[Frontispiece: THE CLERGYMAN'S VISIT TO TOR BAY. ]

A CHILD OF THE GLENS;

OR, Elsie's Fortunes. 

 PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION, APPOINTED BY THE SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE

LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE SOLD AT THE DEPOSITORIES: 77, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS; 4, ROYAL EXCHANGE; 48, PICCADILLY; AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 

NEW YORK: POTT, YOUNG & CO. 

1875

Illustrations

The clergyman's visit to Tor Bay . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

A strange waif of the sea

Jim building castles-in-the-air. 

A CHILD OF THE GLENS;

or, Elsie's Fortunes. 

CHAPTER I. 

Doubtless some of our readers are acquainted with the noble "coastroad" that skirts round the north-eastern corner of Ireland, extending, it might almost be said, from Belfast to Londonderry. Thecharacteristic features of this noble esplanade (for such it is) arechiefly to be seen between the little town of Larne, where the railwayends, and Cushendall. Throughout this drive of forty miles you arenever out of sight or sound of the sea. The almost level road is seenfar ahead of the traveller, like a white boundary line between cliffand wave. You wonder at first if the road was made merely to gladdenthe tourist, for it does not seem likely that there could be muchtraffic other than that of pleasure-seekers thus along the margin ofthe sea. The configuration of this part of the County Antrim, however, explains the position of the road, and justifies the engineer who wasso happily enabled to combine the utilitarian with the romantic. Aseries of deep cut gorges, locally known as "The Glens, " intersect thecountry, running at right angles to the coast-line and thus forming asuccession of gigantic ridges, over which it would be impossible todrive a road. For this reason it has been found necessary to windround the mouths of these romantic valleys, which are guarded and shutoff from each other by a number of formidable and noble headlands, foremost among which ranks the beautiful Garron Point. Thus asuccession of surprises await the tourist. Having fairly made your waybetween the foot of the towering cliff and the inflowing tide, with noprospect in front but huge and grotesque-shaped rocks, which look benton opposing all further advance, you suddenly find that you havedoubled the point. A blue bay opens before you, shut in at its fartherside by the next promontory, at the base of which you can distinctlytrace the white streak of dusty road, that sweeps round the bay in agraceful semicircle. To your left--or while you are speaking, almostdirectly ahead--is the wide opening of one of the "Glens"--sweet, retired abodes of peace, sheltered and happy as they look out foreveron the sea. The barren and rocky highlands, terminated by the wildbluffs that so courageously plunge themselves into the waves, becomegradually softened and verdure-clad as they slope downward, while thenarrow valley itself is studded with trees and pretty homesteads. 

The people of "The Glens" are peculiar, primitive, and distinct. Inthese shut-in retreats the ancient Irish and Roman Catholic elementlargely prevails. When, in consequence of frequent rebellions, theoriginal inhabitants were well-nigh exterminated, and their placestaken by Scotch and English settlers, the natives found a refuge in thewilder and more remote parts of the country. Thus, here and there inUlster--generally known as "Protestant Ulster"--we come upon littlenooks and nests where for two centuries the primitive Irish race hassurvived. Naturally, living in the presence of their more pushing andprosperous Presbyterian neighbours, these last representatives of aconquered nationality are for the most part of a retiring andsuspicious disposition. In quiet country places there is seldom anymanifestation of open hostility, and intermarriages and neighbourlyfeeling have done much to smooth away the edge of bitter memories, butat bottom there remains a radical difference of sentiment, as of creed, which constitutes an impassable, though for the most invisible, barrier. 

Michael McAravey was a good specimen of the old Ulster Roman Catholic. He was a tall, powerful man, of nearly seventy at the time when ourstory opens, while he did not look sixty. His hair was long, iron-grey, and wiry, and it was only when uncovered that the high, bald, wrinkled forehead gave indication of his real age. A rebel atheart, the son of a man who had been "out" in '98, Michael had gonethrough life with a feeling that every man's hand was against him. Sober, self-reliant, and hard-working, the man was grasping and hard asflint. By tradition and instinct a bitter enemy to Protestantism, hewas not on that account a friend of the priest, or a particularlyfaithful son of the Church. He had his own "notions" about things, andthough a professed "Catholic, " his neighbours used to speculate whetherage or sickness would ever have power to bend that proud spirit, andbring Michael to confession and a humble reception of the "last rites"of the Church. Early in life McAravey had married a Presbyterian girl, and the almost inevitable estrangement that results from a "mixedmarriage" had cast its shadow over the lives of the pair. The Kaneshad belonged to the small and rigid body of "Covenanters, " and never aSabbath from childhood till her marriage had 'Lisbeth failed to walkthe four rough, up-hill, dreary miles that separated her father's homefrom the meeting-house that rose alone, and stern as the Covenantitself, on the bleak moorland above Glenariff. But her lastSabbath-day's journey was taken the week before her wedding. Michaelhad gloomily announced that no wife of his should be seen going to a"meeting-house, " and though he never sought to bring her to mass(perhaps in part because it might have involved going himself), hisresolution never varied. Nor did his wife contend against it. Thehabit once broken, she felt no inclination to undertake those long andwearisome journeys. But a Covenanter she meant to live and die. Nothing would have tempted her into the Presbyterian chapel close by. And thus when there came two children to be baptized the difficulty asto religion was compromised, and a triumph allowed to neither side, bythe babes being solemnly received into the compassionate and trulyCatholic fold of what was then the Established Church. That both theselittle ones had been taken away by death was a misfortune, and tendedto harden even more the somewhat disagreeable and rigid lines thatmarked the individuality of both Mr. And Mrs. McAravey. 

Not that the home thus early laid desolate was altogether unblessed byyoung faces. For many years the McAraveys had had charge of two littlechildren, who called them father and mother. But, as it was quiteevident that no such relationship as this could exist, so it came to begenerally understood that there was no tie of blood at all. Whatconnection there might be, or who the children were, was a mystery nonehad ever solved, nor was it likely that any inquiries--if such had everbeen ventured upon--had met with much encouragement on the part of"auld Mike" or his equally taciturn wife. 

Though the Antrim glens had been the scene of such courtship as it ispossible to conceive of between Michael McAravey and Elizabeth Kane, they had for many years ceased to be the place of their abode. Previous to the opening of our tale, McAravey had fallen into thetenant-right and goodwill of a farm held by an elder and unmarriedbrother, and hither he had accordingly moved with his wife, now pastmiddle-age, and the two little ones that called her mother. To findthe spot where the McAraveys now lived--a spot yet more retired andmore lovely than any in the glens properly so called--we must once morereturn to the great "coast road. " Having reached Cushendall, thescenery becomes more imposing, and the high background almost deservesthe name of a mountain. Here, at length, the rugged and toweringcoast-line successfully defies further violation of its lonely majesty. Accordingly the baffled road bends abruptly to the left, and turningits back upon the sea proceeds to climb the long, dreary slope of aflat-topped, uninteresting mountain, and then, having reached thehighest point (which is scarcely to be discerned), descends, till oncemore the sea is come upon at the secluded little country town ofBallycastle. The extreme northeast point of Ireland is thus cut off, and thus the ordinary tourist is cut off too, from one of Nature's mostfairy-like retreats. On looking back from Ballycastle you at onceperceive the necessity for your bleak and tedious mountain drive. Theeye immediately catches and rests fascinated upon the gigantic andliterally overhanging precipice of Fair Head, as it rears its peculiarand acute-angled summit against the sky. One look, and you areconvinced that no road could wind its way round the base of thatfrowning monster. But let us strive to penetrate this cut-off regioneither on foot across the moors, or by the rough mountain road thatsuffices for the wants of the few and scattered residents. Standing(sometimes not without difficulty) on the pitched-up edge of the mightyheadland, and gazing on the remote sea beneath, you feel oppressed bythe sense of Nature's vastness and your own insignificance. Nor doesthe dreary extent of rock and pool-dotted moor that stretches inland tothe very horizon afford any relief to such feelings. So you turn awayin search of rest and shelter. Then but a comparatively few downwardsteps and you find that the tempestuous wind has ceased to wrangle withyou; already you are beneath the shadow of the great rock. Descendingfurther, the bleak aspect of Nature is transformed. The heather givesplace to dwarf shrubs; the bare, weather-beaten rocks are clothed withblackberry bushes, or hidden amid luxurious bracken. Dark holliesclinging to detached rocks present varied and life-like forms. The airhas suddenly become still. The butterflies hover over the foxgloves. The wild strawberry is at your feet. The sloeberries ripen around you. The sea before you might be the Mediterranean, so gently does it rippleup to the very edge of the hundred tiny plants that force their wayamid the sand. Great rock bastions shut you in on either side, andbehind, the green slope you had descended rises upward till it meetsthe blue sky beyond. You might be in the south of England rather thanin the "black north" of Ireland; and you are struck with the probablyaccidental suggestiveness of the name--Tor Bay. It was here thatMcAravey's lot was cast, and here that Elsie and Jim used in theirleisure hours to gather the strawberries and stain themselves withsloes. 

CHAPTER II. 

Not that Elsie and Jim had many leisure hours. Like all else in thelittle household, they had their work to do. McAravey's "farm" was buta little patch of ten acres, part of it not even yet quite won backfrom rock and bracken. On this he toiled as only a man can toil whoworks for himself, and is assured of his interest in the soil on whichhe drops his sweat. That he had no grown-up son (as might have been)to aid his declining strength was a hidden sorrow to the old man. Heworked on, however, and bravely did his uncomplaining wife assist him. Neither of them had ever known an hour of either ill health oridleness, and they were guiltless of any conscious or intentionalcruelty when they early and sternly disciplined their young charges tothe same laborious life. The duties of the children were manifold. Jim herded McAravey's two or three cows, or acted as scarecrow in thelittle patch of corn, each precious grain of which was grudged to thepassing birds. Elsie scoured the house, and carried out milk to one ortwo somewhat distant neighbours. But the most arduous labour of thechildren was one that they shared together. When the weathersuited--after a stormy night, or when there was a spring tide--theywould stand for hours on the beach, often wet to the waists, draggingthe tempest-tossed sea-weed to the shore with large wooden rakes. Thisoccupation was not merely arduous but dangerous. More than once hadlittle Jim, who was of lighter build than the girl, been fairly draggedoff his feet by the force of the receding wave, as it wrestled with himfor the possession of the mass of floating weed which he had hooked inhis rake. The weed thus drawn to shore was subsequently sorted, thegreater part being used for manure, while the rest was burned in one ofthose rough kilns that abound along the coast, and reduced to kelp, which is used in the manufacture of soap and glass, and from whichiodine is extracted. Thus, almost from infancy, the children had beeninured to labour, and alas! for them the sunny hours of idle ramblingamid the tangled foliage of the glen were few and far between. Neitherchild had received any education. The only school was nearly fourmiles off, up on the open moorland. It was only in summer that thechildren could possibly attend, and even then their visits wereinfrequent and irregular. On all religious subjects their young mindswere dark as night. Even a few days at school had taught them thatsuch things as reading and writing existed, and Jim especially haddeveloped in him vague ideas as to the power and wealth that might beobtained if once he could master these mysterious subjects. Butreligion was only known to them as being provocative of party quarrelsand domestic disagreements. Harsh and brief as was the general styleof intercourse between Mr. And Mrs. McAravey, there was no absoluteanger or violence about it, except when allusion was made to thedifference that through life had separated husband and wife. Even thenit seemed strange to the children that such fierce feelings and suchill words should be excited by a matter that had absolutely noinfluence on ordinary life, and which was never introduced but as abone of contention. Nor hitherto had the poor neglected ones anyopportunity of learning the blessed truths of a Father's and aSaviour's love from any other quarter. There was no place of worshipin the glen. The Presbyterian chapel was a mile away, and even thereno Sunday-school was held. As for the Church, into the fold of whichthe poor babes had been received, it was scarcely to be thought of, being fully four miles off, across a rough mountain district. Here theRev. Cooper Smith ministered to a congregation that fluctuated much, but was never very large. The parish was enormous, and theChurch-people dotted over it in a most unmanageable fashion. Yet itwas surprising what a considerable number of people were broughttogether on a fine Sunday morning in summer. The clergyman, too, persevered in keeping together what was at least the nucleus of aSunday-school, consisting of some twelve or fifteen children, whom heand the clerk taught in the church before service. But from this meansof grace Elsie and Jim were cut off by distance, even if, as was morethan doubtful, their foster-parents would have allowed them to attend. In the glen that sloped down to Tor Bay, there were no Church-people, and but few children of any sort. Thus spiritual darkness reignedsupreme throughout this beautiful domain. Twice during five years in aprofessional capacity (though several times on pic-nics) had the Rev. Cooper Smith made his way to Tor Bay. The people had received him witha patronising kindness, that was peculiarly irritating to his sensitiveand somewhat small nature. 

"Sit down, mon, and rest yeresel' a bit; ye must be tired, " saidMcAravey, looking over his shoulder as he stalked out of the cottage. 

"Don't you think you ought to send those children to school, Mrs. McAravey?" asked the clergyman, whose kind heart had been touched, onthe occasion of a recent pic-nic, to see the half-drowned little onestoiling amid the heaps of wet and writhing sea-wrack. 

"Maybe ye 'd send yere carriage to fetch them up the brae!" remarkedMrs. McAravey, with a harsh, disagreeable laugh at her own pleasantry. 

"Well, it is rather far, " replied Mr. Smith, somewhat apologetically;"but it grieves me to see them growing up in ignorance, and without anyknowledge of the Saviour. "

"Thank ye, sir, " cried Mrs. McAravey, satirically, "but I think ma monand mysel' knows our duties, and can teach the wains, too, wi'out anyparson comin' to help us. A pretty thing to tell us we knows nothingo' the Saviour! I can tell you, mon, I've walked more miles o' theSawbath to my place o' worship than some folks as I know walks in aweek. "

The clergyman, somewhat taken aback at this outbreak, felt a risingflush of anger, and could only reply--

"I think, my good woman, you might remember whom you are speaking to, and might be civil to a stranger when he comes into your house. "

To judge by the response, the second part of this appeal was moreeffective than the first. An appeal to authority or respect of personsis not usually successful in Ulster. 

"I knows rightly who I 'm speakin' to, and I don't see as it makes anydiffer; but I 'm sorry I spoke sharp, seein' ye come so far, only Ican't thole to be towd I 'm na fit to train up a wain in the knowledgeo' the Saviour. "

Expressing a hope that Elsie and Jim would come to school when weatherand work permitted, and with a somewhat vague remark about "callingagain, " the Rev. Cooper Smith beat as graceful a retreat as waspossible. 

His other calls that day were scarcely more satisfactory, for though heencountered no such actual rudeness, there was everywhere the samepatronising familiarity. 

Andrew McAuley, the wealthiest farmer in the glen, invited him to have"a drop o' something, " adding, by way of encouragement, "Ye needn't beafeerd--there's plenty iv it in the house. "

The only person who seemed to recognise his spiritual office was widowSpence, who, as the clergyman stood hesitating before leaving thecottage (he was debating whether he should offer the old woman ashilling), sympathetically remarked--

"Maybe, then, ye 'd like to mak' a wee bit o' a prayer afore ye goback?"

Unreasonably, perhaps, the rector felt rebuked and annoyed by thisincident, and he walked home with a heavy heart. What could be donefor Tor Bay--so beautiful, yet so barbarous--so out of the way in everysense? His personal efforts did not seem likely to be rewarded withsuccess, even if he could keep--which he did not himself believe thathe could--to the often-made resolution to be more frequent and regularin his visits across the hill. He had been wounded in many points thatday, yet he had not gone away without hearing one note ofencouragement. Many a day and many a night he saw, like Paul, thefigure of one who said to him, "Come over . . . And help us. " Only thefigure was that of a brown, blushing, merry-eyed girl of nine, who heldby the hand a delicate-looking, white-haired, timid boy. Again andagain he fancied himself walking sadly and dreamily on the pure smoothsand of the beautiful secluded bay. Again and again he was murmuringthe lines--

 "Every prospect pleases, And only man is vile"--

when he hears a voice, and turning, sees the half-amused, half-eagerlook of Elsie as she had said--

"Please, Jim says he 'd like to go to school, minister; and I 'd liketoo, if it wasn't so far. "

CHAPTER III. 

The pleading voice was not in vain. After much anxious considerationthe Rev. Cooper Smith resolved to use his efforts to get the aid of aScripture-reader for Tor Bay, and other outlying districts of his vastparish. The munificence of an elderly lady enabled him to bring hisarrangements to a successful issue more rapidly than he had hoped. Hewas also fortunate in obtaining a fit and proper person for the post. Robert Hendrick was by birth and education an Ulster man; but havingbeen for several years employed in the south-west, he had acquiredsomething of that geniality, tact, and courtesy which is, perhaps, deficient in the hard Scotch character of the Northerns. There wasnothing of professional piety or of the professional reader aboutHendrick. A bright, active, smiling little man, he was soon afavourite in Tor Glen. His visits were made twice a-week, and theinhabitants soon found him a useful and obliging friend. He executedsmall commissions, carried letters from Ballycastle, and actedgenerally as a medium of communication with the outer world. But whilethus wisely winning his way by kindly offices, he was not unmindful ofthat other world which it was his duty to bring before the minds of thepeople of the secluded vale. One evening of the week a homely service, half Bible-class, half prayer-meeting, was held, to which aconsiderable number of the Presbyterians, and even a few RomanCatholics, dropped in. The other evening was devoted to teaching thefew little ones who could be gathered together. Elsie and Jim wereamong the earliest pupils; Jim was actuated by an almost morbid cravingfor knowledge, and for Elsie anything novel had sufficient attraction. Mrs. McAravey, notwithstanding her self-righteous indignation whenquestioned by the clergyman, had in her heart a belief that religiousinstruction was the proper thing for children. She remembered thestern discipline of her own early years--not, indeed, with anypleasure, but with a firm conviction that severe spiritual as well asphysical labour was good for the young. That "Auld Mike" permitted thechildren to attend the reader's class was a matter of surprise to many, and that Hendrick had been able to capture them added not a little tohis reputation. McAravey had, however, been pleased with the frank, obliging address of the reader; and perhaps, too, there was some softerfeeling in his hard, silent nature than folks gave him credit for. Anyhow he made no opposition; and though he did not fail to noticetheir absence every Friday evening, he "asked no questions forconscience sake"--or rather he rested satisfied with the result of hisfirst inquiry. 

"Where's the wains, 'Lisbeth, I wonder?"

"How should I know?" was the somewhat Jesuitical reply. "Maybe they're gone to the town end; but they 'll be right enough, you may besure. " And there the matter dropped for many a day. 

Meanwhile school-work went on. The precocious Jim made amazingprogress in reading and writing--arts from which Elsie's impatientnature revolted. This distaste was, however, counterbalanced by thegirl's quickness in other respects. By dint of memory, and anexcellent ear, she soon had at her finger ends whole passages ofScripture, together with a number of psalms and hymns, from one to theother of which she ran with a vivacity and heedlessness, that oftenpained her teacher. She was soon the leader of the little choir, andcould sing, with wonderful correctness, "Shall we gather at the river?""I think when I read that sweet story of old, How when Jesus was hereamong men. " "As pants the hart for cooling streams, " &c. 

Robert Hendrick was deeply interested in his little pupils. Jim seemedlikely to grow up a pattern boy. Punctual and diligent, with grave, attentive eyes and quiet demeanour, he could not but elicit theapproval of his teacher. Yet Hendrick could not conceal from himselfthat Elsie was his favourite--Elsie, so reckless and so irreverent, soheadstrong, and at times even violent. He used to tremble for thechild's future, as, attracted by the sweet, true ring of her voice, hesaw the eager, merry eyes wandering all round the room, while the lipswere singing the most sacred words. Those awful and profound truths, that were to him the only realities, and which animated his everyeffort, were apparently to this sweet young singer but as fairy tales, or even as mere empty words on which to build up the fabric of hersong; and at times he even doubted whether it was right to lay bare themysterious agonies of redeeming love to such a careless eye, and tofamiliarise such a child with scenes so awful, but which seemed to wakeno note of love or reverence. Yet Robert Hendrick loved and prayed forthe child, content to work on for her, as for so many others in theglen, in simple faith and loving hope. 

With the approach of winter the Friday evening class had to bediscontinued. Most of the children lived at a considerable distancefrom the place of meeting; nor was a walk across the moors alwaysfeasible in rough weather. Even for a time the Wednesday service hadto be suspended; so that for a couple of months the glen relapsed intoits former state of spiritual night. Not altogether, however. Thegood seed cast upon the waters had found a resting-place in severalhearts; and the opening of spring, and with it the resumption of theScripture-reader's visits, were eagerly looked forward to by many, bothyoung and old. 

CHAPTER IV. 

It was the end of March, when an event occurred which would have been amore than nine days' wonder even in a busier spot than Tor Bay. Theequinoctial gales had been protracted and severe. For days the sea offFair Head, and through the strait that separates the mainland fromRathlin Island, had run mountains high; and now, though the surface wassmooth and glistening in the bright spring sun, the long, heavy swell, as it broke in thundering rollers on the shore, bore witness to thefierceness of the recent conflict. The night had been wild and dark, but it was succeeded by one of those balmy days that are sent asharbingers of coming summer. Elsie and Jim had been busy ever sincethe return of the tide, about noon, dragging to shore the masses ofsea-wrack that the recent storms had loosened and sent adrift. 

The afternoon was now far advanced, and the children were growing wearyof their work. Several heaps of brown, wet, shining weed stood atintervals along the sands, as monuments of their zeal. They began tolook wistfully towards the hill for "father, " who had promised to meetthem at the conclusion of the day's work; but again and again they hadlooked in vain. It was now growing almost dusk. They had thought ofdesisting from their task, when a succession of gigantic rollers, likethe fierce rear-guard of the great army that for so many hours had beenbroken to pieces on the sands, was seen approaching. 

With a solemn reverberation the first giant toppled over, and swept amass of mingled foam and sea-weed up the sands, far past where the wetand weary little toilers were standing. Knee-deep in the rapidlyreturning body of water, they strove with their rakes to arrest somefragments of the whirling and tangled mass of weeds. But the secondgiant was at hand. Checked in its advance by the retreating fragmentsof its predecessors, the monster hesitated. And then the two masses ofwater clashing together rose up in fierce embrace, while the foam andspray of their contention was blown by the keen east wind into thechildren's faces. But the force of the tide was spent, and the secondwave, though victorious in the wrestle, scarce survived the conflict, and did not even flow over the children's feet. Elsie, therefore, sprang forward almost to the spot where the wave had broken, andbrought down her rake into the midst of a huge and tangled mass. Theretiring wave struggled hard to retain its own, so that the child wasfairly drawn out by its force. 

"Let go, let go!" cried Jim, as he caught the girl's dress to help herresistance; "the rake will float in again. "

But Elsie was fascinated. She felt at once that the body she held wassolid, though soft and yielding, and so she clung to the longrake-handle with all her might. The conflict was over in a fewmoments. The waters retired defeated, and left upon the sands a dark, limp, saturated body. 

"Come away, come away!" shrieked the boy, as Elsie was cautiouslyadvancing towards the mysterious object. The girl stood still, andhesitated a moment, while a vague dread crept over her. What was itthat lay there in the bleak, cold twilight, so still and shapeless, andyet with such an awful suggestion of life about it? She was lost inbewilderment when the boy's voice recalled her--

"Elsie, Elsie, mind the wave!"

She had but a moment in which to spring back, as the third giant, towering above its predecessors, lifted the inert body on its crest, and flung it contemptuously high up upon the shore. Then the watersswept back and left the two children shivering alone on the strand:behind them were the dull, dead heaps of sea-weed, and at their feet ablack mass of clothing. The children clung together in silent awe. Neither of them had ever seen a dead body. Hitherto death had been anabstraction, but now they felt themselves face to face with the reality. 

[Illustration: A strange waif of the sea. ]

"Let's run and look for father, " suggested Jim, in a frightened whisper. 

"We can't leave her alone, Jim, " responded the girl, now pale and graveas she had never been before, and looking from the body to the line offoaming water but a few feet beyond; "the tide might turn and take heraway again. "

"I wish it had not brought her!" gasped Jim, through his chatteringteeth. 

"Hush, " said Elsie; and then, after a pause, "if you go fetch some one, I'll stay here. "

"Aren't you afraid? I am. "

"Go, " said Elsie, "go quick; it's getting dark. "

Hesitatingly the boy left her, and walked almost backwards till hereached the top of the beach; then, with a short cry of fear, he turnedhis hack on the sea, and ran up the path towards his home. 

Elsie stood alone with the dead. She looked on the heaps of sea-weeds, and then along the line of breakers, that seemed even now gatheringstrength for a return movement. It was a trying ordeal for a child often, but the terrible novelty of the situation seemed to give hercourage. She advanced towards the body, which she now saw was that ofa woman dressed in black. She lay upon her back, the face only hiddenby the tangled hair and sea-weed. Elsie noticed as she gazed, for whatseemed hours, on the still form, that there was a gold chain round theneck, and two rings on the finger of the hand that rested upon thebeach. As the gloom of the afternoon deepened, a sense of pity andyearning quite new to her, and which destroyed all fear, crept over thechild. An irresistible longing urged her to draw back the tangled hairfrom the face. For a moment she turned away terrified, but then kneltdown, and with trembling hands began to draw out the weeds, and tosmooth back the heavy brown hair from the cold face. She grew absorbedin her task, and almost fancied the worn, yet beautiful and gentlefeatures looked pleased and grateful. She even ventured to lift theheavy arm from the sand, but it fell back so stiffly that the child wasterrified, and stood a little apart, wondering where the poor lady hadcome from. She knew not how long she had waited, when she was arousedby the sound of a voice. Looking up, she beheld Michael McAravey byher side. 

"Well, Elsie, lass, what's all this? There 's that wee fool Jim cryinghimself into fits, and raving about dead bodies in the sea-weed. Blessed mother! so it is a dead body, " he added, excitedly, as hecaught sight of the object of Elsie's regard. The old man was onlyunnerved for a moment; then turning his back to the sea and putting hishands to his mouth, he gave a loud "halloa, " which echoed across thesilent bay, but brought no other response. 

"Now, lass, look sharp and run up the brae, and call some of the men, or the tide will be in upon us. And we 'll lose the wrack, too, forthe matter of that. Away you go in a moment, " he added, sternly, asthe child seemed reluctant to abandon what she held to be her peculiarcharge. 

Elsie obeyed, and was fortunate enough, just as she was turning intothe by-road that led to the shore, to run against George Hendrick. 

"What has scared you so, Elsie?" he said, kindly, as he stopped theheadlong child; "are you in mischief, and running away from anybody?"

"O Mr. Hendrick, we 've found a drowned lady on the shore, and I 'mrunning to tell the people; father's with her. "

"Where?" cried the reader, quickly. 

"In the sandy cove, where we get the sea-wrack. "

"Well, Elsie, you run on to McAuley's, and ask him to bring down somespirits in case she might be alive still; and lose no time--there's agood girl. "

So saying, Hendrick sprang over the low fence and hurried down theshore. He soon saw through the dusk a tall figure bending over someobject on the sand. It rose as he approached, and he at oncerecognised McAravey. The old man was singularly excited andflurried--far more so than when he had joined Elsie. 

"Thank God some one has come!" he cried; "and you 're the very man I 'dlike to see. "

"Is she quite dead?" said Hendrick, kneeling beside the body. 

"Aye, dead enough and stiff, " answered the old man; "but see, the tideis almost on us. Let's fetch her up a bit. I did not like to touchher till some one came. "

Between them they lifted the body into a place of safety, and thenMcAravey, whose agitation had not diminished, said, with affectedindifference--

"While we are waiting I 'll just drag up a wee lock of that weed; thereis no use letting the tide fetch it away again. " So saying, heproceeded to lift in his arms the heaps that were nearest the sea, andto place them beyond the high-water line. 

Meanwhile Hendrick had been examining the features of the dead woman, and was startled to recognise one with whom he had conversed only theday before. This was the only important point brought out at theinquest, which took place in a couple of days. Hendrick deposed tohaving met a woman dressed like the deceased, as far as he could judge, walking on the cliffs past Fair Head. She had asked him about a shortcut to Tor Bay by a rocky path which led abruptly down to the shore, and which, she said, she half-remembered. He had warned her that theway was a dangerous one, especially in bad weather. She had laughed, and said she had once been down the Grey Man's Path, and had known thecoast well in childhood. She had not told him her business in Tor Bay, but had said they might, perhaps, meet there. Had anything elsepassed? Yes, he had given her a little tract, as she seemed anxiousand troubled. Anything else? No, except that when parting she hadasked him the correct time in order to set her watch. Did Hendrick seethe watch? No, but he thought she wore a chain, and was certain shehad spoken of setting her watch, which she said had gone down. Thismatter excited some interest, because, though the tract given byHendrick was found in the pocket of the dress, no watch or chain couldbe discovered. Had the unfortunate woman been robbed, and then throwninto the sea? Or had the watch and chain been stolen by Mike or thechildren, who first found the body? Or might they not easily have beenlost from the body that had been so long tossed by the waves? Elsie'sexamination did not tend to clear her of suspicion. Her answers to thepreliminary questions as to "the nature of an oath" were somewhatflippant and unsatisfactory. As to the chain, she first spokepositively of having seen it, then hesitatingly, ending by saying shewas frightened and knew nothing about it. 

McAravey swore positively that he had seen no gold chain, and thereforehad not taken one. Though an ugly suspicion was thus created, nofurther steps could be taken, Hendrick declining to vouch for more thanan "impression" that the deceased wore a chain. Evidence of identitythere was none. The linen was marked "E. D, " and the mourning ring, which guarded a plain gold one, had merely the words, "In memory, H. D. , 186--. " The only further evidence was that of a public car-driverbetween Cushendall and Ballycastle, who deposed to having had apassenger who corresponded to the description of the dead woman. Shehad no luggage, and walked away when the car stopped. A woman was alsofound who had given deceased a night's lodging. She said she hadseemed excited and somewhat flighty--was restless at night, and startedoff early, having paid a shilling for her lodging and breakfast. Thislast witness added to the confusion by saying she saw no chain, and didnot believe her lodger had a watch, since she had several times askedher the hour, and had annoyed her into saying she ought to have a watchof her own. This witness's "impression" was that deceased had replied, "I wish I had, and I wouldn't trouble you. " This was absolutely allthat could be ascertained. And accordingly the dead woman was buriedby the Rev. Cooper Smith, in Rossleigh graveyard, which she had toldHendrick she had known well in her childhood. All the neighbourhoodflocked to the funeral, and even Michael McAravey was for the firsttime in his life seen inside the doors of a Protestant church. The oldman seemed much cut up, probably owing to the doubts cast on hishonesty. So sad was the fate of the unknown wanderer, and so great theinterest excited, that it was determined to record the mysterious eventin a simple headstone, erected by subscription. To the surprise ofeverybody, McAravey, who had never been known to trouble himself aboutany one else's affairs, or to give away a shilling, took the matter upwarmly, and himself subscribed fifteen shillings, which he paid inthree instalments. The stone was erected, bearing this inscription:--

"In Memory"

OF MRS. E. D. (NAME UNKNOWN), FOUND DROWNED NEAR TOR POINT

_On the 13th of March, 186--_. 

This Stone is Erected by Subscription. 

CHAPTER V. 

The events narrated in the last chapter were not without lastingeffects on most of the persons immediately concerned in them. MichaelMcAravey was an altered man. His proud reserve seemed changing intopetulant self-vindication. He began to look fully his age, and, likemany other men of so-called iron constitution, when his strength beganto give way it collapsed at once. He also conceived a violentantipathy to George Hendrick. The children were forbidden to attendthe class, which had now been resumed; and although they came twicesurreptitiously, Mr. Hendrick was no sooner aware of this than he feltobliged to tell them that their first duty was obedience to theirguardians. It was a hard parting both for teacher and pupils. It costGeorge Hendrick no slight effort to dismiss his two favourite scholars, nor could he at once see his duty plain in the matter. As for thechildren they were broken-hearted and rebellious; but the quiet, sympathetic tenderness of their friend at length reconciled them totheir lot. Except on this point, McAravey was far more consideratewith the children than formerly. He was now a good deal in the house, having become very asthmatic, and often shielded Elsie and Jim fromMrs. McAravey's harsh tongue. 

The effect of what they had gone through was no less evident in thechildren, though they were very differently affected. Jim neverrecovered the panic of that March day. Nothing could induce him to gonear the shore alone, and the very sight of the sea excited the lad. It was otherwise with Elsie. That solitary interview with the dead hadsobered her. The dead woman's face was seldom absent from herthoughts. Elsie had grown to love it, and to regard it as somethingmysterious and superhuman. She had never before seen so refined andbeautiful a countenance; and there was something in the rigid aspect ofdeath that quieted and awed, while it did not the least terrify thechild. As the months went by, and the actual event began to fade inthe distance, the pale sweet face, with the dripping brown hair drawnback from it, became more and more of an ideal for veneration and love. Thus, while Jim could never be induced to pass near the sandy covealone, Elsie ceased to have any special association with the actualscene of the occurrence. But in her moments of passion or heedlessnessshe ever saw before her the dead face--kind, but so calm and firm, thatit repressed in an instant her most impetuous outbursts. 

As the autumn drew on it became evident that Michael McAravey wasdying. That he knew it himself was gathered from the fact that morethan once, during the summer, he had walked over to Ballycastle toattend Mass. There seemed a weight on the old man's mind, which he wasunable or unwilling to shake off. 'Lisbeth, who for years had sufferedseverely from "rheumatics, " and who had made up her mind that she wasto die before the "old man, " was but an indifferent nurse. Elsie, however, more than took her place. Michael had become much attached tothe child, and as he daily grew weaker he came to look to her foreverything. 

"Ye 'r a brave wee lass, Elsie, " he used to say, "and I doubt I 've notbeen over kind to ye, but I can't do without ye now. "

One gloomy September afternoon, when the blustering winds were againcelebrating the return of the equinox, Michael, who had been sleepingheavily all day, suddenly started up and astonished his wife by aneager request that she would send at once for George Hendrick andFather Donnelly. 

"I doubt you 're raving, Mike, to send for such a pair. What do youwant with either, not to say both? Nice company they 'd be for eachother. "

"I tell you I'm dying, and I must see them both, " cried her husband, rising, gaunt and excited, in the bed. "I say, Elsie, " he continued, "this is Wednesday; run down and see can you find Mr. Hendrick anywhereabout. "

Elsie departed at once, while 'Lisbeth tried to soothe the invalid, muttering all the time, however, her scorn of "Readers" and hatred of"Papish priests. "

George Hendrick was easily found, and in a few minutes was sitting bythe old man's side, soothing him with simple, kindly words, and waitingfor an opening through which to approach the inner man. 

"I 've not treated you fair, my mon, and I didn't wish to die withouttellin' you so. Besides, there 's a thing or two I 've been thinkin'long to speak about, and now the time's come. I 've sent for FatherDonnelly. "

"It's far to send and long to wait, Mike; do you not think we can do aswell without him?" asked the reader. 

"I've not sent for him, and ye may be sure I 'll have none o' yourPapish priests coomin' about the house, leastways whiles I 'm in it, "interrupted Mrs. McAravey. 

"Then you 'd better get out of it, " said the old man; "I neverinterfered with you and your Ranters and Covenanters, and I don't meanto be interfered with. I tell ye, George Hendrick, I'll die in theChurch of my fathers, even if I 'm----"

"Hush!" cried Hendrick, putting his hand to the excited man's mouth;"we 'll send for the priest if you wish. God forbid that I shouldstand between you. Young Jim McAuley is going over to Ballycastle, andwill take a message if Elsie gives it him; but he can't be here forthree or four hours at least, so let us be quiet a wee bit now. Yousaid you wanted to see me, Mike; and perhaps while we are waiting you'd like to hear the message of God out of His own book--you needn'twait to send to Ballycastle for it. "

"You may read a bit if ye like, " responded McAravey, leaning back onthe bed, quite satisfied now that the priest had been sent for; "onlyno controversy; it's not fit for a dyin' man--or for any man, for thematter o' that. "

"No controversy!" said Hendrick, smiling; "well, will this suit you?'_Without controversy_ great is the mystery of godliness. God wasmanifest in the flesh, justified in the spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up intoglory. ' Do you believe that, Mike?"

"Aye, aye; it's wonderful to think on, " murmured the dying man, in hisdeep, solemn voice. "I doubt I 've been a bit hard sometimes, but I've always been honest and paid my way. " Then after a pause, "Ye maygo on with your readin'; I 'm no ways prejudiced. I think Prodestanand Catholic is pretty much alike with God. "

"Aye, Mike, alike in this, that '_all_ have sinned and come short ofthe glory of God. ' None of us can stand before Him as we are; butremember what Paul says again, there could be no disputing about, 'Thisis a true saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus cameinto the world to save sinners. '"

"I believe that, " said McAravey; "but now I 'd like to sleep a bit;only don't go away, for if the priest don't come in time, I mustconfess to you, George. Ye won't object to hear me and give meabsolution, will you?" he added with an effort to smile. 

"I won't leave you, Mike, and I'll hear what you have to say; and asfor absolution, I 'll try to point you to the great Absolver--ourAdvocate with the Father--who is the propitiation for our sins. "

It was after ten o'clock when Father Donnelly arrived. After a shortprivate interview with the patient, Hendrick was summoned to the room. 

"There is a part of my confession, " said the old man, "which, by yourleave, father, I 'd like my friend to hear--it will save us the time ofgoing over the same bit twice. "

The priest nodded silently, not, however, looking very pleased at thesomewhat light tone in which McAravey spoke. 

"It's about the two children, and the poor creature that was found bythem on the sands last spring. It's been heavy on my mind this longtime, and I can't go out of the world without explaining all I knowabout the story. And now to begin at the beginning. It's just aboutseven years ago, and a couple before we came here, that the childrencame to us. We were very hard-up at that time, and 'Lisbeth and I weredown in heart about loosin' our own wains, when one day I was in themarket at Ballymena, and there I met James Kinley. He asked me, wouldthe missus like to make a trifle by taking charge of a couple ofchildren? I said I thought she might, and so he brought me to thehotel, and I saw a young woman as said she and her husband were goingabroad, and wished to leave the two little ones with some respectableperson in the glens. Well, I saw her a second time, and then it wasall settled. She gave us 20 pounds down, and said she would write. Ididn't like to ask questions, thinking, perhaps, it wasn't all on thesquare about the bairns, and so I'm not sure I ever even knew the namerightly--it was Davis, or Davison, or Dawson, or something that way. Tom Kinley knew all about the parties, and so I did not trouble. Andthen when he went to America there was no one to inquire of. Well, wehad one letter about a year after, from some place in Inja, I think, and in it they said they was going further, and mightn't be able towrite for some time. There was a directed envelope inside, and I sentoff a few lines to say the wains was well. After that we never heardmore, and we always thought the father and mother had got killed in thestrange parts they went to. So we never told the young 'uns anything, but determined to make the best shift we could for them. Then came theday they found the body, and this is where my sore trouble began. After Elsie left me, I was still lookin' at the poor dead thing, whenit come on me like a dream that I had seen the face before. At first Icouldn't think where it was, and then I remembered the lady Kinley hadbrought me to see in Ballymena. I stooped down to look at her, andthen I noticed the chain round her neck. There was no watch on it, buta sort of wee case that opened, and inside there was a picture and awee bit o' paper folded. You may be sure Mike McAravey had no thoughtof stealing; but when I saw some one comin', I said to myself, 'Thesethings belong to the wains, and if I leave 'em here they 'll not get'em unless I tell all I knows. ' And my heart bled to think of thechildren hearing the first of their mother, when they saw her lyingdead. So I slipt the chain and case into my pocket, just as GeorgeHendrick came up. Ye remember, perhaps, I was so confused-like Ididn't know what I was doing. Maybe ye thought I was scared. Then, when we brought up the body, I went and put the chain under the bigheap o' sea-weed. When all the fuss was made at the inquest, I wassorry I had hid the things, but I daren't tell then. And mind ye, Father Donnelly, I told no lie, for there was no watch, and the chainwasn't gold at all, but an old-fashioned silver affair. Even so it wasa weight on me, so I thought the best thing I could do was to sell it, and they gave me fifteen shillings in Coleraine. And that's how I gotthe first money for the monument. The wee case--a locket, I believe, they call it--I 've kept yet. It's made up in a parcel in the cornerof the wee box under the bed. And now that's all I 've to say; but Iknows this affair, and the way the folk has doubted me has been thecause of my breaking up. And there 's poor Elsie--I believe she sworeshe didn't see the chain just to keep me out of trouble, and that cutme most of all to be the means o' bringin' the poor innocent lass totell a lie. "

"I'm sorry you did not tell me all this before, " said George Hendrick, his eyes filling with tears as he gazed on the stern, deep-lined faceof the old man; "it might all have been explained. "

"I'm sorry too, and often thought to do it; but you see I took adislike to you, because your mentioning about the watch--when after allthere was no watch--was the cause of my trouble. "

"And now you see, Mike, " said the priest, "the evil results of notcoming to confession; I 've often warned you. "

"So you have, Father Donnelly, and it's no fault o' yours if I haven'tbeen a better Catholic; but I 'm punished now, so let us forget thepast. "

"Aye, " said the priest, "you have suffered for your fault; and nowwouldn't you like to receive the last rites, in case anything mighthappen before I come again?"

It was not too soon, for when daylight dawned the proud, restlessspirit had taken flight. Long after the priest had left, Hendrick hadsat, Bible in hand, pointing the dying sinner to the Great High Priestof our profession; and when the struggle was over he started homeacross the moors in the bleak morning, cheered and thankful in heart, believing that his labours that night had "not been in vain in theLord. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Michael McAravey's death made a considerable difference in the positionof his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; andthough she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right fromMcAuley, to whose farm the little patch was now united, she yet foundherself in very straitened circumstances, especially as she regardedspending her principal as almost a sin. It was a bitter struggle, and, yet by degrees there crept into her heart a degree of peace andcontentment such as she had never known before. Both she and Elsie hadbeen deeply affected by the earnest and simple appeals of theScripture-reader during that last sad night of watching by the bed ofdeath. The more so, in all probability, in that the words were notaddressed directly to them, so that there was none of that irritationwhich often results when one feels himself being "preached at. "Hendrick was now a weekly visitor at Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and hehad at length the gratification of seeing, in this one home at least, the results of his long-continued and faithful labours. At hissuggestion, Jim, who, especially after the old man's death, could bemade nothing of at home, was sent to a distant relative in Coleraine, where he had an opportunity of pursuing his studies at the ModelSchool, with a view to entering some sort of business. This was almostthe only object for which Mrs. McAravey would permit a portion of hersmall capital to be touched. For the rest, she and Elsie struggled onalmost in poverty, but helped and, as far as possible, kept in work bythe kindness of the neighbours. In some mysterious way the substanceof McAravey's confession had become public property, and it was knownand suspected by everybody but herself that something had come out toidentify the drowned woman as Elsie's mother. Thus the child foundherself, she knew not why, an object of interest to every member of thelittle community. And the remembrance of the dead woman was reallylike that of a mother to her. As Mrs. McAravey grew rapidly aged, Elsie acquired the habit of calling her "gran;" while the feelings oftenderness and sympathy that had been first roused in her by the sightof that poor soiled dead face, with the hair and sea-weed dashed acrossit, were cherished and sanctified by the daily call made on them inconsequence of the old woman's increasing infirmities. The child hadeven come, strangely enough, to think of and speak to the object of herdreams as "mother. " Was it an accident? Was it an instinct? Was itthe result of some overheard expressions which, passing through herconsciousness unnoticed, had yet made a lasting impression on the brainof the imaginative child? Or was it a providential suggestion sent byan all-pitying Father to this desolate and wandering lamb?

Thus time slipped by uneventfully, as far as external circumstanceswere concerned, but not purposelessly. The hard lot of the poorsuffering old woman was being lighted, and her spirit trained for thateternity which was now growing large upon her vision, as earthlyaffairs shrank into a smaller compass. Elsie, too, who had never yetcrossed the hill that seemed to meet the sky at the top of the glen, was learning lessons of perseverance and patient endurance, which wouldnot be lost upon her, whatever the future of the child might be. Jimwas seldom at home, and, alas! but little of the old childishattachment survived. The boy was ambitious, business-like, andplodding. His heart was in the town, and he seemed to retain noaffection for the associations of his childhood: some of them wereabsolutely abhorrent to him. George Hendrick was profoundlydisappointed in the lad. Not that a word could be said against hischaracter. He was steady, diligent, and submissive. And when he wasplaced in a position where he could earn something, he never failed tosend what he could to the old woman who had sacrificed so much to bringhim on. But there seemed a total absence of feeling or religioussentiment about the lad. If he was sober and steady, it was merelybecause he scorned the weakness and waste consequent upon dissipation. He was pushing and ambitious, well spoken of and respected, but his oldteacher failed not to see that all his thoughts were "of the earth, earthy. "

When she was nearly fifteen (as far as her ago was known) a new worldwas opened up for Elsie. The rector's family were now growing up, andhe was blest enough to find in his children, not a hindrance, but thegreatest comfort and assistance in his arduous and often cheerlesswork. Miss Smith and her sister Louisa had recently taken the musicalarrangements of the church in hand, and not before it was needed, werenow busying themselves to select and train a rustic choir. The fame ofElsie's vocal abilities had been brought to Rossleigh Rectory byHendrick, and so one day Mrs. McAravey was surprised by a visit fromtwo bright, fresh young girls. In her reception of them you could notrecognise the hard, rude woman who had so sorely repulsed their fatheron his first visit to the glen. 

"Mr. Hendrick has been telling us about you and Elsie, " began MissSmith, "and we have only been waiting for the moors to be tolerably dryto come over and see you. Now we 've once got here, I hope we shall begood friends. "

"Thank ye, miss; thank ye kindly. I shall be glad to see ye, and Ihope ye won't be strangers. It's not often any one passes this way, and I often think very long when Elsie's out. "

"We hear Elsie has a very good voice, and we want to know whether shecould not manage to come over and sing in the choir, in summer-time atleast. "

"Aye, the lass has a good voice enough, and a good heart too, God blessher! She 'll sing her hymns to me here half the night when I'm keptawake with the pain. But, begging your pardon, young ladies, I don'tcare much for these new-fangled hymns; it's the good old psalms that Ilike--them's the Lord's work and not man's. And, as for Elsie singingin the church, it's very kind of you to think of her; but it 'a a longroad, or rather no road at all. But here 's the lass, and she 'llspeak for hersel'. "

At this moment Elsie entered the cottage, and was delighted at theinvitation, for which, it may be told, George Hendrick had alreadyprepared her. "But how could she leave poor gran?" The old womanthought this could be managed if she was only wanted for the morning. And so it was finally settled that Elsie should, on fine Sundays, walkover to Rossleigh in time for the half-past eleven service, remainingfor dinner at the rectory, in order that she might attend the afternoonSunday-school, and thence return to Tor Bay at about four in theafternoon. To all this Mrs. McAravey assented, though probably thethree young girls had no conception of the sacrifice it was to theinvalid thus to consent to her being left alone from ten o'clock of aSunday morning till nearly five. 

Elsie soon became a favourite at the rectory. Young and enthusiastic, she thought nothing of the four miles' walk across the rough moorland;nor did it ever occur either to her or Mrs. McAravey that, in partakingof the rector's hospitality, she was profiting by the delicate sympathyof the girls for their hard-worked and ill-fed _protégée_. 

Mrs. Cooper Smith was much interested in Elsie, and offered to procureher a situation, or to take her into her own house as maid for theyounger children. But Elsie, who thankfully received every otherfavour, and availed herself of every opportunity for improving herself, steadily declined to leave poor Mrs. McAravey. The family at therectory could not but approve this resolve, and so for the time nothingfurther was said on the subject. 

The rector had now established a monthly service at Tor Bay, over whichhe himself presided. This service, as well as the Scripture-reader'sclasses, was held in Mrs. McAravey's cottage, for which accommodationthe old woman was almost compelled to accept a consideration that wentfar towards paying her rent. Elsie, from having been the chief care, had now become the invaluable assistant of the reader. The populationof the neighbourhood had been recently augmented by the advent of anumber of miners, engaged in opening up the numerous streaks of ironore that have of recent years begun to be worked in the Antrim glens. Elsie, who had long since overcome her prejudice against the arts ofreading and writing, was now quite competent to act as Mr. Hendrick'sassistant, or even as his substitute. For this help, too, she was, after a time, induced to accept a trifling remuneration. 

So had the good providence of God opened out a way for this poorparentless child, that at the age of sixteen or seventeen she foundherself in a position of usefulness and importance that was pleasing toher. A homely night-school had been established on four evenings ofthe week, of which Elsie was the recognised and paid mistress. Her oldand trusty friend George Hendrick came over as of yore on Wednesdays, and also on Fridays when no school was held, the evening being occupiedby the service, and singing practice which followed. 

Elsie's pure and sweet example, and bright and playful manner, were ofpriceless value among the somewhat rough and careless mining populationwhich had now been settled on the moors about the headlands. 

The girl was happy in herself, and therefore failed not to inspireothers with something of the innocent sunshine of her own nature. Shestill was haunted by the dear, dead face of her whom she had learned tolove as a sort of angelic mother. But she had learnt a better faiththan that of hero-worship, and had come to look to another Presence, that was human and yet divinely glorious, for guidance, sympathy, anddirection. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Thus matters continued for two years. Elsie was now a grown youngwoman, and her school was regularly established. Her's was a happy andcontented time--

 "Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream she dreamed. Only made to be her nest All that lovely valley seemed, No desire of soaring higher Stirred or flattered in her breast. "

Even had she desired to move, the presence of Mrs. McAravey would haverendered it impossible. Though much softened and improved, the oldwoman had scarcely become an agreeable companion. The hard, Covenanting leaven had moulded her from childhood, and though of lateyears she had been touched by a gentler spirit, it was impossible thathabits of a lifetime should be entirely eradicated. She suffered muchpain, borne for the most part uncomplainingly, and was now nearlyhelpless. Elsie was not the sort of person to think herself a martyr. Indeed, it never occurred to her that, in thus watching and consolingthe declining years of this poor, decrepid old body, she was evenperforming a noble, and at times fatiguing and painful, duty. She tookit all as a matter of course. It came to her in the order ofProvidence, and formed an element and feature in the state of life towhich it had pleased God to call her, and in which she had resolved bythe Divine blessing to do her duty. 

Thus matters might long have held their quiet course had it not beenfor Jim. As it has been said, he was very different in dispositionfrom Elsie. Restless, eager, and full of curiosity, he could notunderstand her placid yet cheerful nature. He knew not the secret ofher inner life, and of the way in which that life animated and directedthe outer. The young man saw less and less of Tor Glen, having nowobtained a good situation in a flax store at Ballymena. 

Some little time previous Elsie and Jim had both been confirmed; andsince that event the Rev. Cooper Smith and George Hendrick had hadseveral consultations with regard to them. They were very unwilling todisturb the minds of the young people, nor had they anything definiteto impart; yet it did not seem right to keep them in ignorance of whatwas known or suspected as to their parentage. Jim, moreover, haddisplayed a good deal of curiosity on the subject, and had questionedHendrick as to the meaning of the reports that had come to his everopen ears about old McAravey's knowledge of the drowned woman. 

At length it was resolved that Elsie and Jim should be invited to therectory on a Saturday afternoon, and the whole matter fully explained. All being assembled on the day named, the rector briefly repeated whatMcAravey had said on his death-bed, as it had been told to him byHendrick. It appeared that before the old man's death the locket hadbeen brought out from its place of concealment, and, in presence of thepriest, handed over to Hendrick, who had next day brought it to therector. Upon investigation the locket had been found to contain theportrait of a man, and also a small folded piece of paper. The facewas intelligent and powerful, but by no means pleasing. The eyes wereeager and piercing, the lines about the mouth firm and deep-cut; thefeatures in general somewhat coarse, and plainly those of a man in thelower walks of life, and one accustomed to hard toil both of mind andbody. The paper had proved to be the pawn ticket of a watch pledged inBelfast for the sum of one pound, the name upon it being Henderson. Mr. Smith had redeemed the watch, which now lay before him with thelocket on the table. 

"You see, Elsie, " he said, turning to the girl, whose eyes were full oftears, "we have but slight evidence to show either that this is yourfather's portrait, or that the poor creature who came to so untimely anend was your mother. It is curious that the name on the ticket isHenderson, while McAravey said the person who brought you and Jim tohim was called Davison or Davis, or something like that. Of course itis quite possible the poor creature did not like to give her right nameat a pawn office. What do you think?"

"I have always felt as if she was my mother, " said Elsie; "and I shouldbe glad if it turned out so. It seems very probable. "

"I'm sure this rough-looking fellow is no father of mine, " cried Jim, who had been sadly disappointed at the unromantic character of therevelation; "but I'll find out the secret of this matter yet. Meantime, I suppose, sir, the watch is mine. Elsie may take thelocket. "

"Don't you think you are somewhat precipitate, Jim?" said the rector, smiling. "This is just one of the points Mr. Hendrick and I have beenconsidering. Of course it is just possible that some day the poordrowned woman may be identified, and turn out to have no connectionwith you at all. But I am inclined to think she was your mother, andthat that accounts for her coming to Tor Bay. We have thought it onlyright, therefore, that you and Elsie should have the locket and watch, for the present at least. As for the division, you must arrange thatbetween you. "

"I think I ought to have the watch, as I said, sir, and Elsie thelocket. "

"Well, perhaps that is the most suitable division, " said the rector, coldly; "but I don't think you are quite consistent in claiming thewatch so eagerly, and at the same time scorning the miniature, since, in all probability, if the watch belonged to your mother, the likenessis that of your father. "

"As such I at least shall be glad to keep it, " said Elsie. 

Jim was somewhat crestfallen at the rector's rebuke, but merely added, with some pomposity--

"Now that I have been informed of the circumstances, I shall probably, by the aid of this watch, be able to unravel the mystery of myparentage. "

He meant it merely as a piece of brag to cover his retreat, and as suchthe rector and Hendrick took it, receiving his words with a quiet smile. 

"I consider that Mr. Smith has acted very wrongly in keeping thesethings from us so long, " commenced the young man, as he and Elsiewalked home together after ac early dinner at the rectory. 

"O Jim! how can you say so? Mr. Smith could have had no motive butconsideration for our feelings. "

"I say nothing against his motives, only that I think he acted wrongly. Valuable time has been lost; but clergymen are never good men ofbusiness, and Scripture-readers are like them, I suppose. "

"Jim, I don't like to hear you speak like that; it's ungrateful. Andwhat you mean by valuable time I can't conceive. "

"I dare say you don't understand the value of time, leading the sort oflife you do in a place where nobody ever knows the hour, " said theyouth, superciliously, as he glanced at his newly-acquired treasure;"but of course I mean time has been lost in investigating our familyhistory. "

"I'm quite content to be as I am, " said Elsie. "If the history wasknown, it would probably be neither important nor interesting. I don'tsee how the watch will help you, Jim; and you know you won't have thelikeness. "

And she looked into the lad's face with her merry brown eyes. But Jimwas on his high horse, and merely replied--

"I cannot say what I shall do all at once, but the matter shall belooked into at an early date. "

Elsie smiled, as the rector and Scripture-reader had done--not visibly, indeed, as they had, yet Jim somehow felt he was being laughed at, which made him angry. 

"He is a smart lad that, but I don't like him, " said the rector, as heand Hendrick watched Elsie and Jim going down the avenue. "He wants tobe a fine gentleman, and is ashamed of his father's portrait--anill-looking fellow enough, it must be admitted. "

"Aye, I didn't like that, " said Hendrick; "but he is a steady boy, andmay do well when the conceit has been taken out of him a wee bit. "

"If only a 'wee bit' is taken, there will be what the people call agood little wee lock left. But I sincerely hope, for his own sake, that his pride will be taken out of him. He is insufferable. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

For the present, at least, Jim was elated with a pardonable pride inhis watch, and, after the manner of youths thus recently set up, helooked at it again and again during his walk next morning across theheadlands to Ballycastle, where he had to catch the Ballymoney car, thence to proceed to Ballymena by train. Ho was looking at his watchfor the hundredth time, and half smiling to himself at his rash andboastful words as to making it the means of discovering his familyhistory, when a sudden thought occurred to him. He looked long andeagerly at the watch, while his pale face flushed up. "I have it, " hemuttered; "and if I'm right, I shall take down the minister a bit. "

It was a long, tedious journey by foot and car and rail that lay beforehim, and his patience was almost exhausted when he reached hisdestination. Once arrived, he immediately sat down to write in hishumble lodgings. The watch bore the name of the maker, "John Turnwell, Leeds, 7002. " Was it not possible that a record had been preserved, stating when and to whom the watch had been sold. Ho did not knowwhether such was the practice, but at all events he would inquire. Abrief note was soon written and left ready for the morning mail; thenthe tired and excited lad went to bed, and dreamed of a beautiful ladywho said she was his mother, and that his father was a lord, and hadbeen murdered by the repulsive-looking man in the locket; and then acarriage and pair came thundering up to his lodgings, and his employerstood in the hall as he passed down, and congratulated him, and calledhim "my lord. " Then he thought he saw the man in the locket looking athim with hard, cold mouth, and then the face grew smaller till itshrunk into the locket, and it was open on the breast of the dead womanas she lay on the sands; and he saw himself and Elsie standing by thebody. In a moment he passed into the little figure, and felt himselfturning to call Mike McAravey, as he had done so long ago. The horrorof that last vision awoke him. It was late, and he had only time toget his letter posted and to hurry to his office. 

But Jim could not rest, till in the course of a few days a letterarrived with the Leeds post-mark. He trembled as he took it in hishand, and then as he read a flush mantled up his face, and he burstinto a laugh as he saluted himself in the cheap mirror that adorned themantelpiece--

"Aw, mi lord! Glad to make your lordship's acquaintance!"

The note ran thus:--

"WATCH AND CLOCK FACTORY, LEEDS, "August 19, 187--. 

"SIR, --In reply to your favour of the 16th inst. We beg to say that wealways keep a register of all watches made or sold by us. 

"No. 7002, an English lever made by ourselves, appears to have beenpurchased by Lady Waterham, of Burnham Park, in this neighbourhood, onthe 21st of October, 185--. 

"We should advise you to communicate at once with her ladyship, who isnow at home. 

"We remain, Sir, your obedient Servants, "J. TURNWELL & Co. 

"Mr. J. McARAVEY, "Market Street, Ballymena, Ireland. "

It was enough to turn the head of an ambitious boy. Poor Jim, thoughgenerally cautious and reticent, could not contain himself, and, instrict confidence, revealed his coming splendour to one or two of hiscompanions. It was soon reported that Jim McAravey had come in for afortune of 50, 000 pounds, and was the son of a lord. Even hisemployers seemed to treat him with new consideration, and, thoughannoyed that the affair had got so soon bruited about, he could notfeel angry when he saw himself pointed at in the street, and halfjokingly spoken of as "my lord" by his fellow-clerks. 

[Illustration: Jim building castles-in-the-air. ]

Jim's first step was to write a somewhat haughty letter to the Rev. Cooper Smith, and an excessively gushing and almost affectionate one toElsie. Both letters were shown to George Hendrick, the consequencebeing that one afternoon on returning home Jim found theScripture-reader awaiting him. "The young lord" (as they called him)was about to offer a gracious but distant welcome, when Hendrick, whohad heard the town talk, anticipated him by exclaiming--

"Well, Jim, my boy, I'm afraid you have been making a rare fool ofyourself!"

"I would thank you to explain your language, " said the young man withgreat hauteur. 

"There, don't be offended, lad, " replied the reader, kindly; "I onlymeant it was a pity you let this thing get talked of before you hadmore certainty. I needn't tell you, Jim, how glad we shall all be tohear of anything really to your advantage. "

"I'm not aware that the thing has been talked about. I only mentionedit to one or two personal friends, with a view to obtaining theiradvice. "

"Your friends have not been discreet, then, " said Hendrick; "why, Jim, the whole town is talking about you, and should this come to nothing, you will have made yourself ridiculous. Had you no truer or olderfriends with whom you might have consulted? I 'm sorry for this, Jim. "

"If you mean Mr. Smith and yourself, I must say you did not seem totake much interest in my welfare--and Elsie is not much better, " headded, bitterly. "Perhaps it will be different now. "

"Come, Jim, you don't believe a word of all that. You know well whoyour truest friends are, though we don't always encourage all yournotions. But will you not let me see this famous letter?"

Hendrick read the letter carefully, and then asked, "And what do youmean to do, Jim?"

"Why of course go over to see her ladyship as soon as I can arrangematters here. I shall speak to Messrs. Moore to-morrow, and seewhether they can let me free at once--I should think under thecircumstances they would. "

"My dear Jim, " cried the reader, "are you mad? You don't seriouslymean to give up, or run the risk of losing, your situation for what mayafter all prove a wild goose chase?"

This was just what Jim had contemplated, and it was not withoutdifficulty that good George Hendrick brought him to a sounder judgment. Unlike Jim's youthful friends, who, partly animated by love of mischiefand partly by youth's natural hopefulness, had encouraged him toindulge the most glowing fancies, Hendrick showed him gently, butplainly, how fragile was the foundation on which he had been building. The watch might have been stolen, or lost, or given away. There mightturn out to be no direct or traceable connection between Lady Waterhamand the unknown woman whose property it had been. Jim was not shakenin his own private conviction (strengthened as it had been by hisdream), but he was too hard-headed not to admit the reasonableness ofMr. Hendrick's arguments; and the more he heard of the tales that hadbeen circulated, the more deeply he regretted his pride and misplacedconfidence. He finally made no objection to Hendrick's proposal thatthe matter should be left in the hands of the Rev. Cooper Smith, whowas going to England in the course of ten days, and was willing to makea slight detour to Leeds. So it was settled. The watch and locketwere entrusted to the rector, who promised to see the watchmaker andLady Waterham. 

"You seem more annoyed than anything else, " said Jim crossly to Elsie, when the final arrangements were being made in the rectory study. 

"I cannot say I am pleased, " replied the girl. "I fear lest you shouldbe disappointed, Jim; and, on the other hand, I don't want to beanything but what I am. I have not been brought up a lady, and to findthat I had been born one would be no pleasure. If you could be a lord, Jim, without affecting me, it would be all right. "

"Why, Elsie, you have no ambition. "

"None to be put in a false position, which I could not rightly fill. "

CHAPTER IX. 

"What a solemn and mysterious communication, " said Lady Waterham, laughing, as she handed a letter across the breakfast table to herhusband. 

"Pooh! my dear, it is some Irish beggar; you had better not see him, "said his lordship as he rose from the table. 

"O scarcely--it would be too impertinent. "

The letter ran as follows:--

"The Rev. Cooper Gore Smith presents his compliments to Lady Waterham, and trusts that she will find it convenient to receive him on Tuesdaymorning at about eleven o'clock, when he hopes to have the honour ofwaiting on her ladyship. 

"The Rev. Cooper Gore Smith's reasons for troubling Lady Waterham canscarcely be explained in a letter. Suffice it that the affair on whichhe is engaged is of considerable importance to those chiefly concerned, and may even prove not to be without interest for her ladyship. 

"_Railway Hotel, Leeds, _ "Sept. 3, 187--. "

This the worthy man flattered himself was in his best style. He wasconsiderably puffed up by the importance of his mission, and, althoughhe had the wisdom to keep them secret, his aspirations were nearly asfar-reaching as those of Jim himself. To have been the friend andpatron of two long-lost scions of nobility was an idea too romantic andagreeable not to be dwelt on, even though he reminded himself again andagain that it had probably no foundation. It was, therefore, with nolittle self-importance that the note was penned, and in a similar frameof mind he started for Burnham Park next morning. 

Lady Waterham was sitting in the morning-room with her two daughterswhen the clergyman was announced. 

Lady Eleanor and Lady Constance More were like each other, being bothagreeable-looking, simple, and yet elegant. They seemed about the sameage, and were certainly past their first youth; still they lookedbright and cheerful, and evidently troubled themselves but little aboutthe advancing years. Lady Waterham was somewhat frigid in her manner, and as she slightly rose and pointed Mr. Smith to a chair, he becameconscious that he had forgotten the exact words in which he hadintended to commence the conversation. This led to a slight pause, buthaving plenty to say, he soon found a way to begin. 

"I have ventured to call on your ladyship about two young persons inwhom I am deeply interested, and into whose parentage I am makinginquiries. The story is a romantic one, and will take some little timeto relate----" He was brought to a sudden pause by the cold, inquiringlook of Lady Waterham. 

"But I ought to tell your ladyship how I come to call on you. "

"Thank you, sir, " said her ladyship, drily--she was beginning tosuspect that her husband had been right. 

"Well, the fact is, " continued Mr. Smith, "the only clue to identitywhich we have is this watch, which it appears was purchased by you sometwenty-three years ago at Mr. Turnwell's in Leeds. "

Her ladyship was not like her daughters, and scarcely quite relishedbeing reminded of what happened twenty-three years ago. She took thewatch coldly, and, after looking at it a moment, said--

"Really, sir, I think there must be some mistake. I remember nothingabout this watch. I am sure it was never mine, nor have any of us losta watch. I am sorry you should have had so much trouble. "

"Excuse me, your ladyship, but it seems almost certain that the watchwas bought on your account. I have seen the entry in Messrs. Turnwell's books, from which this is a copy. "

"This is very strange, " said Lady Waterham, as she read the memorandum. "L7 10s. It cost, I see. "

"When was it, mamma?" asked Lady Eleanor, looking up for the first time. 

"The 18th of April, 185--. "

"O mamma, I know! It must be the watch we gave to dear Elsie beforeshe was married. You remember the marriage was in May, and that wasthe year I am sure. I was just fourteen. "

"Fourteen and twenty-three are thirty-seven, " said the Rev. CooperSmith to himself, as he looked at the still fresh and eager face. 

"Poor dear Elsie! what has become of her? Do you know her, sir?" shecontinued, turning to the clergyman. 

"The girl on whose behalf I am inquiring is called Elsie, and it seemsprobable she was your friend's daughter. "

"I must tell you, sir, who _our Elsie_ was, " said her ladyship, who hadcaught and did not like the word "friend. " "She had been my maid; butwe found her so conscientious, nice-mannered, and well-informed, thatshe almost occupied the position of nursery governess to the youngerchildren. We were all very much attached to her, and when she marriedwe gave her a watch, which Lady Eleanor supposes must be the same asthis. The marriage was not a happy one, and we opposed it as long aswe could. After some time she went to India, and thence I think toChina, with her husband. For many years we have heard nothing of her, though I think we fancied we saw his name among those lost in aterrible shipwreck some years ago. It was a sad story altogether. Poor Elsie! Do you remember how anxious we used to be about her, girls?"

"It was only the other day I was thinking of her, and wondering whathad become of the little baby. You know I was its god-mother, and shewas called after me. "

"Yes, indeed, I had forgotten, " said Lady Waterham; "but perhaps, sir, you would kindly tell us what you know about our former protégée. "

Mr. Smith told the sad tale with which our readers are acquainted asbriefly as he could. At the end there was a pause, and then herladyship said--

"Poor foolish girl! She would not take my advice, and I foresaw thather end would not be happy. "

"Our poor dear Elsie!" said Lady Constance, her eyes overflowing. "Itwas a sad day for her when she first saw that horrid man Damer; herhead was quite turned afterwards. "

"At all events my baby godchild is living, and a credit to meapparently, " said Lady Eleanor. 

"And the boy?" said the clergyman. 

There was a pause. The Ladies Constance and Eleanor looked at eachother, and then at their mother. 

"I have not mentioned the boy, " said her ladyship; "but that is themost painful part of the subject. He is not Elsie's brother at all;and what is worse, it was never exactly known who he was. About fourmonths after the marriage a poor woman came to the village. She saidher name was Damer, and inquired for Elsie's husband. He was very muchput out by her appearance, but at once took a lodging for her, wherethe poor thing had a baby, and died immediately after. Damer said thewoman was his only sister, and accordingly that he must take the child. At the time Elsie seemed to have no doubts, but every one else talkedabout it. Some said the woman was his wife, and others--you canimagine what they said. Shortly after that they left theneighbourhood, and we never saw Elsie again. Her husband, I must tellyou, was a mechanical engineer, and considered an excellent workman. He got a capital appointment in India after he left Leeds, and Elsiewrote to tell us she was going with him. It was then I so stronglyurged her to stay at home with the children; but she would not beguided, and merely wrote to say she had placed them with some people inthe north of Ireland, where, I think, she came from herself. "

"I fancy, " said Lady Eleanor, "I have some of her letters still. Youremember, mamma, they were imprisoned in China, with a number of otherEnglish people, for ever so long. It was after they were released thatwe had the last letter (which I am sure I kept), saying that she wascoming home. We did not know at the time whether she meant _alone_ ornot; and then when we saw Edgar Damer's name among the people lost inthat vessel--I forget its name--we concluded that she must have gone onbefore. "

Thus piecing together the broken memories of the past, the morning wentby. The Rev. Cooper Smith stayed to luncheon, and in the course ofconversation various confirmatory incidents came out. The miniature inthe locket was at once recognised, and it appeared that the locketitself had been the special gift of little Lady Eleanor. A morecareful comparison of dates proved quite satisfactory, showing, amongother things, that the body had been found at Tor Bay just four monthsafter the date of the letter which Lady Eleanor had succeeded infinding, and in which Elsie said she was to start in a few days, andwould be nearly four months on the voyage. "My first visit will be tothe glens, and then I shall try to go over and see you. I have so muchto tell, and to ask your kind advice about. I am unhappy and anxious, and feel somehow as if I would never see either my child or you, thoughI am writing about it. It is so long since we have heard of anybody, we seem to have been dead, as it were. "

Having returned to his hotel, the clergyman made some brief notes ofthe story that had thus providentially been brought to light. He didnot know whether to feel pleasure or disappointment. He was glad tohave the mystery cleared up; glad, too, to find that Elsie had had sosweet a mother, and was likely to have such kind and liberal friends. Yet he could not but feel sorry for the collapse that was awaitingJim's castle in the air. It would be a bitter trial for him, and heknew not how Jim would bear it. Mr. Smith was somewhat puzzled, moreover, what to do himself. He had promised to write to theexpectant Jim; but now he could not bring himself to do so. His ownholiday would not expire for a fortnight, and he was naturallyreluctant to return home sooner than was necessary. While debatingwhat was best to be done, a telegram was put into his hand. It wasfrom the irrepressible and anxious Jim. "Please telegraph resultsobtained immediately. Reply paid for. " "The fool!" muttered Mr. Smith; and, yielding to a sudden irritation, he filled up the reply forwhich the boy was waiting:

"All clear enough, but quite unsatisfactory as far as you areconcerned. "

It was a cruel blow, and no sooner was it dealt than he was sorry forit. He resolved to write to the poor lad, and, finding an invitationto dine at Burnham Park, which had first to be accepted, he sat down, well pleased with himself and all the world. The letter to Jim waskindly. The whole truth was not told, but it was announced that Jimand Elsie were no connections of the Waterham family. All else wasreserved for verbal explanation. 

The dinner at Burnham was pleasant enough. The earl was affable, andafter dinner had several reminiscences of that "clever dog Damer" totell, which did not raise his character in the clergyman's estimation. When about to leave, Lady Eleanor handed him a note for Elsie, adding--

"I do wish so she would come over and see us! Of course I shouldgladly pay all her expenses. "

The Rev. Cooper Smith left Leeds next morning quite satisfied withhimself, and, having written a long letter to Hendrick, giving ageneral idea of his discoveries, he went on his tour with a light heart. 

CHAPTER X. 

Poor Jim! his pride had indeed met with a fall. The rector's letterwas soothing enough, but the winged messenger which he himself haddemanded had arrived full twenty-four hours earlier. Full of the mostridiculous dreams, that he would have been ashamed to put in words evento himself, the young man tore open the brown cover. One glance at thecruelly brief, well-written announcement, and all the top-heavy aerialerection his vanity had heaped up lay shattered around him. Poor boy!shall we not pity him? From very childhood, though so silent andundemonstrative, he had fed himself with extravagant visions and wildspeculations. All this had been merely an amusement, though anunhealthy one. The dreamer had scarcely entertained the idea of hisdreams possibly proving true. But the train was laid for a futureexplosion--the imagination was diseased, and so when the watchmaker'sletter came, all the shadowy fancies of the past seemed to be suddenlytransformed into substantial realities. He fancied ho had always_known_ that which hitherto he had only amused himself by fancying. 

The blow was sharp and decisive, and Jim felt he had brought it onhimself. Curiously enough, however, the sudden stinging pain acted asa tonic stimulant. The lad summoned up all the latent manliness andforce of his character. He looked the thing in the face, and sawclearly that he had played the fool. He knew that he would be laughedat, and resolved to bear it like a man. 

Next day came Mr. Smith's letter, and it was as balm to the woundedspirit. Elsie also wrote a line to say she was glad not to be a lady, and believed that he would get on all the better for not being a lord. 

Thus it came to pass that when the Rev. Cooper Smith arrived atBallymena station, the first person he met was Jim McAravey. 

"I do not know how to thank you, sir, for all the trouble you havetaken; I at least was not worthy of it. But I trust this piece offolly has been enough for me. I hope I am wiser, but I shall strivenot to be sadder. "

Mr. Smith was as much surprised as pleased at this change in the youngman's character, and he the more regretted having to tell the whole ofthe narrative, which was sure to cause further pain to the lad. However, it had to be done, and Jim, who was no coward, took it allbetter than might have been expected. 

"And so I am only Elsie's half-brother, at best--or shall I say at_worst_?" said the poor lad, with trembling voice. "I'm afraid, sir, Ishall be terribly laughed at here, but I must bear it as best I can. Ihave brought it on myself. "

Elsie was profoundly thankful for the result of the investigation. Asshe had said herself, she "did not feel like being a lady, " and wastherefore glad to be delivered from what would have been, to her, anunwelcome fate. At the same time it was a pleasure to obtain definiteinformation as to her parentage, and also to find that in Lady Eleanorshe had a friend who had known and loved her mother, and who was boundto herself by a sacred tie. That Jim had proved not to be her brotherwas, if the truth be told, a relief. Elsie had often reproachedherself that she did not feel for him that sisterly affection which shebelieved it her duty to cultivate. In fact she began to like Jimbetter now, partly because he was decidedly improved by the "takingdown" he had received, and partly because affection was no longer aduty to which the girl had to school her heart. 

Lady Eleanor's letter was kind in the extreme. She told Elsie insimple language how they had all loved her mother, and enclosed for herperusal the one or two letters that had been preserved. "AlthoughElsie could not remember their last meeting, yet they were notstrangers, since Lady Eleanor did not forget that she had held her inher arms at the baptismal font. " Elsie was urged most affectionatelyto go over to England, if it were only for a time; and it was suggestedthat if she settled there Mrs. McAravey might accompany her. Elsie, however, felt at once that, even could she bear the journey, it wouldbe a cruelty to transplant the aged woman from her native soil to aregion where she would find all things alien and strange. Nor wouldshe entertain the idea of deserting the poor old body, though Mrs. McAravey stoically offered to give her up. 

"I won't stand in your way, Elsie, lass, though I can't bear to thinkof it; but it's not long I'll be here to trouble anyone, and I'd liketo know you were well provided. "

But Elsie would not be persuaded, nor could her new friends dootherwise than approve her noble resolve. They were disappointed, butfelt that such a girl was worthy of their affection and patronage, andtrusted that time would afford them opportunities of benefiting her. 

The winter that ensued was a trying one. The snow lay deep on themoors, so that Tor Bay was practically shut off from the rest of theworld. The rector was not able to get over, and even George Hendrick'svisits were few and far between. For several weeks Elsie could not goto church, and when she did the fatigue and wet brought on a cold whichstuck to her all the winter. Old Mrs. McAravey seemed fast approachingher end; she long had been quite crippled with rheumatism, and now hermind was at times beginning to give way. It was a sad, dreary time forElsie. Scarcely any children were able to come to school; and as shestruggled on day after day at what seemed, in her present low state ofhealth, a barren and uninteresting task, she could not but have visionsof the comfortable home she might have acquired with her hithertounseen friends. Not that she ever regretted her decision; indeed Elsiewas scarcely capable of entertaining a selfish thought. Without anyapparent effort she lived for others, and habitually thought of thembefore herself. Yet it was a trying time for the poor younggirl--gloomy and disheartening days, succeeded by restless and anxiousnights, and literally not a soul to speak to. 

Jim, too, had a bad time of it that winter. So great had been theridicule to which he had been subjected in Ballymena, that he was atlength forced to abandon his position. Messrs. Moore accepted hisresignation somewhat coldly. They regretted the loss of a valuableservant, but Jim had failed to gain the affection of his employers. Hehad "kept himself to himself" with such reserve that no one took muchinterest in him, though his good business qualities were fullyappreciated. Messrs. Moore gave him a high character for steadinessand capacity, but they did not seem inclined to go out of their way toobtain him employment. Poor Jim was much mortified at the calmnesswith which his resignation was received. He knew that he had done hisduty to his employers faithfully, and therefore he felt hurt when theymade no effort to retain him. The poor lad had well-nigh to beginagain. He went to Belfast, and there soon obtained employment, but ina far inferior position to that which he had occupied at Messrs. Moore's. Moreover, he soon found that in the great capital of thelinen trade there were numbers of young men as capable, as energetic, and in many cases better educated than himself. It was a harsh andunpleasant experience, but Jim had the strength and courage to bear upunder it. He still was full of a laudable confidence in himself, andfelt sure that patience and diligence would have their due reward. Itwas a hard struggle, however. Trade was bad, and after a few monthsthe house in which he was just getting established was compelled tostop payment. For a few weeks Jim was absolutely without employment. After that time he obtained another situation, and thus escaped beingreduced to actual poverty; for the first time, however, he was broughtface to face with the possibility of privation--of being unable(however willing and however anxious) to obtain the means of gaininghis daily bread. 

Thus the winter and spring wore on. Almost the first gleam of sunshinethat came to Elsie with the reviving year was a letter from LadyEleanor, in which she said that as Elsie would not come to see them, they had almost resolved to go and look for her. The earl, her father, had often spoken of taking them to the Giant's Causeway, and so theythought of running over before Easter if the weather was fine, whichafter so severe a winter they hoped it might be. The hope thus heldout was destined to be gratified. Easter was late that year, and theweather in March and April beautiful. Jim was astonished one day earlyin April by receiving a letter from Elsie, directing him to wait uponthe Earl and Lady Waterham, who were to arrive from Fleetwood nextmorning, and would stay a day at the Royal Hotel. Jim blushed as herecalled the vain dreams of six mouths before, and naturally felt someembarrassment at the prospect of meeting such exalted personages. However, he conducted himself so modestly and naturally that he won theapproval of the whole party. Even the earl, who, out of dislike toDamer, was much prejudiced against the lad, spoke kindly to him, andexpressed a willingness to serve him, if possible, at any time. 

Having proceeded to Larne by train, the party posted along the noblecoast road, arriving at the Ballycastle Inn in time for a very latedinner. Next day the younger ladies, having procured two stout poniesand a guide, started for Tor Bay, taking the magnificent Fair Head _enroute_. They were determined to find out Elsie for themselves, and totake her by surprise in the midst of her ordinary work. It was one ofthose glorious spring days that might have belonged to June, were itnot for a keenness in the air that surprised you when the sun was for afew seconds over-clouded. There was, too, a clearness in theatmosphere that warm summer days cannot claim, with a suspicion offrost, as you looked towards the sea. And often did the two ladieslook in that direction during their ride on the lofty headlands. Rathlin Island lay below them, separated by the few miles of narrow andoften impassable sea, but to-day it was but a "silver streak. " Far inthe horizon the Scotch coast could be seen all along the line, whilethe Mull of Cantyre looked but a few miles away, the very houses andboundaries being almost distinguishable. Full in front the sun gleamedon Ailsa Craig, as it rose abrupt and lovely from out of the sea. Elsie, though familiar with it, had not been insensible to all thisbeauty. She had spent almost the entire night at Mrs. McAravey's side, nor did the old woman fall off to sleep till it was almost time to openschool. It was a weary morning's work; and when the children went hometo dinner the exhausted girl wandered down to the beach (having seenthat Mrs. McAravey still slept) in search of fresh air and quiet beforeresuming her duties. Since the arrival of Lady Eleanor's last lettershe had naturally enough been excited and nervous. She knew that in afew days at latest she should see her mother's friend, and one whopromised to be hers. Would she like her? Would the meeting be adisappointment, or otherwise? What should she say? Where would theymeet? How should she dress herself? The first meeting with one towhom we are bound by any ties, whom we have long corresponded with, orare likely in the future to be much associated with, is always lookedforward to with embarrassment and nervousness. How much was this thecase with a poor, simple orphan girl, who had never been five milesfrom home, called upon to encounter a titled lady, who actually claimedher as her godchild, and to whom she felt bound by so many tenderassociations? Filled with thoughts of the approaching interview, Elsiewandered, she knew not whither, on the beach. Suddenly a shadow seemedto pass over her, and she became conscious of the bitterness of thenorth-east wind that blew upon the shore. Drawing her cloak round her, she looked up and found that she had come under the shade of the greatcliff that rose at the extremity of Sandy Creek. She stood still amoment, gazing on the dreary scene, and then a sudden flood ofrecollection came over her. The tide was low, and she stood on thevery spot, as it seemed, where, twelve years before, she had caughtsight of the strange black mass that was being tossed on the sand amidthe tangled sea-weed. She saw herself a trembling, ragged child, aloneby the dead body in the fast gathering twilight. And this was the onlytime that she had seen her mother. The girl was out of spirits, low inhealth, and very weary, and so, for the only time almost in her life, she gave way to repining thoughts. All the gracious path by which akindly Providence had led her was obscured, and she thought of herselfmerely as the orphan child of this poor dead thing that lay upon thesand. The whole history of the past flooded back upon her. She sawlittle Jim, so eager to escape from the gruesome sight; then MikeMcAravey approaching through the twilight, and herself as she ran upagainst good George Hendrick; then rose up the horrid bewildering sceneat the inquest; and finally she seemed to stand in the bleak wind-blownmoorland churchyard, and before her was the nameless head-stone, "InMemory of E. D. " The sense of loneliness was complete as she stoodbeneath the overhanging cliff exposed to the biting nor'-east wind. With an effort she aroused herself, and looking up with tear-filledeyes to the pale clear blue sky so far away, she resolutely turned backinto the warm sunshine that seemed the more dazzling after itstemporary withdrawal. It was almost school-time, and on the farhill-side path Elsie's quick eyes caught sight of two or three tinylittle figures, as they trotted down the path towards hercottage-school. In a moment all sadness was banished, and she feltherself again. 

"Have we not all one Father?" she murmured; "and have I not One to loveme who has said, 'Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye didit unto Me'?"

Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children hadstopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up thepath. 

"They 'll be late, my little loiterers, " said Elsie, with a smile; "Imust scold them well. But what is it?"

An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distractthe whole school's attention. Two discreet ponies were picking theirway down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatestwonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully, too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselvesslip down the gravelly path. 

"It's early for tourists, " thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on herway. 

The travellers and their attendant group of urchins had now passed outof sight behind a screen of the thick foliage, which we have describedas adorning the sheltered bottom of the glen. Elsie thought no more ofthe tourists. Their pleasure-seeking was a thing she had absolutely noexperience of, and the sight of her scholars had banished all otherthoughts but practical ones as to the conduct of the afternoon lesson. 

A sudden turn brought the young mistress in front of her school. Itwas a humble enough affair--a mere shed in fact, built on to the end ofMrs. McAravey's cottage, and adorned over the door with a plainlyprinted sign-board, "Tor Glen National School. " But the place did notlook uncared for. The school indeed was bare enough, and surrounded bya brown wilderness, in which the children used to play, but theadjoining dwelling-house was made green and warm with ivy and fuschia, while the little garden was neat, and for April almost gay. 

To her surprise, Elsie's ear caught no sweet clamour of children atplay; there was indeed a sound of voices, and as she turned the cornersome dozen eager voices cried together, "Here she is; here's mistress. "

Elsie stepped hastily forward, fearing some mischief, and then pausedas she saw the two strange ladies standing in the midst of an admiringand wondering group of children, while the guide stood by, a ponybridle in each hand. 

In a moment one of the ladies had pushed through the little circle andseized the girl's hand. 

"Elsie Damer! I 'm your godmother, Eleanor More. I 'm so glad. "

Poor Elsie knew not where she was, or what it meant, and could find nobetter thing to say than "Your ladyship!"

"There, don't talk like that, " was the quick reply; "I'm so glad we'vemet at length. What a sweet little nest this is, hidden away from theworld by these great cliffs. We were fortunate, too, to find you outso soon, " continued Lady Eleanor, who, perceiving that Elsie had notrecovered the sudden shock and embarrassment, considerately gave reinto her power of speech, which was by no means limited. 

"We met a nice little fellow on the top of the hill, and I asked himwhether he knew where Elsie Damer lived. I stupidly forgot about thename, so he answered 'Now. ' Then I remembered, and asked about Mrs. McAravey. 'It's teacher she 's askin' for, ' said a little girl who hadcome up. Then I saw it was all right, and so we all came tumbling downthe hill together. "

"I saw you, " said Elsie, "in the distance, but of course I had no ideawho it was. How very kind you have been to me!" and again the tearswere trembling in the nervous eyes of the poor, overwrought girl. 

Lady Constance had now joined them, and the children stood around, alleyes and ears. 

"Kate, take them in, " said the mistress to a tiny monitress, when shebecame conscious of the inquiring glances. All were seated demurely asElsie and the two ladies entered. 

"Now, " said Lady Constance, "do you not think you might give theselittle ones a holiday this fine afternoon, so that you and my sistermay have a good chat?"

"Perhaps I had better, " replied Elsie; then turning to the eageraudience, "Children, these kind ladies have come all this way to seeme, and have asked me to give you a holiday; what do you say?"

"Thank you, ma'am, " responded the little chorus. 

"Very well, " said the mistress; "mind you don't get into any mischief. No noise, " she added quickly, as she perceived that Lady Eleanor'sfriend was expanding his lungs, and gathering up his littlebantam-cock-like figure, preparatory to starting a cheer. "No noise;poor gran is very bad to-day, and would not like it. Go quietly. "

And so they did, under the generalship of tiny Kate, all defiling pastin silence, save Master "Naw, " who, being the hero of the school, thought it necessary to distinguish himself; therefore, being forbiddento cheer, he stepped forward, and touching his forehead with a bow, said--

"Thank your ladyships both;" and then, with a rush to the door, "Now, boys, we'll have a look at the ponies. "

"He is almost past me, " said Elsie, laying her hand on the boy'sshoulder as he darted through the door. 

"You have them in very good order, I think, " said Lady Constance; "butI was sorry to hear you say the old lady was so poorly. Let us go andsee her. "

Elsie led the way, and as she lifted the latch they caught Mrs. McAravey's plaintive voice--

"I 've been thinking long for you, Elsie, lass, for I heard thechildren say as the ladies had come. You won't take her from a poorold creature, will you, miss?" she added, as the visitors came in view;"I won't have long to trouble you. "

"O no, " said Lady Eleanor, kindly; "we 've only come to pay you andElsie a visit. She is just like her mother, Mrs. McAravey; and nowthat you are so weak and low you ought to be glad she has found some ofher mother's friends. We will always take care of her. "

"The Lord be thanked!" murmured the old woman, lying back with closedeyes; "and I bless His name He has brought me to see the day. Elsie'sa good lass--none better, ladies. "

Almost immediately she fell off into a broken and uneasy sleep, whileElsie and her friends whispered together at the door. 

"We shall gee you again the day after to-morrow, Sunday, " said LadyEleanor, as they prepared to start. "We are going to Ashleigh Church, and will lunch at Mr. Smith's--he says you always stay forSunday-school. "

"Yes, " said Elsie, "that is very nice, and I'll be sure to beout--unless gran is too bad, " she added, anxiously glancing towards thebed. 

Sunday came, and there was quite an excitement at Ashleigh Church whenthe clumsy hired carriage from Ballycastle drove up, and the two ladiesappeared. 

The Rev. Cooper Smith, who had been popping his head out of the vestrydoor off and on for the last ten minutes, was in readiness to receivehis guests, and then retired to have as much time as possible for alast look at the specially prepared sermon. Mrs. Cooper Smith was tooanxious about the lunch to go to church, but all the rest of the familywere assembled in full force. Elsie, however, did not put in anappearance, and the absence of her fine voice left a sad gap in thesomewhat too elaborate service that had been, got up for the occasion. 

After service was over the clergyman took his guests to see poor ElsieDamer's grave. Lady Eleanor suggested that something should be addedto the inscription, setting forth the way in which the name had beendiscovered. How this should be done was the subject of conversationduring the walk to the rectory. There they found Elsie just arrived. Mrs. McAravey had been much worse all Saturday, and Elsie could not getaway in time for church. She had only come now because the dying womanhad expressed a wish to see Mr. Smith. This news cast a shadow overthe party. Elsie remained for luncheon, on Mr. Smith's promising to beready to start immediately after, when the returning carriage couldbring them a considerable distance on the way, dropping them at a pointnot more than two miles from Tor Bay. 

"I must say good-bye now, " said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside asthey left the dining-room; "I cannot tell you how glad we are to havefound you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It istoo bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; butwe shall meet again soon. "

"I do not know about that, " replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down. 

"My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again!And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise tocome over to us when--I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey?--shecannot live long, poor old body. "

"Oh, you are too kind!" cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, andhiding her face on her new friend's shoulder--"you are too kind; buthow can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here. "

Eleanor More was a true woman, and so--though surprised at this suddenoutbreak--she lifted the girl's head between her hands, and kissing herforehead, said, "There, Elsie, child, don't fret, I will not press younow. God will show you your duty, and make your way plain before you. They are coming now, and the carriage is at the door. "

CONCLUSION. 

The summer had waned away; the autumn tints were already on the trees, and the light of the September afternoon was growing feeble anduncertain, as a dainty little figure scrambled out of the low carriagethat had drawn up before the neatest and most ideal of English cottagehomes. Lady Eleanor More stood at the garden wicket to receive herfriend, and behind her in the doorway was to be seen a tidy, white-capped little old woman. 

"So we have got you at last, Elsie; and here is the prison where youare to be confined at hard labour, and this is your gaoler, Mrs. Nugent. How do you like it all?"

Elsie was delighted, and could find no words in which to thank her kindpatron. Everything was charming, and everything had been arranged withthat thoughtful consideration which nothing but real affection produce. 

The old man and woman with whom Elsie was to be lodged, for the presentat least, were established pensioners of the Waterham family. They hadknown and sorrowed for Elsie's mother, who had stayed with them for afew weeks after her unfortunate marriage. Thus the orphan felt almostat home, and was rejoiced to find that a little room had been set apartfor her private and special use. 

Nor was it designed that Elsie should become a mere dependent. Fortunately enough a vacancy had recently occurred (by marriage) in themistress-ship of a small school situated close to the gate of BurnhamPark, and almost opposite Nugent's cottage. This was the sphere oflabour for which Elsie was destined. The school was a neat, well-cared-for place--the special hobby of Lady Eleanor, who seldom leta day pass when at home without visiting it. Here Elsie Damer at oncecommenced her labours. The children were bright and clean, and hadevidently been carefully taught by her predecessor. Miss Damer wasalso a welcome acquisition to the village choir; and those were amongthe happiest moments of her life when she let her rich, clear voiceascend in songs of praise to the throne of Him who had guided her allher journey through, while her dear friend and second mother presidedat the organ. 

Elsie's only care was about Jim. She had seen him in Belfast lookingworn and anxious. His letters had never been complaining, nor were hiswords so then; yet he could not conceal the fact that his position wasby no means satisfactory. But this cloud too was soon to be clearedaway. The earl had been favourably impressed with the lad, and washighly amused when he heard from his daughter a somewhat toned downversion of the foolish conduct which had resulted in his resigning hissituation. In the course of a year after Elsie's establishment atBurnham, a post of some responsibility in the earl's rent office becamevacant, in which we find Jim shortly afterwards comfortably installed. 

 * * * * * *

And here ends our tale. Elsie Damer's life is after all onlybeginning, and doubtless she will have her trials and sorrows. Not forever can she be the young girl living in that sweet rose-coveredcottage. Indeed, before we lose sight of Elsie, there is rumour of acoming change. Mrs. Nugent said, "It's a shame to take you from us, Missie, but every one likes a spot of their own, I suppose; I know Idid in my time. " And Robert Everley, the head-gamekeeper's strappingson, who was settled now in one of the home farms of Burnham, blushedand looked apologetic as the earl hailed him one day, "Hey, Bob! what'sthis I hear about you, lad? I wonder what Lady Eleanor will say to it, stealing her godchild from her. "

"I couldn't help it, your lordship, " replied the embarrassed Bob. 

"Well, all I say is you are a lucky fellow, and Elsie might have doneworse too. "

But whatever lies before our Elsie, she has deep stored within her thathidden peace that the world knoweth not, and which can smooth over, aswith holy oil, the roughest and most sudden-rising of life's stormywaves. The discipline of the past had moulded and set, without undulyhardening, the lines of her simple, cheerful character. Looking backto the earliest dawn of her recollection, she believed herself able totrace a golden thread through all. The ideal of calm beauty and puritywhich the child's vivid imagination had developed out of the dim memoryof her drowned mother's face had been her good angel, and had led her, by sweet, insensible gradations, up to Him of whose glory all earthlybeauties are but the far-off reflection. From first to last she hadlived in the consciousness of the Unseen Presence, and no words betterexpressed her simple faith for the present and for the future thanthose of her favourite hymn--

 "The King of Love my Shepherd is, Whose goodness faileth never, I nothing lack if I am His And He is mine for ever. * * * * "And so, through all the length of days, Thy goodness faileth never; Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise Within Thy house for ever. "

THE END.