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Title: The Girls of St. Olave's

Author: Mabel Mackintosh

Release date: December 11, 2008 [eBook #27495]
Most recently updated: May 5, 2011

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Suzanne Shell, lbh and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S ***

THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S

Book Spine.

The Girls of
St. Olave's

BY
MABEL MACKINTOSH

AUTHOR OF
"The Doings of Denys."

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

A Little Figure.
"In the centre of the group was a little figure in a short, black kilted frock."—Page 247.

CONTENTS

CHAP. |  | PAGE
I. | AS GOOD AS GONE | 7
II. | LOVE AND MONEY | 14
III. | A GREAT BIG SHAME | 23
IV. | A SMALL WORLD | 33
V. | A WILD-GOOSE CHASE | 40
VI. | A TICKET FOR ONE | 50
VII. | HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS | 58
VIII. | IN FEAR | 67
IX. | BROTHERS-IN-LAW | 80
X. | A MEAN THING | 89
XI. | WITH A PURPOSE | 98
XII. | MASTER AND MAN | 107
XIII. | BEARDING THE LION | 118
XIV. | AN UNWELCOME GUEST | 129
XV. | THE LAST HOPE | 140
XVI. | LINKS IN A CHAIN | 150
XVII. | MEETING AND PARTING | 161
XVIII. | A BASE TRICK | 174
XIX. | A SUCCESSFUL RAID | 183
XX. | REAPING THE WHIRLWIND | 194
XXI. | THE HIDING-PLACE | 203
XXII. | OUT OF THE NORTH | 217
XXIII. | THE MEETING OF THE WAYS | 224
XXIV. | THE SUN SHINES OUT | 239

CHAPTER I.

AS GOOD AS GONE.

"You won't be any more use to us after this," said Gertrude positively.

A quick flush coloured Denys's cheek.

"Oh, Gertrude! why not?"

"Engaged girls never are the least use to their families," reiterated Gertrude. "All they think about is the postman and their bottom drawer. The family goes to the wall, its interests are no longer of interest, its sewing is no longer necessary, its duties——"

But Denys's good-tempered laugh rippled out and interrupted the flow of eloquence.

"Really, Gertrude! you are too funny!"

"I don't feel at all funny," grumbled Gertrude, half laughing and half ashamed of herself, "only I'm quite busy enough, and I can't be piled up with any of your odds and ends! Talking of bottom drawers," she added, more contented now she had said her say, "if I were you I would put away all your ornaments and vases, or Pattie will break them all before you are married."

Denys's eyes wandered round the room, the dear old night nursery where she had slept with one after another of the babies. The walls were adorned with coloured prints, of which the stories had been told and re-told to Tony and little Jerry and baby Maude, and the odds and ends of little ornaments and carved brackets had each its own history of a birthday or a holiday or a keepsake. There was nothing of value, except in the value of association, and Denys smiled tenderly as she shook her head.

On this evening, when she was just engaged to be married, every association in the room was tugging at her heart, and weaving its threads into the new fabric of joy that was spread out before her.

Gertrude's glance followed hers round the room.

"It isn't a half bad room," she remarked, "only those rubbishy old pictures spoil it. When you are gone I shall have this room and you will see the difference I shall make. What a joke it will be to see you come poking round to see all our arrangements then!"

With a gay little laugh, she rubbed her pretty round cheek against Denys's in a sort of good-night salute and departed, shutting the door behind her.

A moment later she opened it a crack.

"Don't lie awake thinking of him," she said, "you know Conway wants breakfast early."

Left alone at last, Denys gave a sigh of relief. It was just like Gertrude to come up and make arrangements not to be overworked! How Conway would rage if he knew! And this night of all nights in her life!

And then Denys forgot all about Gertrude, and sitting on the rug in front of the fire gave herself up to thinking of her happy future.

It was just like her mother to have lighted a fire for her to sit and dream by. Mother always seemed to think of little bits of comfort to give people.

And she was engaged to be married!

She got up hurriedly, unlocked her desk and took out a little pearl ring which had been her mother's. In the firelight she slipped it on to the third finger of her left hand, and sat down again to contemplate it and all that a similar ring given her by Charlie could mean!

And she would have to call Mrs. Henchman Mother, and Audrey would be her sister!

Her eyes brimmed over with amusement.

What would they all say! Would they be pleased and surprised—her grandmother and Mrs. Henchman and Audrey? Had they ever guessed at what Charlie had made up his mind to three years ago?

Mrs. Henchman had seemed to like her then, but then she had been an ordinary chance visitor coming in for a cup of tea, the granddaughter of Mrs. Henchman's old friend Mrs. Marston. What would she think of her now as her only son's future wife?

The fire was sinking down and Denys rose and lit a candle and looked at herself critically in the glass, and then she laughed into her own face at the ridiculousness of the position. Who would have believed that she, Denys Brougham, on the evening of her engagement day, would have been staring at her own reflection in the glass, trying to find out what her future mother-in-law would think of her!

And Charlie's words came back to her, a fresh and tender memory to be treasured for ever.

"I want to say something to you which I have waited three years to say. I've loved you ever since I've known you."

She slipped her mother's ring from her left hand and put it away. She unbound her bright brown hair with its curly waves, turned by the candle light into a halo of red gold, and laid a happy face upon her pillow.

Not a pretty, piquant face like Gertrude's, quickly smiling or quickly clouded, but a cheerful, reliable face with a pretty, good-tempered smile and kind, gentle eyes; a face that little children smiled back at, and which invalids loved to see bending over them. But the looking-glass did not tell Denys anything of all that.

Upstairs in the so-called spare-room where Tony slept, Charlie was standing at the tall dressing chest trying to describe Denys to his mother.

"I have got the berth I came for," he wrote, "I'll tell you all about it when I come, and I have got Denys! I'm so happy, mother darling, I can't write about it, but she is the prettiest, dearest, sweetest girl, and I know you'll love her."

He could not think of any more to say and he fastened his letter and opened his door a crack. Seeing a light still in the hall, he crept downstairs to find Conway just locking up. He held up his letter with a smile.

"The midnight post?" asked Conway, "not a love letter already!"

"It's to mother," answered Charlie simply.

"I'll show you the way," said Conway politely. "I have my latch-key and it's a lovely night."

It was not far to the post office, and the two young men walked there and back again in silence. Conway, always a silent boy, could think of nothing to say. He felt towards this stranger who, twenty-four hours ago, had been nothing but a name to him, as he might feel towards a burglar who had just stolen his greatest treasure, and who yet had to be treated with more than mere politeness because he now belonged to the family—a combination of feelings which did not tend towards speech.

But Charlie was too engrossed in his happiness to heed either silence or conversation. His mind was busily planning out trains and times for the next day's journey home. What would be the last possible minute that he could give himself at Old Keston?

They reached the house and Conway opened the door with his key and held out his hand.

"Good-night," he said.

Charlie's handshake was a hearty one.

"Good-night!" he said. "Good-night! How long do you reckon it takes to walk to the station?"

Conway smiled to himself as he put up the bolts.

"I wonder," thought he, "I wonder if my turn will ever come!"

CHAPTER II.

LOVE AND MONEY.

"I think," said Charlie, looking across the luncheon table at Mrs. Brougham. "I think that in about five weeks I could get a Friday to Monday, and come down if you will let me——"

"Why, certainly," answered Mrs. Brougham, smiling back at the bright open face opposite her. She really liked him very much, but she shared something of Conway's feeling about the burglar. The idea that Denys belonged in any sense to anybody else, needed a good deal of getting used to.

She had certainly wondered once or twice in the last three years whether young Henchman, who wrote so regularly to Denys, would ever become more than a friend.

Charlie's telegram three days ago saying he had passed his final, and was coming up from Scotland to see about a post and would call at St. Olave's en route, had rather taken away her breath. His call had been only a short one, but he had asked if he might return the following day and tell them whether he had obtained the post.

He had duly returned—successful—with a good berth—with prospects—with life opening out before him, and she had been surprised at the gravity and anxiety that had shadowed his face even when he spoke so hopefully of the good things that had come to him.

But the shadow and the gravity were all gone now. It was only his fear that Denys would not see anything in him to love, that in the three years in which he had worked, and hoped, and loved her, she might have met someone else who was more worthy of her, and to whom she had given the love he so longed to gain. That very evening he had put his fate to the touch, over the nursery fire, while Denys waited to fetch away Tony's light, and now he was bubbling over with fun and laughter, and acting more like a big schoolboy than a sober young man who was contemplating the cares of matrimony.

It seemed to Mrs. Brougham that the world had gone spinning round her in an unprecedented manner in the last twenty-four hours, and she was not sure whether she was on her head or her heels.

Suppose Conway—or Gertrude—why, Reggie Alston wrote to Gertrude as regularly as the weeks went round!—or Willie——

She gave herself a mental shake and scolded herself for letting her head be turned with all these happenings. Why, Conway was only nineteen and Gertrude just eighteen, and what would schoolboy Willie say if she put him into such a line of possibilities!

She brought her thoughts back to the conversation round the table, and found that Charlie was still in the full swing of plans.

"Easter will be four or five weeks after that," he was saying, "and I shall get mother to have you down then, Denys—and Gertrude too," he looked across at Gertrude—"and it will be so jolly, because I shall get a whole week, I am sure, and we should have a lovely time. I'm ever so glad mother has moved to Whitecliff; it won't be nearly such a journey for you as Saltmarsh was."

Denys had opened her lips to reply, but before she could get out a word, Gertrude had answered for her.

"That will be very nice," she said eagerly, "I always count to get a holiday at Easter and I always want to go to the sea, whatever time of year it is. It's very kind of you to ask me."

Charlie's eyes were on Denys. It was his first invitation to her to his own home and she guessed that he felt a great happiness in it, but how could she tell him that while Gertrude always took the Easter holiday because of the school term, she herself always stayed at home then, so that her mother should be sure of having one daughter to help her—and Gertrude had already accepted the invitation!

Before she could frame any answer, a small voice chimed in.

"Maudie wants to go too! Maudie's got a spade and a pail."

There was a laugh all round the table, and Mrs. Brougham said, "My dear child! Mrs. Henchman can't ask all the girls of St. Olave's!"

Her glance met Denys's, and Denys understood that it said, "Accept, darling, I shall be all right!"

Denys looked up at Charlie and accepted the invitation with her own sunny smile. "I feel dreadfully frightened, but I should love to come," she said. "Oh, I do hope your mother will like me!"

"Like you!" echoed Charlie, and then he went crimson to the roots of his hair. "Like you," he repeated half under his breath.

Easter was a long way off, and Denys thought very little more about the proposed visit to Mrs. Henchman, and the present was very full and very interesting. She decided to make some quiet opportunity to speak to her mother about it, but before this opportunity could occur, Gertrude took time by the forelock, as she always did when she was set on a thing.

The two sisters were making marmalade in the kitchen on the morning following Charlie's departure, when Gertrude brought her guns to the attack.

"I say, Denys," she began, "it was very civil of Charlie to invite me to Whitecliff. I saw you opening your mouth to say we could not both go, so I just whipped in and accepted."

"I don't see how we can both go," said Denys gravely.

"No?" said Gertrude, raising her pretty eyebrows. "I suppose not! but you had your chance, and went to grandma's for three months and picked up a good match. Charlie is a very good match and he will be quite comfortably off, and he is pleasant and good-looking and all that! Oh! you have done very well for yourself, Denys, and you are not going to prevent my having my chance."

Denys's cheeks were scarlet. She literally did not know what to say!

Had she made a good match? Had she done very well for herself? Such a view of the case had never entered her head. She thought of what Charlie's prospects had been when she first knew him on that long ago visit to her grandmother.

Who would have said then that Charlie was likely to be comfortably off? How well she remembered Gwyn Bailey's picnic, when Charlie had told her that the positions he had hoped for were closed to him, and that he had no money to enter a profession! She remembered the hopeless ring of his voice as he had said, "now there's nothing."

No! she had not chosen Charlie for any such reason as Gertrude suggested.

She was standing with her back to the scullery, and was quite unaware that behind the half closed door Pattie was quietly peeling potatoes, but her answer could scarcely have been different if she had known it.

"I wish you would not talk so, Gertrude," she said.

"Very likely," said Gertrude calmly, "people often do not care to hear what is nevertheless quite true. And I mean to be pretty well off when I get married, and not to have to scrape and think of every penny, and wonder whether you can afford a new dress just directly you want it. I think it's horrid, and I have always thought it horrid."

"I don't," said Denys, "it seems to me that we have been as happy at home here as any family I know, even though we have had, as you call it, to scrape and think of pennies, and manage our clothes and work hard. I've liked it always and if I loved anyone I would not mind being poor. Mother did not marry anybody rich and she is happy!"

"Ah!" said Gertrude, "it is all very well for you to talk. You have Love and Money. And that's what I mean to have! So I shall go to Whitecliff and get to know fresh people and see what turns up!"

"What about——" began Denys, but she did not finish her sentence. She disliked putting names together, but her thoughts flew off to a Scotch town, where a boy with a merry face and dark twinkling eyes, was working his hardest as a bank-clerk. Reggie Alston had been Gertrude's chum since they were children, and he had never made any secret of the fact that Gertrude was the one girl in the world in his eyes.

But Gertrude divined what Denys had meant to say, and with a light laugh she went away to wash her sticky hands. She was not going to have Reggie Alston thrown at her. Reggie was all very well and Reggie might mean Love, but Reggie would not mean Money.

Turning to see what had become of Gertrude, Denys caught sight of Pattie's interested face.

"I've got a young man, Miss Denys," she said importantly, "he's such a nice, steady young man, Miss, your Mr. Henchman just reminds me of him, and he's just as fond of me as anything, but"—her face fell—"he's not very well off, Miss, not at all, and—and—well! it's rather a pity, as Miss Gertrude's been saying, to marry poor."

"Oh, Pattie!" said Denys earnestly, "don't say that. If you love one another, you can be so happy even if you are poor. If he is steady and nice, that is much more important than being rich."

But Pattie's shake of the head was only the echo of Gertrude's words.

"Love and Money. Love and Money." "It's all very well for you to talk."

CHAPTER III.

A GREAT BIG SHAME.

"It's a shame! that's what it is, a downright shame," cried a woman's voice angrily, "and it's just like you, Jim Adams, to put upon a poor woman so. As if I had not enough trouble with one child, and you want to bring your sister's brat here. I never heard of such a thing."

Jim Adams stood with his broad back turned towards her, and he made no reply.

"Yes! much you care!" she scolded, "but I tell you, Jim Adams, I won't do it! You can write and tell your precious sister she can make other arrangements. You are married now and you can't do just as you like; you've got a wife, and I won't do it! There! you've waked the baby, shouting at me about your sister; but I won't have anybody else's child, so there!"

The lusty crying from the adjoining room continuing, she went in, banging the door behind her, and Jim was left alone, staring doggedly out at the tall houses opposite.

Should he write to his dying sister at Whitecliff and tell her to make other arrangements? What other arrangements could she make? Could she bring back her young sailor husband from his grave in the Red Sea? Could she stay the progress of the cough, the outward sign of the fatal sickness which was bringing her to an early death? Could she send the child, her treasured little boy, to any other relative? Jim knew she could not. Nellie and he had been alone in the world since they were children. If he did not take little Harry, the boy must go into the workhouse.

Should he tell Nellie that she must make that arrangement? He was an easy-going chap, this Jim Adams, too easy-going. He stood six feet one in his socks and was big and broad in proportion, a veritable giant in looks, but his strength was mere physical strength, and he knew it. He was not strong in himself. This was the very first time, since he had known and courted Jane Green, that he had resisted her will for twenty-four hours, and even now he was contemplating the possibility of giving way.

Jane could make herself very disagreeable indeed if she were thwarted. He had had nothing but storming since yesterday morning when Nellie's letter had come, and he had had two half-cooked suppers and a miserable cold breakfast. He did like a good supper, and if this was what it was going to be if he had Harry——

The sound of a gay voice singing on the pathway below, startled him. There were always noises in the street, but this song caught his attention.

"They had not been married a month or more

When underneath her thumb went Jim,

It can't be right for the likes of her

To put upon the likes of him.

It's a great big shame, and if she belonged to me

I'd let her know who's who;

Putting on a fellow six foot three

And her only four foot two!"

Jim smiled grimly to himself; it was so absolutely true. Then his wrath rose. What business had Jack Turner to be singing that ditty under his window? He supposed all the neighbours laughed behind his back at the way his small wife ruled him. If they only had a taste of her nagging tongue they would not, perhaps, laugh so much. He would let them see he was not under Jane's thumb!

He turned at the opening of the bedroom door, prepared to have his say, and there was Jane with their big bouncing baby in her arms. "Here!" she said crossly, "you just get this kid off to sleep, I'm going for the supper beer. I've minded him all day, and I'm tired of him. I believe he wakes up in the evening just to spite me!"

Jim took his baby and his eyes softened as he cuddled the little fellow in his arms. He thought of Nellie's beseeching letter, and he thought of himself as dead and of Jane as dead, and this baby left to face a cold, unloving world. Would not Nellie have taken him? Would she not have been a mother to him?

Oh! he knew she would. Nellie had been as a mother to himself ever since they were children together.

Not for what the neighbours would say, nor for triumphing over Jane, but for love's sake, he would take Nellie's child and be a father to him.

That was settled finally, but Jane had gone for the beer and there was no one to listen to his determination.

As he sat there rocking his baby, there was one sentence in Nellie's letter that came back to his mind and disturbed it.

"Dear Jim, you'll teach my little Harry about our Saviour, won't you? I've done my best, but children forget so quickly! Tell him that Jesus Christ is our best Friend."

Our best Friend! A stab of pain shot through Jim's heart. Nellie's best Friend, perhaps, but not his, not our best Friend, little sister Nellie!

The baby dropped asleep, but Jane had not returned. She was no doubt enjoying herself at the Green Dragon.

He rose and with the lamp in his disengaged hand, went into the bedroom and laid the baby down, and covered him up warm.

He would make a cup of tea for himself, as Jane had not brought the beer. He wished Jane would give up beer, she might be getting a bit too fond of it, and he would give it up himself if she would.

He rather enjoyed making his tea and a couple of pieces of toast, and setting it out neatly. His supper had left him unsatisfied in every way.

As he poured out his first cup of tea there was a tap at the door, and on his calling out, "Come in," a young fellow, so like Jane as to be instantly recognised as her brother, entered.

"Hullo!" said he.

"Hullo, Tom! What's brought you over to-night? Will you have a cup of tea?"

"That I will!" said Tom. "Where's Jane?"

"Gone for the beer," said Jim shortly.

"You'd be a deal better off and a deal happier, both of you, if you didn't take any of that stuff," said Tom. "It makes Jane quarrelsome, I'm certain of it."

"I'd give it up if she would," said Jim valiantly. Then he added in a shamefaced sort of way, "you see, when I do give it up for a bit, she has it, and the smell and everything—well, I want it again!"

Tom nodded, gulped down his tea and set down his cup.

"You asked what brought me over," he said. "Pattie has given me up!"

"What!" demanded Jim incredulously, "given you up! Why?"

Tom's face worked. He was a simple-hearted fellow, and he loved foolish little worldly-minded Pattie very dearly.

"I believe," he said unsteadily, "I believe it's money what's done it. She was always so fond of me, was Pattie, and I thought she loved me with all her heart, as I did her. But one of her young ladies has got engaged to a gentleman as is pretty well off, and I s'pose—in fact, Pattie allowed it was so—they got talking, as girls will, and it's turned Pattie's head. 'She don't want to marry poor'—them's just her words—and so she's——"

"Chucked you," said Jim grimly.

Tom sighed deeply. "I told her as my wage, though not big, was reg'lar, winter and summer, and that was better than a big wage in the summer and being out of work in the winter; and I don't drink—nor smoke—and them two things makes a hole in any fellow's wages; but there—talking ain't no good—argufying don't bring love. I suppose she don't care for me and that's all about it." He reached out his cup for more tea and gulped it down; it seemed to help him to gulp down his feelings.

"I feel a bit done," he said after a minute's silence. "I'll be better to-morrow. I never thought as how my love-making would end like this."

Jim got up and gave him a hearty thump on his back.

"Don't you be downhearted," he said, "you keep on steady and wait a bit. You'll be seeing her looking downhearted soon, you mark my word, and then you can step up and say, 'Is't me you want, my girl?' You're a right down good fellow, Tom, and she don't know yet what she's giving up."

Tom looked a little more cheerful. "You can tell Jane," he said, rising to go.

"That's her on the stairs," answered Jim. "I'm going off to bed, so you can stay and tell her yourself. She's out of sorts with me."

So Jane, with her jug of supper beer, found only her brother waiting for her.

She greeted him effusively, and insisted on spreading the table afresh with meat and bread and cheese, talking incessantly and laughing loud and long as she did so, and Tom, knowing what it meant, wished he had gone before her return.

But being there and having come on purpose, in a moment's lull in her stream of talk, he told her about Pattie.

Her anger against Pattie was unbounded. She hugged Tom and called him "poor dear," till he pushed her away, and then she said she would pay the girl out. She would make her repent having used an honest fellow like that! She was going into Old Keston on Monday for a day's charring, and she knew well enough where Pattie lived. The garden of the house where she worked ran down to Pattie's garden, and she would give Pattie a bit of her mind.

"Then I hope you won't see her," said Tom. "I don't want any words. Words won't make her care for me, and that's all I wanted."

He turned to the door, but Jane intercepted him with the jug of supper beer.

"Have a glass, Tom, my lad! It'll comfort you and make you forget your troubles. There's a deal of comfort in a glass when you're low-spirited."

But the jug was struck from her hand and lay in twenty pieces on the floor, and the beer ran hurriedly over the boards and sank away between the crevices as if anxious to hide itself. "You dare to tempt me!" said Tom hoarsely.

CHAPTER IV.

A SMALL WORLD.

"Does you want a boat?"

Such a soft, clear little voice! Denys turned quickly and looked up, but her eyes had to come down again to the yellow sand on which she sat. There was no one near enough to have spoken to her but a mite of a boy in petticoats, with bare feet and yellow hair and brilliant blue eyes.

"Hullo!" said the little voice again, "does you want a boat?"

"No, thank you," she answered with a tender smile; she had heard no voice like this voice, since little Jerry died. It was as if Jerry himself had come back to her.

"Why doesn't you want one?" insisted the child.

"I have no one to row me," she said.

He looked down at his little brown hands and then up in her face. "When I'm a man I'll row you! I'm going to be a sailor like my dad was!"

"What is your name, dear?"

"Harry! Harry Lyon!"

He stood with his little brown legs apart, gazing at her.

"My dad's dead! That's his grave," he said, with a wave of his hand.

"Where?" said Denys aghast.

He pointed to the dancing waves. "What colour does you call that sea? Does you know colours?" he asked gravely.

"Why, yes! I know them. The sea is blue."

Harry shook his head unbelievingly.

"It's a red sea where my dad is?" he said.

"Where is your mother?"

Harry nodded inland, and a shadow fell over his sturdy little face.

"She's always coughing—she don't come out with Harry no more," he said, plaintively. Then his tone brightened. "She's going away somewheres; she's going to get quite well—it's along of Jesus, our best Friend—and I'm going with her," he added determinately.

There was a pause. Denys felt a great compassion for the little chap. She wondered what would happen to him when mother got quite well, and yet—with Jesus for best Friend—need she have wondered?

The child's next words effectually startled her out of her thoughts.

"Give us a penny!" he said.

"Oh, Harry! it's naughty to ask for pennies!"

"Give us a ha'penny then," he coaxed.

But Denys only shook her head and laughed at him, and at that moment Gertrude and a young fellow sauntered up to her.

"We have had a lovely row!" exclaimed Gertrude gaily. "Mr. Greyburne made the boat fly. It's such a little light thing, just made for two! Where is Mrs. Henchman?"

"She was not feeling well enough to come out," answered Denys, "and Audrey's school has not broken up yet."

"I'm afraid you have been dull," said Cecil Greyburne politely; "but you are going to cycle to Brensted Woods with us this afternoon?"

"Denys ought not to be dull," said Gertrude easily. "She has letters to write and to read, and she counts the hours till Charlie comes, and she has to do the pretty to her future mother-in-law. You see, I have not all these occupations. Denys! I am sure it is lunchtime!"

Denys rose and shook the sand from her dress.

"Mrs. Henchman wanted us all to walk to the Landslip this afternoon," she said. "She has ordered a donkey-chair and we shall have tea at the Cottage. Could not you join our party, Mr. Greyburne? We can hardly run away!"

"Oh, how horrid!" exclaimed Gertrude, "you know how I hate walking. I shall get out of it somehow. Mr. Greyburne and I can cycle there and join you at tea. How will that do, Mr. Greyburne?"

Cecil glanced at Denys, and his eyes passed on to Gertrude's merry, sparkling face. She was really good fun to ride out with, and it was turning out to be a much jollier Easter holiday than he had anticipated. He did not exactly see why he should sacrifice himself to walking beside a slow donkey-chair, when the prettiest girl he had ever known invited him to a cycle ride. If she could get out of the walk he was quite ready to second her. "I'll come up at any time you name, and be ready for anything that is wanted of me," he said gallantly. He felt he had handled a difficult decision very neatly.

As the two girls tidied their hair for lunch, Denys said very earnestly,

"Gertrude! we really can't run away from Mrs. Henchman this afternoon; it is not polite or—or—anything!"

"You can't, but I can," retorted Gertrude, "and I'm going to. You are not going to condemn me to a slow walk when I can have a nice spin with Cecil. I'll arrange it with Mrs. Henchman, and she'll be quite satisfied if you don't interfere."

She ran downstairs and went gaily into the dining-room.

"So I hear you are going to take us all to the Landslip, and have tea at the Cottage, Mrs. Henchman," she said, sitting down beside her affectionately; "and Denys has asked Cecil Greyburne to go too, and he and I are going to cycle instead of walk. Denys said you would not like it, but I knew you would not mind."

And Mrs. Henchman answered as Gertrude had meant she should.

"Not at all, my dear! I want you to enjoy yourself while you are here."

"Oh, I am!" answered Gertrude, very heartily and very truthfully. She cast a little triumphant look at Denys. She was certainly enjoying herself immensely. They had been at Whitecliff the larger half of a week already, and Cecil Greyburne, an old school friend of Charlie's, had dropped in to call on Mrs. Henchman the first evening, and since then he had called in or met the girls constantly. Mrs. Henchman had not been very well since their arrival, and Audrey was very engrossed with the end-of-term examinations, and Gertrude found it convenient to assume that Denys ought to be entertaining her future relatives or writing to Charlie; she, therefore, monopolised Cecil to such an extent, that every day it happened as it had happened that morning: Denys sat alone on the beach or wandered about on the cliff, and Gertrude, with a lightly uttered "Oh, Denys is busy somewhere," had gone cycling or rowing or primrose hunting with Cecil.

Mrs. Henchman had ordered her donkey-chair for three o'clock, and shortly before that hour Gertrude came bustling in from the garden.

She found Denys in the hall collecting cushions and shawls, for though the April sun was unusually warm there was a sharp touch in the wind.

"I say, Denys!" she exclaimed. "I have borrowed your machine—I have bent my pedal somehow, and you won't want yours."

CHAPTER V.

A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.

Donkeys are proverbially obstinate animals, and Mrs. Henchman's this afternoon proved no exception to the rule. He had evidently made up his mind that the road to the Landslip was not a congenial one. In vain the boy who drove him cheered him onwards, in vain Denys tugged at his bridle, in vain Audrey walked in front holding out an inviting thistle. At length Mrs. Henchman got flurried and nervous.

"Boy!" she called, "what is your name?"

The boy turned a smiling round face, "Billy Burr, ma'am!"

"Billy Burr! if you can't make your donkey go, I shall get out."

"If you please, ma'am," answered Billy Burr serenely, "it's not my donkey. That's why he won't go, ma'am! It's Dickie Lowe's donkey, but he's got a cold and he had to save up for to-night, ma'am, to sing in the Stainer. Whoa—there—get on, you! That's better!"

The donkey broke into a trot, and Denys and Audrey and Billy were forced to do the same, but in a minute that was over and the donkey appeared to have recovered his right mind and walked on stolidly. Billy and Denys walking at his bridle fell into a confidential chat.

"I told Dickie how it would be," Billy said apologetically, "this one won't go for nobody else and the other one was lame."

"Are you going to sing in Stainer's Crucifixion to-night at All Saints'?" asked Denys with interest. "I am going to hear it. Are you one of the boys of All Saints'? One of Miss Dolly Allan's boys?"

Billy nodded cheerily, "Do you know her?" he inquired. "When is she coming down again?"

But the donkey had come to a standstill, and the party were forced to do the same.

"It is perfectly ridiculous going on like this," exclaimed Audrey. "We are a laughing stock to the neighbourhood! Billy Burr, if that is your name, why don't you give the animal a good thrashing and make him go?"

"'Twouldn't be no use," said Billy vexedly. "I'm real sorry, ma'am. Would you like to try another road? It's just the road he's taken offence at."

"No, indeed! the only road I shall go is home again," cried Mrs. Henchman. "It's too bad, though, to spoil all my afternoon like this. Turn him round, boy, and let us get back as fast as possible. It's a wasted afternoon."

"He'll go all right that way," said Billy.

"But what about Gertrude and Mr. Greyburne?" said Denys as the little cavalcade turned back. Oh, how she wished Gertrude had been more amenable and had not broken up the party.

"I am sure I should not trouble about them," said Audrey walking on, "I don't know why Gertrude did not stay with her hostess!"

"Yes!" said Mrs. Henchman, too worried and annoyed to remember what she had said to make it easy for Gertrude, "that is just what I thought. Now, what is to be done? I am not going home by myself with this donkey for anybody."

Denys was ready to cry with vexation, and yet as Gertrude and Cecil had been told to wait at the cottage till they came, they could not be left there indefinitely. She ignored the remarks on Gertrude with what grace she could, and tried to make the best of the situation.

"We can all go back together," she said soothingly, "and then I must go and find Gertrude and tell her how unfortunate we have been."

"You could cycle," suggested Audrey, relenting a little.

Denys shook her head, "Gertrude has my bicycle," she said; "something has happened to hers. Oh, I can easily walk."

"Mine has gone wrong too," said Audrey. "Look here, mother, surely I am capable of taking you home. I've looked after you all these years without help! If Denys has got to walk she had far better go straight on."

"Whatever you like," said Mrs. Henchman wearily. "I shall be truly thankful to be safe back in my own bedroom. I shall have a heart attack, I know! Go on, boy, at once!"

Denys stood and watched them out of sight, the donkey going quite amiably now, and then she turned to her own path. How tiresome it was! and oh, how disagreeable to have got into a bother with those she so much wished to please, through no fault of her own.

But Charlie was coming down that evening, and when he came everything would be all right!

She trudged on cheerily after that, trying to plan out the time between now and half-past seven, when she was to meet Charlie at the station, and they were to go together to hear Stainer's Crucifixion sung at All Saints'.

It was wonderfully pretty in the Landslip, though the trees were only just showing a green tinge in the sunlight, but she hurried on as fast as she could, and reached the cottage at last.

It was a pretty little ivy-clad cottage, with a bench outside and a table set invitingly for visitors, but the bench was unoccupied, and she looked about in vain for any sign of Gertrude or Cecil.

Upon inquiry she found that she was the first visitor that afternoon. People had hardly come down yet, the woman explained; they generally came into Whitecliff this evening, Thursday, and this was a favourite Good Friday walk.

Denys sat down to wait and had not been seated long, before the little voice that was so like Jerry's, fell upon her ear.

"Hullo!" said little Harry, peeping round the door at her.

"How did you come here?" asked Denys, but before she could get a reply, a sound of terrible coughing came from within, and a voice said, "Harry! Harry! you've left the door open!"

Harry darted back, but returned very quickly. He seemed to like talking to Denys, but while she talked, Denys was watching for Gertrude and listening to that rending cough. Harry seemed to listen to it too. "That's mother," he said, "aren't you coming to see her?"

"Oh, no!" said Denys shrinkingly, "she would not like it."

Harry was off with his little petticoats flying, and was back again like a flash.

"She wants you," he said triumphantly, "she's been a-listening to your voice!"

He seized her hand, and led her into a little room behind the parlour, and on a low bed by the open window Denys saw a young woman with a pretty face, so like Harry's as to proclaim her his mother at once.

She looked up at Denys with a smile.

"Harry told me about you this morning," she said. "Won't you sit down, Miss? It is very kind of you to come in."

Denys sat down. The window commanded a view of the garden gate, so she was in no danger of missing Gertrude. She wondered whatever had become of her.

She found Mrs. Lyon very easy to talk to—and while Denys and his mother chatted, Harry climbed into the bed and fell fast asleep.

Mrs. Lyon looked down at him tenderly.

"It's hard to leave him," she said softly, "oh, so hard! My brother, Jim, who lives at Mixham Junction, has promised to take him, but I don't know what his wife is like. Jim don't never say much about her, and he'd be sure to if she was the right one for him, but Jim will be good to him, I know, and the Lord Jesus is our best Friend and He is the Good Shepherd. I often have to say that to myself to comfort myself."

"Yes!" said Denys, sympathetically, her eyes on the almost baby face nestled on the pillow, her thoughts busy with wondering whether she could have left Jerry so trustingly in God's care. And Jerry had been her brother, not her child. She felt she could more willingly have had Jerry die, than have died herself and left him to other people to care for.

Her thoughts came back to the present with a start. "Mixham Junction!" she said, "that is only five miles from my home in Old Keston!"

The sick woman's face flushed and she laid her hand beseechingly on Denys's.

"Oh, Miss!" she said, "would you—would you sometimes—just sometimes go and see my Harry, just to let them know there is somebody as takes an interest, that he isn't quite friendless, and you could remind him of Jesus? I'm not sure about Jim's doing that. Would you, Miss?"

Once more Denys looked at the little face, and thought of Jerry.

"Yes!" she said, "while I am in Old Keston or going there to see mother, and while Harry is in Mixham, I certainly will."

Nellie Lyon's eyes filled with tears.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said.

Denys rose. A glance at her watch had told her it was getting very late. What could have become of Gertrude?

She went out once more. No one at all like the missing couple had come. Indeed she herself had been sitting in full view of the gate for more than an hour. Already the sun was sinking and the air was growing chill, and a mist was gathering under the trees in the Landslip. If she waited much longer she would have a dreary enough walk under those trees in the dusk. It was not a cheerful prospect, and what would Charlie think if she were not at the station to meet him?

That and the growing darkness decided her. Hastily scribbling a note to be left with the woman in case Gertrude and Cecil turned up, she hurried away.

It was not a pleasant walk. The sea sounded mournfully at the foot of the rocks below her, and the darkness under the trees was not reassuring, and seemed to fall deeper each moment. She wished she had taken the upper, though much longer road, or that she had started half an hour earlier and left Gertrude and Cecil to their own devices. Even when the moon, the great round moon, came up out of the sea and shone through the trees upon her path, it only seemed to make the shadows blacker and more eerie, till she remembered that it was the Easter moon, and thought of Him who had knelt beneath the trees of Gethsemane under that moon, on this night of His agony.

After that, thinking of Him, she did not feel afraid, and at last she rang at Mrs. Henchman's door.

Audrey ran out to open it.

"Well! I thought you were never coming! Where are the others?"

"I don't know," said Denys, "I can't think."

CHAPTER VI.

A TICKET FOR ONE.

As Cecil very justly observed to Gertrude, it was a perfect afternoon for a ride, and the two went gaily along the upper road to the Landslip, till they came to a sign-post in a place where four roads met.

Gertrude jumped off her machine and stood gazing up at the directions indicated.

"You see!" she observed, "we have lots of time before that slow donkey gets there. We might make a detour and get into the road again later on. We don't want to sit staring down the Landslip till they arrive. Besides, we've seen it all yesterday, haven't we?"

Cecil acquiesced. It amused him to see Gertrude's cool way of arranging matters, and it was certainly less trouble to be entertained and directed hither and thither than to take the initiative and entertain. At any rate it was a change.

But bicycles, like donkeys, are not always satisfactory means of locomotion. The pair had not gone much further when Gertrude's tyre punctured, and a halt was called while Cecil repaired it.

Cecil was not a good workman; he made a long job of it, and when at last they started again, time was getting on and they had but reached a small colony of houses when Gertrude exclaimed that her tyre was down again.

She glanced round at the little cluster of houses. "There's a cycle shop," she said, "and a tea shop next door. How convenient. We had better have the punctured tyre mended for us and we can have tea while we wait!"

Cecil obediently wheeled her cycle into one shop and followed her into the second.

He found her seated at a little table, examining the watch on her wrist.

"Guess what the time is," she said laughing. "Let us hope they won't wait tea for us at the Landslip, for I am sure we shall never get there! The woman here says there is no way of getting there except by going back to the cross-road!"

Cecil looked rather blank. He had not at all counted on failing to keep the appointment at the cottage, or on running the risk of thereby offending Mrs. Henchman, and where would be his promise to himself of making it up to Audrey at tea-time?

However, the tea was already being placed on the table, a plate of cakes was at his elbow, and Gertrude was asking if he took milk and sugar.

He shrugged his shoulders mentally. "In for a penny, in for a pound," he said to himself, "here I am and I may as well enjoy myself."

So while Denys waited and watched for them in the Landslip cottage, these two laughed and ate and chatted and at last mounted their bicycles and rode off back to Whitecliff in a leisurely manner, arriving five minutes after Audrey, dressed in her very best white frock, had departed to her breaking-up school concert, leaving Denys to hastily change her dress, eat a much-needed tea and rush up to the station to meet Charlie.

Gertrude came in with her usual easy manner.

"Well!" she said, "here we are! Where is everybody? Did you think we were lost?"

"I am awfully sorry we missed," said Cecil quickly. "The fact is we got into a road that did not go there at all, and then Miss Gertrude had a puncture, and then a second, and by the time we got back to the right road we knew it was too late to do anything."

Gertrude looked at the tea-table approvingly.

"I will ask you to tea, Cecil, as Denys does not. Where is Mrs. Henchman, Denys? You don't seem very communicative to-night."

"She is lying down till Charlie comes," said Denys. "We had a bother with the donkey and it upset her. Audrey had to come back with her and I went on to the Landslip to find you. I have only just got back. Audrey has gone to her concert; she was able to get a ticket for you after all, and she said she was sorry she could not wait for you, as she was playing, but she would come and speak to you in the interval."

Gertrude glanced at the ticket and tossed it on to the table.

"I shan't go all by myself," she said, "I shall go and hear the Stainer. I shall like it much better; it is too utterly dull to sit by one's self."

Denys's heart sank. She had so counted on this treat alone with Charlie, and had secretly been much pleased when Audrey and Gertrude had planned to go to the concert together, and now here she was saddled with Gertrude's company. Besides, what would Audrey say?

She poured out the tea and as she put milk into the third cup, she almost smiled.

She had forgotten Cecil! Of course, though there was but one ticket for the concert, there were no tickets needed for the Church!

But she herself must start for the station almost immediately, and the Service of Song was not till eight o'clock. She must leave the couple behind her, and then if Gertrude changed her mind again and stayed at home after all, what would Mrs. Henchman think when she came downstairs and found them amusing themselves over the drawing-room fire?

Somehow since she came to Whitecliff, Denys had felt bewildered and out of touch with God, and had forgotten her usual habit of praying about the little everyday worries and perplexities; but now suddenly, fresh from the walk under the moonlit trees which had reminded her of Gethsemane, as she stood with the teapot in her hand, she bethought her of the words, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble," and with the remembrance of Him, came the suggestion of what she had better do.

She would run up and say good-bye to Mrs. Henchman and tell her what they were all planning for the evening, and then the responsibility would be no longer on her shoulders.

And even as she decided this, Cecil looked up from a perusal of Audrey's concert ticket.

"If neither of you want this ticket," he said, "I think I will take it. I would like to hear Audrey play, and she will feel it dull if there is nobody there that she knows."

Denys looked up gratefully.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she said. "I was afraid she would be very disappointed to see no one. That is really kind."

Gertrude pouted openly.

"Look here, Denys!" she said, "mind you and Charlie look out for me!"

That little touch of God's hand had made all the difference to Denys.

"All right," she said cheerfully, "we will do our best."

She ran lightly upstairs and knocked softly at Mrs. Henchman's door.

She found Mrs. Henchman lying on her sofa beside a bright little fire, and after telling her their plans, she bent down and kissed her affectionately.

"Shall you be lonely with us all out?" she asked solicitously.

"I daresay I shall be all right, my dear," Mrs. Henchman replied, a little grudgingly. This weakness which had come upon her in the last few months was a sore trial—not an accepted trial—under which she chafed and fretted day by day.

Denys longed to be able to say, "I will gladly stay and keep you company," but then Charlie had arranged this evening's engagement and she knew Mrs. Henchman would not allow it to be altered.

Instead, she said, "Will Mary come up, and see if you want anything?"

"I really can't say, my dear. Mary is a funny person. Run along now or you will be late for Charlie."

Denys left her, but as she passed down the stairs she saw the kitchen door ajar, and with a sudden impulse she tapped at it.

"Mary!" she said, "we are all going out. You will take care of Mrs. Henchman, won't you?"

"Well, Miss!" Mary's tone and face were indignant. "I always do take care of Mrs. Henchman."

Denys retreated.

"Oh, dear!" she said to herself as she closed the front door behind her. "I am afraid I have made a mistake."

CHAPTER VII.

HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS.

It seemed to Denys as if she had never felt so absolutely happy, so blissfully content, as she did when with Charlie's arm tucked into hers, they left the station together and made their way down the steep hill to the church.

All the worries of the day and the worries of the yesterdays had slipped from her, and not even the thought of Gertrude, awaiting them in the church porch, had power to disturb her.

Charlie and she were together, and before them stretched the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds of a whole week! A whole, long, lovely week, of which only five minutes had already gone! Charlie's voice, his dear, familiar voice, though it only spoke of the trivialities of his journey, seemed like music to her. She did not know how her heart had hungered for him, till she felt how satisfied she was now in his presence.

They reached the church before she thought it possible; Gertrude was not in the porch, and Denys paused a moment in the doorway and glanced about for her. Yes! there she was, some distance down the aisle, comfortably ensconced between Mrs. Henchman's medical man, Dr. Wyatt, and his sister, and as Denys descried her, she turned her pretty face to answer some remark of the doctor's and caught sight of Denys and Charlie, and her smile and shake of the head were easily translated.

"She is not going to sit with us," said Charlie, "so that's all right."

It was nearly eight o'clock, and Denys, full of her happy thoughts, let her eyes wander round the church, noting its pillars, its high arched roof, its electric lights, and the ever-increasing crowd which moved softly up the aisle till every seat that she could see was occupied.

And then came the choir. She watched their faces eagerly. Would she recognise Billy Burr? And which was Dickie Lowe? Ah! those two must be the golden-haired twins about whom Mr. Owen had told her and Charlie three years ago, now no longer the foremost in the little procession, but as unknowable apart as ever, as they preceded the tenors. And there, behind all, was Mr. Owen's familiar face! Denys knelt with all the congregation, waiting and longing to hear his deep, strong voice in the collects which began the service. But it was a curate who read the prayers, and the words passed unheeded over Denys's head, for her heart was back in Saltmarsh among the days when she had first known Mr. Owen and Charlie.

So the music began and a voice rose plaintively—

"And they came to a place called Gethsemane."

The words came into the midst of Denys's wandering thoughts with a startling suddenness. She saw again the darkness gathering under the trees, the black shadows of the bushes and the Easter moon above!

"Could ye not watch with Me one brief hour?"

How the voice rang down the church!

What had she come there for?

To think of Charlie—of her happiness? She could have stayed at home to do that.

Was it for the music she had come? No, for mere music she would not have come out on this first evening of Charlie's return.

For what had she come then?

"Could ye not watch with Me one brief hour?"

The tender words stole down into the depths of her heart and stirred it to a tenderness that she had never felt for her Saviour before. She seemed, as the organ sounded out the Processional to Calvary, to be one of the crowd gathering round the lonely figure in the Via Dolorosa, and to be passing out through the gates of the city with the triumphant song—

Fling wide the Gates!

Fling wide the Gates!

For the Saviour waits

To tread in His royal way!

He has come from above

In His power and love,

To die on this Passion Day.

The triumph of it, and the humiliation of it engrossed her.

How sweet is the grace of His sacred face,

And lovely beyond compare!

So with her eyes on His face, her feet following His pathway of sorrow, forgetful of all else, she went on with Him to the end.

It was over!

The congregation passed out again under the starlit, moonlit sky, and left the church with the words—

All for Jesus, all for Jesus!

still echoing softly amid the arches of the roof.

It was a very bright and lively party that sat round Mrs. Henchman's supper-table that night. Mrs. Henchman, with Charlie beside her, seemed brightest of all, and yet Denys fancied—was it only fancy?—that when her hostess spoke to her or glanced at her, there was a coldness in her voice and glance that she had not seen before. Audrey divided her attentions between her brother and Cecil Greyburne, with whose appearance at the concert she had been much gratified; but as the meal progressed, Denys began to notice that Audrey did not by any chance speak to her, and kept her eyes studiously in another direction.

A shadow fell over Denys's happiness, but she drove it away with her usual good-tempered large-mindedness. This was the first time that Mrs. Henchman and Audrey had had to realise that Charlie was no longer exclusively their own, and of course they felt that she was the cause! They would be all right to-morrow.

But when Mary came in to clear the supper, Denys began to think that there might be something more than that the matter, for Mary's indignant and lowering look at her suddenly reminded her of that unfortunate moment in the kitchen before she started out to meet Charlie. She grew hot all over. Surely Mary could not have taken serious offence at what she had said!

She had no opportunity to do more than think of the possibility, before she found herself politely but unceremoniously hustled off to bed, and as she and Gertrude left the drawing-room, an unconscious backward glance showed her Mrs. Henchman cosily pulling forward a couple of armchairs to the fireside.

Well! it was natural, of course.

Up in her room she began laying away her hat and jacket and putting out the dress she would need in the morning, when, after a hasty knock, Audrey entered, and carefully closed the door behind her.

"Look here, Denys," she said, a little breathlessly, "I have come up to say that I do think it is too bad of you to go upsetting our servant. When I came home I found mother in an awful state—perfectly awful—and all through your interfering with Mary, and telling her to take care of mother! Of course, Mary did not like it, and poor mother had to bear it all alone. It is a shame."

So Mary had not taken care of Mrs. Henchman, but had gone up and complained of Denys. That much was clear!

It did not help Denys that she could see Gertrude, as she brushed out her long, dark hair, shaking with suppressed laughter, but before she could think of anything to say to defend herself, Audrey had begun again.

"I never thought we should have an interfering daughter-in-law," she said. "You are not Mrs. Henchman yet to give orders to our servant! Mother is awfully annoyed, and as to Charlie——!"

Denys drew herself up a little.

"I think, Audrey," she said coldly, "that quite enough has been said about this. I had not the faintest thought of being interfering. I only spoke to Mary as I should have thought any visitor in my home might speak to our maid, if mother were alone and ill. And I think that it would have been more suitable if your mother or Charlie had spoken to me themselves about it. I will tell them to-morrow how very, very sorry I am your mother has been upset."

"Oh, I hope you will do nothing of the kind," cried Audrey. "Do let her forget it, if possible, poor thing! And as for Charlie, of course, mother does not annoy him with worries the first five minutes he is in the house, and why should he be made angry? as he would be if he knew. Pray let the whole matter drop."

Denys was silent, and Audrey went away, shutting the door noisily.

"Well!" said Gertrude, when her footsteps had died away, "now I may laugh in peace! I don't congratulate you on the tempers of your future relations, Denys." But Denys was too utterly overset to attempt defence or condemnation. Great tears welled up into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as fast as she wiped them away. She was glad that Gertrude took her side, but she felt that Gertrude's own vagaries had helped not a little, in the avalanche of blame which had fallen upon her head.

She could not go to sleep. She lay in the darkness, her pillow wet with those great tears which she could not seem to stop, her mind going backwards and forwards over it all unceasingly, in a maze of useless regrets and annoyance, until suddenly a melody she had heard that evening seemed to float into her mind.

Oh, come unto Me!

Oh, come unto Me! Oh, come unto Me!

Ah, there was rest there!

To the rhythm of the soft, soothing melody she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN FEAR.

Denys rose the next morning pale and heavy-eyed. Charlie and she had arranged overnight to be out at seven to take an early stroll on the sea front, and as she dressed, Denys's thoughts were busy with how she should meet everybody, and how much or how little it was best to say about last night's cause of offence.

She was somewhat startled to find Gertrude's bright eyes fixed upon her.

"My dear Denys!" said she, "if you don't want to be the first to tell Charlie of this ridiculous affair, don't go down with that face! Look as happy as you did last night, or he will be asking questions."

Denys coloured faintly.

"I don't know what to do about it," she sighed.

"If you don't want a thing talked about, don't talk about it," answered Gertrude sagely. "If ever I am engaged and my fiancé's relations try sitting on me, I shall soon show them that it is a game two can play."

She stopped to laugh at some secret remembrance, and Denys's thoughts flew once again to that far-off Scotch town and the dark-haired boy with merry, twinkling eyes. Not a very auspicious remark for Reggie, who had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother!

"I'll tell you what I was laughing at," pursued Gertrude, who was most wonderfully wide awake and talkative this morning. "Do you remember Reggie's getting me a ticket to see the King give the medals for the South African War, at the Horse Guards? Reggie's cousin had a medal, you know. It was rather a crush, and of course Reggie wanted us to be in a good place, and we certainly were. Well, behind me there was a big stout woman, and oh! how she leant on me—just on my shoulders! I shall never forget the feel of it! At last I got perfectly tired of it and I thought of a plan. She was stout and soft and broad, and I just leant right back on her—on her chest. It was simply restful. After a bit, of course, I stood up properly, when I had got over the tiredness a little!"

"My dear Gertrude." Denys's laugh rang out involuntarily.

"She did not try that little dodge again," said Gertrude, laughing too. "Denys, don't put on that horrid red blouse."

"But I've nothing else!" objected Denys.

"Nothing else! Why, there's that sweet white nun's veiling. I've wanted 'the fellow to it,' as Grandma used to say when she did not wish to covet her neighbour's goods, ever since you made it. Put that on and astonish the natives and be done with it!"

Denys lifted out the white blouse obediently. It certainly suited her, and her laugh at Gertrude had brought a colour into her cheeks. She suddenly guessed that Gertrude had waked herself up on purpose to amuse her and change her thoughts and she bent quickly over the pillow and gave Gertrude's soft cheek a grateful sisterly kiss.

"Now shall I do?" she asked, straightening herself up.

"Ar," said Gertrude emphatically. "Now!" mimicking Denys's own tone, "don't be late for breakfast, my dear."

And Denys ran downstairs smiling! Gertrude had got pretty, entertaining ways. It was no wonder people liked her.

Charlie was waiting for her in the hall.

"You look as bright as the morning," he said; "isn't it delicious to be out so early?"

They strolled up and down the empty parade, enjoying themselves immensely, though every now and then a sickening fear of what the approaching breakfast hour might bring, swept over Denys. But she determined to stick to Gertrude's advice and say nothing to anyone unless positively obliged.

They turned homeward at last, and as they caught sight of the church tower, Charlie said,

"What did you think of doing this morning?"

Denys's eyes looked eager, but she thought of Mrs. Henchman and the two armchairs over the fire last night, and she hesitated to produce a plan that would monopolise Charlie for herself.

"What would you like?" she said.

"Well, I thought that you and I, at any rate, would go to church together this morning. The others, of course, must choose for themselves, but I should not feel happy to do anything else myself."

Denys's eyes lighted up.

"I am so glad," she said, "that is just what I wished."

"Mother told me about the donkey," pursued Charlie. "Poor mother, it quite put her about! So I told her I should hire a nice little wicker bath chair and I should push her, and we would all go to the Landslip this afternoon and have a nice walk together. Only we'll start at two, while the sunshine lasts, and we can get Cecil and one or two more to join us."

"That will be lovely!" said Denys, "and I will see that poor Mrs. Lyon and little Harry. Oh, I wish I had bought some grapes yesterday. I absolutely forgot that the shops would be shut."

"Oh! I'll get you some," said Charlie. "I know the back door of a greengrocer's shop, and I'll go and thump till he opens it."

They were in excellent time for breakfast, and so was Gertrude; but Denys found the meeting of her offended friends was to be an agony long drawn out, for Mrs. Henchman had sent down word that she should breakfast in bed, and that Charlie might wait upon her. Audrey was already seated behind the teapot with an aggressive little air which seemed to say, "Behold the daughter of the house," but with Charlie's eyes upon her she greeted Denys at least civilly, and she and Gertrude appeared to be on the best of terms.

By-and-by Cecil Greyburne turned up, and Denys left the three deep in discussion over the morning's plans, and went to get ready for church, calling in on Mrs. Henchman on her way upstairs.

She found her dressed on her sofa, with Charlie in an arm-chair on the opposite side of the fire; she stayed a minute or two with them and went on to her room, feeling glad that the first meeting with Mrs. Henchman was over and nothing had been said. Oh, if she could only know that nothing more would be said! Then she could try and go on cheerfully and endeavour to forget that anything disagreeable had happened.

She and Charlie found All Saints' far more crowded than they had anticipated, the result being, that as they waited with many others in the aisle, Denys found herself put into a row where there was but one seat, and she could only look helplessly on while Charlie was marched by the verger, who knew him but did not know Denys, right up to the front.

Yet, after the first moment of chagrin, Denys felt a vague relief in being alone. Alone, in a crowd, with no eyes upon her that knew her, alone with herself and God.

The prayers, the familiar Sunday prayers seemed to have a new significance on this day, under the very shadow of the cross on which He hung, for Whose Name's sake she asked forgiveness and blessing.

The Psalms, the anguished cry of the Crucified, sounded solemnly out, the very words of His lips, the awful loneliness of His heart, the unshaken faith in His God.

The lessons, the hymns, all told the same story, that the Father sent the Son to be the Saviour of the world, that now once in the end of the world, hath He appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself.

The text, again so familiar, so significant on this day, floated out through the church. This was the way—the truth—the life—indeed.

"He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."

It seemed as if the sermon, so gentle, so simple, so tender, held in it no human words and yet it was not a mere repetition of verse upon verse of Scripture.

As Denys sat with her eyes rivetted on Mr. Owen's face, she felt as if she had never even guessed before at the depth of Christ's salvation, that she had only touched the fringe of the knowledge of the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.

When I survey the wondrous Cross

On which the Prince of Glory died.

She rose with the congregation and sang it with her whole heart, sang it through its verses till they came to the fourth verse, and she sang that, too, thinking not so much of its words as of the love she felt for that Prince of Glory—

Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were an offering far too small,

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Her soul—her life—how gladly she gave them once more to Him for his service!

And then—in one instant—she came back to the things of earth, and so to another thought—her all! A movement about her had brought Charlie into her view. She saw him before her with a ray of sunlight resting across his fair head.

Her all! The whole realm of nature, in her eyes! She remembered again the blissful content, the undreamed of happiness, his presence had brought to her yesterday. She remembered with a shiver how that perfection of joy, which had seemed so unassailable, had been shattered in a moment by a word of her own, which had given offence where none was meant, by a care for others which had been resented.

She knew in a flash that the cause of her unending tears, of her heart-sickness ever since, had been the fear of Charlie's anger, the fear that, be the reason great or small, she should forfeit his affection and cease to be all the world to him.

She did not stop to think how much she was wronging Charlie's faithful love. She was oblivious for the moment of everything but this fear. She had been fighting fiercely since last night against the bare thought of the possibility of losing Charlie's love; she had been holding on to that love as for her life, and now another love, a love higher, wider, deeper the love that passeth knowledge, had risen up before her and claimed—her all.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were an offering far too small.

The thoughts passed through her mind with the swiftness of a dream, as, instinctively following the movements of those about her, she stood there with her eyes fixed upon Charlie, while the slow procession of the choir filed out and the organ sounded plaintively among the high arches.

She seemed only to see Charlie—her all—the whole realm of nature which at that moment she did possess—how the thought thrilled her—she saw him on one side and her crucified Saviour waiting on the other.

Waiting—for what?

Her soul—her life? She had given them. Ah! for something more—her all! The congregation around her were passing out. She sank slowly on to her knees and hid her face. The Love which had given its all for her had conquered.

With her all, she knelt at His feet, and kneeling there she broke her box of ointment of spikenard, very precious, and poured it out.

The church was almost empty when she rose and passed out. Charlie was waiting for her in the porch, and Audrey, Gertrude and Cecil were on the steps. Audrey slipped her arm into Denys's. "Wasn't it nice? Didn't you like it?" she whispered.

"Very much, oh, very much!" Denys answered. "I did not know you were all there."

She gave her arm a little answering pressure. This was the Audrey she had known at Saltmarsh!

"That was Cecil," said Audrey gravely. "He said that when there were so many who didn't care, we, who do care, ought to show that we cared! So, of course, we went."

When the afternoon came, it was a pleasant and united little party which set out for the walk to the Landslip. As Gertrude observed serenely—

"With neither donkeys nor bicycles we ought to do quite nicely!" and quite nicely they did, Mrs. Henchman arriving in such good condition and spirits that she proposed walking a short distance to see the view while tea was being got ready.

Denys held up the little basket of grapes Charlie had given her.

"I will take these in to Mrs. Lyon while you are gone," she said.

She tapped softly at Mrs. Lyon's door, and before any answer came, the woman with whom she had left her note on the previous day, opened her kitchen door with a scared look in her face.

"Oh, Miss!" she said. "Oh, Miss! don't tell any one, but she's gone! Poor dear, she's gone!"

"Gone!" echoed Denys.

The woman burst into low, restrained weeping.

"The visitors mustn't know," she sobbed. "They are afraid of death, but I've been longing and hoping for you all day, Miss. Poor dear, poor dear, she died last night."

CHAPTER IX.

BROTHERS-IN-LAW.

The news of his sister Nellie's death came upon Jim Adams with the suddenness of a thunderclap. The weeks had gone by since she wrote to ask him to take Harry, with no further news of her, and after watching every post for a few days in the expectation of a black-edged envelope, he had begun to think that it was only a scare, and that she was not going to die at all, and it was really a pity that he had had all that bother with Jane!

Yet, in spite of this feeling, the incident had done him good in more ways than one.

He had fought for duty instead of running away from it. He had been reminded of things which he had hardly wanted to remember. He had been strengthened for the right by the mere fact that somebody never dreamed but that he would do right.

Also he had taken Tom's advice, and had had what Jane deridingly called "a teetotal spell," the result of which was a respectable banking account which perfectly astonished him. He had no idea small sums could total up so.

The idea of saving a little money had come to him from one of Jane's harangues, in which she informed him that when "that brat" came, she did not intend to spend any of her housekeeping money upon him; Jim would have to give her more. She was quite short enough as it was, especially with a great romping baby of her own, and she supposed that Jim would be sorry to see him getting thin and pale and perhaps dying altogether, because somebody else's child ate the food that ought to have been in his mouth. And then the funeral! Funerals cost a lot!

With this interesting climax Jane went to get the supper beer—out of the housekeeping—and Jim made his cocoa, and thought things over.

Not that he discussed Harry's coming with her. He had never mentioned the subject since that first night. He disliked words, and he found Jane tired of rating more quickly without an answer, though sometimes he could not resist giving one, but he always wished afterwards he had held his tongue.

He determined, as he sipped his cocoa, that he would accept some over-time work, which he had happily not mentioned to Jane, and save up what he earned and add it to his beer-money in the bank. Who could tell when it might be wanted?

So the telegram telling of Nellie's death found him unprepared in one way—prepared in another.

He proposed to go down and attend the funeral and bring Harry back, but Jane was furious. He had promised to take her and the baby down to her mother's for the Easter, and she did not mean to go by herself, as if she had no husband, and if Jim spent the money on train fares to Whitecliff and board and lodging as well, where was the money for going home to come from? Besides, what good would it do? Nellie was dead, and the brat could come up with the guard. Anyhow, Jim had no black clothes!

That last argument was unanswerable. So Jim wrote to Nellie's friends and said he could not come to the funeral, and asked them to arrange for Harry to come up with the guard and to let him know the day and the train, and he would meet him.

Then with a rather heavy heart, he shouldered Jane's parcel and his big baby, and took the Easter excursion train into Suffolk.

It was very late on the Saturday night when they reached their destination, for the train was two hours behind time, but the welcome they received in the tiny cottage had suffered nothing from its delay.

Old Mr. and Mrs. Green's delight over their first grandchild was quite astonishing, and they admired him from the curl on the top of his round head to the sole of his little fat foot.

And there, in the chimney corner, looking thin and worn, sat Tom.

Jim grasped his hand warmly.

"Well! I am glad you're here," said he, "it will be a bit of company." He glanced back at the group round the baby and Tom nodded comprehendingly.

"I had nothing to keep me," he said quietly.

It was a long, long time since Jim had been to church, but he found that on this Easter Sunday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Green expected nothing else. Jane elected to remain at home and mind the baby and cook the dinner, and the old couple, with their stalwart son-in-law on one side and Tom on the other, found themselves places in the old village church.

It was all very quiet and nice, Jim thought.

His heart was sore for his little sister Nellie and he felt alone in the world, cut off from all his childhood, all that they two had shared together.

It had never occurred to Jane to offer him any sympathy in his loss. She had hardly realised the loss, only the coming of a burden. And in not going to the funeral, Jim had an odd feeling of neglecting Nellie, though his common sense told him it could make no difference to her.

The Easter hymns comforted him strangely. His mind seemed to pass from the earthly grave to the heavenly Resurrection with a thrill of hope that matched with the sunshine, the bursting of green leaves, the twitter of the birds and the blue sky above.

On that happy Easter morning,

All the graves their dead restore,

Father, sister, child, and mother

Meet once more.

And so he came to another thought. Was he going to meet Nellie?

He glanced across at Tom. The quiet patience of his face touched him. Tom had lost something too. Something more hopeless, more irremediable than even the death of a sister, and yet there was a strength in his look which seemed to Jim not to be of earth, but from above. Tom and Nellie were on one side, and he, Jim, was on another.

The two young men went for a walk together in the afternoon, and it was like Tom to be the first to touch on Jim's sorrow.

"You're wearing a black tie, Jim," he said.

So Jim told him all about Nellie, his pretty little gentle sister Nellie, and then of her child and of how he had promised to take him, and look after him, but he did not mention Jane. After all, Jane was Tom's sister.

Tom listened gravely. There was sympathy in the very way he listened, and Jim felt it. He longed to ask Tom if he approved of his taking Harry, but some of the strength which had grown in him since his decision, kept him silent. He had decided and what was the use of courting disapproval. But Tom was not one to withhold commendation, of which there is so little in this world's intercourse, and he gave his verdict unasked.

"I'm glad you did," he said heartily, "poor little chap, what else could you do? It's quite right. Mind you, Jim, any time if you are pushed with him, there's always a bed and meal with me. I've more than enough for myself."

That was Jim's opportunity, and he took it.

"You're a good sort, Tom," he said, "I'll not forget. How—how—" he hesitated. "Have you seen Pattie since?"

"Yes," said Tom sadly, "I've seen her."

There was a finality in his answer that Jim did not like to break, and they walked on in silence till Tom spoke again.

"I saw her," he said, "when she didn't see me, and I thought she looked tired-like. She was with some girl, a loud-voiced, gay-looking sort of girl, who must have known me, though I don't know her; and when she saw me, she whispered to Pattie and laughed, and Pattie tossed her head and laughed out loud, as I never heard her laugh before, and she went red, but she never turned her head nor looked, not even when she got to the corner, for I stood and watched. I couldn't turn my back and leave her. I had to look while she was in sight."

"Is there—is there any——?" Jim stopped.

"Is there anybody else?" said Tom in a strangled kind of voice. "They say so. The butcher's man, in that big shop by the Station Hotel. He looks smart and dresses like any gentleman on a Sunday, but he's always popping in and out of the hotel, and if you could hear his language—"

"I shouldn't be too sure of what 'they say'," said Jim, "and as for her laughing and all that—p'r'aps it was just put on because you were looking. It made her feel awkward-like. If she hadn't cared a bit, she'd have gone on without turning a hair."

Tom sighed.

"I'd wait a bit and take no heed of what folks say about her," went on Jim, "and then if you find you keep on caring, just up and ask her again. You've as much right as any other man. When she gets to know this fellow better, she'll know what she's missed."

Tom smiled faintly and the shadow in his eyes lightened a little at Jim's hopefulness.

"If Jane was to meet her and have words, I don't know what I should do," he said. "It would be best not to remind her of Pattie at all."

"Not me!" answered Jim emphatically.

CHAPTER X.

A MEAN THING.

There was no need to remind Jane of the offending Pattie in words. Tom's face had done that already, and she was meditating vengeance. She and Jim and the baby reached their own home at midnight on Easter Monday, and by nine o'clock on the Tuesday morning she was at the weekly washtub which she superintended in Old Keston, her arms immersed in soap suds, her eyes on the garden fence which cut her off from Pattie's premises.

If she could only catch sight of Pattie hanging out washing, and have a few words with her!

Pattie, however, was not at the wash-tub this week. In Denys's and Gertrude's absence all the washing had been sent out, to leave Pattie more time to help Mrs. Brougham, and at that minute Pattie was busily running round the house tidying up after the holiday, and looking forward to taking little Maud out in the afternoon, a treat which she was beginning to appreciate very highly.

As Tom had said, she looked tired, even though it was so early in the day; but she would not have allowed for an instant that she had anything to trouble her. Why should she have, when she had only to let Sam Willard, the butcher's assistant, know when she would be out for an hour in the evening, and there he would be at the corner waiting for her, with his fine air and his curled moustache and his hair in a curl on his forehead. And he had no end of money, he was always chinking a pocketful, and talking of what he should buy. Only on Saturday he had taken her round to look at the shops, and they had lingered a long time outside a jeweller's, and Sam had pointed out the ring he meant to give his sweetheart some day. Pattie had quite held her breath as she imagined her hand with that ring on it!

Now as she swept up the bedrooms she glanced at her hands and frowned. She was not very clever at keeping her hands nice, but she always excused herself with the plea that grates and wash-tubs and saucepans were to blame.

The hands that wore that ring would not be used for brooms and black-lead brushes! She wondered what furniture would be bought to match that ring!

And then, involuntarily, she thought of another Saturday evening when Tom had taken her to look at the shops, and they had lingered outside, not a jeweller's, but a furniture shop, and Tom had pointed out a tall Windsor arm-chair and said they would have two of those in their home, and she had pictured herself in one of those chairs by a bright fireside in a cosy kitchen with Tom opposite to her, reading his paper, while she had a bit of dainty white needlework in her lap, such as she had seen her last mistress, who was newly married, busy with. She remembered how, as she pictured that happy little fireside, she had made up her mind to keep her hands better, not for the wearing of jewelled rings, but for the accomplishment of that same dainty needlework.

As she thought of all this, Tom's face came back to her memory. She wished, oh, how she wished that she had looked round at him when her friend had whispered that he was on the other side of the road!

What had he looked like? Why should her friend look upon his face and she not see it?

"Oh, Tom! Tom!" she whispered to herself and a sudden hate towards that jewelled ring sprang up in her.

When the afternoon came and she wheeled little Maud out in her mail cart, she turned towards the shops. She felt as if to see that Windsor arm-chair again would be next best to seeing Tom.

But the Windsor arm-chair was gone. Gone, like the dream of the happy little home; gone, as Tom had gone, out of her life.

Its place was filled by an inexpensive plush-covered parlour suite, suitable to the little villa where the wearer of that jewelled ring should take up her abode, but Pattie turned from it petulantly.

"Cheap and nasty!" she said.

Now it so happened that on this afternoon, when Jane Adams came to hang out the last of her washing, she found herself short of pegs. At another time she would have managed with pins or hung the clothes in bunches, but all day the craving for beer had been growing upon her, and she determined to go out and buy pegs and have a drink.

Through force of circumstances she had not tasted a drop since Saturday at dinner-time. Three whole days without a glass of beer! There had been none at her father's home, of course. The old people had been abstainers since she and Tom were babies, and she had not cared to acknowledge to them that she "took a drop now and again." It had been too late when she and Jim reached home last night to fetch any, and she had hurried to her work this morning, and, indeed, had not thought of getting a glass on her way, so full was her mind of Pattie.

But now she meant to have a glass, and pegs she must have!

So having told her lady—about the pegs—she put on her bonnet and hurried out.

She soon found a grocer's and bought her pegs, and then she turned in to the nearest public-house.

Not one glass, nor two, nor three, were sufficient to allay her longing, and the housekeeping money went without a thought; it was only the remembrance of the fleeting time which stayed her. She did not wish her lady to wonder where she was.

When she pushed open the public-house door and emerged into the street again, she was not completely mistress of herself, but just in the state when she would be very affable or very quarrelsome, as circumstances should seem to point.

And as she put her foot upon the threshold, Pattie, wheeling little Maud, and with her heart full of Tom, came along the pavement.

Now Pattie was a staunch little abstainer; all the more staunch because of her childhood's memories. Memories of nights when, piteous and shivering, she had waited outside a public-house door, to lead home her poor sorrowful mother, bound indeed by Satan these many years, by the chain of strong drink. Memories of days when on bended knee she had pleaded with that mother to give up the drink, and had been answered by a shake of the head, and a murmured, "I can't, child, I can't! I would if I could."

And Pattie had known of no remedy, no saving power, till she knew Tom, and Tom had said, "Pray for her, my girl. Christ can save her!"

So Pattie had prayed, not understanding how help could come, but because Tom believed in it, and, strange answer as it seemed, an illness had fallen upon her mother and she had been taken away to the Workhouse Infirmary.

Pattie remembered to this day the very saucepan she was washing when she realized that this was the answer to her prayer, that her poor mother had been saved from herself, and taken to a place where she would be cared for, and kept from the terrible snare of drink.

"And now," Tom had said when she told him, "we must teach her about the love of Jesus."

So month after month since then, Tom had gone regularly to the Infirmary and read the gospel's message to Pattie's mother, for she was still there and never likely to come out, and the poor woman had come to look for him and to love him as her own son. Pattie wondered sometimes whether he still went, but on the one occasion that she had seen her mother since she gave Tom up, she had been too proud to ask.

Pattie never saw a woman come out of a public-house without an involuntary shiver at her heart, and now here, before her very eyes, came Tom's own sister, Jim Adams's wife!

Pattie recognised her in an instant, and she recognised Pattie, and though Pattie would only too willingly have passed on, Jane stood in her path and barred the way.

"Well! Pattie Paul," said she insolently. "I want to know what you mean by it."

"I don't know what you mean," said Pattie, trying to pass her, but Jane dodged her.

"Oh don't you?" she cried. "What do you mean by using my brother like you have, letting him dangle after you, and pretending you was going to marry him, and getting presents out of him?"

Pattie's face flamed.

"It's not true!" she said hotly. "I never got presents out of him, and I always meant to marry him——"

Jane sneered.

"Very likely!" she said, "he did well enough to play with, till a richer chap came along, and then you remembered Tom was poor! You're a mean thing, Pattie Paul!"

"Let me pass!" cried Pattie vehemently, "you've no right to say such things!"

"No right!" flared Jane, "and me seeing my own brother going thin and a-fretting for a worthless girl like you! No right!"

But Pattie stayed to hear no more. With a sudden turn of the mail-cart, she was past her enemy, and running swiftly down the pavement towards St. Olave's, while little Maud laughed and clapped her hands with delight; she thought the run was all to amuse her.

And Tom was going thin and fretting!

In the midst of her pride, anger and humiliation, that thought came back to Pattie over and over again.

But the anger and the pride predominated, and swept away all tenderer feelings, and she met Sam Willard in the evening with a laugh and a toss of the head, and wished that Jane were there to see.

CHAPTER XI.

WITH A PURPOSE.

When Gertrude made up her mind to seek out a marriage-portion for herself, whose chief ingredient should be money, with love as a secondary consideration, she set herself with her usual cool forethought to consider the matter of Reggie Alston.

Reggie was a friend, and a friend only he must remain, and to this end the regular correspondence which he and she had kept up since Reggie left school, must become irregular and fitful. If only he would take his summer holiday in the school holidays, Gertrude thought she could manage somehow to be away when he was at home, and that would break the continuity of other summer holidays when they two had spent much time together, cycling and playing tennis. It was a pity for the boy to set his heart on what could not be. Reggie ought to look out for a girl with money, or at any rate for a girl who—who—liked being poor.

The result of these cogitations was that many a time when Reggie confidently looked for a letter, none came, and when the dulness of a week's work did happen to be enlivened by one of Gertrude's epistles, somehow the letters were short and unsatisfactory and spoke only of the most casual on-the-top-of-things topics. Reggie wondered over it in silence. He hated writing scolding letters, and like Tom Green, he felt that no amount of talking or writing could bring love, and at first he only felt the miss of the regular correspondence, without seeking for a reason other than the excuse that Gertrude must be extra busy at school, or that she had fresh duties laid upon her since Denys's engagement, of which he had heard a full account before Gertrude had thought of reducing her correspondence.

He little dreamed that Gertrude herself missed the writing of those old confidential letters far more than she had expected. She had always saved up all the little experiences and jokes of school and home to tell Reggie, and now it was very dull to be always pulling herself up to remember to make her letters short and few and casual.

But when Easter Monday and his birthday arrived together, without bringing any birthday remembrance other than a letter from his old chum, Charlie Henchman, Reggie's heart went down to a depth for which he had no idea there was room in his mechanism.

He had come down to breakfast in his dull little parlour, confidently expecting to see Gertrude's handwriting on his table, and it was not there.

He sat down mechanically and looked round the dull little room, and the dulness of it, the dinginess, the unhomelikeness of it struck on his heart as it had never done before.

The small horsehair sofa where he sometimes tried to find a resting-place and failed; the tiny chiffonnier, unenlightened by a looking-glass or any ornament save a vase, which had been one of Gertrude's childish birthday presents to him, and which he always kept filled with flowers and called them Gertrude's flowers; the uncomfortable horsehair arm-chair and the bare breakfast table with its coarse cloth and clumsy china, had all been bearable while he looked forward to a dainty and pretty, though tiny, home with Gertrude.

The half loaf of bread and the pat of butter which always tasted of the chiffonnier-cupboard, but had to be kept there because when a piece went out to the larder, none ever returned, filled him with loathing this morning.

Why was there no letter from Gertrude? His landlady bustled in with his tea and a rasher of bacon and a slice of toast, the last item, as she remarked, being for a birthday treat, and he roused himself from his disappointment to thank her for the little attention, and when she was gone he slowly opened Charlie's letter.

It was just a newsy, chatty letter, telling of the pleasures of his holiday at Whitecliff and especially of the pleasure of being with Denys for a whole week, but when he came to one sentence, written only with the thought of giving pleasure to Reggie, Reggie stopped and frowned.

"Gertrude looks awfully well and seems enjoying herself tremendously," wrote Charlie. "She and Audrey are quite friends, which is convenient, and Denys and I don't feel selfish if we walk behind and let Gertrude, Audrey, and Cecil make the pace in front."

So Gertrude was at Whitecliff, and she had never thought it worth while to tell him she was going to have such a nice change!

She was enjoying herself tremendously! Hitherto she had always made him a sharer in her pleasures by her vivacious descriptions of them. Who was Cecil?

He looked across the narrow Scotch street, on to the row of small houses opposite him. The morning sunshine was flooding them, while his room lay in shadow. That was like his life. He was in the shadow and other people were in the sunshine—especially this Cecil.

He ate up his breakfast at last and made a good meal of it too, for he was a healthy fellow, and even stale bread and tasty butter go down when you are hungry, and then he got out his cycle and polished it up, for there was a club run on and he was going to ride part of the way out with them, returning early to attend a wedding in the afternoon.

He decided, as he rubbed away at his machine, that he would not be married on a Bank holiday, when his turn came. He would not like his guests to feel bored at losing one of their precious few-and-far-between holidays. Saturday was a much more sensible day for a wedding.

Bored or not bored, the wedding party was large and cheerful, and being mostly made up of the chief townsfolk and local gentry who banked at the one and only Bank, Reggie knew most of the guests, and was himself, partly owing to his merry, boyish ways, and partly owing to his modesty and readiness to serve anybody in the smallest things, quite a popular person. He enjoyed the first part of the proceedings very much.

It was a lovely day, with brilliant sunshine and a warm air that seemed as if summer had come to surprise the Spring, and directly the bride had cut the cake there was a general exodus to the garden, where camp chairs and rout seats stood invitingly on the lawn, and arbours and sheltered paths waited for visitors to rest or walk beneath their budding loveliness.

And behind the groups of gay dresses, set off by black coats and light trousers, came white aproned waitresses with cakes and champagne. In vain Reggie, who had missed getting a cup of tea indoors, watched for a tray of tea cups. Champagne and ices, cakes and champagne, champagne and sandwiches. There appeared to be nothing else, and everybody seemed to be drinking champagne like so much water. Everybody, that is, but Reggie and the Scotch minister and his wife.

Except for the desire for a beverage that was not champagne, Reggie did not think a great deal about what he supposed was usual at weddings, till he caught a whisper between two girls whom he was piloting to see some ducklings on the pond at the bottom of the garden.

"Howard can't walk straight already," whispered one with a giggle.

"Isn't it horrid!" answered the other, "Leslie Johns took me round the garden just now, and he told me he had had far more champagne than Howard had, but Howard has a weak head. Howard wanted me to go to the conservatories with him. I'm glad I didn't; I should have been positively ashamed to be seen with him. Why can't such fellows let champagne alone?"

"They might at least know when to stop," sneered the first speaker.

Reggie, leading the way a few paces in front, between close rows of gooseberry bushes, heard every word, and he set his teeth.

The subtle distinction between the man who had taken a quantity of champagne and shewed no effects, and the man who had only had a little and showed it, did not appeal to him. He felt a vast pity for Howard, though he had not the slightest idea who Howard might be.

He got rid of his charges sooner than he had hoped, for a hint that the bride would soon be down from changing her dress, reached the girls and made them hurry back to the house, and Reggie, suddenly sick at heart with combined remembrances that he and everybody else must probably, in the general gathering of guests to one place, see poor Howard's faltering footsteps, and the thought of Gertrude enjoying herself so much that she could not write for his birthday, made his way slowly and by a circuitous route back to the main party.

He was nearing the house when a turn in the path brought him face to face with a young and handsomely-dressed woman, his own Bank Manager's wife, Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said with a sort of gasp, "oh, Reggie, whatever shall I do? Look!"

CHAPTER XII.

MASTER AND MAN.

Reggie looked in the direction indicated. Down a vista of pink and white apple blossom that seemed in its pure loveliness to emphasize the miserableness and shame of sin, came two men, stumbling and laughing and stumbling again and holding each other up. One was Mr. Gray, the Bank Manager, the other, as Reggie guessed in a moment, was Howard Bushman, of whom he had just heard.

One glance was enough for Reggie, and his eyes came back to his companion. She was white and shivering.

"Oh Reggie!" she said again, "help him, do help him, it will ruin him."

Just behind her was a small summer-house. It came to Reggie all in a moment what to do.

"Go and sit down in there," he said gently, "and when Mr. Gray comes, keep him with you till I get back."

Then he went swiftly to meet that stumbling, laughing pair, and he spoke as gently as he had done to the poor wife.

"Mrs. Gray is sitting down in that summer-house," he said, "I think she wants you. Will you stay with her while I run to the house for something?"

The Bank Manager laughed foolishly.

"He! He! Reggie! Looking after the ladies, as usual! Bring some champagne, my lad, and we'll have a nice little spree on the quiet."

But Reggie had not waited for directions.

He walked swiftly towards the house, but he did not wish to appear hurried or to be on any secret errand, and as he went his thoughts flew hither and thither bewilderingly.

For this man was his master. This man whom he had been asked to help, had much of the making or marring of Reggie's prospects in his hand, and to interfere, especially in such a delicate matter, was almost certainly to incur more anger, more abiding, unredeemable displeasure, than for any other misdemeanour.

And yet, for four months Reggie had been praying for this very man!

Three years before, when Charlie Henchman had come to the engineering college in the town, he had sought out the loneliest fellow that he knew and for Christ's sake had endeavoured to cheer and uplift and help him by just being companionable to him. And the loneliest fellow that Charlie knew was Reggie Alston, and after they had been companions for quite a long time they found out that they both knew the Brougham family, a link which drew them to be more than companions,—to be friends.

Now Charlie was gone, and Reggie had promised him to seek out some lonely fellow too, and try to help him and cheer him and lead him nearer to Christ. He had prayed to be shown the right fellow, but among all his acquaintances there was no one lonely; one name, and one name only, seemed laid upon his heart, the name of Mr. Gray, his own Manager and master!

But as yet Reggie had done nothing more than to pray for him earnestly and regularly, for there seemed nothing else possible. For how could a junior Bank clerk seek out the companionship of his superior and invite him to supper or to cycle or to go with him to church?

He had been asked to help him now, and if those ways in which he had wished to help some fellow had seemed impossible, in this case how much more impossible were these circumstances? For to help in this way could only bring the downfall of all Reggie's hopes of promotion, and put off that day when he could tell Gertrude that his home was ready for her.

Yet with all these thoughts surging through his brain, Reggie felt that the call of duty had come to him, and to refuse would be to refuse to take up his Cross and follow Christ. As he took four cups of strong black coffee back to the summer-house, he realised that the Cross is the place of suffering and of death.

He had scarcely been five minutes on his errand and the little party in the summer-house had neither been added to nor diminished, and hope had brought a little colour back to Mrs. Gray's woe-begone face.

A simple straightforwardness was one of Reggie's characteristics. He put a cup of coffee into the manager's hand.

"You'd better drink it, Mr. Gray," he said quietly, "it's—it's refreshing, and then if you'd just take Mrs. Gray home—I'm sure she would feel better at home, and the bride has gone, so we can all slip away together. People are beginning to go now."

Mrs. Gray hated black coffee, but she drank her cup bravely, and looked all the better for it too.

"That stuff is refreshing," said Howard, suddenly, with a nod towards the empty cups, as the four left the summer-house, to make their farewells. "I felt rotten, but I feel as right as a trivet now."

Mr. Gray said nothing. He knew perfectly well that he was being helped, and his pride fiercely resented it, but Reggie's three years of quiet faithful work had had its influence, and the clinging touch of Mrs. Gray's hand on his arm softened him, and he said to himself that Reggie had an unbounded cheek, but there was really nothing to wait for any longer, now that the bride had gone.

But there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. The bride's mother, shaking hands and saying pleasant nothings to the first of her departing guests, looked at Mr. Gray reproachfully.

"Mr. Gray! you are never going to desert us already! We want our brightest stars to help illumine our darkness. Mrs. Gray feeling ill? Surely, my dear Elaine, you do not need three gentlemen to take you home!"

The colour flamed into Mrs. Gray's cheeks.

"My husband is taking me home," she said proudly, "Mr. Alston and Mr. Bushman happen to be leaving at the same time."

"It is rather early," admitted Mr. Gray. He had caught sight of a fresh tray of glasses going the round of a circle of his acquaintances, and he decided not to be managed any longer, but to do as he chose.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said in a low tone, "you let Reggie take you home. I won't be a few minutes, but I must speak to Thornton. I've been looking for him all the afternoon, and it's really important."

"I'm sure you are not in a hurry, Howard," said the hostess.

So Reggie and Mrs. Gray found themselves outside the gate alone.

"I'll never go inside that gate again," cried Mrs. Gray, angrily. Then she added piteously, "Oh, Reggie, I thought we had got him safe."

"So did I," said Reggie, ruefully.

"What can I do?" she moaned, "I've seen it coming on little by little, and now he's beginning not to care so much if—if people guess. I'm glad you know, Reggie; it's a comfort to have somebody to speak to. I used to think I should be perfectly happy if I had plenty of money—we girls at home used to be poor till Aunt died and left us her property, just before I was engaged, and now, often, I think I would so willingly have just John's income—and it's only a small income for so responsible a position—or work hard myself, if I could be sure of—of him. But there it is," she added sadly. "Tell me what I can do, Reggie."

"You can pray for him," said Reggie, earnestly, "God does hear and answer prayer and He can save to the uttermost." He hesitated and then added in a lower tone,

"Mrs. Gray, are you an abstainer yourself?"

"Well, not quite," said she, "but I hardly take anything."

Reggie nodded.

"Yes, but you take as much as you care to, and he takes as much as he cares to. That is how Mr. Gray would look at it, and the way God looks at it is this, 'Judge this rather that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way. Anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended or is made weak.'"

They had reached the Bank and she held out her hand with a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, "well, I'll think about it."

Reggie walked on to the corner of his own road and stood looking down it distastefully.

Here he was in the middle of Bank holiday afternoon, in his best clothes, with nowhere to go and no one to speak to, feeling as if his life and himself and everything else were an utter failure. If he had only had on his cycling suit, he might have contemplated a ride, but the thought of turning into his dull lodgings, even to change, was unbearable, and the writing of a letter to Gertrude, with which he had beguiled many a lonely hour before, was not possible to-day.

He turned at the sound of quick footsteps behind him, and heard his name called.

"Why! Mr. Alston!" said the cheerful voice of the Scotch minister's little wife, "you look as if you belonged to nobody, and nowhere!"

Then, seeing instantly that her words had hit too near the mark, she added quickly,

"I wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supper with us. I always feel as if I wanted to be entertained after a wedding, as if it were very dull to go home to just an ordinary tea, and its being a Bank holiday seems to emphasise the feeling. Mr. Mackenzie and I were just saying so, weren't we, Will?"

"That is so," assented Mr. Mackenzie, with his grave smile, "I hear, Mr. Alston, that you are musical and might have played our organ for the marriage had we but known it. I have the organ keys, if you would care to try the instrument. It was unfortunate that our organist was away. I like a little singing at a wedding."

Reggie's face beamed.

"I'd like to come, awfully," he said, "what time shall I turn up?"

"Why, now!" said Mrs. Mackenzie, "we'll have tea at once and then the garden-boy shall blow for you, and we'll be audience, and then we can have supper and talk."

"That's the chief item in the programme, isn't it?" said her husband, with a twinkle.

Reggie tried to smother a laugh but did not succeed. This unexpected treat had wonderfully cheered his drooping spirits, and he laughed and chatted merrily as they walked to the Manse; but beneath the outward pleasure that the invitation gave him, there was running an undercurrent of deep happiness, for he knew that in the moment of the most intense loneliness, the most utter hopelessness that he had ever known, God had sent His angel and delivered him.

And Mrs. Mackenzie talked on in her usual cheerful, lighthearted way and never dreamed that she had been God's angel to any one that afternoon. Reggie was too shy to tell her, and she had not the key to the thoughts of the young organist who first woke the echoes of the church for her, with the strains of,

But the Lord is mindful of His own,

He remembers His children.

That was for to-day and for to-morrow too, in Reggie's mind. As the evening wore on, the dread of the to-morrow morning, when at nine o'clock he must meet Mr. Gray, grew upon him. That his interference had been resented, even while it was accepted, Reggie had seen quite plainly, and to-morrow was coming nearer with each tick of the clock.

CHAPTER XIII.

BEARDING THE LION.

When Reggie entered the Bank just before nine o'clock on the following morning, his heart was going pit-a-pat, for he knew his chief well enough to be certain that it was impossible to count upon how he would look at yesterday's happenings. He might never think of the occurrence again, or he might refer to it with an easy laugh at Reggie's stricter principles, or he might be riding the high horse and resent the interference to an extent which Reggie knew would be long enduring, if it ever ceased at all.

I Wish.
"'I wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supper with us.'"—Page 118.

So much depended on how Mrs. Gray had dealt with the matter, and on how long her husband had remained with his convivial friends, and on these two points Reggie had no knowledge. Yet much of the success which attended his efforts for Mr. Gray this morning, had their beginning in the fact that Mrs. Gray had received her husband late the night before, with no word of reproach, but had treated him with unusual gentleness and affection, and he had come down to his work this morning softened by love, and not hardened by bitter words or arguments. Reggie chided himself for thinking so much of the harm he might have done his own future, but with another morning's post in, and no birthday letter from Gertrude, he felt more sore and more uneasy. If his prospects at the Bank became gloomy, what would be his chances of securing Gertrude?

But when he went into Mr. Gray's private room, nothing was written so plainly on the Manager's face as headache and dejection; and a great wave of pity and desire, swept away from Reggie all thought of himself and of his own happiness.

What could he do to help this man who was slipping down into the bondage of strong drink?

What had Mrs. Gray said and done, he wondered, as he listened to the dull, listless voice in which Mr. Gray bade him take the omnibus at once, and proceed to the house of a wealthy client who lived three miles out of the town, and who had been taken ill and wished to transact some business.

There was no opportunity now to think of anything but the matters to be arranged with the wealthy client, which were important and urgent, and the minutes before the omnibus started were few, so the moment Reggie was sure he understood his errand he took his hat, relocked his desk and stepped out from the Bank, well pleased to be leaving the town for a country outing, on such a lovely April morning.

But as he glanced down the long, sunny street, he saw something which suddenly arrested his footsteps.

Only a gentleman crossing the road and coming towards him, but a gentleman whose identity was unmistakable even at this distance, by reason of a very peculiar lameness. A gentleman who was one of the largest shareholders, and had much influence in the Bank—a man who was so stern a teetotaller that he could forgive any sin sooner than intemperance.

In one instant Reggie was back in the Bank, Mr. Gray's hat was in his hand, and he was standing beside the astonished Manager. "Quick!" he said breathlessly. "You go down to Muirend House instead of me—here's your hat! Don't ask any questions, and when you get outside, turn to the left and don't look behind you on any account. Never mind the omnibus; it will do you good to walk! Quick—or you'll be too late."

"What?" demanded Mr. Gray, "are you going wrong in the head, Reggie?"

Reggie repeated his request, still breathlessly, and there was something so insistent in his manner, so beseeching in his eyes, and his three years of patient faithful work, so rose up to help his influence, that the Manager actually stood up, laid down his pen and took his hat.

"I suppose you know what you are playing at," said he, a little coldly. "What is it I am to do? Turn to the left and not look behind me!"

"Yes! that's it," said Reggie eagerly; "oh, be quick, or it will be too late."

"And I'm to walk, though it's three miles," said the Manager. "Well! take care of the Bank; it appears to me that it has a new Manager!"

He passed out through the swing doors, and a couple of minutes went by and he did not return, and Reggie began to breathe freely, till the fear struck him that after all, his efforts had been of no use if Mr. Bowles, the lame gentleman, had just caught Mr. Gray on the pavement outside, but even as the thought darted into his mind, the doors swung open again, and the lame gentleman entered and looked round. "Mr. Gray?" said he, interrogatively, as Reggie came forward.

"Mr. Gray has just gone down to Muirend to see Mr. Collins, who is very ill."

"It is very inconvenient of him," said Mr. Bowles irritably, "I wrote so that he should get the letter by the first post this morning."

Reggie glanced down at the pile of letters he had just brought from Mr. Gray's room to open.

"It will be here, I expect," he said politely, "can I take your instructions?"

Mr. Bowles grunted and scowled, but nevertheless he followed Reggie into the Manager's room and ran through what he had come to say, and watched Reggie's careful noting down of the points.

"So Lily Jarrold got married yesterday," he said abruptly, as Reggie finished. "I suppose champagne ran like rivers, and half you fellows got drunk, and the girls did not know what they were laughing at, eh? Were you there?"

"I was there," answered Reggie, a trifle stiffly, "it was a very pretty wedding, and she looked awfully happy."

"Humph!" said the old gentleman, "but wasn't it as I said, afterwards?"

"I did not stay late—and I am an abstainer," said Reggie, wishing his visitor would depart. He glanced at the pile of unopened letters he had brought back with him, and Mr. Bowles intercepted the glance.

"Well! well!" said he, "that's a good hearing, my boy, and I see you are wishing I'd be off and let you get at your work. Industry is of the utmost importance, my lad, and you'll rise to be Manager, one day! Tell Mr. Gray I need not see him till next week as he left such a capable second. Good morning."

That was over. Reggie saw him out, opened the letters, and went through the usual routine of his morning work, and welcomed back his fellow clerk who had been away for the Easter. The clock ticked peacefully on, till it was past noon, and then at last the swing doors opened once more to admit the Manager.

He passed straight through to his room, closing the door behind him. A moment later he opened it again.

"Mr. Alston!" he said.

"Now for it," thought Reggie.

Mr. Gray was seated at his table and he motioned Reggie to the seat usually assigned to clients, and there was a pause. Reggie felt all his courage oozing out at the toes of his boots. All that he had thought it possible he might say to Mr. Gray on this question, all his arguments, all his reasons, his pleas, seemed to melt away into thin air, and he wondered however he had dared to interfere in another man's life, and that man his master, even to the degree of wishing to help him and praying for him, much more in openly offering him coffee, and sending him out of the sight of condemning eyes!

But with the remembrance of that four months of daily prayer for this man, came the remembrance of words spoken long ago to faint-hearted men. "The battle is not yours, but God's." That made all the difference.

Then Mr. Gray spoke, coldly, hardly.

"And now, Mr. Alston, what is the meaning of all this?"

Reggie leant forward eagerly.

"Mr. Gray, don't be angry, it was just Mr. Bowles coming along. I saw him as I got outside and—and—you know what he is, and—I thought—you could do the Muirend business—and—oh, I wish you would give up this strong drink, it is going to ruin you, body and soul!"

It was out. The bitter truth had been put into words; the young clerk had told his Manager that he knew his sin and degradation. The words had been spoken, and never again could things be as they had been before they were spoken, and Reggie knew it, and he knew that the man who sat before him with his face shaded with his hand, was a proud, proud man.

The clock ticked on loudly and evenly. There seemed nothing more for Reggie to say, and Mr. Gray did not break the silence. He was filling in the details of Reggie's broken words and he knew Mr. Bowles well enough to do it very accurately. He had reason to believe that Mr. Bowles had made a special visit on this special morning with intent. He knew, ah, far more truly than Reggie did, that this temptation was ruining his worldly position. Reggie had saved his reputation for this time and he could not but thank him, and yet—and yet—how hard it was to humble himself to say so; and there stretched before his weary eyes those times, coming oftener and oftener, when his reputation would not be saved, and he would sink lower in men's estimation, and that would come to be openly said, which was already a whisper, that the Bank Manager drank.

His thoughts came back to Reggie with a start. Reggie had asked him to give up strong drink!

"Reggie!" he said hoarsely, passing by all else that had been said, "you don't know what you are asking!"

"Yes, I do!" said Reggie firmly, "and you'll want outside help."

"Ah!" said the manager sadly, "I have thought sometimes, that if we'd had a child, Elaine and I, it would have made it easier. I might have done it for the child's sake."

"Suppose that God did not dare to risk the child in your hands," said Reggie solemnly, "suppose, if He sent a child, then you had not the strength to give up the drink?"

And as the words fell from Reggie's lips there came a sound from the outer office that made both the men start.

"Father!" said a little treble voice which rang through the Bank. "Father! father! let me do it."

The manager raised himself so that he could see over the frosted glass in the door which gave on to the front premises, but Reggie had no need to look. He recognised the clear child's voice. He seemed to see little Cyril Mackenzie's round, rosy face lifted confidingly to his father's as he had seen it only last night. And Mr. Gray saw the bright little lad, and he sat down again in his seat with a groan, and hid his face in his hands.

"Suppose—" he said, "suppose I haven't the strength to give it up now."

"It was the help of Jesus Christ, our Saviour, that I meant. He will give you the strength if you will let Him, and I will help you all I can, if you will let me," answered Reggie earnestly.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNWELCOME GUEST.

Denys had undertaken, at the earnest request of the woman at the Landslip Cottage, to take care of Harry as far as to Mixham Junction, where his uncle would meet him.

She was on her way to the Landslip cottage to make sure that the arrangements for meeting Harry at the station the following day were all complete, a duty which had obliged her to give up a two hours' drive with Mrs. Henchman, Audrey and Gertrude, who had all gone with a friend of Mrs. Henchman's.

Denys had, however, scarcely entered the Landslip road when she encountered little Harry and his kind friend, and being thus saved more than an hour's walk, she arrived back at Mrs. Henchman's house much sooner than she had expected.

Mary opened the door for her, and Denys was struck by her woebegone, weary face. For a moment Denys hesitated, thinking of that accusation of interference, thinking of Mary's constant ungraciousness to her, but she pushed the remembrance aside and said kindly, "Is anything the matter, Mary? You look so sad."

Tears sprang into Mary's eyes at the unexpected interest.

"It's my head, Miss," she said, "one of my bad headaches, and its so unfortunate to-day, because my brother is just coming home for this one evening, and Mrs. Henchman was going to let me go special, and by after tea I sha'n't be able to hold my head up, and I've not seen him for two years, and he's my favourite."

"Perhaps you can see him to-morrow," suggested Denys.

"No, Miss; he's a gentleman's servant, he is, and he's always travelling about. It was just this one chance, and now I've missed it."

"I've some headache pills—they are wonderful for nervous headaches. You would not like to try them, would you?" asked Denys. "Mother has these dreadful nervous headaches and nothing else has ever been any good to her."

"I'd try them, Miss, and be thankful."

Denys ran upstairs and came back to the kitchen, "Could you not just lie down for half-an-hour's sleep?" she said, "you might wake up with it all gone."

Mary shook her head dolefully.

"It's the milkman, Miss, and I wouldn't hear the door bell in my room."

Denys laughed.

"I have attended on the milkman before now, and I can open the front door if necessary," said she cheerfully. "Now run away upstairs, and I'll call you in plenty of time to get the tea ready. I don't suppose I had better undertake that!"

"You are real good, Miss," said Mary gratefully, "if I do see my brother to-night, I shall tell him it was all your doing."

Denys smiled to herself happily as she went back to the dining-room, and sat down to write to Charlie and to listen for the door bell. She had hated to go away with the remembrance of Mary's unpleasant looks, and the little bit of sympathy she had offered had turned Mary into a friend.

When Denys and Gertrude arrived at the station the next day, little Harry was already there, smiling and radiant. He greeted Denys as a very old friend, and did not appear to be the least homesick. The journey was of the most intense interest to him, till at last the rush and roar of the train made him drowsy, and he climbed contentedly into Denys's arms and fell asleep.

Denys sat watching him for a long time, wondering what his new life was to be, and she was somewhat surprised to find Gertrude's eyes also fixed upon the little face.

"I hope the people that child is going to will be good to him," she said. "What do you know about them?"

"Nothing!" said Denys. "His mother said her brother had promised to take him, but she had never seen the wife. Perhaps we shall see her at Mixham, but anyhow, we can't do anything except look him up now and then."

"Humph!" said Gertrude, "I should pity anybody who was in charge of the woman who washes at the house at the bottom of our garden. She comes from Mixham; Pattie used to be engaged to her brother. She looks a perfect vixen."

"Used to be engaged?" repeated Denys, startled. "You don't mean to say it is broken off? Poor Pattie!"

"Not poor Pattie at all," answered Gertrude sharply. "He was as poor as anything, and his isn't the sort of trade where they ever get much money. Why, here's Mixham! Where's that child's hat? Wake up, Tommy, or Harry, or whatever your name is!"

Jim Adams, as he had promised, had come down to meet Harry, and if he had been asked what sort of a child he was going to look for, he would have pointed to one of a dozen little urchins, playing up and down his own street, and said that boys were all alike.

So, as he was looking for a nondescript boy in knickers and jacket and cap and heavy boots, it was little wonder that he looked in vain among the crowd of travellers who poured out of the big train on the Junction platform, and he was proportionately surprised when a young lady with red-brown hair and a sweet face touched him on the arm.

"Do you happen to be Mr. Jim Adams?" she asked in her soft, pretty voice.

Jim gasped as he looked down at her, and saw the child she was holding by the hand. A child in petticoats, almost a baby it seemed to him, with a little black kilted frock and sailor coat, and a big white hat with a black ribbon, and underneath it, golden curls and the sweetest little face he had ever seen since last he saw his sister Nellie's face!

He knew it in a moment, and his heart went out to the child with an intensity of love that astonished even himself, and an awful sort of choke came into his throat as he stooped and lifted Nellie's child in his arms.

"Hullo! little chap! I'm Uncle Jim," he said.

Harry looked at him approvingly.

"I'm going to live along with you!" he said. "Mother's gone away," he added mournfully.

The clasp of Jim's arms tightened on the little fellow.

"I'm going to look after you now," he whispered. Then he remembered Denys's presence and he turned to her.

"Thank you for bringing him up, Miss. They say as you was very kind to my poor sister, and I thank you for that too. I'll do my best by the little chap."

"There was one thing," said Denys, hesitatingly. It did not seem so easy to say as she had thought. The handsome, tall young workman before her took away her breath somewhat, and she wished she had written what Nellie Lyon had particularly asked her to impress upon Jim.

"Yes, Miss," said Jim wonderingly.

"She wanted him to be brought up an abstainer," explained Denys, "as she and you were brought up."

Jim's eyes dropped.

"Yes," he said after a moment, "Yes, he shall, and so shall my own baby! I'll give 'em all the chance I can to start right. I've been trying to do without anything myself for this two months," he added, with a shy little laugh.

"I'm glad of that—we were all brought up so," said Denys, heartily, "now Mr. Adams, I may come and see Harry if I am in Mixham any time, mayn't I? He's such a dear, lovable little chap."

"That you may, Miss! any time," cried Jim earnestly, "and I thank you once again, and I'll do my best—every way."

He strode off with Harry still in his arms, well pleased with his new possession, and turned his steps towards home. But as he drew nearer to his own door, his speed slackened. What sort of a welcome would Jane give him—and the child?

He had the sense to put him down and let him walk into his new home, and so, hand in hand, the big uncle and the little nephew presented themselves before Jane.

She looked at the pair for a moment in silence, and then burst into a loud, ironical laugh.

"I always knew you were a cheat, Jim Adams! You talked enough about your sister's boy and you've brought a baby in petticoats."

"I'm not a baby—I'm going in four," said Harry gravely, "that's a baby in there," pointing to the cradle. He crossed the room and looked curiously down at the baby, and the baby, pleased with the kind little face, laughed and threw out its arms.

"Can't I have him out to play with? He likes me," cried Harry, "look, Uncle Jim, he's pulling my finger."

Jim lifted out his baby and sat down, and Harry stood beside him, lost in admiration.

"Well, this is a nice set-out," said Jane crossly, as she looked at the happy little trio, "the first thing you do, Jim Adams, is to get that boy some breeches. I'm not going to wash a lot of petticoats." She stooped and lifted Harry's frock—the little black frock that Nellie had prepared weeks ago, ready for this very time, knowing that there would be no one to buy mourning for her child.

Jane examined the petticoats, and her face relaxed a little.

"Humph!" she said, "they're not such bad petticoats! They'll do for baby finely. You can sell the frock, if you like, Jim Adams, that's no good to me, and it will help towards the breeches."

"Indeed I won't," answered Jim fiercely, "if I part with the frock, I'll give it away. Who made your pretty frock, Harry, boy?"

Harry looked down at himself proudly.

"My mother made that," he said, "that's my bestest frock. She made it ages ago, but she wouldn't never let me wear it."

Jim's eyes filled and he turned hastily to the window that Jane might not perceive it.

"Don't you part with that frock, Jane," he said.

Jane snorted.

"Tea's ready!" she said ungraciously.

The meal was about half through when she started a new subject.

"Where's the brat's bed?" said she.

"His bed?" repeated Jim, helplessly.

"His bed," she reiterated, "I suppose you thought he'd share the baby's cradle!"

Jim kept what he had thought to himself.

"You must go and get one somewhere," decreed his wife.

Jim rose obediently and went downstairs. In about half an hour he returned with his arms full of irons, blankets and bedding.

"Here, Harry, boy," he said, "uncle's got a jolly little bed for you!"

"Where did you get that?" demanded Jane.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST HOPE.

Little Harry Lyon found the circumstances of his fresh life so entirely different from his old existence, that he seemed a greater stranger to himself than the most strange of those who peopled his new world.

To begin with, he was, to use his aunt's own term, "breeched" the next day, and his petticoats became the big baby's property, while his precious best frock was poked unceremoniously into a box under his aunt's bed.

He looked after it with longing eyes. He had waited so long to wear it and it seemed too bad to have it taken away when he had only worn it so few times, and it was made with a pocket, the first he had ever had. As he saw the box slammed down, he remembered with a pang that in the pocket was his little bestest white handkerchief with lace on it and in the corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easy knot, was a penny that Denys had given him.

He had never dared to ask her again for even a ha'penny, but one day she had given him a bright penny that shone like gold and he had treasured it with utmost joy, more because he had not asked for it, than for its value as a penny.

The edge of the box which held his treasures stuck out from under the bed, and he watched it for a long time, resolving in his little mind that one day he would manage somehow to get his own again.

The confinement of his new life irked him as much as his breeches, for he had been used to wandering about the Landslip and the Whitecliff beach at his own pleasure, and now there were but two rooms to wander in, or at best a short and narrow street, beyond whose limits he was forbidden to go, and it was filled with rough and noisy children who pushed him and pinched him and who roared vociferously whenever they saw him, after they discovered that his name was Lyon.

He had always made friends with all the sailors and visitors at Whitecliff, but here the men and women hurried about their business and never even glanced at the golden-headed little chap, and there were no boats to be pulled up and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands, and no—no anything.

Harry stood at the top of the dull street looking forlornly about him, when he came to that conclusion, and when he realised it, he burst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying.

There were no loving arms now in which to sob out his woes, and he turned his little back upon the world and covering his face with his hands, leaned his head against a big brick wall and wept, and wept, and wept for his mother.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy—"

"Why, Harry!" said his Uncle Jim's voice, "whatever's the matter with you? You shouldn't be crying—you're a big boy now. Have the boys been hitting you?"

Harry did not turn or heed him.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy," he wailed.

"Harry!" said Jim again, "here's a penny for you—let's go and buy some sweeties."

But Harry was past that.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—my mummy—I want my mummy."

There was no mistaking the heart-broken cry this time, and Jim looked helplessly at Tom Green who stood beside him.

"It's the old story," said Tom gently, "'They have taken away my Lord and I know not where they have laid him.'" Then he stooped down to the level of the little weeping child and drew him into his arms and turned the tear-stained little face to rest on his shoulder.

"Harry!" he said gently, "dear mummy has gone to live in a beautiful Home with Jesus and she's so happy and she doesn't cough any more or feel tired any more. Oh, she's so happy. And she is with Jesus. She used to tell you about Him, didn't she?"

The comfort of the kind arms and the kind voice, and above all, the words of hope that carried the childish thoughts straight to happiness and seemed to find his mother for him again, comforted the little heart at once, and Harry's sobs came only with a long drawn breath as he listened.

Tom did not wait for an answer, he went on in the same low, soothing tone.

"Jesus has got such a lovely Home ready for dear mummy and He is getting one ready for little Harry too, and one day Jesus will call Harry and he will see Jesus and dear mummy and the beautiful Home and be so happy."

"Yes," murmured Harry nestling closer. He was so tired of crying and being lonely, and these arms held him so nicely. He gave a deep, deep sigh which somehow spoke of restfulness and of the sorrow being past, and Tom raised himself and looked in the tear-stained face a moment, then kissed it and wiped it with his handkerchief.

"That's better!" he said cheerfully, "would you like a ride on Uncle Tom's shoulder? Uncle Tom is coming home to tea with Harry, and Uncle Tom's awful hungry—he's going to eat a whole big loaf for tea."

Harry laughed gleefully as he found himself swung in an instant on to Uncle Tom's shoulder and was carried along high above all the other little rough children's heads, and was even on a level with Uncle Jim! By stretching out his hand he could pat the top of Uncle Jim's head; and he laughed again as he gave Uncle Jim a good hard pat.

"You are a clever one, Tom," said Jim admiringly, "how did you pick it up?"

Tom might have said, "Out of my own sorrow," but he only smiled, and told Harry to mind his head as he stopped at Jim's doorway and carried him upstairs to Aunt Jane and the baby.

Harry became Tom's devoted slave thenceforth, and Jim watched the two playing and whispering together almost jealously, and yet he liked Tom too well to really grudge him the child's love, and Tom looked so happy,—happier than Jim had seen him since Pattie gave him up.

Jim took notice too of the way Tom amused the child, how he became a child for the time being, and all the materials he had were trifles from his pockets; a piece of paper and a pencil, a few odd buttons and keys, a bit of string and an empty match box!

Jim knew that his ingenuity could never amuse Harry with such things, but he determined to buy some toys that very evening, and to try his hand at winning the child's heart the next evening. Jane took very little notice of any of them and after putting the baby to bed, announced that she had shopping to do, and as Tom saw her slip an empty jug into her shopping basket, he knew what her final destination would be and that she would not return for some considerable time.

"Aren't you going to put the little 'un to bed before you go out, Jane?" he said, "we've had a good spell of play and he's half asleep now."

But Jane deigned no answer, unless the slam of the door as she disappeared on to the stairs, was one.

Jim shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Harry and me, we do the bedding-down between us," he said rather sheepishly, "run and get your nightie, boy."

Then as Harry trotted off, he added in a lower tone, "She won't do nothing for him, so I have to. It's no use arguing over everything and so——"

Tom nodded. "So you have to be father and mother both," he said. "He's more of a little 'un than I expected, but he's a dear little 'un. I've right down enjoyed myself this evening."

The two men between them undressed Harry and superintended his prayers, and tucked him into his bed, and then they sat by the open window and chatted in low tones till the sound of their voices had lulled Harry to sleep, and then at last Tom rose and said he must be going. He went over to the cot and stood looking down on the little sleeping face, with its regular features, its long lashes lying on the bright cheeks, and its crown of tumbled golden hair.

"He's like the pictures of the angels," he said regretfully, "if Pattie and I had had our little home, we'd have loved to let him stay with us a bit, but I'll come in on Saturday and take him on the river, if you'll let me. It seems so long since I had anybody to go out with."

"Poor old Tom," said Jim affectionately, "it's cut you very hard, but I always believe it will come all right, you know!"

"Pooh!" said an unexpected voice behind them, "you would always believe anything silly, Jim Adams! Come right, indeed! Very likely! You just wait till I have seen Miss Pattie Paul again."

"Have you seen her?" asked Tom in a curiously quiet tone. He had gone very pale, but his face was in shadow and Jane did not perceive it or anything peculiar in his voice.

"Ha!" she cried vaingloriously, "I have! I let her know what I thought of her—mean little cat."

"Jane!" said her husband warningly.

"Oh, you needn't stand up for her," she said airily. "I'm not going to stand by and see my brother treated so. But what's a talking-to with a brazen hussy like that? Wait a bit, I haven't thought how to do it yet, but I'm going to pay her out. Trust me!"

And then Jim did what he had never done in his life before,—he took his wife by the shoulders and forcibly marched her into the bedroom and shut the door upon her.

"Come, Tom!" he said touching him gently on the shoulder, "we've had enough of this."

They passed down the stairs together, but on the landing below Tom stopped, and covering his face with his hands, leaned against the wall.

"Oh Pattie, Pattie," he moaned, "that's my last chance gone. And my own sister too."

Jim said nothing. He was not good at words, but he waited till Tom had recovered himself, and then he went right to his home with him and made a cup of tea for him and sat and chatted till past midnight.

"Don't be downhearted, old fellow," he said when he parted from him.

But as he went home again he muttered to himself and frowned.

"I wonder what Jane means to do? I wonder what she could do?"

CHAPTER XVI.

LINKS IN A CHAIN.

Gertrude had never had such a summer of gaieties.

She had not long returned from Whitecliff when a young American, cousin to Pauline Stacey, with a long purse and unlimited ideas of enjoying himself, made his appearance in Old Keston.

He had "done" England, and wished to stay with his Aunt Stacey "for a few days" before going on to Switzerland, and with his cousin Pauline's very ready help, he inaugurated a series of boating excursions, moonlight strolls, tennis matches and picnics, which lengthened his visit into weeks instead of days, and in which Gertrude, to her great delight, found herself involved from the very first. Pauline Stacey had long ago found Gertrude a far more congenial spirit than her first friend, Denys, had ever been, so that though Denys was occasionally invited to the American's festivities, it generally fell out that Gertrude and Willie or Gertrude and Conway, but always Gertrude, helped to make up the large parties, without which the American could not be satisfied and which stirred up and drew together the social side of Old Keston in an unprecedented manner.

The weather was glorious, and Gertrude spent every halfpenny she could scrape together on white frocks, and though she professed to hate needlework, she suddenly became extremely industrious and worked early and late, turning out dainty blouses which far outshone Denys's creations and astounded her family. On Saturday mornings she gave up all her usual avocations, denied herself to the general public, and devoted her energies to the wash-tub and the ironing board, the result of which operations she proudly displayed in a pile of muslins which would have done credit to an experienced laundry-maid.

"People think I can't do things," she said complacently to her mother, "Denys is not the only one who can get up frocks and make blouses."

"Very likely not," muttered Conway, who overheard the remark, "you only do them when it is for yourself. Denys does them every day for everybody else."

Gertrude carefully laid by her freshly got up stock of elegancies, and stretched her tired back on the bed which they had occupied, hoping to get half an hour's sleep before she dressed for a picnic.

"Money would have sent all those horrid frills to the laundry and saved me a backache," she said to herself, "frills are bad enough to make, but they are infinitely worse to iron. Of course I want money to do things with! I don't want to be poor all my life."

Then she smiled as she closed her eyes and composed herself to sleep.

"I believe I really am having my chance," she reflected. "I know pretty nearly everybody who is worth knowing here now."

And then, as so often happened when Gertrude contemplated her matrimonial prospects, a vision of Reggie Alston rose up before her, and disturbed her serenity.

"Reggie was a nice boy—it is a pity he is poor," she thought regretfully, and then she suddenly sprang into a sitting posture, all thought of sleep completely banished from her mind.

Reggie's birthday! It had come and gone weeks ago and she had missed it—she had completely forgotten it! What must Reggie have thought?

She glanced at the clock; there was just time to scribble a note before she dressed for the picnic, and of course, though she had no wish to encourage Reggie's friendship, yet a birthday was a special occasion, and had she remembered it she would certainly have written!

Why, it was on Easter Monday! No wonder she had forgotten it! Mrs. Henchman had sent all her young party and several other friends off for a lovely expedition to an old castle, and Audrey had been hostess and had felt herself tied to the luncheon basket and the elder guests, while Cecil Greyburne and Gertrude had wandered about together all day and she had never once thought of Reggie.

But she ought to have written on the Friday or Saturday. She remembered how they had all come in late from a long walk, and Cecil had discovered that the country post had gone out, and he had not sent off a particular letter and an Easter card. He had fumed and worried to such an extent that she had thought it really unnecessary, and wondered whoever could be of such importance to him. Then Charlie had recollected that there was a later country post in Dennetford and Cecil had sat down at Charlie's desk and written furiously, and enclosed a lovely Easter card—Gertrude had seen enough of it to know that—and then, without waiting for even a cup of tea, he had ridden off to Dennetford as if his very life depended on catching that post!

If she had only thought of Reggie's birthday, Cecil would have posted the letter with his, as he posted one for Charlie.

She went hot all over as she suddenly realised that Charlie's letter must have been a birthday letter for Reggie. She distinctly remembered Charlie's words,

"It will reach Scotland on Monday morning."

Charlie might have reminded her!

Hastily now she gathered her writing materials and wrote Reggie his long delayed birthday letter, and in her haste and regret she forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-things style, and though the letter was very short it was just such a letter as she had written him before these new ideas came into her head. "I am rushing off to a picnic with the Stacey people, so cannot write more," she ended up. "We are going to the Roman Hill. Do you remember how we went there last year and what a jolly time we had?"

Simple words—and yet Reggie treasured them like gold-dust.

Gertrude posted her letter on her way to the Stacey's house and she felt vaguely relieved when it slipped from her fingers into the chasm of the red pillar box. She felt that now she could enjoy herself in peace.

She was the most popular, the most sought-after girl at the picnic that afternoon; she was never short of a cavalier to wait on her lightest behest; she was her prettiest, her most charming self. The American whispered to her that a picnic without her would be a desolation and he had half a mind to stop another week at his aunt's—but Gertrude was not enjoying herself. From behind the gorse bushes, from between the moss-grown boulders, from beneath the dark foliage of the Scotch firs, there peeped at her a ghost.

She saw it everywhere. It was the ghost of Reggie Alston.

The next day was Sunday; always a quiet home day in the St. Olave's household, and in the little interval between tea-time and evening service the whole family were gathered in the cool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listening to Gertrude's description of the yesterday's picnic. Suddenly she broke in upon her own narrative with a question—

"Mother, how did you and father happen to meet and like one another?"

Mrs. Brougham smiled as she glanced over at Mr. Brougham.

"My dear!" she said, "that's a very old story!"

"Mother won't tell it!" said Willie in his slow, drawly way, "so I will; I know all about it. Father made up his mind that there was nobody like mother in all the world, but prospects were bad in England and he did not see how he could buy the furniture, so he did not say a word to anybody except to his own mother, and he went to China and saved up, and in four years he came back because the firm shut up shop, and the first thing he heard when he got back, was that mother was going into a big hospital to train as a nurse, and he said to himself, 'One of those doctors will take a fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put on his best clothes and rushed off—and—and—"

"Proposed," ended up Gertrude. "Of course I know all that as well as you do. What I want to know is before all that."

"Now it is my turn," said Mr. Brougham looking up from his book, "before that, mother used to give music lessons to my little step-sister and brother—and two more rampageous little mortals I never came across—and they were always in hot water with their masters and mistresses. But whatever they did, she was so patient and gentle—though she made them mind her too—but she never spoke sharply or raised her voice. I used to stand on the stairs outside the drawing-room door, to be sure that they were not very naughty to her, and I made up my mind then. When true love comes to bless us, it is generally through some little everyday thing, some strength or tenderness of character, some simple good quality, some sympathetic tone, or some unselfish act."

"Oh, what fun it would have been if mother had come out and caught you," cried Tony exultantly.

"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude.

"Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."

She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly—

"I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for."

Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!"

"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance, Gertrude?"

One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it back.

"My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh.

And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.

He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.

"It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden.

There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted—

"And the ancient arrow maker

Turned again unto his labour,

Sat down by his sunny doorway,

Murmuring to himself, and saying,

That it is our daughters leave us."

"We shan't have to part with little Maud—yet," answered Mrs. Brougham with a low laugh.

There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only—some mode of vengeance.

But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head?

How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on Monday night!

"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MEETING AND PARTING.

Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting.

Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. Even the postmark was obliterated. She decided then that the rich American, who really was leaving for Switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to Old Keston.

She did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to Denys as that of one of Charlie Henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writing to Gertrude for?"

At last curiosity overcame Gertrude. All the family were busy with their breakfast and their own concerns. Conway and her father were each buried in a daily paper, Willie and Tony had lesson books propped in front of them, little Maud was engrossed in bread and milk, and Mrs. Brougham and Denys at either end of the table were pouring out tea, and cutting bread, and dispensing porridge and bacon, and generally devoting themselves to the wants of the family. Nobody was heeding Gertrude, and she opened her letter and glanced first at the signature.

Cecil Greyburne!

She was distinctly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, but in a moment she pushed that aside. It was pleasant to find Cecil had not forgotten her, though the note was but a short one, nothing to compare in length with the one that had accompanied the Easter card which he had ridden fast and far to post.

"My dear Gertrude," the note ran, "You know I am always trotting about the country for my work, and on Monday afternoon I find I pass through Old Keston station, waiting three minutes by the official time-table (probably that will mean five). I meant to call in and give you all a surprise visit, but find there is no suitable train to carry me on later. If some of you are near the station at 5.15 and can waste a few minutes on a chat, it would cheer a hot and tiring journey and make it seem worth while. I shall be in the front of the train; at least half of me will be, the other half will be outside the window watching for you.

"Yours truly,
"Cecil Greyburne."

Monday afternoon at 5.15! Gertrude's memory rapidly ran through her list of Monday classes and pupils. One of the pupils was ill and, a most unusual thing, she would be free at four o'clock! She need not go to the station in her school dress, but have time to come home and put on something pretty. It was very jolly of Cecil to have thought of writing. Of course she would go if she possibly could.

She frowned as she wondered whether she must mention Cecil's request to her mother and Denys. He had said "some of you," but he had written specially to her. She remembered that Denys always went to help with a Blanket Club on Monday afternoons and was seldom home before six o'clock, and she did not see exactly what interest it would be to Denys to see Cecil.

At any rate she would leave that decision till she came home at dinner-time.

At dinner-time she had a bright idea. She would take little Maud. The care of Maud on Monday afternoons devolved on Mrs. Brougham, and Gertrude knew that a proposal to take the child out would be very welcome, and it would fulfil Cecil's "some of you." Cecil would like to see the family pet.

So Denys went on unsuspectingly to the Blanket Club, and at four o'clock Gertrude turned up at home, announced that for a wonder she had an hour off, that she was going up to the station and that she would take Maud with her, if Mrs. Brougham liked.

Then she arrayed herself in her freshest muslin and most becoming hat, curled up Maud's ringlets and dressed her in a clean and dainty frock, put her in her little wheel chair, and catching up a library book to change at the station, as a sort of excuse, started forth to see Cecil.

Her mother came to the gate with them both and stood watching them down the road, thinking to herself what a pretty pair they made, and at the corner they turned and waved to her, and Gertrude's heart suddenly misgave her. She wished now that she had made no secret of Cecil's letter, she had even half a mind to run back and ask her mother to come with them and see Cecil, or at any rate, to send a message of kind regards to him, but as she hesitated, thinking how astonished her mother would be that she had not mentioned it before, Mrs. Brougham, with a final smile and wave of the hand, turned back to the house, and the chiming of the church clock sounding out warned Gertrude that it was far later than she had guessed it could be.

Five o'clock! How could she have been so long getting ready?

It was fifteen minutes' steady walk to the station, and the church clock was often slow, but then the train was sure to be late!

Comforting herself with this reflection Gertrude hurried along, hating to look hot and flurried, and yet more and more determined not to be too late, even if she had to run for it.

And run for it she did, for the signal was down when it came into view a hundred yards away from the station, and as she entered the booking office she saw the engine of Cecil's train rounding the last bend of the line, and there were the steps and the subway between her and the down platform.

If she waited to unfasten Maud's strap, to lift her out, and carry her down the steps and up the steps, she would miss Cecil. The thought came to her unbidden as the train thundered in, and hastily pushing the wheel chair into a corner by the booking office window, she bade the child look through and see all the lovely big trains, till Gertrude came back in a minute. Then she flew down the steps and through the subway and was rushing up the other side when an unexpected voice arrested her steps.

"Good afternoon, Gertrude. I was just wishing to see you. What are you in such a flurry for? There is another three minutes before the train goes!"

"I've to meet someone," explained Gertrude hurriedly, "I'll come and see you, Mrs. Parsons. I can't stay now."

She ran on, and Mrs. Parsons followed her leisurely. She liked to know everybody's business and she lived opposite the Stacey's and had observed that Gertrude had attended every festivity provided by the American cousin, while her own daughter had been invited only once. She had also heard that the American was leaving for Switzerland to-day, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion that Gertrude had come to see him off. So she strolled along the platform and made her observations.

No, it was not the American, but it was a young fellow; a tall and pleasant-looking fellow too. He stood on the platform, one hand on the open door of the carriage, talking eagerly to Gertrude, and Mrs. Parsons stationed herself at a moderate distance, partly screened by a pile of luggage, and waited. She wished the engine would cease blowing off steam, she could perhaps have caught snatches of that interesting conversation, for she had wonderful hearing, besides an imagination.

"I was awfully disappointed I could not call and see you all," Cecil was saying, "I seem to know you all through Charlie and Denys. I hoped Denys would have come with you, but I suppose she was too busy. I saw Charlie yesterday and I had heaps of messages for her."

Gertrude coloured, "I'm sorry!" she said, a little nettled that he should be unsatisfied with her company, "you didn't mention Denys specially and she is always at the Blanket Club on Mondays, so I didn't even tell her I was coming, but I did bring Maudie, only we got late somehow and there wasn't time to bring her round, so I left her on the other side in the booking office."

"Here's twopence to get her out again," laughed Cecil, "Well! better luck next time. I suppose you got late by making yourself so fetching!"

"Perhaps!" answered Gertrude with a tiny bit of starch in her tone, but the next moment she laughed, and asked him when he would be making the return journey.

So the minutes slipped by till their chat was overpowered by the rush and roar of a train coming in on the up side and there was a sudden waving of flags and shouting by porters of "Take your seats," along Cecil's train.

"Hullo! we're off!" he exclaimed as he jumped on to the footboard, "we were waiting for that train to cross I suppose, but they gave us a jolly long three minutes; its been quite six, I should say. I knew they would. It's awfully good of you to come down and see me. Give my love to everybody. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" she echoed, "mind you write when you come through again, and see if I don't bring Denys and Maud and mother and anybody else I can lay hold of, to meet you!"

"All right!" he said, "that's a promise!"

The train moved and she stood back smiling and waving, watching him till the train passed round the bend. Then she turned, and encountered Mrs. Parsons.

"I thought I would wait for you, my dear. It is a pity to trouble you to call when you must have so many engagements. It is only a matter of a couple of words."

"Then I must get you to come round to the booking office," said Gertrude, trying to hide her annoyance, "for I have little Maud waiting for me, and she will think I am never coming back."

They passed down the steps and up the other side to the booking office, and Gertrude, entering first, went quickly to the corner where she had left her little sister.

"Well, Maudie!" she said cheerfully, "did you think I——"

She stopped short, aghast. There was the wheel chair, just as she had left it, but it was empty. Little Maud was not there.

"Maud!" she said, looking round into every corner as if the child might be hiding. "Maud! wherever are you?"

There was no answer. The office was empty except for the wheel chair.

Gertrude glanced up and down the platform, then out at the door that stood open to the road. Then she knocked at the office door.

"Have you seen anything of my little sister?" she asked, "I left her in that chair five minutes or so ago, and I can't think what has became of her."

The clerk shook his head.

"I didn't see her," he said, "I was giving out tickets for the up train. There was a terrific scrimmage between two dogs—no end of a row. Perhaps your brother or your father came in by the up train and took the child home. It was enough to frighten anybody to hear the lady that the little dog belonged to! She was right down screaming for somebody to rescue her dog."

"It might be that," assented Gertrude. All her bright colour had departed, she looked pale and anxious, and such an upset of her nicely laid plans was extremely annoying. Besides, she might be very much blamed for leaving Maud alone.

"Well! I'm not going to wheel home that empty chair," said she, "you might keep it for me till to-morrow."

Then she turned to Mrs. Parsons. It was an aggravation of annoyance to have her as a witness of these contretemps.

"Really, Mrs. Parsons!" she said sharply, "I cannot attend to any business to-night. I must get home and see about Maud. It's very thoughtless of Conway to take her off without my knowing."

Mrs. Parsons had quite intended to accompany Gertrude to St. Olave's and see the end of the story, and she was highly offended at Gertrude's tone.

So she turned homewards alone and she told the story in her own way.

Gertrude's footsteps grew quicker and quicker as she neared St. Olave's. It seemed to her that a string was being tied round her neck so tightly that she could scarcely get her breath.

If Conway had taken Maud home, why had he left the wheel chair?

On the doorstep she paused to pull herself together. It was ridiculous to be so nervous.

She went straight to the dining-room. Her mother and Denys were sitting peacefully at tea.

"Are father or Conway home?" she asked abruptly.

"No, they expect to be late," answered Mrs. Brougham serenely.

"Have you been up to the station, Denys?"

"No," said Denys, glancing up wonderingly.

"Nor Pattie?"

"No! whatever is the matter, Gertrude?"

"Somebody has taken Maud!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

A BASE TRICK.

Jim Adams could not make out what had changed his wife, but changed she was.

It might have been a dream that she had threatened vengeance on Pattie, for she now never mentioned her, and she treated Tom with a politeness and a thoughtfulness that made Jim believe she repented her interview with Pattie, and wished Tom to forget it. She might even have herself forgotten what she had said about paying Pattie out. She had undoubtedly had a few glasses the night Tom came in to see Harry, and that was enough to account for uncontrolled words, and forgetfulness of them.

Jane had also ceased to grumble at Harry's presence, and she cooked Jim appetising suppers as of old and she even spoke pleasantly to Harry. Jim fondly imagined that she was becoming as devoted to the bright, engaging little fellow as he was himself, and he could not know that in his absence hard words and frequent blows became the child's portion whenever his aunt happened to be annoyed with him or anybody else.

Jim little guessed the real reasons that lurked beneath Jane's changed and pleasant behaviour. The truth was that her thirst for vengeance and her desire for strong drink were growing together, and with them—for it was allied to both of them—cunning grew.

On that evening when Jim had summarily marched her into her bed-room, she had been enraged beyond words, and had the two men not taken their immediate departure, there is no saying what might have happened.

But while she waited for Jim's return she had time for reflection.

Aided by the inspiriting action of the supper beer, she had thought over the situation, and before the inspiriting effect had gone off, and the lowering, muddling effect had come on, she came to the conclusion that she would be making a great mistake if she allowed Tom or Jim to know her intentions against Pattie. What was the use of all her plans and determination, if they interfered and spoilt it all? They must think it was only an empty threat, and by and by they would forget it.

That settled the matter of the desire for vengeance, and she forthwith brooded over it in silence, till it became part of her very existence.

The thirst for strong drink touched her relations towards Harry. She was finding the extra money that Jim gave her for the child most useful. She scarcely missed his food, for he ate but little, and his share was usually what would otherwise have been wasted. Jane was not of a thrifty turn of mind, but the money was hard, solid cash, and gave her a free hand for spending on that in which her soul most delighted.

It was therefore necessary to make the child at least apparently comfortable, or Jim might take it into his head to board him out. Any woman among her neighbours would have taken the boy for less than Jane had demanded for his keep.

With these reasons to help the most powerful influences of her life, Jane kept an oiled tongue and an even temper, and like the calm before the storm, it made things pleasanter for those around her.

Little Harry quickly discovered that it was safer to play in the street when Aunt Jane was alone, but that there was no need for fear if Uncle Jim or Uncle Tom were at home. He was a cheerful little soul too, and began to enjoy such pleasures as came into his new life and to forget the old. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were his joy-days, for on Saturday Uncle Tom always came and took him out for some excursion or treat, or if it were wet, to his own home.

On Sunday Uncle Jim sent him to a Mission Sunday School, morning and afternoon, and sometimes, greatest treat of all, in the evening Uncle Jim would take him to the Mission Service. That Mission Service had a home-like feeling to little Harry, for it reminded him of the Sailor's Rest where he had so often gone with his mother at Whitecliff, before her cough got worse.

He loved the singing there, and at Sunday School. He had a voice like a little bird, sweet and true and clear, and sometimes when Aunt Jane was out on Sunday evening, Uncle Jim would let him sing to him, and even Aunt Jane would let him sing the baby to sleep of a night.

There was one hymn that he learned at Sunday School that he was never tired of singing. It had a chorus, and he always fancied that it was the baby's favourite, too—

I am so glad that Jesus loves me,

Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me;

I am so glad that Jesus loves me,

Jesus loves even me.

On Mondays Harry went to the Mixham Nursery. Harry thought it a charming place. There were no big rough boys or girls—only little people like himself, and the tables were little and the seats were little, and there were toys, and somebody besides himself to make a grand play and pretend to be soldiers, or engine-drivers or horses.

There was a kind-faced woman there, who put pretty clean pinafores on all the children when they came in the morning, and there was always something nice for dinner.

There was a room for the babies upstairs, which Harry considered a most suitable arrangement, and he saw his baby cousin carried up there with great content. He wished Aunt Jane would go out washing every day till Saturday!

Dinner-time was twelve o'clock, and Harry, having learned to tell the time, and having taken a great fancy to the seat at the end of the long, low table, always took his place at least five minutes before twelve, to ensure its possession, and such is the force of example and the love of the best available seat, that on Mondays there was no need for the matron to say, "Come to dinner, children," for a row of little eager faces lined the table, and a row of little hands were folded reverently upon it, waiting for her to ask a blessing.

And after dinner came the only drawback which Harry found in the Nursery life.

He and all the other children had to take a good long nap.

On one side of the room was a sort of pen, with mattresses and blankets, and into this the children were tucked, the room was darkened, talking was forbidden and in a very few minutes they were all asleep, and silence and peace reigned.

"It keeps them good-tempered, and it rests the nurses," the smiling matron used to say.

Eight o'clock seemed to come much earlier on Monday night than on any other, and with the hour came Aunt Jane for the baby, and Harry's bliss was over till Saturday should dawn again, but after all it was not long from Monday night to Saturday morning, only Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

These pleasant summer days were bringing to Jim, too, a smooth and easy-going existence—just the existence that suited his easy-going temperament. And then, partly through the very smoothness of these days, partly on account of his great satisfaction in his own strength in keeping a resolve, there arose in Jim's life a little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand.

He had been a total abstainer such a long time now. He had so often resisted Jane's repeated invitations to share the supper beer, that she had ceased to offer it. The old liking for strong drink did not assail him now. He even mentioned with a superior little laugh to his mates, that there had been a time when he had liked his glass a trifle overmuch, but now he had given it up for good and all.

And the very next day they played a trick on him.

He was extremely fond of cold coffee, and generally brought a can of it with him for his dinner, and one very hot morning he set it down on a great stone in a shady corner of the workshop to keep it cool.

And when dinner-time came, being thirsty, the first thing he did was to take a long pull at his can. He had swallowed half its contents at one draught, before he realised what had happened.

The mystified, horrified expression on his face as he set the can down, was almost ludicrous; to his mates who were all in the secret, it was irresistibly funny.

There was a roar of delighted laughter, and Jim's eyes blazed with anger as he glared at the can he still grasped in his hand.

Yes! It was his own can, and they had taken away his coffee and filled it with beer! He had been basely tricked. He stood there realising it, while the roars of laughter were sobering down into words.

"Ha! Ha! old teetotaller! That's the best fun we ever had!"

"Jolly good coffee! isn't it, Jim? If you could only have seen your own face!"

"Never mind, old chap! You can be a teetotaller again to-morrow."

"I won't!" said Jim angrily, "I did try. Now I don't care what happens."

He gathered up his dinner basket and the can of beer, and stalked away, and a silence fell upon the little group of workmen as they watched him.

CHAPTER XIX.

A SUCCESSFUL RAID.

Jim Adams stuck to his threat. He ceased to be an abstainer, and life changed at once for himself and for all those with whom he came in contact.

He was morose with his mates, and withdrew from their company as much as possible. He shared the supper beer with Jane, but he constantly spoke sharply to her and especially resented the least inattention to Harry's wants, so that it seemed as if the two had changed places, and now it was Jim who found fault and Jane who, aided by that secret object in her mind, took it quietly and made the best of things.

To Harry, Jim was never cross, but the child felt a difference, and missed the companionship Jim had given him, for now Jim either called in at the public-house on his way home from work, or, returning early, went out immediately after supper, and he ceased to take an interest in the Mission Service or in Harry's singing.

Jim was bitterly disappointed with himself. He had been trying to be good like his little sister Nellie, to be good enough to meet her in Heaven, and now he had been tricked into doing what he had no intention of doing, and the old liking had come back with the old taste. He had emptied the rest of that can of beer with real relish, for in his anger he had carried it away to finish it with his dinner, and in that finishing of it, he had gone under to the old temptation.

He had fought and failed. If, in his anger at the base trickery of his mates, he had dashed the can of beer on the ground, he would not have despised himself, he could have forgiven himself; but he knew perfectly well that, even as the unexpected liquid poured down his throat, and he realised what it was, he had made up his mind to finish it, come what might.

He said to himself moodily that men and the devil had combined against him, and what was the use of fighting any more?

He only hoped that Tom would not guess. He knew Tom would be disappointed in him, and he avoided seeing him if he was able. Besides, he knew all Tom could say to him, but he did not mean to try to be a teetotaller again.

And Tom did guess. But he said nothing, for with his wise, kind eyes he saw that the time had not come, only, as he went to and from his work, many an earnest prayer went up from Tom's heart that Jim might try again, not this time in his own strength, but in the strength of that One who had died to redeem him from all iniquity; that he might one day say, "I will go forth in the strength of the Lord God."

So Tom came and went to Jim's home as regularly as ever on a Saturday, and took Harry out with him. Though he seldom found Jim in, and the very sight of Jane and the sound of her voice, brought back the shiver to his heart that had come to it when he knew she had seen and spoken to Pattie, yet he persevered in coming for the child. If things were not going too well with Jim, little Harry needed the more love and guardianship, for was not this a little life that must one day grow to good or to evil?

He was thankful that Jane never mentioned Pattie, but he little guessed that her thoughts were ever hovering round the idea of vengeance for his wrongs, like a moth about a candle.

One Monday evening, Jane returned from her work in Old Keston, full of wrath and dismay.

She had received a week's notice from her lady, and no reason, adequate in Jane's mind, had been given for the change. This made her furious, for though washing jobs were plentiful, one that suited her as well as this was rare, and she would also lose her vantage ground of keeping an eye on Pattie and finding a chance of paying her out.

Only one Monday remained to her, but rack her brains as she would, no way of working her will occurred to her. Yet if she once lost sight of Pattie, small chance of doing anything would remain.

The last Monday came, and all day Jane kept a sharp look-out on Pattie's premises; but Pattie had eyes as well as Jane Adams, and she took very good care that Mondays never took her down the garden within reach of Jane's tongue. Yet the very proximity of Tom's sister on Mondays brought him before Pattie's mind and made her remember that phrase which had seemed like music to her, "going thin and a-fretting for a worthless thing like you."

Yes! she was but a worthless thing—only Tom had not thought so. He had loved her. Sam Willard liked her, but if she had not gone out with him on Sunday evening after church, he would have asked somebody else to go, and laughed and talked nonsense and enjoyed himself just the same, scarcely heeding the difference of his companion. Sam was never free on Saturday evening as Tom used to be. She wondered what Tom did with his Saturdays now. She would like, unseen herself, to see Tom for just a moment. She wondered if he ever thought of her now. It was almost worth risking meeting Jane to know that!

Watch as she would, however, Jane saw nothing of Pattie till about four o'clock that Monday afternoon, and then she saw her bustle out into the garden, and begin vigorously brushing and dusting a child's wheel chair. It was but a few minutes' work and Pattie took the chair inside again, but a few moments later she reappeared at her bed-room window, and throwing the sash up she brought a hat and a brush to the sill and brushed the hat vigorously. Clearly Pattie and the child were going out for a walk! At any rate, if she could but meet them on her way to the station, Jane thought she could annoy Pattie pretty considerably.

She had meant to have a few words with her lady about her dismissal, but her lady had taken the opportunity to go out calling and left the maid to pay Mrs. Adams, and Jane scarcely regretted it, so anxious was she to be off before Pattie's walk should be over.

However, though she looked up and down every road she passed on her way to the station, she saw no sign of Pattie, and the station bell warning her of her train, she hurried on She did not want to lose it and wait an hour.

She found the booking office in an uproar. In the centre of the crowd of people gathered for this train, the greatest favourite in the day for Mixham Junction, a terrible dog-fight was going on between a big Irish terrier and a small black terrier, and the small dog was getting the worst of it.

In vain the lady who owned the small dog, begged and besought the onlookers to rescue her pet; nobody seemed to own the Irish terrier, and the majority of the passengers, being working men, carried neither sticks nor umbrellas, and nobody appeared to be inclined to interfere otherwise with so formidable-looking an antagonist. Into the midst of this hubbub came Jane, and the first thing her eyes fell upon was a frightened child, in a little wheel chair in a corner under the window, who was sobbing loudly with absolute terror.

Pattie's little charge!

Jane recognised the child and the chair in an instant, and looked round for Pattie. As she did so the Mixham Junction train thundered in, adding tenfold to the noise and confusion, the dog-fight lost its interest in a moment for the onlookers, and they streamed out on to the platform, mingling and struggling with the passengers who were alighting.

One glance showed Jane that Pattie was not in sight. Her opportunity of vengeance had come to her. She recognised it, triumphed in it, all in the flash of a moment, and bending over little terrified, crying Maud, she unfastened her strap with a touch, lifted her out, and saying aloud,

"Never mind, dear, it's all over now," she stepped swiftly across the platform and entered a third class carriage.

"Right!" shouted a porter, banging the door behind her. There was a moment's pause—a moment for reflection—a moment to go back, but Jane did not take it. She had paid Pattie out at last.

The carriage was full of people, and they looked at the sobbing child, some with curiosity, some with annoyance, but Jane was equal to the occasion.

She settled the child on her lap, wiped her wet eyes and set her hat straight, and then she faced a kind-looking lady who sat opposite.

"There's been two dogs fighting in there and it's frightened her," she said. "Never mind, my dear, it's all over now."

"I don't want to go in the train, I want to go home," cried Maud, struggling to get off this strange woman's knee, "I want to go home. I want my mother," she sobbed.

"Hush, hush, my dear!" said Jane authoritatively, giving her an admonitory little shake. Then she looked apologetically at the kind lady again.

"She don't like leaving her mother—but there's a new baby sister at her home," she said glibly, "so she's coming home with me for a bit. But she's been spoilt and she don't like the idea of a new baby at all, and she ain't used to her auntie yet, and then there was the dogs on top of it all! Hush, my dear, hush, you're disturbing the ladies and gentlemen."

She was relieved when the whole carriage load turned out at the next station: she and Maud were left alone, and she had time to collect her thoughts.

Her triumph was complete! She had paid Pattie out thoroughly and she was satisfied. The opportunity for her vengeance had come to her and she had seized it without fear and without regret. How clever it was of her to have thought of that fiction about her sister and the new baby! It would do for Jim too, admirably, and he would never find out. She doubted if he even knew where in the outskirts of Old Keston her sister lived. He might even not know her married name! He would accept the story as she gave it, especially now that he was beginning to drink again. Well! he could drink as much as he liked, so long as he brought her her money and Harry's money regularly!

In a day or two she would take the child back to Old Keston, ostensibly to see its mother and the new baby, but in reality she would take it in the dark to its own gate, and leave it to make its own presence known.

In the meantime Pattie would be dismissed without a character, with a multitude of blame upon her head, if indeed she escaped so easily. They might think Pattie had stolen the child, and clap her into prison till she was found!

That would be vengeance indeed!

CHAPTER XX.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

"It is worse than death," sobbed Mrs. Brougham, and they all felt that it was so.

They were gathered at home at last, in the small hours of the night, for there was nothing more that they could do till morning came to wake the world again—that wide desolate world of houses and roads, of byways and slums; that world in which, somewhere, was their little Maud.

Pale, wide-eyed and silent, they all tried to eat the supper which Pattie, pale and wide-eyed too, set before them, for they thought of the day that would soon dawn, when they would need their strength to begin the search again, and though it seemed horrible to be seeking rest in their comfortable beds while their little sister's fate was unsolved, yet for that same reason, slowly and lingeringly they all said good-night and crept upstairs.

For in vain they had searched for little Maud all the evening long. Police, neighbours, friends, had all helped, but no trace, not even the faintest clue, had come to light. Porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen, had all been questioned to no purpose. Everybody talked about the dog-fight, nobody had even seen a child, though a porter averred that he had seen the empty chair long before the dogs came on the scene, and a workman that there had been no chair there at all when the up-train came in. He had stood on the very spot where the chair was supposed to be, watching through the window for a friend, with his bag of tools on the ground beside him. He had moved forward to speak to his friend, and returning a few moments later when the train had gone, to take up the tools, had then noticed the empty chair.

What had become of the child was a complete mystery! Every house of the Broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken Maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. Telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of passengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who passed through his gate.

No one at home said a word of blame to Gertrude. There was no need. They had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little Maud's high chair, while Gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs.

"Don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "Don't cry so, poor old girl. God knows where she is and He'll take care of her. I keep on saying that to myself, for I know He will."

"If only I had told them all about Cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude.

And Conway could not answer. He only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother.

The days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of Maud.

The Broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till Maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured Maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. Truly it was worse than death.

Gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning.

When Jerry died, it had not been like this. They wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. He was safe. It was the uncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings, her associates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day.

Yet God knew. The only comfort they had, came to them in that thought.

Their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. Special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as Maud had been.

But outside of her own home no sympathy was shown to Gertrude.

The place rang with her name. Mrs. Parsons had gone about with her story of the handsome young man in the down train, the meeting with whom Gertrude had not even allowed her little sister to witness, and the stories grew and grew on that foundation, till every picnic or tennis party that Gertrude had attended that summer, was transformed into a separate flirtation or supplied an anecdote to Gertrude's disadvantage.

She had rejoiced at knowing everybody in Old Keston who was worth knowing, but now she wished sadly that she was utterly unknown. She felt that she was pointed at and whispered about, as "the girl that lost her little sister."

Pauline Stacey gathered up all the stories and recounted them to Gertrude with an apologetic air that meant nothing, but covered her real enjoyment in the telling of the gossip, and Gertrude had not the heart to stop her.

After all, what did it matter? Perhaps it was best to know the worst that was being said. No one could blame her more than she blamed herself; she had lost little Maud through meeting Cecil Greyburne and she had done it secretly. Only she hoped that all these other false stories would not reach her home people's ears.

And not one friend of hers had offered her any sympathy. She felt it keenly. Even Pauline only troubled to see her when she had some fresh tale to relate. Cecil had written his sympathy to Denys and had ignored Gertrude, not even sending her a message, for Gertrude had seen the letter.

The rich American had not referred to it when he answered Pauline's letter in which she told him all about Maud, unless his remark that he should not be back in Old Keston after all, could be taken as a reference. Nor had he written a line of condolence to Gertrude, as she had half hoped he would.

And Reggie did not know anything about it. He had sent an immediate and cheerful response to her belated birthday letter, but not having written to him for so long in her sunny days of popularity, she was too proud to do so now, when she was in sorrow.

Yet she watched for a letter from him, hoping that Charlie would write to him and tell him of their trouble, and if he once heard of it, Gertrude knew that a letter would come by return of post.

But none came. Charlie did not write to Reggie. How could he do so without attaching blame to Gertrude?

These were days of darkness, but in them Pattie shone out like gold. She waited on them all with love and patience, she kept the meals regular and the rooms nicely dusted, and she attended to all the little duties that no one seemed to think of now-a-days.

It was she who received Maud's empty chair from the station-clerk, and hid it away that it might bring no fresh pang of sorrow to any heart. It was she who unostentatiously and without fuss, quietly laid by the child's toys and clothes, for she truly guessed that to Denys or Mrs. Brougham, to do so would be like saying a long farewell to their darling, and yet to see them lying here and there, was a constant reminder of her loss.

Though the two things seemed to have no connection with one another, after the day that Maud was lost, Pattie gave up going out with Sam Willard.

She said, when he remonstrated with her, that she had no heart now for palavering and he had better find someone who was free and happy. For herself, she could think of nothing but how to find little Maud again.

"Then you'll be an old maid," said Sam crossly, "whoever's taken the child has taken her a-purpose, and they won't run no risks in returning her. You'll be an old maid if you throw away all your chances like this."

"Very well!" answered Pattie firmly, "then I'll be an old maid and a good-tempered one too. I won't be like some cross-grained bachelors I know, so there!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE HIDING-PLACE.

Jane did not feel the least shade of regret or fear when she took Maud home.

There was no one there, of course, for Jim was at work still and Harry and the baby were at the Nursery. Jane gave Maud some bread and jam and a mug of milk and sat down to think over the situation.

Harry had made his appearance in the house and street without occasioning the least remark or surprise. They made no apologies for him, no explanations beyond the one that he was Jim's nephew.

This was her niece. That was all the difference. With no mystery and no explanations she felt perfectly secure. She would act exactly as she had done when Harry came. There was only one thing necessary for protection. The colour of the child's hair should be brown and her white dress and sun hat should be pink!

"What's your name, child?" she said abruptly.

Maud looked up startled.

"I'm Maudie," she said piteously, her blue eyes filling with tears, "I don't like being here. I want to go home to my mother."

She struggled out of her chair, and prepared to depart, but Jane lifted her back rather roughly and spoke sharply.

"Look here," she said, "you've got to be a good girl and do what Aunt Jane tells you, and if you are a good girl and don't cry, you shall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, you shan't!"

She bustled over to a cupboard and began rummaging, bringing out presently a ball of pink Dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-red crystals, while poor little Maud choked back her tears as best she could. Her short experience of life had brought prompt fulfilment of promises, and she watched Jane quite interestedly, as she threw a few crystals into a basin, poured boiling water on them, and produced a lovely crimson liquid.

Jane then tied a towel round the child's neck.

"I'm going to make you some lovely curls," she announced, unconsciously using one of Denys's constant formulas, and in a moment Maud's golden head was sopped all over with the crimson liquid, and after it was dried on the towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curls and streaks of brown upon her face. That defect was soon remedied, and the brown stain travelled all over her face and neck till the clear white skin had disappeared, and she looked like all the other little sun-browned children who ran about in the street below.

Jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction; then she rapidly undressed her new charge, put her into one of Harry's nightdresses, tucked her up into Harry's bed, and turned her attention to the frock and hat, and when they were hanging on the line, pink and damp, she cleared up the room and wished Jim would make haste and come home. She wanted to get her explanations to him over before she fetched Harry and the baby.

But no Jim came, and at last she went downstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door.

"I say," she said, "I wish you'd fetch my baby and the brat from the Nursery for me. My husband's not in yet, and I've brought my sister's child home along of me for a few days, and he don't know a word about it. If he was to come in while I was out, he might be putting the child outside in the street."

"I'll go," said the woman carelessly. "My word, Jane Adams, but I thought you hated children!"

"So I do!" answered Jane fiercely, "but he would have his sister's, now it's my turn for my sister's!"

As she turned up the stairs her own words came back to her with a sudden qualm. Her sister's child! What about Tom?

He would know that this was not his sister's child—he might even know whose child it was, for he must probably have seen it with Pattie!

But even as the disquieting thought came, a reassuring one followed. Tom was gone away for a month on a special job for his master, and long before that time had elapsed, Pattie would be dismissed and the child could be returned.

Jim did not come home till very late, and when he did, he was more than half intoxicated, and he accepted Jane's story without demur, indeed he scarcely listened to what she said; and as the little girl was still asleep when he went to work in the morning, he really had no idea that there was any addition to his family circle.

Harry was enchanted with a playmate so pretty, so gentle, so near his own age. He wanted to take her to walk in the street to show her off, but Jane promptly boxed his ears and forbade any such thing, on pain of terrific wrath, so Harry contented himself with offering her every toy he possessed, and Maud accepted his attentions like a little queen, and was really quite happy, except when she thought of her mother or Denys. But always there was the same answer to her pleadings to go home.

"To-morrow—to-morrow—if you don't cry."

So the days passed on. Each day Jim drank more and more heavily as he ceased to resist the temptation, and it took stronger hold upon him, and each day Jane grew a little more restless and anxious as she waited for news of Pattie's downfall. She had counted on going over to Old Keston, ostensibly to see her sister and the new baby, but really to pick up any gossip she could about Pattie; but though night after night she made up her mind to go the next day, yet in the morning her heart failed her. The chance of recognition was possible, and to take Maud through the streets to the Nursery, in the glare of the morning sunshine, seemed to be courting discovery. Nor did she dare to leave the child at home alone, because of the neighbours. She would have left Harry alone with the utmost indifference, and locked him in, and he might have been frightened and screamed and cried all day, for all she would have cared, and the neighbours could have made any remarks they liked; but this was different.

She was certainly beginning to be nervous, and she took more beer than she had ever taken before, because she felt so much more cheerful for a little while, and when the inevitable depression it caused, returned, why then she took some more!

As her neighbour had remarked, she hated children, and she became so unutterably wearied of the care of these three all day and every day, that she began to wish she had never troubled about paying Pattie out, or chosen some way which had not entailed the plague of three children upon herself.

Still, she had triumphed; she had had her vengeance. The thought was very sweet, and the bother to herself would soon be over now. Indeed, it must be, or Tom would be coming back.

One Saturday had already passed, since Maud came, and on the second Saturday three things happened. News of Pattie came to her. Wrapped round a haddock which she had purchased for dinner, was a crumpled piece of newspaper. The name upon it, "Old Keston Gazette," caught her eye instantly. She turned it over and glanced down its columns, and her eyes rested on one, and a look and a smile of triumph flashed into her face.

But as she read, her look changed, a deep and angry flush mounted to her forehead and spread to her neck. In a sudden transport of rage, she crumpled up the paper into a ball, cast it upon the floor and trampled on it, and then stooping, she picked it up and thrust it into the fire.

She had failed—she had been deceived—tricked—foiled. All her efforts had been in vain! Pattie had escaped from her toils scot-free. Pattie had never gone to the station at all. She had stolen the child from one of its own sisters! She had risked so much for that! She could have shrieked in her impotent anger.

Turning, she met the wondering gaze of the two children, who had stopped in their play to watch her. She gave them both a smart box on the ears, and then, further enraged when they both began to cry, she seized them roughly and thrust them into the bedroom. She would gladly have smacked her own baby, only that he happened to be asleep.

The second happening was a postcard in the afternoon, from the maid who lived where she used to wash in Old Keston. Her mistress was away, she said; the new washerwoman had not put in an appearance and if Mrs. Adams was not engaged on Monday, would she come and oblige?

Mrs. Adams was not engaged. She thought things over and she decided to go. Not by her usual trains, however. Something must be devised about ridding herself of Maud. She was sick of seeing after the child and she found herself listening to every heavy footstep on the stairs. She would go over late on Monday morning, and returning by a later train, could observe the movements of the St. Olave's household when the dusk fell. She must do something or Tom would be back.

The third happening came late at night.

As might have been expected, Jim came home at last with very little money in his pocket.

He threw over to Jane her usual housekeeping money and growled out that he had not got any extra for Harry this week. She must make do without it. A child like that couldn't cost much, anyhow!

That put the finishing touch to Jane's day. She stormed and raved, she called her husband names, she threatened all sorts of things, but as Jim observed, hard words would not draw blood out of a stone, and he sat there stolidly smoking and listening to the torrent of words, till suddenly his patience gave way all at once, and he declared that if he heard another word, he would take the money back and do the housekeeping himself.

That would have suited Jane very ill, and it sobered her somewhat, and when Jim added that if they were all going short of food next week, she had better send that kid of her sister's home, she became quite silent. It occurred to her that it might be well not to push Jim too hard till the child was safely gone. After that she would have a free hand.

She maintained a sulky silence all Sunday, but Jim took no notice of her. He went out directly after breakfast, taking Harry with him, and they did not return till late at night.

On Monday morning she announced that she was going to work, and demanded the money for the Nursery for Harry, which Jim had always paid cheerfully, but now he only retorted that he had no more money, and went angrily out, apparently heedless of her reply that if he did not pay, Harry could stop at home. For a full minute Jim stood outside on the landing, his hand in his pocket, irresolute. He was quite unaware that the Nursery charge was fivepence for one child, eightpence for two, and tenpence for three, and that Jane had pocketed any benefit which arose from sending more than one. He had sixpence to last him through Monday, but if he left fivepence of that for the Nursery, he would have but one penny for beer!

Yesterday his heart had turned away from his temptation to the fair, innocent little chap that he meant to be a father to, and he had taken him out all day, and had never touched one drop of intoxicating beverage, contenting himself, and very happily too, with iced lemonade and soda water and coffee.

But this morning was different. The cruel trick of his mates rose up in his mind and held him back from trying again. Then he had no coffee ready for dinner, even if he meant to begin again, and it would not hurt the boy to be left at home alone. Still he hesitated, conscious that he was weighing two loves—the child's welfare; his own desire.

And his own desire conquered.

He went quietly downstairs and out to his work, and Jane dressed the baby and Maud, and took them down to her obliging neighbour.

"Take these two down to the Nursery for me," she said, "I've to go back to my old work to-day."

Poor little Harry! He stood forlornly in the middle of the empty room, listening to the sound of the key turning in the lock, listening to the sound of his aunt's retreating footsteps.

Then he thought of the happy Nursery where Maud and Baby had gone; he thought of his place at the head of the long dinner-table that somebody else would have this Monday, and he sat down in a heap on the floor and cried.

Presently he got up and looked about for something to do. His dinner stood on the table, and he thought he might as well eat it now, and when that was disposed of, he strolled into the bedroom, and there he spied the corner of the box that held his best frock, sticking out from under the bed.

Now was his chance! He would have his own again, his bright penny and his bestest pocket-handkerchief with lace upon it.

But the box stuck fast.

Nothing daunted, Harry wrestled with it. He pushed and pulled, under the bed and behind the bed, this way and that, till suddenly, as he pulled, the obstruction which held it gave way, the box came out with a run, and Harry toppled over backwards with a crash, and an awful sound of breaking china, and a rushing of cold water.

For a moment Harry lay there stunned, the broken toilet jug lying in shivers around him, the water soaking into him from head to foot; then, as he came to himself, his startled screams filled the room and he struggled up and sat looking round.

He was more frightened than hurt, but the sight of that broken jug terrified him more than the fall and the wetting. Wouldn't Aunt Jane whip him when she knew!

There was great tenacity in Harry's character. He gathered himself up at last, and opened the box and found his frock and its pocket and its precious contents. He looked at the frock a long time lovingly, then he replaced it, pushed back the box, set the bed straight and gave an involuntary shiver.

He was soaked from head to foot, and though it was summer weather, he felt very, very cold.

He sat down by the empty fireplace and shivered again, and by-and-by he fell fast asleep and dreamed strange dreams, but always he was very, very cold.

CHAPTER XXII.

OUT OF THE NORTH.

In the stillness of a quiet summer evening, when the darkness had fallen and the stars looked down from a far sky, and the soft moonbeams shone silvery on dark trees and velvet lawns, John Gray, Bank Manager, knelt at an open window, his arms resting on the sill, his face turned skywards.

In the silence, in the stillness of that summer night, the great battle of his life was being fought out beneath the stars.

Backwards and forwards raged the battle. Thoughts of what he must give up if he turned his back on this temptation and did not satisfy his desire for strong drink; the friends who would flaunt him; the friends who would pity him for his weakness in yielding to the influence of abstaining noodles; the friends who would smile and bid one another wait a bit, and John Gray would be taking his glass with them again; the awful haunting fear that they were right, that he would only make himself ridiculous and never hold out; all these things seemed ranged on one side against him, and on the other side what was there?

His wife Elaine. She had promised to help him, for them to start together, to turn out of their home and their entertaining all intoxicating beverages, to stand side by side in their social circle and be abstainers. Then there was Reggie. He was helping already. Not ostentatiously, not in a burdensome way. Only just a cycle ride here and there, or a walk, or a concert, or an hour on the church organ, when Reggie would blow and Mr. Gray, who was musical, would play as nobody in the town, not excepting the organist, could play. Or a game of chess in Mrs. Gray's drawing-room, while Elaine played or sang to them and served them with delicious coffee.

There were other friends too—friends who had been shy of him and Elaine lately, but who had once been pleasant, intellectual friends, and who would be friends again if things were different.

All these were on the other side.

But he knew, and his head dropped upon his folded arms with a groan—he knew that none of these things would keep him from satisfying his desire; that they could give him no strength to resist.

They might indeed claim his attention for a little while, but surely, as those smiling friends predicted, he would drift back to the old temptation.

There were real tears of shame and mortification in his eyes, as he lifted them to the sky once more. Oh! if he could only begin again; if he had only been brought up as an abstainer, as children were brought up now-a-days; if he had only taken his stand that side, as a young man, like companions of his own youth had done; if only he had been born strong and not with this weakness.

But all such regrets were unavailing. He knelt there in the moonlight what he was, what he had been made, what he had made himself, and there was something in him that told him that to-night was a deciding point in his life.

And to drift needed no strength, no anything. Only just to get up from his knees and to go upstairs to bed, and to wake again to the old life in the morning.

But the very fact that he was kneeling came to his mind to remind him, and the quiet sky above him spoke to him of strength and peace, and suddenly he bowed his head upon the sill.

"Oh, God, what shall I do?" he moaned. And softly, a voice out of the past—his sweet old grandmother's voice—came to him with words he had never heard or heeded, since she taught them to him in his childhood.

"While we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly."

Without strength—the ungodly. That was himself, and for him Christ died!

The dawn was creeping up the eastern sky when John Gray softly closed the window and went upstairs, and there was the dawn of hope in his heart too, for in his life the Sun of Righteousness had risen with healing in His wings.

It was the next day after this that Reggie Alston received a letter with the Old Keston post-mark, but after the first glance he laid it down indifferently. It was not from Gertrude.

After her birthday letter he had expected another pretty soon, because it had been like her old letters and she had apologised for its brevity, but none had come.

This was only from his aunt. She might, however, mention Gertrude! He opened it and glanced at the opening words. When was she to expect him for his holidays?

He sighed as he thought how long it was till the end of September, when he was to have his holiday. He had so hoped it would be arranged during the school vacation, but it had not been.

He turned the page of his aunt's epistle and then his face changed from listlessness to keen interest.

"I think," wrote his aunt, "that you cannot have heard that little Maud Brougham has been stolen. I thought Gertrude would of course write you all about it, but you did not mention it in your last letter to me, and perhaps, as Gertrude was to blame, she has not liked to write."

And then his aunt proceeded to tell Reggie all the story, and all the stories that had grown upon it. Perhaps in her delight in having so interesting a tale to tell, she forgot what such a story might mean to Reggie, for he had never made any secret of his whole-hearted devotion to Gertrude, but certainly she did not spare Gertrude, and to do Reggie's aunt justice, she fully believed most of the stories of flirtation and coquetry.

Gertrude had been very little to see her of late, and in the light of these tales, she naturally put her own interpretation on the neglect.

Reggie slept very little that night, and it was with a very pale face that he knocked at Mr. Gray's private door in the morning.

"Are you ill?" asked the Manager kindly.

Reggie shook his head with a faint smile.

"Mr. Gray," he said, "you know my holiday is a fortnight in the end of September. Could you possibly make an exception for me and let me have four days now, and give up September entirely?"

"My dear boy! it would not be at all good for you. What's the matter? Anybody at home ill?"

"No! I've only an aunt."

"Is it the one and only girl in all the world?"

Reggie nodded, and a deep flush swept over his face. "She's in trouble. Her little sister has been stolen," he said, feeling some explanation was due.

"Does she care for you?"

"No, I don't think so," said Reggie sadly, "but I should like to go. It's all I can do, and it doesn't matter about my part of it, any way."

"You shall go!" said the Manager quietly. "You shall go by to-night's mail. Perhaps things will be better than you fear. You'll be in London this time to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MEETING OF THE WAYS.

Jim could not forget Harry all day. The hours seemed to drag, and again and again he caught himself wondering if the time seemed as long to the little prisoner, shut within his four walls, with no one to speak to. He determined to go home immediately after his work and take the child for a tram-ride. Even his dinner beer tasted bitter to him to-day, and when he left his work and turned his steps homewards he still had fourpence of his precious sixpence left, wherewith to pay the tram fare.

He was annoyed to find that Jane had not returned, and that there was no supper ready; but he ate what he could find and made a cup of tea.

"I'm going to take you on a tram, Harry," he said, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Why, child!" he added in astonishment, "your coat's wet! What have you been doing?"

Harry's face clouded. He had forgotten the broken jug for a few minutes in the joy of his uncle's return.

"I broke aunt's jug," he said faintly, "and I all got wetted."

Jim got up and went to inspect the extent of the damage, and he whistled when he saw it.

"Aunt will whip me," said Harry mournfully.

"She'd better not!" said Jim fiercely; "it's my jug. I'll get another on Saturday. Come, let's get ready and be gone before she comes in."

He rubbed his hand over Harry again consideringly. His knickers had dried upon him, but his coat was still very damp.

"You ought to put something else on," said Jim. "What have you got?"

"There's my frock," cried Harry eagerly, "my little frock, what mother made. It's in that box."

Jim pulled out the box and helped Harry strip off the wet coat. The child gave a little shiver, but Jim scarcely noticed it then. He was in a hurry to be off, and in a minute Harry was arrayed in the frock over the knickers, and the two went downstairs hand in hand, just as they had come at Easter-time.

It was a pleasant evening, but the wind was fresh, and all there was of it met them on the top of the tram; but no thought of danger crossed Jim's mind. Harry was very happy and quite ready to chatter after his long day of enforced silence, and though by and by he became very quiet, Jim thought he was tired and took him on his knee, where he fell asleep.

But all night long he tossed and moaned, and when the morning came, instead of being awake with the birds, he lay heavily asleep, with flushed cheeks and quick drawn breath.

Jim stood looking down on him with a frown. Then he made himself some coffee for dinner and went over for another look at the child.

"Jane," he said sharply, "I believe that child has got a cold. Don't you let him go out of the room to-day, and you stop in and mind him. D'you hear me?" he repeated, as Jane made no reply. "You're to stop in and mind the child. No going out to work or to gossip."

"I've arranged to go to Old Keston," said Jane shortly. "He's all right, and he can go to the Nursery."

"He's not to leave the room; and work or no work, you're going to stop and see to him. Look here, Jane!" Jim went on sternly, "I'm master here, though you seemed to forget it when you brought your sister's child, without asking me if it was welcome. You've had a good bit of your own way, but this time it's going to be my way."

Jane had grown a little pale.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "What a fuss!"

She had settled everything in her own mind for taking Maud back that very evening, but after all, one day was as good as another, and if Jim should once begin on the subject of Maud, who could tell what he might ferret out? He might even insist on himself taking Maud back to her supposed mother and baby sister, and then what would happen? And it would be of no use to keep back her sister's address from him, for there was always Tom.

She made Harry get up, and he played listlessly with Maud, or fell asleep on the floor in the midst of the toys; and by evening time even Jane's careless eyes could see that the child was really ill.

Jim saw it too, and he went straight out again and left word at the nearest doctor's house, for the doctor to come at once. But the doctor was a busy man, and it was very late when at last he came and stood looking down on Harry's flushed little face. He asked a good many questions, and then made his examination.

Jim watched him keenly, and somehow his heart sank down and down and down.

"Is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily.

The doctor turned away from the little bed and looked at the fine, tall young fellow before him.

"I understand he isn't your child?"

Jim shook his head. "He's my dead sister's child, and his father's dead too. He belongs to me now, and I'd do anything for him. He's not very bad, is he, doctor?"

"He's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "There's not the slightest hope—at least, I think not—but I'll do my best. He's got cold in every bit of him."

Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fateful Monday back again—to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. And now it was too late—too late!

But the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets.

"You'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at Jim; "and," he glanced at Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning."

But there was no need. When, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and Jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. A soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knew better.

He was dead.

As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and He had sent for Harry.

It was on this same morning that, by the first post, Denys received a letter from Mixham.

She tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of Maud, but she laid it down again listlessly.

"Oh dear!" she said, "that is from old Mrs. Richardson. Her daughter has got married and gone away, and she is so lonely, and she sits alone and cries all day, and she says that I have always cheered her up in all her sorrows and she wants me to go over to-day; and it is so bad for her eyes to cry because of her dressmaking, and when she has seen me she won't cry any more; but—oh dear! oh dear!" and Denys herself burst out crying, for her nerves had been very much shaken, "I can't go and comfort anybody. It would be no use my going for that!"

Yet after breakfast she sought out Mrs. Brougham.

"Mother," she said, "I think I'll go to Mrs. Richardson this afternoon. I'm afraid I'm getting selfish in my sorrow, and I'll go, too, and see little Harry Lyon, as I'm over there. I did go once, you know, but everybody was out. The neighbour said his aunt went out washing on Mondays, and Harry was sent to the Nursery. I think perhaps I ought to go."

"Do you?" said her mother with a sigh. "Well, I won't keep you, dear, but oh, do take Pattie with you, just for companionship. I shouldn't feel so anxious while you were gone."

"Oh, but the work," said Denys.

Gertrude looked up from the table where she was correcting exercises.

"I'll see to the work," she said. "I shall be at home all day. It's a pity for mother to feel anxious, and Pattie deserves a change. She's been awfully good to us."

Denys acquiesced, though she felt that Pattie's company was very unnecessary, and so, immediately after an early lunch, Pattie and Denys found themselves stepping out of the train at Mixham Junction.

"I think we'll go to see Harry first," said Denys. "Mrs. Richardson will want to give us tea and we must not be late."

Pattie followed obediently. Little Harry was but a name to her, for he came to brighten Tom's life after she had gone out of it, and she had never heard of Harry's connection with Jane Adams. She knew the road into which Denys turned, however, well enough, and when Denys stopped at the very house where Jane Adams lived, she only thought it was a queer coincidence, and wondered vaguely what she should do if she met Jane on the stairs.

Denys knocked at the first door in the entry, and asked if the Adams's were likely to be in, and which their room was.

She thought the woman looked at her curiously, as she gave her the number on the third floor.

"They're in," she said, with another of those curious looks; "they're in, 'cept the little girl and the baby. I took 'em to the Nursery to be out of the way."

Denys passed on and knocked softly at the door indicated, and Pattie followed trembling, for this was no coincidence—this was reality.

Jim himself opened the door, and when he saw Denys he drew back with a gasp.

"Is Harry at home?" she asked. "You said I might come and see him."

Jim tried to answer, but no words would come. He drew back for Denys to enter, however, and Pattie followed her timidly, and Jim closed the door softly behind them.

Once more he tried to speak—to explain—but Denys did not notice him. In the centre of the room, where the afternoon light fell full upon it, stood a child's crib, and on the white pillow lay the beautiful, familiar little face that had so won its way into her heart.

"Harry," she said softly, crossing the room quickly and longing to hear again the tones that were so like Jerry's, "Harry!"

Was he asleep? She bent over the crib, and then turned bewildered to Jim.

There was no need for words.

She stood a moment spellbound, looking down on the little peaceful face, with its lingering smile, and then she went round the crib and knelt down by the lowered side and softly kissed Harry's forehead and soft golden hair.

She had not seen Jerry's dead face nor kissed him for good-bye, and she knelt beside Harry and wept for them both.

She had completely forgotten Pattie, but after a while, as she wiped away her tears and listened to Jim's story of the child's illness, she became conscious that there was another man in the room, and that Pattie and he were conversing in low tones by the window. She glanced round for Harry's aunt, but there was no one else there; only sundry sounds of stirring about in an adjoining room suggested that she was not far off, but was not inclined to see company. So with one more long look, one more kiss on the fair, still face, Denys and Pattie at last took their leave, and set out for Mrs. Richardson's.

As they left the street, Pattie looked up in Denys's face with crimsoning cheeks.

"Miss Denys," she said shyly, "that was my Tom that was talking to me. He was there taking a photo of the little dead boy, for he loved him, Miss, and—and—him and me, we've made it up, Miss Denys! We've always loved each other all along."

The visit to Mrs. Richardson was over, and Denys and Pattie were once more on their homeward way, hurrying along the crowded streets and threading their way in and out of the bustling crowds, with no thought in their minds but of an accomplished task and a great anxiety not to lose their train.

They took little heed of the passers-by, but their eyes were both attracted at the same moment by a very tall, fine-looking young fellow who was coming towards them with a big, bouncing baby swung high upon his shoulder; even at a good distance they made a conspicuous couple as they came down the street.

"There's Jim Adams," said Denys and Pattie in the same breath.

Jim was walking very slowly, occasionally glancing down at the ground, but the people about him were too many to reveal at what he looked. Whether he caught sight of Denys and Pattie, and could not face speaking to them, or whether he never even saw them, Denys could not tell, but as they neared him, he stopped suddenly and looked into a shop window, showing the baby something that made it shout and crow with delight; but in one instant Denys forgot everything else in the world, but the strangeness of another sight that met her eyes.

She stood stock still in the centre of the pavement, gazing at a figure that was coming towards her.

The figure of a little, little girl, walking alone among the crowd, yet not of it. A little girl with brown, fluffy curls, turning to gold at the roots, crowned by a big white sailor hat with a black ribbon round it—a little girl dressed in a short black frock with a kilt and a sailor jacket; a little girl so like—ah! how many children had she seen lately so like little Maud! Then the child's blue eyes met hers, and, with a scream, Denys had sprung forward, and Maud—little lost Maud—was in her arms.

When Denys began once more to realise anything beyond the pressure of her arms round their lost treasure, she became conscious that a little crowd had gathered, and that Pattie was hurriedly explaining what had happened, and there was pity and sympathy in the listening faces around, so that Denys thought wonderingly how kind the world was.

"A cab!" she said, and she lifted her head as if she were but just awakened from a long and horrible dream. Oh! how glad she was to have Pattie with her!

With Maud still clasped in her arms, she and Pattie got into the cab, and as it rumbled off to the station, the little crowd that had gathered, thinned away and scattered, and Jim Adams and his baby went with it.

Jim had been to the Nursery to fetch the two children. It was upon little Maud, running beside him, that he had constantly glanced down. When he stopped to look into the shop window she had not observed it, but had trotted on among the crowd, and he, turning to see what had become of her, had seen the meeting between her and Denys. Thinking simply that the child knew Denys and loved her, as Harry did, he had drawn near to claim her, and had heard Pattie's hurried explanation, and hearing it, he had drawn further and further to the edge of the crowd.

But Maud had been too far from him, for any of the passing crowd to suspect that she belonged to him. He saw that in a moment, and he waited calmly in the background till Denys and Pattie and the child had driven away.

He understood it all, if no one else did.

So that was Jane's vengeance! That was what Jane could do!

The sooner he and Jane and the baby were out of Mixham the better! What was there to stay for? He hated the whole place. Perhaps he might begin again somewhere else.

He would try, and he would—yes, he would—ask God to help him this time. Tom said that was the only way to keep straight, to ask for God's strength.

And Tom and Pattie had made it up that very day, in Jane's own kitchen!

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SUN SHINES OUT.

As Reggie opened the gate of St. Olave's and glanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows, he felt as if a dream that he had often seen before, had come again to him, and that he should only wake to find himself back in the dull little sitting-room in Scotland, trying to find an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa.

Mrs. Brougham was sitting in the bow-window; she always sat there nowadays, and there was reality enough in her pale, weary face. Almost the first smile that had lightened it since Maud had disappeared, came to it when she saw Reggie.

"Oh, Reggie!" she exclaimed.

Reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill.

"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. He had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"

Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterday about Maud," he said gently. "There's nothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.

She felt somehow comforted by Reggie's coming. He was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again.

Reggie felt it too. He stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said,

"If you knew where Gertrude would be this afternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll be so surprised to see me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically. She knew far, far more of those stories about Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed. Even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude's mind, Conway and Willie had confided to their mother that they wished Gertrude would not be quite so pleasant. She sighed a little as she looked into Reggie's bright, open face. Girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. Then she remembered that Reggie had asked her a question.

"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting. Come in, Reggie; she is at home this afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham, and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—I am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and I believe she went to the drawing-room to study."

"I'll go round the garden way and disturb her," said Reggie, with a laugh.

He thought as he went round the garden that "Gertrude busy in the kitchen all the afternoon," had an odd sound.

Gertrude had not begun to study. She sat in a deep armchair, her books unopened on her lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, and brooding drearily over the past, wondering sadly whether, if Maud were never, never found, she could ever feel happy again! And if happiness did come to her, and Maud had not come back, how terrible that would be, for it would mean that she had forgotten Maud, forgotten her wrong-doing; that she had become again the self-loving, self-centred being that had lost Maud!

As Reggie's figure crossed the grass she sprang up, and her books fell with a clatter to the ground.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said, just as her mother had done.

"Yes," said Reggie, "I've come! I only heard yesterday."

A flood of colour swept over Gertrude's face, but the room was shaded, and she hoped Reggie would not see. What must he think of the story he had only heard yesterday! She had wished that he might know about it. Now she felt as if he were the only one in the world, from whom she would gladly have hidden it.

"Sit down," she said; "all the others are out, except mother."

"I've seen her," he said quietly.

There was a pause. There seemed nothing to say, absolutely nothing! Nothing that could be said, at least.

At last Reggie broke the silence.

"What have you done to trace her?" he asked. Perhaps it was the easiest question he could have asked. Gertrude could answer that, and she told him all that had been done. "I wish there was something I could do," he said, when she paused.

"Is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently. "I'm afraid there's nothing much going on in Old Keston just now. You'll find it very dull."

"That won't matter to me. I have to go back on Monday."

"Oh! Have you had a nice time the first part? I thought you were going to have a fortnight in September."

As Gertrude could think of nothing to say, Reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject.

He laughed a little.

"This is the first part; I came up by last night's mail, I haven't even been home yet. I came off directly I heard about Maud and all your trouble. I was so awfully sorry, and letters are not the least bit of use for saying what you feel."

"It's very good of you," said Gertrude gratefully. "Shall you come home again in September?"

"Oh! there won't be any September," said Reggie cheerfully.

There was another pause and then Gertrude said in a very low voice,

"Reggie, have you heard all the stories that they tell?"

"I expect so," answered Reggie soberly; "but, Gertrude, I would have given up all my holiday, except one hour, if I could just say one word to comfort you."

She looked up at him suddenly, startled.

"Reggie," she said, "do you mean that you gave up all your holiday just to get four days to come up and comfort me? Me! after all you have heard!"

"I don't even think about those stories," said Reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly.

"Don't you?" said Gertrude wistfully. "Oh, Reggie, it is a comfort just to see you sitting there; it is indeed! Except at home here—and they've been so good to me—you are the first that has said one kind word to me about it all. I knew you would when you heard. Only I don't feel as if I ought to be looking for comfort or happiness for myself till she is found; you'll understand that, won't you?"

"Yes, I understand. But that's your side of it, Gertrude. There's another side, and that's my side. I want you to listen to what I've come all the way from Scotland to say. I've said it to myself for years. Last night, when the train was rushing down through England, I was saying it to myself over and over again. Now I'm going to say it to you.

"Gertrude, I love you, I shall always love you, I want you to belong to me for always. I only think of the happiness of my life as bound up in you. I think of your love as the best and happiest thing God can give me.

"That's my side of this matter, and I want you to think of it often, and then, when little Maud is found, and we can talk about our own happiness, then you must tell me what you think about your side of it."

"Gertrude! Gertrude!"

The voice rang through the house as no voice had rung through it since Maud went away, and there was that in the sound of it, which made Gertrude and Reggie spring to their feet and rush to the door.

In the hall was a confused group, and in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short black kilted frock with a sailor jacket, and a big white hat with a black ribbon that half hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turning golden at the roots.

For a moment Gertrude stood staring, as Denys had done, then the familiar blue eyes met hers, and the silvery little voice said gleefully,

"Hullo, Gertrude! I've come back."

"Maud! Maud! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

Reggie returned to the North on Monday, and when he went, a beautiful little half hoop of diamonds sparkled upon Gertrude's left hand. It was Reggie's greatest treasure, for it had been his mother's engagement ring; but the wearing of that ring was the only enlightenment which Old Keston received about Gertrude's and Reggie's affairs.

As Mrs. Brougham observed, people could see what they liked, but they did not deserve to hear anything.

"And so," said Mrs. Gray, as Reggie finished telling his tale in her drawing-room, "and so nobody knows who took the child or how she came to be found again."

"Nobody," repeated Reggie with emphasis. But he was mistaken. There was one man who knew. A man who had gone forth at last "in the strength of the Lord God," and who had conquered. A man, who was holding out loving, strengthening hands to his wife, and to many another tempted one; but he never told anybody what he knew, not even Tom, for Jane was Tom's sister!

The Child's Hand.
The child's hand lingered on the large, heavy handle of the big door.

STORIES BY EMMA MARSHALL.

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Vanity Fair.
Christian and Faithful passing through Vanity Fair.

Messrs. JOHN F. SHAW & Co.'s SPECIAL EDITIONS,

With Illustrations in Colour and Black and White, of the Famous Book—

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS,

By JOHN BUNYAN.

Many Editions of this wonderful Book have been attempted, and we now introduce to your notice another, which for artistic merit and general excellence, we believe to be the best yet presented to the public at popular prices.

The Illustrations, both coloured and in black and white, are numerous, have been prepared with the greatest care by Mr. Ambrose Dudley, and have been greatly admired, so that we have every confidence that this Edition will be universally popular.

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Editions at all prices from ONE SHILLING upwards have been prepared.

"A splendid volume, with most artistic illustrations."—British Weekly.

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The 5/- Crown Quarto Edition has been specially prepared with Thirty-two full-page Illustrations. Of these, Sixteen are in colour and Sixteen in black and white on art paper.

| s. | d.
Gilt Edges | 1 | 6
Crown 8vo, with Sixteen Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White, Cloth, Gold Letterings | 2 | 0
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HONOURS DIVIDED; or, Rescued from Rogues' Island. A Story of the China Seas. Gilt edges, 5/-.

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STORIES BY L. T. MEADE.

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BEL-MARJORY. A Tale. With coloured illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

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"Little Flo', with her industry and skill in 'translating' old boots and shoes, her motherly instincts and efforts to keep her young brother Dick, the crossing-sweeper, honest, because mother had made them promise to be so when she died; the good-natured, agreeable, clever young thief Jenks, the tempter and beguiler of poor Dick; and, above all, the dear dog Scamp, with his knowing ways and soft brown eyes, are all as true to life and as touchingly set forth as any heart could desire, beguiling the reader into smiles and tears, and into sympathy with them all."—Athenæum.

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HEARTS OF OAK. Coloured illustrations. A Story of Nelson and the Navy. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

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FACING FEARFUL ODDS. A Tale of Flood and Field. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

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WAR ON THE WORLD'S ROOF. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

Works by M. S. COMRIE.

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THE KING'S LIGHT BEARER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

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THE CORAL ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE YOUNG FUR TRADERS. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound, leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE DOG CRUSOE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.

MARTIN RATTLER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.

SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY.

SELECTED BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Price ONE SHILLING each.

OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING. 24 Texts in Packet.

HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE. Devices for Bible Searching.

ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE. Illustrated Papers for Bible Study.

ALPHABET TEXTS FOR PRICKING OR PAINTING. For the Little Ones.

MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN. Small Outline Texts for Painting. (Suitable for Flower Missions).

GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS. Subjects for Bible Study.

A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD. Outline Texts for Painting.

SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS. Texts for Painting.

"ALL THINGS ARE YOURS." Outline Texts for Painting, with Hints for Bible Searching.

TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN. For Pricking or Painting. New Packet for the Little Ones.

CONSIDER THE LILIES. Choice Texts with beautiful Floral Designs for Painting.

ENTER YE IN. Texts with Flowers to Paint.

REJOICING IN HOPE. A nice selection on Art Cards.

WHO GAVE HIMSELF FOR US. Texts with Flowers; very effective.

ZION HEARD AND WAS GLAD. Texts with Pictures more advanced.

EASY TEXTS FOR PRICKING AND PAINTING. New Packet for the Little Ones.

THE ASSORTED PACKET. Giving a selection from the most popular numbers.

"With such work there will be no dull Sundays."—Presbyterian.
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"A delightful gift for children."—Record.
"Must be a welcome present."—Saturday Review.
"An excellent idea well carried out."—Word and Work.

For Prizes, Gifts, & Rewards.

ROBINSON CRUSOE. By Daniel Defoe. With illustrations in colour. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-. Also in half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; bound in cloth, extra gilt, 2/6.

THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. Copyright edition. By E. A. Brayley Hodgetts, with special illustrations by J. Finnemore. Demy 4to, cloth bevelled, gilt edges 5/-; Chromo boards, cloth backs, 3/-.

THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. By E. Wetherell. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

MASTERMAN READY. By Captain Marryat. With coloured illustrations. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-. Cr. 8vo edition, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

By W. A. ATKINSON.

GLIMPSES OF BRITISH MANUFACTURES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

LIVES OF BRITISH SEAMEN. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"If necessarily brief, all the 'Lives' are thoroughly adequate, and may with confidence be recommended."—Bookseller.

By E. HARVEY BROOKS.

SAINT JACK. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

Masie.
Masie began to tie up the bunches of flowers with a few leaves and bits of grass.

BOOKS FOR BOYS.

By M. L. RIDLEY.

SENT TO COVENTRY; or, The Boys of Highbeech. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

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THE KING'S SCHOLARS; or, Work and Play at Easthaven. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"Full of all those stirring incidents which go to make up the approved life of schoolboys. Both adventure and sentiment find a place in it."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"A schoolboy tale of very good tone and spirit."—Guardian.

OUR CAPTAIN. The Heroes of Barton School. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A first-class book for boys."—Daily Review.

"A regular boy's book."—Christian World.

THE THREE CHUMS. A Story of School Life. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A book after a boy's heart. How can we better commend it than by saying it is both manly and godly?"—Rev. C. H. Spurgeon in Sword and Trowel.

"Ingeniously worked out and spiritedly told."—Guardian.

HILLSIDE FARM; or Marjorie's Magic. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"A very well-written story which all girls will thoroughly enjoy."—Guardian.

By M. E. WINCHESTER.

CITY SNOWDROPS; or, The House of Flowers. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 5/-; cloth, gilt edges, 5/-.

"We have read very few stories of such pathos and interest."—British Weekly.

"A most touching story."—English Churchman.

SPLENDID BOYS' BOOKS.

By DR. GORDON STABLES, R.N.

THE CRUISE OF THE "VENGEFUL." With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

IN SHIPS OF STEEL. Cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; cloth, gilt, 2/6.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

CHRIS CUNNINGHAM. Large Cr. 8vo, extra cloth, gilt, 5/-.

ALFRED THE GREAT. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

CRUISE OF THE "ARCTIC FOX." With coloured illustrations. Large 8vo, extra cloth, gilt edges, 5/-; cloth gilt, 2/6.

ON TO THE RESCUE. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

MIDSHIPMITE CURLY. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Author of "Dickie's Attic."

TALKS WITH AUNT KATIE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

TWILIGHT STORIES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

OUT IN STORM. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, gold back, 9d.

KITTY'S CHARGE. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.

LUCIA'S TRUST. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.

Tales of
English Life in the Olden Time.

By EMILY S. HOLT.

"We know of no one whose historical fiction is more trustworthy."—Spectator.

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Crown 8vo, 1/6 each.

OUT IN THE '45. A Story of the Jacobites, 1745.

"No one can fail to find pleasure in the quaint, picturesque tale which Miss Holt sets forth."—Spectator.

THE WELL IN THE DESERT. An Old Legend, 1345.

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THE WAY OF THE CROSS. A Tale of the Second Century.

"The book has a simple beauty about it which cannot fail to commend it."—Baptist.

THE SLAVE GIRL OF POMPEII. A Tale of the First Century.

MISTRESS MARGERY. A Story of the Lollards, 1400.

"The author has the pen of an artistic writer."—Athenæum.

CLARE AVERY. A Story of the Spanish Armada, 1588.

"Full of thrilling interest."—Word and Work.

THE KING'S DAUGHTERS. How two Girls kept the Faith, 1556.

"A stirring picture of the time."—Daily Telegraph.

THRO' THE STORM; or, The Lord's Prisoners, 1544.

FOR THE MASTER'S SAKE; or, The Days of Queen Mary, 1566.

"We heartily commend it."—Churchman.

ONE SNOWY NIGHT; or, Long Ago at Oxford, 1159.

Biking.

STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE.

Author of "Sun, Moon, and Stars," etc.

LIFE IN A NUTSHELL. A Story. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"A very refreshing tale of devotion and care."—Record.

"The story of a girl's life and love pleasantly told."—Athenæum.

"A charming story."—Presbyterian.

IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Agnes Giberne has never written a prettier tale. The characters are made to live, and there is a refreshing tone running throughout the whole."—Record.

"Should be a pronounced favourite."—Bookseller.

WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"The treatment is so admirable, we can understand Miss Giberne's book being a help to many."—Athenæum.

"Generosity and gratitude are the moral of this tale, which is very natural in the telling."—Guardian.

FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Thoroughly interesting and profitable, as Miss Giberne's tales always are. We should like to see this in every home library."—News.

"An admirable study of a simple-hearted, well-reared, and self-sacrificing child."—Spectator.

"A really beautiful little story, telling how even a child can do and suffer for Christ's service."—Rock.

MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley. Cr. 8vo.

"An extremely interesting book, and one that can be read with profit by all."—Schoolmaster.

MISS PRIMROSE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/-.

LITTLE EYEBRIGHT. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/-.

POPULAR HOME STORIES.

By EMILY BRODIE.

OLD CHRISTIE'S CABIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

"A capital book for young people, depicting the loveliness of a ministering life on the part of some happy children."—Christian.

COUSIN DORA; or, Serving the King. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"An admirable tale for elder girls."—Nonconformist.

HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"Should find its way into school libraries as well as into homes."—Sunday School Chronicle.

FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE; or, Leslie Harcourt's Resolve. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

NORMAN AND ELSIE; or, Two Little Prisoners. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"So true and delightful a picture that we can hardly believe we have only read about it; it all seems so real, and has done us so much good."—Christian.

SYBIL'S MESSAGE. Coloured frontispiece. Sm. 8vo, cloth extra, 9d.

EAST AND WEST; or, The Strolling Artist. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

RIGHT ABOUT FACE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

CAPITAL STORIES

By GRACE STEBBING.

ONLY A TRAMP. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"Holds the attention and extorts the admiration of the reader from first to last. Many a weighty lesson may be learnt from these pages."—Christian.

DENHAM HALL. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

A REAL HERO. A Story of the Conquest of Mexico. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 3/6.

"We can cordially recommend this to all youthful lovers of adventure and enterprise."—Academy.

GRAHAM'S VICTORY. A Tale of the Covenanters. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Stirring, and ably written."—Guardian.

"We heartily commend it to English boys and girls."—Sunday School Chronicle.

WINNING AN EMPIRE; or, The Story of Clive. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Miss Stebbing is one of the few ladies that can write really good boys' stories. She has caught, not only the phraseology, but the spirit of boys."—Standard.

SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"We can heartily recommend this story."—Church of England Sunday School Magazine.

BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"It is refreshing to meet with such a spirited and thoroughly good story."—Christian.

BOOKS FOR GIRLS

By E. A. GILLIE.

A GIRL AMONG GIRLS. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A delightfully written story."—Newcastle Daily Journal.

A COMRADE'S TROTH. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"An excellent story."—Spectator.

"A capital story."—Westminster Gazette.

The Pathway.
Slowly she came up the pathway.

STORIES BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S. A fascinating story. With coloured illustrations. Cloth, extra gilt, with coloured inlay, 2/-.

THE DOINGS OF DENYS. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"Full of good thoughts as to a Christian's life and duties. The story is naturally told."—British Weekly.

BETTY'S BRIDESMAIDS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

THE BOYS OF ALL SAINTS'. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

SID'S PICKLE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

THROUGH THICK AND THIN. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth boards, 6d.

By ALICE LANG.

CHUMS OF OLD ST. PAUL'S. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

A BROTHER'S RANSOM. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

TIM'S TREASURE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

By E. A. BLAND.

ONLY US THREE. A Story. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"May be read with profit and delight by everybody, whether old or young, rich or poor."—English Churchman.

OLD CHICKWEED. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

Stories by L. Marston.

MISS MOLLIE. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"The love of God is charmingly illustrated by a recital of the loving devotion of a young woman who bestowed affectionate care upon some poor lonely lads."—Christian.

CRIPPLE JESS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Fully as engrossing as anything from the pen of Hesba Stretton."—Christian.

"A sketch well drawn of a sweet flower blooming in a very humble place."—Woman's Work.

THE KING'S MESSENGER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

HIRA'S QUEST. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

WATCHING FOR THE KING. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

BECKIE'S MISSION. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

Books by E. Everett-Green.

RUTH'S LITTLE LADY. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/6.

"A delightful study of children, their joys and sorrows."—Athenæum.

"One of those children's stories that charm grown people as well as little folk."—Guardian.

"A story that will be read and re-read again and again."—Teachers' Aid.

PAT, THE LIGHTHOUSE BOY. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A very pleasing story of lighthouse life, with something of the desert island charm."—The Guardian.

MARJORY AND MURIEL; or, Two London Homes. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A capital story, very prettily got up."—Record.

HIS MOTHER'S BOOK. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/6.

"Little Bill is so lovable, and meets with such interesting friends, that everybody may read about him with pleasure."—Spectator.

THE DOCTOR'S SOVEREIGN. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd., 3, Pilgrim Street, E.C.

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