Hidden seed
Date: 2025-08-17T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Teenage girls -- Juvenile fiction; Selfishness -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Hidden seed
or A year in a girl's life

Author: Emma Leslie

Release date: August 17, 2025 [eBook #76694]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Blackie & Son, Limited, 1886

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76694

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIDDEN SEED ***

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

THE NEW DRESS HAD A LARGE INK STAIN ON IT.

HIDDEN SEED:

OR

A YEAR IN A GIRL'S LIFE.

BY

EMMA LESLIE

Author of "Gytha's Message;" "Glacia the Greek Slave;"
"Tom Watkin's Mistake;" &c.

ILLUSTRATED.

Lucem Libris Disseminamus.

LONDON

BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.

GLASGOW AND DUBLIN

CONTENTS.

————

CHAP.

I. A RESOLUTION

II. THE INVITATION

III. THE INKED DRESS

IV. THE SOWER AND THE SEED

V. THE MUSICAL PARTY

VI. A NEW TROUBLE

VII. EXPLANATIONS

VIII. CONCLUSION

HIDDEN SEED:

OR, A YEAR IN A GIRL'S LIFE.

——————

CHAPTER I.

A RESOLUTION.

"I AM fifteen to-day—fifteen," and the speaker rose from her seat near the table and walked to the window that opened upon a pleasant old-fashioned garden. "Mr. Rose said on Sunday that we ought early to form a plan for our life work, and I have formed mine—I mean to be a missionary to the heathen."

At this point she was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the next minute the housemaid appeared.

"If you please, Miss Mabel, your mamma wishes you to begin your music practice now."

"Oh, very well, I'm coming, Ann," said the young lady petulantly. But she turned to the window again and went on talking to herself. "How very tiresome it is of mamma to want me to keep on with these lessons! I am almost a woman now, and of what use will music and German be to me by and by? I don't mean to live a frivolous fashionable life. I mean to be of some use in the world, and I must tell mamma to-day that I have promised to help Mrs. Rose with the work among the poor."

But now there came another interruption, and her sister Mary, a lively girl about twelve years old, bounced into the room, without the ceremony of knocking at the door.

"Now, Mary, go out; this is my room. You know mamma gave it to me to be my own, and you are only to come in when you are invited."

"Humph!" exclaimed Mary, standing still and surveying the whole. "I should call it a den, or an old curiosity shop, or a lumber-room."

In truth, the furniture had, for the most part, been rescued from the lumber-room, and either repaired or their defects cleverly hidden with chintz draperies. Many a happy hour had Mabel and her mother spent in making this little garden-room, as it was called, habitable and pleasant—a place where Mabel could prepare her lessons, free from the distraction of the children or the interruption of callers. This had been Mrs. Randolph's object in giving her elder daughter a room to herself on her fifteenth birthday. But while Mabel tacitly agreed to this, she was thinking that the time for lessons was almost over, and the garden-room would be a place where she could shut herself up and follow her own devices, apart from the rest of the family.

"Now, Mary, do go!" exclaimed Mabel, who was determined to put a stop to these incursions from her sister.

"But mamma sent me," retorted Mary, inquisitively lifting the cover of a cosy-looking chair. "I thought so," she added the next minute, "mamma's old rocking-chair."

"Now, Mary, will you go?" repeated Mabel.

"But mamma sent me to fetch you to practise."

"I told Ann I was coming, and that was sufficient," replied Mabel haughtily. And she walked towards the door, but took care that Mary should go out first.

"Mamma, I do think you might let me have an hour to myself in my own room and on my birthday, too," exclaimed Mabel in an aggrieved tone, as she entered the dining-room where Mrs. Randolph was sitting busy at work.

"My dear Mabel, do you know the time? It is a quarter to twelve, and you have been undisturbed in your room since breakfast-time. Have you finished that German exercise, dear?" she added.

"No, mamma. I have been thinking it is mere waste of time for me to go on learning German. I don't mean to be a frivolous, fashionable young lady."

"I hope not, indeed, Mabel," said her mother quietly.

"Then what is the use of my spending so much time over the music now? I can play pretty well, and that is enough, I think."

"But your father is fond of music, dear, and is particularly anxious that you and Mary should both be good German scholars. It may be useful to you by and by, he thinks."

"Not to me, mamma," said Mabel decidedly. "If it was Chinese, or some other heathen language, it might be. For I have quite made up my mind to be a missionary."

Mrs. Randolph smiled.

"My dear, the question of your being a missionary can be left for the present, I think. The duty lying nearest to us is the one God asks us to perform, and—"

"Yes, mamma, I have been thinking of that too," said Mabel impetuously. "I have been thinking it all over this morning sitting in my dear little room. And as I have promised Mrs. Rose to help her in her work among the poor in that new district near the church, I might as well begin at once with the work that is nearest."

"But, my dear, is that work the nearest?" asked her mother seriously.

"What! Having a tract district, and teaching a Sunday-school class, and helping at the Dorcas meeting close to my own home? Surely, mamma, that work lies nearest, and will be a good preparation for a missionary life?"

"But what of the duties at home? I have been thinking, Mabel, that, now you are fifteen, you might take some share in the housekeeping. You might go to cook for an hour's instruction every morning. It is not every one I could trust you to learn under, but cook is an old and faithful servant, and could teach you as well as I could."

But Mabel did not look at all pleased at this proposal.

"What with kitchen work and German, I should not have a minute to myself," she said. "Oh, mamma, I really do want to serve God now!" she said earnestly, her eyes filling with tears.

"My dear, you seem to think that everyday duties lie altogether outside the service of God. But it is in the spirit in which these are done, much more than in the quantity of other work, that the service of God consists. But, of course, if you have promised to help Mrs. Rose you must do so, only do not undertake too much."

At this point Mrs. Randolph was called away, and Mabel went to practise her much-despised music lesson. She got through it as quickly as she could, and then, without waiting to see her mother again, hurried out to keep her appointment with Mrs. Rose.

The minister's wife had too often to deplore the unwillingness of young ladies to employ their leisure in any useful occupation, not to receive with readiness Mabel's proffered help. And so before she returned home, she had engaged to take a junior class in the Sunday-school, visit a poor district and distribute tracts, and work for the Dorcas society, although it was with the greatest difficulty her mother could induce her to help with the needlework at home. In truth, Mrs. Randolph did not look very pleased when she heard how much her daughter had undertaken, but she only said quietly:

"My dear Mabel, I hope you will remember that your father wishes you to continue your lessons for the present."

"I shall not forget, mamma. You shall not have to complain that I neglect my home duties," said Mabel stiffly.

In spite of what her mother had said in the morning, she expected her news would have been received with the warmest approval, and she was hurt and disappointed that her mother looked so coldly upon her scheme of usefulness. She retired to her own room feeling very much ill-used, and talked to herself about home persecution until she was summoned to tea.

After tea, a few friends came to spend the evening with her. But altogether it was a disappointing birthday, and she had looked forward to it with so much eagerness. For she had determined that it should be the beginning of a new life to her, and here she was thwarted and hindered at the very outset, just where she expected to receive the most help, too.

These were Mabel's thoughts when she awoke the next morning, but she resolved to persevere. She would not be disheartened by the first difficulty. She would commence her district work that very day. And when her mother saw that she was thoroughly in earnest, she would no longer disapprove of her plans.

Mabel had her own views about district visiting, as she had about most other things, and after breakfast, instead of going to her own sitting-room, she turned out an old dress from her wardrobe that had not seen the light of day for nearly a year. It was a gray that had not worn well as to colour, for it was faded to a yellow in some places and a dull green in others. But Mabel had decided the previous day that this was just the dress for visiting among the poor. And although she looked rather rueful at its creased and tumbled appearance, she would not give it up. An old jacket of another colour, and her garden hat, completed her costume. And Mabel thought, with pride, that no one could accuse her of a love of finery, or that she taught her poor people to dress above their station.

Armed with a bundle of tracts and a note-book, Mabel set forth. And nurse, catching a glimpse of her at the back as she left the door, thought the laundress had sent a message about the washing.

"It was not Miss Mabel I saw," she remarked when the housemaid told her that no message had come from the laundress, but that Miss Mabel had gone out.

At dinner-time, however, Mr. Randolph asked rather sharply where Mabel had gone to in that masquerade dress, for he had caught a glimpse of her going through the town, and it annoyed him exceedingly.

"It will set everybody talking about us, and discussing our affairs, and I begged you to do nothing that could bring our name before the public," he said to his wife in a tone of anger.

He was worried and anxious about business matters, or he would not have spoken so irritably, or have fancied that such a trifle could awaken people's attention to their concerns.

Mabel, too, came in cross and out of humour. The people in Fisher's Rents had not overwhelmed her with gratitude, and some had even refused to look at her tracts. And so when her father scolded her for disgracing him by walking through the town like a beggar girl, she felt she was greatly ill-used and misunderstood.

Poor Mabel! She was to be pitied, for she had done it all with the best of motives, and had only received angry looks and hard words for her pains. Her mother sympathized with her in spite of the vexation she felt, and after dinner said a few comforting words to her, at the same time pointing out that she must not wear the obnoxious dress again, and that she was afraid she had undertaken too much work for her strength.

"Go and rest in your own room for half an hour, and then come and practise the duet with Mary," said Mrs. Randolph as she left her.

And Mabel went to her room to recall again the vexatious events of the morning, until she was summoned by Mary to take her place at the piano.

"It really is very tiresome that mamma should fix upon this duet," she said in a complaining tone. But recalling her promise and resolution that none of her home duties should be neglected, she went with her sister without further grumbling.

But as the weeks went on, she forgot her promise about these home duties, shut herself up more and more in her own room, or went out to visit her district, but never had time to help the children with their lessons, sew on a button, or mend a glove when she was asked. Her temper too had not improved. She had grown sharp and querulous under the strain, and at last she began to see this herself, and had resolved to alter it.

She woke up one morning with the full determination of being less snappish to everybody, and went to the nursery to warm her hands before going down-stairs full of amiable feelings.

But unfortunately the nursery fire had not burned up, and Mabel made some remark about this.

Turning sharply round, nurse said, "Don't come here finding fault, Miss Mabel. If you worry your poor mamma to death, you shall not worry me, so please leave the nursery."

"I shall not leave the nursery. What do you mean, nurse, by saying I worry mamma?" she angrily demanded.

"Because I see my poor mistress fretted and worried and ill for want of a little help that you could and ought to give her. And yet you go out day after day seeking your own pleasure, when you ought to be at home."

"I am not seeking my own pleasure, nurse. You know that, and mamma knows it too," retorted Mabel.

"I don't know. You go to please yourself. I know that for I heard your mamma ask you yesterday to stay and help Miss Mary with her music, but you would persist in going out."

"I was obliged to go," she said. But she would not condescend to make any further explanations, but walked angrily down-stairs.

"Mamma, what do you mean by saying I worry you to death?" she said as she entered the breakfast-room.

Her father had come in behind her, just in time to hear the question. And without giving Mrs. Randolph time to reply, he ordered Mabel to leave the room for speaking to her mother in such a disrespectful manner.

In truth Mabel was heartily ashamed of herself the moment the words were spoken, and she burst into tears and went to her room crying bitterly.

"Was there ever such a miserable girl!" she sobbed, sitting down at the table and coveting her face with her hands.

In a few minutes, her breakfast was brought by the housemaid, but Mabel did not want any this morning. She pushed the tray aside as soon as the servant had gone, and once more buried her face in her hands.

"What am I to do?" she sobbed. "I do want to serve God, and make sure that I am a Christian indeed, and not in name only. I am sure I am in earnest, and yet nothing but trouble seems to follow what I do. And then the work is not so pleasant as I expected to find it. The girls in my Sunday class are often tiresome and disobedient, and people take my tracts as though they did not care whether they had them or not. And I never did like needlework, so that the sewing class and the Dorcas garments I bring home to finish are often a real trouble to me. I think I shall have to give it all up."

And then Mabel lifted her head, and the fragrance of the coffee proved too strong a temptation to be resisted any longer, and to her own vexation she found that she could eat her breakfast after all.

——————

CHAPTER II.

THE INVITATION.

AFTER breakfast Mabel sat down and wrote a letter to Mrs. Rose, saying she must give up all the work she had undertaken, for she was not fit to do it. But before the letter was finished, her mother came into the room, and Mabel instantly handed it to her.

Mrs. Randolph smiled as she read it.

"Impulsive as usual, Mabel," she said. "But I do not think Mrs. Rose ought to be made the victim of it to this extent, my dear."

"What do you mean, mamma? I thought you wished me to give up all outside work," exclaimed Mabel.

"I did not wish you to undertake it, my dear, but having done so, you cannot throw it up for a mere whim, a mere caprice. Go and see Mrs. Rose, and tell her you have undertaken too much, and ask her to relieve you of the visiting and the Dorcas work, but continue your Sunday-school class for the present."

Mabel did not look very pleased.

"I thought you wanted me to devote my time to helping you, mamma," she said rather crossly.

"My dear, I do wish you to help me, for I am anxious to lessen the household expenses as much as I can." And Mrs. Randolph spoke very earnestly.

"Mamma, what is it? What is the matter?" asked Mabel, noticing the change in her mother's voice.

"Perhaps it is better you should know it," said Mrs. Randolph with a sigh, "but I do not wish to burden you with care and anxiety. Only, if you understand exactly how things are, Mabel, you will be the more ready to help—the more willing to do whatever your father thinks will be best for the future."

"But, mother, what is it?" asked Mabel in alarm, instantly jumping to the conclusion that they were on the verge of ruin. "Are—are we ruined?" she gasped.

Mrs. Randolph could not help laughing at her impulsive daughter.

"Not quite so bad as that, Mabel," she said. "But business is not improving—it is growing less and less every year, while our household expenses are increasing."

"Then, mamma, what are we to do?" said Mabel.

"That is the question your father and I often ask each other—How are the children to be educated, and household expenses curtailed? And it cannot be done without your help, Mabel."

"Oh, mamma, how can I do anything?" asked Mabel earnestly.

"Well, dear, at present I am afraid you can only help us by being as diligent as you can with your own lessons, that you may be able to teach Mary and the others by and by, so as to save us the expense of a governess and masters," said Mrs. Randolph.

Mabel looked greatly disappointed.

"Only teach Mary and the children!" she said.

"My dear, it will be a great help to us—a great relief to me, when you can take this work off my hands. You might begin with some of the easy lessons now, if you wish. But I do not want to burden you while you are still learning yourself." But as she said it, Mrs. Randolph looked wistfully at her daughter, hoping she would offer to hear the children some of their lessons.

But Mabel was in no hurry to undertake the post of governess to her little sisters. She craved some greater work than this, and she said:

"Mamma, couldn't I do something else?"

"Something else, Mabel!" repeated Mrs. Randolph. "What could a girl of fifteen do? But I must not stay talking any longer," she hastily added, "for Mary and the children will be waiting for me."

Again she cast a wistful, lingering look at Mabel, hoping she would offer to take the children's lessons this morning.

But Mabel was feeling too vexed and disappointed to look at her mother, but sat toying with the pen she had been using until her mother left the room. Then she leaned her head down and burst into tears.

"It is hard," she sobbed. "I do want to be useful, and yet it seems that I am not to do anything except learn lessons."

She tore up the letter she had written to Mrs. Rose, and then wrote another, saying she must give up all her work but the Sunday-school class. For, truth to tell, she shrank from going to see either the rector or his wife just now, as her mother had suggested.

When the letter was written, she took out a German exercise and sat down to study it, but soon fell to thinking over what her mother had told her concerning her father's business, and from this she began wishing she could have the assistance of first-class masters like her cousin Isabel had. But then there was all the difference in their circumstances, for while her uncle was every year growing richer, it seemed that they were only getting poorer as time went on. And yet it did seem hard. The more she thought of it, the harder it seemed. For while her cousin had all these educational advantages, she would never need to use them as Mabel herself would, for she had always heard that her aunt was a fashionable, fine lady, without a thought beyond her dress and her dinners and the furnishing of her house, and so Isabel's proficiency in music and languages would be no more than an extra adornment of no real service to herself or anybody else. And Mabel heaved a sigh of envy as she turned to her book again.

"It is such awful drudgery doing this alone. Mamma thinks because I had a year or two of it at school, I ought to be able to read both French and German fluently," she grumbled.

But help in this work was nearer than she thought—nearer, perhaps, than she altogether desired. The next evening when Mr. Randolph came home, he brought with him a letter which he had that day received from his brother, Isabel's father, proposing that Mabel should come and share Isabel's lessons for a year, by way of finishing her education.

"What do you think of it?" he asked eagerly as Mrs. Randolph handed back the letter.

It was evident that he was pleased with his brother's proposal, and expected his wife would be the same. "It will be a capital thing for her, I think. For if the worst should come to the worst, and she should have to go out as a governess by and by, she will find it very useful."

Mrs. Randolph looked anxiously at her husband as she said, "I hope this will not be necessary, John."

"Well, I hope not, and I do not think it will. But still, we agreed the other day that Mabel should teach Mary and the little ones, and for this she will need some further instruction herself, and so Henry's offer is really most opportune."

"And you think we ought to accept it for Mabel," said Mrs. Randolph, wondering whether it would be wise to send Mabel to a home where wealth and luxury reigned—whether this would be a wise arrangement for such a girl as Mabel.

Before deciding the matter in her own mind, she resolved to talk to Mabel about it. And so after the children had gone to bed, and while Mr. Randolph was busy over some accounts, she went to Mabel's room and told her of the offer made by her uncle.

"But you will not let me go, mamma?" said Mabel quickly.

"I scarcely know what to do under existing circumstances," said her mother with a sigh.

"But aunt is a gay, fashionable lady, and I should grow worldly too, if—"

"My dear, you may grow worldly in any society. Do not think that worldliness is confined to the frivolous and fashionable people. Certainly if I thought by allowing you to go to your aunt's, it would foster this tendency in you, I would not let you go for all the educational advantages in the world. But there is no necessity for this if you watch and pray against it, and that is what I want to talk to you about, my dear. It will be a great advantage to you to have a year's teaching under good masters, and no one can tell what you may need by and by, and so your father, I know, is very anxious that you should go."

"But aunt is a mere fine lady, I have heard father say," objected Mabel.

"That is probably the fault of her education, and can be no excuse for you. Indeed, Mabel, you will never have the opportunity of being a mere fine lady, so there is some comfort in being poor," concluded Mrs. Randolph with a slight smile.

But Mabel did not smile.

"Mamma, I am afraid I should like it," she said seriously.

"Like to be a fine lady! Well, perhaps you would—I am afraid you would, if the temptation ever came in your way. But it is never likely to come, my dear. The world will claim work at your hands as the price of your right to live in it."

"But I might grow worldly and frivolous."

"Yes, under any circumstances, in any society, you might become worldly; and a worldly woman is the saddest sight under heaven. But now let us understand what this word means. For as I understand it, the poorest as well as the richest may fall into this, and it is by no means confined to the gay fashionable world, as so many imagine. Shorn of its outward surroundings, worldliness is just another name for selfishness. Our own advantage, a pushing of our own claims, a desire and effort to outshine our neighbours and friends, are all so many forms of worldliness and selfishness; and these may be indulged, and often are, I am sorry to say, by religious people and even in religious work."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Mabel.

"I know it by experience, Mabel. I once wanted to reprove a young friend for her love of dress, and so I had my winter bonnet made as dowdy as I well could. And, oh, how proud I was of that bonnet! What hard, uncharitable thoughts I indulged concerning those who wore a bit of bright ribbon! And I thought I ought to be noticed and held up as a pattern. I don't think I ever was so worldly before or since as I was while I wore that exemplary bonnet. And this spirit of worldliness may be carried into anything, spoiling the divinest service. While, if it is one's duty to mix in fashionable society, it may be done—it is done—without contracting a taint of worldliness. For there are those for whom our Master's prayer is constantly being fulfilled, and they are kept 'unspotted from the world.' So you see, my dear, it is the spirit we cultivate in ourselves that determines whether we are worldly or unworldly, and not the outward circumstances of our life."

"But, mamma, outward circumstances do make some difference," said Mabel.

"If we allow them to conquer us, Mabel, it will make all the difference. But we are not sent here to be the slave of circumstances, but to struggle and grow stronger for the fight. Now about your visit, dear. You will have to make up your mind before you go, to strive against yielding to the envious and perhaps covetous feelings that are pretty sure to arise in your heart, if they are not fought against and overcome. This is the form of worldliness you will be specially tempted to yield to, and not that of gay, fashionable society. For you and Isabel will spend most of your time in the school-room, I expect."

"Then you think, mamma, I ought to go?" said Mabel.

"Your father does, my dear, and—and if you were a little less impulsive, a little more willing to yield your own will and your own way, I should think it would be a splendid opportunity for you," said her mother.

"Then you are afraid of me, mother?" said Mabel in a half-offended tone.

"Mabel, dear, I don't want to speak harshly. I know you are full of good intentions, and I believe you desire, above all things, to make your life a useful one, but still I am afraid for you—afraid of the wilfulness and impulsiveness lest they should lead you into irreparable mischief."

Mabel sat with downcast eyes, twisting the corner of her apron.

"Oh, mamma!" she gasped. "I have been trying ever since my birthday to be of some use in the world."

"I know you have, dear, only you have made a mistake as to which part of the world you ought to begin at. Be sure of this, dear, that our duty lies in the work that is nearest to us. When we have done that, if we have time and opportunity for more, then we may do it. But home duties should have our first care and attention under any circumstances."

"And yet, mamma, you think I ought to go away from home?" exclaimed Mabel.

"Yes, dear, as it will fit you for greater usefulness at home. And who can tell what duty may lie before you with your cousins? Try to think that God may have some work for you to do there besides learning lessons and improving yourself."

"But it won't be pleasant, mamma, to go there as a poor relation. If I could have plenty of new dresses and money and other things, I should like to go, but—but—"

And Mabel burst into tears and went out of the room, leaving her mother greatly disconcerted and perplexed. She went back to the dining-room, where she found her husband had so far settled the matter that he had written a letter accepting his brother's offer concerning Mabel, which he handed to his wife, remarking, as he did so, that Mabel had better have some new dresses made before she went away.

He was by no means inclined to take his daughter's wishes into consideration in the matter. The offer was too good to be declined, and so Mabel must accept it whether she liked it or not. This was her father's way of looking at it, and Mrs. Randolph found that she was expected to acquiesce in the arrangement. It was as well, perhaps, that it was so, for secretly Mabel scarcely knew her own mind upon the matter. But when her father talked about the new dresses the next morning, and advised that she should go with her mother to choose them, the last of Mabel's opposition faded, and she was as eager to go on the shopping expedition as she had been to commence district visiting.

The dresses were chosen, and a dressmaker engaged to come and help make them up, and Mabel's study was turned into a workroom for the time being.

"Now, Mabel, you had better take your lessons and do them with Mary, for fear the ink should be spilled on the work," said her mother, as she opened some of the parcels and pushed Mabel's writing aside.

"Oh, mamma, be turned out of my own room!" gasped Mabel.

"Not at all, my dear. I hope you will get your lessons done as quickly as you can, and come and help with the work. There is plenty to do, I can assure you."

Mabel took the pens and ink out of the way, but she secretly determined to clear a little corner of the table for herself the next day, where she could write her exercise without interfering with the work. The dressmaker would be there, but she would not mind. And Mabel carried out her intention, risking the spotting of her new dresses with ink rather than peril her dignity by sitting down to lessons with her younger sisters.

She managed to get through her work without spilling a drop of ink. But just as she had finished, she was called away. And the dressmaker wanting the room occupied by her exercise-book, put it aside with the pen, but did not see the bottle of ink, and forgot to look for it. And when Mabel came back, she thought no more of it than the dressmaker did.

——————

CHAPTER III.

THE INKED DRESS.

MABEL was willing enough to take her share of the home duties now, even to sitting down to sow under the direction of the dressmaker. But as she was turning over the things on the crowded table that afternoon in search of her thimble, she came upon the overturned ink-bottle, and exclaimed, "Who has done this? Who has had the ink here?"

"You had it yourself, Miss Mabel," said the dressmaker. "No one else has used ink in this room."

"But—but I put it away," she said, trying to remember whether she had done so.

"I don't know, I'm sure, miss. I moved the book and pen because they were in my way, but I don't remember seeing the ink."

While they were talking, Mabel was looking under the pile of work to see whether any mischief had been done, and now she saw with consternation, that her new claret merino dress had a large ink stain upon it.

"Oh dear, what shall I do?" she said in affright, unfolding the roll of merino, and seeing that the large ink stain had soaked through fold after fold.

The dressmaker looked scarcely less concerned. "What will your mamma say?" she exclaimed. "The dress is quite spoiled; it can never be made up as it is."

Mabel burst into tears as she looked at her ruined dress. "Can nothing be done with it?" she said. "The ink is not quite dry. Don't you think we might get it out somehow?"

But the dressmaker shook her head.

And at this moment Mrs. Randolph herself came into the room.

"What is the matter?" she asked, seeing Mabel in tears. But the next minute she saw the ink stains on the bright-coloured merino lying in her lap. "Oh dear, who has done that?" she exclaimed.

"Well, it has just been lying on the table, ma'am," said the dressmaker, anxious to spare Mabel as much as she could.

But both knew well enough how it had been done.

And Mabel said through her tears, "I have been writing here, and must have left the ink on the table, and it got covered over with some of the things and upset."

"Dear, dear me! I told you, Mabel, to do your lessons with the others, and not to use the ink in this room while the work was about. What can we do with it, Miss Simpson? The ink has gone through every fold."

"Well, ma'am, I've been thinking if I took it at once to the dyer's, he might be able to get it out, as it is not quite dry, or dye it a colour that will not show the stain."

"I am afraid it is the only thing we can do with it," said Mrs. Randolph, still examining the merino. "Will you put your bonnet on at once and take it? Ask him to keep it the same colour if possible," added the lady.

"Oh, yes, I sha'n't like any other colour," said Mabel, wiping her eyes when she saw there might be a way out of the dilemma.

"You can scarcely have any choice in this, I am afraid," said her mother severely. "The stuff must be dyed any colour it will take, so as best to erase the ink stains. You should have thought of this, if you did not of my wishes, before you sat down to your lessons."

When Miss Simpson came back, it was with the message that the only colour it could be dyed, after the ink stains had been partially removed, so as to hide all marks of these, was brown.

"Oh, I don't want another brown dress!" exclaimed Mabel. "You are making one, Miss Simpson."

"Just what I told them, but the dyer said it would be impossible to make it look nice in any other colour than a very dark brown."

"Then it must be done," said Mrs. Randolph with a sigh. "It's of no use grumbling, Mabel. You will have to wear two brown dresses now instead of having a change of colour."

But although she spoke severely, reminding her daughter that it was entirely owing to her own wilfulness that the accident had occurred, she nevertheless so far pitied Mabel that she gave her a light silk dress of her own to be cleaned, turned, and altered. For the spoiling of the merino would reduce her outfit to great monotony of colour, and they could not justly afford to lay out more than they were doing on her wardrobe just now.

The making, altering, and preparing Mabel's dresses occupied some little time, and so it was decided that she should not go to Glenavon until after Christmas, when her father would be able to take her on his way to see a gentleman on important business, whom he was anxious to consult.

Mabel wore one of her unfortunate brown dresses to travel in. It was a perpetual reminder of her own self-will and disobedience, but I am afraid it rather vexed and annoyed her than led her to resolve upon any severe struggle with it for the future. And this vexation increased when she arrived at her uncle's house, and saw how much larger and finer it was than even she had ever supposed.

The carriage had been sent to meet them at the station. And as they drove up, she thought how much she should enjoy all this luxury. But on arriving at her uncle's house, the thought of the other brown dress in her box made her feel uncomfortable at once, and she wondered how she would look going up and down that broad staircase, perpetually wearing brown dresses.

The thought that she "might" be treated as a poor relation made her draw herself up and assume an air of haughtiness, so that her aunt was not altogether to blame for the coolness of the welcome she received. It was not in the elder Mrs. Randolph's nature to be affectionate, even to her own children. She was proud of her elder daughter, and just now fully occupied in efforts to secure her an entrance into the best society in the county, and make her a social success.

By and by, when Isabel was old enough, she would be quite as willing to do the same for her younger daughter, but meanwhile Isabel was left very much to her own devices and the care of the various masters who had taken the place of a governess in directing her studies. That she could want more than this—facilities for following her sister's example in making herself an ornament to society—never entered her mother's head.

"Isabel's turn will come by and by," she said sometimes when reminded of her younger daughter's wants or wishes.

And so it was scarcely to be expected that she would accord a very warm welcome to a niece she had scarcely seen before.

Isabel was too shy and Mabel's manner much too haughty for their greeting to be very warm. But Isabel had heard from her father about her aunt and cousin, and how eager Mabel was to make her life useful instead of merely ornamental—how she had tried to help the poor by visiting them, and teaching in a Sunday-school, all which news had given gentle, timid Isabel a very exalted idea of her cousin. And so far from resenting her rather haughty demeanour, she wished she could behave with such coolness and dignity, and not feel such a strong wish to throw her arms round everybody's neck who was at all kind to her.

She took her cousin to her room, which was near her own.

And Mabel instantly saw that loving hands had prepared a welcome for her here, although her reception had been so cold down-stairs. A bright little fire was burning in the grate, a cosy low chair was drawn up to it, with a table on which stood a vase of choice flowers.

"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Mabel, bending over them, and forgetting all her dignified stiffness.

"You like flowers. I am glad of that," said Isabel timidly.

"You prepared this sweet surprise for me," said Mabel, turning to Isabel. "Oh, thank you, thank you, dear." And the tears stood in Mabel's eyes as she stooped and kissed her cousin. "It is foolish, you will think," said Mabel, hastily brushing the tears aside, "but this has made me think of mamma; it is just the sort of thing she would have done. I shall always love this room now, and think of your welcome to me here."

"I want you to tell me about your mother by and by. Papa says she is such a noble woman," said Isabel.

"Well, this room is like her. I could almost fancy she had been here getting it ready for me," said Mabel.

But Isabel shook her head. "I got it ready," she said, "all but lighting the fire, and the housemaid did that."

"Yes, dear, I know none but loving hands could have made everything look so nice. Do you think we might have a cup of tea together here, instead of going down-stairs?" she ventured to ask.

"We will have it in the next room. See, this is our sitting-room," and she led the way through an opposite door into a larger room beyond. "My bed-room is on the opposite side, and opens into this, the same as yours. Julia used to have your room. But since she has grown up, and goes to so many parties and balls, and don't learn lessons, she has a room near mamma, with a dressing-room to herself."

"And this is where we shall learn our lessons," said Mabel, gazing round the handsomely-furnished room, almost equal to their drawing-room at home, with its pictures and piano, and vases of fresh-cut flowers.

"Do you like lessons?" asked Isabel.

Mabel was a little puzzled how to answer the question. At length she said, "I don't think I do—at least, not now, for I want to be of some use in the world. I want to go abroad and be a missionary by and by, and I sha'n't want any fine learning to teach the heathen to read the Bible."

"No, I suppose not," said Isabel, with a little gasping sigh, and looking at Mabel with something like awe, as she thought of her exalted aims. "I am afraid I have never thought about the heathen," she added. "Perhaps you will tell me about them by and by."

But Mabel was busy examining a watercolour sketch on the wall, and did not notice her cousin's question. "This is very pretty," she said—"I am so fond of drawing and painting. Is it yours?"

"No, that is one of Julia's. Nothing of mine will ever be worth framing, I am afraid, for I like music best, and care very little for sketching. But I am glad you like it, for it will give Mr. Gibson so much pleasure to teach you."

"Oh, shall I really have lessons in painting too?" exclaimed Mabel.

And then she seated herself in a low luxurious chair by the fire, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of her surroundings, while Isabel went to ask that tea might be brought up to their own room.

While they were at tea, the two girls chatted over their plans for the future, during which Mabel learned that her uncle filled a large share of his younger daughter's heart. That it was for "papa" that Isabel took so much pains with her music, because to hear her play often soothed him when he came home tired of an evening, and his wife and elder daughter were out.

"It rests him more than anything when he is very much worried," said Isabel; "and sometimes when I play, as I often do, in a minor key, it helps him to go to sleep."

Mabel looked as though she thought this a very poor compliment—a very questionable aim to study music for. And she began to think her cousin must be a poor insignificant little thing to be satisfied with such a result. "I don't think that would quite please me," she said aloud.

"But if it was the only thing you could do for your father, you would not think so," said Isabel quickly. "You see, I don't know anything about being useful. Cook knows just what he likes for dinner, so I cannot help that way, and the upper housemaid sews on all the buttons neater than I could, so there is nothing else left for me to do."

"No, I suppose not," said Mabel in a pitying tone, "but still I think we ought to have an aim in life, and to aim high."

"I am afraid I have not thought much about such things," said Isabel with something of a sigh, "but papa said you would be able to help me in many ways, and so you must tell me what I ought to do."

But at this moment there came an interruption. A servant came to summon Mabel down-stairs, for her father was going, as he wanted to reach the end of his journey that night. And when she came back again, there was the work of unpacking to be done. Mabel learned that there was a young servant whose special work it was to wait upon them, and do anything they might require, and she was not slow in availing herself of this help, although Isabel eagerly pressed to be allowed to assist.

"No, no, dear. Ann can help me just as well. She can reach the pegs in the wardrobe even better than you, I think."

For Isabel was not only slight and frail-looking, but short for her age too. Another but unconfessed reason was that it was a new and altogether unexpected pleasure to Mabel to have a maid at her own disposal, and she was not slow to avail herself of the full benefit of her service. When the unpacking was done, and the boxes carried away, Mabel sat down by the fire and bade Ann brush out her hair and plait it up afresh, before she put on another dress in readiness to go down-stairs.

Isabel had changed hers, putting on a pretty dark silk, and Mabel felt that she must put on the light silk that had been intended for state occasions. So the companion brown merino that had been laid out on the bed in readiness was put away and the other donned in its stead. And Mabel felt and looked quite radiant in her pale blue glace, trimmed with white lace.

When they entered the dining-room together, a displeased frown crossed Mrs. Randolph's face. And Julia stared at her cousin as though she was not quite sure of her identity. But her uncle made some kindly inquiries as to how she felt after her long journey.

But it was an intense relief to Mabel when dinner was over and they were free to retire to the drawing-room.

But it soon became evident that something had displeased both Mrs. Randolph and Julia. And Mabel surmised that she must have displeased them, for they never spoke a word to her the whole evening, but allowed her to sit and turn over an album of photographic views without taking the slightest notice of her.

Now the fact was, she had raised a storm of anger and suspicion in her aunt's mind by wearing such a pretty dress. To the jealous watchful mother, this seemed like an attempt to put herself on a level with Julia at once, and she resolved to thwart it. So she told her daughter to take no notice of her cousin, while Isabel slipped away to spend the evening with her father in his study, leaving, as she thought, her cousin and sister to become mutually acquainted with each other.

Poor Mabel! She felt ready to cry with mortification before the evening was half over, for there sat her aunt toying with a piece of fancy work, but never speaking a word, while Julia reclined in a low chair reading a novel, and utterly ignoring her presence. How dreary that grand drawing-room looked to Mabel in spite of its splendid satin furniture and luxurious lounges, and costly and elegant trifles that everywhere abounded! She grew tired of looking at photographic views very soon, and then took to looking round the room. Then she ventured to cross over and look at her aunt's work, and timidly put a question about it, but Mrs. Randolph gave a short answer and at once folded up her work and took a book that was lying near.

Thus repulsed, Mabel could only return to her seat and yawn through the next hour, until Isabel came from the study to announce that it was time to go to bed, and bid her mother and sister good-night.

It was an unutterable relief to Mabel to escape from the presence of her aunt, and yet she somehow resented the idea of being sent up to bed in this summary fashion. She felt hurt and angry, too, at the treatment she had received. And so her farewell to Isabel before she went to her own room was not so warm and cordial as they otherwise would have been. And gentle, sensitive Isabel was sent to bed with an aching heart and a dim foreboding that her cousin would not love her after all.

——————

CHAPTER IV.

THE SOWER AND THE SEED.

THE next day Mrs. Randolph announced that the "young ladies," meaning Isabel and Mabel, would dine in the middle of the day, and do their lessons in their own room in the evening instead of coming down to the drawing-room. Now, although Mabel's experience of an evening in the drawing-room was anything but a pleasant one, she was by no means pleased at such an escape being provided for her.

"Why should the usual arrangements be altered on my account?" she asked Isabel somewhat resentfully.

But Isabel could only shake her head, for she was inwardly wondering why this change had been made.

"Perhaps mamma thinks you would like it better," she said.

But Mabel gave her head an indignant shake of denial.

"No, no; it is not for that reason. But I can guess why it is done." And Mabel drew herself up and put on her haughtiest airs, as she reflected that she was to be treated as a poor relation.

"Never mind, dear; we can be very happy here—happier, I think, than we should be in the drawing-room. I should like it better, I am sure, if—if—" And then Isabel hesitated, and the tears slowly filled her eyes.

"Yes, I know," said Mabel indignantly.

Isabel looked at her cousin through her tears. "Perhaps papa will come up here to us sometimes," she said.

Mabel looked as though she did not understand. "Uncle come up here!" she said.

"Why should he come?"

"Because we are not to go down. It is the only thing I care for. I shall scarcely see papa all day else. For it is not often we have an evening in the library like we did last night."

Mabel made no reply, but she felt a little ashamed of her anger, and she likewise hoped that her uncle would interfere and prevent this plan being carried out, as it would grieve Isabel so much.

They were not to commence lessons for a few days, and so Isabel proposed that they should go and see her old nurse, who lived in a pretty cottage in the village. And when they were dressed for their walk, Isabel noticed for the first time that her cousin was always dressed in brown.

"That is your favourite colour, I suppose," she said, looking rather deprecatingly at her own bright blue dress.

"No, I hate it now." And she told Isabel of the unfortunate accident that had compelled her to wear two brown dresses. "I shall have nothing but these all the winter," she concluded, "and I hate them already."

"Oh! But you need not do that, for they look very nice, I think." And as she spoke, Isabel formed a little plan in her own mind to reconcile her cousin to her dull-coloured dresses.

The visit to nurse's cottage was always a pleasant one to Isabel, and now the old woman had some news to impart and gladly welcomed her young lady.

"I'm going to have a lodger, my dear," she said, when Isabel had been duly presented and the usual inquiries had been made.

"Oh, nurse, a lodger!" exclaimed Isabel.

"Yes, my dear. She is a distant sort of cousin and an old woman like myself, and so it will be a bit of company for me. Now, my deary, take care and wrap yourself up well when you come out. You see, Miss Mabel, your cousin is delicate. How is your cough now, deary?"

"Oh, just about the same, nurse," said Isabel, looking up from her attentions to the cat who sat purring on her lap.

"Well, dear, mind you tell your mamma if it gets the least bit worse," said nurse, with a deep-drawn sigh as she looked tenderly down into the pale face.

There was a little more friendly gossip, and then the girls took their departure, Mabel feeling somewhat displeased over their visit, for it was by no means the sort of visiting among the poor that she contemplated.

"Isabel, you ought to have some tracts," she said somewhat severely, as soon as they were outside the house.

"Some tracts!" repeated Isabel. "Oh, but I could not give nurse a tract. I wonder what she would say if I was to try?" And the idea seemed altogether so funny that Isabel broke into a merry laugh at the thought of it.

"But, Isabel, you ought to do something to make your life of some use," said Mabel in a half-offended tone.

"But of what use would it be to give tracts to nursey—dear old nursey, who is the wisest old woman in the parish. I am sure it would be more fit for her to come and bring them to Julia and me. How is it, Mabel, that people think if they are a little better off than others that they are fit to teach them at once?"

Isabel asked the question quite innocently and in all good faith, but Mabel chose to think it was done to rebuke her, and she answered shortly:

"I am sure I had no wish to teach your nurse."

"No, no, dear, of course not, for I am sure you could not do it. But still I have heard of such things, but—but I forgot, dear, you are so much wiser than I am, that I daresay you could teach some people older than yourself, although I should be afraid even to try. You see, Mabel, I can only hope to be just a little ornamental, for I am afraid that what mamma says is true, and I shall never be 'an ornament to society' like Julia, and I cannot be useful like you."

If Mr. Randolph had been asked, however, he would probably have given a different opinion, for he called his youngest daughter his "home sunshine," and various other pet names, indicative of how her gentle love and influence brightened all his life. Useful! Why, no one else could render the loving service to him that Isabel did. And when he heard of the change that had been made for the girls, he asked his wife angrily what could have induced her to make such an alteration.

"It is for their good, my dear," said the lady suavely. "Mabel has come here to complete her education, and she ought to have her evenings for study and to prepare her lessons in readiness for the next day."

"Very well, you know best about such things, only I must have Bella when you are out."

"Well, Isabel could come, of course. She is not very strong, and cannot apply herself to her books like her cousin—indeed, there is no occasion for it. But if Mabel is here for self-improvement, she ought to make the best use of her time," concluded the lady.

This was all so reasonable and so plausible that Mr. Randolph could not dispute it. But to be deprived of the society of his youngest daughter was out of the question, and so when dinner was over, a servant was despatched to summon Isabel to the drawing-room.

"Only Miss Isabel," concluded the servant when she had delivered the message.

The two girls looked up from their books to each other, and Mabel's face grew hot and angry.

"Are you sure mamma did not send for both of us?" said Isabel.

"I shall not come down to-night even if aunt sends for me. I want to write a letter to mamma," said Mabel quickly, and without giving the servant time to reply.

"Then you won't mind me leaving you alone a little while," said Isabel.

"Mind! Of course not. I tell you I shall be busy writing."

But although Mabel hastened to get her desk and take out her writing materials, when Isabel was gone she seemed in no hurry to begin her letter.

"I won't stay," she said half aloud as soon as the door had closed upon Isabel. "I am not going to be treated as a poor relation. Why should the dinner hour be altered because I am here, and why should I not go down to the drawing-room in the evening? No, no, I won't put up with it, and I'll write and tell mamma so at once." And then Mabel drew her desk towards her and began her home letter.

She wrote on, covering page after page, sometimes stopping to shed a few tears, for she really was feeling home-sick as well as hurt and disappointed. And these interruptions so hindered her that Isabel came back before she had quite finished her letter.

"Oh, Mabel, you are feeling dull I am afraid," said Isabel, slipping her arm round her cousin's neck, as she noticed the traces of tears on her face.

"Oh, it don't matter," said Mabel hastily. "You see I have only just finished my letter," she added, pointing to the table.

Should she tell her cousin what she had told her mother—that she could not stay here in this fine house where everything was so different from her own home. While she hesitated, however, Isabel said:

"We will go shopping to-morrow, Mabel. Mamma says we can have the carriage in the morning, and papa has given me a cheque to go and buy a new dress."

"Another new dress," said Mabel, who thought her cousin already possessed an extensive wardrobe.

"Yes, dear, I am going to have one just like yours; I think I like brown now," concluded Isabel critically. "You look like a robin redbreast in your brown dress and red bonnet strings—so cosy and comfortable. I wonder whether I shall look as nice."

"To be sure you will, dear," said Mabel, greatly mollified by her cousin's delicate flattery. And she picked up her letter and put it into the desk, resolving to finish and send it off the next day.

But the next day, after a pleasant drive to the town and the excitement of a shopping expedition, during which her opinion was always allowed full sway, Mabel did not feel quite so eager to return home, and in truth she felt a little ashamed of the complaints it contained.

"It would vex mamma, I know," she said to herself as she took the letter out of her desk and re-read it.

She could smile at its dolefulness to-day. And she threw it into the fire and sat down and wrote another that caused her mother almost as much anxiety as the first would have done, for Mabel could talk of nothing but the comfort and luxury of her new home. And her mother feared that the best educational advantages, amid such surroundings, could scarcely compensate for the effect it would have on the character of such a girl as Mabel. She pictured her throwing herself into a life of luxury and frivolity, without thought or care for that future she was sent to prepare herself for. And from that time, Mabel had a larger share than ever in her mother's prayers.

Whether Mrs. Randolph's fears for her daughter would not have been realized, if the supposed danger had really existed, it is hard to say. But in a few days, lessons began for Mabel in earnest, and she had little time to think of anything else. Music, drawing, painting, German and French exercises left her small time to brood over fancied slights. And Isabel's fondness for her brown dress, so that they were usually dressed alike, reconciled her more than anything to her own sombre appearance.

Occasionally she spent the evening in the drawing-room, but this was when her aunt and elder cousin were out, and Isabel and her father had it to themselves.

At other times Mabel spent her evenings in the school-room or their own sitting-room, with her books alone, for Mr. Randolph had strictly interdicted too much study for Isabel. Her persistent cough and general delicate health was sufficient excuse for his claiming all her evenings. And he also insisted that whenever the weather was fine, the two girls should go out together during the day, either for a drive or a walk.

Isabel's favourite walk was to go and see her old nurse, but as the village was some distance from her home, this was not often possible. When at length an opportunity occurred, Mabel was determined to turn the visit to some account, and before they started she said:

"Your old nurse has got her lodger now, I suppose, so I shall take my Bible and read a chapter to her as I used to do to my poor people at home."

Isabel looked a little awe-stricken at the proposal. "Do—do you think she would like it?" she said. "Don't you think we had better ask first?"

But Mabel laughed at the idea of treating the poor as though they were personal friends, on an equality with themselves.

"You leave me to manage it," she said. "I shall be glad of this opportunity of making myself useful."

When they reached the cottage they heard, to Isabel's disappointment, but Mabel's relief, that nurse herself was out—had gone to the town to make some necessary purchases, and would not be back for some time.

"But walk in, young ladies," said the stranger courteously. "You must not go back until you have rested yourselves." And she led the way into a cosy little parlour and placed chairs for them near the fire.

"I will read a chapter to you while we rest," said Mabel, drawing forth her Bible as she spoke. And without waiting for her hostess to assent or dissent to her proposal, she turned to the parable of the sower and read it.

When she closed the book, and before she could begin her little commonplace comments upon what she had read, the old lady said rather abruptly:

"I am afraid we none of us think as much as we ought to do about this seed, which is the very Word of God planted in our hearts."

And then she reached her own well-worn Bible, and turned over the leaves to the first chapter of John, and read, "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' This was what the Lord Jesus Christ meant by the seed in the parable," she said. "It is the Spirit or Life of God, 'the true Light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.'

"You see in the parable the seed is the same, but the difference is in the soil, and so the life of God—the spiritual life in us—will grow and flourish, or dwindle and pine, as we remove the weeds of worldliness and selfishness, or suffer them to grow unchecked. This little flower of grace is a delicate plant, and the hot sun of pleasure, or fame, or applause will soon wither it, or the weeds of pride, and envy, and selfishness choke it, if these are allowed to grow unchecked."

"Yes, but if we try to make our life a useful one?" said Mabel as soon as she could recover from her astonishment.

"If the usefulness springs from the root of grace, then it is a beautiful flower. But I have heard of such things as artificial flowers—very pretty, very natural looking, but having no root—they are simply imitations. I am an old woman, my dear, and have been about the world a good deal, and I have known people who, as you say, have tried to make their lives useful, but never thought of pulling up the weeds of selfishness from their own hearts. In the world, they have been known as most useful people—Sunday-school teachers, perhaps—while at home their friends could tell you that they were peevish and exacting, or proud and overbearing, or envious and jealous.

"What can be thought of the beautiful flowers of usefulness, then, when we hear that this delicate plant of God's Word is being choked by such worldliness? We know that the root and the delicate green blade are pining and withering, and therefore these flowers can only be poor imitations of what the real ones would be. But now, my dear young ladies, having had our little talk, you will let me get you a glass of milk and a biscuit." And the old lady bustled about in spite of their assurances that they did not need anything.

Mabel sat silently wondering over the strange turn her patronizing of the poor had suddenly taken. But the old woman's words—her new reading of the parable of the sower—had likewise made a deep impression upon her mind. It had been presented to her in a new aspect. It was not simply the written word that might be listened to and forgotten, and listened to again, but the very Life of God—the Word—the Light which lighteth every man—the Christ-life in the heart that was meant. And this, like a tender blade of corn, was likely to be choked by giving way to the very thoughts, and feelings, and passions that had ruled her life lately.

Very quietly she sat and pondered over these things while she ate her biscuit and sipped her milk, while Isabel chatted with their hostess. Then arose the question,—Had this seed of grace ever been planted in her heart? And then she repeated the well-known lines:

"'Tis a point I long to know—
Oft it causes anxious thought—
Do I love the Lord or no?
Am I his, or am I not?"

But she found no answer to her question.

——————

CHAPTER V.

THE MUSICAL PARTY.

AS time went on, Mrs. Randolph relaxed her vigilance over Mabel's lessons. And it soon came to be the rule that whenever her aunt and elder cousin spent the evening from home, she went down to the drawing-room with Isabel and her uncle. It was a sort of stolen pleasure that they all enjoyed, and for which Isabel dressed with even more care than usual, wearing a white muslin or light silk dress for these pleasant home evenings.

"Make yourself look as pretty as you can, Mabel," she would say, "for papa likes pretty things." And so Mabel's one light silk dress was frequently donned, and unfortunately soon lost its freshness—a fact, however, that she scarcely noticed until it was announced that her aunt would give a musical party, and her uncle suggested that she should take an active part in it.

"Mabel can play better than most girls," he remarked one morning at breakfast-time, when the musical party was being discussed. "What do you say, Isabel?"

"Yes, indeed, papa, she can," replied the young lady. For Isabel had generously insisted that as her cousin could play better than herself, her father should enjoy the pleasure of hearing her when they all spent the evening together.

Mabel had objected to this at first, knowing the delight her cousin took in playing for her father. But Isabel protested, and it was indeed the fact that Mabel could play with more feeling and expression, as well as with more skill than herself, and, with rare self-denial, she preferred that her father should receive all the pleasure possible, even though that pleasure was ministered by another instead of herself.

And so Mr. Randolph could speak with some authority about Mabel's skill as a musician. Of course she was delighted to be so praised; and it rather added to her enjoyment to see that her cousin Julia looked annoyed.

"I don't think we shall need to trouble Mabel," said that young lady. "A musical party is not an examination of girls strumming."

"I tell you, Mabel does not strum," said Mr. Randolph with some warmth, for he began to see that his niece was being slighted by his wife and elder daughter.

Isabel gave a little nod of approval. She had grown very fond of her cousin, and knew that it would gratify her to take part in this musical display, and was determined that she should, if possible.

"You do not know how beautifully she plays, mamma," she said eagerly. "You must let her take part in your party."

"Yes, yes, my dear; I insist upon that," said Mr. Randolph, without giving his wife time to reply.

And to end the discussion and make this final, he rose from the breakfast-table immediately afterwards and went out.

Mabel was delighted. She had been kept in the background long enough she thought, and it was only fair that her uncle should interfere.

As soon as her music-master arrived, she told him the news, asking him to help her in the selection of a piece that would be suitable for such an occasion that she might begin practising at once. Of course that gentleman was only too willing to help such a promising pupil to display her talent. And knowing something of the company who would assemble, he was not long in fixing upon a piece that he knew Mabel could execute, and would be certain to attract the attention of the company. And Mabel set to work upon it at once. For the next few days every spare moment was given to the study of her music, but a bitter disappointment awaited her.

When the music-master came the following week, her aunt met him at the school-room door with a piece of music in her hand.

"Miss Mabel is to take part in a musical evening, and I wish her to practise this for the occasion," she said when the usual greetings had been exchanged.

"But—but Miss Mabel has already begun to practise a piece," said the gentleman, running his eye over the sheet of music.

"That does not matter in the least. I desire that she shall play this. My elder daughter thinks it most suitable for the occasion." And Mrs. Randolph, with a polite good-morning, went back to the drawing-room, leaving the discomfited schoolmaster in no enviable frame of mind.

Mabel and Isabel heard every word, as they sat in the school-room, and they looked at each other in blank disappointment.

"Let me see it—let me see what Julia has chosen!" exclaimed Mabel, in her usual impulsive fashion, almost forgetting her manners in her excitement.

The gentleman placed the music in her hand.

"It is very beautiful for those who can understand it," he said in a grave tone. He knew that not one person in a dozen could appreciate this sonata, and that in a mixed company, such as Mrs. Randolph would gather round her, its beauties would be utterly thrown away.

"It is very difficult," said Mabel, scanning the intricate passages with some dismay.

"Yes, it is difficult," assented the music-master, "but I think if you give it careful study, you will be able to manage it."

"Will you play it over for us first?" asked Isabel. "I want to know what it is like."

The gentleman sat down to the piano and played the piece through.

"I don't like it much—I don't understand it," frankly confessed Isabel when he rose for Mabel to sit down and begin to practise it.

Mabel said nothing, but the tears rose to her eyes and she could scarcely see the notes as she laid her fingers on the keys.

"Julia is afraid I should play too well, I suppose," she said after she had stumbled through the first few bars. It would be impossible to play this properly she thought, and a bitter feeling rose in her heart against both her aunt and elder cousin.

"Never mind, dear," said Isabel soothingly, after the music-master had gone and they were left to themselves. "I think I shall like it better as I begin to understand it."

"I don't care a bit who likes it or dislikes it, I 'will' play it properly," said Mabel fiercely. And she sat down to the piano again to go over the more difficult passages.

But all the pleasure and delight in the music practice was gone, and the bitter feeling against Julia grew and intensified. If she ever thought of the old lady's rendering of the parable of the sower, she put away the thought and nourished the weeds and tares that were so rapidly growing in her heart. So much attention was given now to her music that she forgot all about the question of dress for this important occasion, until Isabel one day asked her what she was going to wear.

"Going to wear!" repeated Mabel. "Oh, dear, I forgot all about that!" And she suddenly remembered that her blue silk was beginning to look decidedly soiled.

"I must write to mamma, I suppose," she said with a sigh, wishing she had never heard of this musical party, for she knew her mother had no money to spare to buy her a suitable dress.

"Yes, that will be best, I suppose," said Isabel, who had no experience of want of money, and who had but to ask and have whatever she desired. Her own dress had been ordered from a fashionable dressmaker, and a few days afterwards, Mabel went with her to have it tried on. While this was being done, the thought suddenly crossed her mind that her cousin could not do better than have one made for herself just like it, and she at once suggested it to her.

"It will save your mamma a great deal of trouble," said Isabel, "and I should so like you to have a dress like mine."

Mabel looked dubious. She did not like to confess that she was afraid of the expense, and so murmured something about not feeling sure that it would suit her.

"Oh, yes, miss, it would suit you even better than your cousin," interposed the dressmaker, "for you have more colour. I am sure you could not do better than have a dress like this. Let me take your pattern at once," she added as she released Isabel from the pins and pleatings.

"You really ought to order it at once, Mabel, or there will not be time to get it made," whispered Isabel, coming to her side.

Thus persuaded she could not do otherwise than yield, she thought. Besides, she must have a new dress, and this of Isabel's was very pretty, and would certainly suit her. And as her cousin had bought a brown dress to match her dowdy ones, why should they not have these pretty ones alike? So the order was given and Mabel's pattern taken, without any questions being asked as to what the probable cost would be.

She had no time to think much about this just now, for all her attention was occupied by the sonata she was to play. Every minute that could be spared from her other lessons was given to her music, for she was determined to surprise and vex her aunt and cousin by her proficiency. Whether it was true or not, she certainly believed that this piece of music had been selected for her on purpose that she might fail—that after the first few bars had been played, Julia might come and whisper, "That will do—" and sit down herself and rattle off some brilliant showy piece. And she was determined to defeat her, and wring a triumph out of this very disappointment. I need scarcely say she was anything but happy under the influence of such feelings.

Captious and querulous, poor Isabel scarcely knew what to do or say for fear of offending her cousin. And a casual remark she made about going to see her old nurse and her lodger brought a storm of reproaches down upon her head.

"But why should you feel so angry, Mabel?" expostulated her cousin. "I thought she was a nice old lady; and she seemed to understand so much about what that parable meant. Don't you like old ladies to teach you?" she added.

Mabel murmured something about hearing all that before, but the fact was, she did not like to be reminded of the old woman's lesson just now. It brought to her mind too vividly the conversation she had had with her mother upon worldliness, and she knew she was growing worldly. But she persuaded herself that she could not help it. Julia and her aunt were to blame for that.

At length the day for the party arrived, and she surveyed herself in her new dress with no small complacency. Isabel was in raptures over her.

"Papa will be pleased when he sees you," she exclaimed. "I declare you look quite beautiful. Now, let me put this rose in your hair, just to finish you off. There! Now you will do, and you may begin to think about the music. Oh, Mabel! Papa will have a treat to-night for there will be some very sweet music, so many good players are to be here. I shall just settle down in some quiet corner, and give myself up to enjoy everything."

And in truth it seemed that Isabel, in her self-forgetfulness, could and did "enjoy everything." The envyings, and jealousies, and rivalries that had sprung up between her sister and cousin never touched her—she knew nothing even of their existence. Julia was "disagreeable sometimes, she knew," and Mabel "worried herself" about her music, but that these two were cherishing such feelings as they did, she had not the slightest comprehension. She believed that everybody coming there was bent upon enjoying the music and each other's society, and she hoped that when Mabel had got through her task, she would be ready to enjoy herself too. She could understand her feeling anxious and nervous until this was over, but she could not understand the frown that rested on her cousin's face when, having at length played her piece, she came and sat down beside her.

"What is the matter, dear?" she whispered, slipping her hand into Mabel's.

"Need you ask?" said Mabel fiercely. "I knew how it would be."

"But—but I thought you played very well, indeed," exclaimed Isabel.

"What did it matter how I played in such a babel? Everybody began talking after the first few bars. If I could have had the piece I first chose, everybody would have listened instead of chattering."

"But papa listened and enjoyed it, dear, and I would not mind about the rest."

In truth, Isabel would not have minded. To have given pleasure to one person would have satisfied her meek little heart. And if that one had forgotten to applaud or appreciate her efforts, it would have made no difference to her. But not so Mabel. She had failed to score a triumph, and felt that she had been defeated, and so she sat stolid and indifferent beside her cousin, making no reply to her pleasant speeches.

She was not the only one who could justly complain of the "babel." And under cover of the general chatter, Isabel at length made another effort to rouse her cousin to a more animated interest in the scene.

"Do you know what I have been thinking of?" she said. "Picturing everybody's heart as a field, with tiny blades of corn springing up, just as Mrs. Barker told us. And I have been wondering how everybody kept their field—whether they cleared the weeds away as they sprang up, or whether they were letting them grow high and thick until the tender green blades, or ears of corn, could not be seen."

"Don't," said Mabel, in a gasping voice.

Isabel looked at her cousin. "Mustn't we talk about such things?" she said.

"I think we ought to mind our own business in this as well as everything else," said Mabel sharply. She had taken her cousin's speech as a reproof to herself, and she was in no mood to endure that from anybody to-night.

"I see," said Isabel meekly. "We are to give all our attention to our own weeds, and see that they do not choke the seed in us."

"If we have the seed, that is," said Mabel, rather less sharply.

"But—but will not God plant this seed, if we ask it, in all of us?" said Isabel, in some bewilderment.

Mabel shook her head. "I don't know," she said. And again came the words to her mind, "'Tis a point I long to know." "Yes, I wish I did know," she added aloud.

"But I thought it was quite certain that God would give us this good seed, his Holy Spirit, and that we were to root out the weeds that it might not be choked," said Isabel.

It was clear that she had been thinking a good deal about the matter, and Mabel was vexed that she had no answer ready for what seemed such a very simple question—she, who had been a Sunday-school teacher and had set herself to teach Mrs. Barker this parable of the sower, did not know what reply to give to her ignorant little cousin.

At last she took refuge in the unseemly surroundings for such a conversation:

"People will wonder what we are talking about," she said. "A gay musical party like this is not the right place for a religious conversation."

This silenced Isabel, but did not prevent her thinking.

Neither could Mabel prevent her own thoughts from being occupied in a similar way. No one thought it worth while to disturb them with conversation. They were the youngest of the party, and so they sat together in their corner almost unnoticed and quite undisturbed, except as Mr. Randolph found time occasionally to come and say a few words to them about the music or the players. So Mabel had plenty of time to meditate over the question that had disturbed her more than once since her visit to the old woman's cottage.

——————

CHAPTER VI.

A NEW TROUBLE.

NO sooner was Mabel freed from the anxiety concerning her music than the ghost of another trouble rose before her. The silk dress she had bought had not been paid for, and she did not know how the money was to be obtained to pay for it.

A day or two before it was ordered, she had written to her mother, vaguely hinting that she might want some money soon, as her aunt was going to give a large party. But the letter was not answered at once. And when the reply did come, Mabel was told that she must not grow extravagant in her dress—that the blue silk, being fully trimmed, was quite good enough for the party. And if new gloves were necessary, she must buy them out of the money that was given to her before she left home, for no more could be sent to her just now.

Mabel was almost stunned when she read the letter. Up-stairs in her desk was the dressmaker's bill, amounting to nearly five pounds, and she had scarcely as many shillings she could call her own. She did not want any more breakfast, but sat toying with her bread and butter and egg instead of eating them. Everybody else at the table was occupied with their own concerns—her uncle with his morning paper, Julia and her mother with their own letters, and Isabel was busy feeding her pet spaniel, so no one noticed Mabel and her almost untouched breakfast.

The day was fine and bright, and they were to walk to nurse's cottage as soon as their morning lessons were over. And Isabel was full of eager anticipation, for she had not seen her old nurse for some time. Mabel, on the contrary, was unusually quiet, scarcely speaking except in answer to Isabel, during the whole walk.

Her cousin thought she understood this, and, as they drew near the end of their journey, she whispered:

"Don't you hope Mrs. Barker will be at home, Mabel?"

"Mrs. Barker!" repeated Mabel, whose thoughts were busy over that unpaid dressmaker's bill and her mother's letter.

"Yes, dear, have you forgotten?" exclaimed Isabel. "We are going to ask her to tell us some more about that parable. I do so want to know whether God plants this seed of himself in all our hearts," she added.

"I think we can learn such things at church," said Mabel a little loftily.

"Yes, dear, you can, perhaps, but—but I have not been used to think of such things. And I am not at all clever, and so I like somebody to explain and make everything quite clear," said Isabel. "I—I thought you would have done this for me," she added after a minute's pause and in a lower tone.

Mabel's cheek flushed. Was it so then that she—she who had desired above all things to make her life useful, to carry the message of God's love to distant lands—should thus have missed the opportunity that lay at her very feet, so that her cousin, who had been waiting to hear her speak, was thankful now to turn to this old woman for instruction.

She made no reply to Isabel, and soon her thoughts wandered off to her monetary difficulties again. These were too pressing just now to be lightly dismissed, even for the all-important subject that now engaged Isabel's attention. Not that Mabel had forgotten it herself. She had practised too much soul dissection lately, turning herself inside out as it were, to know whether she had received this seed of grace. And the words, "'Tis a point I long to know," repeated themselves with painful reiteration through the chambers of her brain.

They found nurse at home this time, and she eagerly welcomed her young lady, and would have monopolized all her attention if she could. But Isabel slipped away after a few minutes, on the plea of going to see Mrs. Barker in her own room, as she had a bad cold, and could not come down-stairs to-day.

"You tell nurse all about the party, Mabel, while I go and see Mrs. Barker," she said, kissing her old nurse by way of reconciling her to the plan. And then she ran up-stairs and eagerly greeted Mrs. Barker.

"I want you to tell me something more about that parable of the sower," she said when all due inquiries had been made and answered.

The old woman looked at the flushed eager young face and wondered.

"My dear young lady, have you not read it for yourself?" she asked.

"Yes, yes," said Isabel, "but I want to know the sort of people God puts his seed into—the Holy Spirit that you told us about."

"The sort of people?" repeated Mrs. Barker. "My dear, the words are plain enough. The seed fell on all sorts of ground—hard rocky soil, loose stony soil, and soft earth, where it could sink down and grow. So I take it that all sorts of people are meant—that God plants his seed in the heart of every man, and woman, and child. And that if all would nurture it—take away the weeds of pride and worldliness, so that the sunshine of God's love could fall upon it and the rain and the air which are so many influences from Him play about it,— then would it grow in the hearts of all men, and the kingdom that we pray for would come to each of us, and heaven be begun on earth." The old woman spoke almost rapturously, and Isabel sat and listened with an eager light in her eyes.

"And you think God has really planted this seed in my heart?" she said in an awestruck whisper.

"I have not a doubt of it, my dear."

"But—but I am so unworthy, so ignorant, so—oh, I don't know what it means hardly," said Isabel in a tremulous voice.

"My dear, if God waited until we were worthy before giving us this precious gift, I am afraid very few would have it."

"And if there is not time for the seed to grow and have fruit, you think He will not be angry if there are only green blades?"

"My dear young lady, God only expects green blades in the spring of our life, but it is just then that it needs the most nurture, and the weeds the most persistent rooting up. And so if He sees we are watching and praying, rooting up the tares of our pride and self-will, be sure He will take care of the rest—He will make the seed to grow. For after all we cannot do His work, remember, we can but clear the ground to let His rain and sunshine—the influences of His Holy Spirit—play around the garden of our heart."

"Thank you," said Isabel with a deep-drawn sigh. "I almost wish I could live to be an old woman that I might bear some fruit," she said in a whisper.

Mrs. Barker looked at her in astonishment. She had often heard nurse say how very delicate Miss Isabel was, but she had no idea that the girl herself knew it.

"I—I don't think we ought to trouble ourselves about such things as that," she said, scarcely knowing what to say.

"Oh, it does not trouble me," said Isabel. "Of course I may live for years and years, but I do not think I shall. Only; please don't tell nurse of this, for dear nursey would fancy I was going to die directly," said Isabel quickly.

And the next minute the door opened, and nurse with Mabel came into the room.

"Well, I'm sure, Miss Isabel, you have quite forsaken your old nurse, it seems. What can you and Mrs. Barker find to talk about, I wonder?" she said, looking from one to the other as though she thought they had been hatching some plot between them.

"There now, you dear, jealous old nursey, you are not to ask any questions," said Isabel, laughing and kissing her.

Nurse looked from one to the other as though she did not half like it, because neither seemed inclined to repeat their conversation. But Isabel soothed and coaxed the old woman into a better frame of mind before she went away, although Mabel still looked unhappy and preoccupied when they left the cottage.

On their way home, Isabel told her cousin what she had learned.

"And Mrs. Barker thinks God has surely planted this seed in my heart; that my very anxiety about this is a proof that it is alive and growing. Oh, Mabel, to think this great thing should have happened to me and I did not know it!"

But Mabel was too much vexed to be as pleased as her cousin expected to see her. And another thing, she was not at all sure that this was the right way of receiving instruction, and so she said something about going to church, and learning there whether Mrs. Barker was right in what she had taught her.

Isabel looked disappointed. "You see, I cannot often go to church, it is so far-away, and the carriage cannot always be spared. And then papa always wants me on Sunday."

"The Lord Jesus says, 'Whosoever loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me,'" said Mabel severely.

This question of going to church had been one of frequent discussion between the cousins. Isabel had not been brought up to go to the house of God with anything like regularity, while to Mabel a Sunday at home was a very rare occurrence, and "going to church" had drifted into a mere formal observance with her—a cold lifeless service, but one which she never omitted if she could help it.

"But what am I to do?" said Isabel in a pained voice. "You know I cannot walk so far, and can very seldom have the carriage. And then papa likes me to read to him or walk about the garden with him on Sunday; it is the only day we have together."

"I don't think the walk to church is much longer than our walk to-day," said Mabel, "but where there's a will there's a way," she added tartly.

"Well, dear, I will try to go to church if you think I ought."

"Why, of course you ought to go," said Mabel in a tone of superiority, "especially if you want to learn—"

"Oh, but, Mabel, that is just it!" interrupted her cousin. "I am not clever, and I have not been used to going to church as you have, and it all feels so strange and far-away that I am like one bewildered in church."

"Oh, Isabel, if you would only try, you could learn things much better at church than listening to an old woman like Barker," said Mabel. For this was what had vexed her so much, that her cousin should have gone to this old woman for instruction.

"Well, dear, I will go to church. I'll go next Sunday, if you think I ought."

"Yes, and we'll read a chapter of the Bible together every day," said Mabel in a more pleasant tone. "And if there is anything you cannot understand, I daresay I can help you."

The two girls began their Scripture reading that very evening—not that it had been wholly neglected before, for Mabel had always read a few verses as a sort of task she must get through, while Isabel had read a chapter here and there occasionally while her governess was with her, but with no thought that it had anything to do with her.

But in the light of what Mrs. Barker had told her, the story of the life of Jesus Christ had altogether a new meaning, for this life was to be translated into her life; this was the holy seed—"the true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world," unless it is buried in selfishness and sin.

"But, Mabel dear, I have buried it in selfishness and sin," said Isabel sadly, as they were talking over this passage. "I may not have committed any great sin, but I never thought about this holy seed—this 'true light,' and so it has been buried in me all these years. What shall I do?"

"'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin,'" said Mabel, scarce knowing what she ought to say to comfort her cousin under this new distress. She felt vaguely uneasy herself, for if her cousin had such a sense of sin, because she had unknowingly buried this "true light" all these years, how much greater must her sin be—she who had been so carefully instructed from her earliest infancy. Sometimes lately she had tried to shelter herself under the thought, painful though it might be, that God's special grace had not been given to her yet, but in some future time she might hope to have this, and then her life would be different.

But if Mrs. Barker's reading of the parable of the sower was true, she could not shift the responsibility of her failure in this way, for she knew that her life had been a failure lately—God's grace had been given, but she had let the wild weeds and tares almost choke it. She read the parable of the sower for herself over and over again, hoping to detect some corner out of which she could creep, but she found none. There was the plain declaration—the seed was sown in all sorts of soil, leaving her without excuse if she neglected this salvation.

Not that she came to this conclusion all at once, or did not try to wriggle out of it at first when she did see it, but Isabel's talk, and what she herself read of the teaching of the Lord Jesus Christ Himself, shut her up to this view of the matter, and she saw that there was no royal road by which self-denial and struggle might be evaded if she would live a truly useful life.

But, meanwhile, this was not the only care that oppressed her. The winter passed into spring, and brought with it fresh wants in the way of dress. Her mother was not unmindful of these, for she sent her what she thought would be an ample sum of money to provide all she would require.

Now, the bill she owed the dressmaker amounted to about the same sum as her mother had sent for her spring outfit. And this burden of debt had proved so intolerable to Mabel that she went at once and paid it, never thinking of her two brown dresses that would now have to last until midsummer.

At first she assumed a stoical indifference when Julia and Isabel donned their pretty spring attire. Her younger cousin had put off doing this as long as she could, in the hope that Mabel would also lay aside her winter garb, which, however comfortable and suitable it might look in winter time, was certainly out of place now. But to all her hints upon the subject, Mabel only gave short snappish answers.

Isabel was puzzled. She knew some money had been sent for Mabel to buy new dresses, and why they were not bought, she could not tell. All thought of the dressmaker's bill that had been such a haunting care to Mabel the last few weeks had entirely passed from her mind. Mabel had sent it to her mother, she supposed, and it had been paid long ago, and why she should prefer to wear dull dowdy dresses in the bright spring weather, when she had the money to buy others, was a riddle she could not solve.

One morning, after Mabel had left the breakfast-room, Julia made some remark about her cousin wearing her winter dresses still, and Isabel hastened to defend her. "She doesn't think so much about dress as you and I, Julia," she said laughingly.

"Oh, I know better than that," retorted her sister. "Look at that new evening dress she bought. I am sure she could have done without it. The blue silk she brought with her would have done very well for that party." Julia had made this remark before, when the preparations for the party were being discussed. And Mabel had overheard it, and it was this more than anything else had made her decide to have the new dress, and taste the bitterness of being in debt.

——————

CHAPTER VII.

EXPLANATIONS.

"NOW, Mr. Randolph, you must interfere. I cannot let this go on any longer!" burst forth his wife one morning as he rose from the breakfast-table.

The girls had left the room, and husband and wife were alone, and Mr. Randolph said rather sharply:

"What are you worrying yourself about now, Clara? Isabel is no worse, is she?"—for Isabel's cough had been very troublesome this spring.

"It isn't Isabel at all, but your niece." Mrs. Randolph always said "your niece" when she was angry with Mabel, and so her husband was quite prepared for some complaint.

"What is it now?" he asked.

"Can't you see she is quite a disgrace to us, going about in dowdy winter clothes such weather as this? If her name wasn't Randolph, so that everybody had to know she was a relation, it would not matter so much."

"Would it make the clothes lighter then?" asked her husband in a mocking tone.

"No! But she would not be able to annoy us so much. It is only done to annoy us, I know," added the lady, "for Isabel says she has got the money to buy new things."

Mr. Randolph looked puzzled.

"My dear, I wish you had tried to make things more comfortable for the girl," he said in a vexed tone.

"More comfortable!" repeated the lady. "Why, she is treated like my own daughters. What more would you have?"

"Well, my dear, I don't know how it is; I don't understand woman's ways altogether, but I'm not blind. And I can see that you and Julia are somehow always at enmity with Mabel. It makes me very uncomfortable, I can tell you, sometimes. And if it was not that Isabel had grown very fond of her cousin, so that I cannot think it is wholly her fault, I would send her home at once."

"Then whose fault is it, pray?" angrily demanded the lady. "From the moment that girl came into the house, she tried to set herself up above Julia. And do you think I would let her do that without putting her down?"

"Nonsense, Clara; that is all your fancy. For she knew before she came that she was to be in the school-room with Isabel, to share her lessons and be her companion."

"Yes, and she made up her mind to place herself on a footing with Julia before she had been in the house an hour. I can see as well as you, Mr. Randolph."

"Well, but my dear, is she trying to rival Julia by wearing dowdy dresses?" asked the gentleman.

"No, but that is just one of her whims, to vex and annoy us. It must be, as she has had the money to buy other clothes," concluded the lady.

It certainly was a puzzle, even to Mr. Randolph. He had thought it would be easy enough to remedy this when he first heard his wife's complaint. He would give Isabel a cheque for herself and Mabel to go shopping with, for he could easily understand that in the present critical state of his brother's business, he could not afford to withdraw much money from it, and so Mabel could not have much to spend in dress. But if money had been sent to her for this purpose, and she still chose to wear these winter dresses, then what could he do?

As he drove to the town that day, he half regretted having asked her to pay this visit, for he could not help feeling somewhat disappointed in her, despite Isabel's glowing admiration of her cousin. There had been a feeling of half-suppressed quarrelling and antagonism in the atmosphere of his home since her arrival. And although she and Julia were outwardly civil to each other, still it was the civility of foes rather than friends, and each seemed to be on the watch lest the other should gain some advantage in the undeclared warfare.

Mr. Randolph had not said this to himself in so many words, but it was what had made itself felt almost as tangibly. And thinking over all this, he was the more puzzled to know how to proceed in this delicate matter of Mabel's dress, lest he should do more harm than good. He had the greatest confidence in his sister-in-law's good sense and right judgment, and at last he decided to write to her about it.

He wrote the letter that same afternoon. And then at the last minute, instead of placing it in the basket with others to be posted, he put it into his pocket, for a sudden thought had come to him, that he would talk to Mabel after all, before writing to her mother. This had probably occurred to him through the recollection that his wife and elder daughter were going to a party that evening, and therefore he would have an opportunity of speaking to Mabel without making a fuss about it, for she came to the drawing-room with Isabel as a matter of course now, whenever they had it to themselves.

Now, it must not be supposed that it was at all pleasant for Mabel to wear the dresses she positively hated. But she undoubtedly assumed a rather more haughty air, now that her cousins had donned their pretty spring dresses, lest anyone should dare to think of her as a "poor relation." And this had helped her aunt to form the theory that she was simply doing it to vex and annoy them.

It would, no doubt, have comforted Mabel to have known what her aunt thought about it, and she would have been even more haughty. But as it was, the moment her uncle began to speak about her not changing her winter attire, she burst into tears, exclaiming:

"I cannot, uncle; indeed, I cannot."

Mr. Randolph looked surprised, but he was glad to think that the letter he had written was safe in his pocket, instead of on its way to her mother. Isabel, too, looked surprised—surprised at her cousin's words, and still more so at her troubled manner.

"Do you mind telling me what you mean by 'you cannot?' I understand you have had some money sent to buy new dresses."

"Yes, uncle, but—but I owed the dressmaker all that money," she stammered.

"Owed the dressmaker that money!" repeated Mr. Randolph in a puzzled tone. "But how could that be, Mabel?"

"Oh, I see, I know," exclaimed Isabel, upon whom the truth had suddenly dawned. "You did not send that dressmaker's bill to your mother, Mabel?"

Mabel shook her head. "I couldn't," she said, "after the letter I had from her."

"But what dressmaker's bill is it?" asked Mr. Randolph, who was determined to get to the bottom of the business before offering any help.

Then together the girls explained how the dress had been bought for the party, Isabel generously taking all the blame when she saw her father was inclined to find fault with Mabel for not consulting somebody before incurring such a heavy debt.

"You should have gone to your aunt, my dear," he said, "and asked her about the dress before ordering it."

"Oh, but Julia had said her old dress would do, and it wouldn't," said Isabel, determined to defend her cousin.

"What do you know about it, Pussy Paleface?" said her father tenderly, drawing her on to his knee and kissing her.

"Why, I know you are going to make out a cheque for us to go shopping with to-morrow," said Isabel in a tone of mock solemnity.

"I perceive you are a witch, madam, young as you are, or you could not have read my thoughts so accurately."

"You dear old dad! I knew you would help Mabel out of her trouble."

"Yes, but only for this time, remember. For I don't approve of young girls ordering dresses without consulting older and wiser people. I wonder what your mother would think of this business, Mabel?" he said, turning to her.

Mabel's heart was too full for her to speak, for her uncle's last words had lifted such a load of care from her mind. But her tearful, grateful face spoke more eloquently than words.

"Well, well," said her uncle, "I don't think Mabel will be in a hurry to go into debt again, and so we'll say no more about it."

"Indeed—indeed, uncle, I shall never forget it, I have been so miserable lately," gasped the poor girl, trying to keep back her tears.

"Oh, Mabel, and you never told me about it!" said her cousin reproachfully.

"Why, what could you have done, Pussy?" said her father.

"I would have brought that horrid dressmaker's bill to you, of course, long, long ago, if I had only known about it," said Isabel.

But her father shook his head. "It would not have done, Pussy. I don't think I should have paid it. Girls must learn, as well as other people, the true value of money. Mabel has had her lesson, and a rather painful one it has been. Yours will come some day."

But even as he said the words, a doubt crept into the father's heart whether such a lesson would ever be needed for his younger daughter—whether the training for life here was not wholly unnecessary, for of late she had grown even more delicate and frail-looking.

By a certain intuition Isabel seemed to guess the drift of her father's thoughts, and she whispered:

"I am laying up treasures for by and by."

"Treasures for by and by!" he repeated, putting from him the thought that her words implied, and pretending not to understand what she meant.

"Yes! I shall need the other sort of wealth most. The minister preached about it on Sunday—'Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal.' Treasures of the soul, the minister said it meant—treasures of knowledge and truth concerning God and the Lord Jesus—treasures of love, our loving others—treasures of service. I sha'n't have much of that," said Isabel, "for I'm such a poor thing—of so little use to anybody, but I can love them. Oh, you dear dad, how I love you—best of all, I think; and after you, everybody I know. I should like to help them in all sorts of ways, but as I can't do that, I can love them and pray for them—ask God to help them more than I can."

'Mr. Randolph looked dumbfoundered. All the repressed fear and dread that he had stifled and subdued in his own heart sprang into life as he listened to Isabel.

"My dear, my darling," he gasped, "how long is it since you felt worse?"

"Worse, papa! I am not worse," said Isabel. "My cough is a little troublesome at night that is all. Only—only, I thought you knew I should never be a very old woman."

Her father looked at her earnestly. "You are sure you are no worse, Isabel?"

"No, no, dear papa. Why do you look so frightened? You know I promised a long time ago that I would tell you or mamma the moment I felt the least bit worse."

But although she thus assured him in the full sincerity of her heart, the anxious father could not feel satisfied. His fears had been awakened, and these told him that there was a change in his beloved child. She looked more ethereal, and the light as of a higher world shone in her eyes and played about the smile that wreathed her lips. She looked so much more animated and happy, too, than she did a few months before. And he looked from her to Mabel, as if mutely asking what she had done to bring about such a change.

"My dear, you look very happy," he said.

"Happy! Oh yes, papa. Haven't I everything to make me happy—everything in earth and heaven!" she said with a look of rapturous joy. "Do you know, papa, what the minister said on Sunday? That the kingdom of heaven must come to us, be begun in our own hearts here in this world, in this life, or we should never come to the kingdom beyond the gates of death. And it's true, papa. I feel it and know it; and, oh! I do wish everybody else could know it too—know it the same way that I do."

"Oh Bella, Bella, are you going to slip away and leave your poor dad all alone here?" exclaimed Mr. Randolph in an agony of despair.

It was the beginning of the end, he felt sure, or timid, gentle Isabel would never have the courage to talk like this.

A shadow came over her bright eager face for a minute or two, and the tears slowly welled into her eyes as she threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming:

"Oh papa, papa, I cannot leave you!"

"Hush! Hush! Darling, we won't talk about it—we won't think about it—we will be very happy together."

"Yes, we will," said Isabel slowly, "but—but it can't last for ever, papa—one of us must go some time."

"Yes, some time," admitted Mr. Randolph.

And then he asked Mabel to go to the piano and play some of their favourite music. But instead of going with her cousin to turn the music as usual, Isabel still sat on her father's knee until the French clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour for them to go up-stairs.

Mabel had been scarcely less surprised than her uncle at the turn the conversation had taken. For although they often talked over their Scripture reading together, she had never obtained such a glimpse of what was going on in her cousin's heart as this afforded. And she, too, wondered whether Isabel's health was worse.

The next day, however, all such fears were put to rest in Mabel's mind, for Isabel was eager with delight at the anticipation of the shopping expedition. Her father had written out the cheque and given it to her before they went to bed. And before Mabel was up the next morning, Isabel came tripping into her room in her pretty pink dressing-gown.

"Get up, dear, it is the most lovely morning, and I want to look over my German before Herr Muller comes, that we may be ready to go shopping the moment our lessons are over," exclaimed Isabel.

Mabel rubbed her eyes sleepily. She had been dreaming that her cousin lay dying, and this vision of her, flushed and excited over the prospect of turning over pretty dress goods, was so absurd a contrast, that as she realized it, she could not help laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" asked her cousin.

"At you, to be sure," answered Mabel.

"Am I such a figure, then?" said Isabel, going to the looking-glass and surveying herself.

"No, no, it was not that. But my dreams and your talk last night have got mixed up somehow, and I wondered how you could be so eager about this shopping."

"But why shouldn't I be eager?" said Isabel. "I could dance for joy about it, because we are going to make so many people happy and comfortable again who have been very uncomfortable lately."

"So many people!" repeated Mabel.

"Yes, dear. To begin, there was dear papa, the dearest father that ever a girl had. Well, I began to see that he looked uncomfortable when you came into the breakfast-room of a morning in such a warm dress—the sight of it seemed to make him hot," laughed Isabel. "Then mamma would frown and look across at Julia, and Julia would shake her head at me as though she thought it was all my fault."

"And you, what did you feel?" laughed Mabel, for she could laugh about it now.

"Oh, I don't know what I felt. But make haste and dress, Mabel. We must be in good time this morning, for I am going to ask mamma to go with us."

But when they descended to the breakfast-room, they heard that Mrs. Randolph was not well, and would not get up until the middle of the day. Isabel looked dismayed at the news:

"Oh, papa, we wanted to go shopping."

"Well, dear, I will arrange that for you with mamma. I should think you might be trusted to buy a dress or two after such a lesson—eh, Mabel?"

"Yes, uncle, I will be very careful not to spend more than I ought to do. Mamma sent me a list of what she thought I should require, and the probable cost, so I will take that with me as a guide."

"That's right, dear. Then I am sure you and Bella might come to the town by yourselves, and when you have done your shopping you can drive round to my office and we will all come home together."

This was an arrangement that delighted Isabel.

But the shopping itself was not such an unmixed pleasure, for she found that her aunt's list did not embrace anything very costly or elaborate, and her plan of persuading Mabel to order an outfit the counterpart of her own did not succeed at all.

Mabel carefully counted the cost of every article, and compared it with her mother's list, and Isabel could not but own she was right.

"Yes, yes, you are right, Mabel. But I cannot help feeling disappointed, for I thought that cheque would have bought so many more things. I wonder whether I should ever learn the value of money?" she added musingly.

"To be sure you will when it is needful."

"Ah, when it is needful! But perhaps it never will be needful, and that is why I am so slow at learning."

——————

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

"DON'T you think you could manage the walk, dear, to-day?" said Mabel coaxingly one Sunday morning after breakfast.

Isabel looked dubious. "Couldn't we sit here and read?" she said.

"It isn't like going to church," said Mabel discontentedly.

She and Isabel had been pretty regular in their attendance lately, for Mr. Randolph, finding his younger daughter wished to go, had ordered that the carriage should always be in readiness to take her. Sometimes he had gone with her himself, and sometimes her mother and Julia had joined them.

Altogether it had been a very happy summer to Isabel and her father. She suffered from languor and weakness during the hottest part of the weather. But since the summer had begun to wane, and the days to grow cooler, she had felt better. And so Mabel felt sure she could walk to church if she tried, and she pressed it upon her as a positive duty. They could not have the carriage to-day, for Mrs. Randolph wished to go and see a friend at a distance who was ill. And Mr. Randolph was away upon business, so that Isabel could not have that excuse for staying at home, thought Mabel.

She had discovered that if Isabel did not go to church on Sunday, she generally contrived to go and see Mrs. Barker during the following week, and she was still a little jealous of the old lady's influence over her cousin, and had never quite forgiven her for sundry home truths that had been spoken to herself. As one of the people whom she—Mabel—was supposed to be able to teach, it was not pleasant to go and see her, as Isabel did, in the character of a scholar. And so now she pressed Isabel to go to church with the greater pertinacity on this account.

"Very well, dear, I'll go," said Isabel at last. But even as she spoke, she heaved something like a sigh of weariness at the prospect of such a long walk.

"That's right, make haste and get your things on," said Mabel briskly. "It will be a lovely walk across the fields such a fine morning."

Mabel enjoyed the walk immensely, but before they reached the church, she could not but notice how tired Isabel seemed. "I am afraid I have walked too fast for you, dear," she said. "We will go more slowly."

"I am tired," admitted Isabel. "I hope it won't rain before we get home," she added in a little alarm. "Look at those clouds over there."

Mabel did look, and tried to laugh off her cousin's fears. But after they got into church, instead of attending to the service, her eyes and thoughts wandered to the opposite window, where she could see that the clouds were slowly gathering in blackness all round. Poor Isabel was spared this anxiety, for she was too weary to think of anything, and sat leaning back in the corner with her eyes closed, looking utterly worn out. But presently there was a sound that roused even her dormant faculties, for the rain-drops were pattering on the windows, and she looked at Mabel in dismay.

"It won't last long," whispered her cousin confidently.

But the rain continued to come down steadily and incessantly, so that it seemed impossible for either of them to attend to the service for the fright this had caused them.

"Perhaps mamma did not go before the rain came on, and she will send the carriage," whispered Isabel when the service was over, and the people began to move.

Mabel nodded. "We will wait here until it comes," she said. "You sit still, and I'll go and look if it is here yet."

Mabel made several journeys to the church door, but each was unsuccessful. And at last they began to see that they would have to leave the church, for the sexton wanted to close the doors.

"You'll get a cab round the corner," he said. And not knowing what else to do, the two girls started off in quest of one. But they walked nearly half a mile, and got very wet before one was found.

Isabel went to bed as soon as she reached home, and Mabel took care that every remedy she knew of as being good for a cold should be promptly applied. And doubtless it did her cousin a great deal of good, but it could not undo the mischief that the long walk, and the fright, and the wetting had done.

When Mr. Randolph came home the next day, he found his younger daughter very ill. And though the doctor spoke lightly of it as a "slight attack," the anxious father was very much alarmed.

But Isabel began to improve after the first day or two, and by the end of the week she was able to leave her bed, and be carried to the couch in her own sitting-room. Everybody hoped that she would soon be down-stairs again now, but her progress towards convalescence seemed to be arrested at this point. The weather was cold and damp, and although always bright and cheerful, it seemed as though the springs of her life had been chilled and exhausted.

Mr. Randolph soon grew anxious again, and talked of calling in a physician to see her, but Isabel begged him so earnestly to wait a little longer before doing this that at last he consented to wait for a week to see if there was any further improvement.

Mabel could not understand why her cousin should have such an objection to the physician being sent for. And when they were by themselves she said, "Why are you so afraid of this physician, Isabel?"

"I do not think I am afraid exactly, dear, but—but I want to get used to the thought of going home soon before papa knows it."

"Going—home—soon," uttered Mabel with whitening lips. "Oh, Bella, Bella, what have I done?" she gasped, covering her face with her hands.

"Don't—don't, Mabel," said the invalid, gently drawing down her hands.

"But what do you mean? You cannot mean that—that—" and Mabel stopped.

"That I am going to begin to live in earnest soon, that is it; this earth life has only been a half-dying sort of life. I have never been able to do as other girls did, but it will be changed soon, and I shall begin to live thoroughly—think of it, Mabel—to live, to live!" said Isabel exultantly.

"But, my darling, I don't understand," said her cousin, wiping away the fast-falling tears; "how can you know this?"

"The voice has told me—the Seed, and the Word, and the Light, and the Voice—they all mean the same thing, Mrs. Barker says. And so you see I cannot be mistaken, for God Himself has told me that I am going home soon. I shall not get stronger, as dear papa hopes, but weaker and weaker until the end comes."

"Then why not have the physician at once? He might recommend something that would do you good."

But Isabel shook her head. "He would tell papa to take me away to Nice, or Mentone, or some of those places, and I want to die at home, with you and papa and everybody that loves me. You will stay with me to the very last, won't you, Mabel?"

"Yes, yes. But, oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Mabel, wringing her hands in agony.

"Nothing, dear. That little cold I caught did not cause this. I have been learning to know it all the summer. I have been just slipping away for a long time, I think—ever since my cough got worse in the spring, but the last few days I have known it would be soon now."

Mabel sat crying silently by her cousin's couch. Oh how bitterly she regretted urging her cousin to go to church now, and the pride and jealousy of Mrs. Barker that led to it! She had succeeded in persuading herself at the time that as it was a good thing to go to church, therefore it must be good for her and Isabel to go. But no such sophistry would avail her now. It might be, as Isabel said, that this had not caused the more serious part of her illness, but she believed herself and she knew her uncle and aunt also believed, that this had been the active cause of arousing all the more serious mischief.

Poor Mabel! She was indeed to be pitied, and the more, perhaps, that for the last few months she had set herself steadily to the task of rooting out the seeds of pride that hindered the growth of the good seed in her heart. She had been more pleasant and yielding with Julia, been less watchful for any little affront that might be offered to herself, and more guarded in her own behaviour lest she should offend. And that this should happen now, just when she thought she was gaining a victory over herself, was indeed a trial and mystery to her.

Her uncle and aunt were, of course, very angry with her. And Mr. Randolph at first felt inclined to yield to his wife's proposal, that she should be sent home at once. But Isabel was so distressed when she heard of it, and Mabel begged so earnestly to be allowed to stay and nurse her cousin at least until she was a little better, that Mr. Randolph yielded the point at last, but he could not wholly forgive Mabel yet.

Before the end of the week stipulated for by Isabel, her father insisted upon sending for the physician who had seen her once or twice before, and the verdict he had to give was anxiously waited for by Mr. Randolph. Alas! Before he saw her, the physician knew what that verdict would have to be, and he almost dreaded to meet the searching gaze that he knew awaited him down-stairs.

Mr. Randolph drew him into the library and shut the door. "Now, tell me what you think of her, doctor," he said as he handed him a chair.

"It is useless for me to try and deceive you," said the physician compassionately. And then as gently as he could, he told the heart-stricken father all the truth—that there was no hope, and a few weeks would probably end the mortal life of his best-beloved daughter.

Mr. Randolph proposed taking her away to the south of France at once, but the physician shook his head. "It would be downright cruelty to attempt it," he said. "If I had seen that such a change would have done her any good, I should have ordered it last spring. But I knew that the fatigue and excitement incident upon travelling, would but have hastened the end, and you would only have taken her away to die. Her gentle placid disposition, and the even tenor of her life, has doubtless prolonged her existence by some months," added the physician.

"But she caught cold and got overfatigued a short time ago—it was that that brought on the attack," said Mr. Randolph.

"It may have accelerated things a little, but this damp cold weather has done the most mischief. If I am not greatly mistaken, she knows herself that the end is near, for as I was leaving her she whispered, 'You will not send me away, doctor?' And her eyes said plainly enough that she knew it would be of no use."

Mr. Randolph covered his face with his hands and groaned in agony. "Forgive me, doctor," he said after a pause, "but the world will be empty to me when she has left it. She has been the home sunshine, and there is not a servant in the house but could tell you of some little kindness done, some little considerate act in sparing them trouble, or helping them over a difficulty—Oh, doctor, doctor, can nothing save her?" he broke off, wringing his hands in anguish.

The physician was a Christian, and, valuable as his time was, he contrived to spare an hour to sit and comfort the sorrow-stricken father so that at last he was able to go to Isabel calm at least.

She saw in a moment that the physician had told him the truth, and holding out her arms she said, "Papa, papa, it will not be for long; we shall soon be together again. I have prayed for you, papa, and I know that God is answering my prayers. He is taking me that He may win you too, for He loves you, papa—loves you so much that He gave His only begotten Son for you—for you, papa," she gasped, for the exertion of saying so much had almost overpowered her.

"Hush, hush, my darling, you must not talk. Shall I send for nurse to come and stay with you?" he asked.

She looked up at him quickly. "You won't send Mabel away, papa—poor Mabel! She is almost breaking her heart as it is."

"No, dear, she shall stay if you wish it."

"I do wish it, papa. I could not do without her now, she helps me and comforts me so much. But you may send for nursey too, she will like to be here, I know, and she can sit beside me at night sometimes, and keep the others company." For she knew that the servants almost quarrelled among themselves for the privilege of "sitting up with Miss Isabel."

So it was arranged that nurse should be sent for to take up her abode in the house. And before the messenger was sent with the note requesting her to do this, Mabel contrived to say, "And you would like to see Mrs. Barker sometimes, wouldn't you, dear? Shall I write and ask her to walk over as often as she can?"

Isabel looked at her cousin. "Would you like it, Mabel?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes, dear, I should now. I am ashamed of feeling jealous because she took up my neglected work, and so had the joy of leading you first to the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Never mind, you have helped me too; I don't know how I should have got on without you, Mabel. But still I should like to see Mrs. Barker, and have one more talk with her before I am too weak. Tell her to come soon, Mabel."

Nurse was not long in obeying the summons to come to Isabel.

And the next morning Mrs. Barker appeared, to Mrs. Randolph's great surprise, who could not understand why her daughter should want nurse's lodger as well as herself.

But Isabel's lightest wish was law now, and so the old lady was taken up to her room.

She was greatly moved at seeing Isabel so prostrate, and yet so calm and happy. "I want to know just a little more about the seed," she said. "You see, I cannot wait for the harvest, I am going home in the springtime, and have only green blades. I do wish sometimes I could have stayed for the fruit."

"But, my dear young lady, you are bearing fruit. The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance; these are of the heart, and are all that God asks of you. He knows that active service and outward battling is impossible for you, but that Christ is daily growing in you—that you are one of the branches joined to the true Vine, and thus His life is proved to be in you by these fruits of the Spirit, for without Him you could do nothing."

"Oh, if I had not learned this—learned to love the Lord Jesus, who loved me and gave Himself for me—how miserable I should be now!" exclaimed Isabel. "I should have been unhappy and fretful, and miserable at the thought of dying so young. But now I can trust God, even for dear papa, for I know that the seed is beginning to grow in him, and God will teach and help him to root up all the weeds that hinder its growth."

It was the last long talk she was able to have with Mrs. Barker.

As the days went on, she grew rapidly weaker. She suffered very little pain, beyond the restlessness at night. During the day she dozed a great deal, or lay with Mabel's hand clasped in hers, occasionally asking for a few verses from the Bible, or a hymn to be read to her. But even this soon wearied her, and she would doze off again before Mabel had read many lines.

Mr. Randolph rarely left the house now, except for an hour on the most urgent business, and spent a great deal of his time in Isabel's room, where he could not help learning much that he had never heard of before, and which awoke in him thoughts, and desires, and resolutions that afterwards blossomed into a consistent Christian life. So that when at last the end came, and he had to give back to God the gift intrusted to him for a little while, he could do it with a hope that by and by he should join his beloved daughter in the kingdom where there is no sickness and no partings.

As soon as her cousin's funeral was over, Mabel returned home a wiser if a somewhat sadder girl.

As she stood in her own little room on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, and thought of the hopes and aspirations she had spoken of to herself the year before, she said half aloud: "Ah, the mistake I made was looking too far ahead, and being too ambitious, and so I failed to see the work that God had already given me—the duties that lay nearest to me. Oh, dear, how much I have missed through this! But, God helping me, Isabel shall not have died in vain, I will strive to be content with the smallest service—the lowest place now."

And Mabel kept her word. It cost her many a hard battle before she could quite settle down as her sister's governess and her mother's helpful daughter. But she conquered at last, winning victory from defeat, but never quite forgiving herself for the mistakes she made in that most eventful year of her life.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- HIDDEN SEED:

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

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