Clarice Egerton's life story
Date: 2024-09-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Fathers and sons -- Juvenile fiction; Country life -- Juvenile fiction; Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction; Temper -- Juvenile fiction; Poverty -- Juvenile fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Juvenile fiction; Guardian and ward -- Juvenile fiction; Families -- Juvenile fiction; Children's accidents -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Clarice Egerton's life story
or, What she could

Author: Annette Lyster

Release date: September 16, 2024 [eBook #74427]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1881

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74427

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARICE EGERTON'S LIFE STORY ***

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

HE LIFTED THE CHILD IN HIS ARMS.

Clarice Egerton's Life Story

OR

WHAT SHE COULD.

BY ANNETTE M. LYSTER

AUTHOR OF

"Karl Krapp's Little Maidens," "The Rutherford Frown,"
etc.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. SIR AYMER EGERTON

II. A PLEASANT HOUR

III. HOW IT HAPPENED

IV. HOW THE YEARS WENT BY

V. CONSULTATION

VI. ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN

VII. THAT BELOVED BAG

VIII. EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN

IX. VILLIERS

X. A PAIR OF SHOES

XI. GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE

XII. HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED

Clarice Egerton's Life Story

OR

WHAT SHE COULD.

CHAPTER I.

SIR AYMER EGERTON.

THE stately homes of England! Well may the poet exclaim; and among these stately homes it would be hard to find one statelier than Egerton Highfield. Its grey old walls, close covered by a mantle of ivy, which clings even round the immense chimneys; its fine terrace, with broad steps leading down into a quaint old flower garden, with a huge fountain in the centre, and only separated by a wire fence and a wide ha-ha from an extensive deer park, through which winds one of the approaches to the house; the age and grandeur of the trees, and the extent of the massive buildings, all combine to make this a truly "stately home."

But perhaps the grandest-looking thing about it was its master, who, on the day on which I mean to introduce him to you, was walking up and down the terrace of which I have spoken. This terrace ran along the west side of the house, and was therefore a sheltered place even in March—though March, in Yorkshire, is not exactly a balmy month. Perhaps it was for this reason that Sir Aymer had gone to walk there, when he became too restless to remain indoors, and there he might be seen walking up and down, up and down with slow and measured tread, always turning at the same spot, always going at the same pace; always carrying his handsome old head well up, and keeping his arms folded across his broad chest.

He was a perfect picture to look at; for though his hair was turning grey, it was still thick and curly, and in his dark blue eyes age had not tamed the fire of youth, while his finely cut, haughty features, and pale, clear complexion were scarcely changed by the touch of time. Yes, he was very pleasant to look at; but, alas, that was all! For he was by no means pleasant to live with. An only child, he had become Sir Aymer Egerton while yet in his cradle; a weak, doting mother spoiled him utterly, and as she educated him at home, there was no school influence to undo the mischief. She died while he was still young, and he married soon afterwards.

He had two sons and one daughter, and soon after the birth of the latter, Lady Egerton died, literally worn out, poor lady, by his imperious temper. The elder boy, Aymer, was a fine, open-hearted creature, full of life and joy. He was sent to school early, which was lucky for him. The other son, Guy, was his father's special pride and darling. He was exceedingly like him in appearance, and, unfortunately, so far like him in disposition, that he had a most difficult temper, though not a passionate one. He was wonderfully clever, particularly as a linguist; and as his sister Clarice shared his tastes, he was well content to remain at home.

But Clarice did not live long to brighten his life, and her death was the more sad because it was the result of accident. She was riding with Guy and her father, when the horse took fright at the fall of a tree which some labourers were felling in the hedge at the roadside. Sir Aymer stopped to swear at the careless woodmen, and to dismiss them from his service on the spot; Guy rode after his sister. Her horse kept to the road.

He perceived that by crossing the fields, he could shorten the distance between them, if not get before her, which was his best chance of giving her effectual help. Some trees hid the road from him as he flew across the fields, but when he regained the road, he knew by the sound of the horse's feet that he had gained his object—he was in front of the runaway. A moment more, and the terrified horse came in sight. Alas, he was riderless!

Guy uttered a cry of horror, and rode back along the road, but when he reached his sister's side, she was dead. She had been killed on the spot.

Guy knelt beside her in silent agony, and before he had quite realised the awful truth, Sir Aymer rode up, still swearing and gesticulating, too angry to see the sad group which barred his way until Guy shouted to him hoarsely to stop.

The horror of this event shattered the young man's nerves completely, and, for a time, seemed to threaten his reason. He was of a nervous, delicate temperament, and it really seemed as if he never quite recovered from the effects of this shock. He was seriously ill for some time, and when the illness passed away, he had become possessed by the unfounded notion that if his father had followed poor Clarice, instead of stopping to rage at the workmen, she might have been saved. In very truth, Sir Aymer could in no way have prevented the accident; but Guy during his illness was haunted by the look of his father's face as he rode up, panting and furious, to where he knelt beside his dead sister.

As soon as he was well enough to travel, he left home, in spite of Sir Aymer's wrath, and for ten years he travelled about without once seeing his father. Then he wrote that he was in London, and Sir Aymer ordered him to come to Egerton Highfield without delay: it was for Guy that he was waiting now, as he paced the west terrace on that bright blustering March day.

Presently a door, opening from the great hall on the terrace, which, to all appearance, was merely a window, with the usual heavy wooden frame and the stone wall of the house beneath it, swung open, and young Aymer Egerton came out.

"Sir Aymer, I am going up to the East Lodge to meet Guy. He'll think it strange if I don't meet him there, at least."

"Never mind what he thinks. I wish to see him first, and alone," replied Sir Aymer, curtly. "I desired you not to meet him at the station—why then should you think I want you to meet him at the Lodge? It is quite enough that you should be an obstinate fool yourself, without teaching him to be another."

"I should hardly have time to do that, sir, in the drive up from the gate."

"Don't go! That's all about it," answered Sir Aymer, in a voice which one would hardly use in speaking to a dog, unless that dog were in grievous error.

Aymer shrugged his shoulders and walked back into the hall, and almost as he did so, his father heard him cry out, "What, Guy! Is this you, old fellow? I hardly thought you could be here yet."

Sir Aymer looked in. His sons were shaking hands hurriedly, and he could not distinguish that any more words passed between them.

But, in fact, the elder was whispering rapidly, "Guy, for pity's sake, don't contradict him whatever he says, don't refuse bluntly."

Guy passed on to the terrace, and found himself face to face with his father, who seized his hand, looked earnestly into his face, and then drew him close and held him fast. He really loved Guy; yet his first words were not gracious.

"So you have obeyed me at last, Guy."

Guy made no answer, and his brother made his appearance on the terrace before Sir Aymer could speak again.

"Here, old boy—let's have a look at you," he said, with his cheery, careless smile. "What has ten years of wandering done for you? Not much—you look older than you ought, and yet you are not much changed."

"You don't look a day older than when we parted," answered Guy, "and neither does my father."

"Go in, Aymer; I told you I wished to speak to Guy alone," said Sir Aymer, imperiously.

And his son obeyed, with a furtive but expressive glance of caution at his brother.

"Now, Guy, walk beside me. I have much to say to you. From your last letter I have concluded that you are at length weary of wandering, and mean to take your proper place in the world again. I hope it is so. Aymer is a fool, without an idea in his head beyond hunting and shooting, and he insists upon marrying Lady Anne Villiers—do you remember her?—the daughter of a man I never can get on with for five minutes. I look to you, Guy, to bring honour to the family. I will get you into Parliament, and make a man of you, if you will only use your brains for something practical. All this archæological and antiquarian and philological nonsense—only fit for magazine articles—will never really advance you a step; and you used to have ambition, Guy."

"Had I, sir? Well, I am as anxious as you can wish to begin a more settled life and to increase my income."

"I'm glad to hear it, very glad. Then you will be pleased with my plan for you, which will at once give you 20,000£. a year, and open a career for you in Parliament."

Guy stared. He knew that Sir Aymer could not give more than that, if so much, to his elder son.

"I don't think I understand you, sir," he said.

Sir Aymer laughed: he was in a wondrously pleasant humour.

"Did you wonder why I desired you to come here, instead of answering your question, as you asked me to do, in writing? Come here, Guy—come this way."

He walked on a little beyond his usual place for turning, to a window near the corner of the house. It was the window of what had been his daughter's sitting-room, and Guy hung back and turned pale, but Sir Aymer laid his hand on his shoulder and pushed him on.

"Look in!" he said, in the well-remembered tone of command.

Guy looked in, and saw a young lady reading quietly in the pretty room he knew so well. A bright, handsome girl about eighteen; but I need not describe her, as she has nothing more to do with this story after the hasty glance Guy cast upon her before his father drew him back.

"There, Guy; that's my ward, Adela Chenevix; she has 20,000£. a year, and is cousin to the Premier. Now do you understand?"

Guy looked round helplessly. He was a student—a scholar—with half a dozen languages at his finger-ends, but not one of them came to his aid at that moment.

"Do you understand, Guy?"

"You want me to marry her?" he said at last.

"Yes. Aymer ought to have had the first chance; but you, Guy, you will be a greater man than Aymer would ever be."

In this assertion I think Sir Aymer was wrong. Guy had not the making of a great man about him. His cleverness was all of the most dreamy and unpractical kind, and he had not even readiness enough to temporise with his father, as his brother had tried to advise him to do. Aymer could not have done worse, and would probably have done better.

"I cannot do it, Sir Aymer."

"Nonsense! Stay here a while, and see her; she's a very good girl I believe, and she's certainly very pretty. I don't want you to marry her to-morrow morning. You're six and thirty—you ought to marry: don't be a fool!"

"I cannot do it!" repeated Guy.

"Why not?"

"Because—I am married already."

Sir Aymer's face grow crimson. He could scarcely speak, and it was in a strangled whisper that he said,—

"Married! Secretly! And trying to keep concealed from me. Guy! Tell me in one word; have you made a low marriage?"

"I have been married for nearly a year, and—"

"I don't care how long. Who is she?"

"It was for this reason that I wrote to you. I must settle somewhere, and my allowance is not enough now. I must add to my income in some way, and—"

"Answer my question, sir! Money I can give you, if that is all. You have disappointed me, you have defied me; but only tell me that you have married a lady, and I will try to forgive you."

Guy was silent.

Sir Aymer waited, staring gloomily at his son's agitated face.

"Father! If you cast me off, I shall be a beggar. She has only a few hundred pounds—I have nothing. She's a good girl, and a pretty creature. I was ill—a sudden attack of fever—and she nursed me through it; and when I recovered, I found that she had learned to love me, and—"

"You have not answered my question. Until I know who and what she is, I have no ears for a romantic story."

Sir Aymer was trembling from head to foot, and his voice sounded like the muttering of distant thunder.

"Her father is an innkeeper in the Black Forest," blurted out Guy at last.

Sir Aymer turned nearly black in the face: his voice was now quite gone, and he stamped his foot and shook his fists more like a madman than a sober baronet of the nineteenth century.

At last he pulled out his pocket-book, opened it with blundering, shaking hands, and drew out a bank note.

"Take that," he shouted, "and go!"

Guy tried to remonstrate, but he might as well have talked to the wind, which at that moment rose with a long wild moan, as if of sorrow.

Sir Aymer thrust the note into his son's pocket, and turning sharp round entered the hall. A servant stood there waiting.

"Bid them bring the carriage round again. Have Mr. Guy's luggage put in, and let it follow him to the East Lodge. Leave the house, sir; I will never see your face, nor speak your name again!"

He walked through the hall and disappeared; and almost at the same moment, his older son came in, having been watching the scene from the window of another room.

"What is it, Guy? Why on earth did you contradict him?"

"I couldn't help it; he would have the truth. And there was no use in putting it off for a day or two. I have done for myself, Aymer. I am married,—to a German girl, little above a peasant. And you know best whether my father will ever forgive that!"

"Whew!" whistled Aymer. "What possessed you?"

"I don't know," was the dreary answer. "Poor little Elise! She deserved a better fate. Good-bye, Aymer; don't risk getting into a scrape by coming with me; good-bye, old fellow."

Aymer, however, insisted on walking with him until the carriage overtook them; and during that time he contrived to form a very true opinion of his brother's strange marriage. Elise was very pretty, very gentle, and very innocent, and she let the handsome, pleasant-mannered stranger see that she loved him; and Guy, always purposeless, was weak and ill, and let himself drift into an engagement.

"She could read and write," he said; "and her father gave her what he and all his neighbours considered an immense fortune!"

Five hundred pounds of our money is not, however, a large sum on which to begin the world, nor was Guy Egerton the man to make the most of it.

"He gave me this," Guy said, drawing out the note. "Take it back to him, Aymer. I won't have it."

"Nonsense! You have a journey before you, and you'll never get another penny from him, I'm afraid. Keep it, and I'll send you more as I can. Where is your wife?"

"In London. I must go back to her."

"Of course; and when you are settled, write to me. I'll consult Anne—do you remember Anne, who used to come here to play with poor Clarice? I'll ask her father to get you something—some Government situation. I'll do what I can for you, Guy. I wish, old fellow, I could comfort you up a bit. I wish—oh, Guy, I wish you were in love with the girl, since the deed is done."

"Ay, I wish I was," answered Guy, as he entered the carriage.

So the brothers parted, never to meet again in this life.

Guy did not write for many months, for, when his brother's kind voice no longer soothed him, his foolish, morbid pride was up in arms. He was not going to be a suppliant for some small place, or dependent upon any one. To return to his wife's native place was also distasteful to him, for the rude plenty of her father's house disgusted him; and thus it came to pass that he threw himself headlong into the first scheme that suggested itself.

He saw in a newspaper an advertisement of the "House and Lands of Ballintra," (pronounced as if written Ballintray), "in the County of W—, in Ireland, and within six miles of the town of E—"; and then followed a description of the fertility and beauty of the estate, the excellent dwelling-house, spacious gardens, etc.—all going a-begging, apparently, for a long lease was offered for thirty pounds a year; and there were sixty acres of land.

Guy Egerton, who shared in the very common delusion that every man is born a farmer, thought that this was the very thing for him. In order to be prudent, however, he wrote to the attorney who had advertised the place, to make a few inquiries, and heard that the reason for the lowness of the rent was, that the house required repairs, though it was quite habitable, and that the land was a little "out of heart,—" "whatever that may mean," thought Guy to himself—but that even as a sheep farm it was sure to prove a good investment to any one possessing a few hundred pounds to stock it.

Guy at once closed the bargain. He took his wife over to Ireland, and before he wrote the promised letter to Aymer, they had been some time settled in their new abode, and their eldest son had been born. Indeed, it was to ask his brother to be the child's godfather that he wrote at last: and he named the boy Aymer.

It has seemed to me necessary to sketch the early life of the father of my heroine—Clarice Egerton—that my readers may be prepared to make some allowance for him when they meet him again after the lapse of some years. This chapter is, therefore, merely introductory, and I hope I have not made it too long; but without it, I do not think I could have made my story clear and plain, without going back frequently to explain, which I wished to avoid.

CHAPTER II.

A PLEASANT HOUR.

CLARICE EGERTON was the fourth child of the couple who so rashly settled themselves in Ballintra. The three children who were born before her were very like their mother in appearance. But Clarice was an Egerton, and, more than that, she was lovely Clarice Egerton over again; and for this reason, she was the only one of his children of whom Guy Egerton ever took the slightest notice.

Time and disappointment had not improved him. Long before the birth of his fourth child, he had discovered that farmers are not born ready-made, or that if they are, he was not one of the number; and he had bought this piece of knowledge at the expense of every penny of his wife's money, besides getting into debt and living in a scrambling fashion, which was a continual misery to him.

His lovely little baby-faced wife was even more changed than he. She was so young at the time of her marriage that she had actually grown since then, and was now a tall, pale woman, with a few silver threads in her abundant light-brown hair, and a sad pair of blue-grey eyes looking out from a face no longer young. Poor, pretty Elise! She had long ago discovered that she had nothing in common with her husband, and that he had not that love for her which would have drawn them together. He was never unkind, but he rarely spoke to her.

His time, when in the house, was spent in reading (he had plenty of books, for he had been all his life buying them, and his brother had sent them to him some years before this), writing, and dreaming; and, for any good he did when out about the farm, he might as well have spent all his waking hours in these more congenial pursuits.

Elise never complained. She possessed a wonderful force of character, and more cleverness than her husband ever gave her credit for, in proof of which I may mention that she learned English so thoroughly that no one would have suspected that it was not her native language, and that she taught herself enough to enable her to teach her children, and this without other help than the use of good books and an occasional question asked of her husband. She never complained, as I have said, but she watched and observed; and, being a peasant by birth, she often felt sure that she could have managed the farm better than her husband did.

But, at first, he would not allow her to do anything—there were servants to do the work, and she must learn to be a lady. But those days were long past when Clarice was born. One elderly, rough-looking woman—Katty Simnott by name—formed the whole establishment then, and Katty had become so fond of "the misthress an' the children, God bless them!" that I believe she considered herself one of the family. As to her master, she was wont to remark that "Shure he was nawthin' on earth but an English Omadahn, and what would yez expect ov him?"

Little Clarice was named after her long-lost aunt by her father's desire; and a lovely, healthy, noisy creature she was. The next child was a boy, and, like Clarice, he was an Egerton in appearance; but beyond giving him his own name, Mr. Egerton (as I must now begin to call him) never took the least notice of him. Clarice was the only child he ever did notice, in fact.

Soon after Guy's birth, Mr. Egerton had a severe illness—acute rheumatic fever—and it aged him terribly. His hair grew grey, and this, with his stooping figure, made him look quite old—very much older than did his father, who still flourished at Egerton Highfield. When Mr. Egerton recovered, he told his wife that he intended to let the farm, either for grazing, or, what they call in Ireland, by con-acre: which means that several poor men join to take a field, of which each of them cultivates his own proportion.

"I cannot struggle on any longer, Elise," he said. "I lose by everything I undertake, and I can get thirty shillings an acre for the moorfields, and forty for about twenty acres. And there will always be the house and garden—though, indeed, the latter is of no value to us."

Elise saw her opportunity.

"Do not let the garden on any account, Mr. Egerton," she said eagerly, "nor the lawn."

"The lawn!" he repeated. "Why, there are eight acres in the lawn. I think I had better let it. The children can play there as usual, you know."

"Yes; but I could keep a cow, Mr. Egerton, and other things. And what shall I do without milk for the children? Leave me the lawn, the garden, and the peat bog, and let me do the best I can. You know I am not a helpless fine lady; I know about these things, and Katty will help me. Aymer is growing fast, and he is very strong; he will soon be of use: and as so much of what you will get for the land must go to pay the interest on our debts, I must work for the children."

Mr. Egerton looked nearly as black as his father could have done, and he answered very coldly, "You really think that you are likely to succeed where I have failed?"

This was exactly what Elise did think, but she only answered gently,—

"I do not mean to attempt so much, you know; and I was born among such work, and know about it."

"I had hoped you had forgotten that. You might at least let me forget it."

"I would gladly forget it," she answered, firmly, "if it did not mean bread for my children."

"Perhaps you even think that if I gave up the farm to you, instead of letting it, you would make a fortune?" he said angrily.

"No; there is no fortune to be made out of this wild place, but bread may be. I have no capital to farm, but I can and will feed my children. Let me do it, Mr. Egerton. I have never complained, but do not deny me this."

"It shall be as you will," he said, sullenly. "You shall have the lawn, the home field, the garden, yard, and orchard."

"And the turf bog?"

"Very well. This decreases my number of acres for letting very considerably; but the responsibility, is yours. I have nothing to do with it, remember."

Which was exactly what the poor woman wanted, for nothing seemed to prosper in his hands. But if anything was wanting to complete his alienation from his wife, this did it very effectually. He might have forgiven her if she had failed; but she succeeded, and her very success maddened him. He became more silent and absent than ever; read and wrote, and wandered out by the river, neither noticing nor caring for anything that was going on. Her tender care for his comfort never won a smile from him, and even little Clarice was no longer noticed.

Everything fell into her hands by degrees, and by exercising a strict economy, and as much as possible keeping house with her farm and garden produce, her eggs and chickens, her milk and butter and cheese, she even contrived to pay off some of the debts.

Her time was fully occupied, and the three elder children were becoming very helpful; all things were prospering in her hands. But a terrible misfortune happened when this simple, hard-working life had been going on for about eight years, during which time Mr. Egerton had become completely confirmed in his moody, unsociable ways—a misfortune which cost poor Elise many bitter tears, and my pretty Clarice life-long suffering; and yet a misfortune which most certainly was the greatest blessing which ever befel the family at Ballintra. That is a strange assertion, is it not? Yet if you read this story, I think you will acknowledge its truth.

Aymer was now a fine, sturdy, strong fellow of fourteen; Elise, or, as they all called her, Lizzie, was twelve, and Helen eleven. Clarice was just nine, and little Guy was so like her, and so nearly the same height, that they looked like twins; there was also a little girl baby in arms.

Aymer was now the principal gardener, and with the two girls under his command, had been working in the garden all the pleasant, breezy May morning. After dinner, he asked his mother if he might take all the children in his boat to the other side of the river—for the silver Slaney ran by the end of the lawn, and Aymer had a small flat-bottomed boat, which he found very useful in fishing, and a row in it was a grand treat to the rest of the family. The other side of the river was a delightful spot: rooky, full of trees, ferns, and wild flowers of every description; and as there was no bridge within many miles, and the river, though in its infancy, was yet not fordable, this lovely spot had all the charms of comparative novelty.

Great, therefore, was the acclamation when mother was heard to say, "Very well, Aymer; but don't take more than two over at the same time, and don't take Clarice and Guy together. I am always afraid they will upset the boat with their wild ways."

Aymer promised obedience, and the two children raised a yell of delight, which sank into silence in a wonderful hurry as their father entered the room. He seldom spoke to them, and never scolded or punished them, but in their merriest moment, his appearance would work a wonderful change in their demeanour.

Hats and baskets—the latter to bring home primroses, cowslips, wood-anemones, and any foolish little fern which might have been tempted to uncurl himself thus early, were soon snatched up, and away went the whole party down the steep green lawn, bounding, shouting, and chasing each other right merrily. Elise Egerton stood at the door and watched the crossing of the river. Guy was first ferried over, with steady Lizzie for a companion; then Helen with Clarice.

As Clarice jumped into the boat, she caught sight of her mother, and waving her hat in the air, her dark curls flying wild in the spring wind, she called aloud,—

"Have a hot cake for tea, mother; we shall all come home so hungry!"

"Sit down, child; sit down!" cried Elise, making a sign to the wild little lassie. "You'll fall into the water."

Clarice sat down,—in fact, Helen pulled her down; and away went the boat. Elise Egerton never saw her pretty Clarice stand upright again.

Primroses were plentiful: Clarice said they were like stars in a dark sky, and Guy, being of a literal turn, said that the sky never was green, that he could see.

"For all that, they are like stars," said Clarice, filling her basket with them as fast as she could; "and I've more stars in my basket than you have, Guy."

"Wait a bit," said Guy.

Soon the baskets were full. And sitting down to rest, Lizzie made a thick wreath, with a plait of rushes for a foundation, all stuck full of primroses; then she got up and came behind Clarice and put it on her head. Clarice's hat was not in the way in the least; she had left it in the boat.

"Isn't that becoming?" said Lizzie, turning up the beautiful little flushed, sunburnt face, that Helen might see it.

"Oh, Clarice is the beauty of the family," remarked Helen, gaily.

"I'd rather have nice light hair like yours," exclaimed Clarice, "and then Katty wouldn't call me a gipsy! What does she know about gipsies, though? There are none in Ireland."

"Are you sure of that, Clarice?" asked Guy, earnestly. "Oh dear, what a pity! For I'm writing a story all about gipsies, and I meant to make them live in the rooks here, and come over and steal our chickens."

"I'd like to catch them!" said Aymer, who was lying on his back half asleep.

"Have you got the story in your pocket, Guy?" inquired Lizzie. "I should like to read it."

"No, it's at home. And you couldn't read it. I can't read it myself—only I know what I mean." And Guy stood on his head for a moment, as a delicate hint that the conversation was becoming prosy.

"You can describe this place, Guy, and say it's in England," said Clarice, with a fine disregard for literary accuracy. "Don't stand on your head, Guy! Mother says I must not, and so you shan't. Now I'll tickle your feet, mind, if you don't stop."

"Don't be an iron," answered Guy, meaning a tyrant. "One iron's enough, and Katty says papa is a rale one."

"Guy, hold your tongue!" cried Lizzie and Helen in one breath. "You must not speak so of papa."

"It was Katty said it, not me. Come along, Clarice, and I'll show you where the gipsies were to have lived."

Clarice seized her basket, and off went the two allies; and their pleasant laughter was heard for some time by the grave seniors as they sat quietly on the bank of the river.

"Think of Katty saying such a thing before Guy!" remarked Lizzie. "I wonder if I ought to speak to her. I would tell mother, only it would vex her."

"Leave it alone," growled Aymer. "People will talk, and Guy will find it out for himself soon enough."

"Oh, Aymer! But he's our father!"

"I can't help it. I wish I could! I'd rather have one of the common day-labourers for my father—one who would work for his family and behave himself. There, girls, never mind, only don't talk to me any more about it."

Aymer was a very silent fellow, and it was but seldom that his sisters got a glimpse of his feelings: but there was a bitterness in his voice now which startled them. He sprang up from the ground, saying,—

"It is getting late; come along, girls. I want a stout ash stick, and it will be a pleasant walk to the plantation."

The girls hid their baskets in a quiet corner, and they all set out for the ash plantation. Having cut a stout sapling, they walked slowly back, and were gathering up the basket and wondering where the children were, when they heard a cry of distress.

CHAPTER III.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

IT was Guy's voice, and he was crying aloud, either in fear or in pain,— "Aymer, Aymer! Oh, where are you?"

"Why, what has happened to him?" exclaimed Helen. "He's down there, I think, by the sound." And she pointed along the bank in the direction opposite to that which they had followed in their walk.

Aymer shouted, "Here, Guy, at the boat!"

And they all set out to meet him.

"There he is! But he is alone. Where is Clarice?" said Lizzie, as the figure of the little boy came in sight. He was running us fast as ever he could along the shingly shore; his dress was all disordered, his hat gone, his black curls wet and matted on his forehead, and his face wild with fright and haste. He was so spent, poor child, with running and shouting, that he could not stop himself, but fell into Lizzie's arms.

"Oh, Aymer," he panted out, "Clarice is hurt! A big stone fell on her. I couldn't move it—and she's hurt, Aymer, and I had to leave her to find you. Oh, it was so horrid to leave her."

"Where is she?" said Aymer. "Come, Guy, you must show me the way. You come after us, girls."

Guy was nearly fainting from pure weariness and terror, yet he roused himself and took his brother's outstretched hand.

"Run, Aymer; never mind me; if I fall, you can pull me along."

But the running was soon over, for they came to a little creek, or bay, where a tiny rivulet emptied itself into the Slaney, and Guy said, "We climbed up here. It is quite near now."

Aymer lifted the child and pushed him up as high as he could, scrambling after him. The rooks were not difficult to climb, and the little waterfall guided them. They were soon at the top, and Guy pointed down into the bed of the stream, which had hollowed out as deep a channel for its insignificant waters as though it had been a much larger affair than it was. Down there, partly in the water, lay Clarice. From the edge of the bank, just where Aymer stood, a large stone had fallen; its bed was sharply defined in the black peaty soil, and the stone lay on the child, who was quite still and silent, uttering neither moan nor cry.

"Stand here, Guy; don't follow me."

And Aymer jumped down. He touched the child's forehead, and she moaned faintly. Just then Helen and Lizzie reached the bank where Guy stood, looking down.

"Oh, Aymer, is she dead?" cried Helen.

"No. She moaned just now. The stone must be moved somehow; it's on her right knee."

"You'll never be able to move it, it's far too heavy. Shall I run down to the boat and bring some one to help you—Katty, or mother?"

Aymer made no answer. He set his white teeth firmly, took a steady stand on the turf at either side of the tiny stream, and stooped over the stone. Never could he have lifted it at any ordinary moment, though he was as strong a young fellow as any of his years; but now excitement and sorrow made him twice as strong as usual, and with a shout he raised the stone, and let it splash into the water.

Clarice moved, uttered a terrible scream, and then lay silent.

Lizzie was down beside her now. "Oh, Aymer, I do think she is dead; I do, indeed. Oh, poor mother!"

"No!" shouted Aymer, almost fiercely. "Don't say that! It is her knee that is hurt, and she is cold from lying in the water. It's well her head was on the bank."

He was examining the child's knee as he spoke, and his face was pale and his hands trembling, both from the strength of his feelings and the tremendous exertion he had just made.

"The stone lay here; she's not injured anywhere else. The ground is soft, or her leg would be ground to powder. Is it broken, Lizzie?"

"I don't know, it looks terrible. What are we to do now? How can we ever get her home?"

Aymer raised himself; stood upright, and turned to calculate the height of the bank. On the edge above him knelt poor little Guy, his dark blue eyes fixed on Clarice in utter misery.

"Clarice is not killed, Guy. My poor little chap, don't look so miserable!"

"Aymer, if she is killed, I hope the police will take and hang me! For it was because I stood on the stone. She jumped down, and then stood calling me to jump too; but it looked so steep, and I felt the stone going and went back—and then it fell, and Clarice screamed, and—oh, Nelly, Nelly!"

Helen kissed and soothed him, but Aymer said, "Don't make a fuss now, Guy. We must not think of anything but Clarice. Girls, I'm going to lift her; she must not lie in the water any longer. I'll lay her on this bit of turf. There, my poor little pet! Now give me your handkerchiefs, girls; and your apron, Helen. Hand me that bit of stick. See, Lizzie, help me. I must tie it so as to prevent it from hanging down or moving. There!—" As he finished his rough surgery (rough in appliances, but not roughly done) "There, that's all I can do. I never could get her up there without shaking her. I must carry her up the bed of the stream until we come to the place where the banks are low. Then I'll go through the field into the lane,—you know where the lane leads down to the river? You, Helen, go down at once and bring the boat to meet us there. Do you think you can?"

"Yes, I can; Guy will help me. Come, Guy, we'll climb down here."

"You come with me, Liz; I may want help."

Then he lifted the child in his arms, and up the stream they waded. It was never up to their knees, and generally only covered their feet. Clarice moaned a little, and the sound was sweet music to their ears, for she was so white and cold that their hearts misgave them sometimes.

It seemed a weary way; but they reached the lane at last, and were soon at the river side, where the boat was waiting for them. Clarice was gently laid in the bottom of the boat, and Lizzie got in, that she might help Aymer when they reached the other side.

Meantime Elise had got through a great deal of hard work; generally the afternoon was lesson time, but the children's holiday was no holiday to her. When the sun began to get low, she went with a smile to mix the cake for which saucy Clarice had begged. She set it on the griddle (if you don't know the taste of hot griddle cake, I am sorry for you, and hope you will, some day), and then left it to Katty's care, while she went out on the door-steps to see if the children were coming over the river.

What she did see was Helen slowly and carefully pulling the boat up the river, while Guy followed as best he might along the shore; in a moment the mother's heart took alarm. Where were the others? What had gone wrong with them? She was sure that Guy was crying, and he did not often cry. In her alarm, she did what she had not done for many a day. She went into the room where her husband sat at his desk, and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Egerton, something has happened to the children."

"What!" he said. "Where are they?"

"Over the river. Helen is taking the boat round the point."

"Well, what of that? Do you think she cannot do it safely?"

"It is not that, but why is she doing it? Where are the others? What has happened, that they cannot come to the usual place?"

"Really, Elise, I think you are exciting yourself for nothing. I am very busy. They will all be home directly, you'll find."

She turned and left the room. It was growing dark, and she could no longer see clearly; but in a few minutes, a figure came quickly up the steep lawn, and Lizzie ran up to her.

"Mother, Clarice has had a fall, and is hurt. A stone fell on her. Aymer is carrying her up from the boat."

Aymer was beside them already.

"Don't try to take her, mother, darling. Her knee is badly hurt, but she's not hurt anywhere else, I think. Let me carry her to her bed at once; she's all wet and dripping."

At the sound of the voices Katty came running out of the kitchen.

"Och! Murdher! What's the matter with the darling of me heart?"

But Elise spoke not a word. She went up-stairs before Aymer, and took an old waterproof cloak from the place in the passage where it hung, laying it over Clarice's little bed, to keep it dry. Aymer laid his burden down tenderly.

"I must go back for the others now," he said; "but then I'll go for the doctor. I think you must have a doctor, mother."

She made a sign to him to go, and began to unfasten the child's dress with steady hands, though her face was white.

"Aymer, I'll go over in the boat for Helen and Guy," whispered Lizzie; "I shall not be afraid. You catch Rufus and ride to E—. Katty, you get any thing mother wants. I will be back as soon as I can."

Poor little Clarice! There she lay with the thick wreath of primroses still crowning her dark hair, and her basket of flowers crushed up in her arms—a poor little crushed flower herself.

Aymer had a long six miles—six Irish miles of a hilly road, to ride on his rough but sure-footed little pony. But he got to E— at last, and fortunately found Dr. Garvey at home. The doctor promised to come "as fast as the car would be ready," and to bring what he thought might be needed; and Aymer rode back, glad to be passed by the doctor on the road.

Mr. Egerton sat at his desk; not hearing any unusual sounds, he soon forgot his wife's "absurd panic." The daylight faded, and he lighted his lamp, and read, wrote, and dreamed on. He was not called to tea, but that did not disturb him in the least; he would never have remembered any meal for himself. But when several hours had passed since tea-time, he began to feel hungry, and while he was dimly wondering what ailed him, Aymer entered the room.

"Father," said he—and no one would have known his voice, nor indeed his manner; nay, his very face was different, somehow—"Father, Dr. Garvey wants to speak to you."

"Dr. Garvey! Why, who—what brings him here?"

"I went for him; Clarice has had a fall; she is badly hurt. Here is Dr. Garvey."

He let the doctor enter, and then left the room. Mr. Egerton looked like one but half awake.

"What is it, Dr. Garvey? I did not quite catch what the boy said. An accident to little Clarice, was it?"

"Yes, and I fear a very serious one. A large stone was loosened in its bed, first by her own jump from it—they were all scrambling about on the other side of the river—and then Guy got up to jump after her, and felt the stone going. He contrived to jump off, and the stone fell, knocking the little girl down and crushing her right knee very badly. I don't think any bones are broken, for the damp and soft ground saved her a good deal, but it is a bad injury, and I fear inflammation. The child's whole system, too, has received a great shock, for she lay half in the water for some time before Guy could find the others and bring help. I would not tell Mrs. Egerton how serious it is, because she seems so unhappy already that I quite dread knocking her up altogether."

Mr. Egerton, wide awake now, listened to all this with a dark frown. If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for little Clarice; and the impression left upon his mind by what the doctor said was, that there had been great carelessness on the part of the elder children, and that Guy was in some way to blame for the whole affair.

So instead of going up-stairs to say a few kind words to his poor wife, as soon as the doctor had left him, he sent for the children, and gave them such a rating that he soon had Lizzie and Helen in tears, and Aymer in a state of speechless fury. As for poor little Guy, he was sent off to bed supper-less, as a punishment for the accident which was breaking his warm little heart!

And need I say that not one of the four ever forgot their father's injustice? Oh, if people would but remember that injustice is the one thing a child never forgets! One act of that, and your child never really trusts you again. And why did not Mr. Egerton remember how terrible he had thought his father's face of anger, when he raised his eyes from his sister's dead face and saw him riding up? Was he not doing the very same thing now? However, having thus relieved his feelings a little, Mr. Egerton went up to the room where the child lay, and where Elise sat, pale and quiet, beside the bed.

Next day Clarice was in great danger. The knee was frightfully inflamed, and fever ran high. All her long thick curls had to be out off to cool her poor little burning head; and her mother and sisters spent every hour of the day, and of the next night, in bathing the knee with cold water, to keep down the inflammation.

For many a day, the child hung between life and death; and when at last she began to get better, she was but the ghost of the lovely, rosy, sunburnt child of a little time ago; and, what was worse, the injury proved to be a lasting one. The slightest attempt to stand, or even to move, without actually using the right leg, brought back inflammation and every bad symptom. Perhaps, if the Egertons had been very rich people, and could have had the best surgical advice from Dublin, she might have made a better recovery; but that of course was out of the question. And though Dr. Garvey did his best for her, poor little Clarice seemed likely to be a cripple for life, even if she did not sink under her terrible sufferings.

Mr. Egerton, after that first night, when he found (or fancied) himself in the way, returned to his usual habits. The sight of suffering was painful to him, and the little one's moans and cries were dreadful to listen to. So he kept out of the way, and only went occasionally to see the child. He wondered angrily why her constant companion, Guy, always fled on his approach; why Aymer looked sullen, and the girls nervous, when in his presence. But, though annoyed, he was not sufficiently roused to inquire; so he wrapped his mantle of selfish abstraction still closer round him, and went back to his books and papers.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE YEARS WENT BY.

IT was a sad change for poor little Clarice! From being the most active and daring among the children, the leader in all play, and, indeed, in all mischief too, frolicking about full of health and glee, to lie there in sore pain day after day, night after night, never able to move from her bed, or to join in any the old plays!

It was not wonderful that she was cross and fretful; and as every one was ready to humour her, and do anything to alleviate her suffering, she ran a terrible risk of becoming selfish and overbearing, and a great burden to all about her. But her heavenly Father had His own good purpose for little Clarice. The dark cloud was full of blessings, not for herself alone. She was to be blessed herself, and a blessing to all she loved; and do you suppose that her baptism of sorrow was a thing to be deplored? Ah, no! And so Clarice would tell you now; but it seemed unbearable then.

For a long, long time all seemed very dark. Poor Elise's heart was almost broken with watching the suffering which she could so seldom relieve, and the weariness she began to fear would be for life. Guy, who hardly knew himself without Clarice, gave up all his old ways, and sat by her bed patiently, trying very hard to please and amuse her; but his mother saw that he was growing pale and thin, and so she refused to let him remain indoors all day.

And this was the cause of the first serious struggle between Clarice and her mother. Clarice wept and fretted, and wanted her willing slave back again; and the poor mother found it very hard to deny her, but for Guy's sake she could not permit it. Then Clarice screamed, and thrust away the gentle hands that were always busy for her, and abused every one with such vigour and heartiness, that she proved herself quite worthy to be old Sir Aymer's grandchild. But she was very penitent next day, poor little woman, though she still cried and fretted to have Guy beside her. This was more than a year after the accident, and the monotony of her life was getting harder to bear every day.

One day Mrs. Egerton was alone with her; the rest were busy in the garden, digging and wheeling in the potatoes for the year.

"Mother," said Clarice, after a long silence, "how long do you think I must live?"

"My darling! Don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."

"But I was thinking last night, and I must talk about it. You see, I'm of no use now, and no pleasure to any one, not even to myself. And I suppose I never shall be any more; so I wish I was dead!"

"Clarice! We don't want you to be of use. My poor little darling!—We can do well, there are plenty to work and care for you."

"But I have so much pain, mother, and no fun now; so it would be a good thing if I was dead. What is the use of being alive, if I must be always like this?"

"It's the will of the good God," said Mrs. Egerton. Poor thing! It was a phrase she had heard her own hard-working mother use when things went wrong; and she thought it was the right thing to say.

But, alas, she know very little about Him whose name she thus used as a sort of spell. In the part of Germany where she was born, religion is at a very low ebb; and since she came to Ireland, neither she nor her husband, nor, of course, the children, had over been inside a church, except when there was a baby to be christened. The nearest church was six miles off, and they had no conveyance, save a common cart.

At first the Rector of E— used to visit them when he could find time; but he never saw anyone except Mr. Egerton, who let him see that his visits were unwelcome, and were considered an intrusion. At last Mr. Egerton was almost rude to him, so he gave up coming.

"Is He good?" asked Clarice, after a long silence.

"Is who good, dear?" Mrs. Egerton said, rousing herself from thought.

"God. You said that I am like this because it is His will. Is He good, mother?"

"Yes, my dear," answered the mother, promptly.

"But how do you know that? If He is good, why does He wish me to be like this? Are you sure He is good?"

"The Bible says so; and besides, He made us all—He gives us all we have—He redeemed us."

"What's that?" said Clarice.

"Oh! Clarice, liebchen, I don't know these things well enough to talk about them. We were all lost, and so He sent His Son to save us."

"Lost! Tell me all about it, mother."

"Why, you know all that, don't you, dear? I've taught you every one as much as I know myself."

"But it is so long since I did any lessons that I forget things. I know His name was Jesus, but I don't see, I can't remember, how He saved us. And what does being lost mean, mother?"

"Being bad and wicked, and not going to heaven."

"But we are not all bad. I dare say papa wants to be saved; but you are good, and so are Lizzie and Helen, and Aymer, and Guy, and Katty. No: perhaps Katty wants saving, for I've heard her swear, and sometimes she tells lies."

"We are all sinners—the Bible says so," Mrs. Egerton answered, helplessly. It was terrible to her to have to answer such questions and to hear such strange remarks.

"I think I am," Clarice said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not right to be cross and to cry and fret and vex you. But, there, I never did when I was well and strong, and I would not do it now if I was well again. And yet you think it is God's will that I should be like this!"

She remained silent for so long a time that her mother hoped she had forgotten all about it. But poor little Clarice had not forgotten, and was floundering about very hopelessly on the margin of that wide and deep sea of perplexity in which many a better-found boat than hers has gone down. Presently she sighed deeply and said,—

"I wish I knew how to be good! I am afraid I am not good; and then if I die, I might not go to heaven; and then it would be better for me to live, even though I never get any better. You would go to heaven, mother—you're always good!"

"Ah, no, Clarice! I'm afraid not."

"Afraid you won't go to heaven?"

"No, no—afraid I'm not good."

"But that's all the same thing, for only good people go to heaven. I remember that much, at least. But I know you are good, mother dear, so don't you be frightened; but I ought to be frightened, for I am not a bit good. I feel full of crossness, and sometimes nearly hate people when I hear them running and jumping. And when baby was born, I hated her, because then you could not nurse me so much; and I hate—"

"Oh, Clarice, be still. It is wrong to hate any one, and I am sure you don't."

"I do sometimes, really. I'm afraid I am not good at all. If I was well and strong, I would be good; so it's not my own fault, after all."

"God will make you good, if you ask Him," Elise said, after a silent struggle. Her heart reproached her, both for her own ignorance and that of the child; but she did not know what to say.

"I should like to know more about Him, and about His Son who came to save us. Mother, where's the big Bible with the pictures, that you used to read us the story of Joseph and his brethren out of? Won't all about God be in the Bible? Do, mother, put down your work and read me a bit, just a story, out of the Bible."

Very glad to exchange talking for reading, Mrs. Egerton put away her work, and went down-stairs for the big Bible.

"What shall I road, Clarice? Joseph and his brothers, is it to be?"

"Not to-day. I want to read about God's Son. Begin at the beginning, please."

So Elise began at the first chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. The child listened eagerly, and her questions and remarks prevented any inattention on the part of the reader. Among all Mr. Egerton's books there were none that a child would be likely to care for, and the elder children had never wished for any, so that reading was an amusement for Clarice of which no one had thought until now. She was a clever child, and her life of inactivity forced her to be a thoughtful one; and now she drunk in the words of the "sweet story of old" as if she heard it for the first time—which, indeed, was the case—for she had only learned a few of the leading facts as a lesson, and that long ago.

"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' Why, mother, that must mean that He will make them good."

"I suppose so, dear."

"His people. Who are His people, though? Am I one of them?"

A question which Mrs. Egerton could not answer; so she said,—

"Let me read on, Clarice; the others will be coming in soon."

She went on with the story; but the death of the babes of Bethlehem proved too much for poor Clarice, and her burst of lamentation brought the first reading to an abrupt conclusion.

"Oh, the poor little babies!—Little, small babies like our Agnes—all murdered; and their mothers loved them as you love us. Oh, how could he do it? Mother, are you sure it is true?"

And when she was going to sleep that night, Clarice begged that baby Agnes might be brought to her, that she might kiss her.

"Oh, little baby," she whispered, "I said I hated you, but it was not true! How could that Herod hurt a wee little white thing like you?"

But next day, she had got over her horror sufficiently to permit her to wish for more of the "story about His Son," as she called it. And patient Elise laid aside her needle and read on. The history of the preaching of the Baptist, of our Lord's baptism, and of the temptation were read and listened to in silence; but when they reached the twenty-fourth verse of the fourth chapter, where miracles of healing are recorded, Clarice sighed deeply.

"If I had lived in those days, Aymer would have carried me a hundred miles to find Him," she said.

Mrs. Egerton hastily turned over the leaf and began the Sermon on the Mount.

Neither mother nor child ever forgot that reading. Clarice had never heard it before: Elise had read it with her eyes only. But now, with a pair of great blue eyes, dark and bright, fixed on her face, and a little eager voice insisting on a meaning for every word and sentence, somehow there was a great deal in that sermon that Elise had never seen there before. There was much that she could not explain, for she was very ignorant, and her mind was smothered under all her cares; but there was much that seemed very plain.

They went no further that day, and the result of Clarice's meditations was expressed when her mother was leaving her for the night.

"Mother, one lovely thing is that even if I don't get well, I may try to be good. You know He said that it was meek people, and peace-makers, and those that mourn, that are blessed. And all those things I can try to be. Only it won't be easy, because when I have bad pain, I do like to scream and be cross."

I cannot delay to tell of each day's reading; but before they reached the end of St. Matthew's Gospel, Elise Egerton had begun to find rest for her poor wounded heart and troubled mind in Him whose "name is Jesus, because He saves His people from their sins."

The picture Bible was too large and too heavy for Clarice to hold, which was a great grief to her, because she had no other books, and, besides, if she could have been the reader, her mother could have listened and gone on with her mending at the same time. One day, when her father paid her one of his rare visits, the child gathered courage to ask him a question.

"Papa, are Bibles ever made into small books?"

"Yes, certainly," he answered, absently.

"And yet all the Bible is in the book?" she asked again. "They don't leave out bits, do they?"

"No. The print is small, you know, so that it requires less space."

"I do wish I had a little Bible," she half whispered.

"What do you want with a Bible, child?"

"To read; mother reads to me when she has time, but if I could read, she might work and listen. But I can't hold the big Bible, you see."

"Why do you want to read it?" Mr. Egerton asked, with a smile upon his lips.

"Because it makes us happy."

The answer puzzled him, and touched him too.

"Poor little Clarice! If it does that, read it by all means. I will give you a small one."

He left the room, and she heard him go to his study.

"He will forget all about it!" she thought: but no, he was coming up-stairs again.

In his hand he carried a small Bible bound in crimson velvet. A gold shield on the cover bore the name "Clarice." Mr. Egerton's face was unwontedly soft and sad, as he looked at the book, as if half unwilling to part with it.

But Clarice did not perceive this as she stretched out her hands and took possession of the book.

"Oh, papa, how beautiful! I did not know that a book could be so beautiful. And my name is on it! How very strange!"

"It is yours now," he said, slowly. "It was once—It once belonged to my sister Clarice, after whom you were named: you are like her too, very like her. I will give you the book, child; but keep it out of my sight, I could not bear to see it lying about."

"Indeed, it shall never lie about," Clarice said. "Papa, I don't know how to say thank you."

She was too much awed by his agitation and by his unusual kindness, to say anything more, and with instinctive tact, she covered it until he left her. But when he was gone, she began eagerly to try to read it; and, behold, to her horror, she had forgotten all but a very few words. Guy, coming in with some flowers, (he brought her fresh flowers every day, even if he had to trudge two miles to find them), found her bewailing herself sadly.

"Oh, Guy, isn't it too bad? Look at the lovely Bible papa has given me, and I've very nearly forgotten the letters. I'm like Katty, for I could read my own name on the cover, just as she can write hers, and no more."

"Don't cry, Clarice; I'll run for my spelling-book, and teach you all over again," said Guy, promptly.

This lesson proved the beginning of much pleasure to both. Guy was a clever boy, and Clarice was clever too, and the accident which had overshadowed both the bright young lives, made them thoughtful children. There were plenty of books, English, Latin, Greek, German and French; some not very good for such young readers, perhaps, but none that any child was likely to read unless under peculiar circumstances.

As to the Latin and Greek, when this fever for study seized upon the children, they were in despair, to find so many books that were useless to them. But, nothing daunted, Guy coaxed his mother to buy him a Latin Grammar one day that she went into E—, to buy some clothing. And among his father's books, he found a dictionary. These were treasures indeed! And it was really astonishing to see how much they succeeded in learning without help.

But it happened that one day Mr. Egerton found Clarice struggling with a difficult sentence in a Latin book, and questioning her, was surprised to find how much she knew. Clarice was the only creature he ever seemed to care for, and, to her surprise and delight, he offered to give her lessons.

"Teach me Latin! Will you really, papa?"

"I will," he answered, with a sigh. "Your life needs any brightness that I can give it."

"And Guy, too, papa—we work together."

"No," he answered, frowning. "Of what use would Latin be to him? Let him learn to dig and plough, like his eldest brother. If you could work, I would not teach you; and I am not sure that I am doing you a kindness as it is."

"Oh yes, papa; indeed you are," she answered, timidly.

After this, Mr. Egerton gave her an occasional lesson. Sometimes he forgot all about it for days together, and at other times would get interested in her intelligent way of learning, and give her several lessons day after day. How hard Clarice worked, and how delightedly she taught her new acquirements to Guy! It was new life to Clarice, this world of books; and as to Guy, he soon left her behind in many things, though they still worked together and helped each other.

Mr. Egerton's fancy for teaching Clarice only lasted a few months; about a year and a half. At the end of that time, she was well enough to long to be in the room where the others worked and took their meals; and Aymer and Guy contrived a couch for her, made out of six disabled chairs. On this, by means of stout poles passed under the head and foot, they could lift her without hurting her. A little room inside the parlour, which had hitherto been unused, was got ready for her, Aymer papering it afresh with his own hands; and in this room and the adjoining parlour, lifted from one to the other by her brothers and sisters, did Clarice spend many a year of her young life.

But when she came down-stairs, and was again one of the family, Mr. Egerton quite left off teaching her, or taking any special notice of her. However, by that time, Guy and Clarice could get on by themselves. And many a boy and girl, with teachers and governesses ever trying to improve them, would have wondered at the amount of good solid learning which they contrived to acquire.

Nor was Clarice content to be any longer a useless member of that busy family.

"Mother, dear," she said, "you must teach me to knit and sew and darn. I am afraid I cannot do very much, but even a little will be some help."

She soon learned, being very much in earnest. But, one day, having worked at hemming some stiff new sheets until she was over-tired and a little feverish, she burst into tears, exclaiming that she was a burden and a bother! She could do nothing, though she wished to do so much!

"Clarice, liebchen," said her mother, softly, "listen now to me. It seems to me, dear little one, that you are making a mistake. If you do what you can, the good God knows why you don't do more."

Clarice ceased crying; and after a few moments, she took her velvet-covered Bible from under her pillow, and turned the leaves slowly. At last she found what she wanted, and read aloud the words:

"'She hath done what she could.' Mother, I will try to remember that. It was not much that she did; yet He said that it should be told wherever His Gospel was preached, for a memorial of her. I shall never be good for much; but I'll do what I can."

"Yes; for His dear sake, my child. Yes, and you are to fret no more. Just do what you can; you are very useful to me, Clarice; and when you are tired, rest, and don't make yourself miserable. Thou hast but little strength, poor child; thy heart is greater than thy strength."

When Mrs. Egerton was moved, she sometimes fall into the "thee" and "thou" of her native tongue.

I have now given you a brief account of things which took three or four years in passing. Clarice was nine years old when she met with her accident, and I leave her now at thirteen, a sufferer still, but no longer a hopeless, repining sufferer. In the rest of my story, I hope to show you what kind of girl this poor little Clarice became, and how she bore her part in the battle of life.

CHAPTER V.

CONSULTATION.

SEVERAL years passed away, having brought with them several changes.

First, the universal failure of the potato crop all over Ireland utterly ruined many of the hard-working poor men who used to rent Mr. Egerton's fields; and the greater number of them emigrated—the greater number, I mean, of those who did not die of the terrible fever which followed the year of famine.

The land thus thrown upon their hands, Aymer and Guy manfully tried to work; but though Aymer would certainly have done well if he had a little capital, all he could do now was simply to ward off actual want. There was no help to be looked for from Egerton Highfield, for the kind older brother was dead; and Elise had lost both father and mother, and had no one left who could be expected to aid her. Actual want of bread was never felt at Ballintra, but, oh, it was a hard life!

Aymer took the "famine fever," and was very ill for many weeks, and his mother was sadly worn in nursing him.

Some time before this, Lizzie had been married to the son of a Scotch farmer who had recently come into the country; and when the distress began, Helen, with her mother's consent, took a situation as nursery governess in the family of a Mr. Wynne, who lived a few miles from Ballintra. So there were two less to provide for; and Helen sent every penny she could spare to her mother.

But of course the work all fell upon poor Elise, and the nursing of Aymer too. She worked, and stinted herself, and kept things going; and Aymer recovered, and was soon as well as ever. But his mother was worn out, poor gentle, loving woman! worn out and heart-sore, and had no longer strength to bear up under her trials. Another babe was born to her at about this time, and though she recovered, and was once more about and at work, she felt that her days were numbered; her long, weary work was done. And so it proved. Silently and meekly, as she had lived, she passed away.

Helen had come home to nurse her; Lizzie was there too; all her children were about her, even poor Clarice, propped up on her couch, that she might watch the dear worn face to the last. If deep and reverential love could have made her happy, she surely had it from those warm young hearts; but all their love could not keep her with them. Her work was done, and she entered into her rest.

A week passed like a dream. Elise Egerton lay buried in the little churchyard of Kilsteen, and her children sat in the bare, tidy parlour, trying to face bravely their future life. In losing their mother, they had lost their provider, their adviser, their head and guide; and very desolate the poor things felt. Yet they must live, and the question was how could their orphaned life be best managed?

"One thing is certain," said Helen, "I must stay at home. In fact, I have written to Mrs. Wynne to explain to her why I cannot go back, even for a week. But I am afraid I shall make a bad hand of it, having been now for some time out of the way of such work; and the twenty pounds a year is a loss, too. Aymer, have you any idea how much we have to depend upon?"

"Oh yes," said Aymer, with a short laugh—not a very mirthful one. "And it won't be much trouble to you to count it. Nothing. That's the sum."

"Nothing! But there must be something, or how do we live at all?"

"Nothing to depend on, I mean. There's no letting the land now, you know; the country is a desert, and there's no one left to take it. Guy and I put our work and strength into it, and we get out of it just what feeds us and helps to clothe us, after paying the rent. It is well for us that the debt was paid off before the famine, for we could not even pay the interest now. But as to depending on it, why, if one of us was ill again, or had an accident, the game would be up. And that's not the worst of it, either."

"Why, what worse can there be?" exclaimed Lizzie. "I am sure that's bad enough. You all work like slaves, and just get coarse food (not too much even of that), and clothes that barely keep you warm in winter. What worse can there be than that?"

"This," Aymer said, looking round cautiously, and then getting up to shut the door. "Girls, you must know it sooner or later; and Guy says I had better tell you, for that secrets are bad among those who mean to sink or swim together. Only for that I wouldn't make you sadder than you are already. Do you know that my father only holds a lease of this place for his own life and hers—my mother's?"

"No; but I don't understand," said Helen.

"It means this: that we are working for bare bread, not laying by a penny; and that if my father died to-morrow, we should all be turned out on the roadside."

"Oh, Aymer, that can't be."

"It is, indeed."

"But I thought the place, such as it is, belonged to us?" Helen persisted.

"Not an acre of it."

"At all events we could take it on: get another lease of it."

"I fear not, Nelly. The person my father took it from is dead, and the new owner is rich, and could improve the land, and make it worth double what we pay. He would never let it to us, without a penny of capital to do it justice. I cannot help it, so there's no use in fretting; but I do feel ashamed sometimes at the way I'm obliged to rack the land, taking out all I can get, and putting nothing, or next to nothing, in. There's no help for it. I don't see what we can do."

"But I do," said Guy, his dark face flushing with animation. "We must emigrate! I know you think this nonsense, Aymer, but indeed it is not. Just listen to me. You know, Liz, I go every day to Kilsteen, to help Billy Cox, the postmaster."

"What does he want help for?" said Lizzie. "I don't suppose he has six letters a day to sort."

"Six too many, dear Liz, for a postmaster who does not read 'hand o' write,' as he calls it. And he gives money orders too; and nicely he'd manage that without me! Well, the other day Miles Murphy (you know him, Aymer, Smiley Miley, of Askinagap) came to the office to get money on an order from New Zealand—enough money to pay his passage out, and get him a small outfit. And he told me all about it. His cousin Tom, Big Tom of the Ferry, was the first to go; he went the year the disease came," (Guy meant the potato disease, but he had learnt from the cotters to call it "the disease" simply), "and the next year he sent enough to get out his wife and children; and now he's getting Miles out; and he sends such accounts of the wages out there that you'd be fairly surprised. He gets seven shillings! Think of that, Aymer! Three half-crowns, all but sixpence, every day. And he was nothing but a common labourer. A fellow who can do what Aymer can—or I either, when I stop growing—"

"Ay, if you're ever going to stop, you young giant," said sturdy Aymer.

"A fellow who can reap and mow, and thatch and plough, shear, and carpenter, and everything—would get ten shillings a day there as easy as tenpence here; and it was Miley said it!"

In spite of their sad hearts, there was a general laugh at the fine rich brogue in which Guy concluded his story. The young Egertons all had pleasant accents, thanks to their foreign mother and English father, and a softening touch of the Irish brogue, but in his excitement, Guy unconsciously gave Smiley Miley's voice as well as his words.

"If half of that is true, I wish I was there," said Aymer. "One would soon save enough to get you all out."

"And that is what we must all look to and work for," went on Guy. He was a tall, slight lad of sixteen now, with a handsome, refined face and a thoughtful expression. "We must lay our heads together, see how we can make and save a little money; and then one of us—you, Aymer, or I—go out, and get the rest out by degrees."

"Save money!" said Helen. "But how, Guy? I see no way to do that."

"If we only had a little capital—just a few pounds to buy sheep. Aymer, if we wrote to my father's people—"

"Put that out of your head!" Aymer interrupted him by saying, shortly. "I will go to the poorhouse sooner, and see you all there too. Take money from those who let my mother slave all her life because they didn't think her good enough for them! Never speak of it to me, Guy."

"If the matter were put before my father, he might write—"

"Hold your tongue, Guy!" thundered Aymer. "My father!—I'll starve first! You may swallow insult and contempt, if you like, and then lick the hand that strikes you, but I won't! What possessed my father when he married, I don't know; but well I know, he never loved mother. He broke her heart, to begin with, and then he lived on her hard earnings; and as to us, he wouldn't know if we were all dead and buried, nor care either. We are only so many memorials of his mistake—he—"

"Aymer dear," said a soft clear voice, which had not been heard before in this consultation. It was Clarice who spoke, and her dark blue eyes were raised gently to his angry face, as she lay there still and patient on her couch, just as she had lain for so many years.

Aymer turned and looked at her, his face softening, as it always did for her.

"Guy did not mean to vex you; and papa is our father, you know. She would not have let us speak so of him."

"That's true," said Aymer, frankly. "But, Guy, like a good fellow, say no more of writing."

"He won't," Clarice said; "only, you know, we must think of every plan until we hit upon the right one."

Then she took Guy's hand and coaxed it a little, until his face lost the angry flush his brother's words had called up, and he smiled at her.

"Blessed are the peace-makers."

"Well—but what can we do?" asked Helen, somewhat mournfully.

"Muddle on as best we can, and die in the poorhouse," said Aymer.

"No, old fellow," said Guy, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Surely, with youth and strength to help us, and a good cause that must have God's blessing on it, we need not fear that fate. Let us see if we can't save a few shillings among us. We'll have a bag, and Clarice shall keep it; and every penny we can screw up shall go into it. No sum to be considered too small, remember; and not a penny to be spent that can be bagged. In time, we shall have enough to take one of us out."

"I never saw the penny yet that we didn't want to spend on actual necessaries," said Aymer, despondingly.

"No, but you will soon. Now I mean to put a notice up in the Post-office window, offering my services as letter-writer and accountant. I daresay I shall get a little employment. There are plenty of farmers who are much in Billy Cox's condition as to reading 'hand o write' and keeping accounts, and maybe they'll employ me. As to letter-writing, I do that already for the whole neighbourhood, and for the future, I shall charge two-pence ahead. And, if you wouldn't mind, Aymer, if you didn't dislike it, I could tell you of something."

"Tell away, old fellow."

But Guy's eyes sought Clarice, doubtfully.

"He will like it; go on," said she, smiling.

"Well, Mr. Pearson, the Englishman who has taken the farm the Costillos had; you know, don't you? Well, he wants a person to undertake the care of his cattle. He called at the Post-office about it, and asked Billy to let it be known. The cattle would have to be driven out in the morning and driven in at night, bailed up, and bedded, and cared for. The land lies all along the other side of the river, just as far us our own goes on this; you could cross half a dozen times a day, and yet get a good deal done at home."

"What did he offer?" asked Aymer.

"Two shillings a day, and the man's food. Then that meant the whole day, of course. I suppose he would not give you so much, because you would only mind the cattle, and be of no other use to him."

"But then he would not have to feed me; I should live at home, you know. I'll go at once, and see Pearson. I can easily do it, for our land up there lies so much higher that I can keep an eye on the cattle all day long. We must repair the old boat. But tell me, Guy, why were you afraid I should not like this?"

"Oh, I don't know. You might have thought—"

"I suppose it is because I said that about writing to my father's people? But that's the very thing, Guy. I couldn't take their grudging charity; but I don't mind how hard I work, nor what I work at. I hope Pearson has not got a herd."

"I know he has not. One man he nearly hired, but then he found that he drank."

"Well, I don't drink," said Aymer, with a short laugh. "If I get this place, my wages will be so much clear gain, for with Guy and Katty to help, nothing will be neglected at home."

"And I've thought of something, too," said Clarice. "Helen, do you remember what you told me of Mrs. Wynne's surprise at the beauty of your needlework? Do you think she would give us a line to a shop in Dublin, saying we are fit people to be trusted? It's a shop where they sell children's clothes and ladies' things ready-made, and we, dear mother and I, were thinking of trying for employment; we were talking of it the very day before she became so ill. She had written, and sent a specimen of work; and the answer, which came that day, was that the work was beautiful, and that they would employ us, but we must get a line to say we might be trusted. They pay very well, too."

"What shop was it?" asked Helen.

"Mrs. Daly, 19, Grafton Street."

"Why, Mrs. Wynne deals with them!" cried Helen. "And I am sure she will recommend us; but I must send a specimen of my work, for I don't work quite as well as—as she did."

Poor Nelly! She broke down and cried; it was so hard to be forced to realise that the mother's work was done.

"The little frock we sent was my work," said Clarice, after a pause.

"And I'm sure Helen will have no time for needlework, more than mending and darning," said Lizzie Anderson. "You'll have all the work of the house to do, and you know what that means. Cooking, washing, cleaning, and baking once a week; minding the poultry; and then there's the baby, too."

"Well, but I'm young and strong, you know. I'll tell them not to send me work that must be done at once."

"And Katty does part of the washing," said Aymer.

"And I will draw all the water, fill the boilers, and bring in plenty of turf before I go out," said Guy.

"And I'll run messages, Helen, and feed the fowls, and wash the cups and dishes, and dust the rooms, and—oh, fifty other things!" cried little Agnes, looking up from her knitting. "We'll all help. Only Clarice can't help. Poor Clarice! What will you do?"

Clarice's blue eyes filled with tears.

"I can't do much, indeed, but I can work a good deal. I have to stop and rest, but I get a good deal done, and I work very neatly. Oh, I do hope—oh, Helen, I hope I won't be a burden to you!"

"Clarice! If you say that again, I shall be quite angry!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you think I've forgotten to love you because I've been away from home?"

Clarice drew a long breath, dried her eyes, and quieted herself as best she could.

Guy bent over her, and whispered,—

"Clarice, don't you know that you make home to me?"

And Aymer put his rough, hard hand on her head, and said, gruffly,—

"You're a goose, Clarice. Show me the baby."

For the baby was lying warm and safe in her arms. She could at least hold the baby, so she did it.

"You get some bright stuff and make a bag, Clarice," wont on Aymer; "a good big one, because there will be pence, you know. You are to be bag-keeper."

"I suppose because you are sure I shall not run away with it," said Clarice. "I have a piece of queer thick silk, that I think was once part of our grandmother's wedding-gown, which will just do for the bag, and I will make it at once. Who is that at the door?"

The door opened as she spoke, and Mr. Egerton came in. He seemed to be looking for something, but he did not speak until Helen asked him, "Do you want anything, sir?"

"I left a book here, yesterday, I think it was; and some days before I left some papers, loose sheets pinned together. I suppose you have thrown them away?"

He spoke slowly, and almost like a person in a dream, and his eyes kept wandering round and round the room, until they rested on the vacant wooden arm-chair by the table, the chair which none of them had the heart either to use or to set by. His colour changed—at least, his face changed somehow, for he had hardly any colour—he pointed to the chair, and said hurriedly,—

"Put that away; don't leave it standing there!"

And he turned and left the room quickly.

"Put it away," cried Aymer; "that I won't!"

"Yet it would be better, Aymer," said Clarice; "and I cannot help being glad that he misses her, and cares."

"Cares! He cares because his books and papers are no longer put by for him; that's about all he cares, Clarice."

"Oh, Aymer! I thought he looked very sad. Agnes, do you see that green book on the shelf in the corner? That's the book, and here are the papers in my basket. Here, Aggie, run to the study with them."

"But, Clarice, I'm afraid."

"Oh, you need not be a bit afraid, unless you're a little goosie. Run, now; you know you've got to be my feet, because I haven't any of my own."

The child went; and while she was absent, Clarice said, gravely, "I think we ought to make a resolution never to say anything of papa that mother would have checked us for. If we give ourselves the habit, it won't make things easier, and Agnes ought not to hear it; besides, it is wrong."

"So it is," said Aymer, briefly; "I won't do it again, Clarice."

"What did he say to you, Aggie?" asked Lizzie, as the child ran in, looking scared.

"He was crying," Agnes said, impressively; "he was sitting by the window, crying."

Clarice looked at Aymer, who shook his head.

"Oh, Aymer, don't be hard!"

"Be content if I am silent," Aymer said, quietly.

CHAPTER VI.

ELISE ANDERSON'S PLAN.

THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came to Ballintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people, and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of his pretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thrifty parents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow that Mrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was fretting grievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-haired Donald.

"Lizzie, lass, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the old Scotchwoman, when several weeks had gone by, and Lizzie was still very low. "Is it fretting for your poor mother ye are? Do ye no believe that she's at peace, Lizzie? And was her life such a bright one, that you'd want to keep her at it for ever? Fie, lassie! I thought better of ye."

"I can't help crying, mother," said Lizzie. "It is not for her—indeed, I would not bring her back, for her lot was a hard one, and she was a broken-hearted woman. But, oh! Mrs. Anderson, I do feel so wicked; to live here in plenty, with no more to do than what is pleasant to me, and all of you so good to me, while poor Helen is slaving there night and day, with no one to help her but old Katty, who is better able for farm work than for house work. And all of them living so poorly—barely enough to eat, and no hope of better times to cheer them. I sometimes can hardly bring myself to eat a good dinner, for thinking of them."

"Hoots, child! Things are not so bad as that with them. You're low and nervous, my dear, and think too much of it."

"Because I feel as if I ought to be there helping. I am the eldest, you know; it is too much for Helen alone, and Agnes is only seven, and Clarice has to be cared for as much as the baby."

"Poor child! I aye pity her the most, for you need only look at her to know she'd help if she could. Well now, Lizzie, I tell you I honour you for feeling like this. You're married to a man that has enough and to spare, and you ought to help. It never struck me before—to my shame I say it—but I see it plain enough now, and I'm the last woman in the world to counsel you to show a cold heart to your own folk. You'd be none the better wife for that. But let us lay our heads together and see if there's no way you could help them."

"Oh, Mrs. Anderson, there is a way; but I hardly like to speak of it."

"Speak your mind, dearie. If it's any way feasible, I'll help you to it; and if not, I'll tell you why, and it will go no further."

"You see, we have such nice comfortable rooms, and such plenty of everything, milk and eggs and fruit, and all that is good and nourishing. And I have plenty of time; it would be no trouble to me to care for her. If I might have poor Clarice here for a long visit! It would be such a relief to Helen, and so so good for Clarice; and it would make me so happy."

"Do you know, that's the very thing that was in my own mind? It's a most wise-like notion—far the best thing we could do for them. We could bring her over in the big spring cart very easily. Then there's that sofa the good-man would buy, and that I never could see the use of; and no doubt the poor child would be better here with you and me to see to her; and Helen will get on right well if Clarice is taken off her hands."

"But do you really think, mother, that Mr. Anderson will allow it?"

"Lizzie, there's not a better man in Scotland—or out of it, which is more to the purpose—than Andrew Anderson! A just man he is, and a kind. He knows well that Donald is his right hand, and that if Donald is content to live with us, it's but fair that he and his wife should have their own way in their own affairs. And more than that, he's real kind and tenderhearted; and once we have Clarice here, he'll be for spoiling her well, you see if he won't. But he's certainly a wee bit touchy, times; and so I'll advise you to leave the matter alone until I'll see a good moment to get his consent. I won't forget it; and there's no time lost, for we could not move her until fine summer weather, and before that comes, I'll get Andrew's consent."

"Dear Mrs. Anderson, you are very good to me!"

"'Deed, and so I ought! My one son's wife—who'd I be good to unless just to your bonnie self, my hinnie? So cheer up now, Lizzie, and don't fret any more. We'll have Clarice on that sofa before long—mark my words, we will."

Whether old Mr. Anderson was more "touchy" than was usual with him or not, I do not know. Mrs. Anderson said that "lambing time was hard on farmer's tempers." And after lambing time, there was sickness among the cattle; and after that the grey mare had a fall, and cut her knee; and all these circumstances gave Mrs. Anderson reason for delay. But I suspect the dear old woman had made up her mind that Lizzie should not undertake this additional work until after the birth of her baby, which took place the last week in April.

Then more than a month passed before Lizzie could venture on so long a drive; so that it was fine warm summer weather when at last Donald, Lizzie, and baby set off in a vehicle known to the neighbours as "Anderson's shanderadan," a queer nondescript carriage, with a hood which could be made to cover the front seat, and a long kind of waggonette seat behind, into which Mrs. Anderson put a feather bed and a mattress, for the accommodation of Clarice.

"And mind you tell Helen, with my love, that she's not to take it amiss that I sent yon basket along wi' ye, because truly Donald eats such a hantle of food, that I'd think it a shame letting him take a young housekeeper by surprise. And bring Clarice home wi' ye, Lizzie, lass, or I'll not promise ye a welcome from me and my good-man."

Whereon her good-man grunted loudly, and was of opinion that between himself and his wife, they had put the thing very well, and said all that was needful.

Ballintra, if not a place where money was to be made, was surely a very pretty place; and so Lizzie Anderson thought as she was driven up to the door. The waters of the lovely Slaney—the only river, save one, with which I am personally acquainted, that deserves the name of a blue river; the other being either the Tamar or the Tavy, in Devonshire, and I cannot remember which of these is brown and which blue,—the blue waters of the lovely Slaney were glancing and dimpling in the summer sun, and the steep lawn, which they both met and reflected, was of the most exquisite green. A few fine old trees, beech, both green and copper, shaded the house, and were dotted here and there over the lawn; and the hawthorn, which was late that year, was still in full blossom. The house was old-fashioned and irregular, much smothered in ivy, and altogether it was a very pretty spot.

At the sound of wheels, little Agnes ran to the door, peeped out, screamed with joy, and flew back into the parlour crying out,—

"Clarice, Clarice, here's Lizzie and Donald in the shanderadan, and Lizzie's baby in a scarlet shawl!"

For the bit of colour pleased the child's eye, used only to the black dresses of her sisters and herself; though when Agnes first put on her mourning, she had felt a little important, the frock being actually new, and not some one's dress cut down to suit her!

Lizzie, springing to the ground, carried her baby into the house. In the parlour, she found Clarice, with her baby beside her, and her face lighted up with joy and welcome.

"Oh, Lizzie, dear Liz," she exclaimed, "is that really you? I saw the horse's head, and wondered what could be coming. Aymer and Guy are in the fields, but Helen is only in the garden. Oh, Lizzie, show me your baby, and kiss me. I'm so glad you have come!"

The baby was unpacked from among his shawls and blankets, and the two infants were critically compared. The Egerton baby had black eyes, and the Anderson baby had blue, otherwise they were somewhat alike.

Agnes danced with glee, exclaiming, "I'm his aunt, Lizzie! Clarice says so. She says I'm just as much his aunt as Helen or herself."

"Very true, Aggie! But, stranger still, baby here is my baby's uncle, just as much as Aymer or Guy."

But this was too much for Agnes. She sat down and stared gravely at the two babies, uncle and nephew.

"I see Donald has gone round to the stable," said Lizzie. "Had I not better go out to the garden and call Helen, Clarice?"

"Oh, not you; you must be tired after your long drive; Agnes will go."

"I have not finished my lessons, Clarice," said the child, conscientiously.

"You must have a holiday, Aunt Agnes," Clarice answered, laughing. "Run now, my dear, and tell the boys too; but find Helen first, for she will not like to lose a moment of Lizzie's visit."

Agnes ran off, and Lizzie picked up the fallen book and said, "I didn't know that Agnes had begun lessons."

"I began to teach her a year ago. Mother was very glad to be spared the trouble, and we get on very well. She can read nicely, and write all the letters, both capital and small ones. She is very quick, I think."

"Ah, that big work-basket," said Lizzie; "dear mother! It brings her up before me. What have you in it, Clarice?"

"Oh, things to make and things to mend," said Clarice. "Helen and I keep it going; we like to have everything just as she had it."

She drew out a half-knitted blue stocking, and went on with it as she spoke. Then the sound of steps was heard, and Helen, Aymer, and Guy arrived in rapid succession. Donald came in from the yard. Many were the handshakings and kissings, Lizzie's baby coming in for a fair share of the latter. He was handed round to be admired, and was admired, though Guy hurt his sister's feelings by gravely proposing to prick a mark on his own brother's arm, lest he should be carried off by the Andersons in mistake.

Lizzie thought that Helen looked worn and overworked; and there was an anxious look in her eyes which made her like her mother. But part of poor Helen's present anxiety was her fear that Donald, when he saw the dinner, would feel that he could easily eat it all himself! A very unpleasant reflection for any housekeeper. However, her anxiety on that score did not last long, for when Donald was setting off with Aymer and Guy to look at the cows and sheep, Lizzie asked him to bring in the big basket out of the shanderadan.

"Mrs. Anderson thought it wouldn't do to take you by surprise, and expect you to have dinner enough for all, particularly as Donald has such an appetite. So she sent this basket—I don't know what there is in it, for she packed it herself."

"Everybody talks as if I was never done eating," said Donald Anderson, gravely; "and I don't think, myself, that I eat more than other people."

His wife knew that he was only pretending; but little Agnes, fancying that his feelings were really hurt, said softly,—

"You must want a great deal, Donald, because you're so dreadfully long!"

At which there was a general laugh, much to the speaker's confusion.

"Now that was very thoughtful of Mrs. Anderson," said Helen, as soon as she could speak. "I was in such a hobble, and longing to find out if Clarice could think of anything. For you must know, Liz, Clarice has all the brains for both of us. I have feet, and she has brains."

"Clarice has feet, too, only she has no shoes," remarked Agnes.

"I was puzzling my head over the same question, and could think of nothing but a huge rice pudding," Clarice answered, smiling at Helen; "and that would be light food for a hungry giant."

"Come along, boys," cried Donald, making for the door. "Even Clarice has a word to throw at me. I won't stay here another moment!"

"But, girls," exclaimed Lizzie, when the three young men were gone, "don't tell me that you have come to not having enough to eat! Oh, don't say that!"

"No, no, Liz there's always enough, I'm thankful to say; but it just happened I had no fresh meat to-day, except enough for papa. To-morrow is the day for the butcher's cart to come, and I took too little last time. It is hard to hit it off exactly. Last time I took too much, and some got bad!"

She was unpacking the basket as she spoke, and now said, with a laugh,—

"You'll have your rice pudding after all, Clarice! Look at this one, what a beauty it is! And chickens, as fat as they can well be—all ready roasted, too; and a huge ham—Aymer and Guy will shout when they see that, for they say no one cures such hams as Mrs. Anderson's—and a cheese, and the bottom of the basket filled with cakes and tarts. Look at Agnes, how she opens her eyes!"

"Ah, Mrs. Anderson loves to make presents," Lizzie said, with a sigh.

It was very sad to her to see how her sisters rejoiced over things to which she was so well used.

Old Katty was summoned to see the baby and his mother, and to assist in carrying off the provisions.

Agnes was made happy with a plump bun, on which she had silently fixed loving eyes, and in which she quickly fixed her little white teeth. Then the babies woke up and had to be fed; after which, they went to sleep in the same cradle, like the excellent babies they undoubtedly were, and left the sisters leisure for a comfortable chat.

CHAPTER VII.

THAT BELOVED BAG!

"NOW then, girls," cried Lizzie, rocking the cradle softly, while the two other girls got each a piece of work to go on with; even Agnes produced a coarse blue sock, and knitted away woman-fully—"now then, girls, tell me everything; and first, how do you get on?"

"Wonderfully, Liz, just wonderfully! Of course, we miss her every day we live, poor Clarice most of all. But then we are always busy, and, somehow, we have got to have a way of looking forward that is a great help, and keeps us going."

"That is Guy's doing," added Clarice. "He borrowed a book about New Zealand from Miles Murphy, and we read it in the evenings, and talk of our plans. And look, Liz, at the 'beloved bag,' as Guy calls it, look how fat it is!"

"What a grand bag!" said Lizzie. "But where does the money come from?"

"Helen and I, I think we wrote you word, got work from that shop in Dublin, and we earn three shillings a week, and sometimes four."

"Three shillings each, do you mean?"

"Oh no; between us. You know there is home work to be done, too—plenty of darning, eh, Nelly?"

Helen groaned.

"Aymer's stockings are more darn than stocking," she answered. "I suppose it is the digging, and all that."

"Still, we are saving money," said Clarice. "I'm bag-keeper; and I jingle it sometimes when Helen is low—listen, Nelly; isn't that a pleasant sound?"

"Aymer has been able to put by every shilling he gets from Mr. Pearson," Helen said, brightening up as Clarice smiled at her; "and that is really a good deal, you know."

"Mr. Anderson told me the other day," said Lizzie, "that the Government helps people to emigrate. If we only knew how to apply for it! Not now, of course, but when Aymer thinks of going."

"Perhaps some of papa's relatives would manage that for us," answered Clarice. "That would not be like asking them for money. But Aymer cannot go—we have quite settled that—until Agnes is old enough to manage here with me to see after things, so that Helen can go with him and Guy."

"And what will you do about papa?" asked Lizzie.

"I am sure he will not care. He will go when they send over money for us. We have not said anything to him yet, for he would forget it before the time came."

"Who knows how to get at his family?" inquired Lizzie. "I don't even know where they live."

"But I do," answered Clarice, "for mother wrote to them once, asking them to get Aymer and Guy into some school, and her letter was sent back, torn in two. But I saw the address. Sir Aymer Egerton, Bart., Egerton Highfield, Normanton."

"Very good, Clarice, my dear; but if Sir Aymer sends back all letters torn in two, I don't see much good in writing to him—do you?"

"We'll send Guy!"

"He can't tear him in two, certainly, however savage he may be," replied Helen. "But we must tell Lizzie about Guy. He put an advertisement in the Post-office window at Kilsteen, offering to make up books and to balance accounts for any one requiring his services, for two and sixpence each. And he has had five or six—which was it, Clarice? Six—to do. And though he had to have a pair of shoes out of it, poor fellow, all the rest went into the bag."

"And how did Guy learn to keep accounts?" asked Lizzie. "For I know it was one thing dear mother never could teach us."

"He studied arithmetic out of a book of papa's," answered Clarice. "There is nothing Guy cannot learn if he can only get a good book."

"Where is my father, by the way?" asked Lizzie. "I have not seen him."

"He's in the study," Helen told her.

"How is he? Does he seem sad—does he miss mother at all?"

"How can I tell? He never opens his mouth, except to eat; and indeed of late, he does not eat half enough. I declare, Lizzie, when I see how clever poor Guy is, and remember that papa could teach him all he wants to know, I get quite angry. Only yesterday, Guy asked him a question—something he and Clarice (who is just such another) were puzzling their heads over; and if you will believe me, papa did not even listen, and begged him not to interrupt him again."

"I remember when mother tried to get him to teach us," said Lizzie, "and he answered that 'he was unsuited to such elementary work, and that as the children were doomed to be mere boors, education would only make them discontented;' so she had to teach us herself."

"Guy only wants opportunity," said Clarice; "and we pray every day that he may get it."

Lizzie stared. To say your prayers every morning and evening, is one thing; to say that you want a particular thing, and mean to ask for it, is quite another.

"You pray about that, Clarice?" she said, doubtfully.

"I think she's always praying," said Helen, half fondly, half sadly; "and it seems to help her along wonderfully. I wish I were like that, Lizzie. I do get so fretted."

"You can always begin, Nelly," said Clarice, quietly.

She took her crimson-covered Bible from under her pillow, and opened it, finding what she wanted so easily that it was plain the book was no strange volume to her.

"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth, and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.' That means, I suppose, the kingdom of heaven shall be opened. The Lord Jesus is the door, you know. Then in another place He says, that if two or three agree together about a thing they ask for, it shall be done for them. So Guy and I have agreed to ask for this."

"Did you ever hear anything like that?" whispered Lizzie to Helen, while Clarice was putting away the little Bible. "I have read those words often enough, but never thought they meant that. Who taught her?"

"I don't know. She is always reading her Bible, when she has time. Clarice, Liz wants to know who taught you to pray."

"It is all in the Bible," Clarice answered, taking up her work again. "You just read, and do it the best way you can, and then you find out more and more."

"But the Bible is so difficult to understand, Clarice."

"Parts of it are difficult; and then, you know, we are very ignorant. But a good deal of it is very plain; and those are the very bits that concern us most. Now what I read just now is plain enough, and I think way is, to go and do that, and then read a bit more."

"And there are such pretty stories in it," cried little Agnes, eagerly. "About little Samuel, whose mother made him a little coat every year, and God spoke to him in the Tabernacle, and he said, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.' And poor Joseph that was put in the pit; and David with the sling that killed the big, enormous giant. I know David was like Guy. Oh, Clarice tells me lots of stories, and teaches me what they mean, too."

"What they mean? Why those are true histories, child, of things that really happened."

"Oh yes, they happened, but they have a meaning, too, like a—what is it, Clarice?—the sower, you know, and the vineyard; what is the word?"

"A parable."

"Yes, like a parable—that's it."

"But, Clarice, what do you mean by that? How have the Bible stories a meaning?" Lizzie asked.

"I don't know that I can tell you, Liz. When I am teaching Agnes, I try to make those stories into pictures of the Lord Jesus."

"But how? I cannot think how you do it. Samson, now—I don't see how Samson could be made into a picture of Him."

"Not of Him, but of something about Him. Samson overcame his enemies by dying. His great strength, too—Jesus is strong to save."

"And Joseph, Liz! He was sold, and then saved his bad brothers—just like Him!" cried Agnes.

"It is a great thing to have a turn for reading," said Lizzie, with grave admiration. "At least, it is a great thing for you, Clarice, for you must find the day very long sometimes. I must make Donald get books from E— when you are at our place."

"At your place!" exclaimed Clarice.

"There! I was to have waited for Donald, and now I've let it out! He won't mind, though. You must know, girls, it fretted me dreadfully to know how you were all slaving and sparing, in the hope of giving the boys (who are my brothers as much as yours) a chance of bettering themselves by-and-by. And I, the eldest of you, living in ease and plenty, and yet not able to do a thing to help. For you know Donald has nothing of his own yet—it is all Mr. Anderson's. Then that kind, good Mrs. Anderson saw how it fretted me, and we thought of a plan by which we can help; and it will be so good for Clarice to have plenty of milk and fruit and everything. They both wish it—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and all—and Donald and I can take her home to-night—that's why we brought the shanderadan—if you agree to it."

"Agree to what?" said Helen. "For Clarice to go for a visit to you?"

"Not for a visit, but to be like a daughter to the old people—to live always with us. We shall never let her want for anything, nor be a burden on any of you again."

Poor Clarice shivered at the word burden, but she said nothing, for she know that Lizzie did not mean to hurt her. She was always afraid that she gave a great deal of trouble, and she had no idea how useful she was; so she held her tongue and tried to feel grateful.

But Helen did not hold her tongue, and, to judge by the use she made of it, she did not even try to be grateful.

"Take Clarice away from us for good and all!" she cried. "Why, Lizzie, I was going to say that I did not see how I could spare her even for a few days! If you were living here, you would know better—indeed, I think you might know better even now. Why, Clarice takes care of baby night and day. What could I do if I had him on my hands always? And she knits every sock and stocking that we all wear—except what Agnes can do—and darns them too. And she does a great deal more than half the work for the shop, and helps Guy with his books. Guy would go out of his mind if he had not Clarice to talk to. And she never forgets anything, but puts Katty and me in mind of all the different things, even to the winding of the clock, which ran down regularly every week until I asked her to remind me of it. And she's the only one of the family that can get papa to answer a question. Why, if Clarice and her Bible, and—well, just her precious self—were gone out of this house for good, I'd take to my bed in a week!"

She stopped, and looked at her sister's pale thin face. "Perhaps, though, it would be for her good. Oh Clarice, Clarice, must I let you go?"

Before any one could answer, the door burst open, and in rushed Guy, his face crimson, closely followed by Aymer with little Agnes in his arms. In the background appeared the tall form of Donald Anderson, an amused smile upon his face. To account for their sudden appearance, I must tell you that Agnes had no sooner perceived what Lizzie meant than, in great dismay, she had ran out to inform her brothers, and to bring them to the rescue. She found them close to the house, looking at the early potato crop.

A hurried rush to the parlour ensued. Guy made but one step to Clarice's side and caught her by the hand, unable to speak, he had run so fast.

"What's all this?" Aymer began, somewhat roughly. "Helen, what does the child mean? She says you are all planning for Clarice to live with Lizzie and Donald."

"No, no, not planning it. Only Lizzie thought it would be a help to us all. But I have told her that, for my part, I could not possibly get on without her; and yet, when I looked at her, I thought perhaps we are letting her do too much. You see, boys, they thought it impossible that she could do anything—and perhaps she ought not."

Aymer looked puzzled. Guy said nothing, but tightened his grasp of his sister's hand. Agnes set up such a howl that the two babies very nearly jumped out of the cradle, and poor Lizzie looked ready to cry at the reception her well-meant proposal had met with. But by this time, Clarice had conquered the choking sensation which the sudden fright had given her, and was able to speak for herself.

"Lizzie dear, you are very, very kind! And if I were really useless at home, it would be right for me to go with you; and I know how kind and good every one of you would be to me. But, you see, I am of some use, and so—oh, Lizzie, to tell you the plain truth, it would just break my heart to leave them, useful or useless."

"And what should we do without you, Clarice?" said Aymer—silent Aymer—who seldom put ten words together. "Why, Liz, when we are tired out in the evening, you don't know the rest it is to have Clarice read to us—bits of books that she searches out during the day—books that I am sure I should never open but for her. Home would be very dreary without Clarice."

"And what should I do?" said Guy, with a half sob. "You don't want to go, Clarice, do you?"

"Want to go! If you were all as anxious to get rid of me as you are to keep me, I might go—though even then I'm afraid I should beg to stay. But it was a very kind thought of yours, Lizzie, and of all of you; and please, dear, don't be vexed about it."

Lizzie went over and kissed her.

"You're the dearest—I don't wonder they don't want to lose you. But indeed, boys, I mean it kindly. I never for a moment imagined that poor Clarice, who can't move hand or foot, as one may say, could be of any use; and even now I cannot think how she manages it!"

"Oh, just do the best I can," said Clarice, smiling; "and it is not very much after all. They are all so fond of me that they think I help them; and I do remember things. Lying here always, that is easy, you know."

"Indeed I don't know it," Helen answered. "What I do know is this, that most people who suffered all the pain you have, would say that they had enough to think of without helping others."

"But being busy helps me to bear the pain," said Clarice, simply. "Now, Agnes, you little silly, stop crying. Helen dear, it is almost two o'clock."

So Lizzie Anderson and her husband went home without Clarice, and filled with wonder, in which the old couple were not slow to share, as to how so weak and suffering a creature managed to make herself necessary to everybody in the house.

Yet her plan was a simple one. She thought of her sufferings as little as possible, and talked of them not at all. For the rest, she looked about, not to see what she ought to do, must do, or could be expected to do, but what she could do. And having seen it, she did it. Very simple; but what a changed world would this be if even every woman in it deserved the words,—

"She hath done what she could!"

CHAPTER VIII.

EGERTON HIGHFIELD AGAIN.

LET us pay another visit, this fine June weather, to the terrace at Egerton Highfield, and see who walks there now, and how that amiable old gentleman, Sir Aymer, is getting on.

It is evening—at least, it is six o'clock, but the sun is still high in the heavens, and the west terrace lies bathed in a glow of warmth and light.

A lady is walking there alone—a small, delicate-looking woman dressed in black, with wonderful cobwebby old lace round her slender throat and wrists, and covering her still dark hair. She wears no speck of colour to relieve the blackness of her rich silk gown or the whiteness of her plain, but pleasant face. This is Lady Anne Egerton, the widow of Sir Aymer's eldest son, and the mother of the heir of Egerton Highfield. She had been a very happy woman during her husband's life, but his death had left her entirely dependent upon Sir Aymer (for she had no fortune of her own); and that her lot thenceforth was not a pleasant one, I think I need scarcely tell you.

She had but one child, a boy, who was about a year older than his unknown cousin Guy. She had had elder children, but they had all died in infancy. Her son, who was named Villiers, was a fine boy, and as like my poor Guy at Ballintra as if they had been twin-brothers; which of course implies that he was very like what his uncle Guy had been at that age; and Sir Aymer's doubtful affection for his heir was not increased by this likeness. Sir Aymer had loved his son Guy as much as a selfish, tyrannical man can be said to love any one; and the very pain it had given him to cast him out of his heart made it disagreeable to be reminded of him perpetually.

Villiers Egerton was a spirited lad, full of promise, clever, manly and affectionate; but it must be confessed that he chafed sorely against his grandfather's unloving despotism. He had now just left Eton, and wanted very much to go at once to college, but Sir Aymer forbad it, saying that he was too young. Then Villiers asked leave to travel, but Sir Aymer would not hear of that, though Lady Anne proposed to go with her son. He desired the boy (as he always called Villiers, to his secret wrath) to remain quietly at home, until it was, in his opinion, time for him to go to Oxford. Against this long residence under the same roof with his grandfather, Villiers chafed sadly, and Lady Anne's gentle face was clouded by anxiety, for every day she feared that an actual quarrel would take place between these two.

Suddenly the concealed door which I have before described, swung open, and Villiers came out, looking flushed and harassed. He had a letter in his hand, and was dressed as if for riding.

"Why, my boy, I thought you were miles away by this time! What has delayed you?"

"I shall not go at all, mamma. Sir Aymer had desired them not to take out any horse to-day without going to him about it!"

"Now, I wonder why?"

"Oh, for no reason, mamma dear, but because he wants to force me to ask leave when I go out to ride. I won't do that—so I shall give up the idea of riding for the present. It would only lead to words, for then he wants to know exactly where I am going; and if I change my mind, and go somewhere else, he suspects a hundred bad reasons for it. But look here, mamma, I have just had a letter from Eustace," (one of Lady Anne's nephews, who had left Eton a little time before Villiers), "and he and one or two others are going for a walking tour in Ireland. They mean to go to the Lakes of Killarney first, and then to the Giant's Causeway, and afterwards to Connemara; and they want me to go with them."

"And you want to go!" she answered, with a sigh. "I don't wonder at it, dear boy; but I do wonder sometimes if I shall ever see you for a month or so, quietly."

"Dear mother, I would do anything to make you happy—you know I would; but I don't think my presence here adds to your comfort. I know you are in a continual fright; and I don't wonder at it. Sir Aymer is really intolerable sometimes. I quite long to fling something at his head as he sits there, thinking of something unpleasant to say. If I were older, I suppose he would not be so bad; but that half-hour after dinner, when you are not there, is more than I can bear!"

"It is all bad enough," Lady Anne said, with a sigh. She had borne it patiently, for Villiers' sake, for many a year; and now he could not bear it, for her sake, for a few months!

"It is indeed! I don't know how you bear it; but positively, mamma, I can't! Last night, as soon as we were alone, he began to cross-examine me as to where I had been, and what I had been doing all day. I told him that I had been riding, and met Mr. Lowther and his daughters, who asked me to go home with them to lunch and play croquet, which I very gladly did; and, said I, 'Miss Gertrude Lowther is a very pretty girl.'

"Well, upon that, he burst forth in his best big bow-wow style—the Lowthers are not fit companions for me—Mr. Lowther is only an iron-master—the girls designing flirts, every one of them; and finally, he was sorry to see that I had a taste for low company. I assured him that the Miss Lowthers are very nice girls, highly educated; upon which he remarked that patches of gilding only draw attention to the coarse grain of the wood! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Finally he said I must never go to Heather Hill again, and must cut the girls at once; which I simply refused to do."

"Did he say anything more?"

"Oh yes! A heap of nonsense about liking low company and marrying beneath me! As if at eighteen I was thinking of marrying any one."

"Oh dear! I wish he had not got that idea into his head. Yet you must be patient, Villiers, with your grandfather. He has had one terrible disappointment; and you see, unfortunately, you remind him of it constantly."

"I'm almost inclined to be glad of that," said Villiers, with a gay laugh. "It's only fair that I should aggravate him, when he aggravates me so much. But how do I manage it, mamma? Tell me, that I may enjoy the fun."

"The fun! You wicked boy, it is no fun!" said Lady Anne, glancing round as if half afraid to speak, lest some one should overbear her. "Shut that door, my dear."

Then, as she walked down the terrace with her boy at her side, she said in a low voice, "Did you ever hear of your uncle Guy?"

"My uncle? No, certainly I never did. An Egerton or a Villiers uncle? Egerton, I suppose; for now I remember Rowe, the old keeper, who is pensioned off, you know, telling me I was the image of Mr. Guy; but I thought he was speaking of a brother of Sir Aymer. Rowe is so old, you know."

"Sir Aymer never had a brother. It was, no doubt, your uncle of whom Rowe spoke, for you really are as like him as ever you can be. But you must never speak of him, Villiers, remember that, nor let Sir Aymer know that I have done so."

"But tell me why? Of course I shall not speak of him, but you have filled me with curiosity."

"I will tell you about him, for perhaps it may help you to have patience with your grandfather when he lectures you on the subject of low marriages. Guy was the younger son, and his father's favourite. There was a sister too, poor Clarice—such a lovely creature! She and I were great friends. I knew them all from childhood. Guy was very clever, quite a genius, we used to think. Clarice was killed by a fall from her horse, and Guy was so ill from the shock, that he was sent abroad; and he would not come home again, though Sir Aymer was very angry about it. I rather think he must have had some difference with Sir Aymer before he went."

"I can quite believe that," put in Villiers.

"But I never knew for certain. He wrote accounts of curious antiquities and other things, for scientific journals, and he published a small volume of poems. I have been told that they are very fine, but I don't understand a word of them. I believe he spoke every language that ever was heard of. At last he came home, and then it was discovered that he was married."

"Well—and was it a low marriage?"

"My dear! She was the daughter of a man who kept a small inn, or public-house, in a wild, out of the way part of Germany."

"Oh, jolly! Oh, delicious!" laughed Villiers. "What would I not have given to see Sir Aymer's face!"

"You wicked boy! It was no joking matter, I can tell you. He turned poor Guy out of the house at once, and never has he spoken his name from that day."

"And what became of him?"

"He may be dead, for what I know; but he was alive when your dear father died, for he wrote to me, poor fellow! I have fancied once or twice since then, that he has written to his father, for Sir Aymer got a letter one day which put him into a terrible state of excitement, and he tore it in two without opening it, put it in a cover, and sent it back, but I did not see the address."

"Then you don't know where he lives?" asked Villiers.

"I am not even sure that he is still alive," was his mother's answer. She was not going to say that, if alive, Guy Egerton was in Ireland, when there was a chance of Villiers going thither.

"What an old Turk Sir Aymer is!" said Villiers, presently.

"Well, but my dear, the marriage was a very great mistake, to call it by no harsher name. Your father was under the impression that Guy had been in some way taken in, for he did not seem very fond of her, and he said she could neither read nor write."

Which was exactly the reverse of what Guy had said; but Lady Anne really believed that she was speaking the truth.

"But, for pity's sake, why should Sir Aymer conclude that because his son made a fool of himself, I should do the same? There never was any one less fond of low company than I am; and as to marrying beneath me, why, I am not that kind of fellow in the least," said Villiers drawing up his slight person, and looking very dignified.

Lady Anne turned away to conceal a smile.

"You are so like poor Guy that you never allow your grandfather to forget him, my love. Do try to have a little patience with him."

"Mamma, believe me, I shall have more patience with him when I am walking over Ireland with Eustace and all those fellows, than when—I say, here he comes! Now, I'll ask his leave; and do you back me up, like the very best and dearest mother that ever was."

"No, no!" said Lady Anne, hastily. "If it must be, let me manage it. Go into the house before he sees you, change your dress, and come back; bring your drawing things, and that unfinished sketch of the west front: go, now, if you want me to help you."

Villiers fled by the door through which he had appeared, and hastened to obey his mother's mysterious directions, wondering much what they might mean.

Sir Aymer came up the terrace stops and joined his daughter-in-law.

"Out still, Lady Anne?"

"Yes, it is such a lovely afternoon. I had a letter from my brother this morning, Sir Aymer. He wants Villiers to go to Deepdale for a time, and I should like him to go, if you don't mind. I wish him to know and to be liked by my own people."

If Lady Anne had really wished her son to go to Deepdale, she would never have made that speech. In fact, it looked rather as if she wished to provoke the old gentleman.

Sir Aymer fell into the trap, if trap it were, at once.

"I do not wish my heir to be made a Radical, Lady Anne! The Egertons have been Conservatives ever since—well, for many generations; and your brother is enough to corrupt any lad, particularly one who, like Villiers, has not an ounce of brains."

"I do not think his Eton course shows any lack of brains," Lady Anne replied, quietly, and then went on to urge several reasons why Villiers should go to Deepdale; among others, his intimacy with the Miss Lowthers.

The argument was still going on, when Villiers appeared, carrying a half-finished drawing, a box of water-colours, and a camp-stool; also he had a cigar in his mouth, and was attired in a loose kind of blouse, very suitable for painting in, if not very ornamental.

"And where may you be going, young gentleman?" asked Sir Aymer.

Villiers glanced at his mother for directions.

"Oh, are you going to colour that sketch?" she said. "Well, you won't have much time now, dear, so we will not delay you."

So, of course, Sir Aymer delayed him as long as he could. I would not venture to suggest a comparison between Sir Aymer Egerton and Paddy's celebrated pig on the road to Cork, so I will merely say that a long course of petty tyranny had taught Lady Anne the art of getting what she wanted by indirect means to perfection. She was not by nature an insincere woman, but she was weak, and when you bully a weak person continually, you drive them into crooked ways.

"Show me that drawing," said Sir Aymer. "Ha! Not bad, I dare say. If you were some penniless lad looking out for a livelihood, I dare say you could make something of your drawing; being what you are, it is simply so much time wasted."

VILLIERS APPEARED, CARRYING A HALF-FINISHED DRAWING.

"Is this the drawing you promised to Miss Lowther?" asked Lady Anne.

"Yes," Villiers answered, unwillingly; and privately added, "You are making a mull, little lady."

Lady Anne went on without attending to his looks.

"You naughty boy! Answering your poor little mother so shortly, and all because I would not hear of you going tiring yourself to death with Eustace and all those men. Only fancy, Sir Aymer, this overgrown boy of mine wanting to set out on a walking tour with Eustace—my nephew, you know—in Ireland; as if Villiers were fit for such a trying performance!"

"He is as fit for it as any lad of his years," said Sir Aymer; "and it would be a great deal better for him than playing croquet with one Miss Lowther, and doing paintings for another; ay, or listening to Lord Villiers talking rank revolutionism every day after dinner. Go, by all means, boy; I'll give you a cheque—By the way, though, what part of Ireland are they going to?"

"Dublin," Villiers answered with alacrity, "and by train to Cork; walk to Killarney, back to Dublin, and by train to the north; walk to the Giant's Causeway, and finish by doing Connemara, if time and money permit."

"They shall permit in your case," said Sir Aymer. "Write and accept, and stay as long as you like. Dublin, Killarney, the Causeway, Connemara; yes, no danger. Lady Anne, you don't seem to be pleased, but you cannot tie a lad to your apron-strings all his life!"

"Yet I may be excused for wishing to see something of my only child, Sir Aymer. Now, if he went to Deepdale, I could go also."

Sir Aymer smiled, and walked away without answering. The gate of Cork (supposing Cork to have a gate) closed behind the deluded pig. Pig-driving is tiring work.

"There, Villiers, I have managed it for you. Oh, dear, how weary I am of it all!"

"Managed it for me, mamma! Why, you fought hard on the other side; I declare I thought it was all up with me!"

"Oh, go away, you literal-minded boy! I am going in to get some tea. An engagement with Sir Aymer tires me to death."

In a few days Villiers set out for Dublin, where he was to meet his cousin and the rest of the walking party.

CHAPTER IX.

VILLIERS.

WHEN Villiers Egerton went to Ireland, nothing seemed less likely than that he would encounter his uncle or any of his cousins. The inhabitants of the county in which Ballintra is situated are wont to boast or to complain (according to their temper) that it is the "end of the world, and leads to nowhere;" nay, I have even heard it called an "after-thought," as if, Ireland being already finished, a little bit of material had been left, and added on to it, to make this county. For all that, it is well worth visiting, though no one visits it, because its beauties are less well known than those of its sister county, Wicklow, or the more distant Lakes of Killarney.

Altogether nothing was less likely than that Villiers Egerton would find his way to the banks of the beautiful Slaney; so his grandfather did not caution him against turning his steps in that direction. But, as time went on, Killarney and the Causeway having been visited in turn, Eustace Villiers was summoned home by the illness of his father, and the merry little party broke up without having made the projected tour in Connemara.

The others all returned, but Villiers was in no hurry to follow their example. Home he was determined not to go until September brought the shooting season round again, when the presence of a few guests would make Egerton Highland more endurable. He had promised Eustace to go with him next year, if possible, to Connemara, so he would not go now in that direction. He had plenty of money, and as Sir Aymer did not know that Eustace's departure had broken up the party, Villiers wrote to tell his mother not to be uneasy if she did not hear from him for some time. And returning to Dublin, he set forth alone to wander through Wicklow, sketching, dawdling, poetising, and thoroughly enjoying himself.

He had a whole month to dispose of, and did not care to keep in the track of the general tourist, so he wandered far and wide, and presently wandered as far as to Newtownbarry, and thence determined to follow the course of the infant Slaney down to the sea, as the beauty of its banks and the scenery all along its course took his fancy greatly; all the more so, because he felt that he was finding it out for himself, instead of obeying guide or guide-books.

Oh, had Sir Aymer only known where his young heir was, and whither he was going, what a state of mind he would have been in!

The bright days of summer had an unusual effect upon Clarice Egerton this year. Perhaps, because Lizzie and Donald had seemed to think it possible to carry her off to their home in the shanderadan, the wish to get into the open air took possession of her; and Aymer and Guy carried her out on her couch, and placed her in the shade of a grand old beech tree not far from the house. How she enjoyed it! The sunlight, green grass, the blue river, the sky, with its ever-shifting cloud scenery!

It became quite a common thing for the boys to carry the invalid out after the early dinner; and if the day was warm and pleasant, she stayed there until evening. While Agnes was always at hand to run for her brothers if Clarice got tired, or the wind rose, or the baby cried too much, and required change of scene to soothe his feelings. It was new life to Clarice; until this summer the least movement had brought back inflammation and all the bad symptoms in her knee, but this year, she could bear the slight jolting quite well.

Here, under her favourite tree, with baby in her arms, and Agnes sitting beside her, she was enjoying herself one lovely evening, when she perceived some one coming up the lane from the river, a tall, slight young man; but where she lay, she could not see him very plainly.

"Who is that, Agnes? He seems to be coming directly towards us."

"I don't know him; why, it's Guy," was the child's contradictory answer.

Clarice raised herself to look—yes, it was Guy. He was now quite near.

"Why, how do you come to take us by surprise in this way, Guy? I thought you were in the garden, and here—"

The young man stopped short in his rapid approach and took off his hat. It was not Guy! How had she ever made such a mistake? When did Guy possess such a well-made, easy-fitting grey suit, or such a soft felt wideawake, or such a pair of boots, or such a dandy knapsack as this youth carried? Then she looked again at his face.

"Guy—surely it is Guy? What trick are you playing us, Master Guy?"

Then the new-comer spoke, and his voice ended her delusion. It was a pleasant voice too, but higher-pitched, sharper and more ringing than Guy's, and he spoke much faster, too.

"I fear I have startled you; and I am sure I am trespassing; but believe me it is an accident. I only saw this little girl, and came up from the river to ask her a question."

"It does not matter at all," Clarice answered, smiling. "You are in our lawn; but you need not mind that. What did you want to know?"

"I want to know if I am near any town or village where I can get something to eat and lodging for the night. I am quite a stranger, travelling for amusement, and to see the country; and I have followed the course of this river from Newtownbarry to-day, coming part of the way in a boat, or float, rather, which I borrowed at a cottage. I fancy I have come a long way."

"Newtownbarry! Why, you must be half dead, I think you must be starved! And there is no inn at Kilsteen, which is three miles off, or more; and E— is six miles off."

All the time she spoke, she kept looking at him, half wondering if he would not resolve himself into the familiar Guy, and confess that he was playing her a trick. Clarice was a little short-sighted, which added to her perplexity.

The stranger cast his hat upon the ground in pretended despair.

"Will you kindly dig a grave for me at once?" he said, gravely. "I may as well die here, for I shall never live to reach E—. I am dead-beat, and half-starved already."

"We can at least give you some dinner," said Clarice, laughing shyly. "Agnes dear, run and call Guy. I suppose he is somewhere about the garden; and go to Katty, and see what you can get to bring out here."

The child, whose blue eyes were full of astonishment, ran off at full speed, and Clarice continued:

"There's a chair there; won't you sit down? You must not think I am rude, but I cannot move."

Villiers Egerton (for of course you know that it was Villiers) felt that at last he was beginning to meet with adventures, which was all that was wanted to make his holiday perfect. He took off his knapsack, and let it fall beside his hat, brought forward the chair, and sat down, looking curiously at Clarice and the baby. What a lovely face, if it were only a little less pale and thin; but why on earth did it seem familiar to him?

"What did you call me just now?" he said. "You mistook me for some one, I think; and the curious thing is, that you remind me of some one."

"I thought you were my brother Guy. Indeed, I cannot quite get rid of the idea yet, until you speak; you have a different voice."

"Your brother Guy? Where have I heard that name before? It is not a common one."

"Not here; but we are not Irish."

"What is your brother's other name?" asked Villiers, thinking with pride that he had managed that question very nicely.

"Egerton," answered Clarice, and then uttered a very small scream, for the mysterious stranger sprang to his feet with a shout, and Clarice for one moment thought that she and the baby were lost!

"Egerton! Why, that's my name! I am Villiers Aymer Egerton."

Clarice forgot her shyness, and looked at him earnestly.

"You are very like Guy. My eldest brother's name is Aymer. I wonder—"

"I know who you are now," he interrupted, eagerly. "Why, this is as good as a play! You must be my uncle Guy's children. I never heard of him till the other day; but I remember now. Am I not right?"

"Yes; at least my father's name is Guy. His father is Sir Aymer Egerton, of Egerton Highfield; is that the same?"

"My venerated grandfather! Then you are my cousin; do shake hands with me! What's your name? It ought to be Clarice, for I know now who you are like: the picture at home of another Clarice Egerton."

"I am Clarice. You have guessed right, and I believe I was named after my father's only sister. Oh, I do wish Guy would come; this is so very strange."

"Yes, is it not? Ireland's the place for adventures, after all. Here am I, taking my solitary ramble in unknown regions, and I find a cousin lying under a big tree—quite promiscuous, as I may say."

"Three cousins, for you have found Agnes and baby too. Here comes Guy at last. Oh, Guy, only think what has happened: he came here quite by accident, and he is our cousin Villiers Egerton! And oh, Guy, what will papa say?"

Guy was the handsomer of the two, she thought, as they stood face to face, looking curiously at each other.

"He cannot be displeased, I think," Guy answered. "You are very welcome, Cousin Villiers. Agnes told me some one was here who was starving and tired; was that you?"

"It was, and is. Unless you give me food, and that quickly, I shall be tempted to take a bite out of that nice soft baby there, who, I am told, is another cousin."

"I'll go and speak to Katty," said Guy; "and I suppose I had better tell my father, Clarice?"

"Certainly, tell him at once. Tell Katty to bring the tray out here, Guy; and you bring the little table I always use, that he may dine here, for Helen and Aymer won't be home for half an hour yet. They crossed the river to go to the Pearsons."

"Helen! Another cousin, I suppose?" said Villiers. "Yes, and Aymer, and there is one more—Elise; but she is married. She is not here."

Villiers sat down again, and smiled genially at Clarice.

"How glad I am I saw that child! I'm sure I shall like you all; and I have so few cousins. And, except in this way, I suppose we should never have met."

"I suppose not; and I am afraid papa will not be pleased."

"Oh," said Villiers, easily, "I'll talk him over. He won't turn me out, will he? Because now that I have found you, I want to know you all. I'll stay with you, if you'll have me. But I suppose," he added quickly, "I ought to make my petition to Mrs. Egerton?"

"You mean my mother," Clarice said. "My mother is dead."

"Oh, Clarice, I am so sorry I said that. I ought to have noticed that you were in mourning. It was very thoughtless of me."

Meantime Guy had run to the house and hurried Katty's proceedings. Luckily, there was cold meat in the house, and plenty of bread, and Katty arranged a tray according to her own ideas of propriety, while Guy went and knocked at the study door.

No answer was made, and muttering, "I shall never get him to hear me," he went boldly in. Even then, though it was a rare thing for any one to enter the study, Mr. Egerton took no notice of him, though Guy fancied he saw him at once.

"Father, can you attend to me for a moment? Clarice is out on the lawn, and she sent for me because some one had come up from the river to ask his way; but before I reached her, they had found out that he is our cousin, Villiers Egerton."

"Villiers—Aymer's boy? What brings him here?"

"I don't know, sir. I fancy it is an accident."

"Ay, I suppose so. I wish he had not come."

His face flushed crimson as he glanced at Guy, whose dress and hands bore evident marks of his late labours in the garden.

"How old is he? About your age, I think."

"About that, I think. Won't you come and see him, sir?"

"Yes, I suppose I must. It is an unlucky chance."

He looked down at his own dusty well-worn clothes, and said, "Can you get me a clothes-brush, Guy?"

Guy could quite sympathise with his desire to appear as little shabby as might be. So he ran for a brush, and brushed his garments well, got him his hat, and set out with him to the beech tree. Mr. Egerton walked slowly, and looked so old, that Villiers never thought that this could be his uncle. Sir Aymer, though his hair was white, looked younger and more vigorous.

"Here is papa," Clarice said.

And somehow her evident nervousness infected Villiers, who was far less certain of a welcome than he had expected to be.

Mr. Egerton came up in silence.

Guy said, "This is Villiers, sir."

"Ay, I see him. You are—welcome to my house, Villiers, though truly I have not much to make you welcome to. Did you come—do you bring any message to me?"

"Oh no, Uncle Guy. I am wandering about just to amuse myself, and pass the time. My coming here was accidental."

"Ah, I thought so. You are weary and hungry; I daresay they can supply your wants. Where is—where is Helen?"

"She went over the river with Aymer, papa, for she wanted to speak to Mrs. Pearson; but Katty will bring out some dinner for my cousin. Here she comes."

Villiers opened his eyes a little as Katty, her gown of no particular colour, pinned up so as to display a petticoat of every colour of the rainbow—a perfect marvel of patches!—her battered sun-bonnet flapping wildly in the breeze, came up, followed by Agnes, who carried a small table.

Mr. Egerton caught the look.

"Yes," he said, "we can give you food, and perhaps a bed: I don't know; Helen will tell you. For the rest, you must be content with what your cousins here are used to. It is late, too late for you to go on to-day, I fear; but you can escape to-morrow."

He turned and walked away, leaving Villiers in great dismay.

"What does he mean, Cousin Clarice? Is he angry? Shall I go away as soon as I have eaten?"

"Oh no, no!" she cried, earnestly. "He does not mean that. He is mortified, because everything here is so unlike what you are used to,—but you don't mind that, do you? We will do our best to please you. Oh, do stay!"

Villiers was more flattered by her entreaties than he would have been, had he been aware that the thought in her mind was, "Surely he could help Guy; this may be the opportunity we have been waiting for."

Guy and Clarice proved excellent entertainers, and Villiers made a hearty meal, and chatted away as if he had known them all. Privately, he concluded that their mother must have been a lady, and that Guy had only been digging for his amusement.

A loud halloa! from the river made them all look that way; and there was the old flat-bottomed boat coming across with Helen and Aymer. Guy sprang down the hill to help Helen to land.

"Ah, the old boat," said Clarice. "It makes me think of the day I met with my accident; I've never been in her since."

"Was it an accident? I mean, is that why you cannot get off your sofa?" with a doubtful glance at the contrivance on which she lay.

"Yes, I have never been able to stand since."

"How dreadful!" Villiers said under his breath. "But you will soon be better, don't you think?"

"No, I think not. It is years ago now. I've nearly forgotten what it was like to be able to run about; I was just as old then as Agnes is now. Here they come. Helen is tired, I'm afraid."

Helen was only shy, a feeling from which Clarice was so free that she could not think what ailed her sister. Aymer looked glum; that she could partly understand, though she did not feel the same. But Villiers had so much ease of manner, such a pleasant, genial smile, that Helen was soon herself again, and even Aymer was charmed, prejudiced as he was against his father's family.

Villiers was cordially pressed to stay, and he stayed, nothing loth. He stayed long enough to perceive that neither Aymer nor Helen was as well-educated or as naturally polished as Guy and Clarice; to see Elise and her good farmer husband, and to know that his cousins' lives were by no means either easy or bright, except for the brightness of mutual love, and that shed round her by gentle Clarice's heaven-enlightened heart.

All this Villiers had eyes to see, and he reverenced and admired the poor crippled girl with all the warmth of his young heart. All his life long, Villiers Egerton will be the better for those few days at Ballintra. He wrote to tell his mother of his adventures, and in a short time, he received an answer.

Lady Anne had been so frightened that she had actually put off telling Sir Aymer until some expected visitors had arrived, when, as she said "he could not scold all day."

But he knew now, and Villiers was to go home without an hour's delay. Lady Anne begged him to obey, and mildly wondered how he could be so imprudent! Villiers put on a look which none of his cousins had seen before (he was sitting with Clarice and her small charge), and Clarice asked him what was wrong.

"My grandfather is enraged because I am here, and he orders me home as if I were a groom. But I shan't go until I like."

"Oh, Villiers, how we shall all miss you!"

"But I tell you I shan't go!"

"Ah, but you don't mean that. You have told me how afraid of him your mother is; and so you cannot leave her alone with him, if he is angry. It has been very pleasant—very; but you'll have to go now."

Villiers argued the matter for some time, but he knew he ought to go, so he suffered himself to be persuaded to do so.

"And now, Villiers, will you think hardly of me if I ask you to do something for me? You know us now; you see what our life is, and you will forgive me, won't you?"

"What can I do for you, Cousin Clarice? Indeed I will do it—anything—you cannot think how glad I shall be to do anything for you."

"But this is not a little thing, Villiers. You see what Guy is. He has had no teachers, no help of any kind, except when papa gave me a few lessons once. Yet you see he knows nearly as much as you do, though you have been at school so long."

"He knows an awful lot more, I assure you. I was always an idle fellow."

"He knows Latin, German, French, and Italian, he knows a little Greek, and—"

"And is a better mathematical scholar than I am, though that is what I know best."

"And with all that, Villiers, he can get nothing to do here except what any labourer could do as well, and that Post-office business, which is very little indeed. If you could find something for Guy to do,—some situation. Oh, Villiers, you don't know how he longs for this, though he never speaks of it."

"But what should you do without Guy?" was the answer.

Clarice burst into tears. "I don't know! But it would be for his good. If we can save money, we mean to emigrate. We hope to go to Now Zealand some day. You know this place is not ours, only held on a lease for papa's life. So we really want to make money; and I am sure Guy could earn more than he gets here."

"Of course he could! I'll do my best, Clarice. If I fail, don't blame me, for I promise you, I will do my best. And don't fancy I am forgetting it, if you don't hear at once; for you know I am not my own master."

Next day Villiers left them, and returned to Dublin. He sent them a big box before he left Ireland—a box so big that Aymer had to take the cart into E— for it; but no one grudged the time and trouble when that delightful box was unpacked.

For Helen there was an inlaid work-box, containing everything she could possibly want for needlework, and several cunning devices of which she did not know the use, and with which she sorely pinched her fingers in making experiments. For Aymer a box of carpenter's tools, really good ones. For Agnes a doll of surpassing beauty. For baby a rattle. While for Guy and Clarice there were books; a small edition of Sir Walter Scott's novels, some of Miss Edgeworth's, some of Dickens', and a few graver volumes, chosen as well as Villiers knew how. Never having read a story of any kind, it can hardly be imagined what these books were to the young Egertons.

Clarice read aloud to the rest every evening; and it never happened now that Aymer fell asleep—a thing not utterly unknown before. "Old Mortality" was the first they read; and the shouts of laughter over Cuddie Headrigg disturbed Mr. Egerton in his study, until he actually came out to ask what was the matter—an event which his children considered little short of a miracle.

CHAPTER X.

A PAIR OF SHOES.

IT was about this time that Clarice became convinced that she could venture to move without bringing back pain and inflammation in her injured knee. Painful to a certain extent it must always be, for it was twisted and distorted in a dreadful manner; but the acute agony which used to follow upon every attempt at movement seemed to have worn itself out. Clarice tried several experiments when she was quite alone, and succeeded beyond her hopes. She began to wonder if she could not contrive some kind of support, which would make walking possible. The pain in her back she believed to be only the consequence of lying so much in the same position, and therefore determined "not to mind it."

In writing the story of Clarice Egerton, I find that I am not giving any true idea of the amount of suffering which she bore so quietly. But really she said so little about it, and gave way to it so little, that the fact that she was a great and constant sufferer was never brought much before even her own family. To Guy alone did she ever speak of it, after her mother's death; and he always said that he only knew of her suffering because she sometimes told him how pleasant it was to be free from pain again.

Having considered the matter thoroughly, Clarice took Guy into her confidence. They were alone together one evening, and she said to him,—

"Guy, I want you to help me a little. You are such a clever carpenter, do you think you could make me a crutch, like this—" showing him a tiny model made of morsels of stick tied together—"and a common crutch for the other side? For, do you know, I think I could manage to walk if I had them?"

"My dear Clarice, it would hurt you terribly!"

"Not much; and it won't do any real harm. It would be such a comfort if I could do more for myself, Guy; Helen has so much to do."

"If you really wish to try, I think I could make this. I see your idea; you want a flat place for your knee to lie on, and it must be soft. Don't you think it will be very heavy?"

"I'm afraid it will; but after a time, I may be able to do without it. I could not at first. Don't tell any one, Guy; we will surprise them some fine day."

"Well, the first thing to be done is to measure you carefully. It must be exactly the right height, you know. Could you stand up, holding by the sofa?"

"Oh yes, I have done it every day lately, when you were all out of the way. The worst of it is, I have no shoes."

"Poor Clarice! The little pair you wore that dreadful day wouldn't be of much use now! Oh, what a day that was! It haunts me in my dreams even now."

"I don't recollect much after I fell. Look, Guy, don't I stand up gallantly? And, oh, how tall I feel! Kiss me; I want to be kissed without being stooped over."

Guy kissed her with tears in his eyes. "Clarice," he said, "you have the spirit of a hero!"

Then he got a bit of string and made his measurements carefully; and next day he lost no time in setting to work. The fact that for several days he covered the floor with chips and shavings, and that he and Clarice had great consultations about a queer-looking pillow, raised no suspicions, for Guy was often seized with a fit of inventing, and would work away at every spare moment over his models. He was as clever with his hands as with his head, and the crutch was not so very heavy after all. The whole way to E— did he walk to buy a pair of shoes for Clarice; and surely no shoes, since Goody Twoshoes' time, ever gave such pleasure.

The first time Clarice crossed the room on her crutches, she very nearly fainted, so great was her nervousness. But perseverance does wonders—"use lessens marvel." And after a few trials, she could use them cleverly, and was quite fearless.

Guy's pride and delight at seeing her once more able to get about (though in far different fashion from the dancing step which had so often led him into mischief in old times) were very great. He declared that the time had now come for letting the others into the secret.

Aymer, Helen, and Agnes, who were in the garden, were accordingly surprised to hear him calling out—

"Holloa, there! You are very late! Here is Clarice coming to look after you."

And there, indeed, in the doorway, stood Clarice, whom Agnes had never seen stand before! Her long black hair had fallen out of the net she usually wore, and, hanging over her shoulders, quite concealed the fact (of which, alas! they soon became aware) that long lying in an uneasy position had brought on a slight curvature of the spine; her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with amusement at their surprise.

Each one could see what a beautiful creature Clarice might have been! All hurried forward; Agnes, screaming with joy, would have thrown her arms round her, crutches and all, but that Guy caught her.

"Stop, stop, child! You'll have her down. You must only admire her at a distance until she gets a little steadier; but isn't it nice to see her off her sofa?"

"Oh, Clarice, Clarice," cried Helen, "how could you do it, when I know the pain every movement gives you! I'm afraid you will make your knee as bad as ever again."

"I don't think so, Helen. It's a long time now since there was any inflammation; it is only twisted and stiff; and I did so long to try. See how well I get along; is it not a graceful movement? Now I can do so much more, Nelly."

"You do enough. Oh, Clarice, I should be so glad, if I wasn't so frightened."

"But don't cry, Nell."

"I must. Oh dear, I can't help it, though I know it is foolish. But when I remember how you were always the quickest and the most daring of us—and now—"

"Too daring, I'm afraid. Don't think of that, Helen; think instead how long I've been lying there, and how pleasant it is to me to be on my feet again. Aymer, you haven't even wished me joy."

Aymer kissed her, taking up a great handful of her abundant hair, and giving it a gentle pull.

"Here's papa!" said Agnes, suddenly. "Let us see if he will know Clarice."

Mr. Egerton came slowly towards the house, raised his eyes, and found himself face to face with Clarice. He started, and after an evident struggle for composure, said,—

"How did this—when did you get better, Clarice? Would none of you take the trouble of telling me?" he added, sadly.

"Oh, papa, they none of them knew except Guy, until this evening. He helped me, and made these crutches. But indeed, papa, I should have told you, if I had thought you cared."

He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said,—

"Just so. Don't hurt yourself, Clarice. If you were to bring back inflammation, it might cost you your life. I should advise your standing but little at first."

"I will remember, papa. I shall go and lie down now, for I am tired."

She went in and lay down, tenderly aided by brothers and sisters, and, to her surprise, watched in silence by her father.

She could not get his words and look out of her head. What did he mean? Was it possible that his heart sometimes yearned for a little affection from his children—that he felt lonely and sad? But then, how could they be expected to feel affection for him? He had so completely neglected them all their lives, that Lizzie had once said, laughing, that until she married, he had never made up his mind which was Lizzie and which Helen!

"And I don't see how we could care for him," Clarice said to herself; but there was an uneasy feeling all the time. "He looked so sad," she thought, "that I cannot help pitying him. We are so happy together; he is so lonely. Mother was more to him than he thought. Yet after all, it is his own doing."

But Clarice had read her Bible too well for that to satisfy her. Words kept coming into her head all the evening.

"Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven."

"Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."

"If ye love those which love you, what thanks have ye?"

"Children, obey your parents in the Lord."

These thoughts made her so silent that Helen, who was helping her to undress, said, "I know you are in pain, Clarice; you have hurt yourself."

"No, indeed. I am only thinking of papa. How he did look at me to-day."

"Because you are like his sister, you know."

"Yes; but he seemed hurt. Perhaps we forget him too much, Helen. He must be very lonely without mother."

"Now, Clarice! He never seemed to know when she spoke to him! And as to us, we might all go to New Zealand to-morrow, and I don't think he would miss us, unless Katty forgot to give him his meals."

"I'm not so sure of that. I can't help fancying that he thinks more about us now."

"May be so; but I have enough to do without thinking of him. He chose that kind of life, so no doubt he likes it. Are you comfortable now, dear? Take baby then. Good-night, Clarice."

Clarice lay thinking. "Yes, Helen has more than enough to do; but there is very little that I can do. Perhaps I ought to try to get nearer to him if he will let me; I am sure he is lonely and unhappy. I won't think any more about his neglect of us, but only that he is lonely and sad, cast off by his own people, a stranger to his children, growing old, all alone; and, I'm afraid—"

But she did not pursue that thought. If she had, it would stand thus: "Afraid that in losing his wealth and worldly position, he had lost his all."

Next morning, she ventured to get up and dress before Helen came to her. Baby lay in bed, staring round-eyed at her unwonted proceedings; but by the time Helen came, both she and baby were dressed.

"Now, Helen, see all the trouble I shall spare you. Is not this worth a little pain?"

"Indeed it is not! I shall never forgive you, Clarice, if you hurt yourself to help me."

"It does not injure me; and the longer I put it off, the worse the pain will be. Now I shall hop gracefully out into the parlour; but you must carry baby."

Her appearance was greeted with loud applause by Guy and Agnes; but an attempt to sit at the breakfast table was unsuccessful. She got quite faint from the pain in her back, and was obliged to lie down.

After a time, Mr. Egerton came in.

Clarice looked up at him as he passed, and said, "Papa, I dressed myself and baby without help, and came in here on my crutches. Is not that a good thing?"

He paused, as if not quite certain whether he was pleased or the reverse, but meeting her timid, gentle eyes, he half smiled and said,—

"Very good; but take care. 'Festina lente.'"

"Not much of a conversation," thought Clarice; "but it will do for a beginning."

"Why, I declare," cried Helen, "there's the postman!"

"The postman!" every one exclaimed at once.

Clarice felt quite sick with excitement. She had waited very patiently; but now, if that postman had not brought her a letter from Villiers, it would be too much.

Guy went to the door, and returned quickly.

Mr. Egerton, naturally enough, held out his hand for the letter.

"It is not for you, sir. It's for Clarice, 'Miss Clarice Egerton,' quite plain; but who wrote it, I can't imagine."

"I know; oh, I know! Give it to me quickly."

She tore it open and glanced through it. Then she let it fall, and threw her arms round Guy, who had knelt beside her to look at the letter.

"Guy," she sobbed out, "it has come! You have got what we asked for. I knew we should, if we had patience. But, oh, what shall I do without you?"

"Clarice dear, what do you mean? I don't understand it at all."

Clarice calmed herself by a great effort. "I'll read it to you all," she said. "It is from Villiers."

"What made him write to you?" said Mr. Egerton, who was standing by the head of her couch.

"Because he promised to get a situation for Guy; and he says he has done it."

"Did you ask him to do so?"

"I did. Was it wrong, papa? I did not think it could be."

"There was nothing wrong in it. What does he say?"

Clarice coloured. "When I said I would read it, papa, I did not remember that you were in the room; perhaps you would rather read it to yourself."

"No; read it. The worst was said and done before you were born, child; I'm past feeling it now."

And Clarice read:

"Egerton Highfield.

"MY DEAR CLARICE,

"I hope you have never doubted that I remembered my promise; but if you have, you will now feel ashamed of yourself, and serve you right.

"When I got home, I spoke to Sir Aymer at once, and we had no end of a row; but I did not let him silence me until I had said my say, and told him that he ought to do something for you all. However, he won't; and was he not angry! But I was not going to be beaten, so I got my mother to interest herself in it, which she did, on one condition. I shall tell you what that was presently.

"She has found something that perhaps may do. There is an old gentleman in London who was once a famous surgeon, and he is very rich and clever, a great reader, and as learned as—I don't know who! Well, some years ago he became quite blind, and he likes to be read to all day long and to dictate letters and, I believe, books, to his secretary. He has neither wife nor child, nor any relative but a nephew, who spends a good deal of time with him, but never in the morning, as he is in a government office. So he always has a secretary, who comes to him every day at ten o'clock and stays till three, and who must come again in the evening if the nephew has other engagements.

"Now, I must tell you plainly that Dr. Majoribanks is a great oddity, and never takes the least notice of his secretary except whilst they are actually busy together. He wants one now, who must read French and German; and I am sure Guy would suit him; but I don't feel so sure that he will suit Guy, for I suspect he is not over pleasant, though he does not come up to Sir Aymer. But if he does not like to remain, my mother says that Dr. Majoribanks will get him something else to do, for he is an old friend of hers, and he has promised to do so. He will give a hundred and fifty pounds a year, but he will not have his secretary to live in his house—only to come when wanted; so that this is not as good a salary as it sounds. But it is the best thing I can hear of, dear Clarice. I wish sincerely it was better, but, you see, with Sir Aymer against me I can do so little.

"My mother's condition is that I am to obey Sir Aymer, and not visit you, nor write to you until I am of age. He has a right to control me until then; but it is only three years now, and then I shall look you up. Until then I must say good-bye to you all, my dear cousins, for I know Clarice would not let me disobey, even if I wished; and really mamma has been very kind.

"I send a little present for Guy, to help to fit him out if he accepts, and I enclose Dr. Majoribanks's address. Guy is to write to him at once, and go to him without delay, if he decides on going. Mamma joins me in this present, and do not be annoyed with me for sending it. Sir Aymer is a hard-hearted old—but there, I know how you will look if I abuse him. Good-bye, dear Clarice, but not for very long. Don't forget me—I shall never forget you. I did not know how good one may learn to be till I knew you.

"Your affectionate cousin,

"VILLIERS A. EGERTON."

The present proved to be a Post-office order for twenty pounds.

"Oh, Clarice!" Guy exclaimed. "I owe this to you. I have been longing for it; and yet now that it has come, I don't know how to leave you all."

Clarice stroked his cheek and his curly dark hair; she dared not trust her voice to answer him.

Aymer said, "How kind of Villiers! It's a great thing for us all, Guy. I wish you joy, dear old fellow."

Helen stooped and kissed the top of his head, his face not being visible just then.

They had all forgotten their father's presence, until he said,—

"You none of you have the least idea to what a life of temptation and poverty Guy will go—if he goes."

"Poverty, sir!" exclaimed Aymer, startled out of his habit of never addressing his father. "A hundred and fifty pounds a year! Why, it is more than we all have to live on here."

"But how do we live? And how do we dress? And there is the garden and farm, and—and—"

He paused, and looked puzzled. The truth was, that he knew his children so little that he did not know how to speak to them.

"I could not make you understand if I talked to you for an hour," he said at last. "But between poverty here and poverty in London there is a great difference. Here, there is no one to spy upon our misery; no one whose wealth and prosperity make our lot the harder by contrast. Here, too, there is little or no temptation. There, every one you meet would be better off, better dressed, better educated than yourself, and your life would be one of great temptation. In your place, Guy, nothing should persuade me to go. But I do not forbid it. You are old enough to judge for yourself, and I have never interfered, and never will. Do as you like."

"I am glad, sir, that you don't forbid it. I am used to live poorly, and I'll try not to care for what others do. It would be cowardly to remain here, making the little there is less, when I can at least support myself; and as to temptation, it finds one everywhere, and God can keep me there as well as here."

"Oh, if you come to that!" said Mr. Egerton, quietly, and somewhat contemptuously. And he walked out of the room, leaving them all free to consult about Guy's outfit. And they had a fight over it, but only because Guy would not lay out the whole twenty pounds on clothes at once.

"No, no," he said; "it must take me to London, and support me there for a time. I will not rob the beloved bag—it would break Clarice's heart. In spite of my father's doleful prophecies, I mean to do my part in filling that bag!"

Guy wrote to Dr. Majoribanks that evening, accepting the situation. His time at home was very short, which was, perhaps, as well. Lizzie came over to say good-bye, and gave him five pounds as her own and Donald's parting gift; so Guy felt quite rich. Clarice kept sorrow at bay by working hard, mending and making; there would be time enough to cry when he was gone. She got Aymer to go to E— to make a purchase on which her heart was set, a small Bible, as keepsake for Guy.

"Do read it often, Guy," she said; "and pray about what you read. Though we can't understand all of it, we can find out what is right."

"Clarice, I shall miss you sorely; you have been my guide."

"Oh, nonsense, Guy! How could I guide you? But you have a Guide, you know, a Friend from whom nothing but your own act can part you. He is strong, and He loves you. Oh, don't forget Him, Guy! Cling to Him, never forsake Him."

One who knew more would have urged the boy to attend church, to try to make acquaintance with some clergyman who would take an interest in him, to choose his companions carefully. But of all this, Clarice knew nothing. All she knew was that in her Bible she had found her Saviour; and the moment she began to speak of Him, the cloud of anxiety which had rested upon her face disappeared, and her words came freely. Of all worldly prudence, she was ignorant enough; but she knew and trusted Him; no one could hear her speak of Him, and fail to see that, to her, He was very real and very dear. All else that lay before her brother was hid from her eyes, but the Master, to whose service he was vowed, was clear enough.

"Don't think anything too small to ask Him about," she said; "until you really trust Him in all things, you will never know what He can be to you. Since I found that out, I have been so happy, Guy. When I am in pain, I pray, and He makes me able to be patient: when I get fretful, I pray, and He makes me able to hold my tongue: when I want to do things, He helps me. Indeed, He seems always near, and so strong and loving. Do try, dear Guy. I know you love Him, but try to never forget Him; and then you'll be safe and happy, whatever happens."

"Pray for me often, Clarice. Your prayers won this opening for me, and now they will be my safeguard. I'll try to remember, but I know you will."

Neither of the speakers knew that their father had come into the room while they were talking. He stood listening, with a doubtful look, and now went away softly.

Guy left home next day. His absence made a terrible blank in Clarice's life: all her natural strength and courage must have failed to support her; but something supported her. She grew paler and thinner, and was sometimes guilty of not hearing little Agnes's merry chatter; but she never complained, and was as gentle and as ready to help as ever. She little knew how closely she was being watched, nor how her stedfast, cheerful patience surprised and puzzled the watcher.

CHAPTER XI.

GUY'S FRIEND, TOM PRICE.

A YEAR passed quietly away, bringing no change to Ballintra, except in baby Frank, who grew and prospered, the joy and the terror of Clarice's life. Her joy, in that he was the prettiest, merriest, most coaxing little fellow in the world: her terror, in that he was also the most enterprising, with an innate love of climbing and scrambling, which cost her many an uneasy moment.

Clarice did not forget her resolution to endeavour to get nearer to her father; but, though she went on trying, she sometimes thought he was rather annoyed than pleased. Her power of moving about had increased a good deal, and she could get all over the house, even going up and down stairs without much difficulty; but there the improvement stopped.

For some time after his departure, Guy wrote constantly. He was paid regularly, and, by his own request, weekly; and by the most rigid economy, he succeeded in saving money, every shilling of which was sent home to be put in the "beloved bag." At about this time, however, he began to write less often, though always affectionately; yet Clarice somehow felt sure that he was neither so happy nor so hopeful as he had been. Happy, perhaps, is not the right word, for Guy had made no secret of his sense of loneliness, and of longing for the dear home faces; but his letters had indicated a mind at rest, and hope for the future. He had often praised his landlady, Mrs. Browne, yet now he spoke of leaving her house. Matters were in this state, when one morning Mr. Egerton received a letter from Mrs. Browne herself, which I shall copy, as it is rather a curiosity. The writer was a poor struggling widow, with a large family, and so her kind care for her young lodger is the more to be admired.

"HONOURED SIR,

"Which it is but seldom I take pen in hand except to make out my small account or write to my Willy that's at sea. So honoured Sir excuse errors and so forth for I write because I do love that ansom boy and can't abare to see him led away which led away he will be. It is not because he must leave me Honoured Sir for one as never knew the flaviour of her lodgers tea can always fill her house respectable, though not to equall Mr. Egerton and that I will say.

"It is not his own doings but all along of a young gent that he has got to know which for all his fine clothes and uppish ways is not a real gent at all as Mr. Guy most truly is in all his ways. But this Mr. Price has begun to come here and take Mr. Guy out in the evenings and glad I was for the poor young man was fair pined for want of a little fun. But now I see through him and it was for his own bad ends, for sure I am he has borrowed money which pay he never will or my name's not Martha Brown Italian Warehouse.

"Mr. Guy scarce eats nor drinks but spares every penny, and yet can't pay his rent not that I am hurting for wait I can and will. He sighs and looks so sad and last night I came on him sudden and he was crying, but turned away his face being young and shamefaced. There is something wrong Honoured Sir and excuse the liberty I have atook but could I see the fine young gent go to ruin for want of a timely word and a bit of help, and sure I am he wants both this moment and I am Honoured Sir your servant to Command.

"MARTHA BROWNE.

"Don't let him know as I wrote if you please."

Mr. Egerton went to Clarice, and gave her the letter.

"Who is it from, papa?"

"The person with whom Guy lodges."

"Oh—is he ill?" cried Clarice, turning very white.

"No. Read it, and then you will know as much as I do."

Clarice read, and looked very anxious.

"What can be the matter?" she said.

"Surely it is plain enough! This young Price has led him into extravagance—or, more likely, the boy has become weary of his miserable existence, and is reckless."

"It is not that. I should know by his letters. Oh, if I could see him for five minutes! What will you do, papa?"

"I?—Nothing. What can I do or say? I know it was a hopeless experiment; he has tried it, and failed. Tell him to give it up, and come home."

"But, papa, do you never think what it will end in? If we all stay at home doing nothing, what is to become of us? Yet we are your children—do you not care, papa, if we beg or starve when you leave us?"

"Clarice, you forget yourself. I leave you the letter. Do as you think best."

When Aymer and Helen came in, they had a long and anxious talk. It was decided that Clarice should write to Guy, saying that she felt sure there was something amiss, and begging him not to conceal any trouble from those who loved him so tenderly. She even ventured to say that perhaps he wanted a little money—further she dared not go, as she might have betrayed Mrs. Browne.

Guy answered at once.

"MY DEAR CLARICE,

"I have amused Mrs. Browne, and she has confessed her sin. I knew she was up to something, she was so supernaturally light-hearted and fussy. Dear little woman, she has really done me a service—though not in the way she intended. Your letter was such a cheer up to her, Clarice; and it will cheer you all to know that I have only been a young donkey—nothing worse. Now that you know anything, you had better know all.

"I told you how kind Tom Price has always been to me. I made his acquaintance at the place I go to for my dinner; lots of clerks dine there. While the rest only stared at my country looks and coat, Toni took me by the hand, and was really kind to me. But as far back as May, he borrowed a few shillings from me. His father is well off, and makes him an allowance besides his salary, so I fancied my money was quite safe. He went on borrowing, however, until he got even the money I had laid by to pay my rent; and now he has quarrelled with his father, and left home, so of course he cannot pay. He stays with me a good deal, and it makes my expenses mount up in the most wonderful manner; besides, he borrows every shilling I can lend him. I know it is foolish of me, but Price is the only friend I have made in London, and but for him I should be terribly lonely. He takes me sometimes to meet some friends of his, and we chat and play billiards a little. Latterly I generally go with him, because the poor fellow is inclined to take too much to drink, and I can keep him from doing it. When he goes home (which I am trying to persuade him to do), his father will perhaps pay me. I hope so, for I owe Mrs. Browne two months' rent, and must pay her before I leave her. I shall get cheaper lodgings if I can.

"You will all think me very silly about Tom; indeed my conduct looks silly, now that I have put it all down in black and white. But you do not know the misery of not having a soul to speak to, and that was my case; for Dr. M. never addresses a syllable to me except about my work. Oh, Clarice, I have never let myself write it, but if you knew what the loneliness is! What would I give for one of our cosy chats? I used to think I would get you to come and live with me, for you could get work here, and we could get on very well. But I am afraid I have proved myself unfit to have the care of you. There is a little room off mine where I could sleep. I shut my eyes and fancy you at the other side of the table—but this is all nonsense. The 'beloved bag' will not be the fatter for my savings until Tom pays me, or goes home and lets me begin to save again. Now you know all about it, and don't, any of you, make yourselves unhappy about me. Love to Aggie and a kiss to Frank. Good-bye, you three.

"Your loving brother,

"GUY EGERTON."

When this letter reached Ballintra, the whole family were in the parlour, dinner being just over. Clarice read it, and silently gave it to Helen and Aymer.

Mr. Egerton looked up from his book and asked, "Have you heard from Guy?"

"Yes, papa. Should you like to read it?"

"If you have no objection."

He read it, and gave it back to her, saying slowly, "Poor boy!"

"Father," said Aymer, "tell us what you think. You have lived among men—you must be better able to judge than we can be."

"You know Guy better than I do. Is it certain that this is the whole truth?"

"Quite certain," they all declared, with one voice.

"And what then can I tell you more than the unhappy boy has told you himself?"

They looked at one another, puzzled.

At last Clarice said,—

"You think this Tom Price is a bad companion for him—is that it?"

Mr. Egerton sat for a few moments turning over the leaves of his book absently; at last he said,—

"You are all of you wonderfully innocent and ignorant, no doubt. I don't know that I am doing you a kindness in enlightening you. This Price is a drinker, an idler, and a gambler. Finding Guy's handsome face and well-sounding name of use to him, he is trying to make him such another as himself. He has begun with billiards, but he will not stop there. Guy does not seem to have learned the lesson as quickly as I should have expected; but I do not see what is to save him unless you can persuade him to come home. I almost fear he will refuse to do so. In which case, his utter ruin is only a matter of time."

"If you knew that this was likely, why did you not warn him?" said Aymer.

"I did warn you all. You would not believe me; but you know now that I was right. Persuade him to come home if you can,—and—"

"And what?" said Aymer, hotly. "Work hard and live poorly, without a hope or chance of better days!"

"Aymer, I see no good, no object to be gained by any of you, uneducated and unfriended, risking yourselves."

Again Aymer interrupted him. "How is it to end?" he asked, passionately. "If we all remain here, just living—what is to become of us, father?"

"When I am gone, my family must do something for you," Mr. Egerton answered, quickly. "For their own sakes, they must do it."

Then he got up and left the room.

Aymer was silent for a few moments, but then the bitterness of long years broke forth.

"So!" said he. "To save his pride, we are all to live as best we may, until at his death we are turned out of this place; and then we are to be indebted to his fine relatives for help to grub on in the same way somewhere else. I would sooner beg my bread from house to house!"

"And so would I!" said Helen.

"And we are to bring Guy home, to eat his heart out in idleness, or to go to the bad for want of hope! To live the life that even I, dull, plodding Aymer, feel to be hard lines sometimes. And this is all his knowledge can suggest, though he sneers at our ignorance—his own work!"

"Aymer," said Clarice, gently, "believe me, papa is more to be pitied than any one of us. Do not speak bitterly, for you will surely be sorry for it by-and-by. Let us think of Guy—for I agree with you, he must not come home."

"Well, Clarice, my opinion is this. Guy has done nothing wrong. He is our own Guy still, loving and trustworthy. If he had you with him, very little would Tom Price see of him after his work; he and you always had company enough, if you were together over a book. You are well able to get about now, and Frank is no longer a baby. We shall miss you, Clarice—you don't know how much—but you'll be the saving of Guy."

"That's exactly what I think," said Helen. "It seems as if things had come about on purpose to make it possible. What do you say, Clarice?"

"When I read this letter, I thought just as you do; then I put it away, because I fear I should be but a dull companion for him, when he has no other."

"You'll be just what he wants," said Aymer. "Some one to work for, and to care for, and to welcome him home, and read with him. You'll go, won't you, Clarice?"

"If you really think this—and if papa consents."

Both brother and sister exclaimed at this, but Clarice was steady to her determination. Against his will she would not go.

Mr. Egerton, being told by Clarice that evening, made no objection. He only said,—

"You cannot go alone; and where is the money to come from?"

"We have a little laid by, and Aymer will go with me."

"Clarice, I am not trying to dissuade you, but think this over before you go. London will be very dreary to you, child. You will never get out, remember; and the musty little rooms over a provision shop will be a poor exchange for Ballintra, bad as this is."

"But, papa, do you think I should be of use to Guy?"

"You might be—yes, I think you might. He seemed very fond of you; and to have you there was his own idea, I remember."

"And I love him so much, papa, that even if London kills me, I shall think I have lived long enough, if I have done him good. I shall never be anything but a feeble creature, not good for much—but if I save Guy!" Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

Her father looked at her with a strange expression, and said,—

"Clarice, you are no fool. You know what you are going to. Aymer and Helen realise only what they see, or they would never let you go; but you are different; you do realise it. Are you really content to give up all that makes your life tolerable, for that boy's sake?"

"More than content," she answered, earnestly.

"I see it is so, indeed, but I don't understand it," he muttered.

"Oh, dear papa! Forgive me this once. How can you understand it when you shut your heart against the Love that left heaven for you?"

She was crying bitterly; and by the time she had dried her eyes and could see again, her father had left the room.

CHAPTER XII.

HOW THE BAG WAS EMPTIED.

WHEN Aymer returned from this, the first journey he had ever taken, he made Helen laugh (though she was in no laughing mood, for she missed Clarice unspeakably) by his description of Tom Price's face when he marched into Guy's room and found them at tea.

HE FOUND THEM AT TEA.

Tom beat a hasty retreat, and reappeared no more. For a long time he was unwearied in trying to borrow money; but Guy had had his lesson and was hard-hearted now, having Clarice to care for; so by degrees Tom dropped his acquaintance.

Clarice's first care was to get needlework from a London shop; this was easy, for she was really a beautiful worker.

Mrs. Browne was soon paid, and saving for the "beloved bag" begun again. Through her kind-hearted little landlady, Clarice became acquainted with Mrs. Ausley, the wife of the rector of the parish, and afterwards with Dr. Ausley, who soon took a great interest in the brother and sister.

This friendship proved the greatest possible benefit to the young Egertons; even to those at home, for everything was fully written to them, and Dr. Ausley even allowed some of his books to be sent for Helen and Aymer to read, and he kept Guy and Clarice fully provided with really good books. Moreover, Clarice contrived to get to church, and that was a most delightful event in her life. Her health did not suffer in the least from the change, and she could not doubt that her presence made Guy perfectly contented.

When nearly two years had passed, they went home for a holiday; and the happiness of that meeting was very great. The only familiar object that was no longer to be seen at Ballintra was the "beloved bag," for the contents had swelled so greatly that Aymer had placed the money in the bank at E— for greater safety.

Aymer said that the time would soon come for him and Guy to go to New Zealand, where they would work hard, get experience, and send home money enough to bring out the rest of the family. But soon after Guy and Clarice had returned to London, a most unlooked-for misfortune occurred—Mr. Egerton fell ill.

It was only a severe cold at first, but he would not allow Helen to take care of him. And before very long, he was so seriously ill that Aymer went to E— for old Dr. Garvey. For many weeks Mr. Egerton knew no one, and it seemed very doubtful that he would ever leave his bed alive. Then the fever left him, and there seemed to be no reason why he should not regain his usual health and strength. But he did not get better. There he lay, with great sad eyes looking out of a shadowy face, but he neither moved nor spoke of his own will.

Dr. Garvey said to Aymer, "Mr. Egerton, your father is an old man for his years, and I greatly fear that this is a general breaking up. It will be slow—it may go on for months. Give him good wine, strong beef-tea, and change of air, if he rallies a little. I will look in sometimes, and you can always send for me; but I don't think there is any use in my coming constantly."

He went away, and Helen wrung her hands in dismay.

"Good wine!" she said. "Two and sixpence or three shillings for every bottle! Beef-tea, with beef at tenpence a pound! Oh, Aymer!"

"The 'beloved bag' must do it, Helen. Don't cry, my dear; you can't turn your tears into beef-tea, afraid. Look you, Nell, it's a plain duty, so it must be done. We have the money; he is our father, and so we must not hold back. Guy and Clarice will say just the same."

So you see Clarice's words and example had not been thrown away. Indeed, when the two go together they are seldom lost—though the words without the example go astray sometimes.

Meantime, Mr. Egerton, silent always, watched and wondered. Had he been the most tender of fathers, he could not have been more carefully nursed. Helen never spared herself. The nourishing food and wine did him good, and he gained a little strength.

Helen was often aware that her father was watching her; at last, one day, he spoke.

"Helen, we cannot afford all this. I suppose we are in debt already?"

"Oh no! Aymer pays for everything."

"Aymer! What, out of that hoard that Clarice once spoke of?"

"Yes; and Guy and Clarice want you to go to them for a change, when you get better."

"I don't think I shall get better. Not your fault, Helen; you are doing all you can."

A day or two later, Aymer, finding the sad eyes fixed wistfully on him, said cheerily,—

"I think you are stronger to-day, sir."

"If I am not, I cannot blame you for it. Will you answer me one question truly."

"If I answer it at all, sir."

"Then tell me why you—all of you—spend your hard-earned money—which you will sorely want—on one to whom you owe nothing, and whom you have never pretended to love?"

Aymer reddened and hesitated. At last he said, bluntly, "We could not help doing so plain a duty as this."

"So you all spend your money, and Helen her time and strength, because it is your duty. I want to know who taught you that?"

"My mother—she began it; and surely she did hers. And then Clarice got us to read the Bible. It's all there, you know, sir."

"Boy," said Mr. Egerton, half angrily, "no one could do as you are doing merely because it is written in a book!"

"I'm no good at explaining, sir. And if you put yourself out, you'll be bad again."

Next day, Mr. Egerton asked Helen to write and tell Clarice that he wanted to see her.

Clarice was very reluctant to go.

"He used to puzzle Aymer and Helen with questions," she said, "when he found them reading the Bible or the books we send them; and Aymer told me he used to get quite unhappy, for the doubts suggested would keep coming back, until at last, he always went away at once, and would have no talk. And when we went home, I took him a present of that book of which Dr. Ausley thinks so highly, and he would not even open it. He said he had known the author, who was an enthusiast. What could I say to him? I should only do harm."

Still, when her father went on in the same way, not getting any better, and always begging of her to come home, she felt that she ought to go. Guy took her to Dublin, and Aymer met her in E— and accompanied her home.

Her father seemed pleased to see her; but as days passed, and he said nothing particular to her, she began to think that her fears had been unfounded; and before long she almost wished he would speak. He looked so sad; he seemed to be always thinking. At last one evening, when she was sitting at work in the window of his room, he suddenly said,—

"Clarice, come here. I want to ask you a question—you need not look so frightened, child. I suppose Aymer has been telling you how I once puzzled him with questions. Aymer is no genius; yet his simple answers puzzled me more than my questions puzzled him. But, Clarice, all that looks very small when one comes to lie where I lie now. Little discrepancies—little difficulties—what are they in the face of the great realities?"

"What great realities?" whispered Clarice, after waiting silently for some time.

"Death—Conscience—Eternity!" he answered. "In my worst days I never doubted that there is a Hereafter. I simply never thought of it. It was you, Clarice, long ago, set me thinking."

"I, papa?"

"Yes, a few words you said; but, far more, the fact that there is in your life a something—a motive-power, which cannot be a delusion. I am weak now, and I believe I am talking like a fool; but it has come to this, that I would give—oh, what would I not give?—to be able to believe. But I have cherished my vain doubts and questions, and I played with my idle speculations so long that all is mist. I cannot lay hold of anything."

"I am not sure that I understand you, papa."

"I am not sure that I understand myself," he answered, with a sad smile. "Since your namesake, my sister Clarice, died, I have never thought much about religion. I have gone on—dreaming—doing nothing, in fact. If conscience awoke for a moment, I silenced her. I laid the blame of my wasted life on—circumstances, on my father, on anything and any one but myself. From this state I have been awakened—how, I hardly know. I do see my sin—I do repent; but when I would take another step and cry for mercy—then all is mist. I have amused myself by seeing how the Christian religion can be explained away, until now when I turn to it in my bitter need, it eludes my grasp—I can see no certainty—no hope. It is all mist!"

"Papa, I once heard Dr. Ausley preach on the subject of doubts and difficulties of this kind, and I will tell you something of what he said. He began, if I remember rightly, by saying that until the history of our Lord and of His apostles was proved to be a fiction from beginning to end, the credulous people were those who try to account for it on natural grounds. I am not making it plain, papa—I wish I could."

"I understand; go on."

"Then there was St. Paul. He had everything to lose, and nothing to gain. He was wise, well-educated, and had reasoning powers beyond the common. Why did he believe? He said he saw the Lord—he must have known whether that was true or false. Do men throw away everything they value in life for the pleasure of being persecuted for telling a he?"

"Go on, child—go on."

"And those twelve men of a conquered and despised nation, unlearned and ignorant men, too—yet their teaching upset the religion of great Rome, and has gone on spreading ever since. But the thing that struck me most in what Dr. Ausley said, and you said something like it just now, was—'that every Christian life, however weak and faulty, is a miracle greater than any other. Because,' he said, 'here are sinful men, weak women, silly young people, tempted and tried, and yet going on somehow, living a life that is not only not easy, but actually against their very nature.'"

"I have felt that," Mr. Egerton said. "Clarice, I think my time is short. What had I better do?"

"Papa, would you not let Aymer go to E— and ask Mr. Monroe to come to see you?"

"No, no!" he answered. "Not that—not yet. I could not bear it."

The very thought of seeing a stranger agitated him so much that Clarice felt that she could not press it.

"Then let me read the Bible to you, papa."

"The miserable old doubts will come back."

"Oh no! For now you feel the want—you wish to believe it. Oh, dear papa, turn the wish into prayer! You are not vexed with me, papa?"

"No, not at all vexed. Come to-night and read to me. I am clearer at that time, I think, than any other. When Helen has left me, do you come."

"I will—gladly."

"And leave me now, child."

She had nearly reached the door when he called her back.

"Clarice, you tell me to pray. How can I pray when I cannot believe? It would be a mockery."

Clarice came back with her slow and painful step, and looking down tenderly at him she said,—

"I have read in a book I like so much, that there is a lesson to be learned from one of our Lord's miracles, which one does not see just at first. It is the healing of the withered hand. The man's hand was quite useless, perhaps he had not been able to move it for years. Our Lord said, 'Stretch forth thine hand.' Suppose the man had answered, 'I cannot—there is no power in it?' But he just obeyed, and the power was there. Whether the intention to obey brought the power, or the power came with the intention, no one can say."

She went away then, and this time he did not call her back.

After this Clarice read the Bible diligently to her father. At first she chose the portions she thought most likely to be useful, but after a few days he began to ask for this or that part, which he wished to hear. But he only listened in silence—he spoke to her no more. Every day he became more gentle and patient; more grateful to them all for the kindness and tenderness which he felt was so undeserved. But his natural reserve and his long habit of silence were not to be overcome now. Therefore it was a great happiness to Clarice, indeed to all of them, when he asked Aymer to invite the Rector of E— to visit him, which that gentleman did regularly from that time.

Time slipped by. Mr. Egerton made no rally. The hard-earned savings were melting away, in spite of Helen's economy. The "beloved bag" would soon be quite empty. Yet not even Aymer complained, though he often wondered sadly what he was to do when he should be left penniless with two young children to support, and Helen, homeless.

One day Mr. Egerton said to Clarice, "I want you to write a letter for me, my dear, and tell Aymer to come here, that he may hear what I say."

Clarice obeyed, and was soon ready to write.

Mr. Egerton's weak voice began:

"'My dear father.'

"Have you written that, Clarice?"

"Yes, papa."

"And, Aymer, you are attending? Go on now, my dear.

"'You may not care to read this letter; yet, as it comes from a dying man, from one who may be dead before you open it, do not refuse to do so. You loved me once, and I was ungrateful and disobedient. For all these long years I have never asked your pardon; but I do so now. I am slowly but surely passing away from this world—I trust, through the marvellous mercy of God in Christ, to a better. If I have any injury to forgive, I do it freely. Forgive me, dear father, and forget my long hardness against you.

"'I will not say more, lest you should think that I write only to ask you to befriend my children. No man ever had more reason than I have to thank God for good children; no man ever deserved them less.

"'And now, father, I say farewell, and God bless you!'

"I will try to sign it, Clarice."

"You are very weak to-day," she said, startled to see how difficult he found it to hold the pen.

"I am," he said; "I think I am much weaker. Aymer, is there anything in that to which you object?"

"Nothing, father; I think you have done quite right."

"I have not said anything about your future," Mr. Egerton said, in a low voice.

"And I hope you won't, sir. From your father I would not accept sixpence to keep us all out of the poorhouse!"

"You would not ask for it; and I cannot blame you, Aymer. Yet, I beseech you—little as I have deserved of you, don't deny me my only request—if they offer to help you, don't refuse it. I know what you were saving for, and I know how your money is being spent. I cannot help it—I cannot even wish you not to do what you feel to be right; but don't fancy that I don't feel it. All for me! And I never worked nor cared for one of you. And once for all, children," (Helen had come in with some soup for him), "once for all, let me speak. You four—you poor, neglected, overworked children—have been living proofs to me that religion is not all imagination, which have outweighed the belief, or unbelief, of a lifetime. Children, I cannot think that my blessing will avail much, yet I must bless you, and ask you all to forgive me. I have no excuse to offer, Aymer," he added, turning a wistful look upon his eldest son. "You must forgive me freely, if you can forgive at all."

"Father," said Aymer, with a sob, "I do—I do, indeed! And you'll forgive me. I was very disrespectful."

"I have nothing to forgive. Never man had such children. I dare to believe that these is forgiveness for me with God, as you can forgive. You and—your mother: she forgave me, too. My poor Elise—my poor Elise!"

He never spoke again; he passed away in quiet sleep, utterly worn out. Aymer posted the letter the next day, merely writing beneath his father's trembling signature, "My father died a few hours after dictating this letter."

No answer was received, but the letter was not sent bank torn in two.

Between the scanty remains of the "beloved bag" and what was realised by the sale of furniture and stock, enough money was raised to take Aymer out, alone, to New Zealand.

Guy undertook the care of the others, assisted, of course, by what Helen and Clarice could earn, until among them they could save enough for passage-money and outfit again.

Lizzie and Donald, however, begged to have Frank and Agnes left with them until that time should come. And it was so plainly the best plan for the children, that the rest consented, though the parting was a very hard matter.

As soon as all their affairs at Ballintra were arranged, the four Egertons went to London. Everything was soon ready for Aymer's departure; another day, and he would leave them.

Mrs. Browne had contrived to spare another bedroom rather than lose her lodgers, so Clarice was sitting in her old place in the little parlour sewing buttons on Aymer's shirts, and damaging their stiffness by crying over them, when the door opened, and some one came gently in. She did not look round, because she was trying to dry her eyes unperceived, when the new-comer said, laying a hand on her shoulder,—

"What, crying, Cousin Clarice? And won't you even look at me, after this long time that we have never met?"

"Why, Villiers! Is this really you? Oh, how glad I am to see you! But I'm afraid you ought not to be here."

"Why, Clarice?"

"Your grandfather!"

Villiers sat down beside her and took her hand in his own.

"Dear cousin," he said, "our poor grandfather is dead. You know about the letter that poor Uncle Guy sent him—I think it was in your writing. Well, when it came, he read it quietly enough; quite calmly, in fact, and told us,—

"'My younger son, Guy, is dead.'

"And though we thought he looked pale and ill, he never gave in a bit or made any further remark about it. But two days afterwards, he died quite suddenly—he was not ill for more than a few minutes, and we all believe that it was suppressed agitation—the unnatural strain it must have been—that killed him. I was with him, of course. He hardly spoke; but once, with a great effort, he made a few words plain.

"'Villiers, you'll find a letter in my desk—see to it.'

"And that letter, Clarice, contains an order on his bankers for one thousand pounds, and it is directed to Aymer."

"Oh, Villiers! And Aymer was to leave us to-morrow and go alone to Now Zealand. Now we can all go together, as we used to plan it."

Then she added, sorrowfully, "I think I am very hard-hearted, to rejoice over it, and never care for poor Sir Aymer. He wished to be kind at last, you see."

The others came in presently, and were told the news—good news, as they could not help feeling it to be.

Next day Lady Anne came to see them, and by her graceful tact, she actually induced Aymer to allow his cousin to make them all a present of their outfit and passage, so that their little capital might reach Now Zealand untouched. And then, taking Helen and Clarice with her in her carriage, she purchased such an outfit as they had never dreamed of. There was hardly room to move in Mrs. Browne's little rooms, as there was such a large number of boxes.

Aymer went "home," as they still called Ballintra, for the children; and Guy gave Dr. Majoribanks notice that he could not remain with him any longer. Dr. Majoribanks was terribly angry, and as much surprised at what he was pleased to term "young Egerton's ingratitude," as if he had invariably been kind and considerate to him, instead of having been a hard taskmaster to a most painstaking secretary.

Lady Anne took such a fancy to Clarice that she wanted to keep her, promising that she should be as her own daughter; but Clarice was not to be tempted; and the others raised nearly as great a disturbance as they had in old times, when Elise Anderson proposed to take Clarice home with her.

The rest may be imagined. A pretty, irregularly built house, all covered with flowers, stands on thriving sheep farm in New Zealand, and bears the name of Ballintra. It is not very long since the Egertons went out, but so far they have prospered greatly, and there is good reason to hope that their prosperity will be lasting. Sir Villiers Egerton has visited them twice, coming out in his steam yacht, the "Clarice," bringing them books and pictures, and everything which he thinks will add to their comfort.

A very happy household theirs is, and not the least cheerful and useful of the party is "young Egerton's lame sister," as the scattered neighbours call her. Yet she is still, and will always be, a crippled sufferer; but she holds by her old resolution: she does what she can. And any one can do that.

Yes—but what a changed world it would be, if every one did it!

—————————————————————————————————————

Pardon & Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row, London.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARICE EGERTON'S LIFE STORY ***

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Table of Contents

- Clarice Egerton's Life Story

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE