Out in the Forty-Five, or Duncan Keith's Vow, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

________________________________________________________________________This book is written in the style of a diary written by the youngest offour sisters. She is a very sensitive young girl, and her observationsare very acute. Most of them are of a religious nature, and thedescription of the work of a preacher called Whitefield is very wellworth reading. I felt quite emotional while reading it. 

As you may gather from the title the book is set in the time of 1745, atthe time the Bonny Prince Charlie landed in an attempt to claim histitle to the throne, currently held by the Elector of Hanover, who wasnot very popular among the people we meet in this book, most of whomwould be called Jacobites. It is interesting to see that Jacobitefamilies like this one were more or less left alone, except when theyactually took up arms. 

The book takes about 10 hours to read aloud. Some of the speech is inbroad lowland Scots, but you will probably have little difficulty inunderstanding it. 

You will probably come away from reading this book resolved upon anamendment of life. If so then the book has done its work. This is thefirst book by this author that we have come across (lent to us for theoccasion) and I am sure we shall add a few more by her in due course. 

________________________________________________________________________OUT IN THE FORTY-FIVE, OR DUNCAN KEITH'S VOW, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

WE ALIGHT AT BROCKLEBANK FELLS. 

 "Sure, there is room within our hearts good store; For we can lodge transgressions by the score: Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door We leave Thee. "

 GEORGE HERBERT. 

"Girls!" said my Aunt Kezia, looking round at us, "I should just like toknow what is to come of the whole four of you!"

My Aunt Kezia has an awful way of looking round at us. She begins withSophy--she is our eldest--then she goes to Fanny, then to Hatty, andends up with me. As I am the youngest, I have to be ended up with. Shegenerally lays down her work to do it, too; and sometimes she settlesher spectacles first, and that makes it feel more awful than ever. However, when she has gone round, she always takes them off--spectacles, I mean--and wipes them, and gives little solemn shakes of her head whileshe is doing it, as if she thought we were all four going to ruintogether, and had got very near the bottom. 

This afternoon, when she said that, instead of sitting quiet, as wegenerally do, Hatty--she is the pert one amongst us--actually spoke up. 

"I should think we shall be married, Aunt Kezia, one of these days--shan't we?"

"My dear, if you are, " was my Aunt Kezia's reply, more solemn than ever, "the only wedding present that I shall be conscientiously able to giveto those four misguided men will be a rope a-piece to hang themselveswith. "

"Oh dear! I do wish she would not!" said Fanny in a plaintive whisperbehind me. 

"Considering who brought us up, Aunt Kezia, " replied impertinent Hatty, "I should have thought they would have had better bargains than that. "

"Hester, you forget yourself, " said my aunt severely. Then, though shehad only just finished wiping her spectacles, she took them off, andwiped them again, with more little shakes of her head. "And I did notbring you all up, neither. "

My cheeks grew hot, for I knew that meant me. My Aunt Kezia did notbring me up, as she did the rest. I was thought sickly in my youth, andas Brocklebank Fells is but a bleak place, I was packed off to Carlisle, where Grandmamma lived, and there I have been with her until six weeksback, when she went to live with Uncle Charles down in the South, and Icame home to Brocklebank, being thought to have now outgrown mysickliness. My Aunt Kezia is Father's sister, and has kept house forhim since Mamma died, so of course she is no kin to Grandmamma at all. I know it sounds queer to say "Father and Mamma, " instead of "Father andMother, " but I cannot help it. Grandmamma would never let me say"Mother;" she said it was old-fashioned and vulgar: and now, when I comeback, Father will not hear of my calling him "Papa, " which he says isnew-fangled finnicking nonsense. I did not get used, either, to saying"Papa, " as I did "Mamma, " for Grandmamma never seemed to care to hearabout him; I don't believe she liked him. She never seemed to want tohear about anything at Brocklebank. I don't think she ever took even tothe girls, except Fanny. They all came to see me in turns, butGrandmamma said Sophy was only fit to be a country parson's wife; sheknew nothing except things about the house and sewing and mending: shesaid fine breeding would be thrown away upon her. She might do verywell, Grandmamma said, with her snuff-box elegantly held in her lefthand, and taking a pinch out of it with the mittened fingers of herright--that is, Grandmamma, not Sophy--she said Sophy might do very wellfor a country squire's eldest daughter and some parson's wife, to cutout clothes and roll pills and make dumplings, but that was all she wasgood for. Then Hatty's pert speeches she could not bear one bit. Grandmamma said it was perfectly dreadful, and that her great glazed redcheeks--that is what she called them--were insufferably vulgar; shewouldn't like anybody to hear that such a creature was hergrand-daughter. She wanted Hatty to take a lot of castor oil or somesuch horrid stuff, to bring down her red cheeks and make her slender andladylike; she was ever so much too fat, Grandmamma said, and she thoughtit so vulgar to be fat. She wanted to pinch her in with stays, too, butit was all of no use. Hatty would not be pinched, and she would nottake castor oil, and she would eat and drink--like a plough-boy, Grandmamma said--so at last she gave her up as a bad job. Then Fannycame, and she is more like Grandmamma in her ways, and she did not mindthe castor oil, but swallowed bottles of it; and she did not mind thestays, but let Grandmamma pinch her anyhow she pleased, so I think sherather liked Fanny. I was pale and thin enough without castor oil, soshe did not give me any, for which I am thankful, for I could not haveswallowed it as meekly as Fanny. 

It looked very queer to me, after Grandmamma's houseful of servants, tocome home and find only four at Brocklebank, and but three of those inthe house, and my Aunt Kezia doing half the work herself, and expectingus girls to help her. Grandmamma would hardly let me pick up mykerchief, if I dropped it; I had to call Willet, her woman, to give itto me. And here, my Aunt Kezia looks as if she thought I ought to wantno telling how to dust a table or make an apple pie. She has onlycook-maid and chambermaid, --Maria and Bessy, their names are, --and Samthe serving-man. There is the old shepherd, Will, but he only comesinto the house by nows and thens. Grandmamma had a black man who waitedon us. She said it gave the place an air, and that there weregentlewomen in Carlisle who would scarce have come to see her if she hadnot had a black man to look genteel. I don't fancy I should care muchfor people who would not come to see me unless I had a black servant. Ishould think they came to visit him, not me. But Grandmamma said thatmy old Lady Mary Garsington, in the Close, never came to see anybody whohad less than a thousand a year, and did not keep a black. She was thegrandest person Grandmamma knew at Carlisle, for most of her friendslive in the South. 

I do not know exactly where the South is, nor what it is like. Ofcourse London is in the South; I know that. But Grandmamma used to talkabout the South as if she thought it so fine; and my Uncle Charles oncesaid nobody could be a gentleman who had not lived in the South. Theywere all clodhoppers up here, he said, and you could only get any properpolish in the South. Fanny was there then, and she was quite hurt withit. She did not like to think Father a clodhopper; and I am sure he isnot. Besides, our ancestors did come from the South. Our grandfather, William Courtenay, who bought the land and built Brocklebank, belonged[Note 1. ] Wiltshire, and his father was a Devonshire man, and aCourtenay of Powderham, whatever that may mean: Father knows more aboutit than I do, and so, I think, does Fanny. Grandmamma once told me shewould never have thought of allowing Mamma to marry Father, if he hadnot been a Courtenay and a man of substance. She said all his otherrelations were so very mean and low, she could not have condescended sofar as to connect herself with them. Why, I believe one of them wasonly a farmer's daughter: and I think, from what I have heard Grandmammaand my Uncle Charles say, that another of them had something to do withthose low people called Dissenters. I don't suppose she really wasone--that would be too shocking; but Grandmamma always went into theclouds when she mentioned these vulgar ancestors of mine, so I neverheard more than "that poor wretched mother of your grandfather's, mydear, " or "that dreadful farming creature whom your grandfathermarried. " I once asked my Aunt Dorothea--that is, Uncle Charles'swife--if this wretched great-grandmother of mine had been a very badwoman. But she said, "Oh no, not _bad_"--and I think she might havetold me something more, but my Uncle Charles put in, in that commandingway he has, "Could not have been worse, my dear Dorothea--connected withthose Dissenters, "--so I got to know no more, and I was sorry. 

Father once had two more sisters, who were both married, one inDerbyshire, and one in Scotland. They both left children, so we havetwo lots of cousins on Father's side. Our cousins in Derbyshire areboth girls; their names are Charlotte and Amelia Bracewell: and thereare two of our Scotch cousins, but they are a boy and a girl, and theyhave queer Scotch names, Angus and Flora Drummond. At least, they wereboy and girl, I suppose; for Angus Drummond must be over twenty now, andFlora is not far off it. It is more than ten years since we saw theDrummonds, but the Bracewells have been to visit us several times. Amelia Bracewell is Fanny made hotter, or Fanny is Amelia and water--which you like. She makes me laugh, and my Aunt Kezia sniff. The otherday, my Aunt Kezia came into the room while we were talking aboutAmelia, and she heard Fanny say, --

"She is so full of sympathy. She always comes and wants you tosympathise with her. She just lives upon sympathy. "

"So full of sympathy!" said my Aunt Kezia, turning round on Fanny. "Soempty, child, you mean. What poor weak thing are you talking about?"

"Cousin Amelia Bracewell, " answered Fanny. "She is such a charmingcreature. Don't you think so, Aunt Kezia? Such a dear sympatheticdarling!"

"It is well you told me whom you meant, Fanny, " said my Aunt Kezia, pursing up her lips. "I should never have guessed you meant AmeliaBracewell, from what you said. Well, how differently two people can seethe same thing, to be sure!"

"Don't you like her, Aunt Kezia?" returned Fanny in an astonished tone. 

"If I am to speak the full truth, my dear, " said my Aunt Kezia, "I amafraid I come as near to despising her as a Christian woman and acommunicant has any business to do. I never had any fancy for birds ofprey. "

"Birds of prey!" exclaimed Fanny, blankly. 

"Birds of prey, " repeated my aunt in a very different tone. "She is oneof those folks who are for ever drawing twopenny cheques upon yourfeelings, and there are no funds in my bank to meet them. I can stand abucketful of feeling drawn out of me, but I hate to let it waste away ina drop here and a driblet there about nothing at all. Now I will justtell you, girls--I once went to see a woman who had lost fifteen hundreda year, all at a blow, without a bit of warning. What she had to saywas--`The Lord has taken it, and He knows best. I can trust Him to carefor me. ' Well, about a week afterwards, I had a visit from anotherwoman, who had let a pan boil over, and had spoilt a lot of jam. Shewanted me to say she was the most tried creature since Adam. And Icould not, girls--I really could not. I have not the slightest doubtthere have been a million women worse tried since the battle of Prague, never mention Adam. As to Amelia Bracewell, who carries her fan as ifit were a sceptre, and slurs her r's like a Londoner, silly chit! Ihave hardly any patience with her. Charlotte's bad enough, but Amelia!My word, she takes some standing, I can tell you!"

Now, I always admired the way Amelia sounds her r's, or, I suppose Iought to say, the way she does not sound them. It is so soft andpretty. Then she writes poetry, --all about the blue sea and the silvermoon, or else the gleaming sunbeams and the hoary hills--so grand! Inever read anything so beautiful as Amelia's poetry. She told me oncethat a gentleman from London, who was fourth cousin to a peer of somesort, had told her she wrote as well as Mr Pope. Only think!

Charlotte is as different as she can be. Her notion of things is to godown to the stable and saddle her own horse, and scamper all over thecountry, all by herself. Father says she is a fine girl, but she willbreak her neck some day. My Aunt Kezia says, Saint Paul told women tobe keepers at home, and she thinks that page must have dropped out ofCharlotte's Bible. She does some other things, too, that I do not fancyshe would care for my Aunt Kezia to hear. She calls her father "the oldgentleman, " and sometimes "the old boy. " I do not know what my AuntKezia would say, if she did hear it. 

I wonder what Flora Drummond is like now. I used to think she had notmuch in her. Perhaps it was only that she did not let it come out. However, I shall have a chance of finding out soon; for she and Angusare coming to stay with us, on his way to York, where his father issending him on some kind of business. I do not know what it is, and Idon't care. Business is always dry, uninteresting stuff. Flora willstay with us while Angus goes on to York, and then he will pick her upagain as he comes back. I wish the Bracewells might be here at the sametime. I should like Flora and Amelia to know one another, and I do notthink they do at all. 

It is shocking dull here at Brocklebank. I dare say I feel it more thanmy sisters, having lived in Carlisle all my life, so to speak: and as tomy Aunt Kezia, I do believe, if she had her garden, and orchard, andkitchen, and dairy, and her work-box, and a Bible, and Prayer-book, andThe Compleat Gentlewoman, she would be satisfied to live at the NorthPole or anywhere. But I am perfectly delighted when anybody comes tosee us, if 'tis only Ephraim Hebblethwaite. He is the son of FarmerHebblethwaite, lower down the valley, and I believe he admires Fanny. Fanny cannot bear him; she says he has such an ugly name. But I thinkhe is very pleasant, and I suppose he could change his name, though Ican't see why it signifies. Beside him, and Ambrose Catterall, andEsther Langridge, we know no young people except our cousins. Fatherbeing Squire of Brocklebank, we cannot mix with the common folks. 

Old Mr Digby is the Vicar, and I do not think he is far short of ahundred years old. He is an old bachelor, and has nobody to keep hishouse but our Sam's mother, a Scotchwoman--old Elspie they call her. Hedoes not often preach of late years--except on Good Friday and EasterSunday, and such high days. A pleasant old man he used to be, but hegrows forgetful now, for the last time we met him, he patted my headjust as if I were still a little child, and I shall be seventeen inMarch. He has been Vicar over sixty years, and christened Father andmarried my grand-parents. 

I do wish we had just a few more friends. It really is too bad, for wemight have known the family at Seven Stones, only two miles off, if theyhad not been Whigs, and there are five sons and four daughters there. Father would no more think of shaking hands with a Whig (if he knew it)than he would eat roast beef on Good Friday. I should not care. Whyshould one not have some fun, because old Mr Outhwaite is a Whig?

I shall have to keep my book locked up if I tell it all I think, as Ihave been doing now. I would not have Hatty get hold of it for all theworld. And as to my Aunt Kezia--I believe she would whip me and send meto bed if she read only the last page. 

Here comes Ambrose Catterall up the walk, and I must go down, though Ido not expect there will be any fun. He will stay supper, I dare say, and then he and Father will have a game of whist with Sophy and Fanny, and I shall sit by with my sewing, and Hatty will knit and whisper intomy ear things that I want to laugh at and dare not. If I did, Fatherwould look up over his cards with a black brow and say "Silence!" insuch a tone that I shall wish I was somebody else. Who I don't know--only not Caroline Courtenay. 

Father does not like our names--at least mine and Sophy's. Mamma namedus, and he says we have both fine romantic silly names. Hatty wascalled after his mother, and that he likes; and Fanny is after a sisterof Mamma's who died young. But Father never gives over growling becauseone of us was not a boy. 

"Four girls!" he says: "four girls, and never a lad! Who on earth wantsfour girls? I'll sell one or two of you cheap, if I can find him. "

But I don't think he would, if it came to the point. I know, for allhis queer speeches sometimes, he is proud of Fanny's good looks, andSophy's good housekeeping, and even Hatty's pert sayings. I know by theway he chuckles now and then when she says anything particularly smart. I don't know what he is proud of in me, unless it is my manners. Ofcourse, having lived in Carlisle with Grandmamma, I have the bestmanners of any. And I speak the best, I know. Sophy talks shockinglybroad; she says, "Aw wanted him to coom, boot he would not. " Fanny hasfound that will not do, so she tries to imitate my Aunt Dorothea andAmelia Bracewell, but she goes on the other side of her pattern, anddoes not sound the u full where she ought to do it, but says, "The basinis fell of shegar. " Hatty laughs at them both, and lets her u go whereit likes, but she is not so bad as Sophy. 

I think I shall try and put the notion into my Aunt Kezia's head to havethe Bracewells here for Christmas. I know Angus and Flora will be herethen, and later. That would make a decent party, if we got EphraimHebblethwaite, and Ambrose Catterall too. 

After all, I went on writing so late, that I only got down-stairs intime to see Ambrose Catterall's back as he went down the drive. Hecould not stay for some reason--I did not hear what. Father growled ashe heard him go off, singing, down the walk. 

"Where on earth did the fellow get hold of that piece of whiggery?" saidhe. "Just listen to him!"

I listened, and heard the refrain of the Whigs' favourite song, --

 "Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us--"

"Disgusting stuff!" said Father, with some stronger words which I knowmy Aunt Kezia would not let me put down if she were looking. "Where didthe fellow get hold of it? His father is a decent Tory enough. What ishe at now? Listen, girls. "

Ambrose's tune had changed to, --

 "King George he was born in the month of October, -- 'Tis a sin for a subject that month to be sober!"

"I'll forbid him my house!" cries Father, starting up. "I'll send abullet through his head! I'll October him, and sober him too, if he hasnot a care! Fan! Where's Fan? Go to the spinnet, girl, and sing me aright good Tory song, to take the taste of that abominable stuff out ofmy mouth. "

"Nay, Brother, " saith my Aunt Kezia, who was pinning a piece of work onthe table, "surely a man may use respect to the powers that be, thoughthey be not the powers he might wish to be?"

"`Powers that be!'" saith Father. "Powers that shouldn't be, you mean. I'll tell you what, Kezia, --you may have been bred a Tory, but you wereborn a Puritan. Whereon earth you got it--! As for that fellow, I'llforbid him my house. `King George, ' forsooth! Let me hear one of youcall the Elector of Hanover by that name, and I'll--I'll--. Come along, Fan, and give me a Tory song. "

So Fanny sat down to the spinnet, and played the new song that all theTories are so fond of. How often she made Britain arise from out theazure waves, I am sure I don't know, but she, and Father with her, sangit so many times that all that day I had "Britons never shall beslaves!" ringing in my ears till I heartily wished they would be slavesand have done with it. 

At night, when we were going to bed, after Father had blessed us, Hattyruns round to his back and whispers in his ear. 

"Don't send Ambrose Catterall away, there's a good Father!" says she:"there will be two of us old maids as it is. "

Father laughed, and pinched Hatty's ear. So I saw my gentlewoman hadbeen thinking the same thing I had. But I don't think she ought to havesaid it out. 

Stay, now! Why should it be worse to say things than to think them? Isit as bad to think them as to say them? Oh dear! but if one were forever sifting one's thoughts in that way, --why, it would be justdreadful! Not many people are careful about their words, but one'sthoughts!

No, I don't think I could do it, really. I suppose my Aunt Kezia wouldsay I ought. I do so dislike my Aunt Kezia's oughts. She always thinksyou ought to do just what you do not want. If only people would say, now and then, that you ought to eat plum-pudding, or you ought to dance, or you ought to wear jewels! But no! it is always you ought to sew, oryou ought to carry some broken victuals to old Goody Branscombe, or youought to be as sweet as a rosebud when Hatty says things at you. 

Stop! would it be so if I always wanted to do the things I ought? Isuppose not. Then why don't I?

But why ought I? There's another question. 

I wish we either wanted to do what we ought, or else that we ought to dowhat we want!

I was obliged to stop last night all at once, because I heard Hattycoming up the garret stairs. I always write in the garret and keep mybook there, so that none of the girls shall get hold of it--Hattyparticularly. She would make such shocking game of it. I had only justput my book away safely when in she came. 

"What on earth are you doing up here?" cried she. 

"What are you doing?" said I. 

"Looking for you, " she says. 

"Then why should not I be looking for you?" said I. 

"Because you weren't, Miss Caroline Courtenay!" and she makes a swimmingcourtesy. "Oh yes, you don't need to tell me you have a secret, myyoung gentlewoman. I know as well as if I had seen it. O Pussy, haveyou come too? Do you know what it is, Pussy? Does she come up here toread her love-letters--does she? Oh, how charming! Wouldn't I like tosee them! How does she get them, Pussy? She has been rather fond ofgoing to see Elspie this past week or two; is that it, Pussy? Won't youtell me, my pretty, pretty cat?"

"Hatty, don't be so absurd!" cried I. 

"We know, don't we, Pussy?" says Hatty in a provoking whisper to the catin her arms. "I thought there would be somebody at Carlisle that shewould be sorry to leave--didn't you, Pussy-cat? What is he like, Pussy?Tall and dark, I'll wager, with a pair of handsome mustachios, and themost beautiful black eyes you ever saw! Won't that be about it, Pussy?"

I could have thrown the cat at her. How could any mortal creature besweet, or keep quiet, talked to in that way? I flew out. 

"Hatty, you are the most vexatious tease that ever lived! Do, forpity's sake, go down and let me alone. You know perfectly well it isall stuff and nonsense!"

"Oh, how angry she is, my pretty pussy!" says Hatty, hiding her laughingface behind the cat. "It was all nonsense, you know; but really, whenshe gets into such a tantrum, I begin to think I must have hit thewhite. What do you say, Pussy?"

I stamped on the garret floor. 

"Hatty, will you take that hideous cat down and be quiet?" cried I. 

"Dear, dear! To think of her calling you a hideous cat! Doesn't thatshow how angry she is? People should not get angry--should they, Pussy?She will box our ears next. I really think we had better go, mydarling tabby. "

So off went Hatty with the cat in her arms, but as she was going downthe stairs, she said, I am sure for me to hear, --

"We will come some other time, won't we, Pussy? when the dragon is outof her den: and we will have a quiet rummage, you and I; and we'll findher love-letters!"

Now is not that too bad? What is one to do? Job could not have kepthis temper if he had lived with Hatty. I wish she would get married--Ido! Fanny never interferes with any one--she just goes her way and letsyou go yours. And when Sophy interferes, it is only because somethingis left untidy, or you have not done something you promised to do. Shedoes not tease for teasing's sake, like Hatty. 

And then, when I came down, after having composed my face, and passedHatty on my way into the parlour, what should she say but, --

"Didn't you wish I was in Heaven just now?"

"I should not have cared where you were, if you had kept out of thegarret!" said I. 

Hatty gave one of her odious giggles, and away she went. 

Now, how can I live at peace with Hatty, will anybody tell me?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am so delighted! My Aunt Kezia has come into my plan for having theBracewells here at Christmas, along with the Drummonds. 

"It might be as well, " said she, "if we could do some good to that poorfrivolous thing Amelia; but don't you get too much taken up with her, Caroline, my dear. She is a silly maid at best. "

"Oh, Amelia is Fanny's friend, not mine, Aunt Kezia, " said I. "AndCharlotte is Sophy's. "

"And is Flora to be yours?" said Aunt Kezia. 

"I have not made one yet, " I answered. "I do not know what Flora islike. "

"As well to wait and see, trow, " says my Aunt Kezia. 

Sam was bringing in breakfast while this was said; and as soon as he hadset down the cold beef he turned to my Aunt Kezia and said, --

"Then she's just a braw lassie, Miss Flora, nae mair and nae less; andshe'll bring ye a' mickle gude, and nae harm. "

"Why, how do you know, Sam?" asked my Aunt Kezia. 

"Hoots! my mither's sister's daughter was her nurse, " said he. "HelenRaeburn they ca' her, and her man's ane o' the Macdonalds. Trust me, but I ha'e heard monie a tale o' thae Drummonds, --their faither andmither and their gudesire and minnie an' a'. "

"What is Angus like, Sam?" said I. 

"Atweel, he's a bonnie laddie; but no just--"

Sam stopped short and pulled a face. 

"Not just what?" says my Aunt Kezia. 

"Ye'll be best to find oot for yersel, Mrs Kezia, I'm thinkin'. "

And off trudged Sam after jelly, and we got no more out of him. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wonder where the living creature is that could stand Hatty! There wasI at work this morning in the parlour, when in she came--there wereSophy and Fanny too--holding up something above her head. 

"`Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!'" sang Hatty. "Look whatI've found, just now, in the garret! Oh yes, Miss Caroline, you canlook too. "

"Hatty, if you don't give me that book this minute--!" cried I. "I didthink I had hidden it out of search of your prying fingers. "

"Dear, yes, and of my bright eyes, I feel no doubt, " laughed Hatty. "You are not quite so clever as you fancy, Miss Caroline. Carlisle is acharming city, but it does not hold all the brains in the world. "

"What is it, Hatty?" said Sophy. "Don't tease the child. "

"Wait a little, Miss Sophia, if you please. This is a most interestingand savoury volume, wherein Miss Caroline Courtenay sets down herconvictions on all manner of subjects in general, and her unfortunatesisters in particular. I find--"

"Hatty, do be reasonable, and give the child her book, " said Fanny. "Itis a shame!"

"Oh, you keep one too, do you, Miss Frances?" laughed Hatty. "I had mysuspicions, I will own. "

"What do you mean?" said Fanny, flushing. 

"Only that the rims of your pearly ears would not be quite so ruddy, mycharmer, if you were not in like case. Well, I find from this book thatwe are none of us perfect, but so far as I can gather, Fanny comesnearest the angelic world of any of us. As to--"

"Hatty, you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you have been sodishonourable as to read what was not meant for any one to see. "

"My beloved Sophy, don't halloo till you are out of the wood. And youare not out, by any means. You are vulgar and ill-bred, my dear; yousay `coom' and `boot, ' and you are only fit to marry a country curate, and cut out shirts and roll pills. "

"I say what?" asked Sophy, disregarding the other particulars. 

"You say `coom' and `boot, ' my darling, and it ought to be `kem' and`bet', " said Hatty, with such an affected pronunciation that Sophy andFanny both burst out laughing. 

"What do you mean?" said Sophy amid her laughter. 

"Then--Fanny, my dear, you are not to escape! You are better bred thanSophy, because you take castor oil--"

"Hatty, what nonsense you are talking!" I cried, unable to endure anylonger. But Hatty went on, taking no notice. 

"But you drop your r's, deah, and say deah Caroline, --(can't manage itright, my dear!)--and you are slow and affected. "

"Hatty, you know I never said so!" I screamed. 

"Then as to me, " pursued Hatty, casting her eyes up to the ceiling, "asto poor me, I am--well, not one of the angels, on any consideration. Itease my sweetest sister in the most cruel manner--"

"Well, that is true, Hatty, if nothing else is, " said Fanny. 

"I have `horrid glazed red cheeks, ' and I eat like a plough-boy; and Idon't take castor oil. Castor oil is evidently one of the Christiangraces. "

"How can you be so ridiculous!" said Sophy. "See, you have made thepoor child cry. "

"With passion, my dear, which is a very wicked thing, as I am sure myAunt Kezia would tell her. A little castor oil would--"

"What is that about your Aunt Kezia?" came in another voice from thedoorway. 

Oh, I was so glad to see her!

"Hoity-toity! why, what is all this, girls?" said she, severely. "Hester, what are you doing? What is Cary crying for?"

"Hatty is teasing her, Aunt, " said Fanny. "She is always doing it, Ithink. "

"Give me that book, Hester, " said my Aunt Kezia; and Hatty passed it toher without a word. "Now, whom does this book belong?"

"It is mine, Aunt Kezia, " I said, as well as my sobs would let me; "andHatty has found it, and she is teasing me dreadfully about it. "

"What is it, my dear?" said my Aunt Kezia. 

"It is my diary, Aunt Kezia; and I did not want Hatty to get hold ofit. "

"She says such things, Aunt Kezia, you can't imagine, about you and allof us. "

"I am sure I never said anything about you, Aunt Kezia, " I sobbed. 

"If you did, my dear, I dare say it was nothing worse than all of youhave thought in turn, " saith my Aunt Kezia, drily. "Hester, you will goto bed as soon as the dark comes. Take your book, Cary; and remember, my dear, whenever you write in it again, that God is looking at everyword you write. "

Hatty made a horrid face at me behind my Aunt Kezia's back; but I don'tbelieve she really cared anything about it. She went to bed, of course;and it is dark now by half-past five. But she was not a bit daunted, for I heard her singing as she lay in bed, "Fair Rosalind, in wofulwise, " [Note 2. ] and afterwards, "I ha'e nae kith, I ha'e nae kin. "[Note 3. ] If Father had heard that last, my Aunt Kezia would have hadto forgive her and let her off the rest of her sentence. 

I have found a new hiding-place for my book, where I do not think Hattywill find it in a hurry. But when I sit down to write now, my AuntKezia's words come back to me with an awful sound. "God is looking atevery word you write!" I suppose it is so: but somehow I never rightlytook it in before. I hardly think I should have written some words if Ihad. Was that what my Aunt Kezia meant?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This and similar expressions are Northern provincialisms. 

Note 2. 

 "Fair Rosalind, in woful wise, Six hearts has bound in thrall; As yet she undetermined lies Which she her spouse shall call. "

Note 3. Perhaps the most plaintive and poetical of all the popularJacobite ballads. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

TAWNY EYES. 

 "She has two eyes so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side-glance and looks down, -- Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!"

 LONGFELLOW. 

Here they all are at last, and the house is as full as it will hold. The Bracewells came first in their great family coach and four--Charlotte and Amelia and a young friend whom they had with them. Hername is Cecilia Osborne, and she is such a genteel-looking girl! Shemoves about, not languidly like Amelia, but in such a graceful, airy wayas I never saw. She has dark hair, nearly black, and brown eyes with asort of tawny light in them, --large eyes which gleam out on you justwhen you are not expecting it, for she generally looks down. Ameliaappears more listless and affected than ever by the side of her, andCharlotte's hoydenish romping seems worse and more vulgar. 

The Drummonds did not come for nearly a week afterwards. I was ratherafraid what Cecilia would think of them for I expected they would talkScotch--I know Angus used to do--and Cecilia is from the South, and Ithought she would be quite shocked. But I find they talk just as we do, only with a little Scots accent, as if they were walking over sandhillsin their throats--as least that is how it sounds to me. Flora hasrather more of it than Angus, but then her voice is so clear and softthat it sounds almost pretty. A young gentleman came with them, namedDuncan Keith, who was going with Angus about that business he has to do. They only stayed one night, didn't [Note 4. ] Mr Keith and Angus, andthen went on about their business; but Father was so pleased with MrKeith, that he invited him to come back when Angus does, which will bein about three weeks or a month. So here we are, eight girls instead offour, with never a young man among us. Father says, when Angus and MrKeith come back, we will have Ephraim Hebblethwaite and AmbroseCatterall to spend the evening, and perhaps Esther Langridge too. Idon't feel quite sure that I should like Esther to come. She is notonly as bad as Sophy with her "buts" and her "comes" but she does notbehave quite genteelly in some other ways: and I don't want CeciliaOsborne to fancy that we are a set of vulgar creatures who do not knowhow to behave. I don't care half so much what Flora thinks. 

Cecilia has not been here a fortnight, and yet I keep catching myselfwondering what she will think about everything. It is not that I havemade a friend of her: in fact, I am not sure that I quite like her. Sheseems to throw a sort of spell over me, does Cecilia, as if I wereafraid of her and must obey her. I don't half like it. 

My Aunt Kezia has put us into rooms in pairs, while they are here. InSophy's chamber, where I generally sleep, are Sophy and Charlotte. InFanny's, which she and Hatty have when we are by ourselves, are Fannyand Amelia. In the green spare chamber are Hatty and Cecilia; and inthe blue one, Flora and me. My Aunt Kezia said she thought we shouldfind that the pleasantest arrangement; but I do wish she had given Florato Hatty, and put Cecilia with me. I am sure I should have understoodCecilia much better than Hatty, who will persist in calling her Cicely, which she says she does not like because it is such a vulgar name--andso common, too. Cecilia says she wishes she had not been called by aname which had a vulgar short one to it: she would like to have beeneither Camilla or Henrietta. She thinks my name sweetly pretty; but shewonders why we call Hester, Hatty, which she says is quite low and ugly, and hardly, is the proper short for Hester. She says Hatty and Gattyare properly short for Harriet, and Hester should be Essie, which ismuch prettier. But then we call Esther Langridge, Essie, and we couldnot do with two Essies. I know Father used to call Mamma, Gatty, butGrandmamma said she always thought it so vulgar. 

Grandmamma was always talking about things being vulgar, and so isCecilia. I notice that some people--for instance, my Aunt Kezia andFlora--never seem to think whether things are vulgar or not. Ceciliasays that is because they are so vulgar they don't know it. I wonder ifit be. But Cecilia says--she said I was not to repeat it, though--thatmy Aunt Kezia and Sophy are below vulgarity. When we were dressing onemorning, I asked Flora what she thought. She is as genteel in hermanners as Cecilia herself, only in quite a different way. Ceciliabehaves as if she wanted you to notice how genteel she is. Flora isjust herself: it seems to come natural to her, as if she never thoughtabout it. So I asked Flora what she thought "vulgarity" meant, and ifpeople could be below vulgarity. 

"I should not think they could get below it, " said she. "It is easy toget above it, if you only go the right way. How can you get below athing which is down at the bottom?"

"But how would you do, Flora, not to be vulgar?"

"Learn good manners and then never think about them. "

"But you must keep, up your company manners, " said I. 

"Why have any?" said she. 

"What, always have one's company manners on!" cried I, "and becourtesying and bowing to one's sisters as if they were people one hadnever seen before?"

"Nay, those are ceremonies, not manners, " said Flora. "By manners, I donot understand ceremonies, but just the way you behave to anybody at anytime. It is not a ceremony to set a chair for a lame man, nor to shut adoor lest the draught blow on a sick woman. It is not a ceremony to eatwith a knife and fork, or to see that somebody else is comfortablebefore you make yourself so. "

"Why, but that is just kindness!" cried I. 

"What are manners but kindness?" said Flora. "Let a maiden only try tobe as kind as she can to every creature of God, and she will not findmuch said in reproof of her manners. "

"Are you always trying to be kind to everybody, Flora?"

"I hope so, Cary, " she said, gravely. 

"Flora, have you any friend?" said I. "I mean a particular friend--agirl friend like yourself. "

"Yes, " she said. "My chief friend is Annas Keith. "

"Mr Duncan Keith's sister?"

"Yes, " said Flora. 

"Do tell me what she is like, " said I. 

"I am not sure that I could, " said Flora. "And if I did, it would onlybe like looking at a map. Suppose somebody showed you a map of theBritish Isles, and put his finger on a little pink spot, and told youthat was Selkirk. How much wiser would you be? You could not see theYarrow and Ettrick, and breathe the caller air and gather the purpleheather. And I don't think describing people is much better than toshow places on a map. Such different things strike different people. "

"How?" said I. "I don't see how they could, in the same face. "

"As we were coming from Carlisle with Uncle Courtenay, " said Flora, smiling, "I asked him to tell me what you were like, Cary. "

"Well, what did Father say?" I said, and I felt very much amused. 

"He said, `Oh, a girl with a pale face and a lot of light thatch on it, with fine ways that she picked up in Carlisle. ' But when I came to seeyou, I thought that if I had had to describe you, those were just thethings I should not have mentioned. "

"Come, then, describe me, Flora, " said I, laughing. "What do you see?"

"I see two large, earnest-looking blue eyes, " she said, "under a broadwhite forehead; eyes that look right at you; clear, honest eyes, --not--at least, the sort of eyes I like to look at me. Then I see a smallnose--"

"Let my nose alone, please, " said I: "I know it turns up, and I don'twant to hear you say so. "

Flora laughed. "Very well; I will leave your nose alone. Underneathit, I see two small red lips, and a little forward chin; a ratherself-willed little chin, if you please, Cary--and a good figure, whichhas learned to hold itself up and to walk gracefully. Will that do fora description?"

"Yes, " I said, looking in the glass; "I suppose that is me. "

"Is it, Cary? That may be all I see; but is it you? Why, it is onlythe morocco case that holds you. You are the jewel inside, and whatthat is, really and fully, I cannot see. God can see it; and you cansee some of it. But I can see only what you choose to show me, or, nowand then, what you cannot help showing me. "

"Do you know that you are a very queer girl, Flora? Girls don't talk inthat way. Cecilia Osborne told me yesterday she thought you a verycurious girl indeed. "

"I think my match might be found, " said Flora, rather drily. "For onething, Cary, you must remember I have had nothing to do with other girlsexcept Annas Keith. Father and Angus have been my only companions; anda girl who has neither mother nor sisters perhaps gets out of girls'ways in some respects. "

"But you are not the only `womankind, ' as Father calls it, in thehouse?" said I. 

"Oh, no, there is Helen Raeburn, " answered Flora: "but she is an oldwoman, and she is not in my station. She would not teach me girls'ways. "

"Then who taught you manners, Flora?"

"Oh, Father saw to all that Helen could not, " she said. "Helen couldteach me common decencies, of course; such as not to eat with myfingers, and to shake hands, and so forth: but the little niceties ofladylike behaviour that were beyond her--Father saw to those. "

"Well, I think you have very pleasant manners, Flora. I only wish youwere not quite so grave. "

"Thank you for the compliment, Miss Caroline Courtenay, " said Flora, dropping me a courtesy. "I would rather be too grave than too giddy. "

That very afternoon, Cecilia Osborne asked me to walk up the Scar withher. Somehow, when she asks you to do a thing, you feel as if you mustdo it. I do not like that sort of enchanted feeling at all. However, Ifetched my hood and scarf, and away we went. We climbed up the Scarwithout much talk--in fact, it is rather too steep for that: but when wegot to the top, Cecilia proposed to sit down on the bank. It was abeautiful day, and quite warm for the time of the year. So down we sat, and Cecilia pulled her sacque carefully on one side, that it should notget spoiled--she was very charmingly dressed in a sacque of purplelutestring, with such a pretty bonnet, of red velvet with a gold pompoonin front--and then she began to talk, as if she had come for that, and Ibelieve she had. It was not long before I felt pretty sure that she hadbrought me there to pump me. 

"How long have you known Miss Drummond?" she began. 

"Well, all my life, in a fashion, " I said; "but it is nearly ten yearssince we met. "

"Ten years is a good deal of your life, is it not?" said Cecilia, darting at me one of those side-glances from her tawny eyes. 

I tried to do it last night, and made my eyes feel so queer that I wasnot sure they would get right by morning. 

"Well, I suppose it is, " said I; "I am not quite seventeen yet. "

"You dear little thing!" said Cecilia, imprisoning my hand. "What isMiss Drummond's father?"

"A minister, " said I. 

"A Scotch Presbyterian, I suppose?" she said, turning up her nose. Idid not think she looked any prettier for it. 

"Well, " said I, "I suppose he is. "

"And Mr Angus--what do they mean to make of him, do you know?"

"Flora hopes he will be a minister too. His father wishes it; but sheis not sure that Angus likes the notion himself. "

"Dear me! I should think not, " said Cecilia, "He is fit for somethingfar better. "

"What can be better?" I answered. 

"You have such charming ideas!" replied Cecilia. She put in anotherword, which I never heard before, and I don't know what it means. Shebrought it with her from the South, I suppose. Unso--unsophy--no, unsophisticated--I think that was it. It sounded uncommon long andfine, I know. 

"I suppose Scotch ministers have not much money?" continued Cecilia. 

"I don't know--I think not, " I answered. "But I rather fancy my UncleDrummond has a little of his own. "

Cecilia darted another look at me, and then dropped her eyes as if shewere studying the grass. 

"And Mr Keith?" she said presently, "is he a relation?"

"I don't know much about him, " said I, "only what I have heard Florasay. He is no relation of theirs, I believe. I think he is thesquire's son. "

"The squire's son!" cried Cecilia, in a more interested tone. "And whois the squire?--is he rich?--where is the place?"

"As to who he is, " said I, "he is Mr Keith, I suppose. I don't know abit whether he is rich or poor. I forget the name of the place--I thinkit is Abbotsmuir, or something like that. Either an abbot or a monk hassomething to do with it. "

"And you don't know if Mr Keith is a rich man?" said Cecilia, I thoughtin rather a disappointed tone. 

"No, I don't, " said I. "I can ask Flora, if you want to know. "

"Not for the world!" cried Cecilia, laying her hand again on mine. "Don't on any account let Miss Drummond know that I asked you such aquestion. If you like to ask from yourself, you know--well, that isanother matter; but not from me, on any consideration. "

"I don't understand you, Miss Osborne, " said I. 

"No, you dear little thing, I believe you don't understand me, " saidCecilia, kissing me. "What pretty hair you have, and how nice you keepit, to be sure!--so smooth and glossy! Come, had we not better be goingdown, do you think?"

So down we came, and found dinner ready; and I do not think I everthought of it again till I was going to bed. Then I said to Flora, --"Doyou like Cecilia Osborne?"

"I--think we had better not talk about people, Cary, if you please. "

But there was such a pause where I have drawn that long stroke, that Iam sure that was not what she intended to say at first. 

"Then you don't, " said I, making a hit at the truth, and, I think, hitting it in the bull's eye. "Well, no more do I. "

Flora looked at me, but did not speak. Oh, how different her look isfrom Cecilia's sudden flashes!

"She has been trying to pump me, I am sure, about you and Angus, and MrKeith, " said I; "and I think it is quite as well I knew so little. "

"What about?" said Flora. 

"Oh, about money, mostly, " said I. "Whether Uncle had much money, andif Mr Keith was a rich man, and all on like that. I can't bear girlswho are always thinking about money. "

Flora drew a long breath. "That is it, is it?" she said, in a lowvoice, as she tied her nightcap, but it was rather as if she werespeaking to herself than to me. "Cary, perhaps I had better answer you. I am afraid Miss Osborne is a very dangerous girl; and she would bemore so than she is if she were a shade more clever, so as to hide hercards a little better. Don't tell her anything you can help. "

"But what shall I say if she asks me again? because she wanted me not totell you that she had asked, but to get to know as if I wanted itmyself. "

"Tell her to ask me, " said Flora, with more spirit than I had expectedfrom her. 

When Cecilia began again (as she did) asking me the same sort of things, I said to her, "Why don't you ask Cousin Flora instead of me? She knowsso much more about it than I do. "

Cecilia put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me. 

"Because I like to ask you, " said she, "and I should not like to askher. "

My Aunt Kezia was just coming into the room. 

"Miss Cecilia, my dear, " said she, "do you always think what you like?"

"Of course, Mrs Kezia, " said Cecilia, smiling at her. 

"Then you will be a very useless woman, " said my aunt, "and not a veryhappy one neither. "

"Happy--ah!" said Cecilia, with a long sigh. "This world is not theplace to find happiness. "

"No, it isn't, " said my Aunt Kezia, "for people who spend all their timehunting for it. It is a deal better to let happiness hunt for you. Youdon't go the right way to get it, child. "

"I do not, indeed!" answered Cecilia, with a very sorrowful look. "Ah, Mrs Kezia, `the heart knoweth his own bitterness. ' That is Scripture, I believe. "

"Yes, it does, " said my aunt, "and it makes a deal of it, too. "

"Oh dear, Mrs Kezia!" cried Cecilia. "How could anybody makeunhappiness?"

"If you don't, you are the first girl I have met of your sort, " saith myAunt Kezia, turning down the hem of a kerchief. Then, when she came tothe end of the hem, she looked up at Cecilia. "My dear, there is alesson we all have to learn, and the sooner you learn it, the better andhappier woman you will be. The end of selfishness is not pleasure, butpain. You don't think so, do you? Ah, but you will find as you gothrough life, that always you are not only better, but happier, withGod's blessing on the thing you don't like, than without it on the thingyou do. Ay, it always turns to ashes in your mouth when you will havethe quails instead of the manna. I've noted many a time--for when I wasa girl, and later than that, I was as self-willed as any of you--thatsometimes when I have set my heart upon a thing, and would have it, then, if I may speak it with reverence, God has given way to me. Like afather with an obstinate child, He has said to me, as it were, `Poorfoolish child! You will have this glittering piece of mischief. Well, have your way: and when you have cut yourself badly with it, and arebleeding and smarting as I did not wish to see you, come back to yourFather and tell Him all about it, and be healed and comforted. ' Ah dearme, the dullest of us is quite as clever as she need be in making rodsfor her own back. And then, if our Father keep us from hurtingourselves, and won't let us have the bright knife to cut our fingerswith, how we do mewl and whine, to be sure! We are just a set of sillybabes, my dear--the best of us. "

"My Aunt Dorothea once told me, " said I, "that the Papists have whatthey call `exercises of detachment. ' Perhaps you would think them goodthings, Aunt Kezia. For instance, if an abbess sees a nun who seems tohave a fancy for any little thing particularly, she will take it fromher and give it to somebody else. "

"Eh, poor foolish things!" said Aunt Kezia. "Bits of children playingwith the Father's tools! They are more like to hurt themselves a dealthan to get His work done. Ay, God has His exercises of detachment, andthey are far harder than man's. He knows how to do it. He can lay afinger right on the core of your heart, the very spot where it hurtsworst. Men can seldom do that. They would sometimes if they could, Ibelieve; but they cannot, except God guides them to it. Many's the timeI've been asked, with a deal of hesitation and apology, to do a thingthat did not cost me a farthing's worth of grief or labour; and aslightly as could be, to do another which would have gone far to breakeither my back or my heart. Different folks see things in suchdifferent ways. I'll be bound, now, if each of us were asked to pickout for one another the thing in this house that each cared most about, we should well-nigh all of us guess wrong. We know so little of eachother's inmost hearts. That little kingdom, your own heart, is a thingthat you must keep to yourself; you can't let another into it. You canbring him to the gate, and let him peep in, and show him a few of yourtreasures; but you cannot give him the freedom of the city. Depend uponit, you would think very differently of me from what you do, and Ishould think differently of each of you, if we could see each other'sinmost hearts. "

"Better or worse, Mrs Kezia?" said Cecilia. 

"May be the one, and may be the other, my dear. It would hang a littleon the heart you looked at, and a great deal on the one who looked atit. I dare say we should all get one lesson we need badly--we mightlearn to bear with each other. 'Tis so easy to think, `Oh, she cannotunderstand me! she never had this pain or that sorrow. ' Whereas, if youcould see her as she really is, you would find she knew more about itthan you did, and understood some other things beside, which were darkriddles to you. That is often a mountain to one which is only amolehill to another. And trouble is as it is taken. If there were nomore troubles in this world than what we give each other in purekindness or in simple ignorance, girls, there would be plenty left. "

"Then you think there were troubles in Eden?" said Cecilia, mischievously. 

"I was not there, " said my Aunt Kezia. "After the old serpent camethere were troubles enough, I'll warrant you. If Adam came offscot-free for saying, `The woman whom Thou gavest to be with me, ' Evemust have been vastly unlike her daughters. "

I was quite unable to keep from laughing, but Cecilia did not seem tosee anything to laugh at. She never does, when people say funny things;and she never says funny things herself. I cannot understand her. Sheonly laughs when she does something; and, nine times out of ten, it issomething in which I cannot see anything to laugh at--something which--well, if it were not Cecilia, I should say was rather silly and babyish. I never did see any fun in playing foolish tricks on people, andworrying them in all sorts of ways. Hatty just enjoys it; but I don't. 

However, before anything else was said, Father came in, and a younggentleman with him, whom he introduced as Mr Anthony Parmenter, theVicar's nephew (He turned out to be the Vicar's grand-nephew, which, Isuppose, is the same thing. ) I am sure he must have come from theSouth. He did not shake hands, nor profess to do it. He just touchedthe hand you gave him with the tips of his fingers, and then with hislips, as if you were a china tea-dish that he was terribly frightened ofbreaking. Cecilia seemed quite used to this sort of thing, but I didnot know what he was going to do; and, as for my Aunt Kezia, she justseized his hand, and gave it a good old-fashioned shake, at which helooked very much put out. Then she asked him how the Vicar was, and hedid not seem to know; and how long he was going to stay, and he did notknow that; and when he came, to which he said Thursday, in a veryhesitating way, as if he were not at all sure that it was not Wednesdayor Friday. One thing he knew--that it was hawidly cold--there, that isjust how he said it. I suppose he meant horribly. My Aunt Kezia gavehim up after a while, and went on sewing in silence. Then Cecilia tookhim up, and they seemed to understand each other exactly. They talkedabout all sorts of things and people that I never heard of before; and Isat and listened, and so did my Aunt Kezia, only that she put in a wordnow and then, and I did not. 

Before they had been long at it, Fanny and Amelia came in from a walk, in their bonnets and scarves, and Mr Parmenter bowed over their handsin the same curious way that he did before. Amelia took it as she doeseverything--that is, in a languid, limp sort of way, as if she did notcare about anything; but Fanny looked as if she did not know what he wasgoing to do to her, and I saw she was puzzled whether she ought to shakehands or not. Then Fanny went away to take her things off, but Ameliasat down, and pulled off her scarf, and laid it beside her on the sofa, not neatly folded, but all huddled up in a heap, and there it might havestayed till next week if my Aunt Kezia (who hates Amelia's untidy ways)had not said to her, --

"My dear, had you not better take your things up-stairs?"

Amelia rose with the air of a martyr, threw the scarf on her arm, andcarrying her bonnet by one string, went slowly up-stairs. When theycame down together, my Aunt Kezia said to Fanny, --

"My dear, you had better take a shorter walk another time. "

"We have not had a long one, Aunt, " said Fanny, looking surprised. "Weonly went up by the Scar, and back by Ellen Water. "

"I thought you had been much farther than that, " says my Aunt Kezia, inher dry way. "Poor Emily [Note 1. ] seemed so tired she could not getup-stairs. "

Fanny stared, and Amelia gave a faint laugh. My Aunt Kezia said nomore, but went on running tucks: and Amelia joined in the conversationbetween Cecilia and Mr Parmenter. I hardly listened, for I was tryingthe new knitting stitch which Flora taught me, and it is rather adifficult one, so that it took all my mind: but all at once I heardAmelia say, --

"The beauty of self-sacrifice!"

My Aunt Kezia lapped up the petticoat in which she was running thetucks, laid it on her knee, folded her hands on it, and looked full atAmelia. 

"Will you please, Miss Emily Bracewell, to tell me what you mean?"

"Mean, Aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, mean. "

"How can the spirit of that sweet poetical creature, " murmured Fanny, behind me, "be made plain to such a mere thing of fact as my AuntKezia?"

"Well, " said Amelia, in a rather puzzled tone, "I mean--I mean--thebeauty of self-sacrifice. I do not see how else to put it. "

"And what makes it beautiful, think you?" said my Aunt Kezia. 

"It is beautiful in itself, " said Amelia. "It is the fairest thing inthe moral world. We see it in all the analogies of creation. "

"My dear Emily, " said my Aunt Kezia, "you may have learned Latin andGreek, but I have not. I will trouble you to speak plain, if youplease. I am a plain English woman, who knows more about making shirtsand salting butter than about moral worlds and the analogies ofcreation. Please to explain yourself--if you understand what you aretalking about. If you don't, of course I wouldn't wish it. "

"Well, a comparison, then, " answered Amelia, in a slightly peevish tone. 

"That will do, " said my Aunt Kezia. "I know what a comparison is. Well, let us hear it. "

"Do we not see, " continued Amelia, with kindling eyes, "the beauty ofself-sacrifice in all things? In the patriot daring death for hiscountry, in the mother careless of herself, that she may save her child, in the physician braving all risks at the bedside of his patient? Nay, even in the lower world, when we mark how the insect dies in laying hereggs, and see the fresh flowers of the spring arise from the ashes ofthe withered blossoms of autumn, can we doubt the loveliness ofself-sacrifice?"

"How beautiful!" murmured Fanny. "Do listen, Cary. "

"I am listening, " I said. 

"Charming, Madam!" said Mr Parmenter, stroking his mustachio. "Undoubtedly, all these are lessons to those who have eyes to see. "

I did not quite like the glance which was shot at him just then out ofCecilia's eyes, nor the look in his which replied. It appeared to me asif those two were only making game of Amelia, and that they understoodeach other. But almost before I had well seen it, Cecilia's eyes weredropped, and she looked as demure as possible. 

"Some folk's eyes don't see things that are there, " saith my Aunt Kezia, "and some folk's eyes are apt to see things that aren't. My Bible tellsme that God hath made everything beautiful in its season. Not out ofits season, you see. Your beautiful self-sacrifice is a means to anend, not the end itself. And if you make the means into the end, youwaste your strength and turn your action into nonsense. Take thecomparisons Amelia has given us. Your patriot risks death in order toobtain some good for his country; the mother, that she may save thechild; the physician, that he may cure his patient. What would be thegood of all these sacrifices if nothing were to be got by them? Mydears, do let me beg of you not to be caught by claptrap. There's adeal of it in the world just now. And silly stuff it is, I assure you. Self-sacrifice is as beautiful as you please when it is a man's duty, and as a means of good; but self-sacrifice for its own sake, and withoutan object, is not beautiful, but just ridiculous nonsense. "

"Then would you say, Aunt Kezia, " asked Amelia, "that all those grandacts of mortification of the early Christians, or of the old monks, wereworthless and ridiculous? They were not designed to attain any object, but just for discipline and obedience. "

"As for the early Christians, poor souls! they had mortifications enoughfrom the heathen around them, without giving themselves trouble to maketroubles, " said my Aunt Kezia. "And the old monks, poor misguided dirtythings! I hope you don't admire them. But what do you mean by sayingthey were not means to an end, but only discipline? If that were so, discipline was the end of them. But, my dear, discipline is asharp-edged tool which men do well to let alone, except for children. We are prone to make sad blunders when we discipline ourselves. Thattool is safer in God's hands than in ours. "

"But there is so much poetry in mortification!" sighed Amelia. 

"I am glad if you can see it, " said my Aunt Kezia. "I can't. Poetry incabbage-stalks, eaten with all the mud on, and ditch water scooped up ina dirty pannikin! There would be a deal more poetry in needles andthread, and soap and water. Making verses is all very well in itsplace; but you try to make a pudding of poetry, and you'll come badlyoff for dinner. "

"Dinner!" said Amelia, contemptuously. 

"Yes, my dear, dinner. You dine once a day, I believe. "

"Dear, I never care what I eat, " cried Amelia. "The care of the body isentirely beneath those who have learned to prize the superlative valueof the mind. "

My Aunt Kezia laughed. "My dear, " said she, "if you were a little olderI might reason with you. But you are just at that age when girls takeup with every silly notion they come across, and carry it ever so muchfarther, and just make regular geese of themselves. 'Tis a comfort tohope you will grow out of it. Ten years hence, if we are both alive, Ishall find you making pies and cutting out bodices like other sensiblewomen. At least I hope so. "

"Never!" cried Amelia. "I never could demean myself to be just anevery-day creature like that!"

"I am sorry for your husband, " said my Aunt Kezia, bluntly, "and stillmore for yourself. If you set up to be an uncommon woman, the chancesare that instead of rising above the common, you will just sink belowit, into one of those silly things that spend their time sipping tea andflirting fans, and making men think all women foolish and unstable. Andif you do that--well, all I have to say is, may God forgive you!--Cary, I want some jumballs for tea. Just go and see to them. "

So away I went to the kitchen, and heard no more of the talk. But whatwas I to do? I knew how to eat jumballs very well indeed, but how tomake them I knew no more than Mr Parmenter's eyeglass. She forgets, does my Aunt Kezia, that I have lived all my life in Carlisle, whereGrandmamma would as soon have thought of my building a house as makingjumballs. 

"Maria, " said I, "my Aunt Kezia has sent me to make jumballs, and Idon't know how, not one bit!"

"Don't you, Miss Cary?" said Maria, laughing: "well, I reckon I do. Half a pound of butter--will you weigh it yourself, Miss?--and the sameof white sugar, and a pound of flour, and three ounces of almonds, andthree eggs, and a little lemon peel--that's what you'll want. " [Note2. ]

We were going about the buttery, as she spoke, gathering up and weighingthese things, and putting them together on the kitchen table. ThenMaria tied a big apron on me, which she said was Fanny's, and gave me alittle pan in which she bade me melt the butter. Then I had to beat thesugar into it, and then came the hard part--breaking the eggs, for onlythe yolks were wanted. I spoiled two, and then I said, --

"Maria, do break them for me! I shall never manage this business. "

"Oh yes, you will, Miss Cary, in time, " says she, cheerily. "It comeshard at first, till you're used to it. Most things does. See now, youpound them almonds--I have blanched 'em--and I'll put the eggs in. "

So we put in the yolks of eggs, and the almonds, and the flour, and thelemon peel, till it began to smell uncommon good, and then Maria showedme how to make coiled-up snakes of it on the baking-tin, as jumballsalways are: and I washed my hands, and took off Fanny's apron, and wentback into the parlour. 

I found there all whom I had left, and Hatty and Flora as well. Whentea came, and my jumballs with it, my Aunt Kezia says very calmly, --

"Pass me those jumballs, my dear, will you? Amelia won't want any; sheis an uncommon woman, and does not care what she eats. You may give mesome, because I am no better than other folks. "

"O Aunt Kezia, but I like jumballs!" said Amelia. 

"You do?" says my Aunt Kezia. "Well, but, my dear, they don't grow ontrees. Somebody has to make them, if they are to be eaten; and 'tisquite as well we are not all uncommon women, or I fear there would benone to eat. --Cary, you deserve a compliment, if you made these all byyourself. "

I hastened to explain that I deserved none at all, for Maria had helpedme all through; but my Aunt Kezia did not seem at all vexed to hear it;she only laughed, and said, "Good girl!"

"Isn't it horrid work?" said Cecilia, who sat next me, in a whisper. 

"Oh no!" said I; "I rather like it. "

She shrugged her shoulders in what Hatty calls a Frenchified way. "Catch me at it!" she said. 

"You can come to the kitchen and catch me at it, if you like, " said I, laughing. "But it is all as new to me as to you. Till a few monthsago, I lived with my grandmother in Carlisle, and she never let me doanything of that sort. "

"What was her name?" said Cecilia. 

"Desborough, " said I; "Mrs General Desborough. "

"Oh, is Mrs Desborough your grandmother?" cried she. "I know MrsCharles Desborough so well. "

"That is my Aunt Dorothea, " said I. "Grandmamma is gone to live with myUncle Charles. "

"How pleasant!" said Cecilia. "You are such a sweet little darling!"and she squeezed my hand under the table. 

I began to wonder if she meant it. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"O Cary!" cried Cecilia the next morning, "do come here and tell me whothis is. "

"Who what is?" said I, for I looked out of the window, and could seenobody but Ephraim Hebblethwaite. 

"Oh, that handsome young man coming up the drive, " returned she. 

"That?" I said. "Is he handsome? Why, 'tis but EphraimHebblethwaite. "

"Whom?" cried Cecilia, with one of her little shrieking laughs. "Younever mean to say that fine young man has such a horrid name as EphraimHebblethwaite!"

Hatty had come to look over my shoulder. 

"Well, I am afraid he has, " said I. 

"Just that exactly, my dear, " returned Hatty, in her teasing way. "Poorcreature! He is sweet on Fanny. "

"Is he?" asked Cecilia, in an interested tone. "Surely she will notmarry a man with such a name as that?"

"Well, if you wish to have my private opinion about it, " said Hatty, inher coolest, that is to say, her most provoking manner, "I rather--think--she--will. "

"I wouldn't do such a thing!" disdainfully cried Cecilia. 

"Nobody asked you, my dear, " was Hatty's answer. "I hope you would not, unless you are prepared to provide another admirer for Fanny. They arescarce in these parts. "

"I cannot think how you can live up here in these uncivilised regions!"cried Cecilia. "The country people are all just like bears--"

"Do they hug you so very hard?" said Hatty. 

"They are so rough and unpolished, " continued Cecilia, "so--so--really, I could not bear to live in Cumberland or any of these northerncounties. It is just horrid!"

"Then hadn't you better go back again?" said Hatty, coolly. 

"I am sure I shall be thankful when the time comes, " answered Cecilia, rather sharply. "Except you in this family, I do think--"

"Oh, pray don't except us!" laughed Hatty, turning round the next minuteto speak to Ephraim Hebblethwaite. "Mr Ephraim Hebblethwaite, this isMiss Cecilia Osborne, a young lady from the South Pole or somewhere onthe way, who does not admire us Cumbrians in the smallest degree, andwill be absolutely delighted to turn her back upon the last of us. "

"You know I never said that!" said Cecilia, rather affectedly, as sherose and courtesied to Ephraim. 

Ephraim is the only person I know who can get along with Hatty. Healways seems to see through what she says to what she means; and henever answers any of her pert speeches, nor tries to explain things, norsmooth her down, as many others do. 

"Miss Osborne must stay and learn to like us a little better, " said he, good-humouredly. "Where is Fanny?"

"Looking in the glass, I imagine, " said Hatty, calmly. 

"Hatty!" said I. "She is in the garden with Sophy. "

"You are the Nymphs of the Winds, " laughed Ephraim, "and Hatty is theNorth Wind. "

"Are you sure she is not the East?" said I, for I was vexed. And as Iturned away, I heard Hatty say, laughing, --

"I do enjoy teasing Cary!"

"For shame, Hatty!" answered Ephraim, who speaks to us all as if we werehis sisters. 

"I assure you I do, " pursued Hatty, in a voice of great glee, "particularly when my lady puts on her grand Carlisle air, and sweepsout of the room as she did just now. It is such fun!"

I had slipped into the next window, where they could not see me, and Isuppose Hatty thought I had gone out of the door beyond. I had not theleast idea of eavesdropping, and what I might hear when they fancied megone never came into my head till I heard it. 

"You see, " Hatty went on, "there is no fun in teasing Sophy, for shejust laughs with you, and gives you as good as you bring; and Fannymelts into tears as if she were a lump of sugar, and Father wants toknow why she has been crying, and my Aunt Kezia sends you to bed beforedark--so teasing her comes too expensive. But Cary is just the one totease; she gets into a tantrum, and that is rich!"

Was it really Cecilia's voice which said, "She is rather vain, certainly, poor thing!"

"She is just as stuck-up as a peacock!" replied Hatty: "and 'tis allfrom living with Grandmamma at Carlisle--she fancies herself ever somuch better than we are, just because she learned French and dancing. "

"Well, if I had a sister, I would not say things of that sort abouther, " said Ephraim, bluntly. "Hatty, you ought to be ashamed. "

"Thank you, Mr Hebblethwaite, I don't feel so at all, " answeredlaughing Hatty. 

"And she really has no true polish--only a little outside varnish, " saidCecilia. "If she were to be introduced at an assembly in Town, shewould be set down directly as a little country girl who did not knowanything. It is a pity she cannot see herself better. "

"There are some woods that don't take polish nearly so well as others, "said Ephraim, in a rather curious tone. I felt hurt; was he turningagainst me too?

"So there are, " said Cecilia. "I see, Mr Hebblethwaite, you understandthe matter. "

"Pardon me, Miss Osborne, " was Ephraim's dry answer. "I am one of thosethat do not polish well. Compliments are wasted on me--particularlywhen the shaft is pointed with poison for my friends. And as to seeingone's self better--I wish, Madam, we could all do that. "

As Ephraim walked away, which he did at once, I am sure he caught sightof me. His eyes gave a little flash, and the blood mounted in hischeek, but he kept on his way to the other end of the room, where Fannyand Amelia sat talking together. I slipped out of the door as soon as Icould. 

That wicked, deceitful Cecilia! How many times had she told me that Iwas a sweet little creature--that my life at Carlisle had given me sucha polish that I should not disgrace the Princess's drawing-room! [Note3. ] And now--! I went into my garret, and told my book about it, andif I must confess the truth, I am afraid I cried a little. But my eyesdo not show tears, like Fanny's, for ever so long after, and when I hadbathed them and become a little calmer, I went down again into theparlour. I found my Aunt Kezia there now, and I was glad, for I knewthat both Cecilia and Hatty would be on their best behaviour in herpresence. Ephraim was talking with Fanny, as he generally does, andthere was that "hawid" creature Mr Parmenter, with his drawl and hiseyeglass and all the rest of it. 

"Indeed, it is very trying!" he was saying, as I came in; but he neversounds an r, so that he said, "vewy twying. " I don't know whether it isthat he can't, or that he won't. "Very trying, truly, Madam, to see mengive their lives for a falling cause. Distressing--quite so. "

"I don't know that it hurts me to see a man give his life for a fallingcause, " saith my Aunt Kezia. "Sometimes, that is one of the grandestthings a man can do. But to see a man give his life up for a falsecause--a young man especially, full of hope and fervency, whose lifemight have been made a blessing to his friends and the world--that istrying, Mr Parmenter, if you like. "

"Are we not bound to give our lives for the cause of truth and beauty?"asked Amelia, in that low voice which sounds like an Aeolian harp. 

"Truth--yes, " saith my Aunt Kezia. "I do not know what you mean bybeauty, and I am not sure you do. But, my dear, we do give our lives, always, for some cause. Unfortunately, it is very often a false one. "

"What do you mean, Aunt?" said Amelia. 

"Why, when you give your life to a cause, is it not the same thing inthe end as giving it for one?" answered my Aunt Kezia. "I do not seethat it matters, really, whether you give it in twenty minutes orthrough twenty years. The twenty years are the harder thing to do--thatis all. "

"Duncan Keith says--" Flora began, and stopped. 

"Let us hear it, my dear, if it be anything good, " quoth my Aunt Kezia. 

"I cannot tell if you will think it good or not, Aunt, " said Flora. "Hesays that very few give their lives to or for any cause. They nearlyalways give them for a person. "

"Mr Keith must be a hero of chivalry, " drawled Mr Parmenter, showinghis white teeth in a lazy laugh. 

(Why do people always simper when they have fine teeth?)

"Chivalry ought to be another name for Christian courage and charity, "saith my Aunt Kezia. "Ay, child--Mr Keith is right. It is a pity itisn't always the right person. "

"How are you to know you have found the right person, Aunt?" said Hatty, in her pert way. 

My Aunt Kezia looked round at her in her awful fashion. Then she said, gravely, "You will find, Hatty, you have always got the wrong one, unless you aim at the Highest Person of all. "

I heard Cecilia whisper to Mr Parmenter, "Oh, dear! is she going topreach a sermon?" and he hid a laugh under a yawn. Somebody else heardit too. 

"Mrs Kezia's sermons are as short as some parsons' texts, " saidEphraim, quietly, and not in a whisper. 

"But you would not say, " observed Mr Parmenter, without indicating towhom he addressed himself, "that this cause, now--ha--of which we werespeaking, --that the lives, I mean--ha--were sacrificed to any particularperson?"

"I never saw one plainer, if you mean me, " said my Aunt Kezia, bluntly. "What do nine-tenths of the men care about monarchy or commonwealth--absolute kings or limited ones--Stuart or Hanoverian? They just carefor Prince Charles, and his fine person and ringing voice, and hishandsome dress: what else? And the women are worse than the men. Somemen will give their lives for a cause, but you don't often see a womando it. Mostly, with women, it is father or brother, lover or husband, that carries the day: at least, if you have seen women of another sort, they haven't come my way. "

"But, Aunt, that is so ignoble a way of acting!" cried Amelia, as thoughshe wanted to show that she was one of the other sort. "Love anddevotion to a holy or chivalrous cause should be free from all pettypersonal considerations. "

"You can get yours free, my dear, if you like--and find you can manageit, " said my Aunt Kezia. "I couldn't. As to ignoble, that hangs muchon the person. When Queen Margaret of Scotland was drowning in yonderborder river, and the good knight rode into the water and held forth hishand to her, and said, `Grip fast!' was that a petty, ignobleconsideration? It was a purely personal matter. "

"Oh, of course, if you--" said Amelia, and did not go on. 

"Things look very different, sometimes, according to the side on whichyou see them, " saith my Aunt Kezia. 

I could not help thinking that people did so. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Emily was used during the last century as a diminutive forAmelia. There is really no etymological connection between the twonames. 

Note 2. In and about London, the name of jumbles is given to a commonkind of gingerbread, to be obtained at the small sweet-shops: but theseare not the old English jumball of the text. 

Note 3. There was no Queen at this time. Augusta of Saxe Gotha wasPrincess of Wales, and the King had three grown-up unmarried daughters. 

Note 4. This provincialism is correct for Lancashire, and as far as Iknow for Cumberland. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

THE HUNT-SUPPER. 

 "Alas! what haste they make to be undone!"

 GEORGE HERBERT. 

Before he went away, Ephraim came up into the window where I sat with myknitting. Mr Parmenter was gone then, and Cecilia was up-stairs withFanny and Amelia. 

"Cary, " said he, "may I ask you a question?"

"Why, Ephraim, I thought you did that every day, " I said, feeling ratherdiverted at his saying such a thing. 

"Ah, common questions that do not signify, " said he, with a smile. "Butthis is not an insignificant question, Cary; and it is one that I haveno right to ask unless you choose to give it me. "

"Go on, Ephraim, " said I, wondering what he meant. 

"Are you very fond of Miss Osborne?"

"I never was particularly fond of her, " I said, rather hotly, and I feltmy cheeks flush; "and if I had been, I think this morning would have putan end to it. "

"She is not true, " he said. "She rings like false metal. Those whotrust in her professions will find the earth open and let them in. AndI should not like you to be one, Cary. "

"Thank you, Ephraim, " said I. "I think there is no fear. "

"Your Cousin Amelia is foolish, " he went on, "but I do not think she isfalse. She will grow out of most of her nonsense. But Cecilia Osbornenever will. It is ingrain. She is an older woman at this moment thanMrs Kezia. "

"Older than my Aunt Kezia!" I am afraid I stared. 

"I do not mean by the parish register, Cary, " said Ephraim, with asmile. "But she is old in Satan's ways and wiles, in the hardartificial fashions of the world, in everything which, if I had asister, I should pray God she might never know anything about. Suchwomen are dangerous. I speak seriously, Caroline. "

I thought it had come to a serious pass, when Ephraim called meCaroline. 

"It is not altogether a bad thing to know people for what they are, " hecontinued. "It may hurt you at the time to have the veil taken off; andthat veil, whether by the people themselves or by somebody else, isoften pulled off very roughly. But it is better than to have it on, Cary, or to see the ugly thing through beautiful coloured glass, whichmakes it look all kinds of lovely hues that it is not. The plain whiteglass is the best. When you do come to something beautiful, then, yousee how beautiful it is. " Then, changing his tone, he went on, --"EstherLangridge sent you her love, Cary, and told me to say she was coming uphere this afternoon. "

I did not quite wish that Esther would keep away, and yet I came verynear doing it. She is not a beautiful thing--I mean in her ways andmanners. She speaks more broadly than Sophy, and much worse than therest of us, and she eats her peas with a knife, which Grandmamma used tosay was the sure sign of a vulgar creature. Esther is as kind-hearted agirl as breathes; but--oh dear, what will Cecilia say to her! I feltquite uncomfortable. 

And yet, why should I care what Cecilia says? She has shown me plainlyenough that she does not care for me. But somehow, she seemed so aboveus with those dainty ways, and that soft southern accent, and all sheknew about etiquette and the mode, and the stories she was constantlytelling about great people. Sir George Blank had said such a fine thingto her when she was at my Lady Dash's assembly; and my Lady CamillaSuch-an-one was her dearest friend; and the Honourable Annabella Thiscarried her to drive, and my Lord Herbert That held her cloak at theopera. It was so grand to hear her!

Somehow, Cecilia never said things of that kind when my Aunt Kezia wasin the room, and I noted that her grand stories were always much tamerin Flora's or Sophy's presence. She did not seem to care about Hattymuch either way. But when there were only Amelia, Fanny, Charlotte andme, then, I could not help seeing, she laid the gilt on much thicker. Charlotte used to sit and stare, and then laugh in a way that I thoughtvery rude; but Cecilia did not appear to mind it. When Father came intothe parlour, she did so change. Oh, then she was so sweet andamiable!--so delicately attentive!--so anxious that he should be madecomfortable, and have everything just as he liked it! I did think, considering that he had four daughters, she might have left that to us. To Ephraim Hebblethwaite she was very attentive and charming, too, butin quite a different way. But she wasted no attention at all on MrParmenter, except for those side-glances now and then out of the tawnyeyes, which seemed to say that they perfectly understood one another, and that no explanations of any sort were necessary between them. 

I cannot make out what Mr Parmenter does for his living. He is not aman of property, for the Vicar told Father that his nephew, MrParmenter's father, left nothing at all for his children. Yet MrAnthony never seems to do anything but look through his eyeglass, andtwirl his mustachios, and talk. I asked Amelia if she knew, for one ofthe Miss Parmenters, who is married now, lives not far from BracewellHall. Amelia, however, applied to Cecilia, saying she would be morelikely to know. 

"Oh, he does nothing, " said Cecilia; "he is a beau. "

"Now what does that mean?" put in Hatty. 

"I'll tell you what it means, " said Charlotte. "Emily, you be quiet. It means that his income is twenty pence a year, and he spends twothousand pounds; that he is always dressed to perfection, that he isready to make love to anybody at two minutes' notice--that is, if herfortune is worth it; that he is never at home in an evening, nor out ofbed before noon; that he spends four hours a day in dressing, and wouldrather ten times lose his wife (when he has one) than break his cloudedcane, or damage his gold snuff-box. Isn't that it, Cicely?"

"You are so absurd!" said Amelia, languidly. 

"I told you to keep quiet, " was Charlotte's answer. "Never mind whetherit is absurd; is it true?"

"Well, partly. "

"But I don't understand, " I said. "How can a man spend two thousandpounds, if he have but twenty pence?"

"Know, ignorant creature, " replied Charlotte, with mock solemnity, "thatlansquenet can be played, and that tradesmen's bills can be put behindthe fire. "

"Then you mean, I suppose, that he games, and does not pay his debts?"

"That is about the etiquette, [Note 1. ] my charmer. "

"Well, I don't know what you call that down in the South, " said I, "butup here in Cumberland we do not call it honesty. "

"The South! Oh, hear the child!" screamed Charlotte. "She thinksDerbyshire is in the South!"

"They teach the children so, my dear, in the Carlisle schools, "suggested Hatty. 

"I don't know what they teach in the Carlisle schools, " I said, "for Idid not go there. But if Derbyshire be not south of Cumberland, Ihaven't learned much geography. "

"Oh dear, how you girls do chatter!" cried Sophy, coming up to us. "Iwish one or two of you would think a little more about what wants doing. Cary, you might have made the turnovers for supper. I am sure I haveenough on my hands. "

"But, Sophy, I do not know how, " said I. 

"Then you ought, by this time, " she answered. "Do not know how to makean apple turnover! Why, it is as easy as shutting your eyes. "

"When you know how to do it, " put in Hatty. 

"That is more than you do, " returned Sophy, "for you are safe to leavesomething out. "

Hatty made her a low courtesy, and danced away, humming, "Cease yourfunning, " just as we heard the sound of horses' feet on the driveoutside. There were all sorts of guesses as to who was coming, and noneof them the right one, for when the door opened at last, in walked AngusDrummond and Mr Keith. 

"Well, you did not expect us, I suppose?" said Angus. 

"Certainly not to-night, " was Sophy's answer. 

"We finished our business sooner than we expected, and now we are readyto begin our holiday, " said he. 

Father came in then, and there was a great deal of kissing andhand-shaking all round; but my Aunt Kezia and Flora were not in theroom. They came in together, nearly half an hour later; but I think Inever saw such a change in any girl's face as in Flora's, when she sawwhat had happened. She must be very fond of Angus, I am sure. Hercheeks grew quite rosy--she is generally pale--and her eyes were likestars. I did not think Angus seemed nearly so glad to see her. 

Essie Langridge was very quiet all the evening; I fancy she was ratherfrightened of Cecilia. She said very little. 

Father had a long day's hunting yesterday, and Angus Drummond went withhim. Mr Keith would not go, though Father laughed about it, and askedif he were afraid of the hares eating him up. Neither would he go tothe hunt-supper, afterwards. There were fourteen gentlemen at it, and apretty racket they made. My Aunt Kezia does not like these hunt-suppersa bit; she would be glad if they were anywhere else than here; butFather being the squire, of course they cannot be. She always packs usgirls out of the way, and will not allow us to show our heads. So wesat up-stairs, in Sophy's chamber, which is the largest and most out ofthe way; and we had some good fun, first in finding seats, for therewere only two chairs in the room, and then in playing hunt the slipperand all sorts of games. I am afraid we got rather too noisy at last, for my Aunt Kezia looked in with, --

"Girls, are you daft? I protest you make nigh as much racket as thegentlemen themselves!"

What Mr Keith did with himself I do not know. I think he went off fora walk somewhere. I know he tried to persuade Angus to go with him, butAngus said he wanted his share of the fun. I heard Mr Keith say, in alow voice, --

"What would your father say, Angus?"

"Oh, my father's a minister, and they are bound to be particular, " saidAngus, carelessly. "I can't pretend to make such a fash as he would. "

I did not hear what Mr Keith answered, but I believe he went on talkingabout it. When I got up-stairs with the rest, however, I missed Flora;and going to our room to look for her, I found her crying. I never sawFlora weep before. 

"Why, Flora!" said I, "what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing with me, Cary, " she said, "but a great deal with Angus. "

"You do not like his being at the supper?" I said. I hardly knew whatto say, and I felt afraid of saying either too much or too little. Itseems so difficult to talk without hurting people. 

"Not only that, " she said. "I do not like the way he is going onaltogether. I know my father would be in a sad way if he knew it. "

I told Flora what I had heard Angus say to Mr Keith. 

"Ah!" she said, with another sob, "Angus would not have said that threemonths ago. I was sure it must have been going on for some time. Hehas been in bad company, I feel certain. And Angus always was one totake the colour of his company, just as a glass takes the colour ofanything you pour in. What can I do? Oh, what can I do? If he willnot listen to Duncan--"

"Ambrose Catterall says that young men must always sow their wild oats, "I said, when she stopped thus. 

"That is one of the Devil's maxims, " exclaimed Flora, earnestly. "Godcalls it sowing to the flesh: and He says the harvest of it iscorruption. Some flowers seed themselves: thistles do. Did you everknow roses grow from thistle seed? No: `whatsoever a man soweth, thatshall he reap. ' Ah me, for Angus's harvest!"

"Well, I don't see what you can do, " said I. 

"There is the sting, " she replied. "It would be silly to weep if I did. No, in such cases, I think there is only one thing a woman can do--andthat is to cry mightily unto God to loose the bonds of the oppressor, and let the oppressed go free. I don't know--I may be mistaken--but Ihardly think it is of much use for women to talk to such a man. It isnot talking that he needs. He knows his own folly, very often, at leastas well as you can tell him, and would be glad enough to be loosed fromhis bonds, if only somebody would come and tear them asunder. Hecannot: and you cannot. Only God can. Some evil spirits can be castout by nothing but prayer. Cary--" Flora broke off suddenly, and lookedup earnestly in my face. "Don't mention this, will you, dear? I shouldnot have said a word to you nor any one if you had not surprised me. "

I promised her I would not, unless somebody first spoke to me. Shewould not come to Sophy's room. 

"Tell the girls, " she said, "that I want to write home; for I shall doit presently, when I feel a little calmer. "

Something struck me as I was turning away. "Flora, " I said, "why do younot tell my Aunt Kezia all about it? I am sure she would help you, ifany one could. "

"Yes, dear, I think she would, " said Flora, gently; "but you see no onecould. And remember, Cary!" she called me back as I was leaving thechamber, and came to me, and took both my hands; and her great sorrowfuleyes, which looked just like brown velvet, gazed into mine like the eyesof a dog which is afraid of a scolding: "remember, Cary, that Angus isnot wicked. He is only weak. But how weak he is!"

She broke down with another sob. 

"But men should be stronger than women, " said I, "not weaker. "

"They are, in body and mind, " replied Flora: "but sex, I suppose, doesnot extend to soul. There, some men are far weaker than some women. Look at Peter. I dare say the maid who kept the door would have beenless frightened of the two, if he had taunted her with being one of`this man's disciples. '"

"Well, I should feel ashamed!" I said. 

"I am not sure if women do not feel moral weakness a greater shame thanmen do, " replied Flora. "Men seem to think so much more of want ofphysical bravery. Many a soldier will not stand an ill-natured laugh, who would want to fight you in a minute if you hinted that he was afraidof being hurt. Things seem to look so different to men from what theydo to women; and, I think, to the angels, and to God. "

I did not like to leave her alone in her trouble: but she said shewanted nothing, and was going to write to her father; so I went back toSophy's room, and gave Flora's message to the girls. 

"Dear! I am sure we don't want her, " said Hatty: and Charlotte added, "She is more of a spoil-sport than anything else. "

So we played at "Hunt the slipper, " and "Questions and commands, " and"The parson has lost his cloak, " and "Blind man's buff": and then whenwe got tired we sat down--on the beds or anywhere--Hatty took off themirror and perched herself on the dressing-table, and Charlotte wantedto climb up and sit on the mantel-shelf, but Sophy would not let her--and then we had a round of "How do you like it?" and then we went tobed. 

In the middle of the night I awoke with a start, and heard a greatnoise, and Sam's voice, and old Will's, and a lot of queer talking, asif something were being carried up-stairs that was hard to pull along;and there were a good many words that I am sure my Aunt Kezia would notlet me write, and--well, if He do look at what I am writing, I shouldnot like God to see them neither. I felt sure that the gentlemen werebeing carried up to bed--such of them as could not walk--and such ascould were being helped along. I rather wonder that gentlemen like todrink so much, and get themselves into such a queer condition. I do notthink they would like it if the ladies began to do such things. I couldnot help wondering if Angus were among them. Flora, who had lain awakefor a long while, and had only dropped asleep, as she told meafterwards, about half an hour before, for she heard the clock strikeone, slept on at first, and I hoped she would not awake. But as thelast lot were being dragged past our door, Flora woke up with a start, and cried, --

"What is that? O Cary, what can be the matter?"

I wanted to make as light of it as I could. 

"Oh, go to sleep, " I said; "there is nothing wrong. "

"But what is that dreadful noise?" she persisted. 

"Well, it is only the gentlemen going to bed, " said I. 

Just then, sounds came through the door, which showed that they wereclose outside. Somebody--so far as I could guess from what we heard--was determined to sit down on the stairs, and Sam was trying to prevailupon him to go quietly to bed. All sorts of queer things were mixed upwith it--hunting cries, bits of songs, invectives against Hanoveriansand Dissenters, and I scarcely know what else. 

"Who is that wretched creature?" whispered Flora to me. 

I had recognised the voice, and was able to answer. 

"It is Mr Bagnall, " said I, "the vicar of Dornthwaite. "

"A minister!" was Flora's answer, in an indescribable tone. 

"Oh, that does not make any difference, " I replied, "with the clergyabout here. Mr Digby is too old for it now, but I have heard say thatwhen he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody. "

At last Sam's patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and Will betweenthem lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to beddespite his struggles. At least I supposed so from what I heard. Aboutten minutes later, Sam and Will passed our door on their way back. 

"Yon's a bonnie loon to ca' a minister, " I heard Sam say as he wentpast. "But what could ye look for in a Prelatist?"

"He gets up i' t' pu'pit, and tells us our dooty, of a Sunda', but whodoes hisn of a Monda, think ye?" was old Will's response. 

The footsteps passed on, and I was just going to relieve my feelings bya good laugh, when I was stopped and astonished by Flora's voice. 

"O Cary, how dreadful!"

"Dreadful!" said I, "what is dreadful?"

"That wretched man!" she said in a tone which matched her words. 

"He does not think himself a wretched man, by any means, " I said. "Hisliving is worth quite two hundred a year, and he has a little privateproperty beside. They say he does not stand at all a bad chance for adeanery. His wife is not a pleasant woman, I believe; she has a temper:but his son is carrying all before him at college, and his daughters arethought to be among the prettiest girls in the county. "

"Has he children? Poor things!" sighed Flora. 

"Why, Flora, I cannot make you out, " said I. "I could understand yourbeing uncomfortable about Angus; but what is Mr Bagnall to you?"

"Cary!" I cannot describe the tone. 

"Well?" said I. 

"Is the Lord nothing to me?" she said, almost passionately; "nor thepoor misguided souls committed to that man's charge, for which he willhave to give account at the last day?"

"My dear Flora, you do take things so seriously!" I said, trying tolaugh; but her tone and words had startled me, for all that. 

"It is well to take sin seriously, " said she. "Men are serious enoughin Hell; and sin is its antechamber. "

"You don't suppose poor Mr Bagnall will be sent there, for a little toomuch champagne at a hunt-supper?" said I. I did not like it, for Ithought of Father. I have heard him singing "Old King Cole" and half adozen more songs, all mixed up in a heap, after a hunt-supper. "Menalways do it there. And I can assure you Mr Bagnall is thought afirst-class preacher. People go to hear him even from Cockermouth. "

"That is worse than ever, " said Flora, "A man who preaches the truth andserves the Devil--that must be awful!"

"Flora, you do say the queerest things!" said I. "Does your fathernever do so?"

"My father?" she answered in an astonished, indignant voice. "_Myfather_! Cary! but, "--with a change in the tone--"you do not know him, of course. Why, Cary, if he knew that Angus had been for once in themidst of such a scene as that, I think it would break my father'sheart. "

I wondered how Angus had fared, and if he were singing snatches ofScotch songs in some bed-chamber at the other end of the long gallery, but I had not the cruelty to say it to Flora. 

When we came down the next morning, I was curious to peep into thedining-room, just to see what it was like. The wreck of a ship is theonly thing I can think of, which might look like it. Half the chairswere flung over in all directions, and two broken to pieces; a quantityof broken glass was heaped both on the floor and the table; dark winestains on the carpet, and pools upon the table, not yet dry, weresufficient signs of what the night had been. Bessy stood in the window, duster in hand, picking up the chairs, and setting them in their places. 

"Didn't the gentlemen enjoy theirselves, Miss Cary?" said she. "Myword, but they made a night on't! I'd like to ha' been wi' 'em, justfor to see!"

I made no answer beyond nodding my head. Flora's words came back tome, --"It is well to take sin seriously. " I could not laugh and jest, asI dare say I should have done but for them. 

When I came into the parlour, I only found three of all the gentlemen inthe house, --Father, Mr Keith, and Ambrose Catterall. I thought Fatherseemed rather cross, and he was finding fault with everybody forsomething. Sophy's hair was rough, and Hatty had put on a gown he didnot like, and Fanny's ruffle had a hole in it; and then he turned roundand scolded my Aunt Kezia for not having us in better order. My AuntKezia said never a word, but I felt sure from her drawn brow and setlips, as she stood making tea, that she could have said a great many. Mr Keith was silent and grave. Ambrose Catterall seemed to think ithis duty to make fun for everybody, and he laughed and joked andchattered away finely. I asked where old Mr Catterall was. 

"Oh, in bed with a headache, " laughed Ambrose, "like everybody else thismorning. "

"Speak for yourself, " said Mr Keith. "I have not one. "

"Well, mine's going, " returned Ambrose, gaily. "A cup of Mrs Kezia'scapital tea will finish it off. "

"Finish what off?" asked my Aunt Kezia. 

"My last night's headache, " said he. 

"That tea must have come from Heaven, then, instead of China, " repliedshe. "Nay, Ambrose Catterall; it will take blood to finish off theconsequence of your doings last night. "

"Why, Mrs Kezia, are you going to fight me?" asked he, laughing. 

"Young man, why don't you fight the Devil?" answered my Aunt Kezia, looking him full in the face. "He does not pay good wages, Ambrose. "

"Never saw the colour of his money yet, " said Ambrose, who seemedextremely amused. 

"I wish you never may, " quoth my aunt. "But I sadly fear you are goingthe way to do it. "

The more Ambrose laughed, the graver my Aunt Kezia seemed to grow. Before we had finished breakfast, Angus came languidly into the room. 

"What ails you, old comrade?" said Ambrose; and Flora's eyes looked upwith the same question, but I think there were tears on the brownvelvet. 

"Oh, my head aches conf--I mean--abominably, " said Angus, flushing. 

"Take a hair of the dog that bit you, " suggested Ambrose; "unless youthink humble pie will agree with you better. I fancy Miss Drummondwould rather help you to that last. "

I saw a flash in Mr Keith's eyes, which gave me the idea that he mightnot be a pleasant person to meet alone in a glen at midnight, if he hadno scruples as to what he did. 

"You hold your tongue!" growled Angus. 

"By all means, if you prefer it, " said Ambrose, lightly. 

One after another, the gentlemen strolled in, --all but two who stayed inbed till afternoon, and of these Mr Catterall was one. Among the lastto appear was Mr Bagnall; but he looked quite fresh and gay when hecame, like Ambrose. 

"We had to say grace for ourselves, Mr Bagnall, " said Father. "Sitdown, and let me help you to some of this turkey pie. "

"Thanks--if you please. What a lovely morning!" was Mr Bagnall'sanswer. "The young ladies look like fresh rosebuds with the dew onthem. "

"We have not you gentlemen to thank for it, if we do, " broke in Hatty. "Our slumbers were all the less profound for your kind assistance. Ohyes, you can look, Mr Bagnall! I mean _you_. I heard `Sally in ourAlley' about one o'clock this morning. "

"No, was I singing that, now?" said Mr Bagnall, laughing. "I did notknow I got quite so far. But at a hunt-supper, you know, everything isexcusable. "

"Would you give me a reference to the passage which says so, MrBagnall?" came from behind the tea-pot. "I should like to note it in myBible. "

Mr Bagnall laughed again, but rather uncomfortably. 

"My dear Mrs Kezia, you do not imagine the Bible has anything to dowith a hunt-supper?"

"It is to be hoped I don't, or I should be woefully disappointed, " sheanswered. "But I always thought, Mr Bagnall, that the Word of God andthe ministers of God should have something to do with one another. "

"Kezia, keep your Puritan notions to yourself!" roared Father from theother end of the table; and he put some words before it which I wouldrather not write. "I can't think, " he went on, looking round, "whereverKezia can have picked up such mad whims as she has. For a sister ofmine to say such a thing to a clergyman--I declare it makes my hairstand on end!"

"Your hair may lie down again, Brother. I've done, " said my Aunt Kezia, coolly. "As to where I got it, I should think you might know. It runsin the blood. And I suppose Deborah Hunter was your grandmother as wellas mine. "

Father's reply was full of the words I do not want to write, but it wasnot a compliment to his grandmother. 

"Come, Mrs Kezia, " said Mr Bagnall, "let us make it up by glasses allround, and a toast to the sweet Puritan memory of Mrs Deborah Hunter. "

"No, thank you, " said my Aunt Kezia. "As to Deborah Hunter, she hasbeen a saint in Heaven these thirty years, and finely she'd like it (ifshe knew it) to have you drinking yourselves drunk in her honour. Butlet me tell you--and you can say what you like after it--she taught methat `the chief end of man was to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever. ' Your notion seems to be that the chief end of man is to glorifyhimself, and to enjoy him for ever. I think mine's the better of thetwo: and as to yours, the worst thing I wish any of you is that you mayget mine instead of it. Now then, Brother, I've had my say, and you canhave yours. "

And not another word did my Aunt Kezia say, though Father stormed, andthe other gentlemen laughed and joked, and paid her sarcasticcompliments, all the while breakfast lasted. There were two who weresilent, and those were Angus and Mr Keith. Angus seemed too poorly andunhappy to take any interest in the matter; and as to Mr Keith, Ibelieve in his heart (if I read it right in his eyes) that he wasperfectly delighted with my Aunt Kezia. 

"The young ladies did not honour us by riding to the meet, " said MrBagnall at last, looking at that one of us who sat nearest him--which, by ill luck, happened to be Flora. 

"No, Sir. I do not think my aunt would have allowed it; but--" Florastopped, and cast her eyes on her plate. 

"But if she had, you would have been pleased to come?" suggested MrBagnall, rubbing his hands. 

He spoke in that disagreeable way in which some men do speak to girls--Ido not know what to call it. It is a condescending, patronising kind ofmanner, as if--yes, that is it!--as if they wanted to amuse themselvesby hearing the opinion of something so totally incapable of forming one. I wish they knew how the girls long to shake the nonsense out of them. 

But Flora did not lose her temper, as I should have done: she held herown with a quiet dignity which I envied, but could never have imitated. 

"Pardon me, Sir. I was about to say the direct contrary--that if myaunt had allowed it, I for one would rather not have gone. "

"Afraid of a fall, eh?" laughed Mr Bagnall. "Well, ladies are notexpected to be as venturesome as men. "

Now, why do men always fancy that it is a woman's duty to do what menexpect her? I cannot see it one bit. 

"I was not afraid of that, Sir, " said Flora. 

Father, with whom Flora is a favourite, was listening with a smile. Ibelieve Aunt Drummond was his pet sister. 

"No? Why, what then?" said Mr Bagnall, shaking the pepper over histurkey pie until I wondered what sort of a throat he would have when hehad finished it. 

"I am afraid of hardening my heart, Sir, " said Flora, in her calmdecisive way. 

"Hardening your heart, girl! What do you mean?" said Father. "Hardening your heart by riding to hounds!"

"A little puzzling, certainly, " said Sir Robert Dacre, who sat opposite. "We must ask Miss Drummond to explain. "

He did not speak in that disagreeable way that Mr Bagnall did; butFlora flushed up when she found three gentlemen looking at her, andasking her for an explanation. 

"I mean, " she answered, "that one hardens one's heart by taking pleasurein anything which gives another creature pain. But I beg your pardon;indeed I did not mean to put myself forward. "

"No, no, child; we drew you forward, " said Father, kindly. He gets overhis tempers in a moment, and he seemed to have quite forgotten thepassage at arms with my Aunt Kezia. 

"Still, I do not quite understand, " said Sir Robert, not at allunkindly. "Who is the injured creature in this case, Miss Drummond?"

Flora's colour rose again. "The hare, Sir, " she said. 

"The hare!" cried Mr Bagnall, leaning back in his chair to laugh. "Well, Miss Flora, you are quixotic. "

"May I quote my father, Sir?" was her reply. "He says that Don Quixote(supposing him a real person, which I take it he was not) was one of thenoblest men the world ever saw, only the world was not ready for him. "

"The world not ready for him? No, I should think not!" laughed Father. "Not just yet, my little lady-errant. "

Flora smiled quietly. "Perhaps it will be, some day. Uncle Courtenay, "she said. 

"When the larks fall from the sky--eh, Miss Flora?" said Mr Bagnall, rubbing his hands again in that odious way he has. 

"When `they shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain, '" wasFlora's soft answer. 

"Surely you don't suppose that literal?" replied Mr Bagnall, laughing. "Why, you must be as bad--I had nearly said as _mad_--as my nextneighbour, Everard Murthwaite (of Holme Cultram, you know, " he explainedaside to Father). "Why, he has actually got a notion that the Jews areto be restored to Palestine! Whoever heard of such a mad idea? Onlythink--the Jews!"

"Ridiculous nonsense!" said Father. 

"Is it not usually the case, " asked Mr Keith, who till then had hardlyspoken, "that the world counts as mad the wisest men in it?"

"Why, Mr Keith, you must be one of them!" cried Mr Bagnall. 

"Of the wise men? Thank you!" said Mr Keith, drily. 

There was a laugh at this. 

"But I can tell you of something queerer still, " Mr Bagnall went on. "Old Cis Crosthwaite, in my parish, says she knows her sins areforgiven. "

Such exclamations came from most of the gentlemen at that!"Preposterous!" said one. "Ridiculous!" said another. "Insufferablepresumption!" cried a third. 

"Cis Crosthwaite!" said Sir Robert Dacre, more quietly. 

"Yes, Cis Crosthwaite, " repeated Mr Bagnall; "an old wretch of a womanwho has never been any better than she should be, and whom I metsticking hedges only last winter. Her son Joe is the worst poacher inthe parish. "

All the gentlemen seemed to think that most dreadful. I do not know whyit is they always appear to reckon snaring wild game which belongsnobody a more wicked thing than breaking all the Ten Commandments. Would it not have been in them if it were?

Only Sir Robert Dacre said, "Poor old creature! don't let us saddle herwith Joe's sins. I dare say she has plenty of her own. "

"Plenty? I should think so. She is a horrid old wretch, " answered MrBagnall. "And do but think, if this miserable creature has not thearrogance and presumption to say that her sins are forgiven!"

"I suppose Christ died that somebody's sins might be forgiven?" said MrKeith, in his quiet way. 

"Of course, but those are respectable people, " Mr Bagnall said, ratherindignantly. 

"Before or after the forgiveness?" asked Mr Keith. 

"Sir, " said Mr Bagnall, rather stiffly, "I am not accustomed to discusssuch matters as these at table. "

"Are you not? I am, " said Mr Keith, quite simply. 

"But, " continued Mr Bagnall, "I thought every one understood theorthodox view--namely, that a man must do his best, and practise virtue, and lead a proper sort of life, and then, when God Almighty sees you adecent and fit person, and endeavouring to be good He helps you with Hisgrace. " [Note 2. ]

"Of course!" said the Vicar of Sebergham--I suppose by way of Amen. 

"Men are to do their best, then, and practise these virtues, in thefirst instance, without any assistance from God's grace? That Gospelsounds rather ill tidings, " was Mr Keith's answer. 

Everybody was listening by this time. Sir Robert Dacre, I thought, seemed secretly diverted; and Hatty's eyes were gleaming with fun. Father looked uncomfortable, and as if he did not know what Mr Keithwould be at. From my Aunt Kezia little nods of satisfaction kept comingto what he said. 

"Sir, " demanded Mr Bagnall, looking his adversary straight in the face, "are you not orthodox?"

He spoke rather in the tone in which he might have asked, "Are you nothonest?"

"May I ask you to explain the word, before I answer?" was Mr Keith'sresponse. 

"I mean, are you one of these Methodists?"

"Certainly not. I belong to the Kirk of Scotland. "

Mr Bagnall's "Oh!" seemed to say that some at any rate of Mr Keith'squeer notions might be accounted for, if he were so unfortunate as tohave been born in a different Church. 

"But, " pursued Mr Keith, "seeing that the Church of England, and theKirk of Scotland, and the Methodists, all accept the Word of God as therule of faith, they should all, methinks, be sound in the faith, if thatbe what you mean by `orthodox. '"

"By `orthodox, '" said the Vicar of Sebergham, after a sonorous clearingof his throat, "I understand a man who keeps to the Articles of theChurch, and does not run into any extravagances and enthusiasm. "

"Hear him!" cried Mr Bagnall, as if he were at a Tory meeting. Hattyburst out laughing, but immediately smothered it in her handkerchief. 

"I do hear him, and with pleasure, " said Mr Keith. "I am no friend toextravagance, I assure you. Let a Churchman keep to the Bible and theArticles, and I ask no more of him. But excuse me if I say that we aredeparting from the question before us, which was the propriety, orimpropriety, of one saying that his sins were forgiven. May I ask whyyou object to that?--and is the objection to the forgiveness, or to theproclamation of it?"

"Sir, " said Mr Bagnall, warmly, "I think it presumption--arrogance--horrible self-conceit. "

"To have forgiveness?--or to say so?"

"I cannot answer such a question, Sir!" said Mr Bagnall, getting red inthe face, and seizing the pepper-box once more, with which he dusted hispie recklessly. "When a man sets himself up to be better than hisneighbours in that way, it is scandalous--perfectly scandalous, Sir!"

"`Better than his neighbours!'" repeated Mr Keith, as if he wereconsidering the question. "If a pardoned criminal be better than hisneighbours, I suppose the neighbours are worse criminals?"

"Sir, you misunderstand me. They fancy themselves better than others. "Mr Bagnall was getting angry. 

"But seeing all are criminals alike, and they own it every Sunday, " wasMr Keith's answer, "does it not look rather odd that an objectionshould be made to one of them stating that he has been pardoned? Is itbecause the rest are unpardoned, and are conscious of it?"

"Come, friends!" said Sir Robert, before Mr Bagnall could reply. "Letus not lose our tempers, I beg. Mr Keith is a Scotsman, and such arecommonly good reasoners and love a tilt; and 'tis but well in a youngman to keep his wits in practice. But we must not get too far, youknow. "

"Just so! just so!" saith Father, who I think was glad to have a stopput to this sort of converse. "Mr Bagnall, I am sure, bears no malice. Sir Robert, when do the Holme Cultram hounds meet next?"

Mr Bagnall growled something, I know not what, and gave himself up tohis pie for the rest of the time, Mr Keith smiled, and said no more. But I know in whose hands I thought the victory rested. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The word "ticket" was still spelt "etiquette. "

Note 2. These exact expressions are quoted in Whitefield's sermons. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THINGS BEGIN TO HAPPEN. 

 "The untrue liveth only in the heart Of vain humanity, which fain would be Its own poor centre and circumference. "

 REV HORATIUS BONAR, D. D. 

This afternoon I went up the Scar by myself. First I climbed right tothe top, and after looking round a little, as I always like to do on thetop of a mountain, I went down a few yards to the flat bit where the oldRoman wall runs, and sat down on the grass just above. It was a lovelyday. I had not an idea that any one was near the place but myself, andI was just going to sing, when to my surprise I heard a voice on theother side of the Roman wall. It was Angus Drummond's. 

"Duncan Keith, why don't you say something?" He broke out suddenly, ina petulant tone--rather the tone of a child who knows it has beennaughty, and wants to get the scolding over which it feels sure iscoming some time. 

"What do you wish me to say?"

Mr Keith's tone was cold and constrained, I thought. 

"Why don't you tell me I am an unhanged reprobate, and that you areashamed to be seen walking with me? You know you are thinking it. "

"No, Angus. I was thinking something very different. "

"What, then?" asked Angus, sulkily. 

"`Doth He not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go afterthat which is lost, _until He find it_?'"

There was no coldness in Mr Keith's tone now. 

"What has that got to do with it?" growled Angus in his throat. 

"Angus, " was the soft answer, "the sheep sometimes makes it a very hardjourney for Him. "

I know I ought to have risen and crept away long before this: but I didnot. It was not right of me, but I sat on. I knew they could not seeme through the wall, nor could they get across it at any place so nearthat I could not be gone far enough before they could catch sight of me. 

"I suppose, " said Angus, in the same sort of sulky murmur, "that is yourway of telling me, Mr Keith, that I am a miserable sinner. "

"Are you not?"

"Miserable enough, Heaven knows! But, Duncan, I don't see why you, andFlora, and Mrs Kezia, and all the good folks, or the folks who thinkthemselves extra good, which comes to the same thing--"

"Does it? I was not aware of that, " said Mr Keith. 

"I can't see, " Angus went on, "why you must all turn up the whites ofyour eyes like a duck in thunder, and hold up your hands in pious horrorat me, because I have done just once what every gentleman in the landdoes every week, and thinks nothing of it. If you had not been broughtup in a hen-coop, and ruled like a copy-book, you would not be so con--so hideously strict and particular! Just ask Ambrose Catterall whetherthere is any weight on his conscience; or ask that jolly parson, whotackled you and Flora at breakfast, what he has to say to it. I'll bebound he will read prayers next Sabbath with as much grace and unctionas if he had never been drunk in his life. And because I get let injust once, why--"

Angus paused as if to consider how to finish his sentence, and Mr Keithanswered one point of his long speech, letting all the rest, go. 

"Is it just this once, Angus?"

"I suppose you mean that night at York, when I got let in with thosefellows of Greensmith's, " growled Angus, more grumpily than ever. "Now, Duncan, that's not generous of you. I did the humble and penitent forthat, and you should not cast it up to me. Just that time and this!"

"And no more, Angus?"

Angus muttered something which did not reach me. 

"Angus, you know why I came with you?"

"Yes, I know well enough why you came with me, " said Angus, bitterly. "Just because that stupid old meddler, Helen Raeburn, took it into herwooden head that I could not take care of myself, and talked my fatherinto sending me with you now, instead of letting me go the other wayround by myself! Could not take care of myself, forsooth!"

"Have you done it?"

"I hadn't it to do. Mr Duncan Keith was to take care of me, just as ifI had been a baby--stuff! There is no end to the folly of old women!"

"I think young men might sometimes match them. Well, Angus, I havetaken as much care as you let me. But you deceived me, boy. I knowmore about it than you think. It was not one or two transgressions thatlet you down to this pitch. I know you had a private key from RobGreensmith, and let yourself in and out when I believed you asleep. "

Angus sputtered out some angry words, which I did not catch. 

"No. You are mistaken. Leigh did not tell of you or his brother. Yourfriend Robert told me himself. He wanted to get out of the scrape, andhe did not care about leaving you in it. The friendship of the wickedis not worth much, Angus. But if I had not known it, I should stillhave felt perfectly sure that there had been more going on than you everconfessed to me. Three months since, Angus, you would not have usedwords which you have used this day. You would not have spoken solightly of being `let in'--let into what? Just stop and think. Andtwice to-day--once in Flora's presence--you have only just stopped yourtongue from a worse word than that. Would you have said such a thing toyour father before we left Abbotscliff?"

"Uncle Courtenay was as drunk as any of them last night, " Angus blurtedout. 

I did not like to hear that of Father. Till now I never thought muchabout such things, except that they were imperfections which men had andwomen had not, and the women must put up with them. Sins?--well, yes, Isuppose getting drunk is a sin, if you come to think about it; but so isgetting into a passion, and telling falsehoods, and plenty more thingswhich one thinks little or nothing about, because one sees everybody dothem every day. It is only the extra good people, like my Aunt Kezia, and Flora, and Mr Keith, that put on grave faces about things of thatkind. 

But stay! God must be better than the extra good people. Then will Henot think even worse of such things than they do?

It was just because those three seemed to think it so awful, and to beinclined to make a fuss over it, that I did not like to hear what Angussaid about Father. Grandmamma never thought anything about it; shealways said drinking and gaming were gentlemanly vices, which the Kinghimself--(I mean, of course, the Elector, but Grandmamma said theKing)--need not be ashamed of practising. 

I listened rather uneasily for Mr Keith's answer. I am beginning tofeel a good deal of respect for his opinion and himself, and I did notwant to hear him say anything about Father that was not agreeable. Buthe put it quietly aside. 

"If you please, Angus, we will let other people alone. Both you and Ishall find our own sins quite enough to repent of, I expect. You havenot answered my question, Angus. "

"What question?" grumbled Angus. I fancy he did not want to answer it. 

"Would you, three months since, have let your father see and hear whatyou have let me do within even the last week?"

Angus growled something in the bottom of his throat which I could notmake out. 

Mr Keith's tone changed suddenly. 

"Angus, dear old fellow, are you happier now than you were then?"

"Duncan, I am the most miserable wretch that ever lived! I want nopreaching to, I can tell you. That last text my father preached fromkeeps tolling in my ear like a funeral bell--and it is all the worsebecause it comes in his voice: `Remember from whence thou art fallen!'Don't I remember it? Do I want telling whence I have fallen? Haven't Imade a thousand resolves never, _never_ to fail again, and the next timeI get into company, all my resolves melt away and my hard knots comeundone, and I feel as strong as a spoonful of water, and any of them canlead me that tries, like an animal with a ring through his nose?"

"Water is not a bad comparison, Angus, if you look at both sides of it. What is stronger than water, when the wind blows it with power? And youknow who is compared to the wind. `Awake, O North Wind, and come, ThouSouth; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. ' Itis the wind of God's Spirit that we want, to blow the water--powerlessof itself--in the right direction. It will carry all before it then. "

"Oh, yes, all that sounds very well, " said Angus, but in a pleasantertone than before--not so much like a big growling dog. "But you don'tknow, Duncan--you don't know! You have no temptations. What can youknow about it? I tell you I _can't_ keep out of it. It is no goodtalking. "

"`No temptations!' I wish that were true. But you are quite right asto yourself; you cannot keep out of it. Do you mean to add that Godcannot keep you?"

I did not hear Angus's reply, and I fancy it came in a gesture, and notin words. But Mr Keith said, very softly, --

"Angus, will you let Him keep you?"

Instead of the answer for which I was eagerly listening, another soundcame to my ear, which made me jump up in a hurry, almost without caringwhether I was heard or not. That was the clock of Brocklebank Churchstriking twelve. I should be ever so much too late for dinner; and whatwould my Aunt Kezia say? I got away as quietly as I could for a fewyards, and then ran down the Scar as fast as I dared for fear offalling, and came into the dining-room, feeling hot and breathless, justas Cecilia, looking fresh and bright as a white lily, was entering itfrom the other end. The rest were seated at the table. Of course MrKeith and Angus were not there. 

"Caroline, where have you been?" saith my Aunt Kezia. 

I trembled, for I knew what I had to expect when my Aunt Kezia saidCaroline in full. 

"I am very sorry, Aunt, " said I. "I went up the Scar, and--well, I amafraid I forgot all about the time. "

My Aunt Kezia nodded, as if my frank confession satisfied her, andFather said, "Good maid!" as I slipped into the chair where I alwayssit, on his left hand. But Cecilia, who was arranging her skirts justopposite, said in that way which men seem to call charming, and womenalways see through and despise (at least my Aunt Kezia says so), --

"Am I a little late?"

"Don't name it!" said Father. 

"Dear, no, my charmer!" cried Hatty. "Cary's shockingly late, ofcourse: but you are not--quite impossible. "

Cecilia gave one of her soft smiles, and said no more. 

I really am beginning to wish the Bracewells gone. Yet it is not somuch on their own account, Amelia is vain and silly, and Charlotte rudeand romping; but I do not think either of them is a hypocrite. Charlotte is not, I am sure; she lets you see the very worst side ofher: and Amelia's affectation is so plain and unmistakable, that itcannot be called insincerity. It is on account of that horrid Ceciliathat I want them to go, because I suppose she will go with them. Yes, truth is truth, and Cecilia is horrid. I am getting quite frightened ofher. I do not know what she means to do next: but she seems to me to bealways laying traps of some sort, and for somebody. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wonder if people ever do what you expect of them? If somebody hadasked me to make a list of things that could not happen, I expect that Ishould have put on it one thing that has just happened. 

Sophy and I went up this morning to Goody Branscombe's cot, to take hersome wine and eggs from my Aunt Kezia. Anne Branscombe thinks she isfailing, poor old woman, and my Aunt Kezia told her to beat up an eggwith a little wine and sugar, and give it to her fasting of a morning:she thinks it a fine thing for keeping up strength. We came round bythe Vicarage on our way back, and stepped in to see old Elspie. Wefound her ironing the Vicar's shirts and ruffles, and she put us inrocking-chairs while we sat and talked. 

Old Elspie wanted to know all we could tell her about Flora and Angus, and I promised I would bring Flora to see her some day. She says MrKeith--Mr Duncan Keith's father, that is--is the squire of Abbotscliff, a very rich man, and a tremendous Tory. 

"You're vara nigh strangers, young leddies, " said Elspie, as she ironedaway. "Miss Fanny, she came to see me a twa-three days back, and MissBracewell wi' her; and there was anither young leddy, but I disrememberher name. "

"Was it Charlotte Bracewell?" said Sophy. 

"Na, na, I ken Miss Charlotte ower weel to forget her, though she hasgrown a deal sin' I saw her afore. This was a lassie wi' black hair, and e'en like the new wood the minister has his dinner-table, wi' thefine name--what ca' ye that, now?"

"Mahogany?" said I. 

"Ay, it has some sic fremit soun', " said old Elspie, rather scornfully. "I ken it was no sae far frae muggins [mugwort]. Mrs Sophy, my dear, ha'e ye e'er suppit muggins in May? 'Tis the finest thing going forkeeping a lassie in gude health, and it suld be drinkit in the spring. Atweel, what's her name wi' the copper-colourit e'en?"

"Cecilia Osborne, " said I. "What did you think of her, Elspie?"

The iron went up and down the Vicar's shirt-front, and I saw a curiousgathering together of old Elspie's lips--still she did not speak. Atlast Sophy said, --

"Couldn't you make up your mind about her, Elspie?"

"I had nae mickle fash about _that_, Mrs Sophy, " said Elspeth, settingdown her iron on the stand with something like a bang. "And gin I cansee through a millstane a wee bittie, she'll gi'e ye the chance to makeup yourn afore lang. "

"Nay, mine's made up long since, " answered Sophy. "I shall see the backof her with a deal more pleasure than I did her face a month ago. Won'tyou, Cary?"

"I don't like her the least bit, " said I. 

"Ye'll be wiser lassies, young leddies, gin ye're no ower ready to sayit, " said Elspie, coolly. "It was no ane o' _your_ white days when shecame to Brocklebank Fells. Ay, weel, weel! The Lord's ower a'. "

As we went down the road, I said to Sophy, "What did old Elspie mean, doyou suppose?"

"I am afraid I can guess what she meant, Cary. "

Sophy's tone was so strange that I looked up at her; and I saw her eyesflashing and her lips set and white. 

"Sophy! what is the matter?" I cried. 

"Don't trouble your little head, Cary, " she said, kindly enough. "Itwill be trouble in plenty when it comes. "

I could not get her to say more. As we reached the door, Hatty camedancing out to meet us. 

 "`The rose is white, the rose is red, '-- The sun gives light, Queen Anne is dead: Ladies with white and rosy hues, What will you give me for my news?"

"Hatty, you must have made that yourself!" said Sophy. 

"I have, just this minute, " laughed Hatty. "Now then, who'll bid for mynews?"

"I dare say it isn't worth a farthing, " said Sophy. 

"Well, to you, perhaps not. It may be rather mortifying. My sweetSophia, you are the eldest of us, but your younger sister has stolen amarch on you. You have played your cards ill, Miss Courtenay. Fanny isgoing to be the first of us married, unless I contrive to run away withsomebody in the interval. I don't know whom--there's the difficulty. "

"Well, I always thought she would be, " said Sophy, quitegood-humouredly. "She is the prettiest of us, is Fanny. "

"So much obliged for the compliment!" gleefully cried Hatty. "Cary, don't you feel delighted?"

"Is Ephraim here now?" I said, for of course I never thought of anybodyelse. 

"Ephraim!" Hatty whirled round, laughing heartily. "Ephraim, my dear, will have to break his heart at leisure. Ambrose Catterall has stolen amarch on _him_. "

"You don't mean that Fanny and Ambrose are to be married!" cried Sophy, with wide-open eyes. 

"I do, Madam; and my Aunt Kezia is as mad as a hatter about it. Shewould have liked Ephraim for her nephew ever so much better thanAmbrose. "

"Well, I do think!" exclaimed Sophy. "If Ephraim did really care forFanny, she has used him shamefully. "

"So _I_ think!" said Hatty. "I mean to present him on his next birthdaywith a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, embroidered in the corner with an urnand a willow-tree. "

"An urn, you ridiculous child!" returned Sophy. "That means thatsomebody is dead. "

"Don't throw cold water on my charming conceits!" pleaded Hatty. "Nowgo in and face my Aunt Kezia--if you dare. "

We found her cutting out flannel petticoats in the parlour. My AuntKezia's brows were drawn together, and my Aunt Kezia's lips were thin;and I trembled. However, she took no note of us, but went on tearing upflannel, and making little piles of it upon the table end. 

Sophy, with heroic bravery, attacked the citadel at once. 

"Well, Aunt, this is pretty news!"

"What is?" said my Aunt Kezia, standing up straight and stiff. 

"Why, this about Fanny and Ambrose Catterall. "

"Oh, that! I wish there were nothing worse than that in _this_ world. "My Aunt Kezia spoke as if she would have preferred some other world, where things went straighter than they do in this. 

"Hatty said you were put out about it, Aunt. "

"That's all Hatty knows. I think 'tis a blunder, and Fanny will find itout, likely enough. But if that were all--Girls, 'tis nigh dinner-time. You had better take your bonnets off. "

"What is the matter with my Aunt Kezia?" said I to Sophy, as we wentup-stairs. 

"Don't ask _me_!" said that young lady. 

Half-way up-stairs we met Charlotte. 

"Oh, what fun you have missed, you two!" cried she. "Why didn't youcome home a little sooner? I would not have lost it for a hundredpounds. "

"Lost what, Charlotte?"

"Lost _what_? Ask my Aunt Kezia--now just you _do_!"

"My Aunt Kezia seems unapproachable, " said Sophy. 

Charlotte went off into a fit of laughter, and then slid down thebanister to the hall--a feat which my Aunt Kezia has forbidden her toperform a dozen times at least. We went forward, made ourselves readyfor dinner, and came down to the dining-parlour. 

In the dining-room we found a curious group. My Aunt Kezia looked asstiff as whalebone; Father, pleased and radiant; Flora and Mr Keithboth seemed rather puzzled. Angus was in a better temper than usual. Charlotte was evidently full of something very funny, which she did notwant to let out; Cecilia, soft, serene, and velvety; Fanny lookednervous and uncomfortable; Hatty, scornful; while Amelia was her usualself. 

When dinner was over, we went back to the parlour. My Aunt Keziagathered up her heaps of flannel, gave one to Flora and another to me, and began to stitch away at a third herself. Amelia threw herself onthe sofa, saying she was tired to death; and I was surprised to see thatmy Aunt Kezia took no notice. Fanny sat down to draw; Hatty went onwith her knitting; Charlotte strolled out into the garden; and Ceciliadisappeared, I know not whither. 

For an hour or more we worked away in solemn silence. Hatty tried towhisper once or twice to Fanny, making her blush and look uncomfortable;but Fanny did not speak, and I fancy Hatty got tired. Amelia went tosleep. 

At last, and all at once, Flora--honest, straightforward Flora--laid herwork on her knee, and looked up at my Aunt Kezia's grim set face. 

"Aunt Kezia, will you tell me, is something the matter?"

"Yes, my dear, " my Aunt Kezia seemed to snap out. "Satan's the matter. "

"I don't know what you mean, Aunt, " said Flora. 

"'Tis a mercy if you don't. No, child, there is not much the matter foryou. The matter's for me and these girls here. Well, to be sure!there's no fool like an old f--Caroline! (I fairly jumped) can't youlook what you are doing? You are herring-boning that seam on the wrongside!"

Alas! the charge was true. I cannot tell how or why it is, but if thereare two seams to anything, I am sure to do one of them on the wrongside. It is very queer. I suppose there is something wanting in mybrains. Hatty says--at least she did once when I said that--the brainsare wanting. 

However, we sat on and sewed away, till at last Amelia woke up and wentup-stairs; Flora finished her petticoat, and my Aunt Kezia told her togo into the garden. Only we four sisters were left. Then my Aunt Keziaput down her flannel, wiped her spectacles, and looked round at us. 

I knew something was coming, and I felt quite sure that it was somethingdisagreeable; but I could not form an idea what it was. 

"Girls, " said my Aunt Kezia, "I think you may as well hear at once thatI am going to leave Brocklebank. "

I fairly gasped in astonishment. Brocklebank without my Aunt Kezia! Itsounded like hearing that the sun was going out of the sky. I could notimagine such a state of things. 

"Is Sophy to be mistress, then?" said Fanny, blankly. 

"Aunt Kezia, are you going to be married?" our impertinent Hatty wantedto know. 

"No, Hester, " said my Aunt Kezia, shortly. "At my time of life a womanhas a little sense left; or if she have not, she is only fit for Bedlam. I do not think Sophy will be mistress, Fanny. Somebody else is goingto take that place. Otherwise, I should have stayed in it. "

"What do you mean, Aunt Kezia?" said Fanny, speaking very slowly, and ina bewildered sort of way. 

Sophy said nothing. I think she knew. And all at once it seemed tocome over me--as if somebody had shut me up inside a lump of ice--whatit was that was going to happen. 

"I mean, my dear, " my Aunt Kezia replied quietly, "that your fatherintends to marry again. "

Sophy's face and tongue gave no sign that she had heard anything whichwas news to her. Fanny cried, "Never, surely!" Hatty said, "Howjolly!" and then in a whisper to me, "Won't I lead her a life!" Ibelieve I said nothing. I felt shut up in that lump of ice. 

"But, Aunt Kezia, what is to become of us all? Are we to stay here, orgo with you?" asked Fanny. 

"Your father desires me to tell you, my dears, " said my Aunt Kezia, "that he wishes to leave you quite free to please yourselves. If youchoose to remain here, he will be glad to have you; and if any of youlike to come with me to Fir Vale, you will be welcome, and you know whatto expect. "

"What are we to expect if we stop here?" asked Sophy, in a hard, dryvoice. 

"That is more than I can say, " was my Aunt Kezia's answer. 

"But who is it?" said Fanny, in the same bewildered way. 

"O Fanny, what a bat you are!" cried Hatty. 

"I wonder you ask, " answered Sophy. "I have seen her fishing-rod forever so long. Cecilia, of course. "

"Cecilia!" screamed Fanny. "I thought it was some middle-aged, respectable gentlewoman. "

Hatty burst out laughing. I never felt less inclined to laugh. My AuntKezia had taken off her spectacles, and was going on with her tucks asif nothing had happened. 

"Well, I will think about it, " said Sophy. "I am not sure I shallstay. "

"_I_ shall stay, " announced Hatty. "I expect it will be grand fun. Shewill fill the house with company--that will suit me; and I shall justlook sharp after her and keep her in order. "

"Hatty!" cried Fanny, in a shocked tone. 

"I hope you will keep yourself in order, " said my Aunt Kezia, drily. "Little Cary, you have not spoken yet. What do you want to do?"

Her voice softened as I had never heard it do before when she spoke tome. It touched me very much; yet I think I should have said the samewithout it. 

"O Aunt Kezia, please let me go with you!"

"Thank you, Cary, " said my Aunt Kezia in the same tone. "The old womanis not to be left quite alone, then? But it will be dull, child, for ayoung thing like you. "

"I would rather have it dull than lively the wrong way about, " said I;and Hatty broke out again. 

"Would you!" said she, when she had done laughing. "I wouldn't, Ipromise you. Sophy, don't you know a curate you could marry? You hadbetter, if you can find one. "

"Not one that has asked me, " was Sophy's dry answer. "You don't wantme, then, Miss Hatty?"

"You would be rather meddlesome, I am afraid, " said Hatty, with charmingfrankness. "You would always be doing conscience. "

"Don't you intend to keep one?" returned Sophy. 

"I mean to lay it up in lavender, " said Hatty, "and take it out onSundays. "

"Hatty, if you haven't a care--"

"Please go on, Aunt Kezia. Unfinished sentences are always awfulthings, because you don't know how they are going to end. "

"_You_'ll end in the lock-up, if you don't mind, " said my Aunt Kezia;"and if I were you, I wouldn't. "

"I'll try to keep on this side the door, " said Hatty, as lightly asever. "And when is it to be, Aunt Kezia?"

"The month after next, I believe. "

"Isn't Cecilia going home first, to see what her friends say about it?"

"She has none belonging to her, except an uncle and his family, and shesays they will be delighted to hear it. Hatty, you had better get outof the way of calling her Cecilia. It won't do now, you know. "

"But you don't mean, Aunt Kezia, that we are to call her Mother!" criedFanny, in a most beseeching tone. 

"My dear, that must be as your father wishes. He may allow you to callher Mrs Courtenay. That is what I shall call her. "

"Isn't it dreadful!" said poor Fanny. 

"One thing more I have to say, " continued my Aunt Kezia, laying down herflannel again and putting on her spectacles. "Your father does not wishyou to be present at his marriage. "

"Aunt Kezia!" came, I think, from us all--indignantly from Sophy, sorrowfully from Fanny, petulantly from Hatty, and from me in sheerastonishment. 

"I suppose he has his reasons, " said my Aunt Kezia; "but that being so, I think Sophy had better go home for a while with the Bracewells, andHatty, too. You, Cary, may go with Flora instead, if you like. Fanny, of course, is arranged for already, as she will be married by then, andwill only have to stop at home. "

I thought I would very much rather go with Flora. 

"I have had a letter from your Aunt Dorothea lately, " my Aunt Kezia wenton, "in which she asks for Cary to pay her a visit next June. But nowwe are only in March. So, as Cary must be somewhere between times, andI think she would be better out of the way, she will go to Abbotscliffwith Flora--unless, my dear, " she added, turning to me, "you wouldrather be at Bracewell Hall? You may, if you like. "

"I would rather be at Abbotscliff, very much, Aunt Kezia, " said I; and Ithink Aunt Kezia was pleased. 

"Aunt Kezia, don't send me away!" pleaded Sophy. "Do let me stay andhelp you to settle at Fir Vale. I should hate to stay at Bracewell, andI should just like bustling about and helping you in that way. Won'tyou let me?"

"Well, my dear, we will see, " said my Aunt Kezia; and I think she waspleased with Sophy too. Hatty declared that Bracewell would just suither, and she would not stay at any price, if she had leave to choose. So it seems to be settled in that way. Fanny will be married on the30th, --that is three weeks hence; and the week after, Hatty goes withthe Bracewells, and I with Flora, to their own homes; and my Aunt Keziaand Sophy will remain here, and only leave the house on the eveningbefore the marriage. 

It seems very odd that Father should have wished not to have us at hiswedding. Was it Cecilia who did not wish it? But I am not to call herCecilia any more. 

When my cousins came in for tea, they were told too. Charlotte cried, "Well, I never!" for which piece of vulgarity she was sharply pulled upby my Aunt Kezia. Amelia fanned herself--she always does, whatever timeof year it may be--and languidly remarked, "Dear!" Angus said, "Castorand Pollux!" for which he also got rebuked. And after a sort of "Oh!"Flora said nothing, but looked very sorrowfully at us. Cec--I mean MissOsborne--did not appear at all until tea was nearly over, and then shecame in from the garden, and Mr Parmenter with her, that everlastingeyeglass stuck in his eye. I do so dislike the man. 

Father never comes to tea. He says it is only women's rubbish, andlaughs at Ephraim Hebblethwaite because he says he likes it. I fancyfew men drink tea. My Uncle Charles never does, I know; but my AuntDorothea says she could not exist a day without tea and cards. 

I wonder if it will be pleasant to stay with my Aunt Dorothea. Ibelieve she and my Uncle Charles are living in London now. I shouldlike dearly to see London, and the fine shops, and the lions in theTower, and Ranelagh, and all the grand people. And yet, somehow, I feeljust a little bit uneasy about it, as if I were going into some placewhere I did not know what I should find, and it might be something thatwould hurt me. I do not feel that about Abbotscliff. I expect it willbe pleasant there, only perhaps rather dull. And I want to see my UncleDrummond, and Flora's friend, Annas Keith. I wonder if she is like herbrother. And I never saw a Presbyterian minister, nor indeed a ministerof any sort. I do hope my Uncle Drummond will not be like Mr Bagnall, and I hope all the gentlemen in the South are not like that odious MrParmenter. 

Flora seems very much pleased about my going back with her. I do notknow why, but I fancied Angus did not quite like it. Can he be afraidof my telling his father the story of the hunt-supper? He knows nothingof what I heard up on the Scar. 

I do hope Ephraim Hebblethwaite is not very unhappy about Fanny. Ishould think it must be dreadful, when you love any one very much, tosee her go and give herself quite away to somebody else. And Ambrosethinks of going to live in Cheshire, where his uncle has a large farm, and he has no children, so the farm will come to Ambrose some day; andhis uncle, Mr Minshull, would like him to come and live there now. Ofcourse, if that be settled so, we shall lose Fanny altogether. 

Must there always be changes and break-ups in this world? I do not meanthe change of death: that, we know, must come. But why must there beall these other changes? Why could we not go on quietly as we were? Itseems now as if we should never be the same any more. 

If that uncle of Cecilia's would only have tied her to the leg of atable, or locked her up in her bed-chamber, or done something to keepher down there in the South, so that she had never come to torment us!

I suppose I ought not to wish that, if she makes Father happier. Ay, but will she make him happy? That is just what I am uncomfortableabout! I don't believe she cares a pin for him, though I dare say shelikes well enough to be the Squire's lady, and queen it at Brocklebank. Somehow, I cannot trust those tawny eyes, with their sidelong glances. Am I very wicked, or is she?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Will things never give over happening?

This morning, just after I came down--there were only my Aunt Kezia, MrKeith, Flora, and me in the dining-parlour--we suddenly heard the greatbell of Brocklebank Church begin to toll. My Aunt Kezia set down thechocolate-pot. 

"It must be somebody who has died suddenly, poor soul!" cried she. "Maybe, Ellen Armathwaite's baby: it looked very bad when I saw it last, on Thursday. Hark!"

The bell stopped tolling, and we listened for the sound which would tellus the sex and age of the departed. 

"One!" Then silence. 

That meant a man. Ellen Armathwaite's baby girl it could not be. Thenthe bell began again, and we counted. It tolled on up to twenty--thirty--forty: we could not think who it could be. 

"Surely not Farmer Catterall!" said my Aunt Kezia, "I have often feltafraid of an apoplexy for him. "

But the bell went on past sixty, and we knew it was not FarmerCatterall. 

"Is it never going to stop?" said Flora, when it had passed eighty. 

My Aunt Kezia went to the door, and calling Sam, bade him go out andinquire. Still the bell tolled on. It stopped just as Sam came in, atninety-six. 

"Who is it, Sam?--one of the old bedesmen?"

"Nay, Mrs Kezia; puir soul, 'tis just the auld Vicar!"

"Mr Digby!" we all cried together. 

"Ay; my mither found him deid i' his bed early this morrow. She's comeup to tell ye, an' to ask gin' ye can spare me to go and gi'e a haun', for that puir witless body, Mr Anthony Parmenter, seems all but daft. "

Miss Osborne and Amelia came in together, and I saw Cecilia turn verywhite. (Oh dear! how shall I give over calling her Cecilia?) My AuntKezia told them what had happened, and I thought she looked relieved. 

"What ails Mr Parmenter?" asked my Aunt Kezia. 

"'Deed, and what ails a fule onie day?" said Sam, always more honestthan soft-spoken. "He's just as ill as a bit lassie--fair frichtened o'his auld uncle, now he is deid, that ne'er did him a bawbee's worth o'harm while he was alive. My mither says she's vara sure he'll be herethe morn, begging and praying ye to tak' him in and keep him safe fraehis puir auld uncle's ghaist. Hech, sirs! I'll ghaist him, gin' hecomes my way. "

"Now, Sam, keep a civil tongue in your head, " quoth my Aunt Kezia, "anddon't let me hear of your playing tricks on Mr Parmenter or any oneelse. You should be old enough to have some sense by this time. I willcome out and speak to your mother in a moment. Yes, I suppose we mustlet you go. What cuckoos there are in this world, to be sure!"

But Mr Parmenter did not wait till to-morrow--he came up thisafternoon, just as Sam said he would. Father was not at home, and to mysurprise my Aunt Kezia would not take him in, but sent him on to FarmerCatterall's. I do not think the tawny eyes liked it, for though theywere mostly bent on the ground, I saw them give one sidelong flash at myAunt Kezia which did not look to me like loving-kindness. 

I feel to-night what I think Angus means when he says that he is flat. Everything feels flat. Fanny is gone--she was married on Saturday. Amelia, Charlotte, and Hatty set forth on Tuesday, and they are gone. Ithought that Ce--Miss Osborne would have gone with them, and havereturned by-and-by; but she stays on, and will do so, I hear, almosttill my Aunt Kezia goes, when Mrs Hebblethwaite has asked her to stayat the Fells Farm for the last few days before the wedding. It issettled now that my Aunt Kezia and Sophy stay here till the day beforeit. It does seem so queer for Sophy to be here till then, and not be atthe wedding! I don't believe it is Father's doing. It is not like him. Flora, Angus, Mr Keith, and I are to start to-morrow; but Mr Keithonly goes with us as far as Carlisle--that is, the first day's journey;then he leaves us for Newcastle, where he has some sort of business(that horrid word!), and I go on with my cousins to Abbotscliff. Weshall be met at Carlisle by a Scots gentleman who is travelling thenceto Selkirk, and is a friend of my Uncle Drummond. He goes in his ownchaise, with two mounted servants, and both he and they are armed, so Ihope we shall get clear of freebooters on the Border. He has nobodywith him, and says he shall have plenty of room in the chaise. It isvery lucky that this Mr Cameron should just be going at the same timeas we are. I don't think Angus would be much protection, though Ishould not wish him to know I said so. 

If Ephraim Hebblethwaite have broken his heart, he behaves very funnily. He was not only at Fanny's wedding, but was best man; and he looksquite well and happy. I begin to think that we must have been mistakenin guessing that he cared for Fanny. Perhaps it only amused him to talkto her. 

Fanny's wedding was very smart and gay, and everybody came to it. Thebridesmaids were we three, Esther Langridge, and two cousins ofAmbrose's, whose names are Annabel Catterall and Priscilla Minshull. Irather liked Annabel, but Priscilla was horrid. (Sophy says I say"horrid" too often, and about all sorts of things. But if people andthings are horrid, how am I to help saying it?) I am sure PriscillaMinshull was horrid. She reminded me of Angus's saying about turning upone's eyes like a duck in thunder. I never watched a duck in thunder, and I don't know whether it turns up its eyes or it does not: onlyPriscilla did. She seemed to think us all (my Aunt Kezia said) nobetter than the dirt she walked on. And I am sure she need not be sostuck-up, for Mr James Minshull, her father, is only a parson, and notonly that, but a chaplain too: so Priscilla is not anybody of anyconsequence. I said so to Flora, and she replied that Priscilla wouldbe much less likely to be proud if she were. 

I was dreadfully tired on Sunday. We had been so hard at work all thefortnight before, first making the wedding dress, and then dressing thewedding-dinner; and when I went to bed on Saturday night, I thought Inever wanted to see another. Another wedding, of course, I mean. However, everything went off very well; and Fanny looked charming in herpink silk brocaded with flowers, with white stripes down it here andthere, and a pink quilted slip beneath. She had pink rosettes, too, inher shoes, and a white hood lined with pink and trimmed with pink bows. Her hoop came from Carlisle, and was the biggest I have seen yet. Themantua-maker from Carlisle, who was five days in the house, said thathoops were getting very much larger this year, and she thought theywould soon be as big as they were in Queen Anne's time. We had muchsmaller hoops--of course it would not have been seemly to have thebridesmaids as smart as the bride--and we were dressed alike, in whiteFrench cambric, with light green trimmings. Of course we all wore whiteribbons. I think Father would have stormed at us if we had put on anyother colour. I should not like to be the one to wear a red ribbon whenhe was by! [Note 1. ] We wore straw milk-maid hats, with green ribbonmixed with the white; and just a sprinkle of grey powder in our hair. Cecilia would not be a bridesmaid, though she was asked. I don't thinkshe liked the dress chosen; and indeed it would not have suited her. But wasn't she dressed up! She wore--I really must set it down--apurple lutestring, [Note 2. ] over such a hoop that she had to lift it onone side when she went in at the church door; this was guarded with goldlace and yellow feathers. She had a white laced apron, purple velvetslippers with red heels, and her lace ruffles were something to look at!And wasn't she patched! and hadn't she powdered her hair, and made itas stiff with pomatum as if it had been starched! Then on the top ofthis head went a lace cap--it was not a hood--just a little, light, fly-away cap, with purple ribbons and gold embroidery, and in the middleof the front a big gold pompoon. 

What a contrast there was between her and my Aunt Kezia! She wore asilk dress too, only it was a dark stone-colour, as quiet as aQuakeress, just trimmed with two rows of braid, the same colour, roundthe bottom, and a white silk scarf, with a dark blue hood, and just alittle rosette of white lace at the top of it. Aunt Kezia's hood was ahood, too, and was tied under her chin as if she meant it to be somegood. And her elbow-ruffles were plain nett, with long dark doe-skingloves drawn up to meet them. Cecilia wore white silk mittens. I hatemittens; they are horrid things. If you want to make your hands look asugly as you can, you have only to put on a pair of mittens. 

The wedding-dinner, which was at noon, was a very grand one. It shouldhave been, for didn't my arms ache with beating eggs and keeping pansstirred! Hatty said we were martyrs in a good cause. But I do thinkFanny might have taken a little more trouble herself, seeing it was herwedding. Now, let us see, what had we? There was a turkey pie, and aboar's head, chickens in different ways, and a great baron of roastbeef; cream beaten to snow (Sophy did that, I am glad to say), candiedfruits, and ices, and several sorts of pudding, for dessert. Then fordrink, there were wine, and mead, purl, and Burton ale. 

Well! it is all over now, and Fanny is gone. There will never be fourof us any more. There seems to me something very sad about it. Poordear Fanny, I hope she will be happy!

"I dare guess she will, in her way, " says my Aunt Kezia. "She does notkeep a large cup for her happiness. 'Tis all the easier to fill whenyou don't; but a deal more will go in when you do. There are advantagesand disadvantages on each side of most things in this world. "

"Is there any advantage, Aunt Kezia, in my having just pricked my fingershockingly?"

"Yes, Cary. Learn to be more careful in future. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The white ribbon, like the white cockade, distinguished aJacobite; the red ribbon and the black cockade were Hanoverian. 

Note 2. A variety of silk then fashionable. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

LEAVING THE NEST. 

 "I've kept old ways, and loved old friends, Till, one by one, they've slipped away; Stand where we will, cling as we like, There's none but God can be our stay. 'Tis only by our hold on Him We keep a hold on those who pass Out of our sight across the seas, Or underneath the churchyard grass. "

 ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. 

 Carlisle, April the 5th, 1744 or 5. I really feel that I must put a date to my writing now, when this is thefirst time of my going out into the great world. I have never beenbeyond Carlisle before, and now I am going, first into a new country, and then to London itself, if all go well. 

News came last night, just before we started, that my Lord Orford isdead--he that was Sir Robert Walpole, and the Elector's Prime Minister. Father says his death is a good thing for the country, for it gives morehope that the King may come by his own. I don't know what would happenif he did. I suppose it would not make much difference to us. Indeed, I rather wish things would not happen, for the things that happen are sooften disagreeable ones. I said so this evening, and Mr Keith smiled, and answered, "You are young to have reached that conviction, MissCaroline. "

"Oh, rubbish!" said Angus. "Only old women talk so!"

"Angus, will you please tell me, " said I, "whether young men havegenerally more sense than old women?"

"Of course they have!" replied he. 

"The young men are apt to think so, " added Flora. 

"But have young women more sense than old ones?" said I. "Because Isee, whenever people mean to speak of anything as particularly silly, they always say it is worthy of an old woman. Now why an old woman?Have I more commonsense now than I shall have fifty years hence? And ifso, at what age may I expect it to take leave of me?"

"You are not talking sense now, at any rate, " replied Angus--who mightbe my brother, instead of my cousin, for the way in which he takes meup, whatever I say. 

"Pardon me, " said Mr Keith. "I think Miss Caroline is talking verygood sense. "

"Then you may answer her, " said Angus. 

"Nay, " returned Mr Keith. "The question was addressed to you. "

"Oh, all women are sillies!" was Angus's flattering answer. "They'rejust a pack of ninnies, the whole lot of them. "

"It seems to me, Angus, " observed Mr Keith, quite gravely, "that youmust have paid twopence extra for manners. "

Flora and I laughed. 

"I was not rich enough to go in for any, " growled Angus. "I'm not alaird's son, Mr Duncan Keith, so you don't need to throw stones at me. "

"Did I, Angus? I beg your pardon. "

Angus muttered something which I did not hear, and was silent. Ithought I had better let the subject drop. 

But before we went to bed, something happened which I never saw before. Mr Keith took a book from his pocket, and sat down at the table. Florarose and went to the sofa, motioning to me to come beside her. EvenAngus twisted himself round, and sat in a more decorous way. 

"What are we going to do?" I asked of Flora. 

"The exercise, dear, " said she. 

"Exercise!" cried I. "What are we to exercise?"

A curious sort of gurgle came from Angus's part of the room, as if alaugh had made its way into his throat, and he had smothered it in itscradle. 

"The word is strange to Miss Caroline, " said Mr Keith, looking roundwith a smile. "We Scots people, Madam, speak of exercising our souls inprayer. We are about to read in God's Word, and pray, if you please. It is our custom, morning and evening. "

"But how can we pray?" said I. "There is no clergyman. "

"Though I am not a minister, " replied Mr Keith, "yet I trust I havelearned to pray. "

It seemed to me so strange that anybody not a clergyman should think ofpraying before other people! However, I sat down, of course, on thesofa by Flora, and listened while Mr Keith read something out of theGospel of Saint John, about the woman of Samaria, and what our Lord saidto her. But I never heard such reading in my life! I thought I couldhave gone on listening to him all night. The only clergymen that I everheard read were Mr Bagnall and poor old Mr Digby, and the one alwaysread in a high singsong tone, which gave me the idea that it was nothingI need listen to; and the other mumbled indistinctly, so that I neverheard what he said. But Mr Keith read as if the converse were reallygoing on, and you actually heard our Lord and the woman talking to oneanother at the well. He made it seem so real that I almost fancied Icould hear the water trickling, and see the cool wet green mosses roundthe old well. Oh, if clergymen would always read and preach as if thethings were real, how different going to church would be!

Then we knelt down, and Mr Keith prayed. It was not out of thePrayer-Book. And I dare say, if I were to hear nothing but suchprayers, I might miss the dear old prayers that have been like sweetsounds floating around me ever since I knew anything. But this evening, when it was all new, it came to me as so solemn and so real! This wasnot saying one's prayers; it was talking to one's Friend. And it seemedas if God really were Mr Keith's Friend--as if they knew each other, and were not strangers at all, but each understood what the other wouldlike or dislike, and they wanted to please one another. I hope I am notirreverent in writing so, but really it did seem like that. And I neversaw anything like it before. 

I suppose, to the others, it was an old worn-out story--all this whichcame so new and fresh to me. When we rose up, Angus said, without anypause, --

"Well! I am off to bed. Good-night, all of you. "

Flora went up to him and offered him a kiss, which he took as if it werea condescension to an inferior creature; and then, without sayinganything more to Mr Keith or me, lighted his candle and went away. Flora sighed as she looked after him, and Mr Keith looked at her as ifhe felt for her. 

"I shall be glad to get him home, " said Flora, answering Mr Keith'slook, I think. "If he can only get back to Father, then, perhaps--"

"Aye, " said Mr Keith, meaningly, "it is all well, when we do get backto the Father. "

Flora shook her head sorrowfully. "Not that!" she answered. "O Duncan, I am afraid, not that, yet! I feel such terrible fear sometimes lest heshould never come back at all, or if he do, should have to come oversharp stones and through thorny paths. "

"`So He bringeth them unto their desired haven, '" was Mr Keith's gentleanswer. 

"I know!" she said, with a sigh. "I suppose I ought to pray and wait. Father does, I am sure. But it is hard work!"

Mr Keith did not answer for a moment; and when he did, it was byanother bit of the Bible. At least I think it was the Bible, for itsounded like it, but I should not know where to find it. 

"`Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thineheart; wait, I say, on the Lord. '"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Castleton, April the sixth. Mr Keith left us so early this morning that there was not time foranything except breakfast and good-bye. I feel quite sorry to lose him, and wish I had a brother like him. (Not like Angus--dear me, no!) Whycould we four girls not have had one brother?

About half an hour after Mr Keith was gone, the Scots gentleman withwhom we were to travel--Mr Cameron--came in. He is a man of aboutfifty, bald-headed and rosy-faced, pleasant and chatty enough, only I donot quite always understand him. By six o'clock we were all packed intohis chaise, and a few minutes later we set forth from the inn door. Thestreets of Carlisle felt like home; but as we left them behind, and camegradually out into the open country, it dawned upon me that now, indeed, I was going out into the great world. 

We sleep here to-night, where Flora and I have a little bit of abed-chamber next door to a larger one where Mr Cameron and Angus are. On Monday we expect to reach Abbotscliff. I am too tired to write more. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Abbotscliff Manse, April the ninth. I really could not go on any sooner. We reached the manse--what an oddname for a vicarage!--about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Thechurch (which Flora calls the kirk) and the manse, with a few otherhouses, stand on a little rising ground, and the rest of the villagelies below. 

But before I begin to talk about the manse, I want to write down aconversation which took place on Monday morning as we journeyed, inwhich Mr Cameron told us some curious things that I do not wish toforget. We were driving through such a pretty little village, and inone of the doorways an old woman sat with her knitting. 

"Oh, look at that dear old woman!" cries Flora. "How pleasant shelooks, with her clean white apron and mutch!"

"Much, Flora?" said I. "What do you mean?" I thought it such an oddword to use. What was she much?

Flora looked puzzled, and Mr Cameron answered for her, with amusementin his eyes. 

"A mutch, young lady, " said he, "is what you in the South call a cap. "

"The South!" cried I. "Why, Mr Cameron, you do not think we live inthe South?"

I felt almost vexed that he should fancy such a thing. For all thatGrandmamma and my Aunt Dorothea used to say, I always look down upon theSouth. All the people I have seen who came from the South seemed to meto have a great deal of wiliness and foolishness, and no commonsense. Isuppose the truth is that there are agreeable people, and good people, in the South, only they have not come my way. 

When I cried out like that, Mr Cameron laughed. 

"Well, " said he, "north and south are comparative terms. We in Scotlandthink all England `the South, '--and so it is, if you will think amoment. You in Cumberland, I suppose, draw the line at the Trent or theHumber; lower down, they employ the Thames; and a Surrey man thinksSussex is the South. 'Tis all a matter of comparison. "

"What does a Sussex man call the South?" said Angus. 

"Spain and Portugal, I should think, " said Mr Cameron. 

"But, Mr Cameron, " said I, "asking your pardon, is there not somedifference of character or disposition between those in the North and inthe South--I mean, of England?"

"Quite right, young lady, " said he. "They are different tribes; and theLowland Scots, among whom you are now coming, have the same original asyourself. There were two tribes amongst those whom we callAnglo-Saxons, that peopled England after the Britons were driven intoWales--namely, as you might guess, the Angles and the Saxons. TheAngles ran from the Frith of Forth to the Trent; the Saxons from theThames southward. The midland counties were in all likelihood a mixtureof the two. There are, moreover, several foreign elements beyond this, in various counties. For instance, there is a large influx of Danishblood on the eastern coast, in parts of Lancashire, in Yorkshire andLincolnshire, and in the Weald of Sussex; there was a Flemish settlementin Lancashire and Norfolk, of considerable extent; the Britons were leftin great numbers in Cumberland and Cornwall; the Jutes--a variety ofDane--peopled Kent entirely. Nor must we forget the Romans, who left adeep impress upon us, especially amongst Welsh families. 'Tis not easyfor any of our mixed race to say, I am this, or that. Why, if most ofus spoke the truth (supposing we might know it), we should say, `I amone-quarter Saxon, one-eighth British, one-sixteenth Iberian, one-eighthDanish, one-sixteenth Flemish, one-thirty-secondth part Roman, '--and soforth. Now, Miss Caroline, how much of that can you remember?"

"All of it, I hope, Sir, " said I; "I shall try to do so. I like to hearof those old times. But would you please to tell me, what is anIberian?"

"My dear, " said Mr Cameron, smiling, "I would gladly give you fiftypounds in gold, if you could tell me. "

"Sir!" cried I, in great surprise. 

He went on, more as if he were talking to himself, or to some verylearned man, than to me. 

"What is an Iberian? Ah, for the man who could tell us! What is aBasque?--what is an Etruscan?--what is a Magyar?--above all, what is aCagot? Miss Caroline, my dear, there are deep questions in all arts andsciences; and, without knowing it, you have lighted on one of thedeepest and most interesting. The most learned man that breathes canonly answer you, as I do now (though I am far from being a learnedman)--I do not know. I will, nevertheless, willingly tell you whatlittle I do know; and the rather if you take an interest in suchmatters. All that we really know of the Iberii is that they came fromSpain, and that they had reached that country from the East; that theywere a narrow-headed people (the Celts or later Britons wereround-headed); that they dwelt in rude houses in the interior of thecountry, first digging a pit in the ground, and building over it a kindof hut, sometimes of turf and sometimes of stone; that they wore veryrude clothing, and were generally much less civilised than the Celts, who lived mainly on the coast; that they loved to dwell, and especiallyto worship, on a mountain top; that they followed certain Easternobservances, such as running or leaping through the fire to Bel, --whichsavours of a Phoenician or Assyrian origin; and that it is more thanlikely that we owe to them those stupendous monuments yet standing--Stonehenge, Avebury, the White Horse of Berkshire, and the White Man ofWilmington. "

"But what sort of a religion had they, if you please, Sir?" said I; forI wanted to get to know all I could about these strange fathers of ours. 

"Idolatry, my dear, as you might suppose, " answered Mr Cameron. "Theyworshipped the sun, which they identified with the serpent; and theyhad, moreover, a sacred tree--all, doubtless, relics of Eden. Theywould appear also to have had some sort of woman-worship, for they heldwomen in high honour, loved female sovereignty, and practisedpolyandry--that is, each woman had several husbands. "

"I never heard of such queer folks!" said I. "And what became of them, Sir?"

"The Iberians and Celts together, " he answered, "made up the people wecall Britons. When the Saxons invaded the country, they were driveninto the remote fastnesses of Wales, Cumberland, and Cornwall. Someantiquaries think the Picts had the same original, but this is one ofthe unsettled points of history. "

"I wish it were possible to settle all such questions!" said Flora. 

"So do the antiquaries, I can assure you, " returned Mr Cameron, with asmile. "But it is scarce possible to come to a conclusion with anycertainty as to the origin of a people of whom we cannot recover thelanguage. "

"If you please, Sir, " said I, "what has the language to do with it?"

"It has everything to do with it, Miss Caroline. You did not know thatlanguages grew, like plants, and could be classified in groups after thesame manner?"

"Please explain to us, Mr Cameron, " said Flora. "It all sounds sostrange. "

"But it is very interesting, " I said. "I want to know all about it. "

"If you want to know _all_ about it, " answered our friend, "you mustconsult some one else than me, for I do not know nearly all about it. In truth, no one does. For myself, I have only arrived at the stage ofknowing that I know next to nothing. "

"That's easy enough to know, surely, " said Angus. 

"Not at all, Angus. It is one of the most difficult things to ascertainin this world. No man is so ready to give an off-hand opinion on anyand every subject, as the man who knows absolutely nothing. But we mustnot start another hare while the young ladies' question remainsunanswered. Languages, my dears, are not made; they grow. The firstlanguage--that spoken in Eden--may have been given to man ready-made, byGod; but I rather imagine, from the expressions of Holy Writ, that whatwas granted to Adam was the inward power of forming a tongue whichshould be rational and consistent with itself; and, if so, no doubt itwas granted to Eve that she should understand him--perhaps that sheshould possess a similar power. "

"The woman made the language, Sir, you may be sure, " said Angus. "Theyare shocking chatterers. "

"Unfortunately, my boy, Scripture is against you. `Whatsoever Adam'--not Eve--`called the name of every living creature, that was the namethereof. ' To proceed:--The confusion of tongues at Babel seems, fromwhat we can gather, to have called into being a number of languagesquite separate from each other, yet all having a certain affinity. Thestructure differs; but some of the words are alike, or at least sonearly alike that the resemblance can be traced. Take the word for`father' in all languages: cut down to its root, there is the same rootfound in all. Ab in Hebrew, abba in Syriac, pater in Greek and Latin, vater in Low Dutch, pere in French, padre in Spanish and Italian, fatherin English--ay, even the child's papa and the infant's daddy--all comefrom one root. But this cutting away of superfluities to get at theroot, is precisely what a 'prentice hand should not attempt; like anunskilled gardener, he will prune away the wrong branches. "

"Then, Sir, " I asked, "what are the languages which belong to the sameclass as ours?"

"Ours, young lady, is a composite language. It may almost be said to bemade up of bits of other languages. German or Low Dutch is its mother, and the Scandinavian group--Swedish, Danish, and so forth--may be termedits aunts. It belongs mostly to what is called the Teutonic group; butthere are in it traces of Celtic, and though more dimly perceptible, even of Latin and Oriental tongues. We are altogether a made-upnation--to which fact some say that we owe those excellences on which weare so fond of priding ourselves. "

"Please, Sir, what are they?" I asked. 

Mr Cameron seemed much amused at the question. 

"What are the excellences we have?" said he; "or, what are those onwhich we pride ourselves? They are often not the same. And--notice it, young ladies, as you go through life--the virtue on which a man plumeshimself the most highly is very frequently one which he possesses insmall measure. (I do not say, in no measure. ) Well, I suppose thequalities on which we English--"

"We are not English!" cried Angus, hotly. 

"For this purpose we are, " was Mr Cameron's answer. "As I observedbefore, the Lowland Scots and the northern English are one tribe. But Iwas going to say, when you were so rude as to interrupt me, English andScots, young gentleman. "

Angus growled out, "Beg your pardon. "

"Take it, " said Mr Cameron, pleasantly. "Now for the question. Onwhat good qualities do we plume ourselves? Well, I think, onsteadiness, independence, loyalty, truthfulness, firmness, honesty, andlove of fair play. How far we are justified in doing so, perhaps othernations are the better judges. They, I believe, generally regard us asa proud and surly race--qualities on which there is no occasion to plumeourselves. "

"Much loyalty we have got to glory in!" said Angus. 

"We have always tried, " replied Mr Cameron, "to run loyalty and libertytogether; and when the two pull smoothly, undoubtedly the nationalchaise gets along the best. Unhappily, when harnessed to the samechariot, one of those steeds is very apt to kick over the traces. Butwe will not venture on such delicate ground, seeing that our politicalcolours differ; nor is this the time to do it, for here is the inn wherewe are to dine. "

When we drove up to the manse on Wednesday, the floor stood open, and inthe doorway was Helen Raeburn, who had evidently seen our chaise, andwas waiting for us. Flora was out the first, and she and Helen flewinto one another's arms, and hugged and kissed each other as if theycould never leave off. I was surprised to find Helen so old. I thoughtElspie's niece would have been between thirty and forty; and she looksmore like sixty. Then Flora flew into the house to find her father, andHelen turned to me. 

"You're vara welcome, young leddy, " said she, "and the Lord make ye ablessin' amang us. Will ye come ben the now? Miss Flora, she's aff tofind the minister, bless her bonnie face!--but if ye'll please to comeawa' wi' me, I'll show ye the way. --Maister Angus, my laddie, welcomehame!--are ye grown too grand to kiss your auld nursie, my callant?"

Angus gave her a kiss, but not at all like Flora; rather as if he had itto do, and wanted to get it over. 

"Well, Helen!" said Mr Cameron, as he came down from the chaise, "andhow goes the world with you, my woman?"

"I wish ye a gude evening, Mr Alexander, " said she. "The warld gaesvara weel wi' me, thanks to ye for speirin'. No that the warld's oniebetter, but the Lord turns all to gude for His ain. The minister's inhis study, and he'll be blithe to see ye. Now, my lassie--I ask yourpardon, but ye see I'm used to Miss Flora. "

"Please call me just what you like, " I said, and I followed Helen up alittle passage paved with stone, and into a room on the right hand, where I found Flora standing by a tall fine-looking man, who had his armround her shoulders, and who was so like her that he could only be herfather. Flora's face was lighted up as I had seen it but once before--so bright and happy she looked!

"And here is our young guest, your cousin, " said my Uncle Drummond, turning to me with a very kind smile. "My dear, may your stay beprofitable and pleasant among us, --ay, and mayest thou find favour inthe eyes of the God of Israel, under whose wings thou art come totrust!"

It sounded very strange to me. Did these people pray about everything?I had heard Father speak contemptuously of "praying Presbyters, " and Ithought Uncle Drummond must be one of that sort. But I could not seethat a minister looked at all different from a clergyman. They seemedto me very much the same sort of creature. 

Mr Cameron was to stay the night at the manse, and to go on in themorning to his own home, which is about fourteen miles further. Floracarried me off to her chamber, where she and I were to sleep, and wechanged our travelling dresses, and had a good wash, and then came downto supper. During the evening Mr Cameron said, laughingly, --

"Well, my fair maid who objects to the South, have you digested theIberii?"

"I think I have remembered all you told us, Sir, " said I; "but if youplease, I am very sorry, but I am afraid we do come from the South. Ourfamily, I mean. My father's father, I believe, belonged Wiltshire; andhis father, who was a captain in the navy, was a Courtenay of Powderham, whatever that means. My sister Fanny knows all about it, but I don'tunderstand it--only I am afraid we must have come from the South. "

Mr Cameron laughed, and so did my Uncle Drummond and Flora. 

"Don't you, indeed, young lady?" said the first. "Well, it only meansthat you have half the kings of England and France, and a number ofemperors of the East, among your forefathers. Very blue blood indeed, Miss Caroline. I do not see how, with that pedigree, you could beanything but a Tory. Mr Courtenay is rather warm that way, Iunderstand. "

"Oh, Father is as strong as he can be, " said I. "I should not dare totalk of the Elector of Hanover by any other name if he heard me. "

"Well, you may call that gentleman what you please here, " said MrCameron; "but I usually style him King George. "

"Nay, Sandy, do not teach the child to disobey her father, " said myUncle Drummond. "The Fifth Command is somewhat older than the Brunswicksuccession and the Act of Settlement. "

"A little, " said Mr Cameron, drily. 

"Little Cary, " said my uncle, softly, turning to me, "do you know thatyou are very like somebody?"

"Like whom, Uncle?" said I. 

"Somebody I loved very much, my child, " he answered, rather sadly; "fromwhom Angus has his blue eyes, and Flora her smile. "

"You mean Aunt Jane, " said I, speaking as softly as he had done, for Ifelt that she had been very dear to him. 

"Yes, my dear, " he replied; "I mean my Jeannie. You are very like her. I think we shall love each other, Cary. "

I thought so too. 

Mr Cameron left us this morning. To-day I have been exploring withFlora, who wants to go all over the house and garden and village--speaksof her pet plants as if they were old friends, and shakes hands witheveryone she meets, and pats every dog and cat in the place. And theyall seem so glad to see her--the dogs included; I do not know about thecats. As we went down the village street, it was quite amusing to hearthe greetings from every doorway. 

"Atweel, Miss Flora, ye've won hame!" said one. 

"How's a' wi' ye, my bairn?" said another. 

"A blessing on your bonnie e'en, my lassie!" said a third. 

And Flora had the same sort of thing for all of them. It was, "Well, Jeannie, is your Maggie still in her place?" or, "I hope Sandy's betternow?" or, "Have you lost your pains, Isabel?" She seemed to know allabout each one. I was quite diverted to hear it all. They all appearedrather shy with me, only very kindly; and when Flora introduced me as"her cousin from England, " which she did in every cottage, they had allsomething kind to say: that they hoped I was well after my journey, orthey trusted I should like Scotland, or something of that sort. Twotold me I was a bonnie lassie. But at last we came to a shut door--mostwere open--and Flora knocked and waited for an answer. She said gravelyto me, --

"A King's daughter lies here, Cary, waiting for her Father's chariot totake her home. "

A fresh-coloured, middle-aged woman came to the door, and I wassurprised to hear Flora say, "How is your grandmother, Elsie?"

"She's mickle as ye laft her, Miss Flora, only weaker; I'm thinkin'she'll no be lang the now. But come ben, my bonnie lassie; you're aswelcome as flowers in May. And how's a' wi' ye?"

Flora answered as we were following Elsie down the chamber and round ascreen which boxed off the end of it. Behind the screen was a bed, andon it lay, as I thought, the oldest woman on whom I ever set my eyes. Her face was all wrinkled up, yet there was a fresh colour in hercheeks, and her eyes, though much sunk, seemed piercingly bright. 

"Ye're come at last, " she said, in a low clear voice, as Flora sat downon the bed, and took the wrinkled brown hand in hers. 

"Yes, dear Mirren, come at last, " said she. "I'm very glad to gethome. "

"Ay, and that's what I'll be the morn. "

"So soon, Mirren?"

"Ay, just sae soon. I askit Him to let me bide while ye came hame. Iay thocht I wad fain see ye ance mair--my Miss Flora's lad's lassie. He's gi'en me a' that ever I askit Him--but ane thing, an' that was thevara desire o' my heart. "

"You mean, " said Flora, gently, "you wanted Ronald to come home?"

"Ay, I wanted him to come hame frae the far country!" said old Mirrenwith a sigh. "I'd ha'e likit weel to see him come hame to Abbotscliff--vara weel. But I longed mickle mair to see him come hame to theFather's house. It's no for his auld minnie to see that. But if it'sfor the Lord to see some ither day, I'm content. And He has gi'en mesae monie things that I ne'er askit Him wi' ane half the longing that Idid for that, I dinna think He'll say me nay the now. "

"Is He with you, Mirren dear?"

I could not imagine how Flora thought Mirren was to know that. But sheanswered, with a light in those bright eyes, --

"Ay, my doo. `His left haun is under my heid, and His richt haun dothembrace me. '"

I sat and listened in wonder. It all sounded so strange. Yet Floraseemed to understand. And I had such an unpleasant sense of beingoutside, and not understanding, as I never felt before, and I did notlike it a bit. I knew quite well that if Father had been there, hewould have said it was all stuff and cant. But I did not feel so sureof my Aunt Kezia. And suppose it were not cant, but was somethingunutterably real, --something that I ought to know, and must know someday, if I were ever to get to Heaven! I did not like it. I felt that Iwas among a new sort of people--people who lived, as it were, in adifferent place from me--a sort of whom I had never seen one before(that did not come from Abbotscliff) except my Aunt Kezia, and therewere differences between her and them. My Uncle Drummond and Flora, andMr Keith, and this old Mirren, and I thought Helen Raeburn and MrCameron, all belonged this new sort of people. The one who did not seemto belong them was Angus. Yet I did not like Angus nearly so well asthe rest. And yet he belonged my sort of people. It was a puzzlealtogether, and not a pleasant puzzle. And how anybody was to get outof the one set into the other set, I could not tell at all. 

Stop! I did know one other person at Brocklebank who belonged this newsort of people. It was Ephraim Hebblethwaite. He was not, I thought--well, I don't know how to put it--he did not seem so far on the road asthe others; only he was on that road, and not on this road. And then itstruck me, too, whether old Elspie, and perhaps Sam, were not on theroad as well. I ran over in my mind, as I was walking back to the mansewith Flora, who was very silent, all the people I knew; and I could notthink of one other who might be on Flora's road. Father and my sisters, Esther Langridge, the Catteralls, the Bracewells, Cecilia--oh dear, no!--Mr Digby, Mr Bagnall (yet they were parsons), Mr Parmenter--no, not one. At all the four I named last, my mind gave a sort of jump asif it were quite astonished to be asked the question. But where did theroads lead? Flora and her sort, I felt quite sure, were going toHeaven. Then where were Angus and I and all the rest going?

And I did not like the answer at all. 

But I felt that the two roads led in opposite ways, and they could notboth go to one place. 

As we walked up the path to the manse, Helen came out to meet us. 

"My lassie, " she said to Flora, "there's Miss Annas i' the garden, andLeddy Monksburn wad ha'e ye gang till Monksburn for a dish o' tea, andMiss Cary wi' ye. "

Flora's face lighted up. 

"Oh, how delightful!" she said. "Come, Cary--come and see Annas Keith. "

I was very curious to see Annas, and I followed willingly. Under theold beech at the bottom of the garden sat a girl-woman--she was noteither, but both--in a gown of soft camlet, which seemed as if it werepart of her; I do not mean so much in the fit of it, as in the completesuitableness of it and her. Her head was bent down over a book, and Icould not see her face at first--only her hair, which was neither lightnor dark, but had a kind of golden shimmer. Her hat lay beside her onthe seat. Flora ran down the walk with a glad cry of "Annas!" and thenshe stood up, and I saw Annas Keith. 

A princess! was my first thought. I saw a tall, slight figure, aslender white throat, a pure pale face, dark grey eyes with blacklashes, and a soul in them. Some people have no souls in their eyes, Annas Keith has. 

Yet I could not have said then, and I cannot say now, when I try torecall her picture in my mind's eye, whether Annas Keith is beautiful. It does not seem the right word to describe her: and yet "ugly" would bemuch further off. She is one of those women about whose beauty or wantof beauty you never think unless you are trying to describe them, andthen you cannot tell what to say about it. She takes you captive. There is a charm about her that I cannot put into words. Only it is asdifferent from the spell that Cecilia Osborne threw over me (at first)as light differs from darkness. The charm about Annas feels as if itlifted me higher, into a purer air. Whenever I had been long withCecilia, my mind felt soiled, as if I had been breathing bad air. 

When Flora introduced me, Miss Keith turned and kissed me, and I felt asif I had been presented to a queen. 

"We want to know you, " she said. "All Flora's friends are our friends. You will come, both of you?"

"I thank you, Miss Keith, " said I. "I should like to come very much. "

"Annas, please, " she said quietly, with that sweet smile of hers. It isonly when she smiles that she reminds me of her brother. 

"And how are the Laird and Lady Monksburn?" said Flora. 

I did not know that the Laird (as they always seem to call the squireshere) had been a titled gentleman: and I said so. Annas smiled. 

"Our titles will seem odd to you, " said she. "We call a Scots gentlemanby the name of his estate, and every laird's wife is `Lady'--only bycustom and courtesy, you understand. My mother really is only MrsKeith, but you will hear everybody call her Lady Monksburn. "

"Then if my father were here, they would call him--" I hesitated, andFlora ended the sentence for me. 

"The Laird of Brocklebank; and if you had a mother she would be LadyBrocklebank. "

I thought it sounded rather pleasant. 

"And when is Duncan coming home?" asked Flora. 

"To-morrow, or the day after, we hope, " said Annas. 

I noticed that she had less of the Scots accent than Flora; and MrKeith has it scarcely at all. I found after a while that Lady Monksburnis English, and that Annas has spent much of her life in England. Iwanted to know what part of England it was, and she said, "The Isle ofWight. "

"Why, then you do really come from the South!" cried I. "Do tell mesomething about it. Are there any agreeable people there?--I mean, except you. "

Annas laughed. "I hope you have seen few people from the South, " saidshe, "if that be your impression of them. "

"Only two, " said I; "and I did not like either of them one bit. "

"Well, two is no large acquaintance, " said Annas. "Let me assure youthat there are plenty of agreeable people in the South, and good peoplealso; though I will not say that they are not different from us in theNorth. They speak differently, and their manners are more polished. "

"But it is just that polish I feel afraid of, " I replied. "It looks tome so like a mask. If we are bears in the North, at least we mean whatwe say. "

"I do not think you need fear a polished Christian, " said Annas. "Aworldly man, polished or unpolished, may do you hurt. "

"But are we not all Christians?" said I. And the words were scarcelyout of my lips when the thoughts came back to me which had beentormenting me as we walked up from old Mirren's cottage. Those tworoads! Did Annas mean that only those were Christians who took thehigher one? Only, what was there in the air of Abbotscliff which seemedto make people Christians? or in that of Brocklebank, which seemedunfavourable to it?

"Those are Christians who follow Christ, " said Annas. "Do you thinkthey who do not, have a right to the name?"

"I should like to think more about it, " I answered. "It all looksstrange to me. "

"Do think about it, " replied Annas. 

When we came to Monksburn, which is about a mile from the manse, I foundit was a most charming place on the banks of the Tweed. The lawn ransloping down to the river; and the house was a lovely old building ofgrey stone, in some places almost lost in ivy. Annas said it had beenthe Abbots grange belonging to the old Abbey which gives its name toAbbotscliff and Monksburn, and several other estates and villages in theneighbourhood. Here we found Lady Monksburn in the drawing-room, busiedwith some soft kind of embroidered work; and I thought I could haveguessed her to be the mother of Mr Keith. Then when the Laird came in, I saw that his grey eyes were Annas's, though I should not call themalike in other respects. 

Lady Monksburn is a dear old lady; and as she comes from the South, Imust never say a word against Southerners again. She took both my handsin her soft white ones, and spoke to me so kindly that before I hadknown her ten minutes I was almost surprised to find myself chatteringaway to her as if she were quite an old friend--telling her all aboutBrocklebank, and my sisters, and Father, and my Aunt Kezia. I could nottell how it was, --I felt so completely at home in that Monksburndrawing-room. Everybody was so kind, and seemed to want me to enjoymyself, and yet there was no fuss about it. If those be southernmanners, I wish I could catch them, like small-pox. But perhaps theyare Christian manners. That may be it. And I don't suppose you cancatch that like the small-pox. However, I certainly did enjoy myselfthis afternoon. Mr Keith, I find, can draw beautifully, and they letme look through some of his portfolios, which was delightful. And whenAnnas, at her mother's desire, at down to the harpsichord, and sang ussome old Scots songs, I thought I never heard anything so charming--until Flora joined in, and then it was more delicious still. 

I think it would be easy to be good, if one lived at Monksburn!

Those grey eyes of Annas's seem to see everything. I am sure she sawthat Flora would like a quiet talk with Lady Monksburn, and she carriedme to see her peacocks and silver pheasants, which are great pets, shesays; and they are so tame that they will come and eat out of her hand. Of course they were shy with me. Then we had a charming little walk onthe path which ran along by the side of the river, and Annas pointed outsome lovely peeps through the trees at the scenery beyond. When we camein, I saw that Flora had been crying; but she seemed so much calmer andcomforted, that I am sure her talk had done her good. Then came supper, and then Angus, who had cleared up wonderfully, and was more what heused to be as a boy, instead of the cross, gloomy young man he hasseemed of late. Lady Monksburn offered to send a servant with arms toaccompany us home, but Angus appeared to think it quite unnecessary. Hehad his dirk and a pistol, he said; and surely he could take care of twogirls! I am not sure that Flora would not rather have had the servant, and I know I would. However, we came safe to the manse, meeting nothingmore terrific than a white cow, which wicked Angus tried to persuade uswas a lady without a head. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

NEW IDEAS FOR CARY. 

 "O Jesu, Thou art pleading, In accents meek and low, I died for you, My children, And will ye treat Me so? O Lord, with shame and sorrow, We open now the door: Dear Saviour, enter, enter, And leave us never more!"

 BISHOP WALSHAM HOW. 

As we drank our tea, this evening, I said, --

"Uncle, will you please tell me something?"

"Surely, my dear, if I can, " answered my Uncle Drummond kindly, layingdown his book. 

"Are all the people at Abbotscliff going to Heaven?"

I really meant it, but my Uncle Drummond put on such a droll expression, and Angus laughed so much, that I woke up to see that they thought I hadsaid something very queer. When my uncle spoke, it was not at first tome. 

"Flora, " said he, "where have you taken your cousin?"

"Only into the cottages, Father, and to Monksburn, " said Flora, in adiverted tone, as if she were trying not to laugh. 

"Either they must all have had their Sabbath manners on, " said my UncleDrummond, "or else there are strange folks at Brocklebank. No, my dear;I fear not, by any means. "

"I am afraid, " said I, "we must be worse folks at Brocklebank than Ithought we were. But these seem to me, Uncle, such a different kind ofpeople--as if they were travelling on another road, and had a differentend in view. Nearly all the people I see here seem to think more ofwhat they ought to do, and at Brocklebank we think of what we like todo. "

I did not, somehow, like to say right out what I really meant--to theone set God seemed a Friend, to the other He was a Stranger. 

"Do you hear, Angus, what a good character we have?" said my UncleDrummond, smiling. "We must try to keep it, my boy. "

Of course I could not say that I did not think Angus was included in the"we. " But the momentary trouble in Flora's eyes, as she glanced at him, made me feel that she saw it, as indeed I could have guessed from what Ihad heard her say to Mr Keith. 

"Well, my lassie, " my Uncle Drummond went on, "while I fear we do notall deserve the compliment you pay us, yet have you ever thought whatthose two roads are, and what end they have in view?"

"Yes, Uncle, I can see that, " said I. "Heaven is at the end of one, Iam sure. "

"And of the other, Cary?"

I felt the tears come into my eyes. 

"Uncle, I don't like to think about that. But do tell me, for that iswhat I want to know, what is the difference? I do not see how peopleget from the one road to the other. "

I did not say--but I feel sure that my Uncle Drummond did not need it--that I felt I was on the wrong one. 

"Lassie, if you had fallen into a deep tank of water, where the wallswere so high that it was not possible you could climb out by yourself, for what would you hope?"

"That somebody should come and help me, I suppose. "

"True. And who is the Somebody that can help you in this matter?"

I thought, and thought, and could not tell. It seems strange that I didnot think what he meant. But I had been so used to think of our LordJesus Christ as a Person who had a great deal to do with going to churchand the Prayer-book, but nothing at all to do with me, that really I didnot think what my uncle meant me to say. 

"There is but one Man, my child, who can give you any help. And Helonged to help you so much, that He came down from Heaven to do it. Youknow who I mean now, Cary?"

"You mean our Lord Jesus Christ, " I said. "But, Uncle, you say Helonged to help? I never knew that, I always thought--"

"You thought He did not wish to help you at all, and that you would havevery hard work to persuade Him?"

"Well--something like it, " I said, hesitatingly Flora had left the rooma moment before, and now she put her head in at the door and calledAngus. My Uncle Drummond and I were left alone. 

"My dear lassie, " said he, as tenderly as if I had been his own child, "you would never have wished to be helped if He had not first wished tohelp you. But remember, Cary, help is not the right word. The trueword is save. You are not a few yards out of the path, and able to turnback at any moment. You are lost. Dear Cary, will you let the Lordfind you?"

"Can I hinder Him?" I said. 

"Yes, my dear, " was the solemn answer. "He allows Himself to behindered, if you choose the way of death. He will not save you againstyour will. He demands your joining in that work. Take, again, theemblem of the tank: the man holds out his hands to you; you cannot helpyourself out; but you can choose whether you will put your hands in hisor not. It will not be his fault if you are drowned; it will be yourown. "

"Uncle, how am I to put my hands in _His_?"

"Hold them out to Him, Cary. Ask Him, with all your heart, to take you, and make you His own. And if He refuse, let me know. "

"I will try, Uncle, " I answered. "But you said--does God _never_ saveanybody against his will?"

My Uncle Drummond was silent for a moment. 

"Well, Cary, perhaps at times He does. But it is not His usual way ofworking. And no man has any right to expect it in his own case, thoughwe may be allowed to hope for it in that of another. "

I wonder very much now, as I write it all down, how I ever came to sayall this to my Uncle Drummond. I never meant it at all when I began. Isuppose I got led on from one thing to another. When I came to think ofit, I was very grateful to Flora for going away and calling Angus afterher. 

"But, Uncle, " I said, recollecting myself suddenly, "how does anybodyknow when the Lord has heard him?"

He smiled. "If you were lifted out of the tank and set on dry ground, Cary, do you think you would have much doubt about it?"

"But I could see that, Uncle. "

"Take another emblem, then. You love some people very dearly, and thereare others whom you do not like at all. You cannot see love and hate. But have you any doubt whom you love, or whom you dislike?"

"No, " said I, --"at least, not when I really love or dislike them verymuch. But there are people whom I cannot make up my mind about; Ineither like nor dislike them exactly. "

"Those are generally people of whom you have not seen much, I think, "said my Uncle Drummond; "or else they are those colourless men and womenof whom you say that they have nothing in them. You could not feel sotowards a person of decided character, and one whom you knew well. "

"No, Uncle; I do not think I could. "

"You may rest assured, my dear, that unless He be an utter Stranger, youwill never feel so towards the Lord. When you come to know Him, youmust either love or hate Him. You cannot help yourself. "

It almost frightened me to hear my Uncle Drummond say that. It must besuch a dreadful thing to go wrong on that road!

"Cary, " he added suddenly, but very softly, "would you find it difficultto love a man who was going to die voluntarily instead of you?"

"I do not see how I could help it, Uncle, " cried I. 

"Then how is it, " he asked in the same tone, "that you have anydifficulty in loving the Man who has died in your stead?"

I thought a minute. 

"Uncle, " I said, "it does not seem real. The other would. "

"In other words, Cary--you do not believe it. "

"Do not believe it!" cried I. "Surely, Uncle, I believe in our Lord!Don't I say the Creed every Sunday?"

"Probably you do, my dear. "

"But I do believe it!" cried I again. 

"You do believe--what?" said my Uncle Drummond. 

"Why, I believe that Christ came down from Heaven, and was crucified, dead, and buried, and rose again, and ascended into Heaven. Of course Ibelieve it, Uncle--every bit of it. "

"And what has it to do with you, my dear? It all took place a goodwhile ago, did it not?"

I thought again. "I suppose, " I said slowly, "that Christ died to savesinners; and I must be a sinner. But somehow, I don't quite see how itis to be put together. Uncle, it seems like a Chinese puzzle of which Ihave lost a piece, and none of the others will fit properly. I cannotexplain it, and yet I do not quite know why. "

"Listen, Cary, and I will tell you why. "

I did, with both my ears and all my mind. 

"Your mistake is a very common one, little lassie. You are trying tobelieve what, and you have got to believe whom. If you had to cross araging torrent, and I offered to carry you over, it would signifynothing whether you knew where I was born, or if I were able to speakLatin. But it would signify a great deal to you whether you knew me;whether you believed that I would carry you safe over, or that I wouldtake the opportunity to drop you into the water and run away. Would itnot?"

"Of course it would, " I said; "the whole thing would depend on whether Itrusted you. "

My Uncle Drummond rose and laid his hand on my head--not as Mr Digbyused to do, as though he were condescending to a little child; but as ifhe were blessing me in God's name. Then he said, in that low, soft, solemn tone which sounds to me so very high and holy, as if an angelspoke to me:--"Cary, dear child, the whole thing depends--your soul andyour eternity depend--on whether you trust the Lord Jesus. " Then hewent out of the room, and left me alone, as if he wanted me to thinkwell about that before he said anything more. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I think something is coming to help me. My Uncle Drummond was late forsupper last night--a thing which I could see was very unusual. And whenhe did come, he was particularly silent and meditative. At length, whensupper was over, as we turned our chairs round from the table, and weresitting down again to our work, my Uncle Drummond, who generally goes tohis study after supper, sat down among us. 

"Young people, " said he, with a look on his face which it seemed to mewas partly grave and partly diverted, "considering that you are moretravelled persons than I, I come to you for information. Have you--anyof you--while in England, either seen or heard anything of one MrGeorge Whitefield, a clergyman of the Church of England, who is commonlyreckoned a Methodist?"

Angus made a grimace, and said, "Plenty!"

Flora was doubtful; she thought she had heard his name. 

I said, "I have heard his name too, Uncle; but I do not know much abouthim, only Father seemed to think it a good joke that anybody shouldfancy him a wise man. "

"Angus appears to be the best informed of you, " said my uncle. "Speakout, my boy, and tell us what you know. "

"Well, he is a queer sort of fellow, I fancy, " said Angus. "He was oneof the Methodists; but they say those folks have had a split, andWhitefield has broken with them. He travels about preaching, though, asthey do; and they say that the reason why he took to field-preaching wasbecause no church would hold the enormous congregations which gatheredto hear him. He has been several times to the American colonies, wherethey say he draws larger crowds than John Wesley himself. "

"A good deal of `They say', " observed Uncle Drummond, with a smile. "Do`they say' that the bishops and clergy are friendly to this remarkablepreacher, or not?"

"Well, I should rather think not, " answered Angus. "There is one bishopwho has stuck to him through thick and thin--the Bishop of Gloucester, who gave him his orders to begin with; but the rest of them look askanceat him over their shoulders, I believe. It is irregular, you know, topreach in fields--wholly improper to save anybody's soul out of church;and these English folks take the horrors at anything irregular. Thewomen like him because he makes them cry so much. "

"Angus!" cried Flora and I together. 

"That's what I was told, I assure you, young ladies, " returned Angus, "Iam only repeating what I have heard. "

"Well, that you may shortly have an opportunity of judging, " said myUncle Drummond; "for this gentleman has come to Selkirk, and has askedleave of the presbytery to preach in certain kirks of thisneighbourhood. There was some demur at first to the admission of aPrelatist; but after some converse with him this was withdrawn, and hewill preach next Sabbath morning at Selkirk, and in the afternoon atMonks' Brae. You can go to Monks' Brae to hear him, if you will; I, ofcourse, shall not be able to accompany you, but I trust to find anopportunity when he preaches in the fields, if there be one. I shouldlike to hear this great English preacher, I confess. What say you?"

"They'll go, you may be sure, Sir, " said Angus, before we could answer. "Trust a lassie to gad about if she has the chance. Mind you take allthe pocket-handkerchiefs you have with you. They say 'tis dreadful theway this man gars you greet. 'Tis true, you English are more given thatway than we Scots; but folks say you cannot help yourself, --you mustcry, whether you will or no. "

"I should like to go, I think, Uncle, " said I. "Only--I suppose he is areal clergyman?"

"There goes a genuine Englishwoman!" said Angus. "If Paul himself wereto preach, she would not go to hear him till she knew what bishop hadordained him. "

"Yes, Cary, " answered my Uncle Drummond, smiling; "he is a realclergyman. More `real' than you think me, I fear. "

"Oh, you are different, Uncle, " said I; "but I am sure Father would notlike me to hear any preacher who was not--at least--I don't know--he didnot seem to think this Mr Whitefield all right, somehow. Perhaps hedid not know he was a proper person. "

"`A proper person!'" sighed Angus, casting up his eyes. 

"My dear, " said my Uncle Drummond, kindly, "you are a good lassie tothink of your father's wishes. Never mind Angus; he is only making fun, and is a foolish young fellow yet. Of course, not having spoken withyour father, I cannot tell so well as yourself what his wishes are; and'tis quite possible he may think, for I hear many do, that thisgentleman is a schismatic, and may disapprove of him on that accountonly. If so, I can tell you for certain, 'tis a mistake. But as toanything else, you must judge for yourself, and do what you thinkright. "

"You see no objection to our going, Father?" asked Flora, who had notspoken hitherto. 

"Not at all, my dear, " said my Uncle. "Go by all means, if you like it. You may never have another opportunity, and 'tis very natural youshould wish it. "

"Thank you, " answered Flora. "Then, if Angus will take me, I will go. "

"Well, I don't know, " said Angus. "I am afraid some of my handkerchiefsare at the wash. I should not like to be quite drowned in my tears. Imight wash you away, too; and that would be a national calamity. "

"Don't jest on serious subjects, my boy, " said Uncle; and Angus grewgrave directly. "I am no enemy to honest, rational fun; 'tis human, andnatural more especially to the young. But never, never let us make ajest of the things that pertain to God. "

"I beg your pardon, Father, " said Angus, in a low voice. "I'll takeyou, Flora. What say you, Cary?"

"Yes, I should like to go, " I said. And I wondered directly whether Ihad said right or wrong. But I do so want to hear something that wouldhelp me. 

I found that Monks' Brae was on the Monksburn road, but nearly two milesfurther on. 'Tis the high road from Selkirk to Galashiels, after youleave Monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that Angus was deemedguard enough. But last night the whole road was so full of people goingto hear Mr Whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way. The kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stoodlooking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. MrLundie, the minister of Monks' Brae, led the worship (as they say here);and when the sermon came, I looked with some curiosity at the greatpreacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed tothink it so wrong to like. Mr Whitefield is not anything particular tolook at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosycheeks. He has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to thebest advantage. Every word is as distinct as can be, and his voicerings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. But he had notpreached ten minutes before I forgot his voice and himself altogether, and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. And I neverheard such a sermon in my life. My Uncle Drummond's are the only ones Ihave heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carryyou away, as Mr Whitefield does. 

All the other preachers I ever heard, except those two, are alwaystelling you to do something. Come to church, and say your prayers, andtake the Sacrament; but particularly, do your duty. Now it always seemsto me that there are two grand difficulties in the way of doing one'sduty. The first is, to find out what is one's duty. Of course there isthe Bible; but, if I may say it with reverence, the Bible has neverseemed to have much to do with me. It is all about people who livedever so long ago, and what they did; and what has that to do with me, Cary Courtenay, and what I am doing? Then suppose I do know what myduty is--and certainly I do in some respects--I am not sure that I canexpress it properly, but I feel as if I wanted something to come andmake me do it. I am like a watch, with all the wheels and springsthere, ready to go, but I want somebody to come and wind me up. And Ido not know how that is to be done. But Mr Whitefield made me wish, ohso much! that that unknown somebody would come and do it. I neverthought much about it before, until that talk with my Uncle Drummond, and now it feels to be what I want more than anything else. 

I cannot write the sermon down: not a page of it. I think you never canwrite down on paper the things that stir your very soul. It is thethings which just tickle your brains that you can put down in elegantlanguage on paper. When a thing comes close to you, into your realself, and grapples with you, and leaves a mark on you for everhereafter, whether for good or evil, you cannot write or talk aboutthat, --you can only feel it. 

The text was, "What think ye of Christ?"

Mr Whitefield saith any man that will may have his sins forgiven, andmay know it. I have heard Mr Bagnall speak of this doctrine, which hesaid was shocking and wicked, for it gave men licence to live in sin. Mr Whitefield named this very thing (whereby I saw it had been broughtas a charge against him), and showed plainly that it did not tend todestroy good works, but only built them up on a safer and surerfoundation. We work, saith he, not for that we would be saved by ourworks, but out of gratitude that we have been saved by Christ, whocommands these works to such as would follow Him. And he quoted anArticle of the Church, [Note 4] saying that he desired men to see thathe was no schismatic preaching his own fancies, but that the Churchwhereof he was a minister held the same doctrine. I wonder if MrBagnall knows that, and if he ever reads the Articles. 

He spoke much, also, of the new birth, or conversion. I never heard anyother preacher, except Uncle, mention that at all. I know Mr Digbythought it a fanatical notion only fit for enthusiasts. But certainlythere are texts in the Bible that speak plainly of it. And MrWhitefield saith that we do not truly believe in Christ, unless we sobelieve as to have Him dwelling in us, and to receive life andnourishment from Him as the branch does from the vine. And Saint Johnsays the same thing. How can it be enthusiasm to say what the Biblesays?

People seem so dreadfully frightened of what they call enthusiasm [Note1]. Grandmamma used to say there was nothing more vulgar. But thequeer thing is that many of these very people will let you get asenthusiastic as ever you like about a game of cards, or one horse comingin before another in a race, or about politics, or poaching, and thingsof that sort that have to do with this world. It is about the things ofreal consequence--things which have to do with your soul and the nextworld--that you must not get enthusiastic!

May one not have too little enthusiasm, I wonder, as well as too much?Would it not be reasonable to be enthusiastic about things that reallysignify, and cool about the things that do not?

I want to write down a few sentences which Mr Whitefield said, that Imay not forget them. I do not know how they came in among the rest. They stuck to me just as they are. [Note 2]. He says:--

"Our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual enemies. "

"We must take care of healing before we see sinners wounded. "

"The King of the Church has all its adversaries in a chain. "

"If other sins have slain their thousands of professing Christians, worldly-mindedness has slain its ten thousands. "

"How can any say, `Lead us not into temptation, ' in the morning, whenthey are resolved to run into it at night?"

"How many are kept from seeing Christ in glory, by reason of the press!"(That is, he explained, that people are ashamed of being singularlygood [Note 3], unless their acquaintances are on the same side. )

"Christ will thank you for coming to His feast. "

When Mr Whitefield came near the end of his sermon, I thought I couldsee why people said he made them cry so much. His voice sank into asoft, pleading, tender accent, as if he yearned over the souls beforehim. His hands were held out as if he were just holding out JesusChrist to us, and we must take Him or turn away and be lost. And hebegged us all so pitifully not to turn away. I saw tears running downthe cheeks of many hard-looking men and women. Flora cried, and so didI. But Angus did not. He did not look as though he felt at allinclined to do it. 

This is one of the last sermons, we hear, that Mr Whitefield willpreach on this side the sea. He sails for the American colonies nextmonth. He is said to be very fond of his American friends, and verymuch liked by them. [Note 5]. 

As we were coming away, we came upon our friends from Monksburn, whom wehad not seen before. 

"This is preaching!" said Annas, as she clasped our hands. 

"Eh, puir laddie, he'll just wear himself out, " said the Laird. "I hopehe has a gude wife, for sic men are rare, and they should be well takencare of while they are here. "

"He has a wife, Sir, " observed Angus, "and the men of his own kidneythink he would be rather better off if he had none. "

"Hoots, but I'm sorry to hear it, " said the Laird. "What ails her, kenye, laddie?"

"As I understood, Sir, she had three grave drawbacks. In the firstplace, she is a widow with a rich jointure. "

"That's a queer thing to call a drawback!" said the Laird. 

"In the second place, she is a widow with a temper, and a good deal ofit. "

"Dinna name it!" cried the Laird, lifting up his hands. "Dinna name it!Eh, puir laddie, but I'm wae for him, gin he's fashed wi' ane o' thatsort. "

"And in the third place, " continued Angus, "I have been told that he maywell preach against worldly-mindedness, for he gets enough of it athome. Mrs Whitefield knows what are trumps, considerably better thanshe knows where to look in the Bible for her husband's text. "

"Dear, dear!" cried Lady Monksburn in her soft voice. "What could thegood man be thinking of, to bind such a burden as that upon his life?"

"He thought he had converted her, I believe, " said Angus, "but she cameundone. "

"I should think, " remarked Mr Keith, "that he acted as Joshua did withthe Gibeonites. "

"How was that?" said Angus. 

"It won't hurt you to look for it, " was the answer. 

I don't know whether Angus looked for it, but I did as soon as I got in, and I saw that Mr Keith thought there had been too much hastiness, andperhaps a little worldly-mindedness in Mr Whitefield himself. That maybe why he preaches so earnestly against it. We know so well where theslippery places are, when we have been down ourselves. And when we havebeen down once, we are generally very, very careful to keep off thatslide for the future. 

Mr Whitefield said last night that it was not true to say, as some do, "that a man may be in Christ to-day, and go to the Devil to-morrow. "Then if anybody is converted, how can he, as Angus said, "come undone"?I only see one explanation, and it is rather a terrible one: namely, that the conversion was not real, but only looked like it. And I amafraid that must be the truth. But what a pity it is that MrWhitefield did not find it out sooner!

"Well, Helen, and how did you like the great English preacher?" I saidto Flora's nurse. 

"Atweel, Miss Cary, the discourse was no that ill for a Prelatist, " wasthe answer. 

And that was as much admiration as I could get from Helen. 

There was more talk about Mr Whitefield this morning at breakfast. Icannot tell what has come to Angus. Going to hear Mr Whitefield preachat Monks' Brae seems to have made him worse instead of better. Floraand I both liked it so much; but Angus talks of it with a kind of bitterhardness in his voice, and as if it pleased him to let us know all thebad things which had been said about the preacher. He told us that theysaid--(I wish they would give over saying!)--that Mr Whitefield had gothis money matters into some tangle, in the business of building hisOrphan House in Georgia; and "they said" he had acted fraudulently inthe matter. My Uncle Drummond put this down at once, with--

"My son, never repeat a calumny against a good man. You may not knowit, but you do Satan's very work for him. "

Angus made a grimace behind his hand, which I fancy he did not mean hisfather to see. Then, he went on, "`They say' that Mr Whitefield is sofanatical and extravagant in preaching against worldliness, that hecounts it sinful to smell to a rose, or to eat anything relishing. "

"Did he say so?" asked my Uncle: "or did `they' say it for him?"

"Well, Sir, " answered Angus with a laugh, "I heard Mr Whitefield hadsaid that he would give his people leave to smell to a rose and a pinkalso, so long as they would avoid the appearance of sin: and, quoth he, `if you can find any diversion which you would be willing to be found atby our Lord in His coming, I give you free licence to go to it andwelcome. '"

"Then we have disposed of that charge, " saith my Uncle. "What next?"

"Well, they say he hath given infinite displeasure to the English gentryby one of his favourite sayings--that `Man is half a beast and half adevil. ' He will not allow them to talk of `passing the time'--how darethey waste the time, saith he, when they have the devil and the beast toget out of their souls? Folks don't like, you see, to be painted inthose colours. "

"No, we rarely admire a portrait that is exactly like us, " saith myUncle Drummond. 

"Pray, Sir, think you that is a likeness?" said Angus. 

"More like, my son, than you and I think. Some of us have more of theone, and some of the other: but in truth I cannot contradict MrWhitefield. 'Tis a just portrait of what man is by nature. "

"But, Sir!" cried Angus, "do you allow nothing for a man's naturalvirtues?"

"What are they?" asked my Uncle. "I allow that `there is none thatdoeth good, no, not one. ' You were not taught, Angus, that a man hadvirtues natural to him, except as the Spirit of God implanted them inhim. "

"No, Sir; but when I go forth into the world, I cannot help seeing thatit is so. "

"I wish I could see it!" said my Uncle. "It would be a much moreagreeable sight than many things I do see. "

"Well, Sir, take generosity and good temper, " urged Angus. "Do you notsee much of these in men who, as Mr Whitefield would say, are worldlyand ungodly?"

"I often see the Lord's restraining grace, " answered my Uncle, quietly;"but am I to give the credit of it to those whom He restrains?"

"But think you, Sir, that it is wise--" Angus paused. 

"Go on, my boy, " said my Uncle. "I like you to speak out, like anhonest man. By all means have courage to own your convictions. If theybe right ones, you may so have them confirmed; and if they be wrong, youstand in better case to have them put right. "

I did not think Angus looked quite comfortable. He hesitated a moment, and then, I suppose, came out with what he had meant to say. 

"Think you not, Sir, that it is wise to leave unsaid such things asoffend people, and make them turn away from preaching? Should we not becareful to avoid offence?"

"Unnecessary offence, " saith my Uncle. "But the offence of the cross isprecisely that which we are warned not to avoid. `Not with wisdom ofwords, ' saith the Apostle, `lest the cross of Christ should be made ofnone effect. ' In his eyes, `then is the offence of the cross ceased, 'was sufficient to condemn the preaching whereof he spoke. And thatpolicy of keeping back truth is the Devil's policy; 'tis Jesuitical. `Will ye speak wickedly for God, and talk deceitfully for Him?' `Shallthe throne of iniquity have fellowship with _Thee_?' Never, Angus:never!"

"But our Lord Himself seems to have kept things back from Hisdisciples, " pleaded Angus, uneasily. 

"Yes, what they were not ready for and could not yet understand. Butnever that which offended them. He offended them terribly when He toldthem that the Son of Man was about to be crucified. So did the Jesuitsto the Chinese: and when they found the offence, they altered theirpolicy, and said the story of the crucifixion was an invention ofChrist's enemies. Did He?"

Angus made no answer: and breakfast being over, we separated to ourseveral work. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. "Enthusiasm" was the term then usually applied to the doctrinesof grace, when the word was used in a religious sense. 

Note 2. These sentences are not taken from any one of Whitefield'ssermons exclusively, but are gathered from the gems of thought scatteredthrough his works. 

Note 3. Singular still meant alone in Whitefield's day. 

Note 4. Articles twelve and thirteen. All the members of the Church ofEngland ought to be perfectly familiar with the Articles and Homilies, as the Reformers intended them to be. How else can they know what theyprofess to hold, when they call themselves members of the Church? Ifthey do not share her opinions, they have no right to use her name. 

Note 5. He died at Newbury Port, in New England, in September 1770. America has no nobler possession than the grave of George Whitefield. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

RUMOURS OF WAR. 

 "They've left their bonnie Highland hills, Their wives and bairnies dear, To draw the sword for Scotland's Lord, The young Chevalier. "

 CAROLINE, LADY NAIRN. 

Yesterday, when Flora and I sat at our sewing in the manse parlour, something happened which has set everything in a turmoil. We had beentalking, but we were silent just then: and I was thinking over what myUncle Drummond and Mr Whitefield had said, when all at once we heardthe gate dashed open, and Angus came rushing up the path with his plaidflying behind him. Flora sprang up and ran to meet him. 

"What is the matter?" she said. "'Tis so unlike Angus to come dashingup in that way. I do hope nothing is wrong with Father. "

I dropped my sewing and ran after her. 

"Angus, what is wrong?" she cried. 

"Why should anything be wrong? Can't something be right?" cried Angus, as he came up; and I saw that his cheeks were flushed and his eyesflashing. "The Prince has landed, and the old flag is flying atGlenfinnan. Hurrah!"

And Angus snatched off his cap, and flung it up so high that I wonderedif it would come down again. 

"The Prince!" cried Flora; and looking at her, I saw that she had caughtthe infection too. "O Angus, what news! Who told you? Is it true?Are you quite sure?"

"Sure as the hills. Duncan told me. I have been over to Monksburn, andhe has just come home. All the clans in Scotland will be up to-morrow. That was the one thing we wanted--our Prince himself among us. You willhear of no faint hearts now. "

"What will the Elector do?" said Flora. "He cannot, surely, make headagainst our troops. "

"Make head! We shall be in London in a month. Sir John Cope has goneto meet Tullibardine at Glenfinnan. I expect he will come back a triflefaster than he went. Long live the King, and may God defend the right!"

All at once, Angus's tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. "Cary, Ihope you are not a traitor in the camp? You look as if you carednothing about it, and you rather wondered we did. "

"I know next to nothing about it, Angus, " I answered. "Father wouldcare a great deal; and if I understood it, I dare say I might. But Idon't, you see. "

"What do I hear!" cried Angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, andcasting up his eyes. "The daughter of Squire Courtenay of Brocklebankknows next to nothing about Toryism! Hear it, O hills and dales!"

"About politics of any sort, " said I. "Don't you know, I was brought upwith Grandmamma Desborough, who is a Whig so far as she is anything--butshe always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so I never hadthe chance of hearing much about it. "

"Poor old tabby!" said irreverent Angus. 

"But have you heard nothing since you came to Brocklebank?" asked Flora, with a surprised look. 

"Oh, I have heard Father toast `the King over the water, ' and rail atthe Elector; and I have heard Fanny chant that `Britons never shall beslaves' till I never wanted to hear the tune again; and I have heardAmbrose Catterall sing Whig songs to put Father in a pet, and heard lotsof people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the Kinghas his own again. That is about all I know. Of course I know how theRevolution came about, and all that: and I have heard of the war thirtyyears ago, and the dreadful executions after it--"

"Executions! Massacres!" cried Angus, hotly. 

"Well, massacres if you like, " said I. "I am sure they were shockingenough to be called any ugly name. "

Angus seemed altogether changed. He could not keep to one subject, norstand still for one minute. I was not much surprised so long as it wasonly he; but I was astonished when I saw the change which came over myUncle Drummond. I never supposed he could get so excited about anythingwhich had to do with earth. And yet his first thought was to connect itwith Heaven. [Note 1. ]

I shall never forget the ring of his prayer that night. An exile withinsight of home, a prisoner to whom the gates had just been opened, mighthave spoken in the words and tones that he did. 

"Lord, Thou hast been gracious unto Thy land!" "Let them give thankswhom the Lord hath redeemed, and delivered from the hand of the enemy!"That was the key-note of every sentence. 

I found, before long, that I had caught the complaint myself. I wentabout singing, "The King shall ha'e his ain again, " and got as hot andeager for fresh news as anybody. 

"Oh dear, I hope the Prince will conquer the Elector before I go toLondon, " I said to Flora: "for I do not know whatever Grandmamma willsay if I go to her in this mood. She always says there is nothing sovulgar as to get enthusiastic over anything. You ought to be calm, composed, collected, and everything else which is cold and begins withC. "

Flora laughed, but was grave again directly. 

"I expect, Cary, your journey to London is a long way off, " said she. "How are you to travel, if all the country be up, and troops going toand fro everywhere?"

"I am sure I don't care if it be, " said I. "I would rather stay here, agreat deal. "

I thought we were tolerably warm about the Prince's landing, atAbbotscliff; but when I got to Monksburn, I found the weather stillhotter. The Laird is almost beside himself; Mr Keith as I never sawhim before. Annas has the air of an inspired prophetess, and even LadyMonksburn is moved out of her usual quietude, though she makes the leastado of any. News came while we were there, that Sir John Cope had beenso hard pressed by the King's army that he was forced to fall back onInverness; and nothing would suit the Laird but to go out and make abonfire on the first hill he came to, so as to let people see thatsomething had happened. The Elector, we hear, has come back fromHanover, and his followers are in a panic, I hope they will stay there. 

Everybody agrees that the army will march southwards at once after thisvictory, and that unless my journey could take place directly, I shallhave to stay where I am, at least over the winter. The Laird wishes hecould get Annas out of the way. If I were going, I believe he wouldsend her with me, to those friends of Lady Monksburn in the Isle ofWight. I thought Lady Monksburn looked rather anxious, and wistful too, when he spoke about it. Annas herself did not seem to care. 

"The Lord will not go to the Isle of Wight, " she said, quietly. 

Oh, if I could feel as they do--that God is everywhere, and thateverywhere He is my Friend! And then, my Uncle Drummond's words comeback upon me. But how do you trust Christ? What have you to do? Ifpeople would make things plain!

Well, it looks as if I should have plenty of time for learning. For itseems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that I am a fixture atAbbotscliff. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one's mindthat they are not going to happen?

About ten o'clock this morning, Flora and I were sewing in the parlour, just as we have been doing every day since I came here. My UncleDrummond was out, and Angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet. Helen Raeburn put in her head at the door. 

"If you please, Miss Cary, " said she, "my cousin Samuel wad be fain tospeak wi' ye. "

For one moment I could not think who she meant. What had I to do withher cousin Samuel? And then, all at once, it flashed upon me thatHelen's cousin Samuel was our own old Sam. 

"Sam!" I almost screamed. "Has he come from Brocklebank? Oh, isanything wrong at home?"

"There's naething wrang ava, Miss Cary, but a hantle that's richt--onlyane thing belike--and that's our loss mair than yours. But will ye seeSamuel?"

"Oh, yes!" I cried. And Flora bade Helen bring him in. 

In marched Sam--the old familiar Sam, though he had put on a floweredwaistcoat and a glossy green tie which made him look rather like a MerryAndrew. 

"Your servant, ladies! Your servant, Maister Angus! I trust all's weelwi' ye the morn?"

And Sam sighed, as if he felt relieved after that speech. 

"Sam, is all well at home? Who sent you?"

"All's weel, Miss Cary, the Lord be thanked. And Mrs Kezia sent me. "

"Is my Aunt Kezia gone to her new house? Does she want me to comeback?"

"Thank goodness, na!" said Sam, which at first I thought rather a poorcompliment; but I saw the next minute that it was the answer to my firstquestion. "Mrs Kezia's gone nowhere. Nor they dinna want ye back atBrocklebank nae mair. I'm come to ha'e a care of ye till London town. The Lord grant I win hame safe mysel' at after!"

"Is the country so disturbed, Sam?" said Flora. 

"The country's nae disturbed, Miss Flora. I was meanin' temptations andsic-like. Leastwise, ay--the country is a bit up and down, as ye maysay; but no sae mickle. We'll win safe eneuch to London, me and MissCary, if the Lord pleases. It's the comin' haim I'm feared for. "

"And is--" I hardly knew how to ask what I wanted to know. Flora helpedme. I think she saw I needed it. 

"Was the wedding very grand, Sam?"

"Whose wedding, Miss Flora? There's been nae weddings at Brocklebank, but Ben Dykes and auld Bet Donnerthwaite, and I wish Ben joy on't. I amfain he's no me. "

"Nay, you are fain you are no he, " laughed Angus. 

"I'm fain baith ways, Maister Angus. The Laird 'd hae his table illserved gin Ben tried his haun. "

"But what do you mean, Sam?" cried I. "Has not--"

I stopped again, but Sam helped me out himself. 

"Na, Miss Cary, there's nae been siccan a thing, the Lord be thanked!She took pepper in the nose, and went affa gude week afore it suld ha'ebeen; and a gude riddance o' ill rubbish, say I. Mrs Kezia and MissSophy, they are at hame, a' richt: and Miss Hatty comes back in atwa-three days, without thae young leddies suld gang till London toun, and gin they do she'll gang wi' 'em. "

"Father is not married?" I exclaimed. 

"He's better aff, " said Sam, determinedly. "I make na count o' thaehizzies. "

How glad I felt! Though Father might be sorry at first, I felt so surehe would be thankful afterwards. As for the girl who had jilted him, Ithought I could have made her into mincemeat. But I was so glad of hisescape. 

"The Laird wad ha'e had ye come wi' yon lanky loon wi' the glass of hise'e, " went on Sam: "he was bound frae Carlisle to London this neistmonth. But Mrs Kezia, she wan him o'er to send me for ye. An' I wasfor to say that gin the minister wad like Miss Flora to gang wi' ye, Imicht care ye baith, or onie ither young damsel wha's freens wad like toha'e her sent soothwards. "

"O Flora, " I cried at once--"Annas!"

"Yes, we will send word to Monksburn, " answered Flora: and Angus jumpedup and said he would walk over. 

"As for me, " said Flora, turning to Sam, "I must hear my father'sbidding. I do not think I shall go--not if I may stay with him. Butthe Laird of Monksburn wishes Miss Keith to go south, and I think hewould be glad to put her in your care. "

"And I'd be proud to care Miss Annas, " said Sam, with a pull at hisforelock. "I mind her weel, a bit bonnie lassie. The Laird need naefear gin she gangs wi' me. But I'd no ha'e said sae mickle for yon puirweak silken chiel wi' the glass in his e'e. "

"Why, Sam, who do you mean?" said I. 

"Wha?" said Sam. "Yon pawky chiel, the auld Vicar's nevey--MaisterParchmenter, or what ye ca him--a bonnie ane to guard a pair o' lassieshe'd be!"

"Mr Parmenter!" cried I. "Did Father think of sending us with him?"

"He just did, gin Mrs Kezia had nae had mair wit nor himsel'. She sentye her loving recommend, young leddies, and ye was to be gude lassies, the pair o' ye, and no reckon ye kent better nor him that had the chargeo' ye. "

"Sam, you put that in yourself, " said Angus. 

"Atweel, Sir, Mrs Kezia said she hoped they'd be gude lassies, anddiscreet--that's as true as my father's epitaph. "

"Where is Miss Osborne gone, Sam?" asked Flora. 

"Gin naebody wants to ken mair than me, Miss Flora, there'll no bemickle speiring. I'm only sure o' ane place where she'll no be gane, I'm thinkin', and that's Heaven. "

"You don't seem to me to have fallen in love with her, Sam, " said Angus, who appeared exceedingly amused. 

"Is't me, Sir? Ma certie, but gin there were naebody in this haillwarld but her an' me, I'd tak' a lodging for her in the finest street Icould find i' London toun, an' I'd be aff mysel' to the Orkneys by theneist ship as left the docks. I wad, sae!"

Angus laughed till he cried, and Flora and I were no much better. Hewent at once to Monksburn, and came back with tidings that the Laird wasvery glad of the opportunity to send Annas southwards. And when myUncle Drummond came in, though his lip trembled and her eyes pleadedearnestly, he said Flora must go too. 

And to-night Mr Keith brought news that men were up all over theHighlands, and that the Prince was marching on Perth. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Uncle Drummond says we must go at once--there is not to be a day'sdelay that can be helped. Mr Keith and Angus are both to join thePrince as soon as they can be ready. My Uncle will go with us himselfto Hawick, and then Sam will go on with us to Carlisle, where we are towait one day, while Sam rides over to Brocklebank to fetch and exchangesuch things as we may need, and if we can hear of any friend of Father'sor my Uncle's who is going south, we are to join their convoy. TheLaird of Monksburn sends one of his men with us; and both he and Samwill be well armed. I am sure I hope there will be no occasion for thearms. 

Angus is in a mental fever, and dashes about, here, there, andeverywhere, without apparent reason, and also without muchconsideration. I mean consideration in both senses--reflection, andforbearance. Flora is grave and anxious--I think, a little frightened, both for herself and Angus. Mr Keith takes the affair very seriously;that I can see, though he does not say much. Annas seems (now that thefirst excitement is over) as calm as a summer eve. We are to start, ifpossible, on Friday, and sleep at Hawick the first night. 

"Hech, Sirs!" was Helen's comment, when she heard it. "My puir bairns, may the Lord be wi' ye! It's ill setting forth of a Friday. "

"Clashes and clavers!" cries Sam, turning on her. "Helen Raeburn, ye'rejust daft! Is the Lord no sae strang o' Friday as ither days? Whatwill fules say neist?"

"Atweel, ye may lauch, Sam, an' ye will, " answered Helen: "but I tellye, I ne'er brake my collar-bone of a journey but ance, and that waswhen I'd set forth of a Friday. "

"And I ne'er brake mine ava, and I've set forth monie a time of aFriday, " returned Sam. "Will ye talk sense, woman dear, gin women mauntalk?"

I do feel so sorry to leave Abbotscliff. I wish I were not going toLondon. And I do not quite like to ask myself why. I should not mindgoing at all, if it were only a change of place. Abbotscliff is verylovely, but there is a great deal in London that I should like to see. If I were to lead the same sort of life as here, and with the same sortof people, I should be quite satisfied to go. But I know it will bevery different. Everything will be changed. Not only the people, butthe ways of the people. Instead of breezy weather there will be hotcrowded rooms, and instead of the Tweed rippling over the pebbles therewill be noisy music and empty chatter. And it is not so much that I amafraid it will be what I shall not like. It will at first, I dare say:but I am afraid that in time I shall get to like it, and it will driveall the better things out of my head, and I shall just become one ofthose empty chatterers. I am sure there is danger of it. And I do notknow how to help it. It is pleasant to please people, and to make themlaugh, and to have them say how pretty, or how clever you are: and thenone gets carried away, and one says things one never meant to say, andthe things go and do something which one never meant to do. And Ishould not like to be another of my Aunt Dorothea!

I do not think there is half the fear for Flora that there is for me. She does not seem to get carried off her mind's feet, as it were: thereis something solid underneath her. And it is not at all certain thatFlora will be there. If she be asked to stay, Uncle says, she mayplease herself, for he knows she can be trusted: but if Grandmamma or myAunt Dorothea do not ask her, then she goes on with Annas to herfriends, who, Annas says, will be quite delighted to see her. 

I do so wish that Flora might stay with me!

This afternoon we went over to Monksburn to say farewell. 

Flora and Annas had a good deal to settle about our journey, and all thepeople and things we were leaving behind. They went into the garden, but I asked leave to stay. I did so want a talk with Lady Monksburn ontwo points. I thought, I hardly know why, that she would understand me. 

I sat for a few minutes, watching her bright needles glance in and outamong the soft wools: and at last I brought out the less important of mytwo questions. If she answered that kindly, patiently, and as if sheunderstood, the other was to come after. If not, I would keep it tomyself. 

"Will you tell me, Madam--is it wrong to pray about anything? I mean, is there anything one ought not to pray about?"

Lady Monksburn looked up, but only for a moment. 

"Dear child!" she said, with a gentle smile, "is it wrong to tell yourFather of something you want?"

"But may one pray about things that do not belong to church and Sundayand the Bible?" said I. 

"Everything belongs to the Bible, " said she. "It is the chart for thevoyage of life. You mean, dear heart, is it right to pray about earthlythings which have to do with the body? No doubt it is. `Give us thisday our daily bread. '"

"But does that mean real, common bread?" I asked. "I thought peoplesaid it meant food for the soul. "

"People say very foolish things sometimes, my dear. It may include foodfor the soul, and very likely does. But I think it means food for thebody first. `Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all thesethings. ' That, surely, was said of meat and drink and clothing. "

I thought a minute. "But I mean more than that, " I said; "things thatone wishes for, which are not necessaries for the body, and yet are notthings for the soul. "

"Necessaries for the mind?" suggested Lady Monksburn. "My dear, yourmind is a part of you as much as your body and spirit. And `He carethfor you, ' body, soul, and spirit--not the spirit only, and not thespirit and body only. "

"For instance, " I said, "suppose I wanted very much to go somewhere, ornot to go somewhere--for reasons which seemed good ones to me--would itbe wicked to ask God to arrange it so?"

Lady Monksburn looked up at me with her gentle, motherly eyes. 

"Dear child, " she said, "you may ask God for anything in all the world, if only you will bear in mind that He loves you, and is wiser than you. `Father, if it be possible, --nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, bedone. ' You cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which laybetween those words. If the world were to be saved, if God were to beglorified, it was not possible. Did He not know that who asked it withstrong crying and tears? Was not the asking done to teach us twothings--that He was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain anddeath as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we mayask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that God's willbe done?"

"Thank you, " I said, drawing a long breath. Yes, I might ask my secondquestion. 

"Lady Monksburn, what is it to trust the Lord Jesus?"

"Do you want to know what trust is, Cary, --or what He is? My child, Ithink I can tell you the first, but I can never attempt to paint theglory of the second. "

"_I_ want to know what people mean by _trusting_ Him. How are you totrust somebody whom you do not know?"

"It is hard. I think you must know a little before you can trust. Andby the process of trusting you learn to know. Trust and love are verynear akin. You must talk with Him, Cary, if you want to know Him. "

"You mean, pray, I suppose?"

"That is talking to Him. It is a poor converse where all the talk is onone side. "

"But what is the other side--reading the Bible?"

"That is part of it. "

"What is the other part of it?"

Lady Monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which I do not knowhow to describe. I can only say that it filled me with a suddenyearning for my dead mother. She might have smiled on me like that. 

"My darling!" she answered, "there are things which can be described, and there are things which can but be felt. No man can utter the secretof the Lord--only the Lord Himself. Ask Him to whisper it to you. Youwill care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when He hasdone so. "

Is not that just what I want? "But will He tell it to any one?" Isaid. 

"He tells it to those who long for it, " she replied. "His smile may behad by any who will have it. It costs a great deal, sometimes. But itis worth the cost. "

"What does it cost, Madam?"

"It costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worthnothing at all. It costs the world's flatteries, which are as a net forthe feet; and the world's pleasures, which are as the crackling ofthorns under the pot; and the world's honours, which are empty air. Itoften costs these. There are few men who can be trusted with both. "

There was a minute's silence, and then she said, --

"The Scottish Catechism, my dear, saith that `Man's chief end is toglorify God, and to enjoy Him for ever. ' Grander words were neverpenned out of God's own Word. And among the most striking words in itare those of David, which may be called the response thereto--`When Iawake up after Thy likeness, I shall be satisfied with it. '"

Then Annas and Flora came in. 

But I had got what I wanted. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Bloomsbury Square, London, September 23rd 1745. While we were travelling, I could not get at my book to write anything;and had I been able, I doubt whether I should have found time. Wejourneyed from early morning till late at night, really almost as thoughwe were flying from a foe: though of course we should have had nothingto fear, had the royal army overtaken us. It was only the Elector'stroops who would have meddled with us; and they were in Scotlandsomewhere. There is indeed a rumour flying abroad to-night (saith myUncle Charles), that the Prince has entered Edinburgh: but we know notif it be true or no. If so, he will surely push on straight for London, since the rebellious troops must have been driven quite away, before hecould do that. So my Uncle Charles says; and he saith too, that theyare a mere handful of raw German mercenaries, who would never stand amoment against the courage, the discipline, and the sense of right, which must animate the King's army. 

Oh dear! where shall I begin, if I am to write down all about thejourney? And if I do not, it will look like a great gap in my tale. Well, my Uncle Drummond took us to Hawick--but stop! I have not leftAbbotscliff yet, and here I am coming to Hawick. That won't do. I mustbegin again. 

Mr Keith and Angus marched on Thursday night, with a handful ofvolunteers from Tweedside. It was hard work parting. Even I felt it, and of course Angus is much less to me than the others. Mr Keith saidfarewell to my Uncle and me, and he came last to Flora. She lifted hereyes to him full of tears as she put her hand in his. 

"Duncan, " she said, "will you make me a promise?"

"Certainly, Flora, if it be anything that will ease your mind. "

"Indeed it will, " she said, with trembling lips. "Never lose sight ofAngus, and try to keep him safe and true. "

"True to the Cause, or true to God?"

"True to both. I cannot separate between right and right. "

I thought there was just one second's hesitation--no more--before MrKeith gave his solemn answer. 

"I will, so help me God!"

Flora thanked him amidst her sobs. He held her hand a moment longer, and I almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. Butsuddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes, and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than--"God bless you, dear Flora. Farewell!"

Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye:but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith's, which he had notspoken, and I wondered what it was. 

We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o'clock next morning. Flora and Iwere in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird'sservant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, andWedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, andnearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, "Take care of mybairn. The Lord's taking them both from their auld father. If I bebereaved of my children, I am bereaved. "

"The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend, " said my Uncle Drummond. "Surely you see the need to part with them?"

"Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to belamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss. " Then he turnedto Annas. "God be with thee, my bonnie birdie, " he said: "the auldGrange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a wordof thy welfare as oft as thou canst. "

"As often as ever I can, dear Father, " said Annas: and as he turnedback, and we drove away, she broke down as I had never imagined Annaswould do. 

We slept that night at the inn at Hawick. On the Saturday morning, myUncle Drummond left us, and we went on to Carlisle, which we reachedlate at night. Here we were to stay with Dr and Mrs Benn, friends ofFather's, who made much of us, and seemed to think themselves quitehonoured in having us: and Sam went off at once on a fresh horse toBrocklebank, which he hoped to reach by midnight. They would be lookingfor him. I charged him with all sorts of messages, which he said grimlythat he would deliver if he recollected them when he got there: and Igave him a paper for my Aunt Kezia, with a list of things I would havesent. 

On Sunday we went to the Cathedral with our hosts, and spent the dayquietly. 

But on Monday morning, what was my astonishment, as I was just goinginto the parlour, to hear a familiar voice say--

"Did you leave your eyes at Abbotscliff, my dear?"

"Aunt Kezia!" I cried. 

Yes, there stood my Aunt Kezia, in her hood and scarf, looking as ifonly an hour had passed since I saw her before. I was glad to see her, and I ventured to say so. 

"Why, child, did you think I was going to send my lamb out into thewilderness, with never a farewell?"

"But how early you must have had to rise, Aunt Kezia!"

"Mrs Kezia, this is an unlooked-for pleasure, " said the Doctor, comingforward. "I could never have hoped to see you at this hour. "

"This hour! Why, 'tis but eight o'clock!" cries my Aunt Kezia. "Whatsort of a lig-a-bed do you think me, Doctor?"

"Madam, I think you the flower of creation!" cries he, bowing over herhand. 

"You must have been reading the poets, " saith she, "and not to much goodpurpose. --Flora, child, you look but white! And is this Miss AnnasKeith, your friend? I am glad to see you, my dear. Don't mind an oldwoman's freedom: I call all girls `my dear'. "

Annas smiled, and said she was very pleased to feel as though my AuntKezia reckoned her among her friends. 

"My friends' friends are mine, " saith my Aunt Kezia. "Well, Cary, Ihave brought you all the things in your minute, save your purplelutestring scarf, which I could not find. It was not in the bottomshelf, as you set down. "

"Why, where could I have put it?" said I. "I always keep it on thatshelf. "

I was sorry to miss it, because it is my best scarf, and I thought Ishould want it in London, where I suppose everybody goes very fine. However, there was no more to be said--on my side. I found there was onmy Aunt Kezia's. 

"Here, hold your hand, child, " saith she. "Your father sends you tenguineas to spend; and here are five more from me, and this pocket-piecefrom Sophy. You can get a new scarf in London, if you need it, oranything else you like better. "

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Kezia!" I cried. "Why, how rich I shall be!"

"Don't waste your money, Cary: lay it out wisely, and then we shall bepleased. I will give you a good rule: Never buy anything withoutsleeping on it. Don't rush off and get it the first minute it comesinto your head. You will see the bottom of your purse in a veek if youdo. "

"But it might be gone, Aunt Kezia. "

"Then it is something you can do without. "

"Is Hatty come home, Aunt?" said Flora. 

"Not she, " saith my Aunt Kezia. "Miss Hatty's gone careering off, thedeer know where. I dare be bound you'll fall in with her. She is gonewith Charlotte and Emily up to town. "

I was sorry to hear that. I don't much want to meet Hatty--above all ifGrandmamma be there. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The great majority of Scottish Jacobites were Episcopalians and"Moderates, " a term equivalent to the English "High and Dry. " Therewere, however, a very few Presbyterians among them. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

RULES AND RIBBONS. 

 "No fond belief can day and night From light and darkness sever; And wrong is wrong, and right is right, For ever and for ever. "

Last evening, as we were drawing our chairs up for a chat round the firein our chamber, who should walk in but my Aunt Kezia. 

"Nay, I'll not hold you long, " saith she, as I arose and offered myseat. "I come but to give a bit of good counsel to my nieces here. Miss Annas, my dear, it will very like not hurt you too. "

"I shall be very glad of it, Mrs Kezia, " said Annas. 

"Well, "--saith my Aunt, and broke off all at once. "Eh, girls, girls!Poor unfledged birds, fluttering your wings on the brim of the nest, andpooh-poohing the old bird behind you, that says, `Take care, my dears, or you will fall!' She never flew out of the nest, did she?--she neverpreened her wings, and thought all the world lay before her, and shecould fly as straight as any lark of them all, and catch as many fliesas any swallow? Ay, nor she never tumbled off into the mire, and foundshe could not fly a bit, and all the insects went darting past her assafe as if she were a dead leaf? Eh, my lassies, this would be a poorworld, if it were all. I have seen something of it, though you thoughtnot, likely enough. But flowers are flowers, and dirt is dirt, whetheryou find them on the banks of the Thames or of Ellen Water. And I havenot dwelt all my life at Brocklebank: though if I had, I should haveseen men and women, and they are much alike all the world over. "

I could not keep it in, and out it came. 

"Please, Aunt Kezia, don't be angry, but what is become of CeciliaOsborne?"

"I dare say you will know, Cary, before I do. She went to London, Ibelieve. "

"Oh, I don't want to see her, Aunt Kezia. "

"Then you are pretty sure to do it. "

"But why did she not--" I was afraid to go on. 

"Why did she not keep her word? You can ask her if you want to know. Don't say I wanted to know, that's all. I don't. "

"But how was it, Aunt Kezia?" said I, for I was on fire with curiosity. Flora made an attempt to check me. 

"You are both welcome to know all I know, " said my Aunt: "and that is, that she spent one evening at the Fells with us, and the Hebblethwaitesand Mr Parmenter were there: the next day we saw nothing of her, and onthe evening of the third there came a little note to me--a dainty littlepink three-cornered note, all over perfume--in which Miss CeciliaOsborne presented her compliments to Mrs Kezia Courtenay, and begged tosay that she found herself obliged to go to London, and would have setout before the note should reach me. That is as much as I know, andmore than I want to know. "

"And she did not say when she was coming back?"

"Not in any hurry, I fancy, " said my Aunt Kezia, grimly. 

"Going to stop away altogether?"

"She's welcome, " answered my Aunt, in the same tone. 

"Then who will live at Fir Vale?" asked Flora. 

"Don't know. The first of you may that gets married. Don't go and doit on purpose. "

Annas seemed much diverted. I wanted very much to know how Father hadtaken Cecilia's flight, but I did not feel I could ask that. 

"Any more questions, young ladies?" saith my Aunt Kezia, quizzically. "We will get them done first, if you please. "

"I beg your pardon, Aunt, " said I. "Only I did want to know so much. "

My Aunt Kezia gave a little laugh. "My dear, curiosity is Eve's legacyto her daughters. You might reasonably feel it in this instance. Ishould almost have thought you unfeeling if you had not. However, thatbusiness is all over; and well over, to my mind. I am thankful it is noworse. Now for what I want to say to you. I have been turning over inmy mind how I might say to you what would be likely to do you good, insuch a way that you could easily bear it in mind. And I have settled togive you a few plain rules, which you will find of service if you followthem. Now don't you go saying to yourselves that Aunt Kezia is an oldcountry woman who knows nothing of grand town folks. As I was beginningto say when you interrupted me, Cary--there, don't look abashed, child;I am not angry with you--manners change, but natures don't. Dress menand women how you will, and let them talk what language you please, andhave what outside ways you like, they are men and women still. Whereveryou go, you will find human nature is unchanged; and the Devil thattempts men is unchanged; and the God that saves them is unchanged. There are more senses than one, lassies, in which the things that areseen are temporal; but the things that are not seen are eternal. "

My Aunt Kezia began to feel in her bag--that great print bag with thered poppies and blue cornflowers, and the big brass top, by which Ishould know my Aunt Kezia was near if I saw it in the Americanplantations, or in the moon, for that matter--and out came three littlebooks, bound in red sheepskin. Such pretty little books! scarcely thesize of my hand, and with gilded leaves. 

"Now, girls, " she said, "I brought you these for keepsakes. They areonly blank paper, as you see, and you can put down in them what youspend, or what you see, or any good sayings you meet with, or the like--just what you please: but you will find my rules written on the firstleaf, so you can't say you had not a chance to bear them in mind. MissAnnas, my dear, I hope I don't make too free, but you see I did not liketo leave you out in the cold, as it were. Will you accept one of them?They are good rules for any young maid, though I say it. "

"How kind of you, Mrs Kezia!" said Annas. "Indeed I will, and value itvery much. "

I turned at once--indeed, I think we all did--to my Aunt Kezia's rules. They were written, as she said, on the first page, in her neat, clearhandwriting, which one could read almost in the dark. This is what shehad written. 

"Put the Lord first in everything. 

"Let the approval of those who love you best come second. 

"Judge none by the outside, till you have seen what is within. 

"Never take compliment for earnest. 

"Never put off doing a right or kind thing. 

"If you doubt a thing being right, it is safe not to do it. 

"If you know a thing to be right, go on with it, though the world standin your way. 

"`If sinners entice thee, consent thou not. '

"`If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father. ' Never wait toconfess sin and be forgiven. 

"In all that is not wrong, put the comfort of others before your own. 

"Think it possible you may be mistaken. 

"Test everything by the Word of God. 

"Remember that the world passeth away. "

Flora was the first of us to speak. 

"Thank you, indeed, Aunt Kezia for taking so much trouble for us. If wegovern ourselves by your rules, we can hardly go far wrong. "

I tried to say something of the same sort, but I am afraid I bungled it. 

"I cannot tell when we shall meet again, my lassies, " saith my AuntKezia. "Only it seems likely to be some time first. Of course, ifthings fall out ill, and Mrs Desborough counts it best to remove fromLondon, or to send you elsewhere, you must be ruled by her, as youcannot refer to your father. Remember, Cary--your grandmother and unclewill stand to you in place of father and mother while you are with them. Your father sends you to them, and puts his authority into their hands. Don't go to think you know better--girls so often do. A littlehumility and obedience won't hurt you, and you need not be afraid therewill ever be too much of them in this world. "

"But, Aunt!" said I, in some alarm, "suppose Grandmamma tells me to dosomething which I know you would not allow?"

"Follow your rule, Cary: set the Lord always before you. If it isanything which He would not allow, then you are justified in standingout. Not otherwise. "

"But how am I to know, Aunt?" It was a foolish question of mine, for Imight have known what my Aunt Kezia would say. 

"What do you think the Bible was made for, Cary?"

"But, Aunt, I can't go and read through the Bible every time Grandmammagives me an order. "

"You must do that first, my dear. The Bible won't jump down yourthroat, that is certain. You must be ready beforehand. You will learnexperience, children, as the time goes on--ay, whether you choose or no. But there are two sorts of experience--sweet and bitter: and `they thatwill not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled by the rock. ' Be ruled bythe rudder, lassies. It is the wisest plan. "

My Aunt Kezia said more, but it does not come back to me as that does. And the next morning we said good-bye, and went out into the wide world. 

I cannot profess to tell the whole of our journey. We slept the firstnight at Kendal--and a cold bleak journey it was, by Shap Fells--thesecond at Bolton, the third at Bakewell, the fourth at Leicester, thefifth at Bedford, and on the Saturday evening we reached London. 

I believe Annas was very much diverted at some of my speeches during thejourney. When I cried, after we had passed Bolton, and were going overa moor, that I did not know there was heather in the South, she said, "You have been a very short time in coming to the South, Cary. "

"What do you mean, Annas?" said I. 

"Only that a Midland man would think we were still in the North, " saidshe. 

"What, is this not the South?" said I. "I thought everything was Southafter we passed Lancaster. "

"England is a little longer than that, " said Annas, laughing. "No, Cary: we do not get into the Midlands on this side of Derby, nor intothe South on this side of Bedford. "

So I had to wait until Friday before I saw the South. When I did, Ithought it very flat and very woody. I could scarcely see anything fortrees; only [Note 2. ] there were no hills to see. And how strange thetalk sounded! They seemed to speak all their u's as if they were e's, and their a's the same. Annas laughed when I said that "take up themat" sounded in the South like "teek ep the met. " It really did, to me. 

"I suppose, " said Flora, "our words sound just as queer to thesepeople. "

"O Flora, they can't!" I cried. 

Because we say the words right; and how can that sound queer?

It was nearly six o'clock when the chaise drew up before the door of myUncle Charles's house in Bloomsbury Square. These poor Southernersthink, I hear, that Bloomsbury Square is one of the wonders of theworld. The world must be very short of wonders, and so I said. 

"O Cary, you are a bundle of prejudices!" laughed Annas. 

Flora--who never can bear a word of disagreement--turned the discourseby saying that Mr Cameron had told her Bloomsbury came from Blumond'sbury, the town of some man called Blumond. 

And just then the door opened, and I felt almost terrified of the big, grand-looking man who stood behind it. However, as it was I who was theparticularly invited guest, I had to jump down from the chaise, after aboy had let down the steps, and to tell the big man who I was and whenceI came: when he said, in that mincing way they have in the South, as ifthey must cut their words small before they could get them into theirmouths, that Madam expected me, and I was to walk up-stairs. My heartwent pit-a-pat, but up I marched, Annas and Flora following; and if thebig man did not call out my name to another big man, just the copy ofhim, who stood at the top of the stairs, so loud that I should think itmust have been heard over half the house. I felt quite ashamed, but Iwalked straight on, into a grand room all over looking-glasses andcrimson, where a circle of ladies and gentlemen were sitting round thefire. We have not begun fires in the North. I do think they are a nesh[Note 3. ] lot of folks who live in the South. 

Grandmamma was at one end of the circle, and my Aunt Dorothea at theother. I went straight up to Grandmamma. 

"How do you, Grandmamma?" said I. "This is my cousin, Flora Drummond, and this is our friend, Annas Keith. Fa--Papa, I mean, and Aunt Kezia, sent their respectful compliments, and begged that you would kindlyallow them to tarry here for a night on their way to the Isle of Wight. "

Grandmamma looked at me, then at Flora, then at Annas, and took a pinchof snuff. 

"How dusty you are, my dear!" said she. "Pray go and shift your gown. Perkins will show you the way. "

She just gave a nod to the other two, and then went back to herdiscourse with the gentleman next her. Those are what Grandmamma callseasy manners, I know: but I think I like the other sort better. My AuntKezia would have given the girls a warm grasp of the hand and a kiss, and told them they were heartily welcome, and begged them to makethemselves at home. Grandmamma thinks that rough and coarse andcountry-bred: but I am sure it makes me feel more as if people reallywere pleased to see me. 

I felt that I must just speak first to my Aunt Dorothea; and she didshake hands with Flora and me, and courtesied to Annas. Then wecourtesied to the company, and left the room, I telling the big man thatGrandmamma wished Perkins to attend us. The big man looked over thebanisters, and said, "Harry, call Perkins. " When Perkins came, sheproved, as I expected, to be Grandmamma's waiting-maid; and she carriedus off to a little chamber on the upper floor, where was hardly room foranything but two beds. 

Flora, I saw, seemed to feel strange and uncomfortable, as if she weresomewhere where she had no business to be; but Annas behaved like one tothe manner born, and handed her gloves to Perkins with the air of aprincess--I do not mean proudly, but easily, as if she knew just what todo, and did it, without any feeling of awkwardness. 

We had to wait till the trunks were carried up, and Perkins had unpackedour tea-gowns; then we shifted ourselves, and had our hair dressed, andwent back to the withdrawing room. Perkins is a stranger to me, and Iwas sorry not to see Willet, Grandmamma's old maid: but Grandmamma neverkeeps servants long, so I was not surprised. I don't believe Willet hadbeen with her above six years, when I left Carlisle. 

Annas sat down on an empty chair in the circle, and began to talk withthe lady nearest to her. Flora, apparently in much hesitation, took achair, but did not venture to talk. I knew what I had to do, and I feltas if my old ways would come back if I called them. I sat down near myAunt Dorothea. 

"That friend of yours, Cary, is quite a distinguished-looking girl, "said my Aunt Dorothea, in a low voice. "Really presentable, for thecountry, you know. "

I said Annas came of a high Scots family, and was related to Sir JamesDe Lannoy, of the Isle of Wight. I saw that Annas went up directly inmy Aunt Dorothea's thermometer. 

"De Lannoy!" said she. "A fine old Norman line. Very well connected, then? I am glad to hear it. "

Flora, I saw, was getting over her shyness--indeed, I never knew herseem shy before--and beginning to talk a little with her next neighbour. I looked round, but could not see any one I knew. I took refuge in aninquiry after my Uncle Charles. 

"He is very well, " said my Aunt Dorothea. "He is away somewhere--menalways are. At the Court, I dare say. "

How strange it did sound! I felt as if I had come into a new world. 

"I hope that is not your best gown, child?" said my Aunt Dorothea. 

"But it is, Aunt--my best tea-gown, " I answered. 

"Then you must have a better, " replied she. "It is easy to see that wasmade in the country. "

"Certainly it was, Aunt. Fanny and I made it. "

My Aunt Dorothea shrugged her shoulders, gave me a glance which saidplainly, "Don't tell tales out of school!" and turned to another lady inthe group. 

At Brocklebank we never thought of not saying such things. But I see Ihave forgotten many of my Carlisle habits, and I shall have to pick themup again by degrees. 

When we went up to bed, I found that Grandmamma had asked Annas to stayin London. Annas replied that her father had given her leave to stay amonth if she wished it and were offered the chance, and she would bevery pleased: but that as Flora was her guest, the invitation would haveto include both. Grandmamma glanced again at Flora, and took anotherpinch of snuff. 

"I suppose she has some Courtenay blood in her, " said she. "AndDrummond is not a bad name--for a Scotswoman. She can stay, if she benot a Covenanter, and won't want to pray and preach. She must have anew gown, and then she will do, if she keep her mouth shut. She has afine pair of shoulders, if she were only dressed decently. "

"I am glad, " said I, "for I know what that means. Grandmamma likesAnnas, and will like Flora in time. Don't be any shyer than you canhelp, Flora; that will not please her. "

"I do not think I am shy, " said Flora; "at least, I never felt sobefore. But to-night--Cary, I don't know what it looked like! I couldonly think of a great spider's web, and we three poor little flies hadto walk straight into it. "

"I wonder where Duncan and Angus are to-night, " said Annas; "I hope noone is playing spider there. "

Flora sighed, but made no answer. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Our new gowns had to be made in a great hurry, for Grandmamma hadinvited an assembly for the Thursday night, and she wished Flora and meto be decently dressed, she said. I am sure I don't know how themantua-maker managed it, for the cloth was only bought on Mondaymorning; I suppose she must have had plenty of apprentices. The gownswere sacques of cherry damask, with quilted silk petticoats of blacktrimmed with silver lace. I find hoops are all the mode again, and verylarge indeed--so big that when you enter a door you have to double yourhoop round in front, or lift it on one side out of the way. The cap isa little scrap of a thing, scarce bigger than a crown-piece, and aflower or pompoon is stuck at the side; stomachers are worn, and veryfull elbow-ruffles; velvet slippers with high heels. Grandmamma put alittle grey powder in my hair, but when Flora said she was sure that herfather would disapprove, she did not urge her to wear it. But she didwant us both to wear red ribbons mixed with our white ones. I did notknow what to do. 

"I did not know Mrs Desborough was a trimmer, " said Annas, in theseverest tone I ever heard from her lips. 

"What shall we do?" said I. 

"I shall not wear them, " said Flora. "Mrs Desborough is not mygrandmother; nor has my father put me in her care. I do not see, therefore, that I am at all bound to obey her. For you, Cary, it isdifferent. I think you will have to submit. "

"But only think what it means!" cried I. 

"It means, " said Annas, "that you are indifferent in the matter ofpolitics. "

"If it meant only that, " I said, "I should not think much about it. Butsurely it means more, much more. It means that I am disloyal; that I donot care whether the King or the Elector wins the day; or even that I docare, and am willing to hide my belief for fashion's or money's sake. This red ribbon on me is a lie; and an acted lie is no better than aspoken one. "

My Aunt Dorothea came in so immediately after I had spoken that I feltsure she must have heard me. 

"Dear me, what a fuss about a bit of ribbon!" said she. "Cary, don't bea little goose. "

"Aunt, I only want to be true!" cried I. "It is my truth I make a fussabout, not my ribbons. I will wear a ribbon of every colour in therainbow, if Grandmamma wish it, except just this one which tellsfalsehoods about me. "

"My dear, it is so unbecoming in you to be thus warm!" said my AuntDorothea. "Enthusiasm is always in bad taste, no matter what it isabout. You will not see half-a-dozen ladies in the room in whiteribbons. Nobody expects the Prince to come South. "

"But, Aunt, please give me leave to say that it will not alter mytruthfulness, whether the Prince comes to London or goes to the NorthPole!" cried I. "If the Elector himself--"

"'Sh-'sh!" said my Aunt Dorothea. "My dear, that sort of thing may bevery well at Brocklebank, but it really will not do in BloomsburySquare. You must not bring your wild, antiquated Tory notions here. Tories are among the extinct animals. "

"Not while my father is alive, please, Aunt. "

"My dear, we are not at Brocklebank, as I told you just now, " answeredmy Aunt Dorothea. "It may be all very well to toast the Chevalier, andpray for him, and so forth--(I am sure I don't know whether it do himany good): but when you come to living in the world with other people, you must do as they do. --Yes, Perkins, certainly, put Miss Courtenay ared ribbon, and Miss Drummond also. --My dear girls, you must. "

"Not for me, Mrs Charles, if you please, " said Flora, very quietly: "Ishould prefer, if you will allow it, to remain in this room. "

My Aunt Dorothea looked at her, and seemed puzzled what to do with her. 

"Miss Keith, " said she, "do you wear the red?"

"Certainly not, Madam, " replied Annas. 

"Well!" said my Aunt Dorothea, shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose wemust say you are Scots girls, and have not learnt English customs. --Youcan let it alone for Miss Drummond, Perkins. --But that won't do for you, Cary; you must have one. "

"Aunt Dorothea, I will wear it if you bid me, " said I: "but I shall telleverybody who speaks to me that my red ribbon is a lie. "

"Then you had better have none!" cried my Aunt Dorothea, petulantly. "That would be worse than wearing all white. Cary, I never knew youwere so horribly obstinate. "

"I suppose I am older, Aunt, and understand things better now, " said I. 

"Dear, I wish girls would stay girls!" said my Aunt Dorothea. "Well, Perkins, let it alone. Just do up that lace a little to the left, thatthe white ribbon may not show so much. There, that will do. --Cary, ifyour Grandmamma notices this, I must tell her it is all your fault. "

Well, down-stairs we went, and found the company beginning to come. MyAunt Dorothea, I knew, never cares much about anything to last, but Iwas in some fear of Grandmamma. (By the way, I find this house isGrandmamma's, not my Uncle Charles's, as I thought. ) There was one ladythere, a Mrs Francis, who was here the other evening when we came, andshe spoke kindly to us, and began to talk with Annas and Flora. Irather shrank into a corner by the window, for I did not want Grandmammato see me. People were chattering away on all sides of me; and verydroll it was to listen first to one and then to another. 

I was amusing myself in this way, and laughing to myself under a graveface, when all at once I heard three words from the next window. Whosaid "By no means!" in that soft velvet voice, through which ran aripple of silvery laughter? I should have known that voice in thedesert of Arabia. And the next moment she moved away from the window, and I saw her face. 

We stood fronting each other, Cecilia and I. That she knew me as wellas I knew her, I could not doubt for an instant. For one moment shehesitated whether to speak to me, and I took advantage of it. Droppingthe lowest courtesy I could make, I turned my back upon her, and walkedstraight away to the other end of the room. But not before I had seenthat she was superbly dressed, and was leaning on the arm of MrParmenter. Not, also, before I caught a fiery flash gleaming at me outof the tawny eyes, and knew that I had made an enemy of the mostdangerous woman in my world. 

But what could I have done else? If I had accepted Cecilia's hand, andtreated her as a friend, I should have felt as though I were connivingat an insult to my father. 

At the other end of the room, I nearly ran against a handsome, dark-haired girl in a yellow satin slip, who to my great astonishmentsaid to me, --

"Well played, Miss Caroline Courtenay! I have been watching the littledrama, and I really compliment you on your readiness and spirit. Youhave taken the wind out of her Ladyship's sails. "

"Hatty!" I cried, in much amazement. "Is it you?"

"Well, I fancy so, " said she, in her usual mocking way. "My belovedCary, do tell me, have you brought that delicious journal? Do let meread to-night's entry!"

"Hatty!" I cried all at once. "You--"

"Yes, Madam?"

If she had not on my best purple scarf--my lost scarf, that my AuntKezia could not find! But I did not go on. I felt it was of no earthlyuse to talk to Hatty. 

"Seen it before, haven't you?" said Hatty, in her odious teasing way. "Yes, I thought I had better have it: mine is so shabby; and you areonly a little Miss--it does not matter for you. Beside, you haveGrandmamma to look after you. You shall have it again when I have donewith it. "

I had to bite my tongue terribly hard, but I did manage to hold it. Ionly said, "Where are you staying, Hatty?"

"At Mrs Crossland's, in Charles Street, where I shall be perfectlydelighted to see my youngest sister. "

"Oh! Not with the Bracewells?"

"With the Bracewells, certainly. Did you suppose they had pitch-forkedme through the window into Mrs Crossland's drawing-room?"

"But who is Mrs Crossland?"

"A friend of the Bracewells, " said Hatty, with an air of such studiedcarelessness that I began to wonder what was behind it. 

"Has Mrs Crossland daughters?" I asked. 

"One--a little chit, scarce in her teens. "

"Is there a Mr Crossland?"

"There isn't a Papa Crossland, if you mean that. There is a young MrCrossland. "

"Oh!" said I. 

"Pray, Miss Caroline, what do you mean by `Oh'?" asked Hatty, whose eyeslaughed with fun. 

"Oh, nothing, " I replied. 

"Oh!" replied Hatty, so exactly in my tone that I could not helplaughing. "Take care, her Ladyship may see you. "

"Hatty, why do you call Cecilia `her Ladyship'?"

"Well, it doesn't know anything, does it?" replied Hatty, in her teasingway. "Only just up from the country, isn't it? Madam, Mr AnthonyParmenter as was (as old Will says) is Sir Anthony Parmenter; and MissCecilia Osborne as was, is her Ladyship. "

"Do you mean to say Cecilia has married Mr Parmenter?"

"Oh dear, no! she has married Sir Anthony. "

"Then she jilted our father for a title? The snake!"

"Don't use such charming language, my sweetest; her Ladyship might notadmire it. And if I were you, I would make myself scarce; she is comingthis way. "

"Then I will go the other, " said I, and I did. 

To my astonishment, as soon as I had left her, what should Hatty do butwalk up and shake hands with Cecilia, and in a few minutes they and MrParmenter were all laughing about something. I was amazed beyond words. I had always thought Hatty pert, teasing, disagreeable; but neverunderhand or mean. But just then I saw a good-looking young man jointhem, and offer his arm to Hatty for a walk round the room; and itflashed on me directly that this was young Mr Crossland, and that hewas a friend of Mr--I mean Sir Anthony--Parmenter. 

When we were undressing that night, I said, --

"Annas, can a person do anything to make the world better?"

"What person?" asked she, and smiled. 

"Well, say me. Can I do anything?"

"Certainly. You can be as good as you know how to be. "

"But that won't make other people better. "

"I do not know that. Some other people it may. "

"But that will be the people who are good already. I want to mend thepeople who are bad. "

"Then pray for them, " said Annas, gravely. 

Pray for Cecilia Osborne! It came upon me with a feeling of intenseaversion. I could not pray for her!

Nor did I think there would be a bit of good in praying for Hatty. Andyet--if she were getting drawn into Cecilia's toils--if that young MrCrossland were not a good man--I might pray for her to be kept safe. Ithought I would try it. 

But when I began to pray for Hatty, it seemed unkind to leave out Fannyand Sophy. And then I got to Father and my Aunt Kezia; and then toMaria and Bessy; and then to Sam and Will; and then to old Elspie; andthen to Helen Raeburn, and my Uncle Drummond, and Angus, and Mr Keith, and the Laird, and Lady Monksburn--and so on and on, till the wholeworld seemed full of people to be prayed for. 

I suppose it is so always--if we only thought of it!

Grandmamma never noticed my ribbons--or rather my want of them. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It really is of no use my trying to keep to dates. I have begun severaltimes, and I cannot get on with it. That last piece, dated the 23rd, took me nearly a week to write; so that what was to-morrow when I began, was behind yesterday before I had finished. I shall just go right onwithout any more pother, and put a date now and then when it is veryparticular. 

Grandmamma has an assembly every week, --Tuesday is her day [Note 1. ]--and now and then an extra one on Thursday or Saturday. I do not thinkanything would persuade her to have an assembly, or play cards, on aFriday. But on a Sunday evening she always has her rubber, to Flora'shorror. It does not startle me, because I remember it always was sowhen I lived with her at Carlisle: nor Annas, because she knew peopledid such things in the South. I find Grandmamma usually spends thewinter at the Bath: but she has not quite made up her mind whether to gothis year or not, on account of all the tumults in the North. If theroyal army should march on London (and Annas says of course they will)we may be shut up here for a long while. But Annas says if we heardanything certain of it, she and Flora would set off at once to "theisland", as she always calls the Isle of Wight. 

Last Tuesday, I was sitting by a young lady whom I have talked with morethan once; her name is Newton. I do not quite know how we got on to thesubject, but we began to talk politics. I said I could not understandwhy it was, but people in the South did not seem to care for politicsnearly so much as I was accustomed to see done. Half the ladies in theroom appeared to be trimmers; and many more wore the red ribbon alone. Such people, with us, would never be received into a Tory family. 

"We do not take things so seriously as you, " said she, with a divertedlook. "That with us is an opinion which with you is an enthusiasm. Isuppose up there, where the sun never shines, you have to make some sortof noise and fuss to keep yourselves alive. "

"`The sun never shines!'" cried I. "Now, really, Miss Newton! Youdon't mean to say you believe that story?"

"I am only repeating what I have been told, " said she. "I never wasnorth of Barnet. "

"We are alive enough, " said I. "I wonder if you are. It looks to memuch more like living, to make beds and boil puddings and stitch shirts, than to sit on a sofa in a satin gown, flickering a fan and talkingrubbish. "

"Oh, fie!" said Miss Newton, laughing, and tapping me on the arm withher fan. "That really will not do, Miss Courtenay. You will shockeverybody in the room. "

"I can tell you, most whom I see here shock me, " said I. "They seem tohave no honour and no honesty. They think white and they wear red, orthe other way about, just as it happens. If the Prince were to enterLondon on Monday, what colour would all these ribbons be next Tuesdaynight?"

"The colour of yours, undoubtedly, " she said, laughing. 

"And do you call that honesty?" said I. "These people could not changetheir opinions and feelings between Monday and Tuesday: and to changetheir ribbons without them would be simply falsehood. "

"I told you, you take things so seriously!" she answered. 

"But is it not a serious thing?" I continued. "And ought we to takeserious things any way but seriously? Miss Newton, do you not see thatit is a question of right--not a question of taste or convenience? Yourallegiance is not a piece of jewellery, that you can give to the personyou like best; it is a debt, which you can only pay to the person towhom you owe it. Do you not see that?"

"My dear Miss Courtenay, " said Miss Newton, in a low voice, "excuse me, but you are a little too warm. It is not thought good taste, you know, to take up any subject so very decidedly as that. "

"And is right only to be thought a matter of taste?" cried I, quitedisregarding her caution. "Am I to rule my life, as I do my trimmings, by the fashion-book? We have not come to that yet in the North, I canassure you! We are a sturdy race there, Madam, and don't swallow ouropinions as we do pills, of whatever the apothecary likes to put intothem. We prefer to know what we are taking. "

"Do excuse me, " said Miss Newton, with laughter in her eyes, and layingher hand upon my arm; "but don't you see people are looking round?"

"Let them look round!" cried I. "I am not ashamed of one word that Ihave spoken. "

"Dear Miss Courtenay, I am not objecting to your words. Every one, ofcourse, has his opinions: yours, I suppose, are your father's. "

"Not a bit of it!" cried I; "they are my own!"

"But young ladies of your age should not have strong opinions, " saidshe. She is about five years older than I am. 

"Will you tell me how to help it?" said I. "I must go through the worldwith my eyes shut, if I am not to form opinions. "

"Oh yes, moderately, " she replied. 

"Shut my eyes moderately?" I asked; "or, form opinions moderately?"

"Both, " answered Miss Newton, laughing. 

"Your advice is worse than wasted, my dear Miss Newton, " said a voicebehind us. "That young person will never do anything in moderation. "

"You know better, Hatty!" said I. 

"And, as your elder sister, my darling, let me give you a scrap ofadvice. Men never like contentious, arguing women. Don't be a littlegoose. "

I don't know whether I am a goose or a duck, but I am afraid I couldhave done something to Hatty just then which I should have foundagreeable, and she would not. That elder-sister air of hers is soabsurd, for she is not eighteen months older than I am; I can stand itwell enough from Sophy, but from Hatty it really is too ridiculous. Butthat was nothing, compared with the insult she had offered, not so muchto me, as through me to all womanhood. "Men don't like!" Does itsignify three halfpence what they like? Are women to make slaves ofthemselves, considering what men fancy or don't fancy? Men, mark you!Not, your father, or brother, or husband: that would be right andreasonable enough: but, men!

"Hatty, " I said, after doing battle with myself for a moment, "I think Ihad better give you no answer. If I did, and if my words and tonessuited my feelings, I should scream the house down. "

She burst out laughing behind her fan. I walked away at once, lest Ishould be tempted to reply further. I am afraid I almost ran, for Icame bolt against a gentleman in the corner, and had to stop and make myapologies. 

"Don't run quite over me, Cary, if it suit you, " said somebody who, Ithought, was in Cumberland. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The assemblies on a lady's visiting day required noinvitations. The rooms were open to any person acquainted with membersof the family. 

Note 2. Southerners are respectfully informed that the use of only forbut is a Northern peculiarity. 

Note 3. Sensitive, delicate. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

DIFFICULTIES. 

 "And 't was na for a Popish yoke That bravest men came forth To part wi' life and dearest ties, And a' that life was worth. "

 JACOBITE BALLAD. 

"Ephraim Hebblethwaite!" I cried out. 

"I believe so, " he said, laughing. 

"Where did you come from?"

"From a certain place in the North, called Brocklebank. "

"But what brought you to London?" I cried. 

"What brought me to London?" he repeated, in quite a different tone, --somuch softer. "Well, Cary, I wanted to see something. "

"Have you been to see it?" I asked, more to give myself time to cooldown than because I cared to know. 

"Yes, I have been to see it, " he said, and smiled. 

"And did you find it as agreeable as you expected?"

"Quite. I had seen it before, and I wanted to know if it were spoiled. "

"Oh, I hope it is not spoiled!" said I. 

"Not at all, " said he, his voice growing softer and softer. "No, it isnot spoiled yet, Cary. "

"Do you expect it will be?" I was getting cooler now. 

"I don't know, " he answered, very gravely for him, for Ephraim is not atall given to moroseness and long faces. "God grant it never may!"

I could not think what he meant, and I did not like to ask him. Indeed, I had not much opportunity, for he began talking about our journey, andBrocklebank, and all the people there, and I was so interested that wedid not get back to what Ephraim came to see. 

There is a new Vicar, he says, whose name is Mr Liversedge, and he hasquite changed things in the parish. The people are divided about him;some like him, and some do not. He does not read his sermons, which isvery strange, but speaks them out just as if he were talking to you; andhe has begun to catechise the children in an afternoon, and to visiteverybody in the parish; and he neither shoots, hunts, nor fishes. Hissermons have a ring in them, says Ephraim; they wake you up, Old JohnOakley complains that he can't nap nigh so comfortable as when th' oldVicar were there; and Mally Crosthwaite says she never heard such goingson--why, th' parson asked her if she were a Christian!--she that hadalways kept to her church, rain and shine, and never missed once! and itwas hard if she were to miss the Christmas dole this year, along o' notbeing a Christian. She'd always thought being Church was plenty goodenough--none o' your low Dissenting work: but, mercy on us, she didn'tknow what to say to this here parson, that she didn't! A Christian, indeed! The parson was a Christian, was he? Well, if so, she didn'tmake much 'count o' Christians, for all he was a parson. Didn't he tellold John he couldn't recommend him for the dole, just by reason herapped out an oath or two when his grand-daughter let the milk-jugfall?--and if old Bet Donnerthwaite had had a sup too much one night atthe ale-house, was it for a gentleman born like the parson to take noteof that?

"But he has done worse things than that, Cary, " said Ephraim, with gravemouth and laughing eyes. 

"What? Go on, " said I, for I saw something funny was coming. 

"Why, would you believe it?" said Ephraim. "He called on Mr Bagnall, and asked him if he felt satisfied with the pattern he was setting hisflock. "

"I am very glad he did!" said I. "What did Mr Bagnall say?"

"Got into an awful rage, and told it to all the neighbourhood--asbearing against Mr Liversedge, you understand. "

"Well, then, he is a greater simpleton than I took him for, " said I. 

"I am rather afraid, " said Ephraim, in a hesitating tone, "that he willcall at the Fells: and if he say anything that the Squire thinksimpertinent or interfering, he will make an enemy of him. "

"Oh, Father would just show him the door, " said I, "without more ado. "

"Yes, I fear so, " replied Ephraim. "And I am sure he is a good man, Cary. A little rash and incautious, perhaps; does not take time tostudy character, and so forth; but I am sure he means to do right. "

"It will be a pity, " said I. "Ephraim, do you think the Prince willmarch on London?"

"I have not a doubt of it, Cary. "

"Oh!" said I. I don't quite know whether I felt more glad or sorry. "But you will not stay here if he do?"

"Yes, I think I shall, " said he. 

"You will join the army?"

"No, not unless I am pressed. "

I suppose my face asked another question, for he added with a smile, "Icame to keep watch of--that. I must see that it is not spoiled. "

I wonder what _that_ is! If Ephraim would tell me, I might take somecare of it too. I should not like anything he cared for to be spoiled. 

As I sat in a corner afterwards, I was looking at him, and comparing himin my own mind with all the fine gentlemen in the chamber. Ephraim wasquite as handsome as any of them; but his clothes certainly had acountry cut, and he did not show as easy manners as they. I am afraidGrandmamma would say he had no manners. He actually put his hand out tosave a tray when Grandmamma's black boy, Caesar, stumbled at thetiger-skin mat: and I am sure no other gentleman in the room would havecondescended to see it. There are many little things by which it iseasy to tell that Ephraim has not been used to the best society. Andyet, I could not help feeling that if I were ill and wanted to be helpedup-stairs, or if I were wretched and wanted comforting, it would beEphraim to whom I should appeal, and not one of these fine gentlemen. They seemed only to be made for sunshine. He would wear, and standrain. If Hatty's "men" were all Ephraims, there might be some sense incaring for their opinions. But these fellows--I really can't afford abetter word--these "chiels with glasses in their e'en, " as Sam says, whoseem to have no opinions beyond the colour of their coats and payingcompliments to everything they see with a petticoat on--do they expectsensible women to care what they think? Let them have a little moresense themselves first--that's what I say!

I said so, one morning as we were dressing: and to my surprise, Annasreplied, --

"I fancy they have sense enough, Cary, when there are no women in theroom. They think we only care for nonsense. "

"Yes, I expect that is it, " added Flora. 

I flew out. I could not stand that. What sort of women must theirmothers and sisters be?

"Card-playing snuff-takers and giddy flirts, " said Annas. "Be just tothem, Cary. If they never see women of any other sort, how are they toknow that such are?"

"Poor wretches! do you think that possible. Annas?" said I. 

"Miserably possible, " she said, very seriously. "In every human heart, Cary, there is a place where the man or the woman dwells inside all thefrippery and mannerism; the real creature itself, stripped of alldisguises. Dig down to that place if you want to see it. "

"I should think it takes a vast deal of digging!"

"Yes, in some people. But that is the thing God looks at: that is itfor which Christ died, and for which Christ's servants ought to feellove and pity. "

I thought it would be terribly difficult to feel love or pity for somepeople!

My Uncle Charles has just come in, and he says a rumour is flying thatthere has been a great battle near Edinburgh, and that the Prince (whowas victorious) is marching on Carlisle. Flora went very white, andeven Annas set her lips: but I do not see what we have to fear--at leastif Angus and Mr Keith are safe. 

"Charles, " said Grandmamma, "where are those white cockades we used tohave?"

"I haven't a notion, Mother. "

Nor had my Aunt Dorothea. But when Perkins was asked, she said, "Isn'tit them, Madam, as you pinned in a parcel, and laid away in the garret?"

"Oh, I dare say, " said Grandmamma. "Fetch them down, and let us see ifthey are worth anything. "

So Perkins fetched the parcel, and the cockades were looked over, andpronounced useable by torchlight, though too bad a colour for theday-time. 

"Keep the packet handy, Perkins, " said Grandmamma. 

"Shall I give them out now, Madam?" asked Perkins. 

"Oh, not yet!" said Grandmamma. "Wait till we see how things turn out. White soils so soon, too: we had much better go on with the black ones, at any rate, till the Prince has passed Bedford. "

It is wicked, I suppose, to despise one's elders. But is it notsometimes very difficult to help doing it?

I have been reading over the last page or two that I writ, and I came ona line that set me thinking. Things do set me thinking of late in a waythey never used to do. It was that about Ephraim's not being used tothe best society. What is the best society? God and the angels; Isuppose nobody could question that. Yet, if an angel had been inGrandmamma's rooms just then, would he not have cared more that Caesarshould not fall and hurt himself, and most likely be scolded as well, than that he should be thought to have fine easy manners himself? And Isuppose the Lord Jesus died even for Caesar, black though he be. Well, then, the next best society must be those who are going to Heaven: andEphraim is one of them, I believe. And those who are not going must bebad society, even if they are dressed up to the latest fashion-book, andhave the newest and finest breeding at the tips of their fingers. Theworld seems to be turned round. Ah, but what was that text MrWhitefield quoted? "Love not the world, neither the things that are inthe world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not inhim. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lustof the eyes, and the pride of life, are not of the Father, but are ofthe world. " Then must we turn the world round before we get things putstraight? It looks like it. I have just been looking at another text, where Saint Paul gives a list of the works of the flesh; [Note:Galatians five 19 to 21. ] and I find, along with some things whicheverybody calls wicked, a lot of others which everybody in "the world"does, and never seems to think of as wrong. "Hatred, variance, emulations, . . . Envyings, . . . Drunkenness, revellings, and such like:"and he says, "They which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom ofGod. " That is dreadful. I am afraid the world must be worse than Ithought. I must take heed to my Aunt Kezia's rules--set the Lord alwaysbefore me, and remember that this world passeth away. I suppose theworld will laugh at me, if I be not one of its people. What will thatmatter, if it passeth away? The angels will like me all the better: andthey are the best society. 

And I was thinking the other night as I lay awake, what an awful thingit would be to hear the Lord Jesus, the very Man who died for me, say, "Depart from Me!" I think I could stand the world's laughter, but I amsure I could never bear that. Christ could help and comfort me if theworld used me ill; but who could help me, or comfort me, when He hadcast me out? There would be nothing to take refuge in--not even theworld, for it would be done with then. 

Oh, I do hope our Saviour will never say that to me!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I seem bound to get into fights with Miss Newton. I do not meanquarrels, but arguments. She is a pleasant, good-humoured girl, but shehas such queer ideas. I dare say she thinks I have. I do not know whatmy Aunt Kezia would say to her. She does not appear to see the rightand wrong of things at all. It is only what people will think, and whatone likes. If everybody did only what they liked, --is that propergrammar, I wonder? Oh, well, never mind!--I think it would make theworld a very disagreeable place to live in, and it is not too pleasantnow. And as to people thinking, what on earth does it signify what theythink, if they don't think right? If one person thinking that two andtwo make three does not alter the fact, why should ten thousand peoplethinking so be held to make any difference? How many simpletons does ittake to be equal to a wise man? I wonder people do not see howridiculous such notions are. 

We hear nothing at all from the North--the seat of war, as they begin tocall it now. Everybody supposes that the Prince is marching southwards, and will be here some day before long. It diverts me exceedingly to sitevery Tuesday in a corner of the room, and watch the red ribbonsdisappearing and the white ones coming instead. Grandmamma's twofootmen, Morris and Dobson, have orders to take the black cockade out oftheir hats and clap on a white one, the minute they hear that the royalarmy enters Middlesex. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 November 22nd. The Prince has taken Carlisle! It is said that he is marching on Derbyas fast as his troops can come. Everybody is in a flutter. I can guesswhere Father is, and how excited he will be. I know he would go to waiton his Royal Highness directly, and I should not wonder if a number ofthe officers are quartered at Brocklebank--were, I should say. I almostwish we were there! But when I said so to Ephraim, who comes everyTuesday, such a strange look of pain came into his eyes, and he said, "Don't, Cary!" so sadly. I wonder what the next thing will be!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

After I had written this, came one of Grandmamma's extra assemblies--Oh, I should have altered my date! it is so troublesome--on Thursdayevening, and I looked round, and could not see one red ribbon that wasnot mixed with white. A great many wore plain white, and among themMiss Newton. I sat down by her. 

"How do you this evening, Miss Newton?" I mischievously asked. "I amso delighted to see you become a Tory since I saw you last Tuesday. "

"How do you know I was not one before?" asked she, laughing. 

"Your ribbons were not, " said I. "They were red on Tuesday. "

"Well, you ought to compliment me on the suddenness of my conversion, "said she: "for I never was a trimmer. Oh, how absurd it is to makeribbons and patches mean things! Why should one not wear red and whitejust as one does green and blue?"

"It would be a boon to some people, I am sure, " said I. 

"Perhaps we shall, some day, when the world has become sensible, " saidMiss Newton. 

"Can you give me the date, Madam?"

It was a strange voice which asked this question. I looked up over myshoulder, and saw a man of no particular age, dressed in gown andcassock. [Note 1. ] Miss Newton looked up too, laughing. 

"Indeed I cannot, Mr Raymond, " said she. "Can you?"

"Only by events, " he answered. "I should expect it to be after the Kinghas entered His capital. "

I felt, rather than saw, what he meant. 

"I am a poor hand at riddles, " said Miss Newton, shaking her head. "Idid not expect to see you here, Mr Raymond. "

"Nor would you have seen me here, " was the answer, "had I not beencharged to deliver a message of grave import to one who is here. "

"Not me, I hope?" said Miss Newton, looking graver. 

"Not you. I trust you will thank God for it. And now, can you kindlydirect me to the young lady for whom I am to look? Is there here a MissFlora Drummond?"

I sprang up with a smothered cry of "Angus!"

"Are you Miss Drummond?" he asked, very kindly. 

"Flora Drummond is my cousin, " I answered. "I will take you to her. But is it about Angus?"

"It is about her brother, Lieutenant Drummond. He is not killed--let mesay so at once. "

We were pressing through the superb crowd, and the moment afterwards wereached Flora. She was standing by a little table, talking with EphraimHebblethwaite, who spoke to Mr Raymond in a way which showed that theyknew each other. Flora just looked at him, and then said, quietlyenough to all appearance, though she went very white--

"You have bad news for some one, and I think for me. "

"Lieutenant Drummond was severely wounded at Prestonpans, and has falleninto the hands of the King's troops, " said Mr Raymond, gently, as if hewished her to know the worst at once. "He is a prisoner now. "

Flora clasped her hands with a long breath of pain and apprehension. "You are sure, Sir? There is no mistake?"

"I think, none, " he replied. "I have the news from Colonel Keith. "

"If you heard it from him, it must be true, " she said. "But is he inLondon?"

"Yes; and he ran some risk, as you may guess, to send that message toyou. "

"Duncan is always good, " said Flora, with tears in her eyes. "He wasnot hurt, I hope? Will you see him again?"

"He said he was not hurt worth mention. " (I began to wonder what sizeof a hurt Mr Keith would think worth mention. ) "Yes, I shall see himagain this evening or to-morrow. "

"Oh, do give him the kindest words and thanks from me, " said Flora, commanding her voice with some difficulty. "I wish I could have seenhim! Let me tell Annas--she may wish--" and away she went to fetchAnnas, while Mr Raymond looked after her with a look which I thoughthalf sad and half diverted. 

"Will you tell me, " I said, "how Mr Keith ran any risk?"

"Why, you do not suppose, young lady, that London is in the hands of therebels?"

"The rebels!--Oh, you are a Whig; I see. But the Prince is coming, andfast. Is he not?"

"Not just yet, I think, " said Mr Raymond, with an odd look in his eyes. 

"Why, we hear it from all quarters, " said I; "and the red ribbons areall getting white. "

Mr Raymond smiled. "Rather a singular transformation, truly. But Ithink the ribbons will be well worn before the young Chevalier reviewshis army in Hyde Park. "

"I will not believe it!" cried I. "The Prince must be victorious! Goddefends the right!"

"God defends His own, " said Mr Raymond. "Do you see in history that Healways defends the cause which you account to be right?"

No; I could not say that. 

"How can you be an opponent of the Cause?" I cried--I am afraid, shifting my ground. 

He smiled again. "I can well understand the attraction of the Cause, "said he, "to a young and enthusiastic nature. There is something veryenticing in the son of an exiled Prince, come to win back what heconceives to be the inheritance of his fathers. And in truth, if theOld Pretender were really the son of King James, --well, it might be moredifficult to say what a man's duty would be in that case. But that, asyou know, is thought by many to be at best very doubtful. "

"You do not believe he is?" cried I. 

"I do not believe it, " said Mr Raymond. 

I wondered how he could possibly doubt it. 

"Nor is that all that is to be considered, " he went on. "I can tellyou, young lady, if he were to succeed, we should all rue it bitterlybefore long. His triumph is the triumph of Rome--the triumph ofpersecution and martyrdom and agony for God's people. "

"I know that, " said I. "But right is right, for all that! The Crown ishis, not the Elector's. On that principle, any man might steal money, if he meant to do good with it. "

"The Crown is neither George's nor James's, as some think, " said MrRaymond, "but belongs to the people. "

Who could have stood such a speech as that?

"The people!" I cried. "The mob--the rabble--the Crown is theirs! Howcan any man imagine such a thing?"

"You forget, methinks, young lady, " said Mr Raymond, as quietly asbefore, "that you are one of those of whom you speak. "

"I forget nothing of the kind, " cried I, too angry to be civil. "Ofcourse I know I am one of the people. What do you mean? Am I tomaintain that black beetles are cherubim, because I am a black beetle?Truth is truth. The Crown is God's, not the people's. When He chose tomake the present King--King James of course, not that wretched Elector--the son of his father, He distinctly told the people whom He wished themto have for their king. What right have they to dispute His ordinance?"

I was quite beyond myself. I had forgotten where I was, and to whom Iwas talking--forgotten Mr Raymond, and Angus, and Flora, and evenGrandmamma. It seemed to me as if there were only two parties in theworld, and on the one hand were God and the King, and on the other amiserable mass of silly nobodies called The People. How could suchcontemptible insects presume to judge for themselves, or to set theirwills up in opposition to the will of him whom God had commanded them toobey?

The softest, lightest of touches fell on my shoulder. I looked up intothe grave grey eyes of Annas Keith. And feeling myself excessively rudeand utterly extinguished, --(and yet, after all, right)--I slipped out ofthe group, and made my way into the farthest corner. Mr Raymond, ofcourse, would think me no gentlewoman. Well, it did not much matterwhat he thought; he was only a Whig. And when the Prince were actuallycome, which would be in a very few days at the furthest--then he wouldsee which of us was right. Meantime, I could wait. And the next minuteI felt as if I could not wait--no, not another instant. 

"Sit down, Cary. You look tired, " said Ephraim beside me. 

"I am not a bit tired, thank you, " said I, "but I am abominably angry. "

"Nothing more tiring, " said he. "What about?"

"Oh, don't make me go over it! I have been talking to a Whig. "

"That means, I suppose, that the Whig has been talking to you. Whichbeat? I beg pardon--you did, of course. "

"I was right and he was wrong, if you mean that, " said I. "But whetherhe thinks he is beaten--"

"If he be an Englishman, he does not, " said Ephraim. "Particularly ifhe be a North Country man. "

"I don't know what country he comes from, " cried I. "I should like tomake mincemeat of him. "

"Indigestible, " suggested Ephraim, quite gravely. 

"Ephraim, what are we to do for Angus?" said I, as it came back to me:and I told him the news which Mr Raymond had brought. Ephraim gave asoft whispered whistle. 

"You may well ask, " said he. "I am afraid, Cary, nothing can be done. "

"What will they do to him?"

His face grew graver still. 

"You know, " he said, in a low voice, "what they did to LordDerwentwater. Colonel Keith had better lie close. "

"But that Whig knows where he is!" cried I. "He--Ephraim, do you knowhim?"

"Know whom, Cary?"

"Mr Raymond. "

"Is he your Whig?" asked Ephraim, laughing. "Pray, don't make him intomincemeat; he is one of the best men in England. "

"He need be, " said I; "he is a horrid Whig! What do you, being friendswith such a man?"

"He is a very good man, Cary. He was one of my tutors at school. Inever knew what his politics were before to-night. "

We were silent for a while; and then Grandmamma sent for me, not, as Ifeared, to scold me for being loud-spoken and warm, but to tell me thatone of my lappets hung below the other, and I must make Perkins alter itbefore Tuesday. I do not know how I bore the rest of the evening. 

When I went up at last to our chamber, I found it empty. Lucette, Grandmamma's French woman, who waits on her, while Perkins is rather myAunt Dorothea's and ours, came in to tell me that Perkins was gone tobed with a headache, and hoped that we would allow her to wait on usto-night, when she was dismissed by the elder ladies. 

"Oh, I want no waiting at all, " said I, "if somebody will just take thepins out of my head-dress carefully. Do that, Lucette, and then I shallneed nothing else, I cannot speak for the other young ladies. "

Lucette threw a wrapping-cape over my shoulders, and began to remove thepins with deft fingers. Grandmamma had not yet come up-stairs. 

"Mademoiselle Agnes looks charmante to-night, " said she: "but then sheis always charmante. But what has Mademoiselle Flore? So white, sowhite she is! I saw her through the door. "

I told her that Flora's brother had been taken prisoner. 

"Ah, this horrible war!" cried she. "Can the grands Seigneurs not leavealone the wars? or else fight out their quarrels their own selves?"

"Oh, the Prince will soon be here, " said I, "and then it will all beover. "

"All be over? Ah, _sapristi_! Mademoiselle does not know. The Princemeans the priests: and the priests mean--_Bon_! have I not heard mygrandmother tell?"

"Tell what, Lucette? I thought you were a Papist, like allFrenchwomen. "

"A Catholic--I? Why then came my grandfather to this country, and myfather, and all? Does Mademoiselle suppose they loved betterSpitalfields than Blois? Should they then leave a country where the sunis glorious and the vines _ravissantes_, for this black cold place wherethe sun shine once a year? _Vraiment! Serait-il possible_?"

I laughed. "The sun shines oftener in Cumberland, Lucette. I won'tdefend Spitalfields. But I want to know what your grandmother told youabout the priests. "

"The priests have two sides, Mademoiselle. On the one is theconfessional: you must go--you shall not choose. You kneel; you speakout all--every thought in your heart, every secret of your dearestfriend. You may not hide one little thought. The priest hears youhesitate? The questions come:--Mademoiselle, terrible questions, questions I could not ask, nor you understand. You learn to understandthem. They burn up your heart, they drag down to Hell your soul. Thatis one side. "

"Would they see me there twice!" said I. 

"Then, if not so, there is the other side. The chains, thetorture-irons, the fire. You can choose, so: you tell, or you die. There is no more choice. Does Mademoiselle wonder that we came?"

"No, indeed, Lucette. How could I? But that was in France. This isEngland. We are a different sort of people here. "

"You--yes. But the Church and the priests are the same everywhere. Everywhere! May the good God keep them from us!"

"Why, Lucette! you are praying against the Prince, if it be as you say!"

"Ah! would I then do harm to _Monseigneur le Prince_? Let him leavethere the priests, and none shall be more glad to see him come than I. I love the right, always. But the priests! No, no. "

"But if it be right, Lucette?"

"The good God knows what is right. But, Mademoiselle, can it be rightto bring in the priests and the confessions?"

"Is it not God who brings them, Lucette? We only bring the King. Ifthe King choose to bring the priests--"

"Ah! then the Lord will bring the fires. But the Lord bring thepriests! The Lord shut up the preches and set up the mass? The Lordburn His poor servants, and clothe the servants of Satan in gold andscarlet? The Lord forbid His Word, and set up images? _Comment_, Mademoiselle! It would not be possible. "

"But, Lucette, the King has the right. "

"The Lord Christ has the right, " said Lucette, solemnly. "Is it not Hewhose right it is? Mademoiselle, He stands before the King!"

We heard Grandmamma saying good-night to my Uncle Charles at the foot ofthe stairs, and Lucette ran off to her chamber. 

I felt more plagued than ever. What _is_ right?

Just then Annas and Flora came up; Annas grave but composed, Flora witha white face and red eyes. 

"O Cary, Cary!" She came and put her arms round me. "Pray for Angus;we shall never see him again. And he is not ready--he is not ready. "

"My poor Flora!" I said, and I did my best to soothe her. But Annasdid better. 

"The Lord can make him ready, " she said. "He healed the paralytic man, dear, as some have it, entirely for the faith of them that bore him. And surely the daughter of the Canaanitish woman could have no faithherself. "

"Pray for him, Annas!" sobbed Flora. "You have more faith than I. "

"I am not so hard tried--yet, " was the grave reply. 

"You do not think Mr Keith in danger?" said I. 

"I think the Lord sitteth above the water-floods, Cary; and I wouldrather not look lower. Not till I must, and that may be very soon. "

"Annas, " said I, "I wish you would tell me what right is. I do get sopuzzled. "

"What puzzles you, Cary? Right is what God wills. "

"But would the Prince not have the right, if God did not will him tosucceed?"

"The Lawgiver can always repeal His own laws. We in the crowd, Cary, can only judge when they be repealed by hearing Him decree somethingcontrary to them. And there are no precedents in that Court. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He. ' We can only wait and see. Until we do see it, we must follow our last orders. "

"My Father says, " added Flora, "that this question was made harder thanit need have been, by the throwing out of the Exclusion Bill. The Houseof Commons passed it, but the Bishops and Lord Halifax threw it out; ifthat had been passed, making it impossible for a Papist to be King, thenKing James would never have come to the throne at all, and all thetroubles and persecutions of his reign would not have happened. That, my Father says, was where they went wrong. "

"Well, " said I, "it does look like it. But how queer that the Bishopsshould be the people to go wrong!"

Annas laughed. 

"You will find that nothing new, Cary, if you search, " said she. "`Theythat lead thee cause thee to err' is as old a calamity as the Prophets. And where priests or would-be priests are the leaders, they verygenerally do go wrong. "

"I wish, " said I, "there were a few more `Thou shalt nots' in theBible. "

"Have you finished obeying all there are?"

I considered that question with one sleeve off. 

"Well, no, I suppose not, " I said at length, pulling off the other. 

Annas smiled gravely, and said no more. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glorious news! The Prince is at Derby. I am sure there is no more needto fear for Angus. His Royal Highness will be here in a very few daysnow: and then let the Whigs look to themselves!

Grandmamma has bought some more white cockades. She says Hatty hasimproved wonderfully; her cheeks are not so shockingly red, and shespeaks better, and has more decent manners. She thinks the Crosslandshave done her a great deal of good. I thought Hatty looking not at allwell the last time she was here; and so grave for her--almost sad. AndI am afraid the Crosslands, or somebody, have done her a great deal ofbad. But somehow, Hatty is one of those people whom you cannot questionunless she likes. Something inside me will not put the questions. Idon't know what it is. 

I wish I knew everything! If I could only understand myself, I shouldget on better. And how am I going to understand other people?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. A clergyman always wore his cassock at this time. Whitefieldwas very severe on those worldly clergy who laid it aside, and went"disguised"--namely, in the ordinary coat--to entertainments of variouskinds. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

SPIDERS' WEBS. 

 "Why does he find so many tangled threads, So many dislocated purposes, So many failures in the race of life?"

 REV HORATIUS BONAR, D. D. 

We had a grand time of it last night, to celebrate the Prince's entryinto Derby. I did not see one red ribbon. Grandmamma is very much putout at the forbidding of French cambrics; she says nobody will be ableto have a decent ruffle or a respectable handkerchief now: but what canyou expect of these Hanoverians? And I am sure she looked smart enoughlast night. We had dancing--first, the minuet, and then around--"Pepper's black, " and then "Dull Sir John, " and a country dance, "Smiling Polly. " Flora would not dance, and Grandmamma excused her, because she was a minister's daughter: Grandmamma always says aclergyman when she tells people: she says minister is a low word onlyused by Dissenters, and she does not want people to know that any guestof hers has any connection with those creatures. "However, thankHeaven! (says she) the girl is not my grand-daughter!" I don't knowwhat she would say if I were to turn Dissenter. I suppose she would cutme off with a shilling. Ephraim said so, and I asked him what it meant. Shillings are not very sharp, and what was I to be cut off? Ephraimseemed excessively amused. 

"You are too good, Cary, " said he. "Did you think the shilling was aknife to cut you off something? It means she will only leave you ashilling in her will. "

"Well, that will be a shilling more than I expect, " said I: and Ephraimwent off laughing. 

I asked Miss Newton, as she seemed to know him, who Mr Raymond was. She says he is the lecturer at Saint Helen's, and might have been adecent man if that horrid creature Mr Wesley had not got hold of him. 

"Oh, do you know anything about Mr Wesley, or Mr Whitefield?" cried I. "Are they in London now?"

If I could hear them again!

"I am sure I cannot tell you, " said Miss Newton, laughing. "I haveheard my father speak of them with some very strong language after it--that I know. My dear Miss Courtenay, does everything rouse yourenthusiasm? For how you can bring that brilliant light into your eyesfor the Prince, and for Mr Wesley, is quite beyond me. I should havethought they were the two opposite ends of a pole. "

"I don't know anything about Mr Wesley, " I said, "and I have only heardMr Whitefield preach once in Scotland. "

"You have heard him?" she asked. 

"Yes, and liked him very much, " said I. 

Miss Newton shrugged her shoulders in that little French way she has. "Why, some people think him the worse of the two, " she said. "I don'tknow anything about them, I can tell you--only that Mr Wesley makesDissenters faster than you could make tatting-stitches. "

"What does he do to them?" said I. 

"I don't know, and I don't want to know, " said she. "If he had lived informer times, I am sure he would have been taken up for witchcraft. Heis a clergyman, or they say so; but I really wonder the Bishops have notturned him out of the Church long ago. "

"A clergyman, and makes people Dissenters!" cried I. "Why, MrWhitefield quoted the Articles in his sermon. "

"They said so, " she replied. "I know nothing about it; I never heardthe man, thank Heaven! but they say he goes about preaching to all sortsof dreadful creatures--those wild miners down in Cornwall, andcoal-heavers, and any sort of mobs he can get to listen. Only fancy aclergyman--a gentleman--doing any such thing!"

I thought a moment, and some words came to my mind. 

"Do you think Mr Wesley was wrong?" I said. "`The common people heardHim gladly. ' And I suppose you would not say that our Lord was not agentleman. "

"Dear Miss Courtenay, forgive me, but what very odd things you say!And--excuse me--don't you know it is not thought at all good taste toquote the Bible in polite society?"

"Is the Bible worse off for that?" said I. "Or is it the politesociety? The best society, I suppose, ought to be in Heaven: and Ifancy they do not shut out the Bible there. What think you?"

"Are you very innocent?" she answered, laughing; "or are you only makingbelieve? You must know, surely, that religion is not talked aboutexcept from the pulpit, and on Sundays. "

"But can we all be sure of dying on a Sunday?" I answered. "We shallwant religion then, shall we not?"

"Hush! we don't talk of dying either--it is too shocking!"

"But don't we do it sometimes?" I said. 

Miss Newton looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or be angry--certainly very much disturbed. 

"Let us talk of something more agreeable, I beg, " said she. "See, MissBracewell is going to sing. "

"Oh, she will sing nothing worth listening to, " said I. 

"I suppose you think only Methodist hymns worth listening to, " respondedMiss Newton, rather sneeringly. 

I don't like to be sneered at. I suppose nobody does. But it does notmake me feel timid and yield, as it seems to do many: it only makes meangry. 

"Well, " said I, "listen how much this is worth. "

Amelia drew off her gloves with a listless air which I believe shethought exceedingly genteel. I cannot undertake to describe her song:it was one of those queer lackadaisical ditties which always remind meof those tunes which go just where you don't expect them to go, and endnowhere. I hate them. And I don't like the songs much better. Ofcourse there was a lady wringing her hands--why do people in balladswring their hands so much? I never saw anybody do it in my life--and acavalier on a coal-black steed, and a silvery moon; what would become ofthe songwriters if there were no moon and no sea?--and "she sat andwailed, " and he did something or other, I could not exactly hear what;and at last he, or she, or both of them (only that would not suit thegrammar) "was at rest, " and I was thankful to hear it, for Ameliastopped singing. 

"How sweet and sad!" said Miss Newton. 

"Do you like that kind of song? I think it is rubbish. "

She laughed with that little deprecating air which she often uses to me. I looked up to see who was going to sing next: and to my extremesurprise, and almost equal pleasure, I saw Annas sit down to the harp. 

"Oh, Miss Keith is going to sing!" cried I. "I should like to hearhers. "

"A Scottish ballad, no doubt, " replied Miss Newton. 

There was a soft, low, weird-like prelude: and then came a voice likethat of a thrush, at which every other in the room seemed to hushinstinctively. Each word was clear. 

This was Annas's song. 

 "She said, --`We parted for a while, But we shall meet again ere long; I work in lowly, lonely room, And he amid the foreign throng: But here I willingly abide, -- Here, where I see the other side. 

 "`Look to those hills which reach away Beyond the sea that rolls between; Here from my casement, day by day, Their happy summits can be seen: Happy, although they us divide, -- I know he sees the other side. 

 "`The days go on to make the year-- A year we must be parted yet-- I sing amid my crosses light, For on those hills mine eyes are set: You say, those hills our eyes divide? Ay, but he sees the other side!

 "`So these dividing hills become Our point of meeting, every eve; Up to the hills we look and pray And love--our work so soon we leave; And then no more shall aught divide-- We dwell upon the other side. '"

"Pretty!" said Miss Newton, in the tone which people use when they donot think a thing pretty, but fancy that you expect them to say so: "butnot so charming as Miss Bracewell's song. "

"Wait, " said I; "she has not finished yet. "

The harp was speaking now--in a sad low voice, rising gradually to anote of triumph. Then it sank low again, and Annas's voice continuedthe song. 

 "She said, --`We parted for a while, But we shall meet again ere long; I dwell in lonely, lowly room, And he hath joined the heavenly throng: Yet here I willingly abide, For yet I see the Other Side. 

 "`I look unto the hills of God Beyond the life that rolls between; Here from my work by faith each day Their blessed summits can be seen; Blessed, although they us divide, -- I know he sees the Other Side. 

 "`The days go on, the days go on, -- Through earthly life we meet not yet; I sing amid my crosses light, For on those hills mine eyes are set: 'Tis true, those hills our eyes divide-- Ay, but he sees the Other Side!

 "`So the eternal hills become Our point of meeting, every eve; Up to the hills I look and pray And love--soon all my work I leave: And then no more shall aught divide-- We dwell upon the Other Side. '"

I turned to Miss Newton with my eyes full, as Annas rose from the harp. The expression of her face was a curious mixture of feelings. 

"Was ever such a song sung in Mrs Desborough's drawing-room!" shecried. "She will think it no better than a Methodist hymn. I am afraidMiss Keith has done herself no good with her hostess. "

"But Grandmamma would never--" I said, hesitatingly. "Annas Keith'sconnections are--"

"I advise you not to be too sure what she could never, " answered MissNewton, with a little capable nod. "Mrs Desborough would scarce becivil to the Princess herself if she sang a pious song in herdrawing-room on a reception evening. "

"But it was charming!" I said. 

Miss Newton shrugged her shoulders. "The same things do not charmeverybody, " said she. "It seemed to me no better than that Methodistdoggerel. The latter half, at least; the beginning promised better. "

When we went up to bed, Annas came to me as I stood folding myshoulder-knots, and laid a hand on each of my shoulders from behind. 

"Cary, we must say `good-bye, ' I think. I scarce expected it. But MrsDesborough's face, when my song was ended, had `good-bye' in it. "

"O Annas!" said I. "Surely she would never be angry with you for a meresong! Your connections are so good, and Grandmamma thinks so much ofconnections. "

"If my song had only had a few wicked words in it, " replied Annas, withthat slight curl of her lip which I was learning to understand, "I daresay she would have recovered it by to-morrow. And if my connections hadbeen poor people, --or better, Whigs, --or better still, disreputablerakes--she might have got over that. But a pious song, and a sisterlyconnection of spirit with Mr Whitefield and the Scottish Covenanters. No, Cary, she will not survive that. I never yet knew a worldly womanforgive that one crime of crimes--Calvinism. Anything else! Don't yousee why, my dear? It sets her outside. And she knows that I know sheis outside. Therefore I am unforgivable. However absurd the idea maybe in reality, it is to her mind equivalent to my setting her outside. She is unable to recognise that she has chosen to stay without, and I amguilty of nothing worse than unavoidably seeing that she is there. ThatI should be able to see it is unpardonable. I am sorry it should havehappened just now; but I suppose it was to be. "

"Are you going to tell her so?" I asked, wondering what Annas meant. 

"I expect she will tell me before to-morrow is over, " said Annas, with apeculiar smile. 

"But what made you choose that song, then? I thought it so pretty. "

"I chose the one I knew, to which I supposed she would object theleast, " replied Annas. "She asked me to sing. "

When we came down to breakfast, the next morning, I felt that somethingwas in the air. Grandmamma sat so particularly straight up, and my AuntDorothea looked so prim, and my Uncle Charles fidgetted about betweenthe fire and the window, like a man who knew of something coming whichhe wanted to have over. My Aunt Dorothea poured the chocolate insilence. When all were served, Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff. 

"Miss Keith!"

"Madam!"

"Do you think the air of the Isle of Wight wholesome at this season ofthe year?"

"So much so, Madam, that I am inclined to propose we should resume ourjourney thither. "

Grandmamma took another pinch. 

"I will beg you, then, to make my compliments to Sir James, and tell himhow much entertained I have been by your visit, and especially by yourperformance on the harp. You have a fine finger, Miss Keith, and yourchoice of a song is unexceptionable. "

"I thank you for the compliment, Madam, which I shall be happy to maketo Sir James. "

There was nothing but dead silence after that until breakfast was over. When we were back in our room, I broke down. To lose both Annas andFlora was too much. 

"O Annas! why did you take the bull by the horns?" I cried. 

She laughed. "It is always the best way, Cary, when you see him put hishead down!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Annas and Flora are gone, and I feel like one shipwrecked. I wanderabout the house, and do not know what to do. I might read, butGrandmamma has no books except dreary romances in huge volumes, whichdate, I suppose, from the time when she was a girl at school; and myUncle Charles has none but books about farming and etiquette. I havelooked up and mended all my clothes, and cannot find any sewing to do. I wrote to Sophy only last week, and they will not expect another letterfor a while. I wish something pleasant would happen. The only thing Ican think of to do is to go in a chair to visit Hatty and theBracewells, and I am afraid that would be something unpleasant. I havenot spoken to Mr Crossland, but I do not like the look of him; and MrsCrossland is a stranger, and I am tired of strangers. They so seldomseem to turn out pleasant people. 

Just as I had written that, as if to complete my vexation, my AuntDorothea looked in and told me to put on my cherry satin this evening, for Sir Anthony and my Lady Parmenter were expected. If there be acreature I particularly wish not to see, he is sure to come! I wish Iknew why things are always going wrong in this world! There are two orthree people that I would give a good deal for, and I am quite sure theywill not be here; and I should think Cecilia dear at three-farthings, with Sir Anthony thrown in for the penny. 

I wish I were making jumballs in the kitchen at Brocklebank, and couldhave a good talk with my Aunt Kezia afterwards! Somehow, I never caredmuch about it when I could, and now that I cannot, I feel as if I wouldgive anything for it. Are things always like that? Does nothing inthis world ever happen just as one would like it in every point?

In my cherry-coloured satin, with white shoulder-knots, a blue pompoonin my hair, and my new hoop (I detest these hoops; they are horrid), Icame down to the withdrawing room, and cast my eye round the chamber. Grandmamma, in brocaded black silk, sat where she always does, at theside of the fire, and my Uncle Charles--who for a wonder was at home--and my Aunt Dorothea were receiving the people as they came in. TheBracewells were there already, and Hatty, and Mr Crossland, and amiddle-aged lady, who I suppose was his mother, and Miss Newton, and afew more whose faces and names I know. Sir Anthony and my LadyParmenter came in just after I got there. 

What has come over Hatty? She does not look like the same girl. Grandmamma can never talk of her glazed red cheeks now. She is whiteralmost than I am, and so thin! I am quite sure she is either ill, orunhappy, or both. But I cannot ask her, for somehow we never meet eachother except for a minute. Several times I have thought, and thethought grows upon me, that somebody does not want Hatty and me to havea quiet talk with each other. At first I thought it was Hatty who keptaway from me herself, but I am beginning to think now that somebody elseis doing it. I do not trust that young Mr Crossland, not one bit. Yet, why he should wish to keep us apart, I cannot even imagine. I madeup my mind to get hold of Hatty and ask her when she were going home; Ithink she would be safer there than here. But it was a long, long whilebefore I could reach her. So many people seemed to be hemming her in. I sat on an ottoman in the corner, watching my opportunity, when all atonce a voice called me back to something else. 

"Dear little Cary, I have been so wishing for a chat with you. "

Hatty used to say that you may always know something funny is comingwhen you see a cat wag her tail. I had come to the conclusion thatwhenever one person addressed me with endearing phrases, somethingsinister was coming. I looked up this time: I did not courtesy and walkaway, as I did on the last occasion. I wanted to avoid an open quarrel. If she had sought me out after that, I could not avoid it. But tospeak to me as if nothing had happened!--how could the woman be sobrazen as that?

I looked up, and saw a large gold-coloured fan, most beautifully paintedwith birds of all the hues of the rainbow, from over which those tawnyeyes were glancing at me; and for one moment I wished that hating peoplewere not wicked. 

"For what purpose, Madam?" I replied. 

"Dear child, you are angry with me, " she said, and the soft, warm, gloved hand pressed mine, before I could draw it away. "It is sonatural, for of course you do not understand. But it makes me verysorry, for I loved you so much. "

O serpent, how beautiful you are! But you are a serpent still. 

"Did you?" I said, and my voice sounded hard and cold to my own ears. "I take the liberty of doubting whether you and I give that name to thesame thing. "

The light gleamed and flashed, softened and darkened, then shot outagain from those wonderful, beautiful eyes. 

"And you won't forgive me?" she said, in a soft sad voice. How she cangovern that voice, to be sure!

"Forgive you? Yes, " I answered. "But trust you? No. I think neveragain, my Lady Parmenter. "

"You will be sorry some day that you did not. "

Was it a regret? was it a threat? The voice conveyed neither, and mighthave stood for both. I looked up again, but she had vanished, and whereshe had been the moment before stood Mr Raymond. 

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Courtenay. "

"You shall have my past thoughts, if you please, " said I, trying tospeak lightly. "I would rather not sell my present ones at the price. "

He smiled, and drew out a new penny. "Then let me make the lessvaluable purchase. "

Even Mr Raymond was a welcome change from her. 

"Then tell me, Mr Raymond, " said I, "do things ever happen exactly asone wishes them to do?"

"Once in a thousand times, perhaps, " said he. "I should imagine, though, that the occasion usually comes after long waiting and bitterpain. Generally there is something to remind us that this is not ourrest. "

"Why?" I said, and I heard my soul go into the word. 

"Why not?" answered he, pithily. "Is the servant so much greater thanhis Lord that he may reasonably look for things to be otherwise? Castyour mind's eye over the life of Christ our Master, and see on how manyoccasions matters happened in a way which you would suppose entirely toHis liking? Can you name one?"

I thought, and could not see anything, except when He did a miracle, orwhen He spent a night in prayer to God. 

"I give you those nights of prayer, " said Mr Raymond. "But I think youmust yield me the miracles. Unquestionably it must have given Himpleasure to relieve pain; but see how much pain to Himself was oftenmixed in it!--`Looking up to Heaven, He sighed' ere He did one; He wept, just before performing another; He cried, `How long shall I be with you, and suffer you!' ere he worked a third. No, Miss Courtenay, themiracles of our Divine Master were not all pleasure to Himself. Indeed, I should be inclined to venture further, and ask if we have no hint thatthey were wrought at a considerable cost to Himself. He `took ourinfirmities, and bare our sicknesses'; He knew when `virtue had gone outof Him. ' That may mean only that His Divine knowledge was conscious ofit; but taking both passages together, is it not possible that Hiswonderful works were wrought at personal expense--that His human bodysuffered weakness, faintness, perhaps acute pain, as the naturalconsequence of doing them? You will understand that I merely throw outthe hint. Scripture does not speak decisively; and where God does notdecide, it is well for men to be cautious. "

"Mr Raymond, " I exclaimed, "how can you be a Whig?"

"Pardon me, but what is the connection?" asked he, looking bothastonished and diverted. 

"Don't you see it? You are much too good for one. "

Mr Raymond laughed. "Thank you; I fear I did not detect thecompliment. May I put the counter question, and ask how you came to bea Tory?"

"Why, I was born so, " said I. 

"And so was I a Whig, " replied he. 

"Excuse me!" came laughingly from my other hand, in Miss Newton's voice. "The waters are not quite so smooth as they were, and I thought I hadbetter be at hand to pour a little oil if necessary. Mr Raymond, I amafraid you are getting worldly. Is that not the proper word?"

"It is the proper word for an improper thing, " said Mr Raymond. "Onwhat evidence do you rest your accusation, Miss Theresa?"

"On the fact that you have twice in one week made your appearance inMrs Desborough's rooms, which are the very pink of worldliness. "

"Have I come without reason?"

"You have not given it me, " said the young lady, laughing. "You cannotalways come to tell one of the guests that his (or her) relations havebeen taken prisoner. "

I looked up so suddenly that Mr Raymond answered my eyes before hereplied to Miss Newton's words. 

"No, Miss Courtenay, I did not come with ill news. I suppose a man mayhave two reasons at different times for the same action?"

"Where is our handsome friend of the dreadful name?" asked Miss Newton. 

"Mr Hebblethwaite? He told me he could not be here this evening. "

"That man will have to change his name before anybody will marry him, "said Miss Newton. 

"Then, if he takes my advice, he will continue in single blessedness, "was Mr Raymond's answer. 

"Now, why?"

"Do you not think it would be preferable to marrying a woman whoseregard for you was limited by the alphabet?"

"Mr Raymond, you and Miss Courtenay do say such odd things! Is thatbecause you are religious people?"

Oh, what a strange feeling came over me when Miss Newton said that!What made her count me a "religious person"? Am I one? I should nothave dared to say it. I should like to be so; I am afraid to gofurther. To reckon myself one would be to sign my name as a queen, andI am not sufficiently sure of my royal blood to do it. 

But what had I ever said to Miss Newton that she should entertain suchan idea? Mr Raymond glanced at me with a brotherly sort of smile, which I wished from my heart that I deserved, (for all he is a Whig!)and was afraid I did not. Then he said, --

"Religious people, I believe, are often very odd things in the eyes ofirreligious people. Do you count yourself among the latter class, MissTheresa?"

"Oh, I don't make any profession, " said she. "I have but one life, andI want to enjoy it. "

"That is exactly my position, " said Mr Raymond, smiling. 

"Now, what do you mean?" demanded she. "Don't the Methodists labeleverything `wicked' that one wants to do?"

"`One' sometimes means another, " replied Mr Raymond, with a funny lookin his eyes. "They do not put that label on anything I want to do. Icannot answer for other people. "

"I am sure they would put it on a thousand things that I should, " saidMiss Newton. 

"Am I to understand that speaks badly for them?--or for you?"

"Mr Raymond! You know I make no profession of religion. I think it ismuch better to be free. "

The look in Mr Raymond's eyes seemed to me very like Divine compassion. 

"Miss Theresa, your remark makes me ask two questions: Do you supposethat `making no profession' will excuse you to the Lord? Does yourBible read, `He that maketh no profession shall be saved'? And also--Are you free?"

"Am I free? Why, of course I am!" she cried. "I can do what I like, without asking leave of priest or minister. "

"God forbid that you should ask leave of priest or minister! But I cando what I like, also. What the Lord likes, I like. No priest on earthshall come between Him and me. "

"That sounds very grand, Mr Raymond. But just listen to me. I know ayoung gentlewoman who says the same thing. She is dead againsteverything which she thinks to be Popery. Submit to the Pope?--no, notfor a moment! But this dear creature has a pet minister, who is to herexactly what the Pope is to his subjects. She won't dance, because MrGardiner disapproves of it; she can't sing a song, of the most innocentsort, because Mr Gardiner thinks songs naughty; she won't do this, andshe can't go there, because Mr Gardiner says this and that. Now, whatdo you call that?"

"Human nature, Miss Theresa. Depend upon it, Popery would never havethe hold it has if there were not in it something very palatable tohuman nature. Human nature is of two varieties, and Satan's two grandmasterpieces appeal to both. To the proud man, who is a law untohimself, he brings infidelity as the grand temptation: `Ye shall be asgods'--`Yea, hath God said?'--and lastly, `There is no God. ' To theweaker nature, which demands authority to lean on, he brings Popery, offering to decide for you all the difficult questions of heart and lifewith authority--offering you the romantic fancy of a semi-goddess in itsworship of the Virgin, in whose gentle bosom you may repose everytrouble, and an infallible Church which can set everything right foryou. Now just notice how far God's religion is from both. It does notsay, `Ye shall be as gods;' but, `This Man receiveth sinners': not, `Hath God said?' but, `Thus saith the Lord. ' Turn to the other side, and instead of your compassionate goddess, it offers you Jesus, theGod-man, able to succour them that are tempted, in that He Himself hathsuffered being tempted. Infallibility, too, it offers you, but notresident in a man, nor in a body of men. It resides in a book, which isnot the word of man, but the Word of God, and effective only when it isinterpreted and applied by the living Spirit, whose guidance may be hadby the weakest and poorest child that will ask God for Him. "

"We are not in church, my dear Mr Raymond!" said Miss Newton, shruggingher shoulders. "If you preach over the hour, Mrs Desborough will besending Caesar to show you the clock. "

"I have not exceeded it yet, I think, " said Mr Raymond. 

"Well, I wish you would talk to Eliza Wilkinson instead of me. She saysshe has been--is `converted' the word? I am ill up in Methodist terms. And ever since she is converted, or was converted, she does not commitsin. I wish you would talk to her. "

"I am not fit to talk to such a seraph. I am a sinner. "

"Oh, but I think there is some distinction, which I do not properlyunderstand. She does not wilfully sin; and as to those little thingswhich everybody does, that are not quite right, you know, --well, theydon't count for anything. She is a child of God, she says, andtherefore He will not be hard upon her for little nothings. Is thatyour creed, Mr Raymond?"

"Do you know the true name of that creed, Miss Theresa?"

"Dear, no! I understand nothing about it. "

Mr Raymond's voice was very solemn: "`So hast thou also them that holdthe doctrine of the Nicolaitanes, _which thing I hate_. ' `Turning thegrace of our God into lasciviousness. ' Antinomianism is the name of it. It has existed in the Church of God from a date, you see, earlier thanthe close of the inspired canon. Essentially the same thing survives inthe Popish Church, under the name of mortal and venial sins; and itcreeps sooner or later into every denomination, in its robes of an angelof light. But it belongs to the darkness. Sin! Do we know the meaningof that awful word? I believe none but God knows rightly what sin is. But he who does not know something of what sin is can have very poorideas of the Christ who saves from sin. He does not save men in sin, but from sin: not only from penalty, --from sin. Christ is not dead, butalive. And sin is not a painted plaything, but a deadly poison. Godforgive them who speak lightly of it!"

I do not know what Miss Newton said to this, for at that minute I caughtsight of Hatty in a corner, alone, and seized my opportunity at once. Threading my way with some difficulty among bewigged and belacedgentlemen, and ladies with long trains and fluttering fans, I reached mysister, and sat down by her. 

"Hatty, " said I, "I hardly ever get a word with you. How long do youstay with the Crosslands?"

"I do not know, Cary, " she answered, looking down, and playing with herfan. 

"Do you know that you look very far from well?"

"There are mirrors in Charles Street, " she replied, with a slight curlof her lip. 

"Hatty, are those people kind to you?" I said, thinking I had better, like Annas, take the bull by the horns. 

"I suppose so. They mean to be. Let it alone, Cary; you are not oldenough to interfere--hardly to understand. "

"I am only eighteen months younger than you, " said I. "I do not wish tointerfere, Hatty; but I do want to understand. Surely your own sistermay be concerned if she see you looking ill and unhappy. "

"Do I look so, Cary?"

I thought, from the tone, that Hatty was giving way a little. 

"You look both, " I said. "I wish you would come here. "

"Do you wish it, Cary?" The tone now was very unlike Hatty. 

"Indeed I do, Hatty, " said I, warmly. "I don't half believe in thosepeople in Charles Street; and as to Amelia and Charlotte, I doubt ifeither of them would see anything, look how you might. "

"Oh, Charlotte is not to blame; thoughtlessness is her worst fault, "said Hatty, still playing with her fan. 

"And somebody is to blame? Is it Amelia?"

"I did not say so, " was the answer. 

"No, " I said, feeling disappointed; "I cannot get you to say anything. Hatty, I do wish you would trust me. Nobody here loves you except me. "

"You did not love me much once, Cary. "

"Oh, I get vexed when you tease me, that is all, " said I. "But I wantyou to look happier, Hatty, dear. "

"I should not tease you much now, Cary. "

I looked up, and saw that Hatty's eyes were full of tears. 

"Do come here, Hatty!" I said, earnestly. 

"Grandmamma has not asked me, " she replied. 

"Then I will beg her to ask you. I think she will. She said the otherday that you were very much improved. "

"At all events, my red cheeks and my plough-boy appetite would scarcelydistress her now, " returned Hatty, rather bitterly. "Mr Crossland iscoming for me--I must go. " And while she held my hand, I was amazed tohear a low whisper, in a voice of unutterable longing, --"Cary, pray forme!"

That horrid Mr Crossland came up and carried her off. Poor dear Hatty!I am sure something is wrong. And somehow, I think I love her bettersince I began to pray for her, only that was not last night, as sheseemed to think. 

This morning at breakfast, I asked Grandmamma if she would do me afavour. 

"Yes, child, if it be reasonable, " said she. "What would you have?"

"Please, Grandmamma, will you ask Hatty to come for a little while? Ishould so like to have her; and I cannot talk to her comfortably in aroom full of people. "

Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff, as she generally does when she wantsto consider a minute. 

"She is very much improved, " said she. "She really is almostpresentable. I should not feel ashamed, I think, of introducing her asmy grand-daughter. Well, Cary, if you wish it, I do not mind. You area tolerably good girl, and I do not object to give you a pleasure. Butit must be after she has finished her visit to the Crosslands. I couldnot entice her away. "

"I asked her how long she was going to stay there, Grandmamma, and shesaid she did not know. "

"Then, my dear, you must wait till she do. " [Note 1. ]

But what may happen before then? I knew it would be of no use to sayany more to Grandmamma: she is a perfect Mede and Persian when she haveonce declared her royal pleasure. And my Aunt Dorothea will neverinterfere. My Uncle Charles is the only one who dare say another word, and it was a question if he would. He is good-natured enough, but socareless that I could not feel at all certain of enlisting him. Ohdear! I do feel to be growing so old with all my cares! It seems as ifHatty, and Annas, and Flora, and Angus, and Colonel Keith, and thePrince, --I beg his pardon, he should have come first, --were all on myshoulders at once. And I don't feel strong enough to carry such a lotof people. 

I wish my Aunt Kezia was here. I have wished it so many times lately. 

When I had written so far, I turned back to look at my Aunt Kezia'srules. And then I saw how foolish I am. Why, instead of putting theLord first, I had been leaving Him out of the whole thing. Could He notcarry all these cares for me? Did He not know what ailed Hatty, and howto deliver Angus, and all about it? I knelt down there and then (Ialways write in my own chamber), and asked Him to send Hatty to me, andbetter still, to bring her to Him; and to show me whether I had betterspeak to my Uncle Charles, or try to get things out of Amelia. As toCharlotte, I would not ask her about anything which I did not care totell the town crier. 

The next morning--(there, my dates are getting all wrong again! It isno use trying to keep them straight)--as my Uncle Charles was putting onhis gloves to go out, he said, --

"Well, Cary, shall I bring you a fairing of any sort?"

"Uncle Charles, " I said, leaping to a decision at once, "do bring meHatty! I am sure she is not happy. Do get Grandmamma to let her comenow. "

"Not happy!" cried my Uncle Charles, lifting his eyebrows. "Why, whatis the matter with the girl? Can't she get married? Time enough, surely. "

Oh dear, how can men be so silly! But I let it pass, for I wanted Hattyto come, much more than to make my Uncle Charles sensible. In fact, Iam afraid the last would take too much time and labour. There, now, Ishould not have said that. 

"Won't you try, Uncle Charles? I do want her so much. "

"Child, I cannot interfere with my mother. Ask Hatty to spend the day. Then you can have a talk with her. "

"Uncle, please, will you ask Grandmamma?"

"If you like, " said he, with a laugh. 

I heard no more about it till supper-time, when my Uncle Charles said, as if it had just occurred to him (which I dare say it had), --"Madam, Ithink this little puss is disappointed that Hatty cannot come at once. Might she not spend the day here? It would be a treat for both girls. "

Grandmamma's snuff-box came out as usual. I sat on thorns, while sherapped her box, opened it, took a pinch, shut the box with a snap, andconsigned it to her pocket. 

"Yes, " she said, at last. "Dorothea, you can send Caesar with a note. "

"Oh, thank you, Grandmamma!" cried I. 

Grandmamma looked at me, and gave an odd little laugh. 

"These fresh girls!" she said, "how they do care about things, to besure!"

"Grandmamma, is it pleasanter not to care about things?" said I. 

"It is better, my dear. To be at all warm or enthusiastic betraysunder-breeding. "

"But--please, Grandmamma--do not well-bred people get very warm overpolitics?"

"Sometimes well-bred people forget themselves, " said Grandmamma, "But itis more allowable to be warm over some matters than others. Politicsare to some degree an exception. We do not make exhibitions of ourpersonal affections, Caroline, and above all things we avoid showingwarmth on religious questions. We do not talk of such things at all ingood society. "

Now--I say this to my book, of course, not to Grandmamma--is not thatvery strange? We are not to be warm over the most important things, matters of life and death, things we really care about in our inmosthearts: but over all the little affairs that we do not care about, wemay lose our tempers a little (in an elegant and reasonable way) if wechoose to do so. Would it not be better the other way about?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The use of the subjunctive with _when_ and _until_, nowobsolete, was correct English until the present century was some thirtyyears old. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

CARY IN A NEW CHARACTER. 

 "God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear. "

 BROWNING. 

I feel more and more certain that something is wrong in Charles Street. The invitation is declined, not by Hatty herself, but in a note fromMrs Crossland: "Miss Hester Courtenay has so sad a catarrh that it willnot be safe for her to venture out for some days to come. " [Note 1. ]

"Why, Cary, that is a disappointment for you, " said my Uncle Charles, kindly. "I think, Madam, as Hester cannot come, Mrs Crossland mighthave offered a counter-invitation to Caroline. "

"It would have been well-bred, " said Grandmamma. "Mrs Crossland is notvery well connected. She was the daughter or niece of an archdeacon, Ibelieve; rather raised by her marriage. I am sorry you aredisappointed, child. "

This was a good deal for Grandmamma to say, and I thanked her. 

Well, one thing had failed me; I must try another. At the next eveningassembly I watched my chance, and caught Charlotte in a corner. I askedhow Hatty was. 

"Hatty?" said Charlotte, looking surprised. "She is well enough, foraught I know. "

"I thought she had a bad catarrh?" said I. 

"Didn't know she had one. She is going to my Lady Milworth's assemblywith Mrs Crossland. "

I felt more sure of ill-play than ever, but to Charlotte I said no more. The next person whom I pinned to the wall was Amelia. With her I feltmore need of caution in one sense, for I did not know how far she mightbe in the plot, whatever it was. That no living mortal with any shadowof brains would have trusted Charlotte with a secret, I felt as sure asI did that my ribbons were white, and not red. 

"Emily, " I said, "why did not Hatty come with you to-night?"

"I did not ask, " was Amelia's languid answer. I do think she gets moreand more limp and unstarched as time goes on. 

"Is she better?"

"What is the matter with her?" Amelia's eyes betrayed no artifice. 

"A catarrh, I understand. "

"Oh, you heard that from Miss Newton. The Newtons asked her for anassembly, and Mrs Crossland did not want to give up my Lady Milworth, so she sent word Hatty had a catarrh, I believe. It is all nonsense. "

"And it is not telling falsehoods?" said I. 

"My dear, I have nothing to do with it, " said Amelia, fanning herself. "Mrs Crossland may carry her own shortcomings. "

I felt pretty sure now that Amelia was not in the plot. 

"Will you give a message to Hatty?" I said. 

"If it be not too long to remember. "

"Tell her I wanted her to spend the day, and my Aunt Dorothea writ toask her to come, and Mrs Crossland returned answer that she had too bada catarrh, and must keep indoors for some days. "

"Did she--to Mrs Desborough?" said Amelia, with a surprised look. "Irather wonder at that, too. "

"Emily, help me!" I said. "These Crosslands want to keep Hatty and meapart. There is something wrong going on. Do help us, if you evercared for either of us. "

Amelia looked quite astonished and nuzzled. 

"Really, I knew nothing about it! Of course I care for you, Cary. Butwhat can I do?"

"Give that message to Hatty. Bid her, from me, break through thesnares, and come. Then we can see what must be done next. "

"I will give her the message, " said Amelia, with what was energy forher. "Cary, I have had nothing to do with it, if something be wrong. Inever even guessed it. "

"I don't believe you have, " said I. "But tell me one thing, Emily: arethey scheming to make Hatty marry Mr Crossland?"

"Most certainly not!" cried Amelia, with more warmth than I had thoughtwas in her. "Impossible! Why, Mr Crossland is engaged to MarianneNewton. "

"Is Miss Marianne Newton a friend of yours?"

"Yes, the dearest friend I have. "

"Then you will be on my side. Keep your eyes and ears open, and findout what it is. I tell you, something is wrong. Put yourself in thebreach; help Miss Marianne, if you like; but, for pity's sake, saveHatty!"

"But what makes you suppose that what is wrong has anything to do withMr Crossland?"

"I do not know why I fancy it; but I do. I cannot let the idea go. Ido not like the look of him. He does not look like a true man. "

"Cary, you have grown up since you came to London. "

"I feel like somebody's grandmother, " said I. "But I think I have beengrowing; to it, Amelia, since I left Brocklebank. "

"Well, you certainly are much less of a child than you were. I will domy best, Cary. " And Amelia looked as if she meant it. 

"But take no one into your confidence, " said I. --"Least of allCharlotte. "

"Thank you, I don't need that warning!" said Amelia, with her languidlaugh, as she furled her fan and turned away. And as I passed on theother side I came upon Ephraim Hebblethwaite. 

All at once my resolution was taken. 

"Come this way, Ephraim, " said I; "I want to show you my Uncle Charles'snew engravings. "

I lifted down the large portfolio, with Ephraim's help, --I don't thinkEphraim would let a cat jump down by itself if he thought the jump toofar, --set it on a little table, and under cover of the engravings I toldhim the whole story, and all my uneasiness about Hatty. He listenedvery attentively, but without showing either the surprise or theperplexity which Amelia had done. 

"If you suspect rightly, " said he, when I had finished my tale, "thefirst thing to be done is to get her out of Charles Street. "

"Do you think me too ready to suspect?" I replied. 

"No, " was his answer; "I am afraid you are right. "

"But what do they want to do with her, or to her?" cried I, under mybreath. 

"Cary, " said Ephraim, gravely, "I am very glad you have told me this. Iwill go so far as to tell you in return that I too have my suspicions ofyoung Crossland, though they are of rather a different kind from yours. You suspect him, so far as I understand you, of matrimonial designs onHatty, real or feigned. I am afraid rather that these appearances are ablind to hide something deeper and worse. I know something of this man, not enough to let me speak with certainty, but just sufficient to makeme doubt him, and to guide me in what direction to look. We must walkcarefully on this path, for if I mistake not, the ground is strewn withsnares. "

"What do you mean?" I cried, feeling terrified. 

"I would rather not tell you till I know more. I will try to do that assoon as possible. "

"I never thought of anything worse, " said I, "than that knowing, as heis likely to do, that Hatty will some day have a few hundreds a year ofher own, he is trying to inveigle her to marry him, and is not a manlikely to be kind to her and make her happy. "

"He is certainly likely to make her very unhappy, " replied Ephraim. "But I do not believe that he has any intentions of marriage, towardsHatty or anybody else. "

"But don't you think he may make her think so? Amelia told me he wasengaged in marriage with a gentlewoman she knows. "

"I am sorry for the gentlewoman. Make her think so? Yes, and undercover of that, work out his plot. I would advise Miss Bracewell tobeware that she is not made a catspaw. "

I told Ephraim what I had said to Amelia. 

"Then she is put on her guard: so far, well. "

"Ephraim, have you heard anything more of Angus?"

"Nothing but what you know already. "

"Nor, I suppose, of Colonel Keith? I wish I knew what he is doing. "

"He has not had much chance of doing anything yet, " said Ephraim, ratherdrily. "A sick-bed is not the most favourable place for helping one'sfriends out of prison. "

"Has Colonel Keith been ill?" cried I. 

"Mr Raymond did not tell you?"

"He never told me a word. I do not know what he may have said toAnnas. "

"A broken arm, and a fever on the top of it, " said Ephraim. "The doctortalks of letting him go out to-morrow, if the weather suit. "

"O Ephraim!" cried I. "But where is he?"

"Don't tell any one, if I tell you. Remember, Colonel Keith is aproscribed man. "

"I will do no harm to Annas's brother, trust me!" said I. 

"He is at Raymond's house, where he and I have been nursing him. "

"In a fever!"

"Oh, it is not a catching fever. Think you either of us would have comehere if it were?"

"Ephraim, is Mr Raymond to be trusted?" said I. "I am sure he is agood man, but he is a shocking Whig. And I do believe one of thequeerest things in this queer world is the odd notions that men take ofwhat it is their duty to do. "

"Have you found that out?" said he, looking much diverted. 

"I am always finding things out, " I answered. "I had no idea there wasso much to be found. But, don't you see, Mr Raymond might fancy it hisduty to betray Colonel Keith? Is there no danger?"

"Not the slightest, " said Ephraim, warmly. "Mr Raymond would be muchmore likely to give up his own life. Don't you know, Cary, thatScripture forbids us to betray a fugitive? And all the noblestinstincts of human nature forbid it too. "

"I know all one's feelings are against it, " said I, "but I did not knowthat there was anything about it in the Bible. "

"Look in the twenty-third of Deuteronomy, " replied Ephraim, "thefifteenth verse. The passage itself refers to a slave, but it must beequally applicable to a political fugitive. "

"I will look, " I answered. "But tell me, Ephraim, can nothing be donefor Angus?"

"If it can, it will be done, " he made answer. 

He said no more, but from his manner I could not but fancy that somebodywas trying to do something. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I never had two letters at once, by the same post, in my life: but thismorning two came--one from Flora, and one from my Aunt Kezia. Flora'sis not long: it says that she and Annas have reached the Isle of Wightin safety, and were but three hours a-crossing from Portsmouth; and shebegs me, if I can obtain it, to send her some news of Angus. My Lady DeLannoy was extreme kind to them both, and Flora says she is verycomfortable, and would be quite happy but for her anxiety about my UncleDrummond and Angus. My Uncle Drummond has not writ once, and she isvery fearful lest some ill have befallen him. 

My Aunt Kezia's letter is long, and full of good counsel, which I amglad to have, for I do find the world a worse place than I thought it, and yet not in the way I expected. She warns me to have a care lest mytongue get me into trouble; and that is one of the dangers I find, anddid not look for. Father is well, and all other friends: and I am notto be surprised if I should hear of Sophy's marriage. Fanny gets onvery well, and makes a better housekeeper than my Aunt Kezia expected. But I have spent much thought over the last passage of her letter, and Ido not like it at all:--

"Is Hatty yet in Charles Street? We have had but one letter from thechild in all this time, and that was short and told nothing. I hope yousee her often, and can give us some tidings. Squire Bracewell writ toyour father a fortnight gone that he was weary of dwelling alone, and asthe Prince's army is in retreat, he thinks it now safe to have the girlshome. If this be so, we shall soon have Hatty here. I have writ toher, by your father's wish, that she is not to tarry behind. "

I cried aloud when I came to this: "The Prince in retreat from Derby!Uncle Charles, do you know anything of it? Sure, it can never be true!"

"Nonsense!" he made answer. "Some silly rumour, no doubt. "

"But my Uncle Bracewell writ it to my Aunt Kezia, and he dwells withinfifteen miles, " I said. 

My Uncle Charles looked much disturbed. 

"I must go forth and see about this, " answered he. 

"With your catarrh, Mr Desborough!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. 

For above a week my Uncle Charles has not ventured from the door, havinga bad catarrh. 

"My catarrh must take care of itself, " he made answer. "This is seriousnews. Dobson, have you heard aught about the Prince being in retreat?"

Dobson, who was setting down the chocolate-pot, looked up and smiled. 

"Yes, Sir, we heard that yesterday. "

"You idiot! why did you not tell me?" cried my Uncle Charles. "Inretreat! I cannot believe it. "

"Run to the coffee-house, Dobson, " said Grandmamma, "and ask what newsthey have this morning. "

So Dobson went off, and has not yet returned. My Aunt Dorothea laughsall to scorn, but my Uncle Charles is uneasy, and I am sure Grandmammabelieves the report. It is dreadful if it is true. Are we to sit downunder another thirty years of foreign oppression?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before Dobson could get back, Mrs Newton came in her chair. She is avery stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up thestairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little Dutch pug after, which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. Her twodaughters came in behind her. 

"Oh, my dear--Mrs Desborough! My--dear creature! This is--thehorridest news! We must--go back to our--red ribbons and--blackcockades! Could I ever have--thought it! Aren't you--perfectlymiserable? Dear, dear me!"

"Ma is miserable because red does not suit her, " said Miss Marianne. "Ican wear it quite well, so I don't need to be. "

"Marianne!" said her sister, laughing. 

"Well, you know, Theresa, you don't care two pins whether the Princewins or loses. Who does?"

"The Prince and my Lord Tullibardine, " said Miss Newton. 

"Oh, of course, those who looked to the Prince to make their fortunesare disappointed enough. I don't. "

"I rather thought Mr Crossland did, " said Miss Newton, with amischievous air. 

"Well, I hope there are other people in the world beside Mr Crossland, "said Miss Marianne. 

"All right, my dear, " replied her sister. "If you don't care, I am sureI need not. I am not in love with Mr Crossland--not by any means. Inever did admire the way in which his nose droops over his mouth. Hehas fine teeth--that is a redeeming point. "

"Is it? I don't want him to bite me, " observed Miss Marianne. 

Miss Newton went off into a little (subdued) burst of silvery laughter, and I sat astonished. Was this the sort of thing which girls calledlove?--and was this the way in which fashionable women spoke of the menwhom they had pledged themselves to marry? I am sure I like MrCrossland little enough; but I felt almost sorry for him as I listenedto the girl who professed to love him. 

Meanwhile, Grandmamma and Mrs Newton were lamenting over the news--as Isupposed: but when I began to listen, I found all that was over and donewith. First, the merits of Puck, the fat pug, were being discussed, andthen the wretchedness of being unable to buy or wear French cambrics, and the whole history of Mrs Newton's last cambric gown: they washedit, and mended it, and ripped it, and made it up again. And thenGrandmamma's brocaded silk came on, and how much worse it wore than thelast: and when I was just wondering how many more gowns would have to betaken to pieces, Mrs Newton rose to go. 

"Really, Mrs Desborough, I ought to make my apologies for coming soearly. But this sad news, you know, --the poor Prince! I could not bearanother minute. I knew you would feel it so much. I felt as if I mustcome. Now, my dear girls. "

"Ma, you haven't asked Mrs Desborough what you came for, " said MissMarianne. 

"What I--Oh!" and Mrs Newton turned back. "This absurd child! Wouldyou believe it, she gave me no peace till I had asked if you would be sogood as to allow your cook to give mine her receipt for Paradisepudding. Marianne dotes on your Paradise puddings. Do you mind? Ishould be so infinitely obliged to you. "

"Dear, no!" said Grandmamma, taking a pinch of snuff, just as Dobsontapped at the door. "Dobson, run down and tell Cook to send somebodyover to Mrs Newton's with her receipt for Paradise pudding. Be sure itis not forgotten. "

"Yes, Madam, " said Dobson. "If you please, Madam, the army is a-goingback; all the coffee-houses have the news this morning. "

"Dear, it must be true, then, " said Grandmamma, taking another pinch. "What a pity!--Be sure you do not forget the Paradise pudding. "

"Yes, Madam. They say, Madam, the Prince was nigh heart-broke that hecouldn't come on. "

"Ah, I dare say. Poor young gentleman!" said Mrs Newton. "Dear MrsDesborough, do excuse me, but where did you meet with that lovely crewelfringe on your curtains? It is so exactly what I wanted and could notget anywhere. "

"I got it at Cooper and Smithson's--Holborn Bars, you know, " saidGrandmamma. "This is sad news, indeed. But your curtains, my dear, have an extreme pretty trimming. "

"Oh, tolerable, " said Mrs Newton, gathering up her hoop. 

Away they went, with another lament over the Prince and the news; and Isat wondering whether everybody in this world were as hollow as atobacco-pipe. I do think, in London, they must be. 

Then my thoughts went back to my Aunt Kezia's letter. 

"Grandmamma, " I said, after a few minutes' reflection, "may I have achair this afternoon? I want to go and see Hatty. "

Grandmamma nodded. She had come, I think, to an awkward place in hertatting. 

"Take Caesar with you, " was all she said. 

So after dinner I sent Caesar for the chair, and, dressed in my best, went over to Charles Street to see Hatty. I sent in my name, and waitedan infinite time in a cold room before any one appeared. At lastCharlotte bounced in--I cannot use another word, for it was just whatshe did--saying, --

"O Cary, you here? Emily is coming, as soon as she can settle herribbons. Isn't it fun? They are all coming out in red now. "

"I don't think it is fun at all, " said I. "It is very sad. "

"Oh, pother!--what do you and I care?" cried she. 

"You do not care much, it seems, " said I: but Charlotte was off againbefore I had finished. 

A minute later, the door opened much more gently, and Amelia entered inher calm, languid way. But as soon as she saw me, her eyes lighted up, and she closed the door and sat down. 

Amelia spoke in a hurried whisper as she kissed me. 

"One word, before any one comes, " she said. "Insist on seeing Hatty. Don't go without it. "

"Will they try to prevent me?" I replied. 

Before she could answer, Mrs Crossland sailed in, all overrose-coloured ribbons. 

"Why, Miss Caroline, what an unexpected pleasure!" said she, and if shehad added "an unwelcome one, " I fancy she would have spoken the truth. "Dear, what was Cicely thinking of to put you in this cold room? Praycome up-stairs to the fire. "

"Thank you, " said I, and rose to follow her. 

The room up-stairs was warm and comfortable, but Hatty was not there. Agirl of about fourteen, in a loose blue sacque, which looked very coldfor the weather, came forward and shook hands with me. 

"My daughter, " said Mrs Crossland. "Annabella, my dear, run up and askMiss Hester if she feels well enough to come down. Tell her that hersister is here. "

"Allow me to go up with Miss Annabella, and perhaps save her a journey, "said I. "Messages are apt to be returned and to make further errands. "

"Oh, but--pray do not give yourself that trouble, " said Miss Annabella, glancing at her mother. 

"Certainly not. I cannot think of it, " answered Mrs Crossland, hastily. "Poor Miss Hester has been suffering so much from toothache--Ibeg you will not disturb her, Miss Caroline. "

I suppose I was rude: but how could I help it?

"Why should I disturb her more than Miss Crossland?" I replied. "Sisters do not make strangers of each other. "

"Oh, she does not expect you: and indeed, Miss Caroline, --do let me begof you, --Dr Summerfield did just hint yesterday--just a hint, youunderstand, --about small-pox. I could not on any account let you go up, for your own sake. "

"Is my sister so ill as that?" I replied. "I think we might haveexpected to be told it sooner. Then, Madam, I shall certainly go up. Miss Crossland, will you show me the way?"

I do not know whether Mrs Crossland thought me bold and unladylike, butif she had known how every bit of me was trembling, she might perhapshave changed that view. 

"O Miss Caroline, how can you? I could not allow Annabella to do such athing. Think of the clanger!--Annabella, come back! You shall not gointo an infected air. "

"Pardon me, Madam, but I thought you proposed yourself to send MissAnnabella. Then I will not trouble any one. I can find the waymyself. "

And resolutely closing the door behind me, up-stairs I walked. I didnot believe a word about Hatty having the small-pox: but if I had done, I should have done the same. I heard behind me exclamations of--"Thatbold, brazen thing! She will find out all. Annabella, call Godfrey!call him! That hussy must not--"

I was up-stairs by this time. I rapped at the first door, and had noanswer; the second was the same. From the third I heard the sound ofweeping, and a man's voice, which I thought I recognised as that of MrCrossland. 

"I shall not allow of any more hesitation, " he was saying. "You mustmake your choice to-day. You have given me trouble enough, and havemade far too many excuses. I shall wait no longer. "

"Oh, once more!--only once more!" was the answer, interrupted byheartrending sobs, --in whose voice I rather guessed than heard. 

Neither would I wait any longer. I never thought about ceremony andgentility, any more than about the possible dangers, known and unknown, which I might be running. I opened the door and walked straight in. 

Mr Crossland stood on the hearth, clad in a queer long black gown, anda black cap upon his head. On a chair near him sat a girl, her headbowed down in her hands upon the table, weeping bitterly. Her long darkhair was partly unfastened, and falling over her shoulder: what I couldsee of her face was white as death. Was this white, cowed creature ouronce pert, bright Hatty?

"What do you want?" said Mr Crossland, angrily, as he caught sight ofme. "Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Caroline. Your poor sister is suffering somuch to-day. I have been trying to divert her a little, but her pain isso great. How very good of you to come! Was no one here to show youanywhere, that you had to come by yourself?"

The bowed head had been lifted up, and the face that met my eyes was oneof the extremest misery. She held out her arms to me with a low, sad, wailing cry--

"O Cary, Cary, save me! Cannot you save me?"

I walked past that black-robed wretch, and took poor Hatty in my arms, drawing her head to lie on my bosom. 

"Yes, my dear, you shall be saved, " I said, --I hope, God said throughme. "Mr Crossland, will you have the goodness to leave my sister tome?"

If looks had power to kill, I think I should never have spoken again inthis world. Mr Crossland turned on his heel, and walked out of theroom without another word. The moment he was gone, I made a rush at thedoor, drew out the key (which was on the outside), locked it, and putthe key on the table. Then I went back to Hatty. 

"My poor darling, what have they done to you?"

Somehow, I felt as if I were older than she that day. 

But she could not tell me at first. "O Cary, Cary!" seemed to be allthat she could say. I rang the bell, and when somebody tried the door, I asked the unknown helper to send Miss Amelia Bracewell. 

"I beg your pardon, Madam, I dare not, " answered a girl's voice. "Nobody is allowed to enter this chamber but my mistress and Fa--and mymaster. "

It seemed as if an angel must be helping me, and whispering what to do. Perhaps it was so. 

"Will you be so good as to take a message to the black servant who camewith me?" I said. 

"Certainly, Madam. "

"Then please to tell him that I wish to speak with him at the door ofthis room. "

"Madam, forgive me, but I dare not bring any one here. "

I tore a blank leaf out of a book on the table. I had a pencil in mypocket. "Give him this, then; and let no one take it from you. Youshall have a guinea to do it. "

"Gemini!" I heard the girl whisper to herself in amazement. 

I wrote hastily:--"Beg my Uncle Charles to come this moment, and bringDobson. Tell him, if he ever loved either me or Miss Hester, he will dothis. It is a matter of life and death. "

"Promise me, " I said, unlocking the door to give it to her, "that thispiece of paper shall be in my black servant's hands directly, and thatno one else shall see it. "

I spoke to a young girl, apparently one of the lower servants of thehouse. Her round eyes opened wide. 

"Please do it, Betty!" sobbed poor Hatty. "Do it, for pity's sake!"

"I'll do it for yours, Miss Hester, " said the girl, and her kindly, honest-looking face reassured me. She hid the paper in her bosom, andran down. I locked the door again, and went back to Hatty. 

"O Cary, dear, God sent you!" she sobbed. "I thought I must give in. "

"What are they trying to make you do, Hatty?"

To my amazement, she replied, --"To be a nun. "

"To be what?" I shrieked. "Are these people Papists, then?"

"Not to acknowledge it. I had not an idea when we came--nor theBracewells, I am sure. "

"And did they want all three of you to be nuns?"

"No--only me, I believe. I heard Father Godfrey saying to the Motherthat neither Charlotte nor Amelia would answer the purpose: but what thepurpose was, I don't know. "

"Who are you talking about? Who is Father Godfrey?--Mr Crossland?"

"Yes. He is a Jesuit priest. "

"You mean his mother, then, by `_the_ Mother'?"

"Oh, she is not his mother. I don't think they are related. "

"What is she?"

"The Abbess of a convent of English nuns at Bruges. "

"And is that poor little girl, Miss Annabella, one of the conspirators?"

"She is the decoy. I think her wits have been terrified out of her; sheonly does as she is told. "

"Hatty, " I said, "you do not believe the doctrines of Popery?"

"I don't know what I believe, or don't believe, " she sobbed. "If youcan get me out of here and back home, I shall think there is a Godagain. I was beginning to doubt that and everything else. "

A voice came up the stairs, raised rather loudly. 

"You must pardon me, Madam, but I am quite sure both my nieces arehere, " said my Uncle Charles's welcome tones. 

I rushed to the door again. 

"This way, Uncle Charles!" I cried. "Hatty, where is your bonnet?"

"I don't know. They took all my outdoor things away. "

"Tie my scarf over your head, and get into the chair. As my UncleCharles is here, I can walk very well. "

He had come up now, and stood looking at Hatty's white, miserable face. If he had seen it a few minutes earlier, he would have thought themisery far greater. 

"Well, this is a pretty to-do!" cried my Uncle. "Hatty, child, thesewretches have used you ill. Why on earth did you stay with them?"

"At first I did not want to get away, Uncle, " she said, "and afterwardsI could not. "

We went down-stairs. Mrs Crossland was standing in the door of thedrawing-room, with thin, shut-up lips, and a red, angry spot on eithercheek. Inside the room I caught a glimpse of Annabella, lookingwoefully white and frightened. Mr Crossland I could nowhere see. 

"Madam, " said my Uncle Charles, sarcastically, "I will thank you to giveup those other young ladies, my nieces' cousins. If they wish to remainin London, they can do so, but it will not be in Charles Street. Didyou not tell me, Cary, that their father wished them to come home?"

"My Aunt Kezia said that he intended to write to them to say so, " Ianswered, feeling as though it were about a year since I had received myAunt Kezia's letter. 

"Really, Sir!" Mrs Crossland began, "the father of these gentlewomenconsigned them to my care--"

"And I take them out of your care, " returned my Uncle Charles. "I willtake the responsibility to Mr Bracewell. "

"I'll take all the responsi-what's-its-name, " said Charlotte, suddenlyappearing among us. "Thank you, Mr Desborough; I'd rather not stophere when Hatty is gone. Emily!" she shouted. 

Amelia came down-stairs with her bonnet on, and Charlotte's in her hand. "You can't go without a bonnet, my dear child. "

"Oh, pother!" cried Charlotte, seizing her bonnet by the strings, andsticking it on the top of her head anyhow it liked. 

"One word before we leave, Mr Desborough, if you please, " said Amelia, with more dignity than I had thought she possessed. "I have strongreason to believe these persons to be Popish recusants, and the last towhom my father would have confided us, had he known their realcharacter. They have not used any of us so kindly that I need sparethem out of any tenderness. "

"I thank you, Miss Bracewell, " said my Uncle Charles, who also, Ithought, was showing qualities that I had not known to be in him. (Howscenes like these do bring one's faculties out!) "I rather thought therewas some sort of Jesuitry at work. Madam, " he turned to Mrs Crossland, "I am sure there is no necessity for me to recall the penal laws to yourmind. So long as these young ladies are left undisturbed in my care, inany way, --so long, Madam, --they will not be put in force against you. You understand me, I feel sure. Now, girls, let us go. "

So, we three girls walking, and Hatty in the chair, with Dobson andCaesar as a guard behind, we reached Bloomsbury Square. 

"Charles, what is it all about?" said Grandmamma, taking a bigger pinchthan usual, and spilling some of it on her lace stomacher. 

"A spider's web, Madam, from which I have been freeing four flies. Butone was a blue-bottle, and broke some of the threads, " said my UncleCharles, laughing, and patting my shoulder. 

"Really!" said Grandmamma. "I am pleased to see you, young ladies. Hester, my dear, are you sure you are quite well?"

"I shall be better now, " Hatty tried to say, in a trembling voice, --andfainted away. 

There was a great commotion then, four or five talking at once, makingimpossible recommendations, and getting in each other's way; but at theend of it all we got poor Hatty into bed in my chamber, and evenGrandmamma said that rest was the best thing for her. My Aunt Dorotheamixed a cordial draught, which she gave her to take; and as Hatty's headsank on the pillow, she said to my surprise, --

"Oh, the rest of being free again! Cary, I never expected you to be theheroine of the family. "

"I think you are the heroine, Hatty. "

"Most people would have thought I should be. But I have proved weak aswater--yet not till after long suffering and hard pressure. You willnever see the old Hatty again, Cary. "

"Oh yes, dear!" said I. "Wait a few days, till you have had a goodrest, and we have fed you up. You will feel quite different a weekhence. "

"My body will, I dare say, but me--that inside feeling and thinkingmachine--that will never be the same again. I want to tell youeverything. "

"And I want to hear it, " I replied. "But don't talk now, Hatty; go tosleep, like a good girl. You will be much better for a long rest. "

I drew the curtains, and asked Amelia to stay until Hatty was asleep. Iknew she would not talk much, and Hatty would not care to tell herthings as she would me. Going down-stairs, my Uncle Charles greeted me, laughing, with, --

"Here she comes, the good Queen Bess! Cary, you deserve a gold medal. "

Grandmamma bade me come to her, and tell her all I knew. She exclaimedseveral times, and took ever so many pinches of snuff, till she had tocall on my Aunt Dorothea to refill the box. At the end of it she calledme a good child, and the Jesuits traitors and scoundrels, to which myUncle Charles added some rather stronger language. 

Charlotte seems to have known nothing of what was going on; or, I shouldrather say, to have noticed nothing. She is such a careless girl inevery way that I am scarce surprised. Amelia did notice things, but shehad a mistaken notion of what they meant. She fancied that Hatty was inlove with Mr Crossland, and that she, not knowing of his engagement inmarriage with Miss Marianne Newton, was very jealous of what she thoughthis double-dealing. Until after I spoke to her, she had no notion thatthere might be any sort of Popish treachery. Something which happenedsoon after that, helped to turn her mind in that direction. But Hattysays she knew next to nothing. 

"But, " says my Uncle Charles, "how could a Jesuit priest marry anybody?It seems to be all in a muddle. "

That I cannot answer. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hatty is better to-day, after a quiet night's rest. She still lookswoefully ill, and Grandmamma will not let her speak yet. Now thatGrandmamma is roused about it, she is very kind to Hatty and me also. Ido hope, now, that things have done happening! The poor Prince is afugitive somewhere in Scotland, and everybody says, "the rebellion isquashed. " They did not call it a rebellion until he turned back fromDerby. My Uncle Bracewell has writ to my Uncle Charles again with news, and has asked him to see Amelia and Charlotte sent off homeward. Hattywill tarry here till we can return together. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

At last our poor Hatty has told her story: and a sad, sad story it is. It seems that Mr Crossland was pretending to make court to her atfirst, and she believed in him, and loved him. At that time, she says, she would not have brooked a word against him; and as to believing himto be the wretch he has turned out, she would as soon have thought thesun created darkness. There was no show of Popery at all in the family. They went to church like other people, and talked just like others. From a word dropped by Miss Theresa Newton, Hatty began to think thatMr Crossland's heart was not so undividedly her own as she had hoped;and she presently discovered that he was not to be trusted on thatpoint. They had a quarrel, and he professed penitence, and promised togive up Miss Marianne; and for a while Hatty thought all was rightagain. Then, little by little, Mrs Crossland (whose right name seemsto be Mother Mary Benedicta of the Annunciation--what queer names theydo use, to be sure!)--well, Mrs Crossland began to tell Hatty all kindsof strange stories about the saints, and miracles, and so forth, whichshe said she had heard from the Irish peasantry. At first she told themas things to laugh at; then she began to wonder if there might be sometruth in one or two of them; there were strange things in this world!And so she went on from little to little, always drawing back andkeeping silence for a while if she found that she was going too fast forHatty to follow. 

"I can see it all now, looking back, " said Hatty. "It was all one greatwhole; but at the time I did not see it at all. They seemed merepassing remarks, bits of conversation that came in anyhow. "

Hatty felt sure that Mrs Crossland was a concealed Papist long beforeshe suspected the young man. And when, at last, both threw the maskoff, they had her fast in their toils. She was strictly warned never totalk with me except on mere trifling subjects; and she had to give anaccount of every word that had been said when she returned. If she hidthe least thing from them, she was assured it would be a terrible sin. 

"But you don't mean to say you believed all that rubbish?" cried I. 

"It was not a question of belief, " she answered. "I loved him. I wouldhave done anything in all the world to win a smile from him; and he knewit. As to belief--I do not know what I believed: my brain felt like achaos, and my heart in a whirl. "

"And now, Hatty?" said I. I meant to ask what she believed now: but sheanswered me differently. 

"Now, " she said, in a low, hopeless voice, "the shrine is deserted, andthe idol is broken, and the world feels a great wide, empty place wherethere is no room for me--a cold, hard place that I must toil through, and the only hope left is to get to the end as soon as possible. "

Oh, I wish Flora or Annas were here! I do not know how to deal with mypoor Hatty. Thoughts which would comfort me seem to fall powerless withher; and I have nobody to counsel me. I suppose my Aunt Kezia would sayI must set the Lord before me; but I do not see how to do it in thiscase. I am sure I have prayed enough. What I want is an angel towhisper to me what to do again; and my angel has gone back into Heaven, I suppose, for I feel completely puzzled now. At any rate, I do hopethings have done happening. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Our forefathers thought colds a much more serious affair thanwe do. They probably knew much less about them. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

BOUGHT WITH A PRICE. 

 _Host. _ "Trust me, I think 'tis almost day. " _Julia. _ "Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e'er I watched, and the most heaviest. "

 SHAKESPEARE. 

I am writing four days later than my last sentence, and I wonder whetherthings have finished beginning to happen. 

Grandmamma's Tuesday was the day after I writ. The Newtons werethere, --at least Mrs Newton and Miss Theresa, --and ever so many peoplewhom I knew and cared nothing about. My Lady Parmenter came early, butdid not stay long; and very late, long after every one else, EphraimHebblethwaite. Mr Raymond I did not see, and have not done so forseveral times. 

I was not much inclined to talk, and I got into a corner with somepictures which I had seen twenty times, and turned them over just as anexcuse for keeping quiet. All at once I heard Ephraim's voice at myside:

"Cary, I want to speak to you. Go on looking at those pictures: otherears are best away. How is Hatty?"

"She is better, " I said; "but she is not the old Hatty. "

"I don't think the old Hatty will come back, " he said. "Perhaps the newone may be better. Are the Miss Bracewells gone home?"

"They start to-morrow, " said I. 

"Cary, I am going to ask you something. Don't show any surprise. Areyou a brave girl?"

"I hardly know, " said I, resisting the temptation to look up and seewhat he meant. "Why?"

"Because a woman is wanted for a piece of work, and we think you wouldanswer. "

"What piece of work?--and who are `we'?" I asked, turning over someviews of Rome with very little notion what they were. 

"`We' are Colonel Keith, Raymond, and myself. "

"And what `piece of work'?" I asked again. 

"To attempt the rescue of Angus. "

"How?--what am I to do?"

"Did you ever try to personate anybody?"

"Well, we used to act little pieces sometimes at Carlisle, I and theGrandison girls and Lucretia Carnwath. There has never been anything ofthe sort here. "

"Did they think you did it well?"

"Lucretia Carnwath and Diana Grandison were thought the best performers;but once they said I made a capital housemaid. "

"Were you ever a laundress?"

"No, but I dare say I could have managed it. "

"Are you willing to try?"

"I am ready to do anything, if it will help Angus. I don't see atpresent how my playing the laundress is to do that. "

"You will not play it on a mock stage in a drawing-room, but in reality. Neither you nor I are to do the hardest part of the work; Colonel Keithtakes that. "

"What have I to do?"

"To carry a basket of clothes into the prison, and bring it out again. "

"I hope Angus will not be in the basket, " said I, trying to smother mylaughter; "I could not carry him. "

"Oh, no, " replied Ephraim, laughing too. "Now listen. "

"I am all attention, " said I. 

"Next Tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, slip out of this room, andthrow a large cloak over your dress--one that will quite hide you. Youwill find me at the foot of the back-stairs. We shall go out of theback-door, and get to Raymond's house. A lady, whom you will findthere, will help you to put on the dress which is prepared. Then youand I (who are brother and sister, if you please) will carry the basketto the prison. Just before reaching it, I shall pretend to hearsomething, and run off to see what is the matter. You will be leftalone (in appearance), and will call after me in vain, and abuse meroundly when I do not return, declaring that you cannot possibly carrythat heavy basket in alone. Then, but not before, you will descry acertain William standing close by, --who will be Colonel Keith, --andshowing surprise at seeing him there, will ask him to help you with thebasket. He and you will carry the basket into the prison, and you willstand waiting a little while, during which time he will (with theconnivance of a warder in our pay) visit Angus's cell. Presently`William' will return to you, but it will be Angus and not Keith. Youare to scold him for having kept you such an unconscionable time, and, declaring that you will have no more to do with him, to take up theempty basket and walk off. Our warder will then declare that he cannotdo with all this row, --you must make as much noise as you can, --and pushyou both out of the prison door. Angus will follow you, expressingpenitence and begging to be allowed to carry the basket, but you are notto let him. A few yards from the prison, I shall come running out of aside-street, seize the basket, give Angus a thump or two with it and bidhim be off, for I am not going to have such good-for-noughts loiteringabout and making up to my sister. He will pretend to be cowed, and runaway, and you will then abuse me in no measured terms for having leftyou without protector, in the first place, and for having behaved sobadly to your dear Will in the second. When we are out of sight, we maygradually drop our pretended quarrel; and when we reach Mr Raymond'shouse, you will return to Caroline Courtenay, and I shall be EphraimHebblethwaite. There is the programme. Can you carry out your part?--and are you willing?"

My heart stood still a moment, and then came up and throbbed violentlyin my throat. 

"Could I? Yes, I think I could. But I want to know something first. How far I am willing will depend on circumstances. What is going tobecome of Colonel Keith in this business?"

"He takes Angus's place--don't you see?"

"Yes, but when Angus has got away, how is he to escape?"

"God knoweth. It is not likely that he can. "

"And do you mean to say that Colonel Keith is to be sacrificed to saveAngus?"

"The sacrifice is his own. The proposal comes from himself. "

"And you mean to _let_ him?"

"Not if I could do it myself, " was the quiet answer. 

"I don't want you to do it. Is there nobody else?"

"No one except Keith, Raymond, and myself. Raymond is too tall, and Iam not tall enough. Keith and Angus are just of a height. "

"And if Colonel Keith cannot escape, what will become of him?"

Silence answered me, --a silence which said far more than words. 

"Ephraim, Colonel Keith is worth fifty of Angus. "

"I have not spent these weeks at his bedside, Cary, without finding thatout. "

"And is the worse to be bought with the better?"

"It was done once, upon the hill of Calvary. And `This is Mycommandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you. '"

I was silent. I did not like the idea at all. 

"You must talk to Keith about it before we leave the house, " saidEphraim. "But I am afraid it will be of no use. We have all tried invain. "

I said no more. 

"Well, Cary, --will you undertake it?"

"Ephraim, " I said, looking up at last, "I cannot bear to think ofsacrificing Colonel Keith. I could do it, I think, for anything butthat. It would be hard work, no doubt, at the best; but I would gothrough with it to save Angus. But cannot it be done in some otherway?"

Ephraim shook his head. 

"We can see no other way at all. There are only three men who could doit--Colonel Keith, Mr Raymond, and myself; and Keith is far the bestfor personal reasons. Beside the matter of height, he has, or at anyrate could easily put on, a slight Scots accent, which we should finddifficult, and might very likely do it wrong. He is acquainted with allthe places and people that Angus is; we are not. And remember, it isnot only the getting Angus out of the place that is of consequence:whoever takes his place must personate Angus for some hours, till he canget safely away. [Note 3. ] Only Keith can do this with any chance ofsuccess. As to sacrifice, why, soldiers sacrifice themselves every day, and he is a soldier. I can assure you, it seems to him a natural, commonplace affair. He is very anxious to do it. "

"He must be fonder of Angus--" I stopped. 

"Than we are?" answered Ephraim, with a smile. "Perhaps he is. But Ithink he has other reasons, Cary. "

"What made you think of me?"

"Well, we must have a girl in the affair, and we were very much puzzledwhom to ask. If Miss Keith had been here, we should certainly haveasked her. "

"Annas? Oh, how could she?" I cried. 

"She has pluck enough, " said Ephraim. "Of course, Miss Drummond wouldhave been the most natural person to play the part, but Keith would nothear of that, and Raymond doubted if she were a suitable person. Withher, the Scots accent would be in the way, and rouse suspicion; and I amnot sure whether she could manage such a thing in other respects. Thenwe thought of Hatty and you; but Hatty, I suppose, is out of thequestion at present. "

"Oh yes, quite, " said I. 

"She would have been the very one if she had been well and strong. Shehas plenty of go and dash in her. But Raymond and Keith both wantedyou. "

"And you did not?" said I, feeling rather mortified that Ephraim shouldseem to think more of Hatty than of me. 

"No, I did not, Cary, " he said, in a changed voice. "You think I ampaying you a poor compliment. Perhaps, some day, you will know better. "

"Does anyone in this house know of the rescue plot?"

"Mr Desborough knows that an attempt may be made, but not that you arein it. Lucette is engaged to keep the coast clear while we get away. And now, Cary, what say you?"

"Yes, Ephraim, I will do it, though I almost wish it were anything else. May God help Colonel Keith!"

"Amen, with all my heart!"

We had no opportunity to say more. 

So now I wait for next Tuesday, not knowing what it may bring forth. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was about a quarter of an hour before the fated moment, when MissTheresa Newton sat down by me. 

"Very serious to-night, Miss Caroline!" said she, jestingly. 

I thought I had good cause, considering what was about to happen. But Iturned it off as best I could. 

"Where is our handsome friend this evening?" said she. 

"Have we only one?" replied I. 

Miss Newton laughed that musical laugh of hers. 

"I should hope we are rather happier. I meant Mr Hebblethwaite--horrible name!"

"I saw him a little while ago, " said I, wondering if he were then at thefoot of the back-stairs. 

"What has become of the Crosslands? Have you any idea? I have not seenthem here now for--ever so long. "

"Nor have I. I do not know at all, " said I, devoutly hoping that Inever should see them again. 

"My sister is perfectly in despair. Her intended never comes to see hernow. I tell her she had better find somebody else. It is too tiresometo keep on and off with a man in that way. Oh, you don't know anythingabout it. Your time has not come yet. "

"When it do, " said I, "I will either be on or off, if you please. Ishould not like to be on and off, by any means. "

Miss Newton hid her laughing face behind her fan. 

"My dear child, you are so refreshing! Don't change, I beg of you. Itis charming to meet any one like you. "

"I thank you for your good opinion, " I replied; and, my Aunt Dorotheajust then coming up, I resigned my seat to her, and dropped theconversation. 

For a minute or two I wandered about, --asked Hatty if she were tired(this was her first evening in the drawing-room with company), and whenshe said, "Not yet, " I inquired after Puck's health from Mrs Newton, told Miss Emma Page that Grandmamma had been admiring her sister'sdress, and slipped out of the door when I arrived at it. In my roomLucette was standing with the cloak ready to throw over me. 

"Monsieur Ebate is at the _escalier derobe_, " said she. Poor Lucettecould get no nearer Hebblethwaite. "He tell me, this night, Mademoiselle goes on an errand for the good Lord. May the Lord keepsafe His messenger!"

"Mr Hebblethwaite goes with me, " said I. "He will take all the care ofme he can. "

"I will trust him for that!" said Lucette, with a little nod. "He isgood man, _celui-la_. But, Mademoiselle, `except the Lord keep thecity--' you know. "

"`The watchman waketh but in vain. ' Yes, Lucette, I know, in everysense. But how do you know that Mr Hebblethwaite is a good man?"

"Ah! I know, I. And I know what makes him stay in London, all same. Now Mademoiselle is ready, and Caesar is at the door, la-bas. "

Down-stairs I ran, joined Ephraim, who also wore a large cloak over hisevening dress, and we went out of the back-door, which was guarded byCaesar, whose white teeth and gleaming eyes were all I could see of himin the dusk. 

"Lucette asked leave to take Caesar into the affair, " said Ephraim. "She promised to answer for him as for herself. Now, Cary, we must stepout: there is no time to lose. "

"As fast as you please, " said I. 

In a few minutes, we came to Mr Raymond's house. I never knew beforewhere he lived. It is in a small house in Endell Street. An elderlywoman opened the door, who evidently expected us, and ushered us at onceinto a living-room on the right hand. Here I saw Mr Raymond and alady--a lady past her youth, who had, as I could not help seeing, beenextreme beautiful. I thought there was no one else till I heard a voicebeside me:

"I fear I am almost a stranger, Miss Cary. "

"Mr Keith!" I did not feel him a stranger, but a very old friendindeed. But how ill he looked! I told him so, and he said he waswonderfully better, --quite well again, --with that old, sweet smile thathe always had. My heart came up into my throat. 

"Mr Keith, must you go into this danger?"

"If I fail to go where my Master calls me, how can I look for Hispresence and blessing to go with me? They who go with God are they withwhom God goes. "

"Are you quite sure He has called you?"

"Quite sure. " His fine eyes lighted up. 

"Have you thought--"

"Forgive my interruption. I have thought of everything. Miss Cary, youheard the vow which I took to God and Flora Drummond--never to losesight of Angus, and to keep him true and safe. I have kept it so far asit lay in me, and I will keep it to the end. Come what may, I will betrue to God and her. "

And looking up into his eyes, I saw--revealed to me as by a flash oflightning--what was Duncan Keith's most precious thing. 

"Now, Miss Caroline, " said Mr Raymond, "will you kindly go up with thislady, "--I fancied I heard the shortest possible sign of hesitationbefore the last two words, --"and she will be so good as to help you toassume the dress you are to wear. "

I went up-stairs with the beautiful woman, who gave a little laugh asshe shut the door. 

"Poor Mr Raymond!" said she; "I feel so sorry for the man. Naturemeant him to be a Tory, and education has turned him into a Whig. Hehas the kindest of hearts, and the most unmanageable of consciences. Hewill help us to free a prisoner, but he would not call me anything but`Mistress' to save his life. "

"And your Ladyship--?" said I, guessing in an instant what she ought tobe called, and that she was the wife of a peer--not a Hanoverian peer. 

"Oh, my Ladyship can put up with it very well, " said she, laughing, asshe helped me off with my evening dress. "I wish I may never haveanything worse. The man would not pain me for the world. It is onlyhis awful Puritan conscience; Methodist, perhaps, Puritan was the wordin my day. When one lives in exile, one almost loses one's nativetongue. "

And I thought I heard a light sigh. Her Ladyship, however, said nomore, except what had reference to our business. When the process wasover, I found myself in a printed linen gown, with a linen hood on myhead, a long white apron made quite plain, and stout clumsy shoes. 

"Now, be as vulgar as you possibly can, " said her Ladyship. "Try toforget all your proprieties, and do everything th' wrong way. You areBetty Walkden, if you please, and Mr Hebblethwaite is Joel Walkden, andyour brother. You are a washerwoman, and your mistress, MrsRichardson, lives in Chelsea. Don't forget your history. Oh! I amforgetting one thing myself. Colonel Keith, and therefore LieutenantDrummond, as they are the same person for this evening, is Will Clowes, a young gardener at Wandsworth, who is your lover, of whom your brotherJoel does not particularly approve. Now then, keep up your character. And remember, "--her Ladyship was very grave now--"to call any of them byhis real name may be death to all of you. "

I turned round and faced her. 

"Madam, what will become of Colonel Keith?"

I thought her Ladyship looked rather keenly at me. 

"`The sword devoureth one as well as another, '" was her reply. "Youknow whence that comes, Miss Courtenay. "

"Is that all?" I answered. "If any act of mine lead to his death, howshall I answer it to his father and mother, and to Annas?"

"They gave him up to the Cause, my dear, when they sent him forth tojoin the Prince. A soldier must always do his duty. "

"Forgive me, Madam. I was not questioning his duty, but my own. "

"Too late for that, Miss Courtenay. My dear, he is ready for death. Iwould more of us were!"

I read in the superb eyes above me that she was not. 

"Forward!" she said, as if giving a word of command. 

Somehow, I felt as if I must go. Her Ladyship was right: it was toolate to draw back. So Ephraim and I set forth on our dangerous errand. 

I cannot undertake to say how we went, or where. It all comes back tome as if I had walked it in a dream: and I felt as if I were dreamingall the while. At last, as we went along, carrying the basket, Ephraimsuddenly set it down with, "Hallo! what's that?" I knew then that wemust be close to the prison, and that he was about to leave me. 

"I say, I must see after that. You go on, Bet!" cried Ephraim; and hewas off in a minute--in what direction I could not even see. 

"Gemini!" cried I, catching up the word I had heard from Mrs Cropland'sBetty. "Joel! I say, Joel! You bad fellow, can't you come back? Howam I to lift this great thing, I should like to know?"

A dark shadow close to the wall moved a little. 

"Come now, can't one of you lads help a poor maid?" said I. "It's ashame of Joel to leave me in the lurch like this. Come, give us ahand!"

I was trembling like an aspen leaf. Suppose the wrong man offered tohelp me! What could I do then?

"Want a hand, my pretty maid?" said a voice which certainly was notColonel Keith's. "I'm your man! Give us hold!"

Oh, what was I to do! This horrid man would carry the basket, and howcould I explain to the warder? How could I know which warder was theright one?

"Now then, hold hard, mate!" said a second voice, which I greeted withdelight. "Just you let this here young woman be. How do, Betty? Why, wherever's Joel? He's no call to let the likes o' you carry things o'thisn's. "

What had the Colonel done with his Scots accent? I did not hear a traceof it. 

"Oh, Will Clowes, is that you?" said I, giving a little toss of my head, which I thought would be in character. "Well, I don't know whether Ishall let you carry it. "

The next minute I felt how wrong I was to say so. 

"Yes, you will, " said Colonel Keith, and took the basket out of myhands. I should never have known him, dressed in corduroy, and with arake over his shoulder. He shouted something, and the great prison dooropened slowly, and a warder put his head out. 

"Who goes there?"

"Washing for Cartwright's ward. "

"Ay, all right. Come within. Cartwright!" shouted the porter. 

We went in, and stood waiting a moment just inside the door, till awarder appeared, who desired Colonel Keith to "bring that 'ere basketup, now. "

"You can wait a bit, Betty, " said the Colonel, turning to me. "Don't beafraid, my girl. Nobody 'll touch you, and Will 'll soon be back. "

They say it is unlucky to watch people out of sight. I hope it is nottrue. True or untrue, I watched him. Yes, Will Clowes might be backsoon; but would Duncan Keith ever return any more?

And then a feeling came, as if a tide of fear swept over me, --Was itright of Flora to ask him to make that promise? I have wondered vaguelymany a time: but in that minute, with all my senses sharpened, I seemedto see what a blunder it was. Is it ever right to ask people for suchunconditional pledges to a distinct course of action, when we cannotknow what is going to happen? To what agony--nay, even to whatwrong-doing--may we pledge them without knowing it! It seems to me thatinfluence is a very awful thing, for it reaches so much farther than youcan see. May it not be said sometimes of us all, "They know not whatthey do"? And then to think that when we come out of that Valley of theShadow into the clear light of the Judgment Bar, all our unknown sinsmay burst upon us like a great army, more than we can count or imagine--it is terrible!

O my God, save me from unknown sins! O Christ, be my Help and Advocatewhen I come to know them!

How I lived through the next quarter of an hour I can never say toanybody. I sat upon a settle near the door of the prison, praying--howearnestly!--for both of those in danger, but more especially for ColonelKeith. At last I saw a man coming towards me with the empty basket, inwhich he had inserted his head, like a bonnet, so that it rather veiledhis face. I remembered then that I was to "make as much noise as Icould, " and quarrel with my supposed lover. 

"Well, you are a proper young man!" said I, standing up. "How long doyou mean to keep me waiting, I should like to know? You think I'venothing in the world to do, don't you, now? And Missis 'll say noughtto me, will she, for coming home late? Just you give me that basket--men be such dolts!"

"Come, my girl, "--in a deprecating tone--said a voice, which Irecognised as that of Angus. I hoped nobody else would. 

"I'm not your girl, and I'll not come unless I've a mind, neither!"cried I, loudly, trying to put in practice her Ladyship's advice to beas vulgar as I could. "I'm not a-going to have fellows dangling at myheels as keeps me a-waiting--"

"Come, young woman, you just clear out, " said the warder Cartwright. "My word, lad, but she's a spitfire! You be wise, and think better ofit. Now then, be off, both of you!"

And he laid his hand on my shoulder, as if to push me through the door, which I pretended to resent very angrily, and Angus flung down thebasket and began to strip up his sleeves, as if he meant to fight thewarder. 

"Now, we can't do with that kind of thing here!" cried another man, coming forward, whom I took to be somewhat above the rest. "Be off atonce--you must not offer to fight the King's warders. Turn them out, Cartwright, and shut the door on them. "

Angus caught up the basket and dashed through the door, and I followed, making all the noise I could, and scolding everybody. We had only justgot outside the gate when Ephraim came running up, and snatched thebasket from Angus. There was a few minutes' pretended struggle betweenthem, and then Ephraim chased Angus into a side-street, and came back tome, whom he began to scold emphatically for encouraging such idlene'er-do-wells as that rascal Clowes. I tried to give him as good as hebrought; and so we went on, jangling as we walked, until nearly withinsight of Mr Raymond's door. Then, declaring that I would not speak tohim if he could not behave better, and that I was not going to walk inhis leading-strings, I marched on with my head held very high, andEphraim trudged after me, looking as sulky as he knew how. We rapped onthe back-door, and Mr Raymond's servant let us in. In the parlour wefound Mr Raymond and her Ladyship. 

"I am thankful to see you safe back!" cried the former; and his mannersuggested to me the idea that he had not felt at all sure of doing so. "Is all well accomplished?"

"Angus Drummond is out, and Keith is in, " replied Ephraim. "As to therest, we must leave it for time to reveal. I am frightfully tired ofquarrelling; I never did so much in my life before. "

"Has Miss Courtenay done her part well?" asked her Ladyship. 

"Too well, if anything, " said Ephraim. "I was sadly afraid of a sliponce. If that fellow had insisted on carrying in the basket, Cary, weshould have had a complete smash of the whole thing. "

"Why, did you see that?" said I. 

"Of course I did, " he answered. "I was never many yards from you. Ilay hidden in a doorway, close to. Cary, you make a deplorably goodscold! I never guessed you would do that part of the business so well. "

"I am glad to hear it, for I found it the hardest part, " said I. 

Her Ladyship came up and helped me to change my dress. 

"The Cause owes something to you to-night, Miss Courtenay, " said she. "At least, if Colonel Keith can escape. "

"And if not, Madam?"

"If not, my dear, we shall but have done our duty. Good-night. Willyou accept a little reminder of this evening--and of Lady Inverness?"

I looked up in astonishment. Was this beautiful woman, with her tingeof sadness in face and voice, the woman who had so long stood first atthe Court of Montefiascone--the Mistress of the Robes to QueenClementina, and as some said, of the heart of King James?

My Lady Inverness drew from her finger a small ring of chased gold. "Itwill fit you, I think, my dear. You are a brave maid, and I like you. Farewell. "

I am not at all sure that my Aunt Kezia would have allowed me to acceptit. Some, even among the Tories, thought my Lady Inverness a wickedwoman; others reckoned her an injured and a slandered one. I gave herwhat Father calls "the benefit of the doubt, " thanked her, and acceptedthe ring. I do not know whether I did right or wrong. 

To run down-stairs, say good-bye to Mr Raymond, --by the way, would MrRaymond have allowed my Lady to enter his house, if he had believed thetales against her?--and hasten back with Ephraim to Bloomsbury Square, took but few minutes. Lucette let us in; I think she had been watching. 

"The good Lord has watched over Mademoiselle, " said she, as she took mycloak from me. 

Ephraim had gone back to the drawing-room, and I followed. I glanced atthe French clock on the mantelpiece, where a gold Cupid in a robe ofblue enamel was mowing down an array of hearts with a scythe, and sawthat we had been away a little over an hour. Could that be all? Howstrange it seemed! People were chattering, and flirting fans, andplaying cards, as if nothing at all had happened. Miss Newton wassitting where I had left her, talking to Mr Robert Page. Grandmammasat in her chair, just as usual. Nobody seemed to have missed us, except Hatty, who said with a smile, --"I had lost you, Cary, for thelast half-hour. "

"Yes, " said I, "something detained me out of the room. "

I only exchanged one other sentence in the course of the evening withEphraim:

"You will let me know how things go on? I shall be very anxious. "

"Of course. Yes, I will take care of that. "

And then the company broke up, and I helped Hatty to bed, and prayedfrom my heart for Colonel Keith and Angus, and did not fall asleep tillI had heard Saint Olave's clock strike two. When I woke, I had beenmaking jumballs in the drawing-room with somebody who was both my LadyInverness and my Aunt Kezia, and who told me that Colonel Keith had beenappointed Governor of the American plantations, and that he would haveto be dressed in corduroy. 

When I arose in the morning, I could--and willingly would--have thoughtthe whole a dream. But there on my finger, a solid contradiction, wasmy Lady Inverness's ring. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For four days I heard nothing more. On the Friday, my Uncle Charlestold us that rumours were abroad of the escape of a prisoner, and hehoped it might be Angus. My Aunt Dorothea wanted to hear all theparticulars. I sat and listened, looking as grave as I could. 

"Why, it seems they must have bribed some fellow to carry in a basket offoul clothes, and then to change clothes with the prisoner, and so lethim get out. There appears to have been a girl in it as well--a girland a man. I suppose they were both bribed, very likely. Anyhow, theprisoner is set free, I only hope it is young Drummond, Cary. "

I said I hoped so too. 

"But, dear me, what will become of the man that went in?" asked my AuntDorothea. 

"Oh, he'll be hanged, sure enough, " said my Uncle Charles. "Only somelow fellow, I suppose, that was willing to sell himself. "

"A man does not sell his life in a hurry, " said my Aunt Dorothea. 

"My dear, " replied my Uncle Charles, "there are men who would sell theirown mothers and children. "

"Oh, I dare say, but not themselves, " said she. 

"I suppose somebody cared for him, " observed Hatty. 

I found it hard work to keep silence. 

"Only low people like himself, " said Grandmamma. "Those creatures willdo anything for money. "

And then, Caesar bringing in a note with Mrs Newton's compliments, thetalk went off to something else. 

On the Saturday evening there was an extra assembly, and I caughtEphraim as soon as ever I could. 

"Ephraim, they have found it out!" I said, in a whisper. 

"Turn your back on the room, " said he, quietly. "Yes, Cary, they have. There goes Keith's first chance of safety--yet it was a poor one fromthe beginning. "

"Can nobody intercede for him?"

"With whom? The Electress is dead: and they say she was the only onewho had much influence with the Elector. "

"He has daughters, " I suggested. 

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that was a very poorhope. 

"Your friend Mr Raymond, being a Whig, " I urged, "might be able to dosomething. "

"I will see, " said he. "Do you know that Miss Keith is to be in Londonthis evening?"

"Annas? No! I have never heard a word about it. "

"I was told so, " said Ephraim, looking hard at an engraving which he hadtaken up. 

I wondered very much who told him. 

"She might possibly go to the Princess Caroline. People say she is thebest of the family. Bad is the best, I am afraid. " [Note 2. ]

"How did Mr Raymond come to know my Lady Inverness?"

"Oh, you discovered who she was, did you?"

"She told me herself. "

"Ah!--I cannot say; I am not sure that he knew anything of her beforeTuesday night. She was our superior officer, and gave orders which weobeyed--that was all. "

"I cannot understand how Mr Raymond could have anything to do with it!"cried I. 

"Nor I, precisely. I believe there are wheels within wheels. Is he nota friend of your uncle, Mr Drummond?--an old friend, I mean, when theywere young men. "

"Possibly, " said I; "I do not know. "

Somebody came up now, and drew Ephraim away. I had no more private talkwith him. But how could he come to know anything about Annas? Andwhere is she going to be?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning Caesar brought me a little three-cornered note. Iguessed at once from whom it came, and eagerly tore it open. 

 "We arrived in London last night, my dear Caroline, and are very desirous of seeing you. Could you meet me at Mr Raymond's house this afternoon? Mr Hebblethwaite will be so good as to call for you, if you can come. Love from both to you and Hester. Your affectionate friend, A. K. "

Come! I should think I would come! I only hoped Annas already knew ofmy share in the plot to rescue Angus. If not, what would she say to me?

I read the note again. "We"--who were "we"?--and "love from both. "Surely Flora must be with her! I kept wishing--and I could not tellmyself why--that Ephraim had less to do with it. I did not like hisseeming to be thus at the beck and call of Annas; and I did not know whyit vexed me. I must be growing selfish. That would never do! Whyshould Ephraim not do things for Annas? I was an older friend, it istrue, but that was all. I had no more claim on him than any one else. I recognised that clearly enough: yet I could not banish the feelingthat I was sorry for it. 

When Ephraim came, I thought he looked exceeding grave. I had toldGrandmamma beforehand that Annas (and I thought Flora also) had returnedto London, and asked me to go and see them, which I begged her leave todo. Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff over it, and then said that Caesarmight call me a chair. 

"Could I not walk, Grandmamma? It is very near. "

"Walk!" cried Grandmamma, and looked at me much as if I had asked if Imight not lie or steal. "My dear, you must not bring country ways toTown like that. Walk, indeed!--and you a Courtenay of Powderham! Why, people would take you for a mantua-maker. "

"But, Grandmamma, please, --if I am a Courtenay, does it signify whatpeople take me for?"

"I should like to know, Caroline, " said Grandmamma, with severity, "where you picked up such levelling ideas? Why, they are Whiggery, andworse. I cannot bear these dreadful mob notions that creep about now o'days. We shall soon be told that a king may as well sell his crown andsceptre, because he would be a king without them. "

"He would not, Madam?" I am afraid I spoke mischievously. 

"My dear, of course he would. Once a king, always a king. But thecommon people need to have symbols before their eyes. They cannot takein any but common notions of what they see. A monarch without a crown, or a judge without robes, or a bishop without lawn sleeves, would neverdo for them. Why, they would begin to think they were just men likethemselves! They do think so, a great deal too much. "

And Grandmamma took two pinches in rapid succession, which proceedingwith her always betrays uneasiness of mind. 

"Dear, dear!" she muttered, as she snapped her box again, and dropped itinto her pocket. "It must be that lamentable mixture in your blood. Whatever a Courtenay could be thinking of, to marry a Dissenter, --aPuritan minister's daughter, too, --he must have been mad! Yet she wasof good blood on the mother's side. "

I believe Grandmamma knows the pedigree of every creature in this mortalworld, up to the seventh generation. 

"Was that Deborah Hunter, Grandmamma?"

"What do you know about Deborah Hunter?" returned Grandmamma pulling outher snuff-box, and taking a third pinch in a hurry, as if the meremention of a Dissenter made her feel faint. "Who has been talking toyou about such a creature? The less you hear of her the better. "

"Oh, we always knew her name, Madam, " said Hatty, "and that she was apresbyter's daughter. "

"Well, that is as much as you will know of her with my leave!" saidGrandmamma. 

I do not know what more she might have said, if my Uncle Charles had notcome in: but he brought news that the Prince's army had been victoriousat Falkirk, and the Cause is looking up again. 

"They say the folks at Saint James's are very uneasy, " said my UncleCharles, "and the Elector's son is to be sent against the Prince with alarger army. I hear he set forth for Edinburgh last night. "

"What, Fred?" said Grandmamma. 

"Fred? No, --Will, " [Note 1. ] answered my Uncle Charles. 

"That is the lad who was wounded at Dettingen?" replied she. 

"The same, " he made answer. "Oh, they are not without pluck, thisfamily, foreigners though they be. The old blood is in them, thoughthere's not much of it. "

"They are a pack of rascals!" said Grandmamma, with another pinch. Ithought the box would soon be empty if she were much more provoked. 

"Nay, Madam, under your pleasure: the lad is great-grandson to the Queenof Bohemia, and she was without reproach. I would rather have Fred orWill than Oliver. "

Grandmamma sat extreme upright, and spoke in those measured tones, andwith that nice politeness, which showed that she was excessively putout. 

"May I trouble you, Charles, if you please, never to name that--person--in my hearing again!"

"Certainly, Madam, " said my Uncle Charles, with a naughty look at mewhich nearly upset my gravity. If I had dared to laugh, I do not knowwhat would have happened to me. 

"The age is quite levelling enough, and the scoundrels quite numerousenough, without your joining them, Mr Charles Carlingford Desborough!"

Saying which, Grandmamma arose, and as Hatty said afterwards, "sweptfrom the room"--my Uncle Charles offering her his arm, and assuring her, with a most disconcerting look over his shoulder at us, that he would dohis very best to mend his manners. 

"Your manners are good enough, Sir, " said Grandmamma severely: "'tisyour morals I wish to mend. "

When we thought Grandmamma out of hearing, we did laugh: and my UncleCharles, coming down, joined us, --which I am afraid neither he nor weought to have done. 

"My mother's infinitely put out, " said he. "Her snuff-box is empty: andshe never gave me my full name but twice before, that I remember. WhenI am Charles Desborough, she is not pleased; when I am Mr CharlesDesborough, she is gravely annoyed; but when I become Mr CharlesCarlingford Desborough, matters are desperate indeed. I shall have togo to the cost of a new snuff-box, I expect, before I get forgiven. YetI have no doubt Oliver was a pretty decent fellow--putting his politicson one side. "

"I am afraid, Uncle Charles, " said Hatty, "a snuff-box would hardly makeyour peace for that. "

"Oh, that's for you maids, not for her. She is not a good forgiver, "said my Uncle Charles, more gravely. "She takes after her mother, myLady Sophia. Don't I remember my Lady Sophia!"

And I should say, from the expression of my Uncle Charles's face, thathis recollections of my Lady Sophia Carlingford were not among thepleasantest he had. 

Hatty is growing much more like herself, with the pertness left out. She looks a great deal better, and can smile and laugh now; but her oldsharp, bright ways are gone, and only show now and then, in a littleflash, what she was once. 

The Crosslands have disappeared--nobody knows where. But I do not thinkMiss Marianne Newton has broken her heart; indeed, I am not quite surethat she has one. 

In the afternoon, Ephraim came, and I went in a chair under his escortto Mr Raymond's house. Hatty declined to come; she seemed to have adislike to go out of doors, further than just to take the air in thesquare, with Dobson behind her. I should not like that at all. Itwould make me feel as if the constable had me in custody. ButGrandmamma insists on it; and Hatty does not seem to feel safe withoutsomebody. 

In Mr Raymond's parlour, I found Annas and Flora, alone. I do not knowwhat to say they looked like. Both are white and worn, as if a greatstrain had been on their hearts: but Flora is much the more broken-downof the two. Annas is more queenly than ever, with a strange, far-awaylook in the dear grey eyes, that I can hardly bear to see. I ran up toher first thing. 

"O Annas, tell me!" I cried, amidst my kisses, "tell me, did I do rightor wrong?"

I felt sure she would need no explanation. 

"You did right, Cary, "--and the dark grey eyes looked full into mine. "Who are we, to refuse our best to the Master when He calls? But it ishard, hard to bear it!"

"Is there _any_ hope of escape?" I asked. 

"There is always hope where God is, " said Annas. "But it is not alwayshope for earth. "

Flora kissed me, and whispered, "Thank you for Angus!" but then shebroke down, and cried like a child. 

"Have you heard anything of Angus?" I asked. 

"Yes, " said Annas, who shed no tears. "He is safe in France, withfriends of the Cause. "

"In France!" cried I. 

"Yes. Did you think he could stay in England? Impossible, except nowand then in disguise, for a stolen visit, perhaps, when some years aregone. "

"Then if Colonel Keith could escape--"

"That would be his lot. Of course, unless the Prince were entirelysuccessful. "

I felt quite dismayed. I had never thought of this. 

"And how long do you stay here?" said I. 

"Only till I can obtain a hearing of the Princess Caroline. That isarranged by Mr Raymond, through some friends of his. He and MrHebblethwaite have been very, very good to us. "

"I do not know what we should have done without them, " said Flora, wiping her eyes. 

"And is the day fixed for you to see the Princess?"

"Not quite, but I expect it will be Thursday next. Pray for us, Cary, for that seems the last hope. "

"And you have heard nothing, I suppose, from the Colonel?"

"Yes, I have. " Annas put her hand into her bosom, and drew forth ascrap of paper. "You may read it, Cary. It will very likely be thelast. "

My own eyes were dim as I carried the paper to the window. I could haveread it where I was, but I wanted an excuse to turn my back on everyone. 

 "My own dear Sister, --If it make you feel happier, do what you will for my release: but beyond that do nothing. I have ceased even to wish it. I am so near the gates of pearl, that I do not want to turn back unless I hear my Master call me. And I think He is calling from the other side. 

 "That does not mean that I love you less: rather, if it be possible, the more. Tell our father and mother that we shall soon meet again, and in the meantime they know how safe their boy must be. Say to Angus, if you have the opportunity, that so far as in him lies, I charge him to be to God and man all that I hoped to have been. Thank Miss C. Courtenay and Mr Hebblethwaite for their brave help: they both played their part well. And tell Flora that I kept my vow, and that she shall hear the rest when we meet again. 

 "God bless you, every one. Farewell, darling Annas. 

 "Your loving brother, not till, but beyond, death, Duncan Keith. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cumberland. The formerdistinguished himself by little beyond opposition to his father, and anextremely profligate life. The Jacobite epitaph written on his death, five years later, will show the light in which he and his relatives wereregarded by that half of the nation:

 "Here lies Fred, Who was alive and is dead. Had it been his father, I had much rather; Had it been his sister, No one would have missed her; Had it been his brother, Still better than another: But since 'tis only Fred, Who was alive and is dead, Why, there's no more to be said. "

Note 2. Ephraim does the Princess Caroline an injustice. She was alily among the thorns. 

Note 3. How far such a personation is consistent with truth andrighteousness may be reasonably questioned. But very few persons wouldhave thought of raising the question in 1745. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

STEPPING NORTHWARDS. 

 "It were to be wished the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessels holding treasure Which lies as safe in a golden ewer: But the main thing is, does it hold good measure?"

 BROWNING. 

I turned back to the table, and dropping the letter on it, I laid myhead down upon my arms and wept bitterly. He who wrote it had done withthe world and the world's things for ever. Words such as these were notof earth. They had come from the other side of the world-storm and thelife's fever. And he was nearly there. 

I wondered how much Flora understood. Did she guess anything of thatunwhispered secret which he promised to tell her in the courts ofHeaven? Had she ever given to Duncan Keith what he had given her?

I rose at last, and returned the letter to Annas. 

"Thank you, " I said. "You will be glad some day to have had thatletter. "

"I am glad now, " said Annas, quietly, as she restored it to its place. "And ere long we shall be glad together. The tears help the journey, not hinder it. "

"How calm you are, Annas!" I said, wondering at her. 

"The time for Miss Keith to be otherwise has not come yet, " said MrRaymond's voice behind me. "I think, Miss Courtenay, you have not seenmuch sorrow. "

"I have not, Sir, " said I, turning to him. "I think I have seen--andfelt--more in the last six months than ever before. "

"And I dare say you have grown more in that period, " he made answer, "than in all the years before. You know in what sort of stature Imean. "

He left us, and went up-stairs, and Ephraim came in soon after. I hadno words with Flora alone, and only a moment with Annas. She came withus to the door. 

"Does Flora understand?" I whispered, as I kissed Annas for good-bye. 

"I think not, Cary. I hope not. It would be far better. "

"_You_ do?" said I. 

"I knew it long ago, " she answered. "It is no new thing. "

We went back to Bloomsbury Square, where I found in the drawing-room awhole parcel of visitors--Mrs Newton and her daughters, and a lot ofthe Pages (there are twelve of them), Sir Anthony Parmenter, and a younggentleman and gentlewoman who were strangers to me. Grandmamma calledme up at once. 

"Here, child, " said she, "come and speak to your cousins. These are mybrother's grandchildren--your second cousins, my dear. " And sheintroduced them--Mr Roland and Miss Hilary Carlingford. 

What contrasts there are in this world, to be sure! As my Cousin Hilarysat by me, and asked me if I went often to the play, and if I had seenMrs Bellamy, [A noted actress of that day] and whether I loved music, and all those endless questions that people seem as if they must ask youwhen they first make acquaintance with you, --all at once there came upbefore me the white, calm face of Annas Keith, and the inner vision ofColonel Keith in his prison, waiting so patiently and heroically fordeath. And oh, how small did the one seem, and how grand the other!Could there be a doubt which was nearer God?

A lump came up in my throat, which I had to swallow before I could tellHilary that I loved old ballads and such things better than what theycall classical music, much of which seems to me like running up and downwithout any aim or tune to it--and she was giving me a tap with her fan, and saying, --

"Oh, fie, Cousin Caroline! Don't tell the world your taste is so bad asthat!"

Suddenly a sound broke across it all, that sent everything vanishingaway, present and future, good and ill, and carried me off to the oldwinter parlour at Brocklebank. 

"Bless me, man! don't you know how to carry a basket?" said a voice, which I felt as ready and as glad to welcome as if it had been that ofan angel. "Well, you Londoners have not much pith. We Cumberland folksdon't carry our baskets with the tips of our fingers--can't, very often;they are a good heft. "

"Madam, " said Dobson at the door, looking more uncomfortable than I hadever seen him, "here is a--a person--who--"

"Woman, man! I'm a woman, and not ashamed of it! Mrs Desborough, Madam, I hope you are well. "

What Grandmamma was going to do or say, I cannot tell. She sat lookingat her visitor from head to foot, as if she were some kind of curiosity. I am afraid I spoilt the effect completely, for with a cry of "AuntKezia!" I rushed to her and threw my arms round her neck, and got awarmer hug than I expected my Aunt Kezia to have given me. Oh dear, what a comfort it was to see her! She was what nobody else was inBloomsbury Square--something to lean on and cling to. And I did clingto her: and if I went down in the esteem of all the big people round me, I felt as if I did not care a straw about it, now that I had got my owndear Aunt Kezia again. 

"Here's one glad to see me, at any rate!" said my Aunt Kezia; and Ifancy her eyes were not quite dry. 

"Here are two, Aunt Kezia, " said Hatty, coming up. 

"Mrs Kezia Courtenay, is it not?" said Grandmamma, so extra graciouslythat I felt sure she was vexed. "I am extreme glad to see you, Madam. Have you come from the North to-day? Hester, my dear, you will like totake your aunt to your chamber. Caroline, you may go also, if youdesire it. "

Thus benignantly dismissed, we carried off my Aunt Kezia as if she hadbeen a casket of jewels. And as to what the fine folks said behind ourbacks, either of her or of us, I do not believe either Hatty or I careda bit. I can answer for one of us, anyhow. 

"Now sit down and rest yourself, Aunt Kezia, " said I, when we reachedour chamber. "Oh, how delightful it is to have you! Is Father well?Are we to go home?"

And then it flashed upon me--to go home, leaving Colonel Keith inprison, and Annas and Flora in such a position! Must we do that? Ilistened somewhat anxiously for my Aunt Kezia's answer. 

"It is pleasant to see you, girls, I can tell you. And it is doublepleasant to have such a hearty welcome to anybody. Your Father andSophy are quite well, and everybody else. You are to go home?--ay: butwhen, we'll see by-and-by. But now I want my questions answered, if youplease. I shall be glad to know what has come to you both? I sent offtwo throddy, rosy-cheeked maids to London, that did a bit of credit toCumberland air and country milk, and here are two poor, thin, limp, white creatures, that look as if they had lost all the sunshine out ofthem. What have you been doing to yourselves?--or what has somebodyelse been doing to you? Which is it?"

"Cary must speak for herself, " said Hatty, "Hatty must speak forherself, " said I. 

Hatty laughed. 

"It is somebody else, with Hatty, " I went on, "and I don't quite knowhow it is with me, Aunt Kezia. I have been feeling for some weeks pastas if I had the world on my shoulders. "

"Your shoulders are not strong enough for that, child, " replied my AuntKezia. "There is but one shoulder which can carry the world. `Thegovernment shall be upon His shoulder. ' You may well look poor if youhave been at that work. Where are Flora and Miss Keith?--and what hasbecome of their brothers, both?"

"Annas and Flora have just come back to London, " said Hatty. "But Angusis in dreadful trouble, Aunt; and I do not know where Colonel Keith is--with the Prince, I suppose. "

"No, Hatty, " said I. "Aunt Kezia, Angus is safe, but an exile inFrance; and Colonel Keith lies in Newgate Prison, waiting for death. "

"What do you know about it?" asked Hatty, in an astonished tone. 

My Aunt Kezia looked from one of us to the other. 

"You cannot both be right, " said she. "I hope you are mistaken, Cary. "

"I have no chance to be so, " I answered; and I heard my voice tremble. "Colonel Keith bought Angus's freedom with his own life. At least, there is every reason to fear that result, and none to hope. "

"Then that man who escaped was Angus?" asked Hatty. 

I bowed my head. I felt inclined to burst out crying if I spoke. 

"But who told you? and how come you to be so sure it is true?"

"I was the girl who carried the basket into the prison. " I just managedto say so much without breaking down, though that tiresome lump in mythroat kept teasing me. 

"You!" cried Hatty, in more tones than the word has letters. "Cary, youmust be dreaming! When could you have done it?"

"In the evening, on one of Grandmamma's Tuesdays, and I was back beforeany one missed me, except you. "

"Who went with you?--who was in the plot? Do tell us, Cary!"

"Yes, I suppose you may know now, " I said, for I could now speak morecalmly. "Ephraim took me to the place where I put on the disguise, andforward to the prison. Then Colonel Keith and I carried in the basket, and Angus brought it out. Ephraim came to us after we left the prison, and brought me back here. "

"Ephraim Hebblethwaite helped _you_ to do _that_?"

I did not understand Hatty's tone. She was astonished, undoubtedly so, but she was something else too, and what that was I could not tell. 

My Aunt Kezia listened silently. 

"Why, Cary, you are a heroine! I could not have believed that a timidlittle thing like you--" Hatty stopped. 

"There was nobody else, " said I. "You were not well enough, you know. I had to do it; but I can assure you, Hatty, I felt like anything but ahero. "

"They are the heroes, " said my Aunt Kezia, softly, "who feel unlikeheroes, but have to do it, and go and do it therefore. Colonel Keithand Cary seem to be of that sort. And there is only one other kind ofheroes--those who stand by and see their best beloved do such things, and, knowing it to be God's will, bid them God-speed with cheerfulcountenance, and cry their own hearts out afterwards, when no one seesthem but Himself. "

"That is Annas' sort, " said I. 

"Yes, and one other, " replied my Aunt Kezia. 

"But Hatty did not know till afterwards, " said I. 

"Child, I did not mean Hatty. Do Flora and Miss Keith look as white asyou poor thin things?"

"Much worse, I think, " said I. "Annas keeps up, and does not shed atear, and Flora cries her eyes out. But they are both white and sadlyworn. "

"Poor souls!" said my Aunt Kezia. "Maybe they would like to go homewith us. Do you know when they wish to go?"

"Annas has been promised a hearing of Princess Caroline, to intercedefor her brother, " I made answer. "I think she will be ready to go assoon as that is over. There would be no good in waiting. " And my voicechoked a little as I remembered for what our poor Annas would otherwisewait. 

"Cary Courtenay, do you know you have got ten years on your head in sixmonths?"

"I feel as if I were a good deal older, " I said, smiling. 

"You are the elder of the two now, " said my Aunt Kezia, drily. "Not butwhat Hatty has been through the kiln too; but it has softened her, andhardened you. "

"Then Hatty is gold, and I am only clay, " I said, and I could not helplaughing a little, though I have not laughed much lately. 

"There is some porcelain sells for its weight in gold, " said my AuntKezia. 

"Thank you for the compliment, Aunt Kezia. "

"Nay, lass, I'm a poor hand at compliments; but I know gold when I seeit--and brass, too. You'll be home in good time for Sophy's wedding. "

"Aunt Kezia, who does Sophy marry?"

"Mr Liversedge, the Rector. "

"Is not he rather rough?"

"Rough? Not a bit of it. He is a rough diamond, if he be. "

"I fancied from what Sam said when he came back to Carlisle--"

"Oh, we had seen nought of him then. He has done more good atBrocklebank than Mr Digby did all the years he was there. You'll seefast enough when you get back. 'Tis the nature of the sun to shine. "

"What do you mean by that, Aunt Kezia?"

"Keep your eyes open--that's what I mean. Girls, your father bade meplease myself about tarrying a bit before I turned homeward. I doubtI'm not just as welcome to your grandmother as to you; but I think weshall do best to bide till we see if the others can come with us. MaybeEphraim may be ready to go home by then, too. 'Tis a bad thing for ayoung man to get into idle habits. "

"O Aunt Kezia, Ephraim is not idle!" I cried. 

"Pray, who asked you to stand up for him, Miss?" replied my Aunt Kezia. "`A still tongue makes a wise head, ' lass. I'll tell you what, I ratherfancy Mrs Desborough thinks me rough above a bit. If I'm to be strokedalongside of these fine folks here, I shall feel rough, I've no doubt. That smart, plush fellow, with his silver clocks to his silk stockings, took up my basket as if he expected it to bite his fingers. We don'ttake hold of baskets that road in our parts. I haven't seen a pair ofdecent clogs since I passed Derby. They are all slim French finnickingpattens down here. How many of those fine lords-in-waiting have you inthe house?"

"Three, and a black boy, Aunt. "

"And how many maids?"

"I must count. Lucette and Perkins, and the cook-maid, and the kitchengirl, four; and two chambermaids, six, and a seamstress, seven. "

"What, have you a mantua-maker all to yourselves?"

"Oh, she does not make gowns; she only does plain sewing. "

"And two cook-maids, and two chambermaids, and two beside! Why, whatever in all the world can they find to do?"

"Lucette is Grandmamma's woman, and Perkins is my Aunt Dorothea's, " saidI. 

"But what have they got to do? That's what I want to know, " said myAunt Kezia. 

"Well, Lucette gets up Grandmamma's laces and fine things, " said I, "andquills the nett for her ruffles, and dresses her hair, and alters hergowns--"

"What's that for?" said my Aunt Kezia. 

"When a gown has been worn two or three times, " said Hatty, "they turnit upside down, Aunt, and put some fresh trimming on it, so that itlooks like a new one. "

"But what for?" repeated my Aunt Kezia. 

"Why, then, you see, people don't remember that you had it on lastweek. "

"I'll be bound I should!"

"We have very short memories in London, " said Hatty, laughing. 

"Seems so! But why should not folks remember? I am fairly dumfoozledwith it all. How any mortal woman can get along with four men and sevenmaids to look after, passes me. I find Maria and Bessy and Sam enough, I can tell you: too many sometimes. Mrs Desborough must be up earlyand down late; or does Mrs Charles see to things?"

I began to laugh. The idea of Grandmamma "seeing to" anything, exceptfancy work and whist, was so extreme diverting. 

"Why, Aunt Kezia, nobody ever sees to anything here, " said Hatty. 

"And do things get done?" asked my Aunt Kezia with uplifted eyebrows. 

"Sometimes, " said Hatty, again laughing. "They don't do much dusting, Ifancy. I could write my name on the dust on the tables, now and then, and generally on the windows. "

My Aunt Kezia glanced at the window, and set her lips grimly. 

"If I were mistress in this house for a week, " said she, "I reckon thosefour men and seven maids would scarce send up a round robin begging meto stop another!"

"Lucette does her work thoroughly, " said I, "and so does Cicely, theunder chambermaid; and Caesar, the black boy, is an honest lad. I amafraid I cannot say much for the rest. But really, Aunt, it seemed tome when I came that people hadn't a notion what work was in the South. "

"I guess it'll seem so to me, coming and going too, " said my Aunt Kezia, in the same tone as before. "No wonder. I couldn't work in silkstockings with silver clocks, and sleeves with lace ruffles, and ever somany yards of silk bundled up of a heap behind me. I like gowns I canlive in. I've had this on a bit over three times, Hatty. "

"I should think so, Aunt!" said Hatty, laughing something like her oldself. "Why, I remember your making it the winter before last. Did notI run the seams?"

"I dare say you did, child. When you see me bedecked in the pomps andvanities of this wicked world, you may expect to catch larks by the skyfalling. At least, I hope so. "

"Mademoiselle!" said Lucette's voice at the door, "Madame bids me saythe company comes from going, and if Madame and Mesdemoiselles willdescend, she will be well at ease. "

"That's French lingo is it?" said my Aunt Kezia. "Poor lass!"

So down we went to the drawing-room, where we found Grandmamma, my AuntDorothea, and my Uncle Charles, who came forward and led my Aunt Keziato a chair. (Miss Newton told me that ceremony was growing out of date, and was only practised now by nice old-fashioned people; but Grandmammalikes it, and I fancy my Uncle Charles will keep it up while she lives. )

"Madam, " said Grandmamma, "I trust Mr Courtenay is well, and that youhad a prosperous journey. "

"He is better than ever he was, I thank you, Madam, " answered my AuntKezia. "As for my journey, I did not much enjoy it, but here I am, andthat is well. "

"Your other niece, Miss Drummond, is in Town, as I hear, " saidGrandmamma. "Dorothea, my dear, it would doubtless be agreeable to MrsKezia if that young gentlewoman came here. Write a line and ask her totarry with us while Mrs Kezia stays. "

"I thank you, Madam, " said my Aunt Kezia. 

"If Miss Keith be with her, she may as well be asked too, " observedGrandmamma, after she had refreshed her faculties with a pinch of snuff. 

My Aunt Dorothea sat down and writ the note, and then, bidding me ringthe bell, sent Caesar with it. He returned with a few lines from Flora, accepting the invitation for herself, but declining it for Annas. I wasless surprised than sorry. Certainly, were I Annas, I should not careto come back to Bloomsbury Square. 

"Poor white thing!" said my Aunt Kezia, when she saw Flora in theevening. "Why, you are worse to look at than these girls, and they areill enough. "

Flora brings news that Annas is to see the Princess next Thursday, butshe has made up her mind to tarry longer in London, and will not go backwith us. I asked where she was going to be, and Flora said at MrRaymond's. 

"What, all alone?" said Hatty. 

"Oh, no!" answered Flora; "Mr Raymond's mother is there. "

I did not know that Mr Raymond had a mother. 

Annas had a letter this morning from Lady Monksburn: the loveliestletter, says Flora, that ever woman penned. Mr Raymond said, when hehad read it (which she let him do) that it was worthy of a martyr'smother. 

"Is Mr Raymond coming round?" said I. 

"What, in politics?" replied Flora, with a smile. "I don't quite know, Cary. I doubt if he will turn as quickly as you did. "

"As I did? What can you mean, Flora?"

"Did you not know you had become of a very cool politician a very warmone?" she said. "I remember, when you first went with me toAbbotscliff, Angus used to tease you about being a Whig: and you oncetold me you knew little about such matters, and cared less. "

I looked back at myself, as it were, and I think Flora must be right. Icertainly thought much less of such things six months ago. I supposehearing them always talked of has made a change in me. 

There is another thing that I have been thinking about to-night. Whatis it in my Aunt Kezia that makes her feel so strong and safe to leanupon--so different from other people? I should never dream of feelingin that way to Grandmamma: and even Father, --though it is pleasant torely on his strength and kindness, when one wants something done beyondone's own strength, --yet he is not restful to lean on in the same waythat she is. Is she so safe to hold by, because she holds by God?

This is Grandmamma's last Tuesday, as Lent begins to-morrow, and Ibelieve she would as soon steal a diamond necklace as have an assemblyin Lent. I had been walking a great deal, as I have carried my AuntKezia these last few days to see all manner of sights, and I was verytired; so I crept into a little corner, and there Ephraim found me. 

By the way, it is most diverting to carry my Aunt Kezia to see things. My Uncle Charles has gone with us sometimes, and Ephraim some othertimes: but it is so curious to watch her. She is the sight, to me. Inthe first place, she does not care a bit about going to see a thing justbecause everybody goes to see it. Then she has very determined ideas ofher own about everything she does see. I believe she quite horrified myUncle Charles, one day, when he carried us to see a collection ofbeautiful paintings. We stopped before one, which my Uncle Charles toldus was thought a great deal of, and had cost a mint of money. 

"What's it all about?" said my Aunt Kezia. 

"'Tis a picture of the Holy Family, " he answered, "by the great painterRubens. "

"Now, stop a bit: who's what?" said my Aunt Kezia, and set herself tostudy it. "Who is that old man that hasn't shaved himself?"

"That, Madam, is Saint Joseph. "

"Never heard of him before. Oh, do you mean Joseph the carpenter? Isee. Well, and who is that woman with the child on her knee? Why everdoes not she put him some more clothes on? He'll get his death ofcold. "

"My dear Madam, that is the Blessed Virgin!"

"I hope it isn't, " said my Aunt Kezia, bluntly. "I'll go bail she kepther linen better washed than that. But what's that queer thingsprawling all over the sky?"

"The Angel Gabriel, Madam. "

"I hope he hasn't flown in here and seen this, " said my Aunt Kezia. "Ishould say, if he have, he didn't feel flattered by his portrait. "

My Aunt Kezia did not seem to care for fine things--smart clothes, jewels, and splendid coaches, or anything like that. She was interestedin the lions at the Tower, and she liked to see any famous person ofwhom my Uncle Charles could tell her; but for Ranelagh she said she didnot care twopence. There were men and women plenty wherever you went, and as to silks and laces, she could see them any day over a mercer'scounter. Vauxhall was still worse, and Spring Gardens did not pleaseher any better. 

But when, in going through the Tower, we came to the axe which beheadedmy Lady Jane Grey, she showed no lack of interest in that. And the nextday, when my Uncle Charles said he would show us some of the fine thingsin the City, and we were driving in Grandmamma's coach towards Newgate, my Aunt Kezia wanted to know what the open space was; and my UncleCharles told her, --"Smithfield. "

"Smithfield!" cried she. "Pray you, Mr Desborough, bid your coachmanstop. I would liever see this than a Lord Mayor's Show. "

"My dear Madam, there is nothing to see, " answered my Uncle Charles, whoseemed rather perplexed. "This is not a market-day. "

"There'll be plenty I can see!" was my Aunt Kezia's reply; and, my UncleCharles pulling the check-string, we alighted. My Aunt Kezia stood amoment, looking round. 

"You see, there is nothing to see, " he observed. 

"Nothing to see!" she made answer. "There are the fires to see, and themartyrs, and the angels around, and the devils, and the men well-nigh asill as devils. There is the land to see that they saved, and the Churchthat their blood watered, and the greatness of England that theypreserved. Ay, and there is the Day of Judgment, when martyrs andpersecutors will have their reward--and you and I, Mr Desborough, shallmeet with ours. My word, but there is enough to see for them that haveeyes to see it!"

"Oh!--ah!" said my Uncle Charles. 

My Aunt Kezia said no more, except a few words which I heard her whispersoftly to herself, --"`They shall reign for ever and ever. ' `The noblearmy of martyrs praise Thee. '" Then, as she turned back to the coach, she added, "I thank you, Sir. It was worth coming to London to look atthat. It makes one feel as if one got nearer to them. "

And I thought, but did not say, that I should never be nearer to themthan I had been that winter night, when Colonel Keith helped me to carrythe basket into the gates of that grim, black pile beyond. He was thereyet. If I had been a bird, to have flown in and sung to him!--or, better, a giant, to tear away locks and bars, and let him out! And Icould do _nothing_. 

But here I am running ever so far from Grandmamma's Tuesday, and thenews Ephraim brought. 

Annas has seen the Princess Caroline. She liked her, and thought hervery gentle and good. But she held out no hope at all, and did not seemto think that anything which she could say would influence her father. She would lay the matter before him, but she could promise no more. However, she appointed another day, about a month hence, when Annas maygo to her again, and hear the final answer. So Annas must wait forthat. 

Ephraim and Annas seem to be great friends. Is it not shockinglyselfish of me to wish it otherwise? I do not quite know why I wish it. But sometimes I wonder--no, I won't wonder. It will be all right, ofcourse, however it be arranged. Why should I always want people to carefor me, and think of me, and put me first? Cary Courtenay, you aregrowing horribly vain and selfish! I wonder at you!

It is settled now that we go home the week after Easter Day. We, meansmy Aunt Kezia, and Flora, and Hatty, and me. I do not know how fourwomen are to travel without a gentleman, or even a serving-man: but Isuppose we shall find out when the time comes. I said to my Aunt Keziathat perhaps Grandmamma would lend us Dobson. 

"Him!" cried she. "Dear heart, but I'd a vast deal liever be withouthim! He would want all the coach-pockets for his silk stockings, andwould take more waiting on than Prince Charlie himself. I make noaccount of your grand gentlemen in plush, that pick up baskets with thetips of their fingers! (My Aunt Kezia cannot get over that. ) Give me aman, or a woman either, with some brains in his head, and some use inhis hands. These southern folks seem to have forgotten how to usetheirs. I watched that girl Martha dusting the other day, and if I didnot long to snatch the duster out of her hands and whip her with it!She just drew it lazily across the top of the table, --never troubledherself about the sides, --and gave it one whisk across the legs, andthen she had done. I'd rather do my work myself, every bit of it, thanhave such a pack of idle folks about me--ay, ten times over, I would!They don't seem to have a bit of gumption. They say lawyers go toHeaven an inch every Good Friday; but if those lazy creatures get thereor anywhere else in double the time, I wonder! And just look at the waythey dress! A good linsey petticoat and a quilted linen bed-gown wasgood enough for a woman that had her work to do, when I was young; butnow, dear me! my ladies must have their gowns, and their muslin apronsof an afternoon, and knots of ribbon in their hair. I do believe theywill take to wearing white stockings, next thing! and gloves when theygo to church! Eh dear, girls! I tell you what, this world is coming tosomething!"

Later in the evening, Miss Newton came up to me, with her fan heldbefore her laughing face. 

"My dear Miss Courtenay, what curious things your worthy Aunt does say!She asked me just now why I came into the world. I told her I did notknow, and the idea had never before occurred to me: and she said, `Well, then, it is high time it did, and some to spare!' Do all the people inCumberland ask you such droll questions?"

I said I thought not, but my Aunt Kezia did, often enough. 

"Well, she is a real curiosity!" said Miss Newton, and went awaylaughing. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Brocklebank Fells, April the 10th, 1746. At least I begin on the 10th, but when I shall finish is more than I cantell. Things went on happening so fast after the last page I writ, thatI neither had time to set them down, nor heart for doing it. PrinceWilliam of Hanover (whom the Whigs call Duke of Cumberland) leftEdinburgh with a great army, not long after I writ; but no news has yetreached us of any hostile meeting betwixt him and the Prince. MrRaymond saith Colonel Keith's chances may depend somewhat upon theresults of the battle, which is daily expected. Nevertheless, he adds, there is no chance, for the Lord orders all things. 

My Aunt Kezia and Mr Raymond have taken wonderfully to one another. Hatty said to her that she could not think how they got on when theychanced on politics. 

"Bless you, child, we never do!" said my Aunt Kezia. "We have gotsomething better to talk about. And why should two brothers quarrelbecause one likes red heels to his shoes and the other admires blackones?"

"Ah, if that were all, Aunt!" said I. "But how can you leave it there?It seems to me not a matter for opinion, but a question of right. Wehave to take sides; and we may choose the wrong one. "

"I don't see that a woman need take any side unless she likes, " quoth myAunt Kezia. "I can bake as tasty a pie, and put on as neat a patch, whether I talk of Prince Charles or the Young Pretender. And patchesand pies are my business: the Prince isn't. I reckon the Lord willmanage to see that every one gets his rights, without Kezia Courtenayrunning up to help Him. "

"But somebody has it to do, Aunt. "

"Let them do it, then. I'm glad I'm not somebody. "

"But, Aunt Kezia, don't you want people to have their rights?"

"Depends on what their rights are, child. Some of us would be verysadly off if we got them. I should not like my rights, I know. "

"Ah, you mean your deserts, Aunt, " said Hatty. "But rights are not justthe same thing, are they?"

"Let us look it in the face, girls, if you wish, " saith my Aunt Kezia. "I hate seeing folks by side-face. If you want to see anybody, orunderstand anything, look right in its face. What are rights? They arenot always deserts, --you are right there, Hatty, --for none of us hathany rights as regards God. Rights concern ourselves and our fellow-men. I take it, every man hath a right to what he earns, and to what isgiven him, --whether God or man gave it to him, --so long as he that gavehad the right over what he gave. Now, as to this question, it seems tome all lies in a nut-shell. If King James be truly the son of the oldKing (which I cannot doubt), then God gave him the crown of England, ofwhich no man can possibly have any right to deprive him. Only God cando that. Then comes the next question, Has God done that? Time mustanswer. Without a revelation from Heaven, we cannot find it out anyother way. "

"But until we do find it out, where are we to stand?"

"Keep to your last orders till you get fresh ones. A servant will makesad blunders who goes contrary to orders, just because he fancies thathis master may have changed his mind. "

I see that for all practical purposes my Aunt Kezia agrees with Annas. And indeed what they say sounds but reasonable. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the second of April when we left London. It had been arrangedthat we should travel by the flying machine [Note. Stage-coachesoriginally bore this hyperbolical name. ] which runs from London toGloucester, setting forth from the Saracen's Head on Snow Hill. Thelast evening before we set out, my Aunt Kezia, Hatty, and I, spent atMr Raymond's with Annas. His mother is a very pleasant oldsilver-haired gentlewoman, with a soft, low voice and gentle manner thatreminded me of Lady Monksburn. 

I felt it very hard work to say farewell to Annas. What might not havehappened before we met again? Ephraim was there for the last hour orso, and was very attentive to her. I do think--And I am rather afraidthe Laird, her father, will not like it. But Ephraim is good enough foranybody. And I hope, when he marry Annas, which I think is coming, thathe will not quite give over being my friend. He has been more like ourbrother than anybody else. I should not like to lose him. I havealways wished we had a brother. 

"No, not good-bye just yet, Cary, " said Ephraim, in answer to myfarewell. "You will see me again in the morning. "

"Oh, are you coming to see us off?"

He nodded; and we only said good-night. 

Grandmamma was very kind when we took leave of her. She gave each of usa keepsake--a beautiful garnet necklace to Hatty, and a handsome pearlpin to me. 

"And, my dear, " said she to Hatty, "I do hope you will try to keep asgenteel as you are now. Don't, for mercy's sake, go and get thoseblowzed red cheeks again. They are so unbecoming a gentlewoman. Andgarnets, though they are the finest things in the world for a pale, clear complexion, look horrid worn with great red cheeks. Cary, yourmanners had rather gone back when you came, from what they used to be;but you have improved again now. Mind you keep it up. Don't get warmand enthusiastic over things, --that is your danger, my dear, --especiallythings of no consequence, and which don't concern you. A younggentlewoman should not be a politician; and to be warm over anythingwhich has to do with religion, as I have many times told you, isexceeding bad taste. You should leave those matters to public men andthe clergy. It is their business--not yours. My dears, " and out cameGrandmamma's snuff-box, "I wish you to understand, once for all, that ifone of you ever joins those insufferable creatures, the Methodists, Iwill cut her off with a shilling! I shall wash my hands of hercompletely. I would not even call her my grand-daughter again! But Iam sure, my dears, you have too much sense. I shall not insult you bysupposing such a thing. Make my compliments to your father, and tellhim I think you both much improved by your winter in Town. Good-bye, mydears. Mrs Kezia, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey. "

"I thank you, Madam, and wish you every blessing, " said my Aunt Kezia, with a warm clasp of Grandmamma's hand, which I am sure she would thinksadly countrified. "But might I ask you, Madam, to explain somethingwhich puzzled me above a bit in what you have just said?"

"Certainly, Mrs Kezia, " said Grandmamma, in her most gracious manner. 

"Then, Madam, as I suppose the clergy are going to Heaven (and I am sureyou would be as sorry to think otherwise as I should), if the way to getthere is their business and not yours, where are you going, if youplease?"

Grandmamma looked at my Aunt Kezia as if she thought that she must havetaken leave of her wits. 

"Madam! I--I do not understand--"

My Aunt Kezia did not flinch in the least. She stood quietly lookinginto Grandmamma's face, with an air of perfect simplicity, and waitedfor the answer. 

"Of course, we--we are all going to Heaven, " said Grandmamma, in ahesitating way. "But it is the business of the clergy to see that wedo. Excuse me, Madam; I am not accustomed to--to talk about suchsubjects. "

And Grandmamma took two pinches, one after the other. 

"Well, you see, I am, " coolly said my Aunt Kezia. "Seems to me, Madam, that going to Heaven is every bit as much my business as going toGloucester; and I have not left that for the clergy to see to, nor do Isee why I should the other. Folks don't always remember what you trustthem with, and sometimes they can't manage the affair. And I take theliberty to think they'll find that matter rather hard to do, without Isee to it as well, and without the Lord sees to it beside. Farewell, Madam; I shall be glad to meet you up there, and I do hope you'll makesure you've got on the right road, for it would be uncommon awkward tofind out at last that it was the wrong one. Good-morrow, and God blessyou!"

Not a word came in answer, but I just glanced back through the crack ofthe door, and saw Grandmamma sitting with the reddest face I ever didsee to her, and two big wrinkles in her forehead, taking pinch afterpinch in the most reckless manner. 

My Aunt Dorothea, who stood in the door, said acidly, --"I think, Madam, it would have been as well to keep such remarks till you were alone withmy mother. I do not know how it may be in Cumberland, but they are notthought becoming to a gentlewoman here. Believe me, I am indeed sorryto be forced to the discourtesy of saying so; but you were the firstoffender. "

"Ay, " said my Aunt Kezia. "Folks that tell the naked truth generallymeet with more kicks than halfpence. But I would have spoken out ofthese girls' hearing, only I got never a chance. And you see I shallhave to give in my account some day, and I want it to be as free fromblots as I can. "

"I suppose you thought you were doing a good work for your own soul!"said my Aunt Dorothea, sneeringly. 

"Eh, no, poor soul!" was my Aunt Kezia's sorrowful reply. "My soul'sbeyond my saving, but Christ has it safe. And knowing that, Madam, makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls. "

"Upon my word, Madam!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. "You take enough uponyou! `Unsaved souls, ' indeed! Well, I am thankful I never had thepresumption to say that my soul was safe. I have a little more humilitythan that. "

"It would indeed be presumption in some cases, " said my Aunt Kezia, solemnly. "But, Madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, itis scarce presuming that she should answer you, `The King's. ' What elsecan she answer? `We know that we have eternal life. '"

"An apostle writ that, I suppose, " said my Aunt Dorothea, in a hardtone. 

"They were not apostles he writ to, " said my Aunt Kezia. "And he sayshe writ on purpose that they might know it. "

"Now, ladies, 'tis high time to set forth, " called my Uncle Charles'svoice from the hall; and I was glad to hear it. I and Hatty ran off atonce, but I could not but catch my Aunt Kezia's parting words, --

"God bless you, Madam, and I thank you for all your kindness. And whenI next see you, I hope you will know it. "

We drove to Snow Hill in Grandmamma's coach, and took our seats(bespoken some days back) in the flying machine, where our company wastwo countrywomen with baskets, a youth that looked very pale andcadaverous, and wore his hair uncommon long, a lady in very smartclothes, and a clergyman in his cassock. My Uncle Charles bade usfarewell very kindly, and wished us a safe journey. Mr Raymond wasthere also, and he bade God bless us. Somehow, in all the bustle, I hadnot a right chance to take leave of Ephraim. The coach set forth rathersooner than I expected, while Flora and I were charging Mr Raymond withmessages to Annas; and he had only time to step back with a bow and asmile. I looked for Ephraim, but could not even see him. I was sosorry, and I thought of little else until we got to Uxbridge. 

At Uxbridge we got out, and went into the inn to dine at the ordinary, which is always spread ready for the coming of the flying machine on aWednesday. As I sat down beside my Aunt Kezia, a man came and took thechair on the other side of me. 

"Tired, Cary?" he said, to my amazement. 

"Ephraim!" I cried. "Wherever have you come from?"

"Did you think I had taken up my abode in London?" said he, lookingdiverted. 

"But I thought you went after some business, " I said, feeling very muchpuzzled that he should be going home just now, and leaving poor Annas inall her trouble. 

"I did, " he answered. "Business gets done some time. It would be a sadthing if it did not. Will you have some of this rabbit pie?"

I accepted the pie, for I did not care what I had. 

"Then your business is done?" I said, in some surprise. 

His business could hardly have any connection with Annas, in that case. It must be real business--something that concerned his father. 

"Yes, Cary; my business was finished last night, so I was just in timeto come with you. " And the look of fun came into his eyes again. 

"Oh, I am glad!" said I. "I wondered how my Aunt Kezia would manage allby herself. "

"Had you three made up your minds to be particularly naughty?" asked he, laughing. 

"Now, Ephraim!" said I. 

"Sounded like it, " he replied. "Well, Cary, are you glad to go home?"

"Well, yes--I think--I am, " answered I. 

"Then certainly I think you are not. "

"Well. I am glad for some reasons. "

"And not for others. Yes, I understand that. And I guess one of thereasons--you are sorry to leave Miss Keith. "

I wondered if he guessed that because he was sorry. 

"Yes, I am very sorry to leave her in this trouble. Do you think itlikely that Colonel Keith can escape?"

Ephraim shook his head. 

"Is it possible?"

"`Possible' is a Divine word, not fit for the lips of men. What Godwills is possible. And it is not often that He lets us see longbeforehand what He means to do. "

"Then you think all lies with God?" I said--I am afraid, in a ratherhopeless tone. 

"Does not everything, at all times, lie with God? That means hope, Cary, not despair. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He. '"

"Oh dear! that sounds as if--Ephraim, I don't mean to say anythingwicked--as if He did not care. "

"He cares for our sanctification: that is, in the long run, for ourhappiness. Would you rather that He cared just to rid you of the painof the moment, and not for your eternal happiness?"

"Oh no! But could I not have both?"

"No, Cary, I don't suppose you could. "

"But if God can do everything, why can He not do that? Do you neverwant to know the answers to such questions? Or do they not trouble you?They are always coming up with me. "

"Far too often. Satan takes care of that. "

"You think it is wicked to want the answers?"

"It is rebellion, Cary. The King is the best judge of what concerns Hissubjects' welfare. "

I felt in a corner, so I ate my pie and was silent. 

We slept at Reading, and the next day we dined at Wallingford, and sleptat the Angel at Oxford. Next morning, which was Saturday, we were upbefore the sun, to see as much as we could of the city before themachine should set forth. I cannot say that I got a very clear idea ofthe place, for when I try to remember it, my head seems a confusedjumble of towers and gateways, colleges and churches, stained windowsand comical gargoyles--at least that is what Ephraim called the funnyfaces which stuck out from some of the walls. I don't know where he gotthe word. 

This day's stage was the longest. We dined at Lechlade; and it had longbeen dark when we rattled into the courtyard of the Bell Inn atGloucester, where we were to pass the Sunday. Oh, how tired I was!almost too tired to sleep. 

On Sunday, we went to church at the Cathedral, where we had a very dullsermon from a Minor Canon. In the afternoon, as we sat in the host'sparlour, Ephraim said to me, --

"Cary, did you ever hear of George Whitefield?"

"Oh yes, Ephraim!" I cried, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, andmy eyes light up. "I heard him preach in Scotland, when I was therewith Flora. Have you heard him?"

"Yes, many times, and Mr Wesley also. "

I was pleased to hear that. "And what were you going to say about him?"

"That if you knew his name, it would interest you to hear that he wasborn in this inn. His parents kept it. "

"And he chose to be a field-preacher!" cried I. "Why, that was comingdown in the world, was it not?" [Note 1. ]

"It was coming down, in this world, " said he. "But there is anotherworld, Cary, and I fancy it was going up in that. You must remember, however, that he did not choose to be a field-preacher nor a Dissenter:he was turned out of the Church. "

"But why should he have been turned out?"

"I expect, because he would not hold his tongue. "

"But why did anybody want him to hold his tongue?"

"Well, you see, he let it run to awkward subjects. Ladies and gentlemendid not like him because he set his face against fashionable diversions, and told them that they were miserable sinners, and that there was onlyone way into Heaven, which they would have to take as well as the poorin the almshouses. The neighbouring clergy did not like him because hewas better than themselves. And the bishops did not like him because hesaid they ought to do their duty better, and look after their dioceses, instead of setting bad examples to their clergy by hunting andcard-playing and so forth; or, at the best, sitting quiet in theirclosets to write learned books, which was not the duty they promisedwhen they were ordained. But, as was the case with another Preacher, `the common people heard him gladly. '"

"And he was really turned out?"

"Seven years ago. "

"I wonder if it were a wise thing, " said I, thinking. 

"Mr Raymond says it was the most unwise thing they could have done. And he says so of the turning forth under the Act of Uniformity, eightyyears ago. He thinks the men who were the very salt of the Church lefther then: and that now she is a saltless, soulless thing, that will dieunless God's mercy put more salt in her. "

"But suppose it do, and the bishops get them turned out again?"

"Then, says Raymond, let the bishops look to themselves. There is sucha thing as judicial blindness: and there is such a thing as salt thathas lost its savour, and is trodden under foot of men. If the Churchcast out the children of God, God may cast out the Church of England. There are precedents for it in the Books of Heaven. And in all thosecases, God let them go on for a while: over and over again they grievedHis Spirit and persecuted His servants; but at last there always cameone time which was the last time, and after that the Spirit withdrew, and that Church, or that nation, was left to the lot which it hadchosen. "

"Oh, Ephraim, that sounds dreadful. "

"It will be dreadful, " he answered, "if we provoke it at the Lord'shand. "

"One feels as if one would like to save such men, " I said. 

"Do you? I feel as if I should like to save such Churches. It is likea son's feeling who sees his own mother going down to the pit ofdestruction, and is utterly powerless to hold out a hand to save her. She will not be saved. And I wonder, sometimes, whether any much soreranguish can be on this side Heaven!"

I was silent. 

"It makes it all the harder, " he said, in a troubled voice, "when theFather's other sons, whose mother she is not, jeer at the poor fallingcreature, and at her own children for their very anguish in seeing it. I do not think the Father can like them to do that. It is hard enoughfor the children without it. And surely He loves her yet, and wouldfain save her and bring her home. "

And I felt he spoke in parables. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. At this date, an innkeeper stood higher in the estimation ofsociety than at present, and a clergyman considerably lower, unless thelatter were a dignitary, or a man whose birth and fortune were regardedas entitling him to respect apart from his profession. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

HOW THINGS CAME ROUND. 

 "They say, when cities grow too big, Their smoke may make the skies look dim; And so may life hide God from us, But still it cannot alter Him. And age and sorrow clear the soul, As night and silence clear the sky, And hopes steal out like silver stars, And next day brightens by and by. "

 ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. 

On the Monday morning, we left Gloucester on horseback, with twobaggage-horses beside those we rode. We dined at Worcester, and laythat night at Bridgenorth. On the Tuesday, we slept at Macclesfield; onthe Wednesday, at Colne; on the Thursday, at Appleby; and on Friday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, we reached home. 

On the steps, waiting for us, stood Father and Sophy. 

I had not been many minutes in the house before I felt, in some inward, indescribable way, that things were changed. I wonder what that is bywhich we feel things that we cannot know? It was not the house whichwas altered. The old things, which I had known from a child, all seemedto bid me welcome home. It was Father and Sophy in whom the change was. It was not like Sophy to kiss me so warmly, and call me "darling. " AndI was not one bit like Father to stroke my hair, and say so solemnly, "God bless my lassie!" I have had many a kiss and a loving word fromhim, but I never heard him speak of God except when he repeated theresponses in church, or when--

I wondered what had come to Father. And how I did wonder when aftersupper Sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big Bible which used tolie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and Mariaand Bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and Father, ina voice which trembled a little, read a Psalm, and then we knelt down, and said the Confession, and the General Thanksgiving, and the Lord'sPrayer. I looked at my Aunt Kezia, and saw that this was nothing new toher. And then I remembered all at once that she had hinted at somethingwhich we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyesopen. 

The pack of cards did not come out at all. 

The next morning I was the first to come down. I found Sam setting thetable in the parlour. We exchanged good-morrows, and Sam hoped I wasnot very tired with the journey. Then he said, without looking up, ashe went on with his work--

"Ye'll ha'e found some changes here, I'm thinking, Miss. "

"I saw one last night, Sam, " said I, smiling. 

"There's mair nor ane, " he replied. "There's three things i' this warldthat can ne'er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they'll ayout, sooner or later. And that's blood, and truth, and the grace o'God. "

"I am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, Sam, " said I. 

"Ye've no been sae lang i' this warld as me, Miss Cary, " said Sam. "And'deed, sometimes 'tis a lang while first. But the grace o' God shows upquick, mostly. 'Tis its nature to be hard at wark. Ye'll no put barminto a batch o' flour, and ha'e it lying idle. And the kingdom o'Heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. Ay, who shall let it?"

"Is Mr Liversedge well liked, Sam?" I asked, when I had thought alittle. 

"He's weel eneuch liked o' them as is weel liking, " said Sam, settinghis forks in their places. "The angels like him, I've nae doubt; andthe lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi' theninety and nine. They'd hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bitsafter wi' the saints--specially wi' theirsels, wha are the vara crownand flower o' a' the saints, and ne'er were sinners--no to speak o', yeken, and outside the responses. And he disna gang saft and slippy dountheir throats, as they'd ha'e him, but he is just main hard on 'em. Hetells 'em gin they're saints they suld live like saints, and they'd likethe repute o' being saints without the fash o' living. He did himsel amain deal o' harm wi' sic-like by a discourse some time gane--ye'lljudge what like it was when I tell ye the Scripture it was on: `He thatsaith he abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as Hewalked. ' And there's a gey lot of folks i' this warld 'd like vara weelto abide, but they're a hantle too lazy to walk. And the minister, hecomes and stirs 'em up wi' the staff o' the Word, and bids 'em get upand gang their ways, and no keep sat down o' the promises, divertin'theirsels wi' watching ither folk trip. He's vara legal, Miss Cary, isthe minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o'er, and no just diptheir tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. He disna makemuch count o' giving the Lord your tongue, and ay hauding the De'il bythe hand ahint your back. And the o'er gude folks disna like that. They'd liever keep friendly wi' baith. "

"Then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, Sam?" said I, feeling much diverted with Sam's quaint way of putting things. 

Sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered. 

"I'll tell ye how it is, Miss. The promises was made to be lain on byweary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down boththeirsels and their burden o' sins on the Lord's heart o' love: but theywere ne'er made for auld Jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick thepuir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. Last time Iwas in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i'the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new woodas they ha'e getten o'er o' late--the auld Vicar used to ha'e hisdining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they callit a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo--I reckon I'm getting tooauld to tak' in new notions. "

"Mahogany?"

"Ay, maybe that's it: I ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. Atweel, mycousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being varacostly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' makingfurniture, as did nae come to sae mickle--they ca' it veneer. "

"Oh yes, I know, " said I. 

"Ay, ye'll hae seen it i' London toun, I daur say? all that's bad's safeto gang there. " I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves. "Atweel, Miss Cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered Christians i' thiscountry. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richtshade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that--till ye get ahint'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're justcommon deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o'the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, 'tis nomeant to last, but only to sell. And there's a monie folks 'll gi'e thebest price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. ButI'm thinkin' the King 'll no gi'e the price. His eyes are as a flame o'fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up. "

"And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?"

"He is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o'veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. And theydinna like him onie better for 't. "

"But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take thereal thing for the veneer?"

"You trust him for that. He was no born yestre'en. There's a hantle o'folk makes that blunder, though. "

Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said, --"MissCary, ye'll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld Mally?"

Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?--poor, fragile, pretty springflower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on thebemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts asideto keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "Yes, Sam, " I said, in alow voice. 

"Ay, the minister brought yon puir lassie a message frae the gudeLord--`Yet return again to Me'--and she just took it as heartily as itwas gi'en, and went and fand rest--puir, straying, lost sheep!--but whenshe came to the table o' the Lord, the ninety and nine wad ha'e nane o'her--she was gude eneuch for Him in the white robe o' His richteousness, but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain--andnot ane soul i' a' the parish wad kneel down aside o' her. Miss Cary, Ine'er saw the minister's e'en flash out sparks o' fire as they did whenhe heard that! And what, think ye, said he?"

"I should like to hear, Sam. "

"`Vara gude, ' says he. `I beg, ' he says, `that none o' ye all will cometo the Table to-morrow. Annie Crosthwaite and I will gang thither ourlane: but there'll be three, ' says he, `for the blessed Lord Himsel'will come and eat wi' us, and we wi' Him, for He receiveth sinners, andeateth with them. ' And he did it, for a' they tald him the Bishop wadbe doun on him. `Let him, ' says he, `and he shall hear the haillstory': and not ane o' them a' wad he let come that morn. They were noworthy, he said. "

"And did the Bishop hear of it?"

"Ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi' a' hisfeathers ruffled the wrang way. But the minister, he stood his ground:`There were three, Mr Archdeacon, ' says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn, `and the Lord Himsel' made the third. ' `And how am I to ken that?' saysthe big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. `Will ye be sae gude asto ask Him?' says the minister. I dinna ken what the big chiel made o'the tale to the Bishop, but we heard nae mair on't. Maybe he did askHim, and gat the auld answer, --`Touch not Mine anointed, and do Myprophet no harm. '"

"Still, rules ought to be kept, Sam. "

"Rules ought to be kept in ordinar'. But this was bye-ordinar', ye see. If a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till hisfaither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pondjust afore the window, I reckon his faither 'll no be mickle angered ifhe jumps out of the window and saves him. Any way, I wad nae like toha'e what he'd get, gin he said, --`Faither, ye bade me tarry in thischalmer, and sae I could nae do a hand's turn for Willie. ' Rules areman's, Miss Cary, but truth and souls belang to God. "

My Aunt Kezia and Sophy had come in while Sam was talking, and Fatherand Hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast. 

"Sam has told you one story, girls, " said my Aunt Kezia, "and I willtell you another. You will find the singers changed when you go tochurch. Dan Oldfield and Susan Nixon are gone. "

"Dan and Susan!" cried Hatty. "The two best voices in the gallery!"

"Well, you know, under old Mr Digby, there always used to be an anthembefore the service began, in which Dan and Susan did their best to showoff. The second week that Mr Liversedge was here, he stopped theanthem. Up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it. It wasn't worth their while coming just for the psalms. Mr Liversedgeheard them out quietly, and then said, --`Do you mean what you have justsaid?' Yes, to be sure they meant it. `Then consider yourselvesdismissed from the gallery without more words, ' says he. `You are notworthy to sing the praises of Him before whom multitudes of angels veiltheir faces. Not worth your while to praise God!--but worth your whileto show man what fine voices He gave you whom you think scorn to thankfor it!' And he turned them off there and then. "

The next time I was alone with Sophy, she said to me, with tears in hereyes, --"Cary, I don't want you to reckon me worse than I am. That isbad enough, in all conscience. I would have knelt down with AnnieCrosthwaite, and so, I am sure, would my Aunt Kezia; but it was whileshe was up in London with you, and Father was so poorly with the gout, Icould not leave him. You see there was nobody to take my place, withall of you away. Please don't fancy I was one of those that refused, for indeed it was not so. "

"I fancy you are a dear, good Sophy, " said I, kissing her; "and Isuppose, if Mr Liversedge asked you to shake hands with a chimney-sweepjust come down the chimney, you would be delighted to do it. "

"Well, perhaps I might, " said Sophy, laughing. "But that, Cary, Ishould have done, not for him, but for our Master. "

I found that I liked Mr Liversedge very much, as one would wish to likea brother-in-law that was to be. His whole heart seems to be in hisLord's work: and if, perhaps, he is a little sharp and abrupt at times, I think it is simply because he sees everything quickly and distinctly, and speaks as he sees. I was afraid he would have something of the popeabout him, but I find he is not like that at all. He lets you alone forall mere differences of opinion, though he will talk them over with youreadily if he sees that you wish it. But let those keen, black eyesperceive something which he thinks sin, and down he comes on you in thevery manner of the old prophets. Yet show him that he has made amistake, and that your action was justified, and he begs yourforgiveness in a moment. And I never saw a man who seemed more fittedto deal with broken-hearted sinners. To them he is tenderness andcomfort itself. 

"He just takes pattern frae his Maister; that's whaur it is, " said oldElspie. "Mind ye, He was unco gentle wi' the puir despised publicans, and vara tender to the wife that had been a sinner. It was thePharisees He was hard on. And that's just what the minister is. MissCary, he's just the best blessing the Lord ever sent till Brocklebank!"

"I hardly thought, Elspie, " said I, a little mischievously, "to hear youspeak so well of a Prelatist clergyman. "

"Hoot awa', we a' ha'e our bees in our bonnets, Miss Cary, " said the oldwoman, a trifle testily. "The minister's no pairfect, I daur say. Buthe's as gran' at praying as John Knox himself and he gars ye feel theloue and loueliness o' Christ like Maister Rutherford did. And sae lang's he'll do that, I'm no like to quarrel wi' him, if he do ha'e a fancyfor lawn sleeves and siccan rubbish, I wish him better sense, that's a'. Maybe he'll ha'e it ane o' thae days. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I cannot understand Hatty as she is now. For a while after that affairwith the Crosslands she was just like a drooping, broken-down flower;all her pertness, and even her brightness, completely gone. Now that ischanged, and she has become, not pert again, but hard--hard and bitter. Nobody can do anything to suit her, and she says things now and thenwhich make me jump. Things, I mean, as if she believed nothing andcared for nobody. When Hatty speaks in that way, I often see my AuntKezia looking at her with a strange light in her eyes, which seems to behalf pain and half hopefulness. Mr Liversedge, I fancy, is studyingher; and I am not sure that he knows what to make of her. 

Yesterday evening, Fanny and Ambrose came in and sat a while. Fanny isever so much improved. She has brightened up, and lost much of thatlanguid, limp, fanciful way she used to have; and, instead of writingodes to the stars, she seems to take an interest in her poultry-yard anddairy. My Aunt Kezia says Fanny wanted an object in life, and I supposeshe has it now. 

When they had been there about an hour, Mr Liversedge came in. He doesnot visit Sophy often; I fancy he is too busy; but Tuesday evening isusually his leisure time, so far as he can be said to have one, and hegenerally spends it here when he can. He and Ambrose presently fellinto discourse upon the parish, and somehow they got to talking of whata clergyman's duties were. Ambrose thought if he baptised and marriedand buried people, and administered the sacrament four times a year, andpreached every month or so, and went to see sick people when they sentfor him, he had done all that could be required, and might quitereasonably spend the rest of his time in hunting either foxes or Latinand Greek, according as his liking led him. 

"You think Christ spent His life so?" asked Mr Liversedge, in that veryquiet tone in which he says his sharpest things, and which reminds me sooften of Colonel Keith. 

Ambrose looked as if he did not know what to say; and before he hadfound out, Mr Liversedge went on, --

"Because, you see, He left me an example, that I should follow Hissteps. "

"Mr Liversedge, I thought you were orthodox. "

"I certainly should have thought so, as long as I quoted Scripture, "said the Vicar. 

"But, you know, nobody does such a thing, " said Ambrose. 

"Then is it not high time somebody should?"

"Mr Liversedge, you will never get promotion, if that be the way youare going on. "

"In which world?"

"`Which world'! There is only one. "

"I thought there were two. "

Ambrose fidgetted uneasily on his chair. 

"I tell you what, my good Sir, you are on the way to preach your churchempty. The pews have no souls to be saved, I believe, "--and Ambrosechuckled over his little joke. 

"What of the souls of the absent congregation?" asked Mr Liversedge. 

"Oh, they'll have to get saved elsewhere, " answered Ambrose. 

"Then, if they do get saved, what reason shall I have to regret theirabsence? But suppose they do not, Mr Catterall, --is that my loss ortheirs?"

"Why couldn't you keep them?" said Ambrose. 

"At what cost?" was the Vicar's answer. 

"A little more music and rather less thunder, " said Ambrose, laughing. "Give us back the anthem--you have no idea how many have taken seats atAll Saints' because of that. And do you know your discarded singers arethere?"

"All Saints' is heartily welcome to everybody that has gone there, "replied Mr Liversedge. "If I drive them away by preaching error, Ishall answer to God for their souls. But if men choose to go becausethey find truth unpalatable, I have no responsibility for them. TheLord has not given me those souls; that is plain. If He have given themto another sower of seed, by all means let them go to him as fast asthey can. "

"Mr Liversedge, I do believe, "--Ambrose drew his chair back an inch--"Ido almost think--you must be--a--a Calvinist. "

"It is not catching, I assure you, Mr Catterall. "

"But are you?"

"That depends on what you mean. I certainly do not go blindly overhedge and ditch after the opinions of John Calvin. I am not sure thatany one does. "

"No, but--you believe that people are--a--are elect or non-elect; and ifthey be elect, they will be saved, however they live, and if they benot, they must needs be lost, however good they are. Excuse my speakingso freely. "

"I am very much obliged to you for it. No, Mr Catterall, I do notbelieve anything of the sort. If that be what you mean by Calvinism, Iabhor it as heartily as you do. "

"Why, I thought all Calvinists believed that!"

"I answer most emphatically, No. I believe that men are elect, but thatthey are elected `unto sanctification': and a man who has not thesanctification shows plainly--unless he repent and amend--that he is notone of the elect. "

"Now I know a man who says, rolling the whites of his eyes and claspinghis palms together as if he were always saying his prayers, like thefigures on that old fellow's tomb in the chancel--he says he was electedto salvation from all eternity, and cannot possibly be lost: and he isthe biggest swearer and drinker in the parish. What say you to that?Am I to believe him?"

"Can you manage it?"

"I can't: that is exactly the thing. "

"Don't, then. I could not. "

"But now, do you believe, Mr Liversedge, --I have picked up the wordsfrom this fellow--that God elected men because He foreknew them, or thatHe foreknew because He had elected them?"

Ambrose gave a little wink at Fanny and me, sitting partly behind him, as if he thought that he had driven the Vicar completely into a corner. 

"When the Angel Gabriel is sent to tell me, Mr Catterall, I shall bemost happy to let you know. Until then, you must excuse my deciding aquestion on which I am entirely ignorant. "

Ambrose looked rather blank. 

"Well, then, Mr Liversedge, as to free-will. Do you think that everyman can be saved, if he likes, or not?"

"Let Christ answer you--not me. `No man can come to Me, except theFather which hath sent Me draw him. '"

"Ah! then man has no responsibility?" And Ambrose gave another wink atus. 

"Let Christ answer you again. `Ye will not come unto Me, that ye mighthave life. ' If they had come, you see, they might have had it. "

"But how do you reconcile the two?" said Ambrose, knitting his brows. 

"When the Lord commands me to reconcile them, He will show me how. ButI do not expect Him to do either, in this world. To what extent ourknowledge on such subjects may be enlarged in Heaven, I cannot ventureto say. "

"But surely you must reconcile them?"

"Pardon me. I must act on them. "

"Can you act on principles you cannot reconcile?"

"Certainly--if you can put full trust in their proposer. Every childdoes it, every day. You will be a long while in the dark, MrCatterall, if you must know why a candle burns before you light it. Better be content to have the light, and work by it. "

"There are more sorts of light than one, " said my Aunt Kezia. 

"That is the best light by which you see clearest, " was the Vicar'sanswer. 

"What have you got to see?" asked Ambrose. 

"Your sins and your Saviour, " was the reply. "And till you have lookedwell at both those, Mr Catterall, and are sure that you have laid thesins upon the Sacrifice, it is as well not to look much at anythingelse. "

I think Ambrose found that he was in the corner this time, and just thekind of corner that he did not care to get in. At any rate, he said nomore. 

Sophy's wedding, which took place this evening, was the quietest I eversaw. She let Mr Liversedge say how everything should be, and he seemedto like it as plain and simple as possible. No bridesmaids, no favours, no dancing, no throwing the stocking, no fuss of any sort! I asked himif he had any objection to a cake. 

"None at all, " said he, "so long as you don't want me to eat it. Andpray don't let us have any sugary Cupids on the top, nor any rubbish ofthat sort. "

So the cake was quite plain, but I took care it should be particularlygood, and Hatty made a wreath of spring flowers to put round it. 

The house feels so quiet and empty now, when all is over, and Sophygone. Of course she is not really gone, because the Vicarage is onlyacross a couple of fields, and ten minutes will take us there at anytime. But she is not one of us any longer, and that always feels sad. 

I do feel, somehow, very sorrowful to-night--more, I think, than I haveany reason. I cannot tell why sometimes a sort of tired, sad feelingcomes over one, when there seems to be no cause for it. I feel as if Ihad not something I wanted: and yet, if anybody asked me what I wanted, I am not sure that I could tell. Or rather, I am afraid I could tell, but I don't want to say so. There is something gone out of my lifewhich I wanted more of, and since we came home I have had none of it, ornext to none. No, little book, I am not going to tell you what it is. Only there is a reason for my feeling sad, and I must keep it to myself, and never let anybody know it. I suppose other women have had to do thesame thing many a time. And some of them, perhaps, grow hard and cold, and say bitter things, and people dislike and avoid them, not knowingthat if they lifted up the curtain of their hearts they would see agrave there, in which all their hopes were buried long ago. Well, Godknows best, and will do His best for us all. How can I wish foranything more?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 22nd. When we went up to bed last night, to my surprise Hatty came to me, andput her arms round me. 

"There are only us two left now, Cary, " she said. "And I know I havebeen very bitter and unloving of late. But I mean to try and do better, dear. Will you love me as much as you can, and help me? I have beenvery unhappy. "

"I was afraid so, and I was very sorry for you, " I answered, kissingher. "Must I not ask anything, Hatty?"

"You can ask what you like, " she replied. "I think, Cary, that Christwas knocking at my door, and I did not want to open it; and I could notbe happy while I knew that I was keeping Him outside. And at last--itwas last night, in the sermon--He spoke to me, as it were, through thatclosed door; and I could not bear it any longer--I had to rise and openit, and let Him in. And before that, with Him, I kept everybody out;and now I feel as if, with Him, I wanted to take everybody in. "

Dear Hatty! She seems so changed, and so happy, and I am so thankful. But my prospect looks very dark. It ought not to do so, for I let Himin before Hatty did; and I suppose some day it will be clearer, and Ishall have nobody but Him, and shall be satisfied with it. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 25th. You thought you knew a great deal of what was going to happen, did younot, Cary Courtenay? Such a wise girl you were! And how little you didknow!

This evening, Esther Langridge came in, and stayed to supper. She saidEphraim had gone to the Parsonage on business, and had promised to callfor her on his way home. He came rather later than Esther expected. (We have only seen him twice since we returned from London, except justmeeting at church and so forth: he seemed to be always busy. ) He saidhe had had to see Mr Liversedge, and had been detained later than hethought. He sat and talked to all of us for a while, but I thought hismind seemed somewhere else. I guessed where, and thought I found myselfright whet after a time, when Father had come in, and Ambrose with him, and they were all talking over the fire, Ephraim left them, and comingacross to my corner, asked me first thing if I had heard anything fromAnnas. 

I have not had a line from her, nor heard anything of her, and he lookeddisappointed when I said so. He was silent for a minute, and then hesaid, --

"Cary, what do you think I have been making up my mind to do?"

"I do not know, Ephraim, " said I. I did not see how that could have todo with Annas, for I believed he had made up his mind on that subjectlong ago. 

"Would you be very much surprised if I told you that I mean to take holyorders?"

"Ephraim!" I was very, very much surprised. How would Annas like it?

"Yes, I thought you would be, " said he. "It is no new idea to me. ButI had to get my father's consent, and smooth away two or threedifficulties, before I thought it well to mention it to any one but theVicar. He will give me a title. I am to be ordained, Cary, nextTrinity Sunday. "

"Why, that is almost here!" cried I. 

"Yes, it is almost here, " he replied, with that far-away look in hiseyes which I had seen now and then. 

Then Annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of thedifficulties which had to be smoothed away. 

"I shall hope to see more of my friends now, " he went on, with a smile. "I know I have seemed rather a hermit of late, while this matter hasbeen trembling in the balance. I hope the old friend will not befurther off because he is the curate. I should not like that. "

"I do not think you need fear, " said I, trying to speak lightly. Buthow far my heart went down! The future master of the Fells Farm was afixture at Brocklebank: but the future parson of some parish might becarried a hundred miles away from us. A few months, and we might seehim no more. Just then, Father set his foot on one of the great logs, and it blazed and crackled, sending a shower of sparkles up the chimney, and a ruddy glow all over the room. But my fire was dying out, and thesparkles were gone already. 

Perhaps it was as well that just at that moment a rather startlingdiversion occurred, by the entrance of Sam with a letter, which he gaveto Flora. 

"Here's ill tidings, Sir!" said Sam to Father. "Miss Flora's letter wasbrought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie'sa' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. He brings news o' a gran'battle betwixt the Prince and yon loon they ca' Cumberland, --ma certie, but Cumberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!--and the Prince's army'sjust smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the Highlands. Illluck tak' 'em!--though that's no just becoming to a Christian man, butthere's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em offeven wi' scissors. 'Twas at a place they ca' Culloden, this last weekgane: and they say there's na mair chance for the Prince the now thanfor last year's Christmas to come again. "

Father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forthinto the hall to speak with the horseman, whom Sam had served with agood supper. Ambrose followed, and so did my Aunt Kezia, for she saidmen knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not Bessy wouldtake the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. Hattywas not in the room, and Flora had carried off her letter, which wasfrom my Uncle Drummond. So Ephraim and I were left alone, for, somewhatto my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest. 

"Cary, " he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "I have hadnews, also. "

It was bad news--in a moment I knew that. His tone said so. I lookedup fearfully. I felt, before I heard, the terrible words that werecoming. 

"Duncan Keith rests with God!"

Oh, it was no wonder if I let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands, and wept as if my heart were breaking. Not for Colonel Keith. Heshould never see evil any more. For Annas, and for Flora, and for thestricken friends at Monksburn, and for my Uncle Drummond, who loved himlike another son, --and--yes, let me confess it, for Cary Courtenay, whohad just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it exceptwith the outside pretence of something else. 

"Did you care so much for him, Cary?"

What meant that intense pain in Ephraim's voice? Did he fancy--And whatdid it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears andspeak. 

"Did you care so little?" I said, as well as I could utter. "Think ofAnnas, and his parents, and--And, Ephraim, we led him to his death--youand I!"

"Nay, not so, " he answered. "You must not look at it in that light, Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties byconsequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poorsouls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I wouldchange with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary, somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either MissDrummond or you. "

I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all weresettled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the properperson to write?

"You have not written to her?" I said. 

"Why, no, " he answered. "I scarce like to intrude myself on her. Shehas not seen much of me, you know. Besides, I think a woman would knowfar better how to break such news. Men are apt to touch a woundroughly, even when they wish to act as gently as possible. No, Cary--Iam unwilling to place such a burden on you, but I think it must be oneof you. "

Could he speak of Annas thus, if--I felt bewildered. 

"Unless, " he said, thoughtfully, looking out of the window, where themoon was riding like a queen through the somewhat troubled sky, "unlessyou think--for you, as a girl, can judge better than I--that Raymondwould be the best breaker. Perhaps you do not know that Raymond is notat home? My Lady Inverness writ the news to him, and said she had notspoken either to Mrs Raymond or Miss Keith. She plainly shrank fromdoing it. Perhaps he would help her to bear it best. "

"How should he be the best?" I said. "Mrs Raymond might--"

"Why, Cary, is it possible you do not know that Raymond and Miss Keithare troth-plight?"

"Troth-plight! Mr Raymond! Annas!"

I started up in my astonishment. Here was a turning upside down of allmy notions!

"So that is news to you?" said Ephraim, evidently surprised himself. "Why, I thought you had known it long ago. Of course I must havepuzzled you! I see, now. "

"I never heard a word about it, " I said, feeling as though I must bedreaming, and should awake by-and-by. "I always thought--"

"You always thought what?"

"I thought you cared for Annas, " I forced my lips to say. 

"You thought I cared for Miss Keith?" Ephraim's tone was a strongernegative than any words could have been. "Yes, I cared for her as yourfriend, and as a woman in trouble, and a woman of fine character: but ifyou fancied I wished to make her my wife, you were never more mistaken. No, Cary; I fixed on somebody else for that, a long while ago--before Iever saw Miss Keith. May I tell you her name?"

Then we were right at first, and it was Fanny. I said, "Yes, " as wellas I could. 

"Cary, I never loved, and never shall love, any one but you. "

I cannot tell you, little book, either what I said, or exactly whathappened after that. I only know that the moaning wind outside chanteda triumphal march, and the dying embers on my hearthstone sprang up intoa brilliant illumination, and I did not care a straw for all the battlesthat ever were fought, and envied neither Annas Keith nor anybody else. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, Hatty! I did not think you were going to be the old maid of thefamily!" said my Aunt Kezia. 

"I did not, either, once, " was Hatty's answer, in a low tone, but not asad one. "Perhaps I was the best one for it, Aunt. At any rate, youand Father will always have one girl to care for you. "

We did not see Flora till the next morning. I knew that my UncleDrummond's letter must be that in which he answered the news of Angus'sescape, and I did not wonder if it unnerved her. She let me read itafterwards. The Laird and Lady Monksburn had plainly given up their sonfor ever when they heard what he had done. And knowing what I knew, Ifelt it was best so. I had to tell Flora my news:--to see the light diesuddenly out of her dear brown velvet eyes, --will it ever come backagain? And I wondered, watching her by the light of my own new-bornhappiness, whether Duncan Keith were as little to her as I had supposed. 

I knew, somewhat later, that I had misunderstood her, that we hadmisinterpreted her. Her one wish seemed to be to get back home. AndFather said he would take her himself as far as the Border, if my UncleDrummond would come for her to the place chosen. 

When the parting came, as we took our last kiss, I told her I prayed Godbless her, and that some day she might be as happy as I was. There wasa moment's flash in the brown eyes. 

"Take that wish back, Cary, " she said, quietly. "Happy as you are, thewoman whom Duncan Keith loved can never be, until she meet him again atthe gates of pearl. "

"That may be a long while, dear. "

"It will be just so long as the Lord hath need of me, " she answered:"and I hope, for his sake, that will be as long as my father needs me. And then--Oh, but it will be a blithe day when the call comes to gohome!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 The Fells Farm, September 25th. Five months since I writ a word! And how much has happened in them--somuch that I could never find time to set it down, and now I must do itjust in a few lines. 

I have been married six weeks. Father shook his head with a smile whenEphraim first spoke to him, and said his lass was only in the cradleyesterday: but he soon came round. It was as quiet a wedding asSophy's, and I am sure I liked it all the better, whatever other peoplemight think. We are to live at the Fells Farm during the year ofEphraim's curacy, and then Father thinks he can easily get him a livingthrough the interest of friends. Where it will be, of course we cannotguess. 

Flora has writ thrice since she returned home. She says my UncleDrummond was very thankful to have her back again: but she can see thatLady Monksburn is greatly changed, and the Laird has so failed that hescarce seems the same man. Of herself she said nothing but onesentence, --

"Waiting, dear Cary, --always waiting. "

From Angus we do not hear a word. Mr Raymond and Annas are to bemarried when their year of mourning is out. I cannot imagine how theywill get along--he a Whig clergyman, and she a Tory Presbyterian!However, that is their affair. I am rather thankful 'tis not mine. 

My Aunt Dorothea has writ me one letter--very kind to me--(it was writon the news of my marriage), but very stiff toward my Aunt Kezia. I seeshe cannot forgive her easily, and I do not think Grandmamma ever will. 

Grandmamma sent me a large chest from London, full of handsomepresents, --a fine set of Dresden tea china (which travelled very well--only one saucer broke); a new hoop, so wide round that methinks I shallnever dare to wear it in the country; a charming piece of dove-coloureddamask, and a petticoat, to wear with it, of blue quilted satin; twocalico gowns from India, a beautiful worked scarf from the same country, six pair pearl-coloured silk stockings, a new fan, painted with flowers, most charmingly done, a splendid piece of white and gold brocade, and asuperb set of turquoise and pearl jewellery. I cannot think when or howI am to wear them; they seem so unfit for the wife of a country curate. 

"Oh, wait till I am a bishop, " says Ephraim, laughingly; "then you canmake the Dean's lady faint away for envy of all your smart things. Andas to the white and gold brocade, keep it till the King comes to staywith us, and it will be just the thing for a state bed for him. "

"I wonder what colour it will be!" said I. "Which king?"

Ephraim makes me a low bow--over the water bottle. [Note 1. ]

I must lay down my pen, for I hear a shocking smash in the kitchen. That girl Dolly is so careless! I don't believe I shall ever have muchtime for writing now. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Langbeck Rectory, under the Cheviots, August the 28th, 1747. Nearly a whole year since I writ one line!

Our lot is settled now, and we moved in here in May last. I am verythankful that the lines have fallen to me still in my dear North--I havenot pleasant recollections of the South. And I fancy--but perhapsunjustly--that we Northerners have a deeper, more yearning love for ourhills and dales than they have down there. We are about midway betweenBrocklebank and Abbotscliff, which is just where I would have chosen tobe, if I could have had the choice. It is not often that God gives aman all the desires of his heart; perhaps to a woman He gives it evenless often. How thankful I ought to be!

My Aunt Kezia was so good as to come with us, to help me to settle down. I should not have got things straight in twice the time if she had notbeen here. Sophy spent the days with Father while my Aunt Kezia washere, and just went back to the Vicarage for the night. Father is verymuch delighted with Sophy's child, and calls him a bouncing boy, and acredit to the family; and Sophy thinks him the finest child that everlived, as my Aunt Kezia saith every mother hath done since Eve. 

The night before my Aunt Kezia went home, as she and I sat together, --itwas not yet time for Ephraim to come in from his work in the parish, forhe is one of the few parsons who do work, and do not pore over learnedbooks or go a-hunting, and leave their parishes to take care ofthemselves--well, as my Aunt and I sat by the window, she said somethingwhich rather astonished me. 

"Cary, I don't know what you and Ephraim would say, but I am beginningto think we made a mistake. "

"Do you mean about the Chinese screens, Aunt?" said I. "The goldlacquer would have gone very well with the damask, but--"

"Chinese screens!" saith my Aunt, with a hearty laugh. "Why, whateveris the girl thinking about? No, child! I mean about the Prince. "

"Aunt Kezia!" I cried. "You never mean to say we did wrong in fightingfor our King?"

"Wrong? No, child, for we meant to do right. I gather from Scripturethat the Lord takes a deal more account of what a man means than of whathe does. Thank God it is so! For if a man means to come to Christ, hedoes come, no matter how: ay, and if a man means to reject Christ, hedoes that too, however fair and orthodox he may look in the eyes of theworld. Therefore, as to those matters that are in doubt, and cannot beplainly judged by Scripture, but Christian men may and do lawfullydiffer about them, if a man honestly meant to do God's will, so far ashe knew it, I don't believe he will be judged as if he had not cared todo it. But what I intend to say is this--that it is plain to me nowthat the Lord hath repealed the decree whereby He gave England to theHouse of Stuart. There is no right against Him, Cary. He doeth as Hewill with all the kingdoms of the world. Maybe it's not so plain toyou--if so, don't you try to see through my eyes. Follow your ownconscience until the Lord teaches yourself. If our fathers had beentruer men, and had passed the Bill of Exclusion in 1680, the troubles of1688 would never have come, nor those of 1745 neither. They ate sourgrapes, and set our teeth on edge--ay, and their own too, poor souls!It was the Bishops and Lord Halifax that did it, and the Bishops paidthe wyte, as Sam says. It must have been a bitter pill to those sevenin the Tower, to think that all might have been prevented by lawful, constitutional means, and that they--their Order, I mean--had justpulled their troubles on their own heads. "

"Aunt Kezia, " I cried in distress, "you never mean to say that ColonelKeith died for a wrongful cause?"

"God forbid!" she said, gravely. "Colonel Keith did not die for thatCause. He died for right and righteousness, for truth and honour, forfaithfulness, for loyalty and love--no bad things to die for. Not forthe Prince--only for God and Flora, and a little, perhaps, for Angus. God forbid that I should judge any true and honourable man--most of allthat man who gave his life for those we love. Only, Cary, the Cause isdead and gone. The struggle is over for ever: and we may thank God itis so. On the wreck of the old England a new England may arise--anEngland standing fast in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made herfree, free from priestly yoke and priest-ridden rulers, free not torevolt but to follow, not to disobey, but to obey. If only--ah! if onlyshe resolve, and stand to it, never to be entangled again with the yokeof bondage, never to forget the lessons which God has taught her, neveragain to eat the sour grapes, and set the children's teeth on edge. Lether once begin to think of the tiger's beauty, and forget its deathlyclaws--once lay aside her watchword of `No peace with Rome'--and shewill find it means no peace with God, for His scourge has always pursuedher when she has truckled to His great enemy. Eh, but men have shortmemories, never name short sight. Like enough, by a hundred years areover, they'll be looking at Roman sugar-sticks as the Scarlet Womanholds them out, and thinking that she is very fair and fine-spoken, andwhy shouldn't they have a few sweets? Well! it is well the governmentof the world isn't in old Kezia's hands, for if it were, some peoplewould find themselves uncommonly uncomfortable before long. "

"You don't mean me, I hope?" I said, laughing. 

"Nay, child, I don't mean you, nor yet your husband. Very like you'llnot see it as I do. But you'll live to see it--if only you live longenough. "

Well, my Aunt Kezia may be right, though I do not see it. Only that Ido think it was a sad blunder to throw out the Bill of Exclusion. Ithad passed the Commons, so they were not to blame. But one thing Ishould like to set down, for any who may read this book a hundred yearshence, if it hath not been tore up for waste-paper long ere that--thatwe Protestants who fought for the Prince never fought nor meant to fightfor Popery. We hated it every bit as much as any who stood against him. We fought because the contrary seemed to us to be doing evil that goodmight come. But I won't say we may not live to be thankful that we lostour cause. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It has been a warm afternoon, and I sat with the window open in theparlour, singing and sewing; Ephraim was out in the parish. I wasturning down a hem when a voice in the garden spoke to me, --

"An't like you, Madam, to give a drink of whey to a poor soldier?"

There was a slight Scots accent with the words. 

"Whence come you?" I said. 

"I fought at Prestonpans, " he answered. He looked a youngish man, butvery ragged and bemired. 

"On which side?" I said, as I rose up. Of course I was not going torefuse him food and drink, however that might be, but I dare say Ishould have made it a little more dainty for one of Prince Charlie'stroops than for a Hanoverian, and I felt pretty sure he was the formerfrom his accent. 

I fancied I saw a twinkle in his eyes. 

"The side you are on, Madam, " said he. 

"How can you know which side I am on?" said I. "Come round to theback-door, friend, and I will find you a drink of whey. "

"I suppose, " said my beggar, looking down at himself, "I don't lookquite good enough for the front door. But I am an officer for all that, Madam. "

"Sir, I beg your pardon, " I made answer. "I will let you in at thefront, "--for when he spoke more, I heard the accent of a gentleman. 

"Pray don't give yourself that trouble, Cousin Cary. "

And to my utter amazement, the beggar jumped in at the window, which waslow and easily scaled. 

"Angus!" I almost screamed. 

"At your service, Madam. "

"When did you leave France? Where are you come from? Have you been toAbbotscliff? Are--"

"Halt! Can't fight more than three men at once. And I won't answer aquestion till I have had something to eat. Forgive me, Cary, but I amvery nearly starving. "

I rushed into the kitchen, and astonished Caitlin by laying violenthands on a pan of broth which she was going to serve for supper. Idon't know what I said to her. I hastily poured the broth into a basin, and seizing a loaf of bread and a knife, dashed back to Angus. 

"Eat that now, Angus. You shall have something better by-and-by. "

He ate like a man who was nearly starving, as he had said. When he hadfinished, he said, --

"Now! I left France a fortnight since. I have not been to Abbotscliff. I know nothing but the facts that you are married, and where you live, which I learned by accident, and I instantly thought that your house, ifyou would take me in, would be a safer refuge than either Brocklebank orAbbotscliff. Now tell me some thing in turn. Are my father and Florawell?"

"Yes, for anything I know. "

"And all at Brocklebank?"

"Quite. "

"And the Keiths? Has Annas bagged her pheasant?"

"What do you mean, Angus?"

"Why, is she Mrs Raymond? I saw all that. I suppose Duncan got awaywithout any difficulty?"

"Annas is Mr Raymond's wife, " I said. "But, Angus, I cannot think howit is, but--I am afraid you do not understand. "

"Understand what?"

"Is it possible you do not know what price was paid for your ransom?"

Angus rose hastily, and laid his hand on my arm. 

"Speak out, Cary! What do I not know?"

"Angus, Colonel Keith bought your life with his own. "

In all my life I never saw a man's face change as the face of AngusDrummond changed then. It was plainly to be read there that he hadnever for a moment understood at what cost he had been purchased. A lowmoan of intense sorrow broke from him, and he hid his face upon thetable. 

"I think he paid the price very willingly, Angus, " I said, softly. "Andhe sent Annas a last message for you--he bade you, to the utmost of whatyour opportunities might be, to be to God and man what he hoped to havebeen. "

"O Duncan, Duncan!" came in anguish from the white lips. "And I neverknew--I never thought--"

Ah, it was so like Angus, "never to think. "

He lifted his head at last, with the light of a settled purpose shiningin his eyes. 

"To man I can never be what he would have been. I am a proscribedfugitive. You harbour me at a risk even now. But to God! Cary, I havebeen a rebel: but I never was a deserter from that service. God helpingme, I will enlist now. If my worthless life have cost the most preciouslife in Scotland, it shall not have been given in vain. "

"There was Another who gave His life for you, Angus, " I could not helpsaying. 

"Ay, I have been bought twice over, " was the trembling answer. "Godhelp me to live worthy of the cost!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

We all keep the name of Duncan Keith in our inmost hearts--unspoken, butvery dear. But I think it is dearest of all in a little house in theoutskirts of Amsterdam, where, now that my Uncle Drummond has beencalled to his reward, our Flora keeps home bright for a Protestantpastor who works all the day through in the prisons of Amsterdam, amongthe lowest of the vile; who knows what exile and imprisonment are; andwho, once in every year, as the day of his substitute's death comesround, pleads with these prisoners from words which are overwhelming tohimself, --"Ye are not your own; for ye are bought with a price. "

Many of those men and women sink back again into the mire. But now andthen the pastor knows that a soul has been granted to his pleadings, --that in one more instance, as in his own case, the price was not paid invain. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The recognised Jacobite way of answering:--"The King _over thewater_. "

THE END.