The Girls of St. Olave's (2024)

BY
MABEL MACKINTOSH

AUTHOR OF
"The Doings of Denys."

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

"In the centre of the group was a little figure in a short, black kiltedfrock."—Page247.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

AS GOOD AS GONE.

"You won't be any more use to us afterthis," said Gertrude positively.

A quick flush coloured Denys's cheek.

"Oh, Gertrude! why not?"

"Engaged girls never are the least use totheir families," reiterated Gertrude. "All theythink about is the postman and their bottomdrawer. The family goes to the wall, itsinterests are no longer of interest, its sewing isno longer necessary, its duties——"

But Denys's good-tempered laugh rippledout and interrupted the flow of eloquence.

"Really, Gertrude! you are too funny!"

"I don't feel at all funny," grumbled Gertrude,half laughing and half ashamed ofherself, "only I'm quite busy enough, and Ican't be piled up with any of your odds andends! Talking of bottom drawers," she added,more contented now she had said her say, "ifI were you I would put away all yourornaments and vases, or Pattie will break themall before you are married."

Denys's eyes wandered round the room,the dear old night nursery where she had sleptwith one after another of the babies. Thewalls were adorned with coloured prints, ofwhich the stories had been told and re-told toTony and little Jerry and baby Maude, andthe odds and ends of little ornaments andcarved brackets had each its own history of abirthday or a holiday or a keepsake. Therewas nothing of value, except in the value ofassociation, and Denys smiled tenderly as sheshook her head.

On this evening, when she was just engagedto be married, every association in the roomwas tugging at her heart, and weaving itsthreads into the new fabric of joy that wasspread out before her.

Gertrude's glance followed hers round theroom.

"It isn't a half bad room," she remarked,"only those rubbishy old pictures spoil it.When you are gone I shall have this room andyou will see the difference I shall make. Whata joke it will be to see you come poking roundto see all our arrangements then!"

With a gay little laugh, she rubbed herpretty round cheek against Denys's in a sortof good-night salute and departed, shuttingthe door behind her.

A moment later she opened it a crack.

"Don't lie awake thinking of him," shesaid, "you know Conway wants breakfastearly."

Left alone at last, Denys gave a sigh of relief.It was just like Gertrude to come up and makearrangements not to be overworked! HowConway would rage if he knew! And thisnight of all nights in her life!

And then Denys forgot all about Gertrude,and sitting on the rug in front of the fire gaveherself up to thinking of her happy future.

It was just like her mother to have lighteda fire for her to sit and dream by. Motheralways seemed to think of little bits of comfortto give people.

And she was engaged to be married!

She got up hurriedly, unlocked her deskand took out a little pearl ring which hadbeen her mother's. In the firelight she slippedit on to the third finger of her left hand, andsat down again to contemplate it and all thata similar ring given her by Charlie could mean!

And she would have to call Mrs. HenchmanMother, and Audrey would be her sister!

Her eyes brimmed over with amusem*nt.

What would they all say! Would theybe pleased and surprised—her grandmotherand Mrs. Henchman and Audrey? Had theyever guessed at what Charlie had made up hismind to three years ago?

Mrs. Henchman had seemed to like her then,but then she had been an ordinary chancevisitor coming in for a cup of tea, the granddaughterof Mrs. Henchman's old friend Mrs.Marston. What would she think of her nowas her only son's future wife?

The fire was sinking down and Denys roseand lit a candle and looked at herself criticallyin the glass, and then she laughed into her ownface at the ridiculousness of the position. Whowould have believed that she, Denys Brougham,on the evening of her engagement day, wouldhave been staring at her own reflection in theglass, trying to find out what her future mother-in-lawwould think of her!

And Charlie's words came back to her,a fresh and tender memory to be treasuredfor ever.

"I want to say something to you which Ihave waited three years to say. I've lovedyou ever since I've known you."

She slipped her mother's ring from her lefthand and put it away. She unbound herbright brown hair with its curly waves, turnedby the candle light into a halo of red gold, andlaid a happy face upon her pillow.

Not a pretty, piquant face like Gertrude's,quickly smiling or quickly clouded, but acheerful, reliable face with a pretty, good-temperedsmile and kind, gentle eyes; a facethat little children smiled back at, and whichinvalids loved to see bending over them. Butthe looking-glass did not tell Denys anythingof all that.

Upstairs in the so-called spare-room whereTony slept, Charlie was standing at the talldressing chest trying to describe Denys to hismother.

"I have got the berth I came for," he wrote,"I'll tell you all about it when I come, and Ihave got Denys! I'm so happy, motherdarling, I can't write about it, but she is theprettiest, dearest, sweetest girl, and I knowyou'll love her."

He could not think of any more to say andhe fastened his letter and opened his door acrack. Seeing a light still in the hall, he creptdownstairs to find Conway just locking up.He held up his letter with a smile.

"The midnight post?" asked Conway,"not a love letter already!"

"It's to mother," answered Charlie simply.

"I'll show you the way," said Conwaypolitely. "I have my latch-key and it's alovely night."

It was not far to the post office, and thetwo young men walked there and backagain in silence. Conway, always a silentboy, could think of nothing to say. He felttowards this stranger who, twenty-four hoursago, had been nothing but a name to him, ashe might feel towards a burglar who had juststolen his greatest treasure, and who yet had tobe treated with more than mere politenessbecause he now belonged to the family—acombination of feelings which did not tendtowards speech.

But Charlie was too engrossed in his happinessto heed either silence or conversation. Hismind was busily planning out trains and timesfor the next day's journey home. What wouldbe the last possible minute that he could givehimself at Old Keston?

They reached the house and Conway openedthe door with his key and held out his hand.

"Good-night," he said.

Charlie's handshake was a hearty one.

"Good-night!" he said. "Good-night!How long do you reckon it takes to walk tothe station?"

Conway smiled to himself as he put up thebolts.

"I wonder," thought he, "I wonder if myturn will ever come!"

CHAPTER II.

LOVE AND MONEY.

"I think," said Charlie, looking across the luncheon table at Mrs.Brougham. "I think that in about five weeks I could get a Friday toMonday, and come down if you will let me——"

"Why, certainly," answered Mrs. Brougham, smiling back at the brightopen face opposite her. She really liked him very much, but she sharedsomething of Conway's feeling about the burglar. The idea that Denysbelonged in any sense to anybody else, needed a good deal of gettingused to.

She had certainly wondered once or twice in the last three yearswhether young Henchman, who wrote so regularly to Denys, would everbecome more than a friend.

Charlie's telegram three days ago saying he had passed his final, andwas coming up from Scotland to see about a post and would call at St.Olave's en route, had rather taken away her breath. His callhad been only a short one, but he had asked if he might return thefollowing day and tell them whether he had obtained the post.

He had duly returned—successful—with a good berth—withprospects—with life opening out before him, and she had beensurprised at the gravity and anxiety that had shadowed his face evenwhen he spoke so hopefully of the good things that had come to him.

But the shadow and the gravity were all gone now. It was only his fearthat Denys would not see anything in him to love, that in the threeyears in which he had worked, and hoped, and loved her, she might havemet someone else who was more worthy of her, and to whom she had giventhe love he so longed to gain. That very evening he had put his fateto the touch, over the nursery fire, while Denys waited to fetch awayTony's light, and now he was bubbling over with fun and laughter,and acting more like a big schoolboy than a sober young man who wascontemplating the cares of matrimony.

It seemed to Mrs. Brougham that the world had gone spinning round herin an unprecedented manner in the last twenty-four hours, and she wasnot sure whether she was on her head or her heels.

Suppose Conway—or Gertrude—why, Reggie Alston wrote to Gertrude asregularly as the weeks went round!—or Willie——

She gave herself a mental shake and scolded herself for lettingher head be turned with all these happenings. Why, Conway was onlynineteen and Gertrude just eighteen, and what would schoolboy Williesay if she put him into such a line of possibilities!

She brought her thoughts back to the conversation round the table, andfound that Charlie was still in the full swing of plans.

"Easter will be four or five weeks after that," he was saying, "and Ishall get mother to have you down then, Denys—and Gertrude too," helooked across at Gertrude—"and it will be so jolly, because I shallget a whole week, I am sure, and we should have a lovely time. I'mever so glad mother has moved to Whitecliff; it won't be nearly such ajourney for you as Saltmarsh was."

Denys had opened her lips to reply, but before she could get out aword, Gertrude had answered for her.

"That will be very nice," she said eagerly, "I always count to get aholiday at Easter and I always want to go to the sea, whatever time ofyear it is. It's very kind of you to ask me."

Charlie's eyes were on Denys. It was his first invitation to her tohis own home and she guessed that he felt a great happiness in it,but how could she tell him that while Gertrude always took the Easterholiday because of the school term, she herself always stayed at homethen, so that her mother should be sure of having one daughter to helpher—and Gertrude had already accepted the invitation!

Before she could frame any answer, a small voice chimed in.

"Maudie wants to go too! Maudie's got a spade and a pail."

There was a laugh all round the table, and Mrs. Brougham said, "Mydear child! Mrs. Henchman can't ask all the girls of St. Olave's!"

Her glance met Denys's, and Denys understood that it said, "Accept,darling, I shall be all right!"

Denys looked up at Charlie and accepted the invitation with her ownsunny smile. "I feel dreadfully frightened, but I should love tocome," she said. "Oh, I do hope your mother will like me!"

"Like you!" echoed Charlie, and then he went crimson to the roots ofhis hair. "Like you," he repeated half under his breath.

Easter was a long way off, and Denys thought very little more aboutthe proposed visit to Mrs. Henchman, and the present was very full andvery interesting. She decided to make some quiet opportunity to speakto her mother about it, but before this opportunity could occur,Gertrude took time by the forelock, as she always did when she was seton a thing.

The two sisters were making marmalade in the kitchen on the morningfollowing Charlie's departure, when Gertrude brought her guns to theattack.

"I say, Denys," she began, "it was very civil of Charlie to invite meto Whitecliff. I saw you opening your mouth to say we could not bothgo, so I just whipped in and accepted."

"I don't see how we can both go," said Denys gravely.

"No?" said Gertrude, raising her pretty eyebrows. "I suppose not! butyou had your chance, and went to grandma's for three months and pickedup a good match. Charlie is a very good match and he will be quitecomfortably off, and he is pleasant and good-looking and all that! Oh!you have done very well for yourself, Denys, and you are not going toprevent my having my chance."

Denys's cheeks were scarlet. She literally did not know what to say!

Had she made a good match? Had she done very well for herself? Sucha view of the case had never entered her head. She thought of whatCharlie's prospects had been when she first knew him on that long agovisit to her grandmother.

Who would have said then that Charlie was likely to be comfortablyoff? How well she remembered Gwyn Bailey's picnic, when Charlie hadtold her that the positions he had hoped for were closed to him,and that he had no money to enter a profession! She remembered thehopeless ring of his voice as he had said, "now there's nothing."

No! she had not chosen Charlie for any such reason as Gertrudesuggested.

She was standing with her back to the scullery, and was quite unawarethat behind the half closed door Pattie was quietly peeling potatoes,but her answer could scarcely have been different if she had known it.

"I wish you would not talk so, Gertrude," she said.

"Very likely," said Gertrude calmly, "people often do not care to hearwhat is nevertheless quite true. And I mean to be pretty well off whenI get married, and not to have to scrape and think of every penny, andwonder whether you can afford a new dress just directly you want it. Ithink it's horrid, and I have always thought it horrid."

"I don't," said Denys, "it seems to me that we have been as happy athome here as any family I know, even though we have had, as you callit, to scrape and think of pennies, and manage our clothes and workhard. I've liked it always and if I loved anyone I would not mindbeing poor. Mother did not marry anybody rich and she is happy!"

"Ah!" said Gertrude, "it is all very well for you to talk. You haveLove and Money. And that's what I mean to have! So I shall go toWhitecliff and get to know fresh people and see what turns up!"

"What about——" began Denys, but she did not finish her sentence. Shedisliked putting names together, but her thoughts flew off to a Scotchtown, where a boy with a merry face and dark twinkling eyes, wasworking his hardest as a bank-clerk. Reggie Alston had been Gertrude'schum since they were children, and he had never made any secret of thefact that Gertrude was the one girl in the world in his eyes.

But Gertrude divined what Denys had meant to say, and with a lightlaugh she went away to wash her sticky hands. She was not going tohave Reggie Alston thrown at her. Reggie was all very well and Reggiemight mean Love, but Reggie would not mean Money.

Turning to see what had become of Gertrude, Denys caught sight ofPattie's interested face.

"I've got a young man, Miss Denys," she said importantly, "he's sucha nice, steady young man, Miss, your Mr. Henchman just reminds meof him, and he's just as fond of me as anything, but"—her facefell—"he's not very well off, Miss, not at all, and—and—well! it'srather a pity, as Miss Gertrude's been saying, to marry poor."

"Oh, Pattie!" said Denys earnestly, "don't say that. If you love oneanother, you can be so happy even if you are poor. If he is steady andnice, that is much more important than being rich."

But Pattie's shake of the head was only the echo of Gertrude's words.

"Love and Money. Love and Money." "It's all very well for you totalk."

CHAPTER III.

A GREAT BIG SHAME.

"It's a shame! that's what it is, a downright shame," cried a woman'svoice angrily, "and it's just like you, Jim Adams, to put upon a poorwoman so. As if I had not enough trouble with one child, and you wantto bring your sister's brat here. I never heard of such a thing."

Jim Adams stood with his broad back turned towards her, and he made noreply.

"Yes! much you care!" she scolded, "but I tell you, Jim Adams, I won'tdo it! You can write and tell your precious sister she can make otherarrangements. You are married now and you can't do just as you like;you've got a wife, and I won't do it! There! you've waked the baby,shouting at me about your sister; but I won't have anybody else'schild, so there!"

The lusty crying from the adjoining room continuing, she went in,banging the door behind her, and Jim was left alone, staring doggedlyout at the tall houses opposite.

Should he write to his dying sister at Whitecliff and tell her to makeother arrangements? What other arrangements could she make? Could shebring back her young sailor husband from his grave in the Red Sea?Could she stay the progress of the cough, the outward sign of thefatal sickness which was bringing her to an early death? Could shesend the child, her treasured little boy, to any other relative? Jimknew she could not. Nellie and he had been alone in the world sincethey were children. If he did not take little Harry, the boy must gointo the workhouse.

Should he tell Nellie that she must make that arrangement? He was aneasy-going chap, this Jim Adams, too easy-going. He stood six feet onein his socks and was big and broad in proportion, a veritable giant inlooks, but his strength was mere physical strength, and he knew it. Hewas not strong in himself. This was the very first time, since hehad known and courted Jane Green, that he had resisted her will fortwenty-four hours, and even now he was contemplating the possibilityof giving way.

Jane could make herself very disagreeable indeed if she were thwarted.He had had nothing but storming since yesterday morning when Nellie'sletter had come, and he had had two half-cooked suppers and amiserable cold breakfast. He did like a good supper, and if this waswhat it was going to be if he had Harry——

The sound of a gay voice singing on the pathway below, startled him.There were always noises in the street, but this song caught hisattention.

Jim smiled grimly to himself; it was so absolutely true. Then hiswrath rose. What business had Jack Turner to be singing that dittyunder his window? He supposed all the neighbours laughed behind hisback at the way his small wife ruled him. If they only had a taste ofher nagging tongue they would not, perhaps, laugh so much. He wouldlet them see he was not under Jane's thumb!

He turned at the opening of the bedroom door, prepared to have hissay, and there was Jane with their big bouncing baby in her arms."Here!" she said crossly, "you just get this kid off to sleep, I'mgoing for the supper beer. I've minded him all day, and I'm tired ofhim. I believe he wakes up in the evening just to spite me!"

Jim took his baby and his eyes softened as he cuddled the littlefellow in his arms. He thought of Nellie's beseeching letter, and hethought of himself as dead and of Jane as dead, and this baby left toface a cold, unloving world. Would not Nellie have taken him? Wouldshe not have been a mother to him?

Oh! he knew she would. Nellie had been as a mother to himself eversince they were children together.

Not for what the neighbours would say, nor for triumphing over Jane,but for love's sake, he would take Nellie's child and be a father tohim.

That was settled finally, but Jane had gone for the beer and there wasno one to listen to his determination.

As he sat there rocking his baby, there was one sentence in Nellie'sletter that came back to his mind and disturbed it.

"Dear Jim, you'll teach my little Harry about our Saviour, won't you?I've done my best, but children forget so quickly! Tell him that JesusChrist is our best Friend."

Our best Friend! A stab of pain shot through Jim's heart. Nellie'sbest Friend, perhaps, but not his, not our best Friend, littlesister Nellie!

The baby dropped asleep, but Jane had not returned. She was no doubtenjoying herself at the Green Dragon.

He rose and with the lamp in his disengaged hand, went into thebedroom and laid the baby down, and covered him up warm.

He would make a cup of tea for himself, as Jane had not brought thebeer. He wished Jane would give up beer, she might be getting a bittoo fond of it, and he would give it up himself if she would.

He rather enjoyed making his tea and a couple of pieces of toast, andsetting it out neatly. His supper had left him unsatisfied in everyway.

As he poured out his first cup of tea there was a tap at the door, andon his calling out, "Come in," a young fellow, so like Jane as to beinstantly recognised as her brother, entered.

"Hullo!" said he.

"Hullo, Tom! What's brought you over to-night? Will you have a cup oftea?"

"That I will!" said Tom. "Where's Jane?"

"Gone for the beer," said Jim shortly.

"You'd be a deal better off and a deal happier, both of you, if youdidn't take any of that stuff," said Tom. "It makes Jane quarrelsome,I'm certain of it."

"I'd give it up if she would," said Jim valiantly. Then he added in ashamefaced sort of way, "you see, when I do give it up for a bit, shehas it, and the smell and everything—well, I want it again!"

Tom nodded, gulped down his tea and set down his cup.

"You asked what brought me over," he said. "Pattie has given me up!"

"What!" demanded Jim incredulously, "given you up! Why?"

Tom's face worked. He was a simple-hearted fellow, and he lovedfoolish little worldly-minded Pattie very dearly.

"I believe," he said unsteadily, "I believe it's money what's done it.She was always so fond of me, was Pattie, and I thought she loved mewith all her heart, as I did her. But one of her young ladies has gotengaged to a gentleman as is pretty well off, and I s'pose—in fact,Pattie allowed it was so—they got talking, as girls will, and it'sturned Pattie's head. 'She don't want to marry poor'—them's just herwords—and so she's——"

"Chucked you," said Jim grimly.

Tom sighed deeply. "I told her as my wage, though not big, wasreg'lar, winter and summer, and that was better than a big wage inthe summer and being out of work in the winter; and I don't drink—norsmoke—and them two things makes a hole in any fellow's wages; butthere—talking ain't no good—argufying don't bring love. I supposeshe don't care for me and that's all about it." He reached out his cupfor more tea and gulped it down; it seemed to help him to gulp downhis feelings.

"I feel a bit done," he said after a minute's silence. "I'll be betterto-morrow. I never thought as how my love-making would end like this."

Jim got up and gave him a hearty thump on his back.

"Don't you be downhearted," he said, "you keep on steady and wait abit. You'll be seeing her looking downhearted soon, you mark my word,and then you can step up and say, 'Is't me you want, my girl?' You'rea right down good fellow, Tom, and she don't know yet what she'sgiving up."

Tom looked a little more cheerful. "You can tell Jane," he said,rising to go.

"That's her on the stairs," answered Jim. "I'm going off to bed, soyou can stay and tell her yourself. She's out of sorts with me."

So Jane, with her jug of supper beer, found only her brother waitingfor her.

She greeted him effusively, and insisted on spreading the table afreshwith meat and bread and cheese, talking incessantly and laughing loudand long as she did so, and Tom, knowing what it meant, wished he hadgone before her return.

But being there and having come on purpose, in a moment's lull in herstream of talk, he told her about Pattie.

Her anger against Pattie was unbounded. She hugged Tom and called him"poor dear," till he pushed her away, and then she said she would paythe girl out. She would make her repent having used an honest fellowlike that! She was going into Old Keston on Monday for a day'scharring, and she knew well enough where Pattie lived. The garden ofthe house where she worked ran down to Pattie's garden, and she wouldgive Pattie a bit of her mind.

"Then I hope you won't see her," said Tom. "I don't want any words.Words won't make her care for me, and that's all I wanted."

He turned to the door, but Jane intercepted him with the jug of supperbeer.

"Have a glass, Tom, my lad! It'll comfort you and make you forgetyour troubles. There's a deal of comfort in a glass when you'relow-spirited."

But the jug was struck from her hand and lay in twenty pieces onthe floor, and the beer ran hurriedly over the boards and sank awaybetween the crevices as if anxious to hide itself. "You dare totempt me!" said Tom hoarsely.

CHAPTER IV.

A SMALL WORLD.

"Does you want a boat?"

Such a soft, clear little voice! Denys turned quickly and looked up,but her eyes had to come down again to the yellow sand on which shesat. There was no one near enough to have spoken to her but a mite ofa boy in petticoats, with bare feet and yellow hair and brilliant blueeyes.

"Hullo!" said the little voice again, "does you want a boat?"

"No, thank you," she answered with a tender smile; she had heard novoice like this voice, since little Jerry died. It was as if Jerryhimself had come back to her.

"Why doesn't you want one?" insisted the child.

"I have no one to row me," she said.

He looked down at his little brown hands and then up in her face."When I'm a man I'll row you! I'm going to be a sailor like my dadwas!"

"What is your name, dear?"

"Harry! Harry Lyon!"

He stood with his little brown legs apart, gazing at her.

"My dad's dead! That's his grave," he said, with a wave of his hand.

"Where?" said Denys aghast.

He pointed to the dancing waves. "What colour does you call that sea?Does you know colours?" he asked gravely.

"Why, yes! I know them. The sea is blue."

Harry shook his head unbelievingly.

"It's a red sea where my dad is?" he said.

"Where is your mother?"

Harry nodded inland, and a shadow fell over his sturdy little face.

"She's always coughing—she don't come out with Harry no more,"he said, plaintively. Then his tone brightened. "She's going awaysomewheres; she's going to get quite well—it's along of Jesus, ourbest Friend—and I'm going with her," he added determinately.

There was a pause. Denys felt a great compassion for the little chap.She wondered what would happen to him when mother got quite well, andyet—with Jesus for best Friend—need she have wondered?

The child's next words effectually startled her out of her thoughts.

"Give us a penny!" he said.

"Oh, Harry! it's naughty to ask for pennies!"

"Give us a ha'penny then," he coaxed.

But Denys only shook her head and laughed at him, and at that momentGertrude and a young fellow sauntered up to her.

"We have had a lovely row!" exclaimed Gertrude gaily. "Mr. Greyburnemade the boat fly. It's such a little light thing, just made for two!Where is Mrs. Henchman?"

"She was not feeling well enough to come out," answered Denys, "andAudrey's school has not broken up yet."

"I'm afraid you have been dull," said Cecil Greyburne politely; "butyou are going to cycle to Brensted Woods with us this afternoon?"

"Denys ought not to be dull," said Gertrude easily. "She has lettersto write and to read, and she counts the hours till Charlie comes,and she has to do the pretty to her future mother-in-law. You see, Ihave not all these occupations. Denys! I am sure it is lunchtime!"

Denys rose and shook the sand from her dress.

"Mrs. Henchman wanted us all to walk to the Landslip this afternoon,"she said. "She has ordered a donkey-chair and we shall have tea at theCottage. Could not you join our party, Mr. Greyburne? We can hardlyrun away!"

"Oh, how horrid!" exclaimed Gertrude, "you know how I hate walking. Ishall get out of it somehow. Mr. Greyburne and I can cycle there andjoin you at tea. How will that do, Mr. Greyburne?"

Cecil glanced at Denys, and his eyes passed on to Gertrude's merry,sparkling face. She was really good fun to ride out with, and itwas turning out to be a much jollier Easter holiday than he hadanticipated. He did not exactly see why he should sacrifice himselfto walking beside a slow donkey-chair, when the prettiest girl he hadever known invited him to a cycle ride. If she could get out of thewalk he was quite ready to second her. "I'll come up at any timeyou name, and be ready for anything that is wanted of me," he saidgallantly. He felt he had handled a difficult decision very neatly.

As the two girls tidied their hair for lunch, Denys said veryearnestly,

"Gertrude! we really can't run away from Mrs. Henchman this afternoon;it is not polite or—or—anything!"

"You can't, but I can," retorted Gertrude, "and I'm going to. You arenot going to condemn me to a slow walk when I can have a nice spinwith Cecil. I'll arrange it with Mrs. Henchman, and she'll be quitesatisfied if you don't interfere."

She ran downstairs and went gaily into the dining-room.

"So I hear you are going to take us all to the Landslip, and havetea at the Cottage, Mrs. Henchman," she said, sitting down beside heraffectionately; "and Denys has asked Cecil Greyburne to go too, andhe and I are going to cycle instead of walk. Denys said you would notlike it, but I knew you would not mind."

And Mrs. Henchman answered as Gertrude had meant she should.

"Not at all, my dear! I want you to enjoy yourself while you arehere."

"Oh, I am!" answered Gertrude, very heartily and very truthfully. Shecast a little triumphant look at Denys. She was certainly enjoyingherself immensely. They had been at Whitecliff the larger half of aweek already, and Cecil Greyburne, an old school friend of Charlie's,had dropped in to call on Mrs. Henchman the first evening, and sincethen he had called in or met the girls constantly. Mrs. Henchman hadnot been very well since their arrival, and Audrey was very engrossedwith the end-of-term examinations, and Gertrude found it convenientto assume that Denys ought to be entertaining her future relativesor writing to Charlie; she, therefore, monopolised Cecil to such anextent, that every day it happened as it had happened that morning:Denys sat alone on the beach or wandered about on the cliff, andGertrude, with a lightly uttered "Oh, Denys is busy somewhere," hadgone cycling or rowing or primrose hunting with Cecil.

Mrs. Henchman had ordered her donkey-chair for three o'clock, andshortly before that hour Gertrude came bustling in from the garden.

She found Denys in the hall collecting cushions and shawls, for thoughthe April sun was unusually warm there was a sharp touch in the wind.

"I say, Denys!" she exclaimed. "I have borrowed your machine—I havebent my pedal somehow, and you won't want yours."

CHAPTER V.

A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.

Donkeys are proverbially obstinate animals, and Mrs. Henchman's thisafternoon proved no exception to the rule. He had evidently made uphis mind that the road to the Landslip was not a congenial one. Invain the boy who drove him cheered him onwards, in vain Denys tuggedat his bridle, in vain Audrey walked in front holding out an invitingthistle. At length Mrs. Henchman got flurried and nervous.

"Boy!" she called, "what is your name?"

The boy turned a smiling round face, "Billy Burr, ma'am!"

"Billy Burr! if you can't make your donkey go, I shall get out."

"If you please, ma'am," answered Billy Burr serenely, "it'snot my donkey. That's why he won't go, ma'am! It's Dickie Lowe'sdonkey, but he's got a cold and he had to save up for to-night,ma'am, to sing in the Stainer. Whoa—there—get on, you! That'sbetter!"

The donkey broke into a trot, and Denysand Audrey and Billy were forced to do thesame, but in a minute that was over and thedonkey appeared to have recovered his rightmind and walked on stolidly. Billy andDenys walking at his bridle fell into a confidentialchat.

"I told Dickie how it would be," Billy saidapologetically, "this one won't go for nobodyelse and the other one was lame."

"Are you going to sing in Stainer's Crucifixionto-night at All Saints'?" asked Denyswith interest. "I am going to hear it. Areyou one of the boys of All Saints'? One ofMiss Dolly Allan's boys?"

Billy nodded cheerily, "Do you know her?"he inquired. "When is she coming downagain?"

But the donkey had come to a standstill,and the party were forced to do the same.

"It is perfectly ridiculous going on like this,"exclaimed Audrey. "We are a laughing stockto the neighbourhood! Billy Burr, if that isyour name, why don't you give the animala good thrashing and make him go?"

"'Twouldn't be no use," said Billy vexedly."I'm real sorry, ma'am. Would you like totry another road? It's just the road he's takenoffence at."

"No, indeed! the only road I shall go ishome again," cried Mrs. Henchman. "It'stoo bad, though, to spoil all my afternoonlike this. Turn him round, boy, and let us getback as fast as possible. It's a wasted afternoon."

"He'll go all right that way," said Billy.

"But what about Gertrude and Mr. Greyburne?"said Denys as the little cavalcadeturned back. Oh, how she wished Gertrudehad been more amenable and had not brokenup the party.

"I am sure I should not trouble aboutthem," said Audrey walking on, "I don't knowwhy Gertrude did not stay with her hostess!"

"Yes!" said Mrs. Henchman, too worriedand annoyed to remember what she had saidto make it easy for Gertrude, "that is justwhat I thought. Now, what is to be done? Iam not going home by myself with this donkeyfor anybody."

Denys was ready to cry with vexation, andyet as Gertrude and Cecil had been told towait at the cottage till they came, they couldnot be left there indefinitely. She ignoredthe remarks on Gertrude with what grace shecould, and tried to make the best of thesituation.

"We can all go back together," she saidsoothingly, "and then I must go and findGertrude and tell her how unfortunate we havebeen."

"You could cycle," suggested Audrey,relenting a little.

Denys shook her head, "Gertrude has mybicycle," she said; "something has happenedto hers. Oh, I can easily walk."

"Mine has gone wrong too," said Audrey."Look here, mother, surely I am capable oftaking you home. I've looked after you allthese years without help! If Denys has gotto walk she had far better go straight on."

"Whatever you like," said Mrs. Henchmanwearily. "I shall be truly thankful to be safeback in my own bedroom. I shall have a heartattack, I know! Go on, boy, at once!"

Denys stood and watched them out of sight,the donkey going quite amiably now, and thenshe turned to her own path. How tiresome itwas! and oh, how disagreeable to have gotinto a bother with those she so much wishedto please, through no fault of her own.

But Charlie was coming down that evening,and when he came everything would be allright!

She trudged on cheerily after that, trying toplan out the time between now and half-pastseven, when she was to meet Charlie at thestation, and they were to go together to hearStainer's Crucifixion sung at All Saints'.

It was wonderfully pretty in the Landslip,though the trees were only just showing a greentinge in the sunlight, but she hurried on as fastas she could, and reached the cottage at last.

It was a pretty little ivy-clad cottage, witha bench outside and a table set invitingly forvisitors, but the bench was unoccupied, andshe looked about in vain for any sign of Gertrudeor Cecil.

Upon inquiry she found that she was thefirst visitor that afternoon. People had hardlycome down yet, the woman explained; theygenerally came into Whitecliff this evening,Thursday, and this was a favourite GoodFriday walk.

Denys sat down to wait and had not beenseated long, before the little voice that was solike Jerry's, fell upon her ear.

"Hullo!" said little Harry, peeping roundthe door at her.

"How did you come here?" asked Denys,but before she could get a reply, a sound ofterrible coughing came from within, and avoice said, "Harry! Harry! you've left thedoor open!"

Harry darted back, but returned very quickly.He seemed to like talking to Denys, butwhile she talked, Denys was watching forGertrude and listening to that rending cough.Harry seemed to listen to it too. "That'smother," he said, "aren't you coming to seeher?"

"Oh, no!" said Denys shrinkingly, "shewould not like it."

Harry was off with his little petticoats flying,and was back again like a flash.

"She wants you," he said triumphantly,"she's been a-listening to your voice!"

He seized her hand, and led her into a littleroom behind the parlour, and on a low bed bythe open window Denys saw a young womanwith a pretty face, so like Harry's as to proclaimher his mother at once.

She looked up at Denys with a smile.

"Harry told me about you this morning,"she said. "Won't you sit down, Miss? Itis very kind of you to come in."

Denys sat down. The window commandeda view of the garden gate, so she was in nodanger of missing Gertrude. She wonderedwhatever had become of her.

She found Mrs. Lyon very easy to talk to—andwhile Denys and his mother chatted,Harry climbed into the bed and fell fast asleep.

Mrs. Lyon looked down at him tenderly.

"It's hard to leave him," she said softly,"oh, so hard! My brother, Jim, who livesat Mixham Junction, has promised to takehim, but I don't know what his wife is like.Jim don't never say much about her, and he'dbe sure to if she was the right one for him, butJim will be good to him, I know, and the LordJesus is our best Friend and He is the GoodShepherd. I often have to say that to myselfto comfort myself."

"Yes!" said Denys, sympathetically, hereyes on the almost baby face nestled on thepillow, her thoughts busy with wonderingwhether she could have left Jerry so trustinglyin God's care. And Jerry had been her brother,not her child. She felt she could more willinglyhave had Jerry die, than have died herself andleft him to other people to care for.

Her thoughts came back to the presentwith a start. "Mixham Junction!" she said,"that is only five miles from my home in OldKeston!"

The sick woman's face flushed and she laidher hand beseechingly on Denys's.

"Oh, Miss!" she said, "would you—wouldyou sometimes—just sometimes go and see myHarry, just to let them know there is somebodyas takes an interest, that he isn't quitefriendless, and you could remind him of Jesus?I'm not sure about Jim's doing that. Wouldyou, Miss?"

Once more Denys looked at the little face,and thought of Jerry.

"Yes!" she said, "while I am in Old Kestonor going there to see mother, and while Harryis in Mixham, I certainly will."

Nellie Lyon's eyes filled with tears.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart,"she said.

Denys rose. A glance at her watch hadtold her it was getting very late. What couldhave become of Gertrude?

She went out once more. No one at alllike the missing couple had come. Indeedshe herself had been sitting in full view of thegate for more than an hour. Already the sunwas sinking and the air was growing chill,and a mist was gathering under the trees inthe Landslip. If she waited much longer shewould have a dreary enough walk under thosetrees in the dusk. It was not a cheerful prospect,and what would Charlie think if she werenot at the station to meet him?

That and the growing darkness decided her.Hastily scribbling a note to be left with thewoman in case Gertrude and Cecil turned up,she hurried away.

It was not a pleasant walk. The sea soundedmournfully at the foot of the rocks below her,and the darkness under the trees was notreassuring, and seemed to fall deeper eachmoment. She wished she had taken the upper,though much longer road, or that she hadstarted half an hour earlier and left Gertrudeand Cecil to their own devices. Even whenthe moon, the great round moon, came up outof the sea and shone through the trees upon herpath, it only seemed to make the shadowsblacker and more eerie, till she remembered thatit was the Easter moon, and thought of Himwho had knelt beneath the trees of Gethsemaneunder that moon, on this night of His agony.

After that, thinking of Him, she did not feelafraid, and at last she rang at Mrs. Henchman'sdoor.

Audrey ran out to open it.

"Well! I thought you were never coming!Where are the others?"

"I don't know," said Denys, "I can't think."

CHAPTER VI.

A TICKET FOR ONE.

As Cecil very justly observed to Gertrude, itwas a perfect afternoon for a ride, and thetwo went gaily along the upper road to theLandslip, till they came to a sign-post in a placewhere four roads met.

Gertrude jumped off her machine and stoodgazing up at the directions indicated.

"You see!" she observed, "we have lotsof time before that slow donkey gets there.We might make a detour and get into the roadagain later on. We don't want to sit staringdown the Landslip till they arrive. Besides,we've seen it all yesterday, haven't we?"

Cecil acquiesced. It amused him to seeGertrude's cool way of arranging matters, andit was certainly less trouble to be entertainedand directed hither and thither than to takethe initiative and entertain. At any rate itwas a change.

But bicycles, like donkeys, are not alwayssatisfactory means of locomotion. The pairhad not gone much further when Gertrude'styre punctured, and a halt was called whileCecil repaired it.

Cecil was not a good workman; he made along job of it, and when at last they startedagain, time was getting on and they had butreached a small colony of houses when Gertrudeexclaimed that her tyre was down again.

She glanced round at the little cluster ofhouses. "There's a cycle shop," she said,"and a tea shop next door. How convenient.We had better have the punctured tyre mendedfor us and we can have tea while we wait!"

Cecil obediently wheeled her cycle into oneshop and followed her into the second.

He found her seated at a little table,examining the watch on her wrist.

"Guess what the time is," she said laughing."Let us hope they won't wait tea for us at theLandslip, for I am sure we shall never getthere! The woman here says there is no wayof getting there except by going back to thecross-road!"

Cecil looked rather blank. He had not atall counted on failing to keep the appointmentat the cottage, or on running the risk of therebyoffending Mrs. Henchman, and where wouldbe his promise to himself of making it up toAudrey at tea-time?

However, the tea was already being placedon the table, a plate of cakes was at his elbow,and Gertrude was asking if he took milk andsugar.

He shrugged his shoulders mentally. "Infor a penny, in for a pound," he said to himself,"here I am and I may as well enjoy myself."

So while Denys waited and watched for themin the Landslip cottage, these two laughedand ate and chatted and at last mounted theirbicycles and rode off back to Whitecliff in aleisurely manner, arriving five minutes afterAudrey, dressed in her very best white frock,had departed to her breaking-up school concert,leaving Denys to hastily change her dress, eata much-needed tea and rush up to the stationto meet Charlie.

Gertrude came in with her usual easy manner.

"Well!" she said, "here we are! Whereis everybody? Did you think we were lost?"

"I am awfully sorry we missed," said Cecilquickly. "The fact is we got into a road thatdid not go there at all, and then Miss Gertrudehad a puncture, and then a second, and bythe time we got back to the right road we knewit was too late to do anything."

Gertrude looked at the tea-table approvingly.

"I will ask you to tea, Cecil, as Denys doesnot. Where is Mrs. Henchman, Denys?You don't seem very communicative to-night."

"She is lying down till Charlie comes,"said Denys. "We had a bother with thedonkey and it upset her. Audrey had to comeback with her and I went on to the Landslipto find you. I have only just got back. Audreyhas gone to her concert; she was able to get aticket for you after all, and she said she wassorry she could not wait for you, as she wasplaying, but she would come and speak toyou in the interval."

Gertrude glanced at the ticket and tossedit on to the table.

"I shan't go all by myself," she said, "Ishall go and hear the Stainer. I shall like itmuch better; it is too utterly dull to sit byone's self."

Denys's heart sank. She had so counted onthis treat alone with Charlie, and had secretlybeen much pleased when Audrey and Gertrudehad planned to go to the concert together, andnow here she was saddled with Gertrude'scompany. Besides, what would Audrey say?

She poured out the tea and as she put milkinto the third cup, she almost smiled.

She had forgotten Cecil! Of course, thoughthere was but one ticket for the concert, therewere no tickets needed for the Church!

But she herself must start for the stationalmost immediately, and the Service of Songwas not till eight o'clock. She must leave thecouple behind her, and then if Gertrudechanged her mind again and stayed at homeafter all, what would Mrs. Henchman thinkwhen she came downstairs and found themamusing themselves over the drawing-roomfire?

Somehow since she came to Whitecliff, Denyshad felt bewildered and out of touch with God,and had forgotten her usual habit of prayingabout the little everyday worries and perplexities;but now suddenly, fresh from thewalk under the moonlit trees which hadreminded her of Gethsemane, as she stood withthe teapot in her hand, she bethought her ofthe words, "God is our refuge and strength, avery present help in trouble," and with theremembrance of Him, came the suggestion ofwhat she had better do.

She would run up and say good-bye toMrs. Henchman and tell her what they wereall planning for the evening, and then theresponsibility would be no longer on hershoulders.

And even as she decided this, Cecil lookedup from a perusal of Audrey's concertticket.

"If neither of you want this ticket," he said,"I think I will take it. I would like to hearAudrey play, and she will feel it dull if thereis nobody there that she knows."

Denys looked up gratefully.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she said. "I wasafraid she would be very disappointed to seeno one. That is really kind."

Gertrude pouted openly.

"Look here, Denys!" she said, "mind youand Charlie look out for me!"

That little touch of God's hand had madeall the difference to Denys.

"All right," she said cheerfully, "we willdo our best."

She ran lightly upstairs and knocked softlyat Mrs. Henchman's door.

She found Mrs. Henchman lying on her sofabeside a bright little fire, and after telling hertheir plans, she bent down and kissed heraffectionately.

"Shall you be lonely with us all out?" sheasked solicitously.

"I daresay I shall be all right, my dear,"Mrs. Henchman replied, a little grudgingly. Thisweakness which had come upon her in the lastfew months was a sore trial—not an acceptedtrial—under which she chafed and fretted dayby day.

Denys longed to be able to say, "I willgladly stay and keep you company," but thenCharlie had arranged this evening's engagementand she knew Mrs. Henchman wouldnot allow it to be altered.

Instead, she said, "Will Mary come up, andsee if you want anything?"

"I really can't say, my dear. Mary is afunny person. Run along now or you will belate for Charlie."

Denys left her, but as she passed down thestairs she saw the kitchen door ajar, and witha sudden impulse she tapped at it.

"Mary!" she said, "we are all going out.You will take care of Mrs. Henchman, won'tyou?"

"Well, Miss!" Mary's tone and face wereindignant. "I always do take care of Mrs.Henchman."

Denys retreated.

"Oh, dear!" she said to herself as she closedthe front door behind her. "I am afraid Ihave made a mistake."

CHAPTER VII.

HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS.

It seemed to Denys as if she had never feltso absolutely happy, so blissfully content, asshe did when with Charlie's arm tucked intohers, they left the station together and madetheir way down the steep hill to the church.

All the worries of the day and the worriesof the yesterdays had slipped from her, andnot even the thought of Gertrude, awaitingthem in the church porch, had power to disturbher.

Charlie and she were together, and beforethem stretched the days, the hours, the minutes,the seconds of a whole week! A whole, long,lovely week, of which only five minutes hadalready gone! Charlie's voice, his dear, familiarvoice, though it only spoke of the trivialitiesof his journey, seemed like music to her. Shedid not know how her heart had hungered forhim, till she felt how satisfied she was now inhis presence.

They reached the church before she thoughtit possible; Gertrude was not in the porch,and Denys paused a moment in the doorwayand glanced about for her. Yes! there shewas, some distance down the aisle, comfortablyensconced between Mrs. Henchman's medicalman, Dr. Wyatt, and his sister, and as Denysdescried her, she turned her pretty face toanswer some remark of the doctor's and caughtsight of Denys and Charlie, and her smile andshake of the head were easily translated.

"She is not going to sit with us," saidCharlie, "so that's all right."

It was nearly eight o'clock, and Denys, fullof her happy thoughts, let her eyes wanderround the church, noting its pillars, its higharched roof, its electric lights, and the ever-increasingcrowd which moved softly up theaisle till every seat that she could see wasoccupied.

And then came the choir. She watchedtheir faces eagerly. Would she recognise BillyBurr? And which was Dickie Lowe? Ah!those two must be the golden-haired twinsabout whom Mr. Owen had told her and Charliethree years ago, now no longer the foremost inthe little procession, but as unknowable apartas ever, as they preceded the tenors. Andthere, behind all, was Mr. Owen's familiar face!Denys knelt with all the congregation, waitingand longing to hear his deep, strong voice inthe collects which began the service. But itwas a curate who read the prayers, and thewords passed unheeded over Denys's head, forher heart was back in Saltmarsh among thedays when she had first known Mr. Owen andCharlie.

So the music began and a voice roseplaintively—

The words came into the midst of Denys'swandering thoughts with a startling suddenness.She saw again the darkness gatheringunder the trees, the black shadows of thebushes and the Easter moon above!

How the voice rang down the church!

What had she come there for?

To think of Charlie—of her happiness? Shecould have stayed at home to do that.

Was it for the music she had come? No,for mere music she would not have come outon this first evening of Charlie's return.

For what had she come then?

The tender words stole down into the depthsof her heart and stirred it to a tenderness thatshe had never felt for her Saviour before. Sheseemed, as the organ sounded out the Processionalto Calvary, to be one of the crowdgathering round the lonely figure in the ViaDolorosa, and to be passing out through thegates of the city with the triumphant song—

The triumph of it, and the humiliation of itengrossed her.

So with her eyes on His face, her feet followingHis pathway of sorrow, forgetful of all else,she went on with Him to the end.

It was over!

The congregation passed out again underthe starlit, moonlit sky, and left the churchwith the words—

still echoing softly amid the arches of the roof.

It was a very bright and lively party thatsat round Mrs. Henchman's supper-table thatnight. Mrs. Henchman, with Charlie besideher, seemed brightest of all, and yet Denysfancied—was it only fancy?—that when herhostess spoke to her or glanced at her, therewas a coldness in her voice and glance thatshe had not seen before. Audrey divided herattentions between her brother and Cecil Greyburne,with whose appearance at the concertshe had been much gratified; but as the mealprogressed, Denys began to notice that Audreydid not by any chance speak to her, and kepther eyes studiously in another direction.

A shadow fell over Denys's happiness, butshe drove it away with her usual good-temperedlarge-mindedness. This was the first time thatMrs. Henchman and Audrey had had to realisethat Charlie was no longer exclusively theirown, and of course they felt that she was thecause! They would be all right to-morrow.

But when Mary came in to clear the supper,Denys began to think that there might besomething more than that the matter, forMary's indignant and lowering look at hersuddenly reminded her of that unfortunatemoment in the kitchen before she started outto meet Charlie. She grew hot all over. SurelyMary could not have taken serious offence atwhat she had said!

She had no opportunity to do more thanthink of the possibility, before she found herselfpolitely but unceremoniously hustled off tobed, and as she and Gertrude left the drawing-room,an unconscious backward glance showedher Mrs. Henchman cosily pulling forward acouple of armchairs to the fireside.

Well! it was natural, of course.

Up in her room she began laying away herhat and jacket and putting out the dress shewould need in the morning, when, after ahasty knock, Audrey entered, and carefullyclosed the door behind her.

"Look here, Denys," she said, a little breathlessly,"I have come up to say that I do thinkit is too bad of you to go upsetting our servant.When I came home I found mother in anawful state—perfectly awful—and all throughyour interfering with Mary, and telling her totake care of mother! Of course, Mary did notlike it, and poor mother had to bear it all alone.It is a shame."

So Mary had not taken care of Mrs. Henchman,but had gone up and complained ofDenys. That much was clear!

It did not help Denys that she could seeGertrude, as she brushed out her long, darkhair, shaking with suppressed laughter, butbefore she could think of anything to say todefend herself, Audrey had begun again.

"I never thought we should have an interferingdaughter-in-law," she said. "You arenot Mrs. Henchman yet to give orders to ourservant! Mother is awfully annoyed, and asto Charlie——!"

Denys drew herself up a little.

"I think, Audrey," she said coldly, "thatquite enough has been said about this. I hadnot the faintest thought of being interfering.I only spoke to Mary as I should have thoughtany visitor in my home might speak to ourmaid, if mother were alone and ill. And Ithink that it would have been more suitableif your mother or Charlie had spoken to methemselves about it. I will tell them to-morrowhow very, very sorry I am your mother hasbeen upset."

"Oh, I hope you will do nothing of thekind," cried Audrey. "Do let her forget it,if possible, poor thing! And as for Charlie,of course, mother does not annoy him withworries the first five minutes he is in the house,and why should he be made angry? as he wouldbe if he knew. Pray let the whole matterdrop."

Denys was silent, and Audrey went away,shutting the door noisily.

"Well!" said Gertrude, when her footstepshad died away, "now I may laugh in peace!I don't congratulate you on the tempers ofyour future relations, Denys." But Denyswas too utterly overset to attempt defence orcondemnation. Great tears welled up into hereyes and rolled down her cheeks as fast as shewiped them away. She was glad that Gertrudetook her side, but she felt that Gertrude's ownvagaries had helped not a little, in the avalancheof blame which had fallen upon her head.

She could not go to sleep. She lay in thedarkness, her pillow wet with those great tearswhich she could not seem to stop, her mindgoing backwards and forwards over it allunceasingly, in a maze of useless regrets andannoyance, until suddenly a melody she hadheard that evening seemed to float into hermind.

Ah, there was rest there!

To the rhythm of the soft, soothing melodyshe fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN FEAR.

Denys rose the next morning pale and heavy-eyed.Charlie and she had arranged overnightto be out at seven to take an early stroll on thesea front, and as she dressed, Denys's thoughtswere busy with how she should meet everybody,and how much or how little it was best to sayabout last night's cause of offence.

She was somewhat startled to find Gertrude'sbright eyes fixed upon her.

"My dear Denys!" said she, "if you don'twant to be the first to tell Charlie of this ridiculousaffair, don't go down with that face!Look as happy as you did last night, or hewill be asking questions."

Denys coloured faintly.

"I don't know what to do about it," shesighed.

"If you don't want a thing talked about,don't talk about it," answered Gertrude sagely."If ever I am engaged and my fiancé's relationstry sitting on me, I shall soon show them thatit is a game two can play."

She stopped to laugh at some secret remembrance,and Denys's thoughts flew once againto that far-off Scotch town and the dark-hairedboy with merry, twinkling eyes. Not a veryauspicious remark for Reggie, who had neitherfather nor mother, sister nor brother!

"I'll tell you what I was laughing at,"pursued Gertrude, who was most wonderfullywide awake and talkative this morning. "Doyou remember Reggie's getting me a ticket tosee the King give the medals for the SouthAfrican War, at the Horse Guards? Reggie'scousin had a medal, you know. It was rathera crush, and of course Reggie wanted us to bein a good place, and we certainly were. Well,behind me there was a big stout woman, andoh! how she leant on me—just on my shoulders!I shall never forget the feel of it! At last Igot perfectly tired of it and I thought of aplan. She was stout and soft and broad,and I just leant right back on her—on her chest.It was simply restful. After a bit, of course, Istood up properly, when I had got over thetiredness a little!"

"My dear Gertrude." Denys's laugh rangout involuntarily.

"She did not try that little dodge again,"said Gertrude, laughing too. "Denys, don'tput on that horrid red blouse."

"But I've nothing else!" objected Denys.

"Nothing else! Why, there's that sweetwhite nun's veiling. I've wanted 'the fellowto it,' as Grandma used to say when she didnot wish to covet her neighbour's goods, eversince you made it. Put that on and astonishthe natives and be done with it!"

Denys lifted out the white blouse obediently.It certainly suited her, and her laugh at Gertrudehad brought a colour into her cheeks. Shesuddenly guessed that Gertrude had wakedherself up on purpose to amuse her and changeher thoughts and she bent quickly over thepillow and gave Gertrude's soft cheek a gratefulsisterly kiss.

"Now shall I do?" she asked, straighteningherself up.

"Ar," said Gertrude emphatically. "Now!"mimicking Denys's own tone, "don't be latefor breakfast, my dear."

And Denys ran downstairs smiling! Gertrudehad got pretty, entertaining ways. It was nowonder people liked her.

Charlie was waiting for her in the hall.

"You look as bright as the morning," hesaid; "isn't it delicious to be out so early?"

They strolled up and down the empty parade,enjoying themselves immensely, though everynow and then a sickening fear of what theapproaching breakfast hour might bring, sweptover Denys. But she determined to stick toGertrude's advice and say nothing to anyoneunless positively obliged.

They turned homeward at last, and as theycaught sight of the church tower, Charlie said,

"What did you think of doing this morning?"

Denys's eyes looked eager, but she thoughtof Mrs. Henchman and the two armchairs overthe fire last night, and she hesitated to producea plan that would monopolise Charlie for herself.

"What would you like?" she said.

"Well, I thought that you and I, at anyrate, would go to church together this morning.The others, of course, must choose for themselves,but I should not feel happy to do anythingelse myself."

Denys's eyes lighted up.

"I am so glad," she said, "that is just whatI wished."

"Mother told me about the donkey," pursuedCharlie. "Poor mother, it quite put her about!So I told her I should hire a nice little wickerbath chair and I should push her, and we wouldall go to the Landslip this afternoon and have anice walk together. Only we'll start at two,while the sunshine lasts, and we can get Ceciland one or two more to join us."

"That will be lovely!" said Denys, "and Iwill see that poor Mrs. Lyon and little Harry.Oh, I wish I had bought some grapes yesterday.I absolutely forgot that the shops would beshut."

"Oh! I'll get you some," said Charlie."I know the back door of a greengrocer'sshop, and I'll go and thump till he opensit."

They were in excellent time for breakfast,and so was Gertrude; but Denys found themeeting of her offended friends was to be anagony long drawn out, for Mrs. Henchmanhad sent down word that she should breakfastin bed, and that Charlie might wait upon her.Audrey was already seated behind the teapotwith an aggressive little air which seemed tosay, "Behold the daughter of the house," butwith Charlie's eyes upon her she greeted Denysat least civilly, and she and Gertrude appearedto be on the best of terms.

By-and-by Cecil Greyburne turned up, andDenys left the three deep in discussion overthe morning's plans, and went to get readyfor church, calling in on Mrs. Henchman onher way upstairs.

She found her dressed on her sofa, withCharlie in an arm-chair on the opposite side ofthe fire; she stayed a minute or two withthem and went on to her room, feeling gladthat the first meeting with Mrs. Henchmanwas over and nothing had been said. Oh,if she could only know that nothing morewould be said! Then she could try and go oncheerfully and endeavour to forget that anythingdisagreeable had happened.

She and Charlie found All Saints' far morecrowded than they had anticipated, the resultbeing, that as they waited with many others inthe aisle, Denys found herself put into a rowwhere there was but one seat, and she couldonly look helplessly on while Charlie wasmarched by the verger, who knew him butdid not know Denys, right up to the front.

Yet, after the first moment of chagrin,Denys felt a vague relief in being alone. Alone,in a crowd, with no eyes upon her that knewher, alone with herself and God.

The prayers, the familiar Sunday prayersseemed to have a new significance on this day,under the very shadow of the cross on whichHe hung, for Whose Name's sake she askedforgiveness and blessing.

The Psalms, the anguished cry of the Crucified,sounded solemnly out, the very wordsof His lips, the awful loneliness of His heart,the unshaken faith in His God.

The lessons, the hymns, all told the samestory, that the Father sent the Son to be theSaviour of the world, that now once in the endof the world, hath He appeared to put awaysin by the sacrifice of Himself.

The text, again so familiar, so significant onthis day, floated out through the church.This was the way—the truth—the life—indeed.

"He was wounded for our transgressions,He was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisem*ntof our peace was upon Him, and withHis stripes we are healed."

It seemed as if the sermon, so gentle, sosimple, so tender, held in it no human wordsand yet it was not a mere repetition of verseupon verse of Scripture.

As Denys sat with her eyes rivetted onMr. Owen's face, she felt as if she had never evenguessed before at the depth of Christ's salvation,that she had only touched the fringe of theknowledge of the love of Christ which passethknowledge.

She rose with the congregation and sang itwith her whole heart, sang it through its versestill they came to the fourth verse, and she sangthat, too, thinking not so much of its wordsas of the love she felt for that Prince of Glory—

Her soul—her life—how gladly she gave themonce more to Him for his service!

And then—in one instant—she came backto the things of earth, and so to another thought—herall! A movement about her had broughtCharlie into her view. She saw him beforeher with a ray of sunlight resting across hisfair head.

Her all! The whole realm of nature, in hereyes! She remembered again the blissfulcontent, the undreamed of happiness, hispresence had brought to her yesterday. Sheremembered with a shiver how that perfectionof joy, which had seemed so unassailable, hadbeen shattered in a moment by a word of herown, which had given offence where none wasmeant, by a care for others which had beenresented.

She knew in a flash that the cause of herunending tears, of her heart-sickness eversince, had been the fear of Charlie's anger,the fear that, be the reason great or small,she should forfeit his affection and cease to beall the world to him.

She did not stop to think how much she waswronging Charlie's faithful love. She wasoblivious for the moment of everything butthis fear. She had been fighting fiercely sincelast night against the bare thought of thepossibility of losing Charlie's love; she hadbeen holding on to that love as for her life, andnow another love, a love higher, wider, deeperthe love that passeth knowledge, had risen upbefore her and claimed—her all.

The thoughts passed through her mind withthe swiftness of a dream, as, instinctivelyfollowing the movements of those about her,she stood there with her eyes fixed upon Charlie,while the slow procession of the choir filed outand the organ sounded plaintively among thehigh arches.

She seemed only to see Charlie—her all—thewhole realm of nature which at that momentshe did possess—how the thought thrilled her—shesaw him on one side and her crucifiedSaviour waiting on the other.

Waiting—for what?

Her soul—her life? She had given them.Ah! for something more—her all! The congregationaround her were passing out. Shesank slowly on to her knees and hid her face.The Love which had given its all for her hadconquered.

With her all, she knelt at His feet, andkneeling there she broke her box of ointmentof spikenard, very precious, and poured it out.

The church was almost empty when sherose and passed out. Charlie was waiting forher in the porch, and Audrey, Gertrude andCecil were on the steps. Audrey slipped herarm into Denys's. "Wasn't it nice? Didn'tyou like it?" she whispered.

"Very much, oh, very much!" Denysanswered. "I did not know you were allthere."

She gave her arm a little answeringpressure. This was the Audrey she had knownat Saltmarsh!

"That was Cecil," said Audrey gravely."He said that when there were so many whodidn't care, we, who do care, ought to showthat we cared! So, of course, we went."

When the afternoon came, it was a pleasantand united little party which set out for thewalk to the Landslip. As Gertrude observedserenely—

"With neither donkeys nor bicycles we oughtto do quite nicely!" and quite nicely they did,Mrs. Henchman arriving in such good conditionand spirits that she proposed walking a shortdistance to see the view while tea was beinggot ready.

Denys held up the little basket of grapesCharlie had given her.

"I will take these in to Mrs. Lyon while youare gone," she said.

She tapped softly at Mrs. Lyon's door, andbefore any answer came, the woman withwhom she had left her note on the previousday, opened her kitchen door with a scaredlook in her face.

"Oh, Miss!" she said. "Oh, Miss! don'ttell any one, but she's gone! Poor dear, she'sgone!"

"Gone!" echoed Denys.

The woman burst into low, restrained weeping.

"The visitors mustn't know," she sobbed."They are afraid of death, but I've beenlonging and hoping for you all day, Miss.Poor dear, poor dear, she died last night."

CHAPTER IX.

BROTHERS-IN-LAW.

The news of his sister Nellie's death cameupon Jim Adams with the suddenness of athunderclap. The weeks had gone by sinceshe wrote to ask him to take Harry, with nofurther news of her, and after watching everypost for a few days in the expectation of ablack-edged envelope, he had begun to thinkthat it was only a scare, and that she was notgoing to die at all, and it was really a pity thathe had had all that bother with Jane!

Yet, in spite of this feeling, the incidenthad done him good in more ways than one.

He had fought for duty instead of runningaway from it. He had been reminded ofthings which he had hardly wanted to remember.He had been strengthened for the right bythe mere fact that somebody never dreamedbut that he would do right.

Also he had taken Tom's advice, and had hadwhat Jane deridingly called "a teetotal spell,"the result of which was a respectable bankingaccount which perfectly astonished him. Hehad no idea small sums could total up so.

The idea of saving a little money had cometo him from one of Jane's harangues, in whichshe informed him that when "that brat"came, she did not intend to spend any of herhousekeeping money upon him; Jim wouldhave to give her more. She was quite shortenough as it was, especially with a great rompingbaby of her own, and she supposed that Jimwould be sorry to see him getting thin andpale and perhaps dying altogether, becausesomebody else's child ate the food that oughtto have been in his mouth. And then thefuneral! Funerals cost a lot!

With this interesting climax Jane went toget the supper beer—out of the housekeeping—andJim made his cocoa, and thought thingsover.

Not that he discussed Harry's coming withher. He had never mentioned the subjectsince that first night. He disliked words, andhe found Jane tired of rating more quicklywithout an answer, though sometimes he couldnot resist giving one, but he always wishedafterwards he had held his tongue.

He determined, as he sipped his cocoa, thathe would accept some over-time work, whichhe had happily not mentioned to Jane, andsave up what he earned and add it to his beer-moneyin the bank. Who could tell when itmight be wanted?

So the telegram telling of Nellie's deathfound him unprepared in one way—preparedin another.

He proposed to go down and attend thefuneral and bring Harry back, but Jane wasfurious. He had promised to take her andthe baby down to her mother's for the Easter,and she did not mean to go by herself, as ifshe had no husband, and if Jim spent themoney on train fares to Whitecliff and boardand lodging as well, where was the money forgoing home to come from? Besides, whatgood would it do? Nellie was dead, and thebrat could come up with the guard. Anyhow,Jim had no black clothes!

That last argument was unanswerable. SoJim wrote to Nellie's friends and said he couldnot come to the funeral, and asked them toarrange for Harry to come up with the guardand to let him know the day and the train,and he would meet him.

Then with a rather heavy heart, he shoulderedJane's parcel and his big baby, and took theEaster excursion train into Suffolk.

It was very late on the Saturday nightwhen they reached their destination, for thetrain was two hours behind time, but thewelcome they received in the tiny cottage hadsuffered nothing from its delay.

Old Mr. and Mrs. Green's delight over theirfirst grandchild was quite astonishing, andthey admired him from the curl on the top ofhis round head to the sole of his little fat foot.

And there, in the chimney corner, lookingthin and worn, sat Tom.

Jim grasped his hand warmly.

"Well! I am glad you're here," said he,"it will be a bit of company." He glancedback at the group round the baby and Tomnodded comprehendingly.

"I had nothing to keep me," he said quietly.

It was a long, long time since Jim had beento church, but he found that on this EasterSunday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Green expectednothing else. Jane elected to remain at homeand mind the baby and cook the dinner, andthe old couple, with their stalwart son-in-lawon one side and Tom on the other, found themselvesplaces in the old village church.

It was all very quiet and nice, Jim thought.

His heart was sore for his little sister Nellieand he felt alone in the world, cut off from allhis childhood, all that they two had sharedtogether.

It had never occurred to Jane to offer himany sympathy in his loss. She had hardlyrealised the loss, only the coming of a burden.And in not going to the funeral, Jim had anodd feeling of neglecting Nellie, though hiscommon sense told him it could make nodifference to her.

The Easter hymns comforted him strangely.His mind seemed to pass from the earthlygrave to the heavenly Resurrection with athrill of hope that matched with the sunshine,the bursting of green leaves, the twitter of thebirds and the blue sky above.

And so he came to another thought. Was hegoing to meet Nellie?

He glanced across at Tom. The quietpatience of his face touched him. Tom hadlost something too. Something more hopeless,more irremediable than even the death of asister, and yet there was a strength in his lookwhich seemed to Jim not to be of earth, butfrom above. Tom and Nellie were on oneside, and he, Jim, was on another.

The two young men went for a walk togetherin the afternoon, and it was like Tom to be thefirst to touch on Jim's sorrow.

"You're wearing a black tie, Jim," he said.

So Jim told him all about Nellie, his prettylittle gentle sister Nellie, and then of her childand of how he had promised to take him, andlook after him, but he did not mention Jane.After all, Jane was Tom's sister.

Tom listened gravely. There was sympathyin the very way he listened, and Jim felt it.He longed to ask Tom if he approved of histaking Harry, but some of the strength whichhad grown in him since his decision, kept himsilent. He had decided and what was the useof courting disapproval. But Tom was notone to withhold commendation, of which thereis so little in this world's intercourse, and hegave his verdict unasked.

"I'm glad you did," he said heartily, "poorlittle chap, what else could you do? It's quiteright. Mind you, Jim, any time if you arepushed with him, there's always a bed and mealwith me. I've more than enough for myself."

That was Jim's opportunity, and he took it.

"You're a good sort, Tom," he said, "I'll notforget. How—how—" he hesitated. "Haveyou seen Pattie since?"

"Yes," said Tom sadly, "I've seen her."

There was a finality in his answer that Jimdid not like to break, and they walked on insilence till Tom spoke again.

"I saw her," he said, "when she didn't seeme, and I thought she looked tired-like. Shewas with some girl, a loud-voiced, gay-lookingsort of girl, who must have known me, thoughI don't know her; and when she saw me, shewhispered to Pattie and laughed, and Pattietossed her head and laughed out loud, as Inever heard her laugh before, and she went red,but she never turned her head nor looked, noteven when she got to the corner, for I stoodand watched. I couldn't turn my back andleave her. I had to look while she was insight."

"Is there—is there any——?" Jim stopped.

"Is there anybody else?" said Tom in astrangled kind of voice. "They say so. Thebutcher's man, in that big shop by the StationHotel. He looks smart and dresses like anygentleman on a Sunday, but he's always poppingin and out of the hotel, and if you could hearhis language—"

"I shouldn't be too sure of what 'theysay'," said Jim, "and as for her laughing andall that—p'r'aps it was just put on becauseyou were looking. It made her feel awkward-like.If she hadn't cared a bit, she'd havegone on without turning a hair."

Tom sighed.

"I'd wait a bit and take no heed of whatfolks say about her," went on Jim, "andthen if you find you keep on caring, just upand ask her again. You've as much right asany other man. When she gets to know thisfellow better, she'll know what she's missed."

Tom smiled faintly and the shadow in hiseyes lightened a little at Jim's hopefulness.

"If Jane was to meet her and have words,I don't know what I should do," he said. "Itwould be best not to remind her of Pattie at all."

"Not me!" answered Jim emphatically.

CHAPTER X.

A MEAN THING.

There was no need to remind Jane of theoffending Pattie in words. Tom's face haddone that already, and she was meditatingvengeance. She and Jim and the baby reachedtheir own home at midnight on Easter Monday,and by nine o'clock on the Tuesday morningshe was at the weekly washtub which shesuperintended in Old Keston, her arms immersedin soap suds, her eyes on the gardenfence which cut her off from Pattie's premises.

If she could only catch sight of Pattie hangingout washing, and have a few words with her!

Pattie, however, was not at the wash-tubthis week. In Denys's and Gertrude's absenceall the washing had been sent out, to leavePattie more time to help Mrs. Brougham, andat that minute Pattie was busily runninground the house tidying up after the holiday,and looking forward to taking little Maud outin the afternoon, a treat which she was beginningto appreciate very highly.

As Tom had said, she looked tired, eventhough it was so early in the day; but shewould not have allowed for an instant thatshe had anything to trouble her. Why shouldshe have, when she had only to let Sam Willard,the butcher's assistant, know when she wouldbe out for an hour in the evening, and there hewould be at the corner waiting for her, with hisfine air and his curled moustache and his hairin a curl on his forehead. And he had no endof money, he was always chinking a pocketful,and talking of what he should buy. Onlyon Saturday he had taken her round to lookat the shops, and they had lingered a long timeoutside a jeweller's, and Sam had pointed outthe ring he meant to give his sweetheart someday. Pattie had quite held her breath as sheimagined her hand with that ring on it!

Now as she swept up the bedrooms she glancedat her hands and frowned. She was not veryclever at keeping her hands nice, but she alwaysexcused herself with the plea that grates andwash-tubs and saucepans were to blame.

The hands that wore that ring would not beused for brooms and black-lead brushes! Shewondered what furniture would be bought tomatch that ring!

And then, involuntarily, she thought ofanother Saturday evening when Tom had takenher to look at the shops, and they had lingeredoutside, not a jeweller's, but a furniture shop,and Tom had pointed out a tall Windsor arm-chairand said they would have two of thosein their home, and she had pictured herselfin one of those chairs by a bright fireside in acosy kitchen with Tom opposite to her, readinghis paper, while she had a bit of dainty whiteneedlework in her lap, such as she had seen herlast mistress, who was newly married, busywith. She remembered how, as she picturedthat happy little fireside, she had made up hermind to keep her hands better, not for thewearing of jewelled rings, but for the accomplishmentof that same dainty needlework.

As she thought of all this, Tom's face cameback to her memory. She wished, oh, how shewished that she had looked round at him whenher friend had whispered that he was on theother side of the road!

What had he looked like? Why should herfriend look upon his face and she not see it?

"Oh, Tom! Tom!" she whispered to herselfand a sudden hate towards that jewelledring sprang up in her.

When the afternoon came and she wheeledlittle Maud out in her mail cart, she turnedtowards the shops. She felt as if to see thatWindsor arm-chair again would be next best toseeing Tom.

But the Windsor arm-chair was gone. Gone,like the dream of the happy little home; gone,as Tom had gone, out of her life.

Its place was filled by an inexpensive plush-coveredparlour suite, suitable to the littlevilla where the wearer of that jewelled ringshould take up her abode, but Pattie turnedfrom it petulantly.

"Cheap and nasty!" she said.

Now it so happened that on this afternoon,when Jane Adams came to hang out the lastof her washing, she found herself short of pegs.At another time she would have managedwith pins or hung the clothes in bunches, butall day the craving for beer had been growingupon her, and she determined to go out andbuy pegs and have a drink.

Through force of circ*mstances she had nottasted a drop since Saturday at dinner-time.Three whole days without a glass of beer!There had been none at her father's home, ofcourse. The old people had been abstainerssince she and Tom were babies, and she hadnot cared to acknowledge to them that she"took a drop now and again." It had beentoo late when she and Jim reached home lastnight to fetch any, and she had hurried to herwork this morning, and, indeed, had not thoughtof getting a glass on her way, so full was hermind of Pattie.

But now she meant to have a glass, and pegsshe must have!

So having told her lady—about the pegs—sheput on her bonnet and hurried out.

She soon found a grocer's and bought herpegs, and then she turned in to the nearestpublic-house.

Not one glass, nor two, nor three, weresufficient to allay her longing, and the housekeepingmoney went without a thought; itwas only the remembrance of the fleeting timewhich stayed her. She did not wish her ladyto wonder where she was.

When she pushed open the public-housedoor and emerged into the street again, she wasnot completely mistress of herself, but just inthe state when she would be very affable orvery quarrelsome, as circ*mstances should seemto point.

And as she put her foot upon the threshold,Pattie, wheeling little Maud, and with herheart full of Tom, came along the pavement.

Now Pattie was a staunch little abstainer;all the more staunch because of her childhood'smemories. Memories of nights when, piteousand shivering, she had waited outside a public-housedoor, to lead home her poor sorrowfulmother, bound indeed by Satan these manyyears, by the chain of strong drink. Memoriesof days when on bended knee she had pleadedwith that mother to give up the drink, and hadbeen answered by a shake of the head, and amurmured, "I can't, child, I can't! I wouldif I could."

And Pattie had known of no remedy, no savingpower, till she knew Tom, and Tom had said,"Pray for her, my girl. Christ can save her!"

So Pattie had prayed, not understandinghow help could come, but because Tom believedin it, and, strange answer as it seemed, anillness had fallen upon her mother and she hadbeen taken away to the Workhouse Infirmary.

Pattie remembered to this day the verysaucepan she was washing when she realizedthat this was the answer to her prayer, thather poor mother had been saved from herself,and taken to a place where she would be caredfor, and kept from the terrible snare of drink.

"And now," Tom had said when she told him,"we must teach her about the love of Jesus."

So month after month since then, Tom hadgone regularly to the Infirmary and read thegospel's message to Pattie's mother, for shewas still there and never likely to come out,and the poor woman had come to look for himand to love him as her own son. Pattiewondered sometimes whether he still went, buton the one occasion that she had seen hermother since she gave Tom up, she had beentoo proud to ask.

Pattie never saw a woman come out of apublic-house without an involuntary shiver ather heart, and now here, before her very eyes,came Tom's own sister, Jim Adams's wife!

Pattie recognised her in an instant, and sherecognised Pattie, and though Pattie wouldonly too willingly have passed on, Jane stoodin her path and barred the way.

"Well! Pattie Paul," said she insolently."I want to know what you mean by it."

"I don't know what you mean," said Pattie,trying to pass her, but Jane dodged her.

"Oh don't you?" she cried. "What doyou mean by using my brother like you have,letting him dangle after you, and pretendingyou was going to marry him, and gettingpresents out of him?"

Pattie's face flamed.

"It's not true!" she said hotly. "I nevergot presents out of him, and I always meantto marry him——"

Jane sneered.

"Very likely!" she said, "he did wellenough to play with, till a richer chap camealong, and then you remembered Tom waspoor! You're a mean thing, Pattie Paul!"

"Let me pass!" cried Pattie vehemently,"you've no right to say such things!"

"No right!" flared Jane, "and me seeingmy own brother going thin and a-fretting for aworthless girl like you! No right!"

But Pattie stayed to hear no more. With asudden turn of the mail-cart, she was past herenemy, and running swiftly down the pavementtowards St. Olave's, while little Maud laughedand clapped her hands with delight; she thoughtthe run was all to amuse her.

And Tom was going thin and fretting!

In the midst of her pride, anger and humiliation,that thought came back to Pattie overand over again.

But the anger and the pride predominated,and swept away all tenderer feelings, and shemet Sam Willard in the evening with a laughand a toss of the head, and wished that Janewere there to see.

CHAPTER XI.

WITH A PURPOSE.

When Gertrude made up her mind to seekout a marriage-portion for herself, whose chiefingredient should be money, with love as asecondary consideration, she set herself withher usual cool forethought to consider thematter of Reggie Alston.

Reggie was a friend, and a friend only hemust remain, and to this end the regular correspondencewhich he and she had kept up sinceReggie left school, must become irregular andfitful. If only he would take his summerholiday in the school holidays, Gertrude thoughtshe could manage somehow to be away whenhe was at home, and that would break thecontinuity of other summer holidays when theytwo had spent much time together, cyclingand playing tennis. It was a pity for theboy to set his heart on what could not be.Reggie ought to look out for a girl with money,or at any rate for a girl who—who—likedbeing poor.

The result of these cogitations was thatmany a time when Reggie confidently lookedfor a letter, none came, and when the dulnessof a week's work did happen to be enlivenedby one of Gertrude's epistles, somehow theletters were short and unsatisfactory and spokeonly of the most casual on-the-top-of-thingstopics. Reggie wondered over it in silence.He hated writing scolding letters, and likeTom Green, he felt that no amount of talkingor writing could bring love, and at first he onlyfelt the miss of the regular correspondence,without seeking for a reason other than theexcuse that Gertrude must be extra busy atschool, or that she had fresh duties laid uponher since Denys's engagement, of which he hadheard a full account before Gertrude hadthought of reducing her correspondence.

He little dreamed that Gertrude herselfmissed the writing of those old confidentialletters far more than she had expected. Shehad always saved up all the little experiencesand jokes of school and home to tell Reggie,and now it was very dull to be always pullingherself up to remember to make her lettersshort and few and casual.

But when Easter Monday and his birthdayarrived together, without bringing any birthdayremembrance other than a letter from his oldchum, Charlie Henchman, Reggie's heart wentdown to a depth for which he had no idea therewas room in his mechanism.

He had come down to breakfast in his dulllittle parlour, confidently expecting to seeGertrude's handwriting on his table, and itwas not there.

He sat down mechanically and looked roundthe dull little room, and the dulness of it, thedinginess, the unhomelikeness of it struck onhis heart as it had never done before.

The small horsehair sofa where he sometimestried to find a resting-place and failed; thetiny chiffonnier, unenlightened by a looking-glassor any ornament save a vase, which hadbeen one of Gertrude's childish birthday presentsto him, and which he always kept filled withflowers and called them Gertrude's flowers; theuncomfortable horsehair arm-chair and the barebreakfast table with its coarse cloth and clumsychina, had all been bearable while he lookedforward to a dainty and pretty, though tiny,home with Gertrude.

The half loaf of bread and the pat of butterwhich always tasted of the chiffonnier-cupboard,but had to be kept there because when a piecewent out to the larder, none ever returned, filledhim with loathing this morning.

Why was there no letter from Gertrude?His landlady bustled in with his tea and arasher of bacon and a slice of toast, the lastitem, as she remarked, being for a birthdaytreat, and he roused himself from his disappointmentto thank her for the little attention,and when she was gone he slowly openedCharlie's letter.

It was just a newsy, chatty letter, telling ofthe pleasures of his holiday at Whitecliff andespecially of the pleasure of being with Denys fora whole week, but when he came to one sentence,written only with the thought of giving pleasureto Reggie, Reggie stopped and frowned.

"Gertrude looks awfully well and seemsenjoying herself tremendously," wrote Charlie."She and Audrey are quite friends, which isconvenient, and Denys and I don't feel selfishif we walk behind and let Gertrude, Audrey,and Cecil make the pace in front."

So Gertrude was at Whitecliff, and she hadnever thought it worth while to tell him shewas going to have such a nice change!

She was enjoying herself tremendously!Hitherto she had always made him a sharerin her pleasures by her vivacious descriptionsof them. Who was Cecil?

He looked across the narrow Scotch street,on to the row of small houses opposite him.The morning sunshine was flooding them,while his room lay in shadow. That waslike his life. He was in the shadow and otherpeople were in the sunshine—especially thisCecil.

He ate up his breakfast at last and madea good meal of it too, for he was a healthyfellow, and even stale bread and tasty buttergo down when you are hungry, and then hegot out his cycle and polished it up, for therewas a club run on and he was going to ridepart of the way out with them, returning earlyto attend a wedding in the afternoon.

He decided, as he rubbed away at his machine,that he would not be married on a Bank holiday,when his turn came. He would not like hisguests to feel bored at losing one of their preciousfew-and-far-between holidays. Saturday wasa much more sensible day for a wedding.

Bored or not bored, the wedding party waslarge and cheerful, and being mostly made upof the chief townsfolk and local gentry whobanked at the one and only Bank, Reggieknew most of the guests, and was himself,partly owing to his merry, boyish ways, andpartly owing to his modesty and readiness toserve anybody in the smallest things, quite apopular person. He enjoyed the first part ofthe proceedings very much.

It was a lovely day, with brilliant sunshineand a warm air that seemed as if summer hadcome to surprise the Spring, and directly thebride had cut the cake there was a generalexodus to the garden, where camp chairs androut seats stood invitingly on the lawn, andarbours and sheltered paths waited for visitorsto rest or walk beneath their budding loveliness.

And behind the groups of gay dresses, setoff by black coats and light trousers, camewhite aproned waitresses with cakes and champagne.In vain Reggie, who had missed gettinga cup of tea indoors, watched for a tray oftea cups. Champagne and ices, cakes andchampagne, champagne and sandwiches. Thereappeared to be nothing else, and everybodyseemed to be drinking champagne like so muchwater. Everybody, that is, but Reggie andthe Scotch minister and his wife.

Except for the desire for a beverage thatwas not champagne, Reggie did not think agreat deal about what he supposed was usualat weddings, till he caught a whisper betweentwo girls whom he was piloting to see someducklings on the pond at the bottom of thegarden.

"Howard can't walk straight already,"whispered one with a giggle.

"Isn't it horrid!" answered the other,"Leslie Johns took me round the garden justnow, and he told me he had had far more champagnethan Howard had, but Howard has aweak head. Howard wanted me to go to theconservatories with him. I'm glad I didn't;I should have been positively ashamed to beseen with him. Why can't such fellows letchampagne alone?"

"They might at least know when to stop,"sneered the first speaker.

Reggie, leading the way a few paces in front,between close rows of gooseberry bushes, heardevery word, and he set his teeth.

The subtle distinction between the manwho had taken a quantity of champagne andshewed no effects, and the man who had onlyhad a little and showed it, did not appeal tohim. He felt a vast pity for Howard, thoughhe had not the slightest idea who Howardmight be.

He got rid of his charges sooner than hehad hoped, for a hint that the bride wouldsoon be down from changing her dress, reachedthe girls and made them hurry back to thehouse, and Reggie, suddenly sick at heart withcombined remembrances that he and everybodyelse must probably, in the generalgathering of guests to one place, see poorHoward's faltering footsteps, and the thoughtof Gertrude enjoying herself so much that shecould not write for his birthday, made his wayslowly and by a circuitous route back to themain party.

He was nearing the house when a turn inthe path brought him face to face with a youngand handsomely-dressed woman, his own BankManager's wife, Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said with a sort of gasp,"oh, Reggie, whatever shall I do? Look!"

CHAPTER XII.

MASTER AND MAN.

Reggie looked in the direction indicated.Down a vista of pink and white apple blossomthat seemed in its pure loveliness to emphasizethe miserableness and shame of sin, came twomen, stumbling and laughing and stumblingagain and holding each other up. One wasMr. Gray, the Bank Manager, the other, asReggie guessed in a moment, was HowardBushman, of whom he had just heard.

One glance was enough for Reggie, and hiseyes came back to his companion. She waswhite and shivering.

"Oh Reggie!" she said again, "help him,do help him, it will ruin him."

Just behind her was a small summer-house.It came to Reggie all in a moment what to do.

"Go and sit down in there," he said gently,"and when Mr. Gray comes, keep him withyou till I get back."

Then he went swiftly to meet that stumbling,laughing pair, and he spoke as gently ashe had done to the poor wife.

"Mrs. Gray is sitting down in that summer-house,"he said, "I think she wants you.Will you stay with her while I run to the housefor something?"

The Bank Manager laughed foolishly.

"He! He! Reggie! Looking after theladies, as usual! Bring some champagne, mylad, and we'll have a nice little spree on thequiet."

But Reggie had not waited for directions.

He walked swiftly towards the house, buthe did not wish to appear hurried or to be onany secret errand, and as he went his thoughtsflew hither and thither bewilderingly.

For this man was his master. This manwhom he had been asked to help, had muchof the making or marring of Reggie's prospectsin his hand, and to interfere, especially in sucha delicate matter, was almost certainly toincur more anger, more abiding, unredeemabledispleasure, than for any other misdemeanour.

And yet, for four months Reggie had beenpraying for this very man!

Three years before, when Charlie Henchmanhad come to the engineering college in thetown, he had sought out the loneliest fellowthat he knew and for Christ's sake hadendeavoured to cheer and uplift and help himby just being companionable to him. Andthe loneliest fellow that Charlie knew wasReggie Alston, and after they had been companionsfor quite a long time they found outthat they both knew the Brougham family,a link which drew them to be more than companions,—tobe friends.

Now Charlie was gone, and Reggie hadpromised him to seek out some lonely fellowtoo, and try to help him and cheer him and leadhim nearer to Christ. He had prayed to beshown the right fellow, but among all hisacquaintances there was no one lonely; onename, and one name only, seemed laid uponhis heart, the name of Mr. Gray, his ownManager and master!

But as yet Reggie had done nothing morethan to pray for him earnestly and regularly,for there seemed nothing else possible. Forhow could a junior Bank clerk seek out thecompanionship of his superior and invite himto supper or to cycle or to go with him tochurch?

He had been asked to help him now, and ifthose ways in which he had wished to helpsome fellow had seemed impossible, in thiscase how much more impossible were thesecirc*mstances? For to help in this way couldonly bring the downfall of all Reggie's hopes ofpromotion, and put off that day when he couldtell Gertrude that his home was ready forher.

Yet with all these thoughts surging throughhis brain, Reggie felt that the call of duty hadcome to him, and to refuse would be to refuse totake up his Cross and follow Christ. As hetook four cups of strong black coffee back tothe summer-house, he realised that the Cross isthe place of suffering and of death.

He had scarcely been five minutes on hiserrand and the little party in the summer-househad neither been added to nor diminished,and hope had brought a little colour back toMrs. Gray's woe-begone face.

A simple straightforwardness was one ofReggie's characteristics. He put a cup ofcoffee into the manager's hand.

"You'd better drink it, Mr. Gray," he saidquietly, "it's—it's refreshing, and then if you'djust take Mrs. Gray home—I'm sure she wouldfeel better at home, and the bride has gone,so we can all slip away together. People arebeginning to go now."

Mrs. Gray hated black coffee, but she drankher cup bravely, and looked all the better forit too.

"That stuff is refreshing," said Howard,suddenly, with a nod towards the emptycups, as the four left the summer-house, tomake their farewells. "I felt rotten, but Ifeel as right as a trivet now."

Mr. Gray said nothing. He knew perfectlywell that he was being helped, and his pridefiercely resented it, but Reggie's three years ofquiet faithful work had had its influence, andthe clinging touch of Mrs. Gray's hand on hisarm softened him, and he said to himself thatReggie had an unbounded cheek, but there wasreally nothing to wait for any longer, now thatthe bride had gone.

But there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip.The bride's mother, shaking hands and sayingpleasant nothings to the first of her departingguests, looked at Mr. Gray reproachfully.

"Mr. Gray! you are never going to desertus already! We want our brightest stars tohelp illumine our darkness. Mrs. Gray feelingill? Surely, my dear Elaine, you do not needthree gentlemen to take you home!"

The colour flamed into Mrs. Gray's cheeks.

"My husband is taking me home," she saidproudly, "Mr. Alston and Mr. Bushman happento be leaving at the same time."

"It is rather early," admitted Mr. Gray.He had caught sight of a fresh tray of glassesgoing the round of a circle of his acquaintances,and he decided not to be managed any longer,but to do as he chose.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said in a low tone,"you let Reggie take you home. I won't bea few minutes, but I must speak to Thornton.I've been looking for him all the afternoon,and it's really important."

"I'm sure you are not in a hurry, Howard,"said the hostess.

So Reggie and Mrs. Gray found themselvesoutside the gate alone.

"I'll never go inside that gate again," criedMrs. Gray, angrily. Then she added piteously,"Oh, Reggie, I thought we had got him safe."

"So did I," said Reggie, ruefully.

"What can I do?" she moaned, "I've seenit coming on little by little, and now he'sbeginning not to care so much if—if peopleguess. I'm glad you know, Reggie; it's acomfort to have somebody to speak to. Iused to think I should be perfectly happy if Ihad plenty of money—we girls at home usedto be poor till Aunt died and left us her property,just before I was engaged, and now, often, Ithink I would so willingly have just John'sincome—and it's only a small income for soresponsible a position—or work hard myself,if I could be sure of—of him. But there itis," she added sadly. "Tell me what I can do,Reggie."

"You can pray for him," said Reggie,earnestly, "God does hear and answer prayerand He can save to the uttermost." Hehesitated and then added in a lower tone,

"Mrs. Gray, are you an abstainer yourself?"

"Well, not quite," said she, "but I hardlytake anything."

Reggie nodded.

"Yes, but you take as much as you care to,and he takes as much as he cares to. Thatis how Mr. Gray would look at it, and the wayGod looks at it is this, 'Judge this rather thatno man put a stumbling block or an occasionto fall in his brother's way. Anything wherebythy brother stumbleth or is offended or is madeweak.'"

They had reached the Bank and she heldout her hand with a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, "well, I'll thinkabout it."

Reggie walked on to the corner of his ownroad and stood looking down it distastefully.

Here he was in the middle of Bank holidayafternoon, in his best clothes, with nowhere togo and no one to speak to, feeling as if his lifeand himself and everything else were an utterfailure. If he had only had on his cycling suit,he might have contemplated a ride, but thethought of turning into his dull lodgings, evento change, was unbearable, and the writingof a letter to Gertrude, with which he hadbeguiled many a lonely hour before, was notpossible to-day.

He turned at the sound of quick footstepsbehind him, and heard his name called.

"Why! Mr. Alston!" said the cheerful voiceof the Scotch minister's little wife, "you lookas if you belonged to nobody, and nowhere!"

Then, seeing instantly that her words hadhit too near the mark, she added quickly,

"I wish, if you aren't engaged, you wouldcome home to supper with us. I always feelas if I wanted to be entertained after a wedding,as if it were very dull to go home to just anordinary tea, and its being a Bank holidayseems to emphasise the feeling. Mr. Mackenzieand I were just saying so, weren't we, Will?"

"That is so," assented Mr. Mackenzie, withhis grave smile, "I hear, Mr. Alston, that youare musical and might have played our organfor the marriage had we but known it. I havethe organ keys, if you would care to try theinstrument. It was unfortunate that ourorganist was away. I like a little singing at awedding."

Reggie's face beamed.

"I'd like to come, awfully," he said, "whattime shall I turn up?"

"Why, now!" said Mrs. Mackenzie, "we'llhave tea at once and then the garden-boy shallblow for you, and we'll be audience, and thenwe can have supper and talk."

"That's the chief item in the programme,isn't it?" said her husband, with a twinkle.

Reggie tried to smother a laugh but did notsucceed. This unexpected treat had wonderfullycheered his drooping spirits, and he laughedand chatted merrily as they walked to theManse; but beneath the outward pleasure thatthe invitation gave him, there was running anundercurrent of deep happiness, for he knewthat in the moment of the most intense loneliness,the most utter hopelessness that he hadever known, God had sent His angel anddelivered him.

And Mrs. Mackenzie talked on in her usualcheerful, lighthearted way and never dreamedthat she had been God's angel to any one thatafternoon. Reggie was too shy to tell her,and she had not the key to the thoughts of theyoung organist who first woke the echoes ofthe church for her, with the strains of,

That was for to-day and for to-morrow too,in Reggie's mind. As the evening wore on,the dread of the to-morrow morning, when atnine o'clock he must meet Mr. Gray, grew uponhim. That his interference had been resented,even while it was accepted, Reggie had seenquite plainly, and to-morrow was coming nearerwith each tick of the clock.

CHAPTER XIII.

BEARDING THE LION.

When Reggie entered the Bank just beforenine o'clock on the following morning, hisheart was going pit-a-pat, for he knew his chiefwell enough to be certain that it was impossibleto count upon how he would look at yesterday'shappenings. He might never think of theoccurrence again, or he might refer to it withan easy laugh at Reggie's stricter principles,or he might be riding the high horse and resentthe interference to an extent which Reggieknew would be long enduring, if it ever ceasedat all.

"'I wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supperwith us.'"—Page118.

So much depended on how Mrs. Gray haddealt with the matter, and on how long herhusband had remained with his convivialfriends, and on these two points Reggie had noknowledge. Yet much of the success which attendedhis efforts for Mr. Gray this morning,had their beginning in the fact that Mrs. Grayhad received her husband late the night before,with no word of reproach, but had treatedhim with unusual gentleness and affection, andhe had come down to his work this morningsoftened by love, and not hardened by bitterwords or arguments. Reggie chided himself forthinking so much of the harm he might havedone his own future, but with another morning'spost in, and no birthday letter from Gertrude,he felt more sore and more uneasy. If hisprospects at the Bank became gloomy, whatwould be his chances of securing Gertrude?

But when he went into Mr. Gray's privateroom, nothing was written so plainly on theManager's face as headache and dejection;and a great wave of pity and desire, sweptaway from Reggie all thought of himself andof his own happiness.

What could he do to help this man whowas slipping down into the bondage of strongdrink?

What had Mrs. Gray said and done, hewondered, as he listened to the dull, listlessvoice in which Mr. Gray bade him take theomnibus at once, and proceed to the house ofa wealthy client who lived three miles out ofthe town, and who had been taken ill andwished to transact some business.

There was no opportunity now to thinkof anything but the matters to be arrangedwith the wealthy client, which were importantand urgent, and the minutes before the omnibusstarted were few, so the moment Reggie wassure he understood his errand he took his hat,relocked his desk and stepped out from theBank, well pleased to be leaving the town for acountry outing, on such a lovely April morning.

But as he glanced down the long, sunnystreet, he saw something which suddenlyarrested his footsteps.

Only a gentleman crossing the road andcoming towards him, but a gentleman whoseidentity was unmistakable even at this distance,by reason of a very peculiar lameness. Agentleman who was one of the largest shareholders,and had much influence in the Bank—aman who was so stern a teetotaller that hecould forgive any sin sooner than intemperance.

In one instant Reggie was back in the Bank,Mr. Gray's hat was in his hand, and he wasstanding beside the astonished Manager."Quick!" he said breathlessly. "You go downto Muirend House instead of me—here's yourhat! Don't ask any questions, and when youget outside, turn to the left and don't lookbehind you on any account. Never mind theomnibus; it will do you good to walk! Quick—oryou'll be too late."

"What?" demanded Mr. Gray, "are yougoing wrong in the head, Reggie?"

Reggie repeated his request, still breathlessly,and there was something so insistentin his manner, so beseeching in his eyes, andhis three years of patient faithful work, sorose up to help his influence, that the Manageractually stood up, laid down his pen and tookhis hat.

"I suppose you know what you are playingat," said he, a little coldly. "What is it I amto do? Turn to the left and not look behindme!"

"Yes! that's it," said Reggie eagerly;"oh, be quick, or it will be too late."

"And I'm to walk, though it's three miles,"said the Manager. "Well! take care of theBank; it appears to me that it has a newManager!"

He passed out through the swing doors, anda couple of minutes went by and he did notreturn, and Reggie began to breathe freely,till the fear struck him that after all, his effortshad been of no use if Mr. Bowles, the lamegentleman, had just caught Mr. Gray on thepavement outside, but even as the thoughtdarted into his mind, the doors swung openagain, and the lame gentleman entered andlooked round. "Mr. Gray?" said he, interrogatively,as Reggie came forward.

"Mr. Gray has just gone down to Muirendto see Mr. Collins, who is very ill."

"It is very inconvenient of him," saidMr. Bowles irritably, "I wrote so that he shouldget the letter by the first post this morning."

Reggie glanced down at the pile of lettershe had just brought from Mr. Gray's room toopen.

"It will be here, I expect," he said politely,"can I take your instructions?"

Mr. Bowles grunted and scowled, but neverthelesshe followed Reggie into the Manager'sroom and ran through what he had come tosay, and watched Reggie's careful noting downof the points.

"So Lily Jarrold got married yesterday,"he said abruptly, as Reggie finished. "Isuppose champagne ran like rivers, and halfyou fellows got drunk, and the girls did notknow what they were laughing at, eh? Wereyou there?"

"I was there," answered Reggie, a triflestiffly, "it was a very pretty wedding, and shelooked awfully happy."

"Humph!" said the old gentleman, "butwasn't it as I said, afterwards?"

"I did not stay late—and I am an abstainer,"said Reggie, wishing his visitor would depart.He glanced at the pile of unopened letters hehad brought back with him, and Mr. Bowlesintercepted the glance.

"Well! well!" said he, "that's a goodhearing, my boy, and I see you are wishing I'dbe off and let you get at your work. Industry isof the utmost importance, my lad, and you'llrise to be Manager, one day! Tell Mr. Gray Ineed not see him till next week as he left sucha capable second. Good morning."

That was over. Reggie saw him out, openedthe letters, and went through the usual routineof his morning work, and welcomed back hisfellow clerk who had been away for the Easter.The clock ticked peacefully on, till it waspast noon, and then at last the swing doorsopened once more to admit the Manager.

He passed straight through to his room,closing the door behind him. A moment laterhe opened it again.

"Mr. Alston!" he said.

"Now for it," thought Reggie.

Mr. Gray was seated at his table and hemotioned Reggie to the seat usually assignedto clients, and there was a pause. Reggiefelt all his courage oozing out at the toes ofhis boots. All that he had thought it possiblehe might say to Mr. Gray on this question, allhis arguments, all his reasons, his pleas, seemedto melt away into thin air, and he wonderedhowever he had dared to interfere in anotherman's life, and that man his master, even to thedegree of wishing to help him and praying forhim, much more in openly offering him coffee,and sending him out of the sight of condemningeyes!

But with the remembrance of that fourmonths of daily prayer for this man, camethe remembrance of words spoken long ago tofaint-hearted men. "The battle is not yours,but God's." That made all the difference.

Then Mr. Gray spoke, coldly, hardly.

"And now, Mr. Alston, what is the meaningof all this?"

Reggie leant forward eagerly.

"Mr. Gray, don't be angry, it was just Mr.Bowles coming along. I saw him as I gotoutside and—and—you know what he is, and—Ithought—you could do the Muirend business—and—oh,I wish you would give up thisstrong drink, it is going to ruin you, bodyand soul!"

It was out. The bitter truth had been putinto words; the young clerk had told hisManager that he knew his sin and degradation.The words had been spoken, and never againcould things be as they had been before theywere spoken, and Reggie knew it, and he knewthat the man who sat before him with his faceshaded with his hand, was a proud, proudman.

The clock ticked on loudly and evenly.There seemed nothing more for Reggie to say,and Mr. Gray did not break the silence. Hewas filling in the details of Reggie's brokenwords and he knew Mr. Bowles well enoughto do it very accurately. He had reason tobelieve that Mr. Bowles had made a specialvisit on this special morning with intent. Heknew, ah, far more truly than Reggie did, thatthis temptation was ruining his worldly position.Reggie had saved his reputation for this timeand he could not but thank him, and yet—andyet—how hard it was to humble himself to sayso; and there stretched before his weary eyesthose times, coming oftener and oftener, whenhis reputation would not be saved, and hewould sink lower in men's estimation, and thatwould come to be openly said, which wasalready a whisper, that the Bank Managerdrank.

His thoughts came back to Reggie with astart. Reggie had asked him to give up strongdrink!

"Reggie!" he said hoarsely, passing by allelse that had been said, "you don't knowwhat you are asking!"

"Yes, I do!" said Reggie firmly, "andyou'll want outside help."

"Ah!" said the manager sadly, "I havethought sometimes, that if we'd had a child,Elaine and I, it would have made it easier. Imight have done it for the child's sake."

"Suppose that God did not dare to riskthe child in your hands," said Reggie solemnly,"suppose, if He sent a child, then you had notthe strength to give up the drink?"

And as the words fell from Reggie's lipsthere came a sound from the outer office thatmade both the men start.

"Father!" said a little treble voice whichrang through the Bank. "Father! father!let me do it."

The manager raised himself so that he couldsee over the frosted glass in the door whichgave on to the front premises, but Reggie hadno need to look. He recognised the clearchild's voice. He seemed to see little CyrilMackenzie's round, rosy face lifted confidinglyto his father's as he had seen it only lastnight. And Mr. Gray saw the bright little lad,and he sat down again in his seat with agroan, and hid his face in his hands.

"Suppose—" he said, "suppose I haven'tthe strength to give it up now."

"It was the help of Jesus Christ, our Saviour,that I meant. He will give you the strengthif you will let Him, and I will help you all Ican, if you will let me," answered Reggieearnestly.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNWELCOME GUEST.

Denys had undertaken, at the earnest requestof the woman at the Landslip Cottage, to takecare of Harry as far as to Mixham Junction,where his uncle would meet him.

She was on her way to the Landslip cottageto make sure that the arrangements for meetingHarry at the station the following day wereall complete, a duty which had obliged her togive up a two hours' drive with Mrs. Henchman,Audrey and Gertrude, who had all gone with afriend of Mrs. Henchman's.

Denys had, however, scarcely entered theLandslip road when she encountered littleHarry and his kind friend, and being thussaved more than an hour's walk, she arrivedback at Mrs. Henchman's house much soonerthan she had expected.

Mary opened the door for her, and Denyswas struck by her woebegone, weary face. Fora moment Denys hesitated, thinking of thataccusation of interference, thinking of Mary'sconstant ungraciousness to her, but she pushedthe remembrance aside and said kindly, "Isanything the matter, Mary? You look so sad."

Tears sprang into Mary's eyes at the unexpectedinterest.

"It's my head, Miss," she said, "one of mybad headaches, and its so unfortunate to-day,because my brother is just coming home forthis one evening, and Mrs. Henchman was goingto let me go special, and by after tea I sha'n'tbe able to hold my head up, and I've not seenhim for two years, and he's my favourite."

"Perhaps you can see him to-morrow,"suggested Denys.

"No, Miss; he's a gentleman's servant,he is, and he's always travelling about. Itwas just this one chance, and now I've missedit."

"I've some headache pills—they are wonderfulfor nervous headaches. You would not liketo try them, would you?" asked Denys."Mother has these dreadful nervous headachesand nothing else has ever been any good to her."

"I'd try them, Miss, and be thankful."

Denys ran upstairs and came back to thekitchen, "Could you not just lie down forhalf-an-hour's sleep?" she said, "you mightwake up with it all gone."

Mary shook her head dolefully.

"It's the milkman, Miss, and I wouldn'thear the door bell in my room."

Denys laughed.

"I have attended on the milkman beforenow, and I can open the front door if necessary,"said she cheerfully. "Now run away upstairs,and I'll call you in plenty of time to get the teaready. I don't suppose I had better undertakethat!"

"You are real good, Miss," said Mary gratefully,"if I do see my brother to-night, I shalltell him it was all your doing."

Denys smiled to herself happily as she wentback to the dining-room, and sat down towrite to Charlie and to listen for the door bell.She had hated to go away with the remembranceof Mary's unpleasant looks, and the little bit ofsympathy she had offered had turned Maryinto a friend.

When Denys and Gertrude arrived at thestation the next day, little Harry was alreadythere, smiling and radiant. He greeted Denysas a very old friend, and did not appear to bethe least homesick. The journey was of themost intense interest to him, till at last therush and roar of the train made him drowsy,and he climbed contentedly into Denys's armsand fell asleep.

Denys sat watching him for a long time,wondering what his new life was to be, and shewas somewhat surprised to find Gertrude'seyes also fixed upon the little face.

"I hope the people that child is going towill be good to him," she said. "What doyou know about them?"

"Nothing!" said Denys. "His mother saidher brother had promised to take him, but shehad never seen the wife. Perhaps we shall seeher at Mixham, but anyhow, we can't doanything except look him up now and then."

"Humph!" said Gertrude, "I should pityanybody who was in charge of the woman whowashes at the house at the bottom of our garden.She comes from Mixham; Pattie used to beengaged to her brother. She looks a perfectvixen."

"Used to be engaged?" repeated Denys,startled. "You don't mean to say it is brokenoff? Poor Pattie!"

"Not poor Pattie at all," answered Gertrudesharply. "He was as poor as anything, andhis isn't the sort of trade where they ever getmuch money. Why, here's Mixham! Where'sthat child's hat? Wake up, Tommy, or Harry,or whatever your name is!"

Jim Adams, as he had promised, had comedown to meet Harry, and if he had been askedwhat sort of a child he was going to look for,he would have pointed to one of a dozen littleurchins, playing up and down his own street,and said that boys were all alike.

So, as he was looking for a nondescript boyin knickers and jacket and cap and heavyboots, it was little wonder that he looked invain among the crowd of travellers who pouredout of the big train on the Junction platform,and he was proportionately surprised when ayoung lady with red-brown hair and a sweetface touched him on the arm.

"Do you happen to be Mr. Jim Adams?"she asked in her soft, pretty voice.

Jim gasped as he looked down at her, andsaw the child she was holding by the hand. Achild in petticoats, almost a baby it seemedto him, with a little black kilted frock andsailor coat, and a big white hat with a blackribbon, and underneath it, golden curls andthe sweetest little face he had ever seen sincelast he saw his sister Nellie's face!

He knew it in a moment, and his heart wentout to the child with an intensity of love thatastonished even himself, and an awful sort ofchoke came into his throat as he stooped andlifted Nellie's child in his arms.

"Hullo! little chap! I'm Uncle Jim," hesaid.

Harry looked at him approvingly.

"I'm going to live along with you!" hesaid. "Mother's gone away," he added mournfully.

The clasp of Jim's arms tightened on thelittle fellow.

"I'm going to look after you now," hewhispered. Then he remembered Denys'spresence and he turned to her.

"Thank you for bringing him up, Miss.They say as you was very kind to my poorsister, and I thank you for that too. I'll domy best by the little chap."

"There was one thing," said Denys, hesitatingly.It did not seem so easy to say as shehad thought. The handsome, tall young workmanbefore her took away her breath somewhat,and she wished she had written what NellieLyon had particularly asked her to impressupon Jim.

"Yes, Miss," said Jim wonderingly.

"She wanted him to be brought up anabstainer," explained Denys, "as she and youwere brought up."

Jim's eyes dropped.

"Yes," he said after a moment, "Yes, heshall, and so shall my own baby! I'll give 'emall the chance I can to start right. I've beentrying to do without anything myself for thistwo months," he added, with a shy littlelaugh.

"I'm glad of that—we were all brought upso," said Denys, heartily, "now Mr. Adams, Imay come and see Harry if I am in Mixhamany time, mayn't I? He's such a dear, lovablelittle chap."

"That you may, Miss! any time," criedJim earnestly, "and I thank you once again,and I'll do my best—every way."

He strode off with Harry still in his arms,well pleased with his new possession, and turnedhis steps towards home. But as he drewnearer to his own door, his speed slackened.What sort of a welcome would Jane give him—andthe child?

He had the sense to put him down andlet him walk into his new home, and so, handin hand, the big uncle and the little nephewpresented themselves before Jane.

She looked at the pair for a moment insilence, and then burst into a loud, ironicallaugh.

"I always knew you were a cheat, JimAdams! You talked enough about your sister'sboy and you've brought a baby in petticoats."

"I'm not a baby—I'm going in four," saidHarry gravely, "that's a baby in there,"pointing to the cradle. He crossed the roomand looked curiously down at the baby, andthe baby, pleased with the kind little face,laughed and threw out its arms.

"Can't I have him out to play with? Helikes me," cried Harry, "look, Uncle Jim,he's pulling my finger."

Jim lifted out his baby and sat down, andHarry stood beside him, lost in admiration.

"Well, this is a nice set-out," said Janecrossly, as she looked at the happy little trio,"the first thing you do, Jim Adams, is to getthat boy some breeches. I'm not going towash a lot of petticoats." She stooped andlifted Harry's frock—the little black frockthat Nellie had prepared weeks ago, ready forthis very time, knowing that there would beno one to buy mourning for her child.

Jane examined the petticoats, and her facerelaxed a little.

"Humph!" she said, "they're not suchbad petticoats! They'll do for baby finely.You can sell the frock, if you like, Jim Adams,that's no good to me, and it will help towardsthe breeches."

"Indeed I won't," answered Jim fiercely,"if I part with the frock, I'll give it away.Who made your pretty frock, Harry, boy?"

Harry looked down at himself proudly.

"My mother made that," he said, "that'smy bestest frock. She made it ages ago, butshe wouldn't never let me wear it."

Jim's eyes filled and he turned hastily tothe window that Jane might not perceive it.

"Don't you part with that frock, Jane,"he said.

Jane snorted.

"Tea's ready!" she said ungraciously.

The meal was about half through when shestarted a new subject.

"Where's the brat's bed?" said she.

"His bed?" repeated Jim, helplessly.

"His bed," she reiterated, "I suppose youthought he'd share the baby's cradle!"

Jim kept what he had thought to himself.

"You must go and get one somewhere,"decreed his wife.

Jim rose obediently and went downstairs.In about half an hour he returned with hisarms full of irons, blankets and bedding.

"Here, Harry, boy," he said, "uncle's gota jolly little bed for you!"

"Where did you get that?" demanded Jane.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST HOPE.

Little Harry Lyon found the circ*mstancesof his fresh life so entirely different from hisold existence, that he seemed a greater strangerto himself than the most strange of those whopeopled his new world.

To begin with, he was, to use his aunt's ownterm, "breeched" the next day, and his petticoatsbecame the big baby's property, whilehis precious best frock was poked unceremoniouslyinto a box under his aunt's bed.

He looked after it with longing eyes. Hehad waited so long to wear it and it seemedtoo bad to have it taken away when he hadonly worn it so few times, and it was madewith a pocket, the first he had ever had. Ashe saw the box slammed down, he rememberedwith a pang that in the pocket was his littlebestest white handkerchief with lace on it and inthe corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easyknot, was a penny that Denys had given him.

He had never dared to ask her again for evena ha'penny, but one day she had given him abright penny that shone like gold and he hadtreasured it with utmost joy, more because hehad not asked for it, than for its value as apenny.

The edge of the box which held his treasuresstuck out from under the bed, and he watchedit for a long time, resolving in his little mindthat one day he would manage somehow toget his own again.

The confinement of his new life irkedhim as much as his breeches, for he hadbeen used to wandering about the Landslipand the Whitecliff beach at his own pleasure,and now there were but two rooms to wanderin, or at best a short and narrow street, beyondwhose limits he was forbidden to go, and itwas filled with rough and noisy children whopushed him and pinched him and who roaredvociferously whenever they saw him, after theydiscovered that his name was Lyon.

He had always made friends with all thesailors and visitors at Whitecliff, but here themen and women hurried about their businessand never even glanced at the golden-headedlittle chap, and there were no boats to be pulledup and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands,and no—no anything.

Harry stood at the top of the dull streetlooking forlornly about him, when he came tothat conclusion, and when he realised it, heburst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying.

There were no loving arms now in whichto sob out his woes, and he turned his littleback upon the world and covering his facewith his hands, leaned his head against a bigbrick wall and wept, and wept, and wept forhis mother.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy—"

"Why, Harry!" said his Uncle Jim's voice,"whatever's the matter with you? Youshouldn't be crying—you're a big boy now.Have the boys been hitting you?"

Harry did not turn or heed him.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy," hewailed.

"Harry!" said Jim again, "here's a pennyfor you—let's go and buy some sweeties."

But Harry was past that.

"Oh, mummy—mummy—my mummy—Iwant my mummy."

There was no mistaking the heart-broken crythis time, and Jim looked helplessly at TomGreen who stood beside him.

"It's the old story," said Tom gently,"'They have taken away my Lord and Iknow not where they have laid him.'" Thenhe stooped down to the level of the little weepingchild and drew him into his arms andturned the tear-stained little face to rest on hisshoulder.

"Harry!" he said gently, "dear mummyhas gone to live in a beautiful Home withJesus and she's so happy and she doesn't coughany more or feel tired any more. Oh, she's sohappy. And she is with Jesus. She used totell you about Him, didn't she?"

The comfort of the kind arms and the kindvoice, and above all, the words of hope thatcarried the childish thoughts straight to happinessand seemed to find his mother for himagain, comforted the little heart at once, andHarry's sobs came only with a long drawnbreath as he listened.

Tom did not wait for an answer, he went onin the same low, soothing tone.

"Jesus has got such a lovely Home readyfor dear mummy and He is getting one readyfor little Harry too, and one day Jesus willcall Harry and he will see Jesus and dearmummy and the beautiful Home and be sohappy."

"Yes," murmured Harry nestling closer.He was so tired of crying and being lonely,and these arms held him so nicely. He gavea deep, deep sigh which somehow spoke ofrestfulness and of the sorrow being past, andTom raised himself and looked in the tear-stainedface a moment, then kissed it andwiped it with his handkerchief.

"That's better!" he said cheerfully, "wouldyou like a ride on Uncle Tom's shoulder?Uncle Tom is coming home to tea with Harry,and Uncle Tom's awful hungry—he's going toeat a whole big loaf for tea."

Harry laughed gleefully as he found himselfswung in an instant on to Uncle Tom's shoulderand was carried along high above all the otherlittle rough children's heads, and was even ona level with Uncle Jim! By stretching out hishand he could pat the top of Uncle Jim's head;and he laughed again as he gave Uncle Jim agood hard pat.

"You are a clever one, Tom," said Jimadmiringly, "how did you pick it up?"

Tom might have said, "Out of my ownsorrow," but he only smiled, and told Harryto mind his head as he stopped at Jim's doorwayand carried him upstairs to Aunt Janeand the baby.

Harry became Tom's devoted slave thenceforth,and Jim watched the two playing andwhispering together almost jealously, and yethe liked Tom too well to really grudge him thechild's love, and Tom looked so happy,—happierthan Jim had seen him since Pattie gavehim up.

Jim took notice too of the way Tom amusedthe child, how he became a child for the timebeing, and all the materials he had were triflesfrom his pockets; a piece of paper and apencil, a few odd buttons and keys, a bit ofstring and an empty match box!

Jim knew that his ingenuity could neveramuse Harry with such things, but he determinedto buy some toys that very evening, andto try his hand at winning the child's heartthe next evening. Jane took very little noticeof any of them and after putting the baby tobed, announced that she had shopping to do,and as Tom saw her slip an empty jug intoher shopping basket, he knew what her finaldestination would be and that she would notreturn for some considerable time.

"Aren't you going to put the little 'un tobed before you go out, Jane?" he said, "we'vehad a good spell of play and he's half asleepnow."

But Jane deigned no answer, unless theslam of the door as she disappeared on to thestairs, was one.

Jim shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Harry and me, we do the bedding-downbetween us," he said rather sheepishly, "runand get your nightie, boy."

Then as Harry trotted off, he added in alower tone, "She won't do nothing for him,so I have to. It's no use arguing over everythingand so——"

Tom nodded. "So you have to be fatherand mother both," he said. "He's more ofa little 'un than I expected, but he's a dear little'un. I've right down enjoyed myself thisevening."

The two men between them undressed Harryand superintended his prayers, and tuckedhim into his bed, and then they sat by theopen window and chatted in low tones till thesound of their voices had lulled Harry to sleep,and then at last Tom rose and said he must begoing. He went over to the cot and stoodlooking down on the little sleeping face, withits regular features, its long lashes lying on thebright cheeks, and its crown of tumbled goldenhair.

"He's like the pictures of the angels," hesaid regretfully, "if Pattie and I had had ourlittle home, we'd have loved to let him staywith us a bit, but I'll come in on Saturday andtake him on the river, if you'll let me. It seemsso long since I had anybody to go out with."

"Poor old Tom," said Jim affectionately,"it's cut you very hard, but I always believeit will come all right, you know!"

"Pooh!" said an unexpected voice behindthem, "you would always believe anythingsilly, Jim Adams! Come right, indeed! Verylikely! You just wait till I have seen MissPattie Paul again."

"Have you seen her?" asked Tom in acuriously quiet tone. He had gone very pale,but his face was in shadow and Jane didnot perceive it or anything peculiar in hisvoice.

"Ha!" she cried vaingloriously, "I have!I let her know what I thought of her—meanlittle cat."

"Jane!" said her husband warningly.

"Oh, you needn't stand up for her," she saidairily. "I'm not going to stand by and seemy brother treated so. But what's a talking-towith a brazen hussy like that? Wait a bit,I haven't thought how to do it yet, but I'mgoing to pay her out. Trust me!"

And then Jim did what he had never donein his life before,—he took his wife by theshoulders and forcibly marched her into thebedroom and shut the door upon her.

"Come, Tom!" he said touching him gentlyon the shoulder, "we've had enough of this."

They passed down the stairs together, buton the landing below Tom stopped, andcovering his face with his hands, leanedagainst the wall.

"Oh Pattie, Pattie," he moaned, "that'smy last chance gone. And my own sister too."

Jim said nothing. He was not good at words,but he waited till Tom had recovered himself,and then he went right to his home with himand made a cup of tea for him and sat andchatted till past midnight.

"Don't be downhearted, old fellow," hesaid when he parted from him.

But as he went home again he muttered tohimself and frowned.

"I wonder what Jane means to do? Iwonder what she could do?"

CHAPTER XVI.

LINKS IN A CHAIN.

Gertrude had never had such a summer ofgaieties.

She had not long returned from Whitecliffwhen a young American, cousin to PaulineStacey, with a long purse and unlimited ideasof enjoying himself, made his appearance inOld Keston.

He had "done" England, and wished tostay with his Aunt Stacey "for a few days"before going on to Switzerland, and with hiscousin Pauline's very ready help, he inaugurateda series of boating excursions, moonlight strolls,tennis matches and picnics, which lengthenedhis visit into weeks instead of days, and inwhich Gertrude, to her great delight, foundherself involved from the very first. PaulineStacey had long ago found Gertrude a farmore congenial spirit than her first friend,Denys, had ever been, so that though Denyswas occasionally invited to the American'sfestivities, it generally fell out that Gertrudeand Willie or Gertrude and Conway, but alwaysGertrude, helped to make up the large parties,without which the American could not besatisfied and which stirred up and drew togetherthe social side of Old Keston in an unprecedentedmanner.

The weather was glorious, and Gertrudespent every halfpenny she could scrape togetheron white frocks, and though she professedto hate needlework, she suddenly becameextremely industrious and worked early andlate, turning out dainty blouses which faroutshone Denys's creations and astounded herfamily. On Saturday mornings she gave upall her usual avocations, denied herself to thegeneral public, and devoted her energies to thewash-tub and the ironing board, the resultof which operations she proudly displayed ina pile of muslins which would have done creditto an experienced laundry-maid.

"People think I can't do things," she saidcomplacently to her mother, "Denys is notthe only one who can get up frocks and makeblouses."

"Very likely not," muttered Conway, whooverheard the remark, "you only do them whenit is for yourself. Denys does them everyday for everybody else."

Gertrude carefully laid by her freshly gotup stock of elegancies, and stretched her tiredback on the bed which they had occupied,hoping to get half an hour's sleep before shedressed for a picnic.

"Money would have sent all those horridfrills to the laundry and saved me a backache,"she said to herself, "frills are bad enough tomake, but they are infinitely worse to iron.Of course I want money to do things with! Idon't want to be poor all my life."

Then she smiled as she closed her eyes andcomposed herself to sleep.

"I believe I really am having my chance,"she reflected. "I know pretty nearly everybodywho is worth knowing here now."

And then, as so often happened when Gertrudecontemplated her matrimonial prospects, avision of Reggie Alston rose up before her,and disturbed her serenity.

"Reggie was a nice boy—it is a pity he ispoor," she thought regretfully, and then shesuddenly sprang into a sitting posture, allthought of sleep completely banished from hermind.

Reggie's birthday! It had come and goneweeks ago and she had missed it—she hadcompletely forgotten it! What must Reggiehave thought?

She glanced at the clock; there was justtime to scribble a note before she dressedfor the picnic, and of course, though she hadno wish to encourage Reggie's friendship, yeta birthday was a special occasion, and hadshe remembered it she would certainly havewritten!

Why, it was on Easter Monday! No wondershe had forgotten it! Mrs. Henchman hadsent all her young party and several otherfriends off for a lovely expedition to an oldcastle, and Audrey had been hostess and hadfelt herself tied to the luncheon basket andthe elder guests, while Cecil Greyburne andGertrude had wandered about together allday and she had never once thought ofReggie.

But she ought to have written on the Fridayor Saturday. She remembered how they hadall come in late from a long walk, and Cecil haddiscovered that the country post had gone out,and he had not sent off a particular letter andan Easter card. He had fumed and worriedto such an extent that she had thought itreally unnecessary, and wondered whoever couldbe of such importance to him. Then Charliehad recollected that there was a later countrypost in Dennetford and Cecil had sat down atCharlie's desk and written furiously, andenclosed a lovely Easter card—Gertrude hadseen enough of it to know that—and then,without waiting for even a cup of tea, he hadridden off to Dennetford as if his very lifedepended on catching that post!

If she had only thought of Reggie's birthday,Cecil would have posted the letter with his,as he posted one for Charlie.

She went hot all over as she suddenly realisedthat Charlie's letter must have been a birthdayletter for Reggie. She distinctly rememberedCharlie's words,

"It will reach Scotland on Monday morning."

Charlie might have reminded her!

Hastily now she gathered her writingmaterials and wrote Reggie his long delayedbirthday letter, and in her haste and regretshe forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-thingsstyle, and though the letter was veryshort it was just such a letter as she had writtenhim before these new ideas came into her head."I am rushing off to a picnic with the Staceypeople, so cannot write more," she ended up."We are going to the Roman Hill. Do youremember how we went there last year andwhat a jolly time we had?"

Simple words—and yet Reggie treasuredthem like gold-dust.

Gertrude posted her letter on her way tothe Stacey's house and she felt vaguely relievedwhen it slipped from her fingers into the chasmof the red pillar box. She felt that now shecould enjoy herself in peace.

She was the most popular, the most sought-aftergirl at the picnic that afternoon; shewas never short of a cavalier to wait on herlightest behest; she was her prettiest, her mostcharming self. The American whispered to herthat a picnic without her would be a desolationand he had half a mind to stop another weekat his aunt's—but Gertrude was not enjoyingherself. From behind the gorse bushes, frombetween the moss-grown boulders, from beneaththe dark foliage of the Scotch firs, there peepedat her a ghost.

She saw it everywhere. It was the ghostof Reggie Alston.

The next day was Sunday; always a quiethome day in the St. Olave's household, and inthe little interval between tea-time and eveningservice the whole family were gathered in thecool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listeningto Gertrude's description of the yesterday'spicnic. Suddenly she broke in upon her ownnarrative with a question—

"Mother, how did you and father happento meet and like one another?"

Mrs. Brougham smiled as she glanced overat Mr. Brougham.

"My dear!" she said, "that's a very oldstory!"

"Mother won't tell it!" said Willie in hisslow, drawly way, "so I will; I know all aboutit. Father made up his mind that there wasnobody like mother in all the world, but prospectswere bad in England and he did not seehow he could buy the furniture, so he did notsay a word to anybody except to his ownmother, and he went to China and saved up,and in four years he came back because thefirm shut up shop, and the first thing he heardwhen he got back, was that mother was goinginto a big hospital to train as a nurse, and hesaid to himself, 'One of those doctors will takea fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put onhis best clothes and rushed off—and—and—"

"Proposed," ended up Gertrude. "Of courseI know all that as well as you do. What Iwant to know is before all that."

"Now it is my turn," said Mr. Broughamlooking up from his book, "before that, motherused to give music lessons to my little step-sisterand brother—and two more rampageouslittle mortals I never came across—and theywere always in hot water with their mastersand mistresses. But whatever they did, shewas so patient and gentle—though she madethem mind her too—but she never spokesharply or raised her voice. I used to standon the stairs outside the drawing-room door,to be sure that they were not very naughtyto her, and I made up my mind then. Whentrue love comes to bless us, it is generallythrough some little everyday thing, somestrength or tenderness of character, somesimple good quality, some sympathetic tone,or some unselfish act."

"Oh, what fun it would have been if motherhad come out and caught you," cried Tonyexultantly.

"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for,"murmured Gertrude.

"Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising,"this conversation is getting altogether toopersonal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."

She carried the child off, and Conway said alittle pointedly—

"I wonder what anybody could chooseGertrude for."

Gertrude coloured angrily and his mothersaid gently, "Conway, dear!"

"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again,"I should like to know what a girl looks forin a fellow. What should you expect, forinstance, Gertrude?"

One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude'slips, but she choked it back.

"My dear Willie!" she said with her easylaugh.

And that same word had risen to Conway'slips, but with a tremendous effort he too chokedit back. Gertrude always aggravated him, andit was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.

He rose abruptly and went into the garden,and in a few minutes the others drifted afterhim, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.

"It is nice to see them all together likethis," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as shewatched the moving figures in the garden.

There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyesas he quoted—

"We shan't have to part with little Maud—yet,"answered Mrs. Brougham with a lowlaugh.

There did not rise before her mental visiona picture of a vengeful woman cowering overa handful of red embers, her mind set on oneobject and one object only—some mode ofvengeance.

But even if she could have seen such a picture,how could she have formed a chain of associationwhich should link that woman with themaid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-hairedchild upstairs, the patter of whose littlefeet sounded over her head?

How the patter of those childish footstepscame back to her heart's memory on Mondaynight!

"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully,"not yet!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MEETING AND PARTING.

Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrudein a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliarhandwriting.

Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lieunopened beside her plate while she began herbreakfast. If anyone showed curiosity abouther correspondent she could truthfully say shedid not know who the letter was from, and sheliked to amuse herself with wondering aboutit. Even the postmark was obliterated. Shedecided then that the rich American, whor*ally was leaving for Switzerland at last, hadwritten to say farewell and to tell her whenhe was likely to return for the final wind-uppicnic he had promised to Old Keston.

She did not guess that the mysterious writingwas well known to Denys as that of one ofCharlie Henchman's friends, and that she hadsaid to herself as she carried it in from thepost-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writingto Gertrude for?"

At last curiosity overcame Gertrude. Allthe family were busy with their breakfastand their own concerns. Conway and herfather were each buried in a daily paper, Willieand Tony had lesson books propped in front ofthem, little Maud was engrossed in bread andmilk, and Mrs. Brougham and Denys at eitherend of the table were pouring out tea, andcutting bread, and dispensing porridge andbacon, and generally devoting themselves tothe wants of the family. Nobody was heedingGertrude, and she opened her letter and glancedfirst at the signature.

Cecil Greyburne!

She was distinctly conscious of a feeling ofdisappointment, but in a moment she pushedthat aside. It was pleasant to find Cecil hadnot forgotten her, though the note was but ashort one, nothing to compare in length withthe one that had accompanied the Easter cardwhich he had ridden fast and far to post.

"My dear Gertrude," the note ran, "Youknow I am always trotting about the countryfor my work, and on Monday afternoon Ifind I pass through Old Keston station, waitingthree minutes by the official time-table (probablythat will mean five). I meant to call inand give you all a surprise visit, but find thereis no suitable train to carry me on later. Ifsome of you are near the station at 5.15 andcan waste a few minutes on a chat, it wouldcheer a hot and tiring journey and make itseem worth while. I shall be in the front of thetrain; at least half of me will be, the other halfwill be outside the window watching for you.

"Yours truly,
"Cecil Greyburne."

Monday afternoon at 5.15! Gertrude'smemory rapidly ran through her list of Mondayclasses and pupils. One of the pupils was illand, a most unusual thing, she would be freeat four o'clock! She need not go to the stationin her school dress, but have time to come homeand put on something pretty. It was veryjolly of Cecil to have thought of writing. Ofcourse she would go if she possibly could.

She frowned as she wondered whether shemust mention Cecil's request to her motherand Denys. He had said "some of you,"but he had written specially to her. Sheremembered that Denys always went to helpwith a Blanket Club on Monday afternoonsand was seldom home before six o'clock, andshe did not see exactly what interest it wouldbe to Denys to see Cecil.

At any rate she would leave that decisiontill she came home at dinner-time.

At dinner-time she had a bright idea. Shewould take little Maud. The care of Maud onMonday afternoons devolved on Mrs. Brougham,and Gertrude knew that a proposal totake the child out would be very welcome, andit would fulfil Cecil's "some of you." Cecilwould like to see the family pet.

So Denys went on unsuspectingly to theBlanket Club, and at four o'clock Gertrudeturned up at home, announced that for awonder she had an hour off, that she was goingup to the station and that she would takeMaud with her, if Mrs. Brougham liked.

Then she arrayed herself in her freshestmuslin and most becoming hat, curled upMaud's ringlets and dressed her in a cleanand dainty frock, put her in her little wheelchair, and catching up a library book to changeat the station, as a sort of excuse, startedforth to see Cecil.

Her mother came to the gate with themboth and stood watching them down the road,thinking to herself what a pretty pair theymade, and at the corner they turned and wavedto her, and Gertrude's heart suddenly misgaveher. She wished now that she had made nosecret of Cecil's letter, she had even half amind to run back and ask her mother to comewith them and see Cecil, or at any rate, tosend a message of kind regards to him, butas she hesitated, thinking how astonished hermother would be that she had not mentionedit before, Mrs. Brougham, with a final smile andwave of the hand, turned back to the house,and the chiming of the church clock soundingout warned Gertrude that it was far laterthan she had guessed it could be.

Five o'clock! How could she have beenso long getting ready?

It was fifteen minutes' steady walk to thestation, and the church clock was often slow,but then the train was sure to be late!

Comforting herself with this reflection Gertrudehurried along, hating to look hot andflurried, and yet more and more determinednot to be too late, even if she had to run for it.

And run for it she did, for the signal wasdown when it came into view a hundred yardsaway from the station, and as she entered thebooking office she saw the engine of Cecil'strain rounding the last bend of the line, andthere were the steps and the subway betweenher and the down platform.

If she waited to unfasten Maud's strap, tolift her out, and carry her down the steps andup the steps, she would miss Cecil. The thoughtcame to her unbidden as the train thunderedin, and hastily pushing the wheel chair into acorner by the booking office window, she badethe child look through and see all the lovelybig trains, till Gertrude came back in a minute.Then she flew down the steps and through thesubway and was rushing up the other sidewhen an unexpected voice arrested her steps.

"Good afternoon, Gertrude. I was justwishing to see you. What are you in such aflurry for? There is another three minutesbefore the train goes!"

"I've to meet someone," explained Gertrudehurriedly, "I'll come and see you, Mrs. Parsons.I can't stay now."

She ran on, and Mrs. Parsons followed herleisurely. She liked to know everybody's businessand she lived opposite the Stacey's andhad observed that Gertrude had attended everyfestivity provided by the American cousin,while her own daughter had been invited onlyonce. She had also heard that the Americanwas leaving for Switzerland to-day, and sheimmediately jumped to the conclusion thatGertrude had come to see him off. So shestrolled along the platform and made herobservations.

No, it was not the American, but it was ayoung fellow; a tall and pleasant-lookingfellow too. He stood on the platform, onehand on the open door of the carriage, talkingeagerly to Gertrude, and Mrs. Parsons stationedherself at a moderate distance, partly screenedby a pile of luggage, and waited. She wishedthe engine would cease blowing off steam,she could perhaps have caught snatches ofthat interesting conversation, for she hadwonderful hearing, besides an imagination.

"I was awfully disappointed I could not calland see you all," Cecil was saying, "I seem toknow you all through Charlie and Denys.I hoped Denys would have come with you,but I suppose she was too busy. I saw Charlieyesterday and I had heaps of messages for her."

Gertrude coloured, "I'm sorry!" she said,a little nettled that he should be unsatisfiedwith her company, "you didn't mention Denysspecially and she is always at the BlanketClub on Mondays, so I didn't even tell her Iwas coming, but I did bring Maudie, only wegot late somehow and there wasn't time tobring her round, so I left her on the other sidein the booking office."

"Here's twopence to get her out again,"laughed Cecil, "Well! better luck next time.I suppose you got late by making yourself sofetching!"

"Perhaps!" answered Gertrude with a tinybit of starch in her tone, but the next momentshe laughed, and asked him when he wouldbe making the return journey.

So the minutes slipped by till their chatwas overpowered by the rush and roar of atrain coming in on the up side and there was asudden waving of flags and shouting by portersof "Take your seats," along Cecil's train.

"Hullo! we're off!" he exclaimed as hejumped on to the footboard, "we were waitingfor that train to cross I suppose, but they gaveus a jolly long three minutes; its been quitesix, I should say. I knew they would. It'sawfully good of you to come down and see me.Give my love to everybody. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" she echoed, "mind you writewhen you come through again, and see if Idon't bring Denys and Maud and mother andanybody else I can lay hold of, to meet you!"

"All right!" he said, "that's a promise!"

The train moved and she stood back smilingand waving, watching him till the train passedround the bend. Then she turned, andencountered Mrs. Parsons.

"I thought I would wait for you, my dear.It is a pity to trouble you to call when youmust have so many engagements. It is onlya matter of a couple of words."

"Then I must get you to come round to thebooking office," said Gertrude, trying to hide herannoyance, "for I have little Maud waiting forme, and she will think I am never coming back."

They passed down the steps and up the otherside to the booking office, and Gertrude, enteringfirst, went quickly to the corner where shehad left her little sister.

"Well, Maudie!" she said cheerfully, "didyou think I——"

She stopped short, aghast. There was thewheel chair, just as she had left it, but it wasempty. Little Maud was not there.

"Maud!" she said, looking round into everycorner as if the child might be hiding. "Maud!wherever are you?"

There was no answer. The office was emptyexcept for the wheel chair.

Gertrude glanced up and down the platform,then out at the door that stood open to theroad. Then she knocked at the office door.

"Have you seen anything of my littlesister?" she asked, "I left her in that chairfive minutes or so ago, and I can't think whathas became of her."

The clerk shook his head.

"I didn't see her," he said, "I was givingout tickets for the up train. There was aterrific scrimmage between two dogs—no endof a row. Perhaps your brother or your fathercame in by the up train and took the childhome. It was enough to frighten anybodyto hear the lady that the little dog belongedto! She was right down screaming for somebodyto rescue her dog."

"It might be that," assented Gertrude. Allher bright colour had departed, she looked paleand anxious, and such an upset of her nicelylaid plans was extremely annoying. Besides,she might be very much blamed for leavingMaud alone.

"Well! I'm not going to wheel home thatempty chair," said she, "you might keep itfor me till to-morrow."

Then she turned to Mrs. Parsons. It wasan aggravation of annoyance to have her as awitness of these contretemps.

"Really, Mrs. Parsons!" she said sharply,"I cannot attend to any business to-night.I must get home and see about Maud. It'svery thoughtless of Conway to take her offwithout my knowing."

Mrs. Parsons had quite intended to accompanyGertrude to St. Olave's and see the end ofthe story, and she was highly offended atGertrude's tone.

So she turned homewards alone and she toldthe story in her own way.

Gertrude's footsteps grew quicker andquicker as she neared St. Olave's. It seemedto her that a string was being tied round herneck so tightly that she could scarcely get herbreath.

If Conway had taken Maud home, why hadhe left the wheel chair?

On the doorstep she paused to pull herselftogether. It was ridiculous to be so nervous.

She went straight to the dining-room. Hermother and Denys were sitting peacefully attea.

"Are father or Conway home?" she askedabruptly.

"No, they expect to be late," answeredMrs. Brougham serenely.

"Have you been up to the station, Denys?"

"No," said Denys, glancing up wonderingly.

"Nor Pattie?"

"No! whatever is the matter, Gertrude?"

"Somebody has taken Maud!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

A BASE TRICK.

Jim Adams could not make out what hadchanged his wife, but changed she was.

It might have been a dream that she hadthreatened vengeance on Pattie, for she nownever mentioned her, and she treated Tomwith a politeness and a thoughtfulness thatmade Jim believe she repented her interviewwith Pattie, and wished Tom to forget it.She might even have herself forgotten whatshe had said about paying Pattie out. Shehad undoubtedly had a few glasses the nightTom came in to see Harry, and that was enoughto account for uncontrolled words, and forgetfulnessof them.

Jane had also ceased to grumble at Harry'spresence, and she cooked Jim appetising suppersas of old and she even spoke pleasantly toHarry. Jim fondly imagined that she wasbecoming as devoted to the bright, engaginglittle fellow as he was himself, and he couldnot know that in his absence hard words andfrequent blows became the child's portionwhenever his aunt happened to be annoyedwith him or anybody else.

Jim little guessed the real reasons that lurkedbeneath Jane's changed and pleasant behaviour.The truth was that her thirst for vengeanceand her desire for strong drink were growingtogether, and with them—for it was allied toboth of them—cunning grew.

On that evening when Jim had summarilymarched her into her bed-room, she had beenenraged beyond words, and had the two mennot taken their immediate departure, thereis no saying what might have happened.

But while she waited for Jim's return shehad time for reflection.

Aided by the inspiriting action of the supperbeer, she had thought over the situation, andbefore the inspiriting effect had gone off, andthe lowering, muddling effect had come on,she came to the conclusion that she would bemaking a great mistake if she allowed Tom orJim to know her intentions against Pattie.What was the use of all her plans and determination,if they interfered and spoilt it all?They must think it was only an empty threat,and by and by they would forget it.

That settled the matter of the desire forvengeance, and she forthwith brooded over it insilence, till it became part of her very existence.

The thirst for strong drink touched herrelations towards Harry. She was finding theextra money that Jim gave her for the childmost useful. She scarcely missed his food,for he ate but little, and his share was usuallywhat would otherwise have been wasted. Janewas not of a thrifty turn of mind, but themoney was hard, solid cash, and gave her afree hand for spending on that in which hersoul most delighted.

It was therefore necessary to make the childat least apparently comfortable, or Jim mighttake it into his head to board him out. Anywoman among her neighbours would havetaken the boy for less than Jane haddemanded for his keep.

With these reasons to help the most powerfulinfluences of her life, Jane kept an oiled tongueand an even temper, and like the calm beforethe storm, it made things pleasanter for thosearound her.

Little Harry quickly discovered that it wassafer to play in the street when Aunt Janewas alone, but that there was no need for fearif Uncle Jim or Uncle Tom were at home.He was a cheerful little soul too, and began toenjoy such pleasures as came into his newlife and to forget the old. Saturday, Sundayand Monday were his joy-days, for on SaturdayUncle Tom always came and took him out forsome excursion or treat, or if it were wet, to hisown home.

On Sunday Uncle Jim sent him to a MissionSunday School, morning and afternoon, andsometimes, greatest treat of all, in the eveningUncle Jim would take him to the MissionService. That Mission Service had a home-likefeeling to little Harry, for it remindedhim of the Sailor's Rest where he had so oftengone with his mother at Whitecliff, before hercough got worse.

He loved the singing there, and at SundaySchool. He had a voice like a little bird,sweet and true and clear, and sometimeswhen Aunt Jane was out on Sunday evening,Uncle Jim would let him sing to him, andeven Aunt Jane would let him sing thebaby to sleep of a night.

There was one hymn that he learned atSunday School that he was never tired ofsinging. It had a chorus, and he alwaysfancied that it was the baby's favourite, too—

On Mondays Harry went to the MixhamNursery. Harry thought it a charming place.There were no big rough boys or girls—onlylittle people like himself, and the tables werelittle and the seats were little, and there weretoys, and somebody besides himself to makea grand play and pretend to be soldiers, orengine-drivers or horses.

There was a kind-faced woman there, whoput pretty clean pinafores on all the childrenwhen they came in the morning, and there wasalways something nice for dinner.

There was a room for the babies upstairs,which Harry considered a most suitable arrangement,and he saw his baby cousin carried upthere with great content. He wished AuntJane would go out washing every day tillSaturday!

Dinner-time was twelve o'clock, and Harry,having learned to tell the time, and havingtaken a great fancy to the seat at the endof the long, low table, always took his place atleast five minutes before twelve, to ensure itspossession, and such is the force of exampleand the love of the best available seat, thaton Mondays there was no need for the matronto say, "Come to dinner, children," for a rowof little eager faces lined the table, and a rowof little hands were folded reverently upon it,waiting for her to ask a blessing.

And after dinner came the only drawbackwhich Harry found in the Nursery life.

He and all the other children had to takea good long nap.

On one side of the room was a sort of pen,with mattresses and blankets, and into thisthe children were tucked, the room wasdarkened, talking was forbidden and in a veryfew minutes they were all asleep, and silenceand peace reigned.

"It keeps them good-tempered, and it reststhe nurses," the smiling matron used tosay.

Eight o'clock seemed to come much earlieron Monday night than on any other, and withthe hour came Aunt Jane for the baby, andHarry's bliss was over till Saturday shoulddawn again, but after all it was not long fromMonday night to Saturday morning, onlyTuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

These pleasant summer days were bringingto Jim, too, a smooth and easy-going existence—justthe existence that suited his easy-goingtemperament. And then, partly through thevery smoothness of these days, partly onaccount of his great satisfaction in his ownstrength in keeping a resolve, there arose inJim's life a little cloud, no bigger than a man'shand.

He had been a total abstainer such a longtime now. He had so often resisted Jane'srepeated invitations to share the supper beer,that she had ceased to offer it. The old likingfor strong drink did not assail him now. Heeven mentioned with a superior little laugh tohis mates, that there had been a time whenhe had liked his glass a trifle overmuch, butnow he had given it up for good and all.

And the very next day they played a trickon him.

He was extremely fond of cold coffee, andgenerally brought a can of it with him forhis dinner, and one very hot morning he set itdown on a great stone in a shady corner ofthe workshop to keep it cool.

And when dinner-time came, being thirsty,the first thing he did was to take a long pullat his can. He had swallowed half its contentsat one draught, before he realised what hadhappened.

The mystified, horrified expression on hisface as he set the can down, was almostludicrous; to his mates who were all in thesecret, it was irresistibly funny.

There was a roar of delighted laughter, andJim's eyes blazed with anger as he glared at thecan he still grasped in his hand.

Yes! It was his own can, and they had takenaway his coffee and filled it with beer! He hadbeen basely tricked. He stood there realisingit, while the roars of laughter were soberingdown into words.

"Ha! Ha! old teetotaller! That's thebest fun we ever had!"

"Jolly good coffee! isn't it, Jim? If youcould only have seen your own face!"

"Never mind, old chap! You can be ateetotaller again to-morrow."

"I won't!" said Jim angrily, "I did try.Now I don't care what happens."

He gathered up his dinner basket and thecan of beer, and stalked away, and a silencefell upon the little group of workmen as theywatched him.

CHAPTER XIX.

A SUCCESSFUL RAID.

Jim Adams stuck to his threat. He ceased tobe an abstainer, and life changed at once forhimself and for all those with whom he came incontact.

He was morose with his mates, and withdrewfrom their company as much as possible. Heshared the supper beer with Jane, but heconstantly spoke sharply to her and especiallyresented the least inattention to Harry's wants,so that it seemed as if the two had changedplaces, and now it was Jim who found faultand Jane who, aided by that secret object inher mind, took it quietly and made the best ofthings.

To Harry, Jim was never cross, but the childfelt a difference, and missed the companionshipJim had given him, for now Jim either called inat the public-house on his way home from work,or, returning early, went out immediately aftersupper, and he ceased to take an interest inthe Mission Service or in Harry's singing.

Jim was bitterly disappointed with himself.He had been trying to be good like his littlesister Nellie, to be good enough to meet her inHeaven, and now he had been tricked intodoing what he had no intention of doing, andthe old liking had come back with the oldtaste. He had emptied the rest of that can ofbeer with real relish, for in his anger he hadcarried it away to finish it with his dinner, andin that finishing of it, he had gone under to theold temptation.

He had fought and failed. If, in his angerat the base trickery of his mates, he had dashedthe can of beer on the ground, he would nothave despised himself, he could have forgivenhimself; but he knew perfectly well that,even as the unexpected liquid poured downhis throat, and he realised what it was, he hadmade up his mind to finish it, come whatmight.

He said to himself moodily that men andthe devil had combined against him, andwhat was the use of fighting any more?

He only hoped that Tom would not guess.He knew Tom would be disappointed in him,and he avoided seeing him if he was able.Besides, he knew all Tom could say to him,but he did not mean to try to be a teetotalleragain.

And Tom did guess. But he said nothing,for with his wise, kind eyes he saw that thetime had not come, only, as he went to andfrom his work, many an earnest prayer wentup from Tom's heart that Jim might try again,not this time in his own strength, but in thestrength of that One who had died to redeemhim from all iniquity; that he might one daysay, "I will go forth in the strength of theLord God."

So Tom came and went to Jim's home asregularly as ever on a Saturday, and tookHarry out with him. Though he seldom foundJim in, and the very sight of Jane and thesound of her voice, brought back the shiver tohis heart that had come to it when he knewshe had seen and spoken to Pattie, yet hepersevered in coming for the child. If thingswere not going too well with Jim, little Harryneeded the more love and guardianship, forwas not this a little life that must one day growto good or to evil?

He was thankful that Jane never mentionedPattie, but he little guessed that her thoughtswere ever hovering round the idea of vengeancefor his wrongs, like a moth about a candle.

One Monday evening, Jane returned fromher work in Old Keston, full of wrath anddismay.

She had received a week's notice from herlady, and no reason, adequate in Jane's mind,had been given for the change. This madeher furious, for though washing jobs wereplentiful, one that suited her as well as thiswas rare, and she would also lose her vantageground of keeping an eye on Pattie and findinga chance of paying her out.

Only one Monday remained to her, butrack her brains as she would, no way of workingher will occurred to her. Yet if she once lostsight of Pattie, small chance of doing anythingwould remain.

The last Monday came, and all day Janekept a sharp look-out on Pattie's premises;but Pattie had eyes as well as Jane Adams,and she took very good care that Mondaysnever took her down the garden within reachof Jane's tongue. Yet the very proximityof Tom's sister on Mondays brought him beforePattie's mind and made her remember thatphrase which had seemed like music to her,"going thin and a-fretting for a worthlessthing like you."

Yes! she was but a worthless thing—onlyTom had not thought so. He had loved her.Sam Willard liked her, but if she had not goneout with him on Sunday evening after church,he would have asked somebody else to go,and laughed and talked nonsense and enjoyedhimself just the same, scarcely heeding thedifference of his companion. Sam was neverfree on Saturday evening as Tom used to be.She wondered what Tom did with his Saturdaysnow. She would like, unseen herself, to seeTom for just a moment. She wondered if heever thought of her now. It was almost worthrisking meeting Jane to know that!

Watch as she would, however, Jane sawnothing of Pattie till about four o'clock thatMonday afternoon, and then she saw her bustleout into the garden, and begin vigorouslybrushing and dusting a child's wheel chair.It was but a few minutes' work and Pattietook the chair inside again, but a few momentslater she reappeared at her bed-room window,and throwing the sash up she brought a hatand a brush to the sill and brushed the hatvigorously. Clearly Pattie and the child weregoing out for a walk! At any rate, if she couldbut meet them on her way to the station,Jane thought she could annoy Pattie prettyconsiderably.

She had meant to have a few words withher lady about her dismissal, but her lady hadtaken the opportunity to go out calling andleft the maid to pay Mrs. Adams, and Janescarcely regretted it, so anxious was she to beoff before Pattie's walk should be over.

However, though she looked up and downevery road she passed on her way to the station,she saw no sign of Pattie, and the stationbell warning her of her train, she hurried onShe did not want to lose it and wait anhour.

She found the booking office in an uproar.In the centre of the crowd of people gatheredfor this train, the greatest favourite in the dayfor Mixham Junction, a terrible dog-fight wasgoing on between a big Irish terrier and a smallblack terrier, and the small dog was gettingthe worst of it.

In vain the lady who owned the small dog,begged and besought the onlookers to rescueher pet; nobody seemed to own the Irishterrier, and the majority of the passengers,being working men, carried neither sticks norumbrellas, and nobody appeared to be inclinedto interfere otherwise with so formidable-lookingan antagonist. Into the midst of thishubbub came Jane, and the first thing hereyes fell upon was a frightened child, in a littlewheel chair in a corner under the window,who was sobbing loudly with absolute terror.

Pattie's little charge!

Jane recognised the child and the chairin an instant, and looked round for Pattie.As she did so the Mixham Junction trainthundered in, adding tenfold to the noiseand confusion, the dog-fight lost its interestin a moment for the onlookers, and theystreamed out on to the platform, mingling andstruggling with the passengers who werealighting.

One glance showed Jane that Pattie was notin sight. Her opportunity of vengeance hadcome to her. She recognised it, triumphed init, all in the flash of a moment, and bendingover little terrified, crying Maud, she unfastenedher strap with a touch, lifted her out, andsaying aloud,

"Never mind, dear, it's all over now," shestepped swiftly across the platform and entereda third class carriage.

"Right!" shouted a porter, banging thedoor behind her. There was a moment's pause—amoment for reflection—a moment to goback, but Jane did not take it. She had paidPattie out at last.

The carriage was full of people, and theylooked at the sobbing child, some with curiosity,some with annoyance, but Jane was equal tothe occasion.

She settled the child on her lap, wipedher wet eyes and set her hat straight, andthen she faced a kind-looking lady who satopposite.

"There's been two dogs fighting in thereand it's frightened her," she said. "Nevermind, my dear, it's all over now."

"I don't want to go in the train, I want togo home," cried Maud, struggling to get off thisstrange woman's knee, "I want to go home.I want my mother," she sobbed.

"Hush, hush, my dear!" said Jane authoritatively,giving her an admonitory little shake.Then she looked apologetically at the kindlady again.

"She don't like leaving her mother—butthere's a new baby sister at her home," shesaid glibly, "so she's coming home with mefor a bit. But she's been spoilt and she don'tlike the idea of a new baby at all, and sheain't used to her auntie yet, and then therewas the dogs on top of it all! Hush, my dear,hush, you're disturbing the ladies and gentlemen."

She was relieved when the whole carriageload turned out at the next station: she andMaud were left alone, and she had time tocollect her thoughts.

Her triumph was complete! She had paidPattie out thoroughly and she was satisfied.The opportunity for her vengeance had cometo her and she had seized it without fear andwithout regret. How clever it was of her tohave thought of that fiction about her sisterand the new baby! It would do for Jim too,admirably, and he would never find out. Shedoubted if he even knew where in the outskirtsof Old Keston her sister lived. He might evennot know her married name! He would acceptthe story as she gave it, especially now thathe was beginning to drink again. Well! hecould drink as much as he liked, so long as hebrought her her money and Harry's moneyregularly!

In a day or two she would take the childback to Old Keston, ostensibly to see its motherand the new baby, but in reality she wouldtake it in the dark to its own gate, and leave itto make its own presence known.

In the meantime Pattie would be dismissedwithout a character, with a multitude of blameupon her head, if indeed she escaped so easily.They might think Pattie had stolen the child,and clap her into prison till she was found!

That would be vengeance indeed!

CHAPTER XX.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

"It is worse than death," sobbed Mrs.Brougham, and they all felt that it was so.

They were gathered at home at last, in thesmall hours of the night, for there was nothingmore that they could do till morning came towake the world again—that wide desolateworld of houses and roads, of byways andslums; that world in which, somewhere, wastheir little Maud.

Pale, wide-eyed and silent, they all tried toeat the supper which Pattie, pale and wide-eyedtoo, set before them, for they thought ofthe day that would soon dawn, when theywould need their strength to begin the searchagain, and though it seemed horrible to beseeking rest in their comfortable beds whiletheir little sister's fate was unsolved, yet forthat same reason, slowly and lingeringly theyall said good-night and crept upstairs.

For in vain they had searched for littleMaud all the evening long. Police, neighbours,friends, had all helped, but no trace,not even the faintest clue, had come to light.Porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen,had all been questioned to no purpose.Everybody talked about the dog-fight, nobodyhad even seen a child, though a porter averredthat he had seen the empty chair long beforethe dogs came on the scene, and a workman thatthere had been no chair there at all when theup-train came in. He had stood on the veryspot where the chair was supposed to be,watching through the window for a friend,with his bag of tools on the ground besidehim. He had moved forward to speak to hisfriend, and returning a few moments laterwhen the train had gone, to take up the tools,had then noticed the empty chair.

What had become of the child was a completemystery! Every house of the Broughams'acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hopethat someone had taken Maud home withthem, but the answer was always the same.Telegrams were sent to all the stations on theline, both up and down, but the hour betweenfive and six held the busiest trains of the day,and in the rush of passengers, augmented bygangs of working men returning to their homes,there was small chance of a ticket collectorhaving leisure to observe the children whopassed through his gate.

No one at home said a word of blame toGertrude. There was no need. They hadheard the whole story and they only pitied her,and her grief was far greater than their own,they thought, for there was no self-blame,no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulnessin their sorrow. Even Conway felt unutterablytender towards this least dear of his sisters,when he came in from a fruitless errand, andfound the proud, dark head resting on littleMaud's high chair, while Gertrude's wholeframe shook with sobs.

"Don't cry so!" he said gently, and hefound it hard to keep his own voice steady."Don't cry so, poor old girl. God knowswhere she is and He'll take care of her. Ikeep on saying that to myself, for I knowHe will."

"If only I had told them all about Cecil, itwould not have been so bad," sobbed Gertrude.

And Conway could not answer. He onlypatted her shoulder kindly and went upstairsto find his mother.

The days dragged along their weary hoursafter that and no news came of Maud.

The Broughams felt as if an earthquake hadcome into their lives, leaving them all uprooted;as if nothing could let them settle down to theold routine of life till Maud came back, andwithout even putting it into words to eachother, they all looked drearily forward intodays and weeks and months and years, andpictured Maud as never coming back, butgrowing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody.Truly it was worse than death.

Gladly would they have pulled down theirblinds and darkened the house and put onmourning.

When Jerry died, it had not been like this.They wept and sorrowed for him, but theylaid him to rest in sure and certain hope of ajoyful resurrection. He was safe. It was theuncertainty of Maud's fate, her surroundings,her associates, the awful uncertainty of everythingconcerning her, that made this trial sounbearable, that it seemed to every one ofthem that they could not bear it for anotherday.

Yet God knew. The only comfort they had,came to them in that thought.

Their friends were kindness itself; everysort of sympathy, except the sympathy offlowers, was offered them. Special prayer wasmade in church for those who were "anyways afflicted or distressed," for the storywas in every one's mouth, and mothers withlittle children guarded them jealously, andthought of what they would feel if one of themwas taken from them as Maud had been.

But outside of her own home no sympathywas shown to Gertrude.

The place rang with her name. Mrs. Parsonshad gone about with her story of the handsomeyoung man in the down train, the meetingwith whom Gertrude had not even allowedher little sister to witness, and the stories grewand grew on that foundation, till every picnicor tennis party that Gertrude had attendedthat summer, was transformed into a separateflirtation or supplied an anecdote to Gertrude'sdisadvantage.

She had rejoiced at knowing everybody inOld Keston who was worth knowing, but nowshe wished sadly that she was utterly unknown.She felt that she was pointed at andwhispered about, as "the girl that lost herlittle sister."

Pauline Stacey gathered up all the stories andrecounted them to Gertrude with an apologeticair that meant nothing, but covered her realenjoyment in the telling of the gossip, andGertrude had not the heart to stop her.

After all, what did it matter? Perhaps itwas best to know the worst that was beingsaid. No one could blame her more than sheblamed herself; she had lost little Maudthrough meeting Cecil Greyburne and she haddone it secretly. Only she hoped that allthese other false stories would not reach herhome people's ears.

And not one friend of hers had offered herany sympathy. She felt it keenly. EvenPauline only troubled to see her when she hadsome fresh tale to relate. Cecil had writtenhis sympathy to Denys and had ignored Gertrude,not even sending her a message, forGertrude had seen the letter.

The rich American had not referred to itwhen he answered Pauline's letter in whichshe told him all about Maud, unless his remarkthat he should not be back in Old Keston afterall, could be taken as a reference. Nor hadhe written a line of condolence to Gertrude, asshe had half hoped he would.

And Reggie did not know anything about it.He had sent an immediate and cheerful responseto her belated birthday letter, but not havingwritten to him for so long in her sunny daysof popularity, she was too proud to do so now,when she was in sorrow.

Yet she watched for a letter from him,hoping that Charlie would write to him andtell him of their trouble, and if he once heardof it, Gertrude knew that a letter would comeby return of post.

But none came. Charlie did not write toReggie. How could he do so without attachingblame to Gertrude?

These were days of darkness, but in themPattie shone out like gold. She waited onthem all with love and patience, she kept themeals regular and the rooms nicely dusted,and she attended to all the little duties thatno one seemed to think of now-a-days.

It was she who received Maud's emptychair from the station-clerk, and hid it awaythat it might bring no fresh pang of sorrowto any heart. It was she who unostentatiouslyand without fuss, quietly laid by the child'stoys and clothes, for she truly guessed that toDenys or Mrs. Brougham, to do so would belike saying a long farewell to their darling, andyet to see them lying here and there, was aconstant reminder of her loss.

Though the two things seemed to have noconnection with one another, after the daythat Maud was lost, Pattie gave up going outwith Sam Willard.

She said, when he remonstrated with her,that she had no heart now for palavering andhe had better find someone who was free andhappy. For herself, she could think of nothingbut how to find little Maud again.

"Then you'll be an old maid," said Samcrossly, "whoever's taken the child has takenher a-purpose, and they won't run no risks inreturning her. You'll be an old maid if youthrow away all your chances like this."

"Very well!" answered Pattie firmly, "thenI'll be an old maid and a good-tempered onetoo. I won't be like some cross-grainedbachelors I know, so there!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE HIDING-PLACE.

Jane did not feel the least shade of regret orfear when she took Maud home.

There was no one there, of course, for Jimwas at work still and Harry and the babywere at the Nursery. Jane gave Maud somebread and jam and a mug of milk and satdown to think over the situation.

Harry had made his appearance in the houseand street without occasioning the least remarkor surprise. They made no apologies for him,no explanations beyond the one that he wasJim's nephew.

This was her niece. That was all thedifference. With no mystery and no explanationsshe felt perfectly secure. She wouldact exactly as she had done when Harry came.There was only one thing necessary for protection.The colour of the child's hair shouldbe brown and her white dress and sun hatshould be pink!

"What's your name, child?" she saidabruptly.

Maud looked up startled.

"I'm Maudie," she said piteously, her blueeyes filling with tears, "I don't like being here.I want to go home to my mother."

She struggled out of her chair, and preparedto depart, but Jane lifted her back ratherroughly and spoke sharply.

"Look here," she said, "you've got to be agood girl and do what Aunt Jane tells you,and if you are a good girl and don't cry, youshall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, youshan't!"

She bustled over to a cupboard and beganrummaging, bringing out presently a ball ofpink Dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-redcrystals, while poor little Maud choked backher tears as best she could. Her shortexperience of life had brought prompt fulfilmentof promises, and she watched Jane quiteinterestedly, as she threw a few crystals into abasin, poured boiling water on them, andproduced a lovely crimson liquid.

Jane then tied a towel round the child's neck.

"I'm going to make you some lovely curls,"she announced, unconsciously using one ofDenys's constant formulas, and in a momentMaud's golden head was sopped all over withthe crimson liquid, and after it was dried onthe towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curlsand streaks of brown upon her face. Thatdefect was soon remedied, and the brown staintravelled all over her face and neck till theclear white skin had disappeared, and shelooked like all the other little sun-brownedchildren who ran about in the street below.

Jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction;then she rapidly undressed her newcharge, put her into one of Harry's nightdresses,tucked her up into Harry's bed, and turned herattention to the frock and hat, and when theywere hanging on the line, pink and damp,she cleared up the room and wished Jim wouldmake haste and come home. She wanted toget her explanations to him over before shefetched Harry and the baby.

But no Jim came, and at last she wentdownstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door.

"I say," she said, "I wish you'd fetch mybaby and the brat from the Nursery for me.My husband's not in yet, and I've broughtmy sister's child home along of me for a fewdays, and he don't know a word about it. If hewas to come in while I was out, he might beputting the child outside in the street."

"I'll go," said the woman carelessly. "Myword, Jane Adams, but I thought you hatedchildren!"

"So I do!" answered Jane fiercely, "buthe would have his sister's, now it's my turn formy sister's!"

As she turned up the stairs her own wordscame back to her with a sudden qualm. Hersister's child! What about Tom?

He would know that this was not his sister'schild—he might even know whose child itwas, for he must probably have seen it withPattie!

But even as the disquieting thought came,a reassuring one followed. Tom was goneaway for a month on a special job for his master,and long before that time had elapsed, Pattiewould be dismissed and the child could bereturned.

Jim did not come home till very late, andwhen he did, he was more than half intoxicated,and he accepted Jane's story without demur,indeed he scarcely listened to what she said;and as the little girl was still asleep when hewent to work in the morning, he really had noidea that there was any addition to his familycircle.

Harry was enchanted with a playmate sopretty, so gentle, so near his own age. Hewanted to take her to walk in the street toshow her off, but Jane promptly boxed his earsand forbade any such thing, on pain of terrificwrath, so Harry contented himself with offeringher every toy he possessed, and Maud acceptedhis attentions like a little queen, and was reallyquite happy, except when she thought of hermother or Denys. But always there was thesame answer to her pleadings to go home.

"To-morrow—to-morrow—if you don't cry."

So the days passed on. Each day Jimdrank more and more heavily as he ceasedto resist the temptation, and it took strongerhold upon him, and each day Jane grew alittle more restless and anxious as she waitedfor news of Pattie's downfall. She had countedon going over to Old Keston, ostensibly tosee her sister and the new baby, but really topick up any gossip she could about Pattie;but though night after night she made up hermind to go the next day, yet in the morningher heart failed her. The chance of recognitionwas possible, and to take Maud through thestreets to the Nursery, in the glare of themorning sunshine, seemed to be courting discovery.Nor did she dare to leave the childat home alone, because of the neighbours.She would have left Harry alone with theutmost indifference, and locked him in, and hemight have been frightened and screamedand cried all day, for all she would have cared,and the neighbours could have made anyremarks they liked; but this was different.

She was certainly beginning to be nervous,and she took more beer than she had evertaken before, because she felt so much morecheerful for a little while, and when theinevitable depression it caused, returned, whythen she took some more!

As her neighbour had remarked, she hatedchildren, and she became so unutterably weariedof the care of these three all day and everyday, that she began to wish she had nevertroubled about paying Pattie out, or chosensome way which had not entailed the plagueof three children upon herself.

Still, she had triumphed; she had had hervengeance. The thought was very sweet, andthe bother to herself would soon be over now.Indeed, it must be, or Tom would be comingback.

One Saturday had already passed, sinceMaud came, and on the second Saturday threethings happened. News of Pattie came toher. Wrapped round a haddock which shehad purchased for dinner, was a crumpledpiece of newspaper. The name upon it, "OldKeston Gazette," caught her eye instantly.She turned it over and glanced down its columns,and her eyes rested on one, and a look and asmile of triumph flashed into her face.

But as she read, her look changed, a deepand angry flush mounted to her forehead andspread to her neck. In a sudden transport ofrage, she crumpled up the paper into a ball,cast it upon the floor and trampled on it, andthen stooping, she picked it up and thrust itinto the fire.

She had failed—she had been deceived—tricked—foiled.All her efforts had been invain! Pattie had escaped from her toils scot-free.Pattie had never gone to the stationat all. She had stolen the child from one ofits own sisters! She had risked so much forthat! She could have shrieked in her impotentanger.

Turning, she met the wondering gaze ofthe two children, who had stopped in theirplay to watch her. She gave them both asmart box on the ears, and then, further enragedwhen they both began to cry, she seized themroughly and thrust them into the bedroom.She would gladly have smacked her own baby,only that he happened to be asleep.

The second happening was a postcard inthe afternoon, from the maid who lived whereshe used to wash in Old Keston. Her mistresswas away, she said; the new washerwomanhad not put in an appearance and if Mrs.Adams was not engaged on Monday, would shecome and oblige?

Mrs. Adams was not engaged. She thoughtthings over and she decided to go. Not byher usual trains, however. Something mustbe devised about ridding herself of Maud.She was sick of seeing after the child and shefound herself listening to every heavy footstepon the stairs. She would go over late onMonday morning, and returning by a latertrain, could observe the movements of theSt. Olave's household when the dusk fell.She must do something or Tom would be back.

The third happening came late at night.

As might have been expected, Jim camehome at last with very little money in his pocket.

He threw over to Jane her usual housekeepingmoney and growled out that he hadnot got any extra for Harry this week. Shemust make do without it. A child like thatcouldn't cost much, anyhow!

That put the finishing touch to Jane's day.She stormed and raved, she called her husbandnames, she threatened all sorts of things, butas Jim observed, hard words would not drawblood out of a stone, and he sat there stolidlysmoking and listening to the torrent of words,till suddenly his patience gave way all at once,and he declared that if he heard another word,he would take the money back and do thehousekeeping himself.

That would have suited Jane very ill, and itsobered her somewhat, and when Jim addedthat if they were all going short of food nextweek, she had better send that kid of her sister'shome, she became quite silent. It occurred toher that it might be well not to push Jim toohard till the child was safely gone. Afterthat she would have a free hand.

She maintained a sulky silence all Sunday,but Jim took no notice of her. He went outdirectly after breakfast, taking Harry withhim, and they did not return till late atnight.

On Monday morning she announced thatshe was going to work, and demanded themoney for the Nursery for Harry, which Jimhad always paid cheerfully, but now he onlyretorted that he had no more money, andwent angrily out, apparently heedless of herreply that if he did not pay, Harry could stopat home. For a full minute Jim stood outsideon the landing, his hand in his pocket, irresolute.He was quite unaware that the Nurserycharge was fivepence for one child, eightpencefor two, and tenpence for three, and that Janehad pocketed any benefit which arose fromsending more than one. He had sixpence tolast him through Monday, but if he left fivepenceof that for the Nursery, he would havebut one penny for beer!

Yesterday his heart had turned away fromhis temptation to the fair, innocent little chapthat he meant to be a father to, and he hadtaken him out all day, and had never touchedone drop of intoxicating beverage, contentinghimself, and very happily too, with icedlemonade and soda water and coffee.

But this morning was different. The crueltrick of his mates rose up in his mind andheld him back from trying again. Then hehad no coffee ready for dinner, even if hemeant to begin again, and it would not hurtthe boy to be left at home alone. Still hehesitated, conscious that he was weighingtwo loves—the child's welfare; his own desire.

And his own desire conquered.

He went quietly downstairs and out to hiswork, and Jane dressed the baby and Maud,and took them down to her obliging neighbour.

"Take these two down to the Nursery forme," she said, "I've to go back to my oldwork to-day."

Poor little Harry! He stood forlornly inthe middle of the empty room, listening to thesound of the key turning in the lock, listeningto the sound of his aunt's retreating footsteps.

Then he thought of the happy Nurserywhere Maud and Baby had gone; he thoughtof his place at the head of the long dinner-tablethat somebody else would have thisMonday, and he sat down in a heap on thefloor and cried.

Presently he got up and looked about forsomething to do. His dinner stood on thetable, and he thought he might as well eat itnow, and when that was disposed of, he strolledinto the bedroom, and there he spied the cornerof the box that held his best frock, stickingout from under the bed.

Now was his chance! He would have hisown again, his bright penny and his bestestpocket-handkerchief with lace upon it.

But the box stuck fast.

Nothing daunted, Harry wrestled with it.He pushed and pulled, under the bed andbehind the bed, this way and that, till suddenly,as he pulled, the obstruction which held itgave way, the box came out with a run, andHarry toppled over backwards with a crash,and an awful sound of breaking china, and arushing of cold water.

For a moment Harry lay there stunned,the broken toilet jug lying in shivers aroundhim, the water soaking into him from headto foot; then, as he came to himself, hisstartled screams filled the room and hestruggled up and sat looking round.

He was more frightened than hurt, but thesight of that broken jug terrified him morethan the fall and the wetting. Wouldn't AuntJane whip him when she knew!

There was great tenacity in Harry's character.He gathered himself up at last, and openedthe box and found his frock and its pocketand its precious contents. He looked at thefrock a long time lovingly, then he replacedit, pushed back the box, set the bed straightand gave an involuntary shiver.

He was soaked from head to foot, and thoughit was summer weather, he felt very, very cold.

He sat down by the empty fireplace andshivered again, and by-and-by he fell fastasleep and dreamed strange dreams, but alwayshe was very, very cold.

CHAPTER XXII.

OUT OF THE NORTH.

In the stillness of a quiet summer evening,when the darkness had fallen and the starslooked down from a far sky, and the soft moonbeamsshone silvery on dark trees and velvetlawns, John Gray, Bank Manager, knelt at anopen window, his arms resting on the sill,his face turned skywards.

In the silence, in the stillness of that summernight, the great battle of his life was beingfought out beneath the stars.

Backwards and forwards raged the battle.Thoughts of what he must give up if he turnedhis back on this temptation and did not satisfyhis desire for strong drink; the friends whowould flaunt him; the friends who would pityhim for his weakness in yielding to the influenceof abstaining noodles; the friends who wouldsmile and bid one another wait a bit, andJohn Gray would be taking his glass withthem again; the awful haunting fear thatthey were right, that he would only makehimself ridiculous and never hold out; allthese things seemed ranged on one side againsthim, and on the other side what was there?

His wife Elaine. She had promised to helphim, for them to start together, to turn outof their home and their entertaining all intoxicatingbeverages, to stand side by side in theirsocial circle and be abstainers. Then therewas Reggie. He was helping already. Notostentatiously, not in a burdensome way. Onlyjust a cycle ride here and there, or a walk,or a concert, or an hour on the church organ,when Reggie would blow and Mr. Gray, whowas musical, would play as nobody in thetown, not excepting the organist, could play.Or a game of chess in Mrs. Gray's drawing-room,while Elaine played or sang to themand served them with delicious coffee.

There were other friends too—friends whohad been shy of him and Elaine lately, butwho had once been pleasant, intellectual friends,and who would be friends again if things weredifferent.

All these were on the other side.

But he knew, and his head dropped uponhis folded arms with a groan—he knew thatnone of these things would keep him fromsatisfying his desire; that they could givehim no strength to resist.

They might indeed claim his attention fora little while, but surely, as those smiling friendspredicted, he would drift back to the oldtemptation.

There were real tears of shame and mortificationin his eyes, as he lifted them to thesky once more. Oh! if he could only beginagain; if he had only been brought up as anabstainer, as children were brought up now-a-days;if he had only taken his stand that side,as a young man, like companions of his ownyouth had done; if only he had been bornstrong and not with this weakness.

But all such regrets were unavailing. Heknelt there in the moonlight what he was,what he had been made, what he had madehimself, and there was something in himthat told him that to-night was a decidingpoint in his life.

And to drift needed no strength, no anything.Only just to get up from his kneesand to go upstairs to bed, and to wake againto the old life in the morning.

But the very fact that he was kneelingcame to his mind to remind him, and thequiet sky above him spoke to him of strengthand peace, and suddenly he bowed his headupon the sill.

"Oh, God, what shall I do?" he moaned.And softly, a voice out of the past—hissweet old grandmother's voice—came to himwith words he had never heard or heeded,since she taught them to him in his childhood.

"While we were yet without strength, indue time Christ died for the ungodly."

Without strength—the ungodly. That washimself, and for him Christ died!

The dawn was creeping up the eastern skywhen John Gray softly closed the windowand went upstairs, and there was the dawnof hope in his heart too, for in his life the Sunof Righteousness had risen with healing inHis wings.

It was the next day after this that ReggieAlston received a letter with the Old Kestonpost-mark, but after the first glance he laidit down indifferently. It was not from Gertrude.

After her birthday letter he had expectedanother pretty soon, because it had been likeher old letters and she had apologised for itsbrevity, but none had come.

This was only from his aunt. She might,however, mention Gertrude! He opened it andglanced at the opening words. When wasshe to expect him for his holidays?

He sighed as he thought how long it was tillthe end of September, when he was to have hisholiday. He had so hoped it would be arrangedduring the school vacation, but it had not been.

He turned the page of his aunt's epistle andthen his face changed from listlessness to keeninterest.

"I think," wrote his aunt, "that you cannothave heard that little Maud Brougham hasbeen stolen. I thought Gertrude would ofcourse write you all about it, but you did notmention it in your last letter to me, and perhaps,as Gertrude was to blame, she has not liked towrite."

And then his aunt proceeded to tell Reggieall the story, and all the stories that had grownupon it. Perhaps in her delight in having sointeresting a tale to tell, she forgot what such astory might mean to Reggie, for he had nevermade any secret of his whole-hearted devotionto Gertrude, but certainly she did not spareGertrude, and to do Reggie's aunt justice, shefully believed most of the stories of flirtationand coquetry.

Gertrude had been very little to see her oflate, and in the light of these tales, she naturallyput her own interpretation on the neglect.

Reggie slept very little that night, and itwas with a very pale face that he knocked atMr. Gray's private door in the morning.

"Are you ill?" asked the Manager kindly.

Reggie shook his head with a faint smile.

"Mr. Gray," he said, "you know myholiday is a fortnight in the end of September.Could you possibly make an exception for meand let me have four days now, and give upSeptember entirely?"

"My dear boy! it would not be at allgood for you. What's the matter? Anybodyat home ill?"

"No! I've only an aunt."

"Is it the one and only girl in all the world?"

Reggie nodded, and a deep flush swept overhis face. "She's in trouble. Her little sisterhas been stolen," he said, feeling some explanationwas due.

"Does she care for you?"

"No, I don't think so," said Reggie sadly,"but I should like to go. It's all I can do,and it doesn't matter about my part of it,any way."

"You shall go!" said the Manager quietly."You shall go by to-night's mail. Perhapsthings will be better than you fear. You'llbe in London this time to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MEETING OF THE WAYS.

Jim could not forget Harry all day. Thehours seemed to drag, and again and againhe caught himself wondering if the time seemedas long to the little prisoner, shut within hisfour walls, with no one to speak to. He determinedto go home immediately after his workand take the child for a tram-ride. Even hisdinner beer tasted bitter to him to-day, andwhen he left his work and turned his stepshomewards he still had fourpence of his precioussixpence left, wherewith to pay the tram fare.

He was annoyed to find that Jane had notreturned, and that there was no supper ready;but he ate what he could find and made a cupof tea.

"I'm going to take you on a tram, Harry,"he said, laying his hand affectionately on theboy's shoulder. "Why, child!" he addedin astonishment, "your coat's wet! Whathave you been doing?"

Harry's face clouded. He had forgottenthe broken jug for a few minutes in the joyof his uncle's return.

"I broke aunt's jug," he said faintly, "andI all got wetted."

Jim got up and went to inspect the extentof the damage, and he whistled when he saw it.

"Aunt will whip me," said Harry mournfully.

"She'd better not!" said Jim fiercely; "it'smy jug. I'll get another on Saturday. Come,let's get ready and be gone before she comesin."

He rubbed his hand over Harry again consideringly.His knickers had dried upon him,but his coat was still very damp.

"You ought to put something else on,"said Jim. "What have you got?"

"There's my frock," cried Harry eagerly,"my little frock, what mother made. It'sin that box."

Jim pulled out the box and helped Harrystrip off the wet coat. The child gave a littleshiver, but Jim scarcely noticed it then. Hewas in a hurry to be off, and in a minute Harrywas arrayed in the frock over the knickers,and the two went downstairs hand in hand,just as they had come at Easter-time.

It was a pleasant evening, but the wind wasfresh, and all there was of it met them on thetop of the tram; but no thought of dangercrossed Jim's mind. Harry was very happyand quite ready to chatter after his long day ofenforced silence, and though by and by hebecame very quiet, Jim thought he was tiredand took him on his knee, where he fell asleep.

But all night long he tossed and moaned,and when the morning came, instead of beingawake with the birds, he lay heavily asleep,with flushed cheeks and quick drawn breath.

Jim stood looking down on him with afrown. Then he made himself some coffeefor dinner and went over for another look atthe child.

"Jane," he said sharply, "I believe thatchild has got a cold. Don't you let him goout of the room to-day, and you stop in andmind him. D'you hear me?" he repeated,as Jane made no reply. "You're to stop inand mind the child. No going out to workor to gossip."

"I've arranged to go to Old Keston," saidJane shortly. "He's all right, and he can goto the Nursery."

"He's not to leave the room; and work orno work, you're going to stop and see to him.Look here, Jane!" Jim went on sternly, "I'mmaster here, though you seemed to forget itwhen you brought your sister's child, withoutasking me if it was welcome. You've had agood bit of your own way, but this time it'sgoing to be my way."

Jane had grown a little pale.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "Whata fuss!"

She had settled everything in her own mindfor taking Maud back that very evening, butafter all, one day was as good as another, andif Jim should once begin on the subject ofMaud, who could tell what he might ferretout? He might even insist on himself takingMaud back to her supposed mother and babysister, and then what would happen? And itwould be of no use to keep back her sister'saddress from him, for there was always Tom.

She made Harry get up, and he playedlistlessly with Maud, or fell asleep on the floorin the midst of the toys; and by eveningtime even Jane's careless eyes could see thatthe child was really ill.

Jim saw it too, and he went straight outagain and left word at the nearest doctor'shouse, for the doctor to come at once. Butthe doctor was a busy man, and it was verylate when at last he came and stood lookingdown on Harry's flushed little face. He askeda good many questions, and then made hisexamination.

Jim watched him keenly, and somehow hisheart sank down and down and down.

"Is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily.

The doctor turned away from the little bedand looked at the fine, tall young fellow beforehim.

"I understand he isn't your child?"

Jim shook his head. "He's my dead sister'schild, and his father's dead too. He belongsto me now, and I'd do anything for him. He'snot very bad, is he, doctor?"

"He's going to join them," said the doctorabruptly. "There's not the slightest hope—atleast, I think not—but I'll do my best.He's got cold in every bit of him."

Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fatefulMonday back again—to live over again theselast weeks of self-indulgence. And now itwas too late—too late!

But the doctor was pouring out medicinesand directions, and this was no time for vainregrets.

"You'll sit up with him," he said, and helooked directly at Jim; "and," he glancedat Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'llset you going and look in the first thing in themorning."

But there was no need. When, having seenthe gravity of the case, the nurse knockedgently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in themorning, the little life had fled, and Jim waskneeling broken-hearted by the little bed,Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder.A soft smile lingered on the little lips and heseemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knewbetter.

He was dead.

As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautifulhome ready, and He had sent for Harry.

It was on this same morning that, by thefirst post, Denys received a letter fromMixham.

She tore it open eagerly, for any letternowadays might bring news of Maud, but shelaid it down again listlessly.

"Oh dear!" she said, "that is from oldMrs. Richardson. Her daughter has got marriedand gone away, and she is so lonely, and shesits alone and cries all day, and she says thatI have always cheered her up in all her sorrowsand she wants me to go over to-day; and itis so bad for her eyes to cry because of herdressmaking, and when she has seen me shewon't cry any more; but—oh dear! ohdear!" and Denys herself burst out crying,for her nerves had been very much shaken,"I can't go and comfort anybody. It wouldbe no use my going for that!"

Yet after breakfast she sought out Mrs.Brougham.

"Mother," she said, "I think I'll go to Mrs.Richardson this afternoon. I'm afraid I'mgetting selfish in my sorrow, and I'll go, too,and see little Harry Lyon, as I'm over there.I did go once, you know, but everybody wasout. The neighbour said his aunt went outwashing on Mondays, and Harry was sent tothe Nursery. I think perhaps I ought to go."

"Do you?" said her mother with a sigh."Well, I won't keep you, dear, but oh, dotake Pattie with you, just for companionship.I shouldn't feel so anxious while you weregone."

"Oh, but the work," said Denys.

Gertrude looked up from the table whereshe was correcting exercises.

"I'll see to the work," she said. "I shallbe at home all day. It's a pity for mother tofeel anxious, and Pattie deserves a change.She's been awfully good to us."

Denys acquiesced, though she felt thatPattie's company was very unnecessary, andso, immediately after an early lunch, Pattieand Denys found themselves stepping out ofthe train at Mixham Junction.

"I think we'll go to see Harry first," saidDenys. "Mrs. Richardson will want to giveus tea and we must not be late."

Pattie followed obediently. Little Harry wasbut a name to her, for he came to brightenTom's life after she had gone out of it, andshe had never heard of Harry's connection withJane Adams. She knew the road into whichDenys turned, however, well enough, and whenDenys stopped at the very house where JaneAdams lived, she only thought it was a queercoincidence, and wondered vaguely what sheshould do if she met Jane on the stairs.

Denys knocked at the first door in the entry,and asked if the Adams's were likely to be in,and which their room was.

She thought the woman looked at hercuriously, as she gave her the number on thethird floor.

"They're in," she said, with another ofthose curious looks; "they're in, 'cept thelittle girl and the baby. I took 'em to theNursery to be out of the way."

Denys passed on and knocked softly at thedoor indicated, and Pattie followed trembling,for this was no coincidence—this was reality.

Jim himself opened the door, and whenhe saw Denys he drew back with a gasp.

"Is Harry at home?" she asked. "Yousaid I might come and see him."

Jim tried to answer, but no words wouldcome. He drew back for Denys to enter,however, and Pattie followed her timidly, andJim closed the door softly behind them.

Once more he tried to speak—to explain—butDenys did not notice him. In the centreof the room, where the afternoon light fellfull upon it, stood a child's crib, and on thewhite pillow lay the beautiful, familiar littleface that had so won its way into her heart.

"Harry," she said softly, crossing the roomquickly and longing to hear again the tonesthat were so like Jerry's, "Harry!"

Was he asleep? She bent over the crib, andthen turned bewildered to Jim.

There was no need for words.

She stood a moment spellbound, lookingdown on the little peaceful face, with its lingeringsmile, and then she went round the criband knelt down by the lowered side and softlykissed Harry's forehead and soft golden hair.

She had not seen Jerry's dead face nor kissedhim for good-bye, and she knelt beside Harryand wept for them both.

She had completely forgotten Pattie, butafter a while, as she wiped away her tears andlistened to Jim's story of the child's illness,she became conscious that there was anotherman in the room, and that Pattie and he wereconversing in low tones by the window. Sheglanced round for Harry's aunt, but there wasno one else there; only sundry sounds of stirringabout in an adjoining room suggested thatshe was not far off, but was not inclined to seecompany. So with one more long look, onemore kiss on the fair, still face, Denys andPattie at last took their leave, and set out forMrs. Richardson's.

As they left the street, Pattie looked up inDenys's face with crimsoning cheeks.

"Miss Denys," she said shyly, "that wasmy Tom that was talking to me. He was theretaking a photo of the little dead boy, for heloved him, Miss, and—and—him and me,we've made it up, Miss Denys! We've alwaysloved each other all along."

The visit to Mrs. Richardson was over, andDenys and Pattie were once more on theirhomeward way, hurrying along the crowdedstreets and threading their way in and out ofthe bustling crowds, with no thought in theirminds but of an accomplished task and a greatanxiety not to lose their train.

They took little heed of the passers-by,but their eyes were both attracted at the samemoment by a very tall, fine-looking youngfellow who was coming towards them with abig, bouncing baby swung high upon hisshoulder; even at a good distance they madea conspicuous couple as they came down thestreet.

"There's Jim Adams," said Denys and Pattiein the same breath.

Jim was walking very slowly, occasionallyglancing down at the ground, but the peopleabout him were too many to reveal at what helooked. Whether he caught sight of Denysand Pattie, and could not face speaking tothem, or whether he never even saw them,Denys could not tell, but as they neared him,he stopped suddenly and looked into a shopwindow, showing the baby something thatmade it shout and crow with delight; but inone instant Denys forgot everything else inthe world, but the strangeness of another sightthat met her eyes.

She stood stock still in the centre of thepavement, gazing at a figure that was comingtowards her.

The figure of a little, little girl, walking aloneamong the crowd, yet not of it. A little girlwith brown, fluffy curls, turning to gold at theroots, crowned by a big white sailor hat with ablack ribbon round it—a little girl dressed ina short black frock with a kilt and a sailorjacket; a little girl so like—ah! how manychildren had she seen lately so like little Maud!Then the child's blue eyes met hers, and, witha scream, Denys had sprung forward, andMaud—little lost Maud—was in her arms.

When Denys began once more to realiseanything beyond the pressure of her armsround their lost treasure, she became consciousthat a little crowd had gathered, and thatPattie was hurriedly explaining what hadhappened, and there was pity and sympathyin the listening faces around, so that Denysthought wonderingly how kind the world was.

"A cab!" she said, and she lifted her headas if she were but just awakened from a longand horrible dream. Oh! how glad she wasto have Pattie with her!

With Maud still clasped in her arms, she andPattie got into the cab, and as it rumbled off tothe station, the little crowd that had gathered,thinned away and scattered, and Jim Adamsand his baby went with it.

Jim had been to the Nursery to fetch thetwo children. It was upon little Maud, runningbeside him, that he had constantly glanceddown. When he stopped to look into the shopwindow she had not observed it, but had trottedon among the crowd, and he, turning to seewhat had become of her, had seen the meetingbetween her and Denys. Thinking simplythat the child knew Denys and loved her, asHarry did, he had drawn near to claim her,and had heard Pattie's hurried explanation, andhearing it, he had drawn further and furtherto the edge of the crowd.

But Maud had been too far from him, forany of the passing crowd to suspect that shebelonged to him. He saw that in a moment,and he waited calmly in the background tillDenys and Pattie and the child had driven away.

He understood it all, if no one else did.

So that was Jane's vengeance! That waswhat Jane could do!

The sooner he and Jane and the baby wereout of Mixham the better! What was there tostay for? He hated the whole place. Perhapshe might begin again somewhere else.

He would try, and he would—yes, he would—askGod to help him this time. Tom saidthat was the only way to keep straight, to askfor God's strength.

And Tom and Pattie had made it up thatvery day, in Jane's own kitchen!

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SUN SHINES OUT.

As Reggie opened the gate of St. Olave's andglanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows,he felt as if a dream that he had often seenbefore, had come again to him, and that heshould only wake to find himself back in thedull little sitting-room in Scotland, trying tofind an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa.

Mrs. Brougham was sitting in the bow-window;she always sat there nowadays, andthere was reality enough in her pale, wearyface. Almost the first smile that had lightenedit since Maud had disappeared, came to itwhen she saw Reggie.

"Oh, Reggie!" she exclaimed.

Reggie came to the open window and leanedon the sill.

"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his faceto kiss her. He had always called her motherand kissed her, since the days when he had wornknickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well,mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"

Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterdayabout Maud," he said gently. "There'snothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.

She felt somehow comforted by Reggie'scoming. He was so like one of themselves, soold a friend that there was nothing to explain,no need for excusing words, no fear that hissympathy would make the sorrow wake again.

Reggie felt it too. He stood there quitesilent for a minute, still holding her hand;then he said,

"If you knew where Gertrude would be thisafternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll beso surprised to see me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically.She knew far, far more of those storiesabout Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed.Even in those early summer days of the picnicsand tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude'smind, Conway and Willie had confided to theirmother that they wished Gertrude would notbe quite so pleasant. She sighed a little asshe looked into Reggie's bright, open face.Girls did not always know true gold when theysaw it. Then she remembered that Reggiehad asked her a question.

"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting.Come in, Reggie; she is at homethis afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham,and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—Iam so nervous now," she added pathetically,"and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchenall the afternoon, but she's done now, and Ibelieve she went to the drawing-room to study."

"I'll go round the garden way and disturbher," said Reggie, with a laugh.

He thought as he went round the gardenthat "Gertrude busy in the kitchen all theafternoon," had an odd sound.

Gertrude had not begun to study. She satin a deep armchair, her books unopened onher lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, andbrooding drearily over the past, wonderingsadly whether, if Maud were never, never found,she could ever feel happy again! And if happinessdid come to her, and Maud had not comeback, how terrible that would be, for it wouldmean that she had forgotten Maud, forgotten herwrong-doing; that she had become again theself-loving, self-centred being that had lostMaud!

As Reggie's figure crossed the grass shesprang up, and her books fell with a clatterto the ground.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said, just as her motherhad done.

"Yes," said Reggie, "I've come! I onlyheard yesterday."

A flood of colour swept over Gertrude's face,but the room was shaded, and she hopedReggie would not see. What must he thinkof the story he had only heard yesterday! Shehad wished that he might know about it.Now she felt as if he were the only one in theworld, from whom she would gladly havehidden it.

"Sit down," she said; "all the othersare out, except mother."

"I've seen her," he said quietly.

There was a pause. There seemed nothingto say, absolutely nothing! Nothing thatcould be said, at least.

At last Reggie broke the silence.

"What have you done to trace her?" heasked. Perhaps it was the easiest question hecould have asked. Gertrude could answer that,and she told him all that had been done. "Iwish there was something I could do," he said,when she paused.

"Is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently."I'm afraid there's nothing muchgoing on in Old Keston just now. You'llfind it very dull."

"That won't matter to me. I have to goback on Monday."

"Oh! Have you had a nice time the firstpart? I thought you were going to have afortnight in September."

As Gertrude could think of nothing to say,Reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject.

He laughed a little.

"This is the first part; I came up by lastnight's mail, I haven't even been home yet. Icame off directly I heard about Maud and allyour trouble. I was so awfully sorry, andletters are not the least bit of use for sayingwhat you feel."

"It's very good of you," said Gertrudegratefully. "Shall you come home again inSeptember?"

"Oh! there won't be any September,"said Reggie cheerfully.

There was another pause and then Gertrudesaid in a very low voice,

"Reggie, have you heard all the stories thatthey tell?"

"I expect so," answered Reggie soberly;"but, Gertrude, I would have given up allmy holiday, except one hour, if I could justsay one word to comfort you."

She looked up at him suddenly, startled.

"Reggie," she said, "do you mean that yougave up all your holiday just to get four daysto come up and comfort me? Me! after allyou have heard!"

"I don't even think about those stories,"said Reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly.

"Don't you?" said Gertrude wistfully."Oh, Reggie, it is a comfort just to see yousitting there; it is indeed! Except at homehere—and they've been so good to me—youare the first that has said one kind word tome about it all. I knew you would when youheard. Only I don't feel as if I ought to belooking for comfort or happiness for myselftill she is found; you'll understand that,won't you?"

"Yes, I understand. But that's your sideof it, Gertrude. There's another side, andthat's my side. I want you to listen to whatI've come all the way from Scotland to say.I've said it to myself for years. Last night,when the train was rushing down throughEngland, I was saying it to myself over andover again. Now I'm going to say it to you.

"Gertrude, I love you, I shall always loveyou, I want you to belong to me for always. Ionly think of the happiness of my life as boundup in you. I think of your love as the best andhappiest thing God can give me.

"That's my side of this matter, and I wantyou to think of it often, and then, when littleMaud is found, and we can talk about ourown happiness, then you must tell me whatyou think about your side of it."

"Gertrude! Gertrude!"

The voice rang through the house as novoice had rung through it since Maud wentaway, and there was that in the sound of it,which made Gertrude and Reggie spring totheir feet and rush to the door.

In the hall was a confused group, and inthe centre of the group was a little figure in ashort black kilted frock with a sailor jacket,and a big white hat with a black ribbon thathalf hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turninggolden at the roots.

For a moment Gertrude stood staring, asDenys had done, then the familiar blue eyesmet hers, and the silvery little voice saidgleefully,

"Hullo, Gertrude! I've come back."

"Maud! Maud! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

Reggie returned to the North on Monday,and when he went, a beautiful little half hoopof diamonds sparkled upon Gertrude's left hand.It was Reggie's greatest treasure, for it hadbeen his mother's engagement ring; but thewearing of that ring was the only enlightenmentwhich Old Keston received aboutGertrude's and Reggie's affairs.

As Mrs. Brougham observed, people couldsee what they liked, but they did not deserveto hear anything.

"And so," said Mrs. Gray, as Reggie finishedtelling his tale in her drawing-room, "and sonobody knows who took the child or how shecame to be found again."

"Nobody," repeated Reggie with emphasis.But he was mistaken. There was one manwho knew. A man who had gone forth at last"in the strength of the Lord God," and whohad conquered. A man, who was holding outloving, strengthening hands to his wife, and tomany another tempted one; but he nevertold anybody what he knew, not even Tom,for Jane was Tom's sister!

The child's hand lingered on the large, heavy handle of the big door.

STORIES BY EMMA MARSHALL.

A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN. With coloured illustrations.Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

THE END CROWNS ALL; A Story of Life. Large Cr.8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"A most exciting story of modern life, pervaded as Mrs. Marshall's tales always areby a thoroughly wholesome tone."—Record.

"Lively and light: as nearly a novelette as need be."—Times.

"An excellently told tale of real life."—Civil Service Gazette.

BLUEBELL: A Story of Child Life Now-a-days. Illustrated.Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6.

"Most touchingly written; children will be captivated by it."—Footsteps of Truth.

"One of Mrs. Marshall's best stories."—British Weekly.

"Charming in style and high in tone."—Guardian.

THE CHILDREN OF DEAN'S COURT; or, Ladybird andher Friends. With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"Will no doubt be a great favourite."—Guardian.

"A bright story of child-life."—Scotsman.

"Ladybird is one of the most charming of Mrs. Marshall's child heroines."—Bookseller.

LITTLE QUEENIE: A Story of Child Life Sixty Years Ago.With coloured illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, extragilt, 2/-.

"'Little Queenie' is particularly pleasing."—Saturday Review.

LITTLE MISS JOY. With coloured illustrations. Crown8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A pretty picture of childish influence."—Brighton Gazette.

CURLEY'S CRYSTAL; or, A Light Heart Lives Long.With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

"The vehicle of good thought as to life and its duties."—The Christian.

ROBERT'S RACE; or, More Haste Less Speed. Withcoloured frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

"A capital little book for boys."—English Churchman.

LITTLE CURIOSITY. With coloured illustrations. Crown8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

NEW BOOKS AND ISSUES.

THE STANDARD WORK ON BILLIARDS.

BILLIARDS EXPOUNDED. By J. P. Mannock. Edited byS. A. Mussabini, Editor of "World of Billiards." Illustrated:—

Volume I.—For Beginners, etc. Demy 8vo, clothboards, 6/-net.

Volume II.—For Players, with all the latest strokesillustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth boards, 6/-net.

"We have no hesitation in declaring that it is the best text book on billiards placedat the service of the present generation of players."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"We commend this book to all about to take up the game, as well as to those anxiousto improve their play."—Field.

"Altogether Mr. Mannock may be congratulated on having produced a veritableclassic of the game."—Graphic.

A Useful Series of

COOKERY BOOKS,

containing the latest and most successful Recipes.

By Elizabeth Douglas.

"The recipes are distinguished by an accuracy as to minor details which is oftenlacking in many works of a similar nature."—Scotsman.

"We trust that the recipes will be the means of relieving the British dining-table ofits terrible monotony."—Birmingham Gazette.

"Cringles, and golden corn cake, and puff balls, and madeleines—yea, and crullers.Somehow my mouth waters for a cruller."—T.P.'s Weekly.

Tales by Favourite Authors.

BRENDA'S POPULAR STORY:
THE EARL'S GRANDDAUGHTER. Gilt Edges, 6/-

"A more delightful book for girls than this one we have seldom read."—Saturday Review.

THE PRINCE OF ZELL. W. E. Cule. 6/-

"Had H. G. Wells written this narrative he could not have done it with greaterrealism."—Western Mail.

THE LOST MURILLO. Sheila E. Braine. 6/-

"There is something particularly engaging about this book.... The idea is anartistic one and is well worked out."—Morning Post.

IN QUEST OF A WIFE. E. Everett-Green. 6/-

"Well written, and very readable."—Oxford Times.

THE EMPEROR'S TRUMPETER. Albert Lee. 5/-

With Coloured Illustrations by A. T. Symington.

"The story is well told, and there is no lack of incident."—Liverpool Daily Post.

THE KING'S ESQUIRES. G. Manville Fenn. 5/-

With Illustrations by Gordon Browne.

THE BOYS OF WAVENEY. Robert Leighton. 5/-

With Illustrations by Gordon Browne.

"A splendid story which never lacks interest, and in which the play of humanfeeling is admirably depicted."—The Daily Graphic.

THE JUNGLE TRAPPERS. A Tale of Adventure. 3/6.Author of "Cavaliers and Rogues," &c. W. MurrayGraydon.

"The story is well told, and holds the attention from beginning to end."—Leeds Mercury.

TREASURE TROVE. E. Everett-Green. 3/6

Author of "Under Two Queens," &c.

"'Treasure Trove' is quite up to the usual high standard of the authoress."—Publishers' Circular.

WITH MUSKETEER AND REDSKIN.W. Murray Graydon. 3/6

With Illustrations by F. Lynch.

"A stirring story of adventure with Indians, wild beasts, and the hero's malignantfoes."—English Churchman.

ON THE WINNING SIDE. Sydney C. Grier. 2/6

Author of "His Excellency's English," "The Advance Guard," &c., &c.

Crown 8vo, Art Cloth. With Illustrations.

"A brisk story of adventure by this well-known author."—Daily Telegraph.

"A capital prize."—Record.

NEW BOOKS AND ISSUES.

A New Series of

BOOKS ON ETIQUETTE.

By Mrs. Humphry.

("Madge" of Truth.)

"Mrs. Humphry is a trustworthy guide, and her advice may be followed with confidence."—Literary World.

"The one and only 'Madge' of Truth, is always pleasant, always practical, alwaysto be read with pleasure as well as profit."—Lady's Pictorial.

OUR DARLINGS ANNUAL.

3/-Chromo Boards.
3/6 Cloth, Bevel Boards.
5/-Cloth, Gilt Edges.

"Short stories, coloured pictures, and everything to make children happy."—DailyExpress.

KEEPING HIS SECRET. A Stirring Story of Boys' SchoolLife. By Rev. Charles Herbert. 2/-.

OSWALD AND PHYLLIS. A Story for Girls. ByCatharine Shaw. 2/-.

SCIENCE AT HOME. Full of Diagrams of Interesting Experimentsfor Boys and Girls. By Baron Russell. 2/-.

THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S. A Fascinating Story ofGirls' School Life. By Mabel Mackintosh. 2/-.

Stories by E. Everett-Green.

IN QUEST OF A WIFE. Cr. 8vo, 6/-, cloth, extra gilt.

"Well written, and very readable."—Oxford Times.

ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, half-boundleather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth, extra gilt, 2/6.

"A very well-written tale."—Methodist Times.

"The motif of the story is excellent."—Record.

"A very pretty love story."—Lady's Pictorial.

"The tone of the book is entirely healthy, and the character of the young wifeOdeyne is a sweet one."—Church Times.

HER HUSBAND'S HOME. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extragilt, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"The story is well and naturally written."—Standard.

"Thoroughly wholesome reading."—Daily News.

"A bright and beautiful tale."—Lady's Pictorial.

UNDER TWO QUEENS. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo., half-boundleather, cloth sides, leather corners, 5/-; clothextra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"The story is attractively told."—English Churchman.

IN THE DAYS OF QUEEN BESS. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo,half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt, 2/6.

"A story with a great deal of interest, graphically written."—British Weekly.

MASTER OF FENHURST. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo,half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6;cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"One of the author's prettiest stories."—Lady's Pictorial.

IN CLOISTER AND COURT. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, 2/6.

"Of Miss Green's numerous popular works this will rank ... as the best."—School Guardian.

OUR WINNIE; or, When the Swallows Go. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

"The beautiful life of little Winnie is one which all children will do well to take asan example."—Banner.

SPLENDID BOOKS FOR BOYS.

G. MANVILLE FENN.

THE KING'S ESQUIRES. Illustrated by Gordon Browne.Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

ALFRED ARMITAGE.

RED ROSE AND WHITE. Illustrated. Demy 8vo, clothextra, gilt edges, 5/-. Another edition at 2/6.

LOYAL TO NAPOLEON. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/6.

W. M. GRAYDON.

THE PERILS OF PEKIN. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"A well-told narrative of a perilous time."—Western Morning News.

CAVALIERS AND ROGUES. Illustrated. Demy 8vo, clothextra, gilt edges, 5/-. Plain edged edition at 2/6.

"A well-told story."—Captain.

THE JUNGLE TRAPPERS. A Tale of Adventure. Cr. 8vo,cloth gilt, 3/6.

"The story is well told, and holds the attention from beginning to end."—Leeds Mercury.

WITH MUSKETEER AND REDSKIN. Illustrated by F.Lynch. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 3/6.

"A stirring story of adventure with Indians, wild beasts, and the hero's malignantfoes."—English Churchman.

GUY BOOTHBY.

UNCLE JOE'S LEGACY. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 2/6.

STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW.

THE STRANGE HOUSE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

ALICK'S HERO. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 2/-.

"Mrs. Shaw has added to our delight in noble boyhood, as well as to her own reputation,in this most charming of her works."—The Christian.

ONLY A COUSIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"In our excavations among heaps of tales we have not come upon a brighter jewelthan this."—Rev. C. H. Spurgeon, in Sword and Trowel.

THE GABLED FARM; or, Young Workers for the King.Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"A charming story, wherein the children are described naturally."—Evangelical Magazine.

LILIAN'S HOPE. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,extra gilt, 2/-.

COURTNEY'S CHOICE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 2/-. Sequel to "Mother Meg."

DICKIE'S SECRET. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, 2/-; with colouredillustrations, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

LEFT TO OURSELVES. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 1/6.

THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 1/6. Sequel to "At Last."

CAUGHT BY THE TIDE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 1/6.

JACK FORESTER'S FATE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth,plain edges, 1/6.

"MOTHER MEG"; or, The Story of Dickie's Attic. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"The prettiest story Mrs. Shaw has yet written."—The Standard.

"A naturally pathetic subject, treated with much skill as well as taste."—The Spectator.

NELLIE ARUNDEL. A Tale of Home Life. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6. Sequel to"The Gabled Farm."

"We need scarcely say that Mrs. Shaw holds out the light of life to all her readersand we know of few better books than those which bear her name."—Record.

"The King observed the Goose Girl comb out her hair and put it backbefore Conrad's return."

STORIES BY BRENDA.

Author of "Froggy's Little Brother," etc.

WONDERFUL MATES. With coloured illustrations. LargeCr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

UNCLE STEVE'S LOCKER. With illustrations. Large Cr.8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth extra,gilt, 2/-.

"Brenda has never drawn two more charming pen and ink sketches."—Spectator.

"An attractive story of one of the bravest and sweetest of girl-heroines."—Saturday Review.

THE SHEPHERD'S DARLING. With coloured illustrations.Large Cr. 8vo, 3/6, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A pretty pastoral with an attractive heroine."—Saturday Review.

THE PILOT'S HOUSE; or, Five Little Partridges. Withcoloured illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"One of those admirable sketches of child-life which can so well portray."—Bookseller.

FROGGY'S LITTLE BROTHER. A Story of the East End.With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt,1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

"Very pathetic and yet comical reading."—Guardian.

"A new edition of Brenda's charming story, with clever illustrations."—Saturday Review.

A SATURDAY'S BAIRN. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A pleasing story, skilfully written, and in an excellent spirit."—Record.

A LITTLE BROWN TEAPOT. With coloured illustrations.Cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A charming story."—Daily Express.

"A very pretty story."—Standard.

NOTHING TO NOBODY. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A very pretty story."—Athenæum.

"This work will take rank with favourite books for young people."—Christian.

Christian and Faithful passing through Vanity Fair.

Messrs. JOHN F. SHAW & Co.'s SPECIAL EDITIONS,

With Illustrations in Colour and Black and White,of the Famous Book—

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS,

By JOHN BUNYAN.

Many Editions of this wonderful Book have been attempted, andwe now introduce to your notice another, which for artisticmerit and general excellence, we believe to be the best yet presentedto the public at popular prices.

The Illustrations, both coloured and in black and white, arenumerous, have been prepared with the greatest care by Mr. AmbroseDudley, and have been greatly admired, so that we have everyconfidence that this Edition will be universally popular.

Great attention has been given to the type of each Edition, toensure the most readable print possible.

Editions at all prices from ONE SHILLING upwardshave been prepared.

"A splendid volume, with most artistic illustrations."—British Weekly.

"A handsome volume, in good type, with high-class illustrations."—Christian.

"A highly meritorious reproduction of the noble allegory."—Spectator.

"We have seen nothing better than Ambrose Dudley's coloured illustrations in thisparticular line."—English Churchman.

The 5/- Crown Quarto Edition has been specially preparedwith Thirty-two full-page Illustrations. Of these, Sixteen arein colour and Sixteen in black and whiteon art paper.

SPECIAL SHILLING EDITION.

Cloth, Gold Lettered, with Sixteen Illustrations, in Colour andBlack and White.

WORKS BY ANNA CHAPMAN RAY.

HALF-A-DOZEN GIRLS. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaperedition, 2/-.

"Will delight and please juvenile readers."—Christian.

HALF-A-DOZEN BOYS. Coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6. Cheaper edition, 2/-.

"Written with bright, good humour throughout."—Gentlewoman.

By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN. Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,cloth sides, 3/6.

By ROBERT LEIGHTON.

THE BOYS OF WAVENEY. Illustrated by Gordon Browne.Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"A splendid story, which never lacks interest, and in which the play of human feelingis admirably depicted."—Daily Graphic.

By FRED WHISHAW.

MYSTERY ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. LargeCr. 8vo or Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"Told with a swing and a stir that should delight a lover of the sea."—Ladies' Field.

By W. CHARLES METCALFE.

HONOURS DIVIDED; or, Rescued from Rogues' Island.A Story of the China Seas. Gilt edges, 5/-.

"A capital story, full of life and go."—Standard.

"There is no page in the book without its interest, and the whole will bear readingagain and again."—Record.

"There is plenty of humour of the brine in this delightful book."—Spectator.

"There is plenty of adventure in this book; but there is also what is better thanadventure—the picture of more than one thoroughly generous and manly character. Thebook is thoroughly manly and thoroughly Christian without a goody-goody vein."—Guardian.

STORIES BY L. T. MEADE.

Author of "Scamp and I," etc.

BEL-MARJORY. A Tale. With coloured illustrations.Demy 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"Most interesting; we give it our hearty commendation."—English Independent.

SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byeways. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Little Flo', with her industry and skill in 'translating' old boots and shoes, hermotherly instincts and efforts to keep her young brother Dick, the crossing-sweeper,honest, because mother had made them promise to be so when she died; the good-natured,agreeable, clever young thief Jenks, the tempter and beguiler of poor Dick; and, aboveall, the dear dog Scamp, with his knowing ways and soft brown eyes, are all as true tolife and as touchingly set forth as any heart could desire, beguiling the reader into smilesand tears, and into sympathy with them all."—Athenæum.

THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM; or, The Story of a GreatEndeavour. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, half-boundcloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A really well-written story, with many touching passages. Boys and girls will readit with eagerness and profit."—Churchman.

DOROTHY'S STORY. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, half-boundcloth sides, 3/6; with coloured illustrations, Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

WATER GIPSIES. A Tale. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"It is full of incident from beginning to end, and we do not know the person whowill not be interested in it."—Christian World.

DAVID'S LITTLE LAD. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,plain edges, 1/6.

"A finely-imagined story, bringing out in grand relief the contrast between quiet,steady self-sacrifice, and brilliant, flashy qualities."—Guardian.

DOT AND HER TREASURES. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

"One of the tales of poor children in London, of which we have had many examples;but none finer, more pathetic, or more original than this."—Nonconformist.

OUTCAST ROBIN; or, Your Brother and Mine. Illustrated.Cr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 1/6.

WHITE LILIES, AND OTHER TALES. With coloured frontispiece.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

"Stories of a singularly touching and beautiful character."—Rock.

THOSE BOYS. A Story for all Little Fellows. With colouredfrontispiece. Cr. 8vo, gold back, 9d.

"With all her fine clothes."

THE BEST FAIRY TALES.

Splendidly Illustrated Books. In strong Bindings,handsomely designed.

With Coloured and Black and White Illustrations.

THE SUN PRINCESS, and other Fairy Stories. Illustrationsby H. R. Millar, Herbert Cole, A. Garth Jones, ReginaldSavage, and Arthur Rackham. Cloth bevelled, giltedges, 5/-. 4to edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. Illustrated. Cloth bevelled, giltedges, 5/-. 4to edition.

FAIRY TALES. By Hans Andersen. Illustrated. Clothbevelled, gilt edges, 5/-. 4to edition.

QUEEN MAB'S FAIRY REALM, and other Fairy Stories.Profusely illustrated by H. R. Millar, A. Garth Jones,and others. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

THE UGLY DUCKLING, and other Stories. By HansAndersen. With special illustrations. Chromo boards,cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

GRIMM'S FAIRY-TALES. With coloured and black andwhite illustrations. Chromo boards, cloth backs, 2/-.4to edition.

ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. Profusely illustrated edition,including many of the less known stories. Chromoboards, cloth backs, 2/-. 4to edition.

Works by Dr. Gordon Stables.

HEARTS OF OAK. Coloured illustrations. A Story of Nelsonand the Navy. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-;half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"Tom Burn, the hero, will charm every boy that gets hold of it."—Literary World.

"A story of the navy and of mighty Nelson, told with excellent spirit."—Saturday Review.

TWO SAILOR LADS: Their Stirring Adventures on Seaand Land. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, clothsides, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"A sea story, big with wonders."—Saturday Review.

"A capital story in Dr. Stables' best style."—Spectator.

FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY. A Tale of Battleand the Breeze. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-;extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"Dr. Stables has almost surpassed himself in this book. Certainly we have readnothing of his which has pleased us more—perhaps we might say as much."—Spectator.

FACING FEARFUL ODDS. A Tale of Flood and Field.Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; clothextra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

"An exceptionally good book for boys."—Guardian.

"One of the author's most fascinating stories."—Leeds Mercury.

WAR ON THE WORLD'S ROOF. With coloured illustrations.Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 5/-; clothextra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6.

Works by M. S. COMRIE.

IN THE TYRANT'S GRIP. With coloured illustrations.Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-.

"The author has seldom produced a brighter, healthier, or more sympathetic storythan this."—Bookseller.

SIR JOSCELINE'S HOSTAGE. With coloured illustrations.Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extra cloth,gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A capital story."—Liverpool Daily Mercury.

THE LAIRD'S DAUGHTER. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

THE KING'S LIGHT BEARER. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

Works by R. M. BALLANTYNE.

THE CORAL ISLAND. With coloured illustrations. LargeCr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound leather,cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth, gilt, 2/6;cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE YOUNG FUR TRADERS. With coloured illustrations.Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; half-bound,leather, cloth sides, leather corners, 3/6; extra cloth,gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth, 1/-.

THE DOG CRUSOE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 2/-; cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.

MARTIN RATTLER. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, 1/-.

SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY.

SELECTED BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Price ONE SHILLING each.

1. OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING. 24 Texts in Packet.
2. HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE. Devices for Bible Searching.
3. ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE. Illustrated Papers for Bible Study.
4. ALPHABET TEXTS FOR PRICKING OR PAINTING. For the Little Ones.
5. MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN. Small Outline Texts for Painting. (Suitable for Flower Missions).
6. GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS. Subjects for Bible Study.
7. A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD. Outline Texts for Painting.
8. SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS. Texts for Painting.
9. "ALL THINGS ARE YOURS." Outline Texts for Painting, with Hints for Bible Searching.
10. TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN. For Pricking or Painting. New Packet for the Little Ones.
11. CONSIDER THE LILIES. Choice Texts with beautiful Floral Designs for Painting.
12. ENTER YE IN. Texts with Flowers to Paint.
13. REJOICING IN HOPE. A nice selection on Art Cards.
14. WHO GAVE HIMSELF FOR US. Texts with Flowers; very effective.
15. ZION HEARD AND WAS GLAD. Texts with Pictures more advanced.
16. EASY TEXTS FOR PRICKING AND PAINTING. New Packet for the Little Ones.
17. THE ASSORTED PACKET. Giving a selection from the most popular numbers.

"With such work there will be no dull Sundays."—Presbyterian.
"A charming series."—Bookseller.
"A delightful gift for children."—Record.
"Must be a welcome present."—Saturday Review.
"An excellent idea well carried out."—Word and Work.

For Prizes, Gifts, & Rewards.

ROBINSON CRUSOE. By Daniel Defoe. With illustrationsin colour. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-. Alsoin half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; bound in cloth,extra gilt, 2/6.

THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. Copyright edition. ByE. A. Brayley Hodgetts, with special illustrations byJ. Finnemore. Demy 4to, cloth bevelled, gilt edges 5/-;Chromo boards, cloth backs, 3/-.

THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. By E. Wetherell. Cr. 8vo,half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

MASTERMAN READY. By Captain Marryat. With colouredillustrations. Large 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-;extra cloth, gilt, 2/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-. Cr. 8voedition, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

By W. A. ATKINSON.

GLIMPSES OF BRITISH MANUFACTURES. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

LIVES OF BRITISH SEAMEN. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"If necessarily brief, all the 'Lives' are thoroughly adequate, and may with confidencebe recommended."—Bookseller.

By E. HARVEY BROOKS.

SAINT JACK. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,extra gilt, 1/6.

Masie began to tie up the bunches of flowers with a few leaves and bits of grass.

BOOKS FOR BOYS.

By M. L. RIDLEY.

SENT TO COVENTRY; or, The Boys of Highbeech. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A really good story of boys' school-life."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"Eminently interesting from start to finish."—Pictorial World.

THE KING'S SCHOLARS; or, Work and Play at Easthaven.With coloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra,gilt, 1/6.

"Full of all those stirring incidents which go to make up the approved life of schoolboys.Both adventure and sentiment find a place in it."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"A schoolboy tale of very good tone and spirit."—Guardian.

OUR CAPTAIN. The Heroes of Barton School. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A first-class book for boys."—Daily Review.

"A regular boy's book."—Christian World.

THE THREE CHUMS. A Story of School Life. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 1/6.

"A book after a boy's heart. How can we better commend it than by saying it isboth manly and godly?"—Rev. C. H. Spurgeon in Sword and Trowel.

"Ingeniously worked out and spiritedly told."—Guardian.

HILLSIDE FARM; or Marjorie's Magic. Illustrated.Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

"A very well-written story which all girls will thoroughly enjoy."—Guardian.

By M. E. WINCHESTER.

CITY SNOWDROPS; or, The House of Flowers. Withcoloured illustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,cloth sides, leather corners, 5/-; cloth, gilt edges, 5/-.

"We have read very few stories of such pathos and interest."—British Weekly.

"A most touching story."—English Churchman.

SPLENDID BOYS' BOOKS.

By DR. GORDON STABLES, R.N.

THE CRUISE OF THE "VENGEFUL." With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

IN SHIPS OF STEEL. Cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; cloth,gilt, 2/6.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

CHRIS CUNNINGHAM. Large Cr. 8vo, extra cloth, gilt, 5/-.

ALFRED THE GREAT. With coloured illustrations. LargeCr. 8vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, 3/6; cloth,extra gilt, 2/-.

CRUISE OF THE "ARCTIC FOX." With coloured illustrations.Large 8vo, extra cloth, gilt edges, 5/-; clothgilt, 2/6.

ON TO THE RESCUE. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,cloth sides, 5/-; cloth extra, gilt edges, 5/-; extracloth, gilt, 2/6.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER. Large 8vo, cloth extra, giltedges, 5/-.

MIDSHIPMITE CURLY. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth extra, gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW.

Author of "Dickie's Attic."

TALKS WITH AUNT KATIE. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

TWILIGHT STORIES. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, gold back, 1/-.

OUT IN STORM. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo,gold back, 9d.

KITTY'S CHARGE. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.

LUCIA'S TRUST. With coloured frontispiece. Cloth, 6d.

Tales of
English Life in the Olden Time.

By EMILY S. HOLT.

"We know of no one whose historical fiction is more trustworthy."—Spectator.

"Miss Holt's historical tales are all most interesting and profitable,for they teach of what happened in the former and darker ages, and howclearer light has come to us, brought in by fierce struggle and firmadhesion to principle and to the right."—The Freeman.

Crown 8vo, 1/6 each.

OUT IN THE '45. A Story of the Jacobites, 1745.

"No one can fail to find pleasure in the quaint, picturesque tale which Miss Holtsets forth."—Spectator.

THE WELL IN THE DESERT. An Old Legend, 1345.

"The author has given herself to a class of literature in which she unquestionablyexcels."—Literary World.

THE WAY OF THE CROSS. A Tale of the Second Century.

"The book has a simple beauty about it which cannot fail to commend it."—Baptist.

THE SLAVE GIRL OF POMPEII. A Tale of the First Century.

MISTRESS MARGERY. A Story of the Lollards, 1400.

"The author has the pen of an artistic writer."—Athenæum.

CLARE AVERY. A Story of the Spanish Armada, 1588.

"Full of thrilling interest."—Word and Work.

THE KING'S DAUGHTERS. How two Girls kept the Faith,1556.

"A stirring picture of the time."—Daily Telegraph.

THRO' THE STORM; or, The Lord's Prisoners, 1544.

FOR THE MASTER'S SAKE; or, The Days of Queen Mary,1566.

"We heartily commend it."—Churchman.

ONE SNOWY NIGHT; or, Long Ago at Oxford, 1159.

STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE.

Author of "Sun, Moon, and Stars," etc.

LIFE IN A NUTSHELL. A Story. Illustrated. LargeCr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"A very refreshing tale of devotion and care."—Record.

"The story of a girl's life and love pleasantly told."—Athenæum.

"A charming story."—Presbyterian.

IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Agnes Giberne has never written a prettier tale. The characters are made to live,and there is a refreshing tone running throughout the whole."—Record.

"Should be a pronounced favourite."—Bookseller.

WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews. With colouredillustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"The treatment is so admirable, we can understand Miss Giberne's book being a helpto many."—Athenæum.

"Generosity and gratitude are the moral of this tale, which is very natural in thetelling."—Guardian.

FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid.With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"Thoroughly interesting and profitable, as Miss Giberne's tales always are. Weshould like to see this in every home library."—News.

"An admirable study of a simple-hearted, well-reared, and self-sacrificing child."—Spectator.

"A really beautiful little story, telling how even a child can do and suffer for Christ'sservice."—Rock.

MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley.Cr. 8vo.

"An extremely interesting book, and one that can be read with profit by all."—Schoolmaster.

MISS PRIMROSE. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, gilt, 1/-.

LITTLE EYEBRIGHT. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, gilt, 1/-.

POPULAR HOME STORIES.

By EMILY BRODIE.

OLD CHRISTIE'S CABIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 1/6.

"A capital book for young people, depicting the loveliness of a ministering life on thepart of some happy children."—Christian.

COUSIN DORA; or, Serving the King. Illustrated. LargeCr. 8vo, cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

"An admirable tale for elder girls."—Nonconformist.

HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth,plain edges, 2/-.

"Should find its way into school libraries as well as into homes."—Sunday School Chronicle.

FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE; or, Leslie Harcourt's Resolve.Large Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2/-.

NORMAN AND ELSIE; or, Two Little Prisoners. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"So true and delightful a picture that we can hardly believe we have only read aboutit; it all seems so real, and has done us so much good."—Christian.

SYBIL'S MESSAGE. Coloured frontispiece. Sm. 8vo, clothextra, 9d.

EAST AND WEST; or, The Strolling Artist. With colouredfrontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

RIGHT ABOUT FACE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo,cloth, gold back, 9d.

CAPITAL STORIES

By GRACE STEBBING.

ONLY A TRAMP. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 2/-.

"Holds the attention and extorts the admiration of the reader from first to last.Many a weighty lesson may be learnt from these pages."—Christian.

DENHAM HALL. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6.

A REAL HERO. A Story of the Conquest of Mexico. Withillustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 3/6.

"We can cordially recommend this to all youthful lovers of adventure and enterprise."—Academy.

GRAHAM'S VICTORY. A Tale of the Covenanters. Withillustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Stirring, and ably written."—Guardian.

"We heartily commend it to English boys and girls."—Sunday School Chronicle.

WINNING AN EMPIRE; or, The Story of Clive. Withillustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 5/-.

"Miss Stebbing is one of the few ladies that can write really good boys' stories. Shehas caught, not only the phraseology, but the spirit of boys."—Standard.

SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links. Withillustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"We can heartily recommend this story."—Church of England Sunday School Magazine.

BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy. Withillustrations. Large Cr. 8vo, 2/-.

"It is refreshing to meet with such a spirited and thoroughly good story."—Christian.

BOOKS FOR GIRLS

By E. A. GILLIE.

A GIRL AMONG GIRLS. Large Cr. 8vo, half-bound leather,cloth sides, 3/6; cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"A delightfully written story."—Newcastle Daily Journal.

A COMRADE'S TROTH. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, extra gilt, 2/-.

"An excellent story."—Spectator.

"A capital story."—Westminster Gazette.

Slowly she came up the pathway.

STORIES BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

THE GIRLS OF ST. OLAVE'S. A fascinating story. Withcoloured illustrations. Cloth, extra gilt, with colouredinlay, 2/-.

THE DOINGS OF DENYS. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, clothgilt, 1/6.

"Full of good thoughts as to a Christian's life and duties. The story is naturallytold."—British Weekly.

BETTY'S BRIDESMAIDS. With coloured illustrations. Cr.8vo, cloth gilt, 1/6; cloth, gold back, 1/-.

THE BOYS OF ALL SAINTS'. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

SID'S PICKLE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cloth,gold back, 9d.

THROUGH THICK AND THIN. With coloured frontispiece.Cloth boards, 6d.

By ALICE LANG.

CHUMS OF OLD ST. PAUL'S. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo,cloth, plain edges, 2/-.

A BROTHER'S RANSOM. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

TIM'S TREASURE. With coloured frontispiece. Cr. 8vo,cloth, gold back, 9d.

By E. A. BLAND.

ONLY US THREE. A Story. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, clothgilt, 1/6.

"May be read with profit and delight by everybody, whether old or young, rich orpoor."—English Churchman.

OLD CHICKWEED. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth,plain edges, 2/-.

Stories by L. Marston.

MISS MOLLIE. Illustrated. Large Cr. 8vo, cloth, plainedges, 2/-.

"The love of God is charmingly illustrated by a recital of the loving devotion of ayoung woman who bestowed affectionate care upon some poor lonely lads."—Christian.

CRIPPLE JESS. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,extra gilt, 1/6.

"Fully as engrossing as anything from the pen of Hesba Stretton."—Christian.

"A sketch well drawn of a sweet flower blooming in a very humble place."—Woman's Work.

THE KING'S MESSENGER. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 1/-.

HIRA'S QUEST. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, 1/-.

WATCHING FOR THE KING. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, 1/-.

BECKIE'S MISSION. With coloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo,cloth, 1/-.

Books by E. Everett-Green.

RUTH'S LITTLE LADY. With illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth,gilt, 1/6.

"A delightful study of children, their joys and sorrows."—Athenæum.

"One of those children's stories that charm grown people as well as little folk."—Guardian.

"A story that will be read and re-read again and again."—Teachers' Aid.

PAT, THE LIGHTHOUSE BOY. With coloured illustrations.Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A very pleasing story of lighthouse life, with something of the desert island charm."—The Guardian.

MARJORY AND MURIEL; or, Two London Homes. Withcoloured illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 1/6.

"A capital story, very prettily got up."—Record.

HIS MOTHER'S BOOK. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo, cloth, gilt, 1/6.

"Little Bill is so lovable, and meets with such interesting friends, that everybodymay read about him with pleasure."—Spectator.

THE DOCTOR'S SOVEREIGN. With coloured frontispiece.Cr. 8vo, cloth, gold back, 9d.

London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd., 3, Pilgrim Street, E.C.