Her soft heart indulged in a shower of tears when she wished them all good-bye; and Ethel and Blanche found the house was very empty without her; but that was only till Meta came in from a walk with Norman, and, under the plea of trying to supply Mary's place, did the work of five Maries, and a great deal besides.

Nothing could be happier than Meta's visit, brightening the house so that the Mays thought they had never known half her charms, helping whatever was going on, yet ready to play with Daisy, tell stories to Aubrey, hear Tom's confidences, talk to Margaret, read with Norman, and teach Richard singing for his school children. The only vexation was, that every one could not always engross her entirely; and Dr. May used to threaten that they should never spare her to that long- legged fellow, Norman.

She had persuaded Bellairs to go and take care of Flora and Mary, instead of the French maid—a plan which greatly satisfied Margaret, who had never liked the looks of Coralie, and which Meta held to be a grand emancipation. She persuaded old nurse to teach her to be useful, and Margaret used to declare that she witnessed scenes as good as a play in her room, where the little dexterous scholar, apparently in jest, but really in sober, earnest, wiled instruction from the old woman; and made her experiments, between smiles and blushes, and merrily glorying in results that promised that she would be a notable housewife. Whether it were novelty or not, she certainly had an aptitude and delight in domestic details, such as Ethel never could attain; and, as Dr. May said, the one performed by a little finger what the other laboured at with a great mind.

In the schoolroom, Meta was as highly appreciated. She found an hour for helping Blanche in her music, and for giving, what was still more useful, an interest and spirit to studies, where, it must be owned, poor good Mary had been a dead weight. She enlivened Miss Bracy so much, and so often contrived a walk or a talk with her, that the saucy Blanche told Hector that she thought Ethel would be quite second-fiddle with Miss Bracy.

No such thing. Miss Bracy's great delight was in having a listener for her enthusiasm about Miss Ethel. She had been lately having a correspondence with a former school-fellow, who was governess in a family less considerate than the Mays, and who poured out, in her letters, feelings much like those with which Miss Bracy had begun.

Nothing could be more salutary than to find herself repeating all Ethel's pieces of advice; and, one day, when her friend had been more distressed than usual, she called Ethel herself, to consult on her answer, owning how much she was reminded of herself.

"Indeed," she added, "I am afraid it would only tease you to hear how much I am indebted to your decision and kindness—"

"Nay," said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. "You have often had to forget my savage ways."

"Pray don't say that—"

"I think," said Ethel, breaking in, "the philosophy is this: I believe that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal out of one; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied slights in trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I think the thing is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of turning one's mind to something fresh—"

"As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and taught me botany—"

"And, still more, when you took to working for the infant school. Yes, I think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many interests, so as to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of personalities. There's a truism!"

"Very true, though," said Miss Bracy. "Indeed, all your kindness and consideration would never have done me half the good they have, dear Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all to one's own feelings and self is the way to be unhappy."

"Just so," said Ethel. "It is the surest way for any one to be miserable."

"If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if a slight were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded over. Ah! you are laughing; perhaps you have said the same about me."

"You would forgive it now, I think," said Ethel.

"I never thought I did not forgive. I did not see that brooding over vexations was not pardoning them. I have told her so now; and, oh! if she could but have seen how true sorrows are borne here, she would be cured, like me, of making imaginary ones."

"None could help being better for living with papa," said Ethel.

Ethel made Miss Bracy happy by a kiss before she left her. It was a cheering belief that, whatever the future trials of her life might be, the gentle little lady would meet them with a healthier mind, more vigorous in overlooking troubles and without punctilious sensitiveness on the lookout for affronts. "Believing all things, bearing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things," would be to her the true secret of serenity of spirits.

Ethel might not have been blameless or consistent in her dealings in this difficult intercourse, but her kind heart, upright intention, and force of character, had influence far beyond her own perception. Indeed, she knew not that she had personal influence at all, but went on in her own straightforward humility.



CHAPTER XXIV.



"Enough of foresight sad, too much Of retrospect have I; And well for me, that I, sometimes, Can put those feelings by.

There speaks the man we knew of yore, Well pleased, I hear them say; Such was he, in his lighter moods, Before our heads were gray.

Buoyant he was in spirit, quick Of fancy, light of heart; And care, and time, and change have left Untouch'd his better part."—SOUTHEY.

Etheldred May and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing-room. The timepiece pointed towards ten o'clock, but the tea-things were on the table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with a sort of consciousness, and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage, sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book, or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of which Meta was employed.

"Nervous, Ethel?" said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile, knowing how much the word would displease.

"That is for you," retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the enemy's quarters. "What, don't you know that prudent people say that your fate depends on her report?"

"At least," said Meta, laughing; "she is a living instance that every one is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom's prediction of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her cheek."

"I know very well," said Ethel, "the worst she said it would be, the more you would go."

"Not quite that," said Meta, blushing, and looking down.

"Come, don't be deceitful!" said Ethel. "You know very well that you are still more bent on it than you were last year."

"To be sure I am!" said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of her dark eyes. "Norman and I know each other so much better now," she added, rather falteringly.

"Ay! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for nonsense."

"Not for nonsense, certainly," said Meta, "but"—and her voice became tremulous—"if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the chance."

"But what would you do?" asked Ethel.

"I don't know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel."

"Well! it won't happen, so it is no use to talk about it," said Ethel. "Fancy my having made you cry."

"Very silly of me," said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. "I am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so?"

"You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case!" said Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring, the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers, but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair, to the little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaiety of her movements.

"Oh, Ethel!" cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking at herself in the glass. "What is the matter with me? Do tell me!"

"You'll never get rid of it," said Ethel, "unless you get yourself tattooed! Even separation from Bellairs hasn't answered. And, after all, I don't think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or papa. I assure you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful."

"What is needful?" said Meta, much amused.

"I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one, but that one's own people may have the satisfaction of saying, 'she is pleasing,' or 'she is in good looks.' I think Gertrude will come to that. That's one comfort."

"That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of you."

"Of my hatchet face!" said Ethel contemptuously. "Some one must have been desperately bent on flattering the Member's family."

"I could repeat more," said Meta, "if I were to go back to the Commemoration, and to the day you went home."

Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, "Hark!"

"It went past."

"It was the omnibus. She must be walking down!" Ethel breathed short, and wandered aimlessly about; Meta put her arm round her waist.

"I did not think this would be so much to you," she said.

"Oh, Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have been going on. And then papa! I wish I had gone up to the station with him."

"He has Richard."

"Ay, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and have a palpitation; and I can't go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh, I wish it were over."

Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all would do well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound of overpoweringly familiar accents.

She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; the height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had a tendency lo laugh and cry both at once. Dr. May who had led her into the light, seemed to be looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward.

"Ay!" said the doctor, kissing her. "I see you, Flora, now. I have found you again."

"I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard," said she. "And now for the bairnies."

"Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you know her?"

There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora's arms, like a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago.

"This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me—you that I left in arms! And," as she advanced into the drawing-room—"why, surely this is not Margaret!"

"A Margaret—not the Margaret. I wish I were," said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May enjoying her perplexity and Meta's blushes. "See, Flora, these black locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she is. Can't you guess?"

"Miss Rivers!" exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment.

"Yes," said Dr. May. "We change Mary for this little woman as Flora's lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting."

"Flora and her husband! There's a marvellous sound! Where are they?"

"They are staying at Eccleswood Castle," said Ethel; "and Mary with them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college meeting."

"And Margaret—my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?"

"Ah! poor dear," said Dr. May, "she has not been in this room since that sultry day in July."

"The eighteenth," said Richard; the precision of the date marking but too well the consciousness that it was an epoch.

"We can keep her quieter upstairs," said Dr. May; "but you must not see her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow; but excitement at night always does her harm, so we put her to bed, and told her to think about no one."

Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask further, and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to her wants, before she spoke again. "Then the babies."

"We don't keep babies, Gertrude would tell you," said Dr. May. "There are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed. Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora—we all mind what she says."

"Oh, papa," pleaded Ethel, distressed, "you know it was because I thought numbers might be oppressive."

"I never dispute," said Dr. May. "We bow to a beneficial despotism, and never rebel, do we, Meta?"

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, "You are making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who winds up the clock and cuts the bread."

"No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away."

"Of course," said Ethel, "I can't be vituperated about hunches of bread. I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea."

"Your tea is very good," said Richard.

"See how they propitiate her," maliciously observed the doctor.

"Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil," said Ethel. "It is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea; but the boys expect it to last from seven o'clock to ten, through an unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, 'Died of unreasonable requirements.'"

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion.

"Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?" she asked. "My dear Harry—I presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing him?"

"Great hope," said Dr. May. "He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.

"Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the infection."

"I am glad you did not put off your coming," said Dr. May gravely.

"You are in time for the consecration," said Richard.

"Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?"

"On St. Andrew's Day. It is St. Andrew's Church, and the bishop fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be present."

"Hector?"

"Hector Ernescliffe—poor Alan's brother, whom we don't well know from ourselves."

"And you are curate, Ritchie?" said his aunt—"if I may still call you so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be."

"Church mouse to Cocksmoor," said Dr. May, "nearly as poor. We are to invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary can find time for it. Spencer—you remember him?"

"I remember how you and he used to be inseparable! And he has settled down, at last, by your side?"

"The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great things—he has as clear a head as I ever knew."

"And more—" said Ethel.

"Ay, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor's letter, Flora. They have had a row in his tutor's house at Eton, and our boys made a gallant stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a way that does one good to hear of."

"'I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth, uprightness, and moral courage,'" quoted Meta.

"Ah, ha! you have learned it by heart! I know you copied it out for Norman, who has the best right to rejoice."

"You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!" exclaimed Mrs. Arnott.

"To be surprised at—to be thankful for," said Dr. May, almost inarticulately.

To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel's heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed since their last meeting.

"Must you go, my dear?" said her aunt, detaining her over her fire. "I can't tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?"

"Not exactly anxious," said Ethel mournfully—"there is not much room for that."

"My dear Ethel—you don't mean?—I thought—"

"I suppose we ought to have written more fully," said Ethel; "but it has been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright, and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her."

"What kind of attack?"

"Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the shock—It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr. Spencer will tell you. You won't ask papa too much about it?"

"No, indeed. And he bears it—"

"He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness. But, oh! I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows."

"My poor child!" said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her niece's waist.

Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. "Aunt Flora! Aunt Flora! If any words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh, don't make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy in the present. Then," added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a subject, "you have our Norman to see."

"Ah! Norman's project is too delightful to us; but I fear what it may be to your father."

"He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride of us all."

"But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers's looks. Is it possible that—"

"Aunt Flora," broke in Ethel, "don't say a word against it. The choicest goods wear the best; and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless. If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen."

"Well, but—"

"Listen," continued Ethel. "Meta is a concentration of spirit and energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will make a noble missionary—"

"But she looks—"

"Hush," continued the niece. "You will think me domineering; but please don't give any judgment without seeing; for they look to you as an arbitrator, and casual words will weigh."

"Thank you, Ethel; perhaps you are right. When does he think of coming out?"

"When he is ordained—some time next year."

"Does she live with you?"

"I suppose she lives with Flora; but we always manage to get her when Norman is at home."

"You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary."

"I have little real to tell. Good old Mary! I dare say Harry talked to you plentifully of her. She is a—a nice old darling," said Ethel fondly. "We want her again very much, and did not quite bargain for the succession of smart visits that she has been paying."

"With Flora?"

"Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I have not seen Flora this whole year."

Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true chord of anxiety.

The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret; and Mrs. Arnott was to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the firm limbs, blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the little bride's-maid, whom she remembered.

A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling, overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if asking to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old tenderness. "Auntie! dear auntie! that you should have come back to me again!"

Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret's having behaved very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself still remaining; but the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey's coming headlong in to announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a cathedral—drawing plans being just now his favourite sport.

"Architecture is all our rage at present," said Margaret, as her father hurried away.

"I am so glad to have come in time for the consecration!" said Mrs. Arnott, following her niece's lead. "Is that a model of the church?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Margaret, lighting up. "Richard made it for me."

"May I show it to Aunt Flora?" said Aubrey.

"Bring it here, if you can lift it," said Margaret; and, Aunt Flora helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was it not a beautiful little pierced spire?—that was an extravagance of Dr. Spencer's own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction it—the model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the rich creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was her description, that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, "Why, my dear, when have you seen it?"

"Never," said Margaret, with her sweet smile. "I have never seen Cocksmoor; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching it for me, and Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how it strikes you next."

"I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable deep porch! If we could build such churches in the colonies, Margaret!"

"See what little Meta will do for you! Yes, we had the porch deep for a shelter—that is copied from the west door of the minster, and is it not a fine high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not understand its being open; he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man and his family might live up among them. They are noble oak beams; we would not have any sham—here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie will see the shape."

"Like the ribs of a ship," explained Aubrey, unconscious that the meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he continued: "Such fine oak beams! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day last year to choose them. It is a two-aisled church, you see, that a third may be added."

Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. "Lessons, Aubrey," she said. "So, Margaret, you are over your dear model?"

"Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel dear," said Margaret; "as you will show her the church itself."

"You have the best right," said Ethel; "but come, Aubrey, we must not dawdle."

"I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora," said Aubrey, running off without much reluctance.

"Ethel has him in excellent order," said Mrs. Arnott.

"That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it. She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody can understand but Norman, and he not the details; but he says it is all coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pence."

"I expected to be struck with Ethel," said Mrs. Arnott; "and—"

"Well," said Margaret, waiting.

"Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for a moment."

"Exactly—exactly so," said Margaret, delighted. "It is really doing everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday matters did not come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner, as if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical household office."

"Harry described her to me thus," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling: "'As to Ethel, she is an odd fish; but Cocksmoor will make a woman of her after all.'"

"Quite true!" cried Margaret. "I should not have thought Harry had so much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the stimulus, and made Ethel what she is. Look there—over the mantelpiece, are the designs for the painted glass, all gifts, except the east window. That one of St. Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel's window. It is the produce of the hoard she began this time seven years, when she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it, spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window."

"Most suitable," said Mrs. Arnott.

"Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not think she would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of it— the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldred, it is the only time I ever cheated her."

"This is a beautiful east window. And this little one—St. Margaret I see."

"Ah! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the dragon was not the Margaret of the daisy; but he would have it; and said we might thank him for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda."

"This one?"

"That is mine," said Margaret, very low; and her aunt abstained from remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse:

He bringeth them unto the haven where they would be.

Beneath were the initials, "A. H. E.," and the date of the year, the only memorials of the founder.

Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross—Meta's gift. "And, besides," she said, "George Rivers made us a beautiful present, which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up a library with them; but, happily, he never did, and a happy notion came into Meta's head, so she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted them, and set them all to rights; and they are most exquisite. You never saw such foliage."

Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could not turn away from the subject; and her aunt listened and wondered, and, when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress her, she expressed her wonder to Meta.

"Yes," was the answer; "it is her chief occupation and interest. I do not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy for every one's concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more than even Ethel's. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building better than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his histories of his progress. And not only with the church but the people; she knows all about every family; Richard and Ethel tell her all their news; she talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot always produce."

Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she walked with her nieces to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate sight as in old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave an air of protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a centre of unity, instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in themselves, for the impulse of civilisation had caused windows to be mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted, to the utmost, cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution and hopeless neglect.

In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at service; but Granny Hall's merry content had in it something now of principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm wife, who promised to be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Every one asked after Miss May, with a tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated; and when they went into the large fresh school, where Richard was hearing a class, Cherry Elwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was wont to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their intelligence than she might have had, if she had not come to them fresh from the Antipodes.

She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived how little capable Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, and work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar—now and then a pencilled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living, assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern, and, perhaps, with less of substance than in those earlier days, when her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from the world whence she was passing.

Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening, and old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked with spirit, and laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Amott so well remembered, and Meta Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was always silent, and Ethel's brow seemed to bear a weight of thought, did it seem as if their spirits were depressed; while there was certainly no restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running into Margaret's room, and making as much noise there as they chose.

Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in every one's confidence; but what she enjoyed above all was, the sitting in Margaret's room in the morning, when there was no danger of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their lessons, and Meta, in Richard's workshop, illuminating texts on zinc scrolls for the church.

Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first meeting; she had now felt her way, and knew again—and realised—the same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of her illness and anxiety.

She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt Flora's being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother, and, at different times, she related the whole, looking back on the various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with acuteness of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the Infinite Mercy that would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for.

On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect; the brothers all doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father. Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel's child, and had long been off her mind; Hector, to her quite a brother, would miss her almost more than her own brothers, but good honest fellow, he had a home here; and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing a little, "don't tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector told me one evening that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might yet have Blanche at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won't be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches when Hector comes near, that I sometimes think that he might have said something like it to her."

Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; but Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott; then, when the suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting for his ordination, she said, "The fact is, that he would like to be ordained where he is to work; but I believe they do not like to say anything about the wedding because of me. Now, of all persons, I must chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care that they know this?"

As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and much as he loved those below, he did not rest in them as once, and could better afford to have been removed. "Besides," said Margaret serenely, "it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him."

For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernescliffe, and though she still wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them. There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry's arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline; and that last gift of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight, and above all other earthly pursuits, smoothed away the languor and weariness of disease, as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to bring back a sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no more grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one—namely poor Flora.

Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her goddaughter was neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion roused Margaret to an eager defence. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice, or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her, that she felt the more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own. The season had been spent in the same whirl that had, last year, been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment and success; and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health weakened, Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able to obtain an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most affectionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve.

"If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me enter into her troubles," Margaret said, sighing, "I should be content."

The consecration day came near, and the travellers began to return. Meta was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house, visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing-room ornaments to rights—a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nosegays for the vases—finally discovering that Ethel's potichomanie vases on the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves.

She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly looking out of window, reported, "Ha! he is come then! At least, I see the little thing has found—"

"Something extremely unlike itself," said Dr. May, laughing. "Something I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh; thirty years ago. That's the very smile! I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smiled to show your white teeth."

"That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw," said Dr. May. "She has taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight!"

"Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying them!"

"They care very little for me," said Dr. May, "but I shall have them in. Cold winds blowing about that little head! Ah! here they are. Fine leaves you gather, miss! Very red and brown."

Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teasings of Dr. May, but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he parried them by announcing news. "No, not the Bucephalus, a marriage in high life, a relation."

"Not poor Mary!" cried Ethel.

"Mary! what could make you think of her?"

"As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her ken," said Ethel. "Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don't care!"

"High life!" repeated Meta. "Oh, it can be only Agatha Langdale."

"There's only Lord Cosham further to guess," said Ethel.

"Eh! why not young Ogilvie?" said Dr. May. "I am right, I see. Well, who is the lady?"

"A Miss Dunbar—a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long time."

"It does not sound too romantic," said Meta.

"He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful," said Norman.

"No doubt thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who has had an eye to the main chance," said the doctor. "Don't throw stones, young people."

"Well!" exclaimed Meta; "he did not look as if he would go and do such a stupid thing as that!"

"Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing," said Dr. May.

"You are using him very ill among you," said Norman eagerly. "I believe her to be excellent in every way; he has known her from childhood; he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw every chance of happiness."

"None the less for having followed his father's wishes—I am glad he did," said Ethel, coming to her brother's side.

"I dare say you are right," was Meta's answer; "but I am disappointed in him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends at Oxford, and he never came."

"I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him," said Norman; and, as Mrs. Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in general, the master of Glenbracken was allowed to drop.

Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the minster that evening with Norman.

"You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have expected from him. Why did he make promises, and then neglect his relations?"

"I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come," said Norman. "I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come here."

"Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster! What a bad conductor!"

"I do not wish to be a conductor," said Norman. "If you had seen Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it would not have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind."

"Would they have been so violent?"

"Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good, kind people, but with strong prejudices; and, though I have no doubt they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son's part, and such conduct as Ethel's would have been, I could not lead in that direction."

"Is that pride, Norman?"

"I hope not."

"It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself," half whispered Meta; "but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape."

"I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find myself mistaken."

"If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement?"

He laughed. "I had made myself so nervous as to the effect, that, in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with it as unconsciously as I could."

"Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better than insulting her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more steadiness than he has shown! If a man could appreciate her at all, I should have thought that it would have been once and for ever."

"Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably had no reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, surely, he was acting dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, in not putting himself in the way of being further attracted."

"Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel's equal."

"She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; perhaps more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel's."

"Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer!"

"Too short acquaintance! besides, there were the parents. Moreover, what would become of home without Ethel?"

"The unanswerable argument to make one contented," said Meta. And, certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very delightful that one would covet it for her."

"Any more than she does for herself."

Norman was right in his view of his friend's motives, as well as of Ethel's present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred. All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children, home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she never thought of wishing herself elsewhere.

The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken.

She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety.

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta.

It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret's frame. Yet she talked with composure of indifferent subjects—the yacht, the visits, the Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew's Day. She owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly.

During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid!

But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a hugging, a screaming, "Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!"—and Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self- possession developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary- like her inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes into Margaret's room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous bestowal of presents upon everybody.

Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike home, "so funny;" she had relished most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children.

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.



CHAPTER XXV.



Behold, with pearls they glittering stand, Thy peaceful gates to all expand, By grace and strength divinely shed, Each mortal thither may be led; Who, kindled by Christ's love, will dare All earthly sufferings now to bear.

By many a salutary stroke, By many a weary blow, that broke, Or polished, with a workman's skill, The stones that form that glorious pile; They all are fitly framed to lie In their appointed place on high. Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church.

The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.

The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May's door.

Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real —as if she would fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an excuse for looking at Margaret's countenance, and drinking in her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George's carriage, and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of Ethel's delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, "In spirit with us!" then ran down and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.

"Flora dear," said Margaret, "do you dislike having the window opened?"

Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister's scruples, that she liked the air. "You always spoiled me," said Margaret fondly. "Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here," she added, as Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, "It is like the old times to have you here taking care of me."

"Very unlike them in some ways," said Flora.

"It has been a great renewal of still older times," said Margaret, "to have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is so like having mamma here," and she looked in her sister's face as she spoke.

Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but, suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret's frame; she raised her hand and lifted her head, with an eager "Hark!"

Flora could hear nothing.

"The bells—his bells!" said Margaret, all one radiant look of listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.

It ceased. "Alan! Alan!" said she. "It is enough! I am ready!"

The somewhat alarmed look on Flora's face recalled her, and, smiling, she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, "Let us follow the service. It will be best for us both."

Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost whispering, till she came to, "If they return to Thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen, and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place—"

Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, "Margaret! Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very, very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me—and that I may see my child again!"

"My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up. Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!"

The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of Margaret's words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret's hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken.

Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered feeling—could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever, separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel's spirit sank for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving; yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind, and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been so happy—not in the sense of the finished work—no, she had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to prepare strength for what may be in store.

The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church, and of inquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved towards the school, where a luncheon was provided for them, to pass away the interval until evening service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites were, meantime, to have a dinner in the former schoolroom, at the Elwoods' house, and Ethel was anxious so see that all was right there; so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her arm to Cherry, whose limping walk showed her to be very tired.

"Oh, Miss Ethel!" said Cherry, "if Miss May could only have been here!"

"Her heart is," said Ethel.

"Well, ma'am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma'am, how all the children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say 'Miss May told me—' they are all like mice."

"She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any one else," said Ethel.

More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry. Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood's wicket gate, but she was arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the bishop, and the bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much wished to be introduced to her.

Of course, that was because she was her father's daughter, and by way of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage, whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and, entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on account of his clerkship, presiding at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly; while Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit daunted by the bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old granny told him "she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, when the squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn't none of it fit to eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, who would have thought what would come of Sam's bringing in the young gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!"

The bishop said grace, and left granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host, and that she was his eldest sister forthcoming.

No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she saw her father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, "Ethel, I must carry you away;" and, in explanation to the bishop, "my poor girl at home is not so well."

All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held her fast, asking what good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add to Flora's fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner with which the bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes, was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of trial.

Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the consecration festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the church was the gift of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful, or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however, permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling; and things were said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could be abolished by Act of Parliament.

Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out, for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers.

Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but, as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learned the truth from Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain, for she was accustomed to Margaret's having these attacks, and had always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple, good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place of her elder sisters.

"Cocksmoor really has a church!" was note enough of joy for her, and no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness. Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight, which had provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a lift in their carriages to the distressed; and, regarding the Abbotstoke britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition to all their own little ones, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute, and, remaining with Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted were they "at the fun," that it might have been thought the most charming of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood's, divested themselves of all possible finery, and tucked up the rest; Meta was rolled up from head to foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood's, and Mary had a cloak of Richard's, the one took Norman's arm, the other Dr. Spencer's, and they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee, quite sorry when the carriage met them half-way.

It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing-room, and saw the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche and George Rivers.

"It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off," was all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told when Dr. Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings.

This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her voice sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started up, exclaiming at her aspect; she let him support her to the sofa, and gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as usual, till nurse came to dress her, but the first move had brought on the faintness and loss of breath. It did not yield to remedies, and she had neither looked nor spoken since, only moaned. Flora thought her father much alarmed; and then, after an interval, she began to entreat that they might stay there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the Grange to make room.

Meantime, Dr. Spencer had come to the sick-room, but he could only suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching, and trying everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and Ethel presently stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer turned towards him, and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, "It won't do—I believe it is the death-stroke."

"Not immediate," said Dr. Spencer.

"No," said Dr. May; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had effected, and what yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl should be broken.

Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement.

"Will there be no rally?" said Ethel, in the same tone.

"Probably not," said Dr. May; "the brain is generally reached at this stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong; but suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the spine."

Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, saying, "I do not think there will be much acute suffering."

"I fear it may be as trying," said Dr. May, sighing; and then turning to Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, "May God make it easy to her, and grant us 'patient hearts.' We will not grudge her to all that she loves best, my Ethel."

Ethel clung to him, as if to derive strength from him. But the strength that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again, they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining. George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. "I shall be here to-morrow," she said to Ethel, and went.

The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May's anxieties, chiefly devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch, uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only roused herself to return her husband's affection, or to listen to the daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at Stoneborough.

The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan's bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare, only now and then a name, and when in most distress, "it will be soon over," "it will soon be over," occurred so often, that they began to think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a meaning.

They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, but could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken down, as if the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust that it was but her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days pass. Ethel, Richard, and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares, and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith, resigning her daughter to the Hands which were bearing her whither her joys had long since departed.

Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his agony of sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May to exert himself earnestly for his consolation; and, at the same time, Tom, in a gentle, almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like attention to the smallest services for his father, as if already accepting him as his especial charge.

It was midnight, on the longest night of the year; Ethel was lying on her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her father's low, clear voice summoned her: "Ethel, she is going!"

There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labouring gasps. Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened; she smiled once more.

"Papa!" she said, "dear papa!"

He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond him, "Mamma! Alan! oh, there they are! More! more!" and, as though the unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, then looked, with a consoling smile, on her father. "Over now!" she said—and the last struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret May.

Over now! The twenty-five years' life, the seven years' captivity on her couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony—all was over; nothing left, save what they had rendered the undying spirit, and the impress her example had left on those around her.

The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual parting; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that they turned away, and bade each other good-night.

Ethel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like, comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of her children with her. He called her the first link of his Daisy Chain drawn up out of sight; and, during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as it were to be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the same on his children, as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the house; and when Harry, pale, and shocked at the blow to him so sudden, came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief; and he sat beside his, father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had loved to hear from him, of Alan Ernescliffe's last moments.

Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, for daisies in the wintry garden; but Hector Ernescliffe went down to the cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on Margaret's bosom.

The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he was entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal bounding, in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat, blue-bordered collar, and dark blue dress, showed him to be a sailor, as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood beside him.

"I say, sir," said the latter, as Hector's hand was on the door, "do you belong to Dr. May?"

Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did.

"Then, maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings."

Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he was Mr. Ernescliffe's brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. "What could he do for him?"

Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus that Mr. May had been met, on his return to Portsmouth, by the news of his sister's death. The Mays had helped his boy; he had been with Mr. May in the island; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his grave; and some notion had crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret's funeral—it might be they would let him lend a hand—and, in this expedition, he was spending his time on shore.

How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came forth from full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked him for doing what Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; and, in his blue sailor garb, was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men, and two Cocksmoor labourers, who, early on Christmas Eve, carried her to the minster. Last time she had been there, Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer sky, while the first snow-flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But as they laid her by her mother's side, who could doubt that they were together?



CHAPTER XXVI.



At length I got unto the gladsome hill, Where lay my hope; Where lay my heart; and, climbing still, When I had gained the brow and top, A lake of brackish waters on the ground, Was all I found. —GEORGE HERBERT.

Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, Mrs. Arnott came to summon Dr May from the anxious vigil in the sitting-room. "Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her," she said, with much alarm. "The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of agitation, that we do not know what to do with her."

It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of despair was gone; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened again; and there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed equally perilous, but he chose the first—he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace, and said faintly, "Now it is pardon—now I can die!"

"The cloud is gone! Thanks for that above all!" said Dr. May fervently. "Now, my dear, rest in thankful gladness—you are too weak to talk or think."

"I am weak—I am tired of it all," said Flora. "I am glad to be going while I am so happy—there are Margaret—my own darling—rest— peace—"

"You are not going, dearest," said her father; "at least, I trust not, if you will not give way; here is a darling given to you, instead of the first, who needs you more."

He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath in his arms, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. Arnott to show her the child; but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears burst out again. "Tell Ethel she will be the best mother to her. Name her Margaret—make her a Daisy of your own— don't call her after me," she said, with such passionate caresses, that Mrs. Arnott was glad to take the babe away.

Dr. May's next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, who needed her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to be something tranquillising in his wistful manner of repeating, "Don't cry, Flora;" and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, to stillness; but there were still many fears for her.

Dr. May's prediction was accomplished—that she would suffer for having over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the fresh sorrow for her favourite sister coming at such a crisis. There was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary routine, that made her almost welcome her weakness and sinking; and now that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child; while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness and toil in store.

The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it was but too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels that galled her; worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands, and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a position for which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence that would not recede from it. The shock of her child's death had taken away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life, and opened her eyes to see what Master she had been serving; and the perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in her, had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been the more bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She had refused council, and denied her confidence to those who could have guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the sound principle in which she had been brought up, had taught her to distrust her gloomy feelings as possibly morbid; and she had prayed, keeping her hold of faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she could not feel her own part in it; and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path.

It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation was so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken to her; and she was allowed to see no one else except her aunt and the dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by the urgent requirements of another of her nurslings; and whom George Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold, for taking care of his new daughter, regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be trusted.

Those were heavy days with every one, though each brought some shade of improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had immediately followed the loss of Margaret; and Ethel was especially unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, where she could be of no service; and with her precious occupation gone; her father absent, instead of resting upon her; and her room deserted. She was grieved with herself, because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas Feast, as erst on St. Andrew's Day; and she was bewildered and distressed by the fear that she had then been only uplifted by vanity and elation.

She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good deal of that she complained of arose from bodily weariness.

This hurt her a little; but when he said, "I think that the blessings of St. Andrew's Day helped us through what was to follow," she owned that it had indeed been so, and added, "I am going to work again! Tell me what will be most useful to you at Cocksmoor."

Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the hours now left vacant; and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to church at Cocksmoor on St. Stephen's Day; but the church brought back the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling their intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how Flora was, when the unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely spent, that the effect of returning home to her room, without its dear inhabitant, was quite overwhelming, and she sat on her bed for half an hour, struggling with repinings. She came downstairs without having gained the victory, and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him and Mary.

Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an unspeakable help and comforter to her, not only by taking every care for her for her sake, but by turning to her as his own friend and confidante, the best able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in operation for Cocksmoor, on which much consultation was needed, though every word reminded them sadly of Margaret's ever ready interest in those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel's vision of the first weeks of St. Andrew's Church; but it might be safer for her than that aught should tempt her to say, "See what my perseverance has wrought!" Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest confidante—at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than on earth to reap in confident joy.

Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible; but it was one of the dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became aware of the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that he resorted elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and acquiesced submissively and resolutely; but they had been so much to each other, that it was a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of Margaret.

Norman's own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, as there was educational work much wanting him, and, according to his original wish, he could be ordained there in the autumnal Ember Week.

He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he ought to sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he knew not how to reconcile the conflicting claims.

Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as they paced up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon.

"You will go!" was her first exclamation.

"I ought," said Norman, "I believe I ought, and if it had only been at any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt's company would have been such a comfort for you."

"It cannot be helped," said Meta.

"Considering the circumstances," began Norman, with lingering looks at the little humming-bird on his arm, "I believe I should be justified in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr. Wilmot thinks."

"You don't think so yourself," said Meta. "Nobody else can give a judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking opinions as Balaam inquired."

"Turning my words against me?" said Norman, smiling. "Still, Meta, perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a little person not far off."

"She can be the best judge of that herself," said Meta. "Norman," and her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, "I always resolved that, with God's help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call to your work. I will not. Go out now—perhaps you will be freer for it without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all sorts of things before I come to help you."

"Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!"

"What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?" said Meta, trying to laugh, but not very successfully. "Seriously, I have much to do here. When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that you ought to go."

"My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid his commands on me to wait till the autumn."

"Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy," said Meta, smiling; "but I don't think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you out without encumbrance."

"Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?"

"I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews but you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come out to her! I mean there, to convince her that I can be of something like use."

Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The humming- bird had hardly ever been so downcast as at present—that is, whenever she was not engaged in waiting on her brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or in any of the many gentle offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was greatly disappointed, and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the separation, but she would not give way; and only now and then, when off her guard, would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone, she fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he would be safer with her.

She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over the fire together, speaking with a would-be tone of congratulation.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. "But that is a great pity!"

Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so. "I thought you would be glad," she rejoined.

"Did you think me so hard-hearted?"

"I thought you believed he would be better without me."

"My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for nothing," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling.

"Thank you," said Meta, trying to answer the smile. "You have taken a load off me!"

"I don't like it at all," said Mrs. Arnott. "It is a very uncomfortable plan for every one. And yet when I know how great is the want of him out there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear, I'll take all the care I can of Norman, and when you come, I shall be almost as glad as if we were coming home for good. Poor Flora! she is one person who will not regret the arrangement."

"Poor Flora!—you think her really better this evening?"

"Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to talk to Ethel—she may better understand her."

"I have never understood Flora," said Meta. "She has been as kind to me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear Margaret."