Title: The Girls of St. Olave's
Author: Mackintosh, Mabel
Language: English
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THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S



    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.



[Illustration: "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.

[Illustration: "'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!



       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: The child's hand lingered on the large, heavy handle of
the big door.]



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[Illustration]



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KEEPING HIS SECRET. A Stirring Story of Boys' School Life. By Rev.
CHARLES HERBERT. 2/-.

OSWALD AND PHYLLIS. A Story for Girls. By CATHARINE SHAW. 2/-.

SCIENCE AT HOME. Full of Diagrams of Interesting Experiments for
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THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S. A Fascinating Story of Girls' School Life.
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Stories by E. Everett-Green.


IN QUEST OF A WIFE. Cr. 8vo, 6/-, cloth, extra gilt.

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HER HUSBAND'S HOME. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 5/-;
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UNDER TWO QUEENS. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,
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IN THE DAYS OF QUEEN BESS. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,
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MASTER OF FENHURST. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,
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    "One of the author's prettiest stories."--_Lady's Pictorial._

IN CLOISTER AND COURT. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, 2/6.

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OUR WINNIE; or, When the Swallows Go. With coloured illustrations.
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SPLENDID BOOKS FOR BOYS.


G. MANVILLE FENN.

THE KING'S ESQUIRES. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Cr. 8vo, 5/-.


ALFRED ARMITAGE.

RED ROSE AND WHITE. Illustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges,
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LOYAL TO NAPOLEON. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/6.


W. M. GRAYDON.

THE PERILS OF PEKIN. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

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CAVALIERS AND ROGUES. Illustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt
edges, 5/-. Plain edged edition at 2/6.

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THE JUNGLE TRAPPERS. A Tale of Adventure. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 3/6.

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WITH MUSKETEER AND REDSKIN. Illustrated by F. Lynch. Cr. 8vo, cloth
gilt, 3/6.

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GUY BOOTHBY.

UNCLE JOE'S LEGACY. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 2/6.



STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW.


THE STRANGE HOUSE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
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ONLY A COUSIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

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THE GABLED FARM; or, Young Workers for the King. Illustrated. Large
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LILIAN'S HOPE. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt,
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COURTNEY'S CHOICE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.
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DICKIE'S SECRET. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, 2/-; with coloured
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LEFT TO OURSELVES. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

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[Illustration: "The King observed the Goose Girl comb out her hair and
put it back before Conrad's return."]



STORIES BY BRENDA. _Author of "Froggy's Little Brother," etc._


WONDERFUL MATES. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth
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UNCLE STEVE'S LOCKER. With illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound
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FROGGY'S LITTLE BROTHER. A Story of the East End. With coloured
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A SATURDAY'S BAIRN. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
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A LITTLE BROWN TEAPOT. With coloured illustrations. Cloth, extra
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NOTHING TO NOBODY. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
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[Illustration: 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=.

Great attention has been given to the type of each Edition, to ensure
the most readable print possible.

Editions at all prices from ONE SHILLING upwards have been prepared.

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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

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    Large Crown 8vo, ditto, ditto, Gold Back               3    6

    Large Crown 8vo, ditto, ditto, Gold Back and Side,
    Gilt Edges                                             5    0

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    Illustrations, in Colour and Black and White           3    0

    Crown 4to, Cloth, Bevelled with Inlay, Gilt Edges,
    ditto, ditto                                           5    0


SPECIAL SHILLING EDITION.

_Cloth, Gold Lettered, with Sixteen Illustrations, in Colour and Black
and White._



WORKS BY ANNA CHAPMAN RAY.


HALF-A-DOZEN GIRLS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound
leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaper edition, 2/-.

    "Will delight and please juvenile readers."--_Christian._

HALF-A-DOZEN BOYS. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound
leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaper edition, 2/-.

    "Written with bright, good humour throughout."--_Gentlewoman._



By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.


THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides,
3/6.



By ROBERT LEIGHTON.


THE BOYS OF WAVENEY. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Large Cr. 8vo,
5/-.

    "A splendid story, which never lacks interest, and in which
    the play of human feeling is admirably depicted."--_Daily
    Graphic._



By FRED WHISHAW.


MYSTERY ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo or Demy
8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

    "Told with a swing and a stir that should delight a lover of
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By W. CHARLES METCALFE.


HONOURS DIVIDED; or, Rescued from Rogues' Island. A Story of the
China Seas. Gilt edges, 5/-.

    "A capital story, full of life and go."--_Standard._

    "There is no page in the book without its interest, and the
    whole will bear reading again and again."--_Record._

    "There is plenty of humour of the brine in this delightful
    book."--_Spectator._

    "There is plenty of adventure in this book; but there is also
    what is better than adventure--the picture of more than
    one thoroughly generous and manly character. The book
    is thoroughly manly and thoroughly Christian without a
    goody-goody vein."--_Guardian._



STORIES BY L. T. MEADE.

_Author of "Scamp and I," etc._


BEL-MARJORY. A Tale. With coloured illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth
extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

    "Most interesting; we give it our hearty
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SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byeways. With coloured illustrations.
Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

    "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._

THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM; or, The Story of a Great Endeavour. With
illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-bound cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra
gilt, 2/-.

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DOROTHY'S STORY. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound cloth sides,
3/6; with coloured illustrations, Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

WATER GIPSIES. A Tale. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
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DAVID'S LITTLE LAD. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges,
1/6.

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DOT AND HER TREASURES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
gold back, 1/-.

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    have had many examples; but none finer, more pathetic, or more
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OUTCAST ROBIN; or, Your Brother and Mine. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo,
cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

WHITE LILIES, AND OTHER TALES. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo,
cloth, gold back, 9d.

    "Stories of a singularly touching and beautiful
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THOSE BOYS. A Story for all Little Fellows. With coloured
frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, gold back, 9d.



[Illustration: "With all her fine clothes."]



THE BEST FAIRY TALES.

  Splendidly Illustrated Books. In strong Bindings,
  handsomely designed.

  With Coloured and Black and White Illustrations.


THE SUN PRINCESS, and other Fairy Stories. Illustrations by H. R.
Millar, Herbert Cole, A. Garth Jones, Reginald Savage, and Arthur
Rackham. Cloth bevelled, gilt edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. Cloth bevelled, gilt edges, 5/-.
4to edition.

FAIRY TALES. By Hans Andersen. Illustrated. Cloth bevelled, gilt
edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

QUEEN MAB'S FAIRY REALM, and other Fairy Stories. Profusely
illustrated by H. R. Millar, A. Garth Jones, and others. Chromo
boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

THE UGLY DUCKLING, and other Stories. By HANS ANDERSEN.
With special illustrations. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to
edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY-TALES. With coloured and black and white
illustrations. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. Profusely illustrated edition, including
many of the less known stories. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to
edition.



Works by Dr. Gordon Stables.


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.

    "Tom Burn, the hero, will charm every boy that gets hold of
    it."--_Literary World._

    "A story of the navy and of mighty Nelson, told with excellent
    spirit."--_Saturday Review._

TWO SAILOR LADS: Their Stirring Adventures on Sea and Land. Large
Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

    "A sea story, big with wonders."--_Saturday Review._

    "A capital story in Dr. Stables' best style."--_Spectator._

FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY. A Tale of Battle and the Breeze.
Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

    "Dr. Stables has almost surpassed himself in this book.
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    more--perhaps we might say as much."--_Spectator._

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.

    "An exceptionally good book for boys."--_Guardian._

    "One of the author's most fascinating stories."--_Leeds
    Mercury._

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.


IN THE TYRANT'S GRIP. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo,
cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

    "The author has seldom produced a brighter, healthier, or more
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SIR JOSCELINE'S HOSTAGE. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo,
cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra
gilt, 2/-.

    "A capital story."--_Liverpool Daily Mercury._

THE LAIRD'S DAUGHTER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,
extra gilt, 2/-.

THE KING'S LIGHT BEARER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,
cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.



Works by R. M. BALLANTYNE.


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.


     1. OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING. 24 Texts in Packet.

     2. HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE.
        Devices for Bible Searching.

     3. ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE.
        Illustrated Papers for Bible Study.

     4. ALPHABET TEXTS FOR PRICKING OR PAINTING.
        For the Little Ones.

     5. MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN.
        Small Outline Texts for Painting.
        (Suitable for Flower Missions).

     6. GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS.
        Subjects for Bible Study.

     7. A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD.
        Outline Texts for Painting.

     8. SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS. Texts for Painting.

     9. "ALL THINGS ARE YOURS."
        Outline Texts for Painting, with Hints for
        Bible Searching.

    10. TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN. For Pricking or
        Painting. New Packet for the Little Ones.

    11. CONSIDER THE LILIES.
        Choice Texts with beautiful Floral Designs for Painting.

    12. ENTER YE IN. Texts with Flowers to Paint.

    13. REJOICING IN HOPE. A nice selection on Art Cards.

    14. WHO GAVE HIMSELF FOR US.
        Texts with Flowers; very effective.

    15. ZION HEARD AND WAS GLAD.
        Texts with Pictures more advanced.

    16. EASY TEXTS FOR PRICKING AND PAINTING.
        New Packet for the Little Ones.

    17. THE ASSORTED PACKET. Giving a selection from
        the most popular numbers.

        "With such work there will be no dull
        Sundays."--_Presbyterian._

        "A charming series."--_Bookseller._

        "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.



[Illustration: 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.

    "A really good story of boys' school-life."--_Pall Mall
    Gazette._

    "Eminently interesting from start to finish."--_Pictorial
    World._

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.

    "_Miss Holt's historical tales are all most interesting and
    profitable, for they teach of what happened in the former and
    darker ages, and how clearer light has come to us, brought in
    by fierce struggle and firm adhesion to principle and to the
    right._"--THE FREEMAN.

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.

    "The author has given herself to a class of literature in
    which she unquestionably excels."--_Literary World._

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.



[Illustration]



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._



[Illustration: 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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