Lucia's trust
Date: 2024-12-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Stepfamilies -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Lucia's trust

Author: Catharine Shaw

Release date: December 14, 2024 [eBook #74901]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co., Ltd, 1893

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74901

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCIA'S TRUST ***

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

With the other hand she poured some bright coins
into Lucia's lap.

Lucia's Trust.

BY

CATHARINE SHAW

AUTHOR OF "LILIAN'S HOPE," "DICKIE'S SECRET,"
"THE GABLED FARM," ETC.

—————
NEW EDITION.
—————

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., LTD.

Publishers

3, PILGRIM STREET, LONDON, E.C.

BRITISH MANUFACTURE               1893

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. HOW IT CAME

II. AT THE COTTAGE

III. LUCIA'S QUEEN

IV. UNDER THE ELMS

V. LUCIA'S GIFT

VI. IN THE FOREST

VII. VOICES IN THE FOREST

VIII. MAY'S HEART'S DESIRE

IX. "A SLIP BETWIXT"

X. A PROMISE

XI. EVAN IS GLAD

XII. BARBARA'S GIFT

LUCIA'S TRUST.

CHAPTER I.

HOW IT CAME.

"I SUPPOSE you must go?" asked her cousin, reading the letter for the third time. "There is no choice, is there?"

"None whatever," said Lucia, thinking it all over with a very sober face.

That letter had come as a very unpleasant break in a most happy visit.

It was not often that Lucia could get away from her home, where a little flock of step-brothers and sisters kept her busy from morning till night.

But this time she had got away! Her mother had long planned for her to visit some cousins of her own in the North, and Lucia had been with them for a month already.

She had begun to feel that her home in London was a very long way off, and that her step-father, and even her own mother, had grown of less absorbing interest than formerly. Life seemed to centre in that charming country house, her cousins with their affairs began to fill her horizon, and when the letters came from her mother speaking of her step-father having been ill with the dreaded influenza, and being better again, she dismissed the matter with the comfortable hope that no one else would take it, and that mother would not be over-tired.

Then she did not hear for a week, but was too happy to be nervous, when one evening, just as she and her cousins were settling down for a cosy time, the second post brought her that news which overturned all her plans, and spoke of changes which might alter the aspect of her life for years to come. Her step-father had had a relapse; a dormant delicacy of the chest had suddenly developed, and he was ordered to take a sea voyage if his life were to be saved.

"I have had to choose between him and our children, and he needs me the most; so I am going with him," wrote her mother. "You, my darling, will act a mother's part, I know, while I am gone. Come home at once, that I may give it all into your hands, for we start directly."

There was no choice, as Emmie had said; but while Lucia sat silently in her corner, she confessed to herself that never in her life before had any news been so unwelcome.

She loved her mother devotedly, and so she did her little brothers and sisters. Her step-father had always been most kind and generous to her, and she loved him too. But for all that, she blamed herself bitterly that she thought almost more of her own disappointment in being called home, than of the great anxiety and grief which had fallen upon it.

Early the next morning Lucia woke up to the knowledge of something which seemed like a heavy weight on her spirit. Then it all flashed upon her.

She rose hastily, for a busy time was before her. On the previous night she had not done any packing, and very soon after breakfast she was to start on her homeward journey.

When she left her room, only the maids were astir. So she crept downstairs to the quiet rooms, and began to collect her possessions, which in a month's visit had become scattered about—her music, her work-basket, her easel and paint-box.

She carried an armful into the dining room and began to sort the music out, till, unconscious of time, she fell into a reverie over the words of one of the songs, and started violently when she heard herself addressed in an astonished tone by her aunt's housekeeper—

"Why, Miss Lucia, to be sure, miss, I thought something must have happened to see you sitting there all alone at this time of day! I was passing along the garden, going to feed my chickens, when I caught sight of your head, and heard your pretty voice singing more like the angels than anything else, to be sure!"

"Oh, Mrs. Brown, something has happened," exclaimed Lucia ruefully; "I am going home!"

"Deary miss, I heard something of it last night," responded the housekeeper in her cheery way; "and I was so very sorry for the cause of it, I'm sure." "Yes—," said Lucia slowly, "so am I, awfully sorry; but I cannot help wishing it had come at any other time—"

Mrs. Brown paused a moment, and then she said gently, "The Lord's time is always the right time, dear Miss Lucia—"

Lucia raised her eyes and looked into the placid face.

"I was so happy here," she murmured.

She turned over the songs, and as the words caught her eyes, they filled with tears.

"Your mother is in sore trouble, Miss Lucia, and she will be very glad to have a sight of your sweet face."

Lucia shook her head while she wiped her eyes. "I wish I were thinking about her instead of myself," she said.

Mrs. Brown was silent. She and Lucia had been very good friends when they had met, and had established a mutual confidence.

"You think I am a horrid selfish creature, don't you, Mrs. Brown?" she burst out at length.

"I think you only want one thing to make you the sweetest, dearest young lady—"

"And that is an unselfish spirit—?"

"No—o, miss, it isn't that—"

"Then what is it?"

"It's to look at things in the light of His countenance, Miss Lucia—not by our own dull lanterns, but in His pure light!"

"Look at things?" questioned Lucia. "How do you mean?"

"When we know that what happens comes from our Lord, it takes away the sting of troubles."

"I don't see that it can take away the sting of this," said Lucia. "Here I am, enjoying myself as much as I possibly can, and not going home for a fortnight more; and then father falls ill, and they are ordered abroad, and I have to go home to slave with the little ones, and all my pleasure is stopped. And, worst of all, I am just a horrid, selfish creature for thinking so, much less saying so! I can't see that in the light of His countenance!"

"Ah, dear Miss Lucia, that's just it! Everything looks dull and gloomy by the light of our own dark thoughts. Shall I tell you how I see the matter? You will not be hurt at me, because I've seen a great many troubles, and I've come out of the Slough of Despond on the side of the Celestial City!"

Lucia clasped the kind hand affectionately as she said, "Tell me, then; I shall not mind anything you say—"

"In the light of His will, this is what I see," said the housekeeper tenderly. "You have had a month to enjoy a nice change; and then the Lord says to you He has a lovely opportunity for you to do something for Him! You can be a real comfort to your step-father, who—you told me, didn't you, miss?—has been very good to you; a comfort to your mother, who has to bear a heavy trial; and you have five darling children given into your care to train for Him for ever so many months; and to get back in return their whole love and His gracious approval. Oh, Miss Lucia, isn't that sunshine enough for one day? And don't the clouds go chasing away in the light of His most blessed will?"

CHAPTER II.

AT THE COTTAGE.

BEFORE Lucia had time to realize that she was once more at home, the cab was driving from the door with her father and mother, and she was left in charge of her five brothers and sisters.

In the few days in which her mother had had everything to arrange, she had written for their own country cottage to be got ready for them, where the children could lead a free life, and be out of doors from morning till night; and to this they were to proceed at once.

The children were wild with excitement at the treat in store for them, and even their mother's sorrowful face, and their father's pale one, could hardly sober their exuberant joy at the thought of a whole summer in the country.

Lucia would have preferred to take charge in her own dear home, with their employments around her, and their own servants; but she supposed that mother know best, and certainly a cottage in a wood had its attractions to a romantic girl of nineteen. But she inwardly wished, almost bitterly, that she had been consulted before the plans were formed. When, however, she had arrived home, her mother's boxes were already packed, and their house was let for several months to a family of title, who had come to London for the season.

Poor Lucia, with her aching head and disappointed heart, tried hard to be patient; but she thought that the children had never seemed so tiresome before, and the difficulties seemed almost more than she could bear.

Evan, who was twelve, and had been the eldest at home during her long visit, seemed to have taken new airs upon him, and understood about everything so much better than she did.

Then Barbara (her darling generally) was also full of importance, helping nurse pack, and was the only one who could get Queenie to stop crying for her mother. Ivor and May had endless secrets, which they would not share with her. The maids were overwhelmingly busy in preparing the house for the fresh arrivals to-morrow, so that altogether Lucia was nearly distracted.

To-morrow morning! They were to go to-morrow morning! How was it possible that the confusion reigning around could be reduced to order by the next day?

She went to her room and looked round.

There were her boxes not even unpacked, but the one that stood open revealed a tennis dress which had been used only once, and which she remembered Alec Cransworth had said was very becoming. Oh, dear she should never wear that again while it was in fashion! Hot and angry tears splashed down her cheeks, she threw herself on her bed and wept despairingly.

If only her mother had proposed that she should bring home Emmie or Phyllis with her as a companion, it would not have been so bad. But to be shut up in a cottage with nurse and five tiresome children—

And then the quiet face of her aunt's housekeeper rose up before her mental vision, and she could almost hear her say, "Dear Miss Lucia, it makes all the difference if we love to do the Lord's will, and not our own. His will is always kindest and best."

"I do want to do His will," sobbed Lucia, "and I do want to be good and patient; but it is so bitterly hard to have your visit spoilt, and to be brought back to such a turmoil as this, without even having mother to share it!"

But she had not long to indulge her disappointment. Before many minutes had passed, a knock at the door summoned her to take part in the packing up which was going on around.

She was young, and in spite of herself almost, the preparations did take off her thoughts, and she found herself in the whirl of the excitement such a change involved.

But deep down in her heart the same discontented and bitter chord kept on vibrating, and what should have been music was turned to discord. Two or three years ago Lucia had come to feel her need of a Saviour, and had gone to Him to be pardoned and saved; and ever since she had gone on in her old life with very little difference either to herself or others. She rose each day, read a little of her Bible, prayed to have her sins forgiven and to be made good, and then she went on her daily round of duties and pleasures, without much further thought. Glad that she was safe, even thanking God that she was safe, but content to be kind and loving and unselfish to those who loved her so devotedly, and nothing more.

"I think Lucia hardly has a fault," her mother wrote to her aunt, and perhaps Lucia almost thought the same herself.

Then came the happy visit, her renewed acquaintance with her cousins and with their friends the Cransworths, and Lucia floated along the stream of pleasure for one delicious month, and woke up after a nightmare of partings and journeys and packings and partings again, to find herself looking out of a little parlour window on a green lawn, and a pond covered with waterlilies; while beyond was a hill covered with tender green trees and crowned with pines, whose straight delicate branches were set off by the sunset sky behind.

If her mother and father had been there she would have said that the view was almost too exquisite; but to-night, with the knowledge of her responsibilities, and with the voices of her five little step-brothers and sisters behind her back, the scene only gave her the heartache. And she went to rest in the little countrified bedroom, with the cloud still unlifted from her spirit—only longing that the three months should be over, and she should be able to go back to her London home.

The next morning, however, things began to look decidedly brighter.

The children no longer seemed so tiresome, and as Lucia sat at the breakfast table watching their smiling faces, she reproached herself that she had thought them last night the most disagreeable little creatures in existence.

"Lucia," said Barbara coaxingly, with a certain wistfulness in her voice, that Lucia detected in a moment, "could you come out with us this morning and explore the wood?"

"I do not think so—I have to unpack; but why do you not be satisfied to-day with going up this field and settling yourselves where nurse and I can see you?"

"Very well," assented Barbara, "only we did want you!"

"We'll bring home some wild flowers," said Evan. "Nurse says she can find a jar to put in the fireplace; this is so common and ugly, isn't it Lucia?"

"Rather," answered Lucia, turning her head to look; "only mind you keep within sight of the cottage."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ivor, "we will. This is the loveliest place I ever saw! Ten times as nice as the beach at Westgate."

So they found a basket, and with their lunch in the depths of it, to be replaced by flowers, set off together, Barbara being trusted with the care of Queenie (as they were not going out of sight), and May pleading to stay with nurse to help put away the contents of the ten boxes which at present made a warehouse of the narrow little hall.

CHAPTER III.

LUCIA'S QUEEN.

LOYALTY had been born and bred in the family of which Lucia was the eldest child.

Ever since she could remember, "The Queen" was her ideal, and Windsor Castle the place in all the world that she loved to be near.

This cottage almost beneath the shadow of Windsor Castle had belonged to her mother's family all her life, and every year she and her mother, when they were alone together in the old days, had migrated there for a month or two, so that every turret and tree was dear to them, and the Queen and Royal Family seemed to belong to them in a special way.

Thus it came to pass that as soon as Lucia had step-brothers and sisters, she instilled her enthusiasm about the Queen into their susceptible little hearts, and May especially felt that the Royal lady who lived so near the cottage was her Queen—her property—to be loved and reverenced as long as she lived.

The children were never tired of hearing Lucia tell how one day when she was about seven years old, as she was walking near the cottage quite alone, she saw a cloud of dust approaching along the road, and in a moment she guessed it was caused by the outriders surrounding the Queen's carriage, and with beating heart stood upon the path to see her go by.

Would the cavalcade come that way? Or would they sweep round the corner at the end of the road, and so pass out of view?

No; in another moment little Lucia knew she was safe. The outriders wheeled round, and came along her road, and the Queen's carriage was close to her, and the dear Queen sitting almost within reach of her!

Never could Lucia forget that proud moment! For, as with blushing, smiling face the little girl made a deep obeisance to her Sovereign, that gracious lady rose in her carriage, and, all unseen by any other eyes, bowed to the lonely little girl in the lonely country road.

"I wonder if I shall see the Queen?" questioned May that morning, as she carried armful after armful of clothes from the boxes to the drawers.

"Very likely you will," answered Lucia, "if we go into Windsor. It is but a chance thing to see the Queen out here, but of course she does drive every day somewhere when she is at home."

"Is she at home now?" asked May, colouring with anxiety.

"Yes, the flag is flying this morning; I saw it when I was out just now. I used always to feel dreary as a child when there was no flag on the Round Tower."

May did not say any more; but in her heart she formed the resolve that she would watch and watch till she too had seen the Queen.

Meantime, while the boxes were being emptied and the drawers were being filled, the other children were enjoying the first morning in the real country.

They were revelling in wild flowers, moss, stones, and ferns; making imaginary rooms among the furze bushes, and decking "the drawing room" with bunches of wild roses, while they picked endless fronds of bracken to form couches for the bedrooms.

A children's world is a happy world! No cares come to mar it, no anxieties enter in as to "what shall we eat or what shall we drink?" Their father's provision is sure to be right, he will provide dinner when dinner time comes; and here is lunch packed ready in the basket, why need they care?

Lucia put on her hat and went up the road to see how they were getting on, and when she watched them from behind the bushes, for they were too busy to notice her, some such thoughts as these went through her mind—

"I wonder why older people are so anxious," she said to herself, "why they let things worry them so? If we only trusted our heavenly Father as those children in their play-houses trust their earthly father, how different life would be!"

She turned round and retraced her steps, without disturbing the little party; but though she left them behind, she did not leave the thoughts which they had suggested.

She entered the cottage, fetched her easel and her painting materials, and sat down under the elms to sketch, while the bees buzzed dreamily, and the birds sang a ceaseless song.

That quiet morning was a turning-point in Lucia's life.

As her fingers were busily at work, making a sketch for her cousins, her mind went back to her aunt's housekeeper, and then to all her own disappointment and rebellion since.

Had not her Father—her heavenly, loving Father—seen all these things beforehand, and prepared the path for her to walk in, that therein she might glorify Him?

But it was so terribly disappointing to be called away just as her enjoyment had seemed to be at its height.

And yet He knew that! Why was it that He allowed it then?

She put down her brush and leaned her chin on her hand, looking off into the country landscape dreamily. Why did He? echoed again and again. And there was no answer but the ceaseless melody of the birds as they rejoiced in the Father's sunshine.

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE ELMS.

"YOUR Father knoweth!"

Lucia raised her head suddenly. It seemed almost as if the waving breeze in the trees overhead had whispered the words audibly.

Then if He knew, why was it? Could she know too?

She thought of an earthly father—the very best and dearest she knew—and she wondered how he would do with his children.

He would take them a journey, and each day or each hour he would tell them which way to go and what he wanted them to do. The children would not question his wisdom or his love. The more unknown the way, the more they would trust him. They would trust and obey.

"Your Father knoweth."

"Yes, He does," said Lucia beneath her breath, "and I will trust and obey. I will not struggle any more, but take my Father's will as entirely best."

When she had reached that point, there came a flood of sunshine to illumine what had looked so dark before.

The care of the five little brothers and sisters was no longer a burden too great for her shoulders; the broken visit with its hardly understood charms ceased to cause her such a heartache whenever she thought of it; for she had resigned the one and the other to His will, who surely loved her, and instead of fret and pain came a peace that passed all understanding.

She took up her brush once more, but that drawing never got to its destination. Into that pond and waterlilies, into those daisies and clover, were painted a yielded heart; and to her eyes ever after the very colours told a tale that she could not give to others or part with for the world.

"For Christ henceforth," she said, as she heard the sound of the little voices coming through the intervening trees, and sounding silvery over the pond, and she put away her drawing and rose to meet the children with a happy smile, such as had not been on her face since she heard that bad news in the North. Then the little green gate swung open, and the children ran over the grass to her side.

"Oh, Lucia, it is so lovely!" exclaimed Evan. "I never saw such a place; and, do you know, there are nests and all sorts of things for Ivor and me?"

Barbara offered a kiss, and Queenie threw her arms round her neck. "I'se so d'lad to get back," she said, "and I do want my lickle dinner so!"

Lucia could laugh as light-heartedly as any of them now, and she wondered that she could ever have thought the children so disagreeable.

At the rose-covered porch May stood waiting.

"It's all done," she announced. "Just come and see how neat we have made everything. Barbara, you and I are to have this cupboard all to ourselves, besides those drawers, and nurse says Evan and Ivor are not to come into our room at all."

"All right," said Evan, "I don't want to. You keep to yours and we'll keep to ours, won't we, Ivor? What have you given us? I suppose we shall have to 'shift,' as Mrs. Giah calls it."

Mrs. Giah was the woman who had charge of the cottage when they were not there. She kept occasional fires burning, aired the rooms, let in the sunshine, and shut out the rain, and prepared the place for them if any of the family wanted to come down for a few days.

Mrs. Giah was an old servant who had known and nursed Lucia's mother, so that though the children laughed softly at her amusing sayings, it was with a certain tenderness which long years of loving service had earned for the old woman. On her part, no people in the world were like her Carews. Though she did think that the young people could sometimes "shift" a little more than they seemed inclined to do, no one in the world must say a word against them in her hearing.

CHAPTER V.

LUCIA'S GIFT.

BARBARA CAREW lived in a practical world, while May lived in an imaginative one. Barbara was always devising some means to help someone, or do something, while little May was dreaming of royal palaces and untasted joys.

So Barbara amused her brothers and sisters; was always ready to run out to the hens, or follow Mrs. Giah to the farm to look for eggs, or to climb up into the empty carts with her brothers, while May would be seated in a corner of the hayloft, talking to her doll, or buried in the "Arabian Nights."

That afternoon, just as Lucia was wondering what she should do with herself, she heard cartwheels lumbering up the lane which led to the back of the cottage.

This was such an unusual sound, that the children ran out to see what it could be.

"It is a great van sort of thing," exclaimed Ivor, racing back to tell his sister. "I've seen them like it in London, but I don't know what's in it, I'm sure."

Nurse, who was standing looking on, peeped through the hedge at Ivor's description, and finally went down the garden into the lane too.

Two men were in charge of the cart, and one stepped forward with a note.

"For Miss Carew," he said.

Nurse was greatly astonished, and looked back to where Lucia was standing in the porch, framed by the roses and honeysuckle.

"For me?" asked Lucia, coming down the path. Then she saw her mother's handwriting, and tearing the envelope open, saw within—

"For my dear Lucia, with her mother's love."

"Whatever is it?" said Evan excitedly.

While the man went to the back of the van with a key, saying in a very matter-of-fact voice, "A cottage piano, miss. Where is it to go?"

Lucia could not believe the evidence of her eyes. A piano! Was not the lack of this one of the things which had caused her such discontent in coming here? Had she not said to herself bitterly that mother quite forgot what it would be to give up her music for three months, nor how stiff her fingers would get, nor how out of practice her voice!

And here—here was a little bijou of a piano, apparently for her very own!

Lucia hung her head to hide the tears of contrition which filled her eyes. Was this another of those things which "her Father" knew and provided for? And if He could so lovingly care for even this, would He not care for all that concerned her?

So, while the men made their preparations to carry in the little instrument, Lucia was sending up a joyful thanksgiving for the heavenly love which had given her so great a pleasure through her mother's earthly love.

Where the piano was to stand was of course the next thing, and everybody ran back to the little drawing room to see what would be the best place before the men got to the door.

Lucia found that there was a niche which seemed to ask to be filled, so that there was not a moment's doubt as to where the new treasure was to go.

"I shall be able to get on with my music now," remarked Barbara; "I was afraid Miss Lewis would think I had forgotten it all."

Then in came the men, and the boys felt they must help to place it just right, and ran imminent risk of their fingers and toes in doing it.

"Who's it from?" asked Ivor. "Is it yours, Lucia?"

"Mine, from mother," answered Lucia.

"I thought you was cryin'," said Queenie, edging up close to her; "I saw you cryin', I do b'lieve?"

"Only because I am so pleased, and because—"

But the others were clamouring for her to sit down and try it; so Lucia did not explain further, though she would have said, had she been able, that she was most unworthy of all the love which had been shown her, and she was ashamed of all her hard thoughts. It was not till the piano had been tried and retried, not till Lucia had sung them song after song, in her beautiful fresh young voice, that someone said,—

"Where's May?"

She certainly was not with them, and there ensued a general hunt, which ended in her being found talking to her doll, in a quiet corner, behind a hayrick, though what she had said to her doll was certainly unguessed by any of the party.

"Now, Rosabel," she had said, "when next we all go out for a walk in the woods, I shall keep my eyes open for the road that the Queen drives in. She must drive somewhere, you know, and if I watch long enough, I shall be sure to see her. It can't be any harm, for I heard mother say to Lucia, 'Let the children enjoy themselves as much as ever they can; let them be out from morning to night, and if they can turn into the Family Robinson, so much the better!' Now, if mother said that, there can be no harm in my taking advantage of it to see the Queen! So I mean to.

"I shall not take you with me, Rosabel, because I shall have to take my lunch, or something, and a sunshade in case it rains, and you would certainly be in the way if I had to go a long way. But I shall put you up in the hayloft, where you can see out of that little window, and then you will be able to watch for me to come back."

Her reflections were broken in upon by Evan's voice, speaking vexedly.

"What a hunt we've had for you, May, I do declare! Why, you've missed a jolly thing, with your love of being different from the rest of us—a jolly thing! Why, here's Lucia, had the biggest and the best present she ever had in her life, and you have been away and not seen it arrive!"

May's imaginative mind flew to all sorts of wonderful things, but nurse stopped these short by scolding her soundly for giving them so much trouble, and threatening to send her to bed on the next occasion if she did not keep with the rest.

"It's bad for the child," she said to herself, as she walked back behind the little party, "and Miss Lucia is inclined to be too easy with them, I do believe."

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE FOREST.

MAY, however, was thinking so much of her project that nurse's displeasure passed over her with but little impression. She only made up her mind to wait for an opportunity when they were out together, and she had liberty to enjoy herself.

In the free and happy life which they were leading, she had not much need, however, for the exercise of patience.

Only the next day, as they all sat at breakfast, Lucia said cheerfully—

"Hands up for a day in the forest?"

Nurse, who had just brought in Queenie's breakfast, smiled as all the five pairs of hands went up, quicker than one could imagine possible, while Lucia said—

"Nobody objects, then?"

And after that, they fell to arranging about baskets, and dinner and tea, kettles and spirit-lamps, till the children were wild with anticipation.

It was discovered that Lucia had foreseen that little people (to say nothing of older ones) would be hungry, and had herself walked into Windsor the day before to order a good supply of dainties. There was great excitement to find out what she had provided, but she would not allow a single package to be opened, telling them that they should see when the time came.

They soon got off, and began the rather hot and uphill walk which led from the cottage to the outskirts of the forest.

May had her own little thoughts; under her shady hat, her bright eyes took in the direction and possibilities of every turning and cross road, but she said nothing, keeping close to Lucia most of the time, and saying over and over again to herself, "Mother said we were to enjoy ourselves as much as ever we could, and this is my way!"

Dinner, with Lucia's dainties, was a grand success, and then May's heart began to beat, and she felt her time had come. Nurse was busy packing up the plates, Barbara was helping her, Lucia was picking wild flowers with Queenie, and the two boys were far away, chasing a butterfly. Now was her time, she thought, if she were to see the Queen!

When the butterfly catchers recollected that they were a good way from what they called "camp," they made their way back with all speed, and found nurse resting after her labours by the side of the neatly-packed baskets, Barbara sorting wild flowers into bunches, while Lucia was sitting against a tree, with Queenie asleep in her lap.

"Have we been too long?" asked Evan, colouring. "I never guessed it was such a time—"

"No," answered nurse, "we've been busy; but where is Miss May?"

Ah! Where was Miss May? They waited and waited till they grew anxious, and wished they had not waited at all. And then they began to search near at hand, and wished that they had gone in any direction but the one they had taken. And at last, when all was in vain, and no May was to be seen, Lucia set out towards the Long Walk, and nurse went in the opposite direction, while Evan set off homewards with the rest, promising to send help should the missing sister not be found on the way.

Meanwhile May wandered under the shady forest trees, stepping over the bracken, or jumping from patch to patch of bare grass between them, only intent on getting out of sight of the rest, and towards the wide road which they had passed a little while ago, where she had made up her mind the Queen was sure to pass.

The voices of the butterfly catchers had long since been lost, and nurse's cheerful tones, with Barbara's silvery laugh, had become less and less distinct, till at last there was no sound in the air but the singing birds and the waving trees.

May stood still for a moment. She thought it would be wise to take her bearings, to get into her mind where she was; but when she looked round, there was nothing in the world to mark the direction she had come from.

But May did not concern herself greatly about this. If she saw the Queen, what matter would it be if she had a little trouble in finding Lucia and nurse again!

So she slowly wandered on, though the silence and stillness of the forest rather made her heart quake.

At length she came to a road, and this took off the feeling of loneliness to some extent.

She sat down in a shady place and looked yearningly along it, expecting every moment to see the cloud of dust approaching, and to live over again Lucia's old experience of so many years ago.

But no cloud of dust came; no footfall broke the intense quiet of the scene.

Once a stir among the bracken made her start; but it was only some of the deer who had not noticed the still little figure till they were quite close to it, and then had fled away, shy and frightened.

But still the Queen did not come!

As the hours passed away, and the sun began to shine with slanting rays through the trees, May began to cease to look so earnestly along the road. Her head turned first in one direction and then the other. Was it fancy that made her think the forest was full of voices calling her name?

How fast the sun was sinking! It would be night soon; that solemn, quiet night which she had never spent anywhere but in her own warm little bed!

The air played around her and made her shiver, and thoughts of tea and home began to haunt her.

How many hours must it be since she had had anything to eat? Her dinner? That had been only a mouthful or two, for her heart had been beating so with thoughts of her project that she had been unable to eat. Though she had intended to put some in her pocket, there had not been the opportunity, for she had feared that Evan's sharp eyes and sharper tongue would be sure to disclose her secret, should he notice her doing anything with her sandwiches but eat them.

How she wished that she had not crept away so stealthily when the rest were scattering after dinner. How ashamed she was now of the answer she had given Barbara, as she led Queenie off in the other direction.

"I'm just going over there, Barbara, to get some ferns!"

She had stoutly assured herself then that this was not an untruth; but now—

Poor little May! She was beginning to pay very dearly for her "enjoyment," as many another does who attempts to snatch what is not given!

Oh, how weary she was—how cold! How forlorn!

Thoughts of her mother began to fill her mind, and her conscience pricked her that, although she had carried out the letter of her mother's directions, she had broken the spirit of them.

She buried her face on her knees, and began to cry, and cried long and hopelessly, till she seemed to have no tears left. But at last, as she began to grow quieter, in a kind of resignation to meet her fate, sleep came down upon her heavy eyelids, and she forgot for a little while that she was lost.

CHAPTER VII.

VOICES IN THE FOREST.

MEANWHILE the children had gone home, only to find no May there, while nurse and Lucia still searched and searched fruitlessly.

At last they thought that perhaps the little girl had also gone home, and so they set out to see, Lucia hardly bearing to tear herself away from the forest, lest the child should be there after all.

But no May was at home; and now what was to be done?

Evan and Mrs. Giah had prepared tea. And after snatching a few hasty mouthfuls, it was decided that the whole party should go back again and look anew, Mrs. Giah promising to communicate with the cottagers near, and beg them to help too.

What Lucia and nurse passed through in those hours only those know who have had a lost child.

Lucia had found time to fly up to her room, and had thrown herself on her knees, asking with earnest supplication that May might be preserved, and that they might be led to her. And when she came down, and they all started together, nurse was surprised at the quiet calmness which shone in her face.

"Why, Miss Lucia," she said, "one would think Miss May was found, to look at you."

"God knows where she is," answered Lucia softly, "and I have asked Him to show us."

Nurse shook her head gloomily. She had not an ever-present help to go to, and could not share Lucia's trust.

The children were told to keep in sight of the road which ran through the forest and led finally to their cottage, while nurse and Lucia searched among the trees, calling till their voices were hoarse, and watching the sun go down with hearts that sank too—at any rate nurse's did. As to Lucia, she kept on saying to herself, "God knows where she is," and so went on with renewed strength.

At last little May heard in her dreams the sound of loved voices calling her name.

She turned round with a start, and was wide awake all in a moment.

Could it be? Could it? Then in one instant she heard Evan say, "Perhaps she's up this hill." And then Queenie's sweet little head came in view over the top, and she was found.

Evan took her hand without a word, and led her back to the road, which was close to them. Had not Lucia enjoined him not to scold his poor little sister, for had she not been punished enough already?

Then they all walked soberly home in the twilight, Evan sending forth many a shrill sound from his whistle, which echoed back through the trees as the agreed signal that all was well.

Nurse heard it, and hurried towards home.

Lucia heard it, and her heart sent up its grateful praise for the answered prayer.

"My Father did know," she said joyfully.

May was found, and now the seekers began to realize that they were tired out.

Slowly and wearily they all made their way back to the cottage.

Lucia's first feeling after her thankfulness, had been one of vexation that May could have been so naughty, but ere it reached her lips she was stopped by the remembrance that "all we like sheep have gone astray," and the thought softened her heart towards her little sister, and enabled her to go over to her side and take her hand in hers.

May gave one glance of surprise, and then nestled against her very softly.

"We must talk about it, dear, when we get back," said Lucia; "just now I am so thankful that you are safe, and we are all so tired—"

"I know," murmured May humbly. "I never meant to be naughty."

But when they had got home, and had eaten their tea, and had been put to bed by nurse and Lucia together, May ventured to draw her sister close, and whisper—

"I wanted you to talk to me. You said mother would have been very grieved if she knew I had been so naughty."

"So I did, May; but mother would forgive you I know, if you are sorry."

Lucia sat down on the edge of the bed, and May climbed up into her arms, resting on her shoulder ever so lovingly.

"You see, May," said Lucia gently, "I am afraid that your being so fond of doing something different from the others led you to be disobedient. You knew you were none of you to go away from the rest."

"It wasn't that exactly," whispered May humbly.

"What was it then?"

"I wanted to see the Queen."

Lucia paused. Could she call that any harm, she who loved the Queen so dearly?

"But we must not do wrong, even for a right and nice purpose," she said slowly.

"Was it wrong?"

"Yes, it was disobedient; that's where the wrong was, May. Oh, May, I do want you to think of pleasing Jesus our Saviour more than anything! Did you think of whether He would like you to do it?"

"No," said May, shaking her head, "I never do think of that."

Lucia was silent a moment.

"Would you not like to?" she said at last.

May nodded.

"It's because you've been so kind," she said, squeezing her sister very tight. "I am sorry now. And, Lucia—"

"Yes, dear?"

"I said what wasn't quite true—twice."

"Did you, dear?"

"Yes; I told the others I was only going over there; and so I was, and yet it wasn't quite true, because I meant to go a good way, you see!"

"Yes, I see that. Satan is so glad to trip us up like that. He assures us it is true, and then he mocks us by reminding us it was not."

May nodded again, and then went on—

"And I told you I did not mean to be naughty; but I do believe I knew I ought not to have gone away, only I wanted so much to see the Queen that I would not let myself think."

Lucia pressed her closely.

"Dear little May! What a mercy it is for us, who do so many wrong things, that God can forgive us because Jesus bore our punishment."

"Yes," whispered May.

So Lucia put her back tenderly into bed, and then she went into her own room, and knelt down and humbly thanked God that He had made a way of escape for us guilty lost ones to come back to His bosom; that He is "just, and yet the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus."

Lucia would not have believed, had she been told, the difference this episode would make in all their feelings.

May was an altered child. Instead of being always not to be found, she was generally at her side, trying to please her in many little ways, and showing her gratitude and love by every means in her power.

And as for herself, never before had she felt so small in her own eyes. The thought of her answered prayer, the thought of May's generous confession, humbled her to the dust; and then the thought of His goodness, who had wrought both by His love, lifted her up and sent her on her way rejoicing.

CHAPTER VIII.

MAY'S HEART'S DESIRE.

AFTER all, little May did have her heart's desire!

One day, when they were in the Long Walk, and were playing hide-and-seek among the elms, thinking of nothing but their play, an old man, who was standing watching them with a kindly gleam in his eyes, suddenly pulled himself up, and took off his old battered hat.

"That's my gracious lady the Queen comin' down," he said quietly, "if you young folks 'ud stop playin' jest a moment."

May started and turned white, and all the rest stood still with beating hearts as the carriage came swiftly down the hill.

"She's the best lady in the land, and the best queen in the world," the old man said reverently. "May she wear a crown of glory that fadeth not away!"

The Queen bowed to the little group of expectant faces, and in a moment her swift horses had carried her away. But the old man's words had taken the children's thoughts beyond this world's passing glory to that heavenly country where not only the sun never sets, but where the Lord God is the light, and all who love Him shall reign for ever and ever!

*       *        *       *        *       *        *

So the party settled down to more happiness that either nurse or Lucia had anticipated, and the days began to fly by, instead of dragging as they had done.

Letters from their father and mother, too, brought good news, and also a welcome and unexpected enclosure for each of the children.

Lucia's share had been her piano, the letter said; but the children were to have a little store of money, which they were to spend just as they liked, with only one stipulation, that they should keep an account of what they spent it on.

Great excitement prevailed, and great plans were made.

Evan and Ivor sat for a long time in very serious consultation, and nurse was coaxed to take them all into Windsor, that they might look at the shops "for suggestions," Barbara said, in her wise, motherly little way.

"Not that I am going to spend mine all in a hurry," she added, "for that would be silly. I should not have half the pleasure; but we will go to look about."

So they went to Windsor, Lucia accompanying them, doing some shopping on her own account, while nurse wandered round with her five children, and gave her advice pretty freely as to what in her opinion would be nice to buy.

"Not that I should spend it at all," she concluded; "I should put it in the bank if I had it to do!"

When, therefore, Evan and Ivor went home without having made any purchase, or even gone into raptures over anything in particular, she congratulated herself on their having taken her advice, and decided that they were more sensible than she had given them the credit of being.

However, going suddenly into the little drawing room that evening, she found them both deeply buried in conversation; and they started up with great precipitation, and said, "Hulloa! Nurse, we're talking secrets; don't you come listening now."

"I'm not listening," said nurse; "but it is bedtime. That's what I've come to say. I couldn't find you anywhere."

She waited for them to pass out before her, and the boys could do nothing but obey, though they felt they had not half talked the matter over, upon which they had been so busily engaged when she interrupted them.

"We can talk in bed," whispered Ivor.

But Evan shook his head. Talking in bed was strictly forbidden, so that Evan, who was an obedient little boy, never thought of such a thing being possible.

"What are you going to spend yours on, Ivor?" asked May, who was in the nursery, sitting by the window.

"We have not decided," answered Evan a little sharply.

May looked surprised at his tone, and said eagerly, "You've never asked what I am going to get—something that will do for us all! I would not say a word till Lucia said we might, and she was so long in that shop that I could not ask her. But she likes it very much, and you can't possibly guess what it is."

"I don't particularly want to," said Evan, full of his own plans, and not interested in hers. "It's sure to be some girl's stuff or other; nothing that boys care about."

Barbara laughed gleefully. "Much he knows, does he, May?" she said.

May looked disappointed, and Evan began to be more sympathetic.

"Well, you can tell us," he condescended at last; "and then we'll see if we think it nice."

But May shook her head now, and would not say.

After breakfast the next morning Lucia and May had a grand confabulation, which ended in their starting together for Windsor to purchase the thing which May had set her heart on. Barbara had volunteered to walk with the others into the wood, so that all was happily arranged for everybody; and the two boys felt they would now have an opportunity to finish their talk in peace and quietness, for nurse would be sure to go to sleep under the trees, and Barbara would be happy with Queenie.

It had cost Barbara a great struggle to offer to stay behind with nurse and the boys. She cast many longing looks over the fields, and almost repented her decision when she remembered afresh what a very lovely thing May was going to get.

The morning dragged rather wearily, especially as the boys kept aloof, and seemed to have something particularly interesting to talk about, from which they evidently wished to exclude her. So that she was very pleased when nurse began to put up her work, and talked of going home to dinner.

When they got back to the cottage, Lucia and May had not returned. But as Barbara stood at the little gate, she heard wheels coming along the road, and she at length saw a little carriage, in which sat both her sisters, smiling and looking very happy.

"Then you've really got it!" she exclaimed, running to their side. "What a darling donkey! What a beauty of a little carriage!"

May jumped out, and threw her arms round Barbara in her joy. "It's the loveliest, loveliest present I ever had!" she exclaimed. "And I've hired it for three months with my very own money!"

Then the boys came rushing out, followed by nurse and Queenie, and even Mrs. Giah, and questions and explanations flew from one to another.

May explained that she had seen a notice yesterday in one of the shops in Windsor of a donkey carriage for hire, and this had put it into her head. What fun they would have! What expeditions, what picnics!

Then the question of a stable occurred to Evan's practical mind, and the whole party ran off to the farmyard to see what available shelter there was, though Lucia smiled and said she and May had not forgotten that before they obtained the carriage.

In the lane, overshadowed by trees, was a large dry cart-shed, where the children played in wet weather, one end of which was closed in as a stable. May and Lucia had inspected this last night, and had decided that nothing could be better for their purpose. Mrs. Giah's son, Garge, as she called him, who milked the cow and kept the pretty garden in order, would see that the donkey had all he wanted. And as for harnessing him, May thought she might even learn to do it herself, but at any rate there were Evan and Ivor.

So, before anybody could think of dinner, Neddy must be housed and fed. "Garge" was fetched from his after dinner nap, and great excitement prevailed.

The little donkey took it all very calmly; hay was as sweet to him there as in Windsor, so long as he had plenty of it. And when the children turned away at last, he did not even raise his head to look after them.

As soon as dinner was done, came the great event of going their first expedition, and nurse thought the children would go mad over it.

At last all were ready. Lucia and nurse promised to walk with them, Barbara was to hold the reins, while May and Evan were to take the first turn of walking, it having been agreed that Neddy certainly should not be asked to pull more than two grown-up people or three children. Besides, the carriage was not intended for more than this.

Perhaps never were happier children than those five, as they proudly escorted Neddy through the wood. Nurse and Lucia smiled to each other as they watched them, and Lucia said—

"I love to see children happy, nurse; they can only have childhood once!"

"Yes, that's true, miss, I'm sure; but folks don't always think that."

"So long as they are good and obedient, I mean; I would not have them spoilt for the world."

CHAPTER IX.

"A SLIP BETWIXT."

FOR a few days the donkey carriage was in everybody's thoughts, and nothing else could be done. They went into the forest again, and spent a whole day there (a happier day than the last, May said, edging up close to Lucia to whisper it), and Neddy could easily draw the basket of provisions, and even the kettle full of the water for their tea.

But though the girls did not seem to tire of roaming about picking flowers, and taking turns in riding in the little carriage; and though Lucia was perfectly happy with her sketching wherever they liked to take her, the two boys had a project which effectually kept them from "settling down," as nurse was wont to call it.

One morning at breakfast, when the plans for the day were being discussed, Evan asked Lucia if he and Ivor might go into Windsor that morning.

"I don't care to walk so far in this heat," exclaimed nurse; "we'd far better stay in the garden to-day."

"We could go alone, couldn't we, Lucia?" asked Ivor.

Lucia looked puzzled; she glanced out of the window, and then back at their little eager faces.

"I do not suppose you could come to any harm," she said; "but I wish you had been happy to stay here to-day."

"Oh, do let us!" coaxed Ivor. "We have been awfully good now, haven't we? Not a bit of trouble; and we will be back by dinner time."

"I should think so!" exclaimed Lucia. "Of course you will, long before that."

The boys discreetly said no more; they considered that this was permission, and would not run the chance of its being revoked.

So, before nurse and Lucia had finished the little housekeeping duties which generally occupied them for a short time, the two boys were well on their way, their money jingling in their pockets, and their hearts beating in anticipation of their "spree."

About half an hour before dinner the happy party on the lawn saw the two boys coming slowly along the road.

"They look tired enough," remarked nurse; "they should have taken my advice, and not have gone on such a day; and footsore too, I do declare! I'm sure Evan is limping."

Lucia ran to meet them. "My dear boys!" she exclaimed. "You have been a long time; what has kept you so long?"

"What have you been doing?" asked Ivor, gazing across the lawn at the rest.

"Nothing particular," answered Lucia, still lingering by Evan. "Have you hurt your foot?"

"Yes, a little; I've sprained it, I think. I slipped over—It's nothing, only my head aches."

"Come indoors," said Lucia, "and I will see to your foot."

"Oh dear no, it's nothing. I'll go indoors and get ready for dinner."

He went, Ivor following as soon as he could get away from his sisters' questions. And they saw no more of them till dinner was on the table.

"Let us hear all you have done," said Lucia, when she had carved round, and could think of anything else. "Where did you go, and what did you do?"

But very little could be got out of them, except that they had been up the Round Tower, and that Evan had slipped on the stairs coming down. What they had bought did not transpire, though Barbara pumped them sufficiently to elicit that they had spent some of their money "on something."

"I 'spect it's sweets," said Queenie, shaking her curls; "that's what made Evan sick."

For Evan tried to eat his dinner, but failed, and had to condescend to lie down, and be made comfortable by nurse.

"It's the sun, I expect," she said to Lucia. "I wish we hadn't let them go, Miss Lucia; you're too easy with them!"

Evan's headache, however, did not pass away.

And by evening Lucia began to fear that something serious was the matter.

They decided to send for the doctor, and when he came, their fears were by no means allayed.

Ivor walked about with misery written on his face. And when at the end of the second day Evan was no better, his distress knew no bounds.

Barbara, passing from the nursery to her room, heard him sobbing in his bed.

She ran in, and began to comfort him in her sweet, motherly little way; but Ivor could not be comforted, and besought her that he might just go in and speak to Evan for one moment.

"We must not; indeed, we must not!" she exclaimed. "The doctor is downstairs, and he says it is a crisis; and if we were to wake him now—"

"But I can't bear it," urged Ivor. "I promised Evan, and I am going to break my promise. I must go and ask Evan first."

"What do you mean?" asked Barbara, drawing back.

"Supposing Evan were to die! I never thought of that! We both promised each other we wouldn't tell; but we never thought of this!"

"Is it something you ought to tell?" asked Barbara, putting her arm round his shoulders.

Ivor nodded.

"Then let's go down and tell Lucia now."

But Ivor held her back. "I must see Evan first," he besought. "If he's asleep, I won't speak a word; but if he's awake, he'll understand. I must peep at him, Barbara. Do let me."

The little girl was terribly frightened, especially as Ivor was already at the door and half-way across the passage. Fear of making matters worse by causing a commotion made her follow him through the half-open door, but no words could express her dismay at what she was made a party to.

There lay Evan in that sort of unconscious sleep which had so alarmed every one, and in the dim, darkened room—surely that was the doctor sitting by the bedside, holding his watch in his hand!

Ivor saw him too, and without a sound the two children crept back to the other room.

CHAPTER X.

A PROMISE.

"IVOR," said Barbara solemnly, "you ought not to have gone like that, not till we had asked Lucia. Now what is it you want to tell?"

Ivor looked first one way and then the other.

"Oh, Barbara, would Evan wish me to? He said I wasn't to till he said; but—if he were to die?"

Barbara took her brother's hand, and knelt down silently by the bed; but she could feel it being drawn away unwillingly.

"Had we not better tell God first, Ivor?"

"I can't—oh, Barbara, we've been so naughty—we ought to have told, and we haven't—"

"Told what? Oh, Ivor! Why don't you now?"

"About having a fall—he fell on his head."

"Ivor!"

"It was the tricycle—"

"Tricycle?" echoed Barbara.

"Yes; we didn't mean to get into any harm. But we saw a jolly one, and we hired it for an hour, and then we ran into a bank, and Evan hurt his head and his foot; and we thought it wasn't much, and we hoped—"

He laid his head down beside her and cried bitterly.

"Do you think he will die?" he sobbed.

"I don't know; but, oh! Do ask God to forgive you for being so deceitful, and then we'll go down and tell Lucia. How can we ask for him to be made well while you haven't told the dear Lord Jesus that you are sorry?"

Ivor threw his arms round her neck.

"I am, Barbara, I am sorry! Oh, do tell God how sorry I am! I'll tell Him too!"

So with broken little words the boy asked forgiveness for their deception, and then he passively let Barbara lead him down to where Lucia sat in the dark, counting the minutes till the doctor should come down to tell her—what?

But when the doctor came down, he had nothing very decisive to say. He reported that Evan was sleeping more naturally, that nurse was with him, and that he would call again in an hour or two, but that the house must be kept perfectly quiet.

Lucia had already taken Ivor back to his room, and now told the doctor of the fall from the tricycle.

He shook his head. "I guessed as much; I thought it was more than the sun," he said, and went out into the moonlight.

As Lucia crossed the little passage, feeling as if she had lived days instead of hours since yesterday, she heard from above a low sound of crying.

Her heart stood still for a moment. Then she ran up noiselessly, and found that it was Queenie crying in her bed, refusing even to be pacified by Barbara's tender comfort.

She had missed her nurse, and receiving no answer to her whispered inquiries about her brother, her resolution had broken down, and she had begun a little wail of woe, which had brought Barbara to her side, just as Lucia heard it too.

Lucia lifted her from her bed, and soothed her in her arms, telling her that Evan was a little better, and that nurse was with him, till the sobs ceased, and the little arms clung round her neck, not only frightenedly, but lovingly.

"Tell me some more," said Queenie.

"Look at the stars, Queenie; see how bright the sky is! The moon is under that cloud, but the stars are shining up in heaven so beautifully. When we are sad, and look at the stars, it ought to make us happy. Shall I tell you why?"

"But nurse says Evan is goin' to die!" said Queenie convulsively. "She said it was Ivor's fault, and—I don't like havin' Evan die!"

"No, dear. But do you know, Queenie, why I want you to look at the stars?"

Queenie gave a quick little glance upward, and then hid her face again in her sister's neck.

"It is because they tell us of God's great love, Queenie! He holds the stars up in the sky, and He holds Evan in His hand too; so we must trust Him, Queenie, because He loves us so much."

Queenie's little lips kissed her over and over, and her arms clung confidingly round her.

"I won't cry any more," she whispered.

"That is right, darling. May I put you back into bed now?"

"Yes."

"I will come and tell you if the doctor says Evan is better. And you can ask God, Queenie. There is nothing so good as telling God."

So Queenie nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes with a peaceful look, and Lucia crept downstairs again, her own heart comforted and cheered.

After the doctor had looked in late that night, Lucia kept her promise, and bent over her little sister's crib.

"Darling!" she whispered.

"Yes?" said Queenie, rousing herself quickly.

"God has made Evan better; the doctor says there is a wonderful change in him these last two hours."

"I'm so d'lad," whispered the child back. "I 'fought He would, Lucia."

CHAPTER XI.

EVAN IS GLAD.

EVAN'S illness made a great impression on the little community at the cottage. It was many days before he was considered well enough to join his brother and sisters, and even then he was very weak, and was carried out under the trees, not caring to exert himself in the least.

Ivor hovered round him, trying to show by his tender attentions how much he regretted his share in the trouble they had got into.

One morning, as Lucia sat by his side with her painting, she saw he was looking at her very earnestly, and bent down to him to hear what he had to say.

"Lucia," he said, looking rather abstractedly up into the tree, and through it to the blue sky beyond, "I've been thinking perhaps we ought to send back that little tricycle, and not use it any more."

"Why, dear?" she answered.

"Because it would serve us right for being so deceitful."

"Yes, I see that; but I am sure you are sorry without any further punishment. You have suffered enough, poor Evan."

"I am sorry; and though I have been very ill, do you know, Lucia, I'm really glad we were not let go in our naughtiness."

"Are you, Evan?"

"Yes, I've had time to think, and you have been so kind, and that night when my head ached so dreadfully, do you remember what you said?"

"Not exactly. I remember I sat by you and tried to comfort you."

"You said, 'Jesus says to you, Evan,—

"'"Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."'"

"I remember that," answered Lucia.

"And I thought I had never come, and I wished I had, and then all in a moment something seemed to say to me, 'Why don't you come now?' and so, Lucia, I came."

"Oh, Evan, that is worth all the accident and trouble, if it has led you to Him!"

Evan nodded. His eyes were full, but he spoke again quickly, winking away his tears with an effort.

"Lucia, you thought it was a great bother to come home to take care of us, didn't you?"

Lucia started and coloured.

"I only felt that for a very little while, Evan. God taught me better than that very soon."

"Well, you never guessed that you could help us so nicely to be good, did you?"

"No," said Lucia humbly.

"So you will not be so sorry now—"

"I am not sorry at all. I am very glad."

"I'm glad," responded Evan heartily. "I never thought how nice it would be to have the Lord Jesus for my very own Saviour."

So the last cloud rolled from Lucia's heart, and that day, as she sat on her favourite wall at the edge of the wood to watch the sunset, she could not but think over the past, and thank God for His kindness in saving her from herself.

When the children were all in bed that night, she wrote to her cousins a brighter letter than she had been able to frame before. At the end she said—

"I was dreadfully unwilling, as you know, to take up my 'trust;' but oh, I cannot tell you how good God has been to me in it, nor how undeserving I feel of all His love. I should like to tell you this, because I am afraid I did not give you a very good idea of what a Christian should be like."

That letter sped on its way. It had cost Lucia a great deal to write it, but it set her cousins thinking, and bore fruit after many days.

Emmie took it to her mother, but did not get much sympathy from her about it.

"I am sorry to see her more religious," she said. "We must have her here again, and make her forget it."

So Emmie carried it to the housekeeper, thinking she would be sure to understand. And so she did.

"It's the best news I've heard for many a day," she exclaimed heartily. "Oh, Miss Emmie, if you did but know it!"

"Perhaps I shall," Emmie answered softly. "I am not satisfied as I am, that's certain!"

"Those that seek Him shall find, dear Miss Emmie!" said the housekeeper earnestly.

CHAPTER XII.

BARBARA'S GIFT.

THE tricycle, however, was returned without any more use. Ivor could not make up his mind to get on it again. "Garge" was commissioned to take it back to Windsor, pay the hire, and for the slight damage done, and there the matter ended.

But when Evan was a little better, the donkey carriage was found of the greatest use, and many hours were spent in the woods, Lucia taking her sketching and Barbara her book and her dog.

For Barbara had found at the cottage two things which gave her intense delight—a puppy which "Garge" was rearing for her father, and a cupboard of books which she discovered one wet day, and from which she brought volume after volume, reading aloud to her brothers and sisters when they could listen, or lying in luxurious loneliness on the wet days in the empty drawing room, buried in some tale of travel such as her heart loved. Thus the time flew away, and the three months were almost gone.

Letters were coming from their father and mother, speaking of their speedy and happy return, which would be very, very soon, and telling too of renewed health and hope for the future.

As Lucia looked out of her window one evening, and remembered the thoughts with which she had stood there three months ago, she could only fall on her knees and thank God that He had not allowed her to go on in her impatience and rebellion. He had enabled her to yield her will to Him, and then had given her back a hundredfold in happiness and peace. For when she looked round at the change in her step-brothers and sisters, her heart melted with thankfulness.

One morning, soon after breakfast, a telegram was put into her hand.

"They are coming to-day—to-day!" she exclaimed, as nurse and children crowded round her. "They are coming here. They ask if we can make room for them."

"Make room for them?" echoed everybody. "Why, if we could squeeze flat—"

"I must telegraph back," began Lucia. "Where do they date from? Why, from Newhaven. They are there, waiting for my answer! Oh, mother! Oh, father!"

And as she put her arm round Evan and supported him to a seat, she realized as never before what a care the care of them had been, and what a relief it was to know it was over.

What a busy morning they had. How Evan even tried to help by cutting the frill for the ham and running the tape through some fresh window-curtains. Lucia noticed that in his eager expectation, some of the fragile look went out of his face, and a sweet, gentle brightness took its place.

At last all was done. Everything was looked over for the last time, and the children decided that nothing was wanting for the perfection of a welcome.

"We will go into the dining room and listen for the wheels," said Ivor. "Evan is there, and we'll be with him."

But the younger girls preferred to go round the house once more with nurse. Barbara was glad to be left alone with Lucia; so Ivor found himself alone with his brother.

"Evan!" he began eagerly. "Do you think father and mother will want to know what we spent it on?"

"Yes," said Evan gravely; "and I mean to tell them directly I have a chance. I shan't burst out with it, but no more underhand doings for me!"

"Oh, no—I didn't mean that—!"

"Ivor, if we belong to the Lord Jesus we have to leave behind all that is wrong."

Ivor nodded earnestly. "I mean to—indeed I do, Evan. I have begun."

Meanwhile Barbara and Lucia were in the drawing room, holding another conversation quite as particular in its results as that.

"They cannot come for an hour at the earliest," said Lucia, looking round the room for something to do.

"Can't you finish that painting? I'll get your apron," coaxed Barbara. "There is time; you said an hour would do it—"

"So I did. Then I will, Barbara, now all is done."

The little girl stood by her in unusual silence, watching her busy brush, but not chatting as she often did.

An hour! The time was slipping away, and before it was over, she must get something said.

At last she flung her arm round her sister's shoulder, and with the other hand poured some bright coins into her lap.

"Whatever is that?" asked Lucia. For somehow the pressure round her neck told that Barbara felt what she was doing very much.

"You know about that money father and mother sent?"

"Yes—"

"They will think I have spent it, and I haven't."

"They will not mind, dear, about spending it if you do not want to."

"But I do want to. You know that book I've been reading by myself all the last days? Well, I never thought of those sort of things before. It's a missionary-book; it tells about the little girls who are married so young in India, and are shut up in houses with no pleasures, no employments, no books, no work, no love, no anything! And, oh, Lucia, I thought—"

Lucia looked up in her face with swimming eyes.

"I thought," pursued Barbara, hiding her face on her sister's shoulder, "that I had so much; and that if I could do anything—I know this isn't much; but, Lucia, they want so much—money, and people to go, and lots of things. But I thought if I sent this now, when I am old enough I might go!"

"Oh, Barbara!"

"Don't you like me to? You would want to go if you had read how sad and desolate they are without ever having heard of a Saviour, and how perfectly different it all is when they know about Him!"

Lucia turned round and clasped the little missionary in her arms.

"Oh, Barbara, Barbara!" she said lovingly.

"You don't think father and mother will mind?"

"Mind losing you by-and-by, do you mean?"

"No; about the money?"

"I feel sure they will not."

And then there was the sound of wheels, and in another moment their father had sprung out of the carriage and was walking up the path almost with his old step.

What an evening that was! How the mother and father looked at their children's faces, wondering to see in them such a chastened gladness as they had never noticed before. Was it Evan's illness? What was it that had made the change?

Barbara, as she gave her mother a good-night hug, gave her the key.

"Mother, we've all been getting nearer to Jesus! Lucia has helped us ever so nicely. She said she'd got nearer herself."

And Lucia went to bed that night with a thankful heart, glowing from her mother's tender words of thanks; for had she not received, even now, more than she had yielded?

The next morning her step-father said at breakfast, "Oh, Lucia, did your mother tell you that you are to go back to Yorkshire and finish that visit? It seems they cannot be satisfied without it; so you are to be off as soon as possible—eh, mother? Now we are home!"

And that was how Lucia's Trust ended. At least, did it end there?

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Table of Contents

- Lucia's Trust.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE