Left with a trust
Date: 2024-10-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; England -- Juvenile fiction; Sick children -- Juvenile fiction; Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Left with a trust

Author: Nellie Hellis

Release date: October 15, 2024 [eBook #74581]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1890

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74581

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEFT WITH A TRUST ***

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

"I HAVE SOMETHING TO GIVE EACH OF YOU BEFORE I GO."

LEFT WITH A TRUST

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

AUTHOR OF

"THREE LITTLE FIDDLERS," "GIPSY JAN," "LITTLE KING DAVIE," ETC.

————————————

"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."

————————————

LONDON

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.

8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.

ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.

CONTENTS.

~~~~~~

CHAPTER I. NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET

CHAPTER II. THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED

CHAPTER III. DORA GROWS METHODICAL

CHAPTER IV. GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY

CHAPTER V. AN EVENING OUT

CHAPTER VI. HOW A RACE ENDED

CHAPTER VII. CONFESSED AT LAST

CHAPTER VIII. DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE

CHAPTER IX. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

CHAPTER X. ENDING AND BEGINNING

CHAPTER XI. REUNITED

LEFT WITH A TRUST.

~~~~~~

CHAPTER I.

NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET.

THERE were other things connected with the house besides its number which could have been expressed by the figure nine. For instance, its tenant, Mr. Grainger, had a family of nine children, and the day on which my story opens happened to be the ninth birthday of Olive, the third girl, and the sixth child.

Perhaps it will be better if I tell you at once the names of the younger inmates of the house, and say a few words about each of them as I pass from one to the other.

Edgar, the eldest, was sixteen, and for nearly a year had gone daily to a large wholesale warehouse in the City. Next came Dorothea, generally called Dora; she was a year younger, and was just now rejoicing in the fact that she had left school. Between her and the twins, Katie and Robert, was a difference of two years.

These were followed by Lancie, the dearest of her flock to Mrs. Grainger, for a mother, though full of tenderness for all her children, always loves the afflicted most. He was nearly eleven, but his pale face and pain-sharpened features made him look much older. When a child of five, he had been stricken with paralysis, and had never recovered the use of one of his legs. It was so much shorter than the other that he had to walk on crutches, and his health was so delicate and his body so weakly that he was often confined for days together to the couch, which, in consequence, had gained the name of "Lancie's sofa."

In strong contrast to the little invalid came sturdy Giles. He was younger, but he was a full head taller than the brother who was his senior by twelve months. There was the same difference between him and Olive. Then came Lottie, aged six, the last of the family being the two-year-old Philip, the pet and plaything of them all.

But that it was Olive's birthday was not the chief circumstance that made the day a memorable one at 99, Madeira Street. It was the last in which the whole family would be together for a long time; for early on the following morning Mr. Grainger would leave his home in London to sail for Australia, and, in all probability, a year would elapse before he would again set foot on his native land.

It had cost him much to make up his mind to leave his wife and children, and only a very strong inducement had led him to arrive at such a decision.

Mr. Grainger was a clerk in a large English and Colonial Bank, and though from time to time his salary had been increased, his wife, with her large family, had found it as much as she could do to make both ends meet.

She was, however, a capital manager, and the end of the year always saw her expenses within the limits of her income.

But unexpected trouble came upon the Graingers when little curly-headed Phil was nearly twelve months old. One evening Mr. Grainger came in from the City with a troubled face, and, calling his wife apart, told her he had become responsible for a bill for £150. He had been persuaded to put his name to it by a friend, who had assured him he would run no risk, as the money would be ready long before it was wanted. It was only, he said, that he could not lay his hand upon so large a sum just at that time, and if the old playmate of his boyhood and companion of his schooldays would do him the kindness of going through the mere form of standing his surety, he would always be grateful. Two days before the bill fell due, this so-called friend and distant relative became bankrupt.

There were those who said Mr. Grainger ought never to have yielded to such persuasions. But he was a kind-hearted man, and, judging others by his own honesty and uprightness of dealing, he had signed his name trusting that no ill would befall.

Neither husband nor wife had any private means, so to meet the bill Mr. Grainger had to borrow money on his life insurance and upon the furniture of his house. Retrenchment, of course, became necessary. Edgar left school, and thanks to the good word of one of the heads of the bank in which Mr. Grainger had been clerk for many years, a situation was obtained for him in a noted hosiery warehouse in Wood Street. Taking his inexperience into consideration, he received a remarkably good salary, and Edgar, though his life did not seem to be shaping itself after his own inclinations, was glad to be able to help the parents who had done so much for him.

Then Giles and Olive were also taken from school, and they, with Lancie and Lottie, become their mother's pupils, while Dora, who was a fair musician, gave the two little girls music lessons. Husband and wife weathered the struggle better than they expected, but Mr. Grainger knew it would be a long time before he would have paid the last shilling he had borrowed. For notwithstanding the numerous ways in which his wife curtailed the household expenses, Edgar's weekly wages, and the money he himself earned by evening employment at book-keeping, they had only paid off £50 at the end of the year, so that they were still £100 in debt.

They would have paid off more had they not been obliged to incur a doctor's bill. Lancie had been weaker than usual that year, and they could not let their child suffer without giving him all the relief in their power. Had it not been for the little cripple's sake, they would certainly have removed into a smaller and lower-rented house, but the doctor said that his life was probably owing to the warm aspect, and open healthy situation of Madeira Street, which was within a twenty minutes' walk of Regent's Park. And what could his parents do but decide, that, whatever other sacrifices were entailed, they must stay in the home in which they had lived since the twins were born.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Grainger had been asked if he would go to Sydney, and remain while the head clerk in the branch bank there was absent on a twelve months' leave. The sum he was offered over his regular salary, and what he could save from his allowance for travelling and living, would more than free him from debt. So though it was a hard trial to part from his wife and children, he made up his mind to accept the proposal.

Tea was later than usual that evening in order that the entire family might be present, and a cake—a much rarer luxury than it once was—graced the centre of the table. All the children were inclined to be dull and depressed, even down to little Phil, who had been crying in the afternoon because "Fader was doing away across the big sea, and perhaps he'd tumble out of the ship and det drowned."

But Mr. Grainger was determined that the last meal they would all take together should be a cheerful one, and putting aside his own feelings, he made such jokes, and laughed and chatted so gaily, that very soon the elder children caught his spirit, and all joined in the mirth he provoked. Nobody would have guessed what heavy hearts some of those smiling faces concealed.

But when the table had been cleared by the not very efficient little servant, and chairs were drawn round the fire, which a frosty night in the early part of the year made so agreeable, the conversation became more serious. Instinctively the children left two empty seats side by side for their parents. Then Phil climbed into his father's arms, and that being his favourite resting-place, lay quietly and happily there till the low hum of voices lulled him into a slumber. None of the others felt sleepy, notwithstanding that the talk lasted till the clock in the passage struck nine—not even Lottie, though she was glad to make Dora's shoulder a pillow for her head.

Would those boys and girls over forget that talk! They thought not, at any rate. With the exception of the baby, they all knew why their father had made up his mind to leave them, and there was first of all a little joyful anticipation of the time when he could return, and they would "all be so happy again," and not obliged to save every possible penny.

They next discussed arrangements with regard to the frequent exchange of letters. Then breaking a silence, Mr. Grainger said,—

"Children, do you know I have something to give each and all of you before I go?"

They all looked curious, even Edgar. Perhaps on another occasion he would, from the term of address his father had used, have considered himself excluded from those to whom the words were spoken. But to-night he knew—and the knowledge pleased him—that they were meant for him equally with the rest.

"Is it a present, father?" asked Giles, who had practical ideas about everything.

"No, my boy," replied his father, "it is a trust. I give you one very precious charge. Will you all try to take care of your mother for me till I come back?"

He was answered by a chorus of yesses, some loud, some low.

"As much as lies in his power," he continued, "Edgar must take my place in relieving her of those duties which ought always to fall on the master of the house."

"Such as locking up the doors at night, and seeing everything safe?" asked Giles again.

"Well, yes," said his father, smiling, "though I own I hadn't that in my mind when I spoke." Then changing his tone, he added, "You will do this for me, Edgar?"

The boy made no audible reply, but his grave, earnest face, and the serious look in his eyes as he met his father's, said more plainly than words that he would do his best.

"Dora," went on Mr. Grainger, "as the oldest daughter, must be her mother's right hand."

"And what shall I do, father?" asked Katie.

"Be her help and comfort, dear, also," replied Mr. Grainger; "I am afraid I cannot tell you the special way in which you can each strive to fulfil my trust. But you can all try to lighten her cares by sharing them, and cheer her by rendering loving little services."

"Now I'm nine I shall be able to do lots of things for mother," observed Olive, with great satisfaction.

"That's right, my darling," and at her father's words, Olive looked up with a sunny smile. "Children," he went on, "you know what our first golden rule has always been!"

"Obedience," was the quick reply.

The flickering flame of the fire was the only light in the room, and just at that moment the corner where Robert sat was in shadow, so no one saw the crimson flush that rose in his cheeks as the question was asked and answered.

"And remember that now when your mother speaks, she will be speaking for me as well as for herself," went on Mr. Grainger. "You may be quite sure her wishes would be mine."

Again there was a silence, and again Mr. Grainger broke it.

"This, too, is part of the trust," he said. "I want you to promise to be loving and kind to each other; you elder ones being gentle and patient with the younger, and the younger submitting themselves to the elder. I want you to promise that you will struggle bravely in the battle which all God's children must fight against selfishness, discontent, bad temper, and, in fact, everything that you know to be unlovely in God's eight. All of you, down to little Lottie there, have your besetting sins to fight against, and, with God's help, to overcome. My dear children, will you so act that when I return you may each tell me you have tried to keep this promise?"

"Yes," again came from all the children, and very gravely now was the answer given.

"But you cannot do it in your own strength. Shall we kneel down together, and ask God that the Holy Spirit may help you?"

All excepting Lancie, who lay on his sofa, knelt down, and from that room ascended an earnest prayer that God would help each member of the family to keep the solemn promise that had been made, and that He would let them all meet again in health and safety. When they had risen from their knees, Mr. Grainger kissed his children one by one. Lancie's turn came last, and bending over him, his father took his thin white hand in his.

"Oh, father! How I shall want you."

"My poor little Lancie!"

There was the sound of a smothered sob, and then—

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," said Lancie, and a smile lighted up his pale face. "And you think God will be as pleased with that as if—as if I could do as the others can?"

"I know He will," said Mr. Grainger, tenderly; "and remember He takes note of every pain you suffer. That He has given you so much to bear, Lancie, only shows His great love for you. He wants to make you 'perfect through suffering.'"

"Thank you, you have comforted me so, father." Then, after a momentary pause, "I shall be awake when you come to give me a last kiss before you go."

And his eyes were wide open when, in the early winter morning, Mr. Grainger stepped quietly into the room adjoining his own to say good-bye to his little crippled son. But with the exception of Edgar, who was to accompany him to the station, all the other children were sound asleep when he left the house from which he would be absent a whole long year.

CHAPTER II.

THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED.

DORA had resolved to be up to see her father start, and she felt vexed with herself when on awaking she heard the clock strike seven. She knew then that he had been gone nearly two hours, and becoming aware it was a very cold morning, she nestled down in her bed again, while her thoughts went back to the conversation of the previous evening and the good resolutions she had formed. How much she would do during the year begun that day! The children should all look up to, and love, and obey her, and her mother would lean more and more upon her, till when her father came home her mother would say, "I do not know what I should have done without Dora. Right nobly has she fulfilled the trust you gave her."

And thereupon she began thinking what a pretty story she could weave out of her own life. A year ago she had been told she might have a tiny room at the top of the house for her own use. It was very little larger than a good-sized cupboard, but she considered it a great privilege to be its only occupant, and here she had spent many a spare hour and half-holiday in scribbling tales and "making poetry," for it was Dora's great ambition to become an authoress.

Now, with herself for the heroine of her story, she wove a charming little romance. This proved such a delightful occupation that she quite forgot the lapse of time till the sound of a church bell, tolling for an early service, brought her back to the real world in which she lived. Ten minutes to eight, and eight o'clock was the breakfast hour! It was impossible to dress properly. So having put on her clothes, she washed her face, hurried over a prayer, and ran downstairs. She was relieved to find Katie cutting bread and butter, and helping generally.

"I am so sorry to be late," she said, as she gave her mother a kiss. "I meant to be in such good time this morning."

"Never mind, dear," was the kind reply. "I have no doubt you were tired when you went to bed last night, and perhaps did not go to sleep quickly. Now, will you please do Phil's feeder, and see that he doesn't eat his bread and milk too quickly?"

The Christmas holidays were not yet come to an end. Consequently as there was no hurrying off to be in good time for school, the meal was rather a longer one than usual. Perhaps Mrs. Grainger wished there had been need for haste. The younger children did not understand that it would have been kinder to their mother to have made no remark on the vacant place at the breakfast-table, nor to have talked so freely, and dolefully, too, of the father who had gone away.

Then Giles was very anxious to know whether he went "in a four-wheeler or a hansom," and whether he had taken a certain aluminium pencil-case, which Giles had bought with a shilling—the careful savings of several months—and given him for a Christmas present.

So the younger children lingered over the meal long after Edgar—who had returned from seeing his father off—had left for business, and Robert had taken his departure to the house of a schoolfellow with whom he was going to spend the day. They finished at last, however, and Dora offered to go for Lancie's tray. He, poor child, was not so well as usual this morning, and had taken his breakfast in bed.

When she returned to the sitting room, Mary, their little maid of-all-work, was clearing the table. Dora had to wait a few minutes before she found an opportunity of speaking to her mother.

"Mother dear," she said, "I want to begin at once to help you all I can. Will you let me attend to the cooking to-day?"

"You will do me a greater service if you will take the children for a long walk. It will be so good for them, this cold frosty morning, and in holiday time they always get restless if they are kept in the house."

Dora would much have preferred making the pudding, and preparing the cold meat left from yesterday's dinner for a hash, but her good resolutions were fresh in her memory, and she instantly said she would do as her mother wished.

"But you need not go yet," went on Mrs. Grainger. "If you start in an hour, or an hour-and-a-half, it will be soon enough. Before then you might get a nice practice."

"Yes, but I will put my room tidy first, please," said Dora. "I hadn't time to do it before I came down this morning. Oh, mother—" she stopped a moment, then throwing her arms round her mother's neck whispered, "I do hope I shall be a real help to you now and always. Will you let me have a quiet talk with you some time to-day? And will you give me a lot of work? I have been thinking I might teach the children entirely now. And there are other things I should like to undertake."

"Do not want to do too much at once, my child," replied her mother, fondly. "But I am sure it will be good for you to have regular daily work, and I intended speaking to you about it as soon as your father had gone. I cannot promise you a talk before the little ones have gone to bed, but we will certainly have a quiet chat together then. Now, dear, run and put your room in order."

Dora did as she was bid, but finding Katie stripping the beds, she offered to help her make them. When this was done, she dusted and put her own little "den" tidy, and then went down stairs to begin her practice. She did not grumble, as she often did, at being obliged to perform this duty in a cold room, and scales and exercises were patiently repeated till her fingers felt delightfully warm and lissom. But she was not sorry to shut the piano and go in search of her mother. She found her in the kitchen. Katie was there, too, washing currants for the pudding.

"Shall we start now, mother?" Dora asked.

"Yes, I think so. Will it be too much trouble to take Phil?"

"In the perambulator, do you mean?"

"He certainly could not walk to the Park and back. Katie will take her turn at pushing him."

At the mention of her own name, Katie looked up quickly.

"But, mother," she exclaimed, "Connie Pafford said she might perhaps call for me to go for a walk with her."

"So you said yesterday, dear, but she didn't come."

"No; and that is why I think she is sure to call this morning."

"I do not know that I should be sorry, Katie, if she should come and find you out," said Mrs. Grainger, somewhat gravely.

"Why, mother," and Katie's face flushed. "I am sure Connie Pafford is very nice. And it's very kind of her to want to be friendly with me. They are very much better off than we are. She has an uncle who keeps his carriage."

Mrs. Grainger smiled.

"I hope my little daughter will be wiser some day, and not think that because a little girl has an uncle who keeps his carriage, her friendship should be cultivated. But indeed, Katie, I am not at all anxious that your intimacy with the Paffords should increase; it is not likely to bring you any real good or happiness. Had it not been that on hearing of our trouble Miss Loam offered to take you and Dora on greatly reduced terms, you could not have remained at so good a school, and you must remember that your social position is very different from that of most of Miss Loam's pupils."

"Yes, and that's just what makes it so hard," rejoined Katie, with a sigh.

"Some of the girls would not think any the worse of you for being poorer than themselves, dear child," said her mother; "and there is no reason why you should not be friendly with them. But from what I have heard, I should not think the Paffords are of that class, and I do not think it well for you to seek their acquaintance."

"I don't consider the Paffords at all nice," remarked Dora. "They are proud and stuck-up, and Mrs. Pafford never takes the least notice of us if we happen to meet her in the street."

"You couldn't expect her to stop and speak to you when you were carrying that big basket the other day," said Katie. "You looked exactly like a servant."

"Let us hope she did not recognise your sister," said Mrs. Grainger, quietly, "for if Dora had been a servant and Mrs. Pafford had known her, it would have shown great ill-breeding to pass without any outward sign of recognition. It would have been more, a direct violation of the command 'be courteous.' But," she added, changing her voice, "we must break off our talk, or you will not get the long walk I want you to have. Katie dear, it is my desire that you go with your sister."

The words were said very kindly, but with a certain firmness that left no room for argument, and Katie went away to get ready herself and help to dress her little brothers and sisters.

But she forgot her vexation when she found herself in Regent's Park. It was a remarkably clear fine morning, and the trees were covered with tiny particles of hoar-frost that glittered like diamond dust in the bright sunshine. No wonder Phil wanted to get out of his perambulator and run and stamp his little feet on the hard, frozen ground.

Indeed the air was so fresh and exhilarating that Dora and Katie forgot their dignity as the two eldest daughters, and begging Giles and Olive to "mind Phil" for a few minutes—Lottie was considered old enough to take care of herself—started off for a race. Now, though there was a difference of two years in their ages, there was very little difference in their height; it was not surprising, therefore, that the younger girl was the victor. But, after all, it was a closely-contested point, and panting and laughing, with rosy-cheeks and sparkling eyes, they came back to their charges.

"Couldn't we go as far as the lake?" asked Giles. "I shouldn't wonder if there's skating going on, and I'd like to see it."

The lake was exactly opposite that part of the Park nearest Madeira Street, but as they were already half way across the large open piece of pleasure-ground, it was decided they could easily go to the water and be home by dinner-time. Giles was right; there were some skaters on the ice, but they were all near one spot, and too far off to be plainly seen, for Dora said they would not have time to go farther than the iron bridge that spans the lake at its narrowest point.

"Why," said Katie, as she stood there straining her eyes to see the skaters, "there's somebody just like Robert. There! Don't you see that boy who has just fallen down?"

But Dora was a little bit short-sighted.

"Nonsense," she said, "it couldn't be Robert. He wouldn't go against father's wishes so much as that."

Mr. Grainger's only brother had met his death from an accident on the ice. It had happened years ago end before he himself had married, but as long as he lived, he would never forget the fearful shock of seeing the dead body brought into the house. From that day he had a horror of skating, and he made it a command that not one of his children should learn the art. And Katie, remembering her father's well-known and solemnly impressed desire, thought she must have been mistaken, and dismissed the subject from her mind.

Perhaps she would have thought of it on her return home, and told her mother of the strange resemblance between Robert and the skater she had seen in the distance, but as soon as she got in, a note was given her, and, for a while, the contents banished everything else from her memory. It was an invitation from Connie Pafford to an evening party at her house.

"Oh! Mother, may I go?" she asked, breathlessly, when she had read the note aloud.

"You think it will give you pleasure?"

"Yes, of course," and Katie's eyes sparkled. "Besides, it isn't everybody Connie would invite to her house. Lots of the girls at school will envy me when I tell them where I've been. What kind of dress shall I have?"

"My dear child, you can only wear your best merino," replied her mother.

"But it's a dress party. Connie says in her postscript that she's going to wear a light blue silk, trimmed with cream-coloured lace. I don't think I can go in a dark green merino."

"I cannot give you a new frock for the occasion, Katie; that is quite impossible. If Connie really wants you at her party, she will not care about your dress. And your green will look very nice with some pretty lace at the neck and wrists."

"I'm afraid I couldn't go in a woollen dress," and tears of disappointment suddenly filled Katie's eyes.

"I am sorry to appear unsympathetic," said her mother, "but in that case, I see nothing else for you to do but to write and decline the invitation."

Dora, who had been reading aloud to Lancie when Connie's letter was brought in, had only left off to hear what it was about, and then resumed her occupation. But her attention was only half given to the book; she had heard the whole of the conversation between her mother and sister, and now looking up, said eagerly—

"But I have a dress I think you could wear, Katie—the white serge I had for cousin Mary's wedding. It's a little bit dirty, and it may be a little old-fashioned now, but we could turn it, and perhaps alter the make."

"That will do beautifully," said Katie, whose face was again all smiles. "And if it's too short, I daresay we could let it down. I'll go and fetch it at once. Where shall I find it, Dora?"

Hardly waiting for the answer, she ran upstairs to her sister's room, and Dora again turned to her book. But a little, thin hand was put gently over the page, and a low, sweet voice said,—

"I am glad you did that, Dolly. It was kind of you. Katie has set her heart upon the party, and else wouldn't have gone in her merino."

Dolly was Lancie's pet name for his eldest and favourite sister.

"It's not any great kindness," said Dora. "I don't suppose I should ever have worn the dress myself again. I think—" she paused a moment, then went on thoughtfully—"it seems to me, Lancie, that the more a thing costs us the more merit there is in doing it, and if it doesn't cost us anything, there's no merit in doing it. It isn't as if I were going to the party end wanted to wear the dress myself, for instance. Now it cost me a great deal more to take the children out for a walk this morning, when I would much rather have stayed at home, and made the pudding and cooked the dinner. I am afraid I haven't expressed myself very well, but you know what I mean."

"Yes—'neither will I offer burnt offerings unto the Lord my God of that which cost me nothing.'"

There was a silence after that until Katie came back with the dress over her arm, for Lancie had covered his face with his hands, and Dora knew he did not wish to be spoken to.

Again a deep thrill of joy had throbbed through the little cripple's heart. God knew what it cost him to lie so many weary hours in pain and weakness, and be cut off from the pleasures which all his brothers, down to Baby Phil, enjoyed. He knew how high a price was paid for the sacrifice which he could daily offer up—the price of his weariness and suffering—and in the thought, a deep thankfulness rose from Lancie's heart that he had so rich a gift to offer. Ah! If he could always feel as he was feeling then.

CHAPTER III.

DORA GROWS METHODICAL.

IT was decided that with turning and a little alteration the dress would do very nicely for the Pafford's party. And as soon as tea was over, Dora, Katie, and Olive, who was very proud to help, set about taking out the seams. Before the unripping was finished, Robert returned. He did not seem in a very talkative mood, and glancing up presently from the little sock she was darning, his mother was struck by the weary look on his face.

"You seem tired, dear," she said. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Oh, lots of things," he replied, as he hastily took up a book and opened it. "Jack and I were out of doors the greater part of the time."

"And I could declare I saw you once," said Katie briskly—unpicking the dress was a delightful occupation—"But I knew I was mistaken because this boy who was so like you was on the ice. It couldn't have been you skating."

"No, of course it couldn't," and Robert gave a short laugh. But behind his book, his face, which had been crimson a moment before, suddenly grew pale. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard Giles ask for an explanation of a passage in the story he was reading. In a few minutes he rose, and saying he was "tired out," asked his mother to excuse him and let him go to bed.

Poor Robert! He carried a heavy heart with him upstairs, because for the first time since he had understood the sin that is committed in giving utterance to a lie, he had sullied his lips with a falsehood.

The dress was unpicked at last, and a note sent to the dressmaker who often worked at 99, Madeira Street, to beg her to come to superintend the re-making of the white serge as soon as possible. Then, when Katie had taken her departure to bed, Dora put herself in her favourite attitude on the hearthrug, and with her elbow on her mother's knee, said,—

"Now, please, let us have our talk together. I have a pencil and note-book, and I mean to write down all the duties you are going to give me to do."

"NOW, PLEASE, LET US HAVE OUR TALK TOGETHER."

"Again I ask you not to be too eager, Dora," said Mrs. Grainger. "Those who start too hurriedly in the race are apt to come in last."

"Yes, I know, but I am so anxious to have things settled. As soon as the holidays are over, and that will be at the end of the week, will you let me take your place in the schoolroom and teach the children without any help from you?"

"You would find that no light task, dear."

"I am sure I could do it," said Dora. "I am quite aware Giles is often trying to one's patience. He asks the why and the wherefore of everything, and it is not always easy to explain. And then Lottie frequently loses her temper. But I am certain I could manage them and teach them into the bargain."

"I cannot have you neglect your own studies, and you must keep up your music and French. You know, dear, you are very young to have left school, and you must try to carry on your education for a while alone, or with such little help as Edgar or I can give you. I hope you will some day have the advantage of more lessons."

"Of course I must study, but I shall have plenty of time for everything," said Dora. "Now see here," and she began to use her pencil. "From half-past nine till twelve I shall teach the children. Then I shall take them out for a walk till one. After that, lessons again from half-past two till four."

"That leaves you very little time for yourself."

"I can practise from four till five," went on Dora. "Then in the evening I can have half an hour for French, and an hour for other things, and after that, help you with the mending. There, mother, shall I not be your right hand if I do all that?"

"Indeed, my Dora, if you do half, you will relieve me of much," and Mrs. Grainger stroked back the soft curly hair from the girl's forehead. "I shall indeed be thankful," she continued, "if this should prove a new starting-point in your life. It has seemed to me that my daughter was getting a habit of dreaming of what might be, instead of acting in the what is. Now I think she is going the right way to work to cure that defect in her character."

"Yes, I know that is a fault of mine," and tears sprang to Dora's eyes, "but I will try to struggle against it, and not only dream, but do. Perhaps writing stories isn't a good thing for me. I won't write any more for a whole year."

"It will do you no harm to indulge in your favourite pursuit, if you do it in moderation," said her mother, smiling. "Only you must not let it interfere with more important occupations. I do not think it improbable that some day your desire will be fulfilled, and that you will find yourself a recognised authoress."

"Oh! Do you?" And Dora's face grew rosy red, and her eyes glistened through the tears that had gathered in them.

"You know the old precept and promise, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' Be content that God shall direct your life and guide your steps. Then, if this desire of yours should be good for you, He will accomplish it; if not, you will still be able to say, 'It is well.' But leave all that for the future, dear child. You will be doing as true work for God now in teaching your little brothers and sisters, and helping me in my household duties, as ever you would be as a famous writer. Yet, my Dora, your power of imagination, and your love of literature, and that appreciation of loveliness in nature and art with which God has gifted you, are responsibilities not to be lightly considered."

"How do you mean, mother?" asked Dora, wonderingly.

"This, dear, that where much is given, much will be required. You often have beautiful thoughts; you are quick to recognise the deeper, hidden meanings which the lessons of nature, and of our own lives, teach us. I heard what you said to Lancie about the coat of self-sacrifice, and was struck by the truth of your remarks and the insight they displayed. In proportion to the light that has been given you, my child, so will you be expected to mould your life."

"Oh, mother, how solemn and serious a thing you make of it all!"

"Life is solemn and serious, but remember you have only to live one day, nay, one hour at a time. Do the duty which that hour brings with a whole heart and singleness of purpose, and you need not fear for the rest." Then changing her voice, Mrs. Grainger continued,—

"I am glad you have put down on paper what you intend doing. There is nothing like having fixed and settled rules, and I think you know you are naturally wanting in order and system. At the same time, I am sure it would be better if I were in the schoolroom in the afternoon. The children do nothing then except read and prepare their lessons for the next day, and so it does not matter if I leave them for a little while every now and again. I must own it has always troubled me that I was so constantly going from the room in the morning to attend to household duties. They will certainly be the gainers if you become their teacher, for with me they were often alone for an hour together."

"Oh, please give them up to me entirely," said Dora, pleadingly. "I don't want to do a little to help you; I want to do a great deal."

"Very well, dear," replied her mother, "you shall make the trial, and until you say you cannot get through all your duties properly, I shall not interfere with you. But you must not feel ashamed to tell me that you have set yourself too hard a task."

Dora made no audible answer, but in her heart arose the words—"I shall never do that. Mother doubts my powers, I see, but in a little while she will own she has misjudged me."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by Edgar's entrance. He looked very tired as he threw himself wearily down in an arm-chair.

Mrs. Grainger went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"For your sake I shall be glad when Mr. Barfitt has balanced his accounts, dear boy," she said, fondly. "Now you shall have a cup of cocoa, and then you must go off to bed at once. You were awake at half-past four this morning, and that left you a very short night's rest."

"I suppose that is the reason why I feel so tired," he replied with a sigh. "But you know I am very glad to go to Mr. Barfitt in the evening, and it's really very good of him to have me. He must find me a very different accountant from father. Need you go to make the cocoa, mother?"

Edgar would have liked to keep her soft warm hand in his, and she knew it. But the little maid had gone to bed, and Dora, sitting on the hearthrug, was gazing fixedly at the clear, red-hot coal. She was enjoying a reverie, and her mother would not disturb her.

"I shall not be a minute, dear. I will fetch the little kettle, and boil it here."

Dora was still in the same position when she returned, and not a word had passed between the brother and sister. But the clatter of the teacup and saucer, as Mrs. Grainger placed the tray on the table, aroused her, and the next instant she rose from the floor.

"I think I'll go to bed now, mother," she said. Then as she saw the kettle, she added, "Why didn't you ask me to fetch that for you?"

"You were busy, dear, with your own thoughts, and I did not wish to interrupt you."

Dora laughed a low, happy laugh.

"I was dreaming a dream that shall come true," she said, and having wished her mother and brother good-night, she ran lightly upstairs to her room.

But she did not undress and prepare for bed. She first of all wrapped an old shawl around her, and sat down at the little deal table on which stood her writing materials. Then she took from a drawer a sheet of manuscript paper, and with a ruler carefully ruled some lines. These formed divisions for the labours of each day in the week, and Dora then began to write the hours at which the many tasks she intended to do should begin and end.

"Mother thinks I am wanting in order and system," she said to herself with a smile, "but perhaps she will own herself just a little bit mistaken when she sees this."

Monday's work was thought over, and put down, and from early morning till late at night every minute was occupied. Tuesday was treated in the same fashion, and Wednesday was being taken into consideration, when there came a soft tap at her door. It was so soft that she did not hear it.

But on a repetition she said "Come in," and glancing up she saw it was Robert.

"Why! I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago," she exclaimed in surprise, "and you haven't even undressed yet."

"No, there's—there's something bothering me, and I saw a light under your door, and I thought perhaps you'd let me talk to you a bit."

"Oh dear!" said Dora, with a sigh. "And I did so want to finish this while I've got everything fresh in my mind." Then she added impatiently "Is it very particular, Robert?"

He did not answer, but bending over her table asked what she was doing.

"It's a time-table," she replied. "It is settled that I am to teach Lancie, and Giles, and Olive, and Lottie. Then there are my own studies and countless other things. I shall be busy all day long. You see, Robert—"

"Yes?" he said, for Dora had stopped short.

"I am determined to fufil dear father's trust, and the more I relieve mother, the better I shall be doing it."

"And what about the promise?" Robert asked. But he did not put the question without difficulty.

"Oh! I mean to do great things this year," returned Dora, eagerly and confidently. "Mother and I have been having a lovely talk, and I shall set to work so that I may have a good account to give father. Why, Robert," as her eye for the first time fell upon his face; "you are shivering, and you look so pale. You had better go to bed, and leave me to finish this."

He moved away, but before he had reached the door, turned and came back.

"Dora," he said, in a low voice, "I wonder whether father is thinking about us all now?"

She was just in the act of dipping her pen in the ink to continue her work, but at Robert's question, she leaned back in her chair, and answered slowly,—

"Yes, I am sure he is. He is thinking—"

"Well, go on. You are dreaming again, I know that by the look in your eyes. What is he thinking about?"

"He is wondering what we are all doing, and in fancy, he sees each one of us, and can read our hearts as well. It troubles him that every minute is putting a farther distance between him and us, but he has no fear that separation will weaken our love for him. He knows, indeed, that we shall only love him more, and strive to show that we do. And as he remembers this, the sorrowful expression leaves his face, and raising his eyes, he whispers softly, 'God bless and keep them all!'"

In imagination Dora saw her father standing on the deck of a ship. Around him was a wide vast expanse of ocean, and the silent silvery stars looked calmly down from the deep blue sky above. So distinct was the vision that she seemed to hear the throb of the engine, and the rush of water as the vessel ploughed her rapid way through the sea.

And thus it was she did not perceive that tears were running down Robert's cheeks, nor that he had great difficulty in choking down his sobs. She only knew that a moment after she ceased speaking, he left the room.

And then accompanying the words, "Now I really must get this finished," with a little shake of her body, as if to detach herself from the scene she had conjured up, she once more concentrated her thoughts on the time-table before her.

CHAPTER IV.

GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY.

BY some means or other the children knew before breakfast next morning that Dora would be their teacher as soon as the holidays were over.

But the news did not give the satisfaction she expected.

Olive openly grumbled. "They learnt well enough from mother, why couldn't they go on in the old way?" she was heard to ask.

And Lottie, for no other reason than because she thought it a clever thing to echo Olive's words, chimed in with, "Yes, it would be ever so much nicer to go on doing lessons as they did before."

Dora, though she wisely kept the opinion to herself, thought them both ungrateful little creatures. But the momentary feeling of annoyance over, she resolved with characteristic good temper that they should have as little cause as possible to regret the change, and she drew comfort from the fact that Giles, whom she half feared would protest against having her as his governess, made no remark whatever.

It was well for her peace of mind that she did not hear a conversation which took place between him and his eldest brother as soon as they had left the table.

In order to be in good time at the warehouse, Edgar often got up from breakfast before the younger children had finished, and during the holidays he had frequently been accompanied to the railway station by either Robert or Giles. This morning the latter asked permission to go with his brother, and his mother having willingly granted his request, he followed Edgar out of the room and into the hall.

There Giles burst forth with—

"I want to know if I can't go to school. I am sick of doing lessons at home like a girl."

The last three words were brought out with great contempt.

"I am afraid you must put up with it for a while longer," said Edgar, quietly. "After another year we shan't have to be so particular about spending a little money, and then I daresay you'll go with Robert again."

"It isn't as if it were a dear school. It wouldn't cost much to send me," went on Giles. "I remember hearing somebody say once it was one of the few things that were both cheap and good."

"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford to let you go back yet."

"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."

"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the station; I don't want to miss my usual train."

Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning, and he would not be taken from his grievance.

"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school again I'll work as well as anybody."

Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.

"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.

"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great shame to be treated like a baby."

"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving like one."

Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air of indifference.

"I don't see how that can be," he said. "Any boy of spirit would object to being taught with two sisters younger than himself, and by a sister," Giles laid great stress on the by,—"a very little older."

Edgar could have laughed outright, but he restrained himself.

"I don't know your idea of a boy of spirit, but I know what your Sunday-school teacher and mother would think the best kind of spirit to have," he said.

"What?" asked Giles.

For a moment Edgar hesitated. He was naturally reserved and it was not easy for him to speak openly of sacred subjects at any time. To do so now was still harder. Giles might think he was preaching, and that was what he abhorred.

"The spirit of Christ," he replied, and though he spoke with much difficulty the words were uttered slowly and reverently. "That is the best and most truly manly spirit we can any of us have. You know what it would have you do?"

Giles shook his head. But the answer that his heart made was: "Learn of Dora and try to make good progress."

"The spirit of Christ," said Edgar in the same low voice, "would have you willing to learn of your sister, and anxious to do her credit as her pupil. He did not seek to please Himself, you know, and neither must we. Then by putting aside your own wishes and saying nothing about them, you will be fulfilling your part of the trust father left us."

"I don't see how," said Giles briefly, but without any sullenness or complaint in his voice.

"I don't think there's any need for me to tell you mother is not at all strong, and attending to the house and teaching so much as she did all last year has tried her greatly. Now Dora is not only willing, but very eager to take the work from her. But if you grumble and make a fuss and give Dora trouble, then mother will feel obliged to teach you again herself, and besides that, she will be so grieved that she cannot send you to school. It bothers her now. She was talking about it only last night. 'If I could anyhow spare another sovereign, he should go,' she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Giles, old fellow, you won't add to her troubles, will you?"

Giles' face was turned away, and his brother had to wait for an answer. When it did come, the "No" was spoken in so choked a voice that Edgar only just caught the sound.

"I knew you wouldn't," he said, as he put his hand on Giles' shoulder. "I knew you'd take your share in bearing the family burden like a brave, manly boy. It's not an easy burden. At times I feel as if I couldn't bear my part of it."

As Giles looked up wonderingly and with misty eyes, some inexplicable and most unusual impulse prompted Edgar to speak still more freely of himself.

"My part has been to give up my desire of becoming a doctor," he said.

"I didn't know you ever wanted to be one," exclaimed Giles in astonishment.

"Only mother and father know. You are in the secret now, but you'll keep it to yourself, won't you?"

A thrill of pride, not unmixed with gratitude to Edgar for having confided in him, shot through Giles' heart. Yes; he would be as true as steel to his brother.

"I won't tell. You may depend upon that," he said.

"Well, I've had to give up my idea of being a doctor, and go to the warehouse instead."

"And you don't like it?"

"No. I hate it."

Giles was silent. He felt very sorry for his brother, and ashamed too of his complaints of a little while ago. He felt, more than he understood, that his trouble was small in comparison with that of which he had just heard.

"I am so sorry," he said, and he slipped his hand into Edgar's. "Isn't there any hope that you may be a doctor yet?"

"I don't think so. In the present day, one can't be a doctor without having had a good education and passed lots of exams., and I had to leave school before I was fifteen. Even if we should be better off in a year or two, there will certainly be no money to spare."

"Perhaps something will turn up," said Giles, hardly knowing what he meant by the frequently-heard expression, but hoping the words would show his sympathy and give comfort.

"You're a downright good fellow to talk to," said Edgar, greatly touched by the manner in which Giles had received his confidence, and accompanying the words with an affectionate squeeze of the little hand that was clasped in his own. "But," he continued, "I'm afraid there isn't a shadow of hope for me. I shouldn't have said, though, that I hated my work at the warehouse. I do try to like it, and perhaps, after a while, I may find pleasure in it. Of course, I am very glad to be able to do something towards adding to the general fund. I wouldn't be a clog on mother and father for ever so. I'd a thousand times rather have it as it is."

At this the conversation abruptly ended, for at that moment they entered the booking-office, and the puffing and noise of a train drawing up in the station below warned Edgar that if he would catch it, he had not a moment to lose. He had only time for a look and a hurried good-bye, as he rushed down the long flight of steps, leaving Giles to go home alone.

But it was a very different Giles from the one who had left the breakfast-table. For the first time he began to see some of the true meaning of life. Christ had not pleased Himself, neither must he; and it made him glad to know that he, child as he was, could take his part in bearing the family trouble. The thought caused him to be very strong, and brave, and manly.

"No, I won't grumble," he said to himself. "I'll just try to do my best for Dora, and mother shan't ever know how much I hate doing lessons at home, and how badly I want to go to school. And what's more," and Giles drew himself up with conscious dignity, "I won't got cross and angry when I meet Tom Rilston and some of the other boys who used to be in my form, and they ask me how I like being taught at home by my 'mammy.'"

He began to put his good resolutions into practice at once. On reaching home he went straight to the sitting room where Dora was reading with Phil upon her knee. She and the baby were alone, and going up to her, Giles said simply,—

"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."

Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.

"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate, and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"

This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not Robert at that moment entered the room.

"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.

"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after all."

"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."

Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.

As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own thoughts, came into his mind.

Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had, in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa." Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.

CHAPTER V.

AN EVENING OUT.

BUT when Monday morning came, Olive and Lottie were willing enough to begin lessons under the direction of their new governess. The thaw, as had been predicted, quickly turned to rain, and for the remainder of that last week of holidays the little girls had not been allowed to go out of doors. Consequently they had grown very tired of having no regular employment to occupy them, and not a word of disapproval was expressed when Dora said they must be ready for her in the schoolroom at half-past nine on Monday.

If that first morning might be taken as a fair example of what would follow, they must have felt they would benefit by the change of teachers. They had often declared it to be "very provoking" that just as they were in the most interesting part of a lesson, their mother should be called hastily away, and sometimes half an hour would elapse before she returned to the room. Again she had often been obliged to set them tasks while she attended to some necessary household matter. And when she came back, she would find, perhaps, that Olive was waiting for an explanation of a new rule in arithmetic, or that Giles could not proceed with his French exercise, because he had forgotten how to form the feminine of an adjective with some particular ending, and could not find the example.

Then very often Phil was in the room the whole of lesson time. He had to be there because he could not be left alone, and the little maid-servant was too busy to take charge of him. But his presence did not tend to keep order and quietness, and his doings often drew the interest of the little students from their books.

Now there was no claim on Dora's attention outside the schoolroom, and as Phil was more than content to be with "moder," there was no interruption within. And Dora, as she had promised, tried to make the lessons as interesting as possible. She had determined to spare herself no labour that her pupils might learn easily, and Giles silently owned to himself that "Dora was a deal cleverer than he ever thought." They were all surprised when they heard the clock in the passage strike twelve. Even Lancie, tired as he often got of the lesson hours, had no wish to put away his books.

"Why, the morning hasn't seemed any time," said Olive. "Oh! Do let us go on with our geography a little longer. It's such fun to fancy ourselves a party of rich people travelling in Spain. Are you always going to teach us in this way, Dora?"

"Not always, but it will be pleasant to take make-believe journeys sometimes. But then, you know, it doesn't end there. You have to learn by heart the names of all the mountains and rivers we have crossed, and also to write as good and as full an account as you can of what I have been telling you about the country. I shall expect it done by the next time we have a lesson in geography."

"That'll be on Thursday," said Lottie, who had been looking at her time-table, for Dora had presented each of her pupils with a copy. "I wish we could have it to-morrow instead."

It was very pleasant to Dora to hear that her efforts had been appreciated, and she began to think that teaching was one of the most delightful things in the world. For her part she would have been very willing to go on with lessons until dinner-time, but the recollection of her resolve to be methodical made her say that books must be put aside, and that her pupils must get ready for a walk.

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and without waiting for permission to enter, Robert came in.

"I knew school was over," he said, "by the noise I heard. Giles, would you like me to help you with your Latin declensions, and look over the exercises you have written?"

That Giles was grateful for this offer of assistance was very plain, and as he could go out after afternoon lessons as well as then, he was allowed to follow his own inclinations.

This was not the first occasion on which Robert had done a similar act of kindness. On that morning, when Giles had made up his mind to go on with the studies he had discontinued on his removal from school, he had asked his brother the pronunciation of a certain Latin noun of the third declension. Robert not only gave the information, but asked why Giles wished to know, and on being told, instantly volunteered to give any help in his power.

But though the offer was at once accepted, it was certainly unexpected. Like most weak characters, Robert was selfish, and instead of giving pleasure to the brother, who was only three years his junior, by making him his companion after school hours and during holidays, he treated him with an indifference and neglect which would have been very galling to one more sensitive than Giles. As it was, the younger boy frequently wished Robert "wouldn't snub a fellow like that." Therefore to meet with sympathy and as much practical aid as he liked to ask for was indeed a surprise.

But in many respects Robert had behaved differently during the last week of his holidays. Instead of going off for hours together with some of his schoolfellows, as was usually his custom, he stayed in the house and worked industriously at his "holiday task," or amused himself with some other quiet occupation. He devoted one entire morning to mending a chair that had a broken back, and was actually seen gumming the dilapidated cover to one of his badly used school books. On the Tuesday his holidays would be over, and that he should offer to give up some part of his last day of freedom to help him with his Latin, seemed to Giles especially kind.

HE DEVOTED ONE ENTIRE MORNING TO MENDING A CHAIR.

"I think I am well enough to go out to-day," said Lancie, wistfully, as he looked from his brothers, now settled at the table with their books, to the window, through which fell a ray of pale sunshine. "Will you ask mother what she thinks, Dora?"

As he felt equal to the exertion, Mrs. Grainger thought the fresh air would do him good, and accordingly, after being well wrapped up, he went out with his sisters.

But he had not gone the length of the street before he was tired, and said he must return. Dora was pained at the ring of disappointment and weariness she detected in his voice, and telling Olive and Lottie not to go out of the street until she had joined them again, she went back with him.

"Oh, Lancie!" she said. "How I wish we could afford to give you a ride in a bath chair sometimes, as we used to do before father had to pay all that money for that horrible man."

"Never mind," said Lancie, trying to look cheerful, though he felt just the reverse, "we shall be out of debt after a while. And who knows whether long before then you mayn't be able to earn some money? If so, I am sure I should get my rides."

"If only I could!" exclaimed Dora. "Whatever put the idea into your head? Oh, Lancie! Can't you think of some thing I could do!"

"I only said it because I knew it would please you," he said, smiling.

"Yes, of course, I know that; but couldn't I do it!"

"I'm afraid you can only dream about it yet awhile. If it's going to make you unhappy, I shall wish I'd never said such a silly thing."

"Make me unhappy? No indeed it shall not. But, Lancie, you've put the thought in my head and the longing in my heart, and it won't be for want of trying if I do not devise some plan by which to earn money."

The "plans" that suggested themselves to Dora were to give music lessons, and to advertise, in a way that would cost nothing, for a pupil or pupils to share her brother's and sisters' lessons. But on hearing of her wish, her mother quietly said that she had set herself more than enough to do as it was, and she was too young and inexperienced to undertake the more responsible work of teaching the children of strangers.

A little sensible reflection would have made Dora see that this was a right opinion, but though she listened in silence, she was not convinced of the soundness of her mother's reasoning, and in spite of the success which had attended her efforts that day, she went to bed feeling that her desire to give Lancie benefit and pleasure, and help pay off their debt in actual coin, had not met with the appreciation and sympathy it deserved.

The next day was not only the first of the new term at school for Katie as well as for Robert, but it was also the day of Connie's party, and during breakfast Katie was full of excitement at the prospect before her.

"Aren't you really sorry that you are not going, Dora?" she asked, as she came into the sitting room with her hat and jacket on, just before starting for school.

"Not one bit," was her sister's reply. "We mean to spend a happy evening here, don't we, Olive and Lottie! And I shouldn't wonder if we have the best of it after all."

In one way Dora was quite out of her reckoning, for it happened that only baby Phil kept her mother company at home that evening.

An hour or so later, when she and her pupils were busy in the schoolroom, the sound of a strange voice made them suddenly look up from their work. Their visitor was Mrs. Armstrong, a dear old friend of their mother, who, with her only son, lived in lodgings about half a mile from Madeira Street.

"Why!" exclaimed Lottie, as she jumped up to give her a kiss. "However was it we didn't hear you come in?"

"I suppose you were too busy," said Mrs. Armstrong, smiling. And then she shook hands with each, lingering a little when she came to Lancie's chair.

"What do you think brought me here so early this morning?" she asked, as she took the seat Olive placed for her by the fire.

They declared they couldn't guess, and begged her to tell them at once.

"I came to ask you to give me a birthday present."

"Is to-day your birthday?"

And then at their visitor's reply, there was a chorus of:

"Many happy returns, many happy returns."

"Thank you," and Mrs. Armstrong gave them all a very affectionate look. "Now for my present," she went on, smiling. "I want you all to give me the pleasure of your company at tea this evening. It will make me so happy to see your bright, young faces round me. I hear that Katie has an invitation already, so I must not look for her. But I hope Robert will come straight from afternoon school, and I have no doubt Edgar will stay a little while when he calls to take you home. Anyway, you must ask him to do so."

"I cannot come, thank you," said Lancie, and there was a little quiver of pain under the quiet tone in which he spoke. "I went out yesterday, but before I got to the end of the street, I was tired and had to turn back."

"Your mother and I have talked that over, dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, "and you are to come and return in a cab. If you are tired when you get to me, you can lie down on my sofa, and we will draw the tea-table close to you, so that there will be no need for you to move at all. I may expect you, mayn't I, Lancie?"

His answer could be read in the glow of pleasure which flushed his face.

And thus it came to pass that about four o'clock that afternoon, a cab, full of happy, smiling children, drove off from 99, Madeira Street.

Katie's party did not begin till six, so she was much later in starting. Her mother helped her dress, and then, with the white serge screened from sight and damp beneath her waterproof, she left for the Paffords. Mary went the short distance with her, and it was arranged that Edgar should be asked to call for her on his way home from Mrs. Armstrong's. Mr. Barfitt's accounts were now finished, and his evenings were therefore once more at his own disposal.

But though Dora, when giving her mother a good-bye kiss, had said they should certainly be back by ten, it was more than half-past when the cab drove up to the door, and eleven had struck before the whole family was again gathered beneath the same roof.

"Oh, Katie, we've had such a jolly time," said Lottie, as her sister and Edgar entered the room. "I'm not one bit sleepy, and we are all getting warm before we go to bed. Have you had a happy evening?"

The little girl spoke so rapidly that she stopped for sheer want of breath.

"Well," replied Katie, "there was nothing but dancing, and of course it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to sit still oneself and watch other people moving about."

"I should think not indeed," said Dora. "You had much better have been playing musical chairs and dumb charades and post. I'm sure I enjoyed it as much as Olive and Lottie."

"I don't know," said Katie, stiffly, "whether I could bring myself to play such childish games now. If we'd only been taught dancing like other people, of course I should have got on very well. But we had a lovely supper—turkey, and chicken and ham, and tarts, and jellies, and everything you can think of. Then the house was so large and handsomely furnished. I always get tired of Mrs. Armstrong's one pokey little room."

"Katie dear," said her mother, gently but reprovingly, "I think you are tired and a little disappointed with your evening. You, as we all do, must honour Mrs. Armstrong, for we know that her husband left her with very small means and a little baby to bring up and educate. She has undergone great hardships and worked very hard in order to fit her only son to be a doctor. But she told me this morning that she thought her long struggle was nearly over now, for Percy was in a position to earn enough money to keep them both. For that reason she said she thought she might be a little extravagant on her birthday, and thus it was that you have been so pleasantly entertained." Then, changing the subject, she asked, "Was Percy at home to-night?"

"Yes, he came ever so much earlier than usual on purpose to see us," replied Olive. "But Giles talked to him such a deal that there wasn't a chance for anybody else to say much."

Giles blushed furiously.

"I wanted to know some things, and he told me," he said, and that was all the information he would vouchsafe.

But he was more communicative when, in a very little while, he and Edgar went upstairs together. No one was within earshot and Giles began eagerly,—

"Of course I didn't let Percy Armstrong know why I asked him such a lot of questions, but I did so want to find out whether there wasn't some hope for you. He said lots of men don't even begin to study medicine till they're older than he. Perhaps in a few years, we shall be better off, and you'll be able to be a doctor after all."

Edgar was greatly touched.

"Giles," he said, "I had no idea you were such a dear, sympathetic old fellow! Anyway, you've made me feel that it will all come right. And I'll keep that hope steadily in view, and every spare hour I get I'll give to study. But remember, I shall never be too busy to help you with your Latin."

How wonderfully happy those words made Giles! He was so happy that he lay awake for a full half-hour; and when at last he slept, he dreamt that Edgar was a famous physician, and went to see his patients in a coach like the Lord Mayor's, and lived in a house that was fit for a prince!

Somebody else was a still longer time in going to sleep that night. In the course of the evening Mrs. Armstrong had asked Dora whether she had seen the announcement of prizes that the editor of a certain magazine for young people offered for short original stories, and on her reply in the negative, had produced the number, and shown her the page. Sums, varying from two guineas to five shillings, were offered for the best tales of a specified length, and Dora was instantly filled with a desire to become one of the competitors. There were yet three weeks before the stories need be sent in—ample time in which to make trial of her skill, and the idea having once entered her mind, it did not leave her until it had taken tangible form. That was not until the small hours of the morning, when, having thought out the incidents and characters of her tale, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW A RACE ENDED.

"THEN you'll be at my house as soon after nine as you can to-morrow, Robert?"

"I never said I would come. Besides, if we don't get more frost to-night, the ice won't be safe to skate on."

"But we shall; it's freezing hard now. The fact is, you don't want to come; you're afraid of being found out."

A burning blush overspread Robert Grainger's face.

"Ah! I thought as much," said Jack Turner, with a sneer. "Poor little thing! It's a pity it couldn't be tied to its mother's apron-strings, then she'd always see what her pretty dear was about."

"You've no cause to say that, Jack. Mother's always willing enough to let us have pleasure. You know it's only because my uncle was drowned that father and she can't bear the idea of any of their children skating. I'm sure if one's careful, there isn't any danger. But they can't get over their nervousness, and that's why I don't want it to come to mother's ears that I've been learning to skate."

"Well, it needn't."

"We can't be certain of that. The last time we were on the lake in Regent's Park, Katie saw me. She didn't think it was I—she thought it was somebody just like me, and of course I didn't undeceive her."

Jack gave a low whistle.

"H'm," he said, "that's awkward. I'll tell you what, old fellow," he went on, after a minute's pause, "we'll go farther from home: What do you say to Hendon?"

Because there was no sense of wrong, there was no shame now, either in tone or look, as Robert replied in a simple straightforward manner,—

"It's out of the question. I haven't the money to pay my fare."

"That's no matter. I've enough to pay for half a dozen folks."

Jack was very generous, and it was this quality that made him a favourite among his schoolfellows. Indeed he had many good natural points, and doubtless they would have become strengthened and increased had he had such a training as Robert had received. But his mother had died when he was little more than a baby, and the aunt who had come to take her place in the house was not fond of children.

Consequently Jack never "took" to her, and he had grown up with no woman's tender, loving influence to guide him and keep him in the straight path. Of his father he saw very little. He was a commercial traveller, and sometimes would be from home for weeks together. After all, Jack was greatly to be pitied.

"So you'll come, won't you, Robert?" he continued. "You know it'll give me real pleasure to pay for you, and if you do as well as you did last time, you'll soon be the best skater in the school. You only had one tumble, and that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been tripped up."

"And you'll lend me your skates again?"

"Of course. I don't use them now I've got my acmes, so you've nothing to thank me for. I shall expect you to-morrow then at nine o'clock sharp. We shan't be back till evening, so mind you tell them at home you are going to spend the day with me; that'll be true enough, you know. Good-bye, old boy, a frosty night, and a glorious day for us to-morrow!"

This conversation took place one Friday afternoon as Robert and Jack came out of school together. At the end of the month the weather had again suddenly changed, frost had set in, and now at the beginning of February the hopes of the skaters rose high that they might yet get a few days' sport before the season was too far advanced to permit them to look forward to the pleasure.

On the Friday in question the thermometer had been steadily falling, and as Robert and Jack went to school in the afternoon, the sight of some venturesome skaters, hurrying with skates in hand towards the parks, had made their feet "itch to be doing likewise," as Jack expressed it, and he had declared that he and Robert must spend the next day on the ice.

Robert, however, had listened in silence, and as there was no time for more talk—for they just then arrived at school, and, if they would be in their places before the bell rang, had not a moment to lose—Jack was not certain whether he intended to fall in with the arrangement, but he very well knew how to manage his friend. And though Robert had resolved that he would never be persuaded to go on the ice again, the temptation proved too strong, and once more he became not conqueror but conquered in a struggle for moral victory over self.

The weather next morning was everything that could be desired. It had been freezing all night, and the sun rose in the grey sky like a large ball of red fire. Robert had asked and obtained permission to spend the day with Jack Turner on the previous evening, and as soon as he had finished breakfast, he rose to get his hat and coat.

"You will be home early, dear?" said Mrs. Grainger. "Remember it is not holiday time, and you have Monday's lessons to prepare."

"I'll come back to tea, mother. That'll give me all the evening to do them in."

"Perhaps it will be best, as Jack will then have a fair opportunity of learning his; from what you tell me, I think he requires longer time than you," and with not unnatural pride, Mrs. Grainger looked at the son whose good abilities and aptitude for his studies were well-known both at home and at school.

Robert experienced a sensation of shame beneath that proud, loving glance. How unworthy he was of it! Would she have given it him had she known? Then he hated himself for the mean, deceitful part he was playing, and for a moment a strong desire to go to Jack and tell him he could not keep his engagement entered his mind. He would say that he must do right, even if it necessitated the breaking of his word. But alas! that still small voice was quenched almost as soon as he had let himself hear it. No, he must go with his friend to-day, but this should be the last occasion. He could not again meet his mother's fond, earnest gaze with that horrible feeling of guilt which made him drop his own eyes, and with a hasty good-bye, hurried from the room.

That look haunted him during the whole of the journey to Hendon, and the wish that he had been strong to resist temptation rose again and again in his heart. But his remorse grew less when he found himself gliding along over the smooth frozen surface of the water. He had learnt to skate with remarkable quickness, and on the larger space and clearer ground which he now for the first time enjoyed, he was gradually able to increase his speed, till in the excitement and the exhilaration caused by the delightful exercise, everything else was forgotten. And the scene was a very charming one. The sun was shining brightly, the air was clear, and the figures of the ladies, as they glided gracefully hither and thither in their furs and bright feathers and ribbons, lent a very pretty and cheerful effect.

But many of these took their departure when, as the afternoon advanced, the number of skaters increased. Eager to avail themselves of the Saturday half-holiday, and hoping to find the water at Hendon less crowded than the lakes in the London parks, many passengers came down by rail, and soon the ice was thickly covered. Then warnings were heard that in one part it was showing signs of weakness beneath the heavy weight brought to bear upon it. Some of the older and wiser people came off the water; and Robert and Jack, as they passed an elderly gentleman who had been on the lake when they arrived, and had kindly given a hint or two to the boys when they were trying to do the outside edge, advised them to be satisfied with the pleasure they had had, and so make greater space for those who had more recently arrived on the scene. Perhaps Robert would have heard without heeding if at these words the promise he had given his mother had not flashed to his memory. If he would keep it, his time on the ice must be short.

"We'll leave the fancy skating, old boy," he said to Jack, "and take a straight turn or two just to get up our circulation before I go home. The mater seemed to think Monday's lessons would come off badly if I spent the whole of the day with you and so I said I'd be back to tea."

"All right," was Jack's somewhat unexpected reply; "I fancy I've had nearly enough of it myself, for I feel about used up. You beat me hollow, Robert. You don't look a bit tired."

"No, I'm nearly as fresh as when we began. Now, we'll have a real good turn for the last. Is the steam up, Jack? Then one, two, three, and off."

And away he flew. Jack tried to keep up with him, but very quickly fell behind, and Robert, feeling that all his energy must be put into the last few minutes of his day's pleasure, forgot he was going straight to the spot about which he had been warned. On, on he went, and some lads, older and bigger than himself; thinking he was having a race with Jack and noticing how far the latter was behind, followed him, crying out:

"That isn't fair. You should race with a man as good as yourself. Now, some of us 'll have a try with you. We'll see which will get to the other side of the water first."

At the words Robert felt a fresh thrill of excitement, and on he went at a yet quicker speed with a dozen followers at his heels. He was in front and he would keep there too. Ah! There was a fellow gaining upon him. Gaining upon him? No, he had passed him now, and he was only second in the race.

Hark! What was that cry! Somebody cheering him on? It must be that. Yes, he would win yet. Now for a desperate effort! That was good; again he was the foremost figure. But it was some distance yet to the goal, and his strength was giving way. Again he heard that cry. Ah! If he had only heard it aright, for the next moment he felt the ice sway beneath his weight. With a sudden fear at his heart that seemed to stop its beating, he turned aside. But it was too late.

There was a loud, crackling sound. He uttered a loud, piercing shriek as the loosened ice sank beneath his feet, and the next instant the cold water had closed over his head.

What happened next Robert did not know. When he came to his senses, he was lying on the ice, and somebody was pouring a burning, fiery liquid down his throat. Then he was aware that he was the centre of a little group, and that Jack, with a white, frightened face, was kneeling by his side.

"That's right, Robert," he gasped. "Oh! I'm so thankful to see you open your eyes."

Robert tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter the words.

"Give him some more brandy," he heard somebody say. And again he felt the burning liquid pass down his throat.

"Then they got me out?" he managed to whisper in a few minutes. But his words were very low, and only Jack caught them.

"Yes, there was a rope close by in case of accident, and they got hold of you first. You hadn't been any time under water. Robert, do you think you're well enough to try to get home."

Robert sat up. It was with great difficulty that he did so, but he succeeded.

"He'll do now," said one of the crowd. "The colour's coming back to his lips and cheeks."

"The sooner you can take off them wet clothes of yours the better," said another, addressing Robert. Then, as a murmur of horror was heard, the speaker turned, asking eagerly, "Eh! What's that? Drowned? And they are bringing him along?"

There was a fresh excitement now, and the crowd leaving the smaller for the greater, Robert and Jack found themselves comparatively alone.

"Do you think you could walk?" whispered Jack, in a voice full of strange, frightened horror. "It's awful to be here, and I'm afraid they'll ask your name, and then it'll all come out. I've got enough money to pay for a cab to take us to the station if you could manage to get across the ice."

Robert just moved his head by way of reply, and Jack helped him up, but he was so faint and giddy that he would have fallen back again, had not a man's strong arms been thrown around him. With this support the faintness presently passed. Then he was half led, half carried to a cab, and in a short time he and Jack were seated in the train, and every minute was bearing them nearer home.

CHAPTER VII.

CONFESSED AT LAST.

VERY few words passed between the boys on the journey. Jack proposed that Robert should go home with him, and wear a suit of his clothes while his own were being dried. And when Robert said he was afraid his aunt would think this a very strange and bold proceeding, he replied that she had gone into the country for a few days, and that though his father would return from one of his "rounds" that night, he was not expected until ten or eleven o'clock.

Robert, when he heard this, leaned back in his corner with a sigh of relief. Perhaps after all his mother would never know. Ah how he hoped it might be so. As long as he lived he would never go on the ice again. The terrible fate which had so nearly been his would never be forgotten. Suppose he had been drowned? Others had been brought lifeless from the water, and why not he? God was very good to have spared him. He had not deserved such mercy. Nay, had he not by his disobedience and deceit towards his earthly parents cut himself off, as it were, from the protection and love of his heavenly Father? And all for the sake of a little pleasure and excitement! A heavy penalty indeed was he paying for his sin.

The poor boy was shivering with cold when presently the train arrived at the station that was only a two minutes' walk from his friend's home, and Jack, seeing how his teeth chattered and how white he looked, said decidedly that he must go to bed while his clothes were being dried. And though Robert declared he should be all right as soon as he had got off his wet things and given himself a rub, Jack had his own way.

And well and kindly did he look after Robert. Jack had owned to himself that, if his schoolfellow had been drowned, he should always have felt that his death was on his head, for had it not been for his persuasions and sneers, Robert would never have learnt to skate, and therefore he would not have gone on the ice that day.

Then the horror of the scene was still fresh in his memory, and again and again he seemed to see it acted before his eyes. He had heard the cries of warning and the piercing shriek that followed. He had been almost paralyzed with fear at the panic that seized the skaters as they turned and fled from the direction in which Robert had disappeared. He had been thrust back when he approached the spot of danger; and oh! the agony of those few minutes of suspense until he saw the dripping form of his friend being borne towards him. To Jack, he appeared already dead. But the people near assured him "he'd soon come round," and presently the chafing and rubbing took effect, and to Jack's joy, Robert opened his eyes.

So now, he helped him undress, and then, going down to the kitchen, he spread the wet clothes over a couple of chairs, and by some means or other extracted a promise from the servant that she "wouldn't let nothing interfere with the drying of 'em."

Then he coaxed her to let him have tea in his bedroom. But it was not until he said it wouldn't be so much trouble as spreading it in the dining room, as he himself would both carry the tray upstairs and bring it down again, that she consented to such an unusual proceeding.

Under different circumstances the boys would have been happy enough. But do what he would, Robert could not get warm, while the sight of food only sickened him. But for Jack's persistent efforts to make him take it, he would not have drunk his tea. At last, however, a cup of the steaming beverage was swallowed, and then, for the first time since he had returned to consciousness, he felt a warm glow steal over him. But it was not a pleasant warmth, and presently the heat became more painful than the previous shivering fits; a violent headache also came on, and he could hardly speak for the acute throb that beat in his temples.

Jack, finding it was the kindest thing to do, forebore at last to chat and laugh in the hope of "cheering him up," and having taken down the tea-tray, brought back a pile of school books, and sat quietly down by the bed to do his preparation. He was glad to see that Robert was asleep. But at intervals, he moaned and muttered, and Jack did little study because he was constantly pulling up the blankets that Robert's restless movements tossed from his body, leaving his arms and chest exposed to the air. Presently, however, there came a longer silence than usual, and, turning, Jack saw that Robert was awake.

"Is that you, Jack?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. Who else should it be?"

"I'm not at home, am I?"

"No, you're at my house and in my bed. Don't you remember that the ice broke, and you fell in the water, and came here to get your clothes dried?"

For a moment Robert looked puzzled. Then Jack saw that he remembered everything.

"What's the time?" he asked.

"It's just gone eight."

Robert hastily rose on his elbow, but immediately fell back again with a groan.

"Oh," he said, "how my head aches directly I move. But I mustn't stay here any longer. Mother will be getting fidgety soon, and perhaps she'll send round to know where I am. I must get up and go now, whether my clothes are dry or not."

But they had received good attention before a blazing fire, and during the three hours in which they had remained in the heat had become thoroughly dry. Again Jack lent his aid, and soon Robert was ready to start on his homeward journey.

If he had been left to walk to Madeira Street alone, perhaps he would never have got there. But Jack once more took a cab, which, by his order, put them down within a few doors of No. 99. Even for the little distance that remained, Robert had company. He felt very grateful to Jack, and told him so as he wrung his hand at parting.

"Jack, old chap, you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I should have done without you."

"Don't, I can't stand it;" and Jack's voice was actually choked with tears. "If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have gone on the ice at all. It's my fault, and if you had been drowned, it's I who would have been to blame."

"You mustn't say that. But, Jack, I can't go again."

"And I'll never ask you. Robert, from this day you and I'll try to—"

"Try to be better, do you mean, Jack?" asked Robert, for Jack's faltering voice had come to an abrupt stop.

"Yes. I won't be the tease and bully I have been. I'll try to do right myself, and help others to do the same."

"So will I; but oh, Jack!—" and Robert shrank away from the door as he stood on the step—"you don't know how I dread seeing mother. I needn't tell her, need I?"

"I don't think so. If she finds out, she must. But according to you, she's too good not to forgive you when she sees how sorry you are."

At that Jack left him, and Robert, feeling weak and sick, turned towards the door which Mary was opening.

"Has mother been expecting me?" he asked, as he stepped into the hall.

"We kept tea ever so long," replied Mary, "and at last missus said I'd better clear away, for she didn't think you were coming. Why, dear me!" she exclaimed, as for the first time, he allowed her to see his face. "If you don't look as white as a ghost!"

"I—I am not well to-night," he said, hurriedly. "Look here, Mary, I'm going straight to bed. I shall be better then. Don't you let mother know I've come in just yet. I've got an awful headache, and it's that makes me look so pale. It'll go off as soon as I can lie down, and then she won't be frightened."

"Well, I wouldn't like her to see you as you are now. Perhaps it's a sick headache you've got. I know the best thing for that is a good sleep."

Robert scarcely heard the words, he was in such fear lest his mother would come into the passage and find him. As soon as he got to his room, he began hastily to take off his clothes. For one brief moment he knelt down, but to-night he could not pray. Again the "still, small voice" within was prompting him to do what was right, regardless of consequences.

"Tell your mother all," it said; "make a clean breast of it, and then ask God to pardon you." But Robert would not confess his sin, and, sick and wretched and miserable, he got into bed.

For a little while he tossed about wearily. Then not only in his head, but in every limb, he felt the most acute pain; his whole body seemed smarting, throbbing, and burning. Suddenly a great fear took possession of him. Supposing after all he was going to die! And with that fear there came a question which banished all other thoughts, even that of the terrible sorrow and trouble he should bring upon his mother. Was he fit to die? Had he not been disobedient, deceitful, and untruthful? And was not God too holy and pure to look upon sin?

Then suddenly he remembered the words—and afterwards it seemed to him that an angel must have whispered them in his ear—"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

And lo! at that Robert's heart was melted. He had often heard, and often read, that "God is Love," but never before had he realised that blessed truth, and with the rush of emotion that the realisation called forth, he was filled with sorrow and repentance. Ah! If only he had thought against Whom he was sinning, he would never have done it, for he could never have borne to grieve so loving and tender a Father, and he lingered fondly on the last word, as he said it to himself. Confess his wickedness to his mother? Yes, he could now. And with the determination to go to her at once, he rose from his bed and tried to dress. At first it seemed that to do this was beyond his power, and whether he finally succeeded or not he did not know, for a great darkness fell upon him, and he remembered nothing more.

*       *        *       *        *

It was his mother who sat by his bed, with her cool hand on his forehead, and—why, yes, the sunlight was shining into his room.

"Do you know me, Robert?"

"Yes, mother. Why am I here? Am I ill?"

"Yes, dear, but we hope you'll soon be well again. You must do just as you are told, and then perhaps in a few days you will be able to get up and go downstairs again."

"Have I been ill long?"

"You have been unconscious since last night, and it is now about two o'clock in the afternoon. But you must not talk any more, Robert dear. The quieter you keep yourself, the sooner you will be better. Lie still, and try to sleep."

He lay still, but he could not sleep, and gradually the void and blank in his mind became filled with memories. First of all, he recollected that his father was away; then the last evening he had spent at home returned to him, with the solemn trust which his father had reposed in his children, and the promise they had each and all given him. He remembered how he had listened with a wretched sense of shame and unworthiness, for on that very day, and on two or three previous occasions, he had gone, not merely directly against his parents' wish, but against their direct command, that he should never learn to skate.

Little by little, after that, he recalled all that had taken place. Jack's persuasions; his weak resistance and speedy surrender; the journey to Hendon; his forgetfulness of everything except the enjoyment and exhilaration of the exercise; his determination to make the most of the last few minutes; the race in which he had first led, then dropped behind, and then again headed; the cries he had mistaken; the awful, horrible sensation of feeling himself sink beneath the water; his return to consciousness, and all that had ensued.

And now he was lying there with his mother seated by his side. Would her eyes have rested upon him so fondly and with such deep thankfulness and joy if she had known? But she should know. The resolution with which he had sprung out of bed on the previous evening to go to her should be carried out without a moment's delay.

"What is it, dear? Do you want anything?"

"Mother, I must talk to you. I can't rest if I don't."

"Lie still, then, and tell me. You are throwing all the bedclothes off."

"I have been so wicked. I—I learned to skate before father went, and yesterday—you said it was yesterday, didn't you?—I went to Hendon with Jack, and the ice broke, and—"

"My child, I know all. I came up to your room last night to find you insensible on the floor. We put you into bed and sent for Dr. Fowler, but before he arrived I guessed much, and have since learned the whole truth. In your delirium you told everything. My poor boy, I am so sorry. If I could have done so, how gladly would I have saved you all this misery and wretchedness."

"But, mother, I disobeyed you. I led you to think what wasn't true. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you? Indeed I can and do;" and a loving kiss was fondly imprinted on his forehead.

"And you can love me still?"

"Robert, nothing can draw a mother's love from her child, and I can only rejoice over you when I think how nearly I have lost you. Your own sin led you into the danger, but I know, too, that your repentance is sincere and deep. Now confess your sin to God, and ask Him to forgive you. Then thank Him, as I do, that He has spared your life. But it must not end there, dear: you must show your sorrow for the past by leading a new life in the future."

"I will. Oh, mother, how happy you have made me! I wish I had told you before; I might have known you would have forgiven me. And I did want to tell you. The night father went I was so miserable that I could not sleep. I saw a light burning under Dora's door, and I thought I'd get up and go to her. But she was busy writing out something, and didn't want to listen to me, and so I came away without saying a word."

He did not know that as he began speaking, the door quietly opened and Dora entered, nor did he notice the low, instantly checked cry that escaped her lips as she heard his confession with regard to herself. Neither did he see that his mother lifted a warning hand, and that, in obedience to its next movement, Dora left the room.

"You will never be afraid of me again, Robert?" she said then, as she bent nearer to him.

"Never. Please say again that you forgive and love me still. It is so sweet to hear it."

What a mother he had! Not a word of reproach had she spoken; only in loving, earnest accents had she told him of her love, and assured him of her pardon. And even as she had forgiven him so would God. So not only in that little room was there joy, but in heaven also, for a sinner had repented; and like a child that is sick of its naughtiness and perversity, Robert, with a calm, happy face, lay back on his pillow, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as an infant.

But in an adjoining room, Dora was sobbing as though her heart would break. Yes, it was as Robert had said. She might have known he was in trouble that night, and needed her sympathy; and she remembered her feeling of irritation and annoyance when he had interrupted her at her work. No wonder her manner had prevented him from confessing his sin and getting the relief for which he longed. Had she listened, he would probably never have gone skating again, and he would have been saved the disastrous results of his visit to Hendon. How differently would she act if the past could but be lived over again.

Alas! Dora's sorrow ended here! For a few days she reproached herself bitterly, but her constant round of occupations left her little time for thought. As soon as she was assured that Robert was recovering, the circumstance lost its importance, and was gradually forgotten.

CHAPTER VIII.

DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE.

BUT many days passed before Robert was able to come downstairs. The long time he had sat in his wet clothes had given him a severe chill, which, combined with the great nervous shock he had experienced, brought on a low fever. He required constant attention and nursing, and the unceasing care with which he was tended would have touched a harder heart than his.

"Oh, mother," he would say, "what a trouble and expense I am to you. This is a nice way, truly, of fulfilling the trust father left me."

"It is not too late yet, Robert, to prove that you have endeavoured to live up to the high standard he put before you," would be the gentle reply. "Your duty now is to do your best to get well as quickly as possible, and the less you worry and distress yourself, the sooner it will come to pass."

During the fortnight he spent in bed, Robert learnt that the hardest thing in the world is to be patient, and bear weakness and suffering without complaint. But he did try to let his weariness and restlessness have as little outward expression as possible.

This common bond of suffering drew him and Lancie very near together. Robert had had no illness since he was a baby, and for the first time he gained some true idea of what the little cripple's ill-health and feeble body entailed upon him.

And now Lancie, to his great joy, found himself able to render active service. For about a fortnight Robert was extremely weak, and Lancie delighted in waiting on him and being hands and feet to his sick brother. As soon, too, as he was well enough to care for the amusement, he read aloud to him, and many hours that would otherwise have passed heavily and wearily were made pleasant and bright by Lancie's loving anxiety to do "what he could."

Nor was Robert forgotten by those outside his home circle. Mrs. Armstrong was especially kind. During the first days of his illness it was necessary for somebody to sit up with him at night, and she had shared these nights of watching with his mother. Then as he began to get better, many a little dainty to tempt his appetite did she bring in her basket to 99, Madeira Street.

But, perhaps, of all who came to the house to inquire for the invalid, Jack paid the most frequent visits. He himself had felt too poorly to do much on the day following the accident; he had got up late, and, by his own request, gone to bed early. But on the Monday he was well enough to go to school, and on his way he looked out anxiously for Robert.

No Robert, however, did he see, and when at half-past twelve the boys were dismissed, he determined to ask the head master, Mr. Bullen, if he knew the reason of his friend's absence. In reply he was told that Mrs. Grainger had written saying her son was seriously ill, and though she did not think the fever would end fatally, yet it might be several weeks before he would again be able in attend school.

The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger came to him.

She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into mischief again.

And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good, Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big baby," as he told Robert afterwards.

He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.

Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a long and lasting effect.

It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his repentance was sincere.

"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when are you going to write to father again?"

"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when you are all in bed."

"Does he know I have been ill?"

"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really doubted your recovery."

"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."

"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."

"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a pencil."

She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as follows:—

"DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven me. Can you?

"Your sorrowful boy,

"Robert."

After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.

His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.

Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager, half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low, breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.

This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole family was gathered.

"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above her head, "What do you think has happened?"

"If I know I couldn't say, for you are nearly stiffing me," replied Mrs. Grainger, laughing.

At that Dora released her mother from the close clasp of her arms, and, darting across to Lancie—he, not Robert, was on the sofa this evening—gave him a similar embrace, crying—"Oh, Lancie! Who would have thought it? You shall have—yes, I think I may promise you at least a dozen rides in a bath chair. And mother shall have the prettiest, bonniest cap I can find, and I'll buy that little fluffy toy rabbit that Phil saw in a shop yesterday, and cried because he couldn't have it. And I'll write, oh! I'll write heaps of stories, and who knows whether I mayn't have made a fortune before I die?"

Incoherent as her speech was, it gave her mother some idea of the truth.

"You have been writing a story and received that cheque in your hand for payment?" she asked. "My child, I can hardly believe it possible."

"That's not a bad guess, mother mine, but it isn't quite exact." And Dora, who was now somewhat quieted, sat down in front of the fire and took Phil on her knee. "I wouldn't tell you before," she went on, "because I never really thought anything would come of it. But when we all went to Mrs. Armstrong's to tea, she told me of some prizes that were offered for original stories, and showed me the notice in a magazine. Then I thought, 'Why shouldn't I try?' for there was a guinea prize offered for the best tale written by girls of from fourteen to sixteen. I had not very long to do it in, but I got up early and sat up late, and so managed to get it off in time. That's more than six weeks ago, and I had almost forgotten—"

"And you have got the prize?" interrupted Lancie, with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes. "I knew it. Oh, Dora, how proud we all are of you!"

And then Dora did what she afterwards called "a very silly thing." She buried her face on Lancie's shoulder and burst into a fit of weeping. It was not until Phil began to cry for sympathy that she was able to stay her tears, and tell them brokenly "they mustn't take any notice of her. She couldn't help it, for she was just so happy she did not know what she was doing."

Surely very few guineas have given greater pleasure than did that which Dora received as a reward for her story. So many plans were discussed for its expenditure that Mrs. Grainger, thinking it would save much after disappointment, said not half Dora's promises could be carried out.

This remark cast a temporary cloud over Olive and Lottie's faces; they soon cleared again, however, and both little girls declared Lancie should not be robbed of one of his dozen rides, and that they would be content with their fair share of the "lovely plum cake" which Dora declared should celebrate the memorable event.

After that it was impossible for the happy winner of the prize to settle down to her usual evening occupations. The best part for her, she said, was yet to come; for though she was glad enough of the money, it would afford her infinitely more pleasure to see her story in print. The editor had told her it would be published in the next month's number, and there were joyful anticipations of its appearance, and much talk of father's astonishment and delight when he should see it, for it was agreed that the circumstance should be kept a secret until the story could be sent out to him in the magazine.

So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it happened that she and her mother were the last up.

"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.

"Yes, dear."

"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I should break down!"

"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I have feared the strain is getting too much for you."

"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."

"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."

"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a writer than ever you will be as a musician."

"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger. "To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others, and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire, Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that first night of your father's absence?"

The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her meaning clear.

"Mother, I had forgotten. Oh, if I had only made it easy for Robert to tell me, instead of making him feel it was impossible to say a word. But you do know how sorry I have been, don't you?"

There were tears in her eyes again now, and this time they were not tears of happiness.

"I do, dear," and her mother took her hand, and stroked it fondly; "but there is the danger that you will be so wrapped up in striving to do great things, that opportunities for little acts of kindness will pass unnoticed. It is 'he that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much;' not, he that is faithful in much is also faithful in the least."

After all it was with a grave face that Dora went up to bed that night.

CHAPTER IX.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.

TIME passed quietly on until Easter, which brought a fortnight's holiday. It came late that year. The weather was warm and fine, and the children enjoyed the rest they had honestly earned; for, under their sister's charge, they had worked well and made marked progress.

But though Dora needed the rest far more than her pupils, she would not take it. She had received an unexpected present of half a sovereign from a relation. This would just pay the fee of an examination she was anxious to pass; and she resolved to "study up and go in for it." In vain her mother begged her to give herself more time for preparation. Dora had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.

Edgar had a much shorter holiday than his brothers and sisters. He had, however, both Easter Monday and Tuesday, and a fellow clerk having invited him to spend the time at his home in Hampshire, he went down with him on the Saturday afternoon and returned late on the following Tuesday. He came back full of pleasant recollections of his visit to the old-fashioned, comfortable farmhouse, where he had been so kindly and hospitably entertained.

His mother fearing that his work the next day in the close, noisy city would prove more irksome than usual, and that he might find the house quiet when he came in, purposely gave the children their tea early and sent them for a walk under Mary's care. But he looked so cheerful and bright that she knew at once he was neither weary nor depressed.

"Where's Giles?" were his first words.

"In the schoolroom, working away at the Latin exercise he intends asking you to correct presently," replied Mrs. Grainger. "The little ones have gone out with Mary. Sit down, dear, and take your tea."

Instead of obeying her, he put his arm round her shoulder, and, bending down over her, said,—

"There's no need to bother about Dr. Fowler's bill, mother dear. I've got a rise in my salary."

He received the sympathy he wanted, as he knew he should. After all he had found many compensations for the work that was so uncongenial to him.

"The tea must get cold to-night," he continued. "I must have a word or two with Giles before I do anything."

With that he went to the schoolroom, where he was welcomed with a very bright smile.

"You haven't had tea already, have you?" Giles asked.

"No, not yet."

"Will you help me a bit afterwards?"

"Of course I will. Exercise 40? Why, you're getting on famously. How surprised Mr. Millen will be when you go back the week after next!"

For a moment Giles made no answer. When he looked up, his lip was quivering. He rarely showed any deep outward sign of emotion, and until now Edgar had never really known how deep a grief it was to him to be obliged to get his education at home.

"Don't tease a fellow," he said, trying hard to smile and speak bravely. "But when I go back, they'll find I haven't wasted my time."

"I'm not teasing; I mean it," said Edgar. "I'm to have more money from now, and to-day Mr. Darby—that's the head man in the firm, you know—gave me a sovereign because I had had the ordinary sense to see a blunder somebody had made in the books. We'll borrow the rest of mother until I get my next month's salary then I'll pay her back. And we'll ask her to write to Mr. Millen this very evening, send him the fee for the next term, and tell him to expect you after the holidays."

As Edgar went on talking, Giles' face became radiant. Now it suddenly grow serious.

"But are you sure you don't want anything yourself?" he asked. "You said the other night you wished you had a book on medicine. I forget the name of it. Couldn't you buy it with this sovereign?"

"Perhaps I might," replied Edgar, lightly, "but getting it for myself wouldn't give me half so much pleasure as sanding you to school. Besides," he continued, more gravely, "I daresay I shall get the book after a while. I am beginning to believe in that old saying, 'All things come round to him who will but wait.' Do you know who put that belief into me in the first instance?"

Giles shook his head.

"You did yourself. I have an inward conviction that some day my longing will be realised, and that I shall be a doctor. I know it seems all but impossible, but I have the faith, and that makes all the difference in the world. You see I owe a great deal to you, Giles."

A few more words passed between them, and then Edgar went back to his mother and his tea. He left Giles very happy, but with a quiet kind of happiness. In Dora's unexpected joy, she had not known how to keep herself still, but Giles sat with only a slight smile on his face. Then a grave, studious expression stole over his features, and with doubled application, he went on with his exercise.

Katie, comparatively speaking, spent very little of her holiday at home. The Paffords had decided to change their abode, and on Tuesday in Easter week began their removal. Katie, who was very good-natured, offered her services, and as her training had made her extremely useful and quick, she gave considerable help. Indeed, Connie took more help from her than was just or right. She had been told she must pack all her own possessions in her room, and, finding Katie willing to pack, fetch, and carry, she merely directed, and her friend did her utmost to obey her wishes.

By the end of the holidays the Paffords were tolerably settled in their new home, and Katie was filled with envy at the large, freshly-painted apartments and handsome furniture. Above all, she longed to possess a similar room to Connie's. With its pretty maple-wood suite, and its dainty curtains and toilet arrangements, it presented an unpleasing contrast to the barely furnished, almost carpetless room which she shared with Olive and Lottie.

Connie had often talked of a grand party her parents meant to give as a house-warming, and as several young people were to be invited, Katie naturally looked forward to being one of the guests. The party, however, was postponed until the beginning of June, and Connie had told her that a marquee would be erected on the lawn, which, decorated with flowers and Chinese lanterns, would serve for a supper-room.

But Katie received no invitation, and as the time drew near she wondered whether she had not better give Connie a hint that she had forgotten to say she would be expected, when a conversation she overheard explained the omission. Poor Katie! It was a hard lesson she learnt that morning.

The room in which Miss Loam's pupils hung their hats and jackets was separated into two divisions by a curtain, one being used by the elder, and the other by the younger girls. Now Katie had been asked if she would kindly see to the dressing of two little sisters, and on this particular day she was attending to this duty when she heard Connie's voice on the other side of the curtain.

It was the mention of her own name that first attracted her attention. Of course she should have made her presence known, but she was so astonished, hurt, and indignant at what she heard, that it never once entered her mind she ought to warn her schoolfellows that she was within earshot. So, with burning cheeks and great anger at her heart, she bent over little Nita Westmacott's shoe as she buttoned it, listening to what was said of her.

SHE BENT OVER LITTLE NITA'S SHOE.

"Aren't you going to invite Katie Grainger?" asked Ethel Wilson, the girl to whom Connie was talking.

"No," was the reply. "It's a great nuisance, because she really has been very useful to us. They're awfully poor, you know, and so I suppose she's used to doing a servant's work. Mamma says she shall make her a present some day as a return. But we can't ask her to our party. Sir Edwin Osmond's two nieces are coming, and lots of swell people, and we can't have them see anybody at our house in such a shabby, old-fashioned dress as Katie would be sure to wear."

"But she has been to your parties, hasn't she?"

"She came to one in the winter, and I never saw such a dress as she wore in all my life. It looked as if it was made in Noah's Ark. And she couldn't dance—had never learnt, she said; and she actually came without gloves. I suppose she had never been to a dress party before, and didn't know they were necessary."

And Connie went off into a peal of laughter, while Katie, on the other side of the curtain, shook with anger and mortification.

"You are ready to go now. Good-bye, dears," she said in a whisper, and the two little girls trotted away, leaving her still concealed behind the curtain.

She stayed till Connie and Ethel Wilson had taken their departure; then she hastily put on her own hat and jacket, and went home with hot tears running down her cheeks. Arrived at No. 99, she went straight to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed with wounded pride and indignation.

Presently she heard cries of "Katie! Katie! Where are you, Katie?"

"I am coming," she called out, and having bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, she stepped outside.

On the landing was Robert.

"Why, what's the matter, Katie?"

"Nothing that you'd understand," she answered a little ungraciously.

"You might give a fellow a chance of proving that," he said, a little reproachfully.

Before school life had separated them, the twins had been noted for their friendliness and good understanding. During the last three or four years, however, they had drifted apart. Now as Robert put his arm fondly round her in the way he had often done in the old days when they were little children, she felt all her heart suddenly going out to him.

"Oh, Robert," she said, "I've been such a simpleton."

"Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked. "Why, you little goose, I might have told you that myself."

It is not the words that are spoken; it is the manner in which they are said that affects us. This speech of Robert's was just the most loving one he could have given her.

"It's about Connie," said Katie, breaking into tears again. "She's mean, and horrid and nasty. She makes use of me, and then laughs at me behind my back, and sneers at me because we are poor and I wear shabby clothes. I wouldn't have believed it of her."

"It's just what one might expect of the Paffords," said Robert, quietly. "I'd give them up if I were you."

"Yes, I will," and Katie's anger blazed forth and shone in her eyes. "I'll never speak to Connie again as long as I live."

"Isn't that going a little too far? I fancy mother would say so if she heard you."

"But she doesn't deserve it; she isn't worthy to be my friend," sobbed Katie, vindictively.

"I don't want to be a prig and preach to you," and Robert blushed crimson, "but if I were you, I'd try to return good for evil. Don't put yourself in her way and court her friendship, as I'm afraid you have done. Let her know, if you like, you are quite aware why she lets you think you are one of her chums—I suppose you help her with her lessons and things, don't you?"

Katie confessed she had often made clean copies of exercises for Connie, and frequently acted as monitor in her place, staying behind the rest of the girls and seeing the schoolroom was left in order when her friend was anxious to get home early. She had, in fact, done more than she had honestly any right to do.

"H'm!" said Robert, musingly. "Well, take my advice," he continued, "and leave Miss Connie to look after her own work. But if the chance to do her a good turn should happen, show her you don't bear malice, and that you're still willing to do her a kindness. You know what I mean—heap coals of fire on her head."

Katie felt very solemn. All the anger faded from her face and some of the anger from her heart.

"But I should have to forgive her to do that," she said in a low voice.

"And can't you?"

"No."

"I think you'll have to, old girl. Mother forgave Jack, you know, for having led me into mischief. Not that I blame him," added Robert, hastily; "'twas a deal more my fault than his."

"It isn't the same kind of thing at all," said Katie, decidedly.

"I'm not so sure of that. Mother had a wrong to forgive, and so have you. The two things are alike there, at any rate. And see what a lot of good it has done Jack. Mother's beginning quite to love him, and he knows it, and it makes a different boy of him."

"I know somebody else who's a different boy," said Katie.

And then, as there was nobody there to see, and his manner was so encouraging, she put her arm round his neck and gave him what in her childish days she used to call "a bear's hug," and Robert not only submitted, but seemed quite to enjoy it.

"Katie," he said, half-shyly, "you've lost a friend to-day; suppose you make one of me instead. I think we could help each other to be—what father hoped we should try to be."

His words brought the promise she had made suddenly to her mind.

"Oh, Robert!"—and she actually gasped for breath—"I've forgotten all about that. I haven't tried yet one bit."

"It's not too late to begin, and you haven't—" he stopped a moment, then went on rapidly—"done anything awful as I have. But I know father has forgiven me. Katie, would you like to see the letter I got from him a few weeks ago? I haven't shown it to anybody yet—not even to mother; but I'd like you to read it."

Katie had no thought of herself as she went with her brother into his room and read that letter. It was full of forgiveness and loving counsel. Towards the end came the words:

"Don't think I love you less because of what has happened; I love you more. I know from what your mother has told me that you are not merely showing your repentance by words. Struggle on, dear boy, and with the help of God's Holy Spirit, which will be given in proportion as you ask, you will conquer nobly and bravely in the end."

"It's a beautiful letter," said Katie, as she handed it back to Robert, adding in a little outburst of love, "Oh? Isn't father good!"

"Yes, won't you try to be like him?"

"I can't. I—what do you mean, Robert?"

"In one way you can follow his example; you can forgive."

For a few minutes Katie looked steadily at the vision of chimney-pots that could be seen from the window. Then her eyes came back and met her brother's.

"Robert," she said, "I can do it. I feel I can do anything because you and I are going to love each other and help each other to be good."

Ah! There is nothing like love. It makes the roughest road easy; the heaviest burden light. Oh, children! Love your good heavenly Father, and love each other; for love overcometh all things, love is stronger than death, and love will lift us from earth to heaven, and set us spotless at God's right hand.

CHAPTER X.

ENDING AND BEGINNING.

DORA went up for her examination at the end of June. For two or three weeks previously she had consented to let her mother take her place in the schoolroom in the afternoon. But that was the only part of her daily work of which she would allow herself to be relieved. Early and late she studied, and, though she would not own it, she was fooling wretchedly ill when the first day of the examination arrived.

The important event over, she did take a short rest, for as soon as the necessity of a constant strain was over, she was too exhausted and languid to do anything. In a few days, however, she was teaching again, both in the morning and afternoon, and though it was suggested that the younger children had better have their holiday then, she strongly objected, saying it would be much pleasanter for everybody concerned if they went on with their lessons till the end of July, when Robert and Katie would also break up.

One very warm evening she went out to do some shopping for her mother, and on her way home met Percy Armstrong. He could not but notice her pale face and listless air, and, after a little general conversation—for being in no hurry to get home he had turned to walk a little distance with her—he discovered that she never cared to eat, that she slept very badly, and that her back was always aching. She told all this hardly knowing that she was telling it, so cleverly did Percy draw her out.

Then he went home, and begged his mother to write to Mrs. Grainger and say that Dr. Fowler ought to be called in at once to see Dora; "for if this kind of thing is permitted to go on," he said, "she will become a confirmed invalid, and then good-bye to all her hopes and schemes for the future."

Mrs. Armstrong lost no time in making Mrs. Grainger acquainted with her son's opinion, and in consequence Dr. Fowler received a note asking him to call at 99, Madeira Street. This he did, and after seeing Dora, he told her she must give up her teaching and studying and take a long rest. He also found that she had a slight curvature of the spine. It was not very serious at present, but if allowed to increase, the mischief might become great, and he told her she must lie on a reclining board for at least three hours every day.

Dora heard her sentence with dismay.

"It can't be so bad as that!" she exclaimed. "Don't say I must lie down all that time."

"Indeed, you must." Then as he saw her look of hopeless despair, he asked, impatiently, "Do you want to be deformed, and in a year or two become a weak, helpless invalid?"

By way of answer she burst into tears. The doctor was touched directly.

"Poor child! There, I don't want to scold you," and he took her hand and kept it gently in his own as he spoke; "but if you have any real regard for your mother, and don't want to bring endless trouble and expense upon her, you must obey my orders. One of my daughters had to spend the best part of a year on her back once. You shall have the loan of her board for as long as you require it. If you could go to the seaside for a month, it would do you all the good in the world. Couldn't it be managed?"

His last words were addressed to Mrs. Grainger, who had been an anxious listener to the conversation between him and Dora.

"Whatever is necessary shall be done," she said, quietly.

"Well, well, I'll tell my man to bring round the board," said the kind-hearted doctor, "and I'll look in again in a few days to see what effect the lying down and the medicine have taken," and bidding them good-bye, he bustled away.

No sooner had he gone than Dora broke down completely. So violent was her weeping that when at length her sobs ceased she was quite exhausted. Perhaps it was because she was too weak to resist, that she suffered herself to be led to her room. Then having darkened the window, her mother sat down by her side, and gently bathed her heated forehead.

"Oh, mother, and this is the end of it!"

They were the first words she had spoken since the doctor had left. Only too well did Mrs. Grainger understand them.

"I should not wonder," she replied softly, "if in the future you will look back to this time and say, very happily, 'That was the beginning of it all.'"

"That could not be. See the trouble I have brought upon you when I only tried to be a help."

"Dora, you would not take the rest Nature demanded, and as her laws bring their own punishment if disobeyed, you must pay the penalty. Be thankful it is no worse."

"Nothing could be worse. Dr. Fowler said he didn't know when I should be able to do my work again."

"I believe good will come out of the evil. In the enforced quietude you will have time for thought, and you will see how, in attempting what is beyond your strength, you have made a fatal mistake. But your head is aching too much to talk now. Try to go to sleep, and presently I will bring you up a cup of tea."

And then as her mother turned to go, the truth flashed upon her. What she had considered unselfishness and noble sacrifice of self, had been utter selfishness and indulgence in self-glorification. The incident connected with Robert returned to her memory. The same thing had underlain every action since her father went. She had certainly taught her brothers and sisters, and with unhoped-for success. But what had been her motive for that work, for toiling so hard at her story-writing, and for going up for the examination? It was not for the good of others. It had been that she might think well of herself and should stand well in the opinion of her friends and relations. It had been for her own self-glory, self-praise, self-satisfaction; for that and nothing more.

And how low an object is self, none knew better than Dora. If she had been more ignorant, her distress would not have been so great. As she lay thinking in the cool, darkened room, she recollected what her mother had said on that evening, many months ago, when they had talked in the quiet sitting room by firelight.

"In proportion to the light that has been given you, so will you be expected to mould your life."

Then she remembered those far more solemn words which, having been once spoken, are spoken for all ages:

"'And that servant which knew his Lord's will and prepared not himself, neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes.'"

Yes, indeed, that did apply to her. A little reflection, a little serious self-examination, and she would have seen her mistake long ago. Now it was too late. She who had hoped to stand at the head of the list in the fulfilment of the trust received from her father, and in the promise he had asked of all his children, would be last of all. Poor Dora! Within and without all was darkness and despair to her that day.

But the rest and invalid life of the next week did her so much good physically that, at the end of that time, she took a much less gloomy view of the future. In her ample leisure for quiet thought she saw, too, she had no cause to despair. True, that instead of relieving her mother of care, she had brought more trouble upon her; for not only was her present ill-health a great anxiety, but by the persistent following out of her own inclinations, she must have given her constant uneasiness during the past months. But, by God's help, she would profit by the mistake she had made, and for the future, love of others, not of self, should be the motive power to influence her actions.

Meantime it was her duty to try to get well, and she found it a far harder task than she had anticipated.

One evening, about a fortnight after Dr. Fowler's first visit, she was lying on the reclining board in the drawing room, when she heard a rap at the door, and the next moment Percy Armstrong entered. She would have got up to receive him, but he begged her to remain where she was.

"Remember I'm a doctor," he said, "and have due respect for a fellow-doctor's orders." And then he talked so pleasantly that Dora forgot she was feeling wretchedly dull and depressed, and laughed and chatted quite gaily.

"Dora," he said, presently, "I am going to ask you to do me a kindness."

"If I can I will," she replied, for she greatly liked the young doctor, and would have done anything to oblige him. "But you must not forgot I am only a helpless invalid at present."

"All the better, for you'll give my mother the pleasure of looking after you. As you know, she hates to be idle, and is never happy unless she has plenty to do. I am going to send her to Ilfracombe for five or six weeks and I want you to be so good as to go with her and keep her company."

"But—but—" and between surprise, happiness, and a wish to say she couldn't think of letting her friends put themselves to extra expense on her account, she broke down completely.

"Not a word, if you please," said Percy. "I see quite well you are willing to oblige me, and you have only to see that your box is packed, and that you are ready to start at ten o'clock the day after to-morrow. And remember, the pleasure you will have, cannot be greater than my pleasure in being able to give my mother the change of air and scene she needs almost as much as you."

"But mother?" again began Dora.

"She knows, and will be very glad to hear I have had so little trouble in getting you to consent to my scheme."

Dora blushed so painfully that Percy immediately changed the conversation. But he left her very happy, and with the promise that she would be ready to start at the appointed time.

So it happened that Dora spent such a delightful six weeks at the seaside as she had before only imagined to herself in dreams. At first she could do little more than admire the beautiful view of hill, sea, and sky from the windows of their lodgings. But she grew daily stronger, and even the news that she had failed in her examination did not check her improvement. It was just what she might have expected, and certainly what she deserved, she remarked quietly. When at length she went back home, she looked so different that at first glance Phil actually didn't know her.

How rejoiced they all were to see her! The love which she saw in every caress, and smile, and action of her mother and brothers and sisters seemed to Dora, as it most certainly was, her most precious possession. Her return reminded them of another return, which, all being well, would take place in the winter. It was September now, and in the dusky half-hour after tea, when all were present, there was a long talk about that happy time.

From the future they came back to the present. Their father's trust, their promise, and the way in which each had been fulfilled were discussed. They all spoke very openly and freely that evening. Each owned where he or she had failed, and each resolved that the weakness should be guarded against and struggled with for the future. Even Olive and Lottie wont to bed serious and thoughtful, for they could not forgot the words so gravely uttered by their mother: "Even a child is known by his doings."

CHAPTER XI.

REUNITED.

THE remainder of that year saw a steady, persevering effort on the part of all to walk in the path of duty, and be loving, sympathetic, and unselfish one towards the other. It might well give their mother joy to witness the good seed taking root and springing up in her children's hearts, and she prayed daily that they and her husband might all be spared so that the beginning of another year might find them once more a united and happy family.

Not the least of her mercies did she reckon Dora's restoration to health. On returning home she cheerfully obeyed the doctor's directions, and being careful not to overtax her strength, and only to resume her duties as she felt fully able to discharge them, her recovery was more rapid than her mother had dared to hope.

And Lancie, though he would always be delicate and never have the use of his poor withered limb, was better than he had been for years. Then it was found that he possessed great ability for drawing, and in the little cripple's heart there had sprung up a hope that, if he studied patiently and perseveringly, he might eventually earn his living as an artist. Other men, with weaker and more deformed bodies than his, had done it, and why not he? This hope, which he kept locked in his own heart, was a source of happiness to Lancie, and took away much that had helped to make him joyless and gloomy.

So time passed on. The Christmas holidays came and went; lessons at home and at school were again begun; and in a few days the ship in which Mr. Grainger had left Sydney was expected to arrive at Southampton.

It was evening; tea had been cleared away, and all excepting Phil, who was building a wonderful house of wooden bricks, and Olive and Lottie, who were making dolls' clothes, were intent either upon books or lessons. Stay though, there was one more exception—Mrs. Grainger was busy at her not unusual occupation of darning stockings, in which work she paused occasionally to hear Lancie repeat the tenses of a French verb.

Two or three of the party remembered afterwards that they had heard the front door bell ring; but nobody was paying any attention to what was going on outside, till suddenly the sound of Mary's voice fell upon their ears. So still was the room, and so eager and excited were her tones, that her words were distinctly audible.

"Why, sir, it is yourself, sure enough. Oh, won't they be glad! But they wasn't expectin' you for a day or two yet."

Then another voice was heard, and at the first sound, a little cry escaped Mrs. Grainger's lips. She rose hurriedly from her seat, and the next moment was in the hall. The children followed her, and then there was a shout, a rush, a crowding round a tall, bearded figure in an overcoat, while exclamations of delight and welcome, kisses, sobbing and laughter, were mixed together in wild confusion.

It was some little time before it was understood that, owing to the favourable weather, the good ship "Seabird" had completed the voyage sooner than was expected, and wishing to give his wife and children a glad surprise, Mr. Grainger had come straight from port without giving notice of his arrival in England. His anticipations of that meeting were not disappointed.

Mary had had her handshake, and, pleased and grateful for the goodwill it betokened, had retired to the kitchen. And while she busied herself in "getting out the tea-things for master," she constantly wiped away her tears at the sounds of rejoicing that reached her.

What an evening that was! Phil got sleepy at last and asked to be put to bed, but all the rest sat up till midnight. They felt they could not tear themselves away from the presence of the dear father who had been absent so long. And how they loved him! Had they ever known how much before that evening, they wondered.

Presently, when the clock gave warning that some of them must begin to think about saying good-night, and after a pause that seemed made because the happiness in that little room had grown almost too great for words, Edgar, in obedience to the wish he read in the faces of his brothers and sisters, became spokesman for them all.

"Father, you left us a trust—a charge," he said; and, having risen from his seat next his mother, he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "We have not fulfilled it as we ought, as we might have done, but I think we can honestly say we have not been wholly forgetful, and have each done something to prove it."

"I know that, dear boy," was his father's reply. "Your mother's letters told me a great deal; the rest I could fill in for myself. I thank you all for taking such good care of her, and for striving to do your utmost to relieve and help her in every way you could. It was the truest way in which you could show your love for me."

"Father, I didn't; I added to her troubles." The words came from Dora. She said them eagerly, impulsively, as was sometimes her manner. And no sooner had her voice died away than Robert was heard saying sorrowfully,—

"You know what I did. I have been the worst of all."

"My boy, you fell grievously," said Mr. Grainger, gravely but fondly, "but you were sorry, and God forbid that I should ever bring up your sin against you. Be thankful you profited by your bitter experience. Your repentance brought your promise to your memory, and I know you have striven to keep it, for you have struggled with your besetting sins, and are steadily and surely overcoming them. Robert, I do not think we need speak of the past again."

No, there was no need; he felt that, and he looked into his father's face with a smile that was full of trust and full of love.

"And I have tried to keep the promise, father."

"And I."

"And I."

Not one voice was silent, but some were confident and sure, and others were doubtful and hesitating.

"I know you have, each one of you, though some have tried more bravely and thoroughly than the rest. Now let us resolve that from this time we will strive still more earnestly to love our Heavenly Father and to please and serve Him. Then our love for each other will increase and deepen, for he that loveth God will love his brother also. Children, kneel with me, and let us offer hearty thanks to Him who has permitted us all meet together again in safety, and let us, too, ask His blessing upon the future that awaits us."

A heartfelt prayer is never offered in vain, and with that blessing resting upon them, we may be sure the efforts of the again united family were not fruitless. We may be certain, too, that, with the love of God binding them together and strengthening their love for each other, there could be no happier household than that to which we must now say good-bye.

THE END.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, LONDON.

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Table of Contents

- LEFT WITH A TRUST

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE