shawl, and poked up the fire—recklessly for one of her frugal habits. Then she went out into the night again, going as fast as her feet could carry her up the long straggling street, and across the green. She was bound for the doctor's house, but outside the gate of the little avenue she met the doctor himself, setting out to take a last look at some patient.

"Dr. Wentworth, be that you? Oh, sir, I'm glad I've met you! Come to my house; there's a boy there that I think is dying."

"Whose boy, Betty? Your grandson?"

"No; no one I know. There's two of them. I found them, or one of them found me. I'll tell you by-and-by; just now I want my breath for walking. Oh, doctor, 'tis the saddest sight!"

Little more passed as they hurried to the cottage. Betty pulled off the shawl, and the doctor muttered, "Too late—for one of them."

Having asked Betty a question or two as to what she had already done, he lifted Fred from his brother's side, and put him upon Betty's bed; he was warm now, and sleeping soundly. Then he heated Betty's shawl and his own coat, and wrapped the other boy up in them, and chafed the little sore and battered feet.

"Betty, go to the Cygnet, and get me a little brandy. Say nothing of the children; I don't want all the village here."

Betty hurried away, and was soon back again with the brandy. The doctor wetted the white lips with it, and rubbed the temples. Then he again felt for the beating of the heart, and while he was doing so the boy opened his eyes, and, looking at the two faces bent over him, said faintly—

"Fred! Where is Fred?"

"Safe and warm in my bed, child," answered Betty.

"Ah!"—with a sigh of relief. "Safe and warm!"

"Drink this, my boy," said Dr. Wentworth. "You shall tell us all about it by-and-by."

"Where's Fred?" Frank again asked, in a hurried tone.

Dr. Wentworth went and lifted the sleeping child gently, laying him beside the other.

"See, here he is, safe and sound."

"He always sleeps here. Ah! I cannot move. Fred, I did save you. I have taken care of you. I'm tired; but you're safe."

Fred sat up, half awake, and kissed him.

"Fred, tell muddie I took care of you." Then to the doctor, "Tell muddie I took care of Fred."

Fred, frightened and sleepy, began to cry. When had he ever cried before and Frank failed to comfort him? Betty took him up in her arms, and the poor little thing was so worn out that he fell asleep again with the tears on his cheeks.

"I can't take care of him any more," Frank said, after a vain effort to swallow what Dr. Wentworth offered him. "But God will; muddie says so."

He stretched himself suddenly, gave a weak cry, and was gone.

"Oh, doctor, don't tell me he's dead, the pretty little darling! Wait till I put this one back in bed."

This she did, and came softly back.

"Is he dead?"

"Ay, dead. Starved, I think. Look, the little one has on two jackets; he has none. The comforter's tied round the young one, and it is plain that whatever food they have had, the young one has had the lion's share, too young to know that his brother was giving him his life. Well, Betty, you did all you could. I'll go now and get help to carry the poor little fellow to the Cygnet; there will have to be an inquest, and I suppose we shall find out who they are, and how they were lost, for lost they were, I suspect. These are no tramps to the manner born. This little fellow must go to the poorhouse until his people turn up. I declare, Betty, I'd give many a fat fee to have saved this boy."

"Indeed, then, doctor, if I was their mother, I'd wish them together again in heaven sooner than have this baby in the poorhouse."

The doctor carried out his arrangements, and little Frank's frail and worn body was laid on a bed in the clean little inn, while Fred lay warm and soft in Betty's arms. So the little wanderers both slept sound, one of them to wake no more to this world's "fitful fever."

Next day there was an inquest, and Fred was to have been questioned as to the name borne by himself and his brother, and how they came to be wandering about in this forlorn way. But Fred was in no condition to be examined.

When he awoke, he began calling for "Fwank," and searching for him, with tears and lamentations, looking everywhere for him, and calling incessantly. Betty, at last, in despair, told him that Frank was dead. She hardly expected the child to understand. But Frank's innocent talk about his unforgotten little sister had made Fred familiar with the idea of death to some extent, and, after a long stare of horror, the poor little fellow began to scream, and nothing that Betty could say or do seemed to make any difference. The doctor, busy about the inquest, was near at hand, and after some vain attempts to quiet the child, he had to give him a sleeping draught, which soon had the desired effect.

But when Fred woke again, he was very ill; he was quite delirious, and talked fast and indistinctly about "muddie" and "Fwank" and "gwandma." It was many a long day before he could be questioned, and when they tried to do so, he seemed to have forgotten everything and every one.

Several attempts were made, more with a view to finding out who the child was than with any reference to Frank's death. For by that time, Frank's little grave was green; the doctor, feeling sure that some day the children would be inquired about, had had him buried at his own expense beside his own little son, his only child, who had died but a short time previously. But no information could be got from poor Fred, whose little white face, with the wistful dark eyes, looked full of intelligence, but whose memory, for the present at least, seemed a blank. At last the doctor forbade any further questioning of the child.

"I am sure," he said, "that as he regains his strength, his mind will recover from the shock, but you may seriously injure him, if you do not leave him in peace now."

Every effort was made, of course, to trace the children's wanderings, and they were tracked back some stages in their journey. But then all trace was lost. The distance the poor little things had come in the luggage van was so great that the inquiries made were never heard of by any one who knew them; nothing but their initials was marked on their clothing, and, save the photograph of his father, Frank had had nothing in his pocket. Even the photograph told nothing, for it had been originally a cabinet-size portrait, and poor Janet had cut out the head to fit it into a little leather case, so that the name and address of the photographer were wanting.

"Really," said Dr. Wentworth one day, when he had looked in to see Fred, "really, Betty, if we send this child to the union, he'll probably grow up an idiot."

"Send him to the union?" interrupted Betty. "Is it the child I've nursed through that terrible fever, and that has slept in my old arms every night since I got him? What do you take me for, doctor?"

"For a good old body with a hasty tongue, Betty. Just let me finish my remarks, please. If he goes to the union, he'll end in being an idiot. Therefore, it would be doubly cruel to send him there. Now, if you can continue to keep him for a while, I'll help you. I feel sure the child will be looked for, and whoever finds him will find only one where two were lost. But we need not add to their grief."

"I don't need any help, doctor, so far. Only for clothes. I'll keep the child. I've got to love him."

"Clothes? Yes; I'll speak to my wife. We'll clothe him, and pay for his schooling, if he ever needs any. Meanwhile, do you get him to help you in any little way he is able for, and keep him out in the fresh air. Never talk to him of the night he came to you, and I really believe he'll be all right in a while. I'm afraid he will hardly remember anything that will help to identify him, because he's such a little creature. Poor little waif! He was in luck when he chose your door to creep up to."

So little Fred's fate was arranged for him, for a time at least. Betty taught him to weed in the garden, and to water her many precious pots and boxes of slips and seedlings. She took him with her, when she carried home flowers or plants to her customers, and though he seldom spoke, and never unless asked a question, she soon found that he knew his way as well as she did, and that he never made a mistake about a message. So as time went on, he was provided with a little handcart, and became her trusty little messenger. Other people employed him too, so that he earned many a penny, and these he brought home faithfully to Betty.

He had been a very small child for his age, but now he began to grow, and became a tall, slight boy, with, as Betty used to say, "as pretty a face as any lady." Yet many a long day passed, before any one could find out whether he remembered anything that had happened to him before he became "Betty Giles's Fred," as the neighbours called him now.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE NEW HOME.

LET us pay a flying visit to Kelmersdale to see how it fared with "grandma." Mrs. Rayburn has not hitherto appeared in a very amiable light in these pages, yet she was not an altogether bad woman. She had a heart, though it was so overlaid with selfishness that she herself hardly knew that it existed, and she had a conscience, though she made but little use of it.

And now, as she sat alone in her snug room, and ate her comfortable meals, she failed to get the slightest comfort or enjoyment out of any of these things. The faces of the two boys—Frank's gentle smile, Fred's saucy laugh—rose up before her, no matter what she was doing or where she was.

She felt sure now that Janet would write or come to claim her children, though she had so often declared that Janet had deliberately deserted them, and would be heard of no more. Most people believed that the boys had fallen into the Kelmer, and now lay in one of those deep holes, or pools, into which those drowned in that river generally disappeared. But Mrs. Rayburn did not believe this, though she tried to do so. Every horrid story of the oppression of children by chimney-sweeps, travelling tinkers, professional acrobats, and others, came into her head whenever she thought of the two boys; she pictured them to herself as suffering and starved and beaten, overworked and ill-used in every possible way. She had always been fond of stories of horrors, and now she paid for her bad taste, for they supplied her imagination with horrors enough to drive any one mad. Those about her said that Mrs. Rayburn cared for those children far more than any one could have expected, considering that their father was only her stepson, and by no means a creditable one, by her own showing.

So passed the autumn, a few weeks being fine, and then the weather broke, and there were cold, damp days and rainy, windy nights.

On the very night on which little Fred found his way to Betty's cottage with his pitiful cry for help—the very night when Frank's sweet soul passed away—there came a letter for Mrs. Rayburn. Maria brought it to her.

"A letter, ma'am; and I'm sure I hope it's good news, for I can't bear to see how you fret for the poor little children."

Mrs. Rayburn looked at the writing.

"It's from no one I know," she said, laying it down beside her. She sat for some time plunged in very gloomy thoughts. The Earl and a party of friends were come to the Castle for some shooting, and they were just then at dinner. A door was opened, and she heard the sound of voices and laughter. She felt unreasonably angry that any one should laugh in the very same place where the boys had played so often so short a time ago.

The boys, the poor little dead boys—for they were dead, and she was tormenting herself foolishly imagining them in misery and suffering—they were in heaven; and well was it for them, for it was clear that neither Janet nor their father would ever be heard of in England again.

Now she felt able to read that letter, and she took it up. A strange hand, shaky and uneven. She opened it, glanced at the signature, and, uttering a low cry, fell back in her chair.

An hour later, when the guests left the dining-hall, and were heard passing along the corridors to the smoking-room, the noise roused Mrs. Rayburn, who was still sitting with the letter grasped in her hand, unread. Now, making a great effort to compose herself, she began to read it.

"Old Man's Ferry Farm, Gattigo, British Columbia.

"MY DEAR MOTHER,

"I hope you have not been frightened about me, though I have been so long without writing. I could not help it, for I have been very ill, and am still very weak, as you may see from my writing. I was in great distress at getting no letter from you, with news of my little darlings, till I remembered that I may not have given you my brother's address, for I was in such a hurry, and so distracted at parting with the children. I am with Gilbert, and Fred is here too, and we have some hope that we shall soon be settled, either here to help Gilbert and his wife, or in Gattigo in an hotel which Gilbert means to start, and we are to manage. Whichever we have to do, we can have the boys out now. I enclose a bank-bill for their expenses, and if you could possibly be spared to take my two boys to Liverpool, and put them on board the boat named in Gilbert's part of this letter, it will be very kind of you. Gilbert will send you every direction to save you trouble. We wish them to come by this boat, because Gilbert knows the captain, whose wife will be on board. Fred will meet them on landing, and bring them on here. How I long for them no words can tell, though I am sure you have made them as happy as possible, and we shall never forget your kindness to them and to us.

"Fred sends you his love. He is now quite well, and only longing to be at work in some way. While on his way to join my brother, he met an old acquaintance who had set up in business in New Durham, and who cheated him, poor fellow! out of all his money, and then ran away, leaving him to be suspected of all sorts of dishonesty. And he managed so that poor Fred could not prove his innocence, nor could my brother, though he felt quite sure of it. However, our troubles are over now, I hope, and a new life about to begin. I only want my boys to make me as happy as ever.

"Will you come out with the boys and share our work in the hotel if we go there? Perhaps you would prefer to wait until we know for certain we shall be there, or here on the farm? Whichever it is, your assistance would be very welcome. But perhaps you do not care to leave Kelmersdale, where you are so comfortable, and we feel unwilling to urge you until we are sure of our future prospects. But when we know that we are going to do well, you may be sure we shall want you to share our good fortune.

"Kiss my boys for 'muddie,' and remember that, though I cannot write as I feel, I am for ever grateful to you for taking care of them. When I feel their arms round my neck, I shall be too happy. Tell them that 'muddie' just longs for them. I must leave room for Gilbert now.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"JANET RAYBURN."

When Maria came back a little later with Mrs. Rayburn's supper, she found her lying back in her armchair insensible. The letter lay at her feet.

*        *       *        *       *

Fred Rayburn was just about to leave the Farm in order to meet the two boys and bring them safe to their mother, when a letter to Janet from Lord Beaucourt stopped him. Very kindly and gently did the Earl break the dreadful news. He told the story very fully, and said that, although the children had not been found in the river, there was no reasonable doubt that they had fallen in, probably in trying to take a drink. He spoke of the character of the Kelmer, from which the bodies of those who were drowned in it were very seldom recovered. And he told of Mrs. Rayburn's serious illness, which it was still feared would end fatally.

"Your letter and the bank-bills I now return to you were lying at her feet. I am told that since her power of speech has returned to her, she talks of having been harsh to the children; and I cannot say whether this is really true, or only her fancy. Certainly she has never been the same since they were lost."

He concluded with many expressions of sympathy, and a promise that Mrs. Rayburn should be well cared for.

Poor Janet! That letter very nearly killed her. At her earnest request, Fred went to England, to ascertain, as far as he could, the truth about Mrs. Rayburn's treatment of the boys; and perhaps there was a wild hope that he might discover that the children had not perished. He did his best, but discovered nothing new about the children.

Mrs. Rayburn had left the Castle, and was in a hospital in London, as her state of mind required careful watching; but she was better, and would, they thought, recover. Fred felt convinced that she had not been kind to the children, and did not feel very sorry when told that he could not see her.

He returned to Canada after a while, bringing no hope, and but little added information.

Poor Janet! Her sorrow was very sore, and it was not lessened by a curious feeling of doubt that took possession of her. She could not believe that her children were dead. If for a moment she felt sure, next moment a doubt sprang up again. She told no one of this feeling, for she could give no reason for it, and whether it added to her grief, or was a gleam of comfort, she did not very well know. It added much to her suffering, for it made her restless and full of longing to go home and search England for her bonny boys. But, after a while, another little Lily came to comfort the poor torn heart, and Janet's grief lost some of its bitterness.

But it had utterly changed her. Her bright colour was gone; her face was still and grave. Her little daughter had the tenderest care, but the merry playfellow with whom Frank and Fred had had many a game of romps, little Lily never knew.

After a while the first manager of "Gray's Hotel" left his situation, and Fred Rayburn was his successor. All feeling against him was quite forgotten. Indeed, with sturdy Gilbert Gray to keep him steady, Fred was a different man. He prospered exceedingly; all things went well with him. And yet, he would have given all his wealth to see his gentle, sad-faced, silent wife look like the pretty, happy Janet who had played with her boys in the old sitting-room over the Gateway.

"Janet," he said one day, when something had made them talk of the lost children, "I wonder how you can bear the sight of me. It was really my fault. But for my folly and selfishness, you would never have had to leave them."

"Dear heart, I loved you before God gave me them, and your grief for them made me love you more. And, maybe, nothing but such a sorrow would have made us one, as we are now."

"You mean, would have made me think? You are right there. I never really saw that I had sinned till I felt that—that dreadful blow. There was mercy in the chastisement for me, but for you, my poor Janet—"

"Hush! You and I are one," was her quiet answer. "I can never forget my pretty Frank and Fred, but I am content, dear. You and I are one."

CHAPTER X.

FRANK'S MESSAGE TO "MUDDIE."

LITTLE Fred, all alone in the world, and thrown upon the mercy of perfect strangers, was surely very fortunate in having crept up Betty's garden walk, rather than to any other cottage in Edgestone. For I suspect that he would have found his way to the poorhouse, and, in the state he was in at the time, this would have had most disastrous effects.

Having been the youngest, and not quick at speaking, he spoke very indistinctly long after he was voluble enough. His inability to pronounce the letter "r" made his speech sound babyish. But in two years, he had grown so much, and had so completely lost the baby face and the baby ways of the little brother Frank had taken such care of, that Frank would hardly have known him again. He looked as old for his six years now as he had looked young for four. A silent, sad-looking boy, with a half-puzzled expression in his fine dark eyes, which sometimes made people wonder if he were "quite like other children." His step-grandmother would never have recognized her merry, mischievous, laughing torment in this quiet, tall boy, who seemed to care for nothing but being of use to Betty.

As I have said before, he proved a careful messenger, and earned many a penny, and every penny was brought to Betty with some little pride. One day she said to him—

"You earn so many pence, Fred, that I'm going to keep half to buy your clothes. Think of that, now!"

Fred looked up at her earnestly.

"Don't you want them, Mrs. Betty?" Which was his chosen name for her.

"I don't want them all," she said, wondering what was coming, for he so seldom spoke except to answer a question.

"Then, if you don't want them, may I keep half for Fwank?"

It was the first time he had named his brother since his own illness.

"Why, child," Betty said tenderly, "Frank wants neither pence nor aught you could buy with them. He has all he wants. He's quite safe and happy."

"Yes, Fwank is dead," the boy said after a pause.

Betty was quite pleased to find that he remembered this.

"Yes, dear, he is. Dear little fellow, he is dead surely, so, you see, he is in heaven now, and those who go there want nothing."

She talked to him for some time, and he seemed to listen, yet when she ceased, he said again—

"Keep half the pence for Fwank. There's his message, you know."

This rather puzzled Betty, and Fred would say no more. So she told him that she would lay by the pence carefully, and added—

"By-and-by, when you've saved enough, you shall buy a wooden cross to put at the head of his grave."

"With the message," Fred put in.

"I don't know about a message, but that's all you can do for him, dear, and it well becomes you to do it, for I think he gave his life for yours."

How much or how little of this Fred understood, she could not tell. He often sat thinking, thinking, with a sad and puzzled look, but he did not speak of Frank again. Only when he brought his earnings, carefully divided into two equal portions, he would say—

"Half for Fwank, Mrs. Betty."

After a while he found out, from something the doctor said, that Frank lay in the old churchyard just beside the grave of little Charlie Wentworth. There was a pretty headstone to the little Wentworth's grave, and his poor mother kept it beautiful, with flowers growing round it. Frank's grave was just a plain green mound. But thenceforth, when Betty missed her charge, she was pretty sure to find him sitting beside it. Being a wise old body, she did not interfere, only, after a time, suggested to him to plant flowers on it like those on the other. From that time Frank's resting-place was kept in the most beautiful order. Betty could always spare a few plants for this purpose, and Fred cut the grass with shears, and trimmed and tended it, until it was a wonder for colour and smoothness.

After a time, the boy began to speak more frequently, and the doctor put him to school, where he soon surprised the schoolmaster by his quickness and ability. But he did not care to join the boys on the green, unless they were playing cricket or football. In these, he soon excelled, but for a mere game of romps he did not care at all.

Thus time went on until Fred Giles, as the neighbours called him, was a fine handsome lad of thirteen, and the schoolmaster informed Dr. Wentworth that it was a great pity he could have no further education.

"You see, doctor, the boys here generally leave school at about thirteen or fourteen, which I suppose is about Fred's age now. And I am too tired in the evening, with this big school on my hands, to give him private lessons, which I would if I could. He's very clever; there's nothing he could not learn. I suppose old Betty is making a gardener of him; the best she can do, but 'tis a pity."

The doctor went home to his delicate wife, who, poor thing, could no longer take care of her boy's grave, for she was a prisoner on her sofa, and never likely to be better.

"Lucy, you know the boy whom Betty Giles took to care for, and whom we have partly clothed?"

"Little Fred? Oh yes, I know him. A very fine boy, though indeed, I have not seen him for a long time. I hope he is not ill?"

"Not he. But Dale, the schoolmaster, you know, was just speaking to me about him. It seems he is very clever. You know that he has long kept his little brother's grave in order, but I never told you that since you have been laid by, he has done the same for our little grave. I used to go and look, meaning to have it settled, and I wondered how your work lasted so long, my poor girl, when one evening I found him hard at work. Well, now, it seems to me a pity that a boy like this, evidently belonging to respectable people, should be condemned to leave school at thirteen and to earn his bread as a labourer. And if his people ever turn up, it would be a terrible blow to them, don't you think so?"

"Yes, but really after all these years—nine years now—I hardly expect his people to trace him. But if he is a fine, clever lad, one would give him a chance for his own sake. What did you think of? You are well off, and we have no—no one to come after us, Alick. We might well do this."

Dr. Wentworth's worn face brightened.

"I was half afraid you might dislike the idea of having a boy about the house, dear."

"About the house," she said, with a start, "did you say? I did not understand at first. But no, Alick, I do not object at all. It would be an interest for you."

"My idea is to train him to help me in the dispensary; Mark Fletcher will soon be leaving me. Then I can give him lessons myself, and, if he really is clever, get Mr. Hewson to teach him, and so as time passes, we shall see what he really is fit for, and how we like him. My dear, I know you consent only for my sake, but I hope it may prove an interest for you too, and brighten your life a bit. It seems to me that he is a boy one would get fond of easily."

Mrs. Wentworth said nothing. She thought that plans for the future mattered more to the doctor than to her.

Intent on his idea, Dr. Wentworth went to see Betty Giles the next day. He found the old woman sitting in the sun at her front door, knitting a stocking, and looking complacently at her crop of young annuals.

"Well, Betty, how goes the world with you?" he said.

"It goes," Betty said cheerily; "that's just it, doctor. It goes, and it goes, and soon 'twill be gone, or I shall, which comes to the same thing as far as I'm concerned."

"It is well for those who can, say that cheerfully, Betty."

"Well, now, I do feel cheerful, and I just hope I'm not like Ignorance in the 'Pilgrim.' Fred read me that book, and surely, next to the Bible, it comes home to one. But I don't really think I'm like he, though I'm ignorant enough. Not ignorant of my dear Saviour, though. I feel Him keeping me, somehow."

"Ah, old friend, many a learned man might envy you. I came to talk to you about Fred. Where is he?"

"Playing cricket on the green. Schoolmaster tells him he's getting too old for school, and that he won't learn much by staying on. I sometimes wish we could find his people. He's growing up—poor Fred!"

"That is just what I came to talk about, Betty. Dale spoke to me about him. He thinks him very clever."

"About book cleverness, sir, I know naught, but he reads as well as any clergyman; I'm told he's quite as good at writing and cyphering. But as to hand cleverness, that I can speak to. There's nothing ever was done with hands that he couldn't learn to do."

"Well, I want an assistant in the dispensary. Fred is rather young, but Fletcher will not leave me at once, and I will teach the boy carefully. If he turns out well, I will take care of his future. You'll be glad, I dare say, to have a big fellow like him off your hands; you must find it hard to do for him now."

"I don't, then," said Betty, shortly. "I'll find it harder to do without him. But I won't stand in his way. I suppose you want to take him altogether—to live in your house, maybe?"

"I did think of that. You see, my wife could teach him so much, and so could I. But, to get the full benefit of this, he must be always at hand."

"Ay, ay, I understand. Well, I've had him a long time, and he's been as a son to me, and a good son, too. I won't stand in his way."

"I see him coming now, Betty."

And in a moment more, Fred stood before them, having taken off his straw hat to pay due respect to the doctor.

"Fred, my dear boy, here's good news for you," began Betty, briskly. "Many a time have I taken a little fret, wondering what would become of you when I die, and that can't be very far off, for I'm getting very old and failed. Now, here's Dr. Wentworth offering you a good place with him, where you'll get learning, and have work to do more suitable to you than gardening. And I'm thankful to know it, Fred."

Fred looked from one to the other.

"I don't quite understand," he said, "but I'm much obliged to Dr. Wentworth; he's always been very kind to me."

The doctor, who by this time had found a seat on the doorstep, began to explain. Fred listened attentively. Then he looked at Betty, who forthwith assumed what she intended for a pleased and encouraging smile. Fred laughed, and for a healthy boy, he laughed but seldom.

FRED LISTENED ATTENTIVELY.

"Ah, Mrs. Betty, that won't do!" he said. "'Tis nine years, or more, since I crept up to the door, half frozen and half starved, and asked you to come to—to Frank. I remember all, Betty dear, though I never could talk of it. Ever since then, you've kept me and cared for me, and nursed me and borne with me, and—loved me. And now, doctor, she's not as strong as she used to be, she couldn't live alone now, she couldn't keep up the garden or the plants and slips without help, and she couldn't carry the things home. I earn a little money, too, and what I earn is needed now. I'm very grateful for your kind offer, but I can't leave her, and if I did, every one would cry shame on me, and I should deserve it."

"Fred, I won't stand in your way. I shall do very well. I'll get my grandchild, John's little Kate, to come and stay with me; I know they'll let me have her. And suppose your own people find you by-and-by, won't they be glad to find you something better than a working gardener? No, no, boy; you must go."

Fred stood, looking far away over the fields. He seemed to be trying to put some thought into words, for his lips moved from time to time. At last, without looking at them, but still gazing away over the fields, he said—

"I can remember her face. It was like Frank's, fair and loving. I think we were well off once, but I don't remember. I seem just going to remember sometimes, but it all dies off. Mrs. Betty, you know Kate is only ten, and a little baby of a thing; even if she came, she could not do all that I do, and the garden would run waste, and there would be no earnings coming in. And if my mother—if it is my mother that I remember—I'm very sure that she would be more sorry to find me an ungrateful brute than to find me a gardener, or anything else. No, Dr. Wentworth, I cannot leave Mrs. Betty. As she cared for me, so must I care for her now, and she has been a mother to me all these years. But I'm not ungrateful to you, sir, and there is nothing I should like better than to learn from you if it could be; but it cannot."

"I would not say another word, my boy, if I did not see a way out of the difficulty. I like you the better for being grateful and faithful to Betty, and I was not aware how dependent she has become upon you. But I'll tell you how it can be managed. Instead of coming to live with me, and studying hard, you must go on living here, and only give me so many hours a day, say from ten a.m. to six in the evening. This will give you time for your gardening under Betty, and your wages will be better than your chance earnings now. What do you say to this?"

"May I just run home for a few moments at about one, sir, to see that she gets her dinner?"

"It is not far; yes, we will manage that. You shall have your dinner at our luncheon-time, which will save Betty a good deal of cooking."

"Mrs. Betty, does this suit you?"

"That it do!" said Betty. "I won't deny that my heart sank to think of being without you, Fred, and seeing my poor garden, that's all my living, going to waste. I was thinking it meant the poorhouse."

"Yet you wanted me to believe you were delighted. Oh, Mrs. Betty, I'm ashamed of you! I never can thank you enough, Dr. Wentworth, but I'll serve you faithfully," said the boy, earnestly; and, kneeling down beside a patch of annuals, he began tenderly to pick out minute weeds from among the tiny plants.

"Thin 'em, Fred, thin 'em. You're always too shy of thinning. Leave each plant standing by itself. Yes, that's more like. Doctor, come closer. I wouldn't allow this, but that I don't think it will be for very long. I feel very weak sometimes, and they're all doing well, and now that Fred's provided for, I'm quite ready to go. What is it now, Fred?"

"I want to ask the doctor a question. Can you tell me, sir, what it will cost to get a well-made wooden cross, with words cut on it and painted for Frank? I've saved up a few shillings for it."

"I am going to town to-morrow, and I will order it for you; if it costs more than you have saved, you must let me pay the rest, as my thanks to you for all your care of our little grave. What shall I have carved on it?"

"Just this, sir. First, 'Frank' by itself, and then 'Tell muddie I took care of Fred.' That's to go across the arms of it. And below the date, 'September 14, 18—.'"

"Why, Fred, I'd no idea you understood or remembered those words," cried Betty. "You know, doctor, that's what the little fellow said."

"Yes," said Fred, "I never forgot them. Frank died to save me; I can see that now. We called her muddie. Some day, perhaps, among the people who come to see our church and the churchyard, there may be some one who knows her, who will know what the words mean. Some day, I shall put a marble cross with the whole story on it, but this will do now."

Fred went back to his weeding, and Dr. Wentworth said to Betty—

"I never heard the boy speak so much before."

"Nor I, sir."

"And he can say Frank and Fred now, I perceive."

"Oh yes, sir; only if he is in a hurry, he slips back into the old way. Well, Dr. Wentworth, I'm easy in my mind about the boy now."

"You may be, Betty. As far as I can, I will make him my care. He is a fine fellow."

So, when the midsummer holidays began, Fred left school and began his new work. The doctor began to teach him enough Latin to read the prescriptions, or at least that was what he first intended, but the boy was so eager to learn that the lessons did not stop there, nor was Latin the only thing studied. Study was a delight to the silent, somewhat lonely boy, and he made such progress that the good doctor was proud of his pupil.

And the cross was placed at the head of Frank's grave, but the doctor persuaded Fred to allow him to give Frank's message in a slightly different form. Thus—"His last words were a message to his mother, to tell her that he had taken care of Fred."

For a little more than a year, this arrangement continued to work very well. Fred became very useful to the doctor, and Betty had no reason to feel neglected. Then the dear old woman began to fail more and more rapidly, and Fred spent the greater part of his time with her, but it was with the doctor's full consent.

One evening—it was now September, and Dr. Wentworth had told Fred that old Betty could not last much longer—the boy was sitting beside the bed on which she lay; not suffering, only, as she said herself, "dying, and very slow about it." They had both been silent for some time, and when she said suddenly, "Is there any one here but us two, Fred?" poor Fred started, for his thoughts were far away.

"No, Betty. Mrs. Summers—" Betty's eldest daughter—"has gone home to see after the children, and John and his wife are coming presently to stay all night with you."

"Very good children they've always been to me, and I must tell their father that, for he laid it on them to be good to me. But I'm glad of a quiet half-hour with you, dear. Sometimes I think you're nearer my heart than my own children. You're so young, I suppose that's it. It's just the day, Fred, and very near the hour, when you came knocking, with your little soft hand, at the door yonder. I think I'd like to die to-night. I'd like to be able to say, 'Lord, I'm only a poor ignorant and hardworking woman, and it was very little I ever could do, beyond earning my bread; but there was one thing—the boy that was sent to me this very night many years ago, I took him for Thy sake, and I wasn't bad to him.' I think I'd like to say that."

"It is less than the truth, dear Mrs. Betty. You saved me from misery, and made me as happy as one so parted from his own people, and with Frank dead, could ever be. And you'll meet Frank."

"I'll tell him that you were worth saving," said the old woman, fondly. "Now, my dear, just one word. I've no doubt you'll do well and prosper. The doctor's fond of you, and he's a good man. But when you're a gentleman, with learning, and money and all your heart can desire, don't you forget what I say to you now: If you let those things fill your heart so that you forget God, and never read the Bible, nor go to church, nor pray, it would have been better for you if you had died there on my hearthstone along with your little brother. Don't turn God's favour into a misfortune, Fred. Mind, Frank's waiting for you in heaven. Do you know why I say all this? Because I do fancy that, although the doctor and his wife are kind and good, and will be true friends to you, yet you won't learn from them such lessons as I'd have you put first of all. Don't forget God, Fred dear, nor begin to have high thoughts of yourself, and forget that you're just a sinner, and want the Saviour, and will never get to heaven any other way. Will you remember, dear?"

"I will, Betty. God helping me, I will. Oh, dear Betty, how good you've been to me!"

"And you to me. Ah, here's John and my good Deb. Go you, Fred, and get a little rest. You're tired out, I know."

Before the day dawned, the simple, true-hearted old woman had breathed her last. And none of her children or grandchildren mourned for her more truly, nor half so long, as did the boy she had so lovingly befriended.

CHAPTER XI.

MRS. RAYBURN'S LETTER.

FROM the time of Betty Giles' death, Fred lived altogether with the Wentworths, and they eventually became so fond of him that he was like a son to them both. He studied under Dr. Wentworth, at first only with a view to becoming his assistant in the dispensary, but after a time with the intention of becoming a doctor himself. Mr. Hewson, the curate, who had been a very distinguished man in college, gave him lessons in various branches of learning; in fact, Dr. Wentworth gave him every advantage that he would have given to his own son had he lived.

Of course, as he grew up, the preparations for his profession took him away frequently from what was now his home, and no one missed him more than did Mrs. Wentworth, who had at one time quite shrunk from the idea of having him to live with her.

With his studies and all concerning his profession we have nothing to do, except with one event which took place in London.

Fred was now engaged in what is called "walking the hospitals" in London, and was a very ardent and industrious student. One day, he heard that there was to be a wonderful operation performed at a certain hospital by one of the first surgeons of the day, and he was fortunate enough to get leave to be present, though it was not one of the hospitals he generally attended. When the affair was over, one of the junior doctors, who knew him, took him through the wards.

In one of these, there was a woman who had come up from the country to take a place as cook in an hotel, but had fallen ill, and been sent to this hospital. Her name was Rayburn, and she came from Hemsborough.

The arrangements of this hospital were supposed to be almost perfect, and the system of ventilation was quite new. Young Dr. Vernon was explaining it to Fred, and consequently their progress through the ward was slow. And if they had looked at the old woman in the corner of the room, they would have seen that for some reason she was frightened—or, at least, greatly excited—at the appearance of Fred Giles.

Fred, however, saw nothing of this; neither did Dr. Vernon; but when the latter was going his rounds in the evening, No. 24 in the first ward was found in a rather excited state.

"She's been quite odd all the afternoon, Dr. Vernon," said the nurse, "and she was going on nicely before."

"I'm not worse," the woman said, "but I want to know, doctor, who was the tall young man that went through the ward with you this morning?"

"A dark-haired fellow? His name is Giles, and he's the son—adopted son, I believe—of a Dr. Giles—no, his name is not Giles—but a doctor somewhere in the country. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I have no reason, sir; only I'm a curious woman—always was. Thank you, sir."

"Did you think you knew him?"

"Oh no; but he's like some one I knew once. I'm sleepy now—I'm much better."

"Well, good night. Nurse, I don't think she's so well. Watch her carefully."

"Is the young man going to be a doctor, Dr. Vernon?" inquired the patient, suddenly.

"Yes, and a very promising student he is."

"Has he—has he—a brother?" she asked in a low voice.

"I don't know. What interests you so much in this particular student, may I ask?"

She laughed in an odd, constrained manner, and replied—

"Indeed, sir, you may ask much easier than I can answer. I have no reason at all."

"Except that he is like some one you knew?"

"Just so, sir."

Mr. Vernon went away, this being the last bed he had to visit. Next day, the patient was very much worse, and it was some days before she again began to mend. When she was really recovering, Dr. Vernon spoke to her about Fred Giles, but she declared that she remembered nothing about him, and that she must have been dreaming. And in a day or two more, she left the hospital.

Her history since the loss of the children can be told in a few words. She was a long time under medical care, her mind not having recovered completely from the effects of the attack she had at Kelmersdale. When at last she was herself again, she went to Hemsborough, and found an asylum with her sister-in-law. She heard from Lord Beaucourt of her stepson's visit to England, and she guessed that he had discovered that she had not been kind to the children. So she never wrote to him, though in her misery—for she was a very miserable woman—she would have given much to beg for his and Janet's forgiveness. She had lived principally with her sister-in-law, who was not unkind; but sometimes she quarrelled with her nieces, and then she would leave them and take a place somewhere. But her health and her nerves were shattered, and she always broke down before long, and returned to Hemsborough. She did so now, when she left the hospital.

When she was again comfortably settled in her sister-in-law's house, she wrote the following letter to Janet:

"MY DEAR JANET,

"If this ever comes to your hand, try to think less bad of me than I deserve of you. I have suffered for my unkindness, Heaven knows. I have been a wretched woman. I hope you and Fred have not been as wretched as I am, but I dare not think of what you must have felt.

"I would not venture to write now but for one thing. I have always felt that there was a chance that the children were not drowned in the Kelmer. And I think I saw one of them, a tall, handsome young man, studying to be a doctor. I could not think any one could be so like your husband but little Fred, who was always so like him. But he calls himself Frederick Giles, and when I was well and left the hospital, I found out where he was lodging, and made what inquiry I could. He comes from a place near Cirencester, called Edgestone, and he had gone home. I could do no more, having no money but what would take me home to my sister's house in Hemsborough. I am weak and ill, more in mind than in body, and so the best thing I can do is to tell you this, and if you tell me what to do, I will do it. But I know that you and Fred will come home to see for yourselves, if you can afford it.

"I am not long for this world. I suppose there is no use in asking you two to forgive me; I cannot forgive myself. I am a wretched woman, and have no hope. But if you find the boys, perhaps you might forgive me. Fred Giles is the adopted son of a doctor in Edgestone. That is all I know.

"LYDIA RAYBURN."

In the years that had passed since the loss of the boys, Fred Rayburn had quite lived down the prejudice against him which had prevented Gilbert Gray from making him the first manager of the Royal Victoria Hotel in Gattigo. But when the first manager gave up the situation, Fred was able to take it; and the hotel had been most successful under him and Janet, and had made both Gilbert Gray and Fred Rayburn rich and prosperous men. The Rayburns now lived in a pretty house two or three miles from Old Man's Ferry Farm, where Janet and her daughter had no more arduous work to do than to keep house and see after their garden. Fred drove into Gattigo every day, and the hotel still flourished without a rival.

The important letter was addressed to Old Man's Ferry Farm, and when it arrived there, Gilbert and his wife, always glad to visit the Rayburns, ordered their well-appointed phaeton, with its two pretty ponies, and inquired if any of the young people would like to fill the back seat.

Several of the young people wanted to go, for cousin Lily was a general favourite; and while the boys were arguing about their claims to the seat, the two elder girls slipped quietly away to the stable and came round to the door in possession of the places. Gil and Emile and the rest were naturally very indignant, but the girls only smiled serenely, and were soon bowling smoothly along the well-made road, very different from the rough track by which Janet reached the farm on her first arrival.

"The Gables," as the Rayburns called their home, certainly deserved its name. It had been added to by many hands, and in many styles, and how many gables there were I should be afraid to conjecture. Janet and her daughter had made a pretty garden close to the house; to be sure, it was only a corner of a field well fenced with high palisades and wire netting, but it was full of flowers in summer, and afforded as much pleasure to its owners as any walled garden in the dear "old country." Lily and her mother were at work among their flowers when the Grays drove up. Out ran Lily, followed by Janet, who, however, remembered to shut the gate.

"You've come to stay all day, haven't you?" cried Lily, joyously.

She was a fair, bright-haired lassie, very like her mother and poor little Frank.

"You must stay," she went on, "for father's in Gattigo, and won't be home until dinner-time."

"Well, we can stay, Miss Apple-cheeks," said her uncle. "Janet, we've brought you a letter. Who on earth can be so behind the times as to write to you still at the Ferry Farm?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad of anything that brings you here. You and Aimée don't take a holiday half often enough. Lily, call Karl to take the ponies."

Karl having been found, the others all went into the house and had some luncheon, after which Janet asked for her letter.

"I declare I had forgotten it!" said Gilbert. "Here it is."

"The Hemsborough postmark!" Janet said. "I don't know the hand. Who can it be from? Oh, Gilbert, it is from Mrs. Rayburn!"

"Fred's mother—stepmother, I mean?"

They all crowded round Janet. Janet gave the letter to her brother.

"Somehow I can't see it," she said. "Read it aloud, Gilbert."

Which Gilbert did; and then they all looked at each other, not knowing what to think.

Before any one spoke, a man appeared at the window, which opened like a door, and, with a cry of "Gilbert and Aimée here! How lucky that I got off so early!" He pushed the window wide and came in.

It was our old friend Fred Rayburn, and a very fine-looking man he had become. And if ever a man had cause to give thanks for a good wife, Fred Rayburn was that man. For, by the blessing of God, Janet's love for him, and Janet's faith in him in spite of his follies, had made a man of him.

"Fred, Fred!" cried Janet. "Our boys—she has seen Fred—Mrs. Rayburn—here is her letter; read it, and tell me may I believe it?"

Fred took the letter and read it. He looked at Janet and began to speak, but turned back to the letter and read it again.

"Janet, when I was in England, Mrs. Rayburn was not quite in her right mind. It may be so still."

"Do you think the letter shows that she is out of her mind?" Janet said. "No, Fred, I don't think so. She says she is weak in mind and body, and I suppose she was unable to make a thorough inquiry, but we must make it."

"Certainly—of that, there can be no doubt. But do not build too much upon it, Janet, my darling; I fear it was but too plain that our boys were lost in the Kelmer."

"I have never been able to believe it; and, you see, Mrs. Rayburn has felt the same. But what do you think of doing, Fred?"

"I shall go to England as soon as I can be ready, and go direct to this place, Edgestone, near Cirencester. The truth must be easily ascertained on the spot. My fear is that her conscience, poor soul, being so burthened, she was startled by an accidental likeness—and the name being Frederick, and the young man an adopted son."

"Yes," Gilbert Gray said, "and if the boys were alive all this time, why did they never let you know? Frank was seven years old; he surely could have told his name, and where you had lived, and then you would have heard. Take my advice, Rayburn, and write to this young Giles."

"No, no—we must go," Janet said. "Fred, I am not often unreasonable, but I cannot rest till we are on our way home. Give me this satisfaction, let us go, and find out the truth together. We will take Lily too. Fred, you will take us?"

"I will indeed, Janet. I wish you could feel how unlikely it is that there is anything in what this wretched woman says, but I can quite understand your longing to see for yourself. I have a few arrangements to make, of course. Gilbert, you and Emile will see after the hotel, I am sure."

"I will do anything you like; but do remember how ill Janet was on the voyage out. Even if you must go, rather than write—"

"No, no!" said Aimée. "They must go. It is but a poor little straw of a hope, yet I feel that Janet must go. Only, dear, why take Lily? Leave her with me."

"Ah, no! I cannot bear to part with her, Aimée. I never parted with my boys but that once. Lily must come too."

Janet was ill enough on the voyage, but by no means as ill as she had been when coming out. Fortunately, Lily proved a good sailor, and was able to take care of her after the first day or so.

They had a good passage, and, on reaching England, at once went on to Cirencester, where Janet was so worn out that Fred would not hear of going on to Edgestone that evening.

Next day, she still seemed so weak that Fred proposed to go alone to Edgestone, as she seemed unfit for any exertion. But for once Janet was obstinate; she would go.

Edgestone was about fifteen miles from Cirencester, and no railways went near it. Fred Rayburn hired a wagonette, and at about twelve o'clock they set out.

CHAPTER XII.

FRANK'S MESSAGE REACHES "MUDDIE."

AS the Rayburns drove out of town, a gentleman in a small trap passed them, and just where the road to Edgestone joins the main road, they overtook him. Something had gone wrong with his harness. Fred Rayburn called out—

"Can we help you in any way, sir?"

And the other replied, "Thank you, but I've got it all right now."

Jumping into the trap, he drove on, soon passing the heavier vehicle again. As he did so, he took off his hat to the occupants.

Little thought the Rayburns that this pleasant-looking man could have told them about their boys very easily. As little thought Dr. Wentworth, as he wondered what was bringing a trio of strangers to quiet Edgestone, that they came to clear up the story that had baffled him so long, and to rob him of his adopted son. Had he seen Fred Rayburn nearer, or had an opportunity of conversing with him, the likeness both to young Fred and to his cherished photograph would have struck him; but a magnificent dark beard had altered the elder Fred a good deal, and the likeness escaped the doctor's notice. He was soon out of sight.

The travellers reached Edgestone presently, and stopped at the little inn, as the Cygnet called itself, though it really was only a decent kind of public-house. Here they alighted, and told the driver to put up his horses for a time.

"Can we have a private sitting-room?" Mr. Rayburn asked, looking doubtfully round the parlour they had been requested to enter; it possessed a strong smell of tobacco and a sanded floor.

"This is our only parlour, sir, and the Edgestone Club meets here most evenings."

"Janet, you must stay here while I inquire where the doctor lives. It will be better, dear; you look very tired, and this will spare you a little. I will come back to you as soon as I find him."

Now that the truth must soon be known, poor Janet's hopes and courage had deserted her. Till now she could not know soon enough. Now she would gladly have put off certainty a little longer. It was all she could do not to entreat her husband to wait a little, but she held her peace and subsided into a very unpromising wooden armchair. Fred turned to the mistress of the Cygnet, and said—

"Will you bring Mrs. Rayburn some tea as soon as possible?" He followed her out of the room, shutting the door. "Stay, if you please. Can you tell me where the doctor lives? You have not more than one, I suppose, in so small a place?"

"I may say there's only one, though his son is well-nigh a doctor too, and they do say he set Jerry Davidson's leg as handsome as possible, the doctor being away at the time. He lives on the green, sir, the second house from the church. I'll show you the green. Step this way, sir; you can see it from our door, and the second house is Dr. Wentworth's."

"Wentworth! I thought his name was Giles?"

"Oh, that's his son—his adopted son, sir."

"Thank you. Well, come what may, we shall know soon—my poor Janet!"

Janet and Lily had some tea. The Cygnet knew a great deal more about beer and punch than about tea, and consequently, it was not very refreshing. Lily began to feel anxious about her mother, she looked so pale.

"Mother dear," the girl said, "let us go out and get a little fresh air. We need not go out of sight of the door, you know."

"It is very close indeed; I am half smothered," poor Janet said; and, more to please Lily than because she hoped for relief, she tied her bonnet and stood up. The busy landlady heard the door open, and came into the passage.

"We are going to walk about a little," said Lily.

"Maybe you'd like to see the church, ladies? Sexton lives next door, and will lend you the key of yonder little gate, just t'other side of the road; it opens into the churchyard—the seminary, I believe, gentlefolk call it—and it's a matter of general remark that our church and the churchyard are very pretty; I've known people come from a distance to see them. I'll just get you the key."

She rushed into the nearest cottage, and came out carrying a key. "Here 'tis, ma'am; and if you go up the steps you'll see, just before you, near the top, two little graves, kept beautiful with flowers, and when you come back, I'll tell you the story of them two graves, which is worth hearing, I assure you, besides being true. Here's the key of the gate—the wicked gate, sexton calls it, but it's a good gate enough, and handy when one don't want to go round to the big one."

To stop the torrent of words, Janet took the key, and she and Lily crossed the road.

"How she does chatter!" Lily said. "But we may as well go in, mother. It will be quieter than out here, don't you think?"

"Yes, so it will. We can watch for your father well enough there."

Once inside the wicket, Janet would have been content to sit on the steps which led up to the church, but she found that she could not see over the wall; so they began to climb upwards. And the place was so pretty, and, moreover, so unlike anything that Lily had ever seen, that they went on and on, till they reached the top of the bank, and saw before them the beautiful old church, with a wide, low porch; and between them and it a number of graves. All were nicely kept, but two were quite beautiful, covered completely with blue and white flowers, while the grass surrounding them was like velvet. Round the white marble cross at the head of one grave, a white clematis was trained so skilfully that the inscription was not obscured. The other grave had a cross, but it was of wood, and round it clung a rose-tree, with small crimson roses in great profusion. But here, too, the growth was not allowed to interfere with the inscription.

"Oh, mother, is not that lovely? What constant care some one must take of these two graves—such little graves, too! These must be the two the landlady spoke of; we must hear the story. I wonder why one has a marble cross and the other only a wooden one?"

While Lily spoke, they were drawing nearer to the little graves, and now the girl began to read aloud—

"'Charles William Wentworth, only child of Dr. Alexander Wentworth

and Lucy, his wife. Died April 3, 18—, aged seven years.'"

Suddenly her mother caught her by the arm, and said in a low, strange voice—

"Lily! The other—look at it, read it!"

Lily was frightened, and she was more frightened when she saw her mother's face. She looked at the wooden cross, and exclaimed—

"Oh, mother, what can it mean?"

"Read it to me; I may have read it wrong. Be quick, Lily, read it."

And Lily read—

"'Frank. Died September 14, 18—, aged about seven years.

He laid down his life to save his brother's. His last words

were a message to his mother, to tell her he had taken care of Fred.'"

"Oh, mother, mother, what does it mean?"

"That I have found one of my little boys," Janet said, and she trembled so that Lily put her arms round her and tried to hold her up.

A step rang on the gravel, a young man came round the corner of the church and stopped short on seeing strangers near the graves he came to visit. Lily, though usually very shy, was so beside herself with fright, that she called aloud to him—

"Please, please come here; mother is ill, and I am afraid she will fall!"

The stranger was at her side in a moment.

"Has she fainted? I'll carry her up to the seat in the porch, and run for water."

But Janet had not fainted, and now she steadied herself, laid her hand on his arm, and said—

"Tell me what this means, if you are Fred?" pointing to the wooden cross.

He looked at her earnestly. "Who are you?" he said. "Is my childish dream come true at last? Oh, I can tell you what those words mean! My brother lies there. We had wandered—I don't know where from. He was the elder, and—he laid down his life to save mine."

"Then you are my little Fred, and I have found both my boys," said Janet. "Child, don't you know me?"

"Is it true? Are you really my mother? But you are ill; don't try to speak. Let me help you up to the porch; you can hardly stand."

He put his arm round her and guided her faltering steps to the porch, followed by the distracted Lily, who felt as if walking in her sleep. In the porch, there was a broad stone seat, on which Fred placed his mother; he knelt beside her, and said—

"Is it true that you are really my mother?—the 'muddie' for whom Frank and I fretted so—to find when we ran away? From whom we escaped, I cannot remember. I only recall an angry, cruel face. For pity's sake, tell me who you are."

"I am surely your mother, my son. You always called me 'muddie.' Come here, Lily; this is your brother Fred. Why, where has the child gone?"

For Lily, having caught sight of her father and Dr. Wentworth at the door of the Cygnet, had run down the steps to the gate, and across the road to her father's side.

"Father," she cried, "we have found him! Mother and I, up there. Come, I will show you the way."

"Lily, tell me—does my poor Janet know that Frank is dead?"

"I think she does. It was a little grave, all over flowers—and then he came round the church. I did not quite understand, but mother did."

"It must have been the inscription that I told you of: she understood, no doubt. Tell her the exact words were, 'Tell muddie that I took care of Fred.' Mr. Rayburn, in finding Fred you've found a good and noble son; but little Frank was a hero and a martyr, to my mind."

"He was his mother's son," was the answer.

Then they went up the steep steps, and found mother and son standing by the flower-clad cross.

"Dr. Wentworth, I have found my mother!" cried Fred, hardly seeing that the doctor was not alone in his agitation.

"Fred, I have found both our boys," said Janet, leaving her son and taking her husband's arm; "and God has taken care of both of them."

CHAPTER XIII.

"AS WE FORGIVE."

THE Wentworths contrived to find room for the Rayburns, and begged of them to stay as long as they conveniently could. Indeed, for some days Janet could hardly have travelled, but she soon regained her usual health and quiet cheerfulness. She and her husband, with Lily for their companion, made Fred show them every spot connected with the story of Frank's death, and his own life since then. Betty Giles's cottage, the very spot on the road where the child-hero at last stumbled and fell, were visited and revisited. But the mystery as to how the children had so quickly got so far away from Rugeley was never thoroughly solved. Fred had no remembrance of the long railway journey.

The Rayburns were the more inclined to linger at Edgestone because they could not bring themselves to take Fred away from the kind friends who had long regarded him as their own son. But this difficulty was ended by a conversation between Mrs. Wentworth and Janet, one day when the rest had gone for a long walk, leaving them to keep each other company. They talked of various matters for some time. Then there was a short silence, broken by Mrs. Wentworth, who said—

"Janet—I may call you Janet, may I not?—I want to ask you, if you don't mind, what you mean to do about Fred?"

"Oh," said Janet, quickly, "he has not yet finished his studies. There is a fine opening for a doctor in Gattigo, but Fred is not a doctor yet."

"Then we may keep him till he is a doctor. Is that what you mean?"

"If you wish it. Of course, we would pay all his fees, or whatever expenses there are; but we could not bear to think that you, who have been so good to him—the truth is, Lucy, we have talked this over several times, and we cannot get further than this: he must stay in England to finish his studies."

"That will be another year. When that year is over, Alick will not be sorry to leave Edgestone. I will speak to him, and I hope he will go out with Fred and settle in Gattigo."

"But you?" Janet said softly.

"I shall be at rest, my dear. It cannot last another year. Fred has made all the brightness poor Alick has had in his life since our boy died and my long illness began. It is only right that Fred should go out to you, but it would be hard on Alick to be left alone. I shall be happy about him now."

"I am sure of one thing—Dr. Wentworth will be Fred's first thought," said Janet, earnestly. "And I am glad to know your wishes. My husband cannot be absent from Gattigo much longer, but this makes it possible to arrange matters."

"Tell me, Janet—I know you wrote to that dreadful woman, Mr. Rayburn's stepmother—have you had an answer?"

"No; but I hope she will write. Poor, unhappy woman!"

"I hardly think she will. She must feel like a murderer."

"She never intended to drive the children to such an act—they were so young that they did not understand. I think I hear them at the door. Yes, here they all come, my poor Lily looking so happy! The cousins at the Ferry Farm will be jealous."

After this, it was an understood thing that Fred was to live with the Wentworths until he had completed his medical studies. His father and mother were obliged to return to Canada, and the time they had fixed on drew near.

"Fred," said Janet to her husband, "I want you to leave Edgestone one day before we need go to Liverpool, for—I want to go to Hemsborough."

"Why, Janet?"

"I want to see Mrs. Rayburn. She has not answered my letter, but I am sure she is very unhappy—though, indeed, I tried to be gentle with her. Do you remember, in that first letter—the one that told us that she had seen our boy—she seemed to long sore to be forgiven?"

"Janet—how can we forgive her? You ask too much—I'm only a man."

"Have we no need of forgiveness? And remember 'forgive us, as we forgive.' Oh, dear Fred, you would not make that prayer mean 'do not forgive, for I will not'?"

There was no resisting that argument. In a few days, farewell was said to the Wentworths, and also to the little grave, where now a marble cross bore Francis Rayburn's true and full name, and after the date and notice of his age, the words "Love is strong as death." Fred went with them, intending to see them off, and then go to London to continue his studies.

They went to Hemsborough, and walked from the railway station to the Thompsons' house. They knocked and inquired if Mrs. Rayburn were at home. The servant said—

"Mrs. Rayburn is not at all well. She keeps her room, and sees nobody, ma'am."

"Please ask if she will see me," said Janet. "I am her daughter-in-law."

The girl ran upstairs, and in a minute or so a lady came down to speak to them. Janet recognized her as one of the Thompson nieces of whom Mrs. Rayburn used to talk so much.

"Mrs. Rayburn, my aunt is too ill to see any one but you," she began; "Mr. Rayburn must excuse her. Indeed, I have had great work to persuade her to see you; she is in such a state of nerves. She is very ill, and has been worse ever since she had a letter from you."

Anna Thompson was looking curiously at the two young people all this time. Janet turned to her husband.

"Will you go back to the station, Fred, or will you wait here?"

"Come in and wait in the parlour. My mother is there," said Miss Thompson. So they went to the parlour, while she took Janet upstairs.

"My aunt is a very secret woman," she said. "We know she has something on her mind, but she never talks of it. This is her room."

She led Janet in, and, going over to the window, took up some work that lay there, and sat down.

Mrs. Rayburn lay watching Janet with a strange gleam in her eyes, but she did not speak. Janet went up to the bed.

"Don't you know me, Mrs. Rayburn?"

"I know you. Is Anna there? Anna, go away—I must see Janet alone. Don't be angry, Anna—you're very kind, but I must see Janet alone."

"Oh, certainly," said Miss Thompson, tossing her head. "I just thought you might be faint, you know; but I'm sure I don't want to stay."

And she left the room with her nose in the air.

"Janet, you are changed. You have a sad face now. You never can forgive me?"

"I do forgive you, Mrs. Rayburn. I am sure you have suffered dreadfully, and been very sorry—and we forgive you, as we hope to be forgiven."

"Fred—Fred forgives me?"

"Yes; he is here—will you see him? Will you see my boy, and Lily?"

"No, no. Ah! They may forgive, but I can never forgive myself. I dare not even pray to be forgiven. Why, Janet, I murdered your Frank just as surely as I thought all these years that I might have murdered both. Oh, when I saw Fred, and felt sure that it was Fred, I never doubted but what Frank was safe too! My heart got so light, I began to feel like myself again. Then came your letter, and though you wrote kindly, every word pierced me through. I don't know but that I am worse, now I know for certain that Frank is dead, than I was when I could sometimes hope that both had escaped."

"Mrs. Rayburn, I have but a little time to stay with you, for our passages are taken, and we must get on to Liverpool to-day. But do listen to me, and don't be angry with me for speaking plainly. Whether one or both of my boys lived or died makes no difference at all in your share in the children's flight. You never meant to harm them, I know. You would not willingly have injured them. So, though they had perished in the Kelmer, or died in any way, you are no murderer. Your nerves are shaken, and you think the whole over and over till you cannot really see it. What you really have to repent of is, you promised to be kind to the boys, and you were not. They were used to kindness, and were more frightened, I suppose, than other children might have been."

"Janet, I cannot take any comfort till I have told you just what happened. No one else can tell you."

She sat up and began what proved to be a long story, but Janet listened patiently, even to the first part, which concerned her life at the old Gatehouse. When she came to the story of the children, their mother had no need of patience. She listened with quiet tears to the history of Frank's constant care for the little one, and the occurrences of the last day at Kelmersdale quite accounted for the children's flight.

"And now, Janet, can you say again that I did not murder Frank?"

Janet dried her eyes, and, looking gently at the poor woman, she said—

"I can. You did not intend to injure them in any way. For what you did, that made them unhappy and drove them away from you, we forgive you with all our hearts. Mrs. Rayburn, I must go; but promise me one thing. I am sure there must be some clergyman here in whom you could have confidence. Send for him, be as candid with him as you have been with me; and though we shall hardly meet again on earth, we shall meet at the right hand of the Judge—both of us forgiven sinners, for His sake."

"I will—I promise you. Oh, Janet! How good you are to me! Since you can forgive me, surely I may hope."

"He who taught us to forgive will not be unforgiving."

Janet bent and kissed her, and then went quickly to the door, for she felt that her stay was longer than had been intended. As she opened the door, she saw Miss Anna in full flight down the passage, and could not help suspecting that she had been listening.

It was not nice of Miss Anna to listen at the door, yet, strange to say, what she thus heard made a great change in her.

"There must be some truth in this talk about religion," she thought. "I expected poor Janet would shake her in the bed, and instead she forgave her, and seemed quite anxious about her, and spoke so kindly."

And thus the leaven was hid in the meal, and gradually the whole was leavened.

The Rayburns had lost the train by which they had meant to go on to Liverpool, but they were in time for the boat in which their passage was taken. The parting with Fred was a trial, but it was, they hoped, only for a time.

And, now that Janet has found both her boys, we may bid her farewell.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,

LONDON AND BECCLES.

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Table of Contents

JANET'S BOYS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

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