THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER

BY GEORGE MACDONALD

The Vicar's Daughter was originally published in 1872 by Tinsley Brothers, London. 

[Illustration: "I've brought you the baby to kiss, " I said, unfolding theblanket. Page 98. ]

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY

CHAPTER II. I TRY

CHAPTER III. MY WEDDING

CHAPTER IV. JUDY'S VISIT

CHAPTER V. GOOD SOCIETY

CHAPTER VI. A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT

CHAPTER VII. CONNIE

CHAPTER VIII. CONNIE'S BABY

CHAPTER IX. THE FOUNDLING REFOUND

CHAPTER X. WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR

CHAPTER XI. A STUPID CHAPTER

CHAPTER XII. AN INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER XIII. MY FIRST DINNER PARTY. --A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XIV. A PICTURE

CHAPTER XV. RUMORS

CHAPTER XVI. A DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XVII. MISS CLARE

CHAPTER XVIII. MISS CLARE'S HOME

CHAPTER XIX. HER STORY

CHAPTER XX. A REMARKABLE FACT

CHAPTER XXI. LADY BERNARD

CHAPTER XXII. MY SECOND DINNER PARTY

CHAPTER XXIII. THE END OF THE EVENING

CHAPTER XXIV. MY FIRST TERROR

CHAPTER XXV. ITS SEQUEL

CHAPTER XXVI. TROUBLES

CHAPTER XXVII. MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS

CHAPTER XXVIII. MR. MORLEY

CHAPTER XXIX. A STRANGE TEXT

CHAPTER XXX. ABOUT SERVANTS

CHAPTER XXXI. ABOUT PERCIVALE

CHAPTER XXXII. MY SECOND TERROR

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE SUNSHINE

CHAPTER XXXV. WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT

CHAPTER XXXVI. RETROSPECTIVE

CHAPTER XXXVII. MRS. CROMWELL COMES

CHAPTER XXXVIII. MRS. CROMWELL GOES

CHAPTER XXXIX. ANCESTRAL WISDOM

CHAPTER XL. CHILD NONSENSE

CHAPTER XLI. "DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE"

CHAPTER XLII. ROGER AND MARION

CHAPTER XLIII. A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE

CHAPTER XLIV. THE DEA EX

CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

I think that is the way my father would begin. My name is EthelwynPercivale, and used to be Ethelwyn Walton. I always put the Walton inbetween when I write to my father; for I think it is quite enough to haveto leave father and mother behind for a husband, without leaving their namebehind you also. I am fond of lumber-rooms, and in some houses considerthem far the most interesting spots; but I don't choose that my old nameshould lie about in the one at home. 

I am much afraid of writing nonsense; but my father tells me that to seethings in print is a great help to recognizing whether they are nonsense ornot. And he tells me, too, that his friend the publisher, who, --but I willspeak of him presently, --his friend the publisher is not like any otherpublisher he ever met with before; for he never grumbles at any alterationswriters choose to make, --at least he never says any thing, although itcosts a great deal to shift the types again after they are once set up. Theother part of my excuse for attempting to write lies simply in telling howit came about. 

Ten days ago, my father came up from Marshmallows to pay us a visit. He iswith us now, but we don't see much of him all day; for he is generally outwith a friend of his in the east end, the parson of one of the poorestparishes in London, --who thanks God that he wasn't the nephew of any bishopto be put into a good living, for he learns more about the ways of God fromhaving to do with plain, yes, vulgar human nature, than the thickness ofthe varnish would ever have permitted him to discover in what are calledthe higher orders of society. Yet I must say, that, amongst those I haverecognized as nearest, the sacred communism of the early church--a phraseof my father's--are two or three people of rank and wealth, whose names arewritten in heaven, and need not he set down in my poor story. 

A few days ago, then, my father, coming home to dinner, brought withhim the publisher of the two books called, "The Annals of a QuietNeighborhood, " and "The Seaboard Parish. " The first of these had lainby him for some years before my father could publish it; and then heremodelled it a little for the magazine in which it came out, a portionat a time. The second was written at the request of Mr. S. , who wantedsomething more of the same sort; and now, after some years, he had begunagain to represent to my father, at intervals, the necessity for anotherstory to complete the _trilogy_, as he called it: insisting, when my fatherobjected the difficulties of growing years and failing judgment, thatindeed he owed it to him; for he had left him in the lurch, as it were, with an incomplete story, not to say an uncompleted series. My father stillobjected, and Mr. S. Still urged, until, at length, my father said--thisI learned afterwards, of course--"What would you say if I found you asubstitute?" "That depends on who the substitute might be, Mr. Walton, "said Mr. S. The result of their talk was that my father brought him hometo dinner that day; and hence it comes, that, with some real fear and muchmetaphorical trembling, I am now writing this. I wonder if anybody willever read it. This my first chapter shall be composed of a little of thetalk that passed at our dinner-table that day. Mr. Blackstone was the onlyother stranger present; and he certainly was not much of a stranger. 

"Do you keep a diary, Mrs. Percivale?" asked Mr. S. , with a twinkle in hiseye, as if he expected an indignant repudiation. 

"I would rather keep a rag and bottle shop, " I answered: at which Mr. Blackstone burst into one of his splendid roars of laughter; for if ever aman could laugh like a Christian who believed the world was in a fair wayafter all, that man was Mr. Blackstone; and even my husband, who seldomlaughs at any thing I say with more than his eyes, was infected by it, andlaughed heartily. 

"That's rather a strong assertion, my love, " said my father. "Pray, what doyou mean by it?"

"I mean, papa, " I answered, "that it would be a more profitable employmentto keep the one than the other. "

"I suppose you think, " said Mr. Blackstone, "that the lady who keeps adiary is in the same danger as the old woman who prided herself in keepinga strict account of her personal expenses. And it always was correct; forwhen she could not get it to balance at the end of the week, she brought itright by putting down the deficit as _charity_. "

"That's just what I mean, " I said. 

"But, " resumed Mr. S. , "I did not mean a diary of your feelings, but of theevents of the day and hour. "

"Which are never in themselves worth putting down, " I said. "All that isworth remembering will find for itself some convenient cranny to go tosleep in till it is wanted, without being made a poor mummy of in a diary. "

"If you have such a memory, I grant that is better, even for my purpose, much better, " said Mr. S. 

"For your purpose!" I repeated, in surprise. "I beg your pardon; but whatdesigns can you have upon my memory?"

"Well, I suppose I had better be as straightforward as I know you wouldlike me to be, Mrs. Percivale. I want you to make up the sum your fatherowes me. He owed me three books; he has paid me two. I want the third fromyou. "

I laughed; for the very notion of writing a book seemed preposterous. 

"I want you, under feigned names of course, " he went on, "as are all thenames in your father's two books, to give me the further history of thefamily, and in particular your own experiences in London. I am confidentthe history of your married life must contain a number of incidents which, without the least danger of indiscretion, might be communicated to thepublic to the great advantage of all who read them. "

"You forget, " I said, hardly believing him to be in earnest, "that I shouldbe exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone at least. If I were to makethe absurd attempt, --I mean absurd as regards my ability, --I should bealways thinking of you two as my public, and whether it would be right forme to say this and say that; which you may see at once would render itimpossible for me to write at all. "

"I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie, " said myfather. "You must write freely, all you feel inclined to write, and thenlet your husband see it. You may be content to let all pass that hepasses. "

"You don't say you really mean it, papa! The thing is perfectly impossible. I never wrote a book in my life, and"--

"No more did I, my dear, before I began my first. "

"But you grew up to it by degrees, papa!"

"I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you, when you try. I amso far, at least, a Darwinian as to believe that. "

"But, really, Mr. S. Ought to have more sense--I beg your pardon, Mr. S. ;but it is perfectly absurd to suppose me capable of finishing any thing myfather has begun. I assure you I don't feel flattered by your proposal. Ihave got a man of more consequence for a father than that would imply. "

All this time my tall husband sat silent at the foot of the table, as ifhe had nothing on earth to do with the affair, instead of coming to myassistance, when, as I thought, I really needed it, especially seeingmy own father was of the combination against me; for what can be moremiserable than to be taken for wiser or better or cleverer than you knowperfectly well you are. I looked down the table, straight and sharp at him, thinking to rouse him by the most powerful of silent appeals; and when heopened his mouth very solemnly, staring at me in return down all the lengthof the table, I thought I had succeeded. But I was not a little surprised, when I heard him say, --

"I think, Wynnie, as your father and Mr. S. Appear to wish it, you might atleast try. "

This almost overcame me, and I was very near, --never mind what. I bit mylips, and tried to smile, but felt as if all my friends had forsaken me, and were about to turn me out to beg my bread. How on earth could I write abook without making a fool of myself?

"You know, Mrs. Percivale, " said Mr. S. , "you needn't be afraid about thecomposition, and the spelling, and all that. We can easily set those torights at the office. "

He couldn't have done any thing better to send the lump out of my throat;for this made me angry. 

"I am not in the least anxious about the spelling, " I answered; "and forthe rest, pray what is to become of me, if what you print should happen tobe praised by somebody who likes my husband or my father, and thereforewants to say a good word for me? That's what a good deal of reviewing comesto, I understand. Am I to receive in silence what doesn't belong to me, oram I to send a letter to the papers to say that the whole thing was patchedand polished at the printing-office, and that I have no right to more thanperhaps a fourth part of the commendation? How would that do?"

"But you forget it is not to have your name to it, " he said; "and so itwon't matter a bit. There will be nothing dishonest about it. "

"You forget, that, although nobody knows my real name, everybody will knowthat I am the daughter of that Mr. Walton who would have thrown his pen inthe fire if you had meddled with any thing he wrote. They would be praising_me_, if they praised at all. The name is nothing. Of all things, to havepraise you don't deserve, and not to be able to reject it, is the mostmiserable! It is as bad as painting one's face. "

"Hardly a case in point, " said Mr. Blackstone. "For the artificialcomplexion would be your own work, and the other would not. "

"If you come to discuss that question, " said my father, "we must allconfess we have had in our day to pocket a good many more praises thanwe had a right to. I agree with you, however, my child, that we must notconnive at any thing of the sort. So I will propose this clause in thebargain between you and Mr. S. ; namely, that, if he finds any fault withyour work, he shall send it back to yourself to be set right, and, if youcannot do so to his mind, you shall be off the bargain. "

"But papa, --Percivale, --both of you know well enough that nothing everhappened to me worth telling. "

"I am sorry your life has been so very uninteresting, wife, " said myhusband grimly; for his fun is always so like earnest!

"You know well enough what I mean, husband. It does _not_ follow that whathas been interesting enough to you and me will be interesting to people whoknow nothing at all about us to begin with. "

"It depends on how it is told, " said Mr. S. 

"Then, I beg leave to say, that I never had an original thought in my life;and that, if I were to attempt to tell my history, the result would beas silly a narrative as ever one old woman told another by the workhousefire. "

"And I only wish I could hear the one old woman tell her story to theother, " said my father. 

"Ah! but that's because you see ever so much more in it than shows. Youalways see through the words and the things to something lying behindthem, " I said. 

"Well, if you told the story rightly, other people would see such thingsbehind it too. "

"Not enough of people to make it worth while for Mr. S. To print it, " Isaid. 

"He's not going to print it except he thinks it worth his while; and youmay safely leave that to him, " said my husband. 

"And so I'm to write a book as big as 'The Annals;' and, after I've beenslaving at it for half a century or so, I'm to be told it won't do, and allmy labor must go for nothing? I must say the proposal is rather a cool oneto make, --to the mother of a family. "

"Not at all; that's not it, I mean, " said Mr. S. ; "if you will write adozen pages or so, I shall be able to judge by those well enough, --atleast, I will take all the responsibility on myself after that. "

"There's a fair offer!" said my husband. "It seems to me, Wynnie, thatall that is wanted of you is to tell your tale so that other people canrecognize the human heart in it, --the heart that is like their own, andbe able to feel as if they were themselves going through the things yourecount. "

"You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do it. Besides, I don't want to be set thinking about my heart, and all that, " I saidpeevishly. 

"Now, don't be raising objections where none exist, " he returned. 

"If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say that I feel allone great objection to the whole affair, and that I won't touch it. "

They were all silent; and I felt as if I had behaved ungraciously. Thenfirst I felt as if I might _have_ to do it, after all. But I couldn't seemy way in the least. 

"Now, what is there, " I asked, "in all my life that is worth settingdown, --I mean, as I should be able to set it down?"

"What do you ladies talk about now in your morning calls?" suggested Mr. Blackstone, with a humorous glance from his deep black eyes. 

"Nothing worth writing about, as I am sure _you_ will readily believe, Mr. Blackstone, " I answered. 

"How comes it to be interesting, then?"

"But it isn't. They--we--only talk about the weather and our children andservants, and that sort of thing. "

"_Well!_" said Mr. S. , "and I wish I could get any thing sensible about theweather and children and servants, and that sort of thing, for my magazine. I have a weakness in the direction of the sensible. "

"But there never is any thing sensible said about any of them, --not that Iknow of. "

"Now, Wynnie, I am sure you are wrong, " said my father. "There is yourfriend, Mrs. Cromwell: I am certain she, sometimes at least, must say whatis worth hearing about such matters. "

"Well, but she's an exception. Besides, she hasn't any children. "

"Then, " said my husband, "there's Lady Bernard"--

"Ah! but she was like no one else. Besides, she is almost a publiccharacter, and any thing said about her would betray my original. "

"It would be no matter. She is beyond caring for that now; and not one ofher friends could object to any thing you who loved her so much would sayabout her. "

The mention of this lady seemed to put some strength into me. I felt as ifI did know something worth telling, and I was silent in my turn. 

"Certainly, " Mr. S. Resumed, "whatever is worth talking about is worthwriting about, --though not perhaps in the way it is talked about. Besides, Mrs. Percivale, my clients want to know more about your sisters, and littleTheodora, or Dorothea, or--what was her name in the book?"

The end of it was, that I agreed to try to the extent of a dozen pages orso. 

CHAPTER II. 

I TRY. 

I hope no one will think I try to write like my father; for that would beto go against what he always made a great point of, --that nobody whatevershould imitate any other person whatever, but in modesty and humility allowthe seed that God had sown in her to grow. He said all imitation tended todwarf and distort the plant, if it even allowed the seed to germinate atall. So, if I do write like him, it will be because I cannot help it. 

I will just look how "The Seaboard Parish" ends, and perhaps that will putinto my head how I ought to begin. I see my father does mention that I hadthen been Mrs. Percivale for many years. Not so very many though, --five orsix, if I remember rightly, and that is three or four years ago. Yes; Inave been married nine years. I may as well say a word as to how it cameabout; and, if Percivale doesn't like it, the remedy lies in his pen. Ishall be far more thankful to have any thing struck out on suspicion thanremain on sufferance. 

After our return home from Kilkhaven, my father and mother had a good manytalks about me and Percivale, and sometimes they took different sides. Iwill give a shadow of one of these conversations. I think ladies can writefully as natural talk as gentlemen can, though the bits between mayn't beso good. 

_Mother. _--I am afraid, my dear husband [This was my mother's most solemnmode of addressing my father], "they are too like each other to make asuitable match. "

_Father_. --I am sorry to learn you consider me so very unlike yourself, Ethelwyn. I had hoped there was a very strong resemblance indeed, and thatthe match had not proved altogether unsuitable. 

_Mother. _--Just think, though, what would have become of me by this time, if you had been half as unbelieving a creature as I was. Indeed, I fearsometimes I am not much better now. 

_Father. _--I think I am, then; and I know you've done me nothing but goodwith your unbelief. It was just because I was of the same sort preciselythat I was able to understand and help you. My circumstances and educationand superior years--

_Mother. _--Now, don't plume yourself on that, Harry; for you know everybodysays you look much the younger of the two. 

_Father. _--I had no idea that everybody was so rude. I repeat, that my moreyears, as well as my severer education, had, no doubt, helped me a littlefurther on before I came to know you; but it was only in virtue of thedoubt in me that I was able to understand and appreciate the doubt in you. 

_Mother. _--But then you had at least begun to leave it behind before I knewyou, and so had grown able to help me. And Mr. Percivale does not seem, byall I can make out, a bit nearer believing in any thing than poor Wynnieherself. 

_Father. _--At least, he doesn't fancy he believes when he does not, as somany do, and consider themselves superior persons in consequence. I don'tknow that it would have done you any great harm, Miss Ethelwyn, to havemade my acquaintance when I was in the worst of my doubts concerning thetruth of things. Allow me to tell you that I was nearer making shipwreck ofmy faith at a certain period than I ever was before or have been since. 

_Mother. _--What period was that?

_Father. _--Just the little while when I had lost all hope of ever marryingyou, --unbeliever as you counted yourself. 

_Mother. _--You don't mean to say you would have ceased to believe in God, if he hadn't given you your own way?

_Father. _--No, my dear. I firmly believe, that, had I never married you, Ishould have come in the end to say, "_Thy will be done_, " and to believethat it must be all right, however hard to bear. But, oh, what a terriblething it would have been, and what a frightful valley of the shadow ofdeath I should have had to go through first!

[I know my mother _said_ nothing more just then, but let my father have itall his own way for a while. ]

_Father. _--You see, this Percivale is an honest man. I don't exactly knowhow he has been brought up; and it is quite possible he may have had suchevil instruction in Christianity that he attributes to it doctrines which, if I supposed they actually belonged to it, would make me reject it at onceas ungodlike and bad. I have found this the case sometimes. I remember oncebeing astonished to hear a certain noble-minded lady utter some indignantwords against what I considered a very weighty doctrine of Christianity;but, listening, I soon found that what she supposed the doctrine to containwas something considered vastly unchristian. This may be the case withPercivale, though I never heard him say a word of the kind. I think hisdifficulty comes mainly from seeing so much suffering in the world, thathe cannot imagine the presence and rule of a good God, and therefore lieswith religion rather than with Christianity as yet. I am all but certain, the only thing that will ever make him able to believe in a God at all ismeditation on the Christian idea of God, --I mean the idea of God _in_Christ reconciling the world to himself, --not that pagan corruption ofChrist in God reconciling him to the world. He will then see that sufferingis not either wrath or neglect, but pure-hearted love and tenderness. Butwe must give him time, wife; as God has borne with us, we must believe thathe bears with others, and so learn to wait in hopeful patience until they, too, see as we see. 

And as to trusting our Wynnie with Percivale, he seems to be as good asshe is. I should for my part have more apprehension in giving her to onewho would be called a thoroughly religious man; for not only would theunfitness be greater, but such a man would be more likely to confirm herin doubt, if the phrase be permissible. She wants what some would callhomoeopathic treatment. And how should they be able to love one another, ifthey are not fit to be married to each other? The fitness, seems inherentto the fact. 

_Mother. _--But many a two love each other who would have loved each other agood deal more if they hadn't been married. 

_Father. _--Then it was most desirable they should find out that what theythought a grand affection was not worthy of the name. But I don't thinkthere is much fear of that between those two. 

_Mother. _--I don't, however, see how that man is to do her any good, when_you_ have tried to make her happy for so long, and all in vain. 

_Father. _--I don't know that it has been all in vain. But it is quitepossible she does not understand me. She fancies, I dare say, that Ibelieve every thing without any trouble, and therefore cannot enter intoher difficulties. 

_Mother. _--But you have told her many and many a time that you do. 

_Father. _--Yes: and I hope I was right; but the same things look sodifferent to different people that the same words won't describe them toboth; and it may seem to her that I am talking of something not at alllike what she is feeling or thinking of. But when she sees the troubledface of Percivale, she knows that he is suffering; and sympathy being thusestablished between them, the least word of the one will do more to helpthe other than oceans of argument. Love is the one great instructor. Andeach will try to be good, and to find out for the sake of the other. 

_Mother. _--I don't like her going from home for the help that lay at hervery door. 

_Father. _--You know, my dear, you like the Dean's preaching much betterthan mine. 

_Mother. _--Now, that is unkind of you!

_Father. _--And why? [My father went on, taking no heed of my mother'sexpostulation. ] Because, in the first place, it _is_ better; because, inthe second, it comes in a newer form to you, for you have got used to allmy modes; in the third place, it has more force from the fact that it isnot subject to the doubt of personal preference; and lastly, because he hasa large, comprehensive way of asserting things, which pleases you betterthan my more dubitant mode of submitting them, --all very sound and goodreasons: but still, why be so vexed with Wynnie?

[My mother was now, however, so vexed with my father for saying shepreferred the Dean's preaching to his, --although I doubt very much whetherit wasn't true, --that she actually walked out of the octagon room wherethey were, and left him to meditate on his unkindness. Vexed with herselfthe next moment, she returned as if nothing had happened. I am only tellingwhat my mother told me; for to her grown daughters she is blessedlytrusting. ]

_Mother. _--Then if you will have them married, husband, will you say how onearth you expect them to live? He just makes both ends meet now: I supposehe doesn't make things out worse than they are; and that is his own accountof the state of his affairs. 

_Father. _--Ah, yes! that _is_--a secondary consideration, my dear. But Ihave hardly begun to think about it yet. There will be a difficulty there, I can easily imagine; for he is far too independent to let us do any thingfor him. 

_Mother. _--And you can't do much, if they would. Really, they oughtn't tomarry yet. 

_Father. _--Really, we must leave it to themselves. I don't think you and Ineed trouble our heads about it. When Percivale considers himself preparedto marry, and Wynnie thinks he is right, you may be sure they see their wayto a livelihood without running in hopeless debt to their tradespeople. 

_Mother. _--Oh, yes! I dare say: in some poky little lodging or other!

_Father. _--For my part, Ethelwyn, I think it better to build castles in theair than huts in the smoke. But seriously, a little poverty and a littlestruggling would be a most healthy and healing thing for Wynnie. It hasn'tdone Percivale much good yet, I confess; for he is far too indifferent tohis own comforts to mind it: but it will be quite another thing when he hasa young wife and perhaps children depending upon him. Then his poverty maybegin to hurt him, and so do him some good. 

 * * * * *

It may seem odd that my father and mother should now be taking suchopposite sides to those they took when the question of our engagement wasfirst started, as represented by my father in "The Seaboard Parish. " Butit will seem inconsistent to none of the family; for it was no unusualthing for them to take opposite sides to those they had previouslyadvocated, --each happening at the time, possibly enlightened by theforegone arguments of the other, to be impressed with the correlate truth, as my father calls the other side of a thing. Besides, engagement andmarriage are two different things; and although my mother was the firstto recognize the good of our being engaged, when it came to marriage shegot frightened, I think. Any how, I have her authority for saying thatsomething like this passed between her and my father on the subject. 

Discussion between them differed in this from what I have generally heardbetween married people, that it was always founded on a tacit understandingof certain unmentioned principles; and no doubt sometimes, if a strangerhad been present, he would have been bewildered as to the very meaningof what they were saying. But we girls generally understood: and I fancywe learned more from their differences than from their agreements; forof course it was the differences that brought out their minds most, andchiefly led us to think that we might understand. In our house there werevery few of those mysteries which in some houses seem so to abound; andI think the openness with which every question, for whose concealmentthere was no special reason, was discussed, did more than even any directinstruction we received to develop what thinking faculty might be in us. Nor was there much reason to dread that my small brothers might repeat anything. I remember hearing Harry say to Charley once, they being then eightand nine years old, "That is mamma's opinion, Charley, not yours; and youknow we must not repeat what we hear. "

They soon came to be of one mind about Mr. Percivale and me: for indeed theonly _real_ ground for doubt that had ever existed was, whether I was goodenough for him; and for my part, I knew then and know now, that I was andam dreadfully inferior to him. And notwithstanding the tremendous workwomen are now making about their rights (and, in as far as they are theirrights, I hope to goodness they may get them, if it were only that certainwho make me feel ashamed of myself because I, too, am a woman, mightperhaps then drop out of the public regard), --notwithstanding this, Iventure the sweeping assertion, that every woman is not as good as everyman, and that it is not necessary to the dignity of a wife that she shouldassert even equality with her husband. Let him assert her equality orsuperiority if he will; but, were it a fact, it would be a poor one forher to assert, seeing her glory is in her husband. To seek the chief placeis especially unfitting the marriage-feast. Whether I be a Christian ornot, --and I have good reason to doubt it every day of my life, --at leastI see that in the New Jerusalem one essential of citizenship consists inknowing how to set the good in others over against the evil in ourselves. 

There, now, my father might have said that! and no doubt has said so twentytimes in my hearing. It is, however, only since I was married that I havecome to see it for myself; and, now that I do see it, I have a right to sayit. 

So we were married at last. My mother believes it was my father's goodadvice to Percivale concerning the sort of pictures he painted, thatbrought it about. For certainly soon after we were engaged, he began tohave what his artist friends called a run of luck: he sold one pictureafter another in a very extraordinary and hopeful manner. But Percivalesays it was his love for me--indeed he does--which enabled him to see notonly much deeper into things, but also to see much better the bloom thathangs about every thing, and so to paint much better pictures than before. He felt, he said, that he had a hold now where before he had only a sight. However this may be, he had got on so well for a while that he wroteat last, that, if I was willing to share his poverty, it would not, hethought, be absolute starvation; and I was, of course, perfectly content. I can't put in words--indeed I dare not, for fear of writing what wouldbe, if not unladylike, at least uncharitable--my contempt for those womenwho, loving a man, hesitate to run every risk with him. Of course, ifthey cannot trust him, it is a different thing. I am not going to sayany thing about that; for I should be out of my depth, --not in the leastunderstanding how a woman can love a man to whom she cannot look up. Ibelieve there are who can; I see some men married whom I don't believe anywoman ever did or ever could respect; all I say is, I don't understand it. 

My father and mother made no objection, and were evidently at last quiteagreed that it would be the best thing for both of us; and so, I say, wewere married. 

I ought to just mention, that, before the day arrived, my mother went upto London at Percivale's request, to help him in getting together the fewthings absolutely needful for the barest commencement of housekeeping. Forthe rest, it had been arranged that we should furnish by degrees, buyingas we saw what we liked, and could afford it. The greater part of modernfashions in furniture, having both been accustomed to the stateliness ofa more artistic period, we detested for their ugliness, and chiefly, therefore, we desired to look about us at our leisure. 

My mother came back more satisfied with the little house he had taken thanI had expected. It was not so easy to get one to suit us; for of course herequired a large room to paint in, with a good north light. He had howeversucceeded better than he had hoped. 

"You will find things very different from what you have been used to, Wynnie, " said my mother. 

"Of course, mamma; I know that, " I answered. "I hope I am prepared to meetit. If I don't like it, I shall have no one to blame but myself; and Idon't see what right people have to expect what they have been used to. "

"There is just this advantage, " said my father, "in having been used tonice things, that it ought to be easier to keep from sinking into thesordid, however straitened the new circumstances may be, compared with theold. "

On the evening before the wedding, my father took me into the octagon room, and there knelt down with me and my mother, and prayed for me in such awonderful way that I was perfectly astonished and overcome. I had neverknown him to do any thing of the kind before. He was not favorable toextempore prayer in public, or even in the family, and indeed had oftenseemed willing to omit prayers for what I could not always count sufficientreason: he had a horror at their getting to be a matter of course, and aform; for then, he said, they ceased to be worship at all, and were a merepagan rite, better far left alone. I remember also he said, that those, however good they might be, who urged attention to the forms of religion, such as going to church and saying prayers, were, however innocently, justthe prophets of Pharisaism; that what men had to be stirred up to was tolay hold upon God, and then they would not fail to find out what religiousforms they ought to cherish. "The spirit first, and then the flesh, "he would say. To put the latter before the former was a falsehood, andtherefore a frightful danger, being at the root of all declensions inthe Church, and making ever-recurring earthquakes and persecutions andrepentances and reformations needful. I find what my father used to saycoming back so often now that I hear so little of it, --especially as hetalks much less, accusing himself of having always talked too much, --andI understand it so much better now, that I shall be always in dangerof interrupting my narrative to say something that he said. But when Icommence the next chapter, I shall get on faster, I hope. My story is likea vessel I saw once being launched: it would stick on the stocks, insteadof sliding away into the expectant waters. 

CHAPTER III. 

MY WEDDING. 

I confess the first thing I did when I knew myself the next morning wasto have a good cry. To leave the place where I had been born was likeforsaking the laws and order of the Nature I knew, for some other Nature itmight be, but not known to me as such. How, for instance, could one who hasbeen used to our bright white sun, and our pale modest moon, with our softtwilights, and far, mysterious skies of night, be willing to fall in withthe order of things in a planet, such as I have read of somewhere, withthree or four suns, one red and another green and another yellow? Onlyperhaps I've taken it all up wrong, and I do like looking at a landscapefor a minute or so through a colored glass; and if it be so, of course itall blends, and all we want is harmony. What I mean is, that I found ita great wrench to leave the dear old place, and of course loved it morethan I had ever loved it. But I would get all my crying about that overbeforehand. It would be bad enough afterwards to have to part with myfather and mother and Connie, and the rest of them. Only it wasn't likeleaving them. You can't leave hearts as you do rooms. You can't leavethoughts as you do books. Those you love only come nearer to you when yougo away from them. The same rules don't hold with _thinks_ and _things_, asmy eldest boy distinguished them the other day. 

But somehow I couldn't get up and dress. I seemed to have got very fond ofmy own bed, and the queer old crows, as I had called them from babyhood, onthe chintz curtains, and the Chinese paper on the walk with the strangestbirds and creeping things on it. It Was a lovely spring morning, and thesun was shining gloriously. I knew that the rain of the last night must beglittering on the grass and the young leaves; and I heard the birds singingas if they knew far more than mere human beings, and believed a great dealmore than they knew. Nobody will persuade me that the birds don't mean it;that they sing from any thing else than gladness of heart. And if theydon't think about cats and guns, why should they? Even when they fall onthe ground, it is not without our Father. How horridly dull and stupid itseems to say that "without your Father" means without _his knowing it_. TheFather's mere _knowledge_ of a thing--if that could be, which my fathersays can't--is not the Father. The Father's tenderness and care and love ofit all the time, that is the not falling without him. When the cat killsthe bird, as I have seen happen so often in our poor little London garden, God yet saves his bird from his cat. There is nothing so bad as it looks toour half-sight, our blinding perceptions. My father used to say we are allwalking in a spiritual twilight, and are all more or less affected withtwilight blindness, as some people are physically. Percivale, for one, whois as brave as any wife could wish, is far more timid than I am in crossinga London street in the twilight; he can't see what is coming, and fancieshe sees what is not coming. But then he has faith in me, and never startswhen I am leading him. 

Well, the birds were singing, and Dora and the boys were making a greatchatter, like a whole colony of sparrows, under my window. Still I felt asif I had twenty questions to settle before I could get up comfortably, andso lay on and on till the breakfast-bell rang: and I was not more than halfdressed when my mother came to see why I was late; for I had not been lateforever so long before. 

She comforted me as nobody but a mother can comfort. Oh, I do hope I shallbe to my children what my mother has been to me! It would be such a blessedthing to be a well of water whence they may be sure of drawing comfort. Andall she said to me has come true. 

Of course, my father gave me away, and Mr. Weir married us. 

It had been before agreed that we should have no wedding journey. We allliked the old-fashioned plan of the bride going straight from her father'shouse to her husband's. The other way seemed a poor invention, just for thesake of something different. So after the wedding, we spent the time as weshould have done any other day, wandering about in groups, or sitting andreading, only that we were all more smartly dressed; until it was time foran early dinner, after which we drove to the station, accompanied onlyby my father and mother. After they left us, or rather we left them, myhusband did not speak to me for nearly an hour: I knew why, and was verygrateful. He would not show his new face in the midst of my old loves andtheir sorrows, but would give me time to re-arrange the grouping so asmyself to bring him in when all was ready for him. I know that was what hewas thinking, or feeling rather; and I understood him perfectly. At last, when I had got things a little tidier inside me, and had got my eyes tostop, I held out my hand to him, and then--knew that I was his wife. 

This is all I have got to tell, though I have plenty more to keep, till weget to London. There, instead of my father's nice carriage, we got into ajolting, lumbering, horrid cab, with my five boxes and Percivale's littleportmanteau on the top of it, and drove away to Camden Town. It _was_to a part of it near the Regent's Park; and so our letters were always, according to the divisions of the post-office, addressed to Regent's Park, but for all practical intents we were in Camden Town. It was indeed achange from a fine old house in the country; but the street wasn't muchuglier than Belgrave Square, or any other of those heaps of uglinesses, called squares, in the West End; and, after what I had been told to expect, I was surprised at the prettiness of the little house, when I stepped outof the cab and looked about me. It was stuck on like a swallow's nest tothe end of a great row of commonplace houses, nearly a quarter of a mile inlength, but itself was not the work of one of those wretched builders whocare no more for beauty in what they build than a scavenger in the heap ofmud he scrapes from the street. It had been built by a painter for himself, in the Tudor style; and though Percivale says the idea is not very wellcarried out, I like it much. 

I found it a little dreary when I entered though, --from its emptiness. The only sitting-room at all prepared had just a table and two or threeold-fashioned chairs in it; not even a carpet on the floor. The bedroom anddressing-room were also as scantily furnished as they well could be. 

"Don't be dismayed, my darling, " said my husband. 

"Look here, "--showing me a bunch of notes, --"we shall go out to-morrow andbuy all we want, --as far as this will go, --and then wait for the rest. Itwill be such a pleasure to buy the things with you, and see them come home, and have you appoint their places. You and Sarah will make the carpets;won't you? And I will put them down, and we shall be like birds buildingtheir nest. "

"We have only to line it; the nest is built already. "

"Well, neither do the birds build the tree. I wonder if they ever sit intheir old summer nests in the winter nights. "

"I am afraid not, " I answered; "but I'm ashamed to say I can't tell. "

"It is the only pretty house I know in all London, " he went on, "with astudio at the back of it. I have had my eye on it for a long time, butthere seemed no sign of a migratory disposition in the bird who hadoccupied it for three years past. All at once he spread his wings and flew. I count myself very fortunate. "

"So do I. But now you must let me see your study, " I said. "I hope I maysit in it when you've got nobody there. "

"As much as ever you like, my love, " he answered. "Only I don't want tomake all my women like you, as I've been doing for the last two years. Youmust get me out of that somehow. "

"Easily. I shall be so cross and disagreeable that you will get tired ofme, and find no more difficulty in keeping me out of your pictures. "

But he got me out of his pictures without that; for when he had me alwaysbefore him he didn't want to be always producing me. 

He led me into the little hall, --made lovely by a cast of an unfinishedMadonna of Michael Angelo's let into the wall, --and then to the back of it, where he opened a small cloth-covered door, when there yawned before me, below me, and above me, a great wide lofty room. Down into it led an almostperpendicular stair. 

"So you keep a little private precipice here, " I said. 

"No, my dear, " he returned; "you mistake. It is a Jacob's ladder, --or willbe in one moment more. "

He gave me his hand, and led me down. 

"This is quite a banqueting-hall, Percivale!" I cried, looking round me. 

"It shall be, the first time I get a thousand pounds for a picture, " hereturned. 

"How grand you talk!" I said, looking up at him with some wonder; for bigwords rarely came out of his mouth. 

"Well, " he answered merrily, "I had two hundred and seventy-five for thelast. "

"That's a long way off a thousand, " I returned, with a silly sigh. 

"Quite right; and, therefore, this study is a long way off abanqueting-hall. "

There was literally nothing inside the seventeen feet cube except onechair, one easel, a horrible thing like a huge doll, with no end of joints, called a lay figure, but Percivale called it his bishop; a number ofpictures leaning their faces against the walls in attitudes of grief thattheir beauty was despised and no man would buy them; a few casts of legsand arms and faces, half a dozen murderous-looking weapons, and a couple ofyards square of the most exquisite tapestry I ever saw. 

"Do you like being read to when you are at work?" I asked him. 

"Sometimes, --at certain kinds of work, but not by any means always, " heanswered. "Will you shut your eyes for one minute, " he went on, "and, whatever I do, not open them till I tell you?"

"You mustn't hurt me, then, or I may open them without being able to helpit, you know, " I said, closing my eyes tight. 

"Hurt you!" he repeated, with a tone I would not put on paper if I could, and the same moment I found myself in his arms, carried like a baby, forPercivale is one of the strongest of men. 

It was only for a few yards, however. He laid me down somewhere, and toldme to open my eyes. 

I could scarcely believe them when I did. I was lying on a couch in aroom, --small, indeed, but beyond exception the loveliest I had ever seen. At first I was only aware of an exquisite harmony of color, and could nothave told of what it was composed. The place was lighted by a soft lampthat hung in the middle; and when my eyes went up to see where it wasfastened, I found the ceiling marvellous in deep blue, with a suspicionof green, just like some of the shades of a peacock's feathers, with amultitude of gold and red stars upon it. What the walls were I could notfor some time tell, they were so covered with pictures and sketches;against one was a lovely little set of book-shelves filled with books, andon a little carved table stood a vase of white hot-house flowers, with onered camellia. One picture had a curtain of green silk before it, and by itsside hung the wounded knight whom his friends were carrying home to die. 

"O my Percivale!" I cried, and could say no more. 

"Do you like it?" he asked quietly, but with shining eyes. 

"Like it?" I repeated. "Shall I like Paradise when I get there? But what alot of money it must have cost you!"

"Not much, " he answered; "not more than thirty pounds or so. Every spot ofpaint there is from my own brush. "

"O Percivale!"

I must make a conversation of it to tell it at all; but what I really didsay I know no more than the man in the moon. 

"The carpet was the only expensive thing. That must be as thick as I couldget it; for the floor is of stone, and must not come near your pretty feet. Guess what the place was before. "

"I should say, the flower of a prickly-pear cactus, full of sunlight frombehind, which a fairy took the fancy to swell into a room. "

"It was a shed, in which the sculptor who occupied the place before me usedto keep his wet clay and blocks of marble. "

"Seeing is hardly believing, " I said. "Is it to be my room? I know you meanit for my room, where I can ask you to come when I please, and where I canhide when any one comes you don't want me to see. "

"That is just what I meant it for, my Ethelwyn, --and to let you know what I_would_ do for you if I could. "

"I hate the place, Percivale, " I said. "What right has it to come pokingin between you and me, telling me what I know and have known--for, well, Iwon't say how long--far better than even you can tell me?"

He looked a little troubled. 

"Ah, my dear!" I said, "let my foolish words breathe and die. "

I wonder sometimes to think how seldom I am in that room now. But there itis; and somehow I seem to know it all the time I am busy elsewhere. 

He made me shut my eyes again, and carried me into the study. 

"Now, " he said, "find your way to your own room. "

I looked about me, but could see no sign of door. He took up a tallstretcher with a canvas on it, and revealed the door, at the same timeshowing a likeness of myself, --at the top of the Jacob's ladder, as hecalled it, with me foot on the first step, and the other half way to thesecond. The light came from the window on my left, which he had turned intoa western window, in order to get certain effects from a supposed sunset. Iwas represented in a white dress, tinged with the rose of the west; and hehad managed, attributing the phenomenon to the inequalities of the glass inthe window, to suggest one rosy wing behind me, with just the shoulder-roofof another visible. 

"There!" he said. "It is not finished yet, but that is how I saw you oneevening as I was sitting here all alone in the twilight. "

"But you didn't really see me like that!" I said. 

"I hardly know, " he answered. "I had been forgetting every thing else indreaming about you, and--how it was I cannot tell, but either in the bodyor out of the body there I saw you, standing just so at the top of thestair, smiling to me as much as to say, 'Have patience. My foot is on thefirst step. I'm coming. ' I turned at once to my easel, and before thetwilight was gone had sketched the vision. To-morrow, you must sit to mefor an hour or so; for I will do nothing else till I have finished it, andsent it off to your father and mother. "

I may just add that I hear it is considered a very fine painting. It hangsin the great dining-room at home. I wish I were as good as he has made itlook. 

The next morning, after I had given him the sitting he wanted, we set outon our furniture hunt; when, having keen enough eyes, I caught sight ofthis and of that and of twenty different things in the brokers' shops. Wedid not agree about the merits of everything by which one or the other wasattracted; but an objection by the one always turned the other, a little atleast, and we bought nothing we were not agreed about. Yet that evening thehall was piled with things sent home to line our nest. Percivale, as I havesaid, had saved up some money for the purpose, and I had a hundred poundsmy father had given me before we started, which, never having had more thanten of my own at a time, I was eager enough to spend. So we found plentyto do for the fortnight during which time my mother had promised to saynothing to her friends in London of our arrival. Percivale also keepingout of the way of his friends, everybody thought we were on the Continent, or somewhere else, and left us to ourselves. And as he had sent in hispictures to the Academy, he was able to take a rest, which rest consistedin working hard at all sorts of upholstery, not to mention painters' andcarpenters' work; so that we soon got the little house made into a verywarm and very pretty nest. I may mention that Percivale was particularlypleased with a cabinet I bought for him on the sly, to stand in his study, and hold his paints and brushes and sketches; for there were all sorts ofdrawers in it, and some that it took us a good deal of trouble to find out, though he was clever enough to suspect them from the first, when I hadn't athought of such a thing; and I have often fancied since that that cabinetwas just like himself, for I have been going on finding out things inhim that I had no idea were there when I married him. I had no idea thathe was a poet, for instance. I wonder to this day why he never showed meany of his verses before we were married. He writes better poetry thanmy father, --at least my father says so. Indeed, I soon came to feel veryignorant and stupid beside him; he could tell me so many things, andespecially in art (for he had thought about all kinds of it), making meunderstand that there is no end to it, any more than to the Nature whichsets it going, and that the more we see into Nature, and try to representit, the more ignorant and helpless we find ourselves, until at length Ibegan to wonder whether God might not have made the world so rich and fulljust to teach his children humility. For a while I felt quite stunned. He very much wanted me to draw; but I thought it was no use trying, and, indeed, had no heart for it. I spoke to my father about it. He said it wasindeed of no use, if my object was to be able to think much of myself, forno one could ever succeed in that in the long run; but if my object was toreap the delight of the truth, it was worth while to spend hours and hourson trying to draw a single tree-leaf, or paint the wing of a moth. 

CHAPTER IV. 

JUDY'S VISIT. 

The very first morning after the expiry of the fortnight, when I was inthe kitchen with Sarah, giving her instructions about a certain dish asif I had made it twenty times, whereas I had only just learned how from ashilling cookery-book, there came a double knock at the door. I guessed whoit must be. 

"Run, Sarah, " I said, "and show Mrs. Morley into the drawing-room. "

When I entered, there she was, --Mrs. Morley, _alias_ Cousin Judy. 

"Well, little cozzie!" she cried, as she kissed me three or four times, "I'm glad to see you gone the way of womankind, --wooed and married and a'!Fate, child! inscrutable fate!" and she kissed me again. 

She always calls me little coz, though I am a head taller than herself. She is as good as ever, quite as brusque, and at the first word apparentlymore overbearing. But she is as ready to listen to reason as ever was womanof my acquaintance; and I think the form of her speech is but a somewhatdistorted reflex of her perfect honesty. After a little trifling talk, which is sure to come first when people are more than ordinarily glad tomeet, I asked after her children. I forget how many there were of them, butthey were then pretty far into the plural number. 

"Growing like ill weeds, " she said; "as anxious as ever their grandfathersand mothers were to get their heads up and do mischief. For my part I wishI was Jove, --to start them full grown at once. Or why shouldn't they bemade like Eve out of their father's ribs? It would be a great comfort totheir mother. "

My father had always been much pleased with the results of Judy's training, as contrasted with those of his sister's. The little ones of my auntMartha's family were always wanting something, and always looking care-wornlike their mother, while she was always reading them lectures on theirduty, and never making them mind what she said. She would represent theself-same thing to them over and over, until not merely all force, but allsense as well, seemed to have forsaken it. Her notion of duty was to tellthem yet again the duty which they had been told at least a thousand timesalready, without the slightest result. They were dull children, wearisomeand uninteresting. On the other hand, the little Morleys were full of lifeand eagerness. The fault in them was that they wouldn't take petting; andwhat's the good of a child that won't be petted? They lacked that somethingwhich makes a woman feel motherly. 

"When did you arrive, cozzie?" she asked. 

"A fortnight ago yesterday. "

"Ah, you sly thing! What have you been doing with yourself all the time?"

"Furnishing. "

"What! you came into an empty house?"

"Not quite that, but nearly. "

"It is very odd I should never have seen your husband. We have crossed eachother twenty times. "

"Not so _very_ odd, seeing he has been my husband only a fortnight. "

"What is he like?"

"Like nothing but himself. "

"Is he tall?"

"Yes. "

"Is he stout?"

"No. "

"An Adonis?"

"No. "

"A Hercules?"

"No. "

"Very clever, I believe. "

"Not at all. "

For my father had taught me to look down on that word. 

"Why did you marry him then?"

"I didn't. He married me. "

"What did you marry him for then?"

"For love. "

"What did you love him for?"

"Because he was a philosopher. "

"That's the oddest reason I ever heard for marrying a man. "

"I said for loving him, Judy. "

Her bright eyes were twinkling with fun. 

"Come, cozzie, " she said, "give me a proper reason for falling in love withthis husband of yours. "

"Well, I'll tell you, then, " I said; "only you mustn't tell any other body;he's got such a big shaggy head, just like a lion's. "

"And such a huge big foot, --just like a bear's?"

"Yes, and such great huge hands! Why, the two of them go quite round mywaist! And such big eyes, that they look right through me; and such a bigheart, that if he saw me doing any thing wrong, he would kill me, and buryme in it. "

"Well, I must say, it is the most extraordinary description of a husband Iever heard. It sounds to me very like an ogre. "

"Yes; I admit the description is rather ogrish. But then he's poor, andthat makes up for a good deal. "

I was in the humor for talking nonsense, and of course expected of allpeople that Judy would understand my fun. 

"How does that make up for any thing?"

"Because if he is a poor man, he isn't a rich man, and therefore not solikely to be a stupid. "

"How do you make that out?"

"Because, first of all, the rich man doesn't know what to do with hismoney, whereas my ogre knows what to do without it. Then the rich manwonders in the morning which waistcoat he shall put on, while my ogre hasbut one, besides his Sunday one. Then supposing the rich man has sleptwell, and has done a fair stroke or two of business, he wants nothing buta well-dressed wife, a well-dressed dinner, a few glasses of his favoritewine, and the evening paper, well-diluted with a sleep in his easy chair, to be perfectly satisfied that this world is the best of all possibleworlds. Now my ogre, on the other hand"--

I was going on to point out how frightfully different from all this my ogrewas, --how he would devour a half-cooked chop, and drink a pint of ale fromthe public-house, &c. , &c. , when she interrupted me, saying with an oddexpression of voice, --

"You are satirical, cozzie. He's not the worst sort of man you've justdescribed. A woman might be very happy with him. If it weren't such earlydays, I should doubt if you were as comfortable as you would have peoplethink; for how else should you be so ill-natured?"

It flashed upon me, that, without the least intention, I had been giving avery fair portrait of Mr. Morley. I felt my face grow as red as fire. 

"I had no intention of being satirical, Judy, " I replied. 

"I was only describing a man the very opposite of my husband. "

"You don't know mine yet, " she said. "You may think"--

She actually broke down and cried. I had never in my life seen her cry, andI was miserable at what I had done. Here was a nice beginning of socialrelations in my married life!

I knelt down, put my arms round her, and looked up in her face. 

"Dear Judy, " I said, "you mistake me quite. I never thought of Mr. Morleywhen I said that. How should I have dared to say such things if I had? Heis a most kind, good man, and papa and every one is glad when he comes tosee us. I dare say he does like to sleep well, --I know Percivale does; andI don't doubt he likes to get on with what he's at: Percivale does, forhe's ever so much better company when he has got on with his picture; andI know he likes to see me well dressed, --at least I haven't tried him withany thing else yet, for I have plenty of clothes for a while; and then forthe dinner, which I believe was one of the points in the description Igave, I wish Percivale cared a little more for his, for then it would beeasier to do something for him. As to the newspaper, there I fear I mustgive him up, for I have never yet seen him with one in his hand. He's _so_stupid about some things!"

"Oh, you've found that out! have you? Men _are_ stupid; there's no doubt ofthat. But you don't know my Walter yet. "

I looked up, and, behold, Percivale was in the room! His face wore such acurious expression that. I could hardly help laughing. And no wonder: forhere was I on my knees, clasping my first visitor, and to all appearancepouring out the woes of my wedded life in her lap, --woes so deep that theydrew tears from her as she listened. All this flashed upon me as I startedto my feet: but I could give no explanation; I could only make haste tointroduce my husband to my cousin Judy. 

He behaved, of course, as if he had heard nothing. But I fancy Judy caughta glimpse of the awkward position, for she plunged into the affair at once. 

"Here is my cousin, Mr. Percivale, has been abusing my husband to my face, calling him rich and stupid, and I don't know what all. I confess he is sostupid as to be very fond of me, but that's all I know against him. "

And her handkerchief went once more to her eyes. 

"Dear Judy!" I expostulated, "you know I didn't say one word about him. "

"Of course I do, you silly coz!" she cried, and burst out laughing. "But Iwon't forgive you except you make amends by dining with us to-morrow. "

Thus for the time she carried it off; but I believe, and have since hadgood reason for believing, that she had really mistaken me at first, andbeen much annoyed. 

She and Percivale got on very well. He showed her the portrait he was stillworking at, --even accepted one or two trifling hints as to the likeness, and they parted the best friends in the world. Glad as I had been to seeher, how I longed to see the last of her! The moment she was gone, I threwmyself into his arms, and told him how it came about. He laughed heartily. 

"I _was_ a little puzzled, " he said, "to hear you informing a lady I hadnever seen that I was so very stupid. "

"But I wasn't telling a story, either, for you know you are ve-e-e-rystupid, Percivale. You don't know a leg from a shoulder of mutton, and youcan't carve a bit. How ever you can draw as you do, is a marvel to me, whenyou know nothing about the shapes of things. It was very wrong to say it, even for the sake of covering poor Mrs. Morley's husband; but it was quitetrue you know. "

"Perfectly true, my love, " he said, with something else where I've onlyput commas; "and I mean to remain so, in order that you may always havesomething to fall back upon when you get yourself into a scrape byforgetting that other people have husbands as well as you. "

CHAPTER V. 

"GOOD SOCIETY. "

We had agreed, rather against the inclination of both of us, to dine thenext evening with the Morleys. We should have preferred our own society, but we could not refuse. 

"They will be talking to me about my pictures, " said my husband, "andthat is just what I hate. People that know nothing of art, that can'tdistinguish purple from black, will yet parade their ignorance, and expectme to be pleased. "

"Mr. Morley is a well-bred man, Percivale, " I said. 

"That's the worst of it, --they do it for good manners; I know the kindof people perfectly. I hate to have my pictures praised. It is as bad astalking to one's face about the nose upon it. "

I wonder if all ladies keep their husbands waiting. I did that night, Iknow, and, I am afraid, a good many times after, --not, however, sincePercivale told me very seriously that being late for dinner was the onlyfault of mine the blame of which he would not take on his own shoulders. The fact on this occasion was, that I could not get my hair right. It wasthe first time I missed what I had been used to, and longed for the deftfingers of my mother's maid to help me. When I told him the cause, he saidhe would do my hair for me next time, if I would teach him how. But I havemanaged very well since without either him or a lady's-maid. 

When we reached Bolivar Square, we found the company waiting; and, as iffor a rebuke to us, the butler announced dinner the moment we entered. Iwas seated between Mr. Morley and a friend of his who took me down, Mr. Baddeley, a portly gentleman, with an expanse of snowy shirt from whichflashed three diamond studs. A huge gold chain reposed upon his front, andon his finger shone a brilliant of great size. Every thing about him seemedto say, "Look how real I am! No shoddy about me!" His hands were plump andwhite, and looked as if they did not know what dust was. His talk soundedvery rich, and yet there was no pretence in it. His wife looked less ofa lady than he of a gentleman, for she betrayed conscious importance. Ifound afterwards that he was the only son of a railway contractor, whohad himself handled the spade, but at last died enormously rich. He spokeblandly, but with a certain quiet authority which I disliked. 

"Are you fond of the opera, Mrs. Percivale?" he asked me in order to maketalk. 

"I have never been to the opera, " I answered. 

"Never been to the opera? Ain't you fond of music?"

"Did you ever know a lady that wasn't?"

"Then you must go to the opera. "

"But it is just because I fancy myself fond of music that I don't think Ishould like the opera. "

"You can't hear such music anywhere else. "

"But the antics of the singers, pretending to be in such furies of passion, yet modulating every note with the cunning of a carver in ivory, seemsto me so preposterous! For surely song springs from a brooding over pastfeeling, --I do not mean lost feeling; never from present emotion. "

"Ah! you would change your mind after having once been. I should stronglyadvise you to go, if only for once. You ought now, really. "

"An artist's wife must do without such expensive amusements, --except herhusband's pictures be very popular indeed. I might as well cry for themoon. The cost of a box at the opera for a single night would keep mylittle household for a fortnight. "

"Ah, well! but you should see 'The Barber, '" he said. 

"Perhaps if I could hear without seeing, I should like it better, " Ianswered. 

He fell silent, busying himself with his fish, and when he spoke againturned to the lady on his left. I went on with my dinner. I knew thatour host had heard what I said, for I saw him turn rather hastily to hisbutler. 

Mr. Morley is a man difficult to describe, stiff in the back, and long andloose in the neck, reminding me of those toy-birds that bob head and tailup and down alternately. When he agrees with any thing you say, down comeshis head with a rectangular nod; when he does not agree with you, he isso silent and motionless that he leaves you in doubt whether he has hearda word of what you have been saying. His face is hard, and was to me theninscrutable, while what he said always seemed to have little or nothing todo with what he was thinking; and I had not then learned whether he had aheart or not. His features were well formed, but they and his head and facetoo small for his body. He seldom smiled except when in doubt. He had, Iunderstood, been very successful in business, and always looked full ofschemes. 

"Have you been to the Academy yet?" he asked. 

"No; this is only the first day of it. "

"Are your husband's pictures well hung?"

"As high as Haman, " I answered; "skied, in fact. That is the right word, Ibelieve. "

"I would advise you to avoid slang, my dear cousin, --_professional_ slangespecially; and to remember that in London there are no professions aftersix o clock. "

"Indeed!" I returned. "As we came along in the carriage, --cabbage, Imean, --I saw no end of shops open. "

"I mean in society, --at dinner, --amongst friends, you know. "

"My dear Mr. Morley, you have just done asking me about my husband'spictures; and, if you will listen a moment, you will hear that lady nextmy husband talking to him about Leslie and Turner, and I don't know whomore, --all in the trade. "

"Hush! hush! I beg, " he almost whispered, looking agonized. "That's Mrs. Baddeley. Her husband, next to you, is a great picture-buyer. That's why Iasked him to meet you. "

"I thought there were no professions in London after six o'clock. "

"I am afraid I have not made my meaning quite clear to you. "

"Not quite. Yet I think I understand you. "

"We'll have a talk about it another time. "

"With pleasure. "

It irritated me rather that he should talk to me, a married woman, as to alittle girl who did not know how to behave herself; but his patronage of myhusband displeased me far more, and I was on the point of committing theterrible blunder of asking Mr. Baddeley if he had any poor relations; butI checked myself in time, and prayed to know whether he was a member ofParliament. He answered that he was not in the house at present, and askedin return why I had wished to know. I answered that I wanted a bill broughtin for the punishment of fraudulent milkmen; for I couldn't get a decentpennyworth of milk in all Camden Town. He laughed, and said it would be avery desirable measure, only too great an interference with the liberty ofthe subject. I told him that kind of liberty was just what law in generalowed its existence to, and was there on purpose to interfere with; but hedid not seem to see it. 

The fact is, I was very silly. Proud of being the wife of an artist, Iresented the social injustice which I thought gave artists no place but oneof sufferance. Proud also of being poor for Percivale's sake, I made a showof my poverty before people whom I supposed, rightly enough in many cases, to be proud of their riches. But I knew nothing of what poverty reallymeant, and was as yet only playing at being poor; cherishing a foolish, though unacknowledged notion of protecting my husband's poverty with theægis of my position as the daughter of a man of consequence in his county. I was thus wronging the dignity of my husband's position, and complimentingwealth by making so much of its absence. Poverty or wealth ought to havebeen in my eyes such a trifle that I never thought of publishing whetherI was rich or poor. I ought to have taken my position without wasting athought on what it might appear in the eyes of those about me, meeting themon the mere level of humanity, and leaving them to settle with themselveshow they were to think of me, and where they were to place me. I suspectalso, now that I think of it, that I looked down upon my cousin Judybecause she had a mere man of business for her husband; forgetting thatour Lord had found a collector of conquered taxes, --a man, I presume, withlittle enough of the artistic about him, --one of the fittest in his nationto bear the message of his redemption to the hearts of his countrymen. Itis his loves and his hopes, not his visions and intentions, by which a manis to be judged. My father had taught me all this; but I did not understandit then, nor until years after I had left him. 

"Is Mrs. Percivale a lady of fortune?" asked Mr. Baddeley of my cousin Judywhen we were gone, for we were the first to leave. 

"Certainly not. Why do you ask?" she returned. 

"Because, from her talk, I thought she must be, " he answered. 

Cousin Judy told me this the next day, and I could see she thought I hadbeen bragging of my family. So I recounted all the conversation I had hadwith him, as nearly as I could recollect, and set down the question to animpertinent irony. But I have since changed my mind: I now judge that hecould not believe any poor person would joke about poverty. I never foundone of those people who go about begging for charities believe me when Itold him the simple truth that I could not afford to subscribe. None but arich person, they seem to think, would dare such an excuse, and that onlyin the just expectation that its very assertion must render it incredible. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT. 

There was a little garden, one side enclosed by the house, another by thestudio, and the remaining two by walls, evidently built for the nightlyconvenience of promenading cats. There was one pear-tree in the grass-plotwhich occupied the centre, and a few small fruit-trees, which, I may nowsafely say, never bore any thing, upon the walls. But the last occupant hadcared for his garden; and, when I came to the cottage, it was, although youwould hardly believe it now that my garden is inside the house, a prettylittle spot, --only, if you stop thinking about a garden, it begins at onceto go to the bad. Used although I had been to great wide lawns and park andgardens and wilderness, the tiny enclosure soon became to me the type ofthe boundless universe. The streets roared about me with ugly omnibuses anduglier cabs, fine carriages, huge earth-shaking drays, and, worse far, withthe cries of all the tribe, of costermongers, --one especially offensivewhich soon began to haunt me. I almost hated the man who sent it forth tofill the summer air with disgust. He always But his hollowed hand to hisjaw, as if it were loose and he had to hold it in its place, before heuttered his hideous howl, which would send me hurrying up the stairs tobury my head under all the pillows of my bed until, coming back across thewilderness of streets and lanes like the cry of a jackal growing fainterand fainter upon the wind, it should pass, and die away in the distance. Suburban London, I say, was roaring about me, and I was confined to a fewsquare yards of grass and gravel-walk and flower-plot; but above was thedepth of the sky, and thence at night the hosts of heaven looked in uponme with the same calm assured glance with which they shone upon southernforests, swarming with great butterflies and creatures that go flamingthrough the tropic darkness; and there the moon would come, and cast herlovely shadows; and there was room enough to feel alone and to try to pray. And what was strange, the room seemed greater, though the loneliness wasgone, when my husband walked up and down in it with me. True, the greaterpart of the walk seemed to be the turnings, for they always came just whenyou wanted to go on and on; but, even with the scope of the world for yourwalk, you must turn and come back some time. At first, when he was smokinghis great brown meerschaum, he and I would walk in opposite directions, passing each other in the middle, and so make the space double the size, for he had all the garden to himself, and I had it all to myself; and so Ihad his garden and mine too. That is how by degrees I got able to bear thesmoke of tobacco, for I had never been used to it, and found it a smalltrial at first; but now I have got actually to like it, and greet a straywhiff from the study like a message from my husband. I fancy I could tellthe smoke of that old black and red meerschaum from the smoke of any otherpipe in creation. 

"You _must_ cure him of that bad habit, " said cousin Judy to me once. 

It made me angry. What right had she to call any thing my husband did a badhabit? and to expect me to agree with her was ten times worse. I am savingmy money now to buy him a grand new pipe; and I may just mention here, that once I spent ninepence out of my last shilling to get him a packet ofBristol bird's-eye, for he was on the point of giving up smoking altogetherbecause of--well, because of what will appear by and by. 

England is getting dreadfully crowded with mean, ugly houses. If they werethose of the poor and struggling, and not of the rich and comfortable, onemight be consoled. But rich barbarism, in the shape of ugliness, is againpushing us to the sea. There, however, its "control stops;" and since Ilived in London the sea has grown more precious to me than it was even inthose lovely days at Kilkhaven, --merely because no one can build upon it. Ocean and sky remain as God made them. He must love space for us, thoughit be needless for himself; seeing that in all the magnificent notions ofcreation afforded us by astronomers, --shoal upon shoal of suns, each thecentre of complicated and infinitely varied systems, --the spaces betweenare yet more overwhelming in their vast inconceivableness. I thank God forthe room he thus gives us, and hence can endure to see the fair face of hisEngland disfigured by the mud-pies of his children. 

There was in the garden a little summer-house, of which I was fond, chieflybecause, knowing my passion for the flower, Percivale had surrounded itwith a multitude of sweet peas, which, as they grew, he had trained overthe trellis-work of its sides. Through them filtered the sweet airs of thesummer as through an Æolian harp of unheard harmonies. To sit there in awarm evening, when the moth-airs just woke and gave two or three wafts oftheir wings and ceased, was like sitting in the midst of a small gospel. 

The summer had come on, and the days were very hot, --so hot and changeless, with their unclouded skies and their glowing centre, that they seemed togrow stupid with their own heat. It was as if--like a hen brooding over herchickens--the day, brooding over its coming harvests, grew dull and sleepy, living only in what was to come. Notwithstanding the feelings I have justrecorded, I began to long for a wider horizon, whence some wind might comeand blow upon me, and wake me up, not merely to live, but to know that Ilived. 

One afternoon I left my little summer-seat, where I had been sitting atwork, and went through the house, and down the precipice, into my husband'sstudy. 

"It is so hot, " I said, "I will try my little grotto: it may be cooler. "

He opened the door for me, and, with his palette on his thumb, and a brushin his hand, sat down for a moment beside me. 

"This heat is too much for you, darling, " he said. 

"I do feel it. I wish I could get from the garden into my nest withoutgoing up through the house and down the Jacob's ladder, " I said. "It is sohot! I never felt heat like it before. "

He sat silent for a while, and then said, --

"I've been thinking I must get you into the country for a few weeks. Itwould do you no end of good. "

"I suppose the wind does blow somewhere, " I returned. "But"--

"You don't want to leave me?" he said. 

"I don't. And I know with that ugly portrait on hand you can't go with me. "

"He happened to be painting the portrait of a plain red-faced lady, in adelicate lace cap, --a very unfit subject for art, --much needing to be madeover again first, it seemed to me. Only there she was, with a right to haveher portrait painted if she wished it; and there was Percivale, with timeon his hands, and room in his pockets, and the faith that whatever God hadthought worth making could not be unworthy of representation. Hence he hadwillingly undertaken a likeness of her, to be finished within a certaintime, and was now working at it as conscientiously as if it had been theportrait of a lovely young duchess or peasant-girl. I was only afraid hewould make it too like to please the lady herself. His time was now gettingshort, and he could not leave home before fulfilling his engagement. 

"But, " he returned, "why shouldn't you go to the Hall for a week or twowithout me? I will take you down, and come and fetch you. "

"I'm so stupid you want to get rid of me!" I said. 

I did not in the least believe it, and yet was on the edge of crying, whichis not a habit with me. 

"You know better than that, my Wynnie, " he answered gravely. "You want yourmother to comfort you. And there must be some air in the country. So tellSarah to put up your things, and I'll take you down to-morrow morning. WhenI get this portrait done, I will come and stay a few days, if they willhave me, and then take you home. "

The thought of seeing my mother and my father, and the old place, cameover me with a rush. I felt all at once as if I had been absent for yearsinstead of weeks. I cried in earnest now, --with delight though, --and thereis no shame in that. So it was all arranged; and next afternoon I was lyingon a couch in the yellow drawing-room, with my mother seated beside me, and Connie in an easy-chair by the open window, through which came everynow and then such a sweet wave of air as bathed me with hope, and seemedto wash all the noises, even the loose-jawed man's hateful howl, from mybrain. 

Yet, glad as I was to be once more at home, I felt, when Percivaleleft me the next morning to return by a third-class train to his uglyportrait, --for the lady was to sit to him that same afternoon, --that theidea of home was already leaving Oldcastle Hall, and flitting back to thesuburban cottage haunted by the bawling voice of the costermonger. 

But I soon felt better: for here there was plenty of shadow, and in thehottest days my father could always tell where any wind would be stirring;for he knew every out and in of the place like his own pockets, as Dorasaid, who took a little after cousin Judy in her way. It will give a notionof his tenderness if I set down just one tiniest instance of his attentionto me. The forenoon was oppressive. I was sitting under a tree, trying toread when he came up to me. There was a wooden gate, with open bars near. He went and set it wide, saying, --

"There, my love! You will fancy yourself cooler if I leave the gate open. "

Will my reader laugh at me for mentioning such a trifle? I think not, forit went deep to my heart, and I seemed to know God better for it everafter. A father is a great and marvellous truth, and one you can never getat the depth of, try how you may. 

Then my mother! She was, if possible, yet more to me than my father. Icould tell her any thing and every thing without fear, while I confess to alittle dread of my father still. He is too like my own conscience to allowof my being quite confident with him. But Connie is just as comfortablewith him as I am with my mother. If in my childhood I was ever tempted toconceal any thing from her, the very thought of it made me miserable untilI had told her. And now she would watch me with her gentle, dove-like eyes, and seemed to know at once, without being told, what was the matter withme. She never asked me what I should like, but went and brought something;and, if she saw that I didn't care for it, wouldn't press me, or offer anything instead, but chat for a minute or two, carry it away, and returnwith something else. My heart was like to break at times with the swellingof the love that was in it. My eldest child, my Ethelwyn, --for my husbandwould have her called the same name as me, only I insisted it should beafter my mother and not after me, --has her very eyes, and for years hasbeen trying to mother me over again to the best of her sweet ability. 

CHAPTER VII. 

CONNIE. 

It is high time, though, that I dropped writing about myself for a while. Idon't find my self so interesting as it used to be. 

The worst of some kinds especially of small illnesses is, that they makeyou think a great deal too much about yourself. Connie's, which was a greatand terrible one, never made her do so. She was always forgetting herselfin her interest about others. I think I was made more selfish to beginwith; and yet I have a hope that a too-much-thinking about yourself may not_always_ be pure selfishness. It may be something else wrong in you thatmakes you uncomfortable, and keeps drawing your eyes towards the achingplace. I will hope so till I get rid of the whole business, and then Ishall not care much how it came or what it was. 

Connie was now a thin, pale, delicate-looking--not handsome, but lovelygirl. Her eyes, some people said, were too big for her face; but thatseemed to me no more to the discredit of her beauty than it would have beena reproach to say that her soul was too big for her body. She had beenearly ripened by the hot sun of suffering, and the self-restraint whichpain had taught her. Patience had mossed her over and made her warm andsoft and sweet. She never looked for attention, but accepted all that wasoffered with a smile which seemed to say, "It is more than I need, but youare so good I mustn't spoil it. " She was not confined to her sofa now, though she needed to lie down often, but could walk about pretty well, only you must give her time. You could always make her merry by saying shewalked like an old woman; and it was the only way we could get rid of thesadness of seeing it. We betook ourselves to her to laugh _her_ sadnessaway from us. 

Once, as I lay on a couch on the lawn, she came towards me carrying a bunchof grapes from the greenhouse, --a great bunch, each individual grape readyto burst with the sunlight it had bottled up in its swollen purple skin. 

"They are too heavy for you, old lady, " I cried. 

"Yes; I _am_ an old lady, " she answered. "Think what good use of my time Ihave made compared with you! I have got ever so far before you: I've nearlyforgotten how to walk!"

The tears gathered in my eyes as she left me with the bunch; for how couldone help being sad to think of the time when she used to bound like a fawnover the grass, her slender figure borne like a feather on its own slightyet firm muscles, which used to knot so much harder than any of ours. Sheturned to say something, and, perceiving my emotion, came slowly back. 

"Dear Wynnie, " she said, "you wouldn't have me back with my oldfoolishness, would you? Believe me, life is ten times more precious than itwas before. I feel and enjoy and love so much more! I don't know how oftenI thank God for what befell me. "

I could only smile an answer, unable to speak, not now from pity, but fromshame of my own petulant restlessness and impatient helplessness. 

I believe she had a special affection for poor Sprite, the pony which threwher, --special, I mean, since the accident, --regarding him as in some sensethe angel which had driven her out of paradise into a better world. If everhe got loose, and Connie was anywhere about, he was sure to find her: hewas an omnivorous animal, and she had always something he would eat whenhis favorite apples were unattainable. More than once she had been rousedfrom her sleep on the lawn by the lips and the breath of Sprite upon herface; but, although one painful sign of her weakness was, that she startedat the least noise or sudden discovery of a presence, she never started atthe most unexpected intrusion of Sprite, any more than at the voice of myfather or mother. Need I say there was one more whose voice or presencenever startled her?

The relation between them was lovely to see. Turner was a fine, healthy, broad-shouldered fellow, of bold carriage and frank manners, above themiddle height, with rather large features, keen black eyes, and greatpersonal strength. Yet to such a man, poor little wan-faced, big-eyedConnie assumed imperious airs, mostly, but perhaps not entirely, for thefun of it; while he looked only enchanted every time she honored him with alittle tyranny. 

"There! I'm tired, " she would say, holding out her arms like a baby. "Carryme in. "

And the great strong man would stoop with a worshipping look in his eyes, and, taking her carefully, would carry her in as lightly and gently andsteadily as if she had been but the baby whose manners she had for themoment assumed. This began, of course, when she was unable to walk; but itdid not stop then, for she would occasionally tell him to carry her aftershe was quite capable of crawling at least. They had now been engaged forsome months; and before me, as a newly-married woman, they did not mindtalking a little. 

One day she was lying on a rug on the lawn, with him on the grass besideher, leaning on his elbow, and looking down into her sky-like eyes. Shelifted her hand, and stroked his mustache with a forefinger, while he keptas still as a statue, or one who fears to scare the bird that is picking upthe crumbs at his feet. 

"Poor, poor man!" she said; and from the tone I knew the tears had begun togather in those eyes. 

"Why do you pity me, Connie?" he asked. 

"Because you will have such a wretched little creature for a wife someday, --or perhaps never, --which would be best after all. "

He answered cheerily. 

"If you will kindly allow me my choice, I prefer just _such_ a wretchedlittle creature to any one else in the world. "

"And why, pray? Give a good reason, and I will forgive your bad taste. "

"Because she won't be able to hurt me much when she beats me. "

"A better reason, or she will. "

"Because I can punish her if she isn't good by taking her up in my arms, and carrying her about until she gives in. "

"A better reason, or I shall be naughty directly. "

"Because I shall always know where to find her. "

"Ah, yes! she must leave _you_ to find _her_. But that's a silly reason. Ifyou don't give me a better, I'll get up and walk into the house. "

"Because there won't be any waste of me. Will that do?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, with mock imperiousness. 

"I mean that I shall be able to lay not only my heart but my brute strengthat her feet. I shall be allowed to be her beast of burden, to carry herwhither she would; and so with my body her to worship more than mosthusbands have a chance of worshipping their wives. "

"There! take me, take me!" she said, stretching up her arms to him. "Howgood you are! I don't deserve such a great man one bit. But I _will_ lovehim. Take me directly; for there's Wynnie listening to every word we say toeach other, and laughing at us. She can laugh without looking like it. "

The fact is, I was crying, and the creature knew it. Turner brought her tome, and held her down for me to kiss; then carried her in to her mother. 

I believe the county people round considered our family far gone on theinclined plane of degeneracy. First my mother, the heiress, had marrieda clergyman of no high family; then they had given their eldest daughterto a poor artist, something of the same standing as--well, I will be rudeto no order of humanity, and therefore avoid comparisons; and now it wasgenerally known that Connie was engaged to a country practitioner, a manwho made up his own prescriptions. We talked and laughed over certainremarks of the kind that reached us, and compared our two with thegentlemen about us, --in no way to the advantage of any of the latter, youmay be sure. It was silly work; but we were only two loving girls, with thebest possible reasons for being proud of the men who had honored us withtheir love. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

CONNIE'S BABY. 

It is time I told my readers something about the little Theodora. She wasnow nearly four years old I think, --a dark-skinned, lithe-limbed, wildlittle creature, very pretty, --at least most people said so, while othersinsisted that she had a common look. I admit she was not like a lady'schild--only one has seen ladies' children look common enough; neither didshe look like the child of working people--though amongst such, again, one sees sometimes a child the oldest family in England might be proud of. The fact is, she had a certain tinge of the savage about her, speciallymanifest in a certain furtive look of her black eyes, with which she seemednow and then to be measuring you, and her prospects in relation to you. Ihave seen the child of cultivated parents sit and stare at a stranger fromher stool in the most persistent manner, never withdrawing her eyes, asif she would pierce to his soul, and understand by very force of insightwhether he was or was not one to be honored with her confidence; and I haveoften seen the side-long glance of sly merriment, or loving shyness, orsmall coquetry; but I have never, in any other child, seen _that_ look ofself-protective speculation; and it used to make me uneasy, for of course, like every one else in the house, I loved the child. She was a wayward, often unmanageable creature, but affectionate, --sometimes after an insane, or, at least, very ape-like fashion. Every now and then she would take anunaccountable preference for some one of the family or household, at onetime for the old housekeeper, at another for the stable-boy, at another forone of us; in which fits of partiality she would always turn a blind anddeaf side upon every one else, actually seeming to imagine she showed thestrength of her love to the one by the paraded exclusion of the others. Icannot tell how much of this was natural to her, and how much the resultof the foolish and injurious jealousy of the servants. I say _servants_, because I know such an influencing was all but impossible in thefamily itself. If my father heard any one utter such a phrase as "Don'tyou love me best?"--or, "better than" such a one? or, "Ain't I yourfavorite?"--well, you all know my father, and know him really, for he neverwrote a word he did not believe--but you would have been astonished, Iventure to think, and perhaps at first bewildered as well, by the look ofindignation flashed from his eyes. He was not the gentle, all-excusing mansome readers, I know, fancy him from his writings. He was gentle even totenderness when he had time to think a moment, and in any quiet judgmenthe always took as much the side of the offender as was possible with anylikelihood of justice; but in the first moments of contact with what hethought bad in principle, and that in the smallest trifle, he would speakwords that made even those who were not included in the condemnationtremble with sympathetic fear. "There, Harry, you take it--quick, orCharley will have it, " said the nurse one day, little thinking whooverheard her. "Woman!" cried a voice of wrath from the corridor, "do youknow what you are doing? Would you make him twofold more the child of hellthan yourself?" An hour after, she was sent for to the study; and when shecame out her eyes were very red. My father was unusually silent at dinner;and, after the younger ones were gone, he turned to my mother, and said, "Ethel, I spoke the truth. All _that_ is of the Devil, --horribly bad;and yet I am more to blame in my condemnation of them than she for thewords themselves. The thought of so polluting the mind of a child makesme fierce, and the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. The old Adam is only too glad to get a word in, if even in behalf of hissupplanting successor. " Then he rose, and, taking my mother by the arm, walked away with her. I confess I honored him for his self-condemnation themost. I must add that the offending nurse had been ten years in the family, and ought to have known better. 

But to return to Theodora. She was subject to attacks of the most furiouspassion, especially when any thing occurred to thwart the indulgence of theephemeral partiality I have just described. Then, wherever she was, shewould throw herself down at once, --on the floor, on the walk or lawn, or, as happened on one occasion, in the water, --and kick and scream. At suchtimes she cared nothing even for my father, of whom generally she stoodin considerable awe, --a feeling he rather encouraged. "She has plenty ofpeople about her to represent the gospel, " he said once. "I will keep thedepartment of the law, without which she will never appreciate the gospel. My part will, I trust, vanish in due time, and the law turn out to havebeen, after all, only the imperfect gospel, just as the leaf is theimperfect flower. But the gospel is no gospel till it gets into the heart, and it sometimes wants a torpedo to blow the gates of that open. " For notorpedo or Krupp gun, however, did Theodora care at such times; and, afterrepeated experience of the inefficacy of coaxing, my father gave orders, that, when a fit occurred, every one, without exception, should not merelyleave her alone, but go out of sight, and if possible out of hearing, --atleast out of her hearing--that she might know she had driven her friendsfar from her, and be brought to a sense of loneliness and need. I am prettysure that if she had been one of us, that is, one of his own, he would havetaken sharper measures with her; but he said we must never attempt to treatother people's children as our own, for they are not our own. We did notlove them enough, he said, to make severity safe either for them or for us. 

The plan worked so far well, that after a time, varied in length accordingto causes inscrutable, she would always re-appear smiling; but, as to anyconscience of wrong, she seemed to have no more than Nature herself, wholooks out with _her_ smiling face after hours of thunder, lightning, andrain; and, although this treatment brought her out of them sooner, the fitsthemselves came quite as frequently as before. 

But she had another habit, more alarming, and more troublesome as well: shewould not unfrequently vanish, and have to be long sought, for in such caseshe never reappeared of herself. What made it so alarming was that therewere dangerous places about our house; but she would generally be foundseated, perfectly quiet, in some out-of-the-way nook where she had neverbeen before, playing, not with any of her toys, but with something she hadpicked up and appropriated, finding in it some shadowy amusement which noone understood but herself. 

She was very fond of bright colors, especially in dress; and, if she founda brilliant or gorgeous fragment of any substance, would be sure to hideit away in some hole or corner, perhaps known only to herself. Her love ofapprobation was strong, and her affection demonstrative; but she had notyet learned to speak the truth. In a word, she must, we thought, have comeof wild parentage, so many of her ways were like those of a forest animal. 

In our design of training her for a maid to Connie, we seemed alreadylikely enough to be frustrated; at all events, there was nothing toencourage the attempt, seeing she had some sort of aversion to Connie, amounting almost to dread. We could rarely persuade her to go near her. Perhaps it was a dislike to her helplessness, --some vague impression thather lying all day on the sofa indicated an unnatural condition of being, with which she could have no sympathy. Those of us who had the highestspirits, the greatest exuberance of animal life, were evidently those whosesociety was most attractive to her. Connie tried all she could to conquerher dislike, and entice the wayward thing to her heart; but nothing woulddo. Sometimes she would seem to soften for a moment; but all at once, witha wriggle and a backward spasm in the arms of the person who carried her, she would manifest such a fresh access of repulsion, that, for fear of anoutburst of fierce and objurgatory wailing which might upset poor Conniealtogether, she would be borne off hurriedly, --sometimes, I confess, ratherungently as well. I have seen Connie cry because of the child's treatmentof her. 

You could not interest her so much in any story, but that if the buzzing ofa fly, the flutter of a bird, reached eye or ear, away she would dart onthe instant, leaving the discomfited narrator in lonely disgrace. Externalnature, and almost nothing else, had free access to her mind: at thesuddenest sight or sound, she was alive on the instant. She was a mostamusing and sometimes almost bewitching little companion; but the delightin her would be not unfrequently quenched by some altogether unforeseenoutbreak of heartless petulance or turbulent rebellion. Indeed, herresistance to authority grew as she grew older, and occasioned my fatherand mother, and indeed all of us, no little anxiety. Even Charley and Harrywould stand with open mouths, contemplating aghast the unheard-of atrocityof resistance to the will of the unquestioned authorities. It was what theycould not understand, being to them an impossibility. Such resistance wasalmost always accompanied by storm and tempest; and the treatment whichcarried away the latter, generally carried away the former with it; afterthe passion had come and gone, she would obey. Had it been otherwise, --hadshe been sullen and obstinate as well, --I do not know what would have comeof it, or how we could have got on at all. Miss Bowdler, I am afraid, would have had a very satisfactory crow over papa. I have seen him sitfor minutes in silent contemplation of the little puzzle, trying, nodoubt, to fit her into his theories, or, as my mother said, to find her athree-legged stool and a corner somewhere in the kingdom of heaven; and wewere certain something or other would come out of that pondering, thoughwhether the same night or a twelvemonth after, no one could tell. I believethe main result of his thinking was, that he did less and less with her. 

"Why do you take so little notice of the child?" my mother said to him oneevening. "It is all your doing that she is here, you know. You mustn't casther off now. "

"Cast her off!" exclaimed my father: "what _do_ you mean, Ethel?"

"You never speak to her now. "

"Oh, yes I do, sometimes!"

"Why only sometimes?"

"Because--I believe because I am a little afraid of her. I don't knowhow to attack the small enemy. She seems to be bomb-proof, and generallyimpregnable. "

"But you mustn't therefore make _her_ afraid of _you_. "

"I don't know that. I suspect it is my only chance with her. She wants alittle of Mount Sinai, in order that she may know where the manna comesfrom. But indeed I am laying myself out only to catch the little soul. I ambut watching and pondering how to reach her. I am biding my time to come inwith my small stone for the building up of this temple of the Holy Ghost. "

At that very moment--in the last fold of the twilight, with the moon risingabove the wooded brow of Gorman Slope--the nurse came through the darkeningair, her figure hardly distinguishable from the dusk, saying, --

"Please, ma'am, have you seen Miss Theodora?"

"I don't want you to call her _Miss_, " said my father. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said the nurse; "I forgot. "

"I have not seen her for an hour or more, " said my mother. 

"I declare, " said my father, "I'll get a retriever pup, and train him tofind Theodora. He will be capable in a few months, and she will be foolishfor years. "

Upon this occasion the truant was found in the apple-loft, sitting in acorner upon a heap of straw, quite in the dark. She was discovered only bythe munching of her little teeth; for she had found some wizened apples, and was busy devouring them. But my father actually did what he had said:a favorite spaniel had pups a few days after, and he took one of them inhand. In an incredibly short space of time, the long-drawn nose of Wagtail, as the children had named him, in which, doubtless, was gathered theexperience of many thoughtful generations, had learned to track Theodora towhatever retreat she might have chosen; and very amusing it was to watchthe course of the proceedings. Some one would come running to my fatherwith the news that Theo was in hiding. Then my father would give a peculiarwhistle, and Wagtail, who (I must say _who_) very seldom failed to respond, would come bounding to his side. It was necessary that my father should_lay him on_ (is that the phrase?); for he would heed no directions fromany one else. It was not necessary to follow him, however, which would haveinvolved a tortuous and fatiguing pursuit; but in a little while a joyousbarking would be heard, always kept up until the ready pursuers were guidedby the sound to the place. There Theo was certain to be found, huggingthe animal, without the least notion of the traitorous character of hisblandishments: it was long before she began to discover that there wasdanger in that dog's nose. Thus Wagtail became a very important memberof the family, --a bond of union, in fact, between its parts. Theo'sdisappearances, however, became less and less frequent, --not that she madefewer attempts to abscond, but that, every one knowing how likely she wasto vanish, whoever she was with had come to feel the necessity of keepingboth eyes upon her. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE FOUNDLING RE-FOUND. 

One evening, during this my first visit to my home, we had gone to take teawith the widow of an old servant, who lived in a cottage on the outskirtsof the home farm, --Connie and I in the pony carriage, and my father andmother on foot. It was quite dark when we returned, for the moon was late. Connie and I got home first, though we had a good round to make, and thepath across the fields was but a third of the distance; for my father andmother were lovers, and sure to be late when left out by themselves. Whenwe arrived, there was no one to take the pony; and when I rung the bell, noone answered. I could not leave Connie in the carriage to go and look; sowe waited and waited till we were getting very tired, and glad indeed wewere to hear the voices of my father and mother as they came through theshrubbery. My mother went to the rear to make inquiry, and came back withthe news that Theo was missing, and that they had been searching for her invain for nearly an hour. My father instantly called Wagtail, and sent himafter her. We then got Connie in, and laid her on the sofa, where I kepther company while the rest went in different directions, listening fromwhat quarter would come the welcome voice of the dog. This was so longdelayed, however, that my father began to get alarmed. At last he whistledvery loud; and in a little while Wagtail came creeping to his feet, with his tail between his legs, --no wag left in it, --clearly ashamed ofhimself. My father was now thoroughly frightened, and began questioning thehousehold as to the latest knowledge of the child. It then occurred to oneof the servants to mention that a strange-looking woman had been seen aboutthe place in the morning, --a tall, dark woman, with a gypsy look. She hadcome begging; but my father's orders were so strict concerning such cases, that nothing had been given her, and she had gone away in anger. As soonas he heard this, my father ordered his horse, and told two of the men toget ready to accompany him. In the mean time, he came to us in the littledrawing-room, trying to look calm, but evidently in much perturbation. Hesaid he had little doubt the woman had taken her. 

"Could it be her mother?" said my mother. 

"Who can tell?" returned my father. "It is the less likely that the deedseems to have been prompted by revenge. "

"If she be a gypsy's child, "--said my mother. 

"The gypsies, " interrupted my father, "have always been more given totaking other people's children than forsaking their own. But one of themmight have had reason for being ashamed of her child, and, dreading theseverity of her family, might have abandoned it, with the intention ofrepossessing herself of it, and passing it off as the child of gentlefolksshe had picked up. I don't know their habits and ways sufficiently; but, from what I have heard, that seems possible. However, it is not so easy asit might have been once to succeed in such an attempt. If we should fail infinding her to-night, the police all over the country can be apprised ofthe fact in a few hours, and the thief can hardly escape. "

"But if she _should_ be the mother?" suggested my mother. 

"She will have to _prove_ that. "

"And then?"

"What then?" returned my father, and began pacing up and down the room, stopping now and then to listen for the horses' hoofs. 

"Would you give her up?" persisted my mother. 

Still my father made no reply. He was evidently much agitated, --more, Ifancied, by my mother's question than by the present trouble. He left theroom, and presently his whistle for Wagtail pierced the still air. A momentmore, and we heard them all ride out of the paved yard. I had never knownhim leave my mother without an answer before. 

We who were left behind were in evil plight. There was not a dry eyeamongst the women, I am certain; while Harry was in floods of tears, andCharley was bowling. We could not send them to bed in such a state; so wekept them with us in the drawing-room, where they soon fell fast asleep, one in an easy-chair, the other on a sheepskin mat. Connie lay quite still, and my mother talked so sweetly and gently that she soon made me quiettoo. But I was haunted with the idea somehow, --I think I must have beenwandering a little, for I was not well, --that it was a child of my own thatwas lost out in the dark night, and that I could not anyhow reach her. Icannot explain the odd kind of feeling it was, --as if a dream had wanderedout of the region of sleep, and half-possessed my waking brain. Every nowand then my mother's voice would bring me back to my senses, and I wouldunderstand it all perfectly; but in a few moments I would be involvedonce more in a mazy search after my child. Perhaps, however, as it was bythat time late, sleep had, if such a thing be possible, invaded a partof my brain, leaving another part able to receive the impressions of theexternal about me. I can recall some of the things my mother said, --one inparticular. 

"It is more absurd, " she said, "to trust God by halves, than it is notto believe in him at all. Your papa taught me that before one of you wasborn. "

When my mother said any thing in the way of teaching us, which was notoften, she would generally add, "Your papa taught me that, " as if she wouldtake refuge from the assumption of teaching even her own girls. But weset a good deal of such assertion down to her modesty, and the evidentlyinextricable blending of the thought of my father with every movement ofher mental life. 

"I remember quite well, " she went on, "how he made that truth dawn upon meone night as we sat together beside the old mill. Ah, you don't rememberthe old mill! it was pulled down while Wynnie was a mere baby. "

"No, mamma; I remember it perfectly, " I said. 

"Do you really?--Well, we were sitting beside the mill one Sunday eveningafter service; for we always had a walk before going home from church. You would hardly think it now; but after preaching he was then alwaysdepressed, and the more eloquently he had spoken, the more he felt as if hehad made an utter failure. At first I thought it came only from fatigue, and wanted him to go home and rest; but he would say he liked Nature tocome before supper, for Nature restored him by telling him that it was notof the slightest consequence if he had failed, whereas his supper only madehim feel that he would do better next time. Well, that night, you willeasily believe he startled me when he said, after sitting for some timesilent, 'Ethel, if that yellow-hammer were to drop down dead now, and Godnot care, God would not be God any longer. ' Doubtless I showed myselfsomething between puzzled and shocked, for he proceeded with some haste toexplain to me how what he had said was true. 'Whatever belongs to God isessential to God, ' he said. 'He is one pure, clean essence of being, to useour poor words to describe the indescribable. Nothing hangs about him thatdoes not belong to him, --that he could part with and be nothing the worse. Still less is there any thing he could part with and be the worse. Whateverbelongs to him is of his own kind, is part of himself, so to speak. Therefore there is nothing indifferent to his character to be found in him;and therefore when our Lord says not a sparrow falls to the ground withoutour Father, that, being a fact with regard to God, must be an essentialfact, --one, namely, without which he could be no God. ' I understood him, Ithought; but many a time since, when a fresh light has broken in upon me, I have thought I understood him then only for the first time. I told himso once; and he said he thought that would be the way forever with alltruth, --we should never get to the bottom of any truth, because it was avital portion of the all of truth, which is God. "

I had never heard so much philosophy from my mother before. I believe shewas led into it by her fear of the effect our anxiety about the child mighthave upon us: with what had quieted her heart in the old time she soughtnow to quiet ours, helping us to trust in the great love that never ceasesto watch. And she did make us quiet. But the time glided so slowly pastthat it seemed immovable. 

When twelve struck, we heard in the stillness every clock in the house, andit seemed as if they would never have done. My mother left the room, andcame back with three shawls, with which, having first laid Harry on therug, she covered the boys and Dora, who also was by this time fast asleep, curled up at Connie's feet. 

Still the time went on; and there was no sound of horses or any thing tobreak the silence, except the faint murmur which now and then the treeswill make in the quietest night, as if they were dreaming, and talkedin their sleep; for the motion does not seem to pass beyond them, butto swell up and die again in the heart of them. This and the occasionalcry of an owl was all that broke the silent flow of the undividedmoments, --glacier-like flowing none can tell how. We seldom spoke, and atlength the house within seemed possessed by the silence from without; butwe were all ear, --one hungry ear, whose famine was silence, --listeningintently. 

We were not so far from the high road, but that on a night like this thepenetrating sound of a horse's hoofs might reach us. Hence, when my mother, who was keener of hearing than any of her daughters, at length started up, saying, "I hear them! They're coming!" the doubt remained whether it mightnot be the sound of some night-traveller hurrying along that high road thatshe had heard. But when _we_ also heard the sound of horses, we knew theymust belong to our company; for, except the riders were within the gates, their noises could not have come nearer to the house. My mother hurrieddown to the hall. I would have staid with Connie; but she begged me to gotoo, and come back as soon as I knew the result; so I followed my mother. As I descended the stairs, notwithstanding my anxiety, I could nothelp seeing what a picture lay before me, for I had learned already toregard things from the picturesque point of view, --the dim light of thelow-burning lamp on the forward-bent heads of the listening, anxious groupof women, my mother at the open door with the housekeeper and her maid, andthe men-servants visible through the door in the moonlight beyond. 

The first news that reached me was my father's shout the moment he roundedthe sweep that brought him in sight of the house. 

"All right! Here she is!" he cried. 

And, ere I could reach the stair to run up to Connie, Wagtail was jumpingupon me and barking furiously. He rushed up before me with the scrambleof twenty feet, licked Connie's face all over in spite of her efforts atself-defence, then rushed at Dora and the boys one after the other, andwoke them all up. He was satisfied enough with himself now; his tail wasdoing the wagging of forty; there was no tucking of it away now, --nodrooping of the head in mute confession of conscious worthlessness; he wasa dog self-satisfied because his master was well pleased with him. 

But here I am talking about the dog, and forgetting what was going onbelow. 

My father cantered up to the door, followed by the two men. My motherhurried to meet him, and then only saw the little lost lamb asleep in hisbosom. He gave her up, and my mother ran in with her; while he dismounted, and walked merrily but wearily up the stair after her. The first thing hedid was to quiet the dog; the next to sit down beside Connie; the third tosay, "Thank God!" and the next, "God bless Wagtail!" My mother was alreadyundressing the little darling, and her maid was gone to fetch her nightthings. Tumbled hither and thither, she did not wake, but was carried offstone-sleeping to her crib. 

Then my father, --for whom some supper, of which he was in great need, hadbeen brought, --as soon as he had had a glass of wine and a mouthful or twoof cold chicken, began to tell us the whole story. 

CHAPTER X. 

WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR. 

As they rode out of the gate, one of the men, a trustworthy man, who caredfor his horses like his children, and knew all their individualities as fewmen know those of their children, rode up along side of my father, and toldhim that there was an encampment of gypsies on the moor about five milesaway, just over Gorman Slope, remarking, that if the woman had taken thechild, and belonged to them, she would certainly carry her thither. Myfather thought, in the absence of other indication, they ought to followthe suggestion, and told Burton to guide them to the place as rapidly aspossible. After half an hour's sharp riding, they came in view of thecamp, --or rather of a rising ground behind which it lay in the hollow. Theother servant was an old man, who had been whipper-in to a baronet in thenext county, and knew as much of the ways of wild animals as Burton didof those of his horses; it was his turn now to address my father, who hadhalted for a moment to think what ought to be done next. 

"She can't well have got here before us, sir, with that child to carry. Butit's wonderful what the likes of her can do. I think I had better have apeep over the brow first. She may be there already, or she may not; but, ifwe find out, we shall know better what to do. "

"I'll go with you, " said my father. 

"No, sir; excuse me; that won't do. You can't creep like a sarpent. I can. They'll never know I'm a stalking of them. No more you couldn't show fightif need was, you know, sir. "

"How did you find that out, Sim?" asked my father, a little amused, notwithstanding the weight at his heart. 

"Why, sir, they do say a clergyman mustn't show fight. "

"Who told you that, Sim?" he persisted. 

"Well, I can't say, sir. Only it wouldn't be respectable; would it, sir?"

"There's nothing respectable but what's right, Sim; and what's right always_is_ respectable, though it mayn't _look_ so one bit. "

"Suppose you was to get a black eye, sir?"

"Did you ever hear of the martyrs, Sim?"

"Yes, sir. I've heerd you talk on 'em in the pulpit, sir. "

"Well, they didn't get black eyes only, --they got black all over, youknow, --burnt black; and what for, do you think, now?"

"Don't know, sir, except it was for doing right. "

"That's just it. Was it any disgrace to them?"

"No, sure, sir. "

"Well, if I were to get a black eye for the sake of the child, would thatbe any disgrace to me, Sim?"

"None that I knows on, sir. Only it'd _look_ bad. "

"Yes, no doubt. People might think I had got into a row at the Griffin. And yet I shouldn't be ashamed of it. I should count my black eye the morerespectable of the two. I should also regard the evil judgment much asanother black eye, and wait till they both came round again. Lead on, Sim. "

They left their horses with Burton, and went toward the camp. But whenthey reached the slope behind which it lay, much to Sim's discomfiture, my father, instead of lying down at the foot of it, as he expected, andcreeping up the side of it, after the doom of the serpent, walked right upover the brow, and straight into the camp, followed by Wagtail. There wasnothing going on, --neither tinkering nor cooking; all seemed asleep; butpresently out of two or three of the tents, the dingy squalor of which nomoonshine could silver over, came three or four men, half undressed, whodemanded of my father, in no gentle tones, what he wanted there. 

"I'll tell you all about it, " he answered. "I'm the parson of this parish, and therefore you're my own people, you see. "

"We don't go to _your_ church, parson, " said one of them. 

"I don't care; you're my own people, for all that, and I want your help. "

"Well, what's the matter? Who's cow's dead?" said the same man. 

"This evening, " returned my father, "one of my children is missing; and awoman who might be one of your clan, --mind, I say _might be_; I don't know, and I mean no offence, --but such a woman was seen about the place. AllI want is the child, and if I don't find her, I shall have to raise thecounty. I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I am afraid, in thatcase, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will be too hot foryou. I'm no enemy to honest gypsies; but you know there is a set of trampsthat call themselves gypsies, who are nothing of the sort, --only thieves. Tell me what I had better do to find my child. You know all about suchthings. "

The men turned to each other, and began talking in undertones, and in alanguage of which what my father heard he could not understand. At lengththe spokesman of the party addressed him again. 

"We'll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you, " he said, morerespectfully than he had spoken before, "to send the child home directly ifany one should bring her to our camp. That's all we can say. "

My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the offer. 

"Thank you, " he said. "Perhaps I may have an opportunity of serving yousome day. "

They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my father and Sim leftthe camp. 

Upon this side the moor was skirted by a plantation which had beengradually creeping up the hill from the more sheltered hollow. It was herebordered by a deep trench, the bottom of which was full of young firs. Through the plantation there was a succession of green rides, by which theoutskirts of my father's property could be reached. But, the moon being nowup, my father resolved to cross the trench, and halt for a time, watchingthe moor from the shelter of the firs, on the chance of the woman's makingher appearance; for, if she belonged to the camp, she would most probablyapproach it from the plantation, and might be overtaken before she couldcross the moor to reach it. 

They had lain ensconced in the firs for about half an hour, when suddenly, without any warning, Wagtail rushed into the underwood and vanished. Theylistened with all their ears, and in a few moments heard his joyous bark, followed instantly, however, by a howl of pain; and, before they had gotmany yards in pursuit, he came cowering to my father's feet, who, pattinghis side, found it bleeding. He bound his handkerchief round him, and, fastening the lash of Sim's whip to his collar that he might not go toofast for them, told him to find Theodora. Instantly he pulled away throughthe brushwood, giving a little yelp now and then as the stiff remnant ofsome broken twig or stem hurt his wounded side. 

Before we reached the spot for which he was making, however, my fatherheard a rustling, nearer to the outskirts of the wood, and the same momentWagtail turned, and tugged fiercely in that direction. The figure of awoman rose up against the sky, and began to run for the open space beyond. Wagtail and my father pursued at speed; my father crying out, that, if shedid not stop, he would loose the dog on her. She paid no heed, but ran on. 

"Mount and head her, Sim. Mount, Burton. Ride over every thing, " cried myfather, as he slipped Wagtail, who shot through the underwood like a bird, just as she reached the trench, and in an instant had her by the gown. Myfather saw something gleam in the moonlight, and again a howl broke fromWagtail, who was evidently once more wounded. But he held on. And now thehorsemen, having crossed the trench, were approaching her in front, and myfather was hard upon her behind. She gave a peculiar cry, half a shriek, and half a howl, clasped the child to her bosom, and stood rooted like atree, evidently in the hope that her friends, hearing her signal, wouldcome to her rescue. But it was too late. My father rushed upon her theinstant she cried out. The dog was holding her by the poor ragged skirt, and the horses were reined snorting on the bank above her. She heaved upthe child over her head, but whether in appeal to Heaven, or about to dashher to the earth in the rage of frustration, she was not allowed time toshow; for my father caught both her uplifted arms with his, so that shecould not lower them, and Burton, having flung himself from his horse andcome behind her, easily took Theodora from them, for from their positionthey were almost powerless. Then my father called off Wagtail; and thepoor creature sunk down in the bottom of the trench amongst the young firswithout a sound, and there lay. My father went up to her; but she onlystared at him with big blank black eyes, and yet such a lost look on heryoung, handsome, yet gaunt face, as almost convinced him she was the motherof the child. But, whatever might be her rights, she could not be allowedto recover possession, without those who had saved and tended the childhaving a word in the matter of her fate. 

As he was thinking what he could say to her, Sim's voice reached his ear. 

"They're coming over the brow, sir, --five or six from the camp. We'd betterbe off. "

"The child is safe, " he said, as he turned to leave her. 

"From _me_, " she rejoined, in a pitiful tone; and this ambiguous utterancewas all that fell from her. 

My father mounted hurriedly, took the child from Burton, and rode away, followed by the two men and Wagtail. Through the green rides they gallopedin the moonlight, and were soon beyond all danger of pursuit. When theyslackened pace, my father instructed Sim to find out all he could about thegypsies, --if possible to learn their names and to what tribe or communitythey belonged. Sim promised to do what was in his power, but said he didnot expect much success. 

The children had listened to the story wide awake. Wagtail was lying at myfather's feet, licking his wounds, which were not very serious, and hadstopped bleeding. 

"It is all your doing, Wagtail, " said Harry, patting the dog. 

"I think he deserves to be called _Mr. _ Wagtail, " said Charley. 

And from that day he was no more called bare Wagtail, but Mr. Wagtail, muchto the amusement of visitors, who, hearing the name gravely uttered, as itsoon came to be, saw the owner of it approach on all fours, with a tirelesspendulum in his rear. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A STUPID CHAPTER. 

Before proceeding with my own story, I must mention that my father tookevery means in his power to find out something about the woman and the gangof gypsies to which she appeared to belong. I believe he had no definiteend in view further than the desire to be able at some future time to enterinto such relations with her, for her own and her daughter's sake, --if, indeed, Theodora were her daughter, --as might be possible. But, the verynext day, he found that they had already vanished from the place; and allthe inquiries he set on foot, by means of friends and through the countryconstabulary, were of no avail. I believe he was dissatisfied with himselfin what had occurred, thinking he ought to have laid himself out at thetime to discover whether she was indeed the mother, and, in that case, todo for her what he could. Probably, had he done so, he would only haveheaped difficulty upon difficulty; but, as it was, if he was saved fromtrouble, he was not delivered from uneasiness. Clearly, however, the childmust not be exposed to the danger of the repetition of the attempt; and thewhole household was now so fully alive to the necessity of not losing sightof her for a moment, that her danger was far less than it had been at anytime before. 

I continued at the Hall for six weeks, during which my husband came severaltimes to see me; and, at the close of that period, took me back with himto my dear little home. The rooms, all but the study, looked very smallafter those I had left; but I felt, notwithstanding, that the place wasmy home. I was at first a little ashamed of the feeling; for why should Ibe anywhere more at home than in the house of such parents as mine? But Ipresume there is a certain amount of the queenly element in every woman, sothat she cannot feel perfectly at ease without something to govern, howeversmall and however troublesome her queendom may be. At my father's, I hadevery ministration possible, and all comforts in profusion; but I had noresponsibilities, and no rule; so that sometimes I could not help feelingas if I was idle, although I knew I was not to blame. Besides, I could notbe at all sure that my big bear was properly attended to; and the knowledgethat he was the most independent of comforts of all the men I had ever comeinto any relation with, made me only feel the more anxious that he shouldnot be left to his own neglect. For although my father, for instance, wasready to part with any thing, even to a favorite volume, if the good reasonof another's need showed itself, he was not at all indifferent in his ownperson to being comfortable. One with his intense power of enjoying thegentleness of the universe could not be so. Hence it was always easy tomake him a little present; whereas I have still to rack my brains for weeksbefore my bear's birthday comes round, to think of something that willin itself have a chance of giving him pleasure. Of course, it would becomparatively easy if I had plenty of money to spare, and hadn't "to muddleit all away" in paying butchers and bakers, and such like people. 

So home I went, to be queen again. Friends came to see me, but I returnedfew of their calls. I liked best to sit in my bedroom. I would havepreferred sitting in my wonderful little room off the study, and I triedthat first; but, the same morning, somebody called on Percivale, andstraightway I felt myself a prisoner. The moment I heard the strange voicethrough the door, I wanted to get out, and could not, of course. Such arisk I would not run again. And when Percivale asked me, the next day, ifI would not go down with him, I told him I could not bear the feeling ofconfinement it gave me. 

"I did mean, " he said, "to have had a door made into the garden for you, and I consulted an architect friend on the subject; but he soon satisfiedme it would make the room much too cold for you, and so I was compelled togive up the thought. "

"You dear!" I said. That was all; but it was enough for Percivale, whonever bothered me, as I have heard of husbands doing, for demonstrationseither of gratitude or affection. Such must be of the mole-eyed sort, whocan only read large print. So I betook myself to my chamber, and there satand worked; for I did a good deal of needle-work now, although I had neverbeen fond of it as a girl. The constant recurrence of similar motions ofthe fingers, one stitch just the same as another in countless repetition, varied only by the bother when the thread grew short and would slip out ofthe eye of the needle, and yet not short enough to be exchanged with stillmore bother for one too long, had been so wearisome to me in former days, that I spent half my pocket-money in getting the needle-work done for mewhich my mother and sister did for themselves. For this my father praisedme, and my mother tried to scold me, and couldn't. But now it was all sodifferent! Instead of toiling at plain stitching and hemming and sewing, I seemed to be working a bit of lovely tapestry all the time, --so manythoughts and so many pictures went weaving themselves into the work; whileevery little bit finished appeared so much of the labor of the universeactually done, --accomplished, ended: for the first time in my life, I beganto feel myself of consequence enough to be taken care of. I rememberonce laying down the little--what I was working at--but I am growing toocommunicative and important. 

My father used often to say that the commonest things in the world werethe loveliest, --sky and water and grass and such; now I found that thecommonest feelings of humanity--for what feelings could be commoner thanthose which now made me blessed amongst women?--are those that are fullestof the divine. Surely this looks as if there were a God of the wholeearth, --as if the world existed in the very foundations of its historyand continuance by the immediate thought of a causing thought. For simplybecause the life of the world was moving on towards its unseen goal, andI knew it and had a helpless share in it, I felt as if God was with me. Ido not say I always felt like this, --far from it: there were times whenlife itself seemed vanishing in an abyss of nothingness, when all myconsciousness consisted in this, that I knew I was _not_, and when I couldnot believe that I should ever be restored to the well-being of existence. The worst of it was, that, in such moods, it seemed as if I had hithertobeen deluding myself with rainbow fancies as often as I had been awareof blessedness, as there was, in fact, no wine of life apart from itseffervescence. But when one day I told Percivale--not while I was thusoppressed, for then I could not speak; but in a happier moment whosehappiness I mistrusted--something of what I felt, he said one thing whichhas comforted me ever since in such circumstances:--

"Don't grumble at the poverty, darling, by which another is made rich. "

I confess I did not see all at once what he meant; but I did after thinkingover it for a while. And if I have learned any valuable lesson in my life, it is this, that no one's feelings are a measure of eternal facts. 

The winter passed slowly away, --fog, rain, frost, snow, thaw, succeedingone another in all the seeming disorder of the season. A good many thingshappened, I believe; but I don't remember any of them. My mother wrote, offering me Dora for a companion; but somehow I preferred being withouther. One great comfort was good news about Connie, who was getting onfamously. But even this moved me so little that I began to think I wasturning into a crab, utterly incased in the shell of my own selfishness. The thought made me cry. The fact that I could cry consoled me, for howcould I be heartless so long as I could cry? But then came the thought itwas for myself, my own hard-heartedness I was crying, --not certainly forjoy that Connie was getting better. "At least, however, " I said to myself, "I am not content to be selfish. I am a little troubled that I am notgood. " And then I tried to look up, and get my needlework, which always didme good, by helping me to reflect. It is, I can't help thinking, a greatpity that needlework is going so much out of fashion; for it tends more tomake a woman--one who thinks, that is--acquainted with herself than all thesermons she is ever likely to hear. 

My father came to see me several times, and was all himself to me; butI could not feel quite comfortable with him, --I don't in the least knowwhy. I am afraid, much afraid, it indicates something very wrong in mesomewhere. But he seemed to understand me; and always, the moment heleft me, the tide of confidence began to flow afresh in the ocean thatlay about the little island of my troubles. Then I knew he was my ownfather, --something that even my husband could not be, and would not wish tobe to me. 

In the month of March, my mother came to see me; and that was all pleasure. My father did not always see when I was not able to listen to him, thoughhe was most considerate when he did; but my mother--why, to be with her waslike being with one's own--_mother_, I was actually going to write. Thereis nothing better than that when a woman is in such trouble, except itbe--what my father knows more about than I do: I wish I did know _all_about it. 

She brought with her a young woman to take the place of cook, or rathergeneral servant, in our little household. She had been kitchen-maid in asmall family of my mother's acquaintance, and had a good character forhonesty and plain cooking. Percivale's more experienced ear soon discoveredthat she was Irish. This fact had not been represented to my mother; forthe girl had been in England from childhood, and her mistress seemedeither not to have known it, or not to have thought of mentioning it. Certainly, my mother was far too just to have allowed it to influence herchoice, notwithstanding the prejudices against Irish women in Englishfamilies, --prejudices not without a general foundation in reason. For mypart, I should have been perfectly satisfied with my mother's choice, evenif I had not been so indifferent at the time to all that was going on inthe lower regions of the house. But while my mother was there, I knew wellenough that nothing could go wrong; and my housekeeping mind had never beenso much at ease since we were married. It was very delightful not tobe accountable; and, for the present, I felt exonerated from allresponsibilities. 

CHAPTER XII. 

AN INTRODUCTION. 

I woke one morning, after a sound sleep, --not so sound, however, but thatI had been dreaming, and that, when I awoke, I could recall my dream. Itwas a very odd one. I thought I was a hen, strutting about amongst ricksof corn, picking here and scratching there, followed by a whole broodof chickens, toward which I felt exceedingly benevolent and attentive. Suddenly I heard the scream of a hawk in the air above me, and instantlygave the proper cry to fetch the little creatures under my wings. Theycame scurrying to me as fast as their legs could carry them, --all but one, which wouldn't mind my cry, although I kept repeating it again and again. Meantime the hawk kept screaming; and I felt as if I didn't care for anyof those that were safe under my wings, but only for the solitary creaturethat kept pecking away as if nothing was the matter. About it I grew soterribly anxious, that at length I woke with a cry of misery and terror. 

The moment I opened my eyes, there was my mother standing beside me. Theroom was so dark that I thought for a moment what a fog there must be; butthe next, I forgot every thing at hearing a little cry, which I verilybelieve, in my stupid dream, I had taken for the voice of the hawk; whereasit was the cry of my first and only chicken, which I had not yet seen, butwhich my mother now held in her grandmotherly arms, ready to hand her tome. I dared not speak; for I felt very weak, and was afraid of crying fromdelight. I looked in my mother's face; and she folded back the clothes, andlaid the baby down beside me, with its little head resting on my arm. 

"Draw back the curtain a little bit, mother dear, " I whispered, "and let mesee what it is like. "

I believe I said _it_, for I was not quite a mother yet. My mother didas I requested; a ray of clear spring light fell upon the face of thelittle white thing by my side, --for white she was, though most babies arered, --and if I dared not speak before, I could not now. My mother wentaway again, and sat down by the fireside, leaving me with my baby. Nevershall I forget the unutterable content of that hour. It was not gladness, nor was it thankfulness, that filled my heart, but a certain absolutecontentment, --just on the point, but for my want of strength, of blossominginto unspeakable gladness and thankfulness. Somehow, too, there was mingledwith it a sense of dignity, as if I had vindicated for myself a rightto a part in the creation; for was I not proved at least a link in themarvellous chain of existence, in carrying on the designs of the greatMaker? Not that the thought was there, --only the feeling, which afterwardsfound the thought, in order to account for its own being. Besides, thestate of perfect repose after what had passed was in itself bliss; the verysense of weakness was delightful, for I had earned the right to be weak, torest as much as I pleased, to be important, and to be congratulated. 

Somehow I had got through. The trouble lay behind me; and here, for thesake of any one who will read my poor words, I record the conviction, that, in one way or other, special individual help is given to every creatureto endure to the end. I think I have heard my father say, and hitherto ithas been my own experience, that always when suffering, whether mental orbodily, approached the point where further endurance appeared impossible, the pulse of it began to ebb, and a lull ensued. I do not venture to foundany general assertion upon this: I only state it as a fact of my ownexperience. He who does not allow any man to be tempted above that he isable to bear, doubtless acts in the same way in all kinds of trials. 

I was listening to the gentle talk about me in the darkened room--notlistening, indeed, only aware that loving words were spoken. Whether I wasdozing, I do not know; but something touched my lips. I did not start. Ihad been dreadfully given to starting for a long time, --so much so that Iwas quite ashamed sometimes, for I would even cry out, --I who had alwaysbeen so sharp on feminine affectations before; but now it seemed as ifnothing could startle me. I only opened my eyes; and there was my greatbig huge bear looking down on me, with something in his eyes I had neverseen there before. But even his presence could not ripple the waters of mydeep rest. I gave him half a smile, --I knew it was but half a smile, but Ithought it would do, --closed my eyes, and sunk again, not into sleep, butinto that same blessed repose. I remember wondering if I should feel anything like that for the first hour or two after I was dead. May there notone day be such a repose for all, --only the heavenly counterpart, coming ofperfect activity instead of weary success?

This was all but the beginning of endlessly varied pleasures. I dare saythe mothers would let me go on for a good while in this direction, --perhapseven some of the fathers could stand a little more of it; but I mustremember, that, if anybody reads this at all, it will have multitudes ofreaders in whom the chord which could alone respond to such experienceshangs loose over the sounding-board of their being. 

By slow degrees the daylight, the light of work, that is, began topenetrate me, or rather to rise in my being from its own hidden sun. FirstI began to wash and dress my baby myself. One who has not tried thatkind of amusement cannot know what endless pleasure it affords. I do notdoubt that to the paternal spectator it appears monotonous, unproductive, unprogressive; but then he, looking upon it from the outside, and regardingthe process with a speculative compassion, and not with sympathy, so cannotknow the communion into which it brings you with the baby. I remember wellenough what my father has written about it in "The Seaboard Parish;" but heis all wrong--I mean him to confess that before this is printed. If thingswere done as he proposes, the tenderness of mothers would be far lessdeveloped, and the moral training of children would be postponed to anindefinite period. There, papa! that's something in your own style!

Next I began to order the dinners; and the very day on which I firstordered the dinner, I took my place at the head of the table. A happierlittle party--well, of course, I saw it all through the rose-mists ofmy motherhood, but I am nevertheless bold to assert that my husband washappy, and that my mother was happy; and if there was one more guest atthe table concerning whom I am not prepared to assert that he was happy, I can confidently affirm that he was merry and gracious and talkative, originating three parts of the laughter of the evening. To watch him withthe baby was a pleasure even to the heart of a mother, anxious as she mustbe when any one, especially a gentleman, more especially a bachelor, andmost especially a young bachelor, takes her precious little wax-doll inhis arms, and pretends to know all about the management of such. It was heindeed who introduced her to the dining-room; for, leaving the table duringdessert, he returned bearing her in his arms, to my astonishment, and evenmild maternal indignation at the liberty. Resuming his seat, and pouringout for his charge, as he pretended, a glass of old port, he said in thesoberest voice:--

"Charles Percivale, with all the solemnity suitable to the occasion, I, the old moon, with the new moon in my arms, propose the health of MissPercivale on her first visit to this boring bullet of a world. By the way, what a mercy it is that she carries her atmosphere with her!"

Here I, stupidly thinking he reflected on the atmosphere of baby, rose totake her from him with suppressed indignation; for why should a man, whoassumes a baby unbidden, be so very much nicer than a woman who accepts heras given, and makes the best of it? But he declined giving her up. 

"I'm not pinching her, " he said. 

"No; but I am afraid you find her disagreeable. "

"On the contrary, she is the nicest of little ladies; for she lets you talkall the nonsense you like, and never takes the least offence. "

I sat down again directly. 

"I propose her health, " he repeated, "coupled with that of her mother, to whom I, for one, am more obliged than I can explain, for at lengthconvincing me that I belong no more to the youth of my country, but am anuncle with a homuncle in his arms. "

"Wifie, your health! Baby, yours too!" said my husband; and the ladiesdrank the toast in silence. 

It is time I explained who this fourth--or should I say fifth?--person inour family party was. He was the younger brother of my Percivale, by nameRoger, --still more unsuccessful than he; of similar trustworthiness, butless equanimity; for he was subject to sudden elevations and depressionsof the inner barometer. I shall have more to tell about him by and by. Meantime it is enough to mention that my daughter--how grand I thought itwhen I first said _my daughter_!--now began her acquaintance with him. Before long he was her chief favorite next to her mother and--I am sorryI cannot conscientiously add _father_; for, at a certain early period ofher history, the child showed a decided preference for her uncle over herfather. 

But it is time I put a stop to this ooze of maternal memories. Having thusintroduced my baby and her Uncle Roger, I close the chapter. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

MY FIRST DINNER-PARTY. A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL. 

It may well be believed that we had not yet seen much company in ourlittle house. To parties my husband had a great dislike; evening partieshe eschewed utterly, and never accepted an invitation to dinner, exceptit were to the house of a friend, or to that of one of my few relativesin London, whom, for my sake, he would not displease. There were notmany, even among his artist-acquaintances, whom he cared to visit; and, altogether, I fear he passed for an unsociable man. I am certain he wouldhave sold more pictures if he had accepted what invitations came in hisway. But to hint at such a thing would, I knew, crystallize his dislikeinto a resolve. 

One day, after I had got quite strong again, as I was sitting by him in thestudy, with my baby on my knee, I proposed that we should ask some friendsto dinner. Instead of objecting to the procedure upon general principles, which I confess I had half anticipated, he only asked me whom I thought ofinviting. When I mentioned the Morleys, he made no reply, but went on withhis painting as if he had not heard me; whence I knew, of course, that theproposal was disagreeable to him. 

"You see, we have been twice to dine with them, " I said. 

"Well, don't you think that enough for a while?"

"I'm talking of asking them here now. "

"Couldn't you go and see your cousin some morning instead?"

"It's not that I want to see my cousin particularly. I want to ask them todinner. "

"Oh!" he said, as if he couldn't in the least make out what I was after, "Ithought people asked people because they desired their company. "

"But, you see, we owe them a dinner. "

"Owe them a dinner! Did you borrow one, then?"

"Percivale, why will you pretend to be so stupid?"

"Perhaps I'm only pretending to be the other thing. "

"Do you consider yourself under no obligation to people who ask you todinner?"

"None in the least--if I accept the invitation. That is the naturalacknowledgment of their kindness. Surely my company is worth my dinner. Itis far more trouble to me to put on black clothes and a white choker and goto their house, than it is for them to ask me, or, in a house like theirs, to have the necessary preparations made for receiving me in a mannerbefitting their dignity. I do violence to my own feelings in going: is notthat enough? You know how much I prefer a chop with my wife alone to thegrandest dinner the grandest of her grand relations could give me. "

"Now, don't you make game of my grand relations. I'm not sure that youhaven't far grander relations yourself, only you say so little about them, they might all have been transported for housebreaking. Tell me honestly, don't you think it natural, if a friend asks you to dinner, that you shouldask him again?"

"Yes, if it would give him any pleasure. But just imagine your CousinMorley dining at our table. Do you think he would enjoy it?"

"Of course we must have somebody in to help Jemima. "

"And somebody to wait, I suppose?"

"Yes, of course, Percivale. "

"And what Thackeray calls cold balls handed about?"

"Well, I wouldn't have them cold. "

"But they would be. "

I was by this time so nearly crying, that I said nothing here. 

"My love, " he resumed, "I object to the whole thing. It's all falsetogether. I have not the least disinclination to asking a few friends whowould enjoy being received in the same style as your father or my brother;namely, to one of our better dinners, and perhaps something better to drinkthan I can afford every day; but just think with what uneasy compassion Mr. Morley would regard our poor ambitions, even if you had an occasional cookand an undertaker's man. And what would he do without his glass of drysherry after his soup, and his hock and champagne later, not to mention hisfine claret or tawny port afterwards? I don't know how to get these thingsgood enough for him without laying in a stock; and, that you know, would beas absurd as it is impossible. "

"Oh, you gentlemen always think so much of the wine!"

"Believe me, it is as necessary to Mr. Morley's comfort as the dainties youwould provide him with. Indeed, it would be a cruelty to ask him. He wouldnot, could not, enjoy it. "

"If he didn't like it, he needn't come again, " I said, cross with theobjections of which I could not but see the justice. 

"Well, I must say you have an odd notion of hospitality, " said my bear. "You may be certain, " he resumed, after a moment's pause, "that a man sowell aware of his own importance will take it far more as a compliment thatyou do not presume to invite him to your house, but are content to enjoyhis society when he asks you to his. "

"I don't choose to take such an inferior position, " I said. 

"You can't help it, my dear, " he returned. "Socially considered, you _are_his inferior. You cannot give dinners he would regard with any thing betterthan a friendly contempt, combined with a certain mild indignation at yourhaving presumed to ask _him_, used to such different ways. It is far moregraceful to accept the small fact, and let him have his whim, which is nota subversive one or at all dangerous to the community, being of a sort easyto cure. Ha! ha! ha!"

"May I ask what you are laughing at?" I said with severity. 

"I was only fancying how such a man must feel, --if what your blessed fatherbelieves be true, --when he is stripped all at once of every possible sourceof consequence, --stripped of position, funds, house, including cellar, clothes, body, including stomach"--

"There, there! don't be vulgar. It is not like you, Percivale. "

"My love, there is far greater vulgarity in refusing to acknowledge theinevitable, either in society or in physiology. Just ask my brother hisexperience in regard of the word to which you object. "

"I will leave that to you. "

"Don't be vexed with me, my wife, " he said. 

"I don't like not to be allowed to pay my debts. "

"Back to the starting-point, like a hunted hare! A woman's way, " he saidmerrily, hoping to make me laugh; for he could not doubt I should see theabsurdity of my position with a moment's reflection. But I was out oftemper, and chose to pounce upon the liberty taken with my sex, and regardit as an insult. Without a word I rose, pressed my baby to my bosom as ifher mother had been left a widow, and swept away. Percivale started to hisfeet. I did not see, but I knew he gazed after me for a moment; then Iheard him sit down to his painting as if nothing had happened, but, I knew, with a sharp pain inside his great chest. For me, I found the precipice, or Jacob's ladder, I had to climb, very subversive of my dignity; for whena woman has to hold a baby in one arm, and with the hand of the otherlift the front of her skirt in order to walk up an almost perpendicularstaircase, it is quite impossible for her to _sweep_ any more. 

When I reached the top, I don't know how it was, but the picture he hadmade of me, with the sunset-shine coming through the window, flashed uponmy memory. All dignity forgotten, I bolted through the door at the top, flung my baby into the arms of her nurse, turned, almost tumbled headlongdown the precipice, and altogether tumbled down at my husband's chair. Icouldn't speak; I could only lay my head on his knees. 

"Darling, " he said, "you shall ask the great Pan Jan with his button atop, if you like. I'll do my best for him. "

Between crying and laughing, I nearly did what I have never really doneyet, --I nearly _went off_. There! I am sure that phrase is quite asobjectionable as the word I wrote a little while ago; and there it shallstand, as a penance for having called any word my husband used _vulgar_. 

"I was very naughty, Percivale, " I said. "I will give a dinner-party, andit shall be such as you shall enjoy, and I won't ask Mr. Morley. "

"Thank you, my love, " he said; "and the next time Mr. Morley asks us I willgo without a grumble, and make myself as agreeable as I can. "

 * * * * *

It may have seemed, to some of my readers, occasion for surprise that themistress of a household should have got so far in the construction of abook without saying a word about her own or other people's servants ingeneral. Such occasion shall no longer be afforded them; for now I amgoing to say several things about one of mine, and thereby introduce afew results of much experience and some thought. I do not pretend to havemade a single discovery, but only to have achieved what I count a certainmeasure of success; which, however, I owe largely to my own poverty, andthe stupidity of my cook. 

I have had a good many servants since, but Jemima seems a fixture. Howthis has come about, it would be impossible to say in ever so many words. Over and over I have felt, and may feel again before the day is ended, aprofound sympathy with Sindbad the sailor, when the Old Man of the Sea wason his back, and the hope of ever getting him off it had not yet begun todawn. She has by turns every fault under the sun, --I say _fault_ only;will struggle with one for a day, and succumb to it for a month; whilethe smallest amount of praise is sufficient to render her incapable ofdeserving a word of commendation for a week. She is intensely stupid, witha remarkable genius--yes, genius--for cooking. My father says that allstupidity is caused, or at least maintained, by conceit. I cannot quiteaccompany him to his conclusions; but I have seen plainly enough that thestupidest people are the most conceited, which in some degree favors them. It was long an impossibility to make her see, or at least own, that she wasto blame for any thing. If the dish she had last time cooked to perfectionmade its appearance the next time uneatable, she would lay it all to the_silly_ oven, which was too hot or too cold; or the silly pepper-pot, thetop of which fell off as she was using it. She had no sense of the valueof proportion, --would insist, for instance, that she had made the cakeprecisely as she had been told, but suddenly betray that she had notweighed the flour, which _could_ be of no consequence, seeing she hadweighed every thing else. 

"Please, 'm, could you eat your dinner now? for it's all ready, " she camesaying an hour before dinner-time, the very first day after my motherleft. Even now her desire to be punctual is chiefly evidenced by absurdprecipitancy, to the danger of doing every thing either to a pulp or acinder. Yet here she is, and here she is likely to remain, so far as I see, till death, or some other catastrophe, us do part. The reason of it is, that, with all her faults--and they are innumerable--she has some heart;yes, after deducting all that can be laid to the account of a certaincunning perception that she is well off, she has yet a good deal of genuineattachment left; and after setting down the half of her possessions to theblarney which is the natural weapon of the weak-witted Celt, there seemsyet left in her of the vanishing clan instinct enough to render her ajealous partisan of her master and mistress. 

Those who care only for being well-served will of course feel contemptuoustowards any one who would put up with such a woman for a single momentafter she could find another; but both I and my husband have a strongpreference for living in a family, rather than in a hotel. I know manyhouses in which the master and mistress are far more like the lodgers, on sufferance of their own servants. I have seen a worthy lady go aboutwringing her hands because she could not get her orders attended to in theemergency of a slight accident, not daring to go down to her own kitchen, as her love prompted, and expedite the ministration. I am at least mistressin my own house; my servants are, if not yet so much members of the familyas I could wish, gradually becoming more so; there is a circulation ofcommon life through the household, rendering us an organization, althoughas yet perhaps a low one; I am sure of being obeyed, and there are nounderhand out-of-door connections. When I go to the houses of my richrelations, and hear what they say concerning their servants, I feel as ifthey were living over a mine, which might any day be sprung, and blow theminto a state of utter helplessness; and I return to my house blessed inthe knowledge that my little kingdom is my own, and that, although it isnot free from internal upheavings and stormy commotions, these are such asto be within the control and restraint of the general family influences;while the blunders of the cook seem such trifles beside the evil customsestablished in most kitchens of which I know any thing, that they areturned even into sources of congratulation as securing her services forourselves. More than once my husband has insisted on raising her wages, onthe ground of the endless good he gets in his painting from the merrimenther oddities afford him, --namely, the clear insight, which, he asserts, isthe invariable consequence. I must in honesty say, however, that I haveseen him something else than merry with her behavior, many a time. 

But I find the things I have to say so crowd upon me, that I must eitherproceed to arrange them under heads, --which would immediately deprive themof any right to a place in my story, --or keep them till they are naturallyswept from the bank of my material by the slow wearing of the current of mynarrative. I prefer the latter, because I think my readers will. 

What with one thing and another, this thing to be done and that thing tobe avoided, there was nothing more said about the dinner-party, until myfather came to see us in the month of July. I was to have paid them a visitbefore then; but things had come in the way of that also, and now my fatherwas commissioned by my mother to arrange for my going the next month. 

As soon as I had shown my father to his little room, I ran down toPercivale. 

"Papa is come, " I said. 

"I am delighted to hear it, " he answered, laying down his palette andbrushes. "Where is he?"

"Gone up stairs, " I answered. "I wouldn't disturb you till he came downagain. "

He answered with that world-wide English phrase, so suggestive of a hopefuldisposition, "All right!" And with all its grumbling, and the _tristesse_which the French consider its chief characteristic, I think my father isright, who says, that, more than any other nation, England has been, is, and will be, saved by hope. Resuming his implements, my husband added, --

"I haven't quite finished my pipe, --I will go on till he comes down. "

Although he laid it on his pipe, I knew well enough it was just that littlebit of paint he wanted to finish, and not the residue of tobacco in theblack and red bowl. 

"And now we'll have our dinner party, " I said. 

I do believe, that, for all the nonsense I had talked about returninginvitations, the real thing at my heart even then was an impulse towardshospitable entertainment, and the desire to see my husband merry with hisfriends, under--shall I say it?--the protecting wing of his wife. For, asmother of the family, the wife has to mother her husband also; to considerhim as her first-born, and look out for what will not only give himpleasure but be good for him. And I may just add here, that for a long timemy bear has fully given in to this. 

"And who are you going to ask?" he said. "Mr. And Mrs. Morley to beginwith, and"--

"No, no, " I answered. "We are going to have a jolly evening of it, with nobody present who will make you either anxious or annoyed. Mr. Blackstone, "--he wasn't married then, --"Miss Clare, I think, --and"--

"What do you ask her for?"

"I won't if you don't like her, but"--

"I haven't had a chance of liking or disliking her yet. "

"That is partly why I want to ask her, --I am so sure you would like her ifyou knew her. "

"Where did you tell me you had met her?"

"At Cousin Judy's. I must have one lady to keep me in countenance with somany gentlemen, you know. I have another reason for asking her, which Iwould rather you should find out than I tell you. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least, if you don't think she will spoil the fun. "

"I am sure she won't. Then there's your brother Roger. "

"Of course. Who more?"

"I think that will do. There will be six of us then, --quite a large enoughparty for our little dining-room. "

"Why shouldn't we dine here? It wouldn't be so hot, and we should have moreroom. "

I liked the idea. The night before, Percivale arranged every thing, sothat not only his paintings, of which he had far too many, and whichwere huddled about the room, but all his _properties_ as well, should beaccessory to a picturesque effect. And when the table was covered with theglass and plate, --of which latter my mother had taken care I should not bedestitute, --and adorned with the flowers which Roger brought me from CoventGarden, assisted by a few of our own, I thought the bird's-eye view fromthe top of Jacob's ladder a very pretty one indeed. 

Resolved that Percivale should have no cause of complaint as regarded thesimplicity of my arrangements, I gave orders that our little Ethel, who atthat time of the evening was always asleep, should be laid on the couch inmy room off the study, with the door ajar, so that Sarah, who was now hernurse, might wait with an easy mind. The dinner was brought in by the outerdoor of the study, to avoid the awkwardness and possible disaster of theprivate precipice. 

The principal dish, a small sirloin of beef, was at the foot of the table, and a couple of boiled fowls, as I thought, before me. But when the coverswere removed, to my surprise I found they were roasted. 

"What have you got there, Percivale?" I asked. "Isn't it sirloin?"

"I'm not an adept in such matters, " he replied. "I should say it was. "

My father gave a glance at the joint. Something seemed to be wrong. Irose and went to my husband's side. Powers of cuisine! Jemima had roastedthe fowls, and boiled the sirloin. My exclamation was the signal for anoutbreak of laughter, led by my father. I was trembling in the balancebetween mortification on my own account and sympathy with the evidentamusement of my father and Mr. Blackstone. But the thought that Mr. Morleymight have been and was not of the party came with such a pang and such arelief, that it settled the point, and I burst out laughing. 

"I dare say it's all right, " said Roger. "Why shouldn't a sirloin be boiledas well as roasted? I venture to assert that it is all a whim, and we areon the verge of a new discovery to swell the number of those which alreadyowe their being to blunders. "

"Let us all try a slice, then, " said Mr. Blackstone, "and compare results. "

This was agreed to; and a solemn silence followed, during which each soughtacquaintance with the new dish. 

"I am sorry to say, " remarked my father, speaking first, "that Roger isall wrong, and we have only made the discovery that custom is right. It isplain enough why sirloin is always roasted. "

"I yield myself convinced, " said Roger. 

"And I am certain, " said Mr. Blackstone, "that if the loin set before theking, whoever he was, had been boiled, be would never have knighted it. "

Thanks to the loin, the last possible touch of constraint had vanished, and the party grew a very merry one. The apple-pudding which followed wasdeclared perfect, and eaten up. Percivale produced some good wine fromsomewhere, which evidently added to the enjoyment of the gentlemen, myfather included, who likes a good glass of wine as well as anybody. Buta tiny little whimper called me away, and Miss Clare accompanied me; thegentlemen insisting that we should return as soon as possible, and bringthe homuncle, as Roger called the baby, with us. 

When we returned, the two clergymen were in close conversation, and theother two gentlemen were chiefly listening. My father was saying, --

"My dear sir, I don't see how any man can do his duty as a clergyman whodoesn't visit his parishioners. "

"In London it is simply impossible, " returned Mr. Blackstone. "In thecountry you are welcome wherever you go; any visit I might pay would mostlikely be regarded either as an intrusion, or as giving the right topecuniary aid, of which evils the latter is the worse. There are portionsof every London parish which clergymen and their coadjutors have sodegraded by the practical teaching of beggary, that they have blockedup every door to a healthy spiritual relation between them and pastorpossible. "

"Would you not give alms at all, then?"

"One thing, at least, I have made up my mind upon, --that alms from any butthe hand of personal friendship tend to evil, and will, in the long run, increase misery. "

"What, then, do you suppose the proper relation between a London clergymanand his parishioners?"

"One, I am afraid, which does not at present exist, --one which it is hisfirst business perhaps to bring about. I confess I regard with a repulsionamounting to horror the idea of walking into a poor man's house, excepteither I have business with him, or desire his personal acquaintance. "

"But if our office"--

"Makes it my business to serve--not to assume authority over themespecially to the degree of forcing service upon them. I will not sayhow far intimacy may not justify you in immediate assault upon a man'sconscience; but I shrink from any plan that seems to take it for grantedthat the poor are more wicked than the rich. Why don't we send missionariesto Belgravia? The outside of the cup and platter may sometimes be dirtierthan the inside. "

"Your missionary could hardly force his way through the servants to theboudoir or drawing-room. "

"And the poor have no servants to defend them. "

I have recorded this much of the conversation chiefly for the sake ofintroducing Miss Clare, who now spoke. 

"Don't you think, sir, " she asked, addressing my father, "that the help onecan give to another must always depend on the measure in which one is freeone's self?"

My father was silent--thinking. We were all silent. I said to myself, "There, papa! that is something after your own heart. " With markeddeference and solemnity he answered at length, --

"I have little doubt you are right, Miss Clare. That puts the questionupon its own eternal foundation. The mode used must be of infinitely lessimportance than the person who uses it. "

As he spoke, he looked at her with a far more attentive regard thanhitherto. Indeed, the eyes of all the company seemed to be scanningthe small woman; but she bore the scrutiny well, if indeed she was notunconscious of it; and my husband began to find out one of my reasons forasking her, which was simply that he might see her face. At this moment itwas in one of its higher phases. It was, at its best, a grand face, --at itsworst, a suffering face; a little too large, perhaps, for the small bodywhich it crowned with a flame of soul; but while you saw her face you neverthought of the rest of her; and her attire seemed to court an escape fromall observation. 

"But, " my father went on, looking at Mr. Blackstone, "I am anxious from theclergyman's point of view, to know what my friend here thinks he must tryto do in his very difficult position. "

"I think the best thing I could do, " returned Mr. Blackstone, laughing, "would be to go to school to Miss Clare. "

"I shouldn't wonder, " my father responded. 

"But, in the mean time, I should prefer the chaplaincy of a suburbancemetery. "

"Certainly your charge would be a less troublesome one. Your congregationwould be quiet enough, at least, " said Roger. 

"'Then are they glad because they be quiet, '" said my father, as ifunconsciously uttering his own reflections. But he was a little cunning, and would say things like that when, fearful of irreverence, he wanted toturn the current of the conversation. 

"But, surely, " said Miss Clare, "a more active congregation would be quiteas desirable. "

She had one fault--no, defect: she was slow to enter into the humor of athing. It seemed almost as if the first aspect of any bit of fun presentedto her was that of something wrong. A moment's reflection, however, almostalways ended in a sunny laugh, partly at her own stupidity, as she calledit. 

"You mistake my meaning, " said Mr. Blackstone. "My chief, almost sole, attraction to the regions of the grave is the sexton, and not the placidityof the inhabitants; though perhaps Miss Clare might value that more highlyif she had more experience of how noisy human nature can be. "

Miss Clare gave a little smile, which after-knowledge enabled me tointerpret as meaning, "Perhaps I do know a trifle about it;" but she saidnothing. 

"My first inquiry, " he went on, "before accepting such an appointment, would be as to the character and mental habits of the sexton. If I foundhim a man capable of regarding human nature from a stand-point of hisown, I should close with the offer at once. If, on the contrary, he wasa common-place man, who made faultless responses, and cherished thefriendship of the undertaker, I should decline. In fact, I should regardthe sexton as my proposed master; and whether I should accept the placeor not would depend altogether on whether I liked him or not. Think whatrevelations of human nature a real man in such a position could give me:'Hand me the shovel. You stop a bit, --you're out of breath. Sit down onthat stone there, and light your pipe; here's some tobacco. Now tell methe rest of the story. How did the old fellow get on after he had buriedhis termagant wife?' That's how I should treat him; and I should get, in return, such a succession of peeps into human life and intent andaspirations, as, in the course of a few years, would send me to the nextvicarage that turned up a sadder and wiser man, Mr. Walton. "

"I don't doubt it, " said my father; but whether in sympathy with Mr. Blackstone, or in latent disapproval of a tone judged unbecoming to aclergyman, I cannot tell. Sometimes, I confess, I could not help suspectingthe source of the deficiency in humor which he often complained of in me;but I always came to the conclusion that what seemed such a deficiency inhim was only occasioned by the presence of a deeper feeling. 

Miss Clare was the first to leave. 

"What a lovely countenance that is!" said my husband, the moment she wasout of hearing. 

"She is a very remarkable woman, " said my father. 

"I suspect she knows a good deal more than most of us, " said Mr. Blackstone. "Did you see how her face lighted up always before she said anything? You can never come nearer to seeing a thought than in her face justbefore she speaks. "

"What is she?" asked Roger. 

"Can't you see what she is?" returned his brother. "She's a saint, --SaintClare. "

"If you had been a Scotchman, now, " said Roger "that fine name would havesunk to _Sinkler_ in your mouth. "

"Not a more vulgar corruption, however, than is common in the mouthsof English lords and ladies, when they turn _St. John_ into _Singen_, reminding one of nothing but the French for an ape, " said my father. 

"But what does she do?" persisted Roger. 

"Why should you think she does any thing?" I asked. 

"She looks as if she had to earn her own living. "

"She does. She teaches music. "

"Why didn't you ask her to play?"

"Because this is the first time she has been to the house. "

"Does she go to church, do you suppose?"

"I have no doubt of it; but why do you ask?"

"Because she looks as if she didn't want it. I never saw such an angelicexpression upon a countenance. "

"You must take me to call upon her, " said my father. 

"I will with pleasure, " I answered. 

I found, however, that this was easier promised than performed; for I hadasked her by word of mouth at Cousin Judy's, and had not the slightestidea where she lived. Of course I applied to Judy; but she had mislaid heraddress, and, promising to ask her for it, forgot more than once. My fatherhad to return home without seeing her again. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A PICTURE. 

Things went on very quietly for some time. Of course I was fully occupied, as well I might be, with a life to tend and cultivate which must blossom atlength into the human flowers of love and obedience and faith. The smallestservice I did the wonderful thing that lay in my lap seemed a something initself so well worth doing, that it was worth living to do it. As I gazedon the new creation, so far beyond my understanding, yet so dependent uponme while asserting an absolute and divine right to all I did for her, Imarvelled that God should intrust me with such a charge, that he did notkeep the lovely creature in his own arms, and refuse her to any others. Then I would bethink myself that in giving her into mine, he had not senther out of his own; for I, too, was a child in his arms, holding andtending my live doll, until it should grow something like me, only ever somuch better. Was she not given to me that she might learn what I had begunto learn, namely, that a willing childhood was the flower of life? How canany mother sit with her child on her lap and not know that there is a Godover all, --know it by the rising of her own heart in prayer to him? But sofew have had parents like mine! If my mother felt thus when I lay in herarms, it was no wonder I should feel thus when my child lay in mine. 

Before I had children of my own, I did not care about children, andtherefore did not understand them; but I had read somewhere, --and it clungto me although I did not understand it, --that it was in laying hold of theheart of his mother that Jesus laid his first hold on the world to redeemit; and now at length I began to understand it. What a divine way of savingus it was, --to let her bear him, carry him in her bosom, wash him anddress him and nurse him and sing him to sleep, --offer him the adoration ofmother's love, misunderstand him, chide him, forgive him even for fanciedwrong! Such a love might well save a world in which were mothers enough. Itwas as if he had said, "Ye shall no more offer vain sacrifices to one whoneeds them not, and cannot use them. I will need them, so require them atyour hands. I will hunger and thirst and be naked and cold, and ye shallminister to me. Sacrifice shall be no more a symbol, but a real givingunto God; and when I return to the Father, inasmuch as ye do it to one ofthe least of these, ye do it unto me. " So all the world is henceforth thetemple of God; its worship is ministration; the commonest service is divineservice. 

I feared at first that the new strange love I felt in my heart came only ofthe fact that the child was Percivale's and mine; but I soon found it hada far deeper source, --that it sprung from the very humanity of the infantwoman, yea, from her relation in virtue of that humanity to the Father ofall. The fountain _appeared_ in my heart: it arose from an infinite storein the unseen. 

Soon, however, came jealousy of my love for my baby. I feared lest itshould make me--nay, was making me--neglect my husband. The fear firstarose in me one morning as I sat with her half dressed on my knees. I wasdawdling over her in my fondness, as I used to dawdle over the dressing ofmy doll, when suddenly I became aware that never once since her arrivalhad I sat with my husband in his study. A pang of dismay shot throughme. "Is this to be a wife?" I said to myself, --"to play with a live lovelike a dead doll, and forget her husband!" I caught up a blanket from thecradle, --I am not going to throw away that good old word for the uglyoutlandish name they give it now, reminding one only of a helmet, --I caughtup a blanket from the cradle, I say, wrapped it round the treasure, whichwas shooting its arms and legs in every direction like a polypus feelingafter its food, --and rushed down stairs, and down the precipice into thestudy. Percivale started up in terror, thinking something fearful hadhappened, and I was bringing him all that was left of the child. 

"What--what--what's the matter?" he gasped. 

I could not while he was thus frightened explain to him what had driven meto him in such alarming haste. 

"I've brought you the baby to kiss, " I said, unfolding the blanket, andholding up the sprawling little goddess towards the face that towered aboveme. 

"Was it dying for a kiss then?" he said, taking her, blanket and all, frommy arms. 

The end of the blanket swept across his easel, and smeared the face of thebaby in a picture of the _Three Kings_, at which he was working. 

"O Percivale!" I cried, "you've smeared your baby!"

"But this is a real live baby; she may smear any thing she likes. "

"Except her own face and hands, please, then, Percivale. "

"Or her blessed frock, " said Percivale. "She hasn't got one, though. Whyhasn't the little angel got her feathers on yet?"

"I was in such a hurry to bring her. "

"To be kissed?"

"No, not exactly. It wasn't her I was in a hurry to bring; it was myself. "

"Ah! you wanted to be kissed, did you?"

"No, sir. I didn't want to be kissed; but I did so want to kiss you, Percivale. "

"Isn't it all the same, though, darling?" he said. "It seems so to me. "

"Sometimes, Percivale, you are so very stupid! It's not the same at all. There's a world of difference between the two; and you ought to know it, orbe told it, if you don't. "

"I shall think it over as soon as you leave me, " he said. 

"But I'm not going to leave you for a long time. I haven't seen you paintfor weeks and weeks, --not since this little troublesome thing came pokingin between us. "

"But she's not dressed yet. "

"That doesn't signify. She's well wrapped up, and quite warm. "

He put me a chair where I could see his picture without catching the shineof the paint. I took the baby from him, and he went on with his work. 

"You don't think I am going to sacrifice all my privileges to this littletyrant, do you?" I said. 

"It would be rather hard for me, at least, " he rejoined. 

"You did think I was neglecting you, then, Percivale?"

"Not for a moment. "

"Then you didn't miss me?"

"I did, very much. "

"And you didn't grumble?"

"No. "

"Do I disturb you?" I asked, after a little pause. "Can you paint just aswell when I am here as when you are alone?"

"Better. I feel warmer to my work somehow. "

I was satisfied, and held my peace. When I am best pleased I don't wantto talk. But Percivale, perhaps not having found this out yet, lookedanxiously in my face; and, as at the moment my eyes were fixed on hispicture, I thought he wanted to find out whether I liked the design. 

"I see it now!" I cried. "I could not make out where the Magi were. "

He had taken for the scene of his picture an old farm kitchen, or yeoman'shall, with its rich brown rafters, its fire on the hearth, and its redbrick floor. A tub half full of bright water, stood on one side; and themother was bending over her baby, which, undressed for the bath, she washolding out for the admiration of the Magi. Immediately behind the motherstood, in the garb of a shepherd, my father, leaning on the ordinaryshepherd's crook; my mother, like a peasant-woman in her Sunday-best, witha white handkerchief crossed upon her bosom, stood beside him, and bothwere gazing with a chastened yet profound pleasure on the lovely child. 

In front stood two boys and a girl, --between the ages of five andnine, --gazing each with a peculiar wondering delight on the baby. The youngest boy, with a great spotted wooden horse in his hand, wasapproaching to embrace the infant in such fashion as made the toy lookdangerous, and the left hand of the mother was lifted with a motion ofwarning and defence. The little girl, the next youngest, had, in herabsorption, dropped her gaudily dressed doll at her feet, and stood suckingher thumb, her big blue eyes wide with contemplation. The eldest boy hadbrought his white rabbit to give the baby, but had forgotten all about it, so full was his heart of his new brother. An expression of mingled love andwonder and perplexity had already begun to dawn upon the face, but it wasas yet far from finished. He stood behind the other two peeping over theirheads. 

"Were you thinking of that Titian in the Louvre, with the white rabbit init?" I asked Percivale. 

"I did not think of it until after I had put in the rabbit, " he replied. "And it shall remain; for it suits my purpose, and Titian would not claimall the white rabbits because of that one. "

"Did you think of the black lamb in it, then, when you laid that blackpussy on the hearth?" I asked. 

"Black lamb?" he returned. 

"Yes, " I insisted; "a black lamb, in the dark background--such a very blacklamb, and in such a dark background, that it seems you never discoveredit. "

"Are you sure?" he persisted. 

"Absolutely certain, " I replied. "I pointed it out to papa in the pictureitself in the Louvre; he had not observed it before either. "

"I am very glad to know there is such a thing there. I need not answer yourquestion, you see. It is odd enough I should have put in the black puss. Upon some grounds I might argue that my puss is better than Titian's lamb. "

"What grounds? tell me. "

"If the painter wanted a contrast, a lamb, be he as black as ever paintcould make him, must still be a more Christian animal than a cat as whiteas snow. Under what pretence could a cat be used for a Christian symbol?"

"What do you make of her playfulness?"

"I should count that a virtue, were it not for the fatal objection that itis always exercised at the expense of other creatures. "

"A ball of string, or a reel, or a bit of paper, is enough for anuncorrupted kitten. "

"But you must not forget that it serves only in virtue of the creature'simagination representing it as alive. If you do not make it move, she willherself set it in motion as the initiative of the game. If she cannot dothat, she will take no notice of it. "

"Yes, I see. I give in. "

All this time he had been painting diligently. He could now combine talkingand painting far better than he used. But a knock came to the study door;and, remembering baby's unpresentable condition, I huddled her up, climbedthe stair again, and finished the fledging of my little angel in a veryhappy frame of mind. 

CHAPTER XV. 

RUMORS. 

Hardly was it completed, when Cousin Judy called, and I went down to seeher, carrying my baby with me. As I went, something put me in mind that Imust ask her for Miss Clare's address. Lest I should again forget, as soonas she had kissed and admired the baby, I said, --

"Have you found out yet where Miss Clare lives, Judy?"

"I don't choose to find out, " she answered. "I am sorry to say I have hadto give her up. It is a disappointment, I confess. "

"What do you mean?" I said. "I thought you considered her a very goodteacher. "

"I have no fault to find with her on that score. She was always punctual, and I must allow both played well and taught the children delightfully. But I have heard such questionable things about her!--very strange thingsindeed!"

"What are they?"

"I can't say I've been able to fix on more than one thing directly againsther character, but"--

"Against her character!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes, indeed. She lives by herself in lodgings, and the house is not at alla respectable one. "

"But have you made no further inquiry?"

"I consider that quite enough. I had already met more than one person, however, who seemed to think it very odd that I should have her to teachmusic in my family. "

"Did they give any reason for thinking her unfit?"

"I did not choose to ask them. One was Miss Clarke--you know her. Shesmiled in her usual supercilious manner, but in her case I believe it wasonly because Miss Clare looks so dowdy. But nobody knows any thing abouther except what I've just told you. "

"And who told you that?"

"Mrs. Jeffreson. "

"But you once told me that she was a great gossip. "

"Else she wouldn't have heard it. But that doesn't make it untrue. In fact, she convinced me of its truth, for she knows the place she lives in, andassured me it was at great risk of infection to the children that I allowedher to enter the house; and so, of course, I felt compelled to let her knowthat I didn't require her services any longer. "

"There must be some mistake, surely!" I said. 

"Oh, no! not the least, I am sorry to say. "

"How did she take it?"

"Very sweetly indeed. She didn't even ask me why, which was just as well, seeing I should have found it awkward to tell her. But I suppose she knewtoo many grounds herself to dare the question. "

I was dreadfully sorry, but I could not say much more then. I venturedonly to express my conviction that there could not be any charge to bringagainst Miss Clare herself; for that one who looked and spoke as she didcould have nothing to be ashamed of. Judy, however, insisted that what shehad heard was reason enough for at least ending the engagement; indeed, that no one was fit for such a situation of whom such things could be said, whether they were true or not. 

When she left me, I gave baby to her nurse, and went straight to the study, peeping in to see if Percivale was alone. 

He caught sight of me, and called to me to come down. 

"It's only Roger, " he said. 

I was always pleased to see Roger. He was a strange creature, --one of thosegifted men who are capable of any thing, if not of every thing, and yetcarry nothing within sight of proficiency. He whistled like a starling, andaccompanied his whistling on the piano; but never played. He could copy adrawing to a hair's-breadth, but never drew. He could engrave well on wood;but although he had often been employed in that way, he had always gottired of it after a few weeks. He was forever wanting to do something otherthan what he was at; and the moment he got tired of a thing, he would workat it no longer; for he had never learned to _make_ himself. He wouldcome every day to the study for a week to paint in backgrounds, or make aduplicate; and then, perhaps, we wouldn't see him for a fortnight. At othertimes he would work, say for a month, modelling, or carving marble, for asculptor friend, from whom he might have had constant employment if he hadpleased. He had given lessons in various branches, for he was an excellentscholar, and had the finest ear for verse, as well as the keenestappreciation of the loveliness of poetry, that I have ever known. He hadstuck to this longer than to any thing else, strange to say; for one wouldhave thought it the least attractive of employments to one of his volatiledisposition. For some time indeed he had supported himself comfortably inthis way; for through friends of his family he had had good introductions, and, although he wasted a good deal of money in buying nick-nacks thatpromised to be useful and seldom were, he had no objectionable habitsexcept inordinate smoking. But it happened that a pupil--a girl ofimaginative disposition, I presume--fell so much in love with him thatshe betrayed her feelings to her countess-mother, and the lessons were ofcourse put an end to. I suspect he did not escape heart-whole himself; forhe immediately dropped all his other lessons, and took to writing poetryfor a new magazine, which proved of ephemeral constitution, and vanishedafter a few months of hectic existence. 

It was remarkable that with such instability his moral nature shouldcontinue uncorrupted; but this I believe he owed chiefly to his love andadmiration of his brother. For my part, I could not help liking him much. There was a half-plaintive playfulness about him, alternated with gloom, and occasionally with wild merriment, which made him interesting even whenone felt most inclined to quarrel with him. The worst of him was that heconsidered himself a generally misunderstood, if not ill-used man, whocould not only distinguish himself, but render valuable service to society, if only society would do him the justice to give him a chance. Were itonly, however, for his love to my baby, I could not but be ready to takeup his defence. When I mentioned what I had just heard about Miss Clare, Percivale looked both astonished and troubled; but before he could speak, Roger, with the air of a man of the world whom experience enabled to comeat once to a decision, said, --

"Depend upon it, Wynnie, there is falsehood there somewhere. You willalways be nearer the truth if you believe nothing, than if you believe thehalf of what you hear. "

"That's very much what papa says, " I answered. "He affirms that he neversearched into an injurious report in his own parish without finding it sonearly false as to deprive it of all right to go about. "

"Besides, " said Roger, "look at that face! How I should like to model it. She's a good woman that, depend upon it. "

I was delighted with his enthusiasm. 

"I wish you would ask her again, as soon as you can, " said Percivale, whoalways tended to embody his conclusions in acts rather than in words. "Yourcousin Judy is a jolly good creature, but from your father's descriptionof her as a girl, she must have grown a good deal more worldly since hermarriage. Respectability is an awful snare. "

"Yes, " said Roger; "one ought to be very thankful to be a Bohemian, andhave nothing expected of him, for respectability is a most fruitful motherof stupidity and injustice. "

I could not help thinking that _he_ might, however, have a little more andbe none the worse. 

"I should be very glad to do as you desire, husband, " I said, "but how canI? I haven't learned where she lives. It was asking Judy for her addressonce more that brought it all out. I certainly didn't insist, as I mighthave done, notwithstanding what she told me; but, if she didn't remember itbefore, you may be sure she could not have given it me then. "

"It's very odd, " said Roger, stroking his long mustache, the sole ornamentof the kind he wore. "It's very odd, " he repeated thoughtfully, and thenpaused again. 

"What's so very odd, Roger?" asked Percivale. 

"The other evening, " answered Roger, after yet a short pause, "happening tobe in Tottenham Court Road, I walked for some distance behind a young womancarrying a brown beer-jug in her hand--for I sometimes amuse myself in thestreet by walking persistently behind some one, devising the unseen face inmy mind, until the recognition of the same step following causes the personto look round at me, and give me the opportunity of comparing the two--Imean the one I had devised and the real one. When the young woman at lengthturned her head, it was only my astonishment that kept me from addressingher as Miss Clare. My surprise, however, gave me time to see how absurd itwould have been. Presently she turned down a yard and disappeared. "

"Don't tell my cousin Judy, " I said. "She would believe it _was_ MissClare. "

"There isn't much danger, " he returned. "Even if I knew your cousin, Ishould not be likely to mention such an incident in her hearing. "

"Could it have been she?" said Percivale thoughtfully. 

"Absurd!" said Roger. "Miss Clare is a lady, wherever she may live. "

"I don't know, " said his brother thoughtfully; "who can tell? It mightn'thave been beer she was carrying. "

"I didn't say it was beer, " returned Roger. "I only said it was abeer-jug, --one of those brown, squat, stone jugs, --the best for beer that Iknow, after all, --brown, you know, with a dash of gray. "

"Brown jug or not, I wish I could get a few sittings from her. She wouldmake a lovely St. Cecilia, " said my husband. 

"Brown jug and all?" asked Roger. 

"If only she were a little taller, " I objected. 

"And had an aureole, " said my husband. "But I might succeed in omitting thejug as well as in adding the aureole and another half-foot of stature, ifonly I could get that lovely countenance on the canvas, --so full of lifeand yet of repose. "

"Don't you think it a little hard?" I ventured to say. 

"I think so, " said Roger. 

"I don't, " said my husband. "I know what in it looks like hardness; but Ithink it comes of the repression of feeling. "

"You have studied her well for your opportunities, " I said. 

"I have; and I am sure, whatever Mrs. Morley may say, that, if there be anytruth at all in those reports, there is some satisfactory explanation ofwhatever has given rise to them. I wish we knew anybody else that knew her. Do try to find some one that does, Wynnie. "

"I don't know how to set about it, " I said. "I should be only too glad. "

"I will try, " said Roger. "Does she sing?"

"I have heard Judy say she sang divinely; but the only occasion on whichI met her--at their house, that time you couldn't go, Percivale--she wasnever asked to sing. "

"I suspect, " remarked Roger, "it will turn out to be only that she'ssomething of a Bohemian, like ourselves. "

"Thank you, Roger; but for my part, I don't consider myself a Bohemian atall, " I said. 

"I am afraid you must rank with your husband, wifie, " said _mine_, as thewives of the working people of London often call their husbands. 

"Then you do count yourself a Bohemian: pray, what significance do youattach to the epithet?" I asked. 

"I don't know, except it signifies our resemblance to the gypsies, " heanswered. 

"I don't understand you quite. "

"I believe the gypsies used to be considered Bohemians, " interposed Roger, "though they are doubtless of Indian origin. Their usages being quitedifferent from those amongst which they live, the name Bohemian came to beapplied to painters, musicians, and such like generally, to whom, save bycourtesy, no position has yet been accorded by society--so called. "

"But why have they not yet vindicated for themselves a social position, " Iasked, "and that a high one?"

"Because they are generally poor, I suppose, " he answered; "and society isgenerally stupid. "

"May it not be because they are so often, like the gypsies, lawless intheir behavior, as well as peculiar in their habits?" I suggested. 

"I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Percivale, " rejoined Roger with mockoffence. "But how would that apply to Charlie?"

"Not so well as to you, I confess, " I answered. "But there is ground for itwith him too. "

"I have thought it all over many a time, " said Percivale; "and I suppose itcomes in part from inability to understand the worth of our calling, and inpart from the difficulty of knowing where to put us. "

"I suspect, " I said, "one thing is that so many of them are content to bereceived as merely painters, or whatever they may be by profession. Many, you have told me, for instance, accept invitations which do not includetheir wives. "

"They often go to parties, of course, where there are no ladies, " saidRoger. 

"That is not what I mean, " I replied. "They go to dinner-parties wherethere are ladies, and evening parties, too, without their wives. "

"Whoever does that, " said Percivale, "has at least no right to complainthat he is regarded as a Bohemian; for in accepting such invitations, heaccepts insult, and himself insults his wife. "

Nothing irritated my bear so much as to be asked to dinner without me. Hewould not even offer the shadow of a reason for declining the invitation. "For, " he would say, "if I give the real reason, namely, that I do notchoose to go where my wife is excluded, they will set it down to herjealous ambition of entering a sphere beyond her reach; I will not givea false reason, and indeed have no objection to their seeing that I amoffended; therefore, I assign none. If they have any chivalry in them, theymay find out my reason readily enough. "

I don't think I ever displeased him so much as once when I entreated himto accept an invitation to dine with the Earl of H----. The fact was, Ihad been fancying it my duty to persuade him to get over his offence atthe omission of my name, for the sake of the advantage it would be tohim in his profession. I laid it before him as gently and coaxingly as Icould, representing how expenses increased, and how the children wouldbe requiring education by and by, --reminding him that the reputation ofmore than one of the most popular painters had been brought about in somemeasure by their social qualities and the friendships they made. 

"Is it likely your children will be ladies and gentlemen, " he said, "if youprevail on their father to play the part of a sneaking parasite?"

I was frightened. He had never spoken to me in such a tone, but I saw toowell how deeply he was hurt to take offence at his roughness. I could onlybeg him to forgive me, and promise never to say such a word again, assuringhim that I believed as strongly as himself that the best heritage ofchildren was their father's honor. 

Free from any such clogs as the possession of a wife encumbers a husbandwithal, Roger could of course accept what invitations his connection withan old and honorable family procured him. One evening he came in late froma dinner at Lady Bernard's. 

"Whom do you think I took down to dinner?" he asked, almost before he wasseated. 

"Lady Bernard?" I said, flying high. 

"Her dowager aunt?" said Percivale. 

"No, no; Miss Clare. "

"Miss Clare!" we both repeated, with mingled question and exclamation. 

"Yes, Miss Clare, incredible as it may appear, " he answered. 

"Did you ask her if it was she you saw carrying the jug of beer inTottenham Court Road?" said Percivale. 

"Did you ask her address?" I said. "That is a question more worthy of ananswer. "

"Yes, I did. I believe I did. I think I did. "

"What is it, then?"

"Upon my word, I haven't the slightest idea. "

"So, Mr. Roger! You have had a perfect opportunity, and have let it slip!You are a man to be trusted indeed!"

"I don't know how it could have been. I distinctly remember approachingthe subject more than once or twice; and now first I discover that I neverasked the question. Or if I did, I am certain I got no answer. "

"Bewitched!"

"Yes, I suppose so. "

"Or, " suggested Percivale, "she did not choose to tell you; saw thequestion coming, and led you away from it; never let you ask it. "

"I have heard that ladies can keep one from saying what they don't want tohear. But she sha'n't escape me so a second time. "

"Indeed, you don't deserve another chance, " I said. "You're not half soclever as I took you to be, Roger. "

"When I think of it, though, it wasn't a question so easy to ask, or oneyou would like to be overheard asking. "

"Clearly bewitched, " I said. "But for that I forgive you. Did she sing?"

"No. I don't suppose any one there ever thought of asking such adingy-feathered bird to sing. "

"You had some music?"

"Oh, yes! Pretty good, and very bad. Miss Clare's forehead was crossed byno end of flickering shadows as she listened. "

"It wasn't for want of interest in her you forgot to find out where shelived! You had better take care, Master Roger. "

"Take care of what?"

"Why, you don't know her address. "

"What has that to do with taking care?"

"That you won't know where to find your heart if you should happen to wantit. "

"Oh! I am past that kind of thing long ago. You've made an uncle of me. "

And so on, with a good deal more nonsense, but no news of Miss Clare'sretreat. 

I had before this remarked to my husband that it was odd she had nevercalled since dining with us; but he made little of it, saying that peoplewho gained their own livelihood ought to be excused from attending to ruleswhich had their origin with another class; and I had thought no more aboutit, save in disappointment that she had not given me that opportunity ofimproving my acquaintance with her. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A DISCOVERY. 

One Saturday night, my husband happening to be out, an event of rareoccurrence, Roger called; and as there were some things I had not been ableto get during the day, I asked him to go with me to Tottenham Court Road. It was not far from the region where we lived, and I did a great part of mysmall shopping there. The early closing had, if I remember rightly, begunto show itself; anyhow, several of the shops were shut, and we walked along way down the street, looking for some place likely to supply what Irequired. 

"It was just here I came up with the girl and the brown jug, " said Roger, as we reached the large dissenting chapel. 

"That adventure seems to have taken a great hold of you, Roger, " I said. 

"She _was_ so like Miss Clare!" he returned. "I can't get the one faceclear of the other. When I met her at Lady Bernard's, the first thing Ithought of was the brown jug. "

"Were you as much pleased with her conversation as at our house?" I asked. 

"Even more, " he answered. "I found her ideas of art so wide, as wellas just and accurate, that I was puzzled to think where she had hadopportunity of developing them. I questioned her about it, and foundshe was in the habit of going, as often as she could spare time, to theNational Gallery, where her custom was, she said, not to pass from pictureto picture, but keep to one until it formed itself in her mind, --that isthe expression she used, explaining herself to mean, until she seemed toknow what the painter had set himself to do, and why this was and that waswhich she could not at first understand. Clearly, without ever having takena pencil in her hand, she has educated herself to a keen perception of whatis demanded of a true picture. Of course the root of it lies in her musicaldevelopment. --There, " he cried suddenly, as we came opposite a pavedpassage, "that is the place I saw her go down. "

"Then you do think the girl with the beer-jug was Miss Clare, after all?"

"Not in the least. I told you I could not separate them in my mind. "

"Well, I must say, it seems odd. A girl like that and Miss Clare! Why, asoften as you speak of the one, you seem to think of the other. "

"In fact, " he returned, "I am, as I say, unable to dissociate them. But ifyou had seen the girl, you would not wonder. The likeness was absolutelycomplete. "

"I believe you do consider them one and the same; and I am more than halfinclined to think so myself, remembering what Judy said. "

"Isn't it possible some one who knows Miss Clare may have seen this girl, and been misled by the likeness?"

"But where, then, does Miss Clare live? Nobody seems to know. "

"You have never asked any one but Mrs. Morley. "

"You have yourself, however, given me reason to think she avoids thesubject. If she did live anywhere hereabout, she would have some cause toavoid it. "

I had stopped to look down the passage. 

"Suppose, " said Roger, "some one were to come past now and see Mrs. Percivale, the wife of the celebrated painter, standing in Tottenham CourtRoad beside the swing-door of a corner public-house, talking to a youngman. "

"Yes; it might have given occasion for scandal, " I said. "To avoid it, letus go down the court and see what it is like. "

"It's not a fit place for you to go into. "

"If it were in my father's parish, I should have known everybody in it. "

"You haven't the slightest idea what you are saying. "

"Come, anyhow, and let us see what the place is like, " I insisted. 

Without another word he gave me his arm, and down the court we went, pastthe flaring gin-shop, and into the gloom beyond. It was one of those placesof which, while the general effect remains vivid in one's mind, the salientpoints are so few that it is difficult to say much by way of description. The houses had once been occupied by people in better circumstances thanits present inhabitants; and indeed they looked all decent enough until, turning two right angles, we came upon another sort. They were still aslarge, and had plenty of windows; but, in the light of a single lamp atthe corner, they looked very dirty and wretched and dreary. A little shop, with dried herrings and bull's-eyes in the window, was lighted by a tallowcandle set in a ginger-beer bottle, with a card of "Kinahan's LL Whiskey"for a reflector. 

"They can't have many customers to the extent of a bottle, " said Roger. "But no doubt they have some privileges from the public-house at the cornerfor hanging up the card. "

The houses had sunk areas, just wide enough for a stair, and the basementsseemed full of tenants. There was a little wind blowing, so that theatmosphere was tolerable, notwithstanding a few stray leaves of cabbage, suggestive of others in a more objectionable condition not far off. 

A confused noise of loud voices, calling and scolding, hitherto drowned bythe tumult of the street, now reached our ears. The place took one turnmore, and then the origin of it became apparent. At the farther end of thepassage was another lamp, the light of which shone upon a group of men andwomen, in altercation, which had not yet come to blows. It might, includingchildren, have numbered twenty, of which some seemed drunk, and all more orless excited. Roger turned to go back the moment he caught sight of them;but I felt inclined, I hardly knew why, to linger a little. Should anydanger offer, it would be easy to gain the open thoroughfare. 

"It's not at all a fit place for a lady, " he said. 

"Certainly not, " I answered; "it hardly seems a fit place for human beings. These are human beings, though. Let us go through it. "

He still hesitated; but as I went on, he could but follow me. I wanted tosee what the attracting centre of the little crowd was; and that it mustbe occupied with some affair of more than ordinary interest, I judged fromthe fact that a good many superterrestrial spectators looked down fromthe windows at various elevations upon the disputants, whose voices nowand then lulled for a moment only to break out in fresh objurgation anddispute. 

Drawing a little nearer, a slight parting of the crowd revealed its core tous. It was a little woman, without bonnet or shawl, whose back was towardsus. She turned from side to side, now talking to one, and now to anotherof the surrounding circle. At first I thought she was setting forth hergrievances, in the hope of sympathy, or perhaps of justice; but I soonperceived that her motions were too calm for that. Sometimes the crowdwould speak altogether, sometimes keep silent for a full minute while shewent on talking. When she turned her face towards us, Roger and I turnedours, and stared at each other. The face was disfigured by a swollen eye, evidently from a blow; but clearly enough, if it was not Miss Clare, it wasthe young woman of the beer-jug. Neither of us spoke, but turned once moreto watch the result of what seemed to have at length settled down into analmost amicable conference. After a few more grumbles and protestations, the group began to break up into twos and threes. These the young womanseemed to set herself to break up again. Here, however, an ill-lookingfellow like a costermonger, with a broken nose, came up to us, and with astrong Irish accent and offensive manner, but still with a touch of Irishbreeding, requested to know what our business was. Roger asked if the placewasn't a thoroughfare. 

"Not for the likes o' you, " he answered, "as comes pryin' after the likesof us. We manage our own affairs down here--_we_ do. You'd better be off, my lady. "

I have my doubts what sort of reply Roger might have returned if he hadbeen alone, but he certainly spoke in a very conciliatory manner, which, however, the man did not seem to appreciate, for he called it blarney;but the young woman, catching sight of our little group, and supposing, I presume, that it also required dispersion, approached us. She had comewithin a yard of us, when suddenly her face brightened, and she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, --

"Mrs. Percivale! You here?"

It was indeed Miss Clare. Without the least embarrassment, she held outher hand to me, but I am afraid I did not take it very cordially. Roger, however, behaved to her as if they stood in a drawing-room, and thisbrought me to a sense of propriety. 

"I don't look very respectable, I fear, " she said, putting her hand overher eye. "The fact is, I have had a blow, and it will look worse to-morrow. Were you coming to find me?"

I forget what lame answer either of us gave. 

"Will you come in?" she said. 

On the spur of the moment, I declined. For all my fine talk to Roger, Ishrunk from the idea of entering one of those houses. I can only say, inexcuse, that my whole mind was in a condition of bewilderment. 

"Can I do any thing for you, then?" she asked, in a tone slightly markedwith disappointment, I thought. 

"Thank you, no, " I answered, hardly knowing what my words were. 

"Then good-night, " she said, and, nodding kindly, turned, and entered oneof the houses. 

We also turned in silence, and walked out of the court. 

"Why didn't you go with her?" said Roger, as soon as we were in the street. 

"I'm sorry I didn't if you wanted to go, Roger; but"--

"I think you might have gone, seeing I was with you, " he said. 

"I don't think it would have been at all a proper thing to do, withoutknowing more about her, " I answered, a little hurt. "You can't tell whatsort of a place it may be. "

"It's a good place, wherever she is, or I am much mistaken, " he returned. 

"You may be much mistaken, Roger. "

"True. I have been mistaken more than once in my life. I am not mistakenthis time, though. "

"I presume you would have gone if I hadn't been with you?"

"Certainly, if she had asked me, which is not very likely. "

"And you lay the disappointment of missing a glimpse into the sweet privacyof such a home to my charge?"

It was a spiteful speech; and Roger's silence made me feel it was, which, with the rather patronizing opinion I had of Roger, I found not a littlegalling. So I, too, kept silence, and nothing beyond a platitude hadpassed between us when I found myself at my own door, my shopping utterlyforgotten, and something acid on my mind. 

"Don't you mean to come in?" I said, for he held out his hand at the top ofthe stairs to bid me good-night. "My husband will be home soon, if he hasnot come already. You needn't be bored with my company--you can sit in thestudy. "

"I think I had better not, " he answered. 

"I am very sorry, Roger, if I was rude to you, " I said; "but how couldyou wish me to be hand-and-glove with a woman who visits people who sheis well aware would not think of inviting her if they had a notion of hersurroundings. That can't be right, I am certain. I protest I feel justas if I had been reading an ill-invented story, --an unnatural fiction. Icannot get these things together in my mind at all, do what I will. "

"There must be some way of accounting for it, " said Roger. 

"No doubt, " I returned; "but who knows what that way may be?"

"You may be wrong in supposing that the people at whose houses she visitsknow nothing about her habits. "

"Is it at all likely they do, Roger? Do you think it is? I know at leastthat my cousin dispensed with her services as soon as she came to theknowledge of certain facts concerning these very points. "

"Excuse me--certain rumors--very uncertain facts. "

When you are cross, the slightest play upon words is an offence. I knockedat the door in dudgeon, then turned and said, --

"My cousin Judy, Mr. Roger"--

But here I paused, for I had nothing ready. Anger makes some peoplecleverer for the moment, but when I am angry I am always stupid. Rogerfinished the sentence for me. 

--"Your cousin Judy is, you must allow, a very conventional woman, " hesaid. 

"She is very good-natured, anyhow. And what do you say to Lady Bernard?"

"She hasn't repudiated Miss Clare's acquaintance, so far as I know. "

"But, answer me, --do you believe Lady Bernard would invite her to meet herfriends if she knew all?"

"Depend upon it, Lady Bernard knows what she is about. People of her rankcan afford to be unconventional. "

This irritated me yet more, for it implied that I was influenced by theconventionality which both he and my husband despised; and Sarah openingthe door that instant, I stepped in, without even saying good-night to him. Before she closed it, however, I heard my husband's voice, and ran outagain to welcome him. 

He and Roger had already met in the little front garden. They did not shakehands--they never did--they always met as if they had parted only an hourago. 

"What were you and my wife quarrelling about, Rodge?" I heard Percivaleask, and paused on the middle of the stair to hear his answer. 

"How do you know we were quarrelling?" returned Roger gloomily. 

"I heard you from the very end of the street, " said my husband. 

"That's not so far, " said Roger; for indeed one house, with, I confess, a good space of garden on each side of it, and the end of another house, finished the street. But notwithstanding the shortness of the distance itstung me to the quick. Here had I been regarding, not even with contempt, only with disgust, the quarrel in which Miss Clare was mixed up; and halfan hour after, my own voice was heard in dispute with my husband's brotherfrom the end of the street in which we lived! I felt humiliated, and didnot rush down the remaining half of the steps to implore my husband'sprotection against Roger's crossness. 

"Too far to hear a wife and a brother, though, " returned Percivalejocosely. 

"Go on, " said Roger; "pray go on. _Let dogs delight_ comes next. I begMrs. Percivale's pardon. I will amend the quotation: 'Let dogs delight toworry'"--

"Cats, " I exclaimed; and rushing down the steps, I kissed Roger before Ikissed my husband. 

"I meant--I mean--I was going to say _lambs_. "

"Now, Roger, don't add to your vices flattery and"--

"And fibbing, " he subjoined. 

"I didn't say so. "

"You only meant it. "

"Don't begin again, " interposed Percivale: "Come in, and refer the cause indispute to me. "

We did go in, and we did refer the matter to him. By the time we hadbetween us told him the facts of the case, however, the point in disputebetween us appeared to have grown hazy, the fact being that neither of uscared to say any thing more about it. Percivale insisted that there was noquestion before the court. At length Roger, turning from me to his brother, said, --

"It's not worth mentioning, Charley; but what led to our irreconcilablequarrel was this: I thought Wynnie might have accepted Miss Clare'sinvitation to walk in and pay her a visit; and Wynnie thought me, Isuppose, too ready to sacrifice her dignity to the pleasure of seeing alittle more of the object of our altercation. There!"

My husband turned to me and said, --

"Mrs. Percivale, do you accept this as a correct representation of yourdifference?"

"Well, " I answered, hesitating--"yes, on the whole. All I object to is theword _dignity_. "

"I retract it, " cried Roger, "and accept any substitute you prefer. "

"Let it stand, " I returned. "It will do as well as a better. I only wish tosay that it was not exactly my dignity"--

"No, no; your sense of propriety, " said my husband; and then sat silent fora minute or two, pondering like a judge. At length he spoke:--

"Wife, " he said, "you might have gone with your brother, I think; but Iquite understand your disinclination. At the same time, a more generousjudgment of Miss Clare might have prevented any difference of feeling inthe matter. "

"But, " I said, greatly inclined to cry, "I only postponed my judgmentconcerning her. "

And I only postponed my crying, for I was very much ashamed of myself. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

MISS CLARE. 

Of course my husband and I talked a good deal more about what I ought tohave done; and I saw clearly enough that I ought to have run any risk theremight be in accepting her invitation. I had been foolishly taking more careof myself than was necessary. I told him I would write to Roger, and askhim when he could take me there again. 

"I will tell you a better plan, " he said. "I will go with you myself. Andthat will get rid of half the awkwardness there would be if you went withRoger, after having with him refused to go in. "

"But would that be fair to Roger? She would think I didn't like going withhim, and I would go with Roger anywhere. It was I who did not want to go. He did. "

"My plan, however, will pave the way for a full explanation--or confessionrather, I suppose it will turn out to be. I know you are burning to makeit, with your mania for confessing your faults. "

I knew he did not like me the worse for that _mania_, though. 

"The next time, " he added, "you can go with Roger, always supposing youshould feel inclined to continue the acquaintance, and then you will beable to set him right in her eyes. "

The plan seemed unobjectionable. But just then Percivale was very busy; andI being almost as much occupied with my baby as he was with his, day afterday and week after week passed, during which our duty to Miss Clare was, Iwill not say either forgotten or neglected, but unfulfilled. 

One afternoon I was surprised by a visit from my father. He notunfrequently surprised us. 

"Why didn't you let us know, papa?" I said. "A surprise is very nice; butan expectation is much nicer, and lasts so much longer. "

"I might have disappointed you. "

"Even if you had, I should have already enjoyed the expectation. That wouldbe safe. "

"There's a good deal to be said in excuse of surprises, " he rejoined; "butin the present case, I have a special one to offer. I was taken with asudden desire to see you. It was very foolish no doubt, and you are quiteright in wishing I weren't here, only going to come to-morrow. "

"Don't be so cruel, papa. Scarcely a day passes in which _I_ do not long tosee _you_. My baby makes me think more about my home than ever. "

"Then she's a very healthy baby, if one may judge by her influences. Butyou know, if I had had to give you warning, I could not have been herebefore to-morrow; and surely you will acknowledge, that, however niceexpectation may be, presence is better. "

"Yes, papa. We will make a compromise, if you please. Every time you thinkof coming to me, you must either come at once, or let me know you arecoming. Do you agree to that?"

"I agree, " he said. 

So I have the pleasure of a constant expectation. Any day he may walk inunheralded; or by any post I may receive a letter with the news that he iscoming at such a time. 

As we sat at dinner that evening, he asked if we had lately seen MissClare. 

"I've seen her only once, and Percivale not at all, since you were herelast, papa, " I answered. 

"How's that?" he asked again, a little surprised. "Haven't you got heraddress yet? I want very much to know more of her. "

"So do we. I haven't got her address, but I know where she lives. "

"What do you mean, Wynnie? Has she taken to dark sayings of late, Percivale?"

I told him the whole story of my adventure with Roger, and the reportsJudy had prejudiced my judgment withal. He heard me through in silence, for it was a rule with him never to interrupt a narrator. He used to say, "You will generally get at more, and in a better fashion, if you letany narrative take its own devious course, without the interruption ofrequested explanations. By the time it is over, you will find the questionsyou wanted to ask mostly vanished. "

"Describe the place to me, Wynnie, " he said, when I had ended. "I must goand see her. I have a suspicion, amounting almost to a conviction, that sheis one whose acquaintance ought to be cultivated at any cost. There is somegrand explanation of all this contradictory strangeness. "

"I don't think I could describe the place to you so that you would findit. But if Percivale wouldn't mind my going with you instead of with him, I should be only too happy to accompany you. May I, Percivale?"

"Certainly. It will do just as well to go with your father as with me. Ionly stipulate, that, if you are both satisfied, you take Roger with younext time. "

"Of course I will. "

"Then we'll go to-morrow morning, " said my father. 

"I don't think she is likely to be at home in the morning, " I said. "Shegoes out giving lessons, you know; and the probability is, that at thattime we should not find her. "

"Then why not to-night?" he rejoined. 

"Why not, if you wish it?"

"I do wish it, then. "

"If you knew the place, though, I think you would prefer going a littleearlier than we can to-night. "

"Ah, well! we will go to-morrow evening. We could dine early, couldn't we?"

So it was arranged. My father went about some business in the morning. Wedined early, and set out about six o'clock. 

My father was getting an old man, and if any protection had been required, he could not have been half so active as Roger; and yet I felt twice assafe with him. I am satisfied that the deepest sense of safety, even inrespect of physical dangers, can spring only from moral causes; neither doyou half so much fear evil happening to you, as fear evil happening whichought not to happen to you. I believe what made me so courageous was theundeveloped fore-feeling, that, if any evil should overtake me in myfather's company, I should not care; it would be all right then, anyhow. The repose was in my father himself, and neither in his strength nor hiswisdom. The former might fail, the latter might mistake; but so long asI was with him in what I did, no harm worth counting harm could come tome, --only such as I should neither lament nor feel. Scarcely a shadow ofdanger, however, showed itself. 

It was a cold evening in the middle of November. The light, which hadbeen scanty enough all day, had vanished in a thin penetrating fog. Roundevery lamp in the street was a colored halo; the gay shops gleamed likejewel-caverns of Aladdin hollowed out of the darkness; and the people thathurried or sauntered along looked inscrutable. Where could they live? Hadthey anybody to love them? Were their hearts quiet under their dingy cloaksand shabby coats?

"Yes, " returned my father, to whom I had said something to this effect, "what would not one give for a peep into the mysteries of all these worldsthat go crowding past us. If we could but see through the opaque husk ofthem, some would glitter and glow like diamond mines; others perhaps wouldlook mere earthy holes; some of them forsaken quarries, with a great poolof stagnant water in the bottom; some like vast coal-pits of gloom, intowhich you dared not carry a lighted lamp for fear of explosion. Some wouldbe mere lumber-rooms; others ill-arranged libraries, without a poets'corner anywhere. But what a wealth of creation they show, and what infiniteroom for hope it affords!"

"But don't you think, papa, there may be something of worth lying evenin the earth-pit, or at the bottom of the stagnant water in the forsakenquarry?"

"Indeed I do; though I _have_ met more than one in my lifetime concerningwhom I felt compelled to say that it wanted keener eyes than mine todiscover the hidden jewel. But then there _are_ keener eyes than mine, for there are more loving eyes. Myself I have been able to see good veryclearly where some could see none; and shall I doubt that God can see goodwhere my mole-eyes can see none? Be sure of this, that, as he is keen-eyedfor the evil in his creatures to destroy it, he would, if it were possible, be yet keener-eyed for the good to nourish and cherish it. If men wouldonly side with the good that is in them, --will that the seed should growand bring forth fruit!"

CHAPTER XVIII. 

MISS CLARE'S HOME. 

We had now arrived at the passage. The gin-shop was flaring through thefog. A man in a fustian jacket came out of it, and walked slowly downbefore us, with the clay of the brick-field clinging to him as high as theleather straps with which his trousers were confined, garter-wise, underthe knee. The place was quiet. We and the brickmaker seemed the only peoplein it. When we turned the last corner, he was walking in at the very doorwhere Miss Clare had disappeared. When I told my father that was the house, he called after the man, who came out again, and, standing on the pavement, waited until we came up. 

"Does Miss Clare live in this house?" my father asked. 

"She do, " answered the man curtly. 

"First floor?"

"No. Nor yet the second, nor the third. She live nearer heaven than 'ereanother in the house 'cep' myself. I live in the attic, and so do she. "

"There is a way of living nearer to heaven than that, " said my father, laying his hand, "with a right old man's grace, " on his shoulder. 

"I dunno, 'cep' you was to go up in a belloon, " said the man, with atwinkle in his eye, which my father took to mean that he understood himbetter than he chose to acknowledge; but he did not pursue the figure. 

He was a rough, lumpish young man, with good but dull features--only hisblue eye was clear. He looked my father full in the face, and I thought Isaw a dim smile about his mouth. 

"You know her, then, I suppose?"

"Everybody in the house knows _her_. There ain't many the likes o' her aslives wi' the likes of us. You go right up to the top. I don't know ifshe's in, but a'most any one'll be able to tell you. I ain't been homeyet. "

My father thanked him, and we entered the house, and began to ascend. Thestair was very much worn and rather dirty, and some of the banisters werebroken away, but the walls were tolerably clean. Half-way up we met alittle girl with tangled hair and tattered garments, carrying a bottle. 

"Do you know, my dear, " said my father to her, "whether Miss Clare is athome?"

"I dunno, " she answered. "I dunno who you mean. I been mindin' the baby. Heain't well. Mother says his head's bad. She's a-going up to tell grannie, and see if she can't do suthin' for him. You better ast mother. --Mother!"she called out--"here's a lady an' a gen'lem'. "

"You go about yer business, and be back direckly, " cried a gruff voice fromsomewhere above. 

"That's mother, " said the child, and ran down the stair. 

When we reached the second floor, there stood a big fat woman on thelanding, with her face red, and her hair looking like that of a doll illstuck on. She did not speak, but stood waiting to see what we wanted. 

"I'm told Miss Clare lives here, " said my father. "Can you tell me, my goodwoman, whether she's at home?"

"I'm neither good woman nor bad woman, " she returned in an insolent tone. 

"I beg your pardon, " said my father; "but you see I didn't know your name. "

"An' ye don't know it yet. You've no call to know my name. I'll ha' nothingto do wi' the likes o' you as goes about takin' poor folks's childer from'em. There's my poor Glory's been an' took atwixt you an' grannie, and shetup in a formatory as you calls it; an' I should like to know what rightyou've got to go about that way arter poor girls as has mothers to help. "

"I assure you I had nothing to do with it, " said my father. "I'm a countryclergyman myself, and have no duty in London. "

"Well, that's where they've took her--down in the country. I make no doubtbut you've had your finger in that pie. You don't come here to call uponus for the pleasure o' makin' our acquaintance--ha! ha! ha!--You're allusarter somethin' troublesome. I'd adwise you, sir and miss, to let wellalone. Sleepin' dogs won't bite; but you'd better let 'em lie--and that Itell you. "

"Believe me, " said my father quite quietly, "I haven't the least knowledgeof your daughter. The country's a bigger place than you seem to think, --farbigger than London itself. All I wanted to trouble you about was to tell uswhether Miss Clare was at home or not. "

"I don't know no one o' that name. If it's grannie you mean, she's at home, I know--though it's not much reason I've got to care whether she's at homeor not. "

"It's a young--woman, I mean, " said my father. 

"'Tain't a young lady, then?--Well, I don't care what you call her. I daresay it'll be all one, come judgment. You'd better go up till you can't gono further, an' knocks yer head agin the tiles, and then you may feel aboutfor a door, and knock at that, and see if the party as opens it is theparty you wants. "

So saying, she turned in at a door behind her, and shut it. But we couldhear her still growling and grumbling. 

"It's very odd, " said my father, with a bewildered smile. "I think we'dbetter do as she says, and go up till we knock our heads against thetiles. "

We climbed two stairs more, --the last very steep, and so dark that whenwe reached the top we found it necessary to follow the woman's directionsliterally, and feel about for a door. But we had not to feel long or far, for there was one close to the top of the stair. My father knocked. Therewas no reply; but we heard the sound of a chair, and presently some oneopened it. The only light being behind her, I could not see her face, butthe size and shape were those of Miss Clare. 

She did not leave us in doubt, however; for, without a moment's hesitation, she held out her hand to me, saying, "This _is_ kind of you, Mrs. Percivale;" then to my father, saying, "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Walton. Will you walk in?"

We followed her into the room. It was not very small, for it occupiednearly the breadth of the house. On one side the roof sloped so nearly tothe floor that there was not height enough to stand erect in. On the otherside the sloping part was partitioned off, evidently for a bedroom. Butwhat a change it was from the lower part of the house! By the light of asingle mould candle, I saw that the floor was as clean as old boards couldbe made, and I wondered whether she scrubbed them herself. I know now thatshe did. The two dormer windows were hung with white dimity curtains. Backin the angle of the roof, between the windows, stood an old bureau. Therewas little more than room between the top of it and the ceiling for alittle plaster statuette with bound hands and a strangely crowned head. A few books on hanging shelves were on the opposite side by the door tothe other room; and the walls, which were whitewashed, were a good dealcovered with--whether engravings or etchings or lithographs I could notthen see--none of them framed, only mounted on card-board. There was afire cheerfully burning in the gable, and opposite to that stood a tallold-fashioned cabinet piano, in faded red silk. It was open; and on themusic-rest lay Handel's "Verdi Prati, "--for I managed to glance at it as weleft. A few wooden chairs, and one very old-fashioned easy-chair, coveredwith striped chintz, from which not glaze only but color almost haddisappeared, with an oblong table of deal, completed the furniture of theroom. She made my father sit down in the easy-chair, placed me one in frontof the fire, and took another at the corner opposite my father. A moment ofsilence followed, which I, having a guilty conscience, felt awkward. But myfather never allowed awkwardness to accumulate. 

"I had hoped to have been able to call upon you long ago, Miss Clare, butthere was some difficulty in finding out where you lived. "

"You are no longer surprised at that difficulty, I presume, " she returnedwith a smile. 

"But, " said my father, "if you will allow an old man to speak freely"--

"Say what you please, Mr. Walton. I promise to answer _any_ question _you_think proper to ask me. "

"My dear Miss Clare, I had not the slightest intention of catechising you, though, of course, I shall be grateful for what confidence you pleaseto put in me. What I meant to say might indeed have taken the form of aquestion, but as such could have been intended only for you to answerto yourself, --whether, namely, it was wise to place yourself at such adisadvantage as living in this quarter must be to you. "

"If you were acquainted with my history, you would perhaps hesitate, Mr. Walton, before you said I _placed myself_ at such disadvantage. "

Here a thought struck me. 

"I fancy, papa, it is not for her own sake Miss Clare lives here. "

"I hope not, " she interposed. 

"I believe, " I went on, "she has a grandmother, who probably has grownaccustomed to the place, and is unwilling to leave it. "

She looked puzzled for a moment, then burst into a merry laugh. 

"I see, " she exclaimed. "How stupid I am! You have heard some of the peoplein the house talk about _grannie_: that's me! I am known in the house asgrannie, and have been for a good many years now--I can hardly, withoutthinking, tell for how many. "

Again she laughed heartily, and my father and I shared her merriment. 

"How many grandchildren have you then, pray, Miss Clare?"

"Let me see. "

She thought for a minute. 

"I could easily tell you if it were only the people in this house I hadto reckon up. They are about five and thirty; but unfortunately the namehas been caught up in the neighboring houses, and I am very sorry that inconsequence I cannot with certainty say how many grandchildren I have. I think I know them all, however; and I fancy that is more than many anEnglish grandmother, with children in America, India, and Australia, cansay for herself. "

Certainly she was not older than I was; and while hearing her merry laugh, and seeing her young face overflowed with smiles, which appeared to comesparkling out of her eyes as out of two well-springs, one could not helpfeeling puzzled how, even in the farthest-off jest, she could have got thename of grannie. But I could at the same time, recall expressions of hercountenance which would much better agree with the name than that which nowshone from it. 

"Would you like to hear, " she said, when our merriment had a littlesubsided, "how I have so easily arrived at the honorable name ofgrannie, --at least all I know about it?"

"I should be delighted, " said my father. 

"You don't know what you are pledging yourself to when you say so, " sherejoined, again laughing. "You will have to hear the whole of my story fromthe beginning. "

"Again I say I shall be delighted, " returned my father, confident that herhistory could be the source of nothing but pleasure to him. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

HER STORY. 

Thereupon Miss Clare began. I do not pretend to give her very words, but Imust tell her story as if she were telling it herself. I shall be as trueas I can to the facts, and hope to catch something of the tone of thenarrator as I go on. 

"My mother died when I was very young, and I was left alone with my father, for I was his only child. He was a studious and thoughtful man. It _may_be the partiality of a daughter, I know, but I am not necessarily wrongin believing that diffidence in his own powers alone prevented him fromdistinguishing himself. As it was, he supported himself and me by literarywork of, I presume, a secondary order. He would spend all his mornings formany weeks in the library of the British Museum, --reading and making notes;after which he would sit writing at home for as long or longer. I shouldhave found it very dull during the former of these times, had he not earlydiscovered that I had some capacity for music, and provided for me what Inow know to have been the best instruction to be had. His feeling alone hadguided him right, for he was without musical knowledge. I believe he couldnot have found me a better teacher in all Europe. Her character was lovely, and her music the natural outcome of its harmony. But I must not forget itis about myself I have to tell you. I went to her, then, almost every dayfor a time--but how long that was, I can only guess. It must have beenseveral years, I think, else I could not have attained what proficiency Ihad when my sorrow came upon me. 

"What my father wrote I cannot tell. How gladly would I now read theshortest sentence I knew to be his! He never told me for what journals hewrote, or even for what publishers. I fancy it was work in which his brainwas more interested than his heart, and which he was always hoping toexchange for something more to his mind. After his death I could discoverscarcely a scrap of his writings, and not a hint to guide me to what he hadwritten. 

"I believe we went on living from hand to mouth, my father never gettingso far ahead of the wolf as to be able to pause and choose his way. But Iwas very happy, and would have been no whit less happy if he had explainedour circumstances, for that would have conveyed to me no hint of danger. Neither has any of the suffering I have had--at least any keen enough tobe worth dwelling upon--sprung from personal privation, although I am notunacquainted with hunger and cold. 

"My happiest time was when my father asked me to play to him while hewrote, and I sat down to my old cabinet Broadwood, --the one you see thereis as like it as I could find, --and played any thing and every thing Iliked, --for somehow I never forgot what I had once learned, --while myfather sat, as he said, like a mere extension of the instrument, operatedupon, rather than listening, as he wrote. What I then _thought_, I cannottell. I don't believe I thought at all. I only _musicated_, as a littlepupil of mine once said to me, when, having found her sitting with herhands on her lap before the piano, I asked her what she was doing: 'I amonly musicating, ' she answered. But the enjoyment was none the less thatthere was no conscious thought in it. 

"Other branches he taught me himself, and I believe I got on very fairlyfor my age. We lived then in the neighborhood of the Museum, where I waswell known to all the people of the place, for I used often to go there, and would linger about looking at things, sometimes for hours before myfather came to me but he always came at the very minute he had said, andalways found me at the appointed spot. I gained a great deal by thushaunting the Museum--a great deal more than I supposed at the time. Onegain was, that I knew perfectly where in the place any given sort of thingwas to be found, if it were there at all: I had unconsciously learnedsomething of classification. 

"One afternoon I was waiting as usual, but my father did not come at thetime appointed. I waited on and on till it grew dark, and the hour forclosing arrived, by which time I was in great uneasiness; but I was forcedto go home without him. I must hasten over this part of my history, foreven yet I can scarcely bear to speak of it. I found that while I waswaiting, he had been seized with some kind of fit in the reading-room, andhad been carried home, and that I was alone in the world. The landlady, forwe only rented rooms in the house, was very kind to me, at least until shefound that my father had left no money. He had then been only reading fora long time; and, when I looked back, I could see that he must have beenshort of money for some weeks at least. A few bills coming in, all ourlittle effects--for the furniture was our own--were sold, without bringingsufficient to pay them. The things went for less than half their value, inconsequence, I believe, of that well-known conspiracy of the brokers whichthey call _knocking out_. I was especially miserable at losing my father'sbooks, which, although in ignorance, I greatly valued, --more miserableeven, I honestly think, than at seeing my loved piano carried off. 

"When the sale was over, and every thing removed, I sat down on the floor, amidst the dust and bits of paper and straw and cord, without a singleidea in my head as to what was to become of me, or what I was to do next. I didn't cry, --that I am sure of; but I doubt if in all London there wasa more wretched child than myself just then. The twilight was darkeningdown, --the twilight of a November afternoon. Of course there was no firein the grate, and I had eaten nothing that day; for although the landladyhad offered me some dinner, and I had tried to please her by taking some, I found I could not swallow, and had to leave it. While I sat thus on thefloor, I heard her come into the room, and some one with her; but I didnot look round, and they, not seeing me, and thinking, I suppose, that Iwas in one of the other rooms, went on talking about me. All I afterwardsremembered of their conversation was some severe reflections on my father, and the announcement of the decree that I must go to the workhouse. ThoughI knew nothing definite as to the import of this doom, it filled me withhorror. The moment they left me alone, to look for me, as I supposed, Igot up, and, walking as softly as I could, glided down the stairs, and, unbonneted and unwrapped, ran from the house, half-blind with terror. 

"I had not gone farther, I fancy, than a few yards, when I ran up againstsome one, who laid hold of me, and asked me gruffly what I meant by it. Iknew the voice: it was that of an old Irishwoman who did all the littlecharing we wanted, --for I kept the rooms tidy, and the landlady cooked forus. As soon as she saw who it was, her tone changed; and then first I brokeout in sobs, and told her I was running away because they were going tosend me to the workhouse. She burst into a torrent of Irish indignation, and assured me that such should never be my fate while she lived. I must goback to the house with her, she said, and get my things; and then I shouldgo home with her, until something better should turn up. I told her I wouldgo with her anywhere, except into that house again; and she did not insist, but afterwards went by herself and got my little wardrobe. In the mean timeshe led me away to a large house in a square, of which she took the keyfrom her pocket to open the door. It looked to me such a huge place!--thelargest house I had ever been in; but it was rather desolate, for, exceptin one little room below, where she had scarcely more than a bed and achair, a slip of carpet and a frying-pan, there was not an article offurniture in the whole place. She had been put there when the last tenantleft, to take care of the place, until another tenant should appear toturn her out. She had her houseroom and a trifle a week besides for herservices, beyond which she depended entirely on what she could make bycharing. When she had no house to live in on the same terms, she took aroom somewhere. 

"Here I lived for several months, and was able to be of use; for as Mrs. Conan was bound to be there at certain times to show any one over the housewho brought an order from the agent, and this necessarily took up a goodpart of her working time; and as, moreover, I could open the door and walkabout the place as well as another, she willingly left me in charge asoften as she had a job elsewhere. 

"On such occasions, however, I found it very dreary indeed, for few peoplecalled, and she would not unfrequently be absent the whole day. If I hadhad my piano, I should have cared little; but I had not a single book, except one--and what do you think that was? An odd volume of the NewgateCalendar. I need hardly say that it had not the effect on me which itis said to have on some of its students: it moved me, indeed, to theprofoundest sympathy, not with the crimes of the malefactors, only withthe malefactors themselves, and their mental condition after the deed wasactually done. But it was with the fascination of a hopeless horror, makingme feel almost as if I had committed every crime as I perused its tale, that I regarded them. They were to me like living crimes. It was not untillong afterwards that I was able to understand that a man's actions are notthe man, but may be separated from him; that his character even is not theman, but may be changed while he yet holds the same individuality, --is theman who was blind though he now sees; whence it comes, that, the deedscontinuing his, all stain of them may yet be washed out of him. I did not, I say, understand all this until afterwards; but I believe, odd as it mayseem, that volume of the Newgate Calendar threw down the first deposit ofsoil, from which afterwards sprung what grew to be almost a passion in me, for getting the people about me clean, --a passion which might have doneas much harm as good, if its companion, patience, had not been sent me toguide and restrain it. In a word, I came at length to understand, in somemeasure, the last prayer of our Lord for those that crucified him, and theground on which he begged from his Father their forgiveness, --that theyknew not what they did. If the Newgate Calendar was indeed the beginningof this course of education, I need not regret having lost my piano, andhaving that volume for a while as my only aid to reflection. 

"My father had never talked much to me about religion; but when he did, itwas with such evident awe in his spirit, and reverence in his demeanor, ashad more effect on me, I am certain, from the very paucity of the wordsin which his meaning found utterance. Another thing which had still moreinfluence upon me was, that, waking one night after I had been asleep forsome time, I saw him on his knees by my bedside. I did not move or speak, for fear of disturbing him; and, indeed, such an awe came over me, thatit would have required a considerable effort of the will for any bodilymovement whatever. When he lifted his head, I caught a glimpse of a pale, tearful face; and it is no wonder that the virtue of the sight should neverhave passed away. 

"On Sundays we went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon, in fineweather, went out for a walk; or, if it were raining or cold, I played tohim till he fell asleep on the sofa. Then in the evening, after tea, wehad more music, some poetry, which we read alternately, and a chapter ofthe New Testament, which he always read to me. I mention this, to show youthat I did not come all unprepared to the study of the Newgate Calendar. Still, I cannot think, that, under any circumstances, it could have donean innocent child harm. Even familiarity with vice is not necessarilypollution. There cannot be many women of my age as familiar with it inevery shape as I am; and I do not find that I grow to regard it with oneatom less of absolute abhorrence, although I neither shudder at the mentionof it, nor turn with disgust from the person in whom it dwells. But theconsolations of religion were not yet consciously mine. I had not yet begunto think of God in any relation to myself. 

"The house was in an old square, built, I believe, in the reign of QueenAnne, which, although many of the houses were occupied by well-to-dopeople, had fallen far from its first high estate. No one would believe, to look at it from the outside, what a great place it was. The whole of thespace behind it, corresponding to the small gardens of the other houses, was occupied by a large music-room, under which was a low-pitched room ofequal extent, while all under that were cellars, connected with the sunkstory in front by a long vaulted passage, corresponding to a wooden galleryabove, which formed a communication between the drawing-room floor and themusic-room. Most girls of my age, knowing these vast empty spaces aboutthem, would have been terrified at being left alone there, even in mid-day. But I was, I suppose, too miserable to be frightened. Even the horriblefacts of the Newgate Calendar did not thus affect me, not even when Mrs. Conan was later than usual, and the night came down, and I had to sit, perhaps for hours, in the dark, --for she would not allow me to have acandle for fear of fire. But you will not wonder that I used to cry a gooddeal, although I did my best to hide the traces of it, because I knewit would annoy my kind old friend. She showed me a great deal of roughtenderness, which would not have been rough had not the natural grace ofher Irish nature been injured by the contact of many years with the dullcoarseness of the uneducated Saxon. You may be sure I learned to love herdearly. She shared every thing with me in the way of eating, and would haveshared also the tumbler of gin and water with which she generally ended theday, but something, I don't know what, I believe a simple physical dislike, made me refuse that altogether. 

"One evening I have particular cause to remember, both for itself, and because of something that followed many years after. I was in thedrawing-room on the first floor, a double room with folding doors and asmall cabinet behind communicating with a back stair; for the stairs weredouble all through the house, adding much to the _eeriness_ of the placeas I look back upon it in my memory. I fear, in describing the place sominutely, I may have been rousing false expectations of an adventure; butI have a reason for being rather minute, though it will not appear untilafterwards. I had been looking out of the window all the afternoon uponthe silent square, for, as it was no thoroughfare, it was only enlivened bythe passing and returning now and then of a tradesman's cart; and, as itwas winter, there were no children playing in the garden. It was a rainyafternoon. A gray cloud of fog and soot hung from the whole sky. About ascore of yellow leaves yet quivered on the trees, and the statue of QueenAnne stood bleak and disconsolate among the bare branches. I am afraid Iam getting long-winded, but somehow that afternoon seems burned into mein enamel. I gazed drearily without interest. I brooded over the past;I never, at this time, so far as I remember, dreamed of looking forward. I had no hope. It never occurred to me that things might grow better. Iwas dull and wretched. I may just say here in passing, that I think thisexperience is in a great measure what has enabled me to understand thepeculiar misery of the poor in our large towns, --they have no hope, noimpulse to look forward, nothing to expect; they live but in the present, and the dreariness of that soon shapes the whole atmosphere of theirspirits to its own likeness. Perhaps the first thing one who would helpthem has to do is to aid the birth of some small vital hope in them; thatis better than a thousand gifts, especially those of the ordinary kind, which mostly do harm, tending to keep them what they are, --a prey topresent and importunate wants. 

"It began to grow dark; and, tired of standing, I sat down upon the floor, for there was nothing to sit upon besides. There I still sat, long afterit was quite dark. All at once a surge of self-pity arose in my heart. I burst out wailing and sobbing, and cried aloud, 'God has forgotten mealtogether!' The fact was, I had had no dinner that day, for Mrs. Conan hadexpected to return long before; and the piece of bread she had given me, which was all that was in the house, I had eaten many hours ago. But I wasnot thinking of my dinner, though the want of it may have had to do withthis burst of misery. What I was really thinking of was, --that I could donothing for anybody. My little ambition had always been to be useful. Iknew I was of some use to my father; for I kept the rooms tidy for him, anddusted his pet books--oh, so carefully! for they were like household godsto me. I had also played to him, and I knew he enjoyed that: he said so, many times. And I had begun, though not long before he left me, to thinkhow I should be able to help him better by and by. For I saw that heworked very hard, --so hard that it made him silent; and I knew that mymusic-mistress made her livelihood, partly at least, by giving lessons; andI thought that I might, by and by, be able to give lessons too, and thenpapa would not require to work so hard, for I too should bring home moneyto pay for what we wanted. But now I was of use to nobody, I said, and notlikely to become of any. I could not even help poor Mrs. Conan, except bydoing what a child might do just as well as I, for I did not earn a pennyof our living; I only gave the poor old thing time to work harder, that Imight eat up her earnings! What added to the misery was, that I had alwaysthought of myself as a lady; for was not papa a gentleman, let him be everso poor? Shillings and sovereigns in his pocket could not determine whethera man was a gentleman or not! And if he was a gentleman, his daughter mustbe a lady. But how could I be a lady if I was content to be a burden to apoor charwoman, instead of earning my own living, and something besideswith which to help her? For I had the notion--_how_ it came I cannot tell, though I know well enough _whence_ it came--that position depended on howmuch a person was able to help other people; and here I was, useless, worsethan useless to anybody! Why did not God remember me, if it was only for myfather's sake? He was worth something, if I was not! And I would be worthsomething, if only I had a chance!--'I am of no use, ' I cried, 'and God hasforgotten me altogether!' And I went on weeping and moaning in my greatmisery, until I fell fast asleep on the floor. 

"I have no theory about dreams and visions; and I don't know what you, Mr. Walton, may think as to whether these ended with the first ages of thechurch; but surely if one falls fast asleep without an idea in one's head, and a whole dismal world of misery in one's heart, and wakes up quiet andrefreshed, without the misery, and with an idea, there can be no greatfanaticism in thinking that the change may have come from somewhere nearwhere the miracles lie, --in fact, that God may have had something--mightI not say every thing?--to do with it. For my part, if I were to learnthat he had no hand in this experience of mine, I couldn't help losingall interest in it, and wishing that I had died of the misery which itdispelled. Certainly, if it had a physical source, it wasn't that I wasmore comfortable, for I was hungrier than ever, and, you may well fancy, cold enough, having slept on the bare floor without any thing to cover meon Christmas Eve--for Christmas Eve it was. No doubt my sleep had done megood, but I suspect the sleep came to quiet my mind for the reception ofthe new idea. 

"The way Mrs. Conan kept Christmas Day, as she told me in the morning, was, to comfort her old bones in bed until the afternoon, and then to havea good tea with a chop; after which she said she would have me read theNewgate Calendar to her. So, as soon as I had washed up the few breakfastthings, I asked, if, while she lay in bed, I might not go out for a littlewhile to look for work. She laughed at the notion of my being able to doany thing, but did not object to my trying. So I dressed myself as neatlyas I could, and set out. 

"There were two narrow streets full of small shops, in which those offurniture-brokers predominated, leading from the two lower corners of thesquare down into Oxford Street; and in a shop in one of these, I was notsure which, I had seen an old piano standing, and a girl of about my ownage watching. I found the shop at last, although it was shut up; for I knewthe name, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a stout matron, with anot unfriendly expression, who asked me what I wanted. I told her I wantedwork. She seemed amused at the idea, --for I was very small for my age thenas well as now, --but, apparently willing to have a chat with me, asked whatI could do. I told her I could teach her daughter music. She asked me whatmade me come to her, and I told her. Then she asked me how much I shouldcharge. I told her that some ladies had a guinea a lesson; at which shelaughed so heartily, that I had to wait until the first transports of heramusement were over before I could finish by saying, that for my partI should be glad to give an hour's lesson for threepence, only, if shepleased, I should prefer it in silver. But how was she to know, she asked, that I could teach her properly. I told her I would let her hear me play;whereupon she led me into the shop, through a back room in which herhusband sat smoking a long pipe, with a tankard at his elbow. Having takendown a shutter, she managed with some difficulty to clear me a passagethrough a crowd of furniture to the instrument, and with a struggle Isqueezed through and reached it; but at the first chord I struck, I gavea cry of dismay. In some alarm she asked what was the matter, calling me_child_ very kindly. I told her it was so dreadfully out of tune I couldn'tplay upon it at all; but, if she would get it tuned, I should not be longin showing her that I could do what I professed. She told me she could notafford to have it tuned; and if I could not teach Bertha on it as it was, she couldn't help it. This, however, I assured her, was utterly impossible;upon which, with some show of offence, she reached over a chest of drawers, and shut down the cover. I believe she doubted whether I could play at all, and had not been merely amusing myself at her expense. Nothing was left butto thank her, bid her good-morning, and walk out of the house, dreadfullydisappointed. 

"Unwilling to go home at once, I wandered about the neighborhood, throughstreet after street, until I found myself in another square, with a numberof business-signs in it, --one of them that of a piano-forte firm, at sightof which, a thought came into my head. The next morning I went in, andrequested to see the master. The man to whom I spoke stared, no doubt;but he went, and returning after a little while, during which my heartbeat very fast, invited me to walk into the counting-house. Mr. Perkinswas amused with the story of my attempt to procure teaching, and itsfrustration. If I had asked him for money, to which I do not believe hungeritself could have driven me, he would probably have got rid of me quicklyenough, --and small blame to him, as Mrs. Conan would have said; but to myrequest that he would spare a man to tune Mrs. Lampeter's piano, he repliedat once that he would, provided I could satisfy him as to my efficiency. Thereupon he asked me a few questions about music, of which some I couldanswer and some I could not. Next he took me into the shop, set me a stoolin front of a grand piano, and told me to play. I could not help tremblinga good deal, but I tried my best. In a few moments, however, the tears weredropping on the keys; and, when he asked me what was the matter, I toldhim it was months since I had touched a piano. The answer did not, however, satisfy him; he asked very kindly how that was, and I had to tell him mywhole story. Then he not only promised to have the piano tuned for me atonce, but told me that I might go and practise there as often as I pleased, so long as I was a good girl, and did not take up with bad company. Imaginemy delight! Then he sent for a tuner, and I suppose told him a little aboutme, for the man spoke very kindly to me as we went to the broker's. 

"Mr. Perkins has been a good friend to me ever since. 

"For six months I continued to give Bertha Lampeter lessons. They werebroken off only when she went to a dressmaker to learn her business. Buther mother had by that time introduced me to several families of heracquaintance, amongst whom I found five or six pupils on the same terms. Bythis teaching, if I earned little, I learned much; and every day almost Ipractised at the music-shop. 

"When the house was let, Mrs. Conan took a room in the neighborhood, thatI might keep up my connection, she said. Then first I was introduced toscenes and experiences with which I am now familiar. Mrs. Percivale mightwell recoil if I were to tell her half the wretchedness, wickedness, andvulgarity I have seen, and often had to encounter. For two years or so wechanged about, at one time in an empty house, at another in a hired room, sometimes better, sometimes worse off, as regarded our neighbors, until, Mrs. Conan having come to the conclusion that it would be better for her toconfine herself to charing, we at last settled down here, where I have nowlived for many years. 

"You may be inclined to ask why I had not kept up my acquaintance with mymusic-mistress. I believe the shock of losing my father, and the miserythat followed, made me feel as if my former world had vanished; at allevents, I never thought of going to her until Mr. Perkins one day, afterlistening to something I was playing, asked me who had taught me; and thisbrought her back to my mind so vividly that I resolved to go and see her. She welcomed me with more than kindness, --with tenderness, --and told me Ihad caused her much uneasiness by not letting her know what had become ofme. She looked quite aghast when she learned in what sort of place and withwhom I lived; but I told her Mrs. Conan had saved me from the workhouse, and was as much of a mother to me as it was possible for her to be, that weloved each other, and that it would be very wrong of me to leave her now, especially that she was not so well as she had been; and I believe she thensaw the thing as I saw it. She made me play to her, was pleased, --indeedsurprised, until I told her how I had been supporting myself, --and insistedon my resuming my studies with her, which I was only too glad to do. Inow, of course, got on much faster; and she expressed satisfaction with myprogress, but continued manifestly uneasy at the kind of thing I had toencounter, and become of necessity more and more familiar with. 

"When Mrs. Conan fell ill, I had indeed hard work of it. Unlike most of herclass, she had laid by a trifle of money; but as soon as she ceased to addto it, it began to dwindle, and was very soon gone. Do what I could fora while, if it had not been for the kindness of the neighbors, I shouldsometimes have been in want of bread; and when I hear hard things saidof the poor, I often think that surely improvidence is not so bad asselfishness. But, of course, there are all sorts amongst them, just asthere are all sorts in every class. When I went out to teach, now one, nowanother of the women in the house would take charge of my friend; and whenI came home, except her guardian happened to have got tipsy, I never foundshe had been neglected. Miss Harper said I must raise my terms; but I toldher that would be the loss of my pupils. Then she said she must see whatcould be done for me, only no one she knew was likely to employ a childlike me, if I were able to teach ever so well. One morning, however, withina week, a note came from Lady Bernard, asking me to go and see her. 

"I went, and found--a mother. You do not know her, I think? But you mustone day. Good people like you must come together. I will not attempt todescribe her. She awed me at first, and I could hardly speak to her, --Iwas not much more than thirteen then; but with the awe came a certainconfidence which was far better than ease. The immediate result was, thatshe engaged me to go and play for an hour, five days a week, at a certainhospital for sick children in the neighborhood, which she partly supported. For she had a strong belief that there was in music a great healing power. Her theory was, that all healing energy operates first on the mind, andfrom it passes to the body, and that medicines render aid only by removingcertain physical obstacles to the healing force. She believes that whenmusic operating on the mind has procured the peace of harmony, the peacein its turn operates outward, reducing the vital powers also into theharmonious action of health. _How much_ there may be in it, I cannot tell;but I do think that good has been and is the result of my playing to thosechildren; for I go still, though not quite so often, and it is music tome to watch my music thrown back in light from some of those sweet, pale, suffering faces. She was too wise to pay me much for it at first. Sheinquired, before making me the offer, how much I was already earning, askedme upon how much I could support Mrs. Conan and myself comfortably, andthen made the sum of my weekly earnings up to that amount. At the sametime, however, she sent many things to warm and feed the old woman, so thatmy mind was set at ease about her. She got a good deal better for a while, but continued to suffer so much from rheumatism, that she was quite unfitto go out charing any more; and I would not hear of her again exposingherself to the damps and draughts of empty houses, so long as I was able toprovide for her, --of which ability you may be sure I was not a little proudat first. 

"I have been talking for a long time, and yet may seem to have said nothingto account for your finding me where she left me; but I will try to come tothe point as quickly as possible. 

"Before she was entirely laid up, we had removed to this place, --a roughshelter, but far less so than some of the houses in which we had been. Iremember one in which I used to dart up and down like a hunted hare at onetime; at another to steal along from stair to stair like a well-meaningghost afraid of frightening people; my mode of procedure depending in parton the time of day, and which of the inhabitants I had reason to dreadmeeting. It was a good while before the inmates of this house and I beganto know each other. The landlord had turned out the former tenant of thisgarret after she had been long enough in the house for all the rest to knowher; and, notwithstanding she had been no great favorite, they all took herpart against the landlord; and fancying, perhaps because we kept more toourselves, that we were his _protégées_, and that he had turned out MuggyMoll, as they called her, to make room for us, regarded us from the firstwith disapprobation. The little girls would make grimaces at me, and thebigger girls would pull my hair, slap my face, and even occasionallypush me down stairs, while the boys made themselves far more terrible inmy eyes. But some remark happening to be dropped one day, which led thelandlord to disclaim all previous knowledge of us, things began to growbetter. And this is not by any means one of the worst parts of London. Icould take Mr. Walton to houses in the East End, where the manners areindescribable. We are all earning our bread here. Some have an occasionalattack of drunkenness, and idle about; but they are sick of it again aftera while. I remember asking a woman once if her husband would be present ata little entertainment to which Lady Bernard had invited them: she answeredthat he would be there if he was drunk, but if he was sober he couldn'tspare the time. 

"Very soon they began to ask me after Mrs. Conan; and one day I invited oneof them, who seemed a decent though not very tidy woman, to walk up and seeher; for I was anxious she should have a visitor now and then when I wasout, as she complained a good deal of the loneliness. The woman consented, and ever after was very kind to her. But my main stay and comfort was anold woman who then occupied the room opposite to this. She was such a goodcreature! Nearly blind, she yet kept her room the very pink of neatness. Inever saw a speck of dust on that chest of drawers, which was hers then, and which she valued far more than many a rich man values the house of hisancestors, --not only because it had been her mother's, but because it boretestimony to the respectability of her family. Her floor and her littlemuslin window-curtain, her bed and every thing about her, were as clean aslady could desire. She objected to move into a better room below, which thelandlord kindly offered her, --for she was a favorite from having been histenant a long time and never having given him any trouble in collecting herrent, --on the ground that there were two windows in it, and therefore toomuch light for her bits of furniture. They would, she said, look nothingin that room. She was very pleased when I asked her to pay a visit to Mrs. Conan; and as she belonged to a far higher intellectual grade than myprotectress, and as she had a strong practical sense of religion, chieflymanifested in a willing acceptance of the decrees of Providence, I thinkshe did us both good. I wish I could draw you a picture of her coming inat that door, with her all but sightless eyes, the broad borders of herwhite cap waving, and her hands stretched out before her; for she wasmore apprehensive than if she had been quite blind, because she could seethings without knowing what, or even in what position they were. The mostremarkable thing to me was the calmness with which she looked forward toher approaching death, although without the expectation which so manygood people seem to have in connection with their departure. I talked toher about it more than once, --not with any presumption of teaching her, for I felt she was far before me, but just to find out how she felt andwhat she believed. Her answer amounted to this, that she had never knownbeforehand what lay round the next corner, or what was going to happen toher, for if Providence had meant her to know, it could not be by going tofortune-tellers, as some of the neighbors did; but that she always foundthings turn out right and good for her, and she did not doubt she wouldfind it so when she came to the last turn. 

"By degrees I knew everybody in the house, and of course I was ready todo what I could to help any of them. I had much to lift me into a higherregion of mental comfort than was open to them; for I had music, and LadyBernard lent me books. 

"Of course also I kept my rooms as clean and tidy as I could; and indeed, if I had been more carelessly inclined in that way, the sight of the blindwoman's would have been a constant reminder to me. By degrees also I wasable to get a few more articles of furniture for it, and a bit of carpetto put down before the fire. I whitewashed the walls myself, and after awhile began to whitewash the walls of the landing as well, and all downthe stair, which was not of much use to the eye, for there is no light. Before long some of the other tenants began to whitewash their rooms also, and contrive to keep things a little tidier. Others declared they had noopinion of such uppish notions; they weren't for the likes of them. Thesewere generally such as would rejoice in wearing finery picked up at therag-shop; but even some of them began by degrees to cultivate a smallmeasure of order. Soon this one and that began to apply to me for help invarious difficulties that arose. But they didn't begin to call me granniefor a long time after this. They used then to call the blind woman grannie, and the name got associated with the top of the house; and I came to beassociated with it because I also lived there and we were friends. Afterher death, it was used from habit, at first with a feeling of mistake, seeing its immediate owner was gone; but by degrees it settled down uponme, and I came to be called grannie by everybody in the house. Even Mrs. Conan would not unfrequently address me, and speak of me too, as grannie, at first with a laugh, but soon as a matter of course. 

"I got by and by a few pupils amongst tradespeople of a class rathersuperior to that in which I had begun to teach, and from whom I could askand obtain double my former fee; so that things grew, with fluctuations, gradually better. Lady Bernard continued a true friend to me--but she neverwas other than that to any. Some of her friends ventured on the experimentwhether I could teach their children; and it is no wonder if they weresatisfied, seeing I had myself such a teacher. 

"Having come once or twice to see Mrs. Conan, she discovered that we weregaining a little influence over the people in the house; and it occurredto her, as she told me afterwards, that the virtue of music might be triedthere with a _moral_ end in view. Hence it came that I was beyond measureastonished and delighted one evening by the arrival of a piano, --not thatone, for it got more worn than I liked, and I was able afterwards toexchange it for a better. I found it an invaluable aid in the endeavor towork out my glowing desire of getting the people about me into a bettercondition. First I asked some of the children to come and listen while Iplayed. Everybody knows how fond the least educated children are of music;and I feel assured of its elevating power. Whatever the street-organsmay be to poets and mathematicians, they are certainly a godsend to thechildren of our courts and alleys. The music takes possession of them atonce, and sets them moving to it with rhythmical grace. I should have beenvery sorry to make it a condition with those I invited, that they shouldsit still: to take from them their personal share in it would have been todestroy half the charm of the thing. A far higher development is needfulbefore music can be enjoyed in silence and motionlessness. The onlycondition I made was, that they should come with clean hands and faces, andwith tidy hair. Considerable indignation was at first manifested on thepart of those parents whose children I refused to admit because they hadneglected the condition. This necessity, however, did not often occur; andthe anger passed away, while the condition gathered weight. After a while, guided by what some of the children let fall; I began to invite the mothersto join them; and at length it came to be understood that, every Saturdayevening, whoever chose to make herself tidy would be welcome, to an hour ortwo of my music. Some of the husbands next began to come, but there werenever so many of them present. I may just add, that although the mannersof some of my audience would be very shocking to cultivated people, and Iunderstand perfectly how they must be so, I am very rarely annoyed on suchoccasions. 

"I must now glance at another point in my history, one on which I cannotdwell. Never since my father's death had I attended public worship. Nothinghad drawn me thither; and I hardly know what induced me one evening to stepinto a chapel of which I knew nothing. There was not even Sunday to accountfor it. I believe, however, it had to do with this, that all day I had beenfeeling tired. I think people are often ready to suppose that their bodilycondition is the cause of their spiritual discomfort, when it may be onlythe occasion upon which some inward lack reveals itself. That the spiritualnature should be incapable of meeting and sustaining the body in itstroubles is of itself sufficient to show that it is not in a satisfactorycondition. For a long time the struggle for mere existence had almostabsorbed my energies; but things had been easier for some time, and are-action had at length come. It was not that I could lay any thingdefinite to my own charge; I only felt empty all through; I felt thatsomething was not right with me, that something was required of me whichI was not rendering. I could not, however, have told you what it was. Possibly the feeling had been for some time growing; but that day, so faras I can tell, I was first aware of it; and I presume it was the dim causeof my turning at the sound of a few singing voices, and entering thatchapel. I found about a dozen people present. Something in the air of theplace, meagre and waste as it looked, yet induced me to remain. An addressfollowed from a pale-faced, weak-looking man of middle age, who had no giftof person, voice, or utterance, to recommend what he said. But there dwelta more powerful enforcement in him than any of those, --that of earnestness. I went again, and again; and slowly, I cannot well explain how, the senseof life and its majesty grew upon me. Mr. Walton will, I trust, understandme when I say, that to one hungering for bread, it is of little consequencein what sort of platter it is handed him. This was a dissenting chapel, --ofwhat order, it was long before I knew, --and my predilection was for theChurch-services, those to which my father had accustomed me; but anycomparison of the two to the prejudice of either, I should still--althougha communicant of the Church of England--regard with absolute indifference. 

"It will be sufficient for my present purpose to allude to the onepractical thought which was the main fruit I gathered from this goodman, --the fruit by which I know that he was good. [Footnote: Something likethis is the interpretation of the word: "By their fruits ye shall knowthem" given by Mr. Maurice, --an interpretation which opens much. --G. M. D. ]It was this, --that if all the labor of God, as my teacher said, was tobring sons into glory, lifting them out of the abyss of evil bondage up tothe rock of his pure freedom, the only worthy end of life must be to workin the same direction, --to be a fellow-worker with God. Might I not, then, do something such, in my small way, and lose no jot of my labor? I thought. The urging, the hope, grew in me. But I was not left to feel blindly aftersome new and unknown method of labor. My teacher taught me that the way for_me_ to help others was not to tell them their duty, but myself to learnof Him who bore our griefs and carried our sorrows. As I learned of him, I should be able to help them. I have never had any theory but just to betheir friend, --to do for them the best I can. When I feel I may, I tellthem what has done me good, but I never urge any belief of mine upon theiracceptance. 

"It will now seem no more wonderful to you than to me, that I should remainwhere I am. I simply have no choice. I was sixteen when Mrs. Conan died. Then my friends, amongst whom Lady Bernard and Miss Harper have ever beenfirst, expected me to remove to lodgings in another neighborhood. Indeed, Lady Bernard came to see me, and said she knew precisely the place for me. When I told her I should remain where I was, she was silent, and soon leftme?--I thought offended. I wrote to her at once, explaining why I chosemy part here; saying that I would not hastily alter any thing that hadbeen appointed me; that I loved the people; that they called me grannie;that they came to me with their troubles; that there were few changes inthe house now; that the sick looked to me for help, and the children forteaching; that they seemed to be steadily rising in the moral scale; that Iknew some of them were trying hard to be good; and I put it to her whether, if I were to leave them, in order merely, as servants say, to bettermyself, I should not be forsaking my post, almost my family; for I knewit would not be to better either myself or my friends: if I was at allnecessary to them, I knew they were yet more necessary to me. 

"I have a burning desire to help in the making of the world clean, --if itbe only by sweeping one little room in it. I want to lead some poor straysheep home--not home to the church, Mr. Walton--I would not be supposed tocurry favor with you. I never think of what they call the church. I onlycare to lead them home to the bosom of God, where alone man is true man. 

"I could talk to you till night about what Lady Bernard has been to mesince, and what she has done for me and my grandchildren; but I have saidenough to explain how it is that I am in such a questionable position. I fear I have been guilty of much egotism, and have shown my personalfeelings with too little reserve. But I cast myself on your mercy. "

CHAPTER XX. 

A REMARKABLE FACT. 

A silence followed. I need hardly say we had listened intently. During thestory my father had scarcely interrupted the narrator. I had not spoken aword. She had throughout maintained a certain matter-of-fact, almost coldstyle, no doubt because she was herself the subject of her story; but wecould read between the lines, imagine much she did not say, and supplycolor when she gave only outline; and it moved us both deeply. My fathersat perfectly composed, betraying his emotion in silence alone. For myself, I had a great lump in my throat, but in part from the shame which mingledwith my admiration. The silence had not lasted more than a few seconds, when I yielded to a struggling impulse, rose, and kneeling before her, putmy hands on her knees, said, "Forgive me, " and could say no more. She puther hand on my shoulder, whispered. "My dear Mrs. Percivale!" bent down herface, and kissed me on the forehead. 

"How could you help being shy of me?" she said. "Perhaps I ought to havecome to you and explained it all; but I shrink from self-justification, --atleast before a fit opportunity makes it comparatively easy. "

"That is the way to give it all its force, " remarked my father. 

"I suppose it may be, " she returned. "But I hate talking about myself: itis an unpleasant subject. "

"Most people do not find it such, " said my father. "I could not honestlysay that I do not enjoy talking of my own experiences of life. "

"But there are differences, you see, " she rejoined. "My history looks to mesuch a matter of course, such a something I could not help, or have avoidedif I would, that the telling of it is unpleasant, because it implies animportance which does not belong to it. "

"St. Paul says something of the same sort, --that a necessity of preachingthe gospel was laid upon him, " remarked my father; but it seemed to make noimpression on Miss Clare, for she went on as if she had not heard him. 

"You see, Mr. Walton, it is not in the least as if, living in comfort, Ihad taken notice of the misery of the poor for the want of such sympathyand help as I could give them, and had therefore gone to live amongst themthat I might so help them: it is quite different from that. If I had doneso, I might be in danger of magnifying not merely my office but myself. Onthe contrary, I have been trained to it in such slow and necessitous ways, that it would be a far greater trial to me to forsake my work than it hasever been to continue it. "

My father said no more, but I knew he had his own thoughts. I remainedkneeling, and felt for the first time as if I understood what had led tosaint-worship. 

"Won't you sit, Mrs. Percivale?" she said, as if merely expostulating withme for not making myself comfortable. 

"Have you forgiven me?" I asked. 

"How can I say I have, when I never had any thing to forgive?"

"Well, then, I must go unforgiven, for I cannot forgive myself, " I said. 

"O Mrs. Percivale! if you think how the world is flooded with forgiveness, you will just dip in your cup, and take what you want. "

I felt that I was making too much even of my own shame, rose humbled, andtook my former seat. 

Narration being over, and my father's theory now permitting him to askquestions, he did so plentifully, bringing out many lights, and elucidatingseveral obscurities. The story grew upon me, until the work to which MissClare had given herself seemed more like that of the Son of God than anyother I knew. For she was not helping her friends from afar, but as one ofthemselves, --nor with money, but with herself; she was not condescending tothem, but finding her highest life in companionship with them. It seemed atleast more like what his life must have been before he was thirty, than anything else I could think of. I held my peace however; for I felt that tohint at such a thought would have greatly shocked and pained her. 

No doubt the narrative I have given is plainer and more coherent for thequestions my father put; but it loses much from the omission of one or twoparts which she gave dramatically, with evident enjoyment of the fun thatwas in them. I have also omitted all the interruptions which came from hernot unfrequent reference to my father on points that came up. At length Iventured to remind her of something she seemed to have forgotten. 

"When you were telling us, Miss Clare, " I said, "of the help that came toyou that dreary afternoon in the empty house, I think you mentioned thatsomething which happened afterwards made it still more remarkable. " "Oh, yes!" she answered: "I forgot about that. I did not carry my history farenough to be reminded of it again. 

"Somewhere about five years ago, Lady Bernard, having several schemes onfoot for helping such people as I was interested in, asked me if it wouldnot be nice to give an entertainment to my friends, and as many of theneighbors as I pleased, to the number of about a hundred. She wanted toput the thing entirely in my hands, and it should be my entertainment, sheclaiming only the privilege of defraying expenses. I told her I shouldbe delighted to convey _her_ invitation, but that the entertainment mustnot pretend to be mine; which, besides that it would be a falsehood, andtherefore not to be thought of, would perplex my friends, and drive them tothe conclusion either that it was not mine, or that I lived amongst themunder false appearances. She confessed the force of my arguments, and letme have it my own way. 

"She had bought a large house to be a home for young women out ofemployment, and in it she proposed the entertainment should be given: therewere a good many nice young women inmates at the time, who, she said, wouldbe all willing to help us to wait upon our guests. The idea was carriedout, and the thing succeeded admirably. We had music and games, the lattersuch as the children were mostly acquainted with, only producing moremerriment and conducted with more propriety than were usual in the court orthe streets. I may just remark, in passing, that, had these been childrenof the poorest sort, we should have had to teach them; for one of thesaddest things is that such, in London at least, do not know how toplay. We had tea and coffee and biscuits in the lower rooms, for any whopleased; and they were to have a solid supper afterwards. With none of thearrangements, however, had I any thing to do; for my business was to bewith them, and help them to enjoy themselves. All went on capitally; theparents entering into the merriment of their children, and helping to keepit up. 

"In one of the games, I was seated on the floor with a handkerchief tiedover my eyes, waiting, I believe, for some gentle trick to be played uponme, that I might guess at the name of the person who played it. Therewas a delay--of only a few seconds--long enough, however, for a suddenreturn of that dreary November afternoon in which I sat on the floor toomiserable even to think that I was cold and hungry. Strange to say, itwas not the picture of it that came back to me first, but the sound of myown voice calling aloud in the ringing echo of the desolate rooms thatI was of no use to anybody, and that God had forgotten me utterly. Withthe recollection, a doubtful expectation arose which moved me to a scarcecontrollable degree. I jumped to my feet, and tore the bandage from myeyes. 

"Several times during the evening I had had the odd yet well-known feelingof the same thing having happened before; but I was too busy entertainingmy friends to try to account for it: perhaps what followed may suggest thetheory, that in not a few of such cases the indistinct remembrance of theprevious occurrence of some portion of the circumstances may cast the hueof memory over the whole. As--my eyes blinded with the light and strainingto recover themselves--I stared about the room, the presentiment grewalmost conviction that it was the very room in which I had so sat indesolation and despair. Unable to restrain myself, I hurried into the backroom: there was the cabinet beyond! In a few moments more I was absolutelysatisfied that this was indeed the house in which I had first found refuge. For a time I could take no further share in what was going on, but sat downin a corner, and cried for joy. Some one went for Lady Bernard, who wassuperintending the arrangements for supper in the music-room behind. Shecame in alarm. I told her there was nothing the matter but a little toomuch happiness, and, if she would come into the cabinet, I would tell herall about it. She did so, and a few words made her a hearty sharer in mypleasure. She insisted that I should tell the company all about it; 'for'she said, 'you do not know how much it may help some poor creature totrust in God. ' I promised I would, if I found I could command myselfsufficiently. She left me alone for a little while, and after that I wasable to join in the games again. 

"At supper I found myself quite composed, and, at Lady Bernard's request, stood up, and gave them all a little sketch of grannie's history, of whichsketch what had happened that evening was made the central point. Manyof the simpler hearts about me received it, without question, as a divinearrangement for my comfort and encouragement, --at least, thus I interpretedtheir looks to each other, and the remarks that reached my ear; butpresently a man stood up, --one who thought more than the rest of them, perhaps because he was blind, --a man at once conceited, honest, andsceptical; and silence having been made for him, --'Ladies and gentlemen, 'he began, as if he had been addressing a public meeting, 'you've all heardwhat grannie has said. It's very kind of her to give us so much of herhistory. It's a very remarkable one, _I_ think, and she deserves to haveit. As to what upset her this very night as is, --and I must say forher, I've knowed her now for six years, and I never knowed _her_ upsetafore, --and as to what upset her, all I can say is, it may or may not ha'been what phylosophers call a coincydence; but at the same time, if itwasn't a coincydence, and if the Almighty had a hand in it, it were no morethan you might expect. He would look at it in this light, you see, thatmaybe she was wrong to fancy herself so down on her luck as all that, butshe was a good soul, notwithstandin, ' and he would let her know he hadn'tforgotten her. And so he set her down in that room there, --wi' her eyeslike them here o' mine, as never was no manner o' use to me, --for a minute, jest to put her in mind o' what had been, and what she had said there, an'how it was all so different now. In my opinion, it were no wonder as shebroke down, God bless her! I beg leave to propose her health. ' So theydrank my health in lemonade and ginger-beer; for we were afraid to givesome of them stronger drink than that, and therefore had none. Then we hadmore music and singing; and a clergyman, who knew how to be neighbor tothem that had fallen among thieves, read a short chapter and a collect ortwo, and said a few words to them. Then grannie and her children went hometogether, all happy, but grannie the happiest of them all. "

"Strange and beautiful!" said my father. "But, " he added, after a pause, "you must have met with many strange and beautiful things in such a life asyours; for it seems to me that such a life is open to the entrance of allsimple wonders. Conventionality and routine and arbitrary law banish theirvery approach. "

"I believe, " said Miss Clare, "that every life has its own privateexperience of the strange and beautiful. But I have sometimes thought thatperhaps God took pains to bar out such things of the sort as we should beno better for. The reason why Lazarus was not allowed to visit the brothersof Dives was, that the repentance he would have urged would not havefollowed, and they would have been only the worse in consequence. "

"Admirably said, " remarked my father. 

Before we took our leave, I had engaged Miss Clare to dine with us while myfather was in town. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

LADY BERNARD. 

When she came we had no other guest, and so had plenty of talk with her. Before dinner I showed her my husband's pictures; and she was especiallypleased with that which hung in the little room off the study, which Icalled my boudoir, --a very ugly word, by the way, which I am trying to giveup, --with a curtain before it. My father has described it in "The SeaboardParish:" a pauper lies dead, and they are bringing in his coffin. She saidit was no wonder it had not been sold, notwithstanding its excellenceand force; and asked if I would allow her to bring Lady Bernard to seeit. After dinner Percivale had a long talk with her, and succeeded inpersuading her to sit to him; not, however, before I had joined myentreaties with his, and my father had insisted that her face was not herown, but belonged to all her kind. 

The very next morning she came with Lady Bernard. The latter said sheknew my husband well by reputation, and had, before our marriage, askedhim to her house, but had not been fortunate enough to possess sufficientattraction. Percivale was much taken with her, notwithstanding acertain coldness, almost sternness of manner, which was considerablyrepellent, --but only for the first few moments, for, when her eyes lightedup, the whole thing vanished. She was much pleased with some of hispictures, criticising freely, and with evident understanding. The immediateresult was, that she bought both the pauper picture and that of the dyingknight. 

"But I am sorry to deprive your lovely room of such treasures, Mrs. Percivale, " she said, with a kind smile. 

"Of course I shall miss them, " I returned; "but the thought that you havethem will console me. Besides, it is good to have a change; and there areonly too many lying in the study, from which he will let me choose tosupply their place. "

"Will you let me come and see which you have chosen?" she asked. 

"With the greatest pleasure, " I answered. 

"And will you come and see me? Do you think you could persuade your husbandto bring you to dine with me?"

I told her I could promise the one with more than pleasure, and had littledoubt of being able to do the other, now that my husband had seen her. 

A reference to my husband's dislike to fashionable society followed, and Ihad occasion to mention his feeling about being asked without me. Of thelatter, Lady Bernard expressed the warmest approval; and of the former, said that it would have no force in respect of her parties, for they werenot at all fashionable. 

This was the commencement of a friendship for which we have much cause tothank God. Nor did we forget that it came through Miss Clare. 

I confess I felt glorious over my cousin Judy; but I would bide my time. Now that I am wiser, and I hope a little better, I see that I was ratherspiteful; but I thought then I was only jealous for my new and beautifulfriend. Perhaps, having wronged her myself, I was the more ready to takevengeance on her wrongs from the hands of another; which was just theopposite feeling to that I ought to have had. 

In the mean time, our intimacy with Miss Clare grew. She interested me inmany of her schemes for helping the poor; some of which were for providingthem with work in hard times, but more for giving them an interest in lifeitself, without which, she said, no one would begin to inquire into itsrelations and duties. One of her positive convictions was, that you oughtnot to give them any thing they _ought_ to provide for themselves, suchas food or clothing or shelter. In such circumstances as rendered itimpossible for them to do so, the _ought_ was in abeyance. But she heartilyapproved of making them an occasional present of something they could notbe expected to procure for themselves, --flowers, for instance. "You wouldnot imagine, " I have heard her say, "how they delight in flowers. All thefiner instincts of their being are drawn to the surface at the sight ofthem. I am sure they prize and enjoy them far more, not merely than mostpeople with gardens and greenhouses do, but far more even than they wouldif they were deprived of them. A gift of that sort can only do them good. But I would rather give a workman a gold watch than a leg of mutton. Bya present you mean a compliment; and none feel more grateful for such anacknowledgment of your human relation to them, than those who look up toyou as their superior. "

Once, when she was talking thus, I ventured to object, for the sake ofhearing her further. 

"But, " I said, "sometimes the most precious thing you can give a man isjust that compassion which you seem to think destroys the value of a gift. "

"When compassion itself is precious to a man, " she answered, "it must bebecause he loves you, and believes you love him. When that is the case, youmay give him any thing you like, and it will do neither you nor him harm. But the man of independent feeling, except he be thus your friend, will notunlikely resent your compassion, while the beggar will accept it chiefly asa pledge for something more to be got from you; and so it will tend to keephim in beggary. "

"Would you never, then, give money, or any of the necessaries of life, except in extreme, and, on the part of the receiver, unavoidablenecessity?" I asked. 

"I would not, " she answered; "but in the case where a man _cannot_ helphimself, the very suffering makes a way for the love which is more thancompassion to manifest itself. In every other case, the true way is toprovide them with work, which is itself a good thing, besides what theygain by it. If a man will not work, neither should he eat. It must be workwith an object in it, however: it must not be mere labor, such as digginga hole and filling it up again, of which I have heard. No man could helpresentment at being set to such work. You ought to let him feel that he isgiving something of value to you for the money you give to him. But I haveknown a whole district so corrupted and degraded by clerical alms-giving, that one of the former recipients of it declared, as spokesman for therest; that threepence given was far more acceptable than five shillingsearned. "

A good part of the little time I could spare from my own family was nowspent with Miss Clare in her work, through which it was chiefly that webecame by degrees intimate with Lady Bernard. If ever there was a woman wholived this outer life for the sake of others, it was she. Her inner lifewas, as it were, sufficient for herself, and found its natural outwardexpression in blessing others. She was like a fountain of living water thatcould find no vent but into the lives of her fellows. She had sufferedmore than falls to the ordinary lot of women, in those who were related toher most nearly, and for many years had looked for no personal blessingfrom without. She said to me once, that she could not think of any thingthat could happen to herself to make her very happy now, except a lovedgrandson, who was leading a strange, wild life, were to turn out a Harrythe Fifth, --a consummation which, however devoutly wished, was not grantedher; for the young man died shortly after. I believe no one, not evenMiss Clare, knew half the munificent things she did, or what an immenseproportion of her large income she spent upon other people. But, as shesaid herself, no one understood the worth of money better; and no oneliked better to have the worth of it: therefore she always administeredher charity with some view to the value of the probable return, --with someregard, that is, to the amount of good likely to result to others from theaid given to one. She always took into consideration whether the good waslikely to be propagated, or to die with the receiver. She confessed tofrequent mistakes; but such, she said, was the principle upon which shesought to regulate that part of her stewardship. 

I wish I could give a photograph of her. She was slight, and appearedtaller than she was, being rather stately than graceful, with a commandingforehead and still blue eyes. She gave at first the impression of coldness, with a touch of haughtiness. But this was, I think, chiefly the result ofher inherited physique; for the moment her individuality appeared, when herbeing, that is, came into contact with that of another, all this impressionvanished in the light that flashed into her eyes, and the smile thatillumined her face. Never did woman of rank step more triumphantly overthe barriers which the cumulated custom of ages has built between theclasses of society. She laid great stress on good manners, little on whatis called good birth; although to the latter, in its deep and true sense, she attributed the greatest _à priori_ value, as the ground of obligationin the possessor, and of expectation on the part of others. But I shallhave an opportunity of showing more of what she thought on this subjectpresently; for I bethink me that it occupied a great part of ourconversation at a certain little gathering, of which I am now going to givean account. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

MY SECOND DINNER-PARTY. 

For I judged that I might now give another little dinner: I thought, that, as Percivale had been doing so well lately, he might afford, with hisknowing brother's help, to provide, for his part of the entertainment, what might be good enough to offer even to Mr. Morley; and I now knew LadyBernard sufficiently well to know also that she would willingly accept aninvitation from me, and would be pleased to meet Miss Clare, or, indeed, would more likely bring her with her. 

I proposed the dinner, and Percivale consented to it. My main object beingthe glorification of Miss Clare, who had more engagements of one kind andanother than anybody I knew, I first invited her, asking her to fix her ownday, at some considerable remove. Next I invited Mr. And Mrs. Morley, andnext Lady Bernard, who went out very little. Then I invited Mr. Blackstone, and last of all Roger--though I was almost as much interested in hismeeting Miss Clare as in any thing else connected with the gathering. Forhe had been absent from London for some time on a visit to an artist friendat the Hague, and had never seen Miss Clare since the evening on whichhe and I quarrelled--or rather, to be honest, I quarrelled with him. Allaccepted, and I looked forward to the day with some triumph. 

I had better calm the dread of my wifely reader by at once assuring herthat I shall not harrow her feelings with any account of culinary blunders. The moon was in the beginning of her second quarter, and my cook's braintolerably undisturbed. Lady Bernard offered me her cook for the occasion;but I convinced her that my wisdom would be to decline the offer, seeingsuch external influence would probably tend to disintegration. I went overwith her every item of every dish and every sauce many times, --without anyresulting sense of security, I confess; but I had found, that, odd as itmay seem, she always did better the more she had to do. I believe that herlove of approbation, excited by the difficulty before her, in its turnexcited her intellect, which then arose to meet the necessities of thecase. 

Roger arrived first, then Mr. Blackstone; Lady Bernard brought Miss Clare;and Mr. And Mrs. Morley came last. There were several introductions to begone through, --a ceremony in which Percivale, being awkward, would give meno assistance; whence I failed to observe how the presence of Miss Clareaffected Mr. And Mrs. Morley; but my husband told me that Judy turned red, and that Mr. Morley bowed to her with studied politeness. I took care thatMr. Blackstone should take her down to dinner, which was served in thestudy as before. 

The conversation was broken and desultory at first, as is generally thecase at a dinner-party--and perhaps ought to be; but one after anotherbegan to listen to what was passing between Lady Bernard and my husband atthe foot of the table, until by degrees every one became interested, andtook a greater or less part in the discussion. The first of it I heard wasas next follows. 

"Then you do believe, " my husband was saying, "in the importance of whatsome of the Devonshire people call _havage_?"

"Allow me to ask what they mean by the word, " Lady Bernard returned. 

"Birth, descent, --the people you come of, " he answered. 

"Of course I believe that descent involves very important considerations. "

"No one, " interposed Mr. Morley, "can have a better right than yourladyship to believe that. "

"One cannot nave a better right than another to believe a fact, Mr. Morley, " she answered with a smile. "It is but a fact that you start betteror worse according to the position of your starting-point. "

"Undeniably, " said Mr. Morley. "And for all that is feared from the growthof levelling notions in this country, it will be many generations before aprofound respect for birth is eradicated from the feelings of the Englishpeople. "

He drew in his chin with a jerk, and devoted himself again to his plate, with the air of a "Dixi. " He was not permitted to eat in peace, however. 

"If you allow, " said Mr. Blackstone, "that the feeling can wear out, andis wearing out, it matters little how long it may take to prove itself ofa false, because corruptible nature. No growth of notions will blot love, honesty, kindness, out of the human heart. "

"Then, " said Lady Bernard archly, "am I to understand, Mr. Blackstone, thatyou don't believe it of the least importance to come of decent people?"

"Your ladyship puts it well, " said Mr. Morley, laughing mildly, "and withauthority. The longer the descent"--

"The more doubtful, " interrupted Lady Bernard, laughing. "One can hardlyhave come of decent people all through, you know. Let us only hope, without inquiring too closely, that their number preponderates in our ownindividual cases. "

Mr. Morley stared for a moment, and then tried to laugh, but unable todetermine whereabout he was in respect of the question, betook himself tohis glass of sherry. 

Mr. Blackstone considered it the best policy in general not to explain anyremark he had made, but to say the right thing better next time instead. Isuppose he believed, with another friend of mine, that "when explanationsbecome necessary, they become impossible, " a paradox well worth theconsideration of those who write letters to newspapers. But Lady Bernardunderstood him well enough, and was only unwinding the clew of her idea. 

"On the contrary, it must be a most serious fact, " he rejoined, "to any onewho like myself believes that the sins of the fathers are visited on thechildren. "

"Mr. Blackstone, " objected Roger, "I can't imagine you believing such amanifest injustice. "

"It has been believed in all ages by the best of people, " he returned. 

"To whom possibly the injustice of it never suggested itself. For my part, I must either disbelieve that, or disbelieve in a God. "

"But, my dear fellow, don't you see it is a fact? Don't you see childrenborn with the sins of their parents nestling in their very bodies? You seeon which horn of your own dilemma you would impale yourself. "

"Wouldn't you rather not believe in a God than believe in an unjust one?"

"An unjust god, " said Mr. Blackstone, with the honest evasion of one whowill not answer an awful question hastily, "must be a false god, that is, no god. Therefore I presume there is some higher truth involved in everyfact that appears unjust, the perception of which would nullify theappearance. "

"I see none in the present case, " said Roger. 

"I will go farther than assert the mere opposite, " returned Mr. Blackstone. "I will assert that it is an honor to us to have the sins of our fatherslaid upon us. For thus it is given into our power to put a stop to them, sothat they shall descend no farther. If I thought my father had committedany sins for which I might suffer, I should be unspeakably glad to sufferfor them, and so have the privilege of taking a share in his burden, andsome of the weight of it off his mind. You see the whole idea is that of afamily, in which we are so grandly bound together, that we must suffer withand for each other. Destroy this consequence, and you destroy the lovelyidea itself, with all its thousand fold results of loveliness. "

"You anticipate what I was going to say, Mr. Blackstone, " said LadyBernard. "I would differ from you only in one thing. The chain of descentis linked after such a complicated pattern, that the non-conductingcondition of one link, or of many links even, cannot break the transmissionof qualities. I may inherit from my great-great-grandfather or mother, orsome one ever so much farther back. That which was active wrong in someone or other of my ancestors, may appear in me as an impulse to that samewrong, which of course I have to overcome; and if I succeed, then it isso far checked. But it may have passed, or may yet pass, to others of hisdescendants, who have, or will have, to do the same--for who knows how manygenerations to come?--before it shall cease. Married people, you see, Mrs. Percivale, have an awful responsibility in regard of the future of theworld. You cannot tell to how many millions you may transmit your failuresor your victories. "

"If I understand you right, Lady Bernard, " said Roger, "it is the personalcharacter of your ancestors, and not their social position, you regard asof importance. "

"It was of their personal character alone I was thinking. But of courseI do not pretend to believe that there are not many valuable gifts morelikely to show themselves in what is called a long descent; for doubtless acontinuity of education does much to develop the race. "

"But if it is personal character you chiefly regard, we may say we are allequally far descended, " I remarked; "for we have each had about the samenumber of ancestors with a character of some sort or other, whose faultsand virtues have to do with ours, and for both of which we are, accordingto Mr. Blackstone, in a most real and important sense accountable. "

"Certainly, " returned Lady Bernard; "and it is impossible to say in whosedescent the good or the bad may predominate. I cannot tell, for instance, how much of the property I inherit has been honestly come by, or is thespoil of rapacity and injustice. "

"You are doing the best you can to atone for such a possible fact, then, byits redistribution, " said my husband. 

"I confess, " she answered, "the doubt has had some share in determining myfeeling with regard to the management of my property. I have no right tothrow up my stewardship, for that was none of my seeking, and I do not knowany one who has a better claim to it; but I count it only a stewardship. Iam not at liberty to throw my orchard open, for that would result not onlyin its destruction, but in a renewal of the fight of centuries ago for itspossession; but I will try to distribute my apples properly. That is, Ihave not the same right to give away foolishly that I have to keep wisely. "

"Then, " resumed Roger, who had evidently been pondering what Lady Bernardhad previously said, "you would consider what is called kleptomania as theimpulse to steal transmitted by a thief-ancestor?"

"Nothing seems to me more likely. I know a nobleman whose servant has tosearch his pockets for spoons or forks every night as soon as he is inbed. "

"I should find it very hard to define the difference between that andstealing, " said Miss Clare, now first taking a part in the conversation. "Ihave sometimes wondered whether kleptomania was not merely the fashionablename for stealing. "

"The distinction is a difficult one, and no doubt the word is occasionallymisapplied. But I think there is a difference. The nobleman to whom Ireferred makes no objection to being thus deprived of his booty; which, for one thing, appears to show that the temptation is intermittent, andpartakes at least of the character of a disease. "

"But are there not diseases which are only so much the worse diseases thatthey are not intermittent?" said Miss Clare. "Is it not hard that theprivileges of kleptomania should be confined to the rich? You never hearthe word applied to a poor child, even if his father was, habit and repute, a thief. Surely, when hunger and cold aggravate the attacks of inheritedtemptation, they cannot at the same time aggravate the culpability ofyielding to them?"

"On the contrary, " said Roger, "one would naturally suppose they addedimmeasurable excuse. "

"Only, " said Mr. Blackstone, "there comes in our ignorance, and consequentinability to judge. The very fact of the presence of motives of a mostpowerful kind renders it impossible to be certain of the presence of thedisease; whereas other motives being apparently absent, we presume diseaseas the readiest way of accounting for the propensity; I do not thereforethink it is the only way. I believe there are cases in which it comes ofpure greed, and is of the same kind as any other injustice the capabilityof exercising which is more generally distributed. Why should a thief beunknown in a class, a proportion of the members of which is capable ofwrong, chicanery, oppression, indeed any form of absolute selfishness?"

"At all events, " said Lady Bernard, "so long as we do our best to help themto grow better, we cannot make too much allowance for such as have not onlybeen born with evil impulses, but have had every animal necessity to urgethem in the same direction; while, on the other hand, they have not had oneof those restraining influences which a good home and education would haveafforded. Such must, so far as development goes, be but a little above thebeasts. "

"You open a very difficult question, " said Mr. Morley: "What are we to dowith them? Supposing they _are_ wild beasts, we can't shoot them; thoughthat would, no doubt, be the readiest way to put an end to the breed. "

"Even that would not suffice, " said Lady Bernard. "There would always be adeposit from the higher classes sufficient to keep up the breed. But, Mr. Morley, I did not say _wild_ beasts: I only said _beasts_. There is a greatdifference between a tiger and a sheep-dog. "

"There is nearly as much between a Seven-Dialsrough and a sheep-dog. "

"In moral attainment, I grant you, " said Mr. Blackstone; "but in moralcapacity, no. Besides, you must remember, both what a descent the sheep-doghas, and what pains have been taken with his individual education, as wellas that of his ancestors. "

"Granted all that, " said Mr. Morley, "there the fact remains. For my part, I confess I don't see what is to be done. The class to which you refer goeson increasing. There's this garrotting now. I spent a winter at Algierslately, and found even the suburbs of that city immeasurably safer than anypart of London is now, to judge from the police-reports. Yet I am accusedof inhumanity and selfishness if I decline to write a check for everyshabby fellow who calls upon me pretending to be a clergyman, and torepresent this or that charity in the East End!"

"Things are bad enough in the West End, within a few hundred yards ofPortland Place, for instance, " murmured Miss Clare. 

"It seems to me highly unreasonable, " Mr. Morley went on. "Why should Ispend my money to perpetuate such a condition of things?"

"That would in all likelihood be the tendency of your subscription, " saidMr. Blackstone. 

"Then why should I?" repeated Mr. Morley with a smile of triumph. 

"But, " said Miss Clare, in an apologetic tone, "it seems to me you make amistake in regarding the poor as if their poverty were the only distinctionby which they could be classified. The poor are not _all_ thieves andgarroters, nor even all unthankful and unholy. There are just as strong andas delicate distinctions too, in that stratum of social existence as in theupper strata. I should imagine Mr. Morley knows a few, belonging to thesame social grade with himself, with whom, however, he would be sorry to beon any terms of intimacy. "

"Not a few, " responded Mr. Morley with a righteous frown. 

"Then I, who know the poor as well at least as you can know the rich, having lived amongst them almost from childhood, assert that I amacquainted with not a few, who, in all the essentials of human life andcharacter, would be an honor to any circle. "

"I should be sorry to seem to imply that there may not be very worthypeople amongst them, Miss Clare; but it is not such who draw our attentionto the class. "

"Not such who force themselves upon your attention certainly, " said MissClare; "but the existence of such may be an additional reason for bestowingsome attention on the class to which they belong. Is there not such amighty fact as the body of Christ? Is there no connection between the headand the feet?"

"I had not the slightest purpose of disputing the matter with you, MissClare, " said Mr. Morley--I thought rudely, for who would use the word_disputing_ at a dinner-table? "On the contrary, being a practical man, I want to know what is to be done. It is doubtless a great misfortune tothe community that there should be such sinks in our cities; but who is toblame for it?--that is the question. "

"Every man who says, Am I my brother's keeper? Why, just consider, Mr. Morley: suppose in a family there were one less gifted than the others, andthat in consequence they all withdrew from him, and took no interest in hisaffairs: what would become of him? Must he not sink?"

"Difference of rank is a divine appointment, --you must allow that. If therewere not a variety of grades, the social machine would soon come to astand-still. "

"A strong argument for taking care of the smallest wheel, for all the partsare interdependent. That there should be different classes is undoubtedly adivine intention, and not to be turned aside. But suppose the less-giftedboy is fit for some manual labor; suppose he takes to carpentering, andworks well, and keeps the house tidy, and every thing in good repair, whilehis brothers pursue their studies and prepare for professions beyond hisreach: is the inferior boy degraded by doing the best he can? Is there anyreason in the nature of things why he should sink? But he will most likelysink, sooner or later, if his brothers take no interest in his work, andtreat him as a being of nature inferior to their own. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Mr. Morley, "but is he not on the verysupposition inferior to them?"

"Intellectually, yes; morally, no; for he is doing his work, possiblybetter than they, and therefore taking a higher place in the eternal scale. But granting all kinds of inferiority, his _nature_ remains the same withtheir own; and the question is, whether they treat him as one to be helpedup, or one to be kept down; as one unworthy of sympathy, or one to behonored for filling his part: in a word, as one belonging to them, or onewhom they put up with only because his work is necessary to them. "

"What do you mean by being 'helped up'?" asked Mr. Morley. 

"I do not mean helped out of his trade, but helped to make the best of it, and of the intellect that finds its development in that way. "

"Very good. But yet I don't see how you apply your supposition. "

"For an instance of application, then: How many respectable people know orcare a jot about their servants, except as creatures necessary to theircomfort?"

"Well, Miss Clare, " said Judy, addressing her for the first time, "if youhad had the half to do with servants I have had, you would alter youropinion of them. "

"I have expressed no opinion, " returned Miss Clare. "I have only said thatmasters and mistresses know and care next to nothing about them. "

"They are a very ungrateful class, do what you will for them. "

"I am afraid they are at present growing more and more corrupt as a class, "rejoined Miss Clare; "but gratitude is a high virtue, therefore in any caseI don't see how you could look for much of it from the common sort of them. And yet while some mistresses do not get so much of it as they deserve, Ifear most mistresses expect far more of it than they have any right to. "

"You _can't_ get them to speak the truth. "

"That I am afraid is a fact. "

"I have never known one on whose word I could depend, " insisted Judy. 

"My father says he _has_ known one, " I interjected. 

"A sad confirmation of Mrs. Morley, " said Miss Clare. "But for my part Iknow very few persons in any rank on whose representation of things I couldabsolutely depend. Truth is the highest virtue, and seldom grows wild. Itis difficult to speak the truth, and those who have tried it longest bestknow how difficult it is. Servants need to be taught that as well aseverybody else. "

"There is nothing they resent so much as being taught, " said Judy. 

"Perhaps: they are very far from docile; and I believe it is of little useto attempt giving them direct lessons. "

"How, then, are you to teach them?"

"By making it very plain to them, but without calling their attention toit, that _you_ speak the truth. In the course of a few years they may cometo tell a lie or two the less for that. "

"Not a very hopeful prospect, " said Judy. 

"Not a very rapid improvement, " said her husband. 

"I look for no rapid improvement, so early in a history as the suppositionimplies, " said Miss Clare. 

"But would you not tell them how wicked it is?" I asked. 

"They know already that it is wicked to tell lies; but they do not feelthat _they_ are wicked in making the assertions they do. The less saidabout the abstract truth, and the more shown of practical truth, the betterfor those whom any one would teach to forsake lying. So, at least, itappears to me. I despair of teaching others, except by learning myself. "

"If you do no more than that, you will hardly produce an appreciable effectin a lifetime. "

"Why should it be appreciated?" rejoined Miss Clare. 

"I should have said, on the contrary, " interposed Mr. Blackstone, addressing Mr. Morley, "if you do less--for more you cannot do--you willproduce no effect whatever. "

"We have no right to make it a condition of our obedience, that we shallsee its reflex in the obedience of others, " said Miss Clare. "We have topull out the beam, not the mote. "

"Are you not, then, to pull the mote out of your brother's eye?" said Judy. 

"In no case and on no pretence, _until_ you have pulled the beam out ofyour own eye, " said Mr. Blackstone; "which I fancy will make the duty offinding fault with one's neighbor a rare one; for who will venture to sayhe has qualified himself for the task?"

It was no wonder that a silence followed upon this; for the talk had got tobe very serious for a dinner-table. Lady Bernard was the first to speak. Itwas easier to take up the dropped thread of the conversation than to begina new reel. 

"It cannot be denied, " she said, "whoever may be to blame for it, that theseparation between the rich and the poor has either been greatly widened oflate, or, which involves the same practical necessity, we have become moreaware of the breadth and depth of a gulf which, however it may distinguishtheir circumstances, ought not to divide them from each other. Certainlythe rich withdraw themselves from the poor. Instead, for instance, ofhelping them to bear their burdens, they leave the still struggling poor ofwhole parishes to sink into hopeless want, under the weight of those whohave already sunk beyond recovery. I am not sure that to shoot them wouldnot involve less injustice. At all events, he that hates his brother is amurderer. "

"But there is no question of hating here, " objected Mr. Morley. 

"I am not certain that absolute indifference to one's neighbor is not asbad. It came pretty nearly to the same thing in the case of the priest andthe Levite, who passed by on the other side, " said Mr. Blackstone. 

"Still, " said Mr. Morley, in all the self-importance of one who pridedhimself on the practical, "I do not see that Miss Clare has proposed anyremedy for the state of things concerning the evil of which we are allagreed. What is to be _done_? What can _I_ do now? Come, Miss Clare. "

Miss Clare was silent. 

"Marion, my child, " said Lady Bernard, turning to her, "will you answer Mr. Morley?"

"Not, certainly, as to what _he_ can do: that question I dare not undertaketo answer. I can only speak of what principles I may seem to havediscovered. But until a man begins to behave to those with whom he comesinto personal contact as partakers of the same nature, to recognize, forinstance, between himself and his trades-people a bond superior to that ofsupply and demand, I cannot imagine how he is to do any thing towards thedrawing together of the edges of the gaping wound in the social body. "

"But, " persisted Mr. Morley, who, I began to think, showed some real desireto come at a practical conclusion, "suppose a man finds himself incapableof that sort of thing--for it seems to me to want some rare qualificationor other to be able to converse with an uneducated person"--

"There are many such, especially amongst those who follow handicrafts, "interposed Mr. Blackstone, "who think a great deal more than most of theso-called educated. There is a truer education to be got in the pursuit ofa handicraft than in the life of a mere scholar. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Morley. "

"Suppose, " resumed Mr. Morley, accepting the apology withoutdisclaimer, --"Suppose I find I can do nothing of that sort; is therenothing of any sort I can do?"

"Nothing of the best sort, I firmly believe, " answered Miss Clare; "forthe genuine recognition of the human relationship can alone give value towhatever else you may do, and indeed can alone guide you to what oughtto be done. I had a rather painful illustration of this the other day. Agentleman of wealth and position offered me the use of his grounds for someof my poor friends, whom I wanted to take out for a half-holiday. In theneighborhood of London, that is a great boon. But unfortunately, whetherfrom his mistake or mine, I was left with the impression that he wouldprovide some little entertainment for them; I am certain that at leastmilk was mentioned. It was a lovely day; every thing looked beautiful; andalthough they were in no great spirits, poor things, no doubt the shade andthe grass and the green trees wrought some good in them. Unhappily, two ofthe men had got drunk on the way; and, fearful of giving offence, I had totake them back to the station. --for their poor helpless wives could onlycry, --and send them home by train. I should have done better to risk theoffence, and take them into the grounds, where they might soon have sleptit off under a tree. I had some distance to go, and some difficulty ingetting them along; and when I got back I found things in an unhappycondition, for nothing had been given them to eat or drink, --indeed, noattention, had been paid them whatever. There was company at dinner in thehouse, and I could not find any one with authority. I hurried into theneighboring village, and bought the contents of two bakers' shops, withwhich I returned in time to give each a piece of bread before the companycame out to _look at_ them. A gayly-dressed group, they stood by themselveslanguidly regarding the equally languid but rather indignant groups ofill-clad and hungry men and women upon the lawn. They made no attempt tomingle with them, or arrive at a notion of what was moving in any of theirminds. The nearest approach to communion I saw was a poke or two given to achild with the point of a parasol. Were my poor friends likely to return totheir dingy homes with any great feeling of regard for the givers of suchcold welcome?"

"But that was an exceptional case, " said Mr. Morley. 

"Chiefly in this, " returned Miss Clare, "that it was a case at all--thatthey were thus presented with a little more room on the face of the earthfor a few hours. "

"But you think the fresh air may have done them good?"

"Yes; but we were speaking, I thought, of what might serve towards thefilling up of the gulf between the classes. "

"Well, will not all kindness shown to the poor by persons in a superiorstation tend in that direction?"

"I maintain that you can do nothing for them in the way of kindness thatshall not result in more harm than good, except you do it from and withgenuine charity of soul; with some of that love, in short, which is theheart of religion. Except what is done for them is so done as to drawout their trust and affection, and so raise them consciously in thehuman scale, it can only tend either to hurt their feelings and generateindignation, or to encourage fawning and beggary. But"--

"I am entirely of your mind, " said Mr. Blackstone. "But do go on. "

"I was going to add, " said Miss Clare, "that while no other charity thanthis can touch the sore, a good deal might yet be effected by bare justice. It seems to me high time that we dropped talking about charity, and tookup the cry of justice. There, now, is a ground on which a man of yourinfluence, Mr. Morley, might do much. "

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Clare. So long as I pay the market valuefor the labor I employ, I do not see how more can be demanded of me--as aright, that is. "

"We will not enter on that question, Marion, if you please, " said LadyBernard. 

Miss Clare nodded, and went on. 

"Is it just in the nation, " she said, "to abandon those who can do nothingto help themselves, to be preyed upon by bad landlords, railway-companies, and dishonest trades-people with their false weights, balances, andmeasures, and adulterations to boot, --from all of whom their more wealthybrethren are comparatively safe? Does not a nation exist for the protectionof its parts? Have these no claims on the nation? Would you call it just ina family to abandon its less gifted to any moral or physical spoiler whomight be bred within it? To say a citizen must take care of himself _may_be just where he _can_ take care of himself, but cannot be just wherethat is impossible. A thousand causes, originating mainly in the neglectof their neighbors, have combined to sink the poor into a state of moralparalysis: are we to say the paralyzed may be run over in our streets withimpunity? _Must_ they take care of themselves? Have we not to awake them tothe very sense that life is worth caring for? I cannot but feel that thebond between such a neglected class, and any nation in which it is to befound, is very little stronger than, if indeed as strong as, that betweenslaves and their masters. Who could preach to them their duty to thenation, except on grounds which such a nation acknowledges only with thelips?"

"You have to prove, Miss Clare, " said Mr. Morley, in a tone that seemedintended to imply that he was not in the least affected by mistimedeloquence, "that the relation is that of a family. "

"I believe, " she returned, "that it is closer than the mere human relationof the parts of any family. But, at all events, until we _are_ theirfriends it is worse than useless to pretend to be such, and until they feelthat we are their friends it is worse than useless to talk to them aboutGod and religion. They will none of it from our lips. "

"Will they from any lips? Are they not already too far sunk towards thebrutes to be capable of receiving any such rousing influence?" suggestedMr. Blackstone with a smile, evidently wishing to draw Miss Clare out yetfurther. 

"You turn me aside, Mr. Blackstone. I wanted to urge Mr. Morley to go intoparliament as spiritual member for the poor of our large towns. Besides, Iknow you don't think as your question would imply. As far as my experienceguides me, I am bound to believe that there is a spot of soil in everyheart sufficient for the growth of a gospel seed. And I believe, moreover, that not only is he a fellow-worker with God who sows that seed, but thathe also is one who opens a way for that seed to enter the soil. If suchpreparation were not necessary, the Saviour would have come the moment Adamand Eve fell, and would have required no Baptist to precede him. "

A good deal followed which I would gladly record, enabled as I now am toassist my memory by a more thorough acquaintance with the views of MissClare. But I fear I have already given too much conversation at once. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE END OF THE EVENING. 

What specially delighted me during the evening, was the marked attention, and the serious look in the eyes, with which Roger listened. It was notoften that he did look serious. He preferred, if possible, to get a jokeout of a thing; but when he did enter into an argument, he was always fair. Although prone to take the side of objection to any religious remark, heyet never said any thing against religion itself. But his principles, andindeed his nature, seemed as yet in a state of solution, --uncrystallized, as my father would say. Mr. Morley, on the other hand, seemed an insolublemass, incapable of receiving impressions from other minds. Any suggestionof his own mind, as to a course of action or a mode of thinking, had a goodchance of being without question regarded as reasonable and right: he wasmore than ordinarily prejudiced in his own favor. The day after they thusmet at our house, Miss Clare had a letter from him, in which he took thehigh hand with her, rebuking her solemnly for her presumption in saying, as he represented it, that no good could be done except after the fashionshe laid down, and assuring her that she would thus alienate the mostvaluable assistance from any scheme she might cherish for the ameliorationof the condition of the lower classes. It ended with the offer of a yearlysubscription of five pounds to any project of the wisdom of which shewould take the trouble to convince him. She replied, thanking him both, forhis advice and his offer, but saying that, as she had no scheme on footrequiring such assistance, she could not at present accept the latter;should, however, any thing show itself for which that sort of help wasdesirable, she would take the liberty of reminding him of it. 

When the ladies rose, Judy took me aside, and said, --

"What does it all mean, Wynnie?"

"Just what you hear, " I answered. 

"You asked us, to have a triumph over me, you naughty thing!"

"Well--partly--if I am to be honest; but far more to make you do justice toMiss Clare. You being my cousin, she had a right to that at my hands. "

"Does Lady Bernard know as much about her as she seems?"

"She knows every thing about her, and visits her, too, in her veryquestionable abode. You see, Judy, a report may be a fact, and yet beuntrue. "

"I'm not going to be lectured by a chit like you. But I should like to havea little talk with Miss Clare. "

"I will make you an opportunity. "

I did so, and could not help overhearing a very pretty apology; to whichMiss Clare replied, that she feared she only was to blame, inasmuch asshe ought to have explained the peculiarity of her circumstances beforeaccepting the engagement. At the time, it had not appeared to hernecessary, she said; but now she would make a point of explaining beforeshe accepted any fresh duty of the kind, for she saw it would be fairer toboth parties. It was no wonder such an answer should entirely disarm cousinJudy, who forthwith begged she would, if she had no objection, resume herlessons with the children at the commencement of the next quarter. 

"But I understand from Mrs. Percivale, " objected Miss Clare, "that theoffice is filled to your thorough satisfaction. "

"Yes; the lady I have is an excellent teacher; but the engagement was onlyfor a quarter. "

"If you have no other reason for parting with her, I could not think ofstepping into her place. It would be a great disappointment to her, and mywant of openness with you would be the cause of it. If you should part withher for any other reason, I should be very glad to serve you again. "

Judy tried to argue with her, but Miss Clare was immovable. 

"Will you let me come and see you, then?" said Judy. 

"With all my heart, " she answered. "You had better come with Mrs. Percivale, though, for it would not be easy for you to find the place. "

We went up to the drawing-room to tea, passing through the study, andtaking the gentlemen with us. Miss Clare played to us, and sang severalsongs, --the last a ballad of Schiller's, "The Pilgrim, " setting forth theconstant striving of the soul after something of which it never lays hold. The last verse of it I managed to remember. It was this:--

 Thither, ah! no footpath bendeth; Ah! the heaven above, so clear, Never, earth to touch, descendeth; And the There is never Here!"

"That is a beautiful song, and beautifully sung, " said Mr. Blackstone; "butI am a little surprised at your choosing to sing it, for you cannot call ita Christian song. "

"Don't you find St. Paul saying something very like it again and again?"Miss Clare returned with a smile, as if she perfectly knew what he objectedto. "You find him striving, journeying, pressing on, reaching out to layhold, but never having attained, --ever conscious of failure. "

"That is true; but there is this huge difference, --that St. Paul expects toattain, --is confident of one day attaining; while Schiller, in that lyricat least, seems--I only say seems--hopeless of any satisfaction: _Das Dortist niemals Hier. _"

"It may have been only a mood, " said Miss Clare. "St. Paul had his moodsalso, from which he had to rouse himself to fresh faith and hope andeffort. "

"But St. Paul writes only in his hopeful moods. Such alone he counts worthyof sharing with his fellows. If there is no hope, why, upon any theory, take the trouble to say so? It is pure weakness to desire sympathy inhopelessness. Hope alone justifies as well as excites either utterance oreffort. "

"I admit all you say, Mr. Blackstone; and yet I think such a poeminvaluable; for is not Schiller therein the mouth of the whole creationgroaning and travailling and inarticulately crying out for the sonship?"

"Unconsciously, then. He does not know what he wants. "

"_Apparently_, not. Neither does the creation. Neither do we. We do knowit is oneness with God we want; but of what that means we have only vague, though glowing hints. "

I saw Mr. Morley scratch his left ear like a young calf, only moreimpatiently. 

"But, " Miss Clare went on, "is it not invaluable as the confession of oneof the noblest of spirits, that he had found neither repose nor sense ofattainment?"

"But, " said Roger, "did you ever know any one of those you call Christianswho professed to have reached satisfaction; or, if so, whose life wouldjustify you in believing him?"

"I have never known a satisfied Christian, I confess, " answered Miss Clare. "Indeed, I should take satisfaction as a poor voucher for Christianity. But I have known several contented Christians. I might, in respect ofone or two of them, use a stronger word, --certainly not _satisfied_. I believe there is a grand, essential unsatisfaction, --I do not meandissatisfaction, --which adds the delight of expectation to the peace ofattainment; and that, I presume, is the very consciousness of heaven. Butwhere faith may not have produced even contentment, it will yet sustainhope: which, if we may judge from the ballad, no mere aspiration can. Wemust believe in a living ideal, before we can have a tireless heart; anideal which draws our poor vague ideal to itself, to fill it full and makeit alive. "

I should have been amazed to hear Miss Clare talk like this, had I notoften heard my father say that aspiration and obedience were the twomightiest forces for development. Her own needs and her own deeds had beenher tutors; and the light by which she had read their lessons was thecandle of the Lord within her. 

When my husband would have put her into Lady Bernard's carriage, as theywere leaving, she said she should prefer walking home; and, as Lady Bernarddid not press her to the contrary, Percivale could not remonstrate. "I amsorry I cannot walk with you, Miss Clare, " he said. "_I_ must not leave myduties, but"--

"There's not the slightest occasion, " she interrupted. "I know every yardof the way. Good-night. "

The carriage drove off in one direction, and Miss Clare tripped lightlyalong in the other. Percivale darted into the house, and told Roger, whosnatched up his hat, and bounded after her. Already she was out of sight;but he, following light-footed, overtook her in the crescent. It was, however, only after persistent entreaty that he prevailed on her to allowhim to accompany her. 

"You do not know, Mr. Roger, " she said pleasantly, "what you may beexposing yourself to, in going with me. I may have to do something youwouldn't like to have a share in. "

"I shall be only too glad to have the humblest share in any thing you drawme into, " said Roger. 

As it fell out, they had not gone far before they came upon a little crowd, chiefly of boys, who ought to have been in bed long before, gatheredabout a man and woman. The man was forcing his company on a woman who wasevidently annoyed that she could not get rid of him. 

"Is he your husband?" asked Miss Clare, making her way through the crowd. 

"No, miss, " the woman answered. "I never saw him afore. I'm only just comein from the country. "

She looked more angry than frightened. Roger said her black eyes flasheddangerously, and she felt about the bosom of her dress--for a knife, he wascertain. 

"You leave her alone, " he said to the man, getting between him and her. 

"Mind your own business, " returned the man, in a voice that showed he wasdrunk. 

For a moment Roger was undecided what to do; for he feared involving MissClare in a _row_, as he called it. But when the fellow, pushing suddenlypast him, laid his hand on Miss Clare, and shoved her away, he gavehim a blow that sent him staggering into the street; whereupon, to hisastonishment, Miss Clare, leaving the woman, followed the man, and as soonas he had recovered his equilibrium, laid her hand on his arm and spoke tohim, but in a voice so low and gentle that Roger, who had followed her, could not hear a word she said. For a moment or two the man seemed to tryto listen, but his condition was too much for him; and, turning from her, he began again to follow the woman, who was now walking wearily away. Rogeragain interposed. 

"Don't strike him, Mr. Roger, " cried Miss Clare: "he's too drunk for that. But keep him back if you can, while I take the woman away. If I see apoliceman, I will send him. "

The man heard her last words, and they roused him to fury. He rushed atRoger, who, implicitly obedient, only dodged to let him pass, and againconfronted him, engaging his attention until help arrived. He was, however, by this time so fierce and violent, that Roger felt bound to assist thepoliceman. 

As soon as the man was locked up, he went to Lime Court. The moon wasshining, and the narrow passage lay bright beneath her. Along the street, people were going and coming, though it was past midnight, but the courtwas very still. He walked into it as far as the spot where we had togetherseen Miss Clare. The door at which she had entered was open; but he knewnothing of the house or its people, and feared to compromise her by makinginquiries. He walked several times up and down, somewhat anxious, butgradually persuading himself that in all probability no further annoyancehad befallen her; until at last he felt able to leave the place. 

He came back to our house, where, finding his brother at his final pipe inthe study, he told him all about their adventure. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

MY FIRST TERROR. 

One of the main discomforts in writing a book is, that there are so manyways in which every thing, as it comes up, might be told, and you can'ttell which is the best. You believe there must be a _best_ way; butyou might spend your life in trying to satisfy yourself which was thatbest way, and, when you came to the close of it, find you had donenothing, --hadn't even found out the way. I have always to remind myselfthat something, even if it be far from the best thing, is better thannothing. Perhaps the only way to arrive at the best way is to make plentyof blunders, and find them out. 

This morning I had been sitting a long time with my pen in my hand, thinking what this chapter ought to be about, --that is, what part of my ownhistory, or of that of my neighbors interwoven therewith, I ought to takeup next, --when my third child, my little Cecilia, aged five, came into theroom, and said, --

"Mamma, there's a poor man at the door, and Jemima won't give him anything. "

"Quite right, my dear. We must give what we can to people we know. We aresure then that it is not wasted. "

"But he's so _very_ poor, mamma!"

"How do you know that?"

"Poor man! he has _only_ three children. I heard him tell Jemima. He was_so_ sorry! And _I_'m very sorry, too. "

"But don't you know you mustn't go to the door when any one is talking toJemima?" I said. 

"Yes, mamma. I didn't go to the door: I stood in the hall and peeped. "

"But you mustn't even stand in the hall, " I said. "Mind that. "

This was, perhaps, rather an oppressive reading of a proper enough rule;but I had a very special reason for it, involving an important event in mystory, which occurred about two years after what I have last set down. 

One morning Percivale took a holiday in order to give me one, and we wentto spend it at Richmond. It was the anniversary of our marriage; and aswe wanted to enjoy it thoroughly, and, precious as children are, _every_pleasure is not enhanced by their company, we left ours at home, --Ethel andher brother Roger (named after Percivale's father), who was now nearly ayear old, and wanted a good deal of attention. It was a lovely day, withjust a sufficient number of passing clouds to glorify--that is, to dojustice to--the sunshine, and a gentle breeze, which itself seemed tobe taking a holiday, for it blew only just when you wanted it, and thenonly enough to make you think of that wind which, blowing where it lists, always blows where it is wanted. We took the train to Hammersmith; for myhusband, having consulted the tide-table, and found that the river would bepropitious, wished to row me from there to Richmond. How gay the river-sidelooked, with its fine broad landing stage, and the numberless boatsready to push off on the swift water, which kept growing and growing onthe shingly shore! Percivale, however, would hire his boat at a certainbuilder's shed, that I might see it. That shed alone would have been worthcoming to see--such a picture of loveliest gloom--as if it had been thecave where the twilight abode its time! You could not tell whether to callit light or shade, --that diffused presence of a soft elusive brown; butis what we call shade any thing but subdued light? All about, above, andbelow, lay the graceful creatures of the water, moveless and dead here onthe shore, but there--launched into their own elemental world, and blownupon by the living wind--endowed at once with life and motion and quickresponse. 

Not having been used to boats, I felt nervous as we got into the long, sharp-nosed, hollow fish which Percivale made them shoot out on the risingtide; but the slight fear vanished almost the moment we were afloat, when, ignorant as I was of the art of rowing, I could not help seeing howperfectly Percivale was at home in it. The oars in his hands were likeknitting-needles in mine, so deftly, so swimmingly, so variously, did hewield them. Only once my fear returned, when he stood up in the swayingthing--a mere length without breadth--to pull off his coat and waistcoat;but he stood steady, sat down gently, took his oars quietly, and the sameinstant we were shooting so fast through the rising tide that it seemed asif _we_ were pulling the water up to Richmond. 

"Wouldn't you like to steer?" said my husband. "It would amuse you. "

"I should like to learn, " I said, --"not that I want to be amused; I am toohappy to care for amusement. "

"Take those two cords behind you, then, one in each hand, sitting betweenthem. That will do. Now, if you want me to go to your right, pull yourright-hand cord; if you want me to go to your left, pull your left-handone. "

I made an experiment or two, and found the predicted consequences follow: Iran him aground, first on one bank, then on the other. But when I did so athird time, --

"Come! come!" he said: "this won't do, Mrs. Percivale. You're not tryingyour best. There is such a thing as gradation in steering as well as inpainting, or music, or any thing else that is worth doing. "

"I pull the right line, don't I?" I said; for I was now in a mood to teasehim. 

"Yes--to a wrong result, " he answered. "You must feel your rudder, as youwould the mouth of your horse with the bit, and not do any thing violent, except in urgent necessity. "

I answered by turning the head of the boat right towards the nearer bank. 

"I see!" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I have put a dangerous powerinto your hands. But never mind. The queen may decree as she likes; but thesinews of war, you know"--

I thought he meant that if I went on with my arbitrary behavior, he woulddrop his oars; and for a little while I behaved better. Soon, however, thespirit of mischief prompting me, I began my tricks again: to my surprise Ifound that I had no more command over the boat than over the huge barge, which, with its great red-brown sail, was slowly ascending in front of us;I couldn't turn its head an inch in the direction I wanted. 

"What does it mean, Percivale?" I cried, pulling with all my might, andleaning forward that I might pull the harder. 

"What does what mean?" he returned coolly. 

"That I can't move the boat. "

"Oh! It means that I have resumed the reins of government. "

"But how? I can't understand it. "

"And I am wiser than to make you too wise. Education is _not_ a panacea formoral evils. I quote your father, my dear. "

And he pulled away as if nothing were the matter. 

"Please, I like steering, " I said remonstratingly. "And I like rowing. "

"I don't see why the two shouldn't go together. "

"Nor I. They ought. But not only does the steering depend on the rowing, but the rower can steer himself. "

"I will be a good girl, and steer properly. "

"Very well; steer away. "

He looked shorewards as he spoke; and then first I became aware that he hadbeen watching my hands all the time. The boat now obeyed my lightest touch. 

How merrily the water rippled in the sun and the wind! while so responsivewere our feelings to the play of light and shade around us, that more thanonce when a cloud crossed us, I saw its shadow turn almost into sadnesson the countenance of my companion, --to vanish the next moment when theone sun above and the thousand mimic suns below shone out in universallaughter. When a steamer came in sight, or announced its approach by thefar-heard sound of its beating paddles, it brought with it a few moments ofalmost awful responsibility; but I found that the presence of danger andduty together, instead of making me feel flurried, composed my nerves, andenabled me to concentrate my whole attention on getting the head of theboat as nearly as possible at right angles with the waves from the paddles;for Percivale had told me that if one of any size struck us on the side, itwould most probably capsize us. But the way to give pleasure to my readerscan hardly be to let myself grow garrulous in the memory of an ancientpleasure of my own. I will say nothing more of the delights of that day. They were such a contrast to its close, that twelve months at least elapsedbefore I was able to look back upon them without a shudder; for I could notrid myself of the foolish feeling that our enjoyment had been somehowto blame for what was happening at home while we were thus revelling inblessed carelessness. 

When we reached our little nest, rather late in the evening, I found tomy annoyance that the front door was open. It had been a fault of whichI thought I had cured the cook, --to leave it thus when she ran out tofetch any thing. Percivale went down to the study; and I walked into thedrawing-room, about to ring the bell in anger. There, to my surprise andfarther annoyance, I found Sarah, seated on the sofa with her head in herhands, and little Roger wide awake on the floor. 

"What _does_ this mean?" I cried. "The front door open! Master Roger stillup! and you seated in the drawing-room!"

"O ma'am!" she almost shrieked, starting up the moment I spoke, and, by thetime I had put my angry interrogation, just able to gasp out--"Have youfound her, ma'am?"

"Found whom?" I returned in alarm, both at the question and at the face ofthe girl; for through the dusk I now saw that it was very pale, and thather eyes were red with crying. 

"Miss Ethel, " she answered in a cry choked with a sob; and dropping againon the sofa, she hid her face once more between her hands. 

I rushed to the study-door, and called Percivale; then returned to questionthe girl. I wonder now that I did nothing outrageous; but fear kept downfolly, and made me unnaturally calm. 

"Sarah, " I said, as quietly as I could, while I trembled all over, "tell mewhat has happened. Where is the child?"

"Indeed it's not my fault, ma'am. I was busy with Master Roger, and MissEthel was down stairs with Jemima. "

"Where is she?" I repeated sternly. 

"I don't know no more than the man in the moon, ma'am. "

"Where's Jemima?"

"Run out to look for her?"

"How long have you missed her?"

"An hour. Or perhaps two hours. I don't know, my head's in such a whirl. Ican't remember when I saw her last. O ma'am! What _shall_ I do?"

Percivale had come up, and was standing beside me. When I looked round, hewas as pale as death; and at the sight of his face, I nearly dropped on thefloor. But he caught hold of me, and said, in a voice so dreadfully stillthat it frightened me more than any thing, --

"Come, my love; do not give way, for we must go to the police at once. "Then, turning to Sarah, "Have you searched the house and garden?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir; every hole and corner. We've looked under every bed, and intoevery cupboard and chest, --the coal-cellar, the boxroom, --everywhere. "

"The bathroom?" I cried. 

"Oh, yes, ma'am! the bathroom, and everywhere. "

"Have there been any tramps about the house since we left?" Percivaleasked. 

"Not that I know of; but the nursery window looks into the garden, youknow, sir. Jemima didn't mention it. "

"Come then, my dear, " said my husband. 

He compelled me to swallow a glass of wine, and led me away, almostunconscious of my bodily movements, to the nearest cab-stand. I wonderedafterwards, when I recalled the calm gaze with which he glanced along theline, and chose the horse whose appearance promised the best speed. In afew minutes we were telling the inspector at the police-station in AlbanyStreet what had happened. He took a sheet of paper, and asking one questionafter another about her age, appearance, and dress, wrote down our answers. He then called a man, to whom he gave the paper, with some words ofdirection. 

"The men are now going on their beats for the night, " he said, turningagain to us. "They will all hear the description of the child, and some ofthem have orders to search. "

"Thank you, " said my husband. "Which station had we better go to next?"

"The news will be at the farthest before you can reach the nearest, " heanswered. "We shall telegraph to the suburbs first. "

"Then what more is there we can do?" asked Percivale. 

"Nothing, " said the inspector, --"except you find out whether any of theneighbors saw her, and when and where. It would be something to know inwhat direction she was going. Have you any ground for suspicion? Have youever discharged a servant? Were any tramps seen about the place?"

"I know, who it is!" I cried. "It's the woman that took Theodora! It'sTheodora's mother! I know it is!"

Percivale explained what I meant. 

"That's what people get, you see, when they take on themselves otherpeople's business, " returned the inspector. "That child ought to have beensent to the workhouse. "

He laid his head on his hand for a moment. 

"It seems likely enough, " he added. Then after another pause--"I have youraddress. The child shall be brought back to you the moment she's found. Wecan't mistake her after your description. "

"Where are you going now?" I said to my husband, as we left the station tore-enter the cab. 

"I don't know, " he answered, "except we go home and question all the shopsin the neighborhood. "

"Let us go to Miss Clare first, " I said. 

"By all means, " he answered. 

We were soon at the entrance of Lime Court. 

When we turned the corner in the middle of it, we heard the sound of apiano. 

"She's at home!" I cried, with a feeble throb of satisfaction. The fearthat she might be out had for the last few moments been uppermost. 

We entered the house, and ascended the stairs in haste. Not a creaturedid we meet, except a wicked-looking cat. The top of her head was black, her forehead and face white; and the black and white were shaped so as tolook like hair parted over a white forehead, which gave her green eyes afrightfully human look as she crouched in the corner of a window-sill inthe light of a gas-lamp outside. But before we reached the top of the firststair we heard the sounds of dancing, as well as of music. In a momentafter, with our load of gnawing fear and helpless eagerness, we stood inthe midst of a merry assembly of men, women, and children, who filled MissClare's room to overflowing. It was Saturday night, and they were gatheredaccording to custom for their weekly music. 

They made a way for us; and Miss Clare left the piano, and came to meet uswith a smile on her beautiful face. But, when she saw our faces, hers fell. 

"What _is_ the matter, Mrs. Percivale?" she asked in alarm. 

I sunk on the chair from which she had risen. 

"We've lost Ethel, " said my husband quietly. 

"What do you mean? You don't"--

"No, no: she's gone; she's stolen. We don't know where she is, " he answeredwith faltering voice. "We've just been to the police. "

Miss Clare turned white; but, instead of making any remark, she calledout to some of her friends whose good manners were making them leave theroom, --

"Don't go, please; we want you. " Then turning to me, she asked, "May I doas I think best?"

"Yes, certainly, " answered my husband. 

"My friend, Mrs. Percivale, " she said, addressing the whole assembly, "haslost her little girl. "

A murmur of dismay and sympathy arose. 

"What can we do to find her?" she went on. 

They fell to talking among themselves. The next instant, two men came upto us, making their way from the neighborhood of the door. The one was akeen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers and clean-shaved chin; theother was my first acquaintance in the neighborhood, the young bricklayer. The elder addressed my husband, while the other listened without speaking. 

"Tell us what she's like, sir, and how she was dressed--though that ain'tmuch use. She'll be all different by this time. "

The words shot a keener pang to my heart than it had yet felt. My darlingstripped of her nice clothes, and covered with dirty, perhaps infectedgarments. But it was no time to give way to feeling. 

My husband repeated to the men the description he had given the police, loud enough for the whole room to hear; and the women in particular, MissClare told me afterwards, caught it up with remarkable accuracy. They wouldnot have done so, she said, but that their feelings were touched. 

"Tell them also, please, Mr. Percivale, about the child Mrs. Percivale'sfather and mother found and brought up. That may have something to do withthis. "

My husband told them all the story; adding that the mother of the childmight have found out who we were, and taken ours as a pledge for therecovery of her own. 

Here one of the women spoke. 

"That dark woman you took in one night--two years ago, miss--she saysomething. I was astin' of her in the mornin' what her trouble was, forthat trouble _she_ had on _her_ mind was plain to see, and she come oversomething, half-way like, about losin' of a child; but whether it weredead, or strayed, or stolen, or what, I couldn't tell; and no more, Ibelieve, she wanted me to. "

Here another woman spoke. 

"I'm 'most sure I saw her--the same woman--two days ago, and no furrer offthan Gower Street, " she said. "You're too good by half, miss, " she went on, "to the likes of sich. They ain't none of them respectable. "

"Perhaps you'll see some good come out of it before long, " said Miss Clarein reply. 

The words sounded like a rebuke, for all this time I had hardly sent athought upwards for help. The image of my child had so filled my heart, that there was no room left for the thought of duty, or even of God. 

Miss Clare went on, still addressing the company, and her words had a toneof authority. 

"I will tell you what you must do, " she said. "You must, every one of you, run and tell everybody you know, and tell every one to tell everybody else. You mustn't stop to talk it over with each other, or let those you tellit to stop to talk to you about it; for it is of the greatest consequenceno time should be lost in making it as quickly and as widely known aspossible. Go, please. "

In a few moments the room was empty of all but ourselves. The rush on thestairs was tremendous for a single minute, and then all was still. Even thechildren had rushed out to tell what other children they could find. 

"What must we do next?" said my husband. 

Miss Clare thought for a moment. 

"I would go and tell Mr. Blackstone, " she said. "It is a long way fromhere, but whoever has taken the child would not be likely to linger in theneighborhood. It is best to try every thing. "

"Right, " said my husband. "Come, Wynnie. "

"Wouldn't it be better to leave Mrs. Percivale with me?" said Miss Clare. "It is dreadfully fatiguing to go driving over the stones. "

It was very kind of her; but if she had been a mother she would not havethought of parting me from my husband; neither would she have fancied thatI could remain inactive so long as it was possible even to imagine I wasdoing something; but when I told her how I felt, she saw at once that itwould be better for me to go. 

We set off instantly, and drove to Mr. Blackstone's. What a long way itwas! Down Oxford Street and Holborn we rattled and jolted, and then throughmany narrow ways in which I had never been, emerging at length in a broadroad, with many poor and a few fine old houses in it; then again plunginginto still more shabby regions of small houses, which, alas! were new, andyet wretched! At length, near an open space, where yet not a blade of grasscould grow for the trampling of many feet, and for the smoke from tallchimneys, close by a gasometer of awful size, we found the parsonage, andMr. Blackstone in his study. The moment he heard our story he went to thedoor and called his servant. "Run, Jabez, " he said, "and tell the sexton toring the church-bell. I will come to him directly I hear it. "

I may just mention that Jabez and his wife, who formed the whole of Mr. Blackstone's household, did not belong to his congregation, but weremembers of a small community in the neighborhood, calling themselvesPeculiar Baptists. 

About ten minutes passed, during which little was said: Mr. Blackstonenever seemed to have any mode of expressing his feelings except action, andwhere that was impossible they took hardly any recognizable shape. When thefirst boom of the big bell filled the little study in which we sat, I gavea cry, and jumped up from my chair: it sounded in my ears like the knell ofmy lost baby, for at the moment I was thinking of her as once when a babyshe lay for dead in my arms. Mr. Blackstone got up and left the room, andmy husband rose and would have followed him; but, saying he would be backin a few minutes, he shut the door and left us. It was half an hour, adreadful half-hour, before he returned; for to sit doing nothing, not evenbeing carried somewhere to do something, was frightful. 

"I've told them all about it, " he said. "I couldn't do better than followMiss Clare's example. But my impression is, that, if the woman you suspectbe the culprit, she would make her way out to the open as quickly aspossible. Such people are most at home on the commons: they are of a lessgregarious nature than the wild animals of the town. What shall you donext?"

"That is just what I want to know, " answered my husband. 

He never asked advice except when he did not know what to do; and neverexcept from one whose advice he meant to follow. 

"Well, " returned Mr. Blackstone, "I should put an advertisement into everyone of the morning papers. "

"But the offices will all be closed, " said Percivale. 

"Yes, the publishing, but not the printing offices. "

"How am I to find out where they are?"

"I know one or two of them, and the people there will tell us the rest. "

"Then you mean to go with us?"

"Of course I do, --that is, if you will have me. You don't think I wouldleave you to go alone? Have you had any supper?"

"No. Would you like something, my dear?" said Percivale turning to me. 

"I couldn't swallow a mouthful, " I said. 

"Nor I either, " said Percivale. 

"Then I'll just take a hunch of bread with me, " said Mr. Blackstone, "for Iam hungry. I've had nothing since one o'clock. "

We neither asked him not to go, nor offered to wait till he had had hissupper. Before we reached Printing-House Square he had eaten half a loaf. 

"Are you sure, " said my husband, as we were starting, "that they will takean advertisement at the printing-office?"

"I think they will. The circumstances are pressing. They will see that weare honest people, and will make a push to help us. But for any thing Iknow it may be quite _en règle_. "

"We must pay, though, " said Percivale, putting his hand in his pocket, and taking out his purse. "There! Just as I feared! No money!--Two--threeshillings--and sixpence!"

Mr. Blackstone stopped the cab. 

"I've not got as much, " he said. "But it's of no consequence. I'll run andwrite a check. "

"But where can you change it? The little shops about here won't be able. "

"There's the Blue Posts. "

"Let me take it, then. You won't be seen going into a public-house?" saidPercivale. 

"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Blackstone. "Do you think my character won't standthat much? Besides, they wouldn't change it for you. But when I think ofit, I used the last check in my book in the beginning of the week. Nevermind; they will lend me five pounds. "

We drove to the Blue Posts. He got out, and returned in one minute withfive sovereigns. 

"What will people say to your borrowing five pounds at a public-house?"said Percivale. 

"If they say what is right, it won't hurt me. "

"But if they say what is wrong?"

"That they can do any time, and that won't hurt me, either. "

"But what will the landlord himself think?"

"I have no doubt he feels grateful to me for being so friendly. You can'toblige a man more than by asking a _light_ favor of him. "

"Do you think it well in your position to be obliged to a man in his?"asked Percivale. 

"I do. I am glad of the chance. It will bring me into friendly relationswith him. "

"Do you wish, then, to be in friendly relations with him?"

"Indubitably. In what other relations do you suppose a clergyman ought tobe with one of his parishioners?"

"You didn't invite _him_ into your parish, I presume. "

"No; and he didn't invite me. The thing was settled in higher quarters. There we are, anyhow; and I have done quite a stroke of business inborrowing that money of him. "

Mr. Blackstone laughed, and the laugh sounded frightfully harsh in my ears. 

"A man"--my husband went on, who was surprised that a clergyman shouldbe so liberal--"a man who sells drink!--in whose house so many of yourparishioners will to-morrow night get too drunk to be in church the nextmorning!"

"I wish having been drunk were what _would_ keep them from being in church. Drunk or sober, it would be all the same. Few of them care to go. They areturning out better, however, than when first I came. As for the publican, who knows what chance of doing him a good turn it may put in my way?"

"You don't expect to persuade him to shut up shop?"

"No: he must persuade himself to that. "

"What good, then, can you expect to do him?"

"Who knows? I say. You can't tell what good may or may not come out of it, any more than you can tell which of your efforts, or which of your helpers, may this night be the means of restoring your child. "

"What do you expect the man to say about it?"

"I shall provide him with something to say. I don't want him to attributeit to some foolish charity. He might. In the New Testament, publicans areacknowledged to have hearts. "

"Yes; but the word has a very different meaning in the New Testament. "

"The feeling religious people bear towards them, however, comes very nearto that with which society regarded the publicans of old. "

"They are far more hurtful to society than those tax-gatherers. "

"They may be. I dare say they are. Perhaps they are worse than the sinnerswith whom their namesakes of the New Testament are always coupled. "

I will not follow the conversation further. I will only give the close ofit. Percivale told me afterwards that he had gone on talking in the hope ofdiverting my thoughts a little. 

"What, then, do you mean to tell him?" asked Percivale. 

"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, " said Mr. Blackstone. "I shall go in to-morrow morning, just at the time when therewill probably he far too many people at the bar, --a little after noon. Ishall return him his five sovereigns, ask for a glass of ale, and tell himthe whole story, --how my friend, the celebrated painter, came with hiswife, --and the rest of it, adding, I trust, that the child is all right, and at the moment probably going out for a walk with her mother, who won'tlet her out of her sight for a moment. "

He laughed again, and again I thought him heartless; but I understand himbetter now. I wondered, too, that Percivale _could_ go on talking, and yetI found that their talk did make the time go a little quicker. At length wereached the printing-office of "The Times, "--near Blackfriars' Bridge, Ithink. 

After some delay, we saw an overseer, who, curt enough at first, becamefriendly when he heard our case. If he had not had children of his own, wemight perhaps have fared worse. He took down the description and address, and promised that the advertisement should appear in the morning's paper inthe best place he could now find for it. 

Before we left, we received minute directions as to the whereabouts of thenext nearest office. We spent the greater part of the night in driving fromone printing-office to another. Mr. Blackstone declared he would not leaveus until we had found her. 

"You have to preach twice to-morrow, " said Percivale: it was then threeo'clock. 

"I shall preach all the better, " he returned. "Yes: I feel as if I shouldgive them _one_ good sermon to-morrow. "

"The man talks as if the child were found already!" I thought, withindignation. "It's a pity he hasn't a child of his own! he would be moresympathetic. " At the same time, if I had been honest, I should haveconfessed to myself that his confidence and hope helped to keep me up. 

At last, having been to the printing-office of every daily paper in London, we were on our dreary way home. 

Oh, how dreary it was!--and the more dreary that the cool, sweet light of aspring dawn was growing in every street, no smoke having yet begun to pourfrom the multitudinous chimneys to sully its purity! From misery and wantof sleep, my soul and body both felt like a gray foggy night. Every now andthen the thought of my child came with a fresh pang, --not that she was onemoment absent from me, but that a new thought about her would dart a newsting into the ever-burning throb of the wound. If you had asked me the oneblessed thing in the world, I should have said _sleep_--with my husbandand children beside me. But I dreaded sleep now, both for its visions andfor the frightful waking. Now and then I would start violently, thinking Iheard my Ethel cry; but from the cab-window no child was ever to be seen, down all the lonely street. Then I would sink into a succession of effortsto picture to myself her little face, --white with terror and misery, andsmeared with the dirt of the pitiful hands that rubbed the streamingeyes. They might have beaten her! she might have cried herself to sleepin some wretched hovel; or, worse, in some fever-stricken and crowdedlodging-house, with horrible sights about her and horrible voices in herears! Or she might at that moment be dragged wearily along a country-road, farther and farther from her mother! I could have shrieked, and torn myhair. What if I should never see her again? She might be murdered, and Inever know it! O my darling! my darling!

At the thought a groan escaped me. A hand was laid on my arm. That I knewwas my husband's. But a voice was in my ear, and that was Mr. Blackstone's. 

"Do you think God loves the child less than you do? Or do you think he isless able to take care of her than you are? When the disciples thoughtthemselves sinking, Jesus rebuked them for being afraid. Be still, and youwill see the hand of God in this. Good you cannot foresee will come out ofit. "

I could not answer him, but I felt both rebuked and grateful. 

All at once I thought of Roger. What would he say when he found that hispet was gone, and we had never told him?

"Roger!" I said to my husband. "We've never told him!"

"Let us go now, " he returned. 

We were at the moment close to North Crescent. After a few thundering rapsat the door, the landlady came down. Percivale rushed up, and in a fewminutes returned with Roger. They got into the cab. A great talk followed;but I heard hardly any thing, or rather I heeded nothing. I only recollectthat Roger was very indignant with his brother for having been out allnight without him to help. 

"I never thought of you, Roger, " said Percivale. 

"So much the worse!" said Roger. 

"No, " said Mr. Blackstone. "A thousand things make us forget. I dare sayyour brother all but forgot God in the first misery of his loss. To havethought of you, and not to have told you, would have been another thing. "

A few minutes after, we stopped at our desolate house, and the cabmanwas dismissed with one of the sovereigns from the Blue Posts. I wonderedafterwards what manner of man or woman had changed it there. A dim lightwas burning in the drawing-room. Percivale took his pass-key, and openedthe door. I hurried in, and went straight to my own room; for I longedto be alone that I might weep--nor weep only. I fell on my knees by thebedside, buried my face, and sobbed, and tried to pray. But I could notcollect my thoughts; and, overwhelmed by a fresh access of despair, Istarted again to my feet. 

Could I believe my eyes? What was that in the bed? Trembling as withan ague, --in terror lest the vision should by vanishing prove itselfa vision, --I stooped towards it. I heard a breathing! It was the fairhair and the rosy face of my darling--fast asleep--without one trace ofsuffering on her angelic loveliness! I remember no more for a while. Theytell me I gave a great cry, and fell on the floor. When I came to myselfI was lying on the bed. My husband was bending over me, and Roger andMr. Blackstone were both in the room. I could not speak, but my husbandunderstood my questioning gaze. 

"Yes, yes, my love, " he said quietly: "she's all right--safe and sound, thank God!"

And I did thank God. 

Mr. Blackstone came to the bedside, with a look and a smile that seemed tomy conscience to say, "I told you so. " I held out my hand to him, but couldonly weep. Then I remembered how we had vexed Roger, and called him. 

"Dear Roger, " I said, "forgive me, and go and tell Miss Clare. "

I had some reason to think this the best amends I could make him. 

"I will go at once, " he said. "She will be anxious. "

"And I will go to my sermon, " said Mr. Blackstone, with the same quietsmile. 

They shook hands with me, and went away. And my husband and I rejoiced overour first-born. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

ITS SEQUEL. 

My darling was recovered neither through Miss Clare's injunctions nor Mr. Blackstone's bell-ringing. A woman was walking steadily westward, carryingthe child asleep in her arms, when a policeman stopped her at TurnhamGreen. She betrayed no fear, only annoyance, and offered no resistance, only begged he would not wake the child, or take her from her. He broughtthem in a cab to the police-station, whence the child was sent home. Assoon as she arrived, Sarah gave her a warm bath, and put her to bed; butshe scarcely opened her eyes. 

Jemima had run about the streets till midnight, and then fallen asleep onthe doorstep, where the policeman found her when he brought the child. For a week she went about like one dazed; and the blunders she made weremarvellous. She ordered a brace of cod from the poulterer, and a pound ofanchovies at the crockery shop. One day at dinner, we could not think howthe chops were so pulpy, and we got so many bits of bone in our mouth: shehad powerfully beaten them, as if they had been steaks. She sent up meltedbutter for bread-sauce, and stuffed a hare with sausages. 

After breakfast, Percivale walked to the police-station, to thank theinspector, pay what expenses had been incurred, and see the woman. I wasnot well enough to go with him. My Marion is a white-faced thing, and hereyes look much too big for her small face. I suggested that he should takeMiss Clare. As it was early, he was fortunate enough to find her at home, and she accompanied him willingly, and at once recognized the woman as theone she had befriended. 

He told the magistrate he did not wish to punish her, but that there werecertain circumstances which made him desirous of detaining her untila gentleman, who, he believed, could identify her, should arrive. Themagistrate therefore remanded her. 

The next day but one my father came. When he saw her, he had little doubtshe was the same that had carried off Theo; but he could not be absolutelycertain, because he had seen her only by moonlight. He told the magistratethe whole story, saying, that, if she should prove the mother of thechild, he was most anxious to try what he could do for her. The magistrateexpressed grave doubts whether he would find it possible to befriend herto any effectual degree. My father said he would try, if he could but becertain she was the mother. 

"If she stole the child merely to compel the restitution of her own, " hesaid. "I cannot regard her conduct with any abhorrence. But, if she is notthe mother of the child, I must leave her to the severity of the law. "

"I once discharged a woman, " said the magistrate, "who had committed thesame offence, for I was satisfied she had done so purely from the desire topossess the child. "

"But might not a thief say he was influenced merely by the desire to addanother sovereign to his hoard?"

"The greed of the one is a natural affection; that of the other a vice. "

"But the injury to the loser is far greater in the one case than in theother. "

"To set that off, however, the child is more easily discovered. Besides, the false appetite grows with indulgence; whereas one child would still thenatural one. "

"Then you would allow her to go on stealing child after child, until shesucceeded in keeping one, " said my father, laughing. 

"I dismissed her with the warning, that, if ever she did so again, thiswould be brought up against her, and she would have the severest punishmentthe law could inflict. It may be right to pass a first offence, and wrongto pass a second. I tried to make her measure the injury done to themother, by her own sorrow at losing the child; and I think not withouteffect. At all events, it was some years ago, and I have not heard of heragain. "

Now came in the benefit of the kindness Miss Clare had shown the woman. Idoubt if any one else could have got the truth from her. Even she found itdifficult; for to tell her that if she was Theo's mother she should notbe punished, might be only to tempt her to lie. All Miss Clare could dowas to assure her of the kindness of every one concerned, and to urge herto disclose her reasons for doing such a grievous wrong as steal anotherwoman's child. 

"They stole my child, " she blurted out at last, when the cruelty of theaction was pressed upon her. 

"Oh, no!" said Miss Clare: "you left her to die in the cold. "

"No, no!" she cried. "I wanted somebody to hear her, and take her in. Iwasn't far off, and was just going to take her again, when I saw a light, and heard them searching for her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Then how can you say they stole her? You would have had no child at all, but for them. She was nearly dead when they found her. And in return you goand steal their grandchild!"

"They took her from me afterwards. They wouldn't let me have my own fleshand blood. I wanted to let them know what it was to have _their_ childtaken from them. "

"How could they tell she was your child, when you stole her away like athief? It might, for any thing they knew, be some other woman stealing her, as you stole theirs the other day? What would have become of you if it hadbeen so?"

To this reasoning she made no answer. 

"I want my child; I want my child, " she moaned. Then breaking out--"I shallkill myself if I don't get my child!" she cried. "Oh, lady, you don't knowwhat it is to have a child and not have her! I shall kill myself if theydon't give me her back. They can't say I did their child any harm. I was asgood to her as if she had been my own. "

"They know that quite well, and don't want to punish you. Would you like tosee your child?"

She clasped her hands above her head, fell on her knees at Miss Clare'sfeet, and looked up in her face without uttering a word. 

"I will speak to Mr. Walton, " said Miss Clare; and left her. 

The next morning she was discharged, at the request of my husband, whobrought her home with him. 

Sympathy with the mother-passion in her bosom had melted away all myresentment. She was a fine young woman, of about five and twenty, thoughher weather-browned complexion made her look at first much older. With thehelp of the servants, I persuaded her to have a bath, during which theyremoved her clothes, and substituted others. She objected to putting themon; seemed half-frightened at them, as if they might involve some shape ofbondage, and begged to have her own again. At last Jemima, who, although sosparingly provided with brains, is not without genius, prevailed upon her, insisting that her little girl would turn away from her if she wasn't welldressed, for she had been used to see ladies about her. With a deep sigh, she yielded; begging, however, to have her old garments restored to her. 

She had brought with her a small bundle, tied up in a cotton handkerchief;and from it she now took a scarf of red silk, and twisted it up with herblack hair in a fashion I had never seen before. In this head-dress shehad almost a brilliant look; while her carriage had a certain dignityhard of association with poverty--not inconsistent, however, with whatI have since learned about the gypsies. My husband admired her even morethan I did, and made a very good sketch of her. Her eyes were large anddark--unquestionably fine; and if there was not much of the light ofthought in them, they had a certain wildness which in a measure made up forthe want. She had rather a Spanish than an Eastern look, I thought, with anair of defiance that prevented me from feeling at ease with her; but in thepresence of Miss Clare she seemed humbler, and answered her questions morereadily than ours. If Ethel was in the room, her eyes would be constantlywandering after her, with a wistful, troubled, eager look. Surely, themother-passion must have infinite relations and destinies. 

As I was unable to leave home, my father persuaded Miss Clare to accompanyhim and help him to take charge of her. I confess it was a relief to mewhen she left the house; for though I wanted to be as kind to her as Icould, I felt considerable discomfort in her presence. 

When Miss Clare returned, the next day but one, I found she had got fromher the main points of her history, fully justifying previous conjecturesof my father's, founded on what he knew of the character and customs of thegypsies. 

She belonged to one of the principal gypsy families in this country. Thefact that they had no settled habitation, but lived in tents, like Abrahamand Isaac, had nothing to do with poverty. The silver buttons on herfather's coat, were, she said, worth nearly twenty pounds; and when afriend of any distinction came to tea with them, they spread a table-clothof fine linen on the grass, and set out upon it the best of china, and atea-service of hall-marked silver. She said her friends--as much as anygentleman in the land--scorned stealing; and affirmed that no real gypsywould "risk his neck for his belly, " except he were driven by hunger. Allher family could read, she said, and carried a big Bible about with them. 

One summer they were encamped for several months in the neighborhood ofEdinburgh, making horn-spoons and baskets, and some of them working in tin. There they were visited by a clergyman, who talked and read the Bible tothem, and prayed with them. But all their visitors ware not of the samesort with him. One of them was a young fellow of loose character, a clerkin the city, who, attracted by her appearance, prevailed upon her to meethim often. She was not then eighteen. Any aberration from the paths ofmodesty is exceedingly rare among the gypsies, and regarded with severity;and her father, hearing of this, gave her a terrible punishment with thewhip he used in driving his horses. In terror of what would follow when theworst came to be known, she ran away; and, soon forsaken by her so-calledlover, wandered about, a common vagrant, until her baby was born--under thestars, on a summer night, in a field of long grass. 

For some time she wandered up and down, longing to join some tribe of herown people, but dreading unspeakably the disgrace of her motherhood. Atlength, having found a home for her child, she associated herself with agang of gypsies of inferior character, amongst whom she had many hardshipsto endure. Things, however, bettered a little after one of their numberwas hanged for stabbing a cousin, and her position improved. It was not, however, any intention of carrying off her child to share her present lot, but the urgings of mere mother-hunger for a sight of her, that drove herto the Hall. When she had succeeded in enticing her out of sight of thehouse, however, the longing to possess her grew fierce; and braving allconsequences, or rather, I presume, unable to weigh them, she did carry heraway. Foiled in this attempt, and seeing that her chances of future successin any similar one were diminished by it, she sought some other plan. Learning that one of the family was married, and had removed to London, she succeeded, through gypsy acquaintances who lodged occasionally nearTottenham Court Road, in finding out where we lived, and carried off Ethelwith the vague intent, as we had rightly conjectured, of using her as ameans for the recovery of her own child. 

Theodora was now about seven years of age--almost as wild as ever. Althoughtolerably obedient, she was not nearly so much so as the other children hadbeen at her age; partly, perhaps, because my father could not bring himselfto use that severity to the child of other people with which he had judgedit proper to treat his own. 

Miss Clare was present, with my father and the rest of the family, when themother and daughter met. They were all more than curious to see how thechild would behave, and whether there would be any signs of an instinctthat drew her to her parent. In this, however, they were disappointed. 

It was a fine warm forenoon when she came running on to the lawn where theywere assembled, --the gypsy mother with them. 

"There she is!" said my father to the woman. "Make the best of yourself youcan. "

Miss Clare said the poor creature turned very pale, but her eyes glowedwith such a fire!

With the cunning of her race, she knew better than bound forward and catchup the child in her arms. She walked away from the rest, and stood watchingthe little damsel, romping merrily with Mr. Wagtail. They thought sherecognized the dog, and was afraid of him. She had put on a few silverornaments which she had either kept or managed to procure, notwithstandingher poverty; for both the men and women of her race manifest in a strongdegree that love for barbaric adornment which, as well as their otherpeculiarities, points to an Eastern origin. The glittering of these inthe sun, and the glow of her red scarf in her dark hair, along withthe strangeness of her whole appearance, attracted the child, and sheapproached to look at her nearer. Then the mother took from her pocket alarge gilded ball, which had probably been one of the ornaments on the topof a clock, and rolled it gleaming golden along the grass. Theo and Mr. Wagtail bounded after it with a shriek and a bark. Having examined it for amoment, the child threw it again along the lawn; and this time the mother, lithe as a leopard and fleet as a savage, joined in the chase, caught itfirst, and again sent it spinning away, farther from the assembled group. Once more all three followed in swift pursuit; but this time the mothertook care to allow the child to seize the treasure. After the sport hadcontinued a little while, what seemed a general consultation, of mother, child, and dog, took place over the bauble; and presently they saw thatTheo was eating something. 

"I trust, " said my mother, "she won't hurt the child with any nasty stuff. "

"She will not do so wittingly, " said my father, "you may be sure. Anyhow, we must not interfere. "

In a few minutes more the mother approached them with a subdued look oftriumph, and her eyes overflowing with light, carrying the child in herarms. Theo was playing with some foreign coins which adorned her hair, andwith a string of coral and silver beads round her neck. 

For the rest of the day they were left to do much as they pleased; onlyevery one kept good watch. 

But in the joy of recovering her child, the mother seemed herself to havegained a new and childlike spirit. The more than willingness with which shehastened to do what, even in respect of her child, was requested of her, asif she fully acknowledged the right of authority in those who had been herbest friends, was charming. Whether this would last when the novelty of thenew experience had worn off, whether jealousy would not then come in forits share in the ordering of her conduct, remained to be shown; but in themean time the good in her was uppermost. 

She was allowed to spend a whole fortnight in making friends with herdaughter, before a word was spoken about the future; the design of myfather being through the child to win the mother. Certain people consideredhim not eager enough to convert the wicked: whatever apparent indifferencehe showed in that direction arose from his utter belief in the guidingof God, and his dread of outrunning his designs. He would _follow_ theoperations of the Spirit. 

"Your forced hot-house fruits, " he would say, "are often finer to look atthan those which have waited for God's wind and weather; but what are theyworth in respect of all for the sake of which fruit exists?"

Until an opportunity, then, was thrown in his way, he would hold back; butwhen it was clear to him that he had to minister, then was he thoughtful, watchful, instant, unswerving. You might have seen him during this time, as the letters of Connie informed me, often standing for minutes togetherwatching the mother and daughter, and pondering in his heart concerningthem. 

Every advantage being thus afforded her, not without the stirring of somenatural pangs in those who had hitherto mothered the child, the fortnighthad not passed, before, to all appearance, the unknown mother was with thechild the greatest favorite of all. And it was my father's expectation, forhe was a profound believer in blood, that the natural and generic instinctsof the child would be developed together; in other words, that as she grewin what was common to humanity, she would grow likewise in what belonged toher individual origin. This was not an altogether comforting expectation tothose of us who neither had so much faith as he, nor saw so hopefully thegood that lay in every evil. 

One twilight, he overheard the following talk between them. When they camenear where he sat, Theodora, carried by her mother, and pulling at her neckwith her arms, was saying, "Tell me; tell me; tell me, " in the tone of onewho would compel an answer to a question repeatedly asked in vain. 

"What do you want me to tell you?" said her mother. "You know well enough. Tell me your name. "

In reply, she uttered a few words my father did not comprehend, and took tobe Zingaree. The child shook her petulantly and with violence, crying, --

"That's nonsense. I don't know what you say, and I don't know what to callyou. "

My father had desired the household, if possible, to give no name to thewoman in the child's hearing. 

"Call me mam, if you like. "

"But you're not a lady, and I won't say ma'am to you, " said Theo, rude as achild will sometimes be when least she intends offence. 

Her mother set her down, and gave a deep sigh. Was it only that the child'srestlessness and roughness tired her? My father thought otherwise. 

"Tell me; tell me, " the child persisted, beating her with her littleclenched fist. "Take me up again, and tell me, or I will make you. "

My father thought it time to interfere. He stepped forward. The motherstarted with a little cry, and caught up the child. 

"Theo, " said my father, "I cannot allow you to be rude, especially to onewho loves you more than any one else loves you. "

The woman set her down again, dropped on her knees, and caught and kissedhis hand. 

The child stared; but she stood in awe of my father, --perhaps the more thatshe had none for any one else, --and, when her mother lifted her once more, was carried away in silence. 

The difficulty was got over by the child's being told to call her mother_Nurse_. 

My father was now sufficiently satisfied with immediate results to carryout the remainder of his contingent plan, of which my mother heartilyapproved. The gardener and his wife being elderly people, and having nofamily, therefore not requiring the whole of their cottage, which waswithin a short distance of the house, could spare a room, which my mothergot arranged for the gypsy; and there she was housed, with free access toher child, and the understanding that when Theo liked to sleep with her, she was at liberty to do so. 

She was always ready to make herself useful; but it was little she coulddo for some time, and it was with difficulty that she settled to anyoccupation at all continuous. 

Before long it became evident that her old habits were working in her andmaking her restless. She was pining after the liberty of her old wanderinglife, with sun and wind, space and change, all about her. It was spring;and the reviving life of nature was rousing in her the longing for motionand room and variety engendered by the roving centuries which had passedsince first her ancestors were driven from their homes in far Hindostan. But my father had foreseen the probability, and had already thought overwhat could be done for her if the wandering passion should revive toopowerfully. He reasoned that there was nothing bad in such an impulse, --onedoubtless, which would have been felt in all its force by Abraham himself, had he quitted his tents and gone to dwell in a city, --however much itsindulgence might place her at a disadvantage in the midst of a settledsocial order. He saw, too, that any attempt to coerce it would probablyresult in entire frustration; that the passion for old forms of freedomwould gather tenfold vigor in consequence. It would be far better to favorits indulgence, in the hope that the love of her child would, like anelastic but infrangible cord, gradually tame her down to a more settledlife. 

He proposed, therefore, that she should, as a matter of duty, go and visither parents, and let them know of her welfare. She looked alarmed. 

"Your father will show you no unkindness, I am certain, after the lapse ofso many years, " he added. "Think it over, and tell me to-morrow how youfeel about it. You shall go by train to Edinburgh, and once there you willsoon be able to find them. Of course you couldn't take the child with you;but she will be safe with us till you come back. "

The result was that she went; and having found her people, and spent afortnight with them, returned in less than a month. The rest of the yearshe remained quietly at home, stilling her desires by frequent and longrambles with her child, in which Mr. Wagtail always accompanied them. Myfather thought it better to run the risk of her escaping, than force thethought of it upon her by appearing not to trust her. But it came out thatshe had a suspicion that the dog was there to prevent, or at least expose, any such imprudence. The following spring she went on a second visit to herfriends, but was back within a week, and the next year did not go at all. 

Meantime my father did what he could to teach her, presenting every truthas something it was necessary she should teach her child. With this duty, he said, he always baited the hook with which he fished for her; "or, totake a figure from the old hawking days, her eyas is the lure with which Iwould reclaim the haggard hawk. "

What will be the final result, who dares prophesy? At my old home shestill resides; grateful, and in some measure useful, idolizing, but notaltogether spoiling her child, who understands the relation between them, and now calls her mother. 

Dora teaches Theo, and the mother comes in for what share she inclinesto appropriate. She does not take much to reading, but she is fond oflistening; and is a regular and devout attendant at public worship. Aboveall, they have sufficing proof that her conscience is awake, and that shegives some heed to what it says. 

Mr. Blackstone was right when he told me that good I was unable to foreseewould result from the loss which then drowned me in despair. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

TROUBLES. 

In the beginning of the following year, the lady who filled Miss Clare'splace was married, and Miss Clare resumed the teaching of Judy's children. She was now so handsomely paid for her lessons, that she had reduced thenumber of her engagements very much, and had more time to give to the plansin which she labored with Lady Bernard. The latter would willingly havesettled such an annuity upon her as would have enabled her to devote allher time to this object; but Miss Clare felt that the earning of her breadwas one of the natural ties that bound her in the bundle of social life;and that in what she did of a spiritual kind, she must be untrammelled bymoney-relations. If she could not do both, --provide for herself and assistothers, --it would be a different thing, she said; for then it would beclear that Providence intended her to receive the hire of the laborer forthe necessity laid upon her. But what influenced her chiefly was the dreadof having anything she did for her friends attributed to professionalmotives, instead of the recognition of eternal relations. Besides, as shesaid, it would both lessen the means at Lady Bernard's disposal, and causeherself to feel bound to spend all her energies in that one direction; inwhich case she would be deprived of the recreative influences of change andmore polished society. In her labor, she would yet feel her freedom, andwould not serve even Lady Bernard for money, except she saw clearly thatsuch was the will of the one Master. In thus refusing her offer, she butrose in her friend's estimation. 

In the spring, great trouble fell upon the Morleys. One of the childrenwas taken with scarlet-fever; and then another and another was seized insuch rapid succession--until five of them were lying ill together--thatthere was no time to think of removing them. Cousin Judy would acceptno assistance in nursing them, beyond that of her own maids, until herstrength gave way, and she took the infection herself in the form ofdiphtheria; when she was compelled to take to her bed, in such agony at thethought of handing her children over to hired nurses, that there was greatground for fearing her strength would yield. 

She lay moaning, with her eyes shut, when a hand was laid on hers, and MissClare's voice was in her ear. She had come to give her usual lesson to oneof the girls who had as yet escaped the infection: for, while she tookevery precaution, she never turned aside from her work for any dread ofconsequences; and when she heard that Mrs. Morley had been taken ill, shewalked straight to her room. 

"Go away!" said Judy. "Do you want to die too?"

"Dear Mrs. Morley, " said Miss Clare, "I will just run home, and make a fewarrangements, and then come back and nurse you. "

"Never mind me, " said Judy. "The children! the children! What _shall_ Ido?"

"I am quite able to look after you all--if you will allow me to bring ayoung woman to help me. "

"You are an angel!" said poor Judy. "But there is no occasion to bring anyone with you. My servants are quite competent. "

"I must have every thing in my own hands, " said Miss Clare; "and thereforemust have some one who will do exactly as I tell her. This girl has beenwith me now for some time, and I can depend upon her. Servants always lookdown upon governesses. "

"Do whatever you like, you blessed creature, " said Judy. "If any one of myservants behaves improperly to you, or neglects your orders, she shall goas soon as I am up again. "

"I would rather give them as little opportunity as I can of running therisk. If I may bring this friend of my own, I shall soon have the houseunder hospital regulations. But I have been talking too much. I mightalmost have returned by this time. It is a bad beginning if I have hurt youalready by saying more than was necessary. "

She had hardly left the room before Judy had fallen asleep, so much was sherelieved by the offer of her services. Ere she awoke, Marion was in a cabon her way back to Bolivar Square, with her friend and two carpet-bags. Within an hour, she had intrenched herself in a spare bedroom, had lighteda fire, got encumbering finery out of the way, arranged all the medicineson a chest of drawers, and set the clock on the mantle-piece going; madethe round of the patients, who were all in adjoining rooms, and the roundof the house, to see that the disinfectants were fresh and active, added totheir number, and then gone to await the arrival of the medical attendantin Mrs. Morley's room. 

"Dr. Brand might have been a little more gracious, " said Judy; "but Ithought it better not to interrupt him by explaining that you were not theprofessional nurse he took you for. "

"Indeed, there was no occasion, " answered Miss Clare. "I should have toldhim so myself, had it not been that I did a nurse's regular work in St. George's Hospital for two months, and have been there for a week or so, several times since, so that I believe I have earned the right to be spokento as such. Anyhow, I understood every word he said. "

Meeting Mr. Morley in the hall, the doctor advised him not to go near hiswife, diphtheria being so infectious; but comforted him with the assurancethat the nurse appeared an intelligent young person, who would attend toall his directions; adding, --

"I could have wished she had been older; but there is a great deal ofillness about, and experienced nurses are scarce. "

Miss Clare was a week in the house before Mr. Morley saw her, or knew shewas there. One evening she ran down to the dining-room, where he sat overhis lonely glass of Madeira, to get some brandy, and went straight to thesideboard. As she turned to leave the room, he recognized her, and said, insome astonishment, --

"You need not trouble yourself, Miss Clare. The nurse can get what shewants from Hawkins. Indeed, I don't see"--

"Excuse me, Mr. Morley. If you wish to speak to me, I will return in a fewminutes; but I have a good deal to attend to just at this moment. "

She left the room; and, as he had said nothing in reply, did not return. 

Two days after, about the same hour, whether suspecting the fact, or forsome other reason, he requested the butler to send the nurse to him. 

"The nurse from the nursery, sir; or the young person as teaches the youngladies the piano?" asked Hawkins. 

"I mean the sick-nurse, " said his master. 

In a few minutes Miss Clare entered the dining-room, and approached Mr. Morley. 

"How do you do, Miss Clare?" he said stiffly; for to any one in hisemployment he was gracious only now and then. "Allow me to say that Idoubt the propriety of your being here so much. You cannot fail to carrythe infection. I think your lessons had better be postponed until _all_your pupils are able to benefit by them. I have just sent for the nurse;and, --if you please"--

"Yes. Hawkins told me you wanted me, " said Miss Clare. 

"I did not want you. He must have mistaken. "

"I am the nurse, Mr. Morley. "

"Then I _must_ say it is not with my approval, " he returned, rising fromhis chair in anger. "I was given to understand that a properly-qualifiedperson was in charge of my wife and family. This is no ordinary case, wherea little coddling is all that is wanted. "

"I am perfectly qualified, Mr. Morley. "

He walked up and down the room several times. 

"I must speak to Mrs. Morley about this. " he said. 

"I entreat you will not disturb her. She is not so well this afternoon. "

"How _is_ this, Miss Clare? Pray explain to me how it is that you cometo be taking a part in the affairs of the family so very different fromthat for which Mrs. Morley--which--was arranged between Mrs. Morley andyourself. "

"It is but an illustration of the law of supply and demand, " answeredMarion. "A nurse was wanted; Mrs. Morley had strong objections to a hirednurse, and I was very glad to be able to set her mind at rest. "

"It was very obliging in you, no doubt, " he returned, forcing theadmission; "but--but"--

"Let us leave it for the present, if you please; for while I am nurse, Imust mind my business. Dr. Brand expresses himself quite satisfied with me, so far as we have gone; and it is better for the children, not to mentionMrs. Morley, to have some one about them they are used to. "

She left the room without waiting further parley. 

Dr. Brand, however, not only set Mr. Morley's mind at rest as to herefficiency, but when a terrible time of anxiety was at length over, duringwhich one after another, and especially Judy herself, had been in greatdanger, assured him that, but for the vigilance and intelligence of MissClare, joined to a certain soothing influence which she exercised overevery one of her patients, he did not believe he could have brought Mrs. Morley through. Then, indeed, he changed his tone to her, in a measure, still addressing her as from a height of superiority. 

They had recovered so far that they were to set out the next morning forHastings, when he thus addressed her, having sent for her once more to thedining-room:--

"I hope you will accompany them, Miss Clare, " he said. "By this time youmust be in no small need of a change yourself. "

"The best change for me will be Lime Court, " she answered, laughing. 

"Now, pray don't drive your goodness to the verge of absurdity, " he saidpleasantly. 

"Indeed, I am anxious about my friends there, " she returned. "I fear theyhave not been getting on quite so well without me. A Bible-woman and aRoman Catholic have been quarrelling dreadfully, I hear. "

Mr. Morley compressed his lips. It _was_ annoying to be so much indebted toone who, from whatever motives, called such people her friends. 

"Oblige me, then, " he said loftily, taking an envelope from themantle-piece, and handing it to her, "by opening that at your leisure. "

"I will open it now, if you please, " she returned. 

It contained a bank-note for a hundred pounds. Mr. Morley, though a hardman, was not by any means stingy. She replaced it in the envelope, and laidit again on the chimney-piece. 

"You owe me nothing, Mr. Morley, " she said. 

"Owe you nothing! I owe you more than I can ever repay. "

"Then don't try it, please. You are _very_ generous; but indeed I could notaccept it. "

"You must oblige me. You _might_ take it from _me_, " he added, almostpathetically, as if the bond was so close that money was nothing betweenthem. 

"You are the last--one of the last I _could_ take money from, Mr. Morley. "

"Why?"

"Because you think so much of it, and yet would look down on me the more ifI accepted it. "

He bit his lip, rubbed his forehead with his hand, threw back his head, andturned away from her. 

"I should be very sorry to offend you, " she said; "and, believe me, thereis hardly any thing I value less than money. I have enough, and could haveplenty more if I liked. I would rather have your friendship than all themoney you possess. But that cannot be, so long as"--

She stopped: she was on the point of going too far, she thought. 

"So long as what?" he returned sternly. 

"So long as you are a worshipper of Mammon, " she answered; and left theroom. 

She burst out crying when she came to this point. She had narrated thewhole with the air of one making a confession. 

"I am afraid it was very wrong, " she said; "and if so, then it was veryrude as well. But something seemed to force it out of me. Just think: therewas a generous heart, clogged up with self-importance and wealth! To me, ashe stood there on the hearth-rug, he was a most pitiable object--with animpervious wall betwixt him and the kingdom of heaven! He seemed like a manin a terrible dream, from which I _must_ awake him by calling aloud in hisear--except that, alas! the dream was not terrible to him, only to me! Ifhe had been one of my poor friends, guilty of some plain fault, I shouldhave told him so without compunction; and why not, being what he was? Therehe stood, --a man of estimable qualities, of beneficence, if not bounty;no miser, nor consciously unjust; yet a man whose heart the moth and rustwere eating into a sponge!--who went to church every Sunday, and had manyfriends, not one of whom, not even his own wife, would tell him that he wasa Mammon-worshipper, and losing his life. It may have been useless, it mayhave been wrong; but I felt driven to it by bare human pity for the miseryI saw before me. "

"It looks to me as if you had the message given you to give him, " I said. 

"But--though I don't know it--what if I was annoyed with him for offeringme that wretched hundred pounds, --in doing which he was acting up to thelight that was in him?"

I could not help thinking of the light which is darkness, but I did notsay so. Strange tableau, in this our would-be grand nineteenth century, --ayoung and poor woman prophet-like rebuking a wealthy London merchant onhis own hearth-rug, as a worshipper of Mammon! I think she was right; notbecause he was wrong, but because, as I firmly believe, she did it from nopersonal motives whatever, although in her modesty she doubted herself. Ibelieve it was from pure regard for the man and for the truth, urging herto an irrepressible utterance. If so, should we not say that she spoke bythe Spirit? Only I shudder to think what utterance might, with an equaloutward show, be attributed to the same Spirit. Well, to his own masterevery one standeth or falleth; whether an old prophet who, with a lie inhis right hand, entraps an honorable guest, or a young prophet who, withrepentance in his heart, walks calmly into the jaws of the waiting lion. [Footnote: See the Sermons of the Rev. Henry Whitehead, vicar of St. John's, Limehouse; as remarkable for the profundity of their insight usfor the noble severity of their literary modelling. --G. M. D. ]

And no one can tell what effects the words may have had upon him. I do notbelieve he ever mentioned the circumstance to his wife. At all events, there was no change in her manner to Miss Clare. Indeed, I could not helpfancying that a little halo of quiet reverence now encircled the love inevery look she cast upon her. 

She firmly believed that Marion had saved her life, and that of more thanone of her children. Nothing, she said, could equal the quietness andtenderness and tirelessness of her nursing. She was never flurried, neverimpatient, and never frightened. Even when the tears would be flowingdown her face, the light never left her eyes nor the music her voice; andwhen they were all getting better, and she had the nursery piano broughtout on the landing in the middle of the sick-rooms, and there played andsung to them, it was, she said, like the voice of an angel, come freshto the earth, with the same old news of peace and good-will. When thechildren--this I had from the friend she brought with her--were tossingin the fever, and talking of strange and frightful things they saw, oneword from her would quiet them; and her gentle, firm command was alwayssufficient to make the most fastidious and rebellious take his medicine. 

She came out of it very pale, and a good deal worn. But the day they setoff for Hastings, she returned to Lime Court. The next day she resumedher lessons, and soon recovered her usual appearance. A change of work, she always said, was the best restorative. But before a month was overI succeeded in persuading her to accept my mother's invitation to spenda week at the Hall; and from this visit she returned quite invigorated. Connie, whom she went to see, --for by this time she was married to Mr. Turner, --was especially delighted with her delight in the simplicitiesof nature. Born and bred in the closest town-environment, she had yet asensitiveness to all that made the country so dear to us who were born init, which Connie said surpassed ours, and gave her special satisfactionas proving that my oft recurring dread lest such feelings might but bethe result of childish associations was groundless, and that they wereessential to the human nature, and so felt by God himself. Driving alongin the pony-carriage, --for Connie is not able to walk much, although sheis well enough to enjoy life thoroughly, --Marion would remark upon tenthings in a morning, that my sister had never observed. The various effectsof light and shade, and the variety of feeling they caused, especiallyinterested her. She would spy out a lurking sunbeam, as another would finda hidden flower. It seemed as if not a glitter in its nest of gloom couldescape her. She would leave the carriage, and make a long round through thefields or woods, and, when they met at the appointed spot, would have herhands full not of flowers only, but of leaves and grasses and weedy things, showing the deepest interest in such lowly forms as few would notice exceptfrom a scientific knowledge, of which she had none: it was the thingitself--its look and its home--that drew her attention. I cannot helpthinking that this insight was profoundly one with her interest in thecorresponding regions of human life and circumstance. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS. 

I must give an instance of the way in which Marion--I am tired of callingher _Miss Clare_, and about this time I began to drop it--exercised herinfluence over her friends. I trust the episode, in a story so fragmentaryas mine, made up of pieces only of a quiet and ordinary life, will not seemunsuitable. How I wish I could give it you as she told it to me! so graphicwas her narrative, and so true to the forms of speech amongst the Londonpoor. I must do what I can, well assured it must come far short of theoriginal representation. 

One evening, as she was walking up to her attic, she heard a noise inone of the rooms, followed by a sound of weeping. It was occupied by ajourneyman house-painter and his wife, who had been married several years, but whose only child had died about six months before, since which lossthings had not been going on so well between them. Some natures cannot bearsorrow: it makes them irritable, and, instead of drawing them closer totheir own, tends to isolate them. When she entered, she found the womancrying, and the man in a lurid sulk. 

"What _is_ the matter?" she asked, no doubt in her usual cheerful tone. 

"I little thought it would come to this when I married him, " sobbed thewoman, while the man remained motionless and speechless on his chair, withhis legs stretched out at full length before him. 

"Would you mind telling me about it? There may be some mistake, you know. "

"There ain't no mistake in _that_, " said the woman, removing the apron shehad been holding to her eyes, and turning a cheek towards Marion, uponwhich the marks of an open-handed blow were visible enough. "I didn't marryhim to be knocked about like that. "

"She calls that knocking about, do she?" growled the husband. "What did shego for to throw her cotton gownd in my teeth for, as if it was my blame shewarn't in silks and satins?"

After a good deal of questioning on her part, and confused andrecriminative statement on theirs, Marion made out the following as thefacts of the case:--

For the first time since they were married, the wife had had an invitationto spend the evening with some female friends. The party had taken placethe night before; and although she had returned in ill-humor, it had notbroken out until just as Marion entered the house. The cause was this:none of the guests were in a station much superior to her own, yet shefound herself the only one who had not a silk dress: hers was a print, andshabby. Now, when she was married, she had a silk dress, of which she saidher husband had been proud enough when they were walking together. But whenshe saw the last of it, she saw the last of its sort, for never anotherhad he given her to her back; and she didn't marry him to come down in theworld--that she didn't!

"Of course not, " said Marion. "You married him because you loved him, andthought him the finest fellow you knew. "

"And so he was then, grannie. But just look at him now!"

The man moved uneasily, but without bending his outstretched legs. The factwas, that since the death of the child he had so far taken to drink thathe was not unfrequently the worse for it; which had been a rare occurrencebefore. 

"It ain't my fault, " he said, "when work ain't a-goin, ' if I don't dressher like a duchess. I'm as proud to see my wife rigged out as e'er a manon 'em; and that _she_ know! and when she cast the contrairy up to me, I'mblowed if I could keep my hands off on her. She ain't the woman I took herfor, miss. She _'ave_ a temper!"

"I don't doubt it, " said Marion. "Temper is a troublesome thing with all ofus, and makes us do things we're sorry for afterwards. _You_'re sorry forstriking her--ain't you, now?"

There was no response. Around the sullen heart silence closed again. Doubtless he would have given much to obliterate the fact, but he would notconfess that he had been wrong. We are so stupid, that confession seems tous to fix the wrong upon us, instead of throwing it, as it does, into thedepths of the eternal sea. 

"I may have my temper, " said the woman, a little mollified at finding, asshe thought, that Miss Clare took her part; "but here am I, slaving frommorning to night to make both ends meet, and goin' out every job I can geta-washin' or a-charin', and never 'avin' a bit of fun from year's end toyear's end, and him off to his club, as he calls it!--an' it's a club he'slike to blow out my brains with some night, when he comes home in a drunkenfit; for it's worse _and_ worse he'll get, miss, like the rest on 'em, tillno woman could be proud, as once I was, to call him hers. And when I do goout to tea for once in a way, to be jeered at by them as is no better norno worse 'n myself, acause I ain't got a husband as cares enough for me todress me decent!--that do stick i' my gizzard. I do dearly love to haveneighbors think my husband care a bit about me, let-a-be 'at he don't, onehair; and when he send me out like that"--

Here she broke down afresh. 

"Why didn't ye stop at home then? I didn't tell ye to go, " he saidfiercely, calling her a coarse name. 

"Richard, " said Marion, "such words are not fit for _me_ to hear, stillless for your own wife. "

"Oh! never mind me: I'm used to sich, " said the woman spitefully. 

"It's a lie, " roared the man: "I never named sich a word to ye afore. It domake me mad to hear ye. I drink the clothes off your back, do I? If I bedthe money, ye might go in velvet and lace for aught I cared!"

"_She_ would care little to go in gold and diamonds, if _you_ didn't careto see her in them, " said Marion. 

At this the woman burst into fresh tears, and the man put on a face ofcontempt, --the worst sign, Marion said, she had yet seen in him, notexcepting the blow; for to despise is worse than to strike. 

I can't help stopping my story here to put in a reflection that forcesitself upon me. Many a man would regard with disgust the idea of strikinghis wife, who will yet cherish against her an aversion which is infinitelyworse. The working-man who strikes his wife, but is sorry for it, and triesto make amends by being more tender after it, a result which many a womanwill consider cheap at the price of a blow endured, --is an immeasurablysuperior husband to the gentleman who shows his wife the most absolutepoliteness, but uses that very politeness as a breastwork to fortifyhimself in his disregard and contempt. 

Marion saw that while the tides ran thus high, nothing could be done;certainly, at least, in the way of argument. Whether the man had beendrinking she could not tell, but suspected that must have a share in theevil of his mood. She went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, andsaid, --

"You're out of sorts, Richard. Come and have a cup of tea, and I will singto you. "

"I don't want no tea. "

"You're fond of the piano, though. And you like to hear me sing, don'tyou?"

"Well, I do, " he muttered, as if the admission were forced from him. 

"Come with me, then. "

He dragged himself up from his chair, and was about to follow her. 

"You ain't going to take him from me, grannie, after he's been and struckme?" interposed his wife, in a tone half pathetic, half injured. 

"Come after us in a few minutes, " said Marion, in a low voice, and led theway from the room. 

Quiet as a lamb Richard followed her up stairs. She made him sit in theeasy-chair, and began with a low, plaintive song, which she followed withother songs and music of a similar character. He neither heard nor saw hiswife enter, and both sat for about twenty minutes without a word spoken. Then Marion made a pause, and the wife rose and approached her husband. Hewas fast asleep. 

"Don't wake him, " said Marion; "let him have his sleep out. You go down andget the place tidy, and a nice bit of supper for him--if you can. "

"Oh, yes! he brought me home his week's wages this very night. "

"The whole?"

"Yes, grannie"

"Then weren't you too hard upon him? Just think: he had been trying tobehave himself, and had got the better of the public-house for once, andcome home fancying you'd be so pleased to see him; and you"--

"He'd been drinking, " interrupted Eliza. "Only he said as how it was but apot of beer he'd won in a wager from a mate of his. "

"Well, if, after that beginning, he yet brought you home his money, heought to have had another kind of reception. To think of the wife of a poorman making such a fuss about a silk dress! Why, Eliza, I never had a silkdress in my life; and I don't think I ever shall. "

"Laws, grannie! who'd ha' thought that now!"

"You see I have other uses for my money than buying things for show. "

"That you do, grannie! But you see, " she added, somewhat inconsequently, "we ain't got no child, and Dick he take it ill of me, and don't care tosave his money; so he never takes me out nowheres, and I do be so tired o'stopping indoors, every day and all day long, that it turns me sour, I dobelieve. I didn't use to be cross-grained, miss. But, laws! I feels now asif I'd let him knock me about ever so, if only he wouldn't say as how itwas nothing to him if I was dressed ever so fine. "

"You run and get his supper. "

Eliza went; and Marion, sitting down again to her instrument, improvisedfor an hour. Next to her New Testament, this was her greatest comfort. Shesung and prayed both in one then, and nobody but God heard any thing butthe piano. Nor did it impede the flow of her best thoughts, that in a chairbeside her slumbered a weary man, the waves of whose evil passions shehad stilled, and the sting of whose disappointments she had soothed, withthe sweet airs and concords of her own spirit. Who could say what tenderinfluences might not be stealing over him, borne on the fair sounds? foreven the formless and the void was roused into life and joy by the windthat roamed over the face of its deep. No humanity jarred with hers. Inthe presence of the most degraded, she felt God there. A face, even ifbesotted, _was_ a face, only in virtue of being in the image of God. Thata man was a man at all, must he because he was God's. And this man wasfar indeed from being of the worst. With him beside her, she could praywith most of the good of having the door of her closet shut, and some ofthe good of the gathering together as well. Thus was love, as ever, theassimilator of the foreign, the harmonizer of the unlike; the builder ofthe temple in the desert, and of the chamber in the market-place. 

As she sat and discoursed with herself, she perceived that the woman was ascertainly suffering from _ennui_ as any fine lady in Mayfair. 

"Have you ever been to the National Gallery, Richard?" she asked, withoutturning her head, the moment she heard him move. 

"No, grannie, " he answered with a yawn. "Don'a' most know what sort of aplace it be now. Waxwork, ain't it?"

"No. It's a great place full of pictures, many of them hundreds of yearsold. They're taken care of by the Government, just for people to go andlook at. Wouldn't you like to go and see them some day?"

"Donno as I should much. "

"If I were to go with you, now, and explain some of them to you? I want youto take your wife and me out for a holiday. You can't think, you who go outto your work every day, how tiresome it is to be in the house from morningto night, especially at this time of the year, when the sun's shining, andthe very sparrows trying to sing!"

"She may go out when she please, grannie. I ain't no tyrant. "

"But she doesn't care to go without you. You wouldn't have her like one ofthose slatternly women you see standing at the corners, with their fists intheir sides and their elbows sticking out, ready to talk to anybody thatcomes in the way. "

"_My_ wife was never none o' sich, grannie. I knows her as well's e'er aone, though she do 'ave a temper of her own. "

At this moment Eliza appeared in the door-way, saying, --

"Will ye come to yer supper, Dick? I ha' got a slice o' ham an' a hot taterfor ye. Come along. "

"Well, I don't know as I mind--jest to please _you_, Liza. I believe I ha'been asleep in grannie's cheer there, her a playin' an' a singin', I makeno doubt, like a werry nightingerl, bless her, an' me a snorin' all tomyself, like a runaway locomotive! Won't _you_ come and have a slice o' the'am, an' a tater, grannie? The more you ate, the less we'd grudge it. "

"I'm sure o' that, " chimed in Eliza. "Do now, grannie; please do. "

"I will, with pleasure, " said Marion; and they went down together. 

Eliza had got the table set out nicely, with a foaming jug of porter besidethe ham and potatoes. Before they had finished, Marion had persuadedRichard to take his wife and her to the National Gallery, the next day butone, which, fortunately for her purpose, was Whit Monday, a day whereonRichard, who was from the north always took a holiday. 

At the National Gallery, the house-painter, in virtue of his craft, claimedthe exercise of criticism; and his remarks were amusing enough. He hadmore than once painted a sign-board for a country inn, which fact formed abridge between the covering of square yards with color and the painting ofpictures; and he naturally used the vantage-ground thus gained to enhancehis importance with his wife and Miss Clare. He was rather a clever fellowtoo, though as little educated in any other direction than that of hiscalling as might well be. 

All the woman seemed to care about in the pictures was this or thatsomething which reminded her, often remotely enough I dare say, of herformer life in the country. Towards the close of their visit, theyapproached a picture--one of Hobbima's, I think--which at once riveted herattention. 

"Look, look, Dick!" she cried. "There's just such a cart as my father usedto drive to the town in. Farmer White always sent _him_ when the mistresswanted any thing and he didn't care to go hisself. And, O Dick! there's thevery moral of the cottage we lived in! Ain't it a love, now?"

"Nice enough, " Dick replied. "But it warn't there I seed you, Liza. Itwur at the big house where you was housemaid, you know. That'll be it, Isuppose, --away there like, over the trees. "

They turned and looked at each other, and Marion turned away. When shelooked again, they were once more gazing at the picture, but closetogether, and hand in hand, like two children. 

As they went home in the omnibus, the two averred they had never spent ahappier holiday in their lives; and from that day to this no sign of theirquarrelling has come to Marion's knowledge. They are not only her regularattendants on Saturday evenings, but on Sunday evenings as well, when sheholds a sort of conversation-sermon with her friends. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MR. MORLEY. 

As soon as my cousin Judy returned from Hastings, I called to see her, andfound them all restored, except Amy, a child of between eight and nine. There was nothing very definite the matter with her, but she was white andthin, and looked wistful; the blue of her eyes had grown pale, and her fairlocks had nearly lost the curl which had so well suited her rosy cheeks. She had been her father's pride for her looks, and her mother's for hersayings, --at once odd and simple. Judy that morning reminded me how, onenight, when she was about three years old, some time after she had gone tobed, she had called her nurse, and insisted on her mother's coming. Judywent, prepared to find her feverish; for there had been jam-making thatday, and she feared she had been having more than the portion which on suchan occasion fell to her share. When she reached the nursery, Amy begged tobe taken up that she might say her prayers over again. Her mother objected;but the child insisting, in that pretty, petulant way which so pleasedher father, she yielded, thinking she must have omitted some clause inher prayers, and be therefore troubled in her conscience. Amy accordinglykneeled by the bedside in her night-gown, and, having gone over all herpetitions from beginning to end, paused a moment before the final word, andinserted the following special and peculiar request: "And, p'ease God, giveme some more jam to-morrow-day, for ever and ever. Amen. "

I remember my father being quite troubled when he heard that the child hadbeen rebuked for offering what was probably her very first genuine prayer. The rebuke, however, had little effect on the equanimity of the petitioner, for she was fast asleep a moment after it. 

"There is one thing that puzzles and annoys me, " said Judy. "I can't thinkwhat it means. My husband tells me that Miss Clare was so rude to him, the day before we left for Hastings, that he would rather not be awareof it any time she is in the house. Those were his very words. 'I willnot interfere with your doing as you think proper, ' he said, 'seeing youconsider yourself under such obligation to her; and I should be sorry todeprive her of the advantage of giving lessons in a house like this; but Iwish you to be careful that the girls do not copy her manners. She has notby any means escaped the influence of the company she keeps. ' I was utterlyastonished, you may well think; but I could get no further explanation fromhim. He only said that when I wished to have her society of an evening, I must let him know, because he would then dine at his club. Not knowingthe grounds of his offence, there was little other argument I could usethan the reiteration of my certainty that he must have misunderstood her. 'Not in the least, ' he said. 'I have no doubt she is to you every thingamiable; but she has taken some unaccountable aversion to me, and loses noopportunity of showing it. And I _don't_ think I deserve it. ' I told himI was so sure he did not deserve it, that I must believe there was somemistake. But he only shook his head and raised his newspaper. You must helpme, little coz. "

"How am I to help you, Judy dear?" I returned. "I can't interfere betweenhusband and wife, you know. If I dared such a thing, he would quarrel withme too--and rightly. "

"No, no, " she returned, laughing: "I don't want your intercession. I onlywant you to find out from Miss Clare whether she knows how she has somortally offended my husband. I believe she knows nothing about it. She_has_ a rather abrupt manner sometimes, you know; but then my husbandis not so silly as to have taken such deep offence at that. Help me, now--there's a dear!"

I promised I would, and hence came the story I have already given. ButMarion was so distressed at the result of her words, and so anxious thatJudy should not he hurt, that she begged me, if I could manage it withouta breach of verity, to avoid disclosing the matter; especially seeing Mr. Morley himself judged it too heinous to impart to his wife. 

How to manage it I could not think. But at length we arranged it betweenus. I told Judy that Marion confessed to having said something which hadoffended Mr. Morley; that she was very sorry, and hoped she need not saythat such had not been her intention, but that, as Mr. Morley evidentlypreferred what had passed between them to remain unmentioned, to discloseit would be merely to swell the mischief. It would be better for themall, she requested me to say, that she should give up her lessons for thepresent; and therefore she hoped Mrs. Morley would excuse her. When I gavethe message, Judy cried, and said nothing. When the children heard thatMarion was not coming for a while, Amy cried, the other girls looked verygrave, and the boys protested. 

I have already mentioned that the fault I most disliked in those childrenwas their incapacity for being petted. Something of it still remains; butof late I have remarked a considerable improvement in this respect. Theyhave not only grown in kindness, but in the gift of receiving kindness. I cannot but attribute this, in chief measure, to their illness and thelovely nursing of Marion. They do not yet go to their mother for petting, and from myself will only endure it; but they are eager after such crumbsas Marion, by no means lavish of it, will vouchsafe them. 

Judy insisted that I should let Mr. Morley hear Marion's message. 

"But the message is not to Mr. Morley, " I said. "Marion would never havethought of sending one to him. "

"But if I ask you to repeat it in his hearing, you will not refuse?"

To this I consented; but I fear she was disappointed in the result. Herhusband only smiled sarcastically, drew in his chin, and showed himself alittle more cheerful than usual. 

One morning, about two months after, as I was sitting in the drawing-room, with my baby on the floor beside me, I was surprised to see Judy's broughampull up at the little gate--for it was early. When she got out, I perceivedat once that something was amiss, and ran to open the door. Her eyes werered, and her cheeks ashy. The moment we reached the drawing-room, she sunkon the couch and burst into tears. 

"Judy!" I cried, "what _is_ the matter? Is Amy worse?"

"No, no, cozzy dear; but we are ruined. We haven't a penny in the world. The children will be beggars. "

And there were the gay little horses champing their bits at the door, andthe coachman sitting in all his glory, erect and impassive!

I did my best to quiet her, urging no questions. With difficulty I got herto swallow a glass of wine, after which, with many interruptions and freshoutbursts of misery, she managed to let me understand that her husbandhad been speculating, and had failed. I could hardly believe myselfawake. Mr. Morley was the last man I should have thought capable eitherof speculating, or of failing in it if he did. 

Knowing nothing about business, I shall not attempt to explain theparticulars. Coincident failures amongst his correspondents had contributedto his fall. Judy said he had not been like himself for months; but it wasonly the night before that he had told her they must give up their house inBolivar Square, and take a small one in the suburbs. For any thing he couldsee, he said, he must look out for a situation. 

"Still you may be happier than ever, Judy. I can tell you that happinessdoes not depend on riches, " I said, though I could not help crying withher. 

"It's a different thing though, after you've been used to them, " sheanswered. "But the question is of bread for my children, not of puttingdown my carriage. "

She rose hurriedly. 

"Where are you going? Is there any thing I can do for you?" I asked. 

"Nothing, " she answered. "I left my husband at Mr. Baddeley's. He is asrich as Croesus, and could write him a check that would float him. "

"He's too rich to be generous, I'm afraid, " I said. 

"What do you mean by that?" she asked. 

"If he be so generous, how does it come that he is so rich?"

"Why, his father made the money. "

"Then he most likely takes after his father. Percivale says he does notbelieve a huge fortune was ever made of nothing, without such pinching ofone's self and such scraping of others, or else such speculation, as isessentially dishonorable. "

"He stands high, " murmured Judy hopelessly. 

"Whether what is dishonorable be also disreputable depends on how manythere are of his own sort in the society in which he moves. "

"Now, coz, you know nothing to his discredit, and he's our last hope. "

"I will say no more, " I answered. "I hope I may be quite wrong. Only Ishould expect nothing of _him_. "

When she reached Mr. Baddeley's her husband was gone. Having driven to hiscounting-house, and been shown into his private room, she found him therewith his head between his hands. The great man had declined doing any thingfor him, and had even rebuked him for his imprudence, without wasting athought on the fact that every penny he himself possessed was the resultof the boldest speculation on the part of his father. A very few days onlywould elapse before the falling due of certain bills must at once disclosethe state of his affairs. 

As soon as she had left me, Percivale not being at home, I put on mybonnet, and went to find Marion. I must tell _her_ every thing that causedme either joy or sorrow; and besides, she had all the right that love couldgive to know of Judy's distress. I knew all her engagements, and thereforewhere to find her; and sent in my card, with the pencilled intimation thatI would wait the close of her lesson. In a few minutes she came out and gotinto the cab. At once I told her my sad news. 

"Could you take me to Cambridge Square to my next engagement?" she said. 

I was considerably surprised at the cool way in which she received thecommunication, but of course I gave the necessary directions. 

"Is there any thing to be done?" she asked, after a pause. 

"I know of nothing, " I answered. 

Again she sat silent for a few minutes. 

"One can't move without knowing all the circumstances and particulars, " shesaid at length. "And how to get at them? He wouldn't make a confidante of_me_, " she said, smiling sadly. 

"Ah! you little think what vast sums are concerned in such a failure ashis!" I remarked, astounded that one with her knowledge of the world shouldtalk as she did. 

"It will be best, " she said, after still another pause, "to go to Mr. Blackstone. He has a wonderful acquaintance with business for a clergyman, and knows many of the city people. "

"What could any clergyman do in such a case?" I returned. "For Mr. Blackstone, Mr. Morley would not accept even consolation at his hands. "

"The time for that is not come yet, " said Marion. "We must try to help himsome other way first. We will, if we can, make friends with him by means ofthe very Mammon that has all but ruined him. "

She spoke of the great merchant just as she might of Richard, or any of thebricklayers or mechanics, whose spiritual condition she pondered that shemight aid it. 

"But what could Mr. Blackstone do?" I insisted. 

"All I should want of him would be to find out for me what Mr. Morley'sliabilities are, and how much would serve to tide him over the bar of hispresent difficulties. I suspect he has few friends who would risk any thingfor him. I understand he is no favorite in the city; and, if friendship donot come in, he must be stranded. You believe him an honorable man, --do younot?" she asked abruptly. 

"It never entered my head to doubt it, " I replied. 

The moment we reached Cambridge Square she jumped out, ran up the steps, and knocked at the door. I waited, wondering if she was going to leaveme thus without a farewell. When the door was opened, she merely gave amessage to the man, and the same instant was again in the cab by my side. 

"Now I am free!" she said, and told the man to drive to Mile End. 

"I fear I can't go with you so far, Marion, " I said. "I must go home--Ihave so much to see to, and you can do quite as well without me. I don'tknow what you intend, but _please_ don't let any thing come out. I cantrust _you_, but"--

"If you can trust me, I can trust Mr. Blackstone. He is the most cautiousman in the world. Shall I get out, and take another cab?"

"No. You can drop me at Tottenham Court Road, and I will go home byomnibus. But you must let me pay the cab. "

"No, no; I am richer than you: I have no children. What fun it is to spendmoney for Mr. Morley, and lay him under an obligation he will never know!"she said, laughing. 

The result of her endeavors was, that Mr. Blackstone, by a circuitoussuccession of introductions, reached Mr. Morley's confidential clerk, whom he was able so far to satisfy concerning his object in desiringthe information, that he made him a full disclosure of the condition ofaffairs, and stated what sum would be sufficient to carry them over theirdifficulties; though, he added, the greatest care, and every possiblereduction of expenditure for some years, would be indispensable to theircomplete restoration. 

Mr. Blackstone carried his discoveries to Miss Clare and she to LadyBernard. 

"My dear Marion, " said Lady Bernard, "this is a serious matter you suggest. The man may be honest, and yet it may be of no use trying to help him. Idon't want to bolster him up for a few months in order to see my money goafter his. That's not what I've got to do with it. No doubt I could loseas much as you mention, without being crippled by it, for I hope it's nodisgrace in me to be rich, as it's none in you to be poor; but I hatewaste, and I will _not_ be guilty of it. If Mr. Morley will convince me andany friend or man of business to whom I may refer the matter, that there isgood probability of his recovering himself by means of it, then, and nottill then, I shall feel justified in risking the amount. For, as you say, it would prevent much misery to many besides that good-hearted creature, Mrs. Morley, and her children. It is worth doing if it can be done--notworth trying if it can't. "

"Shall I write for you, and ask him to come and see you?"

"No, my dear. If I do a kindness, I must do it humbly. It is a greatliberty to take with a man to offer him a kindness. I must go to him. Icould not use the same freedom with a man in misfortune as with one inprosperity. I would have such a one feel that his money or his poverty madeno difference to me; and Mr. Morley wants that lesson, if any man does. Besides, after all, I may not be able to do it for him, and he would havegood reason to be hurt if I had made him dance attendance on me. "

The same evening Lady Bernard's shabby one-horse-brougham stopped atMr. Morley's door. She asked to see Mrs. Morley, and through her had aninterview with her husband. Without circumlocution, she told him that ifhe would lay his affairs before her and a certain accountant she named, to use their judgment regarding them in the hope of finding it possible toserve him, they would wait upon him for that purpose at any time and placehe pleased. Mr. Morley expressed his obligation, --not very warmly, shesaid, --repudiating, however, the slightest objection to her ladyship'sknowing now what all the world must know the next day but one. 

Early the following morning Lady Bernard and the accountant met Mr. Morleyat his place in the city, and by three o'clock in the afternoon fifteenthousand pounds were handed in to his account at his banker's. 

The carriage was put down, the butler, one of the footmen, and the lady'smaid, were dismissed, and household arrangements fitted to a differentscale. 

One consequence of this chastisement, as of the preceding, was, that thewhole family drew yet more closely and lovingly together; and I must sayfor Judy, that, after a few weeks of what she called poverty, her spiritsseemed in no degree the worse for the trial. 

At Marion's earnest entreaty no one told either Mr. Or Mrs. Morley of theshare she had had in saving his credit and social position. For some timeshe suffered from doubt as to whether she had had any right to interpose inthe matter, and might not have injured Mr. Morley by depriving him of thediscipline of poverty; but she reasoned with herself, that, had it beennecessary for him, her efforts would have been frustrated; and remindedherself, that, although his commercial credit had escaped, it must still bea considerable trial to him to live in reduced style. 

But that it was not all the trial needful for him, was soon apparent; forhis favorite Amy began to pine more rapidly, and Judy saw, that, exceptsome change speedily took place, they could not have her with them long. The father, however, refused to admit the idea that she was in danger. Isuppose he felt as if, were he once to allow the possibility of losingher, from that moment there would be no stay between her and the grave: itwould be a giving of her over to death. But whatever Dr. Brand suggestedwas eagerly followed. When the chills of autumn drew near, her mother tookher to Ventnor; but little change followed, and before the new year shewas gone. It was the first death, beyond that of an infant, they had hadin their family, and took place at a time when the pressure of businessobligations rendered it impossible for her father to be out of London: hecould only go to lay her in the earth, and bring back his wife. Judy hadnever seen him weep before. Certainly I never saw such a change in a man. He was literally bowed with grief, as if he bore a material burden onhis back. The best feelings of his nature, unimpeded by any jar to hisself-importance or his prejudices, had been able to spend themselves on thelovely little creature; and I do not believe any other suffering than theloss of such a child could have brought into play that in him which waspurely human. 

He was at home one morning, ill for the first time in his life, when Marioncalled on Judy. While she waited in the drawing-room, he entered. He turnedthe moment he saw her, but had not taken two steps towards the door, whenhe turned again, and approached her. She went to meet him. He held out hishand. 

"She was very fond of you, Miss Clare, " he said. "She was talking about youthe very last time I saw her. Let by-gones be by-gones between us. "

"I was very rough and rude to you, Mr. Morley, and I am very sorry, " saidMarion. 

"But you spoke the truth, " he rejoined. "I thought I was above being spokento like a sinner, but I don't know now why not. "

He sat down on a couch, and leaned his head on his hand. Marion took achair near him, but could not speak. 

"It is very hard, " he murmured at length. 

"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, " said Marion. 

"That may be true in some cases, but I have no right to believe it appliesto me. He loved the child, I would fain believe; for I dare not think ofher either as having ceased to be, or as alone in the world to which shehas gone. You do think, Miss Clare, do you not, that we shall know ourfriends in another world?"

"I believe, " answered Marion, "that God sent you that child for the expresspurpose of enticing you back to himself; and, if I believe any thing atall, I believe that the gifts of God are without repentance. "

Whether or not he understood her she could not tell, for at this pointJudy came in. Seeing them together she would have withdrawn again; but herhusband called her, with more tenderness in his voice than Marion couldhave imagined belonging to it. 

"Come, my dear. Miss Clare and I were talking about our little angel. Ididn't think ever to speak of her again, but I fear I am growing foolish. All the strength is out of me; and I feel so tired, --so weary of everything!"

She sat down beside him, and took his hand. Marion crept away to thechildren. An hour after, Judy found her in the nursery, with the youngeston her knee, and the rest all about her. She was telling them that we weresent into this world to learn to be good, and then go back to God from whomwe came, like little Amy. 

"When I go out to-mowwow, " said one little fellow, about four years old, "I'll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; and then I shall see Amy, and God saying to her, 'Hushaby, poo' Amy! You bette' now, Amy?' Sha'n't I, Mawion?"

She had taught them to call her Marion. 

"No, my pet: you might look and look, all day long, and every day, andnever see God or Amy. "

"Then they _ain't_ there!" he exclaimed indignantly. 

"God is there, anyhow, " she answered; "only you can't see him that way. "

"I don't care about seeing God, " said the next elder: "it's Amy I want tosee. Do tell me, Marion, how we are to see Amy. It's too bad if we're neverto see her again; and I don't think it's fair. "

"I will tell you the only way I know. When Jesus was in the world, he toldus that all who had clean hearts should see God. That's how Jesus himselfsaw God. "

"It's Amy, I tell you, Marion--it's not God I want to see, " insisted theone who had last spoken. 

"Well, my dear, but how can you see Amy if you can't even see God? If Amybe in God's arms, the first thing, in order to find her, is to find God. To be good is the only way to get near to anybody. When you're naughty, Willie, you can't get near your mamma, can you?"

"Yes, I can. I can get close up to her. "

"Is that near enough? Would you be quite content with that? Even when sheturns away her face and won't look at you?"

The little caviller was silent. 

"Did you ever see God, Marion?" asked one of the girls. 

She thought for a moment before giving an answer. "No, " she said. "I'veseen things just after he had done them; and I think I've heard him speakto me; but I've never seen him yet. "

"Then you're not good, Marion, " said the free-thinker of the group. 

"No: that's just it. But I hope to be good some day, and then I _shall_ seehim. "

"How do you grow good, Marion?" asked the girl. 

"God is always trying to make me good, " she answered; "and I try not tointerfere with him. "

"But sometimes you forget, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. "

"And what do you do then?"

"Then I'm sorry and unhappy, and begin to try again. "

"And God don't mind much, does he?"

"He minds very much until I mind; but after that he forgets it all, --takesall my naughtiness and throws it behind his back, and won't look at it. "

"That's very good of God, " said the reasoner, but with such aself-satisfied air in his approval, that Marion thought it time to stop. 

She came straight to me, and told me, with a face perfectly radiant, ofthe alteration in Mr. Morley's behavior to her, and, what was of much moreconsequence, the evident change that had begun to be wrought in him. 

I am not prepared to say that he has, as yet, shown a very shining light, but that some change has passed is evident in the whole man of him. I thinkthe eternal wind must now be able to get in through some chink or otherwhich the loss of his child has left behind. And, if the change were notgoing on, surely he would ere now have returned to his wallowing in themire of Mammon; for his former fortune is, I understand, all but restoredto him. 

I fancy his growth in goodness might be known and measured by his progressin appreciating Marion. He still regards her as extreme in her notions; butit is curious to see how, as they gradually sink into his understanding, hecomes to adopt them as, and even to mistake them for, his own. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A STRANGE TEXT. 

For some time after the events last related, things went on pretty smoothlywith us for several years. Indeed, although I must confess that what I saidin my haste, when Mr. S. Wanted me to write this book, namely, that nothinghad ever happened to me worth telling, was by no means correct, and that Ihave found out my mistake in the process of writing it; yet, on the otherhand, it must be granted that my story could never have reached the merebulk required if I had not largely drawn upon the history of my friends tosupplement my own. And it needs no prophetic gift to foresee that it willbe the same to the end of the book. The lives of these friends, however, have had so much to do with all that is most precious to me in our ownlife, that, if I were to leave out only all that did not immediately touchupon the latter, the book, whatever it might appear to others, could notpossibly then appear to myself any thing like a real representation of myactual life and experiences. The drawing might be correct, --but the color?

What with my children, and the increase of social duty resulting from thegrowth of acquaintance, --occasioned in part by my success in persuadingPercivale to mingle a little more with his fellow-painters, --my heart andmind and hands were all pretty fully occupied; but I still managed to seeMarion two or three times a week, and to spend about so many hours withher, sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends as well. Her society didmuch to keep my heart open, and to prevent it from becoming selfishlyabsorbed in its cares for husband and children. For love which is _only_concentrating its force, that is, which is not at the same time wideningits circle, is itself doomed, and for its objects ruinous, be those objectsever so sacred. God himself could never be content that his children shouldlove him only; nor has he allowed the few to succeed who have tried afterit: perhaps their divinest success has been their most mortifying failure. Indeed, for exclusive love sharp suffering is often sent as the needfulcure, --needful to break the stony crust, which, in the name of lovefor one's own, gathers about the divinely glowing core; a crust which, promising to cherish by keeping in the heat, would yet gradually thickenuntil all was crust; for truly, in things of the heart and spirit, as thewarmth ceases to spread, the molten mass within ceases to glow, until atlength, but for the divine care and discipline, there would be no love leftfor even spouse or child, only for self, --which is eternal death. 

For some time I had seen a considerable change in Roger. It reached even tohis dress. Hitherto, when got up for dinner, he was what I was astonishedto hear my eldest boy, the other day, call "a howling swell;" but at othertimes he did not even escape remark, --not for the oddity merely, butthe slovenliness of his attire. He had worn, for more years than I dareguess, a brown coat, of some rich-looking stuff, whose long pile was stucktogether in many places with spots and dabs of paint, so that he lookedlike our long-haired Bedlington terrier Fido, towards the end of the weekin muddy weather. This was now discarded; so far at least, as to be hung upin his brother's study, to be at hand when he did any thing for him there, and replaced by a more civilized garment of tweed, of which he actuallyshowed himself a little careful: while, if his necktie _was_ red, it was ofa very deep and rich red, and he had seldom worn one at all before; and hisbrigand-looking felt hat was exchanged for one of half the altitude, whichhe did not crush on his head with quite as many indentations as its surfacecould hold. He also began to go to church with us sometimes. 

But there was a greater and more significant change than any of these. Wefound that he was sticking more steadily to work. I can hardly say _his_work; for he was Jack-of-all-trades, as I have already indicated. He hada small income, left him by an old maiden aunt with whom he had been afavorite, which had hitherto seemed to do him nothing but harm, enablinghim to alternate fits of comparative diligence with fits of positiveidleness. I have said also, I believe, that, although he could do nothingthoroughly, application alone was wanted to enable him to distinguishhimself in more than one thing. His forte was engraving on wood; and myhusband said, that, if he could do so well with so little practice ashe had had, he must be capable of becoming an admirable engraver. Toour delight, then, we discovered, all at once, that he had been workingsteadily for three months for the Messrs. D----, whose place was not farfrom our house. He had said nothing about it to his brother, probably fromhaving good reason to fear that he would regard it only as a _spurt_. Having now, however, executed a block which greatly pleased himself, hehad brought a proof impression to show Percivale; who, more pleased withit than even Roger himself, gave him a hearty congratulation, and toldhim it would be a shame if he did not bring his execution in that art toperfection; from which, judging by the present specimen, he said it couldnot be far off. The words brought into Roger's face an expression of modestgratification which it rejoiced me to behold: he accepted Percivale'sapprobation more like a son than a brother, with a humid glow in his eyesand hardly a word on his lips. It seemed to me that the child in his hearthad begun to throw off the swaddling clothes which foolish manhood hadwrapped around it, and the germ of his being was about to assert itself. Ihave seldom indeed seen Percivale look so pleased. 

"Do me a dozen as good as that, " he said, "and I'll have the proofs framedin silver gilt. "

It _has_ been done; but the proofs had to wait longer for the frame thanPercivale for the proofs. 

But he need have held out no such bribe of brotherly love, for there wasanother love already at work in himself more than sufficing to the affair. But I check myself: who shall say what love is sufficing for this or forthat? Who, with the most enduring and most passionate love his heart canhold, will venture to say that he could have done without the love of abrother? Who will say that he could have done without the love of the dogwhose bones have lain mouldering in his garden for twenty years? It isenough to say that there was a more engrossing, a more marvellous love atwork. 

Roger always, however, took a half-holiday on Saturdays, and now generallycame to us. On one of these occasions I said to him, --

"Wouldn't you like to come and hear Marion play to her friends thisevening, Roger?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, " he answered; and we went. 

It was delightful. In my opinion Marion is a real artist. I do not claimfor her the higher art of origination, though I could claim for her a muchhigher faculty than the artistic itself. I suspect, for instance, thatMoses was a greater man than the writer of the Book of Job, notwithstandingthat the poet moves me so much more than the divine politician. Marioncombined in a wonderful way the critical faculty with the artistic; whichtwo, however much of the one may be found without the other, are mutuallyessential to the perfection of each. While she uttered from herself, sheheard with her audience; while she played and sung with her own fingers andmouth, she at the same time listened with their ears, knowing what theymust feel, as well as what she meant to utter. And hence it was, I think, that she came into such vital contact with them, even through her piano. 

As we returned home, Roger said, after some remark of mine of a cognatesort, --

"Does she never try to teach them any thing, Ethel?"

"She is constantly teaching them, whether she tries or not, " I answered. "If you can make any one believe that there is something somewhere to betrusted, is not that the best lesson you can give him? That can be taughtonly by being such that people cannot but trust you. "

"I didn't need to be told that, " he answered. "What I want to know is, whether or not she ever teaches them by word of mouth, --an ordinary andinferior mode, if you will. "

"If you had ever heard her, you would not call hers an ordinary or inferiormode, " I returned. "Her teaching is the outcome of her life, the blossom ofher being, and therefore has the whole force of her living truth to backit. "

"Have I offended you, Ethel?" he asked. 

Then I saw, that, in my eagerness to glorify my friend, I had made myselfunpleasant to Roger, --a fault of which I had been dimly conscious beforenow. Marion would never have fallen into that error. She always made herfriends feel that she was _with_ them, side by side with them, and turningher face in the same direction, before she attempted to lead them farther. 

I assured him that he had not offended me, but that I had been foolishlybacking him from the front, as I once heard an Irishman say, --some of whosebulls were very good milch cows. 

"She teaches them every Sunday evening, " I added. 

"Have you ever heard her?"

"More than once. And I never heard any thing like it. "

"Could you take me with you some time?" he asked, in an assumed tone ofordinary interest, out of which, however, he could not keep a slighttremble. 

"I don't know. I don't quite see why I shouldn't. And yet"--

"Men do go, " urged Roger, as if it were a mere half-indifferent suggestion. 

"Oh, yes! you would have plenty to keep you in countenance!" Ireturned, --"men enough--and worth teaching, too--some of them at least!"

"Then, I don't see why she should object to me for another. "

"I don't know that she would. You are not exactly of the sort, youknow--that"--

"I don't see the difference. I see no essential difference, at least. Themain thing is, that I am in want of teaching, as much as any of them. And, if she stands on circumstances, I am a working-man as much as any ofthem--perhaps more than most of them. Few of them work after midnight, Ishould think, as I do, not unfrequently. "

"Still, all admitted, I should hardly like"--

"I didn't mean you were to take me without asking her, " he said: "I shouldnever have dreamed of that. "

"And if I were to ask her, I am certain she would refuse. But, " I added, thinking over the matter a little, "I will take you without asking her. Come with me to-morrow night. I don't think she will have the heart to sendyou away. "

"I will, " he answered, with more gladness in his voice than he intended, Ithink, to manifest itself. 

We arranged that he should call for me at a certain hour. 

I told Percivale, and he pretended to grumble that I was taking Rogerinstead of him. 

"It was Roger, and not you, that made the request, " I returned. "I can'tsay I see why you should go because Roger asked. A woman's logic is notequal to that. "

"I didn't mean he wasn't to go. But why shouldn't I be done good to as wellas he?"

"If you really want to go, " I said, "I don't see why you shouldn't. It'sever so much better than going to any church I know of--except one. But wemust be prudent. I can't take more than one the first time. We must get thethin edge of the wedge in first. "

"And you count Roger the thin edge?"

"Yes. "

"I'll tell him so. "

"Do. The thin edge, mind, without which the thicker the rest is the moreuseless! Tell him that if you like. But, seriously, I quite expect to takeyou there, too, the Sunday after. "

Roger and I went. Intending to be a little late, we found when we readiedthe house, that, as we had wished, the class was already begun. In goingup the stairs, we saw very few of the grown inhabitants, but in several ofthe rooms, of which the doors stood open, elder girls taking care of theyounger children; in one, a boy nursing the baby with as much interest asany girl could have shown. We lingered on the way, wishing to give Mariontime to get so thoroughly into her work that she could take no notice ofour intrusion. When we reached the last stair we could at length hear hervoice, of which the first words we could distinguish, as we still ascended, were, --

"I will now read to you the chapter of which I spoke. "

The door being open, we could hear well enough, although she was sittingwhere we could not see her. We would not show ourselves until the readingwas ended: so much, at least, we might overhear without offence. 

Before she had read many words, Roger and I began to cast strange looks oneach other. For this was the chapter she read:--

"And Joseph, wheresoever he went in the city, took the Lord Jesus with him, where he was sent for to work, to make gates, or milk-pails, or sieves, orboxes; the Lord Jesus was with him wheresoever he went. And as often asJoseph had any thing in his work to make longer or shorter, or wider ornarrower, the Lord Jesus would stretch his hand towards it. And presentlyit became as Joseph would have it. So that he had no need to finish anything with his own hands, for he was not very skilful at his carpenter'strade. 

"On a certain time the king of Jerusalem sent for him, and said, I wouldhave thee make me a throne of the same dimensions with that place in whichI commonly sit. Joseph obeyed, and forthwith began the work, and continuedtwo years in the king's palace before he finished. And when he came to fixit in its place, he found it wanted two spans on each side of the appointedmeasure. Which, when the king saw, he was very angry with Joseph; andJoseph, afraid of the king's anger, went to bed without his supper, takingnot any thing to eat. Then the Lord Jesus asked him what he was afraid of. Joseph replied, Because I have lost my labor in the work which I have beenabout these two years. Jesus said to him, Fear not, neither be cast down;do thou lay hold on one side of the throne, and I will the other, and wewill bring it to its just dimensions. And when Joseph had done as the LordJesus said, and each of them had with strength drawn his side, the throneobeyed, and was brought to the proper dimensions of the place; whichmiracle when they who stood by saw, they were astonished, and praised God. The throne was made of the same wood which was in being in Solomon's time, namely, wood adorned with various shapes and figures. "

Her voice ceased, and a pause followed. 

"We must go in now, " I whispered. 

"She'll be going to say something now; just wait till she's started, " saidRoger. 

"Now, what do you think of it?" asked Marion in a meditative tone. 

We crept within the scope of her vision, and stood. A voice, which I knew, was at the moment replying to her question. 

"_I_ don't think it's much of a chapter, that, grannie. "

The speaker was the keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers, whohad come forward to talk to Percivale on that miserable evening when wewere out searching for little Ethel. He sat near where we stood by thedoor, between two respectable looking women, who had been listening to thechapter as devoutly as if it had been of the true gospel. 

"Sure, grannie, that ain't out o' the Bible?" said another voice, fromsomewhere farther off. 

"We'll talk about that presently, " answered Marion. 

"I want to hear what Mr. Jarvis has to say to it: he's a carpenter himself, you see, --a joiner, that is, you know. "

All the faces in the room were now turned towards Jarvis. 

"Tell me why you don't think much of it, Mr. Jarvis, " said Marion. 

"'Tain't a bit likely, " he answered. 

"What isn't likely?"

"Why, not one single thing in the whole kit of it. And first and foremost, 'tain't a bit likely the old man 'ud ha' been sich a duffer. "

"Why not? There must have been stupid people then as well as now. "

"Not _his_ father. " said Jarvis decidedly. 

"He wasn't but his step-father, like, you know, Mr. Jarvis, " remarked thewoman beside him in a low voice. 

"Well, he'd never ha' been _hers_, then. _She_ wouldn't ha' had a word tosay to _him_. "

"I have seen a good--and wise woman too--with a dull husband, " said Marion. 

"You know you don't believe a word of it yourself, grannie, " said stillanother voice. 

"Besides, " she went on without heeding the interruption, "in those times, I suspect, such things were mostly managed by the parents, and the womanherself had little to do with them. "

A murmur of subdued indignation arose, --chiefly of female voices. 

"Well, _they_ wouldn't then, " said Jarvis. 

"He might have been rich, " suggested Marion. 

"I'll go bail _he_ never made the money then, " said Jarvis. "An old idget!I don't believe sich a feller 'ud ha' been _let_ marry a woman like her--I_don't_. "

"You mean you don't think God would have let him?"

"Well, that's what I _do_ mean, grannie. The thing couldn't ha' been, nohow. "

"I agree with you quite. And now I want to hear more of what in the storyyou don't consider likely. "

"Well, it ain't likely sich a workman 'ud ha' stood so high i' the tradethat the king of Jerusalem would ha' sent for _him_ of all the tradesmen inthe town to make his new throne for him. No more it ain't likely--and lethim be as big a duffer as ever was, to be a jiner at all--that he'd ha'been two year at work on that there throne--an' a carvin' of it in figurestoo!--and never found out it was four spans too narrer for the place it hadto stand in. Do ye 'appen to know now, grannie, how much is a span?"

"I don't know. Do you know, Mrs. Percivale?"

The sudden reference took me very much by surprise; but I had notforgotten, happily, the answer I received to the same question, whenanxious to realize the monstrous height of Goliath. 

"I remember my father telling me, " I replied, "that it was as much as youcould stretch between your thumb and little finger. "

"There!" cried Jarvis triumphantly, parting the extreme members of hisright hand against the back of the woman in front of him--"that would beseven or eight inches! Four times that? Two foot and a half at least! Thinkof that!"

"I admit the force of both your objections, " said Marion. "And now, to turnto a more important part of the story, what do you think of the way inwhich according to it he got his father out of his evil plight?"

I saw plainly enough that she was quietly advancing towards some point inher view, --guiding the talk thitherward, steadily, without haste or effort. 

Before Jarvis had time to make any reply, the blind man, mentioned in aformer chapter, struck in, with the tone of one who had been watching hisopportunity. 

"_I_ make more o' that pint than the t'other, " he said. "A man as is aduffer may well make a mull of a thing; but a man as knows what he's upto can't. I don't make much o' them miracles, you know, grannie--that is, I don't know, and what I don't know, I won't say as I knows; but what I'msure of is this here one thing, --that man or boy as _could_ work a miracle, you know, grannie, wouldn't work no miracle as there wasn't no good workingof. "

"It was to help his father, " suggested Marion. 

Here Jarvis broke in almost with scorn. 

"To help him to pass for a clever fellow, when he was as great a duffer asever broke bread!"

"I'm quite o' your opinion, Mr. Jarvis, " said the blind man. "It 'ud ha'been more like him to tell his father what a duffer he was, and send himhome to learn his trade. "

"He couldn't do that, you know, " said Marion gently. "He _couldn't_ usesuch words to his father, if he were ever so stupid. "

"His step-father, grannie, " suggested the woman who had corrected Jarvis onthe same point. She spoke very modestly, but was clearly bent on holdingforth what light she had. 

"Certainly, Mrs. Renton; but you know he couldn't be rude to anyone, --leaving his own mother's husband out of the question. "

"True for you, grannie, " returned the woman. 

"I think, though, " said Jarvis, "for as hard as he'd ha' found it, it wouldha' been more like him to set to work and teach his father, than to scampup his mulls. "

"Certainly, " acquiesced Marion. "To hide any man's faults, and leave himnot only stupid, but, in all probability, obstinate and self-satisfied, would not be like _him_. Suppose our Lord had had such a father: what doyou think he would have done?"

"He'd ha' done all he could to make a man of him, " answered Jarvis. 

"Wouldn't he have set about making him comfortable then, in spite of hisblunders?" said Marion. 

A significant silence followed this question. 

"Well, _no_; not first thing, I don't think, " returned Jarvis at length. "He'd ha' got him o' some good first, and gone in to make him comfortablearter. "

"Then I suppose you would rather be of some good and uncomfortable, than ofno good and comfortable?" said Marion. 

"I hope so, grannie, " answered Jarvis; and "_I_ would;" "Yes;" "That Iwould, " came from several voices in the little crowd, showing what aninfluence Marion must have already had upon them. 

"Then, " she said, --and I saw by the light which rose in her eyes that shewas now coming to the point, --"Then, surely it must be worth our while tobear discomfort in order to grow of some good! Mr. Jarvis has truly said, that, if Jesus had had such a father, he would have made him of some goodbefore he made him comfortable: that is just the way your Father in heavenis acting with you. Not many of you would say you are of much good yet; butyou would like to be better. And yet, --put it to yourselves, --do you notgrumble at every thing that comes to you that you don't like, and call itbad luck, and worse--yes, even when you know it comes of your own fault, and nobody else's? You think if you had only this or that to make youcomfortable, you would be content; and you call it very hard that So-and-soshould be getting on well, and saving money, and you down on your luck, asyou say. Some of you even grumble that your neighbors' children should behealthy when yours are pining. You would allow that you are not of muchgood yet; but you forget that to make you comfortable as you are would bethe same as to pull out Joseph's misfitted thrones and doors, and make hismisshapen buckets over again for him. That you think so absurd that youcan't believe the story a bit; but you would be helped out of all _your_troubles, even those you bring on yourselves, not thinking what the certainconsequence would be, namely, that you would grow of less and less value, until you were of no good, either to God or man. If you think about it, youwill see that I am right. When, for instance, are you most willing to doright? When are you most ready to hear about good things? When are you mostinclined to pray to God? When you have plenty of money in your pockets, orwhen you are in want? when you have had a good dinner, or when you have notenough to get one? when you are in jolly health, or when the life seemsebbing out of you in misery and pain? No matter that you may have broughtit on yourselves; it is no less God's way of bringing you back to him, forhe decrees that suffering shall follow sin: it is just then you most needit; and, if it drives you to God, that is its end, and there will be anend of it. The prodigal was himself to blame for the want that made him abeggar at the swine's trough; yet that want was the greatest blessing Godcould give to him, for it drove him home to his father. 

"But some of you will say you are no prodigals; nor is it your fault thatyou find yourselves in such difficulties that life seems hard to you. Itwould be very wrong in me to set myself up as your judge, and to tell youthat it _was_ your fault. If it is, God will let you know it. But if itbe not your fault, it does not follow that you need the less to be drivenback to God. It is not only in punishment of our sins that we are made tosuffer: God's runaway children must be brought back to their home and theirblessedness, --back to their Father in heaven. It is not always a sign thatGod is displeased with us when he makes us suffer. 'Whom the Lord lovethhe chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye endurechastening, God dealeth with you as with sons. ' But instead of talking moreabout it, I must take it to myself; and learn not to grumble when _my_plans fail. "

"That's what _you_ never goes and does, grannie, " growled a voice fromsomewhere. 

I learned afterwards it was that of a young tailor, who was constantlyquarrelling with his mother. 

"I think I have given up grumbling at my circumstances, " she rejoined; "butthen I have nothing to grumble at in them. I haven't known hunger or coldfor a great many years now. But I do feel discontented at times when I seesome of you not getting better so fast as I should like. I ought to havepatience, remembering how patient God is with my conceit and stupidity, andnot expect too much of you. Still, it can't be wrong to wish that you trieda good deal more to do what he wants of you. Why should his children not behis friends? If you would but give yourselves up to him, you would find hisyoke so easy, his burden so light! But you do it half only, and some of younot at all. 

"Now, however, that we have got a lesson from a false gospel, we may aswell get one from the true. "

As she spoke, she turned to her New Testament which lay beside her. ButJarvis interrupted her. 

"Where did you get that stuff you was a readin' of to us, grannie?" heasked. 

"The chapter I read to you, " she answered, "is part of a pretended gospel, called, 'The First Gospel of the Infancy of Jesus Christ. ' I can't tellyou who wrote it, or how it came to be written. All I can say is, that, very early in the history of the church, there were people who indulgedthemselves in inventing things about Jesus, and seemed to have had no ideaof the importance of keeping to facts, or, in other words, of speakingand writing only the truth. All they seemed to have cared about was thegratifying of their own feelings of love and veneration; and so they madeup tales about him, in his honor as they supposed, no doubt, just as ifhe had been a false god of the Greeks or Romans. It is long before somepeople learn to speak the truth, even after they know it is wicked tolie. Perhaps, however, they did not expect their stories to be receivedas facts, intending them only as a sort of recognized fiction abouthim, --amazing presumption at the best. "

"Did anybody, then, ever believe the likes of that, grannie?" asked Jarvis. 

"Yes: what I read to you seems to have been believed within a hundred yearsafter the death of the apostles. There are several such writings, with agreat deal of nonsense in them, which were generally accepted by Christianpeople for many hundreds of years. "

"I can't imagine how anybody could go inwentuating such things!" said theblind man. 

"It is hard for us to imagine. They could not have seen how theirinventions would, in later times, be judged any thing but honoring to himin whose honor they wrote them. Nothing, be it ever so well invented, can be so good as the bare truth. Perhaps, however, no one in particularinvented some of them, but the stories grew, just as a report often doesamongst yourselves. Although everybody fancies he or she is only tellingjust what was told to him or her, yet, by degrees, the pin's-point ofa fact is covered over with lies upon lies, almost everybody addingsomething, until the report has grown to be a mighty falsehood. Why, youhad such a story yourselves, not so very long ago, about one of your bestfriends! One comfort is, such a story is sure not to be consistent withitself; it is sure to show its own falsehood to any one who is good enoughto doubt it, and who will look into it, and examine it well. You don't, forinstance, want any other proof than the things themselves to show you thatwhat I have just read to you can't be true. "

"But then it puzzles me to think how anybody could believe them, " said theblind man. 

"Many of the early Christians were so childishly simple that they wouldbelieve almost any thing that was told them. In a time when such nonsensecould be written, it is no great wonder there should be many who couldbelieve it. "

"Then, what was their faith worth, " said the blind man, "if they believedfalse and true all the same?"

"Worth no end to them, " answered Marion with eagerness; "for all the falsethings they might believe about him could not destroy the true ones, orprevent them from believing in Jesus himself, and bettering their ways forhis sake. And as they grew better and better, by doing what he told them, they would gradually come to disbelieve this and that foolish or badthing. "

"But wouldn't that make them stop believing in him altogether?"

"On the contrary, it would make them hold the firmer to all that they sawto be true about him. There are many people, I presume, in other countries, who believe those stories still; but all the Christians I know have castaside every one of those writings, and keep only to those we call theGospels. To throw away what is not true, because it is not true, willalways help the heart to be truer; will make it the more anxious to cleaveto what it sees must be true. Jesus remonstrated with the Jews that theywould not of themselves judge what was right; and the man who lets Godteach him is made abler to judge what is right a thousand-fold. "

"Then don't you think it likely this much is true, grannie, "--said Jarvis, probably interested in the question, in part at least, from the fact thathe was himself a carpenter, --"that he worked with his father, and helpedhim in his trade?"

"I do, indeed, " answered Marion. "I believe that is the one germ of truthin the whole story. It is possible even that some incidents of that part ofhis life may have been handed down a little way, at length losing all theirshape, however, and turning into the kind of thing I read to you. Not tomention that they called him the carpenter, is it likely he who came downfor the express purpose of being a true man would see his father toiling tofeed him and his mother and his brothers and sisters, and go idling about, instead of putting to his hand to help him? Would that have been like him?"

"Certainly not, " said Mr. Jarvis. 

But a doubtful murmur came from the blind man, which speedily took shape inthe following remark:--

"I can't help thinkin', grannie, of one time--you read it to us not longago--when he laid down in the boat and went fast asleep, takin' no moreheed o' them a slavin' o' theirselves to death at their oars, than ifthey'd been all comfortable like hisself; that wasn't much like takin' ofhis share--was it now?"

"John Evans, " returned Marion with severity, "it is quite right to putany number of questions, and express any number of doubts you honestlyfeel; but you have no right to make remarks you would not make if you wereanxious to be as fair to another as you would have another be to you. Haveyou considered that he had been working hard all day long, and was, infact, worn out? You don't think what hard work it is, and how exhausting, to speak for hours to great multitudes, and in the open air too, whereyour voice has no help to make it heard. And that's not all; for he hadmost likely been healing many as well; and I believe every time the powerwent out of him to cure, he suffered in the relief he gave; it left himweakened, --with so much the less of strength to support his labors, --sothat, even in his very body, he took our iniquities and bare ourinfirmities. Would you, then, blame a weary man, whose perfect faith in Godrendered it impossible for him to fear any thing, that he lay down to restin God's name, and left his friends to do their part for the redemption ofthe world in rowing him to the other side of the lake, --a thing they weredoing every other day of their lives? You ought to consider before you makesuch remarks, Mr. Evans. And you forget also that the moment they calledhim, he rose to help them. "

"And find fault with them, " interposed Evans, rather viciously I thought. 

"Yes; for they were to blame for their own trouble, and ought to send itaway. "

"What! To blame for the storm? How could they send that away?"

"Was it the storm that troubled them then? It was their own fear of it. Thestorm could not have troubled them if they had had faith in their Father inheaven. "

"They had good cause to be afraid of it, anyhow. "

"He judged they had not, for he was not afraid himself. You judge they had, because you would have been afraid. "

"He could help himself, you see. "

"And they couldn't trust either him or his Father, notwithstanding all hehad done to manifest himself and his Father to them. Therefore he saw thatthe storm about them was not the thing that most required rebuke. "

"I never pretended to much o' the sort, " growled Evans. "Quite thecontrairy. "

"And why? Because, like an honest man, you wouldn't pretend to what youhadn't got. But, if you carried your honesty far enough, you would havetaken pains to understand our Lord first. Like his other judges, youcondemn him beforehand. You will not call that honesty?"

"I don't see what right you've got to badger me like this before acongregation o' people, " said the blind man, rising in indignation. "If Iain't got my heyesight, I ha' got my feelin's. "

"And do you think _he_ has no feelings, Mr. Evans? You have spoken evil of_him_: I have spoken but the truth of _you_!"

"Come, come, grannie, " said the blind man, quailing a little; "don't talksquash. I'm a livin' man afore the heyes o' this here company, an' he ain'tnowheres. Bless you, _he_ don't mind!"

"He minds so much, " returned Marion, in a subdued voice, which seemed totremble with coming tears, "that he will never rest until you think fairlyof him. And he is here now; for he said, 'I am with you alway, to the endof the world;' and he has heard every word you have been saying againsthim. He isn't angry like me; but your words may well make him feel sad--foryour sake, John Evans--that you should be so unfair. "

She leaned her forehead on her hand, and was silent. A subdued murmurarose. The blind man, having stood irresolute for a moment, began to makefor the door, saying, --

"I think I'd better go. I ain't wanted here. "

"If you _are_ an honest man, Mr. Evans, " returned Marion, rising, "you willsit down and hear the case out. "

With a waving, fin-like motion of both his hands, Evans sank into his seat, and spoke no word. 

After but a moment's silence, she resumed as if there had been nointerruption. 

"That he should sleep, then, during the storm was a very different thingfrom declining to assist his father in his workshop; just as the rebukingof the sea was a very different thing from hiding up his father's bad workin miracles. Had that father been in danger, he might perhaps have aidedhim as he did the disciples. But"--

"Why do you say _perhaps_, grannie?" interrupted a bright-eyed boy who saton the hob of the empty grate. "Wouldn't he help his father as soon as hisdisciples?"

"Certainly, if it was good for his father; certainly not, if it was notgood for him: therefore I say _perhaps_. But now, " she went on, turning tothe joiner, "Mr. Jarvis, will you tell me whether you think the work of thecarpenter's son would have been in any way distinguishable from that ofanother man?"

"Well, I don't know, grannie. He wouldn't want to be putting of a privatemark upon it. He wouldn't want to be showing of it off--would he? He'd usehis tools like another man, anyhow. "

"All that we may be certain of. He came to us a man, to live a man's life, and do a man's work. But just think a moment. I will put the questionagain: Do you suppose you would have been able to distinguish his work fromthat of any other man?"

A silence followed. Jarvis was thinking. He and the blind man were of thefew that can think. At last his face brightened. 

"Well, grannie, " he said, "I think it would be very difficult in any thingeasy, but very easy in any thing difficult. "

He laughed, --for he had not perceived the paradox before uttering it. 

"Explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Jarvis. I am not sure that Iunderstand you, " said Marion. 

"I mean, that, in an easy job, which any fair workman could do well enough, it would not be easy to tell his work. But, where the job was difficult, it would be so much better done, that it would not be difficult to see thebetter hand in it. "

"I understand you, then, to indicate, that the chief distinction would liein the quality of the work; that whatever he did, he would do in such athorough manner, that over the whole of what he turned out, as you wouldsay, the perfection of the work would be a striking characteristic. Is thatit?"

"That is what I do mean, grannie. "

"And that is just the conclusion I had come to myself. "

"_I_ should like to say just one word to it, grannie, so be you won't cutup crusty, " said the blind man. 

"If you are fair, I sha'n't be crusty, Mr. Evans. At least, I hope not, "said Marion. 

"Well, it's this: Mr. Jarvis he say as how the jiner-work done by JesusChrist would be better done than e'er another man's, --tip-top fashion, --andthere would lie the differ. Now, it do seem to me as I've got no call tocome to that 'ere conclusion. You been tellin' on us, grannie, I donno howlong now, as how Jesus Christ was the Son of God, and that he come to dothe works of God, --down here like, afore our faces, that we might see Godat work, by way of. Now, I ha' nothin' to say agin that: it may be, or itmayn't be--I can't tell. But if that be the way on it, then I don't seehow Mr. Jarvis can be right; the two don't curryspond, --not by no means. For the works o' God--there ain't one on'em as I can see downright wellmanaged--tip-top jiner's work, as I may say; leastways, --Now stop abit, grannie; don't trip a man up, and then say as he fell over his owndog, --leastways, I don't say about the moon an' the stars an' that; Idessay the sun he do get up the werry moment he's called of a mornin', an' the moon when she ought to for her night-work, --I ain't no 'stronomerstrawnry, and I ain't heerd no complaints about _them_; but I do say ashow, down here, we ha' got most uncommon bad weather more'n at times; andthe walnuts they turns out, every now an' then, full o' mere dirt; an' theoranges awful. There 'ain't been a good crop o' hay, they tells me, formany's the year. An' i' furren parts, what wi' earthquakes an' wolcaniesan' lions an' tigers, an' savages as eats their wisiters, an' chimley-potsblowin' about, an' ships goin' down, an' fathers o' families choked an'drownded an' burnt i' coal-pits by the hundred, --it do seem to me that ifhis jinerin' hadn't been tip-top, it would ha' been but like the rest onit. There, grannie! Mind, I mean no offence; an' I don't doubt you ha' gotsomethink i' your weskit pocket as 'll turn it all topsy-turvy in a moment. Anyhow, I won't purtend to nothink, and that's how it look to me. "

"I admit, " said Marion, "that the objection is a reasonable one. But why doyou put it, Mr. Evans, in such a triumphant way, as if you were rejoicedto think it admitted of no answer, and believed the world would be ever somuch better off if the storms and the tigers had it all their own way, andthere were no God to look after things. "

"Now, you ain't fair to _me_, grannie. Not avin' of my heyesight like therest on ye, I may be a bit fond of a harguyment; but I tries to hit fair, and when I hears what ain't logic, I can no more help comin' down upon itthan I can help breathin' the air o' heaven. And why shouldn't I? Thereain't no law agin a harguyment. An' more an' over, it do seem to me as howyou and Mr. Jarvis is wrong i' _it is_ harguyment. "

"If I was too sharp upon you, Mr. Evans, and I may have been, " said Marion, "I beg your pardon. "

"It's granted, grannie. "

"I don't mean, you know, that I give in to what you say, --not one bit. "

"I didn't expect it of you. I'm a-waitin' here for you to knock me down. "

"I don't think a mere victory is worth the breath spent upon it, " saidMarion. "But we should all be glad to get or give more light upon anysubject, if it be by losing ever so many arguments. Allow me just to put aquestion or two to Mr. Jarvis, because he's a joiner himself--and that's agreat comfort to me to-night: What would you say, Mr. Jarvis, of a masterwho planed the timber he used for scaffolding, and tied the crosspieceswith ropes of silk?"

"I should say he was a fool, grannie, --not only for losin' of his moneyand his labor, but for weakenin' of his scaffoldin', --summat like the oldthrone-maker i' that chapter, I should say. "

"What's the object of a scaffold, Mr. Jarvis?"

"To get at something else by means of, --say build a house. "

"Then, so long as the house was going up all right, the probability isthere wouldn't be much amiss with the scaffold?"

"Certainly, provided it stood till it was taken down. "

"And now, Mr. Evans, " she said next, turning to the blind man, "I am goingto take the liberty of putting a question or two to you. "

"All right, grannie. Fire away. "

"Will you tell me, then, what the object of this world is?"

"Well, most people makes it their object to get money, and make theirselvescomfortable. "

"But you don't think that is what the world was made for?"

"Oh! as to that, how should I know, grannie? And not knowin', I won't say. "

"If you saw a scaffold, " said Marion, turning again to Jarvis, "would yoube in danger of mistaking it for a permanent erection?"

"Nobody wouldn't be such a fool, " he answered. "The look of it would tellyou that. "

"You wouldn't complain, then, if it should be a little out of the square, and if there should be no windows in it?"

Jarvis only laughed. 

"Mr. Evans, " Marion went on, turning again to the blind man, "do you thinkthe design of this world was to make men comfortable?"

"If it was, it don't seem to ha' succeeded, " answered Evans. 

"And you complain of that--don't you?"

"Well, yes, rather, "--said the blind man, adding, no doubt, as he recalledthe former part of the evening's talk, --"for harguyment, ye know, grannie. "

"You think, perhaps, that God, having gone so far to make this world apleasant and comfortable place to live in, might have gone farther and madeit quite pleasant and comfortable for everybody?"

"Whoever could make it at all could ha' done that, grannie. "

"Then, as he hasn't done it, the probability is he didn't mean to do it?"

"Of course. That's what I complain of. "

"Then he meant to do something else?"

"It looks like it. "

"The whole affair has an unfinished look, you think?"

"I just do. "

"What if it were not meant to stand, then? What if it were meant only fora temporary assistance in carrying out something finished and lasting, andof unspeakably more importance? Suppose God were building a palace for you, and had set up a scaffold, upon which he wanted you to help him; would itbe reasonable in you to complain that you didn't find the scaffold at alla comfortable place to live in?--that it was draughty and cold? This Worldis that scaffold; and if you were busy carrying stones and mortar for thepalace, you would be glad of all the cold to cool the glow of your labor. "

"I'm sure I work hard enough when I get a job as my heyesight will enableme to do, " said Evans, missing the spirit of her figure. 

"Yes: I believe you do. But what will all the labor of a workman who doesnot fall in with the design of the builder come to? You may say you don'tunderstand the design: will you say also that you are under no obligationto put so much faith in the builder, who is said to be your God and Father, as to do the thing he tells you? Instead of working away at the palace, like men, will you go on tacking bits of matting and old carpet aboutthe corners of the scaffold to keep the wind off, while that same windkeeps tearing them away and scattering them? You keep trying to live in ascaffold, which not all you could do to all eternity would make a house of. You see what I mean, Mr. Evans?"

"Well, not ezackly, " replied the blind man. 

"I mean that God wants to build you a house whereof the walls shall be_goodness_: you want a house whereof the walls shall be _comfort_. But Godknows that such walls cannot be built, --that that kind of stone crumblesaway in the foolish workman's hands. He would make you comfortable; butneither is that his first object, nor can it be gained without the first, which is to make you good. He loves you so much that he would infinitelyrather have you good and uncomfortable, for then he could take you to hisheart as his own children, than comfortable and not good, for then hecould not come near you, or give you any thing he counted worth having forhimself or worth giving to you. "

"So, " said Jarvis, "you've just brought us round, grannie, to the samething as before. "

"I believe so, " returned Marion. "It comes to this, that when God wouldbuild a palace for himself to dwell in with his children, he does not wanthis scaffold so constructed that they shall be able to make a house of itfor themselves, and live like apes instead of angels. "

"But if God can do any thing he please, " said Evans, "he might as well_make_ us good, and there would be an end of it. "

"That is just what he is doing, " returned Marion. "Perhaps, by giving themperfect health, and every thing they wanted, with absolute good temper, and making them very fond of each other besides, God might have providedhimself a people he would have had no difficulty in governing, and amongstwhom, in consequence, there would have been no crime and no struggle orsuffering. But I have known a dog with more goodness than that would cometo. We cannot be good without having consented to be made good. God showsus the good and the bad; urges us to be good; wakes good thoughts anddesires in us; helps our spirit with his Spirit, our thought with histhought: but we must yield; we must turn to him; we must consent, yes, tryto be made good. If we could grow good without trying, it would be a poorgoodness: _we_ should not be good, after all; at best, we should only henot bad. God wants us to choose to be good, and so be partakers of hisholiness; he would have us lay hold of him. He who has given his Son tosuffer for us will make us suffer too, bitterly if needful, that we maybethink ourselves, and turn to him. He would make us as good as good canbe, that is, perfectly good; and therefore will rouse us to take theneedful hand in the work ourselves, --rouse us by discomforts innumerable. 

"You see, then, it is not inconsistent with the apparent imperfectionsof the creation around us, that Jesus should have done the best possiblecarpenter's work; for those very imperfections are actually through theirimperfection the means of carrying out the higher creation God has in view, and at which he is working all the time. 

"Now let me read you what King David thought upon this question. "

She read the hundred and seventh Psalm. Then they had some singing, inwhich the children took a delightful part. I have seldom heard childrensing pleasantly. In Sunday schools I have always found their voicespainfully harsh. But Marion made her children restrain their voices, andsing softly; which had, she said, an excellent moral effect on themselves, all squalling and screeching, whether in art or morals, being ruinous toeither. 

Toward the close of the singing, Roger and I slipped out. We had all buttacitly agreed it would be best to make no apology, but just vanish, andcome again with Percivale the following Sunday. 

The greater part of the way home we walked in silence. 

"What did you think of that, Roger?" I asked at length. 

"Quite Socratic as to method, " he answered, and said no more. 

I sent a full report of the evening to my father, who was delighted withit, although, of course, much was lost in the reporting of the mere words, not to mention the absence of her sweet face and shining eyes, of herquiet, earnest, musical voice. My father kept the letter, and that is how Iam able to give the present report. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

ABOUT SERVANTS. 

I went to call on Lady Bernard the next day: for there was one subject onwhich I could better talk with her than with Marion; and that subject wasMarion herself. In the course of our conversation, I said that I had hadmore than usual need of such a lesson as she gave us the night before, --Ihad been, and indeed still was, so vexed with my nurse. 

"What is the matter?" asked Lady Bernard. 

"She has given me warning, " I answered. 

"She has been with you some time--has she not?"

"Ever since we were married. "

"What reason does she give?"

"Oh! she wants _to better herself_, of course, " I replied, --in such a tone, that Lady Bernard rejoined, --

"And why should she not better herself?"

"But she has such a false notion of bettering herself. I am confident whatshe wants will do any thing but better her, if she gets it. "

"What is her notion, then? Are you sure you have got at the real one?"

"I believe I have _now_. When I asked her first, she said she was verycomfortable, and condescended to inform me that she had nothing againsteither me or her master, but thought it was time she was having more wages;for a friend of hers, who had left home a year after herself, was havingtwo more pounds than she had. "

"It is very natural, and certainly not wrong, that she should wish for morewages. "

"I told her she need not have taken such a round-about way of asking for anadvance, and said I would raise her wages with pleasure. But, instead ofreceiving the announcement with any sign of satisfaction, she seemed putout by it; and, after some considerable amount of incoherence, blurted outthat the place was dull, and she wanted a change. At length, however, I gotat her real reason, which was simply ambition: she wanted to rise in theworld, --to get a place where men-servants were kept, --a more fashionableplace, in fact. "

"A very mistaken ambition certainly, " said Lady Bernard, "but one whichwould be counted natural enough in any other line of life. Had she givenyou ground for imagining higher aims in her?"

"She had been so long with us, that I thought she must have some regard forus. "

"She has probably a good deal more than she is aware of. But change is asneedful to some minds, for their education, as an even tenor of life is toothers. Probably she has got all the good she is capable of receiving fromyou, and there may be some one ready to take her place for whom you will beable to do more. However inconvenient it may be for you to change, the moreyoung people pass through your house the better. "

"If it were really for her good, I hope I shouldn't mind. "

"You cannot tell what may be needful to cause the seed you have sown togerminate. It may be necessary for her to pass to another class in theschool of life, before she can realize what she learned in yours. "

I was silent, for I was beginning to feel ashamed; and Lady Bernard wenton, --

"When I hear mistresses lamenting, over some favorite servant, as marryingcertain misery in exchange for a comfortable home, with plenty to eatand drink and wear, I always think of the other side to it, namely, how, through the instincts of his own implanting, God is urging her to a pathin which, by passing through the fires and waters of suffering, she may bestung to the life of a true humanity. And such suffering is far more readyto work its perfect work on a girl who has passed through a family likeyours. "

"I wouldn't say a word to keep her if she were going to be married, " Isaid; "but you will allow there is good reason to fear she will be nobetter for such a change as she desires. "

"You have good reason to fear, my child, " said Lady Bernard, smiling soas to take all sting out of the reproof, "that you have too little faithin the God who cares for your maid as for you. It is not indeed likelythat she will have such help as yours where she goes next; but the lossof it may throw her back on herself, and bring out her individuality, which is her conscience. Still, I am far from wondering at your fear forher, --knowing well what dangers she may fall into. Shall I tell you whatfirst began to open my eyes to the evils of a large establishment? Wishingto get rid of part of the weight of my affairs, and at the same time toassist a relative who was in want of employment, I committed to him, alongwith larger matters, the oversight of my household expenses, and found thathe saved me the whole of his salary. This will be easily understood from asingle fact. Soon after his appointment, he called on a tradesman to payhim his bill. The man, taking him for a new butler, offered him the samediscount he had been in the habit of giving his supposed predecessor, namely, twenty-five per cent, --a discount, I need not say, never intendedto reach my knowledge, any more than my purse. The fact was patent: I hadbeen living in a hotel, of which I not only paid the rent, but paid thelandlord for cheating me. With such a head to an establishment, you mayjudge what the members may become. "

"I remember an amusing experience my brother-in-law, Roger Percivale, oncehad of your household, " I said. 

"I also remember it perfectly, " she returned. "That was how I came toknow him. But I knew something of his family long before. I remember hisgrandfather, a great buyer of pictures and marbles. "

Lady Bernard here gave me the story from her point of view; but Roger'snarrative being of necessity the more complete, I tell the tale as he toldit me. 

At the time of the occurrence, he was assisting Mr. F. , the well-knownsculptor, and had taken a share in both the modelling and the carving of abust of Lady Bernard's father. When it was finished, and Mr. F. Was aboutto take it home, he asked Roger to accompany him, and help him to get itsafe into the house and properly placed. 

Roger and the butler between them carried it to the drawing-room, wherewere Lady Bernard and a company of her friends, whom she had invited tomeet Mr. F, at lunch, and see the bust. There being no pedestal yet ready, Mr. F. Made choice of a certain small table for it to stand upon, and thenaccompanied her ladyship and her other guests to the dining-room, leavingRoger to uncover the bust, place it in the proper light, and do whatevermore might be necessary to its proper effect on the company when theyshould return. As she left the room, Lady Bernard told Roger to ring fora servant to clear the table for him, and render what other assistance hemight want. He did so. A lackey answered the bell, and Roger requestedhim to remove the things from the table. The man left the room, and didnot return. Roger therefore cleared and moved the table himself, and withdifficulty got the bust upon it. Finding then several stains upon the purehalf transparency of the marble, he rang the bell for a basin of waterand a sponge. Another man appeared, looked into the room, and went away. He rang once more, and yet another servant came. This last condescendedto hear him; and, informing him that he could get what he wanted in thescullery, vanished in his turn. By this time Roger confesses to have beenrather in a rage; but what could he do? Least of all allow Mr. F. 's work, and the likeness of her ladyship's father, to make its debut with a spoton its nose; therefore, seeing he could not otherwise procure what wasnecessary, he set out in quest of the unknown appurtenances of the kitchen. 

It is unpleasant to find one's self astray, even in a moderately sizedhouse; and Roger did not at all relish wandering about the huge place, withno finger-posts to keep him in its business-thoroughfares, not to speakof directing him to the remotest recesses of a house "full, " as Chaucersays, "of crenkles. " At last, however, he found himself at the door of theservants' hall. Two men were lying on their backs on benches, with theirknees above their heads in the air; a third was engaged in emptying apewter pot, between his draughts tossing _facetiæ_ across its mouth to adamsel who was removing the remains of some private luncheon; and a fourthsat in one of the windows reading "Bell's Life. " Roger took it all in ata glance, while to one of the giants supine, or rather to a perpendicularpair of white stockings, he preferred his request for a basin and asponge. Once more he was informed that he would find what he wanted inthe scullery. There was no time to waste on unavailing demands, thereforehe only begged further to be directed how to find it. The fellow, withoutraising his head or lowering his knees, jabbered out such instructionsas, from the rapidity with which he delivered them, were, if notunintelligible, at all events incomprehensible; and Roger had to set outagain on the quest, only not quite so bewildered as before. He found acertain long passage mentioned, however, and happily, before he arrivedat the end of it, met a maid, who with the utmost civility gave him fullinstructions to find the place. The scullery-maid was equally civil; andRoger returned with basin and sponge to the drawing-room, where he speedilyremoved the too troublesome stains from the face of the marble. 

When the company re-entered, Mr. F. Saw at once, from the expression andbearing of Roger, that something had happened to discompose him, and askedhim what was amiss. Roger having briefly informed him, Mr. F. At oncerecounted the facts to Lady Bernard, who immediately requested a fullstatement from Roger himself, and heard the whole story. 

She walked straight to the bell, and ordered up every one of her domestics, from the butler to the scullery-maid. 

Without one hasty word, or one bodily sign of the anger she was in, exceptthe flashing of her eyes, she told them she could not have had a suspicionthat such insolence was possible in her house; that they had disgraced herin her own eyes, as having gathered such people about her; that she wouldnot add to Mr. Percivale's annoyance by asking him to point out the guiltypersons, but that they might assure themselves she would henceforth keepboth eyes and ears open, and if the slightest thing of the sort happenedagain, she would most assuredly dismiss every one of them at a moment'swarning. She then turned to Roger and said, --

"Mr. Percivale, I beg your pardon for the insults you have received from myservants. "

"I did think, " she said, as she finished telling me the story, "to dismissthem all on the spot, but was deterred by the fear of injustice. The nextmorning, however, four or five of them gave my housekeeper warning: I gaveorders that they should leave the house at once, and from that day I setabout reducing my establishment. My principal objects were two: first, thatmy servants might have more work; and second, that I might be able to knowsomething of every one of them; for one thing I saw, that, until I ruledmy own house well, I had no right to go trying to do good out of doors. Ithink I do know a little of the nature and character of every soul under myroof now; and I am more and more confident that nothing of real and lastingbenefit can be done for a class except through personal influence upon theindividual persons who compose it--such influence, I mean, as at the veryleast sets for Christianity. "

CHAPTER XXXI. 

ABOUT PERCIVALE. 

I should like much, before in my narrative approaching a certain hardseason we had to encounter, to say a few words concerning my husband, ifI only knew how. I find women differ much, both in the degree and mannerin which their feelings will permit them to talk about their husbands. Ihave known women set a whole community against their husbands by the wayin which they trumpeted their praises; and I have known one woman seteverybody against herself by the way in which she published her husband'sfaults. I find it difficult to believe either sort. To praise one's husbandis so like praising one's self, that to me it seems immodest, and subjectto the same suspicion as self-laudation; while to blame one's husband, evenjustly and openly, seems to me to border upon treachery itself. How, then, am I to discharge a sort of half duty my father has laid upon me by whathe has said in "The Seaboard Parish, " concerning my husband's opinions? Myfather is one of the few really large-minded men I have yet known; but Iam not certain that he has done Percivale justice. At the same time, if hehas not, Percivale himself is partly to blame, inasmuch as he never tookpains to show my father what he was; for, had he done so, my father of allmen would have understood him. On the other hand, this fault, if such itwas, could have sprung only from my husband's modesty, and his horror ofpossibly producing an impression on my father's mind more favorable thancorrect. It is all right now, however. 

Still, my difficulty remains as to how I am to write about him. I mustencourage myself with the consideration that none but our own friends, withwhom, whether they understood us or not, we are safe, will know to whom theveiled narrative points. 

But some acute reader may say, --

"You describe your husband's picture: he will be known by that. "

In this matter I have been cunning--I hope not deceitful, inasmuch as Inow reveal my cunning. Instead of describing any real picture of his, Ihave always substituted one he has only talked about. The picture actuallyassociated with the facts related is not the picture I have described. 

Although my husband left the impression on my father's mind, lasting fora long time, that he had some definite repugnance to Christianity itself, I had been soon satisfied, perhaps from his being more open with me, thatcertain unworthy representations of Christianity, coming to him withauthority, had cast discredit upon the whole idea of it. In the first yearor two of our married life, we had many talks on the subject; and I wasastonished to find what things he imagined to be acknowledged essentialsof Christianity, which have no place whatever in the New Testament; and Ithink it was in proportion as he came to see his own misconceptions, that, although there was little or no outward difference to be perceived in him, I could more and more clearly distinguish an under-current of thought andfeeling setting towards the faith which Christianity preaches. He saidlittle or nothing, even when I attempted to draw him out on the matter;for he was almost morbidly careful not to seem to know any thing he didnot know, or to appear what he was not. The most I could get out of himwas--but I had better give a little talk I had with him on one occasion. It was some time before we began to go to Marion's on a Sunday evening, and I had asked him to go with me to a certain, little chapel in theneighborhood. 

"What!" he said merrily, "the daughter of a clergyman be seen going to aconventicle?"

"If I did it, I would be seen doing it, " I answered. 

"Don't you know that the man is no conciliatory, or even mild dissenter, but a decided enemy to Church and State and all that?" pursued Percivale. 

"I don't care, " I returned. "I know nothing about it. What I know is, thathe's a poet and a prophet both in one. He stirs up my heart within me, andmakes me long to be good. He is no orator, and yet breaks into bursts ofeloquence such as none of the studied orators, to whom you profess so greatan aversion, could ever reach. "

"You may well be right there. It is against nature for a speaker to beeloquent throughout his discourse, and the false will of course quench thetrue. I don't mind going if you wish it. I suppose he believes what hesays, at least. "

"Not a doubt of it. He could not speak as he does from less than a thoroughbelief. "

"Do you mean to say, Wynnie, that he is _sure_ of every thing, --I don'twant to urge an unreasonable question, --but is he _sure_ that the story ofthe New Testament is, in the main, actual fact? I should be very sorry totrouble your faith, but"--

"My father says, " I interrupted, "that a true faith is like the Pool ofBethesda: it is when troubled that it shows its healing power. "

"That depends on where the trouble comes from, perhaps, " said Percivale. 

"Anyhow, " I answered, "it is only that which cannot be shaken that shallremain. "

"Well, I will tell you what seems to me a very common-sense difficulty. How is any one to be _sure_ of the things recorded? I cannot imagine a manof our time absolutely certain of them. If you tell me I have testimony, I answer, that the testimony itself requires testimony. I never even sawthe people who bear it; have just as good reason to doubt their existence, as that of him concerning whom they bear it; have positively no means ofverifying it, and indeed, have so little confidence in all that is calledevidence, knowing how it can be twisted, that I should distrust anyconclusion I might seem about to come to on the one side or the other. Itdoes appear to me, that, if the thing were of God, he would have taken carethat it should be possible for an honest man to place a hearty confidencein its record. "

He had never talked to me so openly, and I took it as a sign that he hadbeen thinking more of these things than hitherto. I felt it a seriousmatter to have to answer such words, for how could I have any betterassurance of that external kind than Percivale himself? That I was in thesame intellectual position, however, enabled me the better to understandhim. For a short time I was silent, while he regarded me with a look ofconcern, --fearful, I fancied, lest he should have involved me in his ownperplexity. 

"Isn't it possible, Percivale, " I said, "that God may not care so much forbeginning at that end?"

"I don't quite understand you, Wynnie, " he returned. 

"A man might believe every fact recorded concerning our Lord, and yet nothave the faith in him that God wishes him to have. "

"Yes, certainly. But will you say the converse of that is true?"

"Explain, please. "

"Will you say a man may have the faith God cares for without the faith yousay he does not care for?"

"I didn't say that God does not care about our having assurance of thefacts; for surely, if every thing depends on those facts, much will dependon the degree of our assurance concerning them. I only expressed a doubtwhether, in the present age, he cares that we should have that assurancefirst. Perhaps he means it to be the result of the higher kind of faithwhich rests in the will. "

"I don't, at the moment, see how the higher faith, as you call it, canprecede the lower. "

"It seems to me possible enough. For what is the test of discipleship theLord lays down? Is it not obedience? 'If ye love me, keep my commandments. ''If a man love me, he will keep my commandments. ' 'I never knew you: departfrom me, ye workers of iniquity. ' Suppose a man feels in himself that hemust have some saviour or perish; suppose he feels drawn, by conscience, by admiration, by early memories, to the form of Jesus, dimly seen throughthe mists of ages; suppose he cannot be sure there ever was such a man, butreads about him, and ponders over the words attributed to him, until hefeels they are the right thing, whether _he_ said them or not, and that ifhe could but be sure there were such a being, he would believe in him withheart and soul; suppose also that he comes upon the words, 'If any man iswilling to do the will of the Father, he shall know whether I speak ofmyself or he sent me;' suppose all these things, might not the man then sayto himself, 'I cannot tell whether all this is true, but I know nothingthat seems half so good, and I will try to do the will of the Father inthe hope of the promised knowledge'? Do you think God would, or would not, count that to the man for faith?"

I had no more to say, and a silence followed. After a pause of someduration, Percivale said, --

"I will go with you, my dear;" and that was all his answer. 

When we came out of the little chapel, --the same into which Marion hadstepped on that evening so memorable to her, --we walked homeward insilence, and reached our own door ere a word was spoken. But, when I wentto take off my things, Percivale followed me into the room and said, --

"Whether that man is _certain_ of the facts or not, I cannot tell yet;but I am perfectly satisfied he believes in the manner of which you werespeaking, --that of obedience, Wynnie. He must believe with his heart andwill and life. "

"If so, he can well afford to wait for what light God will give him onthings that belong to the intellect and judgment. "

"I would rather think, " he returned, "that purity of life must re-act onthe judgment, so as to make it likewise clear, and enable it to recognizethe true force of the evidence at command. "

"That is how my father came to believe, " I said. 

"He seems to me to rest his conviction more upon external proof. "

"That is only because it is easier to talk about. He told me once that hewas never able to estimate the force and weight of the external argumentsuntil after he had believed for the very love of the eternal truth he sawin the story. His heart, he said, had been the guide of his intellect. "

"That is just what I would fain believe. But, O Wynnie! the pity of it ifthat story should not be true, after all!"

"Ah, my love!" I cried, "that very word makes me surer than ever that itcannot but be true. Let us go on putting it to the hardest test; let ustry it until it crumbles in our hands, --try it by the touchstone of actionfounded on its requirements. "

"There may be no other way, " said Percivale, after a thoughtful pause, "ofbecoming capable of recognizing the truth. It may be beyond the grasp ofall but the mind that has thus yielded to it. There may be no contact forit with any but such a mind. Such a conviction, then, could neither beforestalled nor communicated. Its very existence must remain doubtful untilit asserts itself. I see that. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

MY SECOND TERROR. 

"Please, ma'am, is Master Fido to carry Master Zohrab about by the backo' the neck?" said Jemima, in indignant appeal, one afternoon late inNovember, bursting into the study where I sat with my husband. 

Fido was our Bedlington terrier, which, having been reared by Newcastlecolliers, and taught to draw a badger, --whatever that may mean, --I amhazy about it, --had a passion for burrowing after any thing buried. Sweptaway by the current of the said passion, he had with his strong forepawsunearthed poor Zohrab, which, being a tortoise, had ensconced himself, ashe thought, for the winter, in the earth at the foot of a lilac-tree; butnow, much to his jeopardy, from the cold and the shock of the surprise morethan from the teeth of his friend, was being borne about the garden intriumph, though whether exactly as Jemima described may be questionable. Her indignation at the inroad of the dog upon the personal rights of thetortoise had possibly not lessened her general indifference to accuracy. 

Alarmed at the danger to the poor animal, of a kind from which his naturaldefences were powerless to protect him, Percivale threw down his paletteand brushes, and ran to the door. 

"Do put on your coat and hat, Percivale!" I cried; but he was gone. 

Cold as it was, he had been sitting in the light blouse he had worn at hiswork all the summer. The stove had got red-hot, and the room was like anoven, while outside a dank fog filled the air. I hurried after him with hiscoat, and found him pursuing Fido about the garden, the brute declining toobey his call, or to drop the tortoise. Percivale was equally deaf to mycall, and not until he had beaten the dog did he return with the rescuedtortoise in his hands. The consequences were serious, --first the death ofZohrab, and next a terrible illness to my husband. He had caught cold: itsettled on his lungs, and passed into bronchitis. 

It was a terrible time to me; for I had no doubt, for some days, that hewas dying. The measures taken seemed thoroughly futile. 

It is an awful moment when first Death looks in at the door. The positiverecognition of his presence is so different from any vividest imaginationof it! For the moment I believed nothing, --felt only the coming blacknessof absolute loss. I cared neither for my children, nor for my father ormother. Nothing appeared of any worth more. I had conscience enough left totry to pray, but no prayer would rise from the frozen depths of my spirit. I could only move about in mechanical and hopeless ministration to onewhom it seemed of no use to go on loving any more; for what was naturebut a soulless machine, the constant clank of whose motion sounded only, "Dust to dust; dust to dust, " forevermore? But I was roused from thishorror-stricken mood by a look from my husband, who, catching a glimpse ofmy despair, motioned me to him with a smile as of sunshine upon snow, andwhispered in my ear, --

"I'm afraid you haven't much more faith than myself, after all, Wynnie. "

It stung me into life, --not for the sake of my professions, not even forthe honor of our heavenly Father, but by waking in me the awful thought ofmy beloved passing through the shadow of death with no one beside him tohelp or comfort him, in absolute loneliness and uncertainty. The thoughtwas unendurable. For a moment I wished he might die suddenly, and so escapethe vacuous despair of a conscious lingering betwixt life and the somethingor the nothing beyond it. 

"But I cannot go with you!" I cried; and, forgetting all my duty as anurse, I wept in agony. 

"Perhaps another will, my Wynnie, --one who knows the way, " he whispered;for he could not speak aloud, and closed his eyes. 

It was as if an arrow of light had slain the Python coiled about my heart. If _he_ believed, _I_ could believe also; if _he_ could encounter the vaguedark, _I_ could endure the cheerless light. I was myself again, and, withone word of endearment, left the bedside to do what had to be done. 

At length a faint hope began to glimmer in the depths of my cavernous fear. It was long ere it swelled into confidence; but, although I was then insomewhat feeble health, my strength never gave way. For a whole week I didnot once undress, and for weeks I was half-awake all the time I slept. Thesoftest whisper would rouse me thoroughly; and it was only when Marion tookmy place that I could sleep at all. 

I am afraid I neglected my poor children dreadfully. I seemed for the timeto have no responsibility, and even, I am ashamed to say, little care forthem. But then I knew that they were well attended to: friends were verykind--especially Judy--in taking them out; and Marion's daily visits werelike those of a mother. Indeed, she was able to mother any thing humanexcept a baby, to whom she felt no attraction, --any more than to theinferior animals, for which she had little regard beyond a negative one:she would hurt no creature that was not hurtful; but she had scarcely anatom of kindness for dog or cat, or any thing that is petted of woman. Itis the only defect I am aware of in her character. 

My husband slowly recovered, but it was months before he was able to doany thing he would call work. But, even in labor, success is not only tothe strong. Working a little at the short best time of the day with him, he managed, long before his full recovery, to paint a small picture whichbetter critics than I have thought worthy of Angelico, I will attempt todescribe it. 

Through the lighted windows of a great hall, the spectator catches brokenglimpses of a festive company. At the head of the table, pouring out thered wine, he sees one like unto the Son of man, upon whom the eyes ofall are turned. At the other end of the hall, seated high in a gallery, with rapt looks and quaint yet homely angelican instruments, he sees theorchestra pouring out their souls through their strings and trumpets. Thehall is filled with a jewelly glow, as of light suppressed by color, theradiating centre of which is the red wine on the table; while mingledwings, of all gorgeous splendors, hovering in the dim height, are suffusedand harmonized by the molten ruby tint that pervades the whole. 

Outside, in the drizzly darkness, stands a lonely man. He stoops listening, with one ear laid almost against the door. His half-upturned face catchesa ray of the light reflected from a muddy pool in the road. It disclosesfeatures wan and wasted with sorrow and sickness, but glorified with thejoy of the music. He is like one who has been four days dead, to whosebody the music has recalled the soul. Down by his knee he holds a violin, fashioned like those of the orchestra within; which, as he listens, he istuning to their pitch. 

To readers acquainted with a poem of Dr. Donne's, --"Hymn to God, my God, inmy sickness, "--this description of mine will at once suggest the origin ofthe picture. I had read some verses of it to him in his convalescence; and, having heard them once, he requested them often again. The first stanzaruns thus:--

 "Since I am coming to that holy room Where with the choir of saints forevermore I shall be made thy musique, as I come, I tune the instrument here at the door; And what I must do then, think here before. "

The painting is almost the only one he has yet refused to let me see beforeit was finished; but, when it was, he hung it up in my own little room offthe study, and I became thoroughly acquainted with it. I think I love itmore than any thing else he has done. I got him, without telling him why, to put a touch or two to the listening figure, which made it really likehimself. 

During this period of recovery, I often came upon him reading his GreekNew Testament, which he would shove aside when I entered. At length, onemorning, I said to him, --

"Are you ashamed of the New Testament, Percivale? One would think it was abad book from the way you try to hide it. "

"No, my love, " he said: "it is only that I am jealous of appearing to dothat from suffering and weakness only, which I did not do when I was strongand well. But sickness has opened my eyes a good deal I think; and I amsure of this much, that, whatever truth there is here, I want it all thesame whether I am feeling the want or not. I had no idea what there was inthis book. "

"Would you mind telling me, " I said, "what made you take to reading it?"

"I will try. When I thought I was dying, a black cloud seemed to fall overevery thing. It was not so much that I was afraid to die, --although I diddread the final conflict, --as that I felt so forsaken and lonely. It was oflittle use saying to myself that I mustn't be a coward, and that it was thepart of a man to meet his fate, whatever it might be, with composure; for Isaw nothing worth being brave about: the heart had melted out of me; therewas nothing to give me joy, nothing for my life to rest up on, no senseof love at the heart of things. Didn't you feel something the same thatterrible day?"

"I did, " I answered. "I hope I never believed in Death all the time; andyet for one fearful moment the skeleton seemed to swell and grow tillhe blotted out the sun and the stars, and was himself all in all, whilethe life beyond was too shadowy to show behind him. And so Death wasvictorious, until the thought of your loneliness in the dark valley brokethe spell; and for your sake I hoped in God again. "

"And I thought with myself, --Would God set his children down in the dark, and leave them to cry aloud in anguish at the terrors of the night? Wouldhe not make the very darkness light about them? Or, if they must passthrough such tortures, would he not at least let them know that he was withthem? How, then, can there be a God? Then arose in my mind all at once theold story, how, in the person of his Son, God himself had passed throughthe darkness now gathering about me; had gone down to the grave, and hadconquered death by dying. If this was true, this was to be a God indeed. Well might he call on us to endure, who had himself borne the far heaviershare. If there were an Eternal Life who would perfect my life, I could bebrave; I could endure what he chose to lay upon me; I could go whither heled. "

"And were you able to think all that when you were so ill, my love?" Isaid. 

"Something like it, --practically very like it, " he answered. "It keptgrowing in my mind, --coming and going, and gathering clearer shape. Ithought with myself, that, if there was a God, he certainly knew that Iwould give myself to him if I could; that, if I knew Jesus to be verily andreally his Son, however it might seem strange to believe in him and hard toobey him, I would try to do so; and then a verse about the smoking flax andthe bruised reed came into my head, and a great hope arose in me. I do notknow if it was what the good people would call faith; but I had no time andno heart to think about words: I wanted God and his Christ. A fresh springof life seemed to burst up in my heart; all the world grew bright again:I seemed to love you and the children twice as much as before; a calmnesscame down upon my spirit which seemed to me like nothing but the presenceof God; and, although I dare say you did not then perceive a change, I amcertain that the same moment I began to recover. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN. 

But the clouds returned after the rain. It will be easily understoodhow the little money we had in hand should have rapidly vanished duringPercivale's illness. While he was making nothing, the expenses of thefamily went on as usual; and not that only, but many little delicacies hadto be got for him, and the doctor was yet to pay. Even up to the time whenhe had been taken ill, we had been doing little better than living fromhand to mouth; for as often as we thought income was about to get a fewyards ahead in the race with expense, something invariably happened todisappoint us. 

I am not sorry that I have no _special_ faculty for saving; for I havenever known any, in whom such was well developed, who would not do thingsthey ought to be ashamed of. The savings of such people seem to me to comequite as much off other people as off themselves; and, especially in regardof small sums, they are in danger of being first mean, and then dishonest. Certainly, whoever makes saving _the_ end of her life, must soon grow mean, and will probably grow dishonest. But I have never succeeded in drawing theline betwixt meanness and dishonesty: what is mean, so far as I can see, slides by indistinguishable gradations into what is plainly dishonest. Andwhat is more, the savings are commonly made at the cost of the defenceless. It is better far to live in constant difficulties than to keep out of themby such vile means as must, besides, poison the whole nature, and makeone's judgments, both of God and her neighbors, mean as her own conduct. It is nothing to say that you must be just before you are generous, forthat is the very point I am insisting on; namely, that one must be just toothers before she is generous to herself. It will never do to make yourtwo ends meet by pulling the other ends from the hands of those who arelikewise puzzled to make them meet. 

But I must now put myself at the bar, and cry _Peccavi_; for I was oftenwrong on the other side, sometimes getting things for the house before itwas quite clear I could afford them, and sometimes buying the best when aninferior thing would have been more suitable, if not to my ideas, yet to mypurse. It is, however, far more difficult for one with an uncertain incometo learn to save, or even to be prudent, than for one who knows how muchexactly every quarter will bring. 

My husband, while he left the whole management of money matters to me, would yet spend occasionally without consulting me. In fact, he had nonotion of money, and what it would or would not do. I never knew a manspend less upon himself; but he would be extravagant for me, and I daredhardly utter a foolish liking lest he should straightway turn it into acause of shame by attempting to gratify it. He had, besides, a weakness forover-paying people, of which neither Marion nor I could honestly approve, however much we might admire the disposition whence it proceeded. 

Now that I have confessed, I shall be more easy in my mind; for, in regardof the troubles that followed, I cannot be sure that I was free of blame. One word more in self-excuse, and I have done: however imperative, it isnone the less hard to cultivate two opposing virtues at one and the sametime. 

While my husband was ill, not a picture had been disposed of; and evenafter he was able to work a little, I could not encourage visitors: hewas not able for the fatigue, and in fact shrunk, with an irritability Ihad never perceived a sign of before, from seeing any one. To my growingdismay, I saw my little stock--which was bodily in my hand, for we had nobanking account--rapidly approaching its final evanishment. 

Some may think, that, with parents in the position of mine, a temporarydifficulty need have caused me no anxiety: I must, therefore, mention oneor two facts with regard to both my husband and my parents. 

In the first place, although he had as complete a confidence in him as Ihad, both in regard to what he said and what he seemed, my husband couldnot feel towards my father as I felt. He had married me as a poor man, whoyet could keep a wife; and I knew it would be a bitter humiliation to himto ask my father for money, on the ground that he had given his daughter. I should have felt nothing of the kind; for I should have known that myfather would do him as well as me perfect justice in the matter, andwould consider any money spent upon us as used to a divine purpose. Forhe regarded the necessaries of life as noble, its comforts as honorable, its luxuries as permissible, --thus reversing altogether the usual judgmentof rich men, who in general like nothing worse than to leave their hoardsto those of their relatives who will degrade them to the purchase of merebread and cheese, blankets and clothes and coals. But I had no right to goagainst my husband's feeling. So long as the children had their bread andmilk, I would endure with him. I am confident I could have starved as wellas he, and should have enjoyed letting him see it. 

But there were reasons because of which even I, in my fullest freedom, could not have asked help from my father just at this time. I am ashamedto tell the fact, but I must: before the end of his second year at Oxford, just over, the elder of my two brothers had, without any vice I firmlybelieve, beyond that of thoughtlessness and folly, got himself so deeplymired in debt, both to tradespeople and money-lenders, that my father hadto pay two thousand pounds for him. Indeed, as I was well assured, althoughhe never told me so, he had to borrow part of the money on a fresh mortgagein order to clear him. Some lawyer, I believe, told him that he was notbound to pay: but my father said, that, although such creditors deserved noprotection of the law, he was not bound to give them a lesson in honestyat the expense of weakening the bond between himself and his son, forwhose misdeeds he acknowledged a large share of responsibility; while, onthe other hand, he was bound to give his son the lesson of the sufferingbrought on his family by his selfishness; and therefore would pay themoney--if not gladly, yet willingly. How the poor boy got through the shameand misery of it, I can hardly imagine; but this I can say for him, thatit was purely of himself that he accepted a situation in Ceylon, insteadof returning to Oxford. Thither he was now on his way, with the intentionof saving all he could in order to repay his father; and if at length hesucceeds in doing so, he will doubtless make a fairer start the secondtime, because of the discipline, than if he had gone out with the money inhis pocket. 

It was natural, then, that in such circumstances a daughter should shrinkfrom adding her troubles to those caused by a son. I ought to add, that myfather had of late been laying out a good deal in building cottages for thelaborers on his farms, and that the land was not yet entirely freed fromthe mortgages my mother had inherited with it. 

Percivale continued so weak, that for some time I could not bring myself tosay a word to him about money. But to keep them as low as possible did notprevent the household debts from accumulating, and the servants' wages wereon the point of coming due. I had been careful to keep the milkman paid;and for the rest of the tradesmen, I consoled myself with the certainty, that, if the worst came to the worst, there was plenty of furniture in thehouse to pay every one of them. Still, of all burdens, next to sin, that ofdebt, I think, must be heaviest. 

I tried to keep cheerful; but at length, one night, during our supper ofbread and cheese, which I could not bear to see my poor, pale-faced husbandeating, I broke down. 

"What _is_ the matter, my darling?" asked Percivale. 

I took a half-crown from my pocket, and held it out on the palm of my hand. 

"That's all I've got, Percivale, " I said. 

"Oh! that all--is it?" he returned lightly. 

"Yes, --isn't that enough?" I said with some indignation. 

"Certainly--for to-night, " he answered, "seeing the shops are shut. But isthat all that's troubling you?" he went on. 

"It seems to me quite enough, " I said again; "and if you had thehousekeeping to do, and the bills to pay, you would think a solitaryhalf-crown quite enough to make you miserable. "

"Never mind--so long as it's a good one, " he said. "I'll get you moreto-morrow. "

"How can you do that?" I asked. 

"Easily, " he answered. "You'll see. Don't you trouble your dear heart aboutit for a moment. "

I felt relieved, and asked him no more questions. 

The next morning, when I went into the study to speak to him, he was notthere; and I guessed that he had gone to town to get the money, for he hadnot been out before since his illness, at least without me. But I hoped ofall things he was not going to borrow it of a money-lender, of which I hada great and justifiable horror, having heard from himself how a friend ofhis had in such a case fared. I would have sold three-fourths of the thingsin the house rather. But as I turned to leave the study, anxious both abouthimself and his proceedings, I thought something was different, and soondiscovered that a certain favorite picture was missing from the wall: itwas clear he had gone either to sell it or raise money upon it. 

By our usual early dinner-hour, he returned, and put into my hands, with alook of forced cheerfulness, two five-pound notes. 

"Is that all you got for that picture?" I said. 

"That is all Mr. ---- would advance me upon it, " he answered. "I thoughthe had made enough by me to have risked a little more than that; butpicture-dealers--Well, never mind. That is enough to give time for twentythings to happen. "

And no doubt twenty things did happen, but none of them of the sort hemeant. The ten pounds sank through my purse like water through gravel. Ipaid a number of small bills at once, for they pressed the more heavilyupon me that I knew the money was wanted; and by the end of anotherfortnight we were as badly off as before, with an additional trouble, whichin the circumstances was any thing but slight. 

In conjunction with more than ordinary endowments of stupidity andself-conceit, Jemima was possessed of a furious temper, which showed itselfoccasionally in outbursts of unendurable rudeness. She had been again andagain on the point of leaving me, now she, now I, giving warning; but, erethe day arrived, her better nature had always got the upper hand, --she hadbroken down and given in. These outbursts had generally followed a seasonof better behavior than usual, and were all but certain if I ventured theleast commendation; for she could stand any thing better than praise. Atthe least subsequent rebuke, self would break out in rage, vulgarity, andrudeness. On this occasion, however, I cannot tell whence it was that oneof these cyclones arose in our small atmosphere; but it was Jemima, youmay well believe, who gave warning, for it was out of my power to pay herwages; and there was no sign of her yielding. 

My reader may be inclined to ask in what stead the religion I had learnedof my father now stood me. I will endeavor to be honest in my answer. 

Every now and then I tried to pray to God to deliver us; but I was farindeed from praying always, and still farther from not fainting. A wholeday would sometimes pass under a weight of care that amounted often tomisery; and not until its close would I bethink me that I had been all theweary hours without God. Even when more hopeful, I would keep looking andlooking for the impossibility of something to happen of itself, insteadof looking for some good and perfect gift to come down from the Father oflights; and, when I awoke to the fact, the fog would yet lie so deep on mysoul, that I could not be sorry for my idolatry and want of faith. It was, indeed, a miserable time. There was, besides, one definite thought thatalways choked my prayers: I could not say in my conscience that I had beensufficiently careful either in my management or my expenditure. "If, " Ithought, "I could be certain that I had done my best, I should be able totrust in God for all that lies beyond my power; but now he may mean topunish me for my carelessness. " Then why should I not endure it calmly andwithout complaint? Alas! it was not I alone that thus would be punished, but my children and my husband as well. Nor could I avoid coming on my poorfather at last, who, of course, would interfere to prevent a sale; and thethought was, from the circumstances I have mentioned, very bitter to me. Sometimes, however, in more faithful moods, I would reason with myself thatGod would not be hard upon me, even if I had not been so saving as I ought. My father had taken his son's debts on himself, and would not allow him tobe disgraced more than could be helped; and, if an earthly parent wouldact thus for his child, would our Father in heaven be less tender with us?Still, for very love's sake, it might be necessary to lay some disgraceupon me, for of late I had been thinking far too little of the best things. The cares more than the duties of life had been filling my mind. If itbrought me nearer to God, I must then say it had been good for me to beafflicted; but while my soul was thus oppressed, how could my feelings haveany scope? Let come what would, however, I must try and bear it, --evendisgrace, if it was _his_ will. Better people than I had been thusdisgraced, and it might be my turn next. Meantime, it had not come to that, and I must not let the cares of to-morrow burden to-day. 

Every day, almost, as it seems in looking back, a train of thoughtsomething like this would pass through my mind. But things went on, and grew no better. With gathering rapidity, we went sliding, to allappearance, down the inclined plane of disgrace. 

Percivale at length asked Roger if he had any money by him to lend him alittle; and he gave him at once all he had, amounting to six pounds, --awonderful amount for Roger to have accumulated; with the help of which wegot on to the end of Jemima's month. The next step I had in view was totake my little valuables to the pawnbroker's, --amongst them a watch, whoseface was encircled with a row of good-sized diamonds. It had belonged to mygreat-grandmother, and my mother had given it me when I was married. 

We had had a piece of boiled neck of mutton for dinner, of which we, thatis my husband and I, had partaken sparingly, in order that there mightbe enough for the servants. Percivale had gone out; and I was sitting inthe drawing-room, lost in any thing but a blessed reverie, with all thechildren chattering amongst themselves beside me, when Jemima entered, looking subdued. 

"If you please, ma'am, this is my day, " she said. 

"Have you got a place, then, Jemima?" I asked; for I had been so muchoccupied with my own affairs that I had thought little of the future of thepoor girl to whom I could have given but a lukewarm recommendation for anything prized amongst housekeepers. 

"No, ma'am. Please, ma'am, mayn't I stop?"

"No, Jemima. I am very sorry, but I can't afford to keep you. I shall haveto do all the work myself when you are gone. "

I thought to pay her wages out of the proceeds of my jewels, but waswilling to delay the step as long as possible; rather, I believe, fromrepugnance to enter the pawn-shop, than from disinclination to part withthe trinkets. But, as soon as I had spoken, Jemima burst into an Irishwail, mingled with sobs and tears, crying between the convulsions of allthree, --

I thought there was something wrong, mis'ess. You and master looked soscared-like. Please, mis'ess, don't send me away. "

"I never wanted to send you away, Jemima. You wanted to go yourself. "

"No, ma'am; _that_ I didn't. I only wanted you to ask me to stop. Wirra!wirra! It's myself is sorry I was so rude. It's not me; it's my temper, mis'ess. I do believe I was born with a devil inside me. "

I could not help laughing, partly from amusement, partly from relief. 

"But you see I can't ask you to stop, " I said. "I've got no money, --noteven enough to pay you to-day; so I can't keep you. "

"I don't want no money, ma'am. Let me stop, and I'll cook for yez, and washand scrub for yez, to the end o' my days. An' I'll eat no more than'll keepthe life in me. I _must_ eat something, or the smell o' the meat would turnme sick, ye see, ma'am; and then I shouldn't be no good to yez. Please 'm, I ha' got fifteen pounds in the savings bank: I'll give ye all that, ifye'll let me stop wid ye. "

When I confess that I burst out crying, my reader will be kind enough totake into consideration that I hadn't had much to eat for some time; that Iwas therefore weak in body as well as in mind; and that this was the firstgleam of sunshine I had had for many weeks. 

"Thank you very much, Jemima, " I said, as soon as I could speak. "I won'ttake your money, for then you would be as poor as I am. But, if you wouldlike to stop with us, you shall; and I won't pay you till I'm able. "

The poor girl was profuse in her thanks, and left the room sobbing in herapron. 

It was a gloomy, drizzly, dreary afternoon. The children were hard toamuse, and I was glad when their bedtime arrived. It was getting latebefore Percivale returned. He looked pale, and I found afterwards that hehad walked home. He had got wet, and had to change some of his clothes. When we went in to supper, there was the neck of mutton on the table, almost as we had left it. This led me, before asking him any questions, torelate what had passed with Jemima; at which news he laughed merrily, andwas evidently a good deal relieved. Then I asked him where he had been. 

"To the city, " he answered. 

"Have you sold another picture?" I asked, with an inward tribulation, halfhope, half fear; for, much as we wanted the money, I could ill bear thethought of his pictures going for the price of mere pot-boilers. 

"No, " he replied: "the last is stopping the way. Mr. ---- has beenadvertising it as a bargain for a hundred and fifty. But he hasn't sold ityet, and can't, he says, risk ten pounds on another. What's to come of it, I don't know, " he added. "But meantime it's a comfort that Jemima can waita bit for _her_ money. "

As we sat at supper, I thought I saw a look on Percivale's face which I hadnever seen there before. All at once, while I was wondering what it mightmean, after a long pause, during which we had been both looking into thefire, he said, --

"Wynnie, I'm going to paint a better picture than I've ever painted yet. Ican, and I will. "

"But how are we to live in the mean time?" I said. 

His face fell, and I saw with shame what a Job's comforter I was. Insteadof sympathizing with his ardor, I had quenched it. What if my foolishremark had ruined a great picture! Anyhow, it had wounded a great heart, which had turned to labor as its plainest duty, and would thereby have beenstrengthened to endure and to hope. It was too cruel of me. I knelt by hisknee, and told him I was both ashamed and sorry I had been so faithlessand unkind. He made little of it, said I might well ask the question, andeven tried to be merry over it; but I could see well enough that I had leta gust of the foggy night into his soul, and was thoroughly vexed withmyself. We went to bed gloomy, but slept well, and awoke more cheerful. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE SUNSHINE. 

As we were dressing, it came into my mind that I had forgotten to give hima black-bordered letter which had arrived the night before. I commonlyopened his letters; but I had not opened this one, for it looked like abusiness letter, and I feared it might be a demand for the rent of thehouse, which was over due. Indeed, at this time I dreaded opening anyletter the writing on which I did not recognize. 

"Here is a letter, Percivale, " I said. "I'm sorry I forgot to give it youlast night. "

"Who is it from?" he asked, talking through his towel from hisdressing-room. 

"I don't know. I didn't open it. It looks like something disagreeable. "

"Open it now, then, and see. "

"I can't just at this moment, " I answered; for I had my back hair halftwisted in my hands. "There it is on the chimney-piece. "

He came in, took it, and opened it, while I went on with my toilet. Suddenly his arms were round me, and I felt his cheek on mine. 

"Read that, " he said, putting the letter into my hand. 

It was from a lawyer in Shrewsbury, informing him that his god-mother, withwhom he had been a great favorite when a boy, was dead, and had left himthree hundred pounds. 

It was like a reprieve to one about to be executed. I could only weepand thank God, once more believing in my Father in heaven. But it was ahumbling thought, that, if he had not thus helped me, I might have ceasedto believe in him. I saw plainly, that, let me talk to Percivale as Imight, my own faith was but a wretched thing. It is all very well to havenoble theories about God; but where is the good of them except we actuallytrust in him as a real, present, living, loving being, who counts us ofmore value than many sparrows, and will not let one of them fall to theground without him?

"I thought, Wynnie, if there was such a God as you believed in, and withyou to pray to him, we shouldn't be long without a hearing, " said myhusband. 

There was more faith in his heart all the time, though he could not professthe belief I thought I had, than there ever was in mine. 

But our troubles weren't nearly over yet. Percivale wrote, acknowledgingthe letter, and requesting to know when it would be convenient to let himhave the money, as he was in immediate want of it. The reply was, that thetrustees were not bound to pay the legacies for a year, but that possiblythey might stretch a point in his favor if he applied to them. Percivaledid so, but received a very curt answer, with little encouragement toexpect any thing but the extreme of legal delay. He received the money, however, about four months after; lightened, to the great disappointment ofmy ignorance, of thirty pounds legacy-duty. 

In the mean time, although our minds were much relieved, and Percivalewas working away at his new picture with great energy and courage, theimmediate pressure of circumstances was nearly as painful as ever. It wasa comfort, however, to know that we might borrow on the security of thelegacy; but, greatly grudging the loss of the interest which that wouldinvolve, I would have persuaded Percivale to ask a loan of Lady Bernard. He objected: on what ground do you think? That it would be disagreeable toLady Bernard to be repaid the sum she had lent us! He would have finallyconsented, however, I have little doubt, had the absolute necessity forborrowing arrived. 

About a week or ten days after the blessed news, he had a note from Mr. ----, whom he had authorized to part with the picture for thirty guineas. How much this was under its value, it is not easy to say, seeing themoney-value of pictures is dependent on so many things: but, if the fairygodmother's executors had paid her legacy at once, that picture would nothave been sold for less than five times the amount; and I may mention thatthe last time it changed hands it fetched five hundred and seventy pounds. 

Mr. ---- wrote that he had an offer of five and twenty for it, desiringto know whether he might sell it for that sum. Percivale at once gavehis consent, and the next day received a check for eleven pounds, oddshillings; the difference being the borrowed amount upon it, its interest, the commission charged on the sale, and the price of a small picture-frame. 

The next day, Percivale had a visitor at the studio, --no less a personthan Mr. Baddeley, with his shirt-front in full blossom, and his diamondwallowing in light on his fifth finger, --I cannot call it his littlefinger, for his hands were as huge as they were soft and white, --handsdescended of generations of laborious ones, but which had never themselvesdone any work beyond paddling in money. 

He greeted Percivale with a jolly condescension, and told him, that, havingseen and rather liked a picture of his the other day, he had come toinquire whether he had one that would do for a pendant to it; as he shouldlike to have it, provided he did not want a fancy price for it. 

Percivale felt as if he were setting out his children for sale, as heinvited him to look about the room, and turned round a few from against thewall. The great man flitted hither and thither, spying at one after anotherthrough the cylinder of his curved hand, Percivale going on with hispainting as if no one were there. 

"How much do you want for this sketch?" asked Mr. Baddeley, at length, pointing to one of the most highly finished paintings in the room. 

"I put three hundred on it at the Academy Exhibition, " answered Percivale. "My friends thought it too little; but as it has been on my hands a longtime now, and pictures don't rise in price in the keeping of the painter, Ishouldn't mind taking two for it. "

"Two tens, I suppose you mean, " said Mr. Baddeley. 

"I gave him a look, " said Percivale, as he described the interview to me;and I knew as well as if I had seen it what kind of a phenomenon that lookmust have been. 

"Come, now, " Mr. Baddeley went on, perhaps misinterpreting the look, for itwas such as a man of his property was not in the habit of receiving, "youmustn't think I'm made of money, or that I'm a green hand in the market. I know what your pictures fetch; and I'm a pretty sharp man of business, I believe. What do you really mean to say and stick to? Ready money, youknow. "

"Three hundred, " said Percivale coolly. 

"Why, Mr. Percivale!" cried Mr. Baddeley, drawing himself up, as my husbandsaid, with the air of one who knew a trick worth two of that, "I paidMr. ---- fifty pounds, neither more nor less, for a picture of yoursyesterday--a picture, allow me to say, worth"--

He turned again to the one in question with a critical air, as if about toestimate to a fraction its value as compared with the other. 

"Worth three of that, some people think, " said Percivale. 

"The price of this, then, joking aside, is--?"

"Three hundred pounds, " answered Percivale, --I know well how quietly. 

"I understood you wished to sell it, " said Mr. Baddeley, beginning, for allhis good nature, to look offended, as well he might. 

"I do wish to sell it. I happen to be in want of money. "

"Then I'll be liberal, and offer you the same I paid for the other. I'llsend you a check this afternoon for fifty--with pleasure. "

"You cannot have that picture under three hundred. "

"Why!" said the rich man, puzzled, "you offered it for two hundred, notfive minutes ago. "

"Yes; and you pretended to think I meant two tens. "

"Offended you, I fear. "

"At all events, betrayed so much ignorance of painting, that I would rathernot have a picture of mine in your house. "

"You're the first man ever presumed to tell me I was ignorant of painting, "said Mr. Baddeley, now thoroughly indignant. 

"You have heard the truth, then, for the first time, " said Percivale, andresumed his work. 

Mr. Baddeley walked out of the study. 

I am not sure that he was so very ignorant. He had been in the way ofbuying popular pictures for some time, paying thousands for certain ofthem. I suspect he had eye enough to see that my husband's would probablyrise in value, and, with the true huckster spirit, was ambitious ofboasting how little he had given compared with what they were really worth. 

Percivale in this case was doubtless rude. He had an insuperable aversionto men of Mr. Baddeley's class, --men who could have no position but fortheir money, and who yet presumed upon it, as if it were gifts and graces, genius and learning, judgment and art, all in one. He was in the habit ofsaying that the plutocracy, as he called it, ought to be put down, --thatis, negatively and honestly, --by showing them no more respect than youreally entertained for them. Besides, although he had no great favors forCousin Judy's husband, he yet bore Mr. Baddeley a grudge for the way inwhich he had treated one with whom, while things went well with him, he hadbeen ready enough to exchange hospitalities. 

Before long, through Lady Bernard, he sold a picture at a fair price;and soon after, seeing in a shop-window the one Mr. ---- had sold to Mr. Baddeley, marked ten pounds, went in and bought it. Within the year he soldit for a hundred and fifty. 

By working day and night almost, he finished his new picture in time forthe Academy; and, as he had himself predicted, it proved, at least in theopinion of all his artist friends, the best that he had ever painted. Itwas bought at once for three hundred pounds; and never since then have webeen in want of money. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT. 

My reader may wonder, that, in my record of these troubles, I have nevermentioned Marion. The fact is, I could not bring myself to tell her ofthem; partly because she was in some trouble herself, from strangerswho had taken rooms in the house, and made mischief between her and hergrandchildren; and partly because I knew she would insist on going to LadyBernard; and, although I should not have minded it myself, I knew thatnothing but seeing the children hungry would have driven my husband toconsent to it. 

One evening, after it was all over, I told Lady Bernard the story. Sheallowed me to finish it without saying a word. When I had ended, she stillsat silent for a few moments; then, laying her hand on my arm, said, --

My dear child, you were very wrong, as well as very unkind. Why did you notlet me know?"

"Because my husband would never have allowed me, " I answered. 

"Then I must have a talk with your husband, " she said. 

"I wish you would, " I replied; "for I can't help thinking Percivale toosevere about such things. "

The very next day she called, and did have a talk with him in the study tothe following effect:--

"I have come to quarrel with you, Mr. Percivale, " said Lady Bernard. 

"I'm sorry to hear it, " he returned. "You're the last person I should liketo quarrel with, for it would imply some unpardonable fault in me. "

"It does imply a fault--and a great one, " she rejoined; "though I trust notan unpardonable one. That depends on whether you can repent of it. "

She spoke with such a serious air, that Percivale grew uneasy, and beganto wonder what he could possibly have done to offend her. I had told himnothing of our conversation, wishing her to have her own way with him. 

When she saw him troubled, she smiled. 

"Is it not a fault, Mr. Percivale, to prevent one from obeying the divinelaw of bearing another's burden?"

"But, " said Percivale, "I read as well, that every man shall bear his ownburden. "

"Ah!" returned Lady Bernard; "but I learn from Mr. Conybeare that twodifferent Greek words are there used, which we translate only by theEnglish _burden_. I cannot tell you what they are: I can only tell you thepractical result. We are to bear one another's burdens of pain or grief ormisfortune or doubt, --whatever weighs one down is to be borne by another;but the man who is tempted to exalt himself over his neighbor is taught toremember that he has his own load of disgrace to bear and answer for. It isjust a weaker form of the lesson of the mote and the beam. You cannot getout at that door, Mr. Percivale. I beg you will read the passage in yourGreek Testament, and see if you have not misapplied it. You _ought_ to havelet me bear your burden. "

"Well, you see, my dear Lady Bernard, " returned Percivale, at a loss toreply to such a vigorous assault, "I knew how it would be. You would havecome here and bought pictures you didn't want; and I, knowing all the timeyou did it only to give me the money, should have had to talk to you as ifI were taken in by it; and I really could _not_ stand it. "

"There you are altogether wrong. Besides depriving me of the opportunityof fulfilling a duty, and of the pleasure and the honor of helping you tobear your burden, you have deprived me of the opportunity of indulging apositive passion for pictures. I am constantly compelled to restrain itlest I should spend too much of the money given me for the common good onmy own private tastes; but here was a chance for me! I might have had someof your lovely pictures in my drawing-room now--with a good conscience anda happy heart--if you had only been friendly. It was too bad of you, Mr. Percivale! I am not pretending in the least when I assert that I am reallyand thoroughly disappointed. "

"I haven't a word to say for myself, " returned Percivale. 

"You couldn't have said a better, " rejoined Lady Bernard; "but I hope youwill never have to say it again. "

"That I shall not. If ever I find myself in any difficulty worth speakingof, I will let you know at once. "

"Thank you. Then we are friends again. And now I do think I am entitledto a picture, --at least, I think it will be pardonable if I yield to the_very_ strong temptation I am under at this moment to buy one. Let me see:what have you in the slave-market, as your wife calls it?"

She bought "The Street Musician, " as Percivale had named the picture takenfrom Dr. Donne. I was more miserable than I ought to have been when I foundhe had parted with it, but it was a great consolation to think it was toLady Bernard's it had gone. She was the only one, except my mother or MissClare, I could have borne to think of as having become its possessor. 

He had asked her what I thought a very low price for it; and I judge thatLady Bernard thought the same, but, after what had passed between them, would not venture to expostulate. With such a man as my husband, I fancy, she thought it best to let well alone. Anyhow, one day soon after this, herservant brought him a little box, containing a fine brilliant. 

"The good lady's kindness is long-sighted, " said my husband, as he placedit on his finger. "I shall be hard up, though, before I part with this. Wynnie, I've actually got a finer diamond than Mr. Baddeley! It _is_ abeauty, if ever there was one!"

My husband, with all his carelessness of dress and adornment, has almost apassion for stones. It is delightful to hear him talk about them. But hehad never possessed a single gem before Lady Bernard made him this present. I believe he is child enough to be happier for it all his life. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Suddenly I become aware that I am drawing nigh the close of my monthlylabors for a long year. Yet the year seems to have passed more rapidlybecause of this addition to my anxieties. Not that I haven't enjoyed thelabor while I have been actually engaged in it, but the prospect of thenext month's work would often come in to damp the pleasure of the present;making me fancy, as the close of each chapter drew near, that I should nothave material for another left in my head. I heard a friend once remarkthat it is not the cares of to-day, but the cares of to-morrow, that weigha man down. For the day we have the corresponding strength given, for themorrow we are told to trust; it is not ours yet. 

When I get my money for my work, I mean to give my husband a long holiday. I half think of taking him to Italy, --for of course I can do what I likewith my own, whether husband or money, --and so have a hand in making him astill better painter. Incapable of imitation, the sight of any real workis always of great service to him, widening his sense of art, enlarginghis idea of what can be done, rousing what part of his being is most insympathy with it, --a part possibly as yet only half awake; in a word, leading him another step towards that simplicity which is at the root ofall diversity, being so simple that it needs all diversity to set it forth. 

How impossible it seemed to me that I should ever write a book! Well or illdone, it is almost finished, for the next month is the twelfth. I must lookback upon what I have written, to see what loose ends I may have left, andwhether any allusion has not been followed up with a needful explanation;for this way of writing by portions--the only way in which I could havebeen persuaded to attempt the work, however--is unfavorable to artisticunity; an unnecessary remark, seeing that to such unity my work makesno pretensions. It is but a collection of portions detached from anuneventful, ordinary, and perhaps in part _therefore_ very blessed life. Hence, perhaps, it was specially fitted for this mode of publication. Atall events, I can cast upon it none of the blame of what failure I may haveto confess. 

A biography cannot be constructed with the art of a novel, for this reason:that a novel is constructed on the artist's scale, with swift-returningcurves; a biography on the divine scale, whose circles are so large thatthey shoot beyond this world, sometimes even before we are able to detectin them the curve by which they will at length round themselves backtowards completion. Hence, every life must look more or less fragmentary, and more or less out of drawing perhaps; not to mention the questionableeffects in color and tone where the model himself will insist on takingpalette and brushes, and laying childish, if not passionate, conceited, ambitious, or even spiteful hands to the work. 

I do not find that I have greatly blundered, or omitted much that I oughtto have mentioned. One odd thing is, that, in the opening conversation inwhich they urge me to the attempt, I have not mentioned Marion. I do notmean that she was present, but that surely some one must have suggestedher and her history as affording endless material for my record. A thingapparently but not really strange is, that I have never said a word aboutthe Mrs. Cromwell mentioned in the same conversation. The fact is, that Ihave but just arrived at the part of my story where she first comes in. She died about three months ago; and I can therefore with the more freedomnarrate in the next chapter what I have known of her. 

I find also that I have, in the fourth chapter, by some oddcerebro-mechanical freak, substituted the name of my Aunt _Martha_ forthat of my Aunt Millicent, another sister of my father, whom he has not, I believe, had occasion to mention in either of his preceding books. MyAunt Martha is Mrs. Weir, and has no children; my Aunt Millicent is Mrs. Parsons, married to a hard-working attorney, and has twelve children, nowmostly grown up. 

I find also, in the thirteenth chapter, an unexplained allusion. There myhusband says, "Just ask my brother his experience in regard of the word towhich you object. " The word was _stomach_, at the use of which I had in myill-temper taken umbrage: however disagreeable a word in itself, surely ahusband might, if need be, use it without offence. It will be proof enoughthat my objection arose from pure ill-temper when I state that I have sinceasked Roger to what Percivale referred. His reply was, that, having beenrequested by a certain person who had a school for young ladies--probablyshe called it a college--to give her pupils a few lectures on physiology, he could not go far in the course without finding it necessary to make anot unfrequent use of the word, explaining the functions of the organ towhich the name belonged, as resembling those of a mill. After the lecturewas over, the school-mistress took him aside, and said she really could notallow her young ladies to be made familiar with such words. Roger averredthat the word was absolutely necessary to the subject upon which she haddesired his lectures; and that he did not know how any instruction inphysiology could be given without the free use of it. "No doubt, " shereturned, "you must recognize the existence of the organ in question; but, as the name of it is offensive to ears polite, could you not substituteanother? You have just said that its operations resemble those of amill: could you not, as often as you require to speak of it, refer to itin the future as _the mill_?" Roger, with great difficulty repressinghis laughter, consented; but in his next lecture made far more frequentreference to _the mill_ than was necessary, using the word every time--Iknow exactly how--with a certain absurd solemnity that must have beenirresistible. The girls went into fits of laughter at the first utteranceof it, and seemed, he said, during the whole lecture, intent only on thenew term, at every recurrence of which their laughter burst out afresh. Doubtless their school-mistress had herself prepared them to fall intoRoger's trap. The same night he received a note from her, enclosing his feefor the lectures given, and informing him that the rest of the course wouldnot be required. Roger sent back the money, saying that to accept partpayment would be to renounce his claim for the whole; and that, besides, he had already received an amount of amusement quite sufficient to rewardhim for his labor. I told him I thought he had been rather cruel; but hesaid such a woman wanted a lesson. He said also, that to see the sort ofwomen who sometimes had the responsibility of training girls must make theangels weep; none but a heartless mortal like himself could laugh whereconventionality and insincerity were taught in every hint as to posture andspeech. It was bad enough, he said, to shape yourself into your own ideal;but to have to fashion yourself after the ideal of one whose sole object inteaching was to make money, was something wretched indeed. 

I find, besides, that several intentions I had when I started have fallenout of the scheme. Somehow, the subjects would not well come in, or I feltthat I was in danger of injuring the persons in the attempt to set forththeir opinions. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MRS. CROMWELL COMES. 

The moment the legacy was paid, our liabilities being already nearlydischarged, my husband took us all to Hastings. I had never before beento any other seacoast town where the land was worthy of the sea, exceptKilkhaven. Assuredly, there is no place within easy reach of London tobe once mentioned with Hastings. Of course we kept clear of the morefashionable and commonplace St. Leonard's End, where yet the sea isthe same, --a sea such that, not even off Cornwall, have I seen so manyvarieties of ocean-aspect. The immediate shore, with its earthy cliffs, isvastly inferior to the magnificent rock about Tintagel; but there is nooutlook on the sea that I know more satisfying than that from the heightsof Hastings, especially the East Hill; from the west side of which also youmay, when weary of the ocean, look straight down on the ancient port, withits old houses, and fine, multiform red roofs, through the gauze of bluesmoke which at eve of a summer day fills the narrow valley, softening therough goings-on of life into harmony with the gentleness of sea and shore, field and sky. No doubt the suburbs are as unsightly as mere boxes of brickand lime can be, with an ugliness mean because pretentious, an altogethermodern ugliness; but even this cannot touch the essential beauty of theplace. 

On the brow of this East Hill, just where it begins to sink towardsEcclesbourne Glen, stands a small, old, rickety house in the midst of thesweet grass of the downs. This house my husband was fortunate in findingto let, and took for three months. I am not, however, going to give anyhistory of how we spent them; my sole reason for mentioning Hastings at allbeing that there I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Cromwell. It was on thiswise. 

One bright day, about noon, --almost all the days of those months weregorgeous with sunlight, --a rather fashionable maid ran up our littlegarden, begging for some water for her mistress. Sending her on with thewater, I followed myself with a glass of sherry. 

The door in our garden-hedge opened immediately on a green hollow in thehill, sloping towards the glen. As I stepped from the little gate on to thegrass, I saw, to my surprise, that a white fog was blowing in from the sea. The heights on the opposite side of the glen, partially obscured thereby, looked more majestic than was their wont, and were mottled with patches ofduller and brighter color as the drifts of the fog were heaped or partedhere and there. Far down, at the foot of the cliffs, the waves of therising tide, driven shore-wards with the added force of a south-westbreeze, caught and threw back what sunlight reached them, and thinned withtheir shine the fog between. It was all so strange and fine, and had comeon so suddenly, --for when I had looked out a few minutes before, sea andsky were purely resplendent, --that I stood a moment or two and gazed, almost forgetting why I was there. 

When I bethought myself and looked about me, I saw, in the sheltered hollowbefore me, a lady seated in a curiously-shaped chair; so constructed, infact, as to form upon occasion a kind of litter. It was plain she wasan invalid, from her paleness, and the tension of the skin on her face, revealing the outline of the bones beneath. Her features were finelyformed, but rather small, and her forehead low; a Greek-like face, withlarge, pale-blue eyes, that reminded me of little Amy Morley's. She smiledvery sweetly when she saw me, and shook her head at the wine. 

"I only wanted a little water, " she said. "This fog seems to stifle me. "

"It has come on very suddenly, " I said. "Perhaps it is the cold of it thataffects your breathing. You don't seem very strong, and any sudden changeof temperature"--

"I am not one of the most vigorous of mortals, " she answered, with a sadsmile; "but the day seemed of such indubitable character, that, after myhusband had brought me here in the carriage, he sent it home, and left mewith my maid, while he went for a long walk across the downs. When he seesthe change in the weather, though, he will turn directly. "

"It won't do to wait him here, " I said. "We must get you in at once. Wouldit be wrong to press you to take a little of this wine, just to counteracta chill?"

"I daren't touch any thing but water, " she replied, "It would make mefeverish at once. "

"Run and tell the cook, " I said to the maid, "that I want her here. You andshe could carry your mistress in, could you not? I will help you. "

"There's no occasion for that, ma'am: she's as light as a feather, " was thewhispered answer. 

"I am quite ashamed of giving you so much trouble, " said the lady, eitherhearing or guessing at our words. "My husband will be very grateful toyou. "

"It is only an act of common humanity, " I said. 

But, as I spoke, I fancied her fair brow clouded a little, as if she wasnot accustomed to common humanity, and the word sounded harsh in her ear. The cloud, however, passed so quickly that I doubted, until I knew herbetter, whether it had really been there. 

The two maids were now ready; and, Jemima instructed by the other, theylifted her with the utmost ease, and bore her gently towards the house. Thegarden-gate was just wide enough to let the chair through, and in a minutemore she was upon the sofa. Then a fit of coughing came on which shook herdreadfully. When it had passed she lay quiet, with closed eyes, and a smilehovering about her sweet, thin-lipped mouth. By and by she opened them, andlooked at me with a pitiful expression. 

"I fear you are far from well, " I said. 

"I'm dying, " she returned quietly. 

"I hope not, " was all I could answer. 

"Why should you hope not?" she returned. "I am in no strait betwixt two. Idesire to depart. For me to die will be all gain. "

"But your friends?" I ventured to suggest, feeling my way, and not quiterelishing either the form or tone of her utterance. 

"I have none but my husband. "

"Then your husband?" I persisted. 

"Ah!" she said mournfully, "he will miss me, no doubt, for a while. But it_must_ be a weight off him, for I have been a sufferer so long!"

At this moment I heard a heavy, hasty step in the passage; the next, theroom door opened, and in came, in hot haste, wiping his red face, a burlyman, clumsy and active, with an umbrella in his hand, followed by a great, lumbering Newfoundland dog. 

"Down, Polyphemus!" he said to the dog, which crept under a chair; whilehe, taking no notice of my presence, hurried up to his wife. 

"My love! my little dove!" he said eagerly: "did you think I had forsakenyou to the cruel elements?"

"No, Alcibiades, " she answered, with a sweet little drawl; "but you do notobserve that I am not the only lady in the room. " Then, turning to me, "This is my husband, Mr. Cromwell, " she said. "I cannot tell him _your_name. "

"I am Mrs. Percivale, " I returned, almost mechanically, for the gentleman'stwo names had run together and were sounding in my head: _AlcibiadesCromwell_! How could such a conjunction have taken place without theintervention of Charles Dickens?

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, " said Mr. Cromwell, bowing. "Permit my anxietyabout my poor wife to cover my rudeness. I had climbed the other sideof the glen before I saw the fog; and it is no such easy matter to getup and down these hills of yours. I am greatly obliged to you for yourhospitality. You have doubtless saved her life; for she is a frail flower, shrinking from the least breath of cold. "

The lady closed her eyes again, and the gentleman took her hand, and felther pulse. He seemed about twice her age, --she not thirty; he well pastfifty, the top of his head bald, and his gray hair sticking out fiercelyover his good-natured red cheeks. He laid her hand gently down, put his haton the table and his umbrella in a corner, wiped his face again, drew achair near the sofa, and took his place by her side. I thought it better toleave them. 

When I re-entered after a while, I saw from the windows, which lookedsea-ward, that the wind had risen, and was driving thin drifts no longer, but great, thick, white masses of sea-fog landwards. It was the storm-windof that coast, the south-west, which dashes the pebbles over the Parade, and the heavy spray against the houses. Mr. Alcibiades Cromwell was sittingas I had left him, silent, by the side of his wife, whose blue-veinedeyelids had apparently never been lifted from her large eyes. 

"Is there any thing I could offer Mrs. Cromwell?" I said. "Could she noteat something?"

"It is very little she can take, " he answered; "but you are very kind. Ifyou could let her have a little beef-tea? She generally has a spoonful ortwo about this time of the day. "

"I am sorry we have none, " I said; "and it would be far too long for her towait. I have a nice chicken, though, ready for cooking: if she could take alittle chicken-broth, that would be ready in a very little while. "

"Thank you a thousand times, ma'am, " he said heartily; "nothing could bebetter. She might even be induced to eat a mouthful of the chicken. ButI am afraid your extreme kindness prevents me from being so thoroughlyashamed as I ought to be at putting you to so much trouble for perfectstrangers. "

"It is but a pleasure to be of service to any one in want of it, " I said. 

Mrs. Cromwell opened her eyes and smiled gratefully. I left the room togive orders about the chicken, indeed, to superintend the preparation ofit myself; for Jemima could not be altogether trusted in such a delicateaffair as cooking for an invalid. 

When I returned, having set the simple operation going, Mr. Cromwell had alittle hymn-book of mine he had found on the table open in his hand, andhis wife was saying to him, --

"That is lovely! Thank you, husband. How can it be I never saw it before? Iam quite astonished. "

"She little knows what multitudes of hymns there are!" I thought withmyself, --my father having made a collection, whence I had some idea of theextent of that department of religious literature. 

"This is a hymn-book we are not acquainted with, " said Mr. Cromwell, addressing me. 

"It is not much known, " I answered. "It was compiled by a friend of myfather's for his own schools. "

"And this, " he went on, "is a very beautiful hymn. You may trust my wife'sjudgment, Mrs. Percivale. She lives upon hymns. "

He read the first line to show which he meant. I had long thought, andstill think, it the most beautiful hymn I know. It was taken from theGerman, only much improved in the taking, and given to my father to dowhat he pleased with; and my father had given it to another friend for hiscollection. Before that, however, while still in manuscript, it had falleninto the hands of a certain clergyman, by whom it had been publishedwithout leave asked, or apology made: a rudeness of which neither my fathernor the author would have complained, for it was a pleasure to think itmight thus reach many to whom it would be helpful; but they both feltaggrieved and indignant that he had taken the dishonest liberty of alteringcertain lines of it to suit his own opinions. As I am anxious to give itall the publicity I can, from pure delight in it, and love to all who arecapable of the same delight, I shall here communicate it, in the fullconfidence of thus establishing a claim on the gratitude of my readers. 

 O Lord, how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there: Thou art brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won. 

 Let the world call herself my foe, Or let the world allure. I care not for the world: I go To this dear Friend and sure. And when life's fiercest storms are sent Upon life's wildest sea, My little bark is confident, Because it holds by thee. 

 When the law threatens endless death Upon the awful hill, Straightway from her consuming breath My soul goes higher still, -- Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again, And where death cannot come. 

 I do not fear the wilderness Where thou hast been before; Nay, rather will I daily press After thee, near thee, more. Thou art my food; on thee I lean; Thou makest my heart sing; And to thy heavenly pastures green All thy dear flock dost bring. 

 And if the gate that opens there Be dark to other men, It is not dark to those who share The heart of Jesus then. That is not losing much of life Which is not losing thee, Who art as present in the strife As in the victory. 

 Therefore how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there: Thou are brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won. 

In telling them a few of the facts connected with the hymn, I presume I hadmanifested my admiration of it with some degree of fervor. 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Cromwell, opening her eyes very wide, and letting therising tears fill them: "Ah, Mrs. Percivale! you are--you must be one ofus!"

"You must tell me first who you are, " I said. 

She held out her hand; I gave her mine: she drew me towards her, andwhispered almost in my ear--though why or whence the affectation of secrecyI can only imagine--the name of a certain small and exclusive sect. I willnot indicate it, lest I should be supposed to attribute to it either thepeculiar faults or virtues of my new acquaintance. 

"No, " I answered, speaking with the calmness of self-compulsion, for Iconfess I felt repelled: "I am not one of you, except in as far as we allbelong to the church of Christ. "

I have thought since how much better it would have been to say, "Yes: forwe all belong to the church of Christ. "

She gave a little sigh of disappointment, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again with a smile, and said with a pleading tone, --

"But you do believe in personal religion?"

"I don't see, " I returned, "how religion can be any thing but personal. "

Again she closed her eyes, in a way that made me think how convenientbad health must be, conferring not only the privilege of passing intoretirement at any desirable moment, but of doing so in such a ready andeasy manner as the mere dropping of the eyelids. 

I rose to leave the room once more. Mr. Cromwell, who had made way for meto sit beside his wife, stood looking out of the window, against which camesweeping the great volumes of mist. I glanced out also. Not only was thesea invisible, but even the brow of the cliffs. When he turned towards me, as I passed him, I saw that his face had lost much of its rubicund hue, andlooked troubled and anxious. 

"There is nothing for it, " I said to myself, "but keep them all night, " andso gave directions to have a bedroom prepared for them. I did not much likeit, I confess; for I was not much interested in either of them, while ofthe sect to which she belonged I knew enough already to be aware that itwas of the narrowest and most sectarian in Christendom. It was a pity shehad sought to claim me by a would-be closer bond than that of the body ofChrist. Still I knew I should be myself a sectary if I therefore excludedher from my best sympathies. At the same time I did feel some curiosityconcerning the oddly-yoked couple, and wondered whether the lady was reallyso ill as she would appear. I doubted whether she might not be using herillness both as an excuse for self-indulgence, and as a means of keepingher husband's interest in her on the stretch. I did not like the wearing ofher religion on her sleeve, nor the mellifluous drawl in which she spoke. 

When the chicken-broth was ready, she partook daintily; but before sheended had made a very good meal, including a wing and a bit of the breast;after which she fell asleep. 

"There seems little chance of the weather clearing, " said Mr. Cromwell in awhisper, as I approached the window where he once more stood. 

"You must make up your mind to remain here for the night, " I said. 

"My dear madam, I couldn't think of it, " he returned, --I thought fromunwillingness to incommode a strange household. "An invalid like her, sweet lamb!" he went on, "requires so many little comforts and peculiarcontrivances to entice the repose she so greatly needs, that--that--inshort, I must get her home. "

"Where do you live?" I asked, not sorry to find his intention of going sofixed. 

"We have a house in Warrior Square, " he answered. "We live in London, buthave been here all the past winter. I doubt if she improves, though. Idoubt--I doubt. "

He said the last words in a yet lower and more mournful whisper; then, witha shake of his head, turned and gazed again through the window. 

A peculiar little cough from the sofa made us both look round. Mrs. Cromwell was awake, and searching for her handkerchief. Her husbandunderstood her movements, and hurried to her assistance. When she took thehandkerchief from her mouth, there was a red spot upon it. Mr. Cromwell'sface turned the color of lead; but his wife looked up at him, and smiled; asweet, consciously pathetic smile. 

"He has sent for me, " she said. "The messenger has come. "

Her husband made no answer. His eyes seemed starting from his head. 

"Who is your medical man?" I asked him. 

He told me, and I sent off my housemaid to fetch him. It was a long hourbefore he arrived; during which, as often as I peeped in, I saw him sittingsilent, and holding her hand, until the last time, when I found him readinga hymn to her. She was apparently once more asleep. Nothing could be morefavorable to her recovery than such quietness of both body and mind. 

When the doctor came, and had listened to Mr. Cromwell's statement, heproceeded to examine her chest with much care. That over, he averred inher hearing that he found nothing serious; but told her husband apart thatthere was considerable mischief, and assured me afterwards that her lungswere all but gone, and that she could not live beyond a month or two. Shehad better be removed to her own house, he said, as speedily as possible. 

"But it would be cruelty to send her out a day like this, " I returned. 

"Yes, yes: I did not mean that, " he said. "But to-morrow, perhaps. You'llsee what the weather is like. Is Mrs. Cromwell an old friend?"

"I never saw her until to-day, " I replied. 

"Ah!" he remarked, and said no more. 

We got her to bed as soon as possible. I may just mention that I never sawany thing to equal the _point-devise_ of her underclothing. There was nota stitch of cotton about her, using the word _stitch_ in its metaphoricalsense. But, indeed, I doubt whether her garments were not all made withlinen thread. Even her horse-hair petticoat was quilted with rose-coloredsilk inside. 

"Surely she has no children!" I said to myself; and was right, as mymother-readers will not be surprised to learn. 

It was a week before she got up again, and a month before she was carrieddown the hill; during which time her husband sat up with her, or slept on asofa in the room beside her, every night. During the day I took a share inthe nursing, which was by no means oppressive, for she did not suffer much, and required little. Her chief demand was for hymns, the only annoyanceconnected with which worth mentioning was, that she often wished me toadmire with her such as I could only half like, and occasionally suchas were thoroughly distasteful to me. Her husband had brought her owncollection from Warrior Square, volumes of hymns in manuscript, copied byher own hand, many of them strange to me, none of those I read altogetherdevoid of literary merit, and some of them lovely both in feeling andform. But all, even the best, which to me were unobjectionable, belongedto one class, --a class breathing a certain tone difficult to describe;one, however, which I find characteristic of all the Roman Catholic hymnsI have read. I will not indicate any of her selection; neither, lest Ishould be supposed to object to this or that one answering to the generaldescription, and yet worthy of all respect, or even sympathy, will I gofurther with a specification of their sort than to say that what pleased mein them was their full utterance of personal devotion to the Saviour, andthat what displeased me was a sort of sentimental regard of self in thematter, --an implied special, and thus partially exclusive predilection orpreference of the Saviour for the individual supposed to be making use ofthem; a certain fundamental want of humility therefore, although the formsof speech in which they were cast might be laboriously humble. They alsonot unfrequently manifested a great leaning to the forms of earthly showas representative of the glories of that kingdom which the Lord says is_within us_. 

Likewise the manner in which Mrs. Cromwell talked reminded me much of theway in which a nun would represent her individual relation to Christ. I canbest show what I mean by giving a conversation I had with her one day whenshe was recovering, which she did with wonderful rapidity up to a certainpoint. I confess I shrink a little from reproducing it, because of thesacred name which, as it seemed to me, was far too often upon her lips, andtoo easily uttered. But then, she was made so different from me!

The fine weather had returned in all its summer glory, and she was lyingon a couch in her own room near the window, whence she could gaze onthe expanse of sea below, this morning streaked with the most delicategradations of distance, sweep beyond sweep, line and band and ribbon ofsoftly, often but slightly varied hue, leading the eyes on and on into theinfinite. There may have been some atmospheric illusion ending off theshow, for the last reaches mingled so with the air that you saw no horizonline, only a great breadth of border; no spot which could you appropriatewith certainty either to sea or sky; while here and there was a vessel, toall appearance, pursuing its path in the sky, and not upon the sea. It was, as some of my readers will not require to be told, a still, gray forenoon, with a film of cloud over all the heavens, and many horizontal strata ofdeeper but varying density near the horizon. 

Mrs. Cromwell had lain for some time with her large eyes fixed on thefarthest confusion of sea and sky. 

"I have been sending out my soul, " she said at length, "to travel allacross those distances, step by step, on to the gates of pearl. Who knowsbut that may be the path I must travel to meet the Bridegroom?"

"The way is wide, " I said: "what if you should miss him?"

I spoke almost involuntarily. The style of her talk was very distasteful tome; and I had just been thinking of what I had once heard my father say, that at no time were people in more danger of being theatrical than whenupon their death-beds. 

"No, " she returned, with a smile of gentle superiority; "no: that cannotbe. Is he not waiting for me? Has he not chosen me, and called me for hisown? Is not my Jesus mine? I shall _not_ miss him. He waits to give me mynew name, and clothe me in the garments of righteousness. "

As she spoke, she clasped her thin hands, and looked upwards with a radiantexpression. Far as it was from me to hint, even in my own soul, that theSaviour was not hers, tenfold more hers than she was able to think, I couldnot at the same time but doubt whether her heart and soul and mind were asclose to him as her words would indicate she thought they were. She couldnot be wrong in trusting him; but could she be right in her notion of themeasure to which her union with him had been perfected? I could not helpthinking that a little fear, soon to pass into reverence, might be to hera salutary thing. The fear, I thought, would heighten and deepen the love, and purify it from that self which haunted her whole consciousness, and ofwhich she had not yet sickened, as one day she certainly must. 

"My lamp is burning, " she said; "I feel it burning. I love my Lord. Itwould be false to say otherwise. "

"Are you sure you have oil enough in your vessel as well as in your lamp?"I said. 

"Ah, you are one of the doubting!" she returned kindly. "Don't you knowthat sweet hymn about feeding our lamps from the olive-trees of Gethsemane?The idea is taken from the lamp the prophet Zechariah saw in his vision, into which two olive-branches, through two golden pipes, emptied the goldenoil out of themselves. If we are thus one with the olive-tree, the oilcannot fail us. It is not as if we had to fill our lamps from a cruse ofour own. This is the cruse that cannot fail. "

"True, true, " I said; "but ought we not to examine our own selves whetherwe are in the faith?"

"Let those examine that doubt, " she replied; and I could not but yield inmy heart that she had had the best of the argument. 

For I knew that the confidence in Christ which prevents us from thinking ofourselves, and makes us eager to obey his word, leaving all the care of ourfeelings to him, is a true and healthy faith. Hence I could not answer her, although I doubted whether her peace came from such confidence, --doubtedfor several reasons: one, that, so far from not thinking of herself, sheseemed full of herself; another, that she seemed to find no difficulty withherself in any way; and, surely, she was too young for all struggle to beover! I perceived no reference to the will of God in regard of any thingshe had to do, only in regard of what she had to suffer, and especiallyin regard of that smallest of matters, when she was to go. Here I checkedmyself, for what could she _do_ in such a state of health? But then shenever spoke as if she had any anxiety about the welfare of other people. That, however, might be from her absolute contentment in the will of God. But why did she always look to the Saviour through a mist of hymns, andnever go straight back to the genuine old good news, or to the mightythoughts and exhortations with which the first preachers of that newsfollowed them up and unfolded the grandeur of their goodness? After all, was I not judging her? On the other hand, ought I not to care for herstate? Should I not be inhuman, that is, unchristian, if I did not?

In the end I saw clearly enough, that, except it was revealed to me what Iought to say, I had no right to say any thing; and that to be uneasy abouther was to distrust Him whose it was to teach her, and who would perfectthat which he had certainly begun in her. For her heart, however poor andfaulty and flimsy its faith might be, was yet certainly drawn towardsthe object of faith. I, therefore, said nothing more in the direction ofopening her eyes to what I considered her condition: that view of it might, after all, be but a phantasm of my own projection. What was plainly my dutywas to serve her as one of those the least of whom the Saviour sets forthas representing himself. I would do it to her as unto him. 

My children were out the greater part of every day, and Dora was with me, so that I had more leisure than I had had for a long time. I therefore setmyself to wait upon her as a kind of lady's maid in things spiritual. Herown maid, understanding her ways, was sufficient for things temporal. Iresolved to try to help her after her own fashion, and not after mine; for, however strange the nourishment she preferred might seem, it must at leastbe of the _kind_ she could best assimilate. My care should be to give herher gruel as good as I might, and her beef-tea strong, with chicken-brothinstead of barley-water and delusive jelly. But much opportunity ofministration was not afforded me; for her husband, whose business in lifeshe seemed to regard as the care of her, --for which, in truth, she wasgently and lovingly grateful, --and who not merely accepted her view ofthe matter, but, I was pretty sure, had had a large share in originatingit, was even more constant in his attentions than she found altogetheragreeable, to judge by the way in which she would insist on his going outfor a second walk, when it was clear, that, besides his desire to be withher, he was not inclined to walk any more. 

I could set myself, however, as I have indicated, to find fitting pabulumfor her, and that of her chosen sort. This was possible for me in virtue ofmy father's collection of hymns, and the aid he could give me. I thereforesent him a detailed description of what seemed to me her condition, andwhat I thought I might do for her. It was a week before he gave me ananswer; but it arrived a thorough one, in the shape of a box of books, each bristling with paper marks, many of them inscribed with some factconcerning, or criticism upon, the hymn indicated. He wrote that he quiteagreed with my notion of the right mode of serving her; for any otherwould be as if a besieging party were to batter a postern by means ofboats instead of walking over a lowered drawbridge, and under a raisedportcullis. 

Having taken a survey of the hymns my father thus pointed out to me, andarranged them according to their degrees of approximation to the weakest ofthose in Mrs. Cromwell's collection, I judged that in all of them there wassomething she must appreciate, although the main drift of several would beentirely beyond her apprehension. Even these, however, it would be well totry upon her. 

Accordingly, the next time she asked me to read from her collection, Imade the request that she would listen to some which I believed she didnot know, but would, I thought, like. She consented with eagerness, wasastonished to find she knew none of them, expressed much approbation ofsome, and showed herself delighted with others. 

That she must have had some literary faculty seems evident from the genuinepleasure she took in simple, quaint, sometimes even odd hymns of her ownpeculiar kind. But the very best of another sort she could not appreciate. For instance, the following, by John Mason, in my father's opinion one ofthe best hymn-writers, had no attraction for her:--

 "Thou wast, O God, and thou was blest Before the world begun; Of thine eternity possest Before time's glass did run. Thou needest none thy praise to sing, As if thy joy could fade: Couldst thou have needed any thing, Thou couldst have nothing made. 

 "Great and good God, it pleaseth thee Thy Godhead to declare; And what thy goodness did decree, Thy greatness did prepare: Thou spak'st, and heaven and earth appeared, And answered to thy call; As if their Maker's voice they Heard, Which is the creature's All. 

 "Thou spak'st the word, most mighty Lord; Thy word went forth with speed: Thy will, O Lord, it was thy word; Thy word it was thy deed. Thou brought'st forth Adam from the ground, And Eve out of his side: Thy blessing made the earth abound With these two multiplied. 

 "Those three great leaves, heaven, sea, and land, Thy name in figures show; Brutes feel the bounty of thy hand, But I my Maker know. Should not I here thy servant be, Whose creatures serve me here? My Lord, whom should I fear but thee, Who am thy creatures' fear?

 "To whom, Lord, should I sing but thee, The Maker of my tongue? Lo! other lords would seize on me, But I to thee belong. As waters haste unto their sea, And earth unto its earth, So let my soul return to thee, From whom it had its birth. 

 "But, ah! I'm fallen in the night, And cannot come to thee: Yet speak the word, '_Let there be light_;' It shall enlighten me. And let thy word, most mighty Lord, Thy fallen creature raise: Oh! make me o'er again, and I Shall sing my Maker's praise. "

This and others, I say, she could not relish; but my endeavors were crownedwith success in so far that she accepted better specimens of the sort sheliked than any she had; and I think they must have had a good influenceupon her. 

She seemed to have no fear of death, contemplating the change she believedat hand, not with equanimity merely, but with expectation. She even wrotehymns about it, --sweet, pretty, and weak, always with herself and the loveof her Saviour for _her_, in the foreground. She had not learned that thelove which lays hold of that which is human in the individual, that is, which is common to the whole race, must be an infinitely deeper, tenderer, and more precious thing to the individual than any affection manifestingitself in the preference of one over another. 

For the sake of revealing her modes of thought, I will give one morespecimen of my conversations with her, ere I pass on. It took place theevening before her departure for her own house. Her husband had gone tomake some final preparations, of which there had been many. For one whoexpected to be unclothed that she might be clothed upon, she certainlymade a tolerable to-do about the garment she was so soon to lay aside;especially seeing she often spoke of it as an ill-fitting garment--neverwith peevishness or complaint, only, as it seemed to me, with far moreinterest than it was worth. She had even, as afterwards appeared, given herhusband--good, honest, dog-like man--full instructions as to the ceremonialof its interment. Perhaps I should have been considerably less bewilderedwith her conduct had I suspected that she was not half so near death as shechose to think, and that she had as yet suffered little. 

That evening, the stars just beginning to glimmer through the warm flushthat lingered from the sunset, we sat together in the drawing-room lookingout on the sea. My patient appearing, from the light in her eyes, about togo off into one of her ecstatic moods, I hastened to forestall it, if Imight, with whatever came uppermost; for I felt my inability to sympathizewith her in these more of a pain than my reader will, perhaps, readilyimagine. 

"It seems like turning you out to let you go to-morrow, Mrs. Cromwell, " Isaid; "but, you see, our three months are up two days after, and I cannothelp it. "

"You have been very kind, " she said, half abstractedly. "And you are reallymuch better. Who would have thought three weeks ago to see you so wellto-day?"

"Ah! you congratulate me, do you?" she rejoined, turning her big eyes fullupon me; "congratulate me that I am doomed to be still a captive in theprison of this vile body? Is it kind? Is it well?"

"At least, you must remember, if you are _doomed_, who dooms you. "

"'Oh that I had the wings of a dove!'" she cried, avoiding my remark, of which I doubt if she saw the drift. "Think, dear Mrs. Percivale: thesociety of saints and angels!--all brightness and harmony and peace! Is itnot worth forsaking this world to inherit a kingdom like that? Wouldn't_you_ like to go? Don't _you_ wish to fly away and be at rest?"

She spoke as if expostulating and reasoning with one she would persuade tosome kind of holy emigration. 

"Not until I am sent for, " I answered. 

"I _am_ sent for, " she returned. 

 "'The wave may be cold, and the tide may be strong; But, hark! on the shore the angels' glad song!'

"Do you know that sweet hymn, Mrs. Percivale? There I shall be able to lovehim aright, to serve him aright!

 "'Here all my labor is so poor! Here all my love so faint! But when I reach the heavenly door, I cease the weary plaint. '"

I couldn't help wishing she would cease it a little sooner. 

"But suppose, " I ventured to say, "it were the will of God that you shouldlive many years yet. "

"That cannot be. And why should you wish it for me? Is it not better todepart and be with him? What pleasure could it be to a weak, worn creaturelike me to go on living in this isle of banishment?"

"But suppose you were to recover your health: would it not be delightful to_do_ something for his sake? If you would think of how much there is to bedone in the world, perhaps you would wish less to die and leave it. "

"Do not tempt me, " she returned reproachfully. 

And then she quoted a passage the application of which to her own caseappeared to me so irreverent, that I confess I felt like Abraham with theidolater; so far at least as to wish her out of the house, for I could bearwith her, I thought, no longer. 

She did leave it the next day, and I breathed more freely than since shehad entered it. 

My husband came down to fetch me the following day; and a walk with himalong the cliffs in the gathering twilight, during which I recounted theaffectations of my late visitor, completely wiped the cobwebs from mymental windows, and enabled me to come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cromwellwas but a spoiled child, who would, somehow or other, be brought to hersenses before all was over. I was ashamed of my impatience with her, andbelieved if I could have learned her history, of which she had told menothing, it would have explained the rare phenomenon of one apparently ableto look death in the face with so little of the really spiritual to supporther, for she seemed to me to know Christ only after the flesh. But had sheindeed ever looked death in the face?

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

MRS. CROMWELL GOES. 

I heard nothing more of her for about a year. A note or two passed betweenus, and then all communication ceased. This, I am happy to think, was notimmediately my fault: not that it mattered much, for we were not thenfitted for much communion; we had too little in common to commune. 

"Did you not both believe in one Lord?" I fancy a reader objecting. "How, then, can you say you had too little in common to be able to commune?"

I said the same to myself, and tried the question in many ways. The factremained, that we could not commune, that is, with any heartiness; and, although I may have done her wrong, it was, I thought, to be accountedfor something in this way. The Saviour of whom she spoke so often, andevidently thought so much, was in a great measure a being of her own fancy;so much so, that she manifested no desire to find out what the Christ waswho had spent three and thirty years in making a revelation of himself tothe world. The knowledge she had about him was not even at second-hand, but at many removes. She did not study his words or his actions to learnhis thoughts or his meanings; but lived in a kind of dreamland of her own, which could be interesting only to the dreamer. Now, if we are to come toGod through Christ, it must surely be by knowing Christ; it must be throughthe knowledge of Christ that the Spirit of the Father mainly works in themembers of his body; and it seemed to me she did not take the trouble to"know him and the power of his resurrection. " Therefore we had scarcelyenough of common ground, as I say, to meet upon. I could not helpcontrasting her religion with that of Marion Clare. 

At length I had a note from her, begging me to go and see her at her houseat Richmond, and apologizing for her not coming to me, on the score ofher health. I felt it my duty to go, but sadly grudged the loss of timeit seemed, for I expected neither pleasure nor profit from the visit. Percivale went with me, and left me at the door to have a row on the river, and call for me at a certain hour. 

The house and grounds were luxurious and lovely both, two often dissociatedqualities. She could have nothing to desire of this world's gifts, Ithought. But the moment she entered the room into which I had been shown, Iwas shocked at the change I saw in her. Almost to my horror, she was in awidow's cap; and disease and coming death were plain on every feature. Suchwas the contrast, that the face in my memory appeared that of health. 

"My dear Mrs. Cromwell!" I gasped out. 

"You see, " she said, and sitting down, on a straight-backed chair, lookedat me with lustreless eyes. 

Death had been hovering about her windows before, but had entered at last;not to take the sickly young woman longing to die, but the hale man, whowould have clung to the last edge of life. 

"He is taken, and I am left, " she said abruptly, after a long pause. 

Her drawl had vanished: pain and grief had made her simple. "Then, " Ithought with myself, "she did love him!" But I could say nothing. She tookmy silence for the sympathy it was, and smiled a heart-rending smile, sodifferent from that little sad smile she used to have; really patheticnow, and with hardly a glimmer in it of the old self-pity. I rose, put myarms about her, and kissed her on the forehead; she laid her head on myshoulder, and wept. 

"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, " I faltered out, for her sorrow filledme with a respect that was new. 

"Yes, " she returned, as gently as hopelessly; "and whom he does not love aswell. "

"You have no ground for saying so, " I answered. "The apostle does not. "

"My lamp is gone out, " she said; "gone out in darkness, utter darkness. Youwarned me, and I did not heed the warning. I thought I knew better, but Iwas full of self-conceit. And now I am wandering where there is no way andno light. My iniquities have found me out. "

I did not say what I thought I saw plain enough, --that her lamp was justbeginning to burn. Neither did I try to persuade her that her iniquitieswere small. 

"But the Bridegroom, " I said, "is not yet come. There is time to go and getsome oil. "

"Where am I to get it?" she returned, in a tone of despair. 

"From the Bridegroom himself, " I said. 

"No, " she answered. "I have talked and talked and talked, and you know hesays he abhors talkers. I am one of those to whom he will say 'I know younot. '"

"And you will answer him that you have eaten and drunk in his presence, andcast out devils, and--?"

"No, no: I will say he is right; that it is all my own fault; that Ithought I was something when I was nothing, but that I know better now. "

A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her. As soon as it was over, Isaid, --

"And what will the Lord say to you, do you think, when you have said so tohim?"

"Depart from me, " she answered in a hollow, forced voice. 

"No, " I returned. "He will say, 'I know you well. You have told me thetruth. Come in. '"

"_Do_ you think so?" she cried. "You never used to think well of me. "

"Those who were turned away, " I said, avoiding her last words, "were tryingto make themselves out better than they were: they trusted, not in thelove of Christ, but in what they thought their worth and social standing. Perhaps, if their deeds had been as good as they thought them, they wouldhave known better than to trust in them. If they had told him the truth;if they had said, 'Lord, we are workers of iniquity; Lord, we used to behypocrites, but we speak the truth now: forgive us, '--do you think he wouldthen have turned them away? No, surely. If your lamp has gone out, makehaste and tell him how careless you have been; tell him all, and prayhim for oil and light; and see whether your lamp will not straightwayglimmer, --glimmer first and then glow. "

"Ah, Mrs. Percivale!" she cried: "I would _do_ something for His sake nowif I might, but I cannot. If I had but resisted the disease in me for thesake of serving him, I might have been able now: but my chance is over; Icannot now; I have too much pain. And death looks such a different thingnow! I used to think of it only as a kind of going to sleep, easy thoughsad--sad, I mean, in the eyes of mourning friends. But, alas! I have nofriends, now that my husband is gone. I never dreamed of him going first. He loved me: indeed he did, though you will hardly believe it; but I alwaystook it as a matter of course. I never saw how beautiful and unselfish hewas till he was gone. I have been selfish and stupid and dull, and my sinshave found me out. A great darkness has fallen upon me; and although wearyof life, instead of longing for death, I shrink from it with horror. Mycough will not let me sleep: there is nothing but weariness in my body, anddespair in my heart. Oh how black and dreary the nights are! I think of thetime in your house as of an earthly paradise. But where is the heavenlyparadise I used to dream of then?" "Would it content you, " I asked, "to beable to dream of it again?"

"No, no. I want something very different now. Those fancies look souninteresting and stupid now! All I want now is to hear God say, 'I forgiveyou. ' And my husband--I must have troubled him sorely. You don't know howgood he was, Mrs. Percivale. _He_ made no pretences like silly me. Do youknow, " she went on, lowering her voice, and speaking with something likehorror in its tone, "Do you know, I cannot _bear_ hymns!"

As she said it, she looked up in my face half-terrified with theanticipation of the horror she expected to see manifested there. I couldnot help smiling. The case was not one for argument of any kind: I thoughtfor a moment, then merely repeated the verse, --

 "When the law threatens endless death, Upon the awful hill, Straightway, from her consuming breath, My soul goes higher still, -- Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again, And where Death cannot come. "

"Ah! that is good, " she said: "if only I could get to him! But I cannot getto him. He is so far off! He seems to be--nowhere. "

I think she was going to say _nobody_, but changed the word. 

"If you felt for a moment how helpless and wretched I feel, especially inthe early morning, " she went on; "how there seems nothing to look for, andno help to be had, --you would pity rather than blame me, though I know Ideserve blame. I feel as if all the heart and soul and strength and mind, with which we are told to love God, had gone out of me; or, rather, as if Ihad never had any. I doubt if I ever had. I tried very hard for a long timeto get a sight of Jesus, to feel myself in his presence; but it was of nouse, and I have quite given it up now. "

I made her lie on the sofa, and sat down beside her. 

"Do you think, " I said, "that any one, before he came, could have imaginedsuch a visitor to the world as Jesus Christ?"

"I suppose not, " she answered listlessly. 

"Then, no more can you come near him now by trying to imagine him. Youcannot represent to yourself the reality, the Being who can comfort you. Inother words, you cannot take him into your heart. He only knows himself, and he only can reveal himself to you. And not until he does so, can youfind any certainty or any peace. "

"But he doesn't--he won't reveal himself to me. "

"Suppose you had forgotten what some friend of your childhood waslike--say, if it were possible, your own mother; suppose you could notrecall a feature of her face, or the color of her eyes; and suppose, that, while you were very miserable about it, you remembered all at once that youhad a portrait of her in an old desk you had not opened for years: whatwould you do?"

"Go and get it, " she answered like a child at the Sunday school. 

"Then why shouldn't you do so now? You have such a portrait of Jesus, far truer and more complete than any other kind of portrait can be, --theportrait his own deeds and words give us of him. "

"I see what you mean; but that is all about long ago, and I want him now. That is in a book, and I want him in my heart. "

"How are you to get him into your heart? How could you have him there, except by knowing him? But perhaps you think you do know him?"

"I am certain I do not know him; at least, as I want to know him, " shesaid. 

"No doubt, " I went on, "he can speak to your heart without the record, and, I think, is speaking to you now in this very want of him you feel. But howcould he show himself to you otherwise than by helping you to understandthe revelation of himself which it cost him such labor to afford? If thestory were millions of years old, so long as it was true, it would beall the same as if it had been ended only yesterday; for, being what herepresented himself, he never can change. To know what he was then, is toknow what he is now. "

"But, if I knew him so, that wouldn't be to have him with me. "

"No; but in that knowledge he might come to you. It is by the door of thatknowledge that his Spirit, which is himself, comes into the soul. You wouldat least be more able to pray to him: you would know what kind of a beingyou had to cry to. _You_ would thus come nearer to him; and no one everdrew nigh to him to whom he did not also draw nigh. If you would but readthe story as if you had never read it before, as if you were reading thehistory of a man you heard of for the first time"--

"Surely you're not a Unitarian, Mrs. Percivale!" she said, half lifting herhead, and looking at me with a dim terror in her pale eyes. 

"God forbid!" I answered. "But I would that many who think they knowbetter believed in him half as much as many Unitarians do. It is only byunderstanding and believing in that humanity of his, which in such painand labor manifested his Godhead, that we can come to know it, --know thatGodhead, I mean, in virtue of which alone he was a true and perfect man;that Godhead which alone can satisfy with peace and hope the poorest humansoul, for it also is the offspring of God. "

I ceased, and for some moments she sat silent. Then she said feebly, --

"There's a Bible somewhere in the room. "

I found it, and read the story of the woman who came behind him in terror, and touched the hem of his garment. I could hardly read it for the emotionit caused in myself; and when I ceased I saw her weeping silently. 

A servant entered with the message that Mr. Percivale had called for me. 

"I cannot see him to-day, " she sobbed. 

"Of course not, " I replied. "I must leave you now; but I will comeagain, --come often if you like. "

"You are as kind as ever!" she returned, with a fresh burst of tears. "Willyou come and be with me when--when--?"

She could not finish for sobs. 

"I will, " I said, knowing well what she meant. 

This is how I imagined the change to have come about: what had seemed herfaith had been, in a great measure, but her hope and imagination, occupyingthemselves with the forms of the religion towards which all that washighest in her nature dimly urged. The two characteristics of amicabilityand selfishness, not unfrequently combined, rendered it easy for her todeceive herself, or rather conspired to prevent her from undeceivingherself, as to the quality and worth of her religion. For, if she had beenother than amiable, the misery following the outbreaks of temper whichwould have been of certain occurrence in the state of her health, wouldhave made her aware in some degree of her moral condition; and, if herthoughts had not been centred upon herself, she would, in her care forothers, have learned her own helplessness; and the devotion of her goodhusband, not then accepted merely as a natural homage to her worth, wouldhave shown itself as a love beyond her deserts, and would have roused thelonging to be worthy of it. She saw now that he must have imagined her farbetter than she was: but she had not meant to deceive him; she had butfollowed the impulses of a bright, shallow nature. 

But that last epithet bids me pause, and remember that my father has taughtme, and that I have found the lesson true, that there is no such thing as ashallow nature: every nature is infinitely deep, for the works of God areeverlasting. Also, there is no nature that is not shallow to what it mustbecome. I suspect every nature must have the subsoil ploughing of sorrow, before it can recognize either its present poverty or its possible wealth. 

When her husband died, suddenly, of apoplexy, she was stunned for a time, gradually awaking to a miserable sense of unprotected loneliness, so muchthe more painful for her weakly condition, and the overcare to which shehad been accustomed. She was an only child, and had become an orphan withina year or two after her early marriage. Left thus without shelter, likea delicate plant whose house of glass has been shattered, she speedilyrecognized her true condition. With no one to heed her whims, and no onecapable of sympathizing with the genuine misery which supervened, herdisease gathered strength rapidly, her lamp went out, and she saw no lightbeyond; for the smoke of that lamp had dimmed the windows at which thestars would have looked in. When life became dreary, her fancies, despoiledof the halo they had cast on the fogs of selfish comfort, ceased tointerest her; and the future grew a vague darkness, an uncertainty teemingwith questions to which she had no answer. Henceforth she was consciousof life only as a weakness, as the want of a deeper life to hold it up. Existence had become a during faint, and self hateful. She saw that she waspoor and miserable and blind and naked, --that she had never had faith fitto support her. 

But out of this darkness dawned at least a twilight, so gradual, so slow, that I cannot tell when or how the darkness began to melt. She became awareof a deeper and simpler need than hitherto she had known, --the need of lifein herself, the life of the Son of God. I went to see her often. At thetime when I began this history, I was going every other day, --sometimesoftener, for her end seemed to be drawing nigh. Her weakness had greatlyincreased: she could but just walk across the room, and was constantlyrestless. She had no great continuous pain, but oft-returning sharp fits ofit. She looked genuinely sad, and her spirits never recovered themselves. She seldom looked out of the window; the daylight seemed to distress her:flowers were the only links between her and the outer world, --wild ones, for the scent of greenhouse-flowers, and even that of most garden ones, shecould not bear. She had been very fond of music, but could no longer endureher piano: every note seemed struck on a nerve. But she was generally quietin her mind, and often peaceful. The more her body decayed about her, themore her spirit seemed to come alive. It was the calm of a gray evening, not so lovely as a golden sunset or a silvery moonlight, but more sweetthan either. She talked little of her feelings, but evidently longed afterthe words of our Lord. As she listened to some of them, I could see theeyes which had now grown dim with suffering, gleam with the light of holylonging and humble adoration. 

For some time she often referred to her coming departure, and confessedthat she "feared death; not so much what might be on the other side, as thedark way itself, --the struggle, the torture, the fainting; but by degreesher allusions to it became rarer, and at length ceased almost entirely. Once I said to her, --

"Are you afraid of death still, Eleanor?"

"No--not much, " she replied, after a brief pause. "He may do with mewhatever He likes. "

Knowing so well what Marion could do to comfort and support, and thereforedesirous of bringing them together, I took her one day with me. But certainthat the thought of seeing a stranger would render my poor Eleanor uneasy, and that what discomposure a sudden introduction might cause would speedilyvanish in Marion's presence, I did not tell her what I was going to do. Norin this did I mistake. Before we left, it was plain that Marion had a farmore soothing influence upon her than I had myself. She looked eagerly forher next visit, and my mind was now more at peace concerning her. 

One evening, after listening to some stories from Marion about her friends, Mrs. Cromwell said, --

"Ah, Miss Clare! to think I might have done something for _Him_ by doing itfor _them!_ Alas! I have led a useless life, and am dying out of this worldwithout having borne any fruit! Ah, me, me!"

"You are doing a good deal for him now, " said Marion, "and hard work too!"she added; "harder far than mine. "

"I am only dying, " she returned--so sadly!

"You are enduring chastisement, " said Marion. "The Lord gives one one thingto do, and another another. We have no right to wish for other work than hegives us. It is rebellious and unchildlike, whatever it may seem. Neitherhave we any right to wish to be better in _our_ way: we must wish to bebetter in _his_. "

"But I _should_ like to do something for _him_; bearing is only for myself. Surely I may wish that?"

"No: you may not. Bearing is not only for yourself. You are quite wrong inthinking you do nothing for him in enduring, " returned Marion, with thatabrupt decision of hers which seemed to some like rudeness. "What is thewill of God? Is it not your sanctification? And why did he make the Captainof our salvation perfect through suffering? Was it not that he might inlike manner bring many sons into glory? Then, if you are enduring, you areworking with God, --for the perfection through suffering of one more: youare working for God in yourself, that the will of God may be done in you;that he may have his very own way with you. It is the only work he requiresof you now: do it not only willingly, then, but contentedly. To make peoplegood is all his labor: be good, and you are a fellow-worker with God in thehighest region of labor. He does not want you for other people--_yet_. "

At the emphasis Marion laid on the last word, Mrs. Cromwell glanced sharplyup. A light broke over her face: she had understood, and with a smile wassilent. 

One evening, when we were both with her, it had grown very sultry andbreathless. 

"Isn't it very close, dear Mrs. Percivale?" she said. 

I rose to get a fan; and Marion, leaving the window as if moved by a suddenresolve, went and opened the piano. Mrs. Cromwell made a hasty motion, asif she must prevent her. But, such was my faith in my friend's soul as wellas heart, in her divine taste as well as her human faculty, that I venturedto lay my hand on Mrs. Cromwell's. It was enough for sweetness like hers:she yielded instantly, and lay still, evidently nerving herself to suffer. But the first movement stole so "soft and soullike" on her ear, tremblingas it were on the border-land between sound and silence, that she missedthe pain she expected, and found only the pleasure she looked not for. Marion's hands made the instrument sigh and sing, not merely as with ahuman voice, but as with a human soul. Her own voice next evolved itselffrom the dim uncertainty, in sweet proportions and delicate modulations, stealing its way into the heart, to set first one chord, then another, vibrating, until the whole soul was filled with responses. If I add thather articulation was as nearly perfect as the act of singing will permit, my reader may well believe that a song of hers would do what a song might. 

Where she got the song she then sung, she always avoids telling me. I hadtold her all I knew and understood concerning Mrs. Cromwell, and have mysuspicions. This is the song:--

 "I fancy I hear a whisper As of leaves in a gentle air: Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy It may be the tree up there?-- The tree that heals the nations, Growing amidst the street, And dropping, for who will gather, Its apples at their feet?

 "I fancy I hear a rushing As of waters down a slope: Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy It may be the river of hope? The river of crystal waters That flows from the very throne, And runs through the street of the city With a softly jubilant tone?

 "I fancy a twilight round me, And a wandering of the breeze, With a hush in that high city, And a going in the trees. But I know there will be no night there, -- No coming and going day; For the holy face of the Father Will be perfect light alway. 

 "I could do without the darkness, And better without the sun; But, oh, I should like a twilight After the day was done! Would he lay his hand on his forehead, On his hair as white as wool, And shine one hour through his fingers, Till the shadow had made me cool?

 "But the thought is very foolish: If that face I did but see, All else would be all forgotten, -- River and twilight and tree; I should seek, I should care, for nothing, Beholding his countenance; And fear only to lose one glimmer By one single sideway glance. 

 "'Tis but again a foolish fancy To picture the countenance so. Which is shining in all our spirits, Making them white as snow. Come to me, shine in me, Master, And I care not for river or tree, -- Care for no sorrow or crying, If only thou shine in me. 

 "I would lie on my bed for ages, Looking out on the dusty street, Where whisper nor leaves nor waters, Nor any thing cool and sweet; At my heart this ghastly fainting, And this burning in my blood, -- If only I knew thou wast with me, -- Wast with me and making me good. "

When she rose from the piano, Mrs. Cromwell stretched out her hand forhers, and held it some time, unable to speak. Then she said, --

"That has done me good, I hope. I will try to be more patient, for I thinkHe _is_ teaching me. "

She died, at length, in my arms. I cannot linger over that last time. Shesuffered a good deal, but dying people are generally patient. She wentwithout a struggle. The last words I heard her utter were, "Yes, Lord;"after which she breathed but once. A half-smile came over her face, whichfroze upon it, and remained, until the coffin-lid covered it. But I shallsee it, I trust, a whole smile some day. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

ANCESTRAL WISDOM. 

I did think of having a chapter about children before finishing my book;but this is not going to be the kind of chapter I thought of. Like mostmothers, I suppose, I think myself an authority on the subject; and, whichis to me more assuring than any judgment of my own, my father says that Ihave been in a measure successful in bringing mine up, --only they're notbrought up very far yet. Hence arose the temptation to lay down a fewpractical rules I had proved and found answer. But, as soon as I began tocontemplate the writing of them down, I began to imagine So-and-so andSo-and-so attempting to carry them out, and saw what a dreadful muddle theywould make of it, and what mischief would thence lie at my door. Only onething can be worse than the attempt to carry out rules whose principlesare not understood; and that is the neglect of those which are understood, and seen to be right. Suppose, for instance, I were to say that corporalpunishment was wholesome, involving less suffering than most otherpunishments, more effectual in the result, and leaving no sting or senseof unkindness; whereas mental punishment, considered by many to be morerefined, and therefore less degrading, was often cruel to a sensitivechild, and deadening to a stubborn one: suppose I said this, and a womanlike my Aunt Millicent were to take it up: _her_ whippings would haveno more effect than if her rod were made of butterflies' feathers; theywould be a mockery to her children, and bring law into contempt; while ifa certain father I know were to be convinced by my arguments, he wouldfill his children with terror of him now, and with hatred afterwards. Ofthe last-mentioned result of severity, I know at least one instance. Atpresent, the father to whom I refer disapproves of whipping even a man whohas been dancing on his wife with hob-nailed shoes, because it would tendto brutalize him. But he taunts and stings, and confines in solitude forlengthened periods, high-spirited boys, and that for faults which I shouldconsider very venial. 

Then, again, if I were to lay down the rule that we must be as tender ofthe feelings of our children as if they were angel-babies who had to learn, alas! to understand our rough ways, how would that be taken by a certainFrench couple I know, who, not appearing until after the dinner to whichthey had accepted an invitation was over, gave as the reason, that it hadbeen quite out of their power; for darling Désirée, their only child, had declared they shouldn't go, and that she would cry if they did; nay, went so far as to insist on their going to bed, which they were, howeverreluctant, compelled to do. They had actually undressed, and pretendedto retire for the night; but, as soon as she was safely asleep, rose andjoined their friends, calm in the consciousness of abundant excuse. 

The marvel to me is that so many children turn out so well. 

After all, I think there can be no harm in mentioning a few generalprinciples laid down by my father. They are such as to commend themselvesmost to the most practical. 

And first for a few negative ones. 

1. Never _give in_ to disobedience; and never threaten what you are notprepared to carry out. 

2. Never lose your temper. I do not say _never be angry_. Anger issometimes indispensable, especially where there has been any thing mean, dishonest, or cruel. But anger is very different from loss of temper. [Footnote: My Aunt Millicent is always saying, "I am _grieeeved_ with you. "But the announcement begets no sign of responsive grief on the face of thestolid child before her. She never whipped a child in her life. If she had, and it had but roused some positive anger in the child, instead of thatundertone of complaint which is always oozing out of every one of them, Ithink It would have been a gain. But the poor lady is one of the whiny-pinypeople, and must be in preparation for a development of which I have noprevision. The only stroke of originality I thought I knew of her was this;to the register of her children's births, baptisms, and confirmations, entered on a grandly-ornamented fly-leaf of the family Bible, she hassubjoined the record of every disease each has had, with the year, month, and day (and in one case the hour), when each distemper made itsappearance. After most of the main entries, you may read, "_Cut his_ (orher) _first tooth_"--at such a date. But, alas for the originality! she hasjust told me that her maternal grandmother did the same. How strange thatshe and my father should have had the same father I If they had had thesame mother, too, I should have been utterly bewildered. ]

3. Of all things, never sneer at them; and be careful, even, how you rallythem. 

4. Do not try to work on their feelings. Feelings are far too delicatethings to be used for tools. It is like taking the mainspring out of yourwatch, and notching it for a saw. It may be a wonderful saw, but how faresyour watch? Especially avoid doing so in connection with religious things, for so you will assuredly deaden them to all that is finest. Let yourfeelings, not your efforts on theirs, affect them with a sympathy the morepowerful that it is not forced upon them; and, in order to do this, avoidbeing too English in the hiding of your feelings. A man's own family has aright to share in his _good_ feelings. 

5. Never show that you doubt, except you are able to convict. To doubt anhonest child is to do what you can to make a liar of him; and to believe aliar, if he is not altogether shameless, is to shame him. 

The common-minded masters in schools, who, unlike the ideal Arnold, are inthe habit of _disbelieving_ boys, have a large share in making the liarsthey so often are. Certainly the vileness of a lie is not the same in onewho knows that whatever he says will be regarded with suspicion; and themaster, who does not know an honest boy after he has been some time in hisclass, gives good reason for doubting whether he be himself an honest man, and incapable of the lying he is ready to attribute to all alike. 

This last is my own remark, not my father's. I have an honest boy atschool, and I know how he fares. I say honest; for though, as a mother, Ican hardly expect to be believed, I have ground for believing that he wouldrather die than lie. I know _I_ would rather he died than lied. 

6. Instil no religious doctrine apart from its duty. If it have no duty asits necessary embodiment, the doctrine may well be regarded as doubtful. 

7. Do not be hard on mere quarrelling, which, like a storm in nature, isoften helpful in clearing the moral atmosphere. Stop it by a judgmentbetween the parties. But be severe as to the _kind_ of quarrelling, and thetemper shown in it. Especially give no quarter to any unfairness arisingfrom greed or spite. Use your strongest language with regard to that. 

Now for a few of my father's positive rules:

1. Always let them come to you, and always hear what they have to say. Ifthey bring a complaint, always examine into it, and dispense pure justice, and nothing but justice. 

2. Cultivate a love of _giving_ fair-play. Every one, of course, likes to_receive_ fair-play; but no one ought to be left to imagine, therefore, that he _loves fair-play_. 

3. Teach from the very first, from the infancy capable of sucking asugar-plum, to share with neighbors. Never refuse the offering a childbrings you, except you have a good reason, --and _give_ it. And never_pretend_ to partake: that involves hideous possibilities in its effects onthe child. 

The necessity of giving a reason for refusing a kindness has no relation towhat is supposed by some to be the necessity of giving a reason with everycommand. There is no such necessity. Of course there ought to be a reasonin every command. That it _may_ be desirable, sometimes, to explain it, isall my father would allow. 

4. Allow a great deal of noise, --as much as is fairly endurable; but, themoment they seem getting beyond their own control, stop the noise at once. Also put a stop at once to all fretting and grumbling. 

5. Favor the development of each in the direction of his own bent. Helphim to develop himself, but do not _push_ development. To do so is mostdangerous. 

6. Mind the moral nature, and it will take care of the intellectual. Inother words, the best thing for the intellect is the cultivation of theconscience, not in casuistry, but in conduct. It may take longer to arrive;but the end will be the highest possible health, vigor, and ratio ofprogress. 

7. Discourage emulation, and insist on duty, --not often, but strongly. 

Having written these out, chiefly from notes I had made of a long talk withmy father, I gave them to Percivale to read. 

"Rather--ponderous, don't you think, for weaving into a narrative?" was hisremark. 

"My narrative is full of things far from light, " I returned. "I didn't saythey were heavy, you know. That is quite another thing. "

"I am afraid you mean generally uninteresting. But there are parents whomight make them useful, and the rest of my readers could skip them. "

"I only mean that a narrative, be it ever so serious, must not intrench onthe moral essay or sermon. "

"It is much too late, I fear, to tell me that. But, please, remember I amnot giving the precepts as of my own discovery, though I _have_ sought toverify them by practice, but as what they are, --my father's. "

He did not seem to see the bearing of the argument. 

"I want my book to be useful, " I said. "As a mother, I want to share thehelp I have had myself with other mothers. "

"I am only speaking from the point of art, " he returned. 

"And that's a point I have never thought of; any farther, at least, thanwriting as good English as I might. "

"Do you mean to say you have never thought of the shape of the book yourmonthly papers would make?"

"Yes. I don't think I have. Scarcely at all, I believe. "

"Then you ought. "

"But I know nothing about that kind of thing. I haven't an idea in my headconcerning the art of book-making. And it is too late, so far at least asthis book is concerned, to begin to study it now. "

"I wonder how my pictures would get on in that way. "

"You can see how my book has got on. Well or ill, there it all but is. Ihad to do with facts, and not with art. "

"But even a biography, in the ordering of its parts, in the arrangement ofits light and shade, and in the harmony of the"--

"It's too late, I tell you, husband. The book is all but done. Besides, one who would write a biography after the fashion of a picture wouldprobably, even without attributing a single virtue that was not present, or suppressing a single fault that was, yet produce a false book. Theprinciple I have followed has been to try from the first to put as muchvalue, that is, as much truth, as I could, into my story. Perhaps, insteadof those maxims of my father's for the education of children, you wouldhave preferred such specimens of your own children's sermons as you made meread to you for the twentieth time yesterday?"

Instead of smiling with his own quiet kind smile, as he worked on at hispicture of St. Athanasius with "no friend but God and Death, " he burst intoa merry laugh, and said, --

"A capital idea! If you give those, word for word, I shall yield theprecepts. "

"Are you out of your five wits, husband?" I exclaimed. "Would you haveeverybody take me for the latest incarnation of the oldest insanity in theworld, --that of maternity? But I am really an idiot, for you could neverhave meant it!"

"I do most soberly and distinctly mean it. They would amuse your readersvery much, and, without offending those who may prefer your father'smaxims to your children's sermons, would incline those who might otherwisevote the former a bore, to regard them with the clemency resulting fromamusement. "

"But I desire no such exercise of clemency. The precepts are admirable; andthose need not take them who do not like them. "

"So the others can skip the sermons; but I am sure they will give a fewmothers, at least, a little amusement. They will prove besides, that youfollow your own rule of putting a very small quantity of sage into thestuffing of your goslings; as also that you have succeeded in making themcapable of manifesting what nonsense is indigenous in them. I think themvery funny; that may be paternal prejudice: _you_ think them very sillyas well; that may be maternal solicitude. I suspect, that, the more of aphilosopher any one of your readers is, the more suggestive will he findthese genuine utterances of an age at which the means of expression so muchexceed the matter to be expressed. "

The idea began to look not altogether so absurd as at first; and a littlemore argument sufficed to make me resolve to put the absurdities themselvesto the test of passing leisurely through my brain while I copied them out, possibly for the press. 

The result is, that I am going to risk printing them, determined, should Ifind afterwards that I have made a blunder, to throw the whole blame uponmy husband. 

What still makes me shrink the most is the recollection of how often I havecondemned, as too silly to repeat, things which reporting mothers evidentlyregarded as proofs of a stupendous intellect. But the folly of theseconstitutes the chief part of their merit; and I do not see how I can bemistaken for supposing them clever, except it be in regard of a glimmer ofpurpose now and then, and the occasional manifestation of the cunning ofthe stump orator, with his subterfuges to conceal his embarrassment when hefinds his oil failing him, and his lamp burning low. 

CHAPTER XL. 

CHILD NONSENSE. 

One word of introductory explanation. 

During my husband's illness, Marion came often, but, until he began torecover, would generally spend with the children the whole of the time shehad to spare, not even permitting me to know that she was in the house. Itwas a great thing for them; for, although they were well enough cared for, they were necessarily left to themselves a good deal more than hitherto. Hence, perhaps, it came that they betook themselves to an amusement notuncommon with children, of which I had as yet seen nothing amongst them. 

One evening, when my husband had made a little progress towards recovery, Marion came to sit with me in his room for an hour. 

"I've brought you something I want to read to you, " she said, "if you thinkMr. Percivale can bear it. "

I told her I believed he could, and she proceeded to explain what it was. 

"One morning, when I went into the nursery, I found the children playing atchurch, or rather at preaching; for, except a few minutes of singing, thepreaching occupied the whole time. There were two clergymen, Ernest andCharles, alternately incumbent and curate. The chief duty of the curate forthe time being was to lend his aid to the rescue of his incumbent from anydifficulty in which the extemporaneous character of his discourse mightland him. "

I interrupt Marion to mention that the respective ages of Ernest andCharles were then eight and six. 

"The pulpit, " she continued, "was on the top of the cupboard underthe cuckoo-clock, and consisted of a chair and a cushion. There wereprayer-books in abundance; of which neither of them, I am happy to say, made other than a pretended use for reference. Charles, indeed, whowas preaching when I entered, _can't_ read; but both have far too muchreverence to use sacred words in their games, as the sermons themselveswill instance. I took down almost every word they said, frequentembarrassments and interruptions enabling me to do so. Ernest was acting asclerk, and occasionally prompted the speaker when his eloquence failed him, or reproved members of the congregation, which consisted of the two nursesand the other children, who were inattentive. Charles spoke with a gooddeal of _unction_, and had quite a professional air when he looked downon the big open book, referred to one or other of the smaller ones at hisside, or directed looks of reprehension at this or that hearer. You wouldhave thought he had cultivated the imitation of popular preachers, whereashe tells me he has been to church only three times. I am sorry I cannotgive the opening remarks, for I lost them by being late; but what I didhear was this. "

She then read from her paper as follows, and lent it me afterwards. Imerely copy it. 

"Once" (_Charles was proceeding when Marion entered_), "there lived an agedman, and another who was a _very_ aged man; and the very aged man was goingto die, and every one but the aged man thought the other, the _very_ agedman, wouldn't die. I do this to _explain_ it to you. He, the man who was_really_ going to die, was--I will look in the dictionary" (_He looks inthe book, and gives out with much confidence_), "was two thousand andeighty-eight years old. Well, the other man was--well, then, the other man'at knew he was going to die, was about four thousand and two; not nearlyso old, you see. " (_Here Charles whispers with Ernest, and then announcesvery loud_), --"This is out of St. James. The _very_ aged man had a wifeand no children; and the other had no wife, but a _great many_ children. The fact was--_this_ was how it was--the wife _died_, and so _he_ had thechildren. Well, the man I spoke of first, well, he died in the middleof the night. " (_A look as much as to say, "There! what do you think ofthat?_"); "an' nobody but the aged man knew he was going to die. Well, inthe morning, when his wife got up, she spoke to him, and he was dead!" (_Apause. _) "Perfectly, sure enough--_dead_!" (_Then, with a change of voiceand manner_), "He wasn't really dead, because you know" (_abruptly andnervously_)--"Shut the door!--you know where he went, because in themorning next day" (_He pauses and looks round. Ernest, out of a book, prompts_--"The angels take him away"), "came the angels to take him away, up to where you know. " (_All solemn. He resumes quickly, with a change ofmanner_), "They, all the rest, died of grief. Now, you must expect, as theyall died of grief, that lots of angels must have come to take _them_ away. Freddy _will_ go when the sermon isn't over! That _is_ such a bother!"

At this point Marion paused in her reading, and resumed the narrative form. 

"Freddy, however, was too much for them; so Ernest betook himself to theorgan, which was a chest of drawers, the drawers doing duty as stops, whileFreddy went up to the pulpit to say 'Good-by, ' and shake hands, for whichhe was mildly reproved by both his brothers. "

My husband and I were so much amused, that Marion said she had anothersermon, also preached by Charles, on the same day, after a short interval;and at our request she read it. Here it is. 

"Once upon a time--a long while ago, in a little--Ready now?--Well, therelived in a rather big house, with _quite_ clean windows: it was in winter, so nobody noticed them, but they were quite _white_, they were so clean. There lived some angels in the house: it was in the air, nobody knew why, but it did. No: I don't think it did--I dunno, but there lived in itlots of children--two hundred and thirty-two--and they--Oh! I'm gettin'distracted! It is too bad!" (_Quiet is restored. _) "Their mother andfather had died, but they were very rich. Now, you see what a heap ofchildren, --two hundred and thirty-two! and yet it seemed like _one_ tothem, they were so rich. _That_ was it! it seemed like _one_ to thembecause they were so rich. Now, the children knew what to get, and I'llexplain to you now _why_ they knew; and _this_ is how they knew. The angelscame down on the earth, and told them their mother had sent messages tothem; and their mother and father--_Don't_ talk! I'm gettin' extracted!"(_Puts his hand to his head in a frenzied manner. _) "Now, my brother"(_This severely to a still inattentive member_), "I'll tell you what theangels told them--what to get. What--how--now I will tell you how, --yes, _how_ they knew what they were to eat. Well, the fact was, that--Freddy'sjust towards my face, and he's laughing! I'm going to explain. The motherand father had the wings on, and so, of course--Ernest, I want you!" (_Theywhisper. _)--"they were he and she angels, and they told them what to have. Well, one thing was--shall I tell you what it was? Look at two hundredand two in another book--one thing was a leg of mutton. Of course, as themother and father were angels, they had to fly up again. Now I'm going toexplain how they got it done. They had four servants and one cook, so thatwould be five. Well, this cook did them. The eldest girl was sixteen, andher name was Snowdrop, because she had snowy arms and cheeks, and was avery nice girl. The eldest boy was seventeen, and his name was John. Healways told the cook what they'd have--no, the girl did that. And the boywas now grown up. So they would be mother and father. " (_Signs of dissentamong the audience. _) "_Of course_, when they were so old, they would bemother and father, and master of the servants. And they were very happy, _but_--they didn't quite like it. And--and"--(_with a great burst_) "_you_wouldn't like it if _your_ mother were to die! And I'll end it next Sunday. Let us sing. "

"The congregation then sung 'Curly Locks, '" said Marion, "and dispersed;Ernest complaining that Charley gave them such large qualities of numbers, and there weren't so many in the whole of his book. After a brief intervalthe sermon was resumed. "

"Text is No. 66. I've a good congregation! I got to where the children didnot like it without their mother and father. Well, you must remember thiswas a long while ago, so what I'm going to speak about _could_ be possible. Well, their house was on the top of a high and steep hill; and at thebottom, a little from the hill, was a knight's house. There were threeknights living in it. Next to it was stables with three horses in it. Sometimes they went up to this house, and wondered what was in it. 'Theynever knew, but saw the angels come. The knights were out all day, and onlycame home for meals. And they wondered what _on earth_ the angels weredoin', goin' in the house. They found out _what_--what, and the questionwas--I'll explain what it was. Ernest, come here. " (_Ernest remarks to theaudience_, "I'm curate, " _and to Charles_, "Well, but, Charles, you'regoing to explain, you know;" _and Charles resumes_. ) "The fact was, thatthis was--if you'd like to explain it more to yourselves, you'd betterlook in your books, No. 1828. Before, the angels didn't speak loud, so theknights couldn't hear; _now_ they spoke louder, so that the knights couldvisit them, 'cause they knew their names. They hadn't many visitors, butthey had the knights in there, and that's all. "

I am still very much afraid that all this nonsense will hardly beinteresting, even to parents. But I may as well suffer for a sheep as alamb; and, as I had an opportunity of hearing two such sermons myself notlong after, I shall give them, trusting they will occupy far less space inprint than they do in my foolish heart. 

It was Ernest who was in the pulpit and just commencing his discourse whenI entered the nursery, and sat down with the congregation. Sheltered by aclothes-horse, apparently set up for a screen, I took out my pencil, andreported on a fly-leaf of the book I had been reading:--

"My brother was goin' to preach about the wicked: I will preach about thegood. Twenty-sixth day. In the time of Elizabeth there was a very oldhouse. It was so old that it was pulled down, and a quite new one was builtinstead. Some people who lived in it did not like it so much now as theydid when it was old. I take their part, you know, and think they were quiteright in preferring the old one to the ugly, bare, new one. They leftit--sold it--and got into another old house instead. "

Here, I am sorry to say, his curate interjected the scornful remark, --

"He's not lookin' in the book a bit!"

But the preacher went on, without heeding the attack on his orthodoxy. 

"This other old house was still more uncomfortable: it was very draughty;the gutters were always leaking; and they wished themselves back in the newhouse. So, you see, if you wish for a better thing, you don't get it sogood after all. "

"Ernest, that _is_ about the bad, after all!" cried Charles. 

"Well, it's _silly_, " remarked Freddy severely. 

"But I wrote it myself, " pleaded the preacher from the pulpit; and, inconsideration of the fact, he was allowed to go on. 

"I was reading about them being always uncomfortable. At last they decidedto go back to their own house, which they had sold. They had to pay so muchto get it back, that they had hardly any money left; and then they got sounhappy, and the husband whipped his wife, and took to drinking. That's alesson. " (_Here the preacher's voice became very plaintive_), "that's alesson to show you shouldn't try to get the better thing, for it turns outworse, and then you get sadder, and every thing. "

He paused, evidently too mournful to proceed. Freddy again remarked that itwas _silly_; but Charles interposed a word for the preacher. 

"It's a good _lesson_, I think. A good _lesson_, I say, " he repeated, as ifhe would not be supposed to consider it much of a sermon. 

But here the preacher recovered himself and summed up. 

"See how it comes: wanting to get every thing, you come to the bad anddrinking. And I think I'll leave off here. Let us sing. "

The song was "Little Robin Redbreast;" during which Charles remarked toFreddy, apparently by way of pressing home the lesson upon his youngerbrother, --

"Fancy! floggin' his wife!"

Then he got into the pulpit himself, and commenced an oration. 

"Chapter eighty-eight. _The wicked_. --Well, the time when the story was, was about Herod. There were some wicked people wanderin' about there, andthey--not _killed_ them, you know, but--went to the judge. We shall seewhat they did to them. I tell you this to make you understand. Now thestory begins--but I must think a little. Ernest, let's sing 'Since first Isaw your face. '

"When the wicked man was taken then to the good judge--there were _some_good people: when I said I was going to preach about the wicked, I didnot mean that there were no good, only a good lot of wicked. There werepleacemans about here, and they put him in prison for a few days, and thenthe judge could see about what he is to do with him. At the end of thefew days, the judge asked him if he would stay in prison for life or behanged. "

Here arose some inquiries among the congregation as to what the wicked, of whom the prisoner was one, had done that was wrong; to which Charlesreplied, --

"Oh! they murdered and killed; they stealed, and they were very wickedaltogether. Well, " he went on, resuming his discourse, "the morning came, and the judge said, 'Get the ropes and my throne, and order the people_not_ to come to see the hangin'. ' For the man was decided to be hanged. Now, the people _would_ come. They were the wicked, and they would_persist_ in comin'. They were the wicked; and, if that was the _fact_, the judge must do something to them. 

"Chapter eighty-nine. _The hangin'_. --We'll have some singin' while Ithink. "

"Yankee Doodle" was accordingly sung with much enthusiasm and solemnity. Then Charles resumed. 

"Well, they had to put the other people, who persisted in coming, inprison, till the man who murdered people was hanged. I think my brotherwill go on. "

He descended, and gave place to Ernest, who began with vigor. 

"We were reading about Herod, weren't we? Then the wicked people _would_come, and had to be put to death. They were on the man's side; and they allcalled out that he hadn't had his wish before he died, as they did in thosedays. So of course he wished for his life, and of course the judge wouldn'tlet him have _that_ wish; and so he wished to speak to his friends, andthey let him. And the nasty wicked people took him away, and he was neverseen in that country any more. And that's enough to-day, I think. Let ussing 'Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate, a combing his milk-whitesteed. '"

At the conclusion of this mournful ballad, the congregation was allowed todisperse. But, before they had gone far, they were recalled by the offer ofa more secular entertainment from Charles, who re-ascended the pulpit, anddelivered himself as follows:--

"Well, the play is called--not a proverb or a charade it isn't--it's a playcalled 'The Birds and the Babies. ' Well!

"Once there was a little cottage, and lots of little babies in it. Nobodyknew who the babies were. They were so happy! Now, I can't explain it toyou how they came together: they had no father and mother, but they werebrothers and sisters. They never _grew_, and they didn't like it. Now, _you_ wouldn't like _not_ to _grow_, would you? They had a little garden, and saw a great many birds in the trees. They _were_ happy, but didn't_feel_ happy--that's a funny thing now! The wicked fairies made themunhappy, and the good fairies made them happy; they gave them lots of toys. But then, how they got their living!

"Chapter second, called 'The Babies at Play. '--The fairies told them whatto get--_that was it!_--and so they got their living Very nicely. And now Imust explain what they played with. First was a house. _A house. _ Another, dolls. They were very happy, and felt as if they had a mother and father;but they hadn't, and _couldn't_ make it out. _Couldn't--make--it--out!_

"They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies' rattles. _Babies'rattles. _--Oh! I've said hardly any thing about the birds, have I? an' it'scalled '_The Birds and the Babies!_' They had lots of little pretty robinsand canaries hanging round the ceiling, and--_shall_ I say?"--

Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed. 

"_--And--lived--happy--ever--after. _"

The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at, --why and howboth the desire and the means of utterance should so long precede thepossession of any thing ripe for utterance. I suspect the answer must liepretty deep in some metaphysical gulf or other. 

At the same time, the struggle to speak where there is so little toutter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of some efforts of a morepretentious and imposing character. 

But more than enough!

CHAPTER XLI. 

"DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE. "

I had for a day or two fancied that Marion was looking less bright thanusual, as if some little shadow had fallen upon the morning of her life. Isay _morning_, because, although Marion must now have been seven or eightand twenty, her life had always seemed to me lighted by a cool, clear, dewymorning sun, over whose face it now seemed as if some film of noonday cloudhad begun to gather. Unwilling at once to assert the ultimate privilegeof friendship, I asked her if any thing was amiss with her friends. Sheanswered that all was going on well, at least so far that she had nospecial anxiety about any of them. Encouraged by a half-conscious and morethan half-sad smile, I ventured a little farther. 

"I am afraid there is something troubling you, " I said. 

"There is, " she replied, "something troubling me a good deal; but I hope itwill pass away soon. "

The sigh which followed, however, was deep though gentle, and seemed toindicate a fear that the trouble might not pass away so very soon. 

"I am not to ask you any questions, I suppose, " I returned. 

"Better not at present, " she answered. "I am not quite sure that"--

She paused several moments before finishing her sentence, then added, --

"--that I am at liberty to tell you about it. "

"Then don't say another word, " I rejoined. "Only when I can be of serviceto you, you _will_ let me, won't you?"

The tears rose to her eyes. 

"I'm afraid it may be some fault of mine, " she said. "I don't know. I can'ttell. I don't understand such things. "

She sighed again, and held her peace. 

It was enigmatical enough. One thing only was clear, that at present I wasnot wanted. So I, too, held my peace, and in a few minutes Marion went, with a more affectionate leave-taking than usual, for her friendship wasfar less demonstrative than that of most women. 

I pondered, but it was not of much use. Of course the first thing thatsuggested itself was, Could my angel be in love? and with some mortal mere?The very idea was a shock, simply from its strangeness. Of course, beinga woman, she _might_ be in love; but the two ideas, _Marion_ and _love_, refused to coalesce. And again, was it likely that such as she, her mindoccupied with so many other absorbing interests, would fall in loveunprovoked, unsolicited? That, indeed, was not likely. Then if, solicited, she but returned love for love, why was she sad? The new experience might, it is true, cause such commotion in a mind like hers as to trouble hergreatly. She would not know what to do with it, nor where to accommodateher new inmate so as to keep him from meddling with affairs he had no rightto meddle with: it was easy enough to fancy him troublesome in a houselike hers. But surely of all women _she_ might be able to meet her ownliabilities. And if this were all, why should she have said she hoped itwould soon pass? That might, however, mean only that she hoped soon to gether guest brought amenable to her existing household economy. 

There was yet a conjecture, however, which seemed to suit the case better. If Marion knew little of what is commonly called love, that is, "theattraction of correlative unlikeness, " as I once heard it defined by ametaphysical friend of my father's, there was no one who knew more ofthe tenderness of compassion than she; and was it not possible some onemight be wanting to marry her to whom she could not give herself away?This conjecture was at least ample enough to cover the facts in mypossession--which were scanty indeed, in number hardly dual. But who wasthere to dare offer love to my saint? Roger? Pooh! pooh! Mr. Blackstone?Ah! I had seen him once lately looking at her with an expression of morethan ordinary admiration. But what man that knew any thing of her couldhelp looking at her with such an admiration? If it was Mr. Blackstone--why, _he_ might dare--yes, why should he not dare to love her?--especially if hecouldn't help it, as, of course, he couldn't. Was he not one whose love, simply because he was a _true_ man from the heart to the hands, would honorany woman, even Saint Clare--as she must be when the church has learned todo its business without the pope? Only he mustn't blame me, if, after all, I should think he offered less than he sought; or her, if, entertainingno question of worth whatever, she should yet refuse to listen to him as, truly, there was more than a possibility she might. 

If it were Mr. Blackstone, certainly I knew no man who could understand herbetter, or whose modes of thinking and working would more thoroughly fallin with her own. True, he was peculiar; that is, he had kept the angles ofhis individuality, for all the grinding of the social mill; his mannerswere too abrupt, and drove at the heart of things too directly, seldomsuggesting a _by-your-leave_ to those whose prejudices he overturned: true, also, that his person, though dignified, was somewhat ungainly, --withan ungainliness, however, which I could well imagine a wife learningabsolutely to love; but, on the whole, the thing was reasonable. Only, whatwould become of her friends? There, I could hardly doubt, there lay thedifficulty! Ay, _there_ was the rub!

Let no one think, when I say we went to Mr. Blackstone's church the nextSunday, that it had any thing to do with these speculations. We often wenton the first Sunday of the month. 

"What's the matter with Blackstone?" said my husband as we came home. 

"What do _you_ think is the matter with him?" I returned. 

"I don't know. He wasn't himself. "

"I thought he was more than himself, " I rejoined; "for I never heard even_him_ read the litany with such fervor. "

"In some of the petitions, " said Percivale, "it amounted to a suppressedagony of supplication. I am certain he is in trouble. "

I told him my suspicions. 

"Likely--very likely, " he answered, and became thoughtful. 

"But you don't think she refused him?" he said at length. 

"If he ever asked her, " I returned, "I fear she did; for she is plainly introuble too. "

"She'll never stick to it, " he said. 

"You mustn't judge Marion by ordinary standards, " I replied. "You mustremember she has not only found her vocation, but for many years proved it. I never knew her turned aside from what she had made up her mind to. I canhardly imagine her forsaking her friends to keep house for any man, even ifshe loved him with all her heart. She is dedicated as irrevocably as anynun, and will, with St. Paul, cling to the right of self-denial. "

"Yet what great difficulty would there be in combining the two sets ofduties, especially with such a man as Blackstone? Of all the men I know, he comes the nearest to her in his devotion to the well-being of humanity, especially of the poor. Did you ever know a man with such a plentiful lackof condescension? His feeling of human equality amounts almost to a fault;for surely he ought sometimes to speak as knowing better than they to whomhe speaks. He forgets that too many will but use his humility for mortar tobuild withal the Shinar-tower of their own superiority. "

"That may be; yet it remains impossible for him to assume any thing. He isthe same all through, and--I had almost said--worthy of Saint Clare. Well, they must settle it for themselves. We can do nothing. "

"We can do nothing, " he assented; and, although we repeatedly reverted tothe subject on the long way home, we carried no conclusions to a differentresult. 

Towards evening of the same Sunday, Roger came to accompany us, as Ithought, to Marion's gathering, but, as it turned out, only to tell mehe couldn't go. I expressed my regret, and asked him why. He gave me noanswer, and his lip trembled. A sudden conviction seized me. I laid my handon his arm, but could only say, "Dear Roger!" He turned his head aside, and, sitting down on the sofa, laid his forehead on his hand. 

"I'm so sorry!" I said. 

"She has told you, then?" he murmured. 

"No one has told me any thing. "

He was silent. I sat down beside him. It was all I could do. After a momenthe rose, saying, --

"There's no good whining about it, only she might have made a man of me. But she's quite right. It's a comfort to think I'm so unworthy of her. That's all the consolation left me, but there's more in that than you wouldthink till you try it. "

He attempted to laugh, but made a miserable failure of it, then rose andcaught up his hat to go. I rose also. 

"Roger, " I said, "I can't go, and leave you miserable. We'll go somewhereelse, --anywhere you please, only you mustn't leave us. "

"I don't want to go somewhere else. I don't know the place, " he added, witha feeble attempt at his usual gayety. 

"Stop at home, then, and tell me all about it. It will do you good to talk. You shall have your pipe, and you shall tell me just as much as you like, and keep the rest to yourself. "

If you want to get hold of a man's deepest confidence, tell him to smoke inyour drawing-room. I don't know how it is, but there seems no trouble inwhich a man can't smoke. One who scorns extraneous comfort of every othersort, will yet, in the profoundest sorrow, take kindly to his pipe. Thisis more wonderful than any thing I know about our kind. But I fear thesewing-machines will drive many women to tobacco. 

I ran to Percivale, gave him a hint of how it was, and demanded his pipeand tobacco-pouch directly, telling him he must content himself with acigar. 

Thus armed with the calumet, as Paddy might say, I returned to Roger, whotook it without a word of thanks, and began to fill it mechanically, butnot therefore the less carefully. I sat down, laid my hands in my lap, andlooked at him without a word. When the pipe was filled I rose and got him alight, for which also he made me no acknowledgment. The revenge of puttingit in print is sweet. Having whiffed a good many whiffs in silence, he tookat length his pipe from his mouth, and, as he pressed the burning tobaccowith a forefinger, said, --

"I've made a fool of myself, Wynnie. "

"Not more than a gentleman had a right to do, I will pledge myself, " Ireturned. 

"She _has_ told you, then?" he said once more, looking rather disappointedthan annoyed. 

"No one has mentioned your name to me, Roger. I only guessed it from whatMarion said when I questioned her about her sad looks. "

"Her sad looks?"

"Yes. "

"What did she say?" he asked eagerly. 

"She only confessed she had had something to trouble her, and said shehoped it would be over soon. "

"I dare say!" returned Roger dryly, looking gratified, however, for amoment. 

My reader may wonder that I should compromise Marion, even so far as toconfess that she was troubled; but I could not bear that Roger should thinkshe had been telling his story to me. Every generous woman feels that sheowes the man she refuses at least silence; and a man may well reckon uponthat much favor. Of all failures, why should this be known to the world?

The relief of finding she had not betrayed him helped him, I think, to openhis mind: _he_ was under no obligation to silence. 

"You see, Wynnie, " he said, with pauses, and puffs at his pipe, "I don'tmean I'm a fool for falling in love with Marion. Not to have fallen in lovewith her would have argued me a beast. Being a man, it was impossible forme to help it, after what she's been to me. But I was worse than a foolto open my mouth on the subject to an angel like her. Only there again, Icouldn't, that is, I hadn't the strength to help it. I beg, however, youwon't think me such a downright idiot as to fancy myself worthy of her. Inthat case, I should have deserved as much scorn as she gave me kindness. Ifyou ask me how it was, then, that I dared to speak to her on the subject, Ican only answer that I yielded to the impulse common to all kinds of loveto make itself known. If you love God, you are not content with his knowingit even, but you must tell him as if he didn't know it. You may think fromthis cool talk of mine that I am very philosophical about it; but there arelulls in every storm, and I am in one of those lulls, else I shouldn't besitting here with you. "

"Dear Roger!" I said, "I am very sorry for your disappointment. Somehow, Ican't be sorry you should have loved"--

"_Have loved!_" he murmured. 

"_Should love_ Marion, then, " I went on. "That can do you nothing but good, and in itself must raise you above yourself. And how could I blame you, that, loving her, you wanted her to know it? But come, now, if you cantrust me, tell me all about it, and especially what she said to you. Idare not give you any hope, for I am not in her confidence in this matter;and it is well that I am not, for then I might not be able to talk to youabout it with any freedom. To confess the real truth, I do not see muchlikelihood, knowing her as I do, that she will recall her decision. "

"It could hardly be called a decision, " said Roger. "You would not havethought, from the way she took it, there was any thing to decide about. Nomore there was; and I thought I knew it, only I couldn't be quiet. To thinkyou know a thing, and to know it, are two very different matters, however. But I don't repent having spoken my mind: if I am humbled, I am nothumiliated. If she _had_ listened to me, I fear I should have been ruinedby pride. I should never have judged myself justly after it. I wasn'thumble, though I thought I was. I'm a poor creature, Ethelwyn. "

"Not too poor a creature to be dearly loved, Roger. But go on and tell meall about it. As your friend and sister, I am anxious to hear the whole. "

Notwithstanding what I had said, I was not moved by sympathetic curiosityalone, but also by the vague desire of rendering some help beyond comfort. What he had now said, greatly heightened my opinion of him, and thereby, inmy thoughts of the two, lessened the distance between him and Marion. Atall events, by hearing the whole, I should learn how better to comfort him. 

And he did tell me the whole, which, along with what I learned afterwardsfrom Marion, I will set down as nearly as I can, throwing it into the formof direct narration. I will not pledge myself for the accuracy of everytrifling particular which that form may render it necessary to introduce;neither, I am sure, having thus explained, will my reader demand it of me. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

ROGER AND MARION. 

During an all but sleepless night, Roger had made up his mind to go andsee Marion: not, certainly, for the first time, for he had again and againventured to call upon her; but hitherto he had always had some pretextsufficient to veil his deeper reason, and, happily or unhappily, sufficientalso to prevent her, in her more than ordinary simplicity with regard tosuch matters, from suspecting one under it. 

She was at home, and received him with her usual kindness. Feeling thathe must not let an awkward silence intervene, lest she should becomesuspicious of his object, and thus the chance be lost of interesting, andpossibly moving her before she saw his drift, he spoke at once. 

"I want to tell you something, Miss Clare, " he said as lightly as he could. 

"Well?" she returned, with the sweet smile which graced her every approachto communication. 

"Did my sister--in--law ever tell you what an idle fellow I used to be?"

"Certainly not. I never heard her say a word of you that wasn't kind. "

"That I am sure of. But there would have been no unkindness in saying that;for an idle fellow I was, and the idler because I was conceited enough tobelieve I could do any thing. I actually thought at one time I could playthe violin. I actually made an impertinent attempt in your presence oneevening, years and years ago, I wonder if you remember it. "

"I do; but I don't know why you should call it impertinent. "

"Anyhow, I caught a look on your face that cured me of that conceit. I havenever touched the creature since, --a Cremona too!"

"I am very sorry, indeed I am. I don't remember--Do you think you couldhave played a false note?"

"Nothing more likely. "

"Then, I dare say I made an ugly face. One can't always help it, you know, when something unexpected happens. Do forgive me. "

"Forgive _you_, you angel!" cried Roger, but instantly checked himself, afraid of reaching his mark before he had gathered sufficient momentum topierce it. "I thought you would see what a good thing it was for me. Iwanted to thank you for it. "

"It's such a pity you didn't go on, though. Progress is the real cure foran overestimate of ourselves. "

"The fact is, I was beginning to see what small praise there is in doingmany things ill and nothing well. I wish you would take my Cremona. I couldteach you the A B C of it well enough. How you would make it talk! That_would_ be something to live for, to hear _you_ play the violin! Ladies do, nowadays, you know. "

"I have no time, Mr. Roger. I should have been delighted to be your pupil;but I am sorry to say it is out of the question. "

"Of course it is. Only I wish--well, never mind, I only wanted to tell yousomething. I was leading a life then that wasn't worth leading; for where'sthe good of being just what happens, --one time full of right feeling andimpulse, and the next a prey to all wrong judgments and falsehoods? It wasyou made me see it. I've been trying to get put right for a long time now. I'm afraid of seeming to talk goody, but you will know what I mean. You andyour Sunday evenings have waked me up to know what I am, and what I oughtto be. I am a little better. I work hard now. I used to work only by fitsand starts. Ask Wynnie. "

"Dear Mr. Roger, I don't need to ask Wynnie about any thing you tell me. Ican take your word for it just as well as hers. I am very glad if I havebeen of any use to you. It is a great honor to me. "

"But the worst of it is, I couldn't be content without letting you know, and making myself miserable. "

"I don't understand you, I think. Surely there can be no harm in letting meknow what makes me very happy! How it should make you miserable, I can'timagine. "

"Because I can't stop there. I'm driven to say what will offend you, if itdoesn't make you hate me--no, not that; for you don't know how to hate. Butyou must think me the most conceited and presumptuous fellow you ever knew. I'm not that, though; I'm not that; it's not me; I can't help it; I can'thelp loving you--dreadfully--and it's such impudence! To think of you andme in one thought! And yet I can't help it. O Miss Clare! don't drive meaway from you. "

He fell on his knees as he spoke, and laid his head on her lap, sobbinglike a child who had offended his mother. He almost cried again as he toldme this. Marion half started to her feet in confusion, almost in terror, for she had never seen such emotion in a man; but the divine compassion ofher nature conquered: she sat down again, took his head in her hands, andbegan stroking his hair as if she were indeed a mother seeking to sootheand comfort her troubled child. She was the first to speak again, for Rogercould not command himself. 

"I'm very sorry, Roger, " she said. "I must be to blame somehow. "

"To blame!" he cried, lifting up his head. "_You_ to blame for my folly!But it's not folly, " he added impetuously: "it would be downright stupiditynot to love you with all my soul. "

"Hush! hush!" said Marion, in whose ears his language sounded irreverent. "You _couldn't_ love me with all your soul if you would. God only _can_ beloved with all the power of the human soul. "

"If I love him at all, Marion, it is you who have taught me. Do not driveme from you--lest--lest--I should cease to love him, and fall back into myold dreary ways. "

"It's a poor love to offer God, --love for the sake of another, " she saidvery solemnly. 

"But if it's all one has got?"

"Then it won't do, Roger. I wish you loved me for God's sake instead. Thenall would be right. That would be a grand love for me to have. "

"Don't drive me from you, Marion, " he pleaded. It was all he could say. 

"I will not drive you from me. Why should I?"

"Then I may come and see you again?"

"Yes: when you please. "

"You _don't_ mean I may come as often as I like?"

"Yes--when I have time to see you. "

"Then, " cried Roger, starting to his feet with clasped hands, "--perhaps--is it possible?--you will--you will let me love you? O my God!"

"Roger, " said Marion, pale as death, and rising also; for, alas! thesunshine of her kindness had caused hopes to blossom whose buds she hadtaken only for leaves, "I thought you understood me! You spoke as if youunderstood perfectly that that could never be which I must suppose youto mean. Of course it cannot. I am not my own to keep or to give away. Ibelong to this people, --my friends. To take personal and private dutiesupon me, would be to abandon them; and how dare I? You don't know what itwould result in, or you would not dream of it. Were I to do such a thing, Ishould hate and despise and condemn myself with utter reprobation. And thenwhat a prize you would have got, my poor Roger!"

But even these were such precious words to hear from her lips! He fellagain on his knees before her as she stood, caught her hands, and, hidinghis face in them, poured forth the following words in a torrent, --

"Marion, do not think me so selfish as not to have thought about that. Itshould be only the better for them all. I can earn quite enough for you andme too, and so you would have the more time to give to them. I should neverhave dreamed of asking you to leave them. There are things in which a dogmay help a man, doing what the man can't do: there may be things in which aman might help an angel. "

Deeply moved by the unselfishness of his love, Marion could not help apressure of her hands against the face which had sought refuge within them. Roger fell to kissing them wildly. 

But Marion was a woman; and women, I think, though I may be only judging bymyself and my husband, look forward and round about, more than men do: theywould need at all events; therefore Marion saw other things. A man-readermay say, that, if she loved him, she would not have thus looked about her;and that, if she did not love him, there was no occasion for her thus tofly in the face of the future. I can only answer that it is allowed on allhands women are not amenable to logic: look about her Marion did, and saw, that, as a married woman, she might be compelled to forsake her friendsmore or less; for there might arise other and paramount claims on herself-devotion. In a word, if she were to have children, she would have nochoice in respect to whose welfare should constitute the main business ofher life; and it even became a question whether she would have a rightto place them in circumstances so unfavorable for growth and education. Therefore, to marry might be tantamount to forsaking her friends. 

But where was the need of any such mental parley? Of course, she couldn'tmarry Roger. How could she marry a man she couldn't look up to? And look upto him she certainly did not, and could not. 

"No, Roger, " she said, this last thought large in her mind; and, as shespoke, she withdrew her hands, "it mustn't be. It is out of the question: Ican't look up to you, " she added, as simply as a child. 

"I should think not, " he burst out. "That _would_ be a fine thing! If youlooked up to a fellow like me, I think it would almost cure me of lookingup to you; and what I want is to look up to you every day and all day long:only I can do that whether you let me or not. "

"But I don't choose to have a--a--friend to whom I can't look up. "

"Then I shall never be even a friend, " he returned sadly. "But I would havetried hard to be less unworthy of you. "

At this precise moment, Marion caught sight of a pair of great round blueeyes, wide open under a shock of red hair, about three feet from the floor, staring as if they had not winked for the last ten minutes. The childlooked so comical, that Marion, reading perhaps in her looks the reflex ofher own position, could not help laughing. Roger started up in dismay, but, beholding the apparition, laughed also. 

"Please, grannie, " said the urchin, "mother's took bad, and want's ye. "

"Run and tell your mother I shall be with her directly, " answered Marion;and the child departed. 

"You told me I might come again, " pleaded Roger. 

"Better not. I didn't know what it would mean to you when I said it. "

"Let it mean what you meant by it, only let me come. "

"But I see now it can't mean that. No: I will write to you. At all events, you must go now, for I can't stop with you when Mrs. Foote"--

"Don't make me wretched, Marion. If you can't love me, don't kill me. Don'tsay I'm not to come and see you. I _will_ come on Sundays, anyhow. "

The next day came the following letter:--

Dear Mr. Roger, --I am very sorry, both for your sake and my own, that I didnot speak more plainly yesterday. I was so distressed for you, and my heartwas so friendly towards you, that I could hardly think of any thing atfirst but how to comfort you; and I fear I allowed you, after all, to goaway with the idea that what you wished was not altogether impossible. Butindeed it is. If even I loved you in the way you love me, I should yet makeevery thing yield to the duties I have undertaken. In listening to you, Ishould be undermining the whole of my past labors; and the very idea ofbecoming less of a friend to my friends is horrible to me. 

But much as I esteem you, and much pleasure as your society gives me, theidea you brought before me yesterday was absolutely startling; and I thinkI have only to remind you, as I have just done, of the peculiarities of myposition, to convince you that it could never become a familiar one to me. All that friendship can do or yield, you may ever claim of me; and I thankGod if I have been of the smallest service to you: but I should be quiteunworthy of that honor, were I for any reason to admit even the thought ofabandoning the work which has been growing up around me for so many years, and is so peculiarly mine that it could be transferred to no one else. Believe me yours most truly, MARION CLARE

CHAPTER XLIII. 

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE. 

After telling me the greater part of what I have just written, Roger handedme this letter to read, as we sat together that same Sunday evening. 

"It seems final, Roger?" I said with an interrogation, as I returned it tohim. 

"Of course it is, " he replied. "How could any honest man urge his suitafter that, --after she says that to grant it would be to destroy the wholeof her previous life, and ruin her self-respect? But I'm not so miserableas you may think me, Wynnie, " he went on; "for don't you see? though Icouldn't quite bring myself to go to-night, I don't feel cut off from her. She's not likely, if I know her, to listen to anybody else so long as thesame reasons hold for which she wouldn't give me a chance of persuadingher. She can't help me loving her, and I'm sure she'll let me help herwhen I've the luck to find a chance. You may be sure I shall keep a sharplookout. If I can be her servant, that will be something; yes, much. Thoughshe won't give herself to me--and quite right, too!--why should she?--Godbless her!--she can't prevent me from giving myself to her. So long asI may love her, and see her as often as I don't doubt I may, and thingscontinue as they are, I sha'n't be down-hearted. I'll have another pipe, I think. " Here he half-started, and hurriedly pulled out his watch, "Ideclare, there's time yet!" he cried, and sprung to his feet. "Let's go andhear what she's got to say to-night. "

"Don't you think you had better not? Won't you put her out?" I suggested. 

"If I understand her at all, " he said, "she will be more put out by myabsence; for she will fear I am wretched, caring only for herself, and notfor what she taught me. You may come or stay--_I_'m off. You've done me somuch good, Wynnie!" he added, looking back in the doorway. "Thank you athousand times. There's no comforter like a sister!"

"And a pipe, " I said; at which he laughed, and was gone. 

When Percivale and I reached Lime Court, having followed as quickly as wecould, there was Roger sitting in the midst, as intent on her words as ifshe had been, an old prophet, and Marion speaking with all the composurewhich naturally belonged to her. 

When she shook hands with him after the service, a slight flush washed thewhite of her face with a delicate warmth, --nothing more. I said to myself, however, as we went home, and afterwards to my husband, that his case wasnot a desperate one. 

"But what's to become of Blackstone?" said Percivale. 

I will tell my reader how afterwards he seemed to me to have fared; but Ihave no information concerning his supposed connection with this part of mystory. I cannot even be sure that he ever was in love with Marion. Troubledhe certainly was, at this time; and Marion continued so for a while, --moretroubled, I think, than the necessity she felt upon her with regardto Roger will quite account for. If, however, she had to make two menmiserable in one week, that might well cover the case. 

Before the week was over, my husband received a note from Mr. Blackstone, informing him that he was just about to start for a few weeks on theContinent. When he returned I was satisfied from his appearance that anotable change had passed upon him: a certain indescribable serenityseemed to have taken possession of his whole being; every look and toneindicated a mind that knew more than tongue could utter, --a heart that hadhad glimpses into a region of content. I thought of the words, "He thatdwelleth in the secret place of the Most High, " and my heart was at restabout him. He had fared, I thought, as the child who has had a hurt, butis taken up in his mother's arms and comforted. What hurt would not suchcomforting outweigh to the child? And who but he that has had the worsthurt man can receive, and the best comfort God can give, can tell whateither is?

I was present the first time he met Marion after his return. She was alittle embarrassed: he showed a tender dignity, a respect as if from above, like what one might fancy the embodiment of the love of a wise angel forsuch a woman. The thought of comparing the two had never before occurred tome; but now for the moment I felt as if Mr. Blackstone were a step aboveMarion. Plainly, I had no occasion to be troubled about either of them. 

On the supposition that Marion had refused him, I argued with myself thatit could not have been on the ground that she was unable to look up to him. And, notwithstanding what she had said to Roger, I was satisfied that anyone she felt she could help to be a nobler creature; must have a greatlybetter chance of rousing all the woman in her; than one whom she mustregard as needing no aid from her. All her life had been spent in servingand sheltering human beings whose condition she regarded with hopefulcompassion: could she now help adding Roger to her number of such? and ifshe once looked upon him thus tenderly, was it not at least very possible, that, in some softer mood, a feeling hitherto unknown to her might surpriseher consciousness with its presence, --floating to the surface of her seafrom its strange depths, and leaning towards him with the outstretched armsof embrace?

But I dared not think what might become of Roger should his divine resolvesfail, --should the frequent society of Marion prove insufficient for thesolace and quiet of his heart. I had heard how men will seek to drownsorrow in the ruin of the sorrowing power, --will slay themselves that theymay cause their hurt to cease, and I trembled for my husband's brother. Butthe days went on, and I saw no sign of failure or change. He was steady athis work, and came to see us as constantly as before; never missed a chanceof meeting Marion: and at every treat she gave her friends, whether at thehouse of which I have already spoken, or at Lady Bernard's country-place inthe neighborhood of London, whether she took them on the river, or had someone to lecture or read to them, Roger was always at hand for service andhelp. Still, I was uneasy; for might there not come a collapse, especiallyif some new event were to destroy the hope which he still cherished, andwhich I feared was his main support? Would his religion then prove ofa quality and power sufficient to keep him from drifting away with thereceding tide of his hopes and imaginations? In this anxiety perhaps Iregarded too exclusively the faith of Roger, and thought too little aboutthe faith of God. However this may be, I could not rest, but thought andthought, until at last I made up my mind to go and tell Lady Bernard allabout it. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE DEA EX. 

"And you think Marion likes him?" asked Lady Bernard, when she had insilence heard my story. 

"I am sure she _likes_ him. But you know he is so far inferior to her, --inevery way. "

"How do you know that? Questions are involved there which no one but Godcan determine. You must remember that both are growing. What matter if anytwo are unequal at a given moment, seeing their relative positions may bereversed twenty times in a thousand years? Besides, I doubt very much ifany one who brought his favors with him would have the least chance withMarion. Poverty, to turn into wealth, is the one irresistible attractionfor her; and, however duty may compel her to act, my impression is that shewill not escape _loving_ Roger. "

I need not say I was gratified to find Lady Bernard's conclusion fromMarion's character run parallel with my own. 

"But what can come of it?" I said. 

"Why, marriage, I hope. "

"But Marion would as soon think of falling down and worshipping Baal andAshtoreth as of forsaking her grandchildren. "

"Doubtless. But there would be no occasion for that. Where two things areboth of God, it is not likely they will be found mutually obstructive. "

"Roger does declare himself quite ready to go and live amongst her friends, and do his best to help her. "

"That is all as it should be, so far as he--as both of them are concerned;but there are contingencies; and the question naturally arises, How wouldthat do in regard of their children?"

"If I could imagine Marion consenting. " I said, "I know what she wouldanswer to that question. She would say, Why should her children be betteroff than the children about them? She would say that the children mustshare the life and work of their parents. "

"And I think she would be right, though the obvious rejoinder would be, 'You may waive your own social privileges, and sacrifice yourselves to thegood of others; but have you a right to sacrifice your children, and heapdisadvantages on their future?'"

"Now give us the answer on the other side, seeing you think Marion would beright after all. "

"Marion's answer would, I think, be, that their children would be God'schildren; and he couldn't desire better for them than to be born in lowlyconditions, and trained from the first to give themselves to the service oftheir fellows, seeing that in so far their history would resemble that ofhis own Son, our Saviour. In sacrificing their earthly future, as men wouldcall it, their parents would but be furthering their eternal good. "

"That would be enough in regard of such objections. But there would be aprevious one on Marion's own part. How would her new position affect herministrations?"

"There can be no doubt, I think, " Lady Bernard replied, "that whather friends would lose thereby--I mean, what amount of her personalministrations would be turned aside from them by the necessities of hernew position--would be far more than made up to them by the presence amongthem of a whole well-ordered and growing family, instead of a single womanonly. But all this jet leaves something for her more personal friends toconsider, --as regards their duty in the matter. It naturally sets them onthe track of finding out what could be done to secure for the children ofsuch parents the possession of early advantages as little lower than thosetheir parents had as may be; for the breed of good people ought, as much aspossible, to be kept up. I will turn the thing over in my mind, and let youknow what comes of it. "

The result of Lady Bernard's cogitations is, in so far, to be seen in therapid rise of a block of houses at no great distance from London, on theNorth-western Railway, planned under the instructions of Marion Clare. Thedesign of them is to provide accommodation for all Marion's friends, withroom to add largely to their number. Lady Bernard has also secured groundsufficient for great extension of the present building, should it provedesirable. Each family is to have the same amount of accommodation it hasnow, only far better, at the same rent it pays now, with the privilegeof taking an additional room or rooms at a much lower rate. Marion hasundertaken to collect the rents, and believes that she will thus in timegain an additional hold of the people for their good, although the planmay at first expose her to misunderstanding. From thorough calculation sheis satisfied she can pay Lady Bernard five per cent for her money, lay outall that is necessary for keeping the property in thorough repair, andaccumulate a fund besides to be spent on building more houses, should herexpectations of these be answered. The removal of so many will also makea little room for the accommodation of the multitudes constantly drivenfrom their homes by the wickedness of those, who, either for the sake ofrailways or fine streets, pull down crowded houses, and drive into othercourts and alleys their poor inhabitants, to double the wretchednessalready there from overcrowding. 

In the centre of the building is a house for herself, where she will haveher own private advantage in the inclusion of large space primarily for theentertainment of her friends. I believe Lady Bernard intends to give hera hint that a married couple would, in her opinion, be far more useful insuch a position than a single woman. But although I rejoice in the prospectof greater happiness for two dear friends, I must in honesty say that Idoubt this. 

If the scheme should answer, what a strange reversion it will be tosomething like a right reading of the feudal system!

Of course it will be objected, that, should it succeed ever so well, itwill all go to pieces at Marion's death. To this the answer lies in thehope that her influence may extend laterally, as well as downwards; movingothers to be what she has been; and, in the conviction that such a work ashers can never be lost, for the world can never be the same as if she hadnot lived; while in any case there will be more room for her brothers andsisters who are now being crowded out of the world by the stronger andricher. It would be sufficient answer, however, that the work is worthdoing for its own sake and its immediate result. Surely it will receive a_well-done_ from the Judge of us all; and while his idea of right remainsabove hers, high as the heavens are above the earth, his approbation willbe all that either Lady Bernard or Marion will seek. 

If but a small proportion of those who love the right and have means tospare would, like Lady Bernard, use their wealth to make up to the poor forthe wrongs they receive at the hands of the rich, --let me say, to defendthe Saviour in their persons from the tyranny of Mammon, how many of thepoor might they not lead with them into the joy of their Lord!

Should the plan succeed, I say once more, I intend to urge on Marion theduty of writing a history of its rise and progress from the first of herown attempts. Then there would at least remain a book for all futurereformers and philanthropists to study, and her influence might renewitself in other ages after she was gone. 

I have no more to say about myself or my people. We live in hope of theglory of God. 

Here I was going to write, THE END; but was arrested by the followingconversation between two of my children, --Ernest, eight, and Freddy, fiveyears of age. 

_Ernest. _--I'd do it for mamma, of course. 

_Freddy. _--Wouldn't you do it for Harry?

_Ernest. _--No: Harry's nobody. 

_Freddy. _--Yes, he is somebody. 

_Ernest. _--You're nobody; I'm nobody; we are all nobody, compared to mamma. 

_Freddy. _ (_stolidly_). --Yes, I am somebody. 

_Ernest. _--You're nothing; I'm nothing; we are all nothing in mamma'spresence. 

_Freddy. _--But, Ernest, _every thing_ is something; so I must be something. 

_Ernest. _--Yes, Freddy, but you're _no thing_; so you're nothing. You'renothing to mamma. 

_Freddy. _--_But I'm mamma's. _