Left with a trust

By Nellie Hellis

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Title: Left with a trust

Author: Nellie Hellis

Release date: October 15, 2024 [eBook #74581]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEFT WITH A TRUST ***

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

[Illustration: "I HAVE SOMETHING TO GIVE EACH OF YOU BEFORE I GO."]



                         LEFT WITH A TRUST


                                 BY

                           NELLIE HELLIS

                             AUTHOR OF

  "THREE LITTLE FIDDLERS," "GIPSY JAN," "LITTLE KING DAVIE," ETC.



                            ————————————
 "He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."
                            ————————————



                              LONDON
                       S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
                      8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW.



                              LONDON:
               PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.
              ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.



                          [Illustration]

                             CONTENTS.
                              ~~~~~~


  CHAPTER I. NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET

  CHAPTER II. THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED

  CHAPTER III. DORA GROWS METHODICAL

  CHAPTER IV. GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY

  CHAPTER V. AN EVENING OUT

  CHAPTER VI. HOW A RACE ENDED

  CHAPTER VII. CONFESSED AT LAST

  CHAPTER VIII. DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE

  CHAPTER IX. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

  CHAPTER X. ENDING AND BEGINNING

  CHAPTER XI. REUNITED

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

                       LEFT WITH A TRUST.
                              ~~~~~~

CHAPTER I.

NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET.

THERE were other things connected with the house besides its number
which could have been expressed by the figure nine. For instance, its
tenant, Mr. Grainger, had a family of nine children, and the day on
which my story opens happened to be the ninth birthday of Olive, the
third girl, and the sixth child.

Perhaps it will be better if I tell you at once the names of the
younger inmates of the house, and say a few words about each of them as
I pass from one to the other.

Edgar, the eldest, was sixteen, and for nearly a year had gone daily to
a large wholesale warehouse in the City. Next came Dorothea, generally
called Dora; she was a year younger, and was just now rejoicing in the
fact that she had left school. Between her and the twins, Katie and
Robert, was a difference of two years.

These were followed by Lancie, the dearest of her flock to Mrs.
Grainger, for a mother, though full of tenderness for all her children,
always loves the afflicted most. He was nearly eleven, but his pale
face and pain-sharpened features made him look much older. When a child
of five, he had been stricken with paralysis, and had never recovered
the use of one of his legs. It was so much shorter than the other that
he had to walk on crutches, and his health was so delicate and his body
so weakly that he was often confined for days together to the couch,
which, in consequence, had gained the name of "Lancie's sofa."

In strong contrast to the little invalid came sturdy Giles. He was
younger, but he was a full head taller than the brother who was his
senior by twelve months. There was the same difference between him and
Olive. Then came Lottie, aged six, the last of the family being the
two-year-old Philip, the pet and plaything of them all.

But that it was Olive's birthday was not the chief circumstance that
made the day a memorable one at 99, Madeira Street. It was the last in
which the whole family would be together for a long time; for early on
the following morning Mr. Grainger would leave his home in London to
sail for Australia, and, in all probability, a year would elapse before
he would again set foot on his native land.

It had cost him much to make up his mind to leave his wife and
children, and only a very strong inducement had led him to arrive at
such a decision.

Mr. Grainger was a clerk in a large English and Colonial Bank, and
though from time to time his salary had been increased, his wife, with
her large family, had found it as much as she could do to make both
ends meet.

She was, however, a capital manager, and the end of the year always saw
her expenses within the limits of her income.

But unexpected trouble came upon the Graingers when little curly-headed
Phil was nearly twelve months old. One evening Mr. Grainger came in
from the City with a troubled face, and, calling his wife apart,
told her he had become responsible for a bill for £150. He had been
persuaded to put his name to it by a friend, who had assured him he
would run no risk, as the money would be ready long before it was
wanted. It was only, he said, that he could not lay his hand upon so
large a sum just at that time, and if the old playmate of his boyhood
and companion of his schooldays would do him the kindness of going
through the mere form of standing his surety, he would always be
grateful. Two days before the bill fell due, this so-called friend and
distant relative became bankrupt.

There were those who said Mr. Grainger ought never to have yielded to
such persuasions. But he was a kind-hearted man, and, judging others
by his own honesty and uprightness of dealing, he had signed his name
trusting that no ill would befall.

Neither husband nor wife had any private means, so to meet the bill
Mr. Grainger had to borrow money on his life insurance and upon the
furniture of his house. Retrenchment, of course, became necessary.
Edgar left school, and thanks to the good word of one of the heads
of the bank in which Mr. Grainger had been clerk for many years, a
situation was obtained for him in a noted hosiery warehouse in Wood
Street. Taking his inexperience into consideration, he received a
remarkably good salary, and Edgar, though his life did not seem to be
shaping itself after his own inclinations, was glad to be able to help
the parents who had done so much for him.

Then Giles and Olive were also taken from school, and they, with Lancie
and Lottie, become their mother's pupils, while Dora, who was a fair
musician, gave the two little girls music lessons. Husband and wife
weathered the struggle better than they expected, but Mr. Grainger knew
it would be a long time before he would have paid the last shilling he
had borrowed. For notwithstanding the numerous ways in which his wife
curtailed the household expenses, Edgar's weekly wages, and the money
he himself earned by evening employment at book-keeping, they had only
paid off £50 at the end of the year, so that they were still £100 in
debt.

They would have paid off more had they not been obliged to incur a
doctor's bill. Lancie had been weaker than usual that year, and they
could not let their child suffer without giving him all the relief in
their power. Had it not been for the little cripple's sake, they would
certainly have removed into a smaller and lower-rented house, but the
doctor said that his life was probably owing to the warm aspect, and
open healthy situation of Madeira Street, which was within a twenty
minutes' walk of Regent's Park. And what could his parents do but
decide, that, whatever other sacrifices were entailed, they must stay
in the home in which they had lived since the twins were born.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Grainger had been asked if he would go
to Sydney, and remain while the head clerk in the branch bank there
was absent on a twelve months' leave. The sum he was offered over
his regular salary, and what he could save from his allowance for
travelling and living, would more than free him from debt. So though
it was a hard trial to part from his wife and children, he made up his
mind to accept the proposal.

Tea was later than usual that evening in order that the entire
family might be present, and a cake—a much rarer luxury than it once
was—graced the centre of the table. All the children were inclined to
be dull and depressed, even down to little Phil, who had been crying
in the afternoon because "Fader was doing away across the big sea, and
perhaps he'd tumble out of the ship and det drowned."

But Mr. Grainger was determined that the last meal they would all take
together should be a cheerful one, and putting aside his own feelings,
he made such jokes, and laughed and chatted so gaily, that very soon
the elder children caught his spirit, and all joined in the mirth he
provoked. Nobody would have guessed what heavy hearts some of those
smiling faces concealed.

But when the table had been cleared by the not very efficient little
servant, and chairs were drawn round the fire, which a frosty night in
the early part of the year made so agreeable, the conversation became
more serious. Instinctively the children left two empty seats side by
side for their parents. Then Phil climbed into his father's arms, and
that being his favourite resting-place, lay quietly and happily there
till the low hum of voices lulled him into a slumber. None of the
others felt sleepy, notwithstanding that the talk lasted till the clock
in the passage struck nine—not even Lottie, though she was glad to make
Dora's shoulder a pillow for her head.

Would those boys and girls over forget that talk! They thought not,
at any rate. With the exception of the baby, they all knew why their
father had made up his mind to leave them, and there was first of all a
little joyful anticipation of the time when he could return, and they
would "all be so happy again," and not obliged to save every possible
penny.

They next discussed arrangements with regard to the frequent exchange
of letters. Then breaking a silence, Mr. Grainger said,—

"Children, do you know I have something to give each and all of you
before I go?"

They all looked curious, even Edgar. Perhaps on another occasion he
would, from the term of address his father had used, have considered
himself excluded from those to whom the words were spoken. But to-night
he knew—and the knowledge pleased him—that they were meant for him
equally with the rest.

"Is it a present, father?" asked Giles, who had practical ideas about
everything.

"No, my boy," replied his father, "it is a trust. I give you one very
precious charge. Will you all try to take care of your mother for me
till I come back?"

He was answered by a chorus of yesses, some loud, some low.

"As much as lies in his power," he continued, "Edgar must take my place
in relieving her of those duties which ought always to fall on the
master of the house."

"Such as locking up the doors at night, and seeing everything safe?"
asked Giles again.

"Well, yes," said his father, smiling, "though I own I hadn't that in
my mind when I spoke." Then changing his tone, he added, "You will do
this for me, Edgar?"

The boy made no audible reply, but his grave, earnest face, and the
serious look in his eyes as he met his father's, said more plainly than
words that he would do his best.

"Dora," went on Mr. Grainger, "as the oldest daughter, must be her
mother's right hand."

"And what shall I do, father?" asked Katie.

"Be her help and comfort, dear, also," replied Mr. Grainger; "I am
afraid I cannot tell you the special way in which you can each strive
to fulfil my trust. But you can all try to lighten her cares by sharing
them, and cheer her by rendering loving little services."

"Now I'm nine I shall be able to do lots of things for mother,"
observed Olive, with great satisfaction.

"That's right, my darling," and at her father's words, Olive looked up
with a sunny smile. "Children," he went on, "you know what our first
golden rule has always been!"

"Obedience," was the quick reply.

The flickering flame of the fire was the only light in the room, and
just at that moment the corner where Robert sat was in shadow, so no
one saw the crimson flush that rose in his cheeks as the question was
asked and answered.

"And remember that now when your mother speaks, she will be speaking
for me as well as for herself," went on Mr. Grainger. "You may be quite
sure her wishes would be mine."

Again there was a silence, and again Mr. Grainger broke it.

"This, too, is part of the trust," he said. "I want you to promise
to be loving and kind to each other; you elder ones being gentle and
patient with the younger, and the younger submitting themselves to
the elder. I want you to promise that you will struggle bravely in
the battle which all God's children must fight against selfishness,
discontent, bad temper, and, in fact, everything that you know to be
unlovely in God's eight. All of you, down to little Lottie there,
have your besetting sins to fight against, and, with God's help, to
overcome. My dear children, will you so act that when I return you may
each tell me you have tried to keep this promise?"

"Yes," again came from all the children, and very gravely now was the
answer given.

"But you cannot do it in your own strength. Shall we kneel down
together, and ask God that the Holy Spirit may help you?"

All excepting Lancie, who lay on his sofa, knelt down, and from that
room ascended an earnest prayer that God would help each member of the
family to keep the solemn promise that had been made, and that He would
let them all meet again in health and safety. When they had risen from
their knees, Mr. Grainger kissed his children one by one. Lancie's turn
came last, and bending over him, his father took his thin white hand in
his.

"Oh, father! How I shall want you."

"My poor little Lancie!"

There was the sound of a smothered sob, and then—

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," said Lancie, and a smile lighted up his
pale face. "And you think God will be as pleased with that as if—as if
I could do as the others can?"

"I know He will," said Mr. Grainger, tenderly; "and remember He takes
note of every pain you suffer. That He has given you so much to bear,
Lancie, only shows His great love for you. He wants to make you
'perfect through suffering.'"

"Thank you, you have comforted me so, father." Then, after a momentary
pause, "I shall be awake when you come to give me a last kiss before
you go."

And his eyes were wide open when, in the early winter morning, Mr.
Grainger stepped quietly into the room adjoining his own to say
good-bye to his little crippled son. But with the exception of Edgar,
who was to accompany him to the station, all the other children were
sound asleep when he left the house from which he would be absent a
whole long year.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED.

DORA had resolved to be up to see her father start, and she felt vexed
with herself when on awaking she heard the clock strike seven. She
knew then that he had been gone nearly two hours, and becoming aware
it was a very cold morning, she nestled down in her bed again, while
her thoughts went back to the conversation of the previous evening and
the good resolutions she had formed. How much she would do during the
year begun that day! The children should all look up to, and love, and
obey her, and her mother would lean more and more upon her, till when
her father came home her mother would say, "I do not know what I should
have done without Dora. Right nobly has she fulfilled the trust you
gave her."

And thereupon she began thinking what a pretty story she could weave
out of her own life. A year ago she had been told she might have a tiny
room at the top of the house for her own use. It was very little larger
than a good-sized cupboard, but she considered it a great privilege
to be its only occupant, and here she had spent many a spare hour and
half-holiday in scribbling tales and "making poetry," for it was Dora's
great ambition to become an authoress.

Now, with herself for the heroine of her story, she wove a charming
little romance. This proved such a delightful occupation that she quite
forgot the lapse of time till the sound of a church bell, tolling for
an early service, brought her back to the real world in which she
lived. Ten minutes to eight, and eight o'clock was the breakfast hour!
It was impossible to dress properly. So having put on her clothes, she
washed her face, hurried over a prayer, and ran downstairs. She was
relieved to find Katie cutting bread and butter, and helping generally.

"I am so sorry to be late," she said, as she gave her mother a kiss.
"I meant to be in such good time this morning."

"Never mind, dear," was the kind reply. "I have no doubt you were
tired when you went to bed last night, and perhaps did not go to sleep
quickly. Now, will you please do Phil's feeder, and see that he doesn't
eat his bread and milk too quickly?"

The Christmas holidays were not yet come to an end. Consequently as
there was no hurrying off to be in good time for school, the meal was
rather a longer one than usual. Perhaps Mrs. Grainger wished there had
been need for haste. The younger children did not understand that it
would have been kinder to their mother to have made no remark on the
vacant place at the breakfast-table, nor to have talked so freely, and
dolefully, too, of the father who had gone away.

Then Giles was very anxious to know whether he went "in a four-wheeler
or a hansom," and whether he had taken a certain aluminium pencil-case,
which Giles had bought with a shilling—the careful savings of several
months—and given him for a Christmas present.

So the younger children lingered over the meal long after Edgar—who had
returned from seeing his father off—had left for business, and Robert
had taken his departure to the house of a schoolfellow with whom he
was going to spend the day. They finished at last, however, and Dora
offered to go for Lancie's tray. He, poor child, was not so well as
usual this morning, and had taken his breakfast in bed.

When she returned to the sitting room, Mary, their little maid
of-all-work, was clearing the table. Dora had to wait a few minutes
before she found an opportunity of speaking to her mother.

"Mother dear," she said, "I want to begin at once to help you all I
can. Will you let me attend to the cooking to-day?"

"You will do me a greater service if you will take the children for a
long walk. It will be so good for them, this cold frosty morning, and
in holiday time they always get restless if they are kept in the house."

Dora would much have preferred making the pudding, and preparing
the cold meat left from yesterday's dinner for a hash, but her good
resolutions were fresh in her memory, and she instantly said she would
do as her mother wished.

"But you need not go yet," went on Mrs. Grainger. "If you start in an
hour, or an hour-and-a-half, it will be soon enough. Before then you
might get a nice practice."

"Yes, but I will put my room tidy first, please," said Dora. "I hadn't
time to do it before I came down this morning. Oh, mother—" she stopped
a moment, then throwing her arms round her mother's neck whispered, "I
do hope I shall be a real help to you now and always. Will you let me
have a quiet talk with you some time to-day? And will you give me a lot
of work? I have been thinking I might teach the children entirely now.
And there are other things I should like to undertake."

"Do not want to do too much at once, my child," replied her mother,
fondly. "But I am sure it will be good for you to have regular daily
work, and I intended speaking to you about it as soon as your father
had gone. I cannot promise you a talk before the little ones have gone
to bed, but we will certainly have a quiet chat together then. Now,
dear, run and put your room in order."

Dora did as she was bid, but finding Katie stripping the beds, she
offered to help her make them. When this was done, she dusted and put
her own little "den" tidy, and then went down stairs to begin her
practice. She did not grumble, as she often did, at being obliged
to perform this duty in a cold room, and scales and exercises were
patiently repeated till her fingers felt delightfully warm and lissom.
But she was not sorry to shut the piano and go in search of her mother.
She found her in the kitchen. Katie was there, too, washing currants
for the pudding.

"Shall we start now, mother?" Dora asked.

"Yes, I think so. Will it be too much trouble to take Phil?"

"In the perambulator, do you mean?"

"He certainly could not walk to the Park and back. Katie will take her
turn at pushing him."

At the mention of her own name, Katie looked up quickly.

"But, mother," she exclaimed, "Connie Pafford said she might perhaps
call for me to go for a walk with her."

"So you said yesterday, dear, but she didn't come."

"No; and that is why I think she is sure to call this morning."

"I do not know that I should be sorry, Katie, if she should come and
find you out," said Mrs. Grainger, somewhat gravely.

"Why, mother," and Katie's face flushed. "I am sure Connie Pafford is
very nice. And it's very kind of her to want to be friendly with me.
They are very much better off than we are. She has an uncle who keeps
his carriage."

Mrs. Grainger smiled.

"I hope my little daughter will be wiser some day, and not think
that because a little girl has an uncle who keeps his carriage, her
friendship should be cultivated. But indeed, Katie, I am not at all
anxious that your intimacy with the Paffords should increase; it is not
likely to bring you any real good or happiness. Had it not been that
on hearing of our trouble Miss Loam offered to take you and Dora on
greatly reduced terms, you could not have remained at so good a school,
and you must remember that your social position is very different from
that of most of Miss Loam's pupils."

"Yes, and that's just what makes it so hard," rejoined Katie, with a
sigh.

"Some of the girls would not think any the worse of you for being
poorer than themselves, dear child," said her mother; "and there is no
reason why you should not be friendly with them. But from what I have
heard, I should not think the Paffords are of that class, and I do not
think it well for you to seek their acquaintance."

"I don't consider the Paffords at all nice," remarked Dora. "They are
proud and stuck-up, and Mrs. Pafford never takes the least notice of us
if we happen to meet her in the street."

"You couldn't expect her to stop and speak to you when you were
carrying that big basket the other day," said Katie. "You looked
exactly like a servant."

"Let us hope she did not recognise your sister," said Mrs. Grainger,
quietly, "for if Dora had been a servant and Mrs. Pafford had known
her, it would have shown great ill-breeding to pass without any outward
sign of recognition. It would have been more, a direct violation of the
command 'be courteous.' But," she added, changing her voice, "we must
break off our talk, or you will not get the long walk I want you to
have. Katie dear, it is my desire that you go with your sister."

The words were said very kindly, but with a certain firmness that left
no room for argument, and Katie went away to get ready herself and help
to dress her little brothers and sisters.

But she forgot her vexation when she found herself in Regent's Park. It
was a remarkably clear fine morning, and the trees were covered with
tiny particles of hoar-frost that glittered like diamond dust in the
bright sunshine. No wonder Phil wanted to get out of his perambulator
and run and stamp his little feet on the hard, frozen ground.

Indeed the air was so fresh and exhilarating that Dora and Katie forgot
their dignity as the two eldest daughters, and begging Giles and Olive
to "mind Phil" for a few minutes—Lottie was considered old enough to
take care of herself—started off for a race. Now, though there was a
difference of two years in their ages, there was very little difference
in their height; it was not surprising, therefore, that the younger
girl was the victor. But, after all, it was a closely-contested point,
and panting and laughing, with rosy-cheeks and sparkling eyes, they
came back to their charges.

"Couldn't we go as far as the lake?" asked Giles. "I shouldn't wonder
if there's skating going on, and I'd like to see it."

The lake was exactly opposite that part of the Park nearest Madeira
Street, but as they were already half way across the large open piece
of pleasure-ground, it was decided they could easily go to the water
and be home by dinner-time. Giles was right; there were some skaters on
the ice, but they were all near one spot, and too far off to be plainly
seen, for Dora said they would not have time to go farther than the
iron bridge that spans the lake at its narrowest point.

"Why," said Katie, as she stood there straining her eyes to see the
skaters, "there's somebody just like Robert. There! Don't you see that
boy who has just fallen down?"

But Dora was a little bit short-sighted.

"Nonsense," she said, "it couldn't be Robert. He wouldn't go against
father's wishes so much as that."

Mr. Grainger's only brother had met his death from an accident on the
ice. It had happened years ago end before he himself had married, but
as long as he lived, he would never forget the fearful shock of seeing
the dead body brought into the house. From that day he had a horror of
skating, and he made it a command that not one of his children should
learn the art. And Katie, remembering her father's well-known and
solemnly impressed desire, thought she must have been mistaken, and
dismissed the subject from her mind.

Perhaps she would have thought of it on her return home, and told her
mother of the strange resemblance between Robert and the skater she
had seen in the distance, but as soon as she got in, a note was given
her, and, for a while, the contents banished everything else from her
memory. It was an invitation from Connie Pafford to an evening party at
her house.

"Oh! Mother, may I go?" she asked, breathlessly, when she had read the
note aloud.

"You think it will give you pleasure?"

"Yes, of course," and Katie's eyes sparkled. "Besides, it isn't
everybody Connie would invite to her house. Lots of the girls at school
will envy me when I tell them where I've been. What kind of dress shall
I have?"

"My dear child, you can only wear your best merino," replied her mother.

"But it's a dress party. Connie says in her postscript that she's going
to wear a light blue silk, trimmed with cream-coloured lace. I don't
think I can go in a dark green merino."

"I cannot give you a new frock for the occasion, Katie; that is quite
impossible. If Connie really wants you at her party, she will not care
about your dress. And your green will look very nice with some pretty
lace at the neck and wrists."

"I'm afraid I couldn't go in a woollen dress," and tears of
disappointment suddenly filled Katie's eyes.

"I am sorry to appear unsympathetic," said her mother, "but in that
case, I see nothing else for you to do but to write and decline the
invitation."

Dora, who had been reading aloud to Lancie when Connie's letter was
brought in, had only left off to hear what it was about, and then
resumed her occupation. But her attention was only half given to the
book; she had heard the whole of the conversation between her mother
and sister, and now looking up, said eagerly—

"But I have a dress I think you could wear, Katie—the white serge I had
for cousin Mary's wedding. It's a little bit dirty, and it may be a
little old-fashioned now, but we could turn it, and perhaps alter the
make."

"That will do beautifully," said Katie, whose face was again all
smiles. "And if it's too short, I daresay we could let it down. I'll go
and fetch it at once. Where shall I find it, Dora?"

Hardly waiting for the answer, she ran upstairs to her sister's room,
and Dora again turned to her book. But a little, thin hand was put
gently over the page, and a low, sweet voice said,—

"I am glad you did that, Dolly. It was kind of you. Katie has set her
heart upon the party, and else wouldn't have gone in her merino."

Dolly was Lancie's pet name for his eldest and favourite sister.

"It's not any great kindness," said Dora. "I don't suppose I should
ever have worn the dress myself again. I think—" she paused a moment,
then went on thoughtfully—"it seems to me, Lancie, that the more a
thing costs us the more merit there is in doing it, and if it doesn't
cost us anything, there's no merit in doing it. It isn't as if I were
going to the party end wanted to wear the dress myself, for instance.
Now it cost me a great deal more to take the children out for a walk
this morning, when I would much rather have stayed at home, and made
the pudding and cooked the dinner. I am afraid I haven't expressed
myself very well, but you know what I mean."

"Yes—'neither will I offer burnt offerings unto the Lord my God of that
which cost me nothing.'"

There was a silence after that until Katie came back with the dress
over her arm, for Lancie had covered his face with his hands, and Dora
knew he did not wish to be spoken to.

Again a deep thrill of joy had throbbed through the little cripple's
heart. God knew what it cost him to lie so many weary hours in pain and
weakness, and be cut off from the pleasures which all his brothers,
down to Baby Phil, enjoyed. He knew how high a price was paid for the
sacrifice which he could daily offer up—the price of his weariness and
suffering—and in the thought, a deep thankfulness rose from Lancie's
heart that he had so rich a gift to offer. Ah! If he could always feel
as he was feeling then.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

DORA GROWS METHODICAL.

IT was decided that with turning and a little alteration the dress
would do very nicely for the Pafford's party. And as soon as tea was
over, Dora, Katie, and Olive, who was very proud to help, set about
taking out the seams. Before the unripping was finished, Robert
returned. He did not seem in a very talkative mood, and glancing up
presently from the little sock she was darning, his mother was struck
by the weary look on his face.

"You seem tired, dear," she said. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Oh, lots of things," he replied, as he hastily took up a book and
opened it. "Jack and I were out of doors the greater part of the time."

"And I could declare I saw you once," said Katie briskly—unpicking the
dress was a delightful occupation—"But I knew I was mistaken because
this boy who was so like you was on the ice. It couldn't have been you
skating."

"No, of course it couldn't," and Robert gave a short laugh. But behind
his book, his face, which had been crimson a moment before, suddenly
grew pale. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard Giles ask for an
explanation of a passage in the story he was reading. In a few minutes
he rose, and saying he was "tired out," asked his mother to excuse him
and let him go to bed.

Poor Robert! He carried a heavy heart with him upstairs, because for
the first time since he had understood the sin that is committed in
giving utterance to a lie, he had sullied his lips with a falsehood.

The dress was unpicked at last, and a note sent to the dressmaker who
often worked at 99, Madeira Street, to beg her to come to superintend
the re-making of the white serge as soon as possible. Then, when Katie
had taken her departure to bed, Dora put herself in her favourite
attitude on the hearthrug, and with her elbow on her mother's knee,
said,—

"Now, please, let us have our talk together. I have a pencil and
note-book, and I mean to write down all the duties you are going to
give me to do."

[Illustration: "NOW, PLEASE, LET US HAVE OUR TALK TOGETHER."]

"Again I ask you not to be too eager, Dora," said Mrs. Grainger. "Those
who start too hurriedly in the race are apt to come in last."

"Yes, I know, but I am so anxious to have things settled. As soon as
the holidays are over, and that will be at the end of the week, will
you let me take your place in the schoolroom and teach the children
without any help from you?"

"You would find that no light task, dear."

"I am sure I could do it," said Dora. "I am quite aware Giles is
often trying to one's patience. He asks the why and the wherefore of
everything, and it is not always easy to explain. And then Lottie
frequently loses her temper. But I am certain I could manage them and
teach them into the bargain."

"I cannot have you neglect your own studies, and you must keep up your
music and French. You know, dear, you are very young to have left
school, and you must try to carry on your education for a while alone,
or with such little help as Edgar or I can give you. I hope you will
some day have the advantage of more lessons."

"Of course I must study, but I shall have plenty of time for
everything," said Dora. "Now see here," and she began to use her
pencil. "From half-past nine till twelve I shall teach the children.
Then I shall take them out for a walk till one. After that, lessons
again from half-past two till four."

"That leaves you very little time for yourself."

"I can practise from four till five," went on Dora. "Then in the
evening I can have half an hour for French, and an hour for other
things, and after that, help you with the mending. There, mother, shall
I not be your right hand if I do all that?"

"Indeed, my Dora, if you do half, you will relieve me of much,"
and Mrs. Grainger stroked back the soft curly hair from the girl's
forehead. "I shall indeed be thankful," she continued, "if this should
prove a new starting-point in your life. It has seemed to me that my
daughter was getting a habit of dreaming of what might be, instead of
acting in the what is. Now I think she is going the right way to work
to cure that defect in her character."

"Yes, I know that is a fault of mine," and tears sprang to Dora's eyes,
"but I will try to struggle against it, and not only dream, but do.
Perhaps writing stories isn't a good thing for me. I won't write any
more for a whole year."

"It will do you no harm to indulge in your favourite pursuit, if you do
it in moderation," said her mother, smiling. "Only you must not let it
interfere with more important occupations. I do not think it improbable
that some day your desire will be fulfilled, and that you will find
yourself a recognised authoress."

"Oh! Do you?" And Dora's face grew rosy red, and her eyes glistened
through the tears that had gathered in them.

"You know the old precept and promise, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord;
trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' Be content that God
shall direct your life and guide your steps. Then, if this desire of
yours should be good for you, He will accomplish it; if not, you will
still be able to say, 'It is well.' But leave all that for the future,
dear child. You will be doing as true work for God now in teaching your
little brothers and sisters, and helping me in my household duties,
as ever you would be as a famous writer. Yet, my Dora, your power
of imagination, and your love of literature, and that appreciation
of loveliness in nature and art with which God has gifted you, are
responsibilities not to be lightly considered."

"How do you mean, mother?" asked Dora, wonderingly.

"This, dear, that where much is given, much will be required. You often
have beautiful thoughts; you are quick to recognise the deeper, hidden
meanings which the lessons of nature, and of our own lives, teach us. I
heard what you said to Lancie about the coat of self-sacrifice, and was
struck by the truth of your remarks and the insight they displayed. In
proportion to the light that has been given you, my child, so will you
be expected to mould your life."

"Oh, mother, how solemn and serious a thing you make of it all!"

"Life is solemn and serious, but remember you have only to live one
day, nay, one hour at a time. Do the duty which that hour brings with
a whole heart and singleness of purpose, and you need not fear for the
rest." Then changing her voice, Mrs. Grainger continued,—

"I am glad you have put down on paper what you intend doing. There is
nothing like having fixed and settled rules, and I think you know you
are naturally wanting in order and system. At the same time, I am sure
it would be better if I were in the schoolroom in the afternoon. The
children do nothing then except read and prepare their lessons for the
next day, and so it does not matter if I leave them for a little while
every now and again. I must own it has always troubled me that I was so
constantly going from the room in the morning to attend to household
duties. They will certainly be the gainers if you become their teacher,
for with me they were often alone for an hour together."

"Oh, please give them up to me entirely," said Dora, pleadingly. "I
don't want to do a little to help you; I want to do a great deal."

"Very well, dear," replied her mother, "you shall make the trial, and
until you say you cannot get through all your duties properly, I shall
not interfere with you. But you must not feel ashamed to tell me that
you have set yourself too hard a task."

Dora made no audible answer, but in her heart arose the words—"I shall
never do that. Mother doubts my powers, I see, but in a little while
she will own she has misjudged me."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by Edgar's entrance. He
looked very tired as he threw himself wearily down in an arm-chair.

Mrs. Grainger went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"For your sake I shall be glad when Mr. Barfitt has balanced his
accounts, dear boy," she said, fondly. "Now you shall have a cup of
cocoa, and then you must go off to bed at once. You were awake at
half-past four this morning, and that left you a very short night's
rest."

"I suppose that is the reason why I feel so tired," he replied with a
sigh. "But you know I am very glad to go to Mr. Barfitt in the evening,
and it's really very good of him to have me. He must find me a very
different accountant from father. Need you go to make the cocoa,
mother?"

Edgar would have liked to keep her soft warm hand in his, and she
knew it. But the little maid had gone to bed, and Dora, sitting on
the hearthrug, was gazing fixedly at the clear, red-hot coal. She was
enjoying a reverie, and her mother would not disturb her.

"I shall not be a minute, dear. I will fetch the little kettle, and
boil it here."

Dora was still in the same position when she returned, and not a word
had passed between the brother and sister. But the clatter of the
teacup and saucer, as Mrs. Grainger placed the tray on the table,
aroused her, and the next instant she rose from the floor.

"I think I'll go to bed now, mother," she said. Then as she saw the
kettle, she added, "Why didn't you ask me to fetch that for you?"

"You were busy, dear, with your own thoughts, and I did not wish to
interrupt you."

Dora laughed a low, happy laugh.

"I was dreaming a dream that shall come true," she said, and having
wished her mother and brother good-night, she ran lightly upstairs to
her room.

But she did not undress and prepare for bed. She first of all wrapped
an old shawl around her, and sat down at the little deal table on which
stood her writing materials. Then she took from a drawer a sheet of
manuscript paper, and with a ruler carefully ruled some lines. These
formed divisions for the labours of each day in the week, and Dora then
began to write the hours at which the many tasks she intended to do
should begin and end.

"Mother thinks I am wanting in order and system," she said to herself
with a smile, "but perhaps she will own herself just a little bit
mistaken when she sees this."

Monday's work was thought over, and put down, and from early morning
till late at night every minute was occupied. Tuesday was treated in
the same fashion, and Wednesday was being taken into consideration,
when there came a soft tap at her door. It was so soft that she did not
hear it.

But on a repetition she said "Come in," and glancing up she saw it was
Robert.

"Why! I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago," she exclaimed in
surprise, "and you haven't even undressed yet."

"No, there's—there's something bothering me, and I saw a light under
your door, and I thought perhaps you'd let me talk to you a bit."

"Oh dear!" said Dora, with a sigh. "And I did so want to finish this
while I've got everything fresh in my mind." Then she added impatiently
"Is it very particular, Robert?"

He did not answer, but bending over her table asked what she was doing.

"It's a time-table," she replied. "It is settled that I am to teach
Lancie, and Giles, and Olive, and Lottie. Then there are my own studies
and countless other things. I shall be busy all day long. You see,
Robert—"

"Yes?" he said, for Dora had stopped short.

"I am determined to fufil dear father's trust, and the more I relieve
mother, the better I shall be doing it."

"And what about the promise?" Robert asked. But he did not put the
question without difficulty.

"Oh! I mean to do great things this year," returned Dora, eagerly and
confidently. "Mother and I have been having a lovely talk, and I shall
set to work so that I may have a good account to give father. Why,
Robert," as her eye for the first time fell upon his face; "you are
shivering, and you look so pale. You had better go to bed, and leave me
to finish this."

He moved away, but before he had reached the door, turned and came back.

"Dora," he said, in a low voice, "I wonder whether father is thinking
about us all now?"

She was just in the act of dipping her pen in the ink to continue her
work, but at Robert's question, she leaned back in her chair, and
answered slowly,—

"Yes, I am sure he is. He is thinking—"

"Well, go on. You are dreaming again, I know that by the look in your
eyes. What is he thinking about?"

"He is wondering what we are all doing, and in fancy, he sees each one
of us, and can read our hearts as well. It troubles him that every
minute is putting a farther distance between him and us, but he has no
fear that separation will weaken our love for him. He knows, indeed,
that we shall only love him more, and strive to show that we do. And
as he remembers this, the sorrowful expression leaves his face, and
raising his eyes, he whispers softly, 'God bless and keep them all!'"

In imagination Dora saw her father standing on the deck of a ship.
Around him was a wide vast expanse of ocean, and the silent silvery
stars looked calmly down from the deep blue sky above. So distinct was
the vision that she seemed to hear the throb of the engine, and the
rush of water as the vessel ploughed her rapid way through the sea.

And thus it was she did not perceive that tears were running down
Robert's cheeks, nor that he had great difficulty in choking down his
sobs. She only knew that a moment after she ceased speaking, he left
the room.

And then accompanying the words, "Now I really must get this finished,"
with a little shake of her body, as if to detach herself from the scene
she had conjured up, she once more concentrated her thoughts on the
time-table before her.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY.

BY some means or other the children knew before breakfast next morning
that Dora would be their teacher as soon as the holidays were over.

But the news did not give the satisfaction she expected.

Olive openly grumbled. "They learnt well enough from mother, why
couldn't they go on in the old way?" she was heard to ask.

And Lottie, for no other reason than because she thought it a clever
thing to echo Olive's words, chimed in with, "Yes, it would be ever so
much nicer to go on doing lessons as they did before."

Dora, though she wisely kept the opinion to herself, thought them both
ungrateful little creatures. But the momentary feeling of annoyance
over, she resolved with characteristic good temper that they should
have as little cause as possible to regret the change, and she drew
comfort from the fact that Giles, whom she half feared would protest
against having her as his governess, made no remark whatever.

It was well for her peace of mind that she did not hear a conversation
which took place between him and his eldest brother as soon as they had
left the table.

In order to be in good time at the warehouse, Edgar often got up from
breakfast before the younger children had finished, and during the
holidays he had frequently been accompanied to the railway station by
either Robert or Giles. This morning the latter asked permission to go
with his brother, and his mother having willingly granted his request,
he followed Edgar out of the room and into the hall.

There Giles burst forth with—

"I want to know if I can't go to school. I am sick of doing lessons at
home like a girl."

The last three words were brought out with great contempt.

"I am afraid you must put up with it for a while longer," said Edgar,
quietly. "After another year we shan't have to be so particular about
spending a little money, and then I daresay you'll go with Robert
again."

"It isn't as if it were a dear school. It wouldn't cost much to send
me," went on Giles. "I remember hearing somebody say once it was one of
the few things that were both cheap and good."

"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class
of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford
to let you go back yet."

"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't
learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."

"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the
coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall
find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the
station; I don't want to miss my usual train."

Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a
more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning,
and he would not be taken from his grievance.

"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is
that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school
again I'll work as well as anybody."

Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would
fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was
his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and
talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light
was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the
eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.

"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.

"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great
shame to be treated like a baby."

"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving
like one."

Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no
anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this
reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air
of indifference.

"I don't see how that can be," he said. "Any boy of spirit would
object to being taught with two sisters younger than himself, and by a
sister," Giles laid great stress on the by,—"a very little older."

Edgar could have laughed outright, but he restrained himself.

"I don't know your idea of a boy of spirit, but I know what your
Sunday-school teacher and mother would think the best kind of spirit to
have," he said.

"What?" asked Giles.

For a moment Edgar hesitated. He was naturally reserved and it was not
easy for him to speak openly of sacred subjects at any time. To do so
now was still harder. Giles might think he was preaching, and that was
what he abhorred.

"The spirit of Christ," he replied, and though he spoke with much
difficulty the words were uttered slowly and reverently. "That is the
best and most truly manly spirit we can any of us have. You know what
it would have you do?"

Giles shook his head. But the answer that his heart made was: "Learn of
Dora and try to make good progress."

"The spirit of Christ," said Edgar in the same low voice, "would have
you willing to learn of your sister, and anxious to do her credit as
her pupil. He did not seek to please Himself, you know, and neither
must we. Then by putting aside your own wishes and saying nothing about
them, you will be fulfilling your part of the trust father left us."

"I don't see how," said Giles briefly, but without any sullenness or
complaint in his voice.

"I don't think there's any need for me to tell you mother is not at all
strong, and attending to the house and teaching so much as she did all
last year has tried her greatly. Now Dora is not only willing, but very
eager to take the work from her. But if you grumble and make a fuss and
give Dora trouble, then mother will feel obliged to teach you again
herself, and besides that, she will be so grieved that she cannot send
you to school. It bothers her now. She was talking about it only last
night. 'If I could anyhow spare another sovereign, he should go,' she
said, and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Giles, old fellow,
you won't add to her troubles, will you?"

Giles' face was turned away, and his brother had to wait for an answer.
When it did come, the "No" was spoken in so choked a voice that Edgar
only just caught the sound.

"I knew you wouldn't," he said, as he put his hand on Giles' shoulder.
"I knew you'd take your share in bearing the family burden like a
brave, manly boy. It's not an easy burden. At times I feel as if I
couldn't bear my part of it."

As Giles looked up wonderingly and with misty eyes, some inexplicable
and most unusual impulse prompted Edgar to speak still more freely of
himself.

"My part has been to give up my desire of becoming a doctor," he said.

"I didn't know you ever wanted to be one," exclaimed Giles in
astonishment.

"Only mother and father know. You are in the secret now, but you'll
keep it to yourself, won't you?"

A thrill of pride, not unmixed with gratitude to Edgar for having
confided in him, shot through Giles' heart. Yes; he would be as true as
steel to his brother.

"I won't tell. You may depend upon that," he said.

"Well, I've had to give up my idea of being a doctor, and go to the
warehouse instead."

"And you don't like it?"

"No. I hate it."

Giles was silent. He felt very sorry for his brother, and ashamed
too of his complaints of a little while ago. He felt, more than he
understood, that his trouble was small in comparison with that of which
he had just heard.

"I am so sorry," he said, and he slipped his hand into Edgar's. "Isn't
there any hope that you may be a doctor yet?"

"I don't think so. In the present day, one can't be a doctor without
having had a good education and passed lots of exams., and I had to
leave school before I was fifteen. Even if we should be better off in a
year or two, there will certainly be no money to spare."

"Perhaps something will turn up," said Giles, hardly knowing what he
meant by the frequently-heard expression, but hoping the words would
show his sympathy and give comfort.

"You're a downright good fellow to talk to," said Edgar, greatly
touched by the manner in which Giles had received his confidence, and
accompanying the words with an affectionate squeeze of the little hand
that was clasped in his own. "But," he continued, "I'm afraid there
isn't a shadow of hope for me. I shouldn't have said, though, that I
hated my work at the warehouse. I do try to like it, and perhaps, after
a while, I may find pleasure in it. Of course, I am very glad to be
able to do something towards adding to the general fund. I wouldn't be
a clog on mother and father for ever so. I'd a thousand times rather
have it as it is."

At this the conversation abruptly ended, for at that moment they
entered the booking-office, and the puffing and noise of a train
drawing up in the station below warned Edgar that if he would catch it,
he had not a moment to lose. He had only time for a look and a hurried
good-bye, as he rushed down the long flight of steps, leaving Giles to
go home alone.

But it was a very different Giles from the one who had left the
breakfast-table. For the first time he began to see some of the true
meaning of life. Christ had not pleased Himself, neither must he; and
it made him glad to know that he, child as he was, could take his
part in bearing the family trouble. The thought caused him to be very
strong, and brave, and manly.

"No, I won't grumble," he said to himself. "I'll just try to do my best
for Dora, and mother shan't ever know how much I hate doing lessons at
home, and how badly I want to go to school. And what's more," and Giles
drew himself up with conscious dignity, "I won't got cross and angry
when I meet Tom Rilston and some of the other boys who used to be in my
form, and they ask me how I like being taught at home by my 'mammy.'"

He began to put his good resolutions into practice at once. On reaching
home he went straight to the sitting room where Dora was reading with
Phil upon her knee. She and the baby were alone, and going up to her,
Giles said simply,—

"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do
my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's
lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."

Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and
Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new
arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.

"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force
them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your
lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate,
and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"

This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to
be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had
had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told
her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not
Robert at that moment entered the room.

"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.

"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if
we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after
all."

"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had
worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost
immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I
haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."

Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching
for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should
be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had
been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt
for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and
paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.

As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the
table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own
thoughts, came into his mind.

Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been
at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had,
in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of
shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa."
Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he
would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school
again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had
been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert
would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for
himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And
here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed
a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of
attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

AN EVENING OUT.

BUT when Monday morning came, Olive and Lottie were willing enough to
begin lessons under the direction of their new governess. The thaw, as
had been predicted, quickly turned to rain, and for the remainder of
that last week of holidays the little girls had not been allowed to
go out of doors. Consequently they had grown very tired of having no
regular employment to occupy them, and not a word of disapproval was
expressed when Dora said they must be ready for her in the schoolroom
at half-past nine on Monday.

If that first morning might be taken as a fair example of what would
follow, they must have felt they would benefit by the change of
teachers. They had often declared it to be "very provoking" that just
as they were in the most interesting part of a lesson, their mother
should be called hastily away, and sometimes half an hour would elapse
before she returned to the room. Again she had often been obliged to
set them tasks while she attended to some necessary household matter.
And when she came back, she would find, perhaps, that Olive was waiting
for an explanation of a new rule in arithmetic, or that Giles could not
proceed with his French exercise, because he had forgotten how to form
the feminine of an adjective with some particular ending, and could not
find the example.

Then very often Phil was in the room the whole of lesson time. He
had to be there because he could not be left alone, and the little
maid-servant was too busy to take charge of him. But his presence did
not tend to keep order and quietness, and his doings often drew the
interest of the little students from their books.

Now there was no claim on Dora's attention outside the schoolroom,
and as Phil was more than content to be with "moder," there was no
interruption within. And Dora, as she had promised, tried to make the
lessons as interesting as possible. She had determined to spare herself
no labour that her pupils might learn easily, and Giles silently owned
to himself that "Dora was a deal cleverer than he ever thought." They
were all surprised when they heard the clock in the passage strike
twelve. Even Lancie, tired as he often got of the lesson hours, had no
wish to put away his books.

"Why, the morning hasn't seemed any time," said Olive. "Oh! Do let
us go on with our geography a little longer. It's such fun to fancy
ourselves a party of rich people travelling in Spain. Are you always
going to teach us in this way, Dora?"

"Not always, but it will be pleasant to take make-believe journeys
sometimes. But then, you know, it doesn't end there. You have to learn
by heart the names of all the mountains and rivers we have crossed, and
also to write as good and as full an account as you can of what I have
been telling you about the country. I shall expect it done by the next
time we have a lesson in geography."

"That'll be on Thursday," said Lottie, who had been looking at her
time-table, for Dora had presented each of her pupils with a copy. "I
wish we could have it to-morrow instead."

It was very pleasant to Dora to hear that her efforts had been
appreciated, and she began to think that teaching was one of the most
delightful things in the world. For her part she would have been very
willing to go on with lessons until dinner-time, but the recollection
of her resolve to be methodical made her say that books must be put
aside, and that her pupils must get ready for a walk.

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and without waiting for
permission to enter, Robert came in.

"I knew school was over," he said, "by the noise I heard. Giles, would
you like me to help you with your Latin declensions, and look over the
exercises you have written?"

That Giles was grateful for this offer of assistance was very plain,
and as he could go out after afternoon lessons as well as then, he was
allowed to follow his own inclinations.

This was not the first occasion on which Robert had done a similar act
of kindness. On that morning, when Giles had made up his mind to go on
with the studies he had discontinued on his removal from school, he
had asked his brother the pronunciation of a certain Latin noun of the
third declension. Robert not only gave the information, but asked why
Giles wished to know, and on being told, instantly volunteered to give
any help in his power.

But though the offer was at once accepted, it was certainly unexpected.
Like most weak characters, Robert was selfish, and instead of giving
pleasure to the brother, who was only three years his junior, by making
him his companion after school hours and during holidays, he treated
him with an indifference and neglect which would have been very galling
to one more sensitive than Giles. As it was, the younger boy frequently
wished Robert "wouldn't snub a fellow like that." Therefore to meet
with sympathy and as much practical aid as he liked to ask for was
indeed a surprise.

But in many respects Robert had behaved differently during the last
week of his holidays. Instead of going off for hours together with some
of his schoolfellows, as was usually his custom, he stayed in the house
and worked industriously at his "holiday task," or amused himself with
some other quiet occupation. He devoted one entire morning to mending
a chair that had a broken back, and was actually seen gumming the
dilapidated cover to one of his badly used school books. On the Tuesday
his holidays would be over, and that he should offer to give up some
part of his last day of freedom to help him with his Latin, seemed to
Giles especially kind.

[Illustration: HE DEVOTED ONE ENTIRE MORNING TO MENDING A CHAIR.]

"I think I am well enough to go out to-day," said Lancie, wistfully, as
he looked from his brothers, now settled at the table with their books,
to the window, through which fell a ray of pale sunshine. "Will you ask
mother what she thinks, Dora?"

As he felt equal to the exertion, Mrs. Grainger thought the fresh air
would do him good, and accordingly, after being well wrapped up, he
went out with his sisters.

But he had not gone the length of the street before he was tired, and
said he must return. Dora was pained at the ring of disappointment and
weariness she detected in his voice, and telling Olive and Lottie not
to go out of the street until she had joined them again, she went back
with him.

"Oh, Lancie!" she said. "How I wish we could afford to give you a ride
in a bath chair sometimes, as we used to do before father had to pay
all that money for that horrible man."

"Never mind," said Lancie, trying to look cheerful, though he felt just
the reverse, "we shall be out of debt after a while. And who knows
whether long before then you mayn't be able to earn some money? If so,
I am sure I should get my rides."

"If only I could!" exclaimed Dora. "Whatever put the idea into your
head? Oh, Lancie! Can't you think of some thing I could do!"

"I only said it because I knew it would please you," he said, smiling.

"Yes, of course, I know that; but couldn't I do it!"

"I'm afraid you can only dream about it yet awhile. If it's going to
make you unhappy, I shall wish I'd never said such a silly thing."

"Make me unhappy? No indeed it shall not. But, Lancie, you've put the
thought in my head and the longing in my heart, and it won't be for
want of trying if I do not devise some plan by which to earn money."

The "plans" that suggested themselves to Dora were to give music
lessons, and to advertise, in a way that would cost nothing, for a
pupil or pupils to share her brother's and sisters' lessons. But
on hearing of her wish, her mother quietly said that she had set
herself more than enough to do as it was, and she was too young and
inexperienced to undertake the more responsible work of teaching the
children of strangers.

A little sensible reflection would have made Dora see that this was
a right opinion, but though she listened in silence, she was not
convinced of the soundness of her mother's reasoning, and in spite of
the success which had attended her efforts that day, she went to bed
feeling that her desire to give Lancie benefit and pleasure, and help
pay off their debt in actual coin, had not met with the appreciation
and sympathy it deserved.

The next day was not only the first of the new term at school for Katie
as well as for Robert, but it was also the day of Connie's party, and
during breakfast Katie was full of excitement at the prospect before
her.

"Aren't you really sorry that you are not going, Dora?" she asked, as
she came into the sitting room with her hat and jacket on, just before
starting for school.

"Not one bit," was her sister's reply. "We mean to spend a happy
evening here, don't we, Olive and Lottie! And I shouldn't wonder if we
have the best of it after all."

In one way Dora was quite out of her reckoning, for it happened that
only baby Phil kept her mother company at home that evening.

An hour or so later, when she and her pupils were busy in the
schoolroom, the sound of a strange voice made them suddenly look up
from their work. Their visitor was Mrs. Armstrong, a dear old friend of
their mother, who, with her only son, lived in lodgings about half a
mile from Madeira Street.

"Why!" exclaimed Lottie, as she jumped up to give her a kiss. "However
was it we didn't hear you come in?"

"I suppose you were too busy," said Mrs. Armstrong, smiling. And then
she shook hands with each, lingering a little when she came to Lancie's
chair.

"What do you think brought me here so early this morning?" she asked,
as she took the seat Olive placed for her by the fire.

They declared they couldn't guess, and begged her to tell them at once.

"I came to ask you to give me a birthday present."

"Is to-day your birthday?"

And then at their visitor's reply, there was a chorus of:

"Many happy returns, many happy returns."

"Thank you," and Mrs. Armstrong gave them all a very affectionate look.
"Now for my present," she went on, smiling. "I want you all to give me
the pleasure of your company at tea this evening. It will make me so
happy to see your bright, young faces round me. I hear that Katie has
an invitation already, so I must not look for her. But I hope Robert
will come straight from afternoon school, and I have no doubt Edgar
will stay a little while when he calls to take you home. Anyway, you
must ask him to do so."

"I cannot come, thank you," said Lancie, and there was a little quiver
of pain under the quiet tone in which he spoke. "I went out yesterday,
but before I got to the end of the street, I was tired and had to turn
back."

"Your mother and I have talked that over, dear," said Mrs. Armstrong,
"and you are to come and return in a cab. If you are tired when you
get to me, you can lie down on my sofa, and we will draw the tea-table
close to you, so that there will be no need for you to move at all. I
may expect you, mayn't I, Lancie?"

His answer could be read in the glow of pleasure which flushed his face.

And thus it came to pass that about four o'clock that afternoon, a cab,
full of happy, smiling children, drove off from 99, Madeira Street.

Katie's party did not begin till six, so she was much later in
starting. Her mother helped her dress, and then, with the white serge
screened from sight and damp beneath her waterproof, she left for the
Paffords. Mary went the short distance with her, and it was arranged
that Edgar should be asked to call for her on his way home from Mrs.
Armstrong's. Mr. Barfitt's accounts were now finished, and his evenings
were therefore once more at his own disposal.

But though Dora, when giving her mother a good-bye kiss, had said they
should certainly be back by ten, it was more than half-past when the
cab drove up to the door, and eleven had struck before the whole family
was again gathered beneath the same roof.

"Oh, Katie, we've had such a jolly time," said Lottie, as her sister
and Edgar entered the room. "I'm not one bit sleepy, and we are all
getting warm before we go to bed. Have you had a happy evening?"

The little girl spoke so rapidly that she stopped for sheer want of
breath.

"Well," replied Katie, "there was nothing but dancing, and of course it
isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to sit still oneself and watch
other people moving about."

"I should think not indeed," said Dora. "You had much better have been
playing musical chairs and dumb charades and post. I'm sure I enjoyed
it as much as Olive and Lottie."

"I don't know," said Katie, stiffly, "whether I could bring myself to
play such childish games now. If we'd only been taught dancing like
other people, of course I should have got on very well. But we had a
lovely supper—turkey, and chicken and ham, and tarts, and jellies, and
everything you can think of. Then the house was so large and handsomely
furnished. I always get tired of Mrs. Armstrong's one pokey little
room."

"Katie dear," said her mother, gently but reprovingly, "I think you are
tired and a little disappointed with your evening. You, as we all do,
must honour Mrs. Armstrong, for we know that her husband left her with
very small means and a little baby to bring up and educate. She has
undergone great hardships and worked very hard in order to fit her only
son to be a doctor. But she told me this morning that she thought her
long struggle was nearly over now, for Percy was in a position to earn
enough money to keep them both. For that reason she said she thought
she might be a little extravagant on her birthday, and thus it was that
you have been so pleasantly entertained." Then, changing the subject,
she asked, "Was Percy at home to-night?"

"Yes, he came ever so much earlier than usual on purpose to see us,"
replied Olive. "But Giles talked to him such a deal that there wasn't a
chance for anybody else to say much."

Giles blushed furiously.

"I wanted to know some things, and he told me," he said, and that was
all the information he would vouchsafe.

But he was more communicative when, in a very little while, he and
Edgar went upstairs together. No one was within earshot and Giles began
eagerly,—

"Of course I didn't let Percy Armstrong know why I asked him such a lot
of questions, but I did so want to find out whether there wasn't some
hope for you. He said lots of men don't even begin to study medicine
till they're older than he. Perhaps in a few years, we shall be better
off, and you'll be able to be a doctor after all."

Edgar was greatly touched.

"Giles," he said, "I had no idea you were such a dear, sympathetic old
fellow! Anyway, you've made me feel that it will all come right. And
I'll keep that hope steadily in view, and every spare hour I get I'll
give to study. But remember, I shall never be too busy to help you with
your Latin."

How wonderfully happy those words made Giles! He was so happy that he
lay awake for a full half-hour; and when at last he slept, he dreamt
that Edgar was a famous physician, and went to see his patients in a
coach like the Lord Mayor's, and lived in a house that was fit for a
prince!

Somebody else was a still longer time in going to sleep that night.
In the course of the evening Mrs. Armstrong had asked Dora whether
she had seen the announcement of prizes that the editor of a certain
magazine for young people offered for short original stories, and on
her reply in the negative, had produced the number, and shown her the
page. Sums, varying from two guineas to five shillings, were offered
for the best tales of a specified length, and Dora was instantly filled
with a desire to become one of the competitors. There were yet three
weeks before the stories need be sent in—ample time in which to make
trial of her skill, and the idea having once entered her mind, it did
not leave her until it had taken tangible form. That was not until the
small hours of the morning, when, having thought out the incidents and
characters of her tale, she fell asleep.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

HOW A RACE ENDED.

"THEN you'll be at my house as soon after nine as you can to-morrow,
Robert?"

"I never said I would come. Besides, if we don't get more frost
to-night, the ice won't be safe to skate on."

"But we shall; it's freezing hard now. The fact is, you don't want to
come; you're afraid of being found out."

A burning blush overspread Robert Grainger's face.

"Ah! I thought as much," said Jack Turner, with a sneer. "Poor little
thing! It's a pity it couldn't be tied to its mother's apron-strings,
then she'd always see what her pretty dear was about."

"You've no cause to say that, Jack. Mother's always willing enough to
let us have pleasure. You know it's only because my uncle was drowned
that father and she can't bear the idea of any of their children
skating. I'm sure if one's careful, there isn't any danger. But they
can't get over their nervousness, and that's why I don't want it to
come to mother's ears that I've been learning to skate."

"Well, it needn't."

"We can't be certain of that. The last time we were on the lake in
Regent's Park, Katie saw me. She didn't think it was I—she thought it
was somebody just like me, and of course I didn't undeceive her."

Jack gave a low whistle.

"H'm," he said, "that's awkward. I'll tell you what, old fellow," he
went on, after a minute's pause, "we'll go farther from home: What do
you say to Hendon?"

Because there was no sense of wrong, there was no shame now, either in
tone or look, as Robert replied in a simple straightforward manner,—

"It's out of the question. I haven't the money to pay my fare."

"That's no matter. I've enough to pay for half a dozen folks."

Jack was very generous, and it was this quality that made him a
favourite among his schoolfellows. Indeed he had many good natural
points, and doubtless they would have become strengthened and increased
had he had such a training as Robert had received. But his mother had
died when he was little more than a baby, and the aunt who had come to
take her place in the house was not fond of children.

Consequently Jack never "took" to her, and he had grown up with no
woman's tender, loving influence to guide him and keep him in the
straight path. Of his father he saw very little. He was a commercial
traveller, and sometimes would be from home for weeks together. After
all, Jack was greatly to be pitied.

"So you'll come, won't you, Robert?" he continued. "You know it'll give
me real pleasure to pay for you, and if you do as well as you did last
time, you'll soon be the best skater in the school. You only had one
tumble, and that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been tripped up."

"And you'll lend me your skates again?"

"Of course. I don't use them now I've got my acmes, so you've nothing
to thank me for. I shall expect you to-morrow then at nine o'clock
sharp. We shan't be back till evening, so mind you tell them at home
you are going to spend the day with me; that'll be true enough, you
know. Good-bye, old boy, a frosty night, and a glorious day for us
to-morrow!"

This conversation took place one Friday afternoon as Robert and Jack
came out of school together. At the end of the month the weather had
again suddenly changed, frost had set in, and now at the beginning of
February the hopes of the skaters rose high that they might yet get a
few days' sport before the season was too far advanced to permit them
to look forward to the pleasure.

On the Friday in question the thermometer had been steadily falling,
and as Robert and Jack went to school in the afternoon, the sight
of some venturesome skaters, hurrying with skates in hand towards
the parks, had made their feet "itch to be doing likewise," as Jack
expressed it, and he had declared that he and Robert must spend the
next day on the ice.

Robert, however, had listened in silence, and as there was no time for
more talk—for they just then arrived at school, and, if they would be
in their places before the bell rang, had not a moment to lose—Jack was
not certain whether he intended to fall in with the arrangement, but he
very well knew how to manage his friend. And though Robert had resolved
that he would never be persuaded to go on the ice again, the temptation
proved too strong, and once more he became not conqueror but conquered
in a struggle for moral victory over self.

The weather next morning was everything that could be desired. It had
been freezing all night, and the sun rose in the grey sky like a large
ball of red fire. Robert had asked and obtained permission to spend the
day with Jack Turner on the previous evening, and as soon as he had
finished breakfast, he rose to get his hat and coat.

"You will be home early, dear?" said Mrs. Grainger. "Remember it is not
holiday time, and you have Monday's lessons to prepare."

"I'll come back to tea, mother. That'll give me all the evening to do
them in."

"Perhaps it will be best, as Jack will then have a fair opportunity of
learning his; from what you tell me, I think he requires longer time
than you," and with not unnatural pride, Mrs. Grainger looked at the
son whose good abilities and aptitude for his studies were well-known
both at home and at school.

Robert experienced a sensation of shame beneath that proud, loving
glance. How unworthy he was of it! Would she have given it him had
she known? Then he hated himself for the mean, deceitful part he was
playing, and for a moment a strong desire to go to Jack and tell him
he could not keep his engagement entered his mind. He would say that
he must do right, even if it necessitated the breaking of his word.
But alas! that still small voice was quenched almost as soon as he had
let himself hear it. No, he must go with his friend to-day, but this
should be the last occasion. He could not again meet his mother's fond,
earnest gaze with that horrible feeling of guilt which made him drop
his own eyes, and with a hasty good-bye, hurried from the room.

That look haunted him during the whole of the journey to Hendon, and
the wish that he had been strong to resist temptation rose again and
again in his heart. But his remorse grew less when he found himself
gliding along over the smooth frozen surface of the water. He had
learnt to skate with remarkable quickness, and on the larger space
and clearer ground which he now for the first time enjoyed, he was
gradually able to increase his speed, till in the excitement and the
exhilaration caused by the delightful exercise, everything else was
forgotten. And the scene was a very charming one. The sun was shining
brightly, the air was clear, and the figures of the ladies, as they
glided gracefully hither and thither in their furs and bright feathers
and ribbons, lent a very pretty and cheerful effect.

But many of these took their departure when, as the afternoon advanced,
the number of skaters increased. Eager to avail themselves of the
Saturday half-holiday, and hoping to find the water at Hendon less
crowded than the lakes in the London parks, many passengers came down
by rail, and soon the ice was thickly covered. Then warnings were
heard that in one part it was showing signs of weakness beneath the
heavy weight brought to bear upon it. Some of the older and wiser
people came off the water; and Robert and Jack, as they passed an
elderly gentleman who had been on the lake when they arrived, and had
kindly given a hint or two to the boys when they were trying to do the
outside edge, advised them to be satisfied with the pleasure they had
had, and so make greater space for those who had more recently arrived
on the scene. Perhaps Robert would have heard without heeding if at
these words the promise he had given his mother had not flashed to his
memory. If he would keep it, his time on the ice must be short.

"We'll leave the fancy skating, old boy," he said to Jack, "and take a
straight turn or two just to get up our circulation before I go home.
The mater seemed to think Monday's lessons would come off badly if I
spent the whole of the day with you and so I said I'd be back to tea."

"All right," was Jack's somewhat unexpected reply; "I fancy I've had
nearly enough of it myself, for I feel about used up. You beat me
hollow, Robert. You don't look a bit tired."

"No, I'm nearly as fresh as when we began. Now, we'll have a real good
turn for the last. Is the steam up, Jack? Then one, two, three, and
off."

And away he flew. Jack tried to keep up with him, but very quickly fell
behind, and Robert, feeling that all his energy must be put into the
last few minutes of his day's pleasure, forgot he was going straight to
the spot about which he had been warned. On, on he went, and some lads,
older and bigger than himself; thinking he was having a race with Jack
and noticing how far the latter was behind, followed him, crying out:

"That isn't fair. You should race with a man as good as yourself. Now,
some of us 'll have a try with you. We'll see which will get to the
other side of the water first."

At the words Robert felt a fresh thrill of excitement, and on he went
at a yet quicker speed with a dozen followers at his heels. He was
in front and he would keep there too. Ah! There was a fellow gaining
upon him. Gaining upon him? No, he had passed him now, and he was only
second in the race.

Hark! What was that cry! Somebody cheering him on? It must be that.
Yes, he would win yet. Now for a desperate effort! That was good; again
he was the foremost figure. But it was some distance yet to the goal,
and his strength was giving way. Again he heard that cry. Ah! If he had
only heard it aright, for the next moment he felt the ice sway beneath
his weight. With a sudden fear at his heart that seemed to stop its
beating, he turned aside. But it was too late.

There was a loud, crackling sound. He uttered a loud, piercing shriek
as the loosened ice sank beneath his feet, and the next instant the
cold water had closed over his head.

What happened next Robert did not know. When he came to his senses, he
was lying on the ice, and somebody was pouring a burning, fiery liquid
down his throat. Then he was aware that he was the centre of a little
group, and that Jack, with a white, frightened face, was kneeling by
his side.

"That's right, Robert," he gasped. "Oh! I'm so thankful to see you open
your eyes."

Robert tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter the words.

"Give him some more brandy," he heard somebody say. And again he felt
the burning liquid pass down his throat.

"Then they got me out?" he managed to whisper in a few minutes. But his
words were very low, and only Jack caught them.

"Yes, there was a rope close by in case of accident, and they got hold
of you first. You hadn't been any time under water. Robert, do you
think you're well enough to try to get home."

Robert sat up. It was with great difficulty that he did so, but he
succeeded.

"He'll do now," said one of the crowd. "The colour's coming back to his
lips and cheeks."

"The sooner you can take off them wet clothes of yours the better,"
said another, addressing Robert. Then, as a murmur of horror was heard,
the speaker turned, asking eagerly, "Eh! What's that? Drowned? And they
are bringing him along?"

There was a fresh excitement now, and the crowd leaving the smaller for
the greater, Robert and Jack found themselves comparatively alone.

"Do you think you could walk?" whispered Jack, in a voice full of
strange, frightened horror. "It's awful to be here, and I'm afraid
they'll ask your name, and then it'll all come out. I've got enough
money to pay for a cab to take us to the station if you could manage to
get across the ice."

Robert just moved his head by way of reply, and Jack helped him up,
but he was so faint and giddy that he would have fallen back again,
had not a man's strong arms been thrown around him. With this support
the faintness presently passed. Then he was half led, half carried to
a cab, and in a short time he and Jack were seated in the train, and
every minute was bearing them nearer home.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

CONFESSED AT LAST.

VERY few words passed between the boys on the journey. Jack proposed
that Robert should go home with him, and wear a suit of his clothes
while his own were being dried. And when Robert said he was afraid his
aunt would think this a very strange and bold proceeding, he replied
that she had gone into the country for a few days, and that though his
father would return from one of his "rounds" that night, he was not
expected until ten or eleven o'clock.

Robert, when he heard this, leaned back in his corner with a sigh
of relief. Perhaps after all his mother would never know. Ah how he
hoped it might be so. As long as he lived he would never go on the
ice again. The terrible fate which had so nearly been his would never
be forgotten. Suppose he had been drowned? Others had been brought
lifeless from the water, and why not he? God was very good to have
spared him. He had not deserved such mercy. Nay, had he not by his
disobedience and deceit towards his earthly parents cut himself off,
as it were, from the protection and love of his heavenly Father? And
all for the sake of a little pleasure and excitement! A heavy penalty
indeed was he paying for his sin.

The poor boy was shivering with cold when presently the train arrived
at the station that was only a two minutes' walk from his friend's
home, and Jack, seeing how his teeth chattered and how white he looked,
said decidedly that he must go to bed while his clothes were being
dried. And though Robert declared he should be all right as soon as he
had got off his wet things and given himself a rub, Jack had his own
way.

And well and kindly did he look after Robert. Jack had owned to himself
that, if his schoolfellow had been drowned, he should always have felt
that his death was on his head, for had it not been for his persuasions
and sneers, Robert would never have learnt to skate, and therefore he
would not have gone on the ice that day.

Then the horror of the scene was still fresh in his memory, and again
and again he seemed to see it acted before his eyes. He had heard the
cries of warning and the piercing shriek that followed. He had been
almost paralyzed with fear at the panic that seized the skaters as they
turned and fled from the direction in which Robert had disappeared. He
had been thrust back when he approached the spot of danger; and oh!
the agony of those few minutes of suspense until he saw the dripping
form of his friend being borne towards him. To Jack, he appeared
already dead. But the people near assured him "he'd soon come round,"
and presently the chafing and rubbing took effect, and to Jack's joy,
Robert opened his eyes.

So now, he helped him undress, and then, going down to the kitchen,
he spread the wet clothes over a couple of chairs, and by some means
or other extracted a promise from the servant that she "wouldn't let
nothing interfere with the drying of 'em."

Then he coaxed her to let him have tea in his bedroom. But it was not
until he said it wouldn't be so much trouble as spreading it in the
dining room, as he himself would both carry the tray upstairs and bring
it down again, that she consented to such an unusual proceeding.

Under different circumstances the boys would have been happy enough.
But do what he would, Robert could not get warm, while the sight of
food only sickened him. But for Jack's persistent efforts to make him
take it, he would not have drunk his tea. At last, however, a cup of
the steaming beverage was swallowed, and then, for the first time since
he had returned to consciousness, he felt a warm glow steal over him.
But it was not a pleasant warmth, and presently the heat became more
painful than the previous shivering fits; a violent headache also came
on, and he could hardly speak for the acute throb that beat in his
temples.

Jack, finding it was the kindest thing to do, forebore at last to chat
and laugh in the hope of "cheering him up," and having taken down the
tea-tray, brought back a pile of school books, and sat quietly down
by the bed to do his preparation. He was glad to see that Robert was
asleep. But at intervals, he moaned and muttered, and Jack did little
study because he was constantly pulling up the blankets that Robert's
restless movements tossed from his body, leaving his arms and chest
exposed to the air. Presently, however, there came a longer silence
than usual, and, turning, Jack saw that Robert was awake.

"Is that you, Jack?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. Who else should it be?"

"I'm not at home, am I?"

"No, you're at my house and in my bed. Don't you remember that the ice
broke, and you fell in the water, and came here to get your clothes
dried?"

For a moment Robert looked puzzled. Then Jack saw that he remembered
everything.

"What's the time?" he asked.

"It's just gone eight."

Robert hastily rose on his elbow, but immediately fell back again with
a groan.

"Oh," he said, "how my head aches directly I move. But I mustn't stay
here any longer. Mother will be getting fidgety soon, and perhaps
she'll send round to know where I am. I must get up and go now, whether
my clothes are dry or not."

But they had received good attention before a blazing fire, and during
the three hours in which they had remained in the heat had become
thoroughly dry. Again Jack lent his aid, and soon Robert was ready to
start on his homeward journey.

If he had been left to walk to Madeira Street alone, perhaps he would
never have got there. But Jack once more took a cab, which, by his
order, put them down within a few doors of No. 99. Even for the little
distance that remained, Robert had company. He felt very grateful to
Jack, and told him so as he wrung his hand at parting.

"Jack, old chap, you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I
should have done without you."

"Don't, I can't stand it;" and Jack's voice was actually choked with
tears. "If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have gone on the ice at
all. It's my fault, and if you had been drowned, it's I who would have
been to blame."

"You mustn't say that. But, Jack, I can't go again."

"And I'll never ask you. Robert, from this day you and I'll try to—"

"Try to be better, do you mean, Jack?" asked Robert, for Jack's
faltering voice had come to an abrupt stop.

"Yes. I won't be the tease and bully I have been. I'll try to do right
myself, and help others to do the same."

"So will I; but oh, Jack!—" and Robert shrank away from the door as he
stood on the step—"you don't know how I dread seeing mother. I needn't
tell her, need I?"

"I don't think so. If she finds out, she must. But according to you,
she's too good not to forgive you when she sees how sorry you are."

At that Jack left him, and Robert, feeling weak and sick, turned
towards the door which Mary was opening.

"Has mother been expecting me?" he asked, as he stepped into the hall.

"We kept tea ever so long," replied Mary, "and at last missus said I'd
better clear away, for she didn't think you were coming. Why, dear me!"
she exclaimed, as for the first time, he allowed her to see his face.
"If you don't look as white as a ghost!"

"I—I am not well to-night," he said, hurriedly. "Look here, Mary, I'm
going straight to bed. I shall be better then. Don't you let mother
know I've come in just yet. I've got an awful headache, and it's that
makes me look so pale. It'll go off as soon as I can lie down, and then
she won't be frightened."

"Well, I wouldn't like her to see you as you are now. Perhaps it's a
sick headache you've got. I know the best thing for that is a good
sleep."

Robert scarcely heard the words, he was in such fear lest his mother
would come into the passage and find him. As soon as he got to his
room, he began hastily to take off his clothes. For one brief moment
he knelt down, but to-night he could not pray. Again the "still, small
voice" within was prompting him to do what was right, regardless of
consequences.

"Tell your mother all," it said; "make a clean breast of it, and then
ask God to pardon you." But Robert would not confess his sin, and, sick
and wretched and miserable, he got into bed.

For a little while he tossed about wearily. Then not only in his head,
but in every limb, he felt the most acute pain; his whole body seemed
smarting, throbbing, and burning. Suddenly a great fear took possession
of him. Supposing after all he was going to die! And with that fear
there came a question which banished all other thoughts, even that of
the terrible sorrow and trouble he should bring upon his mother. Was he
fit to die? Had he not been disobedient, deceitful, and untruthful? And
was not God too holy and pure to look upon sin?

Then suddenly he remembered the words—and afterwards it seemed to him
that an angel must have whispered them in his ear—"If we confess our
sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us
from all unrighteousness."

And lo! at that Robert's heart was melted. He had often heard, and
often read, that "God is Love," but never before had he realised that
blessed truth, and with the rush of emotion that the realisation called
forth, he was filled with sorrow and repentance. Ah! If only he had
thought against Whom he was sinning, he would never have done it, for
he could never have borne to grieve so loving and tender a Father,
and he lingered fondly on the last word, as he said it to himself.
Confess his wickedness to his mother? Yes, he could now. And with the
determination to go to her at once, he rose from his bed and tried
to dress. At first it seemed that to do this was beyond his power,
and whether he finally succeeded or not he did not know, for a great
darkness fell upon him, and he remembered nothing more.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was his mother who sat by his bed, with her cool hand on his
forehead, and—why, yes, the sunlight was shining into his room.

"Do you know me, Robert?"

"Yes, mother. Why am I here? Am I ill?"

"Yes, dear, but we hope you'll soon be well again. You must do just as
you are told, and then perhaps in a few days you will be able to get up
and go downstairs again."

"Have I been ill long?"

"You have been unconscious since last night, and it is now about two
o'clock in the afternoon. But you must not talk any more, Robert dear.
The quieter you keep yourself, the sooner you will be better. Lie
still, and try to sleep."

He lay still, but he could not sleep, and gradually the void and blank
in his mind became filled with memories. First of all, he recollected
that his father was away; then the last evening he had spent at home
returned to him, with the solemn trust which his father had reposed
in his children, and the promise they had each and all given him. He
remembered how he had listened with a wretched sense of shame and
unworthiness, for on that very day, and on two or three previous
occasions, he had gone, not merely directly against his parents' wish,
but against their direct command, that he should never learn to skate.

Little by little, after that, he recalled all that had taken place.
Jack's persuasions; his weak resistance and speedy surrender; the
journey to Hendon; his forgetfulness of everything except the enjoyment
and exhilaration of the exercise; his determination to make the most of
the last few minutes; the race in which he had first led, then dropped
behind, and then again headed; the cries he had mistaken; the awful,
horrible sensation of feeling himself sink beneath the water; his
return to consciousness, and all that had ensued.

And now he was lying there with his mother seated by his side. Would
her eyes have rested upon him so fondly and with such deep thankfulness
and joy if she had known? But she should know. The resolution with
which he had sprung out of bed on the previous evening to go to her
should be carried out without a moment's delay.

"What is it, dear? Do you want anything?"

"Mother, I must talk to you. I can't rest if I don't."

"Lie still, then, and tell me. You are throwing all the bedclothes off."

"I have been so wicked. I—I learned to skate before father went, and
yesterday—you said it was yesterday, didn't you?—I went to Hendon with
Jack, and the ice broke, and—"

"My child, I know all. I came up to your room last night to find you
insensible on the floor. We put you into bed and sent for Dr. Fowler,
but before he arrived I guessed much, and have since learned the whole
truth. In your delirium you told everything. My poor boy, I am so
sorry. If I could have done so, how gladly would I have saved you all
this misery and wretchedness."

"But, mother, I disobeyed you. I led you to think what wasn't true. Can
you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you? Indeed I can and do;" and a loving kiss was fondly
imprinted on his forehead.

"And you can love me still?"

"Robert, nothing can draw a mother's love from her child, and I can
only rejoice over you when I think how nearly I have lost you. Your own
sin led you into the danger, but I know, too, that your repentance is
sincere and deep. Now confess your sin to God, and ask Him to forgive
you. Then thank Him, as I do, that He has spared your life. But it must
not end there, dear: you must show your sorrow for the past by leading
a new life in the future."

"I will. Oh, mother, how happy you have made me! I wish I had told you
before; I might have known you would have forgiven me. And I did want
to tell you. The night father went I was so miserable that I could not
sleep. I saw a light burning under Dora's door, and I thought I'd get
up and go to her. But she was busy writing out something, and didn't
want to listen to me, and so I came away without saying a word."

He did not know that as he began speaking, the door quietly opened and
Dora entered, nor did he notice the low, instantly checked cry that
escaped her lips as she heard his confession with regard to herself.
Neither did he see that his mother lifted a warning hand, and that, in
obedience to its next movement, Dora left the room.

"You will never be afraid of me again, Robert?" she said then, as she
bent nearer to him.

"Never. Please say again that you forgive and love me still. It is so
sweet to hear it."

What a mother he had! Not a word of reproach had she spoken; only in
loving, earnest accents had she told him of her love, and assured him
of her pardon. And even as she had forgiven him so would God. So not
only in that little room was there joy, but in heaven also, for a
sinner had repented; and like a child that is sick of its naughtiness
and perversity, Robert, with a calm, happy face, lay back on his
pillow, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as an infant.

But in an adjoining room, Dora was sobbing as though her heart would
break. Yes, it was as Robert had said. She might have known he was in
trouble that night, and needed her sympathy; and she remembered her
feeling of irritation and annoyance when he had interrupted her at her
work. No wonder her manner had prevented him from confessing his sin
and getting the relief for which he longed. Had she listened, he would
probably never have gone skating again, and he would have been saved
the disastrous results of his visit to Hendon. How differently would
she act if the past could but be lived over again.

Alas! Dora's sorrow ended here! For a few days she reproached herself
bitterly, but her constant round of occupations left her little time
for thought. As soon as she was assured that Robert was recovering, the
circumstance lost its importance, and was gradually forgotten.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE.

BUT many days passed before Robert was able to come downstairs. The
long time he had sat in his wet clothes had given him a severe chill,
which, combined with the great nervous shock he had experienced,
brought on a low fever. He required constant attention and nursing, and
the unceasing care with which he was tended would have touched a harder
heart than his.

"Oh, mother," he would say, "what a trouble and expense I am to you.
This is a nice way, truly, of fulfilling the trust father left me."

"It is not too late yet, Robert, to prove that you have endeavoured to
live up to the high standard he put before you," would be the gentle
reply. "Your duty now is to do your best to get well as quickly as
possible, and the less you worry and distress yourself, the sooner it
will come to pass."

During the fortnight he spent in bed, Robert learnt that the hardest
thing in the world is to be patient, and bear weakness and suffering
without complaint. But he did try to let his weariness and restlessness
have as little outward expression as possible.

This common bond of suffering drew him and Lancie very near together.
Robert had had no illness since he was a baby, and for the first time
he gained some true idea of what the little cripple's ill-health and
feeble body entailed upon him.

And now Lancie, to his great joy, found himself able to render active
service. For about a fortnight Robert was extremely weak, and Lancie
delighted in waiting on him and being hands and feet to his sick
brother. As soon, too, as he was well enough to care for the amusement,
he read aloud to him, and many hours that would otherwise have passed
heavily and wearily were made pleasant and bright by Lancie's loving
anxiety to do "what he could."

Nor was Robert forgotten by those outside his home circle. Mrs.
Armstrong was especially kind. During the first days of his illness it
was necessary for somebody to sit up with him at night, and she had
shared these nights of watching with his mother. Then as he began to
get better, many a little dainty to tempt his appetite did she bring in
her basket to 99, Madeira Street.

But, perhaps, of all who came to the house to inquire for the invalid,
Jack paid the most frequent visits. He himself had felt too poorly to
do much on the day following the accident; he had got up late, and,
by his own request, gone to bed early. But on the Monday he was well
enough to go to school, and on his way he looked out anxiously for
Robert.

No Robert, however, did he see, and when at half-past twelve the boys
were dismissed, he determined to ask the head master, Mr. Bullen, if
he knew the reason of his friend's absence. In reply he was told that
Mrs. Grainger had written saying her son was seriously ill, and though
she did not think the fever would end fatally, yet it might be several
weeks before he would again be able in attend school.

The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of
vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to
find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the
little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger
came to him.

She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the
previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong
in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against
his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh
or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what
trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in
his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into
mischief again.

And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand
gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done
to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to
give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good,
Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big
baby," as he told Robert afterwards.

He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was
able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked
home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he
would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of
her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the
sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.

Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for
his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to
his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and
the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a
long and lasting effect.

It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was
allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not
without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother
and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but
feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of
thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he
saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked
for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That
he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his
repentance was sincere.

"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his
convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody
but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when
are you going to write to father again?"

"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when
you are all in bed."

"Does he know I have been ill?"

"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to
trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really
doubted your recovery."

"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been
obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please
tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."

"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."

"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough
yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your
letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a
pencil."

She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now
lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as
follows:—

   "DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the
ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I
let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven
me. Can you?

                            "Your sorrowful boy,

                                           "Robert."

After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that
had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.

His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to
all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room
after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very
business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke
the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.

Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced
at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager,
half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low,
breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.

This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an
energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a
bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole
family was gathered.

"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above
her head, "What do you think has happened?"

"If I know I couldn't say, for you are nearly stiffing me," replied
Mrs. Grainger, laughing.

At that Dora released her mother from the close clasp of her arms,
and, darting across to Lancie—he, not Robert, was on the sofa this
evening—gave him a similar embrace, crying—"Oh, Lancie! Who would have
thought it? You shall have—yes, I think I may promise you at least
a dozen rides in a bath chair. And mother shall have the prettiest,
bonniest cap I can find, and I'll buy that little fluffy toy rabbit
that Phil saw in a shop yesterday, and cried because he couldn't have
it. And I'll write, oh! I'll write heaps of stories, and who knows
whether I mayn't have made a fortune before I die?"

Incoherent as her speech was, it gave her mother some idea of the truth.

"You have been writing a story and received that cheque in your hand
for payment?" she asked. "My child, I can hardly believe it possible."

"That's not a bad guess, mother mine, but it isn't quite exact." And
Dora, who was now somewhat quieted, sat down in front of the fire and
took Phil on her knee. "I wouldn't tell you before," she went on,
"because I never really thought anything would come of it. But when
we all went to Mrs. Armstrong's to tea, she told me of some prizes
that were offered for original stories, and showed me the notice in a
magazine. Then I thought, 'Why shouldn't I try?' for there was a guinea
prize offered for the best tale written by girls of from fourteen to
sixteen. I had not very long to do it in, but I got up early and sat up
late, and so managed to get it off in time. That's more than six weeks
ago, and I had almost forgotten—"

"And you have got the prize?" interrupted Lancie, with glowing cheeks
and glistening eyes. "I knew it. Oh, Dora, how proud we all are of you!"

And then Dora did what she afterwards called "a very silly thing." She
buried her face on Lancie's shoulder and burst into a fit of weeping.
It was not until Phil began to cry for sympathy that she was able to
stay her tears, and tell them brokenly "they mustn't take any notice of
her. She couldn't help it, for she was just so happy she did not know
what she was doing."

Surely very few guineas have given greater pleasure than did that which
Dora received as a reward for her story. So many plans were discussed
for its expenditure that Mrs. Grainger, thinking it would save much
after disappointment, said not half Dora's promises could be carried
out.

This remark cast a temporary cloud over Olive and Lottie's faces; they
soon cleared again, however, and both little girls declared Lancie
should not be robbed of one of his dozen rides, and that they would
be content with their fair share of the "lovely plum cake" which Dora
declared should celebrate the memorable event.

After that it was impossible for the happy winner of the prize to
settle down to her usual evening occupations. The best part for her,
she said, was yet to come; for though she was glad enough of the money,
it would afford her infinitely more pleasure to see her story in print.
The editor had told her it would be published in the next month's
number, and there were joyful anticipations of its appearance, and much
talk of father's astonishment and delight when he should see it, for
it was agreed that the circumstance should be kept a secret until the
story could be sent out to him in the magazine.

So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it
happened that she and her mother were the last up.

"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora
asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to
which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.

"Yes, dear."

"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I
should break down!"

"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I
have feared the strain is getting too much for you."

"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I
mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."

"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."

"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a
little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a
writer than ever you will be as a musician."

"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger.
"To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others,
and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire,
Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that
first night of your father's absence?"

The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her
meaning clear.

"Mother, I had forgotten. Oh, if I had only made it easy for Robert to
tell me, instead of making him feel it was impossible to say a word.
But you do know how sorry I have been, don't you?"

There were tears in her eyes again now, and this time they were not
tears of happiness.

"I do, dear," and her mother took her hand, and stroked it fondly;
"but there is the danger that you will be so wrapped up in striving
to do great things, that opportunities for little acts of kindness
will pass unnoticed. It is 'he that is faithful in that which is least
is faithful also in much;' not, he that is faithful in much is also
faithful in the least."

After all it was with a grave face that Dora went up to bed that night.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.

TIME passed quietly on until Easter, which brought a fortnight's
holiday. It came late that year. The weather was warm and fine, and the
children enjoyed the rest they had honestly earned; for, under their
sister's charge, they had worked well and made marked progress.

But though Dora needed the rest far more than her pupils, she would not
take it. She had received an unexpected present of half a sovereign
from a relation. This would just pay the fee of an examination she was
anxious to pass; and she resolved to "study up and go in for it." In
vain her mother begged her to give herself more time for preparation.
Dora had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.

Edgar had a much shorter holiday than his brothers and sisters. He had,
however, both Easter Monday and Tuesday, and a fellow clerk having
invited him to spend the time at his home in Hampshire, he went down
with him on the Saturday afternoon and returned late on the following
Tuesday. He came back full of pleasant recollections of his visit to
the old-fashioned, comfortable farmhouse, where he had been so kindly
and hospitably entertained.

His mother fearing that his work the next day in the close, noisy city
would prove more irksome than usual, and that he might find the house
quiet when he came in, purposely gave the children their tea early and
sent them for a walk under Mary's care. But he looked so cheerful and
bright that she knew at once he was neither weary nor depressed.

"Where's Giles?" were his first words.

"In the schoolroom, working away at the Latin exercise he intends
asking you to correct presently," replied Mrs. Grainger. "The little
ones have gone out with Mary. Sit down, dear, and take your tea."

Instead of obeying her, he put his arm round her shoulder, and, bending
down over her, said,—

"There's no need to bother about Dr. Fowler's bill, mother dear. I've
got a rise in my salary."

He received the sympathy he wanted, as he knew he should. After all he
had found many compensations for the work that was so uncongenial to
him.

"The tea must get cold to-night," he continued. "I must have a word or
two with Giles before I do anything."

With that he went to the schoolroom, where he was welcomed with a very
bright smile.

"You haven't had tea already, have you?" Giles asked.

"No, not yet."

"Will you help me a bit afterwards?"

"Of course I will. Exercise 40? Why, you're getting on famously. How
surprised Mr. Millen will be when you go back the week after next!"

For a moment Giles made no answer. When he looked up, his lip was
quivering. He rarely showed any deep outward sign of emotion, and until
now Edgar had never really known how deep a grief it was to him to be
obliged to get his education at home.

"Don't tease a fellow," he said, trying hard to smile and speak
bravely. "But when I go back, they'll find I haven't wasted my time."

"I'm not teasing; I mean it," said Edgar. "I'm to have more money
from now, and to-day Mr. Darby—that's the head man in the firm, you
know—gave me a sovereign because I had had the ordinary sense to see a
blunder somebody had made in the books. We'll borrow the rest of mother
until I get my next month's salary then I'll pay her back. And we'll
ask her to write to Mr. Millen this very evening, send him the fee for
the next term, and tell him to expect you after the holidays."

As Edgar went on talking, Giles' face became radiant. Now it suddenly
grow serious.

"But are you sure you don't want anything yourself?" he asked. "You
said the other night you wished you had a book on medicine. I forget
the name of it. Couldn't you buy it with this sovereign?"

"Perhaps I might," replied Edgar, lightly, "but getting it for myself
wouldn't give me half so much pleasure as sanding you to school.
Besides," he continued, more gravely, "I daresay I shall get the book
after a while. I am beginning to believe in that old saying, 'All
things come round to him who will but wait.' Do you know who put that
belief into me in the first instance?"

Giles shook his head.

"You did yourself. I have an inward conviction that some day my longing
will be realised, and that I shall be a doctor. I know it seems all but
impossible, but I have the faith, and that makes all the difference in
the world. You see I owe a great deal to you, Giles."

A few more words passed between them, and then Edgar went back to his
mother and his tea. He left Giles very happy, but with a quiet kind
of happiness. In Dora's unexpected joy, she had not known how to keep
herself still, but Giles sat with only a slight smile on his face. Then
a grave, studious expression stole over his features, and with doubled
application, he went on with his exercise.

Katie, comparatively speaking, spent very little of her holiday at
home. The Paffords had decided to change their abode, and on Tuesday
in Easter week began their removal. Katie, who was very good-natured,
offered her services, and as her training had made her extremely useful
and quick, she gave considerable help. Indeed, Connie took more help
from her than was just or right. She had been told she must pack all
her own possessions in her room, and, finding Katie willing to pack,
fetch, and carry, she merely directed, and her friend did her utmost to
obey her wishes.

By the end of the holidays the Paffords were tolerably settled in their
new home, and Katie was filled with envy at the large, freshly-painted
apartments and handsome furniture. Above all, she longed to possess a
similar room to Connie's. With its pretty maple-wood suite, and its
dainty curtains and toilet arrangements, it presented an unpleasing
contrast to the barely furnished, almost carpetless room which she
shared with Olive and Lottie.

Connie had often talked of a grand party her parents meant to give
as a house-warming, and as several young people were to be invited,
Katie naturally looked forward to being one of the guests. The party,
however, was postponed until the beginning of June, and Connie had told
her that a marquee would be erected on the lawn, which, decorated with
flowers and Chinese lanterns, would serve for a supper-room.

But Katie received no invitation, and as the time drew near she
wondered whether she had not better give Connie a hint that she had
forgotten to say she would be expected, when a conversation she
overheard explained the omission. Poor Katie! It was a hard lesson she
learnt that morning.

The room in which Miss Loam's pupils hung their hats and jackets was
separated into two divisions by a curtain, one being used by the elder,
and the other by the younger girls. Now Katie had been asked if she
would kindly see to the dressing of two little sisters, and on this
particular day she was attending to this duty when she heard Connie's
voice on the other side of the curtain.

It was the mention of her own name that first attracted her attention.
Of course she should have made her presence known, but she was so
astonished, hurt, and indignant at what she heard, that it never
once entered her mind she ought to warn her schoolfellows that she
was within earshot. So, with burning cheeks and great anger at her
heart, she bent over little Nita Westmacott's shoe as she buttoned it,
listening to what was said of her.

[Illustration: SHE BENT OVER LITTLE NITA'S SHOE.]

"Aren't you going to invite Katie Grainger?" asked Ethel Wilson, the
girl to whom Connie was talking.

"No," was the reply. "It's a great nuisance, because she really has
been very useful to us. They're awfully poor, you know, and so I
suppose she's used to doing a servant's work. Mamma says she shall make
her a present some day as a return. But we can't ask her to our party.
Sir Edwin Osmond's two nieces are coming, and lots of swell people,
and we can't have them see anybody at our house in such a shabby,
old-fashioned dress as Katie would be sure to wear."

"But she has been to your parties, hasn't she?"

"She came to one in the winter, and I never saw such a dress as she
wore in all my life. It looked as if it was made in Noah's Ark. And
she couldn't dance—had never learnt, she said; and she actually came
without gloves. I suppose she had never been to a dress party before,
and didn't know they were necessary."

And Connie went off into a peal of laughter, while Katie, on the other
side of the curtain, shook with anger and mortification.

"You are ready to go now. Good-bye, dears," she said in a whisper, and
the two little girls trotted away, leaving her still concealed behind
the curtain.

She stayed till Connie and Ethel Wilson had taken their departure; then
she hastily put on her own hat and jacket, and went home with hot tears
running down her cheeks. Arrived at No. 99, she went straight to her
room, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed with wounded pride and
indignation.

Presently she heard cries of "Katie! Katie! Where are you, Katie?"

"I am coming," she called out, and having bathed her eyes and smoothed
her hair, she stepped outside.

On the landing was Robert.

"Why, what's the matter, Katie?"

"Nothing that you'd understand," she answered a little ungraciously.

"You might give a fellow a chance of proving that," he said, a little
reproachfully.

Before school life had separated them, the twins had been noted for
their friendliness and good understanding. During the last three or
four years, however, they had drifted apart. Now as Robert put his arm
fondly round her in the way he had often done in the old days when they
were little children, she felt all her heart suddenly going out to him.

"Oh, Robert," she said, "I've been such a simpleton."

"Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked. "Why, you little goose, I
might have told you that myself."

It is not the words that are spoken; it is the manner in which they are
said that affects us. This speech of Robert's was just the most loving
one he could have given her.

"It's about Connie," said Katie, breaking into tears again. "She's
mean, and horrid and nasty. She makes use of me, and then laughs at me
behind my back, and sneers at me because we are poor and I wear shabby
clothes. I wouldn't have believed it of her."

"It's just what one might expect of the Paffords," said Robert,
quietly. "I'd give them up if I were you."

"Yes, I will," and Katie's anger blazed forth and shone in her eyes.
"I'll never speak to Connie again as long as I live."

"Isn't that going a little too far? I fancy mother would say so if she
heard you."

"But she doesn't deserve it; she isn't worthy to be my friend," sobbed
Katie, vindictively.

"I don't want to be a prig and preach to you," and Robert blushed
crimson, "but if I were you, I'd try to return good for evil. Don't put
yourself in her way and court her friendship, as I'm afraid you have
done. Let her know, if you like, you are quite aware why she lets you
think you are one of her chums—I suppose you help her with her lessons
and things, don't you?"

Katie confessed she had often made clean copies of exercises for
Connie, and frequently acted as monitor in her place, staying behind
the rest of the girls and seeing the schoolroom was left in order when
her friend was anxious to get home early. She had, in fact, done more
than she had honestly any right to do.

"H'm!" said Robert, musingly. "Well, take my advice," he continued,
"and leave Miss Connie to look after her own work. But if the chance
to do her a good turn should happen, show her you don't bear malice,
and that you're still willing to do her a kindness. You know what I
mean—heap coals of fire on her head."

Katie felt very solemn. All the anger faded from her face and some of
the anger from her heart.

"But I should have to forgive her to do that," she said in a low voice.

"And can't you?"

"No."

"I think you'll have to, old girl. Mother forgave Jack, you know, for
having led me into mischief. Not that I blame him," added Robert,
hastily; "'twas a deal more my fault than his."

"It isn't the same kind of thing at all," said Katie, decidedly.

"I'm not so sure of that. Mother had a wrong to forgive, and so have
you. The two things are alike there, at any rate. And see what a lot
of good it has done Jack. Mother's beginning quite to love him, and he
knows it, and it makes a different boy of him."

"I know somebody else who's a different boy," said Katie.

And then, as there was nobody there to see, and his manner was so
encouraging, she put her arm round his neck and gave him what in her
childish days she used to call "a bear's hug," and Robert not only
submitted, but seemed quite to enjoy it.

"Katie," he said, half-shyly, "you've lost a friend to-day; suppose you
make one of me instead. I think we could help each other to be—what
father hoped we should try to be."

His words brought the promise she had made suddenly to her mind.

"Oh, Robert!"—and she actually gasped for breath—"I've forgotten all
about that. I haven't tried yet one bit."

"It's not too late to begin, and you haven't—" he stopped a moment,
then went on rapidly—"done anything awful as I have. But I know father
has forgiven me. Katie, would you like to see the letter I got from him
a few weeks ago? I haven't shown it to anybody yet—not even to mother;
but I'd like you to read it."

Katie had no thought of herself as she went with her brother into
his room and read that letter. It was full of forgiveness and loving
counsel. Towards the end came the words:

   "Don't think I love you less because of what has happened; I love you
more. I know from what your mother has told me that you are not merely
showing your repentance by words. Struggle on, dear boy, and with the
help of God's Holy Spirit, which will be given in proportion as you
ask, you will conquer nobly and bravely in the end."

"It's a beautiful letter," said Katie, as she handed it back to Robert,
adding in a little outburst of love, "Oh? Isn't father good!"

"Yes, won't you try to be like him?"

"I can't. I—what do you mean, Robert?"

"In one way you can follow his example; you can forgive."

For a few minutes Katie looked steadily at the vision of chimney-pots
that could be seen from the window. Then her eyes came back and met her
brother's.

"Robert," she said, "I can do it. I feel I can do anything because you
and I are going to love each other and help each other to be good."

Ah! There is nothing like love. It makes the roughest road easy; the
heaviest burden light. Oh, children! Love your good heavenly Father,
and love each other; for love overcometh all things, love is stronger
than death, and love will lift us from earth to heaven, and set us
spotless at God's right hand.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

ENDING AND BEGINNING.

DORA went up for her examination at the end of June. For two or three
weeks previously she had consented to let her mother take her place
in the schoolroom in the afternoon. But that was the only part of her
daily work of which she would allow herself to be relieved. Early and
late she studied, and, though she would not own it, she was fooling
wretchedly ill when the first day of the examination arrived.

The important event over, she did take a short rest, for as soon as
the necessity of a constant strain was over, she was too exhausted and
languid to do anything. In a few days, however, she was teaching again,
both in the morning and afternoon, and though it was suggested that
the younger children had better have their holiday then, she strongly
objected, saying it would be much pleasanter for everybody concerned if
they went on with their lessons till the end of July, when Robert and
Katie would also break up.

One very warm evening she went out to do some shopping for her
mother, and on her way home met Percy Armstrong. He could not but
notice her pale face and listless air, and, after a little general
conversation—for being in no hurry to get home he had turned to walk
a little distance with her—he discovered that she never cared to eat,
that she slept very badly, and that her back was always aching. She
told all this hardly knowing that she was telling it, so cleverly did
Percy draw her out.

Then he went home, and begged his mother to write to Mrs. Grainger and
say that Dr. Fowler ought to be called in at once to see Dora; "for if
this kind of thing is permitted to go on," he said, "she will become a
confirmed invalid, and then good-bye to all her hopes and schemes for
the future."

Mrs. Armstrong lost no time in making Mrs. Grainger acquainted with her
son's opinion, and in consequence Dr. Fowler received a note asking
him to call at 99, Madeira Street. This he did, and after seeing
Dora, he told her she must give up her teaching and studying and take
a long rest. He also found that she had a slight curvature of the
spine. It was not very serious at present, but if allowed to increase,
the mischief might become great, and he told her she must lie on a
reclining board for at least three hours every day.

Dora heard her sentence with dismay.

"It can't be so bad as that!" she exclaimed. "Don't say I must lie down
all that time."

"Indeed, you must." Then as he saw her look of hopeless despair, he
asked, impatiently, "Do you want to be deformed, and in a year or two
become a weak, helpless invalid?"

By way of answer she burst into tears. The doctor was touched directly.

"Poor child! There, I don't want to scold you," and he took her hand
and kept it gently in his own as he spoke; "but if you have any real
regard for your mother, and don't want to bring endless trouble and
expense upon her, you must obey my orders. One of my daughters had to
spend the best part of a year on her back once. You shall have the
loan of her board for as long as you require it. If you could go to
the seaside for a month, it would do you all the good in the world.
Couldn't it be managed?"

His last words were addressed to Mrs. Grainger, who had been an anxious
listener to the conversation between him and Dora.

"Whatever is necessary shall be done," she said, quietly.

"Well, well, I'll tell my man to bring round the board," said the
kind-hearted doctor, "and I'll look in again in a few days to see what
effect the lying down and the medicine have taken," and bidding them
good-bye, he bustled away.

No sooner had he gone than Dora broke down completely. So violent
was her weeping that when at length her sobs ceased she was quite
exhausted. Perhaps it was because she was too weak to resist, that
she suffered herself to be led to her room. Then having darkened the
window, her mother sat down by her side, and gently bathed her heated
forehead.

"Oh, mother, and this is the end of it!"

They were the first words she had spoken since the doctor had left.
Only too well did Mrs. Grainger understand them.

"I should not wonder," she replied softly, "if in the future you will
look back to this time and say, very happily, 'That was the beginning
of it all.'"

"That could not be. See the trouble I have brought upon you when I only
tried to be a help."

"Dora, you would not take the rest Nature demanded, and as her laws
bring their own punishment if disobeyed, you must pay the penalty. Be
thankful it is no worse."

"Nothing could be worse. Dr. Fowler said he didn't know when I should
be able to do my work again."

"I believe good will come out of the evil. In the enforced quietude you
will have time for thought, and you will see how, in attempting what is
beyond your strength, you have made a fatal mistake. But your head is
aching too much to talk now. Try to go to sleep, and presently I will
bring you up a cup of tea."

And then as her mother turned to go, the truth flashed upon her.
What she had considered unselfishness and noble sacrifice of self,
had been utter selfishness and indulgence in self-glorification. The
incident connected with Robert returned to her memory. The same thing
had underlain every action since her father went. She had certainly
taught her brothers and sisters, and with unhoped-for success. But
what had been her motive for that work, for toiling so hard at her
story-writing, and for going up for the examination? It was not for the
good of others. It had been that she might think well of herself and
should stand well in the opinion of her friends and relations. It had
been for her own self-glory, self-praise, self-satisfaction; for that
and nothing more.

And how low an object is self, none knew better than Dora. If she had
been more ignorant, her distress would not have been so great. As she
lay thinking in the cool, darkened room, she recollected what her
mother had said on that evening, many months ago, when they had talked
in the quiet sitting room by firelight.

"In proportion to the light that has been given you, so will you be
expected to mould your life."

Then she remembered those far more solemn words which, having been once
spoken, are spoken for all ages:

"'And that servant which knew his Lord's will and prepared not himself,
neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes.'"

Yes, indeed, that did apply to her. A little reflection, a little
serious self-examination, and she would have seen her mistake long ago.
Now it was too late. She who had hoped to stand at the head of the list
in the fulfilment of the trust received from her father, and in the
promise he had asked of all his children, would be last of all. Poor
Dora! Within and without all was darkness and despair to her that day.

But the rest and invalid life of the next week did her so much good
physically that, at the end of that time, she took a much less gloomy
view of the future. In her ample leisure for quiet thought she saw,
too, she had no cause to despair. True, that instead of relieving her
mother of care, she had brought more trouble upon her; for not only
was her present ill-health a great anxiety, but by the persistent
following out of her own inclinations, she must have given her constant
uneasiness during the past months. But, by God's help, she would profit
by the mistake she had made, and for the future, love of others, not of
self, should be the motive power to influence her actions.

Meantime it was her duty to try to get well, and she found it a far
harder task than she had anticipated.

One evening, about a fortnight after Dr. Fowler's first visit, she was
lying on the reclining board in the drawing room, when she heard a rap
at the door, and the next moment Percy Armstrong entered. She would
have got up to receive him, but he begged her to remain where she was.

"Remember I'm a doctor," he said, "and have due respect for a
fellow-doctor's orders." And then he talked so pleasantly that Dora
forgot she was feeling wretchedly dull and depressed, and laughed and
chatted quite gaily.

"Dora," he said, presently, "I am going to ask you to do me a kindness."

"If I can I will," she replied, for she greatly liked the young doctor,
and would have done anything to oblige him. "But you must not forgot I
am only a helpless invalid at present."

"All the better, for you'll give my mother the pleasure of looking
after you. As you know, she hates to be idle, and is never happy unless
she has plenty to do. I am going to send her to Ilfracombe for five or
six weeks and I want you to be so good as to go with her and keep her
company."

"But—but—" and between surprise, happiness, and a wish to say she
couldn't think of letting her friends put themselves to extra expense
on her account, she broke down completely.

"Not a word, if you please," said Percy. "I see quite well you are
willing to oblige me, and you have only to see that your box is packed,
and that you are ready to start at ten o'clock the day after to-morrow.
And remember, the pleasure you will have, cannot be greater than my
pleasure in being able to give my mother the change of air and scene
she needs almost as much as you."

"But mother?" again began Dora.

"She knows, and will be very glad to hear I have had so little trouble
in getting you to consent to my scheme."

Dora blushed so painfully that Percy immediately changed the
conversation. But he left her very happy, and with the promise that she
would be ready to start at the appointed time.

So it happened that Dora spent such a delightful six weeks at the
seaside as she had before only imagined to herself in dreams. At first
she could do little more than admire the beautiful view of hill,
sea, and sky from the windows of their lodgings. But she grew daily
stronger, and even the news that she had failed in her examination did
not check her improvement. It was just what she might have expected,
and certainly what she deserved, she remarked quietly. When at length
she went back home, she looked so different that at first glance Phil
actually didn't know her.

How rejoiced they all were to see her! The love which she saw in every
caress, and smile, and action of her mother and brothers and sisters
seemed to Dora, as it most certainly was, her most precious possession.
Her return reminded them of another return, which, all being well,
would take place in the winter. It was September now, and in the dusky
half-hour after tea, when all were present, there was a long talk about
that happy time.

From the future they came back to the present. Their father's trust,
their promise, and the way in which each had been fulfilled were
discussed. They all spoke very openly and freely that evening. Each
owned where he or she had failed, and each resolved that the weakness
should be guarded against and struggled with for the future. Even Olive
and Lottie wont to bed serious and thoughtful, for they could not
forgot the words so gravely uttered by their mother: "Even a child is
known by his doings."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

REUNITED.

THE remainder of that year saw a steady, persevering effort on the part
of all to walk in the path of duty, and be loving, sympathetic, and
unselfish one towards the other. It might well give their mother joy to
witness the good seed taking root and springing up in her children's
hearts, and she prayed daily that they and her husband might all be
spared so that the beginning of another year might find them once more
a united and happy family.

Not the least of her mercies did she reckon Dora's restoration
to health. On returning home she cheerfully obeyed the doctor's
directions, and being careful not to overtax her strength, and only
to resume her duties as she felt fully able to discharge them, her
recovery was more rapid than her mother had dared to hope.

And Lancie, though he would always be delicate and never have the use
of his poor withered limb, was better than he had been for years. Then
it was found that he possessed great ability for drawing, and in the
little cripple's heart there had sprung up a hope that, if he studied
patiently and perseveringly, he might eventually earn his living as an
artist. Other men, with weaker and more deformed bodies than his, had
done it, and why not he? This hope, which he kept locked in his own
heart, was a source of happiness to Lancie, and took away much that had
helped to make him joyless and gloomy.

So time passed on. The Christmas holidays came and went; lessons
at home and at school were again begun; and in a few days the ship
in which Mr. Grainger had left Sydney was expected to arrive at
Southampton.

It was evening; tea had been cleared away, and all excepting Phil,
who was building a wonderful house of wooden bricks, and Olive and
Lottie, who were making dolls' clothes, were intent either upon books
or lessons. Stay though, there was one more exception—Mrs. Grainger was
busy at her not unusual occupation of darning stockings, in which work
she paused occasionally to hear Lancie repeat the tenses of a French
verb.

Two or three of the party remembered afterwards that they had heard the
front door bell ring; but nobody was paying any attention to what was
going on outside, till suddenly the sound of Mary's voice fell upon
their ears. So still was the room, and so eager and excited were her
tones, that her words were distinctly audible.

"Why, sir, it is yourself, sure enough. Oh, won't they be glad! But
they wasn't expectin' you for a day or two yet."

Then another voice was heard, and at the first sound, a little cry
escaped Mrs. Grainger's lips. She rose hurriedly from her seat, and
the next moment was in the hall. The children followed her, and then
there was a shout, a rush, a crowding round a tall, bearded figure in
an overcoat, while exclamations of delight and welcome, kisses, sobbing
and laughter, were mixed together in wild confusion.

It was some little time before it was understood that, owing to the
favourable weather, the good ship "Seabird" had completed the voyage
sooner than was expected, and wishing to give his wife and children a
glad surprise, Mr. Grainger had come straight from port without giving
notice of his arrival in England. His anticipations of that meeting
were not disappointed.

Mary had had her handshake, and, pleased and grateful for the goodwill
it betokened, had retired to the kitchen. And while she busied herself
in "getting out the tea-things for master," she constantly wiped away
her tears at the sounds of rejoicing that reached her.

What an evening that was! Phil got sleepy at last and asked to be put
to bed, but all the rest sat up till midnight. They felt they could not
tear themselves away from the presence of the dear father who had been
absent so long. And how they loved him! Had they ever known how much
before that evening, they wondered.

Presently, when the clock gave warning that some of them must begin
to think about saying good-night, and after a pause that seemed made
because the happiness in that little room had grown almost too great
for words, Edgar, in obedience to the wish he read in the faces of his
brothers and sisters, became spokesman for them all.

"Father, you left us a trust—a charge," he said; and, having risen from
his seat next his mother, he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "We
have not fulfilled it as we ought, as we might have done, but I think
we can honestly say we have not been wholly forgetful, and have each
done something to prove it."

"I know that, dear boy," was his father's reply. "Your mother's letters
told me a great deal; the rest I could fill in for myself. I thank
you all for taking such good care of her, and for striving to do your
utmost to relieve and help her in every way you could. It was the
truest way in which you could show your love for me."

"Father, I didn't; I added to her troubles." The words came from Dora.
She said them eagerly, impulsively, as was sometimes her manner.
And no sooner had her voice died away than Robert was heard saying
sorrowfully,—

"You know what I did. I have been the worst of all."

"My boy, you fell grievously," said Mr. Grainger, gravely but fondly,
"but you were sorry, and God forbid that I should ever bring up your
sin against you. Be thankful you profited by your bitter experience.
Your repentance brought your promise to your memory, and I know you
have striven to keep it, for you have struggled with your besetting
sins, and are steadily and surely overcoming them. Robert, I do not
think we need speak of the past again."

No, there was no need; he felt that, and he looked into his father's
face with a smile that was full of trust and full of love.

"And I have tried to keep the promise, father."

"And I."

"And I."

Not one voice was silent, but some were confident and sure, and others
were doubtful and hesitating.

"I know you have, each one of you, though some have tried more bravely
and thoroughly than the rest. Now let us resolve that from this time
we will strive still more earnestly to love our Heavenly Father and to
please and serve Him. Then our love for each other will increase and
deepen, for he that loveth God will love his brother also. Children,
kneel with me, and let us offer hearty thanks to Him who has permitted
us all meet together again in safety, and let us, too, ask His blessing
upon the future that awaits us."

A heartfelt prayer is never offered in vain, and with that blessing
resting upon them, we may be sure the efforts of the again united
family were not fruitless. We may be certain, too, that, with the love
of God binding them together and strengthening their love for each
other, there could be no happier household than that to which we must
now say good-bye.



                           THE END.



 ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, LONDON.








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