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Title: The doctor's daughter

Author: Catharine Shaw


        
Release date: June 17, 2026 [eBook #78887]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd., 1907

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78887


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



[Illustration: Ruth passed the astonished Ayah.—CHAP. XVIII.]



                    _[The Arundel Family series]_


                        The Doctor's Daughter


                                  BY

                            CATHARINE SHAW

   Author of "The Gabled Farm," "Nellie Arundel," "In the Sunlight,"
                         "At Last," &c., &c.



                       JOHN F. SHAW & CO., LTD.
                           3 PILGRIM STREET
                     LUDGATE HILL, LONDON, E.C.4



                               CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I. LONELY

    II. ARTHUR ARUNDEL

   III. SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR

    IV. THE LETTER THAT WAS POSTED

     V. A CHAIN

    VI. MARY

   VII. IN THE SUNLIGHT

  VIII. THE BAY WINDOW

    IX. PROUD

     X. THE HARDEST THING

    XI. THE ARRIVAL

   XII. THE LOST LETTER

  XIII. AN ANGRY ELEPHANT

   XIV. A DREAM

    XV. AT RIVERSIDE

   XVI. INVADED

  XVII. AT THE FARM

 XVIII. NORMAN'S SUPPER

   XIX. CONFIDENCES

    XX. A PRESENT

   XXI. ON THE DOORSTEP

  XXII. HOUSEKEEPING

 XXIII. A PARTING

  XXIV. GOOD NEWS

   XXV. DISMAY.

  XXVI. INTERRUPTED

 XXVII. BY THE WINDOW

XXVIII. A SUNSET

  XXIX. MALA

   XXX. DR. BROWN'S PLAN

  XXXI. THE HOUSE IN THE TREES

 XXXII. A LARGE FAMILY

XXXIII. IN THE SHADED ROOM



                        THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.

                                  ———

CHAPTER I.

_LONELY._

"WELL, my dear!" said a quick, rather pleasant voice. "Here you are!"

"Yes, father, always here," answered another voice, as a young girl
emerged from behind the curtains of the bay window, where she had been
standing gazing out on the pretty garden. "What a wet day you have had!"

"Pretty well," he answered, as he came forward to the fire, "but I do
not feel it in the carriage as other folks do who have to trudge along
in the mud."

"No," she assented, helping him off with his coat and carrying it into
the hall; "are you ready for your tea, father?"

"I should think 'you' are," he answered, glancing at the clock. "Such
a list of patients as I have had to-day. I thought I should never get
through."

"I suppose it is the wet weather," she remarked as she rang the bell.
"It is wonderfully cold for April!"

Her father sat down in the armchair she had placed for him, and warmed
his hands in a placid way, looking round on his daughter with contented
eyes.

"Is Dr. Arundel come, father?"

"Not yet; he arrives this evening. Heigho! I'd sooner have rubbed along
by myself, I do believe, than to undertake to get someone else into the
work."

"Oh! But, then, see how the work keeps on increasing, and now we live
up the hill, it is such a long way from the town. You could not do it
all."

He smiled a little. "You know best, don't you?" he said fondly. "Here
is the teapot; pour out a cup, there's a dear; I'm weary."

She handed it to him, pressing him with pretty persuasion to take
something to eat.

She was a dainty little thing, with wavy hair, small hands and feet,
and an engaging manner.

He watched her as she moved quickly and noiselessly about, and then he
sighed.

She turned her head quickly.

"Is the tea not good?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, perfectly. Very nice, my dear."

She sat down by his side, with her own cup in her hand, and looked
into the fire. She was always disturbed if her father sighed. "I was
thinking, Ruth, that it was a mistake to have come up here to live; I
wish we had not."

"Then we will go to the town again," she answered decidedly; "it is
nothing to move."

"Nothing!" he responded. "That is all you know!"

"Why do you regret it, particularly?" asked Ruth.

"I came up here for your mother's sake, and after all, it did not save
her. Nothing could, as far as that went; but I wish I had not moved
from the town."

There was an instant's pause.

"Oh, well!" she said brightly. "We can think it over. I like being at
The Firs ten times as much as in the old frowsy town, but if you do
not, we'll go back there. I love the dear old house! See, your tea is
getting cold; let me give you another cup. Perhaps Dr. Arundel's coming
will make ever so much difference."

"I should not wonder." Then there was another sigh, and after a moment
he asked, "Let me see, how old are you, Ruth?"

"I am seventeen—" she hesitated an instant—"to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he exclaimed, rousing himself. "Why did no one tell me, or
remind me?" Then, with the heaviest sigh he had yet given, he went on,
"It was your mother who always thought of these things."

Ruth had privately wondered if he would remember. He was so clever in
all outside things. But as long as she was cheerful, and in her place
to welcome him, he seemed to think very little about her, or so she
thought.

Perhaps she was mistaken. But sometimes when she had finished a long
day of pretty ministry to him, and was shut up in her own room at
night, she would lay her head in her mother's chair and cry bitterly
for the want of she knew not what. Whether it was the lack of
mother-love or sympathy, or simple desolateness, she could not tell.

"What would you like me to give you, my dear?" asked her father,
turning round abruptly.

And Ruth's thoughts came back to the present.

"I do not know, father," she answered colouring. "Anything you like—or
nothing—"

"That is likely, is it not, my precious?" he said fondly. "Well, I
must 'cudgel my brains,' as people say; girls are curious creatures. I
expect you will have to help me?"



CHAPTER II.

_ARTHUR ARUNDEL._

AFTERNOON tea was scarcely over when the telephone bell was heard. And
in a few moments, the parlourmaid came in to say the doctor was wanted
at once.

"Oh, dear!" said Ruth. "I did hope you would have had a little peace!
However, that's the way, isn't it? There's James with the carriage; I
expect he and Dobbin have had a cup of tea, too!"

She laughed merrily, and her father, with a hasty kiss, hurried off,
and she was again alone.

Presently, after a slight knock, a pleasant elderly person entered and
came forward.

"I thought you must be lonely this wet afternoon, Miss Ruth, so I came
to see if I could do anything for you."

"No, Morris, I do not think I am. I was just going to practise my
violin."

"Master has been down on his way out to ask me what you would like for
your birthday present, miss. He's really put about that he has nothing
ready. I told him if he'd excuse my saying so, I expect you would like
to be consulted better than to have something as a surprise that you
did not exactly want."

"Yes," said Ruth, looking up, "that is just what I do feel; but I do
not know what my father would like to spend upon it! Do sit down,
Morris. Will it be too cold for you with this window open? It has
almost left off raining. But see, I will shut it. Can you spare time to
have a chat?"

The housekeeper had intended nothing else. When Ruth had no other
visitors, she often came up and did her best to pass away some of the
long, lonely afternoons.

So she sat down by the window and answered comfortably, "Well, Miss
Ruth, if I might suggest, I think it would be a good plan for the
master to tell you what he thought of spending, and then for you and me
to go to Worcester to-morrow to buy it."

Ruth smiled. "All right," she said: "that would be lovely. But you must
tell him, Morris, because if I did—well, it would seem like asking him
for a present, would it not?"

It was long past seven before the wheels were heard again, and the
carriage came up the drive. Dinner had been kept back, and Ruth had sat
with her fancy work, waiting and wondering.

To her astonishment, she heard two voices in the hall, and a great
bustle of hanging up coats. Then her father threw open the drawing-room
door, and said cheerfully, "Dr. Arundel, my dear! Dr. 'Arthur' Arundel,
as he likes to be called. I have brought him to stay with us. I thought
it was dull for him in a new place this first evening."

Ruth shook hands, and privately hoped Morris would have arranged enough
dinner for three, and that the room was ready.

It came out that her father had driven to meet his new partner at the
junction, and thinking it would be but lonely in lodgings that first
evening, he had decided to get to know him at once. Ruth was accustomed
to chance guests, and took it all calmly, listening to the conversation
very quietly, but following it with interest, her bright eyes sparkling
at anything that amused her, while her father said a word now and then
in a fond, teasing way to include her, but otherwise was absorbed in
his guest and his politics.

When dinner was over, Dr. Brown turned to her. "You have your German
to prepare, my dear, I expect. We will join you in the drawing-room
presently."

Ruth made her escape, and sat down by her little table, and tried to
busy herself with her preparation, but she found it hard work. She
forgot for a moment about the new partner, and her thoughts flew to her
birthday to-morrow, and of this time last year, when she had not been
motherless.

It seemed like a dream. She wondered if she had done everything she
could to make home happy for her father. Had she done all she could?
Morris thought she had, but then Morris could not know how often her
father gave those weary sighs. Besides, Morris thought "religion" could
ease every care under the sun, and Ruth did not see that; she could
not understand it. Her father and she did very well without it, she
thought. And even if her mother had been influenced by Morris to think
of such things, why, of course, invalids always must, and that was only
natural.

She did not know that Morris would have been shocked if she had been
told that in Ruth's thoughts what was her joy and comfort could be
called "religion!"

"It's just having Christ in your heart and in your life," she would say
to herself, as she sat in her sitting-room downstairs, "and I can but
pray that they may understand it for themselves; for it is eternal life
to them that know Him!"



CHAPTER III.

_"SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR."_

DR. BROWN and his guest came to the drawing-room for a cup of coffee,
but quickly went back to the library to talk over "the practice," and
Ruth was alone once more.

Were all her days to pass thus? A music or German lesson in the
morning, a few odd callers in the afternoon varied by an occasional
cycle ride with an old schoolfellow, then back to be ready for her
father's cup of tea, then violin practice till it was time to dress
for dinner. After which, if her father were at home, she would listen
to his paper, or hear his news of his patients. But if he were out, a
long, dreary solitude, with nothing to relieve it.

When the library door shut, Ruth's first impulse was to lean back in
her chair and enjoy her own thoughts. But she was an energetic girl,
and she shook off her dreaminess and turned to the piano, choosing a
difficult sonata that would be real hard work.

An hour passed thus, and then she heard Dr. Arundel go out at the front
door, and she went to the library at once to find her father.

"Well, little girl," he said briskly, "I think I shall get on with
him. Now we will go and have half an hour's music. I have heard you
practising."

"But, father, I thought he was going to stay the night here!"

"So he is. But he has taken some lodgings for a week, and he has had to
go back to tell them he will not be there to-night."

"Taken them for a week! How did he know of them?"

"Well, my dear, I did not ask him that. I suppose he knew someone here;
he did not say. Now, if you have done questioning me, can I have some
music?"

"Oh, I have not heard anything yet! Do tell me—"

"Eh? There is nothing special to tell you. He is very nice, and much
more friendly than I expected."

"Yes—but 'is' he married? Did you find that out?"

"Married? Yes, I told you so. I thought when I saw him in Northampton
he said so. He has taken these lodgings here that he may look round,
and then his wife will come, and they will choose a house together."

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm glad. I wonder what she will be like?"

"He speaks very highly of her. She was a Miss Linthorpe. Do you not
remember that my cousin, Mr. Brown, of Grange Park, married one of
those girls? Very nice people, I believe."

"Oh, I know! Alice—that was the name of the one who married Mr. Brown.
I have heard ever so much about them. Is this one young or old?" asked
Ruth eagerly.

"Young, I should think. It seems he had fixed his heart on her years
ago."

"Now, that is nice," said Ruth enthusiastically. "I shall like them, I
do believe."

"May I have my music now?" he asked, smiling a little.

"Oh, yes! But you cannot wonder that I wanted to know about Dr. Arundel
and his wife! Why, father, to have a friend will be something to live
for!"

"Something to live for?" Dr. Brown looked at her anxiously for a moment.

Was her life too cramped and dull up here at The Firs? Was he keeping
his treasure to himself to her detriment?

That must be thought of in those long hours when she was gone to bed,
and when he generally paced sorrowfully up and down his lonely library.

So, putting aside the anxious thoughts till another time, he said
cheerfully: "By the bye, Morris says I am to tell you what I am going
to spend, and she thinks you would like to get your birthday present
yourself. That's a good idea. Let's see. Would this get anything you
want?"

He fished in his pocket, and laid two sovereigns in her palm.

"Oh, father!" said Ruth, colouring. "Not all that!"

"Too much, is it? Then put some in the bank. No, I'm not going to take
it back. Cannot you think of anything you want?"

"Oh, I never thought of so much as this," exclaimed Ruth, "but I do
want—only I am afraid it seems grasping of me—but I think this would
buy a little silver watch! My old one is quite worn out. Would it,
father?"

"I really do not know. You and Morris find out at Worcester to-morrow.
And if it will not, I'll tell her she can spend a little more."

"Oh, no," said Ruth. "I feel sure it would."

"That is all right, then. Now play me something soothing, and then you
shall go to bed. I shall be up for Dr. Arundel."

Ruth kissed and thanked him.

And soon after, she bade him good-night, and went to her room.

There stood Morris waiting for her.

"Look, Morris!" exclaimed Ruth. "Am I not a lucky girl?"

"Very, Miss," smiled Morris; "what a nice treat for us to go to
Worcester. And to get your present, too!"

For Morris was very anxious that this birthday should be as cheerful as
possible, for she thought sadly what a change had come over the bright
prospects of her young lady in that short, and yet long, year.

She often looked in the sweet girlish face and wondered how things
were prospering within. She had a vague idea that Ruth's life was too
monotonous and quiet; that the girl wanted something more than to go
for her occasional lessons in the morning, practice all the afternoon,
and fill her time with gentle ministrations to her bereaved father. No
outside life seemed to touch her. Dr. Brown discouraged visitors, and
Ruth confided to Morris that she found he was more weary and depressed
after anyone had spent the evening with her than he was when they two
sat together quietly.

Ruth was busily thinking her own thoughts, and she burst out with
unusual eagerness:—

"And what do you think, Morris? Dr. Arundel 'is' married, and his wife
is one of those Miss Linthorpes that live near father's cousin, Mr.
Brown! Don't you remember he married one of them?"

"Oh, I know! The one that lost his two sons on the ice. Well, to be
sure!"

"Yes, and Dr. Arundel is going to telegraph for his wife to-morrow, and
if she is nice, I shall have a friend!"

"I hope she will be, miss; you must not be in too great a hurry,"
smiled the housekeeper.

"No—but, Morris, I can't tell how lonely I am. I do hope she will be
nice, but I feel sure she will!"

Morris had not seen her so animated since the beginning of her mother's
illness.

And when she left Ruth that night, she saw that her birthday and going
to Worcester had faded into the background, while the new hope of a
human friendship had done her all the good in the world.

What would this friend be? wondered the steady old servant, as she made
her way to her own domain.

"Well, well! The Lord knows," she said to herself, resting her anxiety
on Him who cared for her: "Old Morris doesn't know everything, that's
certain, and somehow or other He'll see to my young lady for me! I
haven't prayed for her since the day she was born for nothing! The Lord
doesn't disappoint His children so!"



CHAPTER IV.

_THE LETTER THAT WAS POSTED._

WHEN Ruth went upstairs, Dr. Brown crossed the carpeted hall and shut
himself in his study. He paced up and down the floor for a long time,
with his head bent down and his hands clasped behind him.

Presently, he unlocked a drawer and took out a thin, closely written
letter, and after reading it carefully, he resumed his walk up and down
again.

Was Ruth lonely? Was he allowing his own desolate feeling to injure the
child whom he loved so tenderly?

"I'll write," he ejaculated, half aloud; "I'll write this very night!
My only brother has a great claim on me, and some bright young people
will do Ruth good! I'll write to-night and make them welcome. I can't
say it is what I should have chosen, but there is no one to advise me
now. It will be some young life for Ruth, and, after all, this house is
very large and empty for two!"

He sat down to his desk and wrote busily for half an hour. Then he
chose a thin envelope, stamped it with a foreign stamp, and, putting
on his hat, took it to the post himself, thinking with a grim little
smile, "Ruth is always coaxing me to go for 'constitutionals,' so now I
will carry out her wishes!"

Little did the sleeping girl upstairs know that the whole course of her
life was to be altered by that letter!


Dr. Brown managed not to forget the birthday greetings, even though
he was decidedly full of his new partner, and was discussing possible
houses with Ruth and Dr. Arundel all breakfast-time.

Dr. Arundel left the moment after, having some letters to write at his
lodgings.

And Dr. Brown turned to Ruth with, "Well, my dear! He's a nice fellow,
isn't he?"

"Oh, I like him!" she exclaimed warmly.

Before Dr. Brown went out on his rounds, he had a moment's private
conversation with Mrs. Morris, which resulted in nods and smiles
on her part and on his, while he added, "Go to Hickson's; they are
trustworthy."

"Good-bye, my precious," he said, more cheerily than usual, to his
daughter as he ran down the steps. "Take care of yourself, and come
back to your old father as soon as you can!"

"So I will," she answered brightly, "and to-morrow, I shall have a
friend!"

"Eh?" he asked, pausing with the carriage door in his hand. "Eh?"

"Young Mrs. Arundel—"

"Oh, don't fix your hopes too much," he answered, with the caution of
experience; "new friends are not always what you expect—"

"But I've heard of those girls—and somehow anybody Mr. Arundel had
liked so long—"

"Yes, yes! Good-bye; I must go."


It was afternoon by the time Ruth and Mrs. Morris had done their
shopping, and they timed their return so that the carriage should take
them up on its way home, and thus save them the long walk up the hill
to The Firs.

They found Dr. Brown seated in it.

And the moment Ruth got in, she exclaimed: "Oh, you dear, naughty
extravagant father! To think of such a present as this! Oh, I feel as
if I had asked for more than I ought! 'Did' you think it was nasty of
me?"

She drew out of her little handbag a morocco case, and on opening it,
displayed a lovely little gold watch.

"So you like it?" asked her father.

"Like it? Why I can't tell you—"

"Then do not. I thought you and Morris would be able to find something—"

"But fancy your giving her all that money! I shall value it so much."

"Now I suppose the next thing will be a chain?" he said, pretending to
be grim.

"Oh, no—I can—I can work one, or—"

"I'll see to that. 'I' must go into Worcester now, I suppose, and see
what I can get."

So they talked on, until Ruth exclaimed suddenly, "What about Dr.
Arundel?"

"Oh, he's all right. The patients seem pleased with him, and there's
something so straight about him that I think he will take."

"When is he going to send for Mrs. Arundel?"

"He has sent already. The lodgings seem to be comfortable, and she will
be down to-morrow, I think."

"Then will he come up to dinner to-night?"

"No; he wants to make the rooms a little bright for her, and has
ordered in a few things, a plant or two, and so on."

"I wish I could help—"

"Oh, there is nothing much can be done with apartments, but what can
be, he has done. It will not be for long, you see."

"Did you show him those two houses?"

"Yes, and when she comes, she will choose. He would not even go to see
them till she came."

"That's nice!"

"You think so? Well, that is evidently what he thinks. Here we are at
home. Morris, I expect you are tired?"

"Thank you, sir; I've enjoyed myself very much," answered the
housekeeper, delighted at the brightness of Ruth's face, and that the
dreaded birthday was passing so happily.

Dr. Brown had a call that evening, so that there was no time to tell
his daughter of the new plans which filled his thoughts, and of which
that letter, on its way to India, was the expression. And as he walked
down to the town so as not to use the carriage again, he had plenty of
time to think over what he had done.

"After all, I do not think I shall say anything about it till I hear
from my brother George; it is not worth while," he thought. "George
may not be willing to part with them after all, and if he does not, it
would be a pity to raise Ruth's hopes. I wonder if she will like it?"
He paused a moment, almost with a start. But he was accustomed to think
that whatever he liked, Ruth would like, and wondering within himself
that he could have had a momentary misgiving, he dismissed it, and went
on with his soliloquy.

"It will be very nice for her to have companions, and they are near
enough her own age, too. There's Heston, the eldest boy; he's fifteen.
He'll have to go to school at Worcester, and come back for week-ends.
Then there's Judith; she's twelve, he says. And there is little
Norman; he's eight. Heigho! It's a pretty great care! But George is in
ill-health, and he is anxious about these children, and I am afraid he
does not expect to get better. I'd like to do anything I could for him,
poor fellow!"

"So Ruth is seventeen to-day! She is getting quite a little woman! But,
really, she's not much more than a child! No—she has a year or two yet
before her."

He strode on. He almost began to wish he had not posted that letter
without asking Ruth what she thought of it. But it was gone, and now
there was nothing but to wait.

"Dr. Arundel will take these evening calls for me by and by," he went
on to himself, "and I am sure he will be liked. How kindly he sat down
this morning by that young man. And while we were talking about the
case, I saw him soothing the man's pain by passing his hand up and
down his spine as he lay there. I wondered what made the poor fellow's
face change, and a look of relief come into it. Dr. Arundel had no
need to do it, and yet—yes, that was a bit of his character that came
out unexpectedly. If I do not mistake, he will not let anyone have any
suffering that he can relieve! But I greatly fear he is—rather too
religious!"

But Dr. Brown had come to his patient's, and went in from the darkness
to try to relieve another case of suffering.



CHAPTER V.

_A CHAIN._

MEANTIME, Ruth was once more alone, and as her father had gone out
directly he had swallowed his dinner, she knew she must settle herself
for a long, lonely evening. She made up the fire and sat down on the
skin rug, resting her elbow against a soft armchair in her favourite
position. If it had not been that her mind was full of her father's
partner, and where he would live, and what his young wife would be
like, her thoughts would have wandered sorrowfully over her dull,
cramped life; for unless she was rousing herself to be cheery with her
father, there was ever present with her a certain undefined feeling
that it was hard of him to frown upon all her friends, and to think
that she could do very well without them.

But to-night her little ticking watch, her change of scene at
Worcester, her anticipations of an outside interest, and her hopes of
a friend made her quite happy. And she sat there dreaming of what she
would do, and how she would plan, till her head sank on her arm and her
day-dreams lost themselves in a real sleep.

"Hullo! All in the dark!" said Dr. Brown's voice. "Where are you Ruth?
Ring for the lights, my dear. Why, I've something to show you!"

Ruth sprang up, and soon there was a blaze of light, and the maid
brought tea.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I got thinking, and fell asleep, I believe."

"I believe you did! Well, there is a man waiting in the servants' hall
who has an interesting parcel under his arm!"

Ruth looked amazed. What could her father mean?

"And if he is to catch the last train back, we must release him.
I determined I would not be 'done,' even if I had forgotten your
birthday!"

"But you had not! See here?"

"Tell him to walk up," said Dr. Brown.

So the young man came in, and the parcel was opened on the ottoman, and
its contents spread out before Ruth's astonished eyes.

"I thought I should not be in Worcester for a long time, so I
telephoned to Hickson to send me over some chains, and here they are!
You can choose the one that pleases you best, for I told Hickson they
were all to be within the price I named."

"Oh, father! But may Morris come up? I should like her to help me
choose. She was so kind over my watch."

"Certainly."

So Morris was sent for, and a happy three bent over the glittering
cases, while Ruth, satisfied that she might suit her taste without any
fear of being what she called "grasping," chose the very chain of all
others that she had wished to possess—a long, delicate one which she
assured her father would keep her dear watch much safer than one that
would let it fall out of her belt.

"If you are pleased, I am!" he said, and took the man into the library
to settle the bill, while Morris stood by with beaming smiles.

"When master sets at a thing, he does it quickly, doesn't he, Miss
Ruth?" she said. "To think of his having telephoned for them."

"Indeed he does! Has the young man had any supper?"

"Oh, I've seen to that while he was waiting for master. And he was
grateful, for he had had nothing since midday. He missed the train
through a mistake, or he would have been here at seven."

So ended Ruth's birthday; for as soon as her father had taken his tea,
she wished him good-night and went up to her room.

There she found Morris making up the fire.

"Oh, Morris! How kind of you! Did Jane forget it?"

"No, miss; she was just coming up, but I said I would come as it is
your birthday."

Ruth stood looking into the fire for a moment in silence, and Morris
turned over her pretty presents thoughtfully.

"You have been very kind to me to-day, Morris, and I appreciate it.
I've had a very nice birthday."

"I'm so glad, my dear," said Morris, in her comfortable voice.

But as she kissed her dear young lady and went downstairs, she said to
herself, "Well, well! There's no one but Jesus can comfort her truly;
and if she will not allow me to say much to her, she cannot hinder me
from praying. And the Lord can draw her to Him in His own time and way;
and I believe He will!"



CHAPTER VI.

_MARY._

"FATHER!" said Ruth at breakfast the next morning. "I want to go and
make Mrs. Arundel's acquaintance. What time is she coming?"

Dr. Brown looked up from his paper with some surprise in his eyes.

"To-day?" he asked.

"Yes, to-day!" answered Ruth decidedly. "I am hoping to have a friend
to-day, father!"

"My dear child, do not be in such a hurry. Wait till you get to know
her. She may be the sweetest girl in the world (except a certain little
girl that I love), but then, she may not. Do not be in such a hurry!"

"But I am in a hurry," persisted Ruth, smiling. "If you knew how I have
longed—at least, if you could understand what I feel, you know—you dear
old father, you would let 'your duckling swim on the pond'!"

"Well!" he answered good-humouredly. "The old hen, as I conclude you
consider me, must stand and watch at the edge, I suppose."

"The duckling did not come to any harm, now did it, father?"

"No-o," he said reluctantly, "but the old hen never had it as her own
afterwards!"

"Oh, you naughty father!" exclaimed Ruth, jumping up and coming round
to kiss him. "Just as if I should be anything but your own little girl,
however many friends I had!"

"Yes, yes," he assented rather absently, which Ruth instantly
perceived, for he was thinking about that letter already on its way in
the mail steamer to India.

"Then," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "what time is she
coming? Did you hear?"

"By the four o'clock train from London."

"Then I will go down with you in the carriage and call upon her about
five. Will you tell Dr. Arundel if you see him?"

"Oh, I shall see him! We shall be about together all the morning."

"Have you told him what a dear old house ours was in the town?"

"Yes; for many reasons that would be the wisest for him to take. But he
will not express an opinion till his wife has seen it."

"There is that villa on the Worcester road that is very nice and
modern—I wonder if he will take that?" said Ruth.

Dr. Brown was so astonished at what he called Ruth's "curiosity," that
he went on reading his paper without answering, to give himself a
little time to think.

This was Ruth in a new light! Perhaps he had kept her too closely shut
up. It rather dismayed him.

"There! I will not worry you!" she exclaimed, quickly perceiving his
troubled look, and jumping up to kiss his puckered forehead. "I shall
find out all about it myself. You need not fear that I shall be too
full of 'curiosity' when I see her. That is only for your benefit."

So she relapsed into silence, and soon he finished his breakfast and
went to his study, where he busied himself with his books, or studied
his cases, unless a chance patient should come from the country round,
or make his way up from the town to catch the doctor before he started
on his rounds.

Ruth meanwhile made a pretence of ordering dinner, which her mother
had told her it was her duty to do. She generally went to Morris's
sitting-room, and together they planned the day's doings, set the
accounts right, and paid the bills. Then she went back to the
preparation of her German, and at eleven o'clock was ready to start
in the carriage with her father to take her lesson, walking home in
time for her solitary lunch. Her father had his in the town at a
pastry-cook's near his surgery, where now he had a comfortable, quiet
room and nicely cooked meal ready at one o'clock.

Just outside the town, at one of the houses along the Worcester road,
Dr. Brown's carriage stopped about five o'clock.

With a nod and smile at her father, Ruth alighted and ran up the flight
of steps to the door. Her father, as he drove off, did not guess what
a very pit-a-pat heart was beating beneath that arch, half-audacious
little look!

And then, Ruth found herself being welcomed by Dr. Arundel with the
words, "How kind of you to look us up! Mary, this is Miss Brown."

Then, as Mrs. Arundel came forward, he added, "I shall leave you to
make acquaintance, as I have to meet Dr. Brown at the surgery at five."

He was gone in a moment, and Ruth found herself in the presence of a
pleasant, rather pretty girl, with frank, dove-like eyes, and gentle,
straightforward manners.

Whether she thought all that in the one shy glance she gave her, or
came to the conclusion afterwards, she was not sure. But she told
Morris when she reached home that she fell in love with her on the spot.



CHAPTER VII.

_IN THE SUNLIGHT._

"SIT down," said Mary, when Dr. Arundel had left them. "How very kind
of you to come so soon—"

"I hope I am not intruding! But indeed I do want to know you; I have
been so looking forward to your coming—and—and—I do want a friend so
badly!"

Mary looked at the young face, at the deep mourning dress, and could
not withstand the appeal of the glistening eyes.

She bent her taller head, and kissed Ruth gently. "I feel sure we shall
be friends," she said.

There was a moment's silence, as if both of them were a little
astonished at the unconventionality of their greeting. Mary found a
lump in her throat, and Ruth brushed away two tears which had somehow
got into her eyes.

"You have not seen our rooms, have you?" asked Mary, recovering her
voice. "I think they are very nice till we get our own house; do not
you?"

"I was admiring this very much," said Ruth. "How bright Dr. Arundel has
made it."

"Yes he is very clever at that sort of thing," said his wife, smiling,
"they all are. He seems to know by intuition what will make people
comfortable."

"How nice," exclaimed Ruth. "I can well believe it from what my father
said."

"It is a great gift," said Mrs. Arundel.

"I do hope you will be comfortable—"

"We advertised for rooms in the local paper; my husband thought we
should enjoy furnishing our house together."

"I think that is a lovely way," said Ruth.

"We have bought most of the furniture in London during our honeymoon,"
said the bride, blushing; "we have had such a busy fortnight! But it
was all fun."

"And the things will be sent when you have found a house?"

"Yes—Dr. Arthur has not had time to tell me much, but you will know the
district and can tell us the advantages and disadvantages."

"Our old house is empty!" said Ruth. "That is in the very middle of the
town, and is a dear old house, with a nice surgery and old-fashioned
rooms, and—oh, a lovely garden!"

"A garden!" said Mary, with brightening eyes.

"Yes, you would not think it from the street, but it slopes away
behind, a narrow piece at first, and then it widens till it is quite
large, ending with a meadow and the river."

"Oh!" was all Mary could say.

"Yes; my father always has regretted leaving it, but I like being up
on the hill myself. I love wide views, and the Welsh hills in the
distance, and the feeling of liberty. Do you know that feeling?"

Ruth paused, blushing at her candid speech. Was she sailing out on the
pond her father talked of, too suddenly?

But Mary answered thoughtfully—

"I think I know what you mean! But I am not quite sure whether it is
wise to encourage too much dreaming—"

"Is that dreaming?" asked Ruth, her thoughts on the wide prospect,
the green fields and hedges, the undulating hills near, the changing
colours and the blue distances.

"Though I am not 'very' old," said Mary, smiling, "I have thought a
great deal, and gradually my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ has filled
all my life with the desire first of all to be His, and to live for
Him—"

Ruth was silent, but she turned very white. Perhaps she had never
had such a shock in her life before, as those tender, gently spoken,
earnest words.

Was this her friend? Was there at the outset a barrier to the
friendship which she had been so counting on? Her heart sank.

Mary saw the change in her face instantly.

"Dear Ruth, may I call you Ruth? I see you have not thought about this,
and it shocks you. But it is my greatest joy, and by and bye it will be
yours, I hope."

Mary got up and kissed her again, a kiss full of something which Ruth
felt was like a blessing.

"Now come and see my little domain," said Mrs. Arundel brightly. "You
will excuse the number of boxes, for I have only been here an hour, and
have not unpacked a thing. There! I have never thanked you for those
lovely flowers you sent."

"Oh, that is nothing—"

"You and I shall have to 'learn' each other, you know, and I shall have
to introduce you to my brothers and sisters—Harry and Alice and Flora,
and Vincent, my twin; and Archie and Rose. My sister Alice is Dr.
Brown's cousin. Is it not strange? I mean, how circles meet."

"Yes; I expect I have heard more about you than you about me," said
Ruth, smiling. "Our housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, comes from your part, and
was there when there was that dreadful accident on the ice—oh, I should
not have said anything about that!" exclaimed Ruth, stopping short at
the change in her companion's face.

"Ah!—" said Mary. "I can never think of that day without such a pain at
my heart as seems to give me a sort of blow."

"I did not know you—?"

"That I had anything to do with it? No, I daresay not. But those
were the days in which I was living, not 'In the Sunlight' of God's
love, but 'out of it.' If I had stood up for the right that day, that
accident might never have happened."

"Oh, I am so sorry I so thoughtlessly alluded to it!"

"No, do not be sorry. We shall be the better friends. For you will see
in knowing me that I am full of faults—but oh, I do want to please God!"

Just then a carriage was heard drawing up at the door, and Dr. Arundel
came in to announce to Ruth that her father was waiting for her.

With a hasty, but very warm good-bye, Ruth hurried off. At the door,
she turned back to Mary for one moment, and said earnestly, "Thank you
for telling me; I shall never forget your confidence!" And then she was
gone.

"A nice little girl," said Arthur Arundel.

"A very nice little girl," answered Mary. "Oh, Arthur, I pray to be
made a blessing to her."



CHAPTER VIII.

_THE BAY WINDOW._

"WELL?" asked Dr. Brown, as the carriage rolled swiftly homewards,
Dobbin as well as the coachman knowing that they had done for the day.
"Well?"

Ruth knew that question would come, and she was not prepared to answer
it at the moment.

"Is she all you expected?" he asked, as she did not volunteer any
answer. He had anticipated a stream of enthusiastic delight, and was
surprised and almost dismayed.

"She is far more than I expected," said Ruth slowly, as if making up
her mind as she went along. "Quite different—and nicer in every way
than I expected—"

"Then you are not disappointed?"

"No, I am not disappointed," said Ruth, "but do you know, father, I can
hardly tell you yet what I feel. With Mrs. Arundel, you come down to
the heart of things; you do not just skim the surface."

They relapsed into silence; Dr. Brown because he was so surprised at
all Ruth said, and Ruth because her mind was full, and she could not
forget the look of that earnest face, which had seemed like a glimpse
into a new world.

After dinner, Ruth told her father that Mrs. Arundel had asked her
to come and show them the old house, and that she had promised to go
directly after her violin lesson in the morning.

Her father was interested in this, and reminded her of different
excellencies to be pointed out.

"I wish he would take it," he said, "for numbers of people feel as if
the practice clung round that house, and if any strange doctor set up
there, we should lose half the patients, I believe."

"I hope he will," said Ruth, "but these rainy days will not show it
off."


However, the morrow turned out sunny, to Ruth's great joy.

And when she called for Mrs. Arundel, she found her with her hat on
ready, and Dr. Arundel came in almost directly, and proposed to set out
at once.

"Have you been over the house in this road?" asked Ruth, a little
timidly, as they shut the gate behind them.

"Yes, we have already been this morning. It is on the same plan as our
lodgings," said Mrs. Arundel, "so we could judge pretty well. But we do
not like that flight of steps up to the door."

"No," answered Ruth, "and Morris says they do take up a servant's time,
and a doctor has to have them so clean!"

She laughed and blushed. "Please excuse me if I give advice! My father
says I know everything! He is laughing at me, of course. But indeed I
do not mean to be interfering!"

"I am quite sure of that," said Dr. Arundel heartily, "and we shall
be most grateful for any hints. We are young at it, besides being
strangers here."

They had already turned their steps to the old house, and in a few
minutes were standing at the familiar door, and Ruth produced her
father's latchkey.

"Father has kept on this house till he had a partner," she remarked, as
they stepped into a square hall, which opened flat from the street.

"This is the dining-room," said Ruth, turning to a pleasant room on the
right. "It is very cheerful at breakfast, because it faces east, and
people cannot see in much with wide thin curtains. We used to have a
plant in each window which made a nice shield."

Then she opened a door at the back of the room, and Mary gave an
exclamation of delight, for the whole of the end of the room they
entered was filled up with a low bay window opening with French doors
out to the lawn, which sloped gently away from the house, down and
down, till it was lost in graceful shrubs and foliage, between which
could be seen a green meadow and the glittering water of the river.

"How lovely!" Mary exclaimed, turning to her husband. "Oh, Arthur!"

"Does it suit you better than the Worcester Road, Mary? Because, as far
as we have seen, it suits me."

"Then there is the surgery on that side," pursued Ruth, "and the
kitchens behind it. I will wait here while you look at the rest of
it, for you will like to be able to take it all in quietly. My father
hardly liked my coming, for fear I should be too enthusiastic—"

Dr. Arundel smiled. "I do not mind a little enthusiasm in this workaday
world. Come, Mary, as Miss Brown wishes it, we will go up 'and take it
all in' as she suggests."

Ruth sat down on the window seat, and looked out over the
well-remembered prospect. She had never entered the old home since her
mother's death, and every corner of the rooms was associated with her
presence, not as the invalid which she had been at The Firs, but as the
mother who had been the centre and joy of her father's life, and of
hers.

And then her mind flew to those brief weeks in which sudden illness had
come on, and though they had moved to high ground, how all had been
unavailing. But it was not that which Ruth dwelt on now; somehow the
sloping garden and the gleaming river had brought back one memorable
day.

It was about a week before they moved, and Ruth remembered afterwards
that her mother had latterly got used to sitting in the garden a great
deal, and even had a couch lifted out there to rest on. It had also
become the practice for Morris to bring her work out to keep her mother
company. But Ruth had never guessed what it meant. She was busy with
her lessons, and went in and out to the High School only full of the
absorbing interest of her education.

But one Friday afternoon, when she came through the house to find her
mother in the garden and ran to her with the exclamation, "There! I'm
'off duty till Monday,' as the nurses say," she noticed that her mother
looked up at her more earnestly than usual, and that Morris got up with
her needle in her hand, and began to move towards the house.

"Don't go, Morris!" she had said.

But Morris murmured something about "Your mother's tea."

And Ruth threw her bag of books down on the grass, and bent and kissed
her mother in her usual careless, loving little way.

Ah, the last time that kiss was ever careless!

"Sit down, dear," said her mother gently, and something in the tone
struck Ruth as unusual. "I wanted—I wanted to see you—"

"Why, little mother, you see me often enough, don't you?" Ruth had
answered. "Have I been too full of my girls and my music?" she added,
with compunction. "I did not mean it."

"No, dearest—oh, no. But, Ruth—I do not know how to tell you—but I
must—I have not been very strong lately."

"No; but the new house is to make you well, you know! We shall soon be
up there, and father thinks—"

"He 'hopes,' Ruth—he does not think. But in case I do not get well, in
case I get more weak, I wanted to tell you something—"

Ruth heard as if in a dream. There was a sound of rushing in her ears,
and she felt cold chills creeping over her.

"Ruth, dear!" The thin hand was put out and took hers. She had
never noticed how thin it was till that moment. "Ruth, dear, there
is something I want to say to you very much. Lately I have been
thinking—thinking about preparing to meet God! At first, when I began
to be ill, it was a very dreadful thought. I remembered so many things
that I wished had been different. I was overwhelmed at first to
remember that I had lived without thinking much about God at all, or
trying to please Him; I had never given it a thought. Oh, Ruth! What I
felt when I had to confess I had never given God a thought!

"And then Morris tried to comfort me. She read me a verse out of her
little textbook:

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"And she told me how she had found Jesus Christ 'faithful to forgive,'
and how glad and happy she had been ever since.

"And, Ruth, I was so miserable and so hopeless, that I just did as dear
old Morris read from that text. I confessed everything to my Saviour,
Who had died for me, and I found Him faithful to forgive—"

And then Ruth remembered how she had burst away from the detaining
hand, and had rushed indoors and up to her own room. She remembered
flinging herself down by her window, and looking at that prospect!

She remembered how green the trees were, how the river had sparkled in
the sunshine, and how she had cried out in her bitterness that God was
hard and cruel, for did not her mother mean that she was surely going
to die?

From that day, Ruth was an altered girl. Her school life, her interest
in the town doings, everything seemed swept away by the thought that
God was cruel, and if it was necessary to love Him, she never would
have that eternal life which her mother spoke of with such growing joy.

She shut her heart up, and nothing that her mother or Morris could say
seemed to make the least impression.

"I did without it before, and I must do without it now," she once said
to Morris, in a hard tone, "so let me alone, Morris!"

So as Ruth gazed at the prospect, all that scene swept over her. If
ever it had come across her, she dismissed the unwelcome thought as
quickly as she could, rushing at her German or music with all the
energy of her young, strong nature, and striving to forget that she had
ever had a mother who had looked at her out of wistful eyes, and who
had whispered that last day:

   "'We love Him, because He first loved us!'"

But her reverie was interrupted, and she was brought back to the
present by voices on the stairs. With a sudden start, she thought—

"And now, when at last I have got a friend, she thinks the same
as—'that!'"



CHAPTER IX.

_PROUD._

DR. ARTHUR ARUNDEL did take the house in the town, and Ruth found that
her life was no longer without interest.

Mary, as she begged Ruth to call her, was delighted to have her
society, and claimed her help in arranging the dear old rooms, so that
in a few weeks everything was done, and they had "settled in," as Ruth
called it.

She and Mary had, of course, often had a good deal of talk, but after
that first day there had been no great confidences between them. Ruth
held back, as she had held back with Morris, all that sad year since
her mother's death, and Mary saw that her heart was not yet ready
to open out. She was affectionate, saucy, matter-of-fact, and even
brilliant by turns, but Mary knew she had only seen the real Ruth once,
and that once was nearly two months ago now.

One morning, she saw Ruth pass with her violin-case, and ran to the
window to wave her hand to her. She was surprised to see a very pale,
set little face turn round, and then a pair of dark, almost glittering
eyes met hers.

Mary opened the casement, and said: "Shall you be in afterwards?"

And Ruth nodded without a word, and hurried on.

"Mary!" exclaimed Arthur, coming in presently, "What are you looking
at, my dear?"

"I was watching for Ruth! Somehow, she looks as if she had had some
blow—"

"Oh! I thought Dr. Brown seemed rather disturbed this morning, and I
asked him if he felt well. He replied a little testily that he had
received a letter from India which had—had—worried him. But he did not
explain."

Mary turned from the window, where she had been eagerly watching the
door of the High School, which could be seen across the road.

"New friends?" he smiled, as he put his hand on her shoulder. "Poor
little Mary!"

"But they were not of my seeking," she answered quickly, "and I can
only do with my life what God sends into it."

"Yes, indeed, dearest! I am glad He sent 'me' into it," he added gently
and reverently.

"So am I," she answered.

"I must be off—I hope the news little Miss Brown may bring will not
really be serious. Good-bye, my dearest!"

Mary put the room straight, and did not look anxiously from the window
any more. Those few words with her husband had made her recall what
was her life motto: "Bless me, and make me a blessing." So with rested
heart, she put herself afresh into God's Hands to be used as He wished,
and then her path seemed clear before her.

She took her work into the cosy drawing-room, and placing the chair
Ruth liked by the window, she sat down to wait. It was not long before
the light, quick steps were heard in the hall, and after a slight tap,
Ruth entered.

She put her violin-case in its accustomed corner, and came to Mary's
side without speaking. Once or twice she tried, but the voice did not
come.

"I am afraid something is the matter, dear?" said Mary, kissing her.
"Sit down here on your own little chair, and tell me if you can."

Ruth stood looking out of the window, and after some moments' silence,
she said, with husky voice, "I have quarrelled with my father—"

"'Quarrelled?'" echoed Mary. It seemed such an impossible word.

"Yes," assented Ruth. "I never in my life had a wry word with him
before. We both got angry and lost our tempers, and he shut himself up
in his study till he went to his patients, and never came to wish me
good-bye; and I—"

"And you?" asked Mary, too dismayed to waste words.

"I sat for two hours as if I were turned to stone—and then came out to
my lesson."

"But what could be the cause," said Mary, "if I may ask the question?"

"You may ask," answered Ruth, in a hard tone. "He has written to India
without consulting me, inviting my uncle's three children to come over
to live with us, and they will be here in a week!"

"And that causes your grief? I see it does, poor Ruth—"

"Grief?" echoed Ruth in her turn. "It has spoilt my life!"

Mary did not attempt consolation in words yet. Swiftly her heart
rose in prayer to Him who was her "Strong habitation, whereunto" she
"continually resorted." And then, putting her hand softly on the rigid
little ones, she said tenderly, "Come and sit down. How came it about,
dear?"

Ruth shook her head. Then, after a moment, she said, as if her tongue
were parched: "Uncle wrote, two months ago—he asked for them to come.
My father said yes—and that is all."

"I suppose your uncle needed to send them very much, or he would not
have parted—?" Mary hesitated.

Ruth gave a short gasp. "I suppose he did—he is dying."

"Dying!"

"Yes," she burst forth, "and you will think I am a cruel, cruel girl!
But if only—oh, Mary, if only my father had asked me—had taken me into
his confidence! If only we had tried to bear it together, I should not
have minded so much!"

"It is a great blow for you," said Mary, slowly. "I can understand a
little about it, because when I was younger, I had something like it.
Not so bad as yours, but very bad to me at the time. And it turned to
blessing, Ruth! Indeed it did."

"This never will," exclaimed Ruth, passionately. "If only he had not
kept it to himself all this time, I could have borne it—"

"'If onlys' lead to distraction," said Mary, very softly. "I have
learned by many ups and downs that, somehow or other, God turns things
to blessings to them that love Him."

"Ah!" said Ruth, withdrawing her hand hastily. "But then, you see, I
don't."

"Not yet," said Mary gently, "but I have hopes—"

There was a long silence. Then Ruth burst out impetuously, "I hate to
trouble you with all this! I think I will go home now, Mary, and when I
have got over the shock and am more myself again, I will come back. I
have no one to speak to—"

Then she broke down, and, laying her proud little head in Mary's lap,
she wept and wept till some of the anger began to die down in her heart.

"What must your dear father be feeling?" said Mary at length, as she
smoothed the wavy hair, and ever and anon kissed the bowed head.

Ruth started. "He should not have used me so," she said bitterly.

"I am sorry he did," said Mary. "I dare say he is sorry, too. I dare
say he never thought it would hurt you so."

Ruth shook her head.

"I have a very tender father at home," said Mary, and as she said it
she could hear his gentle 'What is it, Molly? There is nothing too hard
for God!' And her eyes filled with soft tears. "And he told me, Ruth,
that children have no idea of the love their fathers and mothers bear
them: have no idea of the pain that they feel if any alienation arises
between them and their children."

"I never thought it could," said Ruth, very low. "I thought it was as
impossible for me to be angry with my father, as for the sun to fall
from the sky. And yet—yet I am more angry—I have been more angry than I
have ever been in my life."

Her face, which had been raised for a moment in her eagerness, was
buried again, but her hand in touching Mary's gave it a little pressure.

"Dear Ruth!" said Mary lovingly, "Will you not go to him and try to
comfort him?"

"I do not think I can—yet."

"Think how sad he must be about his brother!"

"Yes," said Ruth, "I know that. But he ought to have told me."

"I think he ought," said Mary, hesitating a little, "but I cannot think
that, even if he had made an error in judgment, it could justify a
daughter in feeling as you have. Forgive me, dear; I should not be a
true friend if I did not say so."

"You are a true friend," said Ruth brokenly, "and I thank you. But all
the same for that, I can't make myself feel right, and so it is of no
use saying I do."

"Certainly not," said Mary decidedly, "but—"

Ruth was a little startled.

"What do you mean?" she asked, raising her head, and her eyes meeting
Mary's.

"I mean that what is utterly impossible to us, God can do."

"Not this," said Ruth. "As you say, it is utterly impossible, with my
present feelings."

"If we were to ask God, it would be done," said Mary firmly. "Are you
willing to 'ask?'"

Ruth could not answer. Thought after thought chased through her heart
and her brain. Could she, would she? How could that proud, stubborn
will, which since she could remember had never allowed itself to bow,
how could she voluntarily ask God to bow it for her?

But her father! Her dear, bereaved father! Could she hold out against
Mary's loving persuasions? Could she dare to estrange herself one
moment longer from that dear father whom she had vowed to cherish and
comfort?

And then God! She who had never asked a single favour of God, could
she ask now to have her will made ready to do His will? But Mary was
speaking softly, and the words that reached Ruth's astonished ears were
these—

   "Oh, dear Lord Jesus Christ, Thou who knowest how hard it is to say
'Thy Will, not mine, be done,' bring us both to desire from the heart
that which Thou dost command. Amen."

And Mary heard a broken whispered echo of her Amen, just before Ruth
flung her arms round her neck, sobbing out: "Oh, I will go, I will go!
How could I stay away from him like this!"



CHAPTER X.

_THE HARDEST THING._

WHEN Ruth stepped into the carriage which called for her at four
o'clock, to her surprise her father was not seated in it. Concluding
that he had been detained somewhere, she sat buried in thought till
they drew up at The Firs.

Directly she got in, instead of going upstairs which was her usual
custom, she rang for Mrs. Morris, who came at once.

"Oh, Morris," she exclaimed, "I suppose father has been detained. Will
you come and have a cup of tea with me?"

"Master came home at one o'clock, Miss Ruth," she answered; "he is gone
to lie down."

Ruth's heart stood still. "Was he not well?" she asked hurriedly.

"So he said, dear. He would not have anything, but just wanted to be
quiet, he said."

Ruth was already half-way to the hall, and then she disappeared up the
stairs, and Morris heard her tap softly at her father's door.

A voice said, "Come in."

And Ruth advanced to the sofa, where her father was lying with a rug
over him.

She knelt down by his side, and put her arms round his neck. "Oh,
father, father!" she whispered. "I never meant to grieve you! Is it
what I said that has made you feel ill? What is it?"

He did not respond very heartily to her beseeching tone; she felt his
head withdrawn slightly from her kisses, and he turned his face away.

"Can't you tell me?" she urged piteously.

"You would not understand," he answered slowly.

Ruth clasped him the closer, sorrow and dismay in her voice, as
she exclaimed, "I never meant it! I was only thinking of my own
disappointment. It was very cruel of me—I never thought! Can you not
forgive me, father?"

"I will try," he said huskily, sitting up and shivering a little. "Go
down now, and I will come presently."

Thus dismissed, she found herself once more in the drawing-room,
looking with blank face into Morris's anxious one.

"Morris! You know about it?" she said, almost inarticulately.

"Yes; Master told me. He was very grieved, dearie, and very sorry to
have hurt you."

"But he is angry, too, is he not, Morris?" she asked, with burning
cheeks.

"I think so, Miss. Oh, my childie! What did you say to him to vex him
so?"

Ruth hung her head. "I was in a passion, and I said he had spoiled my
life—"

"Oh, my dear!"

"It was very wicked of me! He did not mean it, he did not know. Mrs.
Arundel has shown me that; and I came back to ask him to forgive
me—but, Morris, he hasn't."

She sat down utterly crushed, while Morris poured out some tea for her.

"Drink this, dearie, then you will be more fit to be cheerful when he
comes down! You must remember that men are not always just like women.
They do not take so much notice of little things, but if a thing does
hurt them, they are much harder to come round than we are. At least,
that is what I have noticed."

Ruth looked hopeless. Her passion and her unforgiveness seemed to look
worse than ever.

"Morris, what can I do?" she asked, imploringly.

"Only ask God, dearie, to make a way out of it for you."

"But it was so wrong of me! So thoughtless of his sorrow; so selfish!"

She broke off suddenly, for there was a step on the stairs, and the
Doctor came in, looking as if ten years had been added to his life
since that morning.

"Oh, father, father!" again said Ruth. "I will try to make it up to
you! But oh, do forgive me when you can—"

She looked pitifully in his face, and he allowed her to nestle in his
arms. But after a momentary pressure, he turned to the fire, and said:
"I should like a cup of tea, if you do not mind; and then you can read
the paper to me."

Thus ended Ruth's hopes of a downright reconciliation. She had said she
would never forgive him, but little did she think, when those hasty
words crossed her lips, that it would be he who would find it so hard
to forgive her!

From that time, quiet preparations were made to welcome the new
inmates. Morris only remarked to Ruth and to the servants that they
must all remember it was Master's house; and he could do what he
thought best with his own: and she set about all matters connected with
their visitors with cheerful alacrity.

Ruth was too sorrowful to care now for anything except to see to the
necessary work of getting the rooms ready, and to arrange with her
father, and then with Morris, where her cousins were to sleep and what
they would do.

Dr. Brown gradually resumed almost his ordinary manner, but Ruth knew
the difference, and it cut her to the heart.


Mary gave her the same advice as Morris did. "You can pray, now, dear
Ruth," she said, "so pray every time it crosses your mind, and somehow
or other God will bring light out of darkness!"

"If I could only think so!" she would mourn.

"Have you not seen 'the impossible' done once?" asked Mary, in that
little blunt tone that Ruth had got to love.

So Ruth began to pray. And though she knew but little of God, her
faith, by the very exercise she gave it, began to grow.

One morning, she called to see Mary, and directly she had greeted her,
she exclaimed, "I cannot stay a minute. We have had a telegram to say
they will be here with their Ayah by the four o'clock train.

"You will find, I hope, that it is not as bad as you expected—it is
very bad for you to-day, dear."

Ruth shook her head. "I feel as if their coming is positively nothing
to the fear I have that my father is angry with me still—"

Mary looked in her face with loving solicitude. "That will be better by
and by if you go on praying about it."

"Yes," answered Ruth, sorrowfully, "but it is so bad to live through.
He does not say anything, but he is never cheery now. He is quiet and
grave, and sits in his study instead of the drawing-room. I feel more
lonely than ever. Why, it was only yesterday that I asked him if he
were coming for some music, and he just gathered up his papers, and
said he should be busy. Do you think it would be of any use to try to
make it up—I thought I had said all I could—"

Mary paused before answering, and after a moment or so, she said
slowly, "I 'think' I should just be as dutiful as ever you can, show
him by every action that you love him dearly and want to be the same as
ever. I cannot help hoping that it will be better in time, if you can
be patient."

"I know it was mostly my own fault, for being so angry and saying those
hard things."

"Yes—"

"I did ask him to forgive me, and yet he has not!"

"Forgiveness is sometimes the hardest thing! Only God can soften his
heart. When it comes, there will be no doubt about it."

Ruth threw her arms round Mary's neck.

"Ah! You do comfort!" she exclaimed. "How is it?"

"Because I've been 'comforted of God' myself," she answered simply.



CHAPTER XI.

_THE ARRIVAL._

RUTH and Morris stood at the window overlooking the drive, long before
the travellers could by any possibility arrive from the station, were
the train never so punctual.

Ruth was pale and flushed by turns, and Morris had hard work to cheer
her into any degree of pleasant anticipation. Her father's continued
depression, and the feeling of his displeasure, weighed on her spirits
like a gloomy cloud over what might otherwise have been a bright
prospect.

Old Morris held her hand, softly stroking it with her fingers, ever and
anon suggesting gentle little hopeful sentences in answer to Ruth's
doleful prognostications.

"I know they'll be horrid!" she exclaimed at last.

"At any rate, they are almost as bad as orphans, dearie," said Morris
in answer.

Ruth drew her hand away quickly.

"Perhaps you will be able to comfort them? I expect they will be
home-sick—" said Morris.

"'Home-sick'? This will be their home now."

"Ah! But they will not feel it so at first. They have left their father
and all they love—and their mother's grave—"

Ruth turned startled eyes on the housekeeper's face.

"I never thought of them as anything but a bother—"

"No, dearie; but it makes such a difference if we think we can do
something to make them happy—and to make their lives seem a little less
forlorn in a strange land."

"'A strange land,'" echoed Ruth again. But after a moment she added,
with a heavy, weary sigh, "Oh, I don't care one way or the other! If my
father is dull and vexed with me, what is there to care about? It makes
all the rest of little consequence."

The housekeeper ventured to put her arm round Ruth's shoulders as she
used when she was a little girl. "Dearie," she said softly, "I know it
is very hard for you, but do go on as if all were just as it used to
be. The dear master is as sorrowful as you, but ask God to help you to
be your bright self, and by and by, you will see that the Lord 'will
turn darkness into light before you.'"

"That is what Mrs. Arundel says," answered Ruth, turning to kiss the
faded cheek of her old friend; "I will try, Morris, indeed I will—"

Her sentence was broken short, for at the moment, the station fly
turned in at the gate, piled up with luggage, and several young faces
peeped out of the window.

"Here, Ruth!" called Dr. Brown. "Where are you?"

But Ruth was already at the door, and found a tall boy shaking hands
with her, and an ayah dressed in Indian costume helping a delicate
looking little boy from the cab, who seemed hardly to have strength to
walk up the two broad steps to the door.

A little girl with a proud little head and dark flashing eyes followed,
carrying a dainty basket and a light Indian shawl.

Ruth bent and kissed the two children much more warmly than she could
have done half an hour ago, and then, motioning them to follow Morris
to the dining-room, she ran up to her father and flung her arms round
his neck.

"'Dear' father!" she said earnestly.

He glanced at her hastily, and then followed the party into the
dining-room, where a pleasant meal was spread ready for them.

"I will show you where to hang your coat, Heston," said Ruth.

He followed her through the hall, and hung up his coat as directed,
while she managed to ask if they had had a nice journey.

"From India?" he questioned.

"I meant from London," answered Ruth, smiling. "I suppose that is
nothing after all your travels?"

"No," he responded.

And Ruth wondered what next she could say to interest him if the first
question fell flat like this.

Morris now suggested that they should be shown their rooms, while the
maid brought in the meal.

So Ruth took Norman's hand, and was going on before, when the ayah
interposed.

"He not walk quickly," she said; "I bring him. Will you go on, missy?"

Norman shrank to the ayah's side, and Ruth went on, followed by Judith
and Heston.

"This is your room, Heston, next to my father's, and we have put Norman
in this little room next to you."

Heston looked so dismayed that she broke off abruptly.

"He used to sleep in a room adjoining Mala's. He isn't strong," said
Judith almost reproachfully.

Ruth turned to Morris. "What shall we do, Morris? How can we manage?"

"Let them take off their hats, Miss Ruth, in the rooms we have got
ready, and we can ask the Doctor what he would think best."

Ruth gladly assented, and then conducted Judith to a sunny
dressing-room which opened from her own chamber. It had cost her a
great deal to give up that dressing-room, but her father had objected
to the little stranger being put on the upper floor far away from her
brothers.

Mala looked rather glum, but she began taking off Norman's gloves in
the little room apportioned to him, brushing his hair and making him
ready for tea.

Ruth went downstairs with a heavy heart. This beginning was worse even
than she had anticipated.

Her father was waiting with an expectant look. "Well," he asked, "do
they like their quarters?"

"They have hardly settled in yet," answered Ruth, who had been used for
the last year to make the best possible of everything. "They are taking
off their things now."

"Yes—yes. I expect they are shy."

"Very shy; and Morris thinks they will be home-sick—"

"Eh? Oh, perhaps they will. He's a big boy, Heston, isn't he? And looks
as if he knew his own mind."

"Yes, I daresay he does," she assented, thinking that at any rate
Judith did, and so did the ayah!

They soon came down. The ayah put Norman comfortably at the table,
and gave him a footstool, which she produced from beneath her flowing
garments, one he had evidently used on the journey. After which, with a
comprehensive glance all round, she silently and noiselessly left the
room, and the meal began.

Dr. Brown busied himself with helping his young guests, and Ruth poured
out the tea and tried to make conversation.

Heston responded quite pleasantly to all that was said, and seemed
accustomed to talking to older people, so that he and Dr. Brown plunged
into the topics of the day, which the boy had evidently heard discussed
on board the steamer, and his observations were modest and acute. Dr.
Brown decided in his own mind that his nephew had good sense worth
cultivating.

Judith sat in silence, her dark eyes scanning the faces of each in
turn. She answered Ruth's remarks politely, but in a condescending way
that made poor Ruth's cheeks burn. Her one thought seemed her little
brother, and life to her was how it might affect him. While Ruth saw
this and respected it, she thought that she might have waited to
see how they all treated Norman before she decided that he would be
neglected.

Dr. Brown, busy as he was with talking, kept his observant eyes on the
pale little guest whose appetite seemed to fail him after the first few
minutes, and who turned whiter and whiter as the meal progressed.

"My dear," he said at last, in the tone Ruth was accustomed to hear
when he spoke to his little patients, "you look tired; would you rather
lie on the sofa, or go into the other room?"

Norman started on being spoken to, but did not answer otherwise than by
looking appealingly towards Judith.

She sprang up and came and bent over him.

After an instant, she answered, "He feels rather faint and sick. I will
take him to Mala," which she proceeded to do before Ruth could have
presence of mind to ring the bell.

She came back very quietly in a few moments, and finished what was on
her plate, refusing any more rather abruptly.

Ruth would fain have made things go more smoothly, but the discomfort
of the situation was becoming almost unbearable.

"Shall we go upstairs and unpack, Judith?" she asked, as they rose from
the table.

"Mala will do all that," said Judith, "but I will go up and see Norman
to bed. That is, if I know where he is to sleep."

"I will ask my father," said Ruth. "Will you and Heston go to the
drawing-room while we speak about it?"

"He has to have Mala in the same room," exclaimed Judith, "she is his
nurse; he never sleeps alone! My father said before we left India that
he had written to uncle all about it. He's an invalid—I never thought
anyone could be so unkind as to put him to sleep alone!" she concluded
passionately.

Ruth turned toward Dr. Brown in dismay.

"I will see to it," said Dr. Brown gravely and firmly. "You two go into
the drawing-room, as Ruth said, and I will come to you there when I
have spoken to her."

Judith looked in two minds whether to obey, but Heston hastily drew her
into the other room, and Ruth and her father found themselves in the
study.

"This is a 'kettle of fish'!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea the poor
child was an invalid, or that we were going to be saddled with that
ayah—"

"Don't you think I had better go up and begin to help them unpack?
Perhaps we shall get more sociable so?"

"Yes, perhaps you had better do that. Send Heston to me. My brother
ought to have told me more about them. I feel weary with it all."

Ruth looked longingly at him, but he did not respond as he once would
have done.

"Bring Heston," he repeated. "I must find out what they think is wrong
with the child—"

Ruth turned to the door with her message, and in a moment, Heston came
in with some anxiety in his eyes.

"I must go to Judith," said Ruth, turning to the door. "I will come
down again presently."

"My boy," said Dr. Brown kindly, as he put his hand on his nephew's
shoulder, "I was unprepared for your little brother being such an
invalid. What is it?"

"Did not my father write to you? Has not the letter reached? It was
that which made him so anxious about our coming, that Norman might have
the best advice. Did not the letter come?"

"No letter has come about him—no particulars about any of you."



CHAPTER XII.

_THE LOST LETTER._

"COME, Judith," said Ruth, when she went back to the others, "we will
go upstairs and put away some of your things, shall we?"

"Just as you like—"

"Then we will. There is a dear little chest of drawers in your room,
just what will suit you! I had them when I was your age."

"I do not much mind," said Judith. "I wish I knew where Norman is to
sleep—"

The ayah looked up eagerly, and was going to explain her view of the
case, but Ruth stopped her at once. "My father will hear all about it,
and will then decide. He is a doctor, and is sure to be kind."

With this Mala had to be satisfied, though she submitted with very bad
grace, fussing over her little charge ostentatiously, and asking him if
he were not tired, and did not want to go to bed?

To all of which he seemed to reply very little, but sat patiently on
the sofa, holding something evidently very precious in his arms, and
peeping in at the side of the parcel very often.

Ruth had never been used to opposition or contradiction since her
babyhood, and it made her blood boil to have the ayah defy her in
manner, if not in words.

"How shall I bear it," she thought. And then, with a sense of relief,
she remembered Mary Arundel's words, "Nothing is impossible to God,"
and then all at once the acuteness of the burden seemed lifted. "I'll
try to be loving to her," she said to herself, and turned to Judith,
who was standing near her, with her dark eyes fixed upon her face.

"Judith, dear!" she exclaimed, in a gentle beseeching tone.

Just at this moment, they heard Heston's step springing up the stairs.
He entered the open door and seated himself, as if quite at home, upon
one of Judith's trunks. Then after a glance at the other two, he bent
forward to undo the fastenings of a Gladstone bag in front of him.

Ruth had wound herself up to a great effort; a sudden hope had sprung
up in her heart that she might win this proud little cousin, instead of
almost hating her.

"Judith, dear," she said, almost in a whisper, "can you not try to love
me? Indeed, I mean to be kind, and do all I can to make you happy—"

Ruth's eyes were full. She sat down on the edge of a chair, and took
the child's delicate little hands in hers, and looked up in her face.

"You can treat me as you like!" exclaimed Judith. "I can bear it. It is
Norman, poor little afflicted Norman, who cannot stand up for himself,
that I care about—"

"But, dear, Norman shall have every care—"

"What!" exclaimed his sister passionately. "And the very first thing
you do is to put him in a room by himself, away from everybody, when he
may be frightened, and cannot call if he were! I think it is cruel—"
and she wrenched away her hand.

"Cannot call?" echoed Ruth, turning her eyes appealingly to Heston, who
suddenly exclaimed, "Dry up this fuss, Judith. Cousin Ruth, I'm awfully
sorry, but my uncle never had the letter; so of course you don't know."

"Know what?" asked Ruth, with sinking heart at she knew not what.

And then Judith's little fingers were laid on hers with trembling
eagerness, and the dark eyes were raised beseechingly, as she said with
a sob—

"He cannot speak—he is dumb!"

Ruth had enough tenderness and womanliness to gather the trembling
child into her arms, as she exclaimed, "Oh, I never knew! How is it we
did not know? I cannot believe it—"

"The letters did not reach uncle," said Heston, coming to their side,
"but don't take on, Cousin Ruth. Perhaps something may be done for him.
That's partly why my father was so glad for us to come to England."

"But when?" asked Ruth, looking up and wiping her eyes.

"While I was at school in Germany. It was a sudden fright. My father
always hoped he would outgrow it, so very little was said about it at
the time. But it is four years now."

Judith was still standing within Ruth's arm; Mala was bustling about
from room to room, carrying clothes and belongings to their different
places.

How much she took in of the facts of the case could not be guessed from
her impassive face.

Suddenly Judith moved. She had not spoken one word hitherto since her
outburst. She had only scanned Ruth's face to see there, perhaps, the
truth or falsehood of this astonishing situation. Apparently having
satisfied herself, she stepped in front of her cousin, and said humbly,
"Cousin Ruth, I beg your pardon for what I said—I was mistaken—" And
with that, she fled into the other room, and was found kissing her
little brother and making much of him.

"He want to open his mice, missy Ruth. But he tired now—where I put him
to bed?"

"It's all settled," said Heston; "at least, you are to go down, please,
Cousin Ruth, and see uncle. I forgot to tell you before. Come along,
Norman, I'll undo the mice, and we'll see if they are all right. You
will soon be in bed now, and can have them by you, as usual, uncle
says."

As Ruth went down the stairs, she felt as if a great piece of life had
passed since that afternoon. But she had the warm feeling at her heart
that once again she had been "helped," and this gave her fresh courage
for the future.



CHAPTER XIII.

_AN ANGRY ELEPHANT._

RUTH opened the study door.

Her father was seated by his writing-table with his head on his hands.
When he looked up there was a haggard expression on his face.

She came close and put her arms round his neck. How could she comfort
him, when her own heart felt so heavy?

But another thought came, a thought of forgiveness. She bent and kissed
his forehead.

"Father," she said, in a tremulous voice, "we must make the best of it,
must we not? If you and I can face it together, it will not seem so
bad!"

"I'll try, my dear," he responded. And then suddenly, he turned his
head and kissed her warmly—as he had not kissed her since the sorrowful
day that she had said he had spoilt her life.

Ruth's heart beat. She managed to whisper, "You have forgiven me then?
I may be sure that no cloud is between us now?"

There was a moment's pause, and then he kissed her again with the
greatest tenderness.

"My dear, you have something to forgive too; but we will begin again."

Ruth swallowed her tears, and tried to recover her voice so as not to
grieve him.

"I came down to ask you about the bedroom for Norman. Is it not
dreadful about him?"

Her father rose and led the way back to the drawing-room, and sat down
in his usual chair with a sigh of relief. Ruth remembered that he had
not once been in there since that day.

"Well!" he said. "We will make the best of it, as you said—after all,
many people would say that a pretty little girl and a bright boy were
not such a terrible task, and as to the poor little fellow, if only he
gets good, and is happy—"

He broke off, and looked meditatively at the fern-filled fireplace.

"Yes—oh, yes!" said Ruth eagerly, "I mean to make up my mind to it
happily. I feel sure I shall, if you are not—worried."

He smiled a little sadly.

"Well, about this room? We shall have to give them up the spare room,
Ruth!"

"We seldom use it—"

"No; at any rate, we can say he and the ayah shall have that for the
present. How would that be? I would give something if that ayah had not
come. I do not trust her face."

"I cannot say I like her."

"Well—we shall see. The child could not have travelled without her,
that is one thing."

So Ruth sped upstairs, for she felt anxious that the little invalid
should be able to go to bed as soon as possible.

She went straight to where she heard Heston's voice.

"Heston," she said, "we are going to put Norman into the spare room for
the present, and Mala can have her bed brought into the corner; there
is plenty of room. Come, Norman dear, I am sure you are tired with your
journey. Shall I show you where it is? The room is next to Judith's!"

She bent over him and kissed his forehead, then offering her hand, she
led him gently along the landing to the back of the house, where the
view over to the Welsh hills was now fading into purple mist.

Norman looked round with a pleased expression, and Judith glanced
gratefully at Ruth.

"He likes it," she nodded. "Thank you."

"Mala can put him quietly to bed, and when he is comfortable we will
come in and have a little look at him," said Ruth, kindly. "Meanwhile,
the servants shall bring down Mala's bedstead, and have it ready to
wheel in."

"Can I help?" asked Heston. "You see, Cousin Ruth, I've been used to
brisk Germany, and not lazy India! I can do all sorts of things in a
handy way."

"I am so glad!" exclaimed Ruth. "That will suit my father. Thank you,
then, if you would direct the maids how to bring it down the back
stairs. And please, Heston, call me Ruth! I'm only a year older than
you, and have only just got out of a school-girl."

"All the better," said Heston, bluntly. "I was almost afraid, by your
looks, you were a young lady!"

Ruth laughed merrily. She felt so lighthearted at her father's having
cheered up, that the whole world wore a different aspect.

At length all was done, the little pale face on the white pillow was
smiled upon, and Ruth had whispered to the dumb child that she should
soon learn how to understand his finger-talking, and with another
good-night to Judith, who also wished to go to bed, Ruth and Heston
went down to find Dr. Brown.

He had, however, been called out, so they sat down in the drawing-room
and began to get acquainted.

Heston had plenty to tell her of his school in Germany, and the reasons
why his father had decided against his coming to England; and it was
some time before Ruth could lead him back to what her mind was so full
of—the cause of the sad affliction that had come to little Norman.

"You see, it was like this," explained Heston, who, having lately
told his uncle, felt as if it were rather an old tale—"sometimes my
father's official business gave him occasion to go into the jungle; he
often used elephants on these journeys. My mother before her death,
four years ago, accompanied him when she could, and on the particular
journey which we have such cause to remember, she took Norman with her.

"He was an extremely sensitive child, and, we remembered afterwards,
had always been timid of the elephant rides. One day, my father had a
call to make at one of the outlying residences, and my mother decided
not to alight, so the elephants waited with their drivers beneath the
shade of some trees.

"The driver of mother's elephant was very partial to one of the other
drivers, who was not a favourite with anyone.

"Mother noticed that this man kept on teasing her elephant, and that
the animal was growing very restless.

"They remember that Norman's eyes were wide open with fear lest the
elephant should get really angry, when suddenly he turned on the man
and caught him up with his trunk, and made off with him towards the
river!

"Our driver's frantic efforts to stop him were unavailing, for the
elephant took no notice of him, nor of the full howdah on his back. He
made straight for the river and our mother thought they would all be
drowned.

"When he reached the edge of the water, he splashed down into it up to
his knees, and proceeded to plunge the man in three times over! Then,
satisfied that justice had been awarded, he turned and deposited the
man on the bank, himself quietly walking back to the shade of the trees
and to the other elephants.

"When Mala and mother recovered from their terror, our little Norman
was found to have fainted, and from that time to this he has never
spoken a word."

"Oh, how sad! Does my father think that anything can be done for him?"
exclaimed Ruth.

"He is going to watch him carefully before he gives any opinion. But I
think—I hope I was not mistaken in thinking—that he does not consider
it quite hopeless."

"Poor little boy!" said Ruth, pitifully.

There was a pause, and at length Heston said, with frank earnestness—

"Cousin Ruth! I'm afraid we have been an awful bother coming like this!
We do appreciate Uncle's kindness and yours, though our first beginning
does not look much like it. I hope you'll understand that we meant to
be nice."

He held out his hand, and Ruth shook it with a grateful look in her
clear eyes.



CHAPTER XIV.

_A DREAM._

IT was late when Dr. Brown came in, and long before that, Heston had
suggested that he should go upstairs to write to his father, and then
go to bed.

"You look tired, cousin Ruth," he had added solicitously. "I am sure
this has been a hard day to you, so I will leave you in peace."

"You will come down and have some tea with me presently? Perhaps my
father will be in."

"Thank you—but I think I will let you be quiet?"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Ruth. "Come back at nine, and we will be cosy."

So when the clock in the hall chimed nine, Heston came bounding down
the stairs.

"I have finished my letter, and now I shall not stay long! You and
uncle have had no time together."

Ruth smiled. She had wanted a talk with her father very much, but she
thought it was very thoughtful of Heston to think of it.

He soon wished her good-night, and she was left alone.

Morris came up then, but after a few words, she said Ruth looked tired,
and she also went.

Ruth was tired. She sat motionless in her chair with her hands in her
lap. And then her mind went back to her father and to his changed
attitude towards her. What had caused the sudden difference? And had he
meant by what he had said that he should explain it to her?

Her heart bounded at the thought that God had heard her prayer, and
that the sorrowful estrangement seemed to have passed away.

She sat so for a long time, her mind reverting to Judith, and Mala,
and Norman, and then coming back with a sense of relief to the thought
of Heston's friendliness. Truly, to-night she had many things to be
thankful for, as Morris had whispered with her good-night kiss.

At length her father's latchkey was heard, and his step in the hall,
weary enough she knew.

She sprang up and welcomed him, and he came in to the pleasant, bright
room where his delayed meal was spread ready for him.

He was very silent, but not a silence that grieved her. She was sure it
was only that he had much to think of.

Presently he began to talk about Norman, but she was sure he had
something else to say, and that this was only while the maid went in
and out in waiting on him.

"I have been to see Dr. Arundel," he said, "and he looks hopefully upon
Norman's recovery, as far as he can judge from my account. He wants to
thoroughly go into his case with me as soon as the child has got used
to us. It is of no use to be in a hurry in these nervous cases."

"Oh, no; and he is so shy yet."

"Just so."

The cloth had been removed by this time, and they were now alone. The
clock had just struck eleven, and they felt as if the house were to
themselves.

"Oh, Ruth, my dear, I am glad to have you to come back to!" said her
father fondly. "Come and sit by me; I want to tell you something."

How gladly she ran to him, and sat down on her low chair by his side.
How naturally her head sought its old place on his shoulder, and how
inexpressibly comforting it was to feel his arm put round her once more.

There was a long silence. Ruth knew he had something to say, so she
waited patiently, and at length he spoke.

"I have had a very strange experience to-day, Ruth, and I do not know
that I can properly tell you about it. But I must try—"

"About one of your patients, father?"

"Yes; about that man who has been ill so long out in the village
yonder—up by the farmhouse—you know—"

"Oh, yes—Smith—I know!"

"Well, yes. He has been ill for three months, and he has fretted
dreadfully about what is to become of his wife and children—but that is
by the way, it has nothing to do with to-day. Well, the district nurse
has been caring for him very nicely, and lending him good books and
talking to him; but it all seemed of very little use, as he was just
the same, and nothing seemed to comfort him at all.

"This morning, knowing that he had been suffering all yesterday, I
drove round there as early as I could.

"His wife met me at the door, and she said at once, 'Oh, doctor, he's
better; he's had such a wonderful dream!'

"'I am glad if he is better,' I said, entering.

"'The nurse is up there, and he's telling her about it.'

"So I went up, and, to my amazement, the man's face was altered, and
his whole bearing different.

"'Doctor,' he said, holding out his hand, 'I'm telling nurse my
wonderful dream. May I tell you?'

"You know, Ruth, as a rule I am too busy to listen to dreams, but
something impelled me to stay and hear what had made all the difference
to poor Smith.

"'Tell on, my friend,' I said, and sat down behind the nurse, so that
he continued to address himself to her.

"'Listen,' he said, 'nurse, do you remember saying to me yesterday,
"Prepare to meet thy God"?'

"So the nurse said, 'I remember very well—'

"'After you were gone, I couldn't get those words out of my head.
"Prepare to meet thy God!" I knew I was not prepared, and I did not
know how to prepare! All was dark and gloomy, and yet over and over in
my heart rang those words, "Prepare to meet thy God!"

"'While I was thinking ever so sorrowfully about them, I seemed to fall
asleep, and yet what I saw was as clear as if it were happening before
my eyes.

"'I saw the cross of our Saviour set up right in front of me! And on
the cross I could see our Saviour hanging. Think of it! To see our
Saviour nailed to the cross in front of me!

"'And close to the cross, between me and it, there was a great, deep
hole—a dark pit—and I found myself moving nearer and nearer to that
deep pit.

"'But though I could not but see that pit, and knew that I should fall
into it because I was not prepared to meet God, yet I could not but
look on our Saviour's face. For as He hung there, tears rolled down it,
and I did not like to see Him cry!

"'So I said to someone standing by me, "Why does our Saviour cry?"

"'And the one who stood by answered, "Because you will fall into that
dreadful pit. He is dying to save you, and you will not come to Him to
be saved!"

"'And I said, "Oh, dear Saviour, I do not want to make you cry, I
'will' come and be saved! You shall not die in vain for me!"

"'And then when I looked for the pit, it had gone all away; it was
filled quite up! And then I began to wake up from my dream, and I found
my wife was shaking me by the arm, and she said, "Smith, Smith, you are
singing in your sleep!"

"'And I said, "What was I singing?"

"'And she said, "The hymn that was in that book nurse lent you—

   "'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
      And I shall be whiter than snow!"'"

"'And so, nurse, I woke up! But instead of saying over and over to
myself "Prepare to meet thy God," I'm saying all the time—

   "'"Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,
      And I shall be whiter than snow!"

"'And nurse,' he added, 'I'm not going to fret about my wife and my
children any more, nor about the rent either, for my Saviour's going to
see to all that for me!'"

       •       •       •       •       •

Ruth hid her face in her father's breast. To her had come in this story
a new revelation of her own sinfulness and of her Saviour's love.
Hitherto Mary Arundel's words had helped her to a living contact with
Christ, but her knowledge had been small, both of Him and of herself.
Now she realised how little she had loved Him, who had borne so much
that she might be saved!

But her father was speaking, while he pressed her tenderly to his heart.

"Ruth, my darling, I want you to forgive your father all his hard
thoughts and unkind ways for the last month! I never saw it in its
true light till I stood, as it were, by that cross this morning, and
the moment I saw my own sinfulness, then I found I could forgive those
words of yours that had cut me to the heart—

"Oh, father, father!" sobbed Ruth.

"Forgive my mentioning them, my dear! Only this once, and then never
again. We were both in fault; I far more than you. Will you forgive me?"

Ruth raised her lips and kissed him. "I never ought to have said it.
Oh, father, do not speak as if I had to forgive you—it was all my
fault—"

She could not go on, and nothing but speechless caresses of tenderness
sealed the pardon on both sides.

"Now, my dear," he said at last, "we will go hand in hand towards your
mother's home, as she begged us. I've been looking up a text she wrote
with trembling hand in her Bible for me—

   "'Thou hast cast all my sins behind Thy back.'

"He's done that for me and for you, I know, and now life is a different
thing for us henceforth."



CHAPTER XV.

_AT RIVERSIDE._

"MARY, this is the prettiest place, I think, that I have ever seen!"

They were standing at the bottom of the garden, looking down the
stretch of shining river, which shone like silver in the morning sun.

"Lovely! Is it not, Vincent? Who would have thought after all my
grumbles, and want of faith, that I should be given my heart's desire
like this!"

"Oh, well, Mary, I don't know about grumbles and want of faith! We all
have our little grumbles at times. But one thing I do know, and that is
that when once you set out to do God's will, you went at it."

Mary smiled at her twin, while she shook her head.

"I don't know, Vincent; sometimes I think God has had more patience
with me than with any of His children!"

Vincent pondered. But after a moment or two, he answered, "Don't you
think we all of us feel that, knowing a little of our own hearts? He
has patience with us in our different ways, and leads us on that we may
be 'conformed to His image' more and more."

"Yes—" she answered slowly. Then turning to him, she said—

"Let us go up and sit on the garden-seat where the maids will see us.
They will think I am lost to be out at this time in the morning."

She led the way back over the field and through the pretty shrubbery
till they came in view of the house.

"Now, Pollie!" he exclaimed. "Tell me all about yourself."

"I don't know where to begin," she answered, smiling. "I'm so happy,
Vincent!"

"You look it," he answered.

"Yes, I never guessed that I should have His 'more abundantly,' as
Arthur says, like this—"

"Well, I'm glad," he answered heartily.

"But tell me about your doings," she responded. "Mine are all summed up
in what I have told you, and you see the filling in of it all in this
sweet house and garden, and my happy surroundings."

"My doings are on the old style. Mr. Brown is very kind, and I am
getting on first rate. How funny, Pollie, that Arthur's partner should
be my Mr. Brown's cousin!"

"Yes, is it not? You have heard that Dr. Brown's daughter is my little
friend?"

"A rival to Ada?" he asked mischievously.

"I don't deal in rivals; I never did. My heart has got sort of
chambers, Vincent, which hold different people. No one takes from
anyone else! The more people I love, the bigger my heart grows."

Vincent laughed. "What's she like?" he asked.

"Not like anyone we know at home," she answered, shaking her head. "But
you will see for yourself, I expect. She is sure to come in presently
if she can."

Then Mary told him about Ruth's trouble over the Indian children, and
also that she had not seen her since their arrival.

"How long can you stay?" she asked at length. "You have never told me
that."

"Perhaps I was waiting to be asked," he answered.

"Oh—well," laughed Mary, "perhaps you were! That would not be like the
Vincent of old days."

"But then you see you've got a 'better half.' Suppose he does not want
me?"

"Nonsense!" said Mary. "Think how he greeted you last night. You are a
naughty boy, Vincent."

"Well, if I am to tell you how long I can stay, I can be here over
Sunday, if you'll have me. Mr. Brown had a particular parcel he wanted
to send to your Dr. Brown, and he thought I should like to see you, and
so—here I am."

"I never was more surprised, or I think more glad. I have been longing
to see you."


Meanwhile, Ruth had despatched her housekeeping duties, and had seen
her cousins comfortably settled in the garden, and excusing herself for
a short time, she drove down as usual with her father.

"I shall have to give up my lessons, father," she said, as she sat by
his side. "I shall not be able to be out all the morning, shall I?"

"I am afraid not," said Dr. Brown slowly. "But we will talk that over
this evening. You and I shall quite value our little bits of time
together, my dear!"

"Ah! Shall we not," answered Ruth happily.

"How have you got on with them this morning?"

"Quite nicely. Heston is so kind; and Judith means to be nice, but she
is evidently rather suspicious. Norman is a dear little fellow. I have
learnt some of his finger-talking already."

"It is not difficult; but I am glad you have taken to him."

"He is so helpless! And he looks so pitifully at you when he wants you
to understand."

"I am longing to have Arundel up to see him. But we must not be in a
hurry."

"No—I want him to feel confidence in us. If it were not for Mala, I
think all would be smooth. The servants cannot bear her, Morris says."

Dr. Brown looked earnestly at her, but at the moment, the carriage drew
up at Riverside, and Ruth wished him a hasty good-bye and sprang out.

The maid seemed surprised to see her so early, but on her enquiry for
Mrs. Arundel she answered, "She's in the garden, miss; shall I call
her?"

"Oh, no, I will find her," said Ruth.

And so it came to pass that Mary and Vincent, still sitting on the
sunny seat, saw a vision of a little figure coming through the garden
door and flying over the lawn towards them.

When Ruth paused in front of them and looked up from under her shady
hat, her amazement knew no bounds.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she faltered. "I thought you were sitting with
Dr. Arthur—"

"It is my brother Vincent," said Mary, smiling; "you have often heard
of him—"

Ruth shook hands, but she was much annoyed with herself for her
mistake, and it was some moments before she had recovered sufficiently
to bear her part in the conversation.

Mary, however, was always too natural and downright to let small
mishaps trouble her long. She laughed the matter off, and begged Ruth
to tell her how she had fared with her guests from India.

We know the story, and Ruth soon began to lose her shyness in telling
Mary about the ayah and about Norman, so that before very long they
were chatting away as if they had known each other for years.

"There will be something for you to do," said Vincent, in his
straightforward way.

"For me?" asked Ruth. "Did you mean that I could aid in his recovery?"

"I was thinking so too," said Mary.

Ruth coloured with pleasure and surprise.

"I should 'like' to—"

"No one will have so much chance, I should think," said Mary.


As Ruth went home, walking up that long hill, she pondered very deeply
on what the brother and sister had suggested.

She had taken a great fancy to Norman, and he evidently had taken the
same liking for her. If she could indeed be the means of doing him any
good, what a joy and delight it would be! But what could she do?

She set herself to consider the matter in all its bearings. She thought
if she were dumb, what would she wish done for her—how would she like
people to treat her?

All at once, the instinct of nursing seemed to spring up in her heart.
She had never guessed at its presence till now, and it came as a
revelation. Her mother used to say she nursed beautifully, but all the
sorrow and misery she had gone through had made her forget it till this
moment. She remembered now that if her father had been indisposed, she
had always been able to devise palliative measures, and to carry them
out with great comfort. Could it be that this was a gift?

And if a gift—her heart leapt to another thought. She would thank the
Giver of the gift, and ask Him to bless it!

She stood still beneath the fir-trees, and looked over the lovely
prospect to be seen between them.

"Help me to be the means of blessing to Norman!" she prayed with
clasped hands.



CHAPTER XVI.

_INVADED._

THE next morning when Ruth went, as usual, to speak to Morris about the
dinner, she found the housekeeper unusually perturbed, and it did not
take long for her to discover the cause of it.

The cook had just been in to say she and the other servants wished to
give notice in a body because of Mala! They declined to let her share
their kitchen or their meals.

Ruth felt as if the cares of the world were on her shoulders.

"What 'shall' we do?" she exclaimed, almost piteously.

She had just settled her three cousins in the dining-room with the
bagatelle board, while Mala had crept upstairs in her usual silent
fashion to see to her children's rooms.

Ruth had thought that she need not think about them again for an hour
perhaps, and now this was worse than ever!

"I believe it often is an objection," was Morris's hardly consolatory
answer; "and I am afraid, Miss Ruth, that we shall have to tell the
Doctor. Something must be done, and it would be a pity to lose all our
nice maids for the sake of one!"

"But my father says Mala must stay till Norman gets used to us—for ever
so long, I am afraid."

Morris was silent. She shared in the trial it was to have their quiet
home broken up, and she felt it keenly. All had been working so well,
and they had been so happy.

"My father has enough to worry him without this," Ruth went on, looking
up in her old friend's face.

"Yes, dearie," answered Morris, slowly. "I've been thinking a good bit
all night of any way out of it, that is, if the Doctor does not wish to
part with her, and the only way I can see is this—"

There was a momentary hesitation, and Ruth felt sure that the plan
which was going to be proposed would cost Morris a great deal.

"Yes?" she said, gently.

"After all, dearie, though we don't like Mala very much at present,
she's one for whom Christ died, and it doesn't do for us to despise
each other. He did not wait till we were worthy before He loved us!"

"Oh, no!" assented Ruth. "And you thought—what, dear Morris?"

"I thought, dearie, that as we could not give her a sitting-room to
herself—we have not one—that if the other servants will stay, I will
have Mala with me."

"In here?" asked Ruth, looking round blankly on the cosy little room
which had been the old housekeeper's sanctum and chief joy.

"Yes, in here," said Morris, more steadily. "I think I can put up with
her and make her happy, and the question has seemed to come to me all
night, 'Can you not do it for Christ's sake?'"

"Oh, Morris, dear, I do not think my father will ever allow it!"

"Oh yes, he will, if you put it before him in the right light. It may
not be for very long; but, anyway, we shall do nicely. Will you go up
and ask master about it, and I'll see to the dinners to-day, because
something must be settled at once."

So Ruth kissed Morris affectionately, and ran up to the library with
her unpleasant budget.

Her father's answer when he had heard it was very calm. "I'm not
surprised," he said.

The end of it was that Dr. Brown accepted Morris's self-denying plan,
"for the present," and before lunch-time, a carpet chair and a little
table were placed in a corner of the housekeeper's room for Mala, and
she brought down her basket and settled herself silently there as if
it had been her home for years. Whenever Morris saw the black head
bending over her work, or caught sight of the bright flowing garments
coming and going, she said to herself, "For Christ's sake," and it was
wonderful how that helped her to be not only patient, but happy.

The morning had been showery, but towards twelve o'clock, the sun came
out on a refreshed and beautiful world, and Heston said he was sure Dr.
Arundel would consider it fine enough to drive.

However, just as they were talking about it, the servant announced,
"Mr. Vincent Linthorpe."

And there was Mary's brother with a note for Ruth, and with Mr. Brown's
packet for Dr. Brown.

"Have you walked all this way?" asked Ruth, shaking hands.

"I came on Arthur's bicycle. But I cannot say I did much but walk up
these hills!"

"No, indeed! It will be much better going down," laughed Ruth.

"The view is worth it all though! I do not think I ever saw finer
country."

"We are very fond of it."

"Mary has sent this note, and a message to say the wagonette will be
here at half-past two; will that suit you?"

"How very kind! I was planning how I could get Norman to Riverside, but
have been so busy this morning that I have not ordered the fly. That
did not matter, as the man who keeps them lives very near. You see, we
are a little colony up here all to ourselves. A butcher, a general shop
'with candles and other pickles,' including bread! and a tiny draper's.
All else we have to 'shift' for."

"What is 'shifting?'" asked Vincent, smiling.

"Don't you know? We once had lodgings at an out-of-the-way seaside
place, and when the butcher did not arrive with the meat, the landlady
suggested, 'Can't you shift?'"

"I see," said Vincent, laughing heartily; "but that is not pleasant if
it happens often."

"But it doesn't," said Ruth; "Morris and I are far too good managers
for that!"



CHAPTER XVII.

_AT THE FARM._

PUNCTUALLY at half-past two, a wagonette and pair drove up at the front
door of The Firs. Seated in it were Dr. and Mrs. Arundel and Vincent
Linthorpe.

Ruth had tried to coax her father to accompany them, but he said he was
too old for that sort of thing, and he should be happier seeing after
the patients.

Ruth looked wistfully at him; he gave her a tender kiss, but would not
be moved from his decision.

Dr. Arundel placed them all in the seats which Mary and he had
arranged. He told Heston he was sure he would like the box seat, and
by the sparkle of Heston's eye, nobody doubted but that he had guessed
right.

Mala was packed in first, with Norman and Judith opposite to her, and
then the rest got in and found themselves pleasantly disposed, the two
gentlemen against the door, and the two girls opposite each other.

"I call this nice!" said Mary, when the horses were fairly off.

"How beautifully you have arranged us," said Ruth, with a glance
towards the upper end. "They are so cosy there."

Norman's eyes were watching everything with interest, and as he could
not see the horses, or feel responsible in any way, he forgot to be
nervous.

Vincent produced some chocolates, which he passed up to the other end
after offering them to Ruth and his sister. And under the influence of
these, the little party began to be sociable.

"We are going to have tea at a cottage," said Mary presently, when they
had exhausted all the exclamations there were at the lovely scenery,
the hills and valleys, the river winding in and out, and the blue
distances crowned by the Welsh hills.

"A cottage!" exclaimed Ruth. "Where?"

"Ah! Where, indeed? Vincent has been scouring the country on Arthur's
cycle this morning, and he has found a lovely sort of farm up ever so
far in the hills, where we shall find tea, and bread and butter, and
cream!"

The horses were walking up a long hill at the moment, so Heston heard
this part of the conversation.

"Cream!" he echoed. "That's prime."

"And under your seat, Heston, unless they have been left behind,"
laughed Mary, "there are sundry cakes! The landlady at the farm looked
askance at the idea of cakes at a moment's notice, so Vincent told her
'we could buy up the confectioner's.'"

"What 'did' she say?" asked Ruth, of Vincent.

"She looked me up and down to see if I were a duke or somebody of the
millionaire kind, and then she saw my eyes, and she laughed. 'All
right; "you" see to the cakes and I'll see to the bread and butter,'
was her final shot."

After about an hour, they reached the farm, and they all got out. The
cakes were found to be safe, and a man came forward to help with the
horses.

Wraps and coats were taken into the house, and the landlady told them
where the best view of the mountains was to be obtained, "or they could
go round the farm if they pleased, and see the creatures, as all the
young folks likes to do."

Heston decided on the latter plan, especially as the landlady had
remarked that "there was their old pony that the young lady or
gentleman could ride if they pleased."

Judith's eyes brightened: it reminded her of India, and she went with
Heston with more alacrity in her step than she had shown since her
arrival.

Ruth looked undecided whether to follow her charge or not, but Mary
whispered, "Let them go, dearest, they will be safe with Heston; and,
poor children, it must be very perplexing to have to see so many
strangers!"

"Yes," said Ruth, with filling eyes, "I am so sorry for them—and for
myself!"

"It will be better soon," said Mary.

"Oh, yes, and it is all right even now; but sometimes, it seems to
surge over me that the comfort of being alone is gone."

"That will be better too, presently, when they go to school."

Vincent and Dr. Arundel had been watching the horses put up, and now
returned, and they all started to see the view.

How lovely it was! Ruth held her breath as she stood silently gazing.

"Doesn't it make you feel like heaven!" she said to Mary, in a low tone.

But not so low but that Vincent caught it, and smiled. "I think so,
too," he said, and then coloured at having seemed to intrude.

"Vincent and I have always shared these sort of things together," said
Mary, "and it seems strange for me to be away from him. Sometimes I can
hardly believe it can be true."

"I believe it, I can tell you," said Vincent, "for not one of the
others is 'my' sister like Mary," he added, turning to Ruth. "Mary and
I had no need to talk much, we understood without."

"I have never had a sister or a brother," said Ruth, slowly. "Mary
seems the nearest to it that I know, and she is—inexpressibly dear!"

Vincent could quite believe it, as he knew what Mary was.

"Well, I will go and see about tea," said Mary. "You come when you have
had enough view!"

She ran off, laughing, and Ruth wanted to help her, but Vincent said he
must just show her a discovery he had made that morning, and invited
Arthur to come and see it too.

But Arthur said he was lazy, and meant to have a doze.

So he led the way round the barn, and in another moment, he and Ruth
came upon a bit of ivy-covered ruin, standing on the very edge of a
sharp, precipitous piece of ground, which sank away down and down
without a break right to some green meadows far beneath, where the cows
and sheep looked like little red and grey dots.

"There!" said Vincent. "How does that make you feel! Though, indeed, I
must apologise for having spoken of what was not intended for my ears!"

"Oh, never mind," said Ruth. "No, this has not the same feeling as that
other view for me. I think this reminds me of earth more—and—do you
think, one might say it reminded one a little of the twenty-third Psalm—

   "'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.'

"It is so peaceful down there with those sheep."

Vincent looked in silence after one glance at her face.

"Yes, I think you are right," he answered, quietly.

"I am going to find the children," said Ruth, after they had looked for
a few moments. "I hear their voices quite near. Perhaps they are in
this barn?"

And there they were found, watching the milking of the cows with
intense interest.

"We are to have the pony after tea," said Heston, "the men were busy
just now!"

Oh, what a farmhouse kitchen that was! How their eyes went round and
round, admiring the bright pewter plates and shining candlesticks on
the high mantleshelf; and the low, latticed windows stretching the
whole length of the southern wall, and open now on to the old-fashioned
garden, where stocks and roses and Sweet Williams, lilac and guelder
roses, made up the soft summer fragrance that seems to rest the spirit
and speak of peace.

Ruth could hardly bear to turn her eyes, even to the welcome tea.

But Heston told her she must not go dreaming in daylight, and Vincent
handed her a knife, and told her to cut Mary's cakes, and see if he had
bought nice ones!



CHAPTER XVIII.

_NORMAN'S SUPPER._

AFTER tea, the pony was bridled, and the three Indian children enjoyed
a ride. Heston tried it first and pronounced it very nice, but not
quite up to his pony in India, and yielded it up to Judith, who was not
so particular as to pony breed. She in her turn quickly yielded it to
Norman, who stood looking longingly at the sleek little white creature,
who was as quiet as a lamb, Judith said.

So Heston lifted him up, and with promises not to let go, led him up
and down the quiet lane for half an hour.

"How kind he is!" said Ruth, looking after the party as they turned for
the third time.

"Very," responded Dr. Arundel; "in fact, I never saw such devotion as
they all show."

"Do you think 'massage' would do him good?" asked Ruth, rather shyly,
drawing nearer to Dr. Arundel. "And if so, could I learn to do it? I
think I could."

"Quite easily," he answered.

"I have not had time to speak to my father, yet," said Ruth, blushing
as if she had been interfering, "but I keep on thinking of all the
things that might help him. And being so much with my father, I pick up
a few stray bits of information!"

Arthur smiled. "Do not hesitate to tell us any suggestion. This is a
case apparently of a purely nervous nature, and ordinary means will not
be so likely to do good."

Vincent and Mary had strolled on in front, and were going to see the
ruin. And Ruth proposed that "as they had done their medical talk!" she
and Dr. Arundel should follow them.

At length, there seemed to be a great stir in the yard, with sounds of
the horses being led out, and then one of the men came forward to ask
if Dr. Arundel was ready to return.

"Why, it is seven o'clock already!" exclaimed Vincent. "How quickly the
time has gone."

"That is better than its dragging," said Ruth. "I have not enjoyed
anything so much since—oh, not for years! I only wish my father had
come."

They all packed into the wagonette again, and with pleasant farewells
to their entertainers, the happy party turned homewards.


When they reached The Firs, Mary and Dr. Arundel would not alight, but
said they would be taken home at once. So with good-byes and earnest
thanks from Ruth and Heston, there was great waving of hands and hats,
and Ruth found herself standing on the steps in the soft evening light
with her little family round her.

"What shall we do next, Heston?" she asked, as they turned to the
dining-room.

"Oh, Ruth! Here is supper spread, and I am so hungry! Mrs. Arundel's
tea was splendiferous, but I declare I could eat a—a haystack!"

"You shall have something better than that! But I suppose farm talk
will be the order of the day till the next excitement! Judith, what
could you eat?"

But Judith was too dignified to respond to the joke. She hardly
answered, but acknowledged on being pressed by Heston that she should
not mind some supper.

Norman asked in his silent finger-talk to go to bed, and Ruth promised
to bring him some supper when Mala came to announce his being ready.

"'I' take him his supper," said Mala.

Ruth glanced at her in surprise, and then said gently and firmly, "Let
me know when he is ready, Mala," and took her place at the head of the
table.

Judith sat very silent, and evidently was uneasy. Mala had hitherto
ruled them all, and it was too astonishing for anyone to rule Mala!

Ruth saw what it involved, and inwardly quaked. Then she remembered
that Mary had said, "In every difficulty, ask for counsel of God; He
will help you."

So she sat silent, thinking of Mary's advice, and trying to follow her
in her straightforward desire to please God and do the next thing.

At that moment, her father entered, and Heston was pleased to tell him
all the delights of the day.

"Judith," whispered Ruth, "would you go up and tell Norman what is on
the table, and ask him what he would like best? You and I will take it
up to him, while Mala has her supper."

Judith's eyes looked grateful. She softly left the room, and then Ruth
breathed more freely. She hoped the difficulty had blown over.

At length, Judith came down, her face rather pale, and her eyes looking
anxious again.

"Norman would like some apple and custard," she said, hesitating, "but
Mala says she is sure he cannot eat it without her, and she would
rather stay and see to him—if you do not mind, Cousin Ruth."

Judith added the last sentence in a beseeching tone.

"I think you and I can manage," said Ruth.

And then she went over and held a whispered conversation with her
father, which resulted in his saying, "I'll see it through. If there is
any trouble, just call me!"

"But we have to think of Norman," whispered Ruth.

"Indeed we have. I'll not forget that."

So she and Judith and the apple and custard went up together.

Norman was in bed, and Mala was seated by his side with a stony look on
her face.

"Take it in, dear," said Ruth, pausing at the door, "and tell Mala I
want to speak to her."

Ruth stood within view, silently waiting. And after a few moments, in
which Judith had evidently whispered advice to Mala, the ayah got up
slowly and glided to the door.

Ruth stepped across to her own room, and then spoke in an undertone,
which she feared was trembling, though there was no hesitation in her
intentions.

"Mala," she said, raising her eyes and looking full into the dark face,
"if you wish to do Norman a kindness, and to remain here to attend
upon him, you will have to do exactly as you are told! My father hopes
we may be able to do him good, and make him happier than he has ever
been—but remember what I have said."

With a stately tread, Ruth passed the astonished ayah, and before she
could recover her surprise, Ruth was already seated by her little
cousin, asking him smilingly how "his" "haystack" tasted!

How her heart was beating!

But Norman responded with a bright look, and Judith waited upon him and
put his food temptingly ready, and all went well.

When at length he would take no more, Judith carried away his tray, and
Ruth bent over him to wish him good-night.

"Dear little boy," she said, lovingly. "I do love you! And I have
thought of ever so many things that may do you good! You will trust me,
will you not?"

Norman squeezed her hand for Yes, and with a pleased look lay back on
the pillows.

When Judith returned, he took her hand eagerly and rapidly spelt out—

"Ask her if she thinks I shall some day be able to talk?"

"We have great hopes of it," said Ruth, tenderly, "if it is God's will."

The child understood.

"You know, Norman," Ruth added, "since I have begun to love Jesus, I
pray about everything! So we can pray about this, and if God sees it is
good for us, and best, He will give it to us!"

Judith came close to Ruth's side, and put both her arms round her neck.

"Oh, Cousin Ruth, Cousin Ruth," she whispered, with a sob, "I'll pray
too, though—though—I never have before!"



CHAPTER XIX.

_CONFIDENCES._

WHILE these things were happening at The Firs, the wagonette was
swiftly taking the rest of the party back to Riverside.

When they got in, Dr. Arundel found there was a summons for him to go
to a sick man some two miles in another direction. But the messenger
had left word that any time that evening would do.

"They are very considerate," he remarked, as they gathered round the
supper-table. "But I am sorry to leave you both—"

"So am I," said Vincent, who had been reading a letter which he had
found on the mantelshelf, "for this is my last evening: Mr. Brown has
written to recall me. He does not explain, but says the urgency of it
justifies him in asking for my return; and that he will spare me again
in a week or so if I like."

"Oh, that is all right then!" exclaimed his sister. "We can look
forward to that! You must come back, Vincent. This has not been a
quarter long enough!"

"It is very kind of you to wish it—but I hardly think I can come again
so soon—" objected Vincent.

"Do," exclaimed Arthur, heartily. "Arrange to spend a week with us.
There is plenty to see, and to such a cyclist as you are, the Welsh
mountains are within reach!"

Vincent shook his head, but as if the prospect held out were very
tempting.

And then, when Arthur was gone and the twin brother and sister went
into the drawing-room, Vincent sat in the twilight very silent.

"You will come again soon, Vincent, will you not?" asked Mary, softly.

"I don't know, Pollie—"

"Why?"

"I do not suppose it would be of much use—"

"Coming to see me, do you mean?"

"You know I don't mean that, Pollie! But though I can't explain it, I
never saw anyone before that I cared about in the least. And now I do
care about—Ruth—and she—I do not suppose I could ever get her to care
for me."

"I do not see why not," said Mary, calmly. She knew Vincent well enough
to be sure that he would not be ready to have any sympathy or gladness
shewn him.

"Pollie," he went on slowly, in such a smothered tone that she could
hardly catch his words, "the moment I saw her, I felt my fate had come!"

"Your fate?"

"Well—whatever you like to call it! I wish it were not so, but—there it
is."

"Why do you wish it were not so?" she asked, surprise in her voice. It
was getting too dark to see each other's faces.

"Because, can't you see? She does not care for me, and just treats me
as your brother and nothing else—"

"But, Vincent, she cannot be supposed to guess at this—" exclaimed
Mary, earnestly.

He seemed to listen, and she went on.

"Is there any other difficulty in the way?"

"Yes—even if—even—should I be able to get her to think of it—I do not
see how she could leave her father? He is all alone, and my work lies
at Mr. Brown's, near home."

"I see that; is there anything else?"

"You agree with me that there is that insurmountable difficulty?" he
said, quickly.

"Not too fast! That would have to be considered. Is there anything
else?"

"She has been used to luxuries, and I could only give her a quiet
little home—though I would try to make her happy."

"That's nothing!" said Mary, promptly. "Any girl worth anything does
not mind beginning quietly. Anything else?"

"You've got a lot of questions ready, Pollie!" he exclaimed, laughing a
little nervously. "You are a regular inquisitor!"

"You know me of old," she said, "so I can't alter to please you now.
The fact is, Vincent, it is just this! Do you mean to try to smother
your feelings, or do you mean to try to win her?"

Vincent was silent for a long time, and Mary said not another word. She
was inexpressibly touched by his confidence, but how to tell him so she
did not know. His communication had come as an intense surprise.

At length, he stirred, and took hold of his sister's hand firmly.

"You are not sorry, Pollie!" he said, hesitating a little.

"Very, very glad, if it is for your happiness!"

"You like her—you would do all you could, wouldn't you, Pollie?"

"Why, Vincent, of course I should!"

"Yes, yes! And now I've to go away, Pollie. It seems so hard."

"I shall expect you back soon."

"I'm afraid there is everything against me."

"Do not be so faint-hearted, Vincent—I think there is everything in
your favour!"

"Then, besides all the rest, she is devoting herself to this little
cousin—"

"Oh, well, that is all as it should be. Why should she not? Perhaps he
will get better, Vincent; do not look at the obstacles, but think now
of the old days when things were too hard for us to manage, and try the
old remedy in this new difficulty. If God has this joy in store for you
by and bye, ask Him to make you ready for it when He sends it."

He turned towards her, and kissed her softly. "Dear old Pollie, there's
no one like you in all the world."

"All the world?" she said, archly.

"All the world," he reiterated; "all the world, at present."

So Mary knew what the answer was to one of her questions, though she
did not get it in so many words.

The moonlight was streaming in at the window, and flooding the room
with its tender light.

"Let us go out, Pollie, unless you are tired?"

"Oh, no. But I will just leave word where Arthur may find us."

So they went down to the river's edge, and sat there talking of
everything that concerned them, till after a long time all the church
clocks struck ten, and they heard Arthur's footsteps coming along the
gravel.

"I shall not bind you down not to tell him, Pollie," said Vincent, "but
if you don't mind, let it be when I am gone."



CHAPTER XX.

_A PRESENT._

"MY dear!" said Dr. Brown to his daughter, on the night of the picnic.
"It will never do to have you sitting up late to talk to me, and yet we
do want to be together, do we not?"

"Indeed we do, father! We shall have to plan in some way to have a
little time quiet. But that will be easy when we settle down."

"I wanted to ask you something," said Dr. Brown, hesitating a little,
and half turning away to the bookcase.

"What is it?" asked Ruth, rather astonished. But so many astonishing
things had happened within a week that she thought she should hardly be
surprised at anything.

"I have been thinking—" he said, slowly, "whether we ought not to begin
prayers in the morning, now we have all these children here—and—now I
feel so differently from what I used?"

He turned back, and looked more boldly in her face, though the colour
had deepened in his, and he seemed hardly able to bring out his words.

"Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Ruth, heartily.

"Are you? Then you will help me through with it?"

"Of course I will! Why, it was only last Sunday that the curate said if
people would begin it, they would find such a blessing."

"Did he? Well, I'm convinced it is right, but the first step is such an
effort."

Ruth came over and leant her hands on his arm.

"If I had a little book—it seems absurd to be shy over it, doesn't it?"
he said, awkwardly, "but yet I am—"

Ruth kissed him lovingly. "It is a great effort, but we shall be glad.
How strange that the curate should mention it, was it not? He said
that if people would read a few words from the Bible, and kneel down
together and repeat the Lord's prayer slowly together, it would be a
beginning, and would bring a great blessing."

"We could do that," said Dr. Brown, looking relieved.

"When shall we begin?" asked prompt Ruth.

"To-morrow!" he answered, only waiting for her helpful acquiescence.

"I'm sure it would be better," she said, heartily.

"Then, tell Morris and the servants. Eight o'clock sharp, my dear."

So Ruth wished him good-night, and then ran back again, and threw her
arms round his neck. "You dear, dear father!" she whispered.


All went well the next day. Dr. Brown looked rather pale when he came
in at the sound of the bell, but he took his usual place at the table,
and then looked round on the assembled family.

"I did not think of this as a duty till lately," he said, "but I am
sure we shall have God's blessing if we seek it. Let us each in our
different ways try to find something in the morning portion that will
help us all day."

He opened the Bible where there was a mark, and read out in an
impressive voice just the one verse,—

   "'God commendeth His love towards us, in that while we were yet sinners
Christ died for us.'"

"Now let us repeat the Lord's Prayer together, petition by petition.
There will be something in it—many things probably—that we all want.
And let us think of it as we say the words, and may He answer our
petitions for Christ's dear sake."

The children, and Ruth and the servants, never forgot that prayer, nor
the moved, broken voice of the master of the house, as he prayed with
them for the first time.

Then they all rose and left the room silently, and there were not a
few tears winked away on the stairs as the servants sought their own
quarters.

"God bless him!" said old Morris to herself, as she went into her own
room. "The Lord has been better to me than my fears! 'Mine eyes have
seen His salvation!'"


After breakfast, when Ruth and her father were having a talk over the
treatment that should be begun for Norman, there was a ring at the
bell, and Mr. Vincent Linthorpe was announced.

He soon explained that he was called home sooner than he had expected,
and had come to say farewell, and to ask if he could be the bearer of
any letter or message to Mr. Brown.

Dr. Brown said he should like to write a line, so Ruth proposed that
they should leave him to do so while they found the others.

No one was to be seen but Heston, who was sitting in the dining-room
window deep in one of his uncle's books.

"Where are they all?" asked Ruth.

"Mala has taken them down that winding path along the hillside," said
Heston. "I hope it will not be too far for Norman. She will go very
slowly, I expect."

"My father says you and I may go to Worcester to-day and see if we can
get him a little invalid carriage for Mala to wheel him about in!"
exclaimed Ruth. "Shall we go this morning, Heston?"

"Oh, how jolly. Uncle is very kind! When shall we go?"

"Soon," said Ruth, glancing towards their guest. "But there is no
hurry, if you can stay a little time. I think you said you had to go
directly, though?"

"Directly," said Vincent. "My train is at 10.20. I pass through
Worcester," he added, eagerly, "could we all go together?"

"I daresay we could! I will run and ask my father if he has any other
plans."

She hastened away, and the other two stood looking after her.

"She is going to do everything she can to get Norman better," Heston
said, in a grateful tone.

"Yes; it is so sad for him—"

"Very. I little thought when it was arranged for us to come to England
that we should find such kindness. I cannot speak of it, but I do feel
it—"

Ruth came tripping back. "We may go, Heston, and if Mr. Linthorpe can
wait ten minutes, I shall be quite ready, and so will you?"

Heston laughed. "I shall not be as long as that. But run away, Ruth, or
you will not keep your promise."


"I wish I could stop at Worcester with you," said Vincent, as they sat
in the train.

"I wish you could," answered Ruth, heartily, "for I feel it quite an
undertaking to buy this little invalid carriage. My father has given me
a picture out of one of his books, so I hope I shall manage."

"What kind of thing is it to be?" asked Heston.

"He is to be able to lie flat in it, so as to rest if he needs it, and
yet he is to be able to sit almost upright in it."

"I think I've seen them at the seaside," said Vincent.

"Yes—and my father says we are all to go to the sea directly he can
arrange it. He thinks that Norman ought to be out of doors all day
long."

"Shall you like that?"

"To go to the sea? Oh, yes, I shall enjoy it intensely; especially if
it does Norman good. But nothing is quite like these hills and views to
'me.' But I shall enjoy the sea very much for a time."

"I am so glad you like Mary, and that she has a friend in you!"
exclaimed Vincent, as all too soon the train began to slow down outside
Worcester.

"She has done me all the good in the world!" said Ruth. "I never saw
anyone like her."

Vincent looked into the glowing face.

"I'm more glad than I can say!" he said, heartily. "Good-bye. Mary says
I may come back, as my visit has been cut short!"

And then the train stopped. And in another moment, Ruth and Heston were
lost to sight in the hurrying crowd on the platform.


"Norman," said Ruth, when she and Heston had returned from Worcester,
"I have brought you a present, and I want you to try to do something
for me."

She had found him alone for once, as Mala had gone down to get his tea.

The bright eyes looked into her face questioningly, and then at the
parcel in her hand.

"See! You are so fond of living creatures that I thought this would
give you pleasure. It is a dear little bullfinch, and I think you will
be able to teach him all sorts of tricks."

Norman took her hand, and kissed it. Poor little fellow, he had no
words to express his feelings.

She undid the wrappings, and there was the beautiful little bird,
looking as perky and at home as possible.

He hopped down to help himself to some seed, and Norman looked
delighted.

"Here is some hemp," pursued Ruth, "and soon he will come to take it
off your finger. Let us try now."

She pressed a seed into her finger and put it through the bars, but
though Dickie looked at it very earnestly, and turned his head first
on one side and then another, he was too strange to advance along the
perch at present.

"He will soon do it," said Ruth, well satisfied with their first
attempt.

"Now, Norman," she continued, "I'm going to tell you what I want you to
do. Can you whistle?"

Norman coloured, but shook his head. "Never mind! Some day when you are
alone with Dickie you can try. You might teach him a tune, perhaps, by
and bye."

Then, as Norman's eyes still looked questioningly into hers, she added,
"Yes, I have something else I want you to do. I want you, when you
are alone with Dickie, to talk to him with your lips, as if you could
speak."

The child looked distressfully at her, but she went on gently—

"I know you cannot—but I want you to act as if you could. When you feel
inclined, you know! Just form your lips into the word, 'Dickie! Dickie
here's your food!' And though you cannot make any sound, just persevere
in doing that for me, will you?"

She bent over him and kissed his cheek, and he looked into her eyes
with a promise.

"There is a dear little boy!" she exclaimed. "I knew you would be
sensible enough to try to do what I wanted. We need not tell anyone
else about it. I told my father of my thought for you, and he is
pleased. We will not tell the others at present till you have learned
to do it quite easily. I do hope it may help you."

Norman kissed her hands again, and tried to make her understand, but at
present she was not used enough to his finger-talking to do much in the
way of communication. So she only kissed him lovingly in return. And at
the moment Mala appeared with his tea-tray, and she hastened away to
pour out for the rest.



CHAPTER XXI.

_ON THE DOORSTEP._

THREE weeks later, Ruth and her cousins were established at the seaside.

"A Furnished House." Yes, Dr. Brown had decided that that was the right
thing, and Ruth, who had never been to a furnished house, and knew
nothing of the cares of housekeeping, acquiesced at once. She supposed
it would be all right.

Certainly it gave her a pang to remember that Cook would not be there,
and that Jane was not very clever at anything but housework! But she
would have Morris with her to refer to, and she did want to learn
"cooking and things."

So, though Morris looked rather grave, they made their plans, the
furnished house was taken, and in a very short time, they had begun
their seaside life.

To the Indian children it was unalloyed happiness. All day long they
were out on the beach, or Heston was exploring the rocks and the
cliffs. The invalid carriage was a great success, and Mala wheeled her
charge about everywhere, Heston assisting very kindly when necessary.

Norman was blissfully content. He lay and rested when he liked, or
got out and sat on the sand or picked up shells. His colour had begun
to improve, and Ruth could see that as the days went on, he attempted
more, and began to look less pitiful.

Twice each day she gave half an hour to his "massage" treatment, and
while that was going on, she always sent Mala to help Jane in the
household work.

At first, Mala had strongly objected to leave him, making it as
unpleasant for Ruth as she could.

But Ruth had looked up, and said gravely, "Remember what I told you,
Mala!"

And the ayah, with a deep flush on her face, had turned away silently.

Left there alone with her little cousin, Ruth devoted herself to making
the time pass happily and brightly. Mary had reminded her that it was
a precious opportunity, if she would only use it. And though Ruth had
given one of her startled looks, when she came to think it over, she
saw how true it was.

So, while her hands were busy over her "massage," she talked to him, or
told him simple stories from the Bible. She soon found that she must
get ready a little story fresh from the Bible for each time. And while
learning for him, she got to know more herself than she had ever known
before.

Understanding more of God's great love herself, she felt confidence
that Norman would get to understand too.

She was not disappointed. She was "letting him come to Jesus," as Mary
said she always translated the words, "Suffer the little children to
come unto ME."

Yes, she was helping, and not hindering, and a flood of joy came into
her heart as she saw that Norman was drawing near, and learning to look
up in his Saviour's face, and stand, as it were, within His loving arms.

It would be difficult to say how Ruth knew that it was so, but she did.
The child's eyes had lost their weary, dissatisfied look, and as she
talked to him, he would drink in every word as if his thirst were being
quenched.

As she became more used to understanding him, when he talked on his
fingers, he began to express his feelings more, until one day, when
she had finished her "treatment," and was just clearing up, he caught
her hand in his, and kissing it tenderly, he spelt out, "Thank you for
telling me about Jesus; I do love Him!"

When Ruth had kissed him in return, and told him how very, very glad
she was, she ran away to her own room.

She knelt down by her bed, but only tears would come and broken
thanksgivings.

"And I grudged having them!" she thought. "And yet God has been so good
to me as this!"

Day by day during these happy weeks for her cousins, Ruth watched her
own especial charge with loving, observant eyes.

His bird was almost as great a pet as his mice, and he was eager to
teach him any trick which he could hear of, watching by his cage on
rainy days for hours and hours, patiently getting him to eat from his
hand, or come out on the table to take his bath.


One day, when she happened to come into the room unexpectedly, she
found Norman alone, and he looked up eagerly and nodded to her
confidentially.

"You are doing what I suggested?" she asked, whispering.

He nodded again, and then spelt on his fingers, "I can do it much
better now!"

So Ruth was very content, and hailed every sign of improvement with
great joy.

But Morris feared that, however good this seaside change was for the
children, the housekeeping cares were more than her dear young lady
had in her inexperience expected, and she thought she was growing thin
under her new work.

"Well!" said the old housekeeper to herself, as she often did many
times a day. "The Lord knows, and I don't! He can see to it!" And thus
her burden rolled off once again.


One Saturday, Ruth was expecting her father to spend the week-end with
them, and when the children were safely off to the beach with Mala, and
Heston had started on a long walk, she betook herself to the kitchen
and looked round.

Her father liked pastry, and she had often wished to try her hand at
it, but hitherto had been too busy.

"Morris, do you think I 'could' make a pie?" she asked.

"Why, yes, dearie. I could sit by you and tell you. The Doctor would be
pleased."

But just as Ruth was beginning, she found that she had not ordered the
requisite fruit, and Jane was quickly despatched to get some at the
nearest shop.

"Nobody will come to the door in those few moments," she said to
Morris, who had a cold, and was sitting by the fire nursing it. "And if
they do—I can open it, I suppose!"

Morris smiled. How her childie was growing, to be sure.

But Jane had no sooner whisked off down the road, than a ring came to
the front door, followed by a decided rat-tat-tat.

"Eleven o'clock!" said Ruth, looking at the clock, and dusting off the
flour from her white fingers. "Who can it be, Morris, at this time of
the morning."

She hurried to the door, and there stood Vincent Linthorpe, holding a
Gladstone bag in his hand, and with a look of apology in his face.

"Dr. Brown sent me with a note," he said, "May I come in?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ruth, opening the door wide. "I was so taken by
surprise. I am sorry if I looked astonished."

Vincent smiled slightly. "The fact is, I called at The Firs last night
to see you all, and I found you flown. Dr. Brown told me he thought of
coming here to-day for the week-end, and that I might come and tell you
he would be here about three."

"That is sooner than I thought—"

"Yes—so he bade me say. I will go and deposit my bag at the hotel, and
then—may I come back?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ruth, thinking of her pie and her dinner still uncooked.

"I am afraid it may not be convenient?" said Vincent, hesitating.

"Oh, yes it is. I am only making my first pie, and I was wondering if
it would be eatable."

"'That' does not matter!" he said. "I wanted to see you,
because—because I am going abroad!"



CHAPTER XXII.

_HOUSEKEEPING._

"COME in!" said Ruth, stepping back and proceeding to lead the
way to the dining-room. Then, looking up in his face, she added,
questioningly, "You seem sorry? Is it not what you want to do?"

"I do not think I do," he answered slowly, putting his bag in a corner
and following her in; "it has been such a sudden thing that I hardly
know whether I am sorry or glad."

"That must be perplexing," she answered; "but did—was there not a
choice given you?"

"Not exactly; Mr. Brown, your father's cousin, you know, thought it
such a wonderful opportunity for me, that he took it for granted I
should go. It will be two years before I return."

Ruth saw that it was a trouble to him, but though she would have been
glad to console, she hardly knew what to say. Oh, why was not Mary
here, who always knew the right thing to comfort people?

"You will be glad of it afterwards," she ventured, gently.

"You think I shall?" he answered, eagerly.

"I know I have been about these children," she said. "I felt so badly
about their coming, and Mary and our good old housekeeper, Morris, both
told me God could turn the seeming hard things into good, if we would
trust Him."

Vincent looked into her face earnestly.

"You are right," he said. "We ought to be able to trust, but—" he
paused.

"Mary would say," said Ruth, "that we must take the 'but' to God, and
let Him turn it into 'best.'"

"I will try to let Him," said Vincent, in a voice that somehow sounded
unlike his ordinary one. Ruth wondered, and then, as he took his hat in
his hand as if to go, she said pleasantly:—

"Will you come back and eat some of my pie at lunch-time? It will be
our dinner, for we are very primitive here."

"I should like it of all things," he answered. "But here is Dr. Brown's
note. I had forgotten that."

So Vincent departed with his bag, promising to return in due time, Ruth
giving full instructions as to the direction of Heston's walk, and
begging her visitor not to lose himself searching for him.

She went back to Morris and her pie with her thoughts very full of
Mary's brother, and of wonder as to what should make him so very loth
to go to New York when the opportunity was thought to be so very good.

True to the time, the three from the beach duly turned up, followed
very soon by Heston and Vincent.

Ruth's dinner passed off very satisfactorily. Her pie, thanks to
Morris's clever instructions and Ruth's dainty carrying of them out,
was all that could be desired, and Heston and the children did not
spare their praises. Vincent said he did not expect anything else,
which made Heston laugh and ask if that were intended for a compliment
or otherwise.

Then he and Vincent volunteered to meet Dr. Brown at the Junction,
going by the cliff, which Heston said was a lovely walk.

They both tried to persuade Ruth to go too, but though she would have
dearly liked to have the walk, she said she had housekeeping duties to
perform, and gladly saw them start, and to be left free for a little
while.

"You are tired, dearie," said Morris, when she brought her an early cup
of tea.

"No-o," said Ruth, "I do not know that I am; but I think, Morris, if I
had been more used to doing things, I should not find it quite such a
task!" She sighed a little wearily.

"I do not think any of us quite realized what a 'Furnished House'
meant, dearie! But this is one way of 'learning to do things,' as you
wished, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," said Ruth, "but I would rather have learned quietly
with you at home, Morris."



CHAPTER XXIII.

_A PARTING._

"WELL, my dear!" said Dr. Brown that evening. "Now tell me all about
everything."

"I do not think there is much to tell more than I have said in my
letters. Have I not been very good in writing, father?"

"Very good! I shall be glad when you are at home again. But the child
looks worlds better!"

"Oh, he is, and so is Judith. She is getting much more sociable, too."

"And Mala?"

"Mala is—better," answered Ruth, hesitating a little as to what word
to choose. "Morris is so good to her, and every day I read them all a
little piece out of the Gospels, and do you know, father, Mala begins
to listen!"

"That is good news! Ruth, you and I must go to church together
to-morrow. I have no patients here; and, indeed, I sometimes think I
might have managed it even at home."

Ruth's sparkling eyes were an answer. "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed.


So Sunday dawned, and Vincent came early to have as much time with them
as possible. He could only stay till the middle of Monday, and every
moment he could spend with Ruth was precious in his eyes.

The day was one of cloudless beauty, and they all felt it to be one of
cloudless happiness too.

Dr. Brown said he had not been so happy for years, and Ruth looked
round on the bright faces of those she called "her family," and could
not be but thankful for what she saw there.

The hours seemed to pass very quickly to them all, and Vincent counted
each one with a sort of pang. Could it be possible that he would have
to say good-bye to-morrow?


And then Monday came. As early as they could, they all went out on
the beach together, and wandered among the rocks till it was time for
Vincent to go to his train. He had sent his bag by the omnibus which
conveyed Dr. Brown to the station for his train the other way, while
Vincent proposed to walk over the cliffs to the Junction to take an
express train northwards.

Heston offered to accompany him, but to his surprise Vincent
answered in a low tone, meant for his ear only, "I would rather go
alone—unless—I thought I would ask your cousin if she would walk a
little way with me. She has not seen the cliffs—and it is my last time."

Of course, Heston said "All right." And when he saw Vincent asking Ruth
to go, he drew the others off to see a new boat, in the building of
which they were much interested.

When at length they all looked up, the other two were but specks along
the cliffs.

"Is Ruth gone?" asked Judith, looking rather forlorn.

"Then you would rather she were here?" asked Heston, with a slight
smile.

"Ye-es," hesitated Judith.

"I'm glad you have got as far as that!" said Heston, bluntly. "You have
been slow in doing her justice after all her kindness!"

"I'm not!" said Judith. "I 'never' am nasty to her now! Surely you have
seen that, Heston? I always try to do what she says, and I get Mala to,
as well."

Heston considered. "I believe you do," he said, heartily, taking his
little sister's hand in his, and turning homewards.

"But why has she gone?" persisted Judith. "It will be quite dull
without her."

"Vincent wanted a walk with her, I think."

But the figures were now obscured by the jutting cliff, and Judith
looked after them in vain.


The two walked on quickly at first. Ruth thought that there was not
much time, and Vincent thought that each rapid step brought him nearer
to what he seemed unable to bear.

"There is no hurry," he said at last. "I have plenty of time for my
train."

They were talking on indifferent subjects, chiefly about Norman's
progress in strength and vitality, and Ruth said how she wished his
father could see him before he died. To all of which Vincent listened
with downcast face and heavy heart.

When they reached the summit of the cliff, Vincent paused as if to look
for the last time at the wonderful view of sea and sky, and Ruth began
to gather some of the grasses and poppies which grew in profusion at
their feet.

"I shall never forget this walk," said Vincent, as they walked on.

"It is beautiful," said Ruth; "only I am sure you are sad because
you have to leave England. I am sorry, but that does not make it any
better, does it?"

Vincent's answer was smothered.

She thought he said something about "it did make a difference," but she
could hardly catch his meaning, so she remained silent, wishing she
could do something to make his evident pain less.

And then Vincent saw the roof of the Junction peeping out from between
some trees, and he knew that he must say "good-bye."

He held out his hand. "You must not come any further," he said
hoarsely. "I do not know how to say good-bye! It is not only leaving
England and home—that is bad enough—but to leave you—"

"Me?" questioned Ruth, surprised, and almost dismayed by his agitated
words.

"Will you—will you remember me when I am far away?" he asked, looking
in her face.

"I—of course I shall remember you," she said hastily; "how could I do
anything else? Besides, you are Mary's brother!"

"Only Mary's brother?" he asked, dropping her hand suddenly.

"I meant that I have always heard so much of you from Mary that I
seemed to know you before you came."

There was a distant whistle of the train, loud and shrill.

"I must go now!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Ruth, say one kind word to me
before I go."

"I do not know how," said Ruth, with her eyes full of tears.

He caught her hand again without looking at her, and thus they parted.

Vincent strode on to the station.

And Ruth stood looking after him till she saw the steam of the train
coming over the trees, when with slow and faltering steps she made her
way home, wondering vaguely what had happened to make her heart so very
heavy.



CHAPTER XXIV.

_GOOD NEWS._

AS Ruth entered her home, she felt as if it was all very forlorn and
desolate.

Her father gone; Mary's brother displeased and disappointed; the
household cares on her shoulders more than she knew how to manage and
cope with! All things seemed against her.

She went upstairs to take off her hat, and sat down by the window and
buried her face in her hands. It was silly to cry, she thought, and yet
she felt utterly spent and forlorn.

A soft step on the carpet startled her, and almost before she could
raise her head, two tender little arms were flung round her neck, and
kisses and tears touched her cheek, as Norman mutely asked her what was
the matter.

She took him on her lap, and told him "It was nothing; she was only
tired, and rather lonely."

And the child gazed wistfully in her face, and once or twice his lips
moved as if he would speak to her.

For a moment, Ruth's heart stood still, and then her tears fell faster
than ever, as she pressed him to her, and murmured that "she would be
better directly, and he must not mind; she was sorry he had seen her
cry!"

The child stroked her face and smoothed her hair for a little while,
and when he saw that she seemed quieter, he slipped off her lap and
went to her little table. On it lay the Bible from which she had been
reading to him that morning. It lay open at the place, as Norman saw,
of the picture of Christ stilling the storm which she had shown him
there.

He seemed searching for something, and Ruth had time to dry her eyes
and try to collect her thoughts as to the next thing that she had to do.

At that moment, Norman came back to her side, laid the book on her
knees, and pointed with his finger to one of her marked verses, and her
eyes fell upon the words:

   "'Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.'"

"Oh, Norman!" she exclaimed. "Have you turned my little comforter?"

"Yes," he said softly.

She heard the word distinctly, and though she gave a start of joy, she
only clasped her arms round him gently and lovingly.

"You have done me good, darling," she whispered. "I never thought when
I read you those words about the storm that I should so soon feel as if
I were in a storm, 'toiling in rowing, and the wind contrary.' But if
Jesus comes to us walking on the water, we shall be glad of the storm
afterwards that brought Him so near!"

With another murmured "Yes," and a tight clasp round her neck, Norman
took her hand and led her to the door, for the dinner-bell was ringing,
and the rest would be waiting.

Trembling with gladness and thankfulness, Ruth went down. She would
have given a great deal to speak to Heston, but her fear of doing harm
to Norman made her instantly decide to take no notice whatever of his
recovered speech.

Heston looked at her once or twice as if he could not understand her
face. It was so touching in its tenderness and joy, though he could see
that she had shed many tears. He, however, did his best to enliven the
party, and waited till he should hear the explanation, if explanation
there were.

Mala fetched Norman directly after dinner for his ride in his invalid
carriage, and Judith went with them.

Ruth helped them off, and, as usual, wished her little cousin good-bye
before he started.

She took the opportunity to whisper brightly, "I am all right now,
Norman! Thank you for pointing out those sweet words to me!"

And with a loving look from Norman in return, the little carriage moved
on, Mala being impatient to set out.

"Heston!" said Ruth, as she went back. "Come into the garden; I want to
speak to you."

"Is anything wrong, Cousin Ruth?" he asked quickly.

"No, no! Everything is right. I only got a fit of home-sickness or
something. Heston! Norman came in and found me crying, and tried to
comfort me—and—he spoke! He said two words, quite distinctly!"

"Cousin Ruth!"

"Yes, he did. I know I was not mistaken; but I took no notice. Oh,
Heston, Heston! How shall we thank God?"

"I cannot believe it yet," said Heston, colouring with excitement. "Are
you 'sure?'"

"Perfectly sure. Now, Heston, we must just go on as if nothing had
happened. I shall only tell dear old Morris. The rest must be content
to wait for the happy news till he speaks again. Of course I shall
write to my father by this post."

Heston sat as if lost in amazement. "Cousin Ruth," he exclaimed, at
length, "it is all owing to you!"

"No, no! Ever since Norman came, I have asked God to give the blessing
to our efforts. Heston, it is just that He has guided to the means."

When Norman came home from his ride, he looked very cheerful, but he
appeared not to remember the wonderful events of the morning. The only
difference in his manner was that he kept close to Ruth's side, looking
wistfully in her face, and seeming to ask over and over again whether
all was right with her.

It was not till she was doing her evening "massage" that anything
special happened.

As usual, Ruth was chatting to him, telling him any little bits of news
or of interest she had been able to save up for his benefit, when he
quietly looked up in her face and said gently, "I think my speech has
come back, Cousin Ruth! Will you kneel down and tell the Lord Jesus how
much I thank Him?"

Ruth dropped on her knees by his side, and she clasped her arms round
him, while he, with shining eyes whispered a loving "thank you" after
her few earnest words.

"I wasn't sure," he said presently, as she went on with his massage. "I
could hardly believe it this morning. But when they left me alone with
Dickie-bird, I tried to speak to him, and I found I could! I don't want
them all to come kissing and fussing, Cousin Ruth. Only you tell them,
and say they can tell God how glad they are—because I don't think I can
bear it yet."

His lip trembled.

"I am sure you cannot, dear. Nobody but Heston need know yet, if you
would rather not."

"No—" he said, "that would seem unkind. If Mala might just put me to
bed before she knows, I think I shall be all right. Only it makes me
tremble—in a sort of way—as if it might go away again—"

"But," she said tenderly, "when you tremble, you can say to yourself,
'If God my Father has given me this blessing, He can keep it for me by
His power!'"

"So He can!" said Norman, with a grateful glance. "I forgot that."



CHAPTER XXV.

_DISMAY._

"MALA," said Ruth, when the ayah came down from putting Norman to bed,
"I want to speak to you."

Mala glided into the room, surprise and a little fear in her glance.

"Mala," said Ruth, putting her hand on the servant's shoulder, "I want
to know if you can be trusted to keep to yourself what I am going to
tell you?"

"I think I can, missie—now," Mala answered, in a heartier tone than she
had ever spoken in before.

"Will you promise me that you will not speak to Norman about what I am
going to tell you, till you have my father's permission?"

"Yes, missie, I promise. Mrs. Morris has been telling me about Christ
loving me, and I feel different from when I came. And, missie, you've
been so good to my child—"

"It is about him I want to speak to you," said Ruth, with glistening
eyes, as her heart rose in thanksgiving for this added joy of Mala's
change.

"Yes, missie?"

"We want you to know, and your great devotion to him makes us tell you,
that we have great hopes that he has recovered his speech."

Mala's intent look was her only answer.

"But," pursued Ruth earnestly, "it is most important that, as it has
been a nervous affection, nothing should now be said to him by anyone.
If he were to be overpowered by congratulations and questions, I fear
it might bring back his dumbness. Can you understand this?"

Mala nodded eagerly, and then said, "But 'has' he spoken, missie?"

So Ruth explained, and told her she could learn all particulars from
Morris. And then, telling her how very glad she was about what she had
said, Ruth heartily shook her hand and dismissed her, desiring her to
send Judith to her at once.

A happy, grateful party went to bed that night under the roof of "The
Furnished House!"


The next morning at breakfast, a telegram was brought in for Ruth.

It was from her father, asking her to come home at once for a few
hours, as Dr. Arundel and he wished to hear all particulars.

All was bustle to find the next train, and to get Ruth off, and Heston
and Judith flew about till it was time for her and Heston to start for
the train.

Just as she was ready, Norman came down the stairs, holding Mala's hand.

Ruth looked in his face, and saw all was right there.

He nodded to her, and then whispered in her ear, "Mala hasn't kissed me
and fussed, but I think she knows it."

"She promised she would not," whispered Ruth back, "but she is very
glad."

So she sped after Heston, who was waiting outside.

"Heston!" she exclaimed. "He has spoken quite naturally to me again,
but in a whisper. Oh, I am so thankful!"


It was only an hour's journey, and soon Ruth found herself in her own
familiar High Street, and opposite Riverside.

She could not pass Mary's door without getting her sympathy in the joy
which she had to tell.

For a moment she thought of Vincent, but, after all, the remembrance of
that unsatisfactory parting, so sorrowful on both sides for different
reasons, would have to be lived through. Ruth determined never to
mention it, and she doubted if Mary would, even if she heard of it,
which did not seem likely.

So she rang the door-bell, and the maid told her Mrs. Arundel was in
the drawing-room.

She hung her hat in the hall, and after her usual little knock, Ruth
peeped in with a smiling, "I have come, Mary, but it is to bring you
good news of Norman—"

To her dismay, Mary was sitting on the sofa, with her head buried in
the cushions, in what looked like an abandonment of grief.

"Mary!" said Ruth fearfully, coming over to her side. "Mary, darling,
what is it?"

The corner of a letter peeped out from her lap, and Ruth guessed the
post must have brought bad news.

But Mary's shoulder was withdrawn from the light touch of Ruth's gentle
little hand.

"Can you not tell me?" she asked at length.

"You would not understand," said Mary.

"Understand what?" asked Ruth.

But something in Mary's tone, different from anything she had ever
heard from her before, made her heart sink, and stilled her inquiries.
Was it, after all, to do with Vincent?

"Tell me, dear Mary," she implored, after what seemed a dreadful pause,
in which Mary's sobs were the only sound. "It will be far better to
tell me, then I can at least try to comfort you."

"There is no comfort," said Mary, with stiff lips, sitting up and
brushing away her tears. "If you do not care for him, that is the end
of it. But oh, my poor Vincent!"

"But I—didn't know—did not expect—it was all so sudden. Mary, why did
he not let me know before; I never guessed he had set his heart on it
till the last moment, and even now I hardly know what he meant."

"He is gone now," said Mary, weeping again. "I never thought, as I
parted from him on Saturday, when he was coming to you, that you would
treat him so."

"How 'so'?" said Ruth, turning pale. "Did I do anything that was unkind
or untruthful?"

"I daresay not," answered Mary wearily; "but, all the same, Vincent is
gone to America with a sore heart, and nothing that anyone can do can
make it otherwise."

Ruth's lips took that little proud look which Mary had not seen since
the time of her estrangement with her father.

"Now I have hurt you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round Ruth's
neck. "Oh, forgive me for being so grieved. You cannot help it that you
do not love him. But there is no one like Vincent in my eyes, and I
thought—I hoped that you would find it out."

"I was so taken by surprise," whispered Ruth, caressing her friend. "Do
not be so sorry, dear Mary. Perhaps he will be comforted soon; and,
indeed, I did not mean to be unkind."

"I am sure of that," said Mary, rousing herself, and looking in the
tearful, burning face of her little friend.

And then the two girls were startled by hearing Dr. Brown's voice in
the hall, and Arthur's answering eagerly, "She is here; how glad I am,
for we can both see her and hear the good news together."



CHAPTER XXVI.

_INTERRUPTED._

RUTH and Mary sprang up and tried to compose their countenances as well
as they could in the moment's pause while the gentlemen hung up their
hats.

But the two doctors were so intent on the little patient, and on all
they had to hear, that they hardly noticed anything amiss. If Arthur
thought Mary had been crying, he concluded that it was in sympathy with
the touching particulars of the child's recovery.

So Ruth had to tell it all over again from the beginning, and great was
the rejoicing at every detail of the news.

At length Arthur said to Ruth, "Do you think he should remain at Sandy
Cove, or come home now?"

Ruth looked at her father, but as he did not speak she answered slowly,
"I had thought—"

"Well? Do tell us!" said Arthur.

"I had thought that we had better remain another week, and perhaps by
that time, he will have got used to speaking to us. I think it would be
a pity to disturb the present associations till he has confidence in
himself. Is that what you think?" she asked, looking from one doctor to
the other.

"It is a pity you are not in the profession!" smiled her father. But
he got up and kissed her forehead. "That was only my fun! You have a
wonderfully wise little head, my dear!"

So the doctors went off, and Ruth, with rather a sorrowful face, turned
to Mary.

"I am going up to The Firs to fetch a few things," she said, "so I must
wish you good-bye."

"Will you not return to lunch, or tea, Ruth? You are not going to leave
me—like this?"

Ruth coloured deeply. "I think I shall go home first, dear Mary, and if
I have time, I will run in about half-past three o'clock, just before
my train."

Mary was obliged to let her go, and Ruth walked back to the station and
took a fly. She felt as if she could not drag herself up those long
hills to-day.

Dr. Brown had told the servants to expect her, so she found a welcome.
And after talking to cook for a little while, she sat down to her
solitary lunch.

It was only just over when the cook sent up word that she would like to
speak to her.

"Miss Ruth!" she said, when Ruth had sent for her. "Do you think master
would let me come down to Sandy Cove and stay with you till you come
home? I could cook for you, and I'm sure you look quite over-done with
it all! It's a lot to see to, and then it isn't as if you understood
how to do things yet! How should you? In another year or two, you will
know a lot more things. 'Do' let me, dear Miss Ruth!"

Ruth was very near bursting into tears. "But my father?" she said. "He
would be uncomfortable."

"Oh, no, miss! The parlourmaid says she can manage beautifully, and
there's my sister—James's wife, you know—at the cottage. She says
she'll run in of a morning and look round—I've been to see her to ask
her to do so after I'd sent in your lunch."

"Oh, cook, it would be the greatest comfort!"

"Then if master agrees—you might telephone to him, couldn't you, Miss
Ruth?" she added coaxingly.

So Ruth telephoned, and Dr. Brown acquiesced at once, only thankful
that some relief had come to what he saw was too great an undertaking
for his little daughter.

It was past three o'clock before Ruth, with cook and her little box,
took their seats in the fly to go down to the station. They would have
half an hour to spare in which cook would do a little shopping, and
Ruth repaired to Riverside with beating heart, hardly knowing how she
could bear to meet Mary again that day.

But Mary was one who set a thing right at once if it were possible. The
moment Ruth entered, she ran to her with out-stretched hands.

"Dear Ruth!" she said lovingly. "You caught me at an unlucky moment
this morning. I had not had time to recover my disappointment or I
should not have blamed you as I did. In fact, I had no business to
blame you! Will you forgive me?"

Ruth kissed her warmly, but though she tried she could not get out a
word.

"The tea is ready, have you time for a cup?" asked Mary.

"Thank you," said Ruth, "I think I have. If I leave here at five
minutes to four—"

Mary saw that she was not ready for any private talk. The same set
look was in her face, and though she spoke of Norman and of Mary's
interests, Vincent's name was never mentioned.

"We are coming back in a week, I hope," she said as she rose to go.

"Oh, I am glad. I have missed you terribly."

"And so I have you!" exclaimed Ruth. "Oh, Mary! Do not cast me off
because of this!"

"Cast you off! Is it likely?"

And then Ruth went.

And Mary sat down and cried as she had not cried for years. Thus Arthur
found her on his return from his patients.

"My poor Mary!" he said, after he had drawn out the whole story from
her. "It is a very bad bit for you to go through, but do not forget the
Anchor!"

"The anchor?" asked Mary, leaning her head on his shoulder and feeling
inexpressibly comforted by his sympathetic, hopeful tone.

"Yes; the anchor which used to comfort me in the years when I was not
sure whether I should ever get a certain little Mary!"

"Oh! And what was it, Arthur. Perhaps it will do me good—and Vincent—"

"The anchor was this:

   "'My times are in Thy hand.'

"There I rested, and the anchor held fast even in the storm! Write to
Vincent, and tell him from me that there's nothing like 'committing our
way' to God to find it 'brought to pass'!"



CHAPTER XXVII.

_BY THE WINDOW._

THE first sight that met Ruth as she looked out of the train at the
Sandy Cove Station was Judith's little figure standing on the platform.

When she met her eyes, however, she saw, to her great relief, that
nothing was wrong. Gladness beamed there instead of the usual grave
patience.

"He has spoken to me!" exclaimed Judith, linking her arm in her
cousin's as they turned out of the station.

"He has?"

"Yes, I could not exactly believe it before," said Judith
apologetically. "It seemed so impossible! But it happened like this,
Cousin Ruth—"

"Do tell me!"

"Mala had one of her dreadful headaches, and she had to go to bed. So I
sent Jane out in the garden to lead Norman about while I did the two or
three little things I had promised you."

"Oh, they could have been left, dear, if you were busy."

"I knew you would wish that—but you see, Jane does sometimes help him,
so I thought it would be all right; and she is so kind. And then,
Cousin Ruth, when I peeped out of the window at them, he appeared to be
prattling away to her quite naturally."

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Ruth.

"Yes; do you know, after that, I could not do a thing more! I just
cried, I was so thankful! And then I thought I would finish your
dusting quickly, and I could hardly see what I was doing, I was so
glad. But I had to stop crying, or Norman would have guessed. So when
I had done all you asked me, I put on my shady hat and ran down the
garden.

"'I've done, Jane,' I called, 'and if you will get Norman's carriage
out here, we will sit in the shade and I will read to him.'

"Jane went to fetch it with such a joyful look in her face, and we
helped him to get in, and then she wheeled him under the trees, and
I sat down to find the place in your book. I could not make out just
where you had left off, and Norman raised himself on his elbow and said
eagerly, 'It's just there! I know it was the end of a chapter!'

"So I thought of what you said, Cousin Ruth, and I answered quite
quietly, 'Oh, yes, so it is.'

"And after that, he spoke to me when he had anything to say, just as if
he had been talking all these years!"

Ruth pressed the little hand which clung to her arm.

"I was never so happy!" said Judith. "Oh, Cousin Ruth, to think that I
hated to come to England, and was so horrid to you when I first came!"

"All that is past, dear," said Ruth, affectionately; "but here we are
at home, and there is Norman at the window with Jane."

Of course, everyone was surprised to see cook, and delighted too. Jane
took her off to introduce her to the kitchen, while Ruth sought Morris
to hear all that had been done in her absence.

Morris glanced at her dear young lady several times, as if to make sure
that all was right, but Ruth answered the look by a gentle kiss.

"Morris," she said, hesitating, "I have been rather troubled by
something—something Mrs. Arundel told me—but I shall be all right
to-morrow I hope. I am tired now; do not worry over me."

"No dearie," answered her old friend, softly.

So they sat down to a late tea, and everybody talked but Norman. He
seemed content to watch the others, and did not venture on any remarks.

Ruth told them that her father had decided that they should stay
another week. And that now cook had come, she hoped to be able to go
out with them and enjoy herself. And Heston said in that case, he
should enjoy himself twice as much, as leaving her at home to do the
housekeeping had made him quite miserable.

But when Ruth went up to bed, and all the house was quiet, in a very
sober mood, she sat down by her open window and thought over the events
of the last few days, while she listened to the sound of the waves as
they gently broke on the shore.

She rejoiced inexpressibly at Norman's recovery. But somehow, the
uppermost thought to-night was that a check had come to her friendship
with Mary, and that things would never, never be the same again.

"I thought nothing could ever come between us," she sighed, as
she rested her head wearily on the window-sill, "and now quite a
little thing, that was nobody's fault, and that could not have been
anticipated, has divided us! Oh, Mary! Did I make an idol of you?"

"And yet," she went on to herself, "I was very angry with her! I
thought she was hard on me. I could not help what Vincent said—girls
can't always help what a fellow chooses to say—and he gave me no time
to think, or to answer him properly."

Then there was nothing but the sound of the waves, so soothing in their
gentle murmur, but so sad, she thought, to-night.

She felt how lonely she was. For the last few months, there had always
been Mary to whom she could tell everything. Now there was no one. Even
if she and Mary should ever feel the same again, there must always be
this subject on which neither of them could touch.

Poor Ruth shed many bitter tears over the loss of her friend, and then,
chilled and forlorn, she turned from the window, pulled down the blind,
and lighted her candle.

Her eyes fell upon her open Bible, where that morning she had been
preparing her little story for Norman from the fourteenth chapter of
Matthew. The words flashed across her now with a ray of comfort,—

   "'Bring them hither to Me!'"

What? Was she to bring her vexation, her burdened, disappointed little
heart, her weariness, her feeling that all was going wrong with her?
Was she to bring these things to Christ to be set straight?

Was the grace to bear, the strength to go on again, the courage which
would rise to the emergency—were these things all included in the five
loaves and the two fishes which looked so insufficient for the feeding
of five thousand men, and yet were to be brought to Him!

With a sudden sense of relief, Ruth came back to her Resting-place.
And the first grateful thought was, that even without Mary, cut off
from all human sympathy, without an outside help of any sort, Jesus
Christ had been sufficient to fill her heart and give her a rejoicing
realisation of His presence.

She had brought the trying circumstances to Him, as He had bidden her
in those gracious words of His, "Bring them hither to Me," and she
found she had enough and to spare!

So she laid her head on her pillow, and, like Hannah of old, "her
countenance was no more sad."

"God can bring it all right, and make Mary understand," was her last
thought before she slept.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

_A SUNSET._

"RUTH," said Heston at breakfast next morning, "when we get back, I
must ask my uncle to let me really begin."

"Begin?"

"To study for what I am going to be. I should like to be a doctor."

Ruth looked earnestly at him, but Heston met her gaze steadily. "I mean
it," he said. "Doctors have such a splendid chance of doing good, and
helping people. I thought so in India and in Germany, but I think so
ten times as much now."

"I think so," said Ruth, heartily, "and I am glad you do."

"I have had a long letter from poor father this morning," continued
Heston, "but nothing but the signature is in his own writing. I fear he
must be very ill. Do you think uncle would mind my wiring the good news
about Norman to him? I should like him to get it before—" he paused.

"I feel sure he would wish it, if we can make it up intelligibly."

"Oh; no fear of that. But I tell you what, Ruth, as father is so ill,
I'll just send the telegram along to uncle for his approval. It will
only delay it for a few hours."

So Heston wrote it out while Ruth stood by making suggestions. And when
it was done, he gave Ruth his father's letter to read while he ran to
catch the early post.

It was a long letter, and evidently had been dictated at various times
when he felt able, for the inks were different, as well as the writing.

Ruth could not help crying over the touching farewell, thinking what
it had cost that suffering father so far away, and then she found a
message to herself.

"Tell your Cousin Ruth," it ran, "that no words of mine can express the
thanks I feel for her love to you all, and for receiving you into her
loving heart." Thus the letter ended.

"Oh, Heston," said Ruth, looking up with tearful eyes when he came in,
"how sad it is!"

"Yes; but how you have comforted him, Ruth! I shall never forget all
you have done for us—never!"

"When you do think of it, Heston, just remember that it has not been my
goodness or love at all, but just God's great love to me!"

"All right," said Heston. "I know you mean it, so I won't say another
word!"


So the last week passed by, Norman gaining strength and liveliness
every day, and then they went home.

As they sat in the train, Judith edged up close to Ruth's side and
whispered, "Cousin Ruth, will you let me be your little sister when we
go home?"

"Willingly, dear," said Ruth, turning round and looking into the sweet
blushing face.

"I should like to be just your little sister! To do what you want, and
be kind to you, and—and a comfort—if I could."

"You can, dear," said Ruth, with watering eyes; and her heart felt
lighter than it had done for ever so long.

That evening, she and her father and Heston settled their future plans.

Dr. Brown was very pleased with Heston's good sense, and readily
promised to forward his wishes to be a doctor.

"I do not know about money," said Heston, colouring deeply, "my father
was too ill and too sorrowful at parting with us to ask him much, but
I understand that he had some to leave us, but whether it would be
enough—"

"There will be enough for your education, my dear," said Dr. Brown,
kindly, "and for the rest, I will take care of them. Do not worry your
head over that."

Heston could not get out much in the way of thanks, but his uncle
understood.

Then they fell to talking of Judith's schooling, and it was arranged
that she should go to the High School where Ruth had been so happy. And
Ruth undertook to take Norman's lessons for the present till he should
be quite robust.


So the next morning, she went down to the Town to call on the Head
Mistress. And when the preliminaries were settled, she turned her steps
to Riverside with a beating heart. She almost wondered whether she
would be welcome; and then chid herself for her want of confidence in
her friend.

But Mary came running to her, and clasped her in her arms.

"Oh, Ruth, how I have missed you!" she exclaimed. "The days have seemed
so cold and long without your dear little presence."

Ruth looked up shyly. "Are you glad to see me, dear Mary?" she asked.

"'Glad!'"

She glanced up into Mary's face with her clear, frank look, and Mary
once more kissed her earnestly "and they made it up."

But Ruth remembered that evening by the window at Sandy Cove, and she
knew that it was God her Saviour who had answered her prayer, subdued
her proud little heart, and had given her back her friend.

During that happy summer, Ruth and Norman spent half their days in
the sunny garden at Riverside, to their great content and Mary's
enjoyment. Dr. Brown's carriage brought them, and fetched them home in
the afternoon, and Ruth sat under the trees teaching Norman, or helping
Mary with her needlework, and the brief misunderstanding they had had
seemed like a dream.

Sometimes, she thought there was a gravity about Ruth's face that
she had never noticed before. But then, she reflected, Ruth had been
through a great deal.

Vincent wrote to his sister frequently, but she seldom spoke to Ruth of
the contents of his letters.

"Thank Arthur for his message," he said, in one of them. "Never was
there a nicer one, and it did me more good than I can say."


One day, in the late autumn, Dr. Brown and Ruth were walking up the
hills together. Ruth had laughingly told him she meant to see the
sunset from a certain spot, and that she was bent on his accompanying
her.

So, with a good-humoured smile, he put on his hat, and they set out
together.

When at length, they had climbed to the top and could look over the
view on either side, Ruth gave a deep sigh. Whether of weariness or
content, her father was uncertain. He looked in her face, and she
turned towards him with a tender smile.

"Are you happy, my dear?" he asked, a little wistfully.

"Oh, yes, dear father," she said, as she clasped his arm closer.

"Vincent Linthorpe wrote to me this morning," he said, still looking
down upon her.

"Did he!" asked Ruth, startled.

"Yes; he spoke most warmly of the time he spent with us in the summer.
Sometimes I have thought that you were going to tell me something, and
then you have drawn back!"

"There is nothing to tell," said Ruth, distressfully, hanging her head.
"Nothing that I can tell exactly. He said half-a-dozen words, and I was
taken by surprise—and that's all! Then he went."

"And you were sorry?" said Dr. Brown, gently.

"I don't know," said Ruth. "Yes, I was sorry that it happened. But it
cannot be helped now, father."

She brushed away two or three tears, and her father stood silent, only
pressing her arm closely.

"He says he will be home in the spring," he remarked at length. "I do
not think the opening has been as profitable as was expected. I think
he will be glad."

No more was said, but Ruth was wonderfully comforted by her father's
tenderness. And as they retraced their steps, her sweet brightness
shone out again.

"Father," she said, as they stood for a moment to watch the glorious
sunset over the mountains, "I think God has brought nothing but
blessing out of these children's coming."

"I am sure of it," he said, heartily. "I thank God every day for it."

"Heston is content," she went on; "Mala is quite changed; Norman is
almost well; Judith is my little sister; and you and I are 'very'
happy, aren't we?"



CHAPTER XXIX.

_MALA._

LITTLE did Ruth think, when she and Morris made up their minds to bear
with Mala, that soon she would prove their greatest comfort.

Winter days succeeded that lovely autumn day when she and her father
watched the sunset, and at The Firs peace and happiness reigned. But
when the cold weather came, Morris seemed to fail, and was obliged to
keep to her room and often to her bed.

One evening, just as Ruth was wishing her old friend good-night after
doing all she could for her comfort, Mala knocked at the door and came
softly to the bedside.

"Missie Morris," she said gently, "will you let Mala sleep in your room
and nurse you? Missie Ruth has got them all to see to, and Mala has
plenty of time! Do let me, dear Missie Morris, for all your love to me!
I'm different now," she added beseechingly.

Ruth glanced in Morris' face. "Would you wish it, dear?" she asked,
bending over her.

For answer, Morris put out her hand, and took the dark one in hers. "It
would be a great comfort to me, because I know my childie has more than
enough to do."

"If you will help me, Mala," said Ruth, turning to her, "I should
be very grateful, but I could not give up my dear Morris to anyone
entirely!"

"Oh no, Missie! I meant that. Let Mala do what she can. Indeed, I will
do all you say. I have kept my promise about Master Norman, Missie,
haven't I?"

"Indeed you have," said Ruth, heartily.

And so it was settled, to the great comfort of all parties; for Morris
knew that her dear young lady was less tired; and for herself, the
thought that thus her Lord had provided for her illness was a well of
content.

"I shall soon see Him," she would say with a peaceful look; "it will be
only a little while now."

And she was right. Before the snowdrops had peeped out, dear old
Morris, with her hand clasped in Ruth's, and with Mala standing quietly
by, entered into her eternal rest.

The day before she died, she said to Ruth, "Dearie, you will let Mala
help you all she can? I feel sure you may trust her now. She says she's
been made new all over."

And Ruth said "Yes," with thankful heart.

Ruth's own sorrow at the loss of her dear old friend was quiet and
deep, but she said very little about it for the sake of the others.

At first she had dreaded lest Mala should shew extravagant grief after
her great devotion to her patient. But she soon found that her fears
were groundless.

"Mala not grieving," she answered, when once Ruth looked in her face
questioningly; "Missie Morris with Jesus now; she happy: so Mala happy
too!"

She crept into her own accustomed corner by her own little work-table,
and the only difference was that Morris' bible lay open on it beneath
her work, and that there was a chastened brightness in the dark face
which had been growing there ever since Morris welcomed her into her
room for Christ's sake.

When the weather allowed, Ruth and Norman often went down to Riverside.
And while Norman sat at the table with his lessons, Ruth and Mary
worked and chatted. Happy, peaceful days in which they learned to know
each other thoroughly.

There was only one subject on which they never touched. Mary would
speak of Vincent among the rest, and often his name was on her lips,
but it came in her stories of the days of her old struggles, when she
kept that diary which she had called "In the Sunlight and out of it,"
and she seldom referred to his present doings. The fact that he was
coming home soon was the only one that she mentioned.

As they sat and worked, Mary would tell Ruth stories of the old days
when her friendship with Ada Arundel was her great joy; of the long,
waiting time of Cuthbert Reid before he gained the treasure of Ada's
love; of Nellie Arundel and her many brothers and sisters; of her own
love story with Arthur; and Ruth learned to love them all, and to know
them through Mary's eyes.

The life in the two large families to which Mary now belonged was so
entirely different from anything that Ruth had known that she felt
invigorated by all she heard, and grew stronger in spirit and more
brave when she realised that the struggles and difficulties of others
were as many as her own, though they might be different, and that the
same grace was brought to bear upon them from the same everlasting
Source of Supply.



CHAPTER XXX.

_DR. BROWN'S PLAN._

RUTH and Norman were sitting one sunny afternoon in April on the
hillside just above The Firs. Ruth often brought the child to this
spot, for the wide expanse of country stretching out before them
rested her, and she thought that it did the same for her loving little
companion.

There was a certain place which she always chose, with a large broken
rock as a background which sheltered them from the wind, and with
several smaller rocks which served "as chairs and tables" as Norman
said. Above them and around them were scattered firs and larches, and
between their stems, the green fields and peeps of hills beyond seemed
to be fairer and more beautiful than when looked at in an unbroken
sweep.

Ruth had brought out some dainty work for Mary, but it had fallen into
her lap, and her eyes were gazing at the prospect. Presently a little
hand touched hers, and almost made her start.

"There's Vincent coming up that winding path!" Norman said, pointing.

"Vincent? Are you sure, Norman?"

"You just look!" answered Norman. "But he's hidden by those trees now.
Oh, there he is! Yes, it is Vincent; I knew it was."

He was close to them by this time.

And then as Ruth rose, he came up to them and shook hands.

There was a moment's constraint, and then Vincent said:

"I only landed at Liverpool this morning, and I wanted to see you first
of all."

"I did not know that you had even started."

"No; it was quickly decided at the last."

Then there was another pause, and Ruth said something about its being
time for them to go home.

"Oh; but might I just pick my flowers?" asked Norman, taking up his
basket. "I shall not be long, Cousin Ruth; and you can have my seat,"
he said, turning to Vincent, and pointing to the stone by Ruth's side.

"Well, do not be long, dear," she said, "for we must be going."

"Is it time?" asked the child, surprised.

"Yes, quite time to-day," said Ruth.

He went to the edge of the little path, where in sunny corners beneath
the broken rocks and underwood a few wild flowers were peeping out.

Vincent took his offered seat. "May I stay for a few minutes?" he
asked. "The servants told me where you were to be found, and I ventured
to follow you. I am afraid I was very clumsy and abrupt when I parted
from you that day," he said, gently, "and I cannot tell you how much I
have regretted it. I do not like to ask you to forgive it, because—"

Ruth was silent. There was nothing to answer; and she wondered dimly
whether Mary would be angry with her to-morrow, and think she had
treated Vincent badly "this" time.

But he was looking in her face as if expecting her to reply, and her
eyes came back from the prospect, and met his with a certain distressed
look in them which he could not fathom.

Mary had whispered, as she had kissed him that morning just before he
started for The Firs, "Make your wishes plain, Vincent! I am afraid you
want her to understand without words!"

Was he wanting her to understand without words now?

"I came to you the moment I landed, to explain!" he exclaimed.

"I did not know there was anything to explain—"

"I wanted to tell you a number of things! May I try to tell you my
meaning? I am very stupid, but it is because my heart is so bound up in
what I am asking that I bungle so. Have patience with me, Ruth—it is
because I love you so much; and I am afraid I shall go away, and not
have made you understand after all!"

There was a moment's silence. What could Ruth reply? Had he given her
any opportunity of replying to him?

Her cheeks burned and tears of mortification rose to her eyes. Yes,
he would go away again, just as he did before, and Mary would be
disappointed, and—it was too horrid: why did her heart ache like this?
She almost wished he had stayed in America.

"How is it to be, dear?" he ventured, very softly. "I loved you the
first moment I saw you, and I have loved you ever since; and now I want
you—" and then came what he wanted all in a breath, "I want you to be
my wife!"

Ruth turned her shy eyes to his face. Must she give him her answer now?
Was that what he had meant to ask her when they parted all those months
ago?

"I did not understand then," she said, with deepening colour.

"But you do now?"

"Yes—"

His face had turned pale now, and the hope which had flushed into it
was dying out. After all, she did not care!

But he thought of Mary's advice, and would make one more effort.

"Tell me that you will, dear!" he entreated. "Can you?"

"I think I could—if—" she said, slowly.

"There can be no 'ifs' after that!" he joyfully exclaimed, taking her
hands in his and drawing her to him.

"I do not see how I can leave my father," she whispered, hanging her
head.

"I settled all that with him last autumn!" exclaimed Vincent.

"You settled with my father!" she said, drawing back.

"He told me he should never stand in the way of your happiness—if you
loved anyone, he would come and live near you. Oh, Ruth, if that is the
only objection, his generosity has removed that!"

Ruth paused once more. She sat down on her seat again, and had turned
very pale.

"It is asking a great deal of my father," she said slowly, with
faltering lips.

"It is—a great deal—but he loves you better than himself, Ruth."

"And I ought to love him better than myself," she said, more steadily.
"I think I would like to talk to him. I should see things more plainly
then."

She rose and turned homewards, and Norman, seeing them move, sprang to
her side and looked in her face wistfully.

"It's all right, darling," she whispered, bending down.

"Are you sorry about something?" he asked.

"I ought not to be," she answered, turning towards Vincent with a
grateful look.

And Vincent on that took her hand in his, and would not let it go till
they reached the bit of high road just by The Firs.

"I must go back to Mary now, I suppose," he said reluctantly; "but I
will come again this evening. You expect Dr. Brown soon?"

"At four o'clock," said Ruth.

"What makes you sad, Cousin Ruth," asked Norman as Vincent strode off
down the hill.

"Because he wants me to give him something, and I do not know whether I
can."

The child put her hand against his face caressingly.

"Is it too difficult to ask God about?" he whispered.

Ruth stroked his flushed cheek tenderly. "Of course it isn't, dear!"
she exclaimed. "I was so taken by surprise that I had not time. Oh,
Norman, what a comforter you are!"

Mala came forward to meet them, and Ruth ran up to her own room.

She knelt by her bed, and all she could ask was that she might be
taught what to do, and not be allowed to hurt her father.

Presently, she heard the carriage wheels, and she went down, afraid
that her tearful eyes would not escape her father's notice.

But for the moment he was so full of his news that he did not even
glance at her.

"You will be delighted to hear, my dear, that Mrs. Arundel has a fine
little son!" he exclaimed.

"Oh how glad I am!" said Ruth.

Then her father caught sight of her face, and drew her into the library.

"Has anything gone wrong, my dear?"

But Ruth found it hard to tell. It was a long time before Dr. Brown
could get at the bottom of it all, but with his arms round her and her
head on his shoulder, he made it out at last.

"Then it's the old father that stands in the way?" he said, with a
tender smile, looking down on the fair little face he loved so well.

"Oh, no! No!"

"But, you see, he isn't in the way, because he made up his mind months
and months ago that he'd pack up and come and live next door to you if
that would make it easy!"

"Oh, you dear, dear father! But—"

"No 'buts' at all! Dr. Arundel can manage the practice, and I must
retire some day. We can easily build a double nest for us both, and
have a door between! I've thought it all out, you see, and we shall
enjoy planning it together. Vincent says he will not mind the old
father and the Indian children next door, and I—shall be more happy
than I ever thought to be again! Does that satisfy you?"

"It ought to," she answered, burying her face in his breast. "Oh,
father, father, how good you are!"

"Poor, Vincent!" he responded "I am afraid you did not give him much
hope from the look of him as I passed him on the hill; he did not even
see me."

"He is coming presently," said Ruth, raising her head and blushing.

"I am glad of it!" said her father, heartily. "He's a good man, Ruth;
and I thank God that my darling has found such an one. I pray God to
bless you both."

He put his hands on her head and murmured words of blessing, and then
Ruth threw herself into his arms, and though her tears rained down, she
was comforted.


When Vincent came back after an hour or two, she was herself once more.
She told Heston and Judith that he wanted to speak to her, and she went
to him in the drawing-room, holding out her hand frankly when he looked
questioningly in her face.

"It was so hard to decide," she said, "but, oh, I cannot tell you what
my father has been to me!" She gave a little smile as she added, "He
says I was not as kind as you deserved this afternoon! Was I very bad?"

And Vincent said "she had not been bad at all, but that he had felt so
afraid—"

"But you are not afraid now?" she asked gently. "You need not be,
Vincent, for you have made me very happy. Do be happy, too."

"Then I am!" he exclaimed joyfully.

And indeed he looked so, for no cloud rested on Ruth's face now.


"Have you given it?" whispered Norman to her, when they went back to
the others.

"Yes."

"Does he like it?" questioned the child.

"I think he does."

"I'm so glad! I thought it would come right! I like to see you happy,
Cousin Ruth."



CHAPTER XXXI.

_THE HOUSE IN THE TREES._

SO Vincent went back to Riverside with the understanding that he would
see Ruth to-morrow before he started for his home. Heston had repaired
to the library to study, and the children had long since gone to bed.

Left together, the father and daughter sat very silent at first. And
after a while, Ruth got up and came over to her accustomed place and
laid her head on her father's shoulder.

"It won't make a bit of difference!" she murmured so softly that he
only just heard it.

"I know that, my dear—"

"You are sure that it will not make you unhappy?" she asked, raising
her eyes to his face.

"On the contrary, it has made me very happy!"

She nestled her head closer again for reply.

"Why did you not answer him in the autumn?" asked her father smiling a
little.

"I did not know—I was taken by surprise, and there was nothing to
answer either, father."

"It is a good thing he managed to give you something to answer this
time, then! Ruth, I have seen two lives entirely spoilt in my young
days, because the man left so much unsaid."

"Who was it?" asked Ruth.

"Nobody you ever heard of. He went abroad, and she has never married. I
always feel sad when I think of it."

Ruth could not help thinking how nearly that might have been their lot,
and she was glad it had not been.

"I have told Vincent," pursued her father after a pause, in which he
had been fondly stroking her flushed cheek, "that I think you too young
to be married yet awhile. He is quite willing to wait for two years,
and by that time, my dear, we shall have been able, I hope, to find or
build two suitable houses near Mr. Brown's works, and Dr. Arundel will
have thoroughly taken up the whole of the practice."

"Dear father!"

"I shall make arrangements to retire in a year, I think, that will give
us plenty of time. You see, I have been thinking about it for months."

"I did not know that he had spoken to you," said Ruth blushing.

"Yes: it was one of those things I could not speak of. It was better
that you should get to understand yourself—and him—without any help
from me."

"He wants me to go home with him to be introduced to his mother and
father. Do you think I had better go?"

"Certainly. They will want to see you too. And while you are staying
there, I will come over and look round at the neighbourhood. Will Brown
will be pleased to see me; I have often promised to make acquaintance
with his wife, and now she will be your sister!"

"I shall feel dreadfully shy at going among such a lot of strangers—"

"I tell you what, Ruth!" exclaimed her father suddenly. "I will wire
to Will Brown to-morrow and ask him if he can have us both, and then
you can go and see the Linthorpes from there. You will not feel half so
strange then."

"That would be better," said Ruth, raising her head, "but will Norman
be all right?"

"There are Judith and Heston to leave in charge," he answered, "and we
shall not be away very long. I think he will be happy—"

"Might I ask him? I feel as if he is part of my life now, father!"

"So he is," said Dr. Brown, "but you must go to bed. Oh, my precious,
how glad I am that it is all so happily settled."

"Dear father! How good you have been to me," said Ruth as she gave him
her good-night kiss.

Then she turned back at the door to say "I am to be allowed to have a
peep at Mary to-morrow, am I not?"

"Yes, I hope so. Perhaps you will go down with Vincent?"

"He is not coming till twelve; he said he had something to do he could
not put off."

"Then you will go after lunch? I will tell Mrs. Arundel you are coming."


Ruth, with a little help from Judith, Norman, and Mala, was busy all
the morning collecting and packing her belongings; for she felt sure
that when once her father had decided on going, he would give her but
little time before the project was carried out.

She was not mistaken. For before twelve o'clock, Dr. Brown telephoned
to her from the town that he had received the answer from his Cousin
Will, and they were to go to-morrow.

Ruth laughed with Heston over the promptness, and said that her father
evidently thought that she would only want to take a few handkerchiefs!
She was flying downstairs on some errand when the front door opened,
and Vincent stood there.

He came forward. "It has seemed such a long time!" he exclaimed. "I
could not come earlier because I had to go to Worcester."

"To Worcester?" she asked.

He drew her into the drawing-room, and still keeping her hand in his,
searched in his waistcoat pocket.

"I have been hoping I might suit your taste, dearest, in choosing
this—have I?" He put on her slender finger a ring, and as its stones
flashed in the sunshine, he whispered, "Will you let it speak for me
when I am away, and tell you I love you!"

"It is beautiful!" said Ruth, glancing up. "I never saw one I liked
better."

"I am so glad! I had to be very particular, you see, for such a very
dear and dainty little lady!"

"You could not have chosen better," said Ruth; "but how did you guess
the size so well?"

"Ah! Mary helped me to that. She said you and she had laughed over her
engagement ring once, and you had tried it on—"

"So I did!" exclaimed Ruth, blushing crimson.

"And Mary told me hers was a little large for you, so I guessed the
rest."

"You are a wonderful 'guesser,' then," smiled Ruth.

"I've had to take a good many things on trust for a good many months,"
he said archly.

"Poor Vincent," she said kindly, "I am so sorry; but—"

"Yes, yes, dear, it was my fault. And so Mary and you nearly broke your
hearts over it?"

"Nearly," said Ruth gravely, "and I do not know whether Mary has really
forgiven me from the bottom of her heart yet."

"Mary does not owe grudges," said Vincent.

"No—she is the dearest, sweetest—but, you see, it was her twin who was
made sorry; and it was all so difficult to explain."


But when that afternoon, she bent over Mary and received her kiss, Ruth
knew that all was right between them, and that what had been so hard to
explain was made clear now.

"My little sister," Mary whispered.

Then she gave a sweet smile as she turned to the pillow by her side.
"Am I not rich?" she asked, as she uncovered the little downy head and
showed her son. "Arthur says I may call him Vincent! But perhaps I
shall have to ask you now?"

Ruth laughed a little as she blushingly said, if she were asked,
nothing could please her better.

And then nurse remarked time was up, and Ruth had to go.

Mary caught her hand. "Let me see!" she said archly. "Do you like
Vincent's choice?"

"Very much indeed; only it is too beautiful."

"He thinks nothing too beautiful for you," smiled Mary.

So they managed to way-lay Dr. Brown's carriage and to get home for
afternoon tea, having arranged together on the way that they would try
to devote themselves to the children to-night to let them share as much
of their gladness as they might.


The next afternoon, the train bore them both, as well as Dr. Brown,
towards Vincent's home.

Mr. Brown's carriage was at the station to meet them, with Willie Brown
inside, of whom Ruth had often heard.

"My father is so pleased at your coming," he said, when they were
seated and Vincent had gone towards his home; "he says it could not be
better. And Alice is pleased too."

Then smiling a little and colouring, he added, "You will be surprised
to hear me call my stepmother 'Alice,' but it was her wish. We are the
dearest of friends, and I cannot give you an idea of all her goodness
and sterling worth. She is sister and mother to me at once, and I love
her dearly."

"It is very kind of you to tell us," said Ruth.

"Well—to say the truth, I came on purpose. Alice is thoroughly
unselfish, and she makes my father very happy."

"I expect your kindness to her helps," said Ruth. She took a fancy to
the young man on the spot.

He shook his head, smiling, and soon they drew up at Mr. Brown's
handsome house, and a well-dressed, sweet-looking lady of about thirty
came forward to meet them.

"This is dear Ruth, is it?" she asked, kissing the bright, blushing
face. "We shall get acquainted soon. You are my cousin now, you know,
but by and bye you are to be my sister!"

There was an impression of ease and comfort in the whole air of the
house, and when Ruth saw her room, she gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"There!" said Alice, going to the window. "Do you see those poplars,
with that red-gabled roof behind them?"

"Yes," said Ruth.

"That is our home—Vincent's home! He is there by this time, telling
them all about you."

"I am afraid they may be disappointed in me," said Ruth, looking up in
Alice's pleasant face.

"I do not think they will, dear."

"I am so young—and so ignorant—I have no merit except—"

"Except?" asked Alice, smiling.

"Except that we love each other!" she said, and then turned away
covered with confusion.

Alice kissed her affectionately, and was just leaving the room, when
Ruth looked up once more.

"I do not know why I said all that, but I think it was your kindness,
and that you reminded me a little of Mary."

"Do I?"

"Yes—and I want you to know that Vincent and I do not forget Who has
given us our happiness; and we have promised each other that loving and
serving Him shall be the very first thing with us."



CHAPTER XXXII.

_A LARGE FAMILY._

LEFT alone, Ruth sat down in a luxurious arm chair by the window, and
looked out over the green meadows.

Mary had told her how their windows at home had a view of Mr. Brown's
house, but she little thought then that before long she would be
sitting there herself, and that the mistress of the house was to become
her own sister!

But she must not spend time in day-dreams, for her father would miss
her, and had not Alice told her that tea was just ready?

She hastened her toilet, and soon was finding her way down. A maid came
forward from one of the rooms and conducted her to the drawing-room,
where Mr. Brown was talking to her father, and Alice was pouring out
tea from a lovely old china teapot into cups such as Ruth had never
seen. Her busy father had had other things to think about than old
china, she thought!

There was much to tell between the two cousins, and Ruth and Alice were
left to entertain each other.

Ruth found she had to tell all about Norman's recovery, and Alice and
Willie Brown were full of interest in everything she could tell them,
so that the time slipped by very fast. And just as Alice was proposing
a walk round the grounds, Vincent's step was heard, and his smiling
face appeared at the door.

"So you could not stay away long!" said Alice in a fond teasing tone.
"Come along, we have not been complete without you!"

"Nor I," he said, "but Alice, mother and father cannot wait until
to-morrow to see Ruth, so I have come to fetch her!"

"Not till after dinner?" asked Alice. "Just as you like about that."

So it was arranged. And visitors happening to come in, Vincent was told
to show Ruth the beauties of the grounds, and the two went out together
to the shady lawn, where seats and arbours and summer-houses seemed to
abound, and they found themselves for the first time with opportunity
to talk together over their plans, and of the new life that was opening
before them.

It seemed all too short when Vincent exclaimed, "There is the first
dinner gong! I declare it seems no time since Alice sent us out. It was
jolly of her, was it not?"

"We must go now, though," smiled Ruth. "How long do they give us,
Vincent?"

"Half an hour," said Vincent, grudgingly. "Does it take you all that
time to make yourself smart. You look just right as you are!"

With which compliment, Ruth ran off laughing.


After dinner, Vincent came up to her as they stood about in the
drawing-room.

"Shall we go now?" he asked. And when she turned rather pale, he added
softly, "You need not be nervous, they will love you dearly!"

So they set forth in the sweet evening light. There were only two or
three fields to cross, and soon they were walking up the garden at
Vincent's home.

Mrs. Linthorpe had been watching for them, and met them at the garden
door.

One glance at her face, and Ruth knew that she had nothing to fear.

She found two loving arms round her, and a very soft voice saying
"Welcome, my dear!"

Her first thought was that this was Mary's mother, her next that she
was Vincent's mother, and would be her own.

Lovingly the gentle eyes scanned the new daughter's face:

"We shall get to know each other, and love each other soon," said Mrs.
Linthorpe, "though I do love you already, for my boy's sake. Now I am
going to take you to Mr. Linthorpe at once, or you will be dreading the
interview all the time! Come in, dear!"

She led the way into a shaded drawing-room, and there Ruth saw the
invalid father of whom Mary had often told her.

He held out his thin hand, and she bent to receive his kiss.

"You seem like a little piece of my Molly!" he said, smiling. "How was
she when you left, and my little grandson?"

Ruth smiled brightly; how thankful she felt to him that he spared her
any further greetings and congratulations.

She gladly told him how she had been privileged to see both Mary and
the grandson yesterday, and how well both were, and what happy messages
Mary had sent to her father. And then Ruth's cheeks began to cool, and
she could bear now the thought of the family of future brothers and
sisters who would come in presently to be introduced.

When that ordeal was over, and at length it was time to go home,
Vincent took her across the fields once more in the moonlight, and the
rest gathered round Mr. Linthorpe's chair to compare notes.

"She looks very young," said Flora.

"That will improve," said their mother.

"She's pretty," said Harry.

"That's nothing," exclaimed Archie bluntly, "She's a regular brick,
that's what I call her; there's lots of stuff in her, I'm certain."

"What do 'you' think, father?" asked Rose, bending over him.

"I like all I have seen and all I have heard, exceedingly."

"Father is such a judge of character," said Flora.

"Now mother! It is your turn," said Harry, laughing. "I say! A poor
daughter-in-law has a lot of people to please!"

The rest laughed too, till Harry quite blushed.

"He's thinking of his turn," said Archie.

"Well—mother?" Harry urged.

"Mothers have to be very quiet over their different children!" smiled
Mrs. Linthorpe, "But I think she will make Vincent happy!"



CHAPTER XXXIII.

_IN THE SHADED ROOM._

THE next day was spent in "looking round," as Mr. Brown called it.

He was exceedingly pleased that Dr. Brown thought of settling down near
him, and that Vincent Linthorpe, of whom he spoke most highly, should
have formed such a happy connection with his cousin's family.

There were endless jokes as to the new relationships, but everybody
seemed pleased, and the topic of the existing houses, or the building
of another, occupied all their thoughts.

Dr. Brown's two wishes were that the house should be on high ground and
have an established garden; and these things circumscribed the number
of available spots.

"We shall have to look out for anything that falls vacant," said Cousin
Will, at the end of their first day's search.

"I think myself," said Dr. Brown, "that I shall have to buy a cottage
perhaps, and build on to it. I shall get you to keep your eyes open for
me."

"We will most gladly," said Alice; "and Vincent goes about so much, he
may hear of something."

Ruth had now become quite at home with the Linthorpes, and had spent
many happy half-hours with Vincent's mother and his invalid father.

On the morning of the day on which she was going home, she was sitting
with them with her needlework in her hand, but she did not get on very
fast. She was listening to such talks as she had never heard before,
and she was wondering at the grace which sustained the patient invalid
for all those long years.

"You bring me near to my Molly," he was saying. "Sometimes I think I
catch a tone of her voice in yours!"

"Do you? You see we have been so much together! I cannot tell you what
I owe to Mary, Mr. Linthorpe; and she says she owes it to you and her
mother!"

"Oh! my dear, and we all owe it to God. It is His love and His patience
and His strength that help us to go on at all! But Mary is a great
treasure! Truly her prayer has been answered, 'Bless me, and make me a
blessing.' Has it not?"

"It has to me—" said Ruth. "I was so hard and so self-willed before I
knew Mary."

"Were you, my dear?"

"Dreadful!" said Ruth, shaking her head.

"Ah, well, my dear," said Mr. Linthorpe affectionately. "When we put
ourselves into God's hands to do the best for us, and to mould us
to His will, there is every prospect of a happy issue. He will not
disappoint us of our hope."

"That is what my old Morris used to tell me," said Ruth, with
glistening eyes. "But, Mr. Linthorpe, I feel so untried. I often wonder
how people 'bear' things! I feel as if I 'could' not! And yet that does
not seem right, I know."

"I understand," he answered tenderly, "but, my dear, God does not ask
us to bear everything that everybody has! He has promised grace for
that which He calls 'us' to pass through! That thought has been a great
comfort to me. I was thinking about it only the other week. Satan said
to me, 'You have had a great many years of weakness, and you have been
very patient' (yes, my dear, he twitted me with that!), 'but now there
are other things you may have to bear, how will you do then?'

"For a moment I was staggered, but then came another thought, straight
from my Lord and Saviour, 'But "He" said unto me, My grace is
sufficient for thee, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.'"

Ruth's eyes filled. She knew from Mary what all the years had been, and
she bent and kissed the suffering, peaceful face almost reverently.

He looked up and gave a beaming smile.

"Do you know the end of that quotation?" he asked tenderly.

"No—"

"'"Most gladly," therefore, will I glory in my infirmities that the
power of Christ may rest upon me!'"

So after a very happy four days, Ruth and Dr. Brown went home, and
Vincent was left behind to apply himself to his work and to look
forward to the next meeting.


"Well, Cousin Ruth," said Heston, when they got home, "I would not have
believed that the house would be so empty without you!"

"I expect it was," said Ruth.

"Did you wish you were back here?" asked Judith.

"Sometimes. I caught myself feeling home-sick two or three times in
spite of being so happy."

"That's right," said Heston; "I didn't want you to be asked there for
ever!"

"'For ever?'" she questioned smilingly.

"Well, you know what I mean! Endlessly paying visits away from us, you
know."

"Oh, well, we shall see. I do not intend to leave my father, anyway—so
you need not be afraid."


When she went up to wish Norman good-night, he looked wistfully in her
face after her kiss. "Well, dear?" she asked.

"Must you go down directly?"

"Oh, no; I will sit by you. Did you want me to talk to you?"

"A little while. It is so nice to have you back. No one is just like
you, you know."

She stroked his head.

"Everybody has been so kind," pursued Norman, "especially Heston. Don't
you think Heston is awfully kind—for a boy?"

Ruth laughed softly.

"He is—for a boy. He is every way, I think, one of the kindest boys I
ever met."

"He used to read to me every night, just like you do, and then when he
had done reading the first evening, he said, 'Doesn't Cousin Ruth say a
prayer with you?'"

"I said, 'Yes.'

"And so he knelt down and repeated 'Our Father.' Was it not kind?"

"'Very' kind."

"And then, Cousin Ruth, he sat down by me, and told me about one night
on board the steamer when we were coming home from India.

"He was standing on deck watching the stars, leaning on the railings,
when an old sailor came up to him, and asked him if he might say a word
to the young gentleman, because he was a bit like his son who was far
away? So Heston said he might certainly if he liked.

"And then the old sailor said he made bold to speak because he knew
what it was to have our Saviour as his own, and he wanted the young
gentleman to have Him too."

"What a dear old man," said Ruth.

"Yes; and Heston said that after that, he could not forget his words,
and how the old sailor had said,—

   "'Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.'

"And those words rang in his ears all the rest of the voyage. And then,
Cousin Ruth, on the second morning that uncle had prayers with us, the
words he read were those very ones!—

   "'Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.'

"And Heston was so struck with them that he thought the best thing was
to 'Come,' as the words said, and he has felt happier ever since!"

"How glad I am," said Ruth joyfully.

"I knew you would be," said Norman, throwing his arms round her neck.

So once more Ruth "settled in" as she called it.

Norman was now considered well enough to do a few hours' schooling
every day, and he was able to walk down to the town daily and ride up
with his uncle at four o'clock.

So Ruth found herself much more at liberty in the middle of each day.


When the Term began, Heston went to school at Worcester and returned
for the week-ends, and they all missed him very much.

But Ruth had plenty to do. She diligently set herself to learn all the
housewifely arts that came in her way. And cook, who was her devoted
instructress, delighted in the success which attended their efforts.

In the evenings, when Judith's lessons were prepared, the two "sisters"
as Judith insisted on naming them, sat at their needlework.

"I only wish Missie Morris could see," Mala sometimes remarked.

And Judith would say saucily as she called a blush in Ruth's face, "The
fact is Cousin Ruth, you want to be a perfect wife."

"That I never shall be!" said Ruth shaking her head. "For Mary's father
told me that human nature is chiefly remarkable for its failure!"

Judith paused with the scissors in her hand and looked at her
dubiously. "Then shall you not be a perfect wife after all your
efforts?"

"I'll be as perfect as I can," said Ruth smiling; "but seriously,
Judith, do you not find in your heart, that when you would do good,
evil is present with you?"

"I thought that was because I was so far worse than other people!" said
Judith.

"No, I do not think that is it. I think it is that we are faulty, and
full of evil, and we want to be freshly forgiven, and freshly enabled
every day and every hour."

Judith was silent; she went on with her work as if absorbed in it, but
really, she was thinking of what they had been talking about.

"I should like to be good and please Jesus," she said at length, "but
I do fail so often! I get cross if I am called off my lessons to do
things. And then if we are working, and Mala comes in and wants me to
find the key of my drawers, I feel so annoyed with her! I am afraid,
Ruth, that I have not a very good temper—"

Ruth was leaning over for the scissors, and she took the opportunity to
kiss Judith's soft little cheek.

"I am sure all these things that we are conscious of as failures will
improve if we are watchful," she said, affectionately, "and if our
chief aim is really to please God in our everyday life."

"Do you really think so? That is very comforting," the girl responded,
and then took up her work again and went on with it with fresh zest.


Thus the winter advanced, but nothing was heard of any house being to
let which would suit Dr. Brown's ideas.

"I shall have to build, after all, I fear," he said one evening, "but I
shall wait till March before deciding."

Vincent came for week-ends as often as he could, and Mr. Brown, with
his usual thoughtfulness, made things as easy for him as he could. Mary
often laughed, and quoted to Arthur that "it was an ill wind that blew
nobody any good," for she had quite a treat of her twin now.

Ruth, as usual, spent many of her spare hours with her friend.

The baby would lie and kick and crow on the pillow on the floor, while
Mary made endless garments for him, and Ruth plied her needle over her
own preparations.


One day, after two or three days' absence, Ruth entered Mary's
dining-room with an unusually eager look on her face.

"Have you come back?" asked Mary, looking up.

"Yes—this morning; just now. I felt I must come in to tell you. We have
bought the house!"

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes; you knew that my father and I went the day before yesterday? It
was all in such a hurry that I could not come in to tell you. Norman
promised he would."

"And so he did, dear. Do tell me all about it."

"The man who had the house to sell would not wait. I cannot explain
why, but something about foreclosing a mortgage."

"Yes, I know—"

"So we had to settle it soon, and father was afraid of losing it. Mary,
it is lovely! It is on the highest ground anywhere round, and has nice
views over the fields, and such a sweet garden."

"And how about the house? Is that suitable for what Dr. Brown wants?"

"Yes; it can be altered capitally. It is little more than two cottages,
and father proposes to build on the ends of them a sort of wing to
each. Oh, such dear old-fashioned staircases, and such low, sloping
ceilings! I never saw anything so pretty!

"Father says he shall open a doorway between the two little halls, so
that we may be able to visit each other without going out of doors."

"That will be very nice," said Mary heartily.

"Vincent likes it," said Ruth; "he is not afraid that we shall see too
much of them. He says he has always been used to a large family, and he
thinks it is the very happiest thing that could be.

"Oh, Mary! If you could have been there, and have seen us dancing about
for joy at such a lovely home as it will be!"

"Will they spoil the garden very much with their building operations?"

"Father thinks not. Of course the two grass-plots will suffer, but
he says there is more than a year, and that is easily replaced. No,
it is the trees, and the currants and gooseberries, the syringas and
the laurels, that charm him, to say nothing of the old-fashioned
flower-beds full of all kinds of perennials which are already beginning
to peep out."

Mary's sympathy was very great. She dearly loved "planning" houses,
and told Ruth she must bring the plans for her to see, as no one would
enjoy them more!

"We have had no time to talk of them," said Ruth; "but do you know,
Mary, I consider father is growing quite young again with the interest
of all this. He never gives those heavy sighs now!"

"His heart is at rest, dear, for one thing: what a difference that
makes."

"I sometimes look back, and am amazed," said Ruth softly, "at all the
changes that have come in the last year or two. How sad we were, and
how dear old Morris was the only one in our house who cared about the
best things. And now—"

"It is very wonderful," said Mary.

"Oh, it is! I trace a great deal of it to dear old Morris's prayers,
Mary! And then, next, to 'you.' You have been made a blessing to me,
indeed!"

"A most unworthy one, then," said Mary.

Just at that moment Arthur came in, having met Dr. Brown in the town,
and having heard the news of the house from him.

"So you are the happy possessor of ten acres, Ruth, and a couple of
pretty cottages into the bargain!" he said, in a congratulatory tone.

"Yes, my father has bought it."

"Bought it for you, he told me. It is to be made out in your name!"

Ruth turned crimson with surprise. "I did not know," she exclaimed; "he
did not tell me that."

"He made no secret of it to me," smiled Arthur. "He said 'it was a
love-token for the Doctor's Daughter,' if you know who that is!"



                              THE END.






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