Chapter I…

Chapter I

Now have I then eke this condicion That above all the flouris in the mede; Then love I most these flouris white and rede, Soche that men callin daisies in our town. To them have I so great affection, As I said erst, when comin is the Maie, That in my bed there dawith me no daie That I am up and walking in the mede, To see this floure agenst the sunne sprede.--CHAUCER.

“That is better!” said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the penwiper class, whose constitution her dexterous needle had been rendering less rickety than Blanche had left it.

Margaret still lay on the sofa, and her complexion had assumed the dead white of habitual ill-health. There was more languor of manner, and her countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye of her father, had a sadness of expression, as if any hopes that she might once have entertained were fading away. The years of Alan Ernescliffe’s absence that had elapsed had rather taken from her powers than added to them. Nevertheless, the habit of cheerfulness and sympathy had not deserted her, and it was with a somewhat amused glance that she turned towards Ethel, as she heard her answer by a sigh.

These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred’s outward appearance. They had rounded her angles, softened her features, and tinged her cheeks with a touch of red, that took off from the surrounding sallowness. She held herself better, had learned to keep her hair in order, and the more womanly dress, plain though it was, improved her figure more than could have been hoped in the days of her lank, gawky girlhood. No one could call her pretty, but her countenance had something more than ever pleasing in the animated and thoughtful expression on those marked features. She was sitting near the window, with a book, a dictionary, and pencil, as she replied to Margaret, with the sigh that made her sister smile.

“Poor Ethel! I condole with you.”

“And I wonder at you!” said Ethel, “especially as Flora and Mrs. Hoxton say it is all for your sake;” then, nettled by Margaret’s laugh, “Such a nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you were Mrs. Hoxton, and had no resource but fancy-work.”

“You know I am base enough to be so amused,” said Margaret; “but, seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt by it. I did not know you were really grieved.”

“Grieved! I am ashamed--sickened!” cried Ethel vehemently. “Poor Cocksmoor! As soon as anything is done there, Flora must needs go about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, and want only means--”

“Stop, Ethel; Flora does not boast.”

“No, she does not boast. I wish she did! That would be straightforward and simple; but she has too good taste for that--so she does worse--she tells a little, and makes that go a long way, as if she were keeping back a great deal! You don’t know how furious it makes me!”

“Ethel!”

“So,” said Ethel, disregarding, “she stirs up all Stoneborough to hear what the Miss Mays are doing at Cocksmoor. So the Ladies’ Committee must needs have their finger in! Much they cared for the place when it was wild and neglected! But they go to inspect Cherry and her school--Mrs. Ledwich and all--and, back they come, shocked--no system, no order, the mistress untrained, the school too small, with no apparatus! They all run about in despair, as if we had ever asked them to help us. And so Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy-dogs, but who can’t live without useless work, and has filled her house as full of it as it can hold, devises a bazaar--a field for her trumpery, and a show-off for all the young ladies; and Flora treats it like an inspiration! Off they trot, to the old Assembly Rooms. I trusted that the smallness of them would have knocked it on the head; but, still worse, Flora’s talking of it makes Mr. Rivers think it our pet scheme; so, what does he do but offer his park, and so we are to have a regular fancy fair, and Cocksmoor School will be founded in vanity and frivolity! But I believe you like it!”

“I am not sure of my own feeling,” said Margaret. “It has been settled without our interposition, and I have never been able to talk it over calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disapprove.”

“No,” said Ethel. “He will only laugh, and say it will spare him a great many of Mrs. Hoxton’s nervous attacks. He thinks of it nearly as I do, at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, nor even to say he does not wish Flora to sell.”

“I did not understand that you really had such strong objections,” said Margaret. “I thought it was only as a piece of folly, and--”

“And interference with my Cocksmoor?” said Ethel. “I had better own to what may be wrong personal feeling at first.”

“I can hardly call it wrong,” said Margaret tenderly, “considering what Cocksmoor is to you, and what the Ladies’ Committee is.”

“Oh, Margaret, if the lawful authority--if a good clergyman would only come, how willingly would I work under him! But Mrs. Ledwich and--it is like having all the Spaniards and savages spoiling Robinson Crusoe’s desert island!”

“It is not come to that yet,” said Margaret; “but about the fancy fair. We all know that the school is very much wanted.”

“Yes, but I hoped to wait in patience and perseverance, and do it at last.”

“All yourself?”

“Now, Margaret! you know I was glad of Alan’s help.”

“I should think so!” said Margaret. “You need not make a favour of that!”

“Yes, but, don’t you see, that came as almsgiving, in the way which brings a blessing. We want nothing to make us give money and work to Cocksmoor. We do all we can already; and I don’t want to get a fine bag or a ridiculous pincushion in exchange!”

“Not you, but--”

“Well, for the rest. If they like to offer their money, well and good, the better for them; but why must they not give it to Cocksmoor--but for that unnatural butterfly of Blanche’s, with black pins for horns, that they will go and sell at an extortionate rate.”

“The price will be given for Cocksmoor’s sake!”

“Pooh! Margaret. Do you think it is for Cocksmoor’s sake that Lady Leonora Langdale and her fine daughter come down from London? Would Mrs. Hoxton spend the time in making frocks for Cocksmoor children that she does in cutting out paper, and stuffing glass bottles with it? Let people be honest--alms, or pleasure, or vanity! let them say which they mean; but don’t make charity the excuse for the others; and, above all, don’t make my poor Cocksmoor the victim of it.”

“This is very severe,” said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. “Do you think no charity worth having but what is given on unmixed motives? Who, then, could give?”

“Margaret--we see much evil arise in the best-planned institutions; nay, in what are not human. Don’t you think we ought to do our utmost to have no flaw in the foundation? Schools are not such perfect places that we can build them without fear, and, if the means are to be raised by a bargain for amusement--if they are to come from frivolity instead of self-denial, I am afraid of them. I do not mean that Cocksmoor has not been the joy of my life, and of Mary’s, but that was not because we did it for pleasure.”

“No!” said Margaret, sighing, “you found pleasure by the way. But why did you not say all this to Flora?”

“It is of no use to talk to Flora,” said Ethel; “she would say it was high-flown and visionary. Oh! she wants it for the bazaar’s own sake, and that is one reason why I hate it.”

“Now, Ethel!”

“I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hoxtons took to patronising her, because Norman would not be patronised. Ever since it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and parties, and county families, and she has left off the home usefulness she used to care about.”

“But you are old enough for that,” said Margaret. “It would be hard to keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, and do not care for going out. One of us must be the representative Miss May, you know, and keep up the civilities; and you may think yourself lucky it is not you.”

“If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell you, Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere pleasure in gaieties--Flora cares for them, in themselves, as little as I do--nor is it neighbourliness, as a duty to others, for, you may observe, she always gets off any engagement to the Wards, or any of the town folk, to whom it would be a gratification to have her--she either eludes them, or sends me. The thing is, that she is always trying to be with the great people, the county set, and I don’t think that is the safe way of going on.”

Margaret mused sadly. “You frighten me, Ethel! I cannot say it is not so, and these are so like the latent faults that dear mamma’s letter spoke of--”

Ethel sat meditating, and at last said, “I wish I had not told you! I don’t always believe it myself, and it is so unkind, and you will make yourself unhappy too. I ought not to have thought it of her! Think of her ever-ready kindness and helpfulness; her pretty courteous ways to the very least; her obligingness and tact!”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “she is one of the kindest people there is, and I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor was the best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of pleasant occupation provided for us all.”

“That is the bright side, the surface side,” said Ethel.

“And not an untrue one,” said Margaret; “Meta will not be vain, and will work the more happily for Cocksmoor’s sake. Mary and Blanche, poor Mrs. Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be desirable.”

“No,” said Ethel, “but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good time, without hastiness--only earnestness.”

“You had made a picture for yourself,” said Margaret gently. “Yes, we all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we shall see that it is all guided.”

Ethel sighed. “Then having protested to my utmost against this concern, you think I ought to be amiable about it.”

“And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your endless glazed calico bonnet strings.”

“Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.”

“Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.”

Ethel laughed, and said, “I did not think Mary was in such awe of me. I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to give up my time to it?”

“Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of your company work--just enough for you not to annoy every one, and seem to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta.”

“It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see her deluded.”

“I don’t think she is,” said Margaret; “but she does not set her face against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little humming-bird, she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.”

“Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, and leaving the evil; always sacrificing something, and then being happy in the sacrifice!”

“No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done--least of all Meta herself.”

“Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that sacrifice--and no sacrifice,” said Ethel.

“What was that?” said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved, and had been listening to their few last sentences.

“Did not you hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as much as I always admired her.

“Tell me,” said Norman. “When was it?”

“Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London: indeed, papa says it would be the death of him; but Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gaieties; and last year, when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her for the season. Now Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone, and wanted not to have gone at all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised her to yield, and go for some short fixed time.”

“Yes,” said Margaret; “as all her elders thought it right, I did not think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a promise.”

“She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Langdales were satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep her. They little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution is only spoiled-child wilfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did you, Margaret? Even papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very much to be at home; for poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without her, though he would not let her know, because Lady Leonora had persuaded him to think it was all for her good.”

“What did they do with her in London?” asked Norman.

“They did their utmost,” said Ethel. “They made engagements for her, and took her to parties and concerts--those she did enjoy very much and she had lessons in drawing and music, but whenever she wanted to see any exhibitions, or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I believe it was very charming, and she would have been very glad to stay, but she never would promise, and she was always thinking of her positive duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain almost as if they had been a sin; but she said--dear little Meta--that nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself, whenever she was going out, ‘I renounce the world.’ It came to a crisis at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented--the Drawing-Room was after the end of her three weeks--and she held out against it; though her aunt laughed at her, and treated her as if she was a silly, shy child. At last, what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle, Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least necessity for her to go to court.”

“Then she gained the day?” said Norman.

“He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, and admired her determination. He told papa so himself--for you must know, when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl, and said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed, and spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh! he was perfectly won by her sweet ways. Was not it lucky? for before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr. Rivers, and obtained from him a letter, which Meta had the next day, desiring her to stay for the Drawing-Room. But Meta knew well enough how it was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, she would return on Monday.”

“Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep her.”

“Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in here on their way from the station where he had met her! How she danced in, and how she sparkled with glee!” said Margaret, “and poor Mr. Rivers was quite tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from fondling her every minute, and coming again into the room after they had taken leave, to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home, and her poor old father, to all the pleasures in London. Oh, I was so glad they came! That was a sight that did one good! And then, I fancy Mr. Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa and Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to Mrs. Hoxton.”

“Ha! Flora!” said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. “I suppose she would have given the world to go!”

“I was so sorry,” said Ethel; “but I had to go instead, and it was delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. Rivers went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful wandering with Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all about it. I never knew Meta so well before.”

“And there was no more question of her going back?” said Norman.

“No, indeed! She said, when her uncle asked in joke, on Monday morning, whether she had packed up to return with him, Mr. Rivers was quite nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she should intend it.”

“That little Meta,” said Margaret. “Her wishes for substantial use have been pretty well realised!”

“Um!” said Ethel.

“What do you mean?” said Norman sharply. “I should call her present position the perfection of feminine usefulness.”

“So perhaps it is,” said Ethel; “but though she does it beautifully, and is very valuable, to be the mistress of a great luxurious house like that does not seem to me the subject of aspirations like Meta’s.”

“Think of the contrast with what she used to be,” said Margaret gently, “the pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought her up to be, living a life of mere accomplishments and self-indulgence; kind certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables, or make any exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life, and train herself in duty? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the great beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments by making them loving obedience to her father.”

“Not that they are not pleasant to her?” interposed Norman.

“Certainly,” said Margaret, “but it gives them the zest, and confidence that they are right, which one could not have in such things merely for one’s own amusement.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “she does more; she told me one day that one reason she liked sketching was, that looking into nature always made psalms and hymns sing in her ears, and so with her music and her beautiful copies from the old Italian devotional pictures. She says our papa taught her to look at them so as to see more than the mere art and beauty.”

“Think how diligently she measures out her day,” said Margaret; “getting up early, to be sure of time for reading her serious books, and working hard at her tough studies.”

“And what I care for still more,” said Ethel, “her being bent on learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is so useful amongst the cottagers at Abbotstoke!”

“And a famous little mistress of the house,” added Margaret. “When the old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought she ought to know something about the government of the house; so she asked me about it, and proposed to her father that the new one should come to her for orders, and that she should pay the wages and have the accounts in her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it was only a freak, but she has gone on steadily; and I assure you, she has had some difficulties, for she has come to me about them. Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them?”

“No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fanciful dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean, and how she had difficulties about sending the maids to church, and in dealing with the cook, who did harm to the other servants, and yet sent up dinners that he liked, and how puzzled she was to avoid annoying him. Oh! she has got into a peck of troubles by making herself manager.”

“And had she not been the Meta she is, she would either have fretted, or thrown it all up, instead of humming briskly through all. She never was afraid to speak to any one,” said Margaret, “that is one thing; I believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher, till she springs over it, and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure.”

“She need not be afraid to speak,” said Ethel, “for she always does it well and winningly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm and kind a way, and so bright in the instant of forgiveness.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “she does those disagreeable things as well as Flora does in her way.”

“And yet,” said Ethel, “doing things well does not seem to be a snare to her.”

“Because,” whispered Margaret, “she fulfils more than almost any one--the--‘Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’”

“Do you know,” said Norman suddenly, “the derivation of Margarita?”

“No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the daisy,” said Ethel.

“It is from the Persian Mervarid, child of light,” said Norman; and, with a sudden flush of colour, he returned to the garden.

“A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her,” said Margaret. “I feel in better tune for a whole day after her bright eyes have been smiling on me.”

“You want no one to put you in tune,” said Ethel fondly--“you, our own pearl of light.”

“No, call me only an old faded daisy,” said Margaret sadly.

“Not a bit, only our moon, la gran Margarita” said Ethel.

“I hear the real Daisy coming!” exclaimed Margaret, her face lighting up with pleasure as the two youngest children entered, and, indeed, little Gertrude’s golden hair, round open face, fresh red and white complexion, and innocent looks, had so much likeness to the flower, as to promote the use of the pet name, though protests were often made in favour of her proper appellation. Her temper was daisy-like too, serene and loving, and able to bear a great deal of spoiling, and resolve as they might, who was not her slave?

Miss Winter no longer ruled the schoolroom. Her sway had been brought to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed sister to keep house with her; and Ethel had reason to rejoice that Margaret had kept her submissive under authority, which, if not always judicious, was both kind and conscientious.

Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily be managed by herself and Flora; while Flora was very anxious for a finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche.

Dr. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a family of orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself for a governess, and needed nothing but age and finish; and in ten minutes after the project had been conceived, he had begun to put it in execution, in spite of Flora’s prudent demurs.

Miss Bracy was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look at, with her soft olive complexion, and languid pensive eyes, obliging and intelligent; and the change from the dry, authoritative Miss Winter was so delightful, that unedifying contrasts were continually being drawn. Blanche struck up a great friendship for her at once; Mary, always docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, and Ethel moralised on the satisfaction of having sympathy needed instead of repelled, and did her utmost to make Miss Bracy feel at home--and like a friend--in her new position.

For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful time-table, with all her pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern of that which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the departure of Mrs. Larpent, who had been called away by the ill-health of her son. Meta had adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but she was her own mistress in a manner that could hardly be the lot of one of a large family.

Margaret had become subject to languor and palpitations, and the head of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on the other hand, was a person of multifarious occupations, and always had a great number of letters to write, or songs to copy and practise, which, together with her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, made her glad to devolve, as much as she could, upon her younger sister; and, “Oh, Ethel, you will not mind just doing this for me,” was said often enough to be a tax upon her time.

Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey’s lessons were in an unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, and suffered from them when she did; and he was bandied about between his sisters and Miss Bracy in a manner that made him neither attentive nor obedient.

On her own principle, that to embrace a task heartily renders it no longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies and her regularity, as far as was needful, to make her available for home requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, after a few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very promising pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him, that he was, if anything, overfull of her classical tastes. In fact, he had such an appetite for books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that his father was heard to say, “Six years old! It is a comfort that he will soon forget the whole.”

Gertrude was also Ethel’s pupil, but learning was not at all in her line; and the sight of “Cobwebs to catch Flies,” or of the venerated “Little Charles,” were the most serious clouds, that made the Daisy pucker up her face, and infuse a whine into her voice.

However, to-day, as usual, she was half dragged, half coaxed, through her day’s portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up for her sleep, while Aubrey’s two hours were spent in more agreeable work, such as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing--so spirited was Ethel’s mode of teaching--so eager was her scholar.

His play afterwards consisted in fighting o’er again the siege of Troy on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of a Noah’s ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude’s descent from the nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire confusion in Aubrey’s camp was for her elder sisters to become her playfellows, and so spare Aubrey’s temper. Ethel good-humouredly gave her own time, till their little tyrant trotted out to make Norman carry her round the garden on his back.

So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended bazaar, and Ethel would fain have taken refuge in puzzling out her Spanish, had she not remembered her recent promise to be gracious.

The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had a way of hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the Stoneborough public had become aware of the exertions of the May family on behalf of Cocksmoor.

The plan of a fancy fair was started. Mrs. Hoxton became more interested than was her wont, and Flora was enchanted at the opening it gave for promoting the welfare of the forlorn district. She held a position which made her hope to direct the whole. As she had once declared, with truth, it only had depended on themselves, whether she and her sisters should sink to the level of the Andersons and their set, or belong to the county society; and her tact had resulted in her being decidedly--as the little dressmaker’s apprentice amused Ethel by saying--“One of our most distinguished patronesses”--a name that had stuck by her ever since.

Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in everything, yet now and then puzzled; and her father, in his simple-hearted way, felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that his daughter met with. As to the bazaar, if it had been started in his own family, he might have weighed the objections, but, as it was not his daughter’s own concern, he did not trouble himself about it, only regarding it as one of the many vagaries of the ladies of Stoneborough.

So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came in with much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. Mrs. Hoxton undertook one, with Flora as an aide-de-camp, and some nieces to assist; Lady Leonora was to chaperon Miss Rivers; and a third, to Flora’s regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, a good-natured, merry, elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, bring on them the whole “Stoneborough crew.” And then she began to reckon up the present resources--drawings, bags, and pincushions. “That chip hat you plaited for Daisy, Margaret, you must let us have that. It will be lovely, trimmed with pink.”

“Do you wish for this?” said Ethel, heaving up a mass of knitting.

“Thank you,” said Flora; “so ornamental, especially the original performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate, in spite of my best efforts.”

“I shall not be offended if you despise it. I only thought you might have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall than in robbing Daisy.”

“Pray, send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance.”

“No; you shall tell me what I am to do.”

“Does she mean it?” said Flora, turning to Margaret. “Have you converted her? Well done! Then, Ethel, we will get some pretty batiste, and you and Mary shall make some of those nice sun-bonnets, which you really do to perfection.”

“Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. People may have something worth buying,” said Ethel, who, like all the world, felt the influence of Flora’s tact.

“I mean to study the useful,” said Flora. “The Cleveland set will be sure to deal in frippery, and I have been looking over Mrs. Hoxton’s stores, where I see quite enough for mere decoration. There are two splendid vases in potichomanie, in an Etruscan pattern, which are coming for me to finish.”

“Mrs. Taylor, at Cocksmoor, could do that for you,” said Ethel. “Her two phials, stuffed with chintz patterns and flour, are quite as original and tasteful.”

“Silly work,” said Flora, “but it makes a fair show.”

“The essence of Vanity Fair,” said Ethel.

“It won’t do to be satirical over much,” said Flora. “You won’t get on without humouring your neighbours’ follies.”

“I don’t want to get on.”

“But you want--or, at least, I want--Cocksmoor to get on.”

Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and, recalling her resolution she said, “Well, Flora, I don’t mean to say any more about it. I see it can’t be helped, and you all think you intend it for good; so there’s an end of the matter, and I’ll do anything for you in reason.”

“Poor old King Ethel!” said Flora, smiling in an elder-sisterly manner. “You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but very impracticable, and it is a work-a-day world after all--even papa would tell you so. When Cocksmoor school is built, then you may thank me. I do not look for it before.”

Chapter II

Knowledge is second, not the first; A higher Hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain, and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side, With wisdom; like the younger child, For she is earthly of the mind, But knowledge heavenly of the soul.--In Memoriam.

Etheldred had not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the school were built.

The invasion of Cocksmoor was not only interference with her own field of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her scholars. Since the departure of Mr. Wilmot, matters at Stoneborough National School had not improved, though the Misses Anderson talked a great deal about progress, science, and lectures.

The Ladies’ Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could endure beyond her first half-year. No mistress had stayed a year within the memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real education, and, as each lady held different opinions and proscribed all books not agreeing thereto, everything “dogmatical” was excluded; and, as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and steam-engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitor for the week. If the ten generals could only have given up to Miltiades, but, alas! there was no Miltiades. Mr. Ramsden’s health was failing, and his neglect told upon the parish in the dreadful evils reigning unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching might have saved. Mental arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had little power to strengthen the soul against temptation.

The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronised Cherry Elwood, and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the emulation that led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what she chose to consider as an offshoot of the National School.

The next day she called upon the Misses May. It was well that Ethel was not at home. Margaret received the lady’s horrors at the sight of the mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother! Miss Flora and Miss Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no time in convening the Ladies’ Committee, and appointing a successor to “that Elwood,” as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If Margaret had not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason to believe that Mrs. Elwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich.

The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. Mrs. Elwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her own place--how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children, and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and see whether it were a fit one for them to use; whereupon Mrs. Elwood had burst out in defence--it was Miss Ethel May’s book, and should not be taken away--it was Miss Ethel as she looked to; and when it seemed that Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either as to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Elwood had fired up into a declaration that “Miss Ethel was a real lady--that she was! and that no real lady would ever come prying into other folk’s work and finding fault with what wasn’t no business of theirs,” with more of a personal nature, which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted it.

Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by the attack and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was her wont. Her real feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when, in her peaceful conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the young ladies would not let her stand in the children’s light, when a better teacher could be found for them.

“I am sure!” cried Ethel, as she heard of this, “it would be hard to find such a teacher in humility! Cherry bears it so much better than I, that it is a continual reproof!”

As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon it had made her erect it into a positive merit; she was always comparing the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry’s scholars with the notorious faults of the National School girls, as if these defects had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwich, or by geography. It must be confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant companion.

However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current of the ladies’ thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of Mrs. Ledwich’s proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman had just returned home for the Long Vacation, and, rather than lose the chance of a conversation with her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to Cocksmoor.

His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, where he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking over the removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him, and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened, might be, with less danger, exposed to trial.

It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s mind. Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself--an enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away.

“Thank you!” said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart.

She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they could not be taught the use of eyelids.

“Did they stare?” said Ethel. “That’s one advantage of being blind. No one can stare me out of countenance.”

“Why were you answering all your questions yourself?” asked Mary.

“Because no one else would,” said Norman.

“You used such hard words,” replied Ethel.

“Indeed! I thought I was very simple.”

“Oh!” cried Mary, “there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, and--oh, so many.”

“Never mind,” said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. “It is better for them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. If we only had Una M’Carthy here!”

“Then you don’t like it?” said Mary, disappointed.

“It is time to learn not to be fastidious,” he answered. “So, if you will help me--”

“Norman, I am so glad!” said Ethel.

“Yes,” said Norman, “I see now that these things that puff us up, and seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this! Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all his powers well bestowed in fifty years’ teaching of clowns!”

“Yes,” replied Ethel, very low. “One soul is worth--” and she paused from the fullness of thought.

“And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render us so fit to teach--as you, Mary, or as Richard.”

“They do,” said Ethel. “The ten talents were doubled. Strength tells in power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest thing.”

“You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot saying that the first thing he learned at his parish was, how little his people knew; the second, how little he himself knew.”

So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen for himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work in a manner which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost satisfactory to himself. He was not, indeed, without humility, but his nature was self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to perceive his superiority of talent, and it had been the struggle of his life to abase this perception, so that it was actually a relief not to be obliged to fight with his own complacency in his powers. He had learned not to think too highly of himself--he had yet to learn to “think soberly.” His aid was Ethel’s chief pleasure through this somewhat trying summer, it might be her last peaceful one at Cocksmoor.

That bazaar! How wild it had driven the whole town, and even her own home!

Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of pretty things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unvaried life, it was a great amusement to have so many bright elegant things exhibited to her, and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited about some new device, or drawn off from “rational employments,” to complete some trifle.

Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent had been given to the fancy-work being carried on in the schoolroom, all interest in study was over. Thenceforth, lessons were a necessary form, gone through without heart or diligence. These were reserved for paste-board boxes, beplastered with rice and sealing-wax, for alum baskets, dressed dolls, and every conceivable trumpery; and the governess was as eager as the scholars.

If Ethel remonstrated, she hurt Miss Bracy’s feelings, and this was a very serious matter to both parties.

The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people, who cannot be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are injured. Two women together, each with the last-word instinct, have no power to cease; and, when the words are spent in explaining--not in scolding--conscience is not called in to silence them, and nothing but dinner or a thunder-storm can check them. All Ethel’s good sense was of no avail; she could not stop Miss Bracy, and, though she might resolve within herself that real kindness would be to make one reasonable reply, and then quit the subject, yet, on each individual occasion, such a measure would have seemed mere impatience and cruelty. She found that if Miss Winter had been too dry, Miss Bracy went to the other extreme, and demanded a manifestation of sympathy, and return to her passionate attachment that perplexed Ethel’s undemonstrative nature. Poor good Miss Bracy, she little imagined how often she added to the worries of her dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command.

Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the needs of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret concurred in a decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and give up the studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind.

Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display of treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the “House that Jack built,” always starting from “the box that Mary made.” Come when Dr. May would into the drawing-room, there was always a line of penwipers laid out on the floor, bags pendent to all the table-drawers, antimacassars laid out everywhere.

Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but Mary was too old to be made into a boy, and Blanche drew Hector over to the feminine party, setting him to gum, gild, and paste all the contrivances which, in their hands, were mere feeble gimcracks, but which now became fairly sound, or, at least, saleable.

The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of the Alcestis, so successfully, that the doctor promised to buy it; and Ethel grudged the very sight of it to the bazaar.

Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model of Norman, had, unlike him, a very dexterous pair of hands, and made himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other hand, the Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the wit of Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his college, and the pride of his family. A great talker, and extremely gallant, he was considered a far greater acquisition to a Stoneborough drawing-room than was the silent, bashful Norman May, and rather looked down on his brother Edward, who, having gone steadily through the school, was in the attorney’s office, and went on quietly and well, colouring up gratefully whenever one of the May family said a kind word to him.

Chapter III

Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the newest and finest wear-a? Come to the pedlar, Money’s a medlar. That doth utter all men’s ware-a. Winter’s Tale.

“This one day and it will be over, and we shall be rational again,” thought Ethel, as she awoke.

Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the morning, and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who were frantic to have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys were to walk at their own time, and the children to be brought later by Miss Bracy. The doctor would be bound by no rules.

It was a pattern day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, perfect for an out-of-doors fete; and Ethel had made up her mind to fulfil her promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the brilliant sunshine, and between two such happy sisters, it would have been surly, indeed, not to enter into the spirit of the day; and Ethel laughed gaily with them, and at their schemes and hopes; Blanche’s heart being especially set on knowing the fate of a watch-guard of her own construction.

Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired thither at once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them; a marquee, almost converted into a bower, bounding it on either side, while in the midst arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of flowers--contributions from all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood--to be sold for the benefit of the bazaar. Their freshness and fragrance gave a brightness to the whole scene, while shrinking from such light, as only the beauteous works of nature could bear, was the array accomplished by female fingers.

Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with bright colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over-minute knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder glowing Eastern pattern of scarlet, black, and blue, was, in fact, a judicious mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds begged from the tailor, that the delicate lace-work consisted of Miss Bracy’s perpetual antimacassars, and that the potichomanie could look so dignified and Etruscan.

“Here you are!” cried Meta Rivers, springing to meet them. “Good girls, to come early. Where’s my little Daisy?”

“Coming in good time,” said Ethel. “How pretty it all looks!”

“But where’s Flora?--where’s my watch-guard?” anxiously asked Blanche.

“She was here just now,” said Meta, looking round. “What a genius she is, Ethel! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let the Miss Hoxtons think it was all their own doing, and she was out before six this morning, putting finishing touches.”

“Is this your stall?” said Ethel.

“Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a lady’s-maid look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my aunt’s maid did it chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and I could not be out much.”

“How is he now?”

“Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much for him.”

“Oh, what beautiful things!” cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had never stretched to the marvels she beheld.

“Ay, we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James’s, isn’t it?”

In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks, which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked, with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to which she set her hand.

Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect taste of Flora’s wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole was very bright and gay.

Blanche could hardly look; so anxious was she for Flora to tell her the locality of her treasure.

“There she is,” said Meta at last. “George is fixing that branch of evergreen for her.”

“Flora! I did not know her,” cried each sister amazed; while Mary added, “Oh, how nice she looks!”

It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad chip hat--which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had agreed to wear. It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, look strikingly elegant and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for the first time, that Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the bazaar--no one but Meta Rivers could be compared to her, and that little lady was on so small a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed fit to act the fairy, where Flora was the enchanted princess.

Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her brother--a great contrast to herself, though not without a certain comeliness, tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless black eyes, and a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling rather thick lips. Blanche reiterated inquiries for her watch-guard.

“I don’t know,”--said Flora. “Somewhere among the rest.”

Blanche was in despair.

“You may look for it,” said Flora, who, however hurried, never failed in kindness, “if you will touch nothing.”

So Blanche ran from place to place in restless dismay, that caused Mr. George Rivers to ask what was the matter.

“The guards! the guards!” cried Blanche; whereupon he fell into a fit of laughter, which disconcerted her, because she could not understand him, and made Ethel take an aversion to him on the spot.

However, he was very good-natured; he took Blanche’s reluctant hand, and conducted her all along the stall, even proceeding to lift her up where she could not command a view of the whole, thus exciting her extreme indignation. She shook herself out when he set her down, surveyed her crumpled muslin, and believed he took her for a little girl! She ought to have been flattered when the quest was successful, and he insisted on knowing which was the guard, and declared that he should buy it. She begged him to do no such thing, and he desired to know why--insisting that he would give five shillings--fifteen--twenty-five for that one! till she did not know whether he was in earnest, and she doing an injury to the bazaar.

Meantime, the hour had struck, and Flora had placed Mrs. Hoxton in a sheltered spot, where she could take as much or as little trouble as she pleased. Lady Leonora and Miss Langdale came from the house, and, with the two ladies’-maids in the background, took up their station with Miss Rivers. Miss Cleveland called her party to order, and sounds of carriages were heard approaching.

Mary and Blanche disbursed the first money spent in the “fancy fair;” Mary, on a blotting-book for Harry, to be placed among the presents, to which she added on every birthday, while Blanche bought a sixpenny gift for every one, with more attention to the quantity than the quality. Then came a revival of her anxieties for the guards, and while Mary was simply desirous of the fun of being a shopwoman, and was made happy by Meta Rivers asking her help, Blanche was in despair, till she had sidled up to their neighbourhood, and her piteous looks had caused good-natured Mrs. Hoxton to invite her to assist, when she placed herself close to the precious object.

A great fluttering of heart went to that manoeuvre, but still felicity could not be complete. That great troublesome Mr. George Rivers had actually threatened to buy nothing but that one watch-chain, and Blanche’s eye followed him everywhere with fear, lest he should come that way. And there were many other gentlemen--what could they want but watch-guards, and of them--what--save this paragon?

Poor Blanche; what did she not undergo whenever any one cast his eye over her range of goods? and this was not seldom, for there was an attraction in the pretty little eager girl, glowing and smiling. One old gentleman actually stopped, handled the guards themselves, and asked their price.

“Eighteen-pence,” said Blanche, colouring and faltering, as she held up one in preference.

“Eh! is not this the best?” said he, to the lady on his arm.

“Oh! please, take that instead?” exclaimed Blanche, in extremity.

“And why?” asked the gentleman, amused.

“I made this,” she answered.

“Is that the reason I must not have it?”

“No, don’t tease her,” the lady said kindly; and the other was taken.

“I wonder for what it is reserved!” the lady could not help saying, as she walked away.

“Let us watch her for a minute or two. What an embellishment children are! Ha! don’t you see--the little maid is fluttering and reddening--now! How pretty she looks! Ah! I see! here’s the favoured! Don’t you see that fine bronzed lad--Eton--one can see at a glance! It is a little drama. They are pretending to be strangers. He is turning over the goods with an air, she trying to look equally careless, but what a pretty carnation it is! Ha! ha! he has come to it--he has it! Now the acting is over, and they are having their laugh out! How joyously! What next! Oh! she begs off from keeping shop--she darts out to him, goes off in his hand--I declare that is the prettiest sight in the whole fair! I wonder who the little demoiselle can be?”

The great event of the day was over now with Blanche, and she greatly enjoyed wandering about with Hector and Tom. There was a post-office at Miss Cleveland’s stall, where, on paying sixpence, a letter could be obtained to the address of the inquirer. Blanche had been very anxious to try, but Flora had pronounced it nonsense; however, Hector declared that Flora was not his master, tapped at the sliding panel, and charmed Blanche by what she thought a most witty parody of his name as Achilles Lionsrock, Esquire. When the answer came from within, “Ship letter, sir, double postage,” they thought it almost uncanny; and Hector’s shilling was requited by something so like a real ship letter, that they had some idea that the real post had somehow transported itself thither. The interior was decidedly oracular, consisting of this one line, “I counsel you to persevere in your laudable undertaking.”

Hector said he wished he had any laudable undertaking, and Blanche tried to persuade Tom to try his fortune, but he pronounced that he did not care to hear Harvey Anderson’s trash--he knew his writing, though disguised, and had detected his shining boots below the counter. There Mr. George Rivers came up, and began to tease Blanche about the guards, asking her to take his fifteen shillings--or five-and-twenty, and who had got that one, which alone he wanted; till the poor child, after standing perplexed for some moments, looked up with spirit, and said, “You have no business to ask,” and, running away, took refuge in the back of Mrs. Hoxton’s marquee, where she found Ethel packing up for Miss Hoxton’s purchasers, and confiding to her that Mr. George Rivers was a horrid man, she ventured no more from her protection. She did, indeed, emerge, when told that papa was coming with Aubrey and Daisy and Miss Bracy, and she had the pleasure of selling to them some of her wares. Dr. May bargaining with her to her infinite satisfaction; and little Gertrude’s blue eyes opened to their full width, not understanding what could have befallen her sisters.

“And what is Ethel doing?” asked the doctor.

“Packing up parcels, papa,” and Ethel’s face was raised, looking very merry.

“Packing parcels! How long will they last tied up?” said Dr. May, laughing.

“Lasting is the concern of nothing in the fair, papa,” answered she, in the same tone.

For Ethel was noted as the worst packer in the house; but, having offered to wrap up a pincushion, sold by a hurried Miss Hoxton, she became involved in the office for the rest of the day--the same which Bellairs and her companion performed at the Langdale counter. Flora was too ready and dexterous to need any such aid, but the Misses Hoxton were glad to be spared the trouble; and Blanche, whose fingers were far neater than Ethel’s, made the task much easier, and was kept constant to it by her dread of the dark moustache, which was often visible near their tent, searching, she thought, for her.

Their humble employment was no sinecure; for this was the favourite stall with the purchasers of better style, since the articles were, in general, tasteful, and fairly worth the moderate price set on them. At Miss Cleveland’s counter there was much noisy laughter--many jocular cheats--tricks for gaining money, and refusals to give change; and it seemed to be very popular with the Stoneborough people, and to carry on a brisk trade. The only languor was in Lady Leonora’s quarter--the articles were too costly, and hung on hand; nor were the ladies sufficiently well known, nor active enough, to gain custom, excepting Meta, who drove a gay traffic at her end of the stall, which somewhat redeemed the general languor.

Her eyes were, all the time, watching for her father, and, suddenly perceiving him, she left her trade in charge of the delighted and important Mary, and hastened to walk round with him, and show him the humours of the fair.

Mary, in her absence, had the supreme happiness of obtaining Norman as a customer. He wanted a picture for his rooms at Oxford, and water-coloured drawings were, as Tom had observed, suitable staple commodities for Miss Rivers. Mary tried to make him choose a brightly-coloured pheasant, with a pencil background; and, then, a fine foaming sea-piece, by some unknown Lady Adelaide, that much dazzled her imagination; but nothing would serve him but a sketch of an old cedar tree, with Stoneborough Minster in the distance, and the Welsh hills beyond, which Mary thought a remarkable piece of bad taste, since--could he not see all that any day of his life? and was it worth while to give fourteen shillings and sixpence for it? But he said it was all for the good of Cocksmoor, and Mary was only too glad to add to her hoard of coin; so she only marvelled at his extravagance, and offered to take care of it for him; but, to this, he would not consent. He made her pack it up for him, and had just put the whitey-brown parcel under his arm, when Mr. Rivers and his daughter came up, before he was aware. Mary proudly advertised Meta that she had sold something for her.

“Indeed! What was it?”

“Your great picture of Stoneborough!” said Mary.

“Is that gone? I am sorry you have parted with that, my dear; it was one of your best,” said Mr. Rivers, in his soft, sleepy, gentle tone.

“Oh, papa, I can do another. But, I wonder! I put that extortionate price on it, thinking no one would give it, and so that I should keep it for you. Who has it, Mary?”

“Norman, there. He would have it, though I told him it was very dear.”

Norman, pressed near them by the crowd, had been unable to escape, and stood blushing, hesitating, and doubting whether he ought to restore the prize, which he had watched so long, and obtained so eagerly.

“Oh! it is you?” said Mr. Rivers politely. “Oh, no, do not think of exchanging it. I am rejoiced that one should have it who can appreciate it. It was its falling into the hands of a stranger that I disliked. You think with me, that it is one of her best drawings?”

“Yes, I do,” said Norman, still rather hesitating. “She did that with C--, when he was here last year. He taught her very well. Have you that other here, that you took with him, my dear? The view from the gate, I mean.”

“No, dear papa. You told me not to sell that.”

“Ah! I remember; that is right. But there are some very pretty copies from Prout here.”

While he was seeking them, Meta contrived to whisper, “If you could persuade him to go indoors--this confusion of people is so bad for him, and I must not come away. I was in hopes of Dr. May, but he is with the little ones.”

Norman signed comprehension, and Meta said, “Those copies are not worth seeing, but you know, papa, you have the originals in the library.”

Mr. Rivers looked pleased, but was certain that Norman could not prefer the sketches to this gay scene. However, it took very little persuasion to induce him to do what he wished, and he took Norman’s arm, crossed the lawn, and arrived in his own study, where it was a great treat to him to catch any one who would admire his accumulation of prints, drawings, coins, etc.; and his young friend was both very well amused and pleased to be setting Miss Rivers’s mind at ease on her father’s account. It was not till half-past four that Dr. May knocked at the door, and stood surprised at finding his son there. Mr. Rivers spoke warmly of the young Oxonian’s kindness in leaving the fair for an old man, and praised Norman’s taste in art. Norman rose to take leave, but still thought it incumbent on him to offer to give up the picture, if Mr. Rivers set an especial value on it. But Mr. Rivers went to the length of being very glad that it was in his possession, and added to it a very pretty drawing of the same size, by a noted master, which had been in the water-colour exhibition, and, while Norman walked away, well pleased, Mr. Rivers began to extol him to his father, as a very superior and sensible young man, of great promise, and began to wish George had the same turn.

Norman, on returning to the fancy fair, found the world in all the ardour of raffles. Lady Leonora’s contributions were the chief prizes, which attracted every one, and, of course, the result was delightfully incongruous. Poor Ethel, who had been persuaded to venture a shilling to please Blanche, who had spent all her own, obtained the two jars in potichomanie, and was regarding them with a face worth painting. Harvey Anderson had a doll, George Rivers a wooden monkey, that jumped over a stick; and, if Hector Ernescliffe was enchanted at winning a beautiful mother-of-pearl inlaid workbox, which he had vainly wished to buy for Margaret, Flora only gained a match-box of her own, well known always to miss fire, but which had been decided to be good enough for the bazaar.

By fair means or foul, the commodities were cleared off, and, while the sunbeams faded from the trodden grass, the crowds disappeared, and the vague compliment, “a very good bazaar,” was exchanged between the lingering sellers and their friends.

Flora was again to sleep at the Grange, and return the next day, for a committee to be held over the gains, which were not yet fully ascertained. So Dr. May gathered his flock together, and packed them, boys and all, into the two conveyances, and Ethel bade Meta good-night, almost wondering to hear her merry voice say, “It has been a delightful day, has it not? It was so kind of your brother to take care of papa.”

“Oh, it was delightful!” echoed Mary, “and I took one pound fifteen and sixpence!”

“I hope it will do great good to Cocksmoor,” added Meta, “but, if you want real help, you know, you must come to us.”

Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche again tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become of the guard, telling her that, if she would not say, he should be furiously jealous.

Blanche hid her face on Ethel’s arm, when they were in the carriage, and almost cried with indignant “shamefastness.” That long-desired day had not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor child, and Ethel doubted whether it had been so to any one, except, indeed, to Mary, whose desires never soared so high but that they were easily fulfilled, and whose placid content was not easily wounded. All she was wishing now was, that Harry were at home to receive his paper-case.

The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all that had passed was an event to her. She was so charmed with her presents, of every degree; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by drollery in the relating, be made mirthful fun ever after; Dr. May and the boys were so comical in their observations--Mary’s wonder and simplicity came in so amazingly--and there was such merriment at Ethel’s two precious jars, that she could hardly wish they had not come to her. On one head they were all agreed, in dislike of George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be a detestable man, and, when gently called to order by Margaret, defended it, by saying that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to hate, while Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind the arm-chair; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow-brained and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when Mr. Rivers had been working himself up in the world, had not had so good an education as his little half-sister.

“Well, what are you thinking of?” said her father, laying his hand on Ethel’s arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting together the scattered purchases before going up to bed.

“I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken in this world for a very little pleasure.”

“The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical miss!”

“Yes, that is true; but, if so, why cannot it be taken for some good?”

“They meant it to be good,” said Dr. May. “Come, I cannot have you severe and ungrateful.”

“So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and vanities, and disappointments it has produced--not even poor little Blanche allowed any comfort--I am almost sick at heart with thinking Cocksmoor was the excuse!”

“Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not been tying parcels all day.”

“I had rather do that than--But that is the ‘Fox and the Grapes,’” said Ethel, smiling. “What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t they, papa? Why is it worth while to go and search for a day’s pleasuring?”

“Ethel, my child! I don’t like to hear you talk so,” said Dr. May, looking anxiously at her. “It may be too true, but it is not youthful nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care--”

“Oh, no, papa!” said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily. “You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough--only at home--”

And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm, and shed a few tears.

“The fact is, she is tired out,” said Dr. May soothingly, yet half laughing. “She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by. I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in the world.”

“Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at Cocksmoor!”

“They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic.”

Chapter IV

Back then, complainer... Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last In joy to find it after many days.--Christian Year.

The next day Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, the world was cross! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, Gertrude fretted, and was unwell; Aubrey was pettish at his lessons; and Mary and Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive; every straw was a burden, and Miss Bracy had feelings.

Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her in the schoolroom, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a Cocksmoor woman at the back door, and she was returning from the kitchen, when the doctor called her into his study.

“Ethel! what is all this? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods of tears in the schoolroom, because she says you told her she was ill-tempered.”

“I am sure you will be quite as much surprised,” said Ethel, somewhat exasperated, “when you hear that you lacerated her feelings yesterday.”

“I? Why, what did I do?” exclaimed Dr. May.

“You showed your evident want of confidence in her.”

“I? What can I have done?”

“You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took them away at once to walk with you.”

“Well?”

“Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her.”

“Ethel, what on earth can you mean? I saw the two children dragging on her, and I thought she would see nothing that was going on, and would be glad to be released; and I wanted them to go with me and see Meta’s gold pheasants.”

“That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all this time, because she was sure, from your manner, that you were displeased to see them alone with her--eating bon-bons, I believe, and therefore took them away.”

“Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!”

“I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before but her feelings are always being hurt.”

“Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?”

“I hope we are,” said Ethel; “but how can we tell what vexes her?”

“And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?” asked Dr. May incredulously.

“Well, papa,” said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it so impossible. “I had often thought I ought to tell her that these sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps--indeed I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day, and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would find they were only a form of pride and temper.”

“It did not come well from you, Ethel,” said the doctor, looking vexed.

“No, I know it did not,” said Ethel meekly; “but oh! to have these janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!”

“Once a week?”

“It is really as often, or more often,” said Ethel. “If any of us criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can’t tell you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till--oh, till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.”

“Why do you argue?”

“If I could only help it!”

“Bad management,” said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. “You want a head!” and he sighed.

“Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--”

“Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing everything.”

“These were such nonsense!”

“What may seem nonsense to you is not the same to her. You must be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to morbid sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of themselves.”

“It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,” said Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments, she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion.

Dr. May’s chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part of the weak, and he answered, “You know nothing about it. Among our own kith and kin we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is right--we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!” he continued, as the picture wrought on him. “Each trifle seems a token one way or the other! I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell her so at once.”

He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the schoolroom door, while Ethel stood, mortified. “He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have, at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her pardon for it--but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will stick to it.”

“Ethel!” cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and whispering, “you did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered.”

“No--not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?”

“She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she said my sister Ethel said she was ill-tempered.”

“She made a great exaggeration then,” said Ethel.

“I am sure she was very cross all day,” said Mary.

“Well, that is no business of yours,” said Ethel pettishly. “What now? Mary, don’t look out at the street window.”

“It is Flora--the Grange carriage,” whispered Mary, as the two sisters made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room.

Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the schoolroom. Miss Bracy had ceased her tears before he came--they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not intended the world to know of them. Half disconcerted, half angry, she heard the doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea that meekness consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving herself guilty of a lesser one.

“Miss Bracy,” said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look, “I am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you. You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.” Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology for her imagined offence from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd, she murmured something of “oh, no,” and “being sure,” and hoped he was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls having made her appear so ridiculous.

No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself, saying, with a smile, “You see, you must trust us sometimes, and overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough, careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to them.”

Miss Bracy exclaimed, “Oh, no, never, they were most kind.”

“We wish to be,” said Dr. May, “but there are little neglects--or you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful--for that would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only nervous--”

Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary.

He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. “You will let me speak to you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true cure. Don’t brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.”

“Oh! but Dr. May!” she exclaimed, shocked; “nothing in your house could call for such feelings.”

“I hope we are not very savage,” he said, smiling; “but, indeed, I still say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?”

“You are right; but my feelings were always over-sensitive;” and this she said with a sort of complacency.

“Well, we must try to brace them,” said Dr. May, much as if prescribing for her. “Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?”

She felt as if she could at that moment.

“Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any one. My daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know.”

“Oh! they are most kind--”

“But, you see, I must say this,” added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating, “as they have no mother to--to spare all this,” and then, growing clearer, he proceeded, “I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped. They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you--I hear myself called.”

Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused Ethel’s patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of her sensitiveness did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first. She hoped every one would forget all about it, and resolved not to take umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but she was not a person of much resolution.

The doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought Flora home, and were in the drawing-room, where Margaret was hearing another edition of the history of the fair, and a by-play was going on, of teasing Blanche about the chain.

George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him; and her refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in the midst of the other conversation--“No! I say-no!”

“Another no, and that will be yes.”

“No! I won’t! I don’t like you well enough!”

Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away to take their walk, and the brother and sister soon after took leave, when Flora called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies’ Committee, that they might arrange the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds, the amount of their gains.

“To see the fate of Cocksmoor,” said Ethel.

“Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk?” said Flora, looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. “Poor Ethel! I am doing you good against your will! Never mind, here is wherewith to build the school, and the management will be too happy to fall into our hands. Do you think every one is as ready as you are, to walk three miles and back continually?”

There was sense in this; there always was sense in what Flora said, but it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathising in her to be so gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel would have been very glad of a short space to recollect herself, and recover her good temper; but it was late, and Flora hurried her to put on her bonnet, and come to the committee. “I’ll take care of your interests,” she said, as they set out. “You look as doleful as if you thought you should be robbed of Cocksmoor; but that is the last thing that will happen, you will see.”

“It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then for us to put them out of the management,” said Ethel.

“My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave the real power to us of themselves.”

“You like to build Cocksmoor with such instruments,” said Ethel, whose ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argue with Flora.

“Bricks are made of clay!” said Flora. “There, that was said like Norman himself! On your plan, we might have gone on for forty years, saving seven shillings a year, and spending six, whenever there was an illness in the place.”

“You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did!” said Ethel.

“That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how to deal with them. I will take care--I will even save Cherry Elwood for you, if I can. Alan Ernescliffe’s ten pounds is a noble weapon.”

“You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no time!” said Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and of her sister’s patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the unpleasant truths that in her better moods were held back.

Still Flora was good-tempered, though Ethel would almost have preferred her being provoked; “I know,” she said, “I have been using you ill, and leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was all in your service and Cocksmoor’s; and now we shall begin to be reasonable and useful again.”

“I hope so,” said Ethel.

“Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with Norman to dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers begged us to come; he is so anxious to make it lively for his son.”

“Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be likely to get on together. What a bad style of wit! You heard what Mary said about him? and Ethel repeated the doubt between hating and detesting.

“Young men never know how to talk to little girls,” was Flora’s reply.

At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Andersons, and Flora began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday’s events with great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, brightened as it was by the peculiarly engaging address which she had inherited from her father, and which, therefore, was perfectly easy and natural. Fanny Anderson was flattered and gratified, rather by the manner than the words, and, on excellent terms, they entered the committee-room, namely, the schoolmistress’s parlour.

There were nine ladies on the committee--nine muses, as the doctor called them, because they produced anything but harmony. Mrs. Ledwich was in the chair; Miss Rich was secretary, and had her pen and ink, and account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling and greeting; Ethel, grave, earnest, and annoyed, behind her, trying to be perfectly civil, but not at all enjoying the congratulations on the successful bazaar. The ladies all talked and discussed their yesterday’s adventures, gathering in little knots, as they traced the fate of favourite achievements of their skill, while Ethel, lugubrious and impatient, beside Flora, the only one not engaged, and, therefore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking tongues.

At last Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress’s watch, in its pasteboard tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceeding to business. So they all sat down round a circular table, with a very fine red, blue, and black oilcloth, whose pattern was inseparably connected, in Ethel’s mind, with absurdity, tedium, and annoyance.

The business was opened by the announcement of what they all knew before, that the proceeds of the fancy fair amounted to one hundred and forty-nine pounds fifteen shillings and tenpence.

Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to consider what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in this most gratifying manner. Every one except Flora, Ethel, and quiet Mrs. Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal about Elizabethan architecture, crossed by much more, in which normal, industrial, and common things, most often met Ethel’s ear, with some stories, second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvellous mistakes; and, on the opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. Ledwich, impressively saying something to the silent Mrs. Ward, marking her periods with emphatic beats with her pencil, and each seemed to close with “Mrs. Perkinson’s niece,” whom Ethel knew to be Cherry’s intended supplanter. She looked piteously at Flora, who only smiled and made a sign with her hand to her to be patient. Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power; but she could not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when, having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse on Mrs. Elwood’s impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson’s niece, she leaned towards Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her, “Ask Mrs. Ledwich if we should not begin with some steps for getting the land.”

Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, “Just so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take steps for obtaining it.” Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who “always did things methodically,” moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the land requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies held up their hands, and resolved it.

Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder suggested that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, or Government, or something; whereat Miss Rich began to flourish one of the very long goose quills which stood in the inkstand before her, chiefly as insignia of office, for she always wrote with a small, stiff metal pen.

Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they had the land to build upon?

The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of hardness of heart were mentioned, the most relevant of which was, that the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. Holloway’s proprietary chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich was suddenly struck with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might be prevailed on to come to Stoneborough to preach a sermon in the Minster, for the benefit of Cocksmoor, when they would all hold plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel a tranquillising pat, and, as Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether she thought Dr. May, or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she said, with her winning look, “I think that consideration had better wait till we have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this land question?”

“Quite true!” they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong?--and what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson, because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they had no chance, for he was an old miser--and six stories illustrative thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle, because Mr. Southron’s cow had tumbled down a loam-pit when her mother was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there, and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr. Bramshaw knew all about it.

Flora’s gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak--(Ethel would have done so long ago). “If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to M---- College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson.”

Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson that Miss May had stated it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and write at once to the principal of the college. But who was to write? Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was negatived. Every one declared that he would never take the trouble, and Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward, who was opposite to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride after banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the committee would sit upon Miss Rich’s letter.

“My dear Miss Flora!” began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted with the rest at the end of the street, “how am I to write to a principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or My Lord, or is he Venerable, like an archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?”

“Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line,” said Flora, laughing.

“Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at Oxford! You must know--”

“I’ll take advice,” said Flora good-naturedly. “Shall I come, and call before Friday, and tell you the result?”

“Oh, pray! It will be a real favour! Good-morning--”

“There,” said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards, “Cherry is not going to be turned out just yet!”

“How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and you said not a word against it!”

“What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse.”

“I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more honest to speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them.”

“My dear Ethel! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion? It is not fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragooning as you would have me; but a little savoir faire, a grain of common sense, thrown in among the babble, always works. Don’t you remember how Mrs. Ward’s sister told us that a whole crowd of tottering Chinese ladies would lean on her, because they felt her firm support, though it was out of sight?”

Ethel did not answer; she had self-control enough left not to retort upon Flora’s estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong; she felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as well as set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much folly and vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion destroyed by such interference, and Flora’s promises did not reassure her. She doubted Flora’s power, and had still more repugnance to the means by which her sister tried to govern; they did not seem to her straightforward, and she could not endure Flora’s complacency in their success. Had it not been for her real love for the place and people, as well as the principle which prompted that love, she could have found it in her heart to throw up all concern with it, rather than become a fellow-worker with such a conclave.

Such were Ethel’s feelings as the pair walked down the street; the one sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had endured many shocks all that day, all good nature and triumph, looking forward to success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty of management, with credit and praise to herself; the other, downcast and irritable, with annoyance at the interference with her schemes, at the prospects of her school, and at herself for being out of temper, prone to murmur or to reply tartly, and not able to recover from her mood, but only, as she neared the house, lapsing into her other trouble, and preparing to resist any misjudged, though kind attempt of her father, to make her unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. Pride and temper! Ah! Etheldred! where were they now?

Dr. May was at his study door as his daughters entered the hall, and Ethel expected the order which she meant to question; but, instead of this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the nine muses, which Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he stopped Ethel, as she was going upstairs, by saying, “I do not know whether this letter is intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, it concerns you most.”

The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D. D., Market Stoneborough, and the letter began, “Reverend Sir.” So far Ethel saw, and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn “Ah!” and an interjection, “My poor dear Una!” she became absorbed, the large tears--yes, Ethel’s reluctant tears gathering slowly and dropping.

The letter was from a clergyman far away in the north of England, who said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to send to Dr. May an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have received great benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially as she had shown great eagerness on his proposing to write.

He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish a troop of railwaymen and their families. For the most part, they were completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care; but, even on the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, ragged, unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into church with a Prayer-book in her hand, and had afterwards found her hanging about the door of the school. “I never saw a more engaging, though droll, wild expression, than that with which she looked up to me.” (Ethel’s cry of delight was at that sentence--she knew that look too well, and had yearned after it so often!) “I found her far better instructed than her appearance had led me to expect, and more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had learned than it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect in the New Testament history”--(“Ah! that she was not, when she went away!”)--“and was in the habit of constantly attending church, and using morning and evening prayers.” (“Oh! how I longed, when she went away, to beg her to keep them up! Dear Una.”) “On my questions, as to how she had been taught, she always replied, ‘Mr. Richard May,’ or ‘Miss Athel.’ You must excuse me if I have not correctly caught the name from her Irish pronunciation.” (“I am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah! But oh! this dear girl! How I have wished to hear of her!”) “Everything was answered with ‘Mr. Richard,’ or ‘Miss Athel’; and, if I inquired further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, and she would run on, as long as I could listen, with instances of their kindness. It was the same with her mother, a wild, rude specimen of an Irishwoman, whom I never could bring to church herself, but who ran on loudly with their praises, usually ending with ‘Heavens be their bed,’ and saying that Una had been quite a different girl since the young ladies and gentleman found her out, and put them parables in her head.

“For my own part, I can testify that, in the seven months that she attended my school, I never had a serious fault to find with her, but far more often to admire the earnestness and devout spirit, as well as the kindness and generosity apparent in all her conduct. Bad living, and an unwholesome locality, have occasioned a typhus fever among the poor strangers in this place, and Una was one of the first victims. Her mother, almost from the first, gave her up, saying she knew she was one marked for glory; and Una has been lying, day after day, in a sort of half-delirious state, constantly repeating hymns and psalms, and generally, apparently very happy, except when one distress occurred again and again, whether delirious or sensible, namely, that she had never gone to wish Miss May good-bye, and thank her; and that maybe she and Mr. Richard thought her ungrateful; and she would sometimes beg, in her phraseology, to go on her bare knees to Stoneborough, only to see Miss Athel again.

“Her mother, I should say, told me the girl had been half mad at not being allowed to go and take leave of Miss May; and she had been sorry herself, but her husband had come home suddenly from the search for work, and, having made his arrangements, removed them at once, early the next morning--too early to go to the young lady; though, she said, Una did--as they passed through Stoneborough--run down the street before she was aware, and she found her sobbing, fit to break her heart, before the house.” (“Oh, why, why was I not up, and at the window! Oh, my Una! to think of that!”) “When I spoke of writing to let Miss May hear how it was, the poor girl caught at the idea with the utmost delight. Her weakness was too great to allow her to utter many words distinctly, when I asked her what she would have me say, but these were as well as I could understand:--‘The blessing of one, that they have brought peace unto. Tell them I pray, and will pray, that they may walk in the robe of glory--and tell Mr. Richard that I mind what he said to me, of taking hold on the sure hope. God crown all their crosses unto them, and fulfil all their desires unto everlasting life.’ I feel that I am not rendering her words with all their fervour and beauty of Irish expression, but I would that I could fully retain and transmit them, for those who have so led her must, indeed, be able to feel them precious. I never saw a more peaceful frame of penitence and joy. She died last night, sleeping herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will be committed to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars attending; and, I hope, profiting by the example she has left.

“I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those whose labour of love has borne such blessed fruit; and, hoping you will pardon the liberty, etc.”

Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising sobs almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted the door, and threw herself on her knees, beside her bed--now confusedly giving thanks for such results--now weeping bitterly over her own unworthiness. Oh! what was she in the sight of Heaven, compared with what this poor girl had deemed her--with what this clergyman thought her? She, the teacher, taught, trained, and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and by such a father! She, to have given way all day to pride, jealousy, anger, selfish love of her own will; when this poor girl had embraced, and held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought her! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that had been working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence--not killed--when she endured the bazaar, and now had been indemnifying itself by repining at every stumbling-block. Her own scholar’s blessing was the rebuke that went most home to her heart, for having doubted whether good could be worked in any way, save her own.

She was interrupted by Mary trying to open the door, and, admitting her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask what there was about Una. Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary’s tears showered very fast--they always came readily. “Oh, Ethel, how glad Richard will be!”

“Yes; it is all Richard’s doing. So much more good, and wise, and humble, as he is. No wonder his teaching--” and Ethel sat down and cried again.

Mary pondered. “It makes me very glad,” she said; “and yet I don’t know why one cries. Ethel, do you think”--she came near, and whispered--“that Una has met dear mamma there?”

Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken of her mother; and she answered, “Dear Mary, we cannot tell--we may think. It is all one communion, you know.”

Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that Ethel would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una.

Ethel was obliged to dress, and go downstairs to tea. Her father seemed to have been watching for her, with his study door open, for he came to meet her, took her hand, and said, in a low voice, “My dear child, I wish you joy. This will be a pleasant message, to bid poor Ritchie good speed for his ordination, will it not?”

“That it will, papa--”

“Why, Ethel, have you been crying over it all this time?” said he, struck by the sadness of her voice.

“Many other things, papa. I am so unworthy--but it was not our doing--but the grace--”

“No, but thankful you may be, to have been the means of awakening the grace!”

Ethel’s lips trembled. “And oh, papa! coming to-day, when I have been behaving so ill to you, and Miss Bracy, and Flora, and all.

“Have you? I did not know you had behaved ill to me.”

“About Miss Bracy--I thought wrong things, if I did not say them. To her, I believe, I said what was true, though it was harsh of me to say it, and--”

“What? about pride and temper? It was true, and I hope it will do her good. Cure a piping turkey with a peppercorn sometimes. I have spoken to her, and told her to pluck up a little spirit; not fancy affronts, and not to pester you with them. Poor child! you have been sadly victimised to-day and yesterday. No wonder you were bored past patience, with that absurd rabble of women!”

“It was all my own selfish, distrustful temper, wanting to have Cocksmoor taken care of in my own way, and angry at being interfered with. I see it now--and here this poor girl, that I thought thrown away--”

“Ay, Ethel, you will often see the like. The main object may fail or fall short, but the earnest painstaking will always be blessed some way or other, and where we thought it most wasted, some fresh green shoot will spring up, to show it is not we that give the increase. I suppose you will write to Richard with this?”

“That I shall.”

“Then you may send this with it. Tell him my arm is tired and stiff to-day, or I would have said more. He must answer the clergyman’s letter.”

Dr. May gave Ethel his sheet not folded. His written words were now so few as to be cherished amongst his children.

“Dear Richard,--

“May all your ministerial works be as blessed as this, your first labour of love. I give you hearty joy of this strengthening blessing. Mine goes with it--‘Only be strong and of a good courage!’

“Your affectionate father, R. May.

“PS.--Margaret does not gain ground this summer; you must soon come home and cheer her.”

Chapter V

As late, engaged by fancy’s dream, I lay beside a rapid stream, I saw my first come gliding by, Its airy form soon caught my eye; Its texture frail, and colour various, Like human hopes, and life precarious. Sudden, my second caught my ear, And filled my soul with constant fear; I quickly rose, and home I ran, My whole was hissing in the pan.--Riddle.

Flora revised the letter to the principal, and the Ladies’ Committee approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which Flora caused to topple over by their own weakness.

After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, the principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the Long Vacation, and informed them that their request should be laid before the next college meeting.

After the committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters walked home in much greater harmony than after the former meeting. Etheldred had recovered her candour, and was willing to own that it was not art, but good sense, that gave her sister so much ascendancy. She began to be hopeful, and to declare that Flora might yet do something even with the ladies. Flora was gratified by the approval that no one in the house could help valuing; “Positively,” said Flora, “I believe I may in time. You see there are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an equal.”

“The authority can move from without, the equal must from within,” said Ethel.

“Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of trying to beat them down.”

“If you only could have the proper catechising restored!”

“Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.”

“Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful power!”

“The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.”

“That is the worst of it,” said Ethel. “It is sad to hear the sick people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson; it shows that they have so entirely lost the notion of what their clergyman should be.”

“Dr. May is the man most looked up to in this town,” said Flora, “and that gives weight to us in the committee, but it is all in the using.”

“Yes,” said Ethel hesitatingly.

“You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education, as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the largest subscribers, added to his personal character,” said Flora; “so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone prevented us from assuming our post sooner.”

They were at home by this time, and entering the hall, perceived that the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soap-suds and some tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist, even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to the window.

Bubbles is one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down to blow “a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand, and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity. Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful, uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks at her empty fingers with a puzzled “All gone!” as plainly expressed by Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them, striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy.

Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery.

He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable current of air--the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars; no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up, but it wilfully descends--they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high with their breath--there is a collision between Mary and Blanche--Aubrey perceives a taste of soapy water--the bubble is no more--it is vanished in his open mouth!

Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight--all rush to assist it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed! Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost branch--hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated--but earthwards! it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A general blank!

“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s baffled faces.

“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered.

“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for it.”

“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it, Norman.”

“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too obvious a rhyme.”

“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one joined in the outcry.

“Whose is it?”

“Blanche’s--”

“Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!” said the doctor, “that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble that flies! Don’t we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight, is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?”

“The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the house,” said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. “It is a fair pattern of life and fame.”

“I was thinking,” continued Dr. May, “what was the most unalloyed exultation I remember.”

“Harry’s, when you were made dux,” whispered Ethel to her brother.

“Not mine,” said Norman briefly.

“I believe,” said Dr. May, “I never knew such glorification as when Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all felt ourselves made illustrious for ever in his person.”

“Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the grandest time?” said Blanche, who had been listening.

Dr. May laughed, and patted her. “I, Blanche? Why, I was excessively amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had been doing next to nothing to the very last, then fell into an agony, and worked like a horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and that my mother and my uncle would break their hearts.”

“But when you heard that you had it?” persisted Blanche.

“Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I thought for!” said he, laughing; “but I was ashamed of myself, and of the authorities, for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that other plodding lads missed it, who deserved it more than I.”

“Of course,” said Norman, in a low voice, “that is what one always feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles!”

“Where was Dr. Spencer?” asked Ethel.

“Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had gained it, or I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer! what would I not give to see him, or hear of him?”

“The last was--how long ago?” said Ethel.

“Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonshedagore,” said Dr. May, sighing. “I gave him up; his health was broken, and there was no one to look after him. He was the sort of man to have a nameless grave, and a name too blessed for fame.”

Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, but there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned to them as Miss Rivers and her brother were ushered into the drawing-room; and Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to hide herself in the schoolroom.

Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an attraction to all the live creatures, as it seemed; for the kitten came, and was caressed till her own graceful Nipen was ready to fight with the uncouth Toby for the possession of a resting-place on the skirt of her habit, while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming a privilege, and Aubrey kept guard over the dogs.

Meta inquired after a huge doll--Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, at the bazaar.

“She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,” was the answer, “because Aubrey tied her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the nursery grate.”

“Oh, Aubrey, that was too cruel!”

“No,” returned Aubrey; “she was Iphigenia, going to be sacrificed.”

“Mary unconsciously acted Diana,” said Ethel, “and bore the victim away.”

“Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra?” asked Meta.

“Oh, yes, she liked it,” said Aubrey, while Meta looked discomfited.

“I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,” said Margaret; “we deal too much in their natural enemies.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped in all her parts.”

“Harry and Tom once made a general execution,” said Flora; “there was a doll hanging to every baluster--the number made up with rag.”

George Rivers burst out laughing--his first sign of life; and Meta looked as if she had heard of so many murders.

“I can’t help feeling for a doll!” she said. “They used to be like sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that see no character in them, and only call them Dolly.”

“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “If there had been no live dolls, Richard and I should have reared our doll family as judiciously as tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still extant, that he made for them.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Meta, as if she had found another point of union. “If I were to confess--there is a dear old Rose in the secret recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away my sister--”

“Ha!” cried her brother, laying hold of the child, “here, little Daisy, will you give your doll to Meta?”

“My name is Gertrude Margaret May,” said the little round mouth. The fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, and the rosy face was hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of George Rivers’s broad laugh and “Well done, little one!”

Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and began talking to Meta about Mr. Rivers.

Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother; and he presently asked Norman to go out shooting with him, but looked so amazed on hearing that Norman was no sportsman that Flora tried to save the family credit by mentioning Hector’s love of a gun, which caused their guest to make a general tender of sporting privileges; “Though,” added he, with a drawl, “shooting is rather a nuisance, especially alone.”

Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going out alone, that he had brought her here, in search of a companion.

“He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with solitude,” said she, “and comes to me to be entertained.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?”

“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’ to him.”

“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.”

“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different; “besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very kind and good-natured to me.”

“But what becomes of your business?”

“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself, yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’”

“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.”

“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.”

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend, and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian father, and that stupid, idealess brother.

“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman.

“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he despised you for refusing--as much as you despised him.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie--you know what he is. When I bring him down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not keen after.”

“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!”

“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel. “What a famous set down she gave him.”

“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May.

“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.”

“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary.

“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I used to be called Peg-top--and Flora, Flossy--we were never allowed to use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other people.”

“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home. It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname attached to her.”

“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not be known by any absurd word!”

“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,” said Flora.

“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity, their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.”

“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other, affectation of intimacy.”

“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss Rivers, to all the people here.”

“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly.

“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would prevent you from calling her Meta before--”

“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I want a sister.”

“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for you, you will see what I shall do!”

“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I suppose,” said Norman.

“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.”

“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman.

“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye, Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize. Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!”

“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year. Our old friend, Decius Mus.”

“Have you finished?”

“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as we used in old times.”

“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.”

“You used to write English verse.”

“I was cured of it.”

“How?”

“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it before him, to see what he would say to it.”

“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a story.”

“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity, because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not understand it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.”

“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?”

“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of that!”

“It is a pity!” said Norman.

“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.”

“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from you.”

Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten, the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins--not always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil. They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain, namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom Decius knew not--the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man.

“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?”

“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my father’s hopes raised.”

“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’ mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott--‘Never let me hear that brave blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all time.’”

“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye--“if you won’t let me put ‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”

“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has thought of it already.”

Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.

“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr. George Rivers here for two hours.”

“Alone! what could bring him here?”

“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed to be waiting.”

“How could you get on?”

“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and went away.”

“I trust it was a call to take leave.”

“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.”

“You seem to have got into his confidence.”

“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was such a nuisance.”

“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!”

“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly.

“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.”

“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret.

“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to think of.”

“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word about it, Ethel!”

Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined, sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the departure of their scholar for Balliol.

Chapter VI

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find a meaning there, Oh! whisper to your glass, and say, What wonder, if he thinks me fair.--Tennyson.

Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages, as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition, and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had guarded him from evil--then the period when he had been perfectly happy, and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man. His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten, his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie, whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them--but they were not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her, he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself--pretty girl as she was--and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin, set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue, skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie making tea.

He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair for a father to be proud of--Norman, of fine stature and noble looks, with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness.

“Well! was it a pleasant party?”

Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.”

“What, my dear?”

“Mr. George Rivers, papa--”

“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is it? But what an opportunity to take.”

“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that there could have been--”

“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?”

“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had better come to you.”

“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.”

“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove--”

“Flora--” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head against the mantel-piece.

“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean that you like this man?”

“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked voice, her face still averted.

“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for occupying himself--a regular prey to ennui--one whom you could never respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were flowing.

“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are flattered, but we know

“‘Colours seen by candle-light, Will not bear the light of day.’

“There, good-night, Flora, my dear--we will have a-tete-a-tete in the study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own mind.”

He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear child, and help you to come to a right decision--”

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less dull with her than with most others.

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be delighted and grateful--to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician, with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance! She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her, as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not sway her--out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.

“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?”

“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down.

“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish to carry this on--”

“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your wishes--”

“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point is--that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.”

“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid qualities without talent.”

“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I cannot see the recommendation!”

“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which had the effect of making him lose patience.

“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were worthy?”

“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion.

“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think, Flora. What I want you to do is this--to consider the matter fairly. Compare him with--I’ll not say with Norman--but with Richard, Alan, Mr. Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him--come to him for advice?” (Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all--do you think him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?”

“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if you dislike it--though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew him better--”

“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;” then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and, if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and right feeling as you can trust to.”

“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.”

“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be satisfactory.”

“I will do as you please.”

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading, and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always relieved him.

“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed at this affair!”

“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has he done it?”

“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father.

“You don’t mean that she likes him?”

“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!”

“She does not mean it?” said Ethel.

“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent--provided Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything outrageous; but there’s no hope of that--he has not the energy. What can possess her? What can she see to admire?”

“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking--”

“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?”

“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur--” said Ethel. She broke off short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.

“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!”

Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood still, without unsaying her words.

Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa--”

“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to take the first means of escaping.”

Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not help it. You know he had come before--”

Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted. Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she passed the resolution--that her father should never feel this pain on her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him; nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her secret vow--that no earthly object should be placed between her and her father.

The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness, and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this afternoon.”

“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked.

“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with these words, he left the room.

Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided off.

“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not have it done.”

“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.”

“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.”

“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret.

“More yours than mine,” said Ethel.

Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt he is doing it.”

So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if nothing had happened.

Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had made any impression on Flora.

“What impression do you mean?”

“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes papa so unhappy.”

“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the Riverses were his peculiar pets.”

“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must like a muddy ditch.”

“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance.

“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?”

“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as yourself, you will wait long enough.”

“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her inferior.”

“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman gravely.

“I don’t care for mere talent--people are generally more sensible without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the man’s side.”

“Well, who says there is not?”

“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average! you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?”

“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable of sustaining a conversation than Richard.”

Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation.

Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said, “that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was, merely as to the intellect.”

“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment--to compare him to that man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!”

“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.”

“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.”

“It is the only objection you have put forward.”

“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man, who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?”

“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.”

“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if she would have seen them in a poor curate.”

“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!”

“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that were the temptation.”

“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and him, against it.”

“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.”

“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have had a good deal of talk with him.”

A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent, which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views. Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman.

He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to hope that George might be all he thought him.

Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman, doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious, she could not rid herself of the burden.

Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected. The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment, there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case.

There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed. He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be satisfied.

Chapter VII

Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head. Mine be the chip of purest white, Swan-like; and, as her feathers light, When on the still wave spread; And let it wear the graceful dress Of unadorned simpleness. Catherine Fanshaw’s ‘Parody on Grey’.

Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else to do, and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice in him--no more than in an old donkey--as Dr. May declared, in his concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, though there was little to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He argued the matter once more with her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they had never suspected.

Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they would never give up the title of “the detestable,” and would not make him any presents; certainly not watch-chains! Miss Bracy, rather alarmed, lectured them just enough to make them worse; and Margaret, overhearing Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertinences, was obliged to call her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother.

“Never my brother like Harry!” exclaimed Mary indignantly.

“No, indeed; nor like Alan!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I won’t call him George, I am determined, if it is ever so!”

“It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,” said Margaret.

Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of the door bell, was a great satisfaction to her.

Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing, and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed Margaret; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle, congratulating politeness.

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora; Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself, as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted, with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting him.

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora, whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than as, with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came forward to receive Mr. Rivers’s caressing affectionate greeting.

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped, after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta’s ecstasies would all be bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point.

“Now then, you are property of my own!” she cried. “May I not take you all for sisters?”

Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice.

“Ethel,” said Meta, “I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think poor George good enough for Flora.”

“I never meant to show it,” said Ethel.

“You need not mind,” said Meta, smiling. “I was very much surprised myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once told me all about it--papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By and by, you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.”

“A great lubberly boy,” Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment.

“He is thirteen years older than I am,” said Meta, “and you see it has been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would have given him if he had been born later: and he can’t remember his mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much of--almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted good fellow he is--he has never been otherwise than so very kind to me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand; he does not care for papa’s tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him, and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Ethel. “It is much more satisfactory to have no shamming.”

Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful; she continued, “Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly matched--but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George, he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won’t tease you to be so.”

“I can like it better now,” said Ethel. “You know Norman thinks very highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by and by.”

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a good deal to mollify her father.

The history of George’s life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity was, indeed, akin to love in the good doctor’s mind. In fact, George was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging--a necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness, and evident liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with “the old gentleman”--a name under which she failed to recognise her father.

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts, and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about bride’s-maids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that quite scandalised Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of her having been a six-year-old bride’s-maid to Flora’s godmother, Mrs. Arnott.

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of every one without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s unaffected, quiet manner was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations, while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage.

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his son, so an understanding arose that the wedding, should take place near the end of the Christmas holidays.

Flora showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding-dress, white silk, with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta’s London dressmaker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils, and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when the Misses Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace, nor pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret’s beautiful marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding presents--Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own, grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these, the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when Miss Ward had married her father’s surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more edifying spectacle.

The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. Dr. May was resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair. If the bride had been any one else, she could have enjoyed making all go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed with. George was glad to avoid “a great nuisance.” Mr. Rivers feared the fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and, as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector the splendours in store for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no Harry to enjoy the fun.

The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an unsatisfactory chief for such as desired splendour. She protested against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff and gray duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride’s-maid was, at last, the chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan, and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size, trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers’s good taste could endure, as little as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade to her face, Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa had a penchant for swan’s-down, and on Margaret’s promising to wear a dress of the same as theirs.

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact, the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, she had preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family, and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie but now she desired to render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to put her in good heart.

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular, necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s consenting. If it were her proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade her that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be hopeful.

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was the security; and Ethel, who had felt her self much less unhandy than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room--Blanche being promoted from the nursery to the old attic. “And,” said Flora consolingly, “if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on me.”

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Committee to hear the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter, but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the holders of the land in question.

The ladies abused all colleges--as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to take the school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on the principal and fellows of M---- College.

“Never mind, Ethel,” said Flora. “I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way, without obligations.”

“You forget the money!”

“We will keep them from dissipating it--or that might be no harm! A hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to give up. I shall write a polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.”

“You mean to come down with the external authority,” said Ethel, smiling.

“True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won’t come out, and you will find that carries all before it.”

“A talisman!” said Ethel, laughing. “But I had rather they yielded to a sense of right!”

“So had I,” said Flora. “Perhaps you will rule them that way?”

“Not I!” cried Ethel, terrified.

“Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously--I do mean that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps we shall have the minster restored.”

Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for them, and that her situation would be turned to their profit; but there was something for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of the two masters whom we cannot serve at the same time?

Richard came home for “a parson’s week,” so as to include the wedding. He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, though still gentle and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, and had, now, a very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him; and Ethel, more than any one, except Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor histories were poured upon him; and what comparing of notes about his present school-children! He could not enter into the refinements of her dread of the Ladies’ Committee, and thought she might be thankful if the school were built by any proper means; for, if Cherry Elwood were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance that did not come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend--so Ethel gave it up--feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented herself with the joy that his presence produced at Cocksmoor, where the children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with ecstasy, whenever he even looked at one of them.

Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologised for having made an engagement for him--as Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and the school clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than assist in the service. Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no sermon; and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sister’s company, for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent on it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything.

Ethel could not see well as far as the reading-desk, but she saw her father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away; and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche’s breathless whisper, “Oh, he looks so nice!” Those white folds did truly suit well with the meek, serious expression of the young deacon’s fair face, and made him, as his sisters afterwards said, like one of the solemnly peaceful angel-carvings of the earlier ages.

His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were too much used either to carelessness or to pomposity. The sermon made his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of the Gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep, and rising high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation, such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected--or, rather, they forgot all their own expectations and Richard himself, and only recollected their own hearts and the great future before them.

Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going to church much better.

When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much pleased. “So, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “you have made quite a sensation--every one shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son’s sermon. You will be a popular preacher at last!”

Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it would be the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject; but the doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who were greatly delighted.

Flora’s last home Sunday! She was pale and serious, evidently feeling much, though seeking no tete-a-tetes; and chiefly engrossed with waiting on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her mind--probably, she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable pensiveness, and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in the family to whom she talked much was Norman, who continued to see many perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to impress the same on the others, and to make them think his great talent for silence such a proof of his discretion, that they were not staggered, even by his shy blundering exclamation that his wedding would be a great nuisance--a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him, what Est-il-possible was to his namesake of Denmark.

Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any, though there was a careful watch kept to see what were his first impressions. None transpired, except something about good nature, but it was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit esteem.

There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the packing, everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then the children were up early, refreshing the Christmas hollies, and working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table.

Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about; and Flora looked paler and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and when Ethel went to the bedroom, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken down, and was kneeling beside Margaret’s sofa, resting her head on her sister’s bosom, and sobbing--as Ethel had never seen her weep, except on that dreadful night, after their mother’s death.

In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed; but the worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. “Oh! Margaret! I cannot leave you! Oh! how happy we have been--”

“You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,” said Margaret fondly.

“Oh! what have I done? It is not worth it!”

Ethel thought she caught those words, but no more. Mary’s step was heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly. She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness and even cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things, and dressing her bride’s-maids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and Miss Bracy. Ethel’s long Scotch bones and Mary’s round, dumpy shapelessness were, in their different ways, equally hard to overcome; and the one was swelled out with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she gasped and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about, beautiful to behold, under their shady hats; and presently, with a light tap at the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all felt that to try to attain to such an appearance was vain.

Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time--Dr. Hoxton’s carriage was come to take up the bride.

Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own; and she quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that just in front of her were the little ones, over whose heads she could see her father, with Flora’s veiled bending figure.

That pause while the procession was getting into order, the slow movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the church, brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those strange echoings on the mind repeated in her ears the words, “For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain--”

There was a little pause--George did not seem to be forthcoming, and Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red, and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best man, Norman, whose countenance was at the brightest--and almost handsome.

Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, “assisted by” Richard. It had been Flora’s choice; and his loud sonorous voice was thought very impressive. Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy and important, with Flora’s glove. Gertrude held Mary’s hand, and gazed straight up into the fretted roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt, but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking or feeling. She saw and heard--that was all; she could not realise.

They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as witness. She took up the pen, looked at the Flora May, written for the last time, and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half smiling, that she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt overcome.

“No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.”

He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch and look. The thought of his past joy--the sad fading of hope for Margaret--the fear and doubt for their present bride--above all, the sense that the fashion of this world passeth away; and that it is not the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last for ever.

The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash that gave Ethel some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the house, where Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive them, looking very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair complexion and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora’s agitation in the morning; but she was very calm and bright, in the affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and bridegroom, as they came in.

Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta was seized by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, George standing upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried, as she reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and drawing it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was useful.

As they came downstairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head to foot, and leaning on her; Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs, and folded his daughter in a long embrace; Flora gave herself up to it as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over her then, what the father was, whom she had held cheaply? what was the worth of that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she only clung tightly--if her heart failed her--it was too late. “Bless you! my child!” he said at last. “Only be what your mother was!”

A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and Norman continuing the operation, Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round the slices. George did full justice thereto, as well as to the more solid viands. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon as George had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the last kisses were given--Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken back in haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the Continent, and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out into a piteous fit of sobbing--rather too unrestrained, considering her fourteen years.

Poor Mary, she was a very child still! They pulled her into the study, out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner said how Flora would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand school-feast to which she was at once going to take her friends, than the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed--all the Abbotstoke children--all Flora’s class at Stoneborough, and as many Cocksmoor scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fare, at one o’clock, at the Grange, and Meta was in haste to be at home to superintend the feast.

Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey, went with her, under the keeping of Miss Bracy, the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking at her, ceased her coaxing importunity.

“I see,” she said kindly; “even schoolchildren will not be so good for you as peace.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, “I should like to be quiet till the evening, if you will let me off. It is very kind in you.”

“I ought to know how to pity you,” said Meta, “I who have gained what you have lost.”

“I want to think too,” said Ethel. “It is the beginning to me of a new life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.”

“Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret--has it been very trying to her?”

“I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be together.”

“Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.”

And quiet it was in another hour--Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr. May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard and Margaret downstairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so bewildering that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress Margaret’s eyes for order; then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, she sat down in Flora’s fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside, and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper, took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had been free, was one sacrifice; it must go now, to ordering dinner, seeing after stores, watching over the children’s clothes, and the other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her. Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as something of her own. She would have been thankful could she have hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly improbable--boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three notes she wrote at the foot of her paper.

‘N. B. These are a standard--not a bed of Procrustes. MUSTS--To be first consulted.--Mays--last. Ethel May’s last of all. If I cannot do everything--omit the self-chosen. MEM-- Neither hurry when it depends on myself, nor fidget when it depends on others. Keep a book going to pacify myself.’

Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh, and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading.

Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him, and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case, or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements, such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the engagement.

“But why,” said Richard--“why should you wish to distress him?”

“Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard?”

“I will write to him, if you like,” said Richard; “but I think he must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to himself.”

“It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once,” said Margaret.

“Perhaps he would not think so--”

There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At last he said, “Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home.”

“It was to try to save him the pang,” murmured Margaret.

“Yes; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage.”

“Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return?”

“Certainly not.”

“It will be pain spared--unless it should be worse by and by.”

“I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by,” said Richard.

“How so?”

“Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean,” he said, “without anxiety for the rest. How do we--any of us--know what may be the case in another year?”

“Do not flatter me with hopes,” said Margaret, sadly smiling; “I have had too many of them.”

“No,” said Richard; “I do not think you will ever get well. But so much may happen--”

“I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign myself,” said Margaret.

“His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,” said Richard.

“And that is the most trying,” said Margaret.

“Just so--” and he paused tenderly.

“I feel how much has been right,” said Margaret. “This wedding has brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of dress out of the common way for myself or others,” said she, smiling; “and then all the external show and things belonging to station--I naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear all those things as if they did not exist--I could not.”

“They would be a temptation?”

“They would once have been. Yes, they would now,” said Margaret. “And government, and management, and influence--you would not guess what dreams I used to waste on them, and now here am I set aside from it all, good for nothing but for all you dear ones to be kind to.”

“They would not say so,” said Richard kindly.

“Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each other--Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more hard to bear than that--don’t suppose there was a moment’s neglect or disregard; but when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for always wanting to be first.”

“My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You should not keep it.”

“He does not know it is so,” said Margaret; “I am his first care, I fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh! I am glad it was not she who married! What shall we do when she goes?”

This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to show that if there had once been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing, unselfish affection and humility.

They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and the elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling on the shining qualities they loved so heartily.

And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel--and now from her own most dear brother! So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, very full of chatter, only not quite sure whether she had been bride, bride’s-maid, or bridegroom.

The schoolroom set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and blind-man’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocksmoor to bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made Blanche bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was not half told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary following to help her and continue her narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening.

Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange, and, on arriving, found Hector deep in ‘Wild Sports of the West’, while Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was resting in his library.

And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen came in from the dining-room, in a happy tete-a-tete, Ethel learned that the fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and that Meta had had confided to her the existence of Decius Mus--a secret which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but she supposed it was a pledge of the sisterhood, which Meta professed with all the house of May.

Chapter VIII

The rest all accepted the kind invitation, And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation; Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats, Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats, Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions, Had never been known in the biped dominions. Peacock at Home.

Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If she talked of the poem as the devotion of Decius, he was willing enough, and worked with spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed the expressing them, and trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection, but if she called it the “Newdigate,” or the “Prize Poem,” and declared herself sure it would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair, and began to read other people’s poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful enough not to think nearly as good as his own.

It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow red and white ribbon--the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till a promise was extorted that he would send it in.

And, in due time, Ethel received the following note:

“My Dear Ethel,--

“My peacock bubble has flown over the house. Tell them all about it.

Your affectionate, N. W. M.”

They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be extraordinarily excited; Ethel would have been much mortified if the prize had been awarded to any one else, but, as it was, it came rather as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased, and said he should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, and then laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying he should accuse the little humming-bird of being a magpie, stealing secrets.

By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of soon returning; they had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora’s letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and she was eager to be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that she and George would hear of no refusal; they were going to spend a fortnight at Oxford for the Commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel with them to hear Norman’s poem in the theatre.

Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day and take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be by any means the same to the other parties--she could not bear to leave Margaret; it was a long time since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she did not like to miss being at home when they should come; and Meta, on her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels, who thought nothing could go on without them; and next, compared them to young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into flying.

Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would; and Ethel found that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused, so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and which she had always wished to see! And Norman’s glory--and Meta’s company--nay, the very holiday, and going from home, were charms enough for a girl of eighteen, who had never been beyond Whitford in her life. Besides, to crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave well, and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day.

Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their party. They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbotstoke than to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the Grange, the first evening--a proposal, at least, as new and exciting to Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister.

The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears, as to the change that her new life might have made in her.

“There! there!” cried Mary. “Yes! it is Flora! Only she has her hair done in a funny way!”

Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the conservatory, and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and with certainly no diminution of affection; it was warmer, though rather more patronising.

“How natural you look!” was her first exclamation, as she held Mary’s hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. “And how is Margaret?”

“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid--”

“Is there any letter yet?”

“No--”

“I do not see any cause for alarm--letters are so often detained, but, of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?”

“Sometimes, but summer always does her good--”

“I shall see her to-morrow--and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have you broken down yet, Ethel?”

“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.”

“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil--I have the taste still in my mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild with delight in those places!”

“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.”

“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.”

“Oh! how delightful--and Spain too!”

“Ay, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place.”

“Where Louis XIV. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his treason with his empty flourish--”

“Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to know how Tom likes Eton.”

“He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.”

“Mr. Ramsden--how is he?”

“No better; he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.”

“Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?”

“Pretty well,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl--and what do you think I did, Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to papa, to see if she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled, and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in her.”

“To reward her!” said Flora. “That is always your way--”

“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel.

“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora.

“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!”

“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room--”

“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when--”

Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after Mr. Rivers, and then for George.

Mr. Rivers was pretty well--George, quite well, and somewhere in the garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters, when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.

Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical palace.

And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if she had been born and bred in the like.

There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.

Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue and white silk.

“Paris fashions?” said Ethel carelessly.

“Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,” said Flora.

“Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?”

“No!” and Meta laughed heartily.

“Your French maid’s then?” said Ethel. “I dare say she dresses quite as well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English maid’s taste.”

“I am glad you like them,” said Flora maliciously. “Now, please to be good.”

“Who are they for then?” said Ethel, beginning to be frightened.

“For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is going to Oxford.”

“Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,” as Ethel saw Meta in fits of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous spring of ecstasy.

“Come!” said Flora, “you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like, I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of you. Look at yourself in the glass.”

“I’m sure I see no harm in myself,” said Ethel, turning towards the pier-glass, and surveying herself--in a white muslin, made high, a black silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and Meta, it had a scanty, schoolgirl effect. “And,” she continued quaintly, “besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose--a good useful silk, that papa chose at Whitford--just the colour of a copper tea-kettle, where it turns purple.”

“Ethel! you will kill me!” said Meta, sinking back on the sofa.

“And I suppose,” continued Flora, “that you have sent it to Miss Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and discovers--”

Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bedroom, and thence came forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still. The dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly, and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise than suitable to the occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora--that she could not but feel--nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should not be spoken till she should have consulted her father.

In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary--it was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment’s thought of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer womanhood.

Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked her with a fervency wanting in her own case.

She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses, and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora showed; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him, from Ary Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler.

Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing, and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law.

Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about Flora--she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the eye.

The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret--caressing to all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.

So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from Stoneborough.

Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little trouble.

He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in her hand.

“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora?”

“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr. Ogilvie,” said Flora.

“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad! I have wanted so much to see him!”

“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora.

“Do you know him?” said Meta.

“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin--Norman Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.”

“Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,” said Flora.

“This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,” said Ethel. “It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James IV.’s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose, and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I want to hear the rights of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to stay at Glenbracken.”

“Yes,” said Flora, “coming down to times present, this young heir seems worthy of his race. They are pattern people--have built a church, and have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and very good and clever--he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work; but he is a great sportsman, George,” added she; “you will get on with him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.”

Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but brightened at the sight of the party. After the question--whether there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father were coming?--and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising them his two guests, departed.

Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected the gray buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive--it was dreamy and confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on her.

The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well, when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect.

“Well done. Flora!” he said. “Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one of my sisters was very plain!”

“Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,” said Flora. “Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the bye,” she said, in her universal amity, “I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of these days?” Norman started, and his face said “Don’t.”

“Oh, very well; it is as you please. I thought it would please Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton was boasting of his two scholars.”

“Ask him,” said Norman hurriedly. “At least,” said he, “do not let anything from me prevent you.”

“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora.

“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was going on between the others.

The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother’s sending in his poem. “Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction next week,” he said.

“Have you seen it?” she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative movement of his head.

“I read my friend’s poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with ‘Oh, woman!’ but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me of the telling hits?”

“If they cannot tell themselves,” said Ethel, smiling, “I don’t think they deserve the name.”

“Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively, is not always what ought to tell on them.”

“I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them and with me.”

“I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a copy here--made by yourself;” and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman were looking.

“Let me see,” he said, as she paused to open the MS., “he told me the thoughts were more yours than his own.”

“Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked over between us; the rest is all his own.”

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show evident tokens of surprise and feeling.

“Yes,” he said presently, “May goes deep--deeper than most men--though I doubt whether they will applaud this.”

“I should like it better if they did not,” said Ethel. “It is rather to be felt than shouted at.”

“And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men would do much without the hope of fame,” said Norman Ogilvie.

“Is it the question what they would do?” said Ethel.

“So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother’s philosophy comes from.”

“I do not call it a low motive--” Her pause was expressive.

“Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something divine?”

“For a heathen--yes.”

“And pray, what would you have the moving spring?”

“Duty.”

“Would not that end in ‘Mine be a cot, beside the rill’?” said he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment.

“Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the joke--or Winkelried on the spears?”

“Nay, why not--‘It is my duty to take care of Lucy.’”

“Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.”

“Not at all! It is Lucy’s duty to keep her Colin from running into danger.”

“I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so.”

“I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than disgraced.”

“To be sure!” then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she had made an admission, she added, “but what is disgrace?”

“Some say it is misfortune,” said Mr. Ogilvie.

“Is it not failure in duty?” said Ethel.

“Well!”

“Colin’s first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven and men. If he does it, there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive for Lucy to set before him than ‘My dear, I hope you will distinguish yourself,’ when the fact is,

“‘England has forty thousand men, We trust, as good as he.’

“‘Victory or Westminster Abbey!’ is a tolerable war-cry,” said Mr. Ogilvie.

“Not so good as ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ That serves for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.”

“Ah! you are an English woman!”

“Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at Flodden than King James, or”--for she grew rather ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal allusion--“better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together.”

“I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,” coolly answered the Master of Glenbracken.

“Why?” was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.

“It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,” he answered.

“If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to be a Scot.”

“And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!”

“Ogilvie!” called Norman, “are you fighting Scottish and English battles with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for going to Blenheim.”

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much, while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest, while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this, and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest; and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue with him.