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Esther : a book for girls

by Rosa Nouchette Carey · English · Gutenberg #6850 · 431,045 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Esther : a book for girls

Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey


        
Release date: November 1, 2004 [eBook #6850]
                Most recently updated: March 17, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6850

Credits: Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by
        Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESTHER : A BOOK FOR GIRLS ***




Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by
Al Haines.










ESTHER:

A BOOK FOR GIRLS.

BY

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I. The Last Day at Redmayne House.

CHAPTER II. The Arrival at Combe Manor.

CHAPTER III. Dot.

CHAPTER IV. Uncle Geoffrey.

CHAPTER V. The Old House at Milnthorpe.

CHAPTER VI. The Flitting.

CHAPTER VII. Over the Way.

CHAPTER VIII. Flurry and Flossy.

CHAPTER IX. The Cedars.

CHAPTER X. "I Wish I Had a Dot of My Own."

CHAPTER XI. Miss Ruth's Nurse.

CHAPTER XII. I Was Not Like Other Girls.

CHAPTER XIII. "We Have Missed Dame Bustle."

CHAPTER XIV. Playing in Tom Tidler's Ground.

CHAPTER XV. Life at the Brambles.

CHAPTER XVI. The Smugglers' Cave.

CHAPTER XVII. A Long Night.

CHAPTER XVIII. "You Brave Girl!"

CHAPTER XIX. A Letter from Home.

CHAPTER XX. "You Were Right, Esther."

CHAPTER XXI. Santa Claus.

CHAPTER XXII. Allan and I Walk to Eltham Green.

CHAPTER XXIII. Told in the Sunset.

CHAPTER XXIV. Ringing the Changes.




ESTHER




CHAPTER I.

THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE.


What trifles vex one!

I was always sorry that my name was Esther; not that I found fault with
the name itself, but it was too grave, too full of meaning for such an
insignificant person. Some one who was learned in such matters--I think
it was Allan--told me once that it meant a star, or good fortune.

It may be so, but the real meaning lay for me in the marginal note of
my Bible: Esther, fair of form and good in countenance, that Hadassah,
who was brought to the palace of Shushan, the beautiful Jewish queen
who loved and succored her suffering people; truly a bright particular
star among them.

Girls, even the best of them, have their whims and fancies, and I never
looked at myself in the glass on high days and holidays, when a festive
garb was desirable, without a scornful protest, dumbly uttered, against
so shining a name. There was such a choice, and I would rather have
been Deborah or Leah, or even plain Susan, or Molly; anything homely,
that would have suited my dark, low-browed face. Tall and angular, and
hard-featured--what business had I with such a name?

"My dear, beauty is only skin-deep, and common sense is worth its
weight in gold; and you are my good sensible Esther," my mother said
once, when I had hinted rather too strongly at my plainness. Dear soul,
she was anxious to appease the pangs of injured vanity, and was full of
such sweet, balmy speeches; but girls in the ugly duckling stage are
not alive to moral compliments; and, well--perhaps I hoped my mother
might find contradiction possible.

Well, I am older and wiser now, less troublesomely introspective, and
by no means so addicted to taking my internal structure to pieces, to
find out how the motives and feelings work; but all the same, I hold
strongly to diversity of gifts. I believe beauty is a gift, one of the
good things of God; a very special talent, for which the owner must
give account. But enough of this moralizing, for I want to speak of a
certain fine afternoon in the year of our Lord, 18--well, never mind
the date.

It was one of our red-letter days at Redmayne House--in other words, a
whole holiday; we always had a whole holiday on Miss Majoribanks'
birthday. The French governess had made a grand toilette, and had gone
out for the day. Fraulein had retired to her own room, and was writing
a long sentimental effusion to a certain "liebe Anna," who lived at
Heidelberg. As Fraulein had taken several of us into confidence, we had
heard a great deal of this Anna von Hummel, a little round-faced
German, with flaxen plaits and china-blue eyes, like a doll; and Jessie
and I had often wondered at this strong Teutonic attachment. Most of
the girls were playing croquet--they played croquet then--on the square
lawn before the drawing-room windows; the younger ones were swinging in
the lime-walk. Jessie and I had betaken ourselves with our books to a
corner we much affected, where there was a bench under a may-tree.

Jessie was my school friend--chum, I think we called it; she was a
fair, pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, a neat compact
figure, and manners which every one pronounced charming and lady-like;
her mind was lady-like too, which was the best of all.

Jessie read industriously--her book seemed to rivet her attention; but
I was restless and distrait. The sun was shining on the limes, and the
fresh green leaves seemed to thrill and shiver with life: a lazy breeze
kept up a faint soughing, a white butterfly was hovering over the pink
may, the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere; a thousand
undeveloped thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the sunshine above us,
seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices.

"Jessie, do put down your book--I want to talk." Jessie raised her
eyebrows a little quizzically but she was always amiable; she had that
rare unselfishness of giving up her own will ungrudgingly; I think this
was why I loved her so. Her story was interesting, but she put down her
book without a sigh.

"You are always talking, Esther," she said, with a provoking little
smile; "but then," she added, quickly, as though she were afraid that I
should think her unkind, "I never heard other girls talk so well."

"Nonsense," was my hasty response: "don't put me out of temper with
myself. I was indulging in a little bit of philosophy while you were
deep in the 'Daisy Chain.' I was thinking what constituted a great
mind."

Jessie opened her eyes widely, but she did not at once reply; she was
not, strictly speaking, a clever girl, and did not at once grasp any
new idea; our conversations were generally rather one-sided. Emma
Hardy, who was our school wag, once observed that I used Jessie's
brains as an airing-place for my ideas. Certainly Jessie listened more
than she talked, but then, she listened so sweetly.

"Of course, Alfred the Great, and Sir Philip Sidney, and Princess
Elizabeth of France, and all the heroes and heroines of old time--all
the people who did such great things and lived such wonderful
lives--may be said to have had great minds; but I am not thinking about
them. I want to know what makes a great mind, and how one is to get it.
There is Carrie, now, you know how good she is; I think she may be said
to have one."

"Carrie--your sister?"

"Why, yes," I returned, a little impatiently; for certainly Jessie
could not think I meant that stupid, peevish little Carrie Steadman,
the dullest girl in the school; and whom else should I mean, but
Carrie, my own dear sister, who was two years older than I, and who was
as good as she was pretty, and who set us all such an example of
unworldliness and self-denial; and Jessie had spent the Christmas
holidays at our house, and had grown to know and love her too; and yet
she could doubt of whom I was speaking; it could not be denied that
Jessie was a little slow.

"Carrie is so good," I went on, when I had cooled a little, "I am sure
she has a great mind. When I read of Mrs. Judson and Elizabeth Fry, or
of any of those grand creatures, I always think of Carrie. How few
girls of nineteen would deprive themselves of half their dress
allowance, that they might devote it to the poor; she has given up
parties because she thinks them frivolous and a waste of time; and
though she plays so beautifully, mother can hardly get her to practice,
because she says it is a pity to devote so much time to a mere
accomplishment, when she might be at school, or reading to poor old
Betty Martin."

"She might do both," put in Jessie, rather timidly; for she never liked
contradicting any of my notions, however far-fetched and ill-assorted
they might be. "Do you know, Esther, I fancy your mother is a little
sorry that Carrie is so unlike other girls; she told me once that she
thought it such a pity that she had let her talents rust after all the
money that had been spent on her education."

"You must have misunderstood my mother," I returned, somewhat loftily;
"I heard her once say to Uncle Geoffrey that she thought Carrie was
almost perfection. You have no idea how much Mr. Arnold thinks of her;
he is always holding her up as his pattern young lady in the parish,
and declares that he should not know what to do without her. She plays
the organ at all the week-day services, and teaches at the Sunday
school, and she has a district now, and a Bible-class for the younger
girls. No wonder she cannot find time to practice, or to keep up her
drawing." And I looked triumphantly at Jessie; but her manner did not
quite please me. She might not be clever, but she had a good solid set
of opinions to which she could hold stoutly enough.

"Don't think me disagreeable, Esther," she pleaded. "I think a great
deal of Carrie; she is very sweet, and pretty, and good, and we should
all be better if we were more like her; but no one is quite faultless,
and I think even Carrie makes mistakes at times."

"Oh, of course!" I answered a little crossly, for I could not bear her
finding fault with Carrie, who was such a paragon in my eyes. But
Jessie took no notice of my manner, she was such a wise little
creature; and I cannot help thinking that the less importance we attach
to people's manner the better. Under a little roughness there is often
good stuff, and some good people are singularly unfortunate in manner.

So Jessie went on in her gentle way, "Do you remember Miss Majoribanks'
favorite copy: 'Moderation in all things'? I think this ought to apply
to everything we do. We had an old nurse once, who used to say such
droll things to us children. I remember I had been very good, and done
something very wonderful, as I thought, and nursie said to me in her
dry way, 'Well, Miss Jessie, my dear, duty is not a hedgehog, that you
should be bristling all over in that way. There is no getting at you
to-day, you are too fully armed at all points for praise.' And she
would not say another word; and another time, when I thought I ought to
have been commended; she said, 'Least done is soonest mended; and well
done is not ill done, and that is all about it.' Poor old nurse! she
would never praise any one."

"But, Jessie--how does this apply to Carrie?"

"Well, not very much, I dare say; only I think Carrie overdoes her duty
sometimes. I remember one evening your mother look so disappointed when
Carrie said she was too tired to sing."

"You mean the evening when the Scobells were there, and Carrie had been
doing parish work all the day, and she came in looking so pale and
fagged? I thought mother was hard on her that night. Carrie cried about
it afterward in my room."

"Oh, Esther, I thought she spoke so gently! She only said, 'Would it
not have been better to have done a little less to-day, and reserved
yourself for our friends? We ought never to disappoint people if we can
help it.'"

"Yes; only mother looked as if she were really displeased; and Carrie
could not bear that; she said in her last letter that mother did not
sympathize entirely in her work, and that she missed me dreadfully, for
the whole atmosphere was rather chilling sometimes."

Jessie looked a little sorry at this. "No one could think that of your
home, Esther." And she sighed, for her home was very different from
ours. Her parents were dead, and as she was an only child, she had
never known the love of brother or sister; and the aunt who brought her
up was a strict narrow-minded sort of person, with manners that must
have been singularly uncongenial to my affectionate, simple-minded
Jessie. Poor Jessie! I could not help giving her one of my bear-like
hugs at this, so well did I know the meaning of that sigh; and there is
no telling into what channel our talk would have drifted, only just at
that moment Belle Martin, the pupil-teacher, appeared in sight, walking
very straight and fast, and carrying her chin in an elevated fashion, a
sort of practical exposition of Madame's "Heads up, young ladies!" But
this was only her way, and Belle was a good creature.

"You are to go in at once, Miss Cameron," she called out, almost before
she reached us. "Miss Majoribanks has sent me to look for you; your
uncle is with her in the drawing-room."

"Uncle Geoffrey? Oh, my dear Uncle Geoff!" I exclaimed, joyfully. "Do
you really mean it, Belle?"

"Yes, Dr. Cameron is in the drawing-room," repeated Belle. But I never
noticed how grave her voice was. She commenced whispering to Jessie
almost before I was a yard away, and I thought I heard an exclamation
in Jessie's voice; but I only said to myself, "Oh, my dear Uncle
Geoff!" in a tone of suppressed ecstasy, and I looked round on the
croquet players as I threaded the lawn with a sense of pity that not
one of them possessed an uncle like mine.

Miss Majoribanks was seated in state, in her well-preserved black satin
gown, with her black gloves reposing in her lap, looking rather like a
feminine mute; but on this occasion I took no notice of her. I actually
forgot my courtesy, and I am afraid I made one of my awkward rushes,
for Miss Majoribanks groaned slightly, though afterward she turned it
into a cough.

"Why, Esther, you are almost a woman now," said my uncle, putting me in
front of him, and laying his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Bless me, how
the child has grown, and how unlike she is to Carrie!"

"I was seventeen yesterday," I answered, pouting a little, for I
understood the reference to Carrie; and was I not the ugly
duckling?--but I would not keep up the sore feeling a minute, I was so
pleased to see him.

No one would call Uncle Geoffrey handsome--oh, dear, no! his features
were too rugged for that; but he had a droll, clever face, and a pair
of honest eyes, and his gray hair was so closely cropped that it looked
like a silver cap. He was a little restless and fidgety in his
movements, too, and had ways that appeared singular to strangers, but I
always regarded his habits respectfully. Clever men, I thought, were
often eccentric; and I was quite angry with my mother when she used to
say, "Geoff was an old bachelor, and he wanted a wife to polish him; I
should like to see any woman dare to marry Uncle Geoff."

"Seventeen, sweet seventeen! Eh, Esther?" but he still held my hand and
looked at me thoughtfully. It was then I first noticed how grave he
looked.

"Have you come from Combe Manor, Uncle Geoff, and are they all quite
well at home?" I asked, rather anxiously, for he seemed decidedly
nervous.

"Well, no," he returned, rather slowly; "I am sorry to spoil your
holiday, child, but I have come by your mother's express desire to
fetch you home. Frank--your father, I mean--is not well, and they will
be glad of your help and--bless me"--Uncle Geoff's favorite
exclamation--"how pale the girl looks!"

"You are keeping something from me--he is very ill--I know he is very
ill!" I exclaimed, passionately. "Oh, uncle, do speak out! he is--" but
I could not finish my sentence, only Uncle Geoffrey understood.

"No, no, it is not so bad as that," putting his arm round me, for I was
trembling and shaking all over; "he is very ill--I dare not deny that
there is much ground for fear; but Esther, we ought to lose no time in
getting away from here. Will you swallow this glass of wine, like a
good, brave child, and then pack up your things as soon as possible?"

There was no resisting Uncle Geoffrey's coaxing voice; all his patients
did what he told them, so I drank the wine, and tried to hurry from the
room, only my knees felt so weak.

"Miss Martin will assist you," whispered Miss Majoribanks, as I passed
her; and, sure enough, as I entered the dormitory, there was Belle
emptying my drawers, with Jessie helping her. Even in my bewildered
state of wretchedness I wondered why Miss Majoribanks thought it
necessary for me to take all my things. Was I bidding good-by to
Redmayne House?

Belle looked very kindly at me as she folded my dresses, but Jessie
came up to me with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Esther!" she whispered, "how
strange to think we were talking as we were, and now the opportunity
has come?" and though her speech was a little vague, I understood it;
she meant the time for me to display my greatness of mind--ah, me! my
greatness of mind--where was it? I was of no use at all; the girls did
it all between them, while I sat on the edge of my little bed and
watched them. They were as quick as possible, and yet it seemed hours
before the box was locked, and Belle had handed me the key; by-and-by,
Miss Majoribanks came and fetched me down, for she said the fly was at
the door, and Dr. Cameron was waiting.

We girls had never cared much for Miss Majoribanks, but nothing could
exceed her kindness then. I think the reason why schoolmistresses are
not often beloved by their pupils--though there certainly are
exceptions to that rule--is that they do not often show their good
hearts.

When Miss Majoribanks buttoned my gloves for me, and smoothed my hair,
and gave me that motherly kiss, I felt I loved her. "God bless you my
dear child! we shall all miss you; you have worked well and been a
credit to the establishment. I am sorry indeed to part with you."
Actually these were Miss Majoribanks' words, and spoken, too, in a
husky voice!

And when I got downstairs, there were all the girls, many of them with
their croquet mallets in their hands, gathered in the front garden, and
little Susie Pierrepoint, the baby of the school, carrying a large
bunch of lavender and sweet-william from her own little garden, which
she thrust into my hands.

"They are for you," cried Susie; and then they all crowded round and
kissed me.

"Good-by, Esther; we are so sorry to lose you; write to us and let us
know how you are."

Jessie's pale little face came last. "Oh, my darling! how I shall be
thinking of you!" cried the affectionate creature; and then I broke
down, and Uncle Geoffrey led me away.

"I am glad to see your school-fellows love you," he said, as we drove
off, and Redmayne House became lost to sight. "Human affection is a
great boon, Esther."

Dear Uncle Geoffrey! he wanted to comfort me; but for some time I would
not speak or listen.




CHAPTER II.

THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR.


The great secret of Uncle Geoffrey's influence with people was a
certain quiet undemonstrative sympathy. He did not talk much; he was
rather given to letting people alone, but his kindliness of look made
his few spoken words more precious than the voluble condolences of
others.

He made no effort to check the torrent of tears that followed my first
stunned feelings; indeed, his "Poor child!" so tenderly uttered, only
made them flow more quickly. It was not until we were seated in the
railway compartment, and I had dried them of my own accord, that he
attempted to rouse me by entering into conversation, and yet there was
much that he knew must be said, only "great haste, small speed," was
always Uncle Geoffrey's favorite motto. "There is time for all things,
and much more," as he used to tell us.

"Are you better now?" he asked, kindly. "That is right; put your
handkerchief away, and we can have a little talk together. You are a
sensible girl, Esther, and have a wise little head on your shoulders.
Tell me, my child, had you any idea of any special anxiety or trouble
that was preying on your father's mind?"

"No, indeed," I returned, astonished. "I knew the farm was doing badly,
and father used to complain now and then of Fred's extravagance, and
mother looked once or twice very worried, but we did not think much
about it."

"Then I am afraid what I am going to tell you will be a great shock,"
he returned, gravely. "Your father and mother must have had heavy
anxieties lately, though they have kept it from you children. The cause
of your father's illness is mental trouble. I must not hide from you,
Esther, that he is ruined."

"Ruined!" I tried to repeat the word aloud, but it died on my lips.

"A man with a family ought not to speculate," went on my uncle,
speaking more to himself than me. "What did Frank know about the
business? About as much as Fred does about art. He has spent thousands
on the farm, and it has been a dead loss from the beginning. He knew as
much about farming as Carrie does. Stuff and nonsense! And then he must
needs dabble in shares for Spanish mines; and that new-fangled Wheal
Catherine affair that has gone to smash lately. Every penny gone; and a
wife, and--how many of you are there, Esther?"

But I was too much overwhelmed to help him in his calculation, so he
commenced striking off on his fingers, one by one.

"Let me see; there's Fred, brought up, young coxcomb! to think himself
a fine gentleman and an artist, with almost as much notion of work as I
have of piano playing; and Allan, who has more brains than the rest of
you put together; and Carrie, who is half a saint and slightly
hysterical; and your poor little self; and then comes that nondescript
article Jack. Why in the world do you call a feminine creature Jack?
And poor little Dot, who will never earn a penny for himself--humph,
six of you to clothe and feed--"

"Oh, Uncle Geoff!" I burst out, taking no notice of this long tirade;
and what did it matter if Dot never earned anything when I would work
my fingers to the bone for him, the darling! "oh, Uncle Geoff, are
things really so bad as that? Will Fred be obliged to give up his
painting, when he has been to Rome, too; and shall we have to leave
Combe Manor, and the farm? Oh, what will they all do? and Carrie, too?"

"Work," was the somewhat grim reply, and then he went on in a milder
tone. "Things are very bad, Esther; about as bad as they can be--for we
must look matters in the face--and your father is very ill, and there
is no knowing where the mischief may end; but you must all put your
shoulders to the domestic wheel, and push it up the Hill Difficulty. It
is a crisis, and a very painful one, but it will prove which of you has
the right mettle.

"I am not afraid of Allan," he went on; "the lad has plenty of good
stuff in him; and I am not much afraid of you, Esther, at least I think
not; but--" He hesitated, and then stopped, and I knew he was thinking
of Fred and Carrie; but he need not. Of course Carrie would work as
heartily as any of us; idling was never her forte; and Fred--well,
perhaps Fred was not always industrious.

I seemed to have lost myself in a perfect tangle of doubt and dread.
Uncle Geoffrey went on with his talk, half sad and half moralizing, but
I could not follow all he said. Two thoughts were buzzing about me like
hornets. Father was ill, very ill, and we should have to leave Combe
Manor. The sting of these thoughts was dreadful.

I seemed to rouse out of a nightmare when Uncle Geoffrey suddenly
announced that we were at Crowbridge. No one was waiting for us at the
station, which somewhat surprised me; but Combe Manor was not a quarter
of a mile off, so the luggage was wheeled away on a truck, and Uncle
Geoffrey and I walked after it, up the sandy lane, and round by the
hazel copse. And there were the fields, where Dapple, the gray mare,
was feeding; and there were Cherry and Spot, and Brindle, and all the
rest of the dear creatures, rubbing their horned heads against the
hedge as usual; and two or three of them standing knee-deep in the
great shallow pool, where Fred and Allan used to sail their boats, and
make believe it was the Atlantic. We always called the little bit of
sedgy ground under the willow America, and used to send freights of
paper and cardboard across the mimic ocean, which did not always arrive
safely.

How lovely and peaceful it all looked on this June evening! The sun
shone on the red brick house and old-fashioned casements; roses were
climbing everywhere, on the walls, round the porch, over the very
gateway. Fred was leaning against the gate, in his brown velveteen coat
and slouched hat, looking so handsome and picturesque, poor fellow! He
had a Gloire de Dijon in his button-hole. I remember I wondered vaguely
how he had had the heart to pick it.

"How is he?" called out Uncle Geoffrey. And Fred started, for though he
was watching for us he had not seen us turn the corner of the lane.

"No better," was the disconsolate answer, as he unlatched the gate, and
stooped over it to kiss me. "We are expecting Allan down by the next
train, and Carrie asked me to look out for you; how do you do, Esther?
What have you done to yourself?" eyeing me with a mixture of chagrin
and astonishment. I suppose crying had not improved my appearance;
still, Fred need not have noticed my red eyes; but he was one who
always "looked on the outward appearance."

"She is tired and unhappy, poor little thing," repeated Uncle Geoffrey,
answering for me, as he drew my arm through his. "I hope Carrie has got
some tea for her;" and as he spoke Carrie came out in the porch to meet
us. How sweet she looked, the "little nun," as Fred always called her,
in her gray dress; with her smooth fair hair and pale pretty face.

"Poor Esther, how tired you look!" she said, kissing me affectionately,
but quietly--Carrie was always a little undemonstrative--"but I have
got tea for you in the brown room" (we always called it the brown room,
because it was wainscoted in oak); "will you have it now, or would you
like to see mother?"

"You had better have tea first and see your mother afterward," observed
Uncle Geoffrey; but I would not take this prudent counsel. On the
stairs I came upon Jack, curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our
old black cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with much
effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and arms, with a droll,
freckled face and round blue eyes, with all the awkwardness of
fourteen, and none of its precocity. Her real name was Jacqueline, but
we had always called her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her
cropped head and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl; her
hair was growing now, and hung about her neck in short ungainly
lengths, but I doubt whether in its present stage it was any
improvement. I am not at all sure strangers considered Jack a
prepossessing child, she was so awkward and overgrown, but I liked her
droll face immensely. Fred was always finding fault with her and
snubbing her, which brought him nothing but pert replies; then he would
entreat mother to send her to school, but somehow she never went. Dot
could not spare her, and mother thought there was plenty of time, so
Jack still roamed about at her own sweet will; riding Dapple barebacked
round the paddock, milking Cherry, and feeding the chickens; carrying
on some pretense at lessons with Carrie, who was not a very strict
mistress, and plaguing Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of
untidiness.

"Oh, you dear thing!" cried Jack, leaping from the window-seat and
nearly strangling me, while Smudge rubbed himself lovingly against my
dress; "oh, you dear, darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I am
to see you!" (Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) "Oh, it has been
so horrid the last few days--father ill, and mother always with him,
and Fred as cross as two sticks, and Carrie always too busy or too
tired for any one to speak to her; and Dot complaining of pain in his
back and not caring to play, oh!" finished Jack, with a long-drawn
sigh, "it has been almost too horrid."

"Hush, Jack," was my sole reply; for there was dear mother coming down
the passage toward us. I had only been away from her two months, and
yet it struck me that her hair was grayer and her face was thinner than
it used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I never
remember to have seen before; but she greeted me in her old
affectionate way, putting back my hair from my face to look at me, and
calling me her dear child. "But I must not stop a moment, Esther," she
said hurriedly, "or father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest
and refresh yourself, and then you shall come up and see him."

"But, mother, where is Dot?"

"In there," motioning toward the sick room; "he is always there, we
cannot keep him out," and her lip trembled. When Jack and I returned to
the brown room, we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie,
who was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her.

It was the first dreary meal I had ever remembered in the brown room;
my first evening at home had always been so happy. The shallow blue
teacups and tiny plates always seemed prettier than other people's
china, and nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown
bread and butter.

But this evening the flavor seemed spoiled. Carrie sat in mother's
place looking sad and abstracted, and fingering her little silver cross
nervously. Fred was downcast and out of spirits, returning only brief
replies to Uncle Geoffrey's questions, and only waking up to snub Jack
if she spoke a word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his appearance
and put us all right! It was quite a relief when I heard mother's voice
calling me, and she took me into the great cool room where father lay.

Dot was curled up in mother's great arm-chair, with his favorite book
of natural history; he slipped a hot little hand in mine as I passed
him.

Dot was our name for him because he was so little, but he had been
called Frank, after our father; he was eight years old, but he hardly
looked bigger than a child of six. His poor back was crooked, and he
was lame from hip-disease; sometimes for weeks together the cruel
abscesses wasted his strength, at other times he was tolerably free
from pain; even at his worst times Dot was a cheery invalid, for he was
a bright, patient little fellow. He had a beautiful little face, too,
though perhaps the eyes were a trifle too large for the thin features;
but Dot was my pet, and I could see no fault in him; nothing angered me
more than when people pitied him or lamented over his infirmity. When I
first came home the sound of his crutch on the floor was the sweetest
music in my ear. But I had no eyes even for Dot after my first look at
father. Oh, how changed, how terribly changed he was! The great wave of
brown hair over his forehead was gray, his features were pinched and
haggard, and when he spoke to me his voice was different, and he seemed
hardly able to articulate.

"Poor children--poor children!" he groaned; and as I kissed his cheek
he said, "Be a good girl, Esther, and try to be a comfort to your
mother."

"When I am a man I shall try and be a comfort too," cried Dot, in his
sharp chirpy voice; it quite startled father.

"That's my brave boy," said father, faintly, and I think there were
tears in his eyes. "Dora"--my mother's name was Dora--"I am too tired
to talk; let the children go now, and come and sit by me while I go to
sleep;" and mother gently dismissed us.

I had rather a difficulty with Dot when I got outside, for he suddenly
lowered his crutch and sat down on the floor.

"I don't want to go to bed," he announced, decidedly. "I shall sit here
all night, in case mother wants me; when it gets dark she may feel
lonely."

"But, Dot, mother will be grieved if she comes out and finds you here;
she has anxiety enough as it is; and if you make yourself ill, too, you
will only add to her trouble. Come, be a good boy, and let me help you
to undress." But I might as well have talked to Smudge. Dot had these
obstinate fits at times; he was tired, and his nerves were shaken by
being so many hours in the sick room, and nothing would have induced
him to move. I was so tired at last that I sat down on the floor, too,
and rested my head against the door, and Dot sat bolt upright like a
watchful little dog, and in this ridiculous position we were discovered
by Allan. I had not heard of his arrival; and when he came toward us,
springing lightly up two stairs at a time, I could not help uttering a
suppressed exclamation of delight.

He stopped at once and looked at us in astonishment. "Dot and Esther!
in the name of all that is mysterious; huddled up like two Chinese gods
on the matting. Why, I took Esther for a heap of clothes in the
twilight." Of course I told him how it happened. Dot was naughty and
would not move, and I was keeping him company. Allan hardly heard me
out before he had shouldered Dot, crutch and all, and was walking off
with him down the passage. "Wait for me a few minutes, Esther," he
whispered; and I betook myself to the window-seat and looked over the
dusky garden, where the tall white lilies looked like ghostly flowers
in the gloom.

It was a long time before Allan rejoined me. "That is a curious little
body," he said, half laughing, as he sat down beside me. "I had quite a
piece of work with him for carrying him off in that fashion; he said 'I
was a savage, a great uncivilized man, to take such a mean advantage of
him; If I were big I would fight you,' he said, doubling his fists; he
looked such a miserable little atom of a chap as he said it."

"Was he really angry?" I asked, for Dot was so seldom out of temper.

"Angry, I believe you. He was in a towering rage; but he is all right
now, so you need not go to him. I stroked him down, and praised him for
his good intentions, and then I told him I was a doctor now, and no one
contradicted my orders, and that he must be a good boy and let me help
him to bed. Poor little fellow; he sobbed all the time he was
undressing, he is so fond of father. I am afraid it will go badly with
him if things turn out as I fear they will," and Allan's voice was very
grave.

We had a long talk after that, until Uncle Geoffrey came upstairs and
dislodged us, by carrying Allan off. It was such a comfort to have him
all to myself; we had been so much separated of late years.

Allan was five years older than I; he was only a year younger than
Fred, but the difference between them was very great. Allan looked the
elder of the two; he was not so tall as Fred, but he was strongly built
and sturdy; he was dark-complexioned, and his features were almost as
irregular as mine; but in a man that did not so much matter, and very
few people called Allan plain.

Allan had always been my special brother--most sisters know what I mean
by that term. Allan was undemonstrative; he seldom petted or made much
of me, but a word from him was worth a hundred from Fred; and there was
a quiet unspoken sympathy between us that was sufficiently palpable. If
Allan wanted his gloves mended he always came to me, and not to Carrie.
I was his chief correspondent, and he made me the confidante of his
professional hopes and fears. In return, he good-humoredly interested
himself in my studies, directed my reading, and considered himself at
liberty to find fault with everything that did not please him. He was a
little peremptory sometimes, but I did not mind that half so much as
Fred's sarcasms; and he never distressed me as Fred did, by laughing at
my large hands, or wondering why I was not so natty in my dress as
Carrie.




CHAPTER III.

DOT.


I went to my room to unpack my things, and by-and-by Carrie joined me.

I half hoped that she meant to help me, but she sat down by the window
and said, with a sigh, how tired she was; and certainly her eyes had a
weary look.

She watched me for some time in silence, but once or twice she sighed
very heavily.

"I wish you could leave those things, Esther," she said, at last, not
pettishly--Carrie was never pettish--but a little too plaintively. "I
have not had a creature to whom I could talk since you left home in
April."

The implied compliment was very nice, but I did not half like leaving
my things--I was rather old-maidish in my ways, and never liked half
measures; but I remembered reading once about "the lust of finishing,"
and what a test of unselfishness it was to put by a half-completed task
cheerfully at the call of another duty. Perhaps it was my duty to leave
my unpacking and listen to Carrie, but there was one little point in
her speech that did not please me.

"You could talk to mother," I objected; for mother always listened to
one so nicely.

"I tried it once, but mother did not understand," sighed Carrie. I used
to wish she did not sigh so much. "We had quite an argument, but I saw
it was no use--that I should never bring her to my way of thinking. She
was brought up so differently; girls were allowed so little liberty
then. My notions seemed to distress her. She said that I was peculiar,
and that I carried things too far, and that she wished I were more like
other girls; and then she kissed me, and said I was very good, and she
did not mean to hurt me; but she thought home had the first claim; and
so on. You know mother's way."

"I think mother was right there--you think so yourself, do you not
Carrie?" I asked anxiously, for this seemed to me the A B C of common
sense.

"Oh, of course," rather hastily. "Charity begins at home, but it ought
not to stop there. If I chose to waste my time practicing for Fred's
violin, and attending to all his thousand and one fads and fancies,
what would become of all my parish work? You should have heard Mr.
Arnold's sermon last Sunday, Esther; he spoke of the misery and poverty
and ignorance that lay around us outside our homes, and of the
loiterers and idlers within those homes." And Carrie's eyes looked sad
and serious.

"That is true," I returned, and then I stopped, and Jessie's words came
to my mind, "Even Carrie makes mistakes at times." For the first time
in my life the thought crossed me; in my absence would it not have been
better for Carrie to have been a little more at home? It was Jessie's
words and mother's careworn face that put the thought into my head; but
the next moment I had dismissed it as heresy. My good, unselfish
Carrie, it was impossible that she could make mistakes! Carrie's next
speech chimed in well with my unspoken thoughts.

"Home duties come first, of course, Esther--no one in their senses
could deny such a thing; but we must be on our guard against
make-believe duties. It is my duty to help mother by teaching Jack, and
I give her two hours every morning; but when Fred comes into the
schoolroom with some nonsensical request that would rob me of an hour
or so, I am quite right not to give way to him. Do you think," warming
into enthusiasm over her subject, "that Fred's violin playing ought to
stand in the way of any real work that will benefit souls as well as
bodies--that will help to reclaim ignorance and teach virtue?" And
Carrie's beautiful eyes grew dark and dewy with feeling. I wish mother
could have seen her; something in her expression reminded me of a
picture of Faith I had once seen.

"Oh, Esther," she continued, for I was too moved to answer her, "every
day I live I long to give myself more entirely to benefiting my fellow
creatures. Girl as I am, I mean to join the grand army of workers--that
is what Mr. Arnold called them. Oh, how I wish I could remember all he
said! He told us not to be disheartened by petty difficulties, or to
feel lonely because, perhaps, those who were our nearest and dearest
discouraged our efforts or put obstacles in our way. 'You think you are
alone,' he said, 'when you are one of the rank and file in that
glorious battalion. There are thousands working with you and around
you, although you cannot see them.' And then he exhorted us who were
young to enter this crusade."

"But, Carrie," I interrupted, somewhat mournfully, for I was tired and
a little depressed, "I am afraid our work is already cut out for us,
and we shall have to do it however little pleased we may be with the
pattern. From what Uncle Geoffrey tells me, we shall be very poor."

"I am not afraid of poverty, Esther."

"But still you will be grieved to leave Combe Manor," I persisted.
"Perhaps we shall have to live in a little pokey house somewhere, and
to go out as governesses."

"Perhaps so," she answered, serenely; "but I shall still find time for
higher duties. I shall be a miser, and treasure all my minutes. But I
have wasted nearly half-an-hour now; but it is such a luxury to talk to
somebody who can understand." And then she kissed me affectionately and
bade me hasten to bed, for it was getting late, and I looked sadly
tired; but it never entered into her head to help me put away the
clothes that strewed my room, though I was aching in every limb from
grief and fatigue. If one looks up too much at the clouds one stumbles
against rough stones sometimes. Star gazing is very sweet and
elevating, but it is as well sometimes to pick up the homely flowers
that grow round our feet. "What does Carrie mean by higher duties?" I
grumbled, as I sought wearily to evoke order out of chaos. "To work for
one's family is as much a duty as visiting the poor." I could not solve
the problem; Carrie was too vague for me there; but I went to bed at
last, and dreamed that we two were building houses on the seashore.
Carrie's was the prettier, for it was all of sea-weed and
bright-colored shells that looked as though the sun were shining on
them, while mine was made of clay, tempered by mortar.

"Oh, Carrie, I like yours best" I cried, disconsolately; yet as I spoke
a long tidal wave came up and washed the frail building away. But
though mine filled with foamy water, the rough walls remained entire,
and then I looked at it again the receding wave had strewn its floors
with small shining pearls.

I must pass over the record of the next few days, for they were so
sad--so sad, even now, I cannot think of them without tears. On the
second day after my return, dear father had another attack, and before
many hours were over we knew we were orphans.

Two things stood out most prominently during that terrible week; dear
mother's exceeding patience and Dot's despair. Mother gave us little
trouble. She lay on her couch weeping silently, but no word of
complaint or rebellion crossed her lips; she liked us to sit beside her
and read her soothing passages of Scripture, and she was very
thoughtful and full of pity for us all. Her health was never very good,
and just now her strength had given way utterly. Uncle Geoffrey would
not hear of her exerting herself, and, indeed, she looked so frail and
broken that even Fred got alarmed about her.

Carrie was her principal companion, for Dot took all my attention; and,
indeed, it nearly broke our hearts to see him.

Uncle Geoffrey had carried him from the room when father's last attack
had come on. Jack was left in charge of him, and the rest of us were
gathered in the sick room. I was the first to leave when all was over,
for I thought of Dot and trembled; but as I opened the door there he
was, crouched down in a little heap at the entrance, with Jack sobbing
beside him.

"I took away his crutch, but he crawled all the way on his hands and
knees," whispered Jack; and then Allan came out and stood beside me.

"Poor little fellow!" he muttered; and Dot lifted his miserable little
white face, and held out his arms.

"Take me in," he implored. "Father's dead, for I heard you all crying;
but I must kiss him once more."

"I don't think it will hurt him," observed Allan, in a low voice. "He
will only imagine all sorts of horrors--and he looks so peaceful,"
motioning toward the closed door.

"I will be so good," implored the poor child, "if you only take me in."
And Allan, unable to resist any longer, lifted him in his arms.

I did not go in, for I could not have borne it. Carrie told me
afterward that Allan cried like a child when Dot nestled up to the dead
face and began kissing and stroking it.

"You are my own father, though you look so different," he whispered. "I
wish you were not so cold. I wish you could look and speak to me--I am
your little boy Dot--you were always so fond of Dot, father. Let me go
with you; I don't want to live any longer without you," and so on,
until Uncle Geoffrey made Allan take him away.

Oh, how good Allan was to him! He lay down by his side all night,
soothing him and talking to him, for Dot never slept. The next day we
took turns to be with him, and so on day after day; but I think Dot
liked Allan best.

"He is most like father," he said once, which, perhaps, explained the
preference; but then Allan had so much tact and gentleness. Fred did
not understand him at all; he called him odd and uncanny, which
displeased us both.

One evening I had been reading to mother, and afterward I went up to
Dot. He had been very feverish and had suffered much all day, and Allan
had scarcely left him; but toward evening he had grown quieter. I found
Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the grave; it was
Dot's only occupation just now.

"Look here, Essie," he cried, eagerly. "Is not this a splendid wreath?
We are making it all of pansies--they were father's favorite flowers.
He always called them floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of
butterflies!" and Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost of
a laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I praised the
quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was picturesque. The rich hues of
the pansies blended well--violet and gold; it was a pretty idea, laying
heartsease on the breast that would never know anxiety again.

"When I get better," continued Dot, "I am going to make such a
beautiful little garden by dear father. Jack and I have been planning
it. We are going to have rose-trees and lilies of the valley and sweet
peas--father was so fond of sweet peas; and in the spring snowdrops and
crocuses and violets. Allan says I may do it."

"Yes, surely, Dot."

"I wonder what father is doing now?" he exclaimed, suddenly, putting by
the unfinished wreath a little wearily. "I think the worst of people
dying is that we cannot find out what they are doing," and his eyes
grew large and wistful. Alas! Dot, herein lies the sting of
death--silence so insupportable and unbroken!

"Shall I read you your favorite chapter?" I asked, softly; for every
day Dot made us read to him the description of that City with its
golden streets and gem-built walls; but he shook his head,

"It glitters too much for my head to-night," he said, quaintly; "it is
too bright and shining. I would rather think of dear father walking in
those green pastures, with all the good people who have died. It must
be very beautiful there, Esther. But I think father would be happier if
I were with him."

"Oh, Dot, no!" for the bare idea pained me; and I felt I must argue
this notion away. "Allan and I could not spare you, or mother either;
and there's Jack--what would poor Jack do without her playfellow?"

"I don't feel I shall ever play again," said Dot, leaning his chin on
his mites of hands and peering at us in his shrewd way. "Jack is a
girl, and she cannot understand; but when one is only a Dot, and has an
ugly crutch and a back that never leaves off aching, and a father that
has gone to heaven, one does not care to be left behind."

"But you are not thinking of us, Dot, and how unhappy it would make us
to lose you too," I returned. And now the tears would come one by one;
Dot saw them, and wiped them off with his sleeve.

"Don't be silly, Esther," he said, in a coaxing little voice. "I am not
going yet. Allan says I may live to be a man. He said so last night;
and then he told me he was afraid we should be very poor; and that made
me sorry, for I knew I should never be able to work, with my poor back."

"But Allan and I will work for you, my darling," I exclaimed, throwing
my arms round him; "only you must not leave us, Dot, even for father;"
and as I said this I began to sob bitterly. I was terribly ashamed of
myself when Allan came in and discovered me in the act; and there was
Jack keeping me company, and frowning away her tears dreadfully.

I thought Allan would have scolded us all round; but no, he did nothing
of the kind. He patted Jack's wet cheeks and laughed at the hole in her
handkerchief; and he then seated himself on the bed, and asked me very
gently what was the matter with us all. Dot was spokesman: he stated
the facts of the case rather lugubriously and in a slightly injured
voice.

"Esther is crying because she is selfish, and I am afraid I am selfish
too."

"Most likely," returned Allan, dryly; "it is a human failing. What is
the case in point, Frankie?"

Allan was the only one of us who ever called Dot by his proper name.

"I should not mind growing up to be a man," replied Dot, fencing a
little, "if I were big and strong like you," taking hold of the huge
sinewy hand. "I could work then for mother and the girls; but now you
will be always obliged to take care of me, and so--and so--" and here
Dot's lips quivered a little, "I would rather go with dear father, if
Esther would not cry about it so."

"No, no, you must stay with us, Sonny," returned Allan, cheerily.
"Esther and I are not going to give you up so easily. Why, look here,
Frankie; I will tell you a secret. One of these days I mean to have a
nice little house of my own, and Esther and you shall come and live
with me, and I will go among my patients all the morning, and in the
evening I shall come home very lazy and tired, and Esther shall fetch
me my slippers and light the lamp, and I shall get my books, and you
will have your drawing, and Esther will mend our clothes, and we shall
be as cozy as possible."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Dot, clapping his hands. The snug picture had
fascinated his childish fancy; Allan's fireside had obscured the lights
of paradise. From this time this imaginary home of Allan's became his
favorite castle in the air. When we were together he would often talk
of it as though it were reality. We had planted the garden and
furnished the parlor a dozen times over before the year was out; and so
strong is a settled imagination that I am almost sure Dot believed that
somewhere there existed the little white cottage with the porch covered
with honeysuckle, and the low bay-window with the great pots of
flowering plants, beside which Dot's couch was to stand.

I don't think Jack enjoyed these talks so much as Dot and I did, as we
made no room for her in our castle-building.

"You must not live with us, Jack," Dot would say, very gravely; "you
are only a girl, and we don't want girls"--what was I, I wonder?--"but
you shall come and see us once a week, and Esther will give you brown
bread and honey out of our beehives; for we had arranged there must be
a row of beehives under a southern wall where peaches were to grow; and
as for white lilies, we were to have dozens of them. Dear, dear, how
harmless all these fancies were, and yet they kept us cheerful and
warded off many an hour of depression from pain when Dot's back was
bad. I remember one more thing that Allan said that night, when we were
all better and more cheerful, for it was rather a grave speech for a
young man; but then Allan had these fits of gravity.

"Never mind thinking if you will grow up to be a man, Dot. Wishing
won't help us to die an hour sooner, and the longest life must have an
end some day. What we have to do is to take up our life, and do the
best we can with it while it lasts, and to be kind and patient, and
help one another. Most likely Esther and I will have to work hard
enough all our lives--we shall work, and you may have to suffer; but we
cannot do without you any more than you can do without us. There,
Frankie!"




CHAPTER IV.

UNCLE GEOFFREY.


The day after the funeral Uncle Geoffrey held a family council, at
which we were all present, except mother and Dot; he preferred talking
to her alone afterward.

Oh, what changes! what incredible changes! We must leave Combe Manor at
once. With the exception of a few hundred pounds that had been mother's
portion, the only dowry that her good old father, a naval captain, had
been able to give her, we were literally penniless. The boys were not
able to help us much. Allan was only a house-surgeon in one of the
London hospitals; and Fred, who called himself an artist, had never
earned a penny. He was a fair copyist, and talked the ordinary art
jargon, and went about all day in his brown velveteen coat, and wore
his hair rather long; but we never saw much result from his Roman
studies; latterly he had somewhat neglected his painting, and had taken
to violin playing and musical composition. Uncle Geoffrey used to shake
his head and say he was "Jack of all trades and master of none," which
was not far from the mark. There was a great deal of talk between the
three, before anything was settled.

Fred was terribly aggravating to Uncle Geoffrey, I could see; but then
he was so miserable, poor fellow; he would not look at things in their
proper light, and he had a way with him as though he thought Uncle
Geoffrey was putting upon him. The discussion grew very warm at last,
for Allan sided with Uncle Geoffrey, and then Fred said every one was
against him. It struck me Uncle Geoffrey pooh-poohed Fred's whim of
being an artist; he wanted him to go into an office; there was a vacant
berth he could secure by speaking to an old friend of his, who was in a
China tea-house, a most respectable money-making firm, and Fred would
have a salary at once, with good prospects of rising; but Fred
passionately scouted the notion. He would rather enlist; he would
drown, or hang himself sooner. There were no end of naughty things he
said; only Carrie cried and begged him not to be so wicked, and that
checked him.

Uncle Geoffrey lost his patience at last, and very nearly told him he
was an idiot, to his face; but Fred looked so handsome and miserable,
that he relented; and at last it was arranged that Fred was to take a
hundred pounds of mother's money--she would have given him the whole if
she could, poor dear--and take cheap rooms in London, and try how he
could get on by teaching drawing and taking copying orders.

"Remember, Fred," continued Uncle Geoffrey, rather sternly, "you are
taking a sixth part of your mother's entire income; all that she has
for herself and these girls; if you squander it rashly, you will be
robbing the widow and the fatherless. You have scouted my well-meant
advice, and Allan's"--he went on--"and are marking out your own path in
life very foolishly, as we think; remember, you have only yourself to
blame, if you make that life a failure. Artists are of the same stuff
as other men, and ought to be sober, steady, and persevering; without
patience and effort you cannot succeed."

"When my picture is accepted by the hanging committee, you and Allan
will repent your sneers," answered Fred, bitterly.

"We do not sneer, my boy," returned Uncle Geoffrey, more mildly--for he
remembered Fred's father had only been dead a week--"we are only
doubtful of the wisdom of your choice; but there, work hard at your
daubs, and keep out of debt and bad company, and you may yet triumph
over your cranky old uncle." And so the matter was amicably settled.

Allan's arrangements were far more simple. He was to leave the hospital
in another year, and become Uncle Geoffrey's assistant, with a view to
partnership. It was not quite Allan's taste, a practice in a sleepy
country town; but, as he remarked rather curtly, "beggars must not be
choosers," and he would as soon work under Uncle Geoffrey as any other
man. I think Allan was rather ambitious in his secret views. He wanted
to remain longer at the hospital and get into a London practice; he
would have liked to have been higher up the tree than Uncle Geoffrey,
who was quite content with his quiet position at Milnthorpe. But the
most astonishing part of the domestic programme was, that we were all
going to live with Uncle Geoffrey. I could scarcely believe my ears
when I heard it, and Carrie was just as surprised. Could any of us
credit such unselfish generosity? He had not prepared us for it in the
least.

"Now, girls, you must just pack up your things, you, and the mother,
and Dot; of course we must take Dot, and you must manage to shake
yourselves down in the old house at Milnthorpe"--that is how he put it;
"it is not so big as Combe Manor, and I daresay we shall be rather a
tight fit when Allan comes; but the more the merrier, eh, Jack?"

"Oh, Uncle Geoff, do you mean it?" gasped Jack, growing scarlet; but
Carrie and I could not speak for surprise.

"Mean it! Of course. What is the good of being a bachelor uncle, if one
is not to be tyrannized over by an army of nephews and nieces? Do you
think the plan will answer, Esther?" he said, rather more seriously.

"If you and Deborah do not mind it, Uncle Geoffrey, I am sure it ought
to answer; but we shall crowd you, and put you and Deborah to sad
inconvenience, I am afraid;" for I was half afraid of Deborah, who had
lived with Uncle Geoffrey for five-and-twenty years, and was used to
her own ways, and not over fond of young people.

"I shall not ask Deb's opinion," he answered, rather roguishly; "we
must smooth her down afterward, eh, girls? Seriously, Allan, I think it
is the best plan under the circumstances. I am not fond of being
alone," and here Uncle Geoffrey gave a quick sigh. Poor Uncle Geoff! he
had never meant to be an old bachelor, only She died while he was
furnishing the old house at Milnthorpe, and he never could fix his mind
on any one else.

"I like young folks about me," he continued, cheerfully. "When I get
old and rheumatic, I can keep Dot company, and Jack can wait on us
both. Of course I am not a rich man, children, and we must all help to
keep the kettle boiling; but the house is my own, and you can all
shelter in it if you like; it will save house-rent and taxes, at any
rate for the present."

"Carrie and I will work," I replied, eagerly; for, though Uncle
Geoffrey was not a poor man, he was very far from being rich, and he
could not possibly afford to keep us all. A third of his income went to
poor Aunt Prue, who had married foolishly, and was now a widow with a
large family.

Aunt Prue would have been penniless, only father and Uncle Geoff agreed
to allow her a fixed maintenance. As Uncle Geoff explained to us
afterward, she would now lose half her income.

"There are eight children, and two or three of them are very delicate,
and take after their father. I have been thinking about it all,
Esther," he said, when Allan and I were alone with him, "and I have
made up my mind that I must allow her another hundred a year. Poor
soul, she works hard at that school-keeping of hers, and none of the
children are old enough to help her except Lawrence, and he is going
into a decline, the doctors say. I am afraid we shall have to pinch a
bit, unless you and Carrie get some teaching."

"Oh, Uncle Geoff, of course we shall work; and Jack, too, when she is
old enough." Could he think we should be a burden on him, when we were
all young and strong?

I had forgotten poor Aunt Prue, who lived a long way off, and whom we
saw but seldom. She was a pretty, subdued little woman, who always wore
shabby black gowns; I never saw her in a good dress in my life. Well,
we were as poor as Aunt Prue now, and I wondered if we should make such
a gallant fight against misfortune as she did.

We arranged matters after that--Allan and Uncle Geoff and I; for Carrie
had gone to sit with mother, and Fred had strolled off somewhere. They
wanted me to try my hand at housekeeping; at least, until mother was
stronger and more able to bear things.

"Carrie hates it, and you have a good head for accounts," Allan
observed, quietly. It seemed rather strange that they should make me
take the head, when Carrie was two years older, and a week ago I was
only a schoolgirl; but I felt they were right, for I liked planning and
contriving, and Carrie detested anything she called domestic drudgery.

We considered ways and means after that. Uncle Geoffrey told us the
exact amount of his income, He had always lived very comfortably, but
when he had deducted the extra allowance for poor Aunt Prue, we saw
clearly that there was not enough for so large a party; but at the
first hint of this from Allan Uncle Geoffrey got quite warm and eager.
Dear, generous Uncle Geoff! he was determined to share his last crust
with his dead brother's widow and children.

"Nonsense, fiddlesticks!" he kept on saying; "what do I want with
luxuries? Ask Deborah if I care what I eat and drink; we shall do very
well, if you and Esther are not so faint-hearted." And when we found
out how our protests seemed to hurt him, we let him have his own way;
only Allan and I exchanged looks, which said as plainly as looks could,
"Is he not the best uncle that ever lived, and will we not work our
hardest to help him?"

I had a long talk with Carrie that night; she was very submissive and
very sad, and seemed rather downhearted over things. She was quite as
grateful for Uncle Geoff's generosity as we were, but I could see the
notion of being a governess distressed her greatly. "I am very glad you
will undertake the housekeeping, Esther," she said, rather plaintively;
"it will leave me free for other things," and then she sighed very
bitterly, and got up and left me. I was a little sorry that she did not
tell me all that was in her mind, for, if we are "to bear each other's
burdens," it is necessary to break down the reserve that keeps us out
of even a sister's heart sometimes.

But though Carrie left me to my own thoughts, I was not able to quiet
myself for hours. If I had only Jessie to whom I could talk! and then
it seemed to me as though it were months since we sat together in the
garden of Redmayne House talking out our girlish philosophy.

Only a fortnight ago, and yet how much had happened since then! What a
revolution in our home-world! Dear father lying in his quiet grave;
ourselves penniless orphans, obliged to leave Combe Manor, and indebted
to our generous benefactor for the very roof that was to cover us and
the food that we were to eat.

Ah, well! I was only a schoolgirl, barely seventeen. No wonder I shrank
back a little appalled from the responsibilities that awaited me. I was
to be Uncle Geoff's housekeeper, his trusted right-hand and referee. I
was to manage that formidable Deborah, and the stolid, broad-faced
Martha; and there was mother so broken in health and spirits, and Dot,
and Jack, with her hoidenish ways and torn frocks, and Allan miles away
from me, and Carrie--well, I felt half afraid of Carrie to-night; she
seemed meditating great things when I wanted her to compass daily
duties. I hoped she would volunteer to go on with Jack's lessons and
help with the mending, and I wondered with more forebodings what things
she was planning for which I was to leave her free.

All these things tired me, and I sat rather dismally in the moonlight
looking out at the closed white lilies and the swaying branches of the
limes, until a text suddenly flashed into my mind, "As thy day, so
shall thy strength be." I lit my candle and opened my Bible, that I
might read over the words for myself. Yes, there they were shining
before my eyes, like "apples of gold in pictures of silver," refreshing
and comforting my worn-out spirits. Strength promised for the day, but
not beforehand, supplies of heavenly manna, not to be hoarded or put
by; the daily measure, daily gathered.

An old verse of Bishop Ken's came to my mind. Very quaint and rich in
wisdom it was:

  "Does each day upon its wing
   Its appointed burden bring?
   Load it not besides with sorrow
   That belongeth to the morrow.
   When by God the heart is riven,
   Strength is promised, strength is given:
   But fore-date the day of woe,
   And alone thou bear'st the blow."

When I had said this over to myself, I laid my head on the pillow and
slept soundly.

Mother and I had a nice little talk the next day. It was arranged that
I was to go over to Milnthorpe with Uncle Geoffrey, who was obliged to
return home somewhat hastily, in order to talk to Deborah and see what
furniture would be required for the rooms that were placed at our
disposal. As I was somewhat aghast at the amount of business entrusted
to my inexperienced hands, Allan volunteered to help me, as Carrie
could not be spared.

We were to stay two or three days, make all the arrangements that were
necessary, and then come back and prepare for the flitting. If Allan
were beside me, I felt that I could accomplish wonders; nevertheless, I
carried rather a harassed face into dear mother's dressing-room that
morning.

"Oh, Esther, how pale and tired you look!" were her first words as I
came toward her couch. "Poor child, we are making you a woman before
your time!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"I am seventeen," I returned, with an odd little choke in my voice, for
I could have cried with her readily at that moment. "That is quite a
great age, mother; I feel terribly old, I assure you."

"You are our dear, unselfish Esther," she returned, lovingly. Dear
soul, she always thought the best of us all, and my heart swelled how
proudly, and oh! how gratefully, when she told me in her sweet gentle
way what a comfort I was to her.

"You are so reliable, Esther," she went on, "that we all look to you as
though you were older. You must be Uncle Geoffrey's favorite, I think,
from the way he talks about you. Carrie is very sweet and good too, but
she is not so practical."

"Oh, mother, she is ever so much better than I!" I cried, for I could
not bear the least disparagement of my darling Carrie. "Think how
pretty she is, and how little she cares for dress and admiration. If I
were like that," I added, flushing a little over my words, "I'm afraid
I should be terribly vain."

Mother smiled a little at that.

"Be thankful then that you are saved that temptation." And then she
stroked my hot cheek and went on softly: "Don't think so much about
your looks, child; plain women are just as vain as pretty ones. Not
that you are plain, Esther, in my eyes, or in the eyes of any one who
loves you." But even that did not quite comfort me, for in my secret
heart my want of beauty troubled me sadly. There, I have owned the
worst of myself--it is out now.

We talked for a long time after that about the new life that lay before
us, and again I marveled at mother's patience and submission; but when
I told her so she only hid her face and wept.

"What does it matter?" she said, at last, when she had recovered
herself a little. "No home can be quite a home to me now without him.
If I could live within sight of his grave, I should be thankful; but
Combe Manor and Milnthrope are the same to me now." And though these
words struck me as strange at first, I understood afterward; for in the
void and waste of her widowed life no outer change of circumstances
seemed to disturb her, except for our sakes and for us.

She seemed to feel Uncle Geoffrey's kindness as a sort of stay and
source of endless comfort. "Such goodness--such unselfishness!" she
kept murmuring to herself; and then she wanted to hear all that Allan
and I proposed.

"How I wish I could get strong and help you," she said, wistfully, when
I had finished. "With all that teaching and housekeeping, I am afraid
you will overtax your strength."

"Oh, no, Carrie will help me," I returned, confidently. "Uncle Geoffrey
is going to speak to some of his patients about us. He rather thinks
those Thornes who live opposite to him want a governess."

"That will be nice and handy, and save you a walk," she returned,
brightening up at the notion that one of us would be so near her; but
though I would not have hinted at such a thing, I should rather have
enjoyed the daily walk. I was fond of fresh air, and exercise, and
rushing about, after the manner of girls, and it seemed rather tame and
monotonous just to cross the street to one's work; but I remembered
Allan's favorite speech, "Beggars must not be choosers," and held my
peace.

On the whole, I felt somewhat comforted by my talk with mother. If she
and Uncle Geoffrey thought so well of me, I must try and live up to
their good opinion. There is nothing so good as to fix a high standard
for one's self. True, we may never reach it, never satisfy ourselves,
but the continued effort strengthens and elevates us.

I went into Carrie's room to tell her about the Thornes, and lay our
plans together, but she was reading Thomas a Kempis, and did not seem
inclined to be disturbed, so I retreated somewhat discomforted.

But I forgot my disappointment a moment afterward, when I went into the
schoolroom and found Dot fractious and weary, and Jack vainly trying to
amuse him. Allan was busy, and the two children had passed a solitary
morning.

"Dot wanted Carrie to read to him, but she said she was too tired, and
I could do it," grumbled Jack, disconsolately.

"I don't like Jack's reading; it is too jerky, and her voice is too
loud," returned Dot; but his countenance smoothed when I got the book
and read to him, and soon he fell into a sound sleep.




CHAPTER V.

THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE.


The following afternoon Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I, started for
Milnthorpe. Youthful grief is addicted to restlessness--it is only the
old who can sit so silently and weep; it was perfectly natural, then,
that I should hail a few days' change with feelings of relief.

It was rather late in the evening when we arrived. As we drove through
the market place there was the usual group of idlers loitering on the
steps of the Red Lion, who stared at us lazily as we passed. Milnthorpe
was an odd, primitive little place--the sunniest and sleepiest of
country towns. It had a steep, straggling Highstreet, which ended in a
wide, deserted-looking square, which rather reminded one of the Place
in some Continental town. The weekly markets were held here, on which
occasion the large white portico of the Red Lion was never empty.
Milnthorpe woke with brief spasms of life on Monday morning;
broad-shouldered men jostled each other on the grass-grown pavements;
large country wagons, sweet-smelling in haymaking seasons, blocked up
the central spaces; country women, with gay-colored handkerchiefs, sold
eggs, and butter, and poultry In the square; and two or three farmers,
with their dogs at their heels, lingered under the windows of the Red
Lion, fingering the samples in their pockets, and exchanging dismal
prognostications concerning the crops and the weather. One side of the
square was occupied by St. Barnabas, with its pretty shaded churchyard
and old gray vicarage. On the opposite side was the handsome red brick
house occupied by Mr. Lucas, the banker, and two or three other houses,
more or less pretentious, inhabited by the gentry of Milnthorpe.

Uncle Geoffrey lived at the lower end of the High street. It was a
tall, narrow house, with old-fashioned windows and wire blinds. These
blinds, which were my detestation, were absolutely necessary, as the
street door opened directly on the street. There was one smooth, long
step, and that was all. It had rather a dull outside look, but the
moment one entered the narrow wainscoted hall, there was a cheery vista
of green lawn and neatly graveled paths through the glass door.

The garden was the delight of Uncle Geoffrey's heart. It was somewhat
narrow, to match the house; but in the center of the lawn, there was a
glorious mulberry tree, the joy of us children. Behind was a wonderful
intricacy of slim, oddly-shaped flower-beds, intersected by miniature
walks, where two people could with difficulty walk abreast; and beyond
this lay a tolerable kitchen garden, where Deborah grew cabbages and
all sorts of homely herbs, and where tiny pink roses and sturdy
sweet-williams blossomed among the gooseberry bushes.

On one side of the house were two roomy parlors, divided by folding
doors. We never called them anything but parlors, for the shabby
wainscoted walls and old-fashioned furniture forbade any similitude to
the modern drawing-room.

On the other side of the hall was Uncle Geoffrey's study--a somewhat
grim, dingy apartment, with brown shelves full of ponderous tomes, a
pipe-rack filled with fantastic pipes, deep old cupboards full of
hetereogeneous rubbish, and wide easy-chairs that one could hardly
lift, one of which was always occupied by Jumbles, Uncle Geoffrey's dog.

Jumbles was a great favorite with us all. He was a solemn, wise-looking
dog of the terrier breed, indeed, I believe Uncle Geoff called him a
Dandy Dinmont--blue-gray in color, with a great head, and deep-set
intelligent eyes. It was Uncle Geoffrey's opinion that Jumbles
understood all one said to him. He would sit with his head slightly on
one side, thumping his tail against the floor, with a sort of glimmer
of fun in his eyes, as though he comprehended our conversation, and
interposed a "Hear, hear!" and when he had had enough of it, and we
were growing prosy, he would turn over on his back with an expression
of abject weariness, as though canine reticence objected to human
garrulity.

Jumbles was a rare old philosopher--a sort of four-footed Diogenes. He
was discerning in his friendships, somewhat aggressive and splenetic to
his equals; intolerant of cats, whom he hunted like vermin, and rather
disdainfully condescending to the small dogs of Milnthorpe. Jumbles
always accompanied Uncle Geoffrey in his rounds. He used to take his
place in the gig with undeviating punctuality; nothing induced him to
desert his post when the night-bell rang. He would rouse up from his
sleep, and go out in the coldest weather. We used to hear his deep bark
under the window as they sallied out in the midnight gloom.

The morning after we arrived, Allan and I made a tour of inspection
through the house. There were only three rooms on the first
floor--Uncle Geoffrey's, with its huge four-post bed; a large front
room, that we both decided would just do for mother; and a smaller one
at the back, that, after a few minutes' deliberation, I allotted to
Carrie.

It caused me an envious pang or two before I yielded it, for I knew I
must share a large upper room with Jack; the little room behind it must
be for Dot, and the larger one would by-and-by be Allan's. I confess my
heart sank a little when I thought of Jack's noisiness and thriftless
ways; but when I remembered how fond she was of good books, and the
great red-leaved diary that lay on her little table, I thought it
better that Carrie should have a quiet corner to herself, and then she
would be near mother.

If only Jack could be taught to hold her tongue sometimes, and keep her
drawers in order, instead of strewing her room with muddy boots and odd
items of attire! Well, perhaps it might be my mission to train Jack to
more orderly habits. I would set her a good example, and coax her to
follow it. She was good-tempered and affectionate, and perhaps I should
find her sufficiently pliable. I was so lost in these anxious thoughts
that Allan had left me unperceived. I found him in the back parlor,
seated on the table, and looking about him rather gloomily.

"I say, Esther!" he called out, as soon as he caught sight of me, "I am
afraid mother and Carrie will find this rather shabby after the dear
old rooms at Combe Manor. Could we not furbish it up a little?" And
Allan looked discontentedly at the ugly curtains and little, straight
horse-hair sofa. Everything had grown rather shabby, only Uncle
Geoffrey had not found it out.

"Oh, of course!" I exclaimed, joyfully, for all sorts of brilliant
thoughts had come to me while I tossed rather wakefully in the early
morning hours. "Don't you know, Allan, that Uncle Geoffrey has decided
to send mother and Carrie and Dot down to the sea for a week, while you
and I and Jack make things comfortable for them? Now, why should we not
help ourselves to the best of the furniture at Combe Manor, and make
Uncle Geoff turn out all these ugly things? We might have our pretty
carpet from the drawing-room, and the curtains, and mother's couch, and
some of the easy-chairs, and the dear little carved cabinet with our
purple china; it need not all be sold when we want it so badly for
mother."

Allan was so delighted at the idea that we propounded our views to
Uncle Geoffrey at dinner-time; but he did not see the thing quite in
our light.

"Of course you will need furniture for the bedrooms," he returned,
rather dubiously; "but I wanted to sell the rest of the things that
were not absolutely needed, and invest the money."

But this sensible view of the matter did not please me or Allan. We had
a long argument, which ended in a compromise--the question of carpets
might rest. Uncle Geoffrey's was a good Brussels, although it was
dingy; but I might retain, if I liked, the pretty striped curtains from
our drawing-room at Combe Manor, and mother's couch, and a few of the
easy-chairs, and the little cabinet with the purple china; and then
there was mother's inlaid work-table, and Carrie's davenport, and books
belonging to both of us, and a little gilt clock that father had given
mother on her last wedding-day--all these things would make an entire
renovation in the shabby parlors.

I was quite excited by all these arrangements; but an interview with
Deborah soon cooled my ardor.

Allan and Jumbles had gone out with Uncle Geoffrey, and I was sitting
at the window looking over the lawn and the mulberry tree, when a
sudden tap at the door startled me from my reverie. Of course it was
Deborah; no one else's knuckles sounded as though they were iron.
Deborah was a tall, angular woman, very spare and erect of figure, with
a severe cast of countenance, and heavy black curls pinned up under her
net cap; her print dresses were always starched until they crackled,
and on Sunday her black silk dress rustled as I never heard any silk
dress rustle before.

"Yes, Deborah, what is it?" I asked, half-frightened; for surely my
hour had come. Deborah was standing so very erect, with the basket of
keys in her hands, and her mouth drawn down at the corners.

"Master said this morning," began Deborah, grimly, "as how there was a
new family coming to live here, and that I was to go to Miss Esther for
orders. Five-and-twenty years have I cooked master's dinners for him,
and received his orders, and never had a word of complaint from his
lips, and now he is putting a mistress over me and Martha."

"Oh, Deborah," I faltered, and then I came to a full stop; for was it
not trying to a woman of her age and disposition, used to Uncle
Geoffrey's bachelor ways, to have a houseful of young people turned on
her hands? She and Martha would have to work harder, and they were both
getting old. I felt so much for her that the tears came into my eyes,
and my voice trembled.

"It is hard!" I burst out; "it is very hard for you and Martha to have
your quiet life disturbed. But how could we help coming here, when we
had no home and no money, and Uncle Geoffrey was so generous? And then
there was Dot and mother so ailing." And at the thought of all our
helplessness, and Uncle Geoffrey's goodness a great tear rolled down my
cheek. It was very babyish and undignified; but, after all, no
assumption of womanliness would have helped me so much. Deborah's grim
mouth relaxed; under her severe exterior, and with her sharp tongue,
there beat a very kind heart, and Dot was her weak point.

"Well, well, crying won't help the pot to boil, Miss Esther!" she said,
brusquely enough; but I could see she was coming round. "Master was
always that kind-hearted that he would have sheltered the whole parish
if he could. I am not blaming him, though it goes hard with Martha and
me, who have led peaceable, orderly lives, and never had a mistress or
thought of one since Miss Blake died, and the master took up thoughts
of single blessedness in earnest."

"What sort of woman was Miss Blake?" I asked, eagerly, forgetting my
few troubled tears at the thought of Uncle Geoffrey's one romance. The
romance of middle-aged people always came with a faint, far-away odor
to us young ones, like some old garment laid up in rose-leaves or
lavender, which must needs be of quaint fashion and material, but
doubtless precious in the eyes of the wearer.

"Woman!" returned Deborah, with an angry snort; "she was a lady, if
there ever was one. We don't see her sort every day, I can tell you
that, Miss Esther; a pretty-spoken, dainty creature, with long fair
curls, that one longed to twine round one's fingers."

"She was pretty, then?" I hazarded more timidly.

"Pretty! she was downright beautiful. Miss Carrie reminds me of her
sometimes, but she is not near so handsome as poor Miss Rose. She used
to come here sometimes with her mother, and she and master would sit
under that mulberry tree. I can see her now walking over the grass in
her white gown, with some apple blossoms in her hand, talking and
laughing with him. It was a sad day when she lay in the fever, and did
not know him, for all his calling to her 'Rose! Rose!' I was with her
when she died, and I thought he would never hold up his head again."

"Poor Uncle Geoffrey! But he is cheerful and contented now."

"But there, I must not stand gossiping," continued Deborah,
interrupting herself. "I have only brought you the keys, and wish to
know what preserve you and Mr. Allan might favor for tea."

But here I caught hold, not of the key-basket, but of the hard,
work-worn hand that held it.

"Oh, Deborah! do be good to us!" I broke out: "we will trouble you and
Martha as little as possible, and we are all going to put our shoulders
to the wheel and help ourselves; and we have no home but this, and no
one to take care of us but Uncle Geoffrey."

"I don't know but I will make some girdle cakes for tea," returned
Deborah, in the most imperturbable voice; and she turned herself round
abruptly, and walked out of the room without another word. But I was
quite well satisfied and triumphant. When Deborah baked girdle cakes,
she meant the warmest of welcomes, and no end of honor to Uncle
Geoffrey's guests.

"Humph! girdle cakes!" observed Uncle Geoffrey, with a smile, as he
regarded them. "Deb is in a first-rate humor, then. You have played
your cards well, old lady," and his eyes twinkled merrily.

I went into the kitchen after tea, and had another long talk with
Deborah. Dear old kitchen! How many happy hours we children had spent
in it! It was very low and dark, and its two windows looked out on the
stable-yard; but in the evening, when the fire burned clear and the
blinds were drawn, it was a pleasant place. Deborah and Martha used to
sit in the brown Windsor chairs knitting, with Puff, the great tabby
cat, beside them, and the firelight would play on the red brick floor
and snug crimson curtains.

Deborah and I had a grand talk that night. She was a trifle obstinate
and dogmatical, but we got on fairly well. To do her justice, her chief
care seemed to be that her master should not be interfered with in any
of his ways. "He will work harder than ever," she groaned, "now there
are all these mouths to feed. He and Jumbles will be fairly worn out."

But our talk contented me. I had enlisted Deborah's sympathies on our
side. I felt the battle was over. I was only a "bit thing" as Deborah
herself called me, and I was tolerably tired when I went up to my room
that night.

Not that I felt inclined for sleep. Oh dear no! I just dragged the big
easy-chair to the window, and sat there listening to the patter of
summer rain on the leaves.

It was very dark, for the moon had hidden her face; but through the
cool dampness there crept a delicious fragrance of wet jasmine and
lilies. I wanted to have a good "think;" not to sit down and take
myself to pieces. Oh no, that was Carrie's way. Such introspection
bored me and did me little good, for it only made me think more of
myself and less of the Master; but I wanted to review the past
fortnight, and look the future in the face. Foolish Esther! As though
we can look at a veiled face. Only the past and the present is ours;
the future is hidden with God.

Yes, a fortnight ago I was a merry, heedless schoolgirl, with no
responsibilities and few duties, except that laborious one of
self-improvement, which must go on, under some form or other, until we
die. And now, on my shrinking shoulders lay the weight of a woman's
work. I was to teach others, when I knew so little myself; it was I who
was to have the largest share of home administration--I, who was so
faulty, so imperfect.

Then I remembered a sentence Carrie had once read to me out of one of
her innumerable books, and which had struck me very greatly at the time.

"Happy should I think myself," said St. Francis de Sales, "if I could
rid myself of my imperfections but one quarter of an hour previous to
my death."

Well, if a saint could say that, why should I lose heart thinking about
my faults? What was the good of stirring up muddy water to try and see
one's own miserable reflection, when one could look up into the serene
blue of Divine Providence? If I had faults--and, alas! how many they
were--I must try to remedy them; if I slipped, I must pray for strength
to rise again.

Courage, Esther! "Little by little," as Uncle Geoffrey says; "small
beginnings make great endings." And when I had cheered myself with
these words I went tranquilly to bed.




CHAPTER VI.

THE FLITTING.


So the old Combe Manor days were over, and with them the girlhood of
Esther Cameron.

Ah me! it was sad to say good-by to the dear old home of our childhood;
to go round to our haunts, one by one, and look our last at every
cherished nook and corner; to bid farewell to our four-footed pets,
Dapple and Cherry and Brindle, and the dear little spotted calves; to
caress our favorite pigeons for the last time, and to feed the greedy
old turkey-cock, who had been the terror of our younger days. It was
well, perhaps, that we were too busy for a prolonged leave-taking. Fred
had gone to London, and his handsome lugubrious face no longer
overlooked us as we packed books and china. Carrie and mother and Dot
were cozily established in the little sea-side lodging, and only Allan,
Jack, and I sat down to our meals in the dismantled rooms.

It was hard work trying to keep cheerful, when Allan left off
whistling, as he hammered at the heavy cases, and when Jack was
discovered sobbing in odd corners, with Smudge in her arms--of course
Smudge would accompany us to Milnthorpe; no one could imagine Jack
without her favorite sable attendant, and then Dot was devoted to him.
Jack used to come to us with piteous pleadings to take first one and
then another of her pets; now it was the lame chicken she had nursed in
a little basket by the kitchen fire, then a pair of guinea pigs that
belonged to Dot, and some carrier pigeons that they specially fancied;
after that, she was bent on the removal of a young family of hedgehogs,
and some kittens that had been discovered in the hay-loft, belonging to
the stable cat.

We made a compromise at last, and entrusted to her care Carrie's tame
canaries, and a cage of dormice that belonged to Dot, in whose fate
Smudge look a vast amount of interest, though he never ventured to look
at the canaries. The care of these interesting captives was consolatory
to Jack, though she rained tears over them in secret, and was overheard
by Allan telling them between her sobs that "they were all going to
live in a little pokey house, without chickens or cows, or anything
that would make life pleasant, and that she and they must never expect
to be happy again." Ah, well! the longest day must have an end, and
by-and-by the evening came when we turned away from dear old Combe
Manor forever.

It was far more cheerful work fitting up the new rooms at Milnthorpe,
with Deborah's strong arms to help, and Uncle Geoffrey standing by to
encourage our efforts; even Jack plucked up heart then, and hung up the
canaries, and hid away the dormice out of Smudge's and Jumbles' reach,
and consented to stretch her long legs in our behalf. Allan and I
thought we had done wonders when all was finished, and even Deborah
gave an approving word.

"I think mother and Carrie will be pleased," I said, as I put some
finishing touches to the tea-table on the evening we expected them.
Allan had gone to the station to meet them, and only Uncle Geoffrey was
my auditor. There was a great bowl of roses on the table, great
crimson-hearted, delicious roses, and a basket of nectarines, that some
patient had sent to Uncle Geoffrey. The parlors looked very pretty and
snug; we had arranged our books on the shelves, and had hung up two or
three choice engravings, and there was the gleam of purple and gold
china from the dark oak cabinet, and by the garden window there were
mother's little blue couch and her table and workbox, and Carrie's
davenport, and an inviting easy-chair. The new curtains looked so well,
too. No wonder Uncle Geoffrey declared that he did not recognize his
old room.

"I am sure they will be pleased," I repeated, as I moved the
old-fashioned glass dish full of our delicious Combe Manor honey; but
Uncle Geoffrey did not answer; he was listening to some wheels in the
distance.

"There they are," he said, snatching up his felt wide-awake. "Don't
expect your mother to notice much to-night, Esther; poor thing, this is
a sad coming home to her."

I need not have worked so hard; that was my first thought when I saw
mother's face as she entered the room. She was trembling like a leaf,
and her face was all puckered and drawn, as I kissed her; but Uncle
Geoffrey would not let her sit down or look at anything.

"No, no, you shall not make efforts for us to-night," he said, patting
her as though she were a child. "Take your mother upstairs, children,
and let her have quiet! do you hear, nothing but quiet to-night." And
then Allan drew her arm through his.

I cried shame on myself for a selfish, disappointed pang, as I followed
them. Of course Uncle Geoffrey was right and wise, as he always was,
and I was still more ashamed of myself when I entered the room and
found mother crying as though her heart would break, and clinging to
Allan.

"Oh, children, children! how can I live without your father?" she
exclaimed, hysterically. Well, it was wise of Allan, for he let that
pass and never said a word; he only helped me remove the heavy widow's
bonnet and cloak, and moved the big chintz couch nearer to the window,
and then he told me to be quick and bring her some tea; and when I
returned he was sitting by her, fanning and talking to her in his
pleasant boyish way; and though the tears were still flowing down her
pale cheeks she sobbed less convulsively.

"You have both been so good, and worked so hard, and I cannot thank
you," she whispered, taking my hand, as I stood near her.

"Esther does not want to be thanked," returned Allan, sturdily. "Now
you will take your tea, won't you, mother? and by-and-by one of the
girls shall come and sit with you."

"Are we to go down and leave her?" I observed, dubiously, as Allan rose
from his seat.

"Yes, go, both of you, I shall be better alone; Allan knows that," with
a grateful glance as I reluctantly obeyed her. I was too young to
understand the healing effects of quiet and silence in a great grief;
to me the thought of such loneliness was dreadful, until, later on, she
explained the whole matter.

"I am never less alone than when I am alone," she said once, very
simply to me. "I have the remembrance of your dear father and his words
and looks ever before me, and God is so near--one feels that most when
one is solitary." And her words remained with me long afterward.

It was not such a very sad evening, after all. The sea air had done Dot
good, and he was in better spirits; and then Carrie was so good and
sweet, and so pleased with everything.

"How kind of you, Esther," she said, with tears in her eyes, as I led
her into her little bedroom. "I hardly dared hope for this, and so near
dear mother." Well, it was very tiny, but very pretty, too. Carrie had
her own little bed, in which she had slept from a child, and the
evening sun streamed full on it, and a pleasant smell of white jasmine
pervaded it; part of the window was framed with the delicate tendrils
and tiny buds; and there was her little prayer-desk, with its shelf of
devotional books, and her little round table and easy-chair standing
just as it used; only, if one looked out of the window, instead of the
belt of green circling meadows, dotted over by grazing cattle there was
the lawn and the mulberry tree--a little narrow and homely, but still
pleasant.

Carrie's eyes looked very vague and misty when I left her and went down
to Dot. Allan had put him to bed, but he would not hear of going to
sleep; he had his dormice beside him, and Jumbles was curled up at the
foot of the bed; he wanted to show me his seaweed and shells, and tell
me about the sea.

"I can't get it out of my head, Essie," he said, sitting up among his
pillows and looking very wide-awake and excited. "I used to fall asleep
listening to the long wash and roll of the waves, and in the morning
there it was again. Don't you love the sea?"

"Yes, dearly, Dot; and so does Allan."

"It reminded me of the "Pilgrim's Progress"--just the last part. Don't
you remember the river that every one was obliged to cross? Carrie told
me it meant death." I nodded; Dot did not always need an answer to his
childish fancies, he used to like to tell them all out to Allan and me.
"One night," he went on, "my back was bad, and I could not sleep, and
Carrie made me up a nest of pillows in a big chair by the window, and
we sat there ever so long after mother was fast asleep.

"It was so light--almost as light as day--and there were all sorts of
sparkles over the water, as though it were shaking out tiny stars in
play; and there was one broad golden path--oh! it was so beautiful--and
then I thought of Christian and Christiana, and Mr. Ready-to-halt, and
father, and they all crossed the river, you know."

"Yes, Dot," I whispered. And then I repeated softly the well-known
verse we had so often sung:

  "One army of the living God,
     To His command we bow;
   Part of the host have crossed the flood,
     And part are crossing now."

"Yes, yes," he repeated, eagerly; "it seemed as though I could see
father walking down the long golden path; it shone so, he could not
have missed his way or fallen into the dark waters. Carrie told me that
by-and-by there would be "no more sea," somehow; I was sorry for
that--aren't you, Essie?"

"Oh, no, don't be sorry," I burst out, for I had often talked about
this with Carrie. "It is beautiful, but it is too shifting, too
treacherous, too changeable, to belong to the higher life. Think of all
the cruel wrecks, of all the drowned people it has swallowed up in its
rage; it devours men and women, and little children, Dot, and hides its
mischief with a smile. Oh, no, it is false in its beauty, and there
shall be an end of it, with all that is not true and perfect."

And when Dot had fallen asleep, I went down to Uncle Geoffrey and
repeated our conversation, to which he listened with a great deal of
interest.

"You are perfectly right, Esther," he said, thoughtfully; "but I think
there is another meaning involved in the words 'There shall be no more
sea.'"

"The sea divides us often from those we love," he went on musingly; "it
is our great earthly barrier. In that perfected life that lies before
us there can be no barrier, no division, no separating boundaries. In
the new earth there will be no fierce torrents or engulfing ocean, no
restless moaning of waves. Do you not see this?"

"Yes, indeed, Uncle Geoffrey;" but all the same I thought in my own
mind that it was a pretty fancy of the child's, thinking that he saw
father walking across the moonlight sea. No, he could not have fallen
in the dark water, no fear of that, Dot, when the angel of His mercy
would hold him by the hand; and then I remembered a certain lake and a
solemn figure walking quietly on its watery floor, and the words, "It
is I, be not afraid," that have comforted many a dying heart!

Allan had to leave us the next day, and go back to his work; it was a
pity, as his mere presence, the very sound of his bright, young voice,
seemed to rouse mother and do her good. As for me, I knew when Allan
went some of the sunshine would go with him, and the world would have a
dull, work-a-day look. I tried to tell him so as we took our last walk
together. There was a little lane just by Uncle Geoffrey's house; you
turned right into it from the High street, and it led into the country,
within half a mile of the house. There were some haystacks and a
farmyard, a place that went by the name of Grubbings' Farm; the soft
litter of straw tempted us to sit down for a little, and listen to the
quiet lowing of the cattle as they came up from their pasture to be
milked.

"It reminds me of Combe Manor," I said, and there was something wet on
my cheek as I spoke; "and oh, Allan! how I shall miss you to-morrow,"
and I touched his coat sleeve furtively, for Allan was not one to love
demonstration. But, to my surprise, he gave me a kind little pat.

"Not more than I shall miss you," he returned, cheerily. "We always get
along well, you and I, don't we, little woman?" And as I nodded my
head, for something seemed to impede my utterance at that moment, he
went on more seriously, "You have a tough piece of work before you,
Esther, you and Carrie; you will have to put your Combe Manor pride in
your pockets, and summon up all your Cameron strength of mind before
you learn to submit to the will of strangers.

"Our poor, pretty Carrie," he continued, regretfully; "the little
saint, as Uncle Geoffrey used to call her. I am afraid her work will
not be quite to her mind, but you must smoothe her way as much as
possible; but there, I won't preach on my last evening; let me have
your plans instead, my dear."

But I had no plans to tell him, and so we drifted by degrees into
Allan's own work; and as he told me about the hospital and his student
friends, and the great bustling world in which we lived, I forgot my
own cares. If I had not much of a life of my own to lead, I could still
live in his.

The pleasure of this talk lingered long in my memory; it was so nice to
feel that Allan and I understood each other so well and had no divided
interests; it always seems to me that a sister ought to dwell in the
heart of a brother and keep it warm for that other and sacred love that
must come by-and-by; not that the wife need drive the sister into outer
darkness, but that there must be a humbler abiding in the outer court,
perchance a little guest-chamber on the wall; the nearer and more royal
abode must be for the elected woman among women.

There is too little giving up and coming down in this world, too much
jealous assertion of right, too little yielding of the scepter in love.
It may be hard--God knows it is hard, to our poor human nature, for
some cherished sister to stand a little aside while another takes
possession of the goodly mansion, yet if she be wise and bend gently to
the new influence, there will be a "come up higher," long before the
dregs of the feast are reached. Old bonds are not easily broken, early
days have a sweetness of their own; by-and-by the sister will find her
place ready for her, and welcoming hands stretched out without grudging.

The next morning I rose early to see Allan off Just at the last moment
Carrie came down in her pretty white wrapper to bid him good-by. Allan
was strapping up his portmanteau in the hall, and shook his head at her
in comic disapproval. "Fie, what pale cheeks, Miss Carrie! One would
think you had been burning the midnight oil." I wonder if Allan's
jesting words approached the truth, for Carrie's face flushed suddenly,
and she did not answer.

Allan did not seem to notice her confusion. He bade us both good-by
very affectionately, and told us to be good girls and take care of
ourselves, and then in a moment he was gone.

Breakfast was rather a miserable business after that; I was glad Uncle
Geoffrey read his paper so industriously and did not peep behind the
urn. Dot did, and slipped a hot little hand in mine, in an
old-fashioned sympathizing way. Carrie, who was sitting in her usual
dreamy, abstracted way, suddenly startled us all by addressing Uncle
Geoffrey rather abruptly.

"Uncle Geoffrey, don't you think either Esther or I ought to go over to
the Thornes? They want a governess, you know."

"Eh, what?" returned Uncle Geoffrey, a little disturbed at the
interruption in the middle of the leading article. "The Thornes? Oh,
yes, somebody was saying something to me the other day about them; what
was it?" And he rubbed his hair a little irritably.

"We need not trouble Uncle Geoffrey," I put in, softly; "you and I can
go across before mother comes down. I must speak to Deborah, and then I
meant to hear Jack's lessons, but they can wait."

"Very well," returned Carrie, nonchalantly; and then she added, in her
composed, elder sisterly way, "I may as well tell you, Esther, that I
mean to apply for the place myself; it will be so handy, the house
being just opposite; far more convenient than if I had a longer walk."

"Very well," was my response, but I could not help feeling a little
relief at her decision; the absence of any walk was an evil in my eyes.
The Thornes' windows looked into ours; already I had had a sufficient
glimpse of three rather untidy little heads over the wire blind, and
the spectacle had not attracted me. I ventured to hint my fears to
Carrie that they were not very interesting children; but, to my dismay,
she answered that few children are interesting, and that one was as
good as another.

"But I mean to be fond of my pupils," I hazarded, rather timidly, as I
took my basket of keys. I thought Uncle Geoffrey was deep in his paper
again. "I think a governess ought to have a good moral influence over
them. Mother always said so."

"We can have a good moral influence without any personal fondness,"
returned Carrie, rather dryly. Poor girl! her work outside was
distasteful to her, and she could not help showing it sometimes.

"One cannot take interest in a child without loving it in time," I
returned, with a little heat, for I did not enjoy this slavish notion
of duty--pure labor, and nothing else. Carrie did not answer, she
leaned rather wearily against the window, and looked absently out.
Uncle Geoffrey gave her a shrewd glance as he folded up the newspaper
and whistled to Jumbles.

"Settle it between yourselves girls," he observed, suddenly, as he
opened the door; "but if I were little Annie Thorne, I know I should
choose Esther;" and with this parting thrust he left the room, making
us feel terribly abashed.




CHAPTER VII.

OVER THE WAY.


I cannot say that I was prepossessed with the Thorne family, neither
was Carrie.

Mrs. Thorne was what I call a loud woman; her voice was loud, and she
was full of words, and rather inquisitive on the subject of her
neighbors.

She was somewhat good-looking, but decidedly over-dressed. Early as it
was, she was in a heavily-flounced silk dress, a little the worse for
wear. I guessed that first day, with a sort of feminine intuition, that
Mrs. Thorne wore out all her second-best clothes in the morning.
Perhaps it was my country bringing up, but I thought how pure and fresh
Carrie's modest dress looked beside it; and as for the quiet face under
the neatly-trimmed bonnet, I could see Mrs. Thorne fell in love with it
at once. She scarcely looked at or spoke to me, except when civility
demanded it; and perhaps she was right, for who would care to look at
me when Carrie was by? Then Carrie played, and I knew her exquisite
touch would demand instant admiration. I was a mere bungler, a beginner
beside her; she even sang a charming little _chanson_. No wonder Mrs.
Thorne was delighted to secure such an accomplished person for her
children's governess. The three little girls came in by-and-by--shy,
awkward children, with their mother's black eyes, but without her fine
complexion; plain, uninteresting little girls, with a sort of solemn
non-intelligence in their blank countenances, and a perceptible
shrinking from their mother's sharp voice.

"Shake hands with Miss Cameron, Lucy; she is going to teach you all
manner of nice things. Hold yourself straight, Annie. What will these
young ladies think of you, Belle, if they look at your dirty pinafore?
Mine are such troublesome children," she continued, in a complaining
voice; "they are never nice and tidy and obedient, like other children.
Mr. Thorne spoils them, and then finds fault with me."

"What is your name, dear?" I whispered to the youngest, when Mrs.
Thorne had withdrawn with Carrie for a few minutes. They were certainly
very unattractive children; nevertheless, my heart warmed to them, as
it did to all children. I was child-lover all my life.

"Annie," returned the little one, shyly rolling her fat arms in her
pinafore. She was less plain than the others, and had not outgrown her
plumpness.

"Do you know I have a little brother at home, who is a sad invalid;"
and then I told them about Dot, about his patience and his sweet ways,
and how he amused himself when he could not get off his couch for
weeks; and as I warmed and grew eloquent with my subject, their eyes
became round and fixed, and a sort of dawning interest woke up on their
solemn faces; they forgot I was a stranger, and came closer, and Belle
laid a podgy and a very dirty hand on my lap.

"How old is your little boy?" asked Lucy, in a shrill whisper. And as I
answered her Mrs. Thorne and Carrie re-entered the room. They both
looked surprised when they saw the children grouped round me; Carrie's
eyebrows elevated themselves a little quizzically, and Mrs. Thorne
called them away rather sharply.

"Don't take liberties with strangers, children. What will Miss Cameron
think of such manners?" And then she dismissed them rather summarily. I
saw Annie steal a little wistful look at me as she followed her sisters.

We took our leave after that. Mrs. Thorne shook hands with us very
graciously, but her parting words were addressed to Carrie. "On Monday,
then. Please give my kind regards to Dr. Cameron, and tell him how
thoroughly satisfied I am with the proposed arrangement." And Carrie
answered very prettily, but as the door closed she sighed heavily.

"Oh, what children! and what a mother!" she gasped, as she took my arm,
and turned my foot-steps away from the house. "Never mind Jack, I am
going to the service at St. Barnabas; I want some refreshment after
what I have been through." And she sighed again.

"But, Carrie," I remonstrated, "I have no time to spare. You know how
Jack has been neglected, and how I have promised Allan to do my best
for her until we can afford to send her to school."

"You can walk with me to the church door," she returned, decidedly. I
was beginning to find out that Carrie could be self-willed sometimes.
"I must talk to you, Esther; I must tell you how I hate it. Fancy
trying to hammer French and music into those children's heads, when I
might--I might--" But here she stopped, actually on the verge of crying.

"Oh, my darling, Carrie!" I burst out, for I never could bear to see
her sweet face clouded for a moment, and she so seldom cried or gave
way to any emotion. "Why would you not let me speak? I might have saved
you this. I might have offered myself in your stead, and set you free
for pleasanter work." But she shook her head, and struggled for
composure.

"You would not have done for Mrs. Thorne, Esther. Don't think me vain
if I say that I play and sing far better than you."

"A thousand times better," I interposed. "And then you can draw."

"Well, Mrs. Thorne is a woman who values accomplishments. You are
clever at some things; you speak French fairly, and then you are a good
Latin scholar" (for Allan and I studied that together); "you can lay a
solid foundation, as Uncle Geoffrey says; but Mrs. Thorne does not care
about that," continued Carrie a little bitterly; "she wants a flimsy
superstructure of accomplishments--music, and French, and drawing, as
much as I can teach a useful life-work, Esther."

"Well, why not?" I returned, with a little spirit, for here was one of
Carrie's old arguments. "If it be the work given us to do, it must be a
useful life-work. It might be our duty to make artificial flowers for
our livelihood--hundreds of poor creatures do that--and you would not
scold them for waste of time, I suppose?"

"Anyhow, it is not work enough for me," replied Carrie firmly, and
passing over my clever argument with a dignified silence; "it is the
drudgery of mere ornamentation that I hate. I will do my best for those
dreadful children, Esther. Are they not pitiful little overdressed
creatures? And I will try and please their mother though I have not a
thought in common with her. And when I have finished my ornamental
brick-making--told my tales of the bricks----" here she paused, and
looked at me with a heightened color.

"And what then?" I asked, rather crossly, for there was a flaw in her
speech somewhere, and I could not find it out.

"We shall see, my wise little sister," she said, letting go my arm with
a kind pressure. "See, here is St. Barnabas; is it not a dear old
building? Must you go back to Jack?"

"Yes, I must," I answered, shortly. "_Laborare est orare_--to labor is
to pray, in my case, Carrie;" and with that I left her.

But Carrie's arguments had seriously discomposed me. I longed to talk
it all out with Allan, and I do not think I ever missed him so much as
I did that day. I am afraid I was rather impatient with Jack that
morning; to be sure she was terribly awkward and inattentive; she would
put her elbows on the table, and ink her fingers, and then she had a
way of jerking her hair out of her eyes, which drove me nearly frantic.
I began to think we really must send her to school. We had done away
with the folding doors, they always creaked so, and had hung up some
curtains in their stead; through the folds I could catch glimpses of
dear mother leaning back in her chair, with Dot beside her. He was
spelling over his lesson to her, in a queer, little sing-song voice,
and they looked so cool and quiet that the contrast was quite
provoking; and there was Carrie kneeling in some dim corner, and
soothing her perturbed spirits with softly-uttered psalms and prayers.

"Jack," I returned, for the sixth time, "I cannot have you kick the
table in that schoolboy fashion."

Jack looked at me with roguish malice in her eyes. "You are not quite
well, Esther; you have got a pain in your temper, haven't you, now?"

I don't know what I might have answered, for Jack was right, and I was
as cross as possible, only just at that moment Uncle Geoffrey put his
head in at the door, and stood beaming on us like an angel of
deliverance.

"Fee-fo-fum," for he sometimes called Jack by that charming
_sobriquet_, indeed, he was always inventing names for her, "it is too
hot for work, isn't it? I think I must give you a holiday, for I want
Esther to go out with me." Uncle Geoffrey's wishes were law, and I rose
at once; but not all my secret feelings of relief could prevent me from
indulging in a parting thrust.

"I don't think Jack deserves the holiday," I remarked, with a severe
look at the culprit; and Jack jerked her hair over her eyes this time
in some confusion.

"Hullo, Fee-fo-fum, what have you been up to? Giving Esther trouble?
Oh, fie! fie!"

"I only kicked the table," returned Jack, sullenly, "because I hate
lessons--that I do, Uncle Geoffrey--and I inked my fingers because I
liked it; and I put my elbows on the copy-book because Esther said I
wasn't to do it; and my hair got in my eyes; and William the Conqueror
had six wives, I know he had; and I told Esther she had a pain in her
temper, because she was as cross as two sticks; and I don't remember
any more, and I don't care," finished Jack, who could be like a mule on
occasions.

Uncle Geoffrey laughed--he could not help it--and then he patted Jack
kindly on her rough locks. "Clever little Fee-fo-fum; so William the
Conqueror had six wives, had he? Come, this is capital; we must send
you to school, Jack, that is what we must do. Esther cannot be in two
places at once." What did he mean by that, I wonder! And then he bid me
run off and put on my hat, and not keep him waiting.

Jack's brief sullenness soon vanished, and she followed me out of the
room to give me a penitent hug--that was so like Jack; the inky caress
was a doubtful consolation, but I liked it, somehow.

"Where are you going, Uncle Geoff?" I asked, as we walked up the High
street, followed by Jumbles, while Jack and Smudge watched us from the
door.

"Miss Lucas wants to see you," he returned, briefly. "Bless me, there
is Carrie, deep in conversation with Mr. Smedley. Where on earth has
the girl picked him up?" And there, true enough, was Carrie, standing
in the porch, talking eagerly to a fresh-colored, benevolent-looking
man, whom I knew by sight as the vicar of St. Barnabas.

She must have waylaid him after service, for the other worshipers had
dropped off; we had met two or three of them in the High street. I do
not know why the sight displeased me, for of course she had a right to
speak to her clergyman. Uncle Geoffrey whistled under his breath, and
then laughed and wondered "what the little saint had to say to her
pastor;" but I did not let him go on, for I was too excited with our
errand.

"Why does Miss Lucas want to see me?" I asked, with a little beating of
the heart. The Lucas family were the richest people in Milnthorpe.

Mr. Lucas was the banker, and kept his carriage, and had a pretty
cottage somewhere by the seaside; they were Uncle Geoffrey's patients,
I knew, but what had that to do with poor little me?

"Miss Lucas wants to find some one to teach her little niece," returned
Uncle Geoffrey; and then I remembered all at once that Mr. Lucas was a
widower with one little girl. He had lost his wife about a year ago,
and his sister had come to live with him and take care of his
motherless child. What a chance this would have been for Carrie! but
now it was too late. I was half afraid as we came up to the great red
brick house, it was so grand and imposing, and so was the
solemn-looking butler who opened the door and ushered us into the
drawing-room.

As we crossed the hall some one came suddenly out on us from a dark
lobby, and paused when he saw us. "Dr. Cameron! This is your niece, I
suppose, whom my sister Ruth is expecting?" and as he shook hands with
us he looked at me a little keenly, I thought. He was younger than I
expected; it flashed across me suddenly that I had once seen his poor
wife. I was standing looking out of the window one cold winter's day,
when a carriage drove up to the door with a lady wrapped in furs. I
remember Uncle Geoffrey went out to speak to her, and what a smile came
over her face when she saw him. She was very pale, but very beautiful;
every one said so in Milnthorpe, for she had been much beloved.

"My sister is in the drawing-room; you must excuse me if I say I am in
a great hurry," and then he passed on with a bow. I thought him very
formidable, the sort of man who would be feared as well as respected by
his dependants. He had the character of being a very reserved man, with
a great many acquaintances and few intimate friends. I had no idea at
that time that no one understood him so well as Uncle Geoffrey.

I was decidedly nervous when I followed Uncle Geoffrey meekly into the
drawing-room. Its size and splendor did not diminish my fears, and I
little imagined then how I should get to love that room.

It was a little low, in spite of its spaciousness, and its three long
windows opened in French fashion on to the garden. I had a glimpse of
the lawn, with a grand old cedar in the middle, before my eyes were
attracted to a lady in deep mourning, writing in a little alcove, half
curtained off from the rest of the room, and looking decidedly cozy.

The moment she turned her face toward us at the mention of our names,
my unpleasant feelings of nervousness vanished. She was such a little
woman--slightly deformed, too--with a pale, sickly-looking face, and
large, clear eyes, that seemed to attract sympathy at once, for they
seemed to say to one, "I am only a timid, simple little creature. You
need not be afraid of me."

I was not very tall, but I almost looked down on her as she gave me her
hand.

"I was expecting you, Miss Cameron," she said, in such a sweet tone
that it quite won my heart. "Your uncle kindly promised to introduce us
to each other."

And then she looked at me, not keenly and scrutinizingly, as her
brother had done, but with a kindly inquisitiveness, as though she
wanted to know all about me, and to put me at my ease as soon as
possible. I flushed a little at that, and my unfortunate sensitiveness
took alarm. If it were only Carrie, I thought, with her pretty face and
soft voice; but I was so sadly unattractive, no one would be taken with
me at first sight. Fred had once said so in my hearing, and how I had
cried over that speech!

"Esther looks older than she is; but she is only seventeen," interposed
Uncle Geoffrey, as he saw that unlucky blush. "She is a good girl, and
very industrious, and her mother's right hand," went on the simple man.
If I only could have plucked up spirit and contradicted him, but I felt
tongue-tied.

"She looks very reliable," returned Miss Lucas, in the kindest way. To
this day I believe she could not find any compliment compatible with
truth. I once told her so months afterward, when we were very good
friends, and she laughed and could not deny it.

"You were frowning so, Esther," she replied, "from excess of
nervousness, I believe, that your forehead was quite lost in your hair,
and your great eyes were looking at me in such a funny, frightened way,
and the corners of your mouth all coming down, I thought you were
five-and-twenty at least, and wondered what I was to do with such a
proud, repellant-looking young woman; but when you smiled I began to
see then."

I had not reached the smiling stage just then, and was revolving her
speech in rather a dispirited way. Reliable! I knew I was that; when
all at once she left off looking at me, and began talking to Uncle
Geoffrey.

"And so you have finished all your Good Samaritan arrangements, Dr.
Cameron; and your poor sister-in-law and her family are really settled
in your house? You must let me know when I may call, or if I can be of
any use. Giles told me all about it, and I was so interested."

"Is it not good of Uncle Geoffrey?" I broke in. And then it must have
been that I smiled; but I never could have passed that over in silence,
to hear strangers praise him, and not join in.

"I think it is noble of Dr. Cameron--we both think so," she answered,
warmly; and then she turned to me again. "I can understand how anxious
you must all feel to help and lighten his burdens. When Dr. Cameron
proposed your services for my little niece--for he knows what an
invalid I am, and that systematic teaching would be impossible to me--I
was quite charmed with the notion. But now, before we talk any more
about it, supposing you and I go up to see Flurry."




CHAPTER VIII.

FLURRY AND FLOSSY.


What a funny little name! I could not help saying so to Miss Lucas as I
followed her up the old oak staircase with its beautifully carved
balustrades.

"It is her own baby abbreviation of Florence," she returned, pausing on
the landing to take breath, for even that slight ascent seemed to weary
her. She was quite pale and panting by the time we arrived at our
destination. "It is nice to be young and strong," she observed,
wistfully. "I am not very old, it is true"--she could not have been
more than eight-and-twenty--"but I have never enjoyed good health, and
Dr. Cameron says I never can hope to do so; but what can you expect of
a crooked little creature like me?" with a smile that was quite natural
and humorous, and seemed to ask no pity.

Miss Ruth was perfectly content with her life. I found out afterward
she evoked rare beauty out of its quiet every-day monotony, storing up
precious treasures in homely vessels.

Life was to her full of infinite possibilities, a gradual dawning and
brightening of hopes that would meet their full fruition hereafter.
"Some people have strength to work," she said once to me, "and then
plenty of work is given to them; and some must just keep quiet and
watch others work, and give them a bright word of encouragement now and
then. I am one of those wayside loiterers," she finished, with a laugh;
but all the same every one knew how much Miss Ruth did to help others,
in spite of her failing strength.

The schoolroom, or nursery, as I believe it was called, was a large
pleasant room just over the drawing-room, and commanding the same view
of the garden and cedar-tree. It had three windows, only they were
rather high up, and had cushioned window-seats. In one of them there
was a little girl curled up in company with a large brown and white
spaniel.

"Well, Flurry, what mischief are you and Flossy concocting?" asked Miss
Lucas, in a playful voice, for the child was too busily engaged to
notice our entrance.

"Why, it is my little auntie," exclaimed Flurry, joyously, and she
scrambled down, while Flossy wagged his tail and barked. Evidently Miss
Ruth was not a frequent visitor to the nursery.

Flurry was about six, not a pretty child by any means, though there
might be a promise of future beauty in her face. She was a thin,
serious-looking little creature, more like the father than the mother,
and no one could call Mr. Lucas handsome. Her dark eyes--nearly black
they were--matched oddly, in my opinion, with her long fair hair; such
pretty fluffy hair it was, falling over her black frock. When her aunt
bade her come and speak to the lady who was kind enough to promise to
teach her, she stood for a moment regarding me gravely with childish
inquisitiveness before she gave me her hand.

"What are you going to teach me?" she asked. "I don't think I want to
be taught, auntie; I can read, I have been reading to Flossy, and I can
write, and hem father's handkerchiefs. Ask nursie."

"But you would like to play to dear father, and to learn all sorts of
pretty hymns to say to him, would you not, my darling! There are many
things you will have to know before you are a woman."

"I don't mean to be a woman ever, I think," observed Flurry; "I like
being a child better. Nursie is a woman, and nursie won't play; she
says she is old and stupid."

A happy inspiration came to me. "If you are good and learn your
lessons, I will play with you," I said, rather timidly; "that is, if
you care for a grown-up playfellow."

I was only seventeen, in spite of my _pronounce_ features, and I could
still enter into the delights of a good drawn battle of battledore and
shuttlecock. Perhaps it was the repressed enthusiasm of my tone, for I
really meant what I said; but Flurry's brief coldness vanished, and she
caught at my hand at once.

"Come and see them," she said; "I did not know you liked dolls, but you
shall have one of your own if you like;" and she led me to a corner of
the nursery where a quantity of dolls in odd costumes and wonderfully
constrained attitudes were arranged round an inverted basket.

"Joseph and his brethren," whispered Flurry. "I am going to put him in
the pit directly, only I wondered what I should do for the camels--this
is Issachar, and this Gad. Look at Gad's turban."

It was almost impossible to retain my gravity. I could see Miss Lucas
smiling in the window seat. Joseph and his brethren--what a droll idea
for a child! But I did not know then that Flurry's dolls had to sustain
a variety of bewildering parts. When I next saw them the smart turbans
were all taken off the flaxen heads, a few dejected sawdust bodies hung
limply round a miller's cart. "Ancient Britons," whispered Flurry.
"Nurse would not let me paint them blue, but they did not wear clothes
then, you know." In fact, our history lesson was generally followed by
a series of touching _tableaux vivants_, the dolls sustaining their
parts in several moving scenes of "Alfred and the Cakes," "Hubert and
Arthur," and once "the Battle of Cressy."

Flurry and I parted the best of friends; and when we joined Uncle
Geoffrey in the drawing-room I was quite ready to enter on my duties at
once.

Miss Lucas stipulated for my services from ten till five; a few simple
lessons in the morning were to be followed by a walk, I was to lunch
with them, and in the afternoon I was to amuse Flurry or teach her a
little--just as I liked.

"The fact is," observed Miss Lucas, as I looked a little surprised at
this programme, "Nurse is a worthy woman, and we are all very much
attached to her; but she is very ignorant, and my brother will not have
Flurry thrown too much on her companionship. He wishes me to find some
one who will take the sole charge of the child through the day; in the
evening she always comes down to her father and sits with him until her
bedtime." And then she named what seemed to me a surprisingly large sum
for services. What! all that for playing with Flurry, and giving her a
few baby lessons; poor Carrie could not have more for teaching the
little Thornes. But when I hinted this to Uncle Geoffrey, he said
quietly that they were rich people and could well afford it.

"Don't rate yourself so low, little woman," he added, good-humoredly;
"you are giving plenty of time and interest, and surely that is worth
something." And then he went on to say that Jack must go to school, he
knew a very good one just by; some ladies who were patients of his
would take her at easy terms, he knew. He would call that very
afternoon and speak to Miss Martin.

Poor mother shed a few tears when I told her our plans. It was sad for
her to see her girls reduced to work for themselves; but she cheered up
after a little while, and begged me not to think her ungrateful and
foolish. "For we have so many blessings, Esther," she went on, in her
patient way. "We are all together, except poor Fred, and but for your
uncle's goodness we might have been separated."

"And we shall have such nice cozy evenings," I returned, "when the
day's work is over. I shall feel like a day laborer, mother, bringing
home my wages in my pocket. I shall be thinking of you and Dot all day,
and longing to get back to you."

But though I spoke and felt so cheerfully, I knew that the evenings
would not be idle. There would be mending to do and linen to make, for
we could not afford to buy our things ready-made; but, with mother's
clever fingers and Carrie's help, I thought we should do very well. I
must utilize every spare minute, I thought. I must get up early and
help Deborah, so that things might go on smoothly for the rest of the
day. There was Dot to dress, and mother was ailing, and had her
breakfast in bed--there would be a hundred little things to set right
before I started off for the Cedars, as Mr. Lucas' house was called.

"Never mind, it is better to wear out than to rust out," I said to
myself. And then I picked up Jack's gloves from the floor, hung up her
hat in its place, and tried to efface the marks of her muddy boots from
the carpet (I cannot deny Jack was a thorn in my side just now), and
then there came a tap at my door, and Carrie came in.

She looked so pretty and bright, that I could not help admiring her
afresh. I am sure people must have called her beautiful.

"How happy you look, Carrie, in spite of your three little Thornes," I
said rather mischievously. "Has mother told you about Miss Lucas?"

"Yes, I heard all about that," she returned, absently. "You are very
fortunate, Esther, to find work in which you can take an interest. I am
glad--very glad about that."

"I wish, for your sake, that we could exchange," I returned, feeling
myself very generous in intention, but all the same delighted that my
unselfishness should not be put to the proof.

"Oh, no, I have no wish of that sort," she replied, hastily; "I could
not quite bring myself to play with children in the nursery." I suppose
mother had told her about the dolls. "Well, we both start on our
separate treadmill on Monday--Black Monday, eh, Esther?"

"Not at all," I retorted, for I was far too pleased and excited with my
prospects to be damped by Carrie's want of enthusiasm. I thought I
would sit down and write to Jessie, and tell her all about it, but here
was Carrie preparing herself for one of her chats.

"Did you see me talking to Mr. Smedley, Esther?" she began; and as I
nodded she went on. "I had never spoken to him before since Uncle
Geoffrey introduced us to him. He is such a nice, practical sort of
man. He took me into the vicarage, and introduced me to his wife. She
is very plain and homely, but so sensible."

I held my peace. I had rather a terror of Mrs. Smedley. She was one of
those bustling workers whom one dreads by instinct. She had a habit of
pouncing upon people, especially young ones, and driving them to work.
Before many days were over she had made poor mother promise to do some
cutting out for the clothing club, as though mother had not work enough
for us all at home. I thought it very inconsiderate of Mrs. Smedley.

"I took to them at once," went on Carrie, "and indeed they were
exceedingly kind. Mr. Smedley seemed to understand everything in a
moment, how I wanted work, and----"

"But, Carrie," I demanded, aghast at this, "you have work: you have the
little Thornes."

"Oh, don't drag them in at every word," she answered, pettishly--at
least pettishly for her; "of course, I have my brick-making, and so
have you. I am thinking of other things now, Esther; I have promised
Mr. Smedley to be one of his district visitors."

I almost jumped off my chair at that, I was so startled and so
indignant.

"Oh, Carrie! and when you know mother does not approve of girls of our
age undertaking such work--she has said so over and over again--how can
you go against her wishes?"

Carrie looked at me mildly, but she was not in the least discomposed at
my words.

"Listen to me, you silly child," she said, good-humoredly; "this is one
of mother's fancies; you cannot expect me with my settled views to
agree with her in this."

I don't know what Carrie meant by her views, unless they consisted in a
determination to make herself and every one else uncomfortable by an
overstrained sense of duty.

"Middle-aged people are timid sometimes. Mother has never visited the
poor herself, so she does not see the necessity for my doing it; but I
am of a different opinion," continued Carrie, with a mild obstinacy
that astonished me too much for any reply.

"When mother cried about it just now, and begged me to let her speak to
Mr. Smedley, I told her that I was old enough to judge for myself, and
that I thought one's conscience ought not to be slavishly bound even to
one's parent. I was trying to do my duty to her and to every one, but I
must not neglect the higher part of my vocation."

"Oh, Carrie, how could you? You will make her so unhappy."

"No; she only cried a good deal, and begged me to be prudent and not
overtax my strength; and then she talked about you, and hoped I should
help you as much as possible, as though I meant to shirk any part of my
duty. I do not think she really disapproved, only she seemed nervous
and timid about it; but I ask you, Esther, how I could help offering my
services, when Mrs. Smedley told me about the neglected state of the
parish, and how few ladies came forward to help?"

"But how will you find time?" I remonstrated; though what was the good
of remonstrating when Carrie had once made up her mind?

"I have the whole of Saturday afternoon, and an hour on Wednesday, and
now the evenings are light I might utilize them a little. I am to have
Nightingale lane and the whole of Rowley street, so one afternoon in
the week will scarcely be sufficient."

"Oh, Carrie," I groaned; but, actually, though the mending lay on my
mind like a waking nightmare, I could not expostulate with her. I only
looked at her in a dim, hopeless way and shook my head; if these were
her views I must differ from them entirely. Not that I did not wish
good--heavenly good--to the poor, but that I felt home duties would
have to be left undone; and after all that uncle had done for us!

"And then I promised Mrs. Smedley that I would help in the
Sunday-school," she continued, cheerfully. "She was so pleased, and
kissed me quite gratefully. She says she and Mr. Smedley have had such
up-hill work since they came to Milnthorpe--and there is so much
lukewarmness and worldliness in the place. Even Miss Lucas, in spite of
her goodness--and she owned she was very good, Esther--will not take
their advice about things."

"I told her," she went on, hesitating, "that I would speak to you, and
ask you to take a Sunday class in the infant school. You are so fond of
children, I thought you would be sure to consent."

"So I would, and gladly too, if you would take my place at home," I
returned, quickly; "but if you do so much yourself, you will prevent me
from doing anything. Why not let me take the Sunday school class, while
you stop with mother and Dot?"

"What nonsense!" she replied, flushing a little, for my proposition did
not please her; "that is so like you, Esther, to raise obstacles for
nothing. Why cannot we both teach; surely you can give one afternoon a
week to God's work?"

"I hope I am giving not one afternoon, but every afternoon to it," I
returned, and the tears rushed to my eyes, for her speech wounded me.
"Oh, Carrie, why will you not understand that I think that all work
that is given us to do is God's work? It is just as right for me to
play with Flurry as it is to teach in the Sunday school."

"You can do both if you choose," she answered, coolly.

"Not unless you take my place," I returned, decidedly, for I had the
Cameron spirit, and would not yield my point; "for in that case Dot
would lose his Sunday lessons, and Jack would be listless and fret
mother."

"Very well," was Carrie's response; but I could see she was displeased
with my plain speaking; and I went downstairs very tired and
dispirited, to find mother had cried herself into a bad headache.

"If I could only talk to your dear father about it," she whispered,
when she had opened her heart to me on the subject of Carrie. "I am
old-fashioned, as Carrie says, and it is still my creed that parents
know best for their children; but she thinks differently, and she is so
good that, perhaps, one ought to leave her to judge for herself. If I
could only know what your father would say," she went on, plaintively.

I could give her no comfort, for I was only a girl myself, and my
opinions were still immature and unfledged, and then I never had been
as good as Carrie. But what I said seemed to console mother a little,
for she drew down my face and kissed it.

"Always my good, sensible Esther," she said, and then Uncle Geoffrey
came in and prescribed for the headache, and the subject dropped.




CHAPTER IX.

THE CEDARS.


I was almost ashamed of myself for being so happy, and yet it was a
sober kind of happiness too. I did not forget my father, and I missed
Allan with an intensity that surprised myself; but, in spite of hard
work and the few daily vexations that hamper every one's lot, I
continued to extract a great deal of enjoyment out of my life. To sum
it up with a word, it was life--not mere existence--a life brimming
over with duties and responsibilities and untried work, too busy for
vacuum. Every corner and interstice of time filled up--heart, and head,
and hands always fully employed; and youth and health, those two grand
gifts of God, making all such work a delight.

Now I am older, and the sap of life does not run so freely in my veins,
I almost marvel at the remembrance of those days, at my youthful
exuberance and energy, and those words, "As thy day, so shall thy
strength be," come to me with a strange force and illumination, for
truly I needed it all then, and it was given to me. Time was a treasure
trove, and I husbanded every minute with a miser's zeal. I had always
been an early riser, and now I reaped the benefit of this habit. Jack
used to murmur discontentedly in her sleep when I set the window open
soon after six, and the fresh summer air fanned her hot face. But how
cool and dewy the garden looked at that hour!

It was so bright and still, with the thrushes and blackbirds hopping
over the wet lawn, and the leaves looking so fresh and green in the
morning sun; such twitterings and chirpings came from the lilac trees,
where the little brown sparrows twittered and plumed themselves. The
bird music used to chime in in a sort of refrain to my morning
prayers--a diminutive chorus of praise--the choral before the day's
service commenced.

I always gave Jack a word of warning before I left the room (the
reprimand used to find her in the middle of a dream), and then I went
to Dot. I used to help him to dress and hear him repeat his prayers,
and talk cheerfully to him when he was languid and fretful, and the
small duties of life were too heavy for his feeble energies. Dot always
took a large portion of my time; his movements were slow and full of
tiny perversities; he liked to stand and philosophize in an infantile
way when I wanted to be downstairs helping Deborah. Dot's fidgets, as I
called them, were part of the day's work.

When he was ready to hobble downstairs with his crutch, I used to fly
back to Jack, and put a few finishing touches to her toilet, for I knew
by experience that she would make her appearance downstairs with a
crooked parting and a collar awry, and be grievously plaintive when
Carrie found fault with her. Talking never mended matters; Jack was at
the hoiden age, and had to grow into tidiness and womanhood by-and-by.

After that I helped Deborah, and took up mother's breakfast. I always
found her lying with her face to the window, and her open Bible beside
her. Carrie had always been in before me and arranged the room. Mother
slept badly, and at that early hour her face had a white, pining look,
as though she had lost her way in the night, or waked to miss
something. She used to turn with a sweet troubled smile to me as I
entered.

"Here comes my busy little woman," she would say, with a pretense at
cheerfulness, and then she would ask after Dot. She never spoke much of
her sadness to us; with an unselfishness that was most rare she refused
to dim our young cheerfulness by holding an unhealed grief too plainly
before our eyes. Dear mother, I realize now what that silence must have
cost her!

When breakfast was over, and Uncle Geoffrey busily engrossed with his
paper, I used to steal into the kitchen and have a long confab with
Deborah, and then Jack and I made our bed and dusted our room to save
Martha, and by that time I was ready to start to the Cedars; but not
until I had convoyed Jack to Miss Martin's, and left her and her books
safely at the door.

Dot used to kiss me rather wistfully when I left him with his
lesson-books and paint-box, waiting for mother to come down and keep
him company. Poor little fellow, he had rather a dull life of it, for
even Jumbles refused to stay with him, and Smudge was out in the
garden, lazily watching the sparrows. Poor little lonely boy, deprived
of the usual pleasures of boyhood, and looking out on our busy lives
from a sort of sad twilight of pain and weakness, but keeping such a
brave heart and silent tongue over it all.

How I enjoyed my little walk up High street and across the wide,
sunshiny square! When I reached the Cedars, and the butler admitted me,
I used to run up the old oak staircase and tap at the nursery door.

Nurse used to courtesy and withdraw; Flurry and I had it all to
ourselves. I never saw Miss Lucas until luncheon-time; she was more of
an invalid than I knew at that time, and rarely left her room before
noon. Flurry and I soon grew intimate; after a few days were over we
were the best of friends. She was a clever child and fond of her
lessons, but she was full of droll fancies. She always insisted on her
dolls joining our studies. It used to be a little embarrassing to me at
first to see myself surrounded by the vacant waxen faces staring at us,
with every variety of smirk and bland fatuous expression: the flaxen
heads nid-nodded over open lesson-books, propped up in limp, leathery
arms. When Flossy grew impatient for a game of play, he would drag two
or three of them down with a vicious snap and a stroke of his feathery
paws. Flurry would shake her head at him disapprovingly, as she picked
them up and shook out their smart frocks. The best behaved of the dolls
always accompanied us in our walk before luncheon.

I used to think of Carrie's words, sometimes, as I played with Flurry
in the afternoon; she would not hear of lessons then. Sometimes I would
coax her to sew a little, or draw; and she always had her half hour at
the piano, but during the rest of the afternoon I am afraid there was
nothing but play.

How I wish Dot could have joined us sometimes as we built our famous
brick castles, or worked in Flurry's little garden, where she grew all
sorts of wonderful things. When I was tired or lazy I used to bring out
my needle-work to the seat under the cedar, and tell Flurry stories, or
talk to her as she dressed her dolls; she was very good and tractable,
and never teased me to play when I was disinclined.

I told her about Dot very soon, and she gave me no peace after that
until I took her to see him; there was quite a childish friendship
between them soon. Flurry used to send him little gifts, which she
purchased with her pocket-money--pictures, and knives, and pencils. I
often begged Miss Lucas to put a stop to it, but she only laughed and
praised Flurry, and put by choice little portions of fruit and other
dainties for Flurry's boy friend.

Flurry prattled a great deal about her father, but I never saw him. He
had his luncheon at the bank. Once when we were playing battledore and
shuttle-cock in the hall--for Miss Lucas liked to hear us all over the
house; she said it made her feel cheerful--I heard a door open
overhead, and caught a glimpse of a dark face watching us; but I
thought it was Morgan the butler, until Flurry called out joyfully,
"Father! Father!" and then it disappeared. Now and then I met him in
the square, and he always knew me and took off his hat; but I did not
exchange a word with him for months.

Flurry loved him, and seemed deep in his confidence. She always put on
her best frock and little pearl necklace to go down and sit with her
father, while he ate his dinner. She generally followed him into his
study, and chatted to him, until nurse fetched her at bed-time. When
she had asked me some puzzling question that it was impossible to
answer, she would refer it to her father with implicit faith. She would
make me rather uncomfortable at times respecting little speeches of his.

"Father can't understand why you are so fond of play," she said once to
me; "he says so few grown-up girls deign to amuse themselves with a
game: but you do like it, don't you, Miss Cameron?" making up a very
coaxing face. Of course I confessed to a great fondness for games, but
all the same I wished Mr. Lucas had not said that. Perhaps he thought
me too hoidenish for his child's governess, and for a whole week after
that I refused to play with Flurry, until she began to mope, and my
heart misgave me. We played at hide and seek that day all over the
house--Flurry and Flossy and I.

Then another time, covering me with dire confusion, "Father thinks that
such a pretty story, Miss Cameron, the one about Gretchen. He said I
ought to try and remember it, and write it down; and then he asked if
you had really made it up in your head."

"Oh, Flurry, that silly little story?"

"Not silly at all," retorted Flurry, with a little heat; "father had a
headache, and he could not talk to me, so I told him stories to send
him to sleep, and I thought he would like dear little Gretchen. He
never went to sleep after all, but his eyes were wide open, staring at
the fire; and then he told me he had been thinking of dear mamma, and
he thought I should be very like her some day. And then he thanked me
for my pretty stories, and then tiresome old nursie fetched me to bed."

That stupid little tale! To think of Mr. Lucas listening to that. I was
not a very inventive storyteller, though I could warm into eloquence on
occasions, but Flurry's demand was so excessive that I hit on a capital
plan at last.

I created a wonderful child heroine, and called her Juliet and told a
little fresh piece of her history every day. Never was there such a
child for impossible adventures and hairbreadth escapes; what that
unfortunate little creature went through was known only to Flurry and
me.

She grew to love Juliet like a make-believe sister of her own, and
talked of her at last as a living child. What long moral conversations
took place between Juliet and her mother, what admirable remarks did
that excellent mother make, referring to sundry small sins of omission
and commission on Juliet's part! When I saw Flurry wince and turn red I
knew the remarks had struck home.

It was astonishing how Juliet's behavior varied with Flurry's. If
Flurry were inattentive, Juliet was listless; if her history lessons
were ill-learned, Juliet's mamma had always a great deal to say about
the battle of Agincourt or any other event that it was necessary to
impress on her memory. I am afraid Flurry at last took a great dislike
to that well-meaning lady, and begged to hear more about Juliet's
little brother and sister. When I came to a very uninteresting part she
would propose a game of ball or a scamper with Flossy; but all the same
next day we would be back at it again.

The luncheon hour was very pleasant to me. I grew to like Miss Lucas
excessively; she talked so pleasantly and seemed so interested in all I
had to tell her about myself and Flurry; a quiet atmosphere of
refinement surrounded her--a certain fitness and harmony of thought.
Sometimes she would invite us into the drawing-room after luncheon,
saying she felt lonely and would be glad of our society for a little. I
used to enjoy those half-hours, though I am afraid Flurry found them a
little wearisome. Our talk went over her head, and she would listen to
it with a droll, half-bored expression, and take refuge at last with
Flossy.

Sometimes, but not often, Miss Lucas would take us to drive with her. I
think, until she knew me well, that she liked better to be alone with
her own thoughts. As our knowledge of each other grew, I was struck
with the flower-like unfolding of her ideas; they would bud and break
forth into all manner of quaint fancies--their freshness and
originality used to charm me.

I think there is no interest in life compared to knowing
people--finding them out, their tastes, character, and so forth. I had
an inquisitive delight, I called it thirst, for human knowledge, in
drawing out a stranger; no traveler exploring unknown tracts of country
ever pursued his researches with greater zeal and interest. Reserve
only attracts me.

Impulsive people, who let out their feelings the first moment, do not
interest me half so much as silent folk. I like to sit down before an
enclosed citadel and besiege it; with such ramparts of defense there
must be precious store in the heart of the city, some hidden jewels,
perhaps; at least, so I argue with myself.

But, happy as I was with Miss Lucas and Flurry, five o'clock no sooner
struck than I was flying down the oak staircase, with Flurry peeping at
me between the balustrades, and waving a mite of a hand in token of
adieu; for was I not going home to mother and Dot? Oh, the dear, bright
home scene that always awaited me! I wonder if Carrie loved it as I
did! The homely, sunny little parlors; the cozy tea table, over which
old Martha would be hovering with careful face and hands; mother in her
low chair by the garden window; Uncle Geoffrey with his books and
papers at the little round table; Dot and Jack hidden in some corner,
out of which Dot would come stumping on his poor little crutches to
kiss me, and ask after his little friend Flurry.

"Here comes our Dame Bustle," Uncle Geoffrey would say. It was his
favorite name for me, and mother would look up and greet me with the
same loving smile that was never wanting on her dear face.

On the stairs I generally came upon Carrie, coming down from her little
room.

"How are the little Thornes?" I would ask her, cheerfully; but
by-and-by I left off asking her about them. At first she used to shrug
her shoulders and shake her head in a sort of disconsolate fashion, or
answered indifferently: "Oh, much as usual, thank you." But once she
returned, quite pettishly:

"Why do you ask after those odious children, Esther? Why cannot you let
me forget them for a few hours? If we are brickmakers, we need not
always be telling the tales of our bricks." She finished with a sort of
weary tone in her tired voice, and after that I let the little Thornes
alone.

What happy evenings those were! Not that we were idle, though--"the
saints forbid," as old Biddy used to say. When tea was over, mother and
I betook ourselves to the huge mending basket; sometimes Carrie joined
us, when she was not engaged in district work, and then her clever
fingers made the work light for us.

Then there were Jack's lessons to superintend, and sometimes I had to
help Dot with his drawing, or copy out papers for Uncle Geoffrey: then
by-and-by Dot had to be taken upstairs, and there were little things to
do for mother when Carrie was too tired or busy to do them. Mother was
Carrie's charge. As Dot and Jack were mine, it was a fair division of
labor, only somehow Carrie had always so much to do.

Mother used to fret sometimes about it, and complain that Carrie sat up
too late burning the midnight oil in her little room; but I never could
find out what kept her up. I was much happier about Carrie now--she
seemed brighter and in better spirits. If she loathed her daily
drudgery, she said little about it, and complained less. All her
interests were reserved for Nightingale lane and Rowley street. The
hours spent in those unsavory neighborhoods were literally her times of
refreshment. Her poor people were very close to her heart, and often
she told us about them as we sat working together in the evening, until
mother grew quite interested, and used to ask after them by name, which
pleased Carrie, and made a bond of sympathy between them. At such times
I somehow felt a little sad, though I would not have owned it for
worlds, for it seemed to me as though my work were so trivial compared
to Carrie's--as though I were a poor little Martha, "careful and
troubled about many things" about, Deborah's crossness and Jack's
reckless ways, occupied with small minor duties--dressing Dot, and
tidying Jack's and Uncle Geoffrey's drawers; while Carrie was doing
angel's work; reclaiming drunken women, and teaching miserable degraded
children, and then coming home and playing sweet sacred fragments of
Handel to soothe mother's worn spirits, or singing her the hymns she
loved. Alas! I could not sing except in church, and my playing was a
poor affair compared to Carrie's.

I felt it most on Sundays, when Carrie used to go off to the Sunday
school morning and afternoon, and left me to the somewhat monotonous
task of hearing Jack her catechism and giving Dot his Scripture lesson.
Sunday was always a trial to Dot. He was not strong enough to go to
church--the service would have wearied him too much--his few lessons
were soon done, and then time used to hang heavily on his hands.

At last the grand idea came to me to set him to copy Scripture maps,
and draw small illustrations of any Biblical scene that occurred in the
lesson of the day. I have a book full of his childish fancies now, all
elaborately colored on week-days--"Joseph and his Brethren" in gaudy
turbans, and wonderfully inexpressive countenances, reminding me of
Flurry's dolls; the queen of Sheba, coming before Solomon, in a
marvelous green tiara and yellow garments; a headless Goliath,
expressed with a painful degree of detail, more fit for the Wirtz
Gallery than a child's scrap-book.

Dot used frequently to write letters to Allan, to which I often added
copious postscripts. I never could coax Dot to write to Fred, though
Fred sent him plenty of kind messages, and many a choice little parcel
of scraps and odds and ends, such as Dot liked.

Fred was getting on tolerably, he always told us. He had rooms in St.
John's Wood, which he shared with two other artists; he was working
hard, and had some copying orders. Allan saw little of him; they had no
friends in common, and no community of taste. Never were brothers less
alike or with less sympathy.




CHAPTER X.

"I WISH I HAD A DOT OF MY OWN."


Months passed over, and found us the same busy, tranquil little
household. I used to wonder how my letters could interest Allan so much
as he said they did; I could find so little to narrate. And, talking of
that, it strikes me that we are not sufficiently thankful for the
monotony of life. I speak advisedly; I mean for the quiet uniformity
and routine of our daily existence. In our youth we quarrel a little
with its sameness and regularity; it is only when the storms of sudden
crises and unlooked-for troubles break over our thankful heads that we
look back with regret to those still days of old.

Nothing seemed to happen, nothing looked different. Mother grew a
little stronger as the summer passed, and took a few more household
duties on herself. Dot pined and pinched as the cold weather came on,
as he always did, and looked a shivering, shabby Dot sometimes. Jack's
legs grew longer, and her frocks shorter, and we had to tie her hair to
keep it out of her eyes, and she stooped more, and grew
round-shouldered, which added to her list of beauties; but no one
expected grace from Jack.

At the Cedars things went on as usual, that Flurry left off calling me
Miss Cameron, and took to Esther instead, somewhat scandalizing Miss
Lucas, until she began taking to it herself. "For you are so young, and
you are more Flurry's playfellow than her governess," she said
apologetically; "it is no good being stiff when we are such old
friends." And after that I always called her Miss Ruth.

"Don't you want see to Roseberry, Esther?" asked Flurry, one day--that
was the name of the little seaside place where Mr. Lucas had a cottage.
"Aunt Ruth says you must come down with us next summer; she declares
she has quite set her heart on it."

"Oh, Flurry, that would be delightful!--but how could I leave mother
and Dot?" I added in a regretful parenthesis. That was always the
burden of my song--Mother and Dot.

"Dot must come, too," pronounced Flurry, decidedly; and she actually
proposed to Miss Ruth at luncheon that "Esther's little brother should
be invited to Roseberry." Miss Ruth looked at me with kindly amused
eyes, as I grew crimson and tried to hush Flurry.

"We shall see," she returned, in her gentle voice; "if Esther will not
go without Dot, Dot must come too." But though the bare idea was too
delightful, I begged Miss Ruth not to entertain such an idea for a
moment.

I think Flurry's little speech put a kind thought into Miss Ruth's
head, for when she next invited us to drive with her, the gray horses
stopped for an instant at Uncle Geoffrey's door, and the footman lifted
Dot in his little fur-lined coat, and placed him at Miss Ruth's side.
And seeing the little lad's rapture, and Flurry's childish delight, she
often called for him, sometimes when she was alone, for she said Dot
never troubled her; he could be as quiet as a little mouse when her
head ached and she was disinclined to talk.

I said nothing happened; but one day I had a pleasant surprise, just
when I did not deserve it; for it was one of my fractious days--days of
moods and tenses I used to called them--when nothing seemed quite
right, when I was beset by that sort of grown-up fractiousness that
wants to be petted and put to bed, and bidden to lie still like a tired
child.

Winter had set in in downright earnest, and in those cold dark mornings
early rising seemed an affront to the understanding, and a snare to be
avoided by all right-minded persons; yet notwithstanding all that, a
perverse, fidgety notion of duty drove me with a scourge of mental
thorns from my warm bed. For I was young and healthy, and why should I
lie there while Deborah and Martha broke the ice in their pitchers, and
came downstairs with rasped red faces and acidulated tempers? I was
thankful not to do likewise, to know I should hear in a few minutes a
surly tap at the door, with the little hot-water can put down with
protesting evidence. Even then it was hard work to flesh and blood,
with no dewy lawn, no bird music now to swell my morning's devotion
with tiny chorus of praise; only a hard frozen up world, with a trickle
of meager sunshine running through it.

But my hardest work was with Dot; he used to argue drowsily with me
while I stood shivering and awaiting his pleasure. Why did I not go
down to the fire if I were cold? He was not going to get up in the
middle of the night to please any one; never mind the robins--of which
I reminded him gently--he wished he were a robin too, and could get up
and go to bed with a neat little feather bed tacked to his skin--nice,
cosy little fellows; and then he would draw the bedclothes round his
thin little shoulders, and try to maintain his position.

He quite whimpered on the morning in question, when I lifted him out
bodily--such a miserable Dot, looking like a starved dove in his white
plumage; but he cheered up at the sight of the fire and hot coffee in
the snug parlor, and whispered a little entreaty for forgiveness as I
stooped over him to make him comfortable.

"You are tired, Esther," said my mother tenderly, when she saw my face
that morning; "you must not get up so early this cold weather, my
dear." But I held my peace, for who would dress Dot, and what would
become of Jack? And then came a little lump in my throat, for I was
tired and fractious.

When I got to the Cedars a solemn stillness reigned in the nursery, and
instead of an orderly room a perfect chaos of doll revelry prevailed.
All the chairs were turned into extempore beds, and the twelve dolls,
with bandaged heads and arms, were tucked up with the greatest care.

Flurry met me with an air of great importance and her finger on her lip.

"Hush, Esther, you must not make a noise. I am Florence Nightingale,
and these are all the poor sick and wounded soldiers; look at this one,
this is Corporal Trim, and he has had his two legs shot off."

I recognized Corporal Trim under his bandages; he was the very doll
Flossy had so grievously maltreated and had robbed of an eye; the waxen
tip of his nose was gone, and a great deal of his flaxen wig
besides--quite a caricature of a mutilated veteran.

I called Flurry to account a little sternly, and insisted on her
restoring order to the room. Flurry pouted and sulked; her heart was at
Scutari, and her wits went wool-gathering, and refused dates and the
multiplication table. To make matters worse, it commenced snowing, and
there was no prospect of a walk before luncheon. Miss Ruth did not come
down to that meal, and afterward I sat and knitted in grim silence.
Discipline must be maintained, and as Flurry would not work, neither
would I play with her; but I do not know which of us was punished the
most.

"Oh, how cross you are, Esther, and it is Christmas eve!" cried Flurry
at last, on the verge of crying. It was growing dusk, and already
shadows lurked in the corner of the room, Flurry looked at me so
wistfully that I am afraid I should have relented and gone on a little
with Juliet, only at that moment she sprang up joyfully at the sound of
her aunt's voice calling her, and ran out to the top of the dark
staircase.

"We are to go down, you and I; Aunt Ruth wants us," she exclaimed,
laying violent hands on my work. I felt rather surprised at the
summons, for Miss Ruth never called us at this hour, and it would soon
be time for me to go home.

The drawing-room looked the picture of warm comfort as we entered it;
some glorious pine logs were crackling and spluttering in the grate,
sending out showers of colored sparks.

Miss Ruth was half-buried in her easy-chair, with her feet on the white
fleecy rug, and the little square tea-table stood near her, with its
silver kettle and the tiny blue teacups.

"You have sent for us, Miss Ruth," I said, as I crossed the room to
her; but at that instant another figure I had not seen started up from
a dark corner, and caught hold of me in rough, boyish fashion.

"Allan! oh Allan! Allan!" my voice rising into a perfect crescendo of
ecstasy at the sight of his dear dark face. Could anything be more
deliciously unexpected? And there was Miss Ruth laughing very softly to
herself at my pleasure.

"Oh, Allan, what does this mean," I demanded, "when you told us there
was no chance of your spending Christmas with us? Have you been home?
Have you seen mother and Dot? Have you come here to fetch me home?"

Allan held up his hands as he took a seat near me.

"One question at a time, Esther. I had unexpected leave of absence for
a week, and that is why you see me; and as I wanted to surprise you
all, I said nothing about it. I arrived about three hours ago, and as
mother thought I might come and fetch you, why I thought I would, and
that you would be pleased to see me; that is all my story," finished
Allan, exchanging an amused glance with Miss Ruth. They had never met
before, and yet they seemed already on excellent terms. All an made no
sort of demur when Miss Ruth insisted that we should both have some tea
to warm us before we went. I think he felt at home with her at once.

Flurry seemed astonished at our proceeding. She regarded Allan for a
long time very solemnly, until he won her heart by admiring Flossy;
then she condescended to converse with him.

"Are you Esther's brother, really?"

"Yes, Miss Florence--I believe that is your name."

"Florence Emmeline Lucas," she repeated glibly. "I'm Flurry for short;
nobody calls me Florence except father sometimes. It was dear mamma's
name, and he always sighs when he says it."

"Indeed," returned Allan in an embarrassed tone; and then he took
Flossy on his knee and began to play with him.

"Esther is rich," went on Flurry, rather sadly. "She has three
brothers; there's Fred, and you, and Dot. I think she likes Dot best,
and so do I. What a pity I haven't a Dot of my own! No brothers; only
father and Aunt Ruth."

"Poor little dear," observed Allan compassionately--he was always fond
of children. His hearty tone made Flurry look up in his face. "He is a
nice man," she said to me afterward; "he likes Flossy and me, and he
was pleased when I kissed him."

I did not tell Flurry that Allan had been very much astonished at her
friendship.

"That is a droll little creature," he said, as we left the house
together; "but there is something very attractive about her. You have a
nice berth there, Esther. Miss Lucas seems a delightful person," an
opinion in which I heartily agreed. Then he asked me about Mr. Lucas;
but I had only Flurry's opinion to offer him on that subject, and he
questioned me in his old way about my daily duties. "Mother thinks you
are overworked, and you are certainly looking a little thin, Esther.
Does not Carrie help you enough? And what is this I have just heard
about the night school?"

Our last grievance, which I had hitherto kept from Allan; but of course
mother had told him. It was so nice to be walking there by his side,
with the crisp white snow beneath our feet, and the dark sky over our
heads; no more fractiousness now, when I could pour out all my worries
to Allan.

Such a long story I told him; but the gist of it was this; Carrie had
been very imprudent; she would not let well alone, or be content with a
sufficient round of duties. She worked hard with her pupils all day,
and besides that she had a district and Sunday school; and now Mrs.
Smedley had persuaded her to devote two evenings of her scanty leisure
to the night school.

"I think it is very hard and unjust to us," I continued rather
excitedly. "We have so little of Carrie--only just the odds and ends of
time she can spare us. Mrs. Smedley has no right to dictate to us all,
and to work Carrie in the way she does. She has got an influence over
her, and she uses it for her own purposes, and Carrie is weak to yield
so entirely to her judgment; she coaxes her and flatters her, and talks
about her high standard and unselfish zeal for the work; but I can't
understand it, and I don't think it right for Carrie to be Mrs.
Smedley's parochial drudge."

"I will talk to Carrie," returned Allan, grimly; and he would not say
another word on the subject. But I forgot all my grievances during the
happy evening that followed.

Allan was in such spirits! As frolicsome as a boy, he would not let us
be dull, and so his talk never flagged for a moment. Dot laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks when Allan kicked over the mending
basket, and finally ordered Martha to take it away. When Carrie
returned from the night school, she found us all gathered round the
fire in peaceful idleness, listening to Allan's stories, with Dot on
the rug, basking in the heat like a youthful salamander.

I think Allan must have followed her up to her room, for just as I was
laying my head on the pillow there was a knock at the door, and Carrie
entered with her candle, fully dressed, and with a dark circle round
her eyes.

She put down the light, so as not to wake Jack, and sat down by my side
with a weary sigh.

"Why did you all set Allan to talk to me?" she began reproachfully.
"Why should I listen to him more than to you or mother? I begin to see
that a man's foes are indeed of his own household."

I bit my lips to keep in a torrent of angry words. I was out of
patience with Carrie, even a saint ought to have common sense, I
thought, and I was so tired and sleepy, and to-morrow was Christmas Day.

"I could not sleep until I came and told you what I thought about it,"
she went on in her serious monotone. I don't think she even noticed my
exasperated silence. "It is of no use for Allan to come and preach his
wordly wisdom to me; we do not measure things by the same standard, he
and I. You are better, Esther, but your hard matter-of-fact reasoning
shocks me sometimes."

"Oh, Carrie! why don't you create a world of your own," I demanded,
scornfully, "if we none of us please you--not even Allan?"

"Now you are angry without cause," she returned, gently, for Carrie
rarely lost her temper in an argument; she was so meekly obstinate that
we could do nothing with her. "We cannot create our own world, Esther;
we can only do the best we can with this. When I am working so hard to
do a little good in Milnthorpe, why do you all try to hinder and drag
me back?"

"Because you are _over_doing it, and wearing yourself out," I returned,
determined to have my say; but she stopped me with quiet peremptoriness.

"No more of that, Esther; I have heard it all from Allan. I am not
afraid of wearing out; I hope to die in harness. Why, child, how can
you be so faint-hearted? We cannot die until our time comes."

"But when we court death it is suicide," I answered, stubbornly; but
Carrie only gave one of her sweet little laughs.

"You foolish Esther! who means to die, I should like to know? Why, the
child is actually crying. Listen to me, you dear goosie. I was never so
happy or well in my life." I shook my head sorrowfully, but she
persisted in her statement. "Mrs. Smedley has given me new life. How I
do love that woman! She is a perfect example to us--of unselfishness
and energy. She says I am her right hand, and I do believe she means
it, Esther." But I only groaned in answer. "She is doing a magnificent
work in Milnthrope," she continued, "and I feel so proud that I am
allowed to assist her. Do you know, I had twenty boys in my class this
evening; they would come to me, though Miss Miles' class was nearly
empty." And so she went on, until I felt all over prickles of
suppressed nervousness. "Well, good-night," she said, at last, when I
could not he roused into any semblance of interest; "we shall see which
of us be right by-and-by."

"Yes, we shall see," I answered, drowsily; but long after she left I
muttered the words over and over to myself, "We shall see."

Yes, by-and-by the light of Divine truth would flash over our actions,
and in that pure radiance every unworthy work would wither up to
naught--every unblessed deed retreat into outer darkness. Which would
be right, she or I?

I know only too well that, taking the world as a whole, we ought to
_encourage_ Christian parochial work, because too many girls who
possess the golden opportunity of leisure allow it to be wasted, and so
commit the "sin of omission;" but there would have been quite as much
good done had Carrie dutifully helped in our invalid home and cheered
us all to health by her bright presence. And besides, I myself could
then perhaps have taken a class at me night school if the
stocking-mending and the other multitudinous domestic matters could
have allowed it.

The chimes of St. Barnabas were pealing through the midnight air before
I slept. Above was the soft light of countless stars, sown broadcast
over the dark skies. Christmas was come, and the angel's song sounding
over the sleeping earth.

"Peace and goodwill to men"--peace from weary arguments and fruitless
regret, peace on mourning hearts, on divided homes, on mariners tossing
afar on wintry seas, and peace surely on one troubled girlish heart
that waited for the breaking of a more perfect day.




CHAPTER XI.

MISS RUTH'S NURSE.


Miss Ruth insisted on giving me a week's holiday, that I might avail
myself of Allan's society; and as dear mother still persisted that I
looked pale and in need of change, Allan gave me a course of bracing
exercise in the shape of long country walks with him and Jack, when we
plowed our way over half-frozen fields and down deep, muddy lanes,
scrambling over gates and through hedges, and returning home laden with
holly berries and bright red hips and haws.

On Allan's last evening we were invited to dine at the Cedars--just
Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I. Miss Ruth wrote such a pretty letter. She
said that her brother thought it was a long time since he had seen his
old friend Dr. Cameron, and that he was anxious to make acquaintance
with his nephew and Flurry's playfellow--this was Miss Ruth's name for
me, for we had quite dropped the governess between us.

Allan looked quite pleased, and scouted my dubious looks; he had taken
a fancy to Miss Ruth, and wanted to see her again. He laughed when I
said regretfully that it was his last evening, and that I would rather
have spent it quietly at home with him. I was shy at the notion of my
first dinner-party; Mr. Lucas' presence would make it a formal affair.

And then mother fretted a little that I had no evening-dress ready. I
could not wear white, so all my pretty gowns were useless; but I
cheered her up by my assuring her that such things did not matter in
our deep mourning. And when I had dressed myself in my black cashmere,
with soft white ruffles and a little knot of Christmas roses and ferns
which Carrie had arranged in my dress, mother gave a relieved sigh, and
thought I should do nicely, and Allan twisted me round, and declared I
was not half so bad after all, and that, though I was no beauty, I
should pass, with which dubious compliment I was obliged to content
myself.

"I wish you were going in my stead, Carrie," I whispered, as she
wrapped me in mother's warm fleecy shawl, for the night was piercingly
cold.

"I would rather stay with mother," she answered quietly. And then she
kissed me, and told me to be a good child, and not to be frightened of
any one, in her gentle, elder sisterly way. It never occurred to her to
envy me my party or my pleasant position at the Cedars, or to compare
her own uncongenial work with mine. These sorts of petty jealousies and
small oppositions were impossible to her; her nature was large and
slightly raised, and took in wider vistas of life than ours.

My heart sank a little when I heard the sharp vibrating sound of Mrs.
Smedley's voice as we were announced. I had no idea that the vicar and
his wife were to be invited, but they were the only guests beside
ourselves. I never could like Mrs. Smedley and to the very last I never
changed my girlish opinion of her. I have a curious instinctive
repugnance to people who rustle through life; whose entrances and exits
are environed with noise; who announce their intentions with the blast
of the trumpet. Mrs. Smedley was a wordy woman. She talked much and
well, but her voice was loud and jarring. She was not a bad-looking
woman. I daresay in her younger days she had been handsome, for her
features were very regular and her complexion good; but I always said
that she had worn herself thin with talking. She was terribly straight
and angular (I am afraid I called it bony); she had sharp high cheek
bones, and her hands were long and lean. On this evening she wore a
rich brown brocade, that creaked and rustled with every movement, and
some Indian bangles that jingled every time she raised her arm. I could
not help comparing her to Miss Ruth, who sat beside her, looking lovely
in a black velvet gown, and as soft and noiseless as a little mouse. I
am afraid Mrs. Smedley's clacking voice made her head ache terribly for
she grew paler and paler before the long dinner was over. As Miss Ruth
greeted me, I saw Mr. Lucas cross the room with Flurry holding his hand.

"Flurry must introduce me to her playfellow," he said, with a kind
glance at us both, as the child ran up to me and clasped me close.

"Oh, Esther, how I have wanted you and Juliet," she whispered; but her
father heard her.

"I am afraid Flurry has had a dull week of it," he said, taking a seat
beside us, and lifting the little creature to his knee. How pretty
Flurry looked in her dainty white frock, all embroidery and lace, with
knots of black ribbons against her dimpled shoulders, and her hair
flowing round her like a golden veil! Such a little fairy queen she
looked!

"Father has been telling me stories," she observed, confidently; "they
were very pretty ones, but I think I like Juliet best. And, oh! Esther,
Flossy has broken Clementina's arm--that is your favorite doll, you
know."

"Has Miss Cameron a doll, too?" asked Mr. Lucas, and I thought he
looked a little quizzical.

"I always call it Esther's," returned Flurry, seriously. "She is quite
fond of it, and nurses it sometimes at lessons."

But I could bear no more. Mrs. Smedley was listening, I was sure, and
it did sound so silly and babyish, and yet I only did it to please
Flurry.

"I am afraid you think me very childish," I stammered, for I remembered
that game of battledore and shuttlecock, and how excited I had been
when I had achieved two hundred. But as I commenced my little speech,
with burning cheeks and a lip that would quiver with nervousness, he
quietly stopped me.

"I think nothing to your discredit, Miss Cameron. I am too grateful to
you for making my little girl's life less lonely. I feel much happier
about her now, and so does my sister." And then, as dinner was
announced, he turned away and offered his arm to Mrs. Smedley.

Mr. Smedley took me in and sat by me, but after a few cursory
observations he left me to my own devices and talked to Miss Ruth. I
was a little disappointed at this, for I preferred him infinitely to
his wife, and I had always found his sermons very helpful; but I heard
afterward that he never liked talking to young ladies, and did not know
what to say to them. Carrie was an exception. She was too great a
favorite with them both ever to be neglected. Mr. Lucas' attention was
fully occupied by his voluble neighbor. Now and then he addressed a
word to me, that I might not feel myself slighted, but Mrs. Smedley
never seconded his efforts.

Ever since I had refused to teach in the Sunday school she had regarded
me with much head-shaking and severity. To her I was simply a
frivolous, uninteresting young person, too headstrong to be guided. She
always spoke pityingly of "your poor sister Esther" to Carrie, as
though I were in a lamentable condition. I know she had heard of
Flurry's doll, her look was so utterly contemptuous.

To my dismay she commenced talking to Mr. Lucas about Carrie. It was
very bad taste, I thought, with her sister sitting opposite to her; but
Carrie was Mrs. Smedley's present hobby, and she always rode her hobby
to death. No one else heard her, for they were all engaged with Miss
Ruth.

"Such an admirable creature," she was saying, when my attention was
attracted to the conversation; "a most lovely person and mind, and yet
so truly humble. I confess I love her as though she were a daughter of
my own." Fancy being Mrs. Smedley's daughter! Happily, for their own
sakes, she had no children. "Augustus feels just the same; he thinks so
highly of her. Would you believe it, Mr. Lucas, that though she is a
daily governess like her sister," with a sharp glance at poor little
miserable me, "that that dear devoted girl takes house to house
visitation in that dreadful Nightingale lane and Rowley street?" Was it
my fancy, or did Mr. Lucas shrug his shoulders dubiously at this? As
Mrs. Smedley paused here a moment, as though she expected an answer, he
muttered, "Very praiseworthy, I am sure," in a slightly bored tone.

"She has a class in the Sunday-school besides, and now she gives two
evenings a week to Mr. Smedley's night school. She is a pattern to all
the young ladies of the place, as I do not fail to tell them."

Why Mr. Lucas looked at me at that moment I do not know, but something
in my face seemed to strike him, for he said, in a curious sort of
tone, that meant a great deal, if I had only understood it:

"You do not follow in your sister's footsteps, then, Miss Cameron?"

"No, I do not," I answered abruptly, far too abruptly, I am afraid;
"human beings cannot be like sheep jumping through a hedge--if one
jumps, they all jump, you know."

"And you do not like that," with a little laugh, as though he were
amused.

"No, I must be sure it is a safe gap first, and not a short cut to
nowhere," was my inexplicable response. I do not know if Mr. Lucas
understood me, for just then Miss Ruth gave the signal for the ladies
to rise. The rest of the evening was rather a tedious affair. I played
a little, but no one seemed specially impressed, and I could hear Mrs.
Smedley's voice talking loudly all the time.

Mr. Lucas did not address me again; he and Uncle Geoffrey talked
politics on the rug. The Smedleys went early, and just as we were about
to follow their example a strange thing happened; poor Miss Ruth was
taken with one of her bad attacks.

I was very frightened, for she looked to me as though she were dying;
but Uncle Geoffrey was her doctor, and understood all about it, and
Allan quietly stood by and helped him.

Mr. Lucas rang for nurse, who always waited on Miss Ruth as well as
Flurry, but she had gone to bed with a sick headache. The housemaid was
young and awkward, and lost her head entirely, so Uncle Geoffrey sent
her away to get her mistress' room ready, and he and Allan carried Miss
Ruth up between them; and a few minutes afterward I heard Allan's
whistle, and ran out into the hall.

"Good-night, Esther," he said, hurriedly; "I am just going to the
surgery for some medicine. Uncle Geoffrey thinks you ought to offer
your services for the night, as that girl is no manner of use; you had
better go up now."

"But, Allan, I do not understand nursing in the least," for this
suggestion terrified me, and I wanted the walk home with Allan, and a
cozy chat when every one had gone to bed; but, to my confusion, he
merely looked at me and turned on his heel. Allan never wasted words on
these occasions; if people would not do their duty he washed his hands
of them. I could not bear him to be disappointed in me, or think me
cowardly and selfish, so I went sorrowfully up to Miss Ruth's room, and
found Uncle Geoffrey coming in search of me.

"Oh, there you are, Esther," he said, in his most business-like tone,
taking it for granted, as a matter of course, that I was going to stay.
"I want you to help Miss Lucas to get comfortably to bed; she is in
great pain, and cannot speak to you just yet; but you must try to
assist her as well as you can. When the medicine comes, I will take a
final look at her, and give you your orders." And then he nodded to me
and went downstairs. There was no help for it; I must do my little
best, and say nothing about it.

Strange to say, I had never been in Miss Ruth's room before. I knew
where it was situated, and that its windows looked out on the garden,
but I had no idea what sort of a place it was.

It was not large, but so prettily fitted up, and bore the stamp of
refined taste, in every minute detail. I always think a room shows the
character of its owner; one can judge in an instant, by looking round
and noticing the little ornaments and small treasured possessions.

I once questioned Carrie rather curiously about Mrs. Smedley's room,
and she answered, reluctantly, that it was a large, bare-looking
apartment, with an ugly paper, and full of medicine chests and
work-baskets; nothing very comfortable or tasteful in its arrangements.
I knew it; I could have told her so without seeing it.

Miss Ruth's was very different; it was perfectly crowded with pretty
things, and yet not too many of them. And such beautiful pictures hung
on the walls, most of them sacred: but evidently chosen with a view to
cheerfulness. Just opposite the bed was "The Flight into Egypt;" a
portrait of Flurry; and some sunny little landscapes, most of them
English scenes, finished the collection. There were some velvet lined
shelves, filled with old china, and some dear little Dresden
shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. A stand of Miss Ruth's favorite books
stood beside her lounge chair, and her inlaid Indian desk was beside it.

I was glad Miss Ruth liked pretty things; it showed such charming
harmony in her character. Poor Miss Ruth, she was evidently suffering
severely, as she lay on her couch in front of the fire; her hair was
unbound, and fell in thick short lengths over her pillow, reminding me
of Flurry's soft fluff, but not quite so bright a gold.

I was sadly frightened when I found she did not open her eyes or speak
to me. I am afraid I bungled sadly over my task, though she was quite
patient and let me do what I liked with her. It seemed terribly long
before I had her safely in her bed. When her head touched the pillows,
she raised her eyelids with difficulty.

"Thank you," she whispered; "you have done it so nicely, dear, and have
not hurt me more than you could help," and then she motioned me to kiss
her. Dear patient Miss Ruth!

I had got the room all straight before Uncle Geoffrey came back, and
then Mr. Lucas was with him. Miss Ruth spoke to them both, and took
hold of her brother's hand as he leaned over her.

"Good-night, Giles; don't worry about me; Esther is going to take care
of me." She took it for granted, too. "Dr. Cameron's medicine will soon
take away the pain."

Uncle Geoffrey's orders were very simple; I must watch her and keep up
the fire, and give her another dose if she were to awake in two hours'
time; and if the attack came on again, I must wake nurse, in spite of
her headache, as she knew what to do; and then he left me.

"You are very good to do this," Mr. Lucas said, as he shook hands with
me. "Have you been used to nursing?"

I told him, briefly, no; but I was wise enough not to add that I feared
I should never keep awake, in Spite of some very strong coffee Uncle
Geoffrey had ordered me; but I was so young, and with such an appetite
for sleep.

I took out my faded flowers when they left me, said my prayers, and
drank my coffee, and then tried to read one of Miss Ruth's books, but
the letters seemed to dance before my eyes. I am afraid I had a short
doze over Hiawatha, for I had a confused idea that I was Minnehaha
laughing-water; and I thought the forest leaves were rustling round me,
when a coal dropped out of the fire and startled me.

It woke Miss Ruth from her refreshing sleep; but the pain had left her,
and she looked quite bright and like herself.

"I am a bad sleeper, and often lie awake until morning," she said, as I
shook up her pillows and begged her to lie down again. "No, it is no
good trying again just now, I am so dreadfully wide awake. Poor Esther!
how tired you look, being kept out of your bed in this way." And she
wanted me to curl myself up on the couch and go to sleep, but I stoutly
refused; Uncle Geoffrey had said I was to watch her until morning. When
she found I was inexorable in my resolution to keep awake, she began to
talk.

"I wonder if you know what pain is, Esther--real positive agony?" and
when I assured her that a slight headache was the only form of
suffering I had ever known, she gave a heavy sigh.

"How strange, how fortunate, singular too, it seems to me. No pain!
that must be a foretaste of heaven;" and she repeated, dreamily, "no
more pain there. Oh, Esther, if you knew how I long sometimes for
heaven."

The words frightened me, somehow; they spoke such volumes of repressed
longing. "Dear Miss Ruth, why?" I asked, almost timidly.

"Can you ask why, and see me as I am to-night?" she asked, with
scarcely restrained surprise. "If I could only bear it more patiently
and learn the lesson it is meant to teach me, 'perfect through
suffering,' the works of His chisel!" And then she softly repeated the
words,

  "Shedding soft drops of pity
  Where the sharp edges of the tool have been."

"I always loved that stanza so; it gave me the first idea I ever quite
grasped how sorry He is when He is obliged to hurt us." And as I did
not know how to answer her, she begged me to fetch the book, and she
would show me the passage for myself.




CHAPTER XII.

I WAS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS.


I had no idea Miss Ruth could talk as she did that night. She seemed to
open her heart to me with the simplicity of a child, giving me a deeper
insight into a very lovely nature. Carrie had hitherto been my ideal,
but on this night I caught myself wondering once or twice whether
Carrie would ever exercise such patience and uncomplaining endurance
under so many crossed purposes, such broken work.

"I was never quite like other people," she said to me when I had closed
the book; "you know I was a mere infant in my nurse's arms, when that
accident happened." I nodded, for I had heard the sad details from
Uncle Geoffrey; how an unbroken pair of young horses had shied across
the road just as the nurse who was carrying Miss Ruth was attempting to
cross it; the nurse had been knocked down and dreadfully injured, and
her little charge had been violently thrown against the curb, and it
had been thought by the doctor that one of the horses must have kicked
her. For a long time she lay in a state of great suffering, and it was
soon known that her health had sustained permanent injury.

"I was always a crooked, stunted little thing," she went on, with a
lovely smile. "My childhood was a sad ordeal; it was just battling with
pain, and making believe that I did not mind. I used to try and bear it
as cheerfully as I could, because mother fretted so over me; but in
secret I was terribly rebellious, often I cried myself to sleep with
angry passionate tears, because I was not like other girls.

"Do you care to hear all this?" interrupting herself to look at my
attentive face. It must have been a sufficient answer, for she went on
talking without waiting for me to speak.

"Giles was very good to me, but it was hard on him for his only sister
to be such a useless invalid. He was active and strong, and I could not
expect to keep him chained to my couch--I was always on a couch
then--he had his friends and his cricket and football, and I could not
expect to see much of him, I had to let him go with the rest.

"Things went on like this--outward submission and inward revolt--much
affection, but little of the grace of patience, until the eve of my
confirmation, when a stranger came to preach at the parish church. I
never heard his name before, and I never have heard it since. People
said he came from a distance; but I shall never forget that sermon to
my dying day, or the silvery penetrating voice that delivered it.

"It was as though a message from heaven was brought straight to me, to
the poor discontented child who sat so heart weary and desponding in
the corner of the pew. I cannot oven remember the text; it was
something about the suffering of Christ, but I knew that it was
addressed to the suffering members of His church, and that he touched
upon all physical and mental pain. And what struck me most was that he
spoke of pain as a privilege, a high privilege and special training;
something that called us into a fuller and inner fellowship with our
suffering head.

"He told us the heathen might dread pain, but not the Christian; that
one really worthy of the name must be content to be the cross bearer,
to tread really and literally in the steps of the Master.

"What if He unfolded to us the mystery of pain? Would He not unfold the
mystery of love too? What generous souls need fear that dread ordeal,
that was to remove them from the outer to the inner court? Ought they
not to rejoice that they were found worthy to share His reproach? He
said much more than this, Esther, but memory is so weak and betrays
one. But he had flung a torch into the darkest recesses of my soul, and
the sudden light seemed to scorch and shrivel up all the discontent and
bitterness; and, oh, the peace that succeeded; it was as though a
drowning mariner left off struggling and buffeting with the waves that
were carrying him to the shore, but just lay still and let himself be
floated in."

"And you were happier," I faltered, as she suddenly broke off, as
though exhausted.

"Yes, indeed," she returned softly. "Pain was not any more my enemy,
but the stern life companion He had sent to accompany me--the cross
that I must carry out of love to Him; oh, how different, how far more
endurable! I took myself in hand by-and-by when I grew older and had a
better judgment of things. I knew mine was a life apart, a separated
life; by that I mean that I should never know the joy of wifehood or
motherhood, that I must create my own little world, my own joys and
interests."

"And you have done so."

"Yes, I have done so; I am a believer in happiness; I am quite sure in
my mind that our beneficent Creator meant all His creatures to be
happy, that whatever He gives them to bear, that He intends them to
abide in the sunshine of His peace, and I determined to be happy. I
surrounded my-self with pretty things, with pictures that were pleasant
to the eye and recalled bright thoughts. I made my books my friends,
and held sweet satisfying communion with minds of all ages. I
cultivated music, and found intense enjoyment in the study of Handel
and Beethoven.

"When I got a little stronger I determined to be a worker too, and
glean a little sheaf or two after the reapers, if it were only a
dropped ear now and then.

"I took up the Senana Mission. You have no idea how important I have
grown, or what a vast correspondence I have kept up--the society begin
to find me quite useful to them--and I have dear unknown correspondents
whom I love as old friends, and whose faces I shall only see, perhaps,
when we meet in heaven.

"When dear Florence died--that was my sister-in-law, you know--I came
to live with Giles, and to look after Flurry. I am quite a responsible
woman, having charge of the household, and trying to be a companion to
Giles; confess now, Esther, it is not such a useless life after all?"

I do not know what I answered her. I have a dim recollection that I
burst into some extravagant eulogium or other, for she colored to her
temples and called me a foolish child, and begged me seriously never to
say such things to her again.

"I do not deserve all that, Esther, but you are too young to judge
dispassionately; you must recollect that I have fewer temptations than
other people. If I were strong and well I might be worldly too."

"No, never," I answered indignantly; "you would always be better than
other people, Miss Ruth--you and Carrie--oh, why are you both so good?"
with a despairing inflection in my voice. "How you must both look down
on me."

"I know some one who is good, too," returned Miss Ruth, stroking my
hair. "I know a brave girl who works hard and wears herself out in
loving service, who is often tired and never complains, who thinks
little of herself, and yet who does much to brighten other lives, and I
think you know her too, Esther?" But I would not let her go on; it was
scant goodness to love her, and Allan, and Dot. How could any one do
otherwise? And what merit could there be in that?

But though I disclaimed her praise, I was inwardly rejoiced that she
should think such things of me, and should judge me worthy of her
confidence. She was treating me as though I were her equal and friend,
and, to do her justice the idea of my being a governess never seemed to
enter into hers or Mr. Lucas' head.

They always treated me from this time as a young friend, who conferred
a favor on them by coming. My salary seemed to pass into my hand with
the freedom of a gift. Perhaps it was that Uncle Geoffrey was such an
old and valued friend, and that Miss Ruth knew that in point of birth
the Camerons were far above the Lucases, for we were an old family whom
misfortune had robbed of our honors.

However this may be, my privileges were many, and the yoke of service
lay lightly on my shoulders. Poor Carrie, indeed, had to eat the bitter
bread of dependence, and to take many a severe rebuke from her
employer. Mrs. Thorne was essentially a vulgar-minded woman. She was
affected by the adventitious adjuncts of life; dress, mere station and
wealth weighed largely in her view of things. Because we were poor, she
denied our claim to equality; because Carrie taught her children, she
snubbed and repressed her, to keep her in her place, as though Carrie
were a sort of Jack-in-the-box to be jerked back with every movement.

When Miss Ruth called on mother, Mrs. Thorne shrugged her shoulders,
and wondered at the liberality of some people's views. When we were
asked to dinner at the Cedars (I suppose Mrs. Smedley told her, for
Carrie never gossiped), Mrs. Thorne's eye brows were uplifted in a
surprised way. Her scorn knew no bounds when she called one afternoon,
and saw Carrie seated at Miss Ruth's little tea-table; she completely
ignored her through the visit, except to ask once after her children's
lessons. Carrie took her snubbing meekly, and seemed perfectly
indifferent. Her quiet lady-like bearing seemed to impress Miss Ruth
most favorably, for when Carrie took her leave she kissed her, a thing
she had never done before. I looked across at Mrs. Thorne, and saw her
tea-cup poised half-way to her lips. She was transfixed with
astonishment.

"I envy you your sister, Esther," said Miss Ruth, busying herself with
the silver kettle. "She is a dear girl--a very dear girl."

"Humph!" ejaculated Mrs. Thorne. She was past words, and soon after she
took her departure in a high state of indignation and dudgeon.

I did not go home the next day. Allan came to say good-by to me, Uncle
Geoffrey followed him, and he and Mr. Lucas both decided that I could
not be spared. Nurse was somewhat ailing, and Uncle Geoffrey had to
prescribe for her too; and as Miss Ruth recovered slowly from these
attacks, she would be very lonely, shut up in her room.

Miss Ruth was overjoyed when I promised to stay with her as long as
they wanted me. Allan had satisfied my scruples about Jack and Dot.

"They all think you ought to stay," he said. "Mother was the first to
decide that. Martha has promised to attend to Dot in your absence. She
grumbled a little, and so did he; but that will not matter. Jack must
look after herself," finished this very decided young man, who was apt
to settle feminine details in rather a summary fashion.

If mother said it was my duty to remain, I need not trouble my head
about minor worries; the duty in hand, they all thought, was with Miss
Ruth, and with Miss Ruth I would stay.

"It will be such a luxury to have you, Esther," she said, in her old
bright way. "My head is generally bad after these attacks, and I cannot
read much to myself, and with all my boasted resolution the hours do
seem very long. Flurry must spare you to me after the morning, and we
will have nice quiet times together."

So I took possession of the little room next hers, and put away the few
necessaries that mother had sent me, with a little picture of Dot, that
he had drawn for me; but I little thought that afternoon that it would
be a whole month before I left it.

I am afraid that long visit spoiled me a little; it was so pleasant
resuming some of the old luxuries. Instead of the cold bare room where
Jack and I slept, for, in spite of all our efforts, it did look bare in
the winter, I found a bright fire burning in my cozy little chamber,
and casting warm ruddy gleams over the white china tiles; the wax
candles stood ready for lighting on the toilet table; my dressing gown
was aging in company with my slippers; everything so snug and essential
to comfort, to the very eider-down quilt that looked so tempting.

Then in the morning, just to dress myself and go down to the pleasant
dining-room, with the great logs spluttering out a bright welcome, and
the breakfast table loaded with many a dainty. No shivering Dot to
coerce into good humor; no feckless Jack to frown into order; no grim
Deborah to coax and help. Was it very wicked that I felt all this a
relief? Then how deliciously the days passed; the few lessons with
Flurry, more play than work; the inspiriting ramble ending generally
with a peep at mother and Dot!

The cozy luncheons, at which Flurry and I made our dinners, where
Flurry sat in state at the bottom of the table and carved the pudding,
and gave herself small airs of consequence, and then the long quiet
afternoons with Miss Ruth.

I used to write letters at her dictation, and read to her, not
altogether dry reading, for she dearly loved an amusing book. It was
the "Chronicles of Carlingford" we read, I remember; and how she
praised the whole series, calling them pleasant wholesome pictures of
life. We used to be quite sorry when Rhoda, the rosy-cheeked housemaid,
brought up the little brass kettle, and I had to leave off to make Miss
Ruth's tea. Mr.

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