certain subjects than he had ever found him before, and in a fit of
confidence he had acquainted his parent with part of the truth, but not
all, with regard to his financial difficulties.

The Major swore a good deal when he discovered that his son was
hopelessly in debt.  Nevertheless, he cooled down after a time, and said
that although it would be almost an impossibility, he would endeavour to
raise a few hundred pounds to set Michael straight--in short, to put him
on his legs again, provided he secured that dazzling young heiress,
Florence Heathcote.  But now--alack and alas! the dazzling young heiress
did not exist.  The girl herself was there, with her bright eyes and
radiant face and all the fine qualities which the Major had given her
credit for.  But the glitter of gold no longer surrounded her, and she
was therefore an impossible mate for Michael.  The Major was choking
with rage.  Things were much worse than they had been at the Moat, for
now the Major and the Lieutenant were scarcely on speaking terms, the
Major furiously declaring that he would not advance a penny to help his
son, and the son threatening all sorts of disastrous consequences in the
future.

Eventually, Lieutenant Reid left Langdale, intending to visit certain
money-lenders who, he trusted, would help him temporarily out of his
difficulties.

After he had gone, Major Reid cooled down a little.  The boy was his
only son: he had hoped to see him a useful and popular member of
society--a country gentleman, no less; for surely if Florence was as
well off as Mrs Fortescue had given him to understand, the boy need not
continue in the Army.

All these dreams had now come to an end, and the Major felt that there
were few women in the world he hated as he did Mrs Fortescue.  He would
have given a great deal not to meet her, but he suddenly found himself
face to face with her in the little High Street.  She came up to him
sorrowfully.  She was the sort of woman who could never, under any
circumstances, imagine herself _de trop_, and she certainly believed
herself to be irresistible to all men.

"Ah, Major!" she said.  "What a blow--what a terrible blow we have
received! and where is your dear boy?  I pity him from my heart."

"My son has left Langdale," said the Major freezingly.  "I will not
detain you any longer, Mrs Fortescue.  I am going for a brisk walk, and
the morning is too chilly to stand still long in the street."

He raised his hat and walked on.  He looked very stiff and disagreeable.

"Old curmudgeon!" whispered Mrs Fortescue under her breath.  "What a
selfish person! he has no thought for the poor girls themselves; or for
me, or for any one but just himself and that conceited puppy, Michael."
Mrs Fortescue continued her morning shopping, and eventually found
herself in the neighbourhood of the Grange.  Surely there, at least, she
would receive all possible sympathy.  When had Susie turned an unwilling
ear to any one's grief?  She--Mrs Fortescue--would show herself this
morning in the most amiable light, suffering with the penniless girls
and not thinking of herself at all.  It would be very forgiving of her,
too, to call at the Arbuthnots' after the Colonel's visit to her.  It
would show, that she at least bore no ill-will to any human being on
earth.

Accordingly, she paused before the well-known door.  She would be
obliged to ask Colonel Arbuthnot before long for a reference, and would
like to smooth the way by means of an interview with Susie first.

When the servant answered her summons she inquired, therefore, if Miss
Arbuthnot was within.  She was replied to in the affirmative, and was
shown into the parlour looking out on the street.  There Susie was
performing all kinds of useful arts.  It was not at all a pretty room--
as pretty rooms go: it was made for use, not for ornament.  The table in
the centre was an old deal one--in fact, nothing better than a large
kitchen table, and at this moment Susie was busy finishing the marmalade
which she and Florence had begun.

She looked up when Mrs Fortescue appeared.  Her eyes were a little red,
as though she had been crying: otherwise, her face was quite cheerful,
it even wore a jubilant expression.

"How do you do?" she said in her kind voice.  "You will forgive me if I
go on cutting my oranges.  All this supply of marmalade has to be boiled
early to-morrow morning, and the orange peel must soak for a certain
time."

"Yes, yes," said Mrs Fortescue; "I quite understand.  There are so many
recipes for marmalade."

"Mine is the best that is known," said Susie, in her quick voice,
cutting her orange peel as she spoke into fine, almost imperceptible
wafers.  "You don't slake your own marmalade, do you?" she said.

"No; I really haven't time; and that reminds me--Bridget is leaving.  It
is too bad: she is such a good faithful creature, and I don't know how
to replace her."

Susie helped herself to some more orange peel and continued her work.

"You don't know of any one you could recommend, do you, Susie?" said
Mrs Fortescue.

"No," said Susie bluntly.  "I do not."

Mrs Fortescue heaved a deep sigh.  She quite understood what Susie
Arbuthnot meant to imply by her brief words.  Even if she did know a
nice honest girl she would not send her to Mrs Fortescue.

"Susie," said Mrs Fortescue, after a pause, "I fear, I greatly fear
that I was a little hard on dear Florence.  I have come here to tell you
so."

Susie laid down her knife and raised her honest brown eyes to fix them
fully on Mrs Fortescue's face.  The widow pushed her chair round so
that the light should not fall too full on her countenance.

"Yes," she continued, "and I have come here to own my fault.  I fear
your father was deeply annoyed with me.  Is that true?"

"`Annoyed' is not exactly the word," said Susie, in a low tone.

"Well--well, dear," said Mrs Fortescue, who did not wish Susie to say
too much and trembled also with regard to her future reference.  "You,
who have your fixed and settled income can scarcely understand what it
is to be a woman of my means--a woman with an uncertain, a fluctuating
supply of money; enough just for her bare needs one year, and too little
for them the next.  I lost my temper--not, indeed, with the girls
themselves, but with that exceedingly deceitful man, Mr Timmins, who
might have told me how the dear children were placed long, long before
he did.  He deceived me, he deceived us all."

"The girls were not to blame, were they?" said Susie, resuming the
cutting of her orange peel with considerable energy.

"Oh, no, no--indeed no!" said Mrs Fortescue; "and that is just what I
have come to talk about.  I have recovered my temper and repented of my
injustice.  I am now thinking, not so much of myself, although I shall
have to find some young girls to mother, in the future--"

Susie again looked at her attentively--"but I have not come here to talk
of that now.  I am anxious about the Heathcotes, poor dears!  Poor
dears! the world will receive them coldly--"

"I do not think so," said Susie.

Mrs Fortescue shook her head.

"You do not know the world, Susie Arbuthnot.  You think you do; but you
don't.  The fact is--it shudders at the poor, and the older it grows,
the more it despises poverty, the more it requires every one whom it
takes to its heart to be rich--_rich_."  Susie was silent.  "Those poor
young things," continued Mrs Fortescue--"if there is any way in which I
can help them--I came here this morning.  Susie, to tell you that I am
willing to do it."

"Are you really?" said Susie.  She looked at her abruptly.  "Would you,
for instance, give them a home if they required it?"

"I--" said Mrs Fortescue, hesitating--"well, not for long--but just for
a little visit perhaps.  What I really meant to say was that I could
furnish them with excellent references, and--what is the matter, Susie?"

"Nothing," said Susie, rising.  "I am going to find father.  I think he
is in the house."

She abruptly left the room, closing the door after her.

"What a very queer look Susie Arbuthnot has on her face!" thought Mrs
Fortescue.  "I wonder if those people have made up their minds to shun
me.  If so, and if Major Reid means to continue to be as abominable as
he has been this morning, I had better leave Langdale."

As the last thought flashed through her mind Susie returned with the
Colonel.  They came in together, and the Colonel held a letter in his
hand.  He was somewhat shabby in his dress.  He always was shabby in the
house; but he never stooped in body, being a soldier; and he never
stooped in mind, being a gentleman.  He came forward quite simply, and
held out his hand to Mrs Fortescue.

"How do you do?  It is a beautiful day, is it not?"

Mrs Fortescue felt immensely relieved.  The Colonel had evidently quite
forgiven her.  He was a nice man and--yes, she acknowledged it to
herself--such a gentleman.  Susie was very blunt; but the Colonel had
exquisite manners when he liked, and he seemed to like now, for he
invited Mrs Fortescue to take a warm seat near the fire and poked it up
for her benefit.  Then, turning his own back to it, he looked at her
with a whimsical expression on his pleasant face.

"Susie tells me that you have been good enough to express regret with
regard to Brenda and Florence Heathcote."

"Oh, yes--yes!" said Mrs Fortescue, clasping her hands.  "I am so sorry
for them."

"Well, there is no possible reason why you should not be relieved of any
feeling of uneasiness with regard to my two young friends.  Florence did
not wish her letter to be kept a secret, did she, Susie?"

"No, father; quite the contrary," said Susie.  She had not returned to
her marmalade.  She was standing not far from her father, one of her
hands resting on the mantelpiece.

"I have had a letter from Florence Heathcote this morning," said the
Colonel.  "It was really written both to my daughter and myself."

"Has she found employment?" asked Mrs Fortescue.

"Well--yes; that is, her future plans and those of her sister are
practically arranged for the next few years."

"I am very glad," said Mrs Fortescue, speaking in a cold, disappointed
voice.

"Ah, well," said the Colonel, "and so am I--very glad.  But you haven't
heard all yet.  You don't know, far instance, what the girls mean to
do."

"I do not," said Mrs Fortescue; "and I am so much interested in them--
so very much--dear children, dear children!"

"You had an opportunity of showing your interest a week ago," said the
Colonel, very gravely--"your interest and your sympathy.  The fact is,
Mrs Fortescue, both that interest and sympathy have come now rather
late in the day--in short, they are not required.  The girls go to
Girton in the autumn, and until that time, they will be preparing for
their life there, under the best masters that London can provide.  They
will live, until they go to Girton, with Lady Marian Dixie."

"Then she has taken them up!" said Mrs Fortescue, quivering rage in her
voice.  "She has in a sort of way adopted them?  Yes," she continued,
half-choking with futile anger; "but they need not trust to the whims of
rich women.  She may change her mind a thousand times and leave all her
money in the end to some one else.  I have seen it done--I have known it
done times out of number."

"Yes; quite so," said the Colonel; "quite so.  In this case the matter
is different."

"Has she already made a will in their favour?" inquired Mrs Fortescue.

"I don't know anything whatever with regard to Lady Marian's
intentions," said the Colonel, speaking less affably and flashing his
eyes sternly at the widow.  "The fact is this--you will be as surprised
as Susie and I were and, I hope and trust, for the sake of your better
nature--as glad.  Brenda and Florence Heathcote have no need to earn
their bread."

"No need?  Oh!" said Mrs Fortescue.  "But I was told they were
penniless."

"You received a letter from Mr Timmins in which he informed you that
the money their father had left for their education was practically
exhausted, and that your services would not be required after their
winter vacation."

"I was given to understand that they were penniless girls.  What do you
mean?" said Mrs Fortescue.

"You will be glad to hear that they are very far from penniless.  Their
mother has left them a large fortune which they will come into as soon
as they attain their majority.  Meanwhile, Lady Marian Dixie is
appointed their guardian.  She wishes them to continue their education,
and they are going to Girton for the purpose.  It is good news--yes, it
is very good news.  Florence and Brenda will, I make no doubt, be fitted
to bear the awful responsibility of wealth."

"But--but," said Mrs Fortescue, almost blue with rage; "how can you
justify--"

"I justify nothing, my dear madam; I simply state a fact; you are
welcome to tell it to whom you please.  As far as I can make out, the
girls were not told anything absolutely untrue.  As far as their
father's money was concerned, they were penniless.  There was no mention
made of their mother's fortune.  It was, I gathered, a test to discover
who were their true friends.  Rich young girls are often surrounded by
those who simply prey on them for the sake of what they can get.  Susie,
don't you think we had better come out while the sun shines?  You won't
think me rude, Mrs Fortescue, if I ask you to call at some future
date."

"Oh no; I won't think you rude," said Mrs Fortescue.  "I--I am
astonished--stunned--"

But she spoke to empty air, for Susie and her father had left the room.
"They did not even show me out!" thought the furious widow.  "Langdale
won't see _me_ long!"

Perhaps very few people suffered more exquisite torture than did Mrs
Fortescue after she left Colonel Arbuthnot's house.  Oh! if only she had
been good to Florence during that week.  Oh! if only she had done just--
just what she had not done!  She was like many another unfortunate man
or woman in this world which contains so many failures!  She had acted
in the worst possible way at the crucial moment.  She had missed her
chance.  The girls were rich after all, and yet she had given Florence a
ham bone for breakfast!  She walked fast, trying to cool down after the
blow which, it is to be feared, Colonel Arbuthnot rather rejoiced in
giving her.

Suddenly, an idea came to her.  If she was suffering, why should not
Major Reid share her tortures?  How impertinent he had been to her that
morning!  But she was right after all--right, not wrong.  That silly
fool of a Michael--if only he had been true to his heart's instincts--
would have won an heiress, and perhaps an heiress to a far greater
extent than even Mrs Fortescue's dreams had pictured.

"I will go to see the man.  This is really a good story and one worth
telling," thought the widow.

She turned in the direction of the Moat.  The Moat was a little way
outside Langdale, and you had to go up a somewhat steep hill to reach
it.  It was an old-fashioned house, surrounded by overshadowing trees.
Even in summer it was not very bright, and in winter it was a hopelessly
damp, deserted-looking place.

Mrs Fortescue marched up the avenue with a determined stride and rang
the bell by the front door.  It was opened by a slatternly-looking
servant.  The Major's house was not kept well.  In all respects, it was
a contrast to the Grange, where the Arbuthnots managed to make every
penny do its utmost work.  Nobody cared what became of things at the old
Moat, and there was hardly a more miserable old man than Major Reid, as
he sat now at his lunch table, trying to find something tasty and
agreeable in his badly-done chop.  Mrs Fortescue, who was feeling so
fierce that she would dare anything, followed in the steps of Colonel
Arbuthnot and said quickly--"I know your master is in: I must see him at
once on important business."

The girl made way for her, and Mrs Fortescue's instinct drew her to the
dining-room.  She opened the door and burst in.

"I have news--great news for you, Major Reid."

"Madam!" said the Major.  He started to his feet.  His first furious
request to ask this interloper to make herself scarce died on his lips.
He looked into her face.  She came close to him and looked into his.

"Major," she said; "we have been the victims of a conspiracy--yes, of a
base, base conspiracy.  It is my opinion that the Arbuthnots were in the
secret from the first, and that hat accounts for their sneaking, fawning
ways.  How I do loathe people of that sort.  So different from you and
me--so, so different!"

"You astonish me," began the Major.  "The Arbuthnots--pray take a
seat--"

He pushed his plate away from him and looked hard at his visitor.

"You were abominably rude to me in the street a couple of hours ago,"
said Mrs Fortescue.

"I was in no mood to be civil, and even now, if you have anything to say
except to abuse my old friend Arbuthnot, I--"

"But I have something to say; something that will astound--_astound_
you!  When you came to my house a very short time ago and asked me to
give you some idea of the extent of Florence Heathcote's fortune, I told
you--"

"A lie, madam!  The girl is penniless: pray don't revert to that most
annoying scene."

"I told you no lie, Major Reid."

"What?"

"I told you the truth.  I doubtless understated the sum which will
eventually belong to Florence Heathcote."

"What is this?" said the Major, turning very pale.

"The conspiracy has been at last explained," said Mrs Fortescue, "and
my opinion is that those Arbuthnots, who set up such lofty standards,
knew all about the matter from the first.  Those miserable girls are
heiresses, after all.  Their father's fortune, it is true, has been
already expended on their education, but they inherit a large sum--
doubtless many thousands--from their mother.  It seems, Major Reid, that
for some extraordinary, unfathomable reason we, their old and trusty
friends, were to be put to the test--to the test with regard to their
future: and I--_I_ treated Florence, that beautiful, gifted spirited,
_rich_ girl, to--a ham bone!"

Angry tears rose to Mrs Fortescue's eyes.  The Major looked at her with
a face very nearly as pale as her own.

"Are you certain of what you are saying?"

"I am positive.  I have been to the Arbuthnots'.  I received the news
from the Colonel himself.  He had a letter from Florence in his hand.
He spoke of it as a test--a test; but I call it the vilest of all
conspiracies!  I could still have had those girls with me, and your son
would have married Florence and been rich."

"Good Heavens!" said the Major.  "If I thought--but it isn't too late.
Michael--that young dog!  Mrs Fortescue; don't say a word; don't
breathe anything.  Keep my secret and I vow I will help you in the
future.  I will go to London to see Michael this evening.  All is not
lost."

The Major, trembling exceedingly, crossed the room.  He rang the bell
and desired the servant to bring him an A B C.  He looked up a train in
Mrs Fortescue's presence.  She was no longer hateful to him.  If she
could help him at this juncture, he would be her friend for the rest of
her life.

"Never mind the Arbuthnots," he said.  "Yes; they doubtless did know.
Just like the Colonel.  It _is_ a conspiracy--it is shameful!  But let
me make an effort in my poor boy's cause.  Don't breathe to any one that
I have gone to London.  I will just walk in the direction of the
station, and slip in when no one is observing, and take the next train
to town."

"I will keep your secret, trust me," said Mrs Fortescue.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF.

The Major arrived in town towards evening.

He knew where his son was lodging.  Lieutenant Reid would have to join
his regiment in two or three days, but the last few hours of his leave
would be spent in his old rooms in St James' Street.

Reid was heavily in debt--up to his very eyes, in fact--but that was no
reason whatever for his taking poor rooms or allowing himself to be in
the least uncomfortable.  He had a very little money in hand, which he
had extorted from a rascally old Jew at enormous interest, and was
therefore, as he called it, rather flush, and inclined to make the best
of things.  He was about to go out to dine at a certain club where he
would meet some of his brother officers when the Major walked in.  It is
sad to have to relate that Lieutenant Reid was by no means glad to see
his father.

"Why, dad!" he said; "whatever has brought you up to town? and how queer
you look and in the name of fortune, what is the matter?"

"I have had the most astounding news," said the Major.  "Let me sit
down, I am quite breathless.  Michael, where are you going to dine?"

Michael Reid mentioned a fashionable club where he hoped to meet his
friend.

"You will not go there; you will stay with me.  Send a messenger to
Hudson to say you are prevented dining with him this evening."

"But why?  I have arranged the matter," said Michael, speaking crossly.

"That does not signify in the least," answered Major Reid.  "I want to
speak to you, and there is not a moment--let me tell you frankly--not a
moment to lose."

Michael looked very hard at his father, and something in the old
gentleman's agitation seemed at last to acquaint him with the fact that
a matter of importance had occurred.  He accordingly rang his bell, and
gave the necessary directions with regard to securing a messenger boy to
take a note to Captain Hudson.  He then scribbled a few lines, delivered
the note to the servant, and turned to his father.

"I see you are in the old rooms," said the Major.

"Yes; I always come here when I am in town.  Why should I change?"

"They are expensive," said the Major.  "How do you mean to pay for
them?"  Michael Reid turned rather white.

"Sir," he said, "you have decided not to help me in the future, you have
therefore forfeited the right to inquire into my financial position.  It
is nothing to you, surely, how and in what manner I manage to obtain a
living."

"You cannot go on in the Army, swamped in debt as you are," said the
Major.  "It is disreputable, and impossible."

Michael, who had been exceedingly annoyed at his father's visit, now
stared at him with a certain defiance.  Then he looked at him again, and
it seemed to him that there was a meaning under the old gentleman's
words.  He wondered vaguely if his old father was softening towards him,
and if, notwithstanding that unpleasant _fracas_ with regard to Florence
Heathcote, he would help him after all.  Accordingly, he sank into a
chair, and gazed at his parent.

"You have something to say; you have not come up to town for nothing?"

"Most assuredly I have not.  Michael--be prepared for astounding news."

"What, what?" said the young man, his heart beginning to beat.

"You remember that Heathcote girl."

"Florence?" said Michael.  "I shall never forget her."

"Oh, Michael," said the Major; "we have been duped, and we have been
fools, all of us!  I thought when first I heard the news, that Arbuthnot
and Susie were in the conspiracy; but in the train, somehow, I changed
my mind.  Arbuthnot could not do anything mean, nor could Susie.  They
were the only people at Langdale who treated Florence Heathcote with
equal love and kindness in her supposed poverty as in her supposed
riches."

"Well, sir," said Michael; "you yourself were the one who said that I
must not consider Florence for a single moment as a suitable wife for
me."

"I did--I did, my boy.  And oh! my God--how I have repented!"

"But why?" said Michael.  "Do you want me, after all, to many a
penniless girl?  But I; father, I can't see her again!  I--I behaved
abominably to her--abominably.  What is the matter with you, dad?  Why
do you stare at me?  What are you so put out about?"

"Put out--put out!" said the Major.  "I--I should think I am put out.
If the truth must be known, I feel nearly mad.  Why, Michael, my boy,
the Heathcotes are heiresses after all--richer, far richer than we ever
dared to hope.  Michael--what is it?"

Michael Reid started to his feet.  He stared for a moment across the
room as though he felt inclined to do something desperate: then he sank
down in a state almost of collapse.  In that instant, there came a
vision before him of a radiant young face, of speaking and beautiful
eyes, and of words he had said--oh! words he had never meant--never
meant at all!  He had another vision of that face when he had acted
cruelly, brutally--towards the sweetest girl in the world.

"You want to hear particulars?" said the Major.  "I will tell them.
That horrid woman, Mrs Fortescue, was the first to hear the news.
Florence wrote to Colonel Arbuthnot.  The facts are simply these.  The
girls inherit a very considerable fortune from their late mother.  It
was their father's money which was mostly spent on their education and
which was nearly exhausted."

It seemed to Michael Reid that Florence's pathetic face looked at him
more and more sorrowfully.  The room seemed full of her face, full of
her young presence, full of the trust she had once given him, and then
of the horror and distress which his conduct had caused her.

"Why have you come all the way to London to tell me this?" he said
faintly, turning as he spoke to address his father.

"Because--because," said the Major eagerly, "you are a clever young
fellow, Michael, and it may not be too late.  You love the girl--you
have said so--and the girl loves you.  Think what it means Michael:
don't lose such a golden chance.  Is there any possible way in which you
can explain your last interview to Florence, and--and win her back?  I
can assure you that if such a thing can be done, there is no step that
I, on my part, will not take to help you."

It was just at that moment that Michael Reid felt something new and
strange stirring within him, something he had _never_ in his whole life
felt before--a germ, the first germ of true nobility and true manliness.
The stirring of this new something was very slight at first--so slight
that it seemed to him that he had hardly felt it at all.  Nevertheless,
the colour of shame did dye his face.  He rose from his chair, and said
in a choking voice--

"Thank you for coming up, dad.  I know you mean well.  And now, you must
be tired out.  Shall we go and have something to eat?"

"But you haven't answered me," said the astonished Major.  "You allow
the precious moments to fly.  My idea is this: I thought it all out
carefully in the train.  Florence need have no reason to suppose that
you know anything about her unexpected change of fortune.  You can still
approach her, as it were, in her state of poverty.  Don't look at me
like that, my boy.  Men have done such things before.  You told her
once--"

"Yes, father--yes," interrupted Michael, "I told Florence a very, very
short time ago--a few days ago, in fact--that were she as poor as a
church mouse it would be all the same to me."

"You told her that, Michael, really?"

"I did--I did!" said the young man; "and if you had only seen how her
eyes shone and how she looked at me.  She thought then that she was
poor--poor as I have described.  She believed in me then.  I told her a
lie, of course."

"Your path is clear," said the Major, becoming so excited that he began
to pace up and down the room.  "You can easily explain away the
impression you unfortunately made upon her on that miserable day.  You
can tell her that however great her poverty, she is all the world to
you.  Do it, Michael; do it!"

"You want me to tell her another lie," said Michael Reid.

The Major laid his hand, his shrivelled old hand, on Michael's firm,
broad shoulder.

"You are young," he said; "you have the world before you.  You have the
chance of winning the love of a beautiful and very rich girl.  You have
got into many difficulties which many other young men in your station
have, alas! also plunged themselves in.  There is a way out; but there
is not an hour to lose.  Write to her to-night: beg for an interview.
She is with Lady Marian Dixie in Cadogan Place.  You can see her in the
morning.  Speak to her quickly--before she gives you her news.  You can
retrieve your position: all is not lost.  No one knows at Langdale, with
the exception of Mrs Fortescue, that I have come up to town; no one
shall know.  I will take the evening train and creep back to the Moat
under shadow of the darkness.  You cannot possibly have heard the news--
so people will say.  Act on my advice, Michael--act on my advice."

"Come out and have something to eat," was Michael Reid's response.  And
now he took his father by the arm and drew him down stairs, and took him
to a good restaurant not far off.

The old man was full of the most intense excitement.  The young man was
calm and looked collected and firm.  That germ of true manliness was
growing bigger.  That little flickering flame of real nobility was
beginning to warm his hitherto frozen heart.

After the meal was over, the Major again spoke on the subject of
Florence.

"I understand exactly what you want me to do," Michael replied.  "Don't
say another word.  Keep your own counsel till you hear from me," and
this was all the Major could get out of his son Michael.

But he himself felt that his hurried journey to town had not been thrown
away.  He was almost sure that Michael's future was secure.  He trembled
with delight.

"If only it is never, never known that I rushed up to town to acquaint
the lad, all will be well," was his last thought as he lay down very
late that night to sleep.  "Mrs Fortescue won't dare to tell; I'll take
precious good care that it is not worth her while.  No one else has seen
me: it will never be known."

So, while the old man slept, dreaming wonderful dreams with regard to
Michael, Michael Reid himself fought with temptation and, to his credit
be it pronounced--conquered.

In the course of the next day two letters were received by two different
people.  They were both in the Lieutenant's well-known handwriting.  The
Major trembled much when his reached him.  He looked at it, almost
fearing to open it, but by degrees he calmed down sufficiently to wrest
the contents from the envelope, and read Michael's few words.  They ran
as follows:--

  "My dear Father,--

  "Thank you for coming to see me, and for opening my eyes.  They have
  been opened very wide.  I have had a look at myself: I don't like what
  I have seen, but there is always such a thing as turning over the
  proverbial new leaf.  I have been a cad in the past; I will make a try
  for being a gentleman in the future.  I can't do what you suggest.
  Burn this, and try to forget our interview of to-night.  I have got
  into a mess, and I will scramble on to my own legs somehow; but not in
  that way.

  "Good-bye, dad.  You will hear from me as soon as I have any news
  worth relating.

  "Your affectionate son,--

  "Michael."

There is no use in describing the Major's rage.  It lasted for about an
hour.  At the end of that time, he burned his son's letter and said to
himself that he would try and forget him.  But this was not at all easy:
on the contrary, for the first time since his birth, the Major truly
respected Michael, and in consequence could not get him out of his head.

There was one other letter written that same evening by the young man.

  "Florence,--

  "I have heard of your great fortune.  God bless you.  I was never
  worthy of you.  I am going to exchange immediately into foreign
  service; but before I go, I want to take this opportunity to thank you
  for teaching me a lesson which to my dying day I shall never forget.
  I was tried in the fire, and was found unworthy.

  "Michael."

Florence cried over this letter.  She never showed it to any one.  Even
Brenda to her dying day never knew that Florence had received it.  But
although the Major burned his son's letter, Florence put hers away into
a secret place where she kept her treasures.

"The letter smooths out _some_ of the pain," she whispered to herself;
"and I can think of him now without sorrow."

The End.


gospel which for nine years in Norwich he had done his best to destroy.
Here was true moral courage indeed; and perhaps his example may be a
help to you, dear Walter, in showing you what you ought to do."

Her nephew had listened with the deepest interest, and now remained
buried in thought.  At length he said: "True, dear auntie; I see it all;
my duty is plain enough.  James Comley had publicly insulted God and
religion, and he made amends as far as he could do so.  At any rate he
showed his sincerity by coming out boldly as an honest man, and as one
who was sorry for the past, by his publicly burning those placards and
then preaching the truth which he used to deny and revile.  And I ought
to do the same.  I mean that, as I did a public wrong in open daylight,
and before many people, to that good man at Stringby, so my duty is to
go over to Stringby and just as publicly to confess to him, and to the
people who may be there, and in open daylight, my sorrow for what I did.
That's just it, auntie, is it not?"

"It will certainly be making the best use of my example, dear boy," she
replied, "and will be showing true moral courage; but no doubt it will
involve much self-denial, and require much strength from the only true
fountain of strength."

"It shall be done, and to-morrow," said Walter firmly.

"Would it be any comfort or help to you if I were to go with you?" asked
Amos.

"The greatest comfort in the world," cried his brother joyfully; "yes,
and let Julia come too.  She was grieved to see me led away as I was,
and it will therefore be a happiness to me if she will come with us and
hear my confession."

And so it was arranged.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

UNEXPECTED FRUIT.

The next day, after luncheon, the brothers, with their sister, started
for Stringby, but not in very buoyant spirits.  Walter had no thought of
drawing back, nevertheless he felt an almost overwhelming shrinking from
the task which he had undertaken.  The loving smile, however, and gentle
words of affectionate concern with which his aunt had cheered him as
they set off were a source of much strength and comfort to him; they
hovered around his heart like the shadowing wing of an angel whenever
the scorching heat of his furnace of trial swept by anticipation across
his shrinking spirit.  He had thought it wiser not to confide to his
mother either the cause of his shame or his intended amends.

The weather was clear and bright as they began their ride, but a smart
shower burst upon them when they had accomplished half the distance, and
forced them to go out of their way to take shelter.  Would the preacher,
distrusting the sky, have given up his work just for this afternoon?  If
so, what pain and humiliation Walter would be spared!  Oh, how he clung
for a few moments to the hope that it might be so! for then he would
have made the amends and the sacrifice, and shown the moral courage, _in
intention_, and, at the same time, would be spared the actual heavy
trial itself.  But then he dashed away these thoughts from him, and with
an inward prayer nerved himself for the coming effort.

Amos, as he rode by his side, seemed to guess what was passing through
his mind, and said, "Can I speak to the preacher for you, Walter?  It
will save you some pain, and, as I shall be speaking for another, I
should not have the same difficulty that you might feel."  But this
suggestion at once roused Walter out of all his fears.  "No, no, dear
Amos," he cried, "no; I have put my foot in it, and I must go through
with it.  Your being with me will be a great help, and it would not be
right for me to accept any further assistance from you."

Little more was said on the way.  Julia scarcely opened her lips, but
there was a sweet peace on her fair face.  She felt that her brother
Walter was going to do the right thing, and, though she thoroughly
sympathised with him in his natural shrinking from his task, she was
satisfied that he could not now retreat if he would do what duty plainly
called him to.  So they trotted or cantered leisurely along, while the
dashing of the waves, and their ceaseless ebb and flow, seemed to remind
them of that love which, in the midst of the ceaseless ebb and flow of
this world's trials, and of man's personal failures and advances in the
life of holiness, ever comes, like the sea-breeze, in breathings of
spiritual health and heavenly pity to the souls that are pressing onward
and upward to the land unclouded by sin.

At last the watering-place was gained.  It seemed to Walter and his
sister more thronged than ever.  Several large excursion trains had
brought their many hundreds of eager and excited holiday-keepers.
Esplanade, sands, and by-streets were swarming with passers to and fro.
Would they meet Gregson and Saunders there?  Most earnestly did Walter
and his sister, and indeed Amos also, hope that they would not.
However, little time was there for scanning the faces of those they met,
for now they pressed rapidly forward, Walter leading the way, as he was
anxious to plunge at once into his difficult work and get it over as
speedily as possible.  "You know," he said to Amos with a faint smile,
"it's just like going to the dentist's.  When you get into his room, you
don't go and ask to look at his instruments,--those horrid pinchers, and
pliers, and screw-looking things,--it's quite bad enough to feel them;
and the sooner the wrench comes the sooner it'll be over.  So now for my
wrench."  As he said this, they came within sight of the place where the
unhappy disturbance occurred in which he had taken a part.  A crowd had
gathered, on the outskirts of which, people were moving backwards and
forwards, but there were no sounds of uproar or interruption as they
reached it.  All were very attentive.  The preacher--the sight of whom
caused the blood to rush into Walter's face--was the same he had
encountered before.  The good man was standing on his stool giving out
two lines of a well-known hymn.  And then a noble volume of praise from
those united voices rolled up towards heaven.

Walter could see in a moment that the preacher's eye had rested on him,
and that he remembered him.  So, flinging his horse's reins to his
brother, he slipped off his saddle and elbowed his way vigorously
through the crowd.  "Stop, young man," said the evangelist calmly and
solemnly, as he saw Walter pressing forward.  But Walter made his way
close up to him, and, while the other was evidently perplexed as to the
meaning of his conduct, said quietly to him, "I am not come here to-day
to hinder or make game, but to ask pardon."  The other looked at him in
amazement, and for a moment knew not what to say.  Then, while there
arose a strange buzz of surprise and excitement among the bystanders,
Walter asked, "May I stand in your place for a minute, and say a few
words to these people?"  The good man was clearly taken quite aback by
this request, and looked hard at him who had made it.  Was this a scheme
for turning the preacher and his work into open ridicule?  The other
members of the evangelist's party seemed to think so, and advised him to
refuse; that it was only a dodge on the young man's part to get up a
piece of extra rich entertainment for his friends, who, no doubt, would
not be far off.  The good man had come down from his stool while these
remarks were being addressed to him.  He hesitated, but when he turned
to Walter and looked in his face his mind was made up at once; for there
was something, he said, in that face which satisfied him that good would
come out of his yielding to the request made, and not evil.  So, while
the spectators were looking on and listening with breathless
expectation, he said, in a clear voice, audible to those on the utmost
verge of the great assembly,--"Friends, before I address you, a young
man has asked leave to occupy my place for a short time.  He shall do
so, for I have confidence in him that he will not abuse the liberty I
give him."

There was a murmur of approbation and intense interest as Walter mounted
the stool and looked upon the sea of upturned faces round him.  He was
very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon grew calm and firm.
"My friends," he began, "I have come here to-day to do an act of
justice.  Some days ago I was a spectator in this place, as you are now.
This good man, the preacher, stood then where I now stand.  He had come
here to try and do you good; I came, I am sorry to say, in a different
spirit.  Joining with others as wrong and foolish as myself, I
interrupted and ill-treated this servant of the good Master, our
Saviour.  I am come to-day to make what amends I can.  As I then
publicly ill-treated him, so I now equally publicly ask his pardon for
what I did then; and I earnestly beg you all to give him a patient
hearing, and to encourage him in his work of love."

Not a word of this short address was lost by a single hearer, though the
last part was almost stifled by the speaker's emotion.  As for the
preacher, he knew not how to contain himself.  When Walter had sprung to
the ground amidst the profoundest silence, both his hands were grasped
by the good man whose pardon he had asked, who, as he shook them warmly,
could only say at the moment, "The Lord bless you! the Lord be praised!"
Then, recovering himself, he sprang upon the stool, and cried out,
"That's a right noble young man, dear friends!  There's real courage
there, and a generous heart, and no mistake.  He has asked my pardon for
what he did, and, had I twenty hearts, he should have it from the bottom
of each.  I thought, when he came here a few days since and put a little
hindrance in the way, `Now, the devil's very busy; what a crafty being
he is!'  Ah, but see now.  After all, he only outwits himself by his own
craftiness.  The Lord brings good out of Satan's evil.  Well, now, let
us proceed with our proper work."  These words were followed by a hearty
cheer from the assenting crowd, and then all listened attentively while
the good man gave a plain, practical, faithful, and pointed gospel
address.

When this was over, and the crowd was dispersing, Amos, whose heart was
all in a happy glow, drew near the preaching-place with Julia, both of
them having now dismounted.  The good evangelist's fellow-helpers were
distributing tracts among the retiring audience, while the preacher
himself was in earnest conversation with Walter.  Julia held out her
hand for some tracts, saying to the man who gave them, "I will do my
best to distribute them among those who will be likely to benefit by
them.  Please let me have as many as you can spare."  He gladly did so.

In a short time all had left, except the preacher and his friends, Amos,
and his brother and sister.  As Walter was about to go, he took out his
purse and said to the good man who had so heartily forgiven his former
unkindness, "You must allow me to offer you a contribution to your tract
fund.  I am sure you will understand me.  I am not asking you to accept
this as any compensation for my abominable treatment of you the other
day, but simply as a little token of my sincere desire to help on your
good work in however small a way."

The offering was at once and gratefully accepted.  "There is no fear,"
said the good man, smiling, "of my taking offence at anything which the
Lord sends me, or at the way in which he chooses to send it.  The work
is his, and the silver and the gold are his, and he supplies us with the
means in the best way, as he sees it, and therefore in the very best
way.  So I thank you for your contribution, and accept it with pleasure;
and I think we shall neither of us forget this day as long as we live,
neither on this side of the river nor on the other."

With a hearty farewell on both sides, Walter and his companions
remounted their horses, and rode slowly away, full of happy thoughts:
Walter very happy, because he had been enabled to do what his conscience
had bidden him; Amos quite as happy, because the brother he loved so
dearly had behaved so nobly; and Julia calmly happy, because she felt
that bright sunshine had poured through a dark cloud which had brooded
for a while sadly over her spirit.  And there was something yet more
stirring in her heart in consequence of all that she had seen and
heard,--it was a rising desire to be doing some real good to others, and
to be doing this at the cost of personal sacrifice and self-denial.  Ah,
what a new and strange desire was this in one who had, till lately,
allowed the idol of self to occupy the shrine of her heart.  To be
thinking of others, to be steadily keeping the good of others in view,
to put self-pleasing in the background, or to find it in pleasing
others, and that, too, from love to one who for her sake pleased not
Himself,--this was something wondrous indeed to her, and yet how full of
real and heavenly brightness when it had truly found an entrance into
her soul!

But how and where was she to begin?  She had a little bundle of tracts
in her hand; should she begin at once with these?  Of all things which
she once would have shrunk from, nothing would have then been more
repulsive than the office of a distributer of tracts.  Some years
before, when once asked by a pious friend of her aunt if she would like
a few tracts to give away as she might have opportunity, her reply had
been, "She had rather not, for she believed that tracts were vulgar,
canting things, commonly given by hypocrites to their neighbours when
they wanted to deceive them under a cloak of affected godliness."  She
had been rather proud of this reply, which certainly for the time had
the effect of completely shutting up the good lady who had recommended
the tracts to her notice.  But now she felt very differently, and looked
at the little bundle in her hand, thinking how she might use it to the
best advantage.  Not that she felt naturally drawn to the work; it would
require a considerable effort on her part to bring herself to offer a
tract to a stranger, and a far greater effort to accompany the offer
with a word or two from herself; but she now believed that she _ought_
to make the effort, and that word "ought," the idea of "duty" which it
kept before her, was beginning to exercise a constraining force hitherto
unknown to her.  And there was a special advantage in the tract.  Just
the giving of it without comment would be a good preparation for more
close and personal work in the loving Master's service.  So, grasping
the papers with a trembling hand, she began to look out for an
opportunity of parting with some of them, and she had not long to wait.
When the little party turned away from the spot where the preaching had
been held, and were thinking of returning to their cottage, as they were
just directing their horses' heads homewards, Julia uttered a sort of
suppressed cry or exclamation, which at once drew the anxious attention
of both her brothers to her.

"Anything amiss, dear Julia?" asked Amos and Walter together.

"No, not exactly," she said in a troubled voice, and with a scared look.
Then, recovering herself, she pointed to a young woman dressed rather
fantastically, who had just passed them in a direction opposite to that
in which they were going.  "Do you see that woman?" she asked in a low
humbled voice; "she is one I have reason to know too well.  She was
associated in a theatre with poor Orlando.  Oh, I wish I could do her
some good!  Let us follow her; perhaps she would take a tract."

Who would have thought of such a speech from Julia Vivian a few days
back?  But the earnest desire to do that poor outcast creature good had
evidently got possession of her, and so the three turned their horses'
heads in the direction in which the actress was walking.  But the object
of their loving pursuit had now quickened her pace, and turned up a by-
street before they could come up with her.  Should they follow?  Some
impulse urged them forward.  The side street led to a square or large
open piece of ground, in the centre of which was erected a temporary
theatre.  The woman whom they were following was just about to enter
this building, but turned about and looked back before doing so.  Her
eyes met those of Julia, and she at once recognised her with a peculiar
smile, which sent the blood rushing back to Julia's heart, and made her
for the moment half resolve to turn and fly from the place.  But she
resisted the feeling and held her ground.  The next moment the woman had
entered the theatre.  The little party lingered for a few moments, and
then the theatre door again opened, and several persons in various stage
dresses came out and gazed on the newcomers.  Then they began to wink at
one another as they stared at Julia, and to break out into a broad grin.
How earnestly did the object of their curiosity and merriment long to
rush away out of the reach of those mocking eyes and sneering lips!  Yet
she did not move.  A purpose was coming into her heart; she might never
have such an opportunity again.  Yet how weak she felt in herself.  But
then she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Strong One, and, turning
with blanched face, but perfect calmness, to her brothers, asked them to
help her to dismount, and then, leaving her horse's reins in Walter's
hands, advanced towards a group of some dozen persons of different ages
who had come out of the theatre to gaze and to make merry.

"You know me, I see," she said, in a voice sweet and sad, but clear as a
bell in its utterances, "and I know you.  You knew my poor husband in
times gone by, but not lately.  He is dead; and your time must come too.
He was pointed to that Saviour who alone can make a death-bed happy,
and I _hope_ he was able to see him.  His last words were, `God be
merciful to me a sinner.'  You and I shall probably never meet again.  I
have gone back to my early home, and wish to forget the past, but I
could not see Jenny Farleigh go by without wishing to say a kind word to
her, and this has brought me to you.  I believe God has changed my
heart; I have learned to know something of the love of my Saviour, and I
am happier now than I have ever been all my life.  Oh, if you would only
give up your present life and come to the same Saviour, how happy you
would be!  Don't be angry with me for saying this, but just each of you
take one of these little papers from my hand as a token of good-will on
my part, and read it when you are alone."

She paused, having uttered these words with deep feeling, but at the
same time in a steady and fearless voice.  The effect on her hearers was
overpowering.  Not a scornful eye, not a sneering lip remained when she
had finished, but sobs and tears burst from those who had for long years
known little other than fictitious weeping.  Each took the offered
tract, each returned with warmth the kind pressure of her hand as she
parted from them; and as she remounted her horse, one voice was heard to
say, "Poor thing!  God bless her!"  Then all shrank back into the
theatre, and the happy three turned homeward once again.  And oh, with
what deep thankfulness did all make their way along the cliffs, and then
close to the incoming tide, whose every wave seemed to throw up for them
a sparkle of joy in its glittering spray!  Few words, however, were
spoken.  Amos could hardly realise that this moral heroine was the
sister whom he had once known so weak, so self-willed, so unimpressible
for anything that was good and holy.  Walter also was utterly staggered
and humbled when he reflected on what he had just witnessed, though at
the same time he was truly happy in having been strengthened to carry
out his own noble and self-denying purpose.  As for poor Julia, she
could hardly believe that she herself was the person who had addressed
that group outside the theatre walls.  Oh, it was so strange, so
terrible, and yet so blessed! for through that newly-opened door of work
for the gracious Master bright rays from the flood of glory in which he
ever dwells had been pouring in upon her soul.

The happy three reached their cottage, overflowing with love to one
another, and all anxious that Miss Huntingdon should be a sharer in
their happiness, when she should hear what a bright and blessed day had
been granted them.  So they sought her in the evening, when their mother
had retired to rest.  Seated at her bedroom window, the four looked
forth upon the mighty deep, now rolling in its great waves nearer and
nearer, and every wave flashing in the silver light of the full-orbed
moon.  And surely the moonlight streaming down upon those waves, like
God's calm peace on the billows of earthly trial, was in sweet harmony
with the feelings of that little group, as Amos and Julia poured out
their account of Walter's noble address, and as Amos and Walter told of
the unexpected and loving self-sacrifice exhibited in the conduct of
their darling sister.  Need it be said that in Miss Huntingdon they had
one who listened with almost painful interest and thankfulness to the
adventures of that never-to-be-forgotten day?  Drawing them all round
her, she poured out her heart in praise to God for what he had done in
them and by them, and in prayer that they might be enabled to persevere
in the glorious course on which they had all now entered.  And now, when
all were again seated--a little mound or pyramid of young hands being
heaped together over one another in Miss Huntingdon's lap--Walter's
voice was first heard.  "I want an anecdote, an example of moral
courage, auntie; and it must be a female one this time, for we have a
moral heroine here, there can be no doubt about that."

"There is no doubt of it, I am sure," replied his aunt; "and there can
be no difficulty in finding moral heroines, as well as moral heroes.
Indeed, the only difficulty lies in making the most suitable selection
from so many.  Our dear Julia has shown a moral courage such as I am
certain she could not have done had she not sought strength from the
only unfailing fountain of strength; and so I will take as my example
one who was surrounded, as Julia was, by persons and circumstances which
might well have daunted the stoutest heart, much more the heart of a
poor and desolate young woman.  And my example will be the more
appropriate because it will bring before us a scene which is closely
connected with the seashore--such a seashore, it may be, as we are now
gazing on, with its sloping sands, and waves rushing up higher and
higher on the beach.  My heroine, then--and she had a fellow-heroine
with her--was a humble Scottish girl who lived in the reign of Charles
the Second, when the poor and pious Covenanters were bitterly and
remorselessly persecuted, even to the death, because they would not do
violence to their consciences and deny the Lord who bought them.  Many
of them, you know, were hunted by the king's savage soldiery among the
hills and mountains, and, when overtaken, were slain in cold blood, even
when in the act of prayer.

"Margaret Wilson, my heroine, was a young girl of eighteen.  She was
taken prisoner by the soldiers, tried, and condemned to die, because she
steadily and courageously refused to acknowledge the supremacy of any
other than Christ in the Church.  A few words might have saved her life;
but she would not utter them, because they would have been words of
falsehood, and, though she dared to die, she dared not tell a lie.  So
they brought her out to the seashore, such as is before us now.  The
tide was rising, but had not then begun long to turn.  She had a fellow-
sufferer with her of her own sex--one who, like herself, preferred a
cruel death to denying Christ.  This fellow-sufferer was an aged widow
of sixty-three.  The sentence pronounced against them both was that they
should be fastened to stakes driven deeply into the sand that covered
the beach, and left to perish in the rising tide.  The stake to which
the aged female was fastened was lower down the beach than that of the
younger woman, in order that the expiring agonies of the elder saint,
who would be first destroyed, might shake the firmness of Margaret
Wilson.  The water soon flowed up to the feet of the old woman; in a
while it mounted to her knees, then to her waist, then to her chin, then
to her lips; and when she was almost stifled by the rising waves, and
the bubbling groan of her last agony was reaching her fellow-martyr
farther up the beach, one heartless ruffian stepped up to Margaret
Wilson, and, with a fiendish grin and mocking laugh, asked her, `What
think you of your friend now?'  And what was the calm and noble reply?
`What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there?
Think you that _we_ are the sufferers?  No.  It is Christ in us--he who
sendeth us not on a warfare upon our own charges.'  She never flinched;
she sought no mercy from man.  The waves reached her too at last; they
did the terrible work which man had made them do.  The heroic girl
passed from the hour of mortal struggle into the perfect peace of her
Saviour's presence."

As she finished, Julia looked with tearful eyes into her aunt's face,
and said gently, "Dear auntie, Christ was her strength; and," she added
in a whisper, "I believe he was mine."

"Yes, yes, precious child," said Miss Huntingdon, drawing her closely to
her, "I am sure it was so; and the one great lesson we may learn from
our three heroines is this, `I can do all things through Christ who
strengtheneth me.'"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE CROWN WON.

All was now peace in the little cottage.  Mrs Huntingdon's once clouded
mind was daily gaining in clearness and strength, not only from the
loving and judicious attentions of her children, but still more from the
inward peace which had now made its dwelling in her heart.  Ah! surely
in nothing is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness has the
promise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come,
more evidenced than in the healthful tone which God's peace in the soul
imparts to a mind once disordered and diseased.  Few, comparatively, are
aware in how many cases that which the world so specially prizes, "a
sound mind in a sound body," is enjoyed by its possessor because that
mind belongs to one whom God is keeping by his indwelling Spirit in
perfect peace.  It was so with Mrs Huntingdon.  She had found the only
true rest, and so was daily making progress in strength both of body and
mind.  And her thorough establishment in this improvement in physical
and mental health was helped forward by the presence of her
grandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought with her to the cottage.
Their coming carried her back in thought to the days when her own
children were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow which had
come in between; so that the painful impressions made when memory
recalled that sorrow grew fainter and fainter in the happy light that
shone on the path of present duties, just as the waking terrors from
some frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more, till they vanish
and are forgotten in the full, broad, morning sunshine and the realities
of work-day life.  Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort and
improvement to her alone.  Their own mother had now learned to look upon
them in a very different light--no longer as clogs impeding her steps as
she pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement, but as precious
charges intrusted to her by the great Master, to be brought up for him,
and in training of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she would
herself find the purest and highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth.
So all things were now going on brightly at the cottage.  Peace,
harmony, and love had their abode there; and never did a happier party
go down to meet the incoming tide, and listen to its gentle music, than
might be seen when Mrs Huntingdon, her children, grandchildren, and
sister-in-law issued forth for a morning stroll along the beach, to
gather shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched some passing
ship, or the sea-birds as they dashed across the spray.

But now thoughts of home, and of the restoration to that home of their
dear mother, were busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister.
Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two on the subject, for
she felt that in this matter she must leave herself in the hands of her
children.  When _they_ saw that the fitting time was come, doubtless the
return would be brought about.  On the other hand, Amos was most anxious
to spare his father any pain which he might suffer from anything like an
abrupt disclosure of the intended return home of his wife.  The matter
would require gentle and delicate handling, lest the happiness of that
return should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon by his feeling
that his advice should have been asked and his wishes consulted before
even so happy a consummation should be brought about.  So, after the
subject had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimously
resolved that she should be the person to break the happy tidings of his
wife's restoration to health to her brother, and should advise with him
as to the most suitable day for her going back again to the old home.
To this arrangement she cheerfully consented, and in a few days returned
alone to Flixworth Manor, to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon,
who was getting heartily tired of his solitary life.

And now she had to make her important disclosure, and how should she
best do this?  Unknown to her, the way had already been partially
opened; for one evening, when the squire was taking his dinner all
alone, and Harry was waiting on him, he said to the old man, "Rather
dull work, Harry, without the young mistress and the children."

"Ay, sir, to be sure," was the butler's reply; "the house ain't like the
same.  It has got quite like old times again."

"Yes," said his master, sadly and thoughtfully; "something like old
times.  Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again shortly."

"And the old missus too, maybe, afore so very long," said the other
quickly.

"What _do_ you mean?" asked his master in a disturbed voice.

"Oh, beg pardon, sir," cried Harry; "I hardly knew what I was saying--it
came natural like; but stranger things has happened afore now.  You must
excuse me, master; I meant no harm."

The dinner over, the squire leaned back in his armchair, and began to
turn over many thoughts in his mind.  Harry's words kept recurring to
him, "And the old missus too."  Well, why not?  Hitherto he had never
thought the matter over at all.  He knew that his wife had continued
much the same, neither better nor worse.  He knew also that to have
brought her back while her daughter was shut out of the house would have
only been the means of aggravating her complaint; and it had not yet
seriously occurred to him that Julia's return might remove a difficulty
and be a step towards restoring her mother to her old place in her home.
But Harry's words now disturbed him and made him restless,--"And the
old missus too."  Could it indeed be brought to pass?  Might not the
sight of her daughter in the old home, occupying the place she used to
hold, and of the other children living with her in harmony and love, act
so beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious and tender
treatment, to reason, happy intelligence, and home once more?  As he
admitted these thoughts into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fell
fast from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead, and, looking
up, murmured a prayer for guidance.  Harassed and worn by electioneering
business, and sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connected
with it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate realities
of his home society; and with that yearning came now a special longing
to see once more, in her accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long in
banishment from him.  And yet he scarcely knew how to take the first
step in the bringing about of that which he so earnestly desired.  "I
must leave it till Kate comes home," he said to himself with a sigh;
"she will be sure to suggest the right thing, and to go the right way to
work in the matter."  How great, then, were the relief and happiness of
Miss Huntingdon when, on the evening of the day of her return home, her
brother himself introduced the subject by saying, "Dear Kate, I have
been thinking a good deal of late whether it would not be possible to
get my dear Mary back to her old home again.  You know one great
hindrance has now been removed.  She will find our dear Julia once more
ready to welcome her, and that, I daresay, if the meeting were well
managed, might go a great way towards her cure."

With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon gradually unfold to her brother
the fact that the cure had already been accomplished, and that nothing
now remained but for him to fix the day for receiving back to his heart
and home her who had been so long separated from him.  Most gladly did
he acquiesce in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day and
manner of his wife's return, promising that he would duly restrain
himself at the first meeting, and that he would endeavour to erase, by
his future consideration and attention to her every wish, any painful
scar that might remain from harshness or unkindness in times past.  Miss
Huntingdon was most deeply thankful that her path had been thus smoothed
by the wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps of the
trusting people of God; and she felt sure that a bright eventide was in
store for those so truly dear to her.  With her brother's consent she
wrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for the return home, thinking
it wiser to remain at Flixworth Manor herself, that her presence, when
the earnestly desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort to
all parties, and might help to dispel any little cloud which memories of
the past might cause to hover even over an hour so full of gladness.
The day came at last.  All outside the Manor-house was as bright as
well-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and flower-beds gay with the rich
and tastefully blended tints of multitudes of bright and fragrant
flowers, could make it.  Harry had taken the fine old entrance hall
under his own special care.  How the bedrooms or sitting-rooms might
look was not his concern, but that the hall should look its venerable
best, and that the plate should be bright, that was his business; it was
for him to see to it, and see to it he did.  Never were plate-powder and
wash-leather put into more vigorous exercise, and never was old oak
staircase and panelling bees'-waxed and rubbed with more untiring
energy; so that, as the western sun poured his rays in through windows
and fanlight, a cheery brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-like
surfaces, including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of armour,
which glowed with a lustre unknown by them in the days when they were
worn by their owners.  "That'll do, and no mistake," said the old man
half out loud, as, dressed in his best, he walked from one corner of the
hall to another, standing a while at each to take in fully all the
beauties of the prospect.  "Yes, that'll do; don't you think so, Polly?"
Now this question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for all were
at the time busily engaged elsewhere, but to a grey parrot, one of those
sedate and solemn-looking birds whose remarks are generally in singular
contrast to their outward gravity of demeanour.  The parrot made no
reply, but looked a little bewildered.  "Ah, I see how it is," said
Harry; "you are puzzled at so much brightness.  Why, you can see
yourself reflected a dozen times.  What a satisfaction it will be to the
dear old missus to see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walks
upstairs."  Satisfied with this thought, he looked round him once again
with an air of considerable contentment--as well he might, for
everything spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of the
diligent hands and loving hearts which had provided these.  So, with one
more glance round, he again exclaimed, "Yes, it'll do; and I think the
dear old missus 'll think so too," at the same time bowing low to the
parrot, whose only reply, "Pretty Poll," was appreciative rather of her
own attractions than of those of her surroundings.

And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the house
crowded into the hall.  A minute more and the steps were reached, and
the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand.  The young
people were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of
the carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered once
more the home she had left so sadly.  Her husband's arms were at once
round her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew
her gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tears
would let him, "Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife."  And she
returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice her
thankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apart
and gazed earnestly at each other.  Ay, there was change in each.  Time
and care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; but
there was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and,
to Mr Huntingdon's glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty in
his recovered wife's face which he knew not then how to account for, but
he was not long in learning its source.

And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on,
old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very
unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness for
many long years among them.  Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to
speak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in his
own as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarly
brittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which,
rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed the
happy travellers to make their way upstairs.  But he could not be
satisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings.  So, when
the hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measured
sort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were
looking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was not
conscious at the moment of being so observed.  On the old man went,
waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into the
centre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelings
in a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump or
spring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst of
irrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on.  A
little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when the
parrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principally
from Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry's movements, with his grey
head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly,
exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, "What's up now?"  The old man
stared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushed
the dust off his knees, "What's up now? why, you stupid old bird,
there's a great deal that's up now.  I'm up now, though I was down a
minute ago.  And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter's up now, for
they're up on the landing a-laughing at me.  And the dear old missus is
up now; she's up in her room with master, and we don't want her to be
down in spirits no more.  There, Polly, I've answered your question, and
answered it well, I think."

Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at Flixworth
Manor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a
brighter countenance.  Dinner over, and all being grouped together in
the drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned to
his father and said, "I have two requests to make to you, dear father."

"Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonable
indeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this."

"I don't think, father, that you will call them so."

"Well, what are they?"

"The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at family
prayers to-night."

All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself.  Half rising
from his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother's arm; but
it was now too late.  The colour flushed over his face, and he looked
uneasily at his father's countenance, which was much troubled; yet there
was no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had crept
over it.  The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained a
profound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt for
hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by him
to be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectably
religious man.  He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, and
to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what more
could be required of him or them?  And, in order to set a good example
in his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted family
prayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and a
plain and suitable prayer.  Nevertheless, he had simply done this
hitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his knees
with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, and
of relief that a somewhat irksome task was over.  But now a new view of
religion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; but
still he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking a
different stand.  So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos should
be chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his own
part clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious to
do anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvement
and spiritual blessing to his household.  The cloud, however, soon
melted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his hand
warmly, he said, "With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could be
better.  Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only.  I am
getting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matters
will make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayers
whenever he is at home."  As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos
began to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his father
stopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, "Do it
to please me, and to please us all, dear boy."  Then, turning to Walter,
with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, "And what is
your second request?"

"That's not a very hard one to grant," replied Walter, smiling, "though
perhaps you may repent of saying `Yes' when you suffer the consequences.
My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech when
family prayers are over."

"Granted at once, my son," was Mr Huntingdon's reply; "I am sure you
will have an attentive audience."

"Ah, it may be so, father; but I'm not sure that every member of my
attentive audience will hear me willingly."

And now, when the gong had sounded and the whole family, including the
servants, were gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm and
collected, took his seat at the table, and when all were assembled,
opened the Bible, which Harry had, by his master's direction, put before
him, at the hundred and third Psalm.  Deeply touching were those fervent
words read out with solemn earnestness and pathos by the young man, in
the presence of those he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered on
the third and fourth verses, "Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who
healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who
crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies."  The psalm
finished, all knelt, and then, in tones low and trembling at first, but
gaining in power and firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heart
in supplication and thanksgiving,--thanksgiving that all the members of
that family were once again united under that roof in health and peace;
and supplication that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in hand
along the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose service is perfect
freedom.

Not a tearless eye was there in that company as all rose from their
knees, no one being so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amos
to him with a tenderness which more than repaid his son for every
sacrifice and suffering in the past.  "And now," said his father, when
the servants had left the room, "we are all waiting for your promised
speech, Walter."  The smile with which the young man rose to his feet
passed away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him.  For a moment he
hesitated, and then began: "Father and mother dear, I have been learning
for some time past some very important lessons; and my two teachers are
here before you--the one is my dear aunt Kate, and the other is my dear
brother Amos.  My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother by
his life.--Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt the speaking.  At this
moment I am in possession of the house.--My lessons have been on the
subject of moral courage.  I used to think I was very brave, and didn't
need any instruction on such a subject.  I looked down upon, and would
have despised, only I couldn't, the noblest brother that ever brother
had.--Ay, ay, it's no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothing
but the truth.--Over and over again I have shown myself a moral coward;
over and over again Aunt Kate has set before me, at my own request,
examples of moral heroism from history and real life, just to suit my
case and stir me up to better things; and over and over again I have
seen acted out by my brother there the very lessons I have been so slow
in learning.  Ah, it has been grand teaching!  We have had such a lot of
moral heroes,--Columbus, and Washington, and Howard, and Luther, and
Fletcher, and a score more.  But here is my moral hero," saying which he
threw one arm round his weeping brother's neck, and put a hand over his
mouth as he proceeded.  "Yes, you must hear me out now.  Here is the
brother who, with a moral courage that never nagged, that no unkindness,
no misunderstanding could bend, has been carrying out for years one
great purpose, which God has permitted him this day to bring to a full
accomplishment.  That purpose we all see fulfilled in our complete
family gathering to-night.  Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and he
_shall_ hear me say it.  I ask his pardon now for all my unworthy
treatment of him.  He _is_ my hero, for he has nobly conquered.  He has
conquered us all, but none more completely than the brother who looks
upon it as one of his dearest privileges to be permitted to love him and
to try and copy his example."

What could Amos do? what could he say?  Clinging to the impulsive
brother who had thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true,
and sobbing out his regrets that such words should have been spoken of
one who felt himself to be so undeserving of them, he was utterly at a
loss what to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to add a
word.  But at last the silence was broken by the clear and gentle voice
of Miss Huntingdon.  "It may be, dearest ones, that a few words from
myself may not be out of place after dear Walter's speech.  He has
indeed spoken the truth.  Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in the
carrying out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage in many of
its most striking forms.  But he has not been alone in this.  I have
been a privileged teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; and
right nobly has he learned and applied his lessons, and been pressing
forward in his brother's steps.  And not only so, but dear Julia has
been also learning and practising these lessons.  And now I think I need
occupy the teacher's place no longer.  I would rather give up my place
to the great Teacher of all,--to Him who both by word and example shows
us moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity.  I have not hitherto
ventured specially to dwell on him as being in this, as in every other
excellence, the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to be
encouraged by examples in those who were imperfect and shortcoming
creatures like ourselves.  But I would now express the hope that we may
all henceforth find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide,
and model who never shrank from duty, even when to perform it wrung from
him tears of agony and a bloody sweat, and who held on his course
through evil report and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution,
and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished the work which his
Father had given him to do, and had won for us the victory over sin and
death, and an imperishable crown of glory."

THE END.